...the human body, a paintbrush of genius, of Creativity so sophisticated that gasp, wow, how...
...al Khaliq resides in our natural disposition to create, to live artfully...
...in marakech everyone i met was an artist. lamb-skin lamps in the cut of midnight sahara, in the shape of desert women...
...in noakhali, my chacima gave me a tour of a day in the life of a villagewoman...herself a village woman...she made the bamboo chairs we sat on, the straw mat my other aunty seperated rice grains on. my chahci me gave me the quilt that stitches a story like ragas that played from the flute of my cousin, who blew song in the sound of trees, after a day of tilling land...
...art is life in the tradition, among traditional people...there is no separation, no cullinary school...
...my mom's laboratory is the kitchen, where she spends the majority of her time concocting masterpieces that have guests all-praising...
...all praise is due to the Source, al-Khaliq that lies within us all, when we get out of our way, when we let go....the success is in the doing, in the practice, in the Way, in the service...
....al Khaliq is the Creation. how does your art account for community? what role does it serve in building, enhancing, maintaining community, beyond you, beyond this brief moment in this brief body?
...how do i/we tap into al-Khaliq? al-Khaliq is here. here. do you see? hear? shhh...don't talk about it...thing is, i find al Khaliq when i am my most vulnerable self, when i allow for Creator/ivity to work through me instead of audience, instead of paying too much heed to the opinions of those who are tuned into a lower frequency...
...and me, little me, little i, wanting to connect, wanting to be down, wanting just to be normal, and not gossiped about, and not have burning ears, and a kick-me sign, me - i try to get it right, try to say the words that will sound like jay and johnny...
...in the process of this tapping into lower, into an audience, into compulsion by those who i make idols , i lose al-Khaliq.
...what would happen if al-Khaliq were my voice, my walk? my writings, my use of paper...stacks on stacks on stacks of art in collab with you and you and trees and seasons and generations...a dialectic...conversations between 500 b.c. 300 a.d. 1442 and 2015...all praise is due for the letting go, for the vulnerability, for working through al-Khaliq...
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