brighter brights?

the comments alone are worth the link…. 

http://www.theregister.co.uk/2008/04/30/lsd_discoverer/

Friday love list link

A friend sent me off to this site one day and I keep going back. I love her Friday love lists and she has been asking her readers to participate, it’s late, my family sleeps, so here goes:

 things I love tonight? in no particular order?

• the salt fresh ozone smell of the ocean (roll on December and a real summer holiday)
  
• the pepper spice smell of my daughter curled up against me in the morning
  
• riding in the back of a black cab and not speaking, just gazing out the window at London flashing by
• The sharp smell of chlorine at the local pool as I enter, the welcome anticipation of loosing myself in the blue for 30 minutes
• that feeling of doziness just before I fall asleep
  
• music that forces me to get up and boogie, on my own, most usually Greek folk or Kwaito - look it up!
  
• riding my bicycle through the green of Hyde Park with my daughter on the back - smiling at everything
• almost every poem in Alice Walkers “Horses make a landscape look more beautiful” - am on about my third copy in 20 years - true!
  
• my first cup of coffee in the morning
  
• diving into a book that traps me in its pages
  
• scrabble on facebook with people I know
  
• the Saturday papers, always the family section first
• a fresh bowl of salty popcorn
  
• the painting my daughter created this week - already framed and hung in the hall

And if you feel so inspired, share yours!

Day 301 2006; let me take you back...

I grew up in Chinhoyi, a rural town 115km north-west of Harare, on the main A1 road that stretches from Zimbabwe’s eastern boarders with Mozambique to its northern boarders with Zambia – a major trucking route through the heart of farm country.

Chinhoyi has two claims to fame. It is the site for an amazing series of limestone cave formations, the most famous of which puts the town on the trans-African tourist trail. 

It was also here in 1966 that the “second chimurenga” (rebellion) began and the seeds of Zimbabwean independence were planted. (The first rebellion happened in the 1893 when the Ndebeles fought the British, the third rebellion is what Mugabe called his 2005 squatter camp ‘clean up’ and rumours in the blogshpere whisper that the fourth chimurenga has begun…)

It’s a small town – its main CBD centred around one longish Y junction of mostly single storey stores and street vendors that sell everything from underwear, fried flying ants (a local delicacy) and tractors.

The town mostly exists to support the large commercial farms that surround it. There are other industries – it boasted one of countries largest abattoir’s producing meat for the international market (now closed), and scattered mines for copper, chrome, lime and gold, but it is mostly farming.

When I was growing up the town had 1 hotel, 2 motels, a country club, a municipal pool (closed), a cinema (closed), a Memorial hall, a scramble track and a drive-in (closed) on the outskirts. It had two cafes where you could sit down for a snack – the “Purple Onion” (now closed) where the naughty kids hung out and the “Russels Cafe” (closed) which served the thickest sweetest greenest peppermint milkshakes you could imagine. (Lala’s made the best samousa’s but you couldn’t eat in).

Population about 30 000 (in 1992) its small sprawl of suburbs had been carefully planned to divide accommodate various races. There were suburbs that were mostly Asian and mixed race, suburbs that were mostly white and, on the other side of the industrial area (and the railway line), an almost separate town for the black population. This was typical town planning – Zimbabwe (then Rhodesia) might not have legislated apartheid but race relations were strictly not encouraged.

I lived in a garden flat two blocks away from the railway line. It wasn’t the poshest part of town – but it was an idyllic place to grow up. Some of our neighbours were also Greek, families who are still part of my life today. Our parents would gather together most evenings while the children played in the small field in front of our homes.  We climbed almost every accessible tree in our neighbourhood and cycled often to open fields where we flew kites and dammed streams.

I grew up with blue skies and sunshine every day – bright cold winters and blistering summer days relieved by tempestuous thunderstorms that quickly disappeared leaving behind steaming roads and the smell of hot wet tar.

I used to fall asleep reading to the sound of distant African drums, the shrill of crickets, beetles, frogs and the occasional sound of a late train passing.

I grew up with an awareness of the cycles of wheat, maize, cotton, and tobacco. My year would be ruled by the large tracts of land that would change from deep fresh brown, to spring green, to gold and dust. 

I grew up in Chinhoyi in a time of war while never really knowing what this meant.

• I knew our parents would gather with friends to watch the news, shushing us when the presenter would mention the “bush war” and “terrorists”
• I did not know that the war was a fight for liberation and that young people of all races died.
• I knew that lots of people walked around the town with guns in their holsters and under their seats.
• I did not know the guns represented fear and hatred.
• I knew that the boarders at school were only allowed to travel home once a term on the exeat weekends and would come back with tales of fear or bravado.
• I knew that we could only drive out of town in convoy – and only during daylight hours. There was a curfew on the roads from 6:00pm till 6:00am and once my mother and her friends and a couple of kids in the car were late coming back from Christmas shopping in Harare – and my father and their husbands were waiting for us at the army check point at the Hunyani Bridge. It was a night of tension and tears. I got a green rocking dolls cradle for Christmas that year.
• I knew that on winter nights my father would drive our maid back to her home in a rush because it was risky to be caught on the streets after dusk.
• I did not know what this risk entailed or why.
• I knew that we had Selous scouts posted at our school – we practised regular security drills, hiding under our desks or quietly walking in crocodile formation to hide under the stairs in the girls’ hostel.
• I did not know who would want to harm a school full of children under 12.
• I knew that a neighbour was called up and came back home with tick bite fear.
• I knew that my father – then already in his forties, was called up to the reserves and had to guard the local water plant. We loved delving into his army rations pack for the sweet orange sugar crystals of his isotonic drink and we once celebrated Christmas day at the plant with all the other reservist families. It wasn’t the first time I realised that being Greek was so different.

These are my memories of war.

I was 10 years old when it officially ended and the country changed its name. Sheltered by youth I was oblivious to the unfairness and inequalities around me. Soon after independence neighbourhoods and schools were desegregated. Racism burrowed its head in the sand.

I left Chinhoyi in 1988 for university and I never went back for longer than my summer holidays. The last time I returned home was in 2003. Everything has changed.

Nothing had changed.

I understand it all differently now.

And I can still identify a tractor by its colour.

Update on Sun, October 29, 2006 at 21:34 by lia

I know the tenses in the entry above are all wrong - in describing Chinhoyi in the 1970’s I kept reverting to my image of it in 2003, and wanting to include snippets of memories from the 80’s. 

Day 261 2006, trying to stay connected.

It is going to be a slow blog week. We have no broadband. No wireless. This dial up service I have loaded until our broadband returns is slllooooowww! I have to sit by the phone jack. Navigating around the www is painful. We upgraded – with our existing supplier and they can’t offer us a seamless service - it’s already been five days and today I am told it could be for another week! Arrrghhhhh!

There are so many little stories in my head right now that are jostling to get typed my fingers are stumbling over the keys illogically. Magic has been happening again - the universe is knocking at my heart demanding that I stop and listen. Stop! Slow… down… and listen!

I need focus. Let me tell you about one magic happening…

In the last couple of weeks I have been thinking about blogging my memories of old school friends – ones that disappeared from my life a long time ago but who left a lasting impact. The ones I google occasionally or search for in various online contact databases like SAreunited.com or Zimsdays.com.

I look for Shamalea Khan, Hillary Cummings, Judith Jeba, Julianne Brown and Paula Buckley. A disparate group of girls from my childhood that I played with, shared secrets with, loved and who made a lasting impact on my personality. It was easy to loose touch with friends when I was young. So much of what happens in childhood is beyond our control - like parents moving, where we can choose to study – if at all, how far away we can roam.

Last Sunday night I was found. Judith Jeba googled me, ended up at LondonMaMa and got in touch. Emails have flow – she connected me to Danny McCloy and they have gone on to find both our Biology (Tim Freeman) and History (Richard Rathwell) teachers.

It’s been 20 years since we lost contact and we are all in such very different places. Danny spent 10 years in Nepal and Bangalore and is now studying his MA (Linguistics) in Montana and Judith (unsurprisingly) is a junior associate at Harvard.

We are trying to skype. It doesn’t work with out broadband so this conversation is going to take at least another week.  I have spent the last few days imagining, remembering and wondering. Can’t wait to chat!

Day 188 2006, snapshot, wordshot.

I've been absent. Busy. Tired.

Toddler filled days result in me collapsing in a heap on the couch with my crochet hook while I try catch the evening breezes - my mind too numb to string words together in a meaningful way I let my fingers loop wool into a jersey instead.  

Last night I caught up on my favourite blogs and inspired by this girl I decided to give this exercise a try.
It's been fun.  Thank you kindly!

this is me....

i am from this big, soft deep couch, from eve lom cleanser and rowan dk

i am from a garden carved out of the african bush, burning yellow and a million stars and the southern cross

i am from oregano, the flame lily, and chunks of white quartz, the flamboyant, poinsettia, and a deep sleeping pool

i am from name days and secrets, from milionis and grigoratos and rita nicolette

i am from the distance that separates and airport lounge tears

from " s'ayapo toso..." and "when you are old enough..."

i am from crimson easter eggs and orthodox mass. from friday night volleyball at the presbyterian hall.

i am an ionian african, from spit roasted lamb and avgolemono.

from the boy who told me charlie's adventures every evening while in bed, the fact that it was years before i realised he did not make it up, and the interloper.

i am from boxes of faded photographs, snippets of stories and a detailed family history someone else explored.

Day 169 2006, You dancing?

I am such a creature of habit.

I woke up this morning with a residual feeling of excitement - something was happening, or should be, my cells remembered and were dancing up a storm. I watched the news and listened to a presenter in a silly feather hat talking about the Ascot races this weekend and then I remembered - last weekend of June = Glastonbury!

The excitement dimmed - 2006 is a fallow year for the festival.

Its hard to describe the magic that happens at Glastonbury.  150 000 people gather together to celebrate. Celebrate music, summer, poetry, theatre, art, the great outdoors, and boundless creativity. Do I wax lyrical? With due reason.  I can write about the 30 distinct areas to explore. Music stages, theatre and circus spaces, a children's wonderland, restaurant fields, alternative energy fields, chilling fields, movie tents, dance and crazy burlesque fields. Throughout it all, at every stall, at every junction, in hidden woodland places you have to stumble upon there is art. A dragon carved of mud hiding in the stream that you can clamber over. The intricately carved semi mechanical wooden statue of a scorpion the size of a three storey building. The Wall of Love that people can climb, sit on, write on, that is planted at different locations each year. This is all titillating, all fun. What makes it for me is the people - 150 000 people all there with the same intention - to escape the humdrum and play, mindful at all times of not interfering with someone else's idea of a good time. People interact, smiles are shared, and there is so little aggression it's inspiring.

I have spent the day remembering:

23 - 25^th June 2000, E and I first joined the throngs to drive across the Salisbury plains to a farm called Worthy near a town called Pilton not far from spiritual Glastonbury. We were festival virgins. We dived into the biggest, craziest funkiest festival in the UK with joyful abandon and loved every second of our experience there. Best bit? The Chemical Brothers without a doubt. (we don't talk about the toilets.)

2001 was a fallow year - no festival and we spent the weekend being "festival whenwe's" - as in "when we were at Glasto last year we ...". (we don't talk about the toilets.)

27 - 29^th June 2002 we rushed back for more, felt like old hands camped in the same spot and wandered and played with glee. We loved every second of our experience there. Best bits? All of it - this was my best festival! (we don't talk about the toilets.)

26 - 29^th June 2003 The pilgrimage repeated - this time we took three glasto virgins with us. Initially they couldn't really relate to my chanting "we're going to Glastonbury - yippeee!" for the last 20 km - them we got there and they were easy converts - we all loved every second of our experience there - even the couple that spent an inordinate amount of time in their tent with awe and giggled all the way home.  Best bits?  Lost Vaguesness at midnight, and trekking through the Tipi field. (we don't talk about the toilets.)

24 - 27^th June 2004, after a fairly stressful ticket purchasing experience, we were back - with more glasto virgin / converts, 6 of us in all. The experience was wonderful - poignant for me as I intended to try for pregnancy soon after and I wasn't sure if I would make Glasto 2005. Best bit? Spending Friday afternoon in the Stone Circle field with E waiting for everyone else to arrive, ditto the Groovy Movie tent at midnight and Paul McCartney obviously. (we don't talk about the toilets.)

23 - 26^th June 2005, the festival was flooded - we watched it on TV holding our new baby daughter, laughing at the flooded tents and pleased with our timing - happy not to be there in the rain.

This weekend? Its another fallow year.  Wonder if we are going to brave it next time? - and even if it weren't so I am not sure that the Chi's first three day camping experience should be to a music festival with another 150 000 people. A smaller festival is currently being discussed, the Big Chill appeals, and we have a few months to make up our mind. 

Day 152 2006, Moobs' meme

Blame this MeMe on Moobs who tagged all his regulars and made me fish in the box under my bed to find and reread my old poetry. I spent a nostalgic half hour laughing at how much I haven't really changed.

(1) Why didn't you think to say that at the time?
Ten minutes later you had the perfect comeback. What was it you should have said? Exact words please.

At a wedding in Scotland - bumped into a fellow Zimbabwean who used to know my dad and his wife made some very silly remark about whether I was making cheese in London (my father had run a cheese factory in Zimbabwe!) - I should have just said "Fuck you" rather than just stare blankly at her in surprise.  Old prejudices huh!

(2) A Damn Good Hiding
Have you ever hidden anything under your mattress? If so, what?

I was about 14 and I read two books my mother specifically asked me not to -  “Last Tango in Paris” and "Whispers" and both messed with my head for the longest time.  Still hate Dean R Koontz as a writer and have never revisted Last Tango.  Should have listened to her!!!!

(3) Guilt Trip
Have you ever felt guilty about something for more than a year? If so, what?

Year old guilt is not my style - would either have it out with the person or just said sorry. Life motto = no regrets – no remorse!

(4) Mother Knows Best
Name one thing you kept secret from your mother.

Ha! I was in my early 20’s in the early naughty 90’s! Think Sasha and John Digweed, Dave Seaman and Robert Miles! This book was also hugely influential.

I'm a Mama now.

Sigh!

(5) Missed Opportunities
Is there someone from your past who, you now wonder, might have been your great missed love? If so, what are they doing now?

I catch occasional glimpses of some of the paths I did not take, of course I wonder but mostly I am fine right here right now.

(6) Poetry Please
What is the first line of the last poem you wrote?

This new i that looks back at me -
how much can stay the same in that reflection?

Day 135 2006 - rain trivia

It is late and my household mostly sleeps - except for the cats that are tackling each other in a sliver and gold furry mess. Outside it is raining and the wind blows hard. I love the sound of cars wooshing past, the shhhhhhhhhh of the tyres against wet tar, water drumming past my window in a fast steady beat. The city is being washed.  I want to be outside right now - walking in the crisp moist freshness - the night sparkling with the shimmer of water, the atmosphere clear and bright. I want to walk in the wood in Holland Park to see the moon play with the puddles through the trees - to feel the cool wind against my face.    

I have a tendency to see the world through tinted lenses - the reality is that the park will be closed, Friday night litter will be stuck wetly to pavements slick with grime and dust turned to city mud. Puddles of dirty water will pool around blocked drains and I will have to dodge the late night street walkers making their way home in their city boy suits after far too many beers.

I will stay indoors. I will think of Zimbabwean thunderstorms brewing slowly in the heat - bulky charcoal towers that mass until the sheer weight of moisture cause fat drops to fall in a heavy stream.  The sudden crack of lightning and the deep growling thunder that will roll through the sky. 

I will go to bed and think of my mother sleeping in big sky country.