It could have been home

“I would rather wake up in the middle of nowhere than in any city on Earth.”
– Steve Mcqueen

I look 33 floors down, at the blinking city lights, savoring the picture for only a moment before jumping back into reality. There it goes. My eyes were flying. My mind was locked in a box. Everything in the waking life is relative.

Stare at something for a long enough time, your eyes open wide, and the edges will start disappearing. Multiple lines will keep blending into one, until the central objects become an indistinguishable mass. Absorb the brightness of the light till it hurts, and through the watery eyes you’ll see the all-engulfing light, the brightest one with the darkest intentions. Start blinking however, and blink a lot, and the surrounding world will slowly start regaining its shape, its objects popping up abruptly, reclaiming their existence.

I look at the city skyline on the horizon, stopping for a moment on the lingering monsters of brick and steel. I follow several twisted snakes of light, the highways cutting this giant into pieces, marking the neighborhood limits, creating the safe and the not so safe zones. A sensitive poet calls them arteries every now and then, deceived by the constant movement inside; but they bring death rather than life, killing the surroundings they cut into, once and for all.

I blink even harder as I look closer, now just a couple of blocks away from the building, down the bridge covered in graffiti and the badly lit road beneath. My eyes wonder half a block to the right and I see a gas station, a police car, some oily spots on the ground and an empty street. A lonely figure slowly approaches the building and disappears in the alley. It’s 2 a.m. and I am thinking that the guy riding a bike in an empty parking lot below, making circle after circle, belongs here so much more than I do.

Image Credit: mademan033
Listening to NPR :)

111

10:30 a.m.

“Was it 110 or 111?” You ask, taking the backpack off my shoulder, stretching your arm in front of me, saving my life once again from the madness of traffic. I keep forgetting that they arrive from the opposite side here.

“It’s 111,” I say, unable to conceal a smile. “You almost remembered.”

A screeching noise behind us announces a 111 coming to a stop just a moment later. I try to say good bye, but the man hanging out of the door grabs my things and rushes me in. They don’t wait here. I jump inside, waving at you.

“Call me when you get home!” you shout.

I don’t think this one even came to a complete stop. I was rushed. I couldn’t have said a proper bye... Or could I? I should have waited for the next one. I should have hugged you. For one long hour, you will be thinking that I am ungrateful. But then I will get home and call you, and you will know that I care.

8 a.m.

I wake up and hear you breathing. A quick thought rushes through my head. Will you be different today? How will you act now that the music, friends and sambucas are gone? I turn your way and see you blink a little, as if trying to see me better, you eyelids heavy from the sleep. You roll closer and get your feet entangled in mine. No, you are not different, I tell myself as I lay my head on your arm.

“You will be late to...” I whisper.

“Don’t worry about it,” you interrupt me. So I stop worrying. Now it’s just you and me and a little bit of sunlight peeking through the window. I smile as I recall shopping for blinds with you last weekend, failing to find them.

You suggest breakfast at that cozy coffee shop down the road. I get up and do my hair. You get up and do some quick cleaning. We meet in the doorway of your kitchen and share an orange. There is no tension between us, nothing superficial. Being around you is easy.

You order scrambled eggs and I get apple pie. You joke about the pie as you check your e-mails. I grab a newspaper and a minute later we are laughing at local politics. I don’t know why I remember these details so clearly, while I am supposed to remember another time and another company... I guess nothing is “supposed” to be, unless we make it be.

“Just drop me at the bus station downtown,” I say.

“What happened to the Junction?” You ask.

“The Junction is too far and you are late as it is.”

“No, I am not dropping you at the station; it is not the safest place. I wouldn’t want you alone downtown.”

I shut up and sit there feeling cared for as we are off to the Junction. You park and walk me across the street.

“Was it 110 or 111?”

Image credit: V3Nr3VeNG3

War Child (2008)

Three of us were in the room, watching this movie. I was holding my breath, trying hard not to cry. Then I threw a quick glance to my right and saw tears in my friend’s eyes. He’s not a softie by any means. He’s quite a man’s man, in case it draws a better picture of the situation, or the movie.

War Child is a documentary about the life of Emmanuel Jal, a hip hop artist in his late 20s, who at the age of 7 was given a gun bigger than him, and along with other child soldiers fought in the Second Sudanese Civil War between the North and the South. It is a journey that we follow through the musician’s eyes, starting with a struggle to make it through the desert with hundreds of other boys, only a dozen of whom survived, continuing to show an amazing recovery through the healing power of music, forgiving the people in his troubled past and visiting home after being gone for 18 years. A lot of Jal’s songs can be heard throughout War Child, and combined with the great directing and producing job that Karim Chrobog did here, the movie makes for a beautiful piece of art.

Besides the breathtaking sunsets in Southern Sudan, however, one can see a history lesson in War Child. It is easy to digest this type of history, because statistics is replaced with an example of one person who has seen every possible atrocity of that war, was made part of it and was trained to be a mindless killing machine. Whoever did that training failed though. The person that emerges after all the pain and losses is an optimistic young man, full of life, traveling the world to spread his story, and on top of that working to build a school in his hometown in Sudan.

Despite the sadness of the storyline, the musician’s unsuppressed optimism radiates through the screen, making you laugh. I did break down, however, during the part about Jal’s sister, Nyaruach. If he had been through hell, then her childhood was hell multiplied by two. I might have just felt more for her as a woman. But it’s not their past that defines these two amazing young people. It’s their ability to leave it behind, to forgive, and to use it as a means to help others.

“I believe I survived for a reason, to tell my story, to touch lives,” Jal is singing. The movie touched my life, and I think it will touch yours, too. I highly recommend it.

* * *

Emmanuel Jal’s book under the same title is hitting the stores in the United States this month, and in the UK in March. His music albums are Gua, Ceasefire and Warchild. Nyaruach’s first single, Gatluak, will be available on iTunes this month.

So you bought a gun

I glued myself to the wall, trying to walk as far from you as I could in the narrow hallway. Keep that thing away from me. You pressed the trigger. I didn't blink. It wasn't charged.

"Now I'm a true American," you said, laughing. The sad reality is that you are right. In fact, you couldn't fit in any better. First the big mortgaged house, now this gun.

"Why, why, why in the world," was all I could say.
"Just in case," you answered.

In case of what?! The crime rate in this place must be at 0.001 at most! Why would you want to join the ranks of Americans who think school shootings have nothing to do with guns sitting around in people's homes, waiting for that "just in case," which never comes unless you go out and ask for it?

Why?

Image credit: TrimiADV

So you think you are free

Lost sense of good
Frocefully taken
From prideless hands
Freedom deprived
Painfully twisted
Drained crisply dry
Of happy claps
They wipe the spill
Buoyancy leakage
Remains of it -
Museum filler
Drenched in the sweat
Convened by truth
It’s black and white
No in between
They touch the real
Try to handle it
Sometimes they do
Sometimes they weep


Wake up, world. Wake up to realize that your freedom dream is nothing but a delusion. I scan morning papers for the obituary of compassion. Survived by whom?

The day after us

Inside the creases of my skin
Mixed with the song of fuzzy rain
The evening’s kindness wearing thin
Your touch – the thought that ripped my brain
I dreamed you up, I told those streets
I knew the night could choose to hear
My heart kept busy counting beats
While raindrops masked the single tear

Currently listening to Malaika (Angel) by Miriam Makeba (RIP, Mama Africa, the world misses you)

A promise

I can’t sleep. I keep thinking. Through the darkness, I can see the contour of your cheekbone. You have that necklace on you, my goodbye gift. The leather frame goes around the little silver spear end, sitting above several rows of red beads. You even chose a matching outfit. Do you treasure it? How long will you keep it like this, close to your heart?

You take my hand, close your eyes and start rhyming... Your words run around the room, no, they jump, full of energy and emotion, while you lie there, exhausted yet unable to sleep, smiling at me, rapping for me, squeezing my palm.

I miss you like Kenyan soil misses the rain in the dry season. I am not sure if you miss me as much. I am not sure if you are able to miss, to love, to feel. I heard that you aren’t. I don’t know if people are saying the truth... but you are the people.

You spoke sweetly to me, you spoke honestly. You gave me little gifts of attention, but you’d take them away whenever your work came into play, showing me how hard it would be, were we together. You’d shower me with compliments, yet you’d openly warn me that I’d get burnt.

I didn’t ask you all the questions I needed to ask in those short two days. I didn’t feel like interviewing you. In my head, I was weighing the risks. I am tired of being hurt. My heart has been broken and mended just enough for me to lock it up. When I suffer, my work suffers, and my ability to give, which determines who I am. Something tells me you might feel the same.

You extended your pinkie and we made a little union, a promise to each other. How binding is it? What am I to make of it? Can you tell me frankly and ease the tension within me? Can you keep it... or let it go? It hurts to be here in the middle.

Image credit: ramo138

Airports

The sun dipped its brush in the fog this morning, drawing perfect pastels over the mountaintops. It was a little after 7 and I took the long route home, enjoying the warmliness of this brand new autumn day.

There is some magic about the airports; they tend to highlight the human in us.

You hugged me and asked me to take care of myself. "You are going there so you can be useful to the people, so be smart and do what you have to be useful," you said. For the first time I felt you are finally at peace with my decision and maybe even respect it. For the first time I felt such sincerity in your tears, clear of attempts to prevent me from going.

Yet it was you leaving this morning, not me. I stood there for the longest time watching the two of you go through the security line, his striped shirt allowing me to tell you apart from the crowd. I wanted to keep looking at you. We parted lifestyles a while ago and those are only geographical directions we are parting today. Dots on the map. Longitudes and latitudes.

When we get back together, things won’t be the same, I thought, and I think you felt it, too. I could see it in your tears. I love you, mom. Good bye and safe journey.

* * *

I will be gone for some time and I will miss blogging, and all of the wonderful writers I've been just starting to get to know. I should be back by mid-December if things go as planned. I will try to get online every now and then, most probably on weekends, if I get a chance. Please stop by Dreaming of Africa if you want to follow my journey.

♥

Currently listening to Dark Road by Annie Lennox (from "Songs of Mass Destruction")

Pearls

You are humble, and brave, and full of understanding, and laughter... And sometimes I sit there and reflect on how exceptionally lucky I am to have you as a friend. And then I can’t help but wonder... what have I done to deserve you in my life?

Image credit: Inominatus

Currently listening to Pearls by Angelique Kidjo & Josh Groban

Inside an hourglass

This thinking grips my heart
And squeezes it, and bends
I can’t tell you apart
From where my dreaming ends
I might have felt your pride
Elusiveness so tender
Despite this vast divide
Temptation to surrender
You might have dug my mind
From underneath the laughter
So does this world unkind
Allow the ever after?

* * *

I know, they are called the Atlantic… Sometimes fortune cookies really creep me out. But then again, I prefer reading between the lines. I might be on the verge of crossing the great waters in my life, the journey that many won’t understand, especially family. My mind is set however, and I know I can reach the other shore... as I long I remember to breathe.

Currently listening to Erykah Badu & Stephen Marley

Can I keep this one... please?

Have you ever felt as if something you dreamed up is right there, within the hand’s reach, so real yet extremely fragile? Did you jump right at it or stop breathing for a minute, not to spook it, fearing that something so good can disappear so easily? Isn’t that how real life works? Aren’t things that are too good normally also too elusive to be kept by anyone for longer that several happy heartbeats?

Image credit: happysak
Currently listening to Warchild by Immanuel Jal

Beyond the twigs

I lost myself in the city
Counting the twigs
When it gave me the glimpse of its heartbeat >>>

Maybe they were arteries...

The other to-do list

To forgive

To listen more carefully

To hide emotions that can harm someone

To be thankful and don’t take things for granted

To be brave about discussing situations when they occur

To think twice before making decisions which involve others

To stay kind even when you are not spoiled by others’ kindness

To let people you care about know it with words and actions

To show passion when it will make someone feel right

To stay silent when no words are needed

To let others be who they are

To be yourself

Prosaic things

I take a walk with you
To open up a bit
I tell you sky shots are prosaic

You laugh at me
Because I snapped some
The other day

I tell you sometimes
I snap prosaic shots
For lack of any better

The truth is I am telling you
Prosaic things
Because I can’t tell you the truth


The prosaic image is by me

Pain in the... neck

- Writers are not very fun people to be around from what I’ve heard, is that true?
- Should I read it as a “subtle” hint that I’m not fun to be around?
- No-no-no, it’s just that...
- It’s just that whoever told you that can’t write and envies our awesomeness.

...Just one of our weird small talks in between tea sipping/page flipping/people watching at a coffee shop. Your straightforwardness is amusing. You like to ask strange questions, provide controversial arguments and lead conversations into dead ends. I don’t mind it though, because you unknowingly teach me to handle the uncomfortable and the not-so-friendly, which comprise the majority of the real.

Image credit: arwenita
Currently listening to Cain's Blood by the awesome Lucas Kellison

Do you freecycle?

This nonprofit movement has been around for years, but I’m surprised to still come across many people who have never heard about it.

I came up with a quick list of benefits.

~ It's an upgraded version of recycling, more people oriented and fun.

~ It's great for the environment, keeping useful things out of landfills.

~ It provides an effortless way to help someone.

~ You'll get a lot of free stuff.

~ It's free.

Give it a try?

Dream box

"I put my dreams in a box
so they'll never spoil,
hidden from the sunlight,
underneath the soil.
You can never be too
careful with a secret
as someone once said,
but would it be safer to keep
it locked up in my head?"

~ Music & Lyrics

True friends stab you in the front

Why are you making it so hard to be friends with you? I tape the cracks in this relationship and pretend that I don’t see the mess they create, acting as if it’s whole again. But there is only so much fixing one can do before finding the thing completely useless and throwing it away, right? Is that what awaits us in the end?

Why do you have to pour acid into the drink you are offering me? Do I really evoke that need in you? Do we have to put this strain in our conversations? I force my mind into giving this situation a comical angle (think Coffee & Cigarettes by Tom Waits & Iggy Pop).

Why is this happening, out of competition, jealousy or pure lack of understanding? I was containing myself all day yesterday, but at the end, the emotions I stacked on top of each other reached the tipping point, and I responded to your bitter remarks with my own. It didn’t make me happy. Whenever negativity boils up, I close my eyes and think of the good things you’ve done, reminding myself that minor conflicts should not ruin the major trust we’ve built over the years.

Why don’t I just let this one go? When in doubt, I reach for that (hopelessly naïve but intentionally so) belief that people are inherently good at hearts, but the situations they face in life sometimes make them act, or more often simply appear, adversely. I know you’ve been going through a hard time lately – another reason I should have just let your remark slide by, but I didn’t manage, and there goes my darker side.

Why don’t I write to you? I read somewhere that the best rule of friendship is to keep your heart a little softer than your head. I reach for the keyboard but find that you beat me to it. You feel me, girl, and that’s another reason not to throw us out of the window.

* * *

The title of this blog entry is a quote by Oscar Wilde
Image credit: vassiliki

Abre los ojos

“If your knowledge were your wealth then it would be well earned,” I heard as I woke up this morning. It played in the background of my dream, and those last few minutes in between pressing the snooze button, I whispered along.

Erykah’s songs pull me in, and I keep falling into them, absorbing some new emotions along the way but never really hitting the ground… Just hanging there and thinking, how in the grand scheme of things I still have miles to fly to grasp at least a little something in this world.

It’s good to wake up believing you can change something for better. It’s harder to sustain that faith as you go through the day.

Image credit: vhm-alex

Clarity

Friday night’s conversation felt like a bunch of needles in a chair. It caused major discomfort in certain places. “No. I like talking about this,” I kept stubbornly saying each time when offered to change the subject. I think questions that are easy to answer are strings of wasted words. It’s that timely uncomfortable query that can make a difference between safe inaction and daring to take a chance.

* * *

- Why do you care about people starving or getting killed thousands of miles away? What is it to you? Why don’t you just want to live your life and build your own happiness?
- Wow. Um. I don’t know. I never thought there has to be a reason. Maybe… Well… I guess… I think there are two worlds. One is carefree and comfortable, where you live for your own good. Another one involves the choice to open your eyes and see the evils of your time and find the strength within you to act upon them. And once you really see that other world and experience it at least once, there is no coming back to that comfortable yet meaningful nothingness. Because… I am not sure how else to word this. Wow, that is such a deep question. Nobody has ever asked me that.

- Have you ever taken care of anyone?
- My younger sister. My parents both worked full time so I looked after her when we were growing up. That’s about it…
- That doesn’t really count.
- I know.

- Would you be able to give something up to help someone? Would you be able to pass your own plate to someone who needs it more?
- I think so. I believe so. Not that I ever had to…

- Ok. How about this: Would you be able to stay in a place where people don’t like you? Racism exists everywhere, you know.
- I know. That’s a tough one. I guess I’d just have to work that much harder to deserve their trust and maybe get them to like me…

- You’ve never done anything like that before. How do you know that you can make it there? Why do you think that you have what it takes?
- I don’t. But I guess there’s one way to find out.

* * *

I needed this, my friend. I want to find out. I am choosing to turn the corner. Thanks, M.