and then our exile

Every place / i walk i see the / ghosts of a memory.

It's snowing again. Heavily. Time for a heavy post.

Today bread was baked. And old pictures were looked at. And recently a phone call from the ArtSocietyofStrathconaCounty. Do i remember i participated in some art show they did a few years ago and would i like to do so again now. Meh. i have no time.

Anyways. Today is a day with a decidedly "curious" twist. On my bio exam this morning [click (not)] i blanked on the last question, telling the teacher i could make things up if it'd make her smile, but otherwise would "prefer not to" (Bartleby, anyone?). Driving to the MCE i ended up going the wrong way on one-way streets and then became a farmer. And so sparked musings. On campus everywhere i bumped into people i knew or thought i did. And now of a sudden a rare phoning-frenzy, and i have called three. Two weren't home. So i've rushed back to this the computer, to console and love.

The past week or so: sleeping a lot. Narcolepsy, indeed. Felt synthesized, learned more about placentas and ectoderms than ever i've had reason to do before.

Pacifism: a couple of my acquaintances / intimates subscribe to such, and most have been shocked at some point or other by various vehement "bloody hell may these perpetrators of injustice be damn'ed forevermore". For my definitive statement on such i'll simply quote Malcolm X (because i can): "Islam teaches us to be peaceful, to be good citizens, obey the law. But if someone lays a hand on you, you send him to the cemetary." Also, i'll point people in the direction of a brilliant interview with John Pilger, which pretty much sums up my ideas on resistance through violence ("by any means necessary").

i was putting the protest-signs from our sharkiness into the back of my closet, and have come to this: at some point once it's a bit warmer we hand-pick a few of our close-people and do it as an independent event, afterwhich we picnic in a park. i say the first weekend of May.

Rapidity. i'm mournful as i think on the close of an era--i'm only 39, and my prospected departure in late July is rushing towards me. Right now is when i kick my feet and wail because of things coming to an end--the life-structures of the past, oh, eleven years? And Farooq already makes me dizzy, and Babaji to Iran in nine days, and Zacharia to Damishq in mid-April, A&M, Ph-R-D and Shuaibu, LC to Dutchland (is McGill dead?)... and all the people i never get to see. Bah. i'm still looking forward to my own year, muchly so, but not looking forward to the leaving part. How's that for a fine dichotomy?

Usman has tired himself out, and now sits quiet on my lap, eyes observant and head nestled between my cheek and collarbone. i love him so much it hurts.