8 days from leaving

The tape, as I unstick it from its place, rips off plates of paint from our crummy, moldy walls.

My heart wrinkles a little.

I fold the tape over the corners of my collage. Lay it down over my everest-sized pile of clothes-to-trade-for-souvenirs.

I sigh.

It is quiet.

A cockroach scurries out of a shirt sleeve. I flick him lovingly off the bed. The only one to keep my house company these days.

I start pulling out notebooks, so much. So many. Too many things I collect and funnel value into.

I must decide which to take and what to leave behind in the rubbish bin.

Back at school, I chuck half the pile, almost violently, into the trash and stride away. Stay there then. Have it your way.

Only a few minutes before all of this, I bragged about being ready to go home, washing my hands of this ridiculous place.

But it only just occurred to me then that by leaving Africa, I will be facing a whole new life. Like a neo-Alice, falling further down the rabbit hole. I am being sieved, strained, pressed until the juices of energetic volunteerism is squeezed dry.

I have only heard rumors, of course, but I believe that what I will be facing will be maybe even more terrifying than it is here.

breathe, dear, just breathe.

my eyes are filled with wonders,
my heart is filled with spirit
like coffee for the soul
gelato for the brain,
travel makes me sing,
zambia, mallorca and spain.

mother and my friend,
embracing, reuniting
tightening the over stretched
ropes that bind
a mother and
her daughter

under a tourist's sun,
upon white sand beaches
luxury at my beck and call,

i will recover from this
third-world hell-hole

to be conflicted, engages,
happy and bitter-sweetend,

all of this and more, i
am acutely eager to live through.

come on, june 1. you can run to me faster than this.

foggy-headed and rather hung-up on despressing subjects

Life, don’t let me down. Not this one.
Samantha Richardson
May 15, 2011

The broom falls heavy on the floor
sweeping up the fragments of my disappointed heart.

The swagger of your once so-humble soul
echoes like a mockery in the chasm that now keeps the distance
between us both.

How can the one person I respect so much
change so dramatically between one phone call and the next?

You, I thought you’d always have my back,
fail, because you’re now too interested in your own fail safe.

The trust that once bound
disintegrates with each new thing you learn.

Your brilliance has become a curse,
your kindness melted from gold into
a puddle of finite resources made of Chinese plastic.

A voice, sturdy, now
more bendable, less flexible
A boldness once endeared
now feared,
wished away.

And I’m hoping you’ll just grow out of this.

Don’t over-change yourself because you’re
desperate for freedom from your past.

Promise me that you will climb over your
arrogance

and find the way back to the beautiful boy I was once so proud
to call friend..


Not a friend, this friend,
the knower of my colors

Capture this one not, o life

A prayer and deepest desire,
spare him his innocence.

Don’t let me down, o life.
not this one.

heated about things like coffee, figuring my life out, and eventually shakespeare. oh life.

Sometimes you have to throw away a perfect thing, because the timing just isn’t right. Like Jamie Thomas, who I met at the end of senior year. in my opinion, he probably would have made an excellent first boyfriend, and that’s hard to do with me. I’m insanely picky. But whether or not Jamie would have done, I wouldn’t know, because a month after we met, flirted (he said something like, “I feel like I’ve known you for my whole life”), we graduated and I never saw him again. Strange how those things happen. Something that could be really, really good, just disappearing like they were insignificant.

I’m a big believer in the expression, “there are no coincidences”. That’s probably why I like Gibbs from NCIS so much. There are no coincidences. Everything happens for a reason. Maybe not a reason that can be understood at the moment; maybe not for years. But still. Nothing happens without a purpose, and it’s my constant dissection of life’s events that keep me occupied, hopeful, and impressed that everything is under control and things are happening as planned. And someday, no matter if I’m going through heaven or hell, I will understand and appreciate the circumstances I was put in. I think that’s what life is about really-garnering memories to share with other people.

You learn your lessons, and then pass them on to inspire other people.

Just about the worst thing happened to me last week. I had a major attack in my digestive track, collapsed, and had to be administered injections to take the pain in my stomach away. It seems that I may have something like minor ulcers. Most likely (and this is my unprofessional opinion, based solely on my experiences) from these past 10 months in Africa. The worst part of it is, I have to stay away from caffeine. That’s fine with me, as far as sodas and chocolates go, but when it comes to coffee, this pretty much broke my heart.

If you know me, then you know that I am a coffee JUNKIE. Not one of those pansy coffee drinkers with the grande iced mocha latte, double shot of caramel, extra cinnamon on my whipped cream. No. I’m talking straight up black, no milk, no sugar, the real deal coffee. I’ll drink it anytime, anywhere. One of the ideals of Europe, to me, is drinking a steaming cup of fine Italian coffee, reading a paper, and smelling the rain. Sounds nice, right? But the coffee is the heart of it. Without it, the point is void.

Like people who are experts in wine (“Wineys”), I was pretty much on my way to becoming a total expert in coffee (making me a “coffee-y”?). Yes, I’ve had my share in Ethiopian, Columbian, Venezuelan, Italian, French, American, Malawian, Indian. I know my way around. I could tell you that Indian is sweet and delicious. Malawian is as rich as tree root, with a sweet tang that rises through your nose. Ethiopian is as “boner” (so strong you feel it as deep as your bones) as it comes. Colombian and Venezuelan fill you up to your toes, and Italian is so strong it almost feels healthy. Are you getting my drift?

So I was pretty much at a loss for words when I learned I was hereby restricted from strong drinks like coffee, as they stimulate acid in the stomach, which then stimulates the ulcers in there too.

My plan, however, is to talk to a doctor as soon as I get home from this ridiculous continent and have them test me out. if there aren’t any ulcers on the screen, forget it. I’m taking it back up again. If there are…well, then I’ll deal with that when it comes.

I just decided a couple weeks ago that I’m going to pursue International Studies (French emphasis) and a Political Science minor. This requires that I take amazing classes under the categories of literature, languages, history, art, international relations…it’s pretty much the most excellent path for me. I can’t believe it took me so long to figure it out.

One of the other requirements is living abroad yet again, only this time in France, in the alps, in a small Alpine village that overlooks Lake Geneva. Can it be any more picturesque, any less Africa, thus any more perfect? Maybe you can hear the desperation to get away from this place seeping through these words and pictures.

What can I do? I am plagued by a rotten body imagine, a vegan diet (that I am really trying so hard to follow but it’s getting to the point where none of it feels worth it anymore), ulcers, babysitting students that all have ADD, ADHD, no motivation or a bad attitude, and am constantly bogged down by the frustrations of a third-world country (the power went out AGAIN this morning. And our water was off yesterday. And when that happens every week for ten straight months, patience wears thin, folks). Oh god, god! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses in this world! Fie upon it, ah fie! Tis an unweeded garden grows to seed. Things rank and gross in nature posses it merely. That it should come to this!...

Okay, Hamlet rant.

I should probably stop this before I move onto Macbeth..

when a fiery star falls down from heaven, shrinks into a spore, is inhaled, and then expands again. that what it feels like.

Hunger.
So hungry.
we have plans, fun ones, today.
but first, to the meal.

Hunger.
stomach scraping, heart-burning hunger.
we sit. We wait. We order. We wait.
food comes. Not mine. I tell her, “eat, your stomach needs food”
And then mine comes. One bite, delicious.
first samosa, finished.
Samosas, and sweet coffee.
warm and smooth.
a perfect tantalizing mixture.

But hunger pains keep going.
I waited too long to eat.
why am I not filling?
still hurting.

The pain is not satisfied. Must be louder. Screams, a seam rips. Something hurts, so bad. It seeps into my back, excruciating, soul-writhing, demon-possessed pain. Hot, acidic, unquenchable.

I cry out. I lay down my cup, my warm pocket of veggies wrapped in gently fried phyllo dough. The peas are plump, the potato curry steaming, the smell makes me cringe.

In the restaurant, I duck behind the chair. I stretch out, begging this pain to leave me. it refuses. Worse than before. My back, like exploding veins of sickle-cell acid piercing both sides in a manner of war.

I twist, writhe, must get out. I give money to Cass, and abandon my warm meal for hope of homeful healing. A bed. I require one. The door, I need it now.

But no, up a long hill I walk, past smelly Africans, dodging mini buses, ignoring the demanding beggar woman. I come to a grassy knoll. It is hot, dry, brittle, pokey grass. I lie down, the pain having doubled me over like a jack-knife. I sprawl, then clench again, my back searing me, and my stomach exploding in white hot lava.

Oh. My…


God.

I get up. I am already attracting a crowd. I tell myself I must vomit. I must get this poison out of me. my brain reminds me that pain is all in the mind, the perception of the world around you. If you try hard enough, it would not exist if you do not allow it to. Then I seize up. This pain will NOT end. screw logic and philosophy. Dear God, I don’t want this. Please, take this.

I make it to the gate, dragging my purse at my ankles. I come to the steps, past the gaurds who are chatting, who have kind stomachs and painless backs. I am too in pain to be jealous.

At the second step, I cry out and collapse. I shove my finger into the back of my throat and gag myself. it takes a few tries, but I succeed. Somewhat. Very small amounts surface, and relief is not what I feel. The only thing that I feel is the end of the rope that I am hanging upside down on. Pain! Shooting! Cannot sit, cannot stand, cannot lie down. Too much pain! This can’t be real, this cant be happening! I am dying. Or I want to die. If this pain does not end NOW, I will make it end. I will kill myself.

My excruciation has brought me an audience. People I don’t know, didn’t look at, and will never see again, picked me up, laid me down, asked me questions and looked in awe at the “mzungu” with “malaria”. Psh. Malaria. If my tooth was aching they’d call it malaria.

Cass comes. She sees me. the old man at the gate cries out that “your friend is sick!!” she ducks to me, and then runs to the hospital.

I am in so much pain, I cannot answer the incessant questions beyond... I cannot. I cannot move. I writhe, clenching my legs. I unstrap my bra. In delirium, or the state right before it, I drag nails across my face and let out wails like the ones given by mourning women outside the hospital who grieve for the dead. The onlookers gather for a closer look. To be fair, they sound concerned.

Cass comes. My legs are at perpendicular angles, seized in pain. My back is arched, my stomach somewhere. Somewhere it’s never been before, and is never allowed to go again.

Cass assesses the situation like a good PA prodigy, and does what no other onlooker has the means to do. She calls the Blantyre Adventist Hospital staff’s personal cell phones. She calls Ann. Who calls Adriel, the surgeon. God bless him. if surgery is what it takes, if I could be put under, administered anesthetics, then I wont have to kill myself.

Please, put me in surgery. Now.

Adriel is coming, bringing his car. cass massages my back and snaps at the interfering (but well-intended) onlookers. A man offers to take me to his house where I would be more comfortable. No. I cannot move. I will die before I move.

Minutes drag. I repeat over and over, oh my God, oh my God, oh my god, oh my god. A mantra, a prayer, both, I am unsure. But at last my God did help me. Adriel came. He was there beside me, asking me professional questions, prodding my back, my stomach. I cry out.

Could be kidneys. A tear slips out my eyes.

But not the appendix, he says. The pain is too high.
I am relieved. Cass is too. She exhales.

I cannot walk, but I must move. Adriel carries me, lays me in the back seat. I curl up. Cass grabs my bag, my shoes, my jacket, my scarf. Everything, I stripped it. I would have taken off my pants too-not sure why-but I lost feeling in my hands before I could. And my coordination was not too strong.

We back up, drive the car to the hospital. It is 30 seconds away, but it feels like an hour. How many three point turns do we have to make to turn this stupid car around? I start moaning my mantra even louder. I am outside myself, unable to stop this pain, unable to control my words, my contractions, my hands smooshing and pulling my face apart as I cry, and continue to lose feeling in my extremities. All I want is to faint to get away from this pain. But it’s apparently not strong enough. I was meant to live through this.

Adriel parks, but I cannot go into the hospital. I cannot move. I cannot speak. And when I do, my voice is heavy, cracked and burdened with both fear and the desperation.

He runs for a pain killer shot. Minutes pass. Don’t remember what I did. Cass talked to me. don’t remember what she said.

He comes back, says it might hurt. Give it me, I say inside my head. He draws blood, but squeezes every last drop of whatever that was into my blood stream. How long will it take, cass asks. We will wait and see. Adriel goes for anti-acids. I pull it out and hand my bra to cass. Will you hold that? She laughs and stuffs it in my bag. Too much pain to understand why it was so odd.

Gradually, within three minutes I would say, the pain started to leave me. it retreated from my back first, evaporating into nothingness. I cursed it. And then, minutes later, with the arrival of the doctors, good friends, I turn to my side and feel with relief that the hell pot inside of my stomach is subsiding.

The doctors, my people, check me, get the story, and pose their different theories. Pancreatitis? No, it was too fast. Kidney stones? No, she’s too young. It was the gradual change of diet while being in Africa. But, really? does it end up like this? I’ve been in Africa almost 10 months. And suddenly? I reject that idea. A consensus goes around that its some sort of hyper-acidity. I am growing stomach ulcers from this year, apparently. Stress from a medical point of view? I don’t know, but it makes me laugh. The irony. They get me pills, and syrup, to drink and take three times a day. I hold them like treasure.

I feel so good now, I can sit up. I can smile, I can laugh. Praise you God that I can exist without pain! You are so wonderful! Thank you for my doctors. Your doctors. You have given me so much. If I had been out in the bush, I may have died from so much pain. I say that a lot, but it’s only because I must never go through that again. I could not do that again.

Adriel takes us home. He hands cass the meds. The pain supposedly wont come back.
All I know is that I have never been so relieved. I know God has really taken care of me. and I also know that when I go into labor, whenever that day comes, I WILL be using the epideral. Because pain like, it just aint worth your time.

so, that was me, yesterday. voila.

lets hold hands

Life is art, completely and irrevocably. Life is our canvas, and our actions are our art. What shall we do with it? We have the capacity of living beautifully. Shall we do it? Do we dare?

I intend to, with the greatness of love and humility, ignorance and bliss, being both routed and lost, decided and indifferent, cautious and liberal, both collecting and distributing, generating, recycling, circulating kindness, knowledge and the art of an individual life, like currency, for the uniqueness of another on their decidedly distinct path. And we shall trade my stories for yours, your experiences for mine, and we shall grow each other, give to receive, give to build, give to shape and create and furnish. Give to encourage, educate, enlighten. Give for love and joy at being alive and free. And receive bountifully in your own eye, the peculiarities of a fellow nomad on this spherical realm. For we are nomads, all of us, and we are meant to learn from one another, all the things which are meant to be gotten out of this life. from others, we see places unimagined, experience events once exclusive and now open. All experiences in life are meant to be shared with others, to feed and fuel the race and stimulate growth in the interweaving tapestry of life. And it is beautiful, I say!

The tapestry of life, the interconnectedness of people, place, time, circumstance is both too amazing to behold, and too beautiful to be ignored. We are each other’s burden, belonging to one another, and God is the master weaver, who brings together all things for good. The tapestry of life is gorgeous, despite dark and seemingly messy places. Step back, however, and see how it corresponds astoundingly. You come to realize that all of life is just as one breath; matching and interacting with each facet we humans have structured as something different from the other. But nothing is different, everything is the same, only the representation is slightly altered. Art is the same as math and physics. History is the same as psychology, as religion is philosophy, and that leads back to art, which leads to math, and stars, and photosynthesis, and libraries, and people, and food, and personalities, and culture. It is all the same, except in the symbol and size of it! That is, you study one thing, and you study them all. It is merely up to you to decide which form and measure. All life is the same, yet the differences are displayed by a conglomeration of colors and images. Our senses inform us of the uniqueness and fascinating distinctions in this world.

And it is the free-minded that find it, I dare say. It is the ones breaking the mold of the sociological mores who discover how life holds hands with itself. It is the ones who dare take a leap of difference, for the sake of life itself, and they who behold the grandeur of the unimaginable presentation. Who stumble upon the truth of it while they are lying asleep on the shore of a beach in some far off land. It is those plagued by wanderlust and adventure who stumble upon the mysteries of life. And God bless them! For life is one, and we are meant to find it, through love and breath and courage.

Life is our canvas, as I said, and our actions are our art. And our art is a piece of the puzzle, and the puzzle fits together in a gorgeous display of ethereal and unmatched perfection. Don’t soil it with stupidity.

Life is meant to be lived by these simple rules: have faith, have love, have courage, have imagination, and have a good humor. That is all, and that’s the glorious end and beginning.