"Cause you're working, building a mystery" Sarah Maclachlan
Mystery. Once the veil of mystery is stripped off, trust me, a relationship is on the doldrums. Next stop, splitsville. That's a friend speaking her mind, not me.
How in God's country can one sustain "mystery" in, say, a 3-year relationship, I silently wonder. Replicating a chameleon isn't exactly an enchanting prospect for me. What in the hell for? It's like being in a relationship with a schizo, no thanks.
Maybe I don't get it. Most of the time, I don't get it anyway. But here's my take: from the get-go, I want no mask. Layers to be peeled off, yes. No holding back, all cards on the table. Warts, zits, and all.
Mystery is so contrived, pa-epek and overrated. What possible mystery can one preserve - that you're an alien from Mars? That one grows fangs every time the moon is in full bloom?
Understanding and acceptance - how can they hold a candle in a relationship cloathed in mystery? I agree with Lucretius. The more knowledge is inherent in a thing, the greater the love. Isn't it the case of celebrities we like, we prepare a dossier of them, in our intent to know them in a deeper sense? Of course, it does not follow that just because you live with a person or spend time with him that you can already read the palm of his hand or that he can no longer spring a surprise. But the second-guessing is not deliberate.
I want boring and predictable, a comfortable knowledge that I can even predict the shirt my partner is going to wear on a particuar ocassion, the part of a film which he finds funny, a quotation that will rock his boat, what he's going to say in a repartee, what he is not saying, finish his sentences.
Even with friends, I would like to think I can order food for them or choose songs at videoke and there's no mystery involved anymore. Precisely you can do this because you somehow know them. Just recently, a dear friend dropped by and played some Dave Matthews in his guitar. I told him that if Baan were around, she would surely request for "Crash". True enough, when Baan got home and caught us jamming, she asked R, "can you play Crash?" R and I looked at each other and shared a secret smile, in unspoken agreement that I somehow know my sister. Maupay it feeling.
Showing posts with label Sangkay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sangkay. Show all posts
Monday, August 24, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Of Animal Farms & Fake names & Namesakes
Today, somebody pointed out, is G. Orwell's birthday whose "Animal Farm" was a must-read within the activist circle way back because of its anti-Stalinist tone. I later found out the CIA bought the rights to this book and produced a movie it gave for free to stir up anti-communist sentiments. Hell, even communists were critical of Stalin, not only the CIA. And that George Orwell is actually a pseudonym, hmm. Should we give credence to writers doing 'critical' treatises and not signing their real names?
In "Veronica Mars," my favorite character Logan (trembles!!) made a reference to Orwell's 1984 as the only book he ever read. Big brother, I miss Logan's wits. I ripped his "how many vowels?" to a Grade IV boy I met a week ago in a law office.
Friendly with young boys, I initiated, "let me guess your name." The boy stared at me suspiciously. "How many vowels,?" I asked. The boy made an elaborate gesture of counting with his fingers. "What's the first letter?" He warmed up a little and says "S". "The last letter?" pressing for more clue. "N," the boy exclaimed excitedly.
Aha! "Satan!" And the boy pulled his hair, jerking his head with tremendous vigor and grated his teeth and screamed "My name is not Satan. I am Sir Albert Einstein!" It was my turn to pull the little hair atop my stubborn head.
Sir Albert Einstein, what a name to live up to. I think I would be kinder to my own child and name him/her Pokwang and risk eternal damnation. But the boy I made friends with was a genius like his namesake, the mere fact that he was only 7 years old yet already in Grade IV.
Making conversation, I asked "who's your favorite teacher?" Without as much as a wink, he tells me it's Ma'am Cortez "from the rootword courtesy". I had to put my funky-smelling socks on my gaping mouth.
Sensing a friend in me, he offered to let me hear his version of a French song by Celine Dion. WTF! Just what I deserved. And a few other Celine Dion's, God have mercy. To stop his impromtu performance, after about 4 songs I have only heard for the first time that day, I told him as a way of discouragement that not one of the songs was familiar to me and wasn't I in for another treat? Getting friendlier each second, he prodded me to listen to a very popular Celine Dion song which he was so damn sure I must know or at least have heard of. And so the boy belted "I am your lady and you are my man." Goodness, gracious! And did I say he sang it with much gusto?
Abadaw, another fairy in my life. A fairy-magnet, I am. Bless this fairy of an Einstein or an Einstein of a fairy, this boy warmed my heart so.
In "Veronica Mars," my favorite character Logan (trembles!!) made a reference to Orwell's 1984 as the only book he ever read. Big brother, I miss Logan's wits. I ripped his "how many vowels?" to a Grade IV boy I met a week ago in a law office.
Friendly with young boys, I initiated, "let me guess your name." The boy stared at me suspiciously. "How many vowels,?" I asked. The boy made an elaborate gesture of counting with his fingers. "What's the first letter?" He warmed up a little and says "S". "The last letter?" pressing for more clue. "N," the boy exclaimed excitedly.
Aha! "Satan!" And the boy pulled his hair, jerking his head with tremendous vigor and grated his teeth and screamed "My name is not Satan. I am Sir Albert Einstein!" It was my turn to pull the little hair atop my stubborn head.
Sir Albert Einstein, what a name to live up to. I think I would be kinder to my own child and name him/her Pokwang and risk eternal damnation. But the boy I made friends with was a genius like his namesake, the mere fact that he was only 7 years old yet already in Grade IV.
Making conversation, I asked "who's your favorite teacher?" Without as much as a wink, he tells me it's Ma'am Cortez "from the rootword courtesy". I had to put my funky-smelling socks on my gaping mouth.
Sensing a friend in me, he offered to let me hear his version of a French song by Celine Dion. WTF! Just what I deserved. And a few other Celine Dion's, God have mercy. To stop his impromtu performance, after about 4 songs I have only heard for the first time that day, I told him as a way of discouragement that not one of the songs was familiar to me and wasn't I in for another treat? Getting friendlier each second, he prodded me to listen to a very popular Celine Dion song which he was so damn sure I must know or at least have heard of. And so the boy belted "I am your lady and you are my man." Goodness, gracious! And did I say he sang it with much gusto?
Abadaw, another fairy in my life. A fairy-magnet, I am. Bless this fairy of an Einstein or an Einstein of a fairy, this boy warmed my heart so.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Pop Goes the World
“May the light of this flickering candle
Illuminate the night the way your spirit
Illuminates my soul” - Barbara Streisand, “Papa, Can you hear Me?”
To E, first-time father of Elijah and Ezekiel, this day exalts you. Stop fretting about being tentative, fatherhood is an instinctive, reflexive vocation. Those self-help books with their hard-and-fast rules can go rot, every child is unique and an individual.
It's natural you intend to illuminate your children's trail, be the beacon of light ala-Reagan. This early, you’re already thinking what books and movies they should be exposed to, don't you want them to be babies forever, freeze them in their innocent stage?
I may not be a great help in this department but let me toss a suggestion or two. For movies, "The Royal Tenenbaums," those twins in their ubiquitous Adidas tracksuit were simply adorable. "Simon Birch" for the universal message of love, "Little Rascals" for Alfa-alfa's romanticism, "Goodbye, Lenin," a showcase of the great lengths a child is willing to go for a parent. Once they are old enough, they should be schooled in Iranian cinema, there's nothing like it. Kiarostami is a great teacher, I have written odes about him in the past so I won't start now. Of course, you would argue for Italian neo-realism or the French new wave or the glorious era of Pinoy cinema, fine with me.
We didn't have any of these while growing up and we didn't turn out that bad, did we? I had Charlie Chaplin, the 3 Stooges, those old LVN and Sampaguita-produced movies, Jackie Chan and Nino Muhlach starrers, and a little of Sesame Street with Big Bird and company.
For books, how about Joseph Conrad's "Heart of Darkness"? All those survivor-tales of Auschwitz for a balance of good and evil and Hemingway. Definitely, Hemingway. Your children are boys, they should read macho stuff before they are introduced to the Arundhati Roys of this world. I do remember your beautifully-crafted review of "The God of Small Things."
Surprised? That's me, I don't remember major headlines but I remember the coldness of the beer in a particular pub, a shirt one wore to a gig, a dinner you prepared when you were still staying in Ocampo, near Singalong, all these small things.
It is in this spirit that I salute you, so enamored of fatherhood. It's gorgeous.
Illuminate the night the way your spirit
Illuminates my soul” - Barbara Streisand, “Papa, Can you hear Me?”
To E, first-time father of Elijah and Ezekiel, this day exalts you. Stop fretting about being tentative, fatherhood is an instinctive, reflexive vocation. Those self-help books with their hard-and-fast rules can go rot, every child is unique and an individual.
It's natural you intend to illuminate your children's trail, be the beacon of light ala-Reagan. This early, you’re already thinking what books and movies they should be exposed to, don't you want them to be babies forever, freeze them in their innocent stage?
I may not be a great help in this department but let me toss a suggestion or two. For movies, "The Royal Tenenbaums," those twins in their ubiquitous Adidas tracksuit were simply adorable. "Simon Birch" for the universal message of love, "Little Rascals" for Alfa-alfa's romanticism, "Goodbye, Lenin," a showcase of the great lengths a child is willing to go for a parent. Once they are old enough, they should be schooled in Iranian cinema, there's nothing like it. Kiarostami is a great teacher, I have written odes about him in the past so I won't start now. Of course, you would argue for Italian neo-realism or the French new wave or the glorious era of Pinoy cinema, fine with me.
We didn't have any of these while growing up and we didn't turn out that bad, did we? I had Charlie Chaplin, the 3 Stooges, those old LVN and Sampaguita-produced movies, Jackie Chan and Nino Muhlach starrers, and a little of Sesame Street with Big Bird and company.
For books, how about Joseph Conrad's "Heart of Darkness"? All those survivor-tales of Auschwitz for a balance of good and evil and Hemingway. Definitely, Hemingway. Your children are boys, they should read macho stuff before they are introduced to the Arundhati Roys of this world. I do remember your beautifully-crafted review of "The God of Small Things."
Surprised? That's me, I don't remember major headlines but I remember the coldness of the beer in a particular pub, a shirt one wore to a gig, a dinner you prepared when you were still staying in Ocampo, near Singalong, all these small things.
It is in this spirit that I salute you, so enamored of fatherhood. It's gorgeous.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
We Want to Multiply
"We want to multiply, are you gonna do it?" (Powerstation)
(Warning: If you’re a Management major, don’t read this. Do something worthwhile with your life. Go on a hunger strike for the release of political prisoners. Make posters to legalize ganja).
After a semester in the kibbutz of Political Science, a former student decided to defect to the Management camp. By this time, I already earned a reputation of labeling these handful of defectors as traitors.
Before her departure, this student needed my signature. She got more. Hmm…what is dandy about young people is that they can’t detect pontifications when they see one. Or they just have the manners not to put a kibosh on the pontifications of older people (that's me).
Amazingly, this student fairly remembers my monologue on that slow, sultry afternoon. I said something like “This is an act of betrayal. On the day of reckoning, you know how traitors are dealt with.” And I go Argh! Sounded like Gen. Palparan, my favorite butcher. Maybe, I should apply as his speechwriter now that he' s in Congress. A dandy idea, hmm.
Allow me to explain why I was reduced to pontificating even if I wasn’t the Pontiff.
If that student shifted from PolSci to Physics (which I would have done if I were intelligent enough), Ole! But to choose Management over PolSci, you got to be kidding.
I asked a whole block of Management students why they were drawn to it. My questions were out of plain ignorance, be warned. From the arrogant: What is there to study in Management? Who are your philosophers? To the literally absurd: What is to be managed? Can anything be managed? Are your lives so mismanaged, you actually need to spend 4 years to study Management? Do you think your lives will be more well-managed than the rest of us? Somebody shoot me, please.
So when this traitor who has become a close friend confides about her love-bug, I gloat in morbid glee. Payback time, isn’t revenge sweet? License to go pontifical and when I am in that gay mood, hell could just freeze.
This is the diagnosis, I offered: Your problem started when you took flight from Political Science. Honestly, there is no correlation but as I said, I was in the mood to gloat. Look how Management ruined you, I continued: You have become anal, a control freak, “sigurista nga diri asya,” not besotted with philosophy, lacking appreciation of the intangibles and immeasurables, thinks “food for the soul” is something prepared in the kitchen.
Whew, that’s cold. That’s just Antarctica-cold.
Her fundamentalist religious views quarrel with her forbidden love. A woman is not supposed to love another woman. That’s tough. Even Political Science has no solution to that.
But at least, PolSci as a discipline, encourages you to free your mind and to make a stand. Conformism is denounced as individuality is celebrated. It’s intellectually promiscuous and morally ambiguous so there are no absolutely wrong answers as there are no right ones. This is where the discipline’s strength and weakness rest.
It’s not easy (however possible) for me to imagine my Management students transforming into Rimbauds and Sapphos. There is a certain rigidity and deficiency in philosophy in that course, I surmise. After all, it’s modern compared to the old tradition of Aristotle and Plato and all our forebears, a discipline fuelled by the requirements and needs of capitalism. Oh, boy.
What we become, how our worldviews are shaped, how we attack the challenges hurled by life owe so much to the course we chose. If I majored in Management, I would surely view the world from a different lens, be a different character.
As I snapped out of it, I realized that I did not abate a bit the emotional turmoil that student was going through. No one is listening. How many times have I said don’t come to me for love advice? Chances are, I would say the most inappropriate things, tell incongruent anecdotes, and disconnect the dots. How in the frak did I correlate her problem to her shifting majors?
Me and my titi-eories. Wait till you hear my dick-tionary. Sexual repression, go burn.
(Warning: If you’re a Management major, don’t read this. Do something worthwhile with your life. Go on a hunger strike for the release of political prisoners. Make posters to legalize ganja).
After a semester in the kibbutz of Political Science, a former student decided to defect to the Management camp. By this time, I already earned a reputation of labeling these handful of defectors as traitors.
Before her departure, this student needed my signature. She got more. Hmm…what is dandy about young people is that they can’t detect pontifications when they see one. Or they just have the manners not to put a kibosh on the pontifications of older people (that's me).
Amazingly, this student fairly remembers my monologue on that slow, sultry afternoon. I said something like “This is an act of betrayal. On the day of reckoning, you know how traitors are dealt with.” And I go Argh! Sounded like Gen. Palparan, my favorite butcher. Maybe, I should apply as his speechwriter now that he' s in Congress. A dandy idea, hmm.
Allow me to explain why I was reduced to pontificating even if I wasn’t the Pontiff.
If that student shifted from PolSci to Physics (which I would have done if I were intelligent enough), Ole! But to choose Management over PolSci, you got to be kidding.
I asked a whole block of Management students why they were drawn to it. My questions were out of plain ignorance, be warned. From the arrogant: What is there to study in Management? Who are your philosophers? To the literally absurd: What is to be managed? Can anything be managed? Are your lives so mismanaged, you actually need to spend 4 years to study Management? Do you think your lives will be more well-managed than the rest of us? Somebody shoot me, please.
So when this traitor who has become a close friend confides about her love-bug, I gloat in morbid glee. Payback time, isn’t revenge sweet? License to go pontifical and when I am in that gay mood, hell could just freeze.
This is the diagnosis, I offered: Your problem started when you took flight from Political Science. Honestly, there is no correlation but as I said, I was in the mood to gloat. Look how Management ruined you, I continued: You have become anal, a control freak, “sigurista nga diri asya,” not besotted with philosophy, lacking appreciation of the intangibles and immeasurables, thinks “food for the soul” is something prepared in the kitchen.
Whew, that’s cold. That’s just Antarctica-cold.
Her fundamentalist religious views quarrel with her forbidden love. A woman is not supposed to love another woman. That’s tough. Even Political Science has no solution to that.
But at least, PolSci as a discipline, encourages you to free your mind and to make a stand. Conformism is denounced as individuality is celebrated. It’s intellectually promiscuous and morally ambiguous so there are no absolutely wrong answers as there are no right ones. This is where the discipline’s strength and weakness rest.
It’s not easy (however possible) for me to imagine my Management students transforming into Rimbauds and Sapphos. There is a certain rigidity and deficiency in philosophy in that course, I surmise. After all, it’s modern compared to the old tradition of Aristotle and Plato and all our forebears, a discipline fuelled by the requirements and needs of capitalism. Oh, boy.
What we become, how our worldviews are shaped, how we attack the challenges hurled by life owe so much to the course we chose. If I majored in Management, I would surely view the world from a different lens, be a different character.
As I snapped out of it, I realized that I did not abate a bit the emotional turmoil that student was going through. No one is listening. How many times have I said don’t come to me for love advice? Chances are, I would say the most inappropriate things, tell incongruent anecdotes, and disconnect the dots. How in the frak did I correlate her problem to her shifting majors?
Me and my titi-eories. Wait till you hear my dick-tionary. Sexual repression, go burn.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
The Gospel according to Rushdie
“To die for boys –
O, what a beauty”
-Gay National Liberation Front
Last Wednesday, my dear friends R and T dropped by for dinner and coffee. Terribly missing them after almost 2 months of absence, I was supernaturally consumed in ecstasy (I am practicing to be a porno writer, hence, the term).
Thoughtless that I am, I accosted R before he could spoon up food if he’s reunited with his ex. A brief mental sparring followed and it went like this:
R: What makes you think that?
Me: Just a hunch.
R: A hunch? What gave you the idea?
Me: I don’t know. So are you? (R gives me the funny look) Are you back together? (I persist)
R: Well, not really. Sort of.
I did not pursue thinking that R did not welcome my interrogation so talk shifted to other matters, T’s children and their antics, among others. Later, much later, R opened up.
I was happy that R finally became comfortable sharing his present situation with us. I felt bad about the break-up months ago and I was really worried about him because he is the type to keep his grief private.
The way I see the situation is a bit hazy but one thing is quite clear: there are no demands and expectations. Well, this is the dimension of a relationship deprived of me, so bear with me if I could not fully understand the concept of a no-demand/no-expectation thingy.
So what constitutes a relationship then? At the very least, I want to be treated with respect. Isn’t that a kind of expectation already? But hey, I am not defending any position here. What do I know about romantic love?
If R says that such a relationship is possible, then I believe him. “Kung saan ka maligaya, hindi ako malulungkot,” I reassured.
Why do we continue loving a supposed ex, inspite and despite of? Is this what people call unconditional love, a love without borders and frontiers? J says it might be a case of having diffulties getting over people who treat us badly. Then that would make us masochists.
I feel I need to apologize to R for burdening him with questions like – Don’t you ever ask your ex what you are doing or what it is you’re having or where is this, whatever it is, is headed to? He guarantees that at least, he is totally aware of what he’s getting into. I take comfort in that. More importantly, he’s obviously happy. I take more comfort in that.
So for you, my friend, I chose this Salman Rushdie quote because it has trappings of Maoist thought, a fitting tribute to our shared history:
“In love, one advances by retreating. The first approach, the deflection of anxieties, the arousal of interest, the feint of departure, the slow inexorable return – the leisurely inward spiral of desire”.
Certainly you cannot rob Rushdie of his breathtaking eloquence. In another’s incapable hands, this love-mantra would read and sound like Sun Tzu’s “Art Of War,” a book I have read quite a few times I have forgotten what it says.
But as your friend of long standing, I do declare without modesty that I summed it up better than the Rushdies of this world.
So let me say this again (hope you read this): You are in deep, baho shit.
A variation: You are in deep, baho, igit.
Another variation: You are in deep, baho, bugrit.
If this isn't affection, I don't know what is.
O, what a beauty”
-Gay National Liberation Front
Last Wednesday, my dear friends R and T dropped by for dinner and coffee. Terribly missing them after almost 2 months of absence, I was supernaturally consumed in ecstasy (I am practicing to be a porno writer, hence, the term).
Thoughtless that I am, I accosted R before he could spoon up food if he’s reunited with his ex. A brief mental sparring followed and it went like this:
R: What makes you think that?
Me: Just a hunch.
R: A hunch? What gave you the idea?
Me: I don’t know. So are you? (R gives me the funny look) Are you back together? (I persist)
R: Well, not really. Sort of.
I did not pursue thinking that R did not welcome my interrogation so talk shifted to other matters, T’s children and their antics, among others. Later, much later, R opened up.
I was happy that R finally became comfortable sharing his present situation with us. I felt bad about the break-up months ago and I was really worried about him because he is the type to keep his grief private.
The way I see the situation is a bit hazy but one thing is quite clear: there are no demands and expectations. Well, this is the dimension of a relationship deprived of me, so bear with me if I could not fully understand the concept of a no-demand/no-expectation thingy.
So what constitutes a relationship then? At the very least, I want to be treated with respect. Isn’t that a kind of expectation already? But hey, I am not defending any position here. What do I know about romantic love?
If R says that such a relationship is possible, then I believe him. “Kung saan ka maligaya, hindi ako malulungkot,” I reassured.
Why do we continue loving a supposed ex, inspite and despite of? Is this what people call unconditional love, a love without borders and frontiers? J says it might be a case of having diffulties getting over people who treat us badly. Then that would make us masochists.
I feel I need to apologize to R for burdening him with questions like – Don’t you ever ask your ex what you are doing or what it is you’re having or where is this, whatever it is, is headed to? He guarantees that at least, he is totally aware of what he’s getting into. I take comfort in that. More importantly, he’s obviously happy. I take more comfort in that.
So for you, my friend, I chose this Salman Rushdie quote because it has trappings of Maoist thought, a fitting tribute to our shared history:
“In love, one advances by retreating. The first approach, the deflection of anxieties, the arousal of interest, the feint of departure, the slow inexorable return – the leisurely inward spiral of desire”.
Certainly you cannot rob Rushdie of his breathtaking eloquence. In another’s incapable hands, this love-mantra would read and sound like Sun Tzu’s “Art Of War,” a book I have read quite a few times I have forgotten what it says.
But as your friend of long standing, I do declare without modesty that I summed it up better than the Rushdies of this world.
So let me say this again (hope you read this): You are in deep, baho shit.
A variation: You are in deep, baho, igit.
Another variation: You are in deep, baho, bugrit.
If this isn't affection, I don't know what is.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Notes From Above-ground
"Push your old numbers, and let your house ring
Until I wake your ghost" Kristin Hersh, "Your Ghost"
In this exquisite suburbia called V&G Subdivision where I spent part of my joyous childhood and all of my reckless youth, one constant fixture in the neighborhood was Mano Steve, the friendly mailman.
In bustling Santan Street, across rows of familiar houses, heaps of dog-shit, rowdy cats engaging in carnal pleasure, and neighbors in serious discussion of masiao results, Mano Steve would linger at our gate for small talk and a glass of water. Even if there was no letter to deliver, he would drop by.
His famous greeting was “Nobody cares.” That was his punchline each time there was no letter to hand over. Hell, he said it all the time to me, almost crushing my romanticism. He’s long retired and I don’t know the current mailman. The ones delivering various bills have various faces and they’re always on a rush.
Well, Mano Steve, somebody bothers to care. Got this email from my loyal roommate at Ipil. Before those spies browse through my mails, let me just make their lives sweeter by spilling the beans, “ighuwad it monggo,” so to speak:
Got back from a four-day hike in Elgon, one of the highest mountains in East Africa last Sunday. It was tedious, adventurous (especially with the rainy season!!) and brilliant! My goodness! to describe beauty is ineffable! Was lost for words. There were a lot of times I was awed and mesmerized on what was surrounding me, moments I wish I could be immortal to experience these little wonders.
Unlike my Brit friends who had the Union Jack with them, didn't have anything with me (pen or paper) to prove I was conquering the top for you. You were in my heart as I was ascending. I was climbing Elgon for my friend who is a true heroine.
love you lots,
me xx
Thanks for the heartfelt tribute, Turabsoy. It’s all engraved here in my promiscuous heart. Next time, you don’t need to punish yourself that hard. Just send me a postcard from Costa Rica.
Until I wake your ghost" Kristin Hersh, "Your Ghost"
In this exquisite suburbia called V&G Subdivision where I spent part of my joyous childhood and all of my reckless youth, one constant fixture in the neighborhood was Mano Steve, the friendly mailman.
In bustling Santan Street, across rows of familiar houses, heaps of dog-shit, rowdy cats engaging in carnal pleasure, and neighbors in serious discussion of masiao results, Mano Steve would linger at our gate for small talk and a glass of water. Even if there was no letter to deliver, he would drop by.
His famous greeting was “Nobody cares.” That was his punchline each time there was no letter to hand over. Hell, he said it all the time to me, almost crushing my romanticism. He’s long retired and I don’t know the current mailman. The ones delivering various bills have various faces and they’re always on a rush.
Well, Mano Steve, somebody bothers to care. Got this email from my loyal roommate at Ipil. Before those spies browse through my mails, let me just make their lives sweeter by spilling the beans, “ighuwad it monggo,” so to speak:
Got back from a four-day hike in Elgon, one of the highest mountains in East Africa last Sunday. It was tedious, adventurous (especially with the rainy season!!) and brilliant! My goodness! to describe beauty is ineffable! Was lost for words. There were a lot of times I was awed and mesmerized on what was surrounding me, moments I wish I could be immortal to experience these little wonders.
Unlike my Brit friends who had the Union Jack with them, didn't have anything with me (pen or paper) to prove I was conquering the top for you. You were in my heart as I was ascending. I was climbing Elgon for my friend who is a true heroine.
love you lots,
me xx
Thanks for the heartfelt tribute, Turabsoy. It’s all engraved here in my promiscuous heart. Next time, you don’t need to punish yourself that hard. Just send me a postcard from Costa Rica.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
