I am a writer.

I have to say this to myself because I once let someone tell me I am not a writer. That I was not favored with the gift of stringing words together to form a poetic stream that bounces around a mind long after the eyes have feasted upon it. Ha!

I may not be a GREAT writer yet but with patience and nurturing I could become an important one, whether in my own life or for the world remains to be seen. I have so many unfinished works, languishing on my computer, waiting to be done. I have stories living in my head; characters that come visit me and whisper their stories into my subconscious.

I have been ignoring them and in doing so, ignoring my purpose, to write; for myself, for others, to heal, to learn, to experience, to create space for other characters to be born. I ache to retell the stories of my neigbours, if only to document their lives, so the future knows that So-and-So lived, and they struggled. I grieve for the untold tales of the man who was set upon by five teenagers, intent on murder, of how in a few years time no one will remember that they dragged his disemboweled body across the field of his rural village, to a “witch” who removed his liver for her muti. My heart bleeds to think these boys walk around among the innocent of this village, murder in their eyes, their brutality unquenched, stalking their next prey. If I had written their story, would they have paid?

I want to commit to paper, thereby immortalizing the cruelty of the father who asked his young daughter to disrobe for him, taking her virginity as surely as if it belonged to him. Should he not be exposed to the masses? Removed from the shadows of anonymity to face his actions and be judged? As a writer, I could have fought the little girl’s fight.

I once let somebody once take my power, they broke me, they changed me and when I lay shattered, a mere remnant of what I had believed myself to be, they opened the door and shoved me outside. I left behind my confidence and my love for myself.

Today I reclaim myself.

I am a writer.

And I’m not embarrassed to say so.

My Breasts

My breasts are large; a size “E” cup. They’re mountainous. When I am seated, I cannot see my tummy, nor can I really see it when I am standing. I am always afforded with the stunning view of my cleavage, straining against my Cross Your Heart bra, the unsexy penance of large-breasted women. I have sexy bras too, but I have to wear them for a few hours because the strain of asking my hills of womanhood not to sag through the thin lace I have scooped them into is too much for my back.

My breasts are pendulous. When I get home, the first thing I want to do, and often do do, is to remove my bra. It will have been cutting into me, not because it doesn't fit, but because it has been working really hard. I joke, “Calypso! I release you from your human bonds!”

I dream of reconstructive surgery to return them to their former glory before my breasts were sustenance. I watch them as they cascade over my chest, spreading, unruly in their freedom. Sometimes while I jump around exercising, my breasts rush to my face, despite the restrictions of a sports bra. I often worry I will one day bruise myself or one will fall off because I jumped when I wasn’t wearing a bra. After I bath I dry beneath my breasts and use talcum powder to minimise the friction between my breasts and chest.

My breasts are Calypso, a mythical goddess who has bestowed favours to some before she finally trapped her Odysseus. When my babies were hurt, they lay sobbing on my heaving bosom while I comforted them. My lover rests on them as he listens to my fears, joys, gossip, nagging and he hears my heart beat. They fed my children; they make me feel like a woman, gigantic though they may be.

My breasts are rude, they demand the attentions of young boys and lascivious old men alike, they invite lewd looks from the uncouth and gain me compliments from straight and gay women alike. They refuse to respect the confines of a v-neck and make a mockery of the square neck. If they had their way, I would only ever wear turtle necks.

My breasts do not make me a woman. Each woman is so much more than her physical attributes. But as I lie back on the bed (they, rushing back and threatening to suffocate me) and feel each one in turn for the feared lumps I know I do not want to lose them.

Be wise, and be breast cancer aware.

The Awesome Dream

Well last night I had the most AWESUM dream EVER! It’s been a long time since I had a dream I woke up from laughing so much I had tears in my eyes and my stomach and cheeks were sore. I’ll tell it like it happened.

For reasons unknown to me RubyLetters and AngelsMind decided to visit me at the farm I am living on, bringing with them The Twitter Hunk.

Boyfriend of mine whom I love dearly should probably stop reading at this point but I should point out I am not responsible for my dreams.

The three had somehow managed to arrive at this obscure little village in a TAXI! I was called to our gate to find three grinning faces looking at me! WTF?

“We haven’t seen you in forever, and Ruby and Hunk haven’t even MET you! So we thought we should visit!!” Angel chirruped.

I was flabbergasted. And very excited, the Hunk was a HUNK. It seems to be the same hunk I had been ogling at the beach that boyfriend had told me off about in yet another dream. If I were Boyfriend, I wouldn’t be happy about the presence of Hunk in my subconscious; but Boyfriend in not a crazy jealous moron but rather a confident sex god who’ll roll his eyes and think, “Yeah, but you’re in love with ME!”

Anyhoodle. I took the three visiting Twitter lovelies on a tour of the villages pointing out places of interest, most of which were MY PUBS! I swear there were about five pubs and they all belonged to me. It was Ruby who decided we should play a drinking game that saw us trawling the five pubs ending back at the farm for a braai. WTF???? We began and by bar three we were a spectacle in the entire village. Angel had managed to twist her ankle but was somehow dragging the thing behind her with the greatest of ease! The hunk was the only one left standing but by now he had become incredibly SHORT!

BWAHHHHAHAHAHHAHAAH.

The Hunk was a MIDGET.

Now I know for a fact the Hunk is incredibly tall and lithe. So this was ridiculous to me. And I laughed so hard I peed myself. This set off Angel but Ruby couldn’t see that the Hunk was now tiny and thought we were both quite daft. The Hunk was oblivious to his shrinkage and flirted outrageously with all of us.

A group of kids were trailing us and taking bets on which of us would fall in to the dam first. Ruby suggested I jump into the dam because I stank! (Because I’d peed myself laughing). While she was trying to shove me in to the dam she lost her footing and fell in! Angel was finished by this and it took quite a while to realize that Ruby was in fact shrinking in the dam! The Hunk, now a midget, jumped in and tried to save her!

TWO MIDGETS in the DAM!!!

Angel and I sort of died with laughter and I woke up!

I woke up and TWEETED and Facebook that I’d had this awesome dream and then planned to continue it when I sleep. I have often picked up a dream where I’d left it off.

True enough, five minutes later I was out like a light and dreaming again.

Ruby and the Hunk were back to their normal sizes and we were hanging around a braai, having a lekker dorp, none of us truly drunk anymore. Te conversations we had lasted till I woke up. I should mention that the conversations comprised of mostly everything I’ve seen these three Tweet about. Addicted much?

On the surface, this dream is not as awesome as the one you dream owning a stretch limo but what I loved about this one was it was the kind of dream I woke up from feeling good. The limo one you wake up and think, “FML, I don’t have a limo.” With this dream I woke up saying, “Finally, something light and carefree to blog about!”*

* I have written six very serious posts I decided not to publish since my last post.

To my friend who died

When you look back, what will your best memory of me be? Will you look back? What made you leave to begin with? Could you not trust me to be there for you? Did you not want to see me no more? When you look back, will your life have not been worthy of a fight? When life left you, did I walk across your mind? When you look back, will it be to light my way or to curse my tomorrows?

Will you hold it against me, that after the first failure, I never wanted to try again? Will you believe that I never hated you but I hated what you did? When you’re looking back will you realise you that you should have been more? That you should have done more? When you look back will your mistakes matter or only your triumphs? Will you believe that your place in the world needs to be filled? Will you believe that you will be missed? Will you see the mark you made? When you look back will you ask for my forgiveness, should I give it to you anyway?

When I say goodbye, I will wish for happy tomorrow. I will remember you fondly, and relish the good memories. I will regret never making more and knowing that they will never come again. When I say goodbye I will hold the tears in celebration of our life. I will cover your earthly remains in red soil and imagine the burnt colour of the soil is the blood you spilt in fight for your beliefs, for your family, for friends. I will honor the memory and treasure the lessons. I will forgive and I will forget the hurt that finally separated us, reuniting with your spirit because it was never mean-spirited of cruel, just foolish and prone to mistakes as it is in life.

For your family I pray for clarity, for peace, for comfort. They must find solace in knowing you lived according to your own rules, never once wavering. You enjoyed every day of your life and never once short-changed yourself. Your chose your friends for heart and not for show. You forgave family even when they wronged you and always provided beyond the expected. I wish them the best in everything.

Rest in peace my friend,

ABCi

Everest, or just blogging?