Wednesday, March 31, 2010

just awkward footsteps in the distance not too far off from the land of dreams that call on me,
but i want to write dreams rather than dream dreams or dream of dreams--i want to catch the sky and put it in my pockets, but i have no pockets, only a shadowy trace of an imagination, that catches you before you drift off into delicate sleep, searching for a reference, but it’s so far and so faint.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010


it’s late night and there is
a hyphen — a tall building bending — in-between you
— the exhaust pipe — a cloud — a haze of clarity
— and I — a railroad extending a dash.


it’s late night and there is
a hyphen—a tall building bending— in-between you
— the exhaust pipe—a cloud—a haze of clarity
–I— a railroad extending a dash.

Monday, March 29, 2010

convo: oppression

We discussed oppression and I argued that there are people (not everyone of course) that capitalize on their oppression and at times falsely declare they are or have been in this state. I wasn’t trying to devalue certain people’s oppressive experiences or the reality of oppression, because it DOES exist in ALL societies. But, notwithstanding, there are some individuals who abuse the term oppression. It is most irksome because there are people out there who are truly oppressed, whether due to politics, religion, society or the economy.

But, then again, are they oppressed by the fact that they want to experience oppression? I’m conflicted by my statement because what if my claim itself is of an oppressive nature; it could be the case that they don’t have the freedom to see clearly, and with this lack of freedom they are truly oppressed.

Friday, March 26, 2010

thoughts inspired by a conversation

So I’ve decided to introduce a series on conversations –whether in the form of a dialogue or ideas that spiralled from a conversation—that I’ve been having with people; conversations that seem to linger after silence.

My friend mentioned a question that has been on his mind, and frankly on mine, lately: it is the question that Martin Heidegger posed in his Introduction to Metaphysics, "Why are there beings [or something] at all, instead of Nothing?"
I’m wondering how to go about answering this question, while avoiding a purely theological answer that begins and ends with God, which isn’t necessarily problematic, but even with the existence of God, you wonder about existence. To begin to answer this question, we must define nothing. What is nothing? Well, nothing is the lack of something and it is nothing. It is an indefinite non-thing, empty, neutral—neither evil, nor good. Is something the opposite of nothing, or does it spring from nothing? My mind’s a bit inert, so I shall finish my thought when my mind’s back in motion.
Does my definition of nothing have any clout? Is the question a mere tautology and pointless to ask?

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Blogger Buzz: Blogger integrates with Amazon Associates

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

another conversation, but with a stranger on the train

Auburn straw-like hair, a Western straw hat laying next to him on the blue leather seats, and a navy blue jumpsuit, soiled. A lesion on top of his right eye and another one protruding out near his left eye. He sits alone. A faint smile.
I dunno why?
You don’t know what?
Why people stare at me—so strange—I did nothing. No one talks to me. Orange residues of that day’s meal sit on his lips and teeth.
That is strange.
I’m waiting for them..
For who?
The Samaritans—the good people—but they don wan me.
Who are these people?
I believe in their lord and Holy spirit. I almost died ya know.
I’m sorry to hear that.
It’s nice up der.
Where do you mean…heaven?
Yeah, he tol me all about it. He tol me not to fight. To love one another. To live in peace.
Yeah, he tol me it’s a beautiful place.
Was this in a dream?
No it’s real. he talked to me.
Oh, ok.
It’s strange I don wanna hurt nobody. I dunno why the good people won’t help me. I wan some help.
You’ve been through a lot.
I can’t work; my legs don work. Is dis my stop. I don wanna pay. Last time I was wearn that, what you call it, Mexican thing, very warm. I kept it there.
A poncho?
Yeah—I need help. I was in a hospital for four months—I have big scar next to my heart—almost died. it’s this far from my heart.
Less than an inch.
I’m so sorry to hear that, but glad you’re okay.
Hehe, been to…
Your stop is here, right?
Train comes to a halt at City Centre.
Ah, Yeah. bye.

His land is not his.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

conversation with a student

Student: What [is the definition of] had?
Me: It is the past tense of the verb to have.
S: What[is the definition of] have?
Me: To have is to own something. For example, I own a pen means I have a pen.
S: What [is] own?
Me: When something belongs to you, like a car. You could say I own a car or I have a car or a car belongs to me. They all mean the samething.
S: What[is] belong?
Me: To have.

a step forward

we share a conversation down the stairwell, your voice a breeze against the damp yellow light
wandering wondering about the yellow flower under the sparkling rain
the echo of brave excuses seem to slip under my feet. memories lie
some where, deflated among the crevices.

Monday, March 22, 2010


beneath the lamppost the thought lingered, curled, looped, moved with the light even as the light began to fall, descend into the deep, cold, familiar dark , now my theatre. it follows me, down the street—now my shadow— interspersing with my senses. flashes of happiness, drizzles of ecstasy, tremors of fear all run down as the winding road diverged and my thought travelled into the alley on the left.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

"mauvaise foi"

a roar offshore
my faith is in a glass bottle
glistening in the Atlantic ocean
it travels from year to year,
waving, wavering, waiting
toward the sun
a few questions
the absence
sometimes it gets thirsty

Saturday, March 20, 2010

what is the colour of loneliness?

It must be a hue between dying and death –an elongated pain that seems to stretch beyond the clock on our walls and concrete wells from our childhood, full of unattended wishes. Or perhaps a damp brown leaf caught by the wind, twisting out of Eden only to come across an unkempt, untouched, unmarked grave. A rainbow in black and white on a monotonous shore. A torn picture with a missing face flung from a rooftop some time in the 60s, something about Vietnam. An azure sky in Baghdad, grown crooked from all the corpses rushing to get through. The crimson red hands of a Sabra and Shatila child looking for her mother. Or the colour of muted music.

Friday, March 19, 2010

beyond me

From the coffin-like basement, my imagination rises above the pale off-white walls, black rain and dying grey clouds and enters your mind. I keep going, brushing against history, intruding, walking past fallen statues and half-ripped pages, until I reach your soul—an enclosed path. In my thoughts you are saying a prayer and I the object of your prayer. Sweet, saccharine, comforting. The way you utter my name, slowly the letters dancing between your lips before they flow, putting me at peace. A smile. I chart your pronunciation and it seems so familiar, alive, eternal. Pause.

No sunlight. Your voice begins to scatter, break, split— a rupture. Backfire. Wildfire. Now you’re speaking a different language, spitting discordant words, acidic letters down my imagination—a blank void develops and memories rush in. I can’t control your speech; it slithers in different directions, eventually the weight of your tongue insurmountable against my desires, my naivety, my hopes. All false. This is real. Irrevocable. With the mask withdrawn, you begin cursing me, your words soaking every inch of my flesh. This performance leaves me scattered. I’m back in my basement with my imagination on fire, my body pale, my eyes darkening, my soul dying. It burns.

Thursday, March 18, 2010


millions of chords and every cord a thought
and every thought an illusion
and every illusion an absence
and every absence a speculation
and every speculation a shadow
and every shadow a prayer

and every prayer is lost in silence.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010


soft susurrus sighs
valorously vibrant, veil
lewd lies with lilacs
fragranced flattery foaming
tongues tease with tales
entrapping efflorescing emotions
whimsical wisdom wasted

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

It is what it is

Now is it, really?
When in distress, this is perhaps the least comforting explanation for what has occurred. A twist to saying that what happened indeed did happen, and not much can be done to reverse it. The vacuity of this statement comes from, not only the fact that it states the obvious, but also, the attempt to diminish the value of your apprehension, fretfulness over this something. The foremost issue is not to define the occurrence, but the consequences/solutions/problems of such an occurrence.
It is is undoubtedly what it is.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

a meeting

our meeting was so brief,
a flicker between the blades of a whirring fan.
I hear you marching in the back of my mind
across meadows and in between dreams:
dim dreams and muted mumblings

let's imagine life

as a silky, sweet, soundless
always in love
forever aiming for the sky.

soft caresses leave petals behind

Friday, March 12, 2010

Insomnia and Death

Sleep has long been perceived as a metaphor for death. Just as Hamlet blurs the lines between death and sleep while describing his anguish over his father’s murder:
To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause
When contemplating suicide, Hamlet conflates sleep and death.
I recently read the article “failing to fall” by Siri Hustvedt, that led me to trace back my first pseudo-insomniac fit—conscious and somnolent. I was perhaps seven years old, when hanging clothes rustled in the dark, which triggered images of shadows with twisted faces emerging out of the dim light creeping out of the closet door. My imagination ran and I could not catch it until the break of dawn and the cock-a-doodlings came alive. Thankfully, my imagination decided to rest in my dreams. My next encounter with insomnia occurred when my family and I arrived to Canada; I was around the age of nine, almost ten. What triggered my insomnia then was a fear of death, albeit not my own death, but that of a family member. I had to ensure that everyone was asleep before me. But once they had fallen asleep, I would fear that they were sleeping without dreams. I would listen carefully for a sign of life. At that age, I aware that sleep resembled death so closely, that I would embark on a search for that seemingly lost consciousness of those asleep. This became a deadly habit.

As the dark spaces of night unfold, my mind’s eye flickers with images. My hands clasp the end of my memory, the end of my pillow.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

those eyes

among the hysterically bland crowd, there are those eyes
armed with quick, broken – violin strings unstrung — glances
they glisten with phantoms of a distant emotion — mysterious, melancholic, metaphysical—
things are left unsaid, but your soul is touched with assumptions.
they dance and dance until feverish
then collapse into your memory — dead lovers, barren music, twisted plots-
and you cling to those eyes.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010


it was right in front of me--loud, captivating and irreducibly mine.
it crept out of the broken mirror
i tried to touch it, but it became a cloud between my bleeding palms
i know the rules, inside out--they go in circles in my mind
viciously intact, instransigently real.
now the dream's behind me,
blanketed by fog