half past nomad

I wrote this a whislt ago. I left it alone, for reasons mine. I edited it a little more and here it comes:

Mr Jones and I took Lucy out for a walk a little before dinner the other night. Lucy is a great dog, beautiful, golden, quiet and obedient. She belongs to Jon, their son. Lucy is more cautious around me, then I am around her.

It was the first time I had ever taken a dog out for a walk. As a matter of fact, this was the longest time I had spent with a dog. Fortunately for me, it went rather well. It could have easily gone the other way, had Lucy decided to further investigate the strange rituals of The Squirrels That Live In Trees. The 20ft leash is godsent.

Before the walk, I told dad that we didn’t really have dogs back home. He simply chuckled and patiently listened to me. Looking back at that conversation now, I wonder what back home means anymore. I don’t live there anymore, I don’t ever remembering even living there, I just sort of stayed there whilst I was in highschool, until school ran out, summer bleached in golden and hot, drying out spring till autumn cooled it off, for the next school year to start.

Back Home. I need to update that definition. It can definitely no longer refer to where I grew up, for I grew up on highways and good conversations with friends. I grew up under starry nights as I lay in bed, staring out my window and pondering lazily. I grew up infront of computer screens bright and keyboards pale yellow. I grew up under rainy skies and sun blasted days.
Countries don’t matter, cities barely mentioned. So then what?
I wish I knew. I honestly wish I did.

I read once that a traveller carries his home with him, a turtle shell of sorts, a long brown walking stick with a patched up bundle at the end. That a traveller carries his home in his mind, regardless of where he goes or who he meets. That way, he’s always home. That way, he’s never alone.
I’ve been doing that for years now. Just like you.

It works. Data has been restored.
Now, to get back to work.

Most definitely the best way to keep a friend waiting on the phone whilst you dash about is this:
– Place receiver down
– Dash madly about place.
– Whilst dashing, keep yelling reassurances to your phone. super loudly.
– Some examples are:
1) “I found it!”
2) “I’m almost there!”
3) “holy !#!%!#% I friggin’ stubbed my ##%$&*! toe you damn #!%^!@ footstool”
4) “Please oh please Waleed don’t hangup on me I promise it’s worth it!”

And i’ll just sit there, chuckling to myself as you leap over furniture and obstacles and pets and pro’lly your wife too, to save your laptop from dying out because you forgot to plug it in.

– Finally, pick up receiver and resume absolute normal conversation.

note: i’m not responsible for any consequences for use of this method at work, despite my constant daring and egging you to do this mostly at work.

Though I’m not done writing about AM’s wedding the other weekend, whilst there, this came to mind. Its been over a year since such inspiration whispered by, amidst a cocoon of angels, friends and family all in a eery harmony of slightly deviated fracas. I caught the whisper, captured it carefully and gently explored it.

I doodle:

You don’t conquer love
love conquers you.
But you don’t submit to love
love submits to you.

Hope it makes sense outside my head now.

ps: er, it was a wedding, everyone emotional, mothers crying, fathers have something in their eye, brothers finally have their own room – you know how it is.

I read the local paper at lunch. The event of the year, of years, the fifth book released, the children delighted, the money mongrels ecstatic, the parents joyous, the audience thrilled and moi, bookless, pennyless.
Sab’r.
I have dibs on 4 different HP5 sources. Allow me:
1) K.D., who reads along with her two children.
2) M.J. and S.J., who bought two copies, for each child.
3) Public library, 3 copies, i’m the 9th in the list. Mrs T insisted I be smart to do so.
4) Akds, all the way in __, who bought it for his sister, who reads it under pretense of reading it to her young son, who pro’lly struggles to even carry the dang large books nowadays. To be mailed when read.

Each book, to be handed over when read thoroughly, when deliciously tasted, when pages have been eagerly turned over, when smiles have gone on for days to read of loved characters in events tragic, heroic – human.

So imagine the surprise when KD comes up to me today and annouces her sweet intentions. Still in its Amazon.Com packaging, she hands my her copy. I’m dumbstruck. Does she not know the treasure within, the laughs captured in pages – of the adventures you are delaying KD, do you understand what you’re doing?
“I do Waleed, I do”, she tells me, “Just go ahead, read it. You’ll pro’lly read it faster then my kids anyway, and I thought to myself, that therefore you should get first dibs. (Before her own flesh and blood, I think to myself). I’ve kept it in my car since I got it, hoping to bump into you; I even drove by on Sat and dropped into the dept to see if you would be there, but then remembered you were pro’lly in bed, ill. Eh, it’s only two days of waiting, right? And you get the book, untouched. Virgin.

Enjoy the book Waleed. DON’T TELL ME ANYTHING. But just take your time to savor it. I knew you would love it.”

KD. Thank you. For I do not have words.

Be it a book, be it lunch, be it a smile shared amidst a crowd. That’s what so nice. That even when you didn’t realize it, you did belong somewhere. That people cared about you, despite how alone you thought you were. That outside office walls and classrooms, professors and others think of you when they’re buying books at midnight, laughing with their children.
It’s good to be cared for. Alhamdulilah.

He looked over my writing, reading carefully as his style was. I gave him his time; he took less then 10 minutes to read it all and proclaimed at the end:

Him: “Aha! I see what bothers you my friend. This is only a little of you here. Having met you, conversed several times with you, these differences are quite clear.”

Me: “I know. But I just wanted to hear it from an unbiased source. Do you notice how my writing is overlayed with sober, somber tones? Sure, those tones exist, but looking over my blog man, it seems as if that is all I am. A depressed maniac with a personality bordering on heroism. ” (I recall a copyright I read over at SH’s, to tell the readers of such occurrences).

Him: “I understand what you’re saying. When you write, you’re only expressing that small part of humanity inside of you. What is on your mind, flows out first. It is quite possible to write the rest as well you know. That is what you’re concerned about, am i correct in that assesment?”

Me: “Yeah, yeah I am. It’s just that since I’m trying to be more careful of my writing, most of it ends up taking a turn for the dramatic it seems. Take the wedding I went to last weekend. I’m still not done writing it since i’m trying to take a little extra time to write better perhaps. It’s in my MovableType’s draft entries, constantly being edited and written further therefore. It wasn’t a depressing wedding, heck it was an amazing time yet my writing in there too has drifted towards…I dunno…I just have to try harder I guess… but honestly, I believe that writing humour is one of the tougher types of writing”

Him: “Hmm…no, not really. All writing styles are equally hard. Take Poe for example. He was a miserable, sad, poor, starved unhealthy man with a ton of problems. His writing obviously screams that. Yet his audience doesn’t quite feel like that.”

Me: “Yeah but the writer-writing is only half the equation; the other half is audience-writing.”

Him: “You know, some writers would argue that writer-writing was the full equation itself. But never the less, tell me. Do you think you can procure a solution to this dilemma of yours my friend?”

Me: “… … yes, I should be able to. I just have to. Remember.”

Note: I couldn’t remember the exact conversation, but it had the gist I wrote of above. Secondly, I wanted to write out the conversation, rather then my personal thoughts on this topic, for this conversation is the raw edition of what exists within minds nomadic and my blog being recently re-created (in terms of objectives, etc etc), I wanted to make sure I was doing it right. Thirdly, I had these hamburgers for dinner and Mr Jones really knows his stuff. I mention the burgers because I’m hungry again and I don’t want chicken noodle soup anymore. Fourthly, the strawberry pie Mrs Jones baked for dessert, to put mildly, is mindblowing with a huge dab of whipped cream on top. If you’re ever in town and I can persuade her to make some, then let’s do coffee+pie. Lastly, don’t be too alarmed if we watch Tom&Jerry as we eat the pie.
G’night.

I’m ok.

I’ve heard that after the first few miles, long distance runners stop feeling much and simply get off on their natural adrenaline high. After the first few miles.

I spent almost two hours talking. Not talking. Listening. Standing still as bullets whizzed by, holes in my long coat, scratches here and there, deep wounds left elsewhere where they entered flesh and exited from points elsewhere.
I could actually hear shots being fired, the gunman unaware of the rounds that existed, the target brutally conscious of the destruction debris created as they flew by.
Be a rock. Bounce them off.
Be a gel. Let them pass through.
Be the monk. Dance around the bullets.
Better yet, best yet, be a muslim. And submit to His protection.
And accept submission.

Closure: the last chapter to a story, the conclusion to an event. That last piece of the puzzle that finally lets you make sense of the entire picture.
Rhapsody.
Thirst Quenching.
Enlightenment.
Comprehension.

At what cost though?
Here’s my question. What is the highest price you’re willing to pay for anything? Or rather, at what price, is it too high a bid for you?
I set mine at His Displeasure.

Last night, I listened for almost two hours. I didn’t dodge anything nor did I evade any blades. I wasn’t perfect, I did mess up a few things perhaps. But God, I tried to be good. I gave all I could, no less no more. I literally gave all I could. I cannot buy you happiness, I cannot buy you answers that I don’t have and I most definitely cannot give you the closure you specifically seek.

Because I cannot afford that price m’dear, despite all my riches.

ps: i’m no monk. and as it turns out, i’m not bulletproof either.

I had this beautiful vision this weekend. Oh god, how i stood there in its exquisite taste. It gave me so much strength, it gave me so much hope, it gave me a drive i had never known to exist before.

[cut]

I’m no martyr. I’m no one special. I’m just a muslim.

Because you see, I refuse to cause you tears.

i’m home. i think.

My room is packed with small cars, relics of a childhood past, of a hobby still alive, despite hundreds of miles between a shelf and its caretaker. There must be over a hundred cars, in little boxes, mint condition, all carefully assembled. There are yet others, packed, untouched, in their fancy wrappings in plain boxes against yet another wall of the room.

In the midst of all this, I sleep, my few belongings still packed in a suitcase. I’m not even sure if i’ll unpack this time. I move, a little more, in a week again. Then again. Then again. I heard that the best way to live in this world is to be always packed. Afterall, this life is but a small rest area, a testing ground, a warzone of human challenges in a world of over 6 billion different combinations.

There. That helps me breath easy. To have Him on my side.

Close your eyes and find Him.
Be stronger then, and find Him again with your eyes opened.