you'd have thought i'd know it by now. never to be excrutiatingly happy.
but it's so hard not to be. even when you know the other side of the coin isn't quite as, well, nice. and there's simply always another side to everything.
and i KNOW it isn't rocket science, ok? but:
bad things always happen afterwards. they just do, in my experience. look what happened to baby jesus. i mean, did he see that comin'?
i think i'm getting quite good at this death thingymabob. that fella with the dark hood, pale faced and hooked nosed, casually wearing a glinting scythe. i ain't scared of him. in fact, he has much to offer so i am discovering. he's becoming blandly familiar which i am beginning to think is a good thing.
the night up on wind torn west meru was exactly how i had described it. and boy did we scare ourselves silly. a swore she glimpsed a figure in dark nun's clothes glide past the star smattered window as i was regaling the lamu ghost story, which had followed swiftly from the zanzibar salome's ghost story. i could've vomited from fear. it's truly amazing how you can scare yourself. how you can conjure up ghosts. it's too easy.
yes. we sipped vodka and shared secrets. and listened to the wind rattling the roof and sat quietly with thoughts and dreams, our heads to one side, saying "hmmmmm" a lot. it was good. almost perfect.
quite suddenly easter is here. third born lies feverish, dosed up, watching rubbish robin hood. and i am worried about her. the fever refuses to break. it's so high it melted the chocolate bunny i gave to her to try and cheer her up. it now sits hopefully in the fridge with first and second born eyeing it with evil intentions. safari c has headed south to bury his father.
things could be better. i feel a little un - moored. (sounds better than unhinged, which quite possibly i am?) yes. un - moored. drifting. sort of tossed about. ain't nothin' new, though, is it? yes but is it? 'fess up. internal windscreen wipers are on top speed, swiping away bad, dark little thoughts. i think i rest in the in between place. waiting for the new ones to miraculously implant themselves.
(my god. b is right. blogging IS self indulgent.)
i could write about the sky at night. about how the hills fall away in relief. about histories and the godless world. about shadow puppet shows under the stars and searing red aloes on a washed out zululand winter's day. but not tonight. not tonight.
and here's the strangest thing. i believe everything about love. everything. the whole messy spaghetti bowl thing of it. still.
but by god, sometimes i hate it.
(windscreen wipers on. windscreen wipers on, windscreen wipers on. windscreen wi---)