A movie star died a day or two ago
She was 97.
She would to say hello to my mother
At evening musicals full of teenaged boys
that I lusted after years ago
She would wave and smile with sparkling eyes
I’d look at mother
“Why?”
Amused, she would say softly
“I don’t know!”
We would giggle together
A rare event

Mother was no chorine
nor wardrobe mistress
She did not peak in the 50s
She did not dance with her husband
under the moon at the Bel Air Bay Club
Her daughter did not write a pop song that oddly charted
She did not struggle to remain in the public’s imagination
They had nothing in common but perhaps a lovely face and a skill at survival
Mom could make her husband move her closer to Johnny on the dance floor.
Whichever direction, Dad obliged.

They locked down that school today
Warned by a rifle in a photo
Of an unstable football pro

These women are dead now
so none’s the wiser
“When you’re a victim of bullying, an option is revenge." said the alumna.
“Just a precaution,” replied the school.

Mother would have been 97 this year as well.
Maybe they’ve met again,
two streaks of illuminated emptiness
Engaging with reservations
Over fitting in and going insane
Over the low self-regard in a champion
or
Being lost at sea.

Dar Al-Hekma University hosted its second fashion show on Sunday that featured the work of its second batch of fashion design undergraduates.

The event, titled “Luminosity” was held under the auspices of Princess Reem **** Muhammad Al-Faisal. President of the university Dr. Suhair Hassan Al-Qurashi said: “Providing such events to our students before graduation exposes them to industry leaders of their prospective industries and gives them a head start in their careers.

“Dar Al-Hekma University’s students stand out because of the combination of their high caliber and the opportunities the university provides for them.”

Along with industry leaders, families of participating students attended. The event started with an opening speech by the department chair for the fashion design program Dina Kattan, who then introduced the sophomore and junior students’ work.

Afterward, models wearing three-piece collection garments designed by senior students scheduled to graduate this year took the stage and were graded by four judges.

Kattan said: “I am so proud of the work my students presented today; they worked really hard and they deserve a big hand. “Everyone was impressed with the level of creativity and attention to detail they demonstrated.”

The judges were Batool Jamjoom, businesswoman in the fashion industry and manager and owner of Jamjoom Fashion House; Amra Alabdalilsharif, director of the innovation and visual merchandising department at Rubaiyyat; Dalal Al-Hasan, a fashion designer; and Aram Kabbani, Dar Al-Hekma alumna and fashion stylist.

The grades students received during the fashion show will form part of their final grade. One of the students whose designs were featured at the show, Zahar Algain, said her collection was inspired by Mexican artist Frida Kahlo.

“Studying fashion has altered my perspective. I view fashion, in the same way that I view life; it’s a matter of balance and proportions.

“My interest in avant-garde fashion has led me to believe in using creativity to solve difficult situations. Algain’s collection was meant to blur the line between art and fashion.

“It is inspired by Frida Kahlo but with a fictional twist. “The story behind my collection is a daydream, a magical love story, an artwork; it is splattered with Frida’s colorful soul and spirit.”

Following this women only event, Dar Al-Hekma is organizing a one-day fashion design exhibition on Tuesday, which is open to all. The event starts from 7 p.m.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide | www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses

It’s an annual tradition that London Fashion Week opens every February with the newest of the new—the bang-fizz of The Central Saint Martins’s M.A. graduation show. These are the people who are destined to shape the fashion world—not least because they are talents gathered from everywhere. The class of 2017 has students from China, Taiwan, Bulgaria, Slovenia, Gibraltar, and the United States as well as Britain. This is just normal in London, a city that has built its reputation as a creative capital on the strength of talents from all over: all backgrounds, all nationalities. In the face of Brexit, and its possible future curb on immigration, London has its Muslim mayor Sadiq Khan, the city’s elected representative, who stands up for the vitality of diversity and interfaith harmony every day with his social media campaign from City Hall, #Londonisopen. In his words: “We don’t simply tolerate each other’s differences, we celebrate them. Many people from all over the globe live and work here, contributing to every aspect of life in our city.”

Nowhere will that be better demonstrated than in what’s to come in London Fashion Week. In defiance of dark times, its youth and multicultural camaraderie is about to roll out the welcome mat. Expect to see it coming from all directions, in kaleidoscopic variety. On the Central Saint Martins’s runway, there’s Gabriella Sardena’s wildly decorative glam-femme collection to look forward to, for example (she’s the one from Gibraltar). Day one, there’s also the opening of The International Fashion Showcase at Somerset House, where emerging designers from 26 countries, including Ukraine, Russia, Khazakhstan, India, Romania, Czech Republic, Egypt, and Guatemala, will put forward their viewpoints on the theme “Local and Global.”

Stand back for a blast from New York, too. Michael Halpern, one of the latest Central Saint Martins M.A. graduates (class of 2016) will unleash his first multi-sequined disco-fabulous collection in a presentation that is being aided and abetted with volunteer help from Patti Wilson and Sam McKnight, held at a posh venue laid on for free in the heart of St James on Saturday.

Fighting gloom with glitter is a London thing. Ashish Gupta, born in India, longtime London trailblazer for LGBTQ rights, is the king of that. Given last September, when he took his bow in a T-shirt emblazoned IMMIGRANT, admirers will surely be packing his Ashish show to the rafters. These times demand a standing up for pride in identity. Osman Yousefzada, more quietly creative, with his strong art-world following, will be coming out with a statement about his British-Asian roots: “Before, we were rarities, trophies and exotics from distant lands…some of us fleeing famine, war, or persecution,” he writes. “We were thought of as good labourers, businessmen and women—hungry, reliable and eager to succeed…and then some wanted to close the doors. Today, I bring you colour, opulence, texture, tailoring, a modern woman in different hues who isn’t scared to stand out and have fun, and embrace the beauty and difference around her.”

London is open to more newcomers. The Ports 1961 women’s show has relocated here from Milan this season. It’s actually a homecoming of a sort: This collection, placed on a woman-friendly lifestyle-centric wavelength somewhere on the continuum between The Row and Céline, has in fact been designed by the Slovenian-born Natasa Cagalj (also a CSM M.A. alumna) from a studio in London’s Farringdon all along. Two more “returners” to the schedule are Hussein Chalayan and Roland Mouret, long rooted in London since the ’90s, who are repatriating their shows from Paris.

It’s a whole London creative community picture, in fact—one that makes a complete commercial nonsense on every level of the “Little Britain” xenophobia of the send-them-home faction in U.K. politics. Cohesion and creativity, the welcome and support given to the newest, from everywhere—that’s the flag that flies over London Fashion Week. Scotland, Ireland, Greece, Austria, America, Serbia, Canada, Syria, India, Germany, Pakistan, Nigeria, Turkey, Ghana, New Zealand, Portugal—come one, come all, says fashion. There’ll be protest and prettiness, resistance and humor—that’s a given this week. Here’s glitter in your eye!Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

No habían cumplido años ni la rosa ni el arcángel.
Todo, anterior al balido y al llanto.
Cuando la luz ignoraba todavía
si el mar nacería niño o niña.
Cuando el viento soñaba melenas que peinar
y claveles el fuego que encender y mejillas
y el agua unos labios parados donde beber.
Todo, anterior al cuerpo, al nombre y al tiempo.
Entonces yo recuerdo que, una vez, en el cielo...Paseaba con un dejo de azucena que piensa,
casi de pájaro que sabe ha de nacer.
Mirándose sin verse a una luna que le hacía espejo el
sueño
y a un silencio de nieve que le elevaba los pies.
A un silencio asomada.
Era anterior al arpa, a la lluvia y a las palabras.
No sabía.
Blanca alumna del aire,
temblaba con las estrellas, con la flor y los árboles.
Su tallo, su verde talle.
Con las estrellas mías
que, ignorantes de todo,
por cavar dos lagunas en sus ojos
la ahogaron en dos mares.
Y recuerdo...
Nada más: muerta, alejarse.También antes,
mucho antes de la rebelión de las sombras,
de que al mundo cayeran plumas incendiadas
y un pájaro pudiera ser muerto por un lirio.
Antes, antes que tú me preguntaras
el número y el sitio de mi cuerpo.
Mucho antes del cuerpo.
En la época del alma.
Cuando tú abriste en la frente sin corona del cielo
la primera dinastía del sueño.
Cuando tú, al mirarme en la nada,
inventaste la primera palabra.
Entonces, nuestro encuentro.Aún los valses del cielo no habían desposado al jazmín y la
nieve,
ni los aires pensado en la posible música de tus cabellos,
ni decretado el rey que la violeta se enterrara en un libro.
No.
Era la era en que la golondrina viajaba
sin nuestras iniciales en el pico.
En que las campanillas y las enredaderas
morían sin balcones que escalar y estrellas.
La era
en que al hombro de un ave no había flor que apoyara la cabeza.
Entonces, detrás de tu abanico, nuestra luna primera.

Fue mía una noche. Llegó de repente,
y huyó como el viento, repentinamente.

Alumna curiosa que aprendió el placer,
fue mía una noche. No la he vuelto a ver.

Fue la noche sola de una sola estrella.
Si miro las nubes, después pienso en ella.

Mi amor no la busca; mi amor no la llama:
La flor desprendida no vuelve a la rama,

y las ilusiones son como un espejo
que cuando se empaña pierde su reflejo.
Fue mía una noche, locamente mía:
Me quema los labios su sed todavía.

Bella como pocas, nunca fue más bella
que soñando el sueño de la noche aquella.

Su amor de una noche sigue siendo mío:
La corriente pasa, pero queda el río;

y si ella es la estrella de una noche sola,
yo he sido en su playa la primera ola.
Amor de una noche que ignoró el hastío:
Somos las distantes orillas de un río,

entre las que cruza la corriente clara,
y el agua las une, pero las separa.

Amor de una noche: si vuelves un día,
ya no he de sentirte tan loca y tan mía.

Más que la tortura de una herida abierta,
mi amor ama el viento que cierra una puerta.

El amor florece tierra movediza, 1
y es ley de la llama trocarse en ceniza. 1

El amor que vuelve, siempre vuelve en vano,
así como un ciego que extiende la mano.

Amor de una noche sin amanecer:
¡Acaso prefiero no volverte a ver!

December thirty first
two thousand twenty one countdown
will transparently and seamlessly stream into
simultaneously linkedin January first
two thousand and twenty two,
whereby the Ball a geodesic sphere,
12 feet in diameter,
and weighing 11,875 pounds.

The aforementioned Ball covered
with a total of 2,688
Waterford Crystal triangles
vary in size, and range in length
from 4 ¾ inches
to 5 ¾ inches per side.

Anderson Cooper and Andy Cohen
will ring in 2022 on CNN's
New Year's eve live
sampling madding crowd
regarding self promises
(such as holy matrimony) pledged.

Disinclination regarding tradition
to make resolutions stance
adopted courtesy yours truly.

Though such proclamation
may smack of high treason
no matter convenience to season
and ideal time to leaven existence,
I discern no rhyme nor reason.

Back in the day
listening to Guy Lombardo,
a Canadian-American bandleader,
violinist, and hydroplane racer
formed the Royal Canadians in 1924
with his brothers Carmen,
Lebert, Victor, and other musicians
from his hometown of
London, Ontario Canada
popularizing Auld Lang Syne
courtesy eighteenth-century
Scots poet Robert Burns.

Those very poignant moments,
when stroke of midnight
ushered in new year
(I counted, notched and tabulated
sixty two since mine birth where
decades now seemingly
flitted by at light speed)
as yours truly a doubting Thomas
disbelief regarding artificial construct,
nevertheless he ultimately, obliviously,
and haphazardly cruises along
space/time continuum at quite a clip.

Primitive paradigms witnessed,
sabotaged, nixed by the equivalent
of caveman version qua Elon Musk,
(who snubbed squalor)
punctuated equilibrium inadvertently
presaged, revolutionized, and
upended courtesy wheelwrights
millenniums before mankind
scrutinized cosmic sights
only from storied wuthering heights
swirling maelstrom analogous to dog fights
sans gods precipitating terrestrial blights,
whence thus spake Zarathustra
predicated upon Friedrich Nietzsche's
theory when cosmic consciousness alights.

E'er since Pope Gregory XIII effectively
(furnished, generated, and
instituted his holy mojo circa October 1582)
introducing Gregorian calendar
whisking Julian calendar out of vogue
with fair vanity
approximately four hundred
thirty nine years ago
chroniclers of time - mostly
religious Norwegian bachelor farmers
casually referred to brethren as bro

invocations ******* sometimes prematurely -
that thar comment haint no fallacy),
which echoed across
Lake Wobegon, said incantations
devout followers among populace
did likewise parrot and crow
generation after generation
whereupon enigmatic, dogmatic, charismatic
monk native to Burma
stoked one after another ego

synthesizing interpretation to explain
life on Earth and phenomena at large
geocentric theory did ebb and flow
amazingly enough maintaining accuracy
with marginal probability of error
precision parsing seconds, minutes, hours...

would only tolerate absolute zero
variation regarding prediction
of weeks, months, years...
as sophistication of civilization did grow
allowing, enabling, and providing

jolly fellow bellowing **... **... **
could make his round the world wide web
timely trek linkedin with timepiece
assembled with B Corporation approval.

certification of "social and
environmental performance"
a private certification of for-profit companies,
distinct from legal designation
as Benefit corporation.

The above plug an unsolicited commentary
regarding San Francisco, California
based eco friendly and socially conscious company
and recent employer of eldest daughter,
an engineering University of Pennsylvania alumna.

Lobbed and unleashed upon the heads
of (yours truly and the missus)
so called selfish "monsters."

The evening of Wednesday April 19th
witnessed us (birth parents of our first born)
weathering blistering telephonic brickbats.

She (unnamed eldest daughter)
spewed venomous bilious froth
across aforementioned medium
encompassing quite a few hours.

Upon being queried
how costly the purchase
of pre owned 2020 Hyundai Elantra,
I responded quasi cryptically
indicating nine thousand dollars
paid (courtesy trust account,
whereby mine older sister made executrix),
which represented less than half
the total dollar figure of said automobile.

Acknowledgement of vehicular acquisition
triggered unfettered tirade
loosed out the mouth of progeny
not only denouncing decision
regarding spending beyond my means,
but excoriating me for being an ingrate
throughout the lifetime of offspring,
a veritable charity case,
who exercised little or no foresight
and abdicating financial responsibilities
incumbent upon a negligent father.

At a tender vittle young age
upsetting behavior on behalf of gifted daughter
threats of self harm near impossible mission
wrought helplessness at horror
parental sense and sensibility,
nor forced therapy (which backfired,
when prized progeny) violently
against professional intervention
then cherished child fought
tooth and nail desperate
measure for measure didst disengage
reception and begat stone walling response,
when lovely lass

verbally probed with kid gloves
courtesy child psychologist
myopic yet keen eyes of mine did gauge
and grievously concluded helplessness
and stark similarity
when writer of these words
in the throes of severe depression
viz anorexia nervosa at prepubescent stage
race against time
confronting uncomfortable truth
life of Matthew Harris at stake,
thus Boyce and Harriet battle
regarding earthling in the balance did wage.

Nevertheless ill preparedness to sire kin
ushered me into emerging adulthood,
where raging hormonal secretion
think seminal ******* without birth control
analogous to Russian roulette spin
no surprise when haploid
male germ cell hit figurative bullseye
with resultant "bun in the oven"
read embryo a biological win.

Though a whip smart girl
University of Pennsylvania alumna
from engineering school
and living independently
approximately one third of her life,
she never lets us forget
financial hardship linkedin with
parents who exhibited
severe emotional impoverishment,
hence psychological indelible rupture
forever alienating a sad papa.

Despite understandable estrangement
after premature ******* took aim,
(I accept onus of supposed blame)
omnipotent bond rent asunder
between knight in tarnished armor
who could hardly wait
until college matriculation time came
cuz darling daughter her manifest destiny,
she wanted to jimmy and game

essentially severing home ties
haunted by abominable ghosts of yesteryear
donning and modestly trumpeting success
at life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness
mantle of pridefulness
without prejudice wear.

and ratchet up global warming
like bubbling vegetable stew
with tsk... tsk... heard
courtesy Greta Thunberg,
who would utter "how dare you..."

I bundle with layers to stave off cold
energy efficiency drilled courtesy
me late mother conserving
nonrenewable resources she extolled
now ewe best heed following suggestion
wool worth 3d printing than wearing
a sheep doubled over
along dotted line to fold
cuz expending (fossil fuel)
leaving carbon footprint
would immediately being lectured
by ecology conscious eldest daughter,
(a University of Pennsylvania
biomedical engineering alumna)
who would mildly scold.

Myself and thee missus holed up
here within Highland Manor Apartments
(unit B44 in case
you wanna drop me a line)
we're here moost
every cold January day
sipping warm cup
of our favorite beverage
exotic coffee latte brew
suits this muttering pup
actually yours truly
a doggone ole
shorter haired (compared
when poem initially got crafted)
pencil necked geezer.

He can be found moost
any given warm Green Day
like an American idiot
shuffling along boulevard of broken dreams
overhead skies colored rosy gunmetal gray
occasional huff fro
zen cloud slashing solar ray
heating inside cozy nook,
though outside temperature brisk,
nevertheless for winter pleasantly refreshing,
while I sit here heavily clad,
hence yours truly quite toasty within
perfect weather for wedding,
especially one hashtagged December/May.

After dusk i.e.
established misnomer known as sunset
a legacy from heliocentric theory
(the astronomical model
that places the sun at the center
of the solar system,
with the Earth and other planets
orbiting around Gaia)
occurs 5:35 PM Post Meridiem
heavens quickly turn jet
black today - Sunday,
January 19, 2025 (EST)
whereby hello darkness
my old friend
(analogous to the edge of night)
lulls one into sleepiness, I bet
dollars to donuts impossible mission
to keep eyelids opened,
particularly if sleep debt
necessary to pay the sandman,
who knows maybe you gotta get get
comfortably numb vis a vis
stinging ice crystals
creating a winter wonderland
temporarily rendering me unconscious
state, whereby yours truly
dreaming of a white Lost Horizon
in the mythical valley of Shangri-La
analogous to eventual Elysian Fields,
where divine creator
conjuring Nirvana and/or
a place called Willoughby
if a believer,
said Almighty eventually met.

sad, and heart-wrenching. you don't know how else to describe it.
you're approaching graduation, and slowly starting to see your campus, your home away from home (that eventually became home), through the eyes of an alumna.
Slowly, yet instantly, your lasts begin to accumulate.
Last coffee & pastry from the arts cafe.
Last paper printed from the library.
Last haphazard multiple choice question selection.
You picked "c" again because it has always felt safe.
And don't even get started on the last moments in your dorm.
Your last classes.
Last walks around the lakes.
The best and worst thing about lasts is oftentimes, you are not aware (fully at least)
of the true finality of these experiences.
But that's what commencement is for... right?
Not directly, but sort of. Because commencement means 'beginning', not 'end'. We talk about all that we have done to get to this faithful graduation day, and it is good that the end is about beginning, but even the beginning ends.
So that space between the beginning of the end and the end of the end is quite strange.

You realize you will no longer attend school here, or maybe even anywhere, starting in just a few days.
Yet you're walking through the student center listening to a song you listened to when you walked around campus for the very first time.

Except everything seemed faster then.

Now, it all seems slow, perhaps even            frozen
           in                                 time.
Years ago, you didn't know the ins and outs of how this place was laid out; how it functioned.
You didn't see fuzzy memories at certain tables and buildings, and in certain nondescript corners.
You couldn't hear the ghostly 'Hello!'s echoing, familiar voices greeting you that now haunt the sidewalks
instead of traveling along them.
You are no longer in the moment when you started to call
this place home.
Except it's your last day of classes, and you've been here
quite a while, but it is, in fact, still home.
But something is fading, unclear in this
space
          between
                          spaces
The­ faces aren't familiar anymore,
and years ago, that would be something you
jokingly wished for, perhaps just to be left alone so you didn't have to pause your music.
But now, you long for that closeness in some way.
You'd find comfort in that sort of chaos.
And maybe you already started your post-grad job
before graduation because you needed to distract yourself
from the fact that it is all
so liminal.
a place between places, spaces between spaces,
a life lived between lives.
Where you're able to recognize that though your worst times were hosted there,
your best times also were.
and maybe it all wasn't truly just a well thought-out blur, because you found so much safety here, and learned to create that for yourself.
Without this place, it would've been tough to deal with what had been dealt.
This place lifted you up, showed you what you could do, and you created a life and love for yourself that you're starting to see now that you're through.
It hurts, yes, I know: to say goodbye to this chapter.
but it remains part of you, now and thereafter.
side note from the future: don't rush into things, just listen to yourself, because you are all you have
and the rest is what you have felt.