UPDATE: Fixed and stuff.
Accidentally deleted my CSS file. Oops.
Working on fixing it, it works on Firefox, but it looks sorta funny on Internet Explorer.
Another lazy Thursday spent sitting inside the tiny cosiness of my favorite gallery-turned-cafe.
The decor is as eccentric as my grandmother’s house, except that somehow, in the clash of colors and the excessiveness of patterns, there’s a certain beauty that my grandmother couldn’t quite bring out in her own place.
The long open doors and big lace-covered windows of the little cafe look out onto Rainbow Street many decades after the streets intital fall from glory. The cars that pass are probably heading to Books@Cafe a few turns away or Wild Jordan down the road. The mosque two buildings down insists on cranking up the volume of the radio way too loud for the call of prayer. People of all ages, colors, and sizes are making their way with their carts and supplies to the alley around the corner, getting their stalls ready for Friday’s weekly flea market. There’s even an ice-cream cart being rolled, how many tongues will feel this icecream melt deliciously tomorrow?
My thoughts are suspended by a question from those around me, “What’s on your mind?”
My mind spins a thousand tales, a thousand thoughts, a thousand questions.
Why is there no balance between my ability to lose myself in detail that only belongs in my mind and my inability to concentrate on details that other people consider so easy to take in?
My friends insist I will end up a Mazen. Scary thought.
Endless source of mindless entertainment.
H: Spit out nos il leira.
A: Shu, bedak nos leira minni?
H: Yes, I let you use my phone yesterday. I want my credit back. Ib3atli nos leira 3al Fastlink.
A: Ya zalameh I’m broke. I don’t have any credit, min wein ab3atlak nos leira?
A: I’ll send them to you tomorrow.
H: Tomorrow? Ok fine, but delay one more day and you’ll have to pay interest.
A: How much is the interest on the nos leira?
H: You’ll send me a leira instead.
A: Ok, deal.
After an oh-my-god-you-guys-are-such-ka7ateet look from their eldest sister, they convincingly explain, “Mahoweh each leira credit is worth like khames leirat in cash!”
… for on this day, the 9th of August, after exactly 7 weeks from the commencement of the semester on the 25th of June, after 39 hours of daily infamous “Writing” classes at the University of Jordan, and 3 days away from the official end of the semester- the writing professor finally decide to move on from “The Paragraph” and introduce “The Composition”.
Holy smokes. Compa-what? Dude, that’s too big a word! I’m so scared.
That aside, how is he going to get the concepts of “introduction”, “body” and “conclusion” to a class of students that still do not understand that each sentence in a paragraph does not need to be on a separate line?
My mother will happily tell you that I was probably the most cautious baby she has ever seen. While my fellow toddler friends climbed onto tables and chairs and experienced many bumped heads due to recurrent tumbling, I would absolutely refuse to do anything that may prove to be even slightly dangerous. The cautious trait never subdued, and up till this day, the fact that I have never broken a single bone in my body or stitched a single inch of skin stands as a golden example on my cautiousness.
Actually, the first time I ever had to x-ray a body part for injury-related reasons was last week, which is proving to be so hazardous that I should probably lock myself up in my room in order to avoid further klutziness in an apparently excessively absent-minded month.
Last week, I banged my the little space in my right elbow smack on the edge of the door. After incessant whining from a certain friend, I decided to go get it checked. Luckily, it wasn’t broken or anything, and sufficient amounts of painkillers and Voltarene did the job until time did its magic.
I usually lock my car from the inside before stepping out, so that when I close the door, I don’t have to lock it from the outside. Yesterday, I stepped out and closed the now-locked door like usual, only to realize that I had forgotten my finger in the car.
Darn. I actually locked the car door on my finger.
Looking back, I have no idea how that happened, and I have no idea how I bent down to my bag now on the floor, unzipped it with my left hand with my other hand partially inside the car, and unlocked the car to gasp at a horrendously squished finger.
[Insert brothers’ impressions of the incident]
Half a day later, my mother cajoled me into visiting the hospital, and thankfully, it isn’t broken. Instead, it’s swelled up so big that it literally looks like it should be a part of my brother’s giant hand rather than my own thin and long one.
Look at the skin around the x-ray, in usual condition, my index finger is the slimmest one, and its much more tapered than the middle finger next to it. It has been completely and uncomfortably numb for the past 24 hours.
The bright side? Thank God I only use my left hand to type.
*Click away happily on the keyboard with my uninjured left hand*
So this semester proved to be extremely boring- no scrubbing hands to death to get rid of the coating of super-duper glue, no screaming at a stupid computer that keeps getting stuck in a middle of a project, and not a single drop of artsy-farsty goodness. Instead, it was just staring with complete and utter exasperation at a fan overhead as an English professor who does not speak English taught the students that using “so” before a word automatically deems it good, and listening to some ass with a patch on his shoulder toss around very sexist comments.
Yet, as they say in Arabic, “il-7aq yoqal” (the truth has to be spoken), and Military Science didn’t turn out as bad as I thought it would. They had some interesting classes in “Selselet Mo7adarat il 3oloom il 3askareyeh” (the starting sentence of my morning, every single day, for the past 6 weeks), and they even got a hottie pilot who was the centerpoint of overheard conversations in the girls’ part of stadium for weeks to come. Yet, notice in the picture above that the class is spent doing homework for other classes (look at the girls with the calculators), or in my case, catching up on my reading.
The real bummer of the summer and the star of the show was the “advanced” writing class, mainly spent talking about why you can never say “I were there” and how you cannot capitalize randomly. It’s amusing that these students are actually specializing in English and yet they do not know the simplest rules of the English language. Admittedly, I’m the kind of student who’s a pain in the ass, but this course was so stupid and so unchallenging that I decided that staring at a fan every day for an hour is more rewarding. But seriously, look at the below sentence that was marked wrong. Ok, I was wrong with the number, but I know my sentence is correct.
Needless to say, even with the excess of syntax lessons in a writing class, I still do not have the slightest idea what a future perfect continuous verb is and I still cannot differentiate between the passive and the active voice, just like I don’t know the multiplication table and how I can’t tell a maf3ool from a maf3ool behi.
So there we go, and with a week-and-a-bit left for the summer semester to show us its lovely backside as it walks out the door, I’m getting excited about the next year- my final year at the UofJ.
15 more credit-hours divided over two semesters, compared to the 19++ credit-hours I had to take in each term last year. Five classes ALL from our department, namely “Dance and Rhythm” (a dancing class, in JU, as a department requirement, are we awesome or what?), “Modern Art Theories”, “Post Modern Art”, “Islamic Aesthetics”, and “Computer Design 2”. One graduation project to go with exact professor I wanted for an advisor. Life should be good next year.
Man… this is proving to be a long post and I hate writing long posts cause I have a hard time reading other people’s long posts. Has this been hard to read?
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