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

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

— @HaggardHawks

James Hendry of Wild Earth entertained us this morning not only with an incredible leopard cubs sighting – too cute for words – but also with his hand- and head stands and colourful socks. His antics made me think that some people just never get bored or boring, no matter what; they always have something to think about, or to do, or to enjoy, or they just like being while doing nothing else. I have been through a whole spectrum of emotions in the past few weeks, but I haven’t felt bored for one second. It is almost as if no matter how long the days get, they can never be long enough to fill with all the things that come my way, even if it is pain or grief. I just wish some of the nights would be shorter, or a little bit kinder.

Last night was another doughnut night, but when I finally fell asleep again, I was in the Kalk Bay harbour, talking about eating habits and diets with a woman I do not know in real life. I felt guilty in my dream that I lost weight (which I have in the last three weeks – anxiety does that to me, sadly). And when I got up, all I could think about was the jar of peppadews I got on Tuesday, so breakfast was a bit strange perhaps…

Salieri and I are loving our latest read, although it is still very difficult to focus and it’s not the book’s fault. I will hopefully manage to finish reading over the weekend and write my review on Monday. In the meantime, allow me to share Salieri’s sentiments about the book:

My love phoned before work, my Mom phoned after a strenuous visit to the pharmacy to get her regular medication, and then my brother and I skyped in the afternoon. The three of them cheered me up endlessly. Krystian sent me this:

I took two.

While washing dishes in the kitchen, I spotted Mozart sunbathing in the backyard, and then I saw something moving in front of him. He wasn’t reacting, because he can’t see. The creature heading his way was a mole! The disorientated blind mole bumped straight into the unsuspecting blind cat and both were shocked out of their wits. Glinka observed the scene from the kitchen door and ran out to get in on the action. I dumped the dishes in the sink and followed her to rescue the poor mole. A bit of mayhem ensued, but I was successful in the end. Wearing my thick oven gloves, I caught the mole and put him/her into a bucket and transported the freaked out creature to the front garden where he/she could bury themselves safely into the soft earth and escape all our clutches.

Glinka was not amused; I couldn’t stop laughing.

Nothing much happened for the rest of the afternoon (emails, admin, a little bit of work – latest review finally done and dusted and sent off). In the evening, I made another fire and braaied chicken sosaties to Salieri’s endless delight. She loves chicken.

After several days, my Star Wars plaster finally fell off this evening. Let’s see tomorrow whether another one will be needed.

Best news of today? This!

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

The spoils of my unfortunate shopping excursion on Tuesday. I don’t always do breakfasts, but now the days seem so long that I manage to squeeze in three meals a day. Last night, the usual: a long gap somewhere around 3am. My TV guardian provided comfort and eventually put me to sleep again. I woke up to Glinka snoring softly next to my Marilyn Monroe pillow on the couch beside my lockdown bed in the lounge. Coffee. Live safari, but not for long. A little bit of reading, but I couldn’t concentrate. My mind was restless. On Thursdays, there are some regular chores to get through. So I got up earlier than usual nowadays and I did what had to be done.

And then I walked in the rain, humming the Pina Colada Song to myself. I haven’t moved much in the last two days of utter heaviness, so I needed to get out, and I remembered the emergency rain ponchos that they gave us at the magnificent Starlight Classics concert at Vergelegen – what seems like a lifetime ago, but was the end of February. No Smarties, hearts or leaves, just endless loops around the garden until about half an hour was over. I still keep glancing at my wrist where I used to wear my Swatch, but I haven’t put it on since 26 March.

Mozart never minds the rain, so he was out and about, helping me inspect our catnip/coriander crop. Glinka waited patiently at the entrance to the house for me to walk whatever I had to walk out of my system. Mozart couldn’t see the weird outfit, so he was not scared to be around me, but Glinka was quite obviously trying to figure out whether it was time to start seriously worrying about her human…

This could have been the last of the lockdown days, if the lockdown hadn’t been extended. Somehow, I no longer care whether it continues – officially – beyond the end of the month. I feel that I will extend it for as long as it needs to be to feel that I pose no danger to others or to myself by going out as I used to.

Lunch was chicken soup: today fuel for determination. It took almost the entire afternoon, but I finally finished the review I had been contemplating and writing for several days now. It is much too long, of course, and will need to be cut and edited accordingly tomorrow, but it is basically done.

A better day. Still heavy. My cheeks ache. There is a kind of emptiness in my head now that the draft of the review is written. I opened a bottle of Turkish red tonight, also a gift from my love. It brings back so many incredible memories of our Turkish adventure a year ago when we went into the Aladağlar Mountains in search of the Caspian Snowcock…

Memories are emergency ponchos for a rainy day. And rain, like the lockdown, is what is desperately needed to ward off the drought of an uncertain future.

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

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.