words like honey

today was one of those thirst quenching days.
i read the words of a fellow poet and floated about
for most of the rest of the morning.
mostly because he is one of my favourite contemporary writers.
he spins words into threads of gold. beauty!

and the request was to read the new manuscript
and then to write the foreword for the soon-to-be-published work.
i am astounded by the profound offer.
and humbled.
and honoured.
and delighted!

the circularity of blood and dust

Writing is farcical, if it is not able to create a shift in some way. It must, in some small way, undo the latch to the dusty box that is our potential, and reveal the raw material inside that seeks to become something majestic, at least.

Writing, just like anything else that we might do, is undue banter and rather superficial, if it is not accompanied by a whole range of purposeful conditions. Or at least, just one. A purpose. A need to adjust the everyday meander, dissolve the self-doubts and dissipate the fears of failing and of succeeding all at once. Writing is and must. Writing with a sense that something more must come of it. It must be loaded with that intention to do and be for the greater good; even if the path getting there is strewn with thorns. Writing is a vehicle and a weapon, a building and a bridge. Each might be used or abused; the action is fueled by the intent.

Writing, if you really think about it, is an act of worship.
It is a show of love. And a way to bribe the creative soul into production.
Writing is also a show of hate. A means to burn and destroy the wasteland of minds that prefer the route of the blissfully ignorant. It purges these, tearing unused sinews apart, washes away the rust and then forces the flow of new contemplation into the midst of these healing recesses.

Tedious tasks done, writing is the balm. The disease and the cure.
The bitterness and the sweet are found to be one.
Love is, life is, being is.
Bitter. Sweet. Bittersweet...
Living is.
Dieing is.
Bittersweet.
Living-Dieing.
Circularity breathes reason into being.
Writing gives it form.
The vehicle moves onward, transporting thought from one to another. Me to you.
A building of ideology soars skyward.
Glass shatters at a crazy altitude.
Someone slips.
Someone falls.
A grey suit hits concrete pavements of unreason; it bears the mark of the martyr. Red becomes brown.
Brown is earth.
Like ashes to ashes; like dust to dust.

Living is dieing
Dieing is living
Writing is Living-Dieing
Reviving the dust, the ashes, the blood and the being.
Re-creating, moving, becoming, seeing.

"Keep breathing. Everything else is a bonus."


Copyright 2009 Shafinaaz Hassim

M4K is off to Cape Town...

I have wonderful memories of my first book launch in Cape Town in 2007. Daughters are Diamonds was well received at the Cape Town Book Fair that year, and went on to produce a momentum that resonates still. It's time to visit the shores of this beautiful city once again, with a string of friends waiting there, and of course, with my new publication: Memoirs For Kimya.
Ben Williams of BookSA made special reference to the event here: http://news.book.co.za/blog/2009/10/13/au-courant-three-indie-book-launches-on-our-october-radar-screen/

Also, I will be chatting to Nancy Richards on SAFM (104-107fm) tomorrow at 1:00pm.. or a little after 1.. Tune in to listen or call in if you wish... Audio streaming live at www.safm.co.za

"We move through life as it moves through us. We make up stories in our minds.
And often these stories overlap.
We hope with all our heart.
We dream. We love, often deeply. We experience some gains and some losses.
Each of these moments leave an imprint on the rich tapestry of our souls.
Sometimes the only way to share the awesomeness
is by whispering a few words on the wind.
'Memoirs for Kimya' is a collection of whispers
and a tribute to the many people we meet along life's journey."


WORDFIRE Press takes pleasure in inviting you to the launch of

Memoirs For Kimya by Shafinaaz Hassim

Date: Sunday 18 October 2009.

Venue: Bo-kaap Kombuis, 7 August St, Bo-Kaap; Cape Town

Time: 6:00pm

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.
:)

Cents and sensabilities

Life is seamless in the way that things work out. Everything makes sense when you turn around and look back at the path that you've trodden, count the scuffs on your boots and measure the creases on your forehead. The final product is seamless perfection, even if it may not seem that way at close first glance. Deep down, the exactness is in order, the perfectness under way.

It all makes sense right now. Complete and perfect sense.

Sometimes the evidence is a direct reference to ones own life. And sometimes it's a story about someone elses life. Life has the most creative ways of bringing the proof of it's pudding to your palate. One thing's for sure: in striving for results-based living that we seem driven to do, the Eureka moments stand out most profoundly as a way of sitting back, or even taking a step away from the flurry of activity and saying: this is it! I get it! This is how it all makes sense. I slept with that knowledge last night. That it all falls together like this. And I smiled that silly smile as I slept. I'm sure I did. Those stubborn lips refused to uncurl. They smiled on into dreamland.

And I probably had them just that way when I walked into the lecture hall at Wits early this morning; I promised my brother that I would make it to his lecture as he was out of town these two days. So I got bribed with the use of his car. But that is an entirely different story. Back to the lecture room. And a lecturer that reminded me of the story of John Nash in 'A Beautiful Mind' - you know the type: quirky academic with an almost religious knowledge of his craft. And I say 'craft' deliberately because of the precision with which this guy talked about theories of taxation and his love for Thomas Paine's 'Rights of Man'. I was transported to my Sociology lectures of old; this was certainly no economist. Except when he started talking (sense) about the evolutionary processes working in favour of economic progression than the revolutions did. Hmm. There's something to think about.

Today was laundry day. In between all of that I also made it to China Mart to pick up bundles of tiny organza bags. And it's more than 24 hours since I've seen my laptop. Another long story. The errand run has me doing things by remote. And my trusty antique mobile phone is earning it's keep, that's for sure! Gmail application is running like a smooth mini office between my designer all the way to the post-production guys. The clock is ticking. Am I the only one who hears it? Sigh.

Johannesburg is a river of traffic on a Friday afternoon. But I wade through the thick of it all. Ormonde. Somewhere just beyond that. And I find the dingy print shop that has done a marvelous job of flyers for this weekends promo. Low budget goodness. I'm just the delivery. Pick up and go. Until I get talking to the rather unassuming looking print dude, whose written an interesting book about SAn history and has just entered his manuscript into the Citizen Book Prize. Aah, is the world tiny or what?

So many things. But my energy is waning. I just wanted to blog it. It all makes sense. Perfect sense. It makes sense to get some well needed sleep, I think.
Sweet dreams all. Hello August. It's going to be one heck of a month. A pink month. A month of pinkness. And many other feel good things. It all makes sense, no? :)

2

2
is a number
that's
made up of
1 plus 1

2 is whole
and large
and double
the fun

2
is the number
of years
of packaged joy
sweet water
pink marshmallows
and girly giggles.

2
is a tiny voice
filled with
will and power
in it's recitation.

'I am TwO'
she says with grand glee.

And so she is.
She's two
today.
Double of what
she was yesterday.
Double
in so many
ways.
Hugs,
Kisses,
Love
and Life!

Happy birthday tWo Madeeha.

The one who just turned Two :)

And Here's to sweetness multiplied!
And to chocolate cake, of course!

Shafinaaz

I met a woman named Shafinaaz today. It really was the strangest day...

I was on my way back from the interview with a sweet old lady, namely Mrs. Sisulu... when I made a little detour to pick up a parcel at a store in Greenside. The owners were expecting me. I was to meet a lady who refers to herself as 'Selma'. And when I spoke to her to enquire about directions, I introduced myself as well, who I am: Shafinaaz. She seemed to go silent on the phone, everytime I said my name. Maybe she forgot who I am? I didn't venture an explanation. When I arrived, finally, I met with a woman in purdah. Her name is Salma... and we proceeded to chat about the reason for my visit. And then her husband says: 'you didn't tell her your real name'... and I am baffled. So she says: 'my name in all my documentation, is Shafinaaz.'

I'm so not used to that! I mean, really... what are the chances? But, she says, she changed it to Salma because people said that it had no meaning. Hmm, so she was waiting to meet me so that she could ask me what my/our name means. Phew. Okay. Philosophical discussion time... :)

I think I'm going to refer to another post I wrote some time back about the meaning of my name. It's called 'A Rose by Any Other...' and was writ way back in 2006 when I was known to the blogosphere as Kimya and to the real real world as Shafinaaz. All in order, I may have managed to re-instate in her, the name she was given at birth; and the name that she has abandoned for some eight years now.

I did good, right?

I mean, after all, I am Shafinaaz :P

...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!

to the port city of friendliness

I'm off to Port Elizabeth tomorrow. Flight out at 6am. Yep. Means that I probably won't sleep much tonight. Or that I will sleep really early and then not after the morning Fajr prayers. I notice the difference; when my heads lead and I don't make it awake in time for the early morning prayers. My being feels like I missed out on a meal. A nourishment. Something significant. I didn't wake up today; I felt it. Rather, I am feeling it. All day today.

I hope this serves as adequate reason to not miss out again. And again. The flesh is weak sometimes, and turns into molten lead, writhing in bed to the demon's lullaby in my ear. Heaven's music might be sweeter, but its like that proverbial bowl of marshmallows when ur just a weak, infant soul. Dear God, make me grow up. Today.

And Protect me. Everyday.

And so, after what is probably a decade or more, I will travel out to the friendly city. And hope to see Grahamstown, too. When I completed by matric all those many years ago, I applied for my first choice of study, architecture, at PE university especially interested in the idea that the university is set at the seaside. I chose Wits in Johannesburg instead. But PE still beckons more than a decade later. I liek the idea that a place can be labelled the Friendly City. There's something feelgood about that. And I'm excited about the trip, even though I hear that it's already quite cold out there. And with the image of sun and sand in my head, I've already packed a bag of summer dresses and pretty tops with cargo pants, flip-flops and sunglasses. Oh and sun-screen too, of course.

And so, that's to be reviewed, but the excitement stays :)

time travel

a long time ago, my dad told us that once the travel bug bites, you're just as good as done for. we used to giggle profusely as children, when we heard him say that with a hint of sinister in his voice. i mean, what parent wants to have their children bit by something remotely unpredictable; or anything for that matter. of course, this is meant in most figurative sense (or so it seems). travel bug, like literary bug or movie bug that keeps you firmly glued to the latest string of blockbuster reads or motion pictures.

so the travel bug it was. first time out of SA for us kids was in 1984; our first umrah; a pilgrimage to saudi arabia along with a bunch of cousins and aunts and uncles and extended members of family that left only profound memories of the fancy ice creams and cherry cooldrinks that we gleefully got our fingers and tongues into. my sister celebrated her fifth birthday in Madina on News Years Eve. And so it turned that our most memorable holidays coincided from then on with her birthday. And other's were planned around the April date of my parents' wedding anniversary. Celebratory efforts also linked in nicely with an appreciation and setting aside of real family time. And tied in perfectly with well-timed travel arrangements. the first time we visited India was April 1994. Mauritius was April sometime some year. Singapore too. Malaysia another time. Egypt and Turkey midyear-ish, although my parents have experienced a winter in Istanbul. Europe, the US and Canada in June. Etcetera...

needless to say, we're a family of compulsive travellers. and of all the places both east, west and somewhere in between that we have ventured out to, India has by far held our fascination and love in myriad ways, explainable in simple wordedness. even for me, who prides myself on wordy recognitions (or deludes myself that way?).

cheeky worded illusions are my vocation of choice, so be it. moving on...

this latest trip was reminiscent of those other trips -last was India July 2008- with the family on a whirl wind tour of sights and delights; feel good moments and tonnes of stuff packed into a short time frame. just the way we like it. just the way that we thrive on, taking a full deck of adventure loving personalities in the same space. it makes the world tiny as a marble. and its the kind of travel that transcends the necessitated dimensions: time, space, being. it just is. and its awesome :)

here's to travel. in time. and in a rush against time. for all time!

here's to being a happy carrier of the travel bug, and to recognising in ourselves the fact that we are just travellers in this life, really. may the Almighty in His infinite wisdom always make our journeys and destinations havens of safety and learning for us; and may we never forget to extend our appreciation of the wonders of Creation as we engage in it and are a part of it.

thriving on chaos

Thats what my dad just said about an hour ago when we were trundling past exhaust fumes that looked more solid than the rickshaws we were in. This is a city that thrives on chaos. He said it with a mixture of elation and concern. More of the former, knowing him. And so it is, Mumbai, a city on speed unlike any other; but really a mixed metaphor for so many lives trying just to survive in whatever which way. A throng of humanity that craves like a hungry child and then swallows you whole in a way that belies that felt innocence. A city of so many hues, its almost blinding to the naive eye.


It's almost 1am... Exec lounge closes in a bit...
Lets do this ramble later, okay/?

Ciao for now

S

land of the taj

India beckons to me, once more. The land of the Taj; the sprawl of slums and the litter of children bleeding from these decrepit sites merging with a heap of bollywood spin-offs and likelies... India has already started that different throb in my veined connectivities. India beckons. And I must heed that call.

fancy schmansy masquerade

Last night was far more of a jol than I imagined it would be. My brother's dear friend Jehanzeb 'Jzee' Bashir is getting married tonight. So we attended a fancy dress party last night in honour of wedding crowd events and such things. Grosvenor hall in Mayfair was turned into a mini gaming zone; yea it felt like you were in one of those arcade games with lots of characters flying and floating around. About a dozen or so people fluttered past making us feel like we were seated in the midst of a paintball venue, shooting at each other with life-like water-pistols, water-rifles (some in full army gear): few were recognisable especially because of the awesome disguises that they had played with. And the make-up art was divine, of course! A Spanish Princess accompanied her Matador partner; some princesses and fairies and elves dotted the place, and I played drama queen to the shade of pink alongside my sister-in-law in red she-devil regalia, her sister in pale white crowned princessy-ness, my brother as a London 'Bobby' policeman, cousin as a erm something... fancy-ish... and groom-to-be as a ruffian-come-jester-come-rap artiste. He got messed with water, flour and choice things that needed a few changes of clothes just like in some Bollywood song sequences. Somewhat surreal, mostly tonnes of fun... altogether feelgood. Here's wishing the new couple the best that life has to offer, grand dreams and choice health in the many years ahead, iA!

I still have spurts of party 'high' in my bloodstream. 100% natural. No additives. Pics aplenty. Some to follow.

Love and Mwahs,

The Drama Queen ;)

PIC UPDATE:

milk evaporates

Milk evaporates at some point. I realised this in larger than life format in the early hours of Thursday morning; decidedly spontaneous, I left Johannesburg soon after the morning prayers on a roadtrip to the east coast. Since the method of choice these past few years has been a quick airport soiree and a booked flight out of Johannesburg, it had been a while since Dad drove that distance... I stressed about the gazillion speed camera's. Dad loved the views, and so did my mom. Well, stunning it was, but I had done this route twice last year in order to take my car through in Jan, and then back home again in June when my lecturing contract spewed me out, gutted and chewed to an unlikely perfection.

And so, we made our way in the early hours through a trough of gurgling milk. Morning light seemed that way, with just a couple of hundred bubbles of light from oncoming cars, and a few from overhead streetlights bobbing over the surface of the milkiness. Then the stove signal of the sun emerged as a red globule, making milkiness boil and bubble to another state, less liquid and opaque; more airy and evaporating easily to reveal the blue yonder.

City lights and concrete lanes soon gave way to rolling green hills and clear skies - all part of the meander through the provinces to the lush kwa-zulu natal.

And then the smell of the ocean, rolling ridge road and the rest of it.

Aah... It's awesome to be back!

deep down i know

Dear Diary...

Life is strange. So very strange. I am sitting with a box of smarties and I don't know what to do with it. Everything's smooth sailing with good views and no sea-sickness. If I want to touch the sky, it steps down on one knee and gives me a hand, asking me to dance. If I want to plant roses, the seeds are scattered on the wind. And if I want to feel the wind in my hair, tree's cradle boughs into make-shift swings these days.

Hallucination or not, it's a truly blessed space to be in.

I still don't really know what to do. But I also have a feeling that that's just a conscious and superficial unknown. Deep down, I think I got it all figured out. I have just got to wait till it surfaces. That's all. :)

WebComic

PS: No Idea how to make this smaller. Its the smallest that blogger allows. Please click on image to see full cartoon.

'bliss and blood'

"How did my hearts rose

become this astounding red?

Through being washed again and again

in waves of bliss and blood."

R U M I

Kareem Salama: Picnics and Sunshine