AIHEY [14 Jun 2004|12:10pm] [ mood | okay ] [ music | duran duran - come undone ] aiwa, this’ll be the last entry for this journal. going to create another-- some point. i think. ya’nie once i get my writing back in gear--. i need some empty space--- need a journal i can talk to myself in, without all the history. whoever’s on my friends list’ll be added back in due time. boiled down--- i like who i am. i like myself. a blend of the ancient and post-modern. question mark. earth and concrete. if i could bleed the gharbi out of me, i wouldn’t-- likewise, the yamani. i like viewing quote unquote you from two angles. it’s the way i’ll always be. i’m captivated by simplicity and intricacy. blandness is underrated. i know the sort of person i’ll be, inside and out, and i’ll get there-- it’ll just take time. the stock character doesn’t have contradicting opinions, his actions don’t contradict his values, opinions, spirituality, so forth. i’ll meet myself in the middle. i have one more novel in me-- ib and the magical suiticase, about a wealthy young hadhrami, ibrahim “ib” ba-dheab, from saudiyya, who takes a suitcase-- filled of $30,000-- to manhattan for his solo “honeymoon,” after marrying his second wife. he uses it to buy what he wants. material goods. people. love. happiness. the works. so, my three novels will be al-felayhi and his business, al-jeyefi and indyka, and ib and the magical suitcase. wafa will have to be written by someone else--yalla, ya bunut ‘arab! aside-- i got an a in french, pushed my gpa up to 3.3. seeing as i didn’t even crack open the french book to study for the final, i’m, ah, satisfied. looks like i will be a modern language major. nice to know. that i’m not hopelessly stupid is also nice to know. 5 comments|post comment

YEHIA [11 Jun 2004|12:54am] [ mood | okay ] [ music | interpol - untitled ] okay, i think i’ll put this journal to rest. first time i’m truly considering it. if it doesn’t delete itself, i’ll update once more, maybe-- when i finish the third and last draft of al-jeyefi and indyka. after that, i’ll go back and finish al-felayhi and his business, which, as i said ages ago, i feel deserves to be finished. those two novels express what little i have in me to express in writing. after that, i’m done with writing in any serious way. i wrote an entry, once, about “dragging my head out of the clouds. (‘better worse’; jan. 15, 2004)” ya’nie getting rid of expectations i can’t live up to. pipe dreams, they’re called? “anticipating a successful career as a novelist is just a couple steps down from imagining myself a future reform militant” on the peninsula-- ‘better worse’; jan. 15, 2004 got rid of the militance-- so, time to take the next step and just let myself be obscure. all that said, i’ll still read friends’ journals. 5 comments|post comment

New Take On.. [09 Jun 2004|11:19pm] [ mood | pensive ] [ music | tears for fears - swords and knives ] outside with a no. 27 and boom, i feel a tug on me. new take on my future. (al-gadar, anyone?) i’m thinking-- i should devote a few years trying to start up a yemeni-american literary journal-- prose preferred!-- after i graduate. travel to new york, lackawanna, hamtramck, dearborn--. i want a ‘yemeni-american literature.’ i want a shelf at waldenbooks, borders, dedicated to us. fucking oddly, this comes while i’m feeling down and out about my devotion to writing, while i’m very close to saying al-jeyefi and indyka is it, and i'm giving up writing after it. if i pursued this, it would keep me in the united states after i graduate, something much more likely-- pains me to admit it-- than me going to live in the uae, or saudiyya, or yemen. all hinges, though, of course, on whether i’m a good slash decent writer myself, whether i can get a novel of mine published. garner some credibility. if i could do that-- i’d push forward with the journal. it feels like a worthy goal, admirable. also feels risky, time-consuming. question is whether i’m willing to give even a couple years of my life over to it. once i turn twenty, i’ll hesitate to waste a second--. “we’ll fit a lifetime into less than a decade, ... the good die young, the best live young and die whenever they damn well please.”-- isa al-jeyefi; book no. 1; scene no. 20; al-jeyefi and indyka post comment

Há ok Sterk.. [08 Jun 2004|12:04am] [ mood | awake ] [ music | don henley - boys of summer ] i write in fat-ass sixty-five point font, calisto mt, condensed zero point four pts. why? bigger is better-- and my eyes are all astigmatized. third grade, i crushed on this girl, manola, who was a blend of lebanese and spanish-er-spanic. (years later, secondary school, smart-ass plus big map by the blackboard--- “mexicock!".) oh boy, i wanted to make her my quote unquote girlfriend, so i said, roughly, “i think we should be boyfriend and girlfriend.” (could i say that sort of thing now?) giggle-giggle. hand-holding. recess. lunch at-- ooh!-- the same table. cleaning the classroom-- brillo pads. flipping desks. summer vacation-- she transfers. i’ll write an autobiography, eighteen years smashed into five pages-- eye-catching, fat-ass font-- and sticky-tack it up on my dorm room wall. slices of life-- beginning, middle, and-- well, that’s it. “there is not a people on earth whose power once waxed great, but misfortune swept them away in its flood---” wahb bin manabbih (AD 732) i’d stare if it’d tell you what i’d hope it would. sophomore year-- i heard from, eh, a sophomore-- is when things change. the change being either good, or very, very bad. "en er á leið vetrinn, þá sóttisk mjok borgargørðin, ok var hon svá há ok sterk at eigi mátti á þat leita."--- edda of snorri sturluson, 22-24. translation? not important, (unless you want to know)-- bow down to the hottest looking language of all fucking time, ya’nie old norse. i studied it for, say, a couple months during my last year of high school. old norse puts the dead in dead language. fave word-- uppivoszlu-maðr, a contentious man. post comment

On-and-Off.. [06 Jun 2004|02:38pm] [ mood | anxious ] [ music | prodigy - smack my bitch up ] since much of this journal’s been centered on my writing-- i may as well devote it to that, for now, unless i have other things to, ah, say. and until things pick up. i only hope that any readers don’t find it hopelessly boring. i write about my writing, by and large, to keep it all straight in my mind. it helps-- keeps me focused. once i get these novels out of me, i'll be free--. free! this entry’s about the ending of al-jeyefi and indyka-- unfortunately, it requires that people know what al-jeyefi and indyka is about. to everyone else-- this is drivel. as an aside, i’m not ready to write wafa. tried to write a test-scene-- it was aimless. story has no plot, either, besides extreme character development. seeing that al-jeyefi and indyka was originally about al-jeyefi and indyka preparing for y2k-- i’ll wait till a real plot for wafa arrives. alas, i’ll plan out, ah, naif and the magical suitcase. an uproariously titled novel based on a short story i wrote, al-gadr, about a medical school graduate who leads dual lives in jiddah and manhattan. most important-- i need to get moving, instead of sitting on my ass thinking about writing-- while on-and-off revising al-jeyefi and indyka. on that note, my musings about the ending of al-jeyefi and indyka. ( spoiler alert ) 2 comments|post comment

So-So.. [04 Jun 2004|11:52pm] [ mood | sick ] [ music | radiohead - exit music (for a film) ] i’ve had this withering headache-- spite of drinking water all the time, and force-feeding myself a lot of pills. it hurts-- a lot. gut hurts, too. shits. i’ve got a feeling i’ll be a lifelong sickly person. then again, i have unhealthy eating habits, and have no interest in changing them. i sow, then i reap, then i whine. half of al-jeyefi and indyka-- ya’nie book no. 1, scenes nos. 1 - 13-- is at “second draft” status. next entry’ll probably be all about the ending of al-jeyefi and indyka-- since i’m tired of skittishly avoiding it in my entries. my entries. i’ll cut it out of the main entry, just in case some people’d really rather read al-jeyefi and indyka itself. an aside-- yes, my pc does have a virus. fuckity. watched g.i. jane-- demi moore was gorgeous. she rocked the buzz well. the film? so-so. saw sinead o’connor’s music video for the hilariously titled ‘nothing compares 2 u’. gorgeous, too. just felt like sharing. i sort of dislike the band jet. but it looks like they’re having fun making, ah, music. so, good for them. i’m ill so my responses to all kinds of things-- usually rather sharp-- have been dulled. the agenda says to: no. 1-- get well. no. 2-- find out how i'm getting to new york. no. 3-- finish draft two of al-jeyefi and indyka. 3 comments|post comment

Nothing Goes In.. [31 May 2004|11:15pm] [ mood | on the right foot ] [ music | the beatles - free as a bird ] i don’t know why you say goodbye, i can’t stop smoking-- i got myself down to two or three per day. i’m not sure if it’s addiction, on my part, or a genuine, unconditional love for, and fascination with, smoking. nothing goes in, and-- wha?-- smoke comes out. of my body. talked to my ma about my grandmother. she died of thyroid cancer when i was, ah, twelve. she smoked about three to four packs of pall malls a day. i didn’t know her too well, since she didn’t like my father all that much-- or at all. i remember her bedroom had a permanent cloud of smoke hovering at the ceiling. so, my grandma-- toward the end, ma said she started chainsmoking, since she was in a lot of pain. no one knew she was in pain till she had to go to the hospital-- she never mentioned it, never gave a hint of it. oddest thing-- x-ray showed her lungs were clear, after more than sixty-five years of smoking at least a pack per day. point-- she sure didn’t quite give me a first-hand reason why i shouldn’t smoke. alas, i get my hardheadedness, and stoicism (word courtesy of mae-- a-ha) from both sides of my family. case in point-- i’d never talked about this with my ma before. an aside-- my motivation for writing al-jeyefi and indyka is, in part, a desire to grab it off a bookshelf,-- (the book will, ideally, be six and a half inches, lengthwise, by four inches, widthwise-- the front and back cover being black, with white lettering.)-- sprawl out in bed in tighty whities, and read a few chapters, till i’m too sleepy to keep my place on the page. so, there’s-- allegedly-- this four foot long snake in our backyard, in a pile of logs-- a tree that was cut down before my ma moved in. i went back there with an axe and hatchet, and whacked the bark off the logs, then set them out in the sun. since my ma wanted the logs out of there, since we were cleaning the yard. four footer was a no-show. what - a - big - little - bitch. i need to give this journal a break--. hagg allah. i say hello. 2 comments|post comment

Also Smear.. [30 May 2004|10:46pm] [ mood | productive ] [ music | requiem for a dream soundtrack - main theme ] so--. al-jeyefi and indyka is coming together nicely. it’s got direction-- it’s cohesive. reworking the last scene did a lot for it, i think-- i had to take a lot from al-jeyefi and indyka proper, and give it closure, creatively. i may have to postpone sending it out, since i don’t want to give anybody this virus i may or may not have on my computer. one word says it all-- “fuck.” i buzzed my head--. that’s it. i read about the attacks in al-khobar. and, i’ll admit it, i’m a bit conflicted. i think al-gaeda’s effort in saudiyya is more, ah, defensible than its worldwide counterpart. the saudi family needs to fall-- they not only invited non-muslim military forces into the country, but’ve also invited far too many foreigners into the country, a lot of them non-muslim. they also smear the image of the arabian race, embodying all the most negative stereotypes associated with us. i just imagined the sort of thirty-year-old i’ll be--. i’ll be the guy ordering an arabian mocha java at starbucks, wearing plain, all neutral-colored, boring clothes. i’ll smoke one sort of cigarette-- forever. marlboro no. 27s-- reds if no. 27s disappear. i’ll hit up bars, and take shots of jack daniels-- and that’s it. i’ll have five novels in a desk drawer, the desk being in a corner of my apartment. in brooklyn heights. if my thirty-year-olddom was a voice, it’d be that of brad roberts, lead singer of crash test dummies-- as heard in their one hit song, ‘mmm mmm mmm mmm’. if it was a painting, it’d be willem van aelst’s still life with dead birds and game bag. and, if it was a character in a film, it’d be micheal hitchcock’s hamilton swan, in the film best in show. what the fuck did i just write? my grades-- although i haven’t gotten a one in french yet-- were, ah, average. two C’s and a B+, so far. i’m-- not smart. kenyon college equals sloshiness plus drama, not academia. maybe that’ll change next semester, but i doubt it. 5 comments|post comment

Toss-and-Turn.. [29 May 2004|12:50am] [ mood | tired ] [ music | peter schilling - major tom ] yeah, tomorrow i buzz my head-- should be traumatical. got yahoo dsl, so, ah, shit’s speedy! the two days i wasn’t able to work on al-jeyefi and indyka, though--uff. okay, five o’clock this morning, i’m all of a sudden in terrific toss-and-turn pain. i roll-- in a literal way-- out of bed. (my bed being four stacked mattresses.) and i make it upstairs, somehow. i’m on the toilet for ten minutes with the worst (navel-)ache of all fucking time-- it feels like there’re fire ants, in my navel, chowing down. short story short-- horrible way to begin the day. i fall asleep on the couch. later that morning, i enjoy a no. 27 out in the backyard, on a white plastic chair. i stuff the no. 27 down onto an anthole, singe the asses of-- euphemism for “horribly slaughter”-- several - black - ants. i’ve read thompson’s fear and loathing in las vegas, and other american stories, vonnegut’s breakfast of champions, and’ve just begun egger’s a.h.w.o.s.g.. so far, i’ve marvelled at thompson’s consistent “voice,” felt humbled by vonnegut’s wisdom, and’ve been both amused and annoyed by eggers's-- well, just by eggers. al-jeyefi and indyka, just like that, has a new ending. improved? unsure-- gut says fuck yeah. bas my gut and i aren’t on good terms. haven't been drunk in-- two weeks. can't quite recall what it's like. not too big a deal, i can wait three months. don't need to drink here. wouldn't if i could. post comment

Twist It.. [26 May 2004|12:29pm] [ mood | productive ] [ music | tears for fears - pale shelter ] if al-jeyefi and indyka were ever made into a film, i’d suggest-- for the role of franny indyka-- none other than paris hilton. a-ha! scarily, she fits the description i give in the novel, ah, almost perfectly. of course, she’d refuse the role-- it’d involve scraping off her makeup, buzzing her head, and a dearth of posing. the premise of al-jeyefi and indyka, i’m sure, points toward an obvious, tragic, romantic ending-- i’ve got to shake that up. i want to twist it off. (i wrote a lot more for this entry, about al-jeyefi and indyka, originally-- then realized i’d written it for me, myself and i.) stuff i’ll be reading-- cat’s cradle and breakfast of champions by vonnegut. time’s arrow by amis. re-reading franny and zooey by, ah, salinger. fear and loathing in las vegas, and other american stories by thompson. a.h.w.o.s.g by eggers. screenplay of lost highway, by lynch. some random stuff--. i dislike the whole asian invasion thing going on. japan-- or anything to do with japan-- is not interesting. let’s be un-japanese-- and let the japanese be, ah, japanese. don’t buy clothes at thrift stores-- poor people need them. “... it is impossible to make a competent writer out of a bad writer, and ... it is equally impossible to make a great writer out of a good one ... ”--- stephen king, on writing. a quote that haunts me. no. 27s. 1 comment|post comment

Parse the Time.. [23 May 2004|01:15pm] [ mood | okay ] [ music | air - surfing on a rocket ] aiwa, think i’m going to be documenting my next three years at college. some sort of multimedia extravaganza. i don’t recall much from high school-- sort of sad. so, i need a digital camera and a camcorder by the time i get back to kenyon. first year was immersion, second’ll be that, peppered with observation. cleveland’s fucking unreal. day before yesterday, i was out on the stoop with a jade, and the sky went dark-- which i ignored-- then i got nailed with a whole lot of hershey kiss-size ice bombs. hail, in mid may. then, humidity. yehia and humidity don't blend. got another entry for today-- a rant about al-jeyefi and indyka, mostly. might throw it up later on. i looked at all my ma’s books, first time. can’t believe i never did before-- just had no interest, i guess. she’s got burrough’s naked lunch. wolfe’s the electric kool-aid acid test. the anarchist cookbook. john lennon in his own write. kesey’s one flew over the cuckoo’s nest. classic shit. also, seems when she was with my dad, she bought all these books-- lots of them-- to try to find out as much as she could about arabs. sort of interesting. okay, though, excerpt from john lennon in his own write. ‘sad micheal’ There was no reason for Micheal to be sad that morning, (the little wretch); everyone liked him, (the scab). He’d had a hard days night that day, for Micheal was a Cocky Watchtower. His wife Bernie, who was well controlled, had wrabbed his norman lunch but he was still sad. It was strange for a man whom have everything and a wife to boot. At 4 o’clock when his fire was burking bridely a Poleaseman had clubbed in to parse the time around. ‘Goodeven Micheal,’ the Poleaseman speeg, but Micheal did not answer for he was debb and duff and could not speeg. ‘How’s the wive, Micheal’ spoge the Poleaseman ‘Shuttup about that!’ ‘I thought you were debb and duff and could not speeg,’ said the Poleaseman ‘Now what am I going to do with all my deff and dubb books?’ said Micheal, realising straight away that here was a problem to be reckoned with. post comment

Got to Drag.. [19 May 2004|02:05am] [ mood | hyper ] [ music | interpol - leif erikson ] going to write a collection of-- three-- short stories for next year, soon. okay, so i was watching this music video-- some techno song. and i got a bit drawn in by this, ah, backwards filming. so, gimmick of one of the short stories is going to be that it’ll be told backwards. sentence by sentence. dialogue’ll be a superb challenge. serious work on al-jeyefi and indyka’ll resume real soon. hope to send the second draft out by next week. after that, i'll be able to let go of al-jeyefi and indyka, as characters. easier said than done. there’s this gap commercial. summer tank tops? woman sashaying toward the camera peeling off layers of, ah, tank topage. i mention it because whenever it comes on-- ya’nie the commercial-- she captivates me. arrests my attention. once in a while, i’ll see a woman who fits my ideal so well it’s somehow unbelievable to me. that said, gap sucks. i’m going to buzz my head sometime soon. if it looks somewhat okay, i’ll just keep doing it. i’ll be sure to, on accident, shave too close in places, get the whole chemo slash post-apocalyptic look. i can’t wait for snow--. of the elements, it’s mine. i like the concept of “grit.” dirtlike byproduct of artificial structure. my mind’s all over the place, since i’m doing okay, hyper off pepsi, and it’s, ah, two in the morning. i go get no. 27s once i wake up, after noon, ah, today. got to drag my lungs-- kicking and screaming-- off the “mellow” menthols. 3 comments|post comment

As I'll Be.. [17 May 2004|12:07pm] [ mood | satisfied ] [ music | coldplay - politik ] okay, home. and, surprisingly, happy. time to think--- and no big decisions to make. it’s a good feeling, yeah. down to two or three jades a day -- i knew it wouldn’t be a problem. i’ll try to quit once i finish this pack, see how it goes. if it’s too much, i’ll cave in, buy a new pack. friends’ll be coming back to cleveland in the next week or so, those that aren’t here-- i wonder if they’ll be covering up shit as much as i’ll be. first year at kenyon college--. i got a lot done, first year-- i rewrote al-jeyefi and indyka, and while there’re scene-by-scene problems, the story, overall, satisfies me. i got published in hika, and should-- in sha’ allah-- be on the staff next year. the amount of time i’ve got now to both wrap up al-jeyefi and indyka and begin wafa makes me so fucking excited. oh, and i set out to learn french and i'm going strong. first year didn’t quite start for me till i moved into norton hall. short after that, i got sloshy for the first time, academics took a back-seat to sloshdom. amanda claimed a vast fucking chunk of me-- this i made up for by immersing myself in al-jeyefi and indyka, and clinging to one, set group of friends. led me deep into the fraternity thing. then, suddenly, realizing i’d got over amanda-- yeah, it had a whole lot to do with it-- i painfully squeezed out of the fraternity. out of the fraternity-- got closer to old lewis friends to cope. uff, fuck, too close to lauren. she leaves for a weekend-- one of my best weekends at kenyon. odd, yehia. why don’t you analyze that, instead of ignoring it? the difference between lauren and amanda-- i was close enough to lauren to see the parts of her i didn’t like. at milk cartons-- ‘off the lips..,’ april 11, 2004-- emily said, of lauren, “i don’t like that girl.” i go over to lauren, see if she and laurel’re leaving, lauren gives me a big hug--. i don’t think about what emily said. at new apartments-- ‘..snaissur etihw,’ may 9, 2004-- i asked emily why she didn’t like lauren, out of curiosity. emily mentions superficiality, lots of it. i know she’s right-- choose to overlook it. only now can i sort of think about lauren and say, yeah, emily was spot-on. that’s not bitterness-- it’s honesty. lauren just wasn’t worth being attached to. while i might not’ve got closure at kenyon, i’ve got it now-- seeing that my year “ended” before i got to know lauren. after that, it was just a replay of amanda, emotion- and expectation-wise. i don’t quite “hate” lauren, just dislike her, sort of a lot. she’s gorgeous, yeah, but i’m realizing that it doesn’t mean shit. now, i go smoke a jade on the stoop. then work on al-jeyefi and indyka. kenyon’s off the mind. post comment

Down to One.. [15 May 2004|12:15pm] [ mood | okay ] [ music | bird chirpage ] so, first year at kenyon’s over, in sha’ allah not my last. got all my shit done yesterday-- once again somehow pulling my head out of a vise. last night sort of sucked on shit, but it’s okay. i wanted to get fucked up and i did, just not too much, since i’d finished off some coffee rueuqil with a shot glass-- i'm an idiot-- and my gut felt heavy all night. i didn’t boot. beirut at bexleys, in the rain-- few people i knew but not many. i go home in three hours. most of my shit’s packed, what-not. how do i feel about leaving? ah, it’s raining out, and people are leaving, so i don’t quite feel much at all. worried about finding a job-- not sure if i’ll be back at the library. very worried about how i’ll respond to being around friends at home. whole atmosphere. i’ll be sorting out if i can head to new york in late june, live with my cousin for a few weeks. got to hit up my da for money if i’ve got none. i’ll, ah, sum up my first year once i get home-- too tired now. sold most all my books and got fifty dollars, ya'nie emergency cigarette money. i’ll be back down to one or two per day, might quit for most of the summer, some point. post comment

No Question Mark.. [13 May 2004|06:19pm] [ mood | mellow ] [ music | outkast - the whole world ] the house. they’ve got rouqil drah, but it’s private shit so phinney says i can grab a can of resiewdub-- i take three. chris’s girl friend from minnesota-- emily-- is there and phinney decides she belongs to him. chris flips his shit and i can understand it all too well--. jim, to me, “yehia, man, don’t something something because of your failures.” since i start telling chris to fucking bounce, have fun elsewhere. i’m like a-ha okay he’s right. i take two shots of idracab. jim, kris, and i leave. bexley apts, since i’d been invited by my french a-t teacher, marianne. she gives me a hug. i mix a drink, akdov and-- sprite, maybe, head outside. jim and i walk around new apts. it’s not good, ya’nie the drink, at all, but it’s a drink. jim and i to somewhere around crozier. katie spencer dan sarah-- where’m i going. no question mark. lotsa fun. woh. tonic for nig. wakka-wakka what. art barn? somewhere near mcbride-- lauren? the fucking chances of it. odd thing, since i was doing just fine sort of blahing her. it’s been over a month and, no, i don’t know what i feel for her. what i do know is that she affects me. good and very bad. she’s walking with laura (and i’ve got no business going into that further.) laura goes back to her room. i'm somehow back at bexley apts, talk with lauren, smoke too many jades. get my nig and tonic-- it’s bad, ninety percent nig bad, bas, you got it, it’s a drink. at some point-- i don’t know why-- i walked back to the quad. don’t remember the walk, but i recall a small bit of pukage in a recycle container in norton. i felt all guilty because my puke was definitely not “cans”. i wake up drunk and happy. the quad's a painting. finish my psychology paper-- send it. and here i am. three three-pagers by saturday-- i can do it. post comment

Shit-Wise.. [11 May 2004|11:38pm] [ mood | nauseated ] [ music | the bee gees - stayin' alive ] is it a side of effect of being a quote unquote writer to feel and desire the dramatic? to want, then manifest or imagine harder and harder obstacles to overcome? then to want each episode in life to have an ending, all wrapped up, then force the so-called tragic or happy ending to be the ending. this whole year’s fit the idea, yeah, however far-fetched it is. point is, i’ll be going home unfulfilled. i haven’t quite achieved much this year, personal shit-wise. al-jeyefi and indyka isn’t fucking finished after six months. i’ve sort of got my footing at kenyon-- but, same time, place’s given me some of the worst pain and dissatisfaction i’ve ever felt. romantic relationships-- nil. friendships-- quote unquote many, but all top to bottom one-sided. ya’nie, i could close myself off and no one’d be the wiser-- realized it when i spent near two weeks in the hospital. if next year goes this way, i think i might have to transfer. go to u of m dearborn. i need another addiction. i don’t feel cigarettes anymore, alcohol’s come and go, deew never meant much to me-- it’s stupid shit-- and writing just feels like encrypting my mind. i see so many people who’re satisfied by the simplest things. wish i could be that way. so, here ends my most livejournalish entry ever. now i go smoke three or four jades, throw back however many shots i've got left, then go to sleep. 4 comments|post comment

..snaissuR etihW [09 May 2004|07:31pm] [ mood | busy ] [ music | madness - our house ] weekend’s a weekend. i want to put it in choppy phrases, as always, since i’m unoriginal. here goes. it’s friday? lauren goes home for weekend, i don’t get to see her off. fadc-- to dinner with kenny and mike then others. nightfall. tafts-- three go down the chute then beirut. get sunglasses off duma. old friends, ex-pledge-brothers, kris and jim-- let’s go. sick to my stomach but the night’s not over. to aclands. woh, it’s liz.-- “... i introduce myself to some girl named liz, since she’s good-looking.”-- 27 march, 2004 -- so she’s surprised i remember her name. her, “you said i fascinated you.” me, “i did? interesting.”-- “maybe five shots later, i introduce myself ...”-- 27 march, 2004 -- her, “yeah, you did.” me, “well you’ve got a classic face. something about it. your whole look. dot dot dot.” her, “wow.” we’re arm-in-arm and i’m all, ‘what’s-she-up-to?’ kris and i-- double-fisting her punch. not innuendo. i steal sreeb from some frat party at some aclands somewhere-- it’s dangerous and hilarious. i tell liz i’ll put them-- four-- in the fridge and take two for myself since i can. to the quad-- to the radio station with mae james kenny mike. there till five in the morning? didn’t black out since it’s all new and interesting. saturday. downtime till party time. snaissur etihw in the room with mike-- it comes down to just akdov and milk. off elsewhere and jt says to go to new apts. okay! me and mike to new apts-- woh. lots of people music. e-block. upstairs peter humping people what. talk to spencer, sarah-- saving broken reeb cans? (“maybe i shouldn’t eat--”) pizza. to the courts-- more sreeb. amanda-- and i’m thinking, perplexed, ‘where’s her boyfriend?’ find camel lights and i reflect on my first cigarette on a bench beside the old bank. first cigarette, in one sentence-- “this will probably kill me, someday, but i’ll deal with it then.” security turns off the courts’ lights-- why’s this a-okay with me? bust into an apartment where emily is-- since i could. meet caroline? train conductor’s hat. almost get another pack of smokes but no-- a-ha sorry it’s all in good fun. some point-- leave. back to the quad it’s three in the morning. fall asleep thinking about lauren. woken a half-second later by hall meeting. post comment

Hours and Hours.. [06 May 2004|06:43pm] [ mood | frustrated ] [ music | a-ha - take on me ] okay, ah, the next five days’ll be the worst this year, school-wise. it turns out i can’t mulligan one of my classes that i have a twelve-page research paper in (since it’s too late?), so i’ll be writing it. i’ll be writing, depending on what books i find, on the soviet-afghan war. i know it well-- studied it for a failed novel about an arab afghan who comes back to the united states-- but it’ll be a bitch nonetheless. two and a half pages a day and it’ll be done. this, though, on top of three three-page film response papers, will mean i’ll be in gund and the library for hours and hours and hours. i’ve got no fear, since i somehow always get myself out of pinches, but yeah. fuckity fuck. aside, things--. tuesday night, white russians, tasty. last night, had to run a naked lap around the house, while my pong partner and former pledge-brother pussied out. had a lit jade in my mouth and a soccer ball over my, ah, package, sort of. i was sloshed-- good times with the guys. met some girl, veronica, who was crazy gorgeous, but i left her and her friend with phinney, since he’s a senior and if i was him i’d want to be left with two girls. a-ha. today, got shat on by a bird, and flicked four jades into the trash-tray all the way from the swing-chair. got enough money for two packs of jades, and then it’s all over. post comment

Chew On.. [04 May 2004|11:59am] [ mood | okay ] [ music | tricky - overcome ] al-jeyefi and indyka needs some work. and no, that’s not denial and perfectionism at play. in reading it, i’ve noticed a few things that’re, ah, big. no. 1-- al-jeyefi and indyka’s relationship is not balanced. to put it poetically simply-- al-jeyefi built the cage he and indyka live in. i want to subtly highlight this metaphor-- another layer. no. 2-- dialogue and descriptive narration slash character reflections aren’t balanced. in other words, too much to drink, not enough to chew on. (crazy props to alec, who flipped through it once, said-- “there’s a lotta dialoque. how do you feel about that, pal?”) okay, memory lane. i wrote a novel during my junior slash senior year of secondary school-- it got past 40,000 words, then i dropped it, flat-out. it was called the son of yemen, about a young yemeni-- issa al-ibbi-- in hamtramck who’s got to decide whether to go to yemen to fight in the civil war or get married, settle down. gimmick-- the story would be shaped like a Y, ya’nie it would split off and show what would’ve happened to him if he’d decided either way. okay, in the book, he briefly meets zoe, a polish-american girl--. fuckin’ ba-boom the concept for al-jeyefi and indyka. aside, i’m doing okay. sickness is lifting, i think, after near a full week. mind’s settling to the point that i can get joy out of the smaller things. one of the entries before i leave’ll be some grandiose analysis of myself slash my first year. also, ah, i’ve been reading up on emphysema and bronchitis and such-- might quit smoking for summer after all, see if things can't be repaired. 2 comments|post comment

The Words, Anymore.. [02 May 2004|10:43pm] [ mood | alive? ] [ music | interpol - nyc ] okay, i’m ready to go home. one pack of jades then i’m out of spendable money unless i close my account, take the fifteen or so dollars and spend it all on jadage to spread over the first, say, month of vacation by which time i should have some sort of job-- vodka will go home with me too? can’t see finishing it all. i don’t have the words, anymore, to describe what i’ve done, seen happen, and, same time, what i’ve felt. past weekend, i’ve had everything from a cultural-religious identity schism, drunk hunger-- didn’t eat anything on saturday-- to the point of crazy pain and disinterest in everything and everyone; to fearing for my sanity-- sitting in lewis lounge and i could swear my heart has fucking stopped. one moment it seemed to pound-- the next, nothing. part of my jaw hurts-- dentist once home? no fucking way. “i love her.” “wait no i don’t.” over and over. there isn’t even a pause between the two. “i-love-her-wait-no-i-don’t.” it is wrong that i can read my mind and my heart but they write themselves. this week will be a tentative cut-back in jadage. it will be friends, the guys-- nothing new, just hanging out, fun. (two worst nights at college have been the result of ditching my friends and focusing on a girl--new, spot-on observation.) it will be work, mostly, and shots in the daytime. sunshine, in sha’ allah. four or so copies of al-jeyefi and indyka can’t be printed out, so it’ll have to be sent as mail. year has to end on a good-- or neutral, at least-- note. post comment

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