Saturday, 30
Here the name for my pain that keeps me awake all night and makes me suffering during the day like shit: arthritis. Doctors already insinuated that wear marks could be the reason. i hoped, not me, it would be a vanishing something like I my body was that of a youngster. Nope. Bad luck. Also my life will have an end (subconsciously i took myself for immortal). However, everybody has to carry his or her load. Checking the internet if there might be some useful hints how to manage this crying game (the slow network makes it even worse - waiting intensifies), but didn't find any that would apply for me (no smoking is not an option... when the pain is at its peak cigarettes give me relief) - most of them I know already: ibuprofen, diclofenac, narcotics, almost risked an intoxication; osteopathy, acupuncture. Today I've been to an herbalist who provided me with something that looks like wood. i cooked it, drank of it like a cup of tea and preserved the rest in a 4.5 kg size margarine bucket to drink from here and then (hopefully there is no danger of an overdoses). I think arthritis has probably nothing to do with art - I forget about etymologic explanations in this moment. Maybe later.

Thursday, 28
watching an ant running over my table while reading. i've got lost in self criticism that powers me out. fears of being seen as arrogant eating me up. though i know i am not arrogant. pain is still haunting me, batteries run down. I am trying they like to say when there is happening a change. i try trusting in the progress still -

Lesego Rampolokeng, Vagabond Word-Man
Dabbling scribbler and I write, a lot. Of things, and ways. Forms, too. Straddling the line between poetry, prose and all that comes with. I put things on stage. Life’s theatre. And in the dust too. Street-corner and academic podium. No matter. I am a sentient being, derelict, no abode fixed in space. Romantically referred to as nomad. I was born in Orlando West. Bred thorough all across Soweto. Orlando East, White City, Chiawelo, Meadowlands, Diepkloof. I schooled in Jabavu, Moroka, Jabulani…i am that slave-labour camp called Soweto’s breed. Even though homeless, at home. Vagabond wordman. I’ll yap, write, recite; shoot, at times, anything to get The Word out. The word is paramount. At all times i walk this land. And talk it, too. ’it begins with sound’, always.
(...)
Suffice to say my first reading was my grandmother’s palms, they were lined, deep script. My first writing, i believe, was a uterine mural. blessed mom, amen! I got no teaching of reading or writing from that blasted crime against humanity called bantu education.
So, relevant to what? Fuckademic aesthetic is not mine. The one fore-grounding who wrote what, all before the actual text. Ok, mista genius, listen: it is not bad because it is foreign to you. It is not inferior just because you do not understand it. Nasty murderous things happen when arrogance powers ignorance, clover arses!

Monday, 25
Interesting, some people here in the Gambia presume they understand what I'm trying to express and within that they appear to find themselves in a small talk instantly as soon as I address myself to them. What I inherently appreciate, of course. But, when I enquire about what they have comprehended I frequently do realise they've put up their own story in their concept about my personality totally convinced they know what it is about; toubabs are all the same - lecturing, but they don't know nothing about Africa, naive, they pretend to know it all and as a matter of fact they expose themselves to ridicule most of the time. So much the worse their misbehaviour potentiates in groups... Nevertheless, despite every mis- and preconception we are on our walk to communication, a multi-layered arrangement of consent.

Saturday, 23
We were at timeless restaurant having lunch yesterday. Returning to our car a woman who offered her fruit plates, stall 7, approached. After a while she asked me from where I was and I answered I was from Brufut. Then she asked me: Which country is Brufut? I looked at her questioningly and then it was me who asked: Don't you know Brufut? She smiled and affirmed she had been there several times. I've been traveling for long time. There will be no place on earth where people won't ask me that question of origin.

Thursday, 21
Prince has died ... how sad. I remember in the eighties when i was making music myself (playing bass guitar and singing) I was convinced I would meet him one day. That opportunity has gone with him today. Rest in Peace.

Wednesday, 20
The grass is greener on the other side...

Tuesday, 19
Departure means changes, still. I am slow in changes. The desire for justifying my doing always defeats my attempts of leading an unburdened life by being creative and letting go. I feel the acquired standards in my genes how they overcome my energy every second asking for approved and reasonable steps. Changes from pure surviving in terms of serving the demands of strictly prescribed structures (which in the past I had put on like a knight's armor) to accomplishing a self-determined fruitful life don't come easily. To use liberty inventively instead of spoiling it is a wonderful task, though.

Monday, 18
I am a human being like everybody; I do mistakes and sometimes say things I later discard as no more pertinent to be executed. I am emotional and do patter like others. I am neither a priest, nor holy, just me, ordinary. And I allow myself to change schedules if required.
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Yeah, we've found me a nice shop that will be my studio and office, a good place where to work. (the one in the middle) Wow, I am really happy about it.

Tuesday, 5
I did everything to do this step. A lengthened farewell - a lot of talking about what I will do there. Finally to leave a comfort zone that nobody wants to give up but to sell it as the one and only. But, exciting that some one else does. Me, a deputy of African life. It has been a fight somehow to follow that self imposed setting of course. My way only. Only one idea in my head to do what I had to do. So many advisors, so many well meant hints about my future life, but to be honest nobody wants to swap. Everybody is one's own life's closest friend. Rather watching me how I do and I if do good. If I will be able to lead a decent life there in that far country, which seems interesting in a way. Now my body is answering with immense, continuous pain. Every day a drag of an unfulfilled quality. Every night I roll from one side to the other to get away from pain, but sleep won't come. Just my hot water bottle gives release from pain apart from medication.