Archive for the ‘Thinking out loud’ Category

Strangelings
January 30, 2010

At some point in the recent past, I embraced change. I realised that I was shifting – both subtly and not so subtly – and figured my life would be way easier if I simply accepted the morph rather than fighting it. Yeah, still working on that…

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I’ve been thinking a lot of random thoughts lately, and writing a lot of random posts. I’m not entirely sure what’s causing that. I think it’s that I am – on some level – more relaxed now that I’m home, so my mind is free to wander in areas that are less than serious. I’ve actually made it my default category. Fun!

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I’m a firm believer in signs. My latest sign is a red plastic Olivetti Valentine Typewriter. I don’t suppose anyone has an affordable, functional one lying around anywhere, do they? According to my google search, they’re ‘light as a feather’ and absolutely gorgeous. Red too. I don’t know how well they work though – I need one that can do a lot more than just sit pretty.

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I’m the kind of girl that has more male than female friends. I like to think it’s because I’m not a girly-girl, but as my cousin pointed out,  I claim to dislike flowery things yet everything I bought for my new flat [from square plates to duvets] has flowers. Mild ‘mannish’ flowers, yes, but still flowers.

Truth is, I mostly find girls a little scary. I have no idea why. Lately though, I’ve [re]made friends with some females that are less … spooky. They’re actually a lot of fun. So I guess ‘they’ are right, it really is all about finding the right girl.

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I’m straight. What.

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The thing about having mostly male friends is that, well, the women in their lives sometimes have, you know, issues. I’m still finding a way to deal with that. I’m also desperately hoping that the tables will not turn. I dread the day when I will be the one that has issues with my Sailor Boy’s female friends.

I’d like to think that being a career pal to dudes with quasi-jealous girlfriends, I will be more reasonable. But being a more-than-quasi-jealous-type girl myself, I will be content to seethe in almost-silence and keep my claws well sheathed *cheeky grin*

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It’s equally interesting to me that while I have many ‘platonic’ friendships with my buddies,  it is still somewhat strange to think of it in others. I hear my brothers and cousins talking about their ‘just buddies’ and I’m like ‘yeah, right’. Pot calling the kettle black?

Though, technically speaking, my water pot is red…

♫♫♫♫♫

Homework calls.

Breathe (2 a.m.)Anna Nalick

For more information on 3CB, click here.

Oh crap, it got me :-(
November 19, 2009

Disclaimer: This will royally piss you off.

I spend a lot of time here, and it’s mostly a good thing. But sometimes, sometimes it can be really, really depressing.

There are certain things that everyone can do: tie a shoelace, break olympic records when faced with a speeding bullet or a really big dog, write an application letter, kick a football.

But even within these things, there are people who make a career. We can all [probably] take a penalty kick and pull a fluke goal. But we are not all Theo Walcott. We can all leap tall buidlings when we are caught on top, lakini, there’s Usain. We can all write, yes we can, and we can all blog. But not everybody gets paid to do it.

A topic I saw at Nathan’s once  asked how a writer copes with what I can only describe as literary agoraphobia. What do you do when you look at your work and think “Am I insane? What rubbish! Why do I even try?” I answered that I don’t, I have never doubted my ability. I write because I love it, and because I am good at it. Period.

But I have to admit that after reading this I am starting to wonder whether I’m not just another nut with a laptop an internet stick. It is not a pleasant feeling.

Bah humbug.

Ooh soap bubbles!!

For more information on 3CB, click here.

Ea-sy CB…
November 17, 2009

Disclaimer: This post is rated PG 17. It contains strong language, disturbing images and flash pho… no wait, wrong disclaimer. But seriously, be prepared, it’s more than just mild swearing. Thank you. Have a nice day.

When I think about bosses, I don’t quite see them as human. To me, they are these amazing, ethereal beings with hot cars and six-zero-salaries who can do no normal thing. Except maybe hitting [on] people, coz, you know, they’re bosses.

But then I realise they’re only flesh. They have peeves and ploys and fetishes. They’re just like the rest of us … except with a hot car and six zeroes and a license to hit [on] things.

I had an interesting conversation with K7. He had just had the most blogworthy of weeks, and I was trying to get him to, you know, blog. But he couldn’t, coz his blog is, you know, bookish. In a good way. A very good way. A paying-the-bills kind of way.

I’ve asked him to guest-blog at mine, but he needs motisha. Any cheerleaders available? Mini skirts are a plus.

It showed me something though. It showed me that professionals, and bosses, are not necessarily as clinical and they appear. They have just learned to look that way. Like the Rogue King. It serves their purpose. And sometimes, when glimpses of the real come out, it’s too much to take. I should know. I’m still haunted by the image of a stern, scary bosslady expertly doing mduara at an office kitchen party. The horror!

K7, as he often does, made the point very clear for me. MJ, rest his dear soul in peace, was a legend, but he did get up to the strangest things. I was watching this video of him live in concert someplace, and I noticed one thing. He loved it! He was on stage doing the robot moonwalk routine, and his face was glowing. You could see he was totally into the dance, possessed almost. The moves flowed through him, raw and wild, like some kind of jericurled 3PO oompa loompa.

Then he’d finish the song and his expression would change. He’d stand still for a few moments, breathing while the crowd went wild, and just like that, he’d be mortal again. He’d go back to the little-girl voice, blow a shy kiss at the crowd and squeak ‘I love you all’.

Then the next set would start and he’d morph back into this larger than life piece of walking talking genius, even his voice changes. You can’t compare the angstious vocals and ATT in ‘Bad’ to the frightened mousy guy hiding his children in the Emirates. Being on stage was his strength, his passion. Being off it, he was just, well, human.

We imagine that celebs do their crazy antics because they’re celebs, but they really don’t. You could snort yourself silly on a bottle of brrr and nobody would care unless your first name was Catherine and your last name rhymed with dental floss. You could drive at age 6 and nobody would call you underage unless you were Miley Cyrus. You could, and do, get away with a whole lot when you’re not in the limelight.

I’m a writer, and this here is my space. It’s not very well concealed, but it’s a part of me I don’t show off in my other life. Because here I’m more myself, less of the serious professional person that some people think I am. So I get fairly uneasy when someone from that world leaves a comment here, because frankly, CB is a clown.

But I suppose CB is simply human, and the ones who pass by here aren’t doing it to find my CV. Unless of course they’re headhunting, like some employers do with facebook. Uh-oh!

I am always being told to stop taking myself so seriously. Which is weird, coz in my mind, CB is the one place where I take myself quite lightly. I get amused when people see CB, and imagine that I am this … well, I’m not sure what they imagine I am.

But what I do imagine is that the average person, when they meet Crystal, without the caricature or the fruit, will be somewhat … surprised … possibly disappointed that I am so … normal.

It’s always been that way, even when I was the little kid that did xyz, and people would meet me and get shocked that I looked so … standard. They half expected me to have two heads and a tail. Or at least to be a little taller.

I think inside all ‘deep souls’ resides a little Michael Jackson, dolled up in shiny clothes, grinning shyly and squeaking ‘I love you all’. The deepest of stories arise from mood, and when the mood passes and the writing is done, we all just want to lick a lollipop, suck a helium balloon, and make like Mickey Mouse on crack.

It’s why one agent says she doesn’t like writers interviews. You read a novel or poem or blog and imagine the writer must be this god-like being that plays Muse like a cheap roller drum [what d’you call that drum-on-a-stick thingie from Karate Kid and Bomas, the one you roll between your palms and these strings with balls on them spin and hit the drum? That one]

But after the interview, you learn that the Deep Ones like orange juice and weetabix and slightly burnt ugali, or that they have been divorced six times, three of the divorces being from the same spouse, and that they failed their driving test six times, or that they wrote their entire work of genius while high or sawdust and cough syrup.

Suddenly your hero is merely an  Ewok, and their immensely beautiful prose, which seems to be written in their very own invented language, turns to be Choobaka talking kyuk and asking for a bar of soap. [Yeah, I’ve been watching Star Wars again]. They’re not any less deep, they’re just a lot more … human. Hence the famous quote ‘Writers should be read, not heard [or for that matter, seen. Publishers, however, disagree, hence readings et al]’. It’s probably also why the original X-generation bloggers are so fiercely protective of their offline identities.

I’m learning not to take myself so seriously. It’s about time. I am deep, I am wise, I am mature, and I am good at what I do. But I am also silly, naive, dense, stupid, and sometimes downright blonde. So don’t be too surprised if you make a date with CB and end up with a squeaky-voiced dreadlocked kid chilling on a jumping castle with headphones singing along to Lithium, Disorder, or Halo. That won’t be princess, she’s the lighter one in the girly dress. This version is dark and lives in jeans. I’m just saying…

PS: I love the way rock songs can make the obscene sound adorable. I mean where else but in a rock song would you laugh at a line that says:

‘… I dreamed that I was lying beneath a naked woman saying something that I can’t repeat…’

This band also has lyrical gems such as

‘…wanna put my tender heart in a blender, watch it spin round to a beautiful oblivion…’

and

‘…she was cool and collected till she found him erected with another.

Shit went bad he’s on the roof again.

She flipped, he flipped the bird and then he went

on the roof where his threats ring loud and clear.

‘Gonna jump, gonna jump, gonna die this year .’

…your heinous highness broke her hymen

hey man try to quit your crying…’

I love this game.

Nightmare Eve 6

PPS: The title is my homage to Jay Z and Lil’ Kim. What.

How d’you say ‘my love’ in Spanish?

Mi Amore.

How d’you say ‘my love’ in thug?

Can I hit it raw.

[then a bunch of nasty words that I can’t quite hear]

Ea-sy Papii…

Teach me more!

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Twitter and things like that
November 12, 2009

Few things suck more than someone taking the drama out of your dramatic exit. Picture this scene-that-you-will-never-see-in-a-mexican-soap:

Gorgeous girl, dressed to kill, pouting at the doorstep with suitcases in hand: I’m leaving!

Gorgeous boy with his head in the newspaper, not even looking up: Bye

Yeah, I feel a little like that today. I mean at least act like you’re going to miss me. It’s been four years, how now? All you can do is ask if you should forward my mail?

Le sigh.

Anyway, in other news.

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A pal mentioned in passing that a lot of people *cough*cough*.ke crowd*cough* misuse twitter. It was initially meant to be an information resource. Like the FB status but without all the annoying quizzes and sponges. It was meant to answer ‘what are you doing’ in a quick and timely way.

At some point it morphed into ‘what can you do’ and people started to use it to market and spread news, with funky tips, adverts and RT links. I get all my news from twitter, including the passing of MJ, Patrick Swayze and  bunch of people who I should know but don’t, kina Charlie’s Angels Celebrity Lady, the one with the pretty name.

Plus it’s a great place to find out about safaricom and zain’s latest offers. It’s thanks to twitter that I joined Super Ongea and that 3 bob calling tarriff thingie. Plus the whole Mercs vs Passats, unlimited bandwidth [yay!] and my first freelance writing job – all found on twitter. So for me, twitter is a pretty nifty newsfeed, without all the classified fluff.

But mostly – for me at least – twitter is about friends. Not necessarily the kind of lasting bonds that people lose arms over, but the kind of ‘let’s hang out on saturday’ thing, where people make dates and use 140 character updates to tell each other where they’re sitting. Twind dates so to speak.

At some level this sounds odd, but since online hookups are becoming far less … unusual, it makes sense to use twitter that way. When I first heard about this couple that met on Second life, dated, fell in love and married, I chuckled. Especially since the groom moved halfway across the world to live with his bride.

But wait, it gets worse.

After she twice caught him canoodling [I like this word] with some girl on Second life, she divorced him. Yep. Note that he did not meet the girl online, call her, get her into his wifey’s house and do the dirty. Nooooo. What happened is wifey came home from work, found hubby drooling at a computer monitor where the online version of himself was doing the nearly-nasty with the online version of some girl.

Now get this clearly. Second life is a virtual reality game where people hang out. You go on there, create an avatar, and then do stuff. You can hang out in the virtual mall, watch virtual movies, go on virtual dates, the works. You can even use real-world money to buy virtual land and clothes. You can use your actual credit card to buy a virtual pair of jeans in a virtual Woolworths [though why anyone would want to do that mystifies me] Your avatar can take some other person’s avatar on a date to a virtual McDonalds and stuff like that.

This may sound silly to the average person. But if you met your husband on Second life, then went offline and married him, then finding the same husband in a virtual jacuzzi with a virtual girl, you can reasonably deduce signs of a co-wife, yes?

My two cents? Before you wear the actual ring, do a virtual marriage for a bit. Go the the Second life vegas and do a virtual nuptial. Of course the downside is there isn’t [as] much fun in virtual sex.

But I digress. My point was, we use twitter more as a mixing-work-and-play tool. We are at work and we get to hang out with our buddies at the same time. Or we are lounging at our respective digs while at the same time having a mass party on Chuki FM or in Milo’s kitchen or wherever the latest bash is at, which is pretty cool. We get to be in lots of different places at the same time, and whenever we like, we can take the party offline for a shot of twitbowl or twitpool or MAMAs or even Just a Band.

I don’t think that’s what the original twitter-people had in mind, but it’s a pretty nifty mutation, no?

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On an actual note, the LOA involves a lot of self deception. It’s all about the power of the mind. If you’re tired and you tell yourself ‘I feel great’, you will notice that your spirits rise considerably. Especially if you put some spirit into the words. It’s hard at first, but it gets easier with time.

Thing is, sometimes I’m just fcuking tired, and I just want to declare that I am fcuking tired. But then, after I say it, then what? I don’t feel any better declaring that truth than if I had lied about it and said ‘I am a human gummibear, I never tire, oxygen is my juice’. Now that makes me feel better. Even if it is a lie.

So I suppose the real trick in LOA is to monitor my thoughts. When the thought ‘I am so xyz’ comes to mind, before I decide whether I will say it or lie about it, I should change it.

Suppose the thought ‘I’m bored’ comes to mind. Before I speak it, I might think of stuff that excites me, like soap bubbles. Or I could picture myself popping bubble foam [Fun!] Then instead of saying I am bored, I could say ‘Ooh ooh bubbles’. I wouldn’t be lying, and I wouldn’t be bored anymore.

Hm, I like this idea. Hope I can remember it.

Feel free to ignore everything after ‘On an actual note’, since it assumes you belong to my cult: the crazy reincarnating creatures of zombieville. Our motto —> nobody dies, we just change form. *cheeky grin* For more information, consult Neale Donald Walsch on Google.

Off to find me some bubble wrap in my happy place.

Get you inBetter than Ezra

For more information on 3CB, click here.

In the eyes of my child
November 4, 2009

First things first

In my baby’s eyes, I can do no wrong. She thinks I am superwoman, I have all the answers. When she breaks her dolly’s head, she thinks I can fix it. When her playmates have a fever, she thinks I can heal it. When people are sad, she wants me to make them smile again.

Yesterday I went home sad, and my little one asked me why. I told her my friend was mad at me. She asked me why, and I told her a half-truth. I told her it was because it was his birthday and I had not called him, and so we had ishana-d friends.

My baby, in true mummy-worship, decided that the only reason I could possibly have for not calling someone on their birthday … is that I was broke. She suggested I send him an email explaining that I had no credit in my phone, and that I would call when I got credit. Then she said we should pray for my friend to forgive me, so we did.

Dear God,

Please help my mummy

Please help her friend to forgive her

Please tell him she doesn’t have credit in her phone…

At that point I had to stop her. I had plenty of credit in my phone. Telling my baby a little white lie is one thing. Telling God a massive whopper is something else entirely.

I am not looking forward to the day when my baby realises that I am not perfect. I can’t stand the idea of looking into her pretty little eyes and seeing disappointment, shame, angst … or worse.

Secondly

In the first episode of Scrubs, JD walks into the hospital all idealist-intern-like. He meets the boss doctor – I forget his name, and Boss Doctor is all sweet and polite to him. Then he meets the cranky-Doc-with-the-hot-ex-wife who constantly belittles him. Cranky Doc then informs JD that Sweet Doc is the antichrist.

JD of course doesn’t believe him until he does something stupid and Sweet Doc shows his horns. JD then stands in a corner, utterly bumbwazzed and asks himself  a question. In every situation, there is yin and yang, he and she, good guy and bad guy, angel and devil spawn. So if Doctor Sweetness is really the antichrist, then who is the good guy?

Then he turns and sees Doctor-how-could-a-man-s0-cranky-get-a-wife-so-hot and gets this light bulb moment, except it’s not a light bulb, it’s a red neon sign screaming WTF?

[Well no, that doesn’t actually happen. It might have, in Ally Mcbeal]

So that’s my week in a nutshell. I’m staring at my Doctor Sweetness, who has turned out to be Doctor Evilhorns, and wondering who the fuck is the good guy in all this? Would you stand up and wave already? I have Samantha Mumba on speed dial. What. I do. On a call-back ringtone thingie.

Number 3

Every once in a QLC you find out stuff about yourself that you don’t really like. I recently found out that the general consensus among my K15 is that I am a flirt and a tease.

And this week I found out that I am considered a gossip as well. In the sense that it is believed that I enjoy talking about other people’s private lives. I don’t believe that is true, not for a second. But I do know that I am curious and dramatic, and that I link things in my mind. So I will start out telling you a story about why I can’t get a glass of milk.

See, we had a blackout, and the power came back, but the thermostat is broken. My fridge has this weird thing it does where it grumbles and gets hot and cold, like Katie Perry. The lady who sold it to me, she has green eyes and four kids, gorgeous babies, except the last one, he has a limp. What happened is he got into a fight at school and his leg broke, and his mother asked me to recommend a good doctor, so I told her about Dr Shivji. He’s the one who treated Princess when she grazed her leg running after that boy who hit her in the bus.

In telling you about my milk, I have just compromised the fridge saleslady, her four kids, my daughter, her paeditrician, and some random boy who can’t express a crush. Oh, and Katie Perry. I haven’t even gotten to the milky part yet! That, ladies and gentlemen, is called gossip.

I hate gossips.

But wait.

As of today, i AM a gossip.

Sigh.

The people’s court, like the Press, rules. And the people’s court is adjourned.

It makes me think of this person that I know. He’s very close to me, and is sort of the family historian. He knows everything about everyone in the family,  sort like an organic facebook. If I want to know who’s moved, who earns what, who has a new girlfriend, who’s cheating on their spouse, he’s my first port of call.

But after a while I realised that whatever I tell him goes into my OFB profile, and is then available on demand for everyone else. So I stopped telling him stuff. I still used him to catch up on my relaz new phone numbers and stuff, I just stopped updating his CB folder.

This person is a lot like me. I confide in my friends a lot, but they rarely confide in me. I always assumed it was because I don’t ask. After all, I don’t like to pry. I figure if someone wants me to know something, they will tell me.

Except they never do.

Maybe they realised they have a page in the CB file, and that since I am an open book, they are not safe with me. Hmm. Scary thought that.

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Haunted
November 2, 2009

Disclaimer: … can’t think of an appropriate one *grin* But it’s only 10.00 a.m. on Monday morning, so no, I am not high. Maybe it’s the full moon, it is Halloween after all.

Time travel.

Let’s assume it can be done.

Now, let’s assume that you got a message from your soulmate telling you they miss you, and they love you, and they never meant to fall for you. You started out as friends, but one day you crossed out of the friend zone, and now you can never go back. It wasn’t planned, it just happened. You receive the message now, when you are still in the friend zone, when you have not yet confessed your true feelings.

What to do? Why did he send you the message? Is he sorry you became more than friends. Is he warning you not to cross the line? Is he saying he wants to go back in time? No wait, he has. Can he really change the future? Has he changed it simply by sending you the message? What happened in the future after he sent it? Did he wish he hadn’t sent it? Was he drunk-messaging?

[And would this make a good love story?]

Will I be with him knowing how badly we will hurt each other, and how much it will tear us apart? Will I stop it before it even starts? Is that what he wanted? Is that why he sent me the message?

What matters more to me – keeping my heart safe, or sharing a lifetime with him? Because in the brief time we will be together, we will be so happy that we will change the world. And then the love will destroy us. Is it worth the intensity of pain that will come?

And now that I know it is coming, can I stop it?

Am I overthinking things? [Don’t answer that.] Where do dark thoughts come from? Are they premonitions, possibilities, or the results of staying awake till 5.00 a.m watching the X-Men?

Some days, it’s really scary being me.

In other news, it is probably not a good idea to eat strawberry popcorn and watch all Six Star Wars in one sitting. First, because strawberry popcorn sucks. And second, because you will end up thinking  Darth Vader is not so bad after all. He only turned evil to save his wife from dying – the end justifies the means, yes? Still, it’s pretty disturbing when the evilest pop villain ever turns human. It’s like discovering Sirus the Virus likes lollipops.

No, not those lollipops. Real lollipops, with sugar and whistles and gum in the middle.

Ok, this isn’t helping.

Come to think of it, more people dress up as Darth Vader than as Luke Skywalker. Think maybe it’s coz Luke had such terrible hair? Or is it just cool being shiny black, deliciously evil,  and sounding like James Earl Jones?

Why can’t I stop thinking like this?

It sure is scary being me. Must be Halloween.

PS: Megan Fox for Modesty Blaise – somebody start a facebook group already. I’m just saying.

Edit:

I think best when I think out loud, and so I am grateful for people [and blogs] that let me. I must conclude, or I will go mad, and it’s only Monday.

Like attracts like, negative thoughts attract negative thoughts. Thoughts of loss attract more thoughts of loss, sometimes in self, sometimes in others.

Every time I like someone, I think about what it would be like to marry them … and lose them. It’s almost masochistic. I sit and get lost in my daydreams, imagining all the ways they could hurt me, playing out vivid scenarios of them cheating on me, or catching me cheating and killing me, or going mad and attacking me, or catching Ebola, rabies or High-Five. Mind you, this is before we even get together, usually before they even know I like them. Interesting.

So perhaps the message from the future was not a message from the future at all, perhaps it was simply my consistent thoughts of loss drawing on his own thoughts of loss.

For some reason, that makes me feel better. By letting out the fear, we become aware, and we are better able to deal it when it comes. If it comes.

Suddenly I feel better. Yay!

Off to find something else to worry about *cheeky grin*

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*Sniff sniff*
October 24, 2009

That is all.

CavatinaStanley Myers

For more information on 3CB, click here.

Wow!
October 22, 2009

In the words of Loco, Milo and Archer, I have just been shot dead, burnt alive, and scared half to death. In that order. And it’s only Thursday!

A friend whose opinion I value, and who knows me pretty well, said something to me today. He says that maybe some people find me two-faced. They feel like I try too hard to be liked. They think I project an image that is popular, but that eventually, the real me peeks out, leaving people disappointed.

Le sigh.

Perhaps this is why people who start out thinking I am intelligent, mature and mysterious end up comparing me to unseasoned breakfast. Or why people who think I am liberated, strong, a regular Mustang, end up thinking I am an illegitimate…

Le double sigh.

With the amount of TMI on this url, I don’t see how people can possibly get the wrong idea about me. I’m worse in person and on chat. I am frightfully honest in all things. It’s unhealthy!

I have such an obsession with being ‘real’ and being ‘true to myself’ that anyone thinking I am not hurts pretty bad. Worse still is the idea that maybe I’m not real at all, that maybe I’m even lying to myself!

I think people will draw their own conclusions no matter what I do. They will think I am fabulous, or mean, or cold, or bitchy, or prudish, or loose – the blind men and the elephant – all partly right, yet all partly wrong.

And they will share their opinions, just like I do.

Another friend said it doesn’t matter what people think of you, only what you think of yourself. Right now, that isn’t a whole lot 😦

So much for being happy. Le big sigh.

The truth hurts, but usually, I am on the other side of the hurting. Usually, I am the one being brutally honest and watching people crumble at the result. I am not angry, I am grateful to my friend for sharing the truth.

But damn, it stings!

Off to meditate my crown now. Maybe I can open it without chasing Jack and Jill down a hill or getting wet.

Linkin park From the inside

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Socially blonde
October 22, 2009

Kinda speaks for itself, doesn’t it?

A dear friend said something to me a few days ago. He said my naïvete must be a front, because I am too smart to be that dumb.

Well, he didn’t use those words exactly, and don’t worry hun, I didn’t take offense. But you know me, any little thing I see or hear gets churned through my mind, bounced around, analysed, echoed, overthinked [doesn’t that just sound so much better than ‘overthought’?]  and massacred until there’s nothing left but beetlejuice [beetlejuice beetlejuice ** cue carry-me-banana song**]

Sorry, just had to throw that in there *cheeky grin*

Gnarls BarkelyCrazy

I made a similar comment to another friend, though that time, I wasn’t referring to myself. I was talking about someone I know, and wondering how he can be so smart about some things yet so dense about others. Hehehe looks like kharma has come for payback. Which reminds me of my niece dissing me once ‘Auntie, you’re so dim mpaka you’re dark.’ Ouch!

And did you know that in Dar, the equivalent of mchongoano is ‘tangazo tangazo’? As in ‘tangazo tangazo, kuna mmoja hapa, kichwa chake gololi’  Tsk tsk.

Back to the point. My friend responded that we’re all like that really. We all have one area where we’re gurus and another area where we’re pre-schoolers, Ask any Doctor or PhD professor.

Thing is, I know a lot of stuff in theory. It’s my intuitive side, my reasonable side. But I haven’t actually practised half the stuff I harp on about. This is especially true when it comes to social pretense, corporate culture … and boys. So I’m still at the place where I believe that if I just speak my mind, open my heart, and always tell the truth, especially to the boss, or on the first date, then the sun will shine again.

Probably because I’ve never actually dated boys before. Yeah, I know, that one of Baba Princess wasn’t exactly dating, it was default *cheeky grin*.

I’ve never had the ‘waiting for the call’ experience, or the ‘wondering if I should ask him in for a nightcap’ moment or the ‘drawing maps and hovering with my hand on the doorknob-thingie wondering whether he will kiss me’.

I’ve read about all those, and giggled about it, and said ‘if he likes you, he will call you, duh!’ But before now, I have never been the girl who sits with my friends analysing the conversation and walking around with my phone just in case he calls, panicking if the battery runs low or if the boss asks me to switch off the phone during a meeting.

So, things that are obvious to most people, things that they picked up in high school, things like that are rocket science to me. I am just now learning that girls are actually meant to play  hard-to-get. But not too hard, or else he’ll give up and walk away. You’re supposed to be all rare and mysterious. Give too much information too soon and you become, well, boring.

I am learning that girls are not supposed to consistently look a boy in the eye, because … well, lots of different reasons really. I am learning that girls are supposed to let the guy pay for things if he wants to, because if you insist on paying all the time, he will think you’re a dume-jike … or worse, a feminist!

I am learning that you are supposed to be the gazelle and run way, even if you really want to be caught, and that at the exact right moment, you are supposed to inconspicuously slow down and let him catch you, just like in chobo-na-ua-kamata-dame.

It’s like the child in the story who smiles at lightning because God is taking her picture. It’s cute in a kid, but in an adult, it inspires snide remarks and ngotos. Throw in my trait of  being overly emotional, my sense of drama, and my  tendency to throw tantrums, and things don’t turn out so good.

The thing with me  is that my blonde areas are rather … disadvantageous. I know of people, girls mostly, who are dumb as a rock when it comes to schoolwork, but boy, can they run the rat race! Doesn’t matter how they do it, they know how to get their way, And it doesn’t matter to them that they’re still, you know, rats. I sometimes think world smarts are worth so much more than book-smarts.

I’m not ashamed of the way I am, not really. I like the child that I am. It’s just that I am finally starting to recognise it as a weakness, and starting to do something about it. I’m starting to see that to survive in the big bad world, I have to learn some big bad tricks.  I am learning how to play the game. Slowly and painfully yes, but I am learning. And that makes me really really sad.

I suppose on the upside, I am evolving into a higher … thing. One that can function better in the real world. But I have to say, my fantasy world is so much more fun, and I’m not entirely sure I want to leave it 😦

I had a conversation yesterday, a sort of introduction to a new friend. I’ve had this conversation a few times before, but never like this. This time I was conscious, wary, weighing my words. Which is the ‘right’ thing to do, the ‘smart’ thing to do. But I couldn’t help feeling like I was conning my new friend, not giving him the full CB experience. I felt like I wasn’t being true to myself, I wasn’t being me. For the first time in my life, I put in a conscious mask.

And it sucked raw eggs.

I don’t know why that bothers me – I’m only doing what everyone else does.

But then again, I’m not everyone else.

The reason I wore that mask is that I don’t want my new friend to react the way everyone else reacts. I want him to see me as me, and to like me for me. Which is lame I guess, but there you are.

Of course, how my new friend reacts is not really my call, now is it.

And I don’t want to do all those things. I don’t want to wear this mask.

I am glad that I have K2, the one special boy in my life who takes me as I am, does not think I am completely loopy [partly yes, but not completely], and who thinks that ‘boys in my part of the world must be crazy to be frightened by my honesty’. Yay!

I’d like to have a few more friends who are like my K2, even just half of him really, or a quarter, coz I know he’s one of a kind. K7 comes close though *wink*

I do have some hope. Just as I am stepping out into this bold new … eh … world, I see traces of my Cb-niverse that say what the heck, you don’t have to adapt. Or conform. What I really need to do is find a few people that like it in my universe, some pseudo-K2’s and mini-CBs. Then we can go around in our own little bubble.

I can  interact with the world at world level, but interact with my world at my-world level.

Before, I tried to drag the world into my world, kicking and screaming. Which of course did a lot of damage to my interior decor. Especially the windows.

But now I see that I can have it both ways. I can chill out on the balcony, vet my neighbours, figure out which of them would like it inside, and invite them in. I’ve got a few candidates already **cough*cough*K7*cough*K13*cheeky grin**

The rest can stay in the garden smelling the butterflies and playing with the flowers.

It would involve masking, but only for a little while, and when the mask gets tiresome, I just pop indoors, grab a good book,  and dive into a bubblebath. Beats adjusting my nature to suit the world.

Also, you know how in those old stories there’s always some old lady in a rocking chair, sitting on the verandah and knitting a sweater? I could do that.

Not the knitting, I don’t knit very well. But I could stitch myself a nice world-proof dungaree to wear when I go out into the world. One that has an urban camouflage feature woven into it. And  I can leave it at the door when I get home, you know, just hang it on a pretty little coat rack.

I think I’ll make it burgundy.

Fix you ♫  Coldplay

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In this moment I am happy. Yay!
October 21, 2009

The first key to the law of attraction is to follow your bliss. i.e. find things that make you happy. Many many many things. Feel good and good things will come to you.

Right now, I feel good.

Come here you good things you *cheeky grin*

This could probably have gone on twitter, yes? Looks about 140 characters long. Oh well 🙂

Why can’t I stop grinning?

Haiya Harry Kimani

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