Saturday, October 26, 2013


I know I am seemingly always overconfident and righteous, and that I act all "miss-know-it-all"-- and no, I am not saying these things about how I am in any sort of mockery either for anyone who might feel so: I know that I am this most often of the time.

Yet often, I find it difficult to figure out if it is who I really am, or who I am because it is my "armour", as in my defense mechanism... I know it is definitely partly because of a defense mechanism...and one that I have cultivated so much over the years that it has become a second skin that seems to be who I really am. And that is something which I have let happen self-consciously, so that everyone just figures that is who I am. That's not to say this is any excuse for being this being a second skin is no excuse to say it isn't who I am. It's still who I am. But it is somehow an armour for that side of who I am which I refuse to let others see; if they are not able to see it, they cannot reach it, and if they cannot reach it, they cannot use it, abuse it, nor destroy it. 'It' of course, being me.

Vulnerability is that state we guard most closely. We do not want to become attached because it opens up our portal for vulnerability. And we learn to guard this vulnerability through experience. Experiences which for the most part we would categorize as unpleasant, because they have taught us pain, and it is through this pain that we have witnessed our vulnerabilities as never before, and therefore we, within ourselves, have seen it for what it is and how to shut it up tight.

 This was meant to be a personal anecdote, and as usual when I write, it ends up going general, and vague, and the one(s) I intend to have this said to would likely be the one to tune out and get lost and distracted. I think, also, that me writing vaguely is another form of defense mechanism, because I am writing about my vulnerabilities for all and sundry to see, though I really had intended it for one. I could have certainly written to the person directly, but for some strange reason I felt that this was a topic I could possible learn the lesson I mean to teach myself more emphatically if I put my failings out on the laundry line.

My lesson is of humility. (And interestingly, two of my soul-siblings have expressed similar thoughts via their blogs (i.e. vulnerability, attachment, self-weaknesses, and humility); as often I am not certain if it is that we simply feed off one another's thoughts or that we truly experience the same at once..)

I have hidden my humility through my pompousness. In being a in-your-face hyper and confident girl, the girl who always has an answer and who always refuses to back down from her arguments, I seem to have done too well a job of hiding my vulnerability, so much that it has somewhat backfired on me; the ones who really need to know me, and who I really am, I am not certain if they believe that me exists. Because I myself haven't been able to figure out who this "me" is.

But (again like those others) I have acknowledged that it is a perpetual journey of self-discovery. And much of my established idealism that I have grown with love like it were my own secret garden of roses, has been one that also comes with its thorns: in letting my feet off the solid earth, in dreaming of the "ideal" I had cultivated so many expectations, so many that they could never possibly be truly practical.

Perhaps that is why it is amazing that I have found sanity in the fruition of the main dream. And that I am learning to be practical through this one dream; to let go of many others which were frivolous in many ways...and yet....

And yet, what? I don't know really.. I am writing all this without forethought, you see. I don't even know where I really am going with this. I guess, I am learning that we cannot hope to establish who we are at any given time. It is impossible. And yet, we are constantly evolving and learning. And it is through our responsibilities and relationships that we most learn to gauge ourselves. We cannot hope to hide in a cave in order to survive, simply because the person we are is too volatile to indulge in interaction. It is through interaction, and through both bad and good experience that we best learn who we are. It is through the struggle where we learn what needs to go, and through the good that we learn what we should keep.

I am addressing this discourse to a number of people, certainly. But again, this is a reminder to myself. I was in fact the one who many years ago (I seem to have been such a wise person when I was so idealistic, and yet I was naive? What a paradox)... I think it was best noted (by myself) when I observed that for a rose to grow stronger and more beautiful, it needs to be clipped and (I am stretching for the right description right now; I know I summed it up beautifully in a line that I posted on Golden Moments, let me look)...Ok found it:

Pruning the rosebush and cutting out what isn't needed makes the rose stronger!

So in summary: ... (and this is specifically for the one I had originally intended this message for)
I don't mean sarcasm, or mockery, by learning to be a better person, nor is it a slight to say that I am learning to become a better person through what I am discovering because of our interactions. It isn't a bad thing necessarily that the bad is brought out through them, but that more of who I am is starting to come out in the open, lots of traits that had been long-dormant because they had always been hidden behind the armour., and lots of new responses that never had reason to exist before that are now alive and new in the world like a newborn baby, yet to learn how to be clothed.  I mean it in the best possible way, to be a better person for all in question.


As I said a few posts back, I've lost my appetite. And that still persists even to today. I really can't say what it is, it isn't as if I am depressed or anything.

But yes, I have found that my one solution in the past few weeks comes through just one form of food: the grilled cheese sandwich. I cannot tell you how much I enjoy my grilled cheese sandwich. I will attempt to demonstrate: often in a day, if possible, I will consume this as repast for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I never tire of it. Thus far.

Each time I visit the kitchen to ponder over what I should eat, despite inspecting the fridge and pantry and considering a number of other, much more 'extravagant', meals, I always end up simply taking out the bread, putting on the frying pan, and going about the now routine of preparing my grilled cheese sandwich. Butter both sides, cheddar cheese to get all ooey-gooey, onions (a must), chillis and green peppers...sometimes tomatoes, sometimes pizza sauce, always spicy and crispy.

And my kitten enjoys the crusts. Meow.

Tuesday, October 22, 2013


I know that my lack of presence might be noticed (and has been thus far by a certain particular few; see previous post), and it goes without saying that this hearty voyager is on another mission conquering another part of the world. Consequently, my time has been re-allotted towards this, and the remaining time is devoted to eating and sleeping.

And every morning now, as I step out into the grey morning and welcome the sun as it enters the horizon, I cannot help but grit my teeth together as the wind blows gustily through my very marrow: winter is definitely on its way.


Saturday, October 19, 2013

Kindred Spirits

This is a post that should have been posted yesterday, simply to be strict on the date for it's aptness. However, the content itself does not need be restricted to this rule, as it exemplies itself not just on one day of a year, but in every moment of every day of the year, as you will soon come to understand.

From a very young age, I had always been a prolific reader, so much that my grandmother, when she came to stay with us, would often complain that the girl would go crazy, since reading so much apparently makes a person lose their mind. That, I realize may seem illogical on one hand, and on the other many of you who do know me well might be smirking and thinking, she was, afterall, correct.

And of course, by the third grade I was already squinting at the chalkboard despite sitting at the front row, and it became apparent that I was in need of corrective lenses since my eyesight had been impaired by my obsession with reading.

One of my earliest pieces of literature that had become so ingrained with who I was as I grew up was written by Lucy Laud Montgomery, a very Canadian writer, who was made popular by her character: Anne Shirley, best known in Anne of Green Gables.

Anne was a small red-haired child, an orphan, and one who had a way with approaching hardship and life in general. She was one helluva talkative and imaginative girl. (You see why I like her?) One of her "ideas" which gelled with me most strongly, even up till this moment in writing (well of course it must have, for I would not be writing of it otherwise) was her concept of "kindred spirits".

Kindred Spirits are two people that make a special connection by sharing a bond that has joined them by the means of an experience that has drawn them together on a higher level of consciousness. This connection can be from the same experience at the same time or two separate experiences similar in nature.

Having read that, I am certain a few of you, dear readers, feel some sort of lightbulb of awareness light up. Because of course, in writing this, I mean to emphasize on the beautiful phenomenon of kindred spiritship I share with you.

It happened to me a few weeks ago, actually, just sitting randomly and thinking (something I do often). And
as I let my mind linger about, it came upon the memory of "kindred spirits" and somehow suddenly I sat up a bit straighter, and felt happy.

For, of course, I realized, that after some time, I had managed to make some very special bonds with some very special people, and for whatever reason it was a revelation that shot a pure dose of "happy" into my very bloodstream.

The special thing is that these friendships happened instantaneously. Maybe the actual forged bond that now exists did not happen right away, no, but there was inexplicably something more and something that tickled the mind, and somehow the very soul, the first time I came across the other's spirit.

There are some friendships that are good friendships, but they are those which somehow just exist for the sake of convenience, and then you have those friendships...which almost feel less defined by the very name "friendship" because they seem to be so much more, even while only being friendship...sometimes you can talk and talk and talk about what makes it special, and never ever come close to being able to really do it justice.

Sometimes I feel that we, kindred spirits, exist in a realm beyond mortality, that our existence and bond coincides with that force that exists beyond causality itself. That somewhere up there, out there, above everything else, where the stars are so close but yet so far left behind, we have each been neighbours, cut out from the same section of material of life-force, so much that we've been one at one time, and our meeting here in this world is only a flicker of memory as we meet one another again. This is how I feel about love and soulmates, and it cannot be so far from this that even our kindred spirits are the same.

This post is dedicated to my kindred spirits. You know who you are.

Friday, October 11, 2013

No Moral of the Story

It was just about twilight, that time when the day met the night and embraced, where the one could not be distinguished from the other, because they had so become one, just for that moment, when the rest of the world seemed oblivious to this reunion, busy with their own.

Across the sky tinted with fading magenta and blushing peach upon the darkening blues, separating from the circling above, the silhouette approached and with a flutter of wings, the dove was at the windowsill.

Quietly, the flame flickered a welcome, observing how her eyes seemed to shine with an exuberance imbued from her adventures in the sky, reflecting the light of the flame.

The flame said to the dove, 'Tell me, O Dove, why do you return here each night?'

The exuberance in the dove's eyes dimmed. Her heart seemed to have stopped breathing, the smallest flicker of doubt, as the memory of another time when her heart had seemed beyond repair returned, a time when he had asked the same question.

The flame quietly said, 'I wish for you so much more than I can give. I hold you down, I cannot fly.  I am wingless, bound to the earth by my reality. I am not able to soar with you, see the same dreams from the height at which you dance happily upon the clouds.  Tell me, Dove, why should you be also shackled to my reality? With the winds, you rise high, and yet in the same one gust, I extinguish and am lost.'

The dove had stilled, her heart brimming with emotion. Her beak, she opened, yet knew not what to say. The flame flickered, for he knew her heart, had known it even while he had given her his own.

'You come here each day happy after spending hours with your friends, laughing, flying, with stars in your eyes. I cannot be like them, I am not like them. I am element; you are creature. For all our love, we cannot be. Why do you want to come here to me, why do you wish to be with me? Surely you know this: we are different, we cannot be.'

The dove refused to look at him, instead looked upon the sky. Her sky. The sky where she danced with joy at the pure joy of the knowledge of the one she had to call her own. The sky where she soared high and far, glimpsing the beauty of colours which burst upon the horizon, bright and orange, reminding her of the one in her heart. Where her fellow birds teased her, making her blush and laugh, for they knew not who her special one was, but knew it made her fly higher, stronger, faster, putting a light and confidence in her that never existed before. Where in dark times, stormy nights, charcoal clouds and gusty winds, she had only to look down to see his constant reassurance alight below; her oasis of calm, her sanity. The skies where her fate had assigned her but where she had always felt lost within and alone. Always alone. Before him.

The dove turned her gaze from the inky indigo, whispered, 'Shall I go then? Is that what you wish?'

The flame stilled. Why should want be distinguished and so different from what was practical? Why had the questions of their differences come up to spoil their little time together, and more so, why had he voiced them? He hesitated.

'I cannot be with you because I have so little to give. I am who I am and it is beyond my ability to change. Everything I touch becomes ruined, destroyed. Surely you, O Dove, you of all most know this best, you the one I have hurt already once with who I am.'

'Once?' The dove whispered, with her eyes glistening.

 'Once surely you recall that time I burnt you - I should never forget, for I regret it each and every day. It makes me pause each day when I consider you soaring above, so free, why I am in every way wrong for you.'

'Not only once, dear flame. Not only once you have hurt me, and the pain of your fire is the least of them all. You do so now; you have so much that you give me, so much more within you that you dare not show. And tonight, you pain me most.'

'See, dove, how then I am not for you. I say not what you wish to hear. I cannot soar with you upon the clouds to join with you in the dreams you embroider.'

A silence fell, like no other before. Bittersweet, filled with unspoken words, falling hopes. Without another moment, she took off from the sill, and disappeared in the night.

The day had dawned, yet the flame shone on
Its wick still yet alight
It scanned the skies with tired eyes
Looking for his love in flight

Nothing passed, as hours passed
Only a passing cloud
And he sighed, for he knew 
His beloved was too proud

But soon had gone too many a day
And worry made him grim
my foolish dove, though I love
Without her I grow dim

In the distance, a keening call
Echoed as dusk fell
A mourning song, of love's lament
The dove had yet to tell

Written in continuation to Moral of the Story, posted here.

Strong of Heart

Hardship is nature's way of weeding out the faint of heart.

Quite frequently, with the spreading of death and destruction across our world, the question arises: how, if there exists a merciful almighty power of any kind, could such calamity be allowed to happen?

Logic often supersedes emotion, in fact, in its quintessential acts independently. The laws of evolution as they have been permitted to be known in generalization often emphasize upon the fundamental, 'survival of the fittest'.

The greater power, if so exists, may be not more than a scientist that dabbles in a hobby, or perhaps even a passion, for art - for the beauty encountered in much of our daily life is such that we cannot but help remark upon it. But scientist he most assuredly is, for if he has created anything, it would be the laws which govern our world, physically, metaphysically, and perhaps metaphorically - and otherwise.

He is the programmer, writing code which easily loop, executes, and performs conditional if and then commands. If it goes up, then it must come down. If it is born, then it must die. And that is where it comes in: the balance of life.

For the perpetuation of this species relies on the fundamentals of survival; the fit are defined as those who survive, and yet the condition to survive is to be fit. Therein exist conditions which test the population in ceaseless and incessant scenarios, so seemingly randomized yet so profound - and rare and therefore unprepared for - that understanding is often beyond our capacity, let alone acceptance.

For we are governed by hormones, the chemicals programmed to induce reaction, responsiveness, to perform this way dependent on stimuli. We are markedly made human by our ability to feel, emote, to communicate our sentience with a modicum of intelligence and emotion.

Logic then dictates that external stimuli of negative connotation, or perceived as such by our developed humanity, induces hormonal conditions to set in motion corresponding emotions: despair, disappointment, anger, despondence, remorse, resignation, fear, etc. These are such that can, in excess, tip the balance upon which our threshold for survival rests. It gives opportunity for us to reliquish our hold on our own health and well being; for us to be that much less careless about our safety; it means we are the weak -- and the weak are weeded out.

So keep in mind, when next you're sad, or struggling through hardship, wondering why. It's the test, the game, the way of life; hang tough, fight on, be strong. Survive.

Wednesday, October 09, 2013

Little Bits of Happy

Everything in the world is comprised of tiny particles of positivity. We often take the face-value of what we encounter, judging the larger object without seeing the small bits of good which comprise it. They say there is a silver lining in everything. It's just up to us to figure out which lens we choose to see through in order to focus the view to find it. If we can find logic in going to the eye doctor to determine the strength and weaknesses of our eyes, why don't we accept that our perspective also needs the right prescription? When we perceive negativity, perhaps all that is required is a twist of the microscope to sharpen the focus to see for ourselves that without the obscuring blur there really is a lot of good we just refuse or fail to see.

Sunday, October 06, 2013

Diary of a Besharami

a.k.a. Why Being A Girl Rocks

Many years back, when I was a young thing fresh in the land of university, I had taken on the task of finding myself the appropriate books for each course. Of course, being the struggling student, I put off buying each book new; the network of buying and selling used textbooks is one we are acquainted with.

For a certain book, the library had a waiting list that would span the circumference of the planet a few times, and somehow it was always on hold. On the one fateful day that I had been visiting the library, while standing at the Returns counter, my gaze happened to fall upon the cart of books sitting behind the counter. The cart of books that had just been returned, and were waiting further sorting pertinent to their individual fates.

The cart upon which the one textbook I had been wanting and waiting for sat.

I cast my eyes this way and that. No one seemed to notice the fireworks going off around that book. Then I did some mental pacing. That book was right there, and for all the good it did, no one yet knew about the waiting list that spanned the circumference of the planet a few times. Not yet.

Casually, nonchalantly, I made myself known to one of the library helpers standing behind the counters. I politely inquired if I could possibly have one of the books sitting behind the counter. Yes, she told me pleasantly, which book would I like?

YES YES YES, I mentally did a few cartwheels and fist-pumped to high heaven, THIS BOOK IS MINE.

That one, I pointed calmly. She handed it over. I caressed the title lovingly. You are finally mine, I telepathed to it.

I quickly scouted the area, sure that any time soon, a phalanx of men in black suits would approach with a marching band, ready to commend me and present the Nobel Prize for Innovative Thinking to me.

Or not.

Anyways, so I did what was expected, and took the book to be checked out. Just a few minutes and I'd be outta there, with the book that no one would see ever again until I was through with it; planning to renew and renew my hold on it until the cows came home.

Beep. The computer hiccuped.

'Uh, you have an overdue fine. Unfortunately, because it exceeds a dollar, you can't take out any books until this fine is paid. You want to pay it now?'

My eyes bugged out of my head. WHAAAAAAAAAAT? OK fine, keep calm and let's pay it.

Well, wouldn't you know. That's the day I had no money on me. Nothing but two cents worth. Funny. The thing about the library, it's not the bank. There's no ATM machine, and they don't take plastic. Cash and change only. Thank you for your consideration. ONLY? ONLY I don't have any moneyyyyyyyy!

I stood there, the world swirling about, the ecstasy of my apparently premature triumph ebbing away. All I needed was a little less than two measly dollars, can you believe that? $1.75 standing in the way of me getting the book; in the way of my capacity to study from the textbook; in the way of my passing the course; in the way of my life as a university student, and who will then become a failure and be traumatized for the rest of my LIFE! The enormity of that small amount struck me hard in my heart. It almost shattered.

The alarm reaction that activates during potentially life-threatening emergencies is called the fight or flight response. If you are caught in ocean currents, your almost instinctual tendency is to struggle toward shore. You might realize rationally that you're best off just floating until the current runs its course and then, more calmly, swimming in. Yet somewhere, deep within, ancient instincts for survival won't let you relax, even though struggling against the ocean will only wear you out and increase your chance of drowning. Still this same kind of reaction might momentarily give you the strength to lift a car...

Let us take a moment to remember that this is the Diary of the Besharami, and all thoughts, acts, and behaviours herein shared are to be taken with this knowledge and precludes material which may shock, embarrass or render the reader such like.

I refused to give in.

All I needed was $1.75, right? Not much. And when you consider it, it's just a collection of a bunch of quarters ($0.25). A quarter to the average middle class person is not actually considered to be all that much. We would drop a quarter and not really miss it.

In the space of ten minutes later, I stood at the counter with $1.75.

Now I have to let you in on the secret. What I did is something I shouldn't be proud to be telling anyone. Mind you, I didn't steal a wallet, nor rob a child of his lunch money. What I did do was circulate about the library, and approached females browsing alone. I then smiled sheepishly and abashedly, in a hushed voice, asked if they would be able to spare a quarter. 

If you happen to be a female living in the Americas who is not a misanthrope, agoraphobic, or lutropublicaphobic, you will likely have some semblance of an idea about the psychology of my queries.

For everyone else, here is the dirt: In being approached by a younger female, who is asking for exactly and only a quarter in a state of embarassment, one will assume that that female is experiencing an emergency involving the female reproductive system.

The public washrooms/restrooms/toilets in this city boast vending receptacles attached on the wall of the female washroom which provide feminine hygienic products for those in need, all at the cost of a quarter. The males reading this may be familiar with the sight, as they have their own version vending contraceptive products. Do not ask me how I know.

Aaactually, on second thought, I am going to have to explain that since with that last sentence I have condemned myself to your inclination to believe that my besharampan extends to possessing this knowledge via my own personal sin. Well, excuseee me. Contrarily, I am familiar with the existence of condom-selling-boxes in the gents because one of my friends, back in the day, used to bug me, the way friends do, by stealing possessions of mine (to wit: shoes that I remove while studying) and hiding them in the mens washroom, assuming that I wouldn't dare go get them. Little did he know. Pshh.

 So yes, what I did was ask random women for 25 cents, and they gave me, thinking I  needed to buy feminine hygienic product ASAP.  I didn't coerce nor did I steal. They gave of their own free-will. And, in the process, I amassed the amount of money I needed to pay my fine and get the book. True story, yo.

As I left the library, I almost heard the sounds of that marching band....

Thursday, October 03, 2013


Lately, I have been kind of fed up of the whole process of eating. I'm not dieting or watching my weight, mind you. I've just lost the relish for eating.

It's not even just the actual act of eating. I haven't cooked in a long while, neither do I feel like doing so. I go in the kitchen, open the fridge and feel a sense of dissatisfaction or distaste, and shut it again. I don't enjoy food that I buy from outside either. I feel a sense of disgust at the very idea of eating outside food, which alawys tends to be unhealthy: fried, salty, sugary...

Just thinking about it makes me feel "ughh". It's some form of lethargy with regards to consumption. I don't know what it is. But it's been hanging about for a long while recently.

I do eat. I realize I have to. I'm fine with small doses of the stuff: sandwiches, wraps, granola bars. What I have no problem with though is drinking lots of water. For some reason that's the only thing I really do crave. That nice, refreshing, soothing taste of water.

Tuesday, October 01, 2013


They say that it's love that makes one feel beautiful. To be loved. But what happens when you suddenly see yourself through the eyes of the person who loves you, and you don't like what you see?

The Painted Drum

Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won't either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could."
— Louise Erdrich