Annie Q Syed

August 29th.

Rhythm of stillness. What’s in a greeting? Art for art’s sake, sex for sex’s sake, but no love for love’s sake? Tattoo of “Pole Star” by artist Alphonse Mucha.

If you would like to know what Still Sundays is about, please take a quick gander here and just read the third paragraph. Thanks.

I was out with some friends last night and a friend’s friend mentioned how she couldn’t stand the City: the noise, the chaos, the people, the rush, the pushing, the hurrying, the commotion of going nowhere too fast, the overheard meaningless babel of strangers.

Was I delusional? Stillness in New York City that I rave about—figment of my imagination? Was I that in love with New York that I couldn’t hear the havoc around me? Why didn’t I hear and see this? Did I no longer interact with the outside world as much as I did before?

Ten years ago that woman was me. Loved New York but loved hating it. Loved New York but not without constantly complaining about it. The move to New York was part-choice, part-circumstance and part-intuition. I knew that is where I had to be but couldn’t quite make myself fit into the form-fitting sleeves of my decision.

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August 22nd.

labels. madness which can derail you. “the feeling YOU get, I get first.” real artists know a secret. “1 in 5 people are mad.”

If you would like to know what Still Sundays is about, please take a quick gander here and just read the third paragraph. Thanks.

Last night my neighborhood was pumping with life. This morning it is sleeping like a baby. It partied too hard. It’s 1:30 p.m. and it is still drowsy.

There are articles and articles upon New York City. Some about specific neighborhoods, others about restaurants, others about the politics behind everything, and then some. They all say something different. They all say the same thing.

There is a fight over building a damn mosque in New York City. There is a flood in Pakistan. Haiti is still in shambles. I met a guy last night who told me there are parts of New Orleans which look as if Katrina happened last night.

Our collective humanity trembles but we’ll be okay as long as we dare to resolve the fight within.

Last week I dealt with a swarm of labels from various sources manufactured to contain me. Confident. Insecure. Talkative. Quiet. Conservative. Wild. Charming. Detached. Egotistical. Humble. “Nothing like a photograph.”  The way I am is being analyzed. My writings are being identified with others before me. All flattering, I suppose. Not to me.

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August 8th.

Heart beats—literally. To create with conviction. For a lifestyle?  For your clients? Line between self-exploration & self-indulgence? What’s the point of art? Of being strong?

If you would like to know what Still Sundays is about, please take a quick gander here and just read the third paragraph. Thanks.

Stillness is palpable through practice.

I was not expecting to write this from L.A. but instead from my parents’ ranch house in the village. Yet, here I am and, moreover, ready to depart for my beloved New York City in the evening. Life is unexpected sometimes, stillness is not. It remains a coating around all havoc. You are and are not of the moment.

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July 25th.

“Question for those who cannot live without art.” “Steal” stillness?  Joyful chaos of wedding preparations. What is the cause of our times?

If you would like to know what Still Sundays is about, please take a quick gander here and just read the third paragraph. Thanks.

Some kind people often take upon themselves to wish me “good luck” to steal stillness so as to be able to write this on Sundays. It takes effort to steal. I am not interested in exerting that energy. Beneath the surface calm can lurk violent storms. I am curious to explore stillness inside storms. I enjoy stillness inside the buoyancy of moments.

Some mornings it seems as if there is an undercurrent of constant stillness and it is up to me—us—to take a dip in it any moment. My imagination, ever since I was young, is helpful in that regard. I am here—fully present—yet also see beyond, within, and around simultaneously. Instead of making me crazy, it actually makes me still—that is when the voltage of receptivity is under control.

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July 11th.

A question I don’t care to ask.  Michael Jordan & why Kobe & Lebron don’t come close. What and who defines an artist?

If you would like to know what Still Sundays is about, please take a quick gander here and just read the third paragraph. Thanks.

The City nudged me awake at the pinnacle of her stillness this morning—5:oo a.m.—as if to say, allow me to help you recall what you originally meant when you began this series. The quietude between 5:oo a.m. and 6:oo a.m. is not of the same fabric as a few hours thereafter. The twilight sky takes pride to showcase the silhouettes of the buildings. The dust on architectural establishments almost glimmers in these early quiet hours. Ideal to sit on a bench provided in the middle of Broadway and 108th street—or any street—and let the structures whisper the efforts of every laborer that went into creating the solidity which neatly hems your  reality.

I am very inquisitive yet have never desired to know where anyone is “from.” A person’s geographic, national or ethnic origin often provide a cul-de-sac of information. That is a question not only I am most frequently asked but I am sure others are too. It’s a very natural query. It’s short and easy. But we are not static and shallow. Oklahoma. Michigan. Bangladesh. Nepal. Japan. What does that tell anyone? Yet we ask. A quick way to box someone neatly for our immediate understanding that honestly reveals very little. Yet I almost asked. Almost.

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