first of all, asante sana yinka
im so loving the mariposita trails. i so badly needed a change of look.
air on g-string
never sounded any sweeter than it did yesterday. there i was huggling my ka-zillions of bags from the mexican supermarket under the gastly texan heat waiting for the hourly bus to arrive. wondering, how the hell i go myself to this situation: too many bags and one pair of hands. the texan heat and humidity. folks staring at me in their air conditioned cars and i, staring back at them wishing so bad to show the finger. i mean why stare if you aren't going to give me a ride. so rude! listening to a wedding album and is not like im the marrying type and lastly and certainly not the least, literally spending my last paycheck on fees for next semister.
yet, air on g-string
never sounded more divine.
i remember the first time i heard the piece. here i was in a deep throb of nairobi city. heat. dust. people and cars fighting for the right of way, with no working traffic lights may i add. me, seriously broke with only bus fare. as was with the norm then the exception. and in the midst of these rather parched conditions, there was the oasis. music land store. now, nairobi is not known for its wide array of music delights. we dont have music stores that store everything and anything you need to hear before you've even heard it. consequently, it would be safe to consider music land as the tenth wonder of the world.
in the late eighties, music land was one of the two music stores in the capital that sold music. and quite naturally as per the laws of demand and supply, folks flocked the place in multitudes. right. wrong. it was expensive like hell. that and a menacing guard at the door, guarding the very crown jewels with his own life would make anyone turn back home. head looking down. shoulders slouching and wanting that one huff, the stairway to heaven.
i remember braving the imposing and threatening guard at the door and checking out the clarinets that were on sale. its not like i could play music. and read music for that matter. i just liked the sound that come from the wooded thing with many holes. it was deep and groaning. like a hungry teenager in public boarding schools fed on sauted beans and maize garnished by weevils. yet, strangly archaic and primal. it could also be i was fascinated by a blk and white advert for this company
that had take five
playing in the background. who knows.
i never bought the clarinets, but, i fell in love with bach. and thereafter, vivaldi, hayden, mendelsson. and the man with the hardest russian name that i cant quite spell it tchaiko-whats his full name. over the years i've discovered the singers also. kathleen battle
was the very first and most prominent in my mind. not only is a black woman doing her thing, but the voice, in my opinion is the gauge by which all other instruments are measured with. earlier on this year, i discovered other singing delights..marian anderson
and ms. leontyne price
, cecilia bartoli
and of course the great la divina herself, maria callas
listeneing to the piece and other highlights brought me back to a time with less cluster, more simplicity and a delight of the best of times. and to quote william congreve: “music hath charms to sooth the savage beast, soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.” i absolutely agree.
later on this week i spoke with the object of my slurpy fascination. so there i was again..the scene of the first encounter; the restroom. tum..ta rumm...then she comes in. she says hi. i look up from the sink. i say hi back. and quickly dart my eyes back. lest of course, she notices the fire in the eyes. i fumble quite quickly about the conversation we had last evening touching on poetry. i ask whether she likes poetry. she doesnt mind much she says as she touches and re-lines her lips and brushes her hair as i oogle at her from the side. unnoticed of course. i mention she reminds me of someone (insert the turkish de-flower with amazing skills and a desire to save the world). i arch my eyebrows for a moment and transposed back to a time where i glazed at these small breasts with three moles crisscrossing the browned skin. [ inhale ].. i pluck enough courage and ask the decisive question.. do you like t.s elliot. silence. the she asks, 'who is that.' i mumble someother guy..and the fascination is no more. tsk tsk tsk. objects of fascination are just that; fascinating
i wish i were more eloquent on the last post about nostalgia. english really did come by ship. i have discovered how hard it is to describe the most felt emotions with english. since coming to the states, i don't talk much in my other languages other then when im talking with my mother or my roomates. language is such a pertinent vehicle for cultural identity. citizens of post-colonial countries understand this dissonance in a very acute way. english as with french, portuguese and spanish were colonizing tools and the reverbations of its impact as still felt way after the warungis
have left. consequently, the inhabitants are left rather bewildered and forced to take sides in identifying themselves with one language over another. m.nourbese philip in she tries her tongue, her silence softly breaks
, discusses the context and dissonnance of language by stating that, 'language, therefore, succeeded in pushing the african further away from the expression of her experience and, consequently, the meaning of it.'
today, i'll work on searching for my tongue.