Paint It Black

Last night after my shower, all the lights suddenly went out. I came back inside after watering my plants on the terrace and thought, I’d already turned the lights on, right? For a millisecond I suspected ghosts or some other form of paranormal activity –I have a rich inner world, what can i say? The fact that I even wondered about it, of course, or that anything seemed amiss or even surprising, testifies to the fact that I live in a spoiled, cushy, rich man’s country. It was just a black-out, but that kind of thing hardly ever happens here. Unlike in Nigeria, for example, where it happens a few times a day and the children shout, NEPAAAAAA! (National Electric Power Authority. The name has changed now but I guess it will be forever NEPA in people’s minds), while the grown-ups don’t even blink and one of them (the closest, the youngest, the lowest in rank or standing in whatever way) gets up to turn on the generator. And you sort of stop moving or even talking for a while because the heat suddenly becomes unbearable and you want to save your calories, until the fan comes on again and you can just resume your conversation.

Not here though. Here I immediately checked the hallway lights to see if it was me alone or the entire building. Having established the latter, I sat down on my terrace with a Murakami book. It was still possible to read out there. Soon I heard faceless voices hovering above me, neighbours on different floors hanging over the railing and discussing this Event. It’s the entire area, it seems, one woman said. Oh la la! Another replied, I’d better find some candles. Actually, no matter how blasé I was being about it, I had to concede that wasn’t such a bad idea. I found one Mr. Rose brought home as a souvenir from a rather bizarre encounter with a wannabe monk in a youth hostel. Apparently he’d raved all evening about how these candles were handmade beeswax and that you just couldn’t beat the scent. I used a shot glass filled with some rice as a candle holder –I’m more of a tea light person, so I didn’t have an appropriate one– and, once lit, I had to agree with the wannabe monk. The scent really was lovely. Here and there in the buildings across the park, more candles started to appear. I sat and read by candle light, sometimes laughing at a sentence, sometimes glancing at the stars above or the checkers board of candles. What a magical evening it turned out to be.

Morning Glory

An early morning present from the new rosebush I was telling you about. Aaaaah…

Do, a Deer

I just saw this on the news, kind of cool really. A bunch of kids organised a ’spontaneous’ dance at the central station in Antwerp, Belgium.

Thorns And Roses

I stumbled upon a plant sale in the botanical garden just now. I went out to get some air and serenity, and instead found the place thronged with people. And air, yes, that too. But I hate throngs, crowds, masses. I do love plants though, so I thought I may as well look around. There was an amazing red maple bonsai I would have loved to whisk away, but it was too expensive and the stall owner was eyeing me too closely to do any whisking of the illegal kind (not!). I did buy a young rosebush –what else? I don’t call myself Miss Rose for nothing– for my future balcony. I just couldn’t resist. It’s a variety I hadn’t heard of before, a beautifully messy bloom, not too pink, not too pale. One of the most beautiful varieties of this region, the seller agreed. They’re supposed to be quite aromatic too. And, he pointed out, they don’t have thorns. I hadn’t noticed but, indeed, the stems are wonderfully soft. On my way home I thought of roses and thorns, and our conviction that you can’t have one without the other. But apparently you can. The thought filled me with optimism. Could life really be that good?

Let There Be Flowers

My aunt’s father died peacefully recently at the age of 95. He’d been a gardener all his life and was a quiet man who loved the outdoors. The last few years he’d been living in a retirement home with his wife, the same age as him, who needed more care than he could give her. There, too, he spent a lot of the time in the garden and had asked a supervisor one day if it would be okey for him to do a bit of weeding. He was allowed to do so, probably because he was eager and it needed to be done anyway.

People started noticing some crocus flowers in early spring. A little later, it was lilly-of-the-valley. How strange, they remarked to each other, there have never been flowers here. The staff had no idea how it happened but, the following months, a whole array of flowers bloomed in the retirement home’s tiny garden. My aunt went to see her folks one day and saw them on her way in. Nice flowers, she said to her dad. Aren’t they? he replied with a soft smile.