scheming in my pretty little notebook

There have been occasions wherein I have wondered about a variety of things as with all human beings, and I get struck by the urge to write them down. Usually, actually almost always, I score these deep thoughts in the middle of a road (literally) I’m crossing, or anywhere really, provided there is nowhere for me to write. So they end up floating around like cosmic rays in the universe, because as soon as I sit to write, they’ve got someplace else to be.

Today I’m lucky, I’m in the right place, so at least I get another post. I didn’t get to reading that editorial on making every sentence “at least good”, but I’ve read through the first paragraph, and I think none of those ones can be described as “bland, slack, utilitarian sentences”. Particularly if you think in images, like Dinah (it occurs to me from the number of times she gets mentioned on my posts that I need more friends). Anywhoo, I mentioned last time that I was supposed to be writing about things you cannot change, and now seems as good a time as any to get started down that crazy path. 

In other news, being an editor is fun, last time I made it sound like a really lousy job, but really, being an editor is a lot of fun. In fact, if I could be an editor for the rest of my life I would die a happy human. Like, don’t even pay me, just lemme go at people’s words with a thousand question marks and that forbidding red coloured font. Or let me be a teacher, so I can write things like these on the scripts of unsuspecting youngsters:

I had a teacher in primary school, or was it high school… I want to go with high school because chances of scoring zeroes on a test were higher in high school, but then I also want to go with primary school because I have just the teacher to fit that profile: one Mr. Wamae of Kiswahili. Anywho, whenever someone got a zero on the test, he went ahead to draw it as a crying face and happily announce it to the class when the scripts came back.

I found the concept so hilarious, so it was no surprise that when I got to high school and some nice boy from some school wrote me letters massacring, butchering, annihilating and decimating (thank you Thesaurus) the English language I was in heaven. We (in the interest of privacy I won’t mention your name) took red pens and went to town on letters we received, translating their words to hilarious pictures and laughing some more. It wasn't very nice, but I was 15 in Form 2 and I had no sense of tact whatsoever. 

As a side note, I’m beginning to zero in on the reasons I’m still single. And as a second side note, someone should have seen that and told me I was born to be an editor. Life might have been very different. So back to the things I cannot change, (this was supposed to be a serious post). 

I have and not once in the throes of anguish wondered (TMI ALERT!!) why endometrial linings have to exist. Why doesn’t the body have a mechanism to build one only after fertilization has occurred? Or why, like cows and other normal mammals, didn’t we just land an oestrus cycle, where the thing gets magically reabsorbed if fertilization doesn’t happen? You probably already know when exactly these thoughts plague me. 

Job is one of those deep thinking, philosophical people who quotes Leo Tolstoy and Bob Marley in the same conversation as you casually walk around in Kahawa Sukari. It’s interesting because he’s been dating this girl Naomi since we were in first year, and she has the memory and concentration span of a goldfish. A very beautiful, sweet, mandazi-brown Taita goldfish who I’m supposed to be having icecream with tomorrow. 

Anyway, Job told me once that life and relationships are about whose crap you’re willing to take. He said Bob Marley said that, and I have yet to confirm it for myself. I have a feeling he said it because he’d kept me waiting for an hour, but I have been thinking about it from time to time. And too about Danielle's statements. The spirit of them anyway, rather than the stark reality, hers is too, too something, severe maybe .. or too harsh, I think:

You can plan and scheme and write in a neat little notebook. You can create numerous lists that await the swift line of completion, but it won’t matter. Nothing will end up the way you thought it would. Things will happen that you couldn’t have possibly foreseen. Life doesn’t care about the plan. The scheme. Your neat notebook. Or your fifty lists.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m going to have kids, and what they’ll be like. I stopped taking that as a right, owing to a series of shifts within my circle of friends, and Nancy Leigh DeMoss. Sometimes I wonder what marriage will be like, and I get scared. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen a little bit of desolation and crap, haven’t we all. Maybe it’s because on occasion I have the disposition of a conservative educator in the 1960s, with thick glasses and a tight severe bun at the back of the head, telling children to get their minds off the clouds. Like Marilla Cuthbert in “Anne of Green Gables” which I’m now reading. 

You know, it’s an honorable thing to be a parent, it’s the greatest responsibility on earth, and apparently the hardest. You can do everything right, and they still might not turn out how you'd hoped. But heaven knows you won’t. You’ll second guess every decision you ever made, you’ll make so many mistakes, and you’ll try formulae until it hits you that no two kids are remotely similar. And then you’ll eventually have to let them go and make their own mistakes. 

The reason I wanted to write about this on Sunday was because one of the poets mentioned something about why poor people have the most children. It reminded me of a book I read and this mother who could hardly feed herself had 12 kids, and when she had another someone asked her why. She said that the moment when brought another life into the world, that single moment before all the thinking about how they’ll eat and all the problems, she felt like she did something good for the world. And that maybe she wasn’t a complete waste of clay. So she did it again and again.

Life hardly ever turns out the way we think. I didn’t think I would be here now I know, not in a cocky I’m-better-than-this kinda way, but I just imagined my life would follow a decent path of events, like other normal human beings. But I get what that lady said, and why Rebecca Bloomwood loved shopping so much. I’ve shared this before. 

I think the best way to think about life is to take it like one of your kids. You do what you can to raise them right, you teach them God and ethics and discipline; you prepare them for the future and everything no one prepared you for. But then you’ve got to let go and realize that things won’t always go the way you’d thought. And it doesn’t mean that someone did something wrong, we only do the best we can with the information we have at the time. That’s what life is all about. Now all that’s left is for me to believe that.

In the interest of my 7 desiderata posts, let’s consider this the next installment, even though I’ve had to skip a few lines in between. The rest will come, they will come….

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars;
You have a right to be here,
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

of sundays, voices and utilitarianism

 Disclaimer: A random post if ever there existed one! I'd read on anyway... :))))))))

I haven’t written in a very long time. Not for other eyes anyway. I think part of it may be attributed to the fact that I decided a long time ago that my blog was not going to be a whine page. It was, naturally, soon after I had turned it into a whine page. So the last few weeks have gone by in a blur. Some have been happy, some not so much; most of them have been busy though. And all I need is one week away from writing and pretty soon I’m all about the keeping quiet.

It’s Sunday night. It will be Monday morning very soon. It was a good Sunday, a really good Sunday. Certainly the best Sunday since before that Sunday I was back in Busia with the main man of the hour (that would be the guy leading Sunday service with the mic right outside my ears (not really, but it certainly felt close enough to them)) woke me up with a series of choruses he would sing for exactly one minute at a time. He wouldn’t even allow the congregation to be done with the response, before he juxtaposed (see how I put that there oh-so-naturally) the next ‘number’. He continued to do this for close to an hour. Even mum, who had been trying to sing along as she went about her tasks, got frustrated.

I know I should have been attending service rather than asleep, but I had just travelled 600km roughly, jolted awake every hour or so during the trip by some mishap on the road that forced our driver to employ all his magical emergency braking skills. I was tired. So naturally all sounds that were not of soothing music lulling me sleep-ward were scowled upon. Nonetheless I woke up to contribute to my share of the things that needed doing, after I figured there would be no more sleeping that morning. Mum would prefer if I said it was because I hadn’t after all travelled 600km and survived biting cold for an hour in a cold dark room with strange men to come and sleep. Nary, I had not. Yes, I know that wasn’t a nary situation.

That turned out to be an okay Sunday, despite how it began. But everything about this Sunday was perfect. Mostly though this Unchained Voices double album launch thing I went to at Alliance Francaise. Teardrops and Mufasa, launching their album, Sarabi, H_art the Band, Stacy (whose voice is so gloriously sophisticated, and whose style reminds me of something between Adele and India Arie). Sarabi’s rendition of Amandla was way cooler than what they have on their album. Somehow now I can’t imagine what it would be like if they performed Msalimie live, I think I might swoon. That’s a distinct possibility. I looooooooove Msalimie.

And there was the MC. His name is Elsaphah Njora. Also known as Benjamin from Village Christmas 2010. Youch! He was hilarious. And deep. And hilarious. I’m still smiling. For real he should be the next Groove Awards host. I certainly know if I’m ever placed in charge of planning any event I will be frantically looking for him. Oh, he was amazing.

So back to why I haven’t written in a while. To illustrate my point, I’m going to share a paragraph I got from my research of the first article I ever wrote for Martin: "How to write a good article". By the way, #someoneTellMartin to change that topic, yaaaye. Anywho, paragraph, if I can find it:

I was the language crank, the one who swooned over sentences. I could forgive much in a book if it was written with force and beauty, if its story was told in a voice unlike anything I’d heard before, if the writer was finding new and mesmerizing ways to employ the same words that have been available to all American writers for hundreds of years. I tended to balk if a book contained some good lines but also some indifferent ones. I insisted that every line should be a good one. I was—and am—a bit fanatical on the subject.       ~Michael Cunningham~

Yaaaaay, found it! You can read the full article , and if you hope to ever be any good at writing, I’d strongly suggest that you do. Not that I have done much of what the good people say, but it’s got some valid points one ought to go back to from time to time (added to list of pinned tabs). 

When my mother was in college she wrote an essay on Shakespeare once in her English class. She scored 18 out of a possible 20. The lecturer was known to be quite stingy with marks (I know what you’re thinking; parents say things like that all the time). Well, dad corroborates the story, and thinking that they sat down thirty years ago and plotted to mislead us with such tales seems to be too much trouble. Ergo, I believe them. Also I saw the essay. Yes, she kept it. Not just for the marks, but because after giving her that mark the lecturer went ahead to write “I am tempted to give you a much higher mark blah blah”. 

The point was not that my mother was a brilliant writer, even though she is. The point is that those are the people who raised me. When you get used to a certain standard of grammar, finesse and quality in writing, you cannot help but become an editor. So I am one. Unfortunately it’s the reason I’m also afraid of writing. I have written a few okay pieces in my day. I consider this one to be one such, flowing with the ease of a river moving downstream. 

But more often than not, I feel ill equipped to maintain the standard I have set for my writing. I know that if I open my mouth, I may score a few great sentences, but most of them will be “bland, slack utilitarian” sentences that “serve no other purpose than to transport the reader from point A to point B”. Michael again.  Therefore I keep quiet. Until the urge hits again like a bathroom break, and I cannot sleep for all the itching in my fingers. And I go at it on a Sunday-almost-Monday night-stroke-morning. 

And all of a sudden, the universe in no longer so skewed upon its axis. The reason I wanted to write this piece in the first place was to talk about things you cannot change. I won’t be doing that. Because these are 1000+ words. It is sufficient. But now you have a reason to return next time. I’ll go read that editorial so my sentences can remain as intriguing. Hopefully.

too often scars

“The marks humans leave are too often scars.” 
~John Green~

“Hey!”

“Hi, how are you?”

“I’m well, and you?”

“Fine thank you. How've you been...”

I’ve been working on a concept. I have yet to come up with a real name for it, or chance upon what other people have called it, since I doubt I’m the first to think about it. However, for today’s purposes I’m going to call it the ‘one good turn’ theory.

One good turn (for today) is doing what is expected simply to add a plus to your list of pluses, or perhaps negate a minus. So that you can walk away patting you back feeling like an exemplary human being. or at the very least an okay person. And dare the universe to repay your kindness a hundredfold. Like that conversation. That’s how hallows go, depending on what side I'm on; it’s become so ingrained that most of the time I’m doing it on autopilot. On some days, I mean to actually know how you are, but there are times really it’s an autopilot mode response. Don’t give me those eyes, you know it’s true.

One good turn is passing by that guy and tossing a coin into his little cup. Hell, if you’ve been extra bad (hence extra guilty) or extra good (hence extra magnanimous) it might even be a note. So you can add another thing the universe owes you. Like today you have transformed the universe and done your share to alleviate human suffering. And the universe must not fail to see that. Like in the background there should be a big choir singing Handel’s ‘Messiah’ as you walk away. Okay, that last part is a bit much, but you get my drift.

The reason I’m thinking about that tonight is that I recently mended fences with an old friend. It wasn't an exactly friendly parting and we hadn’t spoken in forever until a couple of weeks ago when apologies were poured out by the torrents and promises were made. And life was back to normal. But I knew it would happen. We’d slip back into the normalcy that was there before. And not the good kind of normal either, the uppity kind.

“The worst type of crying wasn't the kind everyone could see--the wailing on street corners, the tearing at clothes. No, the worst kind happened when your soul wept and no matter what you did, there was no way to comfort it. A section withered and became a scar on the part of your soul that survived.” 
~ Katie McGarry~

Because you see, they weren’t apologies to reinstate the friendship for its sake. It was a therapeutic move. To purge the conscience of the weight, to gain some relief. I said sorry, she said it was okay, now we’re friends. We’re good. Cased closed. One less thing to worry about. Hhhmmmm…. It’s human form I guess. I have this other theory, that life is about those who give and give, and those who take and take. So are human interactions. It’s one of those things, just like the reacher-settler phenomenon people don’t usually want to believe. I don’t know why I’m mentioning that; maybe because I feel done in. With giving. And being the bigger person. And being nice. Much good I have been done for all of it. I'll just shop.

A few months ago I was going to write about forgetting. Just forgetting as a concept. You know, past pain, past drama. I had just started doing my research (occasionally I’m not just blabbing from the abundance of my thoughts :)))). And then the news about my friend’s passing came, and I abandoned that for whatever I ended up sharing last month.

Do you ever wonder what would life be like if time didn’t heal everything? I wonder sometimes. If you could remember every single thing with the same rawness as if it was yesterday? In medicine there is this ailment called  the ‘broken heart syndrome’, it’s failure of the literal blood pumping organ, brought on by having your other heart broken, like by a boy or loss or something. If one event, like having a boy tell you that he doesn’t think it’s working , can cause your heart to fail, wouldn't we all die really young?

Would we suffer pain and more pain until we dropped dead? Would those people who have higher thresholds for pain live longer? Would have the human species survived?

Forgetting is a gift, it’s a privilege, and sometimes it’s all you have. Knowing that no matter how much pain you feel right now, no matter how insurmountable the mountain of distress, there will come a day when it won’t be so bad. It will just be an event in the annals of your life, and then it won’t be even there anymore, towed away to make room for new things.

“The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd - The longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world’s existence. All these half-tones of the soul’s consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are.” 
~Fernando Pessoa~

Well, it’s just that sometimes forgetting is easier on some than others. Which is why hypnotists have a job at all. I’m thinking about that, going for hypnosis. I hear you should carry someone along so that you aren’t subliminally told to do anything weird. I’d carry Dinah along, she knows karate and her eyes can get very serious (mean) when she wants. Which of course means that she’d have my back. Which in turn means that she’d talk me out of it before the words came from my mouth.

But there is a word for this feeling: defeated. It’s what you get after a whole series of broken-sciencey things slapping you across the face in rapid succession. Like Barney did Marshall with the three slaps of the slap bet. Like what point is there anymore, you know. Not in any I want to be dead sorta way. Just, I dunno, just defeated. Even the girl with all the logic in the world can’t get over this one. And too afraid, maybe  proud, to ask anyone. So she tries to not go completely down, over and over again. Perhaps one day a sun ray will shine with her clarity. Every dog has its day, after all. 

But oi, Lord, shall ever a break be caught....

maybe in another life

Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Living with an eclectic part vegetarian is really honing my culinary abilities. That and my mother’s penchant for never wanting to eat the same thing twice. Which makes it impossible for me to draw up a mental menu and just go with it come the day. I think I’m going to be one of those Internet recipe mums, using things like aubergines and watercress and making baked dishes for dinner, complete with dessert hopefully, which I think is awesome. Anyway. Now to begin.

I used to love watching One Tree Hill because it had the blueprint of the place I wished I grew up in. And very wise monologues. Where you had the same friends since nursery school and you could walk around at two am and not worry about muggers.  I very much doubt that anyone in Kenya can have that… maybe if you live in Nyayo estate you have a shot. For some reason I do miss my childhood friends; my runs around the universe would begin shortly after, but for those 7 years, I was with the same people and it seemed like nothing would ever change.

Funny, that life seems like nothing I ever lived, sometimes I can’t remember what was real and what no. But they were some fun years, even though I doubt I’d take them back for free. It’s true though; there will always be a greater or lesser person than yourself. I have a good memory (mum doesn’t think quite so). Faces, names, numbers, I carry them all in my head, plus a bunch of mundane details about their lives no should ever have to remember. Once I realized this (alert: sounds like those kids who wear ‘different’ like a badge and give speeches about being different) I sort of thought it ran through the ranks. Heaven forbid I should have thought myself special.

I don’t mind it much, I can reconstitute my phonebook fairly solidly after five different incidents, and it always helps when you’re stranded, perhaps because of the aforementioned incident. until I discovered it's not an everyone thing. Took me a while to stop begrudging people for not being the same way. I think no one escapes the trap of comparison, at least for a while, if not ever. Tonight I’m supposed to be writing about memes, I’m bone tired, slightly under the weather and I’ve got a before dawn start tomorrow. Still. So I read this one (whilst researching meme-like things). That’s how my blog posts always start, can you tell?

Today’s desiderata portion is easy I guess. Avoid loud and aggressive persons. Part of being mellow, if I dare use the term, is being secretly stubborn. Set in your ways. Avoiding confrontation and being silently piqued. In the past I would run and never look back (from those people). Thank heavens I’ve learnt how to cope. But I guess even in my higher state of existence, there are those who can only rightly be described as tedious. I still avoid those. Like the plague. Along with crowds of strange people. I’m a small party kinda girl, where small is two preferably close friends who also know each other. Awkward filler conversations I am unable. :) :) :)

I think everyone should learn how to surround themselves with silence. And how to live in their head. Maybe just not when you’re crossing the road or chopping vegetables. Being with me is something I do, not in any narcissistic way, it’s just, changing location every couple of months, you have to adapt. I did, even though sometimes I miss the company; you see something beautiful and immediately you know someone who would appreciate it just like you but they are too far.

I hope one day I get to live in a safe place, cause I’d really love to take a midnight walk. I’ve always been drawn to the night: the quiet, the peace, the clarity. I’m at my best in the night. Some of my best work happens after midnight. And the stars. And the lights from a distance. Maybe I should go camping. It’s like the best of both worlds. Being out at night and being in at the same time. These concrete jungles we’ve built, no one can even see a single star for all the electricity. You can’t see a nice moon out and stuff like that…

I really want to go for that walk someday. And go to Greenland and see the Northern Lights (and then get out of there really fast). Also, I wish Lucas’s book was a real one; it would be an awesome read. I really am quite tired. 2500 words from me tonight? About memes? Well, if you’re going to be awake all night it might as well be about memes rather than offer courses on Guang Zhou I presume.

Well, that will be all for now. More later. I do wonder what lies ahead. What’s at the end? And I wonder why certain scents refuse to fade. Did you know the nose can identify and store 50,000 different scents? And attach memories to them? Thinking about Lifehouse isn’t quite the thing to do either, much nostalgia.

Let me get my socks and get with the memes. Else Martin won’t like me very much come morning.

Your plans are not the Bible

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.

Let’s pick this up from the top. I tried last week and ended up with a muddled piece of anti-sense no person shall ever read. I am that no person. Okay, it’s been a couple of weeks, I’ve been itching to come back I swear. It so happens that my 7 posts are going to span a couple of months, but eventually I’ll be done. There. Apparently my foot can fit in my mouth after all :) :)

That four personalities chart thingy places me as a melancholic. Mostly that’s true. I’m also a little phlegmatic. I like silence. I work in silence these days for some reason, even though I can get all the music I want. It’s strange for me, because my schooling years I couldn’t abide silence. Mum says people who are afraid of silence are afraid of themselves and their thoughts. So maybe that’s a good thing. I’m beginning piece number one of my Desiderata series on that note.

As a side bar, I have had an interesting couple of weekends. First my five day hiatus at Muki’s which provided the perfect mini-vac from the recent events. And I finally watched my first 3D movie on the second try thanks to Colin. I hope I’m not the last to that party. Transformers 3. It was quite something I guess. The rest of the weekends have been spent around love and friends. Who I cannot be grateful for enough. Also this isn't what we did that Sato

The truth about life I discovered is that it moves on. Whether you want it to or not. Whether you hide or not. Life goes on. And that’s never a bad thing. I’ve been watching this series, and the granny said that life is about solving one problem after another, and then we die. It seems like a pessimistic analysis, but it is not without its truth. Jesus does say Himself that we will have tribulation. Meredith Gray says that you cannot outrun pain. I say that life is as easy now as it’s ever going to be. Wherever you are. Think about it. Really think.

Our dad has finally gotten up. He has finally gotten up on his feet. It’s not complete, but God’s truth, it’s the most amazing thing that’s happened all this year. I think I’ve learnt that we have good friends, my family and I. people who clung on for us when we lost  it. I’ve always believed that that’s how God works. He raises people to cover your back when you can’t have it for yourself. It was amazing. And we give thanks.

Of late I’ve been learning how to let people be themselves, and let people run their own lives the best way they see how. Sometimes that doesn’t work out for me; many times that doesn’t work out for me. The best expression of love I know is getting involved. Sometimes that's blurting out the first thought in my head. Sometimes it's fixing. So taking a step back and letting things unfold is new for me. I hope it works out.

I don't know much about speaking to strangers. I would if my life depended on it I guess. But like just because? I doubt it... I've certainly mastered that art of self-company, maybe a little too well... But there is some truth in those lines up there. i shall have to spring forth from this shell and embrace novelties. I’m still bugged all over by this verse

…except that no man can understand the work that God does from beginning to end

I don’t know why, because I’ve always known that. Maybe it’s because it’s the so little spoken of addendum of the ‘He has made all things beautiful in its time’ verse. I came so close… waiting is hard sometimes. Waiting indefinitely is even harder. I usually think myself capable of dealing with most things, but silence and not knowing beat me down. I know every piece of this puzzle will fall into its rightful place at some point. But I don’t know where that is. So it’s hard.

Oswald Chambers says that you pour yourself out for others in the meantime. So that’s my plan. To actively prevent myself from sinking into the shadows. I’m very accustomed to not sinking roots anywhere, or making immediate future plans. I’m trying to make an effort. Nothing come from nothing. Nothing comes for nothing. Your plans are not the Bible. Your happiness is a fringe benefit. His purpose comes first.

It was a remark that cut into me when I saw it, “your plans are not the Bible”. The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord. I know this hasn’t had much to do with the desiderata portion for today, but oh well. Eventually one of them will find a story of best fit. Plus, I need to get ahead with it before silence kills me. He beautifies everything, that's what's so awesome. Nothing is beyond rescue with Him.

living down the bucket list

Grrrrrr…. It’s Friday. Okay, since it’s 1 am, it’s Saturday the 26^th. One of the perks of my theme is that it doesn’t date stamp my posts. It seems like it should still be Friday because I haven’t slept yet. That’s not news I suppose. Yesterday (as in Friday) or earlier tonight, I in my opinion outdid myself with this Biryani thing I’ve been dying to make for like ever. It’s been a while, hence how I forgot the pawpaw part until it was time for blending. But I guess it still turned out amazing. Colin didn’t like the part about the pink rice though. Still.

I’m supposed to be at IMAX. Crossing off the ‘Watch midnight movie and see city in wee hours’ item off my bucket list. We went. We didn’t make quorum. We returned. I did however cross off that ‘see city (girls) in the wee hours part’. They have grit. They don’t feel cold. And walk in twos. Except this one who was on University Way alone. Or maybe she wasn’t alone. But we did get to do this on Standard Street or whichever; the one after Trattoria. It's like a whole different reality, town at these hours. 

I want the green bag. Also, I must go to the supermarket and find out once and for all what this saffron thing is. I’m tired of seeing it in recipes and not knowing what it is. Aunty Beaty says everything in a recipe is important, you miss one, it’s just not the same. She said it about the Biryani recipe she taught me years ago, I’m just extrapolating.

Blogger needs to up their game and ask me what’s on my mind every time I come to write a new post. Like Facebook. That way, I can say ‘desiderata’. That go-placidly-amid-the-noise piece from way back. I’ve been thinking about that all week. I’m going to look it up now, before I say what I’m going to say next. My mouth is too small for my foot ergo.

Good, all done! I’m going to do 7 days, 7 posts, about that really old and clichéd piece. Not sure how yet. And I didn’t say 7 consecutive days. Just 7 posts. Hopefully the days will be consecutive. Knowing myself, I know piece number 7 will come a month after today. It’ still acceptable, methinks. I’ve grown so accustomed to having a Martin deadline to sail through that I’m finding myself writing my own thing more and more often, like when I’m done earlier than usual. The blog’s not complaining, neither is hopefully those angst-y kids in the U.S. of A. with long unpronounceable emails. 

I went shopping yesterday (again, as in Friday). Didn’t find what I set out to look for, came back with a full bag all the same. Feeling reborn. I don’t know what it is about shopping. And I found. The. Most. Gorgeous. Maxi. Dress. Ever. For a bargain. I promise, it is like a dream. Now saying maxi dress reminds of me of these 40 articles I’ve written about dresses this week. And of the proverb ‘Mwamba ngoma ngozi huvuta kwake’. I was writing for a dress site, whose biggest size of dress is a 12 probably. Maybe 14. But I still managed to throw in a few articles about big girl dresses. Mostly because I ran short of ideas at number 23. But also because, you know mwamba ngoma. But you learn something new every day. I’m going to miss this once I have to give it up.

I actually looked up shopping and its psychology. Because I remember the  day the Kindle got lost, I was soooo depressed leaving town. I didn’t want to get home. So I went grocery shopping instead. And I kid not, as I was selecting those tomatoes one by one, I dunno, it’s like the sun started rising again. I didn’t even impulse buy like anything for myself. But just the whole thing… I dunno, maybe it’s gaining back control by taking an issue you can control. I wonder who’s got it. I wonder what they’re using it for. Maybe they sold it to someone else. Hhhmmmm…

Now I’m sleepy. And I have that headachy thingy that comes in between my temples when I’m tired. And this laptop has reached teenage. Tacky? I know. But it’s just not the good little girl I used to tell things and it listens to me. And Job’s not there until next week. I dunno how much more of this I can take. The weekend of 2^nd is going to be really interesting. We’ll see. My stuffed animal needs washing. And I need to go find Mama Debz before my hairs all fall out. Go home Joy, you're drunk.