Thursday, October 28, 2010

blinking...


zanzibar has sunk beautifully into my bleached bones.
being at the sea, the zanzibari sea, makes me travel far from myself.
as far as the moon,
which rose every night,
fortunately fat and full;
of histories and futures and majiks.
we were transfixed.
this moon led me to thinking about how people blink in life.
like little lights.
like stars.
sometimes they blink louder
sometimes fainter.
sometimes smudgy.
but blinking.
twinkling.
it led me to thinking, with certainty, about babies being born.
new little blinking lights.
blinking fast like foetal hearts.
it led me to thinking, with dead certainty, about people dying.
little lights going out.
like dead stars.
you see them but they aren't there.
lover's lights being marginally fatter and brighter
-(than everyone else's)-
moving unknowingly,
across great continents of darkness,
this way and that.
souls moving closer to their cluster.
the lights grow brighter
blink faster.
this zanzibar moon confirmed everything.
i have to be there.
there.
toodely toot, y'all. do not adjust your sets. yet. bisous X.X.X. mercurial ones x j




Tuesday, October 19, 2010

zanzibar yearnings..




hurrah hurrah!
i've finished my work
and i'm off to zanzibar!

where i'm going to lie like this.


and watch the children in the blue.

and eat coconuts in a hammock and dream things...
i'll listen to the wind in the palms at night and ghost whisperings. and pretend everything is real.
i'll draw hearts in the white sand.

we'll find treasures on the beach and build fairy castles for the tide to feast on..

and i shall make up tales to scare and "delight" the children again. (and worry the father.)
yes. i shall. when we sit in the zanzibar twilight, facing into a frisky wind smelling of cloves and jasmine, a cheeky little wind which tears at our hair, when we stare silently at an early baleful moon rising over the sea, with apple calm minds, i shall regale them with the tale of the ghost man from paje. who cycles by after midnight. all you see is a pale figure, almost like a host of fireflies, as you hear his bicycle tyres crunch over the shells at low tide. he only rides by when the moon is high, looking for his lost love, calling calling calling, "fatima, fatima, fatima". sometimes, if you listen hard enough, you can hear it above the wind.... and if you're brave enough to peek out onto the pearly white beach, barred with the moon shadows of the coconut palms, you might just spy the glint of his silver bicycle flittering through the shadows....i think i saw him once, last time i was here. i did. i did. i did......well, of course i did, why would i lie? and sometimes, even, he will come knocking on your door...(okokok only if the first part does not have desired effects....)

i shall make time to wander through stone town, stopping in dark dukkas which smell musty and hide treasures from old india; old sabres from oman and giant keys for giant hearts; finding treasures and twinkling twirling skirts and beaded slippers.

and my heart shall feel so full with love, again and again and again. and again.


toodely toot, y'all, i'll be seein' ya. bisous X.X.X. spicy ones from zanzibar x j



Saturday, October 16, 2010

dead lines

(little sukari (3 and a bit years) in school last week)
its a bruised and hot saturday afternoon and i'm listening to a little song called "charmed life" which i love . once more, i have dead lines. i am the only person who hasn't done their homework. it's half term so i am the only kippie working like a mad thing when i could be:
1. sleeping
2. reading
3. riding (which i am still managing to do. nothing can keep me off my hosses, no sirree)
4. getting drunk
5. staring at the sky and thinking nothin' in particular.
6. making music.
7. making all manners of things, come to think of it.
8. um, Blogging....yesssss.
but no, i am effing working (until i decided to have a break and blog) because i have left everything to the frigging last minute.
when will i ever learn? i hate myself for it.
i hate using the blog as a dumping ground. so i won't.
i hate using the blog as a diary too.
but i must use it...it's been a while. again.
so i thought i'd share something i wrote in a dead boring meeting at school yesterday. which culminated in dead lines.
i began an ink marathon.
i wrote what i heard:
" it doesn't make any sense that sentence"
"again. it's a bit of a repeat of that other one."
"it doesn't make any sense"
"children with learning difficulties...?"
"let's just leave it at that, then."
"next"
"i just don't know how much they have?"
(why can't anyone say anything? which made me think of a line i love which my students wrote for me once: we might have accents but we speak your language which made me think i'd like to make a poster with this scrawled across it.)
then someone started speaking about The Roses which are now seen in the front office. my ink marathon continued.
she thinks that having bunches of roses in the office is ' professional'.
"it's professional," she said, "it's professional."
i don't think so. i love the scent and how they look so charming in their little cheap plastic bucket vases - so surprisingly charming. and pleasant. but no - not 'professional'. actually.
good morning. we're professional. see. we have bunches of roses in our office, yes. and then we spend bright summer days - which were made for holidays, made for watching emerald sunbirds flitter amongst the lilac flowers and red hot pokers and aloes, made for contemplating worker bees collecting pollen from the big, old tree at the swimming pool - inside stark, dark, stuffy classrooms talking about health policies and protocols and whether 'key words' should be on a lesson plan or not. we're professional. we talk about things that will kill an inherent curiosity about life. things that are duller than last night's dish water with cold old rice and greasy chicken bones floating around in it. we're going to bend and change everything that's african, original and fresh and MAKE RULES and FILES so we can fit into some foreign ideal of what an acceptable CIS school is.
what does it matter?
i hate it.
so that's why all i can do is sit and write things in splodgy blue ink and sketch stars and flowers and planets.
it looks like i will be reading jane austen's Mansfield Park on the zanzibar beach, when i finally make it out of here. ordinarily, i would've sighed but now i admire her language. it's beautifully constructed, perfectly punctuated and strangely delicate. although fanny's passivity is already annoying me. odd that i write about jane austen when before i could only write about hibiscuses in the rain, fish markets in mozambique, gypsy camps and the fact that he has birds in his eyes. . .
cathie interrupts my dreamy thoughts in this dead dull meeting. every time she says "don't you agree janelle?" i nod prettily and cleverly and say, "why, yes yes yes!" convincingly to what i don't know but it must be good because she is. and then i return to my ink marathon.
i am full of vegetable samoosa - i ate them from sheer boredom - pasty, tasteless - like chewing cardboard.
i remember telling you i ate to stop sadness and you felt sorry for me. i felt embarrassed.

back to work, oh best beloveds. if i don't finish this i won't be able to go to zanzibar and i ain't missin' that for nothin' - dead lines schmead lines.

sigh.

toodely old toot, y'all and bisous X.X.X. hot storm scented ones x j