The cloud called arrogance and the momentary lapse of the iris...

At the beginning of your life it is easy to say how you would live it, but Maysa never thought she would be standing right here, stuck right in the mud she so adamantly insisted she would never step on. But like I always say, it is often too early to say I will never, until we have gone through it and really turned away. Because at the beginning of your life it is easy to be stuck in the cloud of arrogance where you think you are better than everyone else. Maysa basked in that cloud a minute too long, and then she stumbled and found herself right in the mud.

Truth be told I couldn't say I didn't want to stick out my self-righteous finger and wave it about in that I told you so fashion, after all I wanted to say serves you right but when I took a look at her face I cannot help but remember me. And so I relaxed my judgment muscle. That was a dark place I hate to see again, but each time I walk close to that tunnel my muscles tighten and I swear I could feel the creepy crawlies under my skin. And there were days I felt them crawling out of my pores. I never know if I am over that stretch yet, maybe I am in the field of daffodils, just some rainy days, or maybe I am still stuck in the mud, dreaming about the field of daffodils, God knows. I certainly hope it is the former. But was I strong enough to extend my hand to her, I am unsure. So I watched her, hoping she could pull herself up.


I must have a conscience apart from my cold heart for I often see her face when I go to sleep at night. And I find myself walking back to the spot where she is stuck just to see if she is still there. So everyday I watched her, and everyday I walk down this road from the fields of daffodil to this swamp, just to see. And not that I am helpful, I just stare at her. I am still unwilling to extend my hand. I guess I have always been non-committal and I must say I have seen many drown in that black hole, sometimes I shout out loud enough for someone else to hear and help, but never have I wanted to get myself wet, nor stick my feet into that mud. I didn't want to start sinking in. Conscience without the courage. I can laugh out loud, not that it is funny, but it is my life story. And that is why I keep coming back to this swamp. There was something I needed to conquer.

So to hell with it, many nightmares and loud voices in my head later I managed enough courage to step onto the mud. But I should've known that in her desperation, she pulled me down into the mud with her. And so now I am stuck in the mud with her. I cannot say I am not angry with her, angel-faced or not. I do not dare tell you the amount of swear words that raced through my head at more than a hundred kilometres an hour, faster than I could control anyway. And I cannot say I did not think of her in the worst possible light. But I let her hold onto my hand and I closed my eyes and mouth so tight, just so I would not let out the best of the anger that is seething inside. There were names I could think of to call her that I think only the devil can carry but hey, I was angry. So I stayed still and silent for a while. Until I began to feel the creepy crawlies, not around me, but crawling out from inside me, and what a disgusting being I can be. And then the weather turned to grey and the thunderstorm came, whether it was just inside me, or all around me, I did not care to think about, but where I was concerned there was a thunderstorm. Yes, the dark place I never wanted to be, she managed to drag me back there. I tell you I could wrestle god a million times over for letting me come here.

And then I guess I have a ltitle bit of strength in me after all to fight back the creepy crawlies. I turned to look at her angel face and smiled. And she, relieved there was someone with her cried many a tears. So we joked and laughed to relax the muscles and when night came we hoped and prayed that someone would get us out. But as I closed my eyes to sleep in the moonlight, in the swamp, my head went ahead of me. And I began to trace my steps back to the time, where I was alone in the swamp, and how I managed to find my way to the fields of daffodils. And as I traced I spoke aloud, so she could hear me speak.

At that time not so long ago, I was stuck in the mud alone. I was on my way to fields of gold, when a momentary lapse of the iris pulled me away, I know. The dark little elves said that this was a short cut to heaven, and so I walked across the swamp, and then I walked right into the mud, and got stuck under, five feet seven. The elfin men laughed and sang as I sat choking in black sand and then they left me there, at my own imagination's mercy. I struggled and wriggled to my dismay, I went deeper under, and I realised that I needed help to get me back up and over. I closed my eyes and the white knight appeared to me in a dream, and said dear one you remember me, the one who told you where you should go, no shortcuts you can take, onto the fields of gold. And he fed me with visions and dreams of the fresh green field of daffodils and I ligthened up, and hoped all night, that I could get out. I won't take no shortcuts no more, I said to mr knight. And alright he said, and to my delight, he came to my rescue. He struggled alright, in those white tights, and his horse had mud up to his knees. And yet he fought so gallantly and swiftly made it, with me. And I rode off on the back of the knight and I was oh so glad, when he sat me down on the side of the road, on dry, and hard land. Are you not taking me with you I asked him earnestly. He said, dear one, you have to walk, it is just the way it is, there are no shortcuts to fields of gold, and there for you i will wait. So I walked hard and long, and it seemed almost an endless plight. But guess what, dear one, I said aloud, I got there, nice and dry. The fields of daffodils is not just a dream, it is real indeed. and guess what I whispered to her, there is a house, with your name on it. She smiled and hope brigthened the day and she asked me how she could go. I breathed in and whispered, my darling girl, there is no shortcut to the fields of gold. Relieved, I got up so effortlessly and made my way home again, and she I know will make it home, and I will meet her at the gate. Conquered I have my darkest fears that the daffodils were a dream, for I know now what is real, and what more now so does she.

Then the man in white, rode past me, and smiled and I clapped with glee, he said, you must have told someone about me, for she called out loud and clear, white knight come save me. I understand now the reason why I lurk around mangrove swamps. Because I have stories to tell, of fields of gold, daffodils, white knights, and my own journey home.

ticker tape marathon

Sleigh bells ring, bono's voice on the radio and everything ticker taped chronologically before me. Yea christmas blues, that was last year, and now it is the new year and I am sitting trying to write about it. That is the thing, getting all gooey eyed and grateful that I survived the year, nostalgia, and the cliched what did I do with my year questions, the ticker tape still runs before me, and I do not want it to run with any repetitive pictures, nor do I want blank films. I rather let the film run with bad pictures than none at all. After all bad pictures play a part in that ticker tape of life. But then there were a few other pictures I'd like to have seen again and again.

New year greetings cannot help but flow, if I were that much of a pessimist I would've shrugged it off as just another day. I am guessing that deep down inside my inexcitability about life was just a temporary glitch and I am an optimist after all. That is nice, to be an optimist after all and my positive outlook wasn't just a denial of reality, but it really was a real outlook and perspective I held. I heave a sigh of relief and as I cut off the last ticker tape and replace it with a new reel knowing I will only pick it up again in a year's time because I do not want to be too aware of it, I want it to just run and me to be running with it so that each picture it snaps will be different, or at least to ensure there will be pictures when I review it next. It's all lived out and over, I open the window and let it go and it flies over land and sea as some of the pictures burn themselves onto my memory. Faces flash before me, the ones that have left here. A heap of photographed faces that will remain only photographs, stills, not running no more. I close my eyes and think of them I guess their ticker tape ran out, I hope they were happy with their ticker tapes while they were here though. I look at the ticker tape clean and fresh and I lay it down. And then I closed the door and got ready to jump, because I got to land running. I land and I begin this marathon yet again.

In my mind are blackpepper corns and pink petals, black coffee with honey and movie screens, faces of people I love, and their ticker tapes that I will be part of, scrapbooks of their hearts and laughter. Tears, rain, sad songs, happy ones, muse, and bono's voice on the radio, that always makes me smile. Scrubs and Dr House and Mr and Mrs Brown. Thigns that I never knew I could do, and the thigns that I thought I could do, but turned out to suck at. Many a things that will be laid out on that ticker tape that has already began to run.

So I have got the right shoes on this time, I hope, if I don't I will just change them, and keep running. That's all I can do to keep up with that ticker tape. and then, I just love with all my heart, and you'll see, it pours out onto that ticker tape in brilliant luminous colours so beautiful. I hope with all my heart for colourful ticker tape pictures next year.

I'm not there

The weather makes for one of those mornings that is good for lying in bed with a book, coffee and cigarettes. Maya Roy, quite an aesthetically pleasing girl in her early thirties decided to take the day off to do just that. Her neverending chain of unatttended to files piled up on her desk as a result, but she will deal with that tomorrow, she thought. It actually made no difference whether she be there or not, the files piled up anyway. There are too many people suffering from the blues these days and too many a day of attending to their blues, makes it justifiable for her to take the day off just to sit. She was a grief counselor at the nearby hospital, but today she was an artist, philosopher, writer, just because it gave her just the escape route from just blue.

She walked down the steps to make them both coffee, him and her. She had been too occupied with herself for far too long, it is about time for her to appreciate him and his company. She allowed the black liquid to drip into the white mug, one by one while she steamed the milk. She playfully muzzled into his chest to wake him. She laughed as he hugs her with his strong hands and pulled her back into bed. She loves his grip, his laugh, his jokes. She thought how often she just brushes his dance aside as stupidity while she hardly hears the songs he sings. She will make up for her unappreciativeness she vowed, from today onwards she will enjoy his dance, and hear his songs. She kisses him and falls asleep.


It was the afternoon and she smiles as she hears his voice in the music room playing his tunes. She creeped in and sat beside the piano with her book and rocked to the music. Hardly has she found the time to indulge in him like that. Many a days she was too obsessed with the files on her desk, with the dishes in the sink, and the dirt on the floor. She resented him for the clothes on the ground and the shoes off the rack. When they are out she was quick to point out the faults of the waiter, and the off-coloured greens, the uneven table legs, and the cold chicken. The lumpy soup began to creep up her list of priority, and soon enough it appeared to be on top of him. She sighed with regret and slipped beside him on the chair. He stops and looks at her adoringly. No one could ever look at her with such loving eyes. She smiled back.


The rain continued to pour down and it began to turn cold. He hugged her to share his warmth and she sat cuddled. As much as she desired to posess him within her, his beauty, his being, he could only share that much. As much as she desired to have him forever, it will not be. The desire within her burnt for him and she sat undone by it. The chill broke through the warm shawl and she turned around from her canvas and saw what is. The empty piano stool, and no music. Silence rang loud and clear and coldness surrounded her. She was alone. She turned back to see a canvas painted black. Nothingness. The fragments of her imagination, the one she held so tight to wishing it be real had cracked, and with the last blast of cold wind came crashing down. She got up and walked into the bedroom and on the floor, on his side of the bed still sat the cups and cups of undrunk coffee. Still undrunk. He's not there.

She called out his name. Nothing. She waited a while. Still nothing. Pure nothingness. The lights had been out for days, and the wind chill for months now. She was most unattractive, a hollow skinny sillhoute still dressed in black. Tears streamed down her face and she felt what she had caused him to feel all these years, like a knife had been pushed into her side. The truth is, she's been taking the day off for a year now, and he, he is not there. He has been dead for a year now. She has just escaped out of the blue for far too long. And meanwhile, grief piles up on her desk and she, she lit a cigarette and looked into her canvas where she could sleep restfully safe in his arms.

dance sweet ballerina

The ballerina floats in her pink shoes, the ones with ribbons all the way up to the calves. She spins and dances and she never tires, never falls.That is me, she whispered softly, me in my dream, but wide awake I slip I fall, I bruise and I am tired, wide awake I fall. But I will keep on dancing. Keep on dancing.

She cries, tears in her eyes, mummy I hate this take off my shoes. Tears stream down my face. But my dear Sarah I whispered, Sarah my dear, but you look so beautiful in those pretty pink shoes. And so she keeps on dancing.

The thing she knew not, was that she is pretty in my sight, indeed she was, my little ballerina in pink shoes, the thing is I know she falls, she falls but those were the most precious times. Those were the times I get to pick her up, and wipe her tears, and those were the times she says to me, mummy hold my hand until I float again. I hold her hand time and again and watch her as she dances, my little pink ballerina, precious in my sight,

My eyes only see things in that perfect world, and my little Sarah, in my eyes, fall she may, but that's not what I see. In that world where all is perfect I can see her dancing, I don't see her fall. I smile and nod the ballerina will always see herself fall, she will, she will, for she cannot see what I see. The ballerina that floats, never tire, never fall. if only she could see herself, through my eyes.

Over the years same thing over I tell her. But you look so pretty in those pretty pink shoes and today she stands waving her hands to me. Mummy I dream of that ballerina too, pretty in her ribbons and pink shoes, I know your secret I see it in your eyes, and so I try, to float not fall, for I am pretty in your sight.

And then one day she fell quite bad, her ankles sprained, and her knees buckled, she swore and swore she would never dance again and hung up her pretty pink shoes. I am by her side, but I refused to carry her. I watch and wait until she decides to walk again, but walk she refused and refused, I wait until she steps out of bed for she is too precious for me to carry her always.

And then she turned away from me and bitterly pointed her dreaded finger. it is so painful to walk why don't you carry me like you used to, she sobs. Dear sarah, dear Sarah it pains me more this way, but you have to learn to walk again, and put on your pretty pink shoes.

she sobbed and cried and said I ruined her life, she did not want to walk no more. I sighed and watched her from afar as she shut me out of her life. I saw her sit and grew some fat and her legs went very numb. My dear sweet little ballerina sways from the truth of who she was, when she refused to stand again.

I watch, I never leave her side, eventhough soemtimes she does not see. then one day her eyes opened again, and her sight she once more received. her dreams returned and her heart tingled as she got out of that bed and then she walked her way towards me and asked if she could hold my hand. I want to dance again she said with tears in her eyes. I held her close and whispered in her ear, you will I said sure and clear as I took her sweet hand.

I held her hand until she could walk again and then I put on her pink shoes for her and as clumsy as she was just then, all I could see, was her. Her beauty, her grace, just the way she was made as she tries and tries to dance. And day by day she dreamt again to be that ballerina that never falls.

She waved at me as I walk by her side, she knew I would catch her when she falls. And then one day my dear sweet ballerina, floated, so graceful and so tall. I smiled to myself and wish she could see herself so radiant in my eyes. to me my little ballerina, will always be so pretty in my sight.

The ballerina floats in her pink shoes, the ones with ribbons all the way up to the calves. She spins and dances and she never tires, never falls.That is me, she whispered softly, me in my dream, but wide awake I slip I fall, I bruise and I am tired, wide awake I fall. But I will keep on dancing. Keep on dancing.

Keep on dancing with me by your side.

I still dream of Shanghai

I put on my boots and go sleepwalking.

The sun shines through the windows and the clouds cannot get through. The woman called to tell me who she was and yet when I called back she does not exist. I am confused thinking of what she said, I still dream of Shanghai she whispered. And I asked her when was the last time she was there, I've never been she said. Homesick for a home she never had, she still dreams of Shanghai. God help the girl.

I put on my boots and go sleepwalking.

Funny things happen when you're awake at five a.m. The car stalls and stops in the middle of the stream and stars shine from underneath upwards. The man called to tell me who he was, and yet when I called back, he does not exist. I am confused thinking of what he said, I still deam of Shanghai, he whispered. And when I asked him why, she was there he said. Lovesick for a love he never had, he still dreams of Shanghai. God help that boy.

I put on my boots and go sleepwalking.

Funny things you see when you're walking around at four a.m. Perfection inverted, truth be told. The moon is still, as the earth circles around the moon, and the sun circle arounds the earth. I still dream of Shanghai I said. But I have never been. Dreaming of a place I have never been, possibilities of seeing what I have never seen, maybe even feeling what I have never felt. I still dream of Shanghai. God help this girl.

I put on my boots and go sleepwalking.

This time my eyes open not closed. Conciously sleepwalking I still dream of Shanghai. The city lights blink and I run, anticipating, and there he was. His face shone under the moonlight and he smiled. I walk, and run, and walk, and run and he made his way towards me. Hearts a beating, walking and running in rhythm I am a woman in love. We met on the bridge in Shanghai remember. I nod I nod and rubbed my eyes, but i have never been to Shanghai. Never been not even once in my life.

But I still dream of him in Shanghai. He and I on that bridge, kissing. A reunion. I put on my boots and go sleepwalking and when I called he answered. I still dream of Shanghai he told me, I still dream of you.

So do I. I still dream of Shanghai. I still dream of you.

But I have never been to Shanghai, I have never met him.

And yet I dream, of Shanghai.