Not So Chanted April

Temperature rises gradually and I have already started to miss the winter. Our mild winter. The slowly penetrating heat, longer daylights and the spring bloom add their flavor to the chaotic traffic, crowded streets and the newly born revolutionary spirit.

I commute most of the days from the office back home by taxi. The comments I hear sometimes from taxi drivers are why I look angry. I do not feel or look angry, but being serious is hopefully mistaken for looking angry where people, despite the suffering, are used to joke and smile.

Regular exercise at the gym, desperate attempt to finish “A Field of Scarlet Poppies” by Jennifer Dawson which I started lazily to read few months ago, and meeting friends over endless political discussion color my days of April.

Some photos of the tsunami echoed what I always see in my dreams. Floods, tsunami or just huge waves made regular recurring dreams. In these dreams, as panicked as I could be, running away was my only obsession. When I see the photos I recall the scary feeling I have in these dreams.

I am disappointed with a close friend because of his complete silence during recent critical circumstances I have passed through. I am not convinced with his excuses. I feel our friendship suddenly faces cold wind and I say is that it? The end of friendship comes that easily?

In a poem I read recently the poet said the more he tried to flee from his father's character/image/influence that was haunting him, the more he found himself behaving like his father. Do we release out, when we get older, what we stored from our parents' behavior by adopting the same behavior? In my case it seems yes.

I have been described as a rather pessimist person (here with the afore-mentioned seriousness we have a dangerous combination!). I do not disagree. But the tsunami of change in the Middle East, particularly in Egypt, fills me profusely with that thing with feathers. Huge feathers.

I am supposed to go visit my parents’ graves this Friday. I did it last time around five years ago. I wonder is this meaningful anymore? In the past and long before my parents passed away I always thought visiting the graves, in general, touched the soul, but now…..

Is buying a reproduced famous oil painting a sign of bad taste? I am tempted to do but something inside says no, no, no.

Many years ago April took my heart, put it in a blueish triangle shaped box and carried it to South America. It was returned back later in an unregistered mail. And April remained since so unchanted.