I, Tololy, will be unable to post any entries in the coming three days due to my departure to Aqaba, Jordan’s portal on the Red Sea. I promise some pictures when I return and I hope you will not be disappointed.

Don’t you just love my tilly putty thoughts? I personally do. I find them to be really creative and deep. But that coming from me,the generator of my own tilly putty thoughts, is pretty expected. I must warn you though that if you plan to quote me using one of my tilly putty thoughts on a serious issue then you have gotten things all wrong. I am not to be held accountable for anything I say in my play box. I can be shallow and silly and label-sticking, since it is my play box and any one of these acts is not considered seriously. I do apologise however,if you change your mind about me once you enter my play box, that can not be helped.

Just now I opened an email titled “Salary Day”, I think they mean by that “Pay Day”. It was basically about a number of dancing icons and such, which I then interpreted,using my superhuman intellect, to be a demonstration of how ecstatic one feels when one gets paid. Take a look at the following dancing doodle.

I wonder how much this alien got paid to perform this sassy little dance. I once thought I saw a UFO and I rushed to my room and got my camera, quickly adjusting the video quality I taped the flying object. I said such things like ” Hello! I am Tololy” and “Hi aliens, I am here take me with you, can you hear me?”. My sister was watching TV and she wasn’t nearly as zealous as I was. She wasn’t even impressed. Then the UFO hid behind some tall trees and since it was night time I could not see it anymore. It appeared again but this time with a familiar sound. “It’s a chopper”, my sister commented. And as I was still capturing the moment and trying to decide the amount of money I will ask of the media to give to me in return for the video, I just whispered “Shhh! It’s a UFO I tell ya! just go with it”. The answer was “O.K.”.
It brings me great pain to admit that my comment was recorded. The video could not possibly be sold now that I clearly admitted it was a hoax. But since the fates tend to find it appealing to conspire against me,and to add insult to injury, even more proof was to be thrust in my face that this was indeed a chopper from a local airport. Some green and red lights started circulating around the “object”, and it got really close. It was a chopper,and there, so much for that money.

I do not think aliens would be interested in me should they ever decide to initiate contact with earthlings,that is not to say that they haven’t done that already. What could they possibly do to me that I haven’t done to myself? Multiple piercings? Mental orgasms? Identity theft? Metamorphosis?

Much damage has been caused by the two most recent feminine attacks on the United States, Katrina and Rita. Knowing little as I did some five minutes ago, I was enraged by the choice of names. I intended to write something about this issue in particular back when Katrina was the hottest news icon.

I could not see any reason for giving such a natural disaster a feminine name. I pondered upon the matter and decided it must have been chosen randomly. But once Rita lashed American coasts and being named as she was, some vision of a conspiracy theory started to weave itself in my head. Finally managing to prepare my case and present it to you, I resolved to search the matter first. I googled “naming of hurricanes”, and Lo and Behold I found many sites dealing with the issue.

The result that I was most interested in came from this site, and it featured an article titled “Hurricane Center may run out of names” by Ker Than. Grippingly, it turns out that “feminists urged the WMO to add men’s names, which was done in 1979. The boy-girl-boy-girl naming convention evolved to include French and Spanish names in the Atlantic system, reflecting the languages of the nations affected by Carribean hurricanes.”
That indicated the collapse of my case concerning Katrina and Rita. I was nonetheless pleased to learn that male names were also chosen for such demonstrations of natural devastation; after all, we are equal for better and for worse.

I realise that a good number of people would talk about the return to studying at Jordanian universities and all the debris of thoughts and impressions related to it. And being an undergraduate student myself I figured I could jot something down as well even though I am not entirely sure I want to.

This being my grand finale I admit to having been reluctant about actually getting to the university campus, since any such step could ruin the so-called prestige of a senior student. But once I found myself wide awake at around 9 a.m., the damage was already done.A nice little parade was, obviously, organised. Following is a picture I took while swaying to the music. I must say this was one of the things I enjoyed the most.

On another note, I have come to fully understand the importance of my right shoulder, or my two shoulders to that matter. I have been rubbed against, bumped and pushed by several physically better-endowed females. I apologised for being elfin. Ironically, none of them was verbally sorry or expressed any regrets as to having overpowered a smaller specimen of the female gender. I would like to believe they sincerely wanted to but could not due to chaotic pedestrian traffic.

I also do believe that due to my petite stature and the recurrent calls to and from my cellular phone revolving around the vital yet minimal question of Where Are You I was mistaken for a freshwoman. One would think I was pleased at such a potential label seeing as I previously expressed my frustration when people think I am older.

Regardless of the labels and the illusionary status, it’s good to be back. I am eager to start my usual discussions and be inspired by the intellectual climate that I hope I will manage to find.

Since I was equally made by Arab and non-Arab blood, it is only fair to speak of my Circassian roots. Despite the fact that I do not,by custom, follow my mother’s family in name, I am never any less attached to and proud of that lineage.

One of my most intimate childhood memories is of Adiga weddings. I am still in love with the ritualistic celebrations and dances that take place in the “Jagg”. The Jagg is the dance area right infront of the bride and groom’s seating. The men normally stand on the right side and the ladies on the left. It is customary for a “senior” couple to initiate the dancing and,as long as seniors are dancing, the bride and groom remain standing as a sign of respect for the elderly.

I believe the reason why I was so fascinated by Adiga weddings was because I found the stories behind them rather magical. In a conservative Arab society,and by that I mean my own circle the way I saw it at the time, it was new to me that a family could agree upon having a daughter fall publically in love with a man. Not only do Adiga families allow that, they also allow the two lovers to meet at the girl’s parents’ house,and to go out together to picnics and clubs and dances. I was fascinated by that when I was discovering the ways of my families. To my great surprise, I learned later on that the way of my mix of a family was not that different.

To trace matters to their roots, I will narrate how two lovers often meet. It happens usually at wedding parties or dances that a man notices a girl that he somehow likes and tries hard to get the chance to dance with her. Note that most Adiga dances involve only two people, a man and a lady. After the dance the two meet up, should the girl be available and initially attracted to the man in question. Such meetings can take place anywhere,naturally, not only during parties and Jaggs. I am only bringing you an image of the atmosphere at weddings.

There are two ways that Adiga lovers can resort to in order to get married. If the two families accept their love then no problems normally arise. However,if someone in the girl’s family does not accept such an engagement then the time calls for a procedure called “Khteefeh”, which literally means “kidnapping”.
Should the two lovers agree to use Khteefeh as a means to get married, certain steps must be made to ensure that the procedure will take place in harmony with customs. A senior ,well respected member of the man’s family will be informed and the bride to be will be taken to his house accompanied by her chaperon, a senior female member of her family. The groom, from the day his bride to be sets foot in the senior’s house, is prohibited to get in contact with his beloved and is even often prohibited to approach the house. Certain female members of the bride’s family would already have knowledge of the lovers’ decision to use Khteefeh.

I will explain the steps depending on my humble knowledge and on the answers I got for my questions from Adiga relatives. The reason why the bride is hosted at a senior’s house is basically a step taken to honour the girl’s family who refuses the marriage. It is also seen by some as a way in which the bride herself shows respect to her own family, by sending a message that although she is marrying against someone’s will,she is not ignorant of the customs and is not disrespectful of the family’s name. In addition to that, staying at a respectful senior’s house means that no harm could smear the family’s honour. That is precisely why she is also accompanied by a female senior of her own kin and why the groom is not allowed to see her.

There is another custom that I am personally fond of,it is carried at most weddings. Before the bride’s departure from her parents’ or the senior’s house, her female friends and relatives stop the groom’s family at the door. They prevent them from taking the bride away unless they pay what they call “7a2 Banat”,or “The girls’ right”. The groom’s family pays any sum of money required,and that is a different sum of money from that paid to the bride herself prior to the wedding. After proceeding, the male friends and relatives could also stop the groom’s family and take another sum of money called “7a2 shabab”,or “The guys’ right”.

After a short period of time,the wedding takes place. The bride’s father and brothers should not attend since they are often the ones opposing the marriage in case of Khteefeh. During the Jagg, and to make the dance an organised event, two people take charge of the dancers. A woman at the women’s side and a man on the men’s side. These two guide the dancers into the Jagg and when a dancing couple is done dancing, usher another.
Most Adiga weddings would hire a “Pshinawa”, that is a person who plays the “Pshina”. The Pshina being the musical instrument used to play Adiga music. If the Pshinawa is a man he stands by the men’s side, if a woman then by the women’s side. Normally the pieces played at weddings and danced to are Qafa or Zafaqwa, Wedj, and Sheshen which is adopted from the Chechens.

I will be telling you more about the wonderful world of Adiga Xabza, the totality of Adiga traditions and language.

Someone just threatened to kill me.

Someone: I will come and kill you
Tololy: Are you threatening me?
Someone: Yes.
Tololy: O.K.

Welcome to yet another tilly putty thought. I think the reason why I created my play box and the whole “tilly putty thought” concept is because I feel my other entries are serious. I am not an entirely serious person, I actually do have some sense of humor.

Sometimes I do not feel like organising my thoughts, that’s when I’m mentally overstimulated. Sometimes I do not feel like sounding older,that’s when I am in touch with the “Tololy within”.
Sometimes I just want to talk and not care much about “cohesion and coherence”,and care less about making sense.
Sometimes I want to sound less British, more Jordanian, mostly universal.
Sometimes I like having people “feel” that I am not a professor but a simple girl who loves fancy words.
At such times I come into my play box and express myself. I can’t help but express myself,becasue I called the doctor and the doctor said : No more monkeys jumping on the bed.

Those are my Tilly Putty Thoughts for tonight.

Dopo un giorno ritorno all’università e allo studio. Per dirvi la verità non sono così felice perchè questo sarebbe l’ultimo semestre e dopo che finisce non so che cosa farò. Il semestre universitario qui dura soltanto quattro mesi, e cosa accadrà dopo? Non so se riuscirò a trovare un buon lavoro, non è che voglio essere pessimista ma credo che non ci sono tante opportunità di lavoro per le persone che,come io, hanno studiato la lingua e la letteratura italiana.
Forse questa non è stata una buona decisione da parte mia…ma che cos’altro potevo scegliere ? L’italiano è stato sempre una mia lingua preferita per motivi artistici, visto che l’italia è stata la capitale della cultura europea per secoli, e particolarmente durante Il Rinascimento.

Questo senso di insicurezza non mi piace… Generalmente parlando sono una persona molto positiva, ho un gran fede nel futuro…di fatto ho più fiducia nel futuro che nel presente e certamente, il passato. Ma la realtà oscura del mio futuro professionale non mi permette di avere l’ottimismo desiderato.

From “World Mythology” by Arthur Cotterel as general editor, a Parragon Publishing Book of 2005, I bring you the third piece of the “Share a Myth” series. This myth I take from chapter 4; The Celts.

Oisin in the Land of the Forever Young

Oisin, the son of Finn mac Cool, was out hunting one day with his father and their elite band of warriors, the Fianna. They were joined by a beautiful fairy-like woman on a white horse. Her name was Naim of the Golden Hair and she had come, she said, to take Oisin with her to Tir na nOg, the Land of the Forever Young.
Naim told them that she had loved Oisin since she and her father had ridden through Ireland some years before. She had watched him then, running like a young deer through the meadows, looking every inch a huntsman and a warrior. For seven years and seven days she had returned, invisible, to watch him grow up and, at last, her father had given her permission to declare her love.

She cast a spell over Oisin so that he loved her too, and they rode away on Naim’s white steed across lakes, rivers and the misty sea to Tir na nOg. There they married and lived happily for 300 years, a period which seemed like only three weeks to Oisin.

Eventually Oisin became homesick. He longed to see his father and his friends again. Naim did all she could to dissuade him from returning to Ireland. She could not change his mind, however, so she gave him her white horse to make the journey and she warned him not to dismount or he would never return.

When Oisin got back to Ireland he found that everything was different. The countryside had changed, his father and the Fianna were long dead and a new faith was being practiced. Deeply saddened, Oisin turned and began his journey back to his fair wife. He had not gone far, however, when a group of peasant struggling to lift a heavy stone into a wagon asked him for help. He agreed willingly but, as he stooped, his reins broke and Oisin fell to the ground. Immediately, the horse vanished and Oisin transformed into a very old man, blind and near to death.

He was carried to St Patrick who was walking the land and preaching of the new god. The saint received him into the new faith. He also managed to take down some of Oisin’s stories of the old days when the Fianna ruled the land. But soon, the warrior-poet, and the world he had known, passed away forever.

As you can notice, the box is undergoing some renovations to make it a warmer and a more organised place. I am not sure how it will look like after this face lift, I can not even promise that it would look any different.

I apologise for any inconvenience caused by any breaks in the routine of the box.