Tuesday, December 18, 2007

14-16.12.07

‘Thank you for your criticism’ –It says on a TukTuk.
The word TukTuk is from Thailand apparently because that’s where the little motor-carriers came here from, or are most common…I’m, not sure, exactly and who really cares any way?

This is just fine; Not understanding a word of what’s being said around her Getting lost in constant foreign chatter; Trying to eradicate herself…disappear among her company of locals who grow used to her silent presence and laugh at her random exclamations and attempts to mimic the lingo for their amusement (got to earn your keep after all). This is ideal.
Disappear.
Only it’s not entirely possible because Pixy sticks out like a sore thumb and every now and then someone disturbs her solitary state of mind with broken English: ‘He/She say you look very nice.’ Turning heads in Cambodia is an odd, odd thing. Surrounded by beautiful people Pixy’s own reflection has begun to look strange to her; bland, too severe. So it makes no logical sense. I guess to them I’m just an exotic novelty- she thinks.

She switches on the TV and prefers the Chinese channels to the few English ones on offer. Damn Yanks. On MTV Asia, Edison Chen is leading the conversation with the desperate looking host of Special VJ. Pixy doesn’t understand what they are saying so she substitutes her own English dub and finds she can keep herself thoroughly entertained like this in her lonely hotel room in Siem Reap.

‘Thank you for your criticism’ –what on earth did they actually want to say?
And then, just when Pixy masters the art of speaking in a way people here can understand better and learns to customize the food to her own palate; namely- drowning out the odd sweaty, sunbathed smell of fish and meat in Hoisin sauce, it’s time to sit in the outer isle seat next to a couple again, and conclude that the steward is quite fit.

Come away with a child’s wonder and Pixy has found peace.
Ookun-ah.
12. 12.07

Pixy had a single cheese burger today- somewhere in between an evil headache and the transit to Phnom Penh. What a glorious day to re-evaluate the value of principles and the luxury of them.

Note to self: must not take principles for granted.

She then filled out her immigration card at the departure lounge and thought: it is important to remember who you are. What you are doing here. Where you are going to and why. It is important to sit in a KL airport toilet and say to the red cubicle door; I am Pixy.
I try to be a good person, but often my shyness and inhibitions get in the way. I like most of the people I know, and those who I don’t, I try to. As for the people I love, I can count them on the fingers of my hand.

I am Pixy who survived a broken heart. Again. And who is trying to remember.
I am Pixy and I am only here when You are here. When You are not, Pixy is no more and in her place is an onslaught of confusion, a lack of identity, a loss of foundation, a frightened void.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

If I knew that you were going to be ok, I would not be hurting as much.
I almost wish you had betrayed me...that you had someone else, because then I could just feel angry and move on.
Then I could bear my own pain, lick my own wounds, and heal.
But you haven't.
You have walked away from this for reasons I do not know what to make of but to blame myself.
Why is it I'm hurting for you?
Why is it that though I have lost everything my universe revolved arround in the bredth of an hour, I'm sitting here numb -like a man who's just lost a limb- and all I can think is that I wish I could hold you now and tell you it's going to be ok?
Why is it my heart is breaking that you are alone tonight.

Sunday, November 25, 2007

Just got back from watching Darjeeling Limited. Wes Anderson films are funny in the way real life is. You come out of one almost seeing the world in the way you did the film, and half expecting someone in the background to hobble past with a ridiculous hat, or for your ordinary comments to be followed by the silence that only off-beat/dark humour is followed by. Also, they leave me feeling a bit solemn though accepting of life in all it's shiKt-ness.

Adrian Brody is fit.
Miyavi is too hot.
And I realised today that I don't like Haido as much, not because he's getting old, no. But because he reminds me of Ryo. This is not to say Ryo is remotely as good looking. It's just the way his jaw is set sometimes, and his lips. And most importantly that increadibly self concious lack of confidence that used to creep up on Ryo often.

On a different note, I've noticed that I have been wishing more and more recently that I was a guy. Free to do guy things, to hang out with the guys without people sniggerring behind their hands, to take off my top without being oggled...you know. Boys are so much more fun then girls :( But also, their more dumb. (shruggs shoulders)
In any case if I was a guy, I reckon I'd be well fit. I know this because of two reasons.
Reason 1: Because I'm already kinda androgenous and if I was a guy I would be too, and the androgenous types are always the enigmatic hot ones.
Reason 2: I said this to Faaria, and she said 'Yeah, you would be.' ...I also told Faaria that if she was a guy, I'd fancy her, coz she's oriental looking.

Cheap thrill of the week:
Raz thought I was 21. This makes me real happy, and tells me the universe is working in my favour. When I told him the truth though I think he was a bit shaken to find out I'm actually a year older than him. Calls me 'grandma' now...stupid foo'!

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Sarahmon: a nokturnal pokemon. Drawn to sugar and shiny things. Weaknesses include fear of the colour yellow.
Elestimon: also nocturnal. drawn to the dark and pierced, Japanese, spastic musicians. Weaknesses include shitake mushrooms.
Misbemon: the most sensible of the three.

-courtesy of Sarah bunny :)

Office Drama
Waiting for a print out infront of Saif uncle's office, Syed (also known as 'comsi comsa' or 'the Italian') makes the mistake of addressing Saif uncle at random as he passes by.
Syed: You alright?
Saif uncle: What?
Syed (a bit nervously): Is everything ok?
Saif uncle (suspicious): What do you want?
Syed: Nothing, I'm just asking if you're ok.
Sif uncle (eyes him): Where are you from?
Syed (who is Bengali): Milan.
Saif uncle: Good. don't let any Bengali's in here.


Sunday, November 18, 2007

I couldn't decide between the following 3 titles for this blog entry...

Sufi is fat
a state of affairs, by Elest Ali
or
Does Sufi eat more than me?
A reflection on things, by Elest Ali
or
My laptop is pissing me off!
A thorough bitching, by Elest Ali
Yesterday, Pixy got to see Tutankhamun's pectoral up close and personal. 'Is it called a pectoral coz it sits on your pecs?' --she asked Shaheen, whisperringly. 'Tis a mystery now why the blond lady standing next to them in front of the exhibit, smiled at her naivety. Becasue that is indeed what a pectoral is. An amulet or jewlery that rests on a mans pecs. -says sheikh google.
Hah! to you, blond lady!

Asside from Tutankhamun's pectoral, Pixy met in person, all the people she spent her freaky adolescent years staring at pictures of in Egyptology books. Conclusion: Those ancient egyptians were so beautiful they had issues! Issues like elongated skulls and severe vanity.
Pixy came out wonderring: Is it perhaps that line between a masculine woman and a feminine man...that look which merges the sexes, which is the height of human beauty?

What's that? Tell you the story of a cock up in our tickets? Well...there aint really one. Only that the manager happened to be this tall, fit Korean/Chinese guy. Shaheen (who sneek peeked his name tag) says his name was Baldwin Ho. When you're done laughing at his first name. And then your done laughing at his surname. And then you're done laughing at them both put together...I'd just like to say that Dayyyym, that guy was sooooo hot, I wudn't mind being stuck with a shiKKt surname like Ho if it meant I could wake up to that face every morning.

And then what happened? Ho looked at the tickets for a bit and went: 'You know what, don't worry about it, just go on through.'
I tell you it was the chemisty and all those baby lightning sparks going off arround us.
Epilogue: When Pixy runs out of steam there are no words, no thoughts, no feelings...just a deep bottomless well silence.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Searching for SoHigh lead Pixy down the seedy, back streets of Soho, frequented by perverts and Japanese. At one point she was on the verge of turning into a narrow side street, made narrower by jutting shop signs from either side, advertising with neon lights, those things that the multiple 'x's were supposed leave to your titilated imagination. At the sigt of it and a scary man who was slinking in her direction, she turned into the other street. When things eventually started looking more familiar and less preverse, she realised she'd made the right choice and breathed a sigh of reliefe.
She decided she would have to take someone with her next time, because there was still a Marjuana mag to be bought.

Meanwhile, Pixy has a black wine glass. This is more practical than a champagne flute or a cocktale glass, and it's useful to make ailien-sound music with, when you want to be spooky.
Sufi, on the other hand, is obsessed with the dish sponge. She keeps nicking it from beside the sink and running off with it all sliping-arround-like in the trail of water it leaves behind. Pixy tried hiding it in the vase near the kitchen window. But Sufi managed even to get it out of that. So now it sits in the cupboard under the sink, where it is dark.

It's sad how everything is so alone. The sponge. Sufi. Pixy. It's sad how everything is so sad and God damned hard to heal. Pixy's friends and Pixy's guest and Pixy's heart. It's sadest though, how everything loses meaning, like some thief came and took it all away. And Pixy wonders what is good, what is right, what is wrong. Pixy wonders why and how someone can love a person who is so selfish, and cruel and quite frankly stupid. And if this is possible, then how can that person be selfish and cruel and quite frankly stupid? That person must be kind, and caring and appreciative. Is something wrong with Pixy? Or is something wrong with the order of things in the world?

Friday, November 02, 2007

Kara kolda Ayna var...ayna var
Kiz kolunda damga var...damga var
Gozlerinden bellidir Cevriyem
Sende kara sevda var

Denizlerin kumuyum...kumuyum
Baliklarin puluyum...puluyum
Ac koynunu ben geldim Cevriyem
Bende Allah kuluyum

Translation:

There is a mirror on the jail house wall
There is a stamp on your arm, girl
Your eyes say it all, my Jevriye
You're love sick

I'm the sand of the seas
I'm the scales of the fish
Open your arms, I've come my Jevriye
I too am another servant of God

The above Turkish song is about a prostitue. Charming.

Today is the beginning of a new, more professional in the workplace, Elest. Complete with a taste for tea. Yep thats right, ordinary, black tea. Albiet, one watered down by lots of milk.
It's all about multiple personalities. I need to go shoe shopping too. Now one side of me whispers: Red Patent Grinders!!! Yes Yes Yes! ...and the other more sensible side says, without whispering: Get something sensible for work you fool. We'll know by Monday who wins.

Meanwhile: I am tired of having my mind messed with.

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy.I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy. I'm Happy.

Monday, October 29, 2007

Today I was telling Faaria I was having an identity crisis, and she told me I’d always been having one. Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps I have always been restless and searching- a condition I could only interpret as unhappiness due to my apparent lack of emotional intelligence.

Non the less, recent events in my life have left me feeling empty and distrustful of too many things. When you’re younger, everything seems so clear cut. The world is black and white and you think you know exactly who you are, where you stand, how you’ll end up.
But as you grow older, the boundaries between things start blurring into each other. What was once pretty straight forward no longer proves to do exactly what it says on the tin. Names are divorced from their meanings and the once truths of life show their illusive faces.

The tings which have weighed most heavily upon me have been those associated with ideals and faith. When you are no longer sure of how you see things, you are no longer sure of who you are. After all, are we not defined by how we interpret the world around us?

This evening at the V&A museum, I got to catch the end of a lecture on Andalusian Spain and the Abrahamic faiths which lived in harmony within that unique culture. The Lecturer closed her speech with a poem from Ibn Al-Arabi that dawned over me like a consolation.

All these names, all these forms, these objects which we feel the need to sort through, understand and interpret to define ourselves…they only serve to complicate things. They become barriers, which we adopt out of convenience. When man’s mind comes upon a brick wall, that brick wall becomes his security and closure. He can now justify his lack of initiative to go beyond, to keep up the search until some great end. How are our modern day metaphysical barriers any different from the idols of Quraysh? Have we not turned our faiths into ritual, and name, and form and appearance? And what dark matter is really behind all those things?

I am too complicated, too intricate to trust myself with a name or persona, out of fear that I may turn that into something which will one day hold me back. And in that light, what have we left to ourselves but to be good?

Love is a funny thing. It seems that after a single disappointment, man will recoil and lose his faith in all things. And yet, even with our hearts breaking, we can still believe in love.
I leave you with the poem which inspired this.

A white-blazed gazelle

Is an amazing sight,
Red-dye signaling,
eyelids hinting,
Pasture between breastbones
And innards.
Marvel,
A garden among the flames!
My heart can take on
Any form:
Gazelles in a meadow,
A cloister for monks,
For the idols, sacred ground,
Kaaba for the circling pilgrim,
The tables of a Torah,
The scrolls of the Qur'an.
I profess the religion of love;
Wherever its caravan turns
Along the way, that is the belief,
The faith I keep.

Ibn Al-Arabi - Translation by Iberian Medievalist, MarĂ­a Rosa Menocal:2004

Friday, October 26, 2007

Oh I know that evening’s empire has returned into sand,
vanished from my hand, left me blindly here to stand…but still not sleeping.
My weariness amazes me I’m branded on my feet,
I have no one to meet and my ancient empty street too dead for dreaming.
Hey Mr. Tambourine man, play a song for me,
I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to.
Hey Mr. Tambourine man, play a song for me,
in the jingle jangle morning I’ll come following you.

~Dylan


Keep the darkness at bay with off-beat humour and the randomly absurd, we feel like Wes Anderson films and giving the Sultan of Brunei’s family a fashion make over, amidst pensively hatching MMM.
MMM is the Marry Miyavi Master plan: Because Miyavi is the hottest weirdo alive.

All of this is very healthy by comparison, and after all, exercising one’s imagination is vital if one is to benefit fully from a creative writing course.

So every day:
Pixy works hard
Pixy laughs hard
Pixy sings hard on her way home
Pixy prepares food for Sufi, who she feeds and dotes on with the kind of love that’s maternal, because Sufi (four in kitty years) is eerily like her when she was four and bare foot in a blue robe: shy, often aloof, but desperate to be loved.
Pixy writes
Pixy doesn’t think or remember
Pixy misses her family
Pixy fills her days
Pixy moves on

But somewhere in between getting rid of everything that might remind her and beginning brand new things, Pixy secretly keeps the picture of a little boy child.

But somewhere in between losing control of her breathing in the bath and burying her face in her hands after prayer, Pixy has to hold herself and remember to keep going even though she doesn’t know why and can’t feel anything anymore.

Pixy will never be the same again

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Once upon a time there was Pixy and there was Blog.
Pixy used to believe it would not do to have anyone care about her.
Pixy used to believe that because everyone was so lonely, they should all act it, and not try to be something else- which was very silly behaviour.
So Pixy ignored all the other people who behaved very silly. She chose to be lonely and told everything to Blog, which was her inside-out space.
Then one day, someone cared about Pixy.
Slowly, and inevitably, Blog grew more and more neglected because Pixy timidly began to make a new space. This space was for that someone, and she carved it deep, deep inside the most vulnerable centre of her innards.
She never doubted a happy ending...because after all, sadness was always followed by happiness. Everyone knows that, right?

Now there is Blog.
Now there is a vacant space in the most vulnerable centre of Pixy.
Now there is.

Saturday, October 06, 2007

Every night Pixy climbs into her bed on the sofa and holds herself tight so that she doesn't fall apart in pieces.
Every night Pixy tries to cry quietly, so that no one else is disturbed.
Her protruding breast bones heave with the things which threaten to consume her, because they have no outlet.
And every morning, as if some practical joker thought it'd be hilarious to tamper about with her, Pixy wakes up to find that her heart is whole again.
Like Prometheus, whose innards grow back every day for the vultures to tare out over and over for an eternity's sentence imposed by the angered Gods, Pixy's heart is ready to be broken every morning again and again and again.

Sunday, September 30, 2007

If there is a meaning for everything that happens,
what meaning is there in me running into you again today?
I tell myself it is too late for too many things,
yet why still this foolishness, after all of the heart-hardening hurt?

Damnit!
The last thing I need is to do something stupid on the rebound.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

The smell of autumn was in the air. The smell of fallen leaves. The smell of cold, which clung to her bed sheets, as she took them off the line and back into the warmth of indoors. That crisp, cruel cold that makes you expect it to be followed by the smell of gunpowder; that makes you think worryingly about homeless people; that makes you so thankful to have a roof over your head.

It was the night of the day Pixy and Sleeping Beauty swapped places.
It was the second time this strange phenomenon had occurred. Pixy had been struggling with a headache, and she had been deeply sad when everything suddenly halted to a stop. Within a millisecond lapse in the space/time continuum, the switch occurred. For the rest of the day, Sleeping Beauty took full advantage of this time out from the wicked spell which had been cast on her. She went out for a walk in the town; did some window shopping; bought post-cards and souvenirs; made friends with an old woman at the park and the good looking waiter at the little Italian restaurant she had dinner at. The waiter had even given her a slip of paper with a number scrawled across it. She didn’t know what to do with this, but chuffed, gave him a squinty, teethy smile, like a knowing accomplice in some naughty plan.

While in a land, far, far away, up in the highest tower of a castle barricaded by the thorny overgrowth of rose briars, Pixy slept soundlessly in the deep hush of an entire kingdom which could not wake.

Saturday, September 22, 2007

The best thing about being in love with a freak like Miyavi isn't even the fact that I can put him on my desktop wallpaper at work without anyone giving me an off the record discaplinary. That's the second best thing.
The first best thing is Saif uncle seeing it and with great enthusiasm, asking: who's that pretty girl?

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

N'oldu Be?!

Honestly? I don't think I know.
Pixi spends her days taking on responsibilities bigger than the length of her both vertically and horizontally put together. She genuinely laughs with the laughing, genuinely cries with the crying and just tries to be concerned with everyone other than herself. She swivels on her swivel chair. She sits about the office late after work hours with her friend, English-furi, laughing the ticks into tocks so they can eat and go home. She sits on the roof of the office when she has a moment to get away from all the work and tries to fill her mind with the last of the years clear sunlight- which is like water colour lemonade, and just barely warm enough.

The days get shorter. greyer. colder.

Not very far, and still ligth years away from her, the Island boy with his massive ego and temporarirly misplaced self worth, plays the same tunes on his guitar...over and over and over, senselessly: because there isn't a single other thing he'd rather be doing.

When he looks down, his lashes fall as if they were heavy with the due of early morning waking tears. His sadness is as loud as her's is inaudible; like a silent alarm signaling quake tremmors that no one notices, from deep within the earth.
His bitterness is all encompassing and directed at everyone, hers, inverted in a way that forgives everything to better blame herself.
They both seek to fill a deep, uncharted void, with a wisp of identity, a trustable reality, a place to belong, direction -she trying to salvage ill fitting pieces while he rejecting every one of them.
And in this way, they are different for all of the same reasons.

Time passes without giving a damn as if it has some agenda of its own.
At the moment that he glares scrutinisingly at the translucent film on the surface of his Assam tea, she has the vague feeling one of the guys in the office is blatantly flirting with her. So she puts on her 'one of the blokes' air; responds with her deepest possible voice and boyish non-chalance, and shruggs it off with the playfullness with which she chucks things back when she gets things chucked at her from across the room. And he puts down his tea cup with the distaste of artists for whom nothing seems to be going right. After all, who's feeling the pulse of this damn world any way? He resists having a cigarette, not out of any regard for the life he's been dealt- and what a shit hand it is, says his poker face- but out of some instinctive need to care for himself because he's convinced no one else does.

And just then something moves inside him. Something like a flinch; pain that's been shaken off the way kittens keep playing even though it sounded like that really hurt.
It reminds him of her; of her insistence to care, to worry, to let his sadness take deep serial-killer stabs into the centre of her, where her own sadness rested in a web of scar tissue. She did it the way mothers are ruthless, and he was damned if he knew why.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

Every time I pick up a newspaper I feel physically sick.
This time, the perpetrator guilty of inducing said physical sickness is Monday's Independent.

'Kids like this don't come from nowhere'
I quote the last sentence of the Eric Silver article dated 10th of September. 'We, as a society have failed in educating these youths and distancing them from crazy and dangerous ideologies.' Says Israeli Prime Minister, Ehud Olmert, in the same article. I find their apparent surprise at the Neo-Nazi cell of Israeli youths, incredibly amusing. The state of Israel today has demonstrated some of the greatest acts of terrorism in the history of mankind, since the Holocaust and Bosnian war. Their gross treatment of the Palestinian people, in the over populated strips of what land they have left to thrive on in their own country, is enough to insight hatred in anyone. This is not to say that Neo-Nazis are justified under any circumstance. The point I'm trying to get at is the apparent victim complex which seems to run through all things Israeli. Their tendancy to jump on the band wagon of wronged every time there is some sort of injustice going on.

Let's get this straight: Neo-Nazis hate Africans, gays, Asians and all Semite cultures (which encapsulates much of the Arab world). The article itself mentions an episode in which cell members attacked a Thai worker, a homeless man and gays. This is not a predominantly Jewish problem, why do they make it one?

What pisses me off most is the fact that this story got a double page spread. The efforts of our media to sensationalise unimportant stories while greater world issues go ignored, borders on the deceptive. I feel like I'm being fed snippets of tailor made reality to divert attention from something worse. Something like the cries of Palestinian children who just want to 'go home', which fail to penetrate our press. More shocking and news-worthy is the Israeli government’s immunity to the Geneva Convention, and their ability to evade being held accountable for apartheid, oppression and genocide of innocents, in a world where the Super-Powers-That-Be are all too ready to wage war against countries which are guilty of nothing but alleged ownership of mass destructive weapons which never materialise. Why does no one have anything to say about this? We see the injustice, why are we still sitting on our hands?

To set the mood for what crap follows, Eric opens his article with something that goes like this: 'Israel was founded six decades ago to ensure that Jews would never suffer another Holocaust.' Spare us the pity-party pal, the 'noble' reason for the founding of Israel was lost the moment the first drop of innocent Palestinian blood was spilt. Stop leeching off the backs of Holocaust victims for sympathy you do not deserve. You do not own their suffering, so don't defile their memory with your cause. It is despicable how nonchalantly people can speak about the Holocaust, when they have forgotten what the Holocaust was. And that is exactly what is wrong with Zionists, because if anyone still remembered the atrocity and injustice committed against the innocent Jews of World War II, they would never let it happen again to anyone.

I spit on your world view.

Saturday, September 08, 2007

Caro mi e il sono. E piu l'esser di sasso
Mentre che il danno. E la vergogna dura:
Non veder. Non sentir. M'e gran ventura:
Pero non mi destar; Deh, parla basso.

Welcome is sleep. More welcome sleep of stone.
Whilst crime and shame continue in the land:
My happy fortune. Not to see or hear:
Awake me not; Hush, whisper low.


Michelangelo Bupnarroti. Rime 247

Thursday, September 06, 2007

Never in a million years would it have crossed my mind that I'd actually feel remotely concerned, let alone sad if Luciano Pavaroti died. Watching one of his old concerts on BBC2 felt like saying goodbye to a very old friend. Hello? Why? Did I know jack about this big, fat Italian man? No.
But watching him sing is really something.
But dad used to listen to him when we were little.
But I remember inspecting CD cases with his pictures on them.
But I remember hearing Figaro and all the other stuff and mom telling us why Opera Singers were all big.
How fitting is Bocelli's Nesun Dorma to say goodbye to one more piece of childhood.
Pavarotti dies
Elesti cries
The world is a little less special.
And she is a little more old
For feeling sad on the day that a man, who will be historic; a legend to generations which are still to be born, died.

I wonder if he was as nice as he seemed.
Pissed off at the world with the wrath of a hundred angry amazons with delayed periods, I scale cyber space and time to find myself here once again. Strike a pose of daring and bawl at the emptiness: Oi you nonexistent void of nothing, how would you like a piece of me?! Ha! I can take you on!

So much for never blogging again. Life's too short to be eternally hurt by heartless bastards.

Ala, habibi ya noor'ul ayn, that book you sent me last summer was one of many I could never get around to finishing. However, I can earnestly say the beginning had me in tears. It is currently on my great list of 'to resume' from last Summer. This is because last Summer I wasted too much of my time, energy and feelings on a shallow piece of shit that was not worth it, to pursue any intelligent enterprises such as meaningful contemplation and inspiring reading. If I had, perhaps I would not have made the mistakes I did.

Y'all, follow this link, if you haven't already seen that spoken word video I emailed around. It is sobberingly, painfully, beautiful. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qybte00VgWE --

Upon that note, the Shit hath hiteth the fan.

This morning, no amount of PA duties seem enough to keep me busy with something other than restlessness. Even all week of work and post-work entertaining and late nights and galavanting about London on trains of endless conversation...nor the bedlam of last night and early morning seeing people off, hasn't managed to get me tired enough to just sit still.

Some SriLankan Bishop is visiting the office. Reception sent a pop arround telling all staff to make themselves available at 2:00 pm at which time he will be adressing us. I responded to the email with:
Please note that it is customary in his culture to dress casually on important occaisions. Therefore, anyone donning a suit and tie disappear from sight if you do not wish to grievously offend him. Also, don’t be surprised if he throws cashew nuts at you.

Jonaid was about to take his tie off. HA HA HA HA! 'tis good to abuse PA authority every now and then.

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Daughters who have been abandoned by their dads spend their life times in cold isolation and mistrust. When eventually they find somone to belong to, they trust heart and soul and hold on for fear and insecurity of being abandoned again. Lucky are those who find home.

One more betrayl and I have burnt all my bridges.
I have rebuilt my forts and towers.
I have retreated into a deeper darkness of the mind and soul which knows no expression through bruises or razor blades.

I'm not going to blog any more.
All I can think to write about is the hurt
which knows no words nor is it something to ever be spoken of.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

Winter. Spring. Summer. Autumn. Summer.

I cannot go through another one again. Please God, not again.
Help.

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

Autumn is back. Presently...

Books: Struggling to surrender -Jeffrey Lang
Music: Elephant Gun -Beirut
Comfort blanket: Sufi, my huggly kitten bear
Manga: Fruits Basket vol. 17 on its way
Anime: Ergo Proxy, same as above
Conspiring: to renovate my bedroom
Thoughts: Should prob start swimming again now that I've healed
Predicaments: Stencil
Dissapointments: black spirals move arround too much, they're not very practical
Real dissapointments: MA
MA?: Deferred man :(
Sudan: Jees, give me some space, ur stifling my enlightenment
Aspirations: Should probably finish that novel before I go out there and die though
Feeling: Confused but strangely liberated
Sexiest man alive: Miyavi

Today, for a split second brief moment, amidst the communal banter of everyone in the office talking at once, I lost track of language. All sense of understanding fell away, confusion seized hold of that place in the brain which aught to interprate communication, and for want of any way better to fix the glitch I felt like I aught to try speaking or listening in Turkish to be able to understand.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

The mind of a deeply religious Atheist is a dreadful place

Monday, August 20, 2007

The guys in the office thought it'd be funny asking me to carry a bucket full of change to the donations department. They weren't laughing when I did it with one hand. Fools, aught to know not to be decieved by appearances.

With the fun and joking asside, when the peals of laughter fall away, one by one more frequently now, the world pulls on its veil of strangeness, and it's like stepping out of the plot.
Like peering through the cigrete-burn holes in a cardigan in search of the future. Like watching Inland Empire; where everyone and everything is so random, detached, absurd. Maybe thats what it was all about. Can the world really make sense as a whole, when everywhere are completely irrelevant and unconnected incidents taking place? When things which make sense to one man are jibberish to another, how can we find unity in the actions of men?
I grow more and more strange everyday. To my life. To my self. To those arround me.

I'm going to defer my Masters again tomorrow.
And then I'm going to think hard about Sudan.
And why not? It feels like the only thing tying me down to this place is my cat.
It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul...

The past few weeks have proved that living by impulse, without thought, without expectation or complete digestion, helps make memories. Call it taking in the scenery; Living your life like a spectator; shrugging 'what the hell' to every new invitation and opportunity; Engaging in intimate conversation with taxi drivers. I think this because it's been some time since I've experienced at all, let alone this much in such a short space of time, things which fealt like memories in the making.

Here's to doing mad things
being dissapointed
feeling ecstatic pain
embracing discomfort
abandoning inhibition
yelling at guys who had it coming
enjoying boredom
breaking the habbit
letting the hurt take its toll

If you blink you might miss it.

Here's to 4 hours of Othello under the rain


Predition catch my soul, but I do love thee.
And when I love thee not, chaos is come again.

-Othello

Friday, July 27, 2007

The world is too tragic for one to wallow in ones own tragedy.

I have a sneeking suspicion I might be turning into the person I wanted to be,
before the tides of puberty finally toppled the walls of vicious A-sexuality...and we emerged, wet winged from childhoods final fort.

I used to be lunatic
from the gracious days.
I used to be woebegone.
And so restless nights,
My aching heart would bleed
for you to see.
but now...

No more I love yous
Language is leaving me
No more i love yous
Changes are shifting outside the words.

I used to have deamons in my room at night
Desire, despair, desire
So many monsters
But now...

No more I love yous
Language is leaving me
No more I love yous
Language is leaving me in silence
No more I love yous
Changes are shifting outside the words.

-Annie Lenox

Thursday, July 26, 2007

Hey, don't know if you've noticed what I wrote in flooble. If not, there is a new house rule:
If you read this blog, whether I know you or not, whether it's a one off or you always check out my blog, you have to leave a message in the flooble everytime you come here. It can be relevant or irrelevant to anything on and off this site. Or it can be, my personal favorite, utter, absurd randomness.

Also, I'm doing a charity trek up Ben Nevis to raise money for Darfur. If you're generous, please follow the link bellow to my just giving site. All of the money raised goes to those in need, via the charity I work for...which garuntees that it will be spent wisely on various forms of emergency relief and development work, and not squandered on admin or feeding the endless handout cycle. Also, we do not dsicriminate in the aid we give and we do not try to convert. The 'Muslim' in the name 'Muslim Aid' is the spirit of giving and its importance to the Islamic faith. It might also be because the charity is run pre-dominantly by Muslims, but with 4 Christians and a Buddhist working here, we are hopefully counting down to a more multi-faith organisation.
http://www.justgiving.com/gothonigiri

Terribly sorry for what may have come across as an overly defensive rant above. It is, what it has come across as. Why did the overly defensive rant cross the road? Because Pixi has met with too much negative feeling, suspicion and general ugliness recently.

I'm sad now.

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

No near or distant past can come to claim me,
like family to bail me out of lockup.
The people I was hold no weight with what I am now.
The choices I've made cannot save or condemn me
but they weigh heavily on my mind and soul.
They incline me this way and that.

I am only me in this moment.
And I only have now
A new now
A new me
Over and over agin
With this burden of self loathing
These memories, shamefully, of better times.
To barely hold on.

Help me make the right choices again. Help me atest now. Believe. Be born anew.

Monday, July 23, 2007

I'm too affraid to use a spoon
-Thoughts before and after an encounter with a girl with plires-
By Pixi
Before:
Shi(KKKK)t!
After:
Oh. Maybe it helped that I could barely get a question about my very valid concerns in sideways from all her enquiries about my hijab. I'm glad she asked. There was something hurt and scared under her agressiveness, but she was one nice angry-at-the-world person.
...
Ultimately, physical pain has the capacity to do two things to a person.
Thing 1: It can calm you, because your biology reacts with an on rush of consolation so that your mind and body is at peace momentarily. And the physical and metaphysical anguish is that little bit less anguishsome...or at least, it doesn't matter in a tragically enduring sort of way.
Thing 2: It can do the oposite. It can bring back all those emotional hurts you'd been refusing to express, and all the pain you'd been hardening yourself to. The physical smart is like the snide remark you did not want to hear when you'd been having an awful week, and everything comes caving down like an avalanche.

No matter how much I tell myself I don't care any more, no matter how good I feel from day to day, because I'm getting over it, I don't think I ever fully can. Even if I become feelinglessly indifferent, I don't know if I can ever forgive you for leaving me here in pieces.

What hurts most are the best memories, and everything that reminds me that you were once the centre of my universe.

Sunday, July 22, 2007

Street lights make faces familiar in a mutual existence,
And walking home in the dark hours, everyone is family.
Every day.
To every new possibility, every invitation: why not?
No direction.
No purpose.
No one to return home to.
Just this touchable, solitary state.
Why not?

The language of my body
My inhibitionless gait
My brisk foot steps, careless though vulnerable.
It’s the 3rd year of Uni, come back again.
Where I am seeking company,
intimacy with strangers
Though genuine in my meaningless articulation.

Oh wretched loneliness, why are you so beautiful?

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

'Good morning, Muslim Aid...?'

Monday, July 16, 2007

Life has come to a standstil. This is the moment of selfhood in an entity eliminating order. The calm, the fullness before a silent destruction of the world as we know it. The giant orb of light, which eats everything in it's growth. A blinding blast. The Mushroom cloud.

From the depths of the crater, I try to climb out. Yet freedom above is a burned and barren land, in nuclear-winter darkness as far as the eye can see.

In the struggle to forget, I find how much every aspect of my life was built arround every aspect of you.

Thursday, July 12, 2007

I'm sorry the charity I work for has the word 'Muslim' in its name.
I'm sorry Terrorists blow people up in the name of my religion.
I'm sorry that even though I try, apparently I still can't see things from a non-Muslims perspective.
I'm sorry my head scarf makes you feel awkward.
I'm sorry that though I try my hardest to be accomodating, approachable, and undignifiedly nice, it's just not good enough coz I'm Muslim.
I'm sorry I often feel unjustly judged and discriminated against.
I'm sorry I'm so upset upon meeting with aversion from the likes of poeple who I thought were open minded.
I'm sorry this hurts me, and I can't see why it aught to be expected.
I'm sorry I have no right to be human when everybody else is so flaw-fully so, and forgiven.
It's all my F***ing fault, and I'm so F***ing sorry I want to slice open my gutt with a samurai sword and spill my intestines at your feet.
And the world would be a much happier place when short of one more confused passionate, in dire need of the kind of biblical and Quranic inspiration capapble working miracles.

bibity-bobity-boo

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

Bellow is an email we recieved this morning, following the launch of Muslim Aid tube collections for Darfur.

This is your first and only warning. If any of my members find your proto-bombers collecting at Tube stations again, you will be receiving bits of Paki instead of money when the buckets are returned.

Commander Bickle
UKDeF
(United Kingdon Defence Force)

Fundraising made a decision not to send out the femail volunteers for this, because even the guys have met harrassment.
Last night the news was full of it. This morning, plasterred across the front page of all the papers are the faces behind 21/7. You don't have to juxtapose the picture of a baby against that of the terrorists to remind us of how wrong what they did was. We know, and we feel the pain and anger more strongly than you, because we are the scape goat. We can't even the point a finger and all our angst at another party.
This morning, A.J had a good rant about the media and the failiure of Muslims to better the image of Islam in the light of all that is happening. His little spew felt great because of all that has been bubbling in me.
It's hard not to feel negative. It's hard not to think this will blow over, because it seems only to be getting worse.

Monday, July 09, 2007

At the edge of the world stands a man who
Stares into two dark choices
Space is arid, and dewy fresh. Crisp, fountain vapour, so you think: Canada. For no apparent reason.
Time has been lapsed out of.
It all ought to be like something you can fall off of
But there is no physical verge.
Instead, it is a verge in essence. Like dying and looking down at your body from above.
Like being given a moment of reflection in suspension,
A second chance place, where you can stare in the eye of your choices,
And truly feel futile.
The man stares, like at the mouth of a cave.
And he knows that either way, what ever befalls him,
His life has come to an end.
His time has past.
That there will be no more dreams.
No more futures.
No more endless possibilities.
The man cries and wishes he will never forget this.

Sunday, July 08, 2007

It's all good to be able to turn on the music after something unsavory. Chase the grossed out feeling away. But what kind of effect do these stuff have on us in the long run? Isn't forgetting it suppressing it? And isn't suppressing it just a way of sweeping it under your sub concious?

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Self involved, self inspired and self motivated; Salman Rushdie is litirary mastrubation. I may be a snob, but the man is overrated and far from exceptional enough to warrant a knighthood. Ordinarly I couldn't care less. A knighhood means nothing to me, nor anyone who matters...not when the likes of Elton John can qualify for one. In that light then, one questions the motives of her imperialness and all the puppeteers who prop up the royal Miss Havisham.

Sereously though, has the Queen actually ever read anything by this guuy? Can I imagine her snuggling up on her throne with a copy? No. I can, however, imagine her as that (racist, prejudice, homophobic) old woman in the Little Britain sketch, who spews out a fountain of vomit when she finds out the book she's been reading is by 'That Indian fellow with the fatwa.' Now that's a more probable scenario.

So Britain gives the all mighty up yours to Muslims, and some angry Pakistani's have gone for a walk together. This morning across the Metro front cover is a burning Union flag above which the culprits appear to be more blissfully overjoyed than remotely angry. To top it off, they hold up tasteless pictures of a sinister bearded man with glasses. In one of them he points his index finger like he's telling someone off.
He thinks: this pose will boost my charisma.
We think: who is this man, and what has he to do with Salaman Rushdie or the Queen?
Perhaps in Pakistan, flag-burning occaisions are a great opportunity for advertising and spreading political propoganda otherwise irrelevant to the subject matter. Imagine...amdist an angerred crowd of fist shaking, flag burning and head bobbing one man raises a sign that reads 'Rajput Honey Mangoes: Vorld Class!'...immortalised on the cover of the Times. Classic.

With all the joking aside, a conclusuion is due, and here it is.

Salman Rushdie is an eccentric who pissed off the wrong people with his desire to pull off something meaninglessly contravertial for the publicity stunt of his carreer. He is also a spineless, ireverant Bastard.

The Queen is a dirty, old un-dying witch, for awarding a knighthood to a man who caused a number of deaths, a great deal of chaos including political strife between the UK and Iran, offence to the extremist and un-extremist alike, and shamelessly direspected the sanctity of one of the largest religions in the world and the memory of a man who was human perfection, all to no apparent end. The world has learnt nothing from Satanic Verses but ugliness in all of its forms.

And finally, to the enraged mob of layabouts who get together at the prospect of some flag-burning activity everytime the opportunity rears its head, our sentiment is this:
By inciting violence and acting like a pack of animals, you are not only affirming the Media's portrayal of Islam being synonymous with terror, but you are also doing the greatest wrong against a man who came as a blessing to mankind. Congragulations, in your attempts to look big as Muslims, you've succeeded in establishing a new low in the art of irony; You've corrupted Mohammad's (saw) message of peace by professing to defend it with your violence.

Monday, June 18, 2007

I am People. Says HR

Apparently writing to Tony Blair about one's life, and then asking him if he'd be interrested in spending a day with you is very theraputic.
Hinna's done it.
Verdict: I laugh till my sides hurt and then decide that I too shall write Tony Blair a letter, detailing all the major and minor goings on in my life, past, prestnt and future. I will also tell him I'm glad he's no longer prime minister and that his wife has a posterior of generous proportions.

There is nothing delicate about Indonesian buffalo skin chips. Why they call it a delicacy is beyond me. The dodgy smell and aftertaste combined with all the gros things Sarah told me previously about how said chips are made, almost made me gag. The office bedlam which ensued was rather amusing though.
Verdict: Never offer Munia buffalo skin chips without telling her what they are.

Thursday, June 14, 2007

We speak the same language but have different words for everything. Baffled, yet strangely accepting, because this gradual estrangement is so effortless.
At the beginning, the master articulator falls silent. When no words come, the frustration brews like something in the belly of the mountains, and only the tears speak, in sudden, torential spells, like summer rain.
I could not move you in any way.
And you? You complain that you could not help me, yet you tell me I should never have been waiting to be saved. You tell me I should learn, I should become complete in myself. You tell me I should mend, change, grow into something harder.
But you cannot will away a void, the depths of which have hollowed deeper over a period of 24 years, in spite of all your convictions about how it...how I aught to be.

Know that I never needed you to save me. I only wanted to be yours, just as I was.

I have no more illusions about my place in your life now.
So I give up trying
to make you smile
to engage your interest
to catch your eye
to communicate
to share

I give up
Believing you are mine
This evening last week.
I give up
thos feelings which turn something nostalgic

that your smell still awakens in me.
I give up

wanting to touch you
and become naturally drawn to the superficial warmth of complete strangers.
I give up
the heart ache

and give vent to hard, genuine laughter.

And momentarily, there is no meaning.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Rasty Nats at Bar Stucks,
I haven't got much to do.
Rasty Nats at Bar Stucks
I have a tummy ache too.

Tis 17:33 and as always I'm sitting here trying to will the digital clock numbers to change faster. I wonder if work will ever really become stimulating in the least...as opposed to just the general spells of buissiness amongst dry days we've been experiencing.
If this is gonna be the rest of my summer I think I might turn senile. By the looks of things though, even if I could have afforded to go OFF (OFF I SAY!) abroad before, i sure as hell can't anymore. Not with the amount of rent and home utility I'm going to have to start paying.
And yet, life continues. Like an insensitive, heartless bastard. And I've had my fare share of those.
I used to wonder if being subjected to that kind of atitude could eventually start turning me heartless too. Far from it, seems to have had the opposite effect.
But how much can a person tollerate, especially after realising what's begun to happen between the silent exchange of human characters?
So Now I'm wonderring if being subjected to that kind of atitde for much longer can eventually drive me away for good. I think so, but we're yet to find out

Any way, now I'm having a pop arguement with A.J about Jessica Alba (gag reflex) and the double standards of men. Just called him a hypocrite, so why the hell is he laughing?
Oh I see.
I should have learnt a lesson or 2 from the likes of him and Tas. The messes that being naive has gotten me into.
Any way, now he's gonna have a complete piss-take out of me over Miyavi. Ah yes, and here is the pop in response to the Miyavi link.
A.J: May Allah have mercy on you.

Amin.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

When you go would you have the guts to say
"I don't love you l
ike I loved you Yesterday"

-My Chemical Romance

Monday, June 11, 2007

Nothing is real with millstones on your mind. And yet, one may argue that these are the effects of Raz's miracle allergey tablet. To our dismay, it is drowsiness, not a near-death overdose experience I'm experiencing.
Meanwhile in the field of our toils:
a) I think 'The Mohammedan Bean' is the perfect name for the Muslim Aid coffee shop, and I don't care what anyone thinks. That or 'QahWah' --It's time with gve the Coffee back to the Arabs, where it came from.
b) Executive Committee meetings are a waste of paper.
c) Two Algerians and a Bangladeshi were arguing over how much a coffee shop can make in a day. Sounds like a joke. A bit like Two Muslims and a Monk...but that one's true too. I promise. They were walking down the street with lots to carry.

Cry. Cry because after you've cried and there are no more tears left, life will carry on.
Today begins the beginning of the end, and I will finally do my time for my sins. I feel like the guy in The Mechanist, my first good night's sleep in an entire year awaits.


Death is the road to awe.
-The Fountain

Friday, June 08, 2007

On the corner of main street
Just tryin' to keep it in line
You say you wanna move on and
You say I'm falling behind

Can you read my mind?

I never really gave up on
Breakin' out of this two-star town
I got the green light
I got a little fight
I'm gonna turn this thing around

Can you read my mind?

The good old days, the honest man
The restless heart, the Promised Land
A subtle kiss that no one sees
A broken wrist and a big trapeze

Oh well I don't mind, if you don't mind
'Cause I don't shine if you don't shine
Before you go, can you read my mind?

It’s funny how you just break down
Waiting on some sign
I pull up to the front of your driveway
With magic soaking my spine

Can you read my mind?

The teenage queen, the loaded gun
The drop dead dream, the Chosen One
A southern drawl, the world unseen
A city wall and a trampoline

Oh well I don't mind if you don't mind
'Cause I don't shine if you don't shine
Before you jump,Tell me what you find..When you read my mind

Slipping in my faith until I fall
You never returned that call
Woman, open the door, don't let it sting
I wanna breathe that fire again

She said I don't mind if you don't mind
'Cause I don't shine if you don't shine
Put your back on me
Put your back on me
Put your back on me

The stars are blazing like rebel diamonds, cut out of the sun
Can you read my mind

-The Killers
'In Allah there is a successor for everyone who perishes and a compensation for everything that passes away. Indeed, the one afflicted is he who is denied the reward.'

Wednesday, June 06, 2007

Dying is a bit like giving birth.
Once you're pregnant you don't really have a choice about giving birth any more because there is only one way that baby can come out. Iit is painful and since it's also inevitable, you might as well face it.
Similarly, once you're brought into this world, there is only one way you're getting out of it, and staying is not an option.

Our souls are imprisoned by the organic fibers of our boddies and the laws of nature. Our immortal spiritual selves are dragged in through one reality and out another. We will undergo death as we undergo life as we have undergone birth as we have undergone exisiting in the womb. We will undergo death as we undergo it every instant of our lives without realising...Like a staircase down the eventual inevitable.

I'm going to die.

Monday, May 28, 2007

What kind of place was this world you were in?
It was just like this one. The names were just a little different, and the places weren't the same. But there are a lot of people who have the same faces.


-Full Metal Alchemist, The COnqueror of Shambala-

Friday, May 25, 2007

The end of the age of innocence, this day last year.
And innocence is not only in the child's mind. It cannot be measured with age or maturity. It doesn't relate to a key number of landmarks in every human's life-time.
Even in the lack of innocence is innocence.
A white icing dolloped, mini-sponge cake is offered to me. I consume it and wonder why. I don't even like sponge cake. And then I think about my Great-grandfather and Nene unexpecedly...and her room, decorated with Greek and Cypriot trappings. The clutter was a neat and meticulous one. There was barely an inch of wall visible between all the pictures and posters. Her deceased husband's photo hung above the TV and I never forget Patsy-the-piss-Artist telling her he was a very handsome man. A small old lady, with jet black hair was very proud then. She only knew how to write her name, and that she could do in 'eski Turkce' ...Arabic text.

Maybe I shouldn't care about stuff like money. Maybe I should say pish and shake my fist at my persisent overdraft, not bother thinking twice about responsibility, and just go man. Just go. With the world gone so wrong, you can't help but think it's all ending for us sooner or later ...it's only fair isn't it? And what am I doing getting married any way, with the mental maturity of a 17 -year old? Why try to be a wife where there is no need?
Razaul said i looked 21 yesterday. That's gotta count for something.

To think the pain would resonate thus far, and internalise with some deeper hurting. Something you cannot cry out over or cry about. I never thought I would think to regret this time last year. But now I do. I regret...Shmendrik: I am sorry, I have done you evil and cannot undo it. Unicorn: No. Unicorns are in the world again. No sorrow will live in me as long as that joy, save one, but I thank you for that part too. Fare well good magician, I will try to go home.

Happy Birthday, flinch shaped space.

24-years ago tomorrow, you were brought screaming into this world.
Now forever keep your silence.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

I blame Park Chan-wook. I blame him and his stupid Lady Vengence, entirely, for no apparent cause or reason other than that I simply I want to blame him. If you haven't watched Old Boy or Lady Vengence, you don't know what you're missing and it's better that you never do, my friend. Ignore all the reviews, or anything anyone idiotly optimistic tells you, because I've never fealt so sick and utterly defiled by a film before.

Owch.

24.
Disenchanted and deeply dissapointed in what I'm growing out of and into.
A feeling of despair and very real emptiness.
Regret.
Hurt.
I dont know if I can pull through this month...I think I might bleed to death. Hmmm...would that be such a tragedy? These days I think I believe too often that my absence wouldn't cause anyone too great a heart ache. Really, Elest isn't filling any great voids in anyones life. She isn't bringing infinate joy to her loved ones. She isn't producing any increadible masterpieces to benefit mankind in the future. She simply just isnt and doesn't, that's what she is and does.

No, it wouldn't be such a great tragedy if I bled to death.

You can't fix the unfixable or go back and change the inevitable. You can't be anything more than what you've become, even if it was all you ever wanted. In the end, we're just left alone with our mistakes, and we get by with all the guilt, and the regret, and the despair, and the crazy nostalgia which is all thanks to nothing and no one but you.
If I could turn back time, would I have done things differently? I don't know. But I am so very flawed, and so very sorry.

Sunday, May 13, 2007

Laws don't apply to Israel. As if wiping their asses with the Geneva convention, daily, was not enough, they shamelessly join the Eurovision song contest too.

Friday, May 11, 2007

I got lured into the exotic Yum Yum Thai resturaunt this morning, at the ungodly 9:00 am and was made to sit amidst the lucious, delicious-ness promising surroundings therin, only to be subjected to a diet of fruits, nuts and seeds for the duration of an hour. And I'd skipped breakfast :( At least I got something out of it:
  • 3 bars of Divine
  • and a sachet of Fair Trade instant hot chocolate, with a happy looking 3rd world man's picture on the back. He wears a hat and glasses, and his name BEs Eusebio Bellen.

Irelevant verdict: With all this hype about FaceBook, no one bothers to read blogs any more.

Meanwhile, in the weird and wonderful world of Elle est Pixi's blog-mind, the most weird and wonderful happenings are amock. (<-- that looks wrong to me but apparently amuck is spealt with an 'o' and not a 'u'. No matter, I shall get something else wrong.)

Surely being bored at work must be one of the worst things in the world, because it entails the brain-cell murderring process of willingly WAITING for the next hour of your life to get wasted away so that you can pack up and go home at last.

And another thing: We don't actually articulate our own names for any purpose other than when introducing ourselves to others, even though it is our own. Throughout our entire lives! As of now, I will address myself in the 3rd person. Get some more wear out of this thing which apparently belongs to me, but is used alot more by everyone else.

Also, as of now I think I will observe more silence. I think I will do this and be more contemplative. I think it may be beneficial to my character.

And now I shall leave you with the thought which follows.
May the Force be with you always.


Literature in general, after all, shows signs of foreign influences and concerns itself with the fundamentals of human life yet fails to exhibit the curiously inbred qualities of fairy-tale plots.
-Maria Tatar

Monday, April 30, 2007

The Nothing-much-to-do Day at work
by: Elle est Sev
This morning I took pictures of Arabella Churchill, her Husband, and the Farmer who owns the Glastonbury Festival field. The farmer also owns cows. They produce lots of milk every day. His wife is a midwife, which doesn't mean that she is in the middle of being his wife and being something else, but that she delivers babies.
They all gave Saif a cheque to build 6 houses in Aceh, for the Tsunami survivors.
Arabella Churchill's husband juggled pens.
I fetched some apples.
He juggled those too.
Then the Farmer who owns the Glastonbury Festival field shook my hand and mistook me for Joniad's sister.
Jonaid calls me sis now and I call him bro.
I had curry for lunch.
The End.

Saturday, April 28, 2007

Kimi ni funky monkey vibration

And how are your runner beans this Sunday last month?
Tripping? No, not really. Merely finding ample time to fall in love again.

MIYAVI LOVE ALL ARROUND...AND ARROUND and arround until we're nice and dizzy and the world which is turning too fast for my liking spins faster and faster, and 'Here! You wanna spin!? Spin all you like till I puke! You benign tumor!'
When you stop there is something comforting about having messed up your sense of balance and bearing behind the darkness of eyelids and hands clasped over face.

Ryo is singing waaay too loud for 1:34 in the morning. I'm surprised the neighbours haven't reported us already...but then I guess he couldn't beat the Irish people and their toilet music (the music you hear from below whilst sitting on the toilet) so maybe it's ok.

I'm glad Ryo appreciates Miyavi.
I'm glad he doesn't launch into mad bouts of intense jealousy and male-ravalry-contempt towards him.
I'm glad he doesn't kick arround furniture and grind his teeth over the fact that I adore Miyavi so very much, and think that he totally rocks.
I'm glad he's mature like that, and realises that Miyavi could never be a real threat to our relationship.
Not unless I knew him personally.

I think I will go to bed now and dream about what to do with my hair.

May the force be with you always.

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;

Alexander Pope

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

Life is too short to be looking forward to the end of the day, every day.
Ladies, gentleman an hermaphrodites, welcome back to another session of blog-angsting, live from Whitechappel, London. I'm your host, Needy and Depressed. In the multiple personality sense, because We are lonely. This is Needy...say 'hi' to the audience, Needy.
NEEDY: 'Hi!'
DEPRESSED: Not so enthusiastic like, you fool. And you already know me, I'm Depressed. :)

Look ma', I'm writing captions! (shows hands, as though they had something to do with it)


  • Two Sudanese children express their joy at the aid provided at Sakali camp Darfour
  • Iraqi civilians recieve emergency relief
  • A young Sudanese boy gets an emergency food pack
  • The Muslim Aid mascot was a benign tumor at the GPU
  • Qurbani in Alkay; needy Ruskis receive sacrificial ovine beasts
  • 2 African chimpanzees pick each others nits
  • An eskimo sneezes in a desolate, dessert of ice; the sneeze echos but no one hears it
  • Someone savours a buiscuit; whole moon, half moon and total eclips
  • Borris chugs a glass of Vodka
  • A Chinese man romances his wife, but the neighbours think he's bullying her again
  • A telephone rings in Kofi Annan's house
  • Ariel Sharon farts and pretends it was his dog
  • A young man falls in love...or thinks he does
  • Jermain Jackson wonders if he ate a bad nut
  • Leon Trotsky turns in his grave
  • and Elest swivels in her swively chair

Life resumes, unperturbed.

I think that Gwidbi could almost be a word, and a funny bald one with thick spectacles and a bit of a vertical challenge. Gwidbi. Now if you'll excuse me, nature calls and Needy must answer.

Monday, April 02, 2007

Time: 15:16
Place: Work
Doing: Some Annual review-angst blog mongrel of a task
Reading: ??
In general: God of Small Things & Akuma no Ororon. Again.
Hearing: Mr. Children, Hana-Memento Mori
Feeling: Like a razor blade
In love with: No one
Hating: Do you want me to start??!!
No. Indifferent to: Ororon and Miyavi

Had the most heinously shiKKKt (with a tripple K) weekend in the history of crap weekends, and I've just noticed that my blog has turned into something really angry and pissed off at the world in general. This is because Ell est. As in am. Pissed off at the world in general.

But the sun is casting smaller, less troubling shadows, and the wind is carrying spring warmth even into the early hours of the evening, oblivious to us in the minutia of our bitter, politically charged, self important lives.

So what on earth am I supposed to do about it? The human condition dictates that man is born and will die alone. The earth's history dictates that our lives don't amount to a mili-second in the life time of the universe. And every satisfaction every achievement in our miniscule little personal-bug-existences, important only to us, is ultimately the death of our desires and ambitions, what the F** is there to do, really? REALLY?

I hate myself.
hate myself.
ate myself.
te myself.
e myself.
myself.
yself.
self.
elf. Lo and behold, 'tis the upsidedown half pyramid of self deprecation.

Saturday, March 31, 2007

Because the paths to the Lord are inscrutable
Because the essence of his forgiveness lies in his word and in his mystery
Because although God sends us the message
It is our task to decipher it
Because when we open our arms
The earth takes in only a hollow and senseless shell
Far away now is the soul in its eternal glory
Because it is in pain that we find the meaning of life
And the state of grace that we lose when we are born
Because God, in his infinite wisdom, puts the solution in our hands
And because it is only in his physical absence,
That the place He occupies in our souls is reaffirmed


--Pan's Labyrinth

Thursday, March 29, 2007

Yes the West has liberated women, but at what cost? In our society terms like ‘gender equality’ have only served to eradicate every last trace of chivalry without having any affect on the underlying chauvinism of a culture which remains, and always will remain, patriarchal against all our best efforts. Realistically, we’ve simply traded our old female oppression for a newer, more sinister one. So when UK media are up in arms about Iran’s treatment of our women, I find their use of words very interesting.
Reading the paper today is like treading through a battlefield; the language is so loaded with landmines. And as if the petrifying anticipation of being blown up any step now wasn't enough, every so often some idiot sneaks up behind you and goes 'Boom!' to add shock value.

Do you know what I have to say to those living off shock value and fire stoking? This: Firstly--When did the public get so stupid that you think you can pass off a headline like 'A mother on parade in Iran's propaganda war' and assume we'd fail to see that you're playing the same propoganda game? And Secondly-- What gives Britain the right to play the 1963 Vienna Convention on Consular Relations card, when Israel and our mightier-than-thou allies, the U.S, are wiping their asses with the Geneva convention daily, while the world sits on its hands? We all know that the Geneva convention doesn't apply to the captives, with no state of war between Iran and Britain. And that even if it did, putting British marines on Iranian TV doesn't come close to breaking the convention in comparrison to the monstrousities committed against the Iraqis in their own lands.

Apparently some defence analyst, Paul Beaver is convinced the Iranians are 'playing to the West' because 'They know our weakness for things like fair trials, democracy, and respect for women.' Let's ignore the respect for women part for a brief moment, but fair trials? With British soldiers being cleared over detainee abuse and murder in Iraq recently? Fair trials?! I laugh in your general direction, you insolent little turd.

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Elle est still angry at the world

Today's subject: Human Traffic. Resumes. Following from our last blog,
Cambodia is just one of many countries.
These attrocities just one form of the injustice our world is built on.

And get this, no matter how many laws are signed, Cambodia's corrupt powers-that-be has no intention to interrupt what has turned into a 'tourism' industry worth millions a year. The country is now an attraction for pedophiles keen on exploring new avenues after other South-East Asian nations such as Thailand and Vietnam. And here is a bit of irony to make you weep: the country's sex trade grew in the early 90s to service UN troops overseeing the transition to the current democratic government (shock, horror, an all too familiar feeling of disgust) After they left, brothel owners realized they could make good bucks catering for foreign tourists and local pedophiles, and Cambodia's child-sex trade was born.
How refreshing.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

We Teach All Hearts To Break

I cannot reference the above quote to any author or source, because I've nicked it from some 60s graffiti immortalized in photograph by Peter Sanders, who I hope, will not sue me.
I’ve done so because it is relevant to what we are. It is relevant because our kindness, our yearning for innocence, our intrinsic despair necessitates hurting those we wish to protect the most.

For our children, for our younger siblings, for our most loved ones we build the illusion of a world which promises great things in the years to come. In our effort to keep them innocent, we cover their eyes and ears. In our need to keep them dreaming and believing, because we stopped long ago, we deceive them. We prepare the painfully hopeful, unassuming victim. We set in motion the events. We, who have been taught, teach other hearts to break.
And yet disillusionment is just one more harrowing experience that man must rise above. And in the breaking is something great, something which offers all that was innocent, and all that was good, and all that was worth hoping for, without the ignorance or the illusion of childhood. It takes one choice, and I think we owe it to them and to ourselves to give our all to help them make the right one. All it takes is to inspire.

In a world where the mammoth degree of pain and suffering is so overwhelming, inspiration has become a dire need. Inspiration to dispel the helplessness which turns to lethargy; to remind us that with every life lost, with every cry unheard or ignored, we lose that much more of what makes us human.
Snap. Make Poverty History style.

Today 19,250 children under the age of 16 are trapped in Cambodia's thriving sex industry. Yet, 19,250 is just a number, and we've become too desensitized to terms like 'child trafficking', and 'kiddy porn' to be remotely moved.
The lethargy sets in after a brief shudder or frown at the thought, and you swiftly navigate to another page.

Are you still here? Do you also feel that the 21st Century's stupendous technological advances are hollow boasts of our humanity, if slavery is still not something of our dark past? Well you're probably right and wrong. Right because they are, and wrong because that's not all they are.
I'll tell you why: the choclate bar you're having today is feeding the People Trafick industry. That's why. Because we've come to depend so much on our little comforts. Thant's why.
Oh we love being spoiled silly by those fashionable brand names. The glamorous faces of multi national corporations, banks, imperialist scum. They tell you they're doing their bit, buying fare trade coffee, funding micro finance projects in Bangladesh. I'll tell you another thing, they're lying to you. The only chocolate made from cocoa beans not grown and harvested by child slaves are the ones that say on their wrappers. They're probably more expensive than your Mars bar because get this, reality check, the only way you enjoy your chocolate without other people sufferring is if you pay up. fare and square. As for coffee shops, don't get me started on murder-funding StarBucks. And Banks with their charitable work? Investing in Micro Finance means Anjola Begum working like a slave at her new handloom or selling one of her kids to pay off the high interrest rate for her loan, so that your bank gets it's money back two-fold...or make that five-fold. And where does that go? God knows, except the 'interrest', yes that miracle money that just miraculously turns up in your account each year doesn't look too innocent, does it? No of course that' not the only way it works, there are all kinds of creative ways in which our comfort has been built on the backs of the poor in a strategic fashion which allows for us to be blind and deaf to it all.

Let's try this for a sexy advertising slogan: 'Do you wish to inspire or be inspired?' (Colgate grin) Then stop drinking Coke. Stop eatig McDonalds. And buy expensive chocolate. Boycot StarBucks, stop recieving interrest, and if it can't be helped make sure you give that money back to charity each year. And don't listen to me! Go out there, find out what you're really eating and buying. No we can't change the world by ourselves, but we can be aware and accountable for our own actions. We can stop supporting this, one person at a time.

Monday, March 19, 2007

Not being able to wake up for Fajr is a horrible grimy feeling you can't wash off. And on the asside from the spawner of all bad-feeling-days are thoughts of what has been rearing it's ugly head throughout my week.
How can something trivial and childish have such a great hold on one's life?
How do those little hurts you thought you burried long ago, come back with the immediacy of a paper cut?
How can you flinch over and over again at a single wound?
Sitting here, thinking about the pros and cons of dying young, has made me realise that the worse off are those that are left behind. They have that tragic injustice about them, young deaths. Like something perverted. And that disturbing power to affect and stay, even with those who are not closely related or associated with them.
Why is this on our agenda today?
Because of the culmination of last week.
Because of that disturbing power.
Because years later, the image of an angry boy with bloody nose and golden tan can raise ghosts from somewhere deep down.

Why on earth would I still remember what you looked like?

...
I have no right to claim a share in what only rightfully belongs to your family alone. After everything that came to pass in our lives between childhood and that summer, you are nothing to me. Nothing.
So how do I explain how it is that even though I couldn't care less or give a thought to you any more, your shadow still lingers over things. Stealthily.
How do I kill the you inside me?
This you insdie which makes no logical sense.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Elle est made funny faces to herself on the crowded train home today. She then beamed with pride and inside giggles, because nobody noticed. Everyone was lost in trying to maintain their personal spaces by gluing their gazes into middle-place, and receding into the back of their minds. But Elle est was in the present, and she found being squashed so funny and enjoyable that she squashed her nose against her arm to inside giggle more.

On the way home I noticed:
a man with very clean ears and another with arm hairs
a woman chewing gum
a long hared, head-phoned man’s hair band on his wrist
a mean looking man who was probably nice
a baby with a teddy bear-eared hat
fat juicy grape fruits at the Turks
the first watermelons of the season and daffodils.

I chased the last rays of the sun, and the sky got lighter near the flat, and there was one shiny star in it. If you stick your face into your arm, the world could look like a Kandinsky or something abstract.

Elle est was having a crisis about marrying the end of innocence, and dreams, and carefreeness. It lasted weeks until today. But she was very wrong, because everything in this world is a state of mind. A self-made reaction bubble to any situation God has laid out for you to live through at any given time. And at the end of the proverbial tunnel, when everything is illuminated, you look back and are full of love and regret. Love for a loved one who is so lost, so helpless, and so precious with her troubles. And regret for not having made a different reacting bubble. For not being as strong as her.

Allah, forgive me and make me full of wonder, like a child. So that even this state of weakness appears as the actual good thing that it is. The no-mans land. The beginning of the Elle est who will find. Who will experience. And who will hold onto with all her might, her faith for herself. And through her own eyes and not anyone elses.

Monday, March 12, 2007

Neo: You already know if I'm going to take it.
Oracle: Wouldn't be much of an oracle if I didn't.
Neo: But if you already know, how can I make a choice?
Oracle: Because you didn't come here to make a choice. You already made it. You're here to try to understand why you made it.

-Matrix Reloaded

Monday, March 05, 2007

...Sky's clouded over now. Pish :(
El est still really kicking herself for missing the eclipse on Saturday, is reading: The God of Small Things --Arundhati Roy. Again.

There is something hopeful and Arthurian in a Golden Age sense about everything today. It's in the slow, noble, Gladiator soundtrack carried-away movement of the clouds across the sky. It made the dirty puddles near my flat look pretty as I left the house, and it was ringing in the London Travel anouncement man's voice at Kings cross: 'Ladies and Gentleman, there was once good service on all underground lines. One glorious, fleeting day, in the times of yore, when line ran by line in blissful harmony, and among passengers there was much rejoicing...but this morning we have some minor delays on the district and circle lines, with planned enginereing work continuing on the northern line between Camden Town and Charing Cross...'
He didn't actually say that.

But the sky is almost-childhood blue, the grey is just as illuminated as the grass, and on the glowing green or dusty, heat-waves-bouncing-off smelling illusion of tarmac and concrete, puffed up, male, fop pigeons dance round and round and round in blissful foppery, as if they didn't look ridiculous and the females weren't ignoring them.

In any case, I've decided that I'm too young to complain about housework.

Monday, February 26, 2007

Michael's Carribean accent seems to be getting more prominant, and I badly miss manga. Otherwise I am so happy, because today was sunny and now it's 05:56 pm yet the sky is lighter-flame blue! This means more day-light and spring! And this means Summer which means an even more happy Elest bunny, dragging the carpet and cushions and lantern into the back balcony! Badu style! It's like camping, but better!

With that said, Elest is having a quarter-life-crisis over the duality that is Peter Pan syndrome, driving home with a vengence, and the term 'Married Woman' aimed within immediate proximity of where ever she may be. I ask you, how can one be a 'married woman' without being a woman? Surely one would have to stop being a girl first. Pish.

This is why I been nagging at Ryo about playing a game all the time. If he doesn't want to, I'll entertain myself some other immature way. Hence I'm badly missing manga, pregnant-woman-craving style. Just need to get paid first (A pox'o the accounts people in this company.)

I'm off home now. Off I say.

Friday, February 23, 2007

Near the end of his life Aquinus experienced Infused Contemplaion. Thereafter he refused to go back to work on his unfinished book. Compared with this everything he had read and argued about and written - Aristotle and the Sentences, the Questions, the Propositions and the majestic Summas - was no better than chaff or straw. For most intellectuals, such a sit-down strike would be inadvisable even morally wrong. But the Angelic Doctor had done more systematic reasoning than any 12 ordinary angels, and was ripe for death. He had earned the right, in those last months of his mortality, to turn from merely symbolic straw and chaff to the bread of actual and substantial Fact. For Angels of a lower order and with better prospects of longevity, there must be a return to the straw. But the man who comes back through the Door in the Wall will never be quite the same as the man who went out. He will be wiser, but less cocksure, happier but less self-satisfied, humbler in acknowledging his ignorance yet better equipped to understand the relationship of words to things, of systematic reasoning to the unfathomable Mystery which it tries, forever vainly, to comprehend.

Aldous Huxley, The Doors of Perception

Thursday, February 15, 2007

Countdown to 'married bliss' (note the tone of sarcasm)
Day 4

My red nose stares at me from its box. I will care for it till the 16th of March, and if we grow attached to one another, I may adopt it.
Post watching Blood Diamond that diamond ring is weighing down my conscience. Another one of those sneaky, sometimes bad, often just funny feelings regarding becoming someone's wife. The best thing to do in such a state of mind is this:

Close your eyes and imagine the perfect world.
And no matter who you are I can wager that what you feel is beyond the sun on the inside of your eyelids is nothing that belongs here. And that's why everything is alright, really.


Believing in summer

Humans are fortunate in that we are among those species whose life-spans allow for them to witness the death and rebirth of the world around us over the passage of seasons, throughout our life times. Unfortunately for our lifetimes, however, it, unlike us, does not have a life-span to accommodate our spiritual and ethereal existences which stretch back before our births and far after our deaths.

Maybe belief is intrinsic rememberrance.

'How about summer? You like summer, right...?'
'I don’t know. I don't even know if it exists anymore.'

Thursday, February 08, 2007

Waheeyyyy! It snows!!

When Tarak wraps up in his coat and scarf and little hat, he looks adorable.
Kamran: 'Tarak man, don't dress like that, you look cute.' (like it was a bad thing)

Upon that note, I got snowballed on the roof this morning.

Monday, January 29, 2007

Spent the journey into work this morning trying to bluetooth the Miyavi-SPAZ gif to random people in the tube. This is because mornings do not agree with me, and they make me do very strange things. This is because I am a goth, and everyone knows that mornings do not agree with goths and alternative types. Ask Sarah and Zephan.

And as if the early morning, and having my blue tooth invitations being rejected by random strangers was not enough, the first thing Saif saw when Elest walked into the office at a reasonable time to show up, were her NewRocks. I'm worried I'm gonna get called into his office at some point or worse, answer to Faaria later on this week :( That little Chink is scary!

Spent Sunday wanderring arround central by myself, trying to go to places and do things I used to enjoy or feel most comfortable doing, to make myself feel better.
Wasted a good hour in Forbidden planet and the anime DVD section in HMV, then went to numerous lingerie shops before returning home with no anime, or manga and with a mamoth loneliness in the pit which is between my stomach and my heart.

I miss my family. I miss all the things which used to inspire me. I miss all the things I used to enjoy. I miss you. And I can't write any more.

Sunday, January 28, 2007

She wished there were another commandment, an eleventh etched into the tablets: Do not change.
(J. S. Foer)

Not being able to start writing tonight has taken us down the path of blog history, waaay back until the last two digits on the post dates began to read 05 to the sound of songs from the last summer of uni. There is no such thing as coincidence. Every occurance is a scene tailored to perfection, a result of the events set in motion, by the hand of the divine artist. If I can suck meaning out of the absurd, so can I from the signs which stare me in the face every moment of my life.

Dominos. They follow suit...one by one...until everything I seem to have built, piecing together scraps subconciously or out of delibarte desperation to survive, till now has collapsed. The dust rises, obscures the view for a moment in mid-air above the rubble, then settles...and you come face to face with how it all started...and even before, with those days

When the object of Ell Est Still an Undergrad's effections was Edward Ellric and Ororon;
When an encounter with Joshua Bradley was the most exciting thing of any day at uni;
When we used to sit outside Gordon's office coz he was great and we were just bored;
When we spoke in Shakespearian, and Beckettian and were always inspired;
When I submitted to the manic and the depression that came and went like the tides which rise and ebb for reasons I could never understand, and made something beautiful out of it;
When the world, reading back now, must have been so much more poetic, and innocent, and full of expectations and dreams and curiosities of so much still to learn, to feel to experience, to lose..
...And I wish that then, while there was still time, someone had laid a hand on my shoulder that last summer, made me stop a minute in my frenzy to dash off, to get carried away with excitment, and said: 'Go back to bouncing to anime theme songs with your little sis, and mulling over your Joshua Bradley crush, Elest. Keep chasing dreams that are always a thrilling one step ahead...keep your innocent head in its clouds.

'Because though you cannot even imagine now, the boy who sat next to you in Japanese class today will change your life. He will touch the bonds that you share with your friends, with your family, with God. He will test your faith...he will shake the foundations...he will change you. And you will never be the same again.'

Say what sense? What sense can you make of your sacrifices now?
With this maddenening despair I've learnt how to survive...and I hate it.

I am so sorry.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

'When one man, for whatever reason, has the opportunity to lead an extraordinary life, he has no right to keep it to himself.'

Jaques-Yves Cousteau