Clairvoyance

Recently, it had been the
Compounding desire for
Unmediated
Tradition.

It had been the
Crushing hope of
Not-quite
Beauty.

Soon, it will be the
Losing interests of the
Hopelessly
Shattered.

It will be the
Quiet means of ending
Internal
Turmoil.

Currently, it is the deep
Profound feeling of
Romantic
Melancholy.

It is the unexpected
Rise of hopes and
Unwanted
Pressures.

What are friends for?

http://harolds-planet.blogspot.com/2008/12/always-take-hug-along-with-you-you-just.html

Going Under

I thought that maybe
--just maybe--
if I learned to loathe
-- really hate--
then I'd know how to live
--seriously live--
but instead I've become ill
--honestly sick--
and malevelent where I once
--too long ago--
cared in spite of reason and hope
--alone and lost--

So now I drown myself
--too quickly--
in an ocean of strong words
--dark, cold words--
but the stars among the darkness
--resolute and discerning--
feeling the earthquake below
--tenderness cracking--
has left me on the shores
--among the sharp rocks--
for words cannot kill
--only injure--

HAPPY TURKEY DAY!

I LOVE TURKEY!

I really love cooking for a crowd. Makes me happy.

not what i meant, but it will have to do (or "HOW CAN I STAND ON YOUR HEAD WITHOUT KILLING YOU?")

Superfluous Suppositions of Superiority

Comments like Questions or Killer Colloquialism or Cute Clarifications

Sipping Something Sweet as we Sit Serenely Staring at Stars Somehow Starkly Subtle and Stupidly Surreal Somewhere South of Skiatook in a Superbly fashioned Stone Suite

Udhiya Confessions: The True Story of an American Muslim

Abraham was commanded by God to sacrifice his son as he would slaughter an animal for food. A prophet of God, Abraham approached his son and told him of God’s plan. Ishmael did not fight the word of God, though surely it pained him. A devout believer in the Most High, Ishmael went with his father to what would surely be his untimely death. The feelings that Abraham must have felt that day would surely torture any soul, but he had faith in God and his message, taking his son to what he thought would be a quick but brutal death at his own hands. And just as Abraham was about to spill the blood of his beloved son, God intervened with yet another message, this time to spare Ishmael’s life. Instead of killing his son, he was to sacrifice a ram.

Clearly, God tested two of his greatest servants and prophets, and they passed with flying colors. We remember this great test each year at Eid Al-Adha, the Muslim holiday at the conclusion of the yearly pilgrimage, Hajj. This day we sacrifice a sheep, goat, or ram and feed the poor. Feeding our friends and our families from this udhiya, we remember the trial of two great men. We remember their willingness to sacrifice for their Lord. And even while eating tasty lamb kabobs fresh off the grill, we remember their test, and, even if for only a moment, we consider our own. We remember the trials of our pasts. We consider the likelihood of trials in the near future.

Take your shoes off in the garage!

Before I explain it all to you, you have to understand that my dad was raised on a farm. In the middle of nowhere in Libya (North Africa), my dad can, and will if you get him started, tell you stories of shooting wild jackrabbits and herding the sheep. He’ll tell you, whether you’re listening or not, about the scorpions and the snakes, too. He’s got stories about his entire family eating from one plate and living in a house built into the ground because it’s too hot during the day and too cool at night.

Before going further, you have to understand that Tulsa, Oklahoma is not Libya, but being Libyan, my dad brought a lot of his culture with him. You have to know that even in our three bedroom home (above ground of course) with a good sized backyard and air conditioning in the summer, my dad is Libyan and a country boy. He has his garden out back, he insists on hanging the clothes on the line despite a working dryer, and uses the water from the washer to water his pepper plants. And at least three times a year, we have sheep (or goats or rams) in our backyard. We live in the city.

What kind of dog is that?

Have you ever seen sheep or goats? They’re not usually pretty. There are different kinds, of course. Just like people, they come in different shapes and sizes and colors. They sometimes taste different depending on how and where they were raised and the kind of breed they are. It just goes to show that it’s true: you can’t judge a book by its cover, or a sheep by its wool, or a person by her head scarf.

My hijab, the sometimes sparkly, sometimes plain, sometimes bright pink head scarf, sometimes throws people off. A glance in my direction is enough to label me an Arab (I am—half anyway) and a Muslim (I most obviously am). It may be enough for someone to attach terrorist, foreigner, anti-American, anti-Semite, non-English speaker, and oppressed to me, but I did not condone the 9/11 attacks, I was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma, I proudly sing the anthem at every football game, I actually TEACH English, and I am anything but oppressed. I am proud: proud of my heritage, proud of my country, and proud of my religion. I haven’t always been this way, and I’m sure I’ll change even more, but my experiences, good and bad, have shaped my being. Even the ones related to sheep.

Once, Ali was supposed to hold the rope while my dad fastened the rope around the sheep’s neck. Adam was supposed to close the gate. I was supposed to watch Abdullah, who was too little to help and was just supposed to stay out of the way. Of course my brothers, being brothers, don’t always do what they should. Before anyone really realized what was happening, we had a sheep loose. And despite the scramble to reach the gate first, the sheep made his way outside the yard and out in the street. Dad yells and we all stand for just a moment, in complete awe at the dexterity and swiftness of that wooly creature. It was only a moment, because there was a sheep in the street. The only thing left to do was run!

My dad and Adam, being the eldest boy, chased the scared little creature down the street. Two of our neighbors, Mexican friends of ours, ran along to help. I was somewhat mortified. What would everyone say when they see a sheep in the street? What would they think if they knew we sacrificed a sheep in our backyard at least three times a year? And, scariest of all, should I call animal control to report loose livestock within city limits? Even though all the thoughts in my head were serious at the time, the picture of them scrambling after a sheep only leaves me rolling on the floor. Though tears may stream down my face from laughing so hard, the moment was definitely tense, for there’s no way we thought they could catch that animal—and boy would dad be mad to lose $40 worth of delicious meat that would last at least a month.

Luckily for us, this is not a sad story. They were able to recover the animal alive and well, though stuck in a fence. The only question our neighbors down the street had was “What kind of dog was that?” And animal control was never notified of our rituals. But the way I questioned myself that day did have an impact on me. This may have been about a sheep, but it’s really about being a minority.

My father is from Libya, an Arab immigrant with an amazing olive complexion and black hair who came here to complete graduate studies at the University of Tulsa in the 70’s. My mother was a white American with red hair and blue eyes who struggled to complete her Bachelor’s degree in early childhood education by the time she was 38 and I was 13. Together they make me, their fair skinned brown-eyed, brunette daughter. My father was raised Muslim in a Muslim country and lived with his family until moving here. My mother was from a non-practicing Christian family and lived in the same city as her family until moving around, even if for just a while, with my father. My parents fell in love, married, and had four children. My father never forced his beliefs on my mother, but impressed by his lifestyle, she was interested. After meeting some of the Muslim women at the local Masjid, a converted church, she finally decided to accept Islam. When I was four years old, my brother Adam two (Ali and Abdullah not yet entering the family circle), my mother, Patricia May Rose M, became Muslim.

Being both white and Arab has made life interesting. Most of the time, I was on the fringes of society. In a gathering of Arab Muslims, I was the one who didn’t speak Arabic fluently for most of my life, but was praised for my white skin. In a gathering at my grandma’s house for Thanksgiving, we were the ones who couldn’t eat the ham or drink the alcohol. At school, I was the one who didn’t celebrate Christmas. At the Masjid, I was the one who also got Christmas gifts from my grandparents. It wasn’t all bad. I didn’t usually mind being different. I am a white, Arab, Muslim, bilingual American, and I am an educator. I am unique. I am different. I am proud.

(Wool) Hide

A sheep’s wool is somewhat amazing. Offering warmth and protection, the wool on a sheep can be used to make clothing, blankets, and even insulation. Once sheared, a sheep’s wool will grow back. Even though we all may imagine a fluffy white animal that baas and allows us to assign it numbers in order fall asleep, it’s amazing how many different kinds of sheep there are and the different hides each has. Even when they are white, they get dirty and the fur isn’t always very soft and smooth. But no matter how they look exactly, these creatures are still amazing. These creatures give us so much for which we should be thankful. While not generally made of wool, my own cover is something I am thankful for also. Wool may cover the sheep, but my hijab always covers me, even when under intense scrutiny.

In January of 2003, my cover became the center of a local controversy. I walked into a local tag agency to renew my license after my morning classes. I had accidentally let it expire, a mistake far too many of us make, and needed to renew it as soon as possible. I didn’t have to retake the tests and I didn’t have to pay any extra fines. I just needed to take the license picture and pay my license fee. I was ready to go. When I walked up to take the picture, the woman stopped me. “You’ll need to remove your head covering,” she stated. At first I was a little surprised at her ignorance, explaining that it was a part of my religious practices. She repeated that I would need to take off my scarf. Again and again, I explained. The more I explained, the less confident in the system I became. No matter what I said, she would not back down. Finally, I was shocked. My original license had a photo of me wearing my scarf, so why would today be any different? Well, turns out it was quite different. I clarified, “It’s for religious purposes,” but to no avail. It seems that this particular tag agency (“we,” she said) had a “meeting” and decided that all head coverings would be banned “except for a Nun’s,” or so she told me. Turns out her story wasn’t exactly correct, but wasn’t exactly wrong either.

I didn’t take my scarf off for my picture. I didn’t leave without talking to different individuals, including a police officer (via telephone), who all reiterated that I couldn’t take that picture with my scarf, despite having my original license with it. Even though I stood up for what I believed in, I left the tag agency that morning feeling worse than I’ve felt in a long time. I felt less than human. I felt alone and despised. I felt as if someone had slapped me in the face. Little did I know that this was only the beginning.

Leaving the tag agency, I went directly to work. When I told one of my coworkers about the incident, she decided it was important to investigate the matter. As luck would have it, the Tulsa World decided that this was a good story to cover and I was interviewed for a story that would make the front page of the paper the next day. I remember when I talked to Bill Sherman, the reporter, I asked him what to do. I remember thinking that on one hand I was standing up for my rights and on the other hand I was driving illegally. I was torn. I finally decided to try another tag agency. After only a few minutes, I was given my license with a photo of me in my hijab. I remember being nervous about waiting in the line. I remember just praying that this place would allow my picture. When they did, I felt relieved, though I didn’t know this was only half the battle.

When the story ran in the paper, my issue with the scarf became quite a big deal. Turns out that although the rules stated that nothing could be covering the head when the license photo is taken, many tag agencies just looked the other way when a Muslim woman went in for the photo. When the issue was raised, the Oklahoma Department of Transportation began to crack down on those agencies that allowed a head scarf in the picture. It became harder for a Muslim woman to get her license renewed. Although it wasn’t my intention to make things difficult for others, turns out that is exactly what I did.

There were women who were upset with me. They wanted to know why I had to make such a fuss about the whole issue when I could have just gone to another tag agency. Well, to be honest, I couldn’t have let it go. I don’t believe it is fair or just to have a law and not follow it. If the law states that I cannot wear my headscarf and the law is not appropriate, then why not change the law instead of breaking the law? At the time I know that I really just wanted to run and hide, but in retrospect, I am so glad that I stood up for what I believe. Because one woman denied me the right to take my license photo with my scarf, because one newspaper picked up on the story, because the law needed reforming, because others followed through with the battle that began that day in January, that law was changed. And I’m not just a little proud to have been a part of it.

Black sheep

When the Oklahoma City bombing occurred in April 1995, I was only 12, but it had a deep impact on my life. I don’t remember much from my younger days, but I remember the fear that came with that period. Immediately following the attack on the Murrah Federal building, fingers were being pointed, and in my direction no less.

Being a 12 year old in Tulsa, I obviously had nothing to do with the attack. But being a Muslim, I was part of a group that was being blamed. I remember the phone calls to the Masjid, the hate crimes against Muslims right afterwards. There’s something hurtful and utterly painful in hearing a woman whose voice is similar to your grandmother’s uttering racial slurs into the answering machine and damning you to hell. There’s something a little hard to understand when windows to a house of worship are broken and the walls are graffitied. There’s something a little disheartening when an Islamic school has to shut down for fear of the safety of its children. I was only 12 and the incident may have only lasted a few days, but the scars will last a lifetime. It hurts to be the black sheep. It is difficult to be different at times like these. It is hard to be seen as the enemy, even when you’re really not.

The OKC bombing forced me to grow just a little bit more than I needed to in a few days. It forced me to see the world in a different light. I was a child who couldn’t bear to see injustice or racial tension being put in the middle of an adult world. It was one of the first times I can remember feeling like an outcast, but not the last.

I was at home when the planes crashed into the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. I was just about to leave for class. Just like every other American watching the coverage on the news, I was in shock at what was happening. “Surely we have some sort of defense against such outrageous attacks! Surely this isn’t happening!” But it was happening and we didn’t have a defense plan. After the initial shock and disbelief, another question came to mind. I asked my father if we had been blamed. I asked if the Muslims of the world had this cross to bear yet. At the time, I hadn’t known that it was a group of individuals who claimed Islam as their religion and their religion as their purpose for such hatred against humanity. I hadn’t known that the individuals flying those planes into buildings, killing countless innocent individuals, felt they were getting on the one way flight to martyrdom and heaven. All I knew was what I had already experienced. I simply wanted to know when they would blame us. I just wanted to know when I would be targeted for being Muslim. When, in the midst of a black shroud of mourning and misery, with such a veil upon my own head, would I become the black sheep?

It took longer than I thought. Maybe because of the history regarding the OKC bombing and the falsely accused or maybe because we really were all in shock, media outlets were much slower to point fingers. And even in Oklahoma the response to the news of a “Muslim” attack was slow and slight. Although you may hear stories of hate after 9/11, you’re likely to hear more stories of love and community. You’ll hear stories of Americans coming to the houses of their Muslim American neighbors to offer help if they need it. You’ll likely hear stories of Americans going grocery shopping with their Muslim American friends to ensure their safe arrival and departure. You’ll hear stories that will make you proud, even when such horrible things were happening. I learned something about being a black sheep after 9/11 too. I learned that even though you may be shrouded in black, you can still be proud.

Pilgrimage

Every year millions of Muslims from around the world make pilgrimage to the land where Muhammad, the final prophet sent to mankind, was born and raised. They make a pilgrimage to an ancient land rich with history. From Africa and Australia, from the Americas and Asia, and from everywhere in between, Muslims join at the house that Abraham and Ishmael made as the first house devoted to the worship of the one God. The pilgrimage, a once in a lifetime retreat to find solace in the desert, is a trip in the footsteps of Abraham and Muhammad. It is a trip that allows us to consider the boy who would sacrifice his own life for God. While everyday may be a small trial and every trial a small step towards righteousness, Ishmael faced the ultimate test. While my life may include making sacrifices, it is nothing compared to the sacrifice Ishmael was prepared to make. And while I’d like to think I could sacrifice all for good, I’m glad God allowed us lamb chops instead.

You know what I'm thinking?

No, no you don't.

I'm not really going crazy

I'm just so livid
most of the time
that I cannot
think
or
speak
or
walk
without the hot
putrid smell of
hate protruding from
my
pores.

I'm not really going crazy
I may have already hit rock bottom
because I hate where I shouldn't
and love where it can't

I am NOT
going crazy
but I really
feel like it
right now

I fear
staying
this way for
too long

I fear that it will make me crazier
than I am on a normal day
without the pain in my shoulder

I am NOT really going crazy

I saw a car on fire
at first I wanted to snap a picture,
I've never seen a car on fire before,
but instead I drove away,
stupid new phone without a shortcut to the camera.
Instead, I drove on, I was sure others had
called the authorities, but I was stuck
with the car for a while.
When I passed, I could feel the heat
of the flames inside my car
with the windows up two lanes away.
After passing, I could only think about
what it might mean:
a death
a change in lifestyle.
I felt sad.
I think it was the turning point.
I mean, I cried tonight
despite my desire to hide.
I actually cried
a little
but all I really
wanted to do was
scream and hit and throw things.
I nearly had an anxiety attack,
haven't had a real one in years, almost
since my mother's death.
Though it is never a real
attack, just a feeling
of dispair that
bears down on my
heart.

I'm not crazy.
If I say it enough,
I might believe it.
I'm not crazy.

The Heart of the Matter

Notice:
high water below
rough terrain ahead
ominous clouds above

Notice:
lone sun ray beaming down
last of the pixie dust shining out
breeze picking up

Notice:
you are not standing alone
you are surrounded by many loves
you are separated by many feet

Notice:
you are not looking outside
you are not overlooking the river
you are beating inside me

depression

everyday i look at my blog
everyday i want to write something
but i can't
i feel like i can't write
i can't write because i don't feel like it
and i don't feel like it because i have no real feelings
except the feeling of apathy

ramblings in the night

I watched a movie about a 39 year old teacher who wants to have a baby. It was a decent movie: irony, love, great actors. When it was over, I spoke truths out of my window. I made contradictory statements and declared uncertainties. I laughed at my foolishness and pride. I found fault with my past and flaws in my person. I said all this aloud. I looked at the moon and said it all so she could hear. I spoke to God, I think, but I wanted the moon to hear, for God already knows. I looked out at the moon and realized that in the great grand scheme of things, very little of what I say or feel matters. In the great grand scheme of things, my miniscule problems are nothing. I am nothing to the moon, yet I wanted her to hear my frustrations.

****

My foot started bothering me midday Thursday. I walked on it anyway. I made myself walk three miles on it anyway. I made myself jog on it anyway. Now it's swolen anyway. But just a little anyway. Maybe if I jog more it will heal, at least better than otherwise anyway.

****

going out alone isn't all it's cracked up to be

****

I almost dropped my phone into the river. It fell out of my hand the moment I tried to secure it just as I was beginning to jog on a semi-swollen ankle. It was the same spot where I thought to myself, "Gee, it sure would suck if I dropped my phone here." Just the day before I visualized dropping it.

When it fell, the back detaching itself and the two pieces that are my phone sliding just to the edge, I paused long enough to pick it up and reattach before jogging across, the water lapping loudly below.

I've figured it out:

we should visit a haunted house or crazy ghost trail!

I know what to do now! I'm gonna scare myself!

I'll get my friends together
we'll pay an outrageous amount of money
to be scared out of our minds
and then eat dinner together.

Sounds blissful to me.

:0

Try the Blues on Backwards

I wonder
how many people
are waiting
for me to
call
or
text
or
send a package
fed-ex
or
swing by.

and so

shall i wait
forever
for nothing?

(not) surprisingly
I am
.....................(secretly)
(not) satisfied
with (your) words
or (my) lack
of
............(sweet)
words -
........(mocking)
the (terrible)
feelings
..............................(knocking)
inside (me and you)
growing
.......................(blindingly)
strong and
................(unmistakingly)
wilting into
...........................................(UNCONCIOUS)
(effortless) hope(ful)

.....(nothings)

travel (completely random...or not)

v formation
contentment
sunset
glow of moon
among clouds
of purple
and pink

home
and
away

large enough
to get lost
inside
but small
enough to
find the
way

home
and
away

from all
those
people I
wouldn't
sit near
anway
yet regret
the photo
opps for
odd reasons
now that
I am

home
and
away

from everyone
else I
did
enjoy

Eid Mubarak...

It was here,
that feeling of
joy mixed with
a sense of sadness
at losing the time
and gaining
the experiences.

It was here,
that feeling of
emptiness when
everything is over
and you wish
you hadn't
said it
and you wish
you hadn't
been there
when it happened,
but you were
and you did
and you'll
likely
do it again.

It was here
the idea
that I'd write
something
somewhat
somehow
someway
upbeat and not
anything like
I'm feeling
now but in every
way how I was
feeling when
we chanted
like children
and handed
out balloons
like adults
and smiled
like we meant it
and laughed
like we were pleased
and ate
like we had starved
and cried
like we were devoid of tears.

It was here
that I began
with a greeting
of peace and hope
and blessings
upon our
feast
but
ended
up just venting
those pent
up feelings
of I don't
know what
exactly.

It was here
that I began
to write my
poetry again,
those words
I write to
try to say
what I want
to say
but cannot
say because
I never
intended to say them
at all
since they
are empty
words filled
with feelings
as empty as
the ocean and
as calm as
the tempest
seas and
as meaningless
as scripture.

It was here
that I began to
write, albeit
only a few words
in each line, those
ideas that popped
into my
head and
lingered, even if
for only a moment,
and took over
my being and
function of
fingers and
hand.

It is here
that I have chosen
to write of my
sorrow, even as
I try to write of my
happiness, for who can be
happy without
a hint of sadness
or celebrate
without a piece
of despair in their
heart, however
small.

It is here
that I write my
words that mean
something to me
but nothing
to someone.

It is here I will stop,
the writing,
not the loving
nor the hating
nor the breathing.

***
Other than my little tirade a few days late, my Eid was great. Eid Mubarak to everyone. When I'm feeling less empty, I'll write something more fulfilling. Maybe. :)

All while eating ice cream from the carton

Why is it that my reflection is upside down on the inside of the spoon, yet rightside up on the back of the spoon? (I couldn't come up with a reasonable explanation...couldn't wrap my mind around it.)

Today I missed the local Race for the Cure. I've gone for the last three years. I am a little sad at missing this one, even if I would have just walked due to fasting. I walked last year and enjoyed it. I should've walked this year, but I didn't. Here's to next year!

L'Chaim! To life! (Watched "Fiddler on the Roof" again--great times!)

How is it that someone like her can get married, yet I'm still single? How can I be so full of myself? Seriously, get over myself.

Sometimes I look at someone else, examine their lives, their actions. Sometimes I see the selfish person they are. When they talk about their "meddling" parents I realize how important it is in our culture to be selfish. When I hear talk about moving away because of parental suffocation, I know it's selfish. When plans are made, hopes are shared, dreams are dreamt and family is the last to know, it's as if selfishness were a virtue. Sacrifice for parents, now that should be a step closer to God. If we can sacrifice for those who made the greatest sacrifices for us, are we not one step closer to knowing and loving the Creator who made our love and secured this bond? I am not there yet, but feel that it is a step in the right direction. With the right intention, the right path can be taken. Maybe. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I've got it all right.

So I convinced a friend to try online dating. The irony. He went out on a date today. Wonder how that worked out. I'm sure I'll hear about it soon. Ah, the irony.

I really wonder if losing your independence is worth falling in love. Who am I kidding? What independence?

If I were to leave, who would be around to help, not that I'm that much help? Who would eat dinner with them? Who would listen? Who would be the glue the keeps it all together?

My brother's shorts, tied tightly around my waist so they won't fall down, are so comfortable the I think I shall never wear my own clothes again. I can imagine a happy life filled with t-shirts and boys' basketball shorts. Ahh...comfort. I mean, I could gain fifty pounds and these shorts would expand with me. I'd never feel fat, cause I'd be wearing amazing boy shorts. Ahh...so this is love.

Why is it called neapolitan ice cream? And why did they decide vanilla was important enough to include in the carton?

Do I like chocolate or strawberry more? Hmm....just one more bite.

*Two gunshots outside my home right now. I hear the gun going off and never really think anything of it. Yesterday I walked to the store down the street. I haven't walked that way in so long. We used to frequent the little trip two blocks down the road when we were younger. Now, our cars drive us where we need to go. As I walked the distance, I heard the gunshot, close. I didn't think it was a gun. I assumed it was a car backfiring just around the bend. It was a gun. What or who they were shooting is unclear to me. If they will get caught or if they were just scaring someone or kids with too much free time, will remain a mystery to me. But being so close to such violence, however unreal it still is in my world, is a little unreal. I almost walked around that fenced off area, but didn't. I almost became a witness. I'm not afraid of being a victim, but don't know what I'd do if I were a witness. A helpless witness. *

Definitely chocolate....no, strawberry. Just another bite? :)

I'm so exhausted all the time, but I don't really know why. It's definitely not just because I'm fasting. It's definitely just me.

***

I want to write.

I can feel the words
inside
trying to escape
the humanesque
and acheive
divinity.

I want to write.

I see the words
outside
trying to breathe
the cool night's air
and dying
cruelly.

I want to write.

I bury the words
underground
trying to dispose
the contents
and remains
deliberately.

Only to write.

by the way...

Ramadan Mubarak! :)

I haven't spent time at the Masjid yet this year (which is so unlike me), but I have spent much more time with my family. I know now that it is really my duty. I have made dinner most nights (which was actually fun to do, even after working all day...seriously!), only missing due to back to school night at school last Tuesday (but since they ate my leftover lasagna, it was as if I was there all along). I love my Baba (dad) so much! He's the real reason I make sure to eat at home every chance I get. He's the reason I make dinner and serve coffee and smile and talk each night. It's Ramadan, and if he can't be happy always and with everyone, he'll be happy with me at least this month. At least.

Well, I just wanted to write "Happy Ramadan," but I seemed to have allowed my fingers to run wild on the page. I am sure my writing is not cohesive, but that's okay. I'll leave it this time. I meant what I wrote and felt what I said. And now I'll sleep and pray for a good week, good month, good year, good life. Ameen.

Happy Ramadan! :)

facade

education
is just a great
excuse
for a
single
daughter

education
has always been
a superb
excuse
for not
wanting
another
person

education
will continue to be
a fantastic
excuse
for not
wearing a
ring of
platinum and
diamonds

education
is my excuse,
and a greatly
used one at
that, for
not having
to deal
with
matrimony

*********

I finish my Master's degree in May, insha'Allah, only to embark on my doctorate. The learning won't stop...and so I'll have a reason to remain single, much to my family's dismay. ;)

and the world falls open
to reveal a scary core
of all things broken

(only one day until
sunny weather
with scattered
storms and
heartache,
only one day
until the Florida
beach & sweet
solitude and
the sun)

Did I mention
I love,
love,
love
Mr. Darcy?

we fought
over whose half
of the sole red
popsicle was bigger

we fought
over who sat
shotgun in the
front seat of the
old white car

we fought
over which movie
to watch first

we fought
over who would
get to keep the toy
in the expensive
box of cereal

we fought
over who controls
the tv remote

NOW

we fight
to see who's
more powerful
in strength
and mind

we fight,
whose words
are more vile,
more hurtful,
most unforgiving?

we fight
without love
or mercy or any
sign of
affection

we fight
to see who
can hurt the
most and
cry the
least

we fight
to inflict pain
without reward
pain without
hope pain
within

we fight
though in
reality I cannot
call this unit
(the me
and the you
and the him
and the
others) a 'we'
anymore

I
and
you
and
him
and
the
others
are,
but
'we'
are
not

change of heart

something about
driving with
the wind
wrapping around
and beating
negativity with
its powerful
gusts from
lands both
near and
far that
makes me
forget who
i am
and makes
me someone
better than
i've ever
been before

there is
something about
staring at
the green
hills that
go on
forever and
the lakes
that ripple
with hope
and gleam
with clarity
that changes
my very
set ways
and stubborn,
wrong ideas

there is
something about
that hour
long drive
twice over
that made
me change
my mind

there must
have been
something too
grand in
that hour;
something that
made me
look at
it all
so differently;
something that
made me
see what
needed to
be done;
something that
made me
look into
the future
and ask,
pray for
children and
a happily
ever after

there is
something about
my car
and my
music and
my mind
and my
state and
my responsibilities

a random
change of
my heart

in my head

i dislike my brother at the moment
i think that i am not really looking forward to school tomorrow
i want to get out of the house, but I don't feel so great right now
i want to go eat lunch with friends
i can't wait for my vacation to florida
i don't want to think of weddings or family issues
i don't want to do anything right now
i am thinking of running about sunset
i want to go look at bunk beds
i teared up thinking about how my space is limited
i felt like crap when no one missed our presence
i want to change the mood to a more pleasant one
i don't really know how
i don't know what to write if it can't be what it is
i don't like playing games
i hate getting phone calls from random people
i don't appreciate it when people don't call me back
i never want to answer on the first call
i never want the other person to answer on the first call
i hate feeling obliged to do something
i like being useful
i like sitting by the water
i enjoy running in the evenings



i ran into love; it robbed me of desire and inspiration
i ran into love again; it stole my morals and my self preservation
i ran into love a third time; i shoved love off the sidewalk
love was hit by a truck; love survived
love won't bother me again


i called, no one answered
you called; did you think i would answer?
i asked, no one responded
you asked of me; did you think i would respond?
i pleaded, no one helped me
you pleaded my help; did you think i would help you?
well, i did
i answered, i responded, i helped you
why?
because that is the difference between you and me
you only want from others
i only want others

I'm Not Catholic

So is it really wrong to want to offer confession?

I want to purge my soul of its secrets to a complete stranger who cannot really judge me, or if he does, doesn't really know me.

I want to go to confession, but I am not Catholic.

Trying to figure out my place
somewhere between this new,
unfamiliar place between the cracks
and the old world with its
responsibility and values
is the hardest thing to
undertake.

I didn't ask for this role,
the role of keeper of
tradition and key
to future hope,
I was only
the first
born.

Unsuccessful in finding the balance.
Unhappy in the current groove.
Unbelieving of the last few words.

Waiting for the response, or lack thereof.
Waiting for a miracle or disaster.
Waiting for an answer from above.

A little birdie told you what?!?!?!?!

What in the world? I'm so pissed off. Who is saying such things? I already had to deal with this before, not again. Not ever again. Dude, we talked twice. TWICE?!?!?!?! Forget being nice, I'm now going to be so mean, he'll wish he never met me. Seriously.

Everything I say tends to come back to bite me in the butt.

****

I don't want to talk to him. I don't really want to talk about him to them. I don't. Really, I don't.

****

I graded papers for two hours. TWO and a HALF HOURS really. Or maybe it was really just two. Either way, it was too long.

:/

****

Okay, actually, I'm dying to talk about it. However, since my first statement is true, everything DOES come back to haunt me, then I really don't want to talk about it (so statement #2 is also true). I did really grade papers, maybe because I wouldn't be free to answer the phone (especially since I really hate grading papers ESPECIALLY for a really long time in one sitting). So if I'm dying to talk about it (and laugh about it....and maybe cry about it too) why can't I? Because I'll regret it.

****

Remember that time that I said the guy I was talking to was kinda gay? Remember when she said it too? She married the guy (he wasn't gay). I was 'dumped' by the guy (he wasn't gay; he didn't really 'dump' me). She's (happily?) married. I'm (happily?) single. The guys were kinda gay.

****

So why can't I talk about it? Because.....well, you see.....because if I do, then.....ummm....I guess I can. Maybe I will. But how can I talk about it without coming straight out and blasting him or saying something mean? And who the heck am I supposed to tell who won't ask questions?

****

I need a therapist. (But I don't believe in such BS.) I need...nope, don't really need anything else.
;)

escape

first, open the window

second, remove the screen

third, climb out

fourth, fall onto the grass

fifth, tell the questioning voices that it's nothing, you're fine

sixth, get up and close the window from the outside

seventh, laugh out loud

eighth, run

ringing in my ears

When this writing is complete, I will pick up the phone. I can’t really tell my friends. Every time that I do they listen too carefully. They don’t listen to what I want to say but what they think I really want (and maybe I do, I’m not certain about anything). I mean, what do we have in common? A country that I’ve never seen and don’t really know? Religion. It is religion, or so they will tell me. But what if I don’t know where I’m at now? What if I am really not too sure about marriage or relationships? What if I don’t want to start something that I won’t finish? I can’t call my friends and complain because they won’t really listen. I can’t call my friends and tell them because I won’t giggle and be friendly.

When I am done writing this, I’ll just have to call. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to talk about this and I don’t want to write about it and I don’t really want to live this. I don’t know what I want. The truth of everything is that I don’t know what I want and I don’t really believe in all this crap. The basis of everything is that I don’t know who I am and what I want. I am lost.

When I am done writing this, I’ll finally call back. I want to tell my friends that he is desperate. I want to tell them that I can’t even remember what he looked like. I want to say that he is stupid for even trying. Weren’t my mannerisms clear enough? When someone doesn’t answer three times in a row, isn’t that reason enough to stop?

When I am done writing this, I’ll give in and have a stupid awkward conversation with someone I don’t want to talk to or try to impress. I don’t even think communication is possible, but I will try. I don’t like playing games, and this only seems like a game. I don’t like pretending, but it seems like pretending. I feel like my heart is under pressure, like my head is in overload. I don’t know.

When I finish complaining, I’ll call. I will pick up the phone and dial the number. I will spend a few minutes in a conversation I don’t want to have. Maybe I do. I don’t know what I want. I guess I don’t want to be alone.

When I stop typing, I’ll dial the number. Last night I realized that I’m the last of my crew. I truly realized it. I wanted to leave the party, I wanted to sit down instead of dance. I walk away when someone says “Uqbal farhatik” (my translated meaning: hope you get married next) or tries to talk about weddings and engagements. I don’t want to be forty and unmarried. It’s not fun to get old and have no one. I don’t think I want to be twenty-five and married either. It’s not fun to be responsible for others. I don’t know what I want. I miss being able to call up my friends and go out at the drop of a dime. I miss random lunches and being able to go to the movies whenever we wanted.

When I convince myself in writing, I will pick up the phone. Maybe my fear is kids. I expect to have them; I’m not convinced I want them. When they were married, they could still go out. When they had kids, life was over. Not for that reason alone, though it is a good one, I fear kids. When my friends complain of marriage and their husbands (or wives sometimes), I wonder if it really is worth it. When I have to make breakfast, I think “Is it worth it?” When I see them laugh at each other, I think, “Maybe it’s worth it.” When I remember that feeling in my tummy, the butterflies, and the lightheadedness, the dizzy sensation, I know it must be worth it. But when I have to try so hard, I think it is not.

I’m going to call. I don’t want to. I don’t know what I want. I hate this part of everything. I don’t even want to write this. I definitely don’t want to post it. I have written it and I will post it. I have to make it real. I have to legitimize my writing. I have to give my fingers some purpose. I have to smile and pretend. I have to write and be real. Now that I feel drained of all emotion, I will call. What do I have to lose?

I am calling.

Two things worth mentioning

1. For about half an hour on Thursday night, it was like old times. We laughed at each other, at ourselves. We joked. We compared colors, hair. We joked. For about half an hour, we were young again and whole again and safe again. For about half an hour, we were they way we should've been always. For about half an hour, our smiles were sincere, unreserved. Yet even in that short amount of time, you could tell that there was something behind the smiles. We all knew that it wouldn't always be this way, and that it likely wouldn't be this way again anytime soon. We all knew it and laughed and smiled, enjoying the moment even further.

For half an hour on Thursday night, I had my family again. For half an hour, I loved my brothers once more. For half an hour, the past didn't matter and the future was no bother. For half an hour, we all smiled at the same time. For thirty minutes, happiness filled the house.

For half an hour on Thursday night, I sat on Adam's bed, I laughed at Ali's jokes, and I giggled at Abdullah's mannerisms. I almost forgot the past and cared not about the future. I almost felt completely at ease.

2. I lied to my friend today. I didn't really lie, but I didn't really tell her the truth. She asked a question and I don't really like the answer, so I didn't tell her everything. I can't. I have fought the truth with my mind and body. I actually use all my strength to do what's right. Every ounce of energy I can, I put into fighting it off. I think I'm finally winning, but I can't tell that to my friend.

Kamlah is...

confused.

. No, not confused.

unsure.

. Maybe, maybe not.

oblivious.

. I don't think I can really say that I am oblivious.

hurt.

. Well, not really.

damaged.

. One could definitely say so.

upset.

. Not really upset, per se, but not truly contented by a lot of things.

sad.

. Actually, I am not sad. I am not ecstatic, but I am not sad.

alive.

. Can't argue with that one.

hot.

. Both senses of the word. :)

lazy.

. Nothing like typing on my laptop while lying in bed to prove this one.

going running.

. Will continue this later.

Ropes Course Facilitator Training 2008

I climbed up the pole the first day. I shimmied across the tight rope, keeping my balance with the other belay cable. I stood on the platform, albeit with shaking knees, and flew down the zipline with a short release of energy in the form of a scream. On the first day, I trusted my belay team. On that first day, I surpassed my own expectation. The first day made me proud, though I was still a little scared.

I climbed up the pole on the second day. I tried to set up the dynamic pulley. I tried, but I let myself come down after reaching the other log. I didn't push myself. I was not happy with myself, but I didn't go on. On the second day, fear won. On the second day, when I had to trust only myself and my equipment, I couldn't do it.

I climbed up the pole on the third day. I actually climbed the pole without a belay team. I climbed the pole and maneuvered my way onto the platform (the hardest part actually). I walked across the bridge with strong confidence in my steps ("It's like being on the ground," I told myself over and over before climbing). On the third day, I was fully confident in my body and my equipment. I surprised myself. I never knew my body was that strong. I was able to climb onto that platform holding myself up with my body parts in awkward positions: one leg sideways, one hand gripping whatever it could, my body twisting unusually. On the third day I truly pushed myself to set up that zip line. On the third day, I trusted myself and I won.

I was able to look down. I was able to talk to the person on the platform and the people on the ground. I could look down without fear. I could suspend myself with my quick lock carabiner grip and let go of both hands to secure the pulley. I could climb and set up. I could swing and rest and talk and laugh and look.

After three days on the course, I now feel more confident. My philosophy on pain (and dentists in particular) seems to work for heights as well: I won't remember the pain (or the fear) tomorrow, so don't worry about it now or ever.

I can't really remember all the feelings I had when I reached the top of the pole, but I know that pride is an amazing feeling and fear can be managed. I know that enjoying a moment is more fun the fearing it. I know that climbing is something I just might want to pick up.

Bitter

Thirty five feet off the ground,
feet dangling,
adreneline pumping,
heart pounding,
it doesn't really matter.

Thirty five feet off the ground,
wind blowing,
pole shaking,
carabiners locking,
it doesn't seem to be an issue.

Thirty five feet off the ground,
leg muscles working,
arm muscles hurting,
mental muscles racing,
it doesn't really bother me any more.

Say "professional" to me,
or simply in my presence again,
then I'll have to hit you.

Awake
Because I don’t believe in love
Or happy endings
Or prince charming

Awake
Because I secretly hope for the
Pot of gold
At the end of the rainbow

Awake
Because I am fighting the feeling
Inside of me
Of despair and longing

Awake
Because I know what is wrong
And why I feel it
And what to do about it

Awake
Because I am afraid of what I
Should do and what
I will and won’t

Awake
Because I can’t believe in it
And hate that it is
Not for me

Awake
Because I want but
I don’t know
What it is exactly

Awake
Because I cannot sleep
For it will erase
For it will soothe

Awake
Because I don’t believe
In love
In hope

Awake
Because I know what will come
In my dreams
In the fantasy

Awake
Because then I can fight the phantom
With my reason
With my hands

Awake
Because I can’t stop thinking
About everything I
Choose to ignore

Awake
Because I don’t believe
In love
In happiness

Awake
Because I have to keep
Convincing myself
Telling myself

Awake
Because I’m still cold
And alone
And tearless

Awake
Because I’m dead on the inside
But not yet dead
On the outside

Awake
Because my heart keeps beating
And my brain
Keeps deleting

Awake
Because I cannot leave
My room, my head
My life

Awake
Because I know what I want to do
To see
To be

Awake
Because I know nothing
About life
About love

Awake
Because I am scared
Of falling
Of hoping

Awake
Because I am a girl
In a predicament
In a story

Awake
Because I cannot sleep
In this body
In this world

Awake
Because I do not believe
In love
In hope

Awake
Because I do not believe
In you
In me

Awake
Because I do believe
In darkness
In light

Awake
Because I cannot sleep
And dream
And pray

Awake
Because I can see
The end
And I don’t like it

Awake
Because if I sleep
I’ll just have to
Wake up anyway

Awake
Because I want
To love him
But hate him

Awake
Because I want to dream
But know what
Life really is

Awake
Because I don’t know
How to love
How to care

Awake
Because I cannot cry
And it would be
Better to die

Awake
Because I cannot feel
Inside and I wonder
If I ever did

Awake
Because my eyes keep
Looking inward and
Fear what they see

Awake
Because I am empty
And the echo
Is loud

Awake
Because the warmth of
Fingertips nearly
Revived me

Awake
Because I lie
And know
Only lies

Awake
Because of everything
He said
He did

Awake
Because of everything
She never said
She never did

Awake
Because my eyes
Won’t close
Tightly

Awake
Because I’d rather
Go out during
Daylight

Awake
Because I’m scared
And won’t
Admit it

how does one say

i don't FREAKIN care

(annoyed...i'm just annoyed)

my dedication

One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

He's in my house.

"Why is he here?"

He's down the hall.

"What did he do this time?"

He's asleep on his bed.

I feel like the cork on this bottle is about to explode. I'm hiding any and all emotion; I feel like an icy witch (maybe bitch, really). I don't really know what to think about that. I don't really know what to feel. I almost felt overwhelmed by emotion. I almost let myself cry; I nearly smiled. Instead, I hid it all away under the thick layer of skin and pretended it's all the same and no big deal. I'll not care for a while; he just might leave again. If I attach, I'll hurt. Instead, I'll pretend.

BUT HE'S HERE...and I don't know what to do.

Insomnia (I'm just tired!)

Creak. Creak. Creeeeeeaaaaaak.
the fan in
my small, four walled room
of red paint and books read

Hum. Hum. Hummmmmmmmm.
the refrigerator in
the long, narrow kitchen
of wooden drawers and drawings posted

Thump, Thump. Thump, Thump.
the heart in
my lonely, hollow chest
of hopes & dreams and dreaming lies

I cut all my hair off today. I donated it to locks of love. I cut it all off. It's cute short, but it'll definitely take some getting used to.

*****

It kinda sucks being the sister of the groom. Not nearly as much fun as being the friend of the bride. I am totally annoyed and sick of....well, school and party stuff and everything in general. I'll get over it, but it sucks now.

*****

My senior English class gets to watch V for Vendetta for another two days or so. YAY! It's a great movie that goes with our theme: utopia/dystopia. I look forward to that class everyday now! ;) YAY!

أسماء المنور : يا غالية مبروك

Libyan song, Morroccan singer. Yeah, it rocks!

I miss writing.

What needs recording? My thoughts? My emotions? My actions?

I think about too many things at once. I think my mind is too full of crap. I think of people. I think of events. I think of what I want to do. I think of what I did. I think of what I didn't do. I think of the hims in my life. I think about the girls. I think about writing (though I rarely make time to do it). I think about the deep blue ocean (though I have yet to see it). I think about the green, green grass (though I have yet to feel it beneath my toes this season). I think about you (yeah, you). I think about me (okay, I think about me a lot). I think of random thoughts. I think therefore my brain works. I think therefore I am...weird.

I feel like shooting myself when kids don't know how to read the freaking handout I gave them. I feel lonely. I felt happiness when telling her about school and my "kids." I feel desperation creeping up through every pore; school should be over already. I feel like yelling and crying and running around with a jump rope (all at the same time?). I feel like kissing and telling. I feel like dancing (always do). I feel like running ten laps around the gym. I feel like completing another 5k. I feel like hugging and laughing. I feel like throwing the ball as hard as I can. I feel like skipping in the hallway and pushing hair off foreheads. I feel like gazing at the stars (so like eyes they capture souls). I feel like my heart just might burst with packing beans. I feel like laughing at such a crazy visual. I feel like holding hands and silence. I feel like love. I feel hate. I feel therefore I hurt. I feel therefore I forget and turn away.

I ran 5k. I listened to music. I threw the balls. I hit him back. I laughed inside. I dreamt in black and white with a sprinkle of color. I chat. I spat (not really). I fat (doesn't really make sense). I rocked the scene with blue eyeshadow. I cracked up the spot with hot pink lipstick. I walked. I ran. I sang in my head. I cried (yeah, right). I grazed the hand of time with the feather on the back of my cap (Yankee Doodle style). I rocked the tie dye. I worked the event. I made money. I want more. I'll get what I can and forget the rest of the world.

I think...I feel.....I did....

*nothing

you should know

1. I procrastinate as if there are no time limits.
2. Although I don't let it run me over, I tend to be a jealous person. Not envious (heavens no), but jealous in a weird way. I am jealous when it comes to my friends. I don't need to explain now.
3. I have a real weakness for Lindt white chocolate truffles. YUM!
4. The small of my back is the perfect place to rest his (whose?) hand.
5. I love freckles and wish I had more prominent freckles.
6. I am always exhausted.
7. I truly love making lists.

Of course I don't love him! (better titled 'ramblings are really the only way to go')

Well, I would never be with him. Actually, he has many faults. First he ___, then there's the issue with _____, not to mention the problem of _____. That's just the beginning. See, I'd never actually do it because I wouldn't expect him to change.

The fact that you have a list of his faults really means you've considered him.

if only she knew the half of it
she'd shoot me down
it's scary to think friends
know enough about you
to see when things are wrong
and know too much about you
to see when you try to
hide behind a mask of
false identity-
they know your smell
they know your voice
they know your hair color
they know your shoe size
they know your heart's desire
they know your heart's fears
they listen when you laugh the loudest
or cry the softest and they know
exactly why or at least how
to be there
when you really want
them all to go away

i just wanted to document
a moment of truth with
one particular friend
during one particular conversation
on one particularly cruel subject.
instead i painted a
portrait of my friends
and our peculiar relationship
of love

at times like these,
i want to renounce marriage
and family
and friends

at times like these,
i want to run away
from troubles
from worries
from life
from this city
from commitment
from work

i don't think i would
wish to have this
hassle upon
anyone in the
whole entire world

i can't ever be
suicidal,
not really,
but if i could
i'd go out
with a
bang
now

i will manage to
get through all of this
but i am getting angrier
and not so much
happier

i seem to want things
i can't really have
and abhor things
i need to really love
and dismiss things
i really just need

i seem to be so frustrated
with anything
and everything
(all of it nothing really)

i hate this planning and
the 'try not to look at my toes' and
the 'i'm trying not to step on your feet' and
the 'was that your spot i took'

i hate all of this
i don't mean to be mean
or maybe i do

i don't mean to be spiteful
but maybe i'm not
maybe i'm just dishing
back what was served
to me when i was
not looking-
the moment
they fed me the poisoned
pomegranite
(or was it a fig)

either way
this is not a good time
can you come back the third tomorrow of next month?

*****************************

No, really
i AM okay

I spend most of my time thinking...
...not enough time writing what I'm thinking

I have a theory regarding pain: I won't remember it tomorrow, so why worry about it now? I don't know if I really have high tolerance for pain, or I simply can't remember how badly it hurt and how horribly I reacted when I think about it the next day.

Eleven Years...

...is a long time, but you never forget:

the red of her hair
the blue of her eyes

...is a long time, but you cannot forget:

the pain of the treatment
the paleness of her skin, sick

...is a long time, but you dare not forget:

the drives and growing up
the laughs and braids and mascara

...is a long time, but I hope I always remember:

her love
her patience
her strength
her faith
her beauty
her laughter
her

...is not enough time to forget her, to get over her.

Old Risque (Not-Quite-Censored) Behaviors of the Reckless at Heart and Delusional in Mind

I must say I've grown accustomed to
.....the front seat of your car.
I'm used to the fight
.....over "where?"
I enjoy the graze of your hand
.....upon my knee. Accidental.
I've returned to this creative place
.....in my head, but at what cost?
Everytime I run away I seem to be
.....running towards desperation
.....and intrigue.

Totally me

I just might need some of these. Maybe.

The Weather Underground (1-9)

This is the first of 9 episodes (youtube breaks it down into ten minute episodes) presenting the weather underground. This documentary and who the weather underground was and what their goals and beliefs were, was one of the most fascinating things I've heard in a long time. Knowing that this happened on American soil is outrageous. Why do we never study this in history in our country? Why have I, an American born, raised, and educated in this country, NEVER heard of these guys? And HOW is it possible to do such things and get NO punishment whatsoever? Whatever your stance on what they did (right or wrong, doesn't matter), the fact that they did it and were a serious revolutionary movement within our country is simply mind blowing.

There is nothing as relaxing,
as refreshing,
as utterly enjoyable
as driving
with the breeze reviving you
with the sun warming my skin
with the blurs passing me by.

(not even the police officer
and the super expensive ticket
could ruin this drive,
not today, not ever)

Bummer?

I got an email today begging for substitutes for the ACT. I said I'd help out.

The good news: I get paid to grade papers for four hours.

The bad news: It's my birthday.

Well at least I'll have the money to get my piercings now. :)

Tomorrow

I'm driving to Tahlequah, Oklahoma for a weekend seminar. I don't mind the drive. Actually, I love the drive. The problem is I kind of don't want to go tomorrow. I'd rather sit at home and mope. I'd rather just lay in bed. Instead, I'll be sitting with other English majors. Instead, I'll be listening to them chatter along. Instead, I'll be wishing I didn't go.

At least my toenails are painted.

What about the controversial poetry that remains ambiguously labeled word documents on a laptop that will one day retire? What about those words so laboriously chosen that have great emotional meaning but are only sad little untruths written out on a keyboard in the middle of the night?

What of them, I say? What of them?

Who will think of them?

Life and Death (but mostly death)

I lost my little bitty, teeny tiny top left wisdom tooth. It was the tooth that caused my gums to swell up before erupting into a useless mass at the back of my mouth that I couldn't touch with a toothbrush.

I lost the tooth next to it. It was the molar that allowed me to chew delicious morsels of appetizing dinners and tantalizing desserts. It was the molar that later kept me up at night with its chipped side and caving cavity.

I lost them; they were taken.

You cannot see where they were. No one will ever notice. In a few weeks time, it will be as if they never existed in my mouth; the gum will heal and the chewing without them will be normal.
Until then, my tongue will miss her neighbor, her friend. Until then, my tongue will feel awkward. Until then, my tongue will remember the tooth that was.

Until then, my tongue will weep.

So I get on the internet to play scrabble. Is there anything wrong with that?

Didn't think so.

upcoming quarter of a century

For my birthday I have decided what I'm going to do for myself. I would like to get my hair done, but that's so....NORMAL. No, what I can't wait to do is even better.

I'm getting my nose and belly button pierced! WOOHOO! I've been wanting the nose piercing for a while, but the belly button thing is rather new for me. As a matter of fact, when I saw one of my friend's stretch marks around the piercing after she got pregnant (of course she removed the ring, but the holes are still there), I nearly puked and changed my mind. Instead, I don't care. Besides no one will see it but me and I'll be happy that I went through with it. Well, maybe. I still need to see how much it costs. I'm not keen on spending lots of money, especially for someone to poke a hole in me.

When I told my friends what I wanted to do, they only ask, "What's your dad gonna say?" My response is always that my dad won't even see the belly button ring! They always roll their eyes at me and ask what my dad's stance on the nose ring is. Truthfully, I don't think my dad will really care all that much. I'm getting a small stud to put in that will be barely noticeable, just utterly adorable. Besides, if I don't like it, I can always just take it out. My loving friends also remind me that I'm still single and the nose ring just might "give the wrong impression." But whatever. I can always just take it out on the first meeting, right? :)

I still have a couple of weeks to decide what to actually do, but I'm pretty sure I'll get my piercings. I'm so excited! Besides, if it's too expensive, maybe I should just buy myself an ipod. It's about time I got myself one. :)

ouch

my tooth hurts
it is nearly four in the morning and my tooth really hurts
i cannot sleep on my right side
i cannot sleep on my left side
i cannot sleep on my back
i simply cannot sleep
i swallowed a few tylenol, though i hate medicine
i am still in pain an hour later
it is because i thought to myself,
"i have a high tolerance for pain
i can handle it
see i have handled it before
the other day i put my pain out
of mind and out it went
i have high tolerance for pain
i don't need a dentist"

well i do
and they need to pull my freakin' teeth
so i can go on with my life

okay
let's be rational...
my tooth hurts
and it is four in the morning
rationality was dropped off in dream world

it is four in the morning and my freaking tooth hurts
*it'll be better in the morning insha'Allah*
-dust off the fairy glitter and go to sleep-

Pissed off

I've been angry with my brother for some time now. When he said, "All you ever say is 'That's a stupid idea,'" I almost smacked him. Are you freakin' kidding me? Yeah, that idea you had of doing things without consulting the parents was stupid. Sorry, I couldn't lie. But are you seriously going to pretend like: a) you invite me along very often. b) I don't try my best to be 'normal' when chaperoning the two of you immature children. c) I didn't try to help you out by inviting you along to do things in a group or coming up with ways to 'get to know each other.'

I'm only mad right now because of other things. I can't believe he's such a pushover and easily swayed. I feel a bit sad for him and I guess I feel sad for me. We are losing him. It's not like he'll be gone, but it's clear he's not here. Yeah, it sucks.

I guess I'm just mad right now and only for the right now. I will get over it. It will be forgotten years down the road, insha'Allah. But for the right now, I don't want to just let it go but I don't want to make a big deal out if it either. I know that I'll have to talk to him about it again and again, but it'll be worth it in the end.

When I stop being mad at him, maybe I could talk to him again.

Not tonight though. He left before I came back. Not seconds after he walked out, he forgot our plans. Then, after texting, he cancelled them altogether. Not that I was really fooled into thinking we'd do something together again. No, I'm not that naive.

Maybe I won't stop being mad for being left.

So when I have the power of my full reason once more, I will talk to him.

(Salah, just in case he talks to you more than me-which is likely-, don't mention this please.)

Just read something...made me laugh....HARD!

I can't believe it. It made me happy, not even a tad bit sad! I was glad.

It's still funny though. Jeez! I wish I could say what.

****

Ohmigosh...meeting new people and 'chatting' with them online is not only boring, it's gay! BLAH! Can I just say "I'm not interested!" and make them leave me alone? Sheesh! Do you really think I want to hear about the last girl you 'talked' with? Men...*shaking head*

Today, I wished for a camera when I saw something interesting on the highway today: a garbage truck. Of course it wasn't the fact that it was disgusting and stinky or because it was going so slow I wanted to shoot somebody; it was the small American flag attached to the back of the truck (yeah, the MOST disgusting part) that was awe inspiring.

Nothing says patriotism like a small flag on the back of a garbage truck!

Slaughterhouse Five

Before I ever read of the Tralfamadorians, I think I believed in their philosophy: life sucks, focus on the good times.

I am also amazed at the Tralfamadorians' ability to see things in four dimensions; the fourth dimension being the ability to see time as a continuum. Things always have been, always are being, and always will be.

Interestingly, the Tralfamadorians are fictional.

After sunbathing I feel better about everything I've dealt with and anything coming my way.

Warmth, inside and out: SUNSHINE.

Desperate?

I now have an account with an online "matchmaker."

No, I am not joking.

Yes, it is freaking hilarious.

No, it most likely won't work out.

Yes, I am pessimistic.

No, I am not desperate.

Yes, I am nearly 25.

No, I don't really do the online dating thing (or really believe in it either).

Yes, I realize the irony.

************

Last night I had a dream.

He was married.

He...(no big deal; I'll get over it)...was...(I could feel the knots tightening in my stomach)...married...(I feel like I am falling into a bottomless pit, but it's okay)...to a white girl. (I knew it would happen this way. What can you do? I'm not going to cry over it. Afterall, it was a dream. Right?)

*************

I am going to write a book.

It will appeal to the schizophrenics out there.

I'm sure you'll be my #1 fan.

Sincerely,
Me (She is on vacation)

Chicago Wedding (Draft Part I)

Why keep some aspects of a culture and lose others? I am amazed that the people in that large Palestinian community kept dancing WITH a man taboo but wearing short dresses with cleavage exposed OKAY. It is weird to me. A culture where dancing (albeit men by themselves and women by themselves, though in front of the others) is okay but people don't date is extremely interesting. I am confused by the choices they made in what they keep and what they don't. Although dancing is one of the most shocking cultural differences I've noticed at these weddings in Chi-town, it is the marriage itself that is most interest.

Maybe because I am grappling with the issue of marriage or maybe because I have my own issues with the process in our community, I am in awe of the way, much like that of 'back home', that these second and third generation Palestinians have kept. (I am sure that it is not just the Palestinians in this community that have kept this tradition, but I can only draw my conclusions based upon this particular community since I have only observed Palestinian weddings when in Chicago.) Choosing a spouse is still a family project. Parents make suggestions of potential spouses. Young men go to the girl's house and formally ask. Kids who grew up together may not always know that a suitor is interested because they are 'friends' and acquaintances. These matches seem to work out well in this community, and I have no quarrels with such an unspoken arrangement. However, in a culture that so closely lives among the American fragmented culture of 'independence' from parents at 18 and sexual activity before love, commitment, or marriage, I find it remarkable that this aspect of a 'foreign' culture remains among an actively 'American' generation.

It is the same everywhere.

The sun shines,
the wind blows,
the rain falls.

It is the same everywhere.

I think inside,
I speak aloud,
I sleep alone.

It is the same everywhere.

I drive around,
I break apart,
I sit aside.

It is, indeed, the same everywhere.

10-12 hours? Really?

Try 9!

Tonight, off.

Tonight, away.

Tonight....to Chicago!

Dearest friends,

here I come!

(WOOHOO! It's only ten hours drive...TEN HOURS?! It is a good thing I love driving.)

Nora said,

"Pomegranate,"

and then we laughed

for at least two minutes,

pausing only to breathe.

Taking a deep breath before

finishing, she told the rest of the

story of the "exciting" princess named

Jasmine and the amazing "pomegranate" fruit.

She began classically ("Once upon a time there was

a girl named...") and ended just as classically:

"THE END!"

the last stand of the desperate

titles that were never meant to be

Can I just stand
and look upon
thy beauty?

(I promise not to say a word) Really!

Weak knees and broken ankles

Stalking, walking, talking (to myself)

Tears inside the eyeballs of tomorrow (always just a day away)

Harmonica wailing in the background
(no it's not my heart,
it's my soul).

Losing grip, things begin to slip

I know what it's like now
to fall
to slip
to give it up.
I know and I don't want to stop
not yet.

Being bad and not getting caught? Can I do it again?

Just passing...
...you by....
as we glance into
....the other's eyes...
just for a moment...
wondering,
"Where did that...
come from?"

Pretending

Leaving

Slap your own forehead,
mine's constantly taken
care of

Which is worse?

To live with companionship, love, and mutual respect but limited freedom?

To live with unlimited freedom to do as you please but constant loneliness?

I could have curtseyed.

I didn't say anything back. I could have screamed. I could have thrown a fit. I could have pointed out the flaws of such...hypocrisy? unfairness? crazy assumptions unspoken?

I didn't.

Instead I played the good daughter. I've played the good girl role for far too long now. I'm sick of it. It hasn't gotten my far. I could just stop playing this role and then we'll see what happens.

I won't.

I have this burning inside me that makes me want to say "screw it all!" but I don't let that burning catch fire. I feel it, but I don't let it catch. I have this feeling inside that wants to yell "what about...?" but I don't just believe in my feelings.

I don't.

I have begun to wish I didn't ask. I have this tendency to be nonconfrontational. It hasn't gotten me far. I want to quit my job as lead actress in this charade. I'm so sick and tired. I want to scream.

I can't.

I believe in it. Deep in my core, I do. I just wish I didn't sometimes. I wish I could simply be. But I leave it to fate. And it eats me up inside. It should.

It doesn't.

shhh!

they come to me
they just come to me
the words flash in front of my eyes
they are whispered into my ears
i don't know why they come to me, but they do
i love that they come, but i don't know why i am any different
the words come without being called
sometimes i don't want them to come
sometimes i cannot add them here for their magnitude is disturbing,
their honesty unnerving, their reality moving
sometimes i say them, sometimes i sing them
sometimes i just forget them
sometimes i'm in the car or in the middle of a book or talking to someone
i'm there but i'm all in here-in my brain-thinking of new words
when i'm there (here really) i think of something
and when i think of that something i think on it long and hard
and then the words come
sometimes i say those words over and over to myself
don't forget them, i say to myself
remember this line, i say to myself
why did i think of that, i question myself
sometimes i just type
sometimes i think it must be the sound of the keyboard
or the satisfaction of writing so much,
though of little essence
sometimes i think it is for the shock factor,
though i don't always find it shocking
sometimes i think it is vanity,
i think i write so well and should share with the world
sometimes it is the only way i feel i can let it all out
the words are like the stones that make up the dam
one day all the emotions just might steal out from behind
the dam walls and flood the dry land
after such a long drought.

sometimes i just write and don't
think about it.

sometimes.

It was the look.
Lunch? Dinner? —Breakfast?
It was contained in that look.

I stand on my tower,
the one made of steel
and iron and all stuff tough,
and I laugh at all those
who dare to think they
can penetrate these walls.

It was the look.
Aren’t you going to ask?
It was contained in that look.

I sit at the table,
the one behind
the wall of the tower
made of steel
and iron and all stuff tough,
like the shields around
my beating heart
and tormented soul,
and I chuckle to see
the few who try
to scale the walls
and enter (only
a dungeon awaits).

It was the look.
Take me with you?
It was contained in that look.

I now hide in
the closet of my
room where the strong
oak door will keep
me safe; this room in
my tower
made of steel
and iron and all stuff tough,
like the warm dagger (hand)
at my throat
or the metal lock (hand)
against my cheek
stealing my breath.
I sit here
and giggle to see
the one who has
spent hours upon
hours, minutes
upon minutes, trying
desperately to
break one brick free.

It was the look.
Forget me never?
My undoing was contained in that look.

To whom do you tell your secrets?

Someone needs to
take my head
in his arms
and give it a slight
rattling to the
effect of
awakening those
thoughts so
recently
put to rest out of
sight and so
out of
mind and hearing
and sight
just so.

Someone needs to take
my head in his hands and
place it back upon my
shoulders where it used
to lie upon the mold
which is me.

I had in my head
a much bolder,
a much more sincere,
a stronger verse.
All in my head,
but then I lost it
when I lost my balance
and dropped my
head and thoughts
while driving
to the darkness,
home.

So I get myself into these situations. I almost do it in such a way that makes me think I didn't mean to. But then I think about it and realize maybe I did. And then I think some more and make a promise not to do it again. That's precisely the time I forget about it and do it anyway.

And then I try to find a way back out. It's like trying to find a way out of the mall. Just when you're on your way out, something catches your eye and you can't help but go check it out. That's when you realize you left your purse in the car and you're broke besides.

Circumlocution: Talking in circles, never just saying what you mean.

I don't mean it. I just can't say it. I've been explaining it all day but now I'm really fearing it. I mean, could I really do something like that? Where exactly does this all take me? Am I leading myself downhill or underground?

Poison. I always write it as my poison. Can a 'he' be poison? Maybe it is just me. I am the poison and the temptation and the greed and the evil deeds of this world. That makes more sense that blaming everyone else.

I want to date. I don't believe in dating necessarily. I want to date. Just a cup of Joe. I don't drink coffee. Just a discussion on what-have-you and what-have-you-not. I don't want idle talk. Just a break from reality. I'd rather keep it real. Just a smile and a sigh. I sigh too much as it is. I want to date but I don't believe in it.

Paradox: one having seemingly contradictory qualities or phases.

I am not a pair o' ducks. Just rational in a most irrational way. Just sincere in a most pretentious way. Just kamlah in a most fragmented way.

We never really talked on the phone

First, I miss the sun
on my face and in my
eyes and on my
skin.

Second, I miss your voice
on the other end of
the telephone
line.

Third, I miss the feel
of muscles flexed
tightly in my
legs.

Fourth, I miss the days
when we could go
out and just
wander.

Fifth, I miss the times I
could write all words
without fear of
hate.

Sixth, I miss the happy years
of our innocence when I
would take you all
out.

Seven, I miss the unapologetic hope
that left almost immediately
with the angel of
death.

Eight, I miss the days
passed without the
mention of
age.

The Flower Duet (Lakmé)

February 29, 2008

Dear baby Kamila,

Welcome to life! We've waited for 7 months for you to come. We thought we were going to wait for 2 more. However, it seems that you were tired of waiting to meet us! You may be small and younger than we'd imagined, but you are more beautiful and precious than we could have dreamed. By the time you read this, your real name should fit you comfortably and you won't believe that your Aunt Kamlah really thought she could pass you off as "Kamila." That's okay. When I left the hospital today your name hadn't fallen from the lips or poured from the heart yet. I know it will. We'll all look at you and say, "She is beautiful, masha'Allah," and the name will be there, right where it was all along: on your lovely face. Despite your nameless state tonight, I love you. And even though you'll always be young with a birthday every four years, I love you. Not just because you're my best friend's first born love, I love you. I love you and I can't believe I'm an "Aunt."

Sincerely,
Aunt Kamlah

I watched you
hold it in your hands

I watched you
look at it with mild amusement

I watched you
caress it and smile

I watched you
kindly adore it

I watched you
play with it in enjoyment

And then I watched you stop

I watched you
crumple it and
toss it away
like a sheet of paper

I saw you
toss it over your
shoulder as you
walked away
with a five o'clock shadow
and a smile on
your stubbly face

However, I still feel it beating.

February 10, 2008
10:50 a.m.

Watch a movie
and see the characters
live and die
as we want inside
we wish to be
the way we hope
this ride

Let's listen to music
and hear the desires
of one man's hearts
and listen to the
dreams of one woman's tears
and float into the realm
of happiness's lies

Let's read the words
in a book of rhymes
describing my wishes
as a set of dishes unwashed
and lace uncut as
wild dreams deferred and
leaves of the green, green grass

But I'd rather
just lay here in the dark
with my thoughts
chasing the demons from
the darkest spots

I'd rather just
lay here and become
the bed and the
wall and the room
and me and you

I'd rather be just
left alone with
the thoughts inside
my feeling head
the thoughs inside
me, feeling dead
the thoughts inside
me light as lead
the thoughts inside
me, thin as thread
the thoughts inside
me dripping red
the thoughts inside
me wishing wed

February 9, 2008
2:48 a.m.

the problem is that
i have fallen
i've skinned my
knees and
twisted my ankle
i've broken my
wrist and scraped
my elbos
i've dislocated a
shoulder and stubbed
a toe
the problem is
i've fallen and
he won't
help me up.

Oh, really?

Excuse me, I must go back to my room now, where I'll attempt to kill myself with words.

Why can I not remember?

Chinese food=bad

i will not eat fast chinese food again
i will not eat fast chinese food again
i will not eat fast chinese food again
i will not leave campus to eat at that chinese fast food drive thru restaurant again...

...at least not until i have forgotten again.

I never noticed.

In "The Overcoat" by Nikolai Gogol, the protagonist dies a horrible death.

In "A Modest Proposal" by Jonathan Swift, the narrator proposes eating babies (well, sarcastically anyway).

In "Two Friends" by Guy de Maupassant, the two friends are killed after a fishing trip.

In Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom, Morrie dies of ALS.

In my class today, the kids remarked on the dark nature of my reading choices.

"Miss M, can we EVER read something that doesn't have a sad ending? Maybe one where the main character DOESN'T die?"

:~)

Cricket Song

Ripples move in circles
away from the edge
of humanity's home.
Dark and light, LED, make
the shadow of the
human form I inhabit.
Children, mufflers disturb
the silence of an evening's
delightful solitude.
Chains on the pet limit
its freedom and
pollute the aura.
All this and yet he sings.

The cricket song
fills the spaces
all else tried to
fill. It fills the
air with a reminder
of their existence.
"Hey, I am here! You
will listen! I exist,
I'm smaller than you,
but oh so more tender
and true! I sing my
lover a lullaby. I treat
the world to a tune.
I fill your evenings
with music."

I hear it.
I hear the cricket song.
I dance to it.
I enjoy it.
I embrace it.

There's something about it.
Something morally wrong with it.
Something reprehensible and treacherous about it.
Something that makes me want to scream out loud.
Why burn daylight?
Hang the notion
burn it at the stake
Beat it senseless.
Just don't burn daylight.
Don't you dare.

******

I bet the grass is warm now.
I bet if I lie down on
on the grass by the river I
could feel the Earth's warmth
and hear the
lull of its beating waves.

******

7:32
The River really
was what I needed.

The goosebumps all
over my body tell me so.

The breeze,
the smell
the music
the crickets
the hush of cars
the fish leaping
the water lapping
they all tell me so.

***

January 27, 2008 8:05 p.m. (on the back of a local magazine)

Well it just kinda comes down to you. What is it that you like? What is it that you will enjoy? Me? Well I find it grand to sit by the fire and write. I find it enchanting to visit a museum. I enjoy a day at the park. I love playing like a kid. I get lost in music and enjoy dancing. Playing on a slide or jumping rope make me laugh. I love driving anywhere, everywhere. I look forward to plays. I even enjoy cooking. We could take a class together. We could cook or we could paint. We could photograph all we love. We could drive into oblivion. We could sing.

I love the glowing
embers
in the pot of
fire
warming my toes

***

I slept last night with the smell still on me
I woke up this morning with the smell still saturated in my shirt
I walked back into my classroom with the smell newly embedded into the walls

It may be only my imagination, but the smell of that fireplace from last night has taken over my life. It's a yummy smell. A comfortable smell. A happy smell.

dreams or nightmares

Last night I dreamed of twins. There is only so much I can remember. From that I shall compile a list. From that I shall speak the truth.

They were twins. I think they were both girls.
They were not mine, though I loved them and took care of them. They were beautiful.
In the dream I knew their names. In the dream I forgot their names. In the dream I last remember trying to remember their names and saying they sounded like "Laziza."
In the dream I think I was happy.
In the dream I remember some weird things. I think I was trying to run from someone, but I don't know who it was.
There was somethng weird about the house. I don't remember what. Stairs were involved; the house seems to be high up.
The dream left me feeling....not weird, not hollow, but not dreamlike happy. It was just like life on a normal day. I don't really know if it was a dream or a nightmare. I think there were things about it that seemed to make me scared, but there were things about it that made me feel somewhat happy as well, I think. I couldn't tell you what. If I did, I'd be lying and the last thing I'd want to do is lie about my dreams. Too personal.

Twins. I know I'm changing. I know. I know that desire is beginning to awaken (or reawaken?). I know it. I'm repressing, but I know it. I seem to hide it as I hide the tears I never cry or the sadness I never feel or even the happiness I never experience.

Twins. They were beautiful twins. I held them in my arms. I laughed with them. I think I cried too. But they were so like mine. And they were real.

Twins. I can't tell you their names. I can't tell you what color hair they had (light colored?) or what colored eyes (brown?) or what their names are (Azizah?). But oh, they had chubby rose-colored cheeks you can't help but pinch. They were happy babies. They were somehow my babies. They were twins.

Twins. Last night I dreamt of twins. It wasn't a nightmare. It wasn't a dream. It was twins. Twins!

Matt Costa

Reading: Abnormal behavior

Area Eccentric Reads Entire Book

GREENWOOD,IN—"Instead of spending hours on YouTube every night, Mr. Meyer, unlike most healthy males, looks to books for gratification," said one psychologist.

If you've never read the onion, you are missing out!