A Crush

Having a crush on someone is actually a vicious, mean lil cycle. All you do is think bout them, then you call, have long conversations about nothing particularly productive, then as soon as that’s done, y’all hang up and you’re right back to thinkin bout em. You find another excuse to call and there, right back to Square 1.

I had a sit-down with the truth today. It was not pretty, or warm, nor did it come to me with open arms and cup of honeyed tea in one hand.

It stung. It was cold and it was mean.

but i am glad we had that sit-down this afternoon. I let my heart bleed out on the nice floor and my cheeks run with the rivers of my eyes.

and afterwards, i carried the truth into my heart and walked away. it was heavy and i still limp from that weight, but it felt good to finally know that truth.

Maun – a good time was had

most people don’t know, and the few that do often find this ridiculous, but one of my greatest fears is old age. I really hate the thought of growing into a convalescent, unable to go to the loo unsupervised, and absolutely reliant on people around me for even the most trivial of things. it is because of this fear that i often don’t celebrate my birthday. i mean, fine i’ll have me something on the menu i don’t usually order, and what not, but all day, all i’ll be thinking is, “oh my goodness, i’m one day closer to wearing nappies!”. I also cannot remember ever having a birthday party, except maybe once when i was eight, and about nine years later when i lived with my uncle, a fervent believer in birthday cakes, when him and his family bought a chocolate cake for my birthday. we had a small celebration at home after dinner but all the while, i was petrified.

On the other hand, i am always fascinated by people who love birthday celebrations, and I’ll just as quickly jump onto any bandwagon to plan a birthday party! ironic, i know.

anyway, this year i dared myself to celebrate. after all, this has been a good year for me, and i have much to celebrate. it has not been easy though and if someone had told me last year, where my life would be this time of the year, THIS year, i would’ve thought it a cruel joke. guess we all know what they say though, “If u wanna make God laugh, tell him your plans” LOL.

but I was about to turn 24 for crying out not 75! so i decided to take time off my job (which i could not even imagine landing this time last year!), and i decided to allow myself a YOLO moment. i took a week away from work and went around visiting with close friends, having a good time. I had an awesome time. unfortunately though, i only got a camera on the day before the second leg of my visit, so all most of the pics i have are of my trip to Maun, in the Northwest part of Botswana.

a few of the great nights we had in Maun

I have a truckload of pics from all the afternoons we spent sinking into pool chairs, sipping on cocktails watching as the sun set lazily over the Thamalakane River. There are not enough words to describe my annoyance at some random girl who kept chatting us up one night at Gaborone Sun by the pool, or the hilarious conversation we had about underwear as we fought off the obese mosquitoes of Maun at The Old Bridge Backpackers.

But i had me a great time, and i hate to admit, i can barely wait to see what i’ll get up to next year.

what a writer must decide

I read on my Twitter timeline a few days ago that, writers can change sex, religion, sexuality, race depending on how vulnerable they want to be.

Writers can write outside their ethnicity or sex depending how open and vulnerable they wish to be. ~ Jim Harrison

It got me thinking about a short story that I have been working on for a few months now, without any true progress. Honestly, until about two weeks ago I had forgotten almost entirely about the story. In any case, when I saw that tweet, it suddenly reminded me WHY I started writing that story, and more importantly HOW to write it.

I have since decided that I’ll write the story, but now I guess I have to decide just how open and vulnerable I am willing to be.

 

Be

For now, this one is called “Be”, it really is more of a work in progress..

 

I often wish I could remember

the exact moment

when  I fell in love with poetry.

I also sometimes wish I could remember

The exact moment

I came into being

But I cant.

All I know

Is that one day the Creator said

“be”

And there was

He said “be”

And there was light

He said, “be”

And there was darkness

With just a word

He commanded day from night

With only words

He set sea from sand

I know he said, “be”

And my mother’s womb

In the soft obedience of love,

Started to twist and turn

Carve and mould

Furiously, yet ever so lovingly

That while I waited for the world

I listened intently to the noises of the world.

Lulled to sleep

By the drum of a heart beat that waits

Anxiously,

Patiently

For nine months.

All I know is One day

He said, “be”

And it was.

Right then,

Genes quickly gathered together

A forum

Decisions had to be made.

Skin colour,

Height and my poor eyesight,

And there amongst them

Weaving away busily,

was the gene that wove poetry into my being

the unbelieving heart

this one is called “to the unbelieving heart”, which is sort of a ‘letter’…but then again, these things should  be able to sort of speak for themselves, so i’ll jus stop blabbering and get to it.

To the Unbelieving Heart  

You ignite in me,

a warm fuzzy feeling

that reminds me of days long gone.

A mushy,

Absolute,

Resolute…

Completeness.

Spirited.

That’s how you make me feel.

Like the world would cave in if I left,

Like the starts themselves would align,

If only I asked them to.

You are to this soul,

Like chili-bean soup on a cold night.

Welcome,

Soothing,

Warming.

Healing.

There is a song of agile composition that rings through these very limbs

At the sight of you.

The grace of your walk,

Your ridiculous height,

That intense frown when you’re concentrating,

Did you know, your lips part just a lil when you’re asleep?

There is a burning,

A restless fire that consumes this heart,

at the thought of you.

Some say it could be love

Some say it must be love

I say, and I mean this earnestly,

From the deepest crevice of a heart that has loved you,

Purposefully,

Relentlessly,

Restlessly,

Ambitiously,

Courageously.

Completely.

This is from a heart that said, “I love you”

To your heart, the one that doesn’t believe.

Fuck you.

chapters of night

I wrote this about a year ago, and completely forgot about it (as i often do about sooo many things). anywho, jus this morning,out of the blue, I was thinking about it. now imagine my shock and utter self-dissapointment when I found out I actually never posted it, its been stuck in my drafts folder all this time!!

Anyway, in the general interest of blogging in an effort to track my ‘growth’ as a writer, i decided to drag it into the spotlight, jus the way i found it. i believe those who visit  this blog should be able to see this ‘growth’ whenever i post smthng here. ok enough jibber-jabber. here it is…

 

Chapters of Night 

I want…

To paint you a picture
with so much detail, its almost annoying
but still have it remain so…

vague,
enigmatic,
ambiguous

Or maybe,
I could write you a letter,
A poem,
A song, or better yet
- A book!

Yes.
A book,
fill the pages with words of our past,
every page,
every chapter,
filled.

With intricate descriptions
of our secret rendevous,
the passion-filled nights,
that ended in the great relief
of spasmodic release.

Taking cover in the night’s veil,
Moments of great passion,
shared recklessly – but always with caution,

We must be discreet,
mindful of the boundaries society has drawn for this love.

but i want to write it down in a book
document it,
share it with the world,
but always safe in the knowledge that only you truly understand the innuendos

A whole chapter.

First, I will find the words,
let them guide the reader.
let them touch and feel with me,
the fine lines and curves
of your seduction.

Each page reminiscent of that time.
going deep, but never too deep
caressing gently, but never faintly
Throbbing.
faster, yes faster
but always- strangely, slow.

i want…

to carve it into a stone,
a little rock,
and toss it into a lake.

write it on scented paper,
bottle it,
and toss it to the vast sea.

I want to share with you
and perhaps a part of me that does not yet understand,
the passion that runs in these veins,
the love that sustains this heart.

i want to share it with you,
if for no other reason than to remember always,
moments from those stolen nights.

all my heart’s belongings

I wrote this last night. while the title is inspired by something some friends of mine said a few nights ago, the ‘story’ in itself is from a different time altogether.

All My Heart’s belongings

There I was,
With all my heart’s belongings
Filling the canvas bag and threatening to break its very seams.

I was ready to leave.
With all my heart’s belongings
Tucked away into my hairy armpit.
All the laughing, the fighting,
the joy.
the standing-by-you-no-matter-what.

All of love’s trimmings, really.

I was ready to leave,
But outside the rain poured,
In the heavy thud of
A thousand drummers to one beat.
A fog so thick, so dense.

But I was ready to walk
With all my heart’s belongings.
Get drenched in that rain.
Chilled to the very bone.

For What is a lil rain
When you’re walking to the great warmth
Of the fire that is love?

I walked.
I ran.
And, yes, I probably farted.
With all my heart’s belongings
Tucked into my armpit,
Curled around a strand of hair,

And I got there,
To the heath upon which the fire burnt.

But you,
You were not there.

S&M

In love,
Find a dream,
Sing a song.
Woven in ancient tapestries,
Written in the sacred language of old.

Whispered secrets,
Passed from one generation the next,
Now lost between the ambiguous obviousness of time and,
The conflicting joy of S&M.

Handcuffs and strawberries?
My mind says no,
but my bruised, swollen lips shout,
YES! YES! YES!

cracked walls

once again, life has gotten in the way of writing…and i have gone for extended periods of time neither writing, nor blogging.

Anywho, i’ve started to scribble again…m working now on what could be my third short-story. i have not yet given it a name, and have only written a lil bit so far. anyway, i’ve decided to post some bit of the lil that i’ve written already:

There’s a crack in the wall, just above where she used to sleep. In the summer, sunlight would creep in through that crack like a thief forcing his way in- a slow insistent nudge, until there was a radiant line crossing the floor and onto the opposite wall. On the windy nights of August the crack would almost come to life, starting off as a small whisper in her ear, building up to a loud groan as the winds outside gained speed. She always remembered those nights when her own father’s snoring was like roar against the wind, two giants in a nasty brawl to see who could roar the loudest. Sometimes, when everything was perfectly still – except for the cockroaches making their way busily through the metropolis of the kitchen space in the corner, you could almost hear the Jacaranda leaves caressing one another just outside the wall. That crack in the wall, that had grown bigger was what always came to her mind whenever she remembered home.

It was an insistent crack, resilient against the many ways her mother tried every year to fill it and cover it up when she covered the walls with fresh mud. The rich blend of cow dung and colored soil always gave off a unique smell. Not particularly pungent, but far from bland either.  She would watch as her mother smeared the paste on the walls in smooth circles. Once the mud was on the wall, Mother would carve intricate designs into the wall, usually geometric patterns that varied from one year to the next. Sometimes Mother would smooth out the wall before making imprints on it. Animal footprints that made it look like some small animals had strolled out of the nearby bush and lazily walked all over the wall, not caring to admire the painstaking effort it had taken to color the soil with pounded roots and crushed rocks hauled from the hills on the frail back of an aging mule.