On Finding Freedom

I have spent the past few weeks drowning in a sensation I cannot begin to identify. The trouble is that I am unable to decide if I am overwhelmed or underwhelmed. Whether I am drowning in a flood of colours, flavours and odours or whether I am drowning in a lack thereof. I am either beginning to believe that nothing exists or that everything exists. Either all is a lie or all is truth. This may have something to do with the fact that in my over-zealous bid to catch up on my 'religious know-how' for Oxford, I have begun reading the scriptures again.

The two Testaments and the Quran read together make for quite the grotesque picture, and much as I cannot empathise with a word in them, I find that I can't help being swallowed by the sheer volume of absolutes in dogma. I reckon, that I may actually be beginning to indulge a little in 'be all's' and 'end all's'. Not in the books, mind you, but in the notion of 'one or the other' that they all advocate.

This is not good.

I am not comfortable with absolutes. I loathe absolutes, and wavering between being numb or being a mortal universal conduit is not a pretty choice. I have taken to watching 'LOST' which I suppose is appropriate in my present position, and for some reason I find that I desperately want to climb a mountain. I am undecided about whether I want to climb it for the climb, the view from the summit or to foster the fall.

I have finished reading 'Simulcra and Simulation' by Jean Baudrillard. I thought a pinch of nihilism or secularism would keep me balanced while I was wading through all the scriptures but a certain observation is not letting go of me.

"The apocalypse is finished. Today it is the precession of the neutral, of forms of the neutral and of indifference…all that remains, is the fascination for desert like and indifferent forms, for the very operation of the system that annihilates us. Now, fascination (in contrast to seduction, which was attached to appearances, and to dialectical reason, which was attached to meaning) is a nihilistic passion par excellence, it is the passion proper to the mode of disappearance. We are fascinated by all forms of disappearance, of our disappearance. Melancholic and fascinated, such is our general situation in an era of involuntary transparency."

Ironically enough -in retrospect- I cannot begin to comprehend what any of this means, but I know that it meant something when I first read it.

An odd, intangible illusion of freedom or freedom from illusion.

Now isn't that the question?

Another Little Mermaid Diary Entry

24 September 1992

Dear Diary,
Today I watched a scary movie called 'Labrynth'. It is about a girl who loses her baby brother to the Goblin King. The Goblin King is always nice to the girl. He buys her a ball gown and he even dances with her at a party. He gives her many gifts and makes her special.
I think the movie is scary because she likes the Goblin King even though he is evil in the end.

Maria Amir

Little Mermaid Diary Entry

Late Night Time
3rd September 1992

Dear Diary,
I got a gift from mom today. It was an Ariel doll, she has a wedding dress and tail costume to help her turn back into a mermaid.
I have decided that when I marry Prince Eric, I want to keep my brown hair. Brown hair people are more smarter than red hair people and the red hair people are smarter than yellow hair people. Einstein says so.
(To clarify I have since checked and am unable to find proof to support that Einstein actually vocalised the following sentiments. However he was a 'notably smart' guy, I'm sure he thought it.)

But I have decided that I want to keep Ariel's green eyes because Green eye people are pretty-er than Brown eye people. Even Blue eye people are pretty-er.

Maybe Prince Eric will take one look at my Brown eyes and not want to marry me.
Maybe no one will?
I don't think I like my eyes.


Maria Amir

Swimming in Swan Lake

I find it increasingly odd how moments surprise you, surpass you, catch you as they fragment you into a million tiny pieces. Ironically enough, these moments almost always end up being the In-betweens, Go-betweens or Tween’s of time: a split-second leading on to a minute, where you step out of your car to open the gate and somewhere in the span of those meandering 22 seconds you feel all of your senses rise up and answer a calling to something you can’t begin to explain.

A real moment of clarity almost never lasts more than a micro-chasm.
You are altogether too aware of the wind blowing in your face, of the blossoms serenading the air around you, and you can hear the faint strains of Tchaikovsky’s ‘Sleeping Beauty’ as you begin to hum “I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream, I know you the gleam in your…’ and just like that it is over and you make your way back to the car. Life and time start again. It’s kind of like staring into a fire, or at a candle…something about the flickering makes everything still and the stillness makes you stand out.

I find that I am craving Time-tweens more and more these days. I see myself as the connoisseur of in-between seasons, the accountant of go-between emotions and the tortured Time tweener of unwritten passages that blind me in all the precious split seconds that I have lost from my life. It is odd how we never stop to consider how many chasms of ideas we dismiss because we just happen to find them skulking in doorways, driveways, hallways and run away’s. I triumph as the troubadour of dreams and possibilities, coveting new thoughts and old things.

I think it best to surmise my current self with Swan Lake.
You see, I have this thing about Tchaikovsky.
I am in love with his soul.
Have been for quite some time now.

I believe it started when I was about fourteen and I first heard it playing on my grandfather’s computer as he was clicking away at a bridge tournament with his CPU. I remember that I was holding a tea-tray and I froze as I heard the strains of music through the door. The eclipse must have lasted a long time, enough time for the tea to turn cold and for me to face repercussions for said turning of tea tables. But what I remember more was being haunted…hunted by the music of the self proclaimed ‘Creator of Captivating Nightmares’. I remember sneaking into my grandfathers room while he was asleep that night and stealing that CD. I remember switching off all the lights in my tiny room and plugging in my headphones.
I remember listening to it over and over again at full volume until it consumed me.

That captivating nightmare never really ceases to capture my emotions and my fears. I truly believe that the First Act of Swan Lake engages every spectrum of human emotion. Those seven and a half minutes are a lifetime if one can see them, read them and feel them fully.

Today I ended up dodging work and spending the entire day with my mother in her new house. As we sat in here atrium, engulfed by that gorgeous in-between seasonal sentiment that is both Sun and Wind at the same time, she had Swan Lake running in the background. The magic flooded every doorway, every window and every locked lost yearning I didn’t know I didn’t know. The crescendo at the end of the first act actually prompted me to do something I have never done before. My mother and I were both sitting in creaky cane chairs and she was having her tea as I sipped my morning coke. We were both painting our toe nails letting the strains of sound flow through us as I found myself picking up a red vial. I realise that it is an odd progression to have to experience all of one's ‘coming of age’ moments at the age of 25 - seeing as my real-time coming of age was a decade squandered in limbo - but this just happens to be one of my bigger break through's. I have never worn red as a colour, not in anything.
I am strictly a Turquoise person.
Still I found myself finally break an unwritten proclamation I had bound myself to at the oh-so precocious age of seven: Thou shall never wear red nail polish.
Let it be Thought a Wicked Thing To Do.
Let that Thought Be Adhered To Hereafter.
Only loud, over-confident, ‘womanly’ women wear red nail polish. Thou shall never join the ranks of women who are confident in their appearance and their ability and/or desire to attract the opposite sex.

I like the fact that I came of age, listening to Tchaikovsky, espcially the gospel of Swan Lake. I have often wondered how I would translate Swan Lake, into words if I were given the chance. I have wondered whether Tchaikovsky’s chords would speak as unflinchingly as Dylan’s poetry or Leadbelly’s musings or Bowie’s brashness.

Today, this is what I heard:
(Act 1: Waltz - Translation)

It is the ‘stepping out’ of my shadow that scares me
I so lack the nobility that every seeker must possess in spades

And you whisper to me, crouched behind curtains of dances we never shared
I seek your face in a mirror I am too frightened to look at
And I know you long to corner me:
comb my hair,
sing me songs,
play me prayers

I recognise your hope,
It hides behind my hurt.
We both hunt for our humanity
.
We are skating along the stars,
Wearing our scars with pride
You catch me as I fly and it costs you your fall.
I am Lost in the Losing, Loving and Looking
So I will Run again, Hide again, Hate again.
And you will not stop me…again.

But I shall miss you.
As all the Others scavenge your soul for scraps of shelter
I miss you as you long to give of yourself to Someone…Anyone.
Someone Else, Anyone Else.

Their voices, their talking, their taunting
Is more yours now, than you were ever mine
And I stand silently, seeing myself slip and stumble in your eyes.
I simmer as I catch you finding the someone else
To translate for you the Me that I used to be with Us.

So now you shall wait,
Now you shall wonder
Now you shall wander.

No longer will I give of my madness to save you.
You are no longer worthy of the wonder in me.

But if I ask you to run with me,
From me,
For me,
Behind me,
After me,
To me…will you?

Meet me in my shadow
So that I can count your eye lashes
Meet me in my shadow
So that I can see the colour of your cravings

Be the You that knows the I in Me
There are no ‘I’s in Them.
We will be safe.
There will be no ‘We’ in their World.

So, make that choice… ask me.

I shall say yes…
I shall run, I shall scream, I shall fade, I shall follow, I shall flounder
…but I shall say yes
I shall send you my dreams in a basket
If you would hand me your hopes

… I shall say ‘Yes’.

The Music Muse

Well, apparently I have been tapped, by the one chain letter I cannot possibly ignore.Here’s to the iPod Shuffle, and no that is not an oxymoron.
The Rules Goeth Thus: a) To be putting your player on shuffle. b) For each question, to be pressing the next button to get your answer. c) You must write the name of the song no matter what. Ergo there is no cheating, Bah!

1.IF SOMEONE SAYS “IS THIS OKAY?” YOU SAY?
‘Dance Ballerina Dance’… Nat King Cole (Makes for a perfect response, I tell you)

2.WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?
‘Travellin’ Through’… Dolly Parton (I’m a puzzle I must figure out… )

3.WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
‘By the River Dark’ … Leonard Cohen (Trust that to be a creepy, ominous prophetical, pathetical mess from the get go!)

4.HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY?
‘Roll another Joint’ … Tom Petty (Its bloody genius, the iPod! Prophetic, No … Sheeriously!)

5.WHAT IS THE PURPOSE OF YOUR LIFE?
‘Circle Game’ … Joni Mitchell (And the seasons they go round and round and the painted ponies go up and down, we’re captive on a carousel of time. We can’t return we can only look behind from where we came, and go round and round and round in the circle game…)

6.WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?

‘The Loony Toons Theme’ (That’s all Folks!)

7.WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
‘Hello, I Love you’ … The Doors (Aww…shucks!)

8.WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR PARENTS?
‘Bring it on Home to Me’ … Sam Cooke (Mayhaps, mayhaps indeed…)

9.WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?

‘I’m Changing the Words’ … The Louvin Brothers (No kidding, words are my wonder)

10.WHAT IS 2+2?
‘Dance of the Infidels’ … Bud Powel (No Shit Sherlock, that goes for ALL kinds of math for you)

11.WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
‘Khilona Jan Kar’ … Rafi (Umm morbid much, or is that an omen? I’m ignoring this one. As if an iPod is any kind of judge of character anyway. I mean, that’s just mean)

12.WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
‘We Don’t Stand a Chance’ … Barbara Streisand (Hahaha, Enough Said! Its raining its pouring my love life is boring)

13.WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
'Let Love In'... Goo Goo Dolls (...)

14.WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
‘Honest Lullaby’… Joan Baez ( … And they slept at home resentfully covered in their dreams. Forfeiting my A’s for zero’s, future’s unforeseen)

15.WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
‘Wouldn’t it be Lovely?’… Audrey Hepburn (Yup, wouldn’t it? Because all I DO want is a room somewhere far away from the cold night air with one enormous chair, lots of chocolate, warm face, warm hands, warm feet and sitting absaBLOOMALUTELY Still!)

16.WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?

‘You Cant Always Get What You Want’ … Rolling Stones (Oh Har-Dee-Bloody-Har Har!!)

17.WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
‘Shall we Dance’ … The King and I (Oh Hoopiliciousness all round! 1-2-3 And!)

18.WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
‘Bye Bye Love’ … Simon and Garfunkel (I’m not complaining, there are worse ways to go, “Ta!” to y’all too)

19.WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
‘Kung Fu Fighting’ …The Village People (Don’t I wish!)

20.WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
‘Queen Jane Approximately’ … Bob Dylan (And your Father to your sister, he explains…That you’re tired of yourself and all of your creations)

21.WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
‘All the Madmen’… David Bowie (Sheeshdomness this is too perfect! Because I’d rather be here with the mad men than all the sad men roaming free)

....Apparently I am not at liberty to exempt anyone who reads this as being tagged to do the same. Otherwise the wrath of the Music Muse shall be upon all your selves. Tune-less-ness shall be thy curse.I’m taking the last one back, ‘Tune-less-ness’ sounds like a worse curse (Alleged ‘tune-less-ness’ injected for dramatic effect) than Death.

The "Hoop La" Heart Finally Beats

I’m not quite sure how to describe my current state of euphoria, or even if it is possible to describe such a state at all. I am not accustomed to euphoria as an honest emotion, unless I am fabricating it for the benefit of an audience.
But euphoria this is…

There is something to be said for the power of an acceptance letter, any acceptance letter I suppose, but especially a university acceptance letter. The multitudes of silent emotions that race within you in those five to six minutes span a ridiculous spectrum. There is the apprehension that comes with finding the innocuous envelope and seeing it much smaller than you would have hoped. The mingled mass of dread and desperate hope as you open it and the sheer, resounding breathlessness that collects in the stillness as you read the first sentence. An eternity skulks in the silent corners of those masquerading minutes.
It can make or break that moment, that day, that year, that you.

“Dear Ms Amir,
I am delighted to tell you that your application for admission to the University of Oxford as a graduate student has been successful…”

It is oddly discomfiting the sheer volume of insecurities a mere letter can expunge. It almost makes it seem as if all of your earlier apprehensions were somehow silly, almost trivialising everything you have been; been through or done to get here. It is an odd experience. Truly...

All of a sudden there is a validation to simply being ‘you’, that you realise perfectly you should not have needed but are overjoyed at having all the same.

Lahore is beginning to look pretty these days.

Traffic isn’t horrific, it is bustling.

The weather isn’t rank, it’s misty.

The people aren’t boors, they ‘just don’t know better’.

You are suddenly saintly in your handing out of unbridled forgiveness, to those that do, don’t and shouldn’t deserve it. Nothing matters now that you’ll finally be out to make your own way, be whoever you could now be. You are no longer dejected about not being able to share this with your family. You are no longer vindictive about wanting to rub it into their faces that you made it. You are not upset about the scores of people who couldn't possibly be happy for you, are blatantly jealous or are looking at you with their raised eyebrows and “You couldn’t ‘possibly be serious’, Oxford…You! Pffffft!” expressions.

You are singing, painting and running every day and have finally learned how to play ‘Suzanne’ on your guitar. You are no longer worried about your job being a resplendent exercise in the art of time suckage, because it is giving you time to write and you are... like a crazy, obsessed TV-movie version of compulsive author. You are reading like there is no tomorrow, theology, philosophy and for some reason a lot of CS Lewis and Tolkein again. You are picturing yourself sitting and sketching in the purple meadows of Magdalen College and you catch a peek of yourself at the Bodelian. You are hoping you still remember how to ride a bicycle. You are beginning to forget the face of the woman who – upon hearing that you were hoping to be able to continue your Masters in Women’s Studies with a PhD in Comparative Religions – said that girls should really not study so much to prevent them from ‘adjusting to life’.

You are finally losing weight out of sheer determination and have not had a ‘real’ coke in three days… this is the only dark cloud hanging over you. You are filling out visa forms and accommodation forms and scholarship forms and you are absolutely loving it, because it means that all of this is real and not just in your head. You are dreaming ridiculous dreams about applying for a job at Penguin Publishing’s or the BBC and are not stopping yourself from dreaming so. You are beginning to believe in big dreams. You are finally letting go of hopeless strains of ‘would be, could be, may be’ romances that danced around in your head but never happened because you were too scared to even smile in their direction.

You are making plans with a ‘real’ time frame and one that keeps getting narrower and you love that. You are wallowing in the nostalgic irony of how five years away from your father, your former self, your former corners and your former fears could have possibly brought you here. You are not sure if it is luck or hope, but don’t want to jinx it so you send a silent thanks to whatever helped you get here. You are buying balloons and almost daily narcissus posies from random street boys that give you an honest smile. You have taken to using ‘Hoop la’ at the end of almost every second sentence that comes out of your mouth. You have developed the ability to smile at select strangers, especially children in backseats looking out of the rear window shield.

You are buying Green Tea shampoo’s, Crest toothpaste and tangerine Body gels and have forgotten to purchase the toilet paper and cotton swabs on your grocery list. You spent almost RS 400 at the Al Fatah candy counter yesterday on a composite of skittles, crazy roll-up bubble gum and marshmallows.

You are dancing every evening in your room at 3 AM for No reason,
for Every reason,
for Any reason.

You are jumping out of your skin, bubbling out of your mind, skating on sunshine and walking on air.

It can’t possibly last long.