I fell for my wife and every night I sang outside her house. Her father threw a bucket full of water to my face, to make me go away, every single night. Last time I decided to go up and take her with me. I put a ladder under her window and climbed, then I heard something cracking and I found myself hanging from the vines and fell down. Her father came out with a Winchester. Next morning I asked her to marry me. All that, more than 50 years ago.
If you ask me now, I don’t have a life. I just exist. I barely breathe. No, it’s not my age, it’s I forgot; how to live. I lived so many years with her, that the only thing I ever knew, is to live with her by my side.
Now that she is not here anymore, I don’t know what to do; how to live alone. Maybe, I don’t want to find out, anyway.
Everything seems new, even the most common things. The morning sunlight, the lunch in the small kitchen, the walks on Sundays. The raindrops on the roof; Sleeping at nights on a bed too big for a single body. Yeah, maybe I am just too old to remember how to live alone again. Or again, maybe I just don’t want to.
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Father always told me and my sister not to go looking for ways to cross the stream. “Never, never, never,” he used to say. “Our people always stay from this side of the stream, the other side is for the others.” And then he would bend a bit and with a whispering voice, always looking around first, he would say, “…the other side is for the spirits.”
So my sister and I spend springs, summers and autumns looking carefully on the other side to see the spirits. Occasionally we saw one or two but we couldn’t agree if it was a spirit of a man or a woman, a boy or a girl.
That was every year till I became seventeen. Then I left the house for the higher education and my sister didn’t want to return to the stream on her own.
Now, I’m thirty four and I’m standing at our side of the stream with my sister and for the first time we both agree, it is our father on the other side waving. He left us a couple of nights before.
Ming always thought that ‘apartment’ was a fancy word for ‘flat’. Couples were flocking to Tamboerskloof. Buying up property there. It was a pretty nice place to raise a daughter. Have a family. A dog. A cat. That white picket fence scenario.
People could be seen walking their dogs and jogging in the afternoon sun. At that time in her life Ming was a missionary and a freelance photographer juggling both. There were times when she was younger when she had travelled all over Africa but that was another time in her life.
The photography gig paid her bills for now. But she wanted more out life. So, she decided to pack up and go and live like a hippie on a commune outside of Cape Town.
Ever since she was a little girl she prayed with her dolls. She played convent-convent with them. He dolls were nuns. Catholic. She played church with them. Sang hymns to put them to sleep.
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The steak knives were missing. Is there any value in that truth?
Give me a little earth. A place in the sun. A bowl of shelled, salted and roasted peanuts. Let me have a piece of the supernatural universal in my hands. Give me something to grow in the chilled earth that was once made of volcanic rock. I do not really care what you give me to grow just not hidden sadness, or egoism. Too many people let egoism grow on them and then they call it arrogance. Once arrogance is in the picture then your whole wide world is turned asunder. At some point in your life, you are going to stand alone. Sometimes it feels like an hour. Can be longer. Wait for it. It is coming. Like winter in the air. Clouds that look like people. The human being does not know how organic conversation is. It is just as organic as depression, or any other mental illness is. It is just as organic as paperwork. It really means nothing at the end of the day, that sexual impulse. Like a river, it has a song. A marginalised beginning and an end. Marilyn Monroe sweetheart with her ballad of plum flesh naked under moonlight, the Kafkaesque novel between her ears. Her feast of autumn flesh. Her winter flesh.
Her most basic mood a summer or a spring in the photo album is ripe for the taking.
It was her wedding. Day framed by shell people (and those most fragile relations and relationships, delicate, and sensitive), and memoir. A white glove. A cab driver. Grape juice instead of wine. She was still childlike. Innocent of family life as a newlywed. The archipelago of rainbow children with their ghetto planet. Sometimes she cried. I could not feel empathy for her because I was not yet born. This image of the autumn chill is always on my mind. The butterfly. Coconut milk. A woman must always keep a diary. A thinking woman must keep all things Orlando to herself, that she will write a triumphant book from beginning to end with unchanging hope, instil her characters with extraordinary innocence. There is always this struggle for creativity. The tapestry of a wonderful dream. I love men. I love women. You cannot ask me to give up either because always my search is for love, for acceptance, for attention, for affection, for approval. Joy fills my lungs. The release of forgiveness. Fresh and new as rain and the wheels of James Byron Dean’s Little Bastard.
Read the whole article in Ovi Magazine, HERE!
Zen Buddhism or “A Healthy Mind in a Healthy Body” by Emanuel L. Paparella
Within Buddhism there is a meditative, contemplative school known as Zen. It originally arose in China but the three philosophers who were mostly responsible in transforming the school into a tradition were from outside China…
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The man in the empty chair had years since stopped playing games. He averted his face from the play of children. Because of this, when his world collapsed, there was no one there to welcome him, no other world to go to, no sequel to the adventure of…
10 Helsinginkatu: Chapter 34 by Thanos Kalamidas
The chicken was just too dry and the thin slice of feta in the middle didn’t help much, the oven potatoes were not cooked enough and coriander is not a herb Greeks use, oregano is the herb used for oven potatoes.
Luxembourg report by Euro Reporter
Euro-reporter travels to Luxembourg with …ex-cons news, a fire that destroyed a barn and some …school news!
Christian Extremists Within the U.S. Military – Myth or Reality? by Dr. Habib Siddiqui
When President George W. Bush called his war on terrorism a “crusade”, very few Muslims doubted his evil intention. In the face of strong condemnation at home and abroad, he quickly apologized.
10 Helsinginkatu: Chapter 28 by Thanos Kalamidas
While at ‘Baker’s’ I tried to write down some of my thoughts about the whole thing but nothing could come in mind, it was the blood ring there and it was the alcohol abuse, it was Leena who, for a reason I could not understand, wanted me to accept Juha
Insert Brain Here: Drinking Problem by Paul Woods
Paul Woods is a Cartoonist and Illustrator. His series of cartoons is entitled “Insert Brain Here”…
“Remorse” by Pamela Hunt
“Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting.” – Robert Frost
Iran in a state department’s deja vu by Thanos Kalamidas
Was what I read in the news a deja vu, or is it just me? According to a US State Department report, Iran remains the most active state sponsor of terrorism in the world.
You Are History: Chapter 10 by Alexander Mikhaylov
Pelagea and Cumulus were sitting in Mama Pro’s drawing room. Both lovers kept gloomy silence. Cumulus felt that he must say something but could not think of any appropriate topic and only sighed instead.
PersOnality DisOrders by Thanos Kalamidas
Personal Disorders or …total schizophrenia in a political correct schizophrenic world!
Italian report by Euro Reporter
Italy is today’s Euro Report destination…