A Day In The Life...

Me

2006-08-04T12:00:00.000-07:00

A Great NYC Story

2006-04-01T17:25:00.000-08:00

So yesterday I'm shopping on 34th, right? And my friend calls me, frantic for his iPod nano, which happens to be in my pocket, blasting Kanye ft. Adam Levine. Impatiently, I tell him that I'm leaving right this second to meet him on 49th, even though I'm holding t-shirts and waiting on a girl to bring my two pairs of sneakers. Two minutes later, he's calling again, rushing me...So I throw down my stuff and leave. I jump into a cab, haul my many shopping bags in with my purse, and off we go careening to 49th. As I'm showing off my purchases, my other friend asks for her Macy's card, which I'd put a payment on. I'm looking, looking, searching for my purse, when the sinking realization hits me: it's in that damn cab. And the funny part is, when I was getting out of the cab, he was trying his damndest to give me a receipt! But of course, I kept it moving. I'm surprisingly calm, most of my money and stuff was in my jacket. But my passport...her macy's card...my favorite lipgloss! Today my mother calls me, telling me that a cab driver had just returned my purse. Now you know it's April 1st and I'm not trying to hear that shit...then she goes on to tell me what's in the bag and everything! the man made it his business to bring me back my purse because of my passport...and he'd tried twice, once last evening and today, when he hit paydirt...what're the damn chances? To everyone out there who says New Yorkers are mean...How do ya like THEM apples?

*D*BOOGIE**

Snatches of Truth in Fiction

2006-03-27T09:35:00.000-08:00

*She was the third beer. Not the first one, which the throat receives with almost tearful gratitude; nor the second, that confirms and extends the pleasure of the first. But the third, the one you drink because it's there, because it can't hurt, and because what difference does it make?*

-Toni Morrison-

*...had changed from the great good fortune he'd considered it, to annoyance at her refusal to make him hustle for it, work for it, do something difficult for it. He didn't even have to pay for it. It was so free, so abundant, it had lost it's fervor. There was no excitement, no galloping of blood in his neck or his heart at the thought of her.*

-Toni Morrison-

*She couldn't believe it was her own fleshy body, sweating, shuddering from the unexpected joy of lovemaking. She sighed and looked away from his bare behind slipping hurriedly into pants, his shirt buttoned haphazardly and his jacket open, because he wasn't going far. His wife was home sleeping three doors down, and her own mother slept soundly in the next room. Apologetically he reminds her that it was the last time. She knows in the streets he will not ignore her, but they will be like any other neighbors, and she will wallow in her despair until he returns drunk and unable to rest without having her just once for the week.*
-Unknown-

21 Going on 6...

2006-01-31T00:16:00.000-08:00

I gripped my keys with enough strength to feel them cutting into my skin. We walked, him chattering almost nervously, heading to the Gym. Stony silence met his ears as I stared straight ahead, preparing myself against this next onslaught. The same argument, the same measures. It's almost as if he's forgotten. The one on the east side, the one at school. I have an aversion to Gyms. Mostly to his insistance of their neccesity. We walk in and are greeted by a woman with hollowed cheeks and an oddly shaped body. Her greeting was a "before" picture, and a gesture at herself as the "after." She was a good 250+ in the picture, and must have been a hundred punds lighter today. Good for her. She killed my argument with one stroke: "I worked out here and lost this weight," she said, my father looking smug. I had told him my misgivings about this particular Gym: mostly MEN worked out here. Not only MEN, but BODYBUILDERS and the like. FIGHTERS, serious business. It's a bare bones gym, no frills, one room. There are mostly weight lifting equipment, two ski type machines (you know the ones) and a bank of treadmills. I am told to get onto the machine. She's looking at me with sympathy, so I let my eyes stray before they betray my embarassment. She defends me, explaining "YOU can't want this...SHE has to want it." "When I was bigger, and all I heard was lose weight, or go to the gym, I would just turn around and shove food into my mouth. Depressed all the time until I got alone time and did it for me." He looks at me and says "So you'll be here at 7 am right?" She looks a little defeated, but wants to talk to me alone the next day. So we sign up, me fighting back tears and maintaining as much silence as possible, and leave. We proceed to get food to stock up on - a salad that's been pre-made, and some tasty grapes. Later on he asks if I feel 'pushed" i try to reassure him that I don't, incredulous that he pretends I haven't been. The next morning I wake up, and it's 8:30am. Hes volunteered to call me at 6 or 6:30, but I told him there was no need. I didn't make it to the Gym, needless to say. He called at ten, wondering if I'd gone. The siry tone was lost immediately when I told him the truth. I had considered lying, and received coldness back. If he only would realize that stepping back and letting me do it on my own is all it takes. not to push, but to encourage-"Well, there's always tomorrow. No big set back. You can do it. You will" Pretty words, nice words. What did I get? "I'm disappointed in you." So that I've failed beofre I've begun. So that when it's hard, I'm not thinking of pleasing myself, but of pleasing him, and soothing his disappointment. He forgets that this is not about him, it's about his 21 year old daughter who has physical pain from anxiety and stress-and disappointment. In everything. Feeling as if she is 6 instead of 21, and treating the rest of her life in the same defeatist manner. Because before anything is ever even begun, she has failed.

Missing Hearts

2005-12-28T13:14:00.000-08:00

Dear ______,

Today I miss you. My eyes are burning and my thoughts are racing. I can't conjure your face to soothe my fears. I think of you today and as much as I miss you, I cannot forget the anger in your voice, the venomous words you flung at me, and the way you looked at me. I didn't know you in that moment, and it terrified me. I know I wasn't in the wrong, and my righteous anger has kept me from calling.

But then I remember the day we stood in a storm, my tears dripping like raindrops, babbling incoherently about things I could not change, shivering and scared. You gently wiped a tear from my eye with a calloused, hard working thumb-as gentle as a lamb. Folded me into that strong chest, those muscled arms. Of course it only made me cry harder, that it bothered you to see me cry. Your soft words, the warmth in your arms and determination and concern in those hazel eyes-it was like stepping into a movie.

I had to laugh at my own absurd thoughts then, and the relief on your face...I swear the rain began to fall more softly, the clouds were parting and there was an inky black rip in the sky, and soon the Moon showed herself, illuminating your features, bathing us with softness. Now our words miss each other in the breeze, our lives are separate and not bare, but mine is lacking. I hate loose ends, and you are an unraveled string. Not in love, or anything so deep as that, just missing the comfort of you, the laugh, the eyes, the heart to heart talks, oh, your dreams were so magnificent and attainable!

I did try to be a Child of Destiny-I just wanted to Cater To You. I didn't want to marry you, carry your baby; just make your time spent with me as comfy as it could be. It seemed sometimes that's all I could do, to give you back the happiness just your company gave me. That's just me. If one day our hearts reconnect as friends, I'll remember that I'm not white, and you're not rice! :)
Always,
D

Heart (Unfinished)

2005-12-01T12:28:00.000-08:00

She died with pearly teardrops slipping down her face. She can feel the heat from her dreams dissolving; her blood feels as if it is already congealing in her veins.

Neither of their faces is clear, these bringers of horror. She is sliding, her hands seeking the simple touch of earth-for they have found her in the garden, reading on a tree stump. Her hands are caked with soil, and she plunges them further in, savagely grabbing fistfuls of earth and sharp pebbles that bite her palms.

She cannot say she hasn't been prepared for this, for the inevitable onslaught of darkness; for her, there would be no more sunshine. She forces a gracious smile after five minutes of insanity. Unsurprisingly neither of them has flinched; they have no regard for her feelings, although they are friends. In fact, they are celebrating, clapping each other on the back.

Their sudden barks of laughter render her speechless for a moment, as she realizes that the news can be bleak only for her. They have not noticed her breakdown. She looks at her hands and comes to the conclusion that she truly has lost her mind, for they are clean, with no cuts. Her book lays forgotten on the ground.

Understanding that she has not shown them this break from reality, she joins in the laughter, fighting the tears that wish to escape. She would like to feel a pain less emotional, to see herself bleed. She wishes them to be gone. Heading to the house she steps carefully around her pretty flowers, pausing only for two showy lilies to give the jubilant pair that follows. Automatically she moves about the house, ever so precisely opening bottles of beer and placing chips and dip on the table. She fidgets and bustles about, unable to sit and look into their faces.

In her haste she slices her skin instead of the tomatoes she is cutting, and in an instant has slipped her own skin into one juicy half. Artfully arranged, the food is served, sautéed tomato and garlic with feta cheese and a crusty French baguette.

They eat, drink, and finally depart, leaving her to wallow in her misery.

Locking the door behind her, she rushes to her garden in the waning light, pulling up her tender flowers, leaving their roots exposed. She tears up the whole garden, breaking the stems of each flower in half. The roses she gathers, the thorns piercing her flesh until droplets of blood mingle with petals.

She lights candles throughout the house, undresses and takes a long hot bath. Her tears will not come, although they remain just behind the surface, lurking. In her bedroom she plucks the soft petals from their stems, throwing them onto her bed. Finally there is a large mound of pink, white and red on the white silk sheets. The lights on her stereo play across the walls when she fiddles with the remote. A lonely note from a sax floats into the room as she pours brandy into a snifter. She places it on the other side of the bed, and fluffs those pillows.

Holding the bottle, she curls up in the flowers, her body bruising them, releasing a heady fragrance. Adjusting her head brings her into contact with something hard. She gropes around without looking, hand closing on a smaller plastic bottle. She stretches her arm and just manages to place the empty prescription bottle on the table when the phone rings. The sound jerks her body into wakefulness, as she wonders if they are coming back. Perhaps they are outside. Maybe they have seen. She forces her eyes to close and waits for the noise to end. When it stops, the soft piano from her radio is almost impossible to hear.

She lets herself sink into the comforting blackness, ignoring the flames that are licking at the carpet from under the door, searching a path. She can smell it now, feel the heat in the walls around her, waiting to fall. It is good wood, solid oak, some pine-the scent is incredible. She draws a breath, lifts her head and drinks deeply from her bottle.

She is facing his side, her free hand absently smoothing the spot his body would have warmed. The heat from the brandy is sliding through her stomach, leaving trails where his fingers would have touched her. There are sounds of breaking glass from the kitchen, and a roar as the fire finds more fuel. She closes her eyes again, pressing the bottle against her body.

Suddenly there is nothing but light, and angry noise as the fire hammers away at the walls to her room. The door opens with a blast of heat and engulfs the stereo, cutting off the mournful sax.

People in houses miles away watched the terrible, beautiful midnight display with horror and awe.
The news reached The Pair hours after the blaze was extinguished, sometime into the morning.
A thick cloud of smoke hung over the valley, obscuring the light.
There was no sunshine when they woke.

Fickle Ickle FRIENDS

2005-11-28T12:35:00.000-08:00

Your worst enemy could be your best friend, and your best friend your worst enemy-Bob Marley

So...I asked my tall, dark handsome *friend* to give me his email address.
No joke, really, a friend.
Immediately he questions my motives. "Yeah, to send me some stupid shit!"
I wanted to send him the link to this blog (duh) but he insisted I would send him something stupid.

*tongue out to the giant, mud pie baking, fly swattin', fake foreign language speakin' flake!*

And now he wants me to help him figure out what to get the girl who has everything.
Like he really even cares.
Humph.

Girl on Girl

Sounds interesting, no? Why is it that we always choose to hate on each other? I've lost two so-called friends due to envy and insecurity. On both sides, honestly. Anyway-don't we always see it? Chris Rock-A brotha will introduce his female to his friends, and when they walk away his friend will say, "Damn, I gotta get someone LIKE her." Females introduce their man and their friends say "Damn I gotta get HIM." LOL! I've seen it before. Well, I don't really think I'm in the mood to vent and all that jazz. I'm way too tired!

*D*

Work in Progress

2005-11-26T18:32:00.000-08:00

Winston-Salem, NC
Moonlight falls, silver shadows sliding across her exquisite face. Restlessly she tosses, turns, grabs the cotton sheets that are twisted cables of steel in her dreams. Her eyes open abruptly as the moon glares in through the open window. Jasmine petals float through on a heavily scented breeze, fleeing their stems like thieves in the night. She gets up, stands by the window, and lets the wind caress her through the lily-white lace that hugs her body. She can feel his presence before she sees him, looming in the shadows. She knows now that he has been watching her, that the force of his gaze was the entrapment in her dreams. His hands are around her throat and clamped against her mouth before she can scream. Effortlessly he lifts her using one hand, and then throws her onto her queen-sized bed. He moves quickly for such a hulking figure, he is easily 6’5 and three hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle. She cannot discern his features, but kicks at him as he ties thick nylon around her ankles. His response is rough- he has encircled her delicate throat in his huge hand and again she is thrashing in the air, panicking, her air supply reaching its exhaustion. Now he has loosened his grip enough to let her draw deep ragged breaths, brings her close to him. She has no strength to fight him; the oxygen flooding her brain gives her a momentary high that relaxes her. He breathes in the scent of her sweat, her fear, her chest heaving close to his face. The force of his arousal tightens his grasp again. Terrified, she closes her eyes; perhaps the feeling ceases once sight is lost. She is wrong. The pain is more intense without her attacker to focus on. She hears her name, his whiskey stained voice enveloping her, she’s opened her eyes but she sees nothing, only the inky blackness of terror. She stops kicking. “Anya.”

Park Slope, Brooklyn NYC

Solaris awakens soaked through with sweat. She rolls over, picks up her cordless and dials the operator to see if she’s still alive. “AT&T, how may I direct your call?” She remains silent, listening to the tinny voice. “Hello? Is anyone there? Do you need any assistance?” She hangs up the phone, stares dully at her mirror; the old, oversized gilt framed atrocity her mother forced her to take. The reflection startles her, hair suddenly lustrous, black and long. Skin like milk, emerald eyes, lace bodice stained crimson with blood. She cries out, clutches her hair, and sighs with relief when it’s her own mass of vivid red curls. She closes her eyes, looks again and sees her own grey blue iris staring at back at her golden tanned face, the mole at the corner of her bottom lip, the faint scar by her temple. Surely she’s insane. The thought makes her laugh. It was only a nightmare, a silly figment of her imagination. Even so, she can’t shake the feeling of dread that surrounds her as she takes off her underwear and runs a hot, steaming bath. Choosing carefully from her selection of colored bottles on the bathroom shelf, she picks a cloudy white bottle, uncaps the crystal top and pours a generous amount into the rising water. She pushes the small porcelain stool to the side of the large claw footed tub. It is massive, taking up most of her bathroom and almost impossible to climb into without aid. The heavy scent of jasmine invades her senses as she lowers herself into the bubbles. She closes her eyes, wishing she had taken a moment to turn on her favorite classical mix. Utterly relaxed, she dips her sea-sponge into the honey and lily bath scrub she loves, and, lifting a leg into the suddenly chilly air, she begins to bathe. As she runs the sponge along her ankles to her thighs, she feels as if she’s being watched. Goosebumps rise along her exposed leg. Just as she plunges her leg back into the steaming water she glimpses red claw marks along her calves, starting at her ankles. When she rests her leg against the cool porcelain, however, her legs are unblemished, strong calves, skin intact. She shudders. She needs to get out of the house. Sunlight streams in through the bay window, rippling like water across the thick cherry wood floors. Solaris goes through her home, opening all of the curtains until the light hurts her eyes. Lying on her bed, she slowly rubs herself down with jasmine oil. She throws on a white sundress, lace and Egyptian cotton soft against her skin. It takes her only ten minutes to paint her toenails a festive sparkling lilac, line her eyes in smoky grey and add light pink gloss to her lips. She steps out into the harsh sunshine, looks up and down her tree lined street...
From *ANYA* a work in progress by Deshana Hamid 2005

*PLEASE DO NOT PLAGIARIZE MY STORIES* *USE YOUR OWN CREATIVE GENIUS* *IF YOU LOVE IT OR HATE IT POST IT*

Happy Gobble Gobble!

2005-11-25T13:40:00.000-08:00

Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving, a day to reflect on the past, appreciate the present, and hope for the future. A day to remember the slaughter of a race and to create the slaughter of another: turkeys. Anyway. I think Thanksgiving is terrible. Most holidays are. You imagine that each nuclear family (that's mom, dad, babies) spends about $100 to cook a meal. That same family will undoubtedly be invited to their extended family's (aunts+uncles,brothers+sisters, in-laws) big parties, where the same food will have been cooked, and another set of food prepared for their later dinner. Then, said nuclear family will want to prepare a dish to bring to that party as well. For instance, my mom and I slaved all of Wed. night to make food for the party at my grandmother's house, then for us. It's Friday and I still haven't gotten around to making our mac and cheese, only because no one REALLY wants to eat more of that heavy food AFTER Turkey Day. Sweet potato pie mix still in the fridge-you can't cook ham, roast chicken, and ribs at the same time in a conventional oven and expect to throw in a pie too!

"So," I say, looking around at my lovely family, all these generations mixed up and happy, "next year we should consider no Thanksgiving." Everybody looks faintly amused, the younger kids are goggle-eyed. I explain. " Well, think about it. Each adult at this table spent over $100 on their dinner as well as this one, and there ARE people who sleep on concrete at night." Everyone gets to looking slightly uncomfortable, but my grandmother (a retired reverend) turns to me with interest. I proceed to explain. "My mother was telling me that when she worked in a center in Harlem, they used to cook for the homeless people and addicts that had no home and nothing to say thank you for. So maybe next year we should think about saving all of this money and going somewhere. Or paying off a particularly large bill." The kids are smirking-dinner at Gramma's house is tradition. "I mean, we don't have to not eat-we'll still get together and have fun. Just maybe in Florida, or maybe our "woe is me" kids can meet and feed children who live in a cardboard box, or in a shelter."

I know it's terrible to say things like this when everyone is having a good time. But, there ARE people who don't have a home, who have to rely on looking through our bright windows to see when their food might be delivered in that black or white trash bag. Those we walked by, on the way from the supermarket laden with food WE NEVER FINISH. Who has EVER eaten all of the thanksgiving food? How many of us have said, "hey honey, since I can't stand the sight, smell, taste of turkey for another year, why don't we find a place/person that needs some food?" Maybe you have. To be honest, I haven't. I actually think I said last year that I would go to a shelter and help ladle soup this year, but something came up and I was distracted and forgot. Threw myself into making ham and chicken, etc. And it just goes to show how much advertising really works. How many of us have made food, had a great but very stressful time, come home and realized you're piss broke and damn mad all you'll be eating is turkey and stuffing for the week? Next year we should BUCK UP AND CHANGE THE RULES.

NYC:
Make a new tradition.

ShanaNYC

But Why?!

2005-11-16T16:41:00.000-08:00

My friend (dude) just felt the need to inform us (me + homegirl) that
he doesn't wear

Underwear.

AT ALL.

Por que?

Why did I need that info?

T.M.I, no?

This old lady harasses me at my shop, and today she informed me that her saggy tits are FINALLY in a bra.

YIKES!

She apparently bathes in the *insert huge brand name* gym across the street.

This is what I consider <*h*t*> Trash.

70+ year old GOSSIP of the neighborhood-you know the type, gray hair, lumpy body, talks too much, stinks, has varicose
veins and talks inappropriately about sex.

WHY?

NYC Stories

2005-11-16T12:25:00.000-08:00

*Welcome to the Jungle*

It's 3:30pm. I'm sitting in my shop. I just created a blog. Have no clue who'll read it or want to.

I'm tired of thinking.

Thought thinking came naturally; I'm convinced someone thought that up.

Tired of most music. Waiting for the next really spectacular

SOMETHING.

Also waiting for the inevitable destruction of everything I hold dear.

My life, that is.

Waiting for the roof to cave in.

Some would say that I should contemplate escaping the building.

There are no exits.

Think children should be taught Money Management at 5 years old.

Think Bush is Scary.

Agree with Kanye. Think Bush Hates African Americans.

Funny - Used to compare Guliani with Hitler. Think Bush may be a close third.

*A Day In The Life...*

Me