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

— @HaggardHawks

A migratory night. Fell asleep in front of the TV, moved to the bedroom, woke up at 3am (don’t know why) and could NOT go back to sleep, so moved back in front of the TV, watched one of my favourite series until close to 6am, and fell asleep again. Basically, exercise for the weekend done.

Wild Earth live safari kept me company while I had coffee and an almond croissant – fresh and hot from the oven. I ordered a few things from the Ou Meul Bakkery yesterday, delivered to my gate by Mr Delivery within thirty minutes. Simple. Delicious.

I loved every second of the safari, but I was most happy to identify the birds on the buffalo’s back in my bird book.

After the safari and some reading in the morning, it was time for another official address, clarifying level four. A few phrases stuck with me.

“The things are in our hands.” Indeed. And how!

“Touching is a thing of the past.” Sadly.

“We need to move towards a blue map; blue is good.” I am all blue in other ways, but blue has always been my favourite colour, so I like the idea of moving towards a blue territory.

“Collective challenge; individual sacrifices.”

Yes. And then, of course, the thing about books. Educational books. Education is essential, no doubt. Educational books are level four essential – also no argument. But…

Many years ago, one of my plays was published in an educational book.

The winner included was my play, A Change of Mind. The award was a lot of money (R7500), for which I was extremely grateful. Up to that point it was the single largest amount of money I’d earned from my writing. I paid a few bills with it and bought myself one thing that always reminds me of this wonderful win: a quilt. Every time I wrap myself in it, I remember that feeling. I also remember my first royalty statement a year after the book was published. When it arrived, I thought that I wasn’t opening the file properly, so I sent it to my IT brother to examine. He opened it on his computer and phoned: “No, you did get it right, it does say R4.63…” It was actually transferred into my account! The following year it was about ten times as much. The year after, I manged to buy a bottle of cheap bubbly with the royalties to celebrate the statement passing the R100 mark for the first time. The statements stopped coming after that…

It’s not easy being a writer, not even if you contribute to educational books.

And yet: are books essential? To me, yes. They are my bones, my flesh, my blood, my soul, the air I breathe. But in general? Not to many people. I live in a bubble of readers and writers, but I understand that books are not important in any way to many, many people. And this will always be my deepest literary sorrow. But I get how reality works and how privileged I am (even with all the battles that had to be fought by my parents and by me to arrive at where I am today).

I can think of many creative ways of how to get books, any books, SAFELY to readers desperate to have them during level five or four of lockdown, but in the greater scheme of things, I know that the logistics of it cannot be a priority at a time when people are hungry and have no roofs over their heads. Books should not be a luxury item, but in our economy they are, and the reality of it is what it is. We still need to find ways of supporting each other as writers and readers and of looking after the networks that allows us to share books. We are creative people, so let’s be creative. I hope that we won’t have to wait until level three after all, but if we do, let us be patient, suspend our disbelief, and do whatever we can to keep up our spirits and to keep the booksellers, distributors and publishers we depend on alive. Donations, vouchers, pre-orders. Whatever it takes. And in the meantime, let’s look at the treasures of our libraries and keep reading. Reading is allowed at any level. And so is writing.

By staying at home, we limit the movement and interaction of people. For now, that’s the only way we can keep the infection rate low and not overwhelm the fragile health care system.

Today, we have reached 86 confirmed Covid-19 related deaths. If we don’t follow the regulations, this number will explode and we will not know how to live with ourselves for having been responsible. If we survive ourselves, that is…

After the official address and a small lunch, I read and sunbathed and watched birds in my garden and thought about the different levels and what they mean for the future. All warm from the sun, I managed to get into the pool and had the longest swim of the lockdown yet. It cleared my mind and soul and, as it often happens when I am immersed in water, I had an idea. I will be channelling two great women writers I admire to make it happen. We just need to get to level four, so that I can get a few missing essentials… Watch this space.

Mozart came to say hello and to cuddle a bit and then settled in his nest next to the pool while I was swimming.

Once I was finished and had my shower and made myself a drink, Mozart visited again on the stoep to see what I was having and what new books I was about to open.

I started reading Katherine Stansfield a few years ago when a friend I met during my year in Wales sent me her debut novel. She also studied in Aberyswyth and became a writer. Her debut, The Visitor, was exquisite, and I have been a fan ever since – of her fiction and her poetry. I have had her latest two novels for a while, but they were on that much loved, always growing, to-read pile, the one that will keep me going for a long, long time now, if necessary, and I am so pleased to have them.

My drink of the afternoon was an experiment. I have quite a few bottles of alcohol in the house (don’t hate me) and I am not a heavy drinker so the booze will last forever, but I thought that maybe I should start trying out new recipes. This one was based on the one I tried out on my poor literary salon crowd last year: “Surfer on Acid”. I didn’t have one of the main ingredients, but I improvised with lemon cordial (which was a gift from a writer who attends the literary salon). The result was “Surfer on Lemon Acid” and it was absolutely delicious. Better than the original, to be honest… Tom Cruise, move over!

I tuned in to Wild Earth only for a little while in the afternoon, but was rewarded with this beyond-cute sighting. Baby hyenas. Irresistible.

I will leave you with a quote from the book I finished reading today. I first heard Garth Greenwell speak at the Open Book Festival and loved his debut novel, What Belongs to You. Cleanness is his second book. I hope to review it properly soon; for now, I will share the quote that moved me the most.

“They could make a whole life, I thought, surprised to think it, these moments that filled me up with sweetness, that had changed the texture of existence for me. I had never thought anything like it before.” — Garth Greenwell

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

Waking up with Glinka. In our bed, in the bedroom. A small achievements of lockdown life.

So: level five. A new definition of our reality of the past twenty-nine days. Other new phrases in our vocabulary since last night: different ‘levels’ of hope, the endearing ‘face mask fumble’, the laugh-out-loud funny ‘imbleach him’. The latter aimed at the Tangerine Troll, of course. Our President is exemplary, endearing fumbles and all. I cannot imagine how he copes with the demands of his job during the pandemic, how exhausted he must be, and yet, he shows up, and when he does, we all marvel at his leadership. Especially when we watch that ruthless egomaniac across the Atlantic for comparison. Imbleach him, please. Do it for the people of the US, and for the rest of the world.

Level four from 1 May. I understand the necessity of it and will support the measures in any way I can, yet I cannot help thinking of another 1 May a long time ago when I marched in the streets of Jelenia Góra, Poland, as part of a festive parade celebrating Workers’ Day. The authorities let us, even encouraged it. In 1986. A few days after 26 April 1986.

On 1 May 2020, we will all be aware of the dangers involved in exposing ourselves to the world outside, but I can’t help worrying of the possible consequences. This time the authorities will guide us well, but I have my doubts about our ability to listen to and obey the new level four regulations that will be put in place to protect our health and lives…

Highlights of level five day twenty-nine? Speaking on a clear phone line to my Mom for nearly an hour, cooking with one of the lemons from my garden, continuing with the manuscript I was asked to endorse if I like it (I do, a lot), working on my own manuscript, receiving two beautiful emails from a friend, also an author, who recognised why I struggle with the lockdown and not only saw me, but showed me that she cares. Kindness wrapped up in words. And the light of highlights: a big fire for a little braai in the evening.

Good night.

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 love owls, so this was the highlight of the Wild Earth live safari for me this morning.

Another night in my own bed. Another morning in bed with Cats, coffee and books. Tried to phone my Mom, but she was busy bringing her recycling to the newly reopened recycling centre near her home. Apparently only one person is allowed in at a time, which results in hours-long queues. But a lot of people have nothing else to do, so… I spoke to my brother on Skype instead and told him about the letter Lara Foot sent out this morning, asking people for support for the Baxter. I refuse to write about any other donations/support I am offering to good causes during lockdown (this is not the time to brag about doing good, but just doing it). However, I make an exception for the arts, especially books, because I hope that people feel a tiny bit inspired and, if they can, help too. Most artists are so horrifically underpaid, if paid at all, that any support for them – for us – must be shouted from the rooftops. I love books, I love the theatre. The Arts. I will do anything I can to support them.

My brother and I had a good conversation about what is happening to the arts in Austria and South Africa in the time of the pandemic. He was with me the last time I visited the Baxter Theatre and a certain tennis player made an appearance – not surprisingly: theatres are places of dreams, magic and possibilities! And theatre lovers will return to the stage and the audience when they reopen and we can delight in all that they have to offer again.

I ‘attended’ my first virtual book launch today. It was easy to register, the conversation was fascinating, and I think I will read the book. But I am not so sure about attending another virtual book launch again… And it wasn’t even the fact that for a few minutes all the speakers disappeared from my computer screen (some technical problem on the host’s platform). It was the fact that I couldn’t page through the physical book, could not have it signed and say thank you to the authors in person afterwards. It just isn’t the same as sitting in a bookshop with other eager readers and engaging live, and I just don’t want it. I am happy to wait until the real thing again, even if it takes months.

At the beginning of the state of disaster, I proposed the idea for a literary festival on Twitter. The response was overwhelmingly positive, and I almost had a whole plan ready how to pull it off. But then I started watching how other people in the industry took to social media to promote books and engage with writers and readers and I tried to follow the different developments and soon discovered exactly the same as above: it’s just not the same. One might be reaching larger audiences across the globe and selling more ebooks right now, but this is not what I wish for in the future. As long as it is not possible for me to visit a real bookshop or attend a real literary festival and speak in person to other readers and writers, and to TOUCH real books, I will exercise my patience. To all who were hoping for me to get the Twitter literary festival off the ground, please forgive me. I had second thoughts. But I love Twitter and use it to promote books all the time. We can do it together without any formal arrangements. The platform can do with more book love (love in general too). And when the time is right, we will meet in a bookshop or at a literary festival and smile and bury our noses in real books, and all will be well in the book world again. The screens can help us keep in touch, but they will never be able to replace touch.

After lunch, a few chores were waiting for me, but my heart wasn’t in house cleaning today, and I must admit that for most of the afternoon I just listened to the radio. It felt good. I grew up with the radio and it will always be a medium I turn to for comfort. Why is it different to the internet? I don’t know. Perhaps because it does not attempt to simulate something that it isn’t, it just is itself. The internet’s brilliance and strength lie in its ability to assist with tasks that nothing and no one else can perform. I would not want to live without it. But I want it to be an additional tool, making our lives better; I do not want it to replace most of our reality.

On the radio, I heard about this award-winning short documentary: Scenes from a Dry City.

I heated up a can of really delicious chickpea and chicken soup for dinner and watched the documentary (these are moments where I am super grateful to have access to the internet, because I doubt that I would go to see a ten-minute documentary in a cinema). Loved it.

Now, the evening is young, and the President is going to address us again at 20:30. The latest figures are sobering: 318 new confirmed cases (I think the highest daily increase recorded in SA until now), total 3953, and we have recorded 75 deaths. I know death comes knocking on our doors every single day for all kinds of reasons, but these deaths occurred specifically because of this virus or with its help. Seventy-five families whose lives will never be the same again because of an invisible virus. All these people died only because they spoke to, or served, or sat around the table with, or hugged, or were present in the same space as an infected person. It’s horrifying.

You don’t have to go out of your way to be infected, but you can do one simple thing to avoid spreading this lethal virus: stay at home. And if you can’t, practice physical distancing, wear a suitable mask, wash your hands, think carefully.

Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others. Stay at home. Buy the Baxter a cup of coffee. And when the theatre reopens its doors again, I will see you there for a glass of wine to celebrate.

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

— @HaggardHawks

The mystery is no more: Coriander. Sorry, Cats! Yay, Karina :) I LOVE coriander.

Second night in my own bed. A nightmare (I woke up shouting, “Help, help!”), but otherwise a long, good sleep. The morning spent with Salieri and coffee, reading.

Cats are the best reading companions, ever! And Salieri knows a good book when she sees it.

We got up just in time for a delivery from Richard Bosman. I ordered online yesterday, and everything was delivery today by noon. Products of the highest quality. I cut up one of the dry sausages into slices as my reward for every three loops of my garden walk this afternoon. The moment I put one slice into my mouth, I was in France, in a small, crowded restaurant, sipping my wine and waiting for my order to arrive. Anyone who has been to France, will know what I mean. And if you haven’t been, I wish it for you one day!

Earlier this morning, while I was ironing, the Southern Boubous in my garden delivered a duet of note. And during my walk, Mozart made an appearance and I found a pretty flower and a lonely little clover in an otherwise empty pot (the resident bulbs will be hibernating until spring).

After the walk, Glinka and I had a cider on the stoep. I bought six bottles before the lockdown. We are now down to three. I think we are doing well. It was a balmy, gorgeous afternoon and it felt good to just sit and relax before some work.

The rest of the afternoon was spent with manuscripts. My own and another author’s (I was asked for a shout if I like it – I am loving it so far). Ordinary is proving everything that I remembered it to be. It is a novel about witches, sort of, so I wore my hat for the writing. Progress has been made.

One of my reviews was published on LitNet today: J.M. Coetzee – Photographs from Boyhood, edited and introduced by Herman Wittenberg (Protea Book House, 2020).

Now, I just want to watch TV and sleep. Perhaps in my own bed again…

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

Wild Earth: I must admit that sometimes I don’t even look at the animals, I just close my eyes and listen to the sounds of the bush – acoustic balm for the soul.

btf

I spent a lot of this day in bed, first in my PJs, then, even after I got dressed, I returned to bed for warmth, comfort and reading. I went outside only to eat curry leftovers in the afternoon sun and to watch the sunset on my stoep while sipping the last drops of the rosé. Obnoxious mosquitoes chased me back into the house.

I am reading a book about sexual assault. In the last four years, I have been reading a lot about the concepts and realities of consent and violation. It is a topic close to my heart, body and soul. Someone can violate you in different ways: physical harm, greed, betrayal of trust, theft – the list is endless. An uncertain future can also be a violation of your dreams. Once someone or something tramples on your integrity (in both senses of the word: “the quality of being honest and having strong moral principles” / “the state of being whole and undivided”), life is never the same again. And, if you are strong and can keep your core somehow intact despite everything, you resume your life – routines, ambitions, dreams return; you get on with it. But no matter what, the brokenness continues underneath the surface, too, and it does not take much to bring it to light and to force you back into your own personal terrifying darkness. I think that the pandemic is unleashing into our lives what lurks beneath, and there is a reason why so many of us – especially the survivors of previous violations – feel so heavy.

This is what has been on my mind today. This heaviness.

Yet, I forge ahead. Not much happened today outside my head. But I did design concept drafts of two book covers for Karavan Press. I don’t want to share my amateurish efforts. In time, the designer will transform them into true visions. But here are two fragments of my ideas.

It felt good to work on these, to focus and think about the future.

But the main event of the day was opening a file that has been waiting patiently for me to return when I was ready. Ordinary. Take three. The final take. The novel only needs an ending. It does not have to be imagined, all my notes are there, ready to be transformed into full-bloodied sentences and breathing paragraphs. A few thousand words at most. Then the editing and rewriting. It’s time. It’s finally time.

I am still in love with these characters, their love and their brokenness, and the magic of falling. They deserve to have a chance.

I had pasta for dinner and listened to the President’s speech.

He said that we will “forge a new economy”. Spoke of overcoming and a better future.

What I heard was ‘people before greed’. Please. Always.

Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others. Stay at home. Forge a new world.

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

— @HaggardHawks

Yesterday evening, for the first time in weeks, I returned to my bedroom, to my bed, for the night. I fell asleep without the white noise of the TV, and although I surfaced quite a few times during the night, it was never long enough to consider returning to my lockdown bed in front of the TV. Before the lockdown, I’d slept on the sofa in my lounge for the same reasons: the TV is my sleeping pill, my night guardian. It watches over me. The last time I slept in my own bed was when my love stayed over and kept insomnia and anxiety at bay just before the lockdown. Now, it is just me and the night, and the lockdown bed and vivid nightmares/dreams, but last night I decided to put on my big girl attitude and braved the darkness and silence with only Salieri by my side. (Mozart continues sleeping under the bed, and Glinka likes her red blanket nest on the sofa in the lounge.)

And we did it. I did it! I spent the entire night in my own bed.

One of my neighbours’ alarm went off just after 6am and woke me up. I made coffee, tuned in to Wild Earth and watched wild dogs and hyenas and spiders again. The author Nechama Brodie thinks of “spiders as patron tiny goddesses of writers”. I love that idea, because I have always felt very comfortable around them, Miss Havisham-style.

Monday. The traffic volume surprised me when I took out the bin and stood outside the property, listening.

Salieri and I continued our morning in bed with a new book (only the second non-local title of the lockdown, but somehow connected to local literature, because I first discovered the author at the Open Book Festival and have been a fan ever since). More coffee.

Then some Monday chores and a plate-licking bacon and egg breakfast on the stoep, watching the rain.

Eventually, I sat down at my desktop computer to tackle the emails which have accumulated over the weekend and ordered Book Lounge vouchers for a friend (birthday) and for myself (I want Sifiso Mzobe’s Searching for Simphiwe and can’t wait to read the short story collection). By the time I looked up from my merciless screen, it was time for lunch (the last of my Doorstep Dairyman pies).

My garage door screeched blue murder when I last opened it, so I oiled the contraption and realised that if you don’t use mechanisms regularly, they rusts and suffer. And even though I was very pleased that my insurance company has reduced my premiums on car insurance by 15% because I am not driving Topolino as often as usual now, I know that not driving a car is not good for it. So, today, I decided to go on a short neighbourhood drive just to stretch Topolino’s wheels. It seemed obvious that the best time to do it would be during CapeTalk’s Afternoon Drive show with John Maytham. I never got out of the car, and I kept very close to home, so as not to get into trouble – I know I technically broke the regulations, but the regulations are in place to stop the spread of Covid-19. I did not spread anything, I promise. And if law enforcement officers are reading my blog, please be kind to me and go after the people stealing food parcels and vandalising schools (thank you). Topolino and I did a few loops around the neighbourhood and felt refreshed afterwards. It was a completely different experience to the shopping centre outing last Tuesday. No apprehension, no despair after the excursion this time. We even got to enjoy the views. I don’t have to and don’t want to go shopping until the end of the lockdown, so I can’t use the shop as an excuse to drive the car and keep it oiled and running smoothly.

Admin, and a few more emails in the late afternoon, dinner, and now it is almost time for bed again.

Worried about the pandemic, Nurse Salieri decided to do her own test of her human’s state of health today. The Cats usually do their toilet business in the garden. I keep a litter box for them in the house that stays clean for long periods of time. Rain is the one element that sometimes drives the Cats indoors. Salieri decided to use today’s rain as opportunity to see whether my sense of smell was intact and went to the litter box… I can assure you, and her, that I can still smell things. All too well in some cases.

But I’d rather delight in the smell of coffee in the morning and in the scent of my lemon tree blossoms.

I don’t delight in my sore cheeks at the end of the day and the anxiety that causes the pain. But I am trying to reclaim a sense of balance and to keep sane in this time of sheer insecurity and uncertainty. I know what will make everything better, what will keep me balanced and sane and make meaning out of chaos, but it involves selfishness and self-care and knowing how to say ‘no’ to others; it involves making space and committing and giving in to a longing that never leaves me, but I have managed to put it on the back-burner and to prioritise and nourish others for many months now, and it’s not easy to find the right path. But now, I need to return to my inner self to survive, and thrive beyond bare survival. And to be unapologetic about it. I am almost there…

Megan Ross, author (Milk Fever, among other excellent writing) and designer (cover and typesetting of Melissa A. Volker’s Karavan Press books) whose work I adore wrote on Twitter today: