In Pursuit of Lightness

I used to have this recurring dream about a woman guiding me out of this maze of ruins. I could remember looking at her auburn hair shining in the orange sun as I followed her left and right. And then when I look away, I used to be outside and free.

(A bunch of stuff I backspaced)

The Portrait of Usman M. Khan looks dark and unfinished but I can make out the hint of a smile.

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I've noticed that talking out actually helps. Even if the person talked to is looking at you with the blankest stare, it just feels good to let out something that's been in knots in your brain for the longest time. And less stupid than when you do it alone.

Keeping stuff inside just makes it fester until the the buzz of the flies feels makes you want to claw your brain out.

Scores need to be settled, apologies are to be given. Perhaps eulogies.

If it wasn't me, it'd just be someone else. Not now, then later.
Who knows, maybe worser?

Some people had a tremendous amount of influence in shaping how I operate. I wish to apologize for making them know me through the process. I was and still am most uncomfortable to deal with. I hope in some karmic way, I too can be a source of intention and perspective as you are to me. Without you, the Portrait would have been boring and gray and wearing a check shirt.
Thank you for showing me a bit of the way, especially when waters were murky and signs, undecipherable. And for adding layers to a stubborn consciousness to see just a bit more than before.

Hand of God

03532103022011, It's Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding) by Bob Dylan playing

Based on empirical observation, I can safely say I have never worked hard in my life. My father could testify at length to that in a grand engrishy english speech. My high school teachers used to say that too but when they say it, they're really saying "Ma'am your son here is one dumb motherfucker if I've ever seen one". But the D U D E in my A Levels was definitely a lesson in not studying a night before. A lesson I haven't figured out. I wish there was a switch you could turn on to get that healthy anxiety going at a reasonable time. The kind that makes you get up and about and work towards a long term goal. The kind that makes you turn off the procrastination switch. Routine has never been much of a friend and usually ends up being quashed by sporadic periods of grasshopping, and its sister, planning, is akin to control and control is a tool that we exercise to get a sense of definition in a universe amidst chaos. In short, it cramps my style.
I like to think I'm lucky. So at the very terrible risk of jinxing it and with the disclaimer, "Nazar mat lagao!", I'll like to write about the machinations I know as the Hand of God. Not to be confused with the famous hand of god of Maradona, and definitely not marijuana.
The Hand of God is that stroke of luck that puts the cogs in place as to get by or even thrive. It'll just happen that the text you didn't study for the next day's Final doesn't end up being included in the syllabus and that list that you were trying to cram outside the hall, a minute before the paper, is just asked for. With marks for examples! That is the Hand of God, ladies and gentlemen. The Hand is what you hope happens when you habitually sing in your car; and you're really trying to not sing when there are these hot women you don't know very well in the car but end up singing anyway, first muttering and then increasing volume with proportionate confidence until that moment where you fuck up the lyrics like a dirty scratch on a record, rather loudly too; and everybody hears the fuckup but keeps ignoring it silently because let's face it, everybody's been there and done that BUT you do the worst thing possible and look around, making that uncomfortable eye contact which erupts in laughter centered at you. The Hand is severely missed.
But it happens often enough and I've gotten so reliant on this system of blind luck that sometimes you're hoping for it. But if I'm expecting the Hand to occur, it wouldn't be the Hand of God and if it wouldn't be the Hand of God, then there is no Hand of God. As in the case above. Whatever it would be, it'd be predictable. And human.
I was sitting in my car, unwrapping a rather large sandwich when I suddenly got this bad feeling that I may have dropped some outside.
Thoughts at the moment:

1. I should check if I've dropped it.
2. No I'll just sit here and complete my sandwich. I'm rooting for the Hand.
3. Oh no! I've predicted the Hand so the Hand's not gonna happen and I should get out and check.
4. But maybe this is the Hand fucking with me, making me think it's not working but it really is. That clever ninja!
5. Oh fuck, why'd I think of that!

So I got out and checked. Everything was in its right place. I was just outside the usual park and there was a nice breeze reminiscent of a winter tragically missed. I finished my sandwich and rolled out and as soon as I did, I saw a Mehran with five burly cops inside looking like a clown car pass the exact place where I was enjoying the toils of nature. Then on Sunset Blvd., instead of taking the usual left on the 7th street, I ended up talking on the cell and missed it. I took the longer alternative route and again, cops at the exit to the road I usually take. Again! With enough sandwiches for a bloody picnic, I was rightfully grateful for these near misses and just passed the boys in blue, hand in salute. That is the Hand of God. On an ironic note, paranoid but pleasantly un-annoyed.