My submissions were the pinnacle of class, culture and sophistication: Skeletor, Gollum and Frodo (the latter I still love).

Other submissions have included the classical Smokey, Kitty and Lottie, while in brief flash of inspiration I suggested Keffira (Hebrew for lioness).

Neither have stuck and the little monster refuses to answer to any; I imagine once the right one emerges, she shall cartwheel and mewl with joy.

For now, I shall impose Frodo

Since last posting I have teetered into middle age to the sound of Gaelic and Gallic fiddles and haggis burning away, and developed more parallel lives than is intelligently wise.

As a teenager I cultivated aspirations (war correspondency being foremost); as a 20-something, I worked towards them (doctoralisms); and as a 30-year-old I am learning (brutally, perhaps) that you may get what you ask for, but it may not be what you want, or need.

(This has been put far more eloquently, but I am in little mood for musical quips.)

The result is the assumption of multiple hats: one for work, one for my own research loves, one for survival of my long-term sanity, and another to ruthlessly cling to the time that affords family, friends, yoga, books and baking.

Sadly, blogging has been the first casualty and my creative writing, which commenced its blossoming under Fadia Faqir‘s wonderful tutelage last year, is the next.

I must rectify the former, at least.

In the meantime, I cling to the vestiges of dreams and charge through this challenging time.

It seems life never tires of presenting unusual new obstacles and if the past 10 years have proved anything, nothing is insurmountable.

Onwards and upwards, then.

…makes me feel like this:

Although today’s workshop ‘Arab Youth Politics: Challenges and Aspirations’ primarily aimed to gage the involvement of the youth in the media and political structures of the Middle East, talk invariably veered towards the events unfolding the past months.

In the spirit of technology I commenced tweeting the findings, only to be thwarted (ironically!) by the lack of coverage that made Tweets less instantaneous bursts and more agonized, two-minute delay frustrations.

And prompted a painful re-acquaintance with pen and paper. The seizures will last for days.

As the ten papers progressed another question emerged: how do we define the youth?

In its coverage of the revolutions the Western media bandies the term about – certainly, it would be incorrect to suppose that the participants in Tahrir Square were drawn solely from the 18-30 year bracket.

Yet revolution is synonymous with youth: one need only look to the emergence of Gaddafi and Ben Ali as testament to the revolutionary vigors that phase of life inspires.

The pervasiveness of the youth cannot be ignored: during a paper addressing the rise of youth and social movements in Egypt, the number of parties catering to the sector of society was noticeable: Al-Ghad, the Youth Association of Islamic Action, Youth of al-Tagm’a, Youth of al-Wafd… and so the list went on.

As is wont with such debates, the conclusion brought forth added questions, rather than solving them (and is this not how all the best meetings end?).

What are the narratives of youth?

Is the youth an imagined community?

How does the concept (and self-imagination) of youth contrast with previous generations?

Is the youth demographic, merely temporal, or is it spatial?

As a delegate from the University of Edinburgh pointed out, the issue of the shabab has been around since the 1920s and the youth have become targets since then.

Targets for regimes to revile, reconcile, engage, utilize and capitalize on: they are a symbol, an enemy, and a fresh wind of change – be it positive or negative.

Personally, I agree with a friend’s surmisal: where once we regarded identity as dichotomous or prone to grey-areas, it is now spatial in definition.

The day ended on a cautionary note, the notion that danger lurks in the romaticization of the youth by the media: where to now?

Today they are valiant fighters for freedom; in a few months, years, will they hold the same objectives that we triumph them for?

Qaddafi and Ben Ali are not just figures of farce, then revulsion, but reminders that even the blossom of youth can wither and decay into corruption and slaughter.

Aside from the snowfall of December, inspiration has proved elusive and induced the longest pictorial hiatus.

Until just now, this moment, when I turned from my desk/jail and caught the late afternoon sun glinting off the fire-place.

There. In that micro-frame was my inspiration:

I wish I could capture all seasons with as much gusto as summer, but I have great difficulty perceiving beauty in the grey, the damp and the moribund.

Give me blue skies, vibrant buildings and I am ready.

Today the temperature hit double figures: a dizzying 13*C.

I am hopeful – spring is around the corner and then… summer

Last semester I was admitted (peculiar?) to the creative writing class organised by Fadia Faqir.

I had never attended a writing class and had dismissed my early penchant for writing as a whim – self-doubt, a streak of perfectionism and too hectic a timetable meant that I rarely indulged in the act of story-creation.

It surprises me weekly how captivated I am by Fadia: for two hours I am spell-bound by her advice, anecdotes and guidance.

Sometimes my mouth even hangs open.

She chooses the right literary examples, critiques us with a fierce gentleness and warns of the pitfalls in a manner that sears the words into our conciousness.

I am, in short, more inspired than I have ever been in a classroom and that she approved of  my submissions blows me away.

(Today we covered metaphors. I am not happy about the above cliché-ending, but it is late and I am Arabic-ed out).

Two authors induced gasps at their genius; the excerpts caught my breath with their beauty, evocativeness and emotion.

First, is Samuel Beckett, taken from Westward Ho (1983):

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

Brief, but mighty.

Next is the most formidable example of a metaphor: not only is the writing elegant, but once you grasp that it portrays the act of crying, there isn’t a metaphor that could do the reaction justice.

From William Golding‘s The Inheritors (1955):

There was a light now in each cavern, lights faint as the starlight reflected in the crystals of a granite cliff. The lights increased, acquired definition, brightened, lay each sparkling at the lower edge of the cavern. Suddenly, noiselessly, the lights became thin crescents, went out, and streaks glistened on each cheek. The lights appeared again, caught among the silver curls of the beard. They hung, elongated, dropped from curl to curl and gathered at the lowest tip. The streaks on the cheek pulsed as the drops swam down them, a great drop swelled at the end of the hair of the beard, shivering and bright. It detached itself and fell in a silver flash.

Here’s to creativity and vomiting on the page.

1. The Journey: Feeling smug and healthy, I skip to yoga class with Evian in one hand, a rosy apple in the other and my mat bouncing on my back. All is splendid.

2. The Arrival: we stake our claim to the space. It is important to find the ideal spot that is close enough to see the teacher, but far enough not to be kicked in the face during the three-legged dog pose.

3. The Warm-up: generally characterized by a residue of smugness mingled with an ‘aaah’ as the muscles and joints creak and pop back from the week-long s-shape inspired by chaining to the desk.

4. The Core: now in full swing, all smugness is gone and faces are puce from upside-down poses. I no longer feel healthy and consider checking myself into boot-camp. I am now the most unhealthy person alive.

5. The ‘Why me?’ Moment: there’s always one pose that my body refuses to cooperate on. As arms are bent backwards at quirky angles, mine resolutely raise two inches from my behind. Upside-down, I curse them silently.

6. Almost There: Yoga, thy name is pain.

7. Meditation: My favourite part. In fact, it is the reason I endure all of the above. The blankets unfurl, jumpers are pulled on, the lights dimmed, a choir commences, someone snores and my muscles scream as they turn to stone for the next two days.

8. The End: Walking home, uneaten rosy in apple in one hand and undrunk Evian in the other, I am incapable of raising my arms above waist level. I stagger home, semi-concious from step 7, tumble into bed and look forward to doing it all again

Which is a good thing, since a career in academia acquaints one with the sentiment with a regularity matched only by prunes and dried figs.

Accordingly, rather than seethe in a swamp of putrid sour grapes, I would like to thank my most recent hosts for confirming that wasta is indeed alive and kicking like a mule in Western institutions.

And yes, the above image makes it all infinitely more bearable

I love it, though it does remind me how work-driven this year has been.

In some ways it’s almost a wake-up call: I can’t help but hope that the 2011 version has equal amounts of travelling jinks, but more non-work related joys.

(Note: I must concede that this is not my handiwork: far too tempted by the scent of the potato delights, I forgot to capture them.)

It was a productive morning: I also made fire-cookies that were so tough that to eat them would be classed as self harm.

It never fails to light a flame of sorrow in my reibekuchen-filled tummy that as much as I have a sweet-tooth, I cannot bake sweet things for toffee (See? I’m on fire…).

To wit: last week my flatmate made cookies – round, creamy-coloured and dotted with pointy-cornered bits of chocolate, they were crisp on the outside and squishy within.

In other words, perfect.

Mine however, emerged straight from Hell’s kitchen.

Melted and merged into a vulgar hoop, the burnished tops crackled and bubbled malevolently.

The welcome scent of baking was tinged with charcoal, while the jelly-diamonds had reduced to a seething central-vat of burning molten candy.

In a bid to render the cookies normal (in appearance at least), I set about breaking the belligerent hoop into ‘natural’ circles.

In addition to firing sugar-shrapnel into my hair and face, the remainder resolutely retained its jagged edges and are now square.

And my cupcakes are faring worse each time I make them.

They taste good, sure – but in terms of appearance, it is very Rosemary’s Baby when the cake-tin lid pulls back.

“Cupcake?”

“Oh, YES!”

[pop]

<gasp.>

“You know, maybe later? I’m still full/dieting/scared.”

I blame the butter-cream icing: invariably it resembles a play-doh cake made by a child who has just discovered Santa Claus is not real.

Accordingly, I stick to the savouries and ponder this cruel twist of culinary fate.