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DEFINITELY BETTER IF VIEWED LARGE ON BLACK
this is for all my fellow Filipino Flickrites (PK's, Flikristasindios and others) who have showered me with much love and goodness during my visit here in the Philippines. you have welcomed me into your hearts and homes with such graciousness, fed me, took me to great places, made me laugh and now i am saddened that my visit is coming to a close (in about a week). here's a poem, one i've always known by heart, and this one is coming from the heart:
what thanks can i presume to give
to you who live the gracious life of giving
of giving and receiving the golden gift of love
what i want to say today in this or any other way can never be expressed
it is best felt and understood in the small voice of gratitude
in thoughts, not words that one may have the will, but not the skill
to fashion and impart when all the loud and clouded hours are still
in the unvoiced responses of the thank-filled heart
the sudden start of the awakened pulse that quickens and exults
always remember this, thankfulness is a boon
a pleasant and a joyful thing to bring, a lasting pleasure for us to treasure
to relish and renew again and yet again
thanks for everything that's good and true: YOU
-Louis Untermeyer
Tendono le braccia al cielo
gli alberi stecchiti
disegnando il silenzio
di urla inespresse
Sul cammino verso Punta Chiappa
Monte di Portofino
Liguria
The lamp and the tree
Raise their arms to the sky
the dried trees
drawing the silence
with unvoiced screams
I poveri nel mondo
Little parcels of the past are spinning down towards the gyre
And a sinuous truth unvoiced is stretching up forever higher
Leaves of places, leaves of friends are blowing in the wind and falling
But my ship carves through the rain to the place that I am going
Trepidation, you gotta be mistaken
It was an endless time ago
You gotta, gotta let it go
Tiny particles of light have travelled in a wave to find me
A hundred million light-years past, but still they seem to find a way to blind me
Storms of old, I never told, last year they were all the rages
All the sciences of motion cannot calculate my changes
Trepidation, you gotta be mistaken
It was an endless time ago
You gotta, gotta let it go
March 09, 2016
Aphonic:
[ey-fon-ik, ey-foh-nik]
adjective
1. mouthed but not spoken; noiseless; silent.
2. Phonetics.
lacking phonation; unvoiced. Without voice; voiceless.
-----
The air was warm, the rain was falling and the ground was cold, creating a lovely ambiance for a lunch hour walk.
I had figured that I wouldn't see too many people out walking today, but I was mistaken and it seems that many couldn't resist the warmth after the winter freeze.
Although, most were smarter than I and brought an umbrella along with them. Oh well, let's say it was a refreshing walk!
Hope everyone has had a nice day.
Click "L" for a larger view.
"Silence is a source of Great Strength."
Lao Tzu
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© Copyright Natalie Panga - All rights reserved. EXPLORED November 16, 2013.
A veces llegábamos a creer que era ella la que no nos dejo casarnos. Irene rechazo dos pretendientes sin mayor motivo, a mi se me murió María Esther antes que llegáramos a comprometernos. Entramos en los cuarenta años con la inexpresada idea de que el nuestro, simple y silencioso matrimonio de hermanos, era necesaria clausura de la genealogía asentada por nuestros bisabuelos en nuestra casa.
Casa tomada, Julio Cortazar
We ended up thinking, at times, that that was what had kept us from marrying. Irene turned down two suitors for no particular reason, and Maria Esther went and died on me before we could manage to get engaged. We were easing into our forties with the unvoiced concept that the quiet, simple marriage of sister and brother was the indispensable end to a line established in this house by our grandparents.
House Taken over,Julio Cortazar
Buenos Aires,San Telmo
The waterfall Goðafoss has a semicircular edge over which fingers of the river Skjálfandafljót flow as it takes a northeasterly bend. The falls in this detail are along the north edge, down stream from the main falls.
Goðafoss, the waterfall of the gods, received its name when the Lawspeaker of Iceland in 1000 AD persuaded the Icelanders to make Christianity the religion of the land. To drive home the point he threw his household statues of the Norse gods into the waterfall.
For those not up on their Icelandic alphabet, the letter eth 'ð' is pronounced like the voiced 'th' sound in the English word 'that'. The letter thorn 'þ' is the unvoiced version, pronounced like the 'th' sound in name of the Norse god 'Thor'.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Lettice is sitting at her Hepplewhite desk next to the fire in her drawing room. Across it she has open a book of modern interpretations of folk art, a title that she has only recently picked up from her father’s favourite bookshop, Mahew’s* in Charing Cross Road. She has recently accepted a commission to redecorate the St. John’s Wood dining room of friends of hers, Charles and Minnie Palmerston, after Minnie papered the room in fashionable, but totally unsuitable, wallpaper. Charles and Minnie want a modern look to go with their modern art, so Lettice is hoping to gain some inspiration about wall treatments from the book. The colours and patterns she sees are beautiful, but nothing catches her eye as she flips though the pages. Suddenly her thoughts are interrupted by a noisy jangling.
BBBBRRRINGGG!
The telephone in the drawing room starts ringing.
Edith, Lettice’s maid looks through from the adjoining dining room where she is dusting. “That infernal contraption!” she mutters to herself.
BBBBRRRINGGG!
“Oh Edith, be a brick and get that, would you.” Lettice calls sweetly to her maid, spying her through the open double doors.
BBBBRRRINGGG!
“I think it would be better if you answered it, Miss.” Edith says doubtfully.
BBBBRRRINGGG!
“Nonsense, it might be someone I might not want to be at home to. You answer it.” She waves her hand dismissively at the telephone and turns back to her book, before she continues to flip through it in a desultory fashion.
Edith walks in and up to the black japanned occasional table upon which the silver and Bakelite telephone continues to trill loudly.
BBBBRRRINGGG!
“I know you don’t like it, Edith, but any household you work in will have one now, so you may as well get used to it.” Lettice says in a matter-of-fact way. “Just pick it up and answer it, Edith. “
BBBBRRRINGGG!
“I should pull your chord out next time I’m Hoovering.” Edith mutters. “Let’s hear you ring then!”
Edith hates answering the telephone. It’s one of the few jobs in her position as Lettice’s maid that she wishes she didn’t have to do. Whenever she has to answer it, which is quite often considering how frequently her mistress is out and about, there is usually some uppity caller at the other end of the phone, whose toffee-nosed accent only seems to sharpen when they realise they are speaking to ‘the hired help’ as they abruptly demand Lettice’s whereabouts.
BBBBRRRINGGG!
Smoothing her suddenly clammy hands down the apron covering her print morning dress she answers with a slight quiver to her voice, “Mayfair 432, the Honourable Miss Lettice Chetwynd’s residence.” Her whole body clenches and she closes her eyes as she waits for the barrage of anger from some duchess or other titled lady, affronted at having to address the maid. A distant male voice speaks down the line. “Oh Mr. Spencely, how do you do. Yes, this is Edith, Miss Chetwynd’s maid.”
“Selwyn!” Lettice squeaks excitedly. She waves anxiously to catch Edith’s attention. “Bring it over here!” she hisses, gesticulating enthusiastically to her maid to drag the phone across the drawing room.
“Oh, I’m not sure, Mr. Spencley,” Edith says with a cheeky smile playfully curling up the corners of her mouth. “I’ll just check and see whether she is in.”
Edith walks over to Lettice’s desk slowly, swaying her hips as she goes, dragging the white and black houndstooth flex behind her.
“Oh you!” Lettice mouths as she takes the receiver from her maid’s hand as Edith puts the base of the telephone on the desk next to Lettice’s silver roller.
With her amusement over, Edith retreats quickly through the green baize door, back to the kitchen, to give her mistress the privacy she deserves.
“Selwyn darling!” Lettice exclaims down the receiver. “What a lovely surprise! How are you?”
“I’m fit as a fiddle my Angel,” Selwyn’s voice calls down the phone over the constant pop of crackling. “How are you?”
“Never better.”
“I say, I do hope I haven’t caught you at an inopportune moment.”
“No, no,” she assures him. “Not at all! As a matter of fact you’re a lovely distraction. I’ve just taken on a new commission to decorate my friend Minnie’s dining room, and nothing is inspiring me. Perhaps you’ll help inspire me.”
“Well that’s good, my Angel.” he replies, his voice crackling with static.
“I say, where are you, Selwyn darling? You sound rather faint. You’re not at your club, are you? This line is quite dreadful.”
The line falls silent for a few moments as Lettice holds her breath.
“I’m at Clendon**,” he finally answers laconically.
“Clendon?” She pauses. “You haven’t forgotten that Priscilla and Georgie’s wedding is on Wednesday***, have you? Are you going to drive down from Buckinghamshire to London?” When there is no reply to her questions, just the constant crackle of the line, Lettice asks again, “Are you sure you’re alright, Selwyn darling.”
“Listen my Angel, I have to tell you something.”
Lettice swallows awkwardly as her joyful mood at talking to Selwyn suddenly dissipates and a roiling starts twisting her stomach.
“I’m so sorry, Lettice darling, but I can’t attend the wedding with you like we’d planned.”
“What?” Lettice asks as she feels the colour drain from her face. “Not come?”
“No. You see, I’m afraid that Zinnia has made some alternate arrangements that I didn’t know about. My Uncle Bertrand and Aunt Rosalind, the Fox-Chavers, are visiting Clendon for a week, and they’ve brought their daughter, my cousin Pamela. She is going to debut next year, and, well, I’ve been charged by Zinnia to help chaperone Pamela in the 1923 Season. I haven’t seen her since we were children together, rather like you and I. Zinna has organised this week for us to get to know one another again, so that I can do my duty and be a good chaperone. I’m so sorry.”
Lettice feels the stinging in the backs of her eyes, as tears threaten to spill from her lids.
“Couldn’t you… couldn’t you just….”
“Look it’s no good, my Angel.” Selwyn cuts her off. “Zinnia has packed the week with all sorts of outings and excursions, luncheons and the like. You know there is nothing I would rather do than spend a wonderful afternoon with you, but you must understand, this is my duty. What kind of Duke will I be if I don’t fulfil my duties?”
As the dam breaks and the tears spill from her eyes and silently cascade down her cheeks, Lettice longs to ask Selwyn about his duty to her, but good breeding and an upbringing of etiquette doesn’t allow her to speak her unvoiced question.
“Of course.” she manages to utter in a strangled voice. “You must… you must do your duty to your cousin. You’re such a… such a gentleman,” The word feels hollow as she speaks it from her suddenly dry mouth. “So gallant. That’s one of the many reasons why I like you… Selwyn darling.” She tries to take a deep breath, but can only manage shallow ones, feeling as though she is wearing one of her pre-war whalebone corsets. “No wonder… Zinnia wants you to chaperone her. Who else in London society cold she trust when it comes to… to gentlemen?”
There is silence broken only intermittently by the crackling in the lines for a short while before Selwyn speaks again.
“Look, I know you’re disappointed….”
“It’s quite alright, Selwyn darling.” she cuts him off, glad that he is not before her now, where her face will give away the lie in her words and tone. “Don’t worry, I’ll get Gerald to escort me.”
The fact is that Gerald is a friend of Priscilla’s as well, and been invited to the wedding himself.
“Good old Bruton.” Selwyn replies with a sigh of relief. “Always so reliable.”
“Yes, he’s a good companion, and he… he always enjoys a good meal and some champagne at… at someone else’s expense.”
The words sound hollow as she speaks them down the line, even though the tone is a falsely cheerful one. Once again there is momentary silence.
“I promise I’ll make it up to you, my angel.” Selwyn says. “I really would rather be with you than Pamela, whom I barely know.” He sounds genuinely sad, although in her state of sudden disappointment, Lettice half wonders if she is imagining it, or willing it to be so. “As soon as this wretched week of entertaining is over, I’ll be back in London and we’ll have dinner. Simpson’s maybe?”
“Yes… yes that would be lovely, Selwyn darling.” She struggles to swallow. “You, you just let me know. I’m not going down to Glynes any time soon, and what with this new commission, I’ll be quite tied up here in London for ages.”
“That’s the spirit, my Angel!”
There is a whining call in the background at Selwyn’s end.
“Oh! That’s Zinnia!” There is a sudden urgency in his voice, almost as if he is frightened of getting caught out doing something wrong. “Look, I snuck into father’s study to make this call, and I’ve been missed. I really must go! I’ll speak to you next week, my Angel. Pip-pip****!”
“Pip-pip, then…” Lettice begins, yet already she is saying goodbye to nothing but dead air.
Deflated, Lettice hangs up the receiver in the cradle of the telephone where it makes a clunking, muffled ding. It is only then that she finally allows herself to vice her cries as she allows them to spill forth from within her, like the tears that dampen her cheeks as they run in rivulets down ger face.
*A. H. Mayhew was once one of many bookshops located in London’s Charring Cross Road, an area still famous today for its bookshops, perhaps most famously written about by American authoress Helene Hanff who wrote ’84, Charing Cross Road’, which later became a play and then a 1987 film starring Anne Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins. Number 56. Charing Cross Road was the home of Mayhew’s second-hand and rare bookshop. Closed after the war, their premises is now the home of Any Amount of Books bookshop.
**Clendon is the family seat of the Duke and Duchess of Walmsford in Buckinghamshire.
***Wednesdays were the most popular days for couples to get married in the 1920s. This is due to an old English wedding superstition very popular at the time. An auspicious rhyme from English folklore rules: “Monday for health, Tuesday for wealth, Wednesday best of all, Thursday for losses, Friday for crosses, Saturday for no luck at all”.
****Pip-pip, that particularly cheery of old-fashioned British farewells, is said to have been formed in imitation of the sound made by a car horn and first came into vogue in the early 1920s after the Great War.
For anyone who follows my photostream, you will know that I collect and photograph 1:12 size miniatures, so although it may not necessarily look like it, but this cluttered desk is actually covered in 1:12 size artisan miniatures and the desk itself is too. All are from my collection of miniatures.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
Lettice’s Hepplewhite drop-drawer bureau and chair are beautifully and artfully made by J.B.M. miniatures. Both the bureau and chair are made of black japanned wood which have been hand painted with chinoiserie designs, even down the arms of the chair and inside the bureau. The chair set has a rattan seat, which has also been hand woven.
The book of folk art open on Lettice’s desk is a 1:12 size miniature made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. It is a German edition called “Moderner Volkunst Zierat” (“Modern Folk Art Ornament”) by P. Siegel, consisting of ornament designs from the 1920s printed by the pochoir stencilling technique. You can see images of the illustrations faithfully reproduced in 1:12 size by Ken Blythe here: bibliodyssey.blogspot.com/2012/11/moderner-volkskunst-zie.... Most of the books I own that Ken Blythe has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. Therefore, it is a pleasure to give you a glimpse inside one of the books he has made. To give you an idea of the work that has gone into this volume, it contains twelve double sided pages of illustrations and it measures twenty-three millimetres in height thirty three millimetres in width and is only two millimetres thick. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter. I hope that you enjoy this peek at just one of hundreds of his books that I own, and that it makes you smile with its sheer whimsy!
On the top of the Hepplewhite bureau stand three real miniature photos in frames including an Edwardian silver frame, a Victorian brass frame and an Art Deco blue Bakelite and glass frame. The latter comes from Doreen Jenkins’ Small Wonders Miniatures in England, whilst the other two come from Melody Jane Dolls’ House, also in England. The photos themselves are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.
The black Bakelite and silver telephone is a 1:12 miniature of a model introduced around 1919. It is two centimetres wide and two centimetres high. The receiver can be removed from the cradle, and the curling chord does stretch out.
Also on the desk, are some 1:12 artisan miniature ink bottles, a roller, a blotter and a letter opener, all made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottles are made from tiny faceted crystal beads and have sterling silver bottoms and lids. The ink blotter is sterling silver too and has a blotter made of real black felt, cut meticulously to size to fit snugly inside the frame.
The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.
le piccole piccole cose
di tutti, tutti i giorni:
la calma del pranzo
la luce del giorno che entra da una portafinestra
le posate appena lavate e stese, come armi che aspettano una certa battaglia (farsa?)
le linee di certi colori che la luce oltre la pioggia del pomeriggio rende leggeri.
ed io che provo ad acchiapparli
muta
e - a tratti - impaurita.
Small little things
every, ev'ryday :
the calm of lunch
daylight entering from a french window
cutlery just washed and lying down as weapons awaiting a battle ( a mock?)
the lines of some colors that Light makes light,
over the afternoon full of rain
but I try to catch'em
unvoiced
and - a bit - scared.
“The mad road, lonely, leading around the bend into the openings of space towards the horizon Wasatch snows promised us in the vision of the West, spine heights at the world’s end, coast of blue Pacific starry night — the tangled night sky, the torments of great formations in mist, the huddled invisible insect in the car racing onwards, illuminate. — The raw cut, the drag, the butte, the star, the draw, the sunflower in the grass — orangebutted west lands of Arcadia, forlorn sands of the isolate earth, dewy exposures to infinity in black space, home of the rattlesnake and the gopher the level of the world, low and flat: the charging restless mute unvoiced road keening in a seizure of tarpaulin power into the route." Visions of Cody
“I saw that my life was a vast glowing empty page and I could do anything I wanted.” Lonesome Traveler (1960)JACK KEROUAC
FROM THE ONGOING SET - "ON THE ROAD"(LOOKING FOR JACK KEROUAC)
Continuing my experiments in merging concepts of photography and digital painting. I'm pretty happy with the way this one came together. Consider this a sequel to "In the Circle of the Fey" in storyline, with techniques you'll also see in "The Petitioner Now Understands the Cost."
Model: senpaim00n on IG
Comments and constructive critique are welcome, publicly or privately.
Smugmug portfolio/prints (fantasy work)
Model Society portfolio/prints (bodyscapes / art nude)
Came upon this scene at an antique & collectible show back in autumn. I was taken with the odd congruence of Christmas and Halloween in this eclectic assortment of holiday decor. "Holidays sell year round" the proprietor explained as if in answer to my unvoiced question. The tableau reminded me of the 1990s pushback against religious-themed municipal Christmas displays. The argument was one of separation of church and state, and that only secular Christmas displays were appropriate. The immediate result was the appearance things like of Frosty the Snowman and Rudolph the Reindeer standing alongside the three wisemen at nativity scenes. It was supposed to somehow make the baby Jesus in the manger seem less religious if he was accompanied by a plastic Santa Claus. City-sponsored nativity scenes gradually gave way to the more generic 'holiday' displays that live on to this day. All of that was a mere flashback. Yet another one of those memories that sounds much richer in the retelling then it actually was. But in this moment, I really was captivated (and still am) with my discovery. The story was told in the arrangement exactly as I encountered it. My only contribution (as is usually the case) was simply pressing the shutter.
Ironically this scene parallels my real life. Weeks pass in a complete blur. The perceived timespan between Halloween and Christmas is about two weeks. In fact I just took down my Halloween decorations last week while simultaneously pulling out Christmas decorations. I wrote decorations as plural, but really it was just the one. The later I get started, the less I want to dig things out of storage. My thinking is it all has to go back in a few weeks, so why bother. I suffer from Christmas malaise that afflicts many older folks. My excitement level for the holiday has been in steady decline since I was a kid. It's not that I don't enjoy it so much as just wanting it to be over. Yet somehow, the plastic ghost in this photo really helped rekindle some Christmas spirit.
London General route 453: Marylebone Station, Great Central Street - Deptford Bridge
Departed Oxford Circus Station / Margaret Street (RF), towards Conduit Street / Hamleys Toy Store (T)
After taking photos of the N18 in Stonebridge Park, I was astonished to find MHV11 displaying on route 453 on LVF. I did not want to miss this one, so caught the next N18 which was due to arrive at Marylebone two minutes before the MHV departed for Deptford Bridge.
The N18 was a few minutes late, so was breezing it like mad: the driver was in as much of a hurry as I was, so he was meeting my unvoiced demands! The VW showing its potential, eagerly navigating through Harlesden, fast in Kensal Green and not agreeably but conveniently skipping stops along Harrow Road, we got to Marylebone and the MHV was already ahead at Baker Street.
I didn't give up and we were right behind the bus by Great Portland Street. Thanks to an exceptional ride on the N18 (also pictured), I managed a photo at Oxford Circus and again at Haymarket of one of the rarest workings this year. Shame about the paper displays, after all that!
©London Bus Breh 2016.
. . . raspberries.
The raspberry (plural, raspberries) is the edible fruit of a number of plant species in the subgenus Idaeobatus of the genus Rubus; the name also applies to these plants themselves. The name originally referred to the European species Rubus idaeus, with red fruit, and is still used for that species as its standard English name in its native area.
Raspberries contain significant amounts of polyphenol antioxidants such as anthocyanin pigments linked to potential health protection against several human diseases. The aggregate fruit structure contributes to its nutritional value, as it increases the proportion of dietary fiber, placing it among plant foods with the highest fiber contents known, up to 20% fiber per total weight. Raspberries are a rich source of vitamin C, with 30 mg per serving of 1 cup (about 50% daily value), manganese (about 60% daily value) and dietary fiber (30% daily value). Contents of B vitamins 1-3, folic acid, magnesium, copper and iron are considerable in raspberries.
On the other hand . . .
Blowing a raspberry or strawberry or making a Bronx cheer is to make a noise signifying derision (and/or silliness), made by sticking out the tongue between the lips and blowing to make a sound reminiscent of flatulence. In the terminology of phonetics, this sound does not appear to have an official name, but might be characterized as an unvoiced linguolabial trill [r̼̊]. It is never used in human language phonemically (i.e., to be used as a building block of words), but it is widely used across human cultures.
Blowing a raspberry, rasp, razz or strawberry or making a Bronx cheer is to make a noise signifying derision.
In the terminology of phonetics, this sound can be described as an unvoiced linguolabial trill.
Per Wikipedia .... since it's the one and only true source of knowledge anywhere ;-D
Move from side to side while looking at her eyes - she follows you :-)
The Indian tends towards independence and so towards indifference with regard to the outward world; he surrounds himself with silence as with a magic circle, and this silence is sacred as being the vehicle of the heavenly influences. It is from this silence — of which the natural support is solitude — that the Indian draws his spiritual strength; his ordinary prayer is unvoiced: what it requires is not thought but consciousness of the Spirit, and this consciousness is immediate and formless like the vault of heaven.
Good things don't happen by themselves and rarely come when one only waits and hopes. If it is important, it is up to you, to help it along, actively pursue it.
When you take initiative, take that First Step, gather your energy and turn it toward your goal, bringing it closer, making it clearer. New ideas, wonder dreams, unvoiced hopes come to life with Initiative.
And in making a start, you gain momentum and New Found Strength.
Taken: Tent Pegging Competition at Spring Festival, Mandi Bhawaldin, Punjab, Pakistan.
LAURA (italiano/enghish)
.
Don, Don, Don, Don, Don, Don, Don,
Din, Din: l’orologio di San Giuseppe.
Tu, Laura, sei già sveglia,
pronta per andare in chiesa…
Io, nel tuo alto e grande letto,
ti guardo, tutta di nero vestita
e, alla tua triste vecchiaia,
la mia lieta giovinezza fa compagnia.
Laura, dei tuoi bianchi capelli
ne è pieno il pettine;
curva la schiena,
porta con sé il peso degli anni ormai andati;
ostenti sicurezza, fierezza, eleganza
mirandoti allo specchio,
ma dietro allo stesso è celata la tua vita:
un armadio custode di abiti luttuosi,
di foto consunte e sbiadite,
antiche e vecchie come il tuo mondo.
Il comò è un cimitero
di volti a te cari;
un paradiso di santi, madonne e Gesù
a cui affidar le loro anime.
Chissà, forse, il loro ricordo
ti fa agognare la morte
nemica degli affanni terreni.
Ora che non sei più,
è dolce il pensiero di te.
In sogno ti rivedo
e, stringendomi forte a te,
rinnovi la nostra promessa d’amore
sossurrandomi parole mai dette:
TI VOGLIO BENE!
(parole di mia sorella LAURA, poetessa )
-
LAURA
Don, Don, Don, Don, Don, Don, Don,
Din Din: the clock of St. Joseph.
You, Laura, you're already awake,
ready to go to church ...
I, into your high and big bed,
look at you, dressed all in black
and, sad to your old age,
My company is happy childhood.
Laura, your white hair
is full of the comb;
bend your back,
carries the weight of years gone by now;
flaunts security, pride, elegance
aiming for yourself in the mirror,
but it is hidden behind the same your life:
a closet of clothes guardian mournful
photos of worn and faded,
old and ancient as your world.
The dresser is a graveyard
faces dear to you;
a haven for Saints, Madonnas and Jesus
to entrust their souls.
Who knows, perhaps their memory
makes you yearn for the death
enemy of the land troubles.
Now that you are no longer,
sweet is the thought of you.
In dreams I see you again
and, squeezing you,
renew our pledge of love
whispering to me words never spoken:
I LOVE YOU!
(words of my sister Laura, poet)
a smooth rock with (a little) earth on it
Last week I understood forgiveness in a new light. Or rather was made to understand it. It was the night of Shab e Baraat, a night that forever changed me in more ways than one. I was getting ready for Isha’. Just then I got a call from someone who had been a difficult interaction in my life for many years. It was a relation I could not escape and I had finally arrived at a point with them where distance was best. When there was a meeting now, which was rare to begin with, I kept it civil. Boundaries had been defined as therapists recommend. Self-esteem was carefully guarded.
The last few exchanges prior to this “new normal,” had been unpleasant. I had wanted their life’s circumstances to get better, hoping that the shift might also make them different but that wasn’t on the horizon for now. They seemed to be continuing in a downward spiral at varying speeds. Therefore I had decided to surrender them to God. I wrote a whole chapter about it in my book, that surrender. How I had learned to make it soft, placing them gently at Allah’s Door, as opposed to throwing them in front of it like a thing unwanted and running away. Which is what I had been doing the first few times only to cause myself incessant angst.
I was about to learn that despite that surrender, the dichotomy in my zahir and batin, my overt and inner being, was still glaring. I was still thinking I was doing something for one reason but doing it for another. I read the text from the person and exhaled a sigh of relief that it was just a wish for the blessed night to be good for all of us. I went to the prayer mat and began my namaz. I don’t remember exactly which part of it I was in when I felt like I was being told something. That was not an entirely new experience for me. Often while writing my book or preparing lectures, I would get ideas for something to insert, something to change, during prayer.
This is what I thought was said: “You will forgive them but first forgive yourself.”
I almost paused in the middle of my prayer to ask a question but then kept going. I didn’t get it. If someone was kicking me in the head every day, why would I have to forgive myself?
The only reason I had come up for previous lectures on “Forgiveness” was that I was allowing the daily kick. That is the single thing that made sense. For if someone was persistently cruel to me, I had given them permission, knowingly or unknowingly, for it to continue. That kind of forgiveness had only lead me to controlling our interaction but it hadn’t changed anything about me. All blame was squarely placed upon them.
That night as I moved from farz to sunnat to vitar to nawafil, it became clear. I believe it was a gift that came to me specifically when I read the eight nafal for Hazrat Bibi Fatima (ratu) for the first time in my life. And this is what I got: What I had to forgive myself for was not forgiving the other. They were being hard on me in whatever way. But I was being hard on myself by hardening my heart as well.
The voice was telling me to forgive myself for treating my own self with hardness. To stop telling myself that I had already forgiven them when it was not yet true. Needless to say, it was a mind blowing moment! I had to forgive myself because I possessed the ability to forgive but I was not invoking it. I was not connecting with God and asking Him to teach me how to do it. I’m 50. Time had proved beyond all certainty I did not know how to make it happen on my own.
I went back to my book and read the chapter “Along came forgiveness.” It was beautiful no doubt. I could “forget the lash” as Hazrat Rabia Basra (ra) had instructed. I had also learnt to not put myself in harm’s way around those who could not control their emotions, inevitably spewing poison. I also understood that their outbursts had nothing to do with me. But there was still something missing. For when they did appear before me, I felt a tightness in my chest, an anxiety. I anticipated doom. The fear or resentment of humiliation at their hands had not left me.
I realized that this fear remaining meant that I failed the litmus test. For if I had forgiven them, truly forgiven them, then there would be no dread, no sarcasm, no contempt. Whether they were calm or crazy in front of me, I would only be empathetic or at a minimum unaffected. But when the “enemy” appeared, my zahir was full of scorn and my batin was apprehensive. I guess in that sense at least there was a union! But Imam Ali (ratu) had already taught me what to do. I possessed the knowledge but I had not put it into practice.
Said the Prophet (saw), “Knowledge calls out to deed. If deed appears the knowledge stays, otherwise it leaves.”
It was in a class in Fes on a perfect spring morning that my teacher wrote a qaul by Imam Ali (ratu) on the board and asked me to translate it. (Begin excerpt from The Softest heart)
إذا قدرت على عدوك فاجعل العفو عنه شكرا للقدرة عليه
“‘When the enemy appears before you and you have the ability to destroy them, forgive them. Then thank Allah for the ability to forgive them,’” I ventured.
“No,” said my teacher. “That is not what he says. Read it again. It’s a subtle difference.”
I paused and read it slowly but could not improve on my translation. My teacher offered his answer.
He says, “If you had the ability to destroy your enemy, forgive them out of thanks to God who granted you that ability (to forgive him).”
The expression was indeed subtle and immeasurably deep. For Hazrat Ali (ratu) didn’t say, as one expects or as I had thought, that if one had the opportunity to avenge, then one should consider it, then one should forgive the enemy, then thank Allah for the fact that one could forgive them. The instruction was in reverse and in a single step, not three: forgive the enemy immediately, even though you can pulverize them, out of gratitude to Allah because He has granted one the ability to forgive. And the chance to do so!
Ustad Ahmed honed in on the point; “Sayyadna Ali (ratu) says when the enemy appears to forgive them out of gratitude towards Allah for His granting us the ability to forgive, not for executing a personal choice between destroying and forgiving. He tells us to eliminate the “I” altogether. All ability is only from God. Therefore there is no pride, no “me.” (End excerpt The Softest Heart)
The flip side of the blessing I received in my prayer was even more compelling; if I didn’t forgive the “other,” then I was insistent on not forgiving myself. I was choosing to not forgive myself and being stubborn about it. The consequence of that decision was that I was electing to inflict torment upon myself. And if I did that then who was crazier, me or them? We weren’t the same. I was worse.
(Audio on @the.softest.heart)
برے بندے نوں میں لبھن ٹریا، برا لبھا نہ کوئی
جد میں اندر جھاتی پائی، میتھوں برا نہ کوئی
I set out in search of the wrong doers but I did not find any.
When I looked at my own self, I knew no one was worse than me – Baba Bulleh Shah (ra)
In the end it was me who programmed myself over the course of my life to be who I have become. It was a function of my habits which became my nature. Daata Sahib (ra) taught me that years ago. Those habits were formed as a result of who I chose to emulate. We all learn everything first from our parents as they have in turn learned it. Then in the first moment that we make a decision independently as in “I’m not doing that, I’m doing this,” knowing that it’s wrong, we assume control of shaping our character. From then on the sticking to the ways of their parents just becomes an excuse to do what we want to.
وَإِذَا قِيلَ لَهُمُ اتَّبِعُوا مَا أَنزَلَ اللَّهُ قَالُوا بَلْ نَتَّبِعُ مَا أَلْفَيْنَا عَلَيْهِ آبَاءَنَا ۗ
أَوَلَوْ كَانَ آبَاؤُهُمْ لَا يَعْقِلُونَ شَيْئًا وَلَا يَهْتَدُونَ
And when it is said to them, “Follow what has revealed Allah,” they said, “Nay we follow what we found our forefathers following.” Even though their forefathers did not understand anything and they were devoid of all guidance – Surah Al-Baqarah, Verse 170
Lucky are the ones who are taught to be like those favoured by God as children. Then they become like them while the rest of us become ordinary, taking one step forward, two steps back. If that!
From listening to the reverent Naqshbandi sheikhs these days of the lockdown, God bless their souls, I recently understood what perhaps many know; I am a being of energy first, form second. When I’m unforgiving, I emanate a toxic energy, impure, clouded, angry, full of despair and fear. Hence before anything reaches anyone else, if it reaches them at all, for often my negative feelings end up just lying within my own heart, unvoiced, my energy hits only me. And it only increases in intensity as I proceed to blame them for the lows that follow.
The next few days I pondered deeply over the inspiration I had received. It in fact applied to everything in life. Forgive yourself for not being generous, for not being grateful, for not being obedient, for not being patient, for not being kind, for not being just. Forgive yourself for everything! Then start again and ask for taufeeq to be better in the next round. Imam Ali (ratu) had said the same. If any opportunity presented itself to reflect goodness and it was wasted, the major tragedy was that a chance to express gratitude was lost.
I had discovered in occasionally putting into practice what I learnt from the Friends of God that every rule, every instruction comes with a test to confirm its application. Sincerity, khuloos, was the determinant. It was itself a branch of sidq, truthfulness. All the rules also had another commonality. Intention was tested and revealed. If the intention was pure, there was no anxiety or sadness. But again the same intention can be different in the mind from what is in the heart.
I decided to think about it from a different angle. Why was it so hard to be forgiving, even for my own self? In a conversation with my friend, Uzair, I had learnt that when the human being goes against their fitrat, their natural disposition, as endowed by God in its pure form, friction arises within oneself and therefore others. Thus begins the journey of restlessness, depression and despair.
I had identified in the Quran two traits of that disposition from the Prophets, specifically the Prophet Yahya (as) and the Prophet Jesus (as). Stated not as what they were but what they were not:
وَبَرًّا بِوَالِدَيْهِ وَلَمْ يَكُن جَبَّارًا عَصِيًّا
And dutiful towards his parents, never was he haughty or rebellious. – Surah Maryam, Verse 14
وَبَرًّا بِوَالِدَتِي وَلَمْ يَجْعَلْنِي جَبَّارًا شَقِيًّا
And He had made me dutiful to my mother, and not (has) He made me arrogant or defiant – Surah Maryam, Verse 32
One word was common in both verses and appeared first, therefore signaling its importance; jabbaran. I studied the word in the Tafseer e Jilani and understood it as the arrogance that manifests itself in cutting off relations with the parents or people in general. Aseeyan is the one who ignores an instruction, shaqeeyan the one who is distant from God’s Mercy because of defiance. In other words, what the two Prophets were was devoted and obedient.
I cannot deny that all three of those traits absent in the Prophets have played out from within me. Still, I felt happy that I belonged to a generation that was for the most part obedient. We were not dutiful like the one before us, but were did as we were told, be it grudgingly. What being dutiful exactly meant I discovered on one of the last times I came to the village with my grandaunt who is in her 90s.
At lunch I was asking her random questions. Who were her favourite niece and nephew? Which sister in law did she get along with the best? I liked most to ask how it was when my grandmother, a Lahorite, came to the village after her marriage. I knew the house we were in, an entirely gorgeous construction, had been built especially for her.
“Whenever her parents came to visit,” she said, “my brother and I used to be the ones given the responsibility to take care of their meals. He would stand there,” she gestured behind me.
I turned around to see exactly where and couldn’t believe it. I thought she meant they were responsible as in they called in the staff of dozens and told them how things were going to be laid out, what would be cooked etc. Not literally stand behind them like waiters while they ate and hold dishes every time they wanted a refill, not even being a part of the meal.
“Stand here?” I asked to confirm, pointing behind me.
“Yes,” she answered, “Nawab Sahib (her father) said we had to take care of them ourselves as a sign of our regard for them.”
Damn, I thought. She and her brother were both in their late teens or early 20s then. Their father was the big-shot of the area. Being important as a feudal in a rural setting was entire different from being rich in the city. No one was kissing your hands and touching your knee as the norm for greeting there. Yet she described the incidence as if it was no big deal, no pride even in the act of their assent. My mother used to have a lot of dinner parties in Lahore. I tried to imagine standing behind a table to serve her friends. I could not. Yes, dutiful was the apt word to describe them.
Still for us there was not much room for dissent either. Life was simple. All we had was a tv with two channels, if we were lucky and a rotary dial phone. Everything was communal, nothing belonged to one person. Not many questions were asked of our parents. Certainly few, if any, explanations were given. That meant there could be a fair amount of hide and seek, less for nerds like me but I don’t believe it was a bad thing. Allah loves that a cloak is placed over oneself, as well as others, when doing something forbidden to the body and harmful to the soul. Haya is paramount!
“When the deeds of my Ummah are presented to me, I erase those that are their sins and present the good before My Lord,” said the Prophet (saw).”
For the deeds that are presented become confirmed! The hadith made me smile. Often mothers did that in our culture, hiding the wrongdoings of the kids from the stricter dads who most definitely would punish them if rules set were breached. And occasionally the other way around.
My generation, in their earnestness to differentiate themselves from the parents, became friends with the children. And friendships holds no bars. What is felt is stated. When there is an equal standing there is no room for that which is done purely out of duty. Love yes but not obligation. I was guilty of it too with my nine year old niece Sameena who I adore. We could hang out for hours, during holidays that is, and it was a blast.
One night after having spent the day together when we came home I showered and got into my bed to internet. Suddenly my door flew open and I heard her say excitedly, “Mony, you have to help me brush my teeth and change into my pajamas.” She was 7 then.
“Nope,” I said, without taking my eyes off the screen to indicate determination. “Tell Papa to do it. I just turned my laptop on lou.”
“But Papa’s not my friend,” she wailed.
I looked up at her with surprise and started smiling. Then I went!
But I’m an aunt. It’s different with the parents. They are also usually one’s first source of grief when it is least expected, too early in life. The shock of that causes resentment and resentment tends to bleed love. The first seed of being unforgiving is planted! If left to grow, it strangles the heart, deadening it.
My world held sharply defined boundaries of discipline and regard which were not crossed openly, only covertly. There was apprehension around being seen by the elders while doing something wrong, the fear was of causing disappointment. Much like the taqwa the Quran talks of constantly, which the Sufis define as being deeply aware of disappointing Allah and therefore being conscious of Him and mindful of the self.
I went deeper into my own person to identify what the root of my disobedience was when it did emerge. I analyzed it simply from the angle of saying “no” to something and discovered three broad patterns. Two were prominent; either I was being lazy or I was being a miser, a bakheel. If not financially then emotionally.
The third reason was that I was being stubborn, which also came down to two things. The first was reacting in the way that I had become so used to that I was like one of Pavlov’s dogs. A name, a word could be mentioned and it would trigger a rant from me without me even being sure if I still felt that angry about it. The second was if I knew something to be right and I would just refute it anyway. Incidentally, the Prophet’s (saw) definition of the word jaahil: the one who knows something to be true but insists on disbelieving it.
Forgiving one’s own self was simply turning out to be about reconnecting to the soul one might have lost contact with. In the moment I saw that, I replayed the first story by Maulana Rum (ra) in his Masnavi about the love triangle between the nafs, the world and the soul. If one got into the habit of forgiving oneself, the nafs would be forced to look at the soul which it otherwise easily ignores. (Begin excerpt from The Softest Heart)
“The story is a parable with three characters, a king, a slave girl and a goldsmith. The king represents the soul, the slave girl the ego (nafs), the goldsmith the world. The soul is in love with the nafs but the ego is infatuated with the world. Unable to gain its attention, feeling a state of helplessness and aloneness, the soul prays to God for help. For what the soul waits for is for the nafs (ego) to return to it, to return the soul’s love for it. It wants it to shed its infatuation with the world and finally shun it. The prayer is answered: a healer (tabeeb) appears.
The healer gently shows the ego what it is in love with by revealing the superficiality of the world, the world that actually only makes the ego feel empty and weary. The healer does not use persuasion, there is no reprimand! It was notable how the one God sends embodies an approach the exact opposite of clergy that bank only on persuasion and reprimand. The healer’s approach is one of only softness and extreme subtlety. It entails an unveiling of what is already there before one, yet the eye cannot see it for when it sees by itself, it only sees what it wants.
Thus because of the healer alone, the ego begins to see its own devotion to that which is just sucking it dry and giving nothing to it in return, leaving it unfulfilled, exhausted, unhappy. The nafs then notices the soul for the first time. It sees it waiting for it and turns towards it. That part of the change of heart mesmerized me for days.
“Why does the ego return to the soul in the end?” I asked my friend Abeda with whom I was discussing the story endlessly.
“Because the world has betrayed its love, never returned it so now it’s like, ‘May as well go for the soul?’”
She smiled.
“No.”
I knew what she was going to say next was going to change my life. Thank God for brilliant friends!
“The ego wants to love the soul because all its experience of love is from the world, by the world, all that is in the world. Now for the first time, it has the chance to learn to love from that which has been loved by God. It has the chance to learn to love like God.” (End excerpt from The Softest Heart)
So then maybe the nafs also has the chance to forgive like God. Endlessly! Every opportunity seemed to present the chance to do that which the Prophet (saw) said;
تَخَلَّقُوْا بِأَخْلَاقِ الله
“Be in your manners as the Attributes of Allah (which are His Alone).”
The verb takhallaqa meaning to acquire that which does not previously exist!
But to invoke ability, to connect with the soul or with God, one had to be of the guided. In my understanding, to become worthy of guidance two elements were essential. The healer was one, as Maulana explains, in order for justification defined by the ego to be shed. But even before that came the ability to receive guidance, to ask for the healer to appear. Again ability, the element which prerequisites recognition and reconnection with God!
Ghaus Pak (ra) says that the sign of guidance is that a person begins to go against that which the nafs desires. The one thing I was super aware of in that sense where I successfully went against my nafs was when I was in deep sleep and my alarm went off for prayer in the morning. I would be dying to press “snooze” but I would rise just so I could feel I was also amongst the guided. I was also especially alert to it when I declined someone’s request for money. There was almost always never any real cause for it when I asked myself, “Why did you just say no?” All the reasons were always admittedly shameful.
But it was in a lecture by Uzair that I heard the most beautiful reason for going against a reaction that emanated from the ego:
“The Prophet (saw) is the source of creation as well as the connector who brings each one back to the Creator. Each and everything in the Universe is a reflection of Allah’s Attributes but how much they reflect is a function of capacity and ability. This is not easy for it means that one has to have the capacity to hold two opposites in one moment.”
Then he explained what that means; “Allah’s Attributes are in pairs of opposites. If He gets angry He is also Merciful, if He is The Avenging one, He is also The Forgiver, He is The Seen and He is also the Hidden. The Insaan e Kamil, the perfect human being, which is the laqab of the Prophet (saw), is the one, who in the same moment, in the same being, holds both the opposing Divine Names of God.”
“But we are not like that,” Uzair continued. “In the moment when I am enraged, it is next to impossible for me to be forgiving. I only want to destroy the other person. But the Insaan e Kamil is the one who in the exact moment when they are boiling in anger, and the situation demands mercy, is able to invoke that Mercy of God and reflect it instead. That is why Sheikh ul Akbar (ra) says that you have not developed the ability to hold a pair of opposites at the same time. That is why if you ever want to understand anything in relation to God, there is only one mirror for it, His Beloved (saw). The one who says, ‘Man ra’ani ra’al Haqq, the one who saw me, saw The Truth.’”
The most striking example of holding the opposites I had seen in the Prophet’s (saw) life was exactly the one Imam Ali’s (ratu) advice was rooted in.
On the occasion of the fall of Mecca, the Prophet (peace be upon him) had every opportunity to seek vengeance for twenty years of atrocities, crimes, murder and torture that he and his followers had been subjected to by the Kuffar. The same bloodthirsty enemy that had committed all this barbarity against him and his Companions was now standing helplessly before him. They had made every attempt within their power to take his life. They were the reason his beloved wife Bibi Khadija (ratu) and his uncle and guardian, Hazrat Abu Talib (ratu) had perished.
The woman who had arranged the murder of his beloved uncle, Hazrat Hamza (ratu) and committed the heinous act of chewing his liver in front of the Holy Prophet (peace be upon him) was there. It was also the opportunity to punish the savage who had murdered the pregnant daughter of the Prophet (peace be upon him) with the thrust of a spear while she was riding a camel.
When he appeared before them, he asked them what treatment they expected of him.
قَالَ: يَا مَعْشَرَ قُرَيْشٍ، مَا تُرَوْنَ أَنِّي فَاعِلٌ فِيكُمْ؟
قَالُوا: خَيْرًا، أَخٌ كَرِيمٌ، وَابْنُ أَخٍ كَرِيمٍ
: قَالَ رَسُولُ اللَّهِ صَلَّى اللهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّم
أَقُولُ كَمَا أَخِي يُوسُفُ عَلَيْهِ السَّلَامُ: (لَا تَثْرِيبَ عَلَيْكُمُ الْيَوْمَ)
قَالَ: اذْهَبُوا فَأَنْتُمْ الطُّلَقَاءُ
He said to them, “O People of the Quraish! What do you see me doing to you?”
They said, “Only good! You are a brother noble and the son of a brother noble.”
And the Prophet of God (peace be upon him) said, “So I say to you as Yousaf (as) said to his brothers, ‘There will be no blame upon you today.’ Go! You are the free ones.”
And just like that they were forgiven!
“When the enemy appears before you and you have the ability to destroy them…”
Since I heard Uzair’s lecture I have been fixated with acquiring the ability to hold opposing attributes and invoke the one opposite to the nafs. And it’s mine for the emulation and the ask!
Who receives capacity and ability is indeed Allah’s Will. In January of this year I happened to hear an interview Lady Gaga had with Oprah. Normally it would have been out of my scope of interest but a friend in Karachi played a specific clip for me that was intriguing. Gaga was telling Oprah she “radically accepted” that whatever happened to her in her life, she was in a sexually abusive relationship for several years at age 19, was destined for her with an innate purpose.
“Even the rape?” Oprah, herself a survivor of sexual violence, had asked warily.
“Even the rape,” Gaga replied with certainty.
It was a remarkable moment. For I have seen people accept many things in life if they were Divinely willed for them but never suffering sexual assault. Gaga is only 33 and in that conversation, a 62 year old global influencer unlike any other leaned in to listen intently to her words. Gaga said several things that I have only read in books written by the greatest of Spiritual Masters in Islam. The best example of it was when she was describing her illness, fibromyalgia, which causes her chronic pain from head to toe 24 hours a day.
“My practice in my commitment is gratitude. Even in the midst of the pain. I will be laying in my porch in pain and crying and I will say, ‘Thank you God for this pain. Thank you. I surrender it to you. This pain is meant for me and my body right now. I’m here in this moment and I’m learning. Thank you for teaching me.’”
“Wow!” I thought in my head as Oprah uttered it from her lips, equally amazed. Only the chosen ones react to pain with gratitude, everybody else practices patience.
As Uzair said, the key to the practice of forgiveness, or any other attribute, lay perfectly manifested inside The Beloved (saw). He was the one who was raised by God in the closest of closeness. He was the only one who was the reflection of His Essence (zaat). Everyone else reflected His Attributes (sifaat).
Upon studying Forgiveness through ahadith, I learnt that it had four layers of practice, each in ascending order in terms of behavior: eye for an eye (but exactly so as in if someone pushed me, I could only push them just as hard not an iota more), controlling of anger, forgiving the other, being good to them.
The fourth is where the Friends of God always landed. Again in their immaculate obedience to the Prophet (saw). I had spent most of my life in stage two. My demon for the longest time was anger, ravaging me and my relationships. Then over the years it dissipated which I consider a happening only and only as a blessing from God. The only thing I did was acknowledge it and seek therapy. The rest He and those I love connected to Him made happen. They had allowed me to move to step three.
There are essentially two kinds of forgiveness as I understood from Qari Sahib; afuuw and maghfirat. Afuww is forgiveness for sins knowingly committed. Maghfirat is for sins committed inadvertently. Both are Allah’s Names. Allah Al-Afuww and He has two names for the other: Allah Al-Ghaffaar and Allah Al-Ghaffoor. The attribute connected to Nabi Kareem (saw) is afuww. For all the Prophets in the Quran say that the good in their nation belong to them and the rest, it is up to God to decide what to do for He is Merciful.
The Prophet Ibrahim (as);
فَمَن تَبِعَنِي فَإِنَّهُ مِنِّي ۖ
وَمَنْ عَصَانِي فَإِنَّكَ غَفُورٌ رَّحِيمٌ
So whoever follows me then indeed, he (is) of me, and whoever disobeys me, then indeed, You (are) Oft-Forgiving, Most Merciful – Surah Ibrahim, Verse 36
But the Beloved of God (saw) sent to the world as His Mercy for all Mankind is the only one who says the worst of the people belong to him and the good to His Lord. That is why in this world and on the Day of Judgment, he is the Intercessor to whom the distressed are told to go when they have finally become tired of the ego and crave relief.
In his tafseer, Ibn e Katheer gives a beautiful account of an incident that unveils just that. It took place right after the passing of the Prophet (peace be upon him).
Allama U’tabi narrates: I was sitting by the blessed grave of the Prophet of God (peace be upon him) when I saw a bedouin come up to it and softly say,
“As Salam o Alaika Ya Rasool Allah! I have heard that Allah says:
وَلَوْ أَنَّهُمْ إِذ ظَّلَمُوا أَنفُسَهُمْ جَاءُوكَ فَاسْتَغْفَرُوا اللَّهَ
وَاسْتَغْفَرَ لَهُمُ الرَّسُولُ لَوَجَدُوا اللَّهَ تَوَّابًا رَّحِيمًا
And if they, when they have wronged their own souls, would come to you (O dear Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon you) to seek forgiveness from Allah, and if the Noble Messenger (peace be upon him) asked Allah for forgiveness for them, they will certainly find Him as the Acceptor Of Repentance, the Most Merciful – Surah An-Nisa, Verse 64
Thus I have come to you and I seek God’s forgiveness and I plead for you to intercede on my behalf before my Lord and ask forgiveness for me.”
Then I heard him recite these couplets:
(Audio on @the.softest.heart)
يَا خَيْرَ مَنْ دُفِنَتْ بِالْقَاعِ أَعْظُمُهُ
فَطَابَ مِنْ طِيبِهِنَّ الْقَاعُ وَالأَكَمُ
نَفْسِي الْفِدَاءُ لِقَبْرٍ أَنْتَ سَاكِنُهُ
فِيهِ الْعَفَافُ وَفِيهِ الْجُودُ وَالْكَرَمُ
“O you who is the best amongst those buried,
whose scent has made fragrant the land and plateaus,
I sacrifice my life on this grave that you dwell in
for in it lies pardon and generosity of the Universe.”
Saying that the bedouin left. I fell asleep. In my dream, I saw the Prophet of God (peace be upon him). He said to me, ‘O U’tabi! Go to the bedouin and give him the glad tidings that Allah has forgiven him.’”
The story has so many layers it requires its own story. But it is in the word “afaaf” in the last couplet that caught my eye. “The forgiveness of sins knowingly committed lie in this grave,” the bedouin had said.
Those who are bestowed forgiveness such that it is their innate attribute are blessed indeed. I know, I saw it firsthand in my mother. Throughout her life I saw people betray her but she never betrayed them. She naturally did what Nabi Kareem (saw) had instructed;
وَلَا تَخُنْ مَنْ خَانَكَ
And do not betray those who betray you.
God knows I tried to make her leave them, sometimes invoking anger and pride, other times common sense. On occasion she even pretended to disconnect from them in front of me but the ruse would last a week at best. Then when I would find out that she was in touch with them again, which she herself announced to me, I would say like I was the parent, “Have you forgotten what you just went through because of them?” and she would simply say, “But I love them.” And that was that! She forgave everyone everything.
The journey of the soul is uniquely its own. Age allows one to understand that the others one is born around and meets along the way are just a medium to see one’s own light or demons as the result of action or inaction relating to them. Everything good we do we do for ourselves as the Quran says. And everything we do against another, we do in fact against our own selves. Be it in the exhibition of gratefulness or ingratitude, miserliness or generosity, forgiveness or hardness.
إِنْ أَحْسَنتُمْ أَحْسَنتُمْ لِأَنفُسِكُمْ وَإِنْ أَسَأْتُمْ فَلَهَا
If you persevere in doing good, you will but be doing good to yourselves; and if you do evil, it will be (done) to yourselves – Surah Al-Isra’, Verse 7
Hazrat Sahel (ra) says that the insistence upon sin, which is not substance related as most simply relegate it to but anything that torments one’s soul, is the reason for rebelliousness. Hence the advice: sin is a disease, obedience is its cure. The disobedience is rooted in jahaalat, refuting something while knowing it’s the truth. The denial of something whole knowing it to be true leads to falsehood.
The falsehood results in hardness of the heart. The hardness of the heart leads to hypocrisy. And hypocrisy takes one straight to ingratitude. The magnificence of the links is that all the states, one leading to the next, apply equally to a person of faith or an atheist, a polytheist or an agnostic! The capacity of infinite self-deceit lies in all.
One might imagine a state of hyper-consciousness that constantly shines a light on darkness within one’s self would be a drag. I admit it crossed my mind on days when literally everything about me was disappointing. Again it was Uzair who happened to explain how it was only the greatest of blessings.
“When you think about God and read the Names of Allah (in tasbeeh) you will find peace, but when you will begin your process of nearness to the Prophet (saw) you will feel disturbance. There will be a massive agitation in you because he will bring you out of darkness into light. And when you first come into the light from darkness, it hurts the eyes. The agitation is to be welcomed not feared. It is your gift for seeking dissolution in his being.”
الر ۚ كِتَابٌ أَنزَلْنَاهُ إِلَيْكَ لِتُخْرِجَ النَّاسَ مِنَ الظُّلُمَاتِ إِلَى النُّورِ
بِإِذْنِ رَبِّهِمْ إِلَىٰ صِرَاطِ الْعَزِيزِ الْحَمِيدِ
Alif Laam Ra, This is a Book that We have sent to you so that you,( O Beloved), may bring Mankind from darkness to light by the command of their Lord towards the path of the Honorable, the Praiseworthy – Surah Ibrahim, Verse 1
I never get enough of his universality. Not the Muslims, not the Believers, but Mankind!
Reversibility of nature seems impossible but some sort of shift is necessary before sadness or hardness become the “new normal.” Neither are sustainable for anyone or those around them. Bitterness is the worst of poisons. Everything that emerges from the ego only takes a person so far before one is drowning in empty pride that devours peace of mind like a termite. The one behind that cardinal sin of feeling superior for supposedly feeling wronged was Iblis. It rendered him disobedient, then exiled. He made a mistake once in his refusal to bow and to this day he knowingly refuses to admit it and therefore forgive himself for it. Could I really be like him?
Repelled by the thought I have been trying every morning and night to inculcate the conscious effort to forgive myself for all I could have but did not do when it came my way that day. Then I ask His Beloved (saw) to pray for me and ask God to forgive me and grant me the ability to be better. I’m hoping that at least one attribute that is His, comes into my life, not for a day or two, vanishing and reappearing but in permanence.
ثُمَّ قَسَتْ قُلُوبُكُم مِّن بَعْدِ ذَٰلِكَ فَهِيَ كَالْحِجَارَةِ أَوْ أَشَدُّ قَسْوَةً ۚ
And yet, after all this, your hearts hardened and became like rocks, or even harder – Surah Al-Baqarah, Verse 74
In my heart that I have hardened to be like a rock or even harder, I hope that this Ramadan the recognition in finality that I cannot change anything about myself on my own ruptures my ego, disintegrating it. Then maybe the knowledge I gain won’t wash over me but instead permeate into deed and I will become alive. It may happen and it may not. The only certainty is the one reiterated by those in the know, that the possibility of return to the truth lies there for the taking for anyone and remains there forever.
(Audio on @the.softest.heart)
باز آ، باز آ، ہر آنچہ ہستی باز آ
گر کافر و گبر و بت پرستی باز آ
این درگہِ ما درگہِ نومیدی نیست
صد بار اگر توبہ شکستی، باز آ
Come back, come back, however you are, come back.
Be you a disbeliever, a worshipper of fire or clay, come back.
There is no room for despair at this blessed space.
Even if you repent a 100 times, then regress, still come back
- Maulana Rum (ra)
www.youtube.com/channel/UCqb01bB-J3kyiu-HKIX2MKw
Syed Uzair Abdullah lecture link:
más retratos desnudos en / more artnudes in: Soul & Skin
Angharad Segura © all rights reserved Barcelona 2008
| Dont copy, reproduce or manipulate my pictures. If you want to use them at any web, blog or publication, you need my explicit permission |
mermaid's unvoiced song
more portraits in / más retratos en : Portraits
Angharad Segura © all rights reserved Barcelona 2009
| Dont copy, reproduce or manipulate my pictures. If you want to use them at any web, blog or publication, you need my explicit permission |
"The future was dark and the past was dead
As they gazed on the sea once more –
But a nation was born when the immigrants said
"Good-bye!" as they stepped ashore!
In their loneliness they were parted thus
Because of the work to do,
A wild wide land to be won for us
By hearts and hands so few.
The darkest land 'neath a blue sky's dome,
And the widest waste on earth;
The strangest scenes and the least like home
In the lands of our fathers' birth;
The loneliest land in the wide world then,
And away on the furthest seas,
A land most barren of life for men –
And they won it by twos and threes!
With God, or a dog, to watch, they slept
By the camp-fires' ghastly glow,
Where the scrubs were dark as the blacks that crept
With "nulla" and spear held low;
Death was hidden amongst the trees,
And bare on the glaring sand
They fought and perished by twos and threes –
And that's how they won the land!
It was two that failed by the dry creek bed,
While one reeled on alone –
The dust of Australia's greatest dead
With the dust of the desert blown!
Gaunt cheek-bones cracking the parchment skin
That scorched in the blazing sun,
Black lips that broke in a ghastly grin –
And that's how the land was won!
Starvation and toil on the tracks they went,
And death by the lonely way;
The childbirth under the tilt or tent,
The childbirth under the dray!
The childbirth out in the desolate hut
With a half-wild gin for nurse –
That's how the first were born to bear
The brunt of the first man's curse!
They toiled and they fought through the shame of it –
Through wilderness, flood, and drought;
They worked, in the struggles of early days,
Their sons' salvation out.
The white girl-wife in the hut alone,
The men on the boundless run,
The miseries suffered, unvoiced, unknown –
And that's how the land was won.
No armchair rest for the old folk then –
But, ruined by blight and drought,
They blazed the tracks to the camps again
In the big scrubs further out.
The worn haft, wet with a father's sweat,
Gripped hard by the eldest son,
The boy's back formed to the hump of toil –
And that's how the land was won!
And beyond Up Country, beyond Out Back,
And the rainless belt, they ride,
The currency lad and the ne'er-do-well
And the black sheep, side by side;
In wheeling horizons of endless haze
That disk through the Great North-west,
They ride for ever by twos and by threes –
And that's how they win the rest."
~ Henry Lawson, 1867-1922 ~
This poem is about Australia, but it struck me that it might also describe some of the hardships of life for the pilgrims who left for the New World
Ci son giornate che vorresti non finissero mai. Dove il cielo è terso, senza nuvole, l'aria frizzante e la città ti sembra..diversa! Incontri amici che non vedevi da tempo e che han deciso di sopportarti tutta la giornata, e le gambe viaggiano da sole: P.zza di Spagna-Pantheon-P.zza Navona arrivando a Castel Sant'Angelo e percorrendo un breve tratto scendendo sulle rive del Tevere dove le mura sono alte e spesse.Il traffico un rumore sordo. Ci si gode il sole che sta tramontando, i riflessi argentei sull'acqua, il silenzio rotto solo dalle grida dei gabbiani in volo. Ma la giornata non è finita e si continua per Trastevere prendendo un gelato e continuando a chiacchierare fino ad arrivare a P.zza Venezia e finire con il Colosseo. Tempo di separarsi...
Ciao regà!!. Grazie per la visita e per la splendida giornata!! Alla prossima!!
p.s.: costo per la guida turistica di Euro... :P!!! :D!!..scherzo!! Un abbraccio forte Fede!!
There are days you'll never wish to write the word "end". Where the sky is clear, without clouds, the air is fresh and city appear to you...different! You meet friends you haven't seen since a long time ago and that have decided to stand your presence all day, and legs travel alone: P.zza di Spagna-Pantheon-P.zza Navona arriving to Castel Sant' Angelo and covering a short path on the shore of the river Tevere where the walls are high and thick upon you. The traffic, an unvoiced noise. Enjoing the sun to go down, the silver reflection on the water, the silence broken only by crys of the gulls in flight. But the day is not at the end, we continued the walk reaching Trastevere, taking an ice-cream and chatting until arriving to P.zza Venezia and end with the Colosseo. Time to say goodbye... Thanks for..
Shown here are images from the exhibit "Alternative Voices," a student project that was part of Professor Sharon Zuber's Fall 2011 LCST 201 "Constructing the News" Introduction to Literary and Cultural Studies class. The exhibit is located in the Read and Relax area on the first floor of Swem Library, and will be on display from December 6, 2011-April 30, 2012.
This case was curated by Brian Lynn, Jaren Maynard, Reid McBride, and Heidi Scanlon.
The following is a transcription of the label text in this case:
‘Oh happy day,’ at least that is the way it looks from the depiction. The decree that students may no longer physically abuse their slaves is accompanied by a stereotypical cartoon slave doing a dance under the caption ‘Negroes Rejoice,’ illustrating how humor publications took risks in the realms of taboo topics.
Owl, 1854
Race—a controversial subject or something to laugh about? This small dialogue makes fun of the language used by the African American slaves on campus at the time. The Owl is able to enter taboo territory by poking fun at the slaves because of its literary genre and light–hearted way of doing so.
Owl, 1854
‘You can't handle the truth,’ but the Scalper is going to give it to you anyway, regardless of how the administration may feel about it. This laid the foundation for the idea that jabs at authority are acceptable in the realms of humor publications on campus.
Scalper, Vol. 1 No. 1, 1925
Tear down the Wren, we need a new parking lot! The article is a humorous interpretation of the seemingly constant construction and development efforts on campus. This piece is packed with hyperbole and sarcasm aimed directly at the president and administration of the college.
Fifth Horseman, Vol. 1 No. 2, March 1972
Comment on sexuality, blatantly criticize the administration, and then make a reference to the KKK, and you’ve written an article nobody wants to publish. Make it funny though, and it gets published in the Taverner.
William and Mary Taverner, Vol. 1 No. 2, 1988
When is it okay to laugh about STDs? When reading the Taverner of course. Although the article comments on these matters in a less than serious way, this humor publication provides an arena for themes of sexuality that otherwise would go unvoiced.
William and Mary Taverner, Vol. 1 No. 3, 1988
From the Special Collections Research Center, Earl Gregg Swem Library at the College of William and Mary. See swem.wm.edu/scrc/ for further information and assistance.
RUNE LETTER TH
Copyright © March 2007 by Kayleen Clements
Name: Thurisaz “thoor-ee-saws”
Phonetic Value: unvoiced th as in “thorn” (never th as in “the”)
For more information go to: www.sunnyway.com/runes
Materials Needed:
Size 7 needles
Yarn: Worsted weight yarn
CO 37
1.-4. Knit
5. K3, p31, k3
6. Knit (knit all even rows)
7. K3, p31, k3
9., 11. K3, p6, k3, p22, k3
13. K3, p6, k5, p20, k3
15. K3, p6, k7, p18, k3
17. K3, p6, k3, p2, k4, p16, k3
19. K3, p6, k3, p4, k4, p14, k3
21. K3, p6, k3, p6, k4, p12, k3
23. K3, p6, k3, p8, k4, p10, k3
25. K3, p6, k3, p10, k4, p8, k3
27., 29. K3, p6, k3, p12, k4, p6, k3
31. K3, p6, k3, p10, k4, p8, k3
33. K3, p6, k3, p8, k4, p10, k3
35. K3, p6, k3, p6, k4, p12, k3
37. K3, p6, k3, p4, k4, p14, k3
39. K3, p6, k3, p2, k4, p16, k3
41. K3, p6, k7, p18, k3
43, K3, p6, k5, p20, k3
45., 47. K3, p6, k3, p22, k3
49., 51. K3, p31, k3
52.-55. Knit
BO, and weave in ends
RUNE LETTER D
Copyright © May 2007 by Kayleen Clements
Name: Dagaz – “thaw-gauze”
Phonetic Value: voiced th as in “the” (never unvoiced th as in “thick”) or d as in “dog”
For more information go to: www.sunnyway.com/runes
Materials Needed:
Size 7 needles
Yarn: Worsted weight yarn
CO 37
1.-4. Knit
5. K3, p31, k3
6. Knit (knit all even rows)
7. K3, p31, k3
9. K3, p7, k4, p9, k4, p7, k3
11. K3, p7, k5, p7, k5, p7, k3
13. K3, p7, k3, p1, k1, p7, k1, p1, k3, p7, k3
15. K3, p7, k3, p1, k2, p5, k2, p1, k3, p7, k3
17. K3, p7, k3, p2, k1, p5, k1, p2, k3, p7, k3
19. K3, p7, k3, p2, k2, p3, k2, p2, k3, p7, k3
21. K3, p7, k3, p3, k1, p3, k1, p3, k3, p7, k3
23. K3, p7, k3, p3, k2, p1, k2, p3, k3, p7, k3
25. K3, p7, k3, p4, k1, p1, k1, p4, k3, p7, k3
27. K3, p7, k3, p4, k3, p4, k3, p7, k3
29. K3, p7, k3, p5, k1, p5, k3, p7, k3
31. K3, p7, k3, p4, k3, p4, k3, p7, k3
33. K3, p7, k3, p4, k1, p1, k1, p4, k3, p7, k3
35. K3, p7, k3, p3, k2, p1, k2, p3, k3, p7, k3
37. K3, p7, k3, p3, k1, p3, k1, p3, k3, p7, k3
39. K3, p7, k3, p2, k2, p3, k2, p2, k3, p7, k3
41. K3, p7, k3, p2, k1, p5, k1, p2, k3, p7, k3
43. K3, p7, k3, p1, k2, p5, k2, p1, k3, p7, k3
45. K3, p7, k5, p7, k5, p7, k3
47. K3, p7, k5, p7, k5, p7, k3
49., 51. K3, p31, k3
52.-55. Knit
BO, and weave in ends
This street sign contains three different forms for the ess sound. In German blackletter spelling, ‘ſ’ (or ‘long s’) is the default. It is used in initial and medial positions.
The ‘s’ (or ‘round s’) is used for final sounds only. The street’s name is a compound – Emmerans·straße [Emmeran’s Street]: the ‘s’ is the last letter in ‘Emmerans-’.
The third form is the ‘ß’ (eszett). It is used for the unvoiced ess in final position, and also in medial position when following a long vowel – as it is the case here. In this Gotisch, the eszett clearly is conceived as a ligature of ‘ſ’ and ‘s’ (and not ‘ſ’ and descending ‘z’), with a – weird – plain horizontal bar as connector.
It’s not only
the passion for getting it right (though it’s that , too)
it’s the way
radiant epiphanies recur, recur,
consuming, pristine, unrecognized –
and remembrance dismays you. And then, look,
some reflection of light, some wing of shadow
is other, unvoiced. You can, you must
proceed.
—Denise Levertov, from "For Those Whom the Gods Love Less"
dreaminginthedeepsouth.tumblr.com/post/2140066210/for-tho...
The raw cut, the drag, the butte, the star, the draw, the sunflower in the grass orange-butted west lands of Arcadia, forlorn sands of the isolate earth, dewy exposures to infinity in black space, home of the rattlesnake and the gopher ... the level of the world, low and flat: the charging restless mute unvoiced road keening in a seizure of tarpaulin power into the route, fabulous plots of landowners in green unexpecteds, ditches by the side of the road...
Jack Kerouac, 'On The Road'
Baby Rocks AZ
"They were dumb
and so I was silent.
As for them,
they chatted
happily,
as they walked.
What is 'speech'?
Embedded in our memory,
like overgrown moss
is the illusion
that there is no speech without sound.
I peered into the earth
whee ants held court,
talking away, unheard.
On the mountain's crest,
hiding in the crevices
are ever so many insects,
safe from stormy winds
- how do they cope without speech?
They are never lonely.
And what of creatures under the sea who
don't have mouths to speak?
Tell me,
what is the need for speech
between you and me
for a life such as ours?
We delude ourselves that sound is speech.
Not grasping the essence
of speech unvoiced.
~ Vaidheeswaran, 1935- ~
Translated by K Srilata and Subashree Krishnaswamy
From "The Rapids of a Great River" The Penguin Book of Tamil Poetry
Ben senin gözlerine dönmek istiyorum. Sonra da… Sonra diye bir şey yoktur. Tarih dışıdır, sonra.
~ İlhan Berk, Ağaçlardan Arkadaşlarım Oldu
I want to return to your eyes. And then… There is no such thing as “then.” “Then” is outside history.
~ İlhan Berk, There Have Been Trees I Have Made Friends With
An alley or alleyway is a narrow lane found in urban areas, often for pedestrians only, which usually runs between or behind buildings. In older cities and towns in Europe, alleys are often what is left of a medieval street network, or a right of way or ancient footpath in an urban setting. In older urban development, alleys were built to allow for deliveries such as coal to the rear of houses. Alleys may be paved, or simply dirt tracks. A blind alley has no outlet at one end and is thus a cul-de-sac.
LIVERPOOL CITY CENTRE JUNE 2012
Took the train to London, cycled through the city to the river, via Holborn and Fleet Street, King William Street; crossed the river on Waterloo Bridge, commuters coming the other way; east on to Tooley Street. When I ride at rush hour in the city I think lines in the heads of thousands since they were composed, since I heard them at school - recorded by Eliot in Mr Lushington's English class at Westminster. He encouraged listening more than analysis. I didn't need to distinguish redemption from commuting :
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought ... And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
... Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours...
But London wasn't like this. Nor I. Lushington also explained the objective-correlative so I could understand. It still makes sense. Every second unvoiced words - phrases - assemble in my head - the river glideth...mighty heart...all bright and glittering in the smokeless air...and with the heart of May doth every beast keep holiday - correlating artlessly with my surroundings connecting them timelessly to all I've known and been taught since birth - sublime and banal, happily jostling.
The crowd, like me, did feel sprightly, flowing indeed but more like a parade than a procession. Brown fogs gone.
Spectrogram of me singing Harukaze (春風)
Time range of SELECTION
From 0.017668 to 2.774286 seconds (duration: 2.756618 seconds)
Pitch:
Median pitch: 174.975 Hz
Mean pitch: 175.039 Hz
Standard deviation: 12.269 Hz
Minimum pitch: 130.503 Hz
Maximum pitch: 193.466 Hz
Pulses:
Number of pulses: 410
Number of periods: 407
Mean period: 5.708377E-3 seconds
Standard deviation of period: 0.428898E-3 seconds
Voicing:
Fraction of locally unvoiced frames: 14.095% (116 / 823)
Number of voice breaks: 2
Degree of voice breaks: 11.771% (0.324480 seconds / 2.756618 seconds)
Jitter:
Jitter (local): 0.722%
Jitter (local, absolute): 41.202E-6 seconds
Jitter (rap): 0.380%
Jitter (ppq5): 0.394%
Jitter (ddp): 1.141%
Shimmer:
Shimmer (local): 2.569%
Shimmer (local, dB): 0.247 dB
Shimmer (apq3): 0.792%
Shimmer (apq5): 1.161%
Shimmer (apq11): 2.573%
Shimmer (dda): 2.377%
Harmonicity of the voiced parts only:
Mean autocorrelation: 0.992644
Mean noise-to-harmonics ratio: 0.009036
Mean harmonics-to-noise ratio: 30.351 dB
“Raspberry” (from Wikipedia)
Blowing a raspberry, strawberry or making a Bronx cheer is to make a noise signifying derision, real or feigned. It is made by placing the tongue between the lips and blowing to produce a sound similar to flatulence. In the terminology of phonetics, this sound can be described as an unvoiced linguolabial trill. It is never used in human language phonemically (e.g., to be used as a building block of words), but the sound is widely used across human cultures [DH …and apparently across the entire animal kingdom!].
So - what do you think this wild raspberry is for:
1) Discouraging folks who speed on Skyline Drive.
2) Letting us know that the greenery is not as tasty this year as last year (which would be when this young yearling buck was a fawn).
3) Letting SNP management know what they can do with their whitetail deer radio-collaring program.
For more reading on the intrusive and unwelcomed radio-collaring invasion on the SNP whitetail deer herd, please visit friend Larry Brown’s post here:
Spectrogram of me singing Wake Me Up When September Ends
Time range of SELECTION
From 0 to 3.281490 seconds (duration: 3.281490 seconds)
Pitch:
Median pitch: 246.403 Hz
Mean pitch: 256.142 Hz
Standard deviation: 45.112 Hz
Minimum pitch: 194.181 Hz
Maximum pitch: 351.099 Hz
Pulses:
Number of pulses: 709
Number of periods: 705
Mean period: 3.907884E-3 seconds
Standard deviation of period: 0.682250E-3 seconds
Voicing:
Fraction of locally unvoiced frames: 13.660% (134 / 981)
Number of voice breaks: 3
Degree of voice breaks: 8.632% (0.283258 seconds / 3.281490 seconds)
Jitter:
Jitter (local): 0.793%
Jitter (local, absolute): 31.005E-6 seconds
Jitter (rap): 0.412%
Jitter (ppq5): 0.399%
Jitter (ddp): 1.237%
Shimmer:
Shimmer (local): 3.318%
Shimmer (local, dB): 0.352 dB
Shimmer (apq3): 1.411%
Shimmer (apq5): 1.490%
Shimmer (apq11): 2.149%
Shimmer (dda): 4.233%
Harmonicity of the voiced parts only:
Mean autocorrelation: 0.987608
Mean noise-to-harmonics ratio: 0.015620
Mean harmonics-to-noise ratio: 24.832 dB
Silent Humming : A digital humming producing system using unvoiced sounds and throat motion
Keio - Inami Lab(Japan).
... as seen from Nu'uanu Pali
N.B. - you'll be seeing place names, lots of them, with double vowels. The apostrophe I inserted might not be correct Hawai'ian spelling (the apostrophe is actually one of just a handful of consonants recognized in the Hawai'ian language; it's called "okina" and is pronounced as a glottal stop, an unvoiced "uh"), but it gives you an idea of how to pronounce the word. Adjacent vowels without the okina are slurred together as a diphthong. So Nu'uanu is said "Noo-oo-WAH-noo", and O'ahu is 3 distinct syllables: "oh-AH-hu."
Though I don't show them here, the language also uses macrons, the "long vowel" sign, to indicate a syllable stressed outside the usual rule of "second-last syllable gets the stress." E.g. - a main street in Honolulu is named after King David Kalakaua, and there's a macron over the 2nd "a" -- making his name (properly pronounced) "Kah-LAH-kow-ah."
It took me _ 5_ visits to Hawai'i before I learned I'd been mangling that name into "Kah-lah-KOW-ah"!