Digging out in the morning
The night covered me with dreams and half conceived ideas that float behind the surface of my mind flexing like amoebas nearing fission.November is the month of Independence, 41 years of self-government to celebrate and I have a yearning to move the subject matter right away from all the politics and posturing on budgetary plans that do not address the reality of high prices, value added tax and import duties that double and triple the price of books and magazines and encourages smuggling and pilfering or worse.
I will celebrate our artists, our musicians and our authors, our dancers in the street. I have reams of interviews to edit and assemble, carving lifetimes of dreams and aspirations down to half an hour while keeping all the spark of passion burning brightly in the passages and phrases that I keep.
Actually, I discard nothing except the stutters and the stammers and the hesitations that mar the flow of thought, communication and knowledge. I keep it all and use it more than once, on different days, in different hours presenting different facets of the journey, success, struggle, hardship, inspiration, each moment is a diamond in the rough making up the jewelled crown of someone's life and loves, their passions and their reason for existence.
I falter sometimes at the thought of what I owe these people. They have given me raw pieces of their soul and I must cherish and exalt them, give them back a tapestry that truly represents the depth and breadth and context of these souls; I make of them an artefact, an icon for the world to see and must avoid the slightest taint of bias, of stated judgment. I must let my own existence go and be impartial, and so the night fills me with dreams of boxes holding all the parts of me that I must put away.
I must do at least six impossible things today. I think I will have breakfast first.