Our communication is working peacefully again, but much remains unsaid. We're both a bit overwhelmed. There are no suggestions and no interest from outside. We both don't know if what we're doing is right. As the initiator, I should of course know better. But I don't know. Carry on life as it is. We will see. I don't like pushing for something to happen that isn't necessary. I also know that it doesn't work. All in good time. That's the option I have. Today I presented one of the two books that I received as a farewell gift at the Antikenmuseum Basel to the Artspace Group. I'm happy to hold it in my hands.
I'll be fit tomorrow! It can not go on like this. Nothing works at the moment. I think Ramadan made me even more insecure. As I am not fasting, the power is not on my side whether sick or well. I've tried texting, but it doesn't work. I even feel it's wrong that I'm writing. Actually, I feel like everything I'm doing isn't right. It's probably also the silence about what I'm doing or saying that offends me, because every move is like an act of strength and it means something to me. Disappointing when others can't perceive this. But I have to come over it. That's why I need to be recovered by tomorrow so that the hang is gone. I want to be able to act clearly and purposefully. Also for small things. I already lost a key, yesterday on a walk towards the sea, because I'm uncoordinated. Even that walk was difficult, my legs felt like iron and I got home all sweaty. Maybe it's still somewhere. But since I'm feverish, searching wouldn't make sense. It is a single key with no fob and will be difficult to find. Perhaps I dropped it in the sand. From the garden I hear the monotonous preaching of an imam from the speaker of a mobile, probably Mufti Menk.
Saturday, 25
My Beirut friends were radical in the most beautiful sense. Said writes that "lateness . . . is a kind of self-imposed exile from what is generally acceptable, coming after it, and surviving beyond it."
Cole, Teju. Black Paper (Berlin Family Lectures) (p. 69). University of Chicago Press. Kindle Edition
I think this paragraph is great. It's similar in Africa, where things often don't go to plan and you just have to let go. Somehow it works. As a Westerner, I have a hard time with that. I'm used to having to put myself under pressure, but that ultimately prevents me from being successful. I mean the success that I am satisfied with my work or with what I do. My demands make my life worse. I often set European standards as the measure of all things, Africa is not Europe. I have to make comments, as if I know everything better, but I don't know any better. I often see negative things, when instead I could just see and accept things as they are. In high school, I was often late. It was my style. Maybe I was some kind of protester back then. I was very left-wing politically – I remember that. But these days it's unbelievable the fear I carry around with me. For example, when I travel, I'm terribly afraid of missing the plane. I've lost faith that things will go on even if they don't go according to plan. Neverless, even after death, the existence of the universe continues. It's bad when you don't begrudge others that they live on. In my eyes it's kind of evil when you're jealous that others can be happy and you aren't.
Ramadan has started and it's a bit difficult for me this year. Probably because I'm not doing so well and I have little energy. As always at this time, our eating rhythm has changed completely, nothing new. But I hope I will recover soon and able to fast a little. Ever since I've been living in The Gambia, I've always kind of fasted during Ramadan.
Friday, 24
I had a collapse this morning. Suddenly I started crying. I lay on the bed and couldn't do anything about it. Before that I tried to write, but immediately noticed that it didn't work. I haven't look yet at what I wrote. Something that I also rarely do with earlier entries. The melody of the washing machine, which announced the end of the washing process, brought me out of my silent sobs. There was no reason for crying. The day dragged on. I was still weak on my feet and decided to relax the day on the bed. Reading was not possible. A few games on the cell phone and some thoughts every now and then. But that didn't work particularly. In my brain it circulated without useful conclusions. Recycling the garbage? It is now 11 p.m. And I am not very optimistic about tomorrow.
Thursday, 23
If I had a canvas I would paint an oversized head where there is debris in the brain area. No drawing because I want it big. Yesterday I was called stupid and that I had only garbage in my head, or did he say brain? Anyway, he got loud. And that was exactly my issue. Why he needs to raise his voice when I don't share his opinion. Why he can never forgive me like I always do when he insults me mercilessly. The night before last ME I told him he was stupid. I was very surprised at myself that I could call HIM stupid, while he describes me as stupid in every dispute, as if it were the most normal fact in the world. Then I simply have to accept it or risk an escalation with unforeseeable consequences. Yeah, he couldn't believe what I was saying and started saying kinda incoherent things. He was beside himself. I stopped immediately. A normal discussion was no longer possible. Then last night I tried to talk about this incident. He couldn't grasp why I wanted to talk about it and immediately started yelling. I often ask him why he always has to raise his voice when something doesn't suit him. Why he can't explain to me at a moderate volume what's going on. But he ignores this question, which is actually a request, as a matter of principle. In these moments he acts like he is obsessed and the law seems to be on his side. Finally he left the room with the words you have nothing but garbage in your head. At least he didn't say "bullshit". I thought about recycling my thoughts. And now I remember past fights where I was constantly accused of bullshit - you talk bullshit. Yes, that's the danger when you mostly deliver monologues instead of a balanced dialogue. Luckily we haven't argued for a long time. I now know what I can say without running the risk of being offended. Shortly before the Kerr Serign break, I got sick with a bladder infection and took antibiotics that were left. Since I don't appreciate them, I stopped immediately after the pain had gone. Unfortunately, the pain returned and I started the second therapy with a drug recommended by a pharmacist, which did not work and therefore stopped taking it as well. Finally at the doctor's, my urine was tested and found to be infected. I should definitely take the prescribed antibiotics, said the doctor of holistic medicine, which I've been doing for the past two days, but there's hardly any improvement. This physical weakness makes me impatient and I said things I shouldn't say. He says he's sorry that I'm not fine - sorry - and that's it. So I fought for him to comprehend that I needed his sympathy beyond SORRY, which of course was the basis for another freak out. He never explained what was wrong with my words when he judged them bullshit. I often told him that he humiliates me, but he couldn't savvy. When in doubt, he's right. He is a man and a real man has to be more than the woman. I know that sounds exaggerated and cynical, however, I don't think he's going to change his perspective. Not with me. I could challenge him with a beautiful dress, a new handbag, a special wig, a certain colour, or sexy shoes, but never with words. Not in our daily lives, not even if I were to write a book, he wouldn't be impressed. He never would read it. Maybe he would open it to demonstrate for his good will and that's it. Like SORRY. A new awesome car, yes, would show me respect for a while. Just like when I arrived in The Gambia with the Honda CRV. I made myself some instant coffee later in the night, which actually eased my pain, but I couldn't get to sleep. As he went to bed, I considered asking him if he had said garbage in the head or garbage in the brain. But then I preferred to take his hand into mine and let all of that be good.
Tuesday, 21
What I want or will write about now is very personal and I am hesitant. It's about my biological sister. I actually always liked her and tried to keep in touch with her as much as possible. However, our being together, or let's say the contact was mostly initiated by me, because I was the one who left our hometown. Not long ago we had some good conversations on the phone, which I really enjoyed having, but which probably meant to her that she had done her duty satisfactorily. Because, if she found our conversations interesting, she wouldn't tell me she was busy. She would try anything to get in touch with me. You understand, it's not about not having time, it's about not trying to connect with the other. On my last trip to Europe we managed to meet briefly at a restaurant, but she was scared. I got tired of talking about some things pertaining to our inheritance that she completely ran away from. She hadn't even read my father's will, which we all got in the mail. I just wanted to know how she had understood it. However, it is behavior that is common in our family. Our mother often tells me about people she meets but that she's not really interested in them. Her guests always stay too late instead of appreciating that she doesn't have to be alone. She often complains to me about loneliness and how sad it is that I'm not there, which makes me feel like I'm doing something wrong. But it happens when I call, suddenly she doesn't want to talk to me anymore. It also happened that despite her request to see me, she did not even encourage me to visit her. OK, this is our mother and she knows how I see things, because I always explain to her that she hurts people when she talks that way. I even think that she understood me, because lately her reports about her meetings are much more optimistic. Then, some time ago, my sister said in black and white that she didn't have time. Sure, I know that by now, but I have found out she doesn't have time for me. Her time is too valuable to waste with someone like me. And I think my mother and my sister are both kind of scared of me because I live abroad. I sense that they are projecting something that I am not. In a way, I exhaust them. They cannot benefit from me because my life is even more difficult than theirs - living in Africa is not desirable in their eyes. Yes, when we met in the restaurant back then, when I told her that my life wasn't easy either, she replied that she wasn't interested. Everything just has to go, otherwise no contact. I made it a habit to always be positive so I'm not a burden to them, but of course sometimes I tell them the truth. I show them my real face. No pretending, no hiding. Perhaps they invoke certain rules of conduct in family matters so as not to give the impression that they are obviously trying to put me in a bad light, where I look poor and helpless. No, on the contrary, they want to see me as someone who is strong and doesn't need support. Anyway, it's their freedom and I respect their attitude. For me, of course, this means a certain pain, sadness, to have lost someone close to me. But she's still alive, so that makes me happy again. At the same time, I want to free myself, a process that she probably went through as well.
Monday, 20
I have found another book and this is truly a bliss. I downloaded it completely. Another few days off in Kerr Serign I'm sitting by the pool reading about Caravaggio. I assume I dropped his last book Known and strange things. I intend to pick it up again, or have I read it already in its full length? I've read so many books but can't remember their contents, which I think is tragic. Probably I bought it here at the Timbooktoo bookstore. I finished Open City - I believe. It can happen to me that I start a book but don't get to the end. Often due to lack of inner peace. Indeed, I find it much easier to read in the Reader. But there as well I interrupt or leave it completely. Reading a printed book with concentration is difficult for me. Mostly it is the light, or the writing that is too small. My eyes tire quickly. Further, when I come across something that interests me, I like to look it up (most likely on the same device what means you can more or less read and research at the same time), for example about the author or even content, or in this case Caravaggio's paintings. Especially on one of his late paintings The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist, which hangs in a Maltese cathedral, I had a close look. Yeah, what a contradiction, since I constantly present books from our library. I love books though, particularly their smell and that I can hold them in my hands, touch and leaf through. The English ones in particular have a special scent. I start with the second part entitled Elegies, the first chapter of which is entitled Room 406 and consists of 17 short sections. The third section consists of only one sentence.
Monday, 13
After a cozy Sunday afternoon on the beach (I've been to the sea twice) I watched two films in the evening that weren't shot in Nigeria or Ghana, which hasn't happened in a long time. By the way, as for the beach, now that it is no longer possible to walk to the beach, we go to Batakunku by car. Most of the channels we receive are in French. I understand French to some extent, but since I'm not the only one who watches TV, we're looking for English-language channels. Many broadcasts are also in Wolof. Sometimes I just indulge in these by me unknown words, even if I don't understand anything. I like the sound of the words and won't be worried not to understand. I've gotten used to being for myself when others talk. I don't even feel excluded. Mostly we watch QTV or GRTS, the Gambian channels, to keep up to date. QTV brings the BBC Focus on Africa daily. QTV News also includes an international theme, which means that we are informed about the breaking news. Facebook is also a way to get information. There I got to know about the peace movement of Alice Schwarzer and Sahra Wagenknecht and their manifest, which I consider very sensible and reasonable. Anyway, we found a new channel yesterday Cape and I just watched two kinda new movies premiered in 2022. The first was a film starring Nicholas Cage, in which he played himself. An over the top film, a parody, a bit surreal. The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent. The second one was actually really surreal. A flip. Everything everywhere at once. If these movies are the new trend, I'm pretty happy. Not overly romantic or clumsy or tear-jerking.
Sunday, 12
When I was studying English literature, I attended a seminar on Sylvia Plath and bought two books. I featured her Collected Poems in the Artspace Group today, which actually means I only posted a photo of the cover. I started leafing through it, looking for a poem to reproduce here. I was looking for something I could identify with. Many of her poems seem very complicated and almost incomprehensible to me. They actually require thorough research to really understand what she was trying to convey. I choose a poem related to a sculptor she was in contact with. The factual reference to a person, an artist, who knew her, led me to this decision.
SCULPTOR (1958)
For Leonhard Baskin
To his house the bodiless
Come to barter endlessly
Vision, wisdom, for bodies
Palpable as his, and weighty.
Hands moving move priestlier
Than priest's hands, invoke no vain.
Images of light and air
but sure stations in bronze, wood, stone.
Obdurate, in dense-grained wood,
A bald angel blocks and shapes
The flimsy light; arms folded
Watches his cumbrous world eclipse.
Inane worlds of wind and cloud.
Bronze dead dominate the floor,
Resistive, ruddy-bodied
Dwarfing us. Our bodies flicker
Toward extinction in those eyes
Which, without him, were beggared
Of place, time and their bodies.
Emulous spririts make discord,
Try entry, enter nightmares
Until his chisel bequeaths
Them life livelier than ours,
A solider repose than death's.
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems Faber and Faber, 1981, page 91, 92
Tuesday, 7
Last Saturday I had an interesting conversation with a woman who originally comes from Germany. We spoke German, which doesn't happen often to me, apart from talking to family and friends abroad. We've known each other for a while, but I didn't know much about her. She runs a restaurant not far from where I live and where we occasionally eat. So I asked her about her past life, which was exciting. For example, she worked as a cook on a ship and traveled the world with it, she studied mathematics and worked in the field of construction financing. Opening a restaurant just came naturally what is great. Completely different from the years of preparation I had. After two glasses of red wine and when it was time to say something about me, she commented that I sounded like a child. At that moment I was convinced that what I was saying were not the thoughts a child would have. So far I remember. But since I was already pretty drunk, I can't remember anymore what I explained to her. So for two days I've been wondering if my way of thinking is really childish. And whether the texts in my diary might even sound like those of a child, despite my 64 years. Am I perhaps already on the way to regression? It was karaoke night and finally it was my turn. I've skived from doing karaoke my whole life. I've always been too shy and hated how people sing out of tune. I was no different, but now the alcohol had taken away my shame. There it was all older people from Europe who indulged in oldies (60s to 90s). I kept to the style and chose Every Breath You Take from The Police, which I really like and always enjoy when I listen to it.
Today I saw a post from MJ on my timelime, where he presented a book. (he hasn't read the book yet). I download a sample and start reading.
Growing up, I was taught to never make scenes. It's unbecoming. Unladylike. As a kid, I held back so much. And whenever I reached a breaking point — the accumulated feelings avalanching out of me in tears or tantrums — I found that to be ineffective too. No one heard my words; they only heard the tone and responded by saying things like "Whoa, you're intense" or "Calm down" or "Why can't you just be grateful?" Patronizing, reductive phrases that made me feel even worse. It's probably why I love theater so much: it's the only place where it felt acceptable — nay, commendable — to have big feelings.
Making a Scene by Constance Wu
There's this thing about changing my name that I've written about a few times. Funny how people deal with that. For those, those I meet newly, to whom I introduce myself as Mimi, there is no question - for them I am MIMI. All others are torn. I tell a few that I think Mimi is prettier and then they try to change. With those who have known me for a very long time, I have given up. Or if they call me Mimi, certainly with an ironic undertone. They just can't even though I would be so happy about that. But maybe it is better that they stay with what they feel most comfortable with, because important is to communicate peacefully with each other.
Wednesday, 1
Art Space Work of the Month
Herbert Grunwaldt (1928-2014)
Kreideküste (chalk coast) von Møn, Denmark, etching, 1973, 36 x 38 cm