So here we go again! The usual resolutions plague my mind as I step through the door to welcome 09, and bid a tired and much needed good bye to 08.
This has been a bad year in every sense of the word to the whole world. If there is a mother nature and a mother earth, they would both be putting their feet up with a big beer in their hands, and taking a deep breath.
I am actually excited by the dawning of this new year, as I feel change in the air (not an Obama reference). A make or break sort of a moment. I'm not too optimistic about the change, but a change is needed anyway, good or bad, but change nevertheless.
The process of growing up is actually a process of accepting change more graciously. The more gracious you become in your acceptance, the more grown-up you are. Gone are the final days of high-school where you would sit down on your favorite bench, stationary in your resolve to hold time hostage. Gone are the promises of always being this together. Gone, too, is the feeling of irrepressible loss and heartbreak. Everything changes, but most of all, we change. Given the current state of affairs I feel we all need to change. Change into beings more in tune with empathy, or change into such heartless shits that nothing matters but us.
Boy! Isn't self-preservation just lovely. It can take us places we never thought we'd visit, and justifies our being there in the most resolute of manners. Heck, given the proper opportunity, it would even justify buying a house in Newark and settling there!
I guess I am very lucky to be saying good-bye to 08 with plans of celebrating new-years eve to the wee hours of the morning, and then sleeping though most of the first new day of the year. Heck, I could have been scampering about trying to save my life, not even aware, or rather conscious of the dawning of the new year. So yes, I do feel truly blessed with good fortune (albeit bad or no hair).
So to follow tradition, here are a few of my new documented resolutions...
I will quit smoking
I will talk to more strangers
I will be more self-absorbed (notice, please, the focus on "I")
My other resolutions are in my head, and will remain there (hopefully not getting lost in the pot-infested labyrinths of my brain). The rest, as they say, is history and the making of it.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
A 4-Month Hiatus
So, I've been away from this world for 4 months. Well not completely away, as I did come to the blogs I like to follow, but I did try to refrain from making my presence felt. The endeavor, however, had more to do with eternal procrastination then being pseudo-intellectual.
Everything has changed in these last 4 months. The earth is now a completely peaceful place. All the wars have ended. People have stopped fighting, lying, cheating, and moralizing. There hasn't been an un-natural death in these past 4 months, and you can now only die from smoking or boredom.
All the former members of Led Zeppelin have embraced the existence of God and are now working to erase Lucifer from their memories. On the other hand, Pink Floyd's "Lucifer Sam" will now be referred to as "Our adoring uncle Sam".
Children can now speak to strangers without the fear of being touched in their naughty places. The word rape has been removed from all dictionaries, as it is not relevant anymore, and no one understands its meaning.
The Israelis and Palestinians packed their bags and have gone fishing. Of course they are fishing on the principal of catch and release. The fish hooks are made of jello instead of pointy metal. People have stopped eating meat, as animals have equal rights now.
The terrorists are collaborating with Disney to make a new animated movie about grilling "humus" in caves.
The armies all over the world have been disbanded, and all the released soldiers have revived the hippy culture. They're all currently writing a book titled "A 1001 uses of pot".
The only worries now are the worsening state of the Carolina Hurricanes, and what the whole world should do with this newly found euphoria.
I, in the meantime have sprouted wings and am taking flying lessons with pigs...
Everything has changed in these last 4 months. The earth is now a completely peaceful place. All the wars have ended. People have stopped fighting, lying, cheating, and moralizing. There hasn't been an un-natural death in these past 4 months, and you can now only die from smoking or boredom.
All the former members of Led Zeppelin have embraced the existence of God and are now working to erase Lucifer from their memories. On the other hand, Pink Floyd's "Lucifer Sam" will now be referred to as "Our adoring uncle Sam".
Children can now speak to strangers without the fear of being touched in their naughty places. The word rape has been removed from all dictionaries, as it is not relevant anymore, and no one understands its meaning.
The Israelis and Palestinians packed their bags and have gone fishing. Of course they are fishing on the principal of catch and release. The fish hooks are made of jello instead of pointy metal. People have stopped eating meat, as animals have equal rights now.
The terrorists are collaborating with Disney to make a new animated movie about grilling "humus" in caves.
The armies all over the world have been disbanded, and all the released soldiers have revived the hippy culture. They're all currently writing a book titled "A 1001 uses of pot".
The only worries now are the worsening state of the Carolina Hurricanes, and what the whole world should do with this newly found euphoria.
I, in the meantime have sprouted wings and am taking flying lessons with pigs...
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Happy Birthday my Love!
August 14th, 2008. 61 years old. In human terms 60 is the age where you retire and look back at all your accomplishments. In terms of a nation, I feel 60 is our 20. A mere exit from the violent and uncertainty of the teenage years. Just about graduating and looking onto the kind of life you will be leading. Today I don't want to get into that. I don't want to discuss where we are, and where we're headed...
I just feel that I am blessed to be back in the country I adore, that too on her birthday. I'll try to do what a very dear friend always asks me to do...simplify things. So I will try to simplify my emotions.
I love the national anthems, new and reworked playing all day on TV. I can listen to Amanat Ali singing "Aye watan pyaaray watan...paak watan..." forever. His voice, the poetry, and the tune, stir up things inside you, that you never knew existed! I feel proud to be a Pakistani every time I listen to this milli naghma.
I love the big flags tied on cars and motorbikes (even though the realist in me feels they are quite unsafe). I love the way these flags flap in the wind as the motor speeds down the highway. I love the jubilant expressions on the faces of the drivers of these cars and bikes. For one day, they forget all their worries, and just go out and celebrate.
I love all the kids in my street who buy little paper flags strung on strings, and decorate their houses with them. And then put up the biggest flag they have on their house. I love they purity of these kids. They love their country, and grow up thinking it is the best place to live in.
I love the elders in my family, who tell stories of partition, and every year make us realize what it meant to leave everything to pursue an idea. What freedom means, I feel all of us, who were born free, can never truly comprehend. For can one truly understand love without losing it?
Above all, I love Jinnah, the man and the concept. I love watching his stock footage on TV, I love the way he talks. I love every quote of his that is displayed proudly on all our channels. I love the heavy drawl in his voice. I love the way he stands, and then moves his hands while he speaks. Heck I even love the way he smokes his cigar. If only all our nation took to him, and tried to mold themselves in his ways. For you never have to be perfect, and you'll never get everything right. But as long as you're pursuing your beliefs honestly, it doesn't matter what those beliefs were. You get where no one thought you'd get to!
I love his sister, right besides him, always. A notion of utter equality and respect. That too in the 30s and 40s, a time when the free world was still stuck in segregation and gender crushing. I love the confidence she exudes, and the confidence she gives Jinnah, you can see it in all the grainy footage. I love the stable head on her head. If only all the men and women in our nation molded themselves after this lady.
I love the fact that I still hope to see this country as probably Jinnah and Fatima saw it. I love to be able to see her true potential. I love that I still have hope, for at the end, it is always hope that prevails.
I just feel that I am blessed to be back in the country I adore, that too on her birthday. I'll try to do what a very dear friend always asks me to do...simplify things. So I will try to simplify my emotions.
I love the national anthems, new and reworked playing all day on TV. I can listen to Amanat Ali singing "Aye watan pyaaray watan...paak watan..." forever. His voice, the poetry, and the tune, stir up things inside you, that you never knew existed! I feel proud to be a Pakistani every time I listen to this milli naghma.
I love the big flags tied on cars and motorbikes (even though the realist in me feels they are quite unsafe). I love the way these flags flap in the wind as the motor speeds down the highway. I love the jubilant expressions on the faces of the drivers of these cars and bikes. For one day, they forget all their worries, and just go out and celebrate.
I love all the kids in my street who buy little paper flags strung on strings, and decorate their houses with them. And then put up the biggest flag they have on their house. I love they purity of these kids. They love their country, and grow up thinking it is the best place to live in.
I love the elders in my family, who tell stories of partition, and every year make us realize what it meant to leave everything to pursue an idea. What freedom means, I feel all of us, who were born free, can never truly comprehend. For can one truly understand love without losing it?
Above all, I love Jinnah, the man and the concept. I love watching his stock footage on TV, I love the way he talks. I love every quote of his that is displayed proudly on all our channels. I love the heavy drawl in his voice. I love the way he stands, and then moves his hands while he speaks. Heck I even love the way he smokes his cigar. If only all our nation took to him, and tried to mold themselves in his ways. For you never have to be perfect, and you'll never get everything right. But as long as you're pursuing your beliefs honestly, it doesn't matter what those beliefs were. You get where no one thought you'd get to!
I love his sister, right besides him, always. A notion of utter equality and respect. That too in the 30s and 40s, a time when the free world was still stuck in segregation and gender crushing. I love the confidence she exudes, and the confidence she gives Jinnah, you can see it in all the grainy footage. I love the stable head on her head. If only all the men and women in our nation molded themselves after this lady.
I love the fact that I still hope to see this country as probably Jinnah and Fatima saw it. I love to be able to see her true potential. I love that I still have hope, for at the end, it is always hope that prevails.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Coming back
So it's been a while that I've been in the city I love and breathe. It's been a little weird as far as home comings go. First off, I didn't feel the usual tingling that accompanies me on the Ohh so long flight back home. This time it was just getting from one airport to the next, until you get to the airport you set out for. And when I finally got back, I was just in a daze, surrounded by all my family, smiles on their faces, and long drawn stories on their lips. Somehow I feel I am still in that daze...a little lagged out of reality.
It also doesn't help that they've changed my city so much, in just one year. Gone are the roads I grew up on, and learned to drive on. All replaced by quasi highways, with motor cars racing by, avoiding a nest of bicycles, and kids playing cricket. Traffic has somehow gotten ruder with the advent of the roads of the new millennium (which I feel was a bit delayed here). While the traffic now moves at a furious pace, the people are still where I left them. The topics of discussion still remain the same, modern Islam vs traditional Islam, new corrupt politicians vs old corrupt politicians, political and economic uncertainties, etc etc.
Parents are a huge comfort as always, but every time I am sitting with them, I keep thinking about going back. The food poisoning didn't help either. Neither did the lying personnel at Wateen that I dealt with. Wateen is this company that provides high speed internet connectivity, or at least they claim to provide it, and shower you with glorious extensions of truth, and outright lies. All told to make you feel the way they think you want to feel. Like the girl telling the boy she still loves him, when they both know love died a long time ago. The good thing is that little episode is now over.
But still that little daze, and that little discomfort remains, nagging at the back of the mind, like an old injury that never fully heals. I am hoping that the little excursion I am planning with my oldest friends would help. I guess I'd be able to say more about it in 6 days or so.
This is getting depressing...so time to end this to return another day.
It also doesn't help that they've changed my city so much, in just one year. Gone are the roads I grew up on, and learned to drive on. All replaced by quasi highways, with motor cars racing by, avoiding a nest of bicycles, and kids playing cricket. Traffic has somehow gotten ruder with the advent of the roads of the new millennium (which I feel was a bit delayed here). While the traffic now moves at a furious pace, the people are still where I left them. The topics of discussion still remain the same, modern Islam vs traditional Islam, new corrupt politicians vs old corrupt politicians, political and economic uncertainties, etc etc.
Parents are a huge comfort as always, but every time I am sitting with them, I keep thinking about going back. The food poisoning didn't help either. Neither did the lying personnel at Wateen that I dealt with. Wateen is this company that provides high speed internet connectivity, or at least they claim to provide it, and shower you with glorious extensions of truth, and outright lies. All told to make you feel the way they think you want to feel. Like the girl telling the boy she still loves him, when they both know love died a long time ago. The good thing is that little episode is now over.
But still that little daze, and that little discomfort remains, nagging at the back of the mind, like an old injury that never fully heals. I am hoping that the little excursion I am planning with my oldest friends would help. I guess I'd be able to say more about it in 6 days or so.
This is getting depressing...so time to end this to return another day.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
The Fast
He looks at it for a while when it is passed on to him. He can relate to the smoldering paper, dying a quick death. The thick mush of smoke that is witness to this short-lived existence. He brings it to his mouth, and breathes in as hard and as long as he can. The smoke fills his lungs, and he tries to keep it there; a tear trickles down his left eye. He needs the smoke to find the nesting place it needed in his lungs. In a bout of coughing, he loses it all. It dissipates with the thicker mush. He does, however, note that the colors are different, as they merge.
...
He swims deep beneath rolling waves. He is lost in the labyrinths of coral caves. He is also hunted by the echo of the distant times. In his case it isn't just a singular echo. He is the tyrant, the abused. He is what is, and what will ever be. He is beyond all his quantified failures, but also beyond reprieve. He is both master and slave. His focus drifts to the music. He grabs on to his favorite note. Holds on to it for dear life. The note plays on repeat in his head. The song moves on. He has finally held on to something.
...
His pants are unzipped. He looks around and he is castled in white marble. He looks down, and he sees the commode. He is in the toilet. He closes his eyes to get his bearings. He can hear Jimi violently strumming his guitar. Yes, it's a jam. A jam back at the house. He wants to be in his house. He wants to be at Woodstock. He needs to be among the few who never made it out. He wants to be the rain that nearly ruined everything. He comes back to the moment. Flush. Wash hands. Dry hands. No towel. His friend's mother's bath robe would do. Shirt tucked in. Belt buckled. He walks out.
...
He passes it along again. The symmetry maintained. Like the two-part circus. Puff. Puff. Pass. He looks at her now, and he can hear the cracks in the perfect facade. She's wearing too much makeup. Her perfume suddenly suffocates him. The jasmine smell is a thick cloud of Nitrogen around him. Chilled to the bone. He needs to get out.
"Where are they?"
"They're looking for the toad."
"The toad?"
"Yes, it jumped off the marble slab, and into the rose bushes."
"Should I go help them?"
"They'll be back soon. They've already uprooted most of the bushes."
"Yeah, I guess it can't hide for much longer."
...
He mind drifts back to the note. The realization that he let it slip away. Again. It's all sand. It's all getting out now. He needs to let it all out. He needs to throw up. He tries to get up. His knees buckle. He grabs on the waste basket. Kneeling into it, he let's it all go. Wipes his face with the palm of his hand. His mouth tastes of vomit. He collapses back on to the futon. His insides hurt. He needs to prepare for the Chem ATP. What was supposed to happen to the litmus paper? How do you control the production of ammonia? How is she preparing for the exam right now? What is she wearing right now. This was a bad idea.
...
His throat is dry. He can feel cracks opening up. He will never be able to talk again. They will find him. They will take him. When they take him, he won't be able to call for help. Who would he call for help. Behind the cap of music, he can hear something. A distant call for prayer. It keeps knocking down his silent wails. He can even make out the words.
Assalat-u-khairum minnan naar
Assalat-u-khairum minnan naar
...
He needs a drink of water before it's too late. There are bodies scattered about him on the futon. Deep, oblivious slumber. The human stench overpowers him for a moment. He is almost thrown off balance with an urge to hurl. He already did that. He manages to get up. He looks around in the illuminated darkness. The bottle in the corner of the room. He uncorks it. He takes in a large gulp. He needs to quench his thirst once and for all. The dry gin burns up everything inside him. He feels it ripping through. It is his Barium meal. The Barium meal you could feel, but not see. It's not a Barium meal at all. It is his last meal. Supper. He collapses.
...
Slowly, his eyes creak open. Like the back door to the havaili. His head feels heavier then usual. His clothes stick to his body. He can't feel his arm. Slowly he flips around. He can feel a million needles sticking into his arm. He likes it. He feels alive. Taking support from the wall, he slowly gets up. His legs don't give way. They are good legs. They are true to him. He thinks of the old man. He thinks of his sea. Cursing his left arm for not being as true as his right arm. A smile works its way across his face. He walks up the stairs.
...
"Sleeping Beauty finally got up! Come on, we got breakfast from Niazi's."
"You guys go on ahead...I'm fasting..."
...
He swims deep beneath rolling waves. He is lost in the labyrinths of coral caves. He is also hunted by the echo of the distant times. In his case it isn't just a singular echo. He is the tyrant, the abused. He is what is, and what will ever be. He is beyond all his quantified failures, but also beyond reprieve. He is both master and slave. His focus drifts to the music. He grabs on to his favorite note. Holds on to it for dear life. The note plays on repeat in his head. The song moves on. He has finally held on to something.
...
His pants are unzipped. He looks around and he is castled in white marble. He looks down, and he sees the commode. He is in the toilet. He closes his eyes to get his bearings. He can hear Jimi violently strumming his guitar. Yes, it's a jam. A jam back at the house. He wants to be in his house. He wants to be at Woodstock. He needs to be among the few who never made it out. He wants to be the rain that nearly ruined everything. He comes back to the moment. Flush. Wash hands. Dry hands. No towel. His friend's mother's bath robe would do. Shirt tucked in. Belt buckled. He walks out.
...
He passes it along again. The symmetry maintained. Like the two-part circus. Puff. Puff. Pass. He looks at her now, and he can hear the cracks in the perfect facade. She's wearing too much makeup. Her perfume suddenly suffocates him. The jasmine smell is a thick cloud of Nitrogen around him. Chilled to the bone. He needs to get out.
"Where are they?"
"They're looking for the toad."
"The toad?"
"Yes, it jumped off the marble slab, and into the rose bushes."
"Should I go help them?"
"They'll be back soon. They've already uprooted most of the bushes."
"Yeah, I guess it can't hide for much longer."
...
He mind drifts back to the note. The realization that he let it slip away. Again. It's all sand. It's all getting out now. He needs to let it all out. He needs to throw up. He tries to get up. His knees buckle. He grabs on the waste basket. Kneeling into it, he let's it all go. Wipes his face with the palm of his hand. His mouth tastes of vomit. He collapses back on to the futon. His insides hurt. He needs to prepare for the Chem ATP. What was supposed to happen to the litmus paper? How do you control the production of ammonia? How is she preparing for the exam right now? What is she wearing right now. This was a bad idea.
...
His throat is dry. He can feel cracks opening up. He will never be able to talk again. They will find him. They will take him. When they take him, he won't be able to call for help. Who would he call for help. Behind the cap of music, he can hear something. A distant call for prayer. It keeps knocking down his silent wails. He can even make out the words.
Assalat-u-khairum minnan naar
Assalat-u-khairum minnan naar
...
He needs a drink of water before it's too late. There are bodies scattered about him on the futon. Deep, oblivious slumber. The human stench overpowers him for a moment. He is almost thrown off balance with an urge to hurl. He already did that. He manages to get up. He looks around in the illuminated darkness. The bottle in the corner of the room. He uncorks it. He takes in a large gulp. He needs to quench his thirst once and for all. The dry gin burns up everything inside him. He feels it ripping through. It is his Barium meal. The Barium meal you could feel, but not see. It's not a Barium meal at all. It is his last meal. Supper. He collapses.
...
Slowly, his eyes creak open. Like the back door to the havaili. His head feels heavier then usual. His clothes stick to his body. He can't feel his arm. Slowly he flips around. He can feel a million needles sticking into his arm. He likes it. He feels alive. Taking support from the wall, he slowly gets up. His legs don't give way. They are good legs. They are true to him. He thinks of the old man. He thinks of his sea. Cursing his left arm for not being as true as his right arm. A smile works its way across his face. He walks up the stairs.
...
"Sleeping Beauty finally got up! Come on, we got breakfast from Niazi's."
"You guys go on ahead...I'm fasting..."
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
The man and his dog, and rose sunglasses...
[A distant shot of a man wearing a fedora, walking his dog on a pier, in black and white, the sea merging with the coast somewhere in the background]
Woman: Beautiful, that man and his dog.
Man: Hmm..
Woman: They walk alike
Man: Yes, they do. Do you know Giacometti, the sculptor?
Woman: Oh, yes. He was hansome.
Man: Well, Giacometti once said: "If caught in a fire and I had to choose between a Rembrandt and a cat...I'd choose the cat.
Woman: "..and then I'd let it go."
Man: Did he say that too?
Woman: That's what's so wonderful.
Man: Yes, it is. Between art and life, he said he'd choose life.
Woman: Beautiful.
Man: Yes.
Woman: Why did you ask me that?
Man: About Giacometti?
Woman: Yes.
Man: Because of the man and his dog.
It's amazing how most men remember things that sound good, but it is the women who remember what makes them so beautiful. And yet, somehow, both of them get the point!
A perfect end to a perfect day...I am a big sap for lush romances...so "Un homme et une femme" was a perfect ending to my day yet again. Now I will go to sleep, and all I have to do after I wake up is to buy rose colored glasses! :) They remind me of John Lennon (Beatles, not the commie) somehow, and I don't know why!
Woman: Beautiful, that man and his dog.
Man: Hmm..
Woman: They walk alike
Man: Yes, they do. Do you know Giacometti, the sculptor?
Woman: Oh, yes. He was hansome.
Man: Well, Giacometti once said: "If caught in a fire and I had to choose between a Rembrandt and a cat...I'd choose the cat.
Woman: "..and then I'd let it go."
Man: Did he say that too?
Woman: That's what's so wonderful.
Man: Yes, it is. Between art and life, he said he'd choose life.
Woman: Beautiful.
Man: Yes.
Woman: Why did you ask me that?
Man: About Giacometti?
Woman: Yes.
Man: Because of the man and his dog.
It's amazing how most men remember things that sound good, but it is the women who remember what makes them so beautiful. And yet, somehow, both of them get the point!
A perfect end to a perfect day...I am a big sap for lush romances...so "Un homme et une femme" was a perfect ending to my day yet again. Now I will go to sleep, and all I have to do after I wake up is to buy rose colored glasses! :) They remind me of John Lennon (Beatles, not the commie) somehow, and I don't know why!
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Mr. Plant, Ms. Krauss, please wait for me...
Concerts I've always wanted to attend, but probably (in most cases definitely) won't:
Led Zeppelin
Pink Floyd
Jimi Hendrix
Joni Mitchell
The Beatles
Nirvana
The Who
Janice Joplin
Guns N' Roses
Led Zeppelin didn't happen, but I was able to get a ticket for the Robert Plant and Alison Krauss concert coming to the RBC center. Now I just hope he sings "Going to California", even though it is a Zeppelin song. And I know "Kashmir" will be a bit much for the kind of concert it would be.
Now all I have to do is to wait for July 11th...and that is going to be tough!
Monday, June 02, 2008
Who Dies...
The place of my childhood
The place of my birth
Long quiet roads shaded by trees
The city surrounded by the cool comfort;
Of the ever-green Margalla Hills
The quiet evenings and bustling mornings
The emptiness and calm over the holidays
Serene paths and long walkways
Ice-cream cones and cappuccinos
Afghani jewelery and old book shops
Long strolls in the night
For nothing ever did go wrong
Peace and quiet
Love and warmth
Of friendships and love
Of family and friends
The feeling to belong
That urge to evolve
Jokes told; laughters shared
Memories made and passions exchanged
Mango parties and Aabpara karahi
Rock pools and QAU huts
Friend eggs and boiling tea
Hiking up Track 4 and sprinting down
That cool milkshake and paani-poori
Lying on the roof, feeling the rain
Nothing could go wrong
Nothing would go wrong
Bomb-blasts and shattered limbs
Extreme thoughts and broken hearts
Feeling scared and eating in
Curfews and genocide
Army actions and suicide
Promise of heaven to create hell
Show card illusions and lost souls
Lost lives, wives and kids...
Lost wills, smiles and now just chills
Who dies but the security guard
On minimum wage with his smelly feet
Four or five kids
And family back home
Making 4000 a month
Eating left-overs to send all the money home
Still singing songs in the evening
Telling stories of a freedom fighter grandpa
Who dies but the stories that were told
Memories that were shared
Jokes that were made
One dead and four or five to follow
More left-overs for the ones left over
That surely has to be good
Who dies but the good wife
Prostitute yourself woman to support your kids
Living in perdition, perdition awaits
No promises of heaven for you either, my dear
Swallow your grief and make small talk
Don't tell your story it would only kill the mood
Do what you can until you are strangled by the righteous neighbor
Or the honorable brother
And the kids of the whore, well they can go fuck themselves
Who dies but this illusion of peace
Hope and joy
Laughter too, shall run its course
Blank stares and muted thoughts
Don't say too much, for you too, maybe next
Say you believe, even though you don't
For saying otherwise shall get you death
But live on in this dead world
No hereafter for you my friend
Who dies but this city of dreams
For she too was just a dream
I hear she was a nice young girl
Born in the 60s she was just learning to run
Ice-creams and milkshakes
Paani-poori and cappuccinos
Aabpaara karahi and old book shops
They're all still there
Barely alive inside her belly
But you shouldn't go, better stay inside
For all this was always just fluff...
Go on you fuck
You militant man
Strap on yourself
And give us another pop
There's another security guard
That miserable sod
Working for the devil
Stick a fork in him, he's done
The nerve on him to hope for a good life
A full life...
To marry, have kids and sometimes smile
That stupid stupid, audacious prick
Singing songs in foreign tongues
No heaven for him either, not even hell
For this was his heaven, which turned into hell
That stupid grandpa
That freedom fighter
He should have known better
For he never, did really matter
Who dies...but a little of me
With all my limbs
And all my thoughts
Who dies...but a little of you
My sweet little girl
For you never belonged
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
If I had a heart - encore
I finally bought the new Joni Mitchell album, on the sort of a day you should buy a Joni album.
It began with picking strawberries. There is something rhythmic about walking through a strawberry field. Measured, light steps, hunched back, hands rifling through the plant, ever so gently. You don't pull on any strawberry you like. You hold it gently and wait for it to come away into your hand. If it doesn't, you move on. A bit like life isn't it...
Then there was a destination-less drive through the country side just outside of Cary and Apex. Farms upon farms, and in the middle tractors taking down trees of a hundred years in a hundred minutes. Elegantly huge signs posted up for the penultimate luxury living. A fence put up to shield the prospects from the murder of the forest that lived with itself in peace forever. Every now an then, spotting a crude, hand-painted chart put up annoyingly close to the construction sites, saying, pleading, "Stop Cary from taking over our farms / lives / ways of living". A sickening contrast, showing that the battle had already been won by the big industry, and all the little specks, and small farmers would soon be made to move off. Some with a juicy bone of enough money to retire in pseudo-luxury, others just forced out by building pressures.
Next stop was that wonderful old book shop in Franklin Street. Where you can sort through arrays of books, reeking of eras gone by, some falling apart in your hands. Sifting through books in the company of cats that don't smell like cats, but like old old books. You can feel the wisdom and peace that lies within the books in their eyes, and in their lazy sprawl. I bought more books then I would have time to read in the near future, but somehow their just lying there on my table gives me a certain reassurance. That this existence is somehow about a little more then I think. And there is always the possibility of a wonderful surprise. Not the surprise of a birthday party thrown in your honor, but the surprise of a flower blossoming in the wrong season.
And then I walked into the used and new music shop right across the street. Arrays of Jazz music, Blues scattered about, records of years of yonder stacked up with all the dust. Somehow I found my way to the M's and there it was, the album I had been meaning to buy. An album that I nearly bought in NY City, but was dissuaded by Alina. But then that wasn't the day or place to buy a Joni album either. Standing inside a Starbucks on Times Square, surrounded by Big Yellow Taxis, and feeling mother earth dying just a little bit more with that unnecessary car's exhaust.
But in that music shop where the owner actually knew every record, CD, LP he had in his store, and he knew the music. Somehow that felt the right time to bring "Shine" into my life.
We heard the album on our way back, before stopping in the middle to eat the strawberries with cream and sugar borrowed from that coffee shop. I have been listening to it every since. And I feel at peace with myself for now. Questions of right, wrong, belief, heaven and hell don't bother me. I am just hoping this feeling will go on just a little bit longer.
If I Had A Heart
by Joni Mitchell
Holy war
Genocide
Suicide
Hate and cruelty...
How can this be holy?
If I had a heart I'd cry.
These ancient tales...
The good go to heaven
And the wicked ones burn in hell...
Ring the funeral bells!
If I had a heart I'd cry.
There's just too many people now
Too little land
Much too much desire
You feel so feeble now
It's so out of hand
Big bombs and barbed wire
We've set our lovely sky
Our lovely sky
On fire!
There's just too many people now
And too little land
Too much rage and desire
It makes you feel so feeble now
It's so out of hand-
Big bombs and barbed wire...
Can't you see
Our destiny?
We are making this Earth
Our funeral pyre!
Holy Earth
How can we heal you?
We cover you like a blight...
Strange birds of appetite...
If I had a heart I'd cry.
If I had a heart I'd cry.
If I had a heart I'd cry.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Remembrance
Christina G. Rossetti said it better then I could ever so I won't be saying anything...
Remember
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
Remember
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
I dreamt my life last night...
The wind howled in my ears, and the trees, just like the grass, were kissing the ground. Water was pouring from the skies, and bouncing off the ground. I could feel the loud thuds of heavy downpour on my head and the back of my neck. Some water seeped into my ears as well. With eyes squinted I rambled on, in my hysteria, not really looking for shelter, but just wanting to feel the rain a little more violently. I couldn't see much, but I could hear the hut's tin roof clanking away into the wee hours of the night. It was as if all the spoons, knives, mirrors, and dishes from the Beauty and the Beast had come over to celebrate the end of the never-ending drought. I ran in the direction of the loudest clamor and hugged the worn-down and soaked wooden wall, made up of tree trunks of surprisingly similar width. And suddenly I was thinking about the death of all these trees to make up these four walls, to provide shelter to one or two. But the tree trunks stood resolute against the gushes of wind.
And all of a sudden I had this urge to run away from there, far away from there, and then I was in Mrs. Boxworth's sixth grade music class, auditioning for the chorus. I was making an utter fool of myself in that bright room with the somber looking piano, trying to hide my crush on her, and at the same time trying to sound not too unpleasant. Unsure if I should lean against the piano, I just stood there with my arms folded, and eyes still squinted. The sun in Spring Valley always shone very bright on a clear March morning. And then I was thinking about the walk back from the school. It would be very cold, and the kids would be mean to me again. I would be Saddam Boy to them. Strange that I only found out about Saddam after I was called his boy, strange as I wasn't even from his country. And I needed to leave again.
And in that very moment I had grown a couple of years, and was playing cricket with my friends from the street. They would soon close the play-ground to build the market, so it was very important to play as much as we could. At-least we'd still have our naala which smelled a little funny. Mother said that it was always less them a mile from you wherever you went in Islamabad, and that it wasn't form swimming as the water was dirty. But it didn't seem dirty, just smelled a little. I played the ball to the off-side and ran for a single, and collapsed to the ground before I made it to the other end. It was as if someone was sticking out a needle right under my right kidney. Soon this guy in a white coat was telling me about my appendix, and how they had to do something right away, and I needed to run away again.
And then I was in the old book shop in Jinnah, rifling through as many books as I could, and making sure I didn't spill my coffee on any. Shabbir chacha had already warned me not to. But he let me drink coffee in his little shop, as he said I wasn't like these other kids from my school, and my parents had taught me respect. Hemingway sounded like a cool name, and I decided to walk out with the old man and take his sea with me. It looked small enough to finish in a night, and then my parents would think I was studying for the Math exam. Besides I couldn't call Zeeshan up at night as he would be talking to his girlfriend on the phone and tell his mother that it was me. And now it reminded me of her and I wanted to be gone from there as well. I wanted to be all grown up, and I wanted to have a full stubble like all the other guys in class, well not all, but most of them. Maybe I should try shaving with my uncle's Sensor Excel again.
And there I was walking down that crooked path right across from the Covered market, that lead to the two swings on the left. I was on the swing and my troupe of four were all walking and swinging around me. We were speaking of everything, love, life, parents, and that really cool show about that group of six friends in New York, and the ever alluding GPA. I was told by my true friend to focus more on my assignments, but I convinced her to just let me copy. She disagreed but I knew she would let me copy anyway. And then it was decided to go to the dhaaba that was at the end of the crooked path, for a cup of tea (or two) . And then I was thinking about that dog that came out of the house with all the flowers. It wasn't that I was scared of dogs, I just never liked them very much, at least that would be my story and I would stick to it. But I decided to walk in the middle of everyone just to be safe. And I knew that I needed to move on.
And then I was sitting in that hall full of people, all of whom were facing me. The fancy shayrwaani kurta was suffocating me and the turban was just outright silly. To top it off, Nasir bhai (my barber) had bleached my hands without saying what he was doing. So I this brown dude with blond hair on his hands, wearing a funny outfit, facing the crowd. The mike in front of my looked like a viper, and I wondered if the dude with the big beard would ask me to recite the third kalma. I should have learned it, and I knew that would come back to bite me in the ass someday. Or at least I should have shaved my goatee, for there was this sect that had goatees that weren't considered Muslims.
Shit!
I was thinking of what the sect was called and the Imam was talking to me. Well at least I wasn't being quizzed, just made to affirm my beliefs. And then I was looking at the papers in front of me and the yellow Piano pen lying on top of them. I would make the biggest decision in my life, and sign it off with a freaking Rs. One-Fifty, Piano-shitty-ball point pen. I needed to get out of there.
And then I was hugging the soaked hut again. The wind was as loud, the downpour as thick, but I felt still. I was in a state of complete heartsease. It was as if I could hear every drop of rain on every surface in the vicinity. Kind of like the first time I smoked pot. I wasn't awkward, anxious, or uncertain. I was just there.
There in that moment, that fake, hallucinogenic moment, which felt more real then my life in a very uncanny way.
And all of a sudden I had this urge to run away from there, far away from there, and then I was in Mrs. Boxworth's sixth grade music class, auditioning for the chorus. I was making an utter fool of myself in that bright room with the somber looking piano, trying to hide my crush on her, and at the same time trying to sound not too unpleasant. Unsure if I should lean against the piano, I just stood there with my arms folded, and eyes still squinted. The sun in Spring Valley always shone very bright on a clear March morning. And then I was thinking about the walk back from the school. It would be very cold, and the kids would be mean to me again. I would be Saddam Boy to them. Strange that I only found out about Saddam after I was called his boy, strange as I wasn't even from his country. And I needed to leave again.
And in that very moment I had grown a couple of years, and was playing cricket with my friends from the street. They would soon close the play-ground to build the market, so it was very important to play as much as we could. At-least we'd still have our naala which smelled a little funny. Mother said that it was always less them a mile from you wherever you went in Islamabad, and that it wasn't form swimming as the water was dirty. But it didn't seem dirty, just smelled a little. I played the ball to the off-side and ran for a single, and collapsed to the ground before I made it to the other end. It was as if someone was sticking out a needle right under my right kidney. Soon this guy in a white coat was telling me about my appendix, and how they had to do something right away, and I needed to run away again.
And then I was in the old book shop in Jinnah, rifling through as many books as I could, and making sure I didn't spill my coffee on any. Shabbir chacha had already warned me not to. But he let me drink coffee in his little shop, as he said I wasn't like these other kids from my school, and my parents had taught me respect. Hemingway sounded like a cool name, and I decided to walk out with the old man and take his sea with me. It looked small enough to finish in a night, and then my parents would think I was studying for the Math exam. Besides I couldn't call Zeeshan up at night as he would be talking to his girlfriend on the phone and tell his mother that it was me. And now it reminded me of her and I wanted to be gone from there as well. I wanted to be all grown up, and I wanted to have a full stubble like all the other guys in class, well not all, but most of them. Maybe I should try shaving with my uncle's Sensor Excel again.
And there I was walking down that crooked path right across from the Covered market, that lead to the two swings on the left. I was on the swing and my troupe of four were all walking and swinging around me. We were speaking of everything, love, life, parents, and that really cool show about that group of six friends in New York, and the ever alluding GPA. I was told by my true friend to focus more on my assignments, but I convinced her to just let me copy. She disagreed but I knew she would let me copy anyway. And then it was decided to go to the dhaaba that was at the end of the crooked path, for a cup of tea (or two) . And then I was thinking about that dog that came out of the house with all the flowers. It wasn't that I was scared of dogs, I just never liked them very much, at least that would be my story and I would stick to it. But I decided to walk in the middle of everyone just to be safe. And I knew that I needed to move on.
And then I was sitting in that hall full of people, all of whom were facing me. The fancy shayrwaani kurta was suffocating me and the turban was just outright silly. To top it off, Nasir bhai (my barber) had bleached my hands without saying what he was doing. So I this brown dude with blond hair on his hands, wearing a funny outfit, facing the crowd. The mike in front of my looked like a viper, and I wondered if the dude with the big beard would ask me to recite the third kalma. I should have learned it, and I knew that would come back to bite me in the ass someday. Or at least I should have shaved my goatee, for there was this sect that had goatees that weren't considered Muslims.
Shit!
I was thinking of what the sect was called and the Imam was talking to me. Well at least I wasn't being quizzed, just made to affirm my beliefs. And then I was looking at the papers in front of me and the yellow Piano pen lying on top of them. I would make the biggest decision in my life, and sign it off with a freaking Rs. One-Fifty, Piano-shitty-ball point pen. I needed to get out of there.
And then I was hugging the soaked hut again. The wind was as loud, the downpour as thick, but I felt still. I was in a state of complete heartsease. It was as if I could hear every drop of rain on every surface in the vicinity. Kind of like the first time I smoked pot. I wasn't awkward, anxious, or uncertain. I was just there.
There in that moment, that fake, hallucinogenic moment, which felt more real then my life in a very uncanny way.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Breaking down
I read something by someone today that got me thinking about the web of relationships that we create around us. Specially in the context of relationships that die, some violent deaths, and some that surrender to the slow embrace of inevitability. Some leave us with a comfortable longing, and some leave us shaken up to the core, scared of even a mild breeze.
But no matter how they end, they leave permanent markers on us, like stamps on our existence always reminding us of what was. Changing us, and forever taking away that little innocence that stems from blind faith and trust. Leaving us just a little more cynical, and little more circumspect.
But still as we move on, we create new relationships, always different from the ones that preceded them, but similar in the sense that they too, shall end. For if the universe teaches us a lesson, it is the lesson of finiteness. How every thing has a life, not matter how long or how small, and with every end comes a new beginning, and the beginning always also triggers the beginning of the particular end. From the Big Bang to the Big Crunch, and from a butterfly's birth to its demise.
Still we find ourselves reaching out into the big unknown, trying to create planned random collisions of minds and if we're lucky, souls. And we, stupidly even, create new monuments on the debris of the fallen castles of our hopes and desires. Fooling ourselves into thinking that we are wiser for the loss, while in reality, we're still the same, just a little more uncertain.
Of course with every end, comes a period of examination. Examining the affects in terms of the causes, and at times building up causes that would somehow heal the bruises left by the wreckage...
Sometimes I feel that I would just get caged in the moment of the latest speculation, that everything would seize to exist, and all possibilities of an end would be taken away by the surge of nothingness. And yet, no matter how hopeless it all feels, I do get out of the all consuming black-hole (thank you Babar for leaving me with this wonderful notion). I start to move again. The small tentative steps of an 80 year old, followed by the mad dash of the blind bull, into the matador's sword.
This poem would be a good end to this, it's by Walter Savage Landor.
You smiled, you spoke, and I believed,
By every word and smile deceived.
Another man would hope no more;
Nor hope I what I hoped before:
But let not this last wish be vain;
Deceive, deceive me once again!
But no matter how they end, they leave permanent markers on us, like stamps on our existence always reminding us of what was. Changing us, and forever taking away that little innocence that stems from blind faith and trust. Leaving us just a little more cynical, and little more circumspect.
But still as we move on, we create new relationships, always different from the ones that preceded them, but similar in the sense that they too, shall end. For if the universe teaches us a lesson, it is the lesson of finiteness. How every thing has a life, not matter how long or how small, and with every end comes a new beginning, and the beginning always also triggers the beginning of the particular end. From the Big Bang to the Big Crunch, and from a butterfly's birth to its demise.
Still we find ourselves reaching out into the big unknown, trying to create planned random collisions of minds and if we're lucky, souls. And we, stupidly even, create new monuments on the debris of the fallen castles of our hopes and desires. Fooling ourselves into thinking that we are wiser for the loss, while in reality, we're still the same, just a little more uncertain.
Of course with every end, comes a period of examination. Examining the affects in terms of the causes, and at times building up causes that would somehow heal the bruises left by the wreckage...
Sometimes I feel that I would just get caged in the moment of the latest speculation, that everything would seize to exist, and all possibilities of an end would be taken away by the surge of nothingness. And yet, no matter how hopeless it all feels, I do get out of the all consuming black-hole (thank you Babar for leaving me with this wonderful notion). I start to move again. The small tentative steps of an 80 year old, followed by the mad dash of the blind bull, into the matador's sword.
This poem would be a good end to this, it's by Walter Savage Landor.
You smiled, you spoke, and I believed,
By every word and smile deceived.
Another man would hope no more;
Nor hope I what I hoped before:
But let not this last wish be vain;
Deceive, deceive me once again!
Monday, May 19, 2008
New Things...for Louie
So Alina's been gone for nearly three weeks now, and I have, in a way settled into this new situation (with some help), as settled as you can get I guess. I guess we all have our own ways of settling down in the situations we find ourselves in, different yellow-brick roads leading to the Wizard, the biggest gimmick of them all!
First, let's make one thing clear. This is not the first time that I find myself in this situation. I have lived with just myself as company for longer periods of time. But that was usually on business trips, cooped up in an extended stay suite of one kind or another. There's this careless dehumanizing affect these suites have. Starting with the essentials, 4 big plates, 4 small plates, 4 bowls, 4 spoons, 4 forks, 4 knives, sachets of bad coffee, a coffee maker. It's like stepping into a little island, where your life has already been laid out for you. All you have to do is step inside. You can reach out and make contact, but it has to be fleeting, like you're just flirting with time, and there's nothing more to it.
Other times it's been with room-mates of one kind or another. That was more like building up a mock family, sharing chores, stories, and ambitions. A family that comes very close, and then disbands with the apartment.
This time, it was unique. Alina and I built a home here from scratch. Got everything from a sofa to a broom. Slowly and persistently we made the two rooms and the two baths and all the blank walls in between our own. Items were hung on the walls, and the sofas were sat in to leave our prints. Eventually the apartment became our own little planet, one that only the two of us cohabited, ventured out of, but always returned to.
Now that I was left alone in this little world of ours, I found myself in unfamiliar waters. A "home" in my book is defined by the people who give it life. And suddenly half the home was gone...on vacation! But what of the other (lesser) half? What does he do. The thought to move into an extended-stay suite came to me, but I rejected it as idiotic, childish, and plain and simple silly. Then I thought of sub-letting our second bedroom temporarily, but that somehow felt inappropriate as well.
So after a lot of thoughtful contemplation, I did what any sane man, in my situation, would do. I got a cat! He's an eleven-year old Chocolate Siamese. Looking at him, I feel that he's been through quite a lot, and yet he still has this weird sense of serenity about him.
A little history, Shamrock (that was his name) was put up for adoption as his last "head of household" developed allergies (she was okay with the four other cats she had), and the alternate would be a short life at the shelter before being gassed. Now Mr. Cat found himself in a situation he hadn't been in before, on the lookout for a new household in the years of his life where he would have expected to slow down, and take it easy. To me, it felt fated for him to become a part of our home. So he came into my life (and eventually Alina's life) last week.
I call him Louie, not the king, but more like "Louie, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship...", and he impresses me everyday. With his sense of cleanliness and hygiene, a hidden need for attention, which is never played out like say a puppy, but a mature reflection really. And the way he's bee sizing me up. At times I feel that he's been evaluating me for the most important job in my career. And then he impresses me with the grace he imparts, be it just strutting around within our home, or scratching the back of the sofa with his declawed paws, or just lying on the cushion besides me, as I show him Casablanca, so he could understand where his name comes from.
So this goes out to Louie, who helped me settle down into this new, albeit temporary, way of living.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
My Blogirthday!
I just realized, this April, it was the 4th birthday of my Blog! Four fulfilling years and hopefully many more to come, in a world that is more at peace with itself.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Beginning with an "I"
I read a book recently, The Emperors Children; in it there was a notion that you shouldn't begin a letter with an I, because it is too self-indulgent, too self-involved, and too selfish. But the more I think about it, the more I disagree with the notion. I see the world through my eyes, live life through my existence, and interact with people mostly being myself (okay not mostly, but refreshingly - occasionally). Even a prodigious work of art, a colossal book, a great movie, all portrayals from thinkers, visionaries, are eventually translated through the "I" of my existence.
So if I avoid a beginning with an "I", then I am being dishonest in some way. Trying to mimic something I can never really fathom, for I am (for this life at least) bound by my existence. Shallow and paltry it maybe, it is the greatest book, movie, and piece of art put together in my little boat.
Mona Lisa's smile would never mean to me what it meant to Da Vinci, or even to the lady with the smile (smirk maybe), it would always be a reflection of my current thought and desires at that particular moment. Extracted from that moment, it may reflect boundless melancholy or uninhibited elation.
It's like seeing a great landscape, with that externalized sunset over an expanding ocean. The sunset itself isn't sad or serene, it doesn't feel. The ocean doesn't really speak to you, it is just what it does. It's just the reflection of the cycle of existence, the periodic time-table we live by or try to elude. It is us, this miserable branch of existence, caught in our own selfish pity that give feeling, even meaning to what is otherwise just an everyday thing. In the bigger picture, just as mundane as that guy chewing on his finger-nails, or Ahmed, that falafel cart owner on the 42nd. The sunset, the nail chewer, and Ahmed. It's just that the overall consciousness chose to romanticize the first, shun the second, and completely ignore the third.
Ironic that even our heroes, the leader, the visionary, the single mom of two who lives in the apartment opposite mine, our definitions of selflessness, of belief - they were and are, all of them, just as caught up in themselves. The leader leads as he cannot follow, the visionary envisions as he can't get off his ass and fry himself an egg. And the single mother...
Aah the single mother, the biggest miracle of them all, juggling two jobs, the perverted boss, the thankless teenager, the trusting toddler, and a partially senile mother. She does what she does because she doesn't have time to think, to breathe, to really see what happened. It has just become a challenge for her. God spited her, and now she's spiting back! The teenager screams, the boss grabs her ass, the car won't start, and her mom is out for a walk in the rain at 3 in the morning, but she just goes on. Shouts back at the teenager, ignores the boss, catches the bus, shuttles her mom back. Her anger feeds her, and her mistrust eggs her on.
All caught in their own worlds, go on in this unsynchronized symphony. Above all that, and most importantly, they are all interpreted, evaluated, misunderstood, lost, all in my I...so how can I, then begin my sentences, my letters, my thoughts with anything but an I?
So if I avoid a beginning with an "I", then I am being dishonest in some way. Trying to mimic something I can never really fathom, for I am (for this life at least) bound by my existence. Shallow and paltry it maybe, it is the greatest book, movie, and piece of art put together in my little boat.
Mona Lisa's smile would never mean to me what it meant to Da Vinci, or even to the lady with the smile (smirk maybe), it would always be a reflection of my current thought and desires at that particular moment. Extracted from that moment, it may reflect boundless melancholy or uninhibited elation.
It's like seeing a great landscape, with that externalized sunset over an expanding ocean. The sunset itself isn't sad or serene, it doesn't feel. The ocean doesn't really speak to you, it is just what it does. It's just the reflection of the cycle of existence, the periodic time-table we live by or try to elude. It is us, this miserable branch of existence, caught in our own selfish pity that give feeling, even meaning to what is otherwise just an everyday thing. In the bigger picture, just as mundane as that guy chewing on his finger-nails, or Ahmed, that falafel cart owner on the 42nd. The sunset, the nail chewer, and Ahmed. It's just that the overall consciousness chose to romanticize the first, shun the second, and completely ignore the third.
Ironic that even our heroes, the leader, the visionary, the single mom of two who lives in the apartment opposite mine, our definitions of selflessness, of belief - they were and are, all of them, just as caught up in themselves. The leader leads as he cannot follow, the visionary envisions as he can't get off his ass and fry himself an egg. And the single mother...
Aah the single mother, the biggest miracle of them all, juggling two jobs, the perverted boss, the thankless teenager, the trusting toddler, and a partially senile mother. She does what she does because she doesn't have time to think, to breathe, to really see what happened. It has just become a challenge for her. God spited her, and now she's spiting back! The teenager screams, the boss grabs her ass, the car won't start, and her mom is out for a walk in the rain at 3 in the morning, but she just goes on. Shouts back at the teenager, ignores the boss, catches the bus, shuttles her mom back. Her anger feeds her, and her mistrust eggs her on.
All caught in their own worlds, go on in this unsynchronized symphony. Above all that, and most importantly, they are all interpreted, evaluated, misunderstood, lost, all in my I...so how can I, then begin my sentences, my letters, my thoughts with anything but an I?
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