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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This anecdote belongs in the collection Nectar of the Ordinary. The exchange took place in August of 2006 between my college professor and I. I hope it serves as a mediator between the infinite universal queries about love, however you define it, and your journey.

Thanks,

~a.q.s.

Celestial Sap: “Bud on Love”

How many loves in a lifetime?

I first thought of Bud’s words after a trip to the bookstore Barnes and Noble right around Valentines’ Day in February 2010. As soon as I entered, there was the following display of books.

I believe it speaks for itself. I did not mind the rows of poetry books, “love coupons” to spice your marriage, and compilation of quotes to shower one’s beloved. Sometimes another’s words say it better than what we are capable of articulating of our own feelings. I borrow too.

What bothered me was the plethora of books serving as guides on what is and isn’t love: let someone (who is a better authority than you) tell you what love is. I brushed aside my irritation upon the next thought which was that, maybe, some people do need to be told or at least be reminded what love “looks” like, “feels” like, “acts” like etc. given the sea of dysfunctional relationships. Right? Right. On the drive back to my parents’ farm I told my mother how was one to know which “guide” to follow. Every one spoke from their experiences–be it a holistic healer or the likes of Dr. Phil’s self-help. My own parents could not fathom ever loving anyone other than one another. Ever. One love. For life. One of my younger brothers believed, if you could love again then it was never really love with anyone before.

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This true account belongs in the collection Nectar of the Ordinary. I met the individual to whom this story belongs in June of 2008. It was about time I put it on paper.

Thanks,

~a.q.s.

Unexpected Sap: “Nigerian Cab Driver’s Message”

One who carries a message bears the weight to share it. One who receives a message bears the Herculean task to contain it. Continue reading

This true story belongs in the collection Nectar of the Ordinary.  This piece will come after the “Note”  which a few of you have read.  This is my first finished piece for Nectar of the Ordinary which was intentional. The piece titled “Dawn & Anowar” was not originally meant for Nectar of the Ordinary but I decided it belonged there rightfully (minus some content editing).

Honestly, my only motivation for actually completing this is because I have lost the email address and phone number of the woman to whom this story belongs.

~a.q.s.

First Sap: “The End.”

It doesn’t take that long, about one and a half hour, for the breakfast crowd to clear out from Café Nescafé in Sunninghill, a suburb of Johannesburg, and then I am finally alone. This is followed by a small crowd for brunch or lunch. And then they too leave. The average Saturday or Sunday was always the right amount of busy. It served as a quiet space where I could write. Or attempt. It had just the adequate amount of bustle, which is to say, the least amount of distractions for me.

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