Rangoli Design in Paint

Above Rangolies are drawn and colored in paint in front of the temple entrance. 

Peacock Rangoli Designs

This Rangoli used the glowing vibrant colors scheme of peacock and decorated with nice free hand design.

Contributed by Shambhavi.

Onam Rangoli/ Flower Rangoli

 Onam celebration in office.

Diwali Rangoli

This Rangoli designed with a beautiful combination of various colors, and in the center used the motifs of leaves and finished with nice sanskar Bharti style of art.

Contributed by Ankita Mittal

Rectangular Sanskar Bharati Rangoli Design

The Month of July

Mahbubur Rahman, Time Warp

The Month of July

Written by Basel Al-Aswad, the father of Escape into Life founder, Chris Al-Aswad

Thirty-two years ago on July 16th, 1979, I received a most special gift, a son. Little did I know this gift would not last the rest of my lifetime. On July 27th, 2010, mother earth took back her precious gift leaving me stunned and devastated. Both occasions, his arrival and departure were profound and life changing events, seared indelibly in my memory.The years in between were filled with all aspects of a full life. There were joys and sorrows, successes and failures, accomplishments and disappointments, but most of all, there was that everlasting deep bond of infinite love and maturing friendship that exists between a father and son.

In spite of the immense loss and sadness that permeates me today on July 16th, 2011, I am most grateful to have had the privilege of caring and nurturing this extraordinary gift along with his deceased mother, Roz.

As I acknowledge the anniversary of his birth and his “escape” in this most solemn month, his spirit continues to occupy a central part of my life.

His sister Mandy and I are dedicated to continuing his legacy in Escape into Life. His light shines brightly guiding us to a most sacred task, that of bringing beauty and radiance through art and literature to a world desperately in need of it. By building on the foundation he laid down for us, we hope to be worthy of this endeavor.

Finally, we’d like to acknowledge the Escape into Life writers and contributors who have volunteered their time, effort, and support this past year. It has been truly inspiring to witness individuals from across the world, coming together to carry on something they believe in. Thank you all.

Escape Into Chris - Father's Day Special

June 20, 1993 – Father’s Day

Loving, living, and giving are three gifts which you continue to give me each day. A blanket, you are, which holds me at night and frees me in the day, and this is important because a holder is not a keeper. You will hold until I grow up, the greatest gift I could ask for. And this seems odd, because I ask for too much. You are my sun, you are my star, you are my everlasting thoughtful leader. My wishes are to give you more, for I have given you so little, you have given me so much. My words mean nothing on page but in life they mean everything. Thank you father on this father’s day I could not attend.

Chris

Sanskar Bharati Rangoli

 Nice color combination in Sanskar Bharati rangoli style looks vibrant in sun light.

Escape Into Chris - Entry 22

Wink

Winter 2006 – Normal, IL
Last night at Borders I picked up a book by Osho about aloneness and after reading the last four chapters of the book, my perceptive on my current state changed dramatically. Aloneness according to Osho is a gift, not something I should run from. Ever since I started reading the Art of Seduction, I got it in my head that I was going to meet a girl or many girls. The desire for a mate was controlling me. Not until a couple days ago did I realize how much I was suffering. I created the idea that unless I found someone, I could not be happy. Osho says that the ego’s need is never satisfied. After one woman, I will need another because I will never feel as though the other needs me, which is what this whole thing is about. It is not about love and it’s not even about sex. I need to know I am needed. When I feel needed by others, I feel secure. But this is a fantasy. Aloneness is not something to be afraid of and it is not something to want to change. This is the human condition and now it is my opportunity to accept it.
My mind did change after reading Osho. I was no longer having thoughts about women, it was that easy. All I had to tell myself was to give it up, the desire, the fantasy. I was only unhappy when I had the desire. I am not fixated anymore, I feel more relaxed. I’m not on a mission nor is my happiness dependent on an external focus. I do not look outside myself for affirmation of love. I must show and give love to myself – not wanting more than I have right now.
I see how desire and attachment cause suffering. I am not natural and I am not being myself when I am trying to manipulate people. The whole seduction thing was necessary to get to where I am. There is no point to try to alter myself or my life. Osho says practice choiceless awareness and follow the rhythm – I will be aware once I put down the egotistical needs and let the events of my live follow their natural course.

“If you run after things, nothing will come to you. Let things run after you. The sea never sends an invitation to the rivers. That’s why they run to the sea. The sea is content. It doesn’t want anything. That’s the secret in life. Happiness is the absence of the striving for happiness”.
-Chuang-Tzu

Rangoli Design with Worli Art

Escape Into Chris - Entry 21

Stefano Unterthiner

Early 2007- Normal, IL

10 minutes before work, I’m sitting in the front hall of Heartland College, eating my apple. A man, middle-aged, wearing a sport jacket and a baseball cap with a briefcase, says hello to me in a placid tone. He stands looking out the window and then comes and sits by me. “What a glorious day” he says. Now I’m assessing his character; I peg him as a Mormon. Something about the phrase, “Glorious day”. But I was sitting in this very spot not too long ago, in fact, I was writing a poem about the day from this window. “So where are you on your journey?” the strange man says to me. Now I am convinced he is a religious nut. My voice is hesitant… how do you answer that kind of question to someone you’ve never met before? “My journey?” I say. Well, I’ve gotten clean from drugs and alcohol about three years ago.” He does not congratulate me or applaud. The man’s face is egg-shaped, his skin is freshly shaven, his baseball cap is fit tightly over his egg-shaped head.

“Are you content?” he asks. Now I’m skeptical, just waiting for the Christian segment to come in at any time. “Content”, I say, “Do you mean in a permanent sense?” “Yes, I mean permanent, sustained contentment.” “I don’t believe in permanent happiness. That’s a false happiness if you ask me.” My voice is rigid and defensive. “There’s a difference between contentment and happiness”, he says. “Well, what’s your definition of happiness?” I ask. He takes a moment to pause and then raises his hand in a gesture. “At one end, you have euphoria and happiness, and on the other end misery and suffering.” He holds his right hand directly in front of his nose and he is looking down at his hand as if it were a ruler. “In the center of the spectrum,” he says, speaking slowly, “Contentment.”

I jump in – “No, contentment is just a little toward the more positive end – but just a little. That is where you want to be. But in life, you’ll probably have certain events happen to you – such as the death of a family member or economic setbacks. And you will lose all that contentment. Or you may be thrown into ecstasy or elation. His hand is now directly in front of his nose and he’s staring straight down at it, his voice very slow and hypnotic. But I listen to him because he is talking about emotions. And I am surprised a Christian or Mormon would be so interested in “The spectrum of emotion.” However, I’m still fearful he would bring up some information about his church or about Jesus. So I tell the man with the baseball cap that I have to go to work, which I did. I had to go to work. “Well, it was nice to meet you,” he said, “And good luck on your journey.”

In Memory of Rosalind D. Al-Aswad

The Swan, Rosalind Al-Aswad

Christopher Al-Aswad’s Journal Entry – March 14, 2003

My mother died on March 13, 2003. She died so peacefully, is what I told my friends. I said she died without resistance. And that’s how I want to live my life, without resistance. Easing up into the ceiling, without resistance. Sliding into the sky, without resistance. Her body; simple a case that imprisoned her soul. Now that soul journeys through the sky. My mother is liberated. She moves and speaks. Mother, you have unlocked a part of my soul and allowed me to see beyond what I could see before. I let go, there’s no point in carrying all that weight. Mother, I’m beginning to think that you’re in every room that I pass through. I can feel that spirit that passed out of your body and dissolved into the bedroom spread through the apartment. I thought of how it would move through the city and out to Indiana by the morning. All along rising as you spread. I’m imagining you here with me now. There’s nothing to perform mother, this is just the beginning of a very long conversation, we’ll speak more often now.

Speak Up

Alter of Revolution

Spirit Mother, Christopher Al-Aswad, 2005

The spirit that dwells in my
mother, trickster and artist
alike, prods and pokes its way
into all of our lives. She likes
to cause problems, to upset
balances, to displace realities.
The conventional is her foe.

Her presence almost makes
you nervous with the sheer
abundance of energy dancing on
her force-field. At any moment,
this abundance of life can rise
to an unheard-of pitch, and
suddenly, mysteriously, break
into a marvelous crescendo
of hysterical and contagious
laughter. Laughing in the
company of my mother is an
experience of ecstasy, complete
unconscious immersion
whirling in the absurdity of life:
crackling, squealing, shrieking
laughter. She feels her emotions
from the center of her being;
total emotion, not inchoate
half-feeling. Complete pain,
complete joy, complete anger.

My mother cries in a movie
theater like no Jewish mother
has ever cried in public before.

She lives at the maximum
threshold and her life is
overflowing. She lives, not apart
from the world, but within the
tumultuous movement and
ever-changing flow of it. She
lives without regrets, without
even the longing of unfulfilled
desires. Anything she wants
to do in this life, she does.

Lovers

Good Morning America

Portraits of an Examined Life

In 2005, Lisa Wainwright, Dean of Graduate Studies at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, curated Rosalind Al-Aswad’s Portraits of an Examined Life, an exhibit featured by the Art Institute shortly after her death in 2003. The exhibit depicted the three phases of Rosalind’s artistry, clearly portraying the progression of a career regrettably shortened by illness. In a review that reveals the strength and spirit of feminism that was evident in her art, Wainwright gives the artist a voice that conveys not only the meaning of her work, but the soul memorialized within each piece.

The legacy of Rosalind Al-Aswad resides in the dozens of paintings and drawings she made of herself and others from 1985 to 1999. Like many before her, Al-Aswad became an artist later in life, bringing to her canvases the complexity of myriad roles as business woman, mother, wife, daughter, citizen, friend, and artist. Her life’s journey informed the paintings and gave them their poignancy and critical edge. Al-Aswad gazed deep into the world of human relations and chronicled the dynamics she found there. Using models and props within her reach—family, friends, and the trappings of suburban life—she probed the mundane as a code for unlocking a deeper moral message. The work could not be made fast enough to accommodate all that the artist wished to say.

Meet the Collins

Left Behind

Rosalind Al-Aswad was an expressionist of sorts. She faced her demons whether in the workplace, on the domestic front, or in the face of death. And all of this made its way into her painting for us to behold with wonder. We should all have the strength of purpose that Al-Aswad demonstrated in so many ways. Her children do. And along with the painting, her legacy is alive in them. I never knew Rosalind Al-Aswad, but I know she was an extraordinary woman. She once claimed, “I guess I have always seen life as a series of parts you play,” and now these parts, and all that they entail, will linger in my imagination for some time to come.

In memory of my mother, Rosalind Al-Aswad (1942 - 2003)

During her studies at The School of the Art Institute, Rosalind Al-Aswad was concerned for her fellow classmates who were working hard to make ends meet. Many times, Rosalind would purchase art supplies for students who were experiencing financial difficulty. In memory of Rosalind, the family has created a fund for student assistance, and in building upon her legacy, it is the hope that one day this fund will also provide scholarships for students residing in the Middle East. If you are interested in making a gift in memory of Rosalind and benefiting art students for many years to come, philanthropic contributions may be made to The Rosalind D. Al-Aswad and Christopher Al-Aswad Memorial Fund at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and mailed to The School of the Art Institute of Chicago, Office of Development, 37 South Wabash, Suite 814, Chicago, IL 60603. For information about the memorial fund, please contact the Office of Development at (312)899-5158.

Escape Into Chris - Entry 18

Frank Caico

Jan 1, 2007 – Chicago, IL

Last night was a hell trip. But a good one, and I am glad it happened.

On New Years Eve in a bar in Naperville, you should have seen the looks that hung on the faces of both sexes. After twelve o’clock, everyone was thoroughly intoxicated and their eyes like burnt out candles, like empty shop windows and the nervy chaotic crowd aswirl elbows bumping elbows, the showy mirth, the condescending glances fell chopping up everyone. Me and my friends, they were drunk but I was not. We tried to have fun. We played crazy fools but I was self conscious as I always am. The empty vacant stares hurt me though very few really cared what I was doing. I swear I could feel the overall crippled spirit of that bar on New Years Eve. Constraint and shallow cupidity – no one loving, just angry lust feeding everywhere. Could I be guilty too? Of wanting “my share of fun?” Women like sirens with bare attractive thighs and indifferent eyes. Cold objects without souls. I drifted in this bar for an hour or so – the weight of people’s judgments on my mind, the weight of unhappiness or greed. Was this where I had chosen to spend my New Years Eve?

Later, my best friend and I driving home – escaping the hellish spectacle of that place – rejoiced. It was 4:30 am when we were on the highway but never had I such good manly company. Never before had I heard my best friend speak so plainly and so true. We talked about how lucky we were to have each other, to live in such a good place and to have jobs and friends and money – grateful. We arrived at our respectful homes and said a prayer for the coming new year.


.

Escape Into Chris - Entry 17

Jeff Luker

February 2006 – Normal, IL

A letter to my father on his 60th birthday

It is hard for me to believe that my father is 60 years old. Memories from when you used to take me to my soccer games, or sit with me in front of the computer helping me write my papers, or when we took the road trip to visit colleges – all of these memories have the quality of immediacy. They say that our capacity for memories is infinite, that once you begin digging into your past, there is no end to it. You are embedded in my past lives, through infancy, childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood. There was a golden age for our family and that was perhaps before my 10th birthday. I have fond memories of riding with you and mother in the back of the car. I don’t know exactly where we were driving to – perhaps out to dinner or to a movie. And as we were driving through the Midwest Club, I remember telling jokes to you and mom and making both of you laugh. I don’t know what I said that was so funny but mother would laugh hysterically. Our family was gay, cheerful, and young.

In my childhood and early adolescence, you instilled in me a rare gift which I am grateful for. I imagine that most parents, as they are raising their children, do not analyze the effect such and such a behavior will have on their children. Whatever you taught me at an early age, you taught to me by instinct. What you have given, that I cherish and employ to this day, is a freely-chosen self discipline. Without self-discipline, I doubt whether I could have stayed clean from drugs this long. Without self-discipline, I doubt I could pursue my literary ambitions. Without self-discipline, even staying in shape and quitting smoking would have been impossible. Now I have received many gifts from both you and mother but this is the gift that stands out to me as being directly from you.

The other gift, which is a close second, is a love and appreciation of literature. About a month ago we were reading Shakespeare together – how joyful was I to be in your company reading again. And what a stark contrast from my childhood years when I used to throw tantrums to escape the “reading hour.” But time and patience transform everything. Here I am today thanking you for what I felt you had imposed upon me as a child. The irony implicit in this life – the story speaks for itself.

Though for a good many years mostly when you made me read out loud to you – I imagined you as an overbearing tyrant which of course you were not. But a child sometimes sees his parents through a distorted lens. And as an adolescent, especially during my addition and during the divorce, I imagined you as a personification of evil. I might have made you into a voodoo doll if I had access to one. This of course is an exaggeration but I had a lot of resentment to you and many others during this period. What still baffles me to this day is not only the spiritual strength you must have had stored in you to protect yourself from me, but also the warmth you kept burning in your heart. Never did you grow cold, never did you reject me – but always loved me – and therefore this is the best model of unconditional love I have ever been shown. And it is this model of unconditional love that I emulate toward myself and others.

After the fog of my addiction cleared, after I began to mature into early adulthood and started taking care of my body and my health, you can imagine how my view of you began to change. In a way, I immortalized you – lifted you up from the ranks of man to the tier of godhood. You became a living hero to me and I sought to model my life after you. Indeed, I had transformed my life. I was living from what many would call a second birth and after years of abusing you, I must have wanted to pour a special salve on the relationship that would heal the wounds between us. But just as during my adolescence when I made you a voodoo doll, after my recovery, I was making you into my Buddha, my idol and I was near worshiping you. But neither of these images of you matched your true relation to me.

So today, on your 60th birthday, I ask the questions – What is your true relation to me? If you are not the man I blame or the man I praise, then who are you to me? And without being too philosophical, too entangled in speculation, I feel I can make the judgment that only now am I coming to see you as you are, and to love you for the man you are. For the first time, I am not inflating or deflating you – but really starting to get to know you. When I came over a couple weekends ago and we hung up pictures and organized your books, I saw a glimpse of who that man is who I call my father. No adjective will describe him. Not because he has no qualities – but because he is of a spirit that transcends qualities. He is an individual but not an ego. He reminds me of myself but overflows beyond myself.

Dad, I love you. A gratitude is present in me right now as I pen these final words. The mystery is so inconceivable – so infinite – it surrounds me like a dream. All I am thinking – this life is too short, too short, too short…

Escape Into Chris - Entry 16

Sketch by Chris Al-Aswad

July 30, 2006 – Normal, IL

I have a backyard
my neighbors have a garden
the air reverberates with
children’s voices.
Crickets chirping
the autumn stands one month ahead
looking back at the most placid day
in August – her feathered frock
gently ruffles.
My forehead is bathed in sunlight
my eyes are handsomely covered.
I sit on my patio like a spectator
wearing a disguise.
The twittering of the birds overlays
the chorus of children’s voices
from far and near.
Chortles and sing song laughter.
You must see the birds flying
over the rooftops
they glide and glide.
All the winged creatures slipping
through the transparent air.
My grass smiles to butterflies
central Illinois - one giant plain
summer’s last hurray – the heat
trickles down in beads of sweat
and the clipping, and twittering, cheeping
the fresh and innocent vision
Miranda calls it a “brave new world.”
There’s the butterfly
hear her flapping around
right over your head,
Splendid wings, gold shimmering
things like a flashing jewel
We practice our reunion
in our backyards-
we paint through our anxieties.
This is a new landscape. A new setting -
the frightfulness will disappear
the nervousness will go away
fill the cup and you will take care of your
thirst.
All the gifts were given to him
All at once from his dead mother -
mother, I am grateful
mother I am great.
the zigzag path of the butterfly
brings me out of my shade
says to me hello.
In the beginning, there were words I had
trouble saying.
In the beginning, there were words I had
trouble phrasing.
I am new here
new to a backyard.

Escape Into Chris - Entry 15

Sketch by Chris Al-Aswad

September 27, 2007 – Normal, IL

The personality comes and goes. My task is to stay aware – aware of my discomfort, my anxiety, my suffering. An insight – as I mature, I find that my path is not so much one of seeking perfection or discovering an ideal state or creating an ideal object of art, but surrendering to my limitations, my deepest imperfections. I don’t become a genius as I’ve always assumed but instead I let go of the ignorance, the fetters that delude me. This means accepting my greatest imperfections and loving the person I am now. Becoming does not resolve the human predicament. Being aware, however, can take me out of my personal drama and awaken me to my full capacity of love.

Escape Into Chris - Entry 14

Sketch by Chris Al-Aswad

June 2007 – Normal, IL

My personality is based on an overcompensation. I was wounded probably at the end of my childhood and at the beginning of my adolescence. I made several observations about who I am. I must have observed that I was not as smart as a certain group, that my intelligence was middle range and also that my abilities were mediocre. For the rest of my life, I would attempt to overcompensate for a belief that I am not as intelligent as the smartest group. I always compared myself to the highest, the brightest – they were part of the exclusive club I longed to be in. Similarly, socially I was not the coolest but I watched the coolest with envy and longing. This self division occurred in me early on. I told myself I must try to become unique. I cannot be like the others. Because I saw the smart people and the cool people as unique, as special but I was only average, mediocre, like everyone else. My turbulent adolescence centered almost entirely on this blind cause to become unique in whatever I could.
I saw sameness and difference everywhere. I loathed sameness and worshiped difference – to set myself apart from the rest. Individualism became my creed. My academic obsessions – I had to overcompensate for what I believed was an overall lack of ability. My drug obsessions and self abandon – I had to overcompensate socially. I did not want to be like everyone else – extreme drug use put me into another category. I was unique because of my intensity.
All of this overcompensation and the thick protective skin it has left on me – now that I prose my pain through the character of Lethe, I feel at last I have found the key to not only his drives and insecurities but my own – and everyone’s personality to the extent that all of our personalities are overcompensation for some lack we feel from long ago that has, over the years, attained a level of truth with us. With me, I’m completely identified with my writing – this is my ultimate project to once and for all prove or compensate for my lack of ability and intelligence. We are walking overcompensations, it is as plain as day.
What does this all mean? We are not ourselves – we are a reincarnation of our past selves. The wounded child or adolescent replaying the trauma over and over again by trying to cover it up, by being what he feels deep down he is not. Is the personality not a machine of overcompensation? For my novel – and I wince to say that because the novel is the epitome of my obsession. But what if, by knowing this about myself and others, I can expose it and Lethe is the obvious over compensator – obvious to everyone (the reader) except himself. Rose too. What is the result of blind strife, self hatred, the empty core of the personality – it’s a myth each of us believes to be in the truth. By now, we’ve programmed ourselves into certain protective traits, habits – to keep us from feeling that empty core. We have all had a prolonged exposure to the empty core of our specific lack – now we structure our life on the project of becoming what we feel we are not. What then happened originally? Were those initial perceptions of our death, our lack, mistaken?

Escape Into Chris - Entry 13

Lethe Bashar's Novel of Life Las Vegas

Written by Chris Al-Aswad and illustrated by Gerrar Gonzalez

June 20, 2007 – Normal, IL

In my novel, the main character is riding a bus to Las Vegas when he has an epiphany – “I’m an eccentric genius,” he says to himself. He’s writing a novel, he realizes, a novel of life. He’s writing his “aesthetic existence” in the words of Foucault. To Lethe, the world is the stage for his art. He immerses himself in drama with other characters, and then, suddenly detaches himself to investigate the random experience. The other people he meets in Las Vegas are the supporting cast. Lethe provokes them to create drama, to create experiences that he can later contemplate and analyze or manipulate in story form. Lethe’s arch-type is the magician – he takes pleasure in play acting and playing with social realities. He has a personal mythology – he unconsciously weaves and develops in his interactions with others. Lethe is also a narcissist and perhaps his greatest shortcoming is that he assumes random people he meets are conforming to his imaginary epic. It appears as though these other characters are meeting him on the same stage and perhaps they are momentarily – but this is an illusion because in this novel every individual is immersed and blinded by a personal mythology of their own. Where they are the center of their life – epic and they seriously play the role they have known since their earliest memory. Everyone around them is the supporting cast. Therefore humans go about thinking they belong to a universal script in which everyone else naturally understands their role – when in fact – our epics and roles are as diverse as our environments, upbringings, and countless other factors. We have difficulty understanding others when we forget the role we are playing. The liberating part of this theory of life is that when you become conscious of the role you are playing, you no longer have to play it anymore.

Read scenes from Chris’ novel of life here on The Blog of Innocence.

Read Chris’ graphic novel at Escape Into Life.

Escape Into Chris - Entry 12

Sketch by Chris Al-Aswad

January 2008 – Normal, IL

We can learn by
living in reality
by dispelling illusions
And illusions are desires
forget desires -
Just be – live in the moment
of what you are doing
Otherwise we cheat ourselves
We trade in counterfeit
We never understand truth
We never understand goodness
We ourselves are false
We can only do one thing
to get out of this cycle
of birth and death
And that is to discern what is
true from what is untrue
Real from what is unreal
So for me, greatness
cannot be attained by simply
desiring it.
Awash in the dreamy world of
illusions and ideals
that does not get you to the
thing itself
that does not get you to
greatness
that does not get you to
love.
Greatness must desire you
Love must desire you
Only by renouncing these illusions
by refusing to perpetuate them
By living, in reality.
Reality has its own desires
Reality has its own will
its own push, its own momentum
We have to be aware of
the way things are
before we can transcend them
otherwise we will only have falseness
to adorn ourselves with.

Escape Into Chris - Entry 11

Sketch by Chris Al-Aswad

2007 – Meditation retreat with Dad

“All in all, today hasn’t been that bad and things are looking up for you already. And while the body is irritating and you always wish you were more comfortable, at least you are aware of your pettiness and discomfort. We do have a lot to complain about and for that reason, we shouldn’t complain. We should just patiently endure it. I can’t say things are not constantly aggravating because they’re not. You seem to fall into a rhythm sometimes and the ugliness and the irritation recedes from your awareness.
Desire is a funny thing- eventually you get all those things you wished for. But what about happiness, which has an elusive way of appearing and disappearing. Don’t go looking for it though. Because it’s harder to catch than a butterfly though desire also runs away. When you’re chasing things, they are bound to run from you. Even the thoughts in my head I chase like rabbits – never to hold them. They rapidly multiply into whole colonies of rabbits. Soon I’m chasing rabbits in three different directions. Whether it’s the mind or the body, you’re mad. And then maybe it’s the moment because things change you know. That’s what I love about reality – it’s totally unpredictable. In the moment, I write a poem saying the body is miserable and everything is wrong. Already conditions (in me and around) are beginning to rearrange themselves. So I write to probe a mood of misery and then find I’ve come to a place where those things I’ve said at the beginning of the poem belong to the perceptions of another person. My tone changes like the feeling over my body changes - And those things I once felt were the bane of my wretched life are now like twinkling lights in a fog bound street. You can’t pinpoint where they’re coming from, but you know they’re there…”

Escape Into Chris - Entry 10

Sketch by Chris Al-Aswad

March 2005 – Normal, IL

"How do I trust or learn to trust? How do I place faith in simply being myself and not strive so hard to be the world’s next great author? When if ever will I be able to not think about writing. My consciousness, dominated by a few ideas branching off from one main purpose – I must be a great writer. If I was only a writer, then I could take my time. But I’m constantly reminded of the clock. And it removes me from the experience of life itself. I would like to see my writing become something – I would like to let go also. My mind is obsessed. Can it become un-obsessed when I feed that obsession every day, nearly every minute. What is that vital fluid that circulates my veins like hot lava? Will I ever know that the same substance – in the end – will kill me? Like my mother whose spark was too intense, I see her – in me."

Escape Into Chris - Entry 9

Sketch by Chris Al-Aswad

April 2009 – Normal, IL

All is incomplete
Can you handle
being
a work in progress
Can you handle
incomplete
unfinished symphonies
novels
portraits

The moments of perfection
of completion
like finished work
that you set your gaze upon

When I stop to think about
the shuffle and
that John Lennon song
pops into my head
the one about the wheels
it occurs to me that all we have
and all we’ll ever have
is unfinished work

I guess the realization comes
when you realize you’re not headed
to some moment of perfect
but just another
moment of unfinished
incomplete work

It was a dream I had
before I went to bed
I said ‘Dad-
both of us were in the car
on a strip of the highway
Both of us stared into the
light on the road ahead

What – my dad answered
Is it always like this -
I mean do you ever get
to the end of the road

That’s when the desert appeared
in and out of the shadows-
and cacti made faces

Your work is never done
and the road never ends he said-
Then are we lost I wanted to know-
No, we’re not lost, we’re just driving

Line Rangoli

Line Rangoli is traditionally followed by Tamil Nadu. Tamilians prefers to draw this kind of Rangoli on Friday, at the entrance of the house or in the pooja room in front of the GOD. They believe it will drive away the evil spirits and also it will invite Godess Lakshmi. Basically these are geometrical patterns and designs. You can elaborate the designs as per your choice

Design 01 - Step 01

 

 Step 02

 Step 03

 Step 04

 You can do like this also. Another version of ending this rangoli.

 Design 02 - Step 01

Escape Into Chris - Entry 8

Sketch by Chris Al-Aswad

March 2005 – Normal, IL

“…Greatness is not assumed, it is earned and I have not earned it yet. These are just my thoughts, they are not public displays of art. Why to write art you need a form, like a poem or a short story, or a novel. Those are the buildings. But a journal, a journal is not timeless, it is transitory, fleeting like butterfly wings. One flap, and they’re gone. We so want to assert our spirits upon this earth. My mother, why hers casts a light across the family, her artwork, a colorful mural once foregrounded, now subtle, behind us. Where will her son come out? There needs to be industry. What will I produce, just these 25 year old thoughts? Language must be handled deftly, it must be learned from masters. This is not a vacation here on earth. We are expected to leave legacies for our children and if our children were never born, those who we love instead, but build we must. We must express the unexpressed, the eternal must seep through the words. And silence must fill our ears with images so resolute that we shy aware from their gaze. Our discussion is only with ourselves, we are forever talking back into our womb until our mother hears us calling back into her. We must warn our families, tell them to stop before they begin. These creatures have spirits. these animals have real hearts. We’re alive and song pours out of us. We’re so much of life we cannot hide from our own enormousness, impossible faith, beyond beyond…”

Freehand Flower Rangoli Design