Mood: Uncertain-about-my-mood mood
[Toot!] Index: 0.2
Communism Bit: Off
Of late, I've been walking into no-weapons areas too much. And it always interesting to see the reaction on the guards' faces, when I hand them my switchblade to keep it. Usually, they are just proding my groin with the metal detector in a well-practiced, pointless, homoerotic ritual, expecting to wave me through, after they've asserted who the true Isaza is around here. And then it bleeps when they hit the dagger at my hip. And the veins on their worried faces visibly fill with blood, and you can see the big subcutaneous worms start to crawl all over their arms. Drops of sweat gather like FDC protesters and congregate at the nose, a most-unruly one running down the kalinda-minyira to perch in defiance at the upper lip (must be the Besigye drop). A shaking hand tries, and fails touchingly, to point at the steel bulge stuck to the belt, the tremors forcing the finger to indicate, instead, the general area of where I'm standing. I reach for my knife. At this point, their armpits are darkening rapidly, the footprint of sweat growing like a stain on the ceiling, a bit like a fungus, it even looks like an infection. They glance around. I tug at it and pull it out. They close their eyes, duck a bit, call out Maama nnyabo! (or Ayi Yesu!, when the Nazarene is likely to respond faster than the mother).
I'm harmless, guys. Not a gun; it's a knife. I just love blades. Arabian scimitar, Japanese katana, East African machete, American switchblade, all. I don't stab. I try not to, anyway. Just keep the fucking thing while I check out my concerns here, okay?
If I ever want to get wealthy, it is ... wait. I reiterate that too much wealth is obscene. You cannot accumulate it sans cheating someone out. Okay? Good. But still: if I ever want to get wealthy, it is so that I can totally quit working. Totally. Working takes away my time. I'm a lazy slob; a good-for-nothing lay-about. I want to be so wealthy that I can just chill without having any real worries. I can't stockpile time, so I should just stockpile the other things, and leave time open for me. Wealth would, I hope, afford me time. Time to think. Time to play in my mind. Time to chill with my women. Time to blog. Time to read books. Time to grow delicate flowers and bleed care all over their petals in big, sudden blotches of thick crimson blood. Time to document the growth of kittens from the minute they are born. Time to draw my picture series. Learn languages, take photos, write short stories. Paint a girl's toe nails with fussy, veins-on-temples, shaky-steady-shaky-steady-shaky-steady-hand perfectionism. Time to gather a lot of information that I'd only use if I were to live for a thousand years. And the most-important benefit of wealth: no reason to leave bed. Just grope about, eyes still closed, listen for the breath, locate the warmth, advance and settle within that bosom, like a nestling at home, go back to sleep.
If I'm not making much sense, it is because I'm not trying very, very hard to make sense. At some point, you've hit a wall, really. You can't make sense, try as you may. It's what happens when you are listening to the weirdest bands. Venus Peter is a Japanese rock band I'm enjoying. God bless them for this here song on my repeat, Let It Know. Really sweet.
And Gotan Project, dear Jesus. There is this song, Queremos Paz whose only (very spare) lyrics are sounds of Ernesto "Che" Guevara. It's an international band, but they sing much Spanish. Do you know how beautiful jazz is in Spanish? They sing many genres, also. Some song was recorded in a bar. Jazz in a bar—it don't get no better. The lady there croons, and the glasses can be heard tinkling, calls to the waiter, sporadic laughs. At this point, my mind fills in the smoke creeping out of Cuban cigars like defeated demons, bearded revolutionaries bullying a journalist at a table that has more guns on it than bottles, the couple on the dance floor where the tall girl is barefoot, so that the height difference can be tamed, her head buried in his shoulder, her empty glass, its mouth facing the floor behind him, in danger of falling out of her hand gone numb with desire, and Gotan Project is over there bleeding into the microphones, all eyes closed in nearly-sexual concentration on the instruments. Lunatico, the album, is beautiful.
If you don't know by now, I really love long, long sentences. Nadine Gordimer wrote one (page 159, if you have The House Gun), and did the masterful trick of blaming it on the character. How totally ingenious. I have no characters to blame for what happened in the paragraphs above. :o(