and then our exile

A sense of fail'ed potential induced by external stimuli.

Very soon i must start physics. But, the month of March:
1999: at this time we were packing our bags for Uzbekistan: Bukhara and Samarqand have always beckoned my mother, and we entered the country some of the first foreign travellers of the post-Soviet era, meeting everywhere the residue of a potent Islamic essence, with the masterpieces of Islamic architecture and sources of such insight and fervency yet extant after hundreds of years, aside from which in terms of Truth the country is a vacuous, oozing wound--Soviet occupation raped the society, wrenching people Awae in a painful, tort'rous process of secularization, and for all intents and purposes the mentality has remained; Islamic activists are "disappeared" and tortured in indescribable ways by the government (a US ally in the region), while on the streets of Tashkent drunks lie stupefied on the sidewalk at 10 in the morning.

2000: Maman and Babaji departed on the Hajj, the annual pilgrimage to Makkah&area incumbent upon each financially-capable adult Muslim. Noor and i remained here, "Oma-sitting".

Today: the feeling that i want to see Z every day. i respond to warmth in kind. Right now i'm stroking my beard too much, so think i should go make wudhu.

But oh, driving home yesterday just as we were leaving Sherwood Park i had to rub mine eyes and stare--what's with the new IGA? Something called "Sobeys"--i mean, really?