this blog and it's blogger have moved to: http://littlefieldnotes.wordpress.com/
blogging attempt number two begins.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
flash notes - finish the sentence
how can i bring the scene to mind? a sunny mid-winter morning. a pavement leads two people towards the taxi rank outside a mall. not the most romantic setting. young woman walks on the left, alongside the traffic. young man walks on the right, alongside a wall. they are both dressed in hoodies and jeans. she looks at him, laughing. he holds a plastic bottle enclosed in a plastic bag close to his mouth. they seem oblivious to anybody in the world except each other. lowering the bottle from his lips, he says, “i love it when you call me...”
flash notes - laughter at clicks
it is the end of a working day. the buzz of bright lights distract shoppers from the slowly setting sun. a long line of people who “pay less at clicks” wait, somewhat patiently, items in their hands: honey glazed almonds. wax strips. a pregnancy test. the long line curves between shelves of sweets, snacks and magazines that beckon the buyer to buy, buy more.
a loud, animated conversation is followed by bursts of laughter amidst the tellers and shoppers at the front of the queue. i stand in silence, puzzled yet intrigued. what just happened? i turn around to hear a woman – older, white (let’s call her janie) ask another woman – young, black (let’s call her mandi), “is that the guy from generations?” yes, yes he is, mandi nods. “i wonder if he’s going to marry khethiwe?” janie jokes. young mandi replies, “that’s what they asked him!” older janie insists, “they must ask him! we want to be invited!”
i appreciate this actor i don’t know and this soapie i don’t watch. i thank generations for bringing together generations of the rainbow nation, even for a moment. it gave us something, at the end of the day, to laugh about.
a loud, animated conversation is followed by bursts of laughter amidst the tellers and shoppers at the front of the queue. i stand in silence, puzzled yet intrigued. what just happened? i turn around to hear a woman – older, white (let’s call her janie) ask another woman – young, black (let’s call her mandi), “is that the guy from generations?” yes, yes he is, mandi nods. “i wonder if he’s going to marry khethiwe?” janie jokes. young mandi replies, “that’s what they asked him!” older janie insists, “they must ask him! we want to be invited!”
i appreciate this actor i don’t know and this soapie i don’t watch. i thank generations for bringing together generations of the rainbow nation, even for a moment. it gave us something, at the end of the day, to laugh about.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
the tiger of our hearts
my fingers touch the lined surface of the page. you compel me to write.
beyond this plane of existence – hers, his, mine – a tiger spirit stirs.
in his previous life, he was a son, a brother, a friend, a scholar, a sportsman, a lover, and - let’s be honest - a party animal.
he crept into our lives and our hearts - slowly, subtly. he told stories - loudly, loveably. he stated opinions - boldly, earnestly. he shared knowledge - gently, suggestively. he gave advice - carefully, caringly. he worked - resolutely, tirelessly. he danced - freely, blissfully. he loved - inimitably, devotedly.
he erred. he learnt. he grew. he smiled. he felt. he travelled. he tackled. he drank. he ate nyemens. he cooked. he read. he shared. he listened. he held. he taught. he tried. he gave. he dreamed. he teased. he charmed. he joked. he encouraged. he came. he went. he lived - he truly lived.
scratch that. he truly lives.
dear tiger, you leapt out of our lives and dragged a trail of broken hearts behind your tail. i mourn the mshana you would have remained. the graduate you would have become. the best man you were to be. the husband and father you could have been. the long life we could have shared with you.
if i mourn your loss, why do i insist that you live? because i hear you say “big tings, big tings,” when i reach a milestone. because you walk with me, wherever i go. because your presence lingers in my heart, in my memories and within the depths of my soul. because your mother, father and brother, who share your DNA, continue to live. they remember and honour you. as we do, too.
you are alive, my dear, because your tigritude is indestructible. you are alive because although my senses can’t see, smell, touch, taste or hear you, i know you are an intake of breath away. your spirit accompanies and protects us in a way that can only be done on a higher plane.
you are alive because you exist, unbeknowingly, amidst our daily lives. you are a smile. you are a prayer. you are an act of kindness. you are laughter. you are love. in this way, i strive to sense you every day.
our tiger is gone, but he left a lengthy, lasting set of paw prints in our lives.
we love you, wakhile. we always will.
beyond this plane of existence – hers, his, mine – a tiger spirit stirs.
in his previous life, he was a son, a brother, a friend, a scholar, a sportsman, a lover, and - let’s be honest - a party animal.
he crept into our lives and our hearts - slowly, subtly. he told stories - loudly, loveably. he stated opinions - boldly, earnestly. he shared knowledge - gently, suggestively. he gave advice - carefully, caringly. he worked - resolutely, tirelessly. he danced - freely, blissfully. he loved - inimitably, devotedly.
he erred. he learnt. he grew. he smiled. he felt. he travelled. he tackled. he drank. he ate nyemens. he cooked. he read. he shared. he listened. he held. he taught. he tried. he gave. he dreamed. he teased. he charmed. he joked. he encouraged. he came. he went. he lived - he truly lived.
scratch that. he truly lives.
dear tiger, you leapt out of our lives and dragged a trail of broken hearts behind your tail. i mourn the mshana you would have remained. the graduate you would have become. the best man you were to be. the husband and father you could have been. the long life we could have shared with you.
if i mourn your loss, why do i insist that you live? because i hear you say “big tings, big tings,” when i reach a milestone. because you walk with me, wherever i go. because your presence lingers in my heart, in my memories and within the depths of my soul. because your mother, father and brother, who share your DNA, continue to live. they remember and honour you. as we do, too.
you are alive, my dear, because your tigritude is indestructible. you are alive because although my senses can’t see, smell, touch, taste or hear you, i know you are an intake of breath away. your spirit accompanies and protects us in a way that can only be done on a higher plane.
you are alive because you exist, unbeknowingly, amidst our daily lives. you are a smile. you are a prayer. you are an act of kindness. you are laughter. you are love. in this way, i strive to sense you every day.
our tiger is gone, but he left a lengthy, lasting set of paw prints in our lives.
we love you, wakhile. we always will.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
words for wakhile
row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream; merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream. row, row, row your boat, gently down down the stream; merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily...
do you know that rhyme? the words left my lips in a quiet, continual song. i was sitting on a bench looking at the sky, urging myself to wake from this dream. the cold marble slab kept me company as i waited for photographs to be developed. there was one image i really wanted to see. the last one of you and me.
the photo is a blurr but in my mind, the day at cape point remains as clear as the sun was bright. your denim-clad leg on the left, my skinny-jeaned leg on the right. our bare feet over-hanging a rock, our view of open-ended ocean. next to this blurr, my favourite piece of graffiti captured on a walk back from long street.
life is but a dream. i sang softly, earnestly. i sang facing strangers who passed by: an older leering man here, a couple holding YDE shopping bags there. the repetitive row, row, row kept my mind in the now as i reached to you in the present-past.
the truth is, wakhile, you are not purely past tense. you are enmeshed in the lives of hundreds of people across the earth who love you beyond measure. each one of us are connected to others through threads of individual and collective memories.
we remember that you smelt of baby food. and that hugging you felt like home. we remember the meaningful tattoos that roughened the soft skin of your upper back. we remember your youthful smile, your particularly straight teeth. the earnestness of your eyes. your long locks. your tiny ears. the beauty spot behind your left one. your strong arms. your small toes.
we remember that you while you were alive, you truly lived. i remember you burning half your eyelashes off in an overzealous moment with a lighter. i remember you biting part of your tongue during a rugby game and healing it by simply cutting off the hanging piece – with scissors – because “doctors are charlatans.” i remember cartoons and custard. i remember laughing. “hilarity has ensued.” i remember you completing my sentences before i begin them. i wish i could remember you back to life.
in writing this for you, wakhile, i have resisted asking why. this single word torments my thoughts of you and i struggle to steer from its downwards spiral. instead of dwelling on the uncertainty of yesterday, i control my words hopefully towards tomorrow. what lives on, beyond the physical? beyond the memories? you left us behind with lessons and these will live longer than any of us.
the overarching lesson i have learnt from you, wakhile, is to let go. in the first two years that i knew you, you taught me to let go of inhibitions and pre-conceived notions. later, you taught me to let go of any people or experiences that denigrated my worth. you provided love, advice and support as i battled to 'let go' after the passing of my mother. accepting that you have let go is the ultimate challenge. i need to learn how to let you go, too. all the while, i send you love and light.
rest in peace, dear wakhi. i hope that death breathes a new life into your beautiful being. not through your lungs, but through your spirit. not through your body, but through your soul.
before my mother died, she told me that the body is a cage and the soul is a bird. death unlocks the cage and sets the bird free. i imagine her as a bird, soaring to welcome and protect you on your onward journey. i imagine you, not in your physical form, but as the fearless tiger that dominated your spirit. your actions are boundless, your scope limitless, your liberty endless.
i remain, fondly, your earth-bound butterfly.
do you know that rhyme? the words left my lips in a quiet, continual song. i was sitting on a bench looking at the sky, urging myself to wake from this dream. the cold marble slab kept me company as i waited for photographs to be developed. there was one image i really wanted to see. the last one of you and me.
the photo is a blurr but in my mind, the day at cape point remains as clear as the sun was bright. your denim-clad leg on the left, my skinny-jeaned leg on the right. our bare feet over-hanging a rock, our view of open-ended ocean. next to this blurr, my favourite piece of graffiti captured on a walk back from long street.
life is but a dream. i sang softly, earnestly. i sang facing strangers who passed by: an older leering man here, a couple holding YDE shopping bags there. the repetitive row, row, row kept my mind in the now as i reached to you in the present-past.
the truth is, wakhile, you are not purely past tense. you are enmeshed in the lives of hundreds of people across the earth who love you beyond measure. each one of us are connected to others through threads of individual and collective memories.
we remember that you smelt of baby food. and that hugging you felt like home. we remember the meaningful tattoos that roughened the soft skin of your upper back. we remember your youthful smile, your particularly straight teeth. the earnestness of your eyes. your long locks. your tiny ears. the beauty spot behind your left one. your strong arms. your small toes.
we remember that you while you were alive, you truly lived. i remember you burning half your eyelashes off in an overzealous moment with a lighter. i remember you biting part of your tongue during a rugby game and healing it by simply cutting off the hanging piece – with scissors – because “doctors are charlatans.” i remember cartoons and custard. i remember laughing. “hilarity has ensued.” i remember you completing my sentences before i begin them. i wish i could remember you back to life.
in writing this for you, wakhile, i have resisted asking why. this single word torments my thoughts of you and i struggle to steer from its downwards spiral. instead of dwelling on the uncertainty of yesterday, i control my words hopefully towards tomorrow. what lives on, beyond the physical? beyond the memories? you left us behind with lessons and these will live longer than any of us.
the overarching lesson i have learnt from you, wakhile, is to let go. in the first two years that i knew you, you taught me to let go of inhibitions and pre-conceived notions. later, you taught me to let go of any people or experiences that denigrated my worth. you provided love, advice and support as i battled to 'let go' after the passing of my mother. accepting that you have let go is the ultimate challenge. i need to learn how to let you go, too. all the while, i send you love and light.
rest in peace, dear wakhi. i hope that death breathes a new life into your beautiful being. not through your lungs, but through your spirit. not through your body, but through your soul.
before my mother died, she told me that the body is a cage and the soul is a bird. death unlocks the cage and sets the bird free. i imagine her as a bird, soaring to welcome and protect you on your onward journey. i imagine you, not in your physical form, but as the fearless tiger that dominated your spirit. your actions are boundless, your scope limitless, your liberty endless.
i remain, fondly, your earth-bound butterfly.
Monday, April 18, 2011
jozi is...
...big. seriously.
...the skyline from my balcony.
...highway - mall - highway - mall - highway...etc.
...surprisingly, trees. lots of trees.
...nothing without chinatown.
...spending a fortune on taxi cabs. but also finding that one driver who charges with absolute empathy.
...conversations with taxi drivers about jozi back in their day - seeing snippets of the past through the eyes of the people.
...being paranoid about walking home after dark. keeping two locks on the front gate. only to find that your house mate has been stealing from your bedroom all along.
...driving home with flirtatious police to take said house mate to jeppe police station.
...finding perfect pasteis de nata in a portuguese pastry store on queen street.
...being anonymous enough to sing 'price tag' out loud on the walk from work.
...meeting a blind man who pushes his wheelchair-bound friend around the hilly suburb of kensington.
...driving from sandton to kensington and getting lost in alex along the way.
...similarly - driving to and around lesotho without a problem - and then getting lost for an hour in downtown jozi on the way back.
...the carlton centre.
...that statue of the pink pig on a roof close to the inner city.
...taking an entirely impromptu trip to swaziland and mozambique. in one weekend.
lastly, my favourite -
...being greeted by strangers on the street.
...the skyline from my balcony.
...highway - mall - highway - mall - highway...etc.
...surprisingly, trees. lots of trees.
...nothing without chinatown.
...spending a fortune on taxi cabs. but also finding that one driver who charges with absolute empathy.
...conversations with taxi drivers about jozi back in their day - seeing snippets of the past through the eyes of the people.
...being paranoid about walking home after dark. keeping two locks on the front gate. only to find that your house mate has been stealing from your bedroom all along.
...driving home with flirtatious police to take said house mate to jeppe police station.
...finding perfect pasteis de nata in a portuguese pastry store on queen street.
...being anonymous enough to sing 'price tag' out loud on the walk from work.
...meeting a blind man who pushes his wheelchair-bound friend around the hilly suburb of kensington.
...driving from sandton to kensington and getting lost in alex along the way.
...similarly - driving to and around lesotho without a problem - and then getting lost for an hour in downtown jozi on the way back.
...the carlton centre.
...that statue of the pink pig on a roof close to the inner city.
...taking an entirely impromptu trip to swaziland and mozambique. in one weekend.
lastly, my favourite -
...being greeted by strangers on the street.
prelude to a post
i am not fond of statistics, but:i moved to johannesburg 136 days ago. i have spent 91 of those days, including weekends, at work.
i am 24 years old and i have 24 grey hairs. the number of grey hairs on my head correlate with the number of weekends i have spent at the office instead of exploring johannesburg.
i feel the need to counter these troubling statistics with words. i need to write about what jozi has meant to me in the past 136 days despite the daily grind and grey hairs.
there was a time in my life when the only grey hairs i noticed covered my grandmother's head. when we visited her in iran, one of my highest priorities was to walk to the corner store and buy turkish "love is" bubblegum. each chewy cube came wrapped in a liner that made a curious proclamation about love. i would collect pieces of what "love is" in my pocket throughout the holiday.
in a similar vein, older me wants to collect pieces of jozi in her pocket - to write of moments that resonate with my definition of johannesburg. to remind me of my transient place in this city. hence, this post.
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