Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem.
Assalam alaikum wr wb!
Well, it would be extravagant to say that HitRECord changed my life. That, to me, implies, some sort of lightning bolt event that shakes you up and turns you upside down. That's not what HitRECord was. And that's good. Because I've been struck by so many lightning bolts this year, I'm still sizzling.
Artistically, HitRECord opened my mind up to a million possibilities. I had somewhere I could put my words and someone to toss sentences at. My little heart sang as my words got caught up in images, videos, songs and on the tongues of people on the other side of the world. Who woulda thunk it?!!
I've begun to love images again as well. I'm still a little jaded - or maybe a little frightened? Either way, I have the courage to view film a little differently now.
I made a Get By sign for Woody's project. And quite by accident, I have stumbled onto my love of art again. I used to love art class when I was a kid. I was no Michaelangelo, but I loved the smell of oil pastels on my fingers and getting my hands dirty with paint and pencil ash. I had a lot of energy and getting down and dirty and doing something with my hands really expended a lot of that.
Now my trabajo requires me to sit in front of the computer for hours and sometimes, I feel that, if I see another screen, I'll throw a shoe at it. And sometimes, I place my life in such a tiny constricted space that I really can't be productive. So I'm hoping painting (particularly pastel painting) will help me get out of my head a little.
But most surprisingly of all (to me at least), HitRECord helped me redefine community.
My parents always have stories of their youth in Kandy. Stories that have been handed down for generations and probably been mutilated in the process, but they're still pretty interesting and I can tell a lot of emotion is caught up in the witnessing, the telling and the retelling of those stories. Seriously, they were involved in some of the most pivotal events of their neighbours' lives - wife-beatings, divorces, child-birth, drug abuse, alcohol abuse.
One thing I hate about living in the city and in the new millennium is that we don't have that sense of community.
Sometimes you want to yell and scream, but you know that no one's listening and no one cares. But on HitRECord, people do. They might not always respond, but you know there's a soul behind a pair of eyes watching you type furiously in the night. I know there is because people have sent me PMs saying so, perhaps months after the fever has passed, but still...it means a lot to me.
OK, so we might not have a little tight-knit community like my parents had in Kandy. But still in the act of RECording and Re-RECording, hearts, souls and butts are put on the line. And we remind each other that we are not alone. WE ARE NOT ALONE. And that's a huge deal.
HitRECord allowed me to figure things out in my own time. It allowed me to stumble in the dark, crash into things, maybe upset a few people, but eventually find my place.
And for that, I thank you, Joe, Dan and Teafaerie and everybody beautiful on that darn anachronistically polite forum. Woo-hoo! We made into the new year! I honestly didn't think I would, but here I am, hours away from '09. And you guys had a huge part to play in that. Really.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed.
Wednesday, 31 December 2008
Sunday, 28 December 2008
Yo, New Year! Part Deux – The Cheer!
Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem
Assalam alaikum wr wb,
It's been a year of self-hatred, (emotional) self-harm, self-love and ultimately, self-discovery. Basically, it's been a year of self Subhanallah!
I started the year somewhat unmoored after a messy break-up. My life had reached new lows and I saw no way of ever reaching the light. Just to get all of the anger and confusion out of my system, I wrote a science fiction story, the most detailed ambitious story I have written to date. I'm really proud of it and if I ever meet my ex again, I will thank him for helping me break a few of my creative barriers. Right after punching him in the face and kicking him in the dangly bits.
I got my first job. With it came money, the first I'd ever earned from the sweat of my brow, new friends, new meaning and new headaches. I've discovered that the career I fell into to placate my mother is also a career that appeals the most to the curious cat, the rabble-rouser and the moral avenger in me.
But I am also a writer, a reader and an audience member. I've learnt that, at this particular time, intense emotional bursts have more power to me than long-winded meandering explanations. I recently started to read Mrs. Dalloway, but got really annoyed with her whole stream-of-consciousness shtick. I think it's an excuse to not write a complete sentence and not have to edit.
After getting the use of my eyes back from my ex-fiance, I have let them wander and picked up on so many things I was too frightened to notice before - the kinky way people might walk, talk, a tell-tale sign of frustration, despair or barely suppressed excitement. For now, I have a taste for the theatrical and the epic, so Bollywood films, murder mysteries, Supernatural and The Fall (by Tarsem Singh) really floats my boat.
I've learnt that the drugs don't work and I need to be the change I would like to see in the world. That means living my values instead of simply believing in them.
I've learnt that I desperately want a child, especially a little boy.
The best and most fulfilling lesson of all is this – love. Love takes many forms and all of them can be life-sustaining once you accord them their due respect. I have learnt to love my mommy and daddy with no boundaries. Like Eckhart Tolle expounded, I've learnt to bring no preconceptions to any encounter I have, to break the pattern and let each day take its course. I've learnt to love my brother, my friends, my co-workers and – hardest of all – myself.
I'm alright, you know. I'm not that bad. I have idiosyncrasies, but nothing illegal or life-threatening.
You know what else I've gained this past year? 10 kilos! But I've started belly-dancing and even though society is not and has never been on my side on this issue, I really truly love my body, more than I've ever loved it. Alhamdulillah!
I've also learned that men are not the source of all evil. This time last year, I was firmly entrenched in my belief that the world expects far too little of its young men and rewards them far too well for their achievements and vice versa for its women. Hence a woman's work is never done and a man never really has to do anything. Men's faults are given new names – "ambition", "determination" or other similar crap. Now I've realised that women are just as likely to be turds as men – thank you Rochelle and the office manager, Mona. The world is an unfair place and sometimes good people (of both sexes) are made to wallow in the muck at the bottom of the bucket, while people (of both sexes) with the ugliest souls rise to the top. Life is a test from God. It's something Muslims have been told since we were kids, I suppose, but really you don't really understand the implications of true belief in God till you reach adulthood.
I have learnt this past year that being a Muslim means submitting your will to the will of Allah. That means being content with His Decree. With that contentment comes inner peace, since the days rotate in bringing happiness and sorrow and this world's pleasures are fleeting anyway.
I've learnt that there are many things that I don't know.
I don't know how to write a boring character – I'm so taken with colour that I cannot understand monotony.
I don't know how to be patient and control my frighteningly bad temper.
I don't know how to communicate assertively.
I don't know how to manage my time effectively.
I don't know how to manage change or the unknown.
Well, at least I know that I don't know.
So these are my New Year's resolutions for 2009 Insha Allah:
I will start freelancing.
I will relearn French and continue my studies in Arabic.
I will begin to learn Hindi
I will see a Cirque Du Soleil show.
I will visit a country I haven't visited before – Turkey, China.
And most importantly, I will communicate more assertively – it will be better for my life and my faith.
With Allah's help, I will achieve the above.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed.
Assalam alaikum wr wb,
It's been a year of self-hatred, (emotional) self-harm, self-love and ultimately, self-discovery. Basically, it's been a year of self Subhanallah!
I started the year somewhat unmoored after a messy break-up. My life had reached new lows and I saw no way of ever reaching the light. Just to get all of the anger and confusion out of my system, I wrote a science fiction story, the most detailed ambitious story I have written to date. I'm really proud of it and if I ever meet my ex again, I will thank him for helping me break a few of my creative barriers. Right after punching him in the face and kicking him in the dangly bits.
I got my first job. With it came money, the first I'd ever earned from the sweat of my brow, new friends, new meaning and new headaches. I've discovered that the career I fell into to placate my mother is also a career that appeals the most to the curious cat, the rabble-rouser and the moral avenger in me.
But I am also a writer, a reader and an audience member. I've learnt that, at this particular time, intense emotional bursts have more power to me than long-winded meandering explanations. I recently started to read Mrs. Dalloway, but got really annoyed with her whole stream-of-consciousness shtick. I think it's an excuse to not write a complete sentence and not have to edit.
After getting the use of my eyes back from my ex-fiance, I have let them wander and picked up on so many things I was too frightened to notice before - the kinky way people might walk, talk, a tell-tale sign of frustration, despair or barely suppressed excitement. For now, I have a taste for the theatrical and the epic, so Bollywood films, murder mysteries, Supernatural and The Fall (by Tarsem Singh) really floats my boat.
I've learnt that the drugs don't work and I need to be the change I would like to see in the world. That means living my values instead of simply believing in them.
I've learnt that I desperately want a child, especially a little boy.
The best and most fulfilling lesson of all is this – love. Love takes many forms and all of them can be life-sustaining once you accord them their due respect. I have learnt to love my mommy and daddy with no boundaries. Like Eckhart Tolle expounded, I've learnt to bring no preconceptions to any encounter I have, to break the pattern and let each day take its course. I've learnt to love my brother, my friends, my co-workers and – hardest of all – myself.
I'm alright, you know. I'm not that bad. I have idiosyncrasies, but nothing illegal or life-threatening.
You know what else I've gained this past year? 10 kilos! But I've started belly-dancing and even though society is not and has never been on my side on this issue, I really truly love my body, more than I've ever loved it. Alhamdulillah!
I've also learned that men are not the source of all evil. This time last year, I was firmly entrenched in my belief that the world expects far too little of its young men and rewards them far too well for their achievements and vice versa for its women. Hence a woman's work is never done and a man never really has to do anything. Men's faults are given new names – "ambition", "determination" or other similar crap. Now I've realised that women are just as likely to be turds as men – thank you Rochelle and the office manager, Mona. The world is an unfair place and sometimes good people (of both sexes) are made to wallow in the muck at the bottom of the bucket, while people (of both sexes) with the ugliest souls rise to the top. Life is a test from God. It's something Muslims have been told since we were kids, I suppose, but really you don't really understand the implications of true belief in God till you reach adulthood.
I have learnt this past year that being a Muslim means submitting your will to the will of Allah. That means being content with His Decree. With that contentment comes inner peace, since the days rotate in bringing happiness and sorrow and this world's pleasures are fleeting anyway.
I've learnt that there are many things that I don't know.
I don't know how to write a boring character – I'm so taken with colour that I cannot understand monotony.
I don't know how to be patient and control my frighteningly bad temper.
I don't know how to communicate assertively.
I don't know how to manage my time effectively.
I don't know how to manage change or the unknown.
Well, at least I know that I don't know.
So these are my New Year's resolutions for 2009 Insha Allah:
I will start freelancing.
I will relearn French and continue my studies in Arabic.
I will begin to learn Hindi
I will see a Cirque Du Soleil show.
I will visit a country I haven't visited before – Turkey, China.
And most importantly, I will communicate more assertively – it will be better for my life and my faith.
With Allah's help, I will achieve the above.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed.
Sunday, 21 December 2008
Yo, New Year!! Part Un - The Rant
Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem
Assalam alaikum wr wb,
It's been a wild one, this past year.
The year began for me with a broken heart and a broken spirit. I was prowling the house like a tiger, not knowing what to do with myself, my own hollow laughter ringing in my ears.
Then I started looking for jobs. Hell is staving off a panic attack hours before an interview. Hell is feeling like a ten-year-old in her mother's heels, staring potential bosses in the eye, trying to look confident when I feel as useful as a dead cockroach. Hell is my mother expecting me to be something when all I wanted to do was sleep and never wake up. I wanted all the pain to go away and I would have given anything just to go back to the girl I was – the one that enjoyed Third Rock from the Sun, the one that loved chocolate cake and stubbly brooding men, the one that had something to give.
Hell is being given the job over and over again.
I kid you not. Everyone wanted a piece of Zed.
I can't for the life of me figure out why. The only way I can explain it is that the publishing industry has mighty low standards and I don't just mean that they like short people :D
And then came the worst of all. The anxiety that lasted days, so many days that I couldn't stop crying. This really big publishing company offered me a job with a salary higher than I had ever hoped. And then there was this little intimate company that seemed close-knit and happy, that seemed to offer me a chance to heal.
As always, I'm a sucker for the underdog.
My mother was so disappointed. But what could I do? My brain went back and forth like a perpetual motion machine – my future, my peace of mind, my future, my peace of mind. Happiness, hard work, happiness, hard work. Lord, why can't I have both? What had I done to deserve this torture?
My father took me to the psychiatrist. He said I wasn't well. This I knew, but, like most people, you believe it more readily from someone who has a degree framed on the wall behind him. He gave me pills. I felt better. Much better. On top of the world for many months.
A few crushes came and went, bringing with them pangs of self-pity and tears. I had a blast at my new job – I got into some of the coolest shows for free and met people I wouldn't have dreamed of meeting in a million years.
And then I made the mistake of pitching in with Rochelle's magazine, which is a weekly digest. I found myself immersed in a nest of vipers so venomous they almost shattered my belief in humanity.
The worse thing is – I used to really look up to Rochelle. She was healing from an ugly break-up just like me. She was beautiful, strong and angry. She reminded me of my mother. I now realise that that comparison is an affront to my mother. Rochelle was selfish, self-centred, nepotistic and despotic. She pushed her impossibly high standards onto everybody in the office, causing much frustration and quite possibly a few soiled underwear. You shouldn't be terrified of your boss, especially not in publishing. That's just bad for the magazine. She isn't God. She's just a person.
But obviously, she thought otherwise.
Worst of all, Rochelle needed a coterie of fawning employees to feel fulfilled. In return, these brown-noses were allowed quite shocking lapses in professionalism and sometimes basic human decency. I'm not one to put lips to buttocks, so I was, of course, not one of the chosen few. In fact, in an incident I will never forget, that cow gave me hell for not telling the photographer Phyllis (one of her lap-dogs) about a photo-shoot I needed to go with my article. She went above and beyond a reprimand. She called me unprofessional and disrespectful to my colleagues.
Honestly, that broke my heart. It cut me to the bone. I have never been rude to anyone in my entire life. I don't even know how to put on an attitude. I'm a really soft-spoken person. In fact, with what I perceived to be the hostility bubbling beneath the surface at our office, I began to speak barely above a whisper.
Going to work every morning became like walking to the gallows. Eventually, I told my other boss, Meryl that I was leaving at the end of October. I told her my job was boring – which was the truth. It was all editing and transcribing and compiling and thankless late nights, with no writing, no pay-off. Copy-editing, week in, week out, is like being kissed by a Dementor. It sucks the joy out of your life. Besides, I took one copy-editing class in my last semester. This is not what I was trained to do.
I felt sorry for Meryl. She's always been nice to me. While she too has high standards, she doesn't shout or intimidate people into getting things done. As of now, I really feel that she cares about my future and me as a person. Compared to Rochelle, she is an angel from heaven. But still, I couldn't stay just for her.
Somehow it blew over. I was offered more writing for both Meryl and Rochelle's publications and I accepted. As long as I didn't have to copy-edit The Digest (sparing myself a weekly panic attack) or deal with Rochelle's ratty, immature designer Michael
Things looked up. I got really close to our PR, Elizabeth and Meryl's designer Marv. He really made me laugh.
Still, my dealings with The Digest were always fraught with anxiety for me. I was frightened of Rochelle and her unpredictable flare-ups. I was struggling to get hold of my disorder. I had another severe attack – heart pounding, crying. I was so crippled that I cancelled my interviews, left work and cowered under my blanket at home. My parents were reduced to tears That's when I knew the pills were not working.
I found myself a counsellor. As you know, the process is ongoing, but things are looking a lot brighter. For the first time in months, I feel like the captain of this ship.
And then, of course, the crunch came. I was glad. It killed The Digest, which wasn't making much money from advertisers. It got rid of all of these bad eggs and left only the people I got along with. Don't get me wrong – The Digest is a kick-butt magazine, probably the best weekly in the market. But no magazine is worth my peace of mind.
What did I learn this year?
I learnt that not everyone is nice all the time and not everyone is bad all the time.
I learnt that good friends are there for you, come rain or shine, even though they are an ocean and a rock away.
I've learnt that even though good friends will always be good friends, sometimes bad things happen to them and they just can't be as emotionally available as they would like. I've learnt to live with being lower on people's priorities' lists – sometimes, not all the time.
I've learnt that it's okay to love me a little bit. I'm not that bad.
I have learnt that I am simple and sincere and that more than anything, I hate mealy-mouthed hypocrites.
I've learnt to roll with the punches, something I never thought I would be able to do.
I have learnt that I have a huge heart and much to give to as many people and in as many different ways as possible.
I have learnt that if I can manage my time, I will be able to take over the world a la Pinky and the Brain.
I have learnt that being wise doesn't mean being cynical.
I have a great job.
I've written quite a bit – blog posts, articles, forum posts.
My novel has finally gathered shape.
I've made quite a few new friends.
Alhamdulillah for a fruitful, if not always easy, year.
For the first time, I feel hopeful at the New Year, not despondent that another year has passed me by and I have little to show for it. Alhamdulillah indeed.
Wassalam, dear readers and Fee Amanillah,
Zed.
P.S. I don't know if you guys know what the above salutation means. It means, "In peace and the protection of God," – probably the most loving words I have ever heard.
P.P.S I've decided I will follow up this blog post with a more upbeat post expanding on everything I have achieved and learned this past year. So watch this space.
Assalam alaikum wr wb,
It's been a wild one, this past year.
The year began for me with a broken heart and a broken spirit. I was prowling the house like a tiger, not knowing what to do with myself, my own hollow laughter ringing in my ears.
Then I started looking for jobs. Hell is staving off a panic attack hours before an interview. Hell is feeling like a ten-year-old in her mother's heels, staring potential bosses in the eye, trying to look confident when I feel as useful as a dead cockroach. Hell is my mother expecting me to be something when all I wanted to do was sleep and never wake up. I wanted all the pain to go away and I would have given anything just to go back to the girl I was – the one that enjoyed Third Rock from the Sun, the one that loved chocolate cake and stubbly brooding men, the one that had something to give.
Hell is being given the job over and over again.
I kid you not. Everyone wanted a piece of Zed.
I can't for the life of me figure out why. The only way I can explain it is that the publishing industry has mighty low standards and I don't just mean that they like short people :D
And then came the worst of all. The anxiety that lasted days, so many days that I couldn't stop crying. This really big publishing company offered me a job with a salary higher than I had ever hoped. And then there was this little intimate company that seemed close-knit and happy, that seemed to offer me a chance to heal.
As always, I'm a sucker for the underdog.
My mother was so disappointed. But what could I do? My brain went back and forth like a perpetual motion machine – my future, my peace of mind, my future, my peace of mind. Happiness, hard work, happiness, hard work. Lord, why can't I have both? What had I done to deserve this torture?
My father took me to the psychiatrist. He said I wasn't well. This I knew, but, like most people, you believe it more readily from someone who has a degree framed on the wall behind him. He gave me pills. I felt better. Much better. On top of the world for many months.
A few crushes came and went, bringing with them pangs of self-pity and tears. I had a blast at my new job – I got into some of the coolest shows for free and met people I wouldn't have dreamed of meeting in a million years.
And then I made the mistake of pitching in with Rochelle's magazine, which is a weekly digest. I found myself immersed in a nest of vipers so venomous they almost shattered my belief in humanity.
The worse thing is – I used to really look up to Rochelle. She was healing from an ugly break-up just like me. She was beautiful, strong and angry. She reminded me of my mother. I now realise that that comparison is an affront to my mother. Rochelle was selfish, self-centred, nepotistic and despotic. She pushed her impossibly high standards onto everybody in the office, causing much frustration and quite possibly a few soiled underwear. You shouldn't be terrified of your boss, especially not in publishing. That's just bad for the magazine. She isn't God. She's just a person.
But obviously, she thought otherwise.
Worst of all, Rochelle needed a coterie of fawning employees to feel fulfilled. In return, these brown-noses were allowed quite shocking lapses in professionalism and sometimes basic human decency. I'm not one to put lips to buttocks, so I was, of course, not one of the chosen few. In fact, in an incident I will never forget, that cow gave me hell for not telling the photographer Phyllis (one of her lap-dogs) about a photo-shoot I needed to go with my article. She went above and beyond a reprimand. She called me unprofessional and disrespectful to my colleagues.
Honestly, that broke my heart. It cut me to the bone. I have never been rude to anyone in my entire life. I don't even know how to put on an attitude. I'm a really soft-spoken person. In fact, with what I perceived to be the hostility bubbling beneath the surface at our office, I began to speak barely above a whisper.
Going to work every morning became like walking to the gallows. Eventually, I told my other boss, Meryl that I was leaving at the end of October. I told her my job was boring – which was the truth. It was all editing and transcribing and compiling and thankless late nights, with no writing, no pay-off. Copy-editing, week in, week out, is like being kissed by a Dementor. It sucks the joy out of your life. Besides, I took one copy-editing class in my last semester. This is not what I was trained to do.
I felt sorry for Meryl. She's always been nice to me. While she too has high standards, she doesn't shout or intimidate people into getting things done. As of now, I really feel that she cares about my future and me as a person. Compared to Rochelle, she is an angel from heaven. But still, I couldn't stay just for her.
Somehow it blew over. I was offered more writing for both Meryl and Rochelle's publications and I accepted. As long as I didn't have to copy-edit The Digest (sparing myself a weekly panic attack) or deal with Rochelle's ratty, immature designer Michael
Things looked up. I got really close to our PR, Elizabeth and Meryl's designer Marv. He really made me laugh.
Still, my dealings with The Digest were always fraught with anxiety for me. I was frightened of Rochelle and her unpredictable flare-ups. I was struggling to get hold of my disorder. I had another severe attack – heart pounding, crying. I was so crippled that I cancelled my interviews, left work and cowered under my blanket at home. My parents were reduced to tears That's when I knew the pills were not working.
I found myself a counsellor. As you know, the process is ongoing, but things are looking a lot brighter. For the first time in months, I feel like the captain of this ship.
And then, of course, the crunch came. I was glad. It killed The Digest, which wasn't making much money from advertisers. It got rid of all of these bad eggs and left only the people I got along with. Don't get me wrong – The Digest is a kick-butt magazine, probably the best weekly in the market. But no magazine is worth my peace of mind.
What did I learn this year?
I learnt that not everyone is nice all the time and not everyone is bad all the time.
I learnt that good friends are there for you, come rain or shine, even though they are an ocean and a rock away.
I've learnt that even though good friends will always be good friends, sometimes bad things happen to them and they just can't be as emotionally available as they would like. I've learnt to live with being lower on people's priorities' lists – sometimes, not all the time.
I've learnt that it's okay to love me a little bit. I'm not that bad.
I have learnt that I am simple and sincere and that more than anything, I hate mealy-mouthed hypocrites.
I've learnt to roll with the punches, something I never thought I would be able to do.
I have learnt that I have a huge heart and much to give to as many people and in as many different ways as possible.
I have learnt that if I can manage my time, I will be able to take over the world a la Pinky and the Brain.
I have learnt that being wise doesn't mean being cynical.
I have a great job.
I've written quite a bit – blog posts, articles, forum posts.
My novel has finally gathered shape.
I've made quite a few new friends.
Alhamdulillah for a fruitful, if not always easy, year.
For the first time, I feel hopeful at the New Year, not despondent that another year has passed me by and I have little to show for it. Alhamdulillah indeed.
Wassalam, dear readers and Fee Amanillah,
Zed.
P.S. I don't know if you guys know what the above salutation means. It means, "In peace and the protection of God," – probably the most loving words I have ever heard.
P.P.S I've decided I will follow up this blog post with a more upbeat post expanding on everything I have achieved and learned this past year. So watch this space.
Friday, 12 December 2008
Truth – a post inspired by my latest counselling session and HitRECord.org.
Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem
Assalam alaikum wr wb,
I've been thinking about why I create art for this thread on HitRECord.org.
A fellow poster on the HitRECord forum prompted me to examine my intentions on entering journalism, since I've been dreaming of being a screenwriter/filmmaker since I was a kid.
This morning's counseling session was all about questioning my perceptions and internally validated truths. I go into a situation expecting something. My feelings of anxiety make any molehills into mountains. My body language changes, expecting an adversary in my interviewee, rather than an ally. My interviewee perceives this change and reacts accordingly, further validating my beliefs. Heck, just thinking about it constricts my chest. My expectation is validated and becomes what I perceive to be a "fact", when in fact, it is a self-fulfilling prophecy.
These three trains of thoughts converged to form the following ruminations:
What is truth? If I assume (for the purposes of convenience) a binary opposition between truth and fiction, how will I know truth if I do not know fiction and vice versa?
(I don't actually know the answers to any of these questions, but I suppose I'll just sort my thoughts on the matter.)
I've been taught that journalism should be based on hard cold facts. Facts should be checked and rechecked and re-rechecked. But what exactly is defined as hard and cold? Where are raw emotions less acceptable journalistically than numbers, figures, laws and political positioning? Why is the macro (the externally verifiable) always more important and "serious" than the micro (the unquantifiable)?
Let's take the credit crunch as an example. It is more acceptable for me to speak to a stockbroker, a financial analyst, an economist at a university than it would be for me to speak to the average Joe having to deal with lost jobs, lost houses, lost dreams – though those feelings are just as real, just as important and just as crippling as anything Lehman brothers or GM might be facing right now.
All of this, for me, points to the political nature of truth. Truth is not as solid as we think it is. The "truth" will change, depending on whom you talk to. Different people will approach the same facts in different ways. Also, as I was taught in my Global Politics class, they're always leaving out something, usually something inconsistent with their world view. Even numbers, as implacable as they might seem, do not grasp the whole picture.
Truth is also contingent on titles, on appearances, sometimes even gender - men's opinions are sometimes accepted ipso facto. You see a dude's picture next to his column in a newspaper. He's wearing a suit and the jowls and smug impression of a white middle-class man. The caption reads, "So-and-so is the weekly columnist for blah blah daily." Why do you believe him? Why should you believe him? What are his qualifications? Even if he does have an impressive pedigree, that doesn't mean he's smart. Look at Ann Coulter; that cow went to frickin' Cornell University and her spew isn't good enough to go on my garden.
Still, I have what I reckon is an insatiable curiosity – for machinations both at the macro and micro-level. I want to know what people think. What they really do, as opposed to what they're supposed to be doing. What they say their jobs are and what they really are. I think I'm a dirt-digger. I live in a country with its head so far up its butt, it's eyeball-to-eyeball with yesterday's dinner. I've seen people screwed over too many times to not want to use my voice in their defence. What I can do, I will do. I suppose it might be penance in a way, throwing myself in harm's way like this. It is also justifying my privilege, rather than ignoring it. I believe, as God's servant, that that's why He gave me the blessing of education.
But why do I write – or create art, more accurately? I create so that I can drop back into myself after a long day. So that I never lose my sense of wonder. So that I can fight off the sense of jadedness that comes with adulthood and the damn "real world". For me, writing (and hopefully soon enough, film-making) is about escapism, catharsis, about finding new meanings, new beginnings, exploring new vistas, new perspectives. I find my creative writing feeds the sort of curiosity I manifest in my journalistic work and vice versa.
Must truth and fiction necessarily be in dialectical opposition? Why can't I live at the apex of these two beautiful forms of expression?
Yes I can. I am a journalist and a writer and hopefully soon, film-maker.
Thanks for listening.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed
Assalam alaikum wr wb,
I've been thinking about why I create art for this thread on HitRECord.org.
A fellow poster on the HitRECord forum prompted me to examine my intentions on entering journalism, since I've been dreaming of being a screenwriter/filmmaker since I was a kid.
This morning's counseling session was all about questioning my perceptions and internally validated truths. I go into a situation expecting something. My feelings of anxiety make any molehills into mountains. My body language changes, expecting an adversary in my interviewee, rather than an ally. My interviewee perceives this change and reacts accordingly, further validating my beliefs. Heck, just thinking about it constricts my chest. My expectation is validated and becomes what I perceive to be a "fact", when in fact, it is a self-fulfilling prophecy.
These three trains of thoughts converged to form the following ruminations:
What is truth? If I assume (for the purposes of convenience) a binary opposition between truth and fiction, how will I know truth if I do not know fiction and vice versa?
(I don't actually know the answers to any of these questions, but I suppose I'll just sort my thoughts on the matter.)
I've been taught that journalism should be based on hard cold facts. Facts should be checked and rechecked and re-rechecked. But what exactly is defined as hard and cold? Where are raw emotions less acceptable journalistically than numbers, figures, laws and political positioning? Why is the macro (the externally verifiable) always more important and "serious" than the micro (the unquantifiable)?
Let's take the credit crunch as an example. It is more acceptable for me to speak to a stockbroker, a financial analyst, an economist at a university than it would be for me to speak to the average Joe having to deal with lost jobs, lost houses, lost dreams – though those feelings are just as real, just as important and just as crippling as anything Lehman brothers or GM might be facing right now.
All of this, for me, points to the political nature of truth. Truth is not as solid as we think it is. The "truth" will change, depending on whom you talk to. Different people will approach the same facts in different ways. Also, as I was taught in my Global Politics class, they're always leaving out something, usually something inconsistent with their world view. Even numbers, as implacable as they might seem, do not grasp the whole picture.
Truth is also contingent on titles, on appearances, sometimes even gender - men's opinions are sometimes accepted ipso facto. You see a dude's picture next to his column in a newspaper. He's wearing a suit and the jowls and smug impression of a white middle-class man. The caption reads, "So-and-so is the weekly columnist for blah blah daily." Why do you believe him? Why should you believe him? What are his qualifications? Even if he does have an impressive pedigree, that doesn't mean he's smart. Look at Ann Coulter; that cow went to frickin' Cornell University and her spew isn't good enough to go on my garden.
Still, I have what I reckon is an insatiable curiosity – for machinations both at the macro and micro-level. I want to know what people think. What they really do, as opposed to what they're supposed to be doing. What they say their jobs are and what they really are. I think I'm a dirt-digger. I live in a country with its head so far up its butt, it's eyeball-to-eyeball with yesterday's dinner. I've seen people screwed over too many times to not want to use my voice in their defence. What I can do, I will do. I suppose it might be penance in a way, throwing myself in harm's way like this. It is also justifying my privilege, rather than ignoring it. I believe, as God's servant, that that's why He gave me the blessing of education.
But why do I write – or create art, more accurately? I create so that I can drop back into myself after a long day. So that I never lose my sense of wonder. So that I can fight off the sense of jadedness that comes with adulthood and the damn "real world". For me, writing (and hopefully soon enough, film-making) is about escapism, catharsis, about finding new meanings, new beginnings, exploring new vistas, new perspectives. I find my creative writing feeds the sort of curiosity I manifest in my journalistic work and vice versa.
Must truth and fiction necessarily be in dialectical opposition? Why can't I live at the apex of these two beautiful forms of expression?
Yes I can. I am a journalist and a writer and hopefully soon, film-maker.
Thanks for listening.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed
Thursday, 11 December 2008
Language
Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem.
Assalam alaikum wr wb.
I've been wondering about language. The way the familiarity of words and cadences comforts, yet also exclude - co-workers who speak a foreign language, of in-jokes and teases that sound like gibberish to your ears, but you can't ask people to explain them because there really is no explanation why their mind picked that particular linguistic blip to replay over and over again.
As you know, I have social anxiety. I've been yearning for a relationship, a husband and children for decades now. Yet very recently, I realised with a sinking feeling…how can an outsider ever fit into my kinky family?
I've been watching British sitcoms since I was five. 'Allo 'Allo, Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em, Are You Being Served?...etc. All the comedic greats. I've seen them so many times – SO MANY TIMES – that we can quote them backwards and forwards. All I need to do is yell, "Mr. Bedford!" in a fey voice and my brother will crack up. Add to that Back to the Future, Star Wars, Indiana Jones and a few other movies and TV shows like Signs and the Gettysburg mini-series and you have a near-impenetrable familial "secret" language.
Somehow I expect any man I have a relationship with to understand us. Yet how could anyone have exactly the same cultural upbringing as I?
My counsellor said that certain social skills, only developed in practice, are somewhat underdeveloped with me, due to my self-inflicted seclusion. I think one of those might be relating to people with whom I haven't grown up. This includes my cousins, co-workers, friends, strangers, even though everyone is a stranger before they are a friend. And how am I supposed to make new friends if I can't talk to strangers? And then what I deem to be my social ineptitude causes me to self-criticize, which then leads me back to my books and family and blowing every social faux-pas way out of proportion. It's a vicious circle.
So I've decided to – and I'm aware that this is probably akin to jumping into the sea when I don’t even know how to swim – MAYBE entertain proposals. My parents say that offers are flooding in for my hand in marriage. I can't think why I'm such hot property. Part of this sudden interest in marriage is because one of the characters in a novel I'm writing is going through the arranged marriage process and I want to become more familiar with what he's going through.
Well. The doctor said I should stop thinking of myself as sick. And I think the main reason I have been shunning all these winsome men is because I've considered myself unable to take the strain. Well, I'm not. They're just people. Not monsters. There's no reason why I shouldn't be able to relate to them as such. Granted, the very idea turns my stomach to water. But that's normal...isn't it?
I shall mull, perform Istikhara and get back to you.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah.
Zed.
Assalam alaikum wr wb.
I've been wondering about language. The way the familiarity of words and cadences comforts, yet also exclude - co-workers who speak a foreign language, of in-jokes and teases that sound like gibberish to your ears, but you can't ask people to explain them because there really is no explanation why their mind picked that particular linguistic blip to replay over and over again.
As you know, I have social anxiety. I've been yearning for a relationship, a husband and children for decades now. Yet very recently, I realised with a sinking feeling…how can an outsider ever fit into my kinky family?
I've been watching British sitcoms since I was five. 'Allo 'Allo, Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em, Are You Being Served?...etc. All the comedic greats. I've seen them so many times – SO MANY TIMES – that we can quote them backwards and forwards. All I need to do is yell, "Mr. Bedford!" in a fey voice and my brother will crack up. Add to that Back to the Future, Star Wars, Indiana Jones and a few other movies and TV shows like Signs and the Gettysburg mini-series and you have a near-impenetrable familial "secret" language.
Somehow I expect any man I have a relationship with to understand us. Yet how could anyone have exactly the same cultural upbringing as I?
My counsellor said that certain social skills, only developed in practice, are somewhat underdeveloped with me, due to my self-inflicted seclusion. I think one of those might be relating to people with whom I haven't grown up. This includes my cousins, co-workers, friends, strangers, even though everyone is a stranger before they are a friend. And how am I supposed to make new friends if I can't talk to strangers? And then what I deem to be my social ineptitude causes me to self-criticize, which then leads me back to my books and family and blowing every social faux-pas way out of proportion. It's a vicious circle.
So I've decided to – and I'm aware that this is probably akin to jumping into the sea when I don’t even know how to swim – MAYBE entertain proposals. My parents say that offers are flooding in for my hand in marriage. I can't think why I'm such hot property. Part of this sudden interest in marriage is because one of the characters in a novel I'm writing is going through the arranged marriage process and I want to become more familiar with what he's going through.
Well. The doctor said I should stop thinking of myself as sick. And I think the main reason I have been shunning all these winsome men is because I've considered myself unable to take the strain. Well, I'm not. They're just people. Not monsters. There's no reason why I shouldn't be able to relate to them as such. Granted, the very idea turns my stomach to water. But that's normal...isn't it?
I shall mull, perform Istikhara and get back to you.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah.
Zed.
Wednesday, 10 December 2008
Mama, it's not your fault
Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem and assalam alaikum wr wb,
I created this blog many moons ago because my friends said they enjoyed reading my Facebook notes. However, I preferred to shelter my thoughts by sharing them with the people I loved. So I kept my ruminations on Facebook.
But now, as my anxiety disorder threatens to boil over, I'm turning to people for help, even my boss R. who, up to this point, I have considered a demon from hell and a mortal enemy (Yeah, I have a tendency to be dramatic.)
She suggested blogging, saying that writing is always the best therapy for writers.
She might be right. Here I am then. It is worth a shot.
Anxiety used to be a friend – a little pussycat called Stress. It assured me that I was alive, that I was functioning. Once in a while, I would put it away, give it to my parents to look after and party like it's 1999 with my close buddies and my family. Over the years, it has grown to the size of a dragon. I imagine myself face to face with it, hot coals in its eyes, the steam rising from its nostrils suffocating me, its forked tail drawing me gently inwards, ever closer to its demonic jaws. But still it is a familiar friend. I might reach out to touch its scaly hide, made tough by years of shielding me from the outside world. It might be purr like the pussycat I once knew and together we will cry with our shared pain, big dragon healing tears.
But I have been told I have to banish my friend because it is stifling me, sapping the love and joy out of my life, murdering my creativity.
I went to my first counseling session yesterday. I did a very long personality assessment, not unlike those darn Tickle personality tests – though those help not a jot, of course. Some questions inspired a WTF response in me, like, "Sex just doesn't interest me." (It was a True or False questionnaire) Umm…no. Hell to the yeah, sex interests me. Especially with Jensen Ackles.
Others were like, "I feel sexier than most other people." Seriously? Seriously?? Is that a disorder? Narcissism, maybe?
Upon analysing my responses, I had learnt to respond to being spurned socially by self criticizing, by self-circumscribing. My social anxiety led me to feel inadequate as compared to my peers and I compensated by throwing myself into my books, since this solitary pursuit was comforting to me as well as assured approval.
I remember Dr. G telling me that my mother, for whom a structured life came very easily, might be the one whose approval I've been pining for all these years. Me, I'm not that into structure. This, I've always known - I've just suppressed to make her happy. I wanted to be a film-maker. She and I had unbearable screaming matches, because she could not bear the thought of me being a penniless and unsuccessful film-maker. So I turned to journalism instead, in an attempt to find an acceptable creative outlet somewhere. When I've tried to circumscribe my creativity by keeping it within the lines of "Plot, Characterisation, blah, blah", it has withered and died. Writing has caused me anxiety when it used to give me great joy.
I know my mother was just trying to protect me. I am the youngest, the only girl in the family and the one who was her baby for the longest. As all mothers do, she tried to mould me in her image. However, unfortunately for both of us, my nature corresponds more with my loosey-goosey clown-like daddy, whom I adore. During these troubling times, I've found a great deal of comfort with him. In his smile, so much like mine. In his incessant ability to crack jokes. In all of this love that I can feel, even when he looks at me. With my mother, I cannot escape the feeling that she is disappointed in me for my failed relationship, for my "illness", for my "weakness. She has more or less said it once or twice. Saying that I was "weak" for relying on my dad for comfort. Saying that I was worrying my parents sick. Of course, she kissed me and held my hand for the longest time before she told me these things, but my heart doesn't seem to have registered the impact of those actions.
I really can't remember everything my counselor told me yesterday. Which is bad, because I remember feeling a wave of relief when he told me that my cure was in my control. Unlearning these psychological responses sounds a lot more satisfying to me than incessantly popping pills.
All I know is that I've been suffering – tremendously. Life has become too much for me. I feel like the outside world is a wave crashing into me and my body is revolting, threatening to implode.
He told me not to think of myself as a sick person anymore. I just have a few kinks I need to iron out, that's all. As a result, I've amended the following poem that I wrote a few days ago:
I want to be young again
To look at a colour and feel its warmth stir some childhood memory from sleep.
I want to laugh and feel it vibrating in my rib-cage, my heart shaking too with mirth
Instead of shrinking away, whispering, "Liar."
I want the seconds, the minutes, the hours, the days to mean something.
Something good.
I want to look back and see more than the funeral pyre.
The ashes of my past life.
When I have achieved this, I want a man.
I would say, "not just any man".
But no man is "just any".
I don't like skinny men or sloppy men.
Or smelly men.
Though I love scruff-muffins.
I like men who are lean, muscly, but not
Walking testosterone.
But none of that really matters
I want someone who'll sing along to Michael Jackson
With the top down on his new convertible.
I want someone that knows what my favourite colour is
What I need in my wardrobe
What size shoe I wear
How and where I would like to sell my words
I want a shining future.
A future of damp sheets, laughter and lazy Sunday mornings
Living room brawls and tears and Little Women
Dirty dancing and dirty jokes and dirty happy children.
Children
Flesh of my flesh
How I have yearned for you since my clock started ticking.
Why, Lord?
Please hear my prayer.
Please.
I have no other desire.
No other desire
No other desire.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed.
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