Love Among the Ruins

If I take one more step, I am quite sure that I shall collapse into a crumpled heap of fatigue. I am halfway through the formidable task of unpacking and reassembling my room. When did I amass enough possessions to fill four giant boxes, two enormous suitcases and an adorable carry-on, not to mention the very full bedroom that I left in Bim to begin with? Now I have to unpack, stack, arrange, squeeze, balance and store items until my room looks somewhat presentable. A girl must have her orgies in a clean and clutter-free room after all. I can’t have the other swingers being told that I can’t keep my bedroom looking decent…

So far the task has been reasonably successful. I managed to unpack, sort and shelve most of my many, many, many books. Some of my bags, shoes and clothes have been settled in place. But I have quite a way to go indeed. At this point, I’m just placing items randomly around the house until I find somewhere to put them eventually. Hence, all my cds are stacked on the dryer and assorted items are scattered on the floor at odd intervals throughout the house. My parents are becoming awfully adept at side-stepping high-heeled shoes, Ghanaian carvings and bubbled-wrapped crockery. My mother has taken a particular liking to the bubble wrap with the very large bubbles and delighted herself today by popping them loudly and at length until I begged her to stop. I shall have my work cut out for me tomorrow because I am determined to have a respectable room by Monday. Let the orgies begin!

The best part, or rather the least evil part, of being forced to go through my belongings with a fine-toothed comb is that I come across the most interesting things sometimes. Today for instance, I discovered my hair-dryer that I lost a good 5+ years ago. Still works too.

But a lot more fun to look through was … the envelope. The envelope contains *drum roll please* most of the love-letters that I have ever received, from 1st form to quite recently. I promised myself that I would always keep them, in order to take that occasional stroll down memory lane. I kept that promise for the most part but some of them were just too painful to keep and found themselves, in crumpled shreds no less, in the landfill. But today I laughed gleefully as I reread the words that had been addressed to me so many years ago. From the “tick this box if you would be my girlfriend” to the anonymous deliveries from friends with instructions to meet admirers at a designated places where they would reveal their identities. I smiled at the poetry from my young Shakespeares and sighed over written apologies for infidelities.

Young love is charming indeed. I remember how very painful and complicated it seemed back then. Pity that it became significantly more painful and complicated as I grew older. I raise my glass to the days of trying to figure out who wrote “Your hair looks beautiful today and so do you.” Cheers to teenage romance! May I always remember my love-notes and their gallant authors.

Hmmm, wonder what I will find among things my tomorrow…

Raindrops on Roses

"When the dog bites
When the bee stings
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember

books, sparkling cider, chicken con broccoli from Olive Garden, handwritten letters on personalized stationery, books, game shows, books, caramel apples, granola bars, adidas running shoes, museums, books, flowers, jewellery, scented candles, corny jokes, cultural exploration, sour cream, fireplaces, plays, caramel appletinis, grapes, poetry, white chocolate Twix ®, quaint tea shops, sexual activity, classical music, key lime pie, thank you notes, perfectly coordinated and accessorized outfits, cereal bars, travelling, learning, smoothies at the café with the ladies, Ghana, endless conversations, the colour blue, psychology, piercings, caramel syrup, writing, magic, fetes, lasagna, fruit juice, rainy days, baby cousins, critical thinking, mushy love scenes, smelling gas at the gas station, cuddly comforters, wuking up, cosmetics, books, getting mail, cute pjs, puns, pedicures, books…

And then I don't feel so bad!"

Woe Is Me!

It could not be. It simply could not be. I refused to allow my mind to contemplate it. But try as I might, there was no longer denying the fact that my thigh muscles were sore. My legs hurt.

I froze in shock. It made no sense! None at all! How could my legs be sore halfway through a slow paced song? Could it mean...? Nah! But maybe...? Never! A few minutes later, I was forced to face the ugly, ugly truth. The years in VT had taken their toll on me, and I was actually out of wukup practice. It was a veritable slap in the face.

I was now down from an impressive 150 wls/min (waist-line shots per minute) to a sad and pathetic number that I dare not commit to type for the world to see. Much to my dismay, I found myself bopping to the music in an odd way that I am not quite sure can be classified as dancing. There were even times when *gasp* I was ignoring the beat completely and just bouncing around gleefully.

Alas! Alas! I hung my head in shame.

For my own sanity however, I have decided that that was a one time situation. Maybe my legs were sore because ... um ... I had been packing up my room and I was tired. Yes, that's what I will tell myself. As for being out of rhythm? A mere sensory illusion! The white russian I had had earlier had gotten to my head, and I was simply a tad tipsy. Nothing more.

*tells self comfortingly* There, there love. De waistline still mek outta rubber and ya is still uh original yardie. Ya din in Du Badd Crew fuh nuttin and ya just had a rough night das all sweetness. Ya could still brek off dah waist, humble a bwoy and send he home to he muddah crying.

Phew! :o) That was close.

On the brighter side of things, I have discovered a skill for motorcycle arcade games. Maybe I should become a biker chick. I already own some black, leather boots. I could see myself on pon de back uh de cycle, pooching back wid de (requisite) boy shorts and looking a sorta way bashy ...

Hmmm, sounds like a plan.

The 'F' Word

Mouths drop, eyes widen and questioning glances are exchanged. People shrink back as though they expect me to unsnap my bra, whip it out and set it on fire while performing a chant from a Goddess worshipping sect and denouncing all creatures with penises. Yes, ladies and gentleman, the deadly 'F' word ... feminist.

I am a feminist and very, very proud of it. Whenever I make this statement, I automatically start composing responses to the barrage of questions I'm sure to get. Many of them fall along the lines of "What?! Since when were you one of those?!" or "Why would you want to be that?!"

Sadly, most people equate feminism with the Mary Daly type and call to mind images of large, burly, unshaven women learning how to say "castration" in several different languages, planning the ritualised elimination of the XY chromosome and locking their chastity belts firmly in place. They imagine women who curse on sight of a make-up booth and who screech shrilly when a man dares to hold the door open for them.

Anyone who knows this baby blue loving, 3-inch heel wearing, make-up toting, leg shaving chica knows that that image certainly is not me...nor is it the image my self proclaimed feminist friends. So then how dare we use the F word?

Feminism has many, many denominations. Many feminist theories are about equality, not oppression of any one gender. The one I subscribe to is all about empowering women, not squashing men. It's not about claiming that women are perfect and men are hopelessly flawed. I care about things like equal pay for equal work, gender neutral language, equality in sports funding, support and scholarships, getting rid of glass-ceilings in companies and not having the phrase "...like a girl" or "...like a bitch" be the ultimate insult. I care about male-bias in religion and rape trials where the victim becomes the person on trial. The "slut/whore" vs. "player" double standard bothers me. I like to see women included in the literary canon, the clergy and all that yummy stuff. :o)

The feminists I know carry cosmetic cases, wear cute skirts and giant sunglasses ... or absolutely not, if they don't want to. It's all about freedom of choice, embracing the feminine in whatever way suits us, and however we define it, in order to be comfy, happy and womanly proud. As for man-hating? Are you kidding me?! I adore men. I'm particularly partial to love, marriage, babies and nibbling happily on his yummy obliques. Plus, I would never dream of eliminating men cause then I'd have to purchase a jack-ra...whoops! Uh...never mind. Mosey-ing along...

Looking at this wave of feminism, why would I not want to be a feminist? It's interesting how some people gag at the sound of the word...and then realise that they support most of the principles.

Anyway, I raise my glass of caramel appletini to feminism...and more importantly, to not knocking an ideology until you hear it out. Cheers!

"No distance of place or lapse of time can lessen the friendship of those who are thoroughly persuaded of each other's worth. "
--Robert Southey

Sitting in TH 103. Cuddled on the futon. Books and papers scattered all around me. My beloved friends distracting me with endless banter. I love them so much that I do not even wish to entertain the thought of different paths separating us after graduation. Life is full of sad goodbyes.

Here's to the future my darlings where I am sure we will meet again:
visiting my S. in the neo-natal ward at the hospital and being a bridesmaid at her wedding to K.
BBQs on the White House lawn the week after my T. is sworn into office
hopping on plane to Bangladesh to visit M. at his huge computer enterprise
bumping into N. somewhere in this crazy world of ours at some rally for some oppressed group...and being gleefully roped into yet another cause.
This list could go on forever...

You folks have my heart...I hope you know that.

The Fringed Gentian

Lift up, thy dewy fringed eyes,
Oh, little Alpine flower,
The tear that trembling on them lies
Has sympathetic power
To move my own, for I, too, dream
With thee of distant heights
Whose lofty peaks are all agleam
With rosy dazzling lights.

Who dreams of wider spheres revealed
Up higher near the sky
Within the valley's narrow field
Cannot contented lie.
Who longs for mountain breezes rare
Is restless down below
Like me for stronger purer air
Thou pinest, too, I know.

Where aspirations, hopes, desires
Combining fondly dwell,
Where burn the never-dying flowers
Of Genius' wondrous spell.
Such towering summits would I reach
Who climb and grope in vain,
Oh, little flower, the secret teach
The weary way make plain.

Then whisper blossom in thy sleep
How I may upward climb
The Alpine path, so hard, so steep
That leads to heights sublime.
How I may reach that far-off goal
Of true and honored fame
And write upon its shining scroll
A woman's humble name.

--Author Unknown