The DJ spins plastic (Not Poetry)

Empty words from empty songs,

Spinning to hypnotize you,

Through any sound wave made available,

To preach a plastic message of Peace.

One night he burns some plastic,

And this high gIves him the next idea of what his plastic globe should advance, reverse and scratch.

He keeps you waiting for the latest plastic track,

To feel like you want to live his plastic life.

IQRA this picture: A reappropriation & transmission story.

What should have been read from this image to fully grasp “The process of a spatial learner and all its facets” are the hands.

Although, in the end nobody really wants to see something real but rather focus on my God Given Disability (Dyslexic for a reason) because you hate that this image actually made you feel something different which is this practiced custom that is mostly lost in the culture of our time (x5). Emotional intelligence will do that to you. If you DO pray, please supplicate for images with sincere emotional messages of things you have no idea about in the culture of our time (Like growing up Muslim in a Western society and how that could make you feel invisible sometimes in a culture of parties, clubbing and being rejected/sabotaged at a part-time job because you never went out for a beer with the staff after work - amongst many other alienating customs here) instead of the floodgate of vulgar images of (literal) nakedness and (literal) drunkenness. Again, if anything should be meaningfully read from this image - It’s the God Given strength in those hands alone.

The rest of your flawed judgements are in your hands. For the most part I LOVED my art school days but I could have done less of seeing drunk and naked girls amongst many other things.

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Left: Mama / Right: Arwa

(Detail from ‘Untitled: Generation Series - Mother/Daughter).

  Seydou Keïta (Mali)

Seydou Keïta (Mali)

 Omar Mukhtar imprisioned by Fascist Italians

Omar Mukhtar imprisioned by Fascist Italians

 My mother in traditional Amazigh (Berber) dress. You might even notice my aunt’s hand in the background signing Peace out!

My mother in traditional Amazigh (Berber) dress. You might even notice my aunt’s hand in the background signing Peace out!

Your Loss of a Structure

Like a house that was designed and built by my father’s hands.

Like a house that’s been lived in.

Like a house with all its cracks and charm.

Like a house that withstood the African heat to Canadian Winds.

A house that was on the market for a while and which you kept hesitating about but finally someone convinced you it wasn’t stable enough for your wants and needs.

“ Ikhreb BaytHa! “ they said. And that’s what it became, rubble hardly holding together by cord and electrical wires. Not good now for anyone to live in anymore…like they wanted.

Now it stands as a sculpture in a display case back in Africa as part of a memorial for all the death tolls by Terrorist acts from around the world.

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Ahmed and I Bagel Shopping.

Sometimes when you go shopping for things they are either things which are a need or a want. Sometimes it’s equal amounts of need AND want like Authentic Montreal Bagels. It’s logic to me that the Montreal bagel is the only bagel that should exist. It’s not about being discriminatory and the mentality that our bagels the best bagels because I’m from here. It’s a matter of its science: how it’s cooked for it to become so perfectly soft and chewy all at the same time. There is no need for taste test to compare between others. This is the legit’est tasting one.

I sign this with my blood: Je t’aime les Bagels de Montréal car vous nous amenez de la paix pour le moment qu’ont mange cette signature de chez nous.

This neighbourhood is where we first lived when we first arrived as a family to Montreal in the 80’s.

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Précurseur d'un Pied Noir.

Rien est noir de notre longue amitié. Mes cheveux et nos chandials dans cette photo sont noirs - C’est tout!

Des fois elle pense qu’elle est Africaine mais je la corrige tout simplement par dire : Non, malhereusement pas ma chère.

We lived happily ever after.

Jesus and I at LaRonde

Emmanuelle’s t-shirt is shinning like the Lord and my t-shirt is Authentic. She’s having more fun…i hated LaRonde and I’m fake having fun.

Reflections on the meaning of teenagers and their chosen t-shirts.

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Untitled (UnPoetry)

The school of Life’e’o’so

That I don’t want to Live’e’o’so

Give me the box of Oreo’so.

Arwa, What happened to you? So?

The Term is Not Waste Man but rather WISE Man

Again, my paternal grandfather was a Freedom Fighter against the colonization of Libya - he was part of the Nafousa Mountains brigade (if you will) with the Famous Omar Mukhtar who was mainly in the East. My grandfather (Muhammad Abouon) eventually had to escape possible hanging by dressing up as a woman and secretly fleeing to Tunisia where his wife met him halfway. He is clearly Not a woman as you see in the photo below but an extremely handsome man and yet his Hijab is identical to his wife’s.

They served the poor Tunisian town they settled in because they were more learned then the people there. They both washed the dead before burials. MamaHajja was a midwife and Jeddi Muhammad knew how to read Arabic/Quran. These two people raised my Father. My father has always honoured them to me through stories+ bw/colour photos and this is why I honour my father/family through my work as well.

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My father originally wanted to be a Doctor.

One of my father’s oldest friends was a French Canadian Lawyer who studied in Montreal with him in the 60’s and later became a business partner in Montreal in the 80’s. This Lawyer friend called my father ‘Mon Frère’ and also nicked named him ‘Mus/Moose’ in school. This man knew the tricks of the trade and royally screwed my father over in his company. My father was not only a brilliant man but thought people were as nice as he is (idealist=naivité). ‘is’ because he still lives through us, his kids.

Here’s to a New Year (2019) where no one/anywhere, who knows the tricks of the trade of anything, screw with this beautiful man or his beautiful family.