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 15th.

What do you know beyond a reasonable doubt? Psyche & The City. “What has been blown away, cannot be found.” Calm Madness.

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

Back in New York. My affinity for the City is not just because of the obvious; in fact, it is the subtleties which draw me in. The complexity, paradox, the buzz of it all. Yes, found all places where humans exist but New York boasts it. Here you are challenged to really see beyond the obvious. Every. Single. Moment. And some don’t. I do. It is not always a pleasure. It is on a Sunday morning.

Artist Sarah McLachlan’s lyrics from “Elsewhere” are precisely representative of this invisible, yet very present, tranquility I find within the chaos of New York.

I love the time and in between
the calm inside me in the space where I can breathe

I believe there is a distance I have wandered
to touch upon the years of reaching out and reaching in

holding out holding in

I believe this is heaven to no one else but me
and I’ll defend it as long as I can be
left here to linger in silence
if I choose to
would you try to understand

I am drunk in my desire. A whirling dervish I am still inside some swirling madness.

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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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