Sometimes, when I'm in the middle of research, writing, or just thinking about something, I stand up, walk around, and eventually find my way to my bookshelf. I know it's not conducive to work or productivity (at least not directly), but I pause - sometimes I sit on the floor - and look through my books. I have too many books. I haven't read half of them, or at least I haven't read them in their entirety. But they're mine. They comfort me. Knowing that, no matter what happens, there is always something there for me to discover and explore is the most comforting thing to me; because even if I fail miserably at what I should be doing, I can always win when it comes to reading something new. I can count on that. When I was having trouble writing my thesis, finding my voice amid the many dry academics with whom I had to enter in dialogue, I headed over to my bookshelf. I read one book of fiction, parts of three ethnographies, and I stared at countless others. In the end, I wrote.

Today, I've sat for the better part of four hours in front of my computer, doing endless research on flamenco. It's fascinating research. But like clockwork, I made my way over to my bookshelf. I picked up Michiko Kakutani's The Poet at the Piano and read about Joan Didion, uncovering one of the most beautiful lines I have come across in a long time:

A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively, wrenches it from itself, shapes it, renders it, love sit so radically that he remakes it in his image.

When I had drawn the necessary inspiration from the portrait of Joan Didion, I sat down in front of my bookshelf, carefully considering my many books, moving from the top shelf (Social Science) to the middle shelf (Fiction, Non-Fiction, Poetry). I picked up Niloufar Talebi's Belonging. I remember when I worked an event where she was speaking. She stood up there, this beautiful and strong Iranian woman, and recited some of the most beautiful and powerful poetry I had ever heard. Following her presentation, I introduced myself and bought her book. She took it and signed it.

William - For your love of translation and language - Keep this FIRE!

She scrawled something across the front page in what I can only assume is Farsi. She returned it to me. To this day, I still don't know what it means. It's one more thing that I can count on one day understanding. Until then, it sits on my bookshelf, comforting me from afar.

---

Sometimes I'm so down on myself for not being able to write or express myself in the way that I want to, and then I remember that it's okay; because I have those books from which I can draw inspiration. I seem to forget it sometimes, but I never fail to remember it at some point. And that's when magic happens, because I remember. I remember that there's so much I have yet to read and learn - so much left to experience. So much that will mold me as a writer and as a person. So I'm okay.

In all honesty, I think I don't finish books on purpose. Sometimes, not knowing what happens is more exciting that actually discovering that there is an end to something. Why must there be an end, anyway? Why can't I just live in the moment and cherish the narrative from within instead of finishing it and looking at it from the outside? At the very least, just let me hold onto it for as long as I can. I'll finish it one day, much like I finished 100 Years of Solitude after what was, undeniably, my own 100 years of solitude.

---

I leave you with a poem from Niloufar's book.

Book of Fears 27
by Jamshid Moshkani

When the salt of your blood gripped my teeth
I understood my buried pain

And I am the third line*, open...

Something wordless
Like snow after death

And I, who never feared the silent fall of all this death,
Shuddered upon seeing you.

---

Will_I-Am

N.B. To explain the reference to the third line:

*A quote by Shams-e Tabrizi, Rumi's spiritual teacher. English translation by Niloufar Talebi:

"... Oh scribe,
You wrote three lines:
One you called,He, and no other!
Another you called He and the Other!
The third you called neither He, nor the Other!
That third line is me!..."

Here it goes. I'm just going to write it out. Help me decipher it.

This morning, I had a dream where I was discussing poetry in class (my 10th grade English teacher was the teacher) with a Native American man. We were on some sort of bed, and I was reading the poem off a pillow case. At one point, I had to turn the pillow case inside out to continue. It was nothing but colored stripes, but I somehow could decipher it. When I was done, I talked about how it was about racism. Then the girl next to me talked about how it was about gender. The Native American man disagreed with her and began discussing it with her. At some point, someone pulled the blanket off the bed. All I remember is feeling uncomfortable because I was too close to the man's feet and I thought they smelled. Oh, and before we began the poetry stuff, our teacher told us we were watching one of two movies: (The Marriage of) Figaro or Mme. Butterfly. The latter was scrawled across the chalkboard in some odd language (definitely not Italian) and I somehow figured it out.

I'm confused.

Will_I-Am

The internet was made for porn. Go watch some. What are you doing reading this blog? It's not pornographic in the slightest. The creators of the internet would be sickened if they knew what you guys were doing with their creation. I mean, Mommy Bloggers, distraught law students, and oddly over-achieving Mexicans?

Seriously, kids.

Go watch porn!

Will_I-Am

I've hit the wall again. I had planned for today to mark the beginning of my more productive research season. Instead, it marked the continuation of my self loathing and inability to write. I spent the morning checking e-mail and trying to sort things out, before slowly migrating toward my futon. Once there, I did some reading (a minor victory), and then turned on the TV. It was only a matter of time until I caved.

Now my self loathing is aggravated by the fact that Oprah is talking about shoe and bag makeovers and I'm sitting here going, "Ugh... Women have it so easy. They can wear pants and skirts." I kid you not. I'm furious. I think it's unfair. It's like the universe went, "Oh, well they bear children. They deserve more style options." I cry foul play. It's so not fair.

Women. I envy you.

I'm convinced my self loathing has given way to insanity.

Will_I-Am

P.S. How could I not be bitter?

When I'm lost and can't find my way, I take refuge in the words of others. I look to others' works, see what they have done, get a feel for their words, and realize that the best writing comes from a place of complete honesty. I then tear up everything I've done, leaving no evidence of my failed attempts at concision and understanding, before I start again.

Though I have yet to conquer my many fears when it comes to writing, I have come to a very important realization: The purpose of my writing is not to convince anyone of anything; it is to make at least one person feel something.

"Writing is a solitary occupation. Family, friends, and society are the natural enemies of the writer. [The writer] must be alone, uninterrupted, and slightly savage if s/he is to sustain and complete an undertaking"

- Jessamyn West

"….[Pulling out a little ceramic figure ] Yeah, this is my little Writing icon. It's a little naked devil. And I keep him in front of me. He’s sticking his tongue out because, you know, you have to have a sense of humor about writing, and also because you write with your angels, but you write with your devils too. And you'd be lost if you got rid of those devils, because they really help you; they give you your passion. And, so, it's bringing together the angels and the devils in your writing”

- Nancy Scheper-Hughes

Will_I-Am