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?