I want to say that its because we have taken a beating at the youthful sprightly age of 26 that makes us cry at all things odd and inane but it would be a self effacing truth. It is the monthly curse. A curse it was known in the medieval times for many a woman even took to sequestering herself when she was plagued by this red horned devil.
Bitter pill: it would be so pacifying to name all the hormones and the chemicals that cause the unstoppable unexpected out pour of tears at all Hallmark moments. It would be more pacifying to dig into that tub of Belgians chocolate ice cream that followed that large bag of salties.
It seems as we grow older, it does gets harder to sort out our emotions into neat little categories and run a statistical analysis on it. Without wanting to sound like Andy Field, the author of the giganomous book I need to wade through, it is the truth. When I was younger, my emotions might have been a lot more complicated, but there were fewer variables that caused that much angst. Now, at this age, its getting harder and harder to stay in the loop of my own distress cycles!
When I see a dog movie and cry, I know its because I amongst a few odd thousand love my pets more than most people I know. When I cry in the middle of a sap fest in a TV series...ahh maybe its just my period. It could be the art of multitasking that cannot defy the limitations of scientifically measured time. Or maybe its just the fact that all my co conspirators (read amigas) are constantly worrying about being past 25 and not having found the "one".
I could go on about all the new variables that can create our tear ducts to work over time. And I know that my mother would say the same thing to such a tirade as she has been since a few years now "Find a husband so there is someone to take care of you and someone to be support you when you grow old and...", so she would go on.
I say, yes, at the end of every third week, we begin a new cycle that reminds us that we are still a unified part of this reproductive cosmos (not that all of us desire to add to the number of mouths to be fed globally). While we are young, most of us will not realise that this "curse" is actually a heavy (pun intended) reminder of our fertility. Of our ability to create, carry and care for a new life. But. And this is the important 'but'. We are the first generation of women who can actually know the value of the monthly visit that turns us into a devil and we are the first generation who are liberated enough to make a knowledgeable decision. Its not a monthly clock, its not a biological alarm (or warfare!); its a choice that we have.
Husband, man, donor, sperm, in vitro, test tube, adoption or a cat.
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
And there were cows
Its been one month, three weeks and five days since I landed in the fields of the colonizers. And now I understand why they so desperately wanted to conquer 'exotic' territories: to hang colour and culture next to those coat of arms and throphies of war.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
I used to...
I used to be braver. I never cried at movie endings, funerals, sappy prime time TV, the apprehension of life going awry that creeps ups the moment it feels perfect.
At that was a thing I secretly prided in myself. Only intense emotion would bring tears to my very (literally) dry eyes. I had some medical condition that affected my tear ducts. I never saw it coming. This battering that life can mete out. That pride definitely does not foresee.
When I first met the man I was in love with, he used to find this wall around me daunting, even unhealthy. And he used to create these tiny cracks in that fortification, sometimes to make me feel my true emotions, sometimes without realising that his actions were pulling the wall away.
Now. The wall is crumbling for sure and without anyone plugging in the holes.
That really says something. No one can ever stop your fortress from falling apart. All those feminist manifestos, all those cheesy self help books did get that one right. People come and go, trying to pry their way into you, wanting to see your weaknesses, so that they can connect, forge a bond by either sharing them or trying to fix them. And in reality, no matter who you let in, or who you bolt out, these walls can only be mended by you.
And he was right, that man, I did need some cracks in my walls. There was so much I did not let through. Though he never expected the levies to break forth with such a rush! Then again, most men never understand the true extent of what they desire or the consequences.
At that was a thing I secretly prided in myself. Only intense emotion would bring tears to my very (literally) dry eyes. I had some medical condition that affected my tear ducts. I never saw it coming. This battering that life can mete out. That pride definitely does not foresee.
When I first met the man I was in love with, he used to find this wall around me daunting, even unhealthy. And he used to create these tiny cracks in that fortification, sometimes to make me feel my true emotions, sometimes without realising that his actions were pulling the wall away.
Now. The wall is crumbling for sure and without anyone plugging in the holes.
That really says something. No one can ever stop your fortress from falling apart. All those feminist manifestos, all those cheesy self help books did get that one right. People come and go, trying to pry their way into you, wanting to see your weaknesses, so that they can connect, forge a bond by either sharing them or trying to fix them. And in reality, no matter who you let in, or who you bolt out, these walls can only be mended by you.
And he was right, that man, I did need some cracks in my walls. There was so much I did not let through. Though he never expected the levies to break forth with such a rush! Then again, most men never understand the true extent of what they desire or the consequences.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Monday, April 06, 2009
marking my territory
It seems, with time, simple acts of expression have been broken down into evolutionary hang overs by my own inadvertant analysis.
I like biting people. Not in a werewolf, vampure suck you dry of blood way, but in a manner that changes meaning everytime the desire manifests. Yet, it seems to me, biting is what the most obvious explanations would say.
Possibly in the days without sophisticated language (in comparison to grunts and guttral sound), physical acts like biting a beloved and leaving a mark would say to them what, possibly dedicating a song would say to a person of this time. The act of biting would not just be a method of revealing desire in itself, but express feelings when language was readily available and the residual mark would show others that this one is taken.
And in the more sexual acts, the act of biting again has an animalistic edge to it. It seems that the pleasure that one feels while or after being bitten by a lover might have been the result of some cumulative selection that would ensure continuity in an otherwise painful act. Imagine wanting to make love after nursing a painful bite.
My own primitive assumptions. Yet when I think of the desire to bite, isolated from its sexual expression, it seems to be almost like a lingering motor habit from a time when biting would be the one tool that was then replaced by knifes, forks, saws, sciscors, needles and other pointed objects. Almost like a teething child, aching to assuage the tinglng pain, adults biting could just be acting on some ancient motor skill.
Back in the day, and I mean, way back in the day, grinding teeth might also keep them sharp and the ensuing noise might be used to tell an opponent that you were feeling threatened and planned to respond to the threat violently. So perhaps, my sudden urges to bite someone I love might not be as random an urge as I always assumed it to be!
I like biting people. Not in a werewolf, vampure suck you dry of blood way, but in a manner that changes meaning everytime the desire manifests. Yet, it seems to me, biting is what the most obvious explanations would say.
Possibly in the days without sophisticated language (in comparison to grunts and guttral sound), physical acts like biting a beloved and leaving a mark would say to them what, possibly dedicating a song would say to a person of this time. The act of biting would not just be a method of revealing desire in itself, but express feelings when language was readily available and the residual mark would show others that this one is taken.
And in the more sexual acts, the act of biting again has an animalistic edge to it. It seems that the pleasure that one feels while or after being bitten by a lover might have been the result of some cumulative selection that would ensure continuity in an otherwise painful act. Imagine wanting to make love after nursing a painful bite.
My own primitive assumptions. Yet when I think of the desire to bite, isolated from its sexual expression, it seems to be almost like a lingering motor habit from a time when biting would be the one tool that was then replaced by knifes, forks, saws, sciscors, needles and other pointed objects. Almost like a teething child, aching to assuage the tinglng pain, adults biting could just be acting on some ancient motor skill.
Back in the day, and I mean, way back in the day, grinding teeth might also keep them sharp and the ensuing noise might be used to tell an opponent that you were feeling threatened and planned to respond to the threat violently. So perhaps, my sudden urges to bite someone I love might not be as random an urge as I always assumed it to be!
Sunday, March 29, 2009
What makes it home for me
It can be in any corner of the world, and it can never become a home untill I can become a part of their lives in a manner that they find meaningful. It makes me feel undiluted love when my car pulls up outside the gate and I can see a mottled shadow race to my doorstep, assuming I will reciprocate that expression of belonging by providing my legs to rub around while I rustle up a cat meal.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
From the hood
A reference to people from a neighbourhood, usually dangerous, where 'black' is considered a racist usage to identify skin colour. And its reference with ownership, not one used by those living outside the 'hood'.
Today "from the hood" is being reused to define the women I came across at an exhibition where I took my tiny, petite mother. 'Came across' is mild way of describing the encounter. Pushed, shoved, stomped upon, bulldozed into, trampled...are better adjectives. By a stampede of women wearing the hood. The black hood.
My loved ones subscribe to that club. Those who believe that one of the ways to jannah (heaven) is covering themselves with ample cloth to hide their curves, their assets. As of today, there is a clear line drawn straight through the hood. Those who understand the actual implications of wearing the abaya and those who do not.
For wearing that ample black garment is not to merely tick it of the checklist for the one way trip to heaven. It, like all other tenants of a religion, ascribes a way of life that underlines haya; a word that spans concepts like dignity, self respect, modesty, and not just in terms of what you wear but how you behave in front of others and the divine power you subscribe to.
The women wearing the black hoods today at a fabric exhibition defied the purpose of wearing that garment. I don't believe in wearing it, but I respect my friends who wear it, because they wear it with a complete ideology. The women I know today were taking refuge behind its voluminous folds while shoving through a crowd as if that fabric the last fabric being sold on earth. Or that it was the anecdote for a deadly poison. Rather, that fabric to them seemed like a jihad, something that has to be achieved without any worldly regrets. Regrets like pushing an old lady, stomping on an aunty's foot, taking a tired person's place in a long line.
It was sad, initially, to watch them drag a way of life through slime and back. Then it just because disgusting. My own primordial urges took over and I felt like pushing back. Then the evolved side of me pacified the barbaric instincts.
I can hear indignant voices asking me "didn't the other women also misbehave?". Of course they did. They also did not wear attire that is meant to symbolise self control and inner grace.
So ladies, before you decide to wear a veil, or a chaddar, please internalise what that garment is meant to depict, how you are meant to act in it. No one is more stared at than the bully.
And these ladies were bullies.
Today "from the hood" is being reused to define the women I came across at an exhibition where I took my tiny, petite mother. 'Came across' is mild way of describing the encounter. Pushed, shoved, stomped upon, bulldozed into, trampled...are better adjectives. By a stampede of women wearing the hood. The black hood.
My loved ones subscribe to that club. Those who believe that one of the ways to jannah (heaven) is covering themselves with ample cloth to hide their curves, their assets. As of today, there is a clear line drawn straight through the hood. Those who understand the actual implications of wearing the abaya and those who do not.
For wearing that ample black garment is not to merely tick it of the checklist for the one way trip to heaven. It, like all other tenants of a religion, ascribes a way of life that underlines haya; a word that spans concepts like dignity, self respect, modesty, and not just in terms of what you wear but how you behave in front of others and the divine power you subscribe to.
The women wearing the black hoods today at a fabric exhibition defied the purpose of wearing that garment. I don't believe in wearing it, but I respect my friends who wear it, because they wear it with a complete ideology. The women I know today were taking refuge behind its voluminous folds while shoving through a crowd as if that fabric the last fabric being sold on earth. Or that it was the anecdote for a deadly poison. Rather, that fabric to them seemed like a jihad, something that has to be achieved without any worldly regrets. Regrets like pushing an old lady, stomping on an aunty's foot, taking a tired person's place in a long line.
It was sad, initially, to watch them drag a way of life through slime and back. Then it just because disgusting. My own primordial urges took over and I felt like pushing back. Then the evolved side of me pacified the barbaric instincts.
I can hear indignant voices asking me "didn't the other women also misbehave?". Of course they did. They also did not wear attire that is meant to symbolise self control and inner grace.
So ladies, before you decide to wear a veil, or a chaddar, please internalise what that garment is meant to depict, how you are meant to act in it. No one is more stared at than the bully.
And these ladies were bullies.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
The London Stories
She was the first person in my life who shared my inordinate love for animals. In her I found a companion who could share the irrational response to an animals pain or indulgences and I think, knowing that there was someone else like me instilled a sense of acceptance of who I was when I interacted with the animal world.
I always thought I would meet her in London. It was a highly romanticised rendezvous that I had imagined, where I would go spend some time in her flat and bask in her love for me. At the same time, surprising her with my presence would be my way of showing her that I do care for her. Though I had not met her for five years, this plan never weakened. My resolve strengthened when I realised I might be going to England for higher education.
She often used to ask me to come visit her. College, finances always kept that plan as a possibility for a vague future date.
When three weeks ago, I heard she was found after four days in her flat, unconscious from a stroke; I felt nauseas. It was a gut wrenching helplessness, a desperate feeling that someone should be there in London with her. None of us had valid visas. None of us were citizens. And she had no children. Her husband had died 20 years ago.
Her youngest sister, my paternal grandmother, had a similar stroke six years ago, but survived. Her other sister suffered the consequences of a stroke twice: one resulted in paralysis and the other in death.
London was a blessing and a tormentor at the same time. Since she was a citizen, her treatment and her care could carry on regardless of her next of kin being present. It was a tormentor because her next of kin needed to beg their way to an urgent visa.
For twenty years she lived in London alone. Earlier, she was a regular visitor of Pakistan. Then my grandmother took a turn for the worse, in terms of her temper and intolerance and treated her elder sister like a manic possessive girlfriend would treat her visiting boyfriend. So the subject of this writing never returned here. She would call regularly. And at times I would be present during these calls. I could feel the warmth all the way through the cold plastic. I knew she would be smiling and there would be this bright glimmer in her eyes when she would ask me how much time was left for my studies to be completed or when I would visit her.
We even shared the taste of isolated living. She was happy in London, with no family. Her neighbours were here family of choice and their children her daily Quran students. While she was in the hospital with her right side paralysed and immeasurable brain damage, it was this family that tended to her while her blood relatives struggled to rid themselves of their daily responsibilities and begged for urgent visas.
I never heard her complain about her life. It brought her immense pleasure and so she continued to live there alone. She had high blood pressure, and yet she enjoyed each moment of her life there. Cooking her meals, having her snacks while she read in bed. Another taste we both shared.
Shared. The past tense. From is to was. And from a warm, round woman with a naughty sense of humour to a body devoid of identity.
She passed away last night. Our nine thirty in the night, their five in the evening. We sat and we planned how to break the news to her sister, my grand mother. It would be a pantomime, where she would first be told that her sister had taken a turn for the worse and then we would break it to her. And within a few hours she went from being a very sick person, to a dead aunt, to a body for burial and then a problem that needed to be presented with a bow to the next person.
I always thought I would meet her in London. It was a highly romanticised rendezvous that I had imagined, where I would go spend some time in her flat and bask in her love for me. At the same time, surprising her with my presence would be my way of showing her that I do care for her. Though I had not met her for five years, this plan never weakened. My resolve strengthened when I realised I might be going to England for higher education.
She often used to ask me to come visit her. College, finances always kept that plan as a possibility for a vague future date.
When three weeks ago, I heard she was found after four days in her flat, unconscious from a stroke; I felt nauseas. It was a gut wrenching helplessness, a desperate feeling that someone should be there in London with her. None of us had valid visas. None of us were citizens. And she had no children. Her husband had died 20 years ago.
Her youngest sister, my paternal grandmother, had a similar stroke six years ago, but survived. Her other sister suffered the consequences of a stroke twice: one resulted in paralysis and the other in death.
London was a blessing and a tormentor at the same time. Since she was a citizen, her treatment and her care could carry on regardless of her next of kin being present. It was a tormentor because her next of kin needed to beg their way to an urgent visa.
For twenty years she lived in London alone. Earlier, she was a regular visitor of Pakistan. Then my grandmother took a turn for the worse, in terms of her temper and intolerance and treated her elder sister like a manic possessive girlfriend would treat her visiting boyfriend. So the subject of this writing never returned here. She would call regularly. And at times I would be present during these calls. I could feel the warmth all the way through the cold plastic. I knew she would be smiling and there would be this bright glimmer in her eyes when she would ask me how much time was left for my studies to be completed or when I would visit her.
We even shared the taste of isolated living. She was happy in London, with no family. Her neighbours were here family of choice and their children her daily Quran students. While she was in the hospital with her right side paralysed and immeasurable brain damage, it was this family that tended to her while her blood relatives struggled to rid themselves of their daily responsibilities and begged for urgent visas.
I never heard her complain about her life. It brought her immense pleasure and so she continued to live there alone. She had high blood pressure, and yet she enjoyed each moment of her life there. Cooking her meals, having her snacks while she read in bed. Another taste we both shared.
Shared. The past tense. From is to was. And from a warm, round woman with a naughty sense of humour to a body devoid of identity.
She passed away last night. Our nine thirty in the night, their five in the evening. We sat and we planned how to break the news to her sister, my grand mother. It would be a pantomime, where she would first be told that her sister had taken a turn for the worse and then we would break it to her. And within a few hours she went from being a very sick person, to a dead aunt, to a body for burial and then a problem that needed to be presented with a bow to the next person.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
MTved
And I am exhausted. Two days of should I or should I not. Two days of evaluating, self, them and the shows. And nothing.
Why make all this effort, I think then. Everyone is getting screwed over by every medium of media. I hear it from reliable sources and it happens to my friends. And I know I cannot change it as soon as I enter it, and will I be there long enough to change anything? So if I cannot change anything, then the forced passivity to things that I do not condone might undo the last vestiges of my sanity.
So. I thought lets ask those whom I respect. And again, I felt like I had been violated as those who I handed the secret of trust inverted it, perverted it for their own material. Their own end.
Had to. Had to had to move to the few whom I never need to trust, as they are just there. In my peripheries, too close to even need to trust. Just there.
And they answered my questions with the blunt edge that only those wield, who wield it with love.
Why make all this effort, I think then. Everyone is getting screwed over by every medium of media. I hear it from reliable sources and it happens to my friends. And I know I cannot change it as soon as I enter it, and will I be there long enough to change anything? So if I cannot change anything, then the forced passivity to things that I do not condone might undo the last vestiges of my sanity.
So. I thought lets ask those whom I respect. And again, I felt like I had been violated as those who I handed the secret of trust inverted it, perverted it for their own material. Their own end.
Had to. Had to had to move to the few whom I never need to trust, as they are just there. In my peripheries, too close to even need to trust. Just there.
And they answered my questions with the blunt edge that only those wield, who wield it with love.
Monday, February 23, 2009
cityescapes
It works out very well every time I sojourn to the city. I say that as if I come from the suburbs or a village. It has started feeling like that. I seem to shuttle between a glorified town and a organic growth that looks and smells like a city.
As of recent I am relatively free from university and I am expected to make a decision: Karachi or Lahore. Everyone has an opinion. Strong. Loud. Unyielding. And no one's opinion takes into account the one factor, that I call a deciding factor, me.
So. I think I will wait for 'me' to decide. The two cities have separate triggers and pulls. I sometimes feel like I am being torn apart by two lovers. Both exalting their own attributes, both leeching on to my energies. And I do love them both.
Perhaps its time for me to find a third love and settle there.
As of recent I am relatively free from university and I am expected to make a decision: Karachi or Lahore. Everyone has an opinion. Strong. Loud. Unyielding. And no one's opinion takes into account the one factor, that I call a deciding factor, me.
So. I think I will wait for 'me' to decide. The two cities have separate triggers and pulls. I sometimes feel like I am being torn apart by two lovers. Both exalting their own attributes, both leeching on to my energies. And I do love them both.
Perhaps its time for me to find a third love and settle there.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Chomp, Slam, Shove, Bang
I hated it when my grandmother would poke me in the back so that I would sit up straight or when in her all knowing nasal voice she would say "elbows off the table" or "only dogs stretch after a meal".
I grew up dreading the days I would have to spend at her house. Everything smelled old. Oil of Ulay, ittar and Capri soap still take me to her dressing table where touching her face powder puff would be the greatest indulgence she would provide me with. Other wise, nothing could intrude in the symmetry the couple lived in: other than when I slept between them.
It still makes no sense to me why our grandparents slept in the same room but on different single beds. What made my experience "curiouser" was my grandmother and grandfather slept on two single beds pushed together, and I, on my forced night-spends would sleep where the two beds met in an uncomfortable junction of protruding wood.
Years have passed since my firm yet extremely humble inobstrusive grandfather passed away and my mother and her siblings forced my grandmother into a life of dependence: Six months with every child, and no place to call home. Now, when I observe others as they chew, close doors, walk in a crowd or don't hold the door open for others, I guiltily reference them with my grandmothers categories of etiquette's.
I don't judge anyone with any specific standards, each person creates their own schema in my brain. No one is labelled according to material manifestations such as money or manners. I would, however, be dishonest if I say that the latter never crosses my mind.
Over the years, my friends, boyfriends and family members have fallen into the many shades of grey that manners spread across and some into the infinite blacks of disgusting behaviour and some into the pristine white of appearance keeping. While writing this, I tag people as they flop on the belt of categories that I just created in my head. It never crosses my mind to use this as an elimination tool.
Grateful I am though. Grateful that my grandmother taught me the entire array of Do's and Don'ts. I do not agree with all nuances of manners imparted to me.The very fact that they were all ingrained in my system allows me to choose when to use manners as a bar that I set and which manners to include in this measurement.
I grew up dreading the days I would have to spend at her house. Everything smelled old. Oil of Ulay, ittar and Capri soap still take me to her dressing table where touching her face powder puff would be the greatest indulgence she would provide me with. Other wise, nothing could intrude in the symmetry the couple lived in: other than when I slept between them.
It still makes no sense to me why our grandparents slept in the same room but on different single beds. What made my experience "curiouser" was my grandmother and grandfather slept on two single beds pushed together, and I, on my forced night-spends would sleep where the two beds met in an uncomfortable junction of protruding wood.
Years have passed since my firm yet extremely humble inobstrusive grandfather passed away and my mother and her siblings forced my grandmother into a life of dependence: Six months with every child, and no place to call home. Now, when I observe others as they chew, close doors, walk in a crowd or don't hold the door open for others, I guiltily reference them with my grandmothers categories of etiquette's.
I don't judge anyone with any specific standards, each person creates their own schema in my brain. No one is labelled according to material manifestations such as money or manners. I would, however, be dishonest if I say that the latter never crosses my mind.
Over the years, my friends, boyfriends and family members have fallen into the many shades of grey that manners spread across and some into the infinite blacks of disgusting behaviour and some into the pristine white of appearance keeping. While writing this, I tag people as they flop on the belt of categories that I just created in my head. It never crosses my mind to use this as an elimination tool.
Grateful I am though. Grateful that my grandmother taught me the entire array of Do's and Don'ts. I do not agree with all nuances of manners imparted to me.The very fact that they were all ingrained in my system allows me to choose when to use manners as a bar that I set and which manners to include in this measurement.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Limitations of Love
Two nights ago, I was leaving work. I sat in my car, checked the rear and side mirrors and instead of taking the usual route home, went in the opposite direction. Intending to go home, but just not the same way.
I was about to accelerate when a small form crossed the dim yellow pool of street light. I slowed down. My friends think that I was fitted in with some radar that alerts me to the presence of animals, a few hundred yards away. As it turns out, the little form was a puppy. Black with brown markings. He did not seem to belong to anyone and he knew it.
So he tried to belong to whatever seemed to be moving: a cycle, a cat and then eventually my car as it came closer.
I slowed down even more, crossed the puppy and the stopped the car in the middle of the road. He was still following my car, but a little distracted. I really really wanted to get out of my seat, pick him up and take him home.
A thousand reasons existed then and exist now for why I cannot take home another animal. Most of them are related to my mother. I wanted to push them all out and bring him home. But somewhere, logic, cold, bitchy and calculating reason prevailed. I could not rescue him for a few days, and I could not remove him from the fight of the survival of the fittest to spoil him and then release him back to the wild.
So I drove off.
I cannot shake the image out of my mind. A dark T Junction with a orange yellow glow cast from one side the road. A little, black puppy rolling along, trying to belong to anything that moved. And I took a left and drove on.
I was about to accelerate when a small form crossed the dim yellow pool of street light. I slowed down. My friends think that I was fitted in with some radar that alerts me to the presence of animals, a few hundred yards away. As it turns out, the little form was a puppy. Black with brown markings. He did not seem to belong to anyone and he knew it.
So he tried to belong to whatever seemed to be moving: a cycle, a cat and then eventually my car as it came closer.
I slowed down even more, crossed the puppy and the stopped the car in the middle of the road. He was still following my car, but a little distracted. I really really wanted to get out of my seat, pick him up and take him home.
A thousand reasons existed then and exist now for why I cannot take home another animal. Most of them are related to my mother. I wanted to push them all out and bring him home. But somewhere, logic, cold, bitchy and calculating reason prevailed. I could not rescue him for a few days, and I could not remove him from the fight of the survival of the fittest to spoil him and then release him back to the wild.
So I drove off.
I cannot shake the image out of my mind. A dark T Junction with a orange yellow glow cast from one side the road. A little, black puppy rolling along, trying to belong to anything that moved. And I took a left and drove on.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
privacy, isloation and relationships
Facebook is another method of voyerism, especially for those who do not want to identify the habit. We try and create all these limitations: choosing who can see our walls, photo albums, profile details yet we want to follow those very same things in other peoples facebook lives. I think if there was an option for a live feed via webcam people would stop working, going to bathrooom without their laptops in fear of missing what other people are doing.
It seems it is our solution to boredom, to loneliness, to keeping up with the Joneses.
We indulge in, we tempt people with teasers as statuses, we provide almost erotic glimpses into our otherwise dreary lives. Even those who follow up their FB albums with real life drama seem to be hiding from the actual vaccum in their lives. Trite, cliched words, but it seems so true as daily people use facebook to create more relationships, to pretend that their life is worth your living.
Isolation is lathered and slathered with catchy nicknames, cute messages on others Walls and most of all...following the lives of others through the news stream that passes through the homepage.
It seems that the internet wants to provide an alternative to the problem it created. Sort of like mass capitalistic strategy: create a problem and then sell the solution. I love the internet, make no mistake. It is my gateway to knowledge in a way that nothing else can replace. Yet. It created this ringing hollow in everyone's lives by taking away the actual time spent with actual people doing actual things. So the fix was virtual time, virtual people and virtual activities.
Like my writing this blog.
It seems it is our solution to boredom, to loneliness, to keeping up with the Joneses.
We indulge in, we tempt people with teasers as statuses, we provide almost erotic glimpses into our otherwise dreary lives. Even those who follow up their FB albums with real life drama seem to be hiding from the actual vaccum in their lives. Trite, cliched words, but it seems so true as daily people use facebook to create more relationships, to pretend that their life is worth your living.
Isolation is lathered and slathered with catchy nicknames, cute messages on others Walls and most of all...following the lives of others through the news stream that passes through the homepage.
It seems that the internet wants to provide an alternative to the problem it created. Sort of like mass capitalistic strategy: create a problem and then sell the solution. I love the internet, make no mistake. It is my gateway to knowledge in a way that nothing else can replace. Yet. It created this ringing hollow in everyone's lives by taking away the actual time spent with actual people doing actual things. So the fix was virtual time, virtual people and virtual activities.
Like my writing this blog.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Psych 115
I have uploaded this because the person mentioned in the first of the four parts to this work recently went through something that upset her. Something, because of her formal relationship with animals, stilted her ability to deal with the situation. I know how hard it is to swallow such ugly incidents, but I also know it is within her to understand these are important aspects of life meant to desensitise the desensitization.
I experienced the loss of a pet recently, and since childhood, I do not talk about issues that are painful or unresolved. Yet, the human desire to share with another person was stronger than my coping mechanism and I text messaged a friend of mine. A simple one line message that just stated what happened and my desire to not speak about it.
This friend has been in my life since I was 7. We have shared the most horrendous, excruciatingly painful moments as well as high on life joyous occasions, with no hesitations or barriers. I know she is averse to animals, but out of love for me tolerates them whenever she encounters them, even if I am not there. I still expected her to fumble with words in the reply to my text, not knowing what to say to an obsessive animal lover. Her reply flooded me with what I can only describe as pure undiluted love for her. It was honest about her inability to appreciate pets, but at the same time, her empathy for my situation combined with her love for me, and for any life form reached out to me in my moment of weakness. And nothing usually does at such moments.
The only motives that I assess in this situation were possibly my desire to have human contact in a moment of need and hers were to be there for me. And both motives seem to fit in perfectly with each other, with fluid communication that is a result of 18 years of a relationship.
For many people music is just a background score to their lives. For me: music is a sublime experience that I feel can even raise humanity from the filth and squalor that it is mired in so deeply. People usually enjoy music as an accompaniment: while they drive, while they dance, or eat. Everyone perceives it in a different manner. I perceive it as a life sustaining component. I was at a concert recently. One of Pakistan’s legends was performing. And just listening to that performance, watching it through the eye of the camera was a moment of hard hitting euphoria. It was like riding a wave of high quality intoxicants, though the irony was that such music is an intoxicant enough! That euphoria lies in the moment when there are goose bumps on my arms and those who are present around me melt away in the background and all I can see, hear, feel is the music.
The motivation to listen to music or to be surrounded by it varies according to the given state. At the moment that I have described, the motivation was simple: to be at the concert for an experience I was sure would be nothing short of euphoric.
I got upset at a friend of mine a couple of months ago. She was shifting out of the country and circumstances led to such a point where I felt she was being difficult on purpose. It really angered me: her obstinacy and what I perceived as selfishness. I felt aggravated and on the disadvantaged end of a relationship thread. The negative emotion was overwhelming for a while: self centeredness. I wanted to react, instead of calmly analysing the situation; instead of rationalizing I wanted to act out.
In such a situation, the acting out is motivated by balancing the anger seesaw: lash out so that the other person is also upset. The motivation is inflating the damaged self esteem; damaged by what you perceive as the other persons rejection of your self. If you can manage to get a reaction from the other person, a reaction that signifies your importance to that person, the motivation is fulfilled.
Since almost a year now, every week is coloured by rivulets of blood. Karachi, Lahore, NWFP, Wanna, Bajur, Gaza, Congo there seems to be an unnecessary slaughter on a daily basis. Each time I hear the news listing the number of dead, sandwiched between the daily sputtering by the PM and the President, it sounds hollow till it hits home. And the most negative emotion out of the entire range of emotions that I feel is of helplessness. The rest can all be attributed to a basic positive emotion but helplessness cannot. It is this sense of drowning, where the heat leaves the body, limbs feel weak and jelly like.
It’s easier to feel this negative emotion and temporarily let it sweep you off your feet. It seems to be motivated by this primal urge to run. Nomadic societies used to turn their backs to many problems and find new pasture and land. Its only when the options are narrowed down, eliminated that flight is overpowered by fight. That minute or two of helplessness seems to be motivated by the survival instinct: to run and protect oneself.
All these incidents cannot be tied up in a neat package with a bow on top. They are all dissections of even more minute parts of my person. They do teach me a lot, but only in context with other incidents and emotions. The emotion of helplessness teaches me that I can stand through a lot, but when my body or mind tires, I am motivated to run. So that weakness comes after strength and before strength. That same strength comes to me when I want to share the loss of a pet with a friend whom I presume will not understand. That strength makes me open up to her and at the same time, it stops me from other negative emotions like self centeredness which pushed through when I was upset with my friend who was leaving. All emotions are interlinked and there is not hard line where one emotion ends and the other begins. And it is important that I allow myself to experience all these emotions, before letting over struggle with the other and overtaking.
I experienced the loss of a pet recently, and since childhood, I do not talk about issues that are painful or unresolved. Yet, the human desire to share with another person was stronger than my coping mechanism and I text messaged a friend of mine. A simple one line message that just stated what happened and my desire to not speak about it.
This friend has been in my life since I was 7. We have shared the most horrendous, excruciatingly painful moments as well as high on life joyous occasions, with no hesitations or barriers. I know she is averse to animals, but out of love for me tolerates them whenever she encounters them, even if I am not there. I still expected her to fumble with words in the reply to my text, not knowing what to say to an obsessive animal lover. Her reply flooded me with what I can only describe as pure undiluted love for her. It was honest about her inability to appreciate pets, but at the same time, her empathy for my situation combined with her love for me, and for any life form reached out to me in my moment of weakness. And nothing usually does at such moments.
The only motives that I assess in this situation were possibly my desire to have human contact in a moment of need and hers were to be there for me. And both motives seem to fit in perfectly with each other, with fluid communication that is a result of 18 years of a relationship.
For many people music is just a background score to their lives. For me: music is a sublime experience that I feel can even raise humanity from the filth and squalor that it is mired in so deeply. People usually enjoy music as an accompaniment: while they drive, while they dance, or eat. Everyone perceives it in a different manner. I perceive it as a life sustaining component. I was at a concert recently. One of Pakistan’s legends was performing. And just listening to that performance, watching it through the eye of the camera was a moment of hard hitting euphoria. It was like riding a wave of high quality intoxicants, though the irony was that such music is an intoxicant enough! That euphoria lies in the moment when there are goose bumps on my arms and those who are present around me melt away in the background and all I can see, hear, feel is the music.
The motivation to listen to music or to be surrounded by it varies according to the given state. At the moment that I have described, the motivation was simple: to be at the concert for an experience I was sure would be nothing short of euphoric.
I got upset at a friend of mine a couple of months ago. She was shifting out of the country and circumstances led to such a point where I felt she was being difficult on purpose. It really angered me: her obstinacy and what I perceived as selfishness. I felt aggravated and on the disadvantaged end of a relationship thread. The negative emotion was overwhelming for a while: self centeredness. I wanted to react, instead of calmly analysing the situation; instead of rationalizing I wanted to act out.
In such a situation, the acting out is motivated by balancing the anger seesaw: lash out so that the other person is also upset. The motivation is inflating the damaged self esteem; damaged by what you perceive as the other persons rejection of your self. If you can manage to get a reaction from the other person, a reaction that signifies your importance to that person, the motivation is fulfilled.
Since almost a year now, every week is coloured by rivulets of blood. Karachi, Lahore, NWFP, Wanna, Bajur, Gaza, Congo there seems to be an unnecessary slaughter on a daily basis. Each time I hear the news listing the number of dead, sandwiched between the daily sputtering by the PM and the President, it sounds hollow till it hits home. And the most negative emotion out of the entire range of emotions that I feel is of helplessness. The rest can all be attributed to a basic positive emotion but helplessness cannot. It is this sense of drowning, where the heat leaves the body, limbs feel weak and jelly like.
It’s easier to feel this negative emotion and temporarily let it sweep you off your feet. It seems to be motivated by this primal urge to run. Nomadic societies used to turn their backs to many problems and find new pasture and land. Its only when the options are narrowed down, eliminated that flight is overpowered by fight. That minute or two of helplessness seems to be motivated by the survival instinct: to run and protect oneself.
All these incidents cannot be tied up in a neat package with a bow on top. They are all dissections of even more minute parts of my person. They do teach me a lot, but only in context with other incidents and emotions. The emotion of helplessness teaches me that I can stand through a lot, but when my body or mind tires, I am motivated to run. So that weakness comes after strength and before strength. That same strength comes to me when I want to share the loss of a pet with a friend whom I presume will not understand. That strength makes me open up to her and at the same time, it stops me from other negative emotions like self centeredness which pushed through when I was upset with my friend who was leaving. All emotions are interlinked and there is not hard line where one emotion ends and the other begins. And it is important that I allow myself to experience all these emotions, before letting over struggle with the other and overtaking.
Submitted December 2008 to Ms Ayesha Haider
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