Gratitude, Love and Life

On May 5, 1928 a baby girl was born to Muhammad Osman Ghoor and his young wife Mariam Tayob out in the sleepy Transvaal town of Potgietersrus. Born as second to an older brother, she would grow up to be the eldest of five more sisters and five more brothers. Today, 84 years later, I revere her influence and inspiration in my life. She is my beloved grandmother, restfully living her reflective days in Durban, SA. This is why the east coast city holds just so much fantasy for me, I admire and envy it for the job it has to have my granny living there.

Ma calls us the cream of her life, because she says, children are the milk of life, and so grandchildren are the 'malaai', i.e the cream of the milk; the delicacy, the luxury as it were. I last visited her in Durban in mid-Feb, and so a visit is long overdue, and she shared with me that she had begun writing down her thoughts about her life, not so much memories or autobiographical accounts, but rather reflections on the journey. And then she sent me to the drawer where I would find the notebook and bits of card on which notes had been scribbled in her signature, classic scrawl. She asked me to read them out loud, and I did, stopping every so often to ask a question or to listen when she prompted me to, so as to give her a chance to add or annotate her notes.

I'm thinking about those notes now, and wondering how much more she has gotten to pen in the last few weeks. It's such a thrill to know that she's actually writing! I hope the muse will allow me the luxury to do so for the next 50 years :)

Happy Birthday, to my darling grandmother. May the Beauty we love in you always inspire us to generate more of it in the work that we do, in the love that we share, in the life that we live.

On Visiting Newclare Cemetery

I had just one wish on my birthday in February this year, and that was to visit the grave of my maternal grandfather. Perhaps it was a frivolous wish and so the universe put to the test just how much I wanted to go there. And maybe to figure out why...
And so a whole month later, on the 13 March, I finally made my way to the Newclare cemetery in Johannesburg, with my brother and a friend.
The experience was probably more profound than I had the humility to anticipate.
I think we'd been there as kids. I had only vague recollection. But it all didn't make much sense back then.
Here was a man we had never known, but heard of in so many anecdotal references along the years. And so we had over the years, pieced together a character with likes and tastes and moods. The stories overlapped from the lips of my mom, my dad (who knew him because, as it happens, my maternal and paternal grandfathers were cousins somehow) and from other family members.
My grandmother rarely speaks of him. In our shared moments, on occasion and when probed, she has said to me that losing him felt as though a light went out in her life. But the metaphor was rather literal as well. She said it was just as quickly as that. You flip the switch on a light and it's gone! Wrapped in this narrative of reverance and deep sense of loss, that was all I've had to work with over the years. Needless to say, there's always been the unspoken 'what-if' of what life would have been like if he really had been around today. But I'm understand that the passage of time here is finite. And so the wonderings dissolve.

In this very same cemetery, an old and peaceful stretch of land that has long been filled to it's capacity, is to be found a section of child graves. A few paces apart are each of my grandmother's sons: one born in May 1954, and having passed away in Dec 1956 and Baby M born/died in 1961. Little is known about their medical conditions. Or maybe just little spoken about their demise. And my mom was too little to remember much.
A simple green and white board over my grandfather's grave indicates a timeline for his life 1928-1969. Emotion overwhelms me. Not an inherent sadness, but a peaceful joy. It's as though the physical manifestation of years of stories is made apparent right then and there. It's as though time has drawn a line for me from all the many images that brought into existence lifetime's before I came into being, and that will continue to dot between our generational paths long after my time on this earth has passed. And perspective flashes as lightning; my view is transformed at once. There is no devastation at present; rather we are measured in the way we are able to intercept and transcend the challenges placed before us.

Peace is a place inside.
It is also a sense of belonging to ones self.
Knowing that we're just one dot on that line. That a thread exists before us and that it moves effortlessly, inevitably ahead.

My birthday wish is complete.

S

Look at You and remember Me

"You've no idea how hard I've looked for a gift to bring You...
nothing seemed right.
What's the point of bringing gold to the gold mine, or water to the Ocean?
Everything I came up with was like taking spices to the Orient.
It's no good giving my heart and my soul because you already have these.
So- I've brought you a mirror.
Look at yourself and remember me."

Jelaluddin Rumi

It all began in Africa

It's a truly fabulous time for South Africa.
The force of soccer fever, the undeniable collective awesomeness of the moment is a glue that has begun to fill superficial holes in our social sphere.
Two weeks ago while I was in Cape Town for a bookreading of Memoirs For Kimya, I attended the screening of 'The Killing of the Imam'. Just last weekend, I attended a gala dinner in honour of the late struggle hero Ahmed Timol. On both occassions, I was reminded of a time when brave men stood for justice and lost their lives; rather, they were decimated by mere suspicion of being a threat to the regime. Men like Imam Haron, Ahmed Timol, Babla Saloojee, AbdulHay Jassat, an MK operative and numerous others were tortured in detention. Timol's body was recovered with his nails removed, burn marks dotted his corpse. AbdulHay Jassat survived, his escape was facilitated by Defiance Campaign leader and struggle tactician, Maulvi Cachalia, but has fought epilepsy for over 40years as a result of the electric shocks he received while he was held in detention. The dinner event is dotted with reminders. The Timol's are seated on various tables. Babla's widow is seated on the table in front of me. AbdulHay waves in my direction, distinguished in a tweed jacket. The late Timol's friend, His Excellency Jo Jo Saloojee, the Pahad brothers, Mosie Moolla and Advocate Bizos are seated together. The stories pile up on my desk, too horrendous to swallow all at once, too numbingly numerous to do justice to in a blog post.

And after rummaging through piles of notes that remind and echo the dark age of apartheid, the squalor of a time that easily categorized ordinary South Africans by the colour of their skin, and then dehumanized them to a point of little recognition, it is a warm and generous celebration; a momentous occasion, to welcome the world to our shores.

South Africa has come a long way since the days of darkness, days in which ordinary citizens simply of darker skincolour could not walk freely in the streets; the overflowing streets and stadia of 2010 are wholly evident of our pride in leaving a draconian apartheid legacy in the mud.

Of course, there are remnants, economic and structural poverty lurk as bitter reminders that we have yet to overcome, and some fear that the current FIFA state will do little to turn the tide. South Africans living in informal settlements will not have the electricity to watch any of the soccer matches on television. Ordinary South Africans will miss the glory of this world spotlight, because they have already been decimated by poverty. And so this is our condition today. On the one hand, the insatiable joy of being the soccer podium for the world to look at, and on the other a sacrifice, an allowance for an exclusive sporting event that will fall beyond the affordance of many. The ambivalence is grating, and yet the sheer exhuberance of nationalism brought on by having the world spotlight on South Africa is something that we're bound to bask in for a while.

Right this minute, we are a little piece of Europe. We are collective African soul, we are African soccer on African soil. We are the right place at the right time. And the wonder of a moment like this affirms our status in the world with much to offer the international arena.

And while the world shines its torches and sits back watching our sport fields, let us remember that it is a moment to display our genuine South African hospitality. Let's allow the visitors to go back home with precious gifts of the African spirit, that will resound in all the corners of existence for a long time to come. And all the while we need to build on the idea that there is a way for us to take the benefits down to ordinary citizens who have yet to feel the presence of such a great and powerful event in our midst. If hosting the World Cup in South Africa is an expensive (and rather exclusivist) event, we need for once to step back and look at these as opportunity costs for greater economic relations with other nations. Our ports and our gateways are now open for opportunities. But all of this grand national pride only makes sense of we are able to take it back down to the foundations in order to strengthen the infrastructure towards breaking the socio-economic inequalities apparent in this country.

Ke Nako! The Time is Now.
This is where it all began; and now the world has come home to Africa!
Let's make it count for ordinary citizens, South Africa! Let's make it count!

Beautiful things; precious moments...

I've been back in Durban almost a fortnight, counting the beauty, the days of good and wondrous encounters, the love of life and the blessing of being around my maternal grandmother. I bask in the sunlight of her spirit. Sitting in her presence is a quenching for my soul. I drink on, satiated.

And then I drink more of her loveliness.

There's a varied peace in this...

I measure my life in milestones. Not timelines, but in connectivity with loved ones, proximity to them. Haji'ani Ma, my maternal grandmother, is my measure for all these things.

I have noted various stages along her life path. A strong and resolute woman, but also a fragile and lovely being. She brought up her two daughters after being widowed at the age of 39. And I was born before her 50th birthday; to her eldest daughter, her first grandchild.

The cream over her milk, as she likes to say of us grandchildren.

She will be 82 this week.

Holding her delicate body in my arms, feels like I'm hugging a dream.

I already know that a part of her is looking onward to higher places.

And a part of her remains here, with us. Counting our successes, sharing our smiles. A haze of the fantastical forever lingers. Reality beeps to the beat of our hearts. Mortality of the body overshadows immortality of spirit, being, a lifetime of dreams realised, hopes dashed, joys shared, loss made visible.

Instead of counting the days, I want to celebrate the precious moments. One at a time.

Revelatory moments

Ive not been up to writing much these few days or weeks, and yet there is so much happening at the moment that I would actually like to share as a way of appreciating, and even celebrating these. So, what's been happening? Not all gratingly physical things as such; more a variety of all things revelatory. Of course, the advent of my new book, its sales and the reception it has received in five weeks since it came off the press is celebratory... Memoirs For Kimya is now available in hardcover; a beautiful imprint that fills me with joy; but there's more.

Life's telling me things these days. Revealing all the answers to all the questions that I have collected like an avid sea-shell collector. Years of putting them to the ear to hear nothing; and now the whispers are more than telling. Revelations are in more than words and sounds: they are accompanied by tastes and colours, vivid images that make for quite a gallery of viewing.

There is no time span when gratitude fills your being. I feel this now. Past and present merge into one. The future feels like an unopened gift, gleaming just within reach of eager fingers. Everything is precisely as it should be. There's really no rush. I am no longer the kitten that chases it's tail. I'm the Cheshire cat with cream on her ever-smiling lips.

Absolutely every human being should feel this, just once.
It's the best of both worlds. It really is.

And of course, everything makes total sense. Revelation is momentary and transcendent at the same time. Kind of like spraying rose water into a space and stepping into it to be embraced by it, to breathe it in and then be soaked in it all at once.

Indeed, His favours are undeniable.
:)

Journey of Love

I feel myself revisiting Hajj 2005 in more than one way. And the process has led me down memory lane to scavenge for scraps of writing from that trip. I leave on Thursday for Saudi Arabia, to perform the Umrah pilgrimage with my loved ones. It will be the first time since that landmark Hajj four years ago. I also wonder how very much I have changed since that time... Some change is mandatory, some not so obvious.

In preparation for the Journey, I wrote this piece in November 2005:
The Pilgrim

I do hope that my style of writing has improved, although the space for reflection still exists, thankfully :) I wrote Struggling with GOodbyes just before I left, in December. (I still use words like 'whirr')

I kept a Hajj Journal for my varied encounters; for those days when I happily merged with the crowd to be a single mass of collective worship. A mass of Love. And this, the Journey of Love. I scribbled notes in the darkest hour of night when the camps in Mina finally laid to rest. And again when they awoke to the call of the early morning prayer, and the energy of people ascended to the heavens in one voice. I learnt surrender. I could not find the words to write it. I just knew. I wrote about The Hajj, soon after my return, in attempting to capture it all; but more because I wanted to reclaim that feeling once again. The evasive surreal. I could only try. My favourite piece: The Hajj.

I surrendered once more to the evasive surreal. I wrote a poem a week later: Perfect Circles suggested that even if I could not capture what was, I could own it. I made peace with me.

the lightness of being (apologies to kundera)

A year tends to bring numerous landmark events; personal ones, vocational ones, social, political, economic and faith-based ones. Some are steeped in elements of what is real and likely, while others are built on a foundation of fantasy, and collapse even before the hype and adrenalin has run it's course.

We live through the year over-dosing on temporary fixations, no doubt. The compulsive tendencies are fed to fullness on these tempting obsessions with the superficial, the random, and often the mundane. Twenty four hours can transform something that you cannot live without, into second rate trash.

I know these things about the infinite randomness of being, because admittedly, my life tends that way all too often. I hear the whirrrrr of the wheel as I run it like a good hamster. Whirr-whirrrr. I hear it.

And then that silver sliver of a new moon appears in the sky. Friendly faces peek out from behind the wood of trees made into solid doors. The gleam of delight is absurdly awesome; I am at once ensconced by it all, and lifted by the immense lightness of being a part of this communal life. Grace descends as silk. We are swathed in creamy layers of it, fragranced with a joy willed by the entry of this blessed month. It's the Holy month of Ramadaan. The almost Utopian goodness inherent in being human, reveals itself. Redundant excuses no longer make for a fitting diatribe. Devil may care only for a tether that renders evil useless somewhere on the ocean floor. Triumph is left to those who will embrace the rewards on offer; to those who will drink sweetness from ego's ultimate surrender.

There is, in surrender only one outcome: and that is the lightness of being.

Much love and blessings of an engaged surrender to one and all.
Ramadaan Kareem

reclaiming authenticity

Standing on the paved concourse just in front of the old Market Theatre complex, a wave of elation washes over me. The wind flicks wisps of hair around my face. Pigeons scatter across the tarmac in front of me; a minibus trundles by. I twirl around to face my host, and the old building proudly bares it's chest to reveal it's status as Museum Africa. This is where it's all being happening; the launch of my new book: Memoirs For Kimya, the networks of creativity and all things bookish, and the energy of the literary arts infiltrating the Jozi CBD.

It's the end, now. Everything has been packed into the boots of our cars, and the backseats heave with some posters and flyers and layers of pink cloth that gave temporary flesh to the skeletons of steel tables. The azaan from the nearby Newtown mosque punctuates the calm air, spreading its sweet fragrance through the Newtown precinct. Calmness prevails. I have so much to be thankful for. To Him who renders me speechless by the Beauty that is revealed in my life.

Cars speed by on the highway within view; we're tucked away underneath the bustle of it all. I appreciate the variance: usually, I am one of those car's speeding between the North and the South on the upper levels of the highway networks, little realising the authentic value of spaces that lie beneath all that craziness. Spaces that wait to be reclaimed as the Real forces of life. Not drenched in hastiness, but rather quenched by contentment and a simple gratitude of the creative life of a city filled with history and activism; a celebration of life in every way.

And this, really, was the theme for this years Jozi Book Fair: the intention to reclaim authentic space in the city. When I met with the organisers for the last time yesterday, accolade was passed between us in a wholesome relay. A general happiness prevailed. And I know for certain that a shift in my consciousness has occurred. And I have remembered many things long forgotten in my choice to take the rollercoaster through my days. Stillness speaks :)

And there's more. Coincidence? You decide: About two weeks ago, I ordered a gift for myself. I knew at that point already, that it was a significant gift to present to myself. A gift of tranquility. A gift of seeking rest. In content, it may seem superficial compared to the symbolism in context. Let me explain...
As a child of five, I remember visiting my mother's grandfather in Potgietersrus in the Limpopo Province. He was a tall man, as even his photo's confirm, and even more so to a tiny person as a toddler might be. He used to call me 'Sakeenah' instead of 'Shafinaaz'. I often asked my mom why he chose to do this, and she would say: He knows secrets that we have yet to learn. And she would smile when saying this. I thought it was meant to pacify me. But sakeenah means tranquility. I may have been the coolness of his eyes... :)

And so in an effort to celebrate my layered forms of self-identification, I bought myself a little work of art by the artist of Soul&Paper. It's called 'Sakeenah', and was delivered to my delight, on Saturday night. Thank you!

Indeed. Stillness speaks!

Memoirs For Kimya

It has been two years since the launch of "Daughters are Diamonds", and I am finally ready to launch my reflective manuscript, a blog to book, or a blook even. To be found therein, are some writings and reflections compiled along with poetry written in various flavours of writings along the years since I began blogging in 2005. And of course, I wanted to create something beautiful to commemorate writing as a journey of choice. As a cathartic one sometimes. And a rather promising and appreciative one at most.

"Memoirs for Kimya" is ready. I am thrilled beyond words. Yes, I repeat. Words cannot quantify how much appreciation I have for this process of creativity, and the ways in which I may share it with readers. Also, it gives me great pleasure to inform interested readers that it is available for pre-order with Amazon.Com along with "Daughters are Diamonds". Search for the individual titles or my full name at the Amazon website and the titles will simply show up.

The official launch of M4K will take place this weekend at the JoZi Book Fair:

Venue: Market Theatre Complex, Museum Africa, Newtown, Johannesburg.
Dates: Saturday 8August from 9am-6pm and Sunday the same. My booklaunch/reading will take place at the BookLaunch Island on Women's Day, the 9Aug at 2pm.
ALL WELCOME :)

2009 is a splendid year so far, and I feel blessed.

:)

adoration

I am not sure that we decide on 'objects' of adoration. Sure, there are always ways of being attracted to someone or forging close bonds and friendships that give you a sense of profound warmth, belonging and kinship. But adoration is a word that washes over me like a torrent of graceful summer rains; drenching and soothing and cleansing all at the same time. Adoration. How can you not love a word like that? :)

If you are not much of a wordlover as I am wont to be possessed by such a hobby as wordloving, then reflect on this at least: you will adore something or someone at least once in your life. You will love, yes. You will desire and yearn for and dream of and remember. But especially, you will adore, if only once in your life.

And that adoration will form the basis for almost all forms of reference. It will tell you about the object of your adoration. But it will thrill you to know that you have filled your being with the sweetness of having adored, and been engulfed for a time in adoring another. The great likelihood is that you will have been adored.

How lovely!

And you will carry with you that label of adoration; an unequivocal card of identity that will add to your resume of life a small sense of accomplishment, and even a reasonable explanation as to why the perfect heart that you were born with, might actually look a little tattered (and somewhat torn?). Just like an old book that has been read a few too many times; but is loved more now, in it's almost pitiable state, than it was when it first gleamed proudly atop a bookseller's shelf.

Aah, to adore and be adored is precisely what being alive is all about! And then to refer to it in fairytale form everytime the mind insists that such things are tricks of the fantasy writer's realm. The soul remembers. And the heart knows. Adoration is.

overwhelming evidence

There is ample evidence of beauty in this world.

I see it in the face of my two year old niece, Madeeha. Madeeha's name means 'praiseworthy', and I am most certain that the starting point of beauty is to be found in innocence. We look to find evidence of an obvious aesthetic presence, but Beauty also exists as a glaze over our vision; a tool of choice that allows us to scan the world with an eye for appreciating all that it has to offer.

People are beautiful in their attempts to glorify themselves; physically, spiritually, and often grandiosely. And some are beautiful in the inescapable sadness that they are shrouded in. Some choose silence as a companion and in that is a surreal beauty if not an obvious one. Beauty can be haunting and erudite or it can be impassioned and glaring; often all at the same time, for there is nothing that encapsulates the human experience more finitely than the multitude of emotions and experiences that occur as a pot of melting, blending colours all at the same time.

Its been a while since I wrote in a way that almost reads like cryptology.
This is not cryptic, only reflective. Nor is it an overdose of sugar, only part of many new thoughts being realised. There is beauty in good, and a strange beauty in the not so good. Acts of humanity are acts of admirable beauty. Crafts. Murder, too is a craft. And craft is beautiful in many ways. But then is evil beautiful as well? Or is it that any act of the human being is purely beautiful?

It may begin at innocence... but where does it stop? Or does it?

...the beauty of this world

a fresh breeze tints my skin,

my baby eyes open

to the length of her cupboard door,

fingers reach for an ancient lock, dangling there

i pry them open, this place of old and new, new and old.

-the scent of musk invades the room-

silks and wools line the hanging spaces,

more textures in the drawers,

my hands float;

senses still arrested by the warmth of oils and musk and rose

and her. my beginning. my first pair of eyes.

my taste of real and The Real.

my reason for awakening. my view to beauty in this world.

---

many happy returns to the most beautiful woman in the universe

may you have days of scented rose

and nights of comfort, only. to my dear grandmother.

here's wishing you a grand 81, with Allah's fragrant blessings...

happy birthday!

For you...

For you,

twisted vines of

grape,

clouds of pure

candyfloss

and hills of rolling chocolate

peppered with bits of mint.

For you,

petals of that single rose,

pinker than my cheeks,

rivers of laughter

flowing between us

in a moment of intimacy,

and the scent of

lavender to follow you at your heels

reminding you

that I am

and always will be.

*s*

angels and demons

The forces of light and dark are undeniable variables in our every day. If day exists then so does night. For the most part, it's just as easy to enjoy the glory of a star-speckled sky, as it is to bask in the grand elation of sunshine caressing one's skin. Beauty has many colours, evokes different emotions and appeals to many in different ways. But in life, as one might at some point discover, there are also an army of angels that will spur you on in your quest to find that elixir of uncovering hidden potential. And there are a range of demons, too, who will stop your process at every opportunity; the way I see it, is that its really a game of wills, a maze of chance and a test of strength of spirit.

There are people who will love you for what you do even if their blood doesn't flow in your veins. There are those who will love you for who you are because the same heartbeats resonate in their chest as in yours. And there are those who will abhor you beyond reason. Some will spit venom when your name is mentioned. And some will be audacious enough to partake in actions that intend some harm to you. Bad words. Bad thoughts. Even worse, they might do that which belongs in the realm of science fiction bestsellers; engaging forces of darkness and evil to cause you nothing but harm and often even disease. It makes sense, of course, that invoking the protection of forces of good will encourage in you a lightness of being. And that increased faith and belief in a Higher Power will fortify you against such malice. It just seems for many that I have heard tales from, that the struggle is continual. Kind of like playing different stages of a digital game where the stakes are upped every next level.

And we keep playing. And so do the demons. Angels are plentiful, too.

It's a surreal place to be, this hanging between lightness and darkness and knowing the beauty of each, but also being wary of the dangers inherent in that in-between space.

Here's wishing one and all, angels more than demons. And here's wishing you the ability to discover the Angel within.

Love and Light,
...S

finding rest

“Of His signs is this: that He created for you spouses that you might find rest in them, and He ordained between you love and mercy.” (Quran, 30:21)


Just in case I was wont to imagine for a second that life is filled with rampant coincidences, I was once again reminded of the opposite this weekend. On the front page of my new novel occurs the above verse from the Quran. I love this verse for the simple promise that is revealed in a few words. And on my way to M's nikkah ceremony on Friday, I decided to post this up, in commemoration. I love it even more so after having heard the guest speaker, Hafez AB Mohammed, also an Advocate of both the SA High Court and the Dubai International Court, who quoted the same in his speech on Saturday night with a more than eloquent commentary and discussion on what 'sukoon' really entails.

'...that you might find rest in them...'

I wonder what that means for the many whose lips or eyes might glance over briefly or recite more fervently at some point. As a precursor to my book, it serves only to remind that a spouse might be the reason for life's irritations to be overlooked. That love might indeed be a worthy conqueror. (Especially in the context of an abusive marriage as is the case with my protagonist). But rest, in the speakers terms also meant a commitment to forever-ness. An oath and an allegiance to that partnership in all respects, with every part of a person's being. I think that thats the most beautiful word in the verse. And rightfully appearing before love and mercy... in fact a necessary pre-requisite to it.

A loyalty to self and extension of self. A state of being. A place. A rest.

I want to be!

I want to sit on the rooftops of another world while the sun spreads its wings on its flight to the other side; I want to watch as a dusky night descends from the hues of pink and lilac, and sometimes pale shades of turquoise.

I want to be overwhelmed by the confusion of wondering which side of the horizon we're standing on; and which one flies around us.

I want to merge with this one-ness of up and down; sky and ground.

I want ego to know that it will lose its place - that place is a material thing, really. I want spirit to know that it belongs to You, eternal.

How foolish is this ego trap: Spirit knows, of course...

I want to sit on rooftops of your world, still. Feeling the glory of love's raindrops washing me of my inhibitions.

I want to close my eyes and dream; and then open them to the realisation that the dream is tangible as ever.

Difficult, but not impossible.

I want to see how abstract presence can become a solid reality; feel the sand of promise run through my fingers and fall at my feet in a sea of wholeness.

I want to dream.
I want to feel.
I want to live.
I want to be.

so fickle, these five senses...

There are people who scatter around me;
Some in mock haste; others ambling, perhaps

But I see them not..
feel them not...
so closed off is this abstract nearness,
so fickle, these five senses...

Then there is You so distant in time and space;
but all the while, right here beside me...
with me, around me,

a fragrance, an energy, some words...
a voice.. a name... a being...

a necessary delight.

I am filled. Emptied.

But filled. Again.

Stop!

I want these words to stop.

They waste so much!

Spilling about careless,
These drops float in the water
Of life around me.

All I want is to submerge myself;
To drown
In a sea of voices
That make flirtation
An art...

And art, a devastation
Of something
Sacred.

an invitation to do things differently

I am not so sure that there is a space for elation and sadness to sit side by side and enjoy each others company. But then the law's of everything known to me have defied me many times before... so why would this time be any different, right? I'm not averse to the idea that I may be a walking realm of contradictions; my life tends to present all the data I need to confirm that, in fact. And its most easily explained as the compulsive artists greatest truth: a strength and a weakness, in and of itself a paradox. But it helps to also sit back and appreciate the little details of an almost normal existence; petty it may seem, but thorough and grounded in its own way.

I am still deciding, but the way I see it... Certainty might be a judgment of the mind; riddled as it chooses to be... or an easy battleground upon which the demons of past and present might play their sordid game. But even in my not-so-sureness state of semi-denial, I can tell that the space exists- delight and melancholy sit on a swing, holding hands and pretending not to giggle at my confused expression. Is it possible, I wonder... or an illusion of sorts... to be part of the creation of something beautiful and then murder it in cold blood, with those same warm hands?

What bare hands can slash an inspired canvas... when the invitation is to celebrate all the love and enthusiasm that life has to offer... Makes you think, doesn't it?

STING

- Sting Lyrics