Cleaning up my bedroom yesterday, I came across something I wrote a couple of years ago, tossed deep down in the under-bed archives_…_ At various points in their lives, some people realize the need to forge ahead new selves, to attempt to claim some identity as if they never had one to begin with. They’re preoccupied with the things they are yet to do, yet to achieve, with the things they must do to be.

“The degradation of an individual does not encompass the certainty by which that individual sees himself. For one to see himself in true light requires both certitude and verity. It is only with a lack of levity in character that one rises above the trifles of day to day life to obtain light. Sometimes–no, most of the time, we need each other to obtain light,” Dr. Emmerich said. His words slightly echoed in the lecture hall.

__ My favorite lens currently is a 50mm f/2.8 1:1 Macro. It’s perfect for life-size close-ups and portraits. Although it’s not as fast as I’d like it to be (i.e. f/1.4 or f/1.2), it’s sharp and has lovely bokeh (the appearance of out of focus areas) thanks to its circular aperture. Some of the above photos were shot using a DIY soft box that I hacked together last night (instructions at Strobist – highly recommended site).

Mr. Crippin had a deservedly wicked name. He walked into class with calculated, military-precision steps that he himself never faltered to observe every morning. He’d focus on his own brown leather shoes as he walked in front of the whiteboard. “Children,” he said, raising his head, “the homework tray seems to be filled up nicely today. I expect each and everyone of you to have done a job that would not have me furious this time tomorrow.

The Sayed did istikhara and it was good. I did istikhara and it was good. I did istikhara to send my email and it was good. Compiles whistling tunes CD. Happiest when she prayed five times a day. Loves me and says it meaningfully. Thinks and says I’m a wonderful, amazing, talented and beautiful person. Cleared up the issue about her faith, where she stands and that she was a mislead child.

A quaint little mistake, quite harmless: FLIM instead of FILM. Subtle, yet evocative of an age when sheep herders and boom operators discussed mountain winds and ambient noise pickup. Or maybe not. Here’s something for everyone (that wants to make flims): Celtx– free scriptwriting/media pre-production software for Windows, OS X, and Linux.

See and be seen know and be known It’s the game of society we play Run like a champ avoid the chimps A few tips for sounding intelligent When someone says something, nod ever so slightly, as if you’re agreeing, then stop as if you’re disagreeing. A subtle frown might add to the effect. When someone mentions the “government,” look distressed and say “1984.” Quote Oscar Wilde whenever someone talks about literature.

Rise and shine, everyone. This is Mental Melvin on 96.9, the sunshine station, with another brand new day of utter and total annoyance from yours truly. If you’ve got your own music, I’d suggest you play it instead of listening to not so funny me!

Mental Melvin didn’t say that exactly. But I think he should’ve. Why would I want to listen to a two bit DJ that’s pretending to be funny? Give me the news. Give me the weather, traffic report–anything but Mental Melvin. Give me silence. I turn off the radio.

Consolidated Flour Mills, reads the sign in glorious neon. Hello work.

“Philosophy melosophy.” Yousif picks up his teacup, “I don’t care what you make of life, as long as you make something out,”

“of it,” I interject.

“No, out of yourself. I don’t care what you think about all of this,” Yousif says, sweeping his hand. “Philosophies are a dime a dozen. In fact, how about this one right here,” he says, holding an Oreo, “life’s a cookie,” and takes a bite. He looks at it with reverence.

“Life’s not a cookie. It’s not like that, Yousif. Besides, an Oreo is way too complicated to be called a cookie.”

“No it isn’t, it’s a cookie. Looks like one, says so on the pack too.”

“Look at that Oreo. It’s a damn cake compared to a cookie.”

“It’s a cookie, Ameer,” he says.

“No, Yousif, it’s a philosophy,” I say, not looking at him, rather at steam rising from my coffee.

Yousif’s my colleague. He sits in a coveted vubicle, a cubicle next to a window. He has every right to be gung-ho. He has every right to call an Oreo a cookie. Or a philosophy.

There once was a little boy with a very big heart.

“I’m afraid your son has a rare congenital heart defect called Vendler’s Cavity. It’s an extreme case of malformed semilunar valves and a larger-than-normal heart size,” said the doctor. “I’m sorry, but your son is not expected to live long.”

The little boy was taken from doctor to doctor, his parents trying in vain to have someone say to them he will live forever. All they heard was that he will die sooner than later.

Alas, the years passed and the little boy was no longer little nor a boy, for he was a man.

With whatever time he had, the man decided that he would help people and commit to charitable causes rather than to worry about his future.

He traveled the world, saw places and met people from cultures far and apart. He also met a girl. She was a charity worker that pulled the strings of his large heart in ways never before known to him.

He ran as fast as he could. He took a new jogging route. Instead of the usual coastal front, he decided to head towards the village center. The sun poured down its light like melted gold, silhouetting the vehicles, lampposts, trees and structures. The air was still–there was no humidity nor breeze. He made a trail of dust on the unpaved roadside as his cross trainers struck ground. The village was smaller than he had originally anticipated.