On the off-ramp to Stellenbosch, men stand on the median divider, selling arm-fulls of dramatic green stalks capped with delicate white trumpets, all bundled together with twine.
Continue reading “Protea Season”
To the Lost: A bricolage poetry series
On Sunday, May 31st, my favorite newspaper, The New York Times, published a list of nearly 100,000 names of the victims of COVID-19 in the United States. On its front cover were the names of 1,000 victims, along with their ages, locations, and a brief line from their obituaries.
I was struck by the array. Some of the lines read like poetry, some made me laugh aloud, and some made my heart ache in their brevity. I imagined each of the people behind these names, and I winced painfully at the thought of many of them dying alone, without their families surrounding them. This tribute from the Times affords them even the slightest recognition of a life lived and now concluded, with dignity.
I took a few hours to read through the whole list yesterday, via this interactive graphic on the Times’ website. As I read through, I wrote down some of the one-liners that stuck with me. When I had a list of over 5 pages, I went through and bricolaged some of them together. Some are categorized because they make me feel the same way when I read them, some are grouped for their regret, some for what was left unsaid, and a few even jumped out as lines I’d like to have in my own obituary.
The names were a mirror, reflecting back the population of a city, all without a single photograph. I hope that you resonate in some way with this series of poems that I’ve come up with, from these humble headlines from the lives of the lost.
I. The pain underneath
Sharecropper’s son (Cornelius, 84)
One-man army (Florencio, 65)
Freed from life in prison (Myles, 69)
Fell ill in prison shortly before he was set to be released (Melford, 65)
Died after being released from ICE detention (Oscar, 42)
Saved 56 Jewish families from the Gestapo (Romi, 91)
WW2 vet whose twin died in the Spanish Flu epidemic, a century ago. (Phillip, 100)
Man of few words (Claude, 84)
II. The things they didn’t do
Widely surmised he could’ve played Major League baseball. (Paul, 86)
Trombonist who once turned down an offer to play in Duke Ellington’s orchestra. (Stanley, 88)
Gifted pitcher who never made the big leagues. (Steve, 80)
III. Eccentricities, Depth
Stylish archaeologist and champion Dachshund breeder (Iris, 86)
Preferred bolo ties to neckties, suspenders to belts. (Leo, 98)
…Renegade nun,… (Georgiana, 73)
Gardener who won the title of Pickle King (Ted, 89)
IV. Things that give me pause
Quoted Longfellow and Tennyson from memory (Alan, 83)
Youngest of 21 siblings (Sawarellita, 52)
Free spirit and kvetch (Daniel, 80)
Mother outlived by her newborn (Wogene, 43)
Emergency room doctor who died in husband’s arms (Frank, 60)
Coloratura Soprano, loved to sing Ave Maria (Pilar, 89)
Loved seeing the full moon rise over the ocean (Norman, 91)
V. Seeing yourself
She had that Irish wit (Florence, 96)
Happiest when she was barefoot in her flower garden. (Jean, 91)
Her last words were ‘thank you.’ (Cornelia, 87)
VI. Funny People
He could spit a watermelon seed halfway across a double lot. (Kenneth, 94)
The presence of Paul Bunyon and the demeanor of a kitten. (William, 73)
Liked his bacon and hash browns crispy. (Fred, 75)
Known for serenading his friends with Tony Bennett songs. (Angelo, 87)
Gained notoriety for his free-form dancing at family functions. (Phillip, 91)
Vintage Mississippi macho man. (Bennie, 85)
Member, Coots on Scoots motorcycle club. (John, 79)
VII. The human condition
Thought it was important to know a person’s life story. (William, 55)
Had a mystic’s direct sense of wonder and oneness. (Margaret, 91)
An eye for beautiful and unusual things. (Steve, 75)
Never seemed to know a stranger. (Clyde, 86)
People were her hobby. (Mari, 82)
Man who seemed to know everything. (Luther, 108!)
Backyard birds were known to eat from her hand. (Ruth, 85)
Endlessly curious, never really finished. (Morris, 90)
The poem (or series of poems) below was born of my 30/30 poetry challenge that began in April for National Poetry Month. I’m proud to say I completed the challenge yesterday (a mere 5 weeks later than my original deadline.)
But hey! It’s the first National Poetry month challenge I’ve actually made it to the end of. I’m chalking it up to a victory and capitalizing on the momentum I’ve gained by starting a few new writing projects, and reviving a few existing ones, like this beloved space.
I’ll be sharing a few selections from my poetry challenge here in the coming weeks.
If you’d like to visit the full archive of my 30/30 challenge, you can do so here:
A true ‘kind eyes in strange places’ moment!
Gorilla trekking (part 2)
Gorilla trekking (part 1)
Unconventional Types of Loneliness: A List
You know that adage about how Inuits have 47 different words for ‘snow?’ I think about that sometimes when I come across a feeling that can’t be explained, or one that doesn’t seem to fit into an appropriate category. Maybe we just don’t have a word for it in my mother tongue. Or maybe the closest word just falls short? Such is the case with loneliness. Wouldn’t you agree?
It’s such an intricate feeling, it can encompass so many different experiences. Loneliness isn’t always a sad feeling, and it isn’t even always experienced in solitude. It’s possible to be lonely in the middle of a room full of people, or on the happiest day of your life. It transcends.
A few months ago I came across a post from Mari Andrew, one of my favorite writers on Instagram, where she outlines different types of loneliness (I’ve included her greatness at the bottom of this post). I loved it, like I do with most of her stuff. But one type of loneliness that she included just hit me right in the gut: “Loneliness of needing to verbally process with someone who is trapped in another time zone.” This! This.
Continue reading “Unconventional Types of Loneliness: A List”
On Flying (Frequently)
I’ll start with airports. They’re either a beautiful cacophony of global humanity, or the absolute bane of my existence, depending only on if I’m running late or not. And I’m usually always running late, especially if I’m traveling alone which, these days, I am more than I am not.
Continue reading “On Flying (Frequently)”
Radical Acts of Gratitude
It is a Wednesday in November. And I feel heavy.
I’m halfway through one of those weeks that started off bad and quickly got worse. My mind is spinning with tasks of privilege. I mentally recount all that is wrong: My puppy has her period (for 22 days and counting) and she is bleeding all over everything. Our washing machine is broken. Our cleaning lady bailed on us three weeks ago and we haven’t heard from her since then.
I cross Borcherd Street from my apartment to the vacant lot with the Bluegum tree, adjacent to the public parking lot on the corner of Banhoek and Andringa. Moira is perched under the tree like always; Dino isn’t far away. They both approach me with gusto and I can tell that even though it’s 11 am, they’re both three sheets to the wind. Dino asks where my dog is while Moira hugs me and asks me to buy them a loaf of bread. Sometimes she is very belligerent and sneers at me when I walk by, muttering under her breath in Afrikaans. Today she tells me I look beautiful and tells me, “I’ll be waiting for you, sweetie.” She will forget about me by the time I walk back home.
Stranger Tales: Leigh, the Canadian at the Irish pub in Abu Dhabi International
“Coincidences are God’s way of remaining anonymous.”
-my Great-Grandmother Colligan
This is the tale of Leigh, a stranger who quickly became a friend at O’Leary’s Irish pub in Terminal 3 of Abu Dhabi International, at 8am and two Stellas deep.
I’d been in the airport for 13 hours, and had two more until the departure of my connecting flight to Johannesburg. It had been a particularly unpleasant evening with the only airport hotel for non-visa holders booked to maximum capacity. After being saved from the piece of terminal floor upon which I’d set up a makeshift lean-to with my backpack and scarf, an incredibly kind airport worker named Magdalena brought me to the Muslim female prayer room next to the elevators in Terminal 4. I spent the rest of my night curled up in the corner of dark cocoon of a room, but I had to scram at sunrise because the shifts were changing, and clusters of female airport staff were coming in and out to do their makeup and gossip over tea in paper cups. I seemed to be a pretty unwelcome intrusion, so I decided to gather my things and venture into the heart of the airport.
Continue reading “Stranger Tales: Leigh, the Canadian at the Irish pub in Abu Dhabi International”
Tying a Bow on 2018
Travel Highlights:
- 3 weddings in 3 months in 3 different languages! (across 2 different continents)
- Obtaining a photo pass for a Modest Mouse concert at casino in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania with my pal, Brendan.
