I am losing the thread of the cloth I've only just begun to weave. I have 20 pages of written words and no new posts. Words like "marketability" have stunted me. I am losing the voice as my mind goes searching for the ear to whom I speak. I wanted to write for nothing, and now everything has found me; all my desires, wants, ego-thrills, all that bullshit is now cloaking what was so recently a clean, white space. Damn it all to hell-the results of a well trained mind: if it's not academia coaxing me "how can I make sure there is a contextual flow in my writing? Can I find a way to use "once upon a time" in this post? Where is today's story and how does it tie in with the Little One and my history?", it is the hungry, hungry entrepreneur "Does this SELL? Whom to? And for How Much????" Shit. SHIT, and Damn it all to hell, those were just accidents of pure desperation, I was free-falling and now I spend hours looking for adequate references before I make an observation.
I thought I'd find a way to hide from my thoughts, but somehow my thoughts have found me. They keep Her muffled; She is still trying to shout, but they whisper questions that she must first address and slowly the days go by and nothing gets posted. The bureaucracy of thinking; the red-tape of fear; I will go mad if I cannot find away to shed those tiresome policies and guidelines that inhibit my Voice. My Philosopher will punish me ruthlessly if I do not defend her against my own conditioning.
Today a parasite swims around my blood-no seriously, a delayed Christmas present of Malaria...and guess what? I'm LOVING it. Okay, I must confess, loving all that is strong and healthy in my body, loving the the feeling of physical strength does not completely cancel out the perverse enjoyment I get from physical ailments. I, IN NO WAY, crave disease or calamity BUT, have compassion for a mind as wild and uninhibited as mine, like those old school maps of Africa with a big blotch stamped "unknown territory", my mind is a jungle of which there is still much to discover, and in the process of carving out paths and finding direction, I find respite when my mind is forced to focus on some more...physiological struggle. Whether that makes sense or not, it is a truth I've known on the very rare occasions I fall sick. But it isn't just this perverse-pulling out gray hairs by the roots/twisting a loose tooth-pleasure, but also my experience of the medical process in Dar, that has me glad I fell sick in the first place. Wowzers and beyond! Just like the flat, smooth rodes and the electricity (you have to pay like crazy for) but which never goes out, the efficiency at the clinic was refreshing and healing simply because it reduced my conditioned acceptance to the ineptitude and negligence found in Kampala.
I will use these days of recovery to indulge my body to the point where my mind gets bored and wanders off, and then...before it come to its senses again...I will write.
Oh! This image of Africa reminds me, I've chosen my next tattoo. I serendipitously found a tattoo artist on New Year's Eve-well it would have been serendipitous except we got delayed with packing the next day and I never went to get it, but I've decided I will not post a photo for this blog until it is done-it is the only image that could possibly make sense...