horses give us wings we lack...

Photo:
Ameena Mohyuddin
Digital Ouput, 2012

Sergei Prokofiev, thank you for letting me escape.

Ameena Mohyuddin
Digital Output, 2010.


some of us escape to keep sane. lose yourself in Prokofiev's symphony number 5. go on, try it. it's an old habit. turn it up and it will drown out the chaos. i promise. it's as if its screaming through the veins of itemized nonsensical proportions.

prose is suppose to be clean. or so i'm told. emotional is alright, but description is just plain TMI. do i say what i mean? do i mean what i say? do i maintain a semblance of structural patterns that indicate normalcy? why can't we agree to just simply disagree? have the rules changed? did i not receive the memo addressed to me?

these moments of mysterious truths are self-inflicting revelations of the absolute unnecessary. loud will get you heard. bold will make you strong. nice will conceal your truth. this number 5 is torturous. does Prokofiev know that masked paranoia only breeds momentarily lapse in beauty? maybe he was on to something. it's a build up of the future. it's the break point of the past. and yet it calms and soothes. but the only catch is, you have to parade in this masqueraded realm of everything but anything.

and the quiet exit of the keys hitting the tunes of this hieroglyphic bubble that you want to need to long to ... escape the wrestling of arbitrary signs. am i now a being in a EM Foster saga trailing behind the spotlight of resistance and empty grandeur? oh this is surely a nightmare. please, will you wake me?

running low on inspiration...but high on borrowed time.

It gets so foggy
And goes on and on and on
And the rain stops and the sirens, they turn on.
They tell me it’s misty. I hear them complain.
They tell me it’s not what you see. I hear them explain.
She said a sage came to her in her dreams
And told her of these magnetic schemes.
There is beauty in its breakdown
There is a tire swing on the tree
But the yellow brick road,
Are you real or do I keep pretending?

Life is so fluid that one can only hope to capture the moment...alive and fresh...without destroying the moment. -anais nin

Ameena Mohyuddin
16x20 Gelatin Silver Print, 2007

"You can be Henry Miller and I'll be Anais Nin
Except this time it will be even better
we'll stay together in the end"...

***

spirituality without the words. yeah....eh.

Careless praises and mismanaged sequence of words.
Shortening of the catch-phrase . Oh the people watching.
A trip down memory lane, only it’s not of the past.
Gestures for the people. Tricks for the soul.
These episodes of life for the cleanup.

She says "I've been praying to something as well these past weeks".
It's a promise of a curse, a cry, and a worry.
A race to the end. Will I place first?

They say Southern girls do not need the spring for the waiting.
Will you grab my coat? I will grab the keys.
Let’s just waste away on the dollar coffee and some old cds.

Oh these suitcase friendships are like spirituality without words.

Hard to Explain. Is it?

Photo:
Ameena Mohyuddin Lahore, Digital Output, Summer 2011

Appearances deceive and emotions misguide.
Actions translate into callousness. And trust is misplaced.
Betrayal surfaces and hurt knocks on the front door.

Miscellaneous necessities seem irrelevant.
The ceiling spins around as my head hits the floor.
The closing makes its début earlier than expected.

The jokes are empty and secrets are far removed.
Alone is the reality and trust is a luxury.
Contentment is not to be owned.
All comes undone, but the moon never fades.
So clear, so rushed, so natural.

Pride injures the prayer.
The guy on the radio says it’s a clear day.
Not a cloud in the sky.
Pain is common, yet a struggle.
But is it meant to be remembered?
And if so, then what's the threshold?

Alas, it’s an ordinary Sunday morning.
And the plastic Jesus leads to salvation.

distance.

Photo:
Ameena Mohyuddin
Lahore on a Bicycle
Digital Output, Summer 2011.