Dear Yesterday...

Dear Yesterday. I'm an artist, I know, and so I enjoy the shreds that you leave for me to pick at, to write poetry about, to dye and splash across canvasses. But sometimes, I wish that you would leave me alone. Thanks. Me.

Inertia, Utopia, CHaOs

I cannot recall a year that went by so quickly, it felt like it had barely begun. Not for lack of having accomplished anything, though. In fact, precisely because of the years adrenalin-filled happenings, do I feel that sense of inertia still making me reel to and fro, and for the most part, vivid images meld into a belligerent blur.

This is a reflection. Not quite the customary year-end ramble.
Which is probably why I cannot find the words to express the stop-start feeling.
And, as luck and fate and the powers that be might have it,
its not over yet.

Do I sound like I'm complaining?

Hardly that.
I'm reading yet another visa script as I type; ready to set off to a desert rendezvous for a week of partying and festivity to round up the year that was.
While Dubai World crashes around us left to the folly of the markets and wanton players, some with tails between their legs, our lot might do the economy a small boost in our lavish outpourings for the next week. Shamelessly said, I know.
Such is the bane and the boon of the clad and shackled.

Ah, its been a year of abundance.
Words flow.
Joy bursts at the seams.
The trickles of sadness, loss and illness linger; keeping a necessary humility in place.
And the mirage of a brighter future looms at eye level.
2010 will be a year of togetherness.
A year of partnering on an equal ground; the dust on the battlefields will settle.
And it will be yet another year to reflect on, to learn from, and to celebrate for its lavish layers of utopia and chaos, in similar measures that maintain our humanity; that sustain all but a crass sanity.

Its not quite goodbye, yet.
But its almost there...

Love and Light,
Shafs

http://shafinaaz.com

Copyright Shafinaaz Hassim (C) 2009

Little Notes from Arabia

31 Aug:
Sometimes, dua, prayer, supplication, moves through us, if not from us. I learnt that today, while standing in front of the Holy Kaaba. I remembered the name of a woman that I have not met. Ever. But I know that she ails. And that almost intangible ailment filters into the lives of her loved ones. Her name came to my lips in full form, surprising me.
I also discovered that empty spaces, mundane ones, are filled easily by the wholeness of humanity. I realised that I am here to experience the notion of a crowded oneness that I write about, ramble about, and even try to fashion into words.
The concept of tawheed is neatly embodied in being one with the crowd. Circling the Kaaba for the last time, amid midday heat that defies logic in its sentient calmness, coolness. Having sought newness, this is it: both Content, Complete.

1 Sept:
The thought crosses my mind that its Spring Day back home in SA. And we're roasting peanuts in the Arabian Sun. The glow is unmistakeably tinged with the radiance of the moment's entirety; of being here, and just being.

3 Sept:
There is something about Madinah that unties that last knot. The last tether is loosened here; and all flows freely. I am easily moved to tears, being the unapologetic sentimentalist that I am, but being here removes that final frontier of abandon. Grace is felt here. Mercy adorns. Forgiveness flows. Love does, too.
I am at once soaked and drenched in it. The beauty of it all.

6 Sept:
Woke up to the distinct sound of the Athaan Call to Prayer in my ears. Its 11am in Madinah, and check out time is after the midday prayer. Only thing is, its too early for the Athaan. But I was so sure. Still. The mind lacks a tether here. It only knows greatness, not of its own doing though. It's time to say farewell to this City of Angels, sadness distilled with the hope that the tranquility prevails, somewhat.

We traverse the Arabian desert for most of the afternoon, chomping kilometres in a rhino-esque vehicle called a GMC; less Gulf-ish than it sounds, as its really an American creature. We arrive in Jeddah just as the sun sets. A golden-pink sun bounces playfully on the horizon for a last few minutes before it plunges into the depths of the Red Sea. We take in the sights of this final destination of our Arabian journey. And then we fly home. Finality has so many colours for me. This time, it's many shades of red.

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?

high tea, umbilical cords and everyday miracles

I drink copious amounts of tea when I'm writing. At least, this is something I have just taken note of. Tea seems to flow in me and through me (nasty thought, that) in the same way that muse works its way around in inspiring the words to flow. There are times when the words will not happen, of course. But the imagery is strong and so it follows me around like a watermark in my vision. I see it in view when I am driving, in the shower and nestled under a warm quilt at night. I see it when I wash my hands; it floats in the cascade of water that rushes over my fingers and mixes with the liquid soap to form clouds of foam. At times, it eventually disappears back into the recesses of my imagination and emerges in a dream. I wake up thinking and knowing that this is what happens next in my story. Past, present and future merges into one in the world of the subconscious. And in no uncertain terms, my dream state often informs my storyline, as it does my intuitive life path.

I said in my previous post, that reflections often make me spin. It's not a bad thing. Reflections, and the washing cycle cleansing that occurs in contemplation, making authentic choices and forgiving, letting go, opening oneself to new and replenished opportunities... It's a rather integral part of the life process.

I did more thinking this week when a dear friend who I have not met in years, lost her mom. I first met Elaine when we were both undergrad architecture students at Wits. We shared a studio in John Moffat, the architecture block, and I still remember painting walls and Zen-ni-fying the place before we really warmed to the place. Our other co-inhabitants were Hong and Sundeep. I also remember many hours of Five FM and the like accompanying us on long drawn hours of design collaboration, structural drawings and the ups and downs that went with being undergrad architecture students. Needless to say, the three of em graduated as architects some years later. I dropped out before my second year exam, just after the October portfolio review. That's a topic for a whole other post.

I hooked up with each of them over the last two years or so, on Facebook. Elaine Van Heerden is now Elaine Jones, married, with a beautiful baby-boy/toddler named Rowan. I love being in touch with her, the reminder of the lovely energy that emanates from her wonderful being. She lives in Ohio now. And I read her post tribute to the effect that her Mom, Theresa, passed away on Monday in Johannesburg. I never met Theresa, but I knew Elaine. And reading her heart-wrenchingly beautiful tribute drew blood. It made me wonder about distance, and love and life and death. It also made me realise that proximity is no guarantee for closeness, and being so far apart geographically, does not weaken the bonds of heart and soul; does not sever the invisible umbilical cord that ties parents and children for eternity.

There are so many ways in which we attempt to make sense of life, purpose and the reasons for meeting people in our lives. The answers that we come up with are often insufficient responses. Words can only do 'so much'. There's a lot more to be said about feeling your way through life and being in awe of everyday little miracles.

TeXTure

I met a woman who makes moleskins for a living. What an amazing way to celebrate words, I thought. And the recording of history, of course. But it's to be appreciated that this is a craft of scarcity; and more importantly, the most seasoned artisans are a rare breed.

We feel life in texture. So whether the words we read are made tangible in their way of evoking emotion, or whether it is that life grazes and grabs a hold of you, enticing you to in turn hold on tightly, we are meant to be aware of it's every moment.
Armchair travel rules the world. I believe that, firmly. Via kindle or good-ol-fashioned print runs that leave their ink on your fingers and your mind; the written word will forever stretch out into the Soul of the world and inspire in us things we may never dream of, even.

It's in wanting to feel life that life is felt out for us.

I am threading along with my beads of choice and happy to see the precious moments adding up to a worthy adornment. Life can be pretty thrilling, in it's ordinariness if we just take the time to stand back and admire it :)

S

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

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 :)

The End...

Some of the most imaginative stories are begun with the words "Once Upon a Time".

Even Coelho's 'Eleven Minutes' does this. But then, the idea of beginning at the begin, is a nominal and conventional route as far as story-telling goes.

I like the idea of beginning at the end. It has that something in it that suggests we (at least a part) are permanently frozen in our every moment; that everyone moment of NOW has a nostalgic before and an inevitable after.

I have written a goodbye post to every year since I began blogging in 2005. Each time I said goodbye to a year of things and happenings; sometimes gladly, mostly reluctant... but then I never bid farewell to the memories or feelings or lessons. And mostly, I never ever said goodbye to the experiences that indulged my craving for wholeness. These were my highlights; my essential milestones... They were the products of my often limited supply of enthusiasm. And this limitation had to be pointed out to me; for a long time I deluded myself into believing that enthusiasm existed in endless supply. Then I heard not. It was like discovering that Santa doesn't exist. Or worse still, the Tooth Fairy! Imagine that?!

They happen every single year, of course. These milestones of discovery. And they're not always easy to acknowledge or recognise. Oh, but they sure do take place. Angels in disguise tend to present them in the most creative ways. Those same angels in disguise both force and entice the inner demons out on a scant spring-cleaning effort. And they tease the inner angels too, encouraging a romance of sorts between them for a time.

It's the End again. Candles have melted, and taps have run dry. There's no more squeezing that toothpaste tube. 2008 is done; save for a few pernicious scraps of dark poetry scribbled across the draft of that thing called a novel, and other's published here and there and elsewhere, it was another eventful and evolutionary year. That I can say, without so much as a drop of doubt.

A year ago, I yearned for newness. I got it in torrents. The storm replenished me, insatiated me... and then washed me ashore to yet another beach of newness. This ebb and flow is what life is all about. At least that what it is to me... part of that tidal wave of evolutionary relationships, personal growth and discovery... and a longer list of reasons to feel an overwhelming gratitude for riding the crest of the wave every so often, after a time of drowning in the confusion of the greater depths of salty water.

The ebb and flow... the circularity of reason... the evolution of life and being...
And the thrilling realisation that ends are really beginnings...

Here's wishing everyone a gregarious and enthusiastic new year 2009!


With love and appreciation

Shafinaaz

i am you, alright...

you are

that fresh breeze
playing with the curls in my hair,

that tinge of sunlight that
leaves gold dust on my skin,

that rustle in the wind
of the grasses before
the summer rains...

that dainty twitter
of love birds
meeting each other after
a time.

you are
that moonlight
dancing on the surface
of a crystal pond,

that gleam in the
gems that glisten on
my earlobes...

that sound of
life just awakening
to its wholeness.

you are.

i am.

and i am you.

but you are.

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*

no name brand

I just learned that a good friend of mine blogs. All this, thanks to her mom. Now, she's one heck of a person. And she's got a 'wow' mind. All this means that she must have one really awesome blog. Or two. Or however many she might have. But, she chooses to remain anonymous. And, of course, thats to be respected. I remember when I first started blogging, I chose to write simply as Kimya. Theres something to be said about total blissful anonymity. In the way that one writes, in the level of expressiveness and in the non-judgemental approach one has to ones expressions regarding self. Not much of that has changed, in principal, but I wonder if, at least at a subconscious level, this open writing challenges freedom in any way? Or does it add a responsibility of sorts, perhaps? I wonder.

I wonder if anonymity belies intentions. If it aids exaggeration. Or if it courts embellishment. I wonder if life is fiction anyway. Or is fiction reality, all the same.

I also wonder if this blood pressure level dropping below 100 is causing my mind to spin in too much wondering. I need sleep. And water. And less caffeine. And more fresh air. And an oasis of new inspiration.

And I would really like to write again. So I am off to do that. Ciao.

With love and sweet nothings
S

what ego said to soul & vice versa

Ends and beginnings are never as circular as they might seem. Well, at least, not at first. Nostalgia is a thing of dreams and damnation. Many a poet has stolen its fragrance to adorn mere words; or used it to display grief and loss and deep regret. But what does one do to a bout of nostalgia that is unnameable. No title fits it, aptly, so fleeting is its source. A mirage, almost there... Even in dreams, a touch, a word, a look, a conversation between souls... is being reduced to a misty moment of an over-worked imagination. Nothing less. Nothing more.

But the battle of wits and grace between ego and soul persists. How does one hold onto something that was never really there, says ego? And how does one let go of something that truly was, says soul? And at what point are we meant to know the difference, say I?

In the beginning ego was left sulky, thirsty, and soul was nourished, gleaming, in pure joy. Now, ego remains to pick up the pieces, saying 'what a mess, i told you so!' while soul dips into the well of muddy tears looking for a drink to make it forget. Or is it to drown out the noise of the ego!

Ha! Says Ego. You see! Ordinary pathos makes a better story than the tales of 1001 Nights, not so?

Soul says No! In that realm where souls take flight, the dance of joy still exists..
You belong to me. And I. Am only. Yours.