Flight of the Muslim

It was September of 2004. A man with graying beard, dawning a long robe in very neutral coloring and a twenty-one year old daughter were boarding a plane bound for America. After going through security, he settled into his seat, preparing for his visit with a woman who called herself Dolly Parton. With his fantastic background in music and his recent religious switch, he was ready to take on yet another step with his life, but all that would change abruptly. After crossing the Atlantic, the plane made an unexpected stop at Maine’s Bangor International Airport. Was this just a pit stop? This man with the beard did not pay attention to any reasoning for the stop. He sat back and relaxed, waiting to continue on his journey.

When the plane parked, a few rather stern looking guards walked back toward the bearded man. Concern soon made its presence when the guards removed the man and his daughter from the plane with haste. Confusion set in when he was taken to a room with FBI agents. They had a few serious questions for the bearded man. What about his meeting with Dolly? He was going to be late, and he was supposed to be in Nashville soon.

The questioning began: Why do you think your name is on the Border Protection List? What are your connections with Muslim terrorist groups? After all
the questioning, he was told he was refused entry into the country, based on the fact that he was on a terrorist watch list. The next day, the bearded man and his daughter were sent back to London without much of an explanation for what had happened in Maine. The bearded man did, however, have a small connection with a terrorist group. He was, in fact, accused of supporting a fundamentalist terrorist group. Whether that is actually true or not was in question, but it was enough to ban him from Israel. Whatever the motives may have been, he is officially not allowed into the United States because he is on the “no-fly” list.

In contrast, the bearded Muslim man also has connections to charities and today is called a humanitarian. He started several Muslim schools in London without the funding of the British Government. At the peak of his musical career, he gave up music and sold all of his material possessions, and ended up giving up much of his earnings to children’s charities in third-world countries. His work in countries such as Bosnia, Iran, the Sudan, Palestine, and even Indonesia has been considered nothing short of saintly. His songwriting continues to this day. He mainly writes music for children and the Muslim faith. It seems that this harmless man was misunderstood. Although his past has been invaded by controversy, the bearded man, who had once captured the entire world with his voice, and his music has done everything to promote peace, love, and kindness amongst all nations. His support for any sort of terrorist group, fact or fiction, does not persist. The bearded man in a long neutral colored robe, is Yusuf Islam, the man who once was a folk artist with top performers like Jimi Hendrix. But the rest world may know him by his stage name, Cat Stevens.

My Adventures with the Whale

I was racing through the lava pit. On my left was a cross-eyed, purple rabbit holding a balloon, and to the right, a shoe flapping his tongue. The gate standing before me would allow me to gain access to the creature that stole my carrots. A narwhal with a severed horn held the keys to the gate. I asked him in a hurried tone,” Please, let me through! That whale stole my carrots!” In a timid fashion, he handed me the keys and boomed” You may pass.” In through the gates I stepped, and-

Oh. What is this puddle I’m laying in? Is this- is this drool? Once again, I have woken up in a lake of my own spit. Well, isn’t this perfect? Then I realize that my arm has fallen asleep. My fingers feel fatter than normal, so I lift my arm to empty my poor hand of the excess blood that was pumping through my veins. My eyes remain open as I take one deep breath, and smile. I can feel a supple, and inviting comfort embrace my feet. The barely noticeable, vanilla scent warms my senses as I turn and curl up in a thick blanket and manage myself into the fetal position. This is my preferred place, the only space where I can dream my worries away. Inspiration for future paintings begins here. This is my bed. It may come to a surprise to you.
Most often write about far-away places, some may write about sights they visited in their childhood. But my bed is my get-away. Where do I go to do my homework? What the one place I resort to when I cannot take any more stress from the day? My cozy, twin bed is my oyster.

My bed is an antique. When I was seven-years old, my grandma presented me with an antique bed made from a darker wood. The headboard has a flower bouquet painted and glazed right where I lay my head at night. The bed is about one hundred years old, and I think when my grandma set up that bed for the first time, I felt some connection to it. Whenever I laid in it, I felt as if someone was watching over me. Most do not believe me when I say this, but I can see spirits and ghosts. That bed must have a spiritual connection, because when I lay in my bed, I immediately feel someone’s presence. I am not afraid though, because I know that whoever is there is just watching over me. My bed has a story that I wish I could find out.

This bed is where I dream. The dreams I have are drawn into a sketchbook. That sketchbook inspires my art pieces. I do believe that dreams have a lot to do with my artwork, and I can thank my bed for that. One of my most recent paintings has a young girl glancing in the faces of several, human figures that closely resemble the muscle-bodies found in anatomy books. The young girl looks innocent, but is awaiting her doom. This painting derived from a dream I had at the beginning of this year about a young child facing several people that did not have good news for her. I do not, however, know what the bad news was. But, my bed does influence my dreams. If my bed weren’t as comfortable as it was, I think that my dreams would be non-existent, seeing as I would be tossing an turning the whole night trying to get comfortable, rather than soundly sleeping and enjoy the moving picture in my head.

When I get home from a trying day at school, my bed is what I immediately flop down upon for either a quick nap, or even to just read a great book. If I have a great deal of homework, I sit back against my pillows and crack out the books. The peace that bed brings to me alleviates the stress from the day so that I can muse over the work in front of me with ease. At times, though, I find myself drifting off to sleep. I will wake up two hours later and notice that I had accomplished nothing from my homework assignments.

I roll over onto my back and stare at the ceiling, waiting for myself to become drowsy again. I can hear my clock ticking on my wall. I shuffle onto my left side to see what time my alarm clock reads. It is 3:46 a.m. With a lengthy sigh, I return to my back and stare at the Chinese lantern above my head. My comforter is lying loose on my body, and grazing the sides of my face. That same vanilla fragrance brushes my nose, and my eyes are beginning to get heavy. I hurry to adjust my pillow, and then curl up into my fetal position with the comforter wrapped tightly around my body. My head stirs around in my pillow until it has the utmost support for a good night’s sleep. Once I am satisfied, I begin to breathe in deep. With one, final yawn, I start to drift into a uninterrupted slumber. Let the dream I was having carry on.

Now where was I? Ah yes. In through the gates I stepped, and there before me, stood the whale. He was a great beast, colossal in stature and covered in water beads. “Mr. Whale. I want my carrots back!” I shout at the whale. With a booming shriek, he opened his whopping mouth like a Pez-Dispenser and the carrots began to pour out in great heaps. When the whale finished his episode, he turned to me, gave me an enormous smile, and continued on his way. He flopped off into the sunset, and several white Sea gulls flew behind him. I returned to the gates with my bundle of carrots. The narwhal locked the gate behind me and told me to be on my way. I obeyed and walked back the way I came, past the talking, but now sleeping shoe, and past the purple bunny with a balloon. The lava pit was now one big, black rock. I turned to say goodbye to the bunny and the shoe, but I tripped over something rather peculiar. It was a- beep, beep, beep, beep. I turn over to switch off my alarm clock.