and then our exile

After a longish hiatus during which I simply forgot about this "thing" [I refuse to call it a "blog"--if language is an art form, which it is, I am not going turn rapist] I have returned. Mainly because I was reminded yesterday afternoon, at 01:26:08pm, when I happened upon an email finishing with "not to mention i got the most horrible urge last night".

And so, I decide to find out if this was still alive. I did finally remember my username on the second attempt, and entered the cyber-domain you are at right now, opening the gilded door and entering a hall hung with damask yet shrouded in dust and covered with spiderwebs. An old, old man in a high-backed chair staring blankly at a monotonous stone wall stretching up into infinity, wrinklified and decrepit.(*) He turned towards me slowly, and joints cre-aked. He stared for a few seconds without recognition, but then nodded his head infinately slowly---ah yes, he said. it is you. He [his name is {wuddistan in motion}] then went on to promise that if I wrote here regularly, he will enliven and revitalize, and all will be as it once was.

(*): i seem to be using the word decrepit a lot. I used it last night at Grant MacEwan, I think I used it at the UCAWAR meeting, and I have used it in emails to ellsie and kevan. But, no matter: I like the word.

Another issue, though, which arises: is this posting-place really worth it? That is, for the amount of time I spend typing, what happens? Another forum by which Eschelon can grab my thoughts for use in future incarcerations, of course, and that's always good. But otherwise? I'd much rather write in something which has a physical reality--the day the e-bomb explodes over san fransisco, all these ramblings will be for naught, while the notebooks remain for posterity. So, why?

Reading what was written below, I have a tendency to shake my head at the disruption of half-naivity that followed. Not quite a year ago, but at the time I was in transitional, moving over to the person I am now. The similarities between the two people are fairly numerous, but something has shifted...

Anyways, now: this is a fairly good start. I have included my necessary apologetic-disclaimer, and am now heading out, to the glorious physics and beautiful math. But bio remains decent, and english is good stuff, and dars is beneficial. Usman is beautiful, the world is red and gold and green and sunshiny with something that strikes me to the heart--makes me wish I could really appreciate it. The only time that is possible, I think, truly, would be at the moment of one's death, but perhaps not even then... At any rate, though, Manicom's poem, "we longed to want Jesus"--that is, a second-step removed, a half-relative away.
Birds are singing, everywhere. Bush is about to launch is latest rampage, outrage against humanity. And the two live side by side, a marvel to behold.

Asif Chachcha comes tonight with Ali. I go to the airport to pick them up. The CSIS officer monitoring this should know that our roosters are vicious and will attack anyone who wants to rifle through our mail or our house while I'm gone. On Sunday, I go to a Palestine-rally I do not have high hopes for, in terms of turnout or effectivity, though it seems as though Ellsie is mc-ing.
Someone remind me to email my dear brother Emad, and ask him specifically if the lifting of sanctions against Libya affects him personally or if it only benefits the monster in power.

And now, I really do go.
Wasalam.