half past nomad

Sis: So Maryam is walking about right now, wearing nothing but a T-Shirt. I took of her diaper off so she could get some fresh air from the open patio door.
Me: Oh…um, that sounds lovely…
Sis: Oh yeah, Maryam loves it. Right now, she’s sitting on a balloon, bouncing on it up and down, up and down, up and down…
Me: You know, if that thing bursts-
Sis: Yeah, I know. The clean up. There’s always so much clean up with her.
Me: But it would be funny. And she wouldn’t even cry much, she’s such a brave girl…she’s real good like that.
Sis: Mhmm. Hmm…I’m so tired, Maryam is just OH MY GOD SHE JUST RAN OUT OF THE HOUSE BUTT-NAKED-

*phone falls to the ground, noises, laughs and hoots in the background, repeated laughing screams of Maryam! Maryam! Badmash Ladki!*

Me: {waiting patiently}
Sis: She made it all the way to the flower bush today.

I’ve moved so many times in my life, that I haven’t even had the chance to go to the same barber for more then 2 haircuts. Imagine that. I get a haircut approximately 10-12 times every year. I’m 23 years old. Excluding baby years, that’s over 200 haircuts, no two three by the same person.

That’s why I didn’t want to come to graduate school in Pennsylvania. I had finally found a barber in Virginia and just couldn’t bear to leave him. He. Knew. My. Name. I think.

The shop is almost half the size of my bedroom, with just one chair for the client to sit upon. The “hall” contains about 6 other chairs, a magazine stand and a TV up on an altar. His name is either Kerry or Terry, I can never remember which one and always mumble his name in order to get it just right. To be up to date with the college students, the owner apparently subscribes to Playboy and Maxim. I always go in and turn them upside down. Next time, I may even bring along a Sharpie pen to draw moustaches and larger pupils.

The shop has no telephone, no credit card reader, nothing of the sort. Outside the narrow door outlet, a small barber striped pole stands. A small wooden sign above the door is barely visible next to all the neon lights from neighboring stores. It’s an invisible store on main street, downtown.

Being a new person in town, I always research my own way: I ask random strangers on the street who they think is the most decent male Barber in town. Finally, the guy who makes my sandwiches at Subway recommended him, removing his baseball cap to show me the masterpiece.
Well, I do trust him with my sandwiches…, I thought.

Terry/Kerry does great work. He’s been running the store for 40+ years now. He lives a few miles from there and is in touch with his wife at all times with a 5 mile radius walkie talkie. Turns out, despite being hidden in a haystack, he’s one of the most popular fella’s in town with an unbeatable conversation; the shop is always laden with old towns folks who sit and talk about the good ol’ days, the upcoming parades or how they sat in the back of their pa’s truck to see that baseball game.

Unlike Calvin, I look forward to my upcoming visit in the next few days.

You see ad’s on TV but never really expect it to happen in real life. And if it does, certainly not to you. Ofcourse not you.

I’m in my kitchen, sunny day and all. Empty house, mom and dad gone out. Windows plenty, streaming sunlight generous, God’s mercies afoot. The empty frozen cheese pizza box lies discarded on its front, the directions on the back. The jalepeno poppers and chicken nuggets on a baking sheet elsewhere.

*smack*

I’m not sure what just hit the wall the windows the rooftop but something most definitely hit the house with a hard smack. And was stopped, despite all its attempts to not be halted.

I look around, puzzled. There, outside the french window to the patio lies a small sparrow, lying on its head mostly, claws and wings in a crumple. Breathing hard, eyes steady.

This has never happened to me before. I have no idea what to do. I run a mental list of people I can call for advice and finally settle not on my department secretary or professors but on a SJ, daughter-in-law and professor in my university. Fortunately she answered. My other choice at this point was to call 911.

Just so that everybody knows now, when a bird hits your windows at such high speeds, it goes into shock and just lies there. The best thing to do is to make sure it’s in the shade and hopefully it will recover by itself. So far, little sparrow has managed to retreat its claws back to its body, so it hasn’t broken a neck or anything as such.

I’m going back to pizza, chicken nuggets, jalepeno poppers and a tiny bird that I’m going to be staring at for the rest of the afternoon.

Update:
+ The bird is now sitting on its feet masha-allah. So it seems to be ok. I’ve made several attempts to open channels of communication, even going as far as discussing weather but to no avail.

+ Bird gone. Alhamdulilah

It’s a faded maroon and khaki colored couch, stripes overlapping around armrests and frills. The four pillows of varying sizes lie scattered all over it. I lie on it, my legs dangling over the edge. The three lamps in the room comfort the ceiling with their soft assuring lights, the walls being kissed by the light on its way up on its way down.

I turn off the TV.

Silence finally gathers sufficient strength to overpower the TV blare. It had been standing up against the wall for hours now, wanting so badly to function, its glances at me-I try not to meet its eyes. I lie on the couch and let the silence gently calm soothingly the animate objects in the room, all stirred up, all disturbed by late night TV.

I run my hands through my hair, my beard.

There is a curse upon every generation, afflicted upon some, shrugged off by others. It is the curse to not think, to avoid thought and confrontation, to live in a reality of their own making, a mental delusion of a skewed sane mind. Before the television (and other objects of our time), it was the radio, before that it was books and paintings itself, words and art igniting a fire you never really thought could be lit. I admit the weakness of the TV, it’s blaring flickering changing screen my kryptonite. Parents across the globe accidentally lower their child’s immune system by placing them in front of this dangerous invention, half unaware half unconcerned and another half yet overconfident. Like every vice we have, this is yet another we I have to control.

I pick up a pen, black.

There’s an old story, of a man in even older times who works his entire life to gather more and more for him and his family. From one business deal to another, he hops greedily, never satisfied with each victory, a buzzing mosquito at a busy bazaar day. Acres upon acres of land became his; His wealth a depthless well. At last, he owns cities upon cities and nothing satisfies him anymore. Word arrives of a land where all you see, you can own. Diamond coal eyes, he travels to the land to have more. ‘Go! From dusk to dawn, all you can travel upon your horse, you shall have!’ his hosts tell him after payment. He rides at dawn, flapping urging hitting yelling at his horse to ride further faster farther. Come dusk, he finally rides back to his origin, breathless, exhausted, strengthless. And dies. He only needed 6 feet of land to be buried.

The caged dead box sits in the room, measuring at 21 inches.

New design up.
What’s new in this design:-
+About section finally.
+Contact section. finally too.
+Archives section. finally Toto.
Time spent on the redesign: 40+ hours.

If anyone has any questions, recommendations, suggestions or just outright blasphemizations, use the contact page.

Jaza Kala Khair.

I stood alone, the others gone back, their tribute to friendship paid. I stayed back, still intrigued by the paintings, pleased to be there. My friend A.P., one of the painters, introduced me to the others one by one and I animatedly discussed their paintings with them. Each one would generously supply me with their interpretation of their pieces, themselves on canvas with a dark brown frame. I listened patiently, curiously, biding till I was casually asked what I saw in them.

As a writer, as a blogger, I take my work very seriously. Each piece I write, I write with a distinct passion, to be enjoyed, to be savored. Some pieces I wish I could put with instructions:
+ Please read this very very quickly, to be chugged down in one swift motion. Read this piece and feel the words quickly crawling up through your throat.
+ Pause, re-read, think. Try. To understand. Imagine. If permissible. Breathe. And be. Stop. Puzzle. Walk away and comment many hours later.

Many a time, I have almost put up such instructions, afraid that my work would be blathered away, would be giggled away, would be skimmed over too quickly. Do you not see what I wrote? Do you not read my words? I am not screaming for help, I am talking to you, I am simply trying to point out the beauty of this incredulous combination of letters, words, phrases, a prose breathtaking to its author…a fool with a pen. But every mother loves dearly her child precious.

I gave my input to the painters, what I saw, what I liked and how it came off to me. Even as they told me of their own works, the pieces transformed in front of my eyes, the ugliness becoming more obvious, the beauty shifting and re-aligning itself. To be beauty itself, you need your twin, ugliness. I just wonder what happened to them when I told them my opinion. I recall their hmm’s and oh’s as I talked, avoiding eye contact till they had heard it all. Then I would look into their eyes and curiously look, momentarily.

I look- briefly- and wonder how I’ve affected their next brush stroke on blank white canvasses.

We strolled through the many shiny aisles of the new grocery store at the odd 2am hour. Compelled to buy items, we decided on:
 + Crest Fresh Citrus Toothpaste
 + Advil painkiller
 + Morning Star organic breakfast and pocket sandwich

We get back in the car, laughing out loud in the empty parking lot with the few carefree employees puffing their poison. And he opens his Advil bottle.
Me: “Wait, what are you doing?”
Him: “Making sure they’re fresh.”
And pops in one or two.
Him: “See, fresh pills should work better since they’re, well, fresh. Or so I tell myself; it’s very complicated you see.”

And I sit there, on the cold black leather, wondering how fresh my pills are.

It feels good. To be productive.
It feels terrible. To procrastinate project work.

New design coming soon.

a reminder, led thoughts to words old.
and the following is an excerpt from Monday, April 17 2000:

old friends.
old advice.
current existence.
i miss my life. i wonder where it went. when did i change so much. i don’t know. those who know, are far. those who can help, aren’t here.
i still miss my life.

Looking over my old entries, hidden, I see consistently the same theme. A lost person, a nomad on the move restlessly, a search for a higher being and more.

We hear always, that we are our own worst critics. Last night, I was hushed up and told that I was indeed an intelligent and amazing person despite repeated self-protests; I don’t believe you, I’m far more ignorant then you think I am.
Alas.
Internal fears, external facades, we all look back at our past and wonder how much have we improved. The challenges, the tests, the people we accidentally screwed over, was it worth it after all? The rewards, the results, the hundreds of God’s mercies, were they deserving in the end? And have you learnt all that you should have by now? Rather instead, we see that we have not yet reached all our goals yet, that the stepping stones are where we still stand, and we’re still travelling. However-
-Immeasurable values we line up against our yard stick and pass self judgment. Last call for our gasping puff, whilst we shuffle stand against the wall for the shooting squad and their rifles.

In a never ending move to better ourselves, we have to screw up. I’ve screwed up. I’m sorry. I was wrong. So were you.
In a never ending ability to move on, we trudge forward, happy or otherwise. I’m trying to move on. Because I cannot afford to think of you anymore, I am but a poor poor man. Just like you.

Just me and you. Walou.

I find it highly amusing that I carry with me my driving license as a form of identification whilst I go about searching and defining my own identity through the freedom of movement and experience given to me by my license/visa.

Sitting in the dark, I look over my shoulder and see the world behind me.