I see the dead
sometimes...
many times
in my dreams they come
and at times linger on
even in my dreams
i know they are long dead
but they don't scare me
not more than a mice would
I saw my granmother once
my aunt propping pillows
so that she could sit up
she was back
and the mattress, rolled over since she died, was being spread again
gangajali dusted the room
lit some incense too
and my grandmother looked around
i caught her eye
and we looked at each other for a long time
i wanted to ask her
how was the land of the dead?
why do you return?
And will you go back again?
Sometimes the dead call out to me
and I listen
the calling faint and muffled
and I wake up
and find nobody
They are the ghosts of my past
dead long ago when I was just a child
now they revisit me
and we talk
I am always in the old rooms where they once lived
where my grandmother chewed her betel nuts
and my grandfather read his law books
They don't come to where I live
perhaps they would feel misplaced too like me
if they did
so i travel to them
And I long for those conversations
but they haven't come in a long time
and I wonder why
And I call out to them
come visit me
come to me from whereever you are
and let's talk about home and the past
I am a dweller of the past
like them I do not belong anywhere
like them i am restless too
they are the living dead
and i am a walking ghost
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
the smells of my past
the smell is a connector
everytime the rain falls and the grass is soaked
and the earth is drenched
the smell seeps in my house, my lungs and my soul
and my spirit dances with complete abandon
drunk with the smell
enchanted with its richness
it is same smell, the smell of my being
I breathe in too much
and quickly too
and keep doing it
Because I know soon the sky will be clear
and the light will pierce through the intricate web of dreams and memories
I wove in my drunken stupor
and the dance will come to a halt
the cruel, brutal light
so bright it hurts the eyes
and scorches the soul
it rips apart my little world
like a hot rod through flesh
then I turn inwards
to shut off that light
i rummage through the stuff in my old suitcase
a black one, the straps coming off
the buckles rusted
i sniff through the papers, i scan the pictures
somewhere in those old letters, crinkled books, faded photos
I live
drugged by the weak smells
Someplace in those little pockets of the old suitcase
my childhood lingers
waiting to be rescued
that suitcase, tucked away in the closet
with all its smells and sights
is my escape
and my solace
a retreat and a refuge
everytime the rain falls and the grass is soaked
and the earth is drenched
the smell seeps in my house, my lungs and my soul
and my spirit dances with complete abandon
drunk with the smell
enchanted with its richness
it is same smell, the smell of my being
I breathe in too much
and quickly too
and keep doing it
Because I know soon the sky will be clear
and the light will pierce through the intricate web of dreams and memories
I wove in my drunken stupor
and the dance will come to a halt
the cruel, brutal light
so bright it hurts the eyes
and scorches the soul
it rips apart my little world
like a hot rod through flesh
then I turn inwards
to shut off that light
i rummage through the stuff in my old suitcase
a black one, the straps coming off
the buckles rusted
i sniff through the papers, i scan the pictures
somewhere in those old letters, crinkled books, faded photos
I live
drugged by the weak smells
Someplace in those little pockets of the old suitcase
my childhood lingers
waiting to be rescued
that suitcase, tucked away in the closet
with all its smells and sights
is my escape
and my solace
a retreat and a refuge
Monday, April 23, 2007
the unseenamerica exhibit
When I attended the unseenamerica NYS class, I did not anticipate so many would turn up at the refugee center to see the pictures. The pictures were hung in the hallway and it was like a journey of its own...offering a glimpse into a refugee's life in a strange land. The connections with the past were so visible...the eagerness to merge with the new also visible in the smiles.
And i went around comparing the similarities in my own little house with those in those haunting pictures.
The story was published in Utica Observer-Dispatch April 21. I am copying the text here.
Refugees capture lives through lens
By CHINKI SINHA
Observer-Dispatch
csinha@utica.gannett.com
UTICA- The photograph of a refugee sleeping at the Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees taken by Bosnian refugee Tatjana Kulalic touched Hamilton College student Rita Tran.
Tran was among those Friday taking in the unseenamerica NYS project on display at the refugee center. The caption of Kulalic's photo described how refugees are always waiting for something.
"It hit me that you are always waiting," Tran said. "The pictures are so simple yet they tell you a lot."
For many community members, the exhibit of about 50 photos shot by 15 refugees offered insight into the struggles of adapting to a new culture, new weather and new people. Hamilton College student Emily Powell said the pictures showed how hard it is for refugees trying to cross over to a different country and another culture.
unseenamerica NYS, a project that gives cameras to working-class people so they can document their lives, worked with refugees in the Utica area to put together the exhibit. It is open for public viewing until Memorial Day.
The pictures show everyday life in a refugee household, pictures of snow and the city of Utica.
Sylvia Wilson, a visiting chaplain from Atlanta at Hamilton College, said she had heard of the strong refugee presence in the area. She learned about their lives through the photos that hung in the hallway at the refugee center.
"They are beautiful snapshots of these people and their lives," she said.
All the pictures had captions underneath them written by refugees describing the scene or the context.
Joan Carlon, who came from Syracuse, said the descriptions were powerful.
"It is compelling ... to give up everything and try to change," she said.
Connie Frisbee Houde, a photographer who helped with the project, said she loved the diversity communicated through the descriptions.
"You get a view into the person who took these," she said. "They are looking at it in a different way."
Utica is home to many refugees from around the world, and refugees make up about 15 percent of the city's population. Through projects such as unseenamerica NYS, the refugee center is trying to showcase the region's new residents to the community, said Daniel Sargent, director of multicultural affairs at the center.
One of the refugee center's missions is to help refugees lead a dignified life and Sargent said the exhibit supports that mission. A refugee's life is not just about struggles, and they can be artists, too, he said.
"It is going to add sophistication to the refugees," he said. "Rarely do we see refugees having a sublime vision."
Sidi Chivala, whose pictures were on display, said he was excited to see so many people at the show.
To him, the photographs served as a bridge to the community and helped local residents understand where refugees are coming from.
"People know who I am," he said. "Now they will have a background."
And i went around comparing the similarities in my own little house with those in those haunting pictures.
The story was published in Utica Observer-Dispatch April 21. I am copying the text here.
Refugees capture lives through lens
By CHINKI SINHA
Observer-Dispatch
csinha@utica.gannett.com
UTICA- The photograph of a refugee sleeping at the Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees taken by Bosnian refugee Tatjana Kulalic touched Hamilton College student Rita Tran.
Tran was among those Friday taking in the unseenamerica NYS project on display at the refugee center. The caption of Kulalic's photo described how refugees are always waiting for something.
"It hit me that you are always waiting," Tran said. "The pictures are so simple yet they tell you a lot."
For many community members, the exhibit of about 50 photos shot by 15 refugees offered insight into the struggles of adapting to a new culture, new weather and new people. Hamilton College student Emily Powell said the pictures showed how hard it is for refugees trying to cross over to a different country and another culture.
unseenamerica NYS, a project that gives cameras to working-class people so they can document their lives, worked with refugees in the Utica area to put together the exhibit. It is open for public viewing until Memorial Day.
The pictures show everyday life in a refugee household, pictures of snow and the city of Utica.
Sylvia Wilson, a visiting chaplain from Atlanta at Hamilton College, said she had heard of the strong refugee presence in the area. She learned about their lives through the photos that hung in the hallway at the refugee center.
"They are beautiful snapshots of these people and their lives," she said.
All the pictures had captions underneath them written by refugees describing the scene or the context.
Joan Carlon, who came from Syracuse, said the descriptions were powerful.
"It is compelling ... to give up everything and try to change," she said.
Connie Frisbee Houde, a photographer who helped with the project, said she loved the diversity communicated through the descriptions.
"You get a view into the person who took these," she said. "They are looking at it in a different way."
Utica is home to many refugees from around the world, and refugees make up about 15 percent of the city's population. Through projects such as unseenamerica NYS, the refugee center is trying to showcase the region's new residents to the community, said Daniel Sargent, director of multicultural affairs at the center.
One of the refugee center's missions is to help refugees lead a dignified life and Sargent said the exhibit supports that mission. A refugee's life is not just about struggles, and they can be artists, too, he said.
"It is going to add sophistication to the refugees," he said. "Rarely do we see refugees having a sublime vision."
Sidi Chivala, whose pictures were on display, said he was excited to see so many people at the show.
To him, the photographs served as a bridge to the community and helped local residents understand where refugees are coming from.
"People know who I am," he said. "Now they will have a background."
echoes...
"Whenever I leave Bosnia,
I feel I am guilty of something;
I feel time, not contentment,
And it's worse
Than the worst injection.
I have several Bosnian friends
who fall ill when they leave the country.
In Bosnia nothing disgusts me.
I could eat from the floor here in Bosnia."
by Bosnian poet Goran Samardzic
I feel I am guilty of something;
I feel time, not contentment,
And it's worse
Than the worst injection.
I have several Bosnian friends
who fall ill when they leave the country.
In Bosnia nothing disgusts me.
I could eat from the floor here in Bosnia."
by Bosnian poet Goran Samardzic
the spirit shall run amuck
ahh...the people, so many of them
they tire me
i feel awkward
Often times I don't know how to act
or to react
so many personalities
they split me
and stifle me
i feel gagged
and choked too
my spirit reined in
my soul entangled
but the mesh shall not hold me long
aah..the people...
they measure you
they take you in
they interpret you
body, mind and soul
and you are at display
you need to breathe
break free
tell them all
think all you can you fools, do all you can you bearers of wisdom
the spirit shall break free
and run amuck
I am the child of the wild
I am the child of unrealized dreams
while in the womb, my mother whispered to me
how she wanted me to be free
I was bred to be untamed
like a wild horse let loose
a disruptive force
within and without
you shall not hold me down
no god...do what you will
the spirit shall rise yet again
and run amuck
the heart will bleed
the soul will hurt
and hurt bad
but the spirit will be untouched
and will run wild
they tire me
i feel awkward
Often times I don't know how to act
or to react
so many personalities
they split me
and stifle me
i feel gagged
and choked too
my spirit reined in
my soul entangled
but the mesh shall not hold me long
aah..the people...
they measure you
they take you in
they interpret you
body, mind and soul
and you are at display
you need to breathe
break free
tell them all
think all you can you fools, do all you can you bearers of wisdom
the spirit shall break free
and run amuck
I am the child of the wild
I am the child of unrealized dreams
while in the womb, my mother whispered to me
how she wanted me to be free
I was bred to be untamed
like a wild horse let loose
a disruptive force
within and without
you shall not hold me down
no god...do what you will
the spirit shall rise yet again
and run amuck
the heart will bleed
the soul will hurt
and hurt bad
but the spirit will be untouched
and will run wild
Saturday, April 21, 2007
to my nana
The radio was always on in his room
the only sign of life in the old house
the dark green paint on walls, peeling off in places
the rusting window grills
and the unswept corridors
all seemed ancient and cold
in the living room
drops of rain fell through the cracks in the ceiling
they sounded like the ticking of a clock
distinct yet not noisy
Here I spent so many days
i came almost every weekend
dragged by my mother
i would have preferred to stay back instead
in my house where there was a television
and the luxury of no prolonged power cuts
here there were too many mosquitos
and my hands ached with all the slapping and fanning
I fanned myself with a newspaper
it used to be hot
There was no fridge
no television too
only an old radio that played old songs
and blared the news
I fretted
I grumbled
yet I would be here
everything had dust, tons of them
I sneezed a lot
Sometimes, nana would take me with him when he went to buy vegetables and kerosene oil
i tagged along, helped him carry the bags
in time i started counting the money and handing it over to the vendors
as nana could not see very well
yet he walked proud, head held high
i knew it required effort
i knew he was hurting
but he would not grab the stick
then he picked it up one day
and would not go anywhere without it
i still went with him
because he still needed eyes
at home, he poured out whiskey from a small bottle that he kept hidden somewhere in his dusty bookshelf
and drank alone
i sat there for lack of anything else to do
and he talked of matthew arnold
and of shakespeare
In time
during one of those visits
don't know when or how
We started talking
nana and i
He wrote me letters
i wrote to him too
and we talked about poetry when I visited the old house
sometimes, he would let me read to him from one of the books
I studied literature because he did
I wanted to be him
and wanted him to know I understood Matthew Arnold's Dover Beach too
that i could understand my nana
and i felt for him
And then one day
he died
it was a silent death
he died in his sleep
i found his diaries later
and i reconstructed his life
bit by bit
a painful journey for me too
I looked for my name
i was scattered in those pages
no special mention
just a log of when we visited
So many years later
I miss my nana
i know we could have talked at length now
now that i have grown up
among so many things
and with the radio in the background
we would have talked about Maxim Gorky, about Karl Marx
and over those whiskey glasses, i know he would have loved to recite from Dover Beach
and I know i would have understood
the only sign of life in the old house
the dark green paint on walls, peeling off in places
the rusting window grills
and the unswept corridors
all seemed ancient and cold
in the living room
drops of rain fell through the cracks in the ceiling
they sounded like the ticking of a clock
distinct yet not noisy
Here I spent so many days
i came almost every weekend
dragged by my mother
i would have preferred to stay back instead
in my house where there was a television
and the luxury of no prolonged power cuts
here there were too many mosquitos
and my hands ached with all the slapping and fanning
I fanned myself with a newspaper
it used to be hot
There was no fridge
no television too
only an old radio that played old songs
and blared the news
I fretted
I grumbled
yet I would be here
everything had dust, tons of them
I sneezed a lot
Sometimes, nana would take me with him when he went to buy vegetables and kerosene oil
i tagged along, helped him carry the bags
in time i started counting the money and handing it over to the vendors
as nana could not see very well
yet he walked proud, head held high
i knew it required effort
i knew he was hurting
but he would not grab the stick
then he picked it up one day
and would not go anywhere without it
i still went with him
because he still needed eyes
at home, he poured out whiskey from a small bottle that he kept hidden somewhere in his dusty bookshelf
and drank alone
i sat there for lack of anything else to do
and he talked of matthew arnold
and of shakespeare
In time
during one of those visits
don't know when or how
We started talking
nana and i
He wrote me letters
i wrote to him too
and we talked about poetry when I visited the old house
sometimes, he would let me read to him from one of the books
I studied literature because he did
I wanted to be him
and wanted him to know I understood Matthew Arnold's Dover Beach too
that i could understand my nana
and i felt for him
And then one day
he died
it was a silent death
he died in his sleep
i found his diaries later
and i reconstructed his life
bit by bit
a painful journey for me too
I looked for my name
i was scattered in those pages
no special mention
just a log of when we visited
So many years later
I miss my nana
i know we could have talked at length now
now that i have grown up
among so many things
and with the radio in the background
we would have talked about Maxim Gorky, about Karl Marx
and over those whiskey glasses, i know he would have loved to recite from Dover Beach
and I know i would have understood
seeking refuge...
the city offered no refuge
i came here to disappear
to dilute the spirit
to dissolve the soul
a soul battered by the betrayal
but i must think of it no more
i keep the pictures in my drawer
handy, within reach
so that i can remember how i looked like then
i looked happier
the smile is stretched
it is full
now it is a measured smile
i guess i am still recovering
I walk around
alone
but i feel free
the city is cruel
like me it is on extremes
the winter is harsh
the summers brutal
often times, the air is stifling, dry and still
I drive around in the strange city
hang out with like souls
who are fleeing their past
like me, they are escapists too
and sometimes I smoke with them
that's when we bond
the smoke mixes - curling up, thinning into the strange air
and our experiences too
they are escaping a real war
their lands torn by strife
I am escaping the war within
but we are all seeking some refuge
i am refugee by choice
they are refugees by force
i came here to disappear
to dilute the spirit
to dissolve the soul
a soul battered by the betrayal
but i must think of it no more
i keep the pictures in my drawer
handy, within reach
so that i can remember how i looked like then
i looked happier
the smile is stretched
it is full
now it is a measured smile
i guess i am still recovering
I walk around
alone
but i feel free
the city is cruel
like me it is on extremes
the winter is harsh
the summers brutal
often times, the air is stifling, dry and still
I drive around in the strange city
hang out with like souls
who are fleeing their past
like me, they are escapists too
and sometimes I smoke with them
that's when we bond
the smoke mixes - curling up, thinning into the strange air
and our experiences too
they are escaping a real war
their lands torn by strife
I am escaping the war within
but we are all seeking some refuge
i am refugee by choice
they are refugees by force
Friday, April 20, 2007
where are the ghosts?
in the cold winter nights, we would huddle, sit around a small fire
power cuts were normal
and at these times, darkness was welcome
and umesh would tell us stories
stories of his village
tales of ghosts
and tales of ghost busters
no, these were common folk
perhaps more daring than us
and through the flames i sneaked looks at others
they shuddered and yet clamored for more
the old witch in the tree
the one who roamed near the tamarind trees
and when it was time in the evening for women to cook dinner
would suddenly come down and demand food
a greedy witch
they told me long ago to look at the feet
they should be turned backwards, they said
and umesh confirmed
we talked about how my uncle once passed through a ghost
seven feet tall who asked for tobacco
in the cold winter nights, the tales sent an extra chill down our spines
but we still gathered
after umesh was done with the cooking
and had lit his fire
and folks at home were in their own worlds
it was a ritual
tales were aplenty
i suspect he made some up too
i had never seen ghosts
i felt umimportant in those little meets
but that was being a child
more fearless than now i guess
i live alone now
in a strange city
a city that is no america
i see all sorts of people around me
but no ghosts
and i miss umesh
sometimes i watch movies and read about ghosts
and i keep the light on
lest a ghost came by
but i still fall asleep
guess the ghosts are never coming
and the images I can't conjure
it is not the same
there is no fire
there are no little people around me
with expectant eyes and gaping mouths
hands shivering and faces dark and bright
the fire playing tricks
the eyes lit and yet brooding
there was a fear of going to the bathroom then
when all urged busy mothers to stand guard
in that innocence we underestimated the power of ghosts
what could our mothers do if one actually thought of paying a visit
and while in the bathroom, in the light of the candle
the shadows seemed weird
and we shouted at intervals
to assure oursleves
you never know the power of human voice
it cracks through the ominous shadows on the walls
where lizards elongated by the wavering light
seemed unnatural and unkind
it was long ago
when umesh and others were around
i remember he got me hooked to tea
and i have been drinking over-brewed tea ever since
out of habit and out of fondness
here i wander sometimes
most times
trying to pass those weary hours
in my house, in my little apartment
with the old sunflower wallpaper
the hours seem longer
i don't have a watch
i don't want to keep hours
i don't wait for nothing
it is a lull i am going through
only the change in the light
keep me in the realm of the time
and i wander even more
i believe in search of the ghosts of my childhood
power cuts were normal
and at these times, darkness was welcome
and umesh would tell us stories
stories of his village
tales of ghosts
and tales of ghost busters
no, these were common folk
perhaps more daring than us
and through the flames i sneaked looks at others
they shuddered and yet clamored for more
the old witch in the tree
the one who roamed near the tamarind trees
and when it was time in the evening for women to cook dinner
would suddenly come down and demand food
a greedy witch
they told me long ago to look at the feet
they should be turned backwards, they said
and umesh confirmed
we talked about how my uncle once passed through a ghost
seven feet tall who asked for tobacco
in the cold winter nights, the tales sent an extra chill down our spines
but we still gathered
after umesh was done with the cooking
and had lit his fire
and folks at home were in their own worlds
it was a ritual
tales were aplenty
i suspect he made some up too
i had never seen ghosts
i felt umimportant in those little meets
but that was being a child
more fearless than now i guess
i live alone now
in a strange city
a city that is no america
i see all sorts of people around me
but no ghosts
and i miss umesh
sometimes i watch movies and read about ghosts
and i keep the light on
lest a ghost came by
but i still fall asleep
guess the ghosts are never coming
and the images I can't conjure
it is not the same
there is no fire
there are no little people around me
with expectant eyes and gaping mouths
hands shivering and faces dark and bright
the fire playing tricks
the eyes lit and yet brooding
there was a fear of going to the bathroom then
when all urged busy mothers to stand guard
in that innocence we underestimated the power of ghosts
what could our mothers do if one actually thought of paying a visit
and while in the bathroom, in the light of the candle
the shadows seemed weird
and we shouted at intervals
to assure oursleves
you never know the power of human voice
it cracks through the ominous shadows on the walls
where lizards elongated by the wavering light
seemed unnatural and unkind
it was long ago
when umesh and others were around
i remember he got me hooked to tea
and i have been drinking over-brewed tea ever since
out of habit and out of fondness
here i wander sometimes
most times
trying to pass those weary hours
in my house, in my little apartment
with the old sunflower wallpaper
the hours seem longer
i don't have a watch
i don't want to keep hours
i don't wait for nothing
it is a lull i am going through
only the change in the light
keep me in the realm of the time
and i wander even more
i believe in search of the ghosts of my childhood
lemon tree and kites
Can’t measure time
It does not keep pace with me
Or is it that I can’t catch up with it
Three decades, almost
And I still feel like climbing the lemon tree
As a child I used to
And now want to be perched somewhere among those thorny branches
Hanging those hand-painted Santa Claus cutouts
I want to fly the kites again
With my little brothers
And though I could hardly ever get it in the air
I want to be able to look at the horizon full of colorful kites again
It does not keep pace with me
Or is it that I can’t catch up with it
Three decades, almost
And I still feel like climbing the lemon tree
As a child I used to
And now want to be perched somewhere among those thorny branches
Hanging those hand-painted Santa Claus cutouts
I want to fly the kites again
With my little brothers
And though I could hardly ever get it in the air
I want to be able to look at the horizon full of colorful kites again
Thursday, April 19, 2007
one night as always...
Losing it...
i am on the edge tonight
as eliot said "my nerves are bad tonight"
i am suspended in time
and i want to gaze into the future
i m impatient tonight
tell me
someone tell me
am i staying in here
or should i start packing stuff
and start disposing off things
but i just bought them
and i am still paying instalments on them
i am calling the astrologer tonight
maybe she can tell
who can tell?
i wonder
who else can?
I think of nothing...
the blank screen, the familiar keyboard and the now-cold cup of coffee stare at me
they are waiting - all of them
but i sit and smoke into the endless night
thoughts have left me
but memories still hound me
and they haunt me too
there are so many things that come in flashes
i see the lizards on the walls
i see the smoke curling up from the cheap cigarettes that the rickshaw-walla smoked underneath the parapet of my house
i see the old paint on the walls, the cracks in the door and the dirty fans
i see faces - known and unknown
but they are all so familiar
i see them all
and see them again and again
i don't want to think
there is no end to it
it makes me yearn
it makes me miserable
i am stuck
in time, in place and in thought
in action too
what can i leave behind to claim what i left behind
is there something at all
but will what i left behind be still intact in the moment
my friends have kids now
my boyfriend has another girlfriend now
and my little brothers are dating women now
One cousin is 6-feet now
i feel old
and i feel cheated
when i stepped out, i assumed i could step back in
and all will be the how i left them...in that moment, in that space, in those surroundings
i feel i am losing it too
my memory is unreliable
i can't verify it
i can't go back in time
and i have been traveling in time always
maybe i should just sip the coffee and wait for life to come back
in the meanwhile, i should continue this existence
i am on the edge tonight
as eliot said "my nerves are bad tonight"
i am suspended in time
and i want to gaze into the future
i m impatient tonight
tell me
someone tell me
am i staying in here
or should i start packing stuff
and start disposing off things
but i just bought them
and i am still paying instalments on them
i am calling the astrologer tonight
maybe she can tell
who can tell?
i wonder
who else can?
I think of nothing...
the blank screen, the familiar keyboard and the now-cold cup of coffee stare at me
they are waiting - all of them
but i sit and smoke into the endless night
thoughts have left me
but memories still hound me
and they haunt me too
there are so many things that come in flashes
i see the lizards on the walls
i see the smoke curling up from the cheap cigarettes that the rickshaw-walla smoked underneath the parapet of my house
i see the old paint on the walls, the cracks in the door and the dirty fans
i see faces - known and unknown
but they are all so familiar
i see them all
and see them again and again
i don't want to think
there is no end to it
it makes me yearn
it makes me miserable
i am stuck
in time, in place and in thought
in action too
what can i leave behind to claim what i left behind
is there something at all
but will what i left behind be still intact in the moment
my friends have kids now
my boyfriend has another girlfriend now
and my little brothers are dating women now
One cousin is 6-feet now
i feel old
and i feel cheated
when i stepped out, i assumed i could step back in
and all will be the how i left them...in that moment, in that space, in those surroundings
i feel i am losing it too
my memory is unreliable
i can't verify it
i can't go back in time
and i have been traveling in time always
maybe i should just sip the coffee and wait for life to come back
in the meanwhile, i should continue this existence
Monday, April 16, 2007
it is all praise...
"In the men of Hind the usages of Hind are praiseworthy. In the men of Sindh those of Sindh...
Ways of worship are not to be ranked as better or worse... It is all Praise, it is all right."
Ways of worship are not to be ranked as better or worse... It is all Praise, it is all right."
dear god....are u listening
"Dear God, Life is Hell"
doesn't that sum all of it?
And what if I ever reached that stage of calling God a "Dear" and yet tell him how his world is so screwed up...wouldn't that be liberating???
For now, my search for a nice, non-conspiring God continues....
"Dear God, Life is surely hell or worse."
Well, it is what it is and we are part of what we lost. so it drags on in hopes that someday i will redeem myself...though i am fuck-up when it comes to redeemable qualities...
Away from everything that I ever felt connected with...it surely is hell.
where are you Dear God? Are you there where they say you are? Maybe I could pay you a visit and bribe you to keep my sanity intact in the maze of worlds i live in...help me sort out one world - complete and whole.
"Dear God, where is heaven?"
Is it my lost home I left by choice and now missing it so bad that it seems heaven-like in my mind?
Find me a heaven...dear God... and I will never complain again...:)
but i wonder...and i wonder with a mind corrupted with knowledge and diffused with emotions and rendered incoherent...i can't trace my thoughts...they come and go and i can't hold on to them so i vomit it all on this screen lest they never come back again
If there is a God, why can't I see him or her ever...
If there is justice, why are millions dying in Darfur or of AIDS or in the war...
Why do we just wait and watch and sip our drinks in the comfort of our living rooms and denouce it all...we suck
Where are the questions to my answers? where will i find a solution...if there is any...will i just be lost in a maze of questions...is the doom near?
I am despairing, i can't save myself from the insanity that is around me...i am losing my innocence...drowning it all in a glass of margarita over those never-ending, inconclusive discussions on the ills of the world, the palgue of our profession...
I seek myself...my humanity, my happiness, my solitude
i want to run away. to retire before i lose myself
i am closing in...fortifying myself...the needle is piercing my skin, the pain is soothing, the slumber is welcome
I want to abandon it all...the knowledge because it corrupts...it makes me tread cautiously, it makes me careful...politically correct...i want to speak out, i can't, i feel muffled...my thoughts are random, i fear being branded as incoherent
It is like losing it all...it is like coming under anasthesia, the pungent smell is engulfing me, indifferent to and shutting out the smell of blood, of sweat...it is all around me, spreading itself on my identity...it is numbing me, killing my senses, my touch...
doesn't that sum all of it?
And what if I ever reached that stage of calling God a "Dear" and yet tell him how his world is so screwed up...wouldn't that be liberating???
For now, my search for a nice, non-conspiring God continues....
"Dear God, Life is surely hell or worse."
Well, it is what it is and we are part of what we lost. so it drags on in hopes that someday i will redeem myself...though i am fuck-up when it comes to redeemable qualities...
Away from everything that I ever felt connected with...it surely is hell.
where are you Dear God? Are you there where they say you are? Maybe I could pay you a visit and bribe you to keep my sanity intact in the maze of worlds i live in...help me sort out one world - complete and whole.
"Dear God, where is heaven?"
Is it my lost home I left by choice and now missing it so bad that it seems heaven-like in my mind?
Find me a heaven...dear God... and I will never complain again...:)
but i wonder...and i wonder with a mind corrupted with knowledge and diffused with emotions and rendered incoherent...i can't trace my thoughts...they come and go and i can't hold on to them so i vomit it all on this screen lest they never come back again
If there is a God, why can't I see him or her ever...
If there is justice, why are millions dying in Darfur or of AIDS or in the war...
Why do we just wait and watch and sip our drinks in the comfort of our living rooms and denouce it all...we suck
Where are the questions to my answers? where will i find a solution...if there is any...will i just be lost in a maze of questions...is the doom near?
I am despairing, i can't save myself from the insanity that is around me...i am losing my innocence...drowning it all in a glass of margarita over those never-ending, inconclusive discussions on the ills of the world, the palgue of our profession...
I seek myself...my humanity, my happiness, my solitude
i want to run away. to retire before i lose myself
i am closing in...fortifying myself...the needle is piercing my skin, the pain is soothing, the slumber is welcome
I want to abandon it all...the knowledge because it corrupts...it makes me tread cautiously, it makes me careful...politically correct...i want to speak out, i can't, i feel muffled...my thoughts are random, i fear being branded as incoherent
It is like losing it all...it is like coming under anasthesia, the pungent smell is engulfing me, indifferent to and shutting out the smell of blood, of sweat...it is all around me, spreading itself on my identity...it is numbing me, killing my senses, my touch...
find me a home
I Belong There
by Mahmoud Darwish
I belong there. I have many memories. I was born as everyone is born.
I have a mother, a house with many windows, brothers, friends, and a prison cell
with a chilly window! I have a wave snatched by seagulls, a panorama of my own.
I have a saturated meadow. In the deep horizon of my word, I have a moon,
a bird's sustenance, and an immortal olive tree.
I have lived on the land long before swords turned man into prey.
I belong there. When heaven mourns for her mother, I return heaven to
her mother.
And I cry so that a returning cloud might carry my tears.
To break the rules, I have learned all the words needed for a trial by blood.
I have learned and dismantled all the words in order to draw from them a
single word: Home.
And I wonder where do I belong...
"I don’t belong here…
in America...
I am torn as always
It has been a constant…being split
I live in my world, in my mind’s space
My mother is young still and my father is smoking still
but no...wait...now my father has gray hair and my mother has wrinkles
the walls in my house are yellow now...not biege
I can't find it. I mean my old home, where I belonged
No...this is not my home
I live as if I live in a motel...
some bags are still packed...some boxes I never opened
i wait...i wait to go back
but where?
And as always, I am running from one end to another finding a hook maybe
I never belonged here
I never belonged there either
The home is an idea, an idea adorned by memory
And I crave it so…
Will that craving ever end? Will this madness ever go?
Find me a home, a home where I am not a misfit, a home that can contain me
So that I am no longer torn and shuttling between worlds
Maybe I should learn to walk without memory
by Mahmoud Darwish
I belong there. I have many memories. I was born as everyone is born.
I have a mother, a house with many windows, brothers, friends, and a prison cell
with a chilly window! I have a wave snatched by seagulls, a panorama of my own.
I have a saturated meadow. In the deep horizon of my word, I have a moon,
a bird's sustenance, and an immortal olive tree.
I have lived on the land long before swords turned man into prey.
I belong there. When heaven mourns for her mother, I return heaven to
her mother.
And I cry so that a returning cloud might carry my tears.
To break the rules, I have learned all the words needed for a trial by blood.
I have learned and dismantled all the words in order to draw from them a
single word: Home.
And I wonder where do I belong...
"I don’t belong here…
in America...
I am torn as always
It has been a constant…being split
I live in my world, in my mind’s space
My mother is young still and my father is smoking still
but no...wait...now my father has gray hair and my mother has wrinkles
the walls in my house are yellow now...not biege
I can't find it. I mean my old home, where I belonged
No...this is not my home
I live as if I live in a motel...
some bags are still packed...some boxes I never opened
i wait...i wait to go back
but where?
And as always, I am running from one end to another finding a hook maybe
I never belonged here
I never belonged there either
The home is an idea, an idea adorned by memory
And I crave it so…
Will that craving ever end? Will this madness ever go?
Find me a home, a home where I am not a misfit, a home that can contain me
So that I am no longer torn and shuttling between worlds
Maybe I should learn to walk without memory
here in this moment i live in a million different worlds
i move in time
but something is still
in the mind it is the home, in the heart it is a mix of the real and the aspirational
i try hard to shrug and walk away but like the car seat belt, it tugs at me...if i break free too hard, it locks me in
and that's the state in live in...and it makes me a cripple because i don't know which world to inhabit
a world which is rendered dream-like because I am not in it or a world that i move in but which is so unreal and almost barbaric because it ties me down
maybe i don't want to know either
maybe if i knew, i would not admit it
if i admitted it, maybe i would hate myself
self-hate is unbearable sometimes
self-loathing is hellish
i still continue my travel through memories, thorugh time and through space
no bookings to be done, no itineries to be planned
i travel by instinct. one second i am here, the other second i am somewhere else
only in my mind, i move and i move without inhibitions
a nomadic existence is not appealing anymore
in my sleep i am in those parts and in my waking hours i am in these parts
the transition is hard but i do it everyday. it tires me...all these journeys
i adapt, i re-adopt and I let go
and it continues
the worlds are different and walking in and out of them consumes me
i am traveler in time, i guess
one part is past, one is present
there is no future
permanence eludes me and i wonder why
am i damned? will i always be doing this back and forth journeying in time and mind?
damn it if i am damned and doomed
but something is still
in the mind it is the home, in the heart it is a mix of the real and the aspirational
i try hard to shrug and walk away but like the car seat belt, it tugs at me...if i break free too hard, it locks me in
and that's the state in live in...and it makes me a cripple because i don't know which world to inhabit
a world which is rendered dream-like because I am not in it or a world that i move in but which is so unreal and almost barbaric because it ties me down
maybe i don't want to know either
maybe if i knew, i would not admit it
if i admitted it, maybe i would hate myself
self-hate is unbearable sometimes
self-loathing is hellish
i still continue my travel through memories, thorugh time and through space
no bookings to be done, no itineries to be planned
i travel by instinct. one second i am here, the other second i am somewhere else
only in my mind, i move and i move without inhibitions
a nomadic existence is not appealing anymore
in my sleep i am in those parts and in my waking hours i am in these parts
the transition is hard but i do it everyday. it tires me...all these journeys
i adapt, i re-adopt and I let go
and it continues
the worlds are different and walking in and out of them consumes me
i am traveler in time, i guess
one part is past, one is present
there is no future
permanence eludes me and i wonder why
am i damned? will i always be doing this back and forth journeying in time and mind?
damn it if i am damned and doomed
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