Floundering Through Life, Stealing Shiny Things

I’ve signed an NDA so don’t ask me what or how but you could swing a “How does it make you feel?”

Logging back onto any online platform I used for writing in college or high-school feels like opening up my old bedroom closets – friendly and unfriendly reminders of who I was and who I still am. There’s something predictable about hating what I thought was fashionable as a 15 year-old, and what I thought was mature at 22 years-old. If I’m lucky I’ll have outgrown the pieces I dislike, and still…

When Jo stepped on pavement, everyone complained about the afro-pop that trailed behind her. Each beat was a kick in the shin, disinviting the people she had come to know and sending bat signals to the family she was fighting for. ———- Bus rides to New York City lasted 4 hours on good days and 7 hours on bad days. Jo didn’t ever spend that many hours on the bus but any time spent standing…

Up and down Symmes Court. In and out of Chinese Satellite. The up and in and down and out happened miles apart, but back on Symmes Court it all feels the same. New shoes, younger hair, no debt. But I haven’t moved. I can’t drive. My words are garbled and I can’t make anything out through the non-stop screaming that keeps me up all night, sweating. One friend got married. The other fell out…

From my pink Rolling Stones moleskin

I want to write something I’ll be remembered for. Something that will move and impress people. I want to make it revolutionary and radical and meaningfully exclusive to Pakistani Muslims and tactfully inclusive of all those who feel othered in some way. But I can’t even decide what to name my character. Mariyam or Mary.

I’m just relieved it’s not been that long

This blog has witnessed Northampton, MA. It has witnessed the insides of tea shops and cafes, and of my 20-something brain. Quite frankly, I’m surprised. Now it’s time to witness the imposingly-named Ballston in the plastic city of Arlington, VA across (the Potomac) from the concrete of D.C. I never thought it would come to this. I never thought I would get here and now that I am, I spend so…

I’m sitting in this weird, lamp-lit tea cafe in a queer town in Western Mass. And I swear I’m trying to mind my own business (no, I’m not) but there’s a window opposite the booth filled with floor pillows that I’m seated in. And in the window I see the cash register behind me, reflected.

And I’m already a little bummed out because the tea I ordered without even looking at the menu – a situation…

IN THE DISTANCE

Someone in the accounts department  : “Wouldn’t it be great if we were detectives?”

Everyone in the accounts department: “No..” “No!” “…No?”

Eman inherited the farm when she married her husband. She had never dreamed of owning one. In fact, it was the furthest thing from her mind as a young woman. During college she studied British literature, because it came easily to her. She had never lived in England, but their literature was all her school system ever taught her. And eventually she grew to love it. I heard a lot of Oscar Wilde…

“Will you cry when I leave?”

Her bug-eyes scared me, and when she spoke I was reminded of her home, somewhere across the ocean from mine.

I laughed, trying to avoid the subject. “I don’t need to! You’ll know I’m sad.”

She frowned, disapproving. I saw a few integrals and limits scattered over the page she was poring over.

I understood, but what could I give her?

Every year began and ended with a…

My favorite person in the world called yesterday.

She talked about her cat, her last final before the weather rushed in to terrorize the city and how her sister was getting married.

I asked about her panic attacks, and her mother, and she gave me answers as honest as possible without being too descriptive.

The TV was blaring in the background and I picked up on a few snippets of local news. This…

I’m thinking of fingers.

I’m thinking of my mother’s fingers (in particular) because she’s the only person in my life who ever expressed an interest in how fingers should look; the ideal set of fingers.

I remember her telling me, once, many years ago, that she had artist’s fingers. She was so proud, (almost relieved) that she had artist’s fingers. And as she told me this, she pointed out that I,…

Growing up, I gradually became aware of how infuriatingly emotional I am. I could not confront or have difficult conversations with anyone, because I was afraid of crying and looking foolish. My mother was sick of my tears, and eventually, it was my father who stepped up and said: “Cry. I’ll ignore it and keep the conversation going.”

I loved him for that.

I have changed a lot since then. I…