Big Pics and Bigger Circles

I have flashbacks from my past, almost as though something from my past is repeating itself. Or just about to. You know how they say, when you reach that crucial moment in your life when it all comes together for you and you take a peek at a rushing stream of past, present and potential future moments all at once, a dizzying speed of images collide at one point. Well, not quite that, but still. That.

Without making any deliberate sense. I feel like that thing that happened then, and again later sometime, and one more time in the not too distant past, is about to happen again. Different, but the same. And I haven't the faintest clue why it is to be so. Or if it is just a figment of my imagination.

And of course, on cue, the same voice appeared out of almost nowhere, saying to me, well: this is it, happening all over again, because I didnt pay attention to the details the last time.
Oi.
Attention to detail? Are you kidding me?

Maybe it was the bigger picture that I failed to take note of.

That's it!

The bigger picture.

This is where I step back to get a better view of it all.

Breath easy :D

Lights. Camera. Action!

Top 50 Blogs: in humanity

I'm having a pretty random day. And so a random search for my blog brought me to discover this:

Apparently, SoapBox Shafinaaz makes some random list by NetworkedBlogs as number 19 on the Top 50 Blogs: in humanity.

I had no idea that such a thing existed. Nor was I notified.
But it's obviously some part of the Networks way of marketing readable blogs at various stages; making blogs known to the rest of the blogosphere, and to pretty much the rest of the virtual surfers out there... What I am curious about is the criteria involved in making this assessment. The social scientist in me wants to know :P

In related news, "Memoirs For Kimya", the blog-to-book, is having an inspired new year so far :D

I'm the one that's at a loss for words, for the most part.
Yes, stranger things do occur.

Peaceful thoughts to all...

S

*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

breathing

I know that I am being tested. More like I asked to be tested. My deepest prejudices are being uncovered. I feel cut open and left bare. But I'm reveling in it! I don't really know how to explain it all. So why try. It's incredibly enough to feel it. There's something happening here. Inside of me. And some of it outside :) And I'm filled with this feeling of being ALIVE. Breathing and breathe-ing.

There cannot be questions born, without the answers in waiting, somewhere, to be discovered. A treasure of answers are to be delivered to me in the next few hours. I can almost taste them. I have been following the maze and picking up the clues; diligently collecting and collating them. Studiously making my observations. It all makes sense. I'm standing under the waterfall now. Refreshed. Thrilled by the eureka moments that life is throwing my way. Aha! I say. A-Ha! Indeed. Thou art Most Beneficent.

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!

'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

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*

amsterdam is

amsterdam is the colour of naples on a yellow summer afternoon when the rain has just washed my forehead clean of the anxiety that last winters brush scratched across it.

amsterdam is fine, oil, colours of warmth.

amsterdam is where i am.

with a canvas, palette and brushes.

and all the colours of my imagination
working their way around my head -
sometimes as a wreath i can touch;
othertimes a halo that touches me.

Driving Dad Crazy

Azra's awesome post, Paternal Instinct's, about her dad got me thinking about my own sweet, volatile, and fluid relationship with my dad. We all start out with that typical daddy's girl virtue of life. And having come full circle, we do indeed return to take that place with full conviction. And in so far as dads are concerned, I dont think they ever imagine that we ventured away from that place. But then we're all not typical I suppose :/

Seriously though. Dad's are our ready made heroes. They do the impossible, with gritted teeth we never get to see, they save kittens from daring heights to the eyes of our four-year-old beings and take us to see grand wonder's like pavements full of pigeons. And they're armed with necessities like packets of breadcrumbs for such occasions, I might add.

They also cheer us on when we set our sights on reaching goals. But in asserting our identities, they feel afraid for us, I imagine. They wonder, if their little girls' grand enthusiasms will outlast a world of meanness and strife. They transfer their fears of a life lived hard onto a blank canvas and look carefully at it, wondering if those tainted hues will bleaken the clear vision of that sparkle that they see in their daughters' eyes. They're heroes, sure. But they're real softies when it comes to their little girls. And in all their good intentions, they're a little bewildered when their little girls show a feisty stubbornness to hold onto airy fairy dreams in the hope that these will stay afloat on the stormy ocean of the adult world. Dad was. He thought I should enter the health profession. I thought not (with all due respect to health professionals!). He supported my decision. I did undergrad architecture. Three years of it. And that was it. My post highschool stint was done. This was only the beginning for me. Then came the candy store! And I was the doe-eyed kid. A Bachelor of Arts. With Psychology, Sociology, English, African Lit, Classical Civilizations, Applied Ethics, International Relations, Politics, Philosophy... I may have skipped a few electives, but I was wowed by the options. And I delved in with much glee. Dad was concerned. Talents wasted, he said. And how will you survive? I did. In fact, I thrived!

I joined the corporate world soon after my MA. Writing continued. Blogging began. I travelled. I grew. But I yearned for something more. This was only an interim place to be. And dad was happy. I was learning responsible things, he said. I was making strides, meeting people, and carving out some bits of life.

I am a writer. This makes me happy.

He still is, too. Because now, he sees me. He really sees me. The little girl me. The creative me. The corporate me. The daughter me. The sociologist me. The writer me. The every me. All his dreams for me are me. And more than that, I also see me. I see him, too. And I see me in him. And him in me.


The beauty about relationships that heal and mend and make us who we are, is that they are wonderfully (and often surprisingly) evolutionary in nature. It takes an open awareness. A realisation. And a heart of compassion. Thats about it.

Americanising Shelly (not Shafs)

Saw it. Was entertained. Laughs-a-minute. But theres something that gets me about these picket fence fairytales and the bit about lobbying the American dream. Other than that, Shelly had her almost Mahima moments, and could have used a better stylist. Some catchy dialogue. Shelly went Amritsar to Amrika in ten seconds flat. Thats S-h-e-l-l-y, not Shafs ;)

On the flip side of life, being back here in this city of stuff means meeting up with all sorts from down the trodden path. And I'm acutely aware of setting scene and writing sequences of dialogue as my current databank reveals. So a night out means more data.

"Shafs knows some odd people". "Yep"..

Moving on..

mint memorium

Mint died.
Which means that Lindt is mint-less.
And she says that even Lindt's days are numbered.

They did good together,
that Lindt and Mint.

But nothing is forever.
So.