While it seems for many of us that 2017 couldn’t come quickly enough, sick and buried under blankets with a hot water bottle tucked under my arm, I barely stayed awake until 11:30. There’s nothing quite like being sick to provide the time and space for introspection. Continue reading “Slowing into 2017”
He holds his thumb pressed to his forefinger in a loop, signaling “okay?” I can’t respond. I hold my hand to my chest, feeling the panic rise and I am acutely aware that every breath I don’t take will only heighten my state. My body is swaying from left to right in a huge arc and, as my knees keep lifting, I cannot keep my contact with the floor. Is this what an earthquake feels like? Again, Hussein tries to make eye contact and I stare back, hard, unable to move my hand from the safety of my heart. He stays with me and takes my hand and I steady. Moments later we all burst through the surface and I suck on the air intensively, regaining my ground in shallow waters. Welcome to my first moments breathing under the sea.
Continue reading “Currents”
It’s not a great sign when a guy cancels just before your third date. But it’s a good thing I anticipated his possible flakiness and went grocery shopping today. I had designed a menu from a new cookbook I recently bought “Rose Water & Orange Blossoms” by Lebanese-American author Maureen Abood. In the end, spending my Friday night cooking quality food for myself is a preferred alternative to subpar dating exercises.
One of the best parts of life in Egypt is the abundance of wonderful, fresh ingredients. A lengthy pomegranate season is a delight. Readily available rose water, ground sumac, lebnah (yogurt cheese) and reasonably priced nuts make Middle Eastern cooking a delight.
Fayoum (aka Fayum, or Faiyum) is a mere hour’s drive from Cairo, the origin of the world’s famous encaustic mummy portraits, the opening to a string of oases – small and large – and the stomping ground of a prehistoric whale (with legs!), the great Basilosaurus. I spend the weekend there recently, enjoying 4×4 wheelies in the sand, a molasses, feta and fattah lunch, countless shooting stars, a sleep under the naked sky (where foxes trolled around me leaving a smattering of footprints), a morning walk through the dunes with no sound but the wind, and the spotting of another interesting geologic form from the Eocene era: nummulite fossils, the shells of single-cell marine organisms.
There are parking lots. Like the one at Ikea where, before you proceed into the mall complex, security guards check the trunk of each car. The car park is a circulation of vehicles, taxi drivers, Ubers, cycling around the open space.
And then there are “parking” lots. The Ring Road, where traffic is packed so tightly, cars are bumper to bumper. My cabbie puts his car in park. I glance at the time. My forty minute cab-ride to see friends across town will be prolonged to an hour and twenty minutes. A typical Saturday at 6pm. I notice everyone is at a standstill. Guys are milling around between the cars, chatting up a storm. The traffic ahead lurches. The men rush back to their doors, hop in and scoot a few meters. To my right is a man pushing his car along in neutral, taking his time while the traffic moves at a predictable snail’s pace.
My driver makes an opportunity of the lull. The typical questions follow: Where are you from? How long have you been here? Do you speak Arabic? Where in the US are you from? What are you doing in Egypt? And then, as it sometimes happens, I get the following question: Tell me, honestly, and please don’t think I’m strange for asking this question… Do people really hate Muslims in America? Continue reading “Parking Lots”
“We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses.” ~ Abraham Lincoln
Yesterday, with an absent voice and a pathetic level of energy, I called in sick. I woke up unable to return to sleep; just after I finally passed out again, the doorbell echoed down the hall. I grumpily donned some pants and a t-shirt and found my bowab*, A3del, at the door with his son. They were concerned when I didn’t come down to fetch my bicycle in the morning!
When I finally roused myself to seek some pharmaceutical aides, I ventured out in thick heat. Summer is far from fading. When I exit my building I have to decide – do I want to walk the busy road, where things are conveniently located, and deal with the hassle of people staring? Or do I want the less populous street where I fear I am about to be mowed over? I chose Road 9, the populous option.
My fascination with circles and cycles ensues. This past week, a national celebration of the holiday Eid al-Adha, also called the “Sacrifice Feast” has provided me with the space and time to invest in my studio practice. Over the course of this year, with the deliberate goal of working towards a public exhibition, I have increasingly invited more people to enter my art practice, both figuratively and physically. The charge of sharing my head and soul space with friends has yielded new concepts and a furthering of past ideas. In a short conversation this week a friend suggested I read Ralph Emerson’s essay “Circles” from 1841. A philosophically profound work, he starts, “The eye is the first circle; the horizon which forms it is the second; and throughout nature this primary figure is repeated without end.”
A friend once shamed me into swimming in a frigid Drakensburg dam, “You only regret the things you don’t do in life.” I am not a great swimmer. But those words have stuck with me: no matter how cold or rough, no matter how muddy, no matter how ill-fitting my swimsuit may be…I don’t ever regret it. Continue reading “Water”