1123

Listening to The Album Leaf (soft, electronic ballad-type music) last night, I noticed that the clock on the wall was ticking exactly on the beat. You know how that happens sometimes. And you hope it’ll stay perfectly in synch, but it never does. But it did. This time it did. For someone who has compulsions like guessing how many steps it’ll take to get from the edge of the market to my front door and then counting (I guessed 1441 but it was only 1123--bad guess. I do this all the time.), the clock thing is a momentous occurrence. It stayed exactly on the beat for the entire song. It felt like a cross between being on The Twilight Zone and winning a billion dollars. Y’know. Like that. They must have had the metronome set to 60. (Is that right? Any music nerds ever read this? Erika just left a comment, so I know you’re out there.)

***

How to get on TV in Malawi:
1) Go to the TV station.
2) Put your name and reason in the log book under the day you want it.
3) Show up with transportation on that day at the assigned time.
You get a reporter, cameraman, and camera, and a spot on the evening news.
(The orphanage is getting some donated stuff from some big people from rich stores. The big people wanted media coverage for advertising, to make it worth their while. We complied. Big day is Friday. I’m torn between a John 3:16 sign, “Hi Mom!” and just making rabbit ears behind Steven.)

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This is so “Africa for Regaling Guests at Cocktail Parties, Like a Douche Bag” that I almost don’t want to relate it, but I am part douche bag on my father’s side and it’s cool anyway, so: 3 guys, one very African xylophone. Crappy chunks of wood for keys (keys? tiles?), improvised mallets using tire rubber, dried out pumpkin shells with tops cut off seated below the keys, each sized according to the size of the key, and all of this tied together with old rope and twine. About 7 feet in length. 6 hands moving all over like Woody Woodpecker obliterating a tree trunk. Sounds fantastic. Guy #4 shakes the rhythm with two old aerosol cans on sticks and filled with something like rice, and, as expected a crowd has gathered. Oh, and the guy playing the bass notes is blind, for Pete’s sake. My presence has created a small bubble in the crowd as everyone always gives me a wide berth, which suits me fine. Half the people watch me rather than the musicians, but this is old news and I’m used to it. They’re playing a song akin to “Tequila” in that there’s a part in the song where the music cuts out and everyone gets to sing, “Aliyabwerera!” It takes me several passes to hear it correctly, and venture to say it along with everyone else. Naturally, since being in Malawi is like being under surveillance, from the second I start trying the word people are noticing. When I finally give it a shot, there’s this explosion of pure glee from the crowd. See, they love it when you just try something that’s “theirs.” They friggin’ love it. And Malawians in particular, they just laugh a lot. Doesn’t matter what the conversation topic is. I mean it. If it’s two people talking there will be laughter involved. [insert cannily absurd conversation about people dying or wanting to kill each other] I’ve seen kids at the orphanage trying to beat the crap out of one another and then smiling and giggling seconds later. After the song’s over, a few people throw in some bills, one of the guys hoists the xylophone onto his head, another stuffs the mallets and shakers into a sack, and another leads the blind guy by the hand, and they’re out. Got a gig in Tucson tomorrow and then a long drive to Santa Fe.

***

Long Distance Relationship. Sigh. You again. I am, quite regrettably, an bit of a professional at it, mainly from messing it up several times. This time is very different, of course, since I’m really quite committed to this particular girl, but a lot of the same pitfalls are just waiting. I keep some light reading down there and a snack or two since I spend so much time in them. Okay really though. There are special pitfalls for wordy, somewhat obsessive people, such as myself and my love. D’ya wanna hear about one? It’s called e-mail. When you get one e-mail per week, and if there’s something nasty or negative that can be drawn from it, all of the other good things will slowly fade and the negative thing will grow as you water it with your thoughts and turn it towards the sun . . of . . . . your . . . . . . . . . I’m out of metaphors. Point is, if that’s the only thing you have from the other person for seven whole days, it’s like you’re having a fight that lasts a week. Naturally, they didn’t mean it like you took it, or at least not like you took it and ran with it.

And words that were meant to be transitory, if taken to heart as gospel, can rip ya up. It’s a bit like, while living overseas and learning the language, getting a translation of a word, and then starting to use the word. For example, “tuma” means send. But it only means send in the sense that you send a person to go do a task. If you try to “tuma” a letter with the people at the post office, you’ll get blank stares. Then maybe you’ll get angry at the postal employees for not “sending” your letter. You’ll snatch the letter back and stomp home, your progress towards getting that grant completely halted, your dander considerably up, and the poor employees shaking their heads and confirming that yes, foreigners are crazy, irate, and unreasonable people. And all because of one badly translated word that you tried to use. I recently transgressed in such a way, causing her almost as much confusion and worry as I caused myself. Time and space between people just have a way of stealing communication and making you want to blame the other person for things. You ache for her and instead you get clumsy and too-malleable words (Your words are eloquent, Hill. I mean words in general). But I’m ready for this challenge. I’m going to learn as I go, give the benefit of the doubt, and swallow my pride as many times as it takes. I’m going on record as saying that I’m gonna do good this time. It’s time to love like a man, not a boy. Bring it on, Distance. Come on, bitch, let’s dance.