Musings on Monday Mornings

I’m trying to kill hours. And while I would love a speedy expeditious death, Time seems to be lingering on endlessly. That’s the thing about evenings. The night continues, until creeping through the shadows comes the crack of morning sunshine. Ordinarily, I would saunter from one sofa to the other, but that indulgence does not make allowances for the laptop, which given its clinical functionality must be within the range of the wireless. Also, the words ‘saunter’ and ‘laptop’ juxtaposed in my metal picture do not evoke a comfortable thought. So here I am on the floor, next to the somewhat overgrown money plant, sitting on the marbled ground, under Sadiq’s chalk-white table with a flattened glutes that’s feeling the cold. But, I want to write—nothing, something—so I suppose one must brave the floor, overgrown plant et all. Today I found out Richard Moore died. He died in his sleep on September 4th, but the news caught up with me today. It was strange hearing of his death. He wasn’t one ...

So, through some massive last minute manoeuvrings, serious prayers and just a good-old kick from Fate in the buttocks, Shanz has managed Harvard. I count-- this dream has comfortably been 12 years in the making (With Honors [1996]). That’s a pretty long time considering how fast things change. So a kid and a husband later, actually a husband and a kid later (she did it the legit way), Shanz has initiated the dream. While there is immense guilt (she misses her kids first birthday, and insists she misses her husband) it appears dreams are not subject to reality. You can apparently pull them off. I guess it comes down to perseverance. As the Aitchisonians say it “Perseverance commands success.” But so far, there is no furniture though. She bunks with Nazia across the bridge. But who cares for trivial details like furniture while there are bigger dreams at play here. Hope springs eternal.

I read a blog recently of a friend of a friends, who for the major part of my life was defined within the vast confines of “Mano ki class fellow.” As I age, it appears the world shrinks and ages get swallowed up into the divide that no longer distinguishes me from her. Perhaps there are only three stages, one called ‘childhood’, then ‘teenage’ and then the bleak vastness that is ‘adulthood’. Within the latter we all try to scurry into our skins (sometimes outside) to recall the two stages that have passed before. It turns out that this blog stirred something. Azam and I spend some time discussing how all the world is the same. Mandated by a strange military-like obedience to like what is popular. In this scheme of things a differing view rarely draws positive feedback. Case to point: Fergie whatever-her-name’s song, “My Hump”. If I could shoot myself every time I hear it—I’d die any easy death. Perhaps, yes, my life, even though lived within the confines of somewhat dictatorial parents...

Green light, Seven Eleven You stop in for a pack of cigarettes You don't smoke, don't even want to Hey now, check your change Dressed up like a car crash Your wheels are turning but you're upside down You say when he hits you, you don't mind Because when he hurts you, you feel alive Hey babe, is that what it is Red lights, gray morning You stumble out of a hole in the ground A vampire or a victim It depend's on who's around You used to stay in to watch the adverts You could lip syn to the talk shows And if you look, you look through me And when you talk, you talk at me And when I touch you, you don't feel a thing If I could stay... Then the night would give you up Stay...and the day would keep its trust Stay...and the night would be enough Faraway, so close Up with the static and the radio With satelite television You can go anywhere Miami, New Orleans London, Belfast and Berlin And if you listen I can't call And if you jump, you just might fall And if y...