Beginning and Continuing

Beginning is easy. Continuing is difficult.

No,

Beginning is easy. Continuing is challenging.

No,

Beginning is easy. Continuing is possible.

Continuing is possible... and so the world continues.

To the continuum of peace, love, hope and prayer.

Every blessed day.

hsn

Choices

To speak straight, or create, 

Or sit or employ movement?
 
Shift feet in distaste, or work in amusement?
 
Interlaced lives tie up loose-ends in improvement,
 
The social status haste to stay in the moment,
 
Man's aim in hiatus wastes the content.

Sit back, reflect, what is essential?
 
The act in respect that follows is the consequential
 
Intact and in check, money is instrumental,
 
But the mind monumental, 

And character fundamental.

Just try.

Try. Just... try. Even if you fail you will learn something. 

Like a watch hand, that never ceases/
Like the pulse of a hand inspiring a thesis/
The writing releases/ Amends through tunnels, roadblocks and endless ends/
New beginnings paramount to fresh fronts, new trends and scents/
Traces of new strengths, on a daily basis/
Trading places, a new grace in every trip through all the spaces/
Dream of a time-ship travelling to all the races, and break it down into pieces of bizzare/ 
Memories that pass us by like a shooting star/
Just try and you will get far, because/
All your thoughts and every story/ 
Every able wish leads to a, century of glory/ 
Keep on storing, the energy to keep on soaring/
Defeat the boring, and explain your dreams/
Soul passag-es, heart chapters and the moody themes/
Adage-this, capture the means/
To break them down into pieces of bizzare/
Memories that pass us by like a shooting star/
Just try, and you will get far.

Just try, and you will get far. 

You might not get very far in real terms, but you will learn something. And then you'll go far afterward. When you have the chance. So that's what I mean. Don't worry about it too much. 

And, endless happiness...

(...stems from endless gratitude.)

Share it with others. Those who don't have it or can't get it by themselves. Lift others up with you as you go along the way; the small signpost we set up becomes a big road map for them. 

hsn

Final Call

The humdrum of the lounge fills the ears as the world around makes it way, not bothering about - though at the same time caring enough not to interrupt - the caressing of auditory signals against the earlobe that want to swim into the mind and pronounce themselves distinct within it. As the consciousness fades into the semi-sphere of wake and vision recedes from the front eyes, the smooth unbroken fabric of the blue or red-dyed chair relaxes a bit more under, taking the shape of the posterior and hoping to seduce another few hours’ sleep from someone it is happy is only half the average weight.

But in another galaxy not far away, the u-boats of the voiceful opposition reach the shores of mental comprehension and various units of intelligence disembark in order to mount an offensive against the motor neurons of relaxation in their quest to capture the hill of attention and wave the flag of logic. After an endless - which is defined by science as a couple of minutes - battery assault combining weapons of chemical stimulation and analogue sensory bombardment, the invading forces manage to overrun the field of thought and flip the lever of activity from dormant to operational, and so are granted autonomy of the moment by way of waking up into the world once more and lifting a sleepy eyelid at the airport clock.

After an eternal - which is defined by science as a nanosecond - jolt no further persuasion is required when you realize the coma of pleasure has extended hours beyond its original timeframe and you have shifted, rather involuntarily, into a different time zone in the exact same location. Shifting gears manually in the body command center, suddenly the left and right extensions of the body – which science prefers to call hands and legs – are mobilised in an incredible feat of power, with the hands and legs protruding outward and rotating upward in conjunction with other internal structure beams. As the earth readies to be tested with a rapidly increasing amount of weight, the chair sighs, reversing the position of fabric from sagging to being lifted by the air that floats between the spaces in the foam. The next one will be a biggie.

As shoe soles squeak on marble you realise you've overslept after work.  

The airport chair next to the coffee machine sits three floors above the runway below where four wheels rolling on the small side-road hoist the body and soul of a staff shuttle bus that chugs along to the driving symmetry of the airport staff. The bus coughs slightly as the axle changes the direction of the vehicle to include a curbside carstop in the roster - which is defined by management as a schedule - of locations it will have to pay a visit to. Returning to the third floor, the visual gaze flinches in the style of demured alertness, and so the audio inlets on either side of the face compensate for the delay in receiving the “show and tell” of the world.

You realise the soft and pleasant-to-hear woman's voice announcing the final call of a flight is what has been trying to enter your mind ever since you slumped across that chair. The politeness is unmistakeable as her voice, like a chocolate bar to the tongue, encourages travellers to make haste toward their departing swoops in the air like a spiritual leader calls toward the embellishment of religion and practice of prayer. The matter is brought to a satisfactory end of play and you swing your bag across your shoulders, flat-footing towards your share of the city's four walled clearances of indulgence, comprehending she was just trying to tell you nicely - which is defined by humanity as kindness - not to miss your own final call for the walk back home.  

hsn

White Plastic Bag a.k.a the Notorious B.A.G

Hi there!

Humanities - what a class! 

Our professor today made us watch, on the theme of Baroque-era music and its emphasis on consistency and repetition (versus music that came before and after it), modern-day commercials which he claims are developed with the same idea, so their messages imbibe themselves in our minds (case study: "Good times, great taste, McDonalds"). 

 

He then split us into two groups and made us come up with our own live musical presentation to advertise... a, well, white plastic bag. We came up with a classic type of chorus with rap sandwhiched inbetween which yours truly wrote. Here it goes (try not to vomit or spray your drink over your monitor :) ):

Me and my bag, perfect together

My and my bag, now and forever 

x2

I'm easy to store, work every chore,

Stay on the shelf, or hang on the door,

Value for money, I'm down to earth,

Cost next to nothing, I hold hundred's in worth.

Use me light, or use me heavy,

For your groceries, I'm ever-ready,

Always steady, I say no never,

Me and my bag, now and forever

Me and my bag, perfect together

My and my bag, now and forever 

x2

I'm white and roomy, plain coloured,

Easy-to-use-me, its easy to choose me,

Your transparent friend, you see right through me.

I hold your stuff, and hold 'em tough,

Keep your eggs safe, give 'em extra love.

Softer than Gucci, more flashy than Louis, 

When you go to the market, you - include me. 

Me and my bag, perfect together

My and my bag, now and forever 

x2

Which bag is best? "The B.A.G!"

Which bag beats the rest? "The B.A.G!"

The bag that is deep? "The B.A.G!"

The bag on the streets? "The B.A.G!"

Needless to say this horrible and self-degrading excuse of a rap song won the day and bagged us some extra points ;) (how many puns can you pull out?)

It's been nearly three years since I remotely attempted poetry so being able to place a few rhyming words in sequence gave me the greatest hope that one day I might be able to look the part in baggy jeans and oversized caps - probably in 'I know what you did last summer' part 15. 

Hah. I'm out. Cya'll :)

hsn

Betting the Hair

I was just exclaiming about how I should go bold one morning when I opened the newspaper only to find a cornerside headline, ‘Studies show haircuts taken over a course of two years prolong life by 7%.’ 

“That’s interesting,” said Mr Right. “I read another report and the statistics said haircuts prolong one’s life by 8% after one year just the other day. So which is it, 7 or 8?”

“Whatever the case,” I remarked, “you have to be sure that something is amiss by the sheer statistics of studies conducted and reports printed.”

“Yes,” started Mr Right. “Such articles and reports are sometimes found wholesale in local newspapers, lifestyle magazines and occasionally, the scientific periodical. They keep the scientists busy, the journalists productive, the editors happy, the owners rich, the subjects poor and the public misinformed. Regardless, there are some articles that genuinely attempt to convey the right information.”

“I get what you mean,” said I, remembering. “For example, there was a good piece by a popular columnist who mentioned how it is often a nightmare for certain folks – the young, the young at-heart, the young-at-mind and the stylish – to have even one haircut in the first place. They go into the barbershop looking good, almost certain they will come out having lost most of their certainty. This is in part because the barbers refuse to listen to instructions and so the customers never know how to communicate the way they want to look.”

Mr Right continued, “As a result, they don’t know how they will look until they open their eyes after their hair is mercilessly chopped off in a way that can only be described as ‘utmost barberic’; knowledge passed down through rough times in families when father and son were at each other with scissors.”

“Indeed, that might actually disprove the theory that haircuts extend one’s lifetime. It surely cannot when the barberee suffers so much stress,” I added.

“As a result of which the hair might fall off by itself, anyway,” Mr Right grinned. 

“It might be the hairiest paradox to say that the boldness of a man lies in being bold enough to grow some hair, only to be unfashionably balded again.”

I thought and said, “Yes, that’s true. Do you think barbers know anything about this? Might they claim against these hair-raising accusations?”

“Perhaps. Statistically, few of the barbers from foreign lands ever read the newspaper. They might, however, if such shambled practices are truly not an extension of their hair,” Mr Right said importantly.

“They really sound like a bare-headed lot. What are the numbers for those who do read the newspaper?”

“I don’t know, but let’s go ask a magazine journalist to see if he would dare to bet his hair with a barber on the issue of these statistics…”

hsn

Image credits: freedigitalphotos.net / Phaitoon

I Believe

I believe in a world where ten people don't have to be poor because one is rich. I believe in a world where goodness can overcome the awkwardness of evil and where affinity will replace domination and harsh command. I believe in a world where every human being exerts themselves to the maximum, because they have the reason to, because they believe in a purpose, and because they have been provided the resources to commit to it fully rather than be distracted by the energy-sapping facets of poverty, greed, disability, powerlessness and unchivalric attitude of the controlling few.

I believe in a world where belief prevails and union is the soul of discussion. I believe in a world where the common interest is widespread and where the musings of selfishness are curbed, and converted or eliminated. I believe in a world where two nations bordering each other are not on opposing corners of the universe and where those who are, are so purely because of physical distance and not any lack of outreaching ability or effort.

I believe in a world where the rulers will sit together on carpets of tar in-front of the teeming millions of inhabitants and the city dwellers who make up a hundred and one percent of a civil society. I believe in a world where they will talk openly about what has been done and what has to be done and what the people who will be affected by these think about it. I believe in a world where the people will be selfless enough to not drive the agenda and their needs only and actually perpetuate a form of action that will imbibe fairness into every grain of sand, every crystal of salt, every tear-shaped drop of water, every weathered and cut line in the flesh of human beings and animals.

As intelligent beings our primary function is to use this intelligence for the progress of mankind and his environment; socially, economically, spiritually. So the question to pose is, is it natural that we tend to differ on aspects of existence down to the very last minitae due to unhindered thought processes, vastly contrasting living circumstances and methods of personality development? Or is it a paradox because we have just one supreme goal in common and thus our lives should theoretically be engineered such as to promote the smooth flow of man's direction toward it?

Until I have the answers to these questions and more, I'm pretty sure my world is just a belief. But then again, maybe, maybe - that is our starting point. Belief.

hsn

All over the world

Money rings
Cash tills
Millionaires
All over the world

Sweat drops
Back-to-waist
Construction worker
All over the world

People think
Give or not
Inaction
All over the world

Child dies
Poverty
Laid to rest
All over the world

Friends party
All you can waste
Twenty bucks
All over the world

Mother cries
Nothing to give
Ashamed
All over the world

Cat purrs
On carpet
Just fed
All over the world

Man sleeps
Pavement pillow
Today's home
All over the world

Man flies
Two wings
Holiday
All over the world

Man flees
Two legs
Bombing
All over the world

Boy feels
Writes poem
Forgets
All over the world...

Image credits: xedos4 / freedigitalphotos.net

The Defeatist Attitude

The defeatist attitude hovers around one like a vulture, hoping to swoop in and pick up the remains of a wounded ego. It encircles a soul bubbling with frustration, telling it in a deceivingly soothing tone, that giving up is the best choice, it’s the right option, a man has to do what a man has to do and so on. 

The skin vibrates and the brain keeps expanding and contracting in a break-point throb. Finally, the human volcano ruptures, pushing one into a state of paroxysmal rage, heart beating wildly with impatience, until agitated motor neurons wrap the fingers around an object, wanting to fling it onto the glass table in the room corner, imaginatively fully destroying both and not doing a bit to relax the impulse that has grown irritated of dormancy.
 

The anger plunders one of all rationality; thought is unbecoming and a thoughtful absorption of the consequences unwelcome. The only controlling aspect remaining now is emotion, which as it turns out, can manage to turn around its contagiously damaging ego by administering, in the human being, a feeling of guilt by which it may realize the extent to which the fingers have actually extended themselves. This new drug, which although cannot do anything to extract the anger within, can sometimes inject itself deep enough to momentarily paralyse the movements and stop the carnage.

The anger condenses from a lightening and thunder cloud into a river of denial and then comes the quid pro quo of bargaining. Its not fair. The complaints pour out. Arguments follow and the unjust words pelt the human conscious like rain on a car windshield in a midnight forest. In the foreboding darkness enough time is given for changes to occur, resulting in a thick steam that blocks everything except the guilt that is the only key to accessing the dominion of self-control.

Then slowly, just so little-by-little, true to the miraculous nature of the whole colour spectrum paying obeisance to the sunrise and floating along the rays of the morning star, the wind of clarity arrives to play its part as it blows away gently at the black ashes of the angry soul, tenderly unclothing it of the remnants of the scars of ire, caressing it with a cold breeze that drives away the hawking spirits.

Its ok if it isn't fair. I'll just have to get along with it.

And so high emotion downshifts and heads into the slow lane, content to be left behind, knowing it has been subdued. The veracity of the matter appears as white-robed hope. The bells of acceptance ring.

Maybe we can't win everything in life.
 
Maybe its impossible.
 
Maybe we might not even like to, because it'd most likely be at the expense of others.
 
Maybe sometimes we are too involved in ourselves to understand what we'd really like to have.

The raising of the hands signifies acceptance. The handshake signifies unity. The leaving signifies its all over.

In the end, its a win - over the defeatist attitude.

hsn

Sincerity

Sincerity is a drop of water;
Silent in its falling,
Pleasant when occurring,
Lost within the others.

Image credits: Phaitoon / freedigitalphotos.net

Airport

A small light situated on the runway flickers on every two seconds or so somewhere in the corner, officiating an atmosphere populated densely with the still, early-morning quietness that can only be encapsulated in places where the intensity accompanying a lack of sound signifies its seriousness. Sometimes the light forgets to count and misses a second. Most who are lucky to witness this usually criticize silently, forgetting that it is, after all, only a light.

And almost as if a fog of drowse seeps through narrow corridors and wide spread lobbies, chairs line up from side to side with all types of people united in the deepest realms of sleep. It’s as though if all those people weren’t there, the chairs wouldn’t be, either.

Only the odd bored introvert refuses to part with his thoughts, remaining awake to draw imaginary thought bubbles over the faces of unsuspecting sleepers, hoping to make his day by finding just one person with which he could have an intelligent discussion. A free meal and chocolate discounts will work for the rest.

A beep every once in a while from a scanner of some sort tries to set a standard of efficiency but is easily humiliated by a dedicated band of midnight man-nannies calling themselves police who patrol the high corridors in a childish golf cart. In a mysterious way their laughter echoes soundlessly in the halls they tour but reverberate strangely in the fantasies of a dreaming traveler who has his earplugs on.

In a way, everything talks at night. Pages of books flicked all too many times in a bookstore by bejeweled fingers always tell you they should be bought on discount. Empty tissue boxes always play a trick on you. Even above the ceiling, hiding in the ventilation shafts are not ninja assassins but loyally humming air conditioning units that rumble in their own language. They express in iciclessss.

The sound of a coin refused and landing in the return vault of a vending machine that has run out of chocolate milk and change puzzles the small, cute five year old Japanese girl standing in front of it. But she knows what she wants, points at it and commands the machine to obey - pink hoodie and everything. Challenged, the machine gives in and the cardboard pack comes tumbling down.

There is no truth to the Max Payne-esque notion that if time slows down, so does space and material. There is no truth to the opposite too though. One learns to appreciate this on break when food that was meant to be enjoyed over an hour has to be gorged down in a second and what was supposed to be digested in a second has extended beyond an hour, three lavatory breaks and even defeats the 5 am toilet rush.

As the sun rises, rays chase you until the feeling of lightness overtakes, bringing into balance the function of night and day. The world begins to spin again and suddenly you see Chinese going to Iran, Iranians eating Mexican, Mexicans going to Russia, Russians boarding onto India, Indians going to Germany, Germans flying to Germany, Brazilians going to Germany, Americans not going to Germany and so on. In fifteen minutes the true meaning of the term 'melting pot' is seen congruent with its physical namesake as one indulges in a feast of cultures, histories and traditions.

And as another midnight shift in an airport comes to an end, you realise that that's okay, because every day the sun shines... is a good night.

hsn

photo: Baggage trollies at Dubai International Airport Terminal 3, Departures Level. Credit: Unknown

Closing Shift

As the early morning swish-swooshes into a blurry encore of the diminishing night's song, the night holds a protesting vigil that is exemplified through every passage of the common city. The street lights line up as legionnaires, tall giants spaced apart, silently and majestically showering the world with a caramel glow that illuminates safety through the haze of the dark night sky.

Traffic lights mount the pavements as sentinels, rhythmically emitting white light diffracted into iridescent splashes of ruby, topaz, and emerald. The colours prevail into the distance, cautioning awareness and granting passage to the superior four-wheeled race who hold up high their noses (radiator grills) and patronise the mortal bicycle men lurking in the shadows on either side. This squad of news distribution delegates emerge occasionally to gawk at the cascades of brushed aluminum, spherical opaque bodies and poised slivers of metallic gleam all while minding their own business.

As I grasp all of this in a second, my dalliance with visual modality attracts the attention of my seat-mate and the bluetooth-type kinetic transfer of epiphany that I attempt fails spectacularly.

Maybe we still need cables?

Still, as our faces hide in the absence of light we seem to share in common the sense of purpose that places us together there right then. The road extends onward like curvy waves in a sea of waypoints leading back - not exactly in terms of latitude and longitude but something that works well enough - to an individual’s heart or convenience. It leads to shelter. If you don't miss your stop.

Nevertheless as reflection overcomes perception, those behind the tinted windows of a transport van realize that to a lot of fortunate people the same window pane beholds outward a dizzle-dazzle world of satisfying nationwide nocturnalism that they help make real. They realize that after everything has been said, seen, done and happened it brings with it – like all type of occupational schedules – peace of mind maintained by a strand of reality as thin as a fragile gossamer that can be shattered when grasping the fact it doesn’t remit enough monetarily, it isn’t really worth doing or, unique to this scenario, you’ll be up again doing the exact same thing in very few hours.

In spite of all this as we travel through the passages of the common city, the golden sparkle of overhead orbs play a melody, sprinkling themselves everywhere like hundreds and thousands, transforming everything and revealing in a moment of clarity the sight before us, reaching far into our conscience the felicity of creation as they stun us and bring all around them to a halt. It effectuates the inversion of a robust township that can only be discovered when silence sails over and consequently only few witness.

Making it worth it, almost.

Anyway, in its undulating loyalty to the task, the tell-tale shine of two-minute shoe polish fails to mirror my look of dismay on black leather as I realize there’s nothing captivating about missing your drop-off point.

Happily, I’m already on the long walk home – and it’s just been night on the closing shift.

hsn

Sciences of Soap

As pandemonium impulses electrically though the nerves located in the heels of my feet that, once un-socked could be mistaken for potato mush, I know in my heart that neuroscience will always stop short of explaining the flipside to every step taken; the fulfilling of a long-term mental to-do list that frequently looms in the unreachable recesses of the mind, where the pervading pain biting my shoulders can act as a prelude to the tenable support I might have to provide to myself during more challenging seasons of fate.

Can I please, sit down for a minute?

Looking for support on my as yet unfounded, faith-headed principle, I see physics revolving around my existence as I dangle onto the edge of tolerance, offering countless rationalities to accompany every motion I chance at. But mon ami, these are just ‘hows’, not ‘whys’ or ‘for whats’ or ‘for whens’: these are merely fanciful engagements for the falsely inquisitive mind that nonetheless knows no tomorrow, feels nought but the jouissance of the present moment and consequently will fare poorly when I’ve crossed out an objective on that long-term mental to-do list, and am about to start another for which I should have already been prepared – hopefully also with extra insoles for another long walk.

You tend to underestimate the fear that arrives with a pang when your reasoning has been compromised, when you’re not even sure if you should be patient, when you’ve finally learnt how to properly slice that life-provided lemon only to grasp the fact its’ a coconut and you’ve opened a lemonade stall complete with banners describing it as lemonade so decadent the only other thing that comes close to it is lemon-scented dish-washing soap. At this point fear grapples you and underestimating your fear is the only step you can take to protect yourself, so you can forget it and somehow, get through the day, knowing its’ just that – just a day –, not telling yourself you don’t know how to cut coconut tomorrow, either.

But it’ll just get through.

Or will it?

Yes, it will. I know it will.

At this point although the knowledge that I won’t be betrayed or left behind can only export so much fear away from me, because I think, I share – maybe along with the rest of the human race - the collective tendency to blame what I cannot fault, fault what I cannot perfect, deem perfect what I am too finite to criticize, criticize what I cannot accept, accept what I am too inexperienced to denounce, denounce what I cannot foretell, foretell hastily in a bid to censure, censure what I cannot tolerate, tolerate what I have no reason to reproach and reproach whatever wasn’t done by me, I’m willing to stack it in the back-shelf in an attempt to redeem that sense of security that only stamps itself on the faithful.

If I haven't been forgotten till now, why would I be forgotten after now?

So it willl get through then. I guess I’ll just have to wait, distracting myself with the sciences that be, knowing how but not why or when or why. Until I do.

And then it snaps (electrically), and I realize, ‘thank God, this is just coconut.
Those guys actually got the lemon-scented dish-washing soap.’

hsn

For what?

As Egyptian media accounts that the Raf’ah border is to open later this year to give way to religious Palestinians making for their annual Holy Pilgrimage toward Makkah in the final month of the Islamic Calendar, I begin to wonder what Husni Mubarak’s real intent is. After all, there is no doubt that those who are allowed to pass through Egypt’s Gates of Mercy will have to have been on a very narrow and short check list, and will have to adhere to certain principles, on a very long and wide check list.

Should we - as the Arab governments have - dote Mubarak with the most sincere of thank yous? This would mean complacency in his act of kindness, because after all, he was considerate enough to examine the fact that not all of us chant, ‘In the name of Israel, the most beneficent, the most merciful.’ Perhaps it is for this that in the recent war in Gaza left 92 mosques shredded to ballistic rubble in the recent 22-day war, and the shelling of not one was criticized by him.

I guess it can be safely assumed that Husni Mubarak considered it not within the rights of the Palestinian human beings to flee Gaza in the wake of the Israeli invasion in January 2009, yet somehow the relatives of the 2000-odd dead men, women and children (of just that war) have been cleared of terrorist status by Egypt’s secret-police scanner. Nice. Now 2k grieving relatives can have an extra weekly loaf of bread.

It is anyone’s wonder how much food the Egyptian border guards – forget the high government – consume on a daily basis themselves, as they regulate the passage of Palestinians toward Saudi Arabia, many of them who will be too weak from a lack of food, water, sanitary services and medical care to withstand the journey, elongated by border checks. It is anyone’s wonder how many band-aids the border guards have in their first-aid kits to apply in case one of them concedes a fatal one-inch scratch.

But what overwhelms my comprehension is the disparity in behavior that the government of Egypt has accepted in their own authority over the border crossing. Why allow the Palestinians to go for Hajj? What is so special to Mubarak, who strings the country’s decision-makers to his fiddle, that he would permit the mass-exodus, albeit temporary, toward Saudi Arabia and possibly financial and military aid, amongst others? If the aim of closing Raf’ah was to, as was said, stymie the influx of weapons into Gaza and the West Bank, what makes him so sure that this can be avoided during the two-day grace period?

Clearly it is not in fear of the Arab alliance, a multitude of horse-totting PROs who are really just two sides of the same glitter-ordained pillow upon which he tucks under him every night. I don’t regard his compassion worth mulling over, and if anyone states otherwise I suggest they grab hold of a Palestinian passport. But that isn't needed; the silence tuned by him and the overshadowing coverage of his grandson's death in contrast to the media attention of a blatant racial, nationalistic and facist crime committed on an Egyptian national in Germany narrates itself. If he won't speak up for Marwa al Sharbini, why for the pawns on his chessboard of power?

I do have one theory though: Maybe it is to give false hope to the people, and halt 14-year-old Sa’id and his 13-year old friend Hamdan, who are breadwinners of their families, digging one of the many 700m-1km long underground tunnels that have spurned out of necessity since every single border post across the region has been suffocated slowly since Hamas won the elections democratically in 2005. Even though they have to skip school like all the other boys their age who partake in the same, Sa’id explains it is a lucrative business, and elaborates a pack of cigarettes bought in Egypt for 10 cents can be sold for a dollar – 10x the profit. He says if he has to, he’ll do it to the day he dies. When they stop digging, the tunnel will be bombed, and they’ll have to start from scratch again. By then, it’ll probably be Eid, so the border will be reopened.

This, however, is just speculation, and I have not got the answer I want. So as I stand on the curb, I still wonder, what is his intent?

hsn

9-5 Army

As the sky transforms to the heady sounds of bird laughter, something in the most improbable sense becomes a proponent of unproductivity across the country, indeed the world; tiredness is injected into the souls of the 9-to-5 army, and as they attempt to relish another drab twenty-four hour rotation, it crashes – wave after wave – into their feeble barriers of morning caffeine and water-right-in-the-eye, hastily conceived and probably not made to order. Sometimes these waves are so entirely overwhelming that some never make it past the crash-back-to-earth phase – not until about 9:01 AM, anyway.

Summer has arrived.And as difficult to get through as it is, we make it. How?

In the 9-to-5 army, everyone has a nickname. Partly-panted comes down the stairs in a ball of regurgated wool; the shave was perfect and his best shirt is on, but he somehow came to the conclusion he could hook up his trouser button and slip on his left sock at the same time… which made him swallow the other sock which was in his shirt pocket, when he slipped down the stairwell, when he lost his balance, when his pants tangled his feet, when they came off halfway.

Hot-headed rushes down the steps past Partly whom he considers an ignominy in motion, but overdoes it and bangs into the wall after tripping on Partly’s outstretched elbow, with which Partly was trying to extract remnants of the sock from his throat. Generally a perfectionist, Hot swears at Partly and at the fact he is already 4 minutes behind his schedule, picks himself up, swears again, and proceeds down the second set of stairs into the living room and out, into the car. But he has forgotten his car key. Or has he?

Didn't Partly-panted mumble he left it in the ignition last night. Last night?

Before the swear word is fully out of his mouth, Partly-panted (who is now Fully-panted) arrives on cue into the passenger seat next to him, clutching two cups of creamed coffee. ‘What were you saying?’‘You forgot to lock the doors and remove key from the ignition last night?’‘Oh, it wasn’t me. It was my friend.’

On the verge of exploding into another morning vent-out so common amongst the youthful metropolis proletariat, Hot-headed doesn’t – just. He doesn’t because in his inner-most heart he knows that somehow, this one momentary leisure of early-morning coffee with a best friend is what makes his companion’s day, a sanctum of solace that allows them to surpass their routine that is guaranteed to be imposingly ascetic, and anemic.

So he slows down just enough to be able to spray-spit his coffee back into his cup.

‘What friend? Why did someone else take this car without asking me first?’
‘Something major happened to his dad, so we had to take him to the hospital right then. He’s fine though, got him in there just in time.’
‘Oh…’

And despite the weariness, despite the wear-and-tear of personal fabric amongst commercial billboard thumb-tacks, a splint has ignited a different kind of fire from the one that the anger would have incensed because he unknowingly aided a good deed when it was required, and became part of the bigger picture. It was what he needed most - and his day was made too.

That said, this doesn’t happen every day. But they do, if you keep your eyes open, often enough to keep us in check. Many have methods to get through the day, to feel that inner peace; their own abdication that persists in moments of testing difficulty, sadness, sorrow and the like. For those who don’t, it’ll take time, but its’ there; a friend, a hat, a song, a drive, a client, a customer, a bus ride on time…something really stupid that somehow that shooes the blues away.

‘In a mad world, only the mad are sane’ – Akira Kurosawa

Find it, and use it; As long as you let the summer blues become summer greens and summer hot pinks, it doesn’t matter how silly it is.Because, in that way, if being normal meant there was something wrong with being different, you know you'd rather be completely mental, anyway.

hsn

25 Different Types of People

There are 25 different types of people in the world. I say this not in jest, but after careful consideration of the factions that horde our personal spaces in manifold; you know – the dog people, the cat people, the XBOX360 live-ins, the PS3 swear-bys, Evolution X vs the new Impreza STi… and so on and so forth. Actually there might be more than 25 different types of people – no, there ARE – and on impassive derision you are probably one of them. I don’t know why I said that, but then, I am too, so we’re together on this.

Its worth thinking, I think, that if you dare not to be different, but instead dare to be yourself, then difference is a guaranteed toy in your happy meal of poised disposition. But then this begs the question, how different (whether as a result of remaining true to self or sticking the nail out) should we even dare to be? Meridith West said once, “If you want to stand out, don’t be different – be outstanding.”

Ah, the twist :) Heres the explanation...

Personally, I’d ditch all the difference in the world if that meant I could eternally remain in the optimist type-of-people group. What is worth thinking, is it is not that a thousand men descend to the conquer of a single warrior, but that a single warrior can so powerfully grasp the attention of a thousand men. A potential for heartbreaking massacre churned in with wallowing pity and the makings of probably a boring novel, turned into a scroll of heroics and a testament to the man’s character with the semi-emotional get-you-up pricks of arousement you get from the soundtrack of a well-made, high-end movie. But its also different, because although it used the same optimistic blueprint, nobody in the world could have done it like you did, and somehow… you’re still unique, just like everybody else. And you’re outstanding. Just because you did it.

xx--xx--xx

So I’m at this KFC down Sheikh Zayed road right, and man, It used to be a lot easier, a lot simpler. At this point and time I’d rather be exposed to the centripetal force of a wind tunnel, hanging for my life off half a wisp of bamboo than confront the Filipino behind the counter whom I saw share a room with like 6 other people (and since I've never even eaten from this chain I'm not about to start), but my friend is all for this within-budget, wrapped up new KFC offering that guarantees the Michelin Man look (its an active ingredient) in what I’m guessing is pretty quickly.

We’re looking into these three big blocks of cheap fat-filled cheese sticking on week-long refried grease wrapped in fake white-bread tortilla with ink from the KFC wrapping paper diffusing into the overall goodness. As if this is not enough, the apparent lack of cheese prompts the counter-girl to ask, ‘want cheese with that?’ In my mind her accent sounds so nose-boogey filled, the intentions it avidly fails to conceal are only far from innocuous. Ew.

Since this is Dubai, by the time I walk out of the shop bricks have been removed from the pavement and red-tape barriers are set on cones to cordon off the parameter. While this may have been necessary as a pointless expenditure by the government which I totally agree with (because ofcourse, there goes my Salik), theres’ now hardly any space left on the side-step for me to get onto wider ground. Then, whoa, the guy coming up is huge. Maybe life hasn’t been very kind to him, so I tip-tap back a few steps into the outlet to let him enter and occupy both doors as he does so. How is he going to get out straight onto this pavement?, I’m thinking. But then, it doesn’t matter, its’ probably a one way trip anyway. Or the bricks will have been put into place again by then.

hsn

curbside contemplation

There's a stare in the air, down the pavement where the apex of this tarmac straight transforms smoothly into a blind bend, the overly decisive has overcome the shadows of decision making in a landslide victory that leaves my fingers with the impression they will never meet rest again. The comforting background of writing on a plain white layout with the words ready to explode into the world and into existence with all manner of symbolism (meaning they are what they symbolise to you) - as outlandish as it sounds - is the only thing exciting enough to spark a concious effort to stay awake in this dry place with four walls where I think more dreams are broken than cultivated, where more energy is absorbed than vitalated, where curtains veil windows through which permeated rays of sunshine promise embellishment.

At the end of the day we get to go home but how many of us can keep doing that for the next 20 to 30 years of their life? I am talking, of course, about the most anticipated golden moment every day in some of our lives where we get to open the office door...and walk out. And everytime this happens, every remainder of another 'wasted' day, only to go home tired and be inhibited by our daily fix of idiot-box convential unreality and a morsel of last weeks chicken pattice, I say to myself, 'I just can't keep doing this forever.' Because, It doesn't make sense to me. It just doesn't.

Last evening at the Cashflow meeting I realised how many opportunities we had probably had and blown and what we need to do to direct ourselves to them. That was funny because all around me most people were only just starting to understand that opportunities existed in the first place, that they could do something more with their lives than just that and uplift into the realm of those who seem untouchable but are just like us - but well known. Its funny because whenever I go to these conventions and meetings and group get-togethers they always hit on the head exactly what I've known for so long, what I've been trying to say for so long. Yet while others embrace change and accept an opportunity with open arms...we shy away and prefer to let fear trap us in our own hearts. Fear of failing? No, never. More like fear of trying.

Weakness is a luxury the world thinks it can afford. Most people do not realise that the greatest weakness, the greatest fear in the world is the fear of fear itself. People are scared of being scared. People are scared of trying because trying something new makes them scared. And so, so many of those who appear to be highest on their totems of prominence are infact only there because perching on their pacemakers of parity is the only thing they will give themselves the permission to do. But the world needs to wake up, the world needs to instigate the domino-effect of choice-making courage pending in the chambers of weak hearts for eras since. Because, at the end of the day, I don't think its our abilities that make us what we are...as much as it is our choices.

Be the change you want to see in the world. - Ghandi

hsn

two-way lane

In the ultimate expression of the word sharing, my understanding of the those who define it as something we would offer from our own provisions is as amiable as the definition itself. Not that I disagree - because I don't - but wouldn't the highest peak of sharing be not in the form of food and aid handouts but as distributable intelligence to those who are not in the know; obscured from their own potential in a blurry world of scant tolerance and a tunnel vision to expectations?

Our best thoughts come from others, credited to Ralph W. Emerson. There is nothing overly-complicated about this statement - no accumulation of a cognitive structure with hidden connotations; not the kind of sentence that usually only takes residence in the deft minds of those of dexterous superiority. This is good news then, able to be understood, accepted and implemented by the masses.

Implemented? Hold it, I have to do something? Well, yes. Those who share - like the educated - may not have common commodity (or in the case of the educated: information) but they do have a common state of mind which compromises of 50% of its own usefulness. The other part, obviously, lies in the minds of those who are the receving end. The only place opportunity cannot be found is in a close-minded person. Advice is free, take it. Later on if you don't want it you can throw it out.

I think that opportunities come as you see them. I once heard, the difference between a warrior and an ordinary man is that the warrior sees everything as a challenge whereas the ordinary man perceives everything as either a blessing or a curse. Being seperated from those we hold in close affinity can give us the chance to realise we are strong enough to bear it. Failing in our exploits can reveal our lack of knowledge. Not owning something we desire will help us understand its value. No doubt these are not the first choices for anybody, but thats how you make the best of them, and making the best of them is the best thing you can do.

There is nothing more lost than the loss of gain,
nothing more wasted than a wasted grain,
floating in the waters of the pouring rain,
lets exchange our grains on this two-way lane.

hsn

Blank

Splunk! Whatever sound that is (reminiscent of days eating with clumsy hands and the metal spoon), it now signifies nothing and is irrelevant to what I'm about to say. Actually, I was about to say nothing so since it is relevant to nothing it is still significant. Haha, tired already? Cause I'm just getting started (with nothing) =D

So...title erosion. What of?
See, where my thoughts originate this is a major veeder-feister (meaning some sort of problem in some other unidentified language). He came. He thought. He conquered (or typed). But he could not choose the title. Not because he couldn't, but because it couldn't be done (no excuses allowed for being able to do it makes convenient living). Why? Because after over-ambitious returns to the wrong state of mind, he finally stopped, tagging along with him thoughts that even he hadn't thought about and a title for each and every one of them. So...the title of this entry is aptly named =)

Isn't it too much sometimes? I've come to discover in recent weeks that expressing isn't always helpful. Sometimes our norms of de-stressing can be quite painful when exposed to the world like rust. Sometimes...it just hurts.Its hurts because when the words try to pour out, your jug of thought in motion is bone dry and now you've failed even yourself. Who is yourself anymore? You sit in a blank room and you don't even know if the blank is white or black and if you imagine a colour-less blank then the kind of bother normally associated with expanding the imagination that much doesn't bother you because now you don't know if there even is anything to bother. It is eternal, descriptionless pain brought on ourselves by making the wrong decisions.

Living in poverty is hard, but its a normal problem. Living under abuse is hard, but its a normal problem. Living without a leg is hard, but its a normal problem. Don't assume by normal I mean common, unworthy of interest and unimportant. They are normal in the sense that everyday emotions (however extreme) are expressed outwardly and people can relate to them in some way or another. But not knowing yourself, your name, your purpose, or even if its YOU under your own skin (or is it someone else and you're in another world but its still you?) - there is NOTHING normal about that. That is when you've lost everything you ever had.

Unlike physical pain or illness, there is no distraction from this state. Even in the busiest moments (best or worst) you're kept prickingly concious of who you no longer are and what you can no longer do and no longer have interest in. By definition of loosing your character, that would be mostly everything.

Its the end of the day and tomorrow's a decision I don't want to make.
Just thought I should let the world know, incase anybody was counting on me.

hsn