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?”
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Friday, January 11, 2008
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?”
Monday, October 22, 2007
Sunday, October 07, 2007
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.
Friday, July 13, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Surviving an Arab writer's conference
It was only two days, yet my legs are left angry, complaining of walking for what seemed like a week and a few hours. It must have been my nervous cyclical circling of tables and groups chatting seeking a way in. I paced unevenly between the various discussions and paneled my interest with smiles and smirk filled nods as that odd incoherent question to a hero who I couldn’t release unquestioned.
Few knew who I was or am or who I may be or become, a fact truer than my knowledge of that fact or current fiction, And who I was seemed to come forth and drown who I thought I was becoming because of what I lacked. I left too wide a slit in the door for that not to occur. I was a timid awkward geek who feared too much.
A poet read and I paced the distance she had traveled here. When would my legs carry me close enough to…to…I wasn’t quite certain of why I was hoping to get close? I knew I would babble and I walked on as the woman with the blue Marcel-style scarf looked at my passing with pity, not pity that I couldn’t approach but pity to a man who seemed relieved in failure and she took my spot and shook hands with the poet. I didn’t need an autograph or expected her to know my name the next year we meet, I needed to meet.
As Wadsworth and Keats wrestled over my use of I, I prepared for my presentation. It was a last minute drool with no time for revision as was my style. I was looking at the few who sacrificed sleep to attend and do their best to present an interested face, giving them loosely linked words. The interest didn’t seem that contrived the more I went on. Perhaps I was making some sense. If only I could listen to my own words instead of those voices of imprisoned grappling writers who mocked me and undermined any coherent proclamation. The poet came to me as destiny rehearsing her game. Surely she couldn’t have meant that my presentation was as fantastic as she announced. Was it just the product of the customary congratulatory comment native to conference camaraderie? She smiled again to confirm her delight and promised to visit my blog. My blog? This triviality?
The conference broke for lunch. Feeling a bit more confident that I would not suffer any bites, I gave my legs some rest and struck limited conversation with the woman sharing my table. Although I felt it her table by the way in which she snuck a wondering peak of “why is this awkward unpublished man here?”
She did her best to politely end the conversation and I worried. As I saw her the next day, I sent a passing greeting as casually as I could to avert any awkwardness and misrepresentation. Her uneasy smile damned me back to 9th grade.
Marching into a peaceful exercise unarmed rendered me battle worn.
And I was an outsider again. The second day felt like a sentence of no performable tasks giving demons exercise. What venture undertook me?
My desire to become what each of them has become, a published Arab writer, kept me confined comfortless.
The two-day self-inflicted anguish ended, but I had questions left unasked and heroes unapproached. I survived…regretfully.
Few knew who I was or am or who I may be or become, a fact truer than my knowledge of that fact or current fiction, And who I was seemed to come forth and drown who I thought I was becoming because of what I lacked. I left too wide a slit in the door for that not to occur. I was a timid awkward geek who feared too much.
A poet read and I paced the distance she had traveled here. When would my legs carry me close enough to…to…I wasn’t quite certain of why I was hoping to get close? I knew I would babble and I walked on as the woman with the blue Marcel-style scarf looked at my passing with pity, not pity that I couldn’t approach but pity to a man who seemed relieved in failure and she took my spot and shook hands with the poet. I didn’t need an autograph or expected her to know my name the next year we meet, I needed to meet.
As Wadsworth and Keats wrestled over my use of I, I prepared for my presentation. It was a last minute drool with no time for revision as was my style. I was looking at the few who sacrificed sleep to attend and do their best to present an interested face, giving them loosely linked words. The interest didn’t seem that contrived the more I went on. Perhaps I was making some sense. If only I could listen to my own words instead of those voices of imprisoned grappling writers who mocked me and undermined any coherent proclamation. The poet came to me as destiny rehearsing her game. Surely she couldn’t have meant that my presentation was as fantastic as she announced. Was it just the product of the customary congratulatory comment native to conference camaraderie? She smiled again to confirm her delight and promised to visit my blog. My blog? This triviality?
The conference broke for lunch. Feeling a bit more confident that I would not suffer any bites, I gave my legs some rest and struck limited conversation with the woman sharing my table. Although I felt it her table by the way in which she snuck a wondering peak of “why is this awkward unpublished man here?”
She did her best to politely end the conversation and I worried. As I saw her the next day, I sent a passing greeting as casually as I could to avert any awkwardness and misrepresentation. Her uneasy smile damned me back to 9th grade.
Marching into a peaceful exercise unarmed rendered me battle worn.
And I was an outsider again. The second day felt like a sentence of no performable tasks giving demons exercise. What venture undertook me?
My desire to become what each of them has become, a published Arab writer, kept me confined comfortless.
The two-day self-inflicted anguish ended, but I had questions left unasked and heroes unapproached. I survived…regretfully.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
RAWI this weekend
RAWI 2nd National Conference at the Arab American National Museum May 17 - 20-- Please join us! Check out our schedule at www.rawi.org REGISTRATION AND TICKETS Full registration $120-includes one year membershipStudent registration $75-includes one year membership1 Day Pass $35-includes panels and lunch Thursday Night Reading $10Friday Night Reading $10Friday Night Party $10Saturday Azouma & Awards Night $35
I'll be part of a panel Fri 9am
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