Detox | Exploring routine

WHAT’S UP?

A routine is something we do every day: it might be a workout, a specific diet, a writing regimen, a reading habit, a song you consistently listen to, a show you watch before you sleep — it could take any shape or form. Sure, we follow what’s new — the daily trends on our timelines, the newly released books or movies or music — but often we ultimately go back to the familiar, to our safe spaces. Lebanese-American author Rabih Alameddine once said: “I have a routine, it changes every day.” This phrase epitomizes most people’s relationship with the notion of routine: while we often find comfort in it, we’re also always trying to break free of it. Routine has become synonymous with boring — but does it really have to be this way? 

In this issue of Detox, we examine different manifestations of routine in our lives, from following the Oscars to listening to Amr Diab at the gym, and through it all we try to figure out the reason why letting go of our routines can be so hard sometimes, and whether we really want to let go after all. 

 

READ

-“Pause for a moment, and try this thought experiment. Imagine your perfect vacation. It could be anywhere in the world, doing anything you choose, for one week. There is a catch, however. You will not be allowed to take any photographs or make any entries in a journal during your vacation, and at the end you will be given a potion that will erase all memories of the wonderful experiences you enjoyed. How much would you pay for such a vacation, in comparison to what you would pay for a vacation you could remember?”

In many ways, a routine is a pattern, and at times patterns are exhausting. In this piece, titled “The Tyranny of the Remembering Self,” author and landscape photographer Glenn Randall reflects on the act of memory-making through photography, and how it compromises the lived moment. The piece, which has recently been translated to Arabic on Boring Books, is an invitation to pause that pattern of documenting moments of joy, for the sake of being fully immersed in them.

-Last week we lost Lenin al-Ramly, the famous playwright and screenwriter who created some of the most popular works of Egyptian theater in the 1980s and 1990s. It is safe to say that what set al-Ramli apart was his ability to break the predominant routine of Egyptian comedy back then, expressing his ideas in solid dramatic structures and weaving the humor through them in a way that was all his own, be it in plays like Enta Horr (You Are Free, 1981), Al-Hamagi (The Savage, 1985), or Takhareef (Nonsense, 1988), all of which he made with his long-term collaborator, the actor Mohamed Sobhy. In this piece on Al-Manassa, Safaa Sorour delves into the legacy of the late playwright, taking us through his most significant works for the stage and the screen, as well as stories of how he struggled with his name — chosen by his Communist parents as a tribute to the leader of the Bolshevik Revolution — as a child and an adolescent. 

-Last week also marked the 36th anniversary of Julio Cortázar’s death, the great Argentine author who subverted standard modes of reading with his 1963 novel Hopscotch, becoming a routine-breaking icon. According to Cortázar himself, the novel could either be read in a linear manner, or one could hop from one chapter to the next according to a “table of instructions” designed by the author and included in the beginning of the book. Yet Hopscotch wasn’t his only norm-bending work. In this very short story titled “The Continuity of Parks,” Cortázar plays freely but strategically with time and perception, and the result is rather unsettling. You can also read this excerpt from the recently published collection of speeches by Gabriel García Márquez, in which the late author reflects on his long friendship with Cortázar upon the latter’s death. 

 

 

-While the musical genre of mahraganat is dependent on a rhythmic repetition (or shall we say “routine”?) in track structure, ever since its emergence on the scene it has been breaking routines of all kinds: routines of production, concert organization, and music circulation. It is the biggest wave to take over the Egyptian music scene in decades, and it has persisted for years now, even though mahraganat pioneers and performers are constantly under threat. This paper by the Association for the Freedom of Thought and Expression details the challenges imposed by the state to try and curtail the rise of the genre in the Egyptian music sphere. We also invite you to check out the debate on mahraganat that recently took place on Al-Manassa in the forms of two pieces by Mohamed Naeem and Abdo Bermawy, as well as this piece by Ahmed Naji on mahraganat lyrics that revolve around prison life.

 

Finding the routine in the creative, and creativity in routine
Mostafa Mohie 

The word routine is often put at odds with creativity. Routine is always stigmatized as dull and redundant, while creativity implies innovativeness: inventing what’s new, different, unique. Perhaps those two opposite concepts reflect a certain frustration with modernity, which has been governed by systems of mass production ever since the 19th century, imposing identical products with unified and standardized characteristics. We can take soda cans and fast food sandwiches as an example: we don’t expect a different taste or texture or smell every time we buy one. But we also can’t ignore the comfort and security this predictability entails; there are no surprises here: we always get what we expect. 

The problem with the previous hypothesis is that it perceives creativity as an exception — a phenomenon for which we can’t predict a timing or a process or even envision an output — and routine as the rule, with all the continuity, uniformity and familiarity it guarantees. The creative here is a magical chemical interaction, independent of its maker’s will; it happens at its own pace to bring forth that fresh, unconventional product. It is a divine work, beyond the reach of mere mortals — those who routinely produce similar, predictable objects. As though creativity is for the elite, while routine is for the masses.

Thus, routine becomes a democratic tool: it is employed by the people for the people, and everyone gets the same product, without variations. Meanwhile, the creative is by and for the few: those who possess a connection to the unknown forces in control of that magical interaction. This idea further distances creativity from the hands of the majority, who are both voluntarily and forcibly involved in the process of mass production, but it also discounts the fact that routine is what created the world in its current form. Routine is what makes modern life possible: without predictability, modernity cannot be sustained. 

 

 

We can also view routine as a system of oppression — one that doesn’t stop at assuming that everyone needs the same product, but actually imposes that need, creates it from nothing. You will consume the same thing that others do, without being asked whether you have other preferences. Perhaps you like your soda more bitter than most, but you won’t find that option, because the appropriate amount of sugar to be used in every bottle has already been decided. Routine reaches the height of its oppression when you stop thinking about what you actually need, and conform instead to what’s being offered. This in turn makes creativity synonymous with resistance: an attempt at breaking the cycle of uniformity that’s forcibly imposed on everyone, a celebration of the individuality that’s been shunned in the world of mass production. 

The above paragraphs contain many contradictions. Routine is dull and redundant and therefore predictable; democratic because of its ties to the masses; and oppressive because it dismisses their individuality, while creativity is the unique and the unpredictable; elitist because it’s only accessible to few; a form of resistance because it advocates individuality in the face of conformity. In the world of French philosopher Jacques Derrida, imagination and truth are antonyms that cancel each other out, yet each relies on the other for its existence. He uses testifying in court as an example: an act that is inherently tied to truth, and yet one that cannot exist without imagination. When a witness testifies, recounting something that has happened in the past, they are performing an act of imagination. The moment of truth has already gone, and recalling it is essentially imagining it. We can imagine the testimony taking shape in the witness’s head the same way that a story does. And stories are works of imagination, but they take shape the same way recalling facts does. There is no imagination without truth, and vice versa. Can we think of creativity and routine the same way?

Could creativity take place in the same space as routine? Routine may use creativity to produce what’s uniform and predictable (imagine the complex and meticulous process of making a soda can, for instance), while creativity could use the massive productive power of routine to produce what’s original and unique: like a writer working during specific hours and at a specific place daily to create their own singular output. The key here is mastering the stick shift (as one does to drive a car): to switch gears from the uniform to the unique, as you see fit.  

 

WATCH

The routine of watching the Oscars: Why do we still do it?
Yasmine Zohdi

The first Oscars ceremony I remember watching was broadcast on state TV’s Channel 2, aired the next day. I watched it with my parents at my aunt’s house; back then my brother was barely five, but in the years to follow he would grow up and become my annual watching companion. I, meanwhile, was almost 10 — it was the year of Titanic, the film which then had the highest number of Oscar nominations in history, with all the hoopla it created back then: conversations about the shooting process, the song that still follows us everywhere, the sex scenes that were censored in the version that showed in Egyptian cinemas, the pictures of Leonardo DiCaprio that girls surreptitiously exchanged in class. It was also the year Jack Nicholson and Helen Hunt won for their performances in As Good As It Gets, which I watched in secret after my parents rented it from the video store nearby. 

But the scene that stuck with me from that night was one of two childhood friends in their mid-twenties, nearly jumping with excitement onstage upon receiving the award for Best Original Screenplay, in a rather unexpected move by the Academy: Matt Damon and Ben Affleck, two names virtually unknown in Hollywood until Gus Van Sant took an interest in making their film, Good Will Hunting, which was based on a play Damon wrote in college. The film takes place in Boston, the city where they were born and raised, within the Ivy League world of which Matt Damon was a part. In the film, the protagonist is a downtrodden young man from a troubled family, a janitor at MIT, who turns out to be a math prodigy. 

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It’s been 22 years since that night, and ever since then I’ve watched the Academy Awards almost religiously. Damon and Affleck are both A-list stars now, and I still consider their win one of the most moving moments in all the ceremonies I ever watched, and it is probably because of that moment — and similar ones that succeeded it — that I still follow the Oscars today.

A lot has changed over the past two decades. I know I have, and so has cinema, and the way I perceive it. The Oscars have changed as well; the ceremony, that is. Perhaps the biggest sign of that change is that it now takes place without a host, even though previous monologues and opening numbers by some of Hollywood’s top comedians — from Whoopi Goldberg to Billy Crystal to Ellen Degeneres — were always among the highlights of Oscar night. The decision to go hostless was made after the Kevin Hart controversy of 2018, when old homophobic tweets by the comedian set to host the 2019 awards show resurfaced, prompting the Academy to forego a host for the night altogether, which was also the case this year. 

 

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Social media platforms, #MeToo, the advent of streaming platforms and the subsequent changes to film distribution patterns are all factors that contributed to a massive upheaval in the film industry, in the United States and elsewhere. But while certain appearances have changed, as well as the language used in the ceremony, the Academy itself has not changed: the majority of its members remain white men above 50, which often reflects on the voting results. This has led to a boycott campaign led by prominent figures in African American cinema in 2015 (see the hashtag #OscarsSoWhite) for the absence of black nominees in all acting categories that year, as well as widespread backlash this year when no female names were announced among the list of nominees for Best Director. The Academy may have made a surprising choice when it gave a South Korean film the Best Picture Award last Monday, but the truth is until last year it has favored a very specific type of films (despite the growing presence of independent productions among the nominees): ones with clear, often flagrant political messages (remember Crash beating Brokeback Mountain for Best Picture in 2005, for instance, and Green Book beating BlackKklansman in 2019), or period dramas with lavish costumes and production design, particularly if they’re biopics (Gary Oldman winning Best Actor for his turn as Winston Churchill in the mediocre affair that is Longest Hour in 2018). Sometimes films that meet these criteria happen to be good ones (12 Years a Slave, 2013’s Best Picture Winner, is an example), but more often than not they’re much weaker than other films nominated in the same category, and that doesn’t stop them from winning. 

 

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I know for a fact that cinema is a lot more than what is celebrated by the Academy every year, and that awards — all of them, even those given by international film festivals, not just the Academy — are not a standard against which the worth of a film should be measured. Even the ceremony’s usual magic — which drew its power from the centrality of Hollywood as a cinematic Mecca and the notion of the “movie star” as created and propagated by Hollywood as well (dismantled now as a result of the changes that have befallen the industry) — is no longer the same. But watching the Oscars show has become an annual routine that I find hard to abandon; and to be honest I don’t necessarily want to. 

At first I was a kid, discovering cinema through that event, frantically searching for ways to watch the films that have one: some of them make it to cinemas in Cairo, others I wait to hit the video store or MBC2 (a film channel that enjoyed massive popularity in the early and mid-2000s), while some I’m not able to see until years later, with the introduction of the internet and the world of torrents to my life. I’d follow the red carpet arrivals with my mom on E! (which we had access to after we illegally installed an add-on that opened up all the scrambled channels we weren’t subscribed to); she’d make the most entertaining comments about the stars’ dresses and hairstyles and jewelry, then she’d go to bed and my brother and I would stay up watching the show until the sun came up. 

When I was nearing my late teens, I knew more about cinema, and about my love for it; I dreamt of working in the medium, particularly writing films — I watched Sofia Coppola as she received her award for the screenplay of Lost in Translation, and for the first time in my life I felt jealous of another woman: I wanted to be her, I wanted to make a film like that one. A couple of years later, I teared up as Martin Scorsese ascended the stage for an award that was long overdue, the hall erupting in sincere applause as everyone got up in a standing ovation tinged with none of the pretense that often plagues such affairs (many say The Departed isn’t Marty’s most important film, and while I agree, I think it’s definitely one of his best). 

 

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In my early twenties I was unemployed for almost an entire winter, and so more than once each week during the months preceding the show I would go to the cinema with my dad; we’d watch the year’s films and guess which of them would be nominated for what — he never stayed up to watch the Oscars, but the day after the ceremony that year he was very excited that Jennifer Lawrence had won for her role in David O. Russell’s Silver Linings Playbook. After my brother graduated and started working, he had to go to bed early and could no longer watch the show with me (I never managed to kick the habit of staying up late, even when working full time), yet Twitter had come into the picture, so I’d follow my friends’ reactions there in real time — my cinephile friends, all night owls like me — and we’d get into heated arguments during the commercial breaks. During the two years I spent in New York while studying for my MFA, I experienced — for the first time in my life — the joy of not having to struggle to find out where I could watch the show: I’d turn on the TV and there it would be, just like that (it was then that DiCaprio finally won an Oscar, and while I hadn’t seen The Revenant yet, I remembered the pictures we used to exchange of him in class, and felt that, in a way, we had grown up together).

 

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Today I live with a partner who shares my passion for film, and now that the rights to broadcast the show in the region have been monopolized by one or two platforms, our annual routine is rummaging for links through which we can stream the show, or finding a way around geography and the inflation with VPNs and free trial weeks. I still watch the Oscars because it’s a ritual that is so closely tied to the process of my discovery of the art that I now can’t imagine my life without it, as well as the intimate viewing experiences with the people who shared that journey with me. I watch because even though I am no longer enveloped by the same excitement that used to consume me back then, I still feel something, and it stems from what remains in my memory of that period of exploration, with all the wonder it entailed. As I explored and discovered cinema — through the Oscars and the many other (more significant) platforms I was introduced to through the years — I was also discovering myself. 

And despite all the Academy’s disasters, the Oscars somehow still manage to produce moments like Damon and Affleck’s win in 1998. In 2017, the Best Picture Award was presented by Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty: “La La Land!” Dunaway declared into the microphone, and I was crestfallen. The film’s crew went up on stage, and halfway through the producers’ speech some commotion took place in the background, before one of them announced, dumbfounded, that Moonlight was the actual winner. For a moment I thought I was imagining the entire thing, but it was true: a blunder of that scale had actually happened, and the indie production that no one even thought would be there had beaten the musical that glorified the legend of Hollywood and Los Angeles as a city where dreams come true. And while I do appreciate Parasite’s triumph last week, I still believe Moonlight’s win is the most deserving and most satisfying in all the years I’ve followed the Oscars, and one of the very few times that the Academy managed to get it right. As for the drama that unfolded onstage that night as the award was being announced, it all but epitomizes the constant tension that pervades my relationship with the Oscars: I do not like what the Academy represents, but sometimes — very rarely — the Academy will vote against itself, and when that happens, it’s pretty damn great. 

 

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LISTEN 

Amr Diab in the gym
Ahmed Wael 

One day, while working out, I listened to Amr Diab’s voice flow through the gym. I realized that the song came at the right moment, and that this was indeed the best place for it. It appeared that the weightlifters were happy with it too, and as one Amr Diab song played after the other for one hour straight, their energy did not seem to waver; no one demanded that the music blasting through the central speakers be changed, or resorted to their headphones for their own parallel playlist. This is when I understood that here, Amr Diab was welcomed by everyone. 

 

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While working out, I listen to whatever I like; I don’t believe that specific songs are more motivational than others, I think the drive comes from within oneself. I do, however, understand some people’s need for music that helps them “power through,” and Amr has always been one to conquer spaces. He got rid of his Port Said accent to appeal to listeners in Cairo, with their tendency to dismiss everything that doesn’t readily integrate itself within the centrality of the capital. He resisted the classical tropes favored by contemporaries of his, like Hani Shaker and Medhat Saleh, even when it came to his appearance: We rarely see him in formal attire — instead, he’s often jumping on stage in jeans and a t-shirt. 

 

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He created a pattern of his own — a singular project that relies on his voice and his voice alone: even the chorus in his songs is in his own voice, amplified — there are no background singers. From the start he was adamant on building a distinct persona, be it through his fashion sense or his hair or his music videos, not to mention his conscious insistence on being the subject of conversations, rather than an active party in any. 

 

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For decades, he managed to produce an album every summer, and until recently he’d always make a specific kind of video for the record’s hit track. It’s easy to remember an entire album simply by recalling a song’s video. Hint: a man from the future enters a black and white party and it instantly turns into technicolor. You got it, right? 

 

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He often uses masculine pronouns when addressing his beloved. The object of his desire remains abstract, his longing is expressed in mere looks, and it usually stops at mild gestures like holding hands. He shies away from expressing sexuality, and perhaps it’s intentional — an attempt to avoid alienating the (likely large) conservative segment of his fanbase. In a recent song, he recounts a day he spends on a rug with “three girls,” but he never really tells us what happens: only that it was tempting, and that he found an oud and started playing.

 

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Amr never demands much. Even songs that are clear imperatives, like Khaleek Fakerny (Remember Me), are only gentle pleas. Relationships must be consensual, he understands, and one should not exert pressure. Perhaps this is why his relationship with his audience has never faltered, despite fluctuations in the popularity of his recent albums: it keeps taking new forms. 

 

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Over the past two decades, we collectively decided to forget he once used to be a little chubby, and came to call him "Al-Hadaba" (The Hill). Reinventing himself with clear precision, he yet again conquered a new space: the gym. 

As I increased the weights on my bar, I thought to myself that somehow — now, nearing 60 — he’s become an aspiration for every athlete in that hall. Amr Diab, with his ripped muscles and confident gaze, his wide shoulders and straight back. He looks like a veteran coach, and therefore his love songs never seem out of place in the gym. It’s as though each of them becomes an encouraging pat on the back: “Good work, champ!”

 

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SALAM

We’re aware that yesterday was Valentine’s Day — some may have had their routines disrupted for a day with flowers and chocolates and teddy bears, but we’re among those who believe love should be celebrated all year long. So, here you go, one of the greatest Arabic love songs of all time — may you always have wanas in your life (and that’s Arabic for ‘gentle companionship’), because what else does one need?  

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