I’ve reduced my self to a point where I am not sure if I respect my self anymore. A point where I’ve made choices and done things to people I never imagined myself doing. Choices other people have made which I would insult them for. I’ve literally trapped myself in a maze except this time, I’m trapped in a maze which is trapped in a maze. Getting out of it this time would be a lot harder than any experience in the past. Making things right no longer seems like the right thing to do completely, it’s also something that needs to be done. I need to clear the air so I can breathe and feel free as I once did.

The feathers under my wings which once gave me flight and freedom has fallen off and like all beings whose heart needs to beat and a body that needs to heal, it always takes time to grow back. That flightless phase is when it’s most uncomfortable. Change is uncomfortable. Letting go is umcomfortable.

Hmm… What a familiar ring that phrase has. “Let it go” she says. Maybe I will.

As they say, it takes two hands to clap. There’s only so much I can do. I want to make things right. I’ve hurt more than I intended. But it’s on them if they are not willing to let me in. Eventually, I know I will not regret but I still want to fix today. It’s this moment which matters.

It’s only human to make mistakes I guess, but what defines one is how you deal with it. You’ve made mistakes too. You’ve upset me too. I’ve always pushed it away. There are many things I don’t bring up because I choose to forgive and understand that it’s possible I may be jumping to conclusions. I’ve dealt with in such a way because there’s so many other things about you which makes me happy and makes me have such feelings for you. If I did not, I would react similarly to how you have to me.

I’ve let my guard down for too long. Exposure of ones vulnerability to others is determined by the level of trust one has for that person. That trust is about to be broken and I don’t want it to.

Let time do the talking and hopefully you speak first.

-Amir

http://amirlatiff.wordpress.com

PS: I speak through a split. I’m taking a step down to reflect and make necessary change as for the first time, I feel like my father. I will not submit to that.

Wrote this a while ago. Don’t know if I agree with it so much now (or if I ever did) but it’s something to think about, and I don’t like going this long without posting anything at all.

Art is life.

My favorite quote from Dead Poet’s Society is this:

“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.”

We live for art. That’s basically what he’s saying. And this is what that means to me:

As humans, we each lead singular lives. We are all individuals with our own individual perspectives, views, feelings, thoughts, and these defining elements will never be reproduced in someone else in exactly the same way. At the same time, while we experience separately, much of what we experience is the same, and while we embrace our uniqueness and celebrate originality and independent thought, we embody a strange yet innate contradiction by constantly seeking companionship–by looking for ways to assure ourselves that in fact, we are not alone.

No one wants to be alone. Even if a person takes cold comfort in desiring solitude, it’s not truth. No one wants to feel like he is the only person on earth in history to ever experience what he is experiencing. Everyone wants to be unique, and everyone is–but everyone also wants to be understood and heard.

To me, this is the cause of all art.

Art is the attempt to share your perspective, you own individual assessment of an experience, with someone else who can identify with your experience. It’s letting others see an experience that they share, through your eyes. It’s communicating your thoughts and emotions and ideas. It’s introducing others to your way of seeing and feeling. It’s inspiring them to reevaluate their own way of doing this.

Art brings people together. It gives them a shared human experience. It makes them feel like they are not alone. It lays the groundwork for connection on a deeper level. I don’t think you can love art without loving people. Though sometimes art is making people feel uncomfortable, forcing them to confront something real they would rather avoid, it is still truth. Art is truth–personal truth in words, images, sounds, movement. To create real art, you must believe in what you’re creating. You have to be passionate about it. If it doesn’t mean anything to you, why should it mean anything to anyone else?

Art is courage. It’s risky. It means finding your own personal truth, embracing every vulnerability, channeling it, and opening it to the world. And the world is frequently unkind. I think that stops people from trying to get people to listen and see them. It stops me. I have this habit I’ve developed of assuming that 1) no one cares about what I have to say, 2) I don’t have anything to say worth listening to, and 3) I don’t really want to lay myself out so vulnerably, anyway. It’s terrible. They’re awful excuses, and they shouldn’t stop anyone from trying to make himself heard. We’re constantly bombarded by images, sounds, words, all the time. There’s a lot of garbage out there, and a lot of stuff that just doesn’t mean anything to us–but it may mean something to someone. By not sharing, we’re potentially depriving someone else of something meaningful.

The Pop artist Ronnie Cutrone said that Andy Warhol taught him not to waste time trying to define art because you can’t do it. I don’t think that’s true. I think you can define it–it’s when you try saying what is “good” and what is “bad,” that’s when it gets tricky. I think that to me, “good” art is something that successfully communicates the artist’s perspective, inspires interpretation, or both. There’s plenty of entertainment that is not art, and I can appreciate it–but it doesn’t mean anything to me. The only way I can criticize anyone’s creation is look at it and ask myself, “What does this mean to me? What could this possibly mean to someone else?” If either answer is anything of significance, then I can’t just dismiss it. Can I?

I couldn’t get rid of the cops.  I slipped through narrow cracks in the traffic and screeched around every turn, but they were still tailing me in the rear view.  Something wasn’t right.  I fingered the surface of the mirror and felt a slight ridge outlining each car, so I started picking at them with my nails.  One by one, I peeled them off and flung them out the window like chewed and flavorless gum.  That’s when I realized there was probably a lot of money in the business of robbing banks.

It’s amazing how at the least time expected to ever be hit by inspiration, you’re hit smack in the face with it.

I was just hit with inspiration for a series, but something probably not expected from a person like myself. I already had ideas for characters in mind, so I just have to edit that a little bit and form the plot. The story will revolve around a troubled kid, who’s pretty much a “biker” (quotations because he’s not actually a biker; he just drives a motorcycle), going through the obstacles of life.

I swear, it’s not as cliche as it sounds. And no.. The characters aren’t stereotypes, either.

So, hopefully I can get that all worked out sooner or later.

Pakistaniaat--Table of Contents

As we are moving to publishing three issues per year, we will need more reviewers to review our article submissions. We could use your help in reviewing articles from all fields of humanities and social sciences. Our review policy:

The reviews are blind, so the authors and reviewers never know of each other’s identity.

The reviewers get from six to eight weeks to review a submission.

Those who complete at least two successful reviews are added to our editorial team under “Advisory review Committee.”

How to sign up:

Please visit our website and register using the “Register” link in the main links.

When registering, please do provide details of your reviewing interests.

You may also watch our video tutorials on signing up and on reviewing.

Please do remember that Pakistaniaat is a collaborative effort of a global team of volunteers and by helping us in the review process, you will enable us to publish a leading, open-access journal on Pakistan Studies.

The first day in weeks with absolutely no medication at all; hallelujah, what a milestone! The day also marked my first trip outside the house in weeks, but for the few doctor appointments that I was chauffeured to; there and back.

Today I had to get out. Not because I felt the overwhelming need that had crept up and seized me so many times in the previous weeks, but for sheer necessity alone; proving that I was capable and come Monday, could face the alarm clock, pick myself up, drive myself to the office and get on with my life.

I had a little list; things that I’d been meaning to ask for, but kept putting off. And so I decided a short trip to the drugstore would be a good test; nothing too strenuous, just a few miles from home.

Mind you, I’ve only had to make my way around my house on crutches, so I was thankful for the wheelchair just inside the front doors at Walgreens, and my son had a blast pushing me around with the little blue basket in my lap, filling it as we traversed row after row.

Our errand was accomplished and we even managed a few laughs and giggles in the process. We left the wheelchair at the door and I crutched it back to the van, which was in the front row, just a few spaces from the door. However, I’m not able to drive with the cast, so I have to remove it, which is no small feat let me tell you, even though it’s made to be removable.

So, I’m trying to do all this on my own, even though my son wants to help, because come Monday, I’ll be on my own and need to get the process down. So the cast is off and I’m slipping on a shoe so I could drive, trying to position the cast and crutches between the two front seats for easy access and I hear someone honking their horn.

We turned to look and there’s this woman with who I assume is her daughter, stopped at the end of the car beside us; her blinker is on and clearly she’s wanting my spot, but apparently I’m not moving fast enough for her.

We ignore her and go about our business. He gets in as I’m still messing with the crutches and I start the van and she honks again; this time a little longer, a little more annoying. In much more of a hurry now for me to get the hell out of her way; and I feel my blood pressure begin to rise.

We were putting on our seatbelts just as the driver of the car parked beside us comes out of the store and gets in their car, but not before she honks again! And so I wait.

And while I wait I put the passenger window down, knowing she’s about to pull in beside us, just as Cole puts the hood of his sweatshirt up and slowly eases his seat back out of the line of fire.

She whips her car in, looks at me with a scowl on her face and throws her hands up as if to say, “What the Fuck.” I’m leaning over toward the window now waiting for her to emerge, and I saw the scowl disappear when looked over and saw my position at the ready, then turned back and fumbled with her bag. Her teenage daughter got out before her and gave me an apologetic look which I completely ignored.

The moment her head cleared the door I pounced….

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said a little louder than probably necessary, but wanting to be certain not to miss this opportunity, lest I would be forced to cast back up and follow her into the store. She looked at me and cocked her head, as I was continuing to infringe on her precious time.

“ I’m sorry I wasn’t moving fast enough for you; I was busy adjusting my crutches and fixing my leg before I could pull out and drive off”, and picked up my crutches from between the seats for affect, which caused her face to pale and eyes to widen just enough to be noticeable. She stood there for a moment looking at me, but still said nothing. My point was made, but I wasn’t quite done.

“Perhaps if you weren’t in such a fucking hurry and obviously too lazy to walk a few extra steps, you might have noticed the row of empty parking spaces right behind us!” She slammed her door and mumbled something under her breath then yelled at her daughter who was lingering at the front of the car, craning her neck so as not to miss a thing.

I calmly pulled out of my spot as she walked toward the door. I then backed up so that I was even with where she was on the sidewalk and blared my horn long and loud, refrained from telling her she was a stupid bitch, and then calmly drove off.

I apologized to Cole for my ugly behavior and foul mouth. It’s alright,” he said as he pulled his hood down and put his seat back up.” I just wanted to get out of your way because I had a feeling what was coming.” I smiled at him, not knowing if that was a good thing or not.

“She just messed with the wrong person who doesn’t take any crap,” he said. “Besides, maybe it was a good lesson for her. Maybe that’ll make her stop and think twice, the next time she’s in a big hurry.”

Maybe it will…

vive le vent

This Saturday after Thanksgiving for us, in our little bubble here across the sea, a universe away from

Dhaka, Nov 28 (bdnews24.com) – Muslims around the country celebrated Eid-ul- Azha on Saturday with prayers and sacrifice, although tragedy struck in Bhola as a launch disaster killed at least 35 people, many of them women and children.

The day began with millions of Muslims offering prayers at mosques and eidgahs throughout the country for peace and prosperity… [much omitted here]

….Islam marks its second largest festival with a three-day holiday. The festival of sacrifice represents Abraham’s obedience to God and willingness to offer his own son. Families slaughter animals and donate the cuts to the needy.

MESSAGES OF PEACE

President Zillur Rahman, prime minister Sheikh Hasina and opposition chief Khaleda Zia issued Eidmessages of peace and prosperity for the day. “

FOR THE DAY, peace and prosperity, for a second, for a true unadulterated instant of life, breathing, tinging, disquieting verve, messiness beholden like a smart frock, the new gimmick everyone must have before it’s too late.

and yet they celebrate rememberance of disaster

is it simply to be more grateful? To renew one’s consciousness card, that empties with each passing task to get paid with silver and paper, not worth the gold they traded for land, the space they gave away for the immediate will of the NOW.

I like this part: “The president exchanged Eid greetings at Bangabhaban on Saturday, with political leaders, heads of the armed forces and top civil and military officials, diplomats and emient personalities.” Political leaders, heads of armed forces — just calling it ‘armed forces’ is so apripro – and ‘eminent personalities.’ That about covers it.

Their goal is a peaceful and tolerant social sphere, and I suppose it follows that prosperity would be an (automatic or automated) outgrowth of that work towards peace.

The prime minister “called on all to work for people’s welfare from their respective positions and build a “disparity-free, happy and rich Bangladesh imbued with the spirit of Eid-ul-Azha.”

Opposition leader Khaleda Zia said also stressed the prime lesson of Eid-Ul-Azha as sacrifice of self interest and dedication to the welfare of the humanity.

for once in my life,
i actually hate exams
and the studying.

where’s that curiosity of mine
that loves learning new things
that loves reading on and on
that loves conceptualizing ideas

that in times of mugging,
serves me really well,
i realize it now, ironically,
it’s an asset,
not luck as i thought,
for sailing through papers
without much effort.

for weeks,
studying has been repulsive,
to say the least.

as i thought about the honors year ahead,
i realize that as much as it’s difficult to get the uppers i
so crave to validate myself,
(at least i got the dean list’s part),

my dreams have perhaps changed,
or i just need a fresh environment,
everything that holds of school
hint of those terrible memories.

Part One

2.

You didn’t look up when I walked in; you were too absorbed in your book. I was glad of that; I didn’t want my intentions clear until I was close to you, and, well, I’ve yet to find pants that really hide my excitement well. Even the purple-and-green plaid flannel pajama pants I had on, aided by the black silk boxers beneath, didn’t really help.

You were sitting exactly as I’d pictured in my head: legs curled beneath you, bare from mid-thigh down, your robe loose and providing a tantalizing glimpse of your bosom as I approached. I came closer silently, bare feet sinking into the carpet; you didn’t notice me until I’d knelt on the floor in front of the couch, my hands on your knee, my face gazing calmly at the cover of the book that hid your face from view. At my touch, the book lowered slowly, and I found myself looking at your gorgeous face, one eyebrow arched, your sensual lips gently curved in a half-smile. I loved looking at your face; that would be in and of itself enough of a pleasure, but, at that moment, I wanted more.

“Well, hello,” you said with a warm, throaty giggle. I loved how your voice deepened when you laughed, how your soft voice with its sweet accent took on resounding depth and sent new waves of love rolling over me every time I heard it.

“Hi there,” I said, smiling back and leaning for a quick kiss. As we kissed, my hands left your knee and moved to your hips; I loved caressing the erotic hourglass curve there. Breaking the kiss, we looked into each other’s eyes; I saw a question in yours and wondered what you saw in mine. “I love you.”

When you opened your mouth to reply, I leaned in quickly for another kiss, slower and deeper than the first, tender and soft in our exploration of each other’s mouths but still with hunger and sparking embers of heat. My hands rose to your hair, fingers playing in the damp strands before coming down to caress your jaw, and then trill my fingertips along your neck. When the kiss broke, my mouth moved down as well, lips dragging over your cheek, down to your swanlike neck. I luxuriated in the taste of your skin, my tongue exploring the hollows of your throat between soft kisses; my head spun from the heady soft moan this elicited from you.

“I love you too,” you said, planting a kiss of your own on my cheek. “Now what do you want?”

“Hungry,” I murmured against your collarbone.

“Oh, really,” you said, giving a gasp as my hand dropped from your head to the front of your robe, fingers brushing its terrycloth above your nipple. You body gave a little quiver as you gasped; I stopped my kisses briefly, unable to suppress a grin at the reaction. “You should warm something up, then. . .”

“Working on it,” I replied, sliding my hand inside your robe and cupping your breast. I discovered to my delight, as my hand curved around the full, firm flesh, that your nipples were erect; I could not resist catching one between my thumb and forefinger and teasing it, pinching and pulling softly, as the other fingers of that hand curled around to cup your breast, lifting it gently, feeling its weight in my palm. I grinned again as I felt your hand at the back of my neck, fingernails curving against the nape, sending a little thrill through me, and planted another kiss in the middle of your chest. “Working on it. . .”

********

Part Three on Monday. . .

VS – 11/29/09

Listen. . .
this is my
fantasy of you. . .

1.

You didn’t know it, but you were driving me crazy.

It wasn’t anything you were doing, not at all. In fact, you weren’t even in the same room with me. You hadn’t been in the room for nearly half an hour, when you’d stopped in after your bath. I’d semi-sequestered myself in the study to write while you bathed, and when you came out, you came to check on me, and, after an hour of staring at a blank page, I was grateful for the interruption, not to mention the kiss and sweet embrace that had come along with it.

But now you were driving me crazy.

It was the thought of you, sitting in the couch in the living room: your still-warm skin freshly scrubbed and smelling faintly of lavender, your thigh-length robe closed but not knotted and clinging to your delicious curves, your wet hair pulled back and flowing over your shoulders, a book in your hands, beautiful coltish legs bare. . .I could not get the image out of my mind. I was rather enjoying it, actually. Though my passion for you usually inspired my writings, today it only inspired an electric humming in my skin and a throb below my waist – wonderful feelings to be sure, but not conducive to writing.

Sitting there, stuck and staring at an endless expanse of white pixels, I could not take my mind from you, beautiful sexy sensual you, clean and warm and smelling good, sitting there on the couch, all alone, reading. . .

I thought about the taste of you.

And I got up, abandoning the keyboard in favour of more tangible pursuits. . .

*********************************

Part Two

VS – 11/28/09

Writing is a result of brain power of someone. It bears from many aspects, and the former aspect is when the writer feels his existence on his society as an individual. In this time, the people started to find his human rights in particular. So, there are many literatures about finding the rights, including Addison’s “The Royal Stock Exchange” and Mary’s “Vindication of the Rights of Woman”.

Addison’s “The Royal Stock Exchange” represent about how the stock exchange in London are in the beginning of the story. Later, it tells how strong the role of merchant in England in the end of the story. Without merchant, there will be no exchange between the public stocks. So, there will be no money that they get from trading for they and the country get.

Ere statement show how the individual person is really important in his country. Even though there are many aspects that help in developing his country on the society, the merchants are separated from the society, and written clearly on its role. Moreover, in the last paragraph, the writer made a statement that the British territories were enlarging because of trading.

Differ from “The Royal Stock Exchange”, Mary’s “Vindication of the Rights of Woman” tells about the human rights particularly the rights of woman. In fact, the whole story tells the human right clearly and specific, from the prevailing opinion of a sexual character until parental affection in woman rights.

In a part of this passage, woman should consider as a human, not just a female. It means, in that time, female behaved not like a human being, but more to an assistant of male just like the true style of Mahometanism.

In conclusion, in these two passages, they show that the individual concept is important, because it is related with role and rights of a person. Probably, if the writers don’t feel or act likes an individual, they will never triggered to write it.