Who's Your Inner European

I've been tagged by BD

My "Inner European" is Italian.

I am now tagging thethoughtless, pacze moj, Jaimie, Dr. Deborah Serani, and Pewzen.

Parting

No blurry eyed goodbyes or soul searching gaze
No extended hand holding either
Just a catch in my throat
the only giveaway
as the mute blue faded away to its haven.
It didn't beckon or cry
No hapless pleas of wanting to stay
or promises of an early return.
A clean break and a deep void.
A scooping out of memories good and bad
of challenges overcome
and times shared that tested mettle.
What a metal it was!
My blue Camry.

Memoirs of a Geisha

Arthur Golden's first novel, Memoirs of a Geisha, is definitely captivating in terms of its story telling and its setting. Japan, in the late 1930s, as seen through the grey blue eyes of a geisha has the reader asking for more.

Sayuri is the geisha of the blue eyes fame, who rises out of poverty and annonymity to bedazzle the province of Gion and become the most sought after woman among the rich and powerful. An oft used rags to riches storyline, but one that is spun with a newness because it touches two disparate chords in the readers mind simultaneously. The bone chilling undressing of the 15 year old Sayuri by the Baron is both repulsive and exciting; the jealous Hatsumomo being upstaged by the humble and deserving Sayuri who is now to inherit the Okiya (the Geisha dwelling) spells redemption and fear at the same time; Pumpkin's (Sayuri's good friend) revengeful act, though shocking also lends real life credibility to her; pangs of anxiety are hidden amid throes of excitement when the Baron, who is Mameha's lover, makes advances toward Sayuri who has been adopted by Mameha as her 'little sister'. It is this constant duplicity of emotion experienced by the reader that keeps him on edge. The reader, without realizing, becomes both an empathizer of, and a voyuer to Sayuri's predicament, experiencing a plethora of emotions that culminate in a cathartic release when the novel ends

Golden in one of his interviews said that while writing this novel he was confronted with, "three cultural divides--man to woman, American to Japanese, and present to past. Actually, I see a fourth divide as well, because geisha dwell in a sub-culture'. Whatever the divides may have been, his efforts at bridging them have paid off because Memoirs of a Geisha is most certainly a page turner.

Spelling's not that important

See if you can read and make sense of what's written below:

"I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg.
The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid, aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe."

The zero that your teacher gave you on the dictation should not worry you or the teacher anymore!

Women's fashion

I recently read about a special event "Interpreting Hot Trends for Veiled and Conservative Women," hosted by Nordstrom, a leading apparel designer brand, in McLean, Virginia. This event was indeed unique because it showcased the latest trends in 'hijabs' and 'scarves', and was perhaps the first high-fashion 'hijab' event sponsored by corporate America. It targeted the moneyed Muslim women living in the suburbs of Northern Virginia, where mansions and mosques are home to an affluent immigrant population. Obviously, the event generated a multitude of response, mostly critical, regarding its religious appropriateness and also because of it's low profitability at the end of the day.

However, it wasn't the vagaries of the show's religious appropriateness or its financial blundering that was bothering me. There was another chain of thought that was gathering momentum and sizzling in my mind. How come women's fashion seems to be driven by a predominantly male definition of what looks beautiful on the female form? Or else why would high fashion in a woman's world entail revealing a belly button, showing of leg, or flashing of cleavage. Why did female voluptousness in the '90s suddenly become unattractive, and bolemia induced emaciatedness become a benchmark to achieve.

Over the years the female body has had to endure extremes of makeover in order to be fashionable, to live up to every changed expectation of the male mind. This is no generalization; in fact a harsh truth, hard to palate and difficult to accept. An endurance test is what it is for the female of the species; pulling out body hair with hot wax to give a smooth appearance, adopting a 500 calorie diet to keep that girlish figure, injecting cortizone to defy the aging process, getting breast implants to generate oomph, and the list goes on. A list far more torturesome for the woman than donning a 'hijab', the mere mention of which generates feelings of outrage.

A thought: How much simpler it would be for a woman to live on her own terms!

'Harbor' - Lorraine Adams

'Water never warms in American harbors'
This opening line in Lorraine Adams's first novel 'Harbor' captures the essence of the story; that of an illegal Algerian immigrant trying to make America his safe harbor after fleeing the harsh reality of a civil war that is consuming his native country.

Aziz, a soft spoken, educated, and honest human being rides through a series of horror coasters while trying to lose himself in the Boston suburbia trying to evade the FBI. He and his relatively harmless compatriots are constantly hounded by the fear of getting captured. It is within this terrifyingly opaque and stifling environment that Aziz finds himself longing for "a person speaking to him, and ..someone's eyes meeting his own".

Adams empathetic portrayal of an illegal Islamic immigrant community trying to eek out an existence in a foreign land under the threat of underinformed, narrow minded, and prejudiced Intelligence and Surveillance Forces, is a very thought provoking novel. Though the setting of the story is pre 9/11, the profiling and the discrimination that is meted out to this small community of Algerians is reminiscent of the post 9/11 scenario.

Yet, the novel is not about terrorists or terrorism. This starkly naked tale of ordinary human beings, uprooted from their native land and in desperation trying to make this new land their home, is both terrifying and heart rending. It forces any rational minded individual to reflect on his prejudices; especially those pertaining to religion. Does a person's religion make him less human or less deserving of human kindness? Will our religious differences prevent us from communicating with each other as human beings? Will our religious affiliations divide us irrevocably such that there will be no bridges left that would let the milk of human kindness to flow? Will humanitarianism in this country be forever drowned in a deluge of post 9/11 suspicion and hatred?

Finally, can Aziz's story have a different middle and end?

It's never too late.

How do I thank someone who has always been my benefactor, but unacknowledged to date? A one man cheer leading squad who didn't tire applauding my meanest achievement; be it my first step as a one year old, getting a driving license at seventeen, or then reaching an academic milestone along the way. One who kept giving at his end, regardless of my response; kept forgiving me my selfish and callous acts while rendering unconditional love and support. My all-time security net that took the brunt of my rash doings. Pulled, ripped,and beaten, yet always resilient, despite its wear and tear, to bounce me back one more time to put me back on track.

Unfortunately, this net is mortal and it's this reality that has shocked me out of my complacency that now makes me want to say,'Thank you for being there for me'.

This person celebrates his eightieth birthday this week.

Manhattan by night; a heightened view

A treat alright!
in flagrance of darkness
blatant, buoyant, and bright
breathtakingly beautiful
a voyeurs delight

toweringly tall
amidst it all
benignly billowing
the wispy whites
that churlishly curled
extending their flight

close to touch
yet so afar
a game 'twas
playing hookey
with the moon'n all

Myriad metal, in monotonous motion
ruby white necklace bordering the ocean
an endless stream of stars
that threatened to hypnotize
a harmony, that description defies