Y eye

...I haven't posted since July

2007-09-29T13:01:00.000-07:00

I actually don't think I'm much of a blogger...Pen and paper are more my thing.

Why I cant seem to get to sleep

2007-07-11T17:15:00.000-07:00

i really wish i knew....

Why I wish my first name were Robert and my surname Frost...

2007-01-05T12:42:00.000-08:00

Birches by Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
(Now am I free to be poetical?)
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

Why I now drive Don Quixote

2006-12-29T16:21:00.000-08:00

“In a place in Piemonte, whose name I do not want to recall, not so long ago there dwelt a car of the type wont to keep a tough steering wheel, a bunch of magazines in the trunk, an old umbrella and an outdated phone token”*

When C told me that she had named her car Moby Dick (see comment under Why I need a name for my mum’s car) it it hit me that my car should be named Don Quixote, Errant Car! The reasons are simple:

Firstly, the car is a Fiat Uno that firmly believes itself to be a Ferrari TestaRossa...

Secondly, the dictionary definition of errant is :
1. straying from the proper course or standard, or outside of established limits – Sounds like my car

2. prone to making errors – Yes my car is... as am I really

3, travelling in search of adventure- I’m pretty sure that when i park it and leave it for a while it goes off on its own

Thirdly, it has the tendency to “fight windmills”...i.e freak out and battle things that simply are not there (yes! IT..the car does... not me the driver mmm...)

Fourthly, the novel had me laughing to the point of tears and at times i reach the same point whilst driving

Fifthly, my memories with the car when my mum used to drive it have a special place in my heart as does the book (cheesy)

Finally,if my car is Don Quixote that makes me Sancho Panza---what more could a girl want?!?!

Why I need a name for my mum's car.

2006-12-27T03:00:00.000-08:00

So, a couple of weeks ago, at age 25 (yes i know that’s a quarter of century...grr) I finally got my driving license. The first thing I did was go to my grandmother’s house and get my mum’s car...which may very well become mine if my stay here is prolonged (very likely). I started driving around and it was only when I got over the fear of destroying it, me or random pedestrians that I realised the car was in serious need of a makeover. This morning I decided to clean it and change the seat covers*. Of course, after a week of beautiful sunshine and bright blue skies, the fog descended on Asti...the sort of fog that if you look down you can barely see what shoes you’re wearing...But I couldn’t let a bit of blurry vision stop me. Armed with a vacuum cleaner I started to clean. An hour later I was still cleaning and an hour after that i was... i was still cleaning. It became an obsession; for every speck of dust i cleaned i was convinced that there were a thousand more. I stripped it of the old seat covers ( i think they’ve been around since my granddad bought the car for my mum in ’94...you do the maths) and vacuum cleaned every nook and cranny. It was after the first half of the second hour had passed that I started to talking to it. I’ve been talking to it in my head ever since I started driving it but this morning I actually spoke out loud and waited patiently for it to respond. Conclusion? The car needs a name...It needs a name because I can’t say “I was talking to my car the other day and...” without getting strange looks BUT if i name it I can say “I was talking to Bob the other day and...” No one needs to know who “Bob”** is and I can continue talking to the car without feeling silly ...Only problem now is that the car doesn’t look or behave like a Bob...suggestions are welcomed

*i think i’m going to buy material and make them myself...leopard skin all the way (ewww...)
** sorry S, it was the first name that popped into my head!

Why I make mountains out of mole hills and then climb them

2006-12-26T12:51:00.000-08:00

“Did you notice the way he scratched his left eyebrow when he said jumping cow? ...that HAD to mean something!”
In my own little world everything and anything MEANS something...that something then gets flipped around and analysed from every angle until...well until nothing really. See, I’m aware of it but I can’t seem to get a hold of myself. It’s an innate part of my tortuous personality. I recently discovered* that i’ve always been a female, taller and less chubby version of Hercule Poirot. What really makes me different to Hercule (aside from having a much less waxed mustache**) is that I don’t resolve mysteries...I create them. If my head is not buzzing about something or the other I’m unhappy. The most banal word, sentence, body movement, sneeze –you name it- sets of an insane chain reaction. Firstly I see or hear it, then I try and connect it with the setting, then i think about it (this thought can last a minute just as it can last a year or more***) once i’ve thought about it i start consulting Captain Hastings (namely: mother, sister Y and S). I drive them all mad and force them to help me build my mountains with the little mole hill earth and worms I have. They eventually get bored and stand at the foot of the mountain watching me as I begin my solitary climb. From time to time i shout down at them with details of my findings (or non-findings). Sometimes I actually make it to the top of my mountain but have little time to revel in my achievement because I become instantly aware of yet another banal word, sentence, body movement, sneeze-you name it- and I’m off again...
This overanalysing is quite terrible and leads to an unhealthy stomach but, unfortunately for my little grey cells, I find it to be quite fun and I honestly don’t know how to stop doing it!

*through a series of emails exchanged with a friend who i used to go to school in england with ages 11-16
** i don’t actually have a mustache...i’m quite insecure and feel the need to highlight this point
*** i’m still analysing a head tilt that happened nearly two years ago...(i’m serious and probably also a bit sick)

Why I worry on chritmas eve

2006-12-24T07:42:00.000-08:00

After two weeks of wrapping gifts for others i now wait for mine. I’m a bit worried though because i don’t know how Babbo Natale (Father Christmas) is going to enter the house...my aunt’s house has no chimney and it’s really too cold outside to leave the doors or windows open...I think that’s why I’m awake...I’ll wait until I hear reindeer hoofbeats and the tinkling of bells and THEN i’ll creep up to the door and open it for him to enter. I’d feel bad otherwise.
It’s going to snow tonight...it’s christmas eve and when the midnight mass is over people will gather in the squares outside cathedrals and churches, underneath the falling snow. It has to snow because otherwise the reindeers won’t be able to land on the rooftops. I read somewhere (in a story i made up) that christmas reindeers have truly sensitive hoofs and that if the surface on which they walk –and land- is not soft and cold they get struck by some terrible disease which turns their hoofs into human feet! So it absolutely has to snow and snow and snow and tomorrow there will be meters of the stuff covering everything and everyone... but there is no need to worry about who will shovel the snow..the elves will. Yes, because they don’t just help with wrapping gifts...elves also shovel snow. They’re very good at it too. They’re so good in fact that no one notices them. I worry about them because of this. For a while now they have been helping father christmas with the gifts and the snow but if their efforts continue to go unnoticed they may start to suffer from certain psychological disorders...(this piece of writing is partly an appeal on behalf of the elves) and if they breakdown who will help poor father christmas out? And if he has no help how will he be able to wrap all those gifts? This indeed is a dilemma...on the “the world will never be the same” scale it’s a definite 9.5 (10 being if Ferrero stops producing Nutella) So what is to be done? Well, for every overly complicated problem there is an overly simple answer: give the elves some lovin’---And i end this on that note because my gifts are on their way and i still need to put some biscuits on a plate and pour a glass of milk for father christmas...oh great! that’s another thing to worry about...if the rumours about his diabetes are true biscuits may not be the wisest way to go...

Why I’m probably a polar bear...(how unusual)

2006-12-08T12:09:00.000-08:00

A couple of months before I left Egypt Y and I were driving around Zamalek (area in Cairo) in her car (as usual), talking about everything and nothing (as usual), trying to figure out whether we should go to X coffeeshop or Z coffeeshop (as usual). My phone rings (rather unusual), i hear it (slightly unusual) and answer it (completely unusual). It was S...panicking about something or the other (quite usual). If I recall correctly (it was over seven months ago so details may not be exact) Y and I tried to calm S down (as usual) but she would have none of it...in fact, I think she snapped at us (only usual when she’s really stressed)...come to think of it...she definitely did snap at us. We took it in our stride and I told her we would be over at her place as fast as Cairo traffic would allow. Y looked at me, I looked at Y
“We should go to see S, she’s stressed...and snappy...I don’t get it...I spoke to her before leaving my house and she sounded fine...happy even,” said I
“Oh you know S...she’s a polar bear,” replied Y
Now, I’m not sure whether it was the fact that Y’s reply was imbued with such confidence or the fact that I’ve known her for an amount of time which seems longer than what it actually is, but her answer was absolutely normal to me. OF COURSE (!) S is a polar bear. Why else would she be fine one moment and not so fine the next? Before, you start thinking that I’m taking strong medication or that my stay in Italy has officially eradicated the english language from my brain let me put your minds at ease. What Y meant, and what I immediately understood, was that S may be mildly bipolar (a diagnosis that was not based on any form of scientific evidence).
We arrived at S’ building, took the elevator (which, come to think of it, really reminds me of a huge mobile fridge—maybe it’s all this talk of polar bears..) reached her floor and rang the bell. Stressed, but far less snappy, S answered the door. We followed her to her room and I blurted out “Y, says you’re a polar bear”...
Months later, 9am, I’m walking to work. The sky is grey and gloomy. It’s drizzling and I feel as though I can’t breathe and when I do I think that my lungs might be freezing. It’s like an incredible sadness is wrapping itself around me, I don’t even bother opening the small umbrella in my hand because I’m convinced that the drizzle will cleanse away my melancholy. A couple of steps later, I feel happy...elated... I look around me and I see that the leaves are the colour that I like them to be, that I’m the only one walking in a semi-deserted town (for the Catholics today is the day of the Immaculate Conception* so at 9am everyone is sleeping), that I’m breathing fresh air. Does my mood swing make me a polar bear? Probably. Would I like to be one? In this weather...definitely...

* not that of Jesus but that of the Virgin Mary who was conceived without original sin.

Why I hate my aunt's mobile phone

2006-12-03T06:36:00.000-08:00

Every morning at around 7 am i get woken up by the sound of “steppin’ up to the groove” (what DOES that mean?!!) my alarm? No...an overly cheerful kid on his way to school? Nooo.. the postman as he climbs up the stairs? Na-a ...(we don’t even have postmen anymore...post-vans driven by post people-lets be pc about it-) If you haven’t already guessed it from the title above ...it’s my aunt’s phone. Now, the question to ask is NOT “why does her phone ring every morning at 7am?” but rather “why does she have that weird-ass, very annoying ringer?”. So, instead of doing the smart thing and asking her directly, or the sneaky thing and changing it (and then acting highly surprised when it rings and doesn’t sing “steppin’ up to the groove” anymore)...I ask you “why does my aunt have that weird-ass, very annoying ringer?!!!!”---i need to sleep.

Why I want to be small enough to fit into people's pockets

2006-12-01T13:26:00.000-08:00

It all (re) started when I posted a comment on a friend’s blog. I realised then that I’ve actually wanted to be small enough to fit into people’s pockets ever since, well every since I was small- but not in the physical sense that I’m referring to now.
How nice would it be to travel around for free?...unless people start charging for pocket transportation (which, in today’s world, isn’t such a far fetched concept). I’d be able to see and watch the world from an entirely different (mini) perspective! All that already seems big to me now as normal-sized lulie, would appear to be ENORMOUS...(the Pyramids, the Taj Mahal...and let’s not even begin to imagine what the Great Wall of China would look like)
Yes, I know, I could simply wish to be an ant , or any other type of tiny creature that already exists in nature, but I think I would like to have my human soul and language skills.
It really would be fun to jump from one person’s pocket to the next...instead of a Polly Pocket* I’d be a lulie pocket (and not many people would know of me)...definitely a lot of fun...
I could even –maybe- wrap myself around people’s fingers like a koala bear wraps itself around bamboo trees...I’d be a mini-lulie-bear!
I would dive into a glass of fizzy water and simply float around in it, staring at the world from inside a real (and not just metaphorical type of) bubble. I could even become a bubble myself and then I’d be a bubblelulie. I’d go in search of the (literally) man of my dreams and hide in his hair (because the man of my dreams should have thick, wavy, lovely smelling hair (but none on his chest...thank you very much!) I’d weave in and out of every hair strand but he wouldn’t know...he’d think I was just another strand, a luliestrand. Then I would hop out of his hair and fall right in to his pocket where I’d be carried around all day with his loose change and pocket watch. Eventually, he would make his way to a HUGE library (because, unlike many others, he reads) that, from his pocket, I would jump into. There, I would spend the entire day making my way from one desk to the next, slaloming through book pages, amazed at the GIGANTIC paragraphs, sentences, words and letters, marvelling at the fact that what used to be simple full stops are now black holes ( i may even try to jump into one)** Once the library closes and all the lights have been switched off, I’d spend the night scurrying and scuttling around like a chubby mouse from book to book...a luliemouse/booklulie/lulieworm. I’d transform myself into a tiny lulie parkourist skilfully jumping and leaping between shelves!!!
After exerting all that effort (it’s probably pretty exhausting being that small) I’d snuggle in a glove that the man of my dreams (yes him again) left behind and I’d fall asleep amongst the books. The next morning, upon waking up, I would eat tiny crumbs, firmly believing them to be the world’s BIGGEST biscuits as I patiently wait for the man of my dreams to pass by to collect his lost glove...and me!
When he finally arrives I’d happily totter towards him only to realise that he can’t see me because I’m so small...small enough to fit into people’s pockets....

*tiny plastic doll that fits into pockets
** "the day i jumped into a full- stop." i think i want to write a book for kids with that title

Why I’m ornithophobic

2006-11-25T15:00:00.000-08:00

Birds and their complexes...

What is the best part of being a bird? Well, from a human perspective it would definitely have to be the flying. God created them in such a way that they can lift themselves up and, with carefully positioned feathers, fly wherever they want to. So, although the majority of birds are not exactly the most attractive animals (do you REALLY want to start comparing them to lions, tigers etc?)they compensate for the lack of beauty with the fact that they can fly...The point is that chickens and turkeys must have serious complexes in that they have feathers and some form of wings but they can’t use them to fly...they just run up and down clucking and gobbling. In simple terms, they have not been given the ability to see the world from above...from a bird’s eye view...doesn’t that make them a lesser form of bird? Wouldn’t you have issues with the fact that you’re just as ugly as the next bird but unlike him/her you can’t soar into the sky (how great is that: soaring into the sky!) The male peacock makes up for this by showing off his colourful plumage but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have his own set of complexes...In conclusion HOW can one blame me for being ornithophobic...yes i admit it i’m shit scared of these “things”... and their complexes.

Why i feel sorry for superheroes based upon my limited knowledge

2006-11-19T16:15:00.000-08:00

All superheroes are also geeks. Spiderman used to be Peter
Parker...shy photographer, glasses wearer and all. Superman thought he
was simply Clark Kent...shy student, glasses wearer and all. The Hulk
was Bruce Banner....shy scientist...didn't wear glasses but he may as
well have. Daredevil...can't remember his alias but he was a lawyer
and he didn't wear glasses because he was blind...Batman doesn't count
because he has a sidekick whereas the others are doomed to
solitude....(although I can understand why one would choose solitude
over Robin)Which brings me to my point. Yes, granted that all of the
above went from supergeek to superhero, but they are superheroes that
not only have to hide from the world for fear of alienation of some
sort...ironic, seeing as they are alienated as geeks anyway, but they
are constantly sacrificing themselves for a greater cause.One really
should feel sorry for superheroes. They're all lonesome spinning their
webs, flying through the air, becoming green and mean, using their
walking sticks as weapons ..basically saving the world. All the chicas
they could be sharing their hero-ness with seem to bail on them at one
point or the other...well wouldn't you? Sure, it would be great to have
a boyfriend/husband who saves the world but what happens when you're having
some minor crisis –which you deem to be extremely important- and he
says "sorry luv, not today i have to go and ...well...you
know...save the world and stuff" of course if he's arab he wouldn't
say "and stuff" he'd probably say "we 7aga keda". I'm sure you'd
accept it the first few times but after about a year or so you'd
probably tell him to go save the world but never come back...and
you'd go and find some normal dude to help you heal your
wounds...Poor superheroes. As geeks they don't get the girl because,
well...because they're geeks and as superheroes they get the girl but
can't hold on to her because, well...because they're superheroes!
So every guy who wishes to be a superhero should think twice and every
girl who gets the chance to go out with one should...go out with
one...who cares if they abandon you at some point to put the world in
order...at least when you're 80 you can say "i webbed with spiderman"
or "flew with superman" or "jumped from one building to the next with
daredevil"...or... "helped the Hulk sew up his jeans!" (very special)