My dad has been on a Netflix binge, this weeks topic has been on animal documentaries. He watched an entire film on the endangerment of Pangolins, and despite his alleged nightmares starring these scaly-skinned mammals, he grew attached to the pangolin in the movie. The lady that rescues these trafficked creatures has one as a pet, he doesn’t stray far from her side on walks and cuddles up to her with it’s tiny ant-eater like face. I think my dad is looking for a mans best friend, and a dog is not the commitment he is looking for right now. A rare, endangered species hunted by dangerous spiritual gangs is his next best bet.

I don’t see the appeal but I will admit they are an unflattering kind of cute, not quite like oversized sweaters but more like chunky-fitted sweaters where it’s not cute but you appreciate the effort.

The reason for their hunt is purely superstitious. According to Nature, “fresh scales are never used, but dried scales are roasted, ashed, cooked in oil, butter, vinegar, boy’s urine, or roasted with earth or oyster-shells, to cure a variety of ills. Amongst these are excessive nervousness and hysterical crying in children, women possessed by devils and ogres, malarial fever and deafness.” I believe in holistic medicine, and I will acknowledge remedies not supported by science. After all, science is a system of exploring questions. Drinking cherry juice as a sleep aid is a remedy my mother claims is true, and there are research studies that support this old housewives tale, cold-pressed cherry juice elevates naturally-producing meletonin levels in our body. Fiction can easily become fact, and vice versa.

There are claims that suggest Pangolins as another reason for the cause of COVID-19, along with the millions of other reasons ranging from government warfare to the literal end of the world. My Christain friend reassured me that the end is not near, but stay wary of signs of fires. The group of Whatsapp aunties reassure us that we are all going to hell, anyways.

I previously posted a reflection on the experimental art film “Dinner As I Remember” by Francis Almendárez. The film was more of a series of photos with the creator reflecting on his Caribbean heritage and the importance of food within his family. He briefly touched upon the subject of eating with your hands, and how his grandma went against the custom of using utensils and claimed eating with your bare hands makes food taste better. He explained that his mother now does the same, but previously no one else followed her example. In middle-eastern cultures, eating with your hands is normal while eating with utensils can be seen as “pretentious”. Authentic middle-eastern restaurants are typically packed with diners using their hands, I often have to request a few more spoons because they leave a few on the table for serving or soup.

I appreciated the candid photos the filmmaker used, I felt as though I were standing in a bustling kitchen with the oven’s gentle breath warming the apples of my cheeks, and hear the food sizzling on heavy cooking ware as children scrambled about. A scene that drew my eye was of a woman standing over a burning pit (also a common form of cooking in Arab culture, and it’s still in use among some Arab-American communities) with a wooden spoon and what appears to be a doughy mixture in a large pan. Cooking is more than a necessity, it’s an experience.

The scene reminded me of my childhood home in California and my grandmother aggressively stirring Aseed, a Yemeni dumpling soup, with a wooden spoon (or stick, I suppose). It’s a bit surreal to think these moments are of an ordinary day to me, a concept the filmmaker also brought up. I remember sometimes wishing my home was a little more like my American friends who had easy, mess free dinners of mac and cheese or pizza, which no Arab will ever acknowledge as real food. I am foolish for ever having questioned the labor, love, and respect towards cooking my ethnic culture embraces. That being said, I have a stack of assignments to finish, so I will be making baba ganoush (from grilled eggplants, of course) and scarfing it down with pita bread I made a few days ago. I can hear my grandmother’s disapproval of eating a “snack” for dinner. Oh, the audacity.

I love the devotion in middle-eastern cooking. My dad purchases fresh and dried spices from local ethnic markets including dried lemons, fresh turmeric roots, cardamom, whole nutmeg, coriander, saffron, anise, cinnamon sticks, cumin seeds, whole peppercorns, the list continues. My mother roasts the spices in the oven or on the stove before grounding the blend. She makes bulks of the spice and stores glass jars of spices in the freezer. The aroma of the spices dances throughout the house. Spice day is my favorite, my mother is full of patience and dedication, pride for her cooking beaming through her eyes.

I am the black sheep of the family having been a vegetarian since elementary school. Vegetarianism is a foreign concept to Arabs; why wouldn’t you want to go to a local farm, fondly pet a luscious goat before bringing it home for dinner, it’s body in one bag and the severed head with baby-browns in another. I don’t judge my family for eating meat, I have my own reasons and they have theirs. I know the meat they purchase is halal- a muslim belief that requires the animal to be raised in a clean and healthy environment, and the slaughter is done after leading the animal to it’s favorite spot after having been tenderly cared for all day. The slaughter is a quick chop of the head, and the animal is not supposed to see the knife. During this time, the person slaughtering the animal is reciting a prayer. Islam teaches compassion for animals, and I cannot think of a moment where anyone in my family went against this belief.

I only detest their need to insistently persuade and judge me for not cooking large meats. I cannot stand the process of cooking meat and poultry. Arab cooking is not as simple as burger meat and steak (which I can cook), it requires knowing how to properly clean and soak the animal, a long process of marinating the meat, and various methods of cooking the meat. I do not like it.

Watching the experimental art film “Dinner As I Remember” by Francis Almendárez, I am reminded of how important passing cooking traditions is to family. Cooking is an act of devotion, a primary love language within ethnic cultures. My dad complains we do not care enough for him, which confused me because I just finished purchasing this man an expensive apple watch and sent him a message to express my appreciation. I do the same for my mother, and she’s even fancier so I really have to save a bit before buying her a gift. Now, I realize hanging on to traditional cooking is more important to them.

I know cooking and baking is important to me. Whenever I am stressed or a friend of mine is going through something, I bake. The amount of times I accidentally snorted powdered sugar in the middle of the night is concerning. Despite the joys and comfort of cooking, food as a love language can be difficult because not all of use speak the same language. I love cleaner foods, not to say I am a health nut because as much as I’d love to be that is not reality, but most days I want to eat foods that leave me feeling clean. My mother loves to cook too much (I inherited that trait- we can’t help it, let’s feed the whole block) and she is not shy with butter and dairy. And guess who has an intolerance to dairy? Yes, me, the grass-eater. There have been far too many arguments with my mom about why I do not want to eat all of the rice pudding she made and me pointing out that one time I was in the hospital because she made us drink a glass of milk everyday (and I threw up everyday and had intense headaches because we did not know how severe my intolerance was). So, you see, food as a love language can be beautiful but communication boundaries still exist.

I took several photos walking around my neighborhood and used Photoshop, Illustrator, and Adobe Font to edit the photos and add poems I wrote inspired by these images. I sent my friend my poem “The Unsettling Semblance of Spring” to read, and at first I completely hated the optimism in her tone. I wrote the poem feeling mellow with a quiet anger beneath the surface, so her bringing forth a new perspective startled me. I now appreciate the contrast in our perspectives and decided to keep a raw audio of her recitation, only editing out a few moments of lengthy silence on audition. My final piece features the two poetry pieces (“(who drives the train?)” and “The Unsettling Semblance of Spring”) but I included the other images because I enjoyed playing around with the software. I am in the process of writing a novel on a collection of poems I wrote over the past few years. I plan to self-publish and have spoken with an editor to begin the process, but I plan to become better acquainted with the software so I can continue to improve the images I post with quotes or poems on social media to promote my work.

“Lost in New York”, the title of the project I am working on, is full of bitter emotion with pieces reflecting the mindful and content state of mind I long for but can never seem to reach. I struggle with feelings of guilt for wanting more in life, wanting higher education, wanting to pursue a business, wanting to keep trying new opportunities… it is stigmatized within some Arab communities. A woman who wants more from life is dangerous. My family praises the idea of independence and yet I receive plenty of comments on my age. These pressures of time and accomplishment are stifling, I am only 20 and yet I am made to feel like I am nearing the end of the road. As though I missed my train and the idea of getting back on is comedic. The pandemic has only increased this feeling, I am not able to work and grad school is a question as of right now. Perhaps it’s years of being in the honor roll and surrounded by successful friends, but I am upset with myself for not applying to enough jobs and searching for more backup plans. I graduated high school with an advanced regents diploma, my associates in a year with president’s list, and now my bachelors in two years with a good gpa. And, yet, I am still not accomplished.

“Who drives the train?”, intentionally written in lower case, questions the role of a higher being and whether my persistence is worth entertaining. Last spring, I found out my sister’s chronic illness was much more severe than I have been led to believe. I am not sure why it came as such a shock to me since I have taken care of her since she became ill in elementary school, and yet seeing the fatality written starkly on paper destroyed me. She turned 18 and my parents wanted me to become the legal guardian in case of an emergency, otherwise I probably never would have known. Years of my parents quickly snatching the mail out my hands once it became clear I was one to stubbornly research made more sense now. I didn’t know they were keeping this information from me, especially since I know plenty about her medications, I have taken her to appointments, my schedule revolves around me helping care for her. Now, I am keeping this information from my younger siblings and I don’t feel guilty about it. I only feel guilty that I am allowing myself to become so affected when my sister and parents are also suffering. Despite the pain, I realized I would rather feel than remain numb. I am my worst self when I am masked with apathy but the most unstable at the height of emotion, which brings me back to balance. I want balance, accept the contrast as a part of life and use it to my advantage.

The title of the poem is a play on the idea of a higher being, but also an ironic inside joke. I easily connect to people, often I find myself in the middle of a conversation with a stranger and their company asks how long we’ve known each other. I joke with my friends that I am a “train therapist” because every time I rode a train (or bus!) I fall into a heart to heart with someone and get the person so immersed in expressing their story, they release a few tears. I can get anyone to open up, kids, parents, older people. It’s strange but I am validated by my job, often my boss has asked me to sit in during meetings or talk to a troubled child or frustrated parent. The irony is that I am able to communicate and guide others, just not myself.

This spring inspired “The Unsettling Semblance of Spring”. My sister’s birthday brings joy and sorrow, it’s another year we made it but another year her struggles continue to grow. There’s no one to confide in and there’s no one I would want to confide in. I am angry for allowing myself to become so affected when there is plenty else that is fine in my life. The quarantine has forced me to become more present and it’s been overwhelming not having that physical busy pace of the day to keep me from settling in my mind. My days were split into mornings where I would drive my sister to school, go to class or work, and then home to care for my sister before going back to school or work. I am just as busy, but my worries are half virtual. My days are focused on helping to care for my siblings and attempting to manage my other responsibilities. Despite most of my courses resting on a grade of A, I have missed a handful of deadlines and I feel like a failure. So, as I sat outside with my sisters taking in the fresh air and the wonderful sight of green grass and the chimes of birdsong, I felt my anxieties simmer beneath the surface and I felt as though I were ungrateful for the blessings I have in my life. I am not sure how I can begin to repair the mistakes I have made, but I need to take the time after classes are over to settle and organize myself before jumping back into the piles of projects I have started.

I am grateful I took this class, despite my late submissions I have been drafting my work but the part of me obsessed with perfectionism has held me back from submitting. I will work on becoming more psychologically flexible. I am in the process of starting a website for my mom’s cooking and baking. I am more comfortable talking to people about softwares they use and asking for guidance and expressing my desire to learn and practice the programs. I am working on a few writing pieces and have compiled a list of video/podcast ideas to begin working on ranging from psychology, cultural/religious competency, humor, art, baking, books, etc. I plan to start another website for my interests. I plan to keep practicing and reaching out to others about their own work so that I can someday become satisfied with my own work, too.

that is not the case here, I present to you a poem that will narrate the opening credits of my life: the movie.

I have an overactive mind, and due to the chaotic energy my home carries, that overdrive has since crossed over to overstimulation. Sometimes having a busy mind manifests into ambition, I could get weeks worth of work done in a day. Once I completed a 15 page research essay in less than 5 hours, and there are moments when being overstimulated finally leads to a breakthrough and I am able to create during that height of emotion. Lately, that overstimulation has caused distress rather than the sensation of eustress I recently realized I am addicted to, which can make me incredibly driven or lead to a sharp fall. Anyways, my unsettled mind leads me to listen halfway through a song sometimes and jump into the middle of another, and then loop back and listen to them in full length if I find myself drawn back. I skipped around these three songs and spouted off a poem called “Breakdown”.

The actual meanings of the songs did not fully translate to my poem, especially as the songs vary in emotion. I wrote the poem when I was incredibly angry with myself but mentally drained to bother doing anything about it. As I sat there trying to focus at three in the morning, these songs came up on my shuffle on Spotify and for a moment I felt a little more at ease.

“Breakdown”

stranded on the highway, 

a Cadillac drifting off the coast-way 

cherry-red stark against the desert, beaten by harsh rays 

foundations of mind crumbling, water leaking from the ceiling 

upside down, still reeling 

overflowing bathtub with bubbles of emotion, but still no feeling

you hear me? 

sensory overload, like a too-tight dress on a humid summer night, might implode

spring clouds crept into sight, snuck inside, stuck inside  

like shadows clinging to corners, smile and hide 

turmoil tunes can’t distract looney tunes

song or praise, worship or rhyme; fleeting thoughts and broken minds

can’t dance to the blues, don’t dance with me, can’t dance with you 

sanity defrays

stains on soul like grass-stained childhood dreams from soil 

memories of tumbling down hills, can’t be made with dehydrated visions

weave inhibition to obstructing and envision; a passport to admission 

midnight tea to fuel the light in my mind 

read Dąbrowski and still perplexed 

is this the end of the road or the beginning of a curve

simmering in cimmerian

drifting off course, the blinking enlightenment of an omniscient moon 

have I lost me?

middle of a breakdown in the sun and now I’m suntanned 

middle of the night, shifts of chiffon lilac-light, reminiscences of golden metal

meet the yawning dawn, rosy dustings of blush, sweep away the depth of dark

fought the lonely of the am night… now it’s twilight

Now that we’ve established I will soon become famous (I will continue to speak it into existence, not to mention my yearbook quote promised my growing fandom I will debut on the Ellen Show within a set time frame), I have established my first public musical venture. I posted three tracks on Sound Cloud, to which I instantly received two likes, one from an odd man somewhere in the mountains I presume and another is spam although I imagine it were a woman named Kim.

“stoptalkingkeeptalkingamitalking” is a mesh of sounds I collected through shuffling paper, the distant crash of a waterfall, an echoic of bustling chatter, and a few instruments overlapping to create a rhythmic flow. The emotion heightens to a feeling of sensory overload before it dispels into a smooth tone that may be interpreted as relief or of ominous distance.

“cognitivedissonance” reflects on the incongruity between our conscious thoughts amidst the abstraction of awareness and the disparity between behavior and belief. The audio features a late night fast car drive before arriving to a waterfall with a gradual increase in proximity, the turn signal and seatbelt ding can be heard in the background as well as a beat that reminds me of black-and-white tv static. I would love to be able to figure out how to create a sleek rhythm that this audio can lead to, I imagine the contrast to be pleasant.

“busycityandbrightmangoes” reminds me of running through a city midday in the leftover summer sun and the cool breeze of the autumnal air. The audio consists of several tracks, including a loop of a perfume spray, the sound of a car speeding then slowing to a stop on loop, a turn signal, a basic drum beat, a waterfall in the distance, and lively percussions muffled in the background.

I recently purchased adobe creative cloud for the amazing cost of about $21, a sum I should really invest at the gym. After messing around with photoshop and even sending a professor a picture I photoshopped of her with a pair of pygmy marmosets (finger monkeys!), I decided to spend some time with adobe audition. I have been able to composite a pile of sounds into a series of multitracks ranging from forty-five seconds to nearly two minutes. Do they sound amazing? Probably not.

As a poet of lyrical poetry, I would love to expand my skillset and turn my rambles on paper into smooth songs. The kind of songs I would listen to and maybe even sing along. In the meantime, I have grown increasingly attracted to the idea of creating creepy audio files to disturb those around me. I do not apologize for my actions and I hope to continue to expand my skillset as I create an episodic series of the strange beings around me.

There are several websites that provide a customization feature on everyday products, which should come as no surprise as we are able to customize babies through genetic modification. Designer babies are real, folks.

I played around with this feature and decided not to disturb my psyche by placing human faces on underwear, instead I decided to embrace the world of the “e-boy” and customize a product as though I were buying it for someone I know. The best gifts are weird but practical.

You are welcome, men of the modern age and their melodrama.

https://www.vulture.com/2020/02/super-bowl-commercials-2020.html

America is a kaleidoscope of chaos, like the backseat of a stressed parent’s minivan with sticky green soda spilled on a pilled gray carpet on a humid summer day or watching an angry man stalk an aloof woman around on stage… America is uncomfortable, for us, for the rest of the world watching a production of intentional mishap.

Cinematic advertisement is a bright star among the rustic ambition of our beloved nation. Almost as worthy of a performance as the halftime show, the Super Bowl ads are the highlight for those detached from the world of monetized aggression (don’t worry, I still appreciate the concept of athleticism). This year’s advertisements were not interesting enough to carry out in discussion or send a youtube clip to your group chat (or your grandma) but at least we weren’t besieged by puppy’s in jerseys. There’s only so much emotion one can handle.

I will admit baby peanut is pretty cute, and strange enough for my eye to be drawn to their products as I pass the healthy snack aisle in Target on my way to the real candy. Sabra gained some attraction with it’s disturbing rendition of the classic middle-eastern hummus, completely ignorant to their tagline “how you ‘mmus?” which translates to “how do you suck?”. Maybe the Tik Tok star was supposed to remind us it’s quirky… ok, boomer.

Deepfakes, a form of media centered around the concept of deception, is suspected to play a significant role in the upcoming presidential election. If undetected, a viewer may watch an entire video where a candidate is rambling about their love for Hitler or a truly vindictive candidate may be edited to discuss their support of the local GirlScouts.

Despite the alarm this mode of deception has caused, I can’t help but wonder whether there are any benefits to this technology besides cinematic value. Any comments?