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:

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

— @HaggardHawks

Sunday morning. Hyenas, lions, spiders and coffee. The wind awakening (I am not a wind person). More coffee with books. The rest of the blueberries, vitamins. The well of indolence overflowing with joy. I got up well after 1pm. But then it was all household action: turned mattress, changed sheets, did laundry, washed the dirty kitchen floor, cooked pasta for lunch.

And then I went to the cinema, lockdown-style.

Popcorn, coke (although I hardly ever do, I bought one small can for the lockdown – it’s something I have when I go out, but don’t buy for home) and the internet link on my desktop computer: MOFFIE.

Paid R150 to watch and it was worth every cent.

When I first heard the new version of “Sugar Man” by Rebekah Thompson from the soundtrack to Moffie, I was mesmerised, haunted. The trailer was promising. And I have seen Kai Luke Brümmer on stage before. He was excellent in the latest production of “Master Harold” … and the Boys at the Fugard Theatre. I have been meaning to watch Moffie before the lockdown, but just didn’t manage on time. Fortunately, it is streaming online. The film is stunning. Very difficult to watch, but necessary. Brümmer is … too good for easy words – and I am not a film critic. Let me just say that he carries the entire film in his face. It’s an incredible performance. I thought briefly of the young Matt Damon, but Brümmer does his own thing here. The subject is some of the worst of what recent local history has to offer – apartheid, conscription, border war, homophobia – you watch with a lump of horror in your throat. But the cinematography is visual perfection. The light, the sensuality, the homoerotic tension and tenderness – it is eerily seductive. The nightmare unbearable. It is impossible not to be touched, not to shed a tear.

I know these men today, they are among my dearest friends and I so wish they would not have to carry this in their hearts.

The rest of the day was spent on Skype with my Loved Ones.

Since we are reinventing the world, can we please leave war as a concept and as reality in the past?

“Cause I’m tired of these scenes…”

3158 | 54

A different kind of horror unfolding. The scars these rising numbers will leave behind…

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

A relatively good night, a very slow wake-up, coffee, lazy morning with Wild Earth and reading. But then the sun began to rise, bringing with it a balmy warmth, and I needed to be outside. Quite a lot of leaves and fruit had fallen from my trees on the path to the front door and on the stoep in the last few days, so I took out a broom and started sweeping in my PJs and my polar bear suit. The lovely neighbour heard me and peeked over the wall, calling out, “Good morning!” I replied and waved, and he said, “I see you are working in your day PJs.” We had a great chat over the wall and decided to meet for a glass of wine later in the day (on both sides of the dividing wall, of course). I continued with my garden work, then had a brunch on the stoep (the last slices of my stale bread, toasted; ham and egg; and peppadews, of course), and then got into my swimming gear and while waiting for the midday sun to pass, I read in the shade of a tree in the garden.

It has only been a few days since my last swim. Despite the gorgeous heat of the afternoon, it was not easy to get into the ice-cold water, but I did, and it was amazing.

In my element.

I have just looked up today’s horoscope for my sign, Aquarius:

“Apr 18, 2020 – Today you could feel overwhelmed with obligations and commitments to others. There isn’t a moment free for yourself, not even for a bathroom break! Clearly, something’s out of balance, Aquarius. It’s time to take charge of your life. It’s wonderful that you have such a giving, generous spirit, but you do no one any favors if you burn out from exhaustion. Take some time to refill the well of your soul.”

Fake news for today, but nearly spot on earlier in the week. I am on Fukitol since yesterday, refilling the well of my soul… Big time lazy.

After my swim, Glinka joined me on my towel for some sunbathing and reading.

It was a slothful afternoon. Because of my wine date with the neighbours at 5pm, I eventually did put on a nice dress and settled back into my reading chairs with a glass of rosé (last bottle, but I thought that this was the day to open it) and the last of my chicken soup for a late lunch. Mozart came to say hello and got interested in the smell of my food, so I shared the last bit with him.

I read and just sat in the garden, staring into the green ahead and the blue above, the soul well brimming with indolent waters. I spotted the place in the grass where my rescue mole disappeared yesterday.

Unfortunately, just before my swim, I had to bury another mole that ended up in the pool last night and did not make it. I think the cats chased it into the water and he/she did not know how to get out. I have seen it happen once before a few years ago and could save the poor thing back then, but it was too late for this particular mole.

When it was time for my rendez-vous with the neighbours, I set up the ladder, and prepared the second glass of rosé (a generous one!) and a book I promised to lend them, and phoned that I was ready.

I sat on the ladder, they on a crate and a car in their driveway and we chatted for almost an hour. Physical distancing at its finest. Some people have neighbours from hell; I have neighbours from heaven, and as long as they are next door, I never feel truly alone.

They gave me a bird nest they found outside my property. It fell off my tree. A work of art, if there ever was one. I can recognise some of the material used coming directly from my garden. Such a lovely thing of wonder. I am sorry it fell to the ground and can no longer be a bird’s home.

In the evening, I had a Skype date with my love. He sent me pictures of the beaver in Berlin, practicing social distancing and being escorted by the police to the nearest dam, where the beaver could go for a recreational swim, as is allowed under the lockdown regulations in Germany. And earlier in the day, we had a good laugh over the penguins in Simonstown. Thinking of these curious animals and the sleeping lions on the now empty road in the Kruger, I love the idea of animals taking over our urban spaces. We shouldn’t go back, let them roam.

Not Eggs, though! If you haven’t seen The Great Egg-Scape by Gary Naidoo, you must!

I love the way creative people are dealing with the pandemic.

And talking about creative people…

I present: actor, director, writer & musician, Roland du Preez:

Today was Roland’s birthday and he celebrated in style with his family in Somerset West. I have known Roland for as long as I have been in South Africa. I have seen him grow up from a wonderful child, through a brave teenager, to a stunning young adult. Fiercely intelligent, curious, funny, loving, he was great to share a house with when he started studying drama at UCT four years ago and came to live with me for a few months. I love the fact that he wears dresses and pearls with pride, and I am jealous that he can walk in high-heel shoes better than I. His creativity knows no bounds, and now that he has graduated with flying colours, and has his first real theatre gig behind him (at the Woordfees just before the lockdown), anyone will be lucky to work with him in the future, once the theatre world returns to our stages, and we can all sit in the audiences and marvel at the magic of it all. If young people like Roland are our future, we are going to be in the safest, most caring, kind hands. This was the drawing that came to me when I thought of Roland this morning: he is the gold at the end of the best of rainbows.

Sorry Roland, but I am not as good at portraits as your Dad. I am so grateful that you and your Family are my Family. I love you all! Thank you for being part of my life.

Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others.

“Stay indoor and follow the rules.”

— Pakora, The Great Egg-Scape