-eeeddddddaaaaaaaa is in BAKISTAN--

(for all loyal paki fans who wish to be contacted, HINT tinuviel ,neeli, chunchun etc..) msg me ur phone numbers if u havent already..)

for ze rest of uall,
happy holidays!

-eeda

mera jamun (aka bhai)'s gotten chickenny pox!! :SS:S:
nd he's still in libya ALONE, and he has exams, and he's without ammi abbu..
i wonder how he's coping, S::S
:S:S:S ..i wanna SEE HIM! i haven't seen my motoo for a YEAR....pata nahee when they'll let him travel now :S

and i'll barely get to meet him. cuz he has exams in jan and he has to go back early too.
and now prolli ammi will go back early too to look after him.

im so PISSED at the person who he got the poxies from and who, in all likelihood, has been extending free chicken pox like its free candy canes, i wanna strangle 'em with a big fat red xmas ribbon and spread some real christmas cheer.
ho ho ha!
SO there.

okay, no. won't do that.
BUT seriousli!!!!
KIA MAZAQ HAI ? ..ahhhhhhhh.

please please pray he gets well really soon! :S :S :S

wrote this yesterday evening in the rain at downtown .

i am the lovechild of glittery gold city night lights and illusive melodies on the subway.
urban child. city child.
child of the chaos. child of the beautiful .

child of the constructions which
lace gray-stone pavement
and gray-stone heart

stone smiles in gray water puddles.

stony gray imprints of people's gray souls.

to be continued..

5 days till brown-drama showdown!
aka eeda flies to Paki-land!
:D

more later,
-eeda.


p.s
walking in the rain= heaven.

p.p.s
photo credits:
the image is photo manipulated.
originals - city_lights by zifengw and The_City by paperboogie, deviantart.com

the drama just never ends, does it?

eeda ko ghar jaana hai =(

Dal cheeni

i heart this poem.
it's beautiful.

The Cinnamon Peeler.

If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
And leave the yellow bark dust
On your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
You could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbour to you hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.

I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
--your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers...

When we swam once
I touched you in the water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
you climbed the bank and said

this is how you touch other women
the grass cutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume

and knew

what good is it
to be the lime burner's daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in the act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of a scar.

You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
Peeler's wife. Smell me.

-by Michael Ondaatje.


write to me of extinct Shakespearean love..

(and touch me with dalchini.) :P

i know this poem makes an horrible association between me and the love struck gaggle of 14 yr-old twilight fanatics oozing goo and mush out their ears.

trust me, i beg to refrain from even the slightest hints of that association.
and no i DO NOT read romance novels neither.
too cheesy.

but hey, we can all be allowed the occasional emo, right?! :s
-eeda.

p.s
and for those who don't know, cinnamon is dalcheeni.
and for those who don't know what dalcheeni is, ur not fob enough. :S

pps.
photo credits: crumbling cinnamon by Karatemaus on deviantart.com

pps. i dont mean chini as in cheena people okay?

eloquence evades me.

i find myself distressed, because i cannot
spew out pearls of such intense clarity they make
jaws drop in awe, eyes bulge with wonder.

write to me some summer lines.

write to me an ode to the days of yore.
when words and daisies
lined up my street with white sunbeams,
golden dreams.

now even happiness leaves me uninspired.
oddly content. oddly hollow.
bated breath and tip-toeing eggshells to see
if it (when it) ends.

suspicion.
superstition.

hollow laughter in hollow silences.
hollow words.

i become become become
speechless.

feel like i havent ranted here ina while...
here goes.

intense week
last classes of the semester
sound poetry classes by a poet with gurgling issues and toad in her throat whose sound poetry sounded like a long and painful orgasm.
with an animal.
world lit profs emailing YOU to get into their classes ( feeling like a dusty old celebrity)
papers bout crappy local poets and fragmentation and I.T in contemporary poetry due in 24 hours worth 25%.
new habit- 2 cups of chai and one of coffee every day.
east meets west.
ph.d/masters English profs calling in from UBC to 'speak to the girl who made so bold a comment at the public lecture.'
of brothers growin up too fast, talkin' about pool and funk and squash and house.
techno techno techno
ida corr vs fedde le grand, lemme think about it.
all nighters,
48 hours of being continuously awake on a self-induced sugar high
discussions of manhood as a taboo in european literature: promoting or inhibiting the circulation of texts.
he stayed up with me.
exam in 72 hours. shit.
joint skype calls with him,his brother,his best friend, and me.
virtual dinners. virtual words.
virtual reality. escape.
high school friends. online reunions. video calls.
nostalgia. the old the forgotten the you.
the me the them.
they've changed. grown older.
sadder.
there was less laughter. more silence.
more sighs. more
news.
no news is good news.
dad. mum. precipice. perception.
jamun tells me the truth. she tells me lies.
she tells me the truth. jamun tells me lies.
which is which?
why am i so bent on believing lies because the truth is too painful?
why am i so bent on believing the truth, because the lies are too painful?
what is it really?
how are they really?
why is no one TELLING me what the hell is going on there?
run run run.
run away from them.
but i can't. i run back to them everytime.
no place like home? no place.
no peace.
watching 1942 A Love Story. too many dead people. too much melodrama.
eik ladki ko dekha to....
the man who used to sing that for me turned into a schizophrenic
who cries to me about his distant brother,sister,his deceased parents
his utter utter loneliness.
and when im the only one with him, i make secret calls from his bathroom,
'i'm alone with him. i'm scared. take me away.'
desert.
desserts. i want chocolate.
chocolate gives you acne. acne leaves scars.
scars don't go.
and pakis talk. about scars. about flaws. about how nothing is ever good enough.
pakistan. blood. tears. drama. politics. family. vacations.
new york. him.
can't wait.
weight.
i've lost weight. they tell me i look gaunt. my jeans look looser on me.
never had too much of an appetite.
canada.
if you want to stay here you'll live by the rules.
our rules. their rules. everyone's rules but your own.
no rules. new rules. fools.
all of them.
me included.

fool for not getting started on my paper already. sigh.
hum chalay dushmen jalay.
ram chand re.

:D
-eeda.

p.s
if u made it to the end of this post,
here's an aspirin.
and a hug.
=)

the difference between childhood and growing up is that
when you're a child, the world is never really there.
when you grow up, it never really leaves.

it always comes back and knocks on your door, and without asking
places itself back on your shoulders.

it does not ask if you can carry it, does not ask if it might be
hurting some part of you, if your shoulders are not sagging if
your back is not crumpling your
spine not bent broken dented with the
weight.

to the world,
the world appears light as a feather.


the undebatable monotony of everyday.
you wake up, you walk through your entire day as if following an unknown plan to add a bit of this person and a part of that feeling and a shard of that old forgotten hope or pain
back onto yourself.
you build these castles, carve into yourself these shelters these holes these little places of comfort for them and them and them
and forget
that maybe you need a place to crawl back into too? at the end of the day..
when the light fades out and you wonder if maybe under all those
people places masks faces
bones and bodies and nails and toes and flesh and blood and
ashes ashes ashes,
under all that, is there any bits of you left?

you search but you do not can not will not
find.

because you've forgotten if there ever was a you
because all there is now is this and that and them .
and under all of it
there is nothing.

no you.


That
is a scary thought to wake up to.



maybe that realization is what growing up is.
or maybe i just need another cup of coffee.
-eeda.

FORGIVENESS

I find no difficulty in forgiving
man,
and woman,
though that
can be somewhat
exacting,
on occasions.

BUT
only if,
every molecule of my skin
turned to dust
before my very eyes,
dust
that would cover
the shame of centuries:

only if,
the pungent waters of my sweat
flood out to disinfect
and wash away
the pain infested streets of history;

only if,
my tainted blood
became flesh,
meat everlasting
for subhumans of the world;

only if,
I died
each minute
of the day
that someone nicer than I,
had life,
and love,
and good looks too,
redeeming my ugliness;

then,
perhaps,
I might,
forgive God.


-- Adam Zameenzad c) 2008


i seek solace in knowing that God Himself
is all forgiving.

-eeda

i am still.
still as the silence between glossy photographs.

i am stilled.
stilled by the grains of your voice
like pink and white and silver chipped conch shells
held
between the spaces in my fingers, the stars in your eyes.


-under construction-
aka. to be continued.

-eeda

ps. he thinks this is too emo.

identity crisis.
i am not i.

O that the spirit could remain,
tinged but untarnished by its strain.

-Waking early sunday morning, by Robert Lowell.

the pursuit of happy-ness..


ive been in an idealistic mood lately.
trying to figure what it is that Really makes me happy.

Happy=having no limitations. no binds. no blindfolds.
Happy=whispered conversations with eheeeeeemmmm at 5 am.
Happy=my kinda weather. wet and wild
(NOT the cosmetics company)

Unhappy=having to pretend to be someone else. which ive been doing for a while, and it was okay,
but it's driving me insane now.
like.i feel what Gunther does, word.for.word.
i HATE people who are aggressive and violent.
i HATE being kept waiting.
i HATE chipped nail polish
or, maybe just dislike that fact.
hate is a strong word.
o,
i most Definitely HATE brown drama.

tho,i LOVE coffee.
( im a coffee-addict too apparently. so says the Are you a Coffee-Addict? Do you have the following symptoms? section of my Psyc textbook.)

o,
and i LOVE poetry.
like.
LOVE it.

there are VERY few things that make me as happy as a well recited poem.

Today we were supposed to meet a man called Indran Amirthanayagam, a renowned, critically acclaimed poet originally from Sri Lanka, who studied with Barack Obama, and is now working for the U.S consulate as a diplomat in Vancouver.
so in walks this weather-beaten guy in his early 40's, sparse hair rising like puffs of smoke in the centre of his bald head and thickening at the sides, a badly printed sweater, and a faded peach bengali handkerchief which he kept rubbing vigourously around his nose.
i was quite disappointed.
UNTIL.
he started to talk. and then read his poetry.
it was the singularly most uplifting experience i have ever had.

after he read his poem the class was too stunned with awe to say a word.
hushed silence, mouths open, hands half-raised in a forgotten clap.

i got to talk to him for an hour afterwards. he insisted on meeting and keeping in touch, and reading my stuff ( :D :D )..he was down to earth, and modest, despite having won numerous awards, despite the fact that he studied with Obama and ws gnna work directly with Hilary Clinton in the future,
despite all that.he'd be just another guy walking down the street you wouldn't look twice at.

New Rule.- don't judge a book by its cover.

Anyways, i got one of his books signed, ( he has illegible writing), and the afore-mentioned promise to keep in touch, and the address to his blog, which is quite long and doesn't have much of his work..ill b posting some up later.
but man.
MAN.
it was one of those moments when u Know:
this is what i wanna do for the rest of my life.

anyways, now that im slightly less star-struck, i can. hm.
hm
try and figure out how to get rid of coffee addiction?

considering that it's causing major headaches due to coffee-depravation
WHICH is due to the fact that i can't have coffee right now beause of a stomach bug/virus
WHICH my nurse calmly suggested to me ' could have been passed on through sexual intercourse'.
WHICH obviously lead to a full 15 minute discussion about my sexual history ( which i denied adamantly and Truthfully!)
*glares at suspicious blog readers*
ALL of WHICH she didn't quite believe.
Witch kaheen ki.
sorry i meant, churail.
i dont like the which witch-ing either.

no. making sexual innuendos out of everything does not constitue having a sexual history or being a sexually active individual.
i BEG to differ.


anyhooooooooooooooooo...going back to retarded school work.
update later.
missed u all :)

-eedzy beedzy..

lame..

yes, notice how the old giddy hyper eeda is back.
*hugs and cheeni all around*

I want
more than anything
to reinvent
rewrite myself.


from

scratch.

i'm sick of trying to fit the mold.
id rather alter the mold to get it to fit me.

-exasperation-

hinbin-ur so head over heels.
me-huh? about what?
hinbin-u know....


there is a gaping void in the parts of me i used to find u in.
i search for u there,
but it's as if uve already left, and only the hollow echoes of your presence remain.
somehow i can feel you physically unraveling away from me, tearin' apart piece by piece.


i shy away from my own reflection
because even i remind myself of you.


u were right.
for now,
Everything has tainted.

for

for

for

for better

for worse

A Pill to forget: Can a medication suppress traumatic memories?

Observant doesn't mean silent. It means speaking forcefully in measured tones about what is happening.

God forbid you be an ugly girl, 'course too pretty is also your doom, 'cause everyone harbors a secret hatred for the prettiest girl in the room.

forlorn; ,desolate, godforsaken,lorn,
		marked by or showing hopelessness; "the last forlorn attempt"; "a forlorn cause"

forgo : to do without; lose or lose the right to by some error, offense, or crime;
refrain.

      
Will not be shaken and jump into this,
And be persuasive, 
Just carry on,
And make my mind up,
To go through this,
Or be firm, 
And sit in silence.
So turn and (don't) forfeit.

I'm not afraid of death but oh
What will I do if you leave me?
Do not forsake me,
oh my darlin'
You made that promise as a bride
Do not forsake me, oh my darlin'
Although you're grievin', don't think of leavin'

attempt at erasure poetry?
all the 'for' words are significant, out of context.
(words are randomli chosen from the 10th page of google searches.)


new mantra:-
forgive her forget him forgive him forget her


-end emo-
eeda