The Sweet Voices of 2:58 AM...Aaand Me!

I was chased by rainbows for a week.



Somehow, I have heard the word Rainbow in too many random separate contexts over the past few days. I couldn't even help not notice it. I would have loved to see actual ones along that, though, but it had barely rained. All in all, it's been amusing to have an unintentional word-of-the-week!

Tickles Of Rambling

I could use a conversation with a stranger.

I think Cairo's streets are heavenly (in their very own Egyptian-heaven way) when no traffic is there to block the sight of the gorgeous asphalt, or prevent the mights of 4th gear.

I also think the new 'wave' of installing perfectly functioning street lights is awesome. I like street lights. I like it when there's too many of them, especially when they all suddenly decide to work in an overnight. That was the case with the main street in my neighborhood. There is one thing I do like about the district where I live. It is structured as one main-street, quite a long one, with streets swerving off of it from both sides. So, on the way home, I enjoy a clear horizon. As I get closer along that street the tip of the Great Pyramid starts to poke into the surface, where the clouds sometimes look like they're about to crash upon the front end of my car as I drive further.



It is best when the sun happens to be setting. Aaah, right in my face.

I have never crossed the border before, and I sure as hell am obsessed with doing that as soon as possible, and that is one other story I can't get out of my head. But anyhow, even though I have never been to any other country than ol' Egypt, so this thought would make sense since I don't have concrete experience, I still can never imagine living abroad for good. That in itself is very contradicting to my big travel-the-world plan. Again, maybe that is because I've never been anywhere else like I just said, but I have a feeling there's more than this to it. The reason why this kind of thoughts keeps re-appearing at the top of my head is that I received an application, a couple of days ago, for a one year exchange opportunity. The thing is, I look for these kinds of programs constantly, and this one had the simplest procedures, which is why it got me thinking I can travel before I know it. And so, whoa! There you fucking finally have it! it doesn't get any better with regards to the first hit in the great journey-to-be! a fully paid time to spend away from everything and everyone and everywhere I've ever known.
And it already feels like too damn much. Not that this would get me to reconsider, it's rather that I've never felt the concept more strongly than I did when I got this call for the scholarship. I'm not really going anywhere with this, I just needed to document that. Maybe I wanted to talk about that, too, with that stranger I'm already longing for.

The universe is winking at me. And I'm learning to wink back. I would like to believe we have a better understanding. And that is just as awesome as having that many street lights above your head. Maybe those clueless light poles even have something to do with the deal.

That was one piece of work year, to say the least. And as it comes to a wind-up I take my mental cup of tea to the room that sets itself around the same time of the year. Where the hot aroma of fresh mint fills the space where there used to be everything but silence. But this year, there is no screen and chair, rather boxes being prepared, to be sealed, to be moved out of Time, where I'm building all the highways.

Oh, mentioning those.

So, well, you count them up for me, universe!
Box by box.

Bless The Water Drop

They rushed down the street together, digging everything in the early way they did, which later became sadder and perceptive and blank. But then they danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, The ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!"

I had given up the thought of ever finding this book here in Egypt, until I casually walk into a second hand book store because I have some 20 minutes to spare, and right before I grab the door knob and confuse pulling with pushing as always, my eyes fall upon a light green cardboard slip glued on to a book and titled "Jack Kerouac On The Road".
Anyhow, I gladly deleted the un-entertaining e-copy that I downloaded as means of settling but never got past the second chapter even at my eagerness to read this book, and I started reading into the physical version. Due to the on-and-off then once-and-for-all routine that I had gotten used to with reading, I still am getting towards the first third of the book. That didn't get me to notice what makes Kerouac great, though. My very own kind of great.
And I knew it, because, why yes I choose to believe in the "Our books find us not the other way round" case. It adds a lot more to the ride. A very personal value. And might as well, some answers, or magic signs, or whatever. I would like to end this paragraph because that's when I start losing words describing how words mean to me.

And this has got to be pretty much the most intense song I have ever come across.

I started doing something that I didn't notice when it became habitual, but I'm glad it did anyway. I crack the shutters wide open the minute I wake up, before doing anything at all, and I stand for a few minutes under the sun. I love how it feels when the warmth starts transferring from the fabric of my clothes into the skin on my shoulders. I also like the crisp I get when I change these clothes and then the cold fabric meets that warmth. This morning I saw the sun breaking in from between two little round siding clouds right as it was about to stop raining. This is the second time since winter officially started that I wake up to find it raining outside. The winter stories in my head always have this paradoxical course, but I won't try to fix that, as long as the sun manages to squeeze in from behind the clouds at some point.

So, I'll take it, as long as it makes the streets smell like they do in the early morning hours when it'd been raining at dawn, when it falls upon the dust lurking all over the under-construction road that is initially intended to connect me with that lost other side. The one where winter runs all year long and it's never boring, where it regularly storms but the sound of thunder never scares you.

I'll take it because it stuns me with genuine power to smile at nothing.

" I Want To Change The World..

Instead, I sleep."


I'm afraid this line is ringing way too literal for the time being, and it shouldn't. I'm also afraid music has gotten way too deep into my system. Not that I would want to get it out, but it would have been cool to know I could. I cannot write without music (not just have it on, I'm talking about basing-upon here), I cannot drive without music, I cannot think without music. My internal playlist terrifies me, having mentioned the thinking part. You know how you find yourself caught up in your head but you have no idea what the thoughts actually are? the song playing in the background,and sometimes out loud without me noticing, is the one that gives me the clues. I haven't even come to realize this except very recently, relative to the time since I started being serious about my music, which is approximately two years ago,for the record.

In one of my other lives, which is naturally one of my most pensively visited ones, I have walked out on my whole life and started over toute neuve as a musician. One that always wears a hat, for some reason. That includes Everything I knew, everything I've been, and ever wanted to be...and everyone I've known.

Which reminds me, I always wonder why the thought of cutting your ties with everyone around you seems very relieving at times. Not fighting, just stopping everything. I don't get this kind of thought out of feeling I don't love my people or that I don't enjoy being around them, or even that I wish to have other ones instead or anything, it's rather the idea itself. This thought, of course, runs in all directions across my mind like a ridiculously inebriated bird, only when the ugly face of lonesomeness brings to a nap, behind the stocks of faces I keep at the back of my head.

I'm sleeping way more than I should these days, and it's so not because I have nothing to do. Midterms are in 3 days and my progress is the exact of half a chapter over 20. The one-month novel project I've started has not gotten more than a paragraph past its second chapter, and is dead at it so far. I put my main character up on a mountain and I left him there, not knowing where I would throw him next. Yesterday was the first time I got close to catching a remote hint about the plot. This should have gotten me to sort of branch these basic threads to drive up the pathetically late word-count requirement. But it hasn't, really. Right now I am doubting the fact that I can finish by the end of the month, as the project entails. On the other hand, I still managed to come closest than I had ever been to writing a book. This had been on my list since I was introduced to the concept of lists itself.
It's because...It's just because I will have to say something, one day. I can't die without figuring it out, and I don't believe I will die before I do. I still believe that even when the worst comes, more often that it seems it should, to the worst, it's all a puzzle in the making. You need the fragments before you can start trying to fit them together. And it's a high price to pay, that I realize too, but I can't control it for the most part, so I might as well make any use of it. I might actually be saying that I have accepted the existence of all the fragments. Even the heaviest ones on my chest, the most harmful ones to my sense of self, and how cruel they can be when they accumulate and fall upon me where the sounds of their edges crashing down resonates in my ears and madly chases me into forgetting about the world, and sleeping.

But of course I want to change the world! Oh I want to do everything! and I will, world, I will. Just as soon as I wake up. In our definition, it takes a tad more than opening your eyes, and a few more than one beam of sun...doesn't it?

You can still see me, though. In the times of consciousness that spring between, like random flashes from a previous night's dream. When the labels are still blurred and we cannot identify one another, but nevertheless are immensely thankful for the shortcoming.

So until the beams gather, until the knees hold up, until the shield is lifted, I will meet you there, in the next momentary outburst of senseless enchantment.

Untitled

I am trying to raise funds for my long awaited maiden voyage. Currently, I am working as a freelance review-writer for various websites through an agent . A couple of days ago, my online "boss" gave me a task to write a number of articles about learning guitar, for this new website that will offer online lessons. I was glad this time the subject turned out to be of personal interest, so that I would not get bored of all the mundane researching I have to go through to finish the reviews.

Anyhow, yesterday I was brainstorming on the aspects I should write about in these 13 pieces of work. I came up with all it would take for the introductory reviews. But I was, yet, one article short. So, I thought it would be cool to write about the musicians you cannot really play the guitar and not know a thing or two about. I looked up the Rolling Stone magazine's list of the 100 Greatest Guitarists of All Time, to pick out as many names as my word count can handle. Nevertheless, I already had a few names in mind, out of personal preference, and I wanted to at least write about one of them in my article. For the sake of saving some professional face, I settled for writing about the people I would find there in common between the magazine's list, and mine.

There's a certain, not sure what to call it but, state when a certain song sticks with you so much that you literally can neither turn it off nor listen to any other one. At times it turns into a phase that goes on that way for days, and maybe as well even weeks. Sometimes even during this state you catch yourself mumbling that song involuntarily, at random times, in the middle of a conversation. Yeah. I am almost constantly in this state. The only variable is the song.

In a previous, not so distant matter of time that I cannot exactly remember, that song was Nirvana's unplugged version of David Bowie's The man who sold the world. I heard it accidentally on the radio after I switched to it when the ipod ran out of charge. It irritates me when that happens, and at that time I needed a sound in the air, no matter whose. I had not really gotten past the mandatory of Smells like teen spirit and Heart shaped box when it comes to Nirvana. I had only known the rest of their songs by name. That night there was so much traffic that it took me an hour to get through a 5 minute drive. But I found out it had been that long only when I looked down at the clock in my cellphone.

Because, apparently in my head I had been there, In 1993, on that MTV night. Sitting somewhere far from the stage, restlessly adjusting my place to see through. And finally, in the spaces between the heads in front of me I got hold of a view through an invisible cylinder where Kurt Cobain sat in his chair at the other end, while he played that song that was just on the radio.

And there was my new variable.

I believe it lasted for at least a week. But while it did, it got me to recall the few things I knew about Kurt Cobain. I knew he was rather famous for who he was on his own rather than along with the band. I also knew his death was an unsolved mystery between suicide and homicide. I knew he had drug addiction, but I did not know that he was diagnosed as bipolar and manic depressive until later. I had seen a few random photos of him on the internet before but one of them stuck to my memory more than I thought. I discovered that only after the song had played during my ride.

By that phase, Kurt Cobain had become one of the few names in my highly meticulous list of Monsters. That is how I call my "favorite" musicians, for many reasons that I do not feel like telling now.

And then he almost totally disappeared from my conscious thought. It was only when I jotted down the idea of this remaining article that I remembered all that again. He was the first name in the ones I decided will have to be there. I was certain he would be on the Rolling Stone list anyway, and he was.

I almost finished that article yesterday, but my eyes could not take the sight of the laptop any longer so I turned it off and went to bed, leaving the part about Cobain, the last part, to do first thing today before I start on the rest.

Today I put Kurt Cobain on while I was working, the particular song. I keep a tab open for entertainment when I am working. So I looked up the video of the performance to watch it in the nearest quick break. What happened is that I ended up watching nearly all the videos of that night. Because after I saw him on the first video I had to watch more of him.

I cannot really describe what I saw in his face, but it got to me. I found myself typing in the simplest manner "why was Kurt Cobain unhappy" in the search toolbar.
The first result was an article titled The Death of Kurt Cobain, so I thought this would provide explanation. At the end of the part that was about the night he died, his suicide note was attached.

This note is why I started the post. I was intending to just published it here and try, once more, to shape my reflection on it in word form.

But I couldn't.

That was such a long and seemingly unnecessary foreword, but I found my fingers running and I learned the hard way how to savor every chance of this occurrence, regardless of the outcome.


This is the last letter Kurt Cobain wrote to his childhood imaginary friend:

To Boddah

Speaking from the tongue of an experienced simpleton who obviously would rather be an emasculated, infantile complain-ee. This note should be pretty easy to understand.
All the warnings from the punk rock 101 courses over the years, since my first introduction to the, shall we say, ethics involved with independence and the embracement [sic] of your community has proven to be very true. I haven't felt the excitement of listening to as well as creating music along with reading and writing for too many years now. I feel guilty beyond words about these things.
For example when we're back stage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowds begins., it doesn't affect me the way in which it did for Freddy Mercury[sic], who seemed to love, relish in the the love and adoration from the crowd which is something I totally admire and envy. The fact is, I can't fool you, any one of you. It simply isn't fair to you or me. The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending as if I'm having 100% fun. Sometimes I feel as if I should have a punch-in time clock before I walk out on stage. I've tried everything within my power to appreciate it (and I do,God, believe me I do, but it's not enough). I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. It must be one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they're gone. I'm too sensitive. I need to be slightly numb in order to regain the enthusiasms I once had as a child.
On our last 3 tours, I've had a much better appreciation for all the people I've known personally, and as fans of our music, but I still can't get over the frustration, the guilt and empathy I have for everyone. There's good in all of us and I think I simply love people too much, so much that it makes me feel too fucking sad. The sad little, sensitive, unappreciative, Pisces, Jesus man! Why don't you just enjoy it? I don't know!
I have a goddess of a wife who sweats ambition and empathy and a daughter who reminds me too much of what I used to be, full of love and joy, kissing every person she meets because everyone is good and will do her no harm. And that terrifies me to the point to where I can barely function. I can't stand the thought of Frances becoming the miserable, self-destructive, death rocker that I've become.
I have it good, very good, and I'm grateful, but since the age of seven, I've become hateful towards all humans in general. Only because it seems so easy for people to get along that have empathy. Only because I love and feel sorry for people too much I guess.
Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past years. I'm too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don't have the passion anymore, and so remember, it's better to burn out than to fade away.
Peace, love, empathy.
Kurt Cobain

Frances and Courtney, I'll be at your altar.
Please keep going Courtney
for Frances.
For her life, which will be so much happier without me.
I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU.


I know what Kurt Cobain's favorite song was. And this is why.

And I was there the night he played it. I was there.

There was a face behind yours too.

I was going to float that night, like the little boy in the picture, out into the sky. I'm tired of the fluttering of that restless bird inside my chest. It can't see what I see, can't see the faces behind the faces.
I was going to float that night.

I have to document this. I fucking love Breaking Benjamin. yeah, I love this band. I love this band and I will still follow whatever they release. and If I make it to Europe next summer like I'm making believe I will, and they performed anywhere I could reach, I will be there. I will be there, at a Breaking Benjamin concert, having the phase of you all over my head, while it's getting dizzy from all the screaming. And I know forgetfulness will not be bestowed by a few hours of tune, but I already live well along with the existence of the facts you created. I'd still go, I'd still keep them on my folder, I'd still trace the energy in the intensity they bring. I'd still relate to their words. I would still let them carry me for me. And I would still scrutinize them to settle on your song in each and probably every single album from now on. Was it a surprise that there had to be at least one line in each of the 11 new songs that brought back a piece of you? Was it a surprise that almost none of these lines were even similar for the references?
I still managed to remember too much of you. This is what your lines have proven. I still can tell which would be the ones you would choose for yourself. And it should stop because it's useless. And if it doesn't, I shall simply watch them go by, without a response. These are easier to stop.

That joke, it will not get to me at its irony. It would show me I can tell the future without knowing. As pathetic as my self-relief system works, it amuses me sometimes.

I did not notice the yellow paper was even gone except after a while. Tells something too, doesn't it? I lost my most precious memory of you from my wallet, but that does not appear to have any effect on how much the words on the paper linger for longer whiles than than I would like them to. Or, well, longer than the part of me that operates on Reason would.

Well, I've grown, and here's my grown end line, I hope the whole sky fit the little boy, I hope the bird is warm and in no more need to flutter, I hope floating feels as good as you've always thought it to be.
For what it's worth, I really do.

May God's love be with you, always.

Goodbye, imaginary friend.

In The Wake of A Pulse.

I am the face standing in opposite to the laws of nature. i am the features that have passed by the stops of time, miraculously unchanged. i am the face that has never been like glass, but just looked like it was. i am the smile that has not lost hope, underneath the eyes that still feebly sparkle with the doubtful shades of wisdom. I am that very contradiction. Always have. I am the unexpected laughter, the under-estimated breakdown. The promising innocence with a twinge of restless curiosity. I am the smell of Belief. I am the taste of summer. I am the anticipating ears for the Unsaid. I am the fearing forehead. I am the meticulous eyebrows of Reason. I am the grin that follows the recurring tune. I am the portrait of Remembrance. I am the old days, the good and the bad. I am the acquired sweetness in a memory. I am the intriguing stillness in a reaction. I am the sadly cynical. The madly random. I am the shaking voice of Anticipation.

I am the tear before it lands. I am the one that never does. I follow the veins every now and then. I tell myself away in their trail. I cry aloud along the stream. I press my shields against each other away from the signals of Matter, and I'm gone again.

I am the face standing in the opposite direction, mostly alone. I am the face that parallels and never intersects. I am the anchoring notion sometimes. I am the unnoticeable unforgettable.

I am the fluttering breeze of Insanity. I blink to it and I live a different life every time. I am the face walking down the narrow streets under the stray beams of the lonesome light-pole. I am the light-pole at times. I am the buds enlivened by Strawberry Icecream on a surprisingly cool July afternoon. I am the voice inside your head. I burst into life within the collision of notions all around your inner galaxy. I bitterly observe until a stronger force of Insecurity washes over me. I am the stretching cheese in your mouth. I am the carefree giggle you effortlessly release as you chase it up the plate. I am the under-lying rhythm of drums. I am the ear that catches it. I am the miserable dweller. I am the blind eye turned upon it. I am the Unnecessary. I am the Shallow. I am the cheeks of Re-assurance.

I am the off-key drifter. I am the stiff fingers. I am the face that never fails to fail.

I am the peaceful roof-top at the starts of the day, I am the unwavering screamer standing on its edge. I am the face that survives the falls. I am the scars along its jaws. I am Everything in the sense of Nothingness. I am the absence of Common Sense. I am the Reason in its favor. I am the bright Red. I am the pale Yellow. I am the never-ending realm of Gray. I am the abandoned sidewalk on the highway. I am 5:40 a.m. I am the shortest lasting shade of Daybreak Blue. I am the most striking line down the orange Twilight.

I am the abstractly nostalgic. I am the desperate achiever. I am the harsh risk taker. I am the breath of Growth that is born in the consequences. I am the face mesmerized by the depth of the Abyss. I am the nervous teeth of hesitation. I am the head that thrives on jumping first. I am the face of a story-teller. I am a piece of every crafted character. I am the missing one nevertheless. I am the Golden fragment of Closure. I am the purpose of the plot. I am the bitten lips of Tension. I am the helpless hands of a Dream. I am the forgotten spare key. I am the dusty shelf of recollections of Courage. I am the face that scares itself. I am the face that confuses its beholder. I am the strand of hair frying in the sun. I am its obscure reddish brown death. I am the repulsive wrinkles of Reminiscence. I am the stench-detector of the Present. I am the sudden hiccup that snaps you out of your purple reveries. I am the legendary tales of Maybe. I am the horizon in the rearview mirror. I am the early morning rainbow dying against the concrete. I am the wish liberated by the sight of a midnight full moon. I am the whistle at seasons-changing. I am the chilling crisp of a breaking four leaf clover. I am the face of endless wonder. I am the invisible charm in it. I am the face that bore it all in transparencies. I am the skin of Irrationality.
I am the star doodled on its surface.

I am the healing touch of Strength. I am the warmth of the pat on your shoulder. I am the smile at the Bittersweet. I am the familiar song on the radio. I am the gripping sting of passion into your spine. I am the lyrics that change your perspective. I am the stain of ink on your shirt of Pride. I am the palette and brush that turn it into an impressionistic flower. I am the face in the spotlight. I am the face at the backseat. I am the crowd in between. I am the fading connection. I am the distances between the pores. I am the birthmark that remains untainted.

I am the emptiness in the trials. I am the long lost wave of Clarity across the reflection. I am the face that broke the mirror with the looks it tried to fake.