ART PAGE

Rowing

2011-09-07T21:57:00.001-07:00

Rowing.

Looking back. The assault of the poem-already-heard. The slow pining away of an entire forest. The trees falling one by one, to divine stupor. Dante's hero was just a ghost looking up at the darkness. A ghost made of words. Word-caricature. You make this creature and try to afford it limbs, movement. It comes to the life of a paper-puppet in the backdoor of the mind: an enigma. Watches you with the stare of dumb non-recollection: who are you? Your creator. The gnawing blank silence devouring paper-sofas. The word-cushions sinking or rising to special occasions. Time reaches out to capture the moon. Kidnaps it and takes it in a bag all the way to Kashmir. Gun-shots. Random language of curses. You aspire to catch the beauty of moonlight, if ever there was such a thing, to reach into it, and excavate the pearl out of her. The hand is soft and quiet like a recluse on a bicycle, and conforms and conforms to pedaling. A man rides on a boat on his way to the other side. If we were to reach here quickly, what would be the purpose of the ride? Sweet bells of laughter open out the scene to the infamy of the sun.

The World in your hand.

2011-08-22T03:43:00.000-07:00

The World in your hand.

Paper, very white, strict, principled
Stretched out on roads, till the maps of infinity
Are drawn out on electricity poles
Traffic signals, and the birds as they dart into the sky
Covered in white paper
Very white, strict, principled.

Dreamers

2011-06-20T20:36:00.000-07:00

Dreamers.
Tomorrow I was watching the sunset and saw it fall into the river making dazzling cold-blue jazz,
I heard your footsteps
A sorrow of eagles spreading open their wings
A country ravaged by the coming ghosts
Time was stilled for the fear of seeing it moving
The flight of blue overtaking the sky in a moment, swallowing last trees
A hurt and abandoned winterland of smoke, rising in the air, creature icicles
Suddenly a silhouette like a creature of darkness, assembling, designing a star
The vivid purple pale hanging on the branches of an evening
Fancy roads appearing out of the new dawn like deer approached.

--xx--

2011-06-20T20:10:00.001-07:00

--xx--

Growing up in a town made of leaves,
Leaving as autumn leaves in a hurry
A scarecrow standing, facing an army
The revolving round and round of words of paper
Disintegrating into the chaos of the void.

--xx--

Reel.

2011-06-15T16:43:00.001-07:00

Reel.

A long sentence aspires on its own like a caterpillar
She sits all the while, glancing at the thing as if it were a creature
How often has the moment of sunset gone like lightning
She imagines night-time to be a thing of elves and fairies
It is actually a quiet retreat, as real as dreams and made of fancy
Of flowers
She likes to sit on the swing and watch the world go by
Her mother is now reminding her of the colors touch blue and sky fuchsia
And sea-green and nymph azure
There is a hesitant purple at her eyebrow
She is perplexed by the sound of water, the beauty is
Eves-quiet and retreats long. She is
Twirling and twirling and twirling.

2011-06-11T03:19:00.000-07:00

You sometimes need a start-over blank cheque, and the reason for it.

2011-06-11T02:43:00.000-07:00

ENOUGH OF INSOMNIA.

Total twilight sits asunder on the bones of the white, still graveyard.
There's a hue and cry about insincerity
sort of like Vincent blinking in sunflowers
what we thought was illusion falls like glass, broken
the pieces are what I call stained, art, perfect flaws
I wake up one morning and know that 9 a.m is a time.
There's nothing but shadow and regret, shadow and regret
for a long time
then there is the vanished, malignant force of fractutred seconds.
A candy-city is quietly creeping over the sky, turning it red and blue
like a perfect evening, a walk home on the hills, a capsule of unwanted rain.

Red.

2011-06-05T17:07:00.000-07:00

RED.

Abandoned vicinity of cars
at the high of love
fallen
a little by a time
picking up old time
photographs
arousal of a flame
listening to the song again and again
like a child
at the door, always.

Character Sketch.

2011-06-05T16:42:00.001-07:00

Character Sketch.

Stone sitting for a hundred years. Smoldering. A thick curtain of uncertainty simmering on the brink of smoke. A lost night nightingale whispering through the breeze. A heartache piercingly nearer than concrete. A torn embassy of negroes crying within - A hurricane with an uplift song of high oblivion kits, flying as the black moth of flame. An embargo train leaving the sunset again and again, arriving home for home news. A continuity of wings on a mosquito - the everyday turmoil of hope. The relentlessness of sleep, a soft tomorrow rising from beneath a pillow.
A large caramel sky escaping at the crevices of smoke, rising up into the air like a dream of fulfillment. A disquietude of numbers embracing the hall of echoes. The everyday run of a universal God. A great idea lying to the whispers of moon - In the twilight a narrow escape. A somewhat sudden suggestion of eyes that oils engines of motorcars. A cry in the ghostly caravan of speaking moths as they occupy spaces of sequestered silences. Their web of black chemistry appearing on the canvas of lace.

Sinner Stars

2011-06-01T05:32:00.001-07:00

Sinner Stars.

The expanse is huge of loveless stars,
a bitter accordion plays the last song
a quiet of trees creeps up on the verandah
there is summer unease on chairs
the rain is startling bright
the mood of the wind is vacant pure
there is higher love in the strumming
a soft shadow appears and disappears
it is perhaps the moon.

High.

2011-05-22T13:53:00.001-07:00

It was on the toes of twilight that I first looked up at the sky. The sky was of various dimensions and color. It was a permanent mark on the heights of glances. I looked at the celestial myth of greek gods and the crowding stories intermingled to make mischief. The insane quietude of the depth of tall ocean surveyed me as if I were the tiny spark called star. From my point-of-view the universes collided head-long. That is how high the jump was.

…and it was quintessential. To know details. To know the way out of the mystery. To know the sighs and many occurrences of it. To know how to keep a deep promise. To know how to fly, and let go. To know the mystic numbness of alterations. To know yellow when it’s bright as the sun and new as paint. I’m suffering many things. The white of winter and the blue of sky – alarmed at the way a flower can fall from the sky. A painted star, bright pink, on the road like a talisman. Of the many things I learnt in college, one was to find your way out of a dream – but this one has caught my heart, and my mind chases after it in rat’s alleys. I welcome the brethren talk of intermingled sleep, like the first fall. These dates are read backwards, and I have seen many colored gypsy birds spring up in the sky, prophesying rain of a new kind. Vowels are interwoven between consonants like landscapes of a perplexed god. I hear echoes of greek wounds tremble on the lips of perfect statues.

Moonlit Nights.

2011-04-17T13:04:00.000-07:00

Moonlit Nights.
Moonlit nights over the boundaries of Oneonta
Seep into the soul in the quiet retreat of memory
And when I used to walk home, without realizing directions.
There was a method of transparency, keeping in the quiet of dawn
And asking from resembling faces, their last destinations
If ever I meet a sparrow, I do stop to ask
The very question of what it was.
Who knows what it’s like to be dead, and gone from so much love
Who knows what it’s like never to come back home
To travel into the morning with no regrets.
I see you now. Your face is clear. And ever lost is the idea of no strangers
Walking on the street.
When we walk past a grave, we see in its gravity a white flower,
Placed there carelessly by the hand of an onlooker.
There are a hundred ways to look at the Sun, says Rumi
And I say there are a hundred ways to know something, again and again
Till the knowing of it doesn’t matter, till it’s like second skin.
What a twilight to reach unknown heights, to disappear,
To fade into the many-faceted Oyaron, take a daydream back home, Professeur
You know I used to think of you often.

Lone.

2011-03-19T11:51:00.001-07:00

I have walked alone till there was a heart-beat to it, the walking, the pacing, the coming together of form.
I have visited alone, strange cities, dancing in the twilight of method.
I have seen alone, enigmas of the quality of stars.
I have heard alone, the dying laughter of day-time memoirs.
I once traveled into the risk of suggestion.
I forgot the keys to my apartment in the sea,
I searched for them with the inability of loose change to resemble a rupee.
I succumbed to the darkened bells of a church.
I laughed and visited graves.
I went to see her several times in the gardens where she existed.
I fell on stones, cold pavement and water.
I spelt her name in ancient hieroglyphs.

The slow method of a dune

2011-03-18T08:43:00.000-07:00

The slow method of a dune
the pitch of which is quiet
and comes discreetly on a subject
the sitting of a blackbird
on a mound of sand
out of my hands
the vision of a vision, still, calm
immaculate like vanilla coffee
reaching the ends of time
in singing continuity of the
discontinuous.

Onward.

2011-03-14T10:33:00.000-07:00

Onward.

Blue and blue and blue
tornado hits,
onward

spectacular light

blue and blue and turquoise
tornado hits,
trees

blue and blue and white
like not knowing where,
or why

blue and blue and purple
a hesitant twilight,
onward.

placid humour.

2011-03-13T09:08:00.001-07:00

The graveyard was filled with a spectacular white light. The scent of ambiguity and death of roses hung in the air. The marvelous wind was unfolding volumes of canvas air onto pages like perfume. A hesitant stranger glanced again and again on methods. Now there was twilight and it was a never-ending zone. Collapses transpired on vineyard branches, carrying forth the will to live. Torture on seas engulfed waves. There was callous sea-gull call that trembled.

Light

2011-03-07T09:33:00.000-08:00

Light.

When can a lashing sun-lit swan transpire to flame?
How can a syllable announce exit.
How many times can a ghost spell his name backward?
How will I live?
Can a method be analyzed that preaches decorum
When has height let itself submerge to depth
What is the answer to unwritten laws?
When can an ocean drink another glass?
Can a sequence form a poem after all?
When can truth be analyzed as fictional reality?
Can a woman be saved by words?

Future

2011-03-04T05:40:00.000-08:00

The telling blue of a lake
drifts like the dream of the ever-after
to continue and become and assemble a form
there is formless oblivion from here on
there is a way out, much like way outs are
inward, onward, totally clueless coming summer
a rather heighetened love of articulation
a suggestion of shadows and rivulets
there is calming surrender today
perhaps it was the sight of the sea
perhaps it was the limitless ocean
perhaps it was persistent like fixation
and letting-go sand, and letting-go laughter
and letting-go wind and assault

Clapping.

2011-02-07T10:25:00.000-08:00

Clapping.

A sequence at a time, turn
and applause.
Some silhouette of night, turn
and applause
There is distance on a house
It is black
turn and applause
Over and over, there is a new song
turn and applause
I hear symphonies strung out of choir-chords
turn and applause
There is a long waiting line in the dingy quiet of cafes
turn and applause
like fine laughter is singing,
turn and applause
clap and an audience
turn and applause.

It will Rain.

2011-02-06T00:37:00.001-08:00

It will Rain.

There is a long road. On that road are many kinds of signboards. “Too Slow” is written in bronze-gold. The highlight of the sky is azure blue surveillance of this long road. It so happens that a boy is skipping along his way on this open road. The boy is brutish and wild. Some would take him as a gypsy. The boy has tanned skin and knows the sun from frequent visitation. I open a book. This book has a picture of a long road. It is perplexing and threatens to turn into a labyrinth. I am alone on this road. The boy is with me – only at a distance. The distance is sky long A few birds speckle the sky in black dashes of wind. The birds are busy, off on errands. The road keeps turning brutish but keeps the birds. The sky is heavy upon the road. It is azure pressed on gray granite. I hear whistling. It is the boy. He has found a tune. The road is mesmerizingly long and sometimes I feel it will never end, that it will continue across time. I happen to see a rabbit. The rabbit has lost its way. I follow it like Alice and return like Fatima back into the dream of the daydream. The rabbit is black, black like the bird. I hear whistling. This time it is of a train. A train running along and having no place to go. A train going anywhere – just to get out of the way. A train of hope and ambiguity. I meet a woman. She is part of the painting I am looking at. The woman is asking me perplexing questions. I see sixteen ghosts gather and scatter. They turn into sky as the sky travels beyond time. I hear sunset. It is catching the dying sun. The sun which will never sleep. It will be back tomorrow. The sun that is giving the little boy the tan. A huge sort of motion is bringing color into the sky. It is the thunder caught in the clouds. It will rain.

Missed Speed.

2011-01-30T15:27:00.000-08:00

Missed Speed.

Sometimes a swift word pierces like the dart of a shadow,
and misses, misses ambiguity.
We collect shafts made of Sun and some such other things
like driftwood, like solace and magnitude.
A huge bird with bullets in its black wing, tempts words.
The salute of winter is cold, hard and dry.
Running across feilds of hyacinths, the rose is dead or
eternally missing from vocabularies
I search for the rose, like a missed thing, a fabric of purple.
There is the register of Speed to the artwork of conversation
the duality of the dream is conniving.
A raised eye-brow at ignite, torture and dilirium.
It misses the mark
Like a bird flys away at a distance,
to miss home.

The Sky is Universal.

2011-01-18T12:57:00.000-08:00

Sky is Universal.

distance by distance by distance
by silence by opaque by silence by opaque
the sky is universal
It is a secret
It is a sudden volume
It is universal
It goes on and on and on
then time is still and certain
It goes on and on
like a volume of sea
Goes on like a canvas, immortal
perhaps sudden
like a sky on a beach
like a pebble near a shoe
there is no more shadow
there is no regret
in the clear blue.

GRIEF.

2011-01-14T17:35:00.000-08:00

grief.

dark assuage

of grief

like a sunken dark & winter
poem

sits like a painted
black leaf

on the veranda edge
counting seconds till night
& coffee
take over the time
& its multiplicity of reform

like a right engine
singing in mid-sleep
as of a black train
drowning at night
like a last wave, a good-bye
to a next chapter, in
unwritten day, of form Manifest.

Commiting a Sunset to Mind

2011-01-14T15:44:00.000-08:00

Commiting a Sunset to Mind

Like committing a sunset to mind
its twenty-five ambiguities
its certain laughter
its holocaust
its after-math
The sun-cry of imagination
its bitter regret
its sudden down
its sea.
Committing a sunset to mind
Its Karachi
Its Avignon
Its Oneonta
Its Ypsi
resembling at that infinite hour
immortality and purpose
method and ambivalence
cries and laughter
eternity and darkness
Its affirmation
Continuity
lingering color, method.
Tomorrow, again.
Today, everafter.

bluish notes.

2010-12-29T18:34:00.001-08:00

bluish notes.

There was rain on the outside. The
pitter-patter was incessant, cureless.
I looked for answers in the cold as if
they appeared like notes.
Ambiguity was uncertain at a cost.
I looked for truth amongst ashen leaves,
tooth-paste.
There was a coward on the streets, I
spelled him by my name again and again.
The rain was ceaseless, constant.
I became lost in wood and heard secrets.
There was light on the streets. It was
early morn.
The mourn of winter was wicked,
callous.
I asked for unsaid fire from flames.
The night was revolving like memory.
Sweet unrest was on glass windows.
There was lack of renaissance.
An unknown cruelty bit the lip of
morning. It bled in oozing fire-color.
Tomorrow was asking in today's humor,
questions, unresolved answers.
The craze of burnt coal, ignited.

Cold Rain.

2010-12-29T18:30:00.001-08:00

Cold Rain.

I hear it. It's simple.
Cold. Non-compromising.
Certain. Rain.

Suddenly an Enchantment

2010-12-26T13:33:00.000-08:00

Suddenly an enchantment calls forth, beckons
towards itself like lament, lost moon
there is a hierarchy of differences in thoughts
and patterns. Up above is a sky, and it glistens.
Tomorrow there is artifice and a haphazard array of costume.
Today there is pastoral calm, unawakened.
Long hours are unknown portals,
here and there there is ambiguity.
Truth is seasonless, like azure sky
on greeting cards.

Dead Flowers.

2010-12-22T22:16:00.000-08:00

Dead Flowers.

A few died. There were a hundred more. They died too. Some scores of silence lived on, some music. The ace of spades is a wet black word. It escapes intuition. It rules the entire pack. It is silent and pervasive. The Ace of black is dead. It is a wilted flower. White and square. Cards are dead flowers.

Trees.

2010-12-18T12:19:00.001-08:00

Trees.

A bronze model
of affected branches
reaching the road-side
in infinite parallelisms.
Two cities collide, one
world drifts into another.
A sky a piece
each stands infinite and tall.
A child stands nearby
occupied by space and continuity.
There is deadly comparison
between one tree and another.
Here and there are rain-branches
Evermores and evergreens.

Murder.

2010-12-14T11:22:00.001-08:00

Murder.

There was a motive. It
was written on nerves. It had
the spellbinding effect
of suicide's silouette.
Time and again there was reason,
there was regret.
There was the murder,
the act itself.
Hypnotic and careful.

Solitude.

2010-12-10T10:14:00.001-08:00

Solitude.

...I started to enjoy myself. It was the sohana solitude, the sun-down of form and the hurricane of love. From enveloping the sky to reaching its roots down-under of earth, it was engrossing. There was a silhouette of study and the unbelievable imagination of discourse. I was cinderella, the perfect wit, and the hours were long and ashen. There was an again and again asking there was a forever telling. There was wilderness and oblivion. There was a forest. There was deep treasure. At the moment there was a call in the wind. It was sweet and mournful. It was the nightingale, the queen of the jungle calling me again and again. Again and again.

Meditation

2010-12-10T10:09:00.001-08:00

Meditation.

- and I, silent as a cat
where even thinking disturbs
a pattern
accumulated thought upon thought
unconditionally, hesitant
and for sure, speaking.

On a Blue Sunday.

2010-12-03T07:00:00.000-08:00

On a Blue Sunday.

There is a blue, blue, blue hesitation.
There is a deep blue train.
There is an hours long solitude.
There is a mirror.
There is pay-check
There is horror
There is rational thought
There is irrationality
There is madness
And its uttermost sense
Of oblivion
There is darkness and shadow
There is love
There is let-go laughter
There is a cat chased by thieves.

Subject of Fantasy: The Moon

2010-12-02T13:24:00.001-08:00

The moon glittered. It was
turquoise. Unholy.
I shone bright.
A hundred seas shone
with bright multitude.
It was cold and lunar.
I escaped the bright moon
in the touch of twilight.
The moon was eccentric,
It reappeared.

The moon is a temporary
madness.
The isolated form.

Three Dogs.

2010-12-02T13:12:00.000-08:00

Three Dogs.

One, ferocious
two, empty
third, wind
Riding, talking, barking
without rhythm
& poetry
but with wisdom
of canine teeth
and jitter-glitter of eyes
smashing stones
with porcelain-black feet
laughing, without poise
and announcing without exit:
turbulence at sea
wind-swept venom
of dust street
the dog is barking
ferociously, emptily
The wind
is on its face
angrily, and he is facing it
he is facing it
ferociously, emptily.

Color of Night.

2010-11-28T01:12:00.000-08:00

Color of Night.

The color of night spread and spread
I was watching the night watch itself
It had the color of iridescent moons
It had the scent of solitudes
And then it bent itself
and I watched it bend and bend
disappear into its self. The night
closes in upon me and its circle,
the moon, traces its back to infinities
I watch it bend into itself
& disappear
& disappear.

Sonnet to a little girl

2010-11-25T10:25:00.000-08:00

Sonnet to a little girl.

I have 'glow in the darkness' eyes
that formulate sentences
all by itself
In a snug retreat, a corner flickers
from a poem
She laughs. Its trembling, this laughter.
like a veil on a skirt
Its chemise is purple
hidden inside is a flourescent poem
It trickles in envious reserve -
the run on the hill is merciless.

“Fatima” – A Monologue in Excerpts.

2010-11-25T10:08:00.001-08:00

“Fatima” – A Monologue in Excerpts.
I.
DENYING EXIT.
“Fucking Regret! Lonesome moon. Awful and insidious intent: barking ferocity, horrible encounter – Again and again duality. Forbidden reserve. Death of a moonstone. Winsome and regretful song. Spanish insinuation. Liberty left. Wine. Random occurrence. Right on, Ratitude.” Fatima was driving to escape lunacy. The car ran fast and forward, unable to escape the car crash of fortitude. Lucky charms harassed the wind and broke the ratitude a few several times. She slowed down the car. Opened the door. It opened to bright lunacy. Here, there, everywhere was an energy of doom. Retracing her steps, she sat in again. Denying Exit.

II
THE CRY.
“Fatima!” The cry ran in the wind, entering exits, escaping torture. The wind was bittersweet and a regret. I hurt her by calling her again and again, till the blind luck was spent. In the life-after the scream of the word, I resisted. I returned to normal behavior. As if nothing had happened. I persist in vagabond usages of names. I am an immortal idiot. There was no denying it - the empty and lucid scream had pierced through the evening sky, risking conformity – becoming a thing of the wind, sky in solitude, which confronted me.
At once I was beginning to understand and see – SIMILAR HEIGHTS, longitudinal glimpses of the forbidden reserve, the fortitude. Again and again the glimpse was beginning to show and aspire. Create and expire. Like old wheels. On used cars. I cried and beheld the scepter loom up against the sky: RISK IS ALLOWED. NO TURNS. DRIVE STRAIGHT. HIT THE RATITUDE.

III
FORTITUDE.
She was driving straight. Not looking for excuses – but finding them. Anyway, the startling silence. She was escaping the wind, finding in the city – new dimension, ability, longitude.// I drove safely till here, I must admit. There was no other way – she was driving so fast!// I collided in Escape and left it with bilingualism, with haste, with a run. Time runs, go slow. Heart race, go slow. The abandoned wet, white train, go slow. Escape Avignon. Try as you will. Try as you will.

Note: l,r are phonetic liquids and therefore easily interchangeable over time.

Forgotten sea-shore

2010-11-25T02:57:00.000-08:00

Forgotten Sea-shore

Alacrity - was the given alternate. I turned round, again, once again, counting its magnitude, its dimension - there was a cry in the unknown. It was you then, it is you now, it is you in the unseen.
There was a word for it, not so long ago - now its hidden, forbidden. But as dying tastes, we shall assemble and remember its silver ferocity. Furious waves at a karachi sea-shore, welcome me home, and I welcome, welcome. Some say sift and forget, let lone, let lone. There is a home of ambiguity in the relapses of mirth.

Moonwords.

2010-11-22T22:31:00.001-08:00

Moonwords.

I come to see the night. Oh Moon it
all! bad songs are written in the history
of the universe.

She awoke to a cry of tears
She awoke to a cry of tears
She awoke to a cry of tears
She awoke to nonsense.

There was a lame foreword to the apparatus
of form: formword. Sea wood. Brittle. Bright.
Languid like limp loonwords. (The liquid
got the L of it - the form of it.)

Old and keenword bitten...

The Trap.

2010-11-22T22:19:00.000-08:00

There is that much distance between the thing and the thing itself.

I don't know why we think that everything is Lacan and easy here -
Its magazine and newspaper.

Media and Journalism is lacking, lacking, lacking - The Art is wanton, juvenile and violent. Admit it. It doesn't have the poem.

I like time spent with paper
Its artifice with form
Its non-tangible force
Its theatre

The whiplash of curiousity
assaulted and assaulted
those days that said it was a wonder
said less and less.

The Flight of a Swan.

2010-11-13T05:32:00.001-08:00

The Flight of a Swan.

inescapable height
swoon after
Swoosh! and aflay
Per chance
per say

A look back, Article dated June 30' 10: Arriving at Lahore through Lahore Airport & Lahore insider.

2010-11-04T00:24:00.000-07:00

Arriving at Lahore through Lahore Airport & Lahore insider.

Standing outside of the Allama Iqbal Airport Lahore, one feels sudden spasms of nostalgia and at the same time a repressed sense of hope, of how it might be this time, when one is returning to one’s homeland. Will opportunity reckon with us? Or would it be a reckless drive into oblivion. The chances are hopeful ofcourse, as there is the beauty to consider – the beauty of red-brick stone that is a vision which assails one at the airport of Lahore. The image if we were to take a glance at it from a little further off the main building, is exotic, eastern and charming. It’s an airport with an oldish look which adds to its charm in surprising dimensions.

The airport inside is much bigger than what I remember of it, long ago perhaps some years ago, two or three years ago. They have it refurnished and its ‘super’ and at par with the Karachi Quaid-e-Azam International Airport. Given that two big names of the country now have airports named after them, one wonders what the airports at other big cities like Quetta can be called. Pakistan seems to be a nation that appreciates its founding fathers and thus the names of its two biggest airports are named after its two founding fathers – Quaid-e-Azam and Allama Iqbal. This adds a scholarly appeal to the second one, and a rampant nationalistic appeal to the first one.

There are taxi services available at Lahore Airport, much the same as they would be at Michigan’s airport in USA (from where I was arriving) but one thing adds a strange new detail to the Lahore welcome – family, faces you recognize, and how you have been flatly refused a taxi ride home. The culture of Lahore reaches you even before you reach Lahore – people take care of you, and you are not allowed to ride home in a taxi. Someone knows you, ‘just let us know, we’ll be there,’ culture is abound in the city of Lahore.

The first ride back to the city from the airport, is one that no one can ever forget, especially if you are returning after a long time to your native country. On the way back the faces seem new and yet familiar. You are so used to foreigners and that you are a foreigner, that for some time it is startling that in fact you are no longer a foreigner and that this is your own soil, your own homeland. You feel thirst of a kind you have not felt before, and instead of choosing coke you choose pakola, anything desi. Instead of coke in plastic bottles you choose coke in a glass bottle, anything desi, recognizable, anything that makes you feel at once home and happy to be in your own country.

Desi chai is another one of life’s miracles upon the return to home, which is when it signifies Lahore. You actually have lipton chai available and gone are the days of the latest American fad of ‘chai’ and ‘green chai’ which is said in an American accent, and is served in an American taste. Throughout that time you keep thinking what happened to tea anyway?

Another episode that is worth mention if you are returning to Lahore after a long time of soul vacation or outside studies programs, or legal immigrant status: another recommendation is to try the pan shop near liberty market. At once connecting you to the best pan culture of Karachi, this pan shop in Lahore has what It takes. I was impressed by the ‘raja’ that he serves, alongside sada-khusbu and meetha paan. There is something wholly different about this pan-shop, even though the wrapping is from Lahore, and it is unlike the wrapping on pans that you find in Karachi. Nevertheless, the taste is divine, and a definite recommendation is the pan-shop near liberty market, infront of the saint’s mosque. The flowers that are sold there are also extremely inviting visits.

Mental Rejection.

2010-11-03T22:05:00.000-07:00

Identification plays a pivotal role in defining the sub-structure of your mental commentary. I speak this in reference to minute differences between Taliban and Taliban-like behavior. What previously heralded 'safe Islam' or even 'anti-taliban' mental attitudes, now have insiduous content that may refute my previous stances of liberty, forgiveness and even inverted extremist thought.

Hats off to those of us who signed petitions with obvious disgust to slightest inclination towards almost anything that the Taliban practice.
International dis-repute is not the isolated goldmine of Pakistan's horrid link to the Taliban force. I recently visited the prestigous Mall of Lahore and was horrified with black pardah women hosting fashion stores. I think it should be state-legal that anything resembling the Taliban be removed immediately from the so-called 'modern' streets of Pakistan. I suppose activism starts with discomfort, which allows for us to change our viewpoints with obvious rejection.

I was looking at a pass-down book, and was surprised to read the title of it: "Islam: A challenge to religion." It still has the scent of a foreign time when philosophical thought was appreciated, and thinking individuals rejected any mark of non-intelligent mental striving. (By placing an asking topic line, the author clearly is 'challenging' the reader to investigate the very principles of religion.)

Mental life means constant improvement, and ability to remark, 'hey I think I was wrong about this.' My previous attitude that lent itself to remarking that the 'safe islamists' have a point and so on, is reaching fantastic turns due to recent observations in the modern? city of Lahore. Nausea arrives at a point of excess, and that is what I mean by 'faint resemblance' - for any sign of backward thinking can be linked to the first signs of mental rejection towards it.

The Islamiat text-book of well-reputed Lahore schools, celebrates the life of the holy Prophet with eight marriages. I cringe with what people will soon be translating this for. Reading is dying (and even modern T.V channels like MTV Pakistan are not openly censuring the rejection of good old books, I am surprised and surprised) As a last appeal to T.V serials like 'Mera Sayeen' and infamous and violent 'taliban-like' statements, that it is 'sunnah' to have eight practicing wives, I'd like to add that the concept of 'fatwa' refutes direct imitation of a time that has long passed by. By this I translate: new behavior, art, clothes and so on arrive with new times. We are not liscensed to understand a time that is clearly OVER.

in the shehr of mazang.

2010-10-30T20:35:00.000-07:00

in the shehr of mazang.

ranjha ranjha kerdee ve me aap'ae Ranjha howee
ranjha ranjha sakho nee meinu heer na akho koyee

We melt at hours.
We're candle at hour.
Oh flame! we are tortured, never to our liking
but 'tis like house of cards, tis uncertain like crayon.
It melts. It dies.
Live on. For nothing else does.
dying is tough

in the shehr of mazang.

living was rough. tough roughened up shirt, sleeve, everything, roll on.
beauty wave, wait.

credit
Indian song (Bollywood): Ranjha Ranjha; Raavan

Happy Birthday

2010-10-27T11:23:00.000-07:00

Sylvia cuts her own cake. It cuts down to silver.
Meinei kia kiya? just earnt my name in black writing
As if it mattered to the howl in the wind. Oh was it suicidal?
deep, true. No, none of it mattered.

Like when it really matters, no? No Sir, not at all.
Sandals - perfect ones, black and purple, graduated, gone.

Winsome one, shy twilight on your kamiz, its foreign.
Somehow she knows its raining. Damn it, Sylvia, darn it fris.

Dark brother is missing. He's older, gone it good, doing polo
practicing polo light laughter running wild and dark in Faislabad

where she grew alongside him, alongside him! Riding dark and wild ponies
and Rhetted silver, shy twilight. Another time.

Roast silver, listen its dark in there, in that dark cave you've built
for yourself and your, and your writing. and your, and your --
Emily listen, its enough, all that Holyoke, I'm down at Smith.

Coming over?

----------
(She's Sylvia Plath! hssssh! in silver silences, gravestone.)

2010-07-24T03:36:00.001-07:00

There is a prestige. It has a name. It is called Foreign Currency. To evaluate its full meaning, let it run in oil, in sulpher, in red of a kind you've never known before.

the angst

2010-07-19T05:34:00.000-07:00

The angst of burning desire, for the ability to think, create and enhance in an environment not prone to it, is like 1, is akin 2,
to feasibiliy trying to create unity 1, and non-drinkability 2, towards a better working future. The ability to type itself is questioned though the days weren't far when we actually had work to do. It is a pity that can't be afforded except by Frisco. Darn Damnable Franciso D'Anconia.

2010-07-18T21:57:00.001-07:00

A hexagram of success
is 6 straight lines
and not a single broken one.
You see this card, at times, in Tarot
as the Ace of Wands. HELP

2010-07-18T21:56:00.001-07:00

The work is divided into four elemental parts.
This is the Art of Zen.
Creating the Zen Buddhist garden is paramount to success.
At Excel, we succeed.

writer kafi

2010-07-18T05:33:00.001-07:00

1. The writer is at home
Sipping coffee from elsewhere

2010-07-18T03:10:00.001-07:00

At Excel, I will work as a linguist.

kaf 6.7.2.

2010-07-14T03:17:00.001-07:00

jelous leapords snarl at each other for wont of truth
they assemble everyday at the altar of Justice

kaf.1

2010-07-14T03:16:00.001-07:00

Silly suggestions in blue stand out in black,
If you had to outdo your wit, you could have left it at that.
XXX

reporting a crime

2010-07-13T18:17:00.001-07:00

Active indulgences are quite unlawful
Till you consider candid indulgences
That aren’t a crime.

dada kafi 4

2010-07-13T14:42:00.000-07:00

Protection for the home of the mind
where will resides, and intellect rules
where ill thoughts are cancelled out
and where fragile servility is afforded to the best
of green curtains, to steer away silence, then racing
cars are ignited made of perfect engine.

This is a hymn to silent home, wherever it is, to be strong and true.

papa kafi 6.0

2010-07-13T02:40:00.001-07:00

XXX
The 6th sense of method was to put to sleep light laughter
And create from the hidden rug between the raag, another song.
It was a lowlit time, a super time of the East, to indulge in such activities.

Sleep Kafi

2010-07-12T22:04:00.001-07:00

Sleep as a mild addiction occurs everyday to the very worst of us. Sleep
asks her own servers and plays her own decks. Sleep has her own cards. Sleep
can show us many times visions, fulfillment and rob us of our very vestige of hope
in the new day.
Sleep comes seldom to the cursed one, and merrisomely to the favored one. Enough be it now of sleep! Hssssh!

kafi 13 teira!

2010-07-12T20:30:00.003-07:00

All away and some stay on board
this is when the voice drops an ocean and is heard OVER BOARD

Kafi 18 athara

2010-07-12T20:30:00.001-07:00

Hypnotic handsomes shouldn't sway off the sea
there are mermen never known that live here! (off coasts and boards!)

Kafi 12 bara

2010-07-12T20:15:00.001-07:00

The sense of coffee pervades, Sleep
and then the dreams came
one after the other
of the lion, the lioness, the stress
of the leopard, but most of all of the
English Teacher.

XXX

Kaafi 8.4

2010-07-09T09:52:00.001-07:00

The writer is alone at the café
There is one coffee mug
The writer has smoked no cigarette
The writer doesn’t believe in smoking.

Kafi 18

2010-07-08T08:36:00.001-07:00

XXX
Bring confetti and rose-paper
For the writer has returned home
Bring the best of everything
For the writer has returned home.
XXX

written and conceived by Fatima

kafi 6

2010-07-08T06:54:00.001-07:00

Suraag-e-dil dhund raha tha mei
Jana kiyon tum sei ulajh raha tha mei
Jaantei ho raag kitna acha likha hei meinei?
Suraag-e-dil dhund lia hei tum nei

An Evening Report

2010-07-08T06:07:00.001-07:00

Evening Report; Hellish.
XXX
I have meditations of dream-sleep
The time is kept in trance
I have a soul that is mid-west
But the body-temporal is kept in Lahore.
XXX
I have a sixteen-inch nail
I call it the heel of my shoe
It’s tripped nowhere before
Since I’ve been in the rivers of Lahore.

What is/ xxx Kafi

2010-07-07T20:03:00.000-07:00

What is Poetry?
XXX
Poetry is a longing in the heart to create
A craving in the hands to write
But most of all it is revelation from the beloved Lord.
What is Dance?
It is the ability to foresee into the future; and create
By masterful strokes the ability of tresses on curtains.
It is Art.
What is ability? IT is the right to tell what is right from
What is wrong. It is ability.
How often should one peruse a work? As often
As one likes.

What is memory?
It is the ability to recall and remake what is lost.
XXX

kafi 3

2010-07-07T16:39:00.001-07:00

XXX
The dark longing of the moon
The lament of soul
Has kept me so strong, so old
It has scared me in the middle of nights.
It is like that, in love.
XXX

written by Fatima

KAfi 8

2010-07-07T15:36:00.001-07:00

XXX
There is an enchantment at the door
Where you stood previously and before
I have linked your name to gods
Though the dust of man is immortal.
XXX
The hallucinatory beauty of your vindictive
Reason, has come by far to assault someone
So young, that tears run dry.
In the beginning.

KAFI 6

2010-07-07T15:17:00.001-07:00

New Comer
Furtive glances
Fugitive luminosity
Fictional demeanor
Childish hesitancy

Waiting
More than scope, at a glance
Torture
Undeservingly long
Assault of whiplash
Perfect rhythm
Horse-ride
Ali was talking about/had mentioned.

A gold medallion
Unkept desire
Futuristic furor
She’s gonna take us all higher

High dream – low living
Connectivity
Demaning a newness –
Something old.

Chanda aik baat hei
This is only a thing.

THE GIRL FROM IRAN

2010-07-07T15:16:00.001-07:00

IRANI LARKEE (THE GIRL OF IRAN)
XXX
The writer has leaves upon which it writes.
The writer has shoes, with which it runs.
The writer is a machine, with which it stops.
The writer is a car, with which it arises and arrives.
XXX
The lordship has been lauded of a loot.
It is in the acclaim of dust-reap
I have claimed sanity, again and again
Till it was a loot. In the way it is.
XXX
The writing has changed shape with a different hand.
I call lousy, I call sleep, I call left-hand.
The writing has changed and left me
As a leopard arises and arrives, in the leftist’s land.
XXX
You are my sainthood, and he is my pir
We live together, us three.
It is a tie a cord, deeper and more pulsating than LIFE.
It is called rhythm of a sweetheart.
XXX

CASA – or THE HOUSE
XXX
The house is vacant, empty, desolate.
It stretches for ever more into the land of desert.
IF this is not work, forgive me, for I
Thought it was work.
XXX
It is too slippery, and I need to meet you in person.
For when the balance and the check is placed on a home,
I meet you in person.
So lets meet.
XXX

kafi 4

2010-07-07T15:15:00.000-07:00

The writer is knocking at Her door
Crying with the merci of rain
And shedding insight on divine thoughts
The writer is missing.
XXX
The vessel of life as Ibnalarabi has said
Is made of water for the keeping
Of the soul, in the heart of it
Down to the detail of it.
XXX

Disbelief

2010-06-28T05:14:00.000-07:00

Disbelief is the apposite reaction of feeling a belief. It is when the result is setting in, that you feel the car road, swirling with reality, and actualization, with actuality.

Actual.

Recovery

2010-06-28T05:12:00.001-07:00

Recovery is slow and insiduous - it is lethal. Recovery is a joined word with work. Recovery is to recover senses, with synesthetic results of perfection.

I have recovered

from Assault.

I hate Pakistan - Manifesto

2010-06-01T23:39:00.000-07:00

I hate the temerity of Pakistan and the way it crumbles in the face of anything
that holds value, merit, stability.
I hate the currency of Pakistan, (or would have) had it not an Indian kanvari's name, Roopee. (somethings shouldn't be shared, but India is generous)
I hate the servility of Pakistan and its legends who don't respond to the call of the wind, nor to the call of the sea.
I hate A Levels students of Pakistan, who never graduate from saying 'lesbos and retards' and participate in life with such minimal precipitation that even their geography doesn't rebound to O Level's math.
I hate the college students of Pakistan, and their weak obsession with uncultured bolshevism and bestial hatred of the English Language, lingua franca, gentlemen and bonds gentlemen.
I hate the ideas of Pakistan: girls can't come home late, girls can't wear mini skirts, girls can't smoke, girls can't dance.
I hate the ideas of and behind Pakistan.
I hate the founding fathers of Pakistan (or their weak resemblances, like faint on bad chai and rupayya)
I hate the newspapers of Pakistan, and their dull drab monotony.
I hate the employees of Dawn - all of them.
I hate the censorship board of Pakistan.
I hate its girls and boys and their weak of eyes, which has no human element nor passion nor will to live, nor think or speak for anyone or anything.
I hate Zia Muinuddin and his prescriptive linguistics. I hate Cowasjee and his dull neighbourhood where horses aren't allowed.
I hate their TV Channels with their shabby actresses and overgrown men, their corruption, and their listless nerdy newscasters reporting on Karachi Cyclones

My horoscope reading

2010-05-15T22:36:00.000-07:00

b semi-aquatic, ssshh! in the attic
as Heidi was playing with

golden locks

two fit perfectly on rust-gold cash
old japanese currency

my collection was cash, not stamps.

aquatic in the time of E
Arian, Scarlet in the time of W

My vedic star is Pisces (on quantity)
My western star was aries (on birth, traditional)

The astrologer said 4 I see 5 houses in Pisces! Vedic charts
were drawn

The newspaper column said: fiery tempestuous Prometheus! do not draw Art!
& Linda Goodman mused

self-calm, and said:

first.
Vedic Astrology then mused, turned in mid-west sleep and said: Last.

Gear

2010-05-15T22:30:00.000-07:00

There is not an ounce of sugar in the salt.

It is clear.

Forgot the fear of near-eon gravity
solar space

galactic shepard's ave
changing roads

travel gypsy, the prophet of Kierkegaard
errors of many kinds

still goes to save his child, his
little ear-girl, kira.

Wazir at Wagah becried: no actually, they aren't hesitant
only etter, etter, he meant ether, he meant eternal, etter etter

like an otter out of ice blue sky, perfect cut

like a penguin's

P.

the picture

2010-05-15T22:17:00.000-07:00

the photograph is graphology of the strangest kind, the more you think of it, the more it evolves, evovles. Great ideas like Aristotle's were finds for Napolean. Pictures of you was a song, and picture theory has won my heart, as I formalize, establish it in my mind a novel full of....mind-images, pictures!

Reit mei huwei khaak saada

2010-05-15T22:10:00.000-07:00

Reeit mei huwei khaak saada
raison is reison is raisin, little girl raisin. REASON
There is a that and a this that I need to solve, resolve.
I will forget the bird to establish new contact laws in the tornadoes.
Changeling, the piercing eyes of her, resemble ancient eggs.
Right now there is a tension on my soul it is between the numbers 84 and .6
That is of course out of the question!
For the height of a superstar explosion in the skies, we waited in LIGHT years.
E-ex people were walking down the road to Mulberry Street, x number of individuals need challenges, ex people need challenges. like like.
Really annoying methods at chance stars, that don't appear, appear tonce again in the vines.
Forgotten people are earth stars. The night star is dazzling. Boroj is constellation in Arabic, I like dubai bars.

2010-05-12T18:00:00.001-07:00

Given that I didn't get my T.A/G.A position (for which I'm still baffled, given some good press by Prof.s about it in "implicature")

My Dad has been paying a whole lot of money for this exclusive Emich Education. I suppose I take it for granted, money...but hey so do other kids.

(and he IS my Father, I've never asked your father to pay for my education) So much for Spiritual Fathers, he's not Everybody's Father, but I wanted that station for him. He deserves it.

2010-05-12T16:08:00.001-07:00

http://www.zshare.net/audio/76020043d411b514/

http://www.zshare.net/audio/76020358fa24dd3d/

http://www.zshare.net/audio/76020514bbb4671b/

http://www.zshare.net/audio/76020585aa190268/

Above are four versions of "Loneileila Danzule" - Please copy and paste the text in your browser window, because at this moment that is all that's running here.

Enjoy.

Version One: Dream: Doneleila Dratzule
Version Two: Business: Mocking Businessmen, Artist.
Version Three: Shout Out.
Version Four: Dark.

Text of file: below

AUDIO ATTACHMENTS FOR THE TEXT: LONEILEILA DAMZULE

Lonileila damzule

2010-05-12T14:56:00.000-07:00

In the ekera-bisme-rabba-kul-aazee, she's got to four-a-say, in that squaredance as they would say to yellow cats on immigrant streets, she say: nobody speaks, howcome? she says, Not what you will, but what you say, she says: ah, I see, she says: voilafaladadeedae

She says: loser, I'm watching you, she say: Ah I got you, She say: not a problem sir, but remember floor? Grad? Memoir? She say: the only thing startling is, that you all aren't affordable. She say: regularly, assaulted. She say: lack of manners is breakdown of Empire School, Language God.

Dada

2010-05-07T17:25:00.000-07:00

I miss his Vincent accent, I miss his persian beard,
I miss his very form, I miss his Earth
I miss the derveshes, the derveshes say
since he's been away, they sing, it curses

the jahanum of his absence
since the beginning
lost, little girl, lost, little girl

Watch me resurrect Empires, and for who

vafaaon kee humse tavuquh nahin hei...aaj shuru kiya hei...parcha inho nei

2010-05-07T17:22:00.001-07:00

I wish no one at all 'spied' on my work - No one.

I like to live alone & its time for the monthly absence - I will return now to Earth, after May 31st.

Dada Abu...was something else...only one man ever knew me, before I was even born.

That's it.

Towards the skies then, Dada?

Watch me go alone again, Countdown 31

aah na kar labon ko see
ishq hei dillagee nahin

2010-05-07T16:45:00.000-07:00

If anybody cheats or steals any ounce of silver from my fucking gorgeous silver-green hair, Earth Shatters.

I'm amazed at the white-dyes going on in the world - Bob's own hair (A nickname for my Pakistani Dad) is white-sure, mine is silver. Grey was the name they gave me, Solo...

(don't expect anyone to understand)

2010-05-07T16:42:00.001-07:00

My beautiful, beautiful, beautiful life. Undeserving Winds. Canceling!

urdu poetry...irshaad veghera (I'm a girl hazraat....attention? zara kuch?) Mehfil, mehfil

2010-05-07T15:11:00.000-07:00

jiyo, yaaron, apna jahan, yaro, kuch toh karo sanam

jaan leva kuch, qayamat kuch, kisee kei liyee kuch, muqarar kuch, har dum kuch

chaho kisi ko yaaron, kisi ko bhi, kuch bhee toh karo sanam

vadee-e-hayat, jago yaaron

Earth is dying...tumhara jahaan yaaron

kuch toh karo, yaaron, jiyo ya maro yaaron

"YA ALI MADAD ALI YAAR PE QURBAAN HEIN SABHI"

--

Can anyone answer that question? rhetoric, basic.

Devil 666 - That Eternal Thing.

America????????????????????????????????????????????????????

2010-05-02T20:04:00.000-07:00

Apparently YPSILANTI MICHIGAN (yes that's correct, where the world's FAMOUS UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN IS LOCATED around 20 minutes from here, BY CAR, of which my college IS AN AFFILIATION (or a chapter to) I mean I don't know what it is, besides that I could take courses at that college, no problem, just signing a sheet of paper of some sort, from ISA. (international student association)

anyway, here the MCDONALDS YES REALLY PAKISTAN IF ANY ONE IS LISTENING TO ME EARTH MARS MCDONALDS 24 HOUR CAFE??????????????????????????????

CLOSES AT 10

---

So you can imagine, whereas MCdonalds is just open at night in Karachi, I have yet to see a CLOSED MCDONALDS at any time of the day, I have ever gone there - it is an interesting question, though. Is it open at, say 4:30 also? and 5:30?

Cause Tim Hortons CANADA IS OPEN 24/7 ...

MCDONALDS I wish I could write it out bigger.

Now listen to this.

So I say OK whatever, so your drive-through is open till 12 (midnight) no big deal - I'm a student here, life is on the road (I DO KNOW HOW TO TAKE BUSES, TAXIS, TRAINS etc)

So she is of the notion, that I can't just ask for a burger at THE WINDOW

Now I remember that famous famous night in karachi, when Pizza Hut was not open (cause it was jam packed inside - you know karachi)...so, we were all standing outside in lines at some window they had opened RIGHT THEN TO SERVE CUSTOMERS

YES HELL! YOU GOT IT - YOUR MAIN JOB IS TO SERVE CUSTOMERS

MCDONALDS HAS been around my home-town long enough to be a source of 'home' to me, now that I am in INTL well-known country, USA....and it seems, that was atleast one of their ideas?

Multi-Nationals are cool - the way they are int'l.

Anyhow,

So she's like: You can't order Miss, cause I don't take no order, you gotta have a car.

Chalo. Bijlee gayee.

So I try to explain to her, Miss, Ma'am, do you realize that the ENTIRE CAMPUS IS CLOSED TODAY? and we have NO FOOD AVAILABLE ON THE ENTIRE CAMPUS, where STUDENTS LIVE 5 seconds away -

SO they know how to run all the businessnes here, but listen to this:

She says:

No Ma'am I can't do nothing about it, you got to come at 10.

(Don't Nanny me around, or I'll beat u to death..is what I am thinking, thinking faintly about my karate classes in the MOUNTAINS OF UPSTATE NEW YORK)

SOI say its around half an hour or so over...I don't know when I can come in...
that whole area is closed down, I don't have any food...so...

she says: this you're gettin' cause I bein' naaaice to ya...

and I say: are you insane? out loud I say: that makes no sense...you are a multi-national, American chain?

The guys behind me have their 'order' DONE - so, I notice, that I did go the FIRST WINDOW, where somebody had written in a scrawling illegible writing: NEXT WINDOW

And suddenly, that first window is 'working' (Atleast they could use that for WALKERS? It is really no crime? I don't HAVE a car?)

So I say to the guys in the car: hell, you can get a burger cause you got a car! I get no burger cause nanny-ma sayin' here no way no way....

I hate it when girls act past their age, as if they were big old nanny trees.

THEN,

she says go to the other side...and we will deliver( cause they know the RIGHT things)

Earlier I said: where's your manager?

and a faint looking boy from some 1930s suburbs movie, with no answers, appears and says:

No....na...(NOTHING)

---

I KNOW Mcdonalds Managers?

I mean remember those great Pizza Hut PEOPLE? the LIFE of it all, MAN!

You think I'm joking or lying or anything?

Unbelievably, he comes on time, and hands me the coke glasses (I had ordered cold coke and coffee - she refuses to give me the coffee I want, its 'over') OK

I mean its possible...

then she says: "You want TWO cokes....haha"

Is she for real?

I have a PAPER TO STUDY FOR THE WHOLE NIGHT POSSIBLY I HAVE NO OTHER FOOD FOR THE ENTIRE NIGHT - DO YOU UNDERSTAND YOU ARE A PROBLEM?

SO I tell him, can you give me a holder-tray for this? I know you have them?

So he's says listlessly: yaaah

and I wait, and get this horrible coffee, bad fries

I mean, I know my Mcdonalds fries!!!!

then he says like a good sargeant: have a great night!

Right!

new function

2010-05-02T02:14:00.001-07:00

style='font-size:10px; font-family: Verdana, Tahoma, Sans-serif; line-height:10px; width:300px;'> width='300' height='175'> src='http://widget.elyricsworld.com/scroller.swf?lid=88899&speed=4' width='300' height='175' type='application/x-shockwave-flash'/>
Kiss From A Rose lyrics found at elyricsworld.com

Clear message to Ypsi-Arbor - "smoking bans"

2010-04-30T02:05:00.000-07:00

I never break rules - damn, I was so involved in my research projects on Ling and CHL and Amer. Fiction - I never realized all this was going on!

So don't just appear out of nowhere and start being rude, and don't work in smirnoff ice stores, if you don't believe in wine-shops! In France, it was quite elitist, last I visited - after all, its what it is, its how it is. I love to preserve culture - I thought I was particpating in it!

At least its re-affirming that it was 100 year American culture, and I in fact was participating in it!

---

Smoking is fun and regal - I think thinkers smoke - forget everyone in the world, my dad smokes. He makes graphs and he smokes. Two things I know about him.
Even his wife used to smoke for some years. I enjoyed that ...story.

I smoke sometimes - if I feel like it. Its fun when its part of a culture. I never get addicted to it, its rather like mashed-potatoes, I mean, you can get by without it. I smoked here to think of my dad, and the way it was, growing up in karachi, thinking about Casablanca, our apartment building...anyway, life is particular, not general. There is too much about it.

Ask a writer!

--

Some reports are sayind 38 states have died to cigerrettes, and others that 20 have, I have read Michigan is the worst hit by the target, and U of Michigan is announcing 2011 smoke-free campus.

Wow - tough statistics.

I wonder what my country will have to say about this one, this time...lahore pakistan-karachi baat....always a new turn.

So drinking and smoking is culturally taboo in America? What happened to America...err while i was....studying??

No more cigerettes in America, Michigan.

2010-04-30T01:33:00.000-07:00

Dr. Ron Davis Smoke Free Air Law, is being passed May 1st in the entire state of Michigan, for all bars, cafes, local pubs, restaurants, schools, balconies, etc.

I have never really taken to addictions in my life - in fact, most of it has gone round, to keeping people ambiguous as to what I really mean, when I say, "see you."

I heard about the smoking-ban in all of Massachusetts, it is nearly implemented. This May 1st, there is smoking ban in most of everything I could think of - and yikes! I just saw it. April 30 is the last day Michigan smokes.

(It is allowed on Native American tribal land and casinos) as I just read. Fines can be up to 100 and 500 for more 'offenses.' I heard about their next target being 'drinking,' from some mentions on the internet cafe newspapers.

Holden Caulfeild and the rye...

Anyway, there is this much we can say about a 100 year tradition ending, since I read about Michigan history, and that their 1913 'bowling alleys' and 'cigarettes' used to go hand in hand.

I really hope they will be banning all cigarette selling also everywhere - as cigs are now banned in apartments, outside most and all places, including your coffee breaks between grad classes.

A whole culture is dying here at Ypsi, Michigan - watching.

Its sad, the demise of it all. Ashes...

I remember chimney smoke of Hartwick certain buildings - and watching the spirals of smoke rising, and creating mist winds.

Anyway, I think if they stop selling cigarettes at all cig stores (Except to native indians, it seems) then - no one would buy them.

When I was in Canada, Marlboro died at York, I was enrolled at Atkinson, the place I graduated from - Atkinson Faculty of Professional and Liberal Arts, as my degree reads.

They shut down an LCBO (I think that's what they were called) and kept natural earth rocks and other mountain pieces there - that was cool, at York Dale shopping mall I believe. However, I really wish the LBC credit culture will show the sign of reason also.

I have never committed hate-crime against anyone in my entire life - though life has been tough here at Ypsi-gay town, for girls.

I didn't know so much could go on of new male-patriarchal hatred for women again, as usual - you just live and learn.

I like to stay up late at night sometimes, and watch the lake mature and mature, and take into herself, breath, poise - natural stability.

Giving up the smoke, Michigan? - lets make it a GAIA IDEAL - is all I can really say.

Intention is all. That's the game of life. Never hurt anyone.

(not even girls who are NOT gay, in Ypsi-gay town....anyway man....as they say...

who cares

our usual 24s, our usual 7s

2010-04-30T01:08:00.000-07:00

I was hanging out at Ypsi-town here at Eastern Michigan University, and the strangest thing happened - I discovered a market, right here behind student center! I hope the timings will be lax for 24/7 computer cafe - man, I felt it would be 24/7 THROUGHOUT the year, not just most of the year - It doesn't cover my exam period?
Doing Grad exams, is tough business, and I wish that the 24/7 computer commons would be open throughout the night.

Its amazing to hang out late night, and watch the starry skies, with out local clocktower, take a few breaks and get back to work. In fact, I wish they had Tim Hortons, Canadian 24/7 culture near by also - I miss all that, growing up in Karachi with our usual 24s, our usual 7s.

2010-04-20T03:21:00.000-07:00

---------------------------------------------------------------------
when shy boys come of age, Holden Caulfield teaches them how to smoke.

when shy girls come of age, Fatima visits them.
--------------------------------------------------------------------

From Fatima's ongoing discussions with herself, about her self as TEACHER

I don't practice yet ; )

2010-04-20T03:18:00.000-07:00

----------------------------------------------------------------
About two of us knew that night, that night was over.

there was one person there, Alone.

She said: I am this & this, so that was that.
----------------------------------------------------------------

Princess' Monologues

Family Line: MO:GAL, Mirza

smoking is legal 'beyond a certain point' in Ypsilanti, MI

2010-04-20T02:55:00.000-07:00

I held late-interest in the community again.

Nothing as beautiful as the late-night Ypsi street, quiet, quiet - hush. Specially, when they leave...

And you are Alone...

And then you take out that last cigarette and smoke, towards the sky, you see the ghost of a man. Just a ghost.

Its your favorite guy.

You're home.

Soon, soon at least...soon

2010-04-19T06:34:00.001-07:00

Its gone pretty quiet out here, cause of exam fever, looking forward to "life-opening" after the exams - hopefully, soon...

Acting History

2010-04-19T06:26:00.000-07:00

Acting History

My Plays include: 'Actress';

Saanp (Urdu Feminist Play) Karachi, PK, Dir. Khaled Ahmed
Russian Peasant Play (Urdu Adaptations) Karachi, PK, Dir. Anjem Ayaz
Munto's Play Karachi, PK, Dir. Anjem Ayaz
El Retablo (Spanish Pantomime) Hartwick, N.Y America, Dir. Terrance Fitz-Henry
Tartuffe, Quirk Theatres, EMU, contemporary Peer-Director.

Hamlet, Napa Theatres, Dir. Rahat Kazmi.

Other Acting Performances:
'Author' for Play Direction, Plays EMU MI,America
'hand-wrestler' for Play Direction, Plays EMU America
'woman' for Play Direction, Plays EMU America
Silent plays, (understanding the use of non-language) EMU America
Language Plays (breaking into: language, understanding its significance on the stage) EMU America
"Puck," York Workshop, Toronto, Canada
"Hamlet," Karachi Theaters, National Academy of Performing Arts NAPA
"Ophelia," Karachi, NAPA
"Wife," Munto's Play, NAPA
"Older Sister to a boy," work with Khaled Ahmed, in-class performances.

Single Page Memorable Auditions:

Anarkali (Urdu, for Napa)
Lead Female Protagonist (Phantom of the Opera, Lahore)
The Boy (Spanish, American Production)

Work as Assistant Director, with Dir. Rahat Kazmi 2007
Play: "Aadhei Adhoorei"

Comedies

Rano in "Bashira in Trouble" (SJC Farewell of 1997)
Random Skits, SJC
Stand-up Comedy, SJC hang-outs

Historical

Moghul Court Dancer & Actress (SJC Farewell of 1997)

Fav. SJC Dance
Chappa Chappa Charkha Chalei

My Favorite Poetry Readings include:

Rape of Lucrece, Shakespeare, With Director of Voice, Prof. Fitz-Henry
Ode to the West Wind, Shelley.

Ode to a Nightingale, Keats (Lyceum favorites) KARACHI
Rime of the Ancient Mariner (Lyceum favorites) KARACHI

"Severity," at the Buddha Bar. Toronto, Canada

Recent:

Urdu Translations & Readings of Neruda and Baudelaire, AT THE EMU International Students Festival' 2009
Reading of famous song, "Gulshan ki baharon mei" by Musarrat Nazir. 2009 (same event)

Founder and Member of Pakistani-American Band, "The New Dimension" - 2008

Page Performances of Glass-Butterflies Caught in a Prism,

Samuel - guitar
Dan - electric keyboard
Alice - Piano
Fatima - voice, readings of GPCP

The practice-sessions, 'jamming' and meetings of our group, spoke of the philosophical debates of undertaking a venture based on 'sing-talk,' and 'natural hum' and even 'poetry reading' - rather than the usual 'pop song/singing' style.
Our performances were held at Alexander music hall,EMU'08 and piano-practice rooms, though each one practiced alone also.
The total life of our band was around 6 months.
It also featured people from Art Administration who helped us with the December performance at Alexander Music Hall. Matt Lahrman, a fellow linguist, also took part in one of the meetings, where he performed Chinese poetry, and spoke of the power of 'gesture' in Chinese poetry - just the language was not enough to carry out the entire meaning of its intention.
We were advised by the Theater Teacher and Director at EMU, by the name of Mr. Piroz Agghsa, and he attended a couple of meetings also, and advised us about how to bring the act about.
A music department teacher, one of Alice's friends, also came to see our work, and was impressed by the piano-guitar-vocal rendition of a GBCP piece, "Mother." I remember he mentioned that I 'could sing, he could tell,' and Alice who mentioned I got the perfect C. Though, as a linguistics major here at EMU my main idea was to work with voice alone in creative ways, to get the stress of musical meters on language.
Several of such discussions ensued, we had early morning sessions at Alexander, including late night ones.
We discussed the value of taking our work to local pubs and cafes, and if it could be catered there.
I wish all the fellow-members of my advent well. Also, I am happy that they took interest and took part in the meetings.
It had a six month life...and I believe we all valued it, for all that it was - a meeting of any and all interested artists on EMU Campus at the time.
Oh yes, there was also Asok Patel from India, who helped in marketing of my idea of "New Dimension" to the local community. I myself sent out a long letter, inviting all interested International Students (as that email format was easily available to me at that time)
We also enrolled in the "Student Organization" concept available at EMU at that time, and registered with paper work about it, in an academic way - lol

Anyhow....band-Split...&

Today:

I went on to work on "Solo" pieces, of translation and voice-work, with emphasis reading, with special linguistic realization of sound on poems. The act of translating itself, keeps me active in my first field of Language.

I thank you all for taking part in this discussion of all sorts - and sure, Fatima, the Founder of "New Dimension" (Thematically, Structurally..it was my idea for several years) can try to organize this type of unit again for interested members of society.

Previous society-prone gestures include:

1) The Fountainhead Society (Founder & Member, The Lyceum School)
An idea to link THE LYCEUM A LEVELS and Karachi Grammar School A LEVELS KARACHI

2) NAPA: Group-meetings, late-night hashes, talking about: what IS theater? (Founder & Member) Karachi, Of course.

-----

Recent Work:

Solo: Urdu Translations, work on Silver. (so on) Recent band-title revisions:

TOMGIRL
Solo

"TOMGIRL & Solo" (Fatima and fatima)

[No second woman or person is included, I mean that run-down idea: Its just me, myself and I EYE?)

-------------------

Established: (& Recent)

Street Theatre, in the Beggar Tradition. (found my way to it)
Speeches, (Research and Performance)
Seminar Presentations (with acting minor, featured)
Conference Presentation (with acting minor, featured)

As a Theatre Major:

2010-04-19T06:07:00.000-07:00

As a Karachi Theatre Major, I can tell the following few things:

- What is intentional

What is lacking intention.

This I include in: body-gesture, body-politik, breathing, sound-suggestion.

vulgarity is also made apparent of the ordinary: it is tough to be a theatre major,

specially,

If you're not slapstick.

lyrics, rap function, fatima's SOLO

2010-04-18T23:32:00.001-07:00

so you broke me apart
and now I'm back

so you broke me apart
so now that I am back

so that you broke me apart
and now, that I am back

SO YOU BROKE ME APART
AND NOW I AM BACK

So you broke me apart
and now that I am back

So you broke me apart

and now that I am back
and now that I am back
and now that I am back

"There lived such a man....
in Russia long ago..."

The New Train

2010-04-18T23:08:00.000-07:00

the new trains

tape of silence 1
tape of silence 2
tape of silence 8

(she's getting late!)

there is a sheet of silence
on the floor

it is white, like the uncertainty of leopards.

some said 'he couldn't go!'
but oh he went

there is a silence on the wall
it is etched white and tall
oh, oh you got a lover alright!

shimmer on the skin-silver leopards, Black Cat of Lahore
watch her go
In Karachi, they said, I was 'from somewhere else, (also)
So you will learn I am from (Karachi) Also!

The reason we don't take medicine no more!
ACROBAT!

I thought I knew you, so many years ago!
so watch her go, go, go The Black Cat of Lahore

(To Karachi, from Ypsilanti, watch her go, go go!)
Lover of the rivers, she finds her way on the mountains' steep.

je suis graveur

2010-04-16T03:53:00.001-07:00

Note to all:

I write difficult script, if you take offense, please don't read, as it is, its only on this blog, and some random diaries I keep and throw away....

Its nothing, so lets not make it something okay? I will defend *all* of my writing till time comes to TIME and TIME and Time...so lets just say....

I am a writer.

Lets accept that...

one....okay......yes try.......ahaan....O-ne.....

i am graver.....lol...haha!