... but it all began with me in hospital. I was sitting in a waiting room, but not with other patients. I sitting near an arrogant nurse. Don't know where the idea that she was arrogant came from. I was seated so close to her... too close for comfort, hers and mine, that when it was time for her to call out my name, I could see that I was the last one on the list, so obviously, it was time to go. Apparently, I was there to see Dr Bashir... in my dream I knew her full name but I don't remember it now. So up I got to go to the doctor's office. Instead, I was at Villa Rosa Kempinski. It was royal-looking, beautiful, like an idiot's heaven, perfect, shiny, angular, rich people milling around with their noses up... although I couldn't quite see them. Before long however, I was running. Where to, I don't know, I was still at Kempinski, being chased by people, all over the place. The landscape was breathtaking, like a Golf-course with marble plaques every few metres. Now that I think about it, they were like grave stones, but beautiful and shiny. I was pulling some ninja moves, jumping here, running a little, slipping out of the grasp of a security guard just by a whisker, and then I saw a familiar face, and with an unfamiliar head of white hair. A black man, with a white, old man's hair. Samuel L. Jackson was on my tail, he was trying to get me, but I kept skipping and jumping so that neither he, nor his goons could catch me. Somehow, I made it out. Now I was running up a bridge. A bridge. Not really. It was that overpass that straddles university way. I was running up the ramp shouting. Took me a while to realize what I was shouting. And I only remember shouting it just twice. Once in my head, when I realized that he was standing there, at the centre of the 'bridge' looking towards the Globe roundabout. He was looking at the sunset. Impossible. It was evening, and there's no way the sun sets in the east. Right. So maybe it was a fire he was looking at. He was tall. So tall. Slender. In white. But the light, or fire, or sun that was rising at the wrong time, made his face and gown look the softest, lightest brown. His hair was long, his beard was just right, but I only saw the side of his face. He wasn't happy. When I realized who I was looking at, I cried out his name; twice, like I said. Once in my head, the second time, I heard myself say, in a very loud an desperate voice: "JESUS!" and I had my hand stretched out, like I was saying, "take me with you now!". And just then. Just as I was about to reach him, he either snapped his fingers or waved his hand and everything turned black and white... like a 1920s comic book... and he was gone. I remember thinking in my dream that I was going to remember this dream, no matter what happened. I knew I was dreaming. That was Thursday night or Friday morning. Not quite sure. And I woke up with my hand stretched out, so it's likely that I woke up a few neighbours as well. I was right. I'm probably never going to forget that. It's only my second Jesus dream. When the first one happened, I was a child, maybe 5 or 6, maybe 8... I don't know. But he wasn't happy then either. He was seated among ruins, historical ruins, it looked like, and was surrounded by broken clay pots. Just seated there, alone as I watched from a few feet away. Intense dreams.
More than 100 people remained unaccounted for Monday after a devastating landslide in the US state of Washington which killed at least eight and sounded "like a small earthquake.
Western conservation practice has failed to inculcate bonds between us and animals
It goes on and on and on. Personally, I look for stories that inform me on how to improve my life and the lives of those around me. It wasn't always that way. There was a time I was addicted to danger, death and destruction. That sound a little like someone else you've heard of? No? Starts with a "D"? Still no?
Well, I would love to know how to grow mushrooms on my balcony... balcony? No even that... on my Kitchen window sill. And I'd love to teach people to do that after I got it right. So that we won't have any more hungry people on the street. If they'll just grow the one 'plant' that requires almost no attention. And who says we should ever be broke or hungry or sad or jealous. I'm beginning to understand that it's all an attitude problem.
We get jealous when other people get stuff and we think "I want that." but you really don't. Think back to that time when you got something that you thought you really wanted to because getting it would make you 'acceptable' in the eyes of your friends. Now think how you felt when you realized how stupid that was... huh? Huh?
"I wish we could all lead simple lives... become farmers, keep a few animals, grow our own food and just be happy," someone told me the other day.
So why don't we, lead simple lives I mean. The answer is simple. Point at the thing/person/nothingness in front of you, and then look where the other three fingers are pointing. There's your answer.
So, I'm walking to work on a Saturday afternoon. Around the University of Nairobi, there are a bunch of birds just going round and round and round in circles... and then I see it. Scientific reasons aside, it was lovely. Having never seen or even heard about it before, I was transfixed.
I continued to walk, on the overpass, telling everyone I met to look up... they loved it too. Some just thought I was crazy and missed out. I couldn't stop, I kept walking, and nearly bumped into a few people, got hit by a few cars, fell off a few curbs. How, though, is everyone not as jazzed by this. It's not that common. And it's beautiful, breathtaking actually. Hence the near bumps and falls. This is what it looks/looked like. Wonder if it's still there. I'm going to have to go out and see it one more time.
I’m on my way to hospital… a clinic rather, to see again, a doctor who’s treating my acne. It’s barely 8am, and there’s no traffic anywhere, human or otherwise. It’s free crossing all the way. In a minute, i’m inside an old building – put up in the 50s perhaps – navigating my way through back ways. The building has two towers, see?
I need to get to the other side, so I can take the lift that stops on the floor I’m going to. No, it’s not a dingy backstreet clinic. It’s a branch of one of Kenya’s finest medical institutions. But that’s not the story. The story begins when I find a lady waiting for the lift I want to take. I’d hoped I’d take it alone.
It’s here. She get’s in, and punches ’4′ on the panel and it turns red. I go next and punch ’6′. I remember that it has a problem so I’m not surprised when it doesn’t turn red immediately. I punch it 5 or 6 more times before it finally obeys. And then another woman, about 40 years old, enters the lift, glances at the panel, stands still as the doors slide shut, and then starts to hum. There are three of us now.
The first woman turns around and starts to check herself out. Her wig (which is horrible and coarse-looking) suits her perfectly. Like it was made for her and she made ONLY to wear it. Full story here
The two things I love most about Lupita Nyongo - and no, it is not her acting - are her flawless skin and her tiny breasts. Here's why, forget what African men say about flat-chested women, you can get inflatable ones if pleasing a guy who doesn't even take you out once a year or treat you special... ever... is what you want to do. Those tiny breasts are the bestest. You can have a couple of kids, or three, breastfeed them just fine, and those tetas shrink back. Just like that (I've seen it happen) and you're back to jogging and not wearing a bra under your vest... aaaand just generally not worrying about the jiggle here and a nipple peak there... you know, that kind of thing. I always imagine that small boobs = 1000 times more freedom than anything above a D-cup. She never has to worry about sagging flaps of skin as she gets older. And when she goes jogging, it's just her muscles glistening with sweat (does she jogging by the way?). No fat-tremors, or birds being scattered out of the trees by the tremendous shakes of your cellulite. And it's not just Lupita though, is it? It's every tiny woman with an almost flat chest that I look at and think "wow, can we trade?". The fact that Lupita's gotten so far just as she is, is testament that anyone can do anything. And there have been many who've done the impossible. We just keep forgetting and need to be reminded by people who were nobodies last night, but are being worshipped like gods today. So, yeah, maybe I'll just stick with what I have and say... My dreams: validated. I want to be a ballerina.
... No. Not because they're wearing bikinis but because they're girls and are generally more gentle with car parts than guys usually are.
Every time I take mine to the wash, there's an energetic 20-year-old just rearing to detach my bumpers with vigorous washing. I kent even...
Then I have to pay the guy? I might as well just give him my kidney because that's how much it's going cost to fix the damage he's caused inside, outside, around, above the car.
I get it. He's trying to be a good employee and showing the client how hard working and fast and reliable he is but, here's the thing; they don't make cars like they used to. Everything is glued instead of riveted together (Oh boxy land rover, how I long for thee you indestructible hunk of steel).
Mine is particularly delicate with lower than low bumpers made of fibreglass that cracks when touched. Perhaps I was too quick in buying the lovely thing but, why does the car wash guy have to break it?
I'm just asking, where are the lady car washers... who won't steal from my glove box... which contains no gloves?
