The Karoo, desolation and spirits

I love the Karoo. It has a sense of enormity that is breathtaking. The sky goes on forever and you feel like there is just so much air. Like you can really breathe. Not that I'm saying I don't breathe here in the city. Of course I do, otherwise I'd expire (not being some superhero who can take in oxygen through my pores or anything), but it just seems easier there, in the wide expanse of the desert.

It was there, in the middle of that desolation, that I broke, and perhaps that has something to do with it. A chunk of my freedom is flitting about there, an angel flapping in those vast amounts of air, flitting around amongst the scattered clouds. Maybe it's her that I like to go and visit, to see her swirling high above.

Nieu Bethesda. Turning off the tar and driving along the dusty windy road towards it makes my insides squelch and my heart contract with joy. I can't explain it except that it just feels like I'm home when I'm there in that secluded little valley, once home to Helen Martins and still home to her house and garden filled with concrete creatures and owls.

Going into the house, you can feel the spirits flitting about it. Her story is not one filled with happiness and her decoration of her father's room is testimony to some serious childhood pain, but the rest of the house certainly gave me the feeling that this woman had joy in her life.

So, yes, although I only went to that little place in the middle of the desolate Karoo for the first time when I was 31, it just felt instantly like home and I' ve been back, but I long to go back and spend a proper amount of time there. Just breathing, and watching the clouds float by in that enormous, neverending sky. And stroking the velvetty noses of the donkeys there.

I wonder if I'll ever have my own donkey?

Hot, hot, hot

It's Friday, which means I get to do my 'other job'. It also means I get to stay at home and work in my lovely orange kitchen with my Big Black Dog and Litte Siamese Princess and Big-boned Tabby all frootling around beneath me. Today, however, they are looking as listless as I feel. Reason being that it is 38 degrees celcius. For the second day running. Big Black Dog, in fact, is lying very unladylikedly spread-eagled with her tummy against the cool(ish) orange kitchen wall.

While the idea was for me to have Fridays off to pursue my other interests, of the paying kind, I find that, often, I use it to pursue all sorts of other 'other interests', like waffle-eating or tea drinking with other lucky souls who don't have to be in an office on Fridays. This means that my 'other interests' (the paying work kind) land up being done in early mornings before real work and evenings after real work. Which is fine too. On a value scale, waffle eating is way up there toward the top.

This is going to be a rambling post I fear, my brain is slightly melted. Not yet liquid but kind of the consistency of melted chocolate. And, surprisingly, one of my appliances broke yesterday. "Which one?", I hear you all chorus.

No, not the oven, so I can still cook that delicious casserole to fill our tummies and give us comfort on this icy (38 degree celcius) day.

No, not the stove, so I can still cook the rice to go with the casserole to fill our tummies and give us comfort on this icy (38 degree celcius) day.

No, not the microwave, so I can still make minted peas to go with the casserole to fill our tummies and give us comfort on this icy (38 degree celcius) day.

Not even the kettle, toaster, washing machine or waffle maker. The heaters are all in perfect working order.

The Fridge broke. The poor thing is sitting hotly in the corner of the kitchen, also looking listless. It got defrosted and cleaned out two days ago and has never recovered. Half of the little freezer section at the top is beautifully frozen (Only half though. Said peas are huddled with the fish fingers and ice-cream in that corner, cringing away from the warm side) but the fridgey section (a.k.a. The Fridge's tummy), harbouring all the lovely cool juice and water and beer is warm. Like in 38 degrees celcius warm. Not that we're all gagging for icy drinks on a day like today, no, of course not. It's hot chocolate and gluwein for me. All the salad stuff and other things that like to stay cool got shipped off with The Pond to her place of work which just happens to be the home of friends of ours too. I waved them all goodbye and wished them well in their new home, all the while thinking how nice it would've been to have a cool and crispy salad for lunch.

So, here is sit, oh-so-patiently supping on lukewarm tap water, waiting for The Fridgeman. I have a horrible feeling I might be breathing in CFCs too and destroying my very own ozone layer (not to mention the big one that we all share). I hope he comes soon.

In the meantime, I think Big Black Dog and I will take ourselves outside and spray ourselves down with the hosepipe.

I wonder if I should take The Fridge out too, poor poppet?

Disturbing dreams and tragedies

I awoke out of an inappropriate dream this morning. Very, very. I can’t tell it here, lest I get locked up in a very tight white jacket. Let me just say that it was an extremely disturbing mix of adult sexuality and childhood naivete and involved somebody, well not unexpected, not even unsuitable (he'd probably be the most suitable, if he were present), but just, kind of weird feeling. I am SO not ready to acknowledge those sub-conscious thoughts. Yet. Moving on swiftly.

Those monstrous mosquitoes I spoke about before? Yes, well, they’re thriving. Despite the fact that The BFF came over to play last night and killed approximately four thousand two hundred and twenty six (give or take a couple), after he left, the rest of the family (and boy, do those guys know how to breed) came out to play.

The Pond (she who is so wise about sore wings, and vodka) has moved back into my house for two months between leases and I was (quite cruelly I realise, but dire circumstances excuse such behaviour) hoping her sweet blood would draw the bastards away from my room, and to hers. Not happening.

Needless to say, I had plenty of thinking time. So I got to thinking about tragedies (as one does in the dead of night, while listening to Beethoven’s 4th being buzzed at you by a choir of mounstrous mosquitoes, or was it Nine Inch Nails? I can’t be sure ). Not like in the Shakespeare version, but more the common garden version. Not that tragedies could ever be ‘common garden’ really, but you get what I’m saying.

So I got to wondering if each of us gets to experience one great tragedy in our lives or some people get away with none. I suppose it’s all in the context. What’s a tragedy for one person is not really a tragedy for another. I’ve had mine already (well I hope I don’t have another big one, that one was enough for me). I broke, literally and a bit later figuratively and I still can’t tell you which of those was worse. I’m not sure I’m completely fixed yet. Okay, that’s a lie. That sentence order is wrong. I’m completely sure I’m not yet fixed. Hmm, this is a longer story than I thought. Let me leave that one there.

There was also some discussion last night on the fact that, in this life, you may be paying for the sins of previous lives or those of your ancestors, which could explain hardships (and tragedies). I struggle with this concept. I am of the belief that, when we die, our souls split up into tiny silvery pieces that fly about and land themselves in everybody we’ve ever known or touched. That’s how our characters build as we get older.

I just don’t like the idea that what I do wrong now will have to be paid for by my ancestors or future lives. It seems unfair, and horrible. So I think I’ll stick to my philosophy for now.

I still wonder though, if some people are lucky enough to get away tragedy-free?

An elephant

Oh dear, it seems I have no head for work, and now Frank has started something with the paint application, and thinking of Babar made me all elephant-befuddled, so here's another picture. Of Babar, before he left the jungle. Behind a tree (I couldn't work out how to draw an elephant's tail). And a hot sun.

And now, with my mind all elephanty, it's brought back the memories of my mother telling us the story of The Elephant's Child, who lived on the banks of the great, grey, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever trees. My little child mind seriously thought it was her own story (she did make up the most wonderful stories too - flower children, we had curtains with them on - story for another post). until we read it at school!

Ah, how to coax my mind back to work I wonder?

E-mails and elephants

I do some work for people who live over the sea and have a different e-mail ,which The BFF kindly created for me, which I use for this work. They're quite big files that fly back and forth over (or is it under? I try not to think too hard about the whole internet concept. It makes my brain hurt to work out how stuff can be, well, so instant) the sea. This morning it just wouldn't send.

I did all the usual - wrote my message, attached the files and clicked the little Send Button. The lovely little star thing came up with a message saying "Sending message" while the points of the star twirled prettily. I pressed the button again. The star twirled some more. So I pressed it again. The star continued twirling... For ten minutes. After that, I picked up my phone, whinged at The BFF (of course, it's his fault) and he contacted the administrators or techies or whatever pimpley youth deals with such problems.

Pimpley youth replied with:

Hello The BFF*

The user is logging into the mailserver successfully so the only reasons for the delay in sending are either that it's a large email (and the user keeps pressing the send button while it is being sent) or that they have a sluggish internet connection.
In order to troubleshoot, I will need to know the size of the email and the email address it is being sent to.

Kind regards
IT-guy* Babar
Tech Support

*Names have been changed to protect identities.

Babar! Like in that wonderful book, Babar The Elephant. I loved it as a child. So I chose to dump my e-mail woes and went in to read up on it. Turns out Celeste, his wife, was his cousin. Horrors! I just love the fact that children's books are filled with little quirks like that.

Anyway, I ignored IT-guys insinuations that I was repeatedly pressing the send button, and that my computer is sluggish (I get very protective about these things) and, instead, drafted this e-mail:

Dear IT-guy,

I see your surname is Babar. Are you related to the Elephant? I was very close to him as a child. Maybe we should be friends too? Only if you are related, of course. Otherwise we probably have nothing in common - you being an IT-type, and me not.

Anyway, let me know.

Love,
Shiny x

I wonder if he'd reply if I sent it?

Please hold... Ding-a-ling

My mind is abuzz with a VIQ (Very Important Question). It is one of those things that, with finding an answer, we could affect billions worldwide. It could change the course of history. Understanding that answer and the machinations of the psychological workings behind it could bring universal peace (and possibly solve world hunger). Okay, maybe Im over-exagerating a tad. It could just stop my mind buzzing. And reinstill my patience.

Why-oh-why do people put doorbell music on their phones for you to listen to while on hold? I'm sure I'm not alone in not really wishing to listen to "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" in those dulcet doorbell chime tones, followed by an equally toneless version of "Guess Who Died On the Bus Today, Doo-Da" (or whatever the real words are) and so on, ad nauseum, through the five different songs. And back to "Twinkle Twinkle".

The thing is, I am adamant that I don't wish to. What was wrong with the good old ringing tone? Or, even better, just silence? I am generally rather a good, cheerful phone person (I spend a lot of time on the phone - work, not social. Ok, social too, but lots of work) but, make me sit through a five-minute doorbell aria, and you''ll find me short-tempered and grumpy on the other end. And singing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" to myself.

Buggerit, how to do I get that song out of my head?

That privacy thing, again. And a sheep.

I've been tagged by the lovely Frank. The thing is, though, that I'm not sure I want to do it. Because I'm silly like that and am so conscious of my privacy. I say I'm silly because I know that the only people who read this, are people who know me anyway but, well, ja. It's Monday you see, and it's one of those Mondays where I'm feeling squirmy and unsure. Go figure.

So, what I'm supposed to do, is take a photo of myself, and then draw my version of it using the Paint application, in only 12 strokes. It's quite fun really, but nothing can convince me this morning to just blatantly reveal my identity. I like being Shiny in this sphere. Just Shiny.

I really like Frank though, and would hate to hurt his feelings so I drew a sheep using Paint instead. In 12 strokes. I like sheep and they're one thing I can draw to look (vaguely) as they should. While I've had many delusions of grandeur regarding my artistic talents, I have had to admit that I'm no Picasso. As simple as that. I'm okay with it though. Really, I am.

So there it is. A sheep, standing in the sunshine, on some lovely green grass, beneath a vast blue sky. I hope it satisfies Frank.

Other than that, I'm a bit sad today. A friend has moved away to a town on the other side of the land. And now it feels a bit empty here. And I don't feel like being in the place I am right now. And my sister was here visiting with all her joyous happenings and now she's gone back to The Big Smoke and I miss her and her joyous happenings already. I would say I'm pre-menstrual, but I'm hoping I'm not because, if I am, it's going to be a long haul!

I wonder if I should worry that I chose to draw a sheep?