I’m off apple juice.

Truth is, I had tried to go cold turkey many a time, but I always fall off the wagon soon thereafter. Now, many dust-up’s later, I’m happily on the wagon, chewing on a wheat stalk, trotting away into the sunset.

‘Apple juice,’ of course–like every second phrase on this blog–is a euphemism. It doesn’t matter what it symbolizes, for two reasons: one, I’m sure you guys are not ones to enjoy aired dirty laundry; two, and more importantly, an addiction is an addiction. Matters little if it’s coke, Coke, drugs, alcohol, pain killers, sex, chocolate, or apple juice.

I have come across too many clueless and oblivious people to ascertain that I am not one.

Ugliness is a guest who wouldn’t show up without invitation, but, once invited, wouldn’t leave.

For a number of years now, I have been going down to the Farmers’ Market two or three Saturdays out of every four. I’d buy fresh fruits, vegetables, and some deli meat, and pick up some flowers that would last me a week, ten days, or even two weeks at a time.

I’ve just come back from the Market. No flowers in hand. I, however, have caught myself eying some potted plants.

Life is a lot like that game on wait wait don’t tell me where you hear a number of equally preposterous stories and your job is to tell truth from fiction.

I am anxious these days–maybe anxious is not the proper term–I feel like moving, but am being held back by things lingering beyond their supposed lifetimes. I could just run, and tough it up when things snap; or I could hold on for a few more days…

Earlier today, I leafed through my mental notes for the one I kept to inspire steadfastness when needed, and I found it faithfully carrying this* Rumi ghazal, The Promise,

When pain arrives side by side with your love
I promise not to flee
When you ask me for my life
I promise not to fight

I am holding a cup in my hand
By God if you do not come
Till the end of time
I promise not to pour out the wine
Nor to drink a sip

Your bright face is my day
Your dark curls bring the night
If you do not let me near you
I promise not go to sleep…nor rise

Your magnificence has made me a wonder
Your charm has taught me the way of love
I am the progeny of Abraham
I’ll find my way through fire

Please, let me drink water from the jug
This love is not a short-lived fancy
It is the daily prayer, the year-after-year fast
I live it, like an act of worship, till the end of my life

But then, a tree
Blessed not with fruits of your bounty
Will be dry wood for fire
Even if it drinks the ocean

On the wings of the Friend, fly o my heart!
Fly and look upward
For high on the peak of presence
Earthlings like you will not be let in

Others praise God at the time of affliction
You stay awake day and night
Steady, watchful like the wheel of the firmament

Time to stop speaking of the Friend
Jealousy won’t let me scatter the perfume to the wind

* translation from Rumi’s Divan by Fatemeh Keshavarz.

There is no worse self-inflicted pain than being empathic and a jerk.

I am happening sad.

Inflated egos make for easier targets.

“I” am a dam
holding up great waters–
I would’ve blown myself up
years ago,
but I am inhibited
by an irrational fear
of floods.
عجبى