the weekend in numbers

Dearest ______,

Last weekend was busier than usual, even after discounting time spent going back to the office to finish some work. To validate what I deem to be an uncommon amount of action for my commonly lazy days off, I’d like to appraise said events in numbers. You know, because people seem to take their Maths more seriously and such.

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2 – number of hours we spent in a meeting regarding some exciting prospects for our little band, Narcloudia
3 – amount of beers and ramen consumed over said lunch meeting

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3 – times le bassiste excused herself from said meeting to smoke outside, haha

Continue reading “the weekend in numbers”

painting Mr. X’s house

Dearest ______,

Kindness is as universal a truth as suffering. Context, a variable, but never an excuse to overlook that which is constant. That even the smallest act of kindness means two less unhappy people in the world. Or that pain caused by an empty stomach pretty much feels the same way, anywhere you go in the world.

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Continue reading “painting Mr. X’s house”

Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela (1918-2013)

Dearest ______,

We’d just gotten back to Cape Town from a two- day Internet and TV- free stay at the Karoo, when I read my phone messages at the hotel. One that was cryptic enough from a colleague all the way in Singapore saying:
“You go all the way there and he dies?!”
“Who died?!”, I asked.

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Unbeknownst to us happily trailing animals at a remote wildlife reserve, South Africa’s beloved Tata Madiba (literally Father Madiba, in his native Xhosa name)- Nobel Peace Prize Laureate Nelson Mandela to the rest world- had died at 95 in his home in Johannesburg.

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It was like holding one’s breath underwater in a public swimming pool: when you stay underwater long enough, you lose sense of what is going on above the surface. And when you bob up after a few minutes, you realize that you’ve shifted elsewhere in the swimming pool and that the whole place has obviously changed. After confirming Mandela’s death on the television, we were suddenly walking along streets where things had obviously changed.

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singing in the shower

Dearest ______,

There’s this perennial fixture under one of those bridges in Clarke Quay, one particular busker.

He’s always there, singing some old rock tunes with his battered acoustic guitar and a gaping leather case right in front of him and his harmonica.

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Of busking under a bridge, I can only imagine that sensation when you sing inside the shower:

how your voice echoes and the sounds that you perceive always seem fuller; stronger; more self- assured.

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When there’s hardly anybody walking down that tunnel to hear him sing or spare him some change, I always wonder if an empty tube can make a lone busker feel as bold as showers do.

For his own sake, I hope he genuinely loves to sing.

Love,

Karlita

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keeping up with the eameses

Dearest ______,

Some of the most critical and guarded people can be found inside creative circles.

While creative people are generally perceived as insouciant and open- minded, most of those I’ve personally observed in my lifetime (designers, artists, writers, musicians, etc) tend to be more selective of the people they associate with or admire, than the average (admittedly less talented) lot.

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