blOgbuefi

writing to know, knowing thru being, being for writing... this is me, writing about the one thing i know, which is myself... and even that is sometimes a mystery...

Thursday, June 01, 2006

stories

chicago is bringing out the story-teller in me. odd, isn't it?

anyway, if ever i were to write a book about my experiences in the windy city, this is what it would consist of, so far.

they're half-truths, based on truth, exaggerated, fabled and fiction-ized.
(sometimes a lie is the truest thing you will know)

homeless again in chicago,
stephanie


--STORIES--

"the parents"
There once was a family. A family who knew a Pakistani man. A Pakistani man who knew their daughter. And their daughter, who needed help and a place to stay while away from home and in a strange land, asked this man for help.
He offered a small room in his house with his two friends until she could find a place of her own and get back on her feet.
So all three people lived together in this house for many days and all were happy and safe.
Then one day, the Pakistani man had to throw the daughter out. Due to his God, or his parents, or his girlfriend (he couldn't decide which, but all were important, you see), she couldn't stay there any more. The Pakistani man offered to help her find a place, but never kept his word, and continued on with his life, blind to the despair and hopelessness he had imposed.
Having no where to go, no prospects in mind, and only a week to figure something out, the daughter cried home as she fled to the streets.
Her parents, who always loved her very deeply and forcefully, were angered. Their good will and kindness and understanding and hope for all humankind blemished, as their confoundment and inability to understand circumstancs clouded their beliefs.
Her parents, who had never hated another human being in their lige, had been taught to love others unconditionally, and whose lives and spiritual beliefs were the model of this adherent practice, developed a surprising hesitation and distrust for humanity from thence forward. Their love for their daughter, and the accompanying dislike for all sources of pain and hurt feelings toward her, soon became well-seated ill-will, then hate, towards the individual who they all saw as the cause.

As time passed, I hear that these poor and gentle, loving parents developed a hate so strong, it could not be contained to the individual any more, and developed into a broad dislike of Pakistanis, and people in general.

So it goes.

(God save them, protect them, please. I love them so...)


"a hatred for love"
Love can be so damagin, really. It is enough to tear one apart from the inside out, and to tear people asunder...
to ruin cities and break bonds of blood,
Love is destructionary.

What love is so strong as to focus so intently on one, and blind the lover to all else, to ignore the pleading and pain of a fellow human being, to render it meaningless, in the face of the pleasure of pleasing one's love?
Love is a blind and a handicap.



"a warning" / to haseeb:
One day, you must finally confront your parents and let them know of your individual beliefs. It is difficult, seemingly impossible, to let your parents know, to make them aware that you, the fruit of their love, have developed separately and independently of them, that you might not agree, or even get along, that you may now be one another's enemies.
But in the end, it is really yourself you are defending and combatting, yourself you are defeating.
For do you think you can have everything?
One must go through life aware of the sacrifices, the conflicts, the compromises.
You give and take, you triumph and suffer, but never one and not the other.

Eventually, you will have to kill your secrets in exposing them to the light, and your others will have to know of the life you've chosen, so that you can continue to live.

Death is the end to all options.
What matters is how you face it.


want more? check out another over at invincible cities! and enjoy the weekend.
love, stephi

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