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?