Gotta keep moving with a troubled mind a following

Twee jaar gelede wou ek vir my ouma se verjaarsdag foto's van die hele familie se hande kry en op een of ander manier bymekaar sit. Sy het foto's van almal in haar huis, maar die hele klomp is nooit saam op een foto nie. Ek dink daar is net een foto van 1996 waar die een oumagrootjie verjaar het en omtrent almal daar was. Maar nou bestaan dieselfde eenheid nie meer nie: van hulle is oorsee, ander is geskei, ander is nie meer deel van die familie nie en ander het weer nuut bygekom. In die ou end het my idee nie gewerk nie, maar ek het tog die cool een van my neef se hande geneem.

Dit is nogals vreemd. Al die niggies en neefies kom nie gereeld bymekaar nie, maar as dit gebeur kuier ons tog heel lekker saam (dalk dink ek net so, haha). Van hulle is nou meer Engels as Afrikaans, van hulle is/was oorsee, van hulle kom dalk nooit terug nie. Op een of ander manier bly mens steeds familie, en stel belang in mekaar se lewens. Ek dink net dit raak moeiliker hoe ouer mens word en hoe verder weg mens van mekaar af bly. Destyds het ons ouers vir mekaar gekuier en so het ons maar met mekaar gespeel, maar nou moet mens moeite doen dat die kringe van ons lewens nog steeds mekaar oorvleuel.

Dit voel vir my ook altyd as of die ander weet waar hulle hoort.

My neef klink soos sy pa as hy praat, en waneer hy goed vertel klink dit as of hy weet waar sy wortels is en waar hy wil bly. Hy het 'n passie vir sy omgewing wat ek eer het as ek in ander stede die metro kan vat en kan rondstap. Die Vrystaat is vir my 'n plek waar ek ons trein te lank gestaan het en waar die lig altyd mooi is om foto's te neem. Dit is nie naby aan my hart nie, maar Pretoria of Duitsland is ook nie eintlik nie. Dalk het ek wieletjies aan my boude en kan nie ophou beweeg nie waar die ander al 'n plek gekry het waar hulle maar die remme kon trap en hul wortels kon ingrawe.

The sky above us shoots to kill

At the Huguenot Monument in Franschhoek, an man in his seventies held what appeared to be his grandson upside down in order for him to smell all the roses. The child was squealing with delight, and the grandfather was smiling, too. A happy little postcard memory.

At Yoav's concert in the Kirstenbosch Gardens, a girl was playing with her mother's hair.

Another little girl told my sister she likes her because she has "dots" (freckles) on her face.

Also at Yoav, one could witness the worried measuring of height in the eyes of a mother turning around to the call of her son's voice and finding him in the branches of a tree.

There is this photograph of the two of us, I am around seven years old, all blond-blue-eyed innocence. I lie against the fold of his stomach, counting flowers, he provides the love to lean on.
That is what it should have been like, til death, not difference, do us apart.

A year and a continent later, he is running behind me as I dart down the stairwell, trying to catch me. My castle is outside, furnished with enough blankets and a high-chair for my dolls to block him from coming in. I reach it in time and build my fort. He paces around in front of it, telling me to come out, ordering me to come out. A dragon in waiting. I won't be fooled. For days we don't talk. Even when it is my birthday I won't forgive. And now, many years and continents and opinions later, well, for months we don't talk and there is nothing to forgive any more because of choices made and lives lived apart.


As children, we search for the hand that will guide us though shopping malls and crowded spaces and won't lose us. We rely on that hand to hold on to the bike when the training wheels have come off but we're still too scared to pedal onwards alone. There is the protective spell of innocence uncorrupted by the bad in each other which life will hurl at us soon enough. There is also the real time protection of parents and family and siblings and whomever is in our lives to guide us.

The best memories are not the presents I got or the places we visited, but rather being treated to a strawberry milkshake at Wimpy by my grandmother because I ran errands with her all day, or my mom driving all the way from Pretoria to Jeffrey's while we were sleeping on the backseat of the Merc, or identifying cars in Geneva's morning rush hour, or building a tipi under the giant oak, or listening to Celine Dion for the millionth time. The best memories stem from being enveloped by love, and not worrying whether or not the hand would hold on.

 

I would find a way

Child at tuckshop/caravan in Swaziland

At my school we had a Hexenhäuschen (the witch's house from fables) that during break-time would sell square slices of pizza and fizzers and chips and sweets to the primary school. But then it closed, and everyone had to go to the main tuck shop. I found it very intimidating, all these Grade 8s and above.

Tomorrow I go back, and am still intimidated. Damn, school stays with you. In some episode of Modern Family, Mitchell tells Manny that at school, every one wants to fit in. But as soon as we leave school, we want to be seen as individuals and stand out. It is like flipping a switch, where at school cool means being like everyone else, and then, with that Matric/Abi/Bac/whatever diploma in your hands, you suddenly, with all your might, refuse to fit in.

It makes me nervous, because my decently great PowerPoint might be a failure, I might not find my words, or most of all, yes, worst of all, I might realise nothing has changed in six years. You know, the idea that after school, you evolve into the person you were supposed to become, not hindered and stunted by high-school expectations. But what if it never changes, and there is always some hegemony involved which you can never break free of. What if what we were is all we'll ever be, at the core.

While I am reasoning these insecurities out, all I am actually thinking is "Screw that. That was then, this is now, we constantly change and adapt, and (not to be all 'yay, for tomorrow is another day') you can handle anything the world throws at you".

By rights you should be bludgeoned in your bed

He phones. We always know when it is him calling, mostly on weekends. Under the pretence of connection, of family and of catching up he talks without end. He has no interest in listening, only telling what is happening in his life, how wonderful it is to live in a city "wo immer etwas los ist"*.

I want to reach through the phone, travel thousands of kilometres with a raised fist and smash it into his face. We live here, where not much happens, where Radiohead will never perform, where having been robbed and getting your third driver's licence in five years is normal. Fortunate, even. So don't tell me you won't go see Nick Cave because he comes every year. Don't tell me about the film festivals you won't attend because you are tired. Don't tell me your work is 10 minutes away by bike, or 5 minutes by metro.

Do not tell me these things that I cannot do because here does not facilitate the same lifestyle. And do not tell me about your adventures when for a week we have been sitting in front of laptops and readings and books and have worn the same sweatpants-tshirt-hoodie combination. Don't tell me about the possibilities that you are not embracing.

Look. Here is great. Here the sun shines in winter. Here you need playlists for long drives. Here is home. It is just that sometimes home is a bit boring and usual and then being informed of all the things you could be seeing and enjoying, but won't because it's overcast, fuck, that just makes me kind of furious.



*where something is always happening.

I remember (5:31)

I had forgotten Damien Rice. When I was at school he was my absolute favourite. Time to get him back onto my Top 50 playlist. 

Snickerdoodles

Just say it : Snickerdoodle. SSSSSSnickerdoooodle. It sounds like something the Moomin's would bake and have for lunch. It is just a basic cookie rolled in cinnamon: perfect for Christmas. Since I can remember, we have been baking cookies for Christmas. When we were little, my mother would make a dough, let us stencil out different shapes with cookie cutters and when they were done, we would decorate them. 

I think it is a German tradition to bake cookies for Christmas and then you distribute little cookie-plates to friends/family/neighbours and in the end you can compare whose cookies are the best. My mother bakes Vanille-Kipferl, Heidesand cookies and something with chocolate. My sister and I then contribute our own favourites or help with my mom's. I like baking different ones each year, so last year Snickerdoodles were it and since we are leaving for the coast on Monday, they were the quickest to make. 

The recipe is adapted from Martha Stewart and smittenkitchen: 

2 3/4 cups flour

2 ts cream of tartar

1 ts baking soda

salt

2 sticks ( = 230g) butter

1 3/4 cups sugar

2 ts cinnamon

2 eggs

Pre-heat your oven to 200°C

Mix the flours, cream of tartar, baking soda and a pinch of salt. 

Add the butter, 11/2 cups of sugar and the eggs. 

Leave the dough in the fridge for an hour to chill. 

Roll the dough into little balls and dip them in the cinnamon-sugar mixture ( combine the cinnamon and the remaining 1/2 cup of sugar). 

Bake the cookies for 12 min. 

My dough was a bit dry this year, so I added a swig of milk, and I forgot to turn the heat up to 200°C, so they took a bit longer. Also, mine remain quite compact and don't spread like those in the images on the different websites, but they still taste like Christmas :)

Now and then

Johannesburg 1886 via the Museum Afrika archive on A postcard a day from Gauteng

Can you believe in roughly a century the veld has become a sprawling city? I'm a Pretoria girl and to me, Johannesburg is big city living : a scary place of sensory overload. Every time I have to drive there the roads confuse me ( I like paper maps and not GPSs), the people drive more aggressively and somehow one always ends up in Hillbrow. If Joburg is the cool, dangerous older cousin who comes by once every few months for a braai, Pretoria is the ordered family throwing the braai and making sure everyone has a drink in their hand. I know these streets, I know the backroads to avoid traffic jams, I know where to go for a party and where to go to just chill. I am a snor-city lady and although Joburg seems super-exciting and like a more interactive place, I think Pretoria has its highlights as well. The city of gold is not the only coolkid on the Gauteng-block.

Johannesburg Skyline at night by Keith Miller