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.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
the writings on the stall
i have a thing for finding wisdomosity in everyday spaces. a couple nights ago i was at the bohemian in melville and i was captivated by the writing on the walls of the women's toilet:
the dream world seeks a reality of its own and it will break free.
[a letter addressed to a (former?) lover. names witheld.]
grow up, when you you, don't call me, by then i'll be dead/ancient/old. i loved, learnt to live with the hurt and never regretted. it's getting late. the sun has gone down - i can't wait for you that long.
i did love you.
to thine own self be true.
(fieldnotes, 7 january)
the dream world seeks a reality of its own and it will break free.
[a letter addressed to a (former?) lover. names witheld.]
grow up, when you you, don't call me, by then i'll be dead/ancient/old. i loved, learnt to live with the hurt and never regretted. it's getting late. the sun has gone down - i can't wait for you that long.
i did love you.
to thine own self be true.
(fieldnotes, 7 january)
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
a fairytale blogmother
once upon a time, there lived a young girl in a small, peanut-shaped country in the heart of africa. she didn't speak much but she observed her surroundings with a disarming intensity. the girl swallowed sentences regardless of social etiquette: the back of kellogs boxes in the mornings, eyes squinted at pages under late-afternoon shadows, open books next to plates of food at the dinner table...
a good deal of her childhood was spent with a family of seven, five of whom were children bursting with creativity. sadly, the children and their parents kept moving further and further away from the young girl's home. first to a different suburb, then a different city, next a different country, until the little people (who had significantly grown) were living on different continents.
one day, the young girl (you might call her a young woman now) met one of the children of this dear family (you might call her a young woman now) in a cafe at the southernmost tip of africa. they spoke at length and were surprised by the convergences of their seperate life stories: feminism, thoughts on spirituality, an avidity for writing, a passion for social change.
after the young girl/woman left the conversation and the cafe, she felt alive. the world seemed full of possibilities and her head was full of ideas. her hands were buzzing with energy and her heart felt like it was taking up more space in her chest.
a little while later, the young girl/woman came across a pink-and-white-delight. it was love at first sight. as she read, she could taste every single word on her tongue. she could feel the vibrations of each thought as it danced in her mind. she was amazed that this inspirational writing came from a real live human being, a creative child who grew to be, among other things, a faiytale blogmother. she is the reason this blog exists.
a good deal of her childhood was spent with a family of seven, five of whom were children bursting with creativity. sadly, the children and their parents kept moving further and further away from the young girl's home. first to a different suburb, then a different city, next a different country, until the little people (who had significantly grown) were living on different continents.
one day, the young girl (you might call her a young woman now) met one of the children of this dear family (you might call her a young woman now) in a cafe at the southernmost tip of africa. they spoke at length and were surprised by the convergences of their seperate life stories: feminism, thoughts on spirituality, an avidity for writing, a passion for social change.
after the young girl/woman left the conversation and the cafe, she felt alive. the world seemed full of possibilities and her head was full of ideas. her hands were buzzing with energy and her heart felt like it was taking up more space in her chest.
a little while later, the young girl/woman came across a pink-and-white-delight. it was love at first sight. as she read, she could taste every single word on her tongue. she could feel the vibrations of each thought as it danced in her mind. she was amazed that this inspirational writing came from a real live human being, a creative child who grew to be, among other things, a faiytale blogmother. she is the reason this blog exists.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
why s/he must write
imagine what would happen if every wo/man in the world told the truth about his/her life. from the little, seemingly inconsequential truths ("i get giddy when i see heart-shaped mocha foam") to larger truths ("i am a survivor of gender-based violence").
in the past five years, i have written as a student of anthropology. while there is some space for the 'I' in reflexive ethnographies, it is expectedly limited. the strictures of academic writing constrain an outpouring of the self.
i am tentatively beginning to write in more fluid, creative ways to free my academically asphyxiated mind.
i am trying to speak from the heart. it is both harder and easier than i thought.
i have mulled over this entry for (six) months because i keep asking myself why - why this urge to write? what lies behind this instinctive sharing of fragmentary truths with any searchers who serendipitously stumble on this screen-space? (long sentence!)
i write because i can't not write. hardly eloquent, but it is what my heart murmurs. for now.
in the past five years, i have written as a student of anthropology. while there is some space for the 'I' in reflexive ethnographies, it is expectedly limited. the strictures of academic writing constrain an outpouring of the self.
i am tentatively beginning to write in more fluid, creative ways to free my academically asphyxiated mind.
i am trying to speak from the heart. it is both harder and easier than i thought.
i have mulled over this entry for (six) months because i keep asking myself why - why this urge to write? what lies behind this instinctive sharing of fragmentary truths with any searchers who serendipitously stumble on this screen-space? (long sentence!)
i write because i can't not write. hardly eloquent, but it is what my heart murmurs. for now.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
'suddenly i see'
a whispy white cloth shrouds the cable-car corner of table mountain, poetically censoring the preponderance of tourists in the city. the cloud beckons me to pull out a notebook and pen on oranje street. crossing the entrance to engen, a car almost drives into my thoughts as i scribble about this city, that cloud.
i see...pink vespa...tattooed skin...wire-and-beaded dragonflies...purple all-stars paired with the skinniest skinny jeans over un-skinny thighs. a man sitting on the sidewalk randomly shouts "happy lady!" to me and we exchange greetings. i smile thinking about what My Good Friends would say of this encounter and my mood today: "on sooooome 'suddenly i see'!"
i won't lie. i am enamoured by cape town. as i write, i feel particularly nostalgic. milan kundera reflects on the root of this word, nostaligia: 'nostos' means return, 'algos' means suffering. nostalgia is suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return. i leave the city in seven days. why is there a longing to return before i depart?
with the lens of a lover about to leave her beloved, i aim to write every last day; to write about living, loving and leaving the mother city. writing the city gives me a heightened awareness of is sights and i want to savour every last view that i may have taken for granted.
walking towards buitenkant street, i see the words 'we all share the same sun' chalked under a bridge. i pass a corner that leads me towards my doorstep. here, almost every day, i step over cardboard boxes that provide nightly shelters for people on the pavement opposite parliament. and i wonder if ministers notice - let alone discuss - the citizens that sit, sleep and live in front of their unseeing eyes.
good evening, cape town. six days to go.
(fieldnotes, 19 november)
i see...pink vespa...tattooed skin...wire-and-beaded dragonflies...purple all-stars paired with the skinniest skinny jeans over un-skinny thighs. a man sitting on the sidewalk randomly shouts "happy lady!" to me and we exchange greetings. i smile thinking about what My Good Friends would say of this encounter and my mood today: "on sooooome 'suddenly i see'!"
i won't lie. i am enamoured by cape town. as i write, i feel particularly nostalgic. milan kundera reflects on the root of this word, nostaligia: 'nostos' means return, 'algos' means suffering. nostalgia is suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return. i leave the city in seven days. why is there a longing to return before i depart?
with the lens of a lover about to leave her beloved, i aim to write every last day; to write about living, loving and leaving the mother city. writing the city gives me a heightened awareness of is sights and i want to savour every last view that i may have taken for granted.
walking towards buitenkant street, i see the words 'we all share the same sun' chalked under a bridge. i pass a corner that leads me towards my doorstep. here, almost every day, i step over cardboard boxes that provide nightly shelters for people on the pavement opposite parliament. and i wonder if ministers notice - let alone discuss - the citizens that sit, sleep and live in front of their unseeing eyes.
good evening, cape town. six days to go.
(fieldnotes, 19 november)
Thursday, July 29, 2010
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