*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

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.

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.

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*

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.

ok now im just clowning around...

It was almost comical the way she did it. She squinched her nose in the mirror, rolled her eyes and then pouted her lips in that way fish do. Then came the sounds, the carnival tunes, the muffled voices of children's laughter and the glorious feel of the crowds applause. Deafening. Exciting. But it also filled her with a familiar dread.

And yet, this was her chosen ritual to calm her nerves before she took to the catwalk.

Her mom had been queen of the trapeze. Until that fateful day when she fell to her death. Her own life wasn't anything less of a circus act. The same anxiety. The same thrill. The applause and the adrenalin seemed to feed off each other. Fueling fear and delight at the same time. It was her rendezvous with heroine that kept it all in balance. Just like those glamorous trapeze artists.