LOVE LETTER TO A PROSTITUTE
What do you do if you belong to the minority—judging from the mass-media coverage—who really doesn’t follow the World Cup this year. Your reasons might be either due to its appalling circumstance or that your interests merely lie somewhere else, be they horse-riding into the sunset or your wine club’s annual tasting.
Here’s a list of 10 activities you can indulge in, when the World Cup is on and you really don’t give a shit.
This profile piece is dedicated to an extraordinary individual,
whom in addition to being a friend, was the greatest teacher I had.
This profile covers an extraordinary teacher from an ordinary school.
Her name was Colette.
It was a summer day. Late July morning. I was in Cairo, I was a teenager at the time.
The air was so crisp you could almost touch it. It blew right through your cotton attire – the brisk, desert wind that everyone, who’s been in the Middle East, recognize all too well.
For the first time in my life, I can’t spot the horizon. I have a sense of the path I left behind but in some profound way I need guidance.
I’m at a crossroad. It’s exciting… and it’s scary.
My right palm was clenched on the back of your thigh while I grabbed the back of your neck, and forced you against me. Your slight resistance only intoxicated me further, enraging the flow of my blood. Your lips got poutier, your breath slower and your young, crystal blue eyes lost focus, looking aimlessly in all directions until they were locked with mine.
Under a clear black sky in a public place we forgot where we were. A couple of tourists passed, noticing us in a heated embrace. Caught in the act. But we didn’t give a fuck. It was 2 am. We were just getting started…
“A woman simply is, but a man must become.” This quote, and bold declaration, belongs to Jungian analyst Camille Paglia.
The common prejudice, exclaimed through time, romantic comedies, pop literature, etc. is this: “A man is simple. Has simple needs. A woman is complicated.”
Bam! Give him a sandwich, rub his crotch and don’t complain too much. But in contrast to popular belief – and several analysts and therapists agree: A man is far from simple.
Kære mor. Husker du? Da raketterne regnede ned over os? De kaldte vores hjem Mellemøstens perle. Friheden sang sine frelsende salmer. Friheden frigjorte dit hår, gav dig valget mellem at tildække eller blotte det for den gudsbenådede himmel. Husker du? For jeg var lige kommet til verden. Livet var få måneder gammelt. Sekunderne var friske, som bladene der sprang ud i Beiruts stræder. De kristne talte fransk – muslimerne nægtede. Et folk. En historie. Men et had som ulmede.
It was a summer day. There was a light breeze and the sky had a color so sharp, it could cut glass. You were wearing a colorful summer dress in a floral pattern. It heralded the warmth and everything living around us. The soft wind danced with your hair — as though it didn’t want to escape it. Everything wanted to be close to you. As did I. Then autumn came. And the idea of “we” deteriorated like the leaves on the trees.
There’s that decisive point in your life—well, apart from gravity hitting your lower chin, the wrinkles growing more crisp, and you’re short of breath much more often—you realize you’re becoming like your father.
Go back to a specific corner in time. The precious few have lived it. They broke the barricades, they climbed the walls, they chose to open their eyes. In a blood rush of love and togetherness, fueled by acid and THC, they stirred a wave from a stagnant pond. With their arms reaching for the sky and with a mission so uniform, they championed the rights of the forgotten, the neglected, the lesser privileged.