Archive for January, 2016

January 24th 2016

Sunday, January 24th, 2016
January 24th 2016
The screen lit up, and she swiped her index finger across it.
Her eyes smiled back to the message.
She typed something, and then called for the waiter.
“Could I have the breakfast smoothie, please,” she said with a Spanish accent.
Sipping his black coffee, he found himself unable to return to his tablet and the screenplay treatment; he wanted to know who the Spaniard was waiting for.
Half a smoothie later, the door opened, and a middle-aged chap rushed in.
He scanned the room, looking for someone; he went past her table once, before backtracking.
“Hello, I am really sorry to be late,” he said, as he took off his dark coat.
“It’s OK; I was just texting.”
Neither of them seemed to be focuses on what was being said; they both were studying one another. Perhaps, this was their first face to face meeting.
The arrival of the menus provided a welcome diversion from the intensity of the moment.
As the food arrived, and the young lady took a photo – “it’s for my mother, so she believes me when I tell her I don’t eat junk food!” – the man absentmindedly touched the dark coat.
Sensing his wandering mind, she toyed with her jet black hair.
From his table, he could feel the thoughts swirling randomly in the other man’s head.
“I think I am way too old for you,” was the only thing he could say.
Surprised, she attempted to defuse the situation. “I didn’t look at your age.”
“But we can be friends,” he added, as if reading from a prepared text.
She didn’t appear particularly hurt, or disappointed; she wished for the breakfast to end on good terms.
“If you have time, try the XYZ for coffee; I spend hours there, just reading and people-watching,” she said, almost consoling him for the end of something before it had even begun.
As they headed in opposite directions, he glanced towards their now empty table, and went back to the screenplay.
Peace and love,
Ja’far
January 24th 2016
The screen lit up, and she swiped her index finger across it.
Her eyes smiled back to the message.
She typed something, and then called for the waiter.
“Could I have the breakfast smoothie, please,” she said with a Spanish accent.
Sipping his black coffee, he found himself unable to return to his tablet and the screenplay treatment; he wanted to know who the Spaniard was waiting for.
Half a smoothie later, the door opened, and a middle-aged chap rushed in.
He scanned the room, looking for someone; he went past her table once, before backtracking.
“Hello, I am really sorry to be late,” he said, as he took off his dark coat.
“It’s OK; I was just texting.”
Neither of them seemed to be focuses on what was being said; they both were studying one another. Perhaps, this was their first face to face meeting.
The arrival of the menus provided a welcome diversion from the intensity of the moment.
As the food arrived, and the young lady took a photo – “it’s for my mother, so she believes me when I tell her I don’t eat junk food!” – the man absentmindedly touched the dark coat.
Sensing his wandering mind, she toyed with her jet black hair.
From his table, he could feel the thoughts swirling randomly in the other man’s head.
“I think I am way too old for you,” was the only thing he could say.
Surprised, she attempted to defuse the situation. “I didn’t look at your age.”
“But we can be friends,” he added, as if reading from a prepared text.
She didn’t appear particularly hurt, or disappointed; she wished for the breakfast to end on good terms.
“If you have time, try the XYZ for coffee; I spend hours there, just reading and people-watching,” she said, almost consoling him for the end of something before it had even begun.
As they headed in opposite directions, he glanced towards their now empty table, and went back to the screenplay.
Peace and love,
Ja’far
6

The screen lit up, and she swiped her index finger across it.

Her eyes smiled back to the message.

She typed something, and then called for the waiter.

“Could I have the breakfast smoothie, please,” she said with a Spanish accent.

Sipping his black coffee, he found himself unable to return to his tablet and the screenplay treatment; he wanted to know who the Spaniard was waiting for.

Half a smoothie later, the door opened, and a middle-aged chap rushed in.

He scanned the room, looking for someone; he went past her table once, before backtracking.

“Hello, I am really sorry to be late,” he said, as he took off his dark coat.

“It’s OK; I was just texting.”

Neither of them seemed to be focuses on what was being said; they both were studying one another. Perhaps, this was their first face to face meeting.

The arrival of the menus provided a welcome diversion from the intensity of the moment.

As the food arrived, and the young lady took a photo – “it’s for my mother, so she believes me when I tell her I don’t eat junk food!” – the man absentmindedly touched the dark coat.

Sensing his wandering mind, she toyed with her jet black hair.

From his table, he could feel the thoughts swirling randomly in the other man’s head.

“I think I am way too old for you,” was the only thing he could say.

Surprised, she attempted to defuse the situation. “I didn’t look at your age.”

“But we can be friends,” he added, as if reading from a prepared text.

She didn’t appear particularly hurt, or disappointed; she wished for the breakfast to end on good terms.

“If you have time, try the XYZ for coffee; I spend hours there, just reading and people-watching,” she said, almost consoling him for the end of something before it had even begun.

As they headed in opposite directions, he glanced towards their now empty table, and went back to the screenplay.

Peace and love,

Ja’far

January 17th 2016

Monday, January 18th, 2016

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Sorry for the delay; we are waiting for the platform ahead to clear.”

The lady with the “Baby on board” pin scrolled through a page on her Electronic Book.

“Control tell me, the train in front of us is having some problems; the driver is trying to move it.”

The chap with the brown wool overcoat, took off his black leather gloves and tapped the screen of his phone.

Opposite the mother-to-be, two young women let out a sigh, almost in unison.

One of them opened her dark brown designer handbag and took out a small makeup pouch.

As if feeling left behind, the other woman presented her own set of small bottles and a tiny completely imploded brown tube.

The train let out a series of break release puffs cascading through its undercarriages.

With the foundation applied, one of the two ladies took an interest in one of her eyebrows. A light application of the final tiny dollop of cream from the tube, but the result wasn’t quite right.

A couple of fellow women passengers raised a brow when a pair of tweezers emerged out of the bag.

He thought to himself, how long will it be before the boys join in these public transport makeup sessions; “the bags under my eyes would certainly benefit from some of the artistry of these ladies!”

Peace and love,

Ja’far

January 10th 2016

Sunday, January 10th, 2016

At the top of the escalators, he sidestepped rushing shoppers, carrying their crop of bargains from the January sale.

Taking in the building site that is Tottenham Court Road, he wondered how much of the old quarter will still be intact, once the big trucks and men in yellow hard hats are done with the place.

“Will the little side street of music instrument shops survive?”

The answer seemed to present itself in the row of shops between the large supermarket and the cinema. Gone were the old electronics shops where many a time he had admired the gleaming new camera introduced by one manufacturer or another. In their place, were brand new restaurants and furniture stores.

“At least the place where I bought that bit of my professional kit is still there,” he thought in solace.

On the way back to the station, he noticed the value clothing store that was now in place of the huge music and videos shop that straddled both Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street.

He knew that no matter how much budget clothing he buys over the years, he would never spend as much time at this place as he used to spend at the same space when it was a temple for audiovisual enthusiasts.

Perhaps it wasn’t the change in the city that he was feeling, but the passing of the years in his own life.

Peace and love,

Ja’far

At the top of the escalators, he sidestepped rushing shoppers, carrying their crop of bargains from the January sale.
Taking in the building site that is Tottenham Court Road, he wondered how much of the old quarter will still be intact, once the big trucks and men in yellow hard hats are done with the place.
“Will the little side street of music instrument shops survive?”
The answer seemed to present itself in the row of shops between the large supermarket and the cinema. Gone were the old electronics shops where many a time he had admired the gleaming new camera introduced by one manufacturer or another. In their place, were brand new restaurants and furniture stores.
“At least the place where I bought that bit of my professional kit is still there,” he thought in solace.
On the way back to the station, he noticed the value clothing store that was now in place of the huge music and videos shop that straddled both Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street.
He knew that no matter how much budget clothing he buys over the years, he would never spend as much time at this place as he used to spend at the same space when it was a temple for audiovisual enthusiasts.
Perhaps it wasn’t the change in the city that he was feeling, but the passing of the years in his own life.
Peace and love,
Ja’farAt the top of the escalators, he sidestepped rushing shoppers, carrying their crop of bargains from the January sale.
Taking in the building site that is Tottenham Court Road, he wondered how much of the old quarter will still be intact, once the big trucks and men in yellow hard hats are done with the place.
“Will the little side street of music instrument shops survive?”
The answer seemed to present itself in the row of shops between the large supermarket and the cinema. Gone were the old electronics shops where many a time he had admired the gleaming new camera introduced by one manufacturer or another. In their place, were brand new restaurants and furniture stores.
“At least the place where I bought that bit of my professional kit is still there,” he thought in solace.
On the way back to the station, he noticed the value clothing store that was now in place of the huge music and videos shop that straddled both Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street.
He knew that no matter how much budget clothing he buys over the years, he would never spend as much time at this place as he used to spend at the same space when it was a temple for audiovisual enthusiasts.
Perhaps it wasn’t the change in the city that he was feeling, but the passing of the years in his own life.
Peace and love,
Ja’far

January 3rd 2016

Sunday, January 3rd, 2016

After a whole year of short stories, inspired by my daily ecounters, I am momentarily back for a quick update.

Ever since my return from Cannes 2015, I have been working on a couple of new documentary projects.

The first of these has been in intermittent production since 2007. Over last summer, I began to work on the edit; there certainly is a story there. Hopefully, I will have a rough cut by the autumn.

The second factual project is one that I have been developing on paper for a few years. This past November, I began what I imagine to be a narrative that will unfold at a majstic pace; I am in no rush.

There are also a couple of screenplays that I am developing – who isn’t!

For the remainder of this new year, I will don my short-storytelling hat, letting the breeze touch my hair every now and then.

Wishing our world a peaceful and kindly year.

Peace and love,

Ja’far