A very good friend of mine who crossed over a few years back, was writing a book before he died. I'm happy to say that his family was able to publish the book as it was without changing a thing. Even though Hasan's book wasn't complete, his colorful paintings and the music within his words makes one feel as though the book was finished, as though all became what it was meant to become.

I remember stopping by his place one summer in Brooklyn, New York to pay him a visit. He was giddy as he proudly presented his latest painting of a character (named after himself) contently floating with his belly on the crest of a blue wave. "This is my favorite!" he bragged. Adding, "Amanda, I wake up and write the story, I don't know where it's coming from, the book is writing itself."

We both laughed and most likely downed a bottle of cheap red wine. Those were the days...

For sure Kelly, I think that my friend tapped into his inner wisdom and that his "next step" kept revealing itself naturally and with great ease. His creativity went into auto-pilot and he, as the artist, was on cruise-control. Not only did he know himself, he loved himself. He told me once, " I love myself..." with all the aloof assuredness that comes from a hard-knock life.

It broke my heart when I learned that Hasan had drowned in the sea. He was having fun with friends, one by the name of Karma, a sweet girl that Hasan had introduced me to in New York when she had come to visit him from Palestine.

Hasan loved the ocean and now he was one with it; forever frozen in his moment of time and that much closer to his infinite mystery.