I've been trying to write a blog post for the past few days but every time I click on the 'new post' button and am sitting across from a blank page, I too go blank.
It's like all that whiteness is laying siege to my brain, spreading its empty freedom to the multitudes of firing connections. Insisting on an organized response.
Which, from the perspective of a rapidly white washed mind, seems like too much effort.
I try to think about the interesting things I've been doing, that friends might be interested in reading about.
I could talk about the weird dreams that my malaria medicine gave me (even weirder than normal. I've been to France, on a large cruise ship heading towards Canada, witnessed my own death and the end of the world a few times. . .).
I could talk about getting trapped in my stairway on Sunday. I was trying to visit my cat friend who was stuck on my neighbours balcony when a gust of wind blew the door shut behind me, somehow locking it permanently. The lock has never been stuck before. I had filled the pot bubbling away on the stove with more water than necessary, so at least I had some time to save the pot from boiling dry. I pried open the small window that opens from the kitchen to the stairway and banged on the wall and counter with a tin can screaming for Ogadi til he rescued me. He informed the neighbours of my predicament, who's front window I emerged in front of--cobwebs in my hair and dirt all over me from crawling down the abandoned stairway. Glad he was home!!
Now, Ogadi is convinced the cat is magical and responsible for locking the door in retribution for being trapped himself.
I could talk about my new flatmate, another volunteer from the UK who I took around Abuja for five hours yesterday. To the movie theatre/shopping mall for a coffee, to Wuse Market, to City View Restaurant. Before coming home to be sick, recover, finish Americanah, and finally work on my own writing project.
. . .all of which seem totally boring.
A lot of the things that WOULD be interesting (probably) are beginning to seem normal so I don't notice them as much. There's a certain point, I think, when you get used to a place and start to understand it on a level that makes the novelty of certain events or everyday occurrences fade. Or perhaps I'm just too accepting of differences at this point. I've kind of given up in noticing them and thinking they are so funny or peculiar or interesting. . .
Maybe it's just a slump. Or maybe I'm zooming in too much to detach myself for the moment.
Maybe I need some distance or some time or some. . .something.
Or maybe I just need to shut up and write like a Mother#^$*&@
It's like all that whiteness is laying siege to my brain, spreading its empty freedom to the multitudes of firing connections. Insisting on an organized response.
Which, from the perspective of a rapidly white washed mind, seems like too much effort.
I try to think about the interesting things I've been doing, that friends might be interested in reading about.
I could talk about the weird dreams that my malaria medicine gave me (even weirder than normal. I've been to France, on a large cruise ship heading towards Canada, witnessed my own death and the end of the world a few times. . .).
I could talk about getting trapped in my stairway on Sunday. I was trying to visit my cat friend who was stuck on my neighbours balcony when a gust of wind blew the door shut behind me, somehow locking it permanently. The lock has never been stuck before. I had filled the pot bubbling away on the stove with more water than necessary, so at least I had some time to save the pot from boiling dry. I pried open the small window that opens from the kitchen to the stairway and banged on the wall and counter with a tin can screaming for Ogadi til he rescued me. He informed the neighbours of my predicament, who's front window I emerged in front of--cobwebs in my hair and dirt all over me from crawling down the abandoned stairway. Glad he was home!!
Now, Ogadi is convinced the cat is magical and responsible for locking the door in retribution for being trapped himself.
I could talk about my new flatmate, another volunteer from the UK who I took around Abuja for five hours yesterday. To the movie theatre/shopping mall for a coffee, to Wuse Market, to City View Restaurant. Before coming home to be sick, recover, finish Americanah, and finally work on my own writing project.
. . .all of which seem totally boring.
A lot of the things that WOULD be interesting (probably) are beginning to seem normal so I don't notice them as much. There's a certain point, I think, when you get used to a place and start to understand it on a level that makes the novelty of certain events or everyday occurrences fade. Or perhaps I'm just too accepting of differences at this point. I've kind of given up in noticing them and thinking they are so funny or peculiar or interesting. . .
Maybe it's just a slump. Or maybe I'm zooming in too much to detach myself for the moment.
Maybe I need some distance or some time or some. . .something.
Or maybe I just need to shut up and write like a Mother#^$*&@
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