i’m free/free fallin’ Tonight I will be up the …

(3)BeautifulThings, Casa420 and Familia

i’m free/free fallin’

Tonight I will be up the entire night, fighting sleep and the usual distractions (AIM, weblogs, and midnight snacks), and tomorrow I need to make sure I make it on time to my 8:30 a.m. class. Tomorrow I also need to go in to see one of my professors during her office hours. God only knows why she asked me to stop by, although I suspect it may have something to do with the Research Paper From Hell that I decided not to turn in two weeks ago when it was actually due. I damn well better finish this paper tonight. If I don’t, I’ve already given Somayya explicit instructions to just get it over with and shoot me if I show up at school tomorrow with nothing to show for this allnighter.

This paper has been haunting me for a month, and the thought of tomorrow makes me anxious and depressed. So I’m better off just dwelling on today for now.

Today I woke up at 10 a.m., having deliberately (although sadly and slightly guiltily) skipped halaqa, Islamic Sunday school with my favorite 5-7 year-olds, and a Zaytuna-sponsored hike with Zaid Shakir. I had a leisurely breakfast of waffles while poring over the latest glossy issue of Diablo Magazine (and thought of Mossy, who once averred, “I think there are waffles in heaven. Many waffles.”).

I took a long shower (lots of hot water, for once), didn’t comb my hair (no surprise there), checked emails, made phone calls, hugged my brother, and watched my father plant our new apricot and nectarine trees behind the house.

At noon, the daddy-o and I munched on English toffee from the market, speculated on the possible recipe, laughed at the ingredients list (“Yasminay, what’s ‘inverted sugar’?”), and decided that our next-door neighbor still makes the best English toffee we’ve ever tasted. My mother packed me oranges from our tree, my dad handed me chocolate candy he had brought from his office, I grabbed my cranberry juice from the fridge and was ready to drive up to school to hunt for some research articles for the aforementioned Paper From Hell. Daddy advised, “Take some tangerines, too,” so I stepped over the low brick wall and picked a few tangerines off the tree after starting my car.

I got in my car, and it was so nice and warm inside that I nearly clapped my hands in glee. It was almost 75-degrees-Fahrenheit today, my dream temperature. I wondered about what music to listen to, and the immediate thought that came to mind was, “Something happy and loud.” It came down to a choice between Matchbox Twenty, Goo Goo Dolls, and Maroon 5, all loud, but none of whom are exactly happy.

Scrabbling through the center console, I came across my “Mix CD Extraordinaire 1,” something I had forgotten about. “Mix CDs Extraordinaire 1-3” are seventy-five songs I downloaded almost three years ago – the extent of all my music downloads – and didn’t burn onto CDs until last December. This one included Savage Garden b-sides, Brian McKnight, Freddie Jackson, Better Than Ezra, Naked Eyes, Leigh Nash, Afghan Whigs, Patti Smith, Third Eye Blind, Tom Petty, Blessid Union of Souls, among others. Because I had no idea what was specifically on this CD, each track was an absolutely perfect gift in randomness.

I slipped on my yellow sunglasses, the ones that make the world a happy place, and away we went. One block before the main road, I whizzed by three children at a lemonade stand. It took me a couple of extra seconds to process that information, and I almost continued on my way. But then I remembered how I always tell everyone, “I think you should always make a point to stop and buy whatever it is that kids happen to be selling at their makeshift lemonade stands at the side of the road. Not only because it will make their day, but also because it’ll brighten yours as well. Trust me,” and I knew that I’d never forgive myself if I passed up this opportunity. So I made a U-turn and went back and parked across the street from the lemonade kids. I had a mere total of eighty-five cents on me, and I prayed that that would be enough as the children watched me inquisitively from across the street.

Their names were Wendy, Lisa, and Michael. They greeted me with pleased smiles, then gravely rattled off the prices. Twenty-five cents for a small lemonade, fifty cents for a large one, and twenty-five cents for a doughnut of my choice. I picked a large lemonade and a powdered doughnut, and gave them the rest of my change, too, “because you guys are cool.” They grinned delightedly and said thank you and told me to have a nice day. The lemonade was a bit too watery and not as sour as I would have liked (please note my newfound obsession with cranberry juice), but it was ice-cold and refreshing, and I gulped it down quickly.

“And all I gotta say, yeah,/is your love’s extraordinary/You’re extraordinary, baby.”

– Better Than Ezra, Extraordinary

After the bridge, I decided to bypass the next fifteen miles of traffic by driving along the road I once used last summer. I drove with my window down and the moonroof open, and stopped three times to take photographs of the mountainsides.

“People tell me that I feel too much/But I don’t care, no I don’t care/People tell me that I need too much/Well I don’t care, no just I don’t care anymore.” – Savage Garden, I Don’t Care

I replayed the Afghan Whig’s song, “66,” multiple times, thinking about the friend I introduced the band to, who used to laugh with me at the lyrics for this song (“Come on/Come on/Come on, little rabbit/Show me where you got it/’Cause I know you got a habit”). I miss what that friendship used to be, and it’s interesting to note that I of all people, usually so terrible at staying in touch with friends old and new and current, am willing to constantly make seemingly one-sided efforts to revitalize this specific friendship.

At school, I ate candy in the library, read weblogs on the “research-only!” computers, found some electronic journal articles, and gave my oranges and tangerines away to my friend, Jason, a smart boy who gladly accepts gifts instead of hemming and hawing and pretending to refuse things he really wants. Everyone should be like him. Take notes.

In the evening, for dinner, Somayya and I went down to Dos Coyotes, where I ordered the salmon burrito I’ve been craving for weeks. We spent almost an hour eating and laughing about you people (notice I did not say, “at you people”) and talking about how much we love weblogging and what awesome fun it would be to meet all you cool bloggers in real life. Quite obviously, we are far too addicted to weblogs for our own good, we’ve decided, but we really wouldn’t have it any other way.

The moon looked odd this evening, a red-orange globe hanging low in the sky. I took photos of that, too.

The drive home to the Bay was lovely, and went by faster than usual, it seemed. At the first stoplight in my hometown, I glanced absently at the car in the lane next to me, while the guy in the car carelessly looked over as well. I looked away, then out of the corner of my eye noticed him actually reversing his car a little so that he could get a better look at me. I rolled my eyes, shook my head, hit the accelerator as soon as the light turned green, and laughed the rest of the way home. The remaining eight stoplights were all green. This never happens.

Tomorrow will come far, far sooner than I like. I’d cancel tomorrow if I could.

But days like today are the kind of days I live for.

i swear like i’ve got hella extra time on my hands…

Links to love

i swear like i’ve got hella extra time on my hands

This is the coolest link ever. Or maybe I’m just really, really easily amused – a condition that is already well-established, since it has been previously documented on this weblog a bajillion times.

Thanks for the link, Zainab. And for forgiving me for being so terrible at staying in touch. :)

[p.s. That first sentence initially stated, “This is, like, the coolest link ever.” That’s because I was typing it out exactly as I would have said it in real life. Actually, I would really have said it as, “That’s like the coolest link ever.” Please note the use of a conjunction as well as the lack of commas – and, therefore, the lack of an implied pause – in the latter sentence. See how it flows all nice and smooth? And, yes, that sentence is grammatically incorrect, but that’s okay, because I’m very grammatically incorrect in real life, and who wants to be grammatically correct on a weblog all the time anyway? I mean, really.]

an evening of recitation and praise This is a s…

Uncategorized

an evening of recitation and praise

This is a short video clip of a recitation of Imam al-Busiri’s Burdah* (Poem of the Cloak) at Zaytuna Institute. Absolutely beautiful. The reciter is Shaykh Murtaza, who heads a masjid in San Francisco. I heard him recite the Burdah in person at Zaytuna’s Evening of Gratitude tribute dinner in early February as well as at the MSA-West Conference at UC Berkeley just a couple of weeks ago. He has an amazing voice, doesn’t he? The man in white who is weeping during the recitation is Shaykh Habib Ali al-Jifri from Tarim, Yemen, who is a direct descendant of the Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings be upon him. Shaykh Hamza Yusuf is the goateed man to the right of him.

I didn’t know I could find anything of Shaykh Murtaza’s online, although I’ve been raving about him to everyone I’ve come across. My sister and I have been self-proclaimed “Shaykh Murtaza groupies” ever since we first heard him recite at the Zaytuna Conference last December, and hopefully you will now understand why.

*NOTE: This one is actually a link to a Burdah recitation by the Fez Singers of Morocco. I linked this just so those of you who don’t know much about it can scroll down to read Hamza Yusuf’s description on that page to get a sense of the worldwide significance and collective spirit of the Burdah to Muslims everywhere.

[p.s. You’ll need QuickTime. If you don’t have it, download it for free here.]

this used to be my playground

(3)BeautifulThings, All-Star Crackstar Squad

Highlight from Tuesday: Spending two hours of our break between classes at the public park.

We sat on a dry patch of green grass, in the wan afternoon sunshine, discussing witticisms and woes, primarily academic-related, because, let’s face it, our life has been consumed by nothing but university courses for the last three-and-a-half years. Somayya pointed out a frail tree that looked “like a whisper,” and I shivered within my thick winter coat and kept turning my head so that I was directly facing the sun.

The sun kept moving, and we got tired of moving, and finally I started looking over at the childrens’ swings. Somayya noticed the glances and offered, “Want me to push you?” Kicking off my shoes, I snickered at the multiple holes in both my socks, then settled on a tire swing. I screamed with laughter as Somayya shoved my shoulders, all the while singing Matchbox Twenty’s song, “Push,” in her imitation of Rob Thomas’ raspy, angry voice: I wanna push you around/Well, I will/Well, I will/I wanna push you down/Well, I will/Well, I will.

I giggled helplessly, clinging to the chains with both hands as the tire swing and I both spun around-around-around and the world twirled in a swift whirl of green-blue-browns. It nearly made me breathless, the combination of endless laughter and the cold, crisp wind and the stark, simple beauty of a not-quite-yet-spring day.

Later, L joined us as well, and we all sat on the steps leading up to the jungle gym, and still later we moved over to the concrete park bench, discussing yet more witticisms and woes, this time not academic-related at all.

But in between there was the tire swing.

i am – Twenty-three days of sunshine and nights…

Glorious mundanity, Resident Rockstar

i am –

Twenty-three days of sunshine and nights of rain and eyes that crinkle above wide smiles. Twenty-three picnics on the lawn, footraces, cart-wheels, twenty-three summersaults that go awry. Scraped knees and bandaged elbows, sticks and stones and rosebush thorns. Loud laughter and raised eyebrows, twenty-three dismissive glances and tears left unshed.

Twenty-three plans unmade and to-do lists undone, empty freeways late at night, twenty-three forked roads that beckon, embolden, bewilder. Twenty-three caustic comments and spontaneous hugs, twenty-three rejoinders and amused, knowing glances shared across a crowded room.

Twenty-three moving boxes and storage sheds and new houses that ultimately became homes, twenty-three friends found and lost and found again, twenty-three notes written in a left-handed scrawl. Twenty-three rain puddles and detours, delicate bubbles and funny faces, twenty-three questions with no answers. Twenty-three red bandannas and blue nail polish and hair perpetually, defiantly uncombed. Twenty-three pairs of flip-flops for long, narrow feet, and fuzzy socks for cold tiled floors.

Twenty-three radio stations and albums of alternative rock and tapes of Pukhtu songs. Twenty-three prayers and regrets, twenty-three words left unsaid and words said too easily. Twenty-three phone calls unanswered and letters unsent and gestures unacknowledged. Twenty-three rebellions and road trips, glossy photographs and bills blithely left unpaid. Secrets kept, secrets untold, voices heard and ignored and resisted.

Twenty-three drawings scattered about the room – artistic abilities untouched, untapped, abandoned for years. Twenty-three pairs of black pants and red shoes and fringed scarves that sparkle in the sunlight. Yellow-lensed sunglasses and rolling green hills and waves of fog, blinding white.

Twenty-three eucalyptus trees and California poppies and twenty-three midnight games of hide-and-seek on the vast, green lawn. Twenty-three libraries housing endless stacks and shelves of books, coffeehouses offering hot chocolate and cushioned chairs, Austrian bakeries with mosaic-tiled courtyards glittering in the afternoon. Twenty-three dialects from twenty-three villages, and the simple, steady, strong roots of family heritage.

Twenty-three triumphs and failures and long, numbing nights that bleed into glorious dawns.

[p.s. Look! The Bean posted an awesome entry all about me. I love it.]

when it rains it pours and opens doors/and floods …

Suckool

when it rains it pours and opens doors/and floods the floors we thought would always keep us safe and dry

I’m quite obviously not a boy, but sometimes I really wouldn’t mind being one. Because, you know, I really think there are certain advantages to being a boy.

Take today, for example: If I were a boy, my keys, wallet, and cell phone would have been in my shirt/pants pockets instead of in my bag. The bag that was sitting merrily on my car’s back seat, where I had momentarily deposited it while shrugging into my coat. The bag that remained not-so-merrily on my back seat as a sudden gust of wind slammed the car door shut, locking my keys, wallet, and cell phone inside.

I felt like kicking my car, except that would have been far more painful for my flip-flop-clad foot than for the damn car. So I instead trekked halfway across campus to call the university’s division of Transportation & Parking Services. God bless the friend who long ago gave me the top-secret authorization code that allows me to use campus telephones to make off-campus phone calls without cost.

They sent over a guy to help me, but his impressive, seemingly endless array of tools didn’t seem to be making a difference. Thin, shiny wires, rubber wedges – a dozen different sizes of each – were jammed into my door frames, but to no avail. I began to wonder if I should have contacted a locksmith instead.

A friendly, grizzled man in his 60s, the TAPS guy put forth his best effort as I thumbed through various campus publications and watched him out of the corner of my eye. “Oh, come on,” he pleaded good-naturedly with my car, “the lady needs to head home.” Actually, I had just gotten to campus, but, either way, my day seemed to be in limbo, my to-do lists shot, my organized plans all out the door. I had people to meet, TAs to make appointments with, term papers to finish, classes to attend, but the locked car pitilessly contained my phone, class syllabi, computer disks, and research material, and steadfastly refused to give it all up.

“Shoot!” exclaimed the TAPS guy repeatedly, at various intervals over the next hour, genuinely bewildered as to why his collection of tools had no effect. “Shoot, why won’t this work?” I wondered if he was toning down his language for my benefit.

“You know,” I ventured dryly at one point, “if you need to use some more explicit curses, go right ahead. Because, really, I wouldn’t mind using some myself right about now.”

He laughed, but I know he was just as frustrated as I by the end of the hour, when he finally, apologetically suggested I contact AAA, as they have better tools. So I walked back across campus to call AAA, then came back and sat cross-legged on the trunk of my car as I read the day’s newspaper. “Everything alright?” queried a nice boy passing by. And although it took the AAA guy almost 40 minutes to get there, would you believe it, he managed to open my car door in less than two minutes. “That was it?” I said in disbelief. I could have kicked myself for not just calling AAA right from the start.

And why was my rear tire flat when I returned to my car at the end of the day?

And there’s nothing quite so panic-inducing as being sixty miles from home, with a nearly-empty gas tank and absolutely no cash, and realizing you can’t remember your PIN when you swing by a gas station to fill up the tank.

And I wish this stupidass cough would go away already, so I can finally get a decent night’s sleep – and sit through an entire lecture at school – without nearly coughing up my lungs.

Speaking of sleep, I really need some of that. Soon.

And I hate driving during thunderstorms, especially when I’m having trouble staying awake.

Dear Lord God, supremely Merciful, infinitely Kind –

Not to be ungrateful or anything, but I really don’t like this week at all. If you could oblige me by fast-forwarding it (as in really fast), it would be greatly appreciated.

Much love and many thanks, always.

spot the fake smiles Yeah, yeah, so you think y…

Links to love

spot the fake smiles

Yeah, yeah, so you think you’re so smart and cool and all that. You think people hang on to your every word and can’t stop laughing when they’re in your vicinity. But tell me, how good are you at telling the difference between fake and genuine smiles? You sure they love you as much as you think they do? For all you know, maybe they’re just pretending they’re happy to see you.

Check out the experiment and see how you do. I got 17/20. I’m a rockstar, obviously. Then again, it wasn’t that difficult at all. But I (mostly) know my smiles, simply because I’m the queen of cheesy grins. Funny thing is, I took the test twice and messed up on the same three people. Of the three I got wrong, two guys I labelled as fake smilers were actually being genuine. Oops.

[p.s. In related news, check out Zack‘s post on Facial Expression from a few weeks ago.]

look who’s talking – OR, conversations from the ca…

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look who’s talking – OR, conversations from the cal computer lab

D: why are you on both screen names?

D: are you talking to your strange buddies?

Yasmine: yeah, like YOU

Yasmine: nahh, i have the beta version of AIM

Yasmine: i’ve linked both my sn’s

Yasmine: so i sign on ’em both at once

Yasmine: or i sign on ’em both, and keep one sn invisible, and some people don’t know i’m online

Yasmine: mwahahaha

D: whatever

D: you probably have a secret life that no one knows about

D: i know you are crazy enough to

Yasmine: yessiree bob

Yasmine: i am a strange one

Yasmine: this is why somayya and i are gonna drop outta school and go run away and join the circus together

D: can i join the circus too?

D: you guys will need someone to train the monkeys

Yasmine: you’re perfect for that job

Yasmine: hop on, woman

D: seriously?

D: okay, let me just finish making my ravioli first though

D: be right back

Thank you to some of the many cool people who entertained me in between my bouts of trying to write my research paper. You all rock das Haus. Even though you’re all such naggers, oh my God.

But the biggest thanks go to my sister, who patiently listened to me rant non-stop as we drove home. Sometimes I need people to just sit there and listen when I actually, for once, decide to vent my frustrations. Much love to you, always.