A Stolen Heart

“Sheets,” I exclaimed. “Look, there is actual sheets on the beds!”

“And mosquito nets too,” I added, fingering the delicate gauze material that hung from the roof of the thatch hut.

“Pretty sweet mate,” Brett nodded as he dropped his back pack onto the matching twin bed on his side of the hut.

A man materialized at the door with the lemonade we had requested.

“Thanks Joey,” I said as he placed the tray on the sturdy wooden table and set the two tall glasses down.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asked yet again. We had been here a handful of  minutes, yet Joey had already taken our dinner orders, retrieved pillows for our luxurious looking beds and shown us every courtesy he could. I could tell that our 50 kwacha a night was going to be the best money I had ever spent.  

After double checking that we had everything we needed yet again, Joey bowed, then quietly walked back in the direction of the kitchen. I caught sight of the swish of a colourful sarong disappearing around a corner, then turned back to our room.

“This is going to be awesome,” Brett declared as he bounced on the bed with a laugh. “What should we do first?”

“I need to jump in the lake,” I declared.

The sparkling lake beckoned just a stone’s throw from our hut. Brett stepped onto the porch to give me a minute to change, then we headed down to the beach. Dropping my towel, sunglasses, journal and pen, I ran to the lake’s edge and splashed in to my thighs, before diving head long into the warm waters of Lake Malawi.

I burst through the water’s surface and smiled my face up to the sun. In a pure moment of joy, I kicked out and drifted on my back gazing at the Malawian sky that surrounded me. The sandy beach lay behind me, with its cluster of neat little huts tucked amongst green palm trees. Looking further out into the lake, I saw men in mokoros fishing for the myriad of fish that called this place home. I idly drifted my legs back and forth to gently propel myself along and luxuriated in the moment.

There was no place I had to go. There was nothing pressing that I had to do. I did not even have to worry about what to scrounge up for dinner, as Joey was presenting us with seafood crepes that evening. Later, he would trek across the sandy expanse from the kitchen to our hut, with delightful home-made cuisine on a covered silver platter, but right now there was just me and a serenity that I cherished with all my heart. The warm heart of Africa had stolen mine.

Joey’s Seafood Crepes (for one)

·         2 small eggs

·         ¾  cup flour

·         Pinch of salt

·         ¾  cup  milk

·         1 tsp baking powder

·         1 Tbsp oil

*Beat the eggs until smooth, then add flour and salt stirring

*Add milk and oil until smooth

*cook crepes and set aside

Filling:

·         Cut-up pieces of kampango or chambo (fish)

·         1 clove of Garlic

·         1 cup of milk

·         1 Tbsp of cheese (white sauce)

·         1 ½ Tbsp butter

·         1 medium onion

*Fry fish and set aside(can substitute chicken or meat)

*Cook remaining ingredients, then add fish back in and simmer for 10-15 min

*pour filling onto crepe, wrap it up and serve

Delicious!

Reworked Dreams

Starving
Drunken Corpses
Wandering shadows of men

I see you staring at yesterday
Streaks of obsession mold you
Leave you old - dead words

Your belonging is gone
Now imagined
A past dream

Today,  a gray face
Slashed fingers grasping
The coin has rolled away

Scabbed hearts
And flaccid minds
Are all that caress you now

Tomorrow
What means Tomorrow
-Heaven in a grave cold.

     ^^^
This poem was written many years ago. Re-reading it now, I would perhaps move words around, change them up or maybe even scrap it altogether. It was actually even a re-writing of another older poem that I had written entitled Tomorrow. I don't have the date on Tomorrow (I tended to put dates on poems even then with dreams of the legacy I would leave), but I believe it was written in 1992. Reworked Dreams was written in April, 1995.

I highlight it here today, as this was the first poem I had published. For me it was so exciting at the time. I guess it still is, although I have since read that the tome that it was published in was nothing more than a sham. I was young and goggle-eyed with thoughts of seeing my name in the printed form, and bought into their "competition". The National Library of Poetry seemed to publish everything that was sent to them though (regardless of merit I have since read), but the kicker was the buying of the book that it would appear in. Of course I bought a copy of Shadows and Light. I even got a notification that I was in the top 3% of entries, therefore receiving an Editor's Choice award. Wow!

The burst bubble didn't hurt that bad though. While it is disappointing that there wasn't any teeth behind their competitions, that amounted to nothing more than book promotions, the experience stayed with me. It helped to push me and keep me writing. I have a little book that has my poems in it written since as far back as 1991. I can see progression in my writing, but even better, can see that my muse has been with me for a long time. I still might not become a big, famous poet, but I can look back with pride in my will to create. For that is the heart of writing in my books.

I want to thank One Stop Poetry for the prompt today. They suggested telling them where we began our poetry career. I suspect that the stories of the myriad of poets that are out there hold some fascinating reading in themselves. My story started in my teens, but has carried through the years with encouragement from occasional writing contests, well-received poems for friends and family in greeting cards, my own personal drive to get the words running through my head down on paper, and of course my blog. It might not wow anybody, but getting this poem published was another huge affirmation for me that this was what I wanted to do. And I am doing it.

Saturday's Email of the Week: Almost Wet Myself Laughing

Ok, I have read this before, but I was seriously howling when I read this one. It came from my uncle, who is trying to push himself through a painful anniversary this week. Obviously someone else felt that he needed a laugh too.

Enjoy!

ONLY A MAN WOULD ATTEMPT THIS

Pocket Tazer Stun Gun, a great gift for the wife. A guy who purchased his lovely wife a pocket Tazer for their anniversary submitted this: Last weekend I saw something at Larry's Pistol & Pawn Shop that sparked my interest. The occasion was our 15th anniversary and I was looking for a little something extra for my wife Julie. What I came across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized Tazer. The effects of the Tazer were supposed to be short lived, with no long term adverse affect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to safety....?? WAY TOO COOL! Long story short, I bought the device and brought it home... I loaded two AAA batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button. Nothing! I was disappointed. I learned, however, that if I pushed the button and pressed it against a metal surface at the same time, I'd get the blue arc of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs. AWESOME!!! Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Julie what that burn spot is on the face of her microwave. Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it couldn't be all that bad with only two AAA batteries, right? There I sat in my recliner, my cat Gracie looking on intently (trusting little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving target. I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie (for a fraction of a second) and then thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. But, if I was going to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I did want some assurance that it would work as advertised. Am I wrong? So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand, and Tazer in another. The directions said that: a one-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant; a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major loss of bodily control; and a three-second burst would purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water. Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the batteries. All the while I'm looking at this little device measuring about 5" long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference (loaded with two itsy, bitsy AAA batteries); pretty cute really, and thinking to myself, 'no possible way!' What happened next is almost beyond description, but I'll do my best. I'm sitting there alone, Gracie looking on with her head cocked to one side so as to say, 'Don't do it stupid,' reasoning that a one second burst from such a tiny lil ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad.. I decided to give myself a one second burst just for heck of it. I touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and... HOLY MOTHER OF GOD. WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION. WHAT THE... !!! I'm pretty sure Hulk Hogan ran in through the side door, picked me up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in the oddest position, and tingling in my legs! The cat was making meowing sounds I had never heard before, clinging to a picture frame hanging above the fireplace, obviously in an attempt to avoid getting slammed by my body flopping all over the living room. Note: If you ever feel compelled to 'mug' yourself with a Tazer, one note of caution: There is NO such thing as a one second burst when you zap yourself! You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor! A three second burst would be considered conservative! A minute or so later (I can't be sure, as time was a relative thing at that point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and surveyed the landscape. My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of the fireplace. The recliner was upside down and about 8 feet or so from where it originally was. My triceps, right thigh and both nipples were still twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain, and my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs. I had no control over the drooling.. Apparently I had crapped in my shorts, but was too numb to know for sure, and my sense of smell was gone. I saw a faint smoke cloud above my head, which I believe came from my hair. I'm still looking for my testicles and I'm offering a significant reward for their safe return! PS: My wife can't stop laughing about my experience, loved the gift and now regularly threatens me with it! If you think education is difficult, try being stupid!!!!

The Writing of an Adventure

Just over a year ago a thought crossed my mind for a story idea. It started like this;

   "Once upon a time, a young woman sat waiting for the call."

The story featured a young woman who was on the road to adventure. At the beginning she wasn't very excited about it. I wasn't sure if I would have anyone interested in her story either.

The first comment I received on the post was this though;

   Me said...

     You forgot to write: "To be continued..."

     You *are* going to continue, right? ;)


And continue I did.


Since that first warm reception, I went on to add 55 more excerpts to the story I began on February 12, 2010. While the story started in the style of a fiction piece, and a few wondered if this was a dream of mine, by the fourth excerpt I let my readers in on the fact that this was indeed a true story. In fact, the story was my own.


In case you haven't followed any of it, the story is of my travels through Africa several years ago. It took a few entries to test the water and see if my story was worth sharing, but it has been obvious to me that it has. Friends have been awed by my adventure, grossed out by the food I ate, and worried for my security in dangerous situations. Lovely visitors have thrilled me by sharing that my tale has been passed along to curious family and friends. Others have expressed jealousy at my far-flung adventures, wishing that they could claim the experiences as their own. I take it all as compliments and allow it to fuel the fire in my brain to keep the story flowing.


When I first started writing of my travels, the entries were sporadic. I began with a burst of writing, with excerpts three days in a row, then slowly tapered off. Some weeks I posted two days in a row, other times it would be almost two weeks between adventures. On average though, I continued my story about once a week.


In 2011, I decided to give myself a schedule for my tale. You see I was gone for ten months, so my story holds many adventures in its pages. Some particularly gripping tales have even required two or three entries to conclude a section of the tale. As of January, I decided that I would post once a week and selected Monday as a good day to fly across the world for a spell of African Adventure.


You know what I am personally loving about all of this though? Aside from the fact that the telling of the tale is helping to hone my writing skills, I am loving stepping back into this adventure. My wandering ways are like a pleasant dream from another lifetime ago. It is so hard to imagine myself as this girl sometimes, but indeed it was. Life has held many other adventures since then, many not nearly as pleasant, but many moreso. As I re-read the journals I kept during my wanders through Africa, I step right back into the pages of that life. This winter with wind howling outside my window, I have walked the African savannah, awed by the animals just outside arms reach. The dry African heat has warmed my soul, despite the deep-freeze outside my door. As soon as I open my journal to read a few sentences, I find myself smiling. I am no longer in this chair at this desk, but rather half a world away and gone more than a lifetime ago.


What I do have to thank you lovely people for though is your support in all of this. This story has been aching to be written for many years. I believe that I came home knowing that I would write of my adventures one day, but never guessed that it would take this long to come to fruition. I even started the tale several years back, but quickly lost the drive to continue. Finding this venue for my tale has been exactly what I needed though. I write in snapshots, filtered through my journals and through my life since then. I try to stay true to the tales, but know that small details can be added or removed not harming the telling of my story. The snapshots I capture within a blog post are perfect though. I can build drama, paint pictures and be informative, all within the confines of several hundred words. The pictures in my mind will always be mine, but in the sharing, they come alive all over again.

Sweet Day, but Winter's Not Done Yet

I puddle jumped my way through the day today. Slopped over mushy snow banks and avoided skidding through stop signs. All with a smile knowing that these were signs that Spring was on the way.

But really?

Seeing two guys sauntering across Richmond St. in shorts and t-shirts is just too much for me yet.

*My mucklucks are still on my feet, scarf around my neck and hat planted firmly on my head for this Flash 55. It is February and there is snow in the 7-day forecast. I am not putting my winter gear away yet...