For The Sunday Muse prompt #120, and B who in (wo)manfully wrestling pain to a standstill reminds us to hope again… ** Remember, in the failing light of falling night, when the weight of the world feels like a thing around your neck, that we see you, proud against the night- feet planted firmly in the mushy earth, unflinching in the maelstrom. Like the North Star sometimes hidden, sometimes peering out from behind the clouds, a beacon showing home we see you and believe again.
Photo by Reiseuhu on Unsplash ** I am finding myself drawn again to the radio and to the BBC World Service- not the physical box itself but the BBC Sounds app which my VPN allows me access - and in doing so, all sorts of memories come flooding back. Many moons ago, when I was nearer ten than thirty, the World Service was my companion on many a hot, humid day with not a lot to do. Programs such as Off The Shelf, Wright Around The World, various radio dramas and the bumper Saturday sports package which sated my Liverpool fixation in the days before colour TV (never mind satellite TV) came to my corner of the world, all came to define that era for me. ...
Image Source: Rajab Guga on Unsplash ** According to the Book of Proverbs King Solomon, who knew a thing or two about hope and despair once said - whether in despair or merely noting in a manner of fact way - that Hope deferred makes the heart sick, and for the last three months and some I feel like I have known just that; lurching — sometimes several times a day — between the delirious joy of looking forward to an adventure and the deep depths of despair. COVID-19 was the culprit, as were the not entirely unconnected issues of an oil supply glut and oil price wars leading to sub-zero oil futures pricing. That there was a clear cause-effect relationship did little to tame the perennial desire to find wider meanings in things that is our forte as Nigerians, cue warfare prayers from my near and dear ones, a la Mountain of Fire and all. ...
For The Sunday Muse Prompt #119, Artistic Photography Dreamlike Portrait Photography by Damien Casals: ** You and I are becoming one, our unspoken words a voice, mellow in its timbre, its echo light like a soft hand yet firm, kneading out the noise from the silence that we share. In that silence of being and being present, of returning and reforming, of holding out against the pressure of the world, are broken things becoming whole again, each breath a small victory won by persistence, a fresh shoot pushing its way through the things that rage has razed.
For The Sunday Muse prompt #118: ** In the chaos of water meeting water and breaking free, each splash a hop of joy freed to twirl and twist and kick and be, a body bent fluidly flowing like a shout of delirious joy, life echoes.
A Poets & Writers prompt from a few months ago asked us to explore ourselves by using the ten questions guests on the TV show, Inside the Actor’s studio, are asked. A few months late here goes my response: What is your favourite word? This would have to be ‘Quotidian’, a word I’ll admit to first hearing from Chris Abani’s 2008 TED Talk. Between the man, his work and the heft of the word, it is my favourite word, one I once made the theme of an entire blog. ) What is your least favourite word? Like, when it is used as an immensely irritating filler word. What turns you on? Boobs and brains. I’m partial to a well-spoken, well-read damsel with a great rack, cload in something just slingy enough to highlight the cleavage a wee bit. :) I’ve clearly thought too much about this…. Like this, which I’ll have to admit is disturbingly specific.. :) What turns you off? A nag.. What sound or noise do you love? I love the sound of rain on a tin roof, maybe a throwback to growing up in Nigeria and the freshness that a thunderstorm brings, washing dust and dirt away. A tin roof speaks of solidity and shelter I think, and the sound of hearing the rain rage outside whilst I’m safe within is one I love. What sound or noise do you hate? Dripping water. I suppose it is a counterpoint to rain, not least because dripping water drips in that annoying way, never quite making up its mind whether to be unleashed in a torrent or to just stop. Neither hot nor cold in a manner of speaking to use a Revelations metaphor. What is your favourite curse word? Fecking, like fucking but maybe less in your face? What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Medicine, psychiatry or family medicine. How close I came I’d never know but both my sisters ended up towing that path and have quite succeeded at it I’d say. What profession would you not like to do? Policing, politics, and the pulpit… If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the pearly gates? Could you have made your existence a little bit clearer and helped us understand our origins? What was all that cloak-and-dagger stuff about?
For The Sunday Muse prompt #117: ** Breathe, in spite of beauty, in spite of the frailty of the blue orb floating free beneath your feet, stunning you. Breathe, because of beauty because the earth hugs you like a mother tethers her unborn child fragile in its parts guiding, calling, growing feeding. Breathe, because home centres you because wherever you are times and seasons are locked in an eternal dance Breathe, because.
Going Deeper: How the Inner Child Impacts Your Sexual Addiction by Eddie Capparucci ** The Premise: We act out sexually when our inner child, scarred and taught to cope during childhood, is activated. Acting out is subconscious to some extent. To break the cycle, we need to step in and enforce a time out so our rational thining side can assert itself. Nine inner child types are explored: the bored, the unnoticed, the un-affirmed, the emotionally voided, the controlling, the entitled, the inferior/weak, the stressed and the sexually stimulated. Each description follows a similar format, a discussion of how this type manifests in the adult, likely triggers during childhood and how it triggers uncontrolled sexual behaviour. ...
The Practice of The Presence of God (In Modern English) by Brother Lawrence (Author) and Marshall Davis (Translator) ** A classic which dates back to the late 1600s, this is a book that regularly makes it on to lists of great devotional books. This (newish) translation is by Marshall Davis, who has form for this sort of reimagining. Between this year being my year of delving deeper and plenty of time thanks to COVID-19, I finally got round to reading this! to read has ended up on my pile for years. The central characters are a French lay brother, born Nicholas Herman but better known as Brother Lawrence, and Father Joseph de Beaufort, the vicar general to the Archbishop of Paris. A perhaps unlikely friendship given their different stations in life, we have it to thank for the letters and conversations recorded here. ...
This has been sitting in my drafts for several months, so I thought I’d try to finish it off and post it here as a means to making use of the time I have on my hands. ** If there is a silver lining to being a terrible sleeper it is that I usually manage to wake up in time for things, typically before my alarm rings. The blips on that record are increasingly regular - and spectacular - like this past weekend when I slept through multiple alarms. When I finally woke up (having failed to do so to the alarm on my phone and on my watch), it was ten minutes before my taxi was due, cue half-brained rushing about to splash some water on my face, brush my teeth and grab my travel bags. By the time that was done, there were already two missed calls from the taxi driver and the company on my phone. There was, I thought, a hint of irritation on the driver’s face when I finally emerged. All of that disappeared once we were on the way, and speeding, to the airport. The usual chit-chat revealed he had passed through the corner of West Africa I was headed for many years ago, and that he was Latvian, not that anyone could have guessed from his near-perfect Aberdonian accent. Scrambling for change at the airport, he waived the additional £1.20, helped me with getting my bags out of the car trunk and then promptly disappeared for the next gig. Bag drop and security took ten minutes at that time of the morning, by which time I was barely lucid and grateful for the cup of black coffee I poured myself once I was into the lounge. I was the first of my work party to arrive, which gave me some time to settle in and breathe a little, before the incessant chit-chat and mindless prattle began. It was a good thing I managed to catch my breath because the chit-chat, when it began, focused on the prospect of my leaving for greener pastures - being a traitor to the cause was the good-natured accusation thrown about. In those days before the oil price tanked, there were stirrings of growth and opportunities and I was only the latest in a long line of folk who had either left or were in the process of leaving. To cut costs, we had somehow engineered a tight connection at Charles de Gaulle, our turn around time being a grand total of ninety minutes plane to plane which left us hands full, running almost full pelt through the airport. We made it with some time to spare in the end and were delayed by a further hour for reasons unknown to us, all of which left me internally cursing the necessity of the awfully early start. We found out in the end that the delay was due to a deportation order being served on someone, cue police and immigration and all the malarkey that comes with those. ...