confessions (ii)

Today I wanted to shake hands with a girl in a lecture. She seems uncomfortable and uninterested; she had bright red hair, coloured as a cherry. She spoke on Jeanette Winterson. On gender. And I didn’t impress her. I was just there. I was just an odd person. The guy who sat next to me just walked away not caring of me. And my flatmates don’t seem to think I am great either. I feel like the fool.

Well, today I talked to the cherry redhead. She seemed to reciprocate my conversation. My flatmates are becoming responsive too. I guess I needed time. I am not saying that I blew them away or impressed them. But one of them thought it was okay to feed me a raspberry with her own hand in my mouth. The gesture was so caring and thoughtful. It brings tears. Right now. Another shared her dinner with me. You know I am just really happy because it is really pleasing to have have that really.

I guess I was really interested in Cherry (I will call the redheaded girl that). Cherry seems to be really thin. Like she has no weight. Compared to me who packs extra pounds. Cherry has immaculate white skin. She wore a jacket today, a black blouse which has t-shirt sleeves and is not willowy but cut midriff, I saw the accentuation of her bones and her tiny waist. Her long legs and hip to half-knee length green skirt skirted around my head as brilliant aesthetics. The cold did not bother her waifish frame. My fats are stored but tickled by the breeze. Her resistance and buoyancy to the cold made me so impressed. Cherry has a sweet tone too. She seems shy but attentive. The problem is I guess we are all shy. I wanna talk to Cherry more as her research is on gender and all about the fluidities and fixities of gendered spaces, or so she talks on. Which is impressive. I wanna know more people on campus.

The funny thing is that the guy who seems aloof of me still seemed aloof of me today. Like it is his intention to avoid me and I decided that okay if that is what he wants sure. I mean, today he came into the foyer and acted like he didn’t know me, wouldn’t meet my eyes, and then asked where I liked to which I casually replied. I do not appreciate behaviour like this. I do not know is it something I did or said. Or, if he is also being shy but right now I cannot process this. I have no time and I have ample work that needs doing.

I know I am not special. I know I may lack a lot of basic skills. Also, compared to others I am not that intelligent. However, I am human. And I deserve basic human empathy and kindness. And so does everyone.

 

nameplates

To have someone as talented as Mari Sanchez Cayuso dedicate a poem to you that captures your being in the now. By Allah Almighty you feel Blessed and you feel wow how can someone know this so well. I am also teary eyed. Thank you Mari. May Allah Almighty (God) always make you happy 🙂

Arrows & Metaphors

Moving on or going back

Where you came from

To me, means you mainly traveled

With a breakup or a breakdown

I suppose . .

Your journals, moist from winter

And in your writing I find this

A proccesional of moving lights

Father waited for me in gray England

Separating bellbirds from panic

I write back, a little more bent

Than the trees in your backyard

Sir, Change is going faster

Half sea – Half land

Give me your hand

If you trust the fertility

Above your nailbed

Watch your daughter sit

Behind the limestone

With buckles on her shoes

Seeing how “the picturesque”

Outlives its meaning

Outlives, you and me

Aqila, may you find comfort in these words; I think of your grief and only hope time is making it somewhat a little better. When you love like this it is very hard to separate dreams from reality.

My…

View original post 12 more words

7˚¨c

I call it feeling miserable; mouthing an adventure as well
two feelings contradictorily present….on the high of depression, on the highs of curiosities
I am a curiosity for myself….a marvelling disdain; a sequestered quiet. ≈

confession (i)

I didn’t know that studying abroad would be a lonely experience. I am just into the experience so I am not sure how the entire experience will be; yet. And I notice people have more boundaries than me. There are a lot of cool White and Black people – people of Asiatic origins and such and I desire, hunger to talk to them. Talking and intimacy has always been an integral part of me. My being cannot resist it. It gravitates towards it as its gravitas.  People are just good at hiding or at bearing shyness. I cannot. I do not know silences that stretch due to stranger strangeness; due to anonymity. For me, I feel everyone is an adventure waiting to be explored; a university of individualism wishing to be learned and interacted with. Human to be humanly and humanely encountered and understood. But I know many people will seldom look at others this way. In a sea of bodies I am just well, just another body. Not even an attractive one. I am new. My freshness stinks like cleaning soap, disinfectant, like some form of ripeness that has ripened with the irresistible tug of the green. The men and women here are beautiful and presentable. They look healthy, fit, accustomed to walking. They have developed really clean and well attired aesthetics. I saw a woman from East Asia or East Asian origin with painted full lips – colour of poppies and blood crushed into the metaphor of richness and life. I envied here. I am plump. My skin breaks. I am not a beauty. My hair is the wires of a mess, cables of neural electricity refusing to find sockets or comfortable patterns. The climate here is colder. More foreign. My skin has broken with it. I am a noob. The gamer term encapsulates me and my personhood perfectly. I am a noob and it reeks off me like dying fish on some forgotten sands.  I have no sense of direction. Today, I was a bit in shock at looking at an official registration form that asked for my sexual orientation. It was a well definable space; a well defined definition to a sexuality. That hasn’t happened before. It was beautiful. But also a bit difficult to process. Then I giggled like a teen. I am in my 20’s. I am older than most people in my dorm or my class. But compared to them I am stupid. I am a social invalid. I am always at awe at how beautifully people do day to day things. I can’t do anything like that. Not yet anyway.

I was spoiled. Sheltered unreasonably. But where I am from many middle class or upper middle class people are like this; so are high class people. We don’t count money fast. We don’t know how to cook. We don’t know how to clean a bathroom. It just is. It just was. Imagine me. A sheltered weird creature among people who already know what they want from life. What they need in life. How to carve out their individuality. How to carve soul and identity into both paper and flesh. You may be disgusted by it. Rightfully so. I apologise for being so incapable. So immature. Yet, it was so fostered into me. So ingrained. I knew it was problematic but lacked the means to obliterate it. I do not know what sort of creature I am. I am not aware how to live. I am lesser than a baby. I am like Kyle XY without the brains. I am just me. A stupid. But I love the city. I love the openness. I love the liberalness. Love the scope of magnitude of chaos and harmony. Buildings here astound me. I am from such a backward land. I am not really even acquainted with online ordering. I have had so many privations. They are not so private or public. They just existed. I walk so much now. I love it. I wish I could share the walking with a beau. I wish I was beautiful enough both inwardly and outwardly; more strong enough, more efficient enough to be a proper human being. But I am not. And I am sad I was made into this half-formed thing. This failure. This tragedy. This inconsolable invalid.  I wish I could love more freely. Be decent enough to love.

I am like a carnival attraction. I am so carnivalesque. Maybe I look odd to others. Today I wanted to shake hands with a girl in a lecture. She seems uncomfortable and uninterested; she had bright red hair, coloured as a cherry. She spoke on Jeanette Winterson. On gender. And I didn’t impress her. I was just there. I was just an odd person. The guy who sat next to me just walked away not caring of me. And my flatmates don’t seem to think I am great either. I feel like the fool. The jester everyone encounters but is so scenic that no one would really pay attention to know. I feel so inadequate. In brains. Beauty. Aesthetics. Brains…I just feel kinda lost.

I don’t know if I am good. Or even decent. I just wish that the “me” I am can change, can evolve, can adapt and become better for myself. Also, for others. I just feel lost and the wideness of this urban wilderness both scares me and tantalises me. I wanna be found and rescued by myself. I wanna meet my spirit, my animal, my spirit-animal. I just want to be more than what I am now

!

Leave it to poet Mari to start with squirrels and go to lucidity – a mix of what someone like Ezra pound or Poe would do then migrating to something Updike would do or Barrett Browning or Anne Sexton – but saying this is a disservice because Mari is too unique a poet anyways to be held in a ball of comparison.

My Top Fifteen Autobiographical Albums – Finale

The author of this post is absolutely right. Rangeela was A. R Rahman’s debut album back in 90s. The story itself was less generic than “Slumdog Millionaire” and it contested many tropes of the time. Rahman added to genre breaking by adding non-generic music in a popular Bollywood movie which is a big deal because you see in pop Bollywood movies of that time there was a season of over the top sensationalism. The canvases that Rahman painted with his music allowed a movie which was about popular Hollywood culture and subtle critique of that culture without character assassination to be moving and also sensually/sentimentally/viscerally stunning and beautful. This movie was matured beyond its time. Urmila’s character started out as a backup dancer and they also criticise the lead heroine primadonna spoiled attitude. No one called her names for being a backup dancer or “item” girl. THE BEST PART WAS HER HOUSE WAS ALSO INHABITED BY SO-CALLED STREET RUFFIANS WHO NEVER SLUT SHAMED HER OR CALLED HER RUDE NAMES RATHER RESPECTED HER. A funny movie scene is when the lead actress apparently falls in love with her chauffeur and he tells her to not act in romantically charged scenes out of jealousy that was also subtly criticised and showed how though we feel status only marks people it is actually the status of their behaviours that shows prevalent. Overall, “Rangeela” is a defining movie of my childhood so is its music and my Abbu introduced it to me and we always loved it together too (Thanks OfOp for making remember fond memories). Also that song Tanha Tanha had this solo shadow dance sequence as in Urmila danced in complete shadow of dawn or dusk classical Indian dancing. That had given me an artistic sensibility from a young age (so Thank Allah Almighty I had a Abbu, Dad, who knew what had aesthetics and substantial from a young age and my Ammu, Mom, is pretty much like that too). So yeah great thing to remember.

Of Opinions

Today, I bring you the third and final part of my top fifteen autobiographical albums. Part one can be found by clicking here, part two by clicking here.

11. Rangeela by A.R. Rahman.

rangeela
I am sure some of you have, at least, heard some of Slumdog Millionaire‘s music, if not seen the movie and listened to the album. Even if it won a couple of Oscars, I would consider it as Rahman merely doodling, in comparison to some of his masterpieces like Rangeela. Rangeela is an important document of my childhood, contains my favourite song from my part of the world, “Tanha Tanha”, and is just a fun, vibrant album, that combines both traditional elements, and synthpop in a way that is purely, buoyantly exquisite. Most of you will not understand a word that is sung, but I bet it won’t stop you…

View original post 583 more words