There's an Entire Whole World Out There to Get Lost In, Are You Still Breathing?

Note: The above title has nothing to do with the below post. I came up with the title before I wrote the post and then after I wrote it and realized that the post didn't fit the title I just couldn't be bothered to come up with another one. You have been warned.

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I've lived in Kampala long enough that versions of myself haunt every corner of this city. They perpetually pass out in muddy ditches and make out with strangers. They haggle over taxi fares and purchase TV chicken, roadside sausages and titanic rolexes. They walk the long way home, hands shoved into pockets at 4 O'clock in the morning after a sweaty booty call and help elderly women collect their groceries after the bag that was holding them tears and spills boxes of cereal, kilos of sugar, packets of milk, bars of dettol, tubes of toothpaste and the such like all over the street.

I bump into these ghosts of Lloyd's past every where I go. I catch glimpses of them while sitting at restaurant tables and peering through taxi windows. They are a constant reminder of who I've been, where I've been & where I've come from. They are my sins, my triumphs and silly stories. They are unavoidable. I think I now understand why people up and move entire cities when they want to get away from their past; it's not only to get away from the people that populate their world, it's to get away from themselves. Every version of themselves.

Different parts of this city haunt me in different ways. Not only with various versions of myself but also the various people I was with and all the chemical reactions and electrical impulses attached to them. The phantom scent of peach body spray whenever I find myself along Ntinda-Kisaasi Road, the softness of lips kissed and the faint taste of Redd's Vodka whenever I walk through the entrance of Zone 7, the crunch of fist on the bridge of my nose whenever Kisimenti becomes the destination of choice. Pangs of heart break, bursts of joy, jolts of pain as well as an array of other sensations bombard me every minute of every day that I am outside the comfort my four walls. And even then, the walls are haunted too. It can be exhausting sometimes constantly having to keep the waves of the past at bay. Especially for someone who tries their best to keep their eyes on tomorrow.

'Learn from the past but don't linger on it.' I heard from someone somewhere, I forget who. But just how does someone do that when the past is everywhere they turn; peeping out from behind parked silver Rav-4's, lapping up spilled beer off of bar counter tops and perched precariously on top of headboards knocking rhythmically against bedroom wall?

If anybody out there knows, heck, please let me know.

Under The Skin

The other day I was sitting in a taxi, up front with the driver when a woman got in and sat down next to me. She was slight of frame, light of skin with relaxed hair pulled back into a pony tail. She wore red, large-framed glasses and an engagement ring on the middle finger of her left hand. A navy blue skirt, striped blouse and black suit jacket with sleeves rolled up to the elbow. She was severely burned from the elbow to the knuckles of her left arm, from wrist to knuckle of her right hand and from ear to ear and hairline to throat. I couldn't see what kind of shoes she was wearing. She greeted me as she got in and I nodded and greeted her back, shifting over slightly to give her a little more room. There was no timidity in her greeting, no shying away from drawing attention to herself. This surprised me. Why? Because even when I just have a pimple I try my best not to draw attention to it or myself, invariably doing so anyway with conspicuously stilted movements. Though to be fair, that says more about me than it does about her.

Now, although the burns were probably the last thing that I noticed about the woman in the seat next to me they were most definitely the thing that left the strongest impression. They set my mind in motion. Not in a morbidly curious kind of way but in a more searchingly introspective one. I found myself wondering about her. Who was this woman under all of that scar tissue? What was her name? Who were her parents? Where did she go to school? Where did she work? What kind of music did she listen to?  Did she watch 'Deception'?

What was her life beyond living with all those scars?

There was a moment when I let my mind dwell on the pain she must have endured. The flames that had licked at her face and arms and for all I know other parts of her body as well; melting her skin, disfiguring her for life.

Had she been beautiful? There was no way for me to know.

In an instant my mind conjured up the hospital bed, the painful rehabilitation, the hopelessness and horror she must have felt the first time she looked at herself in the mirror; the doctors telling her and her family that there was nothing else they could do. The alienation. The inferiority. The despondency. I didn't know her but I grieved for her.

And then I remembered the engagement ring. I looked down at it. Golden band, shiny stone perched on top. Did that happen before or after the accident? Either way though, that was one hell of a man. He had that hell or high water love. That for better or worse love. I didn't know him but I kind of envied him. I envied his strength, his dedication, his refusal to quit. I'm loath to admit it but a part of me hoped that the ring was just for show. That ring, on that finger, belonging to that woman threw my up to that point unquestionable dedication to my beloved into the harsh light of scrutiny. If, God forbid, something was to ever happen to her; stripping her of physical beauty, relegating her to crutches or wheel chair or hospital bed, would I have the the strength and fortitude to stand by her? Would I have that immovable, unshakable, invincible love that I swore both to her and myself that I would have for the rest of our days together?

I didn't know. I really didn't. I always thought I did but faced with 'Hell or high water' the way I was sitting in that taxi I just didn't know. And that's what scared me the most. It threw into question my entire notion of my perceived 'goodness'. Would I really still love her if she looked like the woman sitting next to me? It's easy to say yes from this side of things. My beloved is gorgeously and wondrously put together. But the truth is, I really don't know.

What's more, does any of us?

Day 18: Untitled

I used to think that I would write until the day I died. That I would pass away with a pen in my hand and a posthumous novel slated for publication once the right amount of respectable time had passed. I know different now. I know that I wont be writing that seven book saga that requires years and years and sometimes decades of dedication or clinking champagne glasses while shouting out, "Eight seasons & a movie!" or penning the next big film franchise. Nope, not this nigga.

The last few weeks have been rather illuminating for me. I've discovered things about myself that I think I have always known but never thought were really of much importance.

As I've mentioned in an earlier post, I've been reading Sir Ken Robinson's book The Element, a book about marrying your passion with natural aptitude in the search for direction in one's life. I've been reading it with this whole, yeah, I've already found my Element, it's right here and it's called writing. thing going on. But then I was having a conversation with my mother, a cousin and another cousin's wife the other day and she went around to each of us and asked us, "What is your passion?" when it came to my turn to answer my cousin said, "I think we all know what that is." She was referring to my writing of course. I countered her by saying, "Um, actually..." and went on to tell them that although writing has always been a part of my life, and will probably always be my actual passion is seeing people pin-point, pursue and achieve their passions. Especially within the arts. To provide them with anything that I can to help in achieving this. Which at the moment mostly consists of nothing more than the knowledge that I myself have accrued in my own pursuit.'

Looking around I've realized that as a creative there are very few platforms with which I can express myself without feeling hampered or inhibited. As a writer I have no desire to be an "African Writer"- I just want to be a writer. Yet most of the platforms available out there are on the look out for "authentically African" writers that produce "authentically African" work. Whatever that's supposed to mean in 2014. I may be wrong but I feel as if there are a lot of writers out there that want to break free of what I think is a rather dated and constricting construct. I may be wrong but if I'm right then I believe that they can not do it alone. We can not do it alone. We need help. We need platforms that will say, "OK, here we are. You can express yourself exactly how you want. We wont force you to be politically conscious or socially aware or subtly pan-African or brazenly feminist. You can just be you. And if you are any of those things, good for you!"

But where are these platforms? I've searched high, I've searched low. I've cracked Google in half looking for them. I'm starting to think that maybe, just maybe they still need to be built. From foundation to helipad roof. And it is this, that I realize, that I truly see myself doing in the years to come. And I say this not only for the writers out there but for creatives across the board. We. Need. Help. But don't get me wrong though, I'll still be writing- certainly; creating things- always. but at the end of the day all I really want to be is the coach, not the star player.

Day 15: But Some People Can Be Bold

I love going places but I hate being in transit, if that makes any sense. Even the trips that I make frequently, like Kampala-Gulu, Gulu-Kampala annoy the hell out of me with their cramped buses and often times rather intrusive passengers. For, for every one passenger you exchange numbers at the end of the journey and plan to hang out with there four or five others that you wish you could hire a hit man to have them shot. Over the years I've been puked on by babies, shat on by chickens, rained on by motormouths and crushed by obese, smelly women who spend four hours out of six screaming into their phone in a mixture of fluent Acholi, competent Luganda and broken English.

Now, although yesterday wasn't as bad as any of those, it was still kind of a little annoying. Thank God I didn't have to sit through that for the entire ride.

So I'm sitting there, waiting for the bus to fill up, sitting in the isle seat so I would be able to stretch out my leg during the journey when a woman, probably in her early to mid twenties asked me if the seat next to me was taken. I shaking my head I told her, "No, it's free." and got up to let her sit at the window.

She was tall, almost my height with short, red texturized hair and black thick-rimmed glasses. She was attractive, if not necessarily pretty. She was wearing a yellow, low cut, sleeveless top and tight blue jeans that hugged her ample hips and thighs.

We sat down and although it was only about three quarters of the way full a few minutes later the bus was putting tarmac under tire and we were off.

Phillips head phones, music turned all the way up, SZA's new album "Z". Thirty seconds into the third song I felt a tap on my shoulder. I removed the head phones, "Yeah?"

"Where are you reaching?"

"Kampala."

"Huh. OK. Where do you stay in Kampala?"

"Bukoto." I lied. I wasn't about to tell this complete stranger where I lived.

"Bukoto?" She repeated, this time as a question. It was like she knew I was lying.

"Bukoto." I confirmed.

"That's nice."

This was where I was supposed to ask her where she was reaching, where she lived. I put my headphones back on. No thank you.

A few minutes later, another tap.

"Yes?"

"You work in Gulu?"

"No. I was visiting family."

"You're an Acholi?"

"Yes."

"Really? You don't look."

Instead of responding to this I stood up, reached into the overhead baggage compartment, dug into my bag, pulled out my Kindle and sat back down. If she didn't get the hint this time, I didn't know if she would at all.

I turned it on and began to read. Tertuliano Máximo Afonso's double António Claro was telling him that he was going to go away with Tertuliano Máximo Afonso's fiance and sleep with her as a form of revenge for the intrusion of his life that Tertuliano Máximo Afonso had caused and there was nothing that Tertuliano Máximo Afonso could do about it. But there was you see. Tertuliano Máximo Afonso resolved to himself right there and then that after Antonio Claro had escaped the city limits with Maria De Paz he would in turn assume the identity of Antonio Claro and sleep with his wife. Tit for tat. An eye for an eye and all of that.

Another tap.

"But I don't get what is happening. What is it that you are reading?"

I gave the woman a sidelong glance. Was this chick being serious right now? What the hell was her problem? Why couldn't she just leave me alone? Didn't she get that I didn't want to talk?

I took a deep breath to calm myself.

"It's a novel about a man who finds out there is someone who looks exactly like him living in the same city."

The woman leaned closer as if for further explanation. I didn't give her one. Instead I said,

"Now if you don't mind I would really like to read this."

And the headphones came back on. And I really thought that would be the end of it. I really did. I really, really did. I was wrong.

Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes passed without any disturbance. I was about to finish the book, I could feel it, the book that had been on a tortoise like pace from the very first page had suddenly revved it up to hare and was sprinting towards the finish line. And then, tap-tap-tap.

"Yes?" This time I didn't try to mask my growing agitation.

"I have an idea."

"Yes?"

"Why don't you get off with me in Bweyale & then go to Kampala tomorrow. It would be fun."

It took me a moment to process what she was saying. And then, once I did I was in complete shock. Was? She? Being? For real? She didn't even know my name. What kind of woman propositioned a man who they know completely nothing about? Wait, I take that back, stranger things have happened. Stranger things have happened to me. Stranger things have happened to me on a bus. I think I had just forgotten how things could be sometimes. In my earlier days maybe, I would have taken her up on her offer. If nothing but to have a story to tell the boys. It would have been one hell of a story. Not anymore though.

"No." I told her. I did a pretty good job of covering up my surprise and disgust I think. "I have to get back to Kampala today."

"Then we can just take a couple of hours and then you can proceed."

If there was any doubt as to what she was suggesting, there wasn't any more.

"Still no. I have a girlfriend I have to get back to."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

That shut her up real quick. She didn't say another word until she was getting up to get off the bus nearly half an hour later.

"Have a safe journey." she said after pulling down her luggage from the overhead compartment.
I nodded but said nothing.

I watched as she climbed off the bus and standing with her back to me signaled for a Boda.

In another life, I told myself. Just not this one.

Slipping my headphones on I pressed play and dug back into my book. Three and half more hours to go.

Day 13: Please Insert Your Name Here

Truth is, (and you may hate me for it but I'll make it up to you I promise) I really couldn't bring myself to write about anything else. Mom's better now; she's walking around, watching bad Eddy Murphy movies, making tasty omelettes & getting finicky about food containers that she is convinced are missing and so I no longer have an adequate excuse. I miss you. Miles and time have made this aching that I carry around with me every waking moment frighteningly poignant. I don't know what we would have done if we had lived at the beginning of the last century instead of this one. One with no phones or Facebook or instant messaging. I reckon this full head of hair would have become a few lonely wisps of longing looking for something to cling on to by now.

I'm coming back to you soon though, I promise. Maybe not as soon as I thought but we have plenty of days ahead of us to make up for the tortuous ones we've had to endure these past few weeks. And oh, please make sure that when I do you don't make any witty quips about my busting gut or bulging cheeks; going home = good food and it being fed to me virtually all the time and so it's really not my fault. Who am I to say 'no thank you' or 'I'm not hungry'? When Grandma says you eat, you eat. But just so you know, even though you said that I don't really have to, I'm gonna make sure I fit in that suit yo.

Being home has been nice though. A little exhausting, having to make the rounds of grandmas (well, Grandma - singular really), aunties, cousins, family friends, friends I used to party with, friends I used to work with, friends I used to pray with and the such like and so on. It's all been a little tainted though, being home but still being soul crushingly away from home. It's the oddest of feelings. It's the most conflicted of feelings. I cant make heads or tails of it. And it is probably this that is the most exhausting.

I'm coming home soon though, I'm coming home soon.

And oh, just one more thing before I pack it in; please, please, please make sure you have a big, tall glass of juice waiting for me once I arrive, OK? And before you ask, yes, that is a euphemism.

Day 10: On Giving My Maisha Idea Legs

So my best ideas usually come to me in one of four places; in the shower, on the toilet, during a church service or on the road. I've never really thought to think about it and so I really have no idea why. I know each place probably has its own catalog of reasons but I'm not sure I want to attempt to make sense of any of them right now.

What I do know though is that my latest 'good idea' (I won't really know whether it's really good or not until it comes to fruition- if it ever does) came to me on the bus ride up to Gulu last Sunday. For the last couple of weeks I've been reading Jose Saramago's The Double; an equally intriguing, frustratingly mundane, unputdownable and grade-A snooze fest of a novel. Whatever the case, however, I've promised myself that I will get through it and was reading it during that bus riding while my latest crush Kelela (good bye  Lupita- it was fun while it lasted) tickled my heart and sang sweet nothings to me through my headphones. It was then that the idea (blind and limbless) wiggled its way up and down the various passage ways of my brain looking for somewhere to lodge itself and make its presence known. And after a little searching, lodge itself it did. Presence seen and felt. Mission accomplished.

As such ideas usually do, it came to me hapless and rather hopeless looking for a little help. "Give me some legs." it told me, "I would really like to Kiprotich this bitch."

I said that, that could probably be arranged.

"And some arms too." it added a minute later, a tad too smugly for my liking, "I've got a five star, five course meal to make. And make it snappy."

It obviously thought it had me.

I begrudgingly obliged.

"And don't forget the eyes!"

It did.

The 2014 Maisha Film lab is coming up in a few months, you see, and I'm planning on submitting something. It is for this that the idea had swam the canals of my brain.

was racking my brain for over a week trying to figure out what I was going to write when after the rest stop just outside of Kigumba the idea stuck it's head up and said, "Hey. You. If you want me, I'm right over here."

I could tell instantly that it was trying to play it off as if it didn't want me as much as I wanted it. Complete hogwash of course. I still decided to play it the same way though.

With a nonchalance that I'm pretty sure it knew was put on as its own I told the idea that as much as I saw some potential I wouldn't get my hopes too high. On the inside though, I was ecstatic.

It hasn't been all sunshine and swimming pools though, I've been lugging this armless, legless pile of slime around for the past few days trying to figure just what I'm going to do with it.

This morning though, I think I had a breakthrough. Not a big one but one enough to start drawing some blueprints for the limbs that its asking for. And yes, the eyes too.

I guess some thanks goes to Jose Saramago (the book isn't a total wash) as well as to Haruki Murakami whose story A Poor-Aunt Story I posted yesterday. Hopefully something will come of it. If not then oh well, they'll always be other ideas.

Day 9: A Poor-Aunt Story

For me, walking around with a story unwritten is like walking around with a bag of boulders strapped onto my back. It weighs me down and makes everything about me and around me just that more glum. Sort of like the protagonist in Haruki Murakami's short story A Poor-Aunt story. A story about a man who wants to write a story about a poor aunt of which he does not have. In his attempt to write the story a spectral poor aunt attaches itself to his back who he is forced to carry around with him everywhere he goes.

Today I kind of feel like that man and so instead of trying to write about it I've decided to share with you the story that says it better than I ever could. Here is A Poor-Aunt Story by Haruki Murakami. Enjoy.

A POOR-AUNT STORY

by HARUKI MURAKAMI

Translated by Jay Rubin

It started on a perfectly beautiful Sunday afternoon in July - the very first Sunday afternoon in July. Two or three chunks of cloud, white and tiny in a distant corner of the sky, were like punctuation marks placed with exceptional care. Unobstructed, the light of the sun poured down on the world. In this kingdom of July, even a crumpled silver sphere of a chocolate wrapper discarded on the lawn gave off a proud sparkle, like a crystal at the bottom of a lake. If you stared at the scene for long enough, you could see that the sunlight was enfolding yet another kind of light, like one Chinese box inside another. The inner light seemed to be made up of countless grains of pollen - grains that hung in the sky, almost motionless, until finally they drifted down to the surface of the earth.

I had gone for a stroll with a friend, and on the way home we stopped in the plaza outside the Meiji Memorial Picture Gallery. Sitting by the pond, we gazed across the water at two bronze unicorns on the opposite shore. A breeze was stirring the leaves of the oak trees and raising tiny ripples on the pond's surface. Time seemed to move like the breeze: starting and stopping, stopping and starting. Soda cans shone through the clear water, like the sunken ruins of a lost city. Before us passed a softball team in uniform, a boy on a bicycle, an old man walking his dog, a young foreigner in jogging shorts. We caught snatches of music from a large portable radio on the grass: a sugary song about love soon to be lost. I thought I recognized the tune, but could not be certain. It may have just sounded like one I knew. I could feel my bare arms silently soaking up the sunlight. Summer was here.

Why a poor aunt, of all things, should have taken hold of my heart on a Sunday afternoon like this I have no idea. There was no poor aunt to be seen in the vicinity, nothing to make me imagine the existence of one. But a poor aunt came to me, nonetheless, and then she was gone. If only for a hundredth of a second, she had been inside me. And when she moved on she left a strange, human-shaped emptiness behind. It felt as if someone had raced past a window and disappeared - I ran to the window and stuck my head out, but no one was there.

A poor aunt?

I tried the words out on my companion. "I'd like to write something about a poor aunt," I said.

"A poor aunt?" She seemed a bit surprised. "Why a poor aunt?"

I didn't know why. For some reason, the things that grabbed me were always things I didn't understand. I said nothing for a time, just ran my finger along the edge of that human-shaped emptiness inside me.

"I wonder if anybody would want to read a story like that," my companion said.

"True," I said. "It might not be what you'd call a good read."

"Then why write about such a thing?"

"I can't put it into words very well," I said. "In order to explain why I want to write a story about a poor aunt, I'd have to write the story. But once the story was finished there wouldn't be any need to explain the reason for writing the story or would there?"

She smiled and lit a crumpled cigarette she'd taken from her pocket. Her cigarettes were always crumpled,
sometimes so badly they wouldn't light. This one lit.

"Do you have any poor aunts among your relatives?" she asked.

"Not a one," I said.

"Well, I do. Exactly one. The genuine article. I even lived with her for a few years."

I watched her eyes. They were as calm as ever.

"But I don't want to write about her," she added. "I don't want to write a single word about that aunt of
mine."

The portable radio started playing a different tune, much like the first, but this one I didn't recognize at all.

"You don't have a single poor aunt in your family, but still you want to write a poor-aunt story.

Meanwhile, I have a real, live poor aunt, but I don't want to write about her."

I nodded. "I wonder why that is."

She tipped her head a little and said nothing. With her back to me, she allowed her slender fingers to trail in the water. It seemed as if my question were running through her fingers and down to the ruined city beneath the water.

I wonder why. I wonder why. I wonder why.

"To tell you the truth," she said, "there are some things I'd like to say about my poor aunt. But it's impossible for me to come up with the right words. I just can't do it, because I know a real poor aunt."
She bit her lip. "It's hard - a lot harder than you seem to realize."

I looked up at the bronze unicorns again, their front hooves thrust out as if in angry protest at the flow of time for leaving them behind. She wiped her fingers on the hem of her shirt. "You're going to try to write about a poor aunt," she said. "You're going to take on this task. I wonder whether you are capable of it just now. You don't even have a real poor aunt."

I released a long, deep sigh.

"Sorry," she said.

"That's O.K.," I replied. "You're probably right."

And she was.I didn't even have
A poor aunt of my own.

Huh. Like lines from a song.

Chances are you don't have a poor aunt among your relatives, either. In which case we have something in common. But you must at least have seen a poor aunt at someone's wedding. Just as every bookshelf has a book no one has read and every closet has a shirt that has never been worn, every wedding reception has a poor aunt.

No one bothers to introduce her. No one talks to her. No one asks her to give a speech. She just sits at the table, like an empty milk bottle. With sad little slurps she consumes her consomm . She eats her salad with her fish fork, and she's the only one who doesn't have a spoon when the ice cream comes.

Her picture is there, all right, whenever they pull out the wedding album, but her image is as cheering as a
drowned corpse.

"Honey, who's this woman here, in the second row, with glasses?"

"Never mind, that's nobody," the young husband says. "Just a poor aunt of mine."

No name. Just a poor aunt.

All names fade away, of course. There are those whose names fade the minute they die. There are those who go out like an old television set, leaving snow flickering across the screen, until suddenly one day it burns out completely. And then there are those whose names fade even before they die - the poor aunts. I myself fall into this poor-aunt state of namelessness now and then. In the bustle of a train station or airport terminal, my destination, my name, my address are suddenly no longer there in my brain. But this never lasts long: five or ten seconds at the most.

And sometimes this happens: "For the life of me, I can't remember your name," someone says.

"Never mind. Don't let it bother you. It's not much of a name, anyway."

Over and over, he points to his mouth. "It's right here, on the tip of my tongue, I swear."

I feel as if I've been buried in the earth with half of my left foot sticking out. People trip over it and start to apologize. "I swear, it's right here, on the tip of my tongue."

Where do the lost names go? The probability of their surviving in this maze of a city must be extremely low. Still, there may be some that do survive and find their way to the town of lost names, where they build a quiet little community. A tiny town, with a sign at the entrance that reads "No Admittance Except on Business." Those who dare to enter without business receive an appropriately tiny punishment.

Perhaps that was why a tiny punishment had been prepared for me. A poor aunt - a little one - was stuck to my back.

It was the middle of August when I first realized that she was there. Nothing in particular happened to alert me to her presence. I simply felt it one day: I had a poor aunt on my back. It was not an unpleasant sensation. She wasn't especially heavy. She didn't puff bad breath across my shoulder. She was just stuck there, on my back, like a shadow. People had to look hard even to see that she was there. True, the cats I shared my apartment with gave her suspicious looks for the first few days, but as soon as they understood that she had no designs on their territory they got used to her.

She made some of my friends nervous. We'd be sitting at a table with drinks and she'd peek over my shoulder.

"She gives me the creeps," one friend said.

"Don't let her bother you. She minds her own business. She's harmless enough."

"I know, I know. But I don't know - she's depressing."

"So try not to look."

"Yeah, I guess." Then a sigh. "Where'd you have to go to get something like that on your back?"

"It's not that I went anywhere. I just kept thinking about some things. That's all."

He nodded and sighed again. "I think I get it. It's your personality. You've always been like this."

"Uh-huh."

We downed several whiskeys over the next hour without much enthusiasm.

"Tell me," I said. "What's so depressing about her?"

"I don't know. It's like my mother's keeping an eye on me."

Judging by the impressions of a number of people (since I myself was unable to see her), what I had on my back was not a poor aunt with a single, fixed form: she seemed to change shape according to the person who was observing her, as though she were made of ether.

For one friend, she was a dog of his, an Akita, who had died the previous fall from cancer of the esophagus.

"She was on her last legs, anyway, I guess. Fifteen years old. But what an awful way to die, poor thing."

"Cancer of the esophagus?"

"Yeah. It's really painful. All she did was cry - though she had pretty much lost her voice by then. I wanted to put her to sleep, but my mother wouldn't let me."

"Why not?"

"Who the hell knows? We kept the dog alive for two months on a feeding tube. Out in the shed. God, what a stench."

He was silent for a while.

"She wasn't much of a dog. Scared of her own shadow. Barked at everybody who came by. A really useless animal. Noisy, covered with scabs."

I nodded.

"She'd have been better off born a cicada. Could have screamed her head off and nobody would have given a damn. No cancer of the esophagus, either."

But there she was, up on my back still, a dog with a plastic tube sticking out of her.

For a real-estate agent I knew, my poor aunt was his old elementary-school teacher.

"Must have been 1950, the first year of the Korean War," he said, using a thick towel to wipe the sweat from his face. "I had her two years in a row. It's like old times seeing her again. Not that I missed her, exactly. I'd forgotten she even existed."

The way he offered me a cup of ice-cold barley tea, he seemed to think I must be some kind of relative of his old elementary-school teacher.

"She was a sad case, come to think of it. Husband got drafted the year they were married. He was on a transport ship, and boom! Must have been '43. She stayed on teaching school after that. Got bad burns in the air raids of '44. Left side of her face, down to her arm." He drew an arc from his cheek to his left arm. Then he drained his cup of tea and wiped his face again. "Poor thing. She must have been pretty before that happened. Changed her personality, too. She'd be near eighty if she's still alive."

At the same time, my friends began to drop away from me, the way teeth fall out of a comb. "He's not a bad guy," they would say, "but I don't want to have to look at my depressing old mother" -or the dog that died of esophageal cancer, or the teacher with her burn scars - "whenever I see him."

I was beginning to feel like a dentist's chair溶ot hated but avoided by everyone. If I bumped into friends on the street, they'd find some reason to get away as soon as possible. "I don't know," one girl confessed with difficulty - and honesty. "It's hard to be around you these days. I wouldn't mind so much if you had an umbrella stand on your back or something."

An umbrella stand.

While friends avoided me, the media couldn't get enough of me. Reporters would show up every couple of days, take photos of me and the aunt, complain when her image didn't come out clearly, and shower me with pointless questions. I kept hoping that if I cooperated with them they'd lead me to a new discovery or explanation with regard to the poor aunt, but instead they just exhausted me.

Once, I appeared on a morning show. They dragged me out of bed at six o'clock, drove me to the TV studio, and filled me full of terrible coffee. Incomprehensible people ran around me doing incomprehensible things. I thought about leaving, but before I could bring myself to do it they said it was my turn. When the cameras weren't on, the show's host was a grumpy, arrogant bastard who did nothing but attack the people around him, but the second the camera's red light lit he was all smiles and intelligence: your regulation middle-aged nice guy.

"And now it's time for our daily feature, 'Look What Else Is Out There,' " he announced to the camera. "Today's guest is Mr. ______, who suddenly found he had a poor aunt on his back. Not many people have this particular problem, and what I'd like to do today is ask our guest how it happened to him, and what kind of difficulties he's had to face." Turning to me, he continued, "Do you find having a poor aunt on your back in any way inconvenient?"

"Well, no," I said. "I wouldn't exactly call it inconvenient. She's not heavy, and I don't have to feed her."

"No lower-back pain?"

"No, none at all."

"When did you find her stuck there?"

I briefly summarized my afternoon by the pond with the bronze unicorns, but he seemed unable to grasp my point.

"In other words," he said, clearing his throat, "she was lurking in the pond near where you were sitting, and she possessed your back. Is that it?"

No, I said, shaking my head, that was not it.

How had I let myself in for this? All they wanted was jokes or horror stories.

"The poor aunt is not a ghost," I tried to explain. "She doesn't 'lurk' anywhere, and she doesn't 'possess' anybody. The poor aunt is just words," I said. "Just words."

No one said anything. I would have to be more specific.

"A word is like an electrode connected to the mind. If you keep sending the same stimulus through it, there is bound to be some kind of response, some effect. Each individual's response will be different, of course, and in my case the response is something like a sense of independent existence. What I have stuck to my back, really, is the phrase 'poor aunt' - those words, without meaning, without form. If I had to give it a label, I'd call it a conceptual sign or something like that."

The host looked confused. "You say it has no meaning or form," he observed, "but we can clearly see . . . something . . . some real image there on your back. And it gives rise to some sort of meaning in each of us."
I shrugged. "Of course," I said. "That's what signs do."

"So," the host's young female assistant interjected, in the hope of easing the atmosphere, "you could just erase this image or this being, or whatever it is, if you wanted to."

"No, I can't," I said. "Once something has come into being, it continues to exist independent of my will.

It's like a memory - a memory you wish you could forget but you can't. It's just like that."

She went on, seemingly unconvinced: "This process you mentioned of turning a word into a conceptual sign, is that something even I could do?"

"I can't say how well it would work, but in principle, at least, you could," I answered.

Now the host got into the act. "Say if I were to keep repeating the word 'conceptual' over and over every day, the image of 'conceptual' might appear on my back, is that it?"

"In principle, at least, that could happen," I repeated mechanically. The strong lights and stale air of the studio were beginning to give me a headache.

"What would a 'conceptual' look like?" the host ventured, drawing laughter from some of the other guests.

I said I didn't know. It was not something I wanted to think about. My hands were full already with just one poor aunt. None of them really gave a damn about any of this. All they were concerned about was keeping the patter alive until the next commercial.

The whole world is a farce. From the glare of a TV studio to the gloom of a hermit's cabin in the woods, it all comes down to the same thing. Walking through this clownish world with the poor aunt on my back,
I was the biggest clown of all. Maybe the girl had been right: I'd have been better off with an umbrella
stand. I could have painted it a new color twice a month and taken it to parties.

"All riiight! Your umbrella stand is pink this week!" someone might say.

"Sure," I'd answer. "Next week I'm going for British racing green."

Perhaps there were girls out there who were eager to get into bed with a guy wearing a pink umbrella stand on his back. Unfortunately, though, what I had on my back was not an umbrella stand but a poor aunt. As time passed, people's interest in me and in the poor aunt on my back faded. My friend in the park had been right: nobody was interested in poor aunts.

"I saw you on TV," my friend said. We were sitting by the pond again. I hadn't seen her for three months. It was now early autumn. The time had shot by. We had never gone so long without seeing each other.

"You looked a little tired."

"I was."

"You weren't yourself."

I nodded. It was true: I hadn't been myself.

She kept folding and unfolding a sweatshirt on her knees.

"So you finally succeeded in getting your own poor aunt."

"Yes."

She smiled, caressing the soft sweatshirt on her knees as if it were a cat.

"Do you understand her better now?"

"A little," I said. "I think."

"And has it helped you to write something?"

"Nope." I gave my head a little shake. "Not a thing. The urge to write just isn't there. Maybe I'll never be able to do it."

She was silent for a while.

"I've got an idea," she said finally. "Ask me some questions. I'll try to help out a little."

"As the poor-aunt authority?"

"Uh-huh." She smiled. "Fire away. I feel like answering poor-aunt questions right now, and I may never want to again."

I didn't know where to start.

"Sometimes," I said, "I wonder what kind of person becomes a poor aunt. Are they born that way? Or does it take special poor-aunt conditions? Is there some kind of bug that turns people into poor aunts?"

She nodded several times as if to say that these were very good questions.

"Both," she said. "They're the same thing."

"The same thing?"

"Uh-huh. Well, look. A poor aunt might have had a poor-aunt childhood. Or she might not. It really doesn't matter. There are millions of reasons floating around the world for millions of results. Millions of reasons to live, and millions of reasons to die. Millions of reasons for giving reasons. Reasons like that are easy to come by. But what you're looking for is not one of those, is it?"

"Well," I said, "I guess not."

"She exists. That's all. Your poor aunt is there. You have to recognize that fact and accept it. She exists. And that's what a poor aunt is. Her existence is her reason. Just like us. We exist here and now, without any particular reason or cause."

We sat by the pond for a long time, neither of us moving or speaking. The clear autumn sunlight cast shadows on her face.

"Well," she said, "aren't you going to ask me what I see on your back?"

"What do you see on my back?"

"Nothing at all," she said with a smile. "I see only you."

"Thanks," I said.

Time, of course, topples everyone, but the thrashing that most of us receive is frightfully gentle. Few of us even realize that we are being beaten. In a poor aunt, however, we can actually witness the tyranny of time. It has squeezed the poor aunt like an orange, until there's not a single drop of juice left. What draws me to the poor aunt is that completeness of hers, that utter perfection.

She is like a corpse sealed inside a glacier - a magnificent glacier with ice like steel. Only ten thousand years of sunshine could melt such a glacier. But no poor aunt can live for ten thousand years, and so she will have to live with her perfection, die with her perfection, and be buried with her perfection.

It was late in autumn when the poor aunt left my back. Recalling some work I had to complete before the winter, I boarded a suburban train with my poor aunt on my back. Like any suburban train in the afternoon, it was practically empty. This was my first trip out of the city for quite some time, and I enjoyed watching the scenery go by. The air was crisp and clear, the hills almost unnaturally green, and here and there along the tracks there were trees with bright-red berries.

Sitting across the aisle from me on the return trip were a skinny woman in her mid-thirties and her two children. The older child, a girl in a navy-blue serge dress and a gray felt hat with a red ribbon a kindergarten uniform - sat on her mother's left. On the mother's right sat a boy who was perhaps three years old. Nothing about the mother or her children was particularly noteworthy. Their faces, their clothing were ordinary in the extreme. The mother held a large package. She looked tired, but then most mothers look tired. I had hardly noticed them boarding the train.

Not long afterward, however, sounds from the little girl began to reach me across the aisle. There was an edge to her voice, an urgency that suggested pleading.

Then I heard the mother say, "I told you to keep still on the train!" She had a magazine spread open on top of her bundle and seemed reluctant to tear her eyes from it.

"But, Mama, look at what he's doing to my hat," the little girl said.

"Just shut up!"

The girl made as if to speak, but then she swallowed her words. The little boy was holding the hat that she'd been wearing earlier, and he kept pawing it and pulling on it. The girl reached out and tried to grab it back, but he twisted himself away, determined to keep it out of her grasp.

"He's going to ruin my hat," the girl said, on the verge of tears.

The mother glanced up from her magazine with a look of annoyance and went through the motions of reaching for the hat, but the boy clamped both his hands on the brim and refused to give it up. "Let him play with it for a while," she said to the girl. "He'll get bored soon enough." The girl did not look convinced, but she didn't try to argue. She pursed her lips and glared at the hat in her brother's hands.

Encouraged by his mother's indifference, the boy started yanking at the red ribbon. He clearly knew that this would drive his sister crazy - and it had that effect on me as well. I was ready to stomp across the aisle and snatch the thing out of his hands.

The girl stared at her brother in silence, but you could see that she had a plan. Then, all of a sudden, she got to her feet and slapped him hard on the cheek. In the stunned moment that followed, she grabbed the hat and returned to her seat. She did this with such speed and dispatch that it took the interval of one deep breath before the mother and brother realized what had happened. As the brother let out a wail, the mother smacked the girl's bare knee. She then turned to comfort the boy, but he kept on wailing.

"But, Mama, he was ruining my hat," the little girl said.

"Don't talk to me," the mother said. "You don't belong to me anymore."

The girl looked down, staring at her hat.

"Get away from me," the mother said. "Go over there." She pointed at the empty seat next to me.

The girl looked away, trying to ignore her mother's outstretched finger, but it continued pointing to my left, as if it were frozen in midair.

"Go on," the mother insisted. "You're not part of this family anymore."

Resigned to her fate, the girl stood up with her hat and schoolbag, trudged across the aisle, and sat down next to me, her head bowed. Hat on her lap, she tried to smooth its brim with her little fingers. It's his fault, she was clearly thinking. He was going to tear the ribbon off my hat. Her cheeks were streaked with tears.

It was almost evening now. Dull yellow light filtered down from the train ceiling like dust from the wings of a doleful moth. It hovered there to be silently inhaled through the passengers' mouths and noses. I closed my book. Resting my hands on my knees, I stared at my upturned palms for a long time. When had I last studied my hands like this? In the smoky light, they seemed grimy, even dirty溶ot like my hands at all. The sight of them filled me with sadness: these were hands that would never make anyone happy, that would never save anyone. I wanted to place a reassuring hand on the shoulder of the little girl sobbing next to me, to tell her that she had been right, that she had done a great job, taking the hat that way. But of course I didn't touch her or speak to her. It would only have confused and frightened her more. And, besides, those hands of mine were so dirty.

By the time I left the train, a cold winter wind was blowing. Soon the sweater season would be over, and the time for thick winter coats would be upon us. I thought about coats for a while, trying to decide whether or not to buy myself a new one. I was already down the stairs and out the gate before I became aware that the poor aunt had vanished from my back.

I had no idea when it had happened. Just as she had come, she had gone. She had gone back to wherever it was that she had existed before, and I was my original self again.

But what was my original self? I couldn't be sure anymore. I couldn't help feeling that this was another me, another self that strongly resembled my original self. So now what was I to do? I had lost all sense of direction. I shoved my hand in my pocket and fed every piece of change I found there into a pay phone.

Eight rings. Nine. And then she answered.

"I was sleeping," she said with a yawn.

"At six o'clock in the evening?"

"I was up all last night working. Just finished two hours ago."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," I said. "This may sound strange, but I called just to make sure you're still alive. That's all. Really."

I could feel her smiling into the phone.

"Thanks. That was nice of you," she said. "Don't worry, though. I'm still alive. And I'm working my tail off to stay alive. Which is why I'm dead tired. O.K.? Are you relieved?"

"I'm relieved."

"You know," she said, as if she were about to share a secret with me, "life is pretty damn hard."

"I know," I said. And she was right. "How would you like to have dinner with me?"

In the silence at her end, I could sense her biting her lip and touching her little finger to her eyebrow.

"Not right now," she said, emphasizing each syllable. "We'll talk later. You have to let me sleep now.

Everything will be fine if I can just sleep a little. I'll call you when I wake up. O.K.?"

"O.K.," I said. "Good night."

"You, too. Good night."

She hesitated a moment. "Was it some kind of emergency - what you wanted to talk about?"

"No, no emergency," I said. "We can talk about it later."

It was true - we had plenty of time. Ten thousand, twenty thousand years. I could wait.

"Good night," she said again, and she hung up. For a while, I looked at the receiver in my hand, then I placed it in its cradle. The moment I let go of it, I felt an incredible hunger. I'd go insane if I didn't get something to eat. I'd eat anything. Anything at all. If someone offered me something to put in my mouth,

I'd crawl to him on all fours. I might even suck his fingers clean. Yes, I would, I would suck your fingers clean. And then I'd sleep like a weathered crosstie. The meanest kick wouldn't wake me. For ten thousand years I'd be sound asleep.


I leaned against the pay phone, emptied my mind out, and closed my eyes. Then I heard footsteps, thousands of footsteps. They washed over me like a wave. They kept walking, on and on, tramping in time. Where was the poor aunt now? I wondered. Where had she gone back to? And where had I come back to?

If, ten thousand years from now, a society came into being that was peopled exclusively by poor aunts - with a town hall run by poor aunts who had been elected by poor aunts, streetcars for poor aunts driven by poor aunts, novels for poor aunts written by poor aunts - would they open the gates for me?

Then again they might not need any of those things - the town hall or the streetcars or the novels. They might prefer instead to live quietly in giant vinegar bottles of their own making. From the air you'd be able to see tens - hundreds - of thousands of vinegar bottles lined up, covering the earth. It would be a sight so beautiful it would take your breath away.

Yes, that's it. And if, by any chance, that world had room to admit a single poem, I would gladly be the one to write it: the first poet laureate of the world of poor aunts. I would sing in praise of the glow of the sun on the green bottles, of the broad sea of grass below.

But this is looking far ahead, to the year 12001, and ten thousand years is too long for me to wait. I have many winters to survive before then. 

Day 8: Visiting Hours

Maternity wards are not exactly the most peaceful of places to spend your day. Especially if you are a Nosocomephobiac such as myself.

Nosocomephobia - The fear of hospitals. Just in case you didn't know. Thank you Google.

The women screaming and sometimes crying and the "Mama! Mama! Mama! Pleeeeease just let me die's!" are enough to run even the sanest of men up the wall. And I'm already not all that sane.

Thankfully though, I'm not here to watch anyone pop out a baby. In fact, I'm here to visit the woman who popped me out. It was a minor surgery. Nothing major. She's doing great. The wound is clean, the wound is dry. Apparently you cant even see the incision. She gets discharged tomorrow.

When we pulled into the gate of St. Mary's Hospital Lacor this morning I felt all the familiar dread descend upon me. Every breath felt like I was inhaling the sickness of every admitted patient while exhaling every crumb of health bouncing around inside of me. And this was even before entering the actual hospital. When we did actually enter it (it was unavoidable after all) a gang of weird smells assaulted my nostrils; anti-septics and anti-biotics and the such like jousting with septic wounds, bacterial infections and other such things that just thinking about bring bile to the back of my throat.

But this is my mother, the woman who gave birth to me and so I have to be here. Initially I was worried that I would  enter her room and she would be a shadow of her vibrant, smiling, talkative, wonderful self. I needn't have been worried. The surgery was on Friday morning and the weekend has been enough time for her to recuperate considerably. More than anything, she looks as if she's just chilling in bed on a quiet Saturday morning. The only real signs of sickness are the plaster and IV pin in her left hand and the slowness and caution she takes to get out of bed and walk across the room whenever she gets up to go to the bathroom. She holds her stomach where the incision was made whenever she does because even though she knows it's not the case, she feels like her stomach may fall out of her at any second.

As I type this she is reclining in her bed reading Wessex Tales, a collection of short stories by Thomas Hardy ("But this man also. I'm reading this short story of his that has refused to end. I thought the whole point of a short story is that it is short. But as for this one, nope, it has decided that it's going to go on forever. Kale, let me read.") while my cousin who spent the night with her dozes on the other hospital bed. I brought her a couple of my books to read as well, The 100 Year Old Man Who Climbed Out The Window and Disappeared by Jonas Jonasson & Binyanvanga Wainaina's One Day I Will Write About This Place, I wonder which one she will like more.

Now, my mother has always very much been the mistress of her own domain and so has gone to quite some lengths to make sure that her room is less hospital, more homey. The room is full of framed pictures, potted plants and flowers in vases; she even went as far as carrying her TV, her favorite rug and even her bedroom curtains from home.

"I'll recover quicker if I have my things around me to help me take my mind off the fact that I'm lying here stuck in a hospital bed." is what she told me. It seems to be working for her.

It's been a while since I've spent any extended period of time with my Mother and so I plan to relish the next few days with her as she continues to recover and slowly ease herself back into her perpetually busy life.

"Maybe less busy now. I think I'm getting to that age where I need to let up on the gas a little bit. The doctor says that I tend to internalize stress a lot. That it's unhealthy and that I need to find some sort of release. Maybe I'll write. What do you think Lloyd?"

"I think it's a wonderful idea." I told her. And I cant wait to read what she comes up with. And knowing my Mom, it'll be a doozie.

Day 5: Cohabitation - A Response

I hate it when some ignorant, dogmatic, irrational grunt of a Christian goes and makes some of us other...pragmatic, should I say, Christians look bad. Now, I've never been one to feel the need to explain or defend my faith to anyone but when one wants to put their best foot forward and go and talk to someone about their faith and a fellow "brother/ sister in Christ" decides to go and take a hot stinky dump on it, it can be a little aggravating.

I read an article in yesterday's Daily Monitor where an Atheist (a friend of mine actually) and a Christian were both asked questions on the topic of cohabitation and whether it deprives a person of marital blessings. The difference in their answers, although expected, was quite telling.

Now, I'm not about to start quoting the article (if you want to I'll let you read it yourself HERE) but the gist of it was that the Atheist was pro-people doing whatever they want and believes that as a society we have been hoodwinked into believing a multitude of myths surrounding the whole notion of marriage and tradition while and the Christian immediately came off as well, ignorant, dogmatic and rather irrational. He made a number of baseless assertions like how it is only in a marriage setting that a child is taught such values as saying 'thank you' or not talking back to elders that made me wonder to myself, "Is this guy even listening to himself?" He went on to embarrass himself by making several other blanket statements that sounded completely unthought through. "And this is the guy who is supposed to be speaking on my behalf?" I wondered to myself. Not a good look at all.

"And so what are your thoughts on all of this?" you might be wondering to yourself. Well, personally, I strongly advocate for marriage; traditionally, legally and religiously binding. There is a proviso to this though. I believe that both parties should be in agreement as to just what the marriage is, is going to be and is for. It's not uncommon to find discrepancies in the motivations as to why a man enters a marriage (or any committed relationship really) and why a woman enters one. I think it's important for both people involved to be on the same page. As a Christian I have my own beliefs, based on my handbook to life- the Bible, as to what a marriage is and meant to be and so if I don't find someone who shares those beliefs, believe you me, both of us are pretty much screwed.

"But then cant a couple have that type of agreement without all the hoopla of getting married and all that entails? I mean, especially with the circus that it has become?"

Sure they can. I've seen it. My reasons as to why I would still campaign for something more officially binding though is three fold.

One, to me a traditional marriage symbolizes not only the union of the two people involved but of their families as well. The man's family is saying, "We accept this woman to become one of us." and the woman's family is saying, "Yes, we also believe that this man will be able to take care of our daughter." And while not everyone may need or want that type of validation, having grown up in a big and loving family I find comfort in knowing that I have their support and acceptance and that my wife and children will be fully accepted into this.

Two, I think the advantages of a legally binding marriage are pretty straight forward. Financial security for the children and wife, in the eventuality of anything happening. It can provide a cushion. As for the trickiness of getting out of a legally binding marriage, I've seen marriages that have failed and I've seen marriages that have lasted for more than twenty, thirty, fifty years. I choose to model my own marriage after the ones that I have seen work. Call me an optimist.

Three, the church marriage. I'm a Christian and so I believe that a union that is not sanctified before God is one that may miss out on the blessings that God may have for the couple. That is not to say that there are no unions that work outside of such sanctification, there are plenty, but I think that then brings up the question of God's perfect will versus God's permissive will which is a discussion for another time.

As for the issue of cohabitation itself, I will leave you with just two bible verses that I myself try my best to live by. They are Hebrews 13:4 which says,

"Marriage must be honored among all and the marriage bed kept undefiled, for God will judge sexually immoral people and adulterers."

and 1 Corinthians 6: 9-20 which says,

"Do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived! The sexually immoral, idolaters, adulterers, passive homosexual partners, practicing homosexuals, 10 thieves, the greedy, drunkards, the verbally abusive, and swindlers will not inherit the kingdom of God. 11 Some of you once lived this way. But you were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God. 12 “All things are lawful for me” – but not everything is beneficial. “All things are lawful for me” – but I will not be controlled by anything. 13 “Food is for the stomach and the stomach is for food, but God will do away with both.” The body is not for sexual immorality, but for the Lord, and the Lord for the body. 14 Now God indeed raised the Lord and he will raise us by his power. 15 Do you not know that your bodies are members of Christ? Should I take the members of Christ and make them members of a prostitute? Never! 16 Or do you not know that anyone who is united with a prostitute is one body with her? For it is said, “The two will become one flesh.” 17 But the one united with the Lord is one spirit with him. 18 Flee sexual immorality! “Every sin a person commits is outside of the body” – but the immoral person sins against his own body. 19 Or do you not know that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit who is in you, whom you have from God, and you are not your own? 20 For you were bought at a price. Therefore glorify God with your body."

And so seeing as the Bible is my handbook to life, I think that I'm going to go with that.

Day 4: On Limbic Takeovers & Baritone Flavored Inspiration

It's not very often that you come across something so transcendent, so spectacular that it reduces you to rubble. Something so next level yet so primordial that it shakes your very soul. Well, that's exactly what happened yesterday. His name is Kwabs and he is a singer. Rich baritone over percolating synths. Dour lyrics sprinkled with hope. Drinking to forget,  dancing with a stranger, bathroom stall fucking, the cab ride home...alone. Are just a few of the images that the music conjures up.

Kwabs first came to my attention about a week ago when I came across his latest single "Pray for Love". Floored. Hungry for more I scoured the internet for his music almost immediately; an album, an EP, a mixtape- anything. No dice. I gave up. And then yesterday I decided to try again. For why, I have no idea. This time I succeeded though. His EP 'Wrong or Right' is nestled comfortably between Kings Kaleidoscope and Marsha Ambrosious in my itunes 'Recently Added' playlist and 'Repeat' has been the name of the game ever since.

Am I afraid that all this repeating (I'm listening to him right now) will wear him out for me too soon? Kind of but not really. He's struck a chord, he's entered my blood stream, he's hacked my limbic system. And with that, I'm pretty OK with.

His music is the kind that makes me want to write. And seeing as I'm running pretty low on inspiration these days I'm going to take as much of that as I possibly can for as long as I can. Barring death or a natural disaster like my laptop crashing on me of course. In fact, let me put the man's music on my phone right now...

Day 3: Everything in the World is Exactly the Same

Kanye West said that not too long ago. He was sitting down with comedian turned late night talk show host Seth Meyers. He was answering a question about his recent, albeit frustrating, foray into fashion and how it differed, if at all, to making music.

"Everything in the world is exactly the same."

Which on first listen sounds kind of ludicrous but made a certain amount of sense when it came to the subject of creative expression, which I supposed was what he was talking about. But then everything? Like everything Kanye? I wasn't all too sure about that one.

And then I started to think about it. Meditate upon it. For some reason I just couldn't let it go. Something about it just had the ring of truth to it. Kanye West may be a lot of things but a fool is not one of them. Days passed. And then I came across a book entitled "The Element" by Ken Robinson. One that I highly recommend. It's about finding your "Element" which according to Ken Robinson is "The place where the things that you love to do and the things that you are good at come together."

There is a chapter pretty early on in the book where Ken Robinson talks about how most people have a misconception of what creativity really is. How we tend to relegate it to a particular caste of individuals; the writers, singers, dancers, painters of this world. The artists. Something that he strongly contends is incorrect because it then makes creativity an exclusive attribute which he believes is just not the case. He defines creativity as "the process of having original ideas that have value." And so if you take that to heart then it makes just about everything that we often take for granted a product of creativity. From the Club Sandwich to the Eiffel Tower. From the toothpaste I use when I wake up in the morning to Kanye West's "College Dropout". It therefore makes everyone, regardless of their field of expertise, capable of creativity. In fact, Ken Robinson's supposition is that an essential part of attaining expertise is in fact the skill of exercising creativity.

In the interview with Seth Meyers Kanye West implies that there is really no difference between Philip Seymour Hoffman, Kanye West, Christopher Nolan, Miuccia Prada, Frank Gehry or a person's favorite high school teacher when they were growing up. Although all are wildly diverse individuals they all have one thing in common, they all do what they are meant to be doing. Ken Robinson would say that they all found their element.

Which means that the Big Mac, ceiling fan, Lord of the Rings, iPhone, wheelbarrow, Sgt. Pepper's, fried chicken, Grand Theft Auto, Ray Bans, pillow cases, chainsaws, surround sound and Batman all came from the same place.

"Everything in the world is exactly the same."

Make any sense?


And oh, just in case you're interested I've added the Kanye West interview below.

Day 2: My Balls & My Word is All's I Have

So I watched Scarface again the other night. You know, the movie where Al Pacino plays Cuban immigrant Tony "Say hello to my little friend" Montana who after moving to Miami, Florida in the late 1970's builds a massive drug empire within the space of only a few years. It's a movie that I've watched countless times and one that reveals something new to me every single time.

Now, it was never lost on me just how "horrible" a person Tony was. The filmmakers did their best to make sure of that. Within minutes of meeting him we watch as Tony guts a man in exchange for some green cards for him and his two friends. Over the course of the movie we watch as Tony kills, snorts and negotiates his way all the way to the top. He does all of this without batting an eyelash. Yes, Tony is not a good person, we get it.

Or is he?

Because for all the horrible things that he does, all the blood that he spills Tony still takes care of his family, is a loyal soldier and a loyal friend, marries the woman that enamors him and by all appearances is faithful to her, says what he means and does what he says he will, never "F%^ks anyone over who didn't have it coming to them" and simply does not entertain the idea of the death of women or children. He has a code that he lives by and follows it to the letter.

There's a scene, probably my favorite, in the movie that encapsulates this perfectly. Tony is having dinner at a swanky restaurant with his wife when they get into an argument and cause a scene. It ends with him getting up to leave. As he is staggering towards the exit he slurs the following,

'What you lookin' at? You all a bunch of f%^in' @$$holes. You know why? You don't have the guts to be what you wanna be? You need people like me. You need people like me so you can point your f%^in' fingers and say, "That's the bad guy." So... what that make you? Good? You're not good. You just know how to hide, how to lie. Me, I don't have that problem. Me, I always tell the truth. Even when I lie. So say good night to the bad guy!'

and then he stumbles out. And it is in this that I find I admire Mr. Montana. Especially in a world where peoples word and values are so pliable. When most peoples' answer to whether they do this or do that is "Um, I don't know. I guess it depends on the situation." Something that I find I myself am commonly guilty of. Something that I can honestly say am not proud of. Something that I want to change.

Tony, in all his coke snorting and bullet spraying glory has me wanting to be a better person. To follow his example. To say what I mean, to do as I say. To always tell the truth. Kind of a little shocking.

There is another point in the film where Tony tells a prospective business partner matter of factly and with undeniable charm that,

"All I have in this world is my balls and my word and I don't break them for no one."

After spending two and a half hours with the man, I find I want to be able to say the same.

Day 1: Please Don't Call Me That!

I don't like being called a writer. I shy away from the title as much as possible. It makes my skin crawl and my stomach churn in protest. "Don't call me that!" I feel like screaming whenever I'm introduced as one. There's just something about the title that irks me.

Him: This is L.A. Lutara, and he's a writer. 

Her: Oh, really? That's lovely. Does that mean that he likes using big words and getting drunk with other quote-unquote writers and having important conversations about things that people don't really care about?

Granted, that's a very narrow view of what a writer is/ does/ enjoys doing but it has been my experience that a lot people actually think of writers in that way.

If I'm to take it even a step further though, I'm really not all that fond of words either. I use them because I must. To me they are little more than the little builder ants that I contract out of necessity to help me make some sort of sense out of this chaotic existence that we call life. Other times to help me escape it.

I was probably eight years old when I wrote my first story. I can't remember what it was about exactly but I do vaguely remember that it was a ridiculous mash-up of the Power Rangers, Captain Planet & Ninja Turtles. That I was Jason, I was Kwame, I was Leonardo. I was the leader. I was special. And I think that was what it was part of what it was all about- wanting to feel special. Something, that for many people, is something they carry into adulthood and all the way to death.

It wasn't only about wanting to feel special though. It was about getting this thing that did somersaults around my stomach, that rumbled inside of my chest, that thumped against my rib cage out of me and out into the world. Words were the easiest way for me to do this. I couldn't draw or paint or sculpt or build anything, I loved music but couldn't sing or play an instrument or dance all that well, I wasn't all that much of a talker and so writing was really the only thing that I was left with. It was the only way I knew how to express myself.

And so in that way writing has never been some sort of higher calling for me (as I've heard some people say they feel it is for them), it has been a necessity, at times even an annoyance, albeit one that I've learned to glean some level of enjoyment from. I write because I must. My sanity depends on it. It has always been this way.

I don't like being called a writer. I shy away from the title as much as possible. It makes my skin crawl and my stomach churn in protest. "Please don't call me that!" I feel like screaming whenever I'm introduced as one because the truth is, I don't feel like I am one. To me, all I really am is guy who has to pop and puke out words to keep himself from spontaneously combusting.

Do you think we could stick with that?