Dec 14, 2017

He



He rages wars

He invades homes

He kills in the name of God, honor and patriotism

He makes guns

He profits from violence

He takes what isn’t his

He solicits greed

He boasts about rape

He molests children

He enslaves the weak

He abuses the environment

He spreads corruption

He champions hate

He advertises bigotry

He supports destruction

He obstructs justice

He forges facts

He obscures truth

He legalizes what serves him, he

criminalizes what does not.

He makes sure women are paid less than he,

have less opportunities than he,

are appreciated far less than he.

Just when I think this man, this cruel barbaric beast, cannot cause more harm, I read the news:

“man kills rarest butterfly”.












Dec 13, 2017

The Day



Is it finally over?

The day.

The tiresome day.

With its noise, and its bustle, and its meaningless chatter.

Is it finally over?

The day.

The weariness of bones, the treacherous tongues, the monotonous insincere greetings

The obscure intensity of eyes meeting, of eyes hurriedly looking away.

The mundane work, the laden footsteps, the wretched paths we tread.

The day is finally over.

The bitter fruit consumed, the oversized core spat. 








Dec 8, 2017

The Terrible Long Arm




On a day like today

I fold, and put myself away,

like the crumpled, tossed garments in the hamper

worn and tired looking. I’m a misshapen sac, without a soul in it.

A sagging deflated balloon.

I want isolation. The confinement of a dark, musty drawer.

To be shut away from the world, while a storm went brooding outside.

The insane spikey crowns of palm trees jostled, and buffeted by a mad wind.

I needed the familiar, the mundane.

Ironing school uniform creases, scrapping burnt rice from the blackened bottom of the pot,

polishing shoes, piling papers, books, time, and people into some kind of vague order.

Can tidying the external, compensate an internal chaos?

The fuming gale continued to hurl dust, and scatter trash onto roads, sidewalks, and faces.

While passersby endured, bracing themselves, with bent heads, and squinted eyes.

The strange and terrible long arm of the past reached out, and lay its heavy hand on my shoulder.






Dec 7, 2017

The sad, who sleep.



We sleep when we are sad, 

Not only because our bones are bashed old train tracks, no

amount of rest will ever mend.

But as a way of refusing life, 

shutting our eyes to its colossal ugliness. Numbing our minds to its tyranny.

So helpless are we in the face of its excruciating tragedies, the only way to survive

is not take part. To reject it with lack of presence, and absent consciousness.

Turning our vision away, towards the plunging dungeons of slumber.

Decline engaging in the mockery of what it means to live, and be human. Which is 

the precise opposite of living, and the literal contrast to humanity.






















Dec 6, 2017

The things that wait for us



Back in my teaching job at university. Back in my cozy red painted office, on my black leather chair. My old books, papers, and pens, dusty and worn. The vintage clock that stopped ticking long ago, half past one, was the last hour it struck. Old Post-it notes reminding me to prepare for this class, or see the dean about that issue. I’m astonished. How things can wait for us? Despite years of absence, they sit still, wrapped in a sad, almost resentful sense of loyalty.

We’re all still here, where you left us, as you left us, years ago.

The same old feeling of belonging, and not belonging there at all. The excited young faces of second year law students, still deciding who they want to be, what they want to be. The freshness of their young souls. Still unscarred by life’s disappointments. Still, not quite broken. The smell of hope, and passion for chasing dreams, like young tree leaves slowly unfolding in Spring, knowing nothing of Winter’s harshness. The quickness of their emotions, the clarity of their expressions, their confident, forthcoming steps, the ghost of melancholy walking behind them, almost catching up. The years that come like ocean waves, taking from us what we naively believed was ours to keep.
















Sep 18, 2017

My Dream Came True!


I stumbled on a quaint art shop (gallery) called Article, located in a beautifully designed shopping mall. After getting in touch with the owner Othman Al Othman, I wasn’t only encouraged to exhibit my paintings, but to also come and paint (live) every day, in order to attract commissions, buyers and art enthusiasts. I left my energy draining, emotionally scarring law job, to become a full-time artist. Although it’s only been a week since I’ve started as an art resident at Article, my experience has been amazing. I love showing art to people, I love all the inspiring and meaningful conversations these art works provoke. I love setting up my easel, brushes and paints at 8:00 am every morning in the lovely open space of the mall. I get so many compliments, feedback, oohs and aahs from passersby. I’m giving an art course for beginners in October. And today I was commissioned to do a portrait for a very elegant lady, who invited me to her luxurious home. Then, over fed me, and over paid me for my work!
I’m blown away by how lucky I’ve been, to have found the shop, to have found Othman, who is super supportive and caring. I’m so grateful to the universe for giving me everything I’ve always dreamed of, Everything.

I’m finally in the right place, after being so lost for so long. I’m finally doing what I love, what I was born to do. But to be shown so much appreciation, to actually be paid for it, well, it’s just wild! Wild and beautiful.






If you live in Kuwait, come and visit me at Article in The Promenade Mall, ground floor, next to Caribou Café.










Sep 7, 2017

The Longest Tunnel




People try to reach me, I try to reach people. But

my sadness is the longest tunnel, where the reception is always bad.

The light is not at the end of my tunnel, the light is not the way out.

The light is a mere flash, in the second-long intervals in-between tunnels.  

The flash is people’s voices telling me to:

Go out more,

Make new friends,

Exercise,

Take antidepressants,

See another therapist.

As I nod and say thank you. My mind, filled with abusive insensitive mouths, that understand my pain more than I do. 

I don’t tell my therapist that I feel worse when I leave her office. 

I tell my therapist that my body feels heavy, that my feet are made of lead, that my bones are as brittle as porcelain. I say my body is sore, and achy, and that I’m always tired.

She suggests I rest more.


I tell her that I wish to be touched, not in a sexual way. That I would like to be held.

She suggests - like all my therapists before her - A massage.

I want to explain that that’s not what I mean, that I tried getting a massage once, and it was a terrible experience, but I’m afraid I will sound like I’m dismissing her advice.

I’ve dismissed too many of her advice already, and soon she will grow impatient. 

The way my mother was impatient with me when I was child, and almost always sick.

The way my father was impatient with me when I was a child, and didn’t understand math.

I tell her I can’t trust the good days, because they are always followed by a very steep fall.

She suggests I be more optimistic.

I want to task her to please stop suggesting.

I saw her yawn once, while I was wrenching my heart to her, and I understood.

That my sadness is very boring - of course -  but also, that my sadness pays the rent, that my sadness puts people in college, and finances vacations. That my sadness is a tremendous industry, that my sadness is necessary.