Tuesday 02 January 2001
CHILLI AND RHYTHM

i tried: i really fucking tried, all day.

i washed up,
cleaned the bathroom,
played arabic music,
listened to radio 4,
cooked vegetable soup,
washed up,
tidied,
folded.

i am a good girl, domesticated. i clean; i CLEAN, look at me clean; i like it here; you're the one that i want...

i listen to bowie. bowie's ok. bowie's allowed. bowie is cultured. i drink coffee in the bar in the afternoon while the boy drinks beer. i am good. i am good. i am GOOD.

i cook again:
aubergines,
chickpeas,
courgettes,
red onion,
red pepper.

look at me, i love the domestic sphere, i like it here, you're the one that i want--

then he goes out.

Bing!

'i like women with cornrows and manicured toes/ i love it when you make your knees touch your elbows/ and break it down low to the floor / every time i bust a rhyme somebody shake it to the door/ somebody started shouting 'cause their bitch got hit/ bring it down, nigga / to the break of dawn, nigga / etc etc etc, nigga

It's NELLY TIME!

I'm jiggling, twisting, dancing in the kitchen: shaking out the tea-towel in time: stirring the chilli in time: heading back to the stereo again and again to twist the volume dial. He's out, he's out! There's nobody to flinch at all the bad words, to ponder the state of our culture, of their culture, of culture. There's no culture in my kitchen, just chilli and rhythm, y'hear? Just CHILLI AND RHYTHM! HAH!

When he comes back I switch them both off.



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