Today I feel in a distinctly logistical mood. I have arranged my life into little boxes, and know [approximately. 5 o'clock or 4.30? i cannot remember, which should be hysterically funny.] what I'm doing tomorrow, and the next, and the next. I stopped when I got to the Parkland Conference, though. It's impossible to determine on which day Ramadan'll start, and so I know not what day I'll be going for i'tikaaf--but know it's in there somewhere.
One situation I've never really been in before, to this extent: I am ready to defend Old World traditions, values, culture, etc., against all those who see them as restrictive and strait-jacketish, for as long as is possible. Except now I'm find myself finding myself restricted by the same--and even my use of the word restricted becomes a betrayal.
A member of Wuddistan just left for Portugal. I have done the dishes and waded through all the miscellany Usman seems to enjoy decorating the floor with, and am about to jump into polynomials. Keep me in your du'aa. And now, I jump.
*jump*.
[reading: Thomas Mann: Death in Venice and Other Stories: Tonio Kruger]
and then our exile
Saturday, October 18, 2003 at 2:35 p.m.
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