James Graham Ballard: What I Believe

Untitled-1

Source: jgballard.ca

I believe in the power of the imagination to remake the world, to release the truth within us, to hold back the night, to transcend death, to charm motorways, to ingratiate ourselves with birds, to enlist the confidences of madmen.

I believe in my own obsessions, in the beauty of the car crash, in the peace of the submerged forest, in the excitements of the deserted holiday beach, in the elegance of automobile graveyards, in the mystery of multi-storey car parks, in the poetry of abandoned hotels.

I believe in the forgotten runways of Wake Island, pointing towards the Pacifics of our imaginations.

Continue Reading


Your home in the City of the Pyramids: for reservations – that is, SUBMISSIONS – PLEASE EMAIL HERE

j

The truth is, I don’t believe all that much in writing. Starting with my own. Being a writer is pleasant—no, pleasant isn’t the word—it’s an activity that has its share of amusing moments, but I know of other things that are even more amusing, amusing in the same way that literature is for me. Holding up banks, for example. Or directing movies. Or being a gigolo. Or being a child again and playing on a more or less apocalyptic soccer team. Unfortunately, the child grows up, the bank robber is killed, the director runs out of money, the gigolo gets sick and then there’s no other choice but to write. For me, the word writing is the exact opposite of the word waiting. Instead of waiting, there is writing.—Roberto Bolaño

jk

Source: 123rf.com


And once you have FOLLOWED US ON TWITTER, please help yourself to a copy of our signature city map

Piri_Reis_-_The_City_of_Cairo_-_Walters_W658305A_-_Full_Page

Cairo by Piri Reis, 16th century. Source: Wikipedia

Arabic language Arab Spring art Beirut black and white Cairo death Egypt Fiction History Instagram Iraq Islam literature love Middle East Muslim Novel photo art photography poem Poetry Revolution sex Short story street photography

أب أحلام أدب أدب عربي أدب معاصر أم الجزائر القاهرة الله انتحار بحر بكاء ثورة جسد جمال جنس حب حزن حلم خيال رغبة رواية روح زواج سفر شعر شمس صلاح باديس ضحكغرام غزة فلسطين قصة قصيرة قصيدة قصيدة نثر قلب قهوة كتابة كتب مدينة مرض مطر موت موسيقى نص نصوص نوم يوسف رخا

Robin Moger: Wadih Saadeh’s Dead Moments

PIG1999010K046

Gueorgui Pinkhassov, Bluewater Commercial Center, London, 1999. Source: magnumphotos.com

1

Suddenly the sunbeam disappeared. I believe a cloud is passing over the house. Sunbeams disappear for two reasons alone: clouds hide them or it is night. And being morning, most probably a cloud is passing.

Maybe soon it will rain and I will be able to watch the rain from the window. Life is so beautiful: that circumstances allowing one can watch the rain. Mine is a water sign and I imagine that now and then a planet up in space melts and flows down in front of me. Happy notion. I pick it up and approach the window. I open the pane and look out at the cars, the arid asphalt, the weary labourers. Why do these labourers get tired? I used to get tired myself sometimes and the sweat would flow, but then I turned my back on it and for years I rested. Sweat of the brow is hateful; shameful in fact. Disgusting: rising from sleep to make oneself sweat. A car goes by leaving a light cloud of dust behind it. A cat asleep on the corner opens then shuts its eyes. I close the window and slowly make my way back.

Continue Reading

Julian Gallo: Animals

USA. New York City, NY. 2015. Bronx Zoo.

Christopher Anderson, Bronx Zoo, 2015. Source: magnumphotos.com

“Come this way, Luca,” Carlo says, reaching out for the boy’s hand.

“But I’m not finished looking.”

“Okay. Take your time.”

Carlo eyes one of the boys in the group next to them. There’s one in every crowd, always one other kid that somewhere in the deep recesses of his not yet developed frontal lobe who felt so inadequate that he must find fault in another. This is the kid who will one day start bullying others, the one who will become a complete douche bag by the time he reaches middle school. Okay, so Luca is a little off but that’s no reason to stare, no reason to snicker behind your hand and elbow the kid next to you to get him on your side. Because that’s the way it’s going to work in the future: so inept are you to think for yourself, even at this young age, that you will need to gather an army around you to, in essence, do your fighting for you. Leader of the Pack. The Alpha Male. Perhaps, but clearly a zeta brain in development.

Continue Reading

Yahia Lababidi: Three Poems

lot-11-chant-avedissian-icons-of-the-nile_0

Chant Avedissian’s, from “Icons of the Nile”, 2010. Source: qulture.com

Allegiances

I am Destiny’s son

loyal by his side

(I never wander long)

.

Life is as remote to me

as Destiny is intimate:

an ache sweet and serene

.

Continue Reading

No more posts.