*SN33ZE*

I write because its what I do. Like breathing, thinking, eating, being. Writing is something to do. It takes the dust from the sinews in the mind and scatters it just under my nose, makes me sneeze to release the collective phlegm. Get it out. And then, when the nasal passages are cleared, it allows me to breathe in the reality of a cleaner world. I take it all in. The stories from around me, and the data from within. I make notes. I present them to a greater audience. And it takes on a life of its own.

I write. Because I love the idea of feeling bloated with ideas and letting them flow through an unlikely orifice; the tips of my fingers. Like a secret door, they tap, tap, tap at the keyboard to undo the latch and let the words out. They burst forth then, spewing contempt, reason and appreciation all at once. Its a colourful blend, not always fit to smell the fresh ink of the printer's realm. But expressive and alive all the same. Sometimes the tap, tap, tap of these tips must be felt on a pressed leaf; sheaths of paper partake in their regurgitation and the force of the tapping is the inspiration for a charcoaled soul in a wooden body that must collate the tappers whispers into something solid, readable, drinkable. Pencil painstakingly carries this guarded duty, then.

I write because I must.
Drink. And be drunk on everything that life has to offer.
I write. And write. And forget to write. And then, I dream about writing. So I write.

Free writing is almost embarassing.
But. I write. Because. It's free.
Breathing should be just as free.
And thinking.
And being.
But for now, writing is.
Free.

PS: Apologies for the ramble. I'm spring-cleaning! *SN33ZE*


Copyright Shafinaaz Hassim (C) 2009

Cut

Life can cut you. And like an open fruit, you will be at some point, left bare; revealing the glory of guts to the elements. But this gross cut is a blessing in disguise. Why? Because it is at precisely this moment that it all starts to make sense.

For the first time, you are one with everything that ever was, everything that is, and everything that ever will be. Open to all that is, you will feel life flow through you. And you begin to get the idea that inspiration exists, because you do.

fools gold

in a land of milk and honey all we ever seem to find are mounds of clay covered in powdery sand, an obstacle course of sticky tar waiting to capture and cover, then feather and debone to near perfection, a skewered lump of stuff. then theres that journey to be made along the rainbow of imagination, with the promise of great things at the end of much strife that pretends to be great fun. in a land of honey and milk all we are left with at the end of the slippery slide is a handful of fools gold. no rainbow. only more mounds of that clay from which we came. and the smell of nostalgia forming clouds of de ja vu and veils of contention and even more mirages of that milk and honey as was revealed in dreams long forgotten. and when the mist has cleared and u pick urself up, and dust off the grime of joviality (i darent say mockery!) - the pot of glittery remnants awaits in consolation - that ultimate collection of gold for the fool that was fooled for the gold.

Die. And be quiet.

I'm not writing at the moment. It feels like a lapse of words in a way, almost like I have abandoned, neglected my ultimate need to be a part of the greater circle of creativity. Dryness. Aridity, a newfound state of being. Thirst arising from all of this.

It's quite a scary, empty feeling. Especially because I have been writing almost non-stop for a few months now, mostly August to Feb... And now just silence. The words rotate in a careless spiral in some kind of literary vacuum, waiting for a way to be strung together in a more ordered chaos.

Still, nothing.

That's when all the cryptic poetry becomes necessary, almost, in a mock effort to alleviate the constipation.

And ramblings such as this one... more mediocre verse and prose struggling to make words look like they know what they're doing on this dance floor, even as they serve only to step on toes and form lumps of lard in the mouth. At least still something to chew on, not so?

Bite. Munch. Chomp. Gulp.

Choke.

Splutter.

Die. And be quiet.

words and things

"When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said in a rather scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less."
"The question is," said Alice, "whether you can make words mean so many different things."

-Lewis Carroll

Tick, Tock, Skull-duggery...

Tick, he said. What makes you tick?
Read me. Easy as a book.
I tick. Like that clock

of time

that wants the world to twirl its hands around me;
as I curl my hands around it...

anti-clockwise to the beat and then
in mock mimicry of the moving sun
wiping the upturned bowl finger-licking clean,

then

bopping down and up. up and down.

What makes me tick? Ha!

I think I evaded that
quite nicely;

But I can tell you in two ticks

What ticks me off!

Lol. It's all those two bit
ticks and tocks that pretend

to move

hands towards the sun
then point and flail and flounder;
the intent to tick, tacky and torn...
then fall still pointing, to the ground.

Tick. Tock.

Wonder why.

It makes me tick.

It ticks me off!

It tickles me, tog.

It toggles me, sick!

What makes me tick?

Indeed. I told you so.

Now tell me why?

:P

belief, trust and process

I am in need of one of those magic potions that will keep me astride the latest developments, and all pepped up with the vitamins of good and glorious. Okay, what I mean to say is that what with all the hype of my new writing project, I am in constant need to replenish the energies of enthusiasm and to find myself the inspiration I need to dive into it.

*Deep Breath*

The new project is about to begin. I got a call to set the ball rolling late last week. And so, I am about to take that nose-dive into the refreshing waters of an exciting research project that has already got me meeting some fascinating types. My world is about to merge with an underworld of veterans and newbies; spies of old, turned fruitsellers and ex-pats nostalgic for the dust of days gone by.

Of course, colliding with that novel that I have been pretending to write, means that the overlaps will prove to be an interesting challenge for me. And there's no rush to get anywhere, anytime as per diary and stop-watch. No guilt about words that won't happen. No anxiety about the project being compromised. I am just being one with the words and being pulled along by the current from which they flow.

I believe in process; I trust the ability for things set in motion to make their way along a vine of growth and contention and more growth.

So they will happen together; my rainbow of things, side by side. And together, they will merge on this canvas of newness.

PS: This post represents the inauguration of the new baby. I will do a separate post on it in a few days when I can get back to the blogs. Cheerio till then. S.

Tag- You're It!

I have been tagged by Azra. The last time I did the tag thing wassss a long time ago. I remember it was something about the last ten songs we heard or something like that. Anyway, if you want to read my comment and engagement, its the first comment at her post: Scattergories.

And in other news...

In other news....

I am writing some fabulous fiction :P

check it out...

okay, rather...

i should pass around the address when I have more to share...

okay whatever...

Sigh.

Shafs...

Gift of Nothing...

One of my dearest friends has the deepest, darkest sense of humour. In a simple email, this is what I get. Not that he doesnt appreciate words. I mean he can complete a half quote of Omar Khayyam in a second, and reads things like Antoine St. Exupery's 'The Little Prince' (and the French version:P) But, in keeping with SG's 'You are not your Blog' I shall take this lightly ;)

Or maybe nOt!

http://img227.imageshack.us/img227/3961/bbbtp2.jpg

*sigh*

energy

energy

thrown about carelessly

ocean

swim or die

words

piercing wanton bodies

made of clay only

but memories stay

because thats what

manufactured the energy

then;

now it's nothing.

so dont worry, cos

energy...

thrown about carelessly,

no more.

Driving Dad Crazy

Azra's awesome post, Paternal Instinct's, about her dad got me thinking about my own sweet, volatile, and fluid relationship with my dad. We all start out with that typical daddy's girl virtue of life. And having come full circle, we do indeed return to take that place with full conviction. And in so far as dads are concerned, I dont think they ever imagine that we ventured away from that place. But then we're all not typical I suppose :/

Seriously though. Dad's are our ready made heroes. They do the impossible, with gritted teeth we never get to see, they save kittens from daring heights to the eyes of our four-year-old beings and take us to see grand wonder's like pavements full of pigeons. And they're armed with necessities like packets of breadcrumbs for such occasions, I might add.

They also cheer us on when we set our sights on reaching goals. But in asserting our identities, they feel afraid for us, I imagine. They wonder, if their little girls' grand enthusiasms will outlast a world of meanness and strife. They transfer their fears of a life lived hard onto a blank canvas and look carefully at it, wondering if those tainted hues will bleaken the clear vision of that sparkle that they see in their daughters' eyes. They're heroes, sure. But they're real softies when it comes to their little girls. And in all their good intentions, they're a little bewildered when their little girls show a feisty stubbornness to hold onto airy fairy dreams in the hope that these will stay afloat on the stormy ocean of the adult world. Dad was. He thought I should enter the health profession. I thought not (with all due respect to health professionals!). He supported my decision. I did undergrad architecture. Three years of it. And that was it. My post highschool stint was done. This was only the beginning for me. Then came the candy store! And I was the doe-eyed kid. A Bachelor of Arts. With Psychology, Sociology, English, African Lit, Classical Civilizations, Applied Ethics, International Relations, Politics, Philosophy... I may have skipped a few electives, but I was wowed by the options. And I delved in with much glee. Dad was concerned. Talents wasted, he said. And how will you survive? I did. In fact, I thrived!

I joined the corporate world soon after my MA. Writing continued. Blogging began. I travelled. I grew. But I yearned for something more. This was only an interim place to be. And dad was happy. I was learning responsible things, he said. I was making strides, meeting people, and carving out some bits of life.

I am a writer. This makes me happy.

He still is, too. Because now, he sees me. He really sees me. The little girl me. The creative me. The corporate me. The daughter me. The sociologist me. The writer me. The every me. All his dreams for me are me. And more than that, I also see me. I see him, too. And I see me in him. And him in me.


The beauty about relationships that heal and mend and make us who we are, is that they are wonderfully (and often surprisingly) evolutionary in nature. It takes an open awareness. A realisation. And a heart of compassion. Thats about it.

this is why i blog

i have been sitting in complete darkness for almost an hour now. thank heavens for my trusty laptop. and thankful, i am, for getting out of the shower in time! today was writing day. it followed on from yesterday. i have this new ritual, where i make special time to write, not like its a job or a have-to-do, but more like it fits into that category of, hey lets go shopping. okay maybe not quite that, but close enough.

for example, i had to take care of some stuff for dad yesterday, so i went off to Killarney Mall, got his stuff done, then browsed the bookstore for a bit, and finally made my way to Mugg & Bean. I found myself a comfy little table beside the window, ordered my brunch, and got to work with pen to notebook. and i was amazed at the output! aside from the welcome stream of words, i also met some friends and cousins as they ambled in and out. the thing i love about this coffee shop, is that its placed on the first floor of the mall with an awesome view of the highway. and yesterday happened to be one of those cloudy, watercolour grey sky, rain-teasing kind of days, so the view was simply fabulous. i used to love this place back in the day as an architecture student. (im a dropout architecture student:P) creative brainstorming potential is immeasurable in a place like that.

i wrote a bit today, too. and i sat around in comfies all day, while the family has been galavanting on a visiting and shopping expedition of sorts. and so, here i am, staring at the laptop after an invigorating shower, contemplating my next round of a hoped-for word storm, when the lights go. power out. its the entire neighbourhood, by the look of it. i plodded downstairs rather precariously, by the light of my rescusitated orange mobile phone, carrying the laptop like a well-loved teddy bear, and found a spot on the leather couch to plant myself. so, this means that im safe and preoccupied. these are necessarily good things. i am safe from stumbling and breaking ankle, neck or any talented appendages like fingers that type at keyboard or play mxit muse-ic. also, i am preoccupied. which means i don't have to dwell on the darkness. i only like dark chocolate, not dark houses.

and out of this worded reflection, the greatest revelation is that i have remembered why it is that i blog in the first place. its because these arb moments in life are of utmost bloggability, thats why! i think im liking this solitary darkness after all :P

i just wish that my ghd was battery powered... sigh.

misplaced intentions

these can get so twisted:
intentions, misplaced

like a set of keys;

leaving just a bitter
memory
of the ringing
sound
they made as they
dangled
from the wardens hands,

and a cold
memory
of the day i strode
barefoot
across the stone floor
of that
castle of promises.

bitter and cold;

this handful of
misplaced intentions
remind me just
of temporariness
and my own mortality.

deuce juice

I am reluctant...
fundamentally flawed by the curse
of a day gone by.

the end.

and the beginning, a bitter reminder
of some inner longing
reduced to a case of ulcer
and putrid
gas.

what with the price all so shaky at the moment,
the oil-rich look less shiney
and the starved look somewhat
a trendy artists grunge inspiration.

aah, the pathos of
a new condition
regurgitated from the machine
of an over-worked mind
and a rather battered muse;

with a juicy social consciousness squeezed from
the-eye-half-closed to wrongs,
an airy fairy soul still struggles
to cling onto
plastic wrap
and staples
in the hope that the competitive edge will
inspire the one to entice suffocation
or the other to slice
wrists damned by
the clerks
choices!

for now, head-to-head
are dreams reduced to deuce
with so much work
still left
to do.

faking it

it would seem that he turned out to be some kind of wannabe super hero...

calls himself 'anon'...

spews out darkness and glib poison at unsuspecting folks
and then slinkers back into the abyss where he belongs.
no call to duty.
no accountability.
just pathetic and drivelsome.

a fake superhero.
unimaginative.
and plainly nothing.
yep. a fake.

I'm a loser; You're a loser. Its all okay.

Words can sometimes cause more harm than good. I'm not so sure that its about the conscious intention. Rather, its that words are interpreted by our brains already filled with a range of mind drama. And often, words are flung about rather carelessly, with little notion, at first, of the impact that they might make on their recipient. Take falling in love, for example. It's possible to fall in love with a bunch of words on a screen. But it's just as easily possible to fall out of love that way. So then the relationship of words with words and energies from that, is really something that might dwindle to nothingness if it's left to simmer for a while in a pot of mental melodrama. The spice of the inner workings of the mind is not to be underestimated, of course. It has the innate ability to add a wonderous flavour to the energies of a fertile imagination in cultivating the grandiose interest. For a time, souls are convincingly quenched. But then, it also has the skill to deftly carve some doubt and plant some insiduous seeds of resentment, bitterness and even guilt in the garden of an already infested psyche.

Now take chat for practical instance. Words are all you have to work with. Mxit. GoogleChat. Mirc for days gone by. And Facebook, and a whole realm of instant messenger de(vices). While words generate and transport energy, their static one-dimensionality on screen is an easy hoax for their danger to hurt or create misunderstandings. "You're such a loser" may sound like a cool rebuff. It can be read as a deep affront. "Don't be an idiot, dimwit, fag, five-year-old" The list is imaginatively endless. Then there's the protocols unobserved. e.g. "My dear" is not endearing to most independent females. Condescending tone is easily accompliced to an unsavoury choice of words. And the results are disasterous. Catastrophic even. Chat is bad enough, without the real elements, the human interaction, the smiles and facial nuances, the communication of eye to eye...soul to soul. Chat, distorted by unreliable connectivity and words misplaced is a nightmare. Telkom needs some competition methinks.

But what does all this say of the speaker of these arbitrary weapons of mass destruction? It's NOT okay. It doesnt feel okay. I do it. You do it. It doesnt make it okay. We're taught to love thy neighbour. Ideally, we all want to grow up to be astute and loving folk who will honour and respect our fellow beings. Maybe it's time we started with ourselves, for a change.

With love, honour and respect...
Shafs

NB: In tribute to a celebrated individual who has made a profound impact on my life this last year or so. Shabash! ;)

pearls of life

pearls, floating in my mouth,
are like speedtraps on an open road..
like when i gargle and
they pop about aimlessly,
of no use to the everyday workings
of my body;

but to my heart and mind from whence they
came as clots of the blood
and thoughts,
Oi, what a Sight?!

they cause havoc!

i think its time they
were rolled out
into the
streets

some will trip
slip
fall

as i have

and some will
catch their
brilliance before
they disappear into
the gutters of bitterness..

and some
will be fashioned in glory
to be worn around loves neck.

aah, these pearls!

pearls of yesterday
making me choke on them today,
waiting for a rather
embellished tomorrow.

waiting.

mint memorium

Mint died.
Which means that Lindt is mint-less.
And she says that even Lindt's days are numbered.

They did good together,
that Lindt and Mint.

But nothing is forever.
So.