chat pure lyric

Announcement

2008-07-06T19:35:00.001-04:00

I've transferred all of my posts to my new site, and will be updating only on that one. I'm keeping chat pure lyric live for sentimental reasons, and because I have a feeling it's going to resurface in another form.

transition and outkast

2008-07-06T00:33:00.000-04:00

Sitting at Denver Airport (Pearson, take note – they don’t charge for wireless here). Usually, when I travel, I don’t have time to just chill and write. Usually, I’m skipping lines, running through customs, and making it on to a plane by the skin of my teeth. But not today. There’s an hour before I have to board, and I’m five minutes away from the gate. I thought I’d seize the opportunity and wrap-up this past week, tie everything up neatly with a bow before I have to rejoin my real life.

I came to Boulder to take part in the Summer Writing Program ran by the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics (I just love saying that, it sounds so retro).

First off, I knew it would go well when on Monday morning, when I went to get my first coffee of the day. I still hadn’t spoken to anyone, was trying to find my way around and had been traveling the entire day before after rolling on no sleep in two nights. But I walked into the coffeeshop, and they were playing Outkast. And that’s all right by me.

With regard to the program, I had been romanticising the beat generation, but what I got was a simulacrum of it, retro politics repackaged for a new generation of radical chic. Or maybe I’m just a cynic. I did get to meet Amiri Baraka, a small man with a gigantic presence. I also got a chance to see Anne Waldman performing, who’s on another level completely in terms of sheer performance skill. And Tracie Morris? Damn!

The workshop that I attended was called “Taking a Solo: Prose & Interdependent Consciousness”. Originally designed by Thulani Davis, the lovely Akilah Oliver took her place at the last moment. A lot of what I practiced in terms of my writing this week was outside of my comfort zone – but hey, boundaries are there to be crossed. What I did place a lot of value on were the conversations I had with some of the faculty.

Another reason I had elected to attend the workshop at Naropa was to expose myself to more black writers from an older generation, to learn more about what had come before me in the diasporic cultural scene, and to find out what else was going on. The community and connection aspect was good for me. Sometimes, I feel so isolated and insulated from the world-at-large, too wrapped up in the Screwface Capital to pay attention to what’s going on.

Aside from the educational aspect of it, Boulder was fascinating. It’s an interesting little town, filled with beauty, magic, and weird racial dynamics. I’ve also never seen so much Buddhist/Tibetan/Hindu paraphernalia in one place at the same time.

Fourth of July fireworks were beautiful watched lying on my back on the grass on the university campus, surrounded by families and good people. We’d planted ourselves in front of a tree, and although we easily could have shifted a few feet to the right for an unobstructed view, everything was just fine. I saw the Big Dipper for the first time ever, bright, clear stars in the mountain air. I also had an interesting encounter with a snake on my way to the creek. People told me there weren’t any snakes in the city any more, that noone had seen any in years. I think it was a baby king snake. We had a brief exchange and then we both went on our way. Actually, I went right back the way I had come. I can take a hint.

I had a lot of time to just pause, think and write. I’m sure that a lot of the writing that has come out of this week will surface in future posts, and hopefully in more published work. I’ve promised to make more of a commitment to publishing my writing. To keep on pushing it and stop hoarding like it doesn’t belong out there.

And henceforth, every new week shall now begin with Outkast.

Boulder, CO 2008

2008-07-02T00:29:00.000-04:00

So far: Buddhism, interdependency, Can I Get A…?, Devin the Dude, Californication, Ochún, carbon footprins, Vietnam vets, Kerouac-Ginsberg-Burroughs, Amiri Baraka, Anne Waldman, brie, and the Rockies. And writing.

More later…

from my mother, for me

2008-04-29T11:20:00.001-04:00

The one and only you
by S.M. Awad-el-Kariem

Before you came I was me
I thought of me and felt for me
And then, there was you

And “me” changed forever
There were us, them, her, him, and you
Together we shall have the ultimate love
They will make you feel happy and laugh
She will be your playmate, your peer, your friend.
He will be your teacher, your mentor, your guide.
Everyone will be there for you
All the world will be there for you.
For it was God’s gift to you
As you are God’s gift to me.

You were the beginning for me to know
Life is not futile,
Birth, suffering and death.
Life, was watching you grow
Your cry, your smile
And how you held your breath
Trying to get your way.
Finding it in the uncharted road
Luring me, enchanting me to pray
Grateful for this ultimate gift of God

un(en)titled

2008-04-23T12:53:00.001-04:00

I wrote this poem in Arabic,
and kept it in my mind.

end.

my mind's playing tricks on me

2008-04-18T20:35:00.007-04:00

The weather's been beautiful these past few days, or so it appeared from my window. I've been quarantined under doctor's orders because of a nasty bout of bronchitis. I've been having weird recurring, powerful, sad dreams, waking up in tears, and experiencing an emotional pain so intense, heartbreak pales in comparison.

It amazes me how emotions are so physical. I've been through some physical pain - nothing major, a bum hip, a fractured thumb, cramps, severe back pain, burns, deep cuts, etc. Regular physical pain that anyone can relate to. Emotional anguish manifesting as physical as well: sore ribs, tension headaches, painful lethargy.

But the emotional/physical pain from these dreams has been unreal. No analgesic on earth was going to take this pain away. Halfway through this dream was the death of a loved one, and I've never felt anything remotely close to the pain that this imagined loss created. I'd wake up, early in the morning, unable to move. My pillow would be soaked halfway through. It felt like my body was being torn in half. A seemingly long period of deep breathing, trying to bring my body and mind under control again. Repeating "it's okay, don't be stupid, it hasn't happened" to myself like a mantra.

Sunshine takes unreal fears away. So do panicked repetitive phonecalls to make sure everything's okay. The anxiety becomes a joke at my expense, but at the back of my mind, there's this nagging little voice asking me what the hell it all means?

I exorcise through writing, and I seek solace in the Geto Boys.

haquibat al fann, or channeling my inner bootsy

2008-04-04T15:31:00.005-04:00

Last month, I ordered an electric bass guitar. I actually ordered the whole kit and caboodle - carrying case, strap, amp, and stand. And a copy of "Bass Guitars for Dummies". For real.

Now, the first time I had ever tried to play the bass was in the store the day I ordered mine, when I was checking them out. I can't read music. All I can do, really, at this point is play the first part of "Love Me Tender" (sans chords) on keyboard, and "O Susannah!" on the harmonica. I once could play Nirvana's "Rape Me" on electric guitar. I learned that in high school. One of the school bands was performing it at our senior prom, and the guitarist used our computer classes to practise (he also provided the soundtrack for our anti-physics classes boycotts). We were pretty wayward. But that was over a decade ago, and I can barely remember how to play it now.

I'd always said that if there was any instrument I was going to learn how to play, it was going to be the electric bass. It's a crucial element in most musical genres, from the Afro-jazz of home to every form of reggae, from funk to indie, from hip hop to punk. Music's integral to my being, and I want to start making my own. And what's a song without bass?

I don't know why I decided to buy an instrument now. Mainly because I couldn't find a reason not to. Bass players in a band don't get no shine, but I'm not in this for the glory. I don't intend to perform, just to play along to the basslines in my favourite reggae and p-funk tracks. I'm excited. Since I've ordered my guitar (it will need a name - any suggestions?), I've been a great mood, looking forward to when it arrives. If anyone from Steve's Music is reading this, it should have been here last week!

I'm counting down the days to when "grooving to a bassline" is going to change meaning. When I'll cancel plans because I need to practice. When I can add "wannabe musician" to the list of self-descriptives.

In the meantime, I'll marvel at Lloyd Parks' basslines for Dennis Brown and build on a newfound respect for Robbie Shakespeare. The extra bass in my sub woofers is turned up all the way, in a rub-a-dub style.

we build our temples for tomorrow

2008-03-14T11:38:00.005-04:00

I. Ownership
It’s becoming glaringly obvious to me that I have a problem with owning my creative output. I believe(d) that art does not need to be accessed through its creator/producer. My name does not need to be on my writing or design work. When I’m challenged on this, as I have been recently and constantly, I find this resistance to claiming my own work. I’m not ashamed of my work, I know it’s good and I know I have unlimited potential to improve. I think this pushing-against stems from the name that I carry. It immediately places me as belonging to a particular ethnic group, religion, and place. My name limits my art. It gives my audience permission to categorise and constrain me. It permits them to use my words as weapons against me. It gives them this presumption of knowing me, and thus knowing what I’m trying to convey. And they’re usually wrong. To give myself permission to breathe, to say what I have to say without fear or being misconstrued, misinterpreted, or even worse, used as a symbol, I remove my name. I don’t deny what I’ve written, but I remove my name. It’s a conscious decision, confounded with regret, anger, frustration, and self-righteousness. But I’m starting to change on that front, because I’m becoming aware that I need to remove that power from my audience. I need to use the power of my words for me. I don’t need to apologise. And I don’t need to protect myself from misinterpretation.

II. “Click.”
Once again, on the self-awareness tip. I’m a person of extremes. I don’t cut corners on anything I do – eating/not eating, socializing/hermiting, writing/not writing. My life’s like a game of Pong, and I’m the ball, external circumstance are the paddles, and sometimes I get so slammed around, I’m not even there. It manifests in my emotions – depressive phases that are so dark and hopeless, ecstatic phases when I’m frighteningly delirious. I’m a human pendulum, swinging through the mid-point like it’s irrelevant. And I just figured, hey, this is just me. This crazy-ass up-and-down is just the way things are supposed to be, and I’m just going to go along with the flow. But last week, I clicked. Audibly and deliberately. And unconsciously. I just felt balanced and in tune. The feeling was so new and so wonder-full. And soul and so amazing.

III. Annotations
The word “annotations” has been recurring in conversations, texts, and concepts. I’ve been annotating previous writings as well, I’ve been calling it “editing”, but the action was definitely annotating. I like the concept of annotating. I like the idea of going through things and adding little notes and comments, improvements and ideas. I’ve been annotating myself, highlighting areas of improvement, little text tabs that say “I LOVE THIS!!!”, and fixing up grammar. I want to annotate other people – I want to take little stickie notes and say “I LOVE THIS ABOUT YOU!!!” and stick them on them. I want to say “Maybe you could include this here?” I want to draw lines through ignorant beliefs and mistakes made (including my own), so during the next round of encounters they’re no longer there. I want the people I love and trust to annotate me, help me improve. And I want everyone to have DRAFT wordmarked onto them, so we all get that we’re past versions of our future selves.

IV. Energy
So, based on two particular conversations I’ve had – one happened last Sunday, the other one last night – I’ve discovered that I’m not weird. This is good news. Things I believe, things I do, are perfectly normal to some people. Two very significant conversations, where I didn’t have to explain myself once. Where I didn’t have to stop and search through my ESL vocabulary for the perfect words. You (M. and T.) really understood what I was saying. This is a huge relief. Thank you.

Peace.

this is for the love y'all

2008-02-15T11:40:00.002-05:00

Yesterday was Valentine's day. I hated on it all day. Just straight-up anti-love sentiment was gushing out of me. But then today, I found this: "31 Flavors of Love - the Ultimate Valentine's Day Hip-Hop Mix". And I fell in love again.

did you do it with respect?

2008-01-16T21:28:00.000-05:00

My mindscape's like Piccadilly Circus during tourist season. There's so many things going on at once. So many thoughts whizzing by. Neon signs everywhere, looping ideas I haven't worked on yet. Thoughts move around. To-do lists run on stock exchange ticker tapes.

Thoughts move in and out, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly. Some are slow and lumbering, like the old double-decker buses, getting appended with slivers of insight hanging off the back like a hitchhiker. Some thoughts move like quicksilver, like the pickpockets who've just scored a wallet. Some thoughts are suspect, destructive, selling vice and depravity. I have to admit, sometimes I follow these thoughts into dark alleyways and into basements. Other thoughts make like tourists, and just hold wonder.

I'm blogging right now because I'm in an interesting state; I'm observing my mental scenery, amused and surprised at what's going on. I'm trying to make order of the chaos, moving through the crowded thoughts like a policeman conducting random ID checks. Trying to just figure out what's been going on in my head as I've been focusing my consciousness on other projects. This is what happens when I've been on auto-pilot.

1. I've been calling myself a writer for years and years. Probably since I was three. Following last year's personal growth, I've been rearranging my perceptions and looking at how I define who I am and what I do. Personally, I can't separate writing from being, but I'm retracting both "writer" and "artist" as self-descriptives. I still write - I will always write - but I am not yet a Writer. Neither am I an Artist. I'm not discounting my achievements, I know for a fact that I am more accomplished than a large majority of people out there who call themselves writers. I simply looked at the achievements of individuals who would almost inarguably be called writers, and I'm not one of them. Yet. If I carry on along my path, I have no doubt that I will get there soon. But until I do, I'm disavowing "writer" and "artist", choosing to see them as honorifics that deserve to be earned. (I will still hold on to journalist and producer - those are roles, not identities).

2. Community. I'm a drifter, a transient, a nomad, a mover, rootless, and homeless. And as a result I'm private, reticent, defensive, and aloof. But no man is an island (peninsula, maybe?), and my idea of community has been growing more and more important to me. And from a personal standpoint, I'm trying my hardest to build supportive networks around me, ones that I can draw strength from, and more importantly, see how my strengths can contribute to it. For the past month, I've been having conversations about the idea of community almost on the daily. Local communities, friends and family, and global communities. As a result of the conversations I've been having combined with what's going through my head and what I see around me, the word that comes to mind when trying to explain my own internal processes is tashkeel. Which, roughly translated, means "the process of forming".

3. "Take care of yourself." An elder asked me if I was taking care of myself once. I said yes, of course. She disagreed. I didn't understand what she meant then, but I think I'm starting to get it now. I whisper it to myself when I walk out of the door every morning. I'm looking out for my mental and physical. Because I was this close to losing it all. More than once. I don't want to end up there again.

4. I'm learning patience and tolerance. I needed to. I get angry too easy, disappointed too easy, frustrated too easy. In other words, I'm too damned sensitive. And that's punk-ass, because while I'm not discounting what I'm going through, I remember what I have gone through in the past, and what other people around me have gone/are going through, and I count my blessings.

And enough of this crap. I'm out.

PS - If you're in the Toronto area this week, you should go here.

PPS - I really strongly feel that this is for some reason a lot bigger than you or I will ever know.

t.r.o.y.

2007-12-28T13:21:00.000-05:00

It’s about that time again. Time for the annual year-in-retrospect obligatory blog post.

From last year’s wrap-up post:

2007 will be about renewal, acceptance, discovery, faith, and over-achievement. And, hopefully, let 2007 be about friends old and new, and stories familiar and unheard.

Oh! have there been stories. And beautiful people in and around my life.

When I wrote those words, I had no idea how difficult “renewal, acceptance, discovery, faith” would be. Not an iota of awareness. Damn, it’s been painful.

Winter was melancholic. Spring was cliché-ingly promising. Summer was (as predicted) serendipitous. And ever since Mercury got its act together and moved out of retrograde, autumn’s been good to me.

Rounding up the tail end of another year in the life of a Scorpio, and the question begging to be asked: What have you earned for yourself in '07? Perhaps better yet: Was it all it was cracked up to be? Was it enough?
www.astrobarry.com

I’ve earned the ability to work on myself with care and patience. 2007 was all it was cracked up to be and more. And it was definitely enough.

I’ve been on a creative tip for a minute now. Working on my own ish, collaborating with other people on projects that keep me up at night, overwhelmed with their potential (hence the lack of posting). I’m looking forward to 2008. I’m in a good mind space, I’m a lot more comfortable with myself and my capabilities. I feel lighter.

The universe is aligning itself in my favour. It told me so.

Keywords for 2008: community, creation, music, achievement, beauty, positivity

jewellery

2007-10-03T22:50:00.000-04:00

your words
are strung together
like
cheap plastic beads
the ones young girls thread on to
that transparent plastic thread.

that snap
when you become too
tense.
brightly coloured spheres
scatter all over the place
like your meaningless phrases.

the wind moves the desert (alternate title: when i was crusoe)

2007-09-26T23:47:00.001-04:00

Right before a haboob, the natural world is quiet. It's like Mother Nature powers down. There's no birdsong - in fact, there are no birds to be seen either. I don't know where they go at this time. Alley cats disappear and the roaming packs of dogs that have claimed the city are nowhere to be seen. The stray goats, which roam around Khartoum like they own the place and compete with dogs for the title of most self-entitled animal, vanish. Cattle stop mooing, sheep stop bleating, and the donkeys stop braying. It's bizarre.

There's no breeze either. But we know where the wind is. Somewhere in the desert, gathering its strength, summoning all draughts, blasts, eddies, gusts, and puffs to a predetermined meeting point.

As a result of nature's hiatus from the acoustic world, manmade sounds are intensified. Car horns are louder, sharper, and more indignant. People's voices carry, and domestic discussions, previously muffled by the wind, bounce off buildings and into neighbours' yards. This is the so-called calm before the storm.

When the haboob starts, you can see it from kilometres away. It looks like a big reddish-brown wall heading your way. During a haboob, it seems like the wind picks up the desert and brings it into the city for an unannounced, and definitely undesired, visit. There are no ways of differentiating between the city and the badlands, as the boundaries between them are erased. The wind unceremoniously dumps as much sand as it can carry all over the city, not unlike how pouty little boys on beaches dump contents of buckets all over antagonistic (and preferably unsuspecting) older sisters.

Once it's spotted though, you know you've got some time. Enough time at least to get indoors and seal all gaps between the in and out to stop the fine desert dust from slipping in. Everything will end up covered in red-brown desert sand - buildings are dusted over, roads are swallowed in the onslaught, and newly-formed dunes appear in the most awkward spots. Travel is impossible - the strength of the wind alone makes it difficult, the sand blinds, not to mention those sand dunes. Everyone remains indoors until the haboob's done - it's unwritten but perfectly understood. That's-just-the-way-things-are.

Once, before a haboob, in the chaos to get everything indoors - possessions, progeny, and pets - I was forgotten outside. Or I sneaked out to experience - I can't remember which, although now that I'm older and beyond reproach, I can admit this, and it seems the more likely scenario. I wanted to experience the haboob from inside it. I was eight years old, or round about there, and at the time, my family lived in a second floor flat with the hugest balcony I have ever seen.

The world was quiet, calm. Khartoum was still. Not a sound was made as everyone and everything waited indoors for the haboob to pass through.

Suddenly, all hell broke loose. It was like being in a reddish fog sent up by Hades as the sand swirled and stung. It blinded and irritated as it got into my eyes, my mouth, my lungs. I couldn't breath without feeling the graininess in my throat, and tears flowed down my cheeks covering my face with mud.

I held my t-shirt across my mouth so I could breathe easier, bowed my head a little to stop the wind whipping sand into my eyes, and I waited.

It could have been half an hour, or half a day. Occasionally, the haboob appeared to calm down. Like a fishwife exhausted from berating her husband for staying out too late, the wind lost steam and while the desert continued to fill the sky, the gusts weakened, and the dust started to settle. Like the pissed-off fishwife, the sandstorm caught its second, third, fourth winds. Each time it seemed the scolding was over, it would renew its intensity.

When the wind had weakened for what seemed like the last time, I was excited at surviving what in my mind was the worst storm of the century. I was tough, a hero, a survivor like Crusoe. I decided to set off on a solo mission and begin the inevitable clean-up, a task more daunting than Hercules' fifth.

You know how there's two types of impossible? The type that's impossible by name only, and then the type that's the real deal? Yeah, well, this was the real deal. Among the debris, I located a broom and I began sweeping. I swept and I swept and I swept. And I didn't accomplish anything. Every time I would manage to push a small pile of dust off the balcony, the not-dead-yet wind would cover the area with more sand.

This carried on until I was exhausted, and could sweep no longer. Covered in dust, my body drafting its letter of resignation in protest, and with a gloriously muddy face, I surrendered in recognition of what I should have known was too much to handle.

Two decades later, I still know the despair of crashing down from on top of the world, a feeling reinforced several times over (thanks, Life!). From feeling like Crusoe and Hercules, to experiencing defeat by grains of sand. Albeit billions of them. Now I'm older and wiser, but I still haven't internalised that lesson: whenever I sense that I'm about to squander my energies on a futile endeavour, something inside tells me I'd be better off hiding.

But I don't hear it though.

writing in blood → writing's in my blood

2007-09-19T21:48:00.000-04:00

For the last little while, I’ve been trying not to write. Damn right I’ve been avoiding. Most of the time, I don’t write for fun or pleasure. It’s an incredibly painful process, and isolating – not in a good way, but in a plunging-into-the-abyss way.

I’ve been trying to deal with my writing process. I’ve fought it until I was physically and emotionally drained. Late nights at 3a.m., willing myself to not switch on my laptop. Trying not to rely on writing as a way of maintaining my sanity. And losing my grip on real as a result.

Because writing is how I deal. It’s the reason why I can chill with my demons. Because when I write about what plagues me, I’m confronting them, conversating, reasoning, pleading, or sometimes smashing them over the head with my sentences.

I’ve been lying about it too. When friends ask me how my writing’s going, I grin and say “great, just spent three hours at the computer”, when in all reality, I spent three hours glaring at my laptop, incapacitated, refusing to write, but unable to do anything else.

It’s been interesting. It’s taught me a lot about what writing means to me, and why I need to write. I even wished I couldn’t, calling it a curse.

I’m still not at the point where I can embrace my skill as a talent, but I’m no longer dealing with it as my cross to bear. Got enough of those.

I’ve been exploring my past, tracing what defines me, trying to figure out why writing should be included in my definition of self. And I’ve discovered that I can’t avoid it, it doesn’t do me any good. It took ______’s words (insert any name from my maternal lineage) to remind me.

It’s in my genes. And I gave up (consciously) fighting those a long time ago. And so I surrender.

mad things rearrange

2007-08-05T23:38:00.000-04:00

It's been a minute since my last post.

Back in March, I proclaimed the summer of serendipity. And I was right. There's so much to say, so much has happened. I've come through a lot.

I've learned that friendships come and go. That life is both incredibly ugly and overwhelmingly beautiful. That love is underrated. That letting go has to happen in order to seize the day. That space is important, and peace of mind more so. I've learned that coincidences aren't.

There have been dark times this summer. I've been retreating into places I never wanted to see. But this time, I'm remembering to cross over to the sunny side of the street. And I'm feeling good.

Seasons change.

i've lost (or found) my elephant

2007-05-13T19:25:00.000-04:00

Have you ever had a paragraph seize you by the throat, put you in a chokehold, and slam you up against a wall? Have you ever read anything that shoved you emotionally, into the path of an oncoming train, and woke you up with its impact? Have words ever attacked your sanctuary, forced your eyes open, and made you see?

Thank you, Mr. Haruki Murakami (and Mr. Alfred Birnbaum). I hate your directness, your manipulation of language. I resent your disruption, this intrusion. Don't worry though - I'm sure this won't last too long, as I have too much to be grateful to you for.

But life was just peachy yesterday.

pigeons and ice cream

2007-03-28T19:03:00.000-04:00

One of my favourite movies is Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai. The story line appeals to me - it's a gritty urban story about a modern-day samurai (Forest Whitaker) and how he lives by his ideals. As a hip hop fan, this movie's a must-see because it was the RZA's first film score; he also has a cameo in it. As if that wasn't enough, there's also a cameo by Gary Farmer.

But those aren't the only reasons I enjoy this film (which is my currently third most watched movie of all time, after Pulp Fiction and Monty Python and the Holy Grail). The movie has one of my all-time favourite relationship depictions: the main character's best friend is a Haitian ice cream man. Although the Haitian doesn't speak English, and Ghost Dog doesn't speak French, their relationship is so easy and comfortable; I aspire toward that level of comfort in my friendships. There's also Ghost Dog's friendship with a precocious little girl. What struck me about this relationship was how he passed on his knowledge to her; there's one scene in the film which (for me) distilled the vital and unconscious passing on of wisdom from one generation to the next.

I obsess over things I like. I read about them, I talk about them, I research them, and I find out everything I can about the person/film/book/event/place/etc. I've just been going through a phase where I've been obsessing (again) about Ghost Dog, and it's reached a point where, given half a chance, I would call up the people responsible for this film being created, just to talk to them about it. Not so I can write about it, but just to get some more information about this movie I like so much, because I want to know. I don't even know what I would ask about, I just want to know as much as possible.

Recently, while reading some more about Ghost Dog, I came across a passage on reverse shot which prompted me to write this post. Jeanette Catsoulis wrote an article about the film's writer/director, Jim Jarmusch:

"What interests him is cultural collision, the racial friction and cross-pollination that reaches beyond black and white to the roots of a culture where everyone seems to espouse a hyphenate identity (so much so that the hyphen itself has mostly disappeared)."

That's what interests me too.

In Ghost Dog, characters seem to travel across racial boundaries, yet retain a very strong sense of racial identity. The character Ghost Dog carries himself as a Black man, and the only times you sense his capacity for warmth in the movie is when he's dealing with other black people - his Haitian friend, the young girl, the brothers on the street. But yet, he lives by the code of Japanese warriors, and his conviction in his path is inspiring and infuriating. To add to the racial incongruence, Ghost Dog has pledged allegiance as a samurai to a member of the mob, a white man who once saved his life.

The mob carry the hot-tempered mentality of an eye-for-an-eye, but as a group of aging Italians, they've lost steam. But one of them's a hip hop fan, and starts spitting rhymes during a meeting, and naming off rappers (including PE's Flavor Flav).

The Haitian ice cream man, with his beautiful and infectious smile, and complete lack of English, embodies an optimistic and romantic view of immigrants in North America. What struck me about his character in terms of race and culture, was the fact that I didn't find it unusual that someone could survive in a city without speaking the language.

That sort of thing doesn't strike me as strange - or it didn't until I was trying to order a meal in Little Portugal. The lady working at the restaurant spoke no English, and I speak no Portuguese. Using my limited Spanish, I managed to order the best halibut meal I had ever had in a restaurant. Didn't even think about it as an issue. Until something someone said, and I realised that the global existence I had taken for granted could be seen as a threat, in the same way I find attitudes resistant to it threatening.

I digress.

Back to Jarmusch. I also enjoyed Coffee and Cigarettes. And not only because Iggy Pop was in it. You should watch it.

a change'll do me

2007-03-01T18:48:00.000-05:00

"Change."

It was a flat statement. Pronounced by a beggar right at the moment when he realised that he should be begging. There was no inflection, no rising of pitch. It wasn't the typical pleading "Change?", but a simple fact of the current moment. "Change."

I continued past him, in that rush-hour city stride. Head bent down, moving a little bit faster than usual. Walking with purpose and destination, using the slipstream of the people walking in front of me and past me to move just that little bit faster.

I kept hearing that word in my head. Change. Change. Change. Simply at first, then with more assertion. Change. CHAnge. CHANGE. From a statement of fact to a barked order. Until my mind was filled with a ticker show of bolded capital letters.

CHANGE!

I'd had thoughts of transition in my head, but change was more apt. Transition implies an easing into a new situation, a gentle change of events. I've never been a gentle person, more like a biting sandstorm than a breeze. And like a sandstorm, leaving behind evidence of my presence scattered everywhere, until others cleaned up. So change, with its brusqueness and abruptness was definitely a better word.

A change'll do me good.

the price of freedom

2007-02-19T20:10:00.000-05:00

I walked past a bus shelter yesterday. One pane of glass had been broken, leaving behind sharp jagged edges. Shattered glass was sprinkled on the pavement like hundreds and thousands. The unharmed glass next to the shattered pane had a piece of yellow A4 paper that announced "Quick Divorces $300".

$300 sounds like a small price to pay for freedom. A small price to pay to close off a chapter of your life. Complete it with a full stop. Rather than ease out of it with commas and semicolons.

Today, the broken pane had been cleaned up, the sharp edges cleared, and a yellow caution tape was fluttering in their place. The notice for quick divorces was gone too. Broken glass and broken promises, removed by municipal employees.

photographs of dead friends

2007-02-13T23:41:00.000-05:00

“Who’s this?”

That’s Simon. Took his mother’s sedatives
And then
Slit his wrists.
His mother was on the wrong side of a locked door
And as he bled to death
She called the police who came
Too late to save him because
They lived in the wrong part of town.

“What about him?”

Him? Greg hung himself
In the basement apartment that he lived in.
One week later
Someone set fire to the house
While his neighbours slept upstairs.
They lost everything but
Kept their lives.

“He looks happy.”

They all look happy in these pictures.
But Rodrigo didn’t kill himself.
He was an international rudeboy.
Had kids on two continents to prove it.
Someone stabbed him for revenge.
He also bled to death before the cops got there.

"What's her story?"

Brooklyn was a performer
But she didn't want the fame
Or anything that came with it.
Her friends found her when
She didn't answer her phone.
She used a rope.

In memory.

the year that was

2007-01-02T16:00:00.000-05:00

I've been referring to 2006 as my little exercise in mediocrity.

I'm proud of my achievements of the past year - I've edited a magazine, received a grant, and managed to (finally) get back to London. I received my first piece of fan mail. I've started a blog (albeit not kept it up so much), and met new people. But I was functioning at about 45%. No more of that.

I've also been broke, lost a friend and a car, experienced ennui in its most depressing form, and been stressed out beyond belief. But I wouldn't exchange last year for anything.

2006 was about coffee and conversations. Holding on and letting go. It was about reading in Arabic, writing in Spanish, and WD-40ing my French. It was about meeting new people, and reconnecting with old friends. It was about wanderlust precipitated by hearing stories from Bangkok, Cambodia, Geneva, Los Angeles, Chicago, Vancouver, Saskatoon, Khartoum, Muscat, NYC, Chile, Singapore, and Capetown. It featured Zen and Jainism, hip hop and opera (and a dose of hip hopera), stuffed red peppers, and French perfume houses.

2007 will be about renewal, acceptance, discovery, faith, and over-achievement. And, hopefully, let 2007 be about friends old and new, and stories familiar and unheard.

myth and the city

2006-10-11T19:54:00.000-04:00

I find the concepts of myth and urbanism combining in my mind more and more lately. There's magic in cities, and there's heroes and heroines, legends, and - if a neighbourhood's been around long enough - there's folklore.

As I experience the stop-and-go rhythms of rush hour traffic in my daily commute to work; it leaves me quite a bit of time to examine the scenery. This is where myth comes into play, as strange, fantastical tales develop in my head, but in an urban setting.

Old school fairytales a la Hans Christian Andersen, mix with the multi-racial city of my imagination, all to a Roni Size-influenced soundtrack.

I amuse myself by picturing Queen Street West yuppies running around and screaming, spilling their extra-hot soy lattes (no whipped, please), as Toronto gets attacked by a raging dragon. God knows how many airport limo drivers out there think I'm crazy, as they honk and overtake me as I sit there, giggling.

It's a pastiche of childhood literary memories, altered by an infatuation with pulp fiction and real beat poetry, combined with environmental concerns, and interpreted in the context of an ongoing lover's brawl with the city I live in.

The Little Mermaid becomes a horrific genetic mutation - half snakehead, half human, and nowhere near amazing. She haunts my nightmares, reeking of sewage, wearing zebra mussels as pasties. Take it as a warning.

Snow White's an African albino, modelled after an old acquaintance called Yellowman, who hustles her way through the city, loses seven years to mental illness, and is finally rescued, not by a white prince on a white horse, but by the implementation of culturally aware social services.

I gotta write this down.

the things people say, now/every night and every day, now

2006-10-02T10:18:00.000-04:00

Hanging out in Yorkville for Toronto's very successful rip off of Nuit Blanche reminded me why sometimes, I really do like this city. Props to the organisers, I was well impressed and I had a blast - thank you.

The night started off by finding a free parking spot within five minutes of getting to Yorkville (score!), walking past oodles of yuppies to the ROM, where we checked out a fascinating and stimulating exhibit by Cuban artist Carlos Garaicoa. The ROM was crazy packed with families, couples, singles, and just peoplepoeplepeople of all ages checking it out. It wasn't just about the exhibition (which was amazing), as it was about the fact that here was a public space open to everybody for an entire night. This is what cultural accessibility is all about.

Afterward, we decided to make a cameo at the Ballroom Party, which consisted of a gymnasium, hundreds of balloon-like balls, and 10 year old DJs. Let me tell you, there is nothing cuter than 10 year old DJs. Not even fluffy little bunnies.

Due to time constraints, we were only able to check out a few other spots really briefly, but that little dose of fun was great.

Saturday night was all about eavesdropping and overheard fragments of conversations. As private conversations were made accessible by the simple act of having them in a public place, I managed to collect quite a few snippets of conversation.

Eavesdropping is the aural equivalent of voyeurism; there's a secret delight in receiving information you have no right to. Engaging in passive eavesdropping, as well as passive voyeurism, when there is no perverse intent behind it, is like finding a treat.

Here are a few of my favourites from Saturday night:

Two older ladies, yelled at the Bloor/Avenue intersection:
"Do you know the story about the opaque glass [in the ROM's crystal]?" "Which story?" "You know, about the opaque glass." "Yes."

Gino, on cellphone:
"We're on Dundas West.... we'll meet you on Dundas West..." (repeat til fade)

Two youths, outside the Ballroom party venue:
"Is this where the kids are?" "Darren's thing?" "Yeah." "I think this is it."

In the smoking section of a house party (a.k.a. the front porch):
"AKS.KJNKJBFDW:KF(@MNSE@END{@F#@*&@$UHSGRK;JHP&T@PIUHJ"
There were about 20 people on the porch, and I swear, everyone was talking, no-one was listening, and I couldn't make out a single word from the cacophony.

And the best - a totally random and apparently unsolicited - from a young tall male:
"Eeeuuuuurrrggghhh!"

if it wasn't for jigsaw puzzles, i wouldn't have this analogy...

2006-09-09T23:07:00.000-04:00

When I’m asked why I write I answer, “because I need to”. I write obsessively-compulsively – when I need to write, I can’t think of anything else until I spew out whatever it is that has needs expulsion from my brain.

Imagine you came across a 10,000+ pieces jigsaw puzzle. But you didn’t know what the finished image was going to be, the pieces kept on changing shape, and all you knew was that if you didn’t complete it you’d go certifiably insane. However, you’re guided primarily by a force similar to intuition, and you know pieces fit because not only do they lock together but you know deep down in your gut, the two pieces are a perfect match. It just feels right. And when you’ve finished, and you’re satisfied with the completed puzzle, you feel so relaxed and at ease with the world.

That’s the closest I can get to describing what the writing process is like for me. I’m obsessed with a piece, I think about it non-stop until it’s done and only then can I get on with my life. The sentences are like jigsaw puzzle pieces and I only know they fit when they feel right. And even after I think I've got it all sorted, some of the pieces change shape on me. Writing is extremely frustrating, infuriating, and gratifying.

Oh, and I love jigsaw puzzles. But not the ones guaranteed to drive you up the wall.

principles of a timeless muse

2006-08-28T15:12:00.000-04:00

Is it strange that Calliopeia has been figuring in my dreams? I picture her floating around me, uttering words in different languages. My 21st century muse is darkskinned, quotes Dostoyevsky and Master P, and has a pierced eyebrow. Nothing like the Calliopeia of ancient days. Maybe she's me, circa 1998. There is a resemblance.

I've been re-reading Howl - although I have it memorised I like the shape of the words on the paper. I wonder if Calliopeia visited Ginsberg, and if she did, what form she took.

These days, I'm more in need of a muse for living, one to help me recapture my love for life, one to allow me to look beyond all the bad things in this world. I feel so jaded and world-weary, so pessimistic and cynical.

sick and twisted, pt. II

2006-08-20T23:32:00.000-04:00

Living in a North American city, we're so far removed from the ugliness of death. Not the gentle kind of death that visits the elderly in their sleep, but death at the hands of the most brutal and violent incarnation of the Grim Reaper.

Looking at photographs from modern day wars, untouched, unedited photographs that were preceded by "Warning: the graphic nature of these images may disturb some viewers."

I saw a headless baby. I saw a torso - not a body, but a torso. I saw intestines spewing out of a corpse like some old Stephen King story. I saw people missing fingers and hands and arms and toes and feet and legs. And I saw fingers and toes and hands and feet and arms and legs, minus the people.

I read the reports of people who were there, and they gave me names and histories to attach to the people whose bodies were ripped apart. I wept, and I couldn't help it.

The images will give me nightmares, but I can't and I won't look away. I wasn't there, and I feel guilty that I wasn't there. I feel guilty that I am safe, and I would give up my own too-comfortable life if it meant that no other baby would have his or her head blown off.

As I've said before, this world is a twisted, sick, messed up place.

grind

2006-08-09T23:05:00.000-04:00

the hustle's overrated
sorry, but i'm about to knock it.
been working nine-to-five
or seven (am) to twelve (am)
thinking, is that all there is?

so let's keep dancing.

dancing through through it all
trying to find grace in getting by
getting through, getting on
without getting stuck.

i'm tired of the dance and grind
i want to unwind and wind
like a gypsy.

roam like a nomad on winding roads
with no destination in sight
as opposed to working toward an
unseen
unknown
unfelt

End.

art, exploration, and black queens

2006-08-02T21:28:00.000-04:00

I went for a walk in the rain, and I got soaked to the skin. It's something that I haven't done for years - it's rarely ever warm enough to do that here. I'm sitting down to write this while the clothes I'm wearing dry. I could go and change, but inspiration struck while I was braving the elements. And to be honest, I quite like this exercise.

While I was on my walk, I started thinking about a project I did while in university. The class was a pretty intense exploration of the issues, thoughts, and environment of creating purposeful art. We explored topics such as space, identity, representation, and audience, and out of my entire seven years spent in full-time postsecondary education, it was the class that had the greatest shaping influence on my future work.

I was reminiscing about a class assignment where each student had to create an art project that would represent them. At the time, my biggest critique of the class was that the space it had created was too "safe". Everyone and their work was welcome, and no criticism for future development was ever uttered. It made it hard, as I expected a class that explored art and its issues to teach me how to improve, refine, and develop my ideas. However, I now know what it feels like to have a safe space in which to display, discuss, and explore my work, and I am forever grateful for that.

But I was thinking specifically about my self-representation. Initially, because of my training and education in mass communications, I had decided to brand myself, using advertising techniques to crystallise my identity into visuals I could display in the 15 minutes presentation time I had.

The image was a re-creation of the Queen of Spades, which I had chosen for several reasons. First, the symbology associated with the Queen made her (to me) the most intriguing character in a deck of cards. She's the only queen carrying arms, and the weapon I chose for me as QoS was the quill (the pen is mightier than the sword and all that jazz). As a black woman, I found the descriptor "Black Queen" incredibly apt, and spades are sexier than clubs.

In addition, I selected the phrase "cherchez la femme noire" as the caption for the image. Obviously the black woman thing again, but there's more to it. Searching for something implies a need or desire for it, and means that its whereabouts are unknown, creating a sense of mystery. The expression describes a technique in the card game Hearts, where the player seeks to collect the entire hearts suit (each card = 1 point), and the Queen of Spades (valued at a whopping 13 points). It's an all or nothing attempt to gain a lead in the game; players try to keep their scores to a minimum. As each player reaches 100 points, they leave the game, and the most efficient way of winning is cherchez-ing for the Queen of Spades, because the player who successfully pulls it off receives no points for that hand, while all other players receive 26 points, the value of all the point cards (all other cards have no point value). I liked that idea - find the black lady and win, giving yourself an advantage in the game, or life. Is that not what life is like for partners of black women?

In retrospect, the most interesting part of the image was that I had decided that a faceless black mannequin should represent me as the Queen. I had used the same mannequin in a different activist-art project examining my religious and cultural identity. I find it fascinating (and oh so true on many levels) that I chose a faceless mannequin to represent my Self.

I have never presented that artwork. For the class, I ended up presenting a slideshow of images that I had either manipulated or created that portrayed different aspects of my identity. I chose modern-day cartography to represent the geographical - I stress the modern because I have always been acutely aware of whether I was in a land of colonisers or colonised. I used my feet to represent the physical - my life has been shaped by movement, movement from one place to another, movement through dance. For culture, I used my name written in the script of my mother tongue, a visual I am in love with because it is the most beautiful script in the world. For identity, I symbolised the rebel in me with an image was of my hand curled into a fist, within a black leather motorcycle glove.

I think I need to revisit my original project, but to take it away from the branding aspect. I think it's time I undertake another exploration of Self. It was excruciatingly difficult back then, and I can't foresee it being any easier today.

london april 30 1999

2006-07-28T00:44:00.000-04:00

I was in Soho the day the bomb went off.

More specifically, I was in Soho Square with Marcy and Tony. Marcy had wanted to go to Covent Garden, but I wanted to go nowhere in particular and do nothing in particular. I had almost completed my university degree, and life was good and slow and chill. But Marcy won. Tony had to leave us to make his shift at work. Some bar in Angel.

Marcy and I walked down to Covent Garden, I can't remember how we got down there. Probably the long way, through ChinaTown, around Leicester Square. We (she) achieved what we (she) had set out to do, and started walking home, which was a fourth-rate hostel in Endsleigh Gardens, and not much of a home to head back to. We walked back, taking a slight detour so we could head north on Charing Cross Road. Although it was a longer route, it was safe, and fun, and filled with many people I knew well, who led interesting lives, and who were always glad to see me.

Charing Cross Road had been cordoned off. Marcy and I had been hearing sirens for most of our walk back home, but when you lived, worked, studied, and played where we did, sirens were part of our everyday white noise. But the cordones were surprising, and so were the number of policemen. Cops on the street were nothing to wonder about, but the number of them, along with the ambulances and fire trucks, were definitely not normal.

A nail bomb had gone off in Soho. Brixton and Whitechapel had been bombed on April 17 and 24, and no suspect had been found so London was nervous. And what everyone had been fearing (and Southall had been expecting), had happened again.

I remember the fear and apprehension. But most of all, I remember the anxiety. After we had gotten past Soho, taking a longer and unwanted route, they started bringing the casualties to the hospital just around the corner from ours. I'd been to that same hospital to get a broken thumb set - it took me half a cigarette from our place to the emergency ward.

The rest of the evening was full of worry+people+ringing phones and pagers. Worrying about people I knew who lived or worked or hustled in the area and trying to get a hold of them. Worried about people worried about me and trying to reach them as well, including Tony, who had been trying to find me.

The next night I went to Hanover Grand, to a weekly night that had quickly turned into a show of support by and for London's gay community. It wasn't much of a party - everything was still so raw and confusing. Soho's got heart, still - they might want us dead, but we'll still party. A misconstru(ct)ed we-shall-overcome sort of vibe.

I don't know why I've been thinking about that day so much. I don't want to, nothing positive ever came out of it. Three people died in Soho, London's gayest neighbourhood, and my neck of the woods in my mid to late teens. Brixton - just down the road from where I grew up, and chock-a-block with black folks - was bombed. Whitechapel, so Bangladeshi it should be renamed and home to many friends, was bombed.

A neo-Nazi group called the White Wolves claimed responsibility for the three bombings, and somebody called David Copeland was sentenced.

I don't want anything but to forget - I have no desire for closure, for PTSD counseling (I don't need it, nothing happened to me or mine), I just want to wipe the days those bombs went off out of history.

I have a tendency to distill events into the life lessons they have taught me, and on April 30, 1999, I learned something I'd rather have never found out - people die for the ugliest reasons, at the hands of other people they've never met. Ergo this world is a twisted, sick, messed up place.

And it doesn't get any better, kid.

this skin of mine

2006-07-12T23:12:00.000-04:00

I sometimes forget the privileges that are afforded to me as a black woman. I forget that some people appreciate and revere my dark skintone. This isn't about exoticism or fetishism - a black girlchild called me empress. I was blocking her path, and only realised it when I heard a voice say, "Excuse me, empress".

Empress.

The sound of it stilled me. The girl was taught, in the Rastafarian way, that darkskinned women were regal, and deserved to be treated as such. I don't know if I deserve the title, but I accept it with gratitude. Thank you for reminding me what blessings my skin brings me.

nine things I learned watching the world cup in toronto

2006-07-10T00:55:00.000-04:00

1. There's way more Angolans in Toronto than I was led to believe.
2. And way less French.
3. Half of Little Portugal is Brazilian masquerading as Portuguese.
4. The Koreans can party way harder than the Germans.
5. But not as hard as the Ghanaians.
6. Riot police are only required in certain neighbourhoods (where the Third World countries hang out).
7. Toronto is lacking a certain je-ne-sais-quoi. Literally.
8. It is possible to drive by Toronto police with three men on the hood of your car, while you're smoking weed, and running a red light. You just have to be surrounded by Africans.
9. There's no such thing as cultural integration in Toronto - it's all bullshit. Now I know exactly which neighbourhoods are inhabited by which cultures, and exactly where the boundaries of those neighbourhoods lie.

I'm also beset by an irritation toward CBC Toronto's coverage of the World Cup, which was very much along the lines of, "Aren't we special? We have many many cultures celebrating! Look at how ethnically diverse we are.", by a bunch of white folk who could never understand what football means to Canadians of different backgrounds, and who have totally missed the point.

The celebrations held by each nationality after their team had won showed a much stronger allegiance to their homelands than their adopted lands, and the message that came across to me by the collective revellers was, "My body and mind belong to Canada, but my heart belongs back home."

I'm willing to bet that somewhere out there, Toronto law enforcement officials are breathing a collective sigh of relief: there'll be no more large gatherings of minorities partying hard (Beware! Ethnic people celebrating!). The riot police can pack away their gear, less cops will be on the streets, and no emergency measures for impromptu block parties will be taken. Not until the Toronto Caribbean Carnival (Caribana), at least.

krump, interrupted

2006-07-05T21:23:00.000-04:00

I love krump. I love the aggressive freedom of it. I love the physical force behind each move, the assertion of presence. I love the fury in krumpers' faces. I love the sweat-veneered krumpers' bodies. I love how the body states, "I wish a motherfucker would!"

i’m grown, ma! now what?

2006-06-13T18:02:00.000-04:00

Where to start? I’m going through a quarter-life crisis.

I’m in my mid-twenties (more like late twenties to be honest, but whatever), and by all yardsticks of my society, I’m doing great. I have a career, I earn a steady paycheck, and I can afford real food. I’m in bed at an hour I used to scoff at, and I don’t get tax refunds anymore. My sixteen year old self would be disgusted.

But I feel like I’m chomping at the bit, and all that’s doing is wearing down my teeth.

I’ve also got itchy feet, which doesn’t help at all. The minute I achieve any sort of stability, my nomadic ancestry decides to assert its presence. All of a sudden, I’m online looking for travel deals and reconnecting with long lost friends who are anywhere but here. I find myself mentally calculating how I would distribute my possessions (books – ship to parents; furniture – sell, donate, or chuck; pets – pawn off on roommate).

I’m off to indulge myself in a little self-absorbed existential crisis.

self is Other

2006-05-22T18:07:00.000-04:00

Third culture. To me, the phrase conjures up images of mould growing in Petrie dishes. The third generation of such a mould, perhaps, carefully reared in a sterile laboratory environment. Someone once told me that the phrase third culture referred to children such as myself. Children of twentieth century migrants, children who belonged neither to the culture of their parents, nor the culture of their host land. People like myself who created a new, hybrid third culture, a marriage of the heritage of our parents with the culture of our adopted homeland. But what happens when you have not one adopted homeland but two or three?

I was raised on four continents. I came of age four different times in four different lands. My life began on the Dark Continent, and the sun and the sand of Africa sear through my veins. I was a child and then a teenager in both the warmest and coldest of lands, both literally and emotionally speaking. And now I live in one of the Promised lands, across the oceans, the farthest away from my birthplace.

I find my composite culture to be both a blessing and a curse. My appearance is ethnic-identity-unknown, my facial characteristics and body type only identify me when gazed upon with a knowing eye. I have the luxury of presenting myself as belonging to a number of cultures, some of which I have legitimate claim to, some I don’t.

My portrayals of persona depend on my mood of the day – from demure Arab to flamboyant ghetto princess. From the code of the desert to the law of the streets. African Queen. Buppy (yuppy? guppy?). Nubian princess. Daughter of the desert. StrongBlackWoman. Most days, I scoff at these labels. Other days, I feel trapped in their limitations.

The antonym of self is Other.

i'm in love with a gangsta

2006-05-18T12:43:00.000-04:00

When I heard the radio version of Tallahassee Pain’s – what unfortunate initials – song “I’m in Love With a Stripper”, called “I’m in Love With a Dancer”, I had a ‘scuse-me-while-I-kiss-this-guy moment. My mind substituted “dancer” with “gangster”, and I believed it.

At first I was like, is this a tribute to gun-toting, doo-rag wearing, weed-smoking brothers with metal-coated teeth? And I thought about it for a while (through the first verse), and started listening properly right at the chorus. With lyrics like, “she’s poppin' she’s rollin' she’s rollin'”, and "she can pop it she can lock it", I became convinced that in fact T-Pain was performing an ode to female gangsters.

And I loved it. I was over the moon. I thought this was a milestone in terms of the recognition of women who weren’t over-pretty and utterly useless bimbos that seemed to figure in every rapper’s life. I had this mental image of a female gangster (gangstette?), sort of Queen Latifah in Set It Off but straight, coming home after a long day of drive-bys, drug deals, and general gangstering to an r’n’b crooning man who had cooked her dinner.

Before I go any further, I’d like to point out that this delusion lasted until the second time I heard the song a couple of hours later, and I was under the influence of nothing. Unless you consider one Advil two days earlier as mind-altering.

It wasn’t long before I realised that the song was actually a misogynistic recitation of what one particular working girl could do with her attributes. Needless to say, I was very very disappointed.

But I still believe that paying tribute to female gangsters is a way more interesting subject than singing about strippers. Just my opinion.

sometimes you can hear the water

2006-05-15T19:22:00.000-04:00

I’ve been thinking about histories for the last little while. Landscape histories, architectural histories, geographical histories. I’d been having conversations over the past week or so that revolved around the physical past. And it was weird, these conversations just seemed to happen, with no prodding on my part, and it was only in retrospect that I noticed the common thread.

Sometime last week, I was sitting on the stoop in front of my apartment building late at night, when an elderly couple walked past. The gentleman had lived in my neighbourhood for fifty years, and he talked about how the street I lived on used to be a river when he first moved here.

“Some time, late at night,” he said. “Two three in the morning, when it’s quiet, you can hear the water.”

And after a bit of cane-waving, the gentleman and his wife shuffled off.

I could wax poetic about how in order to experience nature in a city we’d have to wait until the traffic died down, and then kneel down in the middle of the street, ear pressed to the asphalt, and hope that the sounds of rushing water weren’t coming from the sewers. But I’ll save that for another day.

Another conversation I had was with a friend of mine who had spent most of his life in farmland. He had grown up in a house that was built in the early twentieth century, and told me about a visit an older lady had made to his home. She’d grown up in the house, and had invited herself in to take a look around her childhood home. The elderly lady came back a while later, grandchildren in tow, with a photograph of the house as she had remembered it.

And then I bought a magazine called Dwell that examined modern residential architecture. I fell in love with a transformation of a shophouse in Singapore into an über-modern residence. I fell in love with the idea that you would never have guessed that behind an ancient and almost decaying façade was a restored/redesigned/refashioned interior. That has got to be my favourite residential transformation to date.

I live in a city where copycat housing is everywhere – entire neighbourhoods look disarmingly identical. To me, that’s purgatory. If I had to live in a neighbourhood that looked like that, lunch would include antidepressants. It would drive me out of my mind. I can feel myself slowly going crazy (crazy going slowly) at the mental image of myself trapped in the middle of a block where the only thing that would set my house apart would be the shape of the doorknocker.

it's about time

2006-05-10T22:26:00.000-04:00

I've been resisting writing a blog for a few years. In the beginning, I believe it was because I was intimidated by the idea of posting my writing for all to see and judge. Then I started writing for money, and learned how to disassociate from my writing (both a good and a bad thing). Once I got over that hurdle, I started creating excuses for not starting a blog - do I have enough time (I never have enough time); really, who would want to read what I write (who cares - isn't keeping a blog supposed to be cathartic anyway?); am I really arrogant enough to believe that there is a place in the public sphere for my writing (considering the democratization of communication courtesy of the Internet, it's not arrogant at all); and most recently - and probably the excuse that carries the most truth - can I commit to posting regularly (yup, commitment issues galore)?

So I decided to satisfy my ego, express my emotions (you poor sods), exercise my democratic rights, and test my ability to commit. But having resisted for so long, I needed to devise an excuse for blogging. I wanted a creative outlet. So here it is: this is where I'll chat pure lyric.