What is not pictured

Spring, in my part of the world, comes in riding a storm. This is what it leaves behind. My shutter was too slow to capture the dragonfly's taking of flight. What is not pictured is the futility of the transformation of this earth's inhabitants come spring. New storms are on the horizon and their flesh-splitting winter dry is only days away. The euphoria and sense of life are only attached by micron threads to a whilting pod. But I can not take flight. I must endure a lie and watch helplessly as one seed of hope detaches, one after the next. And then again barren, left to contemplate the change without change is an earth ready to die.

And then it happened…

As I finally began a relent to sleep by four hundred and forty four winks, it happened; the breaking of barriers and the release of restrictive constrictive weight, an allowance to float, wading the expanse. Lightness as the liquid, fluid coast of mind and thought, freed. Drifting, almost drowning, I succumb and gulp the waters, more drowning. Lightness turns to sink, a struggle to gain comfort in overwhelming unbound wisdom. Four hundred and forty four winks stop in shortness of comfort and rest as eyes flash open one final time. The clock is dead, caught at four forty four. I ask you, “what does it mean?”

Of all elaborate plans

One more day and it will be another milestone birthday. This seems to be the worst. It is not that the destination is a source for all that is depressing, yet it is the uneventful, unremarkable, torturously bland journey by which I have arrived at this milestone that rankles me so.

As my friend IBJ insists, it is but another number, one that can be played or repainted on or molded into another shape to view as wondrous or insignificant as we please. He actually used more readily repeatable words of “Broa, shut-up. It’s just a number.” However the gist is just as memorable, I can’t focus on the number, but a milestone is reached non-the-less and for my memory being waned or failing I am unable to claim many goals attained by this passing day.

{Each New Year is another year gone for me, some say it is one of those false birthdates listed by immigrants, but whether it be January 1st or July 4th, an other year passes despite, in spite}

It is not so much the day, more the past days. What have I found along this journey, what will be found in my continued quest, and what is my final destination? My journey began more remarkable than it ends, with the obligatory marks set at college degree, employment, marriage, children and the like. Sure there was the brief stint on an illuminated trail, but no revelation, no discovery, no history and worst, no dreams realized. On the eve of a new year, my friend comments that you either are who you want to be or were never meant to be that person. Troubling words. As cryptic as they may be, they will haunt me. What am I? Who was I to be? Is this all? What determines who you are?

Is it even a question of quality of journey verses a value of destination, where is the emphasis? And if the destination is lacking in luster, will the journey fade in brilliance? Conversely, is a miserable trek rewarded? Surely in an after life, but will it in this?

By being who I am now at this stage in my life, it seems that this is exactly who I was meant to be. Or have I missed some turn? Optimistically, the journey has not ended, yet. There may be another turn up ahead. Pessimistically, I will fail to recognize it once more, or be reluctant to take it leading to a far more eventful journey. Then I may be who I was meant to be.

That story can still be filmed,
That book can still be written,
This life can still be extinguished before that turn appears.
Well, another number awaits my arrival, happy birthday to me.

mourn the innocent peculiarity

He imprecisely ventured past the wrought iron gates of his parent’s home in a futile quest of a more comforting haven, one that offered rest for his tumultuous mind. He laid all his weary parts and worry thoughts upon a steel track not far from the childhood euphoria that had been lost now hiding in the brush, mocking his every plea. The track only offers cold awkward musings to tease as the rumbling sound nears. He sleeps believing a setting sun, and a serene judgeless thicket as the rumbling sound nears.

The backstory

I am Transient: part one…

As a journalist,
reporting on events and uncovering the truth as well as representing the voiceless were important ventures in my life.
I never new of the challenges I’d face in simply doing my job. Politics played a role in everything. Money controlled
everything. Gaining power meant more than human rights. Alliances meant more than human dignity. And I knew
journalism was dead. I gave it up, telling my publisher to “take this job and shove it.” From the pundits and the news for
hire to the corporate influence to the hidden foreign agendas one would be hard pressed to locate journalistic integrity.
All the rules were broken.

But just when I thought the situation was as dire as it could be
an event occurred that would highjack journalism and reshape it into something sophisticatedly evil. The 1992 Gulf war
ushered in a new era. Instant feedback of pics, stories and video meant everything had to be censored before the event.

The rise of technology is meant to serve us, yet it has derailed our thoughts and sedated our logic.

And then it got worse.
The events of 9/11 and the subsequent fear pedaling altered reality further.

In the post 9/11 era
it is important to represent yourself and your own voice since as I believe 9/11 was the final nail in journalism’s coffin. Our
voice has been mutilated and everything from our culture to our history to our image and the very words that come from
our mouths had been altered.

Not sure when
but in terms of my blogging experience and those around me, the 2006 war on Lebanon launched many bloggers and
many more readers. It was a treasure of information, counter opinion and visual evidence. The Arab Blogoshpeare did
wonders to lift spirits that had given up hope of truth’s survival.

My first blog
After the loss of my younger brother I gave up writing. After his burial, as I returned to the US, the war started. The
frustration with traditional media, the need to vent and the need for an outlet of emotion led me to my first blog. At first, I
blogged about the war by recounting my relatives’ experiences, then followed with stats about the war, artwork and
various political statements. I settled in after the war with everything from politics to poetry. I began to notice other
bloggers doing the same; it was at that point that I realized the real worth of an Arab on-line presence.

The Arab voice could be heard
in a crisp, concise manner. The beauty of it all is that I learned more about Arab dynamic and the complexity and diversity of what is an Arab than any TV show or book I’ve read or from the limited experiences of a hyphenated soul stuck in transit. I was sure many non-arabs were getting the same lessons. The interactions of people online seemed honest and stripped of the political correctness that conceals the stabbing knife.

Now the rise of technology serves us as it was meant to do.
The advent of cheaper technology and it’s ubiquity assured that you can’t censor or silent everyone. Since anyone could
send video to millions of people to witness events for them selves to combat reports to the contrary, everyone with a
camcorder or a digital camera or a blog or even just an email address could act as a reporter.

Sites I frequent vary from the hard-core political to artists to peacenik philosophers to Arab sites that can not be categorized. They all have their time and value in making the Arab Blogosphere instrumental in regaining our stolen voice. Perhaps there is hope after all.

five ramblings of a textured stone

As the wind swiftly crashed the tent around me leaving my flesh exposed to piercing droplets of acidic rain, I woke stumbling a lethargic grog trying to catch up to the half-spent night. I always lament the incomplete dream halted by necessitated waking hours not longing for longer sleep, but an urge to see a vision through that hints a path of my future battles is turned away.

I walk. As though not accustomed to limbs carrying this burdening weight, I stagger my pace into tree limbs for stability. Losing control is not as devastating as I had once feared.

The fear comes in exciting doses of shifting concerns rushing in increasing intervals till time mashes all to one overwhelming isolation. The laboring rain is gone. Even the trees are gone.

I’m left to roam a parched earth weary of my steps. I can not float. Perhaps the vision is meant to abandon. As a child I witnessed my impending doom. This was a vision I could grasp. As an adult the vision alarms into an aim broader with me surviving for moments longer to serve. I remain idle.

As the wind reshapes my forgotten face into guiltless smirks that keep suspicious strangers from attacking, I seek coyly a silent cave trying to pray a solution, waiting for sleep to recapture a wondering mind urging a vision complete.