Sweet Dreams

2:17am

I've had trouble sleeping ever since I was little.  The reasons may have varied, but the problem still existed.  Don't go getting the wrong idea - I wasn't some doped up baby that was addicted to sleep aids to try to get some shut-eye.  Actually, I was never allowed to take a sleep-aid.  Huh - that probably could have solved this whole mess, couldn't it have?  Ah, well.

When I was a wee five year-old, I would lie awake for hours on end with the covers over my head.  Why, you ask?  I feared some man would pop out of my closet or my window and end up being an axe murderer.  Thank you, cable television.  At any rate, my mother's advice was to turn and sleep on my side, facing the wall.  Where the advice came from, I have no idea, but I suppose there was some logic in it.

When I was about ten years old, I suffered from a recurring nightmare - a very, very, very odd nightmare (let's just say it consisted of gigantic spools of thread and a grandmother wearing a football uniform).  I would apparently venture into my brother's room, drag him out of bed under the pretense of being too scared to walk down the hall to the bathroom alone and then jump down and scream, "He's coming!  We have to run!".  I would then fall to a complete breakdown and would end up crying myself to sleep with my mother.  I was an odd child, to say the least.

When I was fifteen, I suffered from boy-mania - though, I wouldn't dare tell my parents this (I cringe as I write this, in fear that my father may skim it and come down to yell about not focusing on studies.  I was studying...it just included studying boys).  I would lie awake in bed for hours thinking about the romantic adventures that were to grace me someday (though, it never really happened).  My father (who would simply say "You're thinking about too much.") suggested that I think of an imaginary chalkboard and to take an eraser and wipe away all of the thoughts.  Well, the chalkboard thought didn't work so well...the screetching killed me, inside.  So with a few key adjustments (to a modern day whiteboard), I gave it a try.

When I was seventeen years-old (and a senior in high school), I was stressed out of my mind.  Instead of lying in bed having wandering thoughts, I was up all night working, studying, stressing, and, of course, Facebooking.  My brother's solution?  GET OFF FACEBOOK.  If you know me, you know that I completely disregarded this piece of advice.

And now?  Now, I'm lying in bed, at age nineteen, writing this in my head (transcribed the next morning).  That's my new problem (along with a mixture of all of the above problems which continue to plague me - minus the nightmare.  I beat that spool of thread into the ground.).   I write.  I write at night when all of the lights are off and I'm warm and cozy in my bed - the thoughts just come to me.  And so, instead of drifting off to sleep with a smile on my face, I am forced to play out the ideas that pop into my head.  Half of them don't even make it to paper (or to computer screen, rather), but just in case, I write it all out in my head.  Doesn't seem like such a bad alternative in comparison to my past sleep-depriving activities.  What advice shall be thrown my way, now?  Anything?  Bloggers?  Perhaps there is no advice needed, this time.

So, I say to you, sweet dreams and good night.  I'm off to a land filled with words and baggy eyes.

Hello and Good Night!

I was wondering, how come "good morning" implies "hello" and "good night" implies "goodbye"?  What if I was leaving somewhere in the morning - would I be able to say "good morning"?  And if I walked into a place at 10pm, I can't say "good evening", so would I say "good night"?  Why is "good evening" so special that it gets to imply "hello" even though it is later in the day?  Poor "good night".  

I'll tell you about value!

I just got back from attempting to sell my textbooks back to the SMU bookstore and was shot down repeatedly with the following phrase, "Sorry - these books no longer have any value.  We just got new editions."  That is simply the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.  Not only was I upset that I wasn't getting money back for some pretty expensive books (luckily, I'm not a chump and I bought my books off of Amazon), but what the salesperson said really got to me.  No value?  I've always been taught by my family that knowledge is the most valuable thing you can ever have; An education is the one thing no one can take away from you.  And yet, here, this young lady looked at me (while quite obnoxiously smacking her gum at me) and told me my books had no value.  I know, I know - it's not her fault.  She only told me what the computer dictated to her, but I will tell you one thing, I will not sell my books to anyone/anywhere that does not find value in them.

There's a Penguin On My Window!

My roommate and I have a problem - we love to decorate.  Call it our mother instinct to nest, but our entire room is covered in pictures of friends and family, magazine cutouts, and fun memorabilia from the semester.  An outsider might walk in and think it looks like a cluttered chaos, but to Katy and I, it's home.  She recently received a "Christmas" package from her mama and we each were surprised with penguins (among other things) for our windows!  Maybe not so exciting to you, but to Katy and I, it was like Christmahanukwanzaakah.  I know our obsession with decorating may seem obsessive and eclectic, at times, but it's such a wonderful feeling - making a foreign place feel like home.  You call it a quirk - I call it a gift.  

Happy Holidays - May you spend it with loved ones in a place

you, too, can call "home".

Sandimation

My cousin showed me this link (I have an awesome family - I know) and it really touched me - not in the way that the rest of the Ukrainians were touched, but rather, I was touched (I really should stop using that word) by the beauty.  This Russian young woman has a talent like nothing I’ve ever seen before - it isn't like singing, dancing, or acting...it's rapid sand art. The images she creates are beautiful and her technique is amazing.  It just got me thinking - talent is not always what we initially think about. Nor is art.  And yet, there is no denying that the woman is talented and that her creations are, indeed, art.  It is everywhere.  And it is beautiful.

America - Salad Bowl?

Yesterday, Best Buy released a "Black Friday" advertisement that had, in absolute small lettering, a message stating "Happy Eid Al-Adha".  Eid Al-Adha is primarily considered a Muslim holiday, however, it is in fact a universally monotheistic holiday.  The day commemorates the revelation from God to Abraham to sacrifice the thing most important to him to God.  Abraham, in sadness but absolute devotion, decides he must sacrifice his son.  At the last moment, God replaces Abraham's son with a sheep - showing God's mercy and His appreciation for Abraham's loyalty.  If one knows the Old Testement well, they will realize that this story is consistent with the story within the Qu'ran (with the exception of a few minor details).  Today, Muslims celebrate this holiday by eating only 1/3 of their meal and donating the rest (or the equivalent).

So why, then, were there 57 pages of comments on the Best Buy Community Forum complaining about supporting a "Muslim" holiday?  What is so wrong about that in a nation that prides itself on being diverse and open and FREE?  I saw comments on there about how the Muslims should stop trying to take over this country and go back to their "pig of Middle Eastern countries".  I am not only shocked, but extremely hurt.  In all honesty, even if I was not Muslim (which I am), I would be deeply disappointed in America.  I was born in this country and think of it as my home - it is just as much MY America as it is others'.  And yet, it's ok to have stores say "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Hannukah", but once we progress past the familiar and old ways, it's un-American?

To say the least, I am fuming.  So much so, in fact, that I find myself wanting to block the page of comments so I will stop reading them and angering myself.  I have always been taught not to judge by small indicators - such as this relatively small group of people commenting on such a trivial matter.  However, it is ignorant people who are close-minded and hypocritical that make me wish (at times) America would live up to it's name of "The Salad Bowl".  Until then, I suppose.

Pie-ty.

As a child, I had a pie-phobia.  Confused?  I don't blame you.  I was...an odd child - picky, to say the least.  Pie was (along with meat during my vegetarian phase) one of those things that I did not understand.  It's like a caged cake!  At any rate, I refused to eat any kind of pie - apple, pumpkin, blueberry, you name it.  As I grew out of my silly childish reasoning, I continued to steer clear of pie - not by refusal, but because the opportunity never happened to cease me.  As Thanksgiving rolled around, this week, I found that my cousin was an amazing chef and wanted to bake some pies (apple and pumpkin, to be exact).  What a dilemma - pies?  Me?  Naturally, I wanted to help - to pass up this opportunity to play "cook" for the day would be crazy of me.  And so, I baked.  I baked and I learned.  And you know what?  It was fun.  Absurd, I know.  Now, I've never been a fan of pumpkin, but this pie...well, I probably shouldn't talk about it.  Don't want you salivating all over your keyboard.  So, I abandoned my silly childish pie-phobia for family and for...well...pie.  What perfect timing.

Dreams

Close my eyes

Float away to a distant land

Thoughts encompass my every being

Deep breaths to keep from drowning

I can feel it now –

The breeze so subtly graces my hair

And nibbles at my face

I can feel it now –

His warmth lights my face

His fingers interlace with my own

I can feel it now –

His eyes look deep into mine

Giving me reason to see

I can feel it now –

His lips kissing my cold cheek

Turning them from icy white to rosy pink

I wince and my eyes begin to flutter

I can feel it now –

The wind cruelly turns on me

And bites harshly at my face

I can feel it now –

The light slowly disappearing

Leaving me in fearful thought

I can feel it now –

Slipping away slowly

Taking away every once existing trace

I can feel it now –

The happiness he’s brought

Leaving my very being

My eyes are pulled open

And I come back to reality

Thoughts encompassing my every being

Shallow breathing serving only as indication –

Dreaming should be left to dreamers.

© Nureen Gulamali

_____________________________________________

We all have dreams that take over us - engulf our being.  I wrote this after experiencing a dream involving a friend who passed away in my childhood.  The poem is not written based on the actual events that occurred in the dream, but rather the feelings.  It only seemed fitting considering we base much in our lives off of feelings.

Psst - Pass the Note!

A good friend of mine that I have been fortunate to have since middle school, recently reminded me of something I have oddly enough forgotten.  The art of note-writing.  Ok, so, in middle school it wasn't so artful.  But it certainly was a thrill!  There were about a thousand different ways to fold those things - I think the folding was almost as much fun as the writing.  And ohhhh the thrill of trying to get it to your friend without getting caught - exhilarating!  But what now with these little kids having cell phones in 5th grade?  Do they just sit across the room texting the whole time?  You can't fold a text.  You can't pass a text from Mary to Sally to Andrew to Paul (well, ok, I suppose you could but you'd be stupid to).  Where's the fun in that?  Come on!

Move With the Music

My senior year of high school, I was rewarded with a great responsibility - a car.  Well, sort of.  I did not get a car of my own, but I was allowed to drive my father's car to school and back (he had a home office) and let me tell you, it was the greatest feeling on earth.  Even if it meant sitting in traffic to get someplace that should only have taken me ten minutes to get to (but, in fact, took me thirty), I reveled in every last minute of it.  I like to think that the thing that I loved most about driving the old Camry to school was the music.  It gave me an opportunity to get whatever stresses and frustrations I might have had out with the music.  If I was feeling excited, Snow Patrol was excited with me.  If I was feeling angry, Three Days Grace was banging their heads with me.  It was exhilarating.  I even found myself tearing up to the lyrics of a song that especially connected with my present-self, several times.    I don't think much else can move me in such ways (perhaps a really good book or movie).  And so, my dad's 2001 Camry and I bonded over one common friend - music.

Black Memories

They continued along the path of the shimmering lake – his every three tiny footsteps matching her one.  And yet, he kept pace.  His heart-beat, his breath, his tiny feet quickening – all to keep pace.

His arm stretched upward as it linked with hers.  His tiny hand, tiny fingers, remained engulfed in the sea that was her large palm. 

            He won’t let go this time.

He looked into the lake, mesmerized by his reflection.  Her eyes looked into his own through the reflection on the black water – her eyes warm, loving, inviting.

            He stirs in his bed – tossing and turning.

They noticed a baby turtle – overturned, its tiny limbs squirming and wriggling in the air.  He tugged on her long swaying dress with a look of sadness.  Save it.  Save it.  Her eyes looked down at him and she smiled.  She signaled at him to stay put.  He would not move.  He felt her grasp loosen until, finally, his tiny hand lacked protection.  He was alone.

A sharp pain shoots through his body.  His eyelids flutter in madness – wincing in deep pain.  Wake up.  Wake up.  He cannot awaken.  He is stuck in this hell indefinitely.

She approached the edge of the lake – crossing the fence and the sign that warned against her next move.  All for him.  Carefully, she stepped on an unstable rock, attempting to flip the flailing turtle over.

Black.  All he can see is black.  The movie playing in his head nears the end and all he can feel is fear, agony, and black.

The black water stirred below her pale feet.  Her arms moved about like those of the turtle.  Somewhere in the near distance, a little boy screamed in pain – a pain that would forever be embedded in his mind.  Her face quickly changed to a pallid color – her smile wiped away and replaced with a look of distress.  Slowly, as if in a film, she fell, her now tiny and frail body engulfed in the black monster.

Gasp.  He awakes, heaving.  He finds himself breathing one hundred miles per hour.  His body is drenched in sweat.  His ashen face is stained with tears of anguish.  His agony forces him to wish his exhausted eyelids to never again close, again.  Because, in the end, he can’t let go.  He can never let go.

© Nureen Gulamali

___________________________________________________________________________

I really can't say where this story popped out from - a very muddled mind, indeed.  I suppose I was feeling a sense of living with one's regrets - even those that we are not directly responsible for.

Make a Wish

It's November 11th - otherwise seen as 11/11.  I'm quickly reminded of my friend Emma who, even when in deep conversation, will snap and tell everyone to make a wish at 11:11(am or pm).  Naturally, she's adorable.  Her beahvior really brings into light an important issue in my life, though.  I am (for the most part) the person that will chuckle and refuse to make a wish because I know it won't work.  Debbie Downer, right?  I could really care less if i'm a party pooper in that sense, to be honest, but it has brought light to the fact that I'm not as hopeful as I want to be.  No, there is no "11:11" god out there that will grant my wish - and there's nothing you can say to convince me otherwise.  But what's the harm in making a wish, anyways?  It's not likely that it'll come true (at least for the sole reason of wishing for it), but what's wrong with hoping?  There is so much I want in my life and I know I must work for it, but what good will the work do in the absence of hope?

Letter To My Past

Dear Little One,

First and foremost, I feel the need to tell you the most essential thing within this letter - you are beautiful.  You are not, by any means, perfect - nor will you ever be.  This is not something worth striving towards - perfection is unattainable and improbable.  For anyone.  You are so strong in so many ways and your heart is truly beautiful - if nothing else, please focus on your inner beauty.  Life will be hard for you.  You will cry, scream, pain, mourn, and regret.  You will lose so many that you love - to life and to death.  But fear not, little one - these are all emotions that one finds necessary in life.  You will grow from your experiences.  You will thrive.  This is not to say that any successes will come without hardship - you must work for everything that is worth fighting for in your life.

I warn you as I would have benefited greatly from such a forewarning - you will be broken down many-a-times.  It will not be easy.  You will feel...like giving up.  Do not.  Stay strong.  Remember your family, your friends, your future - for even when it seems bleak, it can hold so much.  You determine your fate - you must take the path less taken.  You must stand up for what you believe in and know who you are.  You will not know right away - it takes time to find yourself.  But when you do find yourself?  Embrace it.

You will yearn to be loved.  Do not let this control you.  Do not settle.  You will have several wonderful people come into your life...and then walk out.  This is not a bad thing - it is simply a part of life.  A part of who you are - who you will become.  Good things come to those who wait.  I am still waiting, but I promise, you will be loved by so many wonderful people that the wait will seem effortless.

Lastly, you mustn't compare yourself to those who surround you.  Though tempting it may be, it will only hurt yourself.  Everyone is different in their own way - you are wonderful for being you.  Not for being your brother.  Or for being your best friend.  For being you.  Where you have a weakness, you also have a strength.  Love your strengths and improve your weaknesses.

I wish I could tell you so much more, but I feel that in order for you to grow to the best of your ability, I must refrain.  Remember, you must never give up.

Forever and Always,
Your Wiser Self

Trick or Treat?

My twelve year old cousin just asked me if I was going Trick-or-Treating, tonight.  I regretfully had to tell him that I would not be because I have not been "allowed" to trick-or-treat since I was in 8th grade.  He gave me the saddest puppy dog face in the world.  When I asked him why he looked so down, he said, "Am I going to have to stop being fun like you, too, soon?"

Being an "adult" sucks.

Religi-os-ity

I have a bone to pick with religion.  Well, not religion - followers, rather.  It has recently become more and more aware to me that many "pious" people around me are, in fact, not pious at all.  I know what you must think, "Who does she think she is?!  She can't decide who is and who isn't religious!"  Au contraire, mon amie.  I have, for instance, engaged myself in multiple conversations that revolve around religion (I actually very much enjoy interfaith dialog).  In each of these conversations, I have found two types of "avid religious" people - only one of which tends to aggravate me.

The first type is the informed religious person - this is a person that has their faith instilled in some sort of basis in which they are properly informed (based on experience, religious teachings, exploration, and the sort).  The fact that they are so enthralled in their faith and religion is actually quite an intoxicating thought - especially (and specifically) when they have opened themselves up to the world.  An important thing to keep in mind is that this person does not necessarily believe in a specific belief system, but rather may also be agnostic or even atheist in belief.  Their ardent (informed) beliefs are just the same intoxicating.

The second type of person is the uninformed religious fanatic (which is not specific to any one religion).  This person is extremely religious, as well - or so one would think. The difference is revealed in the conversations in which they regurgitate information regarding their faith and religion that they clearly do not understand.  If they do not understand or know it, however, how can they be so religious?  I will admit, religion has shown a trend to become more prevalent in times of need (whether they be war, poverty, or moral trouble).  Perhaps we get our sense of "religious-ity", as I call it, from our parents, then.  Think about such a statement.  Thought it is provocative in nature, there lies some truth in it.  If mommy and daddy taught us the things we know today, great.  But the problem lies in spoon-feeding something as powerful as religion.  If all we know is what mommy and daddy taught us, however, it quickly becomes evident that we are living in a skewed world.  Religion is a wonderful thing - a powerful thing.  It has the ability to persuade, save, and conquer.  Hence, because it is such a powerful thing, we must be diligent in nature to ensure that what we are putting absolute faith in is something of which we are clearly informed.  Explore the world, do research on your own, talk to people of other faiths, open yourself up.  I am not telling you to abandon your religion in search of other faiths.  I am asking you to be justified in your beliefs.

It is like Plato's allegory of the cave - if you never venture into the light, you cannot stake your beliefs in the dark.  You may find that you still prefer the dark and may even find that your love for the dark cave has only increased - great.  But until you expose yourself to the light, your love for the dark is jaded.

So, for God's sake - throw the spoon away.

Weep, Weep, Weep

Weep, weep, weep says the weeping willow tree,

A pinch, and a punch, and a kick right at thee.

Mew, mew, mew says the bony agile cat,

Ah, ah, ah – you won’t put up with that.

Moo, moo, moo says the grazing spotted cow,

You’re blinded by emotion – Revenge has control, now.

Woof, woof, woof says the domesticated dog,

Be careful with your actions – what you doubt must be wrong.

Caw, caw, caw says the black and tortured crow,

Wither in regrets and reap what you sow. 

Bang, bang, bang screams the cocked and loaded gun,

Fill your eyes with tears at what anger has done.

Beat, beat…beat cries a sad and dying heart,

What they say is wrong – you mustn’t finish what they start.

© Nureen Gulamali

I wrote the above piece after recalling the passing of a loved one.  It is not something I wish to recall, and yet, it haunts me quite often.  It is not something that should not go unremembered.  We cannot act upon our vengeful impulses; a single moment's actions has consequences that are unthinkable.  It is not a story.  It is life.

The bond that comes with time...then fades away.

For the first half of my life, I spent a lot of time trying to build meaning full relationships with my grandparents - my grandmothers, in particular.  It was difficult to say the least.  For one of them there was a language barrier;  For both there was a culture barrier.  I did what I could to win them over, for what grandchild doesn't want their grandparents to look at them adoringly?  But no matter how hard I tried, I never felt like I was the grand-daughter they expected me to be.  Being the headstrong little girl that I was, my previously fleeting efforts to win them over turned into pointless defenses that were often considered impolite.  But what was I to do?  I can't say my decision to be somewhat cold and bitter towards them was either warranted or appropriate, but it occurred, nonetheless.  I quickly felt whatever closeness I had managed to savor fade away and I only grew to feel more and more estranged and bitter.  By the time I was fifteen, I had lost both of my grandmothers.  I was not as torn up as I should have been, but it was obvious that I was affected by these losses.  Now, at nineteen, I can see how stupid and childish my behavior was.  Every child has their fits and tantrums - it's unfortunate that mine cannot be resolved.  I know that they both knew that I loved them very much and I know the same with regards to them, but I would be lying if I said I didn't have regrets.  I suppose my purpose to this post is to warn - a warning I hope all will heed.  Life is short - you've heard it before.  But for every moment that slips away, you lose a moment of opportunity - whether it be education, love, service, or simply relaxation.  Do not let time out of your grasp, for once you do, it slips away far too fast.

Control Thy Pen!

I find that when I am upset (or anything to the extent of feeling negative) or lying in bed, my writing flows much more easily.  This is, as you can probably guess, problematic.  I am reminded of the famous poets that found their pens at work most after a heartbreak, death, or deep realization (for the worse).  Well, I do not want to have my best friend die, nor do I want to have to experience teen angst after my boyfriend gets tired of me to be able to write well.  At the same time, I often find myself writing poems or "eloquent" writing when doing the most inconvenient things - sleeping (almost), driving, showering, exercising, etc.  Why does my mind feel the need to punish me so?  Certainly I could pull over in the middle of the freeway, pull out my pen and pad, and write away.  Downside?  What good use would the writing be if an angry hitchhiker kills me soon after?  Exactly.

Don't get me wrong - to say that I cannot write on a regular basis would be a terrible mistake.  It is, however, common knowledge that many people find inspiration in feelings - usually of the extreme ends.  Let's be honest, how many people do you know that sit down after a regular day and write their best piece of writing?  I can guarantee you that those people are basing whatever writing they are coming out with on previous thoughts or emotions.  I am taught and told almost everyday that creativity flows through everyone on a daily basis.  But how do we control such a wild force?  It is apparent that in life, some are able to utilize and wield their creativity in both different ways and different increments, but how are we able to increase our various creative ways and the amount which is available to us?  Can I simply say with assurance in my voice, "Creativity, I beckon you!"  I'm going to have to say "nay" to that suggestion.  I know it's not like a piece of meat in which I can choose my exact cut, flavor, and amount, but to say creativity is uniform would not only be preposterous, but also "sinful" in nature.   I wish I could just disregard such questions, but I cannot.  Writing is who I am.  My very being.  The words flow through my veins.  They pump my heart and fuel my body's every action.  That's it, isn't it?  My "many ways" of being creative...is writing.  And then some, of course.  Theatre.  Music.  Art...not.  I will not say that my brain will not waste any more time on such a silly question as, "How may I manipulate creativity to be nicer to me?", but I will appreciate the wonderful gifts I have grown to think of as an innate part of myself.

Self-Destruction In Mid-Air

If I told you I was not one with my body at this moment, would you laugh?  Would you tell me that "out-of-body" experiences are things of the mythical worlds?  I looked down at my life, today.  Down - not at.  It was...enlightening, to say the least.  How can one be so destructive?  So...bitter.  I don't remember getting this way.  Life has handed me so many things - of which I have made both fruit punch and lemonade.  And yet, I can't help but see how I am pushing everything away.  It's ridiculous to see how hard I have worked for some things, only to screw them up in the end.  What can one do at that point, though?  Do you look back and say, "Wow - that was a mistake."?  Or do you look back and say, "I don't actually regret that at all...despite what one might think."?  And if you think the latter, what does that mean?  It's not that I don't value these things in my life.  I do - whole heartedly.  So, maybe the issue isn't that I don't care.  Maybe the issue is that I care too much.  Maybe it hurts too much to lose these things on something other than my own accord.  Maybe it's just easier this way.

Thirty Pennies For My Thoughts

Today, I bought mascara from CVS.  You can already tell this is going to be a fantastic story, can't you?  Well, long story short, they overcharged me.  Not by a couple dollars, but by a couple cents.  Thirty cents, to be exact.  So, naturally, I was a little irked.  Irked, though I was, I was not ticked enough to go back to wait in a line of five people to get to the counter and say, "I want my thirty cents back."  But in the back of my head, I heard my mother's voice telling me, "Nureen, you worked hard for that money.  It's their mistake, not yours.  Why let them get away with that?  Every penny counts."  It drove me nuts.  I wanted to go back in the line simply out of principle, but something was holding me back.  Highland Park was holding me back. 

I looked around me and was terrified that the rich Highland Park mothers would think I was crazy.  Well, I was - not for wanting to get my money back, but for being concerned with what they thought of me.  So what if a student that I will (likely) never see, again, thinks I am stingy.  What if it had been two dollars?  I wanted to go back because of mere principle and I didn't.  I didn't because I was afraid.  As I walked down the street back to my dorm, I felt myself becoming more and more upset.  Over thirty cents?!  No, with myself for not feeling I could stand up for something.  For being afraid of being judged.  Since when was I that person?  The person that is the prototype of anything and everything that walks the Earth.  The person that feels pride in being one's clone.  The person that strives to blend with their surroundings.  That is not me.  That won't be me.  Next time, I won't freak out because Highland Park Mommy is tapping her Pradas at me.  Next time, I'll stand in that line and get my money back if I want to.  Because "I do what I want."

Adieu

There are certain songs which,

Undoubtedly,

Remind me of you.

I wish that their aesthetic beauty would not be

Tarnished

Stained

Tarnished

By your memory.

But that is something I

Cannot

Will not

Cannot

Change with assurance.

If my heart beats out of rhythm

Ever more,

It will not be in

Thought

Vain

Thought,

Of you.  Oh no – not of you.

I will not love your memory,

Nor will I hate it.

Shall I see you in the

Roads

Dreams

Roads,

I will wave to you,

Not in greeting, but in farewell.

If you were to ask forgiveness

For the damage you have done to my

Heart

Soul

Heart,

I will kindly forgive you

And then, sweet boy,

My eyes will linger and read,

As they have far too many times,

Goodbye

Adieu

Goodbye.

© Nureen Gulamali

This poem was inspired by a single moment of true independence and the belief that, while one may have to wait to find something amazing, one does not have to settle for something terrible in the meantime.

Thunder

It moves in the night as swift as the black mamba –

Slithering through the Earth as it passes each soul.

Moving from one house to another, shaking it’s foundation to

The depths of its existence.

Where will it go next?  Who will it strike next?

Its presence is welcome in my house any day –

I feel it move through my body.

I relish in the fact that no matter what happens,

For just a second – in the slightest moment –

It is in control of my life. 

It holds its hand of fate over my trembling body.

And somewhere, someone, at the very exact moment,

Feels it move through them, too.

I am one with them for the tiniest second

On this giant space called Earth.

It moves us as one in the meaningless space that is our lives.

He is moved.  She is moved.  I am moved.

We are moved.

© Nureen Gulamali

I used to hate thunderstorms - I suppose because they scared me.  It's odd how things change, though.  I live for them, now.  It is a beautiful feeling when you are inside a warm room or car and can see/hear the deafening phenomenon and how it impacts everything around it.

Oversoul

The "oversoul" is an interesting notion, to say the least.  The concept states that each small part (or being) is a part of some sort of larger whole (the universe, God, community, etc.).  I suppose it brings about a sense of belonging for some - community, oneness, unity.  It is a feeling that every human being longs for (whether or not this is a conscious sense of longing is besides the point).  One could argue, however, that there is already a sense of interconnectedness amongst mankind - the whole "six degrees of separation".  But is it really enough?  You and I are connected.  As you read this blog post of which I have just poured out the thoughts within my head, we are connected.  You now know what I think.  You now know what I feel.  But is it really enough?  To say that simply because you know what it is I feel, you automatically comprehend and therefore feel what I feel would be preposterous.  No man or woman in their right mind would claim such a thing.  To go even further into detail, I will never know that we have a link between us, just as many of us go our entire lives without knowing that we have created a link with another being.  So, in actuality, it is a dotted line of sorts that may never become a solid, completed, line.  It seems a waste to completely dismiss the dotted line, though, don't you think?  So, my question of the day is the following:  How do we complete the connection?

Intertextuality

The Pillsbury Doughboy has become a bit of an icon for the American Family. We've all grown to laugh with him, love with him, and eat with him. It's always a great thing, then, when we see him thrown into an ad for another product/service than we're used to seeing him in (horizontal intertextuality). So is the case in the above commercial - we smile when we see our familiar friend talking about Nestle Cookies, but we laugh when we realize it's actually a commercial for "Got Milk?" and he's been caught red-handed. Guess you can go wrong with the Pillsbury Doughboy - "woohoo"!

Ever Thine, Ever Mine, Ever Ours

People say it all the time - that they wish we would go back to the days of snail mail.  But we rarely make an effort to revert to such a wonderful custom.  Imagine the reaction of Beethoven's beloved when she received the famous love letter from him - certainly it wouldn't beg the same reaction than that of an e-card bear saying "I wuv you!".  There are certain things that are only capable of being displayed in letters - certain emotions are best conveyed in the permanent form of letters.  Real letters - not emails.  I've decided I'm going to write more letters - even if just to best friends and family.  After all, whatever happens in the future, they'll always have the letter of that time to keep as a memento.

Marked

I went to the Texas State Fair, this past weekend, and noticed something a bit ironic while in the museum bathroom (hey - some of the greats in this world got a thinking start in the bathroom!).  There, on the stall door, was in small, black, hand-writing, "Vera Cruz wuz here! 2002, baby!"  I initially had several thoughts floating through my head: 

1)  It's spelled "was", not "wuz", dear.
2)  What the...?!  This is the museum's property!  How rude to deface it!
3)  Vera Cruz...wasn't that someone famous?  Ah, well - at least her parents didn't name her Blanket.
4)  Hold on...this is actually kind of wonderful.

I know you're probably shocked to read #4 and trust me, I was just as shocked to think it.  The truth is, I really am a firm believer that we all go through life yearning to leave our marks on the world.  Depending on what our expectations are, this task can vary in terms of difficulty.  But look at good ol' Vera - she defaced a bathroom stall with her name on it seven years ago, and she still manages to have the world (or, the female population of the Texas State Fair/Museum) remember her name. 

That, in an odd sense, is truly remarkable. 

(I regretfully didn't take a picture of the writing, but here's another picture of people leaving their "marks"!)

"It's A Calder!"

Perhaps you have heard of the famous Calder sculptures - artistic mobiles and stabiles that reside in many of the nation's art museums.  They are, in my opinion, quite beautiful and scientific, as well - they must take into account balance and material along with concept. 

While I don't contest the beauty of the pieces, I do contest the "Calder-ness" of them.  If I created a mobile that was very similar in nature and stuck it in a local art museum, would it instigate such conversation as Calder's pieces do?  The following is, undeniably, one of the most controversial points that comes up in the art world: What. Is. Art?  I, however, do not seek to answer such a question.  In fact, I will not even attempt to answer it.  I simply want to know...why it is that we, often-times the audience in the picture, are the determiners of what is and what is not art?  It is a question that is not as often asked and a question which I hope to determine someday.

Fulfillment

Today, as I soaked in the glory of fall break and mourned the soon death of it, I thought back to my jaunts in NYC, this summer.  I recalled the countless amounts of vendors that reached out to us, attempted for us to hear their pleas, and went unfulfilled.  Surely with the amount of faces that they see everyday, it makes no difference to them...right?  But I couldn't help but think that their goal is to get the consumer to first show interest in their products and second to buy the product, itself.  Beyond that they care not what we do with the product or think of it.  But what if we fail to get them to that point?  What if we simply walk past them without even acknowledging their presence?  Do they go through a sense of failure or lack of fulfillment?  Or does the amount of attempts cancel out those that would typically be labeled as "failures"?  I can't imagine being told, "Peel these one thousand potatoes perfectly" and feeling unfulfilled for failing at a few.  On the other hand, if I was told to peel just three potatoes perfectly, a single failure would count more towards determining overall fulfillment.  Who knows - maybe I'm thinking too hard about this.  Maybe the vendor down the street closes every night with the simple hope of making a net profit.  But I can't help but feel that our faces are floating around in their heads and are all adding up to some sort of sum - whether positive or negative.

Shining Star

Today has been a wonderful day,  It seems a bit odd that it's been a wonderful day, however, because the majority of it has been spent in class and studying for my two midterms this Thursday.  But a single moment (or rather, an hour of beauty followed by a single moment) can change everything.  

I attended SMU's Fall Brown Bag Dance Series - something that I would not miss for the world.  It has become a bit of a tradition, I suppose, but given the amount of talent that is displayed in a single hour of time is unbelievable.  Brown Bag Dance Series (for those non-SMU students) is a free bi-annual dance performance that contains the hard work of many of the dance majors in the Meadows School of Art.  Students choreograph and perform in these pieces of glory and people from the entire community come out to watch.  It is, if I may say so, the best event on campus; it is something that I plan for about a month in advance...and if that means skipping a class, then so be it (but I always try to find a way to make it to class, as well).  

As I watched my third Brown Bag Dance performance whilst at SMU, I found myself in tears.  Tears of happiness, tears of sadness, tears of anger, tears of surprise.  It sounds silly, I know, but the amount of feeling and emotion that is put into these pieces are always overwhelming.  Needless to say, this was enough to tip my day over to the joyous side.

While leaving Meadows (the school of the arts), however, I stumbled upon an elderly couple - the wife of which seemed to have her hands full and the husband of whom was a sickly character in a wheelchair.  Without a moment of hesitation, I asked the elderly couple if they required any assistance.  "Actually...that would be wonderful, if you wouldn't mind," the woman responded.  I quickly took her belongings onto my shoulders and into my arms and also offered my arm to her husband.  As the two of us walked down the steps and his wife stood on top of the steps waiting for me to return, the old man looked to me with a glistening eye and slowly said, with grunts of pain in between, "When you get to heaven, there will be an extra star waiting for you."  My heart fluttered.  I didn't know what to say in response - what do you say to such a wonderful thing?  "I'll be sure to tell you 'hello' when I see you," I whispered and added a wink.  

As we reached the bottom of the stairs, I left him there (holding the railing) and ran up to carry the wheelchair down.  As I collected my belongings to head to my next class (which I was now late for), the old woman thanked me and the elderly man said (with quite an effort), "Have a wonderful rest of your life."  I replied with no words, as I could not find any words that were worthy, so I instead smiled my widest smile with absolutely no effort.  Who needs exercise when you have a helping hand that, when offered, can reward you with a more-than-worthy amount of endorphins?

Forgotten

A terrible thought just came over me and it has to do with Shirley Temple.  Aha - caught your attention, didn't I?  I've been thinking about "child star syndrome".  You know, when a person is famous as a child - whether it is by acting, singing, dancing, etc. - and then simply fades away into the deep abyss of pop culture past.  It's a bit scary to think about.  Shirley Temple is somewhat an exception, I suppose, as she remained an icon to many even after her stardom (which, of course, revolved around her childhood).  But there are plenty of names out there that get forgotten almost as quickly as they are thrown at us, in the first place.  So what of us who are not known to many for our childhood achievements?  Does that mean that we are to be known in our futures?  And if so, are we to be remembered? 

Don't look at me - I didn't say I had the answer.

I want to hold your hand.

I drew the above picture a while back as I found myself dazing off.  There's something intriguing about human nature.  We yearn for human touch - human affection and human warmth.  It works wonders - it gives security.  It gives confidence. It gives love and happiness and fuzzies and companionship.  And it is electric.  Whether a friend, family member, or a love, the human touch is electric.  There is not, and never will be, anything quite like it.

Cataclysm

There are moments in life where things are drastically altered. Where you know you cannot look back. Where you know that things will forever be different in your view. Where something entirely too cataclysmic has decided your fate for you.

The word "cataclysm" is defined as 1) a flood; a deluge, 2) a catastrophe, 3) a momentous and violent event marked by overwhelming upheaval and demolition; broadly : an event that brings great changes (http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/cataclysm). It seems odd that a word with three predominantly negative denotations can be given a final and unusually possible-positive connotation. An event that brings great changes. "Great", of course, can be connotated as great impacting or great in terms of positive changes. At any rate, this portion of the definition stands out from the rest. It would be, if you have ever played the game, the one part that is not like the others.

So when we come upon a change in our life that is so cataclysmic, why is it that we are predisposed to thinking the change will be terrible in nature? Destructible, even? Is it because the Merriam-Websters of our lives have told us that it must be so? I am a firm believer that change, whether primarily good or bad, can be taken and molded how you wish to be fit. If you accidentally flushed your gerbil Petey down the toilet, think of the happy life he lived before that. Think of the fact that, now, you'll be able to get a new gerbil and show it copious amounts of love, as well (though, this time, keep him away from the toilet). I'm not saying the grass is always greener on the other side, but sometimes, there aren't as many weeds as you might think.

Bloody Mary...Bloody Mary...Leo Burnett.

As I spent the last hour thinking about everything but my homework, the old-age topic of superstitions came to mind.  There were several that immediately popped into my mind: "Don't step on the cracks", "Don't walk under ladders", "Black cats are ominous", and of course, "Never call Bloody Mary three times in a bathroom."  The latter especially sparked my interest (probably because I made my way to the basement bathroom in Bridwell Library and managed to spook myself by the creepy-factor).  If people whole-heartedly believed that calling "Bloody Mary" three times in a dark bathroom would cause the very Mary to appear in a mirror, then had anyone bothered to experiment?  Certainly you think I'm crazy at this point.  Well, given the amount of sleep I've gotten in recent days and the amount of activities I've had block up my schedule, insanity is surely a possibility.  Allow me to explain (though, you don't have much of a choice in this department) - if calling this figure's name caused her to appear (which, if you're a brave soul or over the age of 8, you'll realize is not quite so accurate), had anyone tried to call out the name of someone else?  Now, I clearly am of an age where doing such a thing would be silly, but seeing as how it was nearing 11pm in a library basement bathroom where I was alone, I decided to have a little fun.  In the mood of advertising based on a textbook I had been reading, I called upon the legendary Leo Noble Burnett.  Three times, no less.  Given, the lights were not off, but the other necessary elements were all provided and I figured, should good old Leo decide to grace me with his presence, he wouldn't mind that I had no control over library lights.  I like to think he'd appreciate the effort.  And so, I waited, almost (though, not quite) on my toes...but Leo remained in the past.  As I chuckled to myself (and realized I should get some much-needed shut-eye), I decided superstitions really were a thing for children.  Though, on the off-set that I would have Leo Burnett by my side to teach me the ropes of advertising, it was certainly worth a puerile chance.

Il est la gloire dans la vérité. (There is glory in truth.)

C'est drôle, la vie, où nous a conduit.
Tu as été mon tout.
Et maintenant?
Vous êtes le grain de poussière sur ma fenêtre.
Les oiseaux murmure votre nom,
Mais je ne tourne pas, pas plus.
J'espère que vous savez ce que vous avez perdu,
Parce que vous avez depuis longtemps perdu moi.
Le monde vient de boucler la boucle,
La lune se lève encore et le soleil toujours fixe.
Mais dans mon coeur,
Vous avez perdu votre place.

Vous ne font plus partie de moi.

(It is funny, life, where it takes us.
You were my everything.
And now?
You are a speck of dust on my window.
The birds whisper your name,
But I do not turn any more.
I hope you know what you lost
Because you've long since lost me.
The world comes full circle,
The moon rises again and the sun always sets.
But in my heart,
You have lost your place.

You are no longer part of me.)


______________________________


I will admit, I was experiencing a bitter-sweet feeling when I wrote this.  It was more of a sense that this person had lost a privilege - being in my life.  At the same time, however, it portrays a sense that life goes on and that, though it will be challenging, I will get through it.

Head-On? Stress-Off.

Stress. It gets the best of us; it gets the worst of us. There's no saying what we'll do when we're stressed. It would seem logical to take what is stressing us out and deal with it in hopes that after it fades away, the stress will follow - trailing slowly along. And yet, I find that stress does not always allow for such simple answers.

I would hope that if a pesky little Spanish assignment were bugging me, causing me to toss and turn in my bed during the wee hours of the night, the solution would be to get out of bed (as easy as it sounds, this is actually quite difficult), turn on the light, finish the assignment, and go back to bed - this time inviting the somber feeling of sleep to rush over me. But we, as silly little humans, don't do this. Instead, we will spend the entire night in a restless state until the sun has risen, the squirrels come out, and the bags under our eyes appear.

Why is that we put ourselves through such torture? I recently pointed out to a friend that doing something that, in the end, will just cause more stress in attempt at solving the initial stress is just creating a ridiculous (and unbreakable, at that) cycle of chronic stress. Chronic stress. Ha. There's a phrase that only an American would use.

So, here's my idea for the day (and I promise it's a bright one) - when you're stressed, and you're awfully low (the world doesn't have to be cold), DEAL with what is causing you to stress. Don't get on Facebook and waste an hour by checking every friend's new status. Don't create a Twitter because, hey, you never tried it out. And don't waste your time worrying about it aimlessly. Stress may not have killed the cat, but it certainly killed efficiency.

Shattered.

What do you do when your entire reality falls to pieces? Not the dainty falling of the leaves when fall finally comes to visit, but rather the falling of shards of glass as they hit the marble floor. Listen to the sound it makes. If only the sound that would ring in my ears was the soft sound of a single feather falling to the ground. But it is not. It never is. Reality is far too frail to remain silent as it falls to the ground. Instead, my ears ring of shattered memories. It's different now. It'll be ok. I imagine we all tell ourselves these very things - that life moves on and we will never again think of the shards of glass that now remain scattered across the floor. You can't pick up the pieces and put them back together - it's not that easy. Of course it wouldn't be that easy. For why else does life test us if not to poke and prod at us while we make fools of ourselves? Imagine life standing on the side of the road, snickering at our bumbling selves as we try to piece our lives back together. Life is just not the same with reality all over the floor. How could it be? A lollipop is no longer thought to be a healthy broccoli added to our healthy bodies, but rather a heart attack waiting to happen. Comatose. What do you do? What are we supposed to DO? I don't know. I don't know if we should continue to sit there, sobbing like idiots at what we once knew to be our realities, or if we should pick ourselves up and move along. Perhaps shop for another reality. A nicer one - one with windows and a white picket fence. Yes, perhaps we should all do that. After all, what do we have to lose?

The Ballad of the Dragonfly

(Found Object Blog Post)


His wings fluttered - not like that of a bird, yet not quite like that of a butterfly.  His body levitated - soaring smoothly until it began to drop.  His wings fluttered once more until his body began to soar to great heights, once again.


He flew past the quarrelling squirrels as they fought for ownership of the most glorious acorn.  As he soared past them, their beady eyes glared up at him - envous for his beautiful gift of flight.  As he soared past the black birds - pecking away at the tender Earth in search for the juicy, plump, worms that would surely satisfy their hunger - they glared up with wonder at his small, nimble body.  


Once again, as his routine came to be, his body begain to drop slowly until he was to, once again flutter his wings.  One flutter, two flutters, three...He began to drop to a height which seemed to close to the Earth from which he was born.  The steep descent fought with his tiny body and shocked his small, beating heart.  The rough wind blew past him - tearing his body down until, finally, his body collided with the Earth beneath him.  He twitched, knowing fully-well that his frail body could take no more.  As his heart slowed, his wings slowly stopped twitching.  His heart - gone.  His wings - gone.  His life - gone.  His flight - gone.  His beauty - 


A young girl bent slowly to stare at the fallen dragonfly.  She examined its wings, its body, its being.  She held it in her hands and admired the beauty of the creature.  Suddenly, something came about her as she felt her heart flutter for a slight instant.  


The moment, which quickly came to pass, was over and forgotten.  She bent, once more, to lay the dragonfly to rest on the lush green grass.  As she walked away, returning to the journey she had previously began, she left every thought of the creature and its beauty behind.  All that remained was the instantaneous flutter of her heart that, on occasion, returned to her being.

Droplets

What happens when everything you have worked so hard for is questioned by those you thought it never would be?  It's easy to lose yourself in your surroundings - whether it be a joyous place, or a somber place.  You eventually become one with your environment - or, rather, that's the theory.  Many people decide they'd rather stand apart from their environment than become a homologous being in the surroundings.  But I don't see it that way.  I think...you can become one with your surroundings without becoming homologous with the world.  Think about it - if a wall contains twenty photographs, each different, certainly one could deduce that the surroundings were indeed different.  Add another photo, however, and it becomes one with the environment of the room.  It blends while remaining itself.  If only that was always the case, however.  


I fear...I fear that my surroundings may begin to mold me.  I have worked to hard to get where I am.  To who I am.  Certainly I wish to become one with my surroundings, but I do not wish to become like everyone else around me.  I do not want to be molded to be just like everyone I am aquainted with.  Not even if it is what my friends expect of me.  But what then?  How far does one go for friends?


I suppose it's like a simple titration.  You can add a differently colored chemical to a base in droplets, and they will quickly fade away - the base remains the same color and the chemical characteristics, for the most part, remain unchanged.  After a certain number of drops, however, the base is no longer what it once was.  The color has changed.  The characteristics have morphed or changed in ways that may or may not be known.  


I don't want to be that base.

The Flutter Of The Wings

I've been thinking, more often as of late, about the consequences our actions have on, not only our own lives, but on life in general.  I wish I could say it was all deep and wondrous, but many of the actions I consider are petty actions such as, "Should I have eaten that sandwich for lunch, today, or should I have saved it for dinner?"  As unfortunate as it is that my mind is plagued by such silly thoughts, they are, in essence, thoughts of large significance.  I wonder, how would we react differently if we were to think about our actions beforehand?  Of course, we've always been told, "Think before you act, deary", but I mean really think.  Think of how your life will change.  Think of how it will affect those around you.  Think of how the guy down the street will think differently of you.  Think of how your grandchildren years from now will chew their food differently.  Think of how the dog you owned as a child could have grown up differently.


It's insane to think that a single butterfly can single-handedly (or single-wingly, I should say) effect the path of a tornado; It's mind boggling.  If such a small creature has such a great impact on the world, certainly we effect the events of the world without even noticing.  If that doesn't instill fear within you, I don't know what will.  I think...if we were to just slow down in what has become this utterly chaotic world, we could change things for the better.  Perhaps that's a rather large notion for a single person to make, but maybe, just maybe, it could work.  Maybe we could be the heroes of this world instead of the destructors.  Maybe.