Fatherhood, Kafka, and My Utter Hatred of July

My new Arabic collection of Kafka's books

I know, I know, I know — I haven't written anything in my blog for almost a year. Less than a week ago, I celebrated thirty-three years of earthly existence; and for that relatively rare occasion, despite the fact it has recurred thirty-three times already in less than thirty-four years, I decided to squander some of my infantile excrement-filled time and some kilobytes from the World Wide Web by blessing both myself and my eight followers with this mediocre piece comprising markedly random notions to live up to the blog's name.

As foreshadowed in the introduction above, my baby boy Ameer has been dominating the bulk of my life as a new father. Marriage life by itself had been challenging, but it unquestionably became even more challenging with the joyous arrival of my first child. He is six months and two weeks old now: an age at which the infant begins to blossom and interact more actively with their surroundings, which are always exceptionally breathtaking surroundings and deemed uncharted for someone who has been alive only for half a year. The vivid signs of wonderment veiling my son's face every time he discovers something new — the sprayed droplets of a perfume bottle, the rhythmic motion of water, the sudden musical(~ish) vocals made by the maniac dad, the sight of clouds, and numerous other experiences — are verily the highlights of fatherhood. What is less poetic, however, is the amount of shit I need to deal with every day. And unlike my typical use of the word "shit" in most of my writings, the meaning here is literal. My son has my ass; in the sense that he and I both shit right after every meal. I had no idea my ass would haunt me one day in the form of a family legacy — that shit is Kafkaesque.

Speaking of Kafka, last week I bought almost all of his shit translated into Arabic. I don't know whether I have ever mentioned this before in my blog, but he is one of my few favorite writers. I have read most of his body of work in English, but now I will start reading it in Arabic. I am quite certain that none of his pieces will sound as brilliant as they are in the original language in which he wrote them: German. I don't think I will live long enough to learn — and fucking master — the German language; so, English and Arabic will have to do, I guess. The reason why I decided to reread Kafka's painstakingly and inspirationally worded pains, sorrows, and uncertainties is that I am trying to reignite the writer's soul within to complete my first novel. Wish me luck!

However, I know for sure that July is not really the month during which my writing appetite thrives. Although I was born in July (nineteenth of July 1985, if you still don't know my exact date of birth and for some reason, you are curious to know) I cannot justly describe my inherent hatred of July — words fail me; and that doesn't happen very often. Why? Well, for me, it is a symbol of summer. I know that scientifically speaking, summer begins sometime in June; but personally, I consider July to be the real beginning of summer. And of course, as most of you know already, there is nothing in this vapid world I loathe more than summer and all that it represents; and that includes insects (especially flies and mosquitoes...and some humans, too) perspiration, weddings, the excessive blueness of the sky, long duration of days, sunglasses worn by male/female whores indoors, and the low performance of the air conditioner in my car.

And at the end, here is a random quote by Kafka: "A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity."