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

— @HaggardHawks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OUDRIF

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

INFORMATION:

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

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

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

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

“We dare not fail.”

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

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

— @HaggardHawks

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

Today’s rather unconventional breakfast.

By now, anything goes when it comes to food.

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

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

Don’t they just look lovely?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— @HaggardHawks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— @HaggardHawks

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

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

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

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

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

YES!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— @HaggardHawks

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

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

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

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

btfmdn

btfmdn

btfmdn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— @HaggardHawks

Even the standards that I didn’t have are slipping. I hardly got out of bed. I didn’t get out of my PJs. I did, however, brush my teeth.

One gets used to it. I know. One can get used to almost anything. And one can survive a lot. And I am one of the very lucky ones. I’ve survived a lot. Not war, or famine, or fire. But a lot. Sometimes I wonder how come that I am still standing, smiling (most of the time). My cheeks are not too sore, so stress level are nearly imperceptible, and I’ve actually had a very good day. Lazy, slow, full of being. But I thought a lot about how we adjust, get used to anything, survive, keep moving. Or keep still.

It rained in the morning. And for most of the day the sky threatened to seep some more, but without much success. ‘Not even the rain’ … could get out of bed.

Salieri and I started reading an uplifting book. Written just before the present crisis, so no reflection on what is happening to us NOW, but still applicable in a more general way, especially when, like me, you want to see the positive side in most things.

After a painkiller-induced sleep and endless cups of coffee, I did not feel like much food. But I did make an effort with the first meal of the day: fresh tomatoes from my latest home delivery and divine smoked duck prosciutto from the Richard Bosman delivery in the beginning of the lockdown. Then the culinary standards started slipping, too.

But there was a glass of wine in the late afternoon, enjoyed in Mozart’s company and in the presence of the last of the sunshine roses.

He hardly ever comes up on the bed any longer, so this was a truly special treat. Highlight of my Sunday.

Natalie Rae’s inspiring outfit for ‘taking out the trash’ nearly got me into my princess dress, but it was too late in the day to make an effort and I decided to prepare my bin for tomorrow’s (or Wednesday’s) collection just as I was.

btfmdn

But I think I will have a shower and change into fresh PJs before getting back to bed and watching the next recorded episode of The Brokenwood Mysteries.

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 have been worried about this since the declaration of the state of disaster: online predators. Not even the real thing, the ruthless psychopath that will target you when you are at your most vulnerable and drop a nuclear bomb in the centre of your life (those too, but they ALWAYS pose a threat). I am specifically thinking of the seemingly benign kind, the ones just looking for a bit of a thrill because, you know, life under lockdown is suddenly too boring for them.

An example. At the beginning of the lockdown, I wrote online that I was anxious (understandably so). Someone who had tried his luck a few times before, but always understood when to back off, suddenly offered his ear (via DM, of course), in case I needed to talk. Still giving him the benefit of the doubt, I politely said thank you, but did not make use of the offer and did not engage further. Two days later, out of the blue, a blatant attempt at flirting followed (via DM again). I shut it down immediately. But if I didn’t? What if I had fallen for the lame compliments and the fake sudden interest in my well-being?

Then the real offer of help: Two days ago, I wrote something online that could have been interpreted as me feeling ill. A woman, on the open timeline, for everyone to see, offered her assistance and her ear if I needed to chat via DM. When I sent her a DM saying thank you and explaining that I was actually fine, she said she was relieved to hear, and that she understood I lived on my own, and she gave me her phone number just in case, wishing me well. And that was that. A genuine offer of assistance, all done in the open. She was fine with me dialling the number she gave me at any moment, obviously knowing that she would not have to hide the fact from anyone around her. No weirdness, no secrecy, no threat.

Many of us are anxious right now, many of us are open about it online; there is nothing wrong with that. There are many kind, beautiful people out there who are willing to interact, exchange, have fun together without ulterior motives. They won’t slide into your DMs with lame excuses, so that they can have a little bit of fun with you at your cost and drop you like a hot potato when they feel like it. They will have no problem with engaging with you openly for all to see. There is no reason not to express interest or delight in what others are doing, but if you really mean it, and if you have nothing to hide, do it openly. If an exchange via private messages is needed, that’s also fine. But if you truly care, keep it appropriate, say what you really mean. Otherwise: fuck off.

I hate to think how many people are signaling distress right now and are going to be targeted by predators who don’t have any scruples. And I understand that there are many lonely, bored people out there. And they might be fine with some online flirting, but there are appropriate and respectful ways of initiating such exchanges.

With that preamble out of the way, let me signal some more distress and not have to worry about some creep initiating inappropriate advances… I warn you, I am protected by lionesses!

Salieri is a wonderful nurse. She spent most of the morning purring on my cramping, sore tummy. We had a terrible night, had to take painkillers sometime after midnight, but did not want to continue with them before breakfast. And breakfast was sweet delight. My freshly delivered strawberries with a little bit of leftover cream and condensed milk in the company of Vincent.

The beautiful spoon was a gift from my love when we travelled together two years ago. We both love museum shops.

I did not get out of bed until around 1pm again. Read most of the time, on paper and online. Eventually, hunger called, so I got up, ate a simple lunch, showered, washed my hair and decided to dry it while doing my garden loop walk. This time the reward was a Smartie after every three rounds. The small packet of Smarties contained seventeen, so fifty-one loops, with four steps up and four steps down at the two ends of the stoep, and a knee bend after each Smartie.

I did some laundry, cleaned up in the kitchen and then contemplated opening a bottle of rosé and a new book, but decided that despite feeling really sorry for myself for most of the day, I actually needed to do some work again.

So I did a gentle edit (Salieri assisting) of a short story left in my care and sent it to the author for comment. In the meantime, I had a small dinner (the rest of the bratwurst, this time ‘brat’ed in the pan) outside on the step with Mozart. I watched the sun setting and the sky doing its colour thing, and Mozart offered me his ears to scratch and rubbed against my legs as he always does when he is pleased to sense me in the garden.

Today, one could watch sleeping lions on Wild Earth.

And the Emily Dickinson Museum is offering virtual tours of Emily’s bedroom. I have been there in person, and nothing will ever be able to replace the experience, but this is not a bad second. The beautiful scarf on her bed, the small desk on which she wrote her poetry…

I spent some time in this virtual space and felt inspired, calmed, more human.

Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others. Stay at home. Don’t let the online predators get you!

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

— @HaggardHawks

No, I am not bragging. Not. At. All.

MARK HAMILL LIKED MY TWEET!

I have been a Star Wars fan since my birth; Star Wars and I both arrived on this planet in 1977. And Luke Skywalker has ALWAYS been my favourite character. There might have been a bit of a crush involved at some stage – when I was thirteen or thirty or something – and NOW this happened! It was the first thing that I saw on my phone this morning. Despite mostly having a shitty day, I am still smiling when I see it. Thank you, Mr Hamill. When I was thirteen, I did not understand the difference between actor and role, and I promised myself one day to travel across the galaxy and marry you, or rather Luke Skywalker. In a galaxy far, far away…

The little Twitter like-heart is a happy-enough ending to this story for me. Yay!

On days like today, I should not be driving. Not that I am driving anywhere nowadays. I haven’t been anywhere since 26 March. Topolino is all lonely and sad in the garage. But a few years ago, on a day like today – a day of monstruosity of note – I caused a small accident. No one got hurt, there wasn’t much damage, the other party was super-nice about it, but I knew: no driving on days like these. Actually: nothing on days like this. But, of course, I usually take mountains of painkillers and carry on (no driving though). Today, I decided for the first time ever that I will just do nothing that does not ease my monstrual misery.

So I lay around, had more leftovers for lunch, walked a few garden loops (without counting), swam a lot (great against cramping), read, listened to the radio, watched Wild Earth’s live safari for a while (hyenas, spiders and elephants – a herd with little ones bathing – bliss), and received another food delivery, this time of fresh fruit and veggies from SHOP2YOU. I placed my order on Wednesday and voila, everything arrived fresh and beautiful today.

The sun was soothing, the sky blue, the water balm for the body and soul. A day of being and waiting. I am writing earlier than usual because I will have a very early night tonight, but before I get into bed, I am going to sit on my stoep with a glass of nice wine and watch birds in my garden. I can identify quite a few by now, so this gives me great pleasure.

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

What is it with all this policing? As if the official lockdown did not impose enough regulations on us. Let’s stick to those: STAY AT HOME. That’s all that is required of most of us right now. Keep as healthy and as sane as you can. That’s it. But why all this advice along the lines ‘write this, don’t write that’, ‘post this on social media, don’t post that’, ‘follow this protocol, don’t follow that’, ‘reply to this email along these instructions, and forward to these people’, etc… In one way or another, the present is tough on all of us who are taking the global situation seriously. Staying at home has its own individual challenges, whoever and wherever you are. If baking banana bread is what makes you happy right now, and sharing the success of your efforts on social media gives you a moment of joy, please do. Whatever works. If it doesn’t work for others, they don’t have to look, like, read or reply. (The unfollow button is an option we are all free to exercise.) And if a banana bread picture works for someone, great! Any positive energy we can generate right now is encouraging. And I am saying this while being allergic to bananas, so I really mean it! Processing change via creativity – including baking (see the Toilet Chocolate Cake by Kate Pritchett!), sewing, gardening, and, and, and – is human nature and we are undergoing a seismic global change right now, so let us just indulge in whatever activities make this bearable, banana bread included. And all that exercise. And diary writing. And whatever.

Just brilliant!

Last night, I visited Jenny and Nick in Edinburgh. That was a good dream. But I did not get to meet their new puppy (you can see pictures of the new addition to the family here: Jenny’s and Nick’s adorable puppy on Instagram).

To see my Furry Family, you just have to follow me.

Morning coffee with Glinka.

The skin on my fingers has finally healed and is not peeling off. Three weeks ago, I helped build a fence for a large goat enclosure (a long story) and despite wearing good gloves, ruined my hands, especially the tips of my fingers while working with wire etc. All the constant hand-washing before the lockdown did not help the recovery, but now it is all behind me and my fingertips are all smooth and smiling again.

I am sinking into nearly intolerable laziness. One of my friends said: “This is a blessing, you have been working too hard.” I am not sure, but I do remember working myself into a month-long illness publishing a book last year, and I simply refuse to feel guilty about resting, or “momentary resting”, something I have read about recently in South African Writing in Transition (my review of the book appeared on LitNet today).

I watched TV all morning, read for a while, and, inspired by two Twitter posts, got busy with spine book poetry (see above) and ‘recreating famous paintings with stuff that could be found at home’. In my case, I asked one of the Felines to pose with me and recreated my favourite Egon Schiele: Seated woman with bent knee, and cat

Lunch was braaied bratwurst leftovers. Still a delicious mouthful. Then I had a swim and a reading session in the sun. I am getting a proper suntan for the first time in years and it feels good. Long chat with my Mom on the phone. She is doing great, thank goodness! She left the house today to say hello (from a distance) to the new postman, a young man from the Ukraine, who is as happy living in Austria as she is, he told her. Then it was time for emails and admin again. And I washed the floor in the passage. Dinner, and now, with Glinka on my lap, I am typing this, my way of chronicling our bizarre time, coping, exercising the writing muscles in a gentle way without performance pressure…

There is one rule/command/directive/regulation/law – whatever you want to call it – that I would like to see enforced like no other, now and always: DON’T FUCKING RAISE YOUR HAND AGAINST WOMEN AND CHILDREN! DON’T. AN ABSOLUTE NO TO VIOLENCE OF ANY KIND, PSYCHOLOGICAL AND/OR PHYSICAL. I heard Pippa Hudson talk to representatives of Rape Crisis and the Saartjie Baartman Centre for Women and Children today on CapeTalk and it broke my heart. I couldn’t help myself and I cried. It’s bad enough to experience lockdown, but to have to survive it in the same space as your abuser…? Rage. Tears. Helplessness. And I am safe. However, from the safety of our homes, we can do something: donate to these institutions which are performing incredible work. Every bit helps.

Please be kind to others. Be kind to yourself. Stay at home or seek shelter at a place of safety, if you can. Here is a list of all vital institutions and numbers compiled by Drs and Helen Moffett and Tlaleng Mofokeng: FACING THE MONSTER: DOMESTIC AND CHILD ABUSE DURING LOCKDOWN

Good night. (I hope.)

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

— @HaggardHawks

I don’t have a personal Instagram account, but I run the one for Karavan Press. And via that account I follow a few accounts that are not strictly literary, but rather food-related. One of them is the account of Richard Bosman, or “Foodie, charcutier, Jedi knight, frustrated musician, personal chef of Commander J”. A while back, I attended one of Richard’s meat curing courses and was astounded what quality of bacon I could cure myself at home, but now… Unless pigs start roaming the streets of Rosebank like the goats of Llandudno, and my hunting instincts awaken, the chances for self-prepared cured bacon look slim. So, when I saw this post on Richard’s Instagram account on Friday just after the lockdown, I smiled from ear to ear and placed my order immediately. My cured meats and bratwurst were delivered – very professionally, tailored for our times – yesterday. Thank you, Richard and Patrick! You saved this meat-eater’s bacon, that’s for sure!

When he was here in February, my brother decided to give me a new frying pan (his sole comment on the state of my kitchen), and this morning I could fry my newly acquired bacon in my gorgeous new pan. Salieri, watching all of this, was very fussy about her own breakfast, and I ended up sharing both my bacon and the yolk of my egg with her. She doesn’t understand the concept of limited resources and that I won’t be able to share her food with her at crunch time… I can always explain to myself why there is only a sixteen-year-old vodka bottle (a gift for my twenty-seventh … no comment!) and mustard in the fridge; it’s impossible to explain the lack of food to Salieri.

Last night, I had a bizarre dream: I was in my early twenties and still living with my parents, but the dream had me at a party, socialising with Mirka and Roger Federer, and then going with my boyfriend (a complete stranger in reality), doing voice-overs for Star Trek, to his place and feeling super-cool. Dr Freud is turning in his grave.

At this stage, I had given up on the garbage bin. Someone had gone through it yesterday despite lockdown. I’d decided to try my luck next week again.

After my bacon-and-egg breakfast, I made a few attempts to read in bed, but my mind wasn’t obliging. Luckily, my wonderful friend Debbie phoned to discuss the artworks that she will be doing for one of Karavan Press’s titles later this year. She is reading the manuscript and coming up with brilliant ideas. I love her work, so this was exciting to dream about together. One day, when books can be printed again…

Talking to Debbie, I realised that I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet. The fact that I was still in my PJs wasn’t that unusual. But the teeth non-brushing was unacceptable. After years of neglect in other countries, under South African oral hygiene standards, I was finally taught at my dentist’s here how to take care of my teeth and I haven’t had a single issue with my teeth for about a decade. This is not the time to go back to the old bad habits of dental neglect. It was around 1pm, so high time to get going. I brushed my teeth and was ready for the day. I looked at my stepper, then at the sunshine outside, and went for a swim. I am getting high doses of vitamin D nowadays.

It’s the first of the month, so time for flea repellent for The Cats. They all watched me swim (one of their favourite pastimes). Then, one by one, they were subjected to the flea repellent application. The Ladies HATE it with a passion, and they usually take out all their frustrations on poor Mozart, the only one who doesn’t care about the application whatsoever, but because of The Ladies’ puffing and hissing in his direction, eventually, I didn’t have a single friend in the house – the entire property! During lockdown, this was rough.

But lunch was being served in the kitchen, so I was forgiven my flea trespasses.

In the afternoon, I did some ironing, one of my favourite pastimes. The phone rang: my lovely neighbours alerting me to the refuse truck tumbling down the neighbourhood’s streets – yay! At least I did not have to run half-naked in my nighty after them, hair flying, slippers falling off my feet (yes, it has sadly happened before).

Satisfied with some kind of normality returning to my weekly schedule, I touched up a beautiful, moving piece of writing that Sue Brown had sent to me on Monday evening. I asked her whether I could put it up on the Karavan Press website and she kindly agreed. Do yourself a favour and take a few minutes of “being still” to read it:

“BEING STILL” by SUE BROWN

Twitter highlight of the day: the EMILY DICKINSON MUSEUM followed me back!!! Yes, it deserves three exclamation marks. I have loved this account for as long as I can remember. Needless to say I am a huge fan of Ms Dickinson, have visited the Museum in 2011, and hope to return one day… Until then, I am happy to delight in the virtual engagement.

My brother was there when we visited Ms D’s home in 2011. When he visited me in 2018, he left behind three sweet potatoes. Now, I am not fussy about food. I am probably the easiest person to feed. I am only allergic to bananas, and I cannot – CANNOT – eat licorice. Otherwise, I am easy. But, I can do without sweet potato. In the end, after a few months of staring at me, the poor sweet potatoes started sprouting in my kitchen, and I finally decided to plant them a few weeks ago, just before Krystian’s most recent visit. They have turned into this remarkably beautiful treasure in my garden:

Who would have thought?

But: I was somehow disheartened when I found two new sweet potatoes abandoned by Krystian in my kitchen cupboard at the end of February. This time, I decided to eat them. Tonight was the night. I had bratwurst (also part of yesterday’s meat delivery) in my fridge. No charcoal, no firelighters, but some firewood and old candle stumps – a trick I was taught by Bill of Oudrif – they are celebrating their twentieth anniversary of existence today! HAPPY TWENTIETH, dear OUDRIF! To think that we were supposed to spend Easter 2020 together… Sigh!

Anyway, sigh, “I have made a fire!” (all Tom-Hanks-Castaway-style), and braaied bratwurst (now, that’s a mouthful: braaied bratwurst) for dinner, and thought of Oudrif and the day when we will be able to travel and celebrate together again…

Listening to my favourite Austrian radio station tonight, I finally discovered which song the dancing friars (#friarswhodance) used for their video. Soundtrack for my own attempts sorted.

Glinka has been waiting for me in bed for something like three hours now. A positive day. I got almost nothing of substance done, but at least there won’t be any sweet potatoes begging to be eaten for a year in my kitchen. The small successes of a lockdown.

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

PS Floss and brush your teeth.