Its only words, and words are all I have...

Music isn't my first love, heck for the longest time it wasn't even a love. So it's really weird, to me at least, that I seem to have this musical love affair going on in my life at the moment...perfect example, my post titles.

I'm a book person, always have been, hopefully always will be. I have been known to throw tantrums if I find myself without reading material. As a child I fought wars with KK over who got to read a book first. Once I even got my poor mama to phone around late at night looking for a book for me to read...she found me one because she knew no one was sleeping that night if she failed.

Then Steve Jobs came along with the damn Ipod and made it easy for me not only to access music but to carry it around with me. Also I could download a song without buying the whole album...damn him!!! So now I find myself cheating on books with music. And what's worse is that I'm listening to all kinds of music, I'm giving all and sundry a try. I never did that with books....Stephen King books...over my dead cold body will you catch me reading one, and never ever again will I pick up a Danielle Steele. As for James Patterson....hmmph he's on my ish list with his damn Alex Cross (seriously I refuse to believe that dude is black!!!!) and lets not even mention the one where Alex Cross goes to Nigeria.

But music...look at me buying Vivaldi's Four Season's (Spring rocks!) in one moment and then Artful Dodger in the next (re-e-wind, let the crowd say bo...lovely memories). So I'm definitely not a music snob though I stopped short at getting Whigfield's Saturday Night, even though I really wanted to.

However, the songs I like the best are the ones that like I've mentioned before 'speak to me'. Where the words in a line or a verse just strikes a chord within. I remember reading a quote somewhere once that said something like - a song will always outlive a sermon in your memory. 

So I guess that's where my love for books and my love for music connect...words. 

That's it. I'm in love with words.

What a post. Maybe Mr OD is right, I may not be sober tonight :)

Title - Words by Bee Gees.

Regrets and mistakes, they're memories made...

Title is from Adele's song Someone Like You. I've got her album 21 on constant replay at the moment, which is probably a huge mistake as a couple of songs on there are thought provoking...but I'm loving the album too much to stop.

Anyway this particular lyric struck a chord. 'Memories made' to me implies you can think of them with something akin to acceptance or resignment. I'd love to think of my regrets and mistakes like that instead of them being past moments/events which sometimes when remembered still cause deep distress....note slight exaggeration going on here, some of them when remembered just cause deep embarrassment and shall never be spoken of.

But then I'm a believer in fate, whatever things I did or didn't do/paths I took or didn't take, distressing/embarrassing, led me to the life I have now. It's not perfect by any means but it's pretty okay. So I'll be alright with my regrets and mistakes being memories made but being the person I am, I'm sure sometimes they'll still cause distress and most definitely embarrassment.

And to totally digress but inform....writer's block still very much ongoing unfortunately. I have the story ideas, it's stringing the words together coherently that eludes me, very frustrating.

And another digression but one related to original topic....Lady Antebellum's Need You Now just came on Ipod, that line...said I wouldn't call but I lost all control...bad bad seriously bad embarrassing memories!!!

The Sound of Silence

Thanks to a friend I've had this Simon & Garfunkel song stuck in my head for a few days now.

I've always found  it to be quite a depressing song, maybe depressing isn't the right word, but it's one of those songs that makes me think. There are a couple of lines from the song that have always stuck with me - Hello darkness, my old friend, I've come to talk to you again...and...People talking without speaking, people hearing without listening. 

What I love about songs is that like poetry they can be interpreted in a myriad of ways. I always like it better when I don't know what the author intended his words to mean. It's fun letting the music speak to me. This particular song always makes me think of a lonely world. The idea of darkness being an old friend, of having conversations where nothing meaningful is communicated or where the message gets lost because the recipient hears what they want to hear, where silence grows and seems to reign supreme.

Sometimes I feel like I'm in such a world. I find myself guilty of not saying what's really in my mind, of talking without speaking. I'm uncomfortable letting most people know how I really feel. For example when it comes to my health I'll most likely tell you what I think you want to hear, e.g, 'its no big deal, been through it before, its not the end of the world'. I do this for a number of reasons, to make whomever I'm talking to not worry, because I'm not comfortable talking about how I feel, I think how I feel is silly, or I really don't think its the person's business.

This means that whilst I can talk to you for hours, you'll sometimes find I've probably not said anything deep. There are maybe 3 people I feel absolutely comfortable talking to on that level, bffl, KK & Mr OD, and even they have to catch me in the right mood. It's a flaw I'm trying to change because I've got quite a few wonderful people who have my back so to speak.

And now I find myself wondering why I typed this post and wanting to delete it but I made myself a promise when I started the blog, if I type directly onto the blog I must not delete. So it stays. Which is crazy because Sound of Silence was meant to inspire a short story....sorry Mr SD, maybe it still may as thanks to you, flippin song is stuck in my head.

Can I blame this post on post-op drugs or on my lovely FDs bbm asking for posts:)

A man walks down the street, it's a street in a strange world...

‘Yeah we live outside Houston; we’ve got a farm out there. It’s quite a way outside of the city so my dad’s going to come get me from the airport. It’s going to be quite a big change of pace from the hustle and bustle of New York but you know what ma’am, I must say I can’t wait to get back, felt lost in New York, the Big Apple they call it. Ever wondered why they call it the Big Apple? Seems a weird name for a city but to be honest, everything over there felt weird, people not too friendly over there, not like in Texas. You’ll see when you get there ma’am. So what’s it like in London, y’all have got the Queen over there right? Wow a Queen and all, and that Prince Charles fellow with the big ears, funny looking fellow ain’t he, he’s the Queen’s son right, heir to the throne. That mean he’s going to be King of London yeah? He was the one that married that Diana lady wasn’t he? Poor lady, dying like that and leaving them two little boys, so damn sad. And they say it’s the Queen that did it. Any truth in that? Kinda like JFK ain’t it? The conspiracy theories, that’s what they call them conspiracy theories, not like I believe in such, they get so out there, them theories, makes you wonder the kind of minds that come up with such. But I guess human beings gotta come up with something to explain what they can’t explain. So many things that can’t be explained you see and it makes us feel better when we can explain things so we make things up. It’s like them people that say there’s no God, that the rest of us make God up to make ourselves feel better. I can’t take such people seriously see ‘cause of course I believe in God. Don’t know how someone can not believe in God, I mean it’s easy to see he exists and all. You just gotta look out in the world, everywhere you see proof he exists. I mean them that don’t believe will tell you different, they’ll argue about the bad things going on in the world and ask what kinda God will let bad happen, but that’s human beings doing that ain’t it, not God. It’s human beings doing all them bad to each other. Don’t know how people say there ain’t no God, makes no sense for there not to be God. But well there’re so many crazy damn people in the world ain’t there. One’s gotta be careful nowadays with all that goes on, you switch on the news and its one bad thing after another, makes me not want to watch tv anymore. Yep I’ll be glad to get back to the farm, its quiet out there, not too much bad going on there, it makes sense out there on the farm. So you say you’re from London yeah? Here for a wedding you say? Your brother’s wedding? So why’s it in Houston?’ he asked, 

As I open my mouth to finally contribute to the conversation I hear,

            ‘Will passengers please fasten their seatbelts, we are about to begin making our descent into Houston.’

Title - You Can Call Me Al by Paul Simon

We gotta make a decision, we leave tonight or live and die this way...

So there I am listening to music and inspiration strikes whilst listening to Sarah McLachlan's Answer and I find myself reaching for my laptop and clicking on Word Doc....alas after the first few lines are written and deleted I realise it was a fluke.


But then I get a bbm from my bffl who read my blog and liked the stories but hated the non-fiction post i.e the first post and asked that I come out of the dark place...exaggerate much my love? Anyway I decide that just in case she's right and I am in a dark place which is preventing me from being productive it's time to snap out of it.


So I grab my laptop again and force myself to write...and the result, my next short piece. Caveat, its not fiction, its semi-fiction, Now Rome was not built in a day was it? Hopefully proper fiction writing will commence soon enough. It's about a very interesting man I met on a plane ride when I was in America in 2008.


Another caveat, its a very very short piece that has been through very little editing. I am posting it as I wrote it.


Title - Fast Car by Tracy Chapman

One moment in time

Today…

Her eyes are closed to the glare of the dying sun. She is lying back in the boat, humming a song; her arms are stretched over its sides, her fingers are trailing lazily in the water. I lie across from her, our legs intertwining. I can’t stop myself staring at her, from periodically caressing her legs.

I am reassuring myself that she is here, for today she is here. I don’t know what will happen tomorrow but today at least she is here, she is still with me. I wish I’d brought the camera; I want to capture this moment, freeze it in time. I find myself wanting to do that a lot, freeze time. Stop it completely so we’ll always be together. I find myself also wanting to delete time, erase certain moments, those unpleasant moments in life that seem to happen in a second but affect you forever. I would erase such moments; make it so they never occurred.

For instance I would like to erase that awful day. The day the doctor told us that she had glioblastoma multiforme, an aggressive form of brain cancer. I remember sitting in Dr Roberts office, listening to him tell us that the tests had shown that Lisa had a brain tumour, and that it was an inoperable brain tumour. I remember it like it was yesterday, not like the 7 months ago that it really was.

7 months ago…

The doctor’s office is like most other doctor’s offices. Off-white walls with soothing pictures of flowers and streams hung up next to the medical certificate that assures us that he is qualified to give the diagnosis he is currently giving. I want to interrupt, halt him in mid-flow and shout at him like a child to take it back. But I know he is right. We both do, Lisa and I. We have known for a while that something wasn’t right, the headaches that are increasing in frequency, the blurred vision, the dizziness and nausea. This is one time however that I will gladly accept being proven wrong.

            “Do you understand the options I have given you?” the doctor asks, interrupting my thoughts.

I realise that he and Lisa have gone past the diagnosis and are discussing treatment options. Lisa assures him that she does understand and she will get back to him as soon as we have discussed the options further at home. She seems quite calm which is a far cry from what I am feeling. I have hardly said a word since the diagnosis was given and I don’t say much on the car ride home nor for the rest of the evening. I want to say something, I want to reassure my wife that all will be well but I am finding it hard to process anything, I don’t know what to say and so after a quiet supper we go to bed.

It’s 4 am and I am tossing and turning in bed. This has been the norm for me since we got the diagnosis 3 days ago. Giving up on sleep, I decide to get out of bed and head downstairs to the kitchen. I know Lisa is finding it hard to sleep as well but I feel like I need solitude to get myself together before facing her. I am ashamed of myself, of my behaviour for the last few days. I haven’t been there for her, I know I have been in shock but I don’t think that is a good enough excuse for not being there for her. After all she is the one with the tumour and if I am feeling this way, scared, knotted up, confused and angry inside, God only knows how she must be feeling. We both heard the statistics from Dr Roberts, the average life expectancy for Lisa’s tumour is less than a year. The treatment options, the radiotherapy and the chemotherapy, give us maybe, maybe an extra month or two.

For the last few days I have been veering between laughter and tears. Right now I don’t know whether to scream at the gods or throw myself at their feet and plead for mercy. I settle for switching on the percolator and I sit at the island in quiet contemplation. I find I am pleading in the quietness of my heart, asking God to change things somehow, anyhow. A phone call from Dr Roberts saying there had been a mix up with the tests results; a realisation that it’s all a bad dream and I am going to wake up any second and find Lisa sleeping peacefully next to me; anything at all to change things, make this awful nightmare disappear.

I look up as Lisa walks into the room; she pauses at the door and looks at me with a question in her eyes. I hold out my hand to her in silent answer and she steps into my arms. As always I am astounded by the depth of my love for this woman. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever met, and it’s not just her outward beauty, though that’s impressive on its own. Her dark brown hair that falls thick and heavy to her shoulders like a silky curtain, her brown eyes that glow amber whenever she becomes animated, her lips which always seem to be quirked in a half smile like she knows this wonderful joyous secret.

 I fell in lust with her looks but I fell in love with her personality, her character, her essence. Lisa is one of those people who are eternally optimistic; her cup is always half-full. She sees the best in people and the sun is always shining in her world. I’m the opposite, my glass is half-empty and I am always waiting for the other shoe to drop, looking for the pitfalls in every situation and the flaw in every person. She balances me, makes me see that the world is not so dark and I cannot imagine my life without her. I make her sound like she’s perfect but believe me she’s not. She has the fieriest temper this side of the Atlantic, lord knows I’ve been on the receiving end of it many times. And when she lets it loose, it’s a struggle for her to rein it in.

I wish she would unleash that temper now, rage at the injustice of it all. But she’s quiet, standing very still in my embrace. We stay like this for a long time. Eventually she stirs and asks me if we can talk about the treatment options Dr Roberts gave us, so we sit down with our coffee and discuss it.

“Jason…” she says, her voice faltering “I don’t want to have any treatment”.

I stare at her in disbelief.

“What do you mean no treatment?” I ask.

She tells me she’s been thinking about it since the doctor’s office and she feels that since neither the radiation nor the chemotherapy is going to remove the cancer and cure her, she would rather not have them and save herself suffering through the horrible side-effects caused by both.

I want to change her mind, remind her that the doctor said the treatments could add a couple of months to the survival rate but I know it’s futile.  She has that look she gets when she has made up her mind about something, her eyes are fixed squarely on mine and her chin is jutting out slightly.

Inside I am shaking and scared but I smile and tell her I love her and will support her through whatever decisions she makes. She visibly relaxes and asks me with a smile whether I feel like pancakes for breakfast. I am not hungry but I say yes, I can tell she wants some normalcy after the awful few days we have had.

Today…

The sun is shining in the beautiful blue cloudless sky. It’s a glorious day and Lisa wants to take the boat out onto the lake so I am packing a picnic basket.

The tumour has taken its toll on Lisa. She has lost a lot of weight and her creamy coffee complexion has a permanent sallow hue. Her face always has a strained look to it because she gets these agonising headaches. The changes in Lisa are not only physical but mental and emotional as well. She suffers from memory loss and is constantly frustrated when she can’t remember what she’s doing or when words fail her. She’s not as sunny as she used to be so I try as much as possible to be sunny and chirpy for both of us but I am having a hard enough time with it myself, it’s hard watching my wife die slowly before my eyes.

But it’s a beautiful sunny day so we go out on the lake.

I lie across from her in the boat; she looks so peaceful, lying there humming. I feel a little at peace myself, in this boat on the lake. I’ll take whatever crumbs the gods toss my way so I’m grateful for today, for today she is still with me. I only wish I’d brought the camera.

Title- Whitney Houston

The name of the game

The pot was on the cooker, the water was boiling but Etta took no notice. She sat on the stool in the kitchen, lost in thought, staring at the book she held. At first glance she looked like she always did, tired and wrung out. Her head was bent downwards, her shoulders sagged. Her brown plaits were messy, the hands clutching the book were callused with short jagged nails. Her blue checked uniform was rumpled and stained. Today’s stain was courtesy of the palm oil splashes from cooking that morning’s breakfast. But if you looked closely you could see there was something different about her. She seemed to be glowing. Her skin was flushed and her brown eyes were sparkling as she sat remembering that morning’s events.

Early that morning, she had rushed from the parlour where she had been dusting to quickly answer the door as Uncle got annoyed if the doorbell rang for too long. She opened the door, greeted and curtsied like she usually did, her eyes cast downwards, not really taking any notice of who was standing there, waiting to hear whoever it was enquire after whomever they had come to see. But there was no response, so she looked up. It was him and he was staring at her again, looking at her as if he could see her, see Etta. But he didn’t see her she thought resignedly, they never do, so she waited for him to speak. He asked for Uncle so she took him to Uncle’s study to wait but as she turned away to go and resume her duties he called out to her.

‘I have something for you,’ he said opening the bag he was carrying.

He brought out a book, Wole Soyinka’s ‘The Trials of Brother Jero’, the book Aunty had seized from her the other day. She stood still, bewildered, staring at the hand holding the book out to her not quite sure what was happening or what to do.

‘Here,’ he said ‘Take it, I got it for you, I know how much you loved the other one.’

She took it, nodded towards him shyly and ran out of the room.

The water in the pot was hissing loudly, but Etta sat, very still, staring at the book in her hand; a smile playing on her face, wanting to settle but not knowing how. She let her fingers flip through the pages, seeing the words inside race by. She closed it and held it to her chest, her first ever gift, she thought to herself. She didn’t know how he knew about the book or why he had decided to get it for her. All she cared about was that someone had given her something, he had given her something. It was something for her, a gift for her. Someone had noticed her; someone had seen her, seen Etta!


Title - ABBA