Mementos; Struggles; Confusion

I’ve been dreaming incessantly lately. Different realities with their different timelines. We all stare at each other in different mirrors. I slip into normalcy in whichever dream I slip into. It is so easy to choose this route, none is wrong and every decision is right. I’m only awake for a few hours of the day, when everything is quiet. The night is such a forgiving time, never judging nor imposing its expectations on you. It calms me down, letting me slowly peel off every skin holding me in bondage.

I dream of your broad dark shoulders. The little scar on the broad of your back, imprinted on the back of my mind. A memory my hippocampus stole from my occipital lobe. Only returned when needed. Always when my eyes are closed. How did it get there? When? The events surrounding that day, what were they?

They say nothing is new in this world. If so, then why do we live? What are we doing here if everything that we will do has already been done? Is every thought a reproduction of someone else’s mind? The blood that courses through my veins, is it really truly mine? What if there’s an exact replica of all my cells respiring in some other body form? Were we just born to die? To propagate the same fucking gene through the ages? We recycle so much in this life, our books, our fashion and even the gender roles that ‘society’ dictates. I tire as easily as I am motivated. My friend would quip that I was born in the wrong era. I don’t think so. With more than twenty centuries already passed, it excites me to traverse the past. Like entering archaic ruins and imagine them when they were once whole. Where they held conversations, wrote letters, triumphed or failed. Where they fell in love and ended long term friendships. I believe if you go far enough, you’ll end up exactly where you began.

I see the rays filter in through the wind on an early afternoon, the dust speckles dancing in circles, revelling in their daytime ball. Most of the dust in homes originates from human skin, did you know? I smile and continue to whisk the batter in the bowl, enough with these questions. I feel a touch on my ankle length skirt and look down at the little boy, happy to be near his mother. My little dark skinned child. Swooping down to steal a kiss, I continue whisking, singing, and staring at the afternoon sun. Don’t we both just love it? Yes Diana, I know you’re here, go back to your present. Live a little.

I’ve been looking for words. They had left me you see. I found some of them in letters. Letters full of humour and life lessons. Letters with stories to make you laugh and others will render you numb with pain. Letters that make you question or strengthen your faith. Letters with scrawny scratchy handwriting and others had written using typewriters. Reading them, I instantly wished the Post office was still relevant and not just for high school students love letters and success cards. I still don’t know how to actually post a letter. I think that’s sad. It kills me that there’s a generation that is intent on mutilating the language, expecting us to follow suit. It enrages me. I fight with my sister all the time about this. I enrage her. Our back and forth texts are our constant fights for dominance. I will win eventually. Or will she? Will this attempt at relevance by the younger generation endure? Or will they soon join the rat race and bend to ‘the man’?

I found more words at the drums of Shostakovich. I lapped it all up with glee. I was amazed at his easy flow with them. He played around with them and bedazzled you with even bigger words. Words you never expected in literary discourse, words that made you feel like you were still in elementary school. You had to be quiet, the big boys were talking. I was filled with envy. They were not even my words, those that had abandoned me, the heartless bastards. He was so raw, so very raw with them that I would blush at the very indecency he used them. I let myself swim in his world, burning with envy and wishing to steal them and run away with them. Was it Picasso who had said that great artist steal ideas? However I didn’t dare. They were his. They could never be mine. We wouldn’t fit. I had to find my original words I understood that but first I wandered in his land. It was only when Hillary reminded me repeatedly to write again did I finally pack my bags. So we have Hillary to thank for the first step. Thank you Hillary! I looked for them where they first disappeared. In my very own mind. I’ve teased, threatened and bribed it to give them back. Slowly they came, reluctance in their stead. They came in snippets, while I napped, while I walked, while I listened to music. I would whisper them back and savour them as they echoed through my very being. I would write little notes and leave them alone. Type a few lines on a Microsoft word document, delete them and sleep content. They were coming back. They were back. I guarded them jealously, I wasn’t sure if they were strong enough to hold on their own in this world. The Coke band changed everything. I don’t know how he knew I was just stalling. I hate being given something I do not deserve. He’s shoved me to action.

I’ve been throttling her repeatedly in my dreams. She keeps showing up acting like we could renew a friendship. Doesn’t she know bridges have already been burnt? She lit the match but I fanned those flames. I have no interest in building new ones. I don’t have the budget for it. The cost of cement, sand and stone is high and I cannot afford the labour. Her pseudo-piety is what infuriates me the most, acting like the protector of good morals. What are these good morals? Who labelled them good? She dared to hurt one of my friends I wringed her neck, she dared to offer him to another to love, murder became my intent. He is mine.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions. I intended to stay away from him. He shows up and I follow. Is this how iron feels in the presence of a magnet? There’s something about him, around him that appeals to me. So many have tried, keep trying and I second guess myself. My heart still looks around whether or not my mind respects them. My body is tame, a passive viewer in the festivities. He shows up and nothing works right. My body betrays me. My mind- numb, my heart-content, my soul tags at his mercilessly. We fight for dominance. This is new to me. A man who defies me as openly as he’s pulled to me. A man who makes me want to rule and be ruled. A man whose future is too bright, how does he not see it? He hides his goodness, I wonder why. I want to take care of him. I want to tell him every day that he’s going to make it big in his life. I want to tell him to stay. This has to end. It’s becoming ridiculous this angst. I’ll take care of myself now.

It’s my friend’s birthday. Or is it mine? Definitely my friend’s. We threw a surprise party and are having an amazing time. I’m dancing. I’m always happy dancing. I make all my friends join me, clapping in glee. I am experiencing that buzz that one only gets from alcohol. God knows what I’ve taken. A hand stretches over to me, turning round I extend my own hand to his. Who else but him? I hug him tightly as he laughs at me. He tells me he’s back. I look at him and hug him again. His shower scent, yes, it’s him. I’m sure of it. I’m not dreaming him up, am I? I don’t care. I’m home. He’s home.

I love my family, my culture and my country. The elections really brought the ugly side of some of our friends. We failed to respect each person’s opinions. We all wanted to protect our personal interests, covering our own backsides. Elections were so sensitive an issue that we’ve chosen to bury our heads in the sand for the sake of ‘peace’ without actually addressing the underlying issues. When will we be able to talk frankly without offending each other? We all saw how we voted along tribal lines, yet there were small pockets of hope in the name of radical voter in some areas. Voter apathy may arise after this due to the feeling that nothing ever really changes.

 The Old Guard are trying to sneak themselves into the new government. There is this perverse political ideal of ‘It’s our time to eat’ perpetuated in the country. When did a post of public service become a seat of financial windfall? I tire easily after reading the newspapers or watch the news. Bikozulu put it the right way, there is no problem with being proud of your tribe, it’s the stereotyping and lack of tolerance coupled with bad tribalism that leaves a bad taste in one’s mouth.  A friend of mine thinks that what we need is a civil war. I don’t think so. War begets war. War brings about a cacophony of problems; never solving the initial issue. What we need are radical thinkers, voters who think for themselves, leaders who are accountable. People free from the country’s baggage that it seems everyone carries, maybe that’s why we don’t walk with our backs straight, our heads held high. It’ll only work if we don’t let this bile fester in our hearts, spilling it to our babes while they still lie on our bosoms. For haven’t we heard some of these stories and stereotypes from the mouths of our very own parents?

A yoga mat rests on a stripper pole, a complimentary contrast. I’m busy sketching lines on drawing paper. Lines that want to tell a story, hopefully showing an inkling of what I envision. Smoking a joint seems to give the scene such a risqué view, yet it’s what is needed to complete it. That and the man shirt and socks I’m busy moving around in. Brushes, pencils and pens lie all over but have nothing on the books in the room. Books lay everywhere. Pages open in some, others closed. The balcony doors are fully open bringing in the warm breeze, the lace curtains welcome it. Enya plays in the background. Again she shoos me away. Diana I can’t draw with someone looking at me, surely you know that!