Slut Fear

Suddenly she was staring at me from the cover of various magazines in a mischievous kind of way. Sure enough I had heard of the documentary and the book (both only in Dutch language: Sletvrees).  Also, I was immediately curious about the subject. Slut Fear. Double standards are being used for men and women. The phenomenon is something almost every woman has to deal with from time to time. Noticing you’re  being considered a slut, or perhaps even worse: thinking exactly that is going to happen.

As a teenager, I went on a trip without my parents for the first time when I was sixteen: camping with my cousins. Before we took off, my dad had a ‘heart-to-heart’ with me. What he did was to basically warn me about boys. His exact words have disappeared from my memory, but what stuck with me was that I needed to be wary. They might want to use me for their own purpose! Put differently: don’t just go with any boy. Make sure you have safe sex, if you’re going to have it at all. Truth is, I was still a baby at that age. Like lots of girls, incredibly curious about sexuality though. Kind of looking forward to it but not ready at all: snogging was where I drew the line. Anything beyond that was unknown, exciting, yet too scary. It goes without saying that every now and again a boy would try. That made me feel resentful. Who did they think they were and what made them think they could cross that invisible line?? Yet all the while something was stirring inside of me…  Somehow I wanted it. Thinking about kissing a boy, letting a boy touch me and  to see what would happen filled me with excitement.  I was clueless about what that would be precisely. All I knew about sex, I had been taught in sex education and by reading Harlequin novels. A tall dark handsome man that would swipe me off my feet, press his body against mine and kiss me hard… Thinking about that was enough to feel a knot in my stomach. I believe it made me feel sexual. Could it be I connected with my inner slut?

 Then one day when I was eighteen it happened. I met a tall dark  handsome stranger. He was very to the point and I slept with him. Yet it was nothing like a first time was supposed to be! Yes, he did all the things the heroes from my novels did. He even used the right words. But it was all about him and then it was over. He didn’t even realise I was still a virgin. After that, I saw him one more time and the spark was definitely gone. I’d seen all his tricks by then, that’s what it felt like. My next lover – and boyfriend for eight years – was the exact opposite. Also tall, dark and handsome – a recurring theme in my love life – but very gentle, considerate and serious. That made up for a bad start. Yet it didn’t last. To tell you the truth: partly because I lost touch with my inner slut.

At some point I stopped counting my lovers. Not that a lot of men came after that. It was more that most of my curiosity had been answered to.

In the end, there was one time in my life a man called me a slut, by which he meant a cheap girl. It must have been projection. This relationship started and ended with deceit, but not from my part. Luckily, he never managed to make me feel like I was cheap. He mostly confused me: how can you say this about me and still claim you love me and want to be with me? The poor guy must have been terrified: definite case of Slut Fear!

Needless to say I have been most happy with men that made me feel loved as well as sexual.  The word slut has a negative connotation to it, but why not embrace what is behind it The mere word paints a picture of women that is heavily influenced by modern society. But women as well as men need to feel desired from time to time. If we manage to maintain a balance between the sexual and the emotional aspect of love, there’s nothing wrong with exploring our own boundaries. No Slut Fear needed.

November

My favourite part of the year is over. Living in one of the greyest parts of the world I cherish what it is we call summer. By which I mean: some sort of summery weather. If we’re lucky, it starts around May and ends somewhere in October. Sounds good? Well… Foreigners often joke that we don’t have any seasons, that it is just grey and dreary all year around. But having lived here for most of my life I’m able to see the silver lining: there is a difference from one part of the year to the other! That’s why I feel free to take the liberty to label such a long chunk of the year as ‘summery’. Everything is relative.

This year we had a summer that wasn’t bad at all. It didn’t start off too good, spring was rather cold and June was still rather chilly but at least there wasn’t much rain. But then July and August: they were wonderful, marvellous….

Often I found myself walking or cycling around town thinking life should always be this way: to step out of my front door and feel happy, just by feeling warm air on my skin. Not to ever be bothered thinking about bringing a jacket is high on my list of priorities.

Then it starts sneaking in: temperatures drop, days get longer until it gets to the point where I leave the house in the morning in the dark and get back home under the same circumstances. That’s when I start to feel again as if life is just passing me by and there’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing to do but just wait patiently. Bear with it until that day, where I leave my house in the morning and suddenly notice the sun has started to rise earlier. I like to pretend the birds serenade me on my way to work. That is the moment everything feels lighter and easier again. After all, days have been getting longer from late December on without me realising it..

Leaves me with a good six months of the year to struggle through.  But what a waste of precious time, this feeling of being stuck in time! I’ve wondered if it is possible to transfer that summery feeling to another part of the year. To be happy to just walk out of the door? And to feel the crisp air on my skin, or raindrops? So far, no positive outcome: I only feel like rushing home after work and hide away. Not with an entire sense of unhappiness; it’s all just so bland. With a long, dark grey winter ahead of me that I’m pessimistic about I’m unsure what to do. I keep reading about the subject “How to live my life purpose”. Till I have to conclude that I’m spending an awful lot of time reading instead of doing whatever it is I’m supposed to do!

Martin Seligman is one of the founders of Positive Psychology. Dr. Seligman and his co founders thought psychology should not only heal the illness, but also build on strengths that all humans carry within them. He has concluded psychology helps people to feel better about themselves. It seems that 60 % of our chances to be happy is up to genetics, while the remaining 40 %  is in our own hands. Now that’s catching my attention! I’m basically a happy person, how can I be happier?

Three different types of life are being distinguished: 1) A Pleasant Life; Where you have as much fun as you can. 2) A Good Life; Where you have found engagement and inspiration in what you do with your day. 3) A Meaningful Life: Where you know what your strengths are and how to use them.

The outcome shows that the Pleasant Life barely has any influence on positive emotions. Dr. Seligman compares it to the cream and the cherry on top of the cake. First make sure your life is one with meaning and engagement, the rest will follow.

Sources:

·      http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/09/16/happiness-habits-of-exuberant-human-beings_n_3909772.html

·      http://www.ted.com/talks/martin_seligman_on_the_state_of_psychology.html

·      http://www.authentichappiness.sas.upenn.edu/Default.aspx

If I Were...

Now this is entirely for fun. Thank you Julochka from Moments of Perfect Clarity at www.julochka.com! She checks back every year to see how much has changed. I’m planning to do the same thing just to see how much I change. My answers are intuitive and without delay. Very cool and entertaining thing to do for anyone who has about ten minutes to spare.


If I were a month I’d be August.

If I were a day I’d be Sunday.

If I were a time of day I’d be sunset.

If I were a font I’d be Cambria.

If I were a sea animal I’d be an eagle ray.

If I were a direction I’d be south.

If I were a piece of furniture I’d be a day bed.

If I were a liquid I’d be spring water.

If I were a gemstone I’d be a rose quartz.

If I were a tree I’d be a willow.

If I were a tool I’d be a screwdriver.

If I were a flower I’d be an iris.

If I were an element of weather I’d be the sun.

If I were a colour I’d be white.

If I were a musical instrument I’d be a violin.

If I were an emotion I’d be happy.

If I were a fruit I’d be raspberry.

If I were a sound I’d be a heartbeat.

If I were a car I’d be a 4WD.

If I were a food I’d be Nasi.

If I were material I’d be silk.

If I were a taste I’d be sweet.

If I were a scent I’d be Un Jardin sur le Nil by Hermès.

If I were a body part I’d be shoulders.

If I were a song I’d be Long Time Sunshine by Benjahmin.

If I were a bird I’d be a hummingbird.

If I were a gift I’d be flowers.

If I were a city I’d be Cairo.

If I were a door I’d be oak wooden.

If I were a pair of shoes I’d be Mary Janes.

If I were a poem I’d be The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost.


Hopefully I’ll remember to repeat in a year from now….

1001 Faces of Orientalism

Ever since I remember I’ve had a soft spot for orientalism. At first, I just thought the pretty paintings that I came across were magical and dreamy, often with an amazing use of colour and sometimes even sexy. My opinion changed slightly as I learned more about the background of this school. Apparently it was not what the East looked like at all back in the 19th century, but merely what the West wanted it to look like. Art to begin with, but let’s not leave literature, fashion and architecture out.
I learned this by reading Rana Kabbani’s book Imperial fictions: Europe's myths of Orient. This daughter of a former Syrian ambassador in the U.S. What she does in her book, is unravelling the erotic fantasies the West has created about the East. It changed my point of view, as it was belittling and I didn’t like that. However, it didn’t change my weak spot.

Meanwhile, I developed another preference; for Islamic art. It’s so pretty, so delicate, made with such expertise that I can’t help but loving it. When I read an announcement in Islamic Arts Magazine that Sakip Sabanci Museum in Istanbul was holding an exhibition named 1001 Faces of Orientalism during my stay there I was ecstatic: I had to go and see that! Sakip Sabanci is said to be one of the best organized private museums in Istanbul. If nothing else, it certainly is among the best situated. Admitted, it’s not in the centre of town among all the other touristic highlights, but the view on the Bosporus from the grounds is stunning. The drive up there by bus is worth the trip itself!

 The introduction to the presentation is through Edward Said, the Palestinian-American literary scholar who first came up back in 1978 with the term Orientalism in order to explain cultural prejudices against the East: “a widespread and coherent cultural discourse that has played a key role in shaping western identity”. He describes the “image of the East as a fanciful counter world trapped in the past and filled with violence and fanaticism as legitimization of colonialism”. Needless to say this caused some debate.. Which brings us to the goal of the exhibit: to take a look at the phenomenon from outside the European context and distinguish its aspects. And not in the least: examination of Istanbul with counterparts. The history of orientalism started with Napoleon: he brought scholars and scientist along during his Egyptian Campaign in order to obtain total power through modern and systematical knowledge, collected in the vast “Description de l’Egypte”. In spite of Napoleon being forced by the Brits under the command of General Nelson to withdraw, a genuine Egypt craze started after his return in France. Sakip Sabanci Museum exhibits a choice of items from a variety of areas: literature, archaeology, painting, architecture, universal exhibitions, photography and fashion. Evidently, the focus is on orientalism and Istanbul. Whomever wants to be educated or reminded: go see this exhibition in this fine museum.

Answer To The Celery Question

Some people love it, some hate it. In fact, not long ago I read in a blog they thought celery was hairy,groce and it should be forbidden... It wasn't even a vegetable! As for me, I'm somewhere in the middle, yet I keep buying celery shrubs. What for? To put in a sauce as a base ingredient. Once upon a time, I read (I think it was in one of Jamie Oliver's book but I can't be sure of this...) that Italians always add a stick in their pasta sauces for it's nice and earthy tone. I found this to be true and that's why I keep buying them! But unlike the Italians, us Dutchies don't have the opportunity to buy let's say a half shrub or a couple of sticks. So this is what happened to me time after time: I ended up with a full shrub minus the few sticks I needed and it got left behind in my fridge forever more! Until the following recipe came into my life. Celery Risotto! After softening shallots and garlick, first the risotto rice is added until translucent and then a splash of dry white wine. Prepare the risotto as usual and when it's done, add blue cheese and pine kernels, walnut, or another nut of choice. This is truely one of my favourite risotto recipes. Pic from www.allerhande.nl

At Night, They Dance

At Night, They Dance from Les films du tricycle on Vimeo.

This documentary depicts the life of Reda and her family. She is a beautiful woman, with amazing, outstanding eyes, though it is quite clear life hasn’t been lenient with her.
For generations, belly dance has been the profession for the females in her family, from mother to daughter. Funnily enough, it is not quite clear what the men do: there is none, with the exception of a little naked toddler… Whoever cannot dance (anymore), makes costumes or acts as a mediator. Reda jokes how her daughter Amira, a sulky, capricious belly dancer whose drug problem is largely ignored in the documentary, came into this world dancing!

Reda’s life is not an easy one. Her flat looks barren and shabby. Nevertheless, it is always full of life, with women playing the leading part in whatever is taking place. If men visit Reda, it is as if they have a private audience with the queen. She’s a tough woman, tried and tested by life. Not easy on her loved ones, though she is there for them in times of trouble. When Amira finds herself in trouble for not showing up for a performance at a wedding, Reda knows how to save the day. Mainly by talking: she surely does have the gift of the gab.

The way in which people communicate with one another in this documentary is quite fierce to begin with. At the beginning of the movie, there’s a scene where the women argue. Their use of language is at least to say florid, though not of the kind suitable for sensitive ears! Reda and another woman, either her mother or an older sister, have an argument for an unknown reason. They don’t go easy on each other: “You shriek like a whore”. Ironically enough, they criticize one another for their religion: “You do the pilgrimage and you rent costumes”.

The lives of Reda’s offspring aren’t always a bed of roses either. Amira seems shallow and frivolous, fifteen years old Hind abandoned her mother to live with her father and is arrested by the end of the movie because she’s a dancer. She’s locked up at a police station for days in a row with nobody to pay her bail. Her mother is clearly desperate for not having any money to have her released in spite of their quarrel. The father can’t or won’t pay for unknown reason and at the end of the story it’s an admirer who pays. Somewhat disturbing is the scene in which a girl with a wig identical to Amara’s receives instruction from Reda to dance in a more seductive way… When she turns around, it appears to be one of the younger daughters; she can’t be older than ten..

The last scene of the movie is moving. Reda is standing on her balcony, and standing behind her it’s clear to see she’s crying. Not for the first time during the whole of the movie, but definitely the first time she comes across as sincere!

The documentary was inspired by Karin van de Nieuwkerk’s book “A trade like any other” on Cairo entertainment industry around Muhamed Ali Street. She already stated in her book, based on her thesis written in the mid-nineties, that whilst for men this business is simply a way to make a living, women are regarded as bad and dishonourable.
No wonder Reda’s crying, with her daughter being held…

End Of An Era

How do you get to realize you're not as young as you used to be? Because you suddenly come to notice the world has somehow changed and you didn't even see it till it's a fact!

Yesterday I used up my last Strippenkaart. Admitted, we've been using chip cards in Dutch public transport for a while now. But I hadn't worn my black leather coat for some years and found one in its pocket. And since I'm Dutch after all, I wanted to use it up.
Rotterdam was first at abandoning the Strippenkaart. In 2008 it was impossible to use the subway without a chip card, the then new system. At the time, I still lived in Egypt and was flabbergasted. How am I to use the metro? Do I want to purchase a piece of plastic I am not going to use for another year? What, I HAVE to? I was literally a stranger in my "own" country!
That hurt more than the fact that those introductions of a new system also impose a price increase on the consumer. I did the math! The last Strippencards (the ones with 15 strips) are 7,70 euro, which brings me to a fee of a bit over a euro traveling within one zone. The price system for the tram is not as transparent, but the ride from my home to the train station usually costs me 1,20 euro. Provided I get in and do not change on my way. Whereas I could use my Strippenkaart for a ride within a zone for a specific amount of time(1 hour), with the chip card I have to check out before leaving the vehicle and checking in again after changing. All over, that means a considerable price difference.
Also, and that is what is the killer for most people, you have to REMEMBER to check out. A friendly mechanic voice will kindly remember you to do so but we all know what we're like after a long day of hard labour: absent minded. Unfortunately absent mindedness is expensive. If you forget to check out your card, the automatical fee for a trip is four euro. Ouch! Talk about hurt.

But let's go back a while. When I was a little toddler going shopping with my gran, she bought tickets from the bus driver. She payed him with cash and no one thought anything of it! She didn't even have to pay a special price (strippenkaarten bought from the driver are considerably more expensive). I was barely allowed to travel by myself, when my mom gave me my first strippenkaart. She always grumbled when I forgot to empty my pockets before chucking my trousers in the laundry. No more of that either. Plastic cards are kept in wallets these days. Bye bye strippenkaart!