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AriasairA
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Name: Saira
Country: United States
State: Arkansas
Metro: Russellville
Birthday: 11/19/1984
Gender: Female
Interests: Islam, writing plain o-dinary stuff, adventures, modest fashion, reading into what I am looking at, oohing at nature, writing essays, proofreading, scribbling, debate, making noises that some may call music, running, devising protests but not carrying them out, diversity, muchos movies and musics, acting oh so gansta "yo", sunsets, aurora borealis(es), philosophizing, Arabic (language, native culture, music), non-violence, meditation, poetry, Rumi, volunteering, analyzing people and situations
Expertise: thinking. dreaming. offering to help. laughing/smiling.
Occupation: in between undergrad and grad
Message: message meEmail: email me
AIM:  sairatheCCrunner
Member Since:
12/21/2003
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| Many moons have floated listlessly by since I last wrote.
I teach twice a week, and I take class twice a week. My students are new at the whole "college thing." I really wish our past didn't have such an ugly way of shaping a lot of what follows. With writing though, the best chance at acceptance (from yourself) is to ignore the naysayers and get the words on the page. Two classes ago, I reviewed errors in sentence sense. Like fragments. In composition essays fragments cannot survive. The grammar Nazis will take care of that.  And I am a GN in training. No, it's really nice to implement the correct way to write sometimes.
And college is the best time for that.
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| Sketches of my past remind me that the marks were just rough lines. They were lines with splashes of color thrown on a stretched canvas--stretched too thin. As I've settled into a softer existence, I've discarded a brassy bossy bright yellow; I see the beauty of off-white. Warm beige. And sometimes color still emerges. It captures a sunbeam and dances a steady waltz. When the tempo is faster, something draws me back in. Inside myself I see imperfections: blotchy paint, a canvas streaked with hot black ink. I have tried to hide the flaws. I presented the flowers, but how could a gift from nature survive with tar stained raindrops? A transformation began. Although. Each petal suffered, cried out in pain, crumpled, and fell. Except for one. One leaped off near the end and ran. Darting through a torrent of inky, thick, black rain, she flew the coup. She settled in my outstretched hand and slowly took over. The silkiness of one petal. One hope. One last hope. Once again...
We wait.
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| Today I
- refused to change my pajamas to no one in particular
- received a call from Chrisser
- returned his call while exploring the neigh-bo-hood
- spotted a baby bat napping on a sidewalk
- ran to the dude who owned the spot the bat was resting on and showed him so he could protect
- (Chris saw a sea lion in the Seattle harbor)
- still refused to change my pajamas to no one in particular
- listened to music that is meant for clubs and or teenyboppers
- ate minimally: hello cookies and string cheese; hi to the egg nogg, too!
- finally decided to do something about nothing
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