Juror Pixi: Week 2

Here's to my resolution to start blogging everyday again. This applies even when I have nothing particularly significant to say. How so? I shall demonstrate: Pish.

With that asside, hello hello and welcome to another day of jury service. Thus far there has been no jurorring involved. There has only been an ugly waiting room with ugly pink lenolium floors and ugly florecents lights which feel like their buzzing, even if they are not (for future reffrence, Juror-pixi hates florescent lights. Just in case someone someday wishes to see her hiss like Christopher Lee when he's woken from vampire-slumber at 1 in the afternoon)
There has also been:

• lots of name calling;
• the brief enterior of a court room complete with criminal men behind glass wall and be-wigged barristers;
• a close up of scary judge-lady's face;
• and a nasty jacket potato whot had some black bits in it and NO COLESLAW!

Thus passed week one until we have come into week two, having lost one Philipino friend to a case whot will last 5 weeks. Said friend's name was the same as the man whot went on the moon. Juror-pixi will google this man so that when she sees her friend she will not be embarrassed for forgetting his name.

Juror-pixi now sits atop a pink chair at a pink table at the caffeteria whot served her the evil jacket potato. In the meanwhile newspapers continue to be ugly, people continue to be far away, and Pixi (when she takes off her Juror hat) continues to grow more shy, more quiet, and more convinced that she is one Pixi too much.
She gets sleepy easily, harvests deep, dark circles under her eyes, and sees someone she despises more and more when she looks into the mirror every morning.

What Happens in the INBETWEEN

This is a very important and too often very neglected point. What is it we do Inbetween things? And particularly in that Inbetween-doing as a form of bite-size procrastination which helps get you through (albeit a little more slowly) whatever boring task is presently giving you a rude stare from on your plate.

For examply. Inbetween writing my PhD research proposal this morning, I googled pictures of David Bowie and found out why his eyes are a little funny.

What does this say about the kind of person I am? Can the Inbetween be an insight into the deepest, darkest recesses of our character?

Think about it. From now on, try to pay a little more attention to what YOU do in the Inbetween.

Eggs: By Hippie Chickens

My eggs are funkier than yours, even when their off their faces on Mescaline. And don't you forget it!

Panthera Tigris

Happy Chinese New Year, one and all!!

2010 has not been very nice to me thus far, so I shall abandon it in favour of The Year of the Tiger. Lets hope my Chinese fortune is more fortuitous.

And Now for Something More Refreshing

If I had a special someone I wanted to communicate my most tender feelings for. And I was gonna buy into a massive commercial cop-out in order to do so. And I was gonna pick a single day out the entire year, which I have endlessly been told is special, across every medium of advertisement for the past month. and having been thoroughly brainwashed, I was gonna march my little legs over to Clintons where people pay to have glossy, impersonal cards say for them, what they could very well do a better job of saying themselves (if only they'd sit their special someone's down and strip down to their honest cores.) And in Clintons I was gonna purchase one such card that would tell my special someone what I feel about them. Hypothetically speaking. Then, I would probably have purchased this:

To every happy couple out there: May your genetically modified roses not smell, and may your heart shaped chocolates make you fat, and may you realise on waking up the next morning that you can't buy romance.

And to the singles: You guys aint gonna know the value of what you got until someone shoves a tastless cliche down your throat every February 14th for the rest of that lack-lustre life you commit to sharing with someone for the sake of commiting. Pray it doesn't happen.

Happy Valentines Day

Horse Men

I'll wager my last bar of snicker ice-cream, that during post production, the people responsible for this film were thinking something to this effect:

"Ok, we are Hollywood,"

"Hollywood we are!"

"And although it's taken us far too many bad movies to realise this, we've finally established, without doubt the we are no good at making horror films."

"That we have established."

"This is mainly due to the fact that we are run by visionless, dim-witted, financially-minded Yanks without an ounce of culture or good-breeding."

"Not an ounce of good-breeding, no sir!"

"So here's my thought. Let's exploit (which is what we do best!!) the best horror films, and put together all those elements that made them so successful."

"Exploit! Exploit! It's what we do best!"

CHECKLIST

• The Exorcist and Omen - Biblical freakyness: CHECK
• SAW, Hostel etc. - Gore: CHECK
• Ringu, Ju-On and other Japanese successes - long, dark haired Oriental woman wot moves funny: CHECK
• 7even, Bone Collector etc. - A highly intellegent, highly skilled killer with great imagination and creativity: CHECK

The result, a gory, freaky guessing game with enough depth to keep you genuinely interrested until it culminates into a royal anti-climax.

Moral: Fear Emos

Verdict: Angsty, American teenagers should be relegated back to their marginal role of angst-ridden, consumers of really bad emo-rock who occaissionally threaten to self-harm, but fail to gain sympathy or draw attention from anyone. We find them more entertaining that way.

Whiplash is Commonly Associated With...

... motor vehicle accidents, usually when the vehicle has been hit in the rear; however, the injury can be sustained in many other ways, including falls from bicycles or horses.

Thank you Wikipedia, which is basically trying to say that if you are gallopping at freaky speed on a very spirrited horse who has got it in his head to race with your sister's equally spirrited steed, and then said horse trips (having encounterred uneven ground), you will go flying right over the top of it's head and crash head first into the ground.

In the moments which follow your thoughts will be:

(static while brain re-orients itsself....we get a signal)

PAIN

Lots of PAIN

(large quantities of adrenaline is now pumping through blood-stream)

PAIN all over so you can't move

(Heart-rate is equivelent to having done 20mins on the treadmill PLUS Jack Human)

Ok, just stay still and wait it out

God, I know I can't be lucky twice, but please don't let me be paralised!

PAIN

God. God. God. God. God. God. God.

Ok PAIN is easing

(Power returning to mothership...all systems are up but running slower than usual)

Someone's coming back for me...Oww..no don't move yet...PAIN...God God God...

Shit there's sand in my eyes!!

And later you will be mighty thankful it was sand in your eyes and not concrete against ur face. And the deep meanings of many a wisdom will dawn upon you such as why stalions are made into gelldings; and why when a person falls he/she must fall so utterly and dramatically, with pain to emphasise the sheer wretchedness of their situation; and why life is too serious to take so seriously. I owe this one to Wilde I think, so I should credit him. --Never mess with a gay.

On a not entirely different note, Pixi is officially a closet adrenaline junkie.

Adrenaline hit number one: 5 year-old Pixi spins round and round and round and round and round then makes a dash right in the hight of blind dizziness.

Pointless moment-of-truth thought: "I'm a stupid kid with no real reason to do this"

Outcome: Wham goes 5-year old into some wall. Cries and is quiet for a few hours.

FAST FORWARD 20 YEARS

Adrenaline hit number sixty-eight: 25 year-old Pixi speeds up dune-hill on quad-bike and flies off the top, action-movie style.

Pointless moment-of-truth thought: "Shit. This will hurt."

Outcome: Quad-bike lands with magnificent force with direct impact on spine, resulting in minor fracture.

Adrenaline hit number sixty-nine: 26 year-old Pixi accepts challenge to race big-Sis on spirrited steed that don't see jack-shit else when it sees red.

Pointless moment-of-truth thought: ... <-- has run out of poigniant poeticisms

Outcome: Whiplash

Writers Block:

The inability to write creatively due to a fear of beggining caused by over expectation of onesself combined with low self-esteem and severe emotional constipation.

Cure: as yet unknown.

In Dubai...They Follow You

And Here's some that did so earlier.

As you can see, they aren't particularly photogenic, but the car was hot. Mind you, this is generaly the case. The car is always hot.

Once Upon a Time

...Pixi burried her words, and now she's lost the place from whence to dig them back out.

'Tis the Season to...

...Hate on lame-ass Chirstmas Carols, which they play over and over and over in every damn shop across London, until you're waking up at some ungodly hour of the night, and the cheasiest, most lame-ass part of the cheesiest most lame-ass one is playing itsslef over and over again like a broken record in your mind!

On a more positive note though, I get a serious kick outa this kinda thing.

This is How I Feel

...admittedly it's my sister's head inside a horse's nostril, but basically I am feeling like how she looks.

Alexander the Grater

If Barack Obama can be awarded a Nobel Prize for jack-all (though you gotta hand it to the guy for his impressive fly swatting), and the likes of Rushdie and Elton John get a Knighthood for being a disrespectful literary-masturbator, and doing a lame-ass cover for an old song, respectively, then I want the guy who came up with this to be awarded a Nobel Prize too!

And I really don't think it's asking for much.

Second Childhood

In the banal drudgery of never green enough,

Time falters and slips up to reveal

Those things which lurk in my blind spot.

There, hunched like an angel of misfortune against its scythe,

Life’s titan reserve terrifies me

And I am sorry that I was not

Enough to cherish what is escaping us now.

Welcome, Friend.

I’ve filled my heart again,

And You have come to empty it out.

The cycle will dip, drag on begrudgingly, pick up momentum, and eventually resume.

Like a second chance at lost childhood. One more time. And one more time.

And though they are numbered, I let them take my breath away.

Because the sea is imitating the sky tonight;

Because the hand which rested on my head

Could not have been more necessary;

And because that boyish cartwheel in our dash across the field,

Was the only thing missing from this evanescent perfection.

This world is ugly but so full of Your beautiful things.

And I know that You love its stumbling people for their flaws and for their yearning,

And I know You love us, because You have let us taste this and be humbled

And I know You love me, because You take back now what you had shared

Because this brittle vessel is not big enough,

And overwhelmed, my heart has come so near to breaking.

Thank You.

Breakfast at the Office

Wanna See a Steamy Picture I Took in the Bath?

How Not to be Immortalised

This is in memory of the day Elest and Zaru got sprayed by goat spit and brought the beast's reek into the office. Our nostrills be tormented to this very day, and Pixi's once refined tastes for goats cheese has suffered a grevious blow.

It's Eternal

A Double War

Donning a Free Palestine badge has invited many an interesting reaction from strangers since the last Gaza crisis. The prevalent question is usually, ‘are you Palestinian?’, but it’s the accompanied look that is most curious; an awe-full look one would give a fantastically endangered species of beast. Like the man behind the cash register at the grocery store just encountered a unicorn.

The answer is always ‘no’, even though Mahmoud Darwish’s poetic use of Turkish coffee as a sign of Palestinian resistance, in his Memory for Forgetfulness, attests to a shared heritage that runs thicker than blood. In the spirit of this moment, however, we’ve all become Gazans -a notion with which I have a personal issue, along with the ability of Facebook culture to jump the bandwagon of capitalising on the plight of the Palestinians. Add to this my pet-peeve over the coinage of term ‘Gazan’, in the light of Israel’s efforts to eradicate Palestine off the geopolitical map. Clearly, the activist enthusiasm of late has been huge, but to what end we are yet to find out.

Now, in the hype around the U.S Presidential visits to the Middle East, that sentiment is mixed with the gleeful hopes of an ever growing Obama fandom in the Muslim world. “He’s the messiah”, a friend retorts with sarcasm, alluding to said fandom, because the sensible majority does not fail to remain realistic. That is why ‘hope’ is the term I chose to use here and not ‘expectation’. Doubtless, Barrack Obama is being given an attentive ear, more so than any other U.S president of the past. And why not?

Consider the strong public aversion towards what has become the object of shameful military ventures and political strategies which have crippled America’s economy. The recent bankruptcy of General Motors alone could easily have validated the Middle East visits to be cut short. And yet for Obama to pursue the decision to engage with the Muslim World in such a climate is not only refreshing but very significant, particularly in light of his decision to carry out his address in a Muslim country.

Yet despite this effort to change America’s former rhetoric and right the wrongs his administration inherited, the peace initiative Obama has been working at over these last few weeks has already proven Israel’s unwillingness to cooperate. The general feeling then is not one which has been holding its breath for the presidential address in Cairo (and what a great address it was), but one which is keen to find out what steps Obama will take when Israel eventually says ‘nay’ to a two-state solution.

Furthermore, in his efforts to maintain an approach that is apparently fair to both sides, Obama may in fact be fighting a lost cause. A two–state solution is, after all, not in the interest of the Israeli state, and as for the Palestinians, it is not justice in any shape or form. Rabbi Ahron Cohen, of Neturei Karta, which is the international organisation of Orthodox Jews United against Zionism, stresses that a two-state solution is not the way towards peace. “What we need is the complete dissolution of Zionism,” he says, alluding to the eradication of the apartheid government of South Africa, to highlight that when enough people stand against injustice, miracles can happen. Rabbi Cohen goes on to maintain that only under a single state can Muslims, Christians and Jews live together, and not merely exist in the direst sense of that word. And what better than a long history of peaceful, interfaith coexistence, which extends from Andalusian Spain to the Holy land itself, to demonstrate its workability?

In an attempt to conclude a topic which knows no resolution or closure, I can only appeal to wishful thinking. Yet until the Middle East is witness to a great miracle, Palestine faces the danger of losing the essence of its significance in the process of serving as kindling under the pan of any Tom, Dick or Harry who decides to cook up a foul stew. Its people today, struggle to survive a double war; one which threatens their lands and their lives; and another which threatens their very meaning. How relevant still was Darwish’s feeling two decades ago, when he spoke of his countrymen as the defenders of their meaning against a pacification of history, and said: ‘Hallowed be your hands, you, clutching the last stone and the last ember.’

It's My Birthday and I'm in the Library

...I think I've taken this under-playing birthdays thing a bit far. Yes they are a benign tumour, but I'm lonely. And who wants to be lonely when they're already peeved about turning 26 and having exams?

In any case, above-featured is the card I would have wanted to recieve, if anyone had bothered to get me one :(

Emily will find a better place to fall asleep
She belongs to fairy tales that I could never be
The future haunts with memories that I could never have
And hope is just a stranger wondering how it got so bad

I die each time you look away
My heart, my life will never be the same
This love will take my everything
One breath, one touch will be the end of me

You could be the final straw that brings me back to earth
Ever-waiting airports full of the love that you deserve
Wishing I could find a way to wash away the past
Knowing that my heart will break,
At least the pain will last

I die each time you look away
My heart, my life will never be the same
This love will take my everything
One breath, one touch will be the end of me

Emily will find a better place to fall asleep
Maybe she will save me in the oceans of her dream
And maybe someday love
Maybe someday love
Maybe someday love

--Trading Yesterday

And my heart, it don't beat, it don't beat the way it used to
and my eyes they don't see you no more.
and my lips, they don't kiss, they don't kiss the way they used to
and my eyes don't recognise you no more.

--The Killers

Fix your gaze on such distant horizons, but do you stop to ask what it is you're trying to run from? And does it feel better to have no one to talk to? Without fear of hurting or being hurt. I'm sorry I am cruel. I wish I knew some other way. I wish I was better. But I've found that the world is not as straighforward as I'd once thought. And in finding I can no longer be the colours I once was. And so I walk here now, between the seams of what holds us all together. Aloof. Unresponsive. Unreactive. Though every pain drives so deep and every fear is overwhelming. I hold my peace. I yearn to flee. Because in my loss I know only how to hurt us.
Gomen.

I picture you in the sun wondering what went wrong
And falling down on your knees asking for sympathy
And being caught in between all you wish for and all you seen
And trying to find anything you can feel that you can believe in

May gods love be with you
Always
May gods love be with you

I know I would apologize if I could see your eyes
cause when you showed me myself I became someone else
But I was caught in between all you wish for and all you need
I picture you fast asleep
A nightmare comes
You cant keep awake

cause if I find
If I find my own way
How much will I find
If I find
If I find my own way
How much will I find
You

I dont know anymore
What its for
Im not even sure
If there is anyone who is in the sun
Will you help me to understand
cause I been caught in between all I wish for and all I need
Maybe youre not even sure what its for
Any more than me

May gods love be with you
Always
May gods love be with you

--Joseph Arthur: In the sun

Life.
Over and Over Again.
I am not Dana.
Sorry.

So far so good
Stumble through life
so complicated it's nearly Impossible
And i lost my way like i knew i would
and keep it together somehow anyway
And i remember you and me
Climbing over backyard fences diving naked in the Swimming pool
All those faces friends those memories fade so fast
Like every love song on the radio

Is it brilliant where you are
Where the lights are low
Is it brilliant where you are
Where the lights are

Through a million days through a million hazy nights
We sit amusing in our politics
Through wine and talk through sex and art we fill our time
And numb ourselves with what's to come
But i'm older now got a little girl of my own
And her fears are my fears now
I know that it's the end of days for moderates
But thinking people are thinking still

Is it brilliant where you are
Where the lights are low
Is it brilliant where you are
Where the lights are

So far so good
Stumble through life so complicated it's nearly Impossible
And we lost our way like i knew we would
And keep it together somehow anyway
Woke up from an impossible dream
And we talked and we spoke and we drank and we sang
And we danced and we live and we love and we give
Without question or faith then we fight till we hate
And we hope and we pray that this violence will fade
It's always the same it's the same life

-David Usher: Brilliant

My friggin gutt hurts from the disgust I have for myself, for suddenly missing a bastard who made the past year of my life a benign misery, all because of this damn hair I found.
The stoopid shiKt.

People who have too much time on their hands, and who use this time to send you stoopid things on stoopid face book and cram up your profile page with these stoopid, embarrassing things, PISS ME OFF! One of these days I'm gonna get rid of them or write something mean on their damn wall.

sigh

14th January, Year of the Nerd.

Elest is planning her escape, while trying to stay entertained by trivial things like oomphing up her flat with new Creature Speakers (they was cheap!) and orderring lots of books, then waiting for them to arrive every day.
Miyavi sounds good on the Creature. (I'm still gonna marry him by the way)
What else sounds good on the Creature is One Republic's soundtrack to the Year of the Nerd.

Life is a little dissapointing really. I feel like one of Murakami's protagonists most the time. Just going about my buisness, doing mundane things, indulgently, as though indulging solely in the act of doing them. Processing it all with an overtly animated and observant inner voice, that keeps yapping away at me like it was the narrator and I wanted to listen. All by my lonesome.
And while all this is going on, in the back of my mind is: Pixy, my girl, this world is bigger than you can ever imagine, even with your increadibly wild imagination. Remember always, that you are often seeing out of your little worm universe, from which things may often appear shit, or just simply not make sense. This time next year, you will not be here.

And then I wonder though, this time next year, where will I be? where do I want to be? what do I want for my life? and then it hits me: I'm not actually looking forward to anything any more.

We do not believe in falling in love; getting to know someone; trusting. We do not believe in surrounding ourselves; having children and a family. We observe couples on the tube or the queue at Sainsburys and think: Damn, are you in for a shiKKt time mate, and if you're not, then what are you and which human person's body have you snatched?
We no longer feel a need, or desire for such things. And if any such thing drops a hint on our horizon, we turn and run in the opposite direction, because, I'll be quite frank: we are scared to death.
And then, what's left? Fame? Fortune? Pshaw.
How lonely and futile is the lot of man.

And why should I not be ok?

10th January, Year of the Nerd

I've got a bad case of yellow fever. What's worse than not being able to get the thing out your system is that for some reason, it can't get you out of its. It appears that I’m irresistible to East Asians in general and Japanese in particular. Even half way across the world I get accosted; from random Chinese guys asking to take pictures to Hitori-sensei. Who?

December 25th 2007, Christmas at the Shajendra's had me locked in a never ending conversation with Hitori-sensei ('sensie' is what I called him. To everyone else, he was Hitori, the crazy conceptual artist, who'd subject you to pictures of his new sculpture on digicam if he got his hands on you. Indiscriminately.) It started off with where I was from, took a detour through "Your name means 'alone', right?" "Eh? Who told you!?" "No one, I can understand some Japanese." And then ended with The Historical Friendship of the Turks and Japanese. 'Aha.' -I must not have sounded convinced, so he rambled on for another 20 minutes about how the Turks know very well of the great episode when said friendship was forged, but the Japanese seem to have irreverently buried it in the past, along with the emperor of the time. I conclude, and his wife assures me afterwards, that Hitori-sensei loves Turkey.

Eventually, I did manage to get away, but along the course of the evening, the more he got pissed, the more he'd try to get me to come sit at his table with him. At 5am, when the party was still booming, I got tired of trying to tell him I was sleepy, and just went to bed.
End of Part One.

Part Two will commence when his daughter contacts me in a few weeks time upon her arrival from Tokyo. The arrangement is that I teach her Turkish and she helps me with my Japanese.

2008 – Year of the Nerd

Looking over the past years in blog, and throwing up a random comments to offer my contribution to the rapidly changing conversation going around me in the office: I've concluded this. Everything I wrote during my uni years and a little bit of what followed after were some good shiKt. Everything which followed was shiKt ShiKt. I am Jack’s literary pretention and disdain. I know why.

Elest said goodbye to 2007 bitching about mediocre fireworks on the London Skyline at Ally Pally, surrounded by Turks and Polacks. She made a few faces for the camera, to remember this auspicious Kodak moment of the end of possibly the shiKtest year of her life. She then said hello to 2008 falling asleep in the back of Shaheen's car. Basically, we celebrated in true style.

Being back? -I contemplate this as some volunteer makes sheep's eyes at me from in front of the HR department. Little does the kid know that I'm about 4 possibly 5 years older than him. Being back is a bit crap. It wasn't so bad at first because I was still on a high but I've realized one truth: As liberating and thrilling as it is to travel alone (the moments when I was completely by myself were best), it is the complete polar opposite on the feel good scale to be alone when back at home. This rat hole of a place was not made to be suffered without company or warmth.

We therefore have a predicament on our hands, which offers two alternatives. Find company or piss off out of here. But this is the year of the nerd; in which Elest remains asexual, grows androgynous, turns her nose up at fit guys and naively ignores the flirtatious advance of men around her. It is the year Elest concerns herself only with nerd things like books, manga, movies and all things to feed her imagination and creativity. This is the year Elest sees things through to the end and is stingy with her time because time is something, she's found, we, non of us, ever have enough of.

In the warmth of far away lands Pixy was heart broken to find that life is a cold, meaningless place. We grow up, grow old, and die alone. We lose the things we take for granted and realize their value. – Things like your testicles and your manhood. 'They took it all! They took my testicles! They took my manhood!' -raved the funny old, Norweigen man who no one knew at the Rajendra Christmas party. And though he was so light hearted about it, and everyone found it so funny, Elest smiled but only sadly. Apparently they picked him up at the bakery earlier that week when he'd collapsed. When they found out he was alone, they invited him to the party. When he asked later in the evening to take a picture with her and her friends, 'because I want to show that I was here' Pixy was even sadder.

And one more thing: To all those pretentious little white or would-be-white boys (this is not a colour, it's a cultural mindset) out there who fancy themselves artists, believe gender equality means making a woman pay for your drink, and don't know their own asses because constantly getting stoned, pissed and laid has not only left them with STDs and psychosis, but severe narcissism too: Grow up and get over your F***ing selves. Every such white boy needs to be dragged to some remote Kampong in the Far East, and made to use a squat toilet. Nothing to humble you like peeing in a hole in the ground, with malarial flies buzzing about your vulnerable behind, then having only stagnant, collected rain water to wash with afterwards.

-Sha, my love, this one's for you.

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.

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.

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'!

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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, María Rosa Menocal:2004

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

Winter. Spring. Summer. Autumn. Summer.

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

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.

The mind of a deeply religious Atheist is a dreadful place

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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?

'Good morning, Muslim Aid...?'

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.

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

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.

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.

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?