Alive. Well. And Smiling.

It is weird how life can punch you so hard in the gut one day...and then elevate you to nearly-blacking-out joy the next day.
On some page in Gabriel Garcia Marquez's "Love In The Time of Cholera", a character who's been recently widowed points out( thinks...out?) how the people whom one loves should take their things with them when they die. I agree.
But in relation to the people who...leave or whom you leave. They should go with their memories, the shared moments, the feelings...they should all be taken too.
Because it's painful. It is sheer torture to be left with mind-refreshers of what was. It is simply too tedious to remain with memories that in my case, are being pushed out of my mind with each ounce of strength and self-will that I can summon.

When the good-byes have been said, the memory slate should be wiped clean. Because memories of what used to be don't exactly bring any sort of serenity or melancholic happiness. They make you sad. And achey. Then more sad. Then, mad.
At the universe.
At your creator.
And at yourself. Those moments when you're able to detatch yourself from emotion and think/ look at the situation realistically, you get angry at yourself for...being an idiot.
Then your heart-mind combo that you just insulted re-plays a memory; one of the nice ones and you stop questioning your intelligence.
You are only human.
It is okay.
You will be fine. Really. You will.

You move through the motions. Pain. Hurt. Numbness. Questioning of your mind's working processes. You spend two days trying to not let yourself get overwhelmed by all feelings nasty and negative.
Two days of working, friend-ing, family-ing and trying to NOT feel. Then you get convinced that you might have to deal with all this chaos for a longer while. It won't go away just because you are willing it to.
So you accept. And brace yourself for all those quirky mannerisms that really translate to you dealing. Furious reading, over-working, falling in even deeper love with your music collection. And, careful avoidance of friends. You will NOT talk about this.
Over my pile of ashes ( guess where I borrowed that from?)
Then as you finally allow the mess in, it...goes. Not totally, no.

You are aware that you've lost something you really and truly valued...but you also know that it would have drained you. If you had not let it go, it would have gone from happiness-bringing, care-receiving-and-giving, mushy-turning..it would have lost its entire beauty.
And then the memories of that...those would have been dark and ugly.

Everyone deserves to be happy.
Everyone has the right to decide who brings them the most happiness and to stay with that person.
And everyone should bloody know when to walk. When to let go. Or, try to let go.
Life can be harsh. And plain mean. And confusing.
But life always lets us choose.

So I made my choice. The choice that choked me for the past two days.
A choice that took someone I had grown to care for so deeply away from me.
I let go of the one person that I currently want around the most.
Because life gave me the situation. But I made the choice.
Sometimes, the hardest thing and the right thing are the same.
Sometimes, separation brings clarity. The sort of clarity that togetherness doesn't really accord you. You look back and realize that you were playing risk games with your heart. You finally ask yourself, "Did I ever think of how this would end? Did I ever stop to ask myself if I honestly believed that maybe, just maybe, they would choose me? Really?"

I made my choice and spent close to three days bearing a great amount of pain. Then I decided to let myself face the pain, and asked God to hold me together. I was not going to break down. No.
Everyone deserves to choose whom they want to take their journey with.
And sometimes, you're the one who gets left behind. There's Meredith and Allison.
And you're one or the other.
You can't be both.

Almost three days of aching and you wake up with a song in your heart. You slept almost-quite-perfectly and you wake up minus the heaviness.
So you try to recall if you got intoxicated the night before. But you were home by 7pm.
Then you recall the prayer that was your last conscious thought before you slept off.

"Dear God, at the risk of sounding silly, I can't quite find any verse in your book that speaks to my current situation. No chapter on aching hearts and difficult goodbyes. But I know that you care. Even if I am currently furious at you. Please, please. Please, Lord, make me better. Hold me together. I miss smiling. I need the joy that surpasses and brings all understanding.
Please, God. Please. Hold me. Moe."

Also, there was the IM from your very wise friend that said something about God having a better and higher plan.
You tell your heart that's leaping to every dance-y song to cool it, too much of something can osso be bad. Be-gone, euphoria.
You calm down and tell yourself you'll face the day, second by second.
And you do. A few pangs. Several reminders. Way too much missing-ness. But way less aching.
And that's a good start.
Or, a good third day.


For Maux.
Because she smiled today. A lot.

THE STATE OF ME.

So my new lady love whom I gushed about in a previous post asked me to whip up a post on THE STATE OF ME. 
Its part of a blogging meme started by http://angelakintu.com/ , another blogger. And because I welcome any excuse to gush about my tres hot and vivacious self, I jumped at the opportunity. Yes, I am going to go on about my favourite topic; ME. Be prepared please. Shocks are bound to happen. Gasps even.
This woman is going to spill the beans and provide the dirt on herself. The real, dark and muddy dirt. No masks.
We go.

I have a big heart.

Literally.
I have the hugest heart ever. While the truth is it accommodates a few, well-chosen individuals, my heart is still big. I do not know how to feel in halves. I do not know how to love but hold back half of myself . I do not know how to be a friend but not help you fight your battles.. I have never understood the point in staying in a relationship that doesn't make you happier or smile-ier. Because I am the woman that will love her lovers, her friends and her families with every inch of my heart, mind and soul.
And on a really good day for the lovers, I will throw in my body. Or a bit of my body, anyway.
I am a Gemini. And passion is my blood.

This....and more.

I am shallow. Excessively so. People who are not well spoken and well written turn me off. Literally. I turn up my nose at them and make no effort to hide it. I use the ability to do cross words as an S.I unit for any man running after me. Yes. A girl's gotta have her words.
I am not above judging you because you wore the wrong top for even wrong-er jeans. I am also not shy about sneering at people who think Ragga Dee and Soulja Boy can do any sort of singing. On a day when I'm in the really-narrow-minded-and-judgemental zone, I will dismiss any sort of seriousness in your persona just because I think watching "How I met your mother" spells serious humour dysfunction.
Friends rules.

Shut up already.

I am thoroughly self conscious. My hips give me day and nightmares. The things have a mind and life of their own. I'm still uncomfortable when people look at them pointedly.

Me is a caffeine addict. Happy junkie. Coke, coffee...any time.

I love good food. Crappy food gets me cranky. And totally bitchy. So does crappy restaurant service. I've been known to write burning reviews on hopeless eating places.

I LOVE GOD. I cannot break that down.

I do not comprehend meals that are meat-less. Vegetables are not meant to be a major sauce. Ground nuts are evil. Matooke is NOT food.


I am 5'2 tall.
I love heels. Mostly because of the 5'2 factor.

SHOESES!!!!

I am attracted to men who are much, much taller than me. Something about tilting my head a bit to look into their eyes. And get me a snog.
Dark, manly men get my blood racing. The light and pretty ones make me think of....make-up. Making them up.
Sean Connery is one of my greatest loves.

Clooney has my heart.

I LOVE MY FAMILY. Mama, Martha, Arnold and Lindah, I would kill for.

I suffer from migraines. So, no chocolates please. I am trying to get off red wine. It's not easy.

I want to be a vampire in the next life. A smouldering, female vamp.
Or a man. So I can get the big deal with booty.

I am the world's bestest grudge holder. I block people out when they hurt me. In their place, I see dark spaces. Or voodoo dolls which I stab with my mind-needles.

I have never had a true or real love. I have had love, but I always left when things started to get un-pretty. Because I don't think love should hurt. Or demean. Or smother. So, I am a runner. Me and my friends await the one who will catch me. We're praying for him because, if I haven't said this, let me. My mental wires are loose. Perilously loose.

I have a shocker of a temper. I have broken crockery in fits of anger. And verbally broken people.
And slapped someone. I love you, my pretty.

I love gin. Seriously. I love gin.

I love, love, love to read. Anything written gets me.
I love to write. I was born to write. Writing is my life line. When I'm not typing away, I write in my mind. Most of that fades away, though.
My bed is my favourite place. I love the water. The ocean-type of water. One day, I hope to own a beach house. Complete with a cocktail genius of a bartender.

Somethin' like this.

Rock music is one, big soundtrack to my life.

I am insanely private. I do not let people see me cry. I do not let people see me broken. Unless I am intoxicated.

I believe in love. And fidelity. Cheating men have no place in my life.

I cherish my me time. No men, no friends. Just me and my thoughts. I have been called anti-social. And I do not care.

I have a tattoo.
I am still learning. Still growing. Still getting to know God. Still fighting demons and ghosts from the past.

But I am a strong one.
And will emerge victor.

Calling it; STATE OF ME AS AT 13:10 hrs. Friday, 02 September, 2011.

Susanna, Book Exchanges and New-lady-love.

Last evening was spent at Isha's.
The lovely, warm and exotic looking place two streets below my work place. The lady who runs it makes me think of Latin American soap actresses in their flowing dresses and head wraps. She is black, though. And as cool as hell. That doesn't sound quite right.
And her lamps...I want. All of them. I just couldn't figure out how I'd explain the sudden darkness and tusk-shaped bulges in my bag if I'd given in to temptation and packed them.
So I let them be. And kept throwing them come-to-me-looks.
But yes, we went to watch poetry recitals. We, the deep, well-read and gifted of this my town, went down to Isha's so we could bond, throw well-worded insults at the rest of Kampala's not-so-deep population. In true snobbish fashion, I sat there and felt extremely air-ish because I am part of this magnificent few. The few persons who understand and get words as much as I do.
It helped that I was seated smugly between some of the coolest girls I know. And got to know. Mildred, Darlyne and Kampire, I met last night(more on Mildred later).

Mildred and Liz had arranged a book exchange. We are all part of the coolest ever book club/page and due to endless links, posts, quotes from incredible books and lately, joint chagrin at this so-full-of-himself-pompous and widely unread author, we have developed an over the internet and social network bond. After the introductions and gin and coke orders, we got down to business. Recitals. Singing.

APWICDBWPW(H)GT

Jason Ntaro, if I have never said this, allow me to do so today. I absolutely, thoroughly love you. That your poems are spur of the moment mobile text section creations only makes my blood rush faster.
You have a way with words. A way that makes me gape in awe each single time you do a recital. My mind is a poem away from stalking you.
Please allow?

Lyric me away please...?

Susanna. The Lusoga poem( that was written in a complete Kisoga accent). By a man in shades at 9pm. That irked me. Shades in the pm. But then he went on about wiggling bottoms, wasp-sized waist and doing unmentionable deeds to this Susanna epitome of female glory.
And Susanna supposedly responds by knighting him with tiltles such as Kyabazinga and giving him free pass and own tickets to endless acres of land. Pause.
I thought that was only done by the Tooro women?
And he got a thunderous applause. We ululated. With  spur-of-the-moment Kisoga-ish tunes.

Call it the poetry in the air. Call it the gin in my system. Call it what lust. Call it what you will.
But last night, I fell.
I was enamoured. Deeply, giddily and gin-assisted into falling in love. First time love. Hasn't happened to me since Clooney in ER.
Then Mildred happened. It helped that unlike most first dates who are massively loaded with poor jokes, next-to-zilch ability for deep yet witty conversation, Mildred came bearing books. For me. For me?? TWO BOOKS.

Ring My Bell...

Her deep blue dress with the cute red belt and pretty hair band did not slow down my palpitating heart.
Thank you Di Ncy-for starting the book group. How else would I have had a second shot at instant love with this amazing awesomeness of well-read, well-spoken and  book bearing woman?

Hoping the love will be requited.
Will find out at our second date.
Yes. Second date. We have one.
Be still my heart.

This has all the looks of dark and intense...
(In my Oxytocin infused mind)