CAR PARK BLUES

 
I sit in the passenger seat  
amongst empty cars,
neat tombstones
abandoned by their dead.
A new perspective:
I'm always the driver.
Do I look like a woman
waiting for someone  to return,
switch on the ignition,
steer me out to somewhere
that is a nest where eggs are laid?

I stare into the wing mirror,

watch people park and shop,
come and go,
my swimming bag on my lap,
fiddling with goggles as if  ready to dive.
A woman  drove into the river once,
dropped to the bottom,
a perfect stillness,
engine drowning,
water pressing, 
until, like a burglar,
it broke in and stole the air

Cars crash. Like us.

Victims of their drivers.  
Not far, a man drove into a tree,
airbag like gossamer,
car boot flung open,
a wedding dress spilling over roots.
A policeman made the sign of the cross.
The aftermath of being human. 

A man with two lamps and a dog  

limps to  a convertible, perfectly parked.
How long have I been here,  
watching transient tribes, 
hauling bags, pushing  trolleys,
loading and leaving without sorrow?
No one says goodbye to a car park
unless it's home.  

From your  new, cold country  

you said you had a car.
You imagined me sitting beside you
and now you have flown in, 
ice on your wings,  
settling into the driver's  seat,
turning up the reggae,
We are speeding.
You change gear, proud,
both of us laughing at the freedom of the road.
We never had that.
Look at me,
perfectly poised, alone,
pretending I'm  a passenger,
pretending you are here,
imagining what can never be: a journey.

WE ARE ALL DROWNING

Every day this awful confrontation of consumer flirtation, ego and the overwhelming darkness of humanitarian disasters. I spent today with myself. Opened the fridge....strawberries, spring onions and a radish. Coffee. Found walnuts. Spontaneously bought a psychedelic sofa which will no doubt be too big for my nano size flat.  Arranged my new dreads and went shopping looking like Medusa and hoping to turn people to stone. Returned with geraniums and mould killer. Retail therapy is the black hole of despair and women do it more than men. Spilt bleach over a favourite dress. Drank some Ryanair vodka. Took a couple of selfies and felt selfishly vain and shallow. Nothing I do makes anything feel better, not even being a volunteer helper.  Wept copiously listening to BBC radio's The Island, The Sea, The Volunteer and The Refugee. (Listen to it if you can) Drank more vodka. A million tortured souls climb into bed with me. The futility of not being fully there because the horror constantly  harangues. Hangs in the air like a muted scream.  Nothing diminishes the magnitude of horror - except the media. We are all drowning.

TRUMP AND ISIS IN THE SAME BED........

 
When Omar Mateen, a mentally unstable homophobic American killed 49 people in Orlando with guns bought  as easily as fries from McDonalds, he found himself with an unlikely soul mate.  Mateen  had  previously been  investigated by the FBI for 'terrorist' connections, and had been reported by his ex-wife  as violent. His father is believed to have sympathies for the Afghan Taliban. At the same time as the attack, another mentally unstable American, with a reputation for marital rape, fraud, bullying, mafia dealings, racism, bankrupcies, etc and who would be the next American President, was already  exploiting similar 'terrorist' attacks for his 'Keep Muslims out of America' campaign. Islamaphobes flocked while ISIS created its own political capital from the attacks.  Trump and Islamic extremists like Mateen, have a lot in common. They share  the same bigotry, and a  belief that  any means justifies their end, which is ultimately world dominance - either by an Islamic Caliphate or by Neo-con corporatism. You can take your pick because  there's not much difference between either of their unhinged ideologies. They  share  the same  sadistic and  misogynistic contempt for women, mind-numbing propaganda, lies, censorship, racism  and  the curtailment of  freedoms as their modus operandi. Their followers seem as half-baked as they are. 

Religion may have less of a hold on America, but Trump is busy shaping a replacement cult ideology. Still in its infancy, it probably  gives the Islamists a lead in the race, unrestricted as they are   by an unwieldy and  sham democracy, and  only answerable  to an ultimate authority with 99 names and  who speaks through an outdated  best seller that cannot be questioned. 

It's a marriage made in heaven on the way to hell. Each partner thinks they are the perfect solution to the other's problems.  The enemy is anyone who is not with them, and they both love pointing fingers (or guns) at the unpatriotic/infidel 'other'  whipping up fear  and  distracting  from  the real cause of the problem - them. They run  a system that churns out  psycho-maniacs faster than Trump churns out his insane lies. Men of their ilk  are spreading like an epidemic - the sooner one appears, than another pops up, either in a suicide vest or on a campaign podium. They have always existed  using whatever will serve  their insatiable desire for power, propped by the  compliant, poor,  lost and brainwashed. Islamic and western  imperialism has already polarised the world. It's been like this for centuries.  Men like Mateen and Trump will do anything to achieve  their half-baked ideas which are fed by hatred and a belief In the supremacy of their ideas.    What terrifies them most is the intelligence of  a united, growing, secular,  grassroots movement  based on equality, diversity and justice, with love at its core.
 

ICE DREAM

Painting by Rebecca Belmore

You and I wait for a boat.

We do not know where we are going and neither does anyone else.

The water is cold you say, a treachery for blood,
I  stand  and dive  into   broken stars of floating  wreckage, 

 following those who have jumped before;

a woman and a child holding hands, a family.

You say nothing, as if goodbye has already been said.

A baby sinks,  orange life-vests blossom.  

From the  edge  of the jetty, you watch a  silence more  cruel than winter.

Ice grips my legs, my head bobs, eyes frost. 

Something draws me down.

 You know what it is – not a bitter sea – its gelid flesh, 

but the turning of a back.

THE END OF A LOVE AFFAIR

Having witnessed several rounds of voting in Egypt for new parliaments, new presidents, new constitutions, I really missed not being in Cairo for the ongoing  homage to President Sisi. During the presidential election in May, 2014, women queued in droves to vote for their balding pin up.  Women are not turning out as before.  Neither are men,  Reports from friends in Cairo and Alexandria  show that several polling stations in the populous areas were empty, except for an occasional handful of elderly voters. Almost every news account reported a dearth of voters elsewhere as well. The love affair is over.

Alarmed by the low turnout on Sunday, the prime minister  gave public employees a half-day holiday on Monday to encourage more voting. The governor of Alexandria dropped the fares for public transportation. Pro-government talk show hosts (that's most of them) hectored their audiences to get out and vote. For what? The elections are being held under a number of legislations that make all forms of collective action illegal including   the “protest law” that’s been in effect since 2013, but they also include the “NGOs law”, the “terrorism law” and the amendments to the “Azhar law”.  All forms of collective action are under the scrutiny of the government so it's a wonder, in this Mickey Mouse state, that voters have not been arrested for queuing at polling stations.  The difference is that the the government, by working within a legalised framework of repression, is sure to get the results it wants. 

For this parliamentary vote,  Sisi has put up three-quarters of the seats  for competition by individual candidates, favouring the prominent and wealthy.The majority of candidates are very proud to be apolitical - which promises more of the same old   political affiliations and the fostering of individual interests.  The rest are   devoid of any political ideas and the opposition is zilch leaving the regime unmonitored and unchallenged. It's tempting to want the return of the Muslim Brotherhood, if only to liven things up a bit.

Egyptians, however, have been adding their own brand of humour to this damp squid. “I need to sit alone for a while.I am going to a polling station." “No one went today either” was trending on Twitter.

The Egyptian government is, as usual, in a state of denial and (of course) blaming the western media for misreporting. Far from being dismal, this has been the best post-revolution election ever. Even taking into account the boycotting of the elections by the Muslim Brotherhood and others,  Egyptians are hinting at a simmering collective dissent by refusing to  vote for the same old medley of crooks. They can hear the  death knell ringing for the political entities that emerged after the 'revolution' and they are witnessing  the  re-configuring of old  political elites. But the memory of the 'revolution' can't be stamped out, re-edited or  revised because everybody was there.  Fading pin-up Sisi, may discover sooner, or later, that the death knell is tolling for him.

The low turnout recalls elections for the rubber-stamp parliaments under Mubarak,(now born-again in the Sun God's parliament) although he allowed more competition. The rip-off merchant  and his military cronies are back again...but not by popular demand. Fi hob Misr.

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN EAST AND WEST

One thing I miss about Egypt are the bum washers (hose taps connected to the water pipes). Every toilet has one and it was nice to know, that despite the dirty  streets, they were  full of clean, washed bums. The West is not. It has clean streets but dirty bums. Paper does not do the same trick, so in the UK I struggle with bottles of water, usually on what seem to be very small toilets, (or, is my bum getting bigger?) and generally end up with wet clothes. I havent got the knack...yet. It seems to me the world might be a more peaceful place, if, instead of being divided between Believers and Unbelievers we just had Wet Bums and Dry Bums.It would be just too ridiculous to crucify or behead someone because they had a Dry Bum, or a Wet one. Wouldn't it?  

Just a thought.


Since posting the above, I have been told about Fresh Buzz...friends recommend it and it's ideal because it  also fits into my handbag for when Im travelling. Check this video. Fresh Buzz knows that only humour will sell its product...

A POEM - LEAVING EGYPT

I have lived in Egypt for three years. It has been a turbulent time, both for me and for  the country. Shortly before leaving I sat on a hotel roof in Zamalek above the Nile reflecting on my departure. This poem emerged from these thoughts - a rag-bag of impressions,  sadness, irritation and affection. It was written very quickly and I have left it more, or less, as scribbled. It's an attempt to express something  of how I feel about the country that has given me so much, and taken so much. 

Like a lover, Egypt, you have broken my heart so many times
leaving
returning
leaving
returning
I ate your sand, your molakeya, your dates.
Your hot winds burned me.
I plunged your Red Sea
touched its coral gardens, 
 its brash neon fish,
watched stars sink into your  deserts,
hid behind doors 
when your people marched – one voice in chains,
caught hems on barbed wire nests,
walked with cats through silent curfews
around barriers up, your guns pointing.
In twilight's pale, I watched your pigeons,
unfolding flocks, wheel home -
that place where love and grief is.
Heard your old gods calling
from their broken shrines.
“Kefayah, kefayah.”

I swam your Nile,
lay in its arms
all night afloat,
dived its drinking dark.
You took me in.
Travelling south, the long roads,
scent of Africa- a perfumed bride
among the palms.
Heard your music in the reeds,
enchantment in the oud,
a woman chanting on a roof,
the squeal of brakes,
a timeless, tuneless adhan.
Walked unlit streets with my landless love.
Watched your dogs feast
 on old falafel, chips and bones,
curl on car roofs,
bark: This is our place.
Our home. Coming and going
like prayers from a minaret.
Where else can we go?