There is a palm print on our ceiling

There is a palm print on our ceiling.

Really, it’s there in the middle of the kitchen ceiling.

Before I start about the palm, I believe an explanation is overdue. You might have guessed already from previous posts (or conversations!) that I am on holiday. I am in Egypt on holiday, and I’m finding it a little bit unsteady, but more about that later, no doubt.

So back to the palm, the first interesting thing is that I noticed it in the first place. I don’t usually walk around inspecting ceilings, especially not in the kitchen. It’s not a room where I’m likely to have a lie down. Usually I’m peering inside the fridge looking for something to eat. Although all I keep finding today are some cakes, and I don’t like cake, so I stick to bread sticks. They have these great crispy bread sticks with sesame seeds on top.

Anyway, I digress, getting back to the palm print on the ceiling. It’s a fully formed print of a perfectly average palm. I’m guessing it belongs to the guy who installed our natural gas. This brings me to a great aspect about this country, and I use the word great because at this point I’m trying not to use too many negative words. Everybody thinks they are right and nothing else could possibly matter. When this guy installed our gas, he did a good job. We have natural gas and it works. Of course in the process he broke a multitude of the tiles my dad had so painstakingly picked. He forcibly rearranged our kitchen so it’s quite uncomfortable to use now. He installed a huge ugly looking meter on the wall, and wrote a phone number on it by hand. He connected a pipe through our living room, with a gapping hole around it, just above my dad’s antique mirror. This hole is about six times as big as it needs to be and is surrounded by white mortar that stands out so much it’s extremely difficult to ignore. Then there is the mess they left in the bathroom.

That pretty much describes everything else. There are holes everywhere. All of them too big for what they do and all of them surrounded by abstract formations of grey cement that stands out against walls. There are too many air conditioners hanging out of people’s walls. All of them dripping water on the street… on people’s heads... but that doesn’t matter; you shouldn’t be walking on the street anyway.

And another thing, how long does it take to install a dish on a roof? They’ve been welding, really loudly for the past three hours. It’s loud and it’s annoying, but no one cares. No one is complaining. I don’t think anyone has even noticed. People are so used to being abused that they don’t even register anymore. Pedestrians on the street accept that cars always have the right of way. Walking is not something people do and if you dare try to cross a street, then God help you.

The truth is this is a great country. It has so much to offer, but people don’t care for each other. Or they do but in other less visible ways. They don’t bother to be considerate of each other, even when being considerate is someone else’s right.

Then again, maybe I belong here more than I think… I’ve just rambled on about how I’m right and they’re all wrong. Isn’t that a very Egyptian thing to do?

Home

So I don’t like to complain. I genuinely appreciate that I have a lot, and am very thankful for it. I’m very aware that I am the object of many people’s envy. However I am also human and humans are never satisfied with what they have.

So here I sit on the 13th floor in a beautiful sea breeze while others are making do in the heat below on the street. I have a view, I can see sky, while all others can see are brick walls and washing lines. I sit starring at 300 channels with nothing on. I sit at home with a dial up connection. I traveled for two days and paid a fortune so I can sit here with a dialup connection. I could have saved a lot of money if I’d just turned on the heating at home and sat doing the same thing with my wireless ADSL. I probably would have spoken to more people than I’ve spoken to so far. Everyone is being extremely considerate and “letting us rest”. The result is it's my second morning and the only people I’ve seen so far were my 16 year old cousin who brought us milk (I do like the milk here, it’s much nicer) and our door man and his family. His wife, whose name I’ve never known, took me by the hug and was very interested in how we were going and was really nice. She’s always been really nice. I remember as a child I would play in the car parks and little reserves in the street outside our building and 3am Ga3far and his wife would always be keeping an eye on us. She was always the arbitrator whenever there was an argument amongst the kids. Yet those days are gone. I’m now worlds away from that old life and I’m a stranger in my own childhood home. None of those friends are here any more. They’ve all moved on with their lives. I have too, but for some reason I keep coming back expecting things to be the same way they were when we were 12.

I can see my old school yard from the balcony. They put up another building in the garden behind the school’s convent. I remember that garden. It had swings that we were never allowed to use. On my first week at that school we were taken there to play one morning and kids started telling me stories of dead things and blood buried underneath. Kids can have the strangest imagination. Why on earth would five year old girls think of something like that?

Anyway, there is no more garden. It’s now another block of flats with satellite dishes on top. Kinda like the one we have on our roof receiving the 300 channels with nothing on.

I’m afraid to go for a walk. I’m afraid to see what else has changed and left me behind. I’m afraid to see how else this place is telling me that I don’t belong here anymore, because eventually it will sink in and I will believe it. When that day comes, I will be a stranger forever. I will never be home again.

Travel -- Part 1

I love travel.

I really am addicted to the travel bug. The smells, the sounds the journey. It's all in the journey. Being free to behave in ways you wouldn't normally at home, like taking random photos in the street. Getting lost and asking for directions. Somehow there is a wonderful satisfaction in all of that. Dreaming about it, planning it, doing it. The flight. It's ecstasy.

But there are things I hate about traveling. One of those is the week leading up to the start of the journey. I really hate the days leading up to the journey. I hate the packing. I hate the insecurity and the separation. I hate the interruption to my life.

I hate that I'll forget to take things I need. I hate that I'll miss my life and my small comforts when I'm there. I hate that I'll lug around things that I won't need or use. I hate that I know all of that but can't change it. I hate that I won't take care of my life at home. That I'll let it go, that I'll have to trust others to look after my home. I hate the thought that I won't be home when I need to be safe.

The last night in my own bed is always a restless anxious one. A lot of disturbed dreams, uncomfortable ones.

Then the time comes. I step outside and the journey begins. All my fears and all my worries are forgotten. The excitement begins. The rush is here.

Deception

Today three people were shot point blank about two minutes walk from where I work.

Not here! Not in my safe haven!

They got shot because they came to the aid of a woman being harassed in the street. They did not know this woman, nor did they realise she knew her attacker. They were simply coming to the aid of a complete stranger and one of them paid for that with his own life.

As I walked to my office in the morning, I was ignorant of these events. I was simply doing what I do everyday. Yet something felt different. There was an ominous feeling about and I distinctly remember saying to myself that this would not be a good day. None of the people walking around me could have known either as this was at the same instant it happened. Yet I could feel it. Something was different.

You see a lot has happened these last few days. There is an unusually high concentration of onion this week, the really potent kind. I'm trying to find something profound to say about it, but just can't find sense in any of it.

The theme has been hospitals and funerals, and they're creeping ever so much closer.

I'm again at that point where I remove myself from everything and it's as if I'm watching from outside. Watching some sort of perverted film. The plot twists and turns and I just can't look away. I'm too curious. I want to find out what happens next. How will it all turn out?

I get these flashes of insight, where for a split second it all makes sense, and I see things with such clarity. I almost see the future. Those moments are so pristine, so desirable, but I can't hold onto them. They soon wear off and the onion reappears.

Why do people do this to each other? Why must we have so many faces?

Part of the problem is that I know too much. I've been told things that I wasn't supposed to hear, and then told to keep them to myself. I have to let this horrile knowledge silently destroy me from the inside.

I know that this wife, who is looking so desperate, so miserable and trying everything she possibly can to save her husband, is secretly hoping he doesn't make it. She loves him so much but at the same time resents him. I know that she blames him for her deprivation. It wasn't his fault, but she saw him standing in her way. Only a few months ago she broke his heart with talk of divorce. It's not her fault either that she feels this way. She has her instincts blindly pushing her.

Then there are the admired ones.

She holds a position of integrity, trust and honour. She has power and others look to her for help in their most desperate times. They trust her with their worst secrets. She is known to be honest and proclaims to speak for us all. Yet I know that she is hypocrisy personified. I know that those powers are abused. I know that the image of honesty and sincerity are nothing but a facade to hide the darkness inside. The darkness that once in a while boils over and devours all who surround her.

She's not the only one, there is the educator who speaks such beautiful words. He makes sense and he works so hard for all of us. His dedication is unprecedented and his abilities closely follow. Yet I know he does the very things he speaks against. He does those things in proportions and with intentions none of his students could even imagine. He closes doors for his students, traps them with his words only to clear the field for himself. So he can have full rein in his paradise...and not even his victims see it.

I don't want to know these things but they are in my head. I want to forget them and many more pieces of information infused in my consciousness.

Had this man known his life would be the price would he have stepped forward? had he known she was not as innocent as she looked would he have even bothered? Would he have judged her?

There is too much deception in the world. Too much indecision. Why can't we all just be direct and honest with each other? Why do we have to lie so much? Why is honesty punished?

I don't want to take part in any of this. Apparently I'm supposed to learn to play "the game". You know the one where you hold your cards close to your chest and deal them at the opportune moment. Well I can't do that. I'm incapable of it and why should I learn? Why should I force myself to learn such a vile and hurtful game? No I'd rather stay as innocent as I can manage in such a cruel world. I'd rather keep my conscience clear even if the price is that I am always the one to loose out. I don't want to exist in a world where this is the only road to a happy life.

I can't help but walk this earth but I refuse to participate. I know I will loose but in my heart I'll always be the winner, because I'll have kept my soul. There will come a day when that is all that matters and I can only try.

Saturday morning TV

For the first time in a long time, I have a relatively free weekend. I have a lot of chores to do but no actual plans with anyone other than me. This should be grrreat.

So as I wondered around the house trying to avoid doing anything productive I got a great idea. I haven't watched TV in a very long time, I thought to myself. I'll turn it on. So I did what I thought was a fairly benign activity that many many people would routinely indulge in on a lazy winter weekend.

I started surfing the channels. We don't have many of them so choice can be fairly limited.
There was an interview with some crusty old man. I didn't wait long enough to figure out who.

There was news in a foreign language. It's funny how all the reporters look the same, use the same tones and practically the same footage. I wondered if they were saying the same things. My wondering, however was short lived as I quickly got bored and moved on.

Oooooh cartoons. How exciting! After about three minutes of that I decided that my age had long passed double digits and this was not as entertaining as it once was.

Next!

Oh look something is just starting, it was only the warnings. It was odd. The warnings included sexual references and mild coarse language. This grabbed my attention, but for all the wrong reasons. I was wondering why on earth there was a show like this at a time like this. It was mid Saturday morning. How many kids would be watching now? It must be a mistake. Like that time they accidentally put on an after hours add during a children's show.

The show began. I had to see what this was about.

There was a puppet! It was a cross between a monkey and a hippo with a bit of Krusty the Clown thrown in. This show was AIMED AT CHILDREN!

I hadn't been off Saturday morning TV for that long! I'm not that old! Things couldn't have changed that much.

The show was a mix of puppets, cartoons, a guy dressed in a panda suit and music clips, which I assume were the source of the "sexual references and mild coarse language". In between segments the hosts, 'Asha' and some guy whose name I forget, would talk about celebrity gossip. I now know that Christina Aguilera is pregnant because she was spotted coming out of a maternity hospital!

I guess you can throw fact verification out the window.

Then the adds came. I really didn't know what to make of this. Had I been someone else I would have thought it was a conspiracy to indoctrinate early teens into the arts of following trashy gossip, having sex too early and generally growing up too soon... but hang on... It can't be that bad. I've just been out of it for a while and am thinking like an old fuddy duddy. There is nothing wrong with a few song clips with provocative dancing. Is there? I've gotta snap out of it.

Then it got worse. An add for hot.gozzip!!!! girls call free and boys call for a charge!!!!

This was the most interesting thing on television at the time and no wonder STIs are on the rise among youth.

But I did find solace in something. Our resident teenager was actually still in bed. Doubtless most other teens were also still in bed. They were instinctively avoiding this. I felt a swell of pride come on. Teenagers are smart enough to know what's not good for them and avoid it, even if their parents keep making it hard by constantly trying to wake them up. (Red, you can stop now... stop trying to wake up the kids... let them save themselves).

Yes life was safe after all. The kids were not watching this. Instead they were probably exposing themselves to the web! What could their innocent young minds possibly be doing when they lock themselves in their rooms with a computer and an ADSL connection?

Present or Future

There are basically two kinds of people in the world. Two extremes on a continuous spectrum.

The more common kind is the “I can’t” type. I call them type A. They are the ones who live life as it happens. They can see and know exactly what they want; they imagine it and can describe it so perfectly. Yet they will never achieve it because they are too afraid to go for it. They are afraid of failure and are risk averse. They will never pursue anything the moment they realise it means giving up or risking what they already have. This sort tends to be reactionary. They only act when something external happens, and even then, they will only do the bare minimum. They like to stick with the status quo or the closest to it.

Like the lady at the power generator today. All she could see was her present and how uncomfortable she felt. She couldn’t see that her behaviour might make me feel bad or that her concern was of no consequence. She was fixated on what she perceived as a risk, nothing could make her see how false that fixation was. She, like all of type A, is a prisoner of her own cowardice.

Basically type A are the masses. Most of the time they will not amount to anything. Only luck will give them anything in life. They never fail because they never actually try. They are not unhappy, but they never reach their potential either… and they know it. In their old age, when it’s time to reflect and reap their life’s rewards, they are often full of regret and envy. They will never leave anything behind.

The second kind of the people in the world, type B, is the “make it happen” sort. They are exactly that. They set their eyes on a goal, and however big or small, they pursue it. They will risk almost anything to reach their goal. They fail a lot, but they also succeed and because their effort is so directed, they get there. They reach their goal. Their persistence is the most valuable thing they have.

Now be sure, this group is not narrow minded. In fact quite the opposite! They constantly assess and reassess their goals. They will occasionally change direction or realign. But they will do that consciously, after careful consideration, to adapt to new information and experiences. They learn from their mistakes.

It is this group who are remembered. They are the ones who make the world a better place, leave a mark and are looked up to, and even intimidate type A people. You see type A admires them and looks on them with envy, but at the same time they are scared of them. They wish to get close, secretly hoping that the success will rub off, but it’s rare that is does. Because for that to happen, they must first risk something in themselves, which they are never willing to do.

Occasionally type A will despise type B. They see only their failures and use that as an excuse for their own cowardice, but type B know the truth. They know they will have the last laugh.

Type B are actually very frustrated by type A. They don’t understand what could possibly stop someone from pursuing their own life. How could they just drift through the world apparently aimless at the whims of the currents? Don’t they have a reason to live for? Don’t they have ambition? Why can’t they just take a stand?

That is exactly what I have to understand; that there are those who will never understand where I come from. That I must always try, because I know that failure is only temporary. It’s never long before I learn what went wrong and try again. That people will never understand why I have to look critically at every situation to learn from it. Eventually, small successes will accumulate and my target will be mine. Others will then wish they’d kept trying. Most of all I have to learn to not be so hurt by those people. They can’t help it.

So when that day comes, I hope that lady and every other type A won’t be too embarrassed to talk to me. Say hi and remind me of themselves. It would be nice to know that my persistence has worked, because I will never actually stop. The moment I realise that I’ve reached my goal is the moment my life ends. No matter how far I get, there will always be a goal to aim for and I will always be willing to risk all just to see what would happen.

Most people live in the present. I live in the future.

Silence

Something was said in front of me yesterday that really freaked me out. It was two historians and authors talking about the frustration of finding the archives they need and of being denied access to historical records. They were giving advice to their audience and venting frustration at the same time. "Imagine if these people a hundred years ago had been literate and had kept journals" she said. She was right. We'd know so much more about our history. We'd have so much more to say when a self serving politician rummaging for votes says something like 'you must adhere to our values if you come to our country'. If they had been literate we'd have the proof that it IS our country, and that we are as much a part of its culture and values as anyone else. She was saying that we are living in a crucial turning point in history, and that we must leave records behind. She was telling us to write blogs, but not about our innermost feelings. She wanted something more concrete.

Her colleague, someone I have the utmost respect for, concurred that today's blogs are tomorrows historical archives.

Can you imagine, my ridiculous writing being read in a hundred years time by a historian? Can you imagine them trying to make sense of any of it?

Surely they wouldn't bother with mine. It's not meant to be read by others. It's meant to be for me and only me. It's my way of secretly screaming at the world without really attracting any attention.

If you are reading this in years to come. If you are trying to make some sort of historical sense of this then let me tell you something. I'm not that different from you. I feel the same things as you do, as have my fore bearers before me. I search for the same things you search for. I have the same fears, hopes and aspirations. My problems may look different than yours but believe me they are the same as yours. They are just as big in my mind. My abilities too are the same as yours, I only have different tools to help me along. I tried my best, but if I failed you, if I was not able to make your life better than mine then I am sorry for that. I really did try my best.

You see I did everything I could to leave this world a better place than when I found it. This was hard because those who came before me hadn't done that for me. I always heard stories of how much better things were before my time and I tried my best to leave things, at least no worse than how I found them. To leave you something at least as good as I inherited if not better... but it was difficult. I was on my own. Those around me didn't make it easy. Others played with my mind and my heart. Silence you see can be deadly.

I'm not making excuses. I'm just saying that I didn't have the advantage of hindsight as you do now. I didn't know what the road would look like. So don't judge me, at least not until you see what sort of world, you in your turn will leave behind.

Don't assume you know me or know what's best for me. Until you have walked in my shoes, lived my life, you will never know what is in me. Don't ignore me either. There is nothing worse than being ignored as if I never existed. Acknowledge me. That I existed. That in my small contribution, I continue to exist.

And please keep this for the record. That I thank those who came before me. Those who left a trail for me to walk. I could not have criticised, if they had not taught me to always look ahead. Always look for a better way.

flux

I've been sitting here with my fingers on the keyboard for what must have been an eternity. Yet my words run dry. There is so much rushing through my mind that it's impossible to make sense of anything.

I can't make sense of anything without first talking through it, but there is no one to talk to. So I remain in a constant state of flux. Confusion takes over my life. It always has, but it has never mattered as much as it does now. There are too many options, but for the first time my decisions affect more than just me. There are too many lives at stake. Too many others will be disappointed.

Worst of all the situation keeps changing. New information keeps coming to light and new characters emerge. I do nothing yet events keep happening, changing my paradigm completely.

For a long time now I have had a full schedule. There has been a never ending stream of events to attend, no shortage of people to spend time with. Each gathering with a different cast. None to re-emerge the following day. Yet there is no single person to talk to. No single person to help me purge what is in my mind, help me put things where they belong. So I keep bouncing along through life, like a ping ball unable to find its home. Unable to settle.

Is this what it means to be alone?

We each go on with our lives, people come and go in and out of our circles all the time. Each leaving behind a small legacy. Today you may be my best friend, tomorrow you may be a distant memory... a stranger I meet on the street and cordially exchange smiles and a greeting in an awkward moment. Or maybe even avoid each other and change direction completely. A faint smile may be all that remains.

Winter has set in. The nights grow longer and colder. Another season has come and gone and my life has completely changed, yet it is still the same. I met two people this week, whom I have not seen in years. Each in their turn had been closer to me at one point.

"You haven't changed at all" said one, and "you've matured" said the other. Each had known a different me. But I've been the same all along. I only put on different faces because that is what life has taught me to do.

There is no such thing as life. It is only time that passes by in a single direction and we have no choice in the matter. We only exist. It changes the world around us and we just exist. I do nothing, but my chances slip away unused. I do nothing yet those around me move in the eternal dance. They move in and out of site while I stand in the centre, refusing to take part. As if somehow I had a choice. The band plays on and some seem to be enjoying the music too much. They even choose the songs... but I don't know how to do that yet. How can you tell time where to go?