Territorial Imperative: African sky blue - touching the lion and seeing me through

Blue. The main room has been painted blue. This time linguistics failed me. The colour swatch had something about French on it. Pffffft. What do they know sitting somewhere in the US of A?

Depending on the light, this is a faded shweshwe blue - colour of a married womanʻs skirts - skirts that have seen some washing, plumbago blue - (plumbago auriculata) that beautiful climbing, trailing blue flowered South African shrub, but mostly it is African sky blue.

I hadnʻt realized until I started painting the walls of this room, quite how much heritage and nostalgia was going to surface in the colour blue, and not just because my knobkierrie and assagai look good on this blue.

My father only wore blue (when he wasnʻt in khaki) and only drove blue vehicles. Blue is the colour of my fatherʻs blood in my veins. That subtle royalty is now subterranean.  Though I am the last to carry his name, there is a warrior out there who wears his mantle, has his blood.

Impi! wo 'nans' impi iyeza

Obani bengathinta amabhubesi?*

All the other artifacts of a nomadic life look good against this shade too. Always the song as you enter my house: African. Sky. Blue. All its crazy, alienated, violent beauty and chaos.

African sky blue, your children wait for the dawn
African sky blue, soon a new day will be born
African sky blue
African sky blue, will you bless my life?
African sunshine, soon you will warm your children's eyes
The African river water will dance and leap in your morning light
African sunshine
African river water, will you bless my life?
Oh will you bless my life?
Oh will you bless my life?
Oh will you bless my life?

What can I know?
What can I dream?
What can I hope?
What will the future bring?
You shine through me, but will you see me through?
African sky blue

African thunderstorm, your soldiers march through the air
The African rain will fall and wash away all my tears
African falling rain
African falling rain, will you bless my life?
Oh will you bless my life?
Oh will you bless my life?
Oh will you bless my life?

The warrior's now a worker and his war is underground
With cordite in the darkness he milks the bleeding veins of gold
When the smoking rockface murmurs, he always thinks of you
African sky blue, will you see him through?

Hum-oh-hum
Hum-oh-hum...

Johnny Clegg

*(rough translation: "The warriors! (or war) the warriors! are coming! Who can touch the lion?")

Territorial imperative: Nairobi dusk

The next room to feel the paint brush was the kitchen.

Actually the kitchen should be called the Galley because it feel like the cooking space on a ship - it is barely wide enough for me to stretch my arms out.  Generally stretching, breathing and twisting is something I do while waiting for the kettle to boil for the first pot of tea for the day. In this house, I have to step out of the galley into the next room to do this.

I really wanted a pink kitchen. A dusty rose pink. An oldfashioned colour to go with old fashioned colours in the recycled tiles on the counter tops and backsplash.

I found something called Senna Rose which seemed to fit the bill but oh!! oh! when it was on the walls it was just wrong. Too much blue in the pink.

It had the garish appeal of a Bollywood movie and that was the only thing I could grudgingly find in its favour. However it wasnʻt even hot Bollywood pink. The way the light fell on it in the galley it was mauve.

I left this disaster there for a day or two, feeling increasingly despondent and oppressed by wrongness. I did not restore the furniture, though this being a kitchen, I had to be in the room a certain amount giving me a chance to explore how it felt. I questioned the wisdom of preparing food against this backdrop which made me uncomfortable.

We do not need to live with our bad choices. This is the smallest room in the house, after all and no, it isnʻt that smallest room.

I followed my gut instinct. I made another journey to the hardware store and purchased a gallon of Nairobi Dusk - the colour which had originally called to me. I had initially rejected it as being too neutral. In fact the peachy, rosy, sometimes brown, sometimes orange, dusty colour is perfect in the kitchen and in my life.

 The curtains are a khanga - a length of printed cotton used for a wrap skirt and/or head scarf, typically worn by the women of the Swahili coast, purchased while travelling through Kenya, Tanzania and Zanzibar with Lionheart in 2008. This does have a Swahili motto on it. No, I do not know what it means.

The potholders come from Molokai - a gift from the Fav Tribal Elder.

They hang from ancient peacock metal hooks from a Rajasthani haveli - acquired during the nomadic wanderings in the Thar desert and north India, in the nineties.

The door for the laundry equipment still must be painted and reinstalled. . This will be Pickled Beets.

The little painted tin swallow (pictured at the beginning of this post) came back with me from Playa Las Animas in Mexico where I spent one Valentineʻs Day, while the red rooster khanga came from a little shop in a village in Kenya.

This little clay pawn with a pimple on his nose has been just about everywhere with me. He was given to me by the father of my son a very long time ago. The rest of the chess set which he made in his teens, was in the back garden of the family home, last I knew. 

This pawn I won. Though there exists solid evidence of the prize, what the contest, is not now, nor ever will be, clear. Capture or award?

The territorial imperative: green

In the month of June I have celebrated liberation from the part time teacher job and the first year anniversary in the Little House on the Big Island by creating radical chaos in the interior of said house. Painting walls - or redecorating as it is known in certain parts of the world.

The house wasnʻt really in need of painting inside - in fact it looked as though it had been freshly painted not too long prior to my advent as custodian: a safe, self-effacing, neutral, slightly off-white all over walls, ceilings, doors.

I have been pondering the problem of inside colour for a while. It seems that this is something I do. Paint the interiors of my houses bright colours. Marking territory.

It is no secret that I am highly verbal. The names given to the little paint swatch colours really do influence me for or against. I followed that theme with the outside and got a rather loud yellow in certain lights. I have learned to live with it.

It does not seem that I am strong on learning from experience.

I knew I wanted green on the bedroom walls. The entire spectrum of greens from pale sages to vibrant limes and kelly greens was parading in my imagination. When I had internet enough and time,  I pored over Pinterest pages searching for decorated gypsy and bohemian interiors looking at greens, greens, greens.

Until, thumbing through the paint swatches at the hardware store,  I discovered one called My Sanctuary. The decision was made.

Unlike the exterior yellow, I think this one works perfectly. It is a lovely bold green.

The curtains are an unlined, unbleached, heavy cotton printed with the Palila design in maroon ink.

The Palila was the first block that I carved in this house, on this island. The design didnʻt win me any awards on the exhibition for which it was entered but it does look beautiful in the inner sanctum of the bedroom. So much better now the walls are green. When the light is harsh outside the curtains are often drawn to keep the house cool. I love the glow of light through unlined curtains.

The use of colour in interiors is all about relationship. My sustaining relationships vibrate and sing, it seems.

The room seems less pink now with the green walls even though the Bathurst Kali 1 pink and black patchwork is on the bed.

The bedroom door is a colour called Pickled Beets. Actually it came out a bit more diluted and pink than beetroot.

The turquoise benches with the heart cut-out, one of which acts as bedside table here, were painted a while ago, in the Haleikeokekai days at the Place of Clear Salt Water. They are due for a repaint as they have suffered some slings and arrows scars in the various migrations east then west west west south west since I found them, painted white, in a Bainbridge Island thrift store. The bench refresh colour is called Gypsy Caravan.

This section of the house will eternally resonate with Ernest Hemingwayʻs ruminations on writing as I listened to the audiobook of Green Hills of Africa while doing the painting. It jsut happened to be something which I picked up for free from the internet. And the 1935 classic turned out to be a perfect painting companion for the inner sanctum.

The door frame is the same spicy orange colour originally purchased for detailing outside the house, and used on the front door and the front porch floor. It also came in handy when I was doing the April chair restoration project recorded here. Moroccan Spice. Need I say more.

Y por eso los grandes amores

De muchos colores me gustan a mí.

Y por eso los grandes amores

De muchos colores me gustan a mí.

Treasure! Evolution of the Collector

Not quite free, u-haul, because I did volunteer to pull out grass, ferns, matted vegetation, remnants of childrenʻs toys, and all the other detritus of urban living, then dig and prepare a potential herb garden, but today I returned home with another load of bromeliads and ferns in the back of the truck.

This latest score seem to favour a beautiful garnet and cherry colour - the colour I am tending to favour in this garden. The flower seems to be small and lavender purple - beautiful contrast. I did not yet have this particular hue in bromeliad. They are looking a little stressed and orange around the edges at the moment - possibly because they were on a black plastic sheet for a long time. They are rescue botanical specimen after all, and will need time to adjust to being in a place where they are loved.

I am very happy with my new botanical roommates. I hope that they are thrive and become abundant.

I notice that clusters of lustrous pearls of snail or slug eggs have hitchhiked along for the relocation too. Dang! these stowaways! Hopefully the local feral chickens and birds will attend to some of those as I really do not need more slimy molluscy things eating everything in sight in the garden. Snail and slug buffet all day, every day at my house. Spread the word.

On the other hand during todayʻs journey I found myself thinking, again, a how much I love driving the amber-golden, stick shift, sunshiny truck on working trips like this one. A load of plants in the back, my garden tools stacked up and the engine humming. Yes! I do love having this truck. It is not an quick and nippy run-around but definitely earns its keep and licensing on days like today.

When I start cataloguing the different bromeliacea species which now inhabit the property, it begins to look a lot like the evolution of a botanical collector. Letʻs see: there are the pineapples  (ananas comosus) cultivated from the tops of my food market purchases and the grey curtain of Spanish Moss/Old Manʻs beard/Peleʻs Hair (Tillandsia usneoides) at the front door.

Another little Tillandsia of unknown heritage which I picked up for pocket change at a sale is currently in a coconut shell, with a piece of driftwood, on my outdoor table awaiting hanging. Those pink and green bromeliads from a free u-haul craigslist posting last year are thriving along the front picket fence. The clump of bromeliads around the side, which were there when I arrived and which a realtor disparagingly called "mosquito plants" are looking healthy and happy lining the Banana Gulch...

One (wo)manʻs junk is definitely another (wo)manʻs treasure in the case of certain botanical specimens.

Cataloguing abundance

Apologies for posting two weeks late. Living just eats up the days and ways. On the first year anniversary of moving into the Little House on the Big Island I wandered around cataloguing abundance.

Of course there are palm trees and moonflowers - I mean thatʻs why I came here, right? To lead the symbolic life.

Bromeliads (free, u-haul from Craigslist) and Hapuʻu ferns from the nursery down the road are an added flourish.

I also found flourishing Tulsi (Holy Basil), taro/kalo, the big brother who feeds, and pineapples in spiky health, grown from the tops of my farmerʻs market fruit purchases. Hopefully a significant number are going to be the sweet white ones.

Sweet potatoes are rapidly expanding their green blanket, while bananas hang around in bunches and papayas swell like a well fed belly. The papayas are most beloved of birds and the neighbours who eat them green in curries. I might just be doing that from here on out if I want to get in line for a share of this popular fruit.

Heritage purple Ko (sugar cane) is holding its own, while Poha berries aka Cape Gooseberries, promise lovely, tart, golden globes for the harvest. Full marks and first prize for packaging in their lovely little lanterns.

 I caught a lizard on a banana leaf displaying either amor or aggression with a magnificent throat swelling, as I moved on to admire the nascent crop of Hawaiian hot peppers, (if the birds will let me have a few)

Anthuriums are taking root, offering blooms around the front door:  red, black, white, pink, purple and green. They should probably merit their own post (but are not going to get it right now), since Hale Anthurium is an alternate label in this world of many names.

 The orange tree put out a single blossom to celebrate the anniversary of its introduction. This was the first tree I introduced last year. I am not sure that the time is right for citrus fruiting on this little sapling. It is hard to pollinate in isolation but bravo! for sweet scented effort.

 The lilikoi is emerging: victoriously fruiting from a passionate blooming on the front fence. My challenge now will be to assert kapu with the neighbourhood children who learn from toddler days how to forage in hedges and waysides. There might just be enough for us all since the vine has found a way to climb the moonflower and hibiscus. Onward and upward in the jungle struggle for access to light. I hope the supports prove worthy.

Banana flowers provide a beauty all their own, even when no longer making fruit. I can stare at them forever, never realise the time:  texture, colour and form all there. The beauty of ageing and decay and everywhere little cups puddling that abundant rain water.

 Lizards surround. Of course. I am never without the shadow of the ancestors, haunted always by the ghost of the everpresent mother. Reminding. Bringing to mind. Mindfulness.

Ganesha presides, little wild white begonias volunteering amongst the black lava rock cinders at his feet.