Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
presently i am feeling a little bit like how i imagine a nearly empty toothpaste tube feels being squeezed and squeezed.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
a long time ago, when i lived in a city and i was sad, it seemed easily solvable. get out there and buy shoes, girl. but these days, these older, more womanly days, these sobering, grown up days, i live far from the long gone, coffee scented, smith street arcades. the thought of rummaging through mitumba's dusty piles of old shoes exhausts me.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
at my age one doesn't take too well to public humiliation. or being back at school, it must be said.
Fuchsia flowers tremulous in a still, grey afternoon. They remind me of India, of Zambia and childhood and the rippling call of the coucal. The rain in Africa is an artist – leaving great splodges of pigment in its wake, across brown barren landscapes. It lifts my heart.
Imagine monitoring Thought? Is that what they call Meditation? No. That’s more clearing your head of thoughts and words, a serene quietening of the mind, so there’s nothing in there – an impossible task considering how curious and busy mine is. Maybe there’s a drug you can take that gobbles up thoughts. Temporarily, of course. Thoughts become words, words become things.
“ Be – come.”
“How becoming you look tonight, dear.” Does that mean you’re going to turn into something? A cake? Something edible?
“How fetching/ delectable you look tonight, dear.” Fetching. An interesting word too. I’m so glad I know what a palimpsest is. According to the dictionary a palimpsest is “…1. a parchment or other surface on which writing has been applied over earlier writing which has been erased or 2. Something altered or used again but still bearing visible traces of its earlier form.”
I’m wondering if I’m allowed to write about wishes and desires. Why do I even make up rules when all I want to do is write? The words are queuing up like angry bees in my head and will out! Out! If they sting or make honey, it is not my fault. They will do as they please, these words. Some people are scared of bees. Not me. I think they’re magical. I have a hive in my roof and a hive in my head.
Oh. My. God. I have been pressing on the exam bag! (the plastic bag with all the exam sheets in them….now all these busy words are carboned onto the carbon copy…Oh. My. Word. Thank God the bottom copy stays at the center. Mr X is going to be very angry…..
Well. I was just letting some bees out, ‘as all.
And makin’ a palimpsest. . . .
Monday, October 3, 2011
i love it how you find things when you're supposed to, ya know, without realizing it.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
phew. that feels better. nice cup of tea. sorry about below little side track .but sometimes they can be pretty. those side tracks. sometimes.
ilive on a hill, as you must’ve surmised by now, but have i ever told you that the trees grow at 60 degree angles, all leaning west west south west? like truffle trees from a dr zeuss book. because of the winds which throw themselves at the hill. no one has a chance of growing straight up here. not a hair, not a tree, not a blade of grass, not a heart. everything leans. even the house. screaming in from Kilimanjaro, the winds pick up extra twists and howls as they sweep past Meru and hurl and hurtle themselves at the little pink leggo house of ngorobobs with no repent. mustn’t count my eggs , But (intended), this little house has withstood earth quakes, one of which measured 6.1 on The Richter Scale.
even our hair sticks out at right angles from our heads. permanently, in a simsonesque grotesque sort of way. from facing gale force winds on a regular basis. (what a load of rubbish. utter poppycock.) still. there really is no point in having a hair style ‘round these parts. no sirree. girls just grow their hair long and let the wind have its way with it. so do boys. smelly boys. with dusty thatched rooves for hair. wriggly things live in thatched rooves. i’ve grown wary about hugging my boys for fear of being infested with their lice. oh come now. I’ve been told england’s much worse…
“but i have!” i shoot back, looking you straight in the eyes because i’m telling the truth. i’ll have you know, they’ve become exceedingly cunning over the years, learning, with Houdini dexterity, to slip through the pin thin gaps of the lice comb teeth. i should harvest the eggs and make mini omlettes in the morning then, in little mini frying pans on little mini fires. at least i’d be getting something back, after the liters of olive oil i’ve chucked on childrens’ heads. you know, lice HATE oily heads. well. not these ones. they use it for their dandruff fry ups. i’m sure of it.
Kitchen Board: Wednes The Day The Bakers Got Back From Turkey day 17 August 2011.
toodely toot, y'all. if you happen to swing by, wear a swimming cap. bisous. X. X.X. lots and lots of little ones, just behind yer ears. x j
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Truth and love are such pesky, unwieldy things. Like astrophysics, I should leave these unfathomable subjects alone, really. But fuck it, sometimes one needs to try and grasp them, in some unfashionable way. As Lawrence Durrel so aptly penned:
“ …The best lines of English poetry ever written were by Coventry Patmore. They were:
When none care whether it prevail or not.
Know this, as far as truth is concerned, there isn’t one. There are as many as there are souls alive and dead. That’s why I despise evangelists and fundamentalists. Everyone has their own truth and perspective. Allow it, why can’t you? How can you be so startlingly and unashamedly clear cut? Does it make you feel safe, hanging onto certainties when, no matter how incomprehensible it is, everything is an illusion? And that perhaps, by some wicked and amusing trickery, there isn’t actually a God? How can you be so certain? The only certainty on this sad, slow twirling blue planet of ours, is its, along with our own, meaningless death.
I am intrigued when people smugly shape their world with big black solid straight lines, with a Rolf Harris speed, precision and ingenuity. How, without knowing someone, or those glittering overseen details which, like the star constellations, etch the shape of each person, can you attach, with such glib certainty, such tags, solid lines, grand statements and truths? Every single person has their very own truths and no one should deem to know them. It’s, well, unkind. You can be interested in someone’s truths. I am, intensely. They are the colour of life. They are why I love people. Gently discovering their truth reveals gems and poisons…it’s who they are. It’s the very reason why I love people, unconditionally. My life is my dream struggling itself into reality. I am its weaver. Don’t poke your sticks at it please. It breaks the delicate pattern of my particular web, woven with uncertainty and heart. Let my little Black Widow be.
Which brings me to my next Big Thing Point: Love. There isn’t one. There are many kinds. But in the make up, the essence, it’s the same thing. Carefully construed and constructed to be a spinning, fast flying curved ball to side wind you, bonk you on the side of the head. Wake up, it says. There are no words for it. Call it folly, call it what you will. It makes you helpless. It’s disarming. It’s bewildering. It’s uncontrollable. It’s a Catherine Wheel burning wildly through the sky, spinning, tearing, goddamn beautiful, burning itself out, killing, in fact. The love that blossoms wildly, thick jungle vines dripping in giant wax deep purple flowers wrapping themselves around you, as you stare bewildered into the creased pathetic face of your new born child. The love that is born from sunrays in mirrors, making rapacious fires from a distance, burning bushes from the sky. It is extraordinary and unique. It is not flippant. It is not chosen. It is inexplicable. It goes beyond the physical. It transcends itself physically but sits it out with the stars and falling comets. Let it be, as the Beatles so aptly and succinctly sang. Why can’t you?
I think the easy option is to turn away from it, if you can. The treacherous option, the one that will, and it will, break you, is to follow it. Indecision creates stagnancy. Norman always said that if you were unsure which way to go, always choose the hardest route. It's likely to be the correct one. I am sure of it but I am no guru. No. Not at all. In fact, I know sweet nothing. I only know the soul recognizes and yearns it. For reasons we will never know. So people, don’t be smug, be afraid, in a way which makes you alive. Walk the line. Don’t point your fingers at it, tying your monochrome labels on it, burning witches and wizards at the stake as you froth from your priest’s pulpit. You don’t know. You Don’t Know, ok? And that's fine with me too. For those poor souls, at which this extraordinary love has never struck, I wish with the entirety of my tired, broken-but-still-beating, patched up ole heart, that it does. Because that, my friends, is life and love at its best and its worst; and that, oh bestests, is where your truth lies. Being safe and unruffled isn’t, in my humblest opinion.
Be scared. Be lost. You’ll see.
Kitchen Board: on a grey, cold Ngorobob afternoon:
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
so it's that blissful time of year...the changing of the seasons....when winter sneaks in...all crisp and shiny. that's how african winters are. and the yellow flowers: deep blue skies in twilight and perfect hovering midnight blue butterflies delicate on yellow flowers. i love it. everything in me stirs accordingly. i eye the fireplace feeling sorry for the spiders all happily ensconced at the top of the chimney.....but not for long.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
as one will logically conclude, she hopes with narrowed eyes, school has started, hence my sporadic writing. so there.
and finally, the beautiful photographer herself, annabelle...you must see her website. http://www.annabellethom.com/she makes beautiful bags and shoes in kenya and can sing opera in russian, chinese, cantonese and italian. with great gusto and aplomb naturally.
Monday, April 25, 2011
it didn't stop us wallowing about in the silky sea. the zanzibari sea is so warm and soft. you can float about for hours. in the sun. in the rain. who cares. it's bliss.
there were three teams. whenever one team scored, the loser team would sit out and the next team would step in. he was invited to play in a tournament on the friday with his team but we were leaving, much to his chagrin.
after footie he'd sit on the old coral wall amongst the crumbling ruins from a long time ago, chillin'...taking in the world. i would love to have known what he was thinking or talking about....maybe nothing... just friends after a game of footie...
we did some time in stone town, but only after visiting zala park, a snake park where we were taken around by a young fella called ramadan. the snakes are kept in old round coral pits under coconut palms with pretty hibiscus plants in the middle. the first snake he grabbed to show us is called a Vine Snake, highly venomous. after the ethan incident, we all leaped back agog and said "no no no! don't!" he smiled and said "its fine! he only bites if you squeeze him. he has bitten me before. actually twice. but i just cut the fangs out, put some dawa (local medicine) and drank milk and i was fine!" after that, we approached the other pits very cautiously, not quite knowing what to expect....there were three green mambas in one...they are, as we know, one of the most poisonous of snakes, like its counterpart, the black mamba, but not quite as aggressive. ramadan happily told us he was bitten by one of these too....! he said he was a lot sicker with this bite than from the vine snake....he said he vomitted a lot, his legs could no longer work, he walked like an old man, shuffling along. drinking milk didn't help much either. he was soon taken to a clinic in stone town. and he survives to tell the tale.
so yes, oh bestests, we think we've done the right thing, (and our hearts are bursting with it), by buying that little shamba in jambiani under the coconut palms, just near the old arab tomb ruin, where we will build a little swahili beach house...sweet sweet times ahead i reckon, oh yeah...oh yeah...
sometimes dreams do come true....