I made it to the film. Oh yes I did. My hosts
declined without telling me that they did. I had to inform them that they did
and that I accept their unsaid apology. My Palestinian friend took me there
after I indulged in his shopping. It was a well accepted exchange. He gave me
warmth when I most needed it and there were thrilling moments of exposing
oneself, and also dreadful moments of having to hide the truth and fear of
being shunned from the growing attention. But I made it to the film. And from
now I know it will always be a big sin if you promise to take me to movies and
you fail to deliver.
I feel I'm rushing into the option of becoming
a refugee. There will always be a what if, no? what if I had met the right
people early on? What if there was another route to explore? What if I had more
time?
I am surprised by how intense my weeping bouts
can get these days. I always was able to stop them when I wanted to. I'd
continue to feel sad but I could stop them in the past. Now they just blow me
away and I feel shattered.
I miss being able to buy single cigarettes
without getting a whole pack. Now I sometimes half-smoked cigarettes off the
streets. If you stand long enough by a bus stop, somebody would get rid of
their unfinished cigarette to make it to the bus. Abdella bought 3 marlboroughs
from a street vendor. I used to buy them, the light ones, then I switched to
yellow merits for some reasons, including wanting to be healthier and peer
influence. I couldn't buy imported cigarettes when I was in minia or matrouh. I
had to buy local ones, like Cleopatra for example. That cigarette I bought in
matrouh was the one leading up to sleeping with the drug dealer boy. Cigarettes
are stories and companions. Cigarettes are their very own type of pleasure.
