Fal - Fortune Telling in the Gulf.
Pushed to the margins of society, my aunt worked as a fortune teller sometimes, making torshi-pickles other times.
Hussein Darwish astonished me with the magic of a handful of tiny fish, as a little girl, swimming all around us.
Perpetual diaspora is hearing that relatives suddenly become sick, suddenly pass away, thinking to myself, "but I was just there." When a burial needs to happen in a day and my heart is broken for my cousins thousands and thousands of miles away
summer reading evening rain
"I got a halal bathing suit"
"Our bathing suits are definitely not halal."
Tatreez and flowers all around her, chicken shawarma and cola, the Rio Grande Pool with Ameerah
With all of the reluctance of a dark cloud, unwilling to pour out its rain.
My mom speaks to us in Arabic, yet intercepts herself with the sub-dialect of Farsi particular to Kuwait that they never taught us.
On the Shore at dusk near a ship that never sailed
Coffee reading in Corrales
The first words I ever heard were my father murmuring the athan into my ear. Like the humidity of the sea that keeps encompassing my mother's home.
Nana traveled with her Gedoo to England for cancer treatments? My grandmother and her traditional waterpipe
A little corner of Ardiya
Alice twirls my hair around her finger when she speaks to me. A thousand pistachio sweets, Gare du Midi -Zuid. Like the laughing Cossacks writing a letter to the Turkish Sultan. The sound of the soul in Arabic. Dentelle lace and her spanning ideas about windows.
Reyes Padilla at the Santa Fe River, a letter his grandfather left him hoping that he can feel the affection of his ancestors
The mysticality of it all, the heart can only take so much.
We let ourselves be fooled, and regret what we've lost.
The way Fawaz introduced himself.
Passing camels in green winter coats.
Hundreds of bubushir dragonflies with messages to bring.
The gentleness of an afternoon in Khabari Al-Awazem, where olive branches burned and herders offered us fresh milk
Self-Portrait. Bneid Al-Gar 1989
Self-Portrait. Albuquerque, mail you a cake
I just woke up from a dream about you.
Listening to Carlo's heart break in Corrales
"The poem your Uncle Bader had written on the wall at their old house in sharq. His handwriting was beautiful. It was about love being a burden, desire a poison. A parallelogram of an eager heart."
Gentle sea rain and independent Kuwaiti filmmakers speaking from their hearts, reminded me how much I believe in the independent arts
My Aunt Kheiriya's little corner in Rumaithiya smells like flowers and sounds like birds, an indescript Hussainiya, she's so petite and beautiful, a handful of hours in her home
We remember, of course we remember
Worried to be sitting alone by the river, I saw three cranes land.
I loved going to my grandpa's house in Adailiya, and now I love listening to my mom's stories about her youth there.
Mama's youth in Old Sharq
With the philosopher in her apartment half-past one
When I felt shy as a child
Willfully troubled waters
Summers like boars far from the sea
The costumer at the National Institute of Flamenco Arts.
Year after year after year
How do you like to celebrate
If sorrow fills your heart
Pretending to be a local tailor. Who was my grandmother hiding?
People will burn the anguish, anxiety, and gloom of their past year in Santa Fe.
Under the weight of locusts and grief,
people saw him burning his old coat
among the jasmine plants
Poet and artist Federico Garcia Lorca bringing theater to rural villages, uplifiting flamenco cante, and creating art under fascism.
Patrilineally not fitting in.
Each year, Noah walks from Albuquerque to the Santuario de Chimayó with his guitarrón.
30 hours of travel like a little oud by the river, in all of its longing and hesitation
Fal - Fortune Telling in the Gulf.
Pushed to the margins of society, my aunt worked as a fortune teller sometimes, making torshi-pickles other times.
Hussein Darwish astonished me with the magic of a handful of tiny fish, as a little girl, swimming all around us.
Perpetual diaspora is hearing that relatives suddenly become sick, suddenly pass away, thinking to myself, "but I was just there." When a burial needs to happen in a day and my heart is broken for my cousins thousands and thousands of miles away
summer reading evening rain
"I got a halal bathing suit"
"Our bathing suits are definitely not halal."
Tatreez and flowers all around her, chicken shawarma and cola, the Rio Grande Pool with Ameerah
With all of the reluctance of a dark cloud, unwilling to pour out its rain.
My mom speaks to us in Arabic, yet intercepts herself with the sub-dialect of Farsi particular to Kuwait that they never taught us.
On the Shore at dusk near a ship that never sailed
Coffee reading in Corrales
The first words I ever heard were my father murmuring the athan into my ear. Like the humidity of the sea that keeps encompassing my mother's home.
Nana traveled with her Gedoo to England for cancer treatments? My grandmother and her traditional waterpipe
A little corner of Ardiya
Alice twirls my hair around her finger when she speaks to me. A thousand pistachio sweets, Gare du Midi -Zuid. Like the laughing Cossacks writing a letter to the Turkish Sultan. The sound of the soul in Arabic. Dentelle lace and her spanning ideas about windows.
Reyes Padilla at the Santa Fe River, a letter his grandfather left him hoping that he can feel the affection of his ancestors
The mysticality of it all, the heart can only take so much.
We let ourselves be fooled, and regret what we've lost.
The way Fawaz introduced himself.
Passing camels in green winter coats.
Hundreds of bubushir dragonflies with messages to bring.
The gentleness of an afternoon in Khabari Al-Awazem, where olive branches burned and herders offered us fresh milk
Self-Portrait. Bneid Al-Gar 1989
Self-Portrait. Albuquerque, mail you a cake
I just woke up from a dream about you.
Listening to Carlo's heart break in Corrales
"The poem your Uncle Bader had written on the wall at their old house in sharq. His handwriting was beautiful. It was about love being a burden, desire a poison. A parallelogram of an eager heart."
Gentle sea rain and independent Kuwaiti filmmakers speaking from their hearts, reminded me how much I believe in the independent arts
My Aunt Kheiriya's little corner in Rumaithiya smells like flowers and sounds like birds, an indescript Hussainiya, she's so petite and beautiful, a handful of hours in her home
We remember, of course we remember
Worried to be sitting alone by the river, I saw three cranes land.
I loved going to my grandpa's house in Adailiya, and now I love listening to my mom's stories about her youth there.
Mama's youth in Old Sharq
With the philosopher in her apartment half-past one
When I felt shy as a child
Willfully troubled waters
Summers like boars far from the sea
The costumer at the National Institute of Flamenco Arts.
Year after year after year
How do you like to celebrate
If sorrow fills your heart
Pretending to be a local tailor. Who was my grandmother hiding?
People will burn the anguish, anxiety, and gloom of their past year in Santa Fe.
Under the weight of locusts and grief,
people saw him burning his old coat
among the jasmine plants
Poet and artist Federico Garcia Lorca bringing theater to rural villages, uplifiting flamenco cante, and creating art under fascism.
Patrilineally not fitting in.
Each year, Noah walks from Albuquerque to the Santuario de Chimayó with his guitarrón.
30 hours of travel like a little oud by the river, in all of its longing and hesitation
