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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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

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.