you know it's been a good week-end when sunday night rolls in and your finger tips have tough little callouses from steel guitar strings and the top left hand corner of your right hand thumb nail has a black smudge from strummin'. your legs have a deliciously tired ache from ridin' hosses and your voice is a little whispery from too much singin', talkin', smokin' and tequilla. yeah. i guess it's been a good week-end.
the socks ruffled 'round my ankles need a hasty pulling up to my knees, ready for monday.
friday night: "Parents Welcome Evening" chez ecole. i dress in black and paint my lips bright red, scaring my kids and anyone else i zoom in to kiss. i left a trail of bright red lip marks on random cheeks. (i wasn't kissing parents, you understand) parents diligently sought me out though, already wanting a low down after only one wobbly week of teaching their little darlings. i mean, what can one say after one week? not much. oh yes. he could be a genius but then again, maybe not. maybe not. i stuck by the rules and stayed off the hooch. i drank one red bull to keep me awake and smoked one cigarette behind the bougainvillea bush.
the moon rose and i left for band practice at tom's fruit factory, bouncing down rutted roads in the old land rover, carefully circumnavigating wee hedgehogs scuttling across my tracks, under the rudely beautiful light of the bald moon, my guitar propped up next to me in the passenger seat and me thinking unusually wild and windy thoughts. i love driving at night down sandy tracks when the moon is out, my window open and the smell of grass and dust and night.
the fruit factory isn't what you think it is. peaches and pears perfectly created by machines and robots. oh no. it's a little quaint building in the middle of a fever tree forest twinkling with stars and the rippling calls of nightjars, where tom and india dry fruit in nifty wooden boxes. the room smells of apricots and summer. we've renamed the band Side B. well. things have changed, haven't they? i drove home late, when the music was done, the moon was low in the west and my mind a hummin' hive of bees, notes, scribbled words and peelings of love.
saturday night: the gig. at a private house, which had twinkly lights strung over acacias, a fire blazing on the lawn, a bar heavy with hooch and a crowd wide eyed and expectant. a glossy magazine party. last night i was, naturally, terrified but swiftly remedied this with gulps of fine tequila. it's always worked for me. firewater. i sang my heart out and even ventured to lift my eyes and smile. i couldn't hear a blasted thing. the monitor decided to be a bastard and not work. heaven knows what we sounded like....i have a vague recollection of the road home. through the karongo. where one dark night i am sure the banditos will be waiting.
sunday past below me in a cloud of dust whilst i cosied up with my writing pal in her little stilted tented abode, nestled underneath the western slopes of mt meru with gobsmacking views across maasailand, sipping minted vodkas, idly watching auger buzzards hanging on the wind and putting the world to right. fiercely and truly. n stringing together clever little analogies of love and shopping: window shopping and walking on, or actually going in to look and try and then, ouf, if the shoe fits then, well, you can buy them or balk at the price, hand them back and swiftly walk on down the road without looking back. she raised her pretty eyebrow and said, "everything has a price, you know." my eyes became round and owl like and i was quiet for a little while.
she's off to paris next week.
and this cowgal's off to bed. with the wind rattling the tin roof and the moon sadly and sweetly framed in her attic window...
even cowgirls get the blues. sometimes. even cowgirls.
Kitchen Board: Sunday Night: early september. 09.
see ya 'round like rissoles.
toodely ole toot, y'all. bisous X.X.X. luscious red lipped ones, x. j