But I am only made of clay November 16, 2009

But I am only made of clay -

Collateral to my Self.

My lungs ache

Suppressing explosions of laughter

Saying ‘Mercy’ – it’s good for my health

Shy, shy, shy.

The sky was cross

It tried to tear itself apart -

Dear sky,

I cannot sleep

Until you do

You see,

We sort of share names

But yours names you better.

Six hours of pretended slumber

(Do not dissolve in despair)

And I arise to a Kingdom.

The sky was beautiful.

Pills are scattered on the Central Line

And there are shariah compliance issues at rush hour.

And I am not even a word.

HasbunAllāhu wa ne m al-Wakīl November 7, 2009

‘ Men said to them: “A great army is gathering against you”: and frightened them: but it (only) increased their faith. They said:

“For us Allah sufficeth and He is the best disposer of affairs.” ‘

The Holy Qur’ān – Surah Āl  Imrān (3:173)

Transliteration: Hasbun allaahu wa ni’mal wakeel
Translation: Abdullah Yusuf Ali

Cubic Hand Span October 31, 2009

Exhibit TZ1: A sample cubic hand span, dated 31^st October 2009.

A huggable (panda/ giant canary) sized cube, in exploding vermilion, with smoothly rounded corners and softly bevelled edges sits at a fixed axis atop the desk. Clusters of brightly coloured flowers blossom in patches and cling to it coolly like ivy.

From the left, storms the beautiful horse like a mountain. Powerful and sudden, its reddish brown coat shimmers as it gallops with furious direction – its tail swishing up and splaying as if in disdain to what it leaves in its wake. It makes to leap over the cube.

Pause.

Behind the cube, above it, with its feet lightly resting atop it, is suspended a ladder of black rope and silk cord stretching up with its top merging into mist. There is no thunderstorm but a dramatic pitch to the sky’s shade of slate.

_______________________________________________________________

“Trick or treat? How brave of you to ask for either, given my darkened attire and sombre glare reflected out through the glass, illuminated by the glow of the monitor. Many a teen and other ghoulish creatures have passed by this porch in fear.

Well, I do not have any treats befitting you but I have mastered a small trick. I can measure your brain in cubic hand spans through a series of questions.”

[After ten solar minutes]

“Scratch out your words!”

He shouted sternly, pushing sheathes of virtual paper up around him.

“Au contraire, mon petit filous. Why are you like sour milk? You permitted me to show you a trick and my words, then, exposed nothing but your current state of mind. They cannot interfere with the ability of your Faith to supplant all things and your will to spur you on. And why should you think that they might?”

“It is akin to kihaana*!”

“What? … your current state of mind … not your tomorrow…! “

_______________________________________________________________

kihāna n. the art of divination, soothsaying, fortunetelling.

A Loom for Blindfolds September 28, 2009

No more typing.

Felt. September 10, 2009

"My heart is heavy."  He said. "Could you hold it for me?"

"Here." I said. "Mine is lighter - let's swap a while."

The rule is that you can only hold one at once and you must hold one at all times.

[swap]

Careful not to drop it, I dared not lift my gaze.

It was late when I did look up.

He'd already left with mine.

Canvascape August 16, 2009

Toobaa was flipping through her old journals.

‘… It is time to make actions my ink and the world my canvas.’

Dorian Darcy July 4, 2009

Toobaa tried to draw Dorian Gray but it ended up looking like Mr. Darcy. There is no need to quote Oscar Wilde but I’d like to, anyway.

“But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face.”
- Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray Ch. 1

LOVE IN A FACE PLANT: DRIVE-BY LOSERS July 1, 2009

As outlined in my previous post:

Face plant n. a serious fall which culminates in one landing on his/her face; the involuntary act of plant impersonation with one’s face as its roots; from the colloquial = ‘when trying harder does not make you a winner, but makes it funnier for others to watch you lose’.

* * *

This particular episode occurred by no means near the beginning of her search, and it is impossible to say that it was nearer to the end, either.

Despite the fact that Toobaa’s front door was fitted with a camera which, when activated upon the Knights in Various Armour ringing the doorbell, would show in each room of the house who was at the front door, obviously including how they adjusted their clothes and if they muttered to one another unassumingly, she still preferred to get a pre-preview by peeking childishly through the window at the top-most room of the house.

For fear of being accused of hastiness, she wouldn’t admit that this trailer was where she pretty much made her preliminary assessment: who drove the car; who got out first; how many times did they drive up and down the road before identifying the correct number; did anybody assist the elder lady of the house out of the car; what was their expression upon first seeing her un-selfishly giant abode, etc, etc.

Anyway, on this particular day (the particular-ness of which hasn’t actually been outlined so, one day), having already seen pictures of a new collective from Kent and dramatised the compulsory (and somewhat genuine) reluctance, Toobaa awaited at her lookout point and, everything short of laying her hair out the window, Rapunzelled the time away.

So, she existed at the window for a quarter of an hour. Then she noticed the car. It slowed as it neared the top of the hill. Needless to mention, Toobaa had by now moved to a more discreet spy-point and even held her breath for good measure. Then, three wheatish-brown complexions peered from the windows of their blue car. Blue is the only description Toobaa was able to register before she saw, quite clearly, two of the three jaws drop, a self-conscious hand waving at the house and then at the driver (unconfirmed reports on which member of the family this was). Then there was a chortling engine sound and the car spluttered off down the other side of the hill.

It is said that Toobaa’s abode was perhaps too big for the Knight of Kent. Or maybe they were actually the royalty of a long lost empire that continues to exist under the English Channel and our home seemed to them a chunk of seaweed or a cracked sea-snail shell – of the two it cannot be said. What can be said with certainty, however, is that that is no way to behave. The misfortune of presuming the beautiful to be arrogant or air-headed; the ugly as incapable of passion or being loved; the poor as jealous and crafty and the rich of being miserly and haughty falls both ways. This is probably how we miss the precious, hidden gems we pray to find.

LOVE IN A FACE PLANT July 1, 2009

Face plant n. a serious fall which culminates in one landing on his/her face; the involuntary act of plant impersonation with one’s face as its roots; from the colloquial = ‘when trying harder does not make you a winner, but makes it funnier for others to watch you lose’.

What excited Toobaa about Shelina Zahra Janmohamed’s memoir, ‘Love in a Headscarf‘, was that she didn’t have to read it to know that it would be all the superb things it could be: witty, relevant and familiar. It was enough to know that an abundantly common experience and oft thought tedious process was being, by and large, universally acknowledged and celebrated. The story of many was being told – even a bit of hers.

Her own voyage was, however, hardly characterised by the austere head dress, although austerity was intended as a sort of obligatory form of transport from freedom to Freedom 2.0 (and a head dress was worn at all times). No, the prevailing flavour of her expedition was a fizzing in the nose, a scrunched up forehead and blotted out vision as she metaphorically, verbally and physically face planted her way (in an assortment of manners) through each and every alleged-able bachelor her Mother could filter through the customary barbed wire sieve. Until, of course, she ran out.

* * *

An unmistakable face plant.

The Infinite of Supplication June 28, 2009