Through

Through With It!

2010-03-26T10:11:00.001-05:00

“Beyond the sanity of fools is a burning desert
Where Your sun is whirling in every atom…” –Rumi

Two.
It has been two years since my last entry which noted the passing of a mortal truth, a corporeal luminary, my jiddo. Since then, a giant fissure formed within the vessels of my heart, and Through underwent a catharsis that nearly verged upon web(purg)atory.

I missed jiddo dearly, and found it a monumental task to find a subject worthy of following the literary shadow of his mention. So I let it be for two years, and found other ways of honoring him through my daily rituals and activities.

As it would happen, I was hired to work in a managerial position at an educational institution in the city soon after. I have also had the pleasure of teaching for an up-and-coming Bahá’í-inspired non-profit institution which offers language and skill development classes. I am engaged to a man I've known for nearly eight years and am planning a wedding for the end of April of 2010. And such is the circadian rhythm of life.

I am hoping to return to Through as the sun of the future seems to be whirling majestically….

It’s in this clear crisp light that I remember what Through was originally intended for: to celebrate the beauty of humanity and to analyze, critique, and remark upon the tiny particles that connect us to all things.
Visit soon as I’m planning on visiting often.

-Zina

The Passing of My Dear Grandfather

2008-03-14T22:32:00.003-05:00

I regret not having shared the following information sooner here...

His name was Siddiq Abdu’l-Majid Sulaiman. My grandfather. Whether you knew him or not is a factual nomenclature of little import. --For his life, his experiences, his stories provide us all with a catalogue of examples of one’s limitless capacity to love and a glimpse into the mysteries of the human spirit. His official obituary is below, followed by some notes. It is my hope to follow-up with some stories of his life and details attributed to his beloved personage.

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Siddiq Abdul-Majid Sulaiman left this earthly realm for the Abha Kingdom an hour after midnight on 4 February 2008. Born in Mosul , Iraq , in 1914, Mr. Sulaiman embraced the Baha’i Faith in the early 1940s and subsequently followed a distinguished career of service in his homeland. A high school teacher by profession, Mr. Sulaiman served, for a period in the 1950s, as the chairman of both the Baghdad Local Spiritual Assembly and the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá'ís of Iraq. He was later imprisoned for the Faith, spending from 1973 to 1979 in Abu Ghraib prison.In the late 1940s and early 1950s, he lived in Alexandria , Egypt , where he received his Baccalaureate in the subject of philosophy from the Alexandria University . It was there that he met Anisa Abdul-Razzaq Abbas, another Bahá'í from Iraq , who was also studying at Alexandria University . They were married in 1952 and had three children: Abir, Alhan, and Ruwa. He is survived by Ms. Abbas, his children, and five grandchildren (Zina Irwin, Menar Irwin, Remz Pokorny, Mona Majid and Zane Pokorny). Mr. Sulaiman passed away after a long decline in Bedford , New Hampshire.

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I invite you to watch a short video on youtube that I created on behalf of all of the grandchildren in memory of our grandfather. We would be honored if you watched it:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=XdTPH13eKN8

I met my grandfather when he and my grandmother, Anisa Abbas, arrived to America before the Gulf War after being separated from their children for over 11 years. He was tall, spoke English better than any Englishman, and immediately embraced us with an unforgettable tenderness. For the next 18 years I had the privilege of growing with him, listening to his stories and studying his exemplary life. Echoing the words of one of his dear friends, I am one of many who has taken pride in “being an unworthy student of Siddiq Abdu’l-Majid,” my jiddo.

He was born in 1914 in Mosul before WWI commenced. Mosul, in northern Iraq and West of the Tigris River, is a place my grandfather often spoke of with the fondest recollection. Today, it is the country’s second largest city, but during his childhood it had a much smaller community. His father owned a small but prosperous nut and ice cream shop. His devoted mother was part Kurdish. A siyyid (descendant of the Prophet Muhammad), my grandfather was raised as a Muslim and dedicated many years to the study of Islamic texts. As a boy he memorized most of the Qur’an, a common tradition in the educational curriculum.

He became a member of the Baha’i Faith as a young adult, after intensely reading Nabil-i-Azam’s historical narrative “The Dawnbreakers” (in which Nabil wrote about the socio-political climate of nineteenth century Iran, the Babi movement, and the Baha’i Faith). The Baha’i Faith is an independent world religion (not a sect of another religion), founded by Baha’u’llah whose name means “Glory of God.” Baha’is (the members of the Faith) believe in one God, the oneness of humankind, the equality of the sexes, the unity of science and religion, the independent investigation of truth, and that all religions stem from the same Source and share a common spiritual essence, among other key beliefs.

His dedication to these tenets and to the Baha’i Faith eventually led to his imprisonment (alongside other Baha’is) in Abu Ghraib. Under the suspicious and fearful regime, minority communities (including the Baha’i faith -regardless of how peaceful and non-political it is) were subject to government scrutiny and action. At Abu Ghraib, my grandfather was kept near the most vile and contemptible members of society -murderers, thiefs, etc. He was also subjected to cruel actions in an attempt to have him recant his Faith. His refusal kept him imprisoned for six years until a regime change, though he was sentenced for life and had gladly accepted that potential fate.

He always taught me that human beings have a great spiritual capacity and that capacity can be veiled by selfishness and ignorance. In the pursuit of truth, he said, we must always be humble and detached. Physically blind himself, he taught me to see with spiritual eyes. And to love unconditionally as love requires no reason for expression, except to exercise the human spirit.

"Say it"

2007-08-14T01:27:00.000-05:00

Say it.
A single word
--one not marred by the ephemeral perversity of thoughts,
One not asphyxiated by the conditions of feelings.
A single word
unhindered, unsullied by meanings
secluded from transient truths
abandoned by understandings
--whether divergent or whole.
Say it.
Without love of it
And for it
One which,
by its own virtue
Needs not saying,
Needs not being.
Can you say it?
Can it even escape your swollen lips?
If you could say it,
If you were to say it
It has
No sound
But if you say it.

To Say Goodbye is to Say Hello

2007-06-04T22:15:00.000-05:00

I molt in my sadness.
Shedding my sugar-coat, casting off the sweet dew from my brows
discarding the curves of my smiles
and the openness of my palms.

From what was relinquished an inner peace will be quenched.
An eye re-opened by forsaking a teardrop,
an ear quitting a familiar voice
again attuned to the sound of longing,

The sight of going, shut,
and the vision of returning unwrapped
from the seal of the heart
and its time-trapping design.

Far resigns and becomes farther
Near leaves and becomes nearer
Close becomes both distal and proximal.
Closer is a sweeter day,
to molt is to find its promises.

I will miss and be missed. But it too shall pass again and again until the earth spins so much and becomes one color, neither red nor green. Just one. And newer it will be. And I will smile, but differently in another way.

zina irwin

the core self.

2007-04-02T22:35:00.000-05:00

My grandfather Seddiq, my grandmother Anisa (middle), university students in Alexandria, Egypt 1940s

You are yourself and I am myself and we exist in a pattern before a pattern, on an ancient scroll, in a day that has neither sun nor moon. You are the word, I am ink. We have not found each other, though we have soaked through the same thread and have bled from beginning to end. You are nothing and I am nothing, and our nothingness is infinite. But to exist in nothingness, in its deeps, is to be as lonesome as the word and as deprived as the ink, soaking the never-ending thread of life which has existed since the day that has neither sun nor moon. -me.

freakish blizzard

2007-03-08T01:08:00.000-05:00

Ten miles from the border. Granted, it was already gray. Granted, it had long been foreshadowing the ominous circumstances which we were to later experience. -The calculating, roguish Firmament. -The wintry Sky. Dreadful Rogue. We traveled ten miles into Canada until our driver prompted a full stop. I looked out of my window and saw the complete absence of color. It felt as though our vehicle and everything in it was a drawing sketched by a mysterious painter on the whitest of pages in the most accidental manner. How, by chance or by purpose, could nature produce such a deathly storm with such indecipherable snowflakes!

For nearly two hours we waited until the worst of the storm passed. During this time I sat in my chair, often mesmerized by tacky rows of jumping blue greyhounds which Greyhound Lines Inc. designed for its interior chair fabric coverings. Towards the end of the worst, the white page ripped and I uncovered a group of tall reeds being beaten by the wind. I watched them for a long time -and what seemed quite painful became quite tragically beautiful. Those reeds moved with every breath and movement of the wind, and bent into impossible bends, and swayed impossible sways, yet remained unequivocally devoted to inhabiting their post. I quite admired them.

We roam atop the blankest of pages. Our color is our attention to the movements of time and our devotion to our purpose. Our design is a mystery only which the wisest of snowflakes may comprehend.

The Creative Deficit and the Phenomenon of the Creative Dream

2006-12-27T12:38:00.000-05:00

I was thinking about this in the shower the other day. Forgive its simplicity or pretentiousness… I sort of lost my original thought towards the end, as it was replaced by a myriad of questions and ideas. i.e., this entry probably will not make much sense. The last paragraph is kind of nice.

Innovation. -It means improvement, modernization, originality, advancement, enhancement, rejuvenation. It involves creating new ideas, processes, devices, sets of values or changing or improving upon existing factors.

I think we can actually “learn innovation.” That is, we learn how to think about innovation, we learn how to innovate, we can learn to use innovation, and we can learn to how understand the causes which contribute to its successful program and so on. We innovate to curb the extinction of (or ‘fix’) “what” is pre-innovatory -what innovation is targeting, what such ideas, processes, devices and values are being created for.

We “learn innovation” from (a) existing factors, (b) undetermined factors, (c) determined factors, and (d) non-existing factors. -Existing factors are those that include past or current failures, past or current problems, past or current successes. These factors can be obtained by observation and careful study of history or modern times. Undetermined factors are obtained through the inquisition of variables which haven’t been proven to affect a given idea, process, device, product or set of values. Innovation is inspired through the course of trials or tests and on-going processes. Determined factors can be concluded by careful study; they are the results of tests or trials. Non-existing factors are ones which have nothing to do with the targeted idea, process or value, etc. -They do not exist within the current focus. Innovation is learned by not focusing on its target, but through values surrounding it. (email me for examples of these factors).

Creativity is different. Creativity is an ability and a mental phenomena. It is the ability to generate new knowledge. It invokes the imagination and can lead to innovative ideas. However, innovation relies on abilities whereas creativity itself is a manifested, innate capability. Thomas Edison was a creative man. Before his time, light bulbs did not exist -one could not conceive of their reality. Their shape, their original form, were imagined and created by Edison. An innovative writer is someone who builds upon previous works (ideas) or writing styles, and makes them new or attractive again. A creative writer is someone whose ideas and writing style appear as if from thin air - never before seen in the real world. A creative artist is one who can imagine a Biblical scene and paint it without ever being there. An innovative artist is one who creates the scene in a different way or who sees it differently. This may be all too simplistic a comparison. However, it leads me to wonder about the nature of creativity and whether or not we are experiencing a shortage of creativity today.

I realized last semester how many “rely-ers” I am surrounded by. And perhaps I am also a rely-er… I haven’t decided. I think I am much of the time. -These are individuals who rely on other people’s information, other people’s opinions, existing ideas and facts, known solutions and so on. There is nothing wrong with being a rely-er. We need to rely on this repository of knowledge; otherwise we’d be stuck in the stone-age without any base for progress.

However, rely in moderation. I think reliance impinges creativeness. For example, there was a problem that was noted and communicated by person A. Person A could not get past it. They asked Persons B, C, D, etc for their opinions, and spent a great deal of time evaluating what was said, but could not come up with a solution to this problem. Person A used the ideas of everyone -and put together an innovative strategy, and yet the problem persisted. The thing is, Person A had many great ideas on their own, but could not trust that their creative approach had any meaning or value, and that their own ideas could actually improve the problem.

Do we actively make the distinction between innovation and creativity? Do we automatically place creativity beneath existing knowledge? Do we all ‘have’ creativity? Does innovation have a shelf life?

I feel sometimes we are trying so hard to fix and upgrade things that are inevitably going to disintegrate. At the same time, we give up on our creativity and passions with the even the smallest of doubts. We do not have enough faith that we are creative enough to overcome our own obstacles and to find our own ways to get through difficulties. We forget that our dreams -which are phenomena that have not been manifested in the real world, are very possible to attain. They are reachable. They are there if we want them to be there, and they are possible only when we want them to be possible. They do not rely on your ability to innovate existing processes that will enable their existence in the real world. They simply rely on your ability to create them, and to create your own primordial arena for their development. They are the rely-ers of your own mastery.

I hope someone out there knows what I am trying to say.
I am still dreaming.

Look at their faces....

2006-10-23T18:40:00.000-05:00

2006-08-09T10:00:00.000-05:00

What is it.
The unfolding of a picnic coverlet. From corner to corner upon breezy grasses, a seal, a shield, a protectorate of picnic goers or a protector of a small green oasis? An island. It is safety and care –mindfulness, concern, and gracefulness. A place where sky and earth do not meet. Where the environmental delicacies are enjoyed just as much as those found in a plastic bag, unfolded to the taste’s delight. Unfolded like a picnic blanket. Unfolded to reveal just the right amount of love.

What is it.
A meal. Cooked from all sides, intentionally placed into various receptacles, which were created for diverse purposes. A basket for bread. A small dish for oil and vinegar. A plate for pasta. The cook’s salvation, their livelihood, their salary, their enjoyment. A crumb –the Almighty’s mercy. One crumb in one belly, two crumbs in two bellies. Bellies feasting on an all-encompassing compassion, through which love is known to the cook and the crumb, and the crumb and the belly, and the two sharing the crumbs.

What is it.
A car accident. A mistake or a blessing? Off the road, perfectly betwixt two seriously tall trees –a six foot drop to a rocky ditch. Where are the scratches? Where are the deep punctures? Where are the bruises? Tomorrow they could have been there. But today they weren’t. Saved? Rescued? Protected. Sheltered. Loved. The trees knew it. An awakening.

What is it.
Speaking? Words? We are born with something in our brains that allows us to learn language as children. We are born with the capacity to learn words, to grasp their meanings. We speak now but the words have already been spoken, we speak to one another, but for those that understand –silence is another part of language where the heart has its own alphabet. One word is all that is needed, whether spoken or practiced, felt or touched.

What is it. The curve of the waves, the lines on the boats, the sand, a doughnut, a smile, a photograph. They are what is revealed to us each day, to a perfect degree, to their capacity, to their purpose. Can you guess what is in them?

I’m happy you’re back. What is it? A year? Time from or time to? It is our perfect portion. It is like the picnic blanket and the crumb, the accident, and words. It is the rejoicing of being, and being loved.

2006-06-26T11:55:00.000-05:00

feta cheese, baby spinach, 1 avocado, croutons, and lime juice from 1-2 limes.

end

2006-04-06T13:08:00.000-05:00

in photo: nahal and hannah, le vieux port

Alas.

The walls are caving in and we are trying to push them back out, but their narrowness has created a channel, a pathway, of which we are habitually blind to.

I am writing a research paper on regional integration and ASEAN. I wanted to assess sustained regional development by looking at traditional conditions for a successful security community. Economic interdependence is a common proviso. And of course, I started obsessing about statistics and numbers and everything under the umbrella. Inflation. Gross Domestic Product. Exchange Rates. Etc. Little by little, the graphs, the numbers, the traditional statistics- everything started to have little impact on my argument. The walls were caving. ASEAN is a very successful regional grouping. And I couldn’t figure out why the numbers didn’t seem, well, spectacular and amazing and perceptibly shocking. Why the traditional stats weren’t the most salient proof of the development that has taken place in the region over the last 40 years. Now, it very well could be that I am statistically illiterate (that is a three-dimensional phrase). But right before I almost died from suffocation, I saw it. The tiny crack. The streams of light. The blue sky. The little path which would lead me aright! It was in the form of a question. Why is ASEAN a successful grouping? That was fact. But it was unquestioned and assumed to be answered by common conditions. This turned out to be hardly the case. ASEAN is successful I’ve learned because of very non-traditional conditions such as collective identity, recognition, regional socialization and ASEAN norms as opposed to the institutionalization of economic (and military) blocs. There is more to it, but for the sake of simplicity I will cease my explanation of ASEAN success.

I wonder about all the times I unconsciously forced myself to go with what was traditionally accepted. Equations, solutions, views. When did I stop questioning the approach? When did the theories awaken from their slumber? When did they leave their bedsides to seat themselves on the Throne of my mind? They can be guides, but be weary friends, lest you make them your trusted sovereigns. Sometimes we need to see through things in order to see them for what they are. I needed to see through the tradition as opposed to seeing only it. This probably sounds basic, but as human beings we are always being conditioned to think a certain way. Somehow though, I truly believe it we let go a bit, and if we are willing to accept the failure in our logic, we can find the growing expanse of blue. Evaluate the nonsenses. Leave them to their compartmentalized blocks. Conquer failure. Accept truth without tagging it. Thrive in the openness of possibilities that have been with us since the initial mixture of creation.

Thank you my dear E.
flaws are beautiful.

old

2006-03-20T00:16:00.000-05:00

me

“And they who grateful memory won
By services to others done”
( ÆN.vi. 664)

Old Man. He is my neighbour, in his early 80s. He is nocturnal. I don’t know his real name and I don’t wish to. I don’t want my fanciful image of him to be destroyed by any name or title. He is, and will forever be, famous in my memory as Old Man. I see Old Man a lot. He carries an overused plastic bag everywhere he goes. Sometimes I see him leaving his house, and a few times I have nosily caught a glimpse of the mountain of plastic bags covering every corner of his little apartment. His body is very fragile; he must weigh around 90 pounds; he permanently has a slight bulge in his back (crooked spine) although he walks and looks in a straightforward fashion. He smiles a lot and reads newspapers and eats at McDonalds sometimes. I hear him moving furniture around at night. –From what I gather, it is the sound of four wooden legs of a table or chair.

I wonder if the world he sees –the one he lives in is as real as the creases in his plastic day bag, or as real as the title which I have idly fixed for him. When I see him in public places –he is usually chatting with strangers. I wonder what he says to them. Perhaps he tells them his life story. I often pretend Old Man had a hard life as a young man (because lives that encountered difficulties often reveal the most interesting truths and make way for stories of the most fascinating nature). One of these stories is when Old Man first moved to Canada from (I believe) somewhere in South Asia or East Europe (there are some similarities between these regions….). Anyway. He was separated from his family due to a bloody war and spent every penny on a one-way plane ticket to Montreal in the 60s when a bunch of HR protests were being staged. He didn’t have enough money to buy a suitcase and instead brought his possessions in plastic bags. I don’t know how he later arrived at this apartment, but that doesn’t matter. The truth is, he is a spy. He sleeps during the day because at night he is too busy transforming his seemingly eclectic apartment into a command center. To do this, he must pull on a few levers (his old armchair, for example). His tabletop turns around and uncovers a highly technical operating system. There are fewer witnesses in the night season. The infrequent excursions to public places are cover-ups: the “strangers” he talks to are other spies. Aside from these fabulously fabricated stories are the brief moments when the Old Man uncovers a smile and somehow connects to this present world better than I do. The former generation knows the present better than the present knows the former as well as itself.

He smiles because he feels bad for me. For the world I have set myself out to fix. He smiles because he is laughing endlessly inside at the stupidity of the young today. He smiles because a smile is loneliness searching for comfort; searching for a reminder that one is not alone on the planet; acknowledging that you, [you] exist and that the owner of the smile can see, hear, or feel your presence and that makes them happy. Because ultimately we are all connected. I close my eyes and remember one of his smiles. In his old age, Old Man barely has lips. They have succumbed to gravity and wrinkles and biology and have transformed into thin lines. Remnants of fuller ones which once spoke of the fullness of life. I imagine the curve. It is a line. It is endless… it’s attached to many curves, many smiles bowing down to their unquestionable attachment to a single Word. The only Word they all share. The one most spoken, most questioned, most praised, most called upon. He smiles, and the bags of my heaviness suddenly seem just a little bit lighter.

2006-02-13T14:03:00.000-05:00

The meeting of the Sun Maid and Mr. Quaker

2006-02-06T00:43:00.000-05:00

I had commented in this journal quickly. What I wrote did not make sense, but that's beside the point (although I am ashamed to admit it). I read the latest entry yet again after some time had elapsed and found it to be quite moving. Simple (no BS) and yet compelling. http://menar.org/ -it merits some sort of reflection, you goliaths.
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i know i know. i know your thoughts.
they live in the valleys of sought after naught
they seek to renew curiosity hidden in thy chest
fair maidens and sirs i am trying my best.
the giant goliath betwixt those trees afar await
to eat my words at a latter date
until then the Sirens of silence doth sing their staggering song
to confuse the goliath who’s been waiting along
protected under their voices creep the misty words of the Through
goliath can only sit there with not another thing to do
-when he bores and grows weary
Woe betide his silly aim
when he wastes his life waiting for Through
to renew in vain
the moment he desires not even a glance
is when the Sirens will let me have my chance
and the words of the Through will run past the far trees
and goliath unto the unexpected
shall he raise his glee
when a word that was once hidden
is found under his knee.

…. basically for those who are actually waiting for an update, my thoughts are moving in the silence –or my absence from this web log. The absence is just a cover. It will be updated when least expected and the subject matter will be inspired by the ordinary things that are under our knees. Forgive my stupid rhymes and riddles.

I love this Lemur. I want him!!!

2005-12-15T01:05:00.000-05:00

Look at his feet, his little head furs, his belly and eyes and smirk. ahhh cute cute cute

siggie siggie. a siggie siggie?

Blast! The mental degradation I am at present experiencing is brilliant. There it is. There. My mind, being rocked by my two hands, gently, like a newborn babe in the arms of her deliverer, while the nurses are running around rampantly because something is wrong. But there is a little bundle of wonder. And that is brilliant.

The excellence I strive for is not one that conforms to letter/number marks. The excellence indeed most worthy of aim is that of noble thought, of modest mind, of tempered speech. In my schoolwork, it is less about achieving the highest mark and more about being distinguished by the individuality of thinking, of scrutinizing the very walls which have made me narrow.

A new level of discourse is needed, Bill Hatcher told us shortly before his passing. And not just a new one, a raised one. I think this thought is not exclusive to simply the daily tête-à-tête and dialogue. Of all the most important applications for fresh and sustained discourse I declare/shout/cry/conclude this: we need a new discourse about the way we are educated. I feel marginalized because I think and approach concepts differently. I do. I think my professors and classmates could attest. I feel marginalized because I struggle with examinations –which, I feel, are oftentimes insulting to the human brain. I feel marginalized because I do not like writing in third person. Because a mark doesn’t mean as much to me as a comment.

The approach to truth, as my Iqan group has learned, is diverse for every individual. Likewise, the realities congruent with academic texts are ascertained by the varying degrees of our own minds. Knowledge itself is grasped differently and brilliantly by our own selves. To standardize the way most Western institutions of learning calculate progress is revolting. Attempts to changes in education policy (for example, the recent Quebec Education Reform) and implementing a so-called “student-centered” approach into curriculum are not sufficient alone. It is reasonable to suggest some kind of instrument that measures a person’s achievement is needed to evaluate their progress. Just because there is no alternative to current-day methods does not mean that the existence of alternative methods should not be sought after, and that examinations, essays and theses, are the end-all of measuring apparatus. We are too stuck in the mechanics that have existed before our births. Humanity is too afraid to try something completely revolutionary; a system of education unlike any the world has ever witnessed.

An education that will deepen the mind, expand its consciousness, beautify tongues. -An education that will contribute to new ingenious approaches to technology, literature science, politics, medicine, economics, art and every other aspect of daily life. Laugh now. But I intend to search for such an arrangement.

Through the brilliant struggle between coping with today’s yester-world and a potentially unimaginable world, a discourse ends and a new one begins. Time to study for my perpetual assessment.

My last exam is on the 22nd. When it is finished, I will have more time to write.

Adding

2005-11-17T03:08:00.000-05:00

Frustration. Disappointment. Dissatisfaction. Bewilderment.
These four words describe everything I feel, encapsulated in 52 letters.
Panic.
57.

When I get past 100, these words will dissolve back into the meaningless mixture from which they first emerged. Why? Because too many words dilute an issue or feeling.

Oftentimes we tend to exasperate a situation by creating a mythological fuss over it. It is easy to infuse but difficult to simplify. It is easy to craft sentence structures. But difficult to describe things with a single word.

Words by themselves are wondrous creations. Each one has a significant meaning. Its own character. Its own set of letters. Its own part of speech.

I am aggravated with myself. Because on this weblog I am oversimplifying my whole person, and erring in the aggrandizement of subtleties. The entries that I write only portray the me of that moment. The me of those few seconds. The me of those letters. By now, this blog seems so pointless. What am I getting out of it? What are you getting out of it? I thought perhaps with careful scrutiny one could see through either the humdrum or electrifying events in life and find the simple meaning, meaningful meaning, common conscious meaning behind it all.

But there’s so much of “all.” This is not me. In reality, it is only minutes of me. It is only a single letter from an entire word of thought and an entire sentence of feelings and an entire page of events and an entire book of life and an entire shelf of mystery.

Humanity, I am convinced, is in a constant struggle to be known. We as individuals are in a constant struggle to be known. And I am –perhaps like you -also in a constant struggle to be understood. Why? I don’t know. Why do we think our lives are so important? Why do we think we have something to offer the world? The 57 letters are most appropriate… now.

Hemmingford Quebec and the Nakhjavanis, Camping, Sheep, Country. Death of Dr. Javanmardi. Death of cousin from suicide bomber. My paper on Alternative vs. Mainstream media. My paper on Globalization. Montreal. My views on sanitation, goat herding, and humidifiers, India and postal services and family dinners and illness. These and more are subjects I would have liked to go in depth about. However, I haven’t the heart at the moment. Maybe next time. I need to figure out what I want to see when I look through. It is well past 100 letters. Clarity is beginning session. And I have come to the same conclusion as I have always come to. The simplest but most complex of words.
---------
Love.

It's a Beautiful Life

2005-10-07T11:22:00.000-05:00

What happened to Ace of Bace?......

17.09

2005-09-17T18:54:00.000-05:00

Menar and I one summer long ago.

The changing of colour of autumn foliage takes place in several parts of the world. However, there are some that claim the most magnificent spectacle occurs at the top of the Northern American hemisphere. -Particularly (in the United States) the Northeast corridor and slightly south along the Appalachian mountain string and some parts of the Midwest. O. And Canada. Today, Montreal foliage is drenched with rain and although autumn has not quite knocked on the door it is standing on the doorstep, waiting to convert me into a scarf-wearer. I can see the brochures through the little eyehole; for seasons always come with a proselytizing agenda.

I know that when the greens change into 'hot' colours I will be walking up Rue Atwater. And, like every year, I will notice the mountain behind my apartment building turn into a giant orangey-brown mole on the earth. The winds will change and the harsh breath of the North will chill my bones. More and more people will take the busses and metro and the sidewalks will quickly become abandoned. There. At that moment, as I am walking up this road, I will have my way with the curbs. I will swiftly walk up that sidewalk alone, in peace, will tie a scarf around my neck, will breathe slowly, and count my steps in a straight line. I will think. Thoughts as clear and crisp as the air of forlorn nights of fall.

I remember as a child, this time of year was always a period when one would reflect upon ones summer activities with friends. It was a period to delineate who exactly of us all had the best summer. But the leaves coloured and fell and we forgot about all of it and grew obsessions for Halloween costumes and pumpkin picking -warmly accepting the cooler weather and celebrating it. Respecting it.

These days, all I can think about is summer and how much I will hate these walks home.

I can forget my own name before forgetting that day.

2005-08-20T13:04:00.000-05:00

statue

There was Central Square and that little Indian eatery which slapped South-Asian victuals onto metal trays. There was also the parking lot that opened its automated-gateway at exactly 18:00:00. In fact, as the memories are still too fresh, I recall the thirty minute walk on Mass Ave and Vassar Street, past the new MIT dormitories to the Hyatt on Memorial Drive. Of course, if details are ever consequential I will have to remember the important ones. Ones like walking in Harvard Square. Or resting in the park in the middle of one of the hottest days of summer.

There was also walking beneath a black umbrella that evening of Ellen’s Birthday in the Theatre District on our way to Teatro –which by the way, serves excellent Italian food. But beyond the ricotta and mozzarella-filled pasta, the pork, and the tall pristine glasses of l’eau was a being which memory always struggles to capture. I can never remember every follicle or line in the skin, or stroke of the lashes. I can never remember every word. But beyond all of this, I do remember sincerity. I remember joy emanating from this individual. I remember laughing and feeling depth as we swam in conversation.

I will remember Monday and putting things into boxes. I will remember telling him to “say goodbye apartment, goodbye neighbour, goodbye Athens Street” and “it’s okay to be sad.” I will remember Scituate. But the sweetest memory that I have ever lived was standing outside of security at Gate E. I remember him hugging his mother. I can still hear the sound of the busy airport, and the numerous carry-ons rolling around. The guard made eye-contact with me and I wondered if he could see the pain on my face. As soon as I turned around he rushed to me. And that memory is one only he and I and God will ever know.

I have a book of memories. But the truth is I am certain I have not written everything down. The perfectionist mind is imperfect by virtue of its perfectionism. The book has lengths of details and numerous accounts. But I realize over the years I may forget the details and become dependent on this book. I realize one day the book might be lost. I realize that one day I might get old and might forget most of it.

But that’s okay. It’s okay if I forget the details of our trip to Plum Island and playing Frisbee in the sand, or our hike on Mount Royal, or the tadpoles. These kinds of things are worldly. These memories are meant to remain on earth. One thing I know to be true is what is beyond the shapes and colours and movements. I know him from the way he speaks to me and not his voice. I know him from the manner in which he treats me –his courteousness and not his opening doors for me – his sincerity and not his apology, his joy and not his laughter. I know and will remember the absolute.

He is in Bangalore for twelve months and I am gloomy. But sadness is only analogous to physical distance. And fortunately, I can live with that.

“When we find truth, constancy, fidelity, and love, we are happy…” –Abdu’l-Baha

"Render unto Caesar that which is Caesars' and unto God that which is God's"....

2005-07-30T11:44:00.000-05:00

This is a puzzle:

11 - 11 - 21 - 11 - 5 - 21 - 14 - 22 - 5 - 25 - 16- 23 - 17 - 11 - 21 - 23 - 11 - 21 - 20 - 8 - 3 - 6 - 14 - 15 - 22 - 20 - 8 -20 - 11 - 22 - 3 - 22 - 7 - 3 - 11 - 8 - 22 - 9 - 10 - 16 - 15 - 22 - 8 - 17 - 3 - 7 - 22 - 11 - 1

(it should all really be one long sequence, so when you write it out, try to write it all on one line)

Rules:
The first step is to find the alphabetic symbol (graphic character – ex. a, b, c, d…) that is represented by each number. However, each number is really representing x alphabetic symbols (English) to the right of the real letter, so you must go backwards (left) the correct number of spaces (x) until you reach the real letter.
Finding the real letter would be your second step. So for example, if 7=g, and you figured out that x = 3, the real letter would be d. Likewise if 14 = n and x= 3 the real letter would be k.

The alphabet is a loop, so for example if I had a= 1 and found out that x =3, then I would go back three from 1/a -> 26/z, 25/y, 24/x. So the real letter would be x because x =24.

There are 26 letters of the alphabet, a=1, just as 26=z.

So let me give you another example. Let’s keep the value of x 3. If I had the following sequence:

8 - 25 - 8 - 21 - 2 - 10 - 18 - 18 - 7 - 5 - 18 - 2 - 7 - 8 - 22 - 8 - 21 - 25 - 8 - 22 - 9 - 24 - 7 - 10 - 8

I would go back 3 numbers. so the sequence would then be:

5 - 22 - 5 - 18 - 25 - 7 - 15 - 15 - 4 - 2 - 15 - 25 - 4 - 5 - 19 - 5 - 18 - 22 - 5 - 19 - 6- 21 - 4 - 7 - 5

a=1, b=2, c=3, d=4, e=5…. etc…

the above sequence would translate into:
everygoodboydeservesfudge.

every good boy deserves fudge

*N.B. you could also translate the original sequence into letters and then go back three letters. If 8=h, h-3 =e.

Now, in the particular problem you have to solve, the value for x is not 3. You will have to figure that out. I just gave an example. All I can tell you is x is greater than 1 and less than 5. Also, there is one extra step. Once you have found the real letters you will notice they do not make any sense. You’ll have to figure out Caesar’s box.

Just remember x does not equal 3, it is greater than 1 and less than 5. You have two options. Be careful. Write everything out.

Good luck. Most of you will probably give up. It is tedious, I know. I was in the mood for it, what can I say…

aloe vera tastes good

2005-07-18T12:34:00.000-05:00

It was only weeks ago. 19:00, Montreal. I was in the Hall Building --blue pen in hand -- scribbling my name onto the exam. The proctors were vigilant. I remember the smell of freedom as I handed my booklet in, ran my fingers through my hair and without looking back, walked pompously out the doors and onto the steamy streets as wittingly intended. 22:00. I was finished with it all. The professors. The pupils. The modus operandi. The infectious culture of conformity, standards and dictation. The truth is I threw off my bib years ago.

The day after I said hello to my usual border police agent as he sifted through my luggage. I literally rolled over the border. And hours later arrived in Eliot, Maine where I spent a week mentoring and working with the future at the Green Acre International Baha'i Center of Learning. The morning after my week in Maine, I got on a plane and landed in Chicago for a reunion of some sorts. Illinois is as flat as a painter's canvas. During my stay I was able to visit the first Mashriqu'l-Adhkar of the Western World. Simply a masterpiece in detail and contour.

I am now visiting family in my hometown. New Hampshire is lovely in summertime. As is Boston. I am in love with the Public Gardens and the seacoast. I have gone on so many little adventures. Newberry Street. Harvard Square. Plum Island. The Atlantic.

Right now there is nothing to say. I hate blog. Beyond the words is a world that you know nothing about. It is as frustrating as it is beautiful. These days I am taking it all in, rather than pumping and churning it out onto the blog. I apologize for my breaks. I'm currently in beginning stages of writing a book and summer travels. Every human life is amazing. We know nothing about the next person. Tara and I have had conversations about this. Sometimes I just sit on a park bench and find it hard to believe that the next person has a name. a family. a job. a life. a different set of beliefs. is going to a destination completely hidden from me. That they are alive and are also traveling and enjoying summer. That they think. And their thoughts I will never know. My thoughts you will never know. Do something for me. Before I write any more, remember that I am nothing. That these ideas are nothing save the little portals to my nothingness.

Why are all in such a struggle to be known? The Mashriqu'l-Adhkar, the Public Gardens, Harvard Square, Plum Island, South Boston and the Atlantic Ocean can tell you why.

on my lap

2005-06-21T23:01:00.000-05:00

Writing will come later. Exam tomorrow. For now, everyone contemplate THREE things. One. The Swedish Baltic Herring Museum. Two. Salad with green olives. Three. A Lame film.

Black and White

2005-06-08T17:00:00.000-05:00

Donnie: Why do you wear that stupid bunny suit?
Frank: Why are you wearing that stupid man suit?

If you’ve seen Donnie Darko, you may be interested in reading this: http://metaphilm.com/philm.php?id=10_0_2_0

I thought it was an intriguing précis…

This isn’t much of an entry, I realize, but it is in your hands to complete it. If we believe in God how is the notion of fate transformed? How do you look at life?

We are all wearing bunny suits really.

There’s so much I could write about these all too historically-universal questions… but I’d rather discuss.

meet you in comments….

Donnie: My parents didn't get me what I wanted for Christmas.
Dr. Lilian Thurman: What did you want?
Donnie: Hungry Hungry Hippos.
Dr. Lilian Thurman: And how did you feel, being denied these hungry, hungry hippos?
Donnie: Regret.

White Balloon

2005-05-31T12:51:00.000-05:00

I am currently taking a summer course on the United Nations. A lot of my work is done through the internet in simulations. I am part of a universe. I am Venezuela -although I had asked to be one of the members of the Security Council. At least I have oil. And part of the Amazon. Our discussion for this week is based on speculating the role and influence of the UN in the Twenty-First Century. The other 'nations' that belong to my universe frequently aggrandize the role of U.S. (which is appropriate). However, oftentimes the U.S. is spoken of in a very dim light, regularly before or after adjectives and phrases such as "evil" "axis of evil" "Bush is evil" "rich white fat terrorists" (the latter is a direct quote). This elegant method of critiquing is typical of naive students of Political Science. In any case, we offered our cases for how the UN should be restructured. One guy said that the UN should be divided into two entities: one inclusive of the U.S. and the other sans U.S. Another went so far as to deem termination the fate of the UN. I offered suggestions that would encompass a more unified vision of the UN that may be able to offer it sustenance deep into the Century based on Baha'i publications. Thus far, no one has argued against it. But no one is convinced by it either. It seems the notion of global governance and global integration has not yet gained momentum in the heart of the international community. My 'universe' for example, is so intent on focusing on current politics that it looses sight of possible solutions that exist outside of the current interface of international relations. They are more ready to point their fingers and accuse people ("rich white fat terrorists") than to act on the very things they believe in. And I am not talking about someone believing that there are rich white fat terrorists. I am talking about their deeper beliefs. What is at the root of them concluding a statement like that. I am talking about the morality behind it. The human rights behind it. The saving-the-environment behind it. You can choose to express your discontent. Or you can choose to find a solution to the factors behind the factor that causes a person or nation to act in a way that is unpleasant. The United Nations role in the Twenty-First Century will be more influential than the UN of the Twentieth Century only when it is backed by a more genuine community of nations.

Belief is the inner will for collective goodness. Pointing fingers is simply an exercise of an individual's kinetics.

Red is my favourite colour.

2005-05-24T00:53:00.000-05:00

some metro station somewhere in montreal...
L to R: Shams, Jess, Donna, me, Hannah

We should never neglect to be grateful for our camaraderie.
And not only should we be eternally beholden, but exist in a state of constant haste to maintain goodness, to solidify the bonds which strengthen us in our times of need and magnify happiness in times of bliss.

We just might be fools to think otherwise

the ants go marching...

2005-05-16T08:40:00.000-05:00

Perhaps several of you will remember this song from childhood. You know. The one that goes: the ants go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah...

And for some forsaken reason, I remember singing that song with the utmost enthusiasm; welcoming the vision of black seas of combatant-ants wearing camouflage suits. Carrying batons and machetes and protected by ant helmets. Gallanting on noble steeds. Building a giant sand kingdom that nothing could ever squash to dust. Etcetera.

I think there even was a little dance to that song.

But don’t be fooled. They are ruthless, vicious, bloodthirsty creatures. This is what I first wrote a while ago:

today I was forced to kill many ants.
and I'm sad.

I am sad no longer. They have attacked me, and now I shall strike back with a genuine settling of scores that Hamlet would be envious of…

Why would something so tiny and delicate be so brave (stupid) to have the audacity to crawl over something that is many many many many times bigger than itself?

Why would humans which are tiny and delicate be so brave (stupid) to have the audacity to crawl over something that is many many many many times bigger than itself?

Our world is full of wonderment and perspectives which we should unceasingly yearn to find understanding in. Perhaps we need the ant to teach us about life because human beings aren’t that different from these little guys.
In the meantime, as they ruin my meals and make my skin itch with a ferocious panic, I will continue to squash them. Because I can.

hurrah, hurrah.

mama.

2005-05-08T17:38:00.000-05:00

my mother on a boat with me somewhere on the coast of Aruba, summer 2004

I remember playing in her gardens. She was a goddess; the way she grew asters, snapdragons and tulips, zinnias and marigolds to numinous widths and heights.

Little did I know that I too, was a flower nurtured by that same gardener. Pruned with prudence, watered with the sweet serum of love, fed by the soil of wisdom.

She had the greenest thumb of all.

Brother and Me.

2005-04-29T13:37:00.000-05:00

this was the time when life was all about knowing nothing.
and then we grow up and realize that knowing nothing was knowing everything

So Much Beauty in Dirt

2005-04-27T14:58:00.000-05:00

"There's so much beauty --it can make you cry..." (Modest Mouse)

Dirt is beautiful. If you really look at it.

how I love that monkey.

exactly.

2005-04-25T01:58:00.000-05:00

if anything could capture me at this moment, this monkey's face would be it....

Funny how non-human creatures and objects can capture perfect human expressions and feelings. The same goes for the opposite: humans capturing the essences of potatos, spoons, brick walls, animals, etc.

by the way.... no one has answered the riddle correctly. humour me. at least try to answer it.

Birds.

2005-04-23T13:35:00.000-05:00

birdlady.
birdlady lives in my building. sHe is five feet tall. she is asian. she is abOut sixty.
and she is
one
With the pigeons.

it Is quite the usual day when atwater's sidewalks are filled with congregations of pigeons. birdlady feeds them. i have seen her out there every day for the past two years that i have Lived on the corner of atwater and sherbrooke. she seems tO have a deep sense of obligation and servitude to these creatures. in her oVer-sized purse is a five-pound bag of birdseed.

the other day on atwater, i was walking with groceries in my hands when i saw a sight that almost made me drop everything. one hundred feet in front of mE, and about twenty feet above the intersection i saw about thirty Pigeons flying in rapid circle. talk about eerie. It reminded me of that alfred hitchcock movie "the birds" where seaGulls circled the skies, turned violent, upturned a small town and attacked some people. it was scary. so, fEaring for my life, i stood there. frozen. they flew in circles numerous times and suddenly i realized that birdlady was crOssing the intersection. the birds were following her! circling above her. connected to her. they knew her. and as soon as she stopped walking, the pigeoNs -seemingly- fell to the ground and flocked around her. what an amazing site! and sure enough, from her obese purse, was a bag of seed She poured onto the gravel.

the pigeons are one with birdlady.
and birdlady is one with them.

pigeons are the oddest creatures.
they are smarter than you think.
and if you do not believe that,
then you are just s q u a r e.

wisdom grows r o o t s.

By the way, as true as this narrative is, it is a riddle. the question is in the last bit and includes a sum of some sorts. . .

2005-04-16T16:48:00.000-05:00

The simple, frequently unnoticed, and smallest things in life are oftentimes the catalysts for the bigger, the delectable, and the memorable.

Take a simple pair of sunglasses, whose reflections show a mirror and a hand holding a camera; and this very hand attached to the arm of a person wearing the glasses. And the glasses portray this same reflection. Over and over and over again.

Step by step, ohhh baby, gonna get to you girl Or listening to New Kids on the Block in 2005. ;-)

2005-04-14T11:25:00.000-05:00

I like this thing. It had been sculpted from a giant pile of sand. It's quite remarkable

by Kahlil Gibran in Sand and Foam:

I AM FOREVER walking upon these shores, Betwixt the sand and the foam, The high tide will erase my foot-prints, And the wind will blow away the foam. But the sea and the shore will remain Forever.

Once I filled my hand with mist.Then I opened it and lo, the mist was a worm.And I closed and opened my hand again, and behold there was a bird.And again I closed and opened my hand, and in its hollow stood a man with a sad face, turned upward.And again I closed my hand, and when I opened it there was naught but mist.But I heard a song of exceeding sweetness.

It was but yesterday I thought myself a fragment quivering without rhythm in the sphere of life.Now I know that I am the sphere, and all life in rhythmic fragments moves within me.

They say to me in their awakening, "You and the world you live in are but a grain of sand upon the infinite shore of an infinite sea." And in my dream I say to them, "I am the infinite sea, and all worlds are but grains of sand upon my shore."

Only once have I been made mute. It was when a man asked me, "Who are you?"

The first thought of God was an angel. The first word of God was a man. We were fluttering, wandering, longing creatures a thousand thousand years before the sea and the wind in the forest gave us words. Now how can we express the ancient of days in us with only the sounds of our yesterdays?

The Sphinx spoke only once, and the Sphinx said, "A grain of sand is a desert, and a desert is a grain of sand; and now let us all be silent again." I heard the Sphinx, but I did not understand.

hello, teacher.

2005-04-13T09:13:00.000-05:00

"A mechanism of world inter-communication will be devised, embracing the whole planet, freed from national hindrances and restrictions, and functioning with marvellous swiftness and perfect regularity."
(Shoghi Effendi, The World Order of Baha'u'llah, p. 203)

I woke up a quarter to 6:00 AM today and I went to Korea. My friends, it is true. I went there with dishevelled tresses and an empty stomach. For the entire duration of my trip I wore pyjamas. In addition to this monstrosity, it would be good to note that I am completely unfamiliar with the language. My vocabulary consists of one word –kimchee. No, this is not a dream.

I called 28 young Korean children this morning and taught English. I heard the sound of my voice rushing through time-zones, over oceans and valleys and hills and mountains –islands and nations and clouds –cutting through the sky and downwards –like a projectile directed towards a target. And on the other side were these impeccable young souls who were learning a language –speaking a language- that I have learned long ago in a time when catching fireflies was the most important thing I could have done in a week.

I went to Korea and came back a couple hours later knowing that these children will probably someday know much more than I will ever be able to comprehend.

I am a U.S. citizen. I come from a mixed background. I am currently in Canada, and I have taught English in Korea. Through the phone.

Who knew?

2005-04-10T21:00:00.000-05:00

pencil sketching by Zina Irwin, 2001

Eyes are 'Saucers full of secrets' (Pink Floyd).

Patience.

2005-04-07T03:41:00.000-05:00

“The stages that mark the wayfarer's journey from the abode of dust to the heavenly homeland are said to be seven. Some have called these Seven Valleys, and others, Seven Cities…The first is
THE VALLEY OF SEARCH. The steed of this Valley is patience; without patience the wayfarer on this journey will reach nowhere and attain no goal. Nor should he ever be downhearted; if he strive for a hundred thousand years and yet fail to behold the beauty of the Friend, he should not falter.”

(Baha'u'llah, The Seven Valleys, p. 3)

One must be careful when contemplating the following questions; (1) What is a personal journey? (2) Are we searching for something when on a journey? (3) Is the search our journey? (4) Or is the journey our search?

2005-03-23T23:47:00.000-05:00

colourful details. pencils sitting on windowsill one morning. I woke up and thought "how beautiful." I had to take a picture.

quoting Mr. Wright

2005-03-23T20:30:00.000-05:00

"...the fact that life on earth isn't inhabited by ...zombies is a source of great and perhaps eternal perplexity."

-Robert Wright. Nonzero: The Logic of Human Destiny, page 321

Indeed. Robert Wright is an author of intrigue. His book Nonzero portrays a history of humanity's humanity in a sense. This one aforementioned line struck me. –a couple paragraphs later, in the same book, Wright quotes philosopher David Chalmers… I might as well include the quote:

“ ‘It seems God could have created the world physically exactly like this one, atom for atom, but with no consciousness at all. And it would have worked just as well. But our universe isn’t like that. Our universe has a consciousness.’ For reasons unknown, God decided ‘to do more work’ in order ‘to put consciousness in.’ …By ‘God’ Chalmers doesn’t mean a guy with a white beard. Most philosophers use the term at least as vaguely as I’m using it: it refers to whoever, whatever –if any being, any process –specified the laws of the universe.”

I recommend this book. It’s an interesting and contentious read.

But I have not created a blog to promote this book, nor quote Mr. Wright. Rather, I want explore this innate consciousness, the intricate details of this eternal perplexity. I am not sure where this blog will end up or how it may evolve. But let it be a space for creativity, comments, the sharing of ideas, -a little corner of web-space dedicated to the things we love, the feelings we endure, the movements of hair, the patterns of snowflakes, the smoothness of shells, the vastness of space, the diversity of laughter, the acts of goodness, the humanness of error and the power of unity.

Mr. Wright, the fact that life on earth isn’t inhabited by zombies is a source of great and perhaps eternal joy and Love.

-Zina