The water rush

My sons and daughters-in-law get this from kiteboarding. Me, I get it from my water pic.

I bought one recently at the suggestion of my dental hygienist (yes, I'd asked). It took some getting used to, I can tell you. At first I felt as if I were giving the whole bathroom sink and vanity a shower, not to mention the mirror behind which needed wiping every time. But now I'm loving the fresh feeling the it brings. I don't think I've had so much rushing water in my mouth since the time I tried water-skiing.

That was far away and long ago. In the Knysna lagoon, actually, while I was still at university. Despite leg muscles made strong through ballet, I never actually managed to get up on the skis. Now, the lagoon is tidal, but I'm sure the level went down because I swallowed so much water. Ah well, I was never the sporty type.

Although, talking of the lagoon, I've done quite a bit of sailing on it. The surroundings are surely some of the most beautiful in the world, but the lagoon has shifting sands and channels. And so I once had the opportunity to push a small yacht over many a sandbank. Maybe I should rather have persevered with the waterskiing in order to be on top of the water instead of trudging through it!

Getting rid of garbage

Friday mornings is garbage collection in our neighbourhood. My husband gets up early and wheels the bin to the road, then takes out the recycling after seeing whether it's paper or glass, plastic and cans. That's okay for distribution of chores, I reckon, seeing as I clean the toilets.

This morning I was kind of marvelling how good it feels to get the garbage out of the house and disposed of. It's like a small burden lifts. Clearing out stuff works too on a grander scale but takes more effort. Plus, you have to deal with it yourself rather than leaving it to those sneezing-brake trucks.

Today however, I'm going to do some clearing out of the garbage on my computer. I've just sent off a requested submission to an editor (hold big thumbs, folks!) and now I can drag those unnecessary old files into the trash. Then the folder won't be quite so crowded. Hopefully this will also bring good energy.

Writing black and blue

Here's a confession. I still prefer to do my creative writing (not the blogging!) using pen and paper. Other writers like the speed of instant composition on the computer. Me, I like the space between. i.e. The thought appears, and some words to convey it (hopefully!), but that small pause between brain and hand somehow provides me with the opportunity for serendipity, for the words to rearrange themselves, perhaps, or for some unheard music/rhythm to happen.

But there's another aspect I've wondered about recently. Does it make a difference if I use a blue pen rather than a black? My husband definitely prefers the blue. In fact, I used to like writing with a pencil best of all because there's more traction on the paper. Then I found the graphite was more difficult to read over after a lapse of time and switched to what we used to call ball pen. Of course, years ago, after reading Nathalie Goldberg's 'Writing Down the Bones' I went out and bought the fountain pen she recommended. Did that make a beneficial difference? I don't think so. It was more nuisance than anything else.

So now, I suppose a blue pen brings something gentler, more ruminative perhaps, than the black. Anyhow, I'm going to give it a try.

Applause

After years of missing the opportunity, last week we finally got to see the stage version of the Lion King.
A friend told me it was worth seeing, if only for the opening sequence. In a way he was right, although I enjoyed the spectacle and the dancing and so on. But for me it was the African elements that really held me in thrall.

Ah Africa, how potent is your spell! In the days when I was at school in England, I used to fly home at the end of June to spend a couple of months in Johannesburg in winter. Or should I have written 'hop' rather than 'fly'? The plane would land in Paris, Rome or Athens, Cairo, Khartoum, Nairobi (somewhere further south like Entebbe maybe?) Salisbury (now Harare) and finally, home. At each stop, we'd exit and spend an hour or so in the airport building. The amazing thing was, the moment the door of the plane opened and I stepped out into the air, I could smell it... Africa, the earth of a different continent.

So we enjoyed the Lion King, even though the performance was kind of patchy. At the end, the audience all rose to their feet to show their appreciation. A visiting South African friend sat next to me. She turned to me in astonishment. 'Yes,' I said, 'this happens almost always'.

Afterwards I wondered, why is applause not enough? Didn't we used to gauge the success of a performance by the number of curtain calls. And are we devaluing the chance to recognize truly outstanding performances by automatically getting to our feet when the show is over?

Living in the dark

I think it was Oscar Wilde who made a very disparaging remark about people who talked about the weather. Small-minded? Or lacking imagination? I can't quite remember. But anyhow, I can live defiantly with that because I like talking about weather. Also, let me remind you that, locally, the weather is what we have in common.

Soooooo... it's hot. Like 38 degrees yesterday, with rumours of 50 with the humidex. My husband said nostalgically, "On the farm, we used to pick grapes when it was 41."

Although I did go outside to water my plants, most of the day I spent indoors, airconditioning on, and all windows and curtains closed. The latter helps to keep the heat out.

In our previous home we only had one room airconditioned. I'd close up pretty early on hot days. But I was amazed when a Dutch neighbour came by and told me she'd opened all her windows to let the air through. Um... no.

The first time I ever experienced shutting out the heat was in Spain during the 'Fifties. I travelled by train with my cousin and we stayed in small homes that offered modest bed and breakfast. We walked through the front door, into the pitch dark. This also had to do with the brightness outside of course, but nevertheless. Wooden shutters were completely closed, and the interior was blissfully cool.

People who live in hot countries know that small windows are best. But I love all the light streaming through our large ones, especially in winter. Right now I try hard save electricity elsewhere -- like in hanging my laundry out on the line -- but in these dog days I'm grateful for central air.

Buttons

This post is more of a moan than a rant. You see, I recently cleared out a drawer in my bedroom. In it were lots of really small envelopes containing buttons. Spare ones, for items of clothing I've bought over the years.

What use are these going to be? If I needed a spare button, how would I find that particular one? And then there's the extra, unnecessary packaging. As I remember, in days of yore, spare buttons used to be attached to the garments. How much better was that?

Not that I have anything against buttons per se. In fact, I'm rather fond of them and miss the days when I used to make my own clothes, take pride in the sewing of buttonholes, and found enjoyment in choosing just exactly a suitable or quirky set to finish off a dress or jacket. And I have sweet memories of how my grandmother, also a seamstress, used to entertain our elder daughter with her collection of buttons, making up characters and stories. Four grey suit buttons, tied together, were 'the four naughty boys'. A clear, colourless button was the ice-cream man, and so on.

So I'm reluctant to ditch them. Maybe I'll find a way to pass them on to someone who can have fun with a collection of single buttons. Unfortunately, I think that particular decorating trend has already passed.

The sandal scandal

My sandals are all in a sad state and my soul is not happy about having to look for new ones. My bank balance won't be either. 

The trouble is these new soles -- or are they uppers? What I mean is, the part of the shoe that your foot actually rests on. This has been cushioned in the last couple of pairs I bought, and at first that was great. But what I've discovered is, these soles act like mattresses. i.e. after a while there's too much imprint from the body (in this case, feet) and they become too soft and therefore uncomfortable.

Sigh. A visit downtown has to be on the cards, even if we are in the midst of a heatwave.

Meanwhile, you'll never believe what I'm wearing. It's a sandal that's still available today, but I've had mine since... wait for it... the early 'Sixties!! They're the Scholls wooden shaped sole with an adjustable leather strap over the toes. Works for me. At least, in the house and garden.

Do you know what day it is on Monday?

This question became a kind of gentle joke in our family after one year when my parents repeated it over and over again. And yes, that particular Monday was special in that it was their wedding anniversary. They were married for just under 60 years. That's a long time to be together in a loving relationship, which theirs was.

So today it's Nelson Mandela's 93rd birthday. Mandela Day was, I believe, instituted in 2006 and is celebrated in countries around the world. This morning I heard a radio interview with a man from his 'clan' who used to see him walking to the law courts in Johannesburg every morning in the early 'Fifties. Knowing the city, I could picture that very well. Sadly, I've never seen Mandela in person, although after he left Robben Island he was in a prison not far from where we were farming at the time.

Anyhow, the suggestion is that we do some good today.... 67 minutes worth in commemoration of the 67 years he worked for liberation from apartheid and reconciliation afterward.

I'm planning to take some discarded clothing to Goodwill. A small gesture, I know, but I believe any intentional act helps in the larger scheme of things.

Oh, and I'll be thinking and working on reconciliation. Not in real life, but for a scene in my novel-in-progress.

Fluttering by

I was without easy internet access for the last past of the week, plus I was away taking care of writing business and visiting old friends. Riding my bicycle this morning, I realized the simple prose poem I wrote could well be relevant to the title of my blog. So here it is.

In the bathroom, walls glazed with cerulean
Slipping into sky blue with touches of lime.

Lily pads bear white lotus flowers.
And underneath the wall sconce,
a yellow butterfly clings in profile
casting an instant (yet temporary)
Spell of invisibility.

A single dragonfly by the door ...
Flying out...

And later, at Heidi's, there's more:
This time, double-winged, the dragonfly
Zooms over the overflowing, blooming
flowerpots nearby.
While a butterfly -- white not yellow --
Does its frilly dance, hovering above
the fancy-edged white petunias.

So I wonder,
These insects, are they sent to say
Strengthen your wings and fly?

Threads

I'm not referring to 'threads' as clothes. Maybe that slang is passe, and 'duds' is what's current now? Not sure. The thing is, I've never really been into slang, even though it interests and often amuses me. During the ancient days when I was working in the library of the French Institute in London, my colleagues used to tell me with some relish that my predecessor 'parlait argot'. Not me. Although I do enjoy buying a French magazine from time to time simply to feel a little more 'au courant'.

And so, to threads, the kind that's a thin-spun string used for stitching clothes. I have two of them at present, dangling down from my skirts. The trouble is, I always notice them at an inconvenient moment when I don't have a pair of scissors handy. Used to be you could break the cotton easily with a twist of your fingers. No more, alas. Cotton thread has largely been replaced by polyester. Maybe what I have to do is, as soon as I've published this post, go straight away and cut off those two annoying dangles.

One of the small superstitions my mother used to hold was that it brought good luck if you plucked a thread off someone else's clothing. The trick was, you had to keep quiet and not say anything to explain. I've done this once or twice and received some rather startled looks!

I'll be on your screen again on Sunday, but meanwhile have to take care of business.

Ciau for now.

Mosquito season

I was tempted to entitle this post 'Amos', in honour of that old knock-knock joke, the one that goes, 'knock knock'
'Who's there?'
'Amos.'
'Amos who?'
'A mosquito.'

This lingers from my childhood and comes to mind often in these hot summer weeks. Just this morning I went out into the garden to pick raspberries, and was almost carried away by those biting bugs. Presumably, they object to my impinging on their territory, or do they simply like the taste of my blood?

Vampires!

Certainly they bite me much more than they do my husband, who'll call to me to come outside when he's being bitten. My daughter-in-law has a theory that mosquitoes prefer O-negative blood. She might have something there. On our recent holiday, the family member who suffered the most bites were her, my son (not her husband) and her eldest child. Shame, as we say in sympathy in South Africa. For me, the good thing was that I seemed to be fourth in line!

In Cape Town when our children were small, we had a friend visit who was teasing them with tickling. He pointed a finger high above his head and threatened as he brought it in a downward spiral amidst much mirth 'Here comes a mosquito from Swaziland!' So now if a particularly big mozzie is flying around, we say 'There's a mosquito from Swaziland.'

I've learned to suffer those first few minutes of burning sting without scratching. But these days, I'm allergic to certain mosquito varieties (of which there I many, I believe). Then I anoint myself with Weleda Combudoron gel (no, I'm not getting any kickback). Sometimes it takes three applications to quell the swelling.

Why don't I simply use bug spray? It's because I don't like to put poison on my skin, or to breathe it in, for that matter. And what do I do if I don't have the gel handy? Heat works. So if you see me holding a tea- hot cup or coffeemug to my arm, or ankle, or whatever, don't think I'm crazy. See?

Bumper and Trunk messages

Okay, it's summer, so I'm in the mood for a couple of lighter posts.

I've always been interested, and sometimes amused by vanity plates. Every now and then a new one comes my way, like last evening, when I was riding my bike around the neighbourhood and spotted one that proclaimed '3LETS'. Ooooo how glad I am that I only had to deal with one baby at a time, although as a child I thought twins might be fun.

Anyhow, travelling around recently it struck me that there's a growing trend to 'message' the rear of your car, van, SUV or whatever. Have you noticed? Maybe it started with the 'baby on board' and the pink ribbon against cancer. Later came the yellow one and then various statements such as dog paw decals and outlines of two adults and their kids. Others proclaim some kind of affiliation. There was one, however, that truly baffled me. This looked like domino spots on each side of the car, just above the rear lights. There were a couple that went vertical, and some were horizontal. Huh??

This morning a bumper sticker came my way that I actually related to. It stated, 'I love my grandogs'! Yeah!

Group buying

For some time now I've been a member of one of those companies who offer a special deal every day, usually a 50% off some service, product or restaurant meal. Not so long ago I read a humourous essay about some of the unlikely services offered. Nevertheless, I have to say there've been a few I've been happy to take up.

But I'm starting to have mixed feelings about the whole deal. Yes, I can see the business advantage in making more people aware of your company/restaurant/spa services or whatever. However, when I actually go and take advantage of the deal I feel somehow... a little bit mean, as if by paying less I'm not acknowledging the true value of what I'm receiving.

So I'll probably go on buying occasionally. And meanwhile, my car is going to be extremely happy (not to mention surprised!) to be cleaned and detailed next Monday!

Taking photos

I sent a friend some pics from our recent trip down south. She complimented me and said they looked professional. No, it was just me. Although at the mid to late teenage stage in my life I did contemplate taking up photography in a serious way. While at the Royal Ballet School I went through quite a few black and white rolls. In a way it's a pity my mother was so not a pack rat, because there could be some historically interesting snaps there, if they still existed.

However, at some point in my twenties, on my travels to exotic places such as Zanzibar, I realized that I was walking around with my consciousness more directed to what might make a good photo than to what I was actually experiencing in a more general way. So I cut back and even got to the point where, in some years, I didn't take any photos at all.

Now I think (hope!) I've found the balance. Photography is fun for me again and I don't let 'keeping that eye open for a pleasing image' rob me of being in the moment.

Viewing Art in Galleries and Museums (longish post)

This morning I received a long, wonderful and moving email from one of my dearest soul sisters... or should I say 'kindred spirits' a la Anne Shirley. Yes, I've been thinking about Will and his Catherine, visiting PEI because of L.M. Montgomery, a favourite author of mine when I was a girl. And yes, I've been there.

But that's by the way.

My friend in South Africa has just returned from a visit to St. Petersburg and Novgorod. In the early 'Nineties I had the chance to go there. It's one of the great regrets of my life that I didn't get to the Hermitage then. It simply didn't make sense financially, and though I can often make a plan somehow, that time, I didn't.

She wrote in particular about seeing Rembrandt's 'Return of the Prodigal Son' and what a deep impression that made on her. She said how lucky she and her husband were to spend an hour with this painting 'with swoops of tourists settling on it for a few minutes and then rushing off to the next one'.

Hmm. In the days when we lived in London, or close enough to go up for the day, we'd often visit the National Gallery in particular. Usually I'd go specially to see one or two paintings. This meant walking into the gallery and making a bee line for that particular one. You can't imagine the strange looks people sent my way! It seems that the going gallery culture dictates you start in one room, go around that, and then move onto the next. Why, I have no idea. Sometimes now, when I go to a special exhibition, I'll retrace my steps to have another look at a particular work of art. There again, I get some very strange looks.

But really, if I really take in a good painting, live for a while with the colours, shapes and forms, I very soon feel full, and don't need twenty more.

Another friend is visiting now, which means I'll be making a trip to our gallery with her (because that's what we always do). This is a treat for me. She's an artist, and I get to look with her eyes as well as mine. I already have a chosen painting in mind!

Happy 4th July

Driving through New York State today, we passed a 4th July parade about to happen. Earlier in the day, the young woman in the coffee shop we stopped at wished us a 'happy 4th'.

Patriotism is an interesting thing. Years ago when I began writing 'Cape Town', my writing tutor who helped me through the first draft said I shouldn't describe my heroine as having patriotic feelings because that was an out-of-date sentiment. Now I'm wondering if he'd say the same today. It strikes me that most people still have a deep connection to the country where they live, were born, and/or brought up. And why not? Surely we should be grateful for all we've gained from our lands.

Perhaps there's a balance here, as in so many things. If patriotism becomes nationalism then it's a different beast entirely. But I think it's good to stop and celebrate, as long as we do it with the right kind of consciouness and intention.