someday

someday,
i will write a poem about you...

someday,
when my fingers have wrinkled
more than my face
from all the makeshift laughter
and the inherited sorrow,
when my tears have dried
and the scent of rose
only just lingers, fleeting
like a memory.

someday,
when the titter of children
playing in the street below
aren't very different from
birds flying past my window,
i will write a poem
about you.

when mothers no longer bury their
dead babies,
partying lovers don't drown their laughter
in tears, or shroud their tears in laughter.
someday,
when it is all silent again,
when the light has dimmed
and the noise has cleared.

someday,
when all is restored
as it was meant to be;
then on that day,
i will write that poem about you.

the essence of memory

memory lane is strewn
with papers from my life.
a wrapper from a sweet,
an old band aid, discarded,
the plastic packets that
held my first
set of books,
non-biodegradable
as these
memories.

memory lane is
enveloped in the
fragrance of the past,
the promise of tomorrow,
the surreal of today.

there are pies in the oven,
a cd spinning on the deck,
a whisper on the wind,
and a photo frame dangling
on the edge of the windowsill.

curtains dance,
teased by the wind,
reaching for that photo frame,
playing to erase it,
from the details
of this memory lane.

it crashes to the floor,
succumbing to its fate,
splattering tiny bits of glass
like blood, white, frozen
sedate.

i don't reach for it,
don't move to pick it
from the floor.
no need to take one last look.
the shell is cracked,
broken, but
the soul of its memory lingers
in my core.

six o'clock gin and tonic

I walked into Rika's apartment a little after 3pm yesterday. The appointment was set for 2:45pm, but a young driver wandering around unknown parts of the city can be easily forgiven, or so she said.

I'm always thirsty for easy forgiveness, so I didn't argue much on that. Besides, I know at least enough not to argue with someone whose three times my age, and very astute for the average 91year old. I whisper a silent prayer in awe: God, let me be that way at 91, or not at all! This is Rika Hodgson. Veteran ANC stalwart.

And so she launches into her animated chat about the days of old; you know, when you could hide a bottle of whiskey in an old typewriter, and share it with a friend of another race, even if there was the scare of the Immorality Act hanging over their heads. But not before she has made absolutely sure of the fact that I am comfortably seated with the sun from the large bay windows swathing me in a welcome embrace, and a steaming cup of tea settled withing close reach from my notebook and pen.

I scribble and try to repaint in few words the enigmatic imagery that she spurts forth in words and facial expressions, almost as if I am being let in on secrets never told before; sometimes she takes for granted that I may not have lived a time as that. She clucks incessantly at the realisation. I release a sigh of apology.

I am quickly forgiven, and the stories unfold once again. Mr & Mrs Jack Hodgson. Their journeys into Botswana, Tanzania, India and beyond. The Pahads, the Cachalias, the Sisulus and the rest of the lineage of the anti-apartheid struggle reveals itself in yet another thread of narrative. I make fervent notes. My voice recorder laps up the milk and cream of the voice and word content of this dialogue. It retells the story to me hours later, when I have returned to my desk in a less quieter part of Jozi.
Another dotted line is drawn, making for a tangible thread between her apartment in the North and my room in the centre of Johannesburg. Voices echo around me, bouncing off the walls, tempting me to make something of them. I am impatient, but its still not the time to write. Patience.

I relive the last few moments of my visit. The endless books. The endless rays of afternoon sunlight. I got invited to stay for her six o'clock gin and tonic; said with a rather mischievous grin to highlight her ample wit, as I was leaving. Ah, I know that you don't drink, she said in reply to my laughter. Everything works around traffic, here in Jozi. I had to leave, anyway... But in many ways, I stayed.

Detour

Conversation brings up many lengthy contemplations. I wonder sometimes if monologues might be the better route. In any event, last night, a friend mentioned that fate, taqdeer, destiny, or whatever you might choose to call it, is like a detour on the regular path. So it's kind of like, you're on this (imagined) journey of sorts, and at some point, a fork in the road appears. A detour. It's like God is saying to you, come this way for a bit, I want to show something to you.

And so you amble along. Because, we love surprises. We are inherently curious beings. Sometimes to our detriment. Often to our delight. But Trust is implicit, of course. And we tiptoe forth, somewhat expectant. Are we to be disappointed? Well, we never really know. Will we be amazed, surprised, awakened, astounded? None is known. None is thought about. We move ahead, enticed by the mystery. Trusting fully.

Without any reasonable doubt, the detour's are proven adventures. Mostly, the reasons are unknown to us, just as the results are. Gains or losses, we are never really able to measure, mostly because we lack that level of humility to really understand the bigger picture. We're too much a part of it; a tiny speck on it, really. We the faithful, led by the All Knowing, are guided thus.
But it is most definitely a path of adventure. And a path of living, both determined and allotted, with obvious spurts of self-determined opportunities borne of the effort to take responsibility for life.

Sometimes, the detour is a person. And sometimes, you are the detour on someone else's path.

How does that revelation make sense though? I'm still deciding about the implications of a statement like that. Is it a straight path after all? Or is it a path distracted by, well, detours?

S

high tea, umbilical cords and everyday miracles

I drink copious amounts of tea when I'm writing. At least, this is something I have just taken note of. Tea seems to flow in me and through me (nasty thought, that) in the same way that muse works its way around in inspiring the words to flow. There are times when the words will not happen, of course. But the imagery is strong and so it follows me around like a watermark in my vision. I see it in view when I am driving, in the shower and nestled under a warm quilt at night. I see it when I wash my hands; it floats in the cascade of water that rushes over my fingers and mixes with the liquid soap to form clouds of foam. At times, it eventually disappears back into the recesses of my imagination and emerges in a dream. I wake up thinking and knowing that this is what happens next in my story. Past, present and future merges into one in the world of the subconscious. And in no uncertain terms, my dream state often informs my storyline, as it does my intuitive life path.

I said in my previous post, that reflections often make me spin. It's not a bad thing. Reflections, and the washing cycle cleansing that occurs in contemplation, making authentic choices and forgiving, letting go, opening oneself to new and replenished opportunities... It's a rather integral part of the life process.

I did more thinking this week when a dear friend who I have not met in years, lost her mom. I first met Elaine when we were both undergrad architecture students at Wits. We shared a studio in John Moffat, the architecture block, and I still remember painting walls and Zen-ni-fying the place before we really warmed to the place. Our other co-inhabitants were Hong and Sundeep. I also remember many hours of Five FM and the like accompanying us on long drawn hours of design collaboration, structural drawings and the ups and downs that went with being undergrad architecture students. Needless to say, the three of em graduated as architects some years later. I dropped out before my second year exam, just after the October portfolio review. That's a topic for a whole other post.

I hooked up with each of them over the last two years or so, on Facebook. Elaine Van Heerden is now Elaine Jones, married, with a beautiful baby-boy/toddler named Rowan. I love being in touch with her, the reminder of the lovely energy that emanates from her wonderful being. She lives in Ohio now. And I read her post tribute to the effect that her Mom, Theresa, passed away on Monday in Johannesburg. I never met Theresa, but I knew Elaine. And reading her heart-wrenchingly beautiful tribute drew blood. It made me wonder about distance, and love and life and death. It also made me realise that proximity is no guarantee for closeness, and being so far apart geographically, does not weaken the bonds of heart and soul; does not sever the invisible umbilical cord that ties parents and children for eternity.

There are so many ways in which we attempt to make sense of life, purpose and the reasons for meeting people in our lives. The answers that we come up with are often insufficient responses. Words can only do 'so much'. There's a lot more to be said about feeling your way through life and being in awe of everyday little miracles.

gifted

posts can be writ in so many flavours at different times of the day and night. i find that i write my most rambling posts at these oddish hours of the morning, when all i can hear is the baby from next door whimpering and then bawling its eyes...

my brother asked me something this evening at the supper table: he said, shafs how do u manage to stay awake at night? i didn't think too long for the reply: i am awake at night. in the same way that people are awake during the day. i need to re-form my sleep cycle, especially for the winter months. its freezing. anyway this writing manuscript and editing thing has got me turned around to a whole nocturnal living and i rarely make breakfast the first meal of the day. so the family has been complaining a bit. time to lose my night watch status and re-learn the art of normal sleep time. time to enjoy the gift of night-time sleep.

regarding gifts and being gifted, life lessons need be seen as gifts. that's what dear friend S just said to me. so in that case i consider myself lucky on many counts. im going to reach into my vault of 'gifts' every now and again just in case i forget to be grateful :)

this is an arb post. another one that is. i wonder if it is that im not quite taking this writing thing seriously. or that im relegating the SoApBoX to its original state of being the reflective Dear Diary space that it began as.

so many memories at this hall of famous words and nonsensical ramblings. so much mud flung alongside spray cans of wonder. so much more reasons documented in appreciation for myriad things. i feel a poem coming on. lol. or not.

currently listening to a madeenah nasheed. (little bro just gifted me with a new nasheed mp3-cd of some 300 items) i want to go there. to madeenah. where soul cravings speak a different language. and are thus quenched.

im content tonight. even though im rambling... im content.

Allah Knows...

songs of time and travel

We're a bunch of Idols' fans... So we were watching the Indian Idols on television, and the song from the movie RACE played at some point. And my brother in law remembered Malawi. Yes, it was the Malawi soundtrack :P (We went off to Malawi in March for my brother's wedding).

Especially Pehli Nazar. We had a CD in every car after that. In my brother's car, in my car, in my brother in laws car, in my sister in laws brother's cars. You get the sense of it. Dad had a CD in the home entertainment thingie. It was all over the place. So much so that some of the songs still remind me of my ride to work along the M4, the look of the ocean (remember, I learned how to s-l-o-w down so I could enjoy the view) and navigating the twisty ride along Ridge Rd, of course. Come rain or shine, RACE was a permanent soundtrack for weeks after the Malawi trip. I had the best of the collection. Abdur Rahim made certain of it with the added remixes and whatever else he could find to download ;)

This year went by oh-so-quickly. (Well, come to think of it, so did 2007). Sometimes I feel dizzy just thinking about it. But the songs remain. We heard some other songs today. Songs that remind us of other travels. Like Cape Town. And India. And Egypt. And London. Lol. Oh yea... Kelly Clarkson, Roxette, Savage Garden, Natalie Imbruglia, Enya, UB40, U2!!! A maze of hindi soundtracks stretching the imagination from Yeh Shaam Mastani to Teri Deewani.

There are songs that remind us of childhood. And songs that remind us of school. And songs that remind us of bittersweet days of uni. Awkward moments and exhiliarating moments. Songs for rainy days and songs for scorching summer. Moments in freezing cappuccino drugged days, and moments of hearts gladdened by the quality of togetherness. Some songs played on the Hiveld graveyard shift, others in peak traffic. Oh there are those peak traffic songs for sure! Those save sanity at the bleakest moments. Or they perpetuate insanity enough to survive the chaos, especially when power failures threaten any remaining sense of humour.

Its so easy for something you can't live without to become second rate trash. This goes for songs and dresses :P

Memory Lane

I was sitting up in bed a few hours ago, thinking back to my year or at least the past eighteen months or so. I'm not sure why, maybe it's because reflection allows us to make sense of happenings, or maybe its because I have the opportunity to sit still for the first time in, well, a long time. And partially it's because, in writing this new book manuscript, which is happening along in painstakingly slow motion, I am constantly called upon to reach back into memory and experience for ways of reacting to situations and feeling things,etc. I sit here at my laptop thinking, "So, what would that feel like?" and "What would Mariam say to her sister at this point?" and how is it that Selma's life mirror's Zahida's, but that their ways of reacting and being are so radically opposed even. How, What, Where, Who, Why. The Ubiquitous WhY.

So, I decided to go back a year, down the archives of this SoApBoX.
And this is what I found..

A verbose article on The Notions of Original Sin called Adams Eve and Wundabra

Which, brought me back to earth of course. Lol. Because, I used to write such overly thought out, very richly netted, long-winded diatribes. Oh and I still do, just that I am aware of the perils to readability :P

Pacing, urgency, readability, compulsive readerships. These are new buzz items on my checklist of writing. I am thoroughly enjoying the journey of awareness that this new project of writing is allowing me. Reading others' writings often evokes emotion in me, or a memory, or something. That's what words mean to me. Being able to engage the reader, take them by the hand, allow them to sit with a relatively good view into your words. To bite and chew, to swallow or spit out in disgust. To feel, see, smell, hear. To know. To alter. I think I'm rambling now.

It's interesting to be able to read back a year or two or three and log progression, regression, change, and growth. Change is good. It points to a shift in consciousness. It implies growth. Even if it happens in tiny bits at a time. It's all good.

journey of memory

He watched as the train from Haenertsberg edged into the tiny station. It was mid-March, and the change of season was apparent. A gust of wind managed to unravel some of the tarpaulin that covered the luggage rack. The sign for Platform 25 creaked ominously above the man's head.

A stranger approached him: "Mr. Van Oppenburg, your car has arrived, Sir."

Van Oppenburg felt the now familiar mixture of confusion and anxiety. His eyes searched the luggage at his feet for the tag that confirmed his identity.