There is bland.
Of which I’ve not had too much.
Not even the three months I spent in Saldanah Bay as a Civilian Under Naval Training.
But never bland.
There is boring.
The same, again and again.
Wednesday the next.
Maybe for a few months in grade 10.
Arrive at school just before 8.
Peanut butter sandwich.
I was between jobs at the time.
Trying to do the diligent schoolboy thing.
It didn’t last.
Found a job.
Made new friends.
A gay 55 year old man.
A gruff 35 year old Muslim girl who smoked Rothmans & cheated on her fast.
It was about then that I tasted a motorcycle accident for the first time.
Yes, time really do stand still for a moment when you’re flying through the air.
The accident was followed by a week in bed.
And months of being a cyclist & pedestrian.
It was interesting.
You see more on foot.
Every now and then it becomes overwhelmingly intense.
And I crave bland.
For a moment.
But I do realize that Bland & Boring does not sit well with me.
Or perhaps I do not sit well with them.
And so I am grateful for the less ordinary.
So at home with me.
In every moment.
On the edge.
Never at home.
In the comfort.
Of what is craved.