...learned that to draw meant to be perfect... meant to use your hands to etch lines that looked like what was... that resembled reality... and through this Journey... been learning that it's actually different... that it's to draw Reality... to Be in that Reality and align hands with this disposition... the same is True with writing...
...writing is a servant for the One... an abdullah... abd ullah... i am an Ullah... an ayat of the One... all things Are my dad tells me... he is most resonant when i am in his absence... and our Spirits intermingle... romance Creates possibility...
...rumi's entire volumes of poems were dedicated to shams as a symbol of the One... perhaps we need krsna or ganesha or jesus or a sheikh or guru to be inspired by, to have a physical form to worship in lieu of the Real... in lieu of grasping the One-ness...
...i ran away when i was 11... for a little bit... for a little while... came right back... didn't know where to go... not american enough... wasn't fearless enough... was too trapped in designations... in formats... in the legitimation factory that produces degrees and diplomas...
... did the years of weed help?... did the years of alcohol help?... not sure it did... not sure... it made me say things... things to get your attention... to make you feel sorry for me... but never really shared what was hurting... what was the cause of my sad... but in the Work... in recent Work... in looking at pictures of myself... Realizing that what was was feeling ugly, dirty, like pig pen, like an alien... like a runaway... not the runaway of american tragedy but the dark migrant crossing border runaway from the border soldiers of american xeno-islamo-phobia... of indian-pakistani-gulf-state-ancient-supremacies...
...it's odd... how did i get here... to this position...?... me... i'm a runaway... ran away from a while ago... a while back... hopping off of the freight train i snuck under to watch my hair suddenly long, to hop off again to notice a beard, to notice again, years later, patches of hair gone, beard greying... somehow even those moments of shine, of being past the border of shame for moments... of acceptability... was fleeting... everything is... the quicksand in the hour glass...
...at this point i am clear that i have no sense of allegiance to ethnicities or nationalisms or racial categories... what i do align with is Soul... with the fight against Soul-lessness... especially as seen in myself... i write you not for a response... i love you not for a response... i love you cause of all these reasons and give like the wads of bills people drop on qawwali artists... with the possibility that they may never see each other again... but just because... because you have to give... because you Recognize Truth when you see it... and Real Recognize Real... Always...
...in the name of the One... the Most Compassionate...
...i am a runaway,,, running to hide... to not be known... to not be seen... to be whoever you want me to be... to give and run... no hit and runs... no more running... drawing instead... painting trains that i walk through, car to car, nodding at women with strollers and wigs, men with shamrok sweatshirts and green black and red wrist bands...
..the specifics of a ruined city get ruined in the run, skyscrapers like zigzags of a rush, e and coke laced in blunt... tobacco... inhaled so deeply i fell off the wagon... wild westerns in upper manhattan were your sister lives...
...died in You... died and learned to draw... to Be inside... dance, rhythmic... do it All... Love You...
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