Probably the worst first day raya in the 20 years of my existence.
I didn't do anything. Went to work and pretended it was a normal day to distract myself from thoughts of home. This is just another one of those tests of faith in life. I accept it.

...I need more ice cream.

Homesick

I made a dedication on the Singaporean Malay radio station today, to everyone in Singapore, and my family in Brantford. My mom actually stayed up until 3 am to listen to it. Peculiar as it may seem, there is something thrilling about hearing your dedication being played on air. Some sort of antiquity flair, that seems to be disappearing with age....but it made me feel special to be in the spotlight of the airwaves for a couple of seconds.

....and then for minutes after it made me feel homesick.
Home, being both in Singapore and in Brantford.

Bonfire

Blaze the buoy, and planks of wood,
Into a fire that sparkles like a million fireflies
& there I sat, staring, soul setting aflame
Smoke and ashes leaving with a sigh-
And away to the infinite stars that fill the sky

Yester-years blown away
By bloomed and burnt out summer breeze
Sweet crickets serenading-
They sing away my melancholy

For when the trees whispered, I heard your name
While they gathered, and laughed all around me,
Smiling pretentiously, dancing the night in circles and happy
Their eyes were glazed, seeking the same sympathy

& there sat I, staring, soul setting aflame
My mind cleared from the ashes and smoke with a sigh-
And away to the infinite stars that fill this night sky

& in some distant place, underneath this same distant sky,
Where the infinite stars light up the darkness
Yearning for you suddenly left me to smile,

The nightingale will fly with the ashes, burnt, benign-
So I let the flame enlighten my mind
& ease my chest tonight

(poem #100)

I'm so thankful to have someone so supportive and patient like you.

Dear Jack,

Two men in this world have shaped my political views and interests. Truly, you are one of them. For years and years, elections after elections, my excitement and heart would soar as I watched the ballot count. I have never missed observing your victorious expression. Let alone, that I have never doubted you'd lose a seat in parliament. 

While many have mocked and fired words like 'socialism' at your political platforms, you firmly represented the fundamental voice of dissent in our democracy. Like a genuine leader that you are, you did not speak for us. But rather, you echoed and facilitated our voices and those who are silenced. The women, children, aboriginals, ethnic minorities...the neglected. Even in your final letter you, you continued to encourage for our voices to be heard. I credit much of the passion for politics, courage,  and the motivation that I have in speaking up for my beliefs, to you. I would not be so daring enough today to speak my mind, if not for leaders like you. While you claim that the power and energy of youths inspired you, you are one of the many inspirational leaders to me.

Dear Jack, today I experience something I'd thought I only get to read in history textbooks. I have frequently been envious of the Trudeau generation, that I never thought I'd experience the loss of a charismatic leader in my lifetime. You were a Prime Minister we never had, but to me and probably to many others, you will always be more than that.

While I grieve, and am heartbroken by what has happened today, your perseverance is something I will continue to look up to. I will always remain proud of your struggles, be reminded of your accomplishments and be moved by contributions. Your legacy will continue to remain in our hearts. And I vow to continue fighting for social justice, for a loving, hopeful and optimistic generations to come.

Dear Jack, you are truly being missed. And I still can't believe this is real...

With love,
Shafiqah

 

Whatever this is, it's a cycle.
I either get used to it, or get out of it.
I need to stop complaining about it.
If I willfully choose to remain in it.
Or just never look back,
By leaving it.

But how can I be sure this is really a cycle?
What if it's just another one of those odd curves...

Wrinkly, someday

Someday, we'll sit on the patio at 3
Sipping in a summer cup, of chrysanthemum tea
Your fingers, linked between mine
Wrought iron, and glass table in between

Someday, while I cut the blooming flowers
A woven basket on my arm,
In our backyard of little less than Eden,
You'll be the one whistling, a tune
While I giggle, like I am fifteen

Someday, you'll kiss the wrinkles on my forehead,
When I worry away at pickles thrown our way
& you'll pinch my nose, while I stare into your eyes
Feeling the butterflies in my tummy,
Even at sixty.

Someday, this dream just might be real.
Today, I'm just really blessed to have you beside me.

Clock, tick-tock

What if time does not exist. It is merely a fictitious concept of discipline. An idea of falsehood created. A mechanism to control, a system to standardize, a way of order. It puts authority in a structure of competition. A chase. To chase after nothingness. And fabricate plans in a pattern, that which we claim to fall 'logically'.

A life unplanned is to embrace uncertainty. Yet, to plan life ahead of time is to anticipate uncertainty. Anticipation. With foolish assurance of righteousness. To overcome, and claim. To possess and control time. For we are beings with such greedy tendencies, we refuse to let ourselves submerge. We are power-hungry, and find needs in controlling our fate, forgetting that we are anything but inevitable.

We plan, and chase, and seek....
That sometimes nothing becomes enough. We sometimes become trapped in our lust for more, and complain of time being 'too-short', because of this system we have created, and willfully let consume us. Then in the end, we justify it all by pathetically saying, 'There's no turning back. It's now or never'. Has the art of seizing time within our fingertips really set us free?

Time. Yours truly. Or is it really?
Maybe I just had too much time...

Rap

Staring at my clothes spinning away in an empty laundromat with Eminem's Lose Yourself playing. That is probably the most gangster-like I can ever get. Although I remember in grade twelve, sinking myself in a huge hoodie and baseball hat I borrowed from a friend, rapping about Aristotle to the tune of T.I.'s Dead and Gone. Lame, I know.

Identity misalignment phase....maybe.
Or maybe I've turned over a new leaf.

I was rushing my way to work. And passed a homeless man on the sidewalk, with a chalk in his hand. Written in pink was "Happy Birthday Sparky". I thought that was the most simple, yet genuine sight ever. Whoever Sparky is, he is blessed with a very thoughtful friend. And friendship measures beyond anything material as a gift.

Ironic observation, considering I had planned to look for my father's belated birthday gift this evening.

Portraits of Hunger

In an article by David Nally entitled the Architectures of Violence: Famine and Profits, Nally points out that often the depiction of famine is a victim without a physically defined oppressor. This reinforced image of  suffering summons inevitability positioned based on geographical landscape. It tends to veil the discourse of existing systematic violence and oppression that exists. Therefore, the issue of accountability becomes one that is blurred.

Starvation has been declared by organizations and institutions as a threat. While threats may have roots from the unpredictable nature (e.g. tornado, earthquakes, etc), it has much relativity to a state's social, political and economical status. However, the potential a state has towards stabilization is almost always linked to its historical aspects. Because the present requires to build itself on what has happened in the past.

I have been told, 'countries are a lot like people'. Experiences in the past shape the outcomes of the future for both a state and an individual. For instance, a person becomes who he is today, because his past shaped to motivate or discourage successes and failures. Similarly, the progression of a state depends on the waves of tribulations and defining moments. The tribulations and discouraging failures need to be accepted as a challenge, in order to be overcame. It is only by making amends, and untangling the knots from the past that both the man and the state can successfully move ahead and progress towards the future.

Colonialism in history is key to understanding the context of the present. It is comparable to a bad break-up of a romantic relationship a woman (the colonized) once had after much emotional dependency and hurt she's experienced with a man (the colonizer) who happens to be addicted to drugs (material wealth). It is only with full acknowledgment, sincere remorse and cooperative responsibility taken that the knots can be untangled and steps can be made towards development.

Today, the perceived geographical landscape of Somalia conjures the assumption of a barren land and blistering weather as the triggering reason of the famine that is occuring. Again, I emphasize the vagueness and aversion of accountability. Noting that a century ago, the Scramble for Africa created false boundaries and territorial occupation, dividing tribal nations apart. The instability that exists today erases that past, minimizing the conflict from between colonizers and the colonized to something along the lines of between uncivil 'regional' peoples. Even today, multinational corporations purchase lands in the African continent to maximize profits in the developed world, with empty promises of stabilizing and supporting their economy. This contributed to the raise in food prices nobody can afford. The scramble for profits in the past and present has unsurprisingly not changed. Yet much of these as factors of accountability for the famine remain invisible. And the conjured image of a suffering malnourished child remains inked on the map of a continent, passively blaming inevitable nature given the regional location. In fact, the arms of men played a role in triggering the famine devastation.....and these are apathetic men 'justifying' their occupation to exploit from other hemispherical regions.

The fact is, to put this in context metaphorically, after a very very bad break up the ex-boyfriend still robs the woman of her dignity by manipulating her emotions and giving false hope. It is funny that the developed nations and the ex-boyfriend are both shameless and suffer from a delusion (an overused excuse) caused by an addiction to wealth (abundance of material). There is little value of respect (or non-material thing) left to value in either relationships. It is a really sad world...

Capiche?

Self-destruct

It's a fucked up world we live in. Consumed by so much material. While refusing to acknowledge that this obsession for wealth as a 'justified' practice of 'civilization' is in fact revealing the real savages we've become.

A culture of needs has been replaced with a culture of wants.Distorted and dysfunctional has become, brought forth by a corrupted interpretation of Maslow's hierarchy. I see 'exploited' inked everywhere on that glassy pyramid. Like a mirror reflecting the vanity. Self-actualization has mistakenly become self-absorption.

Toddler & Yellow Flower

Two stops after mine, a father and a little girl will every day board the same bus as I. With a haversack on one shoulder, and the toddler in his arms, they will always sit at the front, while I routinely would observe from afar. The bonding session between the two has been the most precious sight, leaving me (and everybody else on the bus) smiling. This goes without saying no matter how sleepy or caffeine-deprived I may get in the morning.

This morning, between chewing on her cookie and twirling a little yellow flower, the little girl kissed he father on the nose giggling hysterically. She then handed the flower to the lady in front of her, who was pleasantly surprised and blew kisses to on her way out of the bus. Maybe it was my ridiculous maternal hormones stirring, but I nearly exploded from such a heart warming sight! What innocence and sweetness! Which then makes me question, how and where on earth did we acquire our bad traits from?

....this and aside from being surrounded by pregnant ladies everywhere I went today. One can only wait.

Postbox

Map my footprints,
Stomp and rip then fold
Slip into the envelope in pieces again
But let my humor wander free

Stick a stamp on the corner like a sticker
Of this uncharted memory
To let linger this sour tragedy
& let fall, to falter-

Fate lies inside the redness
Into oblivion with others
Punched, some printed on, in black and blue-
Just like me.

Red Umbrella

Subconsciously before I slept last night, I summoned an imaginary yellow post-it-note and stuck it to the frontal lobe of my head. Written was a reminder to bring my red umbrella to work. But clearly that yellow post-it-note blew off this morning.

It was cloudy when I walked out at 4:30. Then without realizing a dark cloud was hovering my head, it rained. And I was soaked within ten seconds.

The hopeless romantic in me was secretly glad to have forgotten the umbrella, and not-so-secretly wished you were with me. I exchanged goofy grin with people passing by, knowing how ridiculous I must have looked. I was walking a block from my office to the bus stop, soaking wet until nice lady offered to share with me under her umbrella. I refused politely and told her I haven't played in the rain since I was six! I realize now how dorky I must have sounded, dressed up all business-like looking like a mature twenty-something. And when the lady who sat beside me on the bus squirmed, I giggled to my blank blackberry at the thought of giving her a bear hug, and decided to blast Eminem loud enough for the whole bus to hear....

I haven't had this much fun in a while. Especially never when I'm alone before. I sound like I'm partially crazy. Now I'm sitting here in bed, praying that I will not contract pneumonia or a cold from all that jazz....

Cure for boredom #2

Chewing on a fair trade hazelnut chocolate with a book by Oscar Wilde sitting on your lap. The man is prolific with words, I'd memorize every line by heart if I could. 

Circles

You can pretend the street lamp is the moonlight
& keep dancing the night away
Or you can sit on the sidewalk, and wait until the sunrise.
I used to love the sunrise.
But I am tired of waiting.
Chances after chances, this stupid dance has exhausted me.
And I am also tired of pretending.
What good could this confusion be for me?

The Cliff

Sometimes you have to wonder where some people get their courage from. In such frantic, desperation and fearful plight, hanging with only four fingers clinging on a rocky cliff. Where did the sudden burst of energy emerge from? Could fear be the heat, underneath the skeleton of a metal pot of bubbling? Bubbles. Yes, that would be the bravery. That they eventually burst and evaporate into the air ever so freely....

Free.

And invisible. Like finding salvation in a parachute of faith, and landing on the greener grass effortlessly. How tangible and invisible this colorful cloth called parachute really is.

It bewilders me.
To be able to place both feet firmly back on the ground,
Despite the scrapes and bruises.
To walk, and move, to step away freely.
Becoming fearless, with so much dignity and humility.

Faith surprises me.
Someday it will set me free.

Broken yellow lines

Streetlights, starry-eyed without a sound
Spins away the rubber on black burnt tar,
Leaving lines from afar,
Summer night sighs, they leave me to frown

Thoughts and thinking
To sit heavy in this chest,
Silly soulful twilight sing to me,
They sing the night away, ever freely

Burnt out moon, shadows swoon
& back to back like the broken yellow lines
I never thought
I'd be again on this road so soon.

Hello to the stereo, for this feeling to drown
This is a story, that ends
In a different town