Return to Mpumalanga

In six days, Sandra and I board an airplane to Nelspruit for two weeks of teaching to youth workers and other people helpers. We didn't think we would ever go back after last year but the friendships we made and maintained called us to return. We will then go to Cape Town and visiting friends and relax by the ocean for a few days before returning. Stay tuned for reports of the story over there! *** Spoken w/ Vlingo - http://www.vlingo.com
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Good times with old times!

Last night we had the first part of our thirtieth medical class reunion. It was graciously hosted in the home of Doug and Shawn Hobson. It was good to see the lovely faces of my classmates, Most of whom are still slogging it out in full time practices all over the continent!

Bonuses of the evening were having my daughter Caitlin Join our former band members Randy and Ann to sing some old songs and a couple of new tunes. She was superb!

Double bonus was having our classmate Orla Come out of vocal retirement and join us for "operator"!

It is probably the sign of the brittleness of my aging That I found a great deal of the evening overwhelming. We somehow gathered around the indoor swimming pool Which was an acoustic and physical nightmare. Most of my memories of the evening are visual as I could hear very little of what everyone was saying. We had fun with singing together but really have no idea of how we sounded. I found myself having little waves of panic all night long and wanted to leave even before we sang. It was at the admonition of my wife and the stronger admonition of my daughter that I bit the bullet and stayed. And I did still have fun!

Looking forward to the quieter venue at the Fort Gary hotel tonight.
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ode from my preverbal self

Cold facecloth slap.

I was screaming.
(you said I was)
And then I held my breath.

Vagal dive
Dive! Dive!

You said with glee.
I fixed you fast.
Ice cold cloth
Across my face.

You did not know
You sent me to the abyss.

Vagal dive

Of ether addled birth
Stuck in death.

Dive! Dive!

A life full of waiting.
for forceps to deliver me.

Que c'est triste
Interminablement
Triste.

S. Wakeman 14 september 11 (I)

recycled souls

Elmhurst blue box reverie

Early autumn street
Dust of golden death
Emerging in the verdure.

In wobbly rows
Emptied blue boxes
Some aright catching the dew
Of morning
Some aside
Looking for the wind.
Some overturned
Void but closed to filling.

Just like us-
Cleansed of the detritus
Of our life.

What posture
Do we keep
Attending
The Great Recycler?

S. Wakeman 2 Sept. 11 (I)