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

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?

On.women.honesty.conclusions.

I.am.a.woman.

Yet.do.not.ask.me.about.women.

Simply.because.I.don’t.get.them

How.could.this.be

I’m.not.sure

They.say.women.can.communicate.with.each.other

Yet.I.realized.today.

How.we.tend.to.misunderstand.what’s.said

How.we.tend.to.think.of.love.as.hate

How.we.tend.to.be.blind.about.many.things

I.realized.that.the.fact.I’m.a.woman.

Does.not.make.me.qualified.to.understand.

Converse.or.debate.or.even.apologize.

I.realized.that.I’m.just.a.modern.woman.

Unable.to.communicate.

Too.many.fragments.Too.many.words.

Too.many.emotions.Too.many.dreams.

Feel.free.to.ignore.me

Feel.free.to.criticize.me

Feel.free.to.disregard.the.me.in.your.world

Feel.free.to.exit.my.world

Feel.free.to.leave.the.way.all.do

You.know.what.

Honesty.is.not.worth.a.dime.in.this.world

Shell.yourself.in.million.layers

Cause.feelings.honesty.and.thoughts.

Are.not.worth.a.dime.in.this.world

Are.you.still.there.

Following.with.all.the.dots.fragments.

In.the.corner.i.cry.

No.i.don’t.I.never.could

I.lie.in.bed.and.think.things.through.

No.I.don’t.but.honesty.ain’t.worth.a.dime

Are.you.still.there.

User.blocked

The.end

Game Over…

My Suicide

By: Amber L. Frye

From this coffin that i lie,
you can still see it in my eyes,
The emptiness left inside,
that consumed me as i died.

The image you can’t erase,
the look upon you’r face,
As i struggled on the rope,
clawing at my throat.

Blood pouring from my eyes,
you’re the image that i despise,
Don’t touch me let me hang,
there’s nothing left to change.

The darkness is closing in,
finally i meet the end,
Death and i go hand in hand,
you see now we’re the best of friends.

I tried to tell you make you see,
all the pain and hell you caused in me,
I’m a toy left on the shelf,
you brought this upon yourself.

Don’t try to shift the blame,
they all saw on my wrists the carvings of your name,
I have given death all i’ve got,
just remember this is all your fault.

No more tears i have to cry,
because this time…i left you behind.

There is that in me…

There is that in me – I do not know what it is – but I know it is in me.

I do not know it – it is without name – it is a word unsaid,

It is not in any dictionary, utterance, or symbol.

Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on,

To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me…

— Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

I walk… I walk for long… searching, believing, and hoping. I walk…Leaves of Grass in my bag, a pen in my pocket, and a notebook in my hand. I walk… I walk for long… looking, sensing, and feeling.

I walk away… away from this land. Away from this insatiable desire to give in….

Line, where art thou line…

If there’s anything a UJ student is familiar with, it’s definitely lines. Lines, in the university, defy the simple definition of a path traced to point, and instead take on the forms of: the elitist line, the let’s-punch-each-other-since-we-have-nothing-better-to-do line, flubber-ain’t-better-than-me line, or the sympathetic-yet-gawking-and-complaining-minions line.

Lines are everywhere, when you want to buy your lunch, coffee, or even photocopy a book. Lines are in front of the computer labs, bathrooms, and even the library. Lines, like any aspect in this university, need a certain experience and skill to survive. The four types of lines I’ve mentioned before have one thing in common: students who shower, students who don’t, and students who you can’t tell if they’ve been visited by the soap fairy since the previous have cause severe damage to your senses. You can tell how pleasant it is to be in line, since there is a huge number of students who just love to be there or most probably haven’t passed Reading 101 to know that this building is not the bank and certainly not the right place to embrace the virtues of socializing.

Lines are the perfect opportunity for every guy on campus to flaunt his English accent, which vividly exemplifies the essence of linguistic substitution between the infamous P and B, only to realize later on that I’m actually an Arab. Lines are a heaven-sent occasion for everyone to gawk and ask why my hair is so short; then finally conclude that foreign women are just too weird.

Elitist lines, like the name implies, contain people who believe in the tribal hierarchy. They manage to jump ahead of everyone, since their status gives them the false conception that they’re above the rules. Such lines are often stocked with common people, no different than farmers in a feudal system, who in the beginning watch silently when the elitist member does not stand in line, then burst out in rage when a courageous commoner complains. Those lines are often characterized with fights, insults, and possible security guards dragging the complaining minion and saluting the corrupted elitist.

The let’s-punch-each-other-since-we-have-nothing-better-to-do lines, more commonly referred to as the chaotic lines, prove the natural random selection of evolution and the barbaric animal like nature that every human has. These lines are usually the beginning for many students, who discover the socialist beauty of nicking someone’s wallet or bag, and eventually quit college and take on a career in crime. Do not assume for a moment that they are stealing, it is a mere act of distribution of wealth, nothing more or less. The lines are best characterized with injuries, lack of efficiency, and a limited supply of something. Although the third characteristic hardly applies, since paper is always around and I’m pretty sure that the sixty something employee behind the counter couldn’t possibly be the most eligible bachelor of the week.

The flubber-ain’t-better-than-me line, isn’t exactly green, however; it is fluid and lacks a regular shape. This line is especially flooded by vagabonds who have lost their way, people selling gum, or students simply curious about the commotion. Often you will discover that you’re standing in the wrong “line” or that the employee behind the counter, being the flubber that he is, has left to the restroom or went to lunch leaving you on an infinite date with boredom.

The last line, the sympathetic-yet-gawking-and-complaining-minions, often combines a childish curiosity and a collective and sympathetic unity of those in line. The villain is usually the employee behind the counter; usually mean, slow, and unwilling to exercise those 44 muscles, and the victims often feel like minions under his rule. Not only are those lines usually silent, but they show the childish curiosity adults have. Those in line are not afraid to stare, gawk, or even smile, and often remind you of small children who feel no shame in such acts. They whisper complaints to those behind or in front of them, and feel an air of unity with those around them. They voice almost identical complaints and often eat the employee alive at some point. Those lines are quite special for their political allegory and are often characterized with riots, fights, and quick-yet-detailed introductions. Those strangers, do mark my observation next time you’re in line, would reveal sensitive information about their lives. They would often express feelings or tell stories you won’t expect in an introduction, and if you happen to be in Amman, you’ll realize that you’re related to them one way or another.

There are many ways to cope with lines like humming a song, thinking of a new post, or devising more plans to take over the world, er — the third would be reserved for Kloude and I. So next time you’re in line, you’ll be proud to boast that you’re a certified line expert, and remember never ask someone why they’re here… it’s usually a long story — trust me.

My car’s back!

The moment I heard that my baby’s back, I was bouncing off the walls. However, the bastard – pardon my French – who stole the car broke everything you could think of: the steering wheel, the compartments, and the windows. Obviously because no one else is used to the way I park near the narrow corner, he basically hit the car’s wing with the neighbor’s wall, and threw it somewhere on the way to Abu Nsair. I’d like to thank Samir, who actually emailed me about the car but was unsure because of the dark, and the police force that managed to give me back my baby in a new world record of 2 days. The car is currently undergoing various plastic surgeries, not to mention deep scanning and some major checkup of the internal organs.

Of course, you can not expect me to give away such an opportunity to ramble about the Utopia for the glee I’m immersed in. It’s time to ramble about the Utopian standards and lament the absence of such a place. One thing that caught my eye is how the Police Force in Jordan deals with women in a way that I’m ashamed to say is degrading.

During a trip to Zarqa that I reluctantly embarked on hoping to find my car, I had to stop by a police car to ask for directions. It went something like this…

“Excuse me…”

“Na3am ya marah” – translates to “What woman!” The Police Officer answered.

He actually gave me the directions, but I wasn’t able to quite grasp them after the cultural shock I had. In the different hunts in Amman for the car, the police officers failed to address me respectfully, as some of them answered with “Ah ya bent” or “Sho biddek.”

Maybe I’m being a bit fastidious, but I started asking random cops for directions to see their reactions, and only 2 out of 10 cops managed to address me in a respectful manner, rather than addressing me as a cow out of the field and on the road. I’m quite aware that cops come from different backgrounds, but I believe they should be first of all trained to address people with respect; otherwise people would fail to respect them.

I’d like to thank Jordan Blogs for helping out, and I hope my baby would be able to survive the trauma.

My car’s stolen!!

The monstrosity, my car was stolen yesterday night…

My car happens to be a Mitsubishi Lancer, 1999 Model. It’s blue-lilac and the plate number is

89972

The number maybe changed but it would still be a precious blue Lancer. If anyone happens to see my car in his neighborhood, because the robber would most probably leave it anywhere… please send me an email @

amino@aminoholic.com

I’d really appreciate your help, since this is my first car, and I barely used it for 2 months now. ::sniff sniff ::

Spreading the word would help too…