DIY or DI-Costly

I haven’t applied myself to DIY in anything. It has been labour-lightening to pay workmen to fix fractures, while pursuing more mental and sensual interests. So journeymen have always had their say and way with me. I tried a new mechanic yesterday, and found, to my horror, that my existing ‘expert’ was killing Maxine (my car). Allowing for the possibility that the new man was badmouthing the old in order to acquire the Maxine retainer, I discovered that Maxine was running hairy low on all essential liquids but petrol. And Maxine was serviced only a couple of weeks ago! Further, a constant, queer quivering was the outcome of a-dime-a-dozen replacement parts purchased ‘brand new’ by Old Mechanic with my nostril-hair-tweezed savings.

I’ve suffered too much to trust wholly in them, but I still have too little time for Maxine and the other things I call my own. I keep a few books strewn in dark, un-dusted nooks at home. One of them treats automobiles. I’m going to devour it whole this weekend, and make sure that no Accra mechanic takes Maxine for a ride, with or without me in her. My verdict on the new mechanic – he solved Maxine’s strange shivering, and created another one which simply wasn’t there in the morning. A rattling sound is singing sickly songs under the bonnet even on very smooth roads. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll start reading up on DIY even before the weekend comes! When basic auto repair, carpentry and plumbing are required, I'm going to fix it by DIM. Now, that’s said, oh for the time to fulfil this one-thousandth wish!

Post-Obama Epiphany

I’m not the only one to realise this swelling response. But while some gushed and gurgled in red-and-ready waterfalls, my epiphany evolved and sauntered from Normal Life to Hibernation to Mental Ovulation. And, here I am!

The answer is direct and unvarnished at the end of the experience. I am who I am; I must be! And I must breathe down the neck of my dream(s) – the thing(s) that make me jaunty and lightsome. The dreams that will make me happiest, in proud pursuit, are the ones with which I drove dull care away as a tender child.

Itching Palm

I can hardly wait
to caress, at my gate
tonight, the moment that's played
on my mind for days, and then always delayed!

Yes, We Can!

Martin Luther King Jr:
I have a dream.
Barack Hussein Obama:
I am the Dream!

My Writing Tools

My writing tool is mental – my merry-go-round mind. It must be playful and skittish, with wery wittle worry, for me to succeed at wasabi writing … if I ever write well. When I cannot check the influx and interplay of real life, then I cannot use my mental writing tool.

My writing device is emotional. A split bag of complex tangles to share. I find that extreme experience gives me adjectival fodder. The calm, soft centre is a writer’s block for me. I must love or loathe something to write wonderful things about it.

My writing world is spatial. I can write anything anytime anywhere. But my selective writing milieu is home, with nobody else within a millivolt mile, and the TV droning on somewhere. The best writing time for me is late at night, after 2 or more stress-free hours and no need to rise up at early-elf morning.

My writing instrument is physical. It is a pen, a pencil and a notebook. The same pen, pencil and notebook for a while, in order for my creative juices to condescend to flow on-the-quick-ask. It is not a keratin keyboard – no, that’s work, not art.

Hag Agape!

Wizened, still-young-ish woman! Something tells that her personal life has been far from austere. But she ranks monstrous beneath the grace of the about-to-be-named musical instrument. She’s sitting at a high-noon banking hall with her legs yawning wide, under her long skirt, like a concertina.

Burnt

Once you get burnt
A part of you is charred
And everywhere you go
You leave a trace of ashes.