Sunday, May 20, 2012

naturally speaking

there are days when the lines, like mini neat black and white piano keys and notes tied into perfect riffs and runs, refuse to tumble out,  when the writing genie lies sleeping in the soft sunlight outside. i sit vaguely determined at my desk, staring at ‘it’ outside, wondering if i too should lie outside, a sunny bliss post card of a day, among the wildflowers and green grass, eating a snicker bar and watch the swallows. 

instead, i decide to list my favourite insects, in order of preference, in the hope my writing genie will wake up….sleepy buggar these days, it seems.
first on the list are bees. bees definitely because:
they make honey. the planet would die without them. i like their fuzzy little stripes – they’re high on the cute factor. i like how they hang in clumps on the acacias when they’re moving house, protecting their queen. many times i’ve walked close by, with the horse, and they simply…hang,  not even humming. and dead still. a sleeping  tornado. they have an excellent work ethic, even around flowers, like ants. who hasn’t spent time on their tummy watching ants marching in military single file, taking building materials down under,  struggling under the heavy burden of boulder sized bread crumbs or sitting in head high grass watching a bee harvesting pollen?  if you haven’t then you must. when they swarm, darkening an afternoon,  find shelter. fast. i remember once standing on the bald green foothills of mt meru, a swarm humming close over our heads, the noise like the Japanese Airforce in full battle. all the maasai fell flat to the ground…i followed suite. this is a good thing to remember. go flat and lie still. never move. like champoto told me once in luangwa valley, if your boat capsizes in a crocodile infested river,  never swim along the surface but rather take a deep breath and swim quietly underwater, preferably breast stroke, until you get to shore. splashing along on the surface won’t save you. these are all healthy survival tips. but back to beautiful bees.  you will never know a bee coward. they die for their stings and when they kill, they all join in.  

amanzingwenya (lake of crocodiles in zulu, maputuland, Mozambique border country) in the forest. clive, safari c, benzef, me, and one small zulu boy guide, 12 maybe?  benzef led the expedition, white like a snowman from his factor 50. bees are deeply offended by this smell. clive, our boss and anthropologist extraordinaire and dangerously allergic to bees, shouts “BEES! RUN!” and away we charged, blindly, wildly into the forest. clive dove into the Lake Of Crocodiles go get away from the attack. they followed him over the water. everytime he came up for a breath, they attacked. When eventually, they buzzed off furiously, clive clamboured ashore, more than 50 stings all over his face, neck and back. his tongue began to swell, his breathing became harder and harder. we took the bic biro out, removed the ink, took the penknife out – a tracheotomy was next….he was dying. quite suddenly, in this god forsaken place, we heard a boat engine, Kwazulu Bureau of Natural Resources rangers! we waved them down. They took him back to camp, where he literally crawled to his hut, swallowed handfuls of anti-histamines and scrawled a love letter to his wife: sorry I’ve been such a bastard, and lay down to die. and didn’t.

respect bees. they have been rated highly by great civilizations gone by, like the mayans and the egyptians, those in The Know… they build hives in witches’ eaves.  with these halcyon days of early winter weaving their way quietly and magically about us, the bees hum in my roof, makin' honey and i’m in love. 

termites are a tie first with bees, in my book. (are you still there? excellent. ) since i was a wee thing, i have admired the palaces, towers and universes of these tenacious, voracious, beautiful insects… a beauteous cast system in motion but one which can transform when necessary….from reproductives to soldiers to workers to kings to queens….only the queen can never change….she rules, deep in the dark.

the moon slips out from behind a cloud. the storm’s over. fireflies, thousands of them, twinkle, like fallen stars,  in the forest all around.  i’m a little drunk from whisky and i lose the poker game. far away, near the escarpment, lightening flickers. the shards of mirror, which she hung in the giant sausage tree, twirl in the night wind, a sexy wind laced with the heady fragrance of rain and wet soil – light shards glinting in dark corners.  the mournful whoop of a hyaena drifts through the yard. and there, suddenly, they pour out, like mercury from the mound…alates, winged termites, flying ants, more and more and more, dancing with the spinning light, streaming into the fresh, clean night sky, fat with stars. they have to fly before mating. everyone in a wild whirlwind mercurial search for love, for a mate – to be a king or a queen.  after the frenzy of love making, their silver, laced wings fall off, soft like snow.  boy and girl become king and queen, a done deal… a queen for the rest of her life –  in a sunless palace, overweight, giant, unable to move, pale and white, so grossly fat she can’t move, blindly laying thousands of eggs for up to 50 years.

i think i’d prefer being eaten just after making love. flying ant feasts are celebratory. hyaena lurk, snacking on bitings, snakes, honeybadgers oh everyone. people gather them in buckets and fry ‘em up. they taste a bit like peanut butter – good with salt.

yes. i wonder if the queen remembers her one night of flight? the flight of a lifetime…surely it’s one of the prettiest, most magical, hypnotic things i’ve ever seen, thousands of little kings and queens whirling silver  under a watery african moon...

toodely toot oh bestests. next week: dung beetles. david attenborough, watch your back. bisous X.X.X. buzzy ones on yer neck. x j.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

message from the yard on the hill.

hello. i am taking over this blog because the previous owner has, gasp, run off with the gypsies.. . well. clearly not. but she has run out of pathetic excuses. her blog has become rather like a stuck record. she has paid me to step in at this critical juncture, poorly it must be said.
i will say, though, that she has been writing a lot of poetry, which could never be published here, for various garbled reasons. she's been writing about trees with secrets, alates under the moon, love and germans. whilst i am here, there shall be no poetry.

oh and she’s whittering on (annoyingly) about school, raising children and all the usual suspects…honestly. in fact, those in the know  have noticed that she has been  travelling to the halcyon isle of zanzibar having herself a capital time and quite forgetting about her three horses, three dogs, one cat and her two readers here, about which she is suitably ashamed, another reason she doesn’t want to step too flagrantly out onto this stage. too terrified to face the empty auditorium, i suspect, an obvious  reflection of her awful neglect.

being the inquisitive, literate type, i've read back on her bloggie notes and it seems she has also failed to answer a few of your queries. shameful. well. Monsieur X never replied to her letter but remains one of her most favourite teachers. she has confirmed that he still wears the crispest suits and remains astutely aloof. she also never quite finished the self help book on being happy. no surprises there. i have noted, though, that she has had her nose stuck behind the countless works of Jim Harrison, prostrate on countless chaises longues dans le jardin,  the odd Shakespeare, ‘As You Like It’ the more recent and now, presently, Tolstoy’s War And Peace, another reason for her absence here. bets are on.  

she has also been obsessing over a little known psychological disorder called the optimism bias - – (watch if you have a full 17 minutes and a bit available, which she clearly has) this has barred the way to any more blogging…
she has confessed otherwise:  that no one discovered her, so she gave up.

i’m really trying, people, to coax her out of this latest little dark psycho hole she’s dug for herself, by leaving trails of kit kat pieces, her favourite Dorothy Parker poetry, vague promises of fame and riches and a week in a padded cell (red velvet) with an endless supply of Earl Grey tea, gin, valium and oysters on ice (her idea of Mummy’s Purple Planet). it’s sort of working. oh and the promise of an early retirement to her beach house on zanzibar, where she will be allowed to wear turbans and kaftans and drive a retro silver blue  mercedez benz from india,( the one with round lights, a skinny white steering wheel and an elegant silver hooter) from stone town to the east coast. she will eat fish and paw paw every day, drink gins with mr t in his crumpled linen suit, at ten, and scandal about the village boys.

the little pink house  badly needs a lick of paint.  there has been a stupendously beautiful rainy season. things are lush, as though god has splodged all his tubes of various hues of verdant green oil paint over the land. one of the dogs was bitten twice by a spitting cobra who had clearly run out of spit and used his fangs. the dog miraculously lives, in a staggering about the place sort of way.
and life spins on….quite beautifully, it must be said.
much to catch up on, oh bestests, and much to look forward to.

Lashings of apologies, regardless.
toodely toot. it's rather good to be back and you smell nice. bisous X.X.X. crisp winter twilight ones. x j