The Center Space

Watching my short stories develop and unfold has been a really insightful into my own method and style of writing. What i realise is that i haven’t fully decided on a “style” yet or even if i should actually adopt one. I think it’s something that kind of grows as you go along, no?

One thing that slightly irks me, which is not to say it irritates me, but stands out obviously in an ugly sort of way, is how scientific my writing style can be. This has honestly really been due to my writing and reading countless sets of academic papers over and over, so much to the extent that my writing is almost always looking to disengage and objectify things for the sake of reason. I really admired Austen’s incision-like technique where every psychological nuance is expanded upon; and subsequently tried to emulate that in my own writing style.

But sometimes, in this box of a room, i roll words on my tongue and my fingertips delicately. Sentences threaten to escape from their jail cells with ease. They will tell of that world outside, with all its promise and all its tease. I would like sometimes very much, to roll myself into a ball and glide along smoothly. Going where the world takes me.

Yes. I’d like to write with that gentle, soft touch.

I try not from time to time to force people to watch youtube links since i think once i get started, i’d get carried away. But this time is different. This time is an emergency.

Watch this video from 4:17 onwards. This man is just something else on the guitar. This solo literally rips me apart. Yes, it’s that good. P.S The guitar he uses is kinda weird since it only has a bass pickup from what i can see...usually guitars have two sets to have a fuller sound but his only has one set...i wonder what the logic is behind that...:P

The book i’ve been reading, Larry’s Party by Carol Shields is a book that explores the development of a man from when he’s 27 to 47 and each chapter deals with a particular time period of his life. It’s a bit sporadic and there are a lot of characters to absorb, but there have been some really breathtaking sections where i had to read the paragraph 3 or 4 times just to relive the feeling.

One thing though that i really love about this book, and the same goes with Annie Proulx, is how a sense of the masculine is so convincingly written and so well thought out, even though the writers are women. And there are parts in the book where i thought “Yes! thats it! thats exactly it!” and then realising that a woman wrote those words.

And though a small section of the pleasure comes from the exquisite writing, it’s really something else that struck a note with me.

It’s just so satisfying when you get women who understand exactly where men are coming from. I’ve only met a few so far, yet when you do, the conversations that take place can be so uplifting that you feel you’ve taken away something special with you.

It’s also partly to do with the fact that i understand women incredibly well (some who have commented i know women better than women know themselves) and yet i’ve always felt a deficiency since that understanding always remains one way. Sometimes women don’t understand when men need to be left alone. Or why sometimes they can be violent and aggressive. Or just how obsessive they can become. Or even sometimes, how vunerable they can really be. The women who understand me know when i want to be left alone, when i need to talk, and even when i need a hug. The women who don’t know these things end up not knowing me for much longer.

A funny memory comes back to me while writing this. I remember back in Islamia art class where the boys and the girls class were mixed, the boys would start playfighting and the girls while watching would say in horror, “oh my god no! stop fighting you’re gonna hurt someone!”. It was funny, like two seperate entities fully expressing their contrasts.

So far i think Larry’s Party is great. It really faithfully presents a picture of the development of a 21st century man, in all its aspects without cutting or trimming anything short. If only all women understood men as well as Mrs Shields does.

I have a general reputation of being that grumpy, shadowy old guy in the corner who hates kids and shouts at them any time he gets. Yes, the sort of character that appears in Dickens’s novels.

But is a reputation you have representative of the truth? It rarely is.

When it comes to kids, i keep a reserved attitude because so many of the kids i have met lately are just so spoilt and so greedy. I have a short fuse with greedy and spoilt children and seeing as how they’re not really linked to my everyday life, i don’t think i can be blamed for acting the way i do when one of them acts stupid. Sometimes kids just need that scary figure in the background to whack them into shape.

But then you encounter kids who are just normal. They enjoy being children for the sake of it. And those children, i bond with so well. Today at my auntie’s house i realised just how attached they were to me. Wherever i was, they’d sort of hover around me, asking me questions and taking me to look at things. They’d show me their rooms, things they made, or stories about their school life. One cousin just wanted to give his ps2 to me. I asked him why and he said “because you’re so awesome thats why.” Which was really sweet.

Another one, much younger, was constantly attached to me. Wouldn’t even let me sit still in one place. He was only about 6 so i sort of took that behaviour as normal. But he was constantly hugging me and staying close, even instinctively holding my hand as we were normally walking along the road. He even gave me the “you’re the bestest person ever!” line that his brother had similarly used earlier. 

I kind of sat back in my own mind and asked myself what i did to deserve such good treatment. And its honestly because i am like a father figure to these kids. I know that once i let loose, i can give very fierce attention, love and concern when required. I’ve got a very confident leadership spark in me that has been in me ever since i was young. I can be brilliant with kids, if i choose to do so.

And i remember it so clearly now. I was standing on a table addressing a group of year 5 and year 4 children in primary school, telling them the next new inventive playground i had devised overnight. I made and enforced the rules, and before you know it – the whole playground was playing that same game. I can remember all the times i would be in gatherings of kids and act like the proud ringleader of them. I remember watching the kid in Stand By Me who would look over all the other kids and feeling that i relate so much to him.

The reason why i say all of this is because to me personally, it is so satisfying to be with good-natured children. Because children love back unconditionally. They don’t wait for when a time is right, they don’t have pride to protect, or hide it behind complicated and contradictatory mannerisms; children love you there and then and they aren’t afraid to show it. Whether its a piece of writing on a card, bringing you a drink, showing you something they were proud of, telling you a story, or hugging you when you don’t notice, children are magical. Perhaps thats where their strong faith in magic stems from – maybe because they are born and live in a kind of magic.

You’ve heard that phrase “I was like a child again” and it was the same sort of feeling, but with one distinction. I am a child. Childishness is the basis of my personality. So while i was with them, it wasnt so much the fact that i got to be a child again; but the fact that i was able to be myself.

Here is chapter 2 of Doctor Mahfouz. It introduces a new side character and i went to a lot of trouble to add particular detail and life to her. This story in particular was really heavily influenced by Alaa Al Aswany’s “The Yacoubian Building” (which is on my reading list for this blog) and that’s why i’ve chosen to write it in present tense. If you like this style of writing, i really reccomend reading that book because he does it far better than i can. For those of you who haven’t read chapter 1, click here : http://repentancereincarnated.spaces.live.com/blog/cns!10BB42B158148D8!840.entry  to check it out and then come back to read chapter 2.

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Chapter 2

Sandra Hakim was once known as Sandra Burns; one might go as far to say that they are completely different people. She was once the secretive, quiet sort of girl. The ones who manage to evade all popular attention but when examined on their own, reveal many amiable qualities that make her quite unique. Being the youngest in her family, Sandra was subject to much pressure and a lot of the time her older siblings would dictate her life. However when she had married Mahfouz, it was perhaps the biggest choice of her life that she had made without her family’s interference. As a result, her marriage to Mahfouz changed her.

She began to voice her own opinions, she stood up for herself, her business in women's clothes had begun to prosper at a rate never before, the tone of her voice became harder, and she suddenly she had found a confidence that previously never existed which in turn, bred an argumentative nature that indulged in even the smallest of matters. Mahfouz himself had dragged it out from the depths of her, but she truly made it her own, so much that it affected her immediate family heavily.

Once when visiting her father, he had asked her to quickly head to the main street for a few necessary groceries. She paid him a hurried, impatient look and snapped "Dad, I’m a very busy sort of person. You're lucky enough for me to be visiting you with the kind of schedule i have." Such an answer had thrown her father into a melancholy shock. His own daughter acting in such a way? Just yesterday it seemed like she was quiet, timid, reserved. Such was the feelings of everyone around her in the family, and to this day they have still not fully adapted.

Oddly enough, she had not noticed the sudden spike in her character, despite how vivid it had appeared to people surrounding her. The only change that she knew well, well enough to repeat infinitely in her head was her marriage to Mahfouz. She remembered every detail perfectly. The high-ceilinged banquet hall, the beautiful patterns of her dress, her reflection in the mirror, a level of beauty that she had never felt herself achieve before. Above all, she felt Mahfouz's gaze upon her. While he left for a while to shake hands with people arriving at the wedding, it was as if there were eyes in the back of his head, still watching her passionately.

Such passion became slowly faded out as time had gone on. The daily repetition in which they interacted with each other had turned her married life into something of a bothersome chore. When asked for dinner, or when called to bed, she would hastily reply "Mahfouz, I’m busy. Please can we just leave it till tomorrow?" and she would remain in front of the computer, designing products and reading business news. His attention to her became worthless, since she knew it could have been summoned at any given moment. The elusive quality of this affection which in the past, she had sought after in every book, every film, and every look of a stranger suddenly meant nothing when she had finally secured it. This subdued lifestyle repeated itself for a long time in their marriage until things took a serious turn for the worst. Sandra now lives alone in a modest house in Queensbury, London. Though her marriage with Mahfouz remains legally and technically existent, they no longer live in the same house or in the same heart for that matter.

In an effort to return her life to an acceptable degree of normality, Sandra runs a formidable women’s clothes shop in the heart of the city that is incredibly popular with all of those who have shopped there. It even has its own share of regular customers, all of whom which Sandra knows by name. So how does a mere clothes shop manage to maintain such a level of quiet popularity? Its popularity stems from two places. First, the designs come from Sandra herself and her team of artists, creating a personal and individual style that inspires all those who walk by and look inside.

Once, an artist on the team asked Sandra “So what are we looking for on the whole? She stood up and looked her team in the eye with a fierce gaze. “A custom design is the sort of thing we’re looking for. What we don’t want to be doing is having the same style of dresses you see in some other shop that’s just been jazzed up with some pretty colours and weird designs. We’re going to change the very shape of it. See this shoulder here? Cut that short. Now change the fabric here….” And away she works, infusing her team with powerful creativity that fuels their own imagination, resulting in a particular style that the customers have come to identify with. Secondly, Sandra herself oozes personality in the workplace. She emits a powerful, confident aura which her customers and even her own employees take refuge in. Nikita, the new student employee had once burst into Sandra’s office in tears.

“Nikita! What the hell is going on?”
“I’m….I’m sorry…..Sandra I really can’t work today”
“Why? Won’t you even tell me what’s wrong?”

Nikita appeared to have cracked underneath the pressure. While she was folding clothes up in a corner of the shop, a greasy looking old man in a suit had approached her and made a scathing remark on the way she looked. This proved too be too much for her, as pressures on her family and academic life mounted to new peaks, the slightest upset cracked the brittle surface and she broke down. In genuine concern, Sandra sat her down, offered her a warm mug of tea, and held her hand.

“Sweetie, we all go through disappointments. I didn’t get to this position smoothly and it won’t go the same for anyone.  Come on now, stop it and listen to me.” The torrent of sobs abruptly stopped and she looked into Sandra’s powerful, twinkling eyes. “Listen; don’t let anybody at all get in the way of your happiness. You have a beautiful life laid out in front of you. Now why should you let other people interfere with the happiness you could find?”

And so the answer to the employees undying loyalty to Sandra emerges. She assumes the position of mentor, muse, and even parent. Her immersion into the workplace is even greater than the average person because she adds a personal style to every action, every mannerism, word and look. It is this powerful mix of personality and shrewdness that attracts her employees and her customers. Unknowing to everyone else, this source of great strength is rooted in vulnerability.

***
The sunlight forces itself through the curtain’s cracks. The scene presented before us is Sandra’s bedroom. It bears the typical resemblance to the room of business people – overwrought with papers stacked about so carelessly, towering in height so much that you could consider them to be their own monuments. There is also an enormous alarm clock, with the time highlighted in big bright red numbers, threatening with an almost evil look to disturb the peaceful sleep of anyone nearby. At precisely 5:00 am, the clock blares its siren, and an impatient and tired arm moves over to silence it.

Sandra wakes up at a time most people would consider too early. But she had picked at early time because of how long it took her to get ready. When waking up, she rubs her eyes tirelessly and stretches her limbs, looking aimlessly at the room around her. Everything seems so foreign upon waking, as if she had entered the world for the first time. And then for a time that seems like an eternity, she lays spread out on the bed and stares at the ceiling until the abstract cracks and cobwebs on the wall begin to form their own shapes. She had still kept the double bed from when Mahfouz was living with her. Now it felt oversized and awkward, and her body wasn’t enough to fill the space the bed provided. Sometimes she felt that the space that was left was holding her down with an oppressive force. That she couldn’t get up because of this invisible gravity that seemed so binding and powerful.

On other days she would lie on her side and stare out the window instead. Or completely fixate on another object in her room. Yet the same feeling always remained; the feeling of being in total stasis. She would remain in this dream-like state for quite some time until eventually her eyes would turn to the alarm clock. Sometimes the times would read 5:15, and on other days it would be a few minutes past that or before it, but the time was the first thing to get her up in the morning. It reminded her that she had a job to do, “Look at you sitting here doing nothing. You’ve already wasted 15 minutes” was what the clock told her. And so she fought that ghostly force and eventually threw it off.

She then moves around the house getting ready for another hard day of work. The house itself hadn’t changed much since Mahfouz’s departure, but that was a decision Sandra made on her own part. “If I pack it all away where I can’t see it, then it’s only going to bother me even more.” Such was the logic that she used to keep the photos of them together around the house, the movies that she watched with him, all his books (now with a thick layer of dust, totally immobile from their original places) and any other item that would have been his or theirs.

She moved about the morning then with her subconscious eye dashing very mischievously to the photos, to the movies and all of it while she prepared herself. As much as she had tried to hide it behind contradictatory assumptions, she missed him. And yet when these strong, painful feelings visited her, she only had to cast her mind back to what Mahfouz had done a few years ago. And suddenly her mind was overcome with a torrent of anger. If she was preparing breakfast, she would suddenly grip the plates tighter. On one occasion, she had actually dropped a glass on the floor in her silent rage. She cursed her instability, but she knew how strongly she felt on the subject.

Did she love him or hate him? Human emotions can never really be summarised in simple polar extremes. The true answer was simply somewhere all in the middle. Being a person that many women around her felt that she was the working, living definition of what it was to be a strong and powerful woman, Sandra’s ability to dip into extremes and feel such a broad range of emotion in regards to Mahfouz was very much one of her defining feminine characteristics. Women love with such fierce loyalty that even after the separation has taken place, they can still sense the faint traces of the relationship, in one way or another.

Being somewhat expected of a respected fashion shop owner, she took particular time and scrutiny in choosing how she dressed and showed herself in public. Particular detail went into her makeup; every shade was carefully chosen and not overdone in an attempt to hide her age but not fabricate it. When she was finally ready for work, she would look in many mirrors. At first in her small mirror at her dressing table which would only reflect her face, and then at the full-length mirror downstairs. She was getting a good look for a reason. The entire morning was dedicated to preparing a delicate mask. Like all theatrics, it has to be infused with a degree of faith on the person who chooses to wear it, if the mask is to have a chance of deceiving anyone.

So my internet was down for a good few days. We finally changed internet providers because the last one was just so shit. It was as reliable as the electricity in pakistan. (ha ha) But seriously, after every 2 hours (and sometimes every hour) the internet would have to reconnect. If you’re constantly downloading, streaming, or playing games like i am, this reconnection means losing all of your progress.
Not only that they had slashed the internet speed in half than what we had before. I know the recession is bad, but at least make the arrangements you need to do so you can keep your customers internet speed the same!

So anyway, we ditched them and that meant having some downtime. Actually to tell the truth i’m writing this blog entry as a draft and i’m going to publish it once the internet goes live on Monday. It’s taking the piss because i actually have all the hardware; the router is fully connected and installed on my pc. I’m sitting right next to it. It’s just the phone line hasn’t been activated for broadband use yet so until then it’s a waiting game.

There was a collective “Nooo” from my family when we found out we weren’t going to have internet. All 3 of us are internet junkies. Surprisingly though, i was fine. I wasn’t even going to say “i was coping” because it wasnt even that bad. I went out, had plenty of things to do. I have to say the only thing i hate is not being able to research things such as jobs/literature that i usually do. But other than that, it’s been pretty fine. My sister on the other hand…isn’t taking it well.

One thing that did change was my bedtime. I started sleeping ridiculously early, like 9 or 10pm. Which is really weird especially since i have no college. So if you’re a late sleeper, maybe taking an internet diet will help you get more sleep at night!

What is it about the human mind,
In its tendency to reach an assumption?
The mismanagement of coming signs,
To design its own inability to function?

Perhaps it was the irrefutable history,
Everything that happened from the start,
The mistakes that masquerade as subtle misery,
Yet revealed itself to be a disease of the heart.

Please dont tell me yet, as its something i know,
Matters not, whether i choose to hide or show.

You may tell me this, though i know it well,
The love that hides in the shadow of its former shell,
Seeks only to evoke an unimaginative dream,
Will ultimately betray you, doing only what it deems.

In the end i was always forced to surmise,
That this love was always meant to vaporize.

I’ve got to stop blogging so late. Every post i’ve made for the past month or so has always been in the evening. I choose the evening because its a time where i can really let my thoughts unwind and when its really quiet. But morning does the same thing :(

Must try blogging in the morning.

One of the great things about a blog is that you can express yourself without fear of being incorrect. It’s a sort of extended self-dialogue, where you dramatize all your interior thoughts into a more tangible form. Other people just happen to stumble on them. The following academic reflections are just personal ideas of mine, and i wouldn’t dare say them in class without serious research. In other words, this is off the top of my head.

My studies on British and American history have led me to an interesting conclusion; war shapes society. It was the War of Independence that was the basis of the American constitution, the right to bear arms is #3 on that list because the American society was created in a war. And naturally in war, the most valuable assets a society has is its ability to defend itself. Eventually America’s infrastructure was grown out of this indestructible notion of self-defense.

Ironically enough for Britain’s side, it was the welfare state that was born out of the Second World War. Women’s rights escalated during WWI and WWII. The left-wing spirit of British society was given power and growth and took against the strong conservative streak of past history. No matter which way you spin it, you cannot deny the power that war has to affect a society for generations to come. In society, and in individuality.

1. Society

Though i was studying “History” i secretly noted in my head that a more accurate title would have been “War Studies”. The reason why war is so potent when it comes to history is because war reveals society and individuals for what they really are. A lot of the times we live in a silent, insulated reality but when the time for words and bureaucracy is over, people instinctively act on their own terms. This will then paradoxically unite and split humanity up since they are trying to save their own skins yet they are together in the conflict.

This paradox of unity and disunity concludes itself in two directions. Either the unity is more realised, and hence society collectively moves in a single direction and a revolution is born, or disunity is felt and society becomes subordinate to the few elite. This is so important to realise because above all it affects our freedom and individuality. It sets the boundries for the future.

This insight into the mechanics of war in terms of society really fell hand in hand with my study of politics. Where you came from is equally as important as where you currently are. And where you currently are is largely dependant on your current political system. I think the danger with living in a “democracy” or should i say, living in system which we subconsciously choose to perceive as democratic, is that you can take it for granted just as long as nobody’s arresting you, nobody’s forcing you what to think (at least initially) then everything’s fine.

The truth is that democracy is fully dynamic. It never really stays at a set amount. At one moment, someone can be taking away your rights, at the next moment, handing them back to you. British politics has always been this to-and-fro of people vs politicians highlighted by key events or scandals that really says to me just how much you need to be aware of where power lies and who’s controlling it. Because if you let those people control your life, then you will suffer.

At its very centre, the flow of society directly affects you and me. It affects me because i am a student and the politicans are gleefully fucking students over in all sorts of directions, and it doesn’t look like its going to get any better. It involves us because the people who supposedly run us launch us into costly wars that actually don’t benefit us (WWI…WWII…how history repeats itself..) and instead only benefits the biggest industries in the world : Oil and arms industries. Its important because these people support mass murdering countries.

After studying history and politics, i realised that i did not live in a vaccum. I am here taking in part in a string of events which have been influenced by the past, and manipulated in the present by those who have power. This flow of life directly affects mine. Because in the end, it always ends inwards.

2. Internal processes.

So i started thinking deeper. Just what is it about the pulse of history that craves conflict? I was watching speeches of Hitler and its really amazing how he can rouse the crowd up. People literally start crying. He gets really into his speeches. Somehow he had the support of thousands of people. The reason is that Germany was in a state of conflict. The German empire more or less collapsed underneath the weight of WWI and was humiliated. The rise of the Nazi’s was possible only due to this loss of national pride. The heavy weight of emotion that was accompanied with Hitler and the widespread support of it, was down to the simple truth that the conflict inspired all of it.

Without conflict, we have no battles to fight and no victories to celebrate. And yet we fear conflict and turmoil because we can fail. But we cannot live without them regardless. I think the core of our lives is those inner conflicts and inner battles. Sometimes we get so wrapped up in it, we seldom think of other’s struggles, or the world’s struggles.

What i am trying to pin down is this. A good life is one where you have as much freedom as possible to deal with your inner conflicts. Something’s wrong if you are busy dealing with someone else’s problems, someone else’s behaviour. If you life your live on someone else’s terms, or on society’s terms, your  freedom has been restricted. Your circle of influence has shrunk. You can’t live a fruitful life.

That’s probably why there’s 10,000 people standing outside in Tehran right now. Or why British MP’s are scrambling to reform the system before the public devours them. Because above all, it is our society that shapes and defines what terms we can live our life on. If you’re like my family and you’re struggling to keep up with the bills, then your entire life has been reduced to financial terms and numbers. There’s just so many angles i could approach this from that i’ll be here forever.

3. Conclusion

War shapes society; in turn society defines the terms in which people can live. That is how the cycle goes, in my opinion. I just felt it was so important to have a broadened consciousness. To be able to see past your own problems and just look much further. I’m still so young and all i know is how to use my vote, and how to voice my opinion. The fear is that i just wont feel like i have an impact on anything. But as time goes on, i will figure out ways to make a difference.

For a while i’ve had to endure the entire neighbourhood’s little girls running around screaming and playing. In particular yesterday, about two doors down for a good 3 hours, was a little girl crying for some stupid reason. While that may be music to some mothers ears, i find it slips underneath my skin and makes me want to break something. This might just be karma for everyone having to listen to my mediocre drumming every week, but for the record i don’t drum for more than an hour. Even if i wanted to, i wouldn’t because it damages my ears in this small room.

So back to the point. I’m usually a really patient person and i can put up with a lot, but there’s something about kids that just makes me crack. And especially little girls. Why? There’s just certain things that little girls do that are so cringeworthy, so pathetic that you have no option but to get angry. Therefore i present a list of things that young girls do that piss me off. Note that this is a cynical list for the fun of it, there’s still plenty of things i like about kids, but this is me consciously choosing to only present one side of it.

1. Voice manipulation

God gifted all women with beautiful, high pitched voices. One thing that is fascinating is how early on girls learn to manipulate that to their own means. You know exactly what i’m talking about. It’s when some little girl thinks it would be smart to raise her voice higher by a few keys in order to sound “cute” or “irresistable” to get what they want. The most common line is “Daddy….” in that disgustingly fake high pitched voice that is immediately so obvious. No. Just because you’ve gone up an octave does not mean you can suddenly get what you want. It’s pathetic.

2. Cry me a river …not

Why is it that everytime the smallest thing happens, they start crying? They got a little scratch, they start crying. Bumped on the floor? Cry. It seems to be even more apparent in girls because somehow we’ve programmed them to think that they are physically fragile so that the minute they get any sort of tiny injury that boys would usually brush off, girls cry their heads off. To this day i’ve always wanted to just put some black masking tape over some bawling girl’s mouth while she cries about something that is actually not worth crying about.

3. Screaming

I think this is the one that earns the top place for mental disturbance. It’s like when someone hits the wrong note on the piano or when you strum the guitar and one string is out of tune, but taken to some really next levels. When little girls scream, my first instinct is to scream back. It’s to show that if you imitate animal behaviour, then animal behaviour is all you are going to receive. This is probably the thing that at earlier ages, would probably have convinced me that girls were infact, another branch of the animal kingdom.

4. Less than a woman

One of the more disturbing elements which is only recent, is this fascination with wanting to act like grown up women. I’ve seen some girls in the street wearing some *really* disturbing clothes and also wearing makeup? I mean come on! They haven’t even fully developed yet! That’s just disgusting! I guess this one goes out more to the morons raising the kids rather than the kids themselves.

5. Drama queen

The golden rule of any bratty girl is to exaggerate. Use hyperbole to the extreme. So that whenever someone does something or when something normal happens, make it seem bigger than it actually is. I think the keyword is fake. This is pretty much the defining factor of all the above traits, that element of pretend, drama. Its useless.

There you have it. And for the record, i do have a sister and we get along pretty well, despite the fact that she sometimes exhibits one or all of the above.

I handpacked very carefully a special set of sighs for everytime i felt like this. Those smoothing exhalations that escape ever so gently…

Dark materials that rise up behind my eyes…. the edges shining so brilliantly.

I am human after all. Every ache is original. Every ignored impulse is simply recategorised, shelved away neatly like old volumes to be known as just another part of the archive…

And so many blanks. So many empty spaces. I’m beginning to look like an abandoned car park. Tall, dark and derelict.

Just two short stanza’s that particularly struck me.

LXXII

And if she met him, though she smiled no more,

She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile,

As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store

She must not own, but cherish'd more the while

For that compression in its burning core;

Even innocence itself has many a wile,

And will not dare to trust itself with truth,

And love is taught hypocrisy from youth.

LXXIII

But passion most dissembles, yet betrays

Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky

Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays

Its workings through the vainly guarded eye,

And in whatever aspect it arrays

Itself, 't is still the same hypocrisy;

Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate,

Are masks it often wears, and still too late.

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Quite Shakesperian. But this isn’t all Byron. He is also incredibly funny at times :

LV

Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all

Selected for discretion and devotion,

There was the Donna Julia, whom to call

Pretty were but to give a feeble notion

Of many charms in her as natural

As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean,

Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid

(But this last simile is trite and stupid).

Byron – One of my favourites.

I always wanted to write,
A poem as a blog entry,
So i sit here tonight,
And if it’s crap, don’t blame me.

At first, it seemed like a crazy idea,
Something that was unnecessary,
Still my fingers type fast here,
I promise you i’ll try to be wary.

Keeping a rhyme is harder than you think,
Especially if you’re trying to have humor,
A good rhyme can disappear in a blink
Making you seem like a bit of a loser.

A little effort on my part,
And i’ll soon think “Yes! That’s it!”
It’s like having a mental fart,
(I’ll admit that last rhyme was shit)

I hope you enjoyed this post greatly
Even more so than the last one
What i have been reading the most lately 
Is Lord Byron’s poem “Don Juan”.

In the face of my exams being over, i’ve taken some time out to get creative again. One of the things i was afraid is that while i was busy studying, i’d completely lose that impulsive state of mind that inspires writing. In other words, i was fearing a writer’s block.

A few days i couldn’t really produce anything. But then after really delving into both T.S Eliot and then my own experiences, i was able to get that creative impulse back. I think the trouble a lot of the time is that we tend to distance ourselves from our creativity. The reason why is because creativity is both constructive and destructive. It goes both ways. In order to create something, you’ve got to be able to express a range of emotions and dynamics that can only really be done if you’ve truly stayed in touch with the extremes of your own life. And that’s scary and unstable if you’re trying to just get on with your life normally.

T.S Eliot then was just a tool then to inspire that approach. And my advice goes out to anyone wanting to tap into creativity is to use artists that you find an inspiration as a gateway to your own expression. Not that you’d copy them, but as an entrypoint. Personal style is after all, an amalgamation of all your influences and then the secret ingridient.

I remember a period of time, for a very long time, that i just couldn’t write poetry. I was really into that technical and laborious process of making short stories and plotlines that i just couldn’t tap into it. And even though i had so much i needed to get out, it was as if someone had just plugged it back in. But then i read Sylvia Plath’s “Black Rook in Rainy Weather” which is all about waiting for inspiration and it just really provided me with what i needed.

On a general note, i can feel my life twisting and turning into all sorts of areas and paths. All sorts of emotions, reasons, contradictions and promises that are just within me all at once. It’s all so overwhelming. I just feel like everyday i live, i can acutely sense things better than the last day. What that means is more ammunition for writing. I’m absolutely determined to get through Byron this week, and hopefully that’ll bring more fruit.

So to summarise, rediscover your creativity by using your past inspirations as a gateway to new modes of expression.

As for finding inspiration and your creativity, that’s a whole other story in itself.

Volume 1 : The Candelabra

The evening successfully hides its blemishes,
Once the sun finally perishes,
Orange night sky, rapt with its dealings,
Presents its dark misty ceiling.
They lie enshrined within brick walls,
With windows each, and each its own,
Permits their eyes to search and fall,
Their treasures and nightmares sewn.

Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock.
The sounds echo on the wooden skirting.

I feel unsafe. Protect me.
What is it you want this time?
Listen with that heart of yours.
You’re always bothering me.
(All around, the air grows tighter,
The night begins to condense its shadow.)

She attempts to pull the strings
Pulling in making them sing
Wonders what compassion it may bring
Or in what direction it may swing.

You said you’d listen to me.
I’m listening to you right now
You’ve changed. Everything’s changed.
Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock.
(She moves to the back of the room.)
You don’t love me anymore.

Outside the raven twitches its beak
The feline slinks across the floor
This blackest night is indeed bleak
But simply that, and nothing more.

I was there for her; i did it all
Where did I go wrong?
RING RING RING RING
Hold on a minute, I’ve got a call.

I am your delicate candelabra
The bright branch of light,
I shined brighter and faster
Even through this bleak old night.

\

The latest album from my favourite group has finally come out. So it makes sense to write an in depth review of it.

The General Idea

This album is drastically different from their past material. I’ve always thought of The Mars Volta as experimental, progressive rock mixed with jazz fusion and a pinch of madness. Their chaotic sound is what attracted me to them and what kept me there.

But this album totally surprised me with its pop, radio-friendly and generally easygoing sound. The tracks are very vocal orientated. Infact most of the instrumentation is there to lift the vocals up onto a platform. In this sense, this is truly Cedric Bixler-Zavala’s album. His vocals take a prominent position and melody is an integral part of the experience.

Stand out tracks

Track 2 - Teflon

This track has some really cool drum and basslines in the beginning again drawing you in really easily. Once Cedric starts the vocals, you start getting interested. The vocal melodies in this song are some of the best i’ve heard since Eriatarka and that’s saying a lot. I’m sure it’s only going to be a matter of time before i start singing along to it like mad.

Track 5 - Cotopaxi

This is probably the only heavy sounding song on the whole record. It sounds very traditionally Mars Volta, powerful riffs backed with falsettos and very dynamic drumming. Its an instant hit and this is probably going to be the single of the album.

Track 6 – Desperate Graves

Again some really cool vocal melodies backed with some Latin rhythm and really interesting drumming from Pridgen. The chorus really holds the song together and reminds me of Viscera Eyes slightly. But again maintaining that very steady rock 92bpm tempo throughout. Another sing-along song.

Individual Performances

Omar Rodriguez Lopez (guitar, production)

Despite the fact that this man writes all of the music (all the breaks, all the start and endings…everything…) he seems to have taken a backseat with this album. The guitar has actually been turned down in volume in the mix letting the drums and vocals stand out more prominently. John Frusciante from Chilli Peppers plays on this album and his sections stand out like a sore thumb which might explain why Omar didn't take a leading position with guitar as he used to do. Overall i think Omar’s touch really comes out in his production of this album rather than the instrumentation. There is still a very stunning guitar solo in the last track that is to be expected.

Thomas Pridgen (drums)

Pridgen does a very good job of holding the record together. A lot of the time he was accused of “overplaying” that is to say going over the bar and missing timing because he was too busy going crazy in past records. But his drumming in this record has been really interesting, dynamic and groovy. While the Mars Volta’s previous drummer Jon Theodore’s masterstrokes were on his snare drum technique, Pridgen really stands out with his bass drumming. As a drummer myself it’s an absolute pleasure to listen to.

Cedric Bixler-Zavala (vocals)

This man pretty much dominates the album with his presence. The vocal melodies are very well thought out and soulfully delivered. I think without them, the album falls apart. He’s definitely evolved, especially in “Copernicus” where he sings quite well. Overall i think this album belongs to him and it’ll be interesting to hear him sing it live.

The Musical Debate.

I think the most exciting thing about this album is the debate that its going to produce. The Mars Volta really gained status as the band that was really pushing the fringes of modern music, but then here they are going back to very formulaic, 4/4 pop arrangements with emphasis on vocals in their latest album?

Are they selling out? That’s definitely a question that’s going to be discussed. I don’t think The Mars Volta are selling out, or planning things out purposefully. The avant-garde label that they attained was created by us, the fans. As the fans, we simply appreciate the music that they make, but we leave it up to the artists to create what they want.

I love my 10 min + songs and i practically live on those, but of course i want to listen to pop arrangements now and then. Music is all about being open minded. I’m particularly glad that The Mars Volta took this direction because to me that shows that they aren’t going down that road of pomposity that’s so often associated with progressive rock acts that are so tightly winded in their intellectual craft that they lose touch with common reality.

I do feel that this latest album isnt going to be popular with traditional Mars Volta fans. I think common complains will be “sounds too poppy” and “not experimental” will be things i’ll be hearing often. But that is OK. Because from this album new fans will grow and eventually things will spread.

Summary

So that was my partially objective view. What’s my final summary? On the whole, a bit of a disappointment from my side. I was expecting some really crazy cutting edge rock/latin/jazz stuff but then is that really the band’s fault for not meeting my expectations?

And even though it wasn’t what i expected, i still find myself pleasantly surprised by a few of the tracks in this album and i’m all up for hearing a different, more acoustic side of The Mars Volta. Especially live.

P.S I don’t give number scores because they kill the spirit of a review.

This has been such an odd week for me. Firstly i had that whole examination pressure thing going on. I’d get up in such a sweat and worry about things, only to find once i got inside the exam, it wasn’t as bad as i thought it was, and things went better than planned. What shocked me is how fast things went.

And now Monday and the final exam looms and suddenly its all over. What frightens me is that vast, empty space after my exam filled for me to work on myself. So it’s a mix of confidence vs fear. Ambition vs passivity. Being complex human beings, its natural to feel ambivalent on anything you do.

And inside these delicate little extremes, you wonder if you ever if you pounce on these living emotions with the same kind of grip that a dying or a starving person might do. You question every moment, scrutinising it to judge whether or not you hold life with a justifiable amount of intensity. An intensity and a passion that does your life justice.

Oh god i am so tired this evening. It’s not that horrible draining kind of fatigue, but a light, childish fatigue. It’s the kind you get after working really hard and coming to the end of the day.

Right now i’m really in that fluffy mood. I’m yawning and stretching and im in my PJ’s, constantly making childish sounds and doodling with my pen. I want to play with an origami crane. I want a bar of chocolate or, to watch a really nice film while nuzzling up to someone special. A mug of mint tea or maybe a soft, cotton blanket that faintly smells of lavender. And all of this, while the house glows with a small aura of heat. Do you understand where i’m coming from? It’s those evenings where you turn the lights down and you wear extra light, flowing clothes and you feel like you’re on some sort of cloud.

I love being in this mood so much. I always get the feeling that i take myself and life too seriously. But sometimes it’s just nice to sit back and be a kid.

The arabs are a very loving set of people. It just shows in all aspects of their culture. They’re incredibly hospitable and very expressive in their concern for you. It’s actually considered to be a sign of extreme rudeness to reject hospitality that’s offered to you. I remember people inviting me to sit down and smoke shisha even though i didn’t even know who they were.

And their language is just such a romantic, love filled language. If you compare for example, the kind of phrases you’d use for a lover in arabic, “Hayati” or “’Omri” they literally translate into “My tranquility” and “My life” whereas in English we have such banal and boring expressions such as “honey” and “baby”. You know something’s wrong with your language if food and infants are the only way you can express your love.

And just in the way they treat each other. I’ve seen women giggle and kiss each other when they’re in public. I’ve seen two grown arab men holding hands (more than once). And when they meet each other, they embrace each other so passionately and explode into fast racing conversation about everything that’s happening in their lives. They care so much that they’re not afraid to show it.

What about their music? Every single Arabic song that has been released has always been about love. That goes from the classics like Umm Kalthoum, Fairouz, to your modern day Amr Diab and Nancy Ajram. Sometimes i listen in wonder and i think “how do they get away with it?” and i think the answer is honestly in the language. The language is such a passionate, creative language that even if you express the same idea over and over, it has that richness that keeps things fresh. In contrast with English, you can never sing about the same subject over and over without becoming ostracized.

My study of the English language has been highly insightful. In particular T.S Eliot and James Joyce opened my eyes to how the beauty of the English comes in the way it can imply certain meanings. In other words, English is at its best when it never means what it truly says. It can be strung in any way you choose to see fit. And i think that’s why irony and paradox are so central to the study of English Literature because it comes up time and time again. We’ve moved on from the Shakesperian/Elizabethan era were the poetry and the passion of words stemmed from the actual root meaning of the word itself. When T.S Eliot, Ezra Pound, James Joyce and Virginia Woolf arrived on the scene, they broke the rules and changed language forever.

Jane Austen for example, is noted as one of the greatest English novelists ever, but yet in her novels she constantly plays around with double meanings and irony. She never really means what she says, instead you’ve got to dig out the meaning from beneath her ironic narrative. Byron, another one of my favourites, constantly undercut his poetry and though he was considered a leading figure in romanticism, his poetry constantly has this dark humour to it. And Sylvia Plath again is another great example because it’s that indirectness, abstract nature of her poetry that taps deep into your mind.

In other words, some of the greatest writers in English are great because they never really mean what they say. Instead the meaning remains like a buried treasure underneath their words. That’s the nature of the language, and it’s in the nature of the people. Generally English people keep themselves to themselves. They lock everything in the closet. They don’t like touching or embracing. They talk in reserved, quiet voices. And though i consider myself to be English in a large sense, there is still parts of me that yearns for something more.

I remember when i was a kid i had an identity crisis. I didn’t know if i was Arabic, Pakistani, or English. I was simultaenously learning all 3 languages at once and i had no idea of what i was. Finally i settled on the fact that i was, an arab. I began talking in Arabic and i got irritated (incredibly irritated where i’d start shouting) at the way Urdu speakers would change the Arabic language to fit their dialect. If you’re not familiar with the languages, i’ll explain it briefly. In Urdu, the “W” of arabic becomes a “V” and the “D” of arabic becomes a “Z” and i would get SO irritated with this. I’d tell everyone off to speak it properly or else not speak it at all.

I remember those days when i thought i was an arab. I think that’s why to this day i still have an attachment to the language and the culture of it. I daydream constantly about Doha, Dubai and Saudi because of how integrated i felt with the place. Moreover, i think it’s the love aspect of arabic culture that draws me towards it most. That passionate way of speaking, of living life. I want to be able to claim that for my own.

I don’t know what overcame me yesterday. I think i just absolutely lost my marbles and i needed some time to get to my senses. I’m thinking of deleting that post outright because i’m so pissed off at it, but maybe that would lose the benefit of retrospect.

So i’m writing tonight to express something very close to my chest.

You know when you just reach your limit? You just get so sick of the way you handled situations. Sick of the way the clothes are unfolded, the papers strewn across the room and how that reflects inner mental conflict. And worst of all, you get up in the morning and you just dont FEEL thankful, or alive, and then you look in the mirror and you know the person staring back at you isn’t ready.

But why? Why does life have to be like this?

I have decided i am sick, to the rotten core, of negative energy. I notice i like to complain about examinations with such energy and length, and yet i cannot devote the same amount of energy towards beating the system itself. It would be too long of a blog post to list every negative aspect of my persona, so i have decided to just summarise the entire thing in the one phrase of “negative energy”.

Negative energy is that thick bog of water in your soul that just runs underneath everything and stops you from working at your optimal performance. It’s those niggling doubts and those fears. It’s that menancholy coat of armour that secretly slips onto you while you sleep, to encumber you upon awakening.

You see the thing about menancholy feelings is that they are necessary to being human. We all feel down from time to time, but the way i see it is that menancholy is like this neat box. You open it from time to time, and when you’re done, you put it away and get on with things. What irritates me is when menancholy extends beyond itself into everything else, WITHOUT permission or warning.

And i am sick of it.

It doesn’t have to be this way. I’m nearly 20 years old and i deserve to live a life that i can enjoy to the fullest extent. So here is my proposition. Starting from now i’m going to wipe the slate clean and start over. I am going to cleanse everything. And blog posts will continue as normal. Ignore the last pathetic post.

Going on break for a bit. Won’t be updating this blog for a while. Just not feeling well and got a lot on my mind :/ a lot of my writing activity has stopped as well.

I’ll be back later.

Do you ever feel afraid to dream? I always feel that way. I was just trying to get to bed for a super early start in the morning but i just couldn’t relax. Because my mind was just buzzing about with all sorts of dreams and fears.

I always think with a degree of ambivalence. I’m never really here, but never really there either. I’m “on the fence” a lot of the time.

Sometimes i think, what could i possibly have to offer? What with all my faults and failures could i possibly make something out of?

And then other times i think, yes! I’m good enough, i have plenty to offer to society, i’m confident and unique.

But with both cases, i still can’t repel a feeling of being contained. Having so much to say and do, but not having the opportunity of being able to show it. Like a firework just waiting for the spark.

Sometimes it just feels like waiting for life to throw you a bone. I can remember the last few times where i was living my life, just minding my own business, and then boom. Something happened that totally altered the flow of my life.

But between the marks, within those blank-filled spaces, you can’t help but feel yourself poised in a great wait. You know when you just feel like your soul is quietly waiting for the next big thing? Almost like God’s making you wait. Making you hold on. You can hear the future in its whispers, and it’s nearby, but you never know when it’ll hit you…..

You are now under examination conditions.

You are not permitted to talk to one another or to look remotely interested in what you are doing.

Any mobile phones, electronic devices, dignity or self respect found on you will be confiscated immediately.

If you have any electronic devices or dignity on your person, please raise your hand and place them on the tray that is being passed around.

Please fill in the front page with your candidate number so we know who you are. First and last names are optional.

If you are found to be cheating, a report will be sent to the examination board and you may lose your marks and your position in society.

You may start. Good luck.

After what seems a turblent week following from one of the most awkward weekends over, i have nearly reached the end and i am in solemn reflection over my past week and i have just dissected it, analyzed it, and reached some lengthy conclusions. The weight of some of those are so ..heavy, that i feel that it needs to go on the blog for my own personal record.

When my dad came here i felt slight pinpricks in my composure. I wanted him to take me out somewhere, just me and him. I wanted him to sit me down and teach me a few things about cooking (since he’s so good at it) and there’s just so many other things that i had on my mind that i wanted to do with him. Father and son time. And then it dawned on me. Why do i need to imagine these things? What is it, about my own personal disposition, that needs to create these alternate situations that don’t actually exist?

So i traced this line of thought.

Your parents are the people who love you unconditionally, and it is through that unconditional love that you learn to define yourself and hold yourself in high esteem. However if your parents aren’t there, or don’t fulfill their role, then you experience a stunted growth. You are unable to respect yourself to the fullest potential because someone has not guided you. That’s not to say that people without respectable parents are any less responsible in society than people who had perfectly normal parents. Because above all, you are responsible for your dreams, you answer to yourself and to God and you both know what’s up.

But this social responsibility doesn’t overwrite the pain you can feel from a parent not doing their job.

I realised that for a long time now, i had been chasing my dad’s approval and affirmation blindly for deeper reasons. I wanted him to look at me and love me because i was unable to do that on my own. I’ve made mistakes that i can’t correct, and generally there’s a lot about myself i don’t like; but what my behaviour towards my dad tells me is that a big part of my identity and esteem relies on the approval of my parents. There’s nothing wrong with that, because that shows i love them and i value their opinion. But if my dad didn’t approve of my dreams, of my manner of doing things, then everything else felt worthless. I’d just give up. Because i knew that i could not change what i dreamt, that i could not change who i was – not even for him, so what was i to do?

It’s hard to come to this realisation, but i’ve just felt that i have to let go of this. I have to let go of trying to be on good terms with my dad because what he’s asking for is something i cannot give. Furthermore, i have to accept that we may not agree on things. Just because he doesn’t love me doesn’t mean i’m not good enough. I’m good enough if i deem that to be so. Just breaking off from this psychological reliance gives you great peace of mind and scope to live your life with much more purpose.

Secondly, another thing that has pissed me off recently.

There’s some certain individuals, who like to judge on appearance, and then confide in me about how they think so-and-so is gay and how they would stay well away from them out of disgust. Little did they know that i am bisexual and to top things off, i was carrying Oscar Wilde and Stephen Fry in my bag. What amuses me about this is if they actually took the time to sit and use their brains, they would realise that sexuality is not a choice. Do you think that before i came to this earth, i sat and filled out a form with God and ticked the bisexual box? No. Because it’s not a choice. And it wasnt a choice for that person that apparently-gay dude who was the subject of the discussion. Now how can you be justified in hating a person for something they can’t change? It’s just as stupid as hating someone based on their skin colour.

There’s a difference between saying you don’t agree with something, and saying you hate something. The problem is with the perception. The perception is that if you’re gay, you’re instantly a sodomite. And that’s what fuels this “disgust” because people instantly sexualise things to the extent where they become blind. Sex is only a part of a human being, and yet you deny all other forms of social interaction to an individual simply because of one part of their being?

And what the fuck does it matter how they choose to have sex if you’re talking with the person? I don’t agree with what some gay guys do, but then again i don’t agree with what some lesbians do, or what some straight people do either. But you know why it doesn’t matter? It’s because i am talking with this person. I am not in bed with them. I think the problem is that these people are just so sexually insecure that they feel the need to inject sexuality into every nuance of discussion and give everything this heightened double meaning. They need to feel that there’s a danger that a gay/lesbian person might like them or have sex with them in order to heighten their own sense of sexual worth since that’s an area they feel they lack in. But if you were truly secure with yourself, then you wouldn’t need to bring irrelevant information about the other person into your current social context. But somehow….just somehow, they manage to kick up a fuss about it when really there’s no issue at hand other than their own stupidity.

*deep breath*

Ok, i’m done :)

Just a general blog post here to round up a couple of events.

It’s about 9:15 right now so i really should be heading to bed to get ready for my exams tommorow. I’m strangely cool headed about it right now, but i’m sure as i sit in that chair the adrenaline will start to rush. It’s Jane Austen and Wilfren Owen. If i get a question related to Irony on Jane Austen, then i’m set. Anything else will be pure improvisation.

And to my great relief, someone responded to my tutor advert! I’ll be tutoring GCSE English this weekend and then throughout half term before exams. Crash course it seems. I’m just glad i found some sort of English-related work finally. Slightly nervous, but i’m sure it’ll pass over me :)

And lastly, Miss Javed has done it again. Found some secret passage into turning my day from a bad one, into a really good one. She specifically talked about making castles with pillows and blankets, which is slightly scary since i used to do exactly the same thing. Make little fortresses and hide inside them, to try and get away from the world. I used to be really creative and ambitious and try to make the biggest one possible, without it falling apart. Mum would walk in and go “oh my god what are you DOING?! PUT EVERYTHING BACK NOW?” and now i can see her point, since i would take the entire contents of the cupboard out for my fortress making ambitions. Only while in the night, i’d do it again, this time bringing a torch and a book with me (which may be related to my horrendous eyesight) and shutting myself out for the entire night.

Nothing’s changed that much. I use different materials. Mental ones. But now it’s time to poke my head out of the blanket, and see the face of the world staring back at me.