Birthday was wonderfully low key. As happened last year in Nkwanta, the weather was incredibly stormy and rainy so much of the day was spent indoors or scurrying around the gushing streets. This weekend is a little get-together at Long Bay for a small group of volunteers.
Otherwise.
Spent the morning yesterday at the homeless shelter in Porti struggling to replace a massive steel grate across the front door. The grate was removed to allow painters to spruce up the door jamb but once it was taken out the steel sprung out and warped and it was an absolute beast to replace. Disaster. I also spent some more time with the response volunteer who has just been sent to Porti to work with the football association.
And now…a deep thought from the bush: Eating a salad in the dark gives a surprise with every forkful. Even if you made the salad.
Leaving for a two week trip stateside next Monday. Excited. Nervous. I will get to wear woolly socks when I am in Alaska and this alone is cause for celebration. This thinking about wool socks led me to revisit Pablo Neruda’s “Ode to My Socks” this morning. Such exaltation in ordinary small things. Kisses are also exalted smallness. I think that Neruda poems are about the closest thing to kisses that language can become.
Head is awash with some thoughts on love, representation, and artifacts of identity. Be forewarned: some abstract and convoluted entries might find their way here as soon as my thoughts become crystalline enough to start stringing words together.
