Tales in the Dark

Dreams come in various forms, everyone sees what they see and some forget whilst others live to remember. I am a dreamer, barely a night goes by without having a recollection of one or more. In fact, I am often woken up by the absurdity of a dream rather than the bristling of my alarm clock. I have come to find that my wake up dreams tends to be big in their exaggerations of reality and their chameleon-like tendency to be random. I have thought of making a dream log but I have never got to it. This narration today will be the closest I ever get to such a log.

I am prompted to write this by memories of last night. You see I had a dream of a certain Brexit leader embarking on a hunger strike in a protest against the lack of progress as far as the process is concerned. Brexit has no specific spearhead or at least the Prime Minister is as  Head of government but it is more than that. Brexit has its champions, my hunger-striking visitor was none other than Boris Johnson. In as far as randomness goes, this is quite up there. Why would I dream of Boris? I mean, I listen to the World Service a lot hence that headline but heck. Boris on a hunger strike, bonkers yeah!

Yesterday was quite political. In another dream, I was the unlikely fly on the wall as The Excellencies Uhuru and Raila held their “secretive” meeting at the Coast. I had seen a headline earlier in the day to the effect that the two had a meeting “shrouded in secrecy.” I wondered what possible secrets they had to discuss and I guess my dreamy self really craved to get an answer. This fly heard deliberations on the possible greatness of Kenya in the coming days, some chest thumping on the famed handshake and some not hidden shade throwing at their detractors. Things were so rosy, the two seemed to be passing Kenya’s Destiny in their hands as one would pass a ball at a playground. All this cheerfulness was not worth my time and so the fly had to leave the room.

Do dreams really matter in the larger scale of things? Do they open us up to realities we had not thought possible or are they just fantastical notions we can never really grasp? I do not know but I like them for what they are, their Illuminati like mysteriousness makes for what I qualify as a great night. I seldom have what one describes as nightmares, those palpitation inducing experiences and hence I enjoy them. I would like to see them as a window into the self, they would be productive then and useful guides to my daily routines. Some of the dreams have made great stories when shared but mostly they just stay within, lost in their own deluge; as it should be.

The Great Gatsby

So much is lost in translation. Nowhere is this as clear as when great books are made into hour long movies. My experience with such has been mostly disappointing. The originality to be found in reading a great book, giving it your own life and living it is one of life’s great joys. When it comes to watching a movie on the same, we give life to one’s ideas and throw away a lot of great creative elements in the process of truncation. Further, there are the politics of who is cast for the role and all that implied meaning that gets people excited for various selfish aims. In the end, watching a movie based on a book might have you feeling as ghastly as Voldemort having to accept that half-bloods are just as valid people as his preferred pure-bloods. Many times the book-movie crossover has disappointed me but that was before I met Gatsby!

As far as crossovers go this has to be one of the greatest. I have read the book a couple of times, seen the movie a few more times and I don’t seem to get over it. Gatsby was a man determined to succeed and not only succeed but to win and win totally. He espoused this in all his dealings even when it came to love. Gatsby is an amazing character, heeds nothing but the words of his destiny. What his destiny commanded he listened.

Gatsby threw great parties, kept a low profile and seemed to thrive in this environment. A close inspection of this lifestyle brings us to a reality that was nowhere as good as the picture painted. His was a soul captured by love and its insane capabilities to keep one drawing even when the well is empty.

Gatsby is ultimately destroyed by this hope he clings to. It is such a sad ending to a great tale, a life that so nearly captured all that it set out to do. I absolutely love this book and the movie. It makes for a great weekend.

Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald; Leonardo DiCaprio stars in the movie too!

Shit!

Mindless musings come to us at the strangest of times. For instance when you are doing some cleaning, whistling to your favorite tune and then the question pops in your head.”why do you say on having a bad day that you Feel like shit?” bear with me for a short while. I thought about this for a short time and the musings made me smile.

Shit is an essential part of the human and by extension the animal story. The association to all things dark and gloom to shit feels like another example of  human ingratitude. The release of shit rather than being a disagreeable act to many more often than not offers us a release not comparable to much else. To feel like shit feels an inadequate description of my having a terrible day.

Whilst the make up of shit, the excrement is not pleasant, the smell awful and an unqualified description of bad, I hold that the metaphor is no longer enough. Truly Bad days can really feel worse than shit, they are painful in a way that no strike of diarrhoea can compare. All in all this is a mindless post, reflections of a mind at break. It really does not matter.

A26

A lovely lady showed up today,
Boys suddenly became noisy,
Chairs started moving,
Doors were quickly crowded,
Eyes were seen scanning,
For their safety the lady stopped moving,
Gradually they retreated into their stations,
Happy to have caught a glimpse of her.

Intrigued and slightly disturbed;the lovely lady looked around,
Just what was so special about her she pondered?
Kevin saw the lovely lady standing and seemingly lost
“Leila”, he called out her name, “here!”
Miffed and happy at the sound of the voice, she stared moving
Nearer she got to him, the warmer the look in her eyes became.

On reaching him she threw herself into his arms, overwhelmed by emotions
Perhaps taken by her pleasure she didn’t realize the curious boys were back at the doors,
Quizzically, she felt her warmth was not returned,
Retreating and hurt, emotions disappearing,
She stepped back, “hallo”, Kevin said aware of the hurt he caused by his reticence
Tears were almost falling; she hadn’t expected this, “Hallo!” she possibly shouted back.

Unperturbed by this change in her mood she led her inwards; she resisting, him insisting.
Verily, they got in and just as sudden as her warmth had disappeared he pulled her into him,
Weak and overwhelmed she responded eagerly, just then the first tear dropped,
Xavier was no longer an issue, she sighed deeply,
Yes, the reconciliation was truly complete,
Zebras could match as they chose her lovely world was back in shape.

The Idiot

I have been reading a story about an idiot. This idiot happened to be epileptic and even goes to a distant land in search of treatment. At the place he gets help but not so much as to rid him of the condition. When he finally returns home as an adult, he is nothing more than an intelligent idiot.

For all his idiocy, he is also born a prince the last in his line. Over the years they had lost most of their riches but he was still a prince, and blood that pure can never be discounted. On his return home he is poorly, with nothing but the title and the story of his affliction. To better his prospects he seeks out some affable relatives of his or so he thought. His genuine nature and simplicity wins him favours all around and he is welcomed at most of the places he goes. On the train home he meets a returning heir to a large inheritance. The Boy as he will be referred to forthwith had been chased home after squandering his father’s money to impress a very beautiful lady. He tells the tale of his crush and fellas in the train chime in to explain just how beautiful this girl is.

As Idiot makes his way around his hometown, he sees a picture of the said girl and he just like all the other men before is struck and held captive by the face, the eyes and the whole ensemble that describes this girl. The idiot is so simple a man, speaks his truths and goes at everything with the same honesty. The man could not heed social cues and talked, created awkward moments but never got fazed.

In his movements he meets another family, another beautiful girl and is just as struck but in a different manner. He tells the girl as much. She had a certain light that could not be seen in the other girl he had seen earlier.

The story is too long but the short of it is that the idiot falls in love with the two girls and those two also. You are sure to wonder why such representations of beauty and all that is heavenly would fall for such an Idiot. To that I would ask you to read the book about the idiot. A truly tragic tale of love and life. The idiot in his simple ways ends up sickly having lost the girls and bringing up so much hurt. It is one of those stories you want to go on and on.

The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky

Dare to live

Christianity profers a number of values, most of them good and some divisive depending on who interprets them for you.The same could be said for all the diverse religions known to the world. One of those values and one I particularly like is thanksgiving. I will not go into the intricacies of it all but it basically calls on us to appreciate the small and the big, the seen and the unseen and all that we perceive. In giving thanks it is common for us to look at the relative disadvantage of Person A vis a vis our own situation and feel particularly privileged or touched I do not know for sure.

Getting the meaning of my life in the circumstance of the others has never appealled to me but I also fall into this trap time and time again;it is just how it is, the nature of life. As much as I do it, I do not agree with the sensibilities around it. Today I am moved to write on this having been touched by some find on everyone’s favorite distraction, Youtube.

I have heard of Andre Bocelli, Italian Singer and songwriter, heard some recordings of his work in some company but never took an interest. His music was not to my taste then but i am growing “older’ developing “finer” tastes and all that.  So I come across this recording of him perfoming a song titled “Time to say Goodbye” featuring Sarah brightman.I am so moved by the beauty of it all;the arrangement of the instruments, the fusion of their voices and the emotion they capture and inspire in me, it is too good.You have to see it, no words on my part can capture it aptly. I went on a voyage trying to sample even more of that good stuff.

Reading the comments section below the named song above I saw someone ask whether he was blind? I quickly left the comments section thinking it such a disservice to the great presentor to relegate his qualities to the one aspect so obvious to all. This got me thinking it is not worth anything seeing your life in the lense of another. What happens for person A is nowhere related to you. To be fully appreciative of what you are and what you have you have to measure everything from within. The without should influence you but the biggest mark of a great day/bad day should be infocuused.

Still on that Andrea Bocelli Voyage, I saw the recording “Dare to Live” featuring Laura Pausini and the lyrics in addition to the perfomance gave life to all the thoughts in my head. Love yours, J. Cole sung, great minds working in tandem. Dare to Live then and listen to Andrea, it is a great first step.

Grandma Tales

You hear stories, you hear them so often but you choose to dismiss them as no more than old grandmother tales, nothing more than the imaginations of a world that had nothing to dispute the words of those that said it. Then one day you are all alone, the night is dark and silent as a morgue, the only sounds you can hear are the voices of the actors on screen. Suddenly, a cat meows loudly and incessant, her cries rip through the peace and harmony the movie was giving you. The meow is so disturbing not only for its being loud but also for its resemblance to a child’s cry.  For a moment you want to run the door, maybe Like Moses abandoned by the river bank someone has dropped an infant to you but no you dismiss the thought.

The sounds keep getting louder and louder and now it feels like they are coming from above you. The things they are doing to your mind can only be felt; the throbbing of your heart, the creeping sense of doom and the chilling thought that maybe those stories you hear might not be as farfetched as you have always assumed. Soon enough you remember your roots, your deep Christian bible quoting roots. You stand up all No weapon fashioned against me shall prosper bold determined to silence the rude cat or is it cats.

You take that rungu you keep close for insensitive intruders, nosy neighbours, and those rare neighbourhood snakes. You poke the ceiling board to establish their location, tentatively at first like one picking the right words to approach a sight to see but soon you are as carefree as the long-married and BOOM! The ceiling caves in. You are so shocked, so scared you might have wet your pants but there’s no time to check. Your adrenalin has deserted you, you neither run nor fight; you stay still bamboozled as a circus animal. All that No weapon fashioned against me boldness has disappeared, staring at the gap in the ceiling you are convinced you just brought those old stories to life!

You wonder incredulously, what kind of cat could cause such a commotion; what pair of mating cats could produce a bed breaking momentum. You are convinced that things far beyond your control are in play. Slowly, you regain your breath but suddenly you hear incessant knocks at your door and soon you are back to spilling your guts to whatever faith you now subscribe to. You are so out of your wits that even the calling out of your name by a voice you are so familiar too seems to enhance your sense of doom. A few more knocks and you are soothed enough to respond.

Opening the door an agitated crowd waits; the noisy neighbour; the unreliable caretaker; the singing help; the three-eyed witch and even the neighbourhood snake is there. They all stare at the gaping in the ceiling, no one speaks. You are grateful nothing about you is wet and then that lovely voice holds your hand and the others disappear. The door is locked again behind you, you breathe easy; you are never going to stay alone again.