It’s early Monday morning, nice and quiet, even the cockerel that crows seems to have snoozed. It is quiet, beautiful, perfect, just perfect for me to get started. But alas, thirty minutes in I have no idea what or how to write. My fingers have been drumming on the keys…gibberish, all gibberish.
What do I write? Gibber jabber, mambo jambo! My cleaning lady is hanging the sheets, I can hear my neighbours irritating children screaming, breakfast must be a hassle again today. There goes the gate again, swinging open, someone’s left the premises. Not much is going on in the neighbourhood, most people have gone to work and school. It is now 8 am, still nothing to write.
And now who is left? The caretakers, one chap who is mentally underdeveloped; calling him retarded is mean, he isn’t. He has the mind of someone with down syndrome. I don’t actually know where he lives, but he is up really early like at 5.30 am, you will find him washing people’s cars. I have never known if people pay him. I feel sorry for him.
When there’s a water shortage, he is the guy who is busy carrying jerrycans up four flights of stairs to people’s houses. I never hear a complaint; he is so kind and innocent. You say hi, he says “Hi” back with a chocolate smile; teeth brown and rich in need of a dentist visit. So kind, so innocent, he never says much after that. He sits around the vendors with grocery kiosks. He just sits in silence and listens to people’s conversations occasionally smiling or laughing, and then takes walks.
I will ask him his name today, for now I will call him Jim. I wonder what runs through Jim’s mind everyday. Why his family never gave him a chance to go to school. Is it he didn’t want to go, or was there just no school that had the capacity to manage his kind of mental functioning? Or his family couldn’t afford it? I wonder.
My cleaning lady just sneezed, I lost my trail of thought. I was listening to radio this morning. Why doesn’t it add much value to my life? A lot of laughter and chatter that seems redundant; you’ll read the same point of view in the paper, hear it on radio and watch it on TV. It is always the same panelist on every medium, who provides nothing but their personal opinion with a lot of ‘hearsay’. And the specialists in the area are nowhere to be seen, unless of course it is political. Politics, boy that is where all the specialists scuttle out of the woodwork like roaches, ready to speak their mind.
At times it bothers me that I can’t always create a story every time I sit down to do so.