Hipstamatic makes no sense.
In the idle grip of suspended motion—
endless traffic in stasis,
prosthetic limbs scratching against car doors—
what’s the use of predefined filters pretending to be the aesthetic technology of not much earlier times?
You want to play with the beasts.
Soul splashed on the asphalt, to dream your own dreams,
imagination feeding like ruminants.
كان الأمن يطهّر البؤر الإرهابية بالشباشب فيما التيار مقطوع والإعلام يتحدث عن نصر تاريخي لاعناً المتقاعسين ظهر الشعب العظيم من خلف قواد آخر في بدلة كاملة على الشاشة يجري كقطعان الفرائس في الفلوات ولم يكن الناشط السياسي قد كف عن الصراخ ثورة أو في مشهد آخر كثلل الجرذان عبر مقالب الزبالة بعد مليون حمل من جهاد النكاح في الحرب الأهلية لازال المسئولون يسجدون ظهر الجمعة والأزهر الشريف حيث سماحة الإسلام امرأة تقول إن صوتاً لا يعلو على صوت البطولة والناس جائعة والمرور معطّل ولا نامت أعين الجبناء
And then the baby begins to sway. The ghost whirr of the AC dying hard in our ears, we’ve grown paralytically hot in the living room, some whiff of something gunpowder-like coming through the window, and all of life suddenly, wrongfully without power. Somewhere not far mephitic men with weapons must be raising those black flags marked with the statement of the faith in white rudimentary abjad, behemoth beards bereft of all mustachios, shrieking their support for the President of the Second Republic. Before long, enraged guevaras will be heading straight for the fuckers.
About mid-way through his Nobel Prize lecture, read by Mohamed Salmawy at the Swedish Academy in 1988, the acknowledged father of the Arabic novel Naguib Mahfouz (1911-2006) made the point that Europeans “may be wondering: This man coming from the third world, how did he find the peace of mind to write stories?” It’s a remark that has remained with me, not so much because it implies, absurdly, that no one from a third-world country is supposed to have either peace or mind enough for literature—it particularly annoys me when, addressing his European audience, Mahfouz goes on to say they’re “perfectly right” to be posing that question—but because this presumption of deprivation or lack, of writing being something over and above ordinary living and working, seems in a way to underlie the Egyptian novelist’s collective self-image. And, especially now that Egypt is barely surviving institutional collapse and civil conflict—something that despite war, regime change, and the turn of the millennium, never happened during the 94 years of Mahfouz’s life—as a person who lives in Cairo and writes novels in Arabic, it is an idea I am somehow expected to have about myself.