What do dreams...

Where is that novel? I get asked this regularly. From someone who wants to see me published, and earning my rightful share of filthy lucre, fame and scandal. Well really I would love some of all three. The first will enable me to live a decadent life; the second to make heads turn when I walk down the street and people scream orgasmically as they recognise me (think Elvis or Britteny); the third to liven up my dull existence - what WOULDN'T I give for a bit of nice scandal in my life.

If you have read Virginia Woolfe's A Room of Ones Own then you will understand my predicament.

Take today for example. I was talking of not experiencing floods yesterday, well I came home after a long tired day at university, and found part of the house flooded. One inch of water. And mud - because it was a rainy day and people had been traipsing in and out to repair the damn thing. The kitchen tap had broken and so there had been a merry fountain for a couple of hours before it was fixed. Charming end to the day - sweeping out water for an hour. Still more to be done tomorrow in terms of clearing up. But for now I have sought oblivion Online - Scrabble (getting eaten up in one game was cheerful) , interweb conversation with friends, and some beautiful paintings by an 18 year old painter. Not to mention finishing Amber Spyglass. It is a bit like seeking Nirvana in the midst of a traffic jam at Pettah.

But writing a novel or even editing it, for THAT I need peace and quiet. Space. Inner and outer space. Which seems almost an impossibility sometimes. And then one needs an element of freedom to be able to write. And then there are lectures - almost a 24/7 nightmare once the semester gets into form. Lecturing is great, I would be the first to say that, but I realise I haven't a life anymore. And I want a life. I want to be able to dream, to paint, to write, to think. I want to do both, but it appears now to me, that both working and following a dream are mutually exclusive. What to do? I haven't the faintest idea what to do.

Add to that the litany of woes - exhaustion with travel by public transport in the heat, migraine, grocery shopping and ongoing housework, endless cleaning, bill payment et cetera et cetera. I just realised what a significant time I spend returning defective goods (and fighting with the shop owners), returning to claim money not returned from places I shopped, repairing defective things that have packed up, not to mention sorting out erroneous bills for water and electricity! Part of me refuses to let people cheat me, but then on the other hand at what price am I having this insane moral high ground. In this country it is like stepping into the Adamsian Total Perspetive Vortex. Black Hole. I mean what can I say. Is this a life?

What is my moral obligation to this world? Is it to use my gift of teaching or my gift of writing and thinking? Or am I called to serve with the daily grind of existence under difficult circumstances and forget my dreams? I know now I cannot do both, a shattering discovery, for one has to live to write or think, but to live one has to eat, and to eat one has to earm, and to earn one has to work. Where does that leave me? Fugged up as a friend would agree. Totally fugged up.

Maybe Virginia Woolfe was right. I need ROOM of my own. Please can I have some. Sometime. Somehow. Someday.

the rains...are still raining

I am thinking that 'The' rain god is in love with me. You know the chief one. The Zeus type big boss. Is that Narcissistic or what. I am well aware that the world around me is not very pleased with this ongoing deluges that seem to be ...um ...deluging us.

Look at it this way. Even if I am traveling in an air conditioned vehicle, and have a bit of sun filtering through, I open the umbrella. Yeah you heard me. Electrified the driver when I did it, but then its my comfort or his surprise. Guess what I chose?

Forget the air conditioned vehicles. That is the one off luxury. Think instead tin roofed, hot pulsating buses. Generally the sun comes blazing down and making the tin buses like little cooking ovens. You get into a bus, and it is a bit like clambering into a large public oven. I now am probably famous because I have my own towel that travels around with me. Every frood needs his towel, according to Ford Prefect, and lets face it, Hitch-hiking through the galaxy is a piece of cake compared to public transport in this country. I take advice from wherever I get it, if it seems wise. And just because Ford Prefect is not human, why should I balk at sound useful advice on travel. Ok, I don't suck my towel and it doesn't taste like blackberry juice or passion fruit, but still it is wet, cool and useful.

Why should I complain that my towel is getting a rest? It needs a rest, it deserves a break. It has a tiring life day after day, lots of heat and grime left on it, not to mention sweat. A decent towel deserves a decent break. It is brightly coloured, and I noticed of late that it is wilting a bit, looking faded and downcast.

I don't escape the vagaries of violent rain and bad weather...the roof leaks something bad. And where are the builders, roof repair men? Search me...I am searching for one still.
And the clothes don't dry (we don't have a tumble dryer), the garden is soggy.

I know that others suffer more :( Floods etc But I can't do anything about the weather so why should I feel guilty about the weather. I am not a brazen hussy going out and wiggling my hips at the rain god. Believe me I do nothing to draw his favour. I can't help my ravishing good looks, and the scintillating mind I have. I can't help it that he has an eye for the delectable. :D

I disclaim all responsibility for the rain god's actions. Here and now.
ps - if one is searching for him, he might be driving down the highway, um ok we don't have highways, he might be driving down a bumpy road or path in a lorry. He will have a little black cloud following him wherever he goes and belging little drops of water from above.

the Rain god

ye gods. the rain god walks the land. that in itself is fine by me. the trouble is that in matters of doubt the rain god dishes out high humidity. so you swelter under the tantalising rain clouds that hover but sometimes do not deliver as promised.

but today it is raining. kittens cats puppies and dogs kind of rain. leeches rain. you want to enjoy the rain in kandy? step out onto the lawn and have an exodus of leeches that are definitely viewing you as their 'promised land'. that sours the pleasures of gardening you know...leech paradise can hardly be gardeners' paradise can it.

but there you go. it is raining and who am i to complain. i of the heat hating ilk, the sun despising cult, the humidity rejecting clan. i will not complain. come leeches and invasions, i still remain in a state of fervent rejoicing.

although the delight in the rain gods seductive presence is tempered by having 60+ external degree exam papers to correct. i mean it is really dampening to be told that the augustan poets wrote during the time of augustus caesar, and that they were not romantic poets. it is enough to make one suicidal - rain or no rain.