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

— @HaggardHawks

From midnight South Africa will no longer be in a state of disaster. Some transitional regulations will remain in place before we are solely guided during the remainder of the pandemic in terms of the National Health Act.

750 days since the state of disaster was declared. 738 since the lockdown began. It all ends tonight, apart from the pandemic.

And completely coincidently, I am home alone again. My love is back at his place, and my lovely houseguest is on a flight to Europe (she no longer required a PCR test to board the plane home).

Not an ordinary Monday.

But after weeks of no shows or delayed appearances, the refuse truck was back on time this morning. And, as for the past thirteen weeks, I went to see Joanne to write with her today – and three other writers; our group is growing – again. My memoir is growing, too. And as I go along, it is all falling into place. I am encountering challenges every week, but every week solutions present themselves alongside the challenges and I am soldiering on. It is an intellectual, creative and emotionally volatile battle field.

I did some research about Carlos Alcaraz Garfia’s historic Miami Open win, and while reading up on it, I came across a former tennis player I really enjoyed watching on court before he retired from the sport a while ago: Alexandr Dolgopolov, who was born in Kyiv and returned to Ukraine now during the war. I clicked on his social media accounts and saw his outrage and despair. He mentioned the five Ukrainian women who were raped and murdered by Russian soldiers. I do not know why since the war in Ukraine started I – totally naively – did not think of one of the oldest weapons of war. I should have known that rape would become part of this horrific story, but Alexandr’s brief mention of the crime caught me unawares. And all day today, no matter what else was happening, I have been walking around feeling wounded. Writing about violation only exacerbated the feeling of helplessness, and disconnect. I know women are raped all around me, every day, relentlessly. Yet, there’s something about the layers of trauma – loss of control and narrative – that a madman, a war, displacement and all imaginable violations of human dignity, integrity and freedom bring into one’s life, no matter how distant, that are beyond grasp. That wound.

I am grappling to find words to articulate the horror, even though I am writing from my relatively safe space, my home. Surrounded by love, purrs and kindness. I understand that my words change nothing. I am just grateful. I am still here. I’ve survived the pandemic. No soldier is knocking on my door. I will never take that for granted.

Be kind. Wear a mask. Support local. Get vaccinated, please. Live.

“Physical distancing remains one of the key strategies to curb this pandemic.”

— NICD

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

— @HaggardHawks

In the end it was popcorn and cheap red Spanish wine, and Sarah Moss’s Summerwater in the hot bathtub. One-and-a-half hours in the bath, and the little bit of loadshedding darkness that was left afterwards we spent in bed. We slept well for the rest of the night.

Saturday morning continued in bed with the Cat Ladies and another manuscript submitted to Karavan Press. As always, Salieri eventually fell asleep on the job. But it wasn’t because of the manuscript, which is tense and harrowing reading because of the traumatic story it tells. We hope to finish reading it tomorrow.

We spent the early afternoon in the garden, mowing grass, weeding, cleaning the pool, chopping wood and sweeping. This time Mr Mozart and the Prince Frog (camera-shy as always) joined the party.

• 

• 

Then it was time for a late leftover lunch and some tennis before I made my way to my love’s house for more tennis and a simple, delicious dinner and more laziness in front of the TV.

Sad literary news: the Woordfees was cancelled yesterday. Two of Karavan Press authors were supposed to feature on the programme. Bummer. But I think I have an idea, or two. I am starved for bookish conversations that do not involve computer screens.

Jeanette Winterson – whose work I treasure – burned the latest editions of her novels because she did not like their new blurbs. Her actions are difficult to understand or defend, especially in the context of the history of book burning, but we might not know all the essential details of the story, so maybe our stones have been cast too soon. The reports about the book burning made me remember the only time I burned a book. A combination of utter helplessness and rage led me to it. The act itself felt sacrilegious and incredibly empowering at the same time, and I would do it again any day, but only to this one author and this one book. Fortunately, it is out of print anyway, so it won’t be necessary.

Sometime you actually have to be a witch to survive.

Be kind. Wear a mask. Support local.

“Physical distancing remains one of the key strategies to curb this pandemic.”

— NICD