designed by: M. Aladdin & H. Fathy

Saturday, June 30, 2007

Tall and tan and young and lovely....



الأغنية التي اهدت كارلوس جوبيم مطارًا دوليًا من حكومته دولته البرازيل، و يغنيها سيناترا معه و هو يدخن!

THE GIRL FROM IPANEMA

Tall and tan and young and lovely
The girl from ipanema goes walking
And when she passes, each one she passes goes - ah

When she walks, shes like a samba
That swings so cool and sways so gentle
That when she passes, each one she passes goes - ooh

(ooh) but I watch her so sadly
How can I tell her I love her
Yes I would give my heart gladly
But each day, when she walks to the sea
She looks straight ahead, not at me

Tall, (and) tan, (and) young, (and) lovely
The girl from ipanema goes walking
And when she passes, I smile - but she doesnt see (doesnt see)
(she just doesnt see, she never sees me,...)



الفتاة من إيبانيما..

ترجمها عن الانجليزية: محمد علاء الدين

........

طويلة و سمراء ، صغيرة و بديعة

تمشي الفتاة من ايبانيما

و عندما تعبر،

يصيح الجميع "آآآآه"...

.
و عندما تمشي، هي كالسامبا

التي تتهادى بخفة، و تتراقص برشاقة

و عندما تعبر،

يصيح الجميع "أأأأأأوه"

.

آه! و لكنني راقبتها حزينًا جدًا..

كيف يمكنني أن اخبرها بحبي؟

بلي، سأعطي قلبي عن طيب خاطر..

و لكن،

في كل يوم تمشي فيه على البحر

تنظر أمامها، للأمام بالضبط، و ليس إليّ

.

طويلة و سمراء ، صغيرة و بديعة

تمشي الفتاة من ايبانيما

و عندما تعبر،

يصيح الجميع "آآآآه"...

( هي فقط لا تري.. هي فقط لا تراني أبدا..)

مقعد وحيد


عندما أجلس

في ذلك المقعد الوحيد

و بعض الأغصان البلاستيكية

تشرأب مربتة علي كتفي

ربما ابتسم

و أغالب نفسي حتى لا أهاتف

سرابات ضجرة

كوب من البيرة، و زجاجة منتصبة

الكوب كأس، و الزجاجة خنجر

و ابتسامتي خنثى.

ربما، انزع حقيبتي،

و أُسلم ساقيّ للإسفلت الجلاد

لأن من يجلسون فوق المقاعد الوحيدة،

يبدو أنهم يصادقونها،

يمازجونها،

يحملونها صلبانا تكبل الوحشة،

بينما هم يتدحرجون في طرق ضالة مثلهم.

أوغاد أليفة،

و مهرجون ذوي أنياب،

و كثير من الربكة

أرنو إليهم، عندما أشرأب،

من فوق الأغصان البلاستيكية التي

تغازلني برفق مصطنع.

ربما سأخاتل نفسي،

و أترك حقيبتي،

و المنضدة التي ربما تكرهني،

و الإسفلت،

و أطير...

Friday, June 29, 2007

The shark has pretty teeth, dear...






MACK THE KNIFE


Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear

And it shows them pearly white

Just a jackknife has old MacHeath, babe

And he keeps it … ah … out of sight.

Ya know when that shark bites, with his teeth, babe

Scarlet billows start to spread

Fancy gloves, though, wears old MacHeath, babe

So there’s nevah, nevah a trace of red.

Now on the sidewalk … uuh, huh … whoo … sunny mornin’ … uuh, huh

Lies a body just oozin’ life … eeek!

And someone’s sneakin’ ‘round the corner

Could that someone be Mack the Knife?

A-there’s a tugboat … huh, huh, huh … down by the river don’tcha know

Where a cement bag’s just a’droopin’ on down

Oh, that cement is just, it’s there for the weight, dear

Five’ll get ya ten old Macky’s back in town.

Now, d’ja hear ‘bout Louie Miller? He disappeared, babe

After drawin’ out all his hard-earned cash

And now MacHeath spends just like a sailor

Could it be our boy’s done somethin’ rash?

Now … Jenny Diver … ho, ho … yeah … Sukey Tawdry

Ooh … Miss Lotte Lenya and old Lucy Brown

Oh, the line forms on the right, babe

Now that Macky’s back in town.

Aah … I said Jenny Diver … whoa … Sukey Tawdry

Look out to Miss Lotte Lenya and old Lucy Brown

Yes, that line forms on the right, babe

Now that Macky’s back in town …


Look out … old Macky is back!


BOBBY DARIN

ماك ذو السكين

ترجمها عن الإنجليزية: محمد علاء الدين

...............................

القرش، يا عزيزتي، يملك أسنانا..

يظهرها في بياض اللؤلؤ..

كسكين جيب يخبئها ماكهيث العجوز، يا صغيرتي،

بعيدا عن الأنظار..

.

تعرفين، يا صغيرتي، عندما يقضم القرش بأسنانه،

تتناثر الوسائد القرمزية..

و هكذا، يا صغيرتي، يرتدي ماكهيث العجوز القفازات الفاخرة

فلا تجدين..أبدا أبدا.. اثر للدماء..

.

الآن، علي الطوار، في هذا الصباح المشمس..

يرقد جسد، فقط، تتسلل منه الحياة..

و هناك شخص ما يتسلل عند الناصية

أيمكن أن يكون ماك ذو السكين؟

.

هناك قارب صغير، يتهادي عند النهر، ألا تعلمين؟

هناك حين أُسقطت حقيبة إسمنتية ..

الإسمنت هناك، فقط، لجذب الوزن، يا صغيرتي..

أراهنكِ أن ماكي العجوز قد عاد إلى المدينة..

.

و الآن، أسمعتِ عن لوي ميللر؟ لقد اختفى، يا صغيرتي..

بعدما خسر كل عرق جبينه..

و الآن، ماكهيث يبذر النقود كبحار،

أيمكن أن يكون فتانا قد فعل شيئًا متسرعًا؟

.

الآن.. جيني درايفر..آه.. سوكي تودي..

أوه.. الآنسه لوتي لينا و لوسي براون العجوز..

آه، الطابور يصطف إلى اليمين يا صغيرتي..

لأن ماكي قد عاد إلى المدينة..

.

آآه.. لقد قلت جيني داريفر..اوه.. سوكي تودي..

احرسا الآنسة لوني لينا و لوسي براون العجوز.

بلى، هذا الطابور الذي يصطف إلى اليمين يا صغيرتي..

الآن فقد عاد ماكي إلى المدينة..

.

احترسوا.. لقد عاد ماكي العجوز!

الإعلان عن فتح باب التقدم لسلسلة ورقة وقلم

يسعد ورقة وقلم أن تعلن عن فتح باب التقدم لسلسلة ورقة وقلم ، والتي تخص المخطوطات المعدة للإصدار الأول للكاتب، ولم يسبق نشرها في كتاب، وذلك في المجالات الآتية: الرواية – شعر الفصحى – شعر العامية – النقد – الكتابة المسرحية – القصة القصيرة ( مجموعة )

شروط التقدم للسلسلة :

1. أن يكون المخطوط المقدم للسلسلة معداً للنشر لأول مرة ولم يسبق أن طبع في كتاب ، وألا يكون قد سبق للمتقدم نشر أى كتاب.

2. ترسل نسختين أصلييتين مع أسطوانة الكومبيوتر المنسوخ عليها العمل.

3. ترسل سيرة ذاتية أدبية ، وإقرار بعدم وجود أى إصدارات سابقة .

4. أن يرفق المتقدم صورة من أي وثيقة رسمية تفيد ببياناته الشخصية .

5. يراعى عدم كتابة اسم المتقدم أو الإشارة إليه على العمل المطبوع .

6. تعلن أسماء الأدباء الذين قبلت أعمالهم للنشر فى سلسلة ورقة وقلم ( الدفعة الأولى ) في شهر أغسطس 2007 ، وتتكون هذه الدفعة من 12 كاتبًا بواقع أديبين فى كل مجال من مجالات السلسلة.

7. تلتزم ورقة وقلم بطباعة الأعمال على نفقتها، وتحتفظ لنفسها بحقوق الطبعة الأولى من هذه الأعمال ، على أن يبدأ النشر فى سبتمبر 2007 .

وتتكون اللجنة الاستشارية لسلسلة ورقة وقلم من السادة :

بهاء طاهر - جمال الغيطانى - حسن طلب - سامى سليمان – سيد حجاب - صلاح فضل ( المشرف العام على السلسلة )

تغلق أبواب المشاركة للنشر للدفعة الأولى فى 31 يوليو 2007

ورقة وقلم تتمنى التوفيق للجميع

للتواصل : wrkawklm@yahoo.com – هاتف: 0109856036

ترسل الأعمال إلى : ق 409 – عقد أول – م 2 – الحى الخامس – مدينة 6 أكتوبر.

Thursday, June 28, 2007

أم بلكونة لندن


الفريق الليثي ناصف أنتحر من الدور الخامس في لندن .. سعاد حسني أنتحرت من الدور الخامس في لندن .. اللواء علي شفيق مدير مكتب المشير عبد الحكيم عامر عثر عليه مقتولا في شقته في لندن ... وأخيرا أشرف مروان (وقع--انتحر--قتل) من الدور الخامس في لندن

- يبدو لى ان شرفات المنازل فى بريطانيا فى حاجة الى حديد المهندس احمد عز

علاء الدين عطا الله
احد القراء المعلقين علي النبأ في موقع إيلاف الأليكتروني

شرنقة..

رائحة شوارع مبتهجة

بالنبض البشري الحائر فيها

صوت أبي يحكي عن تاريخ لم اشهده

تعلمت منه في زمن قصير

أن لا أصدق الحكايات

لا أصدق التواريخ.

عندما شاهدني استاذي

المطرود من جنة الألم

قال" من الضروري أن تخرجي من الشرنقة"

وأعجبتني كلمة شرنقة

شرنقة

شرنقة

ففضلت المكوث.
العابرون في خيالي

لا يخافون محبتي

يتركون انفاسهم المرة في صدري

ويغادرون خلسة

كأنني المرآة.
تمنيت دوما أن يكون لي جد

أعبر من صدره إلى كتفه

وألعب معه ألعاب لا يعرفها غير الرجال.

لم يكن لي جد.
في الحقيقة

لم ارى أبدا جدا في حياتي

ولم أكن ولد.

عائلتي كلها

هى مجموعة من الإناث



أبي هو الرجل الوحيد

الذي اعرفه

والذي أعرف انه لم يكن له بدوره أب.

الحديقة تكبلني بأغصانها المورقة

وأنا وحدي أعرف مواطن الجمال

الحديقة تكبلني

ورائحة صراخ

يذكرني بالمحيط

وكتاب أخير

وبشر يخرجون منه.

رنا التونسى

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Monday, June 25, 2007

..حفناوي



أحمد حفناوي مش مجرد فنان عينه حلوة و بس، هو فنان عنده موهبة مختلفة أوي في رأيي الشخصي، و لو حد من متابعي البلوج القدام أكيد ح يفتكر دي و دي طبعا.
:)
أحمد عمل معرض دلوقتي، هو الأولاني ليه في مصر، بعد اشتراكه في ترينالي لطلبة البحر المتوسط في تركيا سنة 1997، الحدوتة بدأت لما الفنانة التشكيلية الروسية يلينا يريومتشفا كلمته قبل يومين من افتتاح معرض "سيمفونية صيفية" اللي بتنظمه في الجاليري و الاستوديو بتاعها، و قالتله "هه يا أحمد! يالا!!".. طبعا السبب في المكالمة المتأخرة أن أحمد كان مكسل يعمل معرض مش من قيمة شهر أو شهرين..لأ..سنين
..و الحمد لله أنه عملها أخيرا
:)
تقدروا تزوروا معرض أحمد حفناوي و تسعة تانيين من الشباب المصري و الأجنبي اللي بيعرضوا لأول مرة في
فاين آرتس جاليري و ستوديو
11 شارع الجزيرة الوسطي--الزمالك
ت: 27351307
يوميا من الساعة 11 صباحًا إلى 3 مساءً و من 5 مساءً حتى 10 مساءً ما عدا الجمعة
حتى 12 يوليو 2007

Friday, June 22, 2007

..في ضيافة د. ابو الغار


بدعوة كريمة من صالون د.محمد ابو الغار الأدبي، كانت قعدة عن إنجيل آدم في يوم الجمعة اللي فات. اشكر بهاء طاهر و صنع الله إبراهيم و حرمه و إبراهيم عبد المجيد و د. ايمان الحبشي (استاذ الأدب العربي بجامعة بلجراد) و د. ماري تريز عبد المسيح (استاذ الادب المقارن في جامعة القاهرة) و د. مديحة دوس (استاذ الأدب الفرنسي في الجامعة الامريكية) و طبعا د.محمد ابو الغار و بنته د. هنا. بالاضافة لكل اعضاء الصالون اللي استضافوني انا و الرواية في القعدة الجميلة دي
ألف شكر
........
الصورة من مجموعة د. ماري تريز عبد المسيح

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Fatahland and Hamas-stan..


Welcome to 'Palestine'

Published: 16 June 2007

How troublesome the Muslims of the Middle East are. First, we demand that the Palestinians embrace democracy and then they elect the wrong party - Hamas - and then Hamas wins a mini-civil war and presides over the Gaza Strip. And we Westerners still want to negotiate with the discredited President, Mahmoud Abbas. Today "Palestine" - and let's keep those quotation marks in place - has two prime ministers. Welcome to the Middle East.

Who can we negotiate with? To whom do we talk? Well of course, we should have talked to Hamas months ago. But we didn't like the democratically elected government of the Palestinian people. They were supposed to have voted for Fatah and its corrupt leadership. But they voted for Hamas, which declines to recognise Israel or abide by the totally discredited Oslo agreement.

No one asked - on our side - which particular Israel Hamas was supposed to recognise. The Israel of 1948? The Israel of the post-1967 borders? The Israel which builds - and goes on building - vast settlements for Jews and Jews only on Arab land, gobbling up even more of the 22 per cent of "Palestine" still left to negotiate over ?

And so today, we are supposed to talk to our faithful policeman, Mr Abbas, the "moderate" (as the BBC, CNN and Fox News refer to him) Palestinian leader, a man who wrote a 600-page book about Oslo without once mentioning the word "occupation", who always referred to Israeli "redeployment" rather than "withdrawal", a "leader" we can trust because he wears a tie and goes to the White House and says all the right things. The Palestinians didn't vote for Hamas because they wanted an Islamic republic - which is how Hamas's bloody victory will be represented - but because they were tired of the corruption of Mr Abbas's Fatah and the rotten nature of the "Palestinian Authority".

I recall years ago being summoned to the home of a PA official whose walls had just been punctured by an Israeli tank shell. All true. But what struck me were the gold-plated taps in his bathroom. Those taps - or variations of them - were what cost Fatah its election. Palestinians wanted an end to corruption - the cancer of the Arab world - and so they voted for Hamas and thus we, the all-wise, all-good West, decided to sanction them and starve them and bully them for exercising their free vote. Maybe we should offer "Palestine" EU membership if it would be gracious enough to vote for the right people?

All over the Middle East, it is the same. We support Hamid Karzai in Afghanistan, even though he keeps warlords and drug barons in his government (and, by the way, we really are sorry about all those innocent Afghan civilians we are killing in our "war on terror" in the wastelands of Helmand province).

We love Hosni Mubarak of Egypt, whose torturers have not yet finished with the Muslim Brotherhood politicians recently arrested outside Cairo, whose presidency received the warm support of Mrs - yes Mrs - George W Bush - and whose succession will almost certainly pass to his son, Gamal.

We adore Muammar Gaddafi, the crazed dictator of Libya whose werewolves have murdered his opponents abroad, whose plot to murder King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia preceded Tony Blair's recent visit to Tripoli - Colonel Gaddafi, it should be remembered, was called a "statesman" by Jack Straw for abandoning his non-existent nuclear ambitions - and whose "democracy" is perfectly acceptable to us because he is on our side in the "war on terror".

Yes, and we love King Abdullah's unconstitutional monarchy in Jordan, and all the princes and emirs of the Gulf, especially those who are paid such vast bribes by our arms companies that even Scotland Yard has to close down its investigations on the orders of our prime minister - and yes, I can indeed see why he doesn't like The Independent's coverage of what he quaintly calls "the Middle East". If only the Arabs - and the Iranians - would support our kings and shahs and princes whose sons and daughters are educated at Oxford and Harvard, how much easier the "Middle East" would be to control.

For that is what it is about - control - and that is why we hold out, and withdraw, favours from their leaders. Now Gaza belongs to Hamas, what will our own elected leaders do? Will our pontificators in the EU, the UN, Washington and Moscow now have to talk to these wretched, ungrateful people (fear not, for they will not be able to shake hands) or will they have to acknowledge the West Bank version of Palestine (Abbas, the safe pair of hands) while ignoring the elected, militarily successful Hamas in Gaza?

It's easy, of course, to call down a curse on both their houses. But that's what we say about the whole Middle East. If only Bashar al-Assad wasn't President of Syria (heaven knows what the alternative would be) or if the cracked President Mahmoud Ahmedinejad wasn't in control of Iran (even if he doesn't actually know one end of a nuclear missile from the other).

If only Lebanon was a home-grown democracy like our own little back-lawn countries - Belgium, for example, or Luxembourg. But no, those pesky Middle Easterners vote for the wrong people, support the wrong people, love the wrong people, don't behave like us civilised Westerners.

So what will we do? Support the reoccupation of Gaza perhaps? Certainly we will not criticise Israel. And we shall go on giving our affection to the kings and princes and unlovely presidents of the Middle East until the whole place blows up in our faces and then we shall say - as we are already saying of the Iraqis - that they don't deserve our sacrifice and our love.

How do we deal with a coup d'état by an elected government?



ROBERT FISK



Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Something about M.


What we can say about M?

I don't know myself, it seems to me, like all who might "know" that guy, that M is a creature you cannot describe, a phantom, a phenomena. Maybe he's not a phenomena, phenomena is a state of knowing very well what the border lines between the usual and the unusual. Basically, they do not know what is M, to talk about borders.

Let's try out fortune, gathering from our naked brains what we can recall about M.

He's an oldie. That's one. He's living alone. That's two. It seems that he keeps lots of cats around. That's three (we say 'it seems' because we can't figure it out sharply: does he keep those cats regularly, or it was just an occasion somebody to have a glimpse flash of a cat behind the window, before M to eat it). He prefers to eat cans' food, as the grosser says. That's four. He's staying his condo like a devoted priest. That's five. We can assume, regarding those five points, that M is not a social character.

OK. Then, what we can really really know about M?

Not a social character? What's the very unique about this?!

You know, many of people around are mysterious figures, and we have the privilege of stereo typing to imagine a notorious fellow who's planning to crack down the White House, or the tower of Eiffel, or simply being a serial killer.

Does this leads us to the secret of M?

Even if some mysterious folks turned to be mass murderers or plain hijackers, again, does this prove anything about M?

We always surrounded by questions. It's the very salt of life, and our dear M here is one of the greatest provocateurs of the lusty thing named questions. Yea, questions are a plain pain in the ass, but, as we all know, questions gave the life's some thrills.

Unfortunately, not all the humans know this marvelous wisdom, so many of our street's inhibitors do not bear to hear about M. that nasty guy who's wandering from side to side behind his window, leaving his dark spooky shadow before their eyes.

In most of cases, people either hate the unknown, and respect it. They'd respect it if they had to, but in our case, they didn't have to respect that mysterious figure, so they had the ultimate will to hate him. A hatred without any reasons but he doesn't prove to them his humanity. His deeper weakness. His ravish fever when he had a patient son or daughter. M doesn't give them this. So they hate him openly.

About me, myself, I was aware of his great role in this empty life. He's the questions' maker. I respected that about him. He could be plain and leave me to an empty, predate life.

Thus, I was ready to answer, or even trying to answer. I was ready trying to tell something about M.

I sat down in my tiny room and engaged with my brain storms. What can I do to achieve this great aim? I spent days and nights thinking. Heavens was great with me to arrange the kite with the most decency ever. My boss has fired me. My girlfriend called me a pussy. I have nothing now, in my entire life, but to get the answer of what I've asked.

I knew that M gets his supplies from the grocer by a simple procedure. The grocer boy would leave a box filled with the merchandise before M's closed door, then, after a fixed fifteen minutes, he'll return to pick up an envelope contains the money. (another good question here: From where M gets all of this cash?!). and about the menu, it's simple, M has never changed what he gets from the grocer.

We have here another essential question, how could the menu basically reached the grocer, in the very beginnings?! Good for me I had a simple—this man M is surrounded with 'simple' things—replay, it came from the grocers' boy, he heard a voice calling him. "Hey, boy!" it was short after a dark fan came with a mysterious figure with a simple furniture. The boy looks above; he saw nothing but an envelope hitting his face, titled for his boss. It contained a list, and a sum of money fulfilled the needed list. So it went on.

Ok. I live three blocks away of M, so I can't spy on him through his window, legendary ever closed window, and I have only a friend in that block, I can call him, or hitting him while passing the street, but how could I convince him to escort me to his place, so I can have a glimpse to M's door. After some encounters with my friend, who's basically didn't want me to visit his place, I made him tell me about M's door. "it's old and dirty, has waves of dust and colorless. It seems like it never have been opened" my friend said.

I was in deep need to know about that man, even if it was like childish ways will not lead me to a single thing. I made my mind again; it's not a way I can know anything about M.

I was about reaching a dead end, but suddenly, I've been hit with a luminous idea. What if I could switch places with the grocer boy?

Then?

I could hide in the corridor corner till our M shows up.

Then?

Ummm! I guess it's terrific! Me to see M from a close distance, then I could describe him sharply to our street folks. It will be a historic shot.

Then?

I'd know something about M: his eyes' color, shape of his nose and mouth, height and width, all the physical details about this guy. It's a thing I'd know about M.

What's the new here?

Some folks remember that he's a tall guy, well built, wearing a black coat. His nose seems like a hock. But nobody would assure his eyes' color. Some says it's green, some says it's black; others would insist they're just dark brown.

So?

Talking about physical things won't be a remarkable answer. I must have priorities. I Must concentrate on: what would I want to know? Again I have an answer—but it was me the knowledgeable fellow—and it was just simple and sweet: everything.

So?

I'd switch places with the grocer's boy. I'd ring the door. I'd wait behind the corridor's corner. I'd see M leaning on the box. I'd run to him, a long lovely shiny knife in my right hand.

Then?

A push forcing him to lay down into his dark condo—I feel it, it's dark, shutting the door, sweet sweet time filled with endless stories.

Period.

Excellent. Yea?

I put my clothes on. I felt a warm stream of nourishment is hitting my veins, swimming freely in my blood. I've got a plan.

It was the day light. The grocer's is on my right, just couple of blocks. It's nearer to M's condo. I saw the boy—he's seventeen years old actually—going somewhere with his bag.

"Hey boy!" I shouted.

"Hello, Mr." he shouted back.

"I want a small service from you." I said it when am right before him.

"What kind of a service, Mister?" a sly smile was resting on his lips.

I didn't give a shit for his imaginaries. I stroke the heart of the subject. He was silent while am talking. Then he asked me a good question.

"Why would you do that, Mister?!"

"Simply that isn't your goddamn business."

"Maybe, but this is gonna cost you…"

He did asked a good sum of money, that fucker!

It wasn't about money. I knew this, so it wasn't any problem. He told me that he'd bypass the merchandise after couple of days. I've got luck. He receives them monthly. I spent my days thinking about what I could get out of him. What sort of stories would he has. How he'll deal with that situation. And it came to my mind, would I be my real persona when I do that? Sure I can't, so I got prepared. A mask. Gloves. Black clothes. It seems like a junior batman, or a dare young gangster.

After one day at 12:00 pm.

Good stories will be told nearly at 12:10 pm.

I was excited. I kept walking around my street, gazing at the absent people going there and here. Lost souls whom doing things they really do not understand or love. Dead man walking. Dead man talking.

I went to sleep with a wide smile on my lips. One brave guy out of your pity street, pity neighborhood would do something positive. It will be the first time ever one of you would do such a thing. One of you would dare answering the questions—some questions to be just—you all fear.

Morning. 3 hours left.

Standing before the mirror. Looking at my mysterious aura. You'd never explore the mystery but being mysterious.

Morning. 2 hours left.

Eating my breakfast. Drinking my hot coffee. I was already wearing my black clothes. No time to waste.

Morning. Half an hour left.

Sun is moving confidently, pushing morning away. Warmness of noon is present and vivid. I walking my stares down. I'll smoothly heading the corner of M's block. The boy would come, ring the bell, entering the block, and he'll left the door open. I'll simply follow.

He'll hand me the box, then he'll flee after waiting some moments. Our M would see him going; therefore he'll open the door. Perfect.

One thing wasn't perfect.

I saw an ambulance, and a police vehicle. They're both stopped before the block's entrance. I saw the boy standing before the grocer's, looking at me. I waved my head and lips like "what's going on?" I couldn't believe something would interrupt my plan. I'd wait for another month? Nope, that will not happen.

Some of folks are hovering around the two cars, their curiosity was so obvious. I wanted to go to the boy and ask him to delay handing the merchandise. He'll have the police and ambulance as an excuse. He'll do that. I'll not wait for another month.

I was about walking to him, but I preferred not to be viewed with the boy this day. I tended to go see what's happening in the block.

Then I saw a body. A body on a hauler. a ghost of a smile took over the boy's lips. He was waving to me slyly. Maybe ironically.

It was such nasty odor. M's neighbors commented. It wasn't new there's something strange happening in M's place, but it was the first time ever they'd smell such odor. A day then another one and the odor was going nastier. A phone call to the police and everything was revealed. No, not everything. They didn't recognize that fellow, whom the street folks know no name. Someone only named him M.

It was a corpse.

I've stopped, looking at the hauler. it was him. His corpse.

I clinched my mask, gloves, and the knife resting deep down my pockets.

Noon. No time left.

Standing alone. People gossips are flying around. Sweat. A chilly pattern took over my nose. A wide smile is resting peacefully on the grocers' boy while he's talking with the cups, pointing out to me. Sweat. The streets' asphalt is sending heat to my face. Sweat. Cops are gazing at me. Sweat. Sun's beams of light seemed like a sweet long knife.

Muhammad Aladdin

11:10 pm, Sunday, August 21, 2005

Cairo, Egypt.

Monday, June 18, 2007

..عن جائزة بوكر

علمت من جريدة أخبار الأدب بالأمس—و أقسم أنني لا اهزل—خبر ترشيح دار العين لروايتي "اليوم الثاني و العشرون" للفوز بجائزة بوكر العربية. و في الحقيقة أنا شخصيًا—مع كل التقدير لدار العين و مديرتها الفاضلة د.فاطمة البودي—لا أحبذ مسألة التقدم لأي جائزة أدبية(*). و لكن هناك حقيقة هامة، و هي أنني لا أملك حق منع الناشر من ترشيح كتاب من إصداره، و عزائي أن دار العين استخدمت حقها في الترشيح—و المكفول لها وحدها دون الكاتب،حسب لوائح الجائزة—دون الرجوع إليّ، و لو كانت رجعت إليّ لكان للموضوع شأن آخر.

و هذا الشأن الآخر حدث فعلا حين رجع إليّ ناشري العزيز محمد هاشم برغبته في الاشتراك في مسابقة ساويرس بروايتي "إنجيل آدم"، و للأمانة فلقد كرر الرجل عرضه الكريم ثلاث من المرات و في كل مرة كنت اعتذر. الرواية نفدت و استقبلها القراء و المهتمين—سواء من محبيها أو كارهيها—باهتمام شرفني و أخجلني، و هذه هي الجائزة الحقيقية التي يسعى إليها أي كاتب فيما أتخيل. لذلك كان ردي قاطعًا و مباشرًا (و لا يفوتني شكر الكاتب الكبير العزيز بهاء طاهر علي نصائحه الأبوية العديدة ليّ بالمشاركة).

و حدث أنني تمكنت من الوصول لد.فاطمة البودي مذ لحظات قليلة، و استجابت السيدة لطلبي بصدر رحب اشكرها عليه، و بذلك يسرني أن أقول أنني غير مرشح لجائزة بوكر العربية و لا لجائزة ساويرس، و هذا فقط للعلم و تبيين الرؤى.

مع كل التقدير،

محمد علاء الدين

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(*) سبق و شاركت في مسابقة هيئة قصور الثقافة و وفقت للفوز بها بروايتي الأولى "الدوائر"، سعيًا وراء النشر الذي كان صعب المنال آنذاك، و هو الأمر الذي كنت فيه لا مخلصًا و لا أمينًا مع نفسي، لأن رأيي الآن كان هو ذاته حين تقدمت للجائزة تحت مبرر فرصة النشر ( و هو الأمر الذي لم يحدث من الأساس). أقول هذا الآن من باب الإخلاص و المصارحة، و من منطلق اقتناعي التام بأن الاعتراف بالأخطاء هو دافع قوي لعدم تكرارها.