Many rivers to cross...

The dog ate my homework.  No really, it did, she says, holding up what look like gnawed sheets of A4 paper covered in random scribbles, which on closer examination turn out to be badly torn up sheets of A4 paper covered in random scribbles.  I know, pathetic.  What can I say?  My lies are almost as dodgy as my blog.  Almost. 

Hello, my lovelies, how’ve you been?  Good?  Good.  I’m not so good.  Hell, I’m terrible.  Bloody fatigued, battered, bruised and scarred for life.  It’s been hard, man, hard.  Well, not so hard.

Many rivers to cross,
And it's only my will that keeps me alive,
I've been licked, washed up for years,
And I merely survive because of my pride…

I’ve just come off two weeks in the scariest place on these our interwebs.  I was on twitter.  Walalalalala…  My friend, that shit needs to come with a serious warning, and a user’s manual, who knew that 140 characters can be so complicated?  See, it’s not just the incessant chatter of god only knows how many people all talking at the same time, there’s apparently some sort of secret protocol guiding interaction within the chattering mob.  You don’t just waltz in and start sharing your uninvited opinions willy nilly, no sirree bob!  You need to be ‘someone’, or have some cause, or a gimmick, or a very, very, very hot AVI.  My AVI is that ka-picture top right.  And my gimmick is stony silence (I can’t say what I need to say in 140 characters, come now…).  My cause was, is, random reading, my twitter feed is my reading list, says so bottom right, see?  (Incidentally, turns out some buggers on twitter don’t much care for reading and such like nonsense, judging by what they say, and how they say it.)  It goes without saying that I am not ‘someone’.  Pity no one told me before I waded into the fray, you bastards just watched me getting into that pool without so much as a life jacket, bloody nkt!  Not to fear, I made it out the other side, but only just.  The good news is, I have rediscovered my love for blogging. 

Yes, it was almost gone.  No, I will not apologise.  Yes, you can call me names when I’m done. 

When I left I was contemplating a hiatus, a couple of months away from the endless foraging, maybe a chance to not have my words be the thing that define me.  See, over the last couple of months, I’ve been fortunate to get to know a couple of you in person, and while that isn’t a new thing for me, it’s been a bit of a revelation.  It would appear that in all my rambling, I may have inadvertently painted the picture of a loudmouth mama with a penchant for foul language, naked people and wine.  I have no idea how.  Stop laughing.  Now whilst I am that woman, I’m also a lot more.    

But sometimes even I forget.

It took a fortnight with the most peculiar people in this country, well, the minute part of this country that’s online, for me to realise how easy it is to get sucked into the ether of monologues and never ending drama.  And bile. 

I must detour here.  I don’t know what it is about those 140 thingis, but these our internets are home to some of the most ungracious people I’ve ever read.  Now it’s possible some of the people I saw talking six kinds of shit to each other have some long standing issues between them, but the amount of bile spewed on a daily basis is, frankly, shocking.  You know how I once called bloggers narcissist word whores?  I take it back.  We’re just word whores, aint got a thing on those narcissist buggers.  Self gratification is damn near an Olympic sport na huko, and that’s just in the morning, in the afternoon they beat up on the poor idiot who drives a Subaru (apparently a bad thing), or the girl who beat up on him for driving a Subaru, and then in the evening they talk shit about the people they are not sleeping with (more self gratification).  And then there’s the never ending bile towards serikali.  I thought I was harsh, but those buggers have GIFs, and serious entitlement issues.  What the hell?  Don't get me wrong, it’s brilliant, but so damn rude, and without so much as a disclaimer.  Shame man.  Hang on, so you think this will earn me some bile?  Probably, no?  Wait, I have barely any followers, I am not ‘someone’, thankfully.  Detour over. 

It’s easy to believe that your online persona is who you really are, especially after you go out of your way to craft the persona you think best represents you; clever, witty, sexy, whatever rocks your boat.  Then you step out your little cocoon and realise that it’s all a mirage.  Worse still, if you’re the deviant who chooses to be the local Dr Ruth (that would be me…ahem), then allegedly upstanding people treat you like the cousin from shags, choosing to see, and avoid, that which embarrasses them.  Useless story, a friend of mine, blogger as well, likes to complain that I don’t comment often enough on his blog, only to turn around and tell me that he can’t be seen here.  That’s right, he can’t have his mafans see him frolicking in the sewer, and he claims to frolic, because I am nothing but a sewer, whatever will they think of him?  This is a friend, so think how much worse it got with strangers over yonder.  Yup, that much worse.  Seems my (not so?) big brain and (way too) extensive interests don’t count for a damn thing when I write about sex. 

Well aint that a bitch? 

No, not really.

Many rivers to cross,
But just where to begin, I'm playing for time,
There've been times I find myself,
Thinking of committing some dreadful crime…

It’s easy to get carried away here, talking to myself, wrapped up in my peculiar obsessions and laughing at my own (hilarious) jokes, but this is not the real world, and this woman is not the real me.  She’s part of me, I suspect the better part of me (she doesn’t have the mood swings and the parara’d legs), but she is not all of me.  I’d like to think that I am greater than the sum of my parts.  To put it differently, I am not just the sewer lady.  You do not know me just because you’ve read me cry over a man, all you know is that I cried over a man, in most embarrassing fashion, a couple of times…  Hmmm…  Maybe you do know me, but not all of me.  Promise.  And given what you do know, that might actually be a good thing, no?  Thought so.  Folks, I blog to process my thoughts, but not all my thoughts (even I am not that foolish).  I process in public because I figure others out here have similar thoughts from time to time, and perhaps they’d like to see their strangeness reflected, if only partially.  Listen, I struggle to find people that sound like me, and so I figure that other people, possibly like me, are struggling too.  This blog is my way of saying, “Listen here world, we’re not all …………….insert relevant stereotype that offends you most (in my case: god-fearing, happily married with 2.5 kids, self-help book reading, women of substance)”.  Some of us like weird stuff, like sci-fi, and porn, and politics, and economics, and science, and sex, and art, and music that’s not on radio, and sports other than the ubiquitous football, and, gasp, books not written by idiots looking to sell us bullshit dressed as help (for real, I detest self-help books with a passion, if it’s self help, why are you here, bloody idiot?  Nkt!). 

I do have to apologise.  I’d forgotten why I was here.  I’d forgotten what it feels like to sit here and take something apart, and put it back together again, just for the hell of it.  I’d forgotten that online is just online, the real world is waiting for me when I log off.  How mad is it that it took the insanity of 140 characters to remind me, the woman who routinely puts out 2000 words, what I have here?  It’s good to be back in my house, been gone too long.

Yes, I've got many rivers to cross,
But I can't seem to find my way over,
Wandering, I am lost,
As I travel along the white cliffs of Dover…

Is it odd that this song sounds like coming home to me?  Jimmy Cliff released this song in 1969, back when almost all of us were still figments of our parents’ imaginations, and yet here he is.  Enjoy.