Welcome To Procrastination Station

All departures are postponed until tomorrow, sorry. Or the next day. Or the next day. Or maybe next year...

pro·cras·ti·nate

 [proh-kras-tuh-neyt, pruh-] verb,-nat·ed, -nat·ing.

–verb (used without object)

1. to defer action; delay

2. story of my life

So here I am, sitting pretty in front of my laptop. I'm, in the immortal words of one T. Swift, "in the room, it's a typical Tuesday night," and there are so many other things I could/should be doing. Namely my annotations of the critical analyses for Love In The Time Of Cholera, which I read for English, and my paper on jazz for APUSH. But there are so many other things vying for my attention...I realize procrastination is hardly something unique to me; any teenager with an Internet connection (or, you know, lives in the 21st century) has the same problem. This week has been going by sooo sloowly...junior year will be the death of me.

Better Late Than Never

So it seems that I have been rather (okay, extremely) remiss in posting. Don't worry, I have no illusions of fame - does anyone really care if I say anything here? Not likely. Regardless, I did make a promise to keep this alive, and so I shall. School is school only now even more intense (GO JUNIOR YEAR!). I'm enjoying winter break here in Pakistan (mera des, the motherland, the home country, the place I'm dragged to at least once a year) with the family, though, despite SAT results, pre-cal and Spanish IV waiting for me at home. The Ashura (the two holiest days in the Islamic month of Muharram in which Hasan (R) and Hussein (R), grandsons of the Prophet (S), died) bombing in Karachi two days ago did put a damper on things, to put it lightly. We were on the way to see Badshahi Masjid again (we went last year as well) and were driving through Hall Road, one of the seedier markets in Lahore where the moms only let the boys go, when we abruptly reached a seemigly hastily erected police checkpoint. Imagine my surprise when the police motioned for us to exit the car! Amna, Mariam, and I were patted down by waiting female police while the boys were checked by other cops. Still other police thoroughly searched the car and finally an explanation was given: not ten minutes ago a suicide bomber felt the need to meet his Maker and coincidentally take 43 others with him during an Ashura procession. We were shocked, of course, and dismayed. When will this madness end? More to the point, what will become of this country? Questions that will remain unanswered, it seems. But taking into account that I am just a mere teenage girl venting her pointless feelings of fury on a blog, for goodness' sake, I will take a deep breath and move on...We go to the village tomorrow. Let's hope my stomach, battered and beaten by the food here, is up for the trip. I certainly am. 9 days til return to the good ol' U. S. of A. This'll be the last post of 2009, no doubt. Have a good New Years', kids.

-S.

Don't lie - you know we're cool. ANYWAY, this is the last day of our workshop - hopefully, we are no longer emotionally dead husks with all rebellious notion bottled up deep inside our tortured souls because now we EXPRESS OURSELVES. Or something like that.

"I AM" Poem

I am the stubborn canvas, letting those who would paint do their work only bit by bit.
My ami, who wants me to learn to dance, for God's sake
My khala, who tells me to talk normally, please
My nani, to eat breakfast/lunch/dinner, jaan
My abu, who tells me to GO TO LIFETIME (but I'll still love you no matter how you look)
My cousins, who simultaneously amuse and irritate me - Sar, will you edit my English paper?
I may be the stubborn canvas, but these paintbrushes are unrelenting (but I still love them)

Poetry (?)

I am currently taking part in a workshop from Voices Breaking Boundaries (link in the sidebar) that, among other things, is helping me to "express myself" (cue tumbleweed and chirping crickets). However, we have done a couple neat things - like, for example, written a poem about a place we consider home. May I present:

HOME

My home away from home
Another world, another place
Where I don't matter
Because I don't exist
In this world
I am transported
away from my problems
I can smile smugly
as others live and make mistakes
because that is what living is.
I can watch as pride comes before the fall,
and hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,
and do unto others as you would do unto yourself
because in this world these things don't apply to me
This world - my home, my homes, it should be said,
do not exist.
Instead they can be found in gleaming shelves
and between paper.
My world is located in words
My homes away from home are books.

Love it, hate it, want to burn me at the stake? Let me know.

A blog?

Hello, world. First off (if anyone cares): I am very, very, unsure about starting this blog...the quintessential blogger, it seems, is an irritating, emo, squealing, simpering pre-pubescent fangirl who thinks that the world hangs on her every word, be it her opinions about the latest development in the Disney pop world or whatever else she can think up. Obviously, I don't want to be grouped into this unfortunate category. I'll try to keep the angst to a minimum, but no promises (I am a stressed out teenager). I'd like to think my woe is mainly in the self-depracating and/or sarcastic category anyway. Er..as you were!