If there was a Pandemic Prevention Olympics, South Africa would be on the podium taking gold medals by the barrel full. We’ve had the longest #Coronavirus lockdown in the world.Continue reading
Yesterday was Day 2 of #SALockdown, and I did my nut. As with day 1, I had the front door open, but the safety gate was shut tight. This is the only portal for fresh air, aside from a few small windows.Continue reading
I thought a lot about death over the weekend following Mr. Doeps’s memorial service on Friday. Even though I don’t know his wife well and his children at all, I couldn’t help but think he was a few months older than The Bean (who is 73) and she’s a few months older than The Toppie (72). My brain then fixated on Psalm 90:10:
“The years of our life are seventy, or even by reason of strength eighty; yet their span is but toil and trouble; they are soon gone, and we fly away.”Continue reading
I heard of the passing of a retired, former colleague this morning. Just last night, as I was about to turn over, I said to myself I wonder how he’s doing. He had been ill for quite a while, following a heart attack, after which a myriad of treatment-related issues followed. It was inevitable that he would never be the jovial man he had been before the cardiac arrest, but the news has still left me feeling awfully sad.
I’m in a philosophical mood, a little melancholy too. Chalk it down to conversations I’ve been having-, or the books I’ve been reading of late, being a little tired again, the chill of winter, or simply because my brain needs something to think about.
I saw Harriet on Friday after work. We spoke about a few things and somehow Paul came up. I haven’t spoken about him in a very long time, literally years. It was bittersweet to reminisce about the memories I had made with him. I still listen to Leonard Cohen’s music, Hallelujah in particular, and a memory will escape from my eyes down my cheek. I know we would never have ended up together, but as I spoke, I wondered what he’d be doing now if Death hadn’t come to take him.
I went to the farm on Saturday to spend some time with Shayla-Rae, her husband (who is jokingly referred to as my skelmpie – which loosely translated implies that we’re having an affair), my precious Godchild, Lily-Rose, and SR’s mum. SR’s dad exchanged this world for Another four years ago, yet when here mum talks about him, it’s clear that her heart aches still for him. They were together for forty-seven years. That’s longer than I’ve been alive!
SR’s grandmother, Granny Wood, who turns 100 in October this year (yes, she will be a centenarian!) also remembers her late husband with fond tears and smiles. She regales tales of their time together with crystal clarity, despite her mind being addled by dementia that is setting in.
Now, in SR’s mum and Gran’s case, they married young (as was custom) so I’m not sure if they’d had the opportunities to meet more than the one or two men they did before they settled down into marriage if they would have said they experienced love more than once. For them it was a case of One Great Love, their Forever Love.
I’ve not dated many blokes either (my track record with the opposite sex has been nothing short of disastrous!), but I’ve loved more than once, and I mean greatly loved. The sad thing though is that as boundless as I can love, it never seems to be enough.
I know that just because it’s what I feel, doesn’t make it true, but it’s on my mind and I’m getting it out because topping (overthinking) about my worth to others (which is a huge thing for me) is not going to do me any good in this state of mind.
In the meantime, I’ll console myself that not even death’s sting can conquer forever love.
Oh, and just a side note, my brain is getting food tonight… Elena and I are going for sushi!
Who knows what this Misfit’s fed brain will come up with next?
I guess y’all just have to wait and see 😉
I’ve been thinking about suicide a lot this past week. Murder too. And no, I’m not planning on taking my own life, nor that of someone else (although I’ll admit, as a wannabe writer, I’ve come up with some plausible, but not-yet-perfect ways to get away with it).
My curiosity stems from excessive screen time over the Easter weekend. I have to push my limits a little, and I think I did fairly well, considering.
I spent some time with my folks. The Bean was watching a movie called A Father’s Nightmare which I only caught the last fifteen minutes of but was able to pretty much piece the story together without much background info.
This was followed by Bird Box, starring Sandra Bullock (who at 54 could still pull off the role of a pregnant woman). Now, I hate spoiler alerts, so I’m not going to be a tell-all and ruin the movie for those of you who may want to watch it. All I’m going to say is that it’s not the best movie to watch if you’re on medication that may exacerbate suicidal tendencies nor if you’re prone to overthinking. I’m still wondering why some people became zombie-like, immune to the unseen force that drove others to kill themselves. Despite being in both categories, I quite enjoyed it. My rating is 7.2/10
On Monday I saw Chanté for a quick cup of Chai. She asked about The Sperm Donor and what I’d done the weekend. Turns out her hubby also wishes she’d change the channel off Crime and Investigation; she reckons she’s becoming clever. We’re both in agreement on one thing: We believe everyone has a breaking point where they can snap and commit murder.
The same evening, I saw Martha for dinner. We didn’t discuss murder or suicide. Damn pity, because she often has a very logical take on things so it would have been an interesting debate. She did tell me about a book she’s reading about people’s near-death-experiences.
Last night I had hake in coconut cream, with salad, sweet potato fries and rice.
The friend, Esmeralda (whom I dragged out in attempt to make her feel better about a crap situation) had pizza. I obviously can’t go into detail as to what said shit-storm entails, but she did say I am so tired of it; that (wo)man is going to drive me to suicide. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her utter the word suicide in the fifteen-plus years I’ve known her. She kind of changed when the situation started, but every time I see her, she seems more emotional, whether angry, sad, or frustrated. Like me, I don’t think she’d ever put action to her words, but as her friend I feel helpless as I watch her fall deeper into a fit of self-doubt.
One thing I do know is if she had to commit murder I’d probably be the one she’d call to help her bury the body, like Gabby did with Bree and Lynette, because at the rate we’re both going, we are our own brand of Desperate Housewives, living in our very own Wisteria Lane.
I think my spirit animal is a bear. Not a polar one, one that hibernates. Oh, and eats when it is only necessary. Yip, a bear, definitely a bear.
I’ve always said that if I could have a single season all year round, it would be Autumn- the days are still long and relatively warm and there is a golden hue to everything around me, like an angel’s halo, glowing in the light. The trees dance a gentle waltz to the song of the breeze as their leaves change colour from green to red, red to yellow, yellow to brown, and eventually fall to the ground, their naked branches a stark fortune-teller that reminds us for rebirth to happen, death must occur.
Winter is not my season. At all. The days are short: it’s dark when I get up for work and in the height of the season, it’s dark when I get home in the afternoons, just shy of 17:30. For the most part, I’ve learnt to appreciate the darkness. Many a winter night I will get into bed early, with a hot beverage and just listen to the stillness that only a winter’s night can bring. It’s during these times that many of my troubles come to the fore, but also because of the clear blackness not only around me, but in my mind, I am able to think of systematic solutions. It is also a time when my Creative Muse seems to surface from her den, inspiring me to create something, anything, beautiful.
Just this past Saturday, while under a blanket on the couch at a friend’s place, I got the urge to cook – I’ve laid my hands on quite a few recipes, and am excited about the smells and warmth that will be emanating from my oven, or from the bubbling pots atop. I also unpacked all my cake decorating tools not too long ago too. More importantly, I’ve indulged my true passion a bit more: I’ve been writing!
Looks like winter may be my season after all… hearty soups, hot chocolate, Port, stunning sunrises (because I’m awake to see them), time for self, time to create and above all, knowing that when it’s over, Spring springs and a cycle of new hope and new life begins.
…I realized this in quite a humourous way last night. It’s amazing how when you hear someone retelling a story you’ve told, just realize just how nutty you sound.
Last night at Ewan’s “The-thesis-study-is-finally-handed-in” surprise sausage barbeque, Carmen’s friend, Marion (whom I have also befriended) was telling a few of the group that she thought I was a bit strange when we first met. A group of us went out for coffee one evening after work, and there was Marion, unfamiliar to me, but a friend of Carmen’s, so someone awesome, simply by association. I knew all the other people that were there, and they knew me, so I didn’t think twice about telling them about the tragic passing of Mom’s much loved canary.
Now, most of my friends will tell you that I love animals, but that I seriously suck at taking care of them. Not because I don’t want to, simply because I’m so scatterbrained, I sometimes simply forget. I am not a good pet-sitter either, pets tend to die on my watch, as was the case with said canary.
Mom and Dad went away for a few days, about a week, the destination is irrelevant. The fact is they weren’t home, the canary was, and it was left in my capable over-30 hands…or so they thought.
I remember sitting at work updating orders when the proverbial bucket of ice-cold water was poured down my back! Shit, I’d forgotten to feed the canary, for about three days running. Oh well, if it’d survived this long (never assume anything!), what was another hour or two, right? When I eventually did get home, after first stopping at the mall for something, and then at a friend for a quick coffee (which lasted about two hours), I trotted off to the back porch to check on the canary and well…it was dead (as most of you probably expected by now). I was quite distraught – not because it was dead, but that Mom wasn’t around to bid it farewell and bury it, so I did what I thought (Marion obviously didn’t) was the next best thing, and I wrapped it in clingwrap, and popped it in the freezer, right next to the frozen chicken pieces. Birds of a feather…
The day before my folks were due home, I broke the news as gently as I could that the canary had chittered it’s swansong and was now in the Big Aviary in the Sky. Mom was understandably upset. What upset her even more was that I’d frozen the carcass. “Now mom, it wasn’t a carcass, it still had all its feathers and everything…” I told her that I wasn’t going to bury the poor little creature until she got home.
The day of the burial arrived – Mom made me dig a tiny little grave at the rose-bush and I placed the little popsicle in the ground, clingwrap and all. Mom thumped me upside the head and told me to use my brain – plastic is not biodegradable! So I picked it up, grabbed the ends of the plastic and shook until the canary popped out with a soft thud into the ground.
Our rose-bush is still growing like a weed…and the flowers are canary yellow too. Coincidence? Nah!
So, as I sit here, rereading this post before I publish, I realize just how loony I must have sounded regaling this true tale to someone who’d just met me. I guess I really am a misfit…but I love myself just the way I am.