Faces, spaces, reflections

Being South African forces one to reflect and re-evaluate, sometimes daily, how to identify, in some general and particular ways with who we are. Sum of parts, or a sore thumb, the nearly two decades span of freedom is a precarious space for identity. Too black, too white, not quite right, we continue to grapple with the colour of skins, the link of ethnic histories frozen in time, while trying our utmost to shape a new reality free of overkill metaphors of dark and light.

Everyday, we're brought face to face with disparity, the yawning gap between have and have not as we compete on a global stage. Slogans from the pathways scream: down with economic apartheid. The skin, faces blur, eyes tell stories of the real pain, frustration, hope dashed. Poverty knows no creed or colour. The mirror beckons.

Sometimes, the face in the mirror is a little girl hearing the sound of an ice-cream truck as it approaches her home, wishing that she had enough coins to fill her dolls tea cup with the icy pleasure.

Sometimes, the face looking back admonishes her for not making the team, not getting the highest test grades, not finding the courage to speak up to a petty bully.

Some days, the face is pink, white, brown, the colour of pale disillusion at the rants of politicking and self-policing. Watch what you say and it wont come back to bite you. Big brother is watching you. The patriarchs roll the dice.

Often, dreams are severed in the hopes of a happy family.
Sacrifice accentuates self worth. It takes a lot of stepping away from the mirror, and then returning to face it square in the eye before a selfish decision can be made to live the life you're meant to live.

These days, the face in the rearview mirror seems nervous, at all that is being left behind, perhaps filled with fear at what lies ahead. Sometimes it feels like every step forward, takes you further away from where you belong.

Soon, we'll find that the face in the compact mirror is haggard. Not the same, filled with the memory of yesterday's hopes and dreams, the forgotten songs on the playground that echo to this day; the taste of candy still fresh on the tongue. Alas. They just don't make things quite like they used to.

Faces in the mirror do just one thing: they only focus on what's right in front of them, and sometimes omit to see the full picture. This is the conundrum we're caught up in. We fixate on self reference. My identity, my race, my beliefs. We make value judgments and decisions based on this form of reference. We choose to imprison ourselves in these frozen boxes of history. And we do very little to bridge gaps.
When I look in the mirror, I want to see transformation. Not just growth, don't get me wrong, there is always growth, change, dimensions of newness. What I want to see is a shift in consciousness, and evolution of spirit. That's the only turn of face that will take this rainbow nation forward. And in order for that to happen, South Africans need active citizen participation. Face to face with a democracy that's very much alive.

Poets a new sun, and fading moonlight

There's something incredibly elegant about the way poets string emotions into delicate strands of hope, tethered to the branches that spell out life purpose, even if just for the moment. How to test if life seeps from these leafy arms, down sturdy trunks and into far-reaching roots that will sip as much love as they need from Mother Earth, to keep this magic going? Or will they just pop pills via the vending machine and be done when a new Sun rises and the moonlight has faded to a memory?

Blessed Showers

It's raining beautiful sheets of silver on my last day here in Polokwane. Just last night, I sat looking at the blank tissues of this screen and pondered the many things that have infiltrated my mind of late. I tend to do this. Usually on my last day at my parents home. Especially, at the close of yet another year.

There's something beautiful, replenishing about a rainy day like today. Like it's not an ending but a beginning, yet again. The scent of promise lingers. An announcement echoes from the heavens. There is yet much to look forward to, of that I am sure. And home will always be right here for when I need to return into it's embrace.

'Reflection' and 'Contemplation' are twins of course. And 'Appreciation' is a far-related, but necessary cousin. She's always invited to the party :)

Love and Light,
S

This Place I Call Home

Book Review: This Place I Call Home by Meg Vandermerwe (Modjaji Books, 2010)

Home is a place of rest. For an observant South African writer, spanning the expanse of time, history, culture and landscape, the concept of home is also a thematic vehicle.

Meg Vandermerwe’s debut book, ‘This Place I Call Home’ is a collection of ten stories that easily captures the feel of what it is to be South African from just as many points of view. Peering through the eyes of a hijack victim, a hunter, a domestic maid, an exile about to return home and a range of others, the reader is made to see how identity is constructed, altered and challenged in a country that has seen many versions of reality in its time and across the reach of its political horizons. In addition, it also captures what it is to be a foreigner in South Africa especially with the spate of xenophobia that we witnessed not too long ago. Needless to say, each of the protagonists grapples with haunting emotional challenges in their personal spaces that are inevitably reflected by the socio-political landscape. These stories tell us much about where we have come from as individuals, separated by the colour of our skins, the hierarchy of our place on the social ladder, and the baggage that we carry as we move forward as South Africans.

Vandermerwe also manages to capture the authentic voice of each of the protagonists in her stories, which is an impressive feat on the one hand, but can be a bit jarring for a reader moving through the stories one after the other. One has a sense of listening to a line-up of ten people narrating each of their encounters, or reliving a particular moment that was formative or impactful, and then it’s on to the next one. More so because of the shift in timelines. But it is also precisely because of this that the many colours of their narratives standing side by side, tend to blend into a remarkable anthology of South African-ness that makes for a must-read for historians and anthropological enthusiasts.

But there’s more. We all have significant markers of identity and home. That is, how we make sense of both where we are, and who we are in the world is determined by the associations we make with particular things, specific encounters. Vandermerwe highlights these and the reader will find it easy to draw on the nostalgia that these markers evoke: a mango tree, a dictionary, the anticipation of a holiday or having heard of the story of someone returning home from exile. There are stories of loss and grief and hope and redemption to be found in this little gem of a book. Protagonists are challenged by disease, broken promises, xenophobia and a range of subjects that the reader is able to identify with; these stories will carry forth from the local to the global context an authentic flavour of the multi-coloured African dynamic. And the resounding theme of what it has meant to be South African, over the span of time and politics, comes through in the sentiments expressed by each of the protagonists; a domestic servant, a madam, a hunter’s aid and his master.

Vandermerwe deals in astounding detail with the issue of HIV/Aids, the inevitable cloud of superstition that surrounds the disease and the reliance or the faith that people place in traditional vs. modern medicine. The Red Earth is probably my favourite read in this anthology. Its characters don’t jump out at you; rather they sit beside you and allow you a peek into their deepest thoughts. They reveal their fears and prejudices. To me, that is the most remarkable accomplishment of the fiction writer; the ability to give the reader the opportunity to more than identify or sympathise with the character, but to really walk in their skin, taste and feel and dream as they might.

I particularly noted how Vandermerwe is able to denote class struggles in the local context, and the resultant mindset that arises from having to know your place. Inferiority is a powerful voice. Often more so than superiority. It reminds you mostly of the things that you do not deserve. And that you should know your place. This is the marvel of the post-colonial era. And it continues to be echoed in the economic reality that separates the haves and the have-nots. The writer achieves this balance in portraying both the yearnings of those on lower rungs of the social ladder as well as the expectations of those who teeter on the edge of the higher rungs of this shaky ladder. And so the reader is made to see at once the numerous layers of South African history as well as contemporary South African society beyond the shining tourist manuals. We also learn that if there are spaces that are sometimes unforgiving to South Africans, that these spaces can be even more threatening to ‘aliens’. In our insistence to claim our place, our home, we label the outsiders mercilessly. Strong notions of other-ing resound through the narratives. And we are made to ask questions of whether our existence is validated by this defining of ‘other’ and the subsequent removal of the alien other from what we claim to be our space. Narrative is a safe yet interesting way for these themes and debates to emerge. This Place I call Home is a book that manages to do this.

That the reader is made to read in the authentic voice and viewpoint of the character with such ease is the most enduring and positive attribute of this writer’s art. And this is what brings these stories home for us.

Free imaginings

The way we live our life seems to be a function of our imagination. We imagine that we are at a certain point, measured only by our relative perceptions. And we make our way along a path that we deem is wrought with difficulty or strewn with rose petals, often to our own detriment or perhaps a precursor to little bouts of disappointment and some level of joy upon discovering that we have far exceeded our own expectations.

So. Most of all, the relevance of life is measured by how we prioritize matters, beliefs, people and things in general. How deeply we felt something, only to have it washed aside in a moment of disparate agitation, speaks much of the frivolity with which we might splash emotion or withhold it, even.

Above all else is the dire need to foster this growing, thriving fuel of imagination.
It's the foundation for everything that we delve in, the inspired gas of our oblivion, the grease on the the wheels that pull a cart of memories and the glue that holds us together in times of trauma and distress.

Imagine a world without this essential element?

;)

Greedy for Air

I've been enjoying my round of fiction reads this month.

Just last week, I got through "The White Tiger". Much can be said about a book that openly reveals that greed and survival are really not the same thing. The human mind forever fascinates me. The limits we place upon ourselves, as well as the new frontiers that are challenged in those finite boxes of sanity and insanity are largely unexplored. There are, I believe, yet to be seen examples of how much the potential of the human mind will surprise and enthrall, and yes, even horrify the 'clanging masses' rest of us.

Taking from the White Tiger, although situated in India, the story has echoes of relevance for South Africa; not just from an 'Indian' point of view, but also if we were to take both a human and then even an inhumane outlook. Okay, let's not pretend that we're one swathing mass of loving humanity; there are amongst us those who will sell their mother's left hand given the right blend of conditions.

Writer's like Adiga are adept at bringing that 'potential' of the inhumane human to the fore; of highlighting the irreverent contradictions of what it is to be a human being. And while I would like to imagine, still, that it takes much of a stretch of the imagination, I know at some rational level, that I would be kidding myself: I had barely put the pages of The White Tiger to rest, when the ET debacle exploded right in our midst. Not even for 7lakh rupees. Just. Dead.
Was it because of years of pent up Hatred?
Was it an act of Love?

I don't really want to know. A human life was slaughtered at the hands of people maimed by his own acts of terrorizing them over years. Do we really reap what we sow? This might be an apt example. Still, a human life is so easily rendered to a bag of bones and flesh and blood that oozes back into the womb of the earth. We're so easily turned back into the clay from which we came.
All material, mortal. There it is again. Mortality looks back from the mirror everyday.

Which brings me to the new book that I am reading, and reviewing, this time, for an Afrikaans paper: 'Say You're One of Them,' by Uwem Akpan. I am just learning, that childhood is a commodity in Africa. Akpan brings this idea to life in his book.

And. midway through the book, I am blown away. Now to scrape and claw for some moments of objectivity. Watch this space.

S

Faqir: short fiction lurking on my pc

The drought had lasted longer than anyone anticipated. The land was screaming for its thirst to be quenched. Cracks were appearing in the ground and on people’s faces.
Faqir Hussain’s business was to look at his hands. He lifted them up and wagged them at passers-by. The regulars were kind to him.
Modi the mithaiwala gave him ten; less if his wife was with. And Merchant sahib gave him twenty. On another day he had given him fifty. Jaggu the moneylender was too stingy to give anything. But he always asked him how he was.

Still, the drought was a bad sign. Rain made people’s hearts blossom, like roses. And their hearts dried up with the drought. Tempers flared, and friends bickered like nasty old women. It was the drought that made his hands ache for the feel of water. It was this drought that was making them ignore him on the footpath. Midday sun was burning holes in his bald head. It wasn’t that they did not have any money to give. It was the new footpath hero that they took trouble to notice today. His name was Ali.

Faqir's eyes wandered across to where Ali was perched like the last item of a street-vendors wares. He felt sorry for the boy. He had the face of a hero. A beautiful face. But he had to use his arms to move the piece of wooden board that held his torso. Two stumps pretended to be his legs. And three wheels from a rusted old supermarket trolley made the board mobile.
He was the one stealing the glances and pity from the people. He was the one causing this new drought in Faqir Hussain’s life.

Evening was already throwing a blanket over the land. Not a single coin. Not one rupee also. Faqir knew he would sleep on a feast of yawns. He leaned his back to the vandalised wall behind him. Some young goons had sprayed slogans of Aazadi on the wall. That was their only freedom. Hunger made him sleepy; it was easy to doze off. Until the sound of shouting woke him. The young boy was crying; three men kicked him, screaming for more money. They were Karim Khan’s men. It all made sense. Ali was one of the Lala gang’s victims. Faqir knew why he felt sorry for the boy. He was young and healthy. They must have broken his legs to make him more profitable. People paid for pain. They paid to make their pain go away. Faqir knew this better than the potholes on his bald head. He used the lines; “I will pray for your daughter’s happiness... May you live a long life... May Allah give your family a hundred sons.” And usually it worked. Nobody would refuse to give money if he said those kinds of things. Because what if they didn’t give money and the opposite happened? No one was willing to take chances like that.

But nothing could beat a young boy without legs. The gang knew that. He was their golden goose. Him and so many other children on the footpaths. They were all the dust on the dry pathways. It would take the rains to wash it all away. Rains would remove the drought. Young Ali was being carried off by the goons. Darkness covered the street, and people had moved to the other side to get away from Karim Khan’s men.

A drop of water trickled along the rippled skin on Faqir's head. He reached his hand out to see if it was a dream or a reality. A few more drops collected on his palm. The dry skin drank the water.

He leaned back against the wall. The gush of air from his nostrils slowed down; the pulse in his neck steady. It didn’t matter that the rain was soaking him. A body in that state doesn’t shiver. Sleep is like death. And death is like sleep. Each is a kind of freedom.


Copyright (C) Shafinaaz Hassim 2010

Notes:
Faqir - name/ direct transl: beggar (as a name refers to humility rather than ostentation.)
mithaiwala - sweetseller
Aazadi - Freedom

Different, and the same...

Silence is barely empty when you punctuate it with so many things that can mean more than all those thousand worded delusions that I have been chasing all my life.

It is, full. And it is empty.

I think I have all the answers to that one question.

I think I know.

I know that days will still run as an open tap; that years will flow as running water from therein. Years flow from days. That's what I have come to know.

I know that words will get stuck like that log in that dream, causing dams to form of muck and grime and sand and silt.

I also know that I will change. And I will remain the same.

And the running thread will always be that place of Silence on the
piece of green mat; my earth. My knees stuck there; different, and yet, the same.

I know that certainty will falter, and be sturdy in its affirmations;
that it will give birth to new confidence,
and bludgeon some assurance to an unnatural death.

And after all is said and done,
I know,
that I will be
as I have been;
And you will be
as you have been.

Different. And then, too, the very same.

raw realness

We work our way through a range of insane definitions of what love is, what it should be, and how it should present itself in our lives. Then we spend many short lifetimes debating and insisting that it be done quite that way. Done. As in produced, manufactured, packaged, sealed and delivered to our doorstep. Quite that way that we always envisaged. It isn't to be, of course. Life has other plans.

Sometimes it comes to us, not quite looking like love. It comes in a tomato crate with creaking boards that bear splinters as evidence of the raw material quality with which the crates were made. Raw realness. Bearing also the traits of human potential. Not glamorous at first sight, but holding that ability to reach heights never before felt or experienced. Ingratiatingly, for the child soul stubborn to wait out the process of discovery, it might seem like an endless appeal for who-knows-what. But for the less compulsive, the more trusting, and the calmed-to-knowing types, this is precisely what they have been waiting for.

So, how to bridge this gap then?

Simply this. Love is rain and fire and air and solid ground. Love is all this and more and less and something in-between. But it is Love only when it has been stretched to its limits and shown to reveal an energy beyond your wildest expectations. When its all clear as to why. And the why no longer matters. When its all certain as to the how. And the how needn't make sense because its so far away from the beginning. The urgency for gratification is a cloak of heaviness that needs to be discarded if the love-seeking soul is to move unburdened, with lightness of being, into a field of discovering the authenticity of surrendering to all that is to be.

And the analysts mind needs to be shut down. Just about now. And Silence needs to tell its own story. And when the noise has seeped out, maybe then, Love might thrive.

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.

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.

:)

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

seventh sense

"Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader

— not the fact that it is raining,

but the feeling of being rained upon."


-Anton Chekhov

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 summer of sweetness

After that night, she hated him. It took her three months to drag herself, bit by bit, out of that rut of hatred. Because the way she saw it, after all the time that they had known each other as children, it took one moment of hormonal tugging; one sordid word from the woman who wanted him, to make him cast that evil look upon her face. It burned her. Then the scar remained, revealing itself to her everytime that she looked into the mirror. Renewed loathing filled her being. Tears refused to sting her eyes; she wouldn't waste that salt on him. Not anymore. She was adamant, but still it was a struggle to fight back the waters of sadness. Her bottom lip took the brunt of it, revealing beads of red in place of simple salt water from higher up. The taste on her tongue was the same; aside from the colour, blood and tears were the same, she realised.

He wasn't her brother. Nothing tied him to her, irreverently. They weren't lovers. Love was this strange word that could so easily distort the purity of the friendship that they had cultivated since they were each less than a metre high. She supposed that such was the nature of soul connections. A knowing with certainty that the other person was a certain way, today but perhaps not tomorrow. Having an inkling of an idea that they needed to hear something said at a particular time. Or that they needed to be simply left alone. It came with time, and patience, and listening. It came with caring, because she was sure that even some married couples didn't quite get to that point. Married couples? What was she thinking, they were not a couple. They were childhood friends, thrown together at a time when innocence was the glue and adventure was the energy that grew them on the same branch of life's tree. Two unripe mango's laden with promise, and waiting only for the summer of sweetness to claim their moment in the sun; their moment of fame and glory.

It was something that everyone was entitled to: that precious time at the prime of one's life when all potential and wonders are revealed to a world that never knew of your existence. The only ones who knew were the ones who grew you to this point. With water and light and care. With tenderness. Just like he did for her, and she did for him.

And what happened then? The fork in the road. The split in their journeys. The look of disgust in his eyes. Those last words, spat out like something bitter and poisonous lingered on his tongue. And then nothing.


(Copyright Shafinaaz Hassim 2009)

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.

i aint no poker face

An inspired thread runs between the blogs, sometimes... it's enough to be celebrated.
I said at Azra's place just now, that we each have our prided space in enough dysfunction to keep us functioning... at an almost ordered, but often chaotic optimum.

In my case, it shows out in my writing's. Optimum is a day when the words flow unhaltingly, rivers into oceans and reaching their zenith just as I am about to crash for the evening to indulge in a read or a movie or a late night phone call to catch up with a friend... or something different. Seeking inspiration. Craving it. Replenishing it. Call me predator. My mind thirsts that way, insatiable for the most part.

It shows. When those days of being far below anything remotely optimum threaten my imaginary hold on sanity. It screams on those days. Raging, burning, and surging through every cell in my body. It shows in my writing; and more in my lack of being able to create at all. My facial expressiveness does little to save me the billboard status. I aint no poker face. That's for sure. Writing this book has proven that in oh so many ways. Zarreen's joys and fears have somewhat mirrored my own. In some cases she overcomes imagined hurdles that I have yet to surpass. In other's our lives are so far apart that it takes a little more than the stretch of my worn out muse. We need a vacation :) But not until the job is done.

I love some parts of this writing. Love, love, love it. I cringe at some of it. I cannot bear to read it! But nothing that the slicing and dicing phase can't fix. Or the delete function on my pc. But there's also some bits that surprise me. Lurking in the psyche somewhere, are these molecules and seeds of information that grow to tree's of like(ly) and unlike(ly). And they are made manifest in these creative efforts.

I want to paint again.

Now is a very good time to get started, methinks...

S

lets begin at the end...

Zarreen is experiencing a shift in consciousness. I can see it happening for her. But there’s two ways this can go. And I have written two ways in which the book can end. Both choices are part of her reflections; or rather they flow from it. Both will turn out okay. They won’t be dead end. Just that they will be. And that they will signal a kind of finality with future prospects.

And still, I have this nagging feeling in the back of my head, that there’s another way of doing this. A way that I must discover for myself. A midway almost, but not.

Zarreen must have these choices and so must the reader. I want to leave these choices to both parties, and not be the one to make it for them. Zarreen must be willing to make that decision; it’s what regaining her sense of self and her essential autonomy is all about. And for the reader who has journeyed with her, I want to honour the same respect for that kind of choice. That level of engagement. And not to take it as my own, my right as the artist of these scenes; I am just the one documenting and giving form to these reflections, these choices, these bits of life that no doubt, every one of us do and will encounter along the path that we tread.

So there’s one thing that I am sure of… It’s not only my choice to make.

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