Grumble grump

Thoughts of big skies and open roads keep distracting me from the matter at hand. The matter at hand, though, seems flimsy and colourless, a bland moment in time. I berate myself constantly for doing what seems to me to be Wasting Time. Again, I have the preciousness of time thrown in my face, with the death of someone I was once close to. There is no time to waste. None, nada, zip.

It just all seems so pointless sometimes, the dreary drugdgery of work, home, filling up time with ‘stuff’. It feels like the ‘stuff’ is junk food, nutrient-less, filling a void that just keeps getting bigger. I feel guilty, though, even saying this, knowing my everyday drudgings are so much easier than most, my job mainly stimulating, my life pretty damn rosy. In comparison.

I feel like I’m waiting for something big to happen, jumping from stepping stone to stepping stone in a marshland, toward a mirage that just keeps rushing further away. Wishing I could blame it on PMS I check my calendar hopefully, knowing my hormones are blameless this time.

Perhaps I need to stop jumpingjumpingjumping and just be still for a bit. Still and quiet. Maybe with a large bottle of gin and a couple of books.

Midnight swirling

It was one of those nights when thoughts swirl malevolently around my bedroom twisting me up in my bed clothes, breathing hotly on my already burning skin due to the sticky summer night. It’s nights like those that bring things to the fore. Things I don't want to see.

Suddenly those dim, shady figures in the background, the ones that I can push away in the light of day and noise of life, come rushing forward, showing me their faces. Up close, in my face, their stale breath twisting up into my nostrils. They no longer whisper, but scream, directly into my ears, their beady eyes stare directly into mine. There’s no turning away. It hurts my ears.

This is the time to face those truths, here, in the dark, sticky night. Alone. There’s no running, I am rooted to the spot. To fall asleep means falling down that hole, into that vivid dream world, the one that can be, at once, freeing and imprisoning. To stay awake means to face those screaming, beady-eyed, swirling creatures.

The chains are so heavy. The lock is huge. The key is lost.

Miscellaneous ramblings

I was lucky to be brought up in Small Town, South Africa, in the '70's and 80's. It was, for a child, idyllic. I am lucky to have parents who loved, and love me, an older sister who I adored despite ferocious sibling hair pulling and fighting (she broke a brush throwing it at me once, thank god it missed me and hit the cupboard behind... My pudgy little nose might've been pudgy, and skew!) Four years difference is a lot when you're 11 (and want to wear the same as her) and she's 15 (there's NO way I'm being seen in public with my little sister, let alone in matching outfits.)

I spent my days outside, in the sunshine, barefoot. Riding bikes, swinging in the park, running wildly, having snail races, rearing chickens, you know... childhood stuff. And, now, in my mind, that was a time of eternal and enormous blue skies. Like the one today (thus my rambling post.) It is the blue of a child's painting, and the air is so still that it feels as if, if you blew a feather into the air, it would just stay there, floating. It would be a white one, from an angel's wing.

I would spend hours, as a child, lying on my back on the grass staring into this same blue sky (slightly younger, and slightly more north), watching clouds, seeing shapes, dreaming of the places I'd explore, the things I'd do, the loves I would have. How I wish I'd written those childhood dreams down.

I am going to reminisce about childhood days and keep my other thoughts separate for now. That sad elephant is still sitting, heart-breakingly in the corner, wishing, hoping, fervently willing it to turn out that love wins and everybody gets to be happy. And by that, the elephant really means everybody. Because, ultimately, doesn't everybody deserve to be happy, to love, and be loved?

Blergh

I'm not going to talk about that enormous elephant in the corner because, right now, it just seems too private, so forgive me for the silence. My mind is a swirling tidal pool of emotions, I'm trying to keep my head above it, and so hoping we can fight for this. Right now, though, I shall try to regale you with silly tales of a more mundane variety.



My car blew up this morning, or boiled over, or something. Just here, on the hill (luckily this time not in the fast lane). It was the last thing I needed. There we were, mindlessly heading up the same old hill I've headed up every work day since 1998, when the car made a nasty little noise, almost like it was throwing up, and promptly, well, threw up... water and steam billowed out of the bonnet. Zzzzz. I'm boring myself with this story.



My throat is sore. Those little buggy bastards with their spiked soccer boots are practicing for the World Cup. In the back of my throat. Silly things, considering the beautiful stadiums we've made here at the tip of Africa, especially for the occassion.



No, I'm afraid my wit and sunny disposition evades me. I think I'll crawl back into that corner with the sad elephant, shall I?

Melancholy

It's insipiddly grey. Not even. It's invisible, but grey, as it creeps slowly toward me, pushing its' foul breath into my space... a warning about which I can do nothing. I can feel it coming, my heart fills with tears and becomes squelchy and small as I try to flee from it and slam doors in its' face, but I am rooted to the spot. No matter how hard I try, my legs are leaden, my feet concrete, it will get me, again.

I fill a day with the inane tasks of life, feign jollity on the phone, take another sip of beer and smile too much, wrap myself in a false sense of okay. But back home, it's dark outside, and it's dark in here too, and my heart clenches more, as I try to stop my mind from going there, into those murky recesses, but the door has swung open, I heard it's ominous Hollywood-horror-style squeak, and I know nothing will take this away. I'm in it. And stuck. It's too late this time to turn my back on it. It's tendrils are around my neck.

Do you think, perhaps, I'm a little melancholy today?

Sunday musing

After yesterdays' incredibly beautiful, clear, sunny day where everything we drove past or sat next to looked like a picture postcard, this morning is grey and rainy. It's gentle and quiet and as beautiful as yesterday, but in a more melancholic way. I feel like my emotions are bubbling through my pores, all of them - it's like my nerve-endings are all exposed. Must be the weather.

The gentle quietness, however, will last only until my lovely friends D and B and their lovelier daughter, M, (and M's new brother/sister, quietly growing to itself in D's tummy) arrive. Then the House in the Middle of the Street will change into an energy-filled playroom. My house is filled with stuff. Stuff like a large plastic dinosaur (previously mentioned in The Tragedy, Part 2). His name is Leonard, and he has been places, many places. He began as K (she who had Ava on Friday) and my pet at varsity, after various failed attempts at having real pets (another story for another day). There's a concrete mermaid outside, the bathroom is filled with plastic insects and lizards and a large plastic shark and pink plastic flamingo have set up home in there too. So, yes, M, all almost-3-years of her, likes it here, and the gentle silence will be disrupted by delighted squeals. Just how it should be on a Sunday.

Ooo, is that the doorbell?

Untitled

Good grief, I am such a bundle of joy, aren't I? Melancholy came over to visit and invaded ALL my space. And by that, I mean that she took it so far as to push herself into my ears and up my nose and even insisted on flowing in under my bathroom door while I showered. There was no escaping her. She's not gone either, she's like a bulldog this one. But I'm choosing to acknowledge her and have banished her to a corner for now. She's glowering at me from there. I'm hoping if I ignore her for long enough she'll slink away to hang with her friends elsewhere.

I mean, really, when did inviting Melancholy in for a drink and a slice of cake ever do anyone any good?

Melancholic joy

I have been a blog voyeur for, oh, probably 4 years now. It provides The Great Escape from hours of tedium at work. It's not that I don't like what I do, it's just that it can be a bit black-and-white at times. I find my creative side cowering beneath my desk sometimes, staring up at me disconsolately between the wires connecting my computer to the electricity supply, looking petrified. As if it might be killed by a falling pile of reference books. (This is not essentially an invalid fear - the shelves holding up the books are starting to look a bit dodgy as old editions are replaced with new ones, made heavy by added information). But back to the point - forgive me, I am easily distracted. The voyeur bit - I have always contemplated starting my own blog. I've even written my first entry a couple of times (I may dig them up at a later date and post them, as evidence - it may be amusing. Then again, it may not). So, what made me do it, finally? My friend, the amazing Leah. She started one and I love it. Also, the following facts:

1. It is a grey, rainy day
2. I am sitting next to a fire
3. I now have wireless access at home
4. From next week I am pursuing my second career (finally). I have gone down to a four-day week to allow myself time to proofread/edit and maybe, even, write
5. It is a grey, rainy day

Point 4 - I have a sneaky suspicion that possibly starting a blog may not be very conducive to encouraging me to work on my fifth, allocated-to-other-work-not-mucking-about day. Oh-oh...

And, yes, I know points 1 and 5 are the same. It's something about grey, rainy days - makes me want to write. Melancholy mixed with joy. It also makes me want to drink. From what time of the day is it acceptable to drink alone? Or is it never acceptable? And who made up those silly rules anyway?