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.

Learning...

I've missed blogging, what with all the writing and editing and living that's been happening. Also, a lot of learning for me in this new year. I'm just learning that strawberry yogurt is an excellent (and guilt-free) quencher when you have the munchies at just past 1am, as is now the case.
I've also made note, that some of us weren't born to be pawns, and if we're treated that way, then we will leave the chess game and make our own way across the board games of life until we find our own space to breathe, to grow, to be.
And of course, even though I believe that everything in life happens for some or other reason (often not immediately understood), we have to pay attention to how life seems somewhat randomized, that we will collide as atoms do and that's one of the most beautiful realities about this whole business of living.
PS: This is a one a.m ramble. And at second read (I refuse to edit this!) it does sound a bit heavy and vent-worthy. But. I'm looking forward to an exciting year and a string of new projects and opportunities. More learning. More being me. More of this and that. More writing! And endless love.

Belly of Fire, the anthology that waited patiently for me to pick it up from the shelf of 2010's busy schedule, is on the road to being born. Yes, like a pregnancy. Speaking of which, I will be an aunt sometime soon.
And as of this week, I will be lecturing the Feminist Theory course for Hons students in Sociology at Wits University with Daughters are Diamonds as core text alongside Simone de Beauvoir's The Second Sex. Accompanied to this is an exciting reader of fabulous material to be discussed in the seminars. The possibility of a play (if the department agrees) and a film to be reviewed by students. It's strangely satisfying, being back at my alma mater. And surreal at the same time, walking around the old haunts, remembering things I may have inadvertently forgotten.
I'm all set for an interesting year ahead.
That's the certainty that is my companion for now.
Good night, blogmites.
xoxo

rotten potatoes

potatoes left to rot on the rack
always feel like
a waste
of carbs,
a waste of
good energy
a waste
of
time
and earth
and sunshine
and water
and
a waste
of
life.

tomatoes still have a use
ever after
but potatoes,
well,
they're just
a rot
of life
on
the compost heap.

wholesome
gone
rubbish.

*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

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.

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

99c

It would have been an easy celebration today; but then it's all just a whirrr of pictures and colour and emotions through my fingers when you think of it all. Now distant memories of way back then when carefree was a state of being, and forever raspberry on my lips: 99c gloss from Mr Price, a 3-door car to the Symphony of Fire and some jeans ripped up on the unforgiving tarmac. Laughter our eternal companion. Or was it all those other times: a late night phone call because your electric blue spray-can spilled its guts over the beach in tribute to me. Vanity inflated then. I can only imagine it still, seeing as this was all before MMS evidence became crucial to our existence. Or the sacred spliff on a couch in the middle of who-knows-where was a reason to barricade our shared life with all that deadly silence. Then the giggles in tandum to really nothing. Promises? You always had a knack for those. And the moments of greatest tests when we questioned each other. And you blew it all up in smoke when you shouted my name at the top of your lungs in the crowd. Often. What about that offish day; my birthday? Midnight. A long story for the guardians of the night. An empty suitcase. And a can of my favourite fizz with priceless slice-of-cake simplicity did the trick that engraved itself on this feeble mind. Unstilted.

Sigh.

You would have been worth the celebration today, if you were. I should have said goodbye when you left here. I should have. I wish I said it then. I didn't. I think I'll say it now. Ghosts of the past have no future, don't you know? Mortal presence can't keep up with that much glamour. Thanks, really. This cots getting tiny. You have to go. I can barely breathe. Still, it was fun. And you're gone, and you're here, like you said you'd always be. I know I know, a promise is a promise. But please, just go.

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.

dust off your hands... it will be done

2009

hello

what will you have?

a cup of tea? with lemon and ice?

or a bag of flour to bake your own cupcake, perhaps?

i have nothing to serve, you see...

you're an unlikely newness

raking the same glory from the days gone by

a bit too quickly for my liking, i say

and a bit too slow

if it counts that

there's a war crime or two

happening in some part up north

i don't know exactly where

just that

its not okay

because those babies i heard in my dream

weren't actually in combat

the lollypop that got splattered with blood

was just fresh out the wrapper

gosh

the baby was fresh out the wrapper!

but they said they were bombing

an area of armed combatants

(with lollypops - red ones!)


so what will it be?

a glass of ice water?

a dash of tequila?

on the rocks... and the rubble

underneath which

lies a mother and her two children

the third one is just

a

splattered

mush of flesh.

doesn't count.


it's just a matter of

ashes to ashes,

dust

and clay

to dust.

white phosphorous will make sure of it!

dust off your hands. it will be done.


happy new year.

we can wait for FIFA's act,

but the games have already begun.

oOo---10 Tips for Writers---oOo

1. Pencils are earthy. Hug a tree. Hold a pencil. Life flows!

2. Roller ball ink pens allow your words to 'feel' life.

3. I wish my dreams had ink at hand... They would make for some awesome scenes :)

4. Blueprints are not Buildings. Plots are not Stories. Brick by brick you gotta just write, write and .............keep writing!

5. Even the prison of the mind has a little window that lets the light of inspiration in. So keep your face to the window. Suns and moons are good friends to have.

6. I wish I had time to write contemplative sequels instead of daydreaming so much.

7. Daydreams are NOT agents of procrastination.

8. Procrastination is just a germination period.

9. After germination comes the rains. Naturally.

10. Rain makes me daydream. Sigh.

11. Happy Monsoons to all you fellow writers out there!


...Love and Words...
Shafinaaz

PS: I almost forgot. I met a very distracting dude recently. He was tall, dark and handsome. He showed me ID> His name was Inner Critic. Yea, he had oodles of dark charm. I'm a sucker, what can I say. It's tough, I know, but don't fall for him! Lol. Or her, for that matter :P

deuce juice

I am reluctant...
fundamentally flawed by the curse
of a day gone by.

the end.

and the beginning, a bitter reminder
of some inner longing
reduced to a case of ulcer
and putrid
gas.

what with the price all so shaky at the moment,
the oil-rich look less shiney
and the starved look somewhat
a trendy artists grunge inspiration.

aah, the pathos of
a new condition
regurgitated from the machine
of an over-worked mind
and a rather battered muse;

with a juicy social consciousness squeezed from
the-eye-half-closed to wrongs,
an airy fairy soul still struggles
to cling onto
plastic wrap
and staples
in the hope that the competitive edge will
inspire the one to entice suffocation
or the other to slice
wrists damned by
the clerks
choices!

for now, head-to-head
are dreams reduced to deuce
with so much work
still left
to do.

Drinking from the Same Cup...

This is as much your story as it is mines,
We drink from the same cup, you and I..
Sometimes intoxicated by the offering and other times
Rendered to a state of nausea by the over stimulation of sugar rushes and aftertastes of the gone off variety.
When left too long in the sun, unattended, life’s condition deteriorates.
And we drink on, regardless, like thirsty puppies, unaware of the crass energy of a thing gone bad.

And then we feel it all. The rising bile, the fear, the pain, the disillusionment that makes us point shaky fingers at who-knows-what.

And we cry from deep within. Warm tears stream down forlorn faces, drenching chins; the salty derisiveness staining the false arrogance of starched collars. Of what use is this self-ridicule? Carving a path to bleakness, it sets a burning torch to light the way, but burns its bearer into the ground / to ashes.

The dust to dust parody reminds us of our fallibility, mortality, but taken to extreme derides us to nothingness. Life tends to nothingness? Unless…