when archi students rebel

damn skippy!!

Admin update 2

Like a mother with kids who've embarassed her in public, by spitting out their food and swearing at strangers, some of my postings on the zephyr and i, have been equally cringe-worthy.
Therefore, i have come to the decision to delete some of my lesser-moments-in-rhyme. (It's not that easy for mommys' of monsters.)
With regard to the retained content, I am open to all forms of crit, be it acerbic, gentle, eviscerating or otherwise.

dictionary, schmictionary, just make em up.

A neologism, for those not in the loop, is, according to wikipedia,

"... a word, term, or phrase which has been recently created ("coined") —often to apply to new concepts, or to reshape older terms in newer language form. Neologisms are especially useful in identifying inventions, new phenomena, or old ideas which have taken on a new cultural context.
Neologisms are by definition "new," and as such are often directly attributable to a specific individual, publication, period or event. The term "neologism" was itself coined around 1800; thus for some time in the early 19th Century, the word "neologism" was itself a neologism. It can also refer to an existing word or phrase which has been assigned a new meaning."

So here's one of me very own:

Juxtaprose (n): a piece of writing littered by vocabulary so advanced and arcane, that most of what is said, is rendered unintelligible.

For other arb but interesting newbie-words, click on www.wordspy.com

Admin update 1

Peace to all,

I have finally updated http://thezephyrandi.blogspot.com

It is not an online confessional but an archive of some of the nasty things i've done with words in the name of poetry (bwahahahahahahahaahahah).

Visit only if you are a fan of the genre, otherwise keep well away. I will not be held accountable for any episode of nausea. Nor will I take responsibility over medical bills incurred due to your requiring an urgent frontal lobotomy after a visit to the blog.

The ties that bind part 2

This must surely be a test from the Almighty. A trial placed before me so that my faith may be tempered. Sacrifice my first born, abandon my family to the desert, Yes My Lord, I Submit, willingly! but not this. Hear my importunate pleas…

Not this… not this…

My littler cousin wants me to be her bridesmaid. Oh, the mortification! I wouldn’t mind so much if it meant just looking pretty and hanging around. But no, the indignation escalates. She’s having one of those Indian weddings with a ‘stage’ set-up. This means that I will be effectively displayed before her 300 guests in all my turquoise finery (yes turquoise, apparently it’s very In this season, she says).

If that wasn’t ghastly enough, I will also be the oldest woman ‘on set’.

My cousin-to-be-wed and the other bridesmaid are barely knocking 20 and the groom, well, he doesn’t really count, but he’s a few months younger than me anyway.

All eyes on me.

But not in that celebrity ‘no autographs please’ kind of way.

My mother will probably have to field the questions: “So that’s your daughter? How old is she? Is she still studying?” This roughly translates into: “She should be married by now. What’s wrong?”

I envision the scene, mouths full and busy with gajar halwa, the darting looks, the frenzied conversation, possible enquiries regarding my sexual orientation. (ok, maybe not the last one, but “why else isn’t she fixed/engaged/married?”)

Aargh…

Fortune favours the brave

That’s my new mantra, live and die by it.

Recently threw caution to Hurricane Rita and did something out of character (a departure, even, for my other three resident personalities).

I proposed, well, sort of. Anyway, all didn’t quite go according to brief. But that’s just by the way, a vignette included here solely for purposes of contextualisation.

Let it be known, I’m not a serial commitment-seeker, if any thing, the Big C brings on tinnitus, chills and hallucinations. I couldn’t even take up smoking properly because that would mean making a commitment to a ‘habit’. Shudder, shudder.

So why’d I go looking for trouble?

It was a chance remark (thank you Mr H) and the cogs creaked. I realised just what debilitating entities Fear and Over-Caution could be. They hold us back, damning us to half-lives.

An aside - New Years Day, 2005, I found myself standing on the support under the Bloukrans Bridge, the highest Bungee Jump site in the world (and not a fatality yet, knock knock knocking on wood). And I was poultry. I couldn’t do it, not at that defining moment. And even if I’ve promised myself that I will go back and take the plunge, the regret of not jumping that first time will always nag and tug.

I’m not a proponent of recklessness and wanton devil-may-care antics. Camels are meant to be tied. But there’s nothing quite as exhilarating as risk, a calculated and educated gamble, knowing that things could go in any direction and all that’s left is for you to submit to the result.

Back to my moment of ‘bravery’ (haha), it wasn’t a willy-nilly exercise, subtle reconnaissance was employed, and Nancy Drew took on the case. So what if it resulted in the accusation that I had “Messed with the cosmos”, galactic stability was not my concern. The consequences did not escape my cognition. I knew what I was getting into, it’s all in the nature of the beast. There is no place regret here, for the “What if’?” is always far worse than the “What was I thinking?”

I’ve never felt so liberated, so In-Charge.

Everyone should take a little risk everyday.

Humble beginnings, reach into your sock drawer and pull out a pair with your eyes closed. Wear that pair, even if its magenta shuffles circa 1993; the operative concept here - No regrets.

Life stops becoming something that just happens around you.

Talk to strangers more often. Our parents may have warned us against the dirty trench coated, lollipop wielding kind but we’re older now and packing pepper spray, it’s time to be a little more convivial.

Fortune does favour the brave, sometimes not in the way you expect.

Passenger 22

Almost everyone’s done it. And whoever’s left over, will probably get to doing it sometime too. Although, not everyone’s first time is the same, I’ve been told. Some take to it like ants in a candy store, for others it’s a protracted exercise, painful even. But apparently, practice makes perfect, I’ve also been told.

I’m 22 years old, with an undergrad degree in Marketing and Advertising, honours in Journalism and Media Studies, an active social life, varied interests and a healthy curiosity about the world around me.

But I’ve never done it.

It’s embarrassing. I wrestle with weak excuses about it, pathetic explanations that sound ridiculous to even my own sensibilities.

I’m doing something about it though. I have to, it’s become debilitating. I can’t get around the way I’d like to and some employers won’t even consider my applications because of it!

So I’ve gone for lessons, pricey ones at that, but they advertised guaranteed results.

My instructor is an eccentric woman with coloured contact lenses and a heavy hand with the eye-make up.

“Go easy with that, not too much, listen for the right sounds.” She says. She pinches when I make the wrong move. “It’s like riding a bicycle.”

After twelve lessons, I’m fairly confident. I know what to push when, and I’ve learnt how important observation can be.

So I’m ready, all revved up and rearing to go.

Now if only that damn call-centre can get back to me on a date for my driving license test.

Ahlan Wasahlan Ya Ramadaan

A brief departure from the profane…

The sighting of a nascent celestial lantern… and Ramadan comes to us, voices issuing from Cancer to Capricorn, Guatemala to Gabon, a global call. The fasting month… the burning away: of excess, of baggage, of spiritual impedimenta, of human failings, of moral fallings. And at the end of this soul catharsis, a re-birth.

I’ve always looked forward to Ramadan, my Islamic birth month. It was on the fifth day of fasting, Islamic year 1403 AH, a winter’s Friday afternoon at that time, when at 14:05 I arrived to lay claim to my path.

But sentimentality is not why the holy month beckons to me.

It’s the quiet. And the visit to its oasis for reflection amid daily drudgeries; a place to befriend the Greatest of Friends, to pick up the acquaintance where you last left it, before you were distracted by your obligations and tribulations, forgetting that He still held on to your hand.

A period from sunrise to sunset; all that is carnal and base put away, leaving only the spirit, the essence of humankind, the reflection of Himself.

It is a beautiful time.

30 days out of 365, brief, yes, but not ephemeral.

To all observing Ramadan, may its spirit live on in your own spirit throughout the rest of the year, Ameen.