Saturday, June 30, 2007

A Flip-Book (the closest I'll get to You-Tube)

We went out this evening and before heading out, S and I fooled around with my mobile camera. I'm not allowed to post her photos on here, and so instead all you'll be getting is me.

Check out how cool her following shots are; if you were to string them together, you could flip through them and watch me laugh in real time but without the sound effects which are the best part of my laugh because I sound like a braying donkey.

The potential flip-book nature of these photos is the most exciting thing to happen in a very long time. So sad is my life.

maha laugh

maha laugh

maha laugh

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maha laugh

maha laugh

S has an affinity for 'up close and personal' shots and so if you're interested in playing connect the dots with the pores on my face you can find the entire set of shots here. Here you will find more shots of me cross-eyed.

OMG! Also make certain to peek at my awesome clutch (thank you Baby J):
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(The inside's satin!)

and then check out the lines on my new Crack:
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There's no denying the art deco influence on the heel. It took me a moment longer than usual to decide on the purchase but that's only because I was a little discombobulated by their low nature and their hippie front braid. But I love them now. (Thanks to S for helping me pick them out.)

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Friday, June 29, 2007

Welcome to The Crazy

I possess a slight phobia of communicable disease for many reasons, none of which I care to discuss here (sorry). When I'm on the bus or walking on the street and I'm wearing a short sleeved shirt and someone (who I don't know and of whose habits of hygiene I am unaware) else's skin brushes against mine, I kind of get a little sick to my stomach. Or: I get a lot sick to my stomach. Like this morning, a woman on the bus kept sliding her arm back and forth along my arm and I very nearly passed out. But I didn't! Instead, I squeezed myself into the body of a nice smelling older softer full-body-covered grandmotherly sort seated on the other side of me.

It took everything out of me not to yell STOP TOUCHING ME I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU COULD HAVE AND THEN GIVE ME.

We all have our crazy sides and this is mine. Welcome and please wipe your feet and take a quick shower in bleach before you walk in.

Another slice of The Crazy is that when I get nervous, I stick my hands beneath my armpits and then I smell them.

I DO NOT. But I do love that skit from SNL.

What I do is I peel my lips. I bet you read that as 'pee my lips' which would have been both crazy and a ticket right into the elite employees of Cirque du Soleil.

Anyway. I have very large lips and without really noticing what I'm doing, I'll sit there in concentration or a state of nervous and...I'll peel at them. One of girlfriends pulls her hair out and the other scrapes her tooth (one tooth in particular, I really don't know why she chose that one or what it ever did to her). I'm only telling you that because I feel like being in good company with other Crazies right now.

A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting back and reading IHateMyselfBook when I started peeling my lips. And I peeled enough to bleed. Not a little, but a lot. It was as though I had taken a razor and sliced off a perfectly square portion of my lip. It wasn't very big, but seeing as how my mouth is the size of Arizona, it was big enough.

Remember The Crazy. Well...our lips are probably the worst place on which to need to develop a scab because every time we speak, laugh, smile, or breathe, we split the scab open again. Needless to say, it finally developed a scab long enough to heal. BUT for the duration of the week it took for it to heal, I was experiencing The Crazy every moment I was in public trying to control myself from screaming I DO NOT HAVE A COMMUNICABLE DISEASE, JUST A REALLY BAD HABIT. I SWEAR.

Instead of starting conversations with "hi, how are you", I began them with "let's talk about the giant elephant in the room, shall we? Let's talk about what happened to my lip" and even one with: "I don't have herpes, just a nervous habit, okay?" (to which the girl responded by placing my change on the counter rather than in my hand before she quickly turned to the next customer).

If you look at the photos from Montreal you can sort of see it; my wound was not-so-cleverly hidden beneath lipstick.

Anyone else want to share their Crazy?

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The Story of O (not as dirty as you think)

Earlier this week, O and I met for a little sushi and a lot of conversation. After dinner, we headed over to Woman's Memorial Park on Elgin Street and found a picnic table on which to lay. Although this was not our original intention it served as a perfect addition to our evening.

The air was warm and hazy and it didn't feel natural to be staring at the concrete when there was so much more to see above our heads. So, I quietly shifted and laid down on my side of the picnic table, hoping O wouldn't notice and/or stop talking. But O's a smart cookie and so as I laid down on to my back, she enquired:
"What are you doing? Where are you going? Maha?" (I could never get anything past her.)
"I'm lying down to look at the trees."
"That's a great idea."
"Do it."
"Ok. Only I'm going to lie on top of the picnic table."

And so continued our conversation about love, life, religion and friendship as we looked up at this:

trees

O and I met 12 years ago at Oliver's on campus. One of my most vivid memories of us centers around our first (of what would later become hundreds of) political and theological discussions. A group of us went out and began our evening at Mezzanotte Bistro in the market where O had one too many and by one too many I mean that she likely had a glass of wine because that's where her tolerance ends. She was wearing a body suit and couldn't snap the buttons closed because she...had had one too many. After her disappearance into the washroom and subsequent resurfacing with a smile and a "I'm buttoned up! With the help of S & P!" she came over to my side of the table and sincerely asked "So, what do you think of the State of Israel?" & "What about Zionism? Zionism is good, right? I'm a Zionist. I like the way you think. Clearly. You're clear. It's good. Tell me what you think, please. What are you eating? Is it any good? Can I have some? So back to Israel, eh."

I have to admit that first conversation about politics and - inevitably - religion exhausted me. What began as an evening of light fun turned into an evening of emotional and intellectual exertion the likes of which I'd not experienced before. I believe the reason it was so unique was because I'd never had that sort of a discussion with someone who had adopted the identity of 'Zionist' without really understanding the consequence and history of that word to an entire other People. Moreover, I'd never discussed 'God' with anyone before, most definitely not in the oxymoronic definition of the 'secular' Jewish State.

Twelve years later, her politics and religion have shifted. If you look out into a crowd of Palestinians during a demonstration you will likely find O carrying a sign that reads: "I am Jewish and I do not support the State of Israel". She once said that if she had to describe herself as anything, it would be "a Jewish Palestinian" rather than "a Jewish Israeli". Obviously, O's come a long way...

...reason being that she has a sincere curiosity about life and the elements we choose and use to make up who we are, the stands we take and the battles we fight. During every moment of the day she is thinking, challenging, deciding and acting. She is fearless and has more guts and heart than anyone I know, not to mention a reserve of energy accessible to everyone around her. She manages to balance a fierce loyalty to her friends and an honesty that will sometimes anger you. Even with the anger, one always understands that she tells the truth because she loves. More admirable is that she will never say no to something about which she does not possess a great deal of knowledge. I don't think her mind ever sleeps, it most definitely never gets enough and she will never reach the point of stopping her own - as she calls it - "evolution". She is one of the few people I know who will always bust her a** to continue growing emotionally, spiritually and intellectually; lethargy will never become this girl and for that she is to be admired and respected.

As equally important as all of the above is that if I desperately need a good laugh, then it's to her I turn because I have yet to meet anyone who can match her quickness of wit. What is least surprising is that each person who meets her loves her. It is inevitable and you can't fight it because You. Will. Loose. Believe me when I tell you that it's easier to just follow her around and adore her.

As with her politics, so too have her views on God changed. Over the course of the last three years, O's experienced some of the most traumatic times any one of us would hope to never live. More incredibly to some (but not to those who know, love and respect her), she has a sense of humour about her life that most others would be incapable of possessing. When we were together earlier this week, I was amazed to hear her speak of God and spirituality as though she were in fact narrating what was going on in my head. Considering the chasm that used to exist between us in terms of this particular subject, I was at moments left winded by what she was saying. We'd never thought to discuss The Big Cheese before and so it was a complete surprise when she initiated the conversation and spoke to her ideas with such definition and eloquence.

Over the course of the last 12 years I've had the pleasure and the honour of watching O become the woman that she is today and can't wait to see what the next 60 or so years will bring...apart from the occasional "stop making me laugh, I just peed a little. I have to go change. STOP! IT! Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhaaaaaaa! Peed. Again."

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Thursday, June 28, 2007

Stop. Read. Think.

.1. Please meet my new hero: Roy Bailey. In light of Rushdie's Knightedness, this is quite appropriate.

.2. To the person who coined the phrase: "There is no such thing as a stupid question", I call: Bullsh*t.
&
Thanks for making room for a generation of Stupids. (More on this later, Inshallah.)

.3. The following is an interesting philosophical look at predestination in the religious sense.

“The question, “What is the value of [life] if God has already predestined the future?” assumes that in some way God has a future. That is, it assumes that God is situated in time and peering into a preordained future as we [live]. But in order to have a future, one’s existence must be contained within time and, as a result, finite. The reason this question leads to contradictions is that it assumes a contradiction in the first place – that God both transcends and is finite in time. Any question that assumes two mutually incompatible premises will always result in conflicting conclusions. Assume, for example, that a circle is a square. With this assumption in mind, we can ask if a circle has corners. If we emphasize the circle’s roundness, then the answer is no. If we concentrate on the properties of a square, the answer is yes. When the consideration of a question inevitably ends in contradiction, it should be asked if the question itself makes sense.

The word ‘predestination’ alone is problematic. If it is used to mean that at some time in the past God programmed all events for the future, the underlying assumption is that God exists in time [as time is understood by the human mind]. If we mean that God’s wisdom and knowledge encompass all and that nothing in creation can conflict with that, then it has to be admitted. But that is not the primary sense of the word ‘predestine’, which means ‘to determine in advance.’”


And to that I add: Because the human mind can only comprehend that which it has already experienced and that which it is capable of experiencing. We can not conceive of something beyond the very limited constraint of the human condition. We understand ‘time’ in a very specific way; it advances and what is past is lost. Whereas the above asserts that there is necessarily a multitude of ways to live time, humans are only party to one unless you're like me and you time travel in search of the perfect Crack. At any given moment, there are a bazillion different events occurring during that very moment – that is something we may see as a ‘dot’ in time within which there are infinite events. Perhaps the experience of ‘time’ mentioned above and with respect to that which is not human is exactly like the ‘dot’ only the ‘dot’ is the entire history of the whole of humanity, including what we have not yet experienced in 'human time'.

Whereas the human condition is to experience the passing of ‘time’ and the movement in a horizontal model in a multitude of ‘dots’, perhaps the Divine experience of ‘time’ is both horizontal and vertical and so the shape of that ‘dot’ is not one any of us can experience…but definitely something worth contemplating…

It’s basic philosophy and mathematics, really.

I am falling in love with Dr. Jeffery Lang, imagining all of the conversations I could have with this man. I’ve ordered all of his books and look forward to meeting him, Inshallah.

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My Crazy Cat Lady

This is my gorgeous and dear girlfriend Aalya:

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Although I didn't take the following picture, I'm posting it so that you may see her beautiful eyes:

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Aalya and I have been a part of one another's lives for a little over a decade. We met while she tended bar in my office, Mike's Place. (I used to receive phone calls there from my MA Supervisor.) Mike's Place remains the graduate pub at Carleton University and if you go in today, you will find on the wall a huge collage of photographs reflecting our 'generation', several of which are of your blogMistress and Aalya. Mike's Place has the best chicken curry, Jamaican patties and cheese/sun dried tomato nan bread. All staff were either MA or PhD students and conversations usually centered around Foucault, Habermas, Gramsci and Althusser while the occasional philosophy student would scream out "I LOVE Derrida!". Neither the science students nor the undergraduate students were allowed in. More importantly, if you didn't believe in existentialism, wrote poetry, belonged to the union, enjoyed Ben Harper, watched only foreign films, you weren't allowed in. Good God, we were so obviously twitty grad students; I'm laughing at how smart we thought we were when - and here I only write of myself and use the grander 'We' because if the Queen of England can do it, then so can I - in reality, we knew nothing . Honestly.

Over the years, Aalya and I have had some exceptionally long nights with never a dull moment. There was that one particular weekend in Montreal when we stayed at Bibi's place and I dragged Aalya all over St-Laurent. The weekend was filled with hilarious moments, the most important being Aalya and I seated at Globe's bar eating shrimp and listening to Bob Marley, surrounded by complete and total whack-jobs and a whole lotta cleavage. Every time a man would try to approach us, Aalya would bury her face into her plate and actually groan. It was awesome. (As an aside, even she will admit that it was a pretty fun weekend if for no other reason than because we just walked into all of the clubs without hesitation or a moment in line.)

I fall off the radar for short blips of time and in these moments Aalya compares me to "a wounded animal that needs to be left alone to work everything out and make a decision. I know that when I see you, you've made your choice and you're ready to talk about what's been going on". I resurfaced on Monday evening and went to visit her in her beautiful new home, the history of which is described by Aalya as follows: "According to the City, the house was built in 1920 and the record we have on our deed is that it was given in 1925 by a woman named Angelina Robinson to what must have been her sister in law, a lady named Lucinda Fournier, "en propre par amour et affection". Lucinda then lived in it until her death, at which point it was willed to family members, then the property, which originally comprised the house next door too, was divided up and sold in 1981 to two different families. The house changed hands again in November, 2003, and was then sold to us in 2007! So that makes it a venerable 87 years old. We hope we'll still be living in it to celebrate its centenary in 2020, without having to tack on any more additions!"

When I pulled in, it was by this smiling face that I was met:

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I've never known Aalya to not have the most welcoming home. She is of Fey descent and wherever she lands magically and instantaneously comes to life with vivid yellow, green and orange walls, a suspicious ottoman, several cats who reign supreme, and a violin. Proof of this can be found in the following photographs of her new home with the lucky Dietrich:

The door to her office
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Her "dressing room" (an actual dressing room!)
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The music area
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The kitchen (check out the servant's staircase and the crazy lighting)
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A corner of the bedroom
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The living room
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Warmth and love swallow you whole when you walk in and tea is always at the ready as is a good (or bad, which makes it better) horror movie, classical music and conversations that begin with:
"I was once exoticised."
"But we already understand that marriage is more often than not driven by the economic manipulations of our society."
"So there was this 'feminist' who just last year discovered the concept of the Other and SO every email I get is filled with 'WE speak for so-and-so' and 'WE speak for so-and-so' and I feel like responding with 'YOUR WE does not represent ME, because I AM so-and-so'."
"I'm really angry about this and I shouldn't but I am and so here's what I'm angry about...what do you think?"
"Do you like my shoes?"
"I was reading from some of my journals that I kept in my early twenties and I'd written: "Don't they get it? I don't have an agency!" God, can you believe how sad that little girl was? I just wanted to cry for who I was when I read that."
"We really should write an article together."
"Let me tell you what the problem with our society is..."
& of course:
"What I'm about to share with you, I've not told to anyone else."

No matter how much time may lapse between visits with Aalya, there never seems to be space between us. Although we live in the same city, we have in the past gone close to a year without seeing one another, but came back together without feeling as though anything had shifted or any time lost. Her insightfulness, loyalty and straightforwardness are treasures I kiss and pet every time I see her and hear her "cackle" (her word, not mine) of a laugh. She will always be my Crazy Cat Lady and I only have room for one such individual in my heart. (No others need apply. But thank you, anyway.)

All photos can be found here.

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Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Download

Jascha Heifetz
Bach, Sonatas & Partitas
The Heifetz Collection, Volume 17

Listen to it as you daydream, laying outside on this beautiful gift of green earth while the grass kisses you and the leaves cool you.

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A home can not be built on the table of an architect

Two couples I know recently purchased their first homes together. A & D in old Gatineau and K & M off of Pretoria Bridge in Ottawa.

Visiting their homes has given me an itch that I will scratch in a little while. I've decided that should I be single by a specific date, I too will purchase my first home. I know the area in which I want to buy and Inshallah I will be able to have a kookh (cabin) of my own; investment never hurt anyone and I will be at the proper age to do so seriously and as a full commitment. When the time comes, y'all'll be the first to know.

First K & M.
I was too shy to take pictures of their home for whatever reason. It was built in the early 1930s (likely 1932) and is a gorgeous three bedroom with the world's greatest bedroom nook, attic and kitchen. The kitchen is enormous and entirely new, including the stainless steel appliances. They also have a beautiful mudroom in which the perfect light fixture would be a chandelier of sorts in order to lush & warm-up the entrance.

More importantly, they have a deep soaker tub in their upstairs bathroom beneath a window, the colours of the bathroom being blue and white, I couldn't help but envision the complementary nature of nautical decor.

Because they're intelligent folk, they've turned one of the upstairs bedrooms into their television room. This then leaves their sitting area on the main floor just that: a welcoming sitting area the focus of which will be the people and not the television set.

My two favourite spaces are their bedroom nook and attic, both of which I have in my head and heart assigned to K rather than M (sorry, dude). The bedroom nook is a perfectly square corner linked both to the bedroom and an enclosed sun-filled side balcony that would be perfectly met with a hammock, plants and white lace curtains. The nook itself is screaming for either a perfect vanity (for K, not M) and a Persian rug or a reading chair, an ottoman and a thin long side table on which K (not M) can place candles, pictures and reading materials beneath the window to be drowned in sunlight. Due to the size of the window, K (not...well, you get it) could place heavy velour drapes that would swoop along the floor and which could be pulled back with luxurious and maybe even sparkly rope tie-backs.

Finally there's the attic that, even though needs some work, serves as the perfect 'girl' space. There's a beautiful slant to the ceilings and one large window at the far end which brings in enough sunlight to light up the entirety of the attic. As soon as I walked up the stairs, all I could see was the area's future; soft carpeting, cream, and sage walls, a couple of single sink-in-to reading chairs and rounded glass vases filled with white flowers next to the window that will be covered in a cream coloured lace curtain and tied back with a red satin ribbon. This is where K will hide either alone with a book, a good cry or a girlfriend who needs the comfort of private conversation. They will be listening to Bach. This is the same space that will be taken over by K & M's daughter when she wants to daydream in private; it may even be the space in which she explores her creative side through the artwork she'll create and hang on it's very walls.

As the title of this entry suggests, K & M's place is already a home and not merely a house. This home is a space created not on the physical architectural foundation, but rather based on the team that is K & M. There was a moment of interaction between them which I will share with you and which I hope you have already - and if not yet, then you will some day soon - experience in your lives.

This house already has a history of families and lives lived. K & M's own family story will be added to this living memory some day; the next owners of the house will say "...and then we bought it from K & M who moved in in 2007 and it's in this house that they built their family. When they handed us the keys, they walked out holding hands and M said: 'Check out that awesome railing. Now compare it to that railing! That's my work. Do you remember when I did that?'" The house will be filled with thousands of stories, of which the following is the one I will likely remember most.

It was K who lent me the book "The Time Traveller's Wife". When she handed it to me, I noticed how immaculately kept it was. I'm looking at it right now; the spine is not cracked, there is no writing anywhere, no passages underlined, no fingerprints on the pages or even dog ears. I joked how each and every one of my books was a mess compared to K's. On the inside cover of a book, I write my name, phone number, address, and the most important points of my current autobiographical situation (e.g. "Had Vietnamese last night with Di and Pierre and ate too much hot sauce. Must temper greed re hot sauce."). Worse still is that throughout my books there are notes in the margins, passages underlined and more autobiographical data (e.g. "Just had a slight row with X, am feeling sad and this book is the only thing I can concentrate on. It's 2.12 pm and I am seated alone in the park on a bench.").

K had run upstairs to find the book. When she returned, she handed it to me and then sat back down across the coffee table from me next to M. As I was explaining the trauma I inflict on my books, I looked up and noticed that K & M were looking at one another smiling, but K with an obviously 'made for us' look of worry on her face. M laughed, nudged her and said "Hey. You should get that book back, I don't think you should even lend it to her!" and we all started laughing. But there was something in that moment that can only be understood between those who deeply love and cherish one another. I know it may seem insane to some of you, but to me it was clear: They were a team. There was a solidarity between them and even though it was in reference to the slightest object, a book, I understood immediately that an interaction such as that sheds light on to the rest of a relationship.

It is only natural that in all relationships there are moments of tension and hurt and anger. Hopefully, these moments are outweighed by love and tenderness, secrets shared and moments lived that will never be experienced beyond the couple. As with K & M, this is because: They are a team. It's a small sentence but its sense is great enough to touch anyone who sits near them.

I left that evening thinking about what defines a healthy relationship, and I now believe that a great part of that definition has to do with looking out for one another. It is placing ourselves into the shoes of our partners and understanding their psychology and their history, their wounds and their happiest moments. It is redefining everything we understand in order to add as much of their comprehension to our own. It is never letting them fight on their own but always fighting next to them and maybe even fighting one another in order to protect that very Team. It's doing the impossible to never let the other one hurt and always making certain to protect and cherish what the other one loves. It is a challenge that we must face and overcome every day. To some this may seem the most difficult aspect of a relationship but to me, it is this very vulnerability and demanding nature of love that makes us different and hopefully, better people than we could ever hope to be on our own as single individuals.

Most times and more often than not, we fail at this for any one of a multitude of reasons. In the case of K & M, likely never, Inshallah.

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Get off of CrackBook (seriously)

Thanks to A for sending this along:

"Confusing, we know. Here’s how it came to be. The CBC teamed up Student Vote, an organization geared towards educating youth on electoral processes, to create something called the Great Canadian Wish List hosted on Facebook. You know, cuz the youth like the Facebook. Culminating on Canada Day, the unmoderated Wish List is a call to submit and vote for ideas on how to improve Canada. The “wish” that can gather the greatest support will receive an hour’s worth of airtime on an upcoming CBC program.

blablabla

Turns out, there’s pretty good reason for that. Almost as soon as the Wish List voting started just under a month ago, a vocal and persistent group of pro-lifers have overwhelmed the site. When pro-choice users fought back, they found their Facebook privileges dramatically limited by Facebook administration without adequate explanation."


Read the rest of the article here and pass it along.

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Tuesday, June 26, 2007

The Long of It: Montreal

This is my beautiful friend Ranoon, with whom I spent close to a week in Montreal. In this first elegant shot Ranoon is gracing us with the Thou Shalt Not Take My Photo pose:

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Moments before she got up and ran away from me, I managed to catch a glimpse of her gorgeous face, which I share with you here:

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…her dimple will melt the heart of a lucky man some day.

Until then, she’s busying herself with Bio Genetics (I think I have that right, she will correct me, if need be). You can’t see it, but Ranoon has a massive brain that fills up half of Montreal. She writes and publishes things titled: ”Volumetric Characterizations of Protein Denaturation and Ligand Binding”.

To me, that sounds like something about steaks, leggings and added volume to your hair. But I know that’s not the case and that’s because I'm the girl who once thought that peanuts came from…I don’t know, actually. I had to think about it when asked “Where do you think peanuts come from?” in response to my surprise that they grew ‘beneath’, like potatoes. I guess my mind simply assumed that peanuts grew in cans made by Mr. Planter. So it’s really not a far stretch that Ranoon’s work holds no coherence where I’m concerned…but I am super proud of her when she wins Awards, as she recently did for her ground-breaking work on…something to do with molecules and how they break it down when no one’s looking.

As you can see, Ranoon is a tad shy of cameras. Whereas your blogMistress is anything but, as the following pictures shall illustrate. We spent the better part of our days waking up relatively late and enjoying coffees at home and then at Shaika Café on Sherbrooke. The ambiance of the place is simply: local. It’s obvious that everyone knows the staff, that all locals congregate there for weekend breakfasts and coffees and daily conversation. After my second day there, I expected the staff to call out “Maha!” as I walked in to order my café latte “in a bowl, please”. No one did, so I did it back to myself. Ranoon turned around and left the Café until I stopped giggling.

This is how happy it made me to sit across from Ranoon and drink the yummy lattes:

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Our evenings were generally infused with dining out in Le Plateau and Old Montreal and then an early night’s walk around the city or a drive around Westmount and Mount Royal where we ogled homes we can not yet afford.

Amidst our adventures, Ranoon and I learned that I have a nose for rain. It’s weird and it’s new and I don’t know to what I owe the pleasure, but I am your regular Rain-Bee (if there be such a thing) and I can tell you whether and when it will rain. I would come in handy if I could be packaged and sold.

Here’s where I realise I am actually cross-eyed. It’s hot:

maha

(But that’s another story for another entry.)

Every night we watched a movie and I nearly killed myself after watching “The Good Shepherd” which I hear was originally titled “Matt Damon Is A Piece of Wood, Angelina Jolie Used To Kick Small Furry Animals After Shooting A Scene Because She Had To Pretend To Play Passive And Demure, No One Believes That Kid Wasn’t Queer And What’s The Plot, Anyway, Because I Can’t Hear Them?”

I then usually read and fell asleep at the crack of dawn.

I dragged Ranoon into Holt’s in order to play. I played with the hats and we both played with the sunglasses. Here’s the proof (again, please note Ranoon refused to have her picture taken for reasons I am not allowed to mention or else I am not allowed entry back into her home!):

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(See: I'm cross-eyed again.)

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(I'm not posing here, I was trying to tuck my hair into the hat and I was blinking while trying not to laugh out loud at something Ranoon said.)

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& the crazy thing is, I’m considering buying those sunglasses. They’re Tom Ford Margaux. I’m in love and I’ve dreamt of them. I may just do it, even though I was told I looked like a cross between Lisa Bonnet and Michael Jackson in the photos. While in Holt's, we ran into my old friend B. B and I went to high school together and I was the first in our school to know he liked boys. B and I were dear friends and he is Montreal's finest make-up artist. If you're ever in Holt Renfrew, make certain to visit him at the Bobbi Brown counter and tell him I sent you; just look for the beautiful Asian man. (You may call him "Kiki", his stage name.)

It was the perfect week. Relaxed, filled with introspection, laughs, excellent conversation, much love and the occasional “No, that’s not right” as a footnote to "If you were standing outside of yourself".

Good friends are a rare thing and I keep thanking my lucky stars for each and every one of mine. This is how happy I was at the end of that trip:

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See the entire lame-o photo stream here. I’ve learned that I have to – from here on in – sneak up on Ranoon and take photos when she’s not looking. Otherwise I’m not allowed. And in case you’re interested, she comes with a portable air conditioning unit that has wheels.

Thanks ya Ranoon! (And p.s. I *was* in Montreal last summer for a couple of days, as the hotel staff mentioned; right before leaving for Beirut. How odd that I forgot.)

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Three-Column Page

If anyone knows how to make a smooth transition over to a three-column face for this place, please contact me; it’s what I’ve been trying to do and failing to figure out. Unlike TypePad, there seems no proper and simple way to set up Blogger in this manner and I think I'm really screwing with my Template. Should you see 'static' here over the next little while, please know it's just me playing (and failing!).

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Monday, June 25, 2007

This is me giving the finger to Facebook

I was a member of CrackBook long enough to get hooked into its obsessive and stalkeresque dissemination of information.

Today I deleted my account and sent a wee note to a few people indicating my leave of KissMyA**Book and have since received one too many MAHA ARE YOU OKAY WHERE ARE YOU ORLY’S YELLING AT ROGER’S text messages. I love my friends. They are worried. I understand.

For the record, I am okay. I am merely no longer a member of SqueezeMyHeartBook. I am refusing to become a further slave to its brand of too-much-information. I don’t want to see whose Dating who, whose Broken Up with who, who Married who and whose Hooked Up with who and that the Status of someone is set to “[insert name] is Marineland”.

Moreover, I don’t want to see happy smiling faces when I want to smash my face into my computer screen because that would feel better than just sitting here and watching other people’s lives all glittery and shiny and new. “Maha is bitter and sad and in anguish but she will f*#@ing deal with it because that’s what this sh*ttastic life is: it’s to Deal With It”.

‘Witty Lady With Blackberry’, K, mentioned earlier that there’s a whole new world of rejection. She aptly titled it “e-rejection”: When you ask someone to be your friend and they e-reject your sorry a**. It’s traumatic enough to live, we really don’t need to add yet another avenue by which others may reject us. And being "e-rejected" (© K) by way of someone not adding you to their Friends or limiting your profile are among, but not the only ways of being e-rejected. I've not yet faced e-rejection and I've decided that I don't plan on hanging out and watching for it by constantly clicking the Refresh button at the top of my screen.

Maybe in ten years, if WherePeopleOnlyPostSkinnyShotsBook is still around, I’ll reactivate my account. Until then, to YourLifeSuxComparedToMineBook, I say: SUCK ON THIS.

And to those of you who made it through the rant and have come down this far, please let me recommend to you the most beautiful CD I have heard in months: “Our Lady of Broken Souls” by Marie-Josee Houle, a local cabaret genius who will knock your ugly socks off. Really…she’s who you should be listening to if you too have left A**Book today.

“Maha is going to soak in the tub and eat milk chocolate covered almonds”.

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Two strong recommendations

.1. The Time Traveller's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger. Recommended by K (thank you) and a luxury to read. I can't actually describe this book, per se, but rather merely communicate to you the feeling of gentleness into which you will fall almost instantly when you start reading.

.2. Struggling to Surrender by Jeffery Lang. This is an almost too-personal account of a man's near thirty year spiritual journey. So far, it has manaded to anger, challenge, and calm me, as well as dig at my curiosity. This is one of the most powerful books I have ever, ever, ever, ever read. Lang pulls no punches: "You cannot simply read the Qur’an, not if you take it seriously. You either have surrendered to it already or you fight it. It attacks tenaciously, directly, personally; it debates, criticizes, shames, and challenges. From the outset it draws the line of battle, and I was on the other side."

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Sunday, June 24, 2007

Make certain you download

Overkill by Men at Work.

NOTHING compares to the 80s.

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Thursday, June 21, 2007

A Story from Libya

As most of you know, I was born and lived the first years of my life in North Africa where mama and baba were working at the time. In preparation of my daily travels, I used to lay out baba’s largest map which covered the entire floor of our living room. I would “travel” on my tricycle across the globe in that way, talking to myself and making up imaginary friends as I went and with whom I would have adventures. Like Mark. Mark was my friend and we met while I was in Europe. Mark was my height and he too had a tricycle. I would tricycle sometimes three times around the globe until I reached his home (Europe, any part of) where he would join me.

We went to Turkia together and made fun of the name, asking if we wanted it mashwi (grilled) or ma’li (fried). Then there was the one time we went to Amrica and met white people. They too were our height and had tricycles but we never let them travel with us. They always wanted to eat hamburgers and we wanted ma’looba. Mark was nice and never argued with me. He was also a Transformer and he was able to do magic tricks when he wasn’t saving the world.

Mark was my first crush. He was a cartoon character but I loved him anyway for his very large brown eyes and softly feathered brown hair. He was polite and never spoke back to mama or baba. That made for lovely dinner time.

We belonged to a club. Often times I would take Mark with me in my pocket – that was one of his hero superpowers: to shrink himself into a very small Mark so that I could carry him with me and tell him my secrets and share with him my dreams. At the club one evening, I didn’t feel like playing with the other kids and so I sat and had a lovely grownup conversation with The Man At The Front Entrance. He wasn’t a bouncer exactly, more like a valet and a welcoming committee rolled into one.

He was black (like S who I lovingly call ‘Brownie’ and who calls me ‘Miscellaneous’) and I called him my friend. He always asked me about Mark. On this one particular evening, when I was no older than four years old, we had the following conversation that shaped the rest of my life:

“How’s Mark?”
“Alhamdulilah, he says Salaam!”
“Say Salaam back.”
“You can say it yourself – here…!” and I took Mark out of my pocket.
“Salaam Mark.”
“I’m teaching him Arabic!”
“I see it’s coming along very well.”
“It is! Mark’s really smart because he’s a Transformer and he's from Europe!”
“Transformers are smart.”
“Mark has a question for you!”
“Okay.”
“Mark wants to know why you’re brown and what it means!”
“I’m brown because Allah made me brown.”
“Why didn’t Allah make me brown?”
“Because Allah made us different colors to add variety and fun to the world.”
“But are we the same? Mark wants to know!”
“We are the same.”
“So can I be brown?”
“If you sit in the sun long enough, maybe.”
“And can you be pink, like Mark and I?”
“I already am. Look…”

…and with that, my friend turned his hand over and showed me his palm which was as pink as my own.

“Heeeeeeeeeeeey! You’re brown and PINK!!!!”
“That’s right. There’s parts of each of us in one another.”
“Mark says thanks for your answer!”
“You can tell him he’s welcome.”
“I will! I’m going to get an orange Mirinda, do you want one?”
“I would love one.”
“Can Mark and I have a hug?”

Simple but powerful enough to have made an impact and left more of an impression than most encounters during the years I lived in that part of the world.

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Quote of this day

".....for a fraction of a second, we feel that our whole life is justified, our sins forgiven, and that love is still the strongest force, one that can transform us forever.

But at the same time we feel afraid. Surrendering completely to love, be it human or divine, means giving up everything, including our own well-being or our ability to make decisions. It means loving in the deepest sense of the word. The truth is that we don't want to be saved in the way God has chosen; we want to keep absolute control over our every step, to be fully conscious of our decisions, to be capable of choosing the object of our devotion.

It isn't like that with love - it arrives, moves in, and starts directing everything. Only very strong souls allow themselves to be swept along......."

- The Witch of Portobello, Paulo Coelho

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Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Wee photos from Montreal

& big hellos...

It took me forever to take this photo - Ranoon just kept refusing...but here she is in all her beautiful dimple-faced glory:
ranoon

Walking around Old Montreal, we kept missing the down-pour (one word, two or hyphenated?) and I tried to take a photo so you could see how hard it was raining, but it's not all that obvious:
rain

The most precious statue in Old Montreal. The Girls and us had a little palaver (where they told some great secrets, say thank ya, sai King):
the girls 1

the girls 2

the girls 3

While in Le Plateau, we came across this beautiful little shop called Galerie Flowerbox on St-Denis:

hanging garden 1

hanging garden 2

More to come, Inshallah...

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Saturday, June 16, 2007

Will be off-line

until next Friday - I doubt I'll be doing much writing as I've decided to take the week off and head out of the City. I won't be responding to emails either unless there's an emergency. But technically, if it's an emergency that concerns me, you really should be calling...so if you're not calling, it likely means that you don't have my mobile number, and if that's the case, then it really wouldn't be an emergency that has to do with me, per se. I think, anyway..

If you have something exciting to share, continue to email me - I will be reading (just not responding this week)!

Enjoy the weather and we'll talk soon...

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Then there was the time

…a few years back when I realized that I couldn’t control anything in my life. BUT I COULD! So I went to the hair salon and asked the hairdresser to cut off all of my hair. She refused until I threatened to go to another hairdresser in the same salon.

It was 8 pm on a Friday evening and my hair was halfway down my back. I requested she cut it up to the ends of my ears.

The hell I didn’t control anything. See that! I control the length of my hair, hah.

So she cut it off and the next morning
I woke up
Looked in the mirror
And started crying.

“Can you make my hair grow faster, please?”

I walked around in a daze for a week. I hated my hair. I looked like a bobble head with a swollen mouth. My head was too large for my body and people kept poking at me. This I now understand was because they thought I would tip over if they poked just so. I never did tip over, though.

I called around to all of the hair salons asking if they could give me extensions. No one did and one salon finally gave me the name of one location who could do this for me.

I drove to Mama Cee
Parked my car
Didn’t look at the windows
And walked in.

A beautiful woman approached me much like one would approach a mentally challenged six year old.

“Uhm, can I help you, honey?”
“Yes. I AM IN NEED OF HAIR EXTENSIONS!”
“Hair extensions?”
“Yes.”
“You?”
“Yes. I decided to cut off all of my hair a few days ago and only because I couldn’t control anything but didn’t want to dye it because that would ruin it so I decided to cut it and now I can’t believe I cut it and I hate the way I look. And my hair’s really curly. See. And I don’t like it. Can you glue hair extensions to me?”

Everyone including clientele and hairdressers were staring at me. Not one snip or blow-dry could be heard. I looked over, waved and said hello to all of the beautiful black women.

I was the only “whitie” there.

“Well. But your hair will grow back.”
“Yes.”
“And it would take hours for me to give you hair extensions. We do it hair by hair and we burn each new hair to the older hair.”
“Yes, okay.”
“And it will cost you around $600. But, shug, your hair will grow back on it’s own.”
“What?”
“And we don’t usually do it to white girls…because your hair GROWS, shugah.”
“I don’t understand…”
“Look sweetheart, I don’t want to insult you or anything, but take a look around. Don’t be shy.”

As already mentioned, I was the only “whitie” in the store. All of the beautiful faces on the walls were of beautiful black women and men. All of the hair extensions had images of pretty black ladies.

“Maybe you want a wig?”
“No. I wanted extensions.”
“I really would advise against it, baby.”
“Oh, ok. Is there a cream I can buy to make my hair grow faster?”
“Not for your head, doll.”
“Oh.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Ok. Bye, then.”
“Maybe I’ll come back another time when you’re not so busy.”
“Sure thing…”
“Okay.”

I sat in my car and stared at the salon, wondering how I could convince them to do my white head. Nothing came to mind.

When I told this story to my girlfriend, S, who is a black woman, she started laughing the moment I mentioned the name of the salon.

“You didn’t know that was a salon for black girls?”
“No.”
“BUT THE NAME IS SO OBVIOUS, AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!! I can’t BELIEVE you went in there, AHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!!”
“Nice.”
“Maha. The name. May as well. Have been: Laticia Kamora Ahmed.”
“Whatever. I don’t think that when Britney gets her hair extensions, pretty black ladies laugh at her.”
“AAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!! They were probably talking about the whitie that came in for the rest of the month. AAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA!!!!”
“I’m not *white*.”
“Oh, yes you are.”
“No…I’m more pink. Like an olive.”
“Olives aren’t pink.”
“They can be, when they’re from the Middle East.”

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Muhammad, my baby cousin

Pythagoras

Monday, June 11, 2007

Sailing with Seedo

I know. I’ve been away for some time and even I’m annoyed with myself. I received all of the emails, including those threatening me with boycott and virtual demonstrations.

Look. I do this thing that can only be called “spinning”. When something goes amiss or askew in my life I spin like a crazy Dervish. Only, I don’t get to a hire state of being, rather, I get to – usually – a relatively deep state of nausea.

When I do that, I cocoon. I don’t see very many people and I don’t do a lot of writing except to work out the voices and the ideas in my head. I also read a lot of children’s novels because they’re nice and for the most part, they have very happy endings even when the reality is that the main character dies, I ignore it and stick to the metaphor. Because apparently, anything can be turned into a metaphor.

I’ve been contemplating what I will do with the next year and a half of my life and I think I may have a general idea that involves farming in the south of France and something in the Middle East. How these ideas may come to fruition is another matter and it’ll take me some time to sort through them. For now, all I know is that I will be taking sailing lessons as of next month, Inshallah.

I’ve always wanted to sail and I’m likely the sort to place a down payment on a sailboat before a home. Most definitely before a condo – so I figure before I do that, I should at least learn how to sail. Since a little girl and maybe because I spent four months of the year next to the Mediterranean, I’ve always been more comfortable near water than land. My ideal life would be to load hundreds of books on to a sailboat and hang out in the middle of the Mediterranean, occasionally coming to shore to do whatever needs to be done.

I have vivid memories of my childhood in Gaza. After supper (at around 3 pm), my seedo (grandfather) would go to his bed to take a little nap while listening to the radio station ”Voice of Peace” anchored somewhere in the Mediterranean. I never knew – and still don’t know - much about the radio station, but it was seedo’s favourite and so I would lay next to him smelling him and holding his fingers while we listened and he slept. I would stare at his hands for hours because each one of his fingers and palms was very soft and puffy. I would listen to the music and push down on different parts of his hands with my little ones and watch as his skin filled out again and became just as puffy. I’m sure he pretended to be asleep, just to provide me with the comfort of poking his hands without being nervous or scared. That’s the kind of seedo he was.

When seedo and tata visited us in Canada, he would take the oc transpo and go downtown to walk around Ottawa. I went with him once, only I was sixteen and so didn’t spend as much time with him as I should have; I noticed he would get off the oc transpo as he said “Cheerio” to the driver. The drivers liked that, I could see it all over their smiles. I only thought about the British occupation of Palestine and wanted to yell out “Cheerio is not who you are, seedo!” but always kept my mouth shut. I’m happy I did and only now understand that Cheerio was every bit a part of him as his puffy hands.

Seedo was a principal until the PLO started and he was asked to run their Khartoum office being their representative abroad. He left the PLO shortly thereafter on account of disagreeing with their politics and went home to Palestine. He returned to schooling and was elected the representative of all teachers and principals across Palestine, and finally ended his career as the head of the Red Crescent in Palestine. When he retired, he opened and ran a bookstore – something of a rarity in Gaza. He used to bring me a different book each day and a pretty pen to match, explaining that knowledge and the pen were the essence and the beginnings of Islam and that I should be proud. I always was. Of all the places I could be, I most preferred being in that bookstore. I would sit near seedo at his desk with a book and a smelly eraser that I kept in hand and used to erase just so I could smell.

Seedo would close the store at high noon when the sun could burn holes in his customers. He and I would walk to the souq to buy vegetables and fruit before going home for supper. After praying asr, he and I would head back to the bookstore taking usually an hour to walk the simple ten minutes. He would walk me past the coffee shops and introduce me to all of his friends every single day, sometimes sitting down for a sweet mint tea and a game of tawlah in Turkish.

The rest of the evenings in the bookstore consisted of me sitting by and listening to the conversations of politics and religion that inevitably ensued when the bookstore’s four extra chairs were filled with my seedo’s four best friends. When something really big was said, seedo would turn to me and ask me if I understood – if I didn’t, he would take the time to explain the concept to me until I could explain it back to him and his friends. Infinite patience, this man had.

I wish you could have met him, but he's been away now for nearly five years and on days like today, when the weather is humid enough to make the pages of my book moist and the air salty, I really miss him and his soft puffy hands.

Cheerio.

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Friday, June 01, 2007

Books I am currently reading

I've always received a slew of emails asking me for book recommendations and so I thought that for those interested, I would share the names of the ones through which I am currently flipping…

Beyond Marxian Nature Theory: Understanding and Contesting Japanese Social-Environmental Relations (1955-1985)
Al Vachon

In The Footsteps of The Prophet
Tariq Ramadan

Julia’s Chocolates
Cathy Lamb

My Happy Life
Lydia Millet

Le Petit Prince
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

The Book of Ruth
Jane Hamilton

The Dark Tower VII
Stephen King

The Heart of Islam
Seyyed Hossein Nasr

Yes, Yes, Cherries
Mary Otis

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