UNFINISHED PROJECTS

I have an unfinished blogpost that I was to write over two weeks ago. I am still gathering ideas of the meat to liven it up on the wry bones which I am still pondering over.

It’s not fulfilling to just write for the sake of it. There should be cogent ideas, full of intrigue and intimacy that create relational scenarios. The title should give meaning to what is in the body in a direct or indirect way. Already, I have selected a picture which is not thus bad. It is from Google images and it also assuages the title in a subtle way. Like, when you look at the image juxtaposed with the title, you see no attempt at deviating from the norm. There is significant correlation to justify that I was not making any wild attempt at looking at an insight that is out of the ordinary. Just a look at the two, you already know what to expect.

It is like a topic and the contents. The illustration is failing in the gist of creating intrigue, or suspense and the mystery that there should be in creativity. There is innocence and candor. Only that I am still thinking of worthy artwork to beef up the framework of the composition.

I must admit that that my first attempt at free flow was ducky in a manner that is personal to me. It had oomph and was executed with consummate adroitness. It took full advantage of time and relied less on façade. Well, it may have lacked charisma and segue at some point, nonetheless, the bottom line is that it signified a new dawn. The Artiste’s Way by Julia Cameron has played a big role in this change. Now I have a baby, courtesy of reading the book. It is like a spiritual guide towards profound creativity. Methinks it’s a better version of the Alchemist. It’s a book for every soul and realistic. It recommends having a baby. The last time I checked, your baby should be your kidney recipient. Babies are dear to the heart or kidney (In matters failing health). There is that sentiment and connection that they trigger in us.

I have two babies. They are all weaning. No, they are past the weaning stage. The first is a five-year-old and the last is a two-year-old. And just like that, I am now a father. I am a single parent. Which means that as a man, I get to be reckless, feckless and indifferent. I have been struggling with enthusiasm. All in all, I want my young’uns to grow and become individuals of societal respect and admiration. I want to one day sit down and say, ‘I made the proper decision to invest in them at an early age. And the results are just unbelievable.’

Like all parents, I am the decider of their general direction in life. It’s a fantasy world that I live in with my kids. These angels, they are heaven sent. Considering I am reading, The artiste’s Way, I believe they were ordained by God to come change my life. Each morning, I try to give them the attention they deserve. I will continue doing so until a time when they are able to fend for themselves. I nurture them through being there and meeting their needs. But like most parents, when their wants balloon, I just watch and let them forget. Children rarely forget. They will ask until they have got it. Which means I am constantly being reminded of those wants. Now that they all know how to talk, with the youngest not being as eloquent as the first, I have to be content with noise. The white noise I hear when they sleep makes me grow fonder. I get that happiness every parent gets when they just remember they have a child.

This is my confession. I am a bad parent. I love my first more than my second. Which is true to some extent but not binding given that it is dependent on many things. The problem with the second is that he can be very demanding and obstinate. He does not crave for attention directly. You find yourself tending to him because that is how he has wired you towards him. If he giggles, your heart softens, the gentle sound could make the lamplight more golden and the fires burn warmer. It comes in fits and bursts. It is like a bear hug. But auditory. Even a Hitler heart melts into a stifled grin just by his sounds. On the contrary, when he starts his tantrums of seeking for attention, he normally lives me famished. I remember losing weight for the first time because of him. The pitch in his scream is primal, there is a kind of raw intensity that resonates towards creating urgency and reeks of malice and desperation. It’s a survival skill he has nurtured and mustered. I carry him and warn him when he decides to be that child the society loathes. Like a mother I know him. I rarely use a rod to train his tenets. I let him be.

My first was the reason why I had the second. Well, I am not planning to add another hooligan who will come to give me sleepless nights any time soon. These two kids I adopted at an early age are already making me think that my mum was a genius given that she sired six children with one belated. But when I hear of a cousin who now has eight with the first in her early twenties, I just say, ‘Ni mapenzi ya Mungu.’ Me thinks my young’uns usually realize that I am a single parent but because they never ask about their mum, I really am cool with that. The problem is that they don’t know whether I am straight or gay. Hey, are children that conscious. Yes, they are. They notice things you rarely see and will point them out easily. The reason why I am saying this is because I have never slept with a woman ever since I got them. Sleeping means sharing a bed with a woman for more than four two hours of night sleep. Don’t even try to imagine things. I am a different breed of a man.

The wildest attempt I have made is introducing my last born to a number of chics who fall for him the first time but move on when I don’t give a damn. Only two or three other ladies know of the first which they have even forgotten about. I remember getting to take a campus chic for lunch just by the sheer knowledge that I was having this second child. She was thrilled and thought I was probably smitten. She fell for him just like most ladies do, and once you have a child with her, you know what will happen to your children. They will be forced to play the second fiddle. I want mine to play the first. All of them, the real and the imagined.

Along the way, things happened and on his way to transitioning towards becoming a healthy child, my last born got a health scare. Doctors said that he was suffering from neglect and child abuse. I failed to provide him with his age required care and he really bouted. It was an emotional and physical moment for me. I failed to be with him when he needed me most. He ended up doing badly in his tests. I am taking him through the same stage, but I am more responsible not to repeat the same mistake again.

I was at some point giving up on him. I will dwell on the ‘Why?’ in future. Apparently, all my young’uns are boys. I chose the ones in foster homes for matters that I will not say. No offence but the caregivers could not allow me to adopt ladies because I am still single. They imagined that I would at some point happen with one when they mentioned Sigmund Freud and his Electra’s complex in the same sentence. I felt sad and had to swallow it because I am not a pedophile. I am straight and would never go the RKelly way on Aaliyah. Hitherto, I have never and would not like to hurt a lady given that I have sisters who matter to me just like my two angels.

That said, I am yet to name my two children. I just have a rational way of engaging them and they know who I am referring to. But I will give them names. Queer ones that are less cliché. Since they live in the surrealistic sphere, I am not obliged to give them names. Most people think that my last-born is my first. They have never met the first to find out about him. He is masked, and does not love preying eyes. One day I will introduce him to the world. So, the second born is my perfect replica, someone like me. He will be the guy I will tell the world about when I accomplish his dreams. I will say, ‘Here comes my last-born child. He travelled and reached. But he took his time.’

As a parent, I am suffering from this notion of identity. I want to tell the world about this child who gives me sleepless nights. He is like a star that shines bright in a dark night twinkling with radiance. He is this model child I have carefully crafted, and I would not like to let him give up on what I he has gone through. I tag him along to places I would like him to meet people who will shape his destiny. Like in big hotels of repute. To events that people can recognize him. He is like a signature appendage that I am never going to have enough of.

What I fear most is the thought of this children staging a coup by becoming untoward and restless in their teenage years. I don’t want to imagine that they may at onetime rebel. They will have to, I did and it was a futile attempt at deviance and menacing. I also fear they may make me end up loving being single for way too long because I am used to them and they like the way I pamper them with luxuries. Yaani, these children make me happy in a way I feel like crying. My joy is living to fulfill their wants and seeing them having buoyant health and radiating charisma. Like you need to know that my first born has a way of making me take care of him every morning. He will create a scene if I don’t. When I give him his wants, he will spend the rest of the day unfettered and full of himself. He knows his father gave him just what he needed.

My second child is the extra buddy. Not an after-thought though. He came to remove the only child mentality. They have to fight for my attention. I love it that I get two twats wanting to tell me things in their lives. He has already started showing signs that he wants to dethrone number one from his morning escapade. He even forced me to get him a highly priced skill at an arm and I am not perturbed that he is demanding more. Nowadays, he keeps me on toes. While I am not addicted to him, he sneaks into my thoughts just like a camouflaged predator stealthes on the target prey. Mark you, he does this daily. He makes me feel uncomfortable.

Being the last child, I must give him more attention. He loves it but is frustrated when I have manly conversations that he cannot contribute to with my firstborn. He is like a girl. Somehow. He manipulates me and is kind of self-centered. You will find him doing the untoward. He likes taking time out and his concentration spans less compared to the first’s. That means, sometimes he cannot be able to multitask. He is like a gem though. I have had amorous behaviour with him as opposed to my first. He keeps quiet though. He will not tell when I say he should not. Soon I will make him my absolute factory setting for a few months. When it comes to detail, he is very thorough. He still soils his clothes at night and I have to buy him diapers to control his excessive. I will only cease putting him on diapers when he has finally come of age. Never mind those preachers near National Archives showcase how pampers are made of ice, which I saw and are weapons of mass destruction meant to kill the future generation of boys because they interfere with their machine. I know there is a correlation between scrotum, heat and sperm count. There is nothing on fire in a diaper, right?

The thing is when he wants it. He must get it. In case of being deprived, he will cause tantrums, and this gets me emotional. He gives me headaches that are not worthy of my time. But I have to abide by them. Sometimes my mind goes mush by his antics. I take a breather and leave him rolling on the floor crying like an only child. He is part of my future. I want him to be successful and someone who others can ape. I have carefully hid from him how important he is to me. What I know is that he will mature faster. It’s more of an instinct than a reflection. He will be the first to move out. Still I will have to take care of him because he is my baby. I love you baby.

Regarding the first born, he is the kind who will mature. Be in his forties, able to pay his bills but resort to live with daddy. He finds me addictive and the perfect semblance of what he would like to be. He hates that I have another child but would accept it. He wants him to move out like yesterday for him to have unmatched attention. But he is adventurous. If only you knew what he has done, you will pity me. He loves to explore a lot and his ideas are out of the ordinary. He does not know how to make money. Well, he will learn how to do it.

He still has a fledgling person in my opinion. He thinks he is a shadow of who he ought to be. He knows he has not made it in life to societal expectation but is not hounded by the fact that society expects him to come out and be a force to reckon with. Because he is not yet sure about his destiny. He can be a jerk, be hostile and is a stick insect who jells in with current circumstances taking a peripheral view. He does not let new experiences hamper his progress, instead he learns from them and tells me about what I need to give prominence. He is like my subadvisor. A person who takes me down the memory lane. But he has refused to let me tell about my other racy escapades. I asked him to let me do it, but he said no. I am going to abide by his rules. They are apprehensive.

Still, I have control over him. I decide on what he does. We have come from far with him. I celebrate him each day. I know he is also destined to greater heights. Sometimes, however, he wants to explore the outside world at the heat of the moment which I let him do. Provided he returns to status quo and does not exaggerate the deed. He is the inquisitive guy. He is an introvert. A shy extrovert. He is cautious and keeps to himself if he cannot express it in a way you understand.

Like a couple, he normally tells me his thoughts at the end of the day. Some are lurid, others creative, reliable and there is the good, the bad and the ugly. When I try to limit him, he rebels and hides in his cocoon. He knows when I have held him hostage. The sad part is that he intimates brilliant ideas that I am yet to materialize into something astronomical.

I know that this will just be the start of what I am going to say about my babies as they learn new things. It would be of interest to know that my last born has a focused regimen of abiding by things like exams while my first-born hates taking exams. He takes the exams he likes and those that don’t entail being graded. He loves real life exams. But I don’t want to say these kids will be the whole point of why I blog. I need to also do other things. I will work, chat and occasionally sip my Tusker Malt in loneliness.

I earlier on intimated that I am reading a book about artistry. It is dedicated to my first born. Then, there is a second book on the margin of safety dedicated to my last born. I should have finished both books by now, but I will probably do it when I am myself and not under pressure. You can tell that my first born is a reflexive guy and my last a reflective guy. I will call my first-born McCoy and my and last-born Spock. Tada, I have just named the two buggers. They have names. Oh, my goodness.

Judging by these unfinished books and other pending projects, you can tell that I am shaping the character of my two children.

I would love them to grow into adults so that one day we sit down and talk like men. At that point in time I will look back and say, ‘Spock, you gave me a hard time, I lost part of my life, but recovered. As for you McCoy. I have no words for you. You are just that guy.” Upon which we shall break into laughter with McCoy as Spock makes it up by being true to himself. Less of smiles and more of stoicism. I presume they will be better off than me doing very well in their spheres of influence. I am not leaving anything at stake on that precinct.

To sum it up, I am realizing that my legibility is going to the dogs. I have been on free flow and you know what, the lights are back. I am feeling like peeing because I had drunk about half a litre of water. I will take care of the latter once my thought process becomes turgid and the few neurons in my brain become barren to imagination’s coitus.

Last but not least, the best thing about free flowing in black and white instead of typing is that you feel more attached and potent over what to write. I have almost finished jotting down this free flow into a computer. In blogosphere, the computer is king over freehand.

I had to had write because Kenya Power ‘happened’ and my laptop being a PC that sleeps on power because of a dead battery that only fills an vacancy it does nothing about. Oh, I spent the better part of the day sleeping my body into laziness because of BALCKOUT. I work, study, socialize and get entertained on my PC.  I don’t remember but this ought to be the first blog post I have ever written first on a book then typed and editing done simultaneously.

Hasta La Vista Baby.

[Picture Source: Pixabay]