I've been sitting here for a while now, blank day, blank screen. Alastair and the previous blog still on my mind. Some words are harder to follow, with anything - more words, images, games. So what will I write about? Life outside, frantic as always.
I bought too many limes and now they grow old and hard in the fridge. I discovered mango wraps, dragon fruit and some people with too much time on their hands. Two of these are yummy, one is hot pink and one is, alas, unavoidable.
I walked through rice paddies to a bamboo village and there were whispers and rummagings in the green stalks left and right that said 'One wrong step and I'm waiting, love from large lizard / venomous snake / nameless nasty / monster in your head'.
I learned that there is a species called 'third culture kid', and our kids might qualify, but not M. or I. As if we had brainstormed, studied, schemed and then created two aliens. I've always had that feeling anyway.
All these things are bridges, really. The path is a literal bridge, in a sea of green rice. The limes span all the way from the unpalatable to the delightful. The food takes me from hunger to sleep. And the people? From peace to paroxysm, smile to sneer.
Kids? Third culture or not, the classic bridge through time.
And the noise from the building site next door - incessant hammers on metallic sheets? A bridge from the borderline reasonable (which I was, I was!) to the dementedly insane, which I am now, sitting as I do, on the floor, in the furthest corner of the house, which happens to be a bathroom, with headphones on and a towel wrapped around my head, listening to long loops of Yann Tiersen and Portuguese fado, watching the killer-wasp in the corner build its wax palace and procreate, writing strings of nonsense and then, horror of horrors, sending them into the world like hammer blows to the temple. Ke-boom.
I bought too many limes and now they grow old and hard in the fridge. I discovered mango wraps, dragon fruit and some people with too much time on their hands. Two of these are yummy, one is hot pink and one is, alas, unavoidable.
I walked through rice paddies to a bamboo village and there were whispers and rummagings in the green stalks left and right that said 'One wrong step and I'm waiting, love from large lizard / venomous snake / nameless nasty / monster in your head'.
I learned that there is a species called 'third culture kid', and our kids might qualify, but not M. or I. As if we had brainstormed, studied, schemed and then created two aliens. I've always had that feeling anyway.
All these things are bridges, really. The path is a literal bridge, in a sea of green rice. The limes span all the way from the unpalatable to the delightful. The food takes me from hunger to sleep. And the people? From peace to paroxysm, smile to sneer.
Kids? Third culture or not, the classic bridge through time.
And the noise from the building site next door - incessant hammers on metallic sheets? A bridge from the borderline reasonable (which I was, I was!) to the dementedly insane, which I am now, sitting as I do, on the floor, in the furthest corner of the house, which happens to be a bathroom, with headphones on and a towel wrapped around my head, listening to long loops of Yann Tiersen and Portuguese fado, watching the killer-wasp in the corner build its wax palace and procreate, writing strings of nonsense and then, horror of horrors, sending them into the world like hammer blows to the temple. Ke-boom.
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