The Gift of Gab, or Attack of the Main Yak

yak 1. congnac. as in the brandy. 2. cocaine. 3. to eject the stomach contents in a forcible manner. 4. a jewish fellow from a rich white community who gets no respect. 5. One's girlfriend or wife. Usually used as a casual term of affection 6. short for Yakuza (Japanese organized crime). 7. To talk most indefinitely. 8. The designation of plane types for the Yakovlev company, a Russian plane designer. 9. a long-haired humped domestic bovine found in Tibet and throughout the Himalayan region of south central Asia.

I rolled the dice, and it came up seven. So, why haven’t I addressed you, my audience of one, for oh-so-long? Yes, I’m talking to you: why oh ewe.

Just kidding, I’m not talking to anyone in particular—and that’s why I haven’t said anything worthwhile in such a long awhile. It got a bit weird. Writing and posting started to feel like exhibitionism, which in a sense, it is.

But that’s of no consequence now because even if I’d wanted to address you—and I did—I haven’t had the time. Can you believe it? It’s true.

Mpho at the beginning of 2006 is quite a different animal than the Mpho who, last year, began applying herself to bringing forth the glory of the sleepwalk. That Mpho had an epiphany of sorts (recall the magic circle; see "The Abracadabra of Silence" and "La Dolce Vita") in Fall of 2005. And now that Mpho has become this Mpho, who is only at the beginning.

Nah, that’s all bullshit. I stopped writing because it all became too personal, and I started to feel too exposed, and the exposure made me feel beyond buck naked, and I started not to like it. But now I’m ready to try again, although the exhibitionist in me is keeping her hood and sunglasses on. I’ll try again because I believe firmly, truly, deeply that there is nothing to hide. The hiding is only force of habit. Once that fear is overcome next comes transcendence. That’s a lot less risky than me packing a suitcase, leaving my tennies at the end of my bed and taking an overdose of bennies to await the little green mennies, isn’t it?

So where should I start? Don’t say at the beginning because every moment is a beginning and being so, every moment was an end. Thus, to be fair and do this right, I must start in the middle.

For those on patrol of my lovelife, I met a girl. One particularly auspicious weekend, I met a few girls actually … but I’ve honed in on one, letting the others fall by the wayside. Though probably if you asked them, they’re the ones who’ve bypassed me like drunken cardiac surgeons. This girl is not without her complications—what woman isn’t. But she’s the real deal. Still only time will tell. What I mean by that is when we look into eachother's eyes, it’s not a war of wills or will nots. It’s good. We’re just getting to know each other so no predictions can be made. I won’t even say, “if I were a bettin’ person….” All I’ll say is that what I know of her is pretty real, and pretty great, and pretty hot, and pretty exciting, and pretty caring, and pretty tender, and pretty diamond in the rough, and pretty in black, and pretty special—and I don’t, for once, mean like special ed. Perhaps more on all that later, perhaps not.

Or there’s my 9 to 5, which is currently an 8 to 4:45 or something like that. When last I wrote I was still living in a glass cubicle office with a bunch of aristocrats er I mean executive recruiters. It had its moments. It had its ups and downs. I was terribly excited by the fact that despite being in a fish bowl, I had a door. But then one day I was just kind of done. Like the three wise men, I saw a star and followed it. Just like the wise men, I got duped a little bit. They got duped ‘cause look at what the most visible Christians have done to the legacy of Christ. I got duped because despite all the lessons I’ve learned in the past several many years, I crossed my intuition. The star turned out to be a corporate logo not a celestial symbol, let alone a spiritual beacon, and now I’m re-living corporate hell in conglomerate style, complete with brimstone and a badge that must be (s)worn (at) at all times. But it’s okay. I’m learning from it and am making plans to overcome that part of my karma by finally learning the lesson. Probably more on that later. Probably.

More important than wealth is health, and mine is not bad per se but there has been an outstanding issue that may come to a head sooner rather than later. But as with the previous two big sectors in my life, there are challenges that if handled well, will set some long term positive change in motion. And I binge on health fanaticism, which might come in handy. It's the pendulum binging on unhealthiness that's the thing to keep an eye on. I think definitely more on this. We’ll see.

Next up in wealth, is the number and kind of a woman’s friends. I lost a good friend recently. All of 35, and his business on this plane of existence has been concluded. I'm debating, but probably there will be something about him here soon. For the friends still among us, there've been some seismic shifts in alliances and probably there will be aftershocks. Might decide to go there here. Or maybe not.

I’m not trying to be a kok (possibly more on that spelling later) tease; as I toss out the kindling, I want to see what catches a spark and what doesn’t. I want also to remind myself that I am not as bereft of writing material as I have been feeling. There is my spiritual growth to talk about, and there are always current events or the fact that I’m so out of the what's-going-on-in-the-world loop that it’s pitiable. I’d like to tell you why I’m so uninformed, and why I do think it’s pitiable. I take full responsibility on that one.

I’d like to give you status reports on all the projects I’m working on. I’d like to share my travel plans to see my dad for the first time since my mom passed. I’d like to tell you in depth why I find The Dears so dear, and why I’ve been collecting rain water, and what it felt like to take my bike for a spin after a long-overdue tune up, and what it was like to wind up at the ocean after much much too long an absence from it. I’d like to tell you how I wound up with fuzzy orange socks and what happens when you _________, and where ___________ and when the next astrological omen is due.

I left the blanks in for a reason, just to show that I have been bereft of words, not things to say. It’s true. I’m not gonna hide it. For some reason, in the past couple months every time that I’ve sat down to tell you something, I’ve encountered gaps. It’s been frustrating, ‘cause it’s not like I’ve nothing to say. Even when I was in the magic circle I had something to say. But these days, I start writing and then bam there’s a hole. I suppose it’s natural and nothing about which to be much concerned, but I guess it’s made me feel like I’m not really up to the task of keeping you informed or of spilling my guts, the former of which, let’s face it, is really more about me than it is about you. Am I an egomaniac or a plain maniac? Maybe I’ll work that out for you here too.

Thanks for listening, again.