Saturday, April 03, 2004
I shall miss...
The sickly-sweet sensation of congealed sweat on my skin.
The relief that a balmy breeze brings on a humid day, like the hot breath of a familiar yet nearly forgotten stranger, stripping away the claustrophobic confines of everyday.
The lingering caress of sunlight on my hair, and the warmth of heated air rising off the ground to entwine itself lovingly around my calves like an affectionately territorial cat.
Taking a warm (not steaming!) shower, jets of water under pressure shearing away the skin and sweat of the day just past (instead of weakly smearing it about) and stepping out into the welcoming embrace of warm air only slightly cooler than my skin.
Windows 95 : What do you want to do with yourself today?
Blogging - the freedom to write, unfettered by time or energy, my thoughts to media nearly the instant they occurred to me; fresh from their inception before the gradual process of dilution, erosion and decay brought about with each passing moment, each subsequent emotion, every other Important Thing to Do.
Driving! It's actually become second nature to me; now if only I could figure out parallel parking... and,
Driving - the freedom to meander aimlessly till one found one's way again in a country so small that getting lost was not a matter of geography, but mere time.
Playing the piano. Whenever the urge got to me; the itch that had to be scratched. Of, alone in the house, pounding out a spontaneous and never to be repeated melody, precious in the present and lost in the past.
Playing the piano with my mum squawking away on the violin / cello. And the instants when we musically melded - moments which never quite lasted (her timing is terrible when she's not on the piano!!) but were infintely enjoyable.
The dear friends, and family who helped make this holiday as restive as it was (hey P, thanks for hanging out and putting up with the techhy things which must have been incomprehensibly boring to you; and thanks D, for lunch and the chat). And the closer and older friends who may not have had as much time to hang out; what little there was I appreciated.
The fascination I experienced of meeting not one, but four + 1 (five?) strangers in two separate days; the intimacy of conversation we shared, the unfettered exchanges of ideas. Life on the other side involves intimate physical encounters, physical examinations with complete strangers. Intimate, in a very sterile, clinical manner. We cling, over there, to friends. Strangers can be dangerous in foreign lands.
So often I hear it said that the things people miss most about home are the exotic food and snacks.
I'll miss the people, methinks. And the climate. And perhaps myself, this strangely surreal me that doesn't exist for the other 340something other days of the year.
The sickly-sweet sensation of congealed sweat on my skin.
The relief that a balmy breeze brings on a humid day, like the hot breath of a familiar yet nearly forgotten stranger, stripping away the claustrophobic confines of everyday.
The lingering caress of sunlight on my hair, and the warmth of heated air rising off the ground to entwine itself lovingly around my calves like an affectionately territorial cat.
Taking a warm (not steaming!) shower, jets of water under pressure shearing away the skin and sweat of the day just past (instead of weakly smearing it about) and stepping out into the welcoming embrace of warm air only slightly cooler than my skin.
Windows 95 : What do you want to do with yourself today?
Blogging - the freedom to write, unfettered by time or energy, my thoughts to media nearly the instant they occurred to me; fresh from their inception before the gradual process of dilution, erosion and decay brought about with each passing moment, each subsequent emotion, every other Important Thing to Do.
Driving! It's actually become second nature to me; now if only I could figure out parallel parking... and,
Driving - the freedom to meander aimlessly till one found one's way again in a country so small that getting lost was not a matter of geography, but mere time.
Playing the piano. Whenever the urge got to me; the itch that had to be scratched. Of, alone in the house, pounding out a spontaneous and never to be repeated melody, precious in the present and lost in the past.
Playing the piano with my mum squawking away on the violin / cello. And the instants when we musically melded - moments which never quite lasted (her timing is terrible when she's not on the piano!!) but were infintely enjoyable.
The dear friends, and family who helped make this holiday as restive as it was (hey P, thanks for hanging out and putting up with the techhy things which must have been incomprehensibly boring to you; and thanks D, for lunch and the chat). And the closer and older friends who may not have had as much time to hang out; what little there was I appreciated.
The fascination I experienced of meeting not one, but four + 1 (five?) strangers in two separate days; the intimacy of conversation we shared, the unfettered exchanges of ideas. Life on the other side involves intimate physical encounters, physical examinations with complete strangers. Intimate, in a very sterile, clinical manner. We cling, over there, to friends. Strangers can be dangerous in foreign lands.
So often I hear it said that the things people miss most about home are the exotic food and snacks.
I'll miss the people, methinks. And the climate. And perhaps myself, this strangely surreal me that doesn't exist for the other 340something other days of the year.
