(Ah...what can I say today?
I remember talking to my unhappy boarding buddie today before I left school. The sky was fast darkening, and long before the threat of rain dwindled down to only mild existential angst. It was a beautiful and sad late afternoon, and when my mom finally arrived I didn't quite wish to leave. My boarding buddie hastily removed the shirt I lent her to save her skin from the mosquitoes: we both preferred it if my mom did not see this and draw out suspicious conclusions.
Before that I had walked another friend to a combi stop not too far away... and could her the men in their little bus-taxis speeding on; wielding loud and cantankerous car horns... We are talking about 'commitment issues', and heartbreak: this is my fault. She took a picture of a poem from an anthology I was carrying. ('Solitude' by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.) As I watched her go I was reminded of the ghosts that I had told my best friend about, the same ghosts I read about in 'This Side of Paradise' and the same ghosts I feared would frighten me the moment I recalled any word I have written for anyone, anywhere:
CLASSROOMS.
"[and you won't forget any time soon, you will see her ghost, hear her name whisper even during equations, even as you sleep or cannot sleep because you see her eyes, you holding her spectre...asking yourself why and what vision you are seeing... fluttering around like some ghastly butterfly looking for a long dead flower that isn't you... that's how you feel.] "
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| You have to admit that this particular piece of shameless self-promotion is actually relevant to what was being said...anyhow, 'First Adventures In Adolescent Heartbreak' is coming soon to a solipsistic blog near you. |
I had messaged him on Facebook about the ghosts (that exact same message actually) to help him get over his break-up. He thinks that I can give him advice since I have 'experience' in such matters, so I thought it might be a good idea to tell him the blatant and painful truth about all. After all, I am so obviously and shamefully 'experienced'. Unsurprisingly, his response was an insinuation that I should go fuck myself... I cannot blame him, obviously. And even earlier, before the walking my friend to the combi stop I talked to another girl in my Form who happens to have the same French tutor I have. We sat there at Thornhill Primary School, munching on french fries as I told her silly things about how I feel and shit. But that doesn't matter.
Even before that I called my girlfriend on my French friend's phone as my English teacher has confiscated mine for a week, though that's a story for another day. (Regular readers, if I have any, might be confused about WHO this 'girlfriend' is (she is NOT a robot, program, sex doll, book, etc) especially considering all the fuss I make about everything on this blog. To save yourself the trouble it is worth considering the chronological order of the blog posts 'My Bed Past Midnight; You Are Asleep' and 'Second Love.').
It was interesting: hearing her whisper her through the phone...parental fear is a transcendental quality of life. No racial or cultural boundaries can deny a child of parental suspicion and punishment. When will I see her again? I think. She has gone so abruptly, so paranoid thoughts start seeping in...
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| Like I could possibly resist using this picture again. Sorry Tao. XD |
I'm talking to her now as I'm writing all of this. I miss her of course. Yet now I seem to be quite emotionally stunted, having put all my emotional energy into all of this writing in the first place. I'm really sorry for that. I feel like I can be such a horrible boyfriend at times... I wish I could just tell you these things rather than put them up here. Why don't I? I probably should. I should. I will.
...After I'm done posting this blog post.
***
Damn. You're asleep.
...After I'm done posting this blog post.
***
Damn. You're asleep.
But even before this I had-
Fuck it!... This is supposed to be a post about poetry!
Fuck it!... This is supposed to be a post about poetry!
So here we go. )
SOME POEMS FOR A WEEKEND.
Tawanda W.T Mulalu [1997-]
_____________________________
Happy one month darling.
______________________
Tawanda W.T Mulalu [1997-]
_____________________________
Happy one month darling.
______________________
CLASSROOMS.
When eyes meet, lifetimes flicker
into brief birth, in seconds.
They then disappear, switched off
fading from glow as they look away.
And those small daydreams,
memories and ghosts;
diffuse off, dead.
Like momentary winds or clouds
shadowing the sunlight, sweetly.
...or the times I should have
talked to you but didn't.
Instead we had then looked away.
***
I DON'T WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL TODAY.
(or even wake up tomorrow)
(or even wake up tomorrow)
When did life become so mundane;
so lifeless, soulless, uninteresting,
painful.
Was it when God became unreal?
Or when I had started to base everything
around axioms and atoms
around axioms and atoms
neurons and synapses
numbers and words
pen and paper
keyboards and page breaks
dead poets and their self-written eulogies...
then Wolfram and Wikipedia
Newton and Einstein
Socrates and Camus
Hemingway and Fitzgerald
prose and verse
e^(i*pi) and F=ma
me and her
me and you
me and us
me and I...
Or of cloudless skies dawdling in black nothing
with savage stars, drops of white glistening ink,
crudely flicked into existence by old used paintbrushes
Onto a large and empty canvas, once colourless and dull,
from a tin of primordial paint in stock since creation
Onto a large and empty canvas, once colourless and dull,
from a tin of primordial paint in stock since creation
from youthful minds too bored to find something else to do
but observe and listen
to his own little brush strokes.
but observe and listen
to his own little brush strokes.
***
TIME.
A wall in some school.
Hidden in shadow.
T T. Crossed out.
T A. Crossed out.
T H. (rubbed out with tears
and rewritten again...Crossed out.)
R T.
So now we're all waiting,
for the next cross tomorrow.
***
SENTIENCE.
The dog was unaware
of the beauty of roses,
as it ripped them to petals,
blossoming shreds.
Existence is such: a wonderful thing.
***
MORNING ON A WEEKEND.
He is woken up, rather savagely by his dear, sweet mother.
Church.
Exasperated, and desperate the poor child registers the coming torture of the Gospel
and to himself he sighs:
"Surely even you mother, tire of the Lord sometimes."
Still he wakes from the bed like an undead creature.
Still he gets into the bathtub as would he his grave.
Still he shakes his head at the holy bred preacher.
Still he lets his fun be undone as he lets the brave,
Congregation sway him, side to side, in the rhythm of above.
What do they see? Or rather what do they need to see?
All the poor child sees is a beautiful sky.
And that's all he needs to see to smile.
***
ONE MONTH.
I am trying to think of beautiful words.
Trying.
And I can't have used up these feelings already
I can't have.
I still have far more to say...
I can't have.
I still have far more to say...
...
Is my mouth dry?
I kiss you.
Will the words come out now?
…
Is my heart empty?
I miss you.
Will the words come out now?
…
'Darling I love you,
do you know that this is true?
That I stick to you,
as a toddler gets the flu?'
...
Am I sick?
These can't be the words!
Those can't be the words!
So please…
let me try that again…
…
'Dear lover,
It is hard to be
poignant, poetic, romantic;
this early and this soon.
Perhaps it's better
if I just buy you some chocolate;
before shops close- too soon.’
...
And so
I'll just leave it at that:
I know I adore you so much.
Even though
I cannot say it
particularly well at all.
______________
Fin.
______________
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| Oh yes. Paint DOES make for artistic masterpieces. Anyhow, see ya around everybody. |
NB:
- For non-African readers a 'combi' is a minibus used for public transport.
- In the poem 'Time' those aren't my tears. Just saying.
- For non-African readers a 'combi' is a minibus used for public transport.
- In the poem 'Time' those aren't my tears. Just saying.
