[0266]

"Take it moment by moment, and you will see that we are all, as I've said before, bugs in amber."
- Kurt Vonnegut

[0265] - Coming Home

I stand hunched over at baggage claim, looking haggard as ever. Twenty-three hours ago I was caught in a blizzard at Pearson, and now I’m in the middle of a hot crowded terminal at King Abdulaziz International Airport. I feel antsy and want nothing more than for the conveyor belt to start moving and spew out my bags. I check my watch and scrunch my face; it’s been more than an hour and a half since I deplaned. I run my tongue along my cracked, chapped lips while I think about the cons of being back in the third world. A woman stands beside me with a toddler in her arms. The child stares at me with his big brown eyes, and I stare back. He is much too large to be in his mother’s arms. I look away and catch my reflection in the glass doors across the belt. My hair is larger than ever thanks to the Saudi humidity. It’s one thing I don’t miss while I’m away.

The red light at the end of the conveyer belt starts flashing, and a loud beep welcomes the first bag out. It’s not mine. I move closer to the belt and push up my black long sleeves. I glance down at my watch again and think my parents must be getting tired waiting outside. A few more bags roll by and I get a glimpse of my blue and yellow Samsonite bag inching towards me. Poised to grab the handle, I’m relieved Air France didn’t misplace my baggage this time. I yank it off the belt and wield my way through the throngs of travellers and crying babies. Gone is any trace of travel fatigue. In its place is budding excitement; I haven’t seen my parents in five long months.

            The arrival gates whoosh open and I face a sea of expressions. Some look thrilled, some look mortified, and some look down at their cell phones. I scan the fluorescent-lit room and finally spot him. Papa waves, grins, and walks towards me. I notice his salt and pepper hair is more salt than pepper now. He embraces me and kisses my forehead as I take in his scents of Fahrenheit and aftershave, trying to commit them to memory. He pulls back after a few seconds and surveys my appearance with his hands clasped on to my shoulders.

           He takes hold of my suitcase and pulls it alongside him, his other arm around my shoulders. A few steps later I see Mama making her way towards us. Her eyes beam and her smile exudes a child-like innocence. We run to each other in that cheesy way long lost lovers do in movies. Mama squeezes me in a tight hug and we kiss each other’s cheeks. She smells of tangerines and perfume like she always does, her milky skin glistens in the heat. We discuss my flight and previous semester as Papa pulls over in his white SUV. I open the back door and he helps me shove in my oversized suitcase.

            “It’s not like you to pack so lightly, Nina,” his tone is tinged with playful sarcasm. I roll my eyes, smirk and climb into the backseat. The road home is lined with palm trees the King imports from Andalusia. They whiz by on both sides as the sun smiles over the Red Sea to my left, almost as if it were happy to see me too. The sound of Mama and Papa's voices puts me at ease and I close my weary eyes. I’m home.

[0264] Words with no English Translations Part III

Waldeinsamkeit (German): The feeling of being alone in the woods.

Cualacino (Italian): The mark left on a table by a cold glass.

Iktsuarpok (Inuit): The feeling of anticipation that leads you to keep looking outside to see if anyone is coming.

Komorebi (Japanese): Sunlight that filters through the leaves of trees.

Pochemuchka (Russian): A person who asks a lot of questions.

Sobremesa (Spanish): The time spent after lunch or dinner, talking to the people you shared the meal with.

Jayus (Indonesian): A joke told so poorly and so unfunny that one cannot help but laugh.

Pana Po'o (Hawaiian): The act of scratching your head in order to help you remember something you've forgotten.

Depaysement (French): The feeling that comes from not being in one's home country.

Goya (Urdu): The transporting suspension of disbelief that can occur in good storytelling.

Mangata (Swedish): The road-like reflection of the moon on the water.

[0263] homage

Her skin always smells like rose scented soap and a tinge of pipe tobacco. The bun atop her head rests in the same angle from morning to evening to night. The bangs that cascade around her forehead rest in that familiar way, slightly twirled at the ends. She prefers to wear linen and lawn, and she prefers not to be confined. Her hands are calloused from her labor of love in the kitchen; she says she's her best self when she's cooking. For the people she loves unconditionally, the word no has never existed in her vocabulary. To her the answer is always, undoubtedly a yes. She makes everything she does look effortless, as though it were a mere afterthought in her mind. Her stories paint vivid, dazzling images in the minds of listeners. She laughs from the deep recesses of her belly. Everything about her has been constant since I can remember. Her aura and spirit are unmatched and unchanged. No travesty or misfortune deters her, breaks her, or crushes her. She is a phoenix. She rises to every challenge, her fiery temperament has passed down to her children and their children. She is my Grandmother. My Nani Jaan. It is her voice inside my head that tells me to strive for more, as a woman and as a human being. It is from her that I learned how to define loyalty and passion and how to stand up for my convictions. Her life will forever be the benchmark to which I compare my own. 

[0262] the paradox that is happiness

Whenever I'm reading and I come across a quote that I like, or a quote that inspires thought, I type it into a word document. I started doing this when I was 19. I'm 22 now and that word document is more than 100 pages long. I found myself scrolling through it today, trying out different systems of organization and subheadings. Here are 5 of them that are either thought provoking or produce a certain type of imagery; both in terms of the fickle idea of happiness. Enjoy.

“It is almost as if happiness is an acquired taste, like coconut cordial or ceviche, to which you can eventually become accustomed, but despair is something surprising each time you encounter it.” 
― Lemony Snicket

“It's so hard to forget pain, but it's even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace.” 
― Chuck Palahniuk

“What, if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: 'This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more' ... Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus? Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment when you would have answered him: 'You are a god and never have I heard anything more divine.” 
― Friedrich Nietzsche

“I swear since seeing your face, the whole world is fraud and fantasy. The garden is bewildered as to what is leaf or blossom. The distracted birds can't distinguish the birdseed from the snare.” 
― Rumi

“And therein lies the whole of man's plight. Human time does not turn in a circle; it runs ahead in a straight line. That is why man cannot be happy: happiness is the longing for repetition.” 
― Milan Kundera 

[0261]

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea, 
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown, 
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.                 

— T.S. Eliot

[0260] read 'em n weep

[0259] midnight revelations

Self-destructive behaviour gives me some sort of catharsis that laughs in the face of resilience. I've got 99 problems, much like Jay Z, and probably much like everyone else on the face of this planet. But when it comes to a decision between sitting there in a bucket of venom or getting up and taking proactive measures to feel better, I usually choose the former, if at least for a bit. If you'll allow me the irony, there's something about self-destruction that makes me feel good, so darkly good. The pain I feel is magnified tenfold yet it simultaneously stops looming so large over the horizon of my life. I'm pleased when my mind races to places it shouldn't race to, I like the adrenaline rush that comes with paranoia. I feel human in those moments, I feel like myself.

I luxuriate in the throaty burn of one part reality and two parts gin. 

[0258]

Why don't you tell me that "if the girl had been worth having she'd have waited for you"? No, sir, the girl really worth having wont wait for anybody.

- F. Scott Fitzgerald

[0257] Y

That perfect letter. The wishbone, fork in the road, empty wineglass.

The question we ask over and over. Why?

With my arms outstretched, feet in first position.

The chromosome half of us don't have.
Second to last in the alphabet: almost there.

Coupled with an L, let's make an adverb,

A modest X, legs closed. Y or N? Yes, of course.

Upside down peace sign. Little bird tracks in the sand.

Y, a Greek letter, joined the Latin alphabet after the Romans conquered Greece in the first century - a double agent: consonant and vowel.

No one used adverbs before then, and no one was happy.

Marjorie Celona, Y