Thursday, 13 September 2012
Objects reflected in that mirror of a river may appear closer than they really are. That dark valley intensifies charismatic light and those who live here - whether full time or not - have no choice but to be transfixed by every new shiny beacon that floats by. The promise of salvation taunts your fingertips when you're living by the tides and in the tribe. And that promise is like a spark is to oxygen when you are feeling dead inside, but like ash to a tongue when you are feeling shiny. The grey of London is a relief after the extremes of the valley. It's allowing me space to be creative again.
Thursday, 6 September 2012
I seem to be falling in love weekly lately. Indeed, I'm getting rather good at it. Last night, I met a softly spoken, adorably polite yet super-sharp Kenyan CFO in a nice linen suit on the train at Exeter. We bumped into each other at the luggage rack and then serendipitously, our seat reservations had us sharing a table. His Sony Vaio brushed flirtatiously against my Mac. I avoided eye contact and pretended to read Vanity Fair. Then he wished me "bon appetit" as I inhaled my Morrison's Best ploughmans sandwhich, to which I saucily replied “merci” with a grin and let him imagine that I can string a sentence together in French. Which I can’t.
Was I visiting family he wanted to know? Yes, actually (boymen are so dreamy when they’re right about things) and was he visiting Britain on business? Of course he was. Clever me. Clearly we’re both psychic and therefore obviously soulmates, so I let him use my internet tethering and shared my grapes. He gave me a carton of apple juice, a dairy milk and some walkers and we fell in love a little bit. He ate his BLT and got mayo all over his face, which I found just fascinating because of the contrast against his very dark skin. He subtly mentioned his big beachfront house in Kenya and I told my voodoo child story about my musician parents meeting in New Orleans.
He explained how he’s going to change the world through sound financial practise and I explained why working in weddings is just like being a psychologist. We reassured each other that these points were completely unpretentious universal truths, and the fact that the rest of the world just hadn’t cottoned on to them yet only strengthened our bond.
He taught me how to pronounce his surname and watched me fiddle with my hair, and I pretended not to notice him stealing a sort-of-sneaky glance at my chest. He expressed disapproval towards black men who objectify light skinned/mixed race women and I expressed a desire to make a difference in the world. We laughed, we debated, we spoke of giraffes and canoeing, time differences and cowboys, tribal behaviours, the state of the Euro, the healing power of song, Germany, and cultural identity. We agreed that Steve Irwin was a very silly man, that hats are brilliant and that France has the best Jazz and then just before Reading he asked to take me back to Kenya to be his wife. Tempted, so I told him to find me on facebook. Marriage proposal response 2012 style. Last time I received a proposal from a stranger I gave the guy my email address. Odd how fast email has become passé. True Story.