I went to the SA National Gallery today and fell in love with their current exhibit: The Indian in DRUM Magazine. The photographs, taken from the archives of DRUM, depict Indian golfers, political activists, daredevils, pinup girls, and gangsters (to name a few) in underworlds, shantytowns, soccer fields, and bohemian jazz clubs. The purpose is to confront stereotypes of the Indian community in South Africa, who arrived as indentured laborers in the 1860s, by showing them to be more than just rich minority shopkeepers.

No pictures were allowed and they weren't selling any prints, so I had to scrounge up a couple from the Internet. These aren't my favorites (Amaranee Naidoo, The Flower Seller, and Indian Women Take to Booze! were), but they'll have to suffice for now.

Sonny Pillay author of Shadow People, Pumpy's Jazz/Goodwill Lounge, Crimson League/Salot Gang fighting for taxi kingship, Dr. Yusuf Dadoo, Amaranee Naidoo and Tommy Chetty riding the Wall of Death, Sewsunker "Papwa" Sewgolum the two-time winner of the Natal Open and three-time winner of the Dutch open who took tea in his car because only whites were allowed in the tournament clubhouse, Links Padayachee and Juggie Naidoo, Benny Singh with his "black" boxing, Mother India, Runya Naidoo and Violet La Tange who conquered ballroom dancing, and both flower sellers - I'll remember.

linda

karnival aquarium, kyung jeon

norwegian wood

i began re-reading this the other day, to remember. apparently they are turning it into a movie. should be interesting - hopefully not in a totally botched up way.

There is no way around it: my memory is growing ever more distant from the spot where Naoko used to stand -- ever more distant from the spot where my old self used to stand. And nothing but scenery, that view of the meadow in October, returns again and again to me like a symbolic scene in a movie. Each time it appears, it delivers a kick to some part of my mind. 'Wake up,' it says. 'I'm still here. Wake up and think about it. Think about why I'm still here.' The kicking never hurts me. There's no pain at all. Just a hollow sound that echoes with each kick. And even that is bound to fade one day. At the Hamburg airport, though, the kicks were longer and harder than usual. Which is why I am writing this book. To think. To understand. It just happens to be the way I'm made. I have to write things down to feel I fully comprehend them.

almost two months ago i wrote this: it's interesting how some memories are so clear, while you have difficulty recollecting the smell, taste, and touch of others. i found the draft as i started to write this post. at the time i abandoned it because i didn't have the energy to dig deep enough to put everything into words, to make the connections. i've since forgotten what triggered me to write.

i don't want the memory to come back -- for it to kick me. but it inevitably will, likely because i didn't write it down.

79 pages into my life in france and it already looks like my copy of atlas shrugged. julia child is my hero.

Upon reflection, I decided I had three main weaknesses: I was confused (evidenced by a lack of facts, an inability to coordinate my thoughts, and an inability to verbalize my ideas); I had a lack of confidence, which caused me to back down from forcefully stated positions; and I was overly emotional at the expense of careful "scientific" thought. I was thirty-seven years old and still discovering who I was.

have been so busy with the move and the start of school. i finally finished netherland though --

"Who is he?" I said.

She gave me a name. She told me, without my asking, that he was a chef.

"I'll leave tomorrow," I said, and Rachel gave a horrible little nod.

I brushed Jake's teeth with his dinosaur-themed toothbrush. I read him a story - at his insistence, Where the Wild Things Are, even though it frightened him a little, this story of a boy whose bedroom is overtaken by a forest - and calibrated his bedroom's dimmer switch according to his instructions. "More light," a voice softly commanded from his bedding, and I gave him more light. Rachel stood at the door, arms folded. Later, as I packed my belongings in the adjoining room, I heard a childish squeal of protest. "What's going on?" I said. "Nothing," Rachel said. "He's just making a fuss." I saw that she had completely lowered the dimmer. I restored the light in a rage. "I won't have my son sleeping in the dark," I said to Rachel in a near shout. "Jake," I said, "from now on you sleep with the light on, if that's what you want. Daddy says so. OK?" He widened his eyes in assent. "OK," I said. Trembling, I kissed him. "Good night, my boy," I said.

leaving, part 1

today was my last day at the house. i was surprised by how sad i felt to be leaving. i didn't feel particularly close to this group of kids, and if anything found my temper running short more often than not in these past few weeks. my attendance has also been spotty. but while i was sitting on the floor admiring the picnic that S and S had painstakingly prepared for me (it was supposedly my birthday), i had to hold back the tears.

a short while later, A decided that he was going to sing us a justin bieber song while playing the faux toddler piano. S, following my delight, announced, "it's a cawn-sut!" in her raspy 3 year-old voice. we soon had a lineup, with S singing her abc's in acappella and the other S strapping on her pink electric guitar to perform an original. M was upset because he didn't have an instrument (he tried to steal S's), so i went on a hunt for a tambourine but ended up giving him a makeshift guiro which he scraped w/ the toy spatula. he was so pleased with it that he immediately began to sing the alphabet song, scraping away, and sang it at least twice more during the rest of our time. i didn't even know he knew the alphabet. it all felt like a gift and i felt lucky, thankful.

i tried to explain that i was leaving, that today was my last day because i was moving. i don't think S, M, and R heard it. they don't hear a lot of things. whether this is unintentional i don't know. A stopped what he was doing and looked at me. he began to say something in response - a question maybe? but i saw him mentally shake it off and choose to ignore it. that hurt. S was the most gracious: she got real close to me, her face in mine, and told me about mary's departure, her brother's hat from new york, and how she was going to move to china with her mother and A. she's the one i spent the least time with. i don't remember the other S's reaction very well.

i realize termination is a responsibility and it's something i hope to get better at. i have been selfish not to work harder at it.

i like looking behind the library counter and seeing what others have put on hold. today i saw real food, the help, a book of piano compositions, something computer-related, and bad boy, to name a few.