Pompeii (Part I)

Pompeii (Part I)

I'm trying to do a research on the Italian city Pompeii, during the Roman Empire, a city buried underneath a massive volcanic eruption. The reason why I'm interested in such a thing is that it's nearly impossible to believe that a whole city was buried under a volcano just like that; there must be a godlike wisdom and reason for this.
Here is a brief history taken from here:
Pompeii, also known as the forgotten city, was a Roman settlement that was devastated by volcanic eruptions in 79 A.D. The city was first occupied by Romans in the 6th century and converted into a Resort city. The volcano that was responsible for the destruction of Pompeii is called Mount Vesuvius. The eruptions from the volcano were so strong that the buildings and the people were covered in twelve thick layers of mud and ash. After the city was covered in volcanic ashes, it was slowly forgotten and erased from the history books until it got rediscovered in 1738 by workers working for King of Naples.
Before Pompeii succumbed to the eruptions, it used to be a blossoming township and a progressive commercial port of the Sarno River in Italy. The most notable buildings that have been excavated from the ashes are a Roman basilica and an amphitheatre. The excavations also include many intact wall paintings, pottery and coinage. Pompeii was one of the earliest excavated cities in the world, where archeological work started in 1738.
The above picture is a neat one from now. Here are a couple of pictures of the buried nation..




















And even animals..























What I'm trying to grasp is the info my sister told me; she did a research on that some time ago and read that the people of the city were so engulfed in lust, ecstasy and a worldly life lived completely to the fullest. Paintings of concrete sexual intercourse were easily seen on walls. Everything was just about satiating their needs. And that's what I'll try to get info about in part two insha'allah.

Chemophobia

Chemophobia

Though it literally translates to “fear of chemicals,” this term is used by some psychologists, scientists and organizations to describe those concerned about the “industrial,” “synthetic,” “artificial,” and “man-made” particularly with regards to food and drink. An article by the American Enterprise Institute on chemophobia boldly states “The false idea that our bodies have become ‘toxic waste dumps’ is not just wrong but counterproductive.” Do they really think there’s no correlation between the skyrocketing rates of cancer and the increase of chemical additives in the food supply? It’s probably only a matter of time before psychiatrists use this word to describe people who resist chemotherapy for cancer (i.e. Daniel Hauser has “chemophobia”).

In the third world countries like us, what would we say about this?

Source: Listverse

قصيدة من الطفولة

قصيدة من الطفولة

أنا مش هتكلّم كتير هنا ، هحكي بس قصة الأنشودة ، أو القصيدة دي

القصيدة دي من ذكريات طفولتي التي مش هنساها ، الذكرى الحلوة ، بالرغم من إن القصيدة مؤلمة و حزينة ، لكن لا زالت بتعبّر عن حالنا الحالي. ببساطة شديدة القصة اللي عمري ما هنساها إبتدت في عربيّتنا هناك لما كنت لسه في الإمارات ، كنت تقريباً لسه في أولى إبتدائي و مكنتش فاهمة حاجة في الدنياالمعقدة -الخالية من البراءة يعني - إلا إن في ناس في فلسطين بتتقتّل و العالم ساكن و مبيتكلمش من حرب 48 و من قبل كده بكتير. بابا سمعنا القصيدة في سيارتنا ...أنا فاكرة الشريط كان لونه إيه و فاكرة إحساسي ساعتها قوي قوي قوي زي ما يكون حلم بيتردد كل ليلة في نومي. جسمي قشعر ، على الرغم من إنّي دلوقتي بفكّر إزاي بابا كان بيسمّعنا حاجات كثيبة كده ، بس لما كبرت فهمت إنّي فعلاّ كنت محتاجة أسمعها ، عشان لو أنا مش عايشة في وسطهم و حاسّة بيهم ، لازم أحس بيهم في أي حاجة و أكبر على كده عشان أتعود و لما تقوم الثورة العربية الكبرى أبقى مبسوطة بجد. الحمد لله إن لسه الناس فيها أمل أصلاً تغير!

دقِّة الأنشودة مش على قد كدا بس دا اللي لقيته للأسف ، لو حد لقى دقة أفضل أبقى شاكرة والله.

آخر حاجة ، أنا عايزة بس أكتب مقطعين بحبهم في القصيدة و شايفة إنهم معبّرين قوي في الزمن دا. ممكن لو مش هتسمعو القصيدة كلها تقرأوا الكام بيت دول

الحـــــــــــــرُ يعـــــــرف ما تريــــد المحكمــــــــة

وقُضاتـــــــــه سلفـــــــــاً قــــــــد ارتشفــوا دمه

لا يرتجي دفعاً لبهتان رمـــــــــاه به الطغـــــــــاة

المجرمون الجالسون على كراسي القضـــــــــاة

حكموا بما شاءوا وسيق أبوك في أغلالـــــــــــه

دا واحد...و الثاني

كذبوا وقالوا عـــن بطولتــــــــــه خيانــــــــــــــــة

وأمامنا التقريـــــــــر ينطــــــــــــق بالإدانــــــــــة

هذا الذي قالوه عنه غداً يردد عـن ســــــــــــواه

ما دمت تبحث عن أبِيٍّ في البلاد ولا تــــــــــراه

اسم القصيدة "نم يا صغيري" و لينك القصيدة كاملة هنا

Art and Artists are two different things!

Art and Artists are two different things!

"This is a post from deep within"

I often wonder about the conclusion or the consequence I will get from writing all those thoughts down on my blogs. I often confuse writing my own thoughts with writing thoughts that would address humanity in a way that is unforgettable, with feelings that are palpable and words that are thinkable. I never got to experience the importance of my writings two years from today; every word was a mere consolation to my own struggles, or shall I say, simple experiences.
I think the first thing that tugs every artist into that precise kind of art is the self-struggle they are put through along the phases of their lives. There is always a need to run away from everything, to find shelter and a beautiful escape into something - and then the escape becomes the addiction, the habit, the talent. Everything then takes a path that we all know: casual pieces (either in music, writing, painting or drawing..etc) that are shared only on a personal level. And then things go step by step until you find yourself unable to be extremely happy UNLESS you're doing your own special art. It's a cure, but only if you know perfectly well how to take advantage of that.
Then you get to a point where you suffer with your incapability to create -- another phase of life probably interferes with your artistic thoughts, and then you either become numb, or you become so miserably exhausted from all the attempts that are left on your desktop or your folder as drafts. Too many draft. Just too many that you sense failure dragging you downwards, though inwardly, you're hysterically addicted. Still are.
This is the point I need to talk about the most in this article; the point where you start questioning your own talent and whether or not it's doing people any good.
Does your music inspire people to write more purposeful lyrics to be sung?
Do your portraits speak about something beautiful God has created, for people to ponder, deeply?
Do your writings hold ideas that can change the world in a way, or lessons and stories that let people know they are never alone? That we're all in this together and all we need is to understand that our thoughts are just about the same in different minds?
Let's face it, many of us never had these purposes when we started loving that artistic difference within us. Perhaps none of us now thinks they can truly, thoroughly change the world with some mere artistic piece. But you know, you can only achieve what you really believe in. Or say, what you really fight for before death's visit, let's just not be idealistic here.
For now, please remember that your art isn't yours, or let's say it's not yours alone. Your art is for the whole world, even if you think it's awful. The way we have different tastes is the reason why artists are still creating, because some people will loathe them, other people will fall in love.
Please right your purposes if they're wrong, or create them if you only use your art for your own consolation. Please put in mind that your art is an important factor in the lives of others. Compose lovingly. Portray inspiringly. Write wholeheartedly.
On a final note, never forget that you're a great source of inspiration to everyone, even if you don't get to see that. Here is me telling you.

Inspire on!


Image Source

My Childhood - Loose Bloggers Consortium (LBC)

My Childhood - Loose Bloggers Consortium (LBC)

This is my very first post with the Loose Bloggers Consortium (LBC) including Rummuser, Anu, Ashkok, Gaelikka, Grannymar, Conrad, Padmum, Anki, Will Knott, Maria The Silver Fox, Noor, Paul, Plain Joe, Rohit and myself, where we have a Weekly topic to discuss.

I remember writing a blogpost here some time ago that partially talked about my childhood in a way.
Like everyone else, I wanted to grow up, no matter what that meant to anyone. At some point in my life, I really wanted people to stop telling me "You only get to understand this when you grow up". Sad how I can now repeat the same thing, only to myself though.
I thought the worst words you can tell to a broken heart were those words, no consolation or, like the quote in The Book Thief, any wordly tricks to make us feel better. Sometimes all you do need is an honest consolation for the pain, and then when reality strikes you numb, you'll surely get to learn what that consolation actually meant.

To be quite frank, I was one stubborn child, I knew that what I had in mind must happen. I knew that I wanted to be different, insanely different. I remember back then when I used to live outside Egypt (UAE), I had a friend who was way older than myself, and by that I mean that she was 19 or something. And I was 6.
She was my neighbor. She was Algerian, which means I was lucky enough to understand her language. She talked Arabic too well with me. (In case you don't know, Algerians talk French more than Arabic, because of the French colonization). Mum used to tell me off for the age difference between us.
Which makes me jump to the conclusion question: What difference did it make, if we had the same definition of a true friendship?
I probably will never forget how beautiful she was, how nice she was to me, as a child. We will never meet again, however, I will never forget how she taught me what friendship meant no matter how old.

I dreamt of being a Gynecologist. Reason? Because I knew too many women are shy enough to go to male doctors. Yes, dreams of a child are so innocent!
And then somehow, and I really don't know why or how did that start, my story with poetry took off.
It was every Friday. Coincidence? I don't think so!
There was a weekly newspaper dad used to buy, it had many writings of young poets. I used to collect them and guard them in my desk. Then I started writing them down on my agenda so that I may memorize them or read them whenever I wanted to remember war and martyrs, because most of them were about Palestine, the martyrs of Palestine, and war on Arabs.
I still remember a few lines of one of them:

أبُثُّ إليك وفاة العرب فهل يا نِزار توارى الغضب
أبُثُّ إليك وفاة أبي و أمي و أختي بِلامَ سبب
فهل يا نزارُتوارى النهار و هل يا نزار تموت الشُعب

I probably will never forget them!
I remember them more than I remember the very first piece I ever wrote. And I remember that back then, mourning the Arab world has become my ultimate thought.
Maybe that's the only reason for my poetry having this dismal touch?
Maybe..