My husband calls

My husband calls me during his lunch break to find out how I am. I am well, I say with a modicum of truth, and begin the conversational dance of pretending that I am not on the brink of letting it all go and allowing obesity and a disregard for hygiene to run rampant, to fester like puss in a neglected sore. He is goodness though, and the best part of this life.

Every morning I wake before him. His body is creamy and I fold my limbs into his batter like egg whites in a cake. I look at his back, mapping made-up star constellations and whatever patterns come to me in those hidden hours.

He smells like him. There is no comparison to this scent because it is so uniquely his musk and sweat and sweetly yumminess. He twitches occasionally and I hold on tightly as his slumber attempts to take him away. He could float up into the sky, on a hot air balloon of cloudy dreams, if I don’t press him to me. I curl my feet to hook into his and we move our appendages together in an unsung rhythm. These quiet communications are my favourite moments in the day. They rub me the right way.

On Leaving London Love, Returning to Cape Town

I was nervous to drive yesterday evening, but when I turned the key in the ignition, I felt fine. As I drove over De Waal Drive, dipping and turning, I was overcome by a sense of vitality. The sun was beaming through gaps in the mountain and the city to my right looked bleached by it. I was listening to music and suddenly remembered how sexy and fun summer in Cape Town can be. I felt empowered as I eased into the driving, revelling in the feel of the motor, and thought of how I’d conquered cycling in central London – if I can do that, I can definitely manage riding around my hometown.

Later, seeing my friends offered a boost of positivity and confidence. I feel as if I’m settling into myself again, away from you. I talked and danced and laughed with them under a soft touch of alcoholic influence. Fran and I lazed in bed chatting about life and I became aware of how much my special people had grown and changed and what current predicaments they found themselves in. It comforted me to know that they were all just winging it like me, like us. I felt sad and I missed you but in a way that didn’t feel crippling. In fact, it strengthened me to know that what we have is beautiful though unattainable in certain ways for the present moment. But it’s still there.

I woke up and went for a brief walk on the promenade. The smell of the sea and nature tickled my memory. The light was growing, steeping the landscape in the early spreading gold of tea that will soon deepen into rich amber. In this waking metropolis however, it’s more likely to sink into the white steaming heat of the day. Bright, stark shadows. My window was open on the way home as I watched the morning yawning and felt acceptance at our lot and the need to make the most of this period. A fire is in my belly raging to exorcise itself; energy is bubbling. I feel ready for the day in every way. Come at me with your best shot life, I can take whatever you throw my way.

A Short List of Hopes: A Letter to a Travelling Friend

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If you’re in Berlin, I hope the frenetic eclecticism and dynamism of the city is enveloping you. Its vivid colours are reverberating deep within you and ironing out the lacklustre kinks of the ennui of the last few months.

If you’re in Italy, I hope it’s singing its song for you. One full of operatic drama and swells of billowing emotion. I hope the sunlight is gilding you in a halo of warmth, a cocoon of comfort. I hope the history inspires and the art awes and the celestial quietude of churches instills an a-religious, pious calm.

I hope the poetry of living, of seeing the world and meeting people, infects you with an insatiable thirst. I hope you see the yet-silent, unwritten beauty of what lies before you. I hope that in amongst the often mundane, sometimes difficult and almost always tourist-riddled travel, you get to experience the romanticism of it all. I hope your friends are acting as a soothing balm, alleviating the malaise and weariness of Life. I hope your adventures distill into a revitalising elixir, replenishing the resources of your pool of creativity. I hope you feel alive.

Excerpts from a Diary #1

I kissed a man on Friday night while under the steady influence of alcohol. What I remember was surprisingly tender and sweet and gentle. He’s a philosopher and a comedian. That may seem like an unlikely pairing but perhaps the only way to navigate the oppressive morbidity of this futile life is to ridicule it. His gigs are always dark. That’s maybe what attracts me to him: his own darkness mirrors mine.

As I said, I cannot recall all of the subtleties of the evening, however what is ingrained in my recollections is that we talked intensely and touched and laughed. I remember the manner of his face as it would brush softly against my cheek when he leaned in to speak to me. His lips were a question, a proposal to know me further. His hands moved to my waist, encircling me, drawing me nearer. My fingers unconsciously mapped his arms as if it was necessary to be in constant contact with his skin — my machinations attempting to commit the feel of him to my fickle memory. We held each other in the incongruent hipster chaos of the bar entitled ‘The Power and the Glory’. We danced, revolving slowly on the spot; an oasis of burgeoning intimacy and calm as the superficial activity of the start of the weekend raved around us. I was for once completely absorbed in the present, usually intangible, moment.

We eventually departed and alighted at a club of such dinginess and hole-like appearance that it could only have been belched forth from the imagination of those who exist in shadow and the heaviness of permanent intoxication. We found ourselves on a raised platform, alone in a corner. His mouth introduced itself to mine. He would occasionally break our heavy-breathed rhythm to stroke my collar bones and remark on how he liked the way I smelt. The perpetual roving and roaming of his hands along my sides and back, the slight fondling of the hem of my red dress, culminated in lust but also a kind of innocent worship. It was an exaltation that seemed more earnest and appreciative than purely sexual and salacious.

He made me feel safe.