Tales of two cities.

Disclaimer: It may appear that I am a loser expat who harps on about South Africa all the time, and only reads South African stuff. This is not true. I read everything I can get my hands on. I even even (and you can tell this to your friends) once read twenty pages of James Joyce's Ulysses. Okay, maybe fifteen. Fifteen whole pages of garbled nonsense. I cannot tell you what it was about, as much of it was in foreign languages anyway, but I persevered for that long. And he was Irish, see?

It just so happened that recently I read two books by South African women roughly the same age as me, both of whom also happen to blog, and both of whose blogs I read regularly. The books are: Strange Nervous Laughter by Bridget McNulty and Mushy Peas on Toast by Mushy Peas on Toast, aka Laurian Clemence.

This is awesome in so many ways. Even though I haven't met these women, I feel I know their blog personas at least. And they are my age and South African and they have made it in the big world of writing. And that inspires me no end.

And it is so much fun reading novels set in the country you are from. There is not a huge abundance of South African fiction out there. Strange Nervous Laughter is set in my hometown of Durban, and it is a novelty to be reading about familiar landmarks as the backdrop to a story. Even Sunrise Chip n Cheese aka Johnnies rotis makes it in there. Legend. I have fond memories of forcing their rotis down my throat and then trying to forget I ever did. They must be the South African equivalent of Discworld's Cut Me Own Throat Dibbler and his "sausages inna bun".

I digress. The novels are good too. Strange Nervous Laughter by Bridget McNulty has been out for a while, but I only read it last month. It is indeed full of strange characters with unusual abilities, brought together during one of Durban's hottest summers. One character can speak Whale, another can hear death. Another discovers a hidden talent for motivational speaking.

Anyone who has experienced a humid Durban summer knows that at the point at which your head goes all fuzzy and your limbs are fluid, well, anything can happen. A person can break the World record for eating exclusively green food, and not only that, he can attract a beautiful woman who wouldn't usually look at him twice. And more importantly, he can keep that attraction alive.

Then there is Mushy Peas on Toast, by Laurian Peas O' Toast Clemence. This book is hilarious and quirky, much like Peas herself. She chronicles the adventures of a newly single girl in Jozi, the city of gold; a girl with a penchant for Norwegian salmon and Lionel Richie. A girl who makes prospective boyfriends pass the guinea pig test:

"Randy is just a laid back, happy guy, who I can't help but adore. Take for example when I first introduced him to my pet guinea pig. Mason-Rodney took to him just like that, which rarely happens, as Mason-Rodney is very picky." (p76).

If you read Peas's blog and find her unique take on life amusing, you will love her book. She must be one of the funniest South Africans out there at the moment.

If you are not South African, that should not stop you from reading these novels. They are both about love, and love is universal. Not so universal are the ways in which the various characters choose to deal with love, guinea pig or no.

Just remember: if you do read them, South Africa is not a country invaded by weird androids from the future. "Robots" is just the name we give to traffic lights. Ask not why. Just smile and nod and remember, we spent a lot of time in virtual isolation from the rest of the world.

Picture Devon

Rox tagged me to find the 6th photo in the 6th file in my My Picture folder and to post it and explain it.

I cheated a bit, because the 6th file in my My Pictures folder is actually not a photo file at all (no, it is not porn ok? It is random crap I tried to make with Photoshop this one time. With no nudity involved whatsoever). 

So here is the 6th photo from the 7th folder.

This is Dartmoor in Devon. We drove down there for the weekend last year. Sheesh, check out that amazing blue sky. See, they happen in England too (I need to remind myself). Boy do I long for a sky like that now.

BFG was of course hunting for boulders to climb. I was broken at this stage and so not climbing. The rocks there are beautiful but very odd looking. They basically look like huge mounds of cow poo. They are all blobby and, well, splatty. 

How appropriate then that the place was full of cows, doing their thing in miniature all over the place. Don't you think it looks like this coobeastie just finished doing its business and the result is that significant mound emanating from its rear?

Talk to the cactus.

A cactus disguised as a pineapple.

I am such an angry bunny right now. Why, why? This is so not me. It is not even hormonal.

I am usually the most passive, easy going person on the planet. And of course because I am polite and repressed I am not taking the anger out on anyone. But this is probably a good thing, because there is no specific target. I am just generally angry.

I let people take too much from me. I let people walk all over me. Because I am weak, but also because I expect and take very little from others and I assume that people all behave like me. FAIL.

I have very little to give, emotionally. I am a small person with small reserves, but I am open and certain people tend to take and take until there is nothing left and then I crack and go beserk.

I just have no life skills.

Also I am angry about being South African right now. For some reason it is hacking me off. I know this is irrational, and some would argue that I am not even one anymore. Whatever. Tell that to the visa people. It is just so much effort, emotionally and everythingly. I want to be something effortless.

French. There is something so unquestionable about being French. French people know who they are and how they fit into the world. And when they say "quoi?" it is as if they are questioning the very fabric of existence at a primordial level, not just the meaning of sandwiches. And the answer is always: "whatever is French".


Also I am just generally angry that my friends and relatives and random acquaintances don't think exactly like me. So inconvenient. It means all this admin of arguing and going round in circles, and in the end I always cave in because it is not worth the hassle. So pay attention: I am right and you are wrong, and suck on that and don't argue and bow to the master ok?


Gah. I should become a hermit on a hill somewhere. Only people seeking my infinite wisdom shall be allowed to enter. I shall tell them about how to do a handspin and how to use a pipette and send them off to impress their friends.

And slowly, slowly, I shall start to talk to my cartoon turtle tattoo until he answers back.

His name is Norm, by the way.

No he didn't tell me, I am not on the hill yet.

Bob, my pet cactus told me. He is a bit of a prick, but to the point.

There was a Kugel, a Vaalie, and Van de Merwe...

The common or garden potato squid.

I think British people are easy to take the mickey out of. There are many eccentricisms and twee things going on on this island. But any immigrants be warned. Within about two years, the things that struck you as a bit nuts will start to make a lot more sense... you will see.

Personally I think the BFG has become more British than British people. He plots trends of the weather over 5 minute periods, gets incensed when people jump queues, finds it enthralling when a shop closes down and a new one moves in, and goes climbing alone at night, on self belay, in winter. In Leicestershire. He attaches bicycle lights to his legs in order to see. In a word, bonkers.


But South Africans are funny too (I am referring to people other than the BFG here, he is in a category of his own), although I find them more sensitive than Brits, on the whole. We have taken ourselves very seriously for too long. It is time to poke fun at ourselves:

• All my white Saffa friends in the UK live in absolute pigsties. First time away from the maid is a traumatic time indeed. They either live with the mess or resort to a Polish cleaning lady.
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• We have no idea how to cope with cold weather. Today BFG said to me, "gloves are so cool. Why have I never worn them before?" This after being here 5 years. He still wears shorts and strops until he gets chilblains.
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• We will reason that although South Africa has terrible social, economic and crime problems, the weather is great, and the country is beautiful and so it is all good. And somehow this makes absolute sense.
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• We have no idea how to operate petrol pumps.
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• We love to think that people are ignorant about Africa and get very excited when people show their ignorance. We live off these stories for years.
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• We love to say, "but that is the way it is in Africa. You have to be tough to survive." I don't know. I managed to be a woessy little girl and survive for 23 years. Maybe the 24th is the clincher.
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• We know who Steve Hofmeyer is and can still sleep at night.
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• White people always think the maid is stealing stuff from them. "I am sure there is less air in this room since Patricia cleaned..."
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• We eat pieces of raw deer like they are manna from heaven.
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• We still think Leon Schuster humour is the peak of comedy genius.

We are nutters too, we have to admit it. I reckon non-South Africans could do a better job at laughing at us than me. But we should laugh along with them, because well, we can be lekker snaaks sometimes, nê?

"And how big is your Hubby's extension?"

I hate to think of myself as a judgemental bitch, but I am one. The meanest and most unnecessary things pop into my mind sometimes, with very little prompting.

I think it all stems from my lack of people skills. I have been to three social gatherings in the last week and every time I meet new people, I find myself prejudging them on the first things they say. Sometimes this week I was thinking, if I hear one more thing about the property market or sizes of kitchens or how to reattach a radiator to the wall I may request a lobotomy. I will sell my frontal lobes on ebay. Pickled or sauteed, you choose.

But that is so bitchy. Certain people are at a certain stage in their lives where housey things are apparently very interesting and absorbing. I am just not at that stage. Maybe one day I will be at that stage, causing premature neuron death in someone else.

And please, homeowners and other lovers of domesticity out there, do not be offended. It's not you, it's me. I am the one with the problem here. I simply have refused to enter into the normality of life, and the reason these conversations bore me is because I honestly have no idea what people are talking about.

What is the best way to insulate the house, who did the wallpapering in your living room (why wallpaper? I will never understand this bizarre and disturbing phenomenon), when is the best time to buy, which neighbourhood is good, how much is a new digital tv.... I swear I had the urge to shout "penis!" during these very mature concersations just to see what would happen.

I know the answers to none of these questions. The BFG and I are definitely not a normal couple. We own no house. We live in a bachelor flat in a neighbourhood full of druglords and arsonists. We have no TV. I have never gardened, or shopped for a washing machine and I have no idea why people would build a fireplace in their house if they then attach an electric or gas fake fire to it. Why people, why?

The thing is, I don't think I am better than these people, (ok except momentarily in my initial bitchy phases) although their conversations do isolate and bore me. Instead I am wondering, what the hell went wrong in my upbringing? I am so out of it, so far removed from being a well adjusted member of society. I just have no clue about the daily workings of life. I live in my head and am in too deep to come back down.

I accept I am a freak of nature. But this makes interacting with normal society quite painful. I miss university days when you were assured of meeting other freaks and were able to fit into your own feak microcosm and pretend you were normal.

Feel free to point me out when you hear me discussing floor tiles and loft extensions. I am sure it will happen one day. I know I should grow up and be serious and behave like an adult, preferably before I turn 30.

PENIS!

I sea.

Jeebus creebus my blogability has dried up. I have nothing. Nothing at all. I am scraping the barrel here.

I feel that if I stop I will never start again so I am going to keep writing, no matter how crap and arb, and hope that this blankness passes. I have had the most hecticest week. Maybe it is that. I have little white strips swimming in front of my eyes.

So bear with me, like the most bearable bear you can think of. Winnie the pooh. He was quite bearable.

Do you have a place, be it a tree, a lake, a river, a park, a library, where you go when you feel sad, or happy or thoughtful or need to be alone?

I used to. My place was the sea. Any sea, but Cape Town beaches in particular. Whenever I felt I needed some quiet time and some recharging, I would catch a taxi to Camps Bay or Clifton and be near the sea. I love the sound, the power; and swimming in the waves is one of the most therapeutic things I know. Well, if you are swimming in Cape Town invigorating might be a better word; fuckingfreezing is another one. The icebergs tend to knock you out too. The Durban ocean is better for swimming in, perhaps. 

I always feel like my soul has been boosted when I am near the sea. I need one of those boosts right now. Unfortunately I live about as far away from the sea as you can get in the UK.  I go about 4 times a year if I am lucky. And waves are thin on the ground. 

I am scheming this weekend to buy a sun lamp and a CD with wave  and whale sounds and shit, and pay someone to walk up and down outside my flat shouting "Iiiiiice crrrrreams, grrrrrenadilllllla lollllies, coca cola". No need to simulate the icebergs though. There are plenty of those in the canal down the road.

I have posted this poem before, but I love it, so here it is again. I feel like this quite often lately

SEA

the sea is so heavy inside us

and i won’t sleep tonight.

i have buckets of memory in a jar

that i keep for days and nights like these.

© 2000, Mxolisi Nyezwa

From: Song Trials

Publisher: University of Natal Press (Gecko Poetry), South Africa

ISBN: 0 86980 9768

Can you make head or tail of this?

There once was a man. This man was walking in a valley. It is not our place to be asking why. While walking he stumbled upon a stone. He was clumsy that way. Under the stone he found a rolled up piece of paper tied with twine. He unrolled the paper and read:

Go to the river bank.

The man was curious and so kept walking towards the sound of rushing water, until he came to a rapidly flowing river. He was at the bank. What next? On the other side of the river he saw a twinkling light. He decided to try and cross the river. He could swim but the river current was very strong. He feared death by pounding, slicing, and drowning, possibly all at once.

But the light was shiny and the man was but a man with a weakness for shiny things. So in he went.

The water was very cold. He was pulled under many times. He tried swimming deeper to see if the current was weaker. It was not. Just as he was about to give up hope and dedicate his body as fish food, something hooked his arm and he was dragged to the surface.

The next thing he knew he was on the river bank. Somehow he had been pulled across. He looked around. There was a hut off in the distance.

He got up and made his way there, tripping frequently on stones. They had no messages for him, the uncooperative sods.

When he got to the hut he opened the door and inside there was an old man and that man was bald and the old man said:

You have come so far but for a twinkling that is a mere reflection of light. Is that which drives man to strive but an illusion, a trick of the light?

The other man replied:

You pulled me out of the river just to ask me that?

The old man said:

I need the answer.

The wet, valley traversing man said:

What the fuck dude. Just give me the shiny thing and quit asking all these fucking questions. I have to get back to my car. My wife will be freaking out. This is the longest piss break ever.

And the old man said:

Thanks. Just wanted to clear that up.

Then he pressed a button.

What the hell does all this mean? You tell me.

Random post

What a beautiful sunny day. 

The sky is blue instead of grey.

Even though I have not been outside,

the sight of the sun makes me feel so much lighter inside.

It may be the sign of a weak spirit, that my happiness depends upon the hue of the sky, 

                          but it does.

Sadly I really think I should be living in a country

where the appearance of the sun is a regular occurrence rather than a precious 

rarity.

                    Some day.

Free willy

Ah yes. When one has nothing to say, one can always trawl through one's past for slightly disturbing overshare.

I have a bit of a phobia of train underpasses or subways. This stems from when I lived in Cape Town and used to walk everywhere. The first reason is that I was mugged in a subway by two guys with knives. Back then I didn't even own a cellphone. They got away with 50 cents. They didn't seem to want Eminem though. Go figure.

The second reason is this. One time I was walking to the UCT Medical School through Mowbray train station. Hmm, need I say more? I was fearless back then and walked through the subway instead of going over the bridge.

The station is usually quite busy but this time I happened to be alone in the tunnel. Except for this guy. Who had his penis hanging out. It was huge. It was hard to miss, is all I am saying. He saw me and started walking towards me. I ran for my life. Luckily other people came into the subway at that time.

There are two explanations for this chain of events. One, the guy was taking a piss, and got a fright when I popped up, and tried to reassure me that he was not a crazed rapist-pervert-flasher. Two, he was a crazed rapist-pervert-flasher who wanted to use me for his twisted fantasies. I am going with number one. But dude. Ladies use subways too. Keep it in your pants.

Did I mention it was huge?

So that is why when I enter a subway, even today in the UK, my heart pounds, just a little. You never know what you can meat (and two veg) down there, be it Frankenwiener, or a trousersnake.

Free is a relative term. Can Willy not be free, but in a covered-up, I don't have to actually see your freedom with my own eyes kind of way?

Who tied a knot in my tongue?

I have a serious handicap. Well, I have many, but one of them is shyness.  I am an introvert and I hate it.

I dont think it is something I can change. I can make an effort to be more outgoing but the shyness won't go away.

When you get to know me I probably won't shut up. But when I meet new people I am a clam. I am totally socially inept in that way. I assume some people are just born to be introverts.

It sucks at work at the moment because everyone is new to me and my shyness is asserting itself big time. It can be such a barrier. I feel like a tongue-tied idiot.  It seems that words flow straight from my brain to my fingers and bypass my mouth completely. I can write perfectly coherently but half the time I can barely string a sentence together out loud.

If you put me together with an extrovert, things are great. Extroverts tend to bring out introverts naturally and easily. But if you put me together with another introvert that I don't know... oh god, the torture. My brain freezes, and, so I am assuming, does the brain of the other person. I sit there in a panic trying desperately to think of something to talk about. How about that weather? Oh crap I already talked about the weather! But there is a lot of weather, surely I can squeeze some more juice out of that one?

We usually end up in strained silence, with me still trying to think of something to say, and my brain in a total seizure. I just have no small talk inside of me.

Introverts tend to be discriminated against in life, obviously, because we don't assert ourselves. I definitely felt that my school teachers disliked us quieter folk, and they often  told us that to get anywhere in life we had to be more outgoing. Oh well, so much for that.

I used to think I should change, but now I can't be bothered. I like me, social retardedness and all. You just have to give me a chance. A friendship with me is like a good, smelly, mould infested cheese; it improves markedly with age.

Brain fog taboo

It's time I brought up an uncomfortable subject. Well, uncomfortable to some people, but not to me. I may never have another reader. Assuming I do in the first place.

Tell me, why is it not ok to talk about menstruation? Huh? Huh? All women go through it once a month, it is almost like breathing. But any mention of it causes most women to blush and most men to run for the hills.

I suffer from a variety of unpleasant side effects from this heinous monthly plague, but every three months or so I get brain fog. Brain fog is worse than all the others. It is like my brain is being pickled in pea soup. I had a bad case on Friday.

On those days I cannot access my brain. My thought processes, memories, motor functions, all shut down. And trying to get hold of them is like finding my way through thick fog. It is just awful. It is such a weird and powerless feeling.

These are the days at work when my sample tubes explode, or I set fire to things, or my experiments prove that dinosaurs evolved from a ham sandwich. On these days absolutely anything can happen. I have no control. In some ways it is quite liberating, because I just give up and enjoy the ride. But on the whole I think it would be best if I was banned from coming to work on those days. For the health of all those around me.

So wouldn't it be great if I could say to my boss, "Brain fog day! Mad hormones have hijacked my brain! You really don't want me at work today. The rest of the time I am perfectly capable and functioning (mostly) but trust me, today you want me to go home".

But no. If I tried to explain this to him he would die, or never look me in the eye again or just fire me and hire a man. And that is just so dumb.

I spent the whole of Friday going "What? He said something.... jam. Did he say jam? No... ham... spam... exam? Oh. Leaf. He said leaf. And a leaf is what, exactly?"


I should have been somewhere safe, a padded cell perhaps. But instead I conducted actual experiments requiring actual thought power, and I am sure those results shall tell me that the moon is made of Cheddar fleas.

I also spent a good few minutes trying to put my shoe on the wrong foot. My friend just laughed and put my brain fog down to the weather. "We all get it some times."

No. No. It is not the freaking weather. I would love to just say to him that it is caused by hormone frenzy, and I am not usually such an idiot. But again, he would be embarrased and uncomfortable and it is not fair for me to put him in that position so I just gave up.

The plus side to my brain fog is that it acts as a happy drug. I was giggling manically on the train because... wait for it... we were delayed. It seemed funny at the time.

We are all a bunch of sillies and woesies. We are the ones to make a subject taboo. We can break it. And get days off work for pea soup brain. It is in the best interests of all of us.

So. Is anyone still out there? Will any male read my blog again? I'm sorry. I won't attempt such a bloody uncomfortable topic any time soon. Narf.

I am a Twitter twit

Gah. I have signed up to Twitter twice in the past, and each time I was left thinking, AND? Now what? What the hell is the point?  And anyway, I spend obscene amounts of time on the internet as it is, do I really need to find a way to use up even more?

But Facebook is so last season and Twitter is the new cool thing. Well, actually it is probably way past cool and on its way out, but that is the time when I usually decide I like things.

You know lava lamps? How they were cool in the 60's? And then they had that revival in the 90's? And then you only saw them in random shops selling dragon fountains and fake flowers? Well I got a lava lamp for Christmas this year and I freaking love it. I have always wanted one and I don't care if they are random store rejects. 

So back to Twitter. I am going to give it one last bash. Everybody who is cool and everybody who just "is", is on Twitter. And I am a sheeple and I want to become a tweeple so could some kind person please explain the point of Twitter to me? 

And could all cool people or people who think I am cool or any random bergie who wants to, please tell me how to find you and what I must do next?

I am a lost little sheeple looking for some guidance out of the rocky ravine that is my ignorance. Please shepherd me to wisdom. Or to a mental facility. Whichever you feel is more appropriate.