واتس ان أه بلين

"Life's a lot like being on an airplane. You get to be seated in a shuffle if you don't make something happen for yourself in the form of a request via being connected at the counter. Think of it this way, whoever issues your boarding pass may just as well be those who issue your existence in the first place. I know. And who you sit next to is just as interesting as your chances of winning that new BMW KFC had on promotion - not quite. But the most striking thing about life and being on an airplane are the passengers in First Class. If you haven't been on first class, then that just proves my point - some people made it. Some people didn't. Most even won't. Upon landing at our destination, and if I'm flying First Class, I can take 30 minutes to ponder over the question of whether I should make the decision of finishing this rant, or having the mindless courtesy of stopping and getting up to pack my laptop and bag and leave. For all the sad pricks in Traveller, they just have to wait. They "can't touch this".
If I decide I wanted to take a picture with the stewardess with the nice ass I've been eyeing all trip long just as the plane halts, what can the people in Traveller even do when they don't even know? There's a lot of symbolism in being on a plane, I'll say. Sitting by the aisle, or sitting by the window. What's better. For one thing, if this is Business we're talking about, then it doesn't really matter. People with money to spare tend to kick it off fairly well. So one idiot wouldn't mind budging for the other idiot to pass from or to the aisle. But if you're stuck with crying babies and toddlers who think it's cute that they run up and down, then you're fucked at being on the aisle. Except.
Except if you're one of those guys with arms the size of melons. Being on a plane, or trodding down the journey of life, you're still going to get noticed. People apologize when they bump into you, girls bump into you on purpose, guys try to bump into you to redeem their self esteem. Yeah. Some goes for if you're one of those tiny-waisted, long-legged, wide-eyed young ladies. With emphasis on young. Not so much the other parts.
Then again, everybody gets screwed on the plane just as everybody gets screwed in life. Cabin pressure knows no ticket bearer. Food doesn't taste better the nearer you sit to the front exit. Flight delays happen. In the end, everybody's got to be working for somebody, right?
If you really put your mind to it, planes are the devil. You make the decision you want to get on one, but you can't turn around if you change your mind. You don't choose what you want when you want it. You just take what's given. No matter how much some airliners try to give you the illusion of choice, you're still bound to the number of choices they decided you were worthy of being given. Where you take yourself in life is the same as where you decide to go on a plane. People around you change accordingly, and so do the people who serve you. It's a done deal, really. You just don't know it yet because you haven't come to the conviction that you're in the possession of a one-way ticket either way you look at it."



ألــِـف نقطة



She tipped her neck making her way into the walk-in closet, unattaching her right earring and hopping to kick off one of her heels. She caught her reflection in the mirror under the dimmed lighting, and stared hard at the beautiful but angry woman. For the third time in under six minutes, she took out her mobile phone to check if her husband has called. But he didn't. Making it officially the sixth month she has not been in contact with her so-called husband for. Her thoughts halted when she heard the cry of her three month old baby coming from the bedroom.

She held up her tiny little boy and rubbed his back as she rocked him gently on her shoulder. Sitting down on the side of her bed, she drifted in thought to seven months ago. Her body heated up, and she felt a need for a gush of fresh air, but instead she rocked her neck to move her long hair to one side and rested her son in a way she could smell him. The boy was silent again, and she told herself that he knew she too was one who needed to be taken care of. She knew that no matter what happened, her son would never grow up to be like a certain him.

"Why don't you go fuck yourself you ignorant son of a bitch", she heard herself scream in her head eight months ago. She wasn't exactly sure at the time if she was insulted, or if she was hurt. But for her husband to tell her that she should be grateful that he "made it possible that a Kuwaiti citizenship be issued" for her just because he did not want his son to have a "Palestinian" mother was something she never thought could be said, let alone it being said, then again let alone being directed to her. It dawned on her that very moment, she now remembered, that the man she once loved could see her and indeed saw her as everything but a wife. Her body tensed up and she felt trapped inside her skin, trapped in her mind since there has not been much 'lately' she could even begin to think about without making her feel she was about to kill somebody. Until she looked at her beautiful tiny boy, or 'heard' him sleep.

Their, or better yet, her son's birth, she thought, would change everything. At the hospital, she would tell herself that any second now her husband would barge in and apologize, tell her how he never meant anything hurtful he said; and how she would instantly forgive him because she too believed in her heart that he never could have meant to hurt her. Unfortunately, it didn't exactly play out like that.

Having spent two nights at her mother's without any news of the newly decorated "Bo Jasim", she found no other solution but to speak to her "Kuwaiti" uncles, since she insisted that her younger brother be not involved in any way that could make him "be" in trouble for doing this or saying that 'to a Kuwaiti' man. But to no avail. She felt as if her so-called husband did nothing but fuck her, not so literally and literally alike.

She rocked her son some more, and the more she trapped her son into her lock of arm and chest, the more she realized that she was not trapped in her skin nor her mind. She was just trapped. Period.