Epiphany…

As usual, I was listening to NPR on my way into the office this morning. Their health news today was on smoking. In light of Peter Jennings being diagnosed with cancer after not smoking for 20 years—minus the brief lapse after 9/11—the focus of the report was on how your risk of getting lung cancer decreases, or not, after you quit smoking. In a nutshell, the damage caused to your cells over years of smoking—the more years the more damage—does not magically go away the day you quit. After five years of not smoking your risk factor is cut in half, but after that the slope is gradual. Of course this is just a rough summary based on what I was able to glean while driving, drinking coffee, not trying to hit the car in front of me and smoking a cigarette…
Ah, a nice refreshing, nerve calming, stress reducing, lung polluting, toxin rich cancer stick…Hmm, that’s not good…

Then it happened. It took a split second to play out in my mind (it’s going to take longer here):
I have always maintained that if I were ever diagnosed with a terminal illness, I would not seek extensive treatment. Rather, I would want to live out the remainder of my days in Bali. A little shanty-shack on the beach; an organic garden; an Indonesian family to maintain things; enough medication to keep me pain free as long as possible; and someone I trust and love to support me till the end. Well, in that moment, in my mind I was there lying on a beautiful beach. It was so real I could smell the ocean. Tasting the salt on my lips—residue from the swim I just finished—and feeling the warmth of the sun as I let it dry me, I began squidging my toes and fingers in the sand, writhing from pain. The granules felt course and hard against my delicate skin, but their cutting and biting offered me some relief from the other, more urgent pain. A gust of wind came up; blowing the sun’s warm tendrils off my shoulders. Next, clouds swept in taking away the suns light, and it was all at once gloomy, gray and chill. Shivering, I reached up to touch a thin veil of mist that was forming in front of me. It was cold to my touch, and yielded, parting like a curtain to reveal an unknown stage with unknown players of an unknown play. I thought of all that would be left behind—my cats and friends most of all—clinging to the material of life desperately. Why? For meaning? Maybe for reassurance that I mattered? Or did something worth remembering? I shrugged off all of the rhetorical, existential questions gnawing at me, and let the rush of pain wash over me. It isn’t physical pain I am talking about now. It is the raw, unadulterated, gut wrenching pain that makes your chest constrict and feel like it is being pulled in infinite directions. My breathing was deep, not gasping or jagged, but a little labored for the thick knot that was building at the base of my lungs. Building in size and pressure, twisting my diaphragm, and squeezing my heart out into my throat so that I could choke on it. I wanted to surrender to my mortality and be done with it once and for all, but I couldn’t. Not even the pain was enough to make me want to venture willingly into the unknown.

As I came to, my eyes were stinging and wet, and my chest was tight and barbed. I immediately began rationalizing, analyzing, and examining everything. I don’t have much “faith” because my mind is working too much all the time. I would have been at home in the 18th century, the age of the Enlightenment, discussing issues with Jefferson, and Looke over a cup of tea, or a pint of ale. I know I am scared of death. What is interesting, however, is it’s not because of heaven or hell or gods, but I cannot, in my limited grasp of being, comprehend not being.

This then led me to my next series of thoughts on having children, and its ramifications. (This is not meant to make anyone with children, or definitely planning on having them feel bad. It's just how I feel.) I do want to have children, I think, but I feel it would be selfish of me. I know life has more pain to offer than it does hope or joy (This is based on my opinion and my experience only. It is not an accretion of some universal truth or nihilistic philosophy.), and if I have children I will be giving them life only to suffer. Suffer the inhumanity of humanity; the injustice of society; an inhabitable environment; from all the pollution and destruction; my death and the deaths of others they know and love; and most of all, a struggle to understand why it’s like this, who they are, and their own mortality. Basically, one day they will have to face the fear and uncertainty of their own demise. I would bequeath unto them the legacy of my own unanswered questions and seemingly pointless existence. It is not a fate I am sure I want to be responsible for.

Taxiing to the runway…

I write this grudgingly under duress. Conversely, I write this grateful for the friendly nudge…If it weren’t for Dadoo my first posting would have been my only posting for a long time to come.
Currently I am at work—using my time wisely—bored to tears. I can barely keep my eyes open because, being half Arab and all, I don’t know how to fall asleep before midnight. It is a physical impossibility. I have busy work I could be doing, but that’s no fun. Besides, I’d rather be reading my book. Hmm…think they would notice if I snuck off to the bathroom and read there for 15–20 minutes? That’s enough time to read 2 chapters or so…well, I guess I can do it later.

Speaking of books, I have discovered the rich and fulfilling genre of children’s/young adult literature—fantasy to be precise. It started out as research for my own aspirations of authoring a children’s fantasy novel/series, but I found that I thoroughly enjoyed the stories. I related to the characters; was intrigued by the plot twists; and became enthralled by the alternate reality I was sucked into. I highly recommend anyone with a vivid imagination, the time, and a love of books to try it out.

I just finished the Song of the Lioness quartet by Tamora Pierce. (I really did sneak off to the bathroom at work to read these books.) It is about a girl, Alana, who wants to be a knight, and has to masquerade as a boy to become one. Cliché right? Yes, but fantastical nonetheless. I was so wrapped up in this story that, when I finished, I wallowed in disappointment because the ending wasn’t what I had wanted for Alana. Pathetic right? Yes, but I’m not ashamed to admit it. Part of the draw, I suppose, is not having to be me in this reality, in this life, in this time. It transports me to that universe that the author has created and I meld my being with its being. I live in it, through it and for it while I am reading. In my own existence, apart from reading the book, I perceive everything through the prism of the story’s reality. It’s as if in my mind’s eye that universe is where I reside and in it I am reading the story of this universe. Being a person with addictive tendencies, I realize that books are my drug of choice—not bad considering the alternatives.

My heart palpitates in anticipation as I hold the crisp, new book in my hands. I let my fingers wander over the cover, tingling as they memorize its texture and contours. I inhale deeply taking in the musky fragrance of the sandy paper mingled with the high-pitched scent of the printers ink. My heart quickens as I examine the illustration, excited at the prospect of the adventures I am about to embark on. I open the cover, eyes dazzled and glittering, more elated now than when I open one of those crystalline blue boxes to find the treasure inside. I read, taking long steady draughts, intoxicating my senses till I am numb. For the time to come I am nowhere and everywhere. Thinking of little else than the world I have been privy to. Mindlessly, I go through the motions of this life—the mundane pointlessness of bills, arbitrary rules, and ridiculous obligations. It is sweet having this little secret—a life that belongs solely to me. No one can intrude here, where sight, smell and touch are more real than anything I have ever known before. I walk among the extraordinary people, partaking in their fetes of accomplishment, their grief and their sorrow, their happiness and their love. I know it won’t last, but I can’t stop myself from giving every moment of spare time to reading. Faster and more fervently do I want to be caught in the whirlwind of the climax. That quintessential moment where everything slows down and comes together. For me it is sheer ecstasy, and my heart aches, yearning for it to last longer. It doesn’t, and my reading slows; I want to savor these last morsels. When it comes, that last word on that last page, my eyes crawl to it grudgingly. I read it; I become aware of the period that comes after it and what it means. I sigh—exhaling all the emotion that is caught in my throat like bile. I close the book knowing the sigh wasn’t enough. I am still hungry for more.

Eroded

OK, so I've given in! I've been inspired! I'm finally bored enough!
Well...maybe I just thought this would be a good way to keep in touch, practice my writing skills, and be 'published' immediately.

It's a lazy Sunday afternoon---2 p.m.---here in D.C. The weather is beautiful---74---and, of course, I've only stepped out-of-doors to pick up the Examiner from my front stoop. If you are wondering what the Examiner is, it's this new local/national newspaper that keeps arriving on my drive w/ the Post and Times (NY, not Wash.). I haven't subscribed to the paper, and, as a matter-of-fact, I toss the orange, plastic bag and put the paper in my recycling pile first thing. The question is: Why do they keep delivering it? Maybe they would like to keep their circulation up, or they see I'm a newspaper kinda' person and think I'll eventually read it and get hooked...D'ya think if I just let them pile up on the front-lawn they'll eventually get the hint and stop delivering it? Hmm...probably not before I receive a citation from the city. Oh well, I guess I'll just keep tossing the bag and recycling the paper!