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Passion. That single moment when everything comes to a standstill and there’s just you and I.

Right now all I have of you are ignited by sweet memories. Sometimes I find myself struggling with the simplest thoughts. Like one drowning I thrash about desperatly for terra firma. For something. Anything to ground me and let me know I am not alone.

Am I alone in this or are you with me?

She said: “I like gold.” I hesitated to reply. What should I say to a woman who liked gold? I thought about it for a while then said: “Yellow or white?” She paused and stared at me. A long hard penetrating stare. As if my head were a coded language and she were trying to decipher its meaning. At last she said: “Black” and nodded contently. I heaved a sigh of relief and we kept strolling along the beach. Shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. So close you’d think we were conjoined twins. Only I had dark kinky hair that hovered above my shoulders while she had black straight hair that dropped to her waist. We were different but you couldn’t tell us apart. It’s hard to tell apart two people whose fantasies and realities weave in and out of one another.

We were alone on the beach except for the crabs and dead fish washed ashore. Without warning she broke away and took off running. Her hair was raised by the wind and her feet kicked up sand. With arms out spread she looked like she was flying. I ran after her until we came upon a sandy cliff that overlooked the sea. She stood at the edge and peered off into the sea. I was out of breath while she was as calm as the horizon’s lips. Her dress was matted against her body by the wind.

She said: “I love the sea.” And the sea was beautiful. Crimson from the horizon where the sun was dipping down was diluted to heavy green and eventually blue as the waves washed unto the shore. And I said it exactly as I thought it. But she said: “No. It is because she belongs to everyone.”

We were alone on the beach except for the crabs and dead fish washed ashore. A stray bit of paradise hiding in the bushes populated mostly by campers during the weekends. But today was Monday and she must have known it because we were one. She must have led me here knowing what I would do. Because she grabbed unto my arm as I pushed her off the cliff. We both landed in the shallow waters with a loud splash sending crabs scurrying off in fright. Some disappeared into holes while other stopped to stare with righteous indignation.

“Ha! Ha! Ha!.” She laughed with theatrical glee. “I always pictured my own death to be by strangulation. Not drowning. Water in my skin, water in my hair, water in my lungs. To be found by a local fisherman bloated up. Somehow the image doesn’t seem too romantic.”

“Come, lets go home.” She said taking me by the hand. We splashed about in the water before emerging on level shore. Together we strolled to where our back packs lay. Gathering all our stuff we hopped on our rented bicycles and cycled back into town. Quietly we deposited them and returned to our separate homes. It will be ten years later before I saw her again, in flesh. But for ten good years she’d haunted my dreams.

When the dance is over

And the people long gone home

I’ll stay in the empty arena

On the earth so trampled

Footprints mix and mingle

That it’s hard to tell who’s who.

I’ll stare at the sky

Open and welcoming

I’ll look beyond the horizon

Unknown and beckoning

I’ll search my memories

Tittering on the eaves of my minds eyes

I’ll wonder if it all just happened

Did we not just dance?

Did you not walk up to me, saying nothing

But your outstretched hands saying it all

Did I not say a word,

But was led like a sheep

And in your arms I fell

To your tune I swayed

To your steps I danced

Rocked by your moves, I obeyed

Even the sky bristled in abeyance

Even my smile has an imprint of you

It can’t be, but its too late.

The heart is a wonderful thing,

When it’s happy the whole world sings,

It whistles a beautiful tune walking down the street,,

Flashes a warm smile to the uncertain stranger,

Promises the wayfarer some food and a blanket,

Swears eternal love to the yearning lover,

Sweeps up children in its strong arms,

And smothers them silly with tender hugs.

The heart is a wonderful thing,

When the heart is unhappy,

Oh, not even heaven gives respite!

Its doors slam shut, its windows hemmed in,

Its eyes well up and its steps heavy,

Suspicious of even a harmless baby’s smile,

The rainbow seems like a malignant spy

It builds a fort around itself

And in seclusion wrings itself lifeless

Bleeding to death in drops of sorrow

It seems to be inevitable for brides to cry on their wedding day. I didn’t understand at first. I attributed their breakdown to the culmination of all the stress that led up to the day. Plus the sheer euphoria, the eventual backlash of all the emotional spices that get thrown into the cauldron of a wedding soup. Everything that has a beginning must surely have and end, I reasoned. Brides cry because after smiling the whole day, there’s nothing else to do. With that I concluded it would be silly to cry on my own wedding day.

That morning I woke up gloriously happy. If it were possible I would have skipped all the way to the moon, done a little dance as I orbited it and skipped right back. It felt almost surreal. At one point it was as if some other ‘self’ had inhabited my skin and I was watching in from the outside.

I was still doing great until I was about leaving with my new family when my sister in law said, ‘Won’t you give your mum one last hug.’ That did it for me! Before you could say, ‘wedding cake!’ tears were streaming down my face. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I can say I honestly did not know where that came from. That statement hit me and it hit me hard.

It dawned on me I was leaving home for good to be someone’s wife. No longer would my my mother be there to comfort me; I would have to be the one comforting others. I would have to be strong, have faith, resilient... I would have to be a wife, a mother and a sister.

No, it was not a sad farewell but one that would take me down a never trodden path. What lay at the end of the tunnel were not concretes I could hear, taste, smell, feel or see. But hopes and hopefully sweet memories. I sobbed in the car on the way home. While consoling me he joked that his responsibilities as a husband had started. If it was possible to roll my bleary eyes then I would have. But my emotions were like sore muscles..

By the way, I heard most men are angered by a weeping wife. They think it puts a damp on the occassion. My only response is; wait till your daughter is getting married. Then perhaps, maybe, you'll have an inkling as to why a woman weeps.

Some people like to splatter color everywhere, especially the bright ones; marigolds, jasmines, chrysanthemums, bougainvilleas, sunflowers, and flame of the forests… you name it.

Reds, yellows, pinks and sky blues scream out at you, assaulting your retina with their rainbow brightness. Others prefer colors that embody the evasive and hidden. The ‘emptied’ ones, void of everything else except the pervading mood. To be more precise, the dark colors. The grays, deep greens, maroons and blacks.

Unfortunately dark colors do not have a good track record historically and culturally. Psychologically too, I’m sure. So much stigma and negative emotions have come to be attached to them.

To me there are no other colors to be loved. They are more solid in contrast to bright colors which seem superfluous and lack depth. I feel I can hold a dark color and mould it to my liking. But with a bright color, it would sidle out of my hands. And being clumsy I would twist and tumble here and there in my attempt to catch it only to end up making a fool of myself. Where bright colors reveal flaws dark ones obfuscate them.

Yellow screams, “Look at me!”

Black, in a regal tone says, “I am an element of my own!”

Black shoes

Black socks

Black skirts

I cherish the dark of the night and the secrets she harbors in her belly. The moon proudly occupies her throne, outshining the specs of stars strung all around. I relish how small they must feel with ‘her’ around. Reminded of my own insignificance, I feel smaller.

Black lips

Black hair

Black nipples

Black beneath my fingernails puts me off, but black on a lover’s skin is like icing on cake, an enthralling sweetness for whose anticipation is not dulled by its knowing taste. Black you can rake your fingernails over without its color coming off. Natural black. Pleasurable black, when the right senses are tickled.

Black cars

Black curtains

Black carpets

Black musings...

I had a friend who is very fond of cats (and she should never ever read this!). Well, one cat in particular named Napoleon. How he ever got that name beats me because he looked anything like a Napoleon. A Napoleon would have been charismatic, well groomed, handsome, with rippling muscles and oozing charm out of every pore. Nay this Napoleon looked more like a sumo wrestler on four legs covered with gray fur. He always had a slovenly look in his eyes, like a drunk who hadn’t completely slept off his drunkenness. And while cats are supposed to be agile and active, this one spent most of its days sleeping, rolling around, and when not eating, pawing at portions of the rug till it was threadbare.

Unattractive as he was, Napoleon was of the same breed as that famous cat on the cover of Friskies which I’m sure has a dashing sounding name like ‘Thunder Breed’ or ‘Royal Paws’. I suspect this is why my friend felt she should show him off to everyone that came around. Though I don’t care to know and will NEVER bother to ask. Last thing I need is allowing a cat lover (or any thing-lover except, of course, bibliophiles) unlimited access to my limited reserves of patience.

Anyway, back then I used to dread visiting her because of Napoleon. The first thing that hit me when I stepped in her house was that cat smell. Or should I say that distinct animal smell found in any home that houses pets. That is enough to make me turn around and take off running. They make my nose hairs curl up and shrink further into my nasal canal.

And if that wasn’t bad enough as soon as I sat down on the couch strands of hair would come wafting into my nose, filling up the air and settling all over me. You can’t get comfortable pulling cat hairs out of your ears. (Oh and when you look in the mirror and wonder why you’re going gray in your twenties, don’t be alarmed, its just old Napoleon’s shedding!)

I would still be grappling with these when Ana would plunk Napoleon on my lap. What was any understanding friend to do? I stroke the sucker. He spreads himself out and a look of intense pleasure spreads all over his face while he purrs with satisfaction. With each stroke more hairs come out. I endure it all while pontificating Napoleon’s cuteness and urging my friend on about him – what he eats, his favorite toys, his sleeping habits, etc this she does with ecstatic delight.

One day Ana called me almost bursting with excitement, “Napoleon is a dad! Napoleon is a dad!” she yelled down the receiver. I almost snorted and asked her how the fat cat ever got it up. And which she cat was stupid enough to look twice at him. Instead I heard myself saying, “That’s great! I’m coming over to have a look.” It was the natural thing to do, as a friend, but I swear sometimes I just know how to do myself in.

Or so I thought.

For the first time I didn’t want to take off running the other direction from her house. The kittens were the cutest things I ever saw. Seven tiny brown fur balls latched on to their mother’s nipple; diligently sucking away (I know this will sound stupid if female cats have only six nipples).

Alright, so Napoleon wasn’t that bad after all. That was why I was able to forgive him the day he scratched my arm. Never touched him again. I guess the cats sixth sense finally saw through my plastic smiles because I had some evil thoughts. We went our separate ways henceforth.

Strictly with first loves, the pangs are felt for life. Sweet memories they are, of coconut kisses and moonlight rendezvous.

She was a flawless beauty and he was a hapless poet. Inspired by the glint of her eyes sonnets were composed.

She was a realist, with a mind firmly planted in the planes of logic; he was a nihilist whose truths were to be found in cherry blossoms and the turning of seasons.

That was the attraction, but as time worked its tendrils and they saw through eyes tainted not with love, all that was left was nothing.

Theirs was never meant to be

Looking through my writings the striking familiarity of expressions stick out like a sore thumb. I used to mentally rap other writers for using the same words and phrases. In Sue Townsend's Confessions of a Middle-aged Woman she kept at using 'virgin' to describe pristineness. The sheets were virgin white, the writing pad she was about to write on was virgin white, the bathroom tiles were virgin white. Though I read it two years ago I remember very clearly how sickened I felt, though no fault of hers. Another novel I read was ornery. Yet another was ivory. Between both books, anything that wasn't ornery was ivory. The blasted words kept showing up every five pages or so.

Innocently we all do it. It's as unique a flaw to writers as fingerprints and tongue patterns are diverse among people. Funny though, I hardly see such repetitiveness among more erudite authors. Toni Morrison, Woke Soyinka and Chinua Achebe (all my favorites if you haven't guessed) for instance, their vocabulary is so variegated that repetitiveness are seldom. Or maybe I enjoy it too much to notice.

So how does one not get gored by the bull of repetiveness?

Firstly, widen your vocabulary. Be a gregarious bibliophile. Read and vary the subject matters. Look up new words and USE them in your own writing. Even if it's in experimental works the word will become a part of you eventually. 

Secondly, fight your instincts. I personally tend to begin describing scenes with the sky. Even if the characters reside in an underground cave I'll inevitably talk about what they'll see if one of them decided to make the five mile hike to the surface of the earth and look up to the skies. Try something new!

Thirdly, new angles. Describe scenes and characters differently than the last time you did. If you read three romance novels back to back you'll notice the similarities in descriptions so much so you could accurately guess what will be written next. But if you ocsillate between several genres you'll start to see fresher angles. 

Lastly, WRITE.

*Never could pronounce poignant without feeling like I'm unnecessarily pouting my lips*

I woke up past nine when I was supposedly to be up by five writing. I'm trying to spend three hours each day putting words to paper. Practice they say makes perfect. Reason tells me to start small... say twenty or thirty minutes per day. But when have I ever been a reasonable woman where my writing is concerned.

When I did get up and make myself more human I sat down to write. Feeling restless I migrated to the bed. My matress is the hard type so its easy to write propped on my elbows. I got down the first paragraph of what will be a story. The fiction writers say its better to write around a character than a plot. So I'm starting it with a nosey girl. Before figuring out what was interesting enough for her break into her sisters room I started craving a book. Writing longhand is just not for me. Its frustrating when my mind moves faster than my hands. Whoever invented pen and paper!

I found Song of Solomon and could think of only one word; poignant. The first time I read it I felt allowed. Toni Morrison had a way with words that assures me of normalcy; as abnormally insightful as they are. She enriches my imagination. Her books do for me what fertilizer does to withered cabbage. She's the only author whose books I've read more than once. Aside from Christina Schwarz's Drowning Ruth. The Bluest Eyes, Sula, Beloved, Tar Baby, Jazz... have all touched me in the deepest ways. The only one I'm yet to lay my paws on is The Color Purple. I've seen the movie a hundred times but that has not diminised my yearning to lap up the pages of the book.

My husband felt reading too much dampens my own creativity. I tried explaining the more I read the more I'm propelled to write. After reading a certain number of books writing literally grips me. It consumes my mind and I will not be 'OK' untill I've let it all out. Times when I can be quite the grump.

I'm surprised I can put it down and go blogging.... see what I said about reading!