Annie Q Syed

September 5th.

Harvest months. Love like loving New York. Marco Rojas. A peek into Emerson’s “Over-Soul.”

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

New York City inhaled the Sun and exhaled crackling heat to its fullest this past week before simmering into Fall. A magical dragon. The best few months when New York, New York is at her finest are here. The City is a marvel this time of the year: street fairs, divine weather, lush bronze, yellows, greens paint leaves everywhere and the air—the cool aloe vera  breeze—almost demands a stillness.  September comes with a fire but one that doesn’t burn and instead cooks just at the right temperature.  Harvest all you have sown in the prior months.

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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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