OYSTERHOOD is reclusiveness or solitude, or an overwhelming desire to stay at home.

— @HaggardHawks

Grief. Belinda Mountain articulated precisely what I have been feeling in this wonderful piece of writing:

“Grieving Lost Things”

Quite a long time ago, I read one of those life-changing books about TCKs (third-culture-kids). I could identify so well, it was shocking. Suddenly, most of my experiences as a refugee child made sense. It was a revelation, a homecoming like no other. I felt understood, no longer alone. There were millions of people like me out there. I was ‘normal’.

In the last few days, I have been thinking about one particular aspect of that experience: that we were not allowed to grieve “lost things”. During those four migratory years spent in different refugee camps and then homes that we carved out for ourselves as a family, there was so much loss – of places, people, institutions, languages, selves – that it was nearly impossible to count. I don’t remember how many schools I went to during that time. I don’t allow myself to remember most people I had to abandon without even saying goodbye. One, two, many. I became afraid of making friends because I knew that I would have to move on and leave them behind. But because it was all part of a necessary, a good, project that we all endorsed as a family – our attempt at a better life – it was nearly impossible to voice pain. The accepted attitude was to get on with it. And we did, brilliantly so. In the end, we found the Holy Grail, the Better Life. And I am infinitely grateful. But when I’d read about the need of TCKs to grieve for the people and things they lose along the way, to have rituals to acknowledge the loss and the pain that accompanies these losses, I thought to myself: IF ONLY. I just wept most nights in secret into my pillow before sleep; and when I cried at school, I told concerned witnesses that it was my “allergies”.

I had become allergic to loss.

I think I still might be allergic to loss. I know very well how to “get on with it”, despite everything, always. It often bothers me that I simply cannot fall apart. There is a survivor’s instinct in there somewhere that refuses to give up, ever. I learned how to do it as a ten-year-old and the lessons have stood me in good stead over the past thirty-three years. But after André’s death, I also learned that there is just so much that one can take before the abyss arrives and you stands at its edge, contemplating how much can your sanity still manage before you take a step into the darkness. Something broke irrevocably five years ago, and it continued breaking for a long time afterwards into smaller, sharper pieces. The only way to survive the breaking was through articulating and acknowledging that I wasn’t coping, of allowing grief to take over – the howling, snot and despair of it all – and allowing other people to help me through listening, caring, being, understanding. Through rituals of grieving. I am so grateful for the people I have in my life, friends and family, who were not afraid to pick up the pieces, no matter how sharp and dangerous. To love me unconditionally.

Yesterday, my wise friend Erika wrote to me about the world “reopening again” in the near future, and that future feeling “like an eternity” away. She said: “We do know that it won’t be the same again, but we also know that the good things like love and friendship will.”

I am broken. And dealing with the uncertainty of the present – swinging between the loss of a way of life and gratitude that it isn’t much, much worse; and understanding that we need to do this because we are all in it together for a good cause – is dredging up the grief of a lifetime, most of it unacknowledged, and I know that this is not the time to cry alone in secret into my pillow, to pretend otherwise. This is the time for honesty and grief and rituals and love and friendship. The latter two will be the same no matter what. And they can hold one even if one is broken…

I had a huge gap in my sleep last night and watched CNN for a while before switching to a TV series I like and falling asleep again.

In the past, I’ve found it is impossible to call some people – evil people – by their names. It is almost as if by evoking their name you acknowledge that they might be human after all, but by calling them something else you reflect on their evildoing. I feel like that about the Tangerine Troll. And every time I see him on TV, I realise that we live in an Era of Gaslighting. You look at this mess and think: it just cannot be, it cannot be that this is our reality, that a psychopath of such calibre is in one of the most powerful positions in the world, at a time when we need compassionate human beings to guide us through the chaos of the present.

It is hard not to despair. To sleep through the nights.

Once I managed to fall asleep again, I dreamt that I said “good riddance” to an evil being I once knew. The moment I managed to get rid of the horror, it started raining soft cushions and teddy bears from the sky, and I ran around my garden trying to catch and hug them all. Yes, Dr Freud, I know.

It wasn’t an easy day. I read a bit, got up eventually, executed a few household chores, sat down to my computer to reply to the accumulated emails in the New Contrast‘s business manager inbox. How heartening that there are still people interested in taking out subscriptions, even now! Thank you. The André P. Brink Literary Trust has to deal with pirated copies of André’s books that are available on the internet in PDF form. Whenever I think of how little some people think of the work that goes into writing a book, I just want to shrivel up and continue writing for my drawer only… Karavan Press had another manuscript submission today – a lovely one I am very excited about, no matter how low I feel otherwise. I planned to write a review today, but managed only a few sentences. My spirits were broken by another list of lockdown books that people are reading with only one (out of several) titles by a local author. What are the chances of our survival without the support of local readers?

At the end of the day, there was only one thing to do: light a fire. Despite my dispiriting shopping excursion yesterday, I have a few nice things in the fridge (including chicken soup that I cooked yesterday to heal the soul) and new toilet paper! The fire itself was soothing. A steak, some red wine, a stunning sunset. Another day.

Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others. Stay at home.

OYSTERHOOD is reclusiveness or solitude, or an overwhelming desire to stay at home.

— @HaggardHawks

I am writing earlier than usual because there is little else that I can do right now, apart from wanting to crawl under my winter duvet and not get out until Day Twenty. Or Twenty-One.

Nineteen began with Wild Earth: a rare butterfly, baby elephants, and lionesses covered in blood after a kill. Coffee, some reading, a shower, a white lion on my lovely neighbours’ roof – spotted through my bathroom window.

I did something really stupid and clumsy last night: poured boiling water on my hand. It’s not bad, it could have been much, much worse, but it basically made my left hand super-sensitive to touch. Had to wash dishes this morning and myself under the shower with basically one hand only.

For many years now, I have had a packet of Star Wars plasters in my first aid box. I hardly ever need them for real injuries, and they would definitely not be of any help with the burn on my hand; they are solely there for invisible wounds. Sometimes it helps just to put on a Star Wars plaster anywhere on your body to know that the Force is with you and that all will be well in the end, one day, in a galaxy far, far away.

Two pieces of writing moved me deeply this morning:

and

“Our Own Small Version of Paradise” by Richard Zimler

I feel honoured to call both these wonderful writers my friends. Reading their words today made me remember – again – what a treasure writing can be, every word a gift of solace and understanding.

I have been thinking about touch a lot since the beginning of the lockdown. It’s not pleasant, but not too difficult, to live without sex for a few weeks, especially if you know how to be creative about it, but to do without a loving touch, without hugs, without kisses – that’s tough. Please read how beautifully Paul writes about this absence in the lives of all of us who cannot be with the people we love.

Then, two quotes from Richard’s piece: “Any way that we can get through this crisis without hurting others or driving ourselves insane seems like a good solution to me.” And: “Heaven is a place where the most soft-spoken people win all the arguments.”

Like a gentle hug, the soft-spoken words of these writers wrap themselves around my soul and keep me safe. Thank you.

It might not have been a good idea to venture out into the world today to do my shopping for the rest of the lockdown while already feeling slightly vulnerable. But my list was ready and I just wanted to get it over with. I drove to the nearest (1.5km) small shopping centre that luckily also has a pet shop. It was wonderful to get into Topolino, but from the moment I left the house, I was apprehensive – the state of my nerves reminded me of facing a difficult conversation or having to pass an exam. I was nervous. A few cars were also on the road in my area, but no real traffic. I had to cross one big intersection, though, and there were three hawkers still selling their fruit and veggies. A traffic cop stood next to me at the red traffic light and then just drove on. I have never seen the parking lot of my small shopping centre so empty, nor have I ever been able to park so near its entrance; what surprised me the most was that there were still three parking attendants at hand, assisting shoppers. Surely the shopping centre could pay them to stay at home? There weren’t many shoppers there, and most were wearing masks, but there was very little respect for the need of physical distancing in the aisles. It took some time to find everything I needed and to manoeuvre around the other trolleys without making much contact. No problem in the queue, but just before me, I saw a nurse from a nearby hospital, with her face mask pulled down around her neck, rubbing her nose with her fingers while she was paying for her groceries at the counter. I was more worried for her than for myself. I left the centre with despair creeping into my heart. I wasn’t even able to enjoy the ride and the views on the way home. I was just extremely relieved to be back home, and I knew that only a crisis will make me leave it anytime soon.

Mozart in one of his nests this afternoon.

I unpacked, washing my hands a million times, my left hand burning like hell in the warm soapy water, but I didn’t care. Fuck dry April: I poured myself a beer and sat a long time with the Cats in the garden, realising – again – that this is going to be our new normal for a long, long time. And it’s only going to get worse.

Today, one of my small, but not irrelevant, income sources dried up. I was told that they would keep my texts on file and publish and pay for them when it was feasible again, but because the texts are book reviews of local titles I decided to give them away for free. It’s not even a drop in the ocean, it’s a speck of dust in the drop in the ocean, but right now I will do anything I can to keep the book industry going, somehow. I am healthy. I have a roof over my head. I am growing potatoes in my garden. There are new lemons on my lemon tree. The Cats can hunt. And I have enough booze to last me through several lockdowns (not even counting the white wine that I keep for my guests only, and you know what they say about desperate times…). Another promising author wants to publish with Karavan Press. And my friend Debbie sent me the most exquisite concept drawings for the cover of a book I hope to publish later this year. I cling to this hope.

Fortunately, the box of my Star Wars plasters is full.

Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others. Stay at home.

OYSTERHOOD is reclusiveness or solitude, or an overwhelming desire to stay at home.

— @HaggardHawks

My sunshine roses are as old as the lockdown; wilting, they remain beautiful.

Monday. I had a minute of infinite freedom in my street outside the property, staring up at Devil’s Peak, the sky above pale blue, a few white-grey clouds on the horizon, the street up and down empty. I took out the bin and listened. Once back inside, I heard someone walking down the street, searching the bins. A wall between us.

I managed once again not to watch the news, but tuned in to the Wild Earth live safari and found out a few facts about the bizarre sex life of spiders. Not sure that I wanted to know all the murderous details, and the vocabulary that goes with them… But it made me think of all the words and phrases that have become staple vocabulary for so many of us around the world: ‘lockdown’, ‘flatten the curve’, ‘social distancing’, to name the most obvious ones. And there are the less-known, lovely words like ‘self-islanding’ and ‘oysterhood’. A friend wrote to me the other day, addressing me as her ‘Favourite Oyster’. I do have the loveliest of friends.

I tweeted the other day that, when self-islanding, I want to be the Norwegian island of Ona and that ‘ona’ in Polish means ‘she’. Today, when I was drawing and looking up some birds in my guide book, I had coffee in my most precious mug. I brought it from the island of Ona, where it was made by a local pottery artists. I was looking up birds because there was one on safari I got a screenshot of, but not the name. I think it is the Lilac-breasted Roller, but my love will confirm when he reads this post.

Then, there was this beauty in my garden when I was out this afternoon, reading and drying my hair, and the Cats joined me for some sunbathing:

The Southern Boubou (I think), with her? (I think) rufous underparts – or underpants, as I like calling them – visiting my garden. I am completely in love with bird names. I mean: Boubou! Lilac-breasted Roller! One just has to love them. And I am still completely in awe of all birds, even the ones that are common to most others. The fact that I can recognise a few of them and name them gives me enormous joy.

Glinka was also up in the tree. Together with me, she has been following the Wild Earth safaris and wanted to be like the Kruger leopards, hanging out in trees, all cool, as if there wasn’t a Southern Boubou just above her head.

We also saw this majestic creature this morning: white lion with the bluest eyes. Uncanny, to say the least.

And here are my tabby lions, sunbathing this afternoon.

It was good to sit in the sun and read and think. My hair is getting greyer and greyer by the week. I am surprised that I haven’t gained any weight in the past eighteen days. I have been eating quite a lot, not really thinking about it. Carbs, fat? Who cares during the apocalypse? I am just glad that the food I got for the lockdown lasted well and only half a cucumber was wasted.

After reading Paige Nick’s column about booze in the Sunday Times this morning, I realised that I am not the only one who inspected her liqueur cabinet after the extension of the lockdown was announced. It was strangely reassuring to see all those lovely bottles and their possibilities, but after witnessing all the complaints about the alcohol shutdown for the duration of the lockdown, I actually thought to myself: maybe don’t drink any alcohol until the end of the month – a dry April, instead of a dry January? Even if there is no way I could possibly get through the alcohol in the house in seventeen days. I love my bubbly and I usually like a glass of red or two in the evening with my dinner and I will indulge during feasts with friends, but fortunately, I don’t HAVE to have alcohol, so why fuss about it? And remembering a stupid, embarrassing, even potentially dangerous ‘incident’ with a certain vodka bottle three years ago, I am acutely aware that I am not allowed to drink to dull any hurt, anger or fear. Back then, I was so full of pain and rage which I did not know how to express in the world, I directed it all inwards, and … well, let’s just say washing vomit out of my hair wasn’t pretty. I haven’t touched vodka ever since.

Today was Śmigus-dyngus and I ‘celebrated’ with my Mom and Krystian on Skype again.

This is the Easter e-card we got from our uncle this year. He is a poet and photographer and an all-round creative human being, so that’s his take on Easter 2020.

And this is the photograph that Krystian sent me this morning:

I just love the two eggs!

I managed to edit another short story today, one full of lekker humour and poignant observations. It did not need much work, just a gentle touch here and there. Editing requires a completely different reading and focus. I always want to go over the text again and again and channel the author’s own voice, make it the best that it can be without my own voice interfering. It is difficult to concentrate nowadays, but the story carried me along and I am so grateful to be able to work on the things I love.

This is the drawing that came to me today, birds-and-love-inspired.

Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others. Stay at home. Let your hair down…

OYSTERHOOD is reclusiveness or solitude, or an overwhelming desire to stay at home.

— @HaggardHawks

There are stories that prevail for millennia, like myths and legends. Like religious stories, which have shaped the lives of billions of people across time and continents. We are storytelling creatures. I grew up without religion, but found my own way into the Catholic Church when I was around eight. I was baptised, confirmed. I attended mass every Sunday and loved the ritual, the signing. I sinned mostly when confessing; I always felt a need to invent sins and lied about them. The storyteller breaking free. I lost my faith because some stories ceased to make sense. When I reflected for myself, the only world I could imagine was one of Everything Always. No beginning, just continuous transformations and manifestations of everything, always. I stopped believing in other stories and stopped going to church. It hurt me to realise that it wasn’t a place where I would ever hear the words, “In the name of the Mother, the Daughter and the Holy Muse.” But I feel that this is not a time to focus on the hurts of the past. We all know that we need to do better. We exist in a time of chaos, and many institutions, religious and secular, are stepping up to the challenge, are being the best that they can be, guiding us towards hope and light and togetherness. Even if only for a moment. Wrongdoings are not, and should not, be forgotten, but there is a time for justice and a time for overcoming. And I feel that we need to get to the other side of this by galvanising all the positive forces out there first, to overcome. And be the best that we can be. And then do even better.

Churches as architectural structures continue to fascinate me. As spaces, they bring me comfort and peace. I still occasionally enter churches and weep in corners until the world feels like a more bearable place. I dream of spending a night all alone in the middle of an empty church, in a warm bed and with silence all around me. I find comfort in rituals and traditions, especially around times like Easter, especially when the core of these traditions – the people I love – cannot be present.

Today, I had the need to be in this space, to listen to Italian, Latin and Greek words being spoken and sung in a place of beauty and worship, to fall back into a rhythm still encoded in my bones, to be part of a ritual, even if I no longer believe in its intended meaning. To listen to someone preach hope and togetherness and to guide us in confronting uncomfortable truths about the violence, inequality and intolerance that we allow to continue as part of our reality.

It’s nearly impossible to believe in men in power and in institutions of power – right now, ever – but unless we manage to reimagine the world and begin dreaming beyond the structures of power, we will have to proceed from within them and hope that they can be the best that they can be, right now, and after. We know all to well that if they don’t – if we don’t – we begin digging mass graves.

I found kindness and hope in the Pope’s words today, in the ritual and the blessings.

Who would have thought the human emptiness of such a space possible? And yet, listening and watching I did not feel alone. And it was easy to believe in miracles because nobody would have ever dared to predict such empty spaces, the calm, the light, the togetherness of hope. If I have faith, it is the one of believing in people. In our capacity for kindness.

The day began at 4am with rain pounding on my roof and me trying to imagine where the next leak would break through the ceiling. I slept again after a while. I refused to watch the news this morning. Maybe it was because my head was heavy. I checked the bottle of Pinot Noir, half of the wine was still in it, so I don’t know why the wine last night got to me so badly. With my heavy head, I watched the Wild Earth live safari and followed the morning rituals of this majestic creature:

My Mom phoned early and we had a long chat, promising to meet on Skype with Krystian later in the afternoon. I read in bed, made myself scrambled eggs for breakfast, had lots of coffee, eventually took a painkiller for the headache and then listened to the Holy Father.

My own father phoned in the early afternoon to wish me Happy Easter. His business is non-essential, so he is gardening and staying at home. It reassured me that he is taking the situation very seriously.

I decided to put on a pretty dress and my witch’s hat today and do the garden loop walk, with Smarties as rewards again.

Are there always seventeen Smarties in one of these small packets? What about colour distribution pro packet? Today, like last time, I left the two yellow ones for last.

I worked for a little while after the walk and then my friend Michela phoned from a bench in a small park outside her home in Vienna. She was basking in the sun, surrounded by the beauty of the European spring. Work continued until it was time to chat to my Mom again and Krystian connected us through a conference call. The lovely Verena was with him. We spoke mostly in German, but Verena is picking up many Polish words and it is wonderful to hear her use them in conversation.

When I told them about streaming the mass from the Vatican earlier in the day, Krystian commented: “As long as you were wearing your witch’s hat, that’s fine.” My brother, he knows me well.

My love and I also skyped tonight. And there were Easter greetings going back and forth between me and my family and friends across the globe all day long.

Karavan Press had a manuscript submission today that I have been anticipating for many months. There is hope in all of us.

An Easter Sunday filled with the voices of loved ones and with the cadences of ancient longings. The stories we tell ourselves to make sense of the world.

Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others. Stay at home.

OYSTERHOOD is reclusiveness or solitude, or an overwhelming desire to stay at home.

— @HaggardHawks

You know how some people enter your life, bringing a whole heart full of gifts with them? Like their love, wisdom and passions? I have been very fortunate to have many such people in my life. And my partner is one of them. Among all the many gifts he has brought into my life are birds. He taught me how to see them. So this morning, when I was watching the Wild Earth live safari feed again and a Bennett’s Woodpecker was spotted, a new bird for me, I was reminded of all the woodpeckers we saw together in the Białowieża Forest two years ago when we travelled to Poland. And this made me happy.

After the live safair and an unhealthy dose of international news, I decided to go outside, coffee mug in hand, and despite misty and cold weather, and to have a garden safari of my own. Glinka accompanied me, of course.

We said hello to the spiders and inspected our coriander/catnip crop (still not sure which is the one growing; no sign of the other yet, so hard to decide), and saw for the first time the exquisite flowers our delicate ferns have, and smiled at the ‘bottle-cleaner’ tree next to the garden path and smelled the incredible scent of lemon blossoms near the pool. It was all good until it started drizzling and we thought that it would be better to go inside, make more coffee and read in a warm bed.

Last night, after writing the Oysterhood blog post, I also wrote one for Karavan Press: “Lockdown musings on survival” – the topic has been on my mind from the moment I took the tough decision to cancel a literary event (the celebration of the Philida Literary Award) I was organising even before the President announced the state of disaster. I had been watching what was happening around the world, and knew roughly what to expect, so I decided to call it rather early. And even though I had no idea exactly what would follow, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. I still have no idea what the future holds, but writing my Oysterhood and Karavan Press blog posts yesterday, I knew that I would want to share one more Oudrif photograph with you today:

We have seen water cascading over the ancient stone formations in this spot near our cottage at Oudrif only once. I was mesmerised. This is where the idea for the quote – “Ancient paths. New literary journeys.” – comes from. A place of wonder and sustaining memories. And I was thinking about it again this morning when I spotted another picture of a lockdown book pile posted on social media. I don’t want to point fingers at the specific post because it was not the first of its kind that I have seen in the last two weeks. But it seems that I am not alone in my observations because when I tweeted about it, my comment found resonance with quite a few readers:

“There’s a justified call out for support of local industries now, including the local book industry, but many pictures I see of lockdown book piles on social media, also by prominent booksellers, have very few or none local titles in them. More local lockdown book piles please!”

I am the last person who would want to restrict anybody’s reading interests. I read as widely as I possibly can. But we find ourselves in a crisis that is unlike any other we have experienced during my generation’s lifetime. And there is only one way we are going to make it semi-intact beyond the pandemic: together. As I wrote last night on the other blog, we need to understand our own expectations and responsibilities right now. If we want the local publishing industry to survive, we have to support it in any way we possibly can, even if it is just by posting a picture of a lockdown pile of books that says “I believe in our local authors and I love reading them – thank you for writing the great books that you do”.

After all the online reading and watching, it was time for my Easter egg breakfast and more coffee and a new local book: Leaving Word by Steven Boykey Sidley. I started reading it the first time quite a while ago, but then, when I was about forty pages in and had to read another book quickly, one of my friends said that she was desperate to read Leaving Word and went off with my copy. Luckily, just before the lockdown, I was sent another copy for reviewing and could start on it again. It’s a bit weird reading about a character named Karina when you know that she has that name, if nothing else, from you (Steven told me that my name inspired the name of the character when I tweeted about it still thinking it a coincidence – but it wasn’t). How cool is that!? I promise this will not influence how I feel about the book. I can be ruthlessly objective like that; you have to be when half of the books you read and review are written by people you know personally.

At about 1pm, I felt that it was time to get up, shower, get dressed and do stuff. So I did. I cooked. There were a few strange things hanging around my fridge without a real purpose and I decided to put them all together into a dish. No recipe, just wild cooking while I was listening to the wonderful Sara-Jayne Makwala King on CapeTalk. Towards the end of the show, she was contemplating buying the modest new house a real estate agent was offering to her – for only R92 million. “I’ll take two, please,” she said, and I had a good laugh. I used to listen to Sara-Jayne’s voice while falling asleep when she was on the radio late at night, and it always soothed me, but now it is lovely to hear her during the weekend. She is a bloody good writer, too. But anyone who has read her knows that. If you haven’t, what are you waiting for?

While my food was in the oven, I decided to do a little drawing again, this time for Andy, who kindly commented on my previous drawing, and for Melissa, because I always think of the two of you together when I think about surfing. So here is an Easter 2020 Karina original for all the lovely surfers I know:

Andy, if you are reading this, I can’t wait to read your latest book. I don’t surf, but I love your books about surfing. And Melissa, I don’t know whether Karavan Press will it make through all of this for sure, but I can’t wait to read your third novel and to publish it. You and I have made the seemingly impossible happen before – I think we can do it again!

After lunch, I had my coffee on the stoep and Glinka wanted to be in the picture. The sun was shining a little bit, but it was still quite cool, so I wrapped myself in a blanket and enjoyed the light. Then it was time to write again: another review that will take a little bit longer than usual, because there are books that need a while to think about before one can do them justice.

My love and I usually talk on the phone when we can’t see each other, but we decided to have a dinner Skype date tonight. For the occasion, I opened a bottle that I wasn’t too convinced about, but one that I knew he would have encouraged me to give it a try, and I was pleasantly surprised. He does know his wines, too! I always think of Pinot Noir as a wannabe white wine, and I like my wines unequivocally red, but I loved this one from the very first sip.

dav

I hear that many relationships are being tested during these difficult times. In this respect, I don’t feel tested at all. I had done some really stupid, irresponsible, even dangerous, things in the past, but I can no longer imagine being in a relationship that could not deal with the present crisis.

What I do find difficult to deal with – and it was something that we spoke about during our Skype dinner – is understanding what is actually happening around the world right now. I find myself researching the population numbers of the places I had lived in and comparing them to death tolls in different countries. It is the only way I can comprehend what is happening, by imagining a whole of Salzburg, or Jelenia Góra, or Aberystwyth, or Warwick, NY, disappearing. It frightens me to such an extent that even though I could theoretically go out to get groceries, I feel paralysed. I had planned for three weeks of lockdown, so I am still okay for a few days, but I will have to go out at least once more, for myself and the my Furry Ones, until the end of the month, yet I can’t just simply go out without a plan. I am making a list and making sure that I don’t forget anything essential. I simply don’t want to be like any of the characters in the story I recently wrote for the Sunday Times. Any of those roles freaks me out.

Today, I would like to end with a shout out for another Twitter account that I have been following for as long as I can remember, one that always makes me smile: Damien Kempf. Senior lecturer in Medieval History at a university in the UK, Damien Kempf posts pictures of figures he finds in medieval manuscripts, adding the wittiest comments to them.

This is my all-time favourite image:

And inspired by the medieval delights, I recently looked up a replica I have of The Sarajevo Haggadah to see what treasures are hiding in there. There are many, but this one immediately reminded me of the brilliant mansplainer tweet Damien posted on his timeline a while ago.

Damien has a new book coming out soon and I can’t wait to see/read it when books can travel across continents again. Until then, let us all try to make one another smile in whichever way we can, so that none of us feels that we are alone in this madness.

Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others. Stay at home.

PS It is raining in Cape Town, there is a cat on my lap while I am writing, and the Pinot Noir is still good.

OYSTERHOOD is reclusiveness or solitude, or an overwhelming desire to stay at home.

— @HaggardHawks

When the President tells the nation you call home “we dare not fail”, you pull up your socks and get on with it. Talking on the phone to Mom and to my love last night helped, too. I did take something to assist in my sleep and the night passed in peace. But it took me a while to open my eyes and get coffee going in the morning after listening to the news from around the world. I am equally in awe at what we are capable of as humans in a moment of crisis and appalled at what some of us, especially some so-called leaders, are doing to crush that incredible drive to survive, do better, be kinder. If there ever was a time to allow logic, kindness and empathy to prevail – it is NOW. Let’s not allow psychopaths to thrive. They don’t thrive where transparency and accountability are present, where people are orientated towards communal rather than individual goals. And we have a goal as a global community right now that needs real leaders, and a lot of kindness from all of us… Mostly very simple kindness: staying at home.

Salieri and I spent the rest of the morning in bed, with coffee and breakfast and social media updates between the rest of the brilliant short stories in Keletso Mopai’s debut collection, If You Keep Digging. If you keep digging, you sometimes find diamonds, and this is a literary gem I am extremely happy to have discovered.

I discovered something – or rather someone – else in my kitchen today, and remembered being told that a praying mantis outside the house brings good luck, one inside the house brings bad luck… I try not to be superstitious, but it is harder than usual during this eerie time. I am surrounded by hundreds of lucky coins, so let’s hope there is an equilibrium of sorts in the house.

The weather forecast is threatening with colder and wetter days, so I wanted to use the opportunity to still bask in today’s sunshine and to have a swim. The air and the water were cooler – autumn was palpable in both – but I swam longer than usual, and then sunbathed with Glinka while reading and enjoying a beer. I never thought that a beer could become such a cherished possession. I had eight cans of beer in my fridge at the beginning of lockdown. Three remain. Probably worth gold right now. And I still had a chocolate from Krystian and Verena, an Austrian treat that was happily devoured today. Otherwise my meals were unfussy leftovers.

After the swimming and sunbathing I had a shower and washed my hair. I opened a new bar of soap yesterday, a magical one. When I smell it and close my eyes, it transports me to a different place – where I brought it from – within a split of a second: Oudrif.

All day long, I have been thinking about Oudrif because this is where we were supposed to be for Easter. Lying in the sun next to Glinka today, I thought again that we should have been there together, my partner and I and our friends, not in Cape Town in our separate homes taking care of our separate human and feline families. But then I thought, if we humans were in Oudrif right now, Glinka and Salieri and Mozart would have been in the care of a house- and catsitter, and I would not have been able to cuddle with Glinka all afternoon in sun. I want to be aware and grateful for these blessings. This present, here. It is not the Easter I’d imagined and it is human-lonely in a way that is difficult for me to cope with, but I am not alone. And I have my memories with me, all captured in something as simple as soap bubbles and their magical scent. When I close my eyes, this is what I see under the shower in our cottage at Oudrif. One hardly ever showers there alone…

Towards the end of last year, Getaway Magazine asked a few authors to write about their favourite travel destinations in Africa. I knew immediately which place I would write about… Here is the piece, which was published (sans most photographs) in the January issue of Getaway Magazine. I wrote it just before our last visit at the end of 2019.

OUDRIF

Oudrif. Oudrif. Oudrif. A spell. A promise. Every time my partner John and I are about to embark on another trip to Oudrif we keep repeating the word to each other with longing. He had been visiting the straw bale cottages located in the Cederberg near Clanwilliam for a decade before we met, and it was one of the first places we travelled to together when we became a couple nearly three years ago. It is the only destination in South Africa we return to regularly, whenever we are desperate to get away from the perils of the everyday.

‘Our’ cosy cottage, the one the hosts Jeanine and Bill Mitchell always reserve for us, awaits at the end of a long and winding dirt road which leads through fynbos country to the banks of the Doring River where the lodge is perched, overlooking the unpredictable river bed, silent after periods of drought and burbling with delight after rainfalls. Cape leopards and aardvarks still roam in this landscape and the veld smells of earth, smoked honey and quiet content. The light is kind here, the peace absolute. No cell phone reception, no Wi-Fi, no worries. The isolation is perfect.

Each time, Jeanine and Bill greet us with ice-cold beers and welcoming smiles. Delicious food and wonderful stories follow. Their knowledge about the surroundings is spectacular and their environmental consciousness something to aspire to. The place is totally independent of the municipal electricity and water grids. Any negative environmental impact is kept to a minimum.

A mug of freshly brewed coffee on the stoep of our cottage gets us going every morning. After breakfast, there is the possibility of a walk. Whether it is to see the rock art sites nearby, or the Chandelier Lily in full bloom, or a flock of Speckled Mousebirds, the hikes are soul-restoring. All around rooibos is grown and every breath you take is infused with the typical, soothing scent of the tea bush. The hills of Oudrif speak of pre-historic times; each layer of dust and ochre records human activity and holds a different secret.

In the afternoons, after a light lunch, dry heat lures us back to bed and the setting sun invites for a swim in the rock pools of the Doring, usually full of balmy waters. The laziness of those tipsy hours of sleep, lounging about, sunbathing and playing cribbage is priceless. A well-curated library keeps readers happy.

Dinners are enjoyed in the company of fascinating, like-minded, solitude-seeking guests from around the world and end each day with laughter and stories exchanged around the communal table in the boma. In Polish, we speak of such secluded spots as ‘the places where the Devil says good night’. But Oudrif is paradise on earth, day and night. Late in the evening, solar-powered angel lights and the Milky Way guide us to our dreams.

A collection of heart-shaped stones of all sizes decorates the central dining area and all the cottages. The ones I found on our walks are beside my keyboard as I type and remind me of how my own heart refuses to leave Oudrif whenever it is time to go home. But at the time of writing, our next visit is only three weeks away and I whisper: Oudrif. Oudrif. Oudrif.

INFORMATION:

Website: http://oudrif.co.za/

Contact Bill or Jeanine Mitchell on (027) 482 2397 or e-mail them at oudrif@gmail.com for bookings.

Rates are all inclusive: Accommodation, meals, drinks and a guided walk.

Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others. Stay at home.

“We dare not fail.”

The heart-shaped stones are still next to my keyboard… Good night.

OYSTERHOOD is reclusiveness or solitude, or an overwhelming desire to stay at home.

— @HaggardHawks

All seemed to be going in the right direction. I slept. Had no nightmares that I could recall. Went on the morning safari with Wild Earth while having a cup of coffee. My own wildlife came to visit once I moved to the bed in the bedroom. Mozart is hanging around a lot more nowadays and has become his old affectionate self. Has there ever been a life without Cats? I realised recently that I have never lived longer with anyone outside my closest family than with Glinka, Salieri and Mozart. Twelve, thirteen and fourteen years respectively. And they still love me, unconditionally. How lucky can one be?

Today’s rather unconventional breakfast.

By now, anything goes when it comes to food.

But then the bell rang and it was my Dairy Doorman delivery, just in time for Easter. Fresh milk, honey, pies, and, most importantly: EGGS!

Free and happy as a bird indeed. My last two onions had to take off their clothes, because I immediately started colouring my Easter eggs in onion peels (an old family tradition).

Don’t they just look lovely?

I cooked, read, sunbathed, wrote, paid all my municipal and Telkom bills online (I usually take them to a shop to pay at a counter, so I had to figure this out for the first time ever), replied to emails, listened to the radio, and towards the end of the afternoon found a jar of Karoo peaches at the back of my kitchen cupboard. Now, one needs to understand: I and peaches have a long history of dislike. It’s a weird story from our refugee days. I can eat a fresh fruit but, processed in any way, it is not my jar of peach and hasn’t been for thirty-three years.

Yet, this afternoon I had been in such a positive mood that I even wanted to have peaches for dessert after dinner, and attempt sleeping in my bedroom, not in front of the TV.

But. The evening came. I ate dinner and my peaches. I looked at my beautifully coloured eggs. I looked at the bed in my bedroom and I thought of the days ahead, my uncle’s Easter wishes for the family spelled across my computer screen: ŻYCZĘ ŻYCIA! (Wishing you life!)

And just like that solitude changed to loneliness. From bitter experience, I understand that Easter and loneliness are going to take a lot of effort to survive. There was no point in trying to fool myself otherwise.

My Mom is phoning later tonight. This will be good. But I will sleep in front of the TV again and hope not to wake up to the ghastly emptiness of the small hours. I don’t want to feel that small.

Luckily, I am good at surviving. I even enjoyed those peaches tonight.

Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others. Stay at home.

PS My Mom phoned. My love phoned. The President spoke. “We dare not fail.”

OYSTERHOOD is reclusiveness or solitude, or an overwhelming desire to stay at home.

— @HaggardHawks

It’s not always about the obvious things, splashed with colour across my imagination’s skies. The little miracles matter too.

After a night of insomnia, the day began with Wild Earth. A giraffe, baby elephants, just a dirt road in the middle of the bush. Inspired by Cathy Kelly. I didn’t know that she was reading me while I was reading her each day, feeling exactly the same about her words as she did about mine. But unlike Cathy, I did look at the news first today. I can’t help it. There is a hunger for news and understanding that is difficult to still now. But, of course, none of it makes one feel better. Baby elephants, however, do.

I watched the Wild Earth live safari feed on my cell phone, first in my night bed in front of ‘Mama TV’, then in the kitchen while making coffee, then in my day bed in the bedroom where I should be every night, but somehow don’t manage. It is good for the soul, the wild. The animals, and the dirt road. Both longed for, both unattainable for now.

Another Instagram account that gives me enormous pleasure is the one of Fynboshoek Cheese Farm and, if you know the story behind Dawn Garisch’s Breaking Milk, you will know why. I remember thinking when I visited the farm in November last year that it would be the perfect place to be during an apocalypse. And so it is. I can still taste the cheese…

I opened two new books this morning. One a debut short story collection by Keletso Mopai, the other one about a name: Chanel Miller.

The short story collection, If You Keep Digging, is one of those that introduces you to a writer that you know you will want to read for as long as she is writing. I read the first two stories and knew. Keletso Mopai, you have got yourself a literary fan!

The last time I felt about a short story writer like this, I asked to publish his work: Lester Walbrugh. We are in the process of preparing his debut collection, Let It Fall Where It Will, for publication at Karavan Press. Some people are natural storytellers with a gift that we, mere mortals, can only envy and delight in.

And Chanel Miller: What a Woman! What a Writer! Reading her story is rough in ways that cannot be articulated before they can find their way from my diary into a manuscript. There are many kinds of violations. But the silences they force on people who survive feel similar. Two simple words capture it all: Me too.

Late morning, I got up and washed my hair and went on my garden loop walk to dry it again, marking each round with a heart, pen on paper, this time. Sixty loops, a good half an hour. Dry hair.

Then my brother and I met on Skype and spoke for a long time. It is actually a miracle that we can ever stop speaking, because we never do when we are in the same room. One of those life-long conversations that I am so grateful for.

The sun was shining and after the clouds and rains of the last few days I needed to bask in the warmth of my garden.

A little miracle in the making – spot the green leaves coming out of their seeds:

If only I could remember whether it was the catnip or the coriander that I planted in this pot. It looks like catnip, doesn’t it?

Salieri and Glinka joined me for the coffee and sunbathing, and we read some more in the light.

When it was time to go in and answer emails and attend to admin, I was overwhelmed by a desire to draw something again. I poured myself a glass of kombucha and took out a few colour pencils and sat down at the kitchen table with a beautiful notebook I have had for years, and I allowed my hand to lead the way on the paper road.

Drawing always makes me think of Magda, a young woman who married into my family many years ago, and who was theoretically my aunt but was roughly my age. She was extremely talented and transformed everything that came her way in reality into visions of beauty. I admired her greatly. She died very young (cancer), but her talent and inspiration live on in all of us who have had the honour of knowing her. Her artworks hang on the wall opposite the desk in my study. I see them every time I look up from my computer. I wish she could have stayed longer.

Loss is change, and change is difficult even when it is for the better. When it is loss, it is tragic.

Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others. Stay at home.

OYSTERHOOD is reclusiveness or solitude, or an overwhelming desire to stay at home.

— @HaggardHawks

This morning, Salieri and I finished reading Bruce Whitfield’s The Upside of Down, the last physical book I bought at a real bookshop (The Book Lounge) before the lockdown. As you can see, Salieri really got into the book and the title, trying to see the world from the author’s perspective. We both found the “Economy” chapter hard to swallow, especially now, but the book as a whole was highly empowering and inspiring. Our review has been written and will hopefully be published soon. In the meantime, a few quotes:

“We all have biases, whether we know them or not. Just how fixed is your mindset when it comes to South Africa? Take this quick quiz before we move on. Test members of your family… (Don’t cheat. I am watching you.)”

The only family members around were Salieri, Glinka and Mozart, and we DID NOT cheat – that is why we all failed awfully and got only a few answers right. But the book taught us how to think differently, more optimistically about the present and the future and our role in both.

Thinking of Karavan Press, this quote was very heartening: “not one of the dozen or so entrepreneurs I spoke to for this book ever started out on their venture for the sake of the money.” Not one! We salute you all!

And then, this is where the book stole our hearts: “the world is shaped around the stories we choose to tell.”

YES!

“Never underestimate the power of stories.” (This in the Acknowledgements.)

If you need one other reason to read The Upside of Down (apart from Salieri’s paw of approval), read it for the Owen Muzambi story.

After horrific nightmares and a long stretch of insomnia that followed last night and the horrible headache that grew from it in the morning, I really needed my coffee. How lucky that my drug of choice is still being delivered to one’s gate? Thank you, kind and smiling Nespresso delivery man! It was amazing to see you, even from a distance.

When my Mom phoned, I was on my third cup and feeling much more human. I told her about the nightmares. I also told my love and my friend Erika. Nightmares are common now; they seem to be a byproduct of the pandemic. So many of us can’t find rest despite relative safety and comfort.

I made an effort at lunchtime and actually cooked something. Also peeled and pitted my beautiful pomegranate, another gift from my love before the lockdown.

On the phone, my Mom reminded me of my potato growing skills. No green fingers, but Slavic blood nevertheless: I have always known how to grow potatoes, even as a child. The last time I had a potato harvest was about three/four years ago. So, I decided to do it again. I have a special big pot in the backyard for the purpose.

Mozart assisted by just being present. He loves building nests, and here is his latest autumn nest in the backyard:

Mozart has taught me resilience and beauty. He refuses to let the fact that he can’t see any longer stop him from leading his ordinary life. He simply adapted, much more easily than I did. We have had a lot of loss in our lives, but we have each other and, together, we somehow always manage to see the upside of every down, no matter how low, no matter how cruel. And we refuse not to thrive, to give up searching for meaning. How to make sense of the present moment? Only time will tell. But there is something unique about the calm that breeds nightmares, the perseverance that refuses to give up against all odds.

Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others. Stay at home. Read inspiring books.

OYSTERHOOD is reclusiveness or solitude, or an overwhelming desire to stay at home.

— @HaggardHawks

I love oysters. I have loved them ever since my twenty-ninth birthday when a friend taught me to eat them at the old La Colombe Restaurant. The taste of the sea, the texture, the exciting ways they can be served and enjoyed. But I don’t miss them during my oysterhood, the same way I don’t miss my friends. Why? Because I know that they will not disappear if I stay at home. The oysters will be waiting. My first restaurant outing will be probably to a place that serves oysters. I have a few ideas. It will be a festive occasion one way or another. There will be bubbly, pink preferably, and local, of course! And my Friends will be there. Until then, I will not miss them. I would rather not see them for a few weeks, even months; I just don’t want to have to go to their funerals. Or worse, not even be allowed to go to their funerals…

I woke up to rain. Took out the bin and it was collected. Fed cats, made coffee, put in a load of laundry into the washing machine. Watched the rain from the stoep. Mozart came in, although usually he doesn’t mind the rain. I read with Glinka on my chest.

Phoned my Mom. She went to the cemetery on Saturday. It was her brother’s name day. He died many years ago at a young age and is buried in Austria. It has always been strange to think about the reason for his death, but even more so to think of it now: my uncle was one of a only a handful people who died of the Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease in Austria at the time when the disease was on its killing spree across Europe. Often, when I think of him, I also think of that Gabriel García Márquez quote: ‘We have still not had a death. A person does not belong to a place until there is someone dead under the ground.’ I belong to Poland, Austria and South Africa in that sense. But I have no need to belong more now. 

I decided to get dressed for work today. A new top that my Mom gave me when I visited her for Christmas.

btfmdn

btfmdn

btfmdn

But when I spoke to my friend Michela on Skype before noon, she was still in her PJs and looking great. She is the one who once told me: ‘listen to your body, it never lies’. My body is saying that my cheeks are sore, and I refuse to stress about not having done much work today after all. But I did write emails to family and friends and order a book that I can’t wait to read from Clarke’s Bookshop today. They send out wonderful book recommendations during lockdown. I will pay once I have the invoice tomorrow and pick up the book when I can – safely – go out of the house again.

I heard a man speak on eNCA today about identifying locations for potential mass grave sites in South Africa. No wonder my cheeks are sore.

My lovely neighbours phoned yesterday to ask for books from my library. In consultation with them on the phone, I prepared a book bag for them and handed it over the wall. I made a new batch of kombucha. The latest is beyond delicious and might not last until the new one is ready.

And just before writing this blog post, I sent out an email to the wonderful Readers who once a month, on the first Monday, gather in my home and talk about books with me during what we call our ‘Literary Salon’. We couldn’t meet this month and I doubt it will be safe to meet in May, so I asked them to send me news of what they are reading and have been enjoying recently via email, if they felt like sharing. We usually have wine and snacks and talk for hours, but an email will do for now. I opened a bottle of red from the lockdown supply I got from my love who usually brings wine to our gatherings, and said cheers to the camera just after 6pm, before sending the literary salon notes to my Friends.

I don’t miss you, but I can’t wait to see you all again.

Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others. Stay at home.