Mma Ramotswe, ask me again
"We don't forget, thought Mma Ramotswe. Our heads may be small, but they are as full of memories as the sky may sometimes be full of swarming bees, thousands and thousands of memories, of smells, of places, of little things that happened to us and which come back, unexpectedly, to remind us of who we are. And who am I? I am Precious Ramotswe, citizen of Botswana, daughter of Obed Ramotswe who died because he had been a miner and could no longer breathe. His life was unrecorded: who is there to write down the lives of ordinary people?"
- Alexander Mcall Smith from 'The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency'
Last night scrambling to help my friends. Finger pressing and pinning up a hem of Joe's work trousers, bending over the machine while Sarah prepares her portfolio next to me: sometimes asking me questions about what to include, what to ditch. Joe hollering from the other room for help. At the computer writing his resume, literally rolling around in his chair in frustration and rage and restlessness, typing 'shitfuck' and other such obscenities. I rub his big shoulders, give him a smack and tell him to suck it up and if he wants a decent job he's got to write a decent resume. then sitting and waiting for my slow ass printer to process 13 pages for Sarah's portfolio.
Laying in bed, trying to get comfortable on basement-damp sheets and restless Sarah bumping around in her studio. Listening to music, this question popped into my head 'what is sucess?'. i spent most of the day discouraged and drifty. wanting to start something but having nothing to start. wanting to do something with my hands: to create a project. Wanting to pose for portraits. wanting to make art. jojo, why don't we do that show? why don't i sew or knit? or draw? i must make something. video is too abstract and frustrating sometimes. i think i'll write a screenplay. or join a taiko drum team.
so, sucess. i think there are people who are raised to be sucessful. they are taught to have a good head on their shoulders, there is expectations that are fufilled. then there are people who flounder about, try things... grasp for experiences. i think i stress out about not being motivated enough or inherently motivated enough.
then i got a funny picture in my head: a floppy eared showdog parading around in a crown-bright eyed and utterly stupid. Either he was anthropomorphic and was an egotistical mutt king with comical flounciness, or he was someone's pet who decided to dress him up in some semblence of royalty. knawing at his diadem like it was a chew toy or a shoe.
this absurdity brought me at ease. I don't want to be a self made queen nor a dressed up sort. What is really sucess? What is really honor? It is that kind that must be taught, not just worn. I must be patient and be willing to learn, i think.
i spent saturday in a 30,000 dollar wedding tent in a ridiculous madison lakefront house during raging thunderstorms, raging brides moms and tornado warnings.
- Alexander Mcall Smith from 'The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency'
Last night scrambling to help my friends. Finger pressing and pinning up a hem of Joe's work trousers, bending over the machine while Sarah prepares her portfolio next to me: sometimes asking me questions about what to include, what to ditch. Joe hollering from the other room for help. At the computer writing his resume, literally rolling around in his chair in frustration and rage and restlessness, typing 'shitfuck' and other such obscenities. I rub his big shoulders, give him a smack and tell him to suck it up and if he wants a decent job he's got to write a decent resume. then sitting and waiting for my slow ass printer to process 13 pages for Sarah's portfolio.
Laying in bed, trying to get comfortable on basement-damp sheets and restless Sarah bumping around in her studio. Listening to music, this question popped into my head 'what is sucess?'. i spent most of the day discouraged and drifty. wanting to start something but having nothing to start. wanting to do something with my hands: to create a project. Wanting to pose for portraits. wanting to make art. jojo, why don't we do that show? why don't i sew or knit? or draw? i must make something. video is too abstract and frustrating sometimes. i think i'll write a screenplay. or join a taiko drum team.
so, sucess. i think there are people who are raised to be sucessful. they are taught to have a good head on their shoulders, there is expectations that are fufilled. then there are people who flounder about, try things... grasp for experiences. i think i stress out about not being motivated enough or inherently motivated enough.
then i got a funny picture in my head: a floppy eared showdog parading around in a crown-bright eyed and utterly stupid. Either he was anthropomorphic and was an egotistical mutt king with comical flounciness, or he was someone's pet who decided to dress him up in some semblence of royalty. knawing at his diadem like it was a chew toy or a shoe.
this absurdity brought me at ease. I don't want to be a self made queen nor a dressed up sort. What is really sucess? What is really honor? It is that kind that must be taught, not just worn. I must be patient and be willing to learn, i think.
i spent saturday in a 30,000 dollar wedding tent in a ridiculous madison lakefront house during raging thunderstorms, raging brides moms and tornado warnings.