I'm supposed to be writing a paper. Any writer worth their salt will recognize this post as distraction. And it is. But it is also filled with nostalgia. I was browsing through previous posts ( I thought there was one or two that might make interesting vignettes in my paper, really, I was here with academic intention) and realized it's not the first time I've reflected on my quality and quantity of writing. Which is essentially a reflection on my quality and quantity of living.
If Abidjan was the lost years, years spent in shock over a break up and then trying to pick up the pieces and see a way forward, Bamako seems like the silent years. The quiet years. The lonely years. I have an idea or two kicking around for an interesting post, but mostly, it's not happening. You know. You can see. My absence is telling.
I have just another excuse now, the doctorate program is going to eat up all my time. Already I feel like it is a race to read everything (which we were told on the first day of classes by one professor that it is unlikely we will actually be able to read all assignments. The student council welcomed us with a powerpoint including tips on "how to gut a book" and other grad school strategies for understanding without reading every page.) I am determined to read as much as possible, though, and have succeeded only in feeling as though I will mix up all my references and attribute quotes to wrong authors and babble incoherently.
Luckily, or not, many of the ideas overlap and support each other. Another student made reference to the same worries as she posted a comment and then wrote, "I hope that is the right reference. So much reading!" Yes, we are feeling it.
The one thing I am not feeling is the stress of getting it done. I don't have other things- or people- pulling at my time. The routine is set. Mbalia gets her hours and once she is in bed, I am free to work (or procrastinate by writing here. But it is likely, I will be on hiatus- after my next post about perspective and painting and the feelings this city evokes in me.)
Bamako is pretty empty for me, though a friend just shared a video clip of Dogon dancers in a festival downtown. Everything starts so unpredictably, and the traffic creates such long lines and late nights. I am not interested. I would rather walk the neighborhood with my girl and get excited about the white horse or a fun little hill to climb. She still wonders at the sounds of the goats and searches the skies for bats. This morning we happened to be up with the stars and she couldn't stop remarking on their beauty, especially when coupled with the moon.
While I have fleeting moments of guilt- I should expose her to culture and take her to the masked dance, I myself might have enjoyed the masked dance, but I see it all as a trade off in time. For now, it's good enough, the girl and I hanging together, doing my studies, a little yoga. These quiet years won't last forever. All things are temporary.
I might try to write more often- or at least once a month. I might try to notice how Bamako is different, unique, magical. But I might also try to get through my studies, love my girl and look forward to our next spot, which will hopefully be ever closer to home.
