Childhood phenomena

I’ve lived through some fantastic natural phenomena. I am blessed (some would disagree, but my heart beats in a small town rhythm) to be the daughter of a geologist, so was born in a dusty Free State town full of fresh air and surrounded by kilometres of mielie fields and huge blue skies, did part of my growing up there and then moved to another, slightly less dusty town (but still surrounded by mielie fields as far as the eye could see, even when climbing the tallest tree in the garden.)

Beneath both towns lay kilometres of dug out rock tunnels, a dark, hot place with men drilling, sweat pouring, as they exploded out huge blocks of rock to be vomited up to earth and chemically treated and carefully sifted and filtered and heated by fire to bring out the molten gold of king’s crowns and princess’ rings. Well, that’s the childhood version of it, before the teen realisation of the ethics, the socially decrepit aspects, the hardship involved. I stray though, that’s another post.

This one is about the natural phenomena.

We always had tremors. Earth tremors, like rumbling monster’s tummies from deep below us, down there, where the men worked. Rockfalls or explosives, it was impossible to know as they happened. It was only when the news filtered up, of men trapped or hurt that one knew the difference between the planned and the disasterous. For us, above, they ranged between a slight feeling of misbalance to full-on glass-breaking, nerve-shattering ructions.

We only had one of those earth shattering ones in my time. I was sixteen, and had a friend staying. A non-mining child. We woke in the middle of the night to the whole house rocking, back-and-forth, like a granny on a rocking chair on the stoep, north to south, and back and forth, for what seemed like hours. She was petrified (the friend, not the metaphorical granny), so was I. I stood up, forgetting our childhood-drilled-into-our-heads-instruction to “Stand in the doorway” (the strongest place in a house.) I padded through to my parents to check they were fine.

We all survived. It was on the news, and my friend Trevor-who-lived-down-the-road’s wall fell down. Everything on shelves facing a North-South direction fell down, the East-West ones stayed safely in place. All rather exciting in the greater scheme of things.

Then there was the Red Storm of nineteen-eighty-something. I was about 10 at the time, and one afternoon in that Free State town surrounded by red-soiled mielie fields, the wind picked up to give us a monumental dust storm (we were used to arbitrary little ones that flew through town leaving a layer of dust that left our beloved Regina tutting and flapping with her duster. You could sometimes see them flying through the mielie fields - mini dust tornadoes.) This one, however, was way beyond any imaginings we could’ve made up. It turned our little town dark, at 2pm, a beautiful red dusk, the streetlights were turned on.

It was surreal. I whirled and twirled in our garden, a child dervish in the red dust. My poor sister was stuck indoors with the scary nun music teacher at the convent down the road that we shared, missing out on the excitement. I thought of her, stuck inside, while I frolicked in this outlandish world. She probably didn’t care either way, being of teenage temperament at the time.

Oh to be that whirling child, wild imaginings running through my mind, in the red dust world amongst the mielie fields below that huge blue sky… I really was a lucky child, wasn’t I?

The spirit is here

It's virtually audible or feelable or something, an electrical undercurrent flowing through the city, like a schoolchild anticipating the holidays. It is everywhere - on TV the tear-jerker (I know, I know... I'm a cry baby), patriotism-inducing ads, flags flap in the (rather polar at the moment, despite a beautiful huge blue sky) air from every lamp post, cars are adorned with flags and ears (nifty SA flag bonnets you tie onto your side view mirrors.) All over the place there is a frenzy of it. World Cup spirit. It's contagious, and delicious.

Despite our national team being, well, not on the top of the list at the bookies, the spirit is palpable, we love our boys, despite their rather dismal performances of late, because they're OUR boys, and if there's one thing this country is good at, it's mustering up spirit. We're a nation that loves singing and dancing and occassion and we are gasvry (an Afrikaans word that just doesn't have a good English translation, it basically means we are welcoming, we like visitors, we want to make them love it here.)

I'm not a huge soccer fan, but this seemed too big to miss, so it was with great excitement that I went down to the FIFA ticketing office to pick up my tickets on Friday (lucky Shiny is going to three matches.) There was a long queue, the 'system had gone down', a queue awash with bright yellow football t-shirts, of old and young, every colour of our nation, all smiling and talking to each other. That spirit hovering and singing and dancing amongst them.

It's just, well, fabulous really. How can anybody not get sucked into it?

My morning

Sometimes the beauty of the world literally makes me unable to breathe. It's as if the beauty has long fingers that burrow into me and squeeze my heart so tightly, stopping my blood flow, crushing my lungs, simultaneously filling them with air and rushing it out, leaving me gasping.

I had to be at Real Work very early this morning. It was pitch dark, I was completely alone (except for the hundreds of spirit creatures who I'm sure wander the halls of this rambling old building that used to be a hospital), here in my Ivory Tower with it's huge window that looks across the flat, city-filled plain, to the mountains way over there, that lead to the rest of Africa. I wrapped myself in it. The aloneness.

Then I put on music, loudly, and watched the beauty unfold, through my huge window. As the whispy cloud-filled sky lightened from black, to navy, to blue and then spectacular pink, as if somebody had woken up and thrown an enormous bucket of pink into the sky. It made me think of the Washerwoman in The Faraway Tree. It may have been her who threw her bucket of water... it was pink so she must've been washing her new red knickers or something. I hope she remembered to separate her whites out.

Then I realised I was not alone in my awe. Just next to me, on the ledge outside, a pigeon friend was staring across at the sunrise too, her pretty grey feathers lighting up, her little pink eyes blinking at the upcoming sun.

And I wondered if her little pigeon heart was squeezing at the beauty too?

Creatures

I went after work and sat quietly, observing the creatures from behind my magazine. Caged animals, wild and beautiful and strange and amazing. A pink butterfly flapped past, making other passers-by smile. A mother hen scrabbled in the dirt next to me, collecting scraps for her excitable chicks, three of them.

Then a smooth leopard, his spots gleaming, his muscles rippling, ambled by, eliciting a purr from the young female he passed. He didn’t even turn to see her. She did, though. Up in the enclosure above, I could see eight little hamsters, whiskers twitching, running-running-running on their hamster wheels, others waiting next to them, for their turn.

Lots of birds – from common garden types to birds of prey to the preening brood of young peacocks who squawked as the leopard passed them, again paying no heed to the twitters of admiration.

And then, in the water, my favourite bit – a seal, a dolphin, a skinny eel, and the sweetest Cape Otter you’ve ever seen. Splashing and splooshing as the water flowed over her body, soothing it. She was beautiful.

I was only there for half an hour but the glimpses I got from there, behind my magazine, were spectacular. We left the zoo gym and went to a better place.

Is it just me that finds gyms so fascinating?

A little love story

I wish to hold it, gently in my hands, life throbbing through it. I will cover it carefully, inch-by-inch, with a layer of tiny kisses. The ones that make a little sound – not a ‘smack’ or a ‘mwah’, more like a little, crystal click. Lots of them. I will take care not to leave any part unkissed. A layer of luminous love.

Then I will wrap it in silvery spider web thread, so delicate that you almost can’t feel it’s there, except that it keeps it warm, and safe. Around and around I will wrap it, sealing in those kisses with its shimmer, no gaps that will let any cold breeze in.

And then, puffy cottonwool made from pure cotton that I will collect directly from the cotton plants and manipulate until it is so soft it feels like warm breath. A big layer of that, to keep it safe. And another layer of kisses to seal it all in. Then I’ll tuck it in, close to mine, so that they can feel each other beating, and be comforted.

Because that’s what your heart deserves.

Rugby

No need to keep rubbing your eyes to check that the title of this blog is 'Rugby', because it is, indeed. I'm writing a post about rugby. Me, Shiny, of the not-so-sure about the fun factor of watching a bunch of neckless brutes chasing a ball that's not really a ball up and down a field while engaging in blatant man-loving, in public. (I have nothing against man-loving at all, I just find the denialism in the rugby sphere particularly funny.)


Yip, I have some things to say, after going to watch The Big Match (Super 14 - it's a big thing here on the tip of Africa). There is always a Big Match I have discovered. Two weeks ago was one too, and now, apparently, there's another next week. Personally I think it's a conspiracy to get the likes of me interested. My rugby-loving friends need not use this ploy on me however - I don't need to be persuaded by the Bigness of the matches... just promise me beer, and I'll be there. I'm a sucker for spirit (spirit, not spirits... although I may be persuaded to have those too. What's a rugby match without a Klippies and coke?)


Anyway, on Saturday night, H and I reminisced on our varsity days by parking the car down by the sea and drinking a cider each while watching the sun set. Being more responsible than those errant varsity days we just had one (and knowing, now, that we are not, in fact, immortal.) We watched as a child bride and her child husband had photos taken on the beach, in front of the seaweed, and then in the dusty carpark with our beautiful new stadium (all World Cup-ready) in the background. Wouldn't be my choice of bridal background but it's good to see such keen spirit! Vaguely surreal really.


Then we went off to meet H's man, M, who had patriotically been sitting at Very Old Pub since 11am to secure a spot for the 5pm and then 7pm matches. We arrived, very fashionably, at 7:20pm. I don't know why everybody clucked at us, as we made them move out of our way to get to said spot, mid-first-half. The place was heaving, friendly, spirited, and full of testosterone.


The first 'conversation' I got to have was with short-legged blue t-shirt guy. As we went past him, he patted the spot next to him and said:


"Come sit here next to me. I'll get you drunk."


Tempting offer, but thank you I'll be just fine over here with my friends and, luckily, if I so wish, I am quite capable of getting drunk. All by myself. He spent the rest of the evening short-leggeding over and cheersing my glass. Harmless really, and I had to give him points for being friendly.


We wedged ourselves into our little corner. This entailed H squishing up next to M (not a problem considering they're 3 months into a relationship and are all doe-eyed and stuff), me squished next to them, and the next table squished next to me. The bench consisted of short-legged blue-stripe t-shirt boy, very gay Sommelier, Big Brute Guy and English Guy, all in very close proximity to each other, and me. It was close enough that I could almost feel English Guy's breath in my ear. Luckily only almost, though, otherwise I would probably have objected and been, well, beligerent.

I watched the row of boys and decided in my head who was who, who was with who, and who wanted to be with who, but wasn't (of course, while concentrating closely on the rugby.) Blue-stripe t-shirt boy was definitely the target of The Sommelier's affections who seemed to be snuggled up to by The Brute, who, surprisingly, seemed to be married to the English Guy. A fabulous menagerie of man love, perfect for my head to create stories about (again, while concentrating closely on the rugby.)

Anyway, as is the nature of me, by the end of the match (we won!) I had established the full story after becoming best friends with The English Guy (happily single, and straight. Unusual for me to be wrong on these things. Not, in fact, English but more Irish, though has been living here in the south for 16 years) and The Brute (married to a sweet blonde girl at the end of the table.) That left The Sommelier who is, indeed, a lovely gay boy, showering his affections on blue-striped t-shirt boy, of the short-leggedness and bad pick-up lines. I didn't stay to see how that story ended, but I fear it didn't entail them walking hand-in-hand into the sunset. You never know, though.

Now that's what I call a good rugby match, don't you agree?

Glimpses of me

Do you sometimes feel like you haven’t actually, really, seen yourself for ages? I do. It’s like I just get caught up in everything around me. The rushing people, ringing telephones, snakes of cars hooting and tooting impatiently, watching the robots change. Green, orange, red. Wait, wait, wait, mind blank (it's just easier so.) Back to green again.

And then, suddenly, I have a rush of blood to the head and I stop as I see a flash of me in the mirror. I look at myself. From the outside. Often Sometimes I don’t like what I see. Then I pick through my fibres and sinews and raw nerves and try and weed out who the real me is. Not the bricked in, razor-wire-topped fence one, the one the world gets to see, but the other one, the scared inner one. The one few get glimpses of every now and again (and that includes me.) It reminds me why I started this blog, something that I have been wondering, and dwelling on. I suddenly feel exposed, and think of stopping here.

And then I look again, and realise it’s all me – with my scaredy-cat innards, bedecked with razor-wire. I cannot fight who I am, but I can fight for me. With my imaginary chain-mail and sword, my head filled with dragons (it’s so much easier to give problems beautiful, scaled skins and fire-breathing mouths), I can be brave, I think, I can push through this wanting to abandon this blog. Can’t I?