[0272] vive la résistance, vive les enfants de la révolution, vive la femme

[0271] Make you think of anything in particular?

Joe told Michael he could take Sam's wallet. Michael walks up to Sam and grabs his wallet, and Sam stands up and says "What the hell?!" Michael says "No, no. It's okay, Joe told me I could take it, I got in a car accident and need some money. Joe is the biggest kid on the block." Sam says "Well you can't have my wallet. Give it back." to which Michael replies "I'll give you your wallet back if you sign this contract stating I can have half of what it is in it." Sam says "I'm not going to sign that, it's MY wallet, I'm not giving you consent to take ANYTHING out of it." Michael cries to Joe, who provides Michael with a gun to wave at Sam. Sam still refuses, so Michael shoots Sam's son in the face and then points the gun at his wife. "Just negotiate with me. This is simple. I'm really nice. I just need some money for a new car. All you have to do is sign that I can have half of what is in this wallet." Sam says "Fuck you."

[0270] Orchard

A man sits in an orchard, fruit trees full and vines plump

He has his head on his knee; his eyes are closed.

His friend says, "Why stay sunk in mystical meditation when the world is like this? Such visible grace."

He replies, "This outer is an elaboration of the inner. I prefer the origin."

Natural beauty is a tree limb reflected

in the water of a creek, quivering there, not here.

The growing that moves in the soul

is more real than tree limbs and reflections.

We laugh and feel happy or sad over all this.

Try instead to get a scent

of the true orchard.

Taste the vineyard within the vineyard.

- Rumi

[0269] Having a soft heart in a cruel world is courage, not weakness.

[0268] Home

"Even the home you reside in now was once an uncharted territory. Home is where you take yourself. Home is Earth. Home is the love of your life. Home is a stranger. Home is the night sky. If you can accept these truths that coexist with one another, the more adaptable you make yourself in a world that is, above all else, impermanent, and the better adjusted you'll be. So when you pack your favorite book, you carry your morning ritual and nightly regimen with you, when you haul a talisman of your hometown, sleep in your college sweatshirt, stow away cards with your mom's perfume on them, you feel at home because anywhere is home."
- Brianna Wiest

[0267] Impossible

"Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."
- The White Queen, Alice in Wonderland

I won't say I'm as feisty as the White Queen, but there are two "impossible" things I believe to be very possible.

Aliens aren't impossible. A part of me likes to believe we aren't the only life form in this universe. By alien I don't mean green big headed creatures. The universe and its galaxies are so vast. It could be bacteria, a plant, some sort of amoeba. Who knows. All I know is that we are but a spec in this giant vacuum and it doesn't hurt to remind yourself of that every now and then.

It's not impossible to be in love with two different people. Societal constructs are what make the idea of loving in stereo questionable. But why is it so hard to grasp the concept? Love for your parents is often in stereo yet that seems perfectly normal. Perhaps the skepticism with the romantic version has something (everything) to do with the institution of marriage... I'll save that one for later.
[I use the word "stereo" metaphorically in this instance. Stereo is defined as "combining form."]

[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.