juliagladys (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} juliagladys) wrote,@ 2007-07-14 15:22:00 |
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June 20 meditations
The Niger is my peace. It is where I can be myself again. No longer am I "Toubaboo" or "Kumba Bah," just Julia-who-sits-in-nature.
From my perch I can watch my daily hassles drive by with only the quietest whisper of diesel engine. I can see the gendarme points, but don't have to think about how they all want to marry me, or at least get a poke. Instead I can focus on the fishing pirogues that silently drift back and forth as if they were merely the shadow of a large bird on the water. I can focus on the small flock of goats ( 5 white, 3 brown, 3 black) sweep the area for edible treasures. The Fulani shepard pops from shade tto spot of shade, keeping a careful watch, although non-chalant in manner.
I wonder about this bench I'm sitting on. Every time I come to this spot I see it, but never anyone else. It seems forgotten. Like me, it is out of place here. The roughness of the sawmarks makes the cruelty of cutting a living tree down, mutilating it until it is reshaped into a bench, all the more realisitic.
Why is this useful bench going unused? Especially after the transformation of its "real" figure into utilitarian form?I could start listing our various similarities, me an the bench: rough around the edges, scarred up by Mali, simple, yet useful. But really we are misfits. We are misfits in Mali, however in this spot we are in harmony with what we should be: Julia-who-sits-in-nature on a bench-that-should-be-a-tree.
The periodic breeze sends us five different bird songs, Allah in the distance, and the refreshing cool of riverside peace. I wish I could spend the rest of Mali in this moment, at this spot, on the bench.
The Niger is my peace. It is where I can be myself again. No longer am I "Toubaboo" or "Kumba Bah," just Julia-who-sits-in-nature.
From my perch I can watch my daily hassles drive by with only the quietest whisper of diesel engine. I can see the gendarme points, but don't have to think about how they all want to marry me, or at least get a poke. Instead I can focus on the fishing pirogues that silently drift back and forth as if they were merely the shadow of a large bird on the water. I can focus on the small flock of goats ( 5 white, 3 brown, 3 black) sweep the area for edible treasures. The Fulani shepard pops from shade tto spot of shade, keeping a careful watch, although non-chalant in manner.
I wonder about this bench I'm sitting on. Every time I come to this spot I see it, but never anyone else. It seems forgotten. Like me, it is out of place here. The roughness of the sawmarks makes the cruelty of cutting a living tree down, mutilating it until it is reshaped into a bench, all the more realisitic.
Why is this useful bench going unused? Especially after the transformation of its "real" figure into utilitarian form?I could start listing our various similarities, me an the bench: rough around the edges, scarred up by Mali, simple, yet useful. But really we are misfits. We are misfits in Mali, however in this spot we are in harmony with what we should be: Julia-who-sits-in-nature on a bench-that-should-be-a-tree.
The periodic breeze sends us five different bird songs, Allah in the distance, and the refreshing cool of riverside peace. I wish I could spend the rest of Mali in this moment, at this spot, on the bench.
