there is zero concentration happening here.
zero zero zero
none

in typical Jewish fashion, behind every one of my happy moments is its mirror image of grief

yesterday, a resident of emma's building asked me whose granddaughter i am. the look on her face, when i told her, said, oh dear... oh dear

Pacinthe Mattar, associate producer at CBC Radio One, discusses her struggle with impostor syndrome here. Ignore the fact that the article unnecessarily stresses negative comments she received along the way--the condition is totally unrelated to level of support. Also, not included in the piece is what she said in an interview on Metro News Morning: that naming what scared her was a crucial part of her reconciliation with herself.

my hair smells like cilantro

the valleys

f's phrase of the week

It can't be an Iranian last name; Namir means "don't die": نمیر، بمیر، مرد

today's waterfall of droppage began with my beautiful bunny mug--which shattered into several pieces and left an ugly stain of ugly tea on an already ugly office carpet--and quickly spiralled out of control to include both the usual victims (pens, highlighters, mail, cell phone, security pass) and a few less-usual ones (a loaf of bread, a candy, a box of cookies).

my body, it seems, is rebelling against some unknown trouble in the form of unsteady, shaky hands--which is not (unfortunately for everything i own, and my clothing, and my office space), a rare side-effect, as the number of journal entries on this topic will prove.........

years ago, one of the judges for the CBC Poetry Prize commented on the abundance of mundane, unoriginal submissions. to write better poetry, she said, one must read poetry, too. but what happens when reading it throws you into fits of doubt, humiliation, depression...

friends have remarked recently that i'm crippled by the need to be formally acknowledged.
i guess i am.

i guess that means i'm stuck here..

because my mind is going places it shouldn't

i have to leave. i have to stop at the gas station. i need to eat. i need to go for a bike ride. i have to watch Luther. i need to talk. i need to make my loved ones laugh. i have to check on my raspberries. i have to sleep. i need to write. i need to write.

it smells like rain already, although not a drop has fallen
the air is thick with promise

of all my stupid stupidity..
how does somebody get out of this

up to that point, we had experienced the music together. with "famous blue raincoat," we all retreated, each confronting this piece on the most personal, the most visceral level..

i watched the road with watering eyes and remembered everything

i guess i'm here now: https://twitter.com/IRasitsan

Lieberman for defence minster?? LIEBERMAN?!

LIEBERMAN?????

i'm very tempted to open a Facebook account simply to amass support for Israeli human rights group Breaking the Silence, recently in danger of being muzzled.

perhaps politics will push me onto this unpleasant platform after all.. getting more determined by the minute.

spent the morning drive in tears while listening to reports of spontaneous kindness

...stories about bewildered firefighters who battled city-blocks of flame in Fort McMurray and who saved and comforted beloved pets with the same determination as they did their owners; about people like Renee "Belt Drive Betty" Charbonneau, who rallied the motorcycle clubs of Canada and Alberta to deliver food and water to first responders (many of whom had not had anything to eat in days), who, herself, spent days and nights on a park bench to keep the system going; people like Eldon Hankins, a 27-year-old truck driver who spent countless hours on the road, on the phone, chasing down tow trucks, reuniting evacuees with their abandoned cars, because in vast, flat Alberta, your vehicle is your life

i'm crying even as i write this.

deeply, deeply touched by all i've heard..

... the worst dream last night and the most difficult to explain. it was a world where many froze; where you could spread this death with a mere touch; where i lost someone dear to me and experienced such grief.. such rage.. that i spread my arms and wept and screamed and carelessly touched a stranger

when that stranger's face screwed up in pain as the molecules that held her together began to spread, for some reason, and harden, and when she gasped and howled silently in terror, i felt that it was me; that i had done it to myself..

... the headlines have acutely, violently brought me crashing back to earth

simply heartsick for the people of Syria; hoping, desperately, for an end to their nightmare

simple indeed, and not in my usual style... but lovingly envisioned on a road trip with my father; inspired by the protests of khordaad; inspired by the brilliant underground of my parents' generation

We