The Bohemian Jar

My new blog is The Bohemian Jar. This blog is kept for reference’s sake, and for good ol’ times.

This website….

Hello everyone,

This website is to be shut for the time being, I’m currently blogging on a different blog.

Best,
Amino

She came back….

She said she came back for the people;
For the spontaneous visits of mammoth nosed neighbors,
Heavy accented, knit browed neighbors with bushy mustaches;
For the morning gatherings of women,
Where they drink their tart coffee
In mismatched cups surviving the years,
Only to flip their hopes on chipped saucers and wait…

In a gust of laughter and whispers,
One would take on the voice of a fortune teller
to unearth the maps of destiny in the rancid residue.

Under the patch of grapevines embracing a rusty pergola
— built for the entire building but annexed by the first floor tenants—
One would giggle upon hearing a coffee prophecy,
Others refer to the secrets of the night in a low voice loud enough to tease,
They burst into fits of laughter comparing how much did their beds rock their neighbor’s goodnight sleep.
They take turns in bragging about an extra minute of foreplay,
And argue whose husband is more satiating; humbling their role in a two way street.

She said she missed being the spinster in slacks
With white clipped nails and razor sharp hair,
She missed smiling when the women’s conversation chokes contrite
Eying her with unprecedented sorrow;
Like she had missed a train,
One that she never intended to catch,
And never knew its station.

The conversation would careen to the latest slimming potion,
The magic that would burn their insecurities and ignite fire
In their nightly companions.

She missed withholding a reminiscent smile,
Feeling the touch of desire on her blushing face,
The silk hands that worship her curves,
The husky voice of passion grinding against her full lips.

She missed being asked about her friend,
Often the bespectacled lady on the third floor
Would say its not too late, and two handsome jewels
Will step into their threshold and whisk them off from singledom.

She missed replying courteously that the friend is home
Down with flu,
Some days it would be a headache or chronic pain.
She’d thank them for their tips on making chamomile,
Exploiting cactus oil to their benefit or hanging a blue eye to fend away
The envy and magic.

She missed her promises after every meeting to never come back,
Her constant worries about the extra bed that one is to think it’s filled.

She came back to segregated parties filled with reassurances
That it’s not too late to hop on the metallic beast.
Grow your hair, powder those plump cheeks
More women with coffee visions spoke
Of a knight on his way; an amusing conviction of how
Woman is never whole without her man.

One she brushes off hours before the gathering
When she wakes up next to a sluggish figure hiding under the covers—
Escaping the morning light seeping through the curtains—
Exhausted and blessed, whole and complete, after a night
Of divine vulnerability away from trains, stations, and jewels…
For that… she came back.

Residue of the British Empire

“You’re still here”, he slapped his
Wide forehead wishing to rewind
And erase.
He looked at the dusty binders
Unable to move back to when he had closed
Them.

The British Empire still
Sent her money,
For her services back in the day,
Her pension, how convenient
For her.
How inconvenient to him.

“I thought you died, hajjeh”, he said
You wish, she replied
I knew what he felt
Crossing those names off the list
Year after year
But couldn’t strike her wrinkly face
Out of the record and banish
The file into oblivion.

A miserly old hag she was,
Always accusing me of stealing coins
Little coins…
She’d lock the door and count
The coins again and again…
The music of coins touching and parting
Deafening and slashing my nerves.

Mom said she was family,
Just like any afro haired,
Fast tongued entity in the radius
Of our minority existence was.
We’ve got to stick together,
We came to the east with
Nothing on our backs, and only
Family helped.

“But mom, she thinks I steal the coins”
I repeated again and again
Mom still made me go with her
On her trips to the bank,
Acquaintances and Jabri downtown.

“Rich, filthy rich…” my cousin
Whispered to me one day,
“But won’t give her nephews a single coin.”

I hated her and her coins that
She dropped and never saw.

Every night when she’d sleep,
I’d collect them from under the bed,
And back to her pocket.
So she may count, drop, and accuse
The next afternoon.
Mom telling me families don’t turn
Their backs to each other.

“But mom… paranoia’s her middle name.”
No reply.

The Ideology of Damar

“Damar” is the word I use a lot, and many people have associated it to my presence. Recently, during the Royal Court Theatre’s Playwriting Workshop I taught a couple of our British mentors how to say “Damar”. They were utterly amused at the sound of that word, along with a couple of other words that sounded quite dramatic. What is the origin of damar?

Damar, is a word strictly used by Jordanian youth and part of their hip vocabulary in the late 90’s. It is now revived by the fact that I hate this millennium, and the upsurge of a nostalgic-retro desire to live my early teens (which by the way, I do not remember). Damar, is word that varies according to context. It is in fact a syntactic unit that can be placed in different positions in the sentence – according to your taste. Damar means an extremity: a state of utter destruction, however; according to the Amino version of damar, it has four levels:

Damar

Kharab Byoot

Ashla2

Geta3

For those of you who don’t understand what’s above, it’s tough to explain. Those expressions are hardly rooted in the Jordanian slang. You can say that damar is the least damaging of all degrees of destruction, wonder, and disgust. While, Geta3 is thy ultimate expression of destruction, detestation, and awe. Damar is by the way an alternative to the word “Nice”, which we previously discussed. It is dramatic and humorous – once you actually use it in historical contexts. For example, take Julius Caesar’s case, what if his last word when he was being stabbed was: Damar! Ah! I’m not sure if you can share the fun of this, but try to picture utterly serious and morbid cases in which you could insert damar in the conversation, it keeps me amused for hours.

It’

Hello everyone,

I’m in the process of re-designing the blog. Any color/design/layout suggestions?

I’m back…

Fortunately or unfortunately, cross out whatever suits you best, I’m back. Back from a very long break filled with adventures, observations, and news. Some say I’m back with an attitude, others think life has turned me sour and brought about eternal confinement to the “nice” side of me.

One word, nice is too much of a generic word. Nice is the word people use to fill in the blanks. It is the word they use when they can not think of a better adjective, or are just too lazy to utter one. Nice is the word people use to remain on cultural sidelines, avoid confrontation or isolation. Nice, is in fact, not nice at all.

I stopped…

I stopped.

I stopped under the trees, under the windows, under buildings — anonymous buildings that I may never belong to, and I searched for myself between the cracks of cement and uneven sidewalks.

I cannot leave.

The absence of such a definition haunts me. If I cannot belong here, would I belong there? The reflection of the sun from the silver panes blind me, here and there — a relative time invasion on the axis of distance and space.

I stopped.

I sank in my dreams that run lucid across the cracks. On the colored sidewalks with their endless speckles of unknown material — flies, sand, dirt, and careless feet that left their mark. In their anonymity, I saw your damascene freckles, your eyes, and your feet. Your freckles that I do not know their history or origins, like myself, a hybrid in the segments of the East.

I stopped.

The gush of water soaking my curls, my knuckles piercing the slippery walls with madness. I hear voices, voices that do not stop until they’re heard, documented, and read. I hear voices, and your voice between them is muffled and silenced.
“Your eyes are always seeing something different,” Lara said smoking her heart out. “That day when you came to me with slashed wrists, your eyes were silent. I said, it’s blood. You said it’s reality. I do not understand you. I never did. You are a mystery.” She tries to search within me with her blue eyes.

I stopped.

One night I sat in the hotel room. The dozen playwrights were drinking and smoking the night away. After all, what is a writer without alcohol and tobacco to accentuate the torment and licensed madness? I filled the bath tub with cold water and sank under, looking at the ceiling, the voices immersed in. The clear barrier of water breaking with the bubbles of me. Small bubbles, inaudible, invisible.
“Room Service. How may I be of help?”

Stream of consciousness is such a scam. They know, those two giants ask for scholarly papers, for dead languages, and many letters no Hermes could carry.

Ad infinitum.

Endless, bottomless, and slow. Decisions are to be made in a clear day, while carrying blue beads, a lucky charm, and some stones. Let us rip our way into life through superstition and hypnotized notions.

I stopped.
Because there is no end. If I do not, then who will? If I do, then where do I stand? How’s that for stream of consciousness, write more, no one will understand. What is said from a podium must be good, we must clap, otherwise we might seem ignorant of the age’s knowledge. Do not clap.

Stop.

Ask where you started, where you come from, where you are to end. Stop, a stop is permitted in such a dead context.

Ad infinitum.
To infinity.
Stop

Bring “Amino” Back

Hey there, It’s Moey blogging from Amino’s blog… Please bring her back, I miss her blog and she refuses to blog anymore. HELP!

Amino is a full time English Literature Sophomore. Hobbies include: criticizing the society, reading, and writing. An androgynous writer, conflicted idealist, and a passionate athlete, invests spare time devising plans to take over the world, breakdancing, and explaining all the conspiracy theories to online friends.

Lives for activism, books, and Japanese Manga. Earns a living by being a freelancer, translating documents, and eventually finding a decent job. Most commonly known to be enthusiastic about: gender bending, human rights, and science fiction movies.

Inspired by John Lennon, Sarah Waters, Edward Said, and Margaret Weis. Cherishes privacy, honesty, and independence.

Amino’s known to be the guardian of all freaks and socially condemned figures. Often accused of being a socialist, crucified for promoting liberalism, scorned for admiring anarchy. Practices a tolerant attitude under the roof of personal insecurities, and is not afraid to be wrong, rather terrified to regret.

Favors allegories, satires, and irony in literary texts.

Away…

I will be away for a long time. The Chronicles, my life, and many things are put on hold. I’m not sure if this is a phase, but I’m in a severe case of depression and I do not wish to drag the readers with me. For friends who have me on their lists, again, you may not find me online for a long time. You can send an email to amino@aminoholic.com.

A special note:

The other day I finally got to meet an anonymous writer I admired as a teenager. It was a shock, since my early writings were more rigid, and only after reading the writer’s stories did I think, how about I open up and be more fluid? It was quite interesting, that for a while, I was so adamant that I’ll find that writer one day.

Not long ago, I also met a poet. I was so intrigued by the poetry that I basically speechless and stopped commenting. That poet was quite serene and mysterious. Not only did I enjoy talking to the poet, I actually managed to wake up a dormant pleasure in the craft of poetry and reading.

The problem is that writers should not speak without thinking. They’re good with words on paper, not in speech. I was quite shocked to realize that the writer I’ve always admired turned out to be the poet and friend that I spent nights talking to. Was I disappointed? I wasn’t. I was sort of overwhelmed. Not only did my shock lead a disastrous reaction and an insensitive answer, it also led to something i’m not sure what it is.

For that person, I’d like to apologize. I wasn’t disappointed; I was overwhelmed to have two special people that intrigue me turning out to be one person… and that is the damar. Nothing more or less…

P.S: The definition of damar is the fact that I’m too young to stop kidding about age and you’re too old to be pissed off about what I joke about. Right?