august things

It's an odd month, August.

Never a favourite of mine I'll admit. It's kind of neither here or there really, winter grinds on... we hit term 3 running (even faster this year as the winter holidays were extended due to our 3rd Covid wave) ... the year is halfway gone, one ponders what one's done with it.

Little bit of midyear crisis perhaps?

Though honestly, crisis sounds far too exciting for August really.

I've been riding my bike. With an eye to possibly returning to gym soon(ish) and a desire to not be entirely pathetic when I do, I thought I'd better put some effort in.

What August does have going for it is the stillness - between winter storms that is - and when the bitter South Easter starts blowing again it'll not be nearly as fun out there on a bicycle.

I've been riding my other bike too. I had a fall last November, two actually, on a day out doing off-road motorbike training. Some bruising and a snapped front brake handle were the only two immediate casualties, but my pride was much more badly wounded, and my confidence. It's taken me a while to get back in the literal saddle, but I've ridden 3 different types of motorbike in the last month and that felt good.

We've spent a lot of time with Layla, Zahida's daughter. She and Stella are still thick as thieves, and despite having seen so very little of each other in the last 18 months they just pick straight back up again every time - there is no other friend Stella can spend as much time with, as easily, as her.

Layla and family are moving to the UK soon. Zahida's husband Sam has done so incredibly, wonderfully well these last few years, but he needs a change - and this is the one they've chosen. We're trying hard to be encouraging and excited, but we are sad, for us.

These two punks turned one on 20 August and my god we love them. They live almost exclusively upstairs when in the house, with their own secret routes down to the garden (ours and the absent neighbour's) to avoid the dogs.

Minnow (although Frieda insists she's Mino) is the house cat, always on a bed, always up for a nap with a human. She fishes hairbands out of a basket on my dresser (which naturally we keep stocked up just for her) and chases them around the rooms, she vocalises a lot, likes to drink from a tap, is soft and malleable.

Prince is 100% dude. Playful, curious, often out on an adventure, a total clown, straight-forward and uncomplicated. Not super affectionate - until he is, purring and bumping you and rolling and drooling - Prince spends his days collecting litter from the gardens and often the lake, bringing in 5-8 pieces a day sometimes, some dripping wet, some tiny, some big. Saving the planet is his important work.

August is dramatic skies. The acacia trees are coming back to life after winter and the sun on those green shoots against a brooding sky is one of my favourite things to see.

I have two friends who wrote novels during lockdown. Others who've picked up impressive new habits such as committed cold-water swimming, or weight-lifting.

Part of my midyear crisis was a small what-have-I-done-with-lockdown moment, until I reminded myself that I started a whole new job!

Events are dead (although I am also currently working with clients who are desperately trying to do one - March 2022 maybe...) so I am managing sales and marketing for a family business, a business I've grown up around and had extremely little to do with before, but I'm really enjoying being part of.

To be fair, August has allowed us some magnificent weather for outdoor socialising, which in the global scheme of things for mid-winter mid-pandemic, is pretty generous.

We have been for walks, and outdoor lunches and a couple of dinners - working around people's exposure and the national curfew - and lots of garden/beachside/roadside chats. 

Then last Saturday, a drive-in screening of The Witches, with cuddly car-beds and popcorn and candy-floss for the children and sneaky wine and hilarity for the grown-ups. 

It was bloody cold, snow on the mountains and frost-bitten toes, but the company warmed our bodies and our hearts and it was a good send-off for the month.

I will always be grateful for having so many loved ones so close during this shitshow.

And tomorrow is the first day of Spring, so there's that, but more excitingly - my second Pfizer shot, and that is a real turn towards the light.

See ya August, let's move on.

lock down

Today is Day One of lock down. Currently expected to last for 21 days.
We'll see.

I've stocked the house, filled the prescriptions, bought the basic meds we'll need should anyone get sick.
I've helped my parents get ready, made sure the people who work for us are safe and provided for, checked in with friends and family - especially those living alone.
I've donated to various organisations helping those in need through this time.
I've gone through the roller-coaster of all the emotions and fears, I've acknowledged my grief and rallied my energies.

I woke up this morning and felt ... relief. Anyone else feeling that I wonder.

There's nothing more I can do except stay at home. This is what I can do now to help. I'm so grateful not to have to go out anymore.

The logistics of leaving, being out there, returning - the sanitising and taking care and physical distancing and contamination containment was genuinely starting to make me feel loopy.
But worse, the people I saw every time who were not taking the same precautions, not taking this seriously, not taking care - that was driving my anxiety through the roof.

'You're all going to die' I'd think watching people huddle together to watch something on a phone, share a can of soda, eat with their hands, pick at their teeth, spit in the street. 'You're all going to die and you're going to take someone I love with you'.
Anxiety is not rational, but anxiety is real, and I've had enough brushes with proper anxiety attacks in my life to know I was skirting dangerous territory.

But now we're home. And we're not allowed to leave. As an adult I am so grateful for other grown-ups telling us what to do right now. And so immensely grateful for everyone out there doing what they're doing so that we can stay right here.

The weirdest thing about this virus is this - it causes one immense fear and concern, and then puts one in the place (if you're lucky) where you're most well-equipped to deal with this.
In our home, with our pets, our loved ones, our comforts.

Where this goes no one knows, but for now I feel more relaxed than I have in weeks, and I'm going to cling to that for a while.
Until the milk runs out at least.

sabbatical?

You think I'm referring to my long absence here hey?
Let's just not mention that and move on...

It seems I am finished work for the year.
I know right?
But it seems that I am.

This week I'm wrapping up my last contract for the year, with nary a sign in sight of more work and not one project lapping at my heels. This is a first in nearly 8 years and amazingly, I'm so okay with it.
I feel like I've reached the end of a piece of string, only to find it led to quite a nice place.

The last two years have been particularly full on work-wise. Everything-wise actually.
Months and weeks have run into each other in a blur of clients and events and kids and school and house and friends and pets and horrible tragedy and travel and family and wild fun and late nights and achingly boring adulting and mind-numbing stress and worry and tears and hysterical laughter and boundless joy and ... jeez, I'm tired.

But a moment has appeared, a break in the clouds - maybe the eye of the storm - in which this one enormous aspect of my life has stilled, and I feel a pause. It's deeply energising.

Can I call it a sabbatical? I asked a friend-colleague.
Sure, she said, but the thing with a sabbatical is you need to do something special with it - study, write, travel - set yourself a big goal you'd never have time or resources to achieve when you're working.

Hmmm...

How bout a sabbatical in which the goal is to be a more present parent. To support my big girl through end of year exams, my little through her current existential crises about getting older. How bout I be a more patient partner, a more engaged home-maker, a less haphazard Christmas gift-shopper, a more attentive daughter/aunt/friend.
How bout a sabbatical where I have more time to do the things which spark joy - work out more, organise my home office/studio, clear out the trenches of a big house and family, beautify my space, write my blog and frankly all of the things in the paragraph above.
How bout I find the time and head-space to create again - to make things with my hands which still and lighten my heart.
I feel like these are big goals of mine, special things to be able to do, things I don't have the time and resources to achieve when I'm working.
I feel like these are enough.

And as if the universe heard me, this week has been an onslaught of school plays and associated lifting and snack-bearing, of bake sale and school oral prep and personal admin and an afternoon lost to chasing a snake around our garden and trying to arrange its capture (and it's only Wednesday!).

But because this is all I've been doing, all I've been having to do - because there's been no additional email tyranny and meeting plans and calls with clients and deadlines and necessity to focus elsewhere - I've been flowing with it.
It feels like this is more than enough.

I know Murphy is probably listening and some huge and un-refusable job could be lurking around the corner, that would be okay too, but I'm hoping that the wolves remain at bay for a little longer. I'm hoping to have more time to just do this.
I love my work-work, but I love my life-work more, and I'd really like to spend a sabbatical building on that.

therapy

number the one:

drinking with friends

Lordy, I been drinking. That's probably not okay right?
But you know (cue classic heavy drinker excuse), I'm working two jobs, running a household, propping up a super-stressed husband, dealing with shit - and I haven't dropped any of those balls have I? I'm fiiiine.
Except I know really I'm not. And that wine, for the all the blissful temporary distraction it provides, is not the answer.
I'm a grown up. I'll temper my ways. But damn, it feels good to just let go for a bit.

number the two:

surfing

Well, trying to. Friends and I went out for a big lesson one perfect Sunday. Winter is the best time for waves on our local beach, without the relentless South East wind which plagues us in summer.

We learnt how to paddle out, pop-up, stay up (ha) and had a lot of fun trying to do all of those. Muizenberg must be the most democratic wave in the country - everyone is out there, and everyone makes space.

We've been out a couple more times. Okay fine, I've been out ONCE more, but I'm hoping soon to find more time for it.

Water is better therapy than wine.

number the three:

Therapy for real. I'm starting to see someone next week. It was supposed to be last week but I had to postpone due to a last-minute trip to Joburg. As my friend more experienced in therapy than I said, you can bet she's made a note of that in your file.

Oof. Drinking wine and surfing is going to be way easier than this.

camera roll: July

For July I'm posting landscapes.

Beautiful big images which open the eyes and the mind. Which don't speak of the frustrations of trying to juggle school holidays and work - parental guilt like I've never before really experienced - feeling awful for being so distracted, feeling cross for feeling awful. 

A pedalo ride of a still, sunny afternoon by myself. A chance to get a different perspective. To collect rubbish floating in the water and feel like making a contribution to something other than just my and my family's own, persistent, needs.

A birthday hike to celebrate my man, their dad, our huge privilege for all being together - essentially healthy and well. To stretch our legs and our horizons. To walk off all that chocolate cake and enjoy each other's company.

A stormy day on the harbour wall. Big gulps of sea air and good friendship.

Big pictures for the most important big things - family, friends, beauty and privilege. I try to cling to these, even as the lesser things feel like they're dragging me under. I wish my head was as clear as these views.
We'll get there.

kick-starting grief

My dearest friend Zahida passed away just over 3 weeks ago. Super aggressive metastatic breast cancer, 14 months from diagnosis.
I'd written that last post some time before I published it. She read this blog and I was torn between not wanting to make the pain any more nuanced for her but needing to write this shit out. I had that in drafts and the Friday I published it she was in hospital, not answering any messages, my only updates were via her sister and part of me genuinely thought I'd not ever see her again.

I did. Twice over that weekend I was lucky enough to see her in hospital. Both times I was summonsed by that dear girl, just me and her family and her husband. We said our goodbyes, we said everything we wanted to say, we laughed together, we cried so many tears, we held hands and said thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

She passed away on the following Wednesday, first thing in the morning, and after the Janazah and the endless messages and calls, after we buoyed her family through the first 48 hours, even after her younger sister and I cleared out her closets and arranged a birthday party for her daughter - can you even conceive of turning 8 just a week after losing your mum? Even after all of that I couldn't really comprehend it.
I still couldn't have the ugly cry.

My body did all the things it likes to do in times of stress. A UTI, eczema and eventually sinusitis. I wasn't sleeping, I wasn't feeling and I wasn't grieving - not properly. I knew it was there, just out of sight, lurking, and I wanted to feel it. I felt so detached from her for not being able to weep.

So on Thursday I did what I'd been putting off, what I'd frankly wondered whether I would do at all.
I wrote the tear-jerker Facebook post, I put it out there. While I was writing it the tears came, and while I read all the subsequent messages and DM's and emails which it triggered I wept and wept.
I kick-started the grief and now it is here. And while it is awful, it also feels good to feel.

Molly 

22 March at 22:56 ·

It's been just over 3 weeks and I'm still in shock.

We were supposed to be crones together, Zahida and I. Stylish crones of course.

She made me try harder. She opened my eyes and filled my heart. She had the most magnificent laugh. She had the most enormous brain. 

We bore babies together, we cooked and danced and laughed and cried together. 

She filled my home with beautiful things, my life with joy and my head with questions and thoughts I'd never have had without her.

And in the last year she gave me the greatest gift - the honour of walking with her to the edge of the light.

About 6 months ago she said 'Are you sure you don't want to get off here Mols, it's going to be a roller coaster of a ride'.

I didn't once consider it, and I'll eternally be grateful that she allowed me to stay.

I only wish I was as sure how to navigate the world without her.

Miss you friend, miss you forever.

in time of drought ...

... drinking ants in ones tea becomes less reprehensible than emptying and refilling the kettle before boiling it.

... the amount of ice blocks in ones drink becomes a question of conservation, not taste.

... the merits of paper towel versus water play through your head as you wonder whether to wipe or rinse a greasy pot. You can drive yourself mental playing this 'which is worse/better' game.

... your loo can look like the scene of a horror movie as you resolutely flush with bath water despite your daughters predilection for garishly coloured bath bombs.

... you add, to the other multiple lists in your head, a roster of which plant has received grey water when and which is more deserving.

... the sound of a sprinkler is arresting, and out of place. One instantly harshly judges the sprinkleree.

... a dirty car becomes a badge of honour.

... other people's hysteria about the water shortage weirdly makes one feel calmer?

... small people worry. She brushes her teeth with an inch of water in a cup and when she's finished, swills the last drops around in the bottom and asks, 'What shall I do with this Mum?'

... and when there is rain - it's only happened about twice this year - everyone stops what they're doing to watch it, and all the pot plants go out to play. And everything feels right with the world again, for just a minute.

suspended

I stood on the stoep and watched a butterfly. One of those big orange and white faux-monarch ones, I could see his/er feelers twitching.
And then, a starling. Picked it out the air.
So quick, the insect had no more knowledge of it's end approaching than a pea suddenly speared with a fork on a plate.
The bird whipped away, and empty blueness remained.

The dabchicks are back. This is a sure sign that autumn is coming. They are the smallest, and the loudest, birds on the lake. They are very shy.
A family of them float in the water just off the shore. I stand from the table where I have been sitting and with an almost imperceptible plop, in one movement, they are gone.
The tiniest ripple remains.

The water weed sits dense and murky along the edges of the lake. This is the late summer bloom, close to the surface, rich and mysterious.
A huge fish hangs suspended in a grey-green clearing. I sit very still on the bank and watch him, faintly his tail sways, I think I see an eyeball swivel.
I blink, and he is gone.
A massive creature, he manipulates water to envelope and hide him.
The faintest wisp of stirred up silt remains for a second and then drifts away to belie his ever being there.

This week was heavy, and awkward and slow. I have this stage, paused between jobs, when I get crabby and frustrated and bleak. I have work (yes, I am grateful) but no pressure and the lack thereof retards me so I drift pendulous and heavy through my days, wanting to be productive but spending more time suspended. Thoughtful. Slow. Prone to existential examination which is neither healthy nor particularly interesting. I bore myself.
But unlike the butterfly, I know the jolt will come. I know if I hang out here too long I'll be in trouble. Like the fish I know this oasis of calm is encircled by the dark woods of the unknown and I shan't have too long to spend here. Like the dabchick I know I will soon be swimming fast to get my head back above water, back into safer territory.

And when that happens this week of disquiet will fade and disperse into my life and just be that one moment, when I was suspended, before action and movement and change.

won't ever happen

We found a video clip on an old phone of Frieda, soft-faced and blonde curls, age 6, her voice so different, thicker - pre-tonsillectomy -  'I pinkie swear I'll never twerk.'

Stella, regularly, 'I'll never leave home, I'll live with you until I die Mummy. Or until you die, whichever happens first.' Her eyes become solemn.
She thinks a lot about death this one.

Overheard today: 'I will never, ever drink coffee.'

We've thought for months: 'Trump will never become president.'

25 things about right now (including 3/5).

1. 3/5 didn't kill me, and it sure as hell didn't make me stronger. But it's done.
2. I hired an au pair.
3. I fired an au pair.
4. Life is too short for my kids to be unhappy. Especially not in the summer holidays.
5. Technically I have 2 days left of work, but I'm done.
6. So, so over it.
7. The big push tomorrow, the big 'putting to bed' of two, massive, growing projects until the new year.
8. The goal: out of office messages on the four different email addresses I'm managing - turn off push to phone for emails - no data use, just surfing on the home wi-fi. That's as off the grid as I can go.
9. And as I'm sizzling right in the middle of the effing grid right now, that's pretty far off.
10. I'm not sure I can do it in one day ...
11. I read this, and it reminded me to be wary of this in 2016.
12. I've developed a strategy, which presently puts me in exactly the same place I was this time last year - working hard, playing hard, pushing it. This year I'm working hard, playing hard, pushing it.

13. 3 nights on the jol last week: Thursday, Friday, Saturday - girls, girls, girls, wine, books, gifts, kids, food, clothes-swaps, G'nT's, laughing and food, and so much dancing.
14. And for 3 nights in a row I had some version of this conversation: 40 is fucking great. It really is.
15. But ja, burnout - let's not do that again.

16. Standing on the lawn in the dark with some mates, watching Kid TV.
17. TWO toad encounters in one evening and I didn't freak out! This is monumental.
18. Christmas started today. A family brunch as various people will be travelling over Christmas. (By people I mean my brothers, and by travelling I mean Thailand and Chile respectively. Bastards.)
19. We've gotten into the vibe at home too, in a nice low-key way. Mid-November. I thought this year I might just put those Christmas books out in a basket with the Xmas tree, but almost the next day Stella asked, with a sparkle in her eye, 'Are we going to open the Christmas books again Mum?'.
20. 'Of course my angel.'

21. We had 5 little friends staying over last night for the 'Slumber Party' the girls have been asking to have for weeks now.
22. My daughters' friends are becoming real people in my life - showing distinctive signs of the women they will become - I'm really enjoying it.
23. I was in a friend's teenage daughter's bedroom recently and I suddenly got so excited: teenage girl bedrooms - they are murky and marvelous, and I have two to look forward to! Secretly I still miss mine.
24. The last push - I'm going to whack it in 24 hours. I need to be on holiday. I. Must. Gather. Strength. for next year.

25. Must remain unfuckablewith.

the lurking disquiet

SCENE IN CREEPY MOVIE: heroine breathes a sigh of relief, puts weapon down on hall table and leaves room.

Camera lingers on weapon for a couple of seconds longer.

Not subtle message to audience: she shouldn't have done that.

SCENE IN CREEPY MOVIE #2: hero closes door and goes to bed.

Camera lingers on unlatched lock for a couple of seconds longer.

Not subtle message to audience: he should've locked that.

SCENE IRL: person leaves home to go and buy groceries. Gets to checkout, finds she doesn't have wallet.

Minds eye lingers on wallet lying on desk at home.

Not subtle message to self: asshole.

We've all done it right?

As mentioned I'm working 3 events. I have no formal childcare. The plates spinning above me are many and varied.

It all seems under control at present. Shaky, but under control.

But each day I imagine that loaded gun, that unlocked door, that forgotten detail lurking in a sent mail, in a note taken and then forgotten, in a commitment made but not recorded.

The potential for fuck up is huge here.

I hope that when I look back at the movie of these busy weeks I won't recognise the shot that was the harbinger of doom - the lingering gaze on that incorrect detail in black and white, that oversight, that one wrong digit in some VIP's flight number ...

I'm not a religious person, but if someone were to tell me right now of a God of Lists I might just have to revise that.

Because god, lists are currently my religion.

not toadally, but nearly ...

I've spoken about my bufonophobia before (possibly at length), and I posted about finally taking matters in hand and seeking professional help.

That was in September last year, but I only managed a couple of sessions with him until he went on leave, and then it was the Christmas holidays and then I tore that ankle ligament and couldn't drive for a number of weeks and then, then it was autumn again and the toads went back into hibernation and the issue became less pressing.

So it was with some apprehension this last spring that I approached Toad Season.

First we heard them - the little fuckers were literally at it all night. Mating, spawning, fighting for new territories.
We didn't see them really, but my goodness they made a lot of noise.
Husband would glance apprehensively at me across the room.
'They're really going for it this year,' he'd say.
'Verging on extinction my ass.' I'd retort. Nervously.

Then one day, in the middle of the afternoon, the puppy dug one out of its daytime slumber and BEHEADED it on the lawn.
Yup, headless toad on my lawn in broad daylight.
The phobia walls came closing in, and I'm not proud, but I had to get my 4 year old to go out there and put a bucket over it while I cowered in the doorway battling to sound calm and encouraging.

Back to the shrink I wondered?

But then I started thinking about what he'd said about that switch in my brain. The one that instantly links the sight of toads to heightened adrenalin and anxiety.
I decided that instead of focusing on the toad, I'd try and manage that switch.

And get this you guys, I think it's working.

I've gotten so that I can see one without breaking out in a sweat. I can be on the stoop and see one on the lawn and just stand still while Husband removes it - not rush away through the house slamming doors behind me as I go.

Last evening I saw one on the lawn and later, while seeing my brother and his wife out I saw another under their car.
I closed the gate, glanced left and saw a third in the shadows.

No nausea, no sweats, no racing heart.
I'm not going to pick one up and test the prince theory or anything, but I think I'm starting to flip that switch. I think I'm starting to beat this thing.

No pictures with this post for um, obvious reasons.

halloween grinch

I just ... don't really like Halloween.

Most of my reasons place me firmly in the 'old fart' camp, but strangely I'm okay with that.

1. Really? Since when is Halloween a thing?
It wasn't when I was a kid, or even a young adult, or even a not-so-young adult, but gradually the long arm of consumerism has elevated 31 Oct up out of the calendar and into a place in which money must be spent and effort made and something celebrated.
Oh no wait, nothing gets celebrated, except by the manufacturers of candy and fake blood - they're having a lovely time.

2. The candy is gross.
I'm not a sugar nazi. I have a firm suspicion that my youngest (she of the remarkably sweet tooth of course) should probably not eat too much of it, I suspect it makes her bonkers, but I'm not proactive enough to try and ban it and I think I have a pretty standard policy on sugar consumption (ie not enough to ruin dinner and/or make you puke), but I don't like shit sweets.
And because everyone's compelled to buy so much of it to hand out on Halloween, there's usually a lot of shit, fake, disgusting plastic-masquerading-as-candy candy.

3. Scary is not cool.
We live in a country, nay a WORLD that is completely and utterly terrifying on a daily basis. Scary lost its cool in my book a long time ago. Round about when I become an old fart probably.
Ditto: wounds, blood, violent deaths, embracing the dark side, jokes about Ebola, weaponry of any kind.

4. Entitlement is unattractive.
Already our kids, all of our kids, even the really nice ones, are becoming painful about expecting Christmas presents, birthday parties, chocolate at Easter and cash from the Tooth Fairy. Now we're encouraging them to run around with buckets demanding sweets from people not even related to them or obliged to put out because of a complex social code of reciprocal present-giving.
Really?

5. It blows.
The wind that is. Late October in Cape Town is howling, throbbing, blasting South-Easter season. An invasive and spiteful wind that chills you to the bone, even when the sun shines, that blows grit into all your exposed orifices (and some that aren't), that ruins your hair and your picnic and your mood.
It always blows on Halloween. Really not a good time to be outside.

HOWEVER, the good news is: there is wine. Plenty of it.

And if you're lucky there are friends who aren't old farts and arrange fun and age-appropriate Halloween events in which you and your children can participate.
Friends who make snacks, and provide safe and welcoming environments out of the wind in which to eat those snacks, and drink that wine, while the sugar-fueled children run amok in the night.

My grinchiness abated .... did a slight encore to accompany my hangover the next morning, and then went back into hibernation until next year.

The Littlest Jaguar and SHOUTY MUM, appropriately wind-swept.

into the weekend ....

Midday Friday.

I've banged out 4 hours work without shifting in my seat once (that's a lie, I've gotten up to let at least 35 bull terriers and 27 cats in and out), and now I'm done.

I want to pack all these people in my computer away until Monday. I've done caring for them, organising them, resizing and reframing for them. I've put my thing down, flipped it, reversed it and now I'm outta here.

I turn around at look at my home. It desperately needs hoovering (Albert's still in Malawi!), decluttering. I need fresh flowers, clean laundry and maybe (but who am I kidding here), fewer bullie nose smears on the sliding doors.
Home needs some attention, some love, and it reciprocates so nicely if I give it some, making us all feel welcome and at peace.

It'll be a full weekend - 3 birthday celebrations! - a night out tonight, an art party tomorrow and a family lunch on Sunday, and I'm so looking forward to it.

Time with real people, talking in real life, looking into each others eyes. I need that after a week of screens, screens, screens.

Over and out.

paul auster day

I spent yesterday in bed with some weird lurgy. Possibly explains the grumpiness on Wednesday...

It was a public holiday so Husband was home, lucky him, and I could just rot quietly upstairs ... with Paul.

Sunset Park, not one I'd read before, and not going to be my new favourite (Oracle Night will be a tough one to oust), but god it was a treat to spend a day in his head, in a world of his creation.

Always, always, while reading Paul Auster I want to write while I'm reading. Makes no sense right? I don't want to copy his content at all, but the way he writes is so very inspiring that my fingertips tingle ... and then stop as soon as I put him down.
Second best would be to read him with a notebook on my knee, and jot down the thoughts that flow. But I'm too immersed, loving it too much, to step outside of the book even for a moment.

So it was a blessing really to be able to read this novel in one sitting lying. And I did!

I must get started on my 2014 book list ... more noise!

why can't we all just get along?

In the light of the atrocities happening in Uganda, and the recent distressing news from Arizona, picking up this in the waiting room at my GP's office was a real shocker.

What the actual fuck fuckitty fuck?

I calmly read it, photographed it, and folded it up under my arm when I went in to see the doctor. I asked her about it before we went any further with the consultation, it being a bit of a deal-breaker in the continuance of our until now valued doctor-patient relationship.
Thankfully she was as horrified as I, and clearly from her reaction already suspected which staff member was responsible for disseminating this filth.
Really left me with a horrid taste in my mouth (and not just from the antibiotics either).

On Monday I took the girls out for fish and chips and were seated behind a table of men, all speaking Afrikaans.
The girls don't provide much in the way of stimulating conversation while shoveling hot chips, so naturally I eavesdropped.
Turns out this bunch of friends were counselling one of their group as he prepared to come out to his family.

It was a wonderful conversation to listen in on. The young guy's angst was real, and that was sad, but his friends were amazing, offering such insightful and affectionate advice - telling bits of their own coming out stories and really working to help him overcome his fears.
There was some joking too, and teasing about the kind of questions he needed to prepare himself for:
'Who's the man and who's the wife?'
'When did you know?'
'Have you ever slept with a woman?'
The group all laughed wryly at these, and made comments on how straight people just don't get it do they?

We're all so different, negotiating our way through this crazy world. But we're all so similar too, we all just want to be happy, and accepted. Even poor old 'Janet' in the article above.
And we all need friends to help navigate our way along this journey.

I left feeling so happy that this guy had such good friends, whatever the reaction from his family will be, and saddened that 'Janet' has clearly distanced herself from hers, and maybe her chance to really be happy.

facing extinction with a muffin and a cup of tea

My eldest daughter (and so, by association, my youngest daughter), are all into dinosaurs at the moment. Their drawings are of diplodocus, their games about T-rex's and triceratops. When swimming, they are not dolphins but plesiosaurs and nothosaurs.
We talk about extinction. How the dinosaurs world radically changed, but also how (besides for that last big meteorite - bam!), it took hundreds of years to do so, and in fact the age of the dinosaur was just one in a series of prehistoric developmental stages of earth.

I believe in Earth. I have faith in the forces of nature and the slow and continuous progress of evolution. I believe that Earth has the bigger picture, that it teaches us lessons in transience and perspective and scale.

Climate change. The end of antibiotics. Anti-vaxxers. Avian flu. War. Super power ridiculousness. Civilian revolt. The death of the oceans.

Human beings are just one more developmental stage in the glorious story that is Earth. Our time will come to an end, to make way for another species or manifestation of ourselves, they will learn from our mistakes and benefit from our successes.
Just as we've learned from the dinosaurs not to be so ... big.

And when we're gone, the tides will keep on turning, the winds blowing and the earth shifting. Creatures will evolve and breed and die and mutate, and we're damn arrogant to think we've been the greatest of them all.

But right now I've got applesauce muffins in the oven, a lovely cup of tea, a weekend ahead with my beloveds, a party tonight to celebrate the current clean bill of health of this friend.
And all that is pretty damn great.

I'd call it 'subtweet' but the person I'm referring to isn't reading.

Man sits down at a bar. Small voice says, 'Nice shirt.'
Man looks around confused, catches the barman's eye who indicates with his head, 'It's the nuts,' he says, 'They're complimentary.'

Drum roll ...

The ability to take a compliment has become one of my measures of a person. The manner in which one receives a reasonable compliment speaks to your confidence, how comfortable you are in your skin or your stage of life - take it well and you're my kind of person.

I'm no gusher. If I tell you I like your laugh, your house, your hair or your mind, if I compliment your kids, your style, your ass or your driving skills, I'm being really sincere.

So it bugs me when people - adults - are too self-deprecating to take a compliment. Specifically people who have beautiful homes, good jobs, healthy families and the wherewithal to serve bloody good champagne.
I know that everyone has shit, I know that seemingly perfect lives can be deeply flawed, I know that people are not always who they seem.
But acknowledge your privilege. Count your blessings. Have the grace to take a good compliment on the chin.

Your hair looks amazing!

f**king with my brain

I saw a clinic psychologist this morning. Someone who specializes in cognitive psych. It was somewhat reassuring to hear him say he's not really interested in my childhood, my history, my inter-personal relationships.
What interests him, is the neuron reactors in my brain. Specifically the ones which link toads to my adrenal glands.

Like Pavlov's dog, learnt behaviour links parts of your brain which weren't original joined. Bell = saliva. Toad = freak the fuck out.

And apparently, according to my guy Larry with his slow speech and his bright intense eyes and the somewhat off-putting wet corners of his mouth and completely refreshing ability (especially for a man of his years in front of a 'young-ish' woman) to use fuck in a sentence within the first 15 minutes (he was quoting someone but still I loved it), we can trick my brain into releasing that link.

We're on a 6 session strategy (after that, if I'm not 'cured', he carries on treating me for free), it seems a bizarre thing to spend money on. But we spent a whole lot more than that on this magnificent house on the lake, and I'm damned if I'm going to cloud my summers with fear and anxiety.
It's just not practical to have to drink 2 glasses of wine before I'll go out on the lawn after dark. It's time-consuming to have to send the dog out to sniff around the stoep before I'll step outside at night. It's just plain ridiculous to leave our outside workroom standing open all night because I forgot to go out and lock it up before dusk.

Larry and me, we're going to fix this thing.

Completely unrelated picture of a completely different creature. These ones I love.

pre-menstrual

Full and tender, I carry this cup from room to room. Nothing must jar it.

Not the indignant shriek of a child, not a stubbed toe, not the last drop of milk in the house one drop too little for my tea.
Not a dog underfoot or a page printed skew or a hair in my shirt tickling me.

Sometimes it's a heavy chalice, set with jewels and laden with images of womyn, carved with stories of childbirth and fecundity throughout the ages.
Other months it's as inconsequential and irritating as a discarded styrofoam cup on the side of the road.

But when it's brimming, it must be carried with two hands and a studied frown. Nothing else must be poured into it.

Not a concern for the future, not someone else's bad luck, not a newspaper headline which brings tears and the perilous danger of giving a fuck.

This cup must be balanced and managed and held, until it is ready. And then in a wave of relief and blood, I can put it down and get on with my life.