Saturday, February 5, 2011
Monday, January 31, 2011
7andala, ...
7andala, you, I, and we never trusted our "leaders" anyway. It is time to face forward; it is up to us--the Palestinian people--to bring justice to ourselves, and we will.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
From frequency of feedback
Sounds of frequency, feedback, drums, and cymbals--the haunting voice comes in occasionally but he is the minority in this soundscape.
But his voice is what resonates.
Five+ hours of hearing him sing, and every five minutes and 19 seconds, he takes me back to that fog-filled place, where everything is in dim lighting and soft focus; where I'm not alone, but we are because all regard for others is neglected. And the sound is damaged because the speakers are, and so are we.
///there can be no wrong in this, and I can do no wrong in his eyes, he implies\\\
My vision strengthens to dreamy hues of black and grey, the bronzed blush of dewy skin, and a deep, dark, blood red--the colors are savory as is the sound of flawed feedback. It's psychedelic and sexy, pale and devoid, and it all fits--like the the beauty of death or the chicness of heroine or the liveliness of goth--it's morbid and right; it's damaged and perfect.
I listen to my hearing get damaged, and as it muffles, his voice echos and turns hollow; his calls sting me as they travel from the recesses of the cave--he won't let the vision and its sounds rest. He demands their frequency from me, and twists the frequency wires and prods my bare heart's sheath with the bare wire tips, forcing me to listen as he repeats the feedback. I have become his sound system, and the frequency streams from me.
I thrash back and it jets forth in wide reverberating ribbons, pocked with veteran filters, blown out from sounds blasts that have come before. Yet, whenever those sounds were born, wherever they've crawled, whatever their past that brought them to this formation, they are now as they are meant to be.
///the feedback can not be wrong from this, and I am damaged and beautiful, in his eyes, he implies\\\
And the song loops again, feedback chips away a bit more at the sound and the speakers--doing more damage and creating a new frequency.
But his voice is what resonates.
Five+ hours of hearing him sing, and every five minutes and 19 seconds, he takes me back to that fog-filled place, where everything is in dim lighting and soft focus; where I'm not alone, but we are because all regard for others is neglected. And the sound is damaged because the speakers are, and so are we.
///there can be no wrong in this, and I can do no wrong in his eyes, he implies\\\
My vision strengthens to dreamy hues of black and grey, the bronzed blush of dewy skin, and a deep, dark, blood red--the colors are savory as is the sound of flawed feedback. It's psychedelic and sexy, pale and devoid, and it all fits--like the the beauty of death or the chicness of heroine or the liveliness of goth--it's morbid and right; it's damaged and perfect.
I listen to my hearing get damaged, and as it muffles, his voice echos and turns hollow; his calls sting me as they travel from the recesses of the cave--he won't let the vision and its sounds rest. He demands their frequency from me, and twists the frequency wires and prods my bare heart's sheath with the bare wire tips, forcing me to listen as he repeats the feedback. I have become his sound system, and the frequency streams from me.
I thrash back and it jets forth in wide reverberating ribbons, pocked with veteran filters, blown out from sounds blasts that have come before. Yet, whenever those sounds were born, wherever they've crawled, whatever their past that brought them to this formation, they are now as they are meant to be.
///the feedback can not be wrong from this, and I am damaged and beautiful, in his eyes, he implies\\\
And the song loops again, feedback chips away a bit more at the sound and the speakers--doing more damage and creating a new frequency.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
In between
There is so much in between...
...in between moments: seconds of inspiration and desire; hope and action--when she is still discovering but has not yet realized.
This is when the bomb creator is in the mode of creation--when the beads of technology and perspiration are still forming and dripping. In between the initiation and the finale, she's wiping her brow with her forearm and thinking of her childhood and her demise.
She feels the pangs of love and despair, having experienced both but never to fruition or resolution. She has somehow always just been in between--never complete--although she has come close.
And she thinks of those almosts now, while she's mid-way through her process. Even the way she holds the tweezer, light tension--enough to push each prong toward its mate but not to a closed clip--is an almost. Yet, the tweezer is how it needs to be, and, as such, she grasps, places, and releases the thin particles that too are the in-betweens.
Perhaps, this is how she has kept her soul--she's never given it fully. And it prevented her from ever feeling enough to be angry or to love. She's survived this way. But was it really about survival? What good was it to her--to survive and thrive and be in between? She was stuck in the midst, for she was forced to begin and was clueless as to when she'd complete her circle.
Then, she coughed, and it ticked...tick, boom.
And as she looked around, and saw and sensed the dust settling around her to its final landing place, she was hit with a realization--she was again in between--in between, physical and spiritual. She snickered a smirk, half-silently suggesting that God had played a good one on her. But the snicker subsided and her face grew as long as her gaze--she knew this would be her end: in limbo.
And her gaze glossed, and she solemnly tapped one ghostly hand's finger pads on the other's finger nails, and she saw the tweezer standing on its prong tips amid the debris, covered in dust. And she remembered life, and the almosts it brought her--she preferred her new state: at least it was true to her; true to the in-between that she had felt had always been her destiny.
She had experienced an end, followed by a beginning, and found her place and her purpose in between.
...in between moments: seconds of inspiration and desire; hope and action--when she is still discovering but has not yet realized.
This is when the bomb creator is in the mode of creation--when the beads of technology and perspiration are still forming and dripping. In between the initiation and the finale, she's wiping her brow with her forearm and thinking of her childhood and her demise.
She feels the pangs of love and despair, having experienced both but never to fruition or resolution. She has somehow always just been in between--never complete--although she has come close.
And she thinks of those almosts now, while she's mid-way through her process. Even the way she holds the tweezer, light tension--enough to push each prong toward its mate but not to a closed clip--is an almost. Yet, the tweezer is how it needs to be, and, as such, she grasps, places, and releases the thin particles that too are the in-betweens.
Perhaps, this is how she has kept her soul--she's never given it fully. And it prevented her from ever feeling enough to be angry or to love. She's survived this way. But was it really about survival? What good was it to her--to survive and thrive and be in between? She was stuck in the midst, for she was forced to begin and was clueless as to when she'd complete her circle.
Then, she coughed, and it ticked...tick, boom.
And as she looked around, and saw and sensed the dust settling around her to its final landing place, she was hit with a realization--she was again in between--in between, physical and spiritual. She snickered a smirk, half-silently suggesting that God had played a good one on her. But the snicker subsided and her face grew as long as her gaze--she knew this would be her end: in limbo.
And her gaze glossed, and she solemnly tapped one ghostly hand's finger pads on the other's finger nails, and she saw the tweezer standing on its prong tips amid the debris, covered in dust. And she remembered life, and the almosts it brought her--she preferred her new state: at least it was true to her; true to the in-between that she had felt had always been her destiny.
She had experienced an end, followed by a beginning, and found her place and her purpose in between.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
8:08
I wake on Dec. 25, and the first thing I see is "8:08". Though the digits are not identical triplets, they are fraternal, and they stick to my mind.
I woke up un-hungry and uninspired, but anxious nonetheless. I had been explaining my position on the team of 18 and the adventure that awaits me some 4+ months into the future to my family members at a gathering the night before. I did not (and do not) yet know all of the details, and I still had (and still have) the slightest twinge of anxiety about whether everything will pan out smoothly. And those conversations were still in my mind....
...as were previous conversations from that day, this week, and these past months. And as were the people who have teetered into and out of my world at various intervals and integers of time and space--my mind focused on a specific 3: 3 lovely ladies who had been significant players in my history, and with whom I had reconnected in 2010.
And I think of the 1 I lost this year: Siddi. Three months and 1 day ago, he left. His 1 bed, the 1 recliner, and the 2 chairs that were in his room have now been replaced by 2 couches. I only know because I stole a peripheral glance when I passed the room last night. I didn't enter. I couldn't.
God tells us we are told what we need to know and given what we need to have, and we don't need to know and have everything. People, places, periods of time are all as they are meant to be when they are meant to be.
And now, it's 11:11, and I think about the new connections and adventures that have already started to shape and will, insha'Allah, come to full fruition in 2011.
And all of it reminds me that life is a funny little game of numbers and waiting, wallah.
I woke up un-hungry and uninspired, but anxious nonetheless. I had been explaining my position on the team of 18 and the adventure that awaits me some 4+ months into the future to my family members at a gathering the night before. I did not (and do not) yet know all of the details, and I still had (and still have) the slightest twinge of anxiety about whether everything will pan out smoothly. And those conversations were still in my mind....
...as were previous conversations from that day, this week, and these past months. And as were the people who have teetered into and out of my world at various intervals and integers of time and space--my mind focused on a specific 3: 3 lovely ladies who had been significant players in my history, and with whom I had reconnected in 2010.
And I think of the 1 I lost this year: Siddi. Three months and 1 day ago, he left. His 1 bed, the 1 recliner, and the 2 chairs that were in his room have now been replaced by 2 couches. I only know because I stole a peripheral glance when I passed the room last night. I didn't enter. I couldn't.
God tells us we are told what we need to know and given what we need to have, and we don't need to know and have everything. People, places, periods of time are all as they are meant to be when they are meant to be.
And now, it's 11:11, and I think about the new connections and adventures that have already started to shape and will, insha'Allah, come to full fruition in 2011.
And all of it reminds me that life is a funny little game of numbers and waiting, wallah.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Going
Friday was a weird day.
I woke up to a weird dream I couldn't remember; I deleted a contact from my phone; I added a contact to my phone; I reminded my friend that my life was the consistent one and there is never anything "new;" my plans to straighten my hair were foiled by an at-home father; I drank ice-tea that had stalks of lemongrass in it; I saw a friend who I hadn't seen in several years but had just mentioned that afternoon; I played ring-around-the-Metro with hundreds of Usher fans; and I got a phone call that would change my life.
And now, I'm going to Mount Everest and Palestine.
I'm going with a group of 18+ Palestinians from around the world to share the Palestinian story and spirit with groups of people from around the world. Lammet Shamel bt lim il shiml.
I'm going to represent Beitilu and At Tur, dar El-Khatib and dar Abu El-Hawa.
I'm going to represent the Palestinian, Muslim, female, Gemini, "gingy"s.
I'm going...God-willing.
I woke up to a weird dream I couldn't remember; I deleted a contact from my phone; I added a contact to my phone; I reminded my friend that my life was the consistent one and there is never anything "new;" my plans to straighten my hair were foiled by an at-home father; I drank ice-tea that had stalks of lemongrass in it; I saw a friend who I hadn't seen in several years but had just mentioned that afternoon; I played ring-around-the-Metro with hundreds of Usher fans; and I got a phone call that would change my life.
And now, I'm going to Mount Everest and Palestine.
I'm going with a group of 18+ Palestinians from around the world to share the Palestinian story and spirit with groups of people from around the world. Lammet Shamel bt lim il shiml.
I'm going to represent Beitilu and At Tur, dar El-Khatib and dar Abu El-Hawa.
I'm going to represent the Palestinian, Muslim, female, Gemini, "gingy"s.
I'm going...God-willing.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Mindless luxury
Here I am: half seated, half reclined--gazing past my laptop's top at my TV screen watching materialism and propaganda in 30 second clips. This is mindlessness.
This is luxury.
I pay no particular mind to the warm fleece blanket tangled around my warm fleece The North Face sweats on my queen-size jersey sheets. I admire my laptop's carrying case that I've yet to use and wonder about the many places that I will eventually transport it to--top of mind is Busboys and Poets for a hot chocolate date. I hear a chime on my iPhone and read the texts that have come through. I grab a tissue to clear my stuffed sinuses, and toss it in the fashionable silver-mesh trash can, which sits in-between my bed and my reclining chair.
I stare mindlessly again at the flat-screen TV in-front of me and see the dress that needs sewing out of my periphery.
This is the routine that will repeat itself for the next several hours of my at-home sick day. [cough, sneeze, ukh]
And during this mindless "at-home sick day," paid to stay home and tend to my ills day, I've thought of them--the people who don't even have regular access to a tissue box.
They have heart. I pray they will soon have warmth, perhaps in the fleece form, and will be able to half-sit, half-recline in a safe, personal space--a home. I pray they will have access to what they desire, for a person with heart is efficient with his or her wants and appreciative of what they deliver. I pray they will pull a tissue at-will to clear their stuffed sinuses during their "at-home sick day," paid to stay home and tend to their ills.
I pray they will have luxury in their lives, and will have moments when, if only for a few TV soundbites and laptop keystrokes, worries melt away into mindlessness.
This is luxury.
I pay no particular mind to the warm fleece blanket tangled around my warm fleece The North Face sweats on my queen-size jersey sheets. I admire my laptop's carrying case that I've yet to use and wonder about the many places that I will eventually transport it to--top of mind is Busboys and Poets for a hot chocolate date. I hear a chime on my iPhone and read the texts that have come through. I grab a tissue to clear my stuffed sinuses, and toss it in the fashionable silver-mesh trash can, which sits in-between my bed and my reclining chair.
I stare mindlessly again at the flat-screen TV in-front of me and see the dress that needs sewing out of my periphery.
This is the routine that will repeat itself for the next several hours of my at-home sick day. [cough, sneeze, ukh]
And during this mindless "at-home sick day," paid to stay home and tend to my ills day, I've thought of them--the people who don't even have regular access to a tissue box.
They have heart. I pray they will soon have warmth, perhaps in the fleece form, and will be able to half-sit, half-recline in a safe, personal space--a home. I pray they will have access to what they desire, for a person with heart is efficient with his or her wants and appreciative of what they deliver. I pray they will pull a tissue at-will to clear their stuffed sinuses during their "at-home sick day," paid to stay home and tend to their ills.
I pray they will have luxury in their lives, and will have moments when, if only for a few TV soundbites and laptop keystrokes, worries melt away into mindlessness.
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