Marked-Up

Sometimes, I wish I could just...write.  Allow the words to flow out of me and for that to be that.  Unfortunately, the only writing with which I can do this is my personal writing (including this blog).  But I wish...that I could always write freely.  Write of me.  Letters, papers, essays - it's not me.  It's formalities.  It's structure.  It's editing.  It's peers.  But it's not me.  It's this sense of rote learning and rote teaching.  I don't want that.  I want...to be able to write what I feel and think - to be able to hold it out and say, "This is it.  This is what I want to turn in.  This is me."  It doesn't work that way.  MY writing will not get me where I want to go, I'm told.  Get someone to edit it.  Have your brother look over it.  Get to the point.  Take out the nonsense.  What you want to say and how you want to say it isn't going to cut it.

It's always going to be this way, isn't it?

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!