14 December 2007, Friday
Venue: Looking out over the impossibly blue summer sky above the scorched, pale grass of the field outside my window. (Just woke from a four hour nap I’ve been fantasising about for two weeks now.)
Soundtrack: “Welcome to the Jungle” from ‘Appetite for Destruction’ by Guns ‘n Roses (one of the many CDs Craig left here till he returns in January.) My favourite? Linkin Park. Also really getting into Metallica!
Beverage: a glass of Pinotage from the bottle I opened last night and left overnight in the fridge – ironically, which tastes a zillion times better chilled – most probably because it ranges more towards ‘plonk’ than ‘nectar’ on the wine scale!
EBENEZER VILLAGE
Every single day there is an incredible wealth of things to write about – ordinary, everyday things but somehow when written about, my heart finds the sacred in… But today I have managed to find time to write. And energy. (But why would one need energy to write? Surely you’re sitting still – a completely sedentary activity? But no, writing requires an immense energy to remember details and minutiae about scent, emotion, colour, sound… It feels almost physical, this remembering. And then there’s the transmuting into words – a process akin to giving birth?!) Which reminds me – the other night a friend showed me her daughter’s 4D scans while she was still in utero – and then the dvd of the birth – by Caesarean section! (Hmmm…. This could be another long story – but because I need to start clearing some space in my cupboards etc for Craig’s moving-in, I better keep this short and sweet: it really amazes me how since I was a tiny little girl I’ve wanted to be a mommy and a wife! More than being an artist or a writer, more than a dynamically successful career or fame and adoration, my heart has always beat to the tune of ‘mommy, mommy, mommy’. So many of my male AND female friends have been utterly perplexed and appalled at such a ‘domesticated’ and, I suppose, deeply simple desire. At hearing me confess this as my life’s sole desire, men have run for their dear lives rather in the direction of less broody bimbos! Two days ago at work, 5 year old Storm wrapped her arms around me and rubbed my belly and blaringly announced to a room of twenty or so mothers : “Lisa, are you pregnant?” Eish!! My first reaction was that my need to go on something akin to a diet was confirmed! One mom said that means I’m already pregnant or going to have a baby very soon - an old wive’s tale?! It is true though, this sixth sense, this intuition that young children possess – I have seen how they can sense a pregnancy either before you’ve told them, or even before YOU’VE discovered it yourself! Hmmm….)
But let me tell you about today. Driving to work, I surveyed – with mild disgust - my car floor covered in sea sand, an empty can of Coke Lite rolling backwards and forwards and wondered what the little orphans I needed to pick up later in Atlantis would think of this adult mess! All through my 9am class, my mind tossed and kneaded this idea of ‘orphan’ and ‘orphanage’ around, trying to understand exactly what it was I would be encountering later in the morning. Flooded by flashes from Oliver Twist and dirty, dark, cold Dickensian waifs, I just had no idea what to expect!
Straight after class, three of us – the Gymboree bus and two cars, filled up at the petrol station before heading out on the blisteringly hot R27 to Atlantis. Seeing the big packet of popcorn on the car seat next to me, I had visions of frantic scrambling and whining and crying little children not sharing it. (My colleague bought it for me the day before, but there it still lay on the passenger sear unopened.) Perhaps against my better judgement, I decided it WOULD be worth just letting them eat it on the way back. Driving past Melkbos, the arid and sandy backdrop dried up into almost nothing and then we turned right off the R27 to Atlantis. Far from a watery, undersea kingdom, Atlantis is a dessicated, almost forgotten West Coast town but still, I was struck by the peaceful, orderly cleanness of it. Indicators ticking, we stopped our cars in a row outside the electric-fenced grey brick property of Ebenezer Village while someone opened the gate for us. A neat but exuberant man in dark shirt and pants welcomed us in, indicating where we could park. His firm handshake matched his gentle strength and beaming smile as he introduced himself as Ronald. (I was later to find out he is also called ‘Daddy’ and ‘Pastor’!) Letting us in through the front door , we entered a cheery, organised hall where little children smiled shyly at us or watched quietly from the outskirts. Ronald walked us matter-of-factly through the orphanage. And though that is exactly what it ‘is’ in legal / factual terminology, it is one big ‘home’ – all one level – his own livingroom’s glass sliding doors opening out onto the courtyard like any daddy would open his lounge doors onto his back patio and garden for his children to wander in and out of. There was no sense of him being a ‘warden’ or ‘in charge’ – but truly he is a father above all! The little ones all call him ‘Daddy’ – except for the day-mothers and volunteers who, with affectionate regard call him ‘Pastor’! He walked us through the various age-groups’ living areas – and I was almost overwhelmed by the thoughtful homeliness of each and every room – whether it was the pretty bedrooms or cheerful and clean bathrooms. Painted in happy pastels, the walls are adorned with Whinny the Pooh or dolphins – the bedding clean and colourful and no sad scent of neglect. Granted, I could NEVER grasp what it must be like to live this life or experience its thoughts or feelings, but the sheer atmosphere of love and hope was almost too much to bear. My previous volunteer experiences a few years ago at a boys’ homeless shelter did not prepare me for this home so overflowing with care and REAL love! The youngest little one is a month old – perfectly formed and healthy and smelling like only babies can : the sweet, warm smell of just-baked biscuits. Holding each of these little people in my arms was like cradling a precious miracle – NOT a tragedy. Here in my arms, soft and clean and warm and looking into my eyes was a little person with exquisite potential! And it is nothing more than Pastor Ronald and his wife’s active and practical love that has enabled this life to be. I felt no self-centred pity or guilt, but only an excitement to add to this love in whichever way I can!!!!
Shortly after walking into the courtyard garden manned by a proud black Labrador, my friend Candy picked up a little girl in pink who’d wordlessly requested to be taken up into her arms. Awhile later, Pastor Ronald said something to this little girl, calling her ‘Destiny’. Almost visibly, Candy recoiled in a kind of shock, shooting rapid questions about where she was from – ‘Is she from the beach?’ and a deep, visceral realisation engulfed Candy as she realised that THIS was the same little girl she’d first encountered with the mother outside Primi Piatti in Blouberg more than a year ago and had compassionately and regularly aided with food and clothes over the span of a year! An entire winter of wondering what had ever happened to them after they’d disappeared from the area, Candy – reeling, could hardly grasp little Destiny’s warm and smiling presence in her arms. Destiny had recognised her! Destiny… (Candy is taking her into her own home over the holidays)
Only able to safely fit four little ones into my green Ford Fiesta, they somehow chose me – and twenty minutes later, I was singing Old Macdonald down the R27 with four happy, healthy and awesomely considerate little children – spilling more popcorn than they ate – but sharing like I never shared with my own sisters! They waved at the cars and cyclists we passed along the way, and touched my arm with such precious affection as if they’d known me forever… We laughed and chatted and screeched with delight all the way until finally we parked outside Gymboree where suddenly their mood turned hushed and a little bit reticent : they had no idea what to expect. Clambering out the car, soft, warm little hands reaching for mine, we walked into the front door where the sedate, air-conditioned quiet was blasted away by ‘WOW’ excitement I’ve seen very seldom in my 29 years! Trying to organise name tags for more than 30 cloud-nine children was a happy chore and soon they flooded the play area with such powerful exuberance unmatched by any other group of children I’d seen before! Bettina, the trainer in charge, checked her hunch with me that a less structured play environment was what was needed – and so, after almost an hour of riotously joyplay, it was a very special moment to have witnessed all thirty six children and a handful of volunteer teachers sing great big lungfuls of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’, captured inside our giant parachute!
Pastor Ronald observed all of this from the outskirts with a quiet sort of pride. And he’s agreed to me spending one day a week at the home playing and laughing and doing art with the little ones as of next year! I’m SO excited and so, so inspired! Truly, what a haven of caring love and excellent support – Ebenezer Village!
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Thursday, December 6, 2007
"Lisa's Surprise"
LISA’S SURPRISE
Halfway through unpacking his bags the night I picked him up from the airport, Craig handed me a long white envelope, with ‘Lisa’s Surprise’ written in neat blue ball-point across the front. A couple of sparing clues given me over the previous month did not prepare me for what I unfolded from this innocuous envelope.
Five pages evidently printed straight from a website, my mind soaked up text and images in happy disbelief : a weekend away in a dreamy tree-house overlooking a river and nestled in a mountainous valley… Besides the fact that surprises are one of my favourite things EVER, it was this element of surprise, combined with the thoughtful planning, sheer expense and uniqueness of idea that made my heart contract with an excruciating combination of elation and regret : this was the most romantic gesture I’d ever been gifted! (my heart pumped : ‘wow….wow….wow….wow…wow..’)
With my little green Ford Fiesta packed with towels, food, beers and books, we headed out towards Malmesbury along the way to Citrusdal – the sun hot and dazzling through the windows – my car heater somehow managing to have gotten stuck on the red a week before (no comment.) After stopping at a quaint, road-side café near Citrusdal where we were the obvious attraction/distraction for the day – an icy Coke each and we hightailed it out of what reminded me too much like a scene out of ‘Deliverance!’
A little while later we turned right at the sign to Citrusdal – 500m later and we took another right onto a desperately pot-holed farm road at the sign to Kardouw Tree Houses. After 16km of a road that required a fair amount of nifty manoeuvring, we hit the 8.5km gravel road which made me feel proud of both Craig and my little Ford Fiesta which tackled the challenge with finesse and great gusto (though in retrospect, I’d recommend a bigger car or even a 4x4 on this particular stretch of the adventure!) The plus side to this dusty obstacle course of ruts and rocks is that it keeps your average yobbo away! (hmmm… I sound distinctly like my father!) Driving through orchards of orange trees in full fruit, we arrived a little earlier than our 2 o’clock check-in time. Beneath a natural canopy of very shady oak trees, we tried not to park a trio of other cars in – all the while looking for some sort of reception area but finding none. A little confused, we decided to follow a wonderfully inviting wooden bridge leading into the whispering, cool darkness of the trees beyond. In the distance, we heard the contented murmur of visitors, punctuated by the odd toddler’s shriek of delight. The solid but deliciously exciting wooden bridge branched off here and there directing the way to quaint wooden huts, their entrances privately obscured and giving the illusion of being the only hut nestled there amongst the tree tops. Eventually, the bridge began to taper downwards and in the distance we saw a sunlit patch of grass with the river sparkling lazily alongside it, and the source of the voices we’d heard earlier. They explained that the check-in procedure was to choose the hut that most tickled your fancy and move yourself in! Seeing as there was still an hour or so left till our check-in time, we changed into our cozzies and unfurled our towels out onto the grass, consciously neglecting to put sunblock on our lilywhite post-winter flesh, and hauling out our individual novels : ‘The Green Mile’ for Craig and ‘The Wedding Officer’ for me. Within seconds I was swatting and swiping in a mild sort of panic at the million little spiders that somehow seemed magnetically attracted to me (arachnophobia notwithstanding!) Needless to say, this caused Craig to enter a state of shocked but laughing amusement – he’d not been officially informed of this arachnoid distress of mine!
Once the super-efficient army of cleaning staff had left the area, Craig left me in all my lazy suntanning glory to find us a hut! Returning a little while later, he told me he’d chosen us the best tree-house : the one with the view directly over the river – the orange orchards and mountains beyond. Perfect! (Already, I was beginning to feel like a princess!) He unpacked the car, taking our bags and packets of food along the bridge to our little hut while I lay in the sun, wondering how it was possible such a kind and romantically thoughtful man could possibly exist?! Interrupting my cynical ruminations, Craig returned – and it was time to get up to see the tree house we’d driven three hours to spend the night in.
Turning left off the main walkway, we walked along the side of the hut (most of the fronts of the huts are concealed from the main walkway!) and turned the corner of the hut to discover the most perfect little balcony overlooking the Olifants River, a shimmering canopy of leaves causing the light to fall in a kind of lace across the dark silver wood of the balcony, where there was a little black wrought-iron table and two chairs just waiting for us to sit down with a cup of tea. The whole front of the hut is covered in floor-to-ceiling glass sliding doors – a fresh, modern touch to the simplicity of the bamboo and thatch ceiling and wooden floors. The double bed, covered in plump pillows and a down duvet – the fresh white cotton linen almost begging for us to climb in – dominated the interior. To the left of the entrance along the wall was a cabinet neatly filled with the basics in crockery and cutlery, as well as a mini-stove/oven and a kettle. Craig’d bought us colossal croissants for lunch and he opened an icy Savanna for me, and a Windhoek for himself. And after this perfect lunch, we decided it was time to crumple those immaculately smooth white sheets! With the glass doors left open to the dappled afternoon light and cool breeze, we kissed and kafoefled like teenagers until all of a sudden we were visited unexpectedly by the first of a couple of uninvited guests! One of the previous guests arrived at the open door to tell us he’d brought back the little gas stove ---- I don’t know who was more embarrassed : us or him!! (It was actually SUCH a comical situation but do you know what? I think that I’m still too embarrassed to write about it!) We reckon he either told no-one or everyone!!! After THAT we were too wide awake too sleep (after much hysterical laughing!) and it was time to see if the red and white canoe moored in the reeds along the shore was sea-worthy! Like the true gentleman that he is, Craig stood chivalrously in the cold, brown water, holding the kayak so I could climb in without mishap. Once I was safe and sitting, Craig climbed in but almost causing us to topple shrieking headlong into the shallow waters only a half-metre from shore! With a couple of inches of river-water swirling around our bare feet, Craig paddled us quietly giggling and relievedly dry downstream. I felt like a Victorian lady being wooed by her suitor – all I was missing was a parasol and a corseted dress! The view of the mountains from the river past the thick bulrushes and flittering birds and weavers’ nests was
humbling and magnificent. And the long trailing waterblommetjies, waterswept under the dark water, with their white, waxy flowers and leaves of greens, golds and reds… surreal. Reminding me of Ophelia. Hearing the turbulence of rapids ahead, the romantic tranquillity of the moment was turned upside down as I bossily told Craig to turn us around – I was NOT in the mood to a) capsize in a cold, black-watered rapid and b) have to walk the kayak back upstream along the shore! Ya. Not very romantic behaviour, Lisa! And so, my darling Craig dutifully turned us around and paddled us up into the late afternoon breeze while I sat lazily on the prow – Cleopatra or the Queen of Sheba?! – pointing out weavers nests and baby waterfowl!
As the afternoon grew more gold and the shadows leaned more and more away from the setting sun, we went to sit out on the balcony with another chilled drink, wishing we’d had the foresight to have bought a bottle of wine (i.e. not being able to buy wine on a Sunday doesn’t apply in the Eastern Cape!) A little walk down to the grassy banks and other decks revealed an even more incredible view of the mountains – the light had set the mountains beyond on fire – the rocks literally blood red, but overshadowed with deep lilac skies the colour of old bruises. We talked about how this place would make an amazing wedding, birthday or New Year’s venue! The guests could stay in the ample accommodation – there even being allowance and space for tents to be pitched down below on the grass. And the tables and chairs on the wooden decks just perfect for a feast! There are even old-fashioned oil lanterns on the tables one could light as it got dark. And with the night drawing in, the rhythmic rumble of bullfrogs combined with all sorts of trilling birdsong over the lazy surge of the river.
Tastefully decorated in a modern colonial style, the bathrooms were clean and somehow rustically luxurious. We showered under plenty of steaming hot water, feeling like adventurers as we stepped out in our clean bare feet onto the wood of the bridge. (I didn’t feel quite the same, however, when we went to brush our teeth later that night and there on the walls were all the species of spider known to the Cederberg region!!! Thankfully when I needed a wee at 4am, Craig escorted me to the loo and checked the walls and behind the loo for potential man-eating spiders!)
After a humble but yummy supper of soft white bread rolls and cold, roast chicken from Woolies, we lay in bed and chatted about the quiet but powerful beauty of the area, my apparently amusing arachnophobia and what we would do the next day. With the trees sighing like the most tender lullaby, we drifted off to sleep with the doors open to the wild darkness wrapped languidly and a little sunburnt in each others’ arms.
*scuttle, scuttle … sniff ….* I sat abruptly up in bed . 4am. There was someone or something in the hut!! I sat and listened to the furtive scurrying and hungry sniffing. Next to me, Craig remained semi-comatose. I decided it was time to shake him awake – he is the MAN after all!! He looked up to see me sitting rigid and hyper-alert in the bed but as blind as a bat without my glasses. (He found this quite funny apparently!) After telling him about the ‘thing’ in our hut, he got up to close the door. A few minutes of hysterical laughter later and Craig needed a pee – and I suggested just peeing off the balcony into the anonymous night rather than trudging all the way in the spidery dark to the loos. Standing at the closed glass door and gazing like a sleepwalker with a rather full bladder, out of his throat slowly came a delayed and gutteral ‘F – U – U – U – C – K !!’ as a rather large and stripey mongoose/monkey that at the sight of a half-naked Craig jumped hara-kiri off the balcony into the tree-tops in terrified escape! Needless to say we kept the doors tightly shut for the rest of the night.
But then at around what felt like 9am, I heard some more sniffing and surreptitious shuffling. Repeating the same bolt-upright sitting position as a couple of hours earlier, I met, eye-to-eye, with a strange little pink-eyed jumbo albino jack-russel thing which almost seemed to be smiling and talking to me! “Please may I jump on your bed? I’d love to even come home with you if you’d want me!” (Hmmm… Craig had opened the door after sunrise – sure that the Lesser Striped Winkie Eating Monkey Mongoose had disappeared with the rising of the sun!) Honestly? I’d rather have a cute but odd-looking white dog in the daylight next to my bed than a smallish werewolfey thing in the middle of the night!! For breakfast we ate yoghurt and fruit on the balcony, wishing with all of our holiday-deprived hearts that we didn’t have to go home that same day… Besides the various escapist options we discussed about me bunking work for the next week, we decided we would definitely come back : probably in March 2008, and then maybe again in the November!
Halfway through unpacking his bags the night I picked him up from the airport, Craig handed me a long white envelope, with ‘Lisa’s Surprise’ written in neat blue ball-point across the front. A couple of sparing clues given me over the previous month did not prepare me for what I unfolded from this innocuous envelope.
Five pages evidently printed straight from a website, my mind soaked up text and images in happy disbelief : a weekend away in a dreamy tree-house overlooking a river and nestled in a mountainous valley… Besides the fact that surprises are one of my favourite things EVER, it was this element of surprise, combined with the thoughtful planning, sheer expense and uniqueness of idea that made my heart contract with an excruciating combination of elation and regret : this was the most romantic gesture I’d ever been gifted! (my heart pumped : ‘wow….wow….wow….wow…wow..’)
With my little green Ford Fiesta packed with towels, food, beers and books, we headed out towards Malmesbury along the way to Citrusdal – the sun hot and dazzling through the windows – my car heater somehow managing to have gotten stuck on the red a week before (no comment.) After stopping at a quaint, road-side café near Citrusdal where we were the obvious attraction/distraction for the day – an icy Coke each and we hightailed it out of what reminded me too much like a scene out of ‘Deliverance!’
A little while later we turned right at the sign to Citrusdal – 500m later and we took another right onto a desperately pot-holed farm road at the sign to Kardouw Tree Houses. After 16km of a road that required a fair amount of nifty manoeuvring, we hit the 8.5km gravel road which made me feel proud of both Craig and my little Ford Fiesta which tackled the challenge with finesse and great gusto (though in retrospect, I’d recommend a bigger car or even a 4x4 on this particular stretch of the adventure!) The plus side to this dusty obstacle course of ruts and rocks is that it keeps your average yobbo away! (hmmm… I sound distinctly like my father!) Driving through orchards of orange trees in full fruit, we arrived a little earlier than our 2 o’clock check-in time. Beneath a natural canopy of very shady oak trees, we tried not to park a trio of other cars in – all the while looking for some sort of reception area but finding none. A little confused, we decided to follow a wonderfully inviting wooden bridge leading into the whispering, cool darkness of the trees beyond. In the distance, we heard the contented murmur of visitors, punctuated by the odd toddler’s shriek of delight. The solid but deliciously exciting wooden bridge branched off here and there directing the way to quaint wooden huts, their entrances privately obscured and giving the illusion of being the only hut nestled there amongst the tree tops. Eventually, the bridge began to taper downwards and in the distance we saw a sunlit patch of grass with the river sparkling lazily alongside it, and the source of the voices we’d heard earlier. They explained that the check-in procedure was to choose the hut that most tickled your fancy and move yourself in! Seeing as there was still an hour or so left till our check-in time, we changed into our cozzies and unfurled our towels out onto the grass, consciously neglecting to put sunblock on our lilywhite post-winter flesh, and hauling out our individual novels : ‘The Green Mile’ for Craig and ‘The Wedding Officer’ for me. Within seconds I was swatting and swiping in a mild sort of panic at the million little spiders that somehow seemed magnetically attracted to me (arachnophobia notwithstanding!) Needless to say, this caused Craig to enter a state of shocked but laughing amusement – he’d not been officially informed of this arachnoid distress of mine!
Once the super-efficient army of cleaning staff had left the area, Craig left me in all my lazy suntanning glory to find us a hut! Returning a little while later, he told me he’d chosen us the best tree-house : the one with the view directly over the river – the orange orchards and mountains beyond. Perfect! (Already, I was beginning to feel like a princess!) He unpacked the car, taking our bags and packets of food along the bridge to our little hut while I lay in the sun, wondering how it was possible such a kind and romantically thoughtful man could possibly exist?! Interrupting my cynical ruminations, Craig returned – and it was time to get up to see the tree house we’d driven three hours to spend the night in.
Turning left off the main walkway, we walked along the side of the hut (most of the fronts of the huts are concealed from the main walkway!) and turned the corner of the hut to discover the most perfect little balcony overlooking the Olifants River, a shimmering canopy of leaves causing the light to fall in a kind of lace across the dark silver wood of the balcony, where there was a little black wrought-iron table and two chairs just waiting for us to sit down with a cup of tea. The whole front of the hut is covered in floor-to-ceiling glass sliding doors – a fresh, modern touch to the simplicity of the bamboo and thatch ceiling and wooden floors. The double bed, covered in plump pillows and a down duvet – the fresh white cotton linen almost begging for us to climb in – dominated the interior. To the left of the entrance along the wall was a cabinet neatly filled with the basics in crockery and cutlery, as well as a mini-stove/oven and a kettle. Craig’d bought us colossal croissants for lunch and he opened an icy Savanna for me, and a Windhoek for himself. And after this perfect lunch, we decided it was time to crumple those immaculately smooth white sheets! With the glass doors left open to the dappled afternoon light and cool breeze, we kissed and kafoefled like teenagers until all of a sudden we were visited unexpectedly by the first of a couple of uninvited guests! One of the previous guests arrived at the open door to tell us he’d brought back the little gas stove ---- I don’t know who was more embarrassed : us or him!! (It was actually SUCH a comical situation but do you know what? I think that I’m still too embarrassed to write about it!) We reckon he either told no-one or everyone!!! After THAT we were too wide awake too sleep (after much hysterical laughing!) and it was time to see if the red and white canoe moored in the reeds along the shore was sea-worthy! Like the true gentleman that he is, Craig stood chivalrously in the cold, brown water, holding the kayak so I could climb in without mishap. Once I was safe and sitting, Craig climbed in but almost causing us to topple shrieking headlong into the shallow waters only a half-metre from shore! With a couple of inches of river-water swirling around our bare feet, Craig paddled us quietly giggling and relievedly dry downstream. I felt like a Victorian lady being wooed by her suitor – all I was missing was a parasol and a corseted dress! The view of the mountains from the river past the thick bulrushes and flittering birds and weavers’ nests was
humbling and magnificent. And the long trailing waterblommetjies, waterswept under the dark water, with their white, waxy flowers and leaves of greens, golds and reds… surreal. Reminding me of Ophelia. Hearing the turbulence of rapids ahead, the romantic tranquillity of the moment was turned upside down as I bossily told Craig to turn us around – I was NOT in the mood to a) capsize in a cold, black-watered rapid and b) have to walk the kayak back upstream along the shore! Ya. Not very romantic behaviour, Lisa! And so, my darling Craig dutifully turned us around and paddled us up into the late afternoon breeze while I sat lazily on the prow – Cleopatra or the Queen of Sheba?! – pointing out weavers nests and baby waterfowl!As the afternoon grew more gold and the shadows leaned more and more away from the setting sun, we went to sit out on the balcony with another chilled drink, wishing we’d had the foresight to have bought a bottle of wine (i.e. not being able to buy wine on a Sunday doesn’t apply in the Eastern Cape!) A little walk down to the grassy banks and other decks revealed an even more incredible view of the mountains – the light had set the mountains beyond on fire – the rocks literally blood red, but overshadowed with deep lilac skies the colour of old bruises. We talked about how this place would make an amazing wedding, birthday or New Year’s venue! The guests could stay in the ample accommodation – there even being allowance and space for tents to be pitched down below on the grass. And the tables and chairs on the wooden decks just perfect for a feast! There are even old-fashioned oil lanterns on the tables one could light as it got dark. And with the night drawing in, the rhythmic rumble of bullfrogs combined with all sorts of trilling birdsong over the lazy surge of the river.
Tastefully decorated in a modern colonial style, the bathrooms were clean and somehow rustically luxurious. We showered under plenty of steaming hot water, feeling like adventurers as we stepped out in our clean bare feet onto the wood of the bridge. (I didn’t feel quite the same, however, when we went to brush our teeth later that night and there on the walls were all the species of spider known to the Cederberg region!!! Thankfully when I needed a wee at 4am, Craig escorted me to the loo and checked the walls and behind the loo for potential man-eating spiders!)
After a humble but yummy supper of soft white bread rolls and cold, roast chicken from Woolies, we lay in bed and chatted about the quiet but powerful beauty of the area, my apparently amusing arachnophobia and what we would do the next day. With the trees sighing like the most tender lullaby, we drifted off to sleep with the doors open to the wild darkness wrapped languidly and a little sunburnt in each others’ arms.
*scuttle, scuttle … sniff ….* I sat abruptly up in bed . 4am. There was someone or something in the hut!! I sat and listened to the furtive scurrying and hungry sniffing. Next to me, Craig remained semi-comatose. I decided it was time to shake him awake – he is the MAN after all!! He looked up to see me sitting rigid and hyper-alert in the bed but as blind as a bat without my glasses. (He found this quite funny apparently!) After telling him about the ‘thing’ in our hut, he got up to close the door. A few minutes of hysterical laughter later and Craig needed a pee – and I suggested just peeing off the balcony into the anonymous night rather than trudging all the way in the spidery dark to the loos. Standing at the closed glass door and gazing like a sleepwalker with a rather full bladder, out of his throat slowly came a delayed and gutteral ‘F – U – U – U – C – K !!’ as a rather large and stripey mongoose/monkey that at the sight of a half-naked Craig jumped hara-kiri off the balcony into the tree-tops in terrified escape! Needless to say we kept the doors tightly shut for the rest of the night.
But then at around what felt like 9am, I heard some more sniffing and surreptitious shuffling. Repeating the same bolt-upright sitting position as a couple of hours earlier, I met, eye-to-eye, with a strange little pink-eyed jumbo albino jack-russel thing which almost seemed to be smiling and talking to me! “Please may I jump on your bed? I’d love to even come home with you if you’d want me!” (Hmmm… Craig had opened the door after sunrise – sure that the Lesser Striped Winkie Eating Monkey Mongoose had disappeared with the rising of the sun!) Honestly? I’d rather have a cute but odd-looking white dog in the daylight next to my bed than a smallish werewolfey thing in the middle of the night!! For breakfast we ate yoghurt and fruit on the balcony, wishing with all of our holiday-deprived hearts that we didn’t have to go home that same day… Besides the various escapist options we discussed about me bunking work for the next week, we decided we would definitely come back : probably in March 2008, and then maybe again in the November!
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Verbosity in extremis...
18 x 2007, Thursday evening
It’s hot this evening and the South Easter continues to rage outside – now in it’s
3rd wild day of non-stop howling! I sit here at my writing desk in a pale sage-green satin slip – barefoot and minus my glasses (had to increase the size of the font by 2 points so I could read what I’m writing!)
I stayed late at work this evening to catch up on emails etc – and received a surprise call from the God-sent friend who helped me move from a state of helplessness to one of action – she’s the one who actually booked my flight back to South Africa last year in June. But that’s another long story I feel unsure of telling right now. Maybe in another few months. M and I chatted about various things, including my ex-husband who lives about a 5 minute walk from her front door. It was the house he ostensibly bought ‘for’ me : a double-sided attempt to satisfy my inherent and ever-increasing desire to ‘nest’ – as well as to ‘keep’ me in the UK. As far as property in the UK goes (i.e. cramped brick buildings where you can hear your neighbour peeing or snoring through the thin walls) it was a cute little three-bedroom house in Portsmouth in an ok-sort-of development. Shit. I can’t actually write about this – it’s too raw still. Maybe another night.
But the long and the short of it is that my friend said she’d looked him up on Facebook. And, with mixed feelings I typed in his name in the ‘search’ box. He didn’t have a photo of himself -- and his profile is one of those protected ones (typical and true to form – he remains closed and deeply suspicious and self-protective) but instead had the logo for the SA rugby team. Now THAT was a surprise! He hardly ever watched rugby – was more of a Grand Prix fan --- and that’s besides the sailing… It creates quite a sense of dislocation when you think you knew someone exhaustively inside and out (especially after living with that someone for 11 years!) and discover new or unusual behaviours. I asked M if she’d seen him since I left last June. Says she walks past the house every single day taking her daughter to school and ALWAYS the curtains are closed. (I remember how we used to fight about that. I always wanted them open to let in the fresh air and the light. He always wanted both the windows and curtains closed to keep out prying eyes and, to keep it dark so he could use his laptop minus the glare of daylight. Nothing’s changed there.)
There are so many things I wonder – like seeing S, his Spanish lover (?) on his Facebook. Are they officially together? Was it all my imagination?? As work colleagues they often went away on business, and also always worked late into the night. Skype kept them connected during the day – they were literally CONSTANTLY connected. B wore his headphones all day long – and I’d hear him chuckle – and my stomach would twist with uncertainty. S also used to visit us – sleeping over at our place. He’d show me how to make authentic Spanish tortilla – and we’d sit at the table chatting, laughing. Then I’d go to bed. Alone. He was one of those blatantly effeminate men – with magnificently manicured hands, metrosexual style and body language to put Nataniel or Evita Bezuidenhout to shame! And my husband would actually complain about this apparent ‘gay-ness’… A smokescreen? And when B flew out last December to divorce me, he brought dear S along with him on holiday. A couple of people remarked on how much more pronounced B’s once effeminate gestures were when they saw him at the yacht club. And that’s besides the apparently obvious connection the two of them exhibited towards each other. But, I didn’t see any of it with my own eyes, so all of this remains mere conjecture – but like a puzzle being put together piece by piece, the picture is becoming more and more clear as the months pass.
Enough of that! I feel suddenly strange and uncomfortable – like I’ve been hurled through time to a nightmare I hoped was long forgotten but now I see will never go away. Perhaps only fade.
21 x 2007, Sunday afternoon
It’s now quite a bit after 3pm and I’ve just arrived home from work! My colleague, predictably unreliable, was sick with stomach cramps (probably anxiety-induced as she’s terribly neurotic at the best of times!) so I had to fill in for her… My Sundays are precious and I can’t remember the last time I worked on one, but I thought I’d make an exception today. (Not entirely a wise or informed decision considering last night was my boss’s pole-dancing farewell party AND the rugby World Cup final…)
Almost 8pm. It’s hot here in my little piece of heaven I call home. But while I have the lights on I keep the windows and doors to outside because the area I live in has a terrible midge and mosquito problem – especially in the warmer months. If I had to open the window now, the roof and light fixtures would be obscured by clouds of mozzies and pesky midges which then end up in my food, the food simmering on the stove – and then on my skin so they can bite me and suck my blood all night so that I sleep badly and wake up very, very grumpy. And in the morning, they’ve all died and coat the worksurfaces and tabletops in grey weightless bodies.
About a month ago, I committed myself to look after a friend’s two little children so her and husband could attempt their first romantic evening in 3 or more years. Stupidly, I just said yes and didn’t consider the date – but realised early last week that it was the night of the rugby World Cup final!! Not that I’m a rugby fan – but I’m a fan of my country – and how could I miss watching 30+ men running around in tight tops and short shorts?! Thankfully she phoned to cancel yesterday morning. And this meant, of course, that now I could also go to my boss’s farewell party. She’s headed to Saudi for a couple of months – and so she organised a pole-dancing party… I’m no prude – but the thought of learning a stripper’s basic moves and performing my own little dance in front of my boss, colleagues and a sprinkling of our clients just didn’t have me jumping up and down with enthusiasm.
The thought of this premeditated dancing made me suddenly feel like a wallflower who wished she had an excuse to cancel! As I got ready for the evening, my biggest problem was choosing what to wear. I don’t possess a single item of questionable virtue or made from black fishnet or red satin – I don’t even own pair of raunchy stilettos! Issues I had to take into consideration :
1. I wasn’t in the mood for my amply plump thighs and tummy to be on wobbly exhibit for a group of drunk moms / colleagues.
2. Socialising with my clients in such a starkly different context left me feeling dry-mouthed and quite anxious indeed : I teach them, their husbands and babies --- I am the ‘sweet, knowledgeable, nurturing and motherly teacher’ who they ask for help regarding why their child isn’t crawling yet or do I think their child has the potential to be a bully… So me dressing up as a prancing, dancing whore just didn’t gel with me.
And so, I chose low-slung, wide-legged black jeans, a lowish-cut black top and the highest heels I possess. Certainly I was the most conservatively dressed woman there – besides my boss and her best friend. One of the moms (of twin girls) arrived in knee-high leopard print, high heel, pointy-toed boots, tight black pants, pink corset and a long black wig – and enough eyeliner and mascara to render her completely unrecognisable! The other mom is the local ‘sister’ of her own pre/antenatal clinic who everyone speaks about in tones of hushed awe. Her fishnets and shiny black peep-toe stilettos competed for attention with so much glitter on her eyes, lips and cheeks that she put Priscilla Queen of the Desert to shame! Both in their VERY late 30s, these two provided all the fireworks and fun necessary to make the evening a spectacular (though not very sexy!) success!
Having been to Teazers and Mavericks a couple of times, once on a solo mission of discovery and adventure, and then once with an older male friend, I found the idea of learning what seems to be a universal repertoire of choreographed ‘sexiness’ both boring and just a little distasteful. The first time I went to Teazers I was newly married (only JUST!) , twenty one years old and doing my Masters degree in sculpture (my work having a definite feminist dogma driving it.) I popped in on my way home one day because I was incurably inquisitive about this idea of men going in groups to strip-clubs – both as an almost rabid feminist and a young little wife. My husband had apparently been ‘dragged’ into the Moulin Rouge in town on the night of his bachelor’s party – his hands even bound with insulation tape! (The backs of his hands were black with bruising even a week later on the day of our wedding… And he broke down in tears when he ‘confessed’ having gone to the stripclub the night before… When I left last year, he told me one night on the phone that he’d licked salt off one of the girl’s nipples before knocking back a tequila. Perhaps he thought it would hurt me by telling me 6 years later? I remember how violently anti he was about even having a bachelor’s party. In retrospect, it’s no damn wonder!!)
I parked my car outside Teazers in the blazing late afternoon summer sun, sweaty and tired after a day in the library and mentally preparing to cook supper, iron clothes etc. What was I wearing? Oh yes. A long black dress – pretty ordinary in style, I suppose. Black Birckenstock sandals (orthopaedically flat, ultra-conservative and super-unsexy!) My hair in a rough bird’s nest of a bun, glasses and no make-up. And under my arm, my journal and constant companion. As a woman, the bouncer said I didn’t need to pay a cover charge. It was surreal, entering such a dark (in both senses of the word) and smoky space as a young, fairly innocent wife who had to still go home to perform her domestic duties… My eyes took a few moments to adjust to the darkness – seeing the bar to my right, a table full of overweight married men – the rest of the room scattered about with solitary men sitting at tables stuck through with thick floor-to-ceiling poles. Half-fascinated and half afraid, I felt disgust creeping in at the outer edges of my mind like approaching nausea… But still, my curiosity propelled me forward to buy a drink (it was an icy Savanna with a twist of lemon) and find a corner where I could sit and observe. ( I don’t have time to finish writing about this right now – have to prepare some extra work for tomorrow… And I’m also meant to go to my Al Anon meeting, but what with the weather being so foul, all I want to do is climb into bed with my book…)
My very excitable, considerably younger colleague poured all of us a MOER of a shooter to get us out of our tightly-laced inhibitions and get down and dirty as wannabe stripper-sluts. All I remember was its foul taste and colour – much like apple-green cough mixture – and an entire glass of it : not just a shot or two!! It did the job though, and I participated with ample gusto. I sipped red wine for the rest of the evening until we headed down to ‘my local’ on the beachfront to witness the second-half of the Boks thrashing England. The whole afternoon and evening had been filled with the sounds of cars hooting and people shouting out their car windows. It was as if a kind of nationalistic lunacy had possessed us as a whole – and, admittedly, I was a little concerned about being on the road that night even though my drive home was a mere 3km. I fell into bed at midnight – feeling a bit like a reverse-Cinderella as I kicked my heels off, my feet aching and red. All I can remember is lying, collapsed, in bed (I’m sure I was smiling) my bedroom window open wide – and hearing a veritable symphony of victorious shouting, exuberant hooting and police sirens : the sounds of national triumph!! Like a lullaby almost.
In the luminous grey of pre-dawn, I woke up thirsty and with an oncoming truck of a headache, only to find my front door left wide open to catch the cool night air – and any potential intruder! Two Disprin dissolved in a deep glass of cool water and a couple more hours of sleep did the trick, and I woke up feeling almost as fresh as a daisy – except for my allergies which had my eyes red and watering, my nose snotty and blocked – and my chest tight and begging for my asthma pump and a dose of cortisone! I rushed off to work and actually ended up enjoying the day – though it was MUCH longer and much harder work than I anticipated! Have you ever watched Vanilla Sky (an American re-make with Tom Cruise and Penelope Cruz of a Spanish art film ) ? The main character wakes up to find he is utterly alone in the middle of New York City. The silence is eerie and heavy. He is SURE it’s a dream. And this is what it felt like this morning as I drove to work in the grey overcast aftermath of Our Win. Completely surreal.
Arriving home just after 3pm, I let myself into my flat – hands full of packets and a one-track mind: I was in critical need of a nap! Putting my packets down, I felt, intuitively, something amiss. Near the door where I keep my keys, there was a yellowish-brown little puddle of what looked like bird-poo – but I couldn’t be sure. I looked up to see I’d left the window above the basin wide open, so it WAS quite possible a bird had been in the flat. Then I noticed one of favourite antique paper-thin glass vases was lying smashed over a sinkful of dishes. There were three other vintage antique glasses on the sill, two which’d also been knocked off the shelf. Mercifully the turquoise one, also quite fragile, lay unscathed in the rinsing bowl! I found another 2 places where the bird had obviously dispelled his guts in a state of claustrophobic fright. Walking carefully and quietly through the house, I half hoped to find the little thing – having had a quiet passion for little brown songbirds over the last few years – using them as part of my self-portrait since 2003… But, it must found its way out to the hot afternoon sky at last. But what I cannot explain is a profound sense of having been visited. Like an omen. A good one. And though one of my favourite vases had been shattered and I had to clean up a good deal of gooey bird poo, a residual glow remains with me even now - knowing that a little bird had been here.
Almost 1am. The bottle of Pinotage I opened at 6pm now sits with its last few drops in my smoky grey wine glass. And Maria de Souza schmoozes scrumptiously in the air all around me – a voice like chocolate and jazzy guitar falling all around me like warm syncopated summer rain…
After I’d finished writing about my little bird visitor, I settled down to a lengthy Mxit chat with the primary school teacher that has somehow managed to capture a part of my heart despite all of my best efforts to remain detached. I think I mentioned it before – that I was his first kiss. And how we hooked up on Facebook. And when he was in Cape Town, met me for drinks and then asked to take me to lunch which turned out to be a rather protracted affair… And how he flew down a month later ‘just to get to know me better’. (And how he spoiled me with thoughtful, romantic kindnesses like flowers and wine and running a bath for me, and filling my fridge with groceries…) And now he is due to come and stay with me for another whole week in November! Half of me can’t wait – and the other half hopes anxiously that the trip’ll be cancelled. And only because I’m so unsure of my feelings for him – and with all of my sick, fucked up little heart, I don’t want him to be hurt if I can’t return his affections… Yes – I HAVE been transparently honest with him. But still, this does not prevent certain heart-actions form occurring – which I am afraid is already too far gone to reverse. Still, he is the most gentle and thoughtful man I have ever met – and who somehow manages to remain ardently and almost voraciously, passionately and imaginatively sexy! His build is (as he says) ‘skinny’ – but to me his lean muscularity is um… perfect. Big, over-pumped muscles have never been able to excite me…
(lots of editing here --- a private bit of writing...)
26 x 2007, Friday evening – just after 6pm, and the chill wet mist so much a part of the west coast, has turned in for the night like a thick, grey blanket. A shroud?
I have the lights turned on low, soft and gold – and the CD playing is ‘Mona Lisa’ – mix made for me by C which he posted down to me from PE. The first song is a love-song called ‘Vermilion’… and the rest is his favourite Guns ‘n Roses songs. And when I listen to it I see him before me vividly – it is almost as if his scent and warmth materialise bodily here with me in this room. This is the magical voodoo of music. It has power – the power to beguile and seduce. The ability to conjure up mighty emotion and memory- or to calm the wildest sea. (I should probably make myself a healthy supper – but I know that once I get started with either a drawing or writing, my appetite dissolves and it is only at bedtime that my stomach rumbles remindingly that I neglected to feed it!)
Tonight I was meant to meet a man I’ve never met before at a nearby restaurant for dinner at 8pm. Two weeks ago, I cancelled with him because the state of my heart was, plainly put : pretty damn confused and hurting like hell! (And as a result of years of emotional pain at the hand of my ex-husband irrevocably bubbling and boiling to the surface) And that ain’t never a good recipe : going on a date with a strange man to soothe the loss and pain of someone other man’s previous destruction – it’s like drinking on an empty stomach : i.e. dangerous, stupid mistakes inevitable, you’ll make a fool of yourself blah blah blah. And so this stranger persisted in asking to take me out – and in a moment of weakness I agreed, but then churned and chewed over it all week, anxiously feeling guilty for ditching him. Why do I continue to wrestle with this demon of not being able to say no? And yet once I’ve said it, it releases me like a bird into the open air and I wonder what all the struggle was about. But watching these little babies and children I work with all day long, and witnessing first-hand the development of their personalities and skills expand and change literally from week to week, it has made me recognize the devastating impact mother, father etc have on the child’s psychology. From around 15 months old, children begin to realise their separateness from their parents and others – and especially the ability to say NO. And it is this crucial stage of boundary-building that many parents often bulldoze over with either their own forceful desires of they ‘know best’ – or quite unconsciously the child’s position amongst older or younger siblings. It seems to be a conclusively predictable outcome that a child of 15 – 24 months who is forced into constantly acquiescing, or into surrendering everything they know as important theirs (i.e. a parent’s attention and a handful of toys) because of a sibling or two, never develops the ability to say ‘no’ or healthy boundaries. It is perilously crucial that a child of this age knows his NO is respected. I have read that they become ‘NO-addicts’ even saying no to their favourite things like ice-cream! And besides the obvious impact this has on the self-concept and personality development, the Butterfly Effect is seen in frightening proportion later on in early adolescence and as the child becomes and IS an adult - the ability to withstand a bullying boss, sexual pressure, peer pressure, develop healthy relationships etc.
Now that I seem to have ended my digressive explanation, let me return to the point : my inability to say no and my constant distress as to what people will think of me. It is this very thing which kept me stuck in my abusive marriage. And, from the bottom of my heart I do not want to blame anybody for the tragedies of my life, because we all have a choice – always. But it is becoming clear to me that when my twin sisters were born when I was 15 months old, I had to surrender so much (sjoe – even just writing about this makes me feel like I’m trying to pin the blame on everyone but myself…) My mom, even, has expressed as much – that having to give up so much and suddenly be a little, miniature, helping adult has had an obvious and visible impact on my life and the choices I have made. My father, too, has been like a meteorite in my life – fascinatingly magnificent, powerful, crushingly destructive.
29 x 2007, Monday “The Night of the Gnats”
With hands red and raw from scrubbing my kitchen floor on hands and knees and overpoweringly smelling of Handy Andy (the Lemon kind!) I sit down for the first time today to do something relaxing – and seeing today is my day off, I reckon I more than deserve it! With a kitchen sink overflowing with dirty dishes and a pile of fresh laundry waiting for me on my bed to be folded, I feel a little guilty sitting down to write but heck – I worked all of Saturday and yesterday from 8am to 6pm without so much as a glance towards a break!!
With the South Easter blustering and bawling outside, I know that at least tonight I shall be able to have some windows open : a howling gale means NO MOZZIES! Last night, there wasn’t a breath of wind, so I knew to keep the windows closed where I had lights on – closing off the bedroom and bathroom in the dark with the windows wide open for the fresh cool night air. At one point I went into the bedroom for something and wondered where on earth this pesky, biting mosquito could have come from. Slapping it away for the fourth time, thoughts of an itchy, sleepless night crept into my mind – something HAD to be done about it!! Pulling back my curtains I saw in panicked horror the bedroom window was wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide open! Looking up reflexively to the bedroom light, the scene was worse than I thought possible : the ceiling was literally grey with midges, gnats, moths and other be-winged night-thingies! Disaster! Chaos! Rummaging under the sink, the Tabard candle was thankfully exactly where I remembered it. Burning furiously, the smell of the candle was enough to chase me away, let alone an army of midges!! My next weapon of defence : a broom! My immediate thought was to swipe and smoosh them into oblivion off my ceiling. But the thought of a thousand dead and crumpled insects in my crisp white cotton bedding was almost more horrifying than being chowed all night long! New tactic brainwave : I placed the burning candle on my windowsill, turned off the lights, grabbed my duvet and pillow, closed the door and retreated into No-Mozzie Zone. The sleeper couch was adequately comfortable though a touch on the narrow side (especially after more than a year of having a double bed all to my ownsome!)
Recipe : cold chai milkshake : generous pinch of chai spice (mixture of cardamom, ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon and black pepper) mixed into a teaspoon of honey (or more if you want it sweeter). Add a small amount of boiling water to melt the honey and enhance the flavour and scent of the spices. Then just add super chilled cold milk (ya – this is a quick fix for the desperate : no ice-cream or elbow-grease!)
4 x 2007 . Sunday
Sitting at Pakalolo’s with the sea wild, dark and grey behind and the air wet and salty with its fierce pounding. After a difficult and stressful day at work (aren’t Sundays meant to be a time of rest??) I still have an article to write for the newsletter we send out to clients about the cognitive and etc etc benefits of art for very little children. And here I sit, contemplating my navel and sipping a warming glass of Shiraz – the anaesthetizing hum of conversation like a blanket, the nostalgic smell of a just lit match, and acid-reggae pumping it all along like a lazy little heartbeat.
19 xi 2007 Monday
So much time has passed since I last had a chance to write. Quite what it is that has been keeping me so busy eludes me – though I think it has been a mixture of work-related fatigue, a good novel and my present company – the visitor from PE (who now lounges back on my pink sari-covered couch, reading a book while I sit here and sip a glass of green tea, rose incense curling dreamily around the room in tendrils and curls.) Tonight he is cooking me a roast chicken complete with roast potatoes etc. His plan is to pour me a glass of red wine while he cooks in the kitchen and I sit at the table and work on my current art piece. Sjoe. I may just have stumbled upon Shangri-lah! (My dear father’s verdict on this sort of behaviour is that it would wane quite quickly. But incredibly, his thoughtfulness and romantic sweetness seems only to be increasing with time. (Out of the corner of my eye, I see his book has dropped to his chest and his eyes have closed.)
It is such a very strange tale of how we came to be in love with each other… Hmmm... the story would need to be told from the very beginning – reaching all the way back into 1990 when we were both just entering what I’ll call ‘turbulescence’ (i.e. turbulent adolescence!) We were in Standard 4 or 5 (can’t pinpoint the precise year) and I had a dreadful crush on C who at that stage was tall-ish and skinny and dark, with big, brown gentle eyes and an impish quietness (which has since turned into gentlemanly mysteriousness.) He told me about how he remembers a little love-letter I wrote, calling him “Mr Puppy Dog Eyes”. Nauseating to my 30 year old sensibilities but oh so cute when you’re just 12! Our first kiss was stolen behind the curtains in the music room... What is fascinating about all of this is how we both spent almost two decades wondering about each other…
His patience with me has been of saint-like proportions. After his last visit I gingerly explained my way around my wounded mess of a heart to him, saying I was in no way of fit mind to be able to understand my feelings or make any emotional decisions. i.e. basically, that I was too fucked up. And yes, most males would have run more than just a mile at this rather un-oblique admission. C decided I’m not fucked up at all, but whatever my decision, he was a-ok with it. Miraculously, my past didn’t threaten or frighten him at all. (a quietly hushed ‘wow’).
Other MAJOR plusses:
1. he adores my quirky and sometimes bizarre uniqueness in personality, the way I dress and the way I’ve decorated my little housie.
2. he created a list for me of all the things he admires about me, and they’re all the things I’ve yearned for a man to love about me. He actually ‘gets’ me. I am completely and vulnerably myself with him (another ‘wow’!!!!!!)
3. near the top of his list was my love for children and my ability with them. (Most guys seem to have been quite nauseated by this aspect of my personality and working life.)
Ag, there are many things but because I feel as if I have stumbled upon secret treasure, spilling my guts completely would ruin how extraordinary all of this is!
The Clincher for me – the thing that stole my heart – was the surprise he’d planned and organised more than a month before… But even before I picked him up at the airport that stormy Wednesday night, my heart had already decided for me.
LISA’S SURPRISE (more to follow)
23 xi 2007 SWEET NOVEMBER RAIN
Velvet pink and lavish lilac skies cover the early evening with soft, kind light – letting the four little Xhosa boys prolong their game of makeshift cricket for as long as Mommy doesn’t call them back home, leaving twig wickets behind them, marking their moment of play.
(--- obviously got very distracted by something… Craig was cooking me dinner, so I probably ended up taking my glass of wine with me to the kitchen – jumping up to sit on the counter while he peeled potatoes for the roast so we could chat…)
26 xi 2007 Monday.
And still the rain continues. This sweet November rain. I sit here at my laptop perched on this cold white marble Singer sewing-machine table all veined with grey, a glass of Pinotage to my right – along with an almost finished roll of masking tape, a twisted dry pale pink hibiscus flower and the wrapped up birthday present I made for my friend’s birthday tomorrow : a deep sage/olive green mohair brooch crocheted in an organic random shape and then embellished with tiny seed pearls and miniature haphazard embroidery stitches, then wrapped in a piece of old dressmaking pattern paper and tied with a little wooden button and a piece of string. And seeing as it’s the end of the month, my ‘gourmet’ bowl of 2 minute noodles cools in the microwave after its 1 minute 30 second cook! And exploding from my CD player is one of Craig’s ****in’ awesome Linkin Park CDs. (Yip, I took him to the airport this morning… This frightening weather caused his plane to PE to be delayed by a couple of hours… He returns in the first week of January to take up his teaching post at a primary school in Durbanville.)
And now that we’re on the subject of Craig, let me briefly outline the adventure he planned for our last day together on Sunday while I sat babysitting little Matthew and Thomas on Saturday night (before telling you all about “Lisa’s Surprise”).
Though I got home much later than expected on Saturday night (i.e. more like Sunday morning), he stayed awake to open the driveway gate for me, my headlights picking him out against the fierce and blusteringly black night in his blue boxers, hoodie and Hang Ten slipslops! e-tv’s hilarious pseudo-porn ooh-ed and aah-ed in the lounge while we chatted about little Matthew’s antics – then gently Craig reminded me the bath he’d run for me was getting cold. A steaming bath complete with golden candlelight and a soft, pink, fluffy towel! (Ladies – all I can hear you say along with me is “YOWZERS”!!!)
Early Sunday morning played through my bedroom curtains with almost riotous, sunshiney joy! For the first time in a week, the wind decided it was time to let us Capetonians play! The first part of Craig’s plan was an unhurried breakfast at Pakalolo’s – sipping excellent coffee and mopping up Worcestershire sauce and runny egg with nicely buttered toast while the turquoise calm of the bay glistened languidly beneath its matching sky. From there, it was a quick drive to Milnerton market where we perused like excited, specialist treasure-hunters amongst dusty lanes of salmon pink ‘40s glassware, a splendid brass floor lamp adorned with crystals, rust-covered plumbing supplies and mould-ridden books – the vendors as intriguing and random as their wares. Quite the Stephen King enthusiast, Craig unearthed a dog-eared and dusty novel to add to his collection for just a coupla bucks, while I bought a zillion treasures and trinkets in my rather wild imagination : accidental couplings of random English tea-cups and saucers, delicate glass vases and glasses in all the retro shades from beer-brown to blood red to peacock… In the end, Craig bought ‘us’ a luminously grass-green dyed Springbok pelt for only R50! There’re about three or four ways I could use it in my rather bohemian apartment, but at the moment it remains rolled up on the floor next to the still unpacked bag of beachtowels, SPF30 sunblock and my ‘camo’ hat…
Right at the most dangerous hour of the sun’s day, we hit the beach - uncommonly crowded -with bikini-clad housewives, whining and sandy toddlers, as well as bunches of Congolese playing soccer along the surfline in their underpants…
Settling myself down upon a big purple beach towel, I watched as a man hopped along the cold, wet sand with crutches and just one leg. As usually happens (and I’m sure you’ll agree) I tried to pretend it was a ‘normal’ sight, but my heart just ached and ached and ached while I tried not to look… Overwhelmed and humbled, I watched how he abandoned his two crutches just beyond the reach of the climbing waves. Crashing and tumbling, the cold, surging power of the waves pulled and tugged and rolled his sitting-down body… it was almost as if his sheer alive-ness controlled those very waves which threw and dragged his half-body backwards and forwards… What indescribable joy at just being alive!
(Slight anti-climax: then it was home for a nap before heading to my folks for a braai and to watch their latest televised compulsion : “Idols”. Chook, roasted tender and juicy on the Weber and an abundant sufficiency of red wine, the evening was perfectly rounded off with cheesecake and goodbye kisses.)
And now, alone, I sit here, sipping my second glass of red wine and gripped by the reality that “I have a boyfriend”. As much as I resisted this man, his sheer consistent kindness – and his passionate thoughtfulness – he finally melted this hard and fucked up heart of mine : and here I sit enthralled by how he is the very first man to have given me wings to fly. And, as my sister Mandy says : he is ‘fuel for my fire’… (If I continue, I am sure I’d make half of you ‘vrek vokken naar’ with how deeply happy I am!!) OK – time for LISA’S SURPRISE!
LISA’S SURPRISE
Halfway through unpacking his bags the night I picked him up from the airport, Craig handed me a long white envelope, with ‘Lisa’s Surprise’ written in neat blue ball-point across the front. A couple of sparing clues given me over the previous month did not prepare me for what I unfolded from this innocuous envelope.
Five pages evidently printed straight from a website, my mind soaked up text and images in happy disbelief : a weekend away in a dreamy tree-house overlooking a river and nestled in a mountainous valley… Besides the fact that surprises are one of my favourite things EVER, it was this element of surprise, combined with the thoughtful planning, sheer expense and uniqueness of idea that made my heart contract with an excruciating combination of elation and regret : this was the most romantic gesture I’d ever been gifted! (my heart pumped : ‘wow….wow….wow….wow…wow..’)
With my little green Ford Fiesta packed with towels, food, beers and books, we headed out towards Malmesbury along the way to Citrusdal – the sun hot and dazzling through the windows – my car heater somehow managing to have gotten stuck on the red a week before (no comment.) After stopping at a quaint, road-side café near Citrusdal where we were the obvious attraction/distraction for the day – an icy Coke(horribly abrupt break in the story - sorry! - but I promise to contimue writing tonight till it's finished!)
Sunday, October 28, 2007
After finishing work near 3pm, I dashed home and jumped into my bikini, slipping on a white linen sundress on top and throwing sunglasses, my book and a huge purple towel into a bag - cracking open an icy Savanna which was the perfect way to toast the most delicious summer's day we've had in a long time! The parking lots along the beachfront weren't nearly as full I imagined it'd be on such a gorgeous day - so after parking my car and slipping off my sandals, the sinking of my feet deep into the warm, soft sand reminded me of being a little girl! The thought of playing 'sandcastles' was a serious consideration ; )
After setting everything down, my big fluffy towel just begging me to plop down onto it, I realised two things :
1. I didn't have sunblock
2. There were some very strange characters populating this spot of beach. One tall man dressed in black, his pants rolled up to his knees literally circled me quietly twice, and everytime I looked up - he'd quickly look away...
And besides these one or two unsavoury and unsettling moments, I was also in danger of being decapitated by two guys learning how to fly those big kites... I stayed on the beach probably an hour or so and then headed to Pakalolo's for another Savanna. The single klerlgsrgjklejkljklv y8u9fsdzewt (oops - that was little Jessica who ran into the reception area and climbed onto my chair and got hold of the keyboard. Yip - I'm at work on a Sunday...) OK, let me try that again : the single Savanna turned into two glasses of wine and another two Savannas! And needless to say, the guy I was chatting to at the bar magically turned from ordinary and not very intelligent to incredibly, sensually handsome and deeply absorbing... His eyebrow piercing even stopped being an eyesore!
PS. Anyone know of a quiet spot along the coast here where I can sun my lilywhite flanks in peace?
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Random ramblings
21 x 2007, Sunday afternoon
It’s now quite a bit after 3pm and I’ve just arrived home from work! My colleague, predictably unreliable, was sick with stomach cramps (probably anxiety-induced as she’s terribly neurotic at the best of times!) so I had to fill in for her… My Sundays are precious and I can’t remember the last time I worked on one, but I thought I’d make an exception today. (Not entirely a wise or informed decision considering last night was my boss’s pole-dancing farewell party AND the rugby World Cup final…)
Almost 8pm. It’s hot here in my little piece of heaven I call home. But while I have the lights on I keep the windows and doors to outside because the area I live in has a terrible midge and mosquito problem – especially in the warmer months. If I had to open the window now, the roof and light fixtures would be obscured by clouds of mozzies and pesky midges which then end up in my food, the food simmering on the stove – and then on my skin so they can bite me and suck my blood all night so that I sleep badly and wake up very, very grumpy. And in the morning, they’ve all died and coat the worksurfaces and tabletops in grey weightless bodies.
About a month ago, I committed myself to look after a friend’s two little children so her and husband could attempt their first romantic evening in 3 or more years. Stupidly, I just said yes and didn’t consider the date – but realised early last week that it was the night of the rugby World Cup final!! Not that I’m a rugby fan – but I’m a fan of my country – and how could I miss watching 30+ men running around in tight tops and short shorts?! Thankfully she phoned to cancel yesterday morning. And this meant, of course, that now I could also go to my boss’s farewell party. She’s headed to Saudi for a couple of months – and so she organised a pole-dancing party… I’m no prude – but the thought of learning a stripper’s basic moves and performing my own little dance in front of my boss, colleagues and a sprinkling of our clients just didn’t have me jumping up and down with enthusiasm. I have the reputation of being an incredibly erotic dancer in the belly-dancing manner, but this comes from a deep place of visceral desire (as well as maybe too much red wine!) And it’s spontaneous!
The thought of this premeditated dancing made me suddenly feel like a wallflower who wished she had an excuse to cancel! As I got ready for the evening, my biggest problem was choosing what to wear. I don’t possess a single item of questionable virtue or made from black fishnet or red satin – I don’t even own pair of raunchy stilettos! Issues I had to take into consideration :
1. I wasn’t in the mood for my amply plump thighs and tummy to be on wobbly exhibit for a group of drunk moms / colleagues.
2. Socialising with my clients in such a starkly different context left me feeling dry-mouthed and quite anxious indeed : I teach them, their husbands and babies --- I am the ‘sweet, knowledgeable, nurturing and motherly teacher’ who they ask for help regarding why their child isn’t crawling yet or do I think their child has the potential to be a bully… So me dressing up as a prancing, dancing whore just didn’t gel with me.
And so, I chose low-slung, wide-legged black jeans, a lowish-cut black top and the highest heels I possess. Certainly I was the most conservatively dressed woman there – besides my boss in her old-fashioned slacks and long turquoise top! One of the moms (of twin girls) arrived in knee-high leopard print, high heel, pointy-toed boots, tight black pants, pink corset and a long black wig – and enough eyeliner and mascara to render her completely unrecognisable! The other mom is the local ‘sister’ of her own pre/antenatal clinic who everyone speaks about in tones of hushed awe. Her fishnets and shiny black peep-toe stilettos competed for attention with so much glitter on her eyes, lips and cheeks that she put Priscilla Queen of the Desert to shame! Both in their VERY late 30s, these two provided all the fireworks and fun necessary to make the evening a spectacular (though not very sexy!) success!
Having been to Teazers and Mavericks a couple of times, once on a solo mission of discovery and adventure, and then once with an older male friend, I found the idea of learning what seems to be a universal repertoire of choreographed ‘sexiness’ both boring and just a little distasteful. The first time I went to Teazers I was newly married (only JUST!) , twenty one years old and doing my Masters degree in sculpture (my work having a definite feminist dogma driving it.) I popped in on my way home one day because I was incurably inquisitive about this idea of men going in groups to strip-clubs – both as an almost rabid feminist and a young little wife. My husband had apparently been ‘dragged’ into the Moulin Rouge in town on the night of his bachelor’s party – his hands even bound with insulation tape! (The backs of his hands were black with bruising even a week later on the day of our wedding… And he broke down in tears when he ‘confessed’ having gone to the stripclub the night before… When I left him last year, he told me one night on the phone that he’d licked salt off one of the girl’s nipples before knocking back a tequila. Perhaps he thought it would hurt me by telling me 6 years later? I remember how violently anti he was about even having a bachelor’s party. In retrospect, it’s no damn wonder!!)
I parked my car outside Teazers in the blazing late afternoon summer sun, sweaty and tired after a day in the library and mentally preparing to cook supper, iron clothes etc. What was I wearing? Oh yes. A long black dress – pretty ordinary in style, I suppose. Black Birckenstock sandals (orthopaedically flat, ultra-conservative and super-unsexy!) My hair in a rough bird’s nest of a bun, glasses and no make-up. And under my arm, my journal and constant companion. As a woman, the bouncer said I didn’t need to pay a cover charge. It was surreal, entering such a dark (in both senses of the word) and smoky space as a young, fairly innocent wife who had to still go home to perform her domestic duties… My eyes took a few moments to adjust to the darkness – seeing the bar to my right, a table full of overweight married men – the rest of the room scattered about with solitary men sitting at tables stuck through with thick floor-to-ceiling poles. Half-fascinated and half afraid, I felt disgust creeping in at the outer edges of my mind like approaching nausea… But still, my curiosity propelled me forward to buy a drink (it was an icy Savanna with a twist of lemon) and find a corner where I could sit and observe. ( I don’t have time to finish writing about this right now – have to prepare some extra work for tomorrow… And I’m also meant to go to my Al Anon meeting, but what with the weather being so foul, all I want to do is climb into bed with my book…)
My very excitable, considerably younger colleague poured all of us a MOER of a shooter to get us out of our tightly-laced inhibitions and get down and dirty as wannabe stripper-sluts. All I remember was its foul taste and colour – much like apple-green cough mixture – and an entire glass of it : not just a shot or two!! It did the job though, and I participated with ample gusto. I sipped red wine for the rest of the evening until we headed down to ‘my local’ on the beachfront to witness the second-half of the Boks thrashing England. The whole afternoon and evening had been filled with the sounds of cars hooting and people shouting out their car windows. It was as if a kind of nationalistic lunacy had possessed us as a whole – and, admittedly, I was a little concerned about being on the road that night even though my drive home was a mere 3km. I fell into bed at midnight – feeling a bit like a reverse-Cinderella as I kicked my heels off, my feet aching and red. All I can remember is lying, collapsed, in bed (I’m sure I was smiling) my bedroom window open wide – and hearing a veritable symphony of victorious shouting, exuberant hooting and police sirens : the sounds of national triumph!! Like a lullaby almost.
In the luminous grey of pre-dawn, I woke up thirsty and with an oncoming truck of a headache, only to find my front door left wide open to catch the cool night air – and any potential intruder! Two Disprin dissolved in a deep glass of cool water and a couple more hours of sleep did the trick, and I woke up feeling almost as fresh as a daisy – except for my allergies which had my eyes red and watering, my nose snotty and blocked – and my chest tight and begging for my asthma pump and a dose of cortisone! I rushed off to work and actually ended up enjoying the day – though it was MUCH longer and much harder work than I anticipated! Have you ever watched Vanilla Sky (an American re-make with Tom Cruise and Penelope Cruz of a Spanish art film ) ? The main character wakes up to find he is utterly alone in the middle of New York City. The silence is eerie and heavy. He is SURE it’s a dream. And this is what it felt like this morning as I drove to work in the grey overcast aftermath of Our Win. Completely surreal.
Arriving home just after 3pm, I let myself into my flat – hands full of packets and a one-track mind: I was in critical need of a nap! Putting my packets down, I felt, intuitively, something amiss. Near the door where I keep my keys, there was a yellowish-brown little puddle of what looked like bird-poo – but I couldn’t be sure. I looked up to see I’d left the window above the basin wide open, so it WAS quite possible a bird had been in the flat. Then I noticed one of favourite antique paper-thin glass vases was lying smashed over a sinkful of dishes. There were three other vintage antique glasses on the sill, two which’d also been knocked off the shelf. Mercifully the turquoise one, also quite fragile, lay unscathed in the rinsing bowl! I found another 2 places where the bird had obviously dispelled his guts in a state of claustrophobic fright. Walking carefully and quietly through the house, I half hoped to find the little thing – having had a quiet passion for little brown songbirds over the last few years – using them as part of my self-portrait since 2003… But, it must found its way out to the hot afternoon sky at last. But what I cannot explain is a profound sense of having been visited. Like an omen. A good one. And though one of my favourite vases had been shattered and I had to clean up a good deal of gooey bird poo, a residual glow remains with me even now - knowing that a little bird had been here.
Almost 1am. The bottle of Pinotage I opened at 6pm now sits with its last few drops in my smoky grey wine glass. And Maria de Souza schmoozes scrumptiously in the air all around me – a voice like chocolate and jazzy guitar falling all around me like warm syncopated summer rain…
Saturday, October 20, 2007
A rather gay affair
With this incredible summer weather, I decided to head down to the beachfront for a lazy sunset stroll... but an absolutely horrendous South Easter had arrived to obliterate the idea! Somehow the thought of sand blowing into my eyes and my hair getting stuck in the constant lipgloss of my lips was just not that appealing! And so I popped into Pakalolo's to write a long and detailed letter to a friend, accompanied by a glass of shiraz and the promise of an incredible, blushing sunset.
With my pen sliding and scratching across the page, I couldn't help but be distracted by the two men sitting at the table next to me. Both were impeccably dressed and their over-manicured bodies literally saturated in a far too floral cologne. Obviously gay with their floppy wrists and expressive body language, I noticed they both were wedding bands. Watching the one pour their chilled white wine from its ice-bucket conveyed a sense of their being on a pre-shag date. A bit of a lubricating pre-amble, if you will. Out of the blue, the one leaned over and asked me about the company I work for --- I was wearing my work t-shirt with the logo shamelessly splashed across my back. He said his wife was 6 months pregnant with their second child, and did they teach art at my place of work? (I think my jaw was hanging open - slack-jawed in shock at his admission of heterosexual committedness... Oi! The other guy also has a child - also married... What is this world coming to? They paid up and left, literally oozing desire for each other and almost leaving hand in hand! I wonder at the sudden wave of homosexuals I'm encountering who are married but maintain a prolific and varied gay sex-life outside of their fancy homes and big cars and pretty wives!? What and why, I wonder...
We have pizza arriving in a few minutes (the pizza is meant to sustain us during a very loooong meeting and somehow boost morale - but more than anything it's boosting my waistline!!
Ciao and kisses,
L x
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Raining and pouring...
It seems as if winter doesn't want to bow out gracefully from Cape Town! The weather was atrocious this morning - all wild, heavy rain bucketing down in torrents, cats and dogs! And of course, the effect this had on the traffic is predictable : people become poephols and idiots when the roads are wet! As I about to turn onto Blaauwberg Road on my way to work this morning, I just missed being caught up in a rather messy collision between two taxis and an old white Golf which ended up in the middle of road facing completely the wrong way!! It was quite interesting to see a man jump out of his car to take photos with his cellphone of the taxi's registration number!! Hmmm... I wonder why?! (rhetorical question / wry smile)
Anyway - my class is about to start! Adios x
Anyway - my class is about to start! Adios x
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Bubbles...
Here I sit behind the reception desk at work - having taught 2 boisterously fun classes of 10 to 22 month olds... The class happening now is in the 'bubble' phase of the class. All around me the air is filled with little, glassy bubbles. Like working in a dreamscape. THANKFULLY I have tomorrow off - so my basic plan of action is to sleep languidly, lazily late. And then probably hang around in bed, reading and sipping tea till about lunchtime. And after that, I belong to chance! Who knows where the day will take me!
My visitor staying with me this weekend has been quite incredible as a guest : he arrived with pizza, red wine and flowers on Thursday night! And when I got home from work yesterday, my dishes were done and my fridge stocked with groceries!
Anyway, I have a 'farm' class to teach to my 2 and a half year olds - we plant 'seeds', 'water' them with little colourful watering cans, sing Old Macdonald with all sorts of oinks and woofs. But yesterday when a child shouted out 'fish' - it tooks me a couple of seconds to make a fish face and wonder at what sound a fish made. The moms were in hysterics. I wasn't!
Gotta dash!
My visitor staying with me this weekend has been quite incredible as a guest : he arrived with pizza, red wine and flowers on Thursday night! And when I got home from work yesterday, my dishes were done and my fridge stocked with groceries!
Anyway, I have a 'farm' class to teach to my 2 and a half year olds - we plant 'seeds', 'water' them with little colourful watering cans, sing Old Macdonald with all sorts of oinks and woofs. But yesterday when a child shouted out 'fish' - it tooks me a couple of seconds to make a fish face and wonder at what sound a fish made. The moms were in hysterics. I wasn't!
Gotta dash!
Thursday, September 27, 2007
My work load is such at the moment that there's just no time to write up a decent chunk of juicy news... Being busy is an excellent cure for mischief though, so I am at least being a good girl!
I have a friend coming to stay with me for a couple of days. I was his first kiss... We haven't seen each other in many years (16 to be precise!) He has flown down from PE to visit - and arrives tonight at around 7pm : and will be bringing pizza, red wine and a dvd (JUST what I need!) He'll be staying with me until Tuesday. Hmmm - I felt like a naughty little girl trying to find the courage to tell her mom she stole a cookie from the cookie jar when I told her about him coming to stay... She asked with a wicked twinkle in her eye which bed he would be sleeping in (sigh)
I better get back to work : I've got a busy art class for 3 - 5 year olds at 4pm, but before then I have to go to the local shopping centre to do a show with our giant 'parachute', bubbles etc. And - with my voice disappearing from over-use, I will be sounding more like Bonnie Rait than Olivia Newton John when I sing over the mic...
Monday, September 24, 2007
Not-Bikini Weather!
Back in Cape Town at long last with about a zillion stories to tell! Now... where would I begin?! (Besides the fact that i am ending my long weekend at work on the PC!!!) Let me rather make a list of the exquisite little details that made this weekend unique and wonderful!
1. eating REAL custard made by a young French confectioner ... made with cream, egg yolks and crushed vanilla pods... out of a pale pink child's plastic pudding bowl with a teaspoon.
2. Diemersfontein Cabernet sipped inbetween stories exchanged amidst giggles and oohs and aahs, as we sat on the lounge floor - the early evening grey with dark spring rain.
3. Having a near-disaster with the car as we went over Sir Lowry's Pass with two over-tired kids whining in the back - but which turned out to be nothing more than a pirce of wire we were dragging on the wheel but which must've dropped off. (Phew!)
4. Sampling Earl Grey infused dark chocolate with my red wine...
5. A VERY lazy afternoon nap.
Hmmm... this could end up being a VERY long list indeed! And so, I shall say 'adios' and more tomorrow.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Knysna monologue
Today I had my second bottle of Pon Gracz this week. The first time was on Wednesday evening on the beach, with my toes in the cool sand and sipped to the sound of moonlight on crashing waves. The second in a friend's kitchen here in Knysna at 12pm to celebrate the blessed non-event of my near-marriage -- which was set to take place today at noon in Bedford (in the Eastern Cape.) Hell - I can hardly believe I was so close to making a ****ing DREADFUL mistake!! And so, half a bottle of Pon Gracz and a plateful of Belgian waffles, maple syrup and double cream, I am more than just gratefully relieved, but over the moon!
Since the engagement was broken off, I've been on a fair amount of dates - but nothing close to the rampant 'men tasting' I indulged in a year ago. Now my selection is deliberately smaller - and yet the stories and intrigue accumulated after a week of dinners and other such outings remains as juicy! An entire book of short stories could be published based on these experiences of the opposite sex - ranging from a collector and wearer of Gestapo memorabilia (he really DOES stand in someone else's shoes - a Nazi officer's black leather boots!!) to a gorgeous classical guitarist who made my 13 year old heart pound, to an aggressive balding tank of a man close to his 40s who stalked me relentlessly! But right now I don't have the time -- feel a little guilty using my host's PC...
Now I'm ready to return to my bed and cuddle beneath my covers with a book a friend posted all the way down from PE for me - Stephen King short stories. And then have a little nap. No, a long, deliciously, indugently lazy snoooooooozzzzzzzzzzzzzze.
Since the engagement was broken off, I've been on a fair amount of dates - but nothing close to the rampant 'men tasting' I indulged in a year ago. Now my selection is deliberately smaller - and yet the stories and intrigue accumulated after a week of dinners and other such outings remains as juicy! An entire book of short stories could be published based on these experiences of the opposite sex - ranging from a collector and wearer of Gestapo memorabilia (he really DOES stand in someone else's shoes - a Nazi officer's black leather boots!!) to a gorgeous classical guitarist who made my 13 year old heart pound, to an aggressive balding tank of a man close to his 40s who stalked me relentlessly! But right now I don't have the time -- feel a little guilty using my host's PC...
Now I'm ready to return to my bed and cuddle beneath my covers with a book a friend posted all the way down from PE for me - Stephen King short stories. And then have a little nap. No, a long, deliciously, indugently lazy snoooooooozzzzzzzzzzzzzze.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Cocktails lead to 'cock-tales'...
Last night I had biiiiiig plans to chill out at home with said bottle of wine, a long bath and my book... but it was all hijacked by my boss suggesting we all go out for cocktails! We ended up at Pakalolo's on the beachfront : not entirely well-behaved ambassador's for Gymboree in our branded uniforms! After 3 drinks, we were at that stage of the evening where stories get told - and last night, it was 'most embarrassing moment'. By the time we got to my turn, I actually couldn't think of one - because there are just so many!! Where would I begin?
Amazingly, I didn't have the vaguest shadow of a hangover this morning (though I did wake up TERRIBLY thirsty at about 2am fantasising about an ice-cold glass of water!) Normally I only drink red wine - and this cocktail business is not at all my thing: but when your boss is buying, it is very, very hard to say no! It all started off with an icy Savanna. And then another. Then it was a huge Mai-Tai -- and I think because I'm friends with the barman, he threw in more Stroh rum than is required...
The evening could still have been salvaged and turned into something constructive and productive in terms of either painting or writing, but when it was decided we were heading upstairs to Primi Piatti for pizza and more cocktails, I knew then that I had to just surrender myself to a few more hours of mindless and very tipsy chit-chat.
And so my Porcupine Ridge Syrah sits on the kitchen counter waiting for another quiet evening.
PS. I have just found out that I can continue staying in the flat I'm in : and for a slightly heftier rent than I anticipated - but I could never imagine going to stay back at my parents...
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Double Trouble
I've just come back from the Spar across the road - having devoured a little box of Astro's along the way (loving the early spring sunshine!) I also bought a bottle of Porcupine Ridge Syrah for tonight. I'll plonk myself down on the floor in the living room with a deep glass of wine to watch the sun set in pink, salmon, lilac, pale indigo, gold...
One of our younger moms (23 years old) arrived a few minutes early for class looking very frazzled and red-cheeked : and when I asked her how she was, she replied that today has been the worst day of her life! And why? Because she was told this morning that she's pregnant with twins! And they weren't even planning another baby, let alone twins!! It makes me think of my mom giving birth to my identical twin sisters when I was 15 months old...
Anyway - I have to get ready for my next class.
Ciao
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Fur in bed
{I really REALLY need to get myself organised with an HSDPA or whatever it is modem-thingy so I can write at night... I've found that filling the ether with my words consumes less of my physical living space than when I used to keep piles of journals of pen and ink. I write to write - and not to be read, I guess.)
A colleague just walked past behind me as I type these words here at the reception desk at work and blanched - audibly shocked at the title of 'Fur in bed'! And so, I better launch right into the 'fur' thing! A few months ago I walked past Vee's Video and saw a film poster in palest dirty pink and greys; the iconography so much my own. I remember my painting professor talking once about 'resonance' - how a certain image (whether in words or picture) evokes such deep-seated tremors in your heart and memory, that meaning and value are immediately attached to it. And this 'Fur' poster did just that to me - it stirred my heart (so much so I went inside the video store to ask them if they could put it aside for me...)
After work, I popped in there to get a DVD to watch (had plans for a bottle of red wine, popcorn and me in bed) and saw 'Fur' on the shelf! After a lazy nap where I woke up to a pink 7 o'clock sunset, I opened the wine, popped the buttery popcorn and set my laptop up on the bed - speakers and all! Sitting cross-legged amidst a bed of pink and orange silk cushions, red wine and --- oh dear: I have to go: boss calls... (PS. Watch 'Fur' if you dare!)
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Meat-Markets and Cocktails
I've managed to grab a few minutes on the Net before my first class starts this morning at 10am - and I'm ENDLESSLY grateful that I didn't have more than one cocktail last night... (two friends from work whisked me off on a girl's night out in an attempt to inebriate/anaesthetize my 'loss' : I ended up at Pakalolo's at about 8pm, sipping a glass of of slightly too cold shiraz, wrapped in the warm music of strangers' laughter - while my friends arrived almost half an hour late. Then it was off to the meat-market next door -- Cubana. Lizet ordered a 'Secret' cocktail for me (sickly sweet and bizarrely colourful) at a bar chockful of middleaged men and bottle blondes. Three married men wanted to buy us drinks - which we gracefully declined (simultaneously asking where their wives were... Guilty, sheepish smiles were their replies.)
By 9.30pm, I sipped the dregs of my Secret and decided it was time to go home. (There is NOTHING worse than teaching little children with a hangover. I did it once : NEVER again!) Today with my 16-22 month olds I will be climbing through tunnels and then with my 2 and a half year olds, we will be pretending to be dogs and cats: lots of running around and woofing and miaowing... So nausea and a pounding head are not conducive to exuberant play!
Time to get into my 'teacher's head' ...
Friday, August 17, 2007
Jilted!!
I have gone from being a divorcee to being a fiancee to being single in the space of a year! Yikes! No wonder all I could see were forests of raised eyebrows!
It's incredible what restrospect affords one... I feel wiser than I did even 24 hours ago! And yet I know I have many more lessons to learn.
Lesson Most Recently Learned: one cannot 'get over' an eleven years of emotional abuse in 365 days! (I have done far too much random, thoughtless dating and not enough heart-work and alone-time...) And so, I begin a new journey, heading towards a place where marriage is not something to be achieved - a husband is not a trophy. (This comes from years and years of growing up amongst oceans of white silk and frothy tulle veils and the sounds of brides' voices punctuating the incessant thrumming of my mother's sewing machine.)
This is me - raw, and ... blunt (unedited)
Lisa
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