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creative writing, indeed.

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prodigal daughter.

packing for Karachi is always a frustrating, doomed-from-the-start endeavour.  i never seem to own more than three items of clothing that are actually worth taking to Pakistan (oh wait -- maybe that has something to do with how many items of clothing i own in TOTAL...).  my mother says yes, she still has the shalwaar kameez-es (why has no one figured out what to do about how silly the rules of English grammar look when trying to colonize foreign words -- paninos anyone?) from the last two times i visited.  these are the clothes i wore through the months that my father was dying -- the red on the day he died; the black-and-turquoise on the day of the funeral, the other red ajrak that he liked best.  a wardrobe to take you through the family cancers.  hm.

i know it will be good, to see what is left of everyone.  i know i will be loved unconditionally (except for when i am loved so very, very conditionally).  i know i will be with people whose love i may not have a whole lot left of.  i know these trips are ever preciouser.

i look around my tornado-ed apartment: the bedroom is buried in clothes and shoes and the weight of a feeling i have not had in over two years.  someone inside me, wants very much to stay home.

[nightingaleshiraz] [?]
[Via Marco Aurelio, Roma]
[sabato 14 marzo 2010 ore 07:16:04] []

Seven Years

on Friday i am at the office till eight-thirty.  what kind of woman leaves her desk at eight-thirty on a Friday night, when she DOESN'T EVEN LIVE IN NEW YORK ANY MORE?
the kind that has too many emails* in her Inbox.

tonight i am speaking on a panel for the American Women's Association in Rome, about whether we are really superwomen.
and yes, i know it's ironic.
no really.  i KNOW.

i come home to Chinese dumplings and chili sauce, and Norah -- thank goodness for Norah.  how many clenched jaws this album has had to deal with.  how many times have i come home and turned her on and paced back and forth across the living-room floor until enough of the refrain has settled in, enough for me not to want to pace any more.  enough to know none of this really, really matters.

...there are other things that help, so many other things.  i open  Marcus Aurelius to a random page:

Do what you will.  Even if you tear yourself apart, they will continue doing the same things.

cursing helps too.

*too many of them useless; too many of them from One Particular Person.

[nightingaleshiraz] [?]
[Via Marco Aurelio, Roma]
[luned́ 08 marzo 2010 ore 13:36:01] []