Update status

1965

 

Where the story telling all began.

Me on the left, in 1965 on my parents 28000 acre spread, off the Shamwari roadd, between the Munyati and the Sebakwe Rivers in Zimbabwe.

With his hand draped over the baboon pole is Patrick Mavros (who was visiting for the weekend), pulling the go-cart is cousin Bryyan (also visiting) and my brother Paul is sitting on the cart.

Here and there, mainly on the weekends, I manage to escape into my imagination for long enough to enter that special reveried state which allows the fragments of the past and present to intersect, like the woof and the warp, when the mind weaves a fable reality.

I create the snippets of this story, much like I used to fashion my sculptures when I still had the full facilities of my, back then taken-for-granted sight.

This is not a blog, Thus even though I may create my writing erratically, I post consecutively, so that the pages follow a broad story line.

I would like my tale to be endowed with three things,

A story.
A sense of place.
A platform for my missives on life.

==========

8 Feb 2019

I took advantage of being snowed in to write post25 earlier this week.

Now I will be mostly on the road on business until the last third of February.

Thus I am not sure if I will get much opportunity to write and post stuff.

But it is now time to send my ‘hero’ out to do some tracking and to think about his life a bit more, with a surprise for him..”

———

23  Feb 2019

I am back home on my Island.

I have a few pages written, I will probably have a few more by the end of the weekend…

Check back later..

I have also coagulated the vignettes into logical blocks (logical to me that is). This was because folks were reading things as a blog, with each posting as an independent entity, and not part of a story.

———

01 March

I changed Meloody’s name to Precious.

Precious was always the name i wanted to use, but as there is a real Precious at the camp I did not want folks out there to think I was modelling the real Precious.

I love the name Precious, and both the two real Precious’s I have known in Africa have both been remarkable women.

I have been surprised by how the Precious in my story has taken on a persona as I have been writing, and because of this I have to call her by who I really imagine her to be – Precious.