Annie Q Syed

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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June 13th.

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

New York City has not been as rainy or hot as she is known to get around this time of the year. Last night she was more in her element.  I took a sip of water from the thick humidity guarding the intervals of breeze by sticking my tongue out in the air. Twice. It’s not the same as feeling snow on your tongue.

The other day, rushing down the steps of the subway station to catch the train, I nearly ran over this young adult–eleven to thirteen years old (I am not very good at guessing children’s ages any longer: they all dress and act older than I can ever recall, yet they need adult guidance on an unprecedented level)–because she was so engrossed in reading a book that she didn’t know where she was walking! That made my afternoon. Some teacher, parent, adult, or an omniscient force, had gotten something very big right. I know too well from when I used to teach that reading alone is not sufficient for critical thinking but it’s definitely a start.

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June 13th.

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

This morning–not as early as I usually embrace a Sunday morning in NYC–the City is about as still as jell-lo. Easy but not necessarily steady.

A couple of blocks down the street there is a group of men who sit and play chess. Some are there every morning and the others are around only on the weekends. There is this one older guy with thick eyebrows and dark brown skin which glows who always says, “Life is a checkmate.” He doesn’t say it to me but I hear him most times I happen to pass by if he is there. I may just stop one day and ask him to explain more. I have my ideas how life is a big checkmate: either/or tug-o-wars which leave you neither here nor there. I want to be a trapeze artist when I grow up one day. Or are those just performances?

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June 6th.

I have never been able to articulate the stillness of a Sunday. Those quiet hours of the early morning before a city, town, or village takes a big yawn and stretches itself into your routine which may include bills, laundry, emails, phone calls, errands, groceries, etc.

These mornings are especially unique in New York because the City doesn’t sleep but she just takes naps. And the longest naps are on Sunday mornings. I love Sunday mornings in NYC. I try my best not to have anything planned, not even a yoga class, before 12:00 p.m. If my mind is quiet enough I borrow the stillness and share some thoughts with a few friends or family members via email or a phone conversation. Some mornings I  simply wrap the stillness of a Sunday morning around a pen and put fragments on a paper.

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…I would more than likely stop by Nectar