This “Anthology” made up of real-life stories started with a single Facebook post sometime around 2013 or ‘14 and haven’t stopped. Today in May 2026 there are 75 memories — “straight from the depth of the subconscious” as stated in the description of the album. The migration to here on One Lucky Soul was only a matter of time.
With the recent publishing of The Healing Powers of Storytelling: A Personal Experience, an 8k-word Opus Dopus, I was once again reminded by how we are the stories we tell ourselves; but also by how some stories stay tucked away in the marrow of the bone, within our inner being, waiting for the right frequency to surface. Looking back, the Early Memories Never Worded series has become a soul map of an eventful life lived across borders, decades, and drum circles.
Now, each article will include three stories, compiled by “vibe” rather than by date or period in life. A link to the dated original from Facebook — where they were first “worded” — will also be added.
On this first introduction, we have The Return of the Prodigal Son about my first trip to Egypt in late 2013 after three consecutive years in Canada.
The second memory is Starzat: Built upon a photo of my 7-year-old self on his first year to moving to Cairo Sheraton.
The last one, Turn The Page, recounts my journey across America following Canada — when I found myself in the frozen Midwest before reaching Denver, Colorado and sharing an AirBnB rental with an appealing older woman, with whom I remained in contact during all the following years in L.A. To capture the grit and grace of that 18-hour train ride and the silent stretches in between, I’ve included a short video documenting the adventure; a rare glimpse into the visuals that kept me company during the journey into the unknown.
As often said, when I first embraced writing as a vocation, I made a vow: Once ten years passed, I would share the stories. At twenty years, I promised to reveal the deeper truths of those decades. I’ll keep the identities guarded where it matters — some secrets are better kept between the lines — but the truth of the experiences remains untouched. You can all breathe easy.
This collection of first-time-to-see-the-light tales has no filters, no “watering down”, no edits for “the algorithm” — just raw glimpses of the past. It is preserved here for the seekers, the dreamers, and perhaps a curious student in the year 2300 wondering what it felt like to be alive back then.
Welcome to the migration.
“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.”
— Anaïs Nin
— ☙ ❊ ❧ —
— Anaïs Nin
— ☙ ❊ ❧ —
I. The Return of the Prodigal Son
On September 13th 2010, I left.
Following three consecutive years in Canada and a brief exploratory stint in the U.S, I returned to Egypt for a while. It was the first time anyone in our family had left the comfort of the “herd" for so long. I had been yearning for that Mama-hug — the kind seen here that feels like it lasts a lifetime — because I had missed those three beyond compare. Thank heavens for Skype, but nothing beats the real thing.
What was utterly different, however, was me.
Being back around family after so much time, I was often teary-eyed; perhaps it was the residue of early emotional sobriety finally finding a place to land. I’ve always been one to let the tears flow whenever moved; if it moves me, it’s my truth. And no tears in the writer means no tears in the reader — according to Robert Frost the same goes for surprise. I even explored this later in a 2015 One Lucky Soul article: Photos I Shot That Brought Tears To My Eyes.
This hug was a Kodak-moment commemorated by my father. He wasn’t using the Minolta 1974 he had gifted me when I turned 18; instead, he was likely using a Motorola of the time. But the device didn’t matter — he captured the essence of that return perfectly. It was finally time to experience the beauty of life… as it is.
But something else was different in the air. There was a certain heaviness in the Egyptian psyche, which only became apparent after a few days in the country.
I vividly recall passing by Tahrir Square on our way back from the airport. Like a tourist, I whipped out my camera to capture the spirit of the revolution I had followed for three years through a laptop screen in frozen Toronto. It felt surreal; this was the area surrounding my university, the same streets where I’d watched snipers and the “blue bra” assault play out on my monitor.
Nothing significant was captured from the moving car that day though, so I returned later on foot. I was shocked by what I found: a few “Mowateneen Shorafa2” standing around the square, clutching pro-military signs and blaring nationalistic songs like “Teslam el Ayadi” through megaphones. Eugh. It was a heartbreaking sight. It was the moment I realised the Jan 25 Revolution had been hijacked. It was over.
Some photos from that evening can be found below in the comments, balanced with others showing pro-revolution murals, including some on the wall of the American University in Cairo old campus by Mohamed Mahmoud St. The art depicted martyrs Mina Danial, Emad Effat, Alaa Abdel Hady, Gaber Salah (Jika), child martyr Sayed Khaled Osman — eventually added to World Art Through My Lens. Unfortunately, all murals were removed soon after. Glad I had the chance to document them.
A much more adorable memory is frozen in that other capture: Mother, Father, and Sister posing with Coutcha. At the time, she was a tiny kitten just rescued from underneath a street food cart.
This photo was actually how I traced back Coutcha's age — by going back to that first time I saw her in this 2013 return and calculating the time: she's at least 13 now! Who would have thunk that over a decade later, she and I would be living together in Dahab following Sokhna.
To celebrate my return, they decorated a small Christmas tree with “Welcome Home Boulla. Signed: Famille Ebif”. Boulla is my childhood nickname while Ebif derives from not being able to pronounce “Cherif” — later leading to “Beef” as the official family nomenclature, especially among the maternal side. Auwhhhh.
Then there was the overcompensation. I had been starved of the flavours of home, so by day three, I hit up Cairo Kitchen in Zamalek for Koshari and Molokheya. Once served, I had a bit of each before being struck by an unexplainable urge to mix them together! Nom Nom Nom.
While most would call this “Aghastronomy” from WIMU The Nineteenth — the practice or art of choosing, cooking, and eating shockingly horrifying food — to my reinvented palate, it was pure bliss. I was reaching a state of “Wontonness” — defined in the same article as the state of creating deliberate and unrestrained reckless havoc after ingesting a type of Chinese dumpling — and I wasn't stopping for anyone.
After about a month, it was time to head back to the U.S to use the remaining two years on my visa. I wanted to see the America that existed outside of L.A and New York — to keep on keeping on the journey I’d started in the Great White North: To remain On The Road for as long as I can endure.
But on the day of my flight, at 5 AM, I had a change of heart. I hopped on Skype, called Expedia, and postponed the flight. It cost a fee, but the peace of mind and excitement were priceless.
Forever the prankster, when my parents showed up at 7 AM to take me to the airport, I walked down with no luggage. The surprise on their faces when I told them I was staying a little longer was the best gift I could have given myself. It seems I wasn’t ready to leave; I hadn’t had enough of “home” before diving right back headfirst into the unknown — a journey that would eventually lead me to a new Facebook friend in Illinois during a frozen February then to a second cousin in Michigan.
And so, the American Chapter truly began.
*The priceless hug, then Papa Loves Mambo, Mother Earth, & Sista’ Blista’, December 2013
Original story (2026)
Following three consecutive years in Canada and a brief exploratory stint in the U.S, I returned to Egypt for a while. It was the first time anyone in our family had left the comfort of the “herd" for so long. I had been yearning for that Mama-hug — the kind seen here that feels like it lasts a lifetime — because I had missed those three beyond compare. Thank heavens for Skype, but nothing beats the real thing.
What was utterly different, however, was me.
Being back around family after so much time, I was often teary-eyed; perhaps it was the residue of early emotional sobriety finally finding a place to land. I’ve always been one to let the tears flow whenever moved; if it moves me, it’s my truth. And no tears in the writer means no tears in the reader — according to Robert Frost the same goes for surprise. I even explored this later in a 2015 One Lucky Soul article: Photos I Shot That Brought Tears To My Eyes.
This hug was a Kodak-moment commemorated by my father. He wasn’t using the Minolta 1974 he had gifted me when I turned 18; instead, he was likely using a Motorola of the time. But the device didn’t matter — he captured the essence of that return perfectly. It was finally time to experience the beauty of life… as it is.
But something else was different in the air. There was a certain heaviness in the Egyptian psyche, which only became apparent after a few days in the country.
I vividly recall passing by Tahrir Square on our way back from the airport. Like a tourist, I whipped out my camera to capture the spirit of the revolution I had followed for three years through a laptop screen in frozen Toronto. It felt surreal; this was the area surrounding my university, the same streets where I’d watched snipers and the “blue bra” assault play out on my monitor.
Nothing significant was captured from the moving car that day though, so I returned later on foot. I was shocked by what I found: a few “Mowateneen Shorafa2” standing around the square, clutching pro-military signs and blaring nationalistic songs like “Teslam el Ayadi” through megaphones. Eugh. It was a heartbreaking sight. It was the moment I realised the Jan 25 Revolution had been hijacked. It was over.
Some photos from that evening can be found below in the comments, balanced with others showing pro-revolution murals, including some on the wall of the American University in Cairo old campus by Mohamed Mahmoud St. The art depicted martyrs Mina Danial, Emad Effat, Alaa Abdel Hady, Gaber Salah (Jika), child martyr Sayed Khaled Osman — eventually added to World Art Through My Lens. Unfortunately, all murals were removed soon after. Glad I had the chance to document them.
A much more adorable memory is frozen in that other capture: Mother, Father, and Sister posing with Coutcha. At the time, she was a tiny kitten just rescued from underneath a street food cart.
This photo was actually how I traced back Coutcha's age — by going back to that first time I saw her in this 2013 return and calculating the time: she's at least 13 now! Who would have thunk that over a decade later, she and I would be living together in Dahab following Sokhna.
To celebrate my return, they decorated a small Christmas tree with “Welcome Home Boulla. Signed: Famille Ebif”. Boulla is my childhood nickname while Ebif derives from not being able to pronounce “Cherif” — later leading to “Beef” as the official family nomenclature, especially among the maternal side. Auwhhhh.
Then there was the overcompensation. I had been starved of the flavours of home, so by day three, I hit up Cairo Kitchen in Zamalek for Koshari and Molokheya. Once served, I had a bit of each before being struck by an unexplainable urge to mix them together! Nom Nom Nom.
While most would call this “Aghastronomy” from WIMU The Nineteenth — the practice or art of choosing, cooking, and eating shockingly horrifying food — to my reinvented palate, it was pure bliss. I was reaching a state of “Wontonness” — defined in the same article as the state of creating deliberate and unrestrained reckless havoc after ingesting a type of Chinese dumpling — and I wasn't stopping for anyone.
After about a month, it was time to head back to the U.S to use the remaining two years on my visa. I wanted to see the America that existed outside of L.A and New York — to keep on keeping on the journey I’d started in the Great White North: To remain On The Road for as long as I can endure.
But on the day of my flight, at 5 AM, I had a change of heart. I hopped on Skype, called Expedia, and postponed the flight. It cost a fee, but the peace of mind and excitement were priceless.
Forever the prankster, when my parents showed up at 7 AM to take me to the airport, I walked down with no luggage. The surprise on their faces when I told them I was staying a little longer was the best gift I could have given myself. It seems I wasn’t ready to leave; I hadn’t had enough of “home” before diving right back headfirst into the unknown — a journey that would eventually lead me to a new Facebook friend in Illinois during a frozen February then to a second cousin in Michigan.
And so, the American Chapter truly began.
*The priceless hug, then Papa Loves Mambo, Mother Earth, & Sista’ Blista’, December 2013
Original story (2026)
x— ☙ ❊ ❧ —
II. Starzat
If you played football (soccer) in the 80s there were two ways to be functional and look cool at the same time: Either strap your shoe laces horizontally behind the ankle over the long white socks, or underneath the shoe in between the cleats/studs/spikes — which then in Egypt were called stars; some kids would even arabise it by pluralising the plural word and calling them “starzat”.
Shown here is a typical day at the Club for this seven-year old. Football and tennis while for some reason also wearing an American football attire gifted by L.A aunt. This however, was not at the usual Gezira Club, but Nady el Qahera that faced the Cairo Sheraton — where once a year the employees would have a Sport Day. My father the G.M would even play football with them. As for this little man, I seemed ready, but was too young to really contribute.
Few years ahead, the football was replaced with basketball and tennis with ping pong. My friends and I would spend six hours alternating between two or three sports. That is in addition to being part of few teams who actually competed and won championships.
I am grateful to have grown up playing sports. Somehow it does stay with you, not merely the physical part but perhaps more importantly the psychological one as well.
Wondering if 40 years later today football players have more technologically advanced ways to tie their shoes.
— Cairo, 1984
Original story (2023)
— ☙ ❊ ❧ —
III. Turn The Page: From the Frozen Midwest to the Mile High Gnosis
“Travelling ― it leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller.”
― Ibn Battuta
The following is a cinematic blend of two previously “worded” memories: Turn The Page On A Journey Into The Unknown (2021) and The Frozen Niagara Falls Photo (2022). They occurred in a single, fluid motion of fate, so I’ve merged them here — using the footage above to capture the frequency of that winter.
The American chapter began right after the Return of the Prodigal Sun.
Choosing uncertainty with a chance of happiness over certainty with guaranteed unhappiness always wins in my book.
After three years in Canada, I found myself in Sycamore, Illinois, invited by a Facebook friend. It was my first taste of the suburban Midwest — a world of snowy nothingness radically different from the urban jungles I’d known. The “small-town” charm is a novelty for exactly one week; then you naturally find yourself asking: Then what?
From Sycamore I detoured to Michigan to visit my cousin Teymour and his sweet Egyptian American Doggo Izzy — last seen at my place in Zamalek in 2004 after being rescued from the streets.
On this frozen early morning of February 18, 2014 I left Teymour’s place in Michigan after several days of reconnection. From Birmingham Station I was going back to Chicago by train, which was all I knew then. I was in total discovery mode, no plans, no fixed destination, just a vow to keep on keeping on: On The Road.
As I stood alone in the biting cold, a grandfather, grandmother, and their six-year-old grandson joined me. We chatted, and when I told them I was a writer coddiwompling across the country seeking inspiration for my book, the grandfather looked at the boy and whispered: “You see? One day you can be like him.” Auwhh.
I smiled, as the words touched my inner core with a certain peculiar heat. Then as boarded the train some minutes later, the very thought that I could be inspiring others — here, a child — just by being myself kept echoing in my mind, resulting in a fountain of tears dropping down my cheeks.
You see, having willingly deserted the comfort zone of the pack along with all the “known” made me feel significantly alone, vulnerable, even somewhat alienated. Yet this instance came to be the beginning of a long series of affirmations sent by the Youniverse throughout my journey, always when I needed them the most.
This had already been one harsh winter. After three years there I had just left Canada where my loving Cocker Caramella had recently passed away, and the relationship I was in didn’t seem like it had any bright future. I had taken writing as a vocation and did not seem to have other option than to just keep going. And I did. I chose uncertainty with a chance of happiness over certainty with guaranteed unhappiness.
I was and still am sincerely grateful for such little encouraging and validating signs — especially for someone who doesn't go out of his way to seek encouragement or validation. Because they reinforced my gut instinct, making me believe in myself and my manifested dream — when not many around me particularly shared the same view.
But the truth is, we can never, and should never, force others to join our journey. Down deep inside, you somehow instinctively ‘know’ you’re on the right track... usually alone. And that is all that matters for the Here and Then.
CHOO CHOOOO.
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| This 37-year-old bearded dude took being carded as a compliment. Apparently, this wasn’t going to be a first in the U.S |
Few days at the Sheraton Chicago were spent. It was cool to enjoy some much-needed hotel pampering amid the unknown. Hotels for me are like going back home — and that was the Sheraton where I had previously lived for 20 years.
I recall being at the hotel’s restaurant with a young woman when the waiter asked for I.D before bringing a bottle of rosé. “For the lovely lady?” I asked. For both, he smilingly said. I was 37-years old then and sure took it as a compliment.
The Art Institute of Chicago was so sensational, I went back solo the following day — since the ticket included a two-day visit. I was lost in time and space, leading to capturing hundreds of photos.
A highlight from the Wind City was an authentic Brazilian steakhouse called Fogo de Chão. Lordy Lord. An all-you-can-eat type of restaurant where you are given a green/red card to signal to the waiters to approach you [ green] or either taking a break or done [red]. Such mouthwatering meats. What a feast. I ended up returning to it on a different visit.
A different highlight was acquiring my first MacBook Pro 2014. Ta-Da. For me, a laptop is a big thing next to the pen, notebook, and camera. Basically, those are essentials to my minimalist life.
But at the Apple Store, the reality of my nomadism hit. When asked for an address to register for my new Apple ID, I froze. Davisville in Toronto? Gone. Zamalek in Cairo? Sycamore where I was just visiting? The Chicago Sheraton, seriously? I was technically homeless. The genius at the bar seemed intrigued by my overthinking. I just wanted the registration to be seamless, but I was a man without a fixed coordinate.
Oh, and Checagou. That was something learned.
The name “Chicago” is derived from a Canadian French rendering of the Native American word Shikaakwa, translated as “wild onion” or “wild garlic”. Its origin is the indigenous Miami-Illinois language, the Algonquian language. More to the linguistic story is covered in Random Stuff You May Not Know: Two (2015).
From Chicago, I returned to Sycamore to retrieve my luggage and plan the next move. Influenced by Teymour’s suggestion to check Denver, I rolled with it and booked a train ticket.
Mind you, Colorado had just legalised retail marijuana stores on January 1st of 2014. And we were beginning of March. Medical marijuana, however, has been legal since 2000. So while dispensaries were minimal compared to what L.A. would eventually become, the “American Amsterdam” vibe was peaceful and historic. I sure wasn’t complaining.
I recall being at the hotel’s restaurant with a young woman when the waiter asked for I.D before bringing a bottle of rosé. “For the lovely lady?” I asked. For both, he smilingly said. I was 37-years old then and sure took it as a compliment.
The Art Institute of Chicago was so sensational, I went back solo the following day — since the ticket included a two-day visit. I was lost in time and space, leading to capturing hundreds of photos.
A highlight from the Wind City was an authentic Brazilian steakhouse called Fogo de Chão. Lordy Lord. An all-you-can-eat type of restaurant where you are given a green/red card to signal to the waiters to approach you [ green] or either taking a break or done [red]. Such mouthwatering meats. What a feast. I ended up returning to it on a different visit.
A different highlight was acquiring my first MacBook Pro 2014. Ta-Da. For me, a laptop is a big thing next to the pen, notebook, and camera. Basically, those are essentials to my minimalist life.
But at the Apple Store, the reality of my nomadism hit. When asked for an address to register for my new Apple ID, I froze. Davisville in Toronto? Gone. Zamalek in Cairo? Sycamore where I was just visiting? The Chicago Sheraton, seriously? I was technically homeless. The genius at the bar seemed intrigued by my overthinking. I just wanted the registration to be seamless, but I was a man without a fixed coordinate.
Oh, and Checagou. That was something learned.
The name “Chicago” is derived from a Canadian French rendering of the Native American word Shikaakwa, translated as “wild onion” or “wild garlic”. Its origin is the indigenous Miami-Illinois language, the Algonquian language. More to the linguistic story is covered in Random Stuff You May Not Know: Two (2015).
From Chicago, I returned to Sycamore to retrieve my luggage and plan the next move. Influenced by Teymour’s suggestion to check Denver, I rolled with it and booked a train ticket.
Mind you, Colorado had just legalised retail marijuana stores on January 1st of 2014. And we were beginning of March. Medical marijuana, however, has been legal since 2000. So while dispensaries were minimal compared to what L.A. would eventually become, the “American Amsterdam” vibe was peaceful and historic. I sure wasn’t complaining.
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| I’ve turned the page so many times in my life that I have a permanent paper cut on me finger. — Union Station, March 2014 |
On that early afternoon, I boarded the Amtrak from Chicago’s Union Station for an 18-hour ride towards the Mile High City. Being my first time to spend the night in one, it felt adventurous to be a writer aimlessly exploring Americana with a pen and a camera. A book titled The Eye of God somehow found me in one of the stations; I took it as a sign and started reading.
As you can see from the video above, I took some footage from inside the train as well as all around to document the adventure. Those photos and videos came handy when years later I’m finally telling it like it is.
On The Road, the sheer scale of the country becomes apparent. Eighteen hours to go just a few states to the left? Truly massive. At breakfast the next morning, I bonded with a Canadian couple over being “outsiders from up North”. Around 10 AM, we finally rolled into Denver.
The first thing to notice was the friendlier weather. After placing my luggage, I actually celebrated with a jog in a t-shirt and shorts in nearby Cheesman Park. Then I was back to take photos of the sun and green grass like a depraved man starved for life. This is how much I had missed the more human weather.
Fortunately for me, I was AirBnb hosted in Denver by a charming artist named Cynthia [Corinthis]. She spoke French and German, painted, and rode horses. A gypsy soul who walked barefoot around the house and enjoyed Rosé conversations as much as I did.
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| 1911, you say? |
On our second night home, Cynthia was showing me a family photo album. As we sat there by the fire sipping on wine, she handed me one of the black-and-white captures that shows her grandfather standing by frozen Niagara Falls — similar to the one above. Instantly, I felt I’d seen it before. Without thinking, I blurted: “That’s in 1911!”
She looked at me weirdly before turning the photo on its backside. “Niagara Falls, 1911” was etched right there in ink. Speechless, she looked at me again, her face radiating with awe and fascination, as if looking as some kind of Gnostic wizard.
“How did you know that?” she finally asked.
I knew the Falls had frozen in 1911, and I knew tourists had slipped and died there in 1912. My mind and photographic memory had intuitively calculated the generational gap. Ta-Da. Gnosis.
She looked at me weirdly before turning the photo on its backside. “Niagara Falls, 1911” was etched right there in ink. Speechless, she looked at me again, her face radiating with awe and fascination, as if looking as some kind of Gnostic wizard.
“How did you know that?” she finally asked.
I knew the Falls had frozen in 1911, and I knew tourists had slipped and died there in 1912. My mind and photographic memory had intuitively calculated the generational gap. Ta-Da. Gnosis.
Cynthia and I bonded lovingly. We had a picnic day up the breathtaking Colorado Mountains when I drove her car. That included Red Rocks Park, part of the Denver Mountain Parks, as well as the Red Rocks Amphitheatre where we went down for a small tour.
The photos captured there became the soul of my future exhibitions in Cairo, La Natura and On The Road, where nearly every piece was acquired by collectors. The featured shoot-the-shooter photo of me mid-lake surrounded by the elements was taken by her, using my other Sony camera. Man was I ready.
Another day, she dropped me at the Denver Art Museum — where of course many more photos were captured.
There was also Saint Patrick’s day when we went “bar-hopping” before heading to a fancy restaurant for dinner. Most other nights though we would cook dinner together at home. The woman had that wise, warm feminine energy that I had surely missed.
On my last night, a Rosé-soaked farewell led us to oversleep. A cab got me to the airport merely 50 minutes before takeoff and of course missed the flight to L.A. So I called her, only for her to simply say: “Come back home, Honey”. I stayed for five more nights — paying only with my company. It pays to be a knower, I suppose, even of the most random bits of information.
Cynthia eventually wrote a lengthy AirBnb review about my stay, noting: “Omar is an engaging conversationalist, very outgoing and easy to connect with.”
Unbeknownst to me then, leaving Denver for L.A. marked the end of a wild six-month odyssey. I landed in Venice Beach — the drum circles and the chaos — and stayed for five years. It wasn’t the plan, but then again, there was no plan. That’s what made it a uniquely liberating and cathartic experience.
Cynthia and I remained in contact throughout those years. I’d call her whenever I was starving for wisdom amid the madness. She was one of the few who stood firmly against the idea of me marrying for a Green Card — a dilemma I was weighing heavily just to stay in the country. Grateful to have listened.
Oh, and I leave you with a last drizzle: My second flight from Denver to L.A was at 4:20 pm to the dot. It felt like such a Cosmic Wink after all what happened, for a moment I thought it may be some kind of flash mob joke where the entire airport is on it. I didn’t miss that one.
Et Voilà. Until the next Early Memories Never Worded: The Subconscious Chronicles #2.
The photos captured there became the soul of my future exhibitions in Cairo, La Natura and On The Road, where nearly every piece was acquired by collectors. The featured shoot-the-shooter photo of me mid-lake surrounded by the elements was taken by her, using my other Sony camera. Man was I ready.
Another day, she dropped me at the Denver Art Museum — where of course many more photos were captured.
There was also Saint Patrick’s day when we went “bar-hopping” before heading to a fancy restaurant for dinner. Most other nights though we would cook dinner together at home. The woman had that wise, warm feminine energy that I had surely missed.
On my last night, a Rosé-soaked farewell led us to oversleep. A cab got me to the airport merely 50 minutes before takeoff and of course missed the flight to L.A. So I called her, only for her to simply say: “Come back home, Honey”. I stayed for five more nights — paying only with my company. It pays to be a knower, I suppose, even of the most random bits of information.
Cynthia eventually wrote a lengthy AirBnb review about my stay, noting: “Omar is an engaging conversationalist, very outgoing and easy to connect with.”
Unbeknownst to me then, leaving Denver for L.A. marked the end of a wild six-month odyssey. I landed in Venice Beach — the drum circles and the chaos — and stayed for five years. It wasn’t the plan, but then again, there was no plan. That’s what made it a uniquely liberating and cathartic experience.
Cynthia and I remained in contact throughout those years. I’d call her whenever I was starving for wisdom amid the madness. She was one of the few who stood firmly against the idea of me marrying for a Green Card — a dilemma I was weighing heavily just to stay in the country. Grateful to have listened.
Oh, and I leave you with a last drizzle: My second flight from Denver to L.A was at 4:20 pm to the dot. It felt like such a Cosmic Wink after all what happened, for a moment I thought it may be some kind of flash mob joke where the entire airport is on it. I didn’t miss that one.
Et Voilà. Until the next Early Memories Never Worded: The Subconscious Chronicles #2.
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| Wanderlust. Fernweh. Sehnsucht: The trifecta of the eternal nomad. |
— ☙ ❊ ❧ —
On a long and lonesome highway, east of Omaha
You can listen to the engine moanin’ out his one note song
You can think about the woman or the girl you knew the night before
But your thoughts will soon be wanderin’ the way they always do
When you're ridin’ [s̶i̶x̶t̶e̶e̶n̶] eighteen hours and there’s nothin’ there to do
And you don't feel much like ridin’, you just wish the trip was through
Here I am
On the road again
There I am
On the stage
Here I go
Playin' star again
There I go
Turn the page
You can listen to the engine moanin’ out his one note song
You can think about the woman or the girl you knew the night before
But your thoughts will soon be wanderin’ the way they always do
When you're ridin’ [s̶i̶x̶t̶e̶e̶n̶] eighteen hours and there’s nothin’ there to do
And you don't feel much like ridin’, you just wish the trip was through
Here I am
On the road again
There I am
On the stage
Here I go
Playin' star again
There I go
Turn the page
— ☙ ❊ ❧ —
COMING NEXT IN VOLUME #2 — THE RAZOR’S EDGE
The path of the seeker is absolutely not all rainbows and unicorns. In the next volume, we step off the cinematic train and into the raw, unromanticised grit of the road. From a lonesome “Eugh” moment in a Midwest bathroom to dissecting the “Foreigner Complex” — [ عقدة الخواجة ] “Okdat el Khawaga” — that contributed to finding myself in that wild continent for the entirety of my 30s. We’ll also explore the psychological weight of sharing a name with a global celebrity and the funny mishaps that occurred when people would confuse us.
Get ready for the reality check.
— ☙ ❊ ❧ —
The Great Pyramid’s Blessed Curse: Climbing To The Top And Beyond
Banged Up Abroad — My Few Days @ The Don Jail
Banged Up Abroad — A Night @ The London Police Station
Surviving the Madness of Sakarana — Hyoscyamus muticus (aka Deadly Nightshade)
Out-of-Body Experience and Ego Death on a “Heroic Dose” of Mushrooms
World Art Through My Lens
A Year at the Venice Beach Drum Circle in Photos & Videos (2014-’15)
Another Year at the Venice Beach Drum Circle in Photos & Videos (2016-’17)
One More Year at the Venice Beach Drum Circle in Photos & Videos (2017-’18)
Banged Up Abroad — My Few Days @ The Don Jail
Banged Up Abroad — A Night @ The London Police Station
Surviving the Madness of Sakarana — Hyoscyamus muticus (aka Deadly Nightshade)
Out-of-Body Experience and Ego Death on a “Heroic Dose” of Mushrooms
World Art Through My Lens
A Year at the Venice Beach Drum Circle in Photos & Videos (2014-’15)
Another Year at the Venice Beach Drum Circle in Photos & Videos (2016-’17)
One More Year at the Venice Beach Drum Circle in Photos & Videos (2017-’18)
