Riddle Run

“You can wake up now- the world has ended.”- John Stark

I seem to be making peace with myself at last. I have been told that I am lucky to be experiencing this sensation, even if I am altogether unsure about it lasting. I believe now that
disappointment seems to come in threes and having dealt with my incumbent trilogy of bad omens of late, I am now glorying in what I think is commonly described as the ‘hibernation’ phase. I am simply tired of always 'trying' for something, whether this means desperately chasing my escape out of here; an insight into who I am or want to be or just vying to impress myself and anyone in immediate radius with some notion of dormant greatness buried within my person.

My life is fast assuming the proportions of a road sign: Maria Amir- A Precautionary Tale. Hibernation generally denotes enhanced delusion in my world. Lately it has meant that the first thing I did when I heard about his death was to rent out ‘Ratatouille’ and order an MnM McFlurry. It has meant that my first impulse when I heard about finally losing a six-year probability was to laugh hysterically with Asma and watch Family Guy reruns. It has meant that when I learned that I was not called back for the Chevening interview - which two colleagues whose application essays I had written out were summoned to- I picked up a novel and made myself a cup of coffee to drown out my prickled narcissism.
I have missed reading without an agenda, just random reading with no purpose save ‘saving me’ from myself. The first bind my fingers pulled out happened to be “The Secret life of Bees” and there is a quaint stillness to the overly simplified American South that I find appealing and necessary at present.

However this is not the important part. I like to believe that something tangible in me has shifted. Perhaps ‘like’ is not the correct sentiment. It is an awareness coupled with an intense bout of nostalgia for no longer really believing in all the silliness I rely on believing in. This decapitating realisation has left me stock still and I loathe being still. I have been still and the freezing notion of such inaction is all pervasive, everything comes back to haunt you if you are still enough to let it and since my tangible lethargy prevents me from being active in person, I have always depended on my hyper-active senses to compensate. The stillness within is deadening and given my incumbent fascination with death it is not a place I like to frequent. I know that it is almost always born of a latent lack of belief. It was the first thing that I thought of when faced with my trilogy of tangents: perhaps God is punishing me for my polluting professions. This made me angry rather than remotely contrite. It made Him appear petty and the universe more warped than usual.
But this is not what makes me stumble. The steady crashing of grand pedestals in the past 14 years has brought me to the point where I realise full well that I no longer put stock in all the things I profess allegiance to: my silliness, my inane rituals, my failed grandeur. Even though I continue to chase after them with increasing distraction I realise that I no longer believe in them enough for them to work and only the ritual remains relevant.
I feel altogether too much like Peter Pan at the moment where Wendy tells him she must grow up and that he is ‘just’ a boy. It is not the brand ‘boy’ that kills, it is the inflection ‘just’. As if somehow his entirety does not even merit a spasm in existence.
I find that I am not quite ready to escape my Escapism.
But somewhere along the past two weeks I already have.

I am taking to the park with increasing regularity. Running is a sensation I did not know I missed. It is rather sad, seeing as those of us blessed with motor function can always run, but almost never do. I have discovered that what I enjoy most is anticipating the stitch in my side that appears almost as soon as I cross my first round bend in the park and stop next to a quote post that remarks quite candidly “Respect Women…” the post after that reads “…please!” and I think it is my favourite presence in Lahore because it almost always makes me laugh, especially when I am feeling particularly miserable. Then there is a quote that states “Nationalism is the notion that ones country is the best in the world just because we belong to it”…I often end up sharing a not-so-secret smile with the many senior citizens who happen to chance upon the sign. Running has brought with it a sense of possibility. There are no words to describe the thrill of experiencing the complete absence of thought brought on by physical exercise. I should have tried it earlier, because listening to music without processing it; racing through an environment without observing it and shifting in the midst of people without caring is a respite I cannot manage any other way.
Of course this does not change the fact that when my eyes do happen to flicker off the ground ahead of me they invariably collide with a pair staring at my chest. However, I do not think this can be helped in my country and for once I refuse to be shamed into backing out. So I stare back down at my new Nikes and am on my way.

I think I ‘love’ to run.
And it hits me, isn’t that the ephemeral euphemism for Escape?

Dear Departed...

Serves me right for befriending an ailing 78 year old!

It has taken me two weeks to 'come to terms' with the fact that you are gone. I remember, quite vividly, sitting beside your deathbed and imagining this conversation clear as day but putting it to purpose has been harder. Had I done so the minute I got home as I originally intended, I should have felt selfish, finding it so easy to escape the loss in words but feeling it for too long would have meant a Eulogy. You always said that you loathed Eulogies. That they were nothing more than insipid details that people should have said to your face but didn't when you were alive, and only an all-pervasive notion of survivor's guilt made them utter them when one was gone.
I suppose I should be clear then that this 'is' in fact a Eulogy and I am in fact riddled with survivors guilt.

My grandparents have been telling me with much false bravado, that it is about time I began befriending people my own age rather than theirs, because I will lose many more that way. Perhaps they have a point but then I think to myself, you were not old. You were the youngest person I ever knew, old experiences, old pain...young spirit. I believe the romantics would call us kindred.

Do you know something, you looked happy lying there in your yellow room on that narrow bed. I suppose death is always a shock for everyone else, even if one has been dying of cancer for over a year. In retrospect, I do not think I can forgive you your cigarettes. I know you want me to, you reiterated time and again that if alcohol and nicotine had been lifelong companions, there was no point parting with them at the precipice. But it seems to me a colossal waste or perhaps this is just me being selfish. I would rather have you here and unhappy than otherwise and this does not bode well for my Zen aspirations but then you never really approved of my Zen aspirations.

You always told me to conquer the world.
I remember telling you I never wanted to conquer it, only to observe it but we never seemed to agree on this point.

I know that you knew me. I seldom manage that with people, the acknowledgment that they can see who I am and usually when I do, I drop them instantly. You were the only one I was drawn to. I wonder why that is. Maybe it was the fact that you flattered me, told me I was smart. Maybe it was because you thought my dreams were beautiful too. Maybe it was because you used to take my hands and tell me my dreams would come true by seeing something in them. I never really believed in lifelines or life scapes before you. Maybe it was the fact that you never did this for anyone else and this made me feel special. Maybe it was the fact that you didn't patronise my desperate need to feel special.
Maybe it was just the fact that you listened and you never really needed to.

I recall our last conversation clearly. The one we both had while staring insipidly at your cooling corpse. You were wearing your legendary maroon sweater, infernal cigarette in hand and were a little too jovial for the too recently departed while I was focusing very hard on limiting my responses to the vicinity of my mind by not letting them appear on my face as most of my conversations are apt to do. It is an odd thing, but I always notice it. Why is it that only women can be found collectively crying around corpses? It is almost like they are the only ones forgiven for the offence of showing weakness in public, because it is expected of them.


"I'm sorry"

About what?! What on Earth could there be to feel sorry about now?

"I didn't come to see you"

Busy?

"No... lazy."

We are who we are, kid.

"Any idea who that is?"

Not really, but I'm finally looking forward to finding out.

"Are you really? I mean I know you said you were a little apprehensive. Is it what we thought it would be like?"

You mean a 'revelation'?

"Yes."

Well 'yes' and 'no'. I think I anticipate a revelation but I haven't come to it yet. Its a lot of processing.

"What about guilt and consequences and mistakes... any of that coming in to play yet?"

Not at this point but I'm sure it will.

"And that doesn't scare you anymore?"

I don't think it would matter either way. I have decided on one thing though...

....

I'm quite sure there were no mistakes.

"So your leaning towards the 'no regrets' thing? I guess that's encouraging."

Yeah.

"Am I on track? I mean even with my beaten path on this whole thing, am I wrong?"

Why the self doubt all of a sudden?

"Well I think its called for, don't you?"

No. I don't think there is a wrong. Especially not with right intentions and I think the key may just be blind belief in your beaten path or at least in mine.

"I hate the term 'blind' belief."

I know. But that's what it needs to be.

"And you're sure about this?"

This I am sure about. Whatever the belief, it needs to be blind.

"You know I cant pray for you like this, right?"

I thought we were praying.

Paging Prince Charming: *Ting*

I have been pondering over past memories with more determination than usual. Recently, finding myself sorting through scores of old photographs and journals I am beginning to come to terms with the fact that I have always been a tad melodramatic. Here is something I wrote on January 12, 1994 “…I think I am being very emotional about all this. That's what they all say… that I am too emotional and dramatic. I am obsessed with beating her at her own game. And obsession isn't even an emotion. Is it?”
I was eleven then.

Apparently the 'obsession' grew over the years, because I remember, quite vividly, writing long, rambling letters about everything and nothing to no one in particular. I would sharpen up a fresh pencil every time, scrawl in the letters at night in my room, put them in one of those cheesy stationary set envelopes with Beauty and the Beast or Little Mermaid logo’s, seal them and bury them in the closure outside our house near the swings and badminton court the next day. I think I was passively inspired by all the 'Little Girl Lost' rescues that television had cemented in my mind actually happened.
I also remember discussing my behaviour quite candidly with my child psychiatrist and I would always close the conversation with a question “Do you think I’m normal?” He always used to say that he would think the behaviour abnormal if I tried to conceal it, but since I didn't he was just intrigued. I do not think he knew that I was a rather manipulative eight-year old and that I needed too badly to be perceived as mysterious and slightly tragic, but enchanting all the same. If he was privy to this information, he was very kind in concealing it from me.

My recent focus has been on all the “I have a dream” entries, it is a tad disconcerting to realise that one’s dreams can remain quite consistent over the years. I am pretty much still the seven-year old, except that I use bigger words now in lieu of outright fabrication.
A recent conversation with mommy dearest has prompted a new ditch attempt…

“Do you even know what it is you want?”

“As in from life?

“No in a life partner.”

“Sheesh, this again. You know just because your manipulation tactic is cuter than Nano’s doesn’t make it original.”

“Seriously, you have lists for everything else, your book collection, your “what I need to see or do in my lifetime” thing, your music…this one could actually help me out a bit.”

“But this list would just be…”

“Pathetic?”

“But much.”

“Your point is?”

“Ouch! Right, pathetic it is.”

“Ooh lets do it together!”

“Why not, we’re already part and parcel of the cosmic Ya-Ya sisterhood. You want to burn it afterwards and dance around a fire mom?”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

“I hate the fact one of me actually shrugged her shoulders at that.”

“Kiddo all of you, should be in on this…”

As some would know, my earliest Prince Charming personal Ad, consisted of a naïve request of the Powers that Could Be, for a betrothal to Prince Eric from the Little Mermaid. I was seven and my reasons were that the man had the good sense not to wear tights in public, loved adventure because he was a sailor, travelled the world and had a dog. When talking of essentials pretty much all of the above still apply, but I am told I need to be more specific about criteria so as not to be bamboozled by a gap toothed sailor who keeps a pet rat and cleans a fish boat for a living… and so Mom and I set about making me a Personal Ad.
A ‘normal’ person might find this process humiliating, derogatory and self-diminishing…I felt all this, but it was trumped by the sheer ridiculousness of the attempt. Frivolity always seems to win out over anything else in my book. I acknowledge that this may not necessarily be a good thing.
… Okay it may even be a bad thing, but at the end of the day the cavalier tend to die smiling and wondering what the hell the big deal is…a lot like the Fool in the Tarot deck.
I kind of like that.

“Do I start with something like 'Loner, utopist, child of 24 years seeks devil-may care globetrotter with a passion for coke, card games and obscene amounts of time whiled away in front of a television screen?'”

“Please tell me you want something a tad more productive?”

“Okay…who also enjoys large quantities of take out food, doing the voices for old black and white films with the sound turned off and thrift store shopping?”

“What in there is remotely productive?”

“… has some semblance of a job…”

“That’s it?! Some 'semblance' of a job?”

“…that allows him to buy stuff, appreciate art and the outdoors and purchase airline tickets to places I want to go. Better?”

“Not really, but an improvement. Some variety of a roof over your head might be a nice touch…”

“Buy stuff, tickets and a roof over my head, with running water and room for a dog.”

“Okay, what about brains…”

“Oh yeah, like that one ever comes easy. Okay no specifics, then someone who’s brain is multidimensional enough to carry on both coherent and incoherent forms of conversation for as long as we both shall live…”

“Elaborate”

“Okay, well… coherent would be something like ‘do you think God really meant for us to believe in Him if he really is All That?”…a perceptible shift into my version would be… ‘to me Theology is taking on a lot of Star Wars significance…I mean all that stuff about being with the force and the force not being with you. I mean its like Yoda is God always feeding us some trite feel good shit, which sounds weird enough to be smart, but is basically one-dimensional fact strung together backwards and why is it that the force not being with you has to make you Vader or Maul or plain evil? What happened to purgatory…and think about it purgatory makes no sense anyway, I mean basically its just another waiting room, I thought life was supposed to be the waiting room…”

“And this is required reading?”

“No, it would just be preferable if this conversation could be easily understood by the subject.”

“Do you understand it?”

“No, but that’s not the point, I don’t really mean understand just umm that he should have a follow up analogy that should be equally -or if he is perfect- more inane. Like a Douglas Adams Fan or an Arlo Guthrie fan, they would get what I mean.”

“Right. So what about looks?”

“I never can specify that one. My three main on-screen obsessions have been with too diverse a range: I mean there’s Yul Brynner who was bald, Johnny Depp who is perfect and Rex Harrison who was sarcastic, old and dead. I don’t like to think I’m looking for Bald, Perfect, Sarcastic, Old and Dead.”

“Neither do I”

“Okay then…teeth.”

“What?”

“Clean teeth. Can’t be with a guy who doesn’t have straight, clean teeth. Smokers are out.”

“That’s it…clean teeth. What about height, face blah blah blah, how in the Hell are you my daughter?!”

“Okay then, Good skin. Hygiene is important but so is a counter-balance untidiness.”

“And that means?”

“Well it means nada on the body odour and stuff, but nada on the neat, pressed and prim look too…”

“So you need to spread the ‘gypsy’ around?”

“I wouldn’t mind. Not really though, I couldn’t care…except that prim and proper anything just isn’t big on my priority lists and if it is on someone else’s I don’t think it would mesh well.”

“Fine then, how about a list of ‘MUSTS’.”

“Huh? I thought we were doing well so far…it’s the little details that count…and…”

“I just think this might speed up the process…”

“Okay. Must be able to make me laugh; Must be willing to act like a fool in public in order to accomplish the first; Must speak most of my languages, and be fluent in Hyper, Hoop La, Bah humbug and But Vy; Must not preach...anything; Must love coke; travel; trying new, crazy, childish things all the time; jumping out of planes, off bridges and stuff; Must be impulsive in hopes of drawing out my inner crab; Must appreciate that I need to mark my immediate territory – whatever it may be- with post-its of quotes, weird trinkets and lots of colour; Must love art, rain, junk food, talking nonsense and occasional sense, Star wars, Indiana Jones and animated films; Must tolerate the fact that I purchase scented toiletries, key chains, shoes and books in unreasonable quantities; Must appreciate the nutritional value of a midnight snack; Must understand the importance of collecting silly photographs, scrap booking and road trips; Must recognise the value of time outs and my pathological need to be alone for at least a few hours a day; Must not be Judgmental; Must appreciate the necessity that Coke, candy and cartoons are in my life regardless of my age; Must understand that I have issues and have some of his own to bring to the negotiating table; These issues Must Not include anger issues, bullying tendencies or “Oh look at me I’m a Man” issues; Must be able to enjoy movie marathons, play board games and take all of my pre and post rain and birthday rituals seriously; Must appreciate the importance of small, silly and inexpensive gifts; Must need to Want to be Happy as often as possible; Must not sweat the small stuff; Musts not wear labels or buy into them; Must know that I need to be dragged along into almost anything but enjoy it once I’ve taken my step; Must be a Master of the 'last minute plan'; Must think.”

"Must make me go - and this is to quote Asma- "*Ting!*"

"What?!"

" Ting! There has to be a *Ting*!"

"A *Ting*?"

"Like with Elizabeth and Darcy or Ariel and Eric or Holly Golightly...a *Ting* is non-negotiable."

“And the rest of these are negotiable?”

"If i find the * Ting*, maybe."

"So its the *Ting* or the List?"

"Pretty much. Mom do 'you' think I'm crazy?"

“Yep but its hereditary and I think I’ve changed my mind.”

“About the Personal Ad?”

“Nope about doing something about it.”

Join the club.