When kamoso seems so far away
The last bit of Belgian, dark chocolate ice cream is melting in the container, sitting on the tiles to my right. Dead Sexy, by Kathy Lette, is sitting on the black desk to my left. (Honestly, if that book can be published, then there's no reason why I can't have a story published, too.) Its been a quiet day, once you discount the rib-rattling, toe-curling, hair-pulling, and spine-tingling sex I woke up to this morning.
I spent the better part of the afternoon sitting in the back yard of the Grand Palm, sipping iced tap water and staring down beautiful strangers. Matt and I ate twice - once at the bar, and once at the poolside restaurant, both times relying heavily on our dark sunglasses to shield our lusty gazes.
It was phenomenal weather - the sun warm and bright, light breezes shuffling through the foliage, and birds looping and chattering away in the sky. The only anxiety in the city were the soldiers crawling on the periphery of the Grand Palm - apparently the Zambian president is visiting Botswana, and heaven knows we need to keep our guard up in such a laid back place as Gaborone...
I did laundry today. Or, as is more accurate, first I over-stuffed the top-loading washing machine, dumped a cup of powder into it, and then let it run for 40-odd minutes. With damp laundry in-arm later, I shoved my feet into Kate's flip-flops and went out to the backyard to hang the laundry on the line. Nothing like having one's multicolored underwear fluttering in the African breeze.
Very little seemed to happen in my corner of the internet. Two new emails and one notification on Facebook were the highlight of the activity, although a friend announcing her lesbian status to the world via her status update certainly qualifies as an eyebrow-raiser. Watching other people live their lives from my sagging chair leaves the strange aftertaste that only voyeuristic omniscience can.
Weight loss and other self-help literature is scattered around various corners of my room. To my right, Jon Gabriel's The Gabriel Method is currently being used as a prop for a painting I bought at the beginning of the weekend. Behind me, on my bedside table, is The Me I Knew I Could Be, by Crystal Philips, and to my right is Affirmations for the Inner Child, by Rokelle Lerner. Its as inevitable as the tide - wherever I go, soon self-help and pop psychology books slowly follow, gathering dust and pencil markings as I somewhat obsessively circle every editing and spelling error I find within their covers.
I spent the better part of the afternoon sitting in the back yard of the Grand Palm, sipping iced tap water and staring down beautiful strangers. Matt and I ate twice - once at the bar, and once at the poolside restaurant, both times relying heavily on our dark sunglasses to shield our lusty gazes.
It was phenomenal weather - the sun warm and bright, light breezes shuffling through the foliage, and birds looping and chattering away in the sky. The only anxiety in the city were the soldiers crawling on the periphery of the Grand Palm - apparently the Zambian president is visiting Botswana, and heaven knows we need to keep our guard up in such a laid back place as Gaborone...
I did laundry today. Or, as is more accurate, first I over-stuffed the top-loading washing machine, dumped a cup of powder into it, and then let it run for 40-odd minutes. With damp laundry in-arm later, I shoved my feet into Kate's flip-flops and went out to the backyard to hang the laundry on the line. Nothing like having one's multicolored underwear fluttering in the African breeze.
Very little seemed to happen in my corner of the internet. Two new emails and one notification on Facebook were the highlight of the activity, although a friend announcing her lesbian status to the world via her status update certainly qualifies as an eyebrow-raiser. Watching other people live their lives from my sagging chair leaves the strange aftertaste that only voyeuristic omniscience can.
Weight loss and other self-help literature is scattered around various corners of my room. To my right, Jon Gabriel's The Gabriel Method is currently being used as a prop for a painting I bought at the beginning of the weekend. Behind me, on my bedside table, is The Me I Knew I Could Be, by Crystal Philips, and to my right is Affirmations for the Inner Child, by Rokelle Lerner. Its as inevitable as the tide - wherever I go, soon self-help and pop psychology books slowly follow, gathering dust and pencil markings as I somewhat obsessively circle every editing and spelling error I find within their covers.