I Think It's...

Sweet when people wave good bye without actually waving, with just a firm hand, like a frozen high-five.

 

Sweet when your friends and your other friends get along so well that it doesn't feel like you introduced them to each other, like they'd known each other forever. Friends-in-law.

 

Sweet when you receive presents that may otherwise be extraordinarily ordinary, and yet are just what you need or want. Like bookends. A snapshot of you in mid-laugh. A candy bar.

 

Sweet when people tilt their heads sideways a little bit and smile at you across the noise in a huge room.

 

Sweet when people look out into the wide unknown and contemplate their future, with that preoccupied look on their face.

 

Sweet when sunlight shines through the curtains and tiny, little nothings float around in the sunlight.

 

Sweet when you catch people smile into their pillows first thing in the morning.

 

Sweet when you close your eyes against a cool breeze, sun-kist.

 

Sweet when you hear a song you could've written.

 

Sweet when someone remembers.

 

Sweet.

 

 

And a little romance never hurt anyone.

- 14 November 2007

Definition of Madness?

Noun. A moment in one's life when, inexplicably, wrong just seems right.

What do Ted Bundy (serial killer), Albert Einstein (theoretical physicist), Dave Chapelle (crazy) and I have in common?

Yep. I'm a murderer, a genius, and all kinds of crazy. Also, I broke my fast for a cigarette.

The thing about moments of madness is that there's always an after-party in your head, where the guests are guilt, remorse, and a trapped feeling of knowing you will have to pay for your sins sometime in the foreseeable future. 

The question is, is the fleeting euphoria associated with it worth all the trouble?

If I can bottle the guilt that comes after this "crime of passion", I might just solve the energy crisis.

Here is, instead, a list of situations that, put together, might equal the guilt of breaking fast for no reason other than a futile assertion of cool. Might.

* Skipping a credit card payment.

* Cancelling a class.

* Calling in sick at work to laze around with friends.

* Not returning prized DVDs of close friends.

* Sneaking out of a parent's house.

* Sneaking peeks at a sibling's diary.

* Flinging a mobile phone across the room in anger.

* Eloping.

* Lying.

* Shopping mindlessly during sale season.

* Not paying a restaurant bill because they missed a charge.

* Joking at the expense of someone else.

* Using the work phone to make overseas calls.

* Stealing someone else's lighter.

* Not removing make-up before sleep. 

* Avoiding a phone call.

* Wearing an outrageous outfit at a relative's wedding.

* Getting drunk at an office party.

I hate morning-afters, and their counterparts.

Remembering The Tinman

Broken hearts have terrible memories. They forget what it was like.

*****


So this is what heartbreak is.

You feel so crushed you're almost numb. You're sitting there, with your jittery hands, and your pounding heart, and your averted gaze, and your embarrassing nails, and your out-of-place bag, and your unwanted food, and you are crushed.


You almost believed it. For the first time in years, you remember The Tinman, who stole your heart, the smile from your face.

What robber, what thief, who took away the part so essential to the whole, who stole your heart, who took it away, knowing that without it you can't live.

You had faith in this, that it would work, because it was so unexpected, because it came to you at a time when you weren't looking, or expecting anything from anyone of such close proximity.

Sometimes, before tonight, you would mentally shake yourself, and hit yourself on the back of the head, and suspect that there is some dark magic involved that made you so preoccupied with him, that dark magic you've only ever heard of, that dark magic that manipulates vulnerable souls into thinking they are attracted to someone.

Sometimes, the shaking and the hitting would work for a few seconds, and you would convince yourself that you were right; why else would you be so besotted by someone you wouldn't ordinarily be besotted by. Why else? But it would only last a few minutes, and then you're back to the kidding-yourself.



Was it a trickster using mirrors and sleight of hand

A strong elixir or a potion that you drank?

Who hurt your heart

Bruised it in a place?



And some neighborhoods away, there lies your friend in her bed, crying her eyes out because you know her and you know that she IS crying, and you feel her pain, a pain that is probably identical to yours. And you want to share with her the story of the Tinman, but you know you can't because you've kept so much from her. You are so crushed that no tears come to your eyes.



You are so embarrassed that you said the things you said. You would think you knew better.



You are crushed by the images that cross your mind, of a happy ever after that will never be yours.



You are reminded by all the things that you don't have that could be the reason behind this loneliness. You are reminded by the profoundness of the pathetic situation you are in, of how deeply sorry it is. You are reminded of the neglect that is the only thing you possess, neglect of self, neglect by others, neglect by friends, neglect by family.



You are forced to rise from this. You are forced to pretend nothing happened, that there was no heartbreak, that you didn't have to give up anything because you never owned up to anything to begin with.



Your arms feel weak, your knees.



And you feel even worse by your friends' concern for you. That their concern should explicitly imply that you have, in fact, lost before you've even begun the game.



You are now forced to dust yourself off, and to remind yourself over and over again: Wrong person, wrong time.



Remind yourself, over and over and over:




If you can tear down the walls
Throw your armor away, remove all roadblocks, barricades
If you can forget there are bandits and dragons to slay
And don't forget that you defend an empty space
And remember, the Tinman
Found he had what he thought he lacked
Remember the Tinman
Go find your heart and take it back


Who stole your heart?
Maybe no one can say
One day you will find it I pray...



You are forced to convince yourself that everything's gonna be alright, from here on out. If you just hold yourself together. Like you always have.



*****

How To Be A Photographer

~




Like most everything else, there's the long way, and then there's the short, easy way. If you're smart, you listen to me.

Here are the top ten short, easy ways to be a photographer. Pencils ready, ladies.

1. Nikon VS Canon.

Pick a side. With Canon, You Can. With Nikon, You Can And You WILL. It's a war, people.

2. Express yourself.

Insert the sentence "I'm a photographer myself" in your conversations every chance you get. There's no point if nobody else knows it but you.

3. Network, network, network.

Make fast friends with photographers. Join an organization. Hopefully, their photography jargon will rub off on you.

4. Show it off.

Use the jargon you learned on non-photographers. Speak photographese to them . Deliberately make comments they won't understand, like "Well, this is an excellent picture, but it lacks composition. Also, the exposure level could've been adjusted to highlight the foreground, you know what I mean?" Then quickly walk away.

5. Don't say picture, say photograph.

They are two very different things.

6. Philosophize.

Take random photos of ordinary things and elaborate on their profundity. For example, take a photo of the edge of a table, and title it "The Edge of Reason".

7. Accessorize!

Buy equipment you don't know how to use. Buy books on photography and don't read them. But make sure to display them.

8. The joke is on you.

Tell jokes that end with, "... it's the white balance that's the problem, not your eyesight! Hahaha! Get it? White balance! Hahaha!" Smack the person for effect.

9. Cuss like a photographer.

Train yourself to drip with ISO sarcasm. Condemn your enemies to the hellfires of camera-settings ignorance.

10. Give advice.

It's time to give back to society. Help other aspiring photographers. Write an article. Lead a workshop. Open a Photographers Anonymous forum. Extol on the virtues of the Nikon.

And don't forget to be condescending.

Previously, on "The World Revolves Around Nessreen"...

~

I'D LIKE TO GIVE TITLES to each of my blog entries, in the tradition of all these new TV shows. I'd like the titles to be titles of songs. Even though my life isn't nearly half as eventful as even the most boring episode of these TV shows. I can hear myself narrate the events as they happen in my own personal Meredith Grey voice.

I'D LIKE TO TELL A story in each entry, to have a cohesive beginning and ending, to have a moral lesson, and to have a vague little one-liner at the end.

IN EVERY EPISODE, I'D LIKE that guy with the deep voice to refresh my readers' memories with his usual line: Previously, on Nessreen's Highly-Anticipated and Followed Life..., followed by little flashbacks of my theatrics and histrionics of the past week.

AS A SPECIAL TREAT FOR my loyal readers, my TV-like blog would be linked to a YouTube video clip of a gag reel of my bloopers. Little mistakes here and there where I would, together with my co-stars, burst out laughing, or make funny faces and sounds, or mispronounce a word, or say "f*ck" and have it bleeped.

IT WOULD ALSO HAVE A behind-the-scenes commentary special blog entry. Watch me talk about myself for a good half hour. Fun stuff.

Now how about that.

The Size of Asia

Asia is the largest continent in the world. According to Microsoft Encarta, it covers an estimated 44,391,000 sq km (17,139,000 sq mi), or about 30 percent of the world’s total land area. Its peoples account for three-fifths of the world’s population.

I have thoughts in my head the size of Asia. They come rushing through my brain and I struggle to keep them organized into countries, cities, little islands. I think of every little detail, of every little gesture and all its tiny, tiny implications.

My Asia is bounded on the north by the great waters of my Ambition. I long to be the best, to be looked up on, to be envied. On the east, my relationships with my family and their extended family, on the South by the vast sea of people I meet and make friends out of. On the west lies my long stream of weaknesses, a stream that continues along the mountains of insecurities and on to a huge waterfall of failure that I am frightened of and yet am unable to avoid.

Because of its vast size and diverse character, my Asia is divided into five realms: 1) who I am when nobody is watching, 2) who I am with my friends, 3) who I am with my siblings, 4) who I am when everybody else is listening, 5) and who my parents would like me to be.

I have excess baggage the size of Asia. They come in many forms. For instance, the shoes that I hoard and never wear. I have boxes and boxes of stilletoes, pumps, peep-toes, boots, round-toes, kitten heels, sandals, slip-ons, flip-flops that gather dust under the hung clothes. I have tons of paper and books that are piled on top of each other, dangerously teetering. I have notes I've written down throughout the years, sitting, waiting to be published.

I have ambitions the size of Asia. I want to be a doctor, a lawyer, an interior designer, a marketing manager, a creative director, a businesswoman, a lyricist, an actor.

I have identity issues the size of Asia. My patriotic pride lies under thick layers of embarrassment, of apologetic remarks that defend my people's behaviour, under layers of American accents and deep denial. I am Asian.

I have obsessions the size of Asia.

I have dreams the size of Asia.

The size of Asia moves me.

Johnny Ob-Knoxville

There are SOME valuable lessons to be learned from the Jackass videos. We have only to dig deep, to look beyond all the asshole-isms. This group of grown-ass men acting like total jerks, abusing themselves and those around them, is a fun and quite accurate example of the kind of men our MTV generation has produced. Forget dignified, educated leaders. Forget hard-working, compassionate, ambitious individuals. Those were our fathers. We are a generation of beer-bellied, vomit-eating, fart-smelling, physically destructive hee-haw machines. THIS is art for us. This is creativity: taking extreme sports to a whole new Jackass level.

Sure, they inspire me. Hey, just because they're disgusting doesn't mean they don't pull at my heartstrings. After watching the whole lot of them defy all sense of reason, I felt a surge of spunk, of bravery if you will, almost recklessness. How am I from this generation when I'm such a sissy? I can't even ride a bicycle, and I'm terrified of water.

They made me want to at least TRY to push my limits, to step out of my comfort zone. Those amusement park rides don't seem so scary now in comparison to their madcap stunts. I envy them their carefree dispositions.

Of course, most of their adventures were just so repulsive I could SMELL them through the TV screen.

And because I am (and will always be, no matter what I say) a member of our uptight, judgemental society, one question nags me:

"Where are their parents?"

Johnny Knoxville, Bam Margera, Party Boy, Ehren, Steve-O, Dave England, Ryan Dunn, Wee Man, Raab Himself (*salutes* what an original name!), all of them remind me of my cousins, my brothers, our friends, all the guys I hang out with. They are SOMEHOW charming because they are REAL.

"Hi, I'm Johnny Knoxville, and this is Jackass."