"Thus spake my Zarathustra"

I'm Running dry. No ideas for new posts. So I decided to consult a muse from among my recent blog visitors. The name Disturbed Stranger seems to go well with my latest disturbed movie post. So here's a disturbed stranger's story:

Reluctance vs. Submission

It was dark. It was quiet. It was cold. It was damp. It was dead. The touch of the cold iron chains against her smooth, sensitive skin sent shots of shivers up and down her spine. Quivers. The rattling of the chains echoed back and forth on the thick 16th century stone walls, other than the crawling and squeaking of unknown varmints…that…was the only sound heard 50 feet underground in the cellar: The Dungeon.

But there was no one there to hear but her. Alone. Sinking in her sorrow. Alone. Her warm tears flushed down her cheeks. But she made no sound, for it insulted her to cry. She was not crying. Was it an involuntary necessity to discharge excess liquid? Perhaps. Suddenly, a lonely overhead light bulb lit. However, it was still dim. Rattling of keys came from behind the massive wooden door. There was a jolt at the huge metal lock. Unlocked. The door opened with a creak, sounds of footsteps were approaching her. Her heart started pounding with each step. She clasped her knees to her chin. The footsteps stopped. She looked up, squinting. There stood, blocking the light, the silhouette of a well-built figure. The dark figure stretched out his arm and murmured, “Drink this.” She was frightened. Very frightened. But confident.“Take it,” the voice insisted.“No,” she fired back and turned her head to the side.

“No?” The voice mocked. The figure bent down, supporting his weight on his feet and brought his face close to hers. He lifted the cup closer to her lips. She gave a rejecting sound and turned her face to the other side. The figure gave a grunt and made a sudden grab at her hair, pulling it back, exposing her face and neck.

“Do we have to do this every time?” Her eyes were tearing up. He brought the cup close to her lips, again. She drank.“Good girl” he whispered and planted a kiss on her wet lips. A tear ran down her cheek.

Submission.

Perfume & Dust

I just watched Perfume: The Story of a Murderer. A recommendation from Purg about 4 months ago. It took so long to get to watch it as I was distracted by Octavian and Grey and Sawyer and Gabrielle.

Now Perfume. A brilliantly grotesque movie that told me you need to kill 13 beautiful women to get people to worship you and eventually devour you. All it takes is a sense of smell equal to a hound dog.

Quite disturbing. You gotta watch it.

But then if you want to be publicly disturbed, I would suggest Disturbia. Not half as good. But worth a watch if you feel like braving the crowds and going to our noisy malls. A movie about a 'disturbed' man being watched by a voyeuristic teenage neighbour.

With the semester coming to an end, I'm dreading the lengthy summer. Spoiled by teaching every other day, the summer daily teaching load is always a hassle. But after 7 weeks of daily torture the vacation arrives (and with it, another kind of torture).

How are you enjoying the dust this weekend?

Shisha-induced Thoughts

I smell like shisha. I used to really hate that stuff. (Relics of an ex-relationship that is only now fading away) Now I'm finding it easier to handle spending time with shisha smokers. The minty flavor of tonight's shisha actually appealed to me. I hope this doesn't develop into a smoking habit. I hate smokers :) (Not my sister of course, she can indulge all she wants in her phallic symbols, I still love her)

Reading Morrison's nobel lecture in class, and forcing a deep analysis of a bird in the hands of kids, I finally agreed with a student that sometimes Ignorance is bliss.
Who came up with such atrocity? Ignorance is never bliss. Now knowledge might be a disaster. You might not accept that knowledge. Hell, you might even hate that knowledge. But does that make ignorance such a bliss?
I would always prefer knowing to not knowing. Even if knowing can cause a turmoil within me.
Besides, I'm a caring (or is it curious?) person by nature. So naturally I always want to know.

A simple lunch with sisters and cousins is never a simple lunch :) Laish il fathayi7? And why is it that we seem more willing to talk about our lives in the midst of crowds of people while in the comfort of each other's houses, with no eavesdroppers, we tend to be reserved? (We is my cousins and I, so if this doesn't apply to you, my dear reader, mo lazim) It is as though we believe that the noise will dim our secrets and distort the full image we are presenting into a distorted, fragmented one, more easy to accept than a full and unified picture.