Khadambi and Kivuli Nothing ever happened to Khadambi, except on the day that he cut his thumb. For it was on the same day that he cut his thumb that he had an argument with his shadow. And it was because of the argument he had with his shadow that he got turned into a snake. But usually nothing really ever happened to Khadambi. Except on that one day. Now it all started because Khadambi's mother had sent him out to dig up some yams. But Khadambi had quickly forgotten what it was he was supposed to do, maybe because he had come across an empty tin by the side of the road, but whatever the reason, Khadambi decided that he was going to make some music instead. So he put some stones into the top of the tin, and then he squashed the tin flat with his hands, so that the stones wouldn't fall out through the opening. "Ouch," he said, for his thumb was bleeding, having been cut on the sharp edge of the tin. But never mind that, thought Khadambi, and he started to shake the tin up and down, and then he began to dance. "Hey, fellow, stop rattling that najingiri!" said a voice, "That noise is the worst music I ever heard!" "Who said that?" asked Khadambi. "I did, of course," said the voice. "And look what you've done now! You're spilling your blood all over my black coat. Stick your thumb in your mouth, before any more blood gets on me." "Come out, come out," demanded Khadambi. "Stop that hiding! Where are you?" "I'm behind you and beneath you," said the voice, "and wherever you go I follow closely." "What are you talking about?" said Khadambi, getting very mad. "Come out and show yourself. I can't see you." "I can't come out, you foolish boy, you're standing on top of me. My name is Kivuli, and I'm your shadow." Now, realising that his shadow was talking, Khadambi became frightened. "Get away, get away," he shouted. "I can't get away," said Kivuli, "we're joined at the feet." "Well," screamed Khadambi, "I don't want to be joined to you. Go away." Then Khadambi threw the najingiri to the ground, right on top of his shadow, and the stones scattered everywhere. "You impudent rascal," said Kivuli. "You can't treat me this way just because I'm a shadow. I'll teach you. I'll teach you what it's like to have to slide across the ground all the time. And you'll soon find out what it feels like to be trodden on." "Hey, what's happening to me?" called Khadambi, and he felt suddenly strange. "I'm turning you into a snake, you stupid boy. Now you can spend the rest of your life on the ground, just like me." "No, no," pleaded Khadambi, but it was too late. Khadambi had already turned into a snake, and he was slithering sideways over the ground, his blunt head parting the tufted grass. And now, because he was a snake, the only thing he had in his mind was the business of snakes. All he could think of right now was a bird's egg, a shining white egg that he would swallow in one bite, crushing it whole inside his mouth. "Khadambi, Khadambi, did you learn to be this useless in school? Where are those yams? Get off the ground this instant!" It was the voice of Khadambi's mother. Khadambi sat up with a start. " But mother, it was my shadow! He turned me into a snake!" "Ah, Khadambi, you must have shadows for brains. Get yourself a stick and dig up those yams straight away. Straight away now. The water's boiling in the pot." Nothing ever happened to Khadambi. Except on that one day.

The heart of a nine-year-old understands longing. It knows how to hold another identity, wrap it tenderly in butcher paper -- as carnal and pure as the red flush of guilt on the analyst's couch.

Kathy Curry was my first.

She entered my life long before I named girlfriends by trait. She wasn't Rubber Woman, The Wiz, Blush Girl, or Helmet Head. She certainly wasn't The Lapper.

Even two years after Kathy disappeared to an all-girl boarding school, when Darcy Daniels had jumped into my lap, I couldn't get to the root of Kathy's essence, her intent, or a nickname.

Darcy could flip me off with a glance. It was her mating call -- her trump card. Kathy was ineffable, unreachable, unfathomable.

"You should really play the violin," she once said. And I did. I couldn't say no to cartoon purity. I couldn't refuse clean, even lines. It didn't even cross my mind.

I had no devotion to the instrument. Couldn't have cared less about the music -- and the suffering dispensed from an incessant 30-minute egg timer ticking everyday after school.

Ultimately, Kathy gave me a wonderful excuse to ruin any perfectly good relationship. To this day, I can conjure up a perfect image of her to help sour anything remotely healthy. With her in mind I can feign my own wounds or claim to be in love with someone else.

I never had to fall in love with her. Never had to touch her even. I just chased her Ivory Soap scent around the sandbox. That last day in Ms. Gross' 1st grade class I built a gilded cage of sand and honey and chased her memory around in my head.

Devout in my own melodrama, I can belly up in a field of mustard and watch the clouds drift by.

When you become obsessively involved with the lie of perfection, fraudulent nostalgia, and maudlin reminiscences, you never again have to put up with the bellow of a fluctuating bowel or mindless drivel. You don't have to listen to a chortling laugh. You don't have to wake up to the stench of bad breath and soiled sheets.

Kathy bestowed the greatest gift of all -- the power to kill things as cleanly and naively as they were created. If I could thank her I would. But she faded that year like mist from a crashing ocean wave.

Years later, I saw her in a Ralph's parking lot in Southern California. She sat alone in the back seat of an '82 Chevy Nova.

As I walked by, her head tilted slightly to follow my movement and the corners of her eyes tightened to pierce through the bright summer sun. I think her hand started to rise. I can't be sure because if I wanted to interpret her motion I'd have to have stopped -- and there was no way I was stopping.

And that's the last I saw of her, her memory and image sealed airtight behind tinted windows.

what's goin' on with me...
Walking on the treadmill twice a day now... not a lot at one time though... about a 20 minute mile each time.

Saw the 'new' doc yesterday and he wants me to raise the lithium.. he thinks I am still in a manic phase and the 300 mg of lithium isn't cutting it. So have to raise that. He was really nice and I was bummed because he's leaving the place. I knew this before hand but I didn't expect to like him.. lol... they don't even have a replacement as of yet. Will go back in a month but counseling continues next week. She's nice too. Guess they have to be good because there are a lot of HIGHLY crazy people there and mentally handicapped too.. guess I fit right in.. lol.

Down pretty bad yesterday but I think it's PMS. Niiiiiice.

Other than that not much else to say except I am pretty tired which is why I haven't been able to update this as frequently as I should. I just am exhausted. I force myself to do the treadmill but I just would rather be sleeping. My Boobs are swollen and i think I could pose for these guys .If the day was 5 hours long and the rest was sleeping I would be ok. Jason said that's exactly how my mom was.. and he's right... ugh.

I am also very bored. Which I have no right to be because I have so much to do... but it's a weird restlessness inside. I think it's the abilify and I am stopping it today.. can't feel like that anymore.

ok, will do better to write more soon