Books on my walls..

There is a box of books under my bed. The two long shelves above my bed are already stacked so high that I am afraid they won't hold and books will tumble on me while I sleep. It wouldn't be the worst way to be woken though. My studies involve buying lots of books, reading sparknotes and pretending that I understand the intricate story lines and subtext, so every year I acquire a couple more. Also, every time we go to the hospice or walk by a second hand book store, I walk out with a stack of books.

I have two favourite books. The one I even bought twice : once in an English book store in Berlin, and then, thinking that I would never get it back after having lent it to a friend, I bought it again at Shakespeare & Co. in Paris. The book was looking at me, and my friend Adam said that it was fate: I had lost the book but found it again. I had to buy it. Well, a few weeks later I was back in SA and my book-borrowing friend was moving to the Netherlands, so I got it back. Now I have two copies of Joseph Heller's God Knows, but I don't think I'll ever part with either copy.

A quick word about Shakespeare & Co. : it is at the same time the greatest book store and the most pretentious. It is located on the left bank of the Seine and manages to sell a great number of great books in a tiny space. Upstairs there is a little corner with an old typewriter in between all the children's books, and in the next room there are benches against the wall and old, valuable-looking books. My memory might fail me or they might have changed, because I was last there in 2009. The environment is great, but the employees seem to be hipster-coolkid-American-students who look condescendingly at every purchase you make. It was probably just a long day and I am certainly not cool enough, but I thought the people there were ruining  the atmosphere a bit.

Back to my books. One day, I would like to have an entire room dedicated to them, with one of those rolling ladders and comfortable sofas and it should smell like happiness.

Here are some cool home libraries I found on shelterness:

or this one is quite cool as well: 

from here

Music painting

I was going through old websites that I had bookmarked and found this one.
Something pretty for the day :)

Marabastad pampoen*

I was in Fruit 'n Veg the other day ( you will notice that I quite like this store) and they had a special on : R10 for two enormous zucchinis. By enormous I mean the size of my arm - huge. Since I am unable to let anything go that seems like a bargain, I bought them without knowing what to cook with them. 

The first one I halved, stuffed it with a chorizo-mixed veg-couscous and topped with some cheese. I used a third of the other one to make rather boring fritters. I guess because the vegetable is so huge it loses some of that zucchini flavour. My mom came back just in time to also get her share of what she called a maranka. Aparently my grandmother used to make the giant zucchini with sugar and cinnamon. I am unsure if it is the same vegetable. 

So for the last 2/3 of the green monster, I cut it in rings, scooped out the seeds in the middle and stuffed them with a toasted bread/carrot/danish feta/coriander/patty pan mix with lots of spices. In hindsight it might have been better to peel the entire zucchini because the skin was not very tasty. It was an ok dish. Maybe it just needs more experimenting. Fruit 'n Veg is just around the corner, I'll have to go get more R10 specials :)

The maranka.

Cut in rings.

Stuffing

Topped with cheese.

I fixed our oven so now it has light again.

The final product.

  * meaning Marabastad pumpkin, because I could not remember the word "maranka" and Marabastad is a slightly dodgy shopping area.

Vat

Sy vat aan my haar-bolla - net 'n enkele oomblik lang. Hy vat aan sy skouer, gee dit 'n vinnige druk, en stap verder. Toe hy uit die kombuis uit terug kom, doen hy dit weer. Dit lyk as of sy gaan huil, so ek sit my hand op haar arm, net vinnig, net om te sê alles sal oraait wees. 

Dit is interessant hoe baie keer in 'n dag mens aan ander vat. Ek weet party mense hou nie daarvan nie, en ek self is nou ook nie te groot op die hele konstante gevattery wat party paartjies doen. Maar net so, tussen vriende en familie en selfs vreemdelinge, hou ek daarvan om te kyk hoe mense aan ander raak. 

In Frankryk soen-groet almal vir almal. Een regs, een links, en klaar. Dit was soms by die werk effens irriteerend omdat as daar twintig mense is wat twintig ander moet bisou-bisou kan dit 'n rukkie vat. Maar teen minste was daar 'n standaard.

Hier is ek nooit so seker nie. Vir goeie vriende sal ek 'n drukkie gee, maar ook net as ek hulle nie elke dag sien nie. Vir my ma sal ek lang drukkies gee omdat ek langer as sy is en steeds so mooi in haar arms pas. Vir my hond gee en ook drukkies omdat hy die perfekte grote is as hy op my skoot sit en dit heerlik is om my vingers tussen sy vel te laat gly. Die jaar toe ek weg was wou ek omtrent elke hondeeienaar bespring en net aan hulle honde raak. Mens mis daai gevoel van warmte en togeneentheid. As ek nuwe mense leer ken is dit altyd vir my 'n uitdaaging: vir die hello kan mens dalk nog vinnig waai of die hand skud ( ek praat net van nuwe vriende, nie van onderhoud-baas-situasies nie), maar teen die einde van die aand weet ek nooit rêrig of mens weer net moet waai/hand skud of 'n drukkie gee of net die vlaktes moet inhardloop nie. Dalk hou die persoon nie van 'n gevattery nie? Dalk sien hy/sy dit as 'n "invasion of private space". Maar aan die ander kant sou die persoon dalk graag daai moment van intimiteit wil voel? Ek weet nooit rêrig nie.  

Dit steur my ook as mense nie 'n ordentlike druk gee nie. As jy dan nou so na aan mekaar wil kom, moet asseblief nie jou skouer in my kakebeen in druk nie. Die sy-druk is ook vreemd. Dis 'n half-hartige onsekerheids-hello en ek dink doen dit reg of groet net vinnig.

Dalk wys die manier wat jy aan 'n ander mens vat meer oor hoe jy die verhouding sien as hoe hulle self dit sien. Dit kan natuurlik wees, dit kan onbewus wees, maar die manier hoe mens aan ander raak is party keer belangriker as wat mens sê. 

*

She touched my bun – just for a moment. He touched his shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze before walking on. When he leaves the kitchen to come back, he does it again. It looks as if she is crying, so I put my hand on her arm, just quickly, just to say everything will be okay.

It is interesting how many times in a day one touches other people. I know some people do not like it, and I am also not too big on the constant PDAs of some couples. But between friends and family and even strangers, I like to watch how people touch others.

The French greet everyone with a double kiss. One on the right cheek, one on the left, and done.  At work I sometimes became slightly irritated because if twenty people have to bisou-bisou twenty others, it can take a while. But at least there was a standard.

Here I am not so sure. I will hug good friends, but only if I do not see them every day. My mother gets a long hug because I am taller than she is and still fit so well between her arms. My dog gets hugs as well because he is the perfect size when he sits on my lap and it is great to feel his fur between fingers. The year that I was away I wanted to harass almost every dog ​​owner and just touch their dogs. You miss that feeling of warmth and affection. When I get to know new people it is always challenging for me: hello can be a quick wave or a handshake (I am only referring here to friendships, not to interview-boss situations), but at the end of the evening I never really know whether we should just wave/shake hands again or if one should hug or if one should just make a run for it. Maybe the person doesn’t like being touched? Maybe see he/she has "invasion of private space"-issues. On the other hand, the person might like that moment of intimacy of a goodbye hug. I never really know.

It bothers me when people do not give a decent hug. If you want to embrace, it should be done correctly, so please don’t jab your shoulder into my jaw. The side hug is also weird. It's a half-hearted uncertainty hello - and I think one should do it right or just quickly say a quick hello/goodbye.

Maybe the way we touch others show more about our own relationship with the person than the way they perceive it. It might be natural, it may be unconscious, but the manner in which one touches others often becomes more important than what one says.

Yes.

I found this whilst cleaning out my room.
Not entirely sure what I meant with the note at the time, but for all that will be, yes.




Update ( 5 minutes later):

Ah, the full quote is :
"For all that has been, thanks. For all that will be, yes." - Dag Hammarskjold ( Swedish diplomat)

For a moment I was admiring my own brilliance, now I admire his. 

Done done done

I wrote my last exam today. Now it is just waiting for the results and then whambam, I have my BA. It feels unrealistic, because I have always thought that I would never stop studying. I'm continuing next year, but it is not real to me that others will go out and find jobs and lead adult lives. The whole idea of a job and an little apartment and working 9-5 and living, separate, it does not appeal to me. I like studying. The whole being-without-money part of it is not ideal, but if I had to choose between studying for ever or working for ever, I choose the former.

I am too exhausted from all the exams and marking and people wanting something to write anything that sounds intelligent.

So here is a Christmas-related song. This is Smith & Burrows with When the Thames froze. ( Tom Smith from Editors and Andy Burrows from Razorlight/I am Arrows/We are Scientists.

Making good out of a bad situation

So, the bill I was talking about yesterday was passed. How can government ignore a wave of protest? Flippen ANC. How can you censor the "new" South Africa if press freedom was a hard-won fight?

On a lighter note, Nando's is cleverly on point, as always:

Work by Black River FC, image via Chris Rawlinson

Chance to protest

Previously, I wrote about useless protesting going on in South Africa, but here is something you should sign your name to. When Nadine Gordimer states that the bill goes "totally against all ideas of freedom", you know it is worth throwing your funeral outfit on for a day of protest against the possible implementation of the Protection of Information Bill, which allows the government to punish anyone they think is holding and disclosing classified information with jail time of up to 25 years. I read a while ago that had this bill been in place, neither the arms deal scandal nor Zuma's sexual interactions with a young girl would have gone to court. This bill is seen as a threat to free-flowing information and minimises the government's accountability. Read more about the censoring of the Mail & Guardian's article on Mac Maharaj's involvement in the arms deal.


This is what future headlines could look like if we don't prevent this bill from passing : 

Sopnat*

Party in the park. Everyone is enjoying the pick-nick but the sky is clouding over and it seems like a good idea to at least pack some of our things back in the cars.

Later on the sky breaks and it is pissing. We head for the cars and people go their separate ways. I am afraid and can almost not see. The girl I have to drop off at home is japping on about her boyfriend troubles and when he will come fetch her and bla bla bla. She is not sober and repeating herself - I have heard the story numerous times this afternoon already. So, I don't listen. It is wet, the streets are flooding and it feels like I am riding on an orca, not in a car. When I can finally boot her out, I turn the Jezabels up and focus on the road. Hitting the highway is hard because the robot is out. Also, there is a bus stranded in the middle lane and its warning lights aren't on. 

The droplets seems like little ghostly feet running away from me. Everytime I cross under a bridge there is a moment of calm from the heavy rain hitting the car, and a black strip of asphalt. The next instant the tiny feet are back again, scurrying away from me. 

Even though I have driven this road about twice a day for the last three years, the familiar is scary now.

* the title means "wet like soup" in Afrikaans.

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 

I would like to...

Variation On the Word Sleep
Margaret Atwood

I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.


via Berkeley

It is time

Taken at Pretoria Station. 

Ke nako means "It's time". It was South Africa's slogan during the soccer world cup last year. I am just wondering what it is time for? Perhaps only for the train to arrive.

Naguil

Ek hou daarvan om snags te werk. Die daglig steur my konsentrasie. Deur die dag is daar so baie om na te kyk, buite, nie in my kamertjie nie. Deur die dag kom lê die honde by my en lek my voete en lek hul eie voete en staan op en stap om en steur my. Deur die dag is die voels buite besig. Deur die dag sny die bure hul gras en die ander bure speel musiek en die ander bure se kinders kyk TV en ek kan alles hoor. Deur die dag is daar net te baie om my aandag aftetrek.

Maar dan sak die donkerte oor Pretoria, my mense gaan slaap en ek raak wakker. Die gordyne is toe, daar is niks meer buitekant vir my om na te kyk nie. Die tyd raak min en ek moet my werk klaarkry, so my brein is volop gekonsentreer op sy taak. Hierdie naguilure is vir my heerlik want ek is allleen en my lyf en kop werk soos 'n masjien saam. Dit is ook nie so drukkend warm nie en mens hoor net af en toe 'n motorfiets verweg op die snelweg ry.

Hierdie is die ure van digters en denkers. As mens so alleen in 'n mens se kamer sit is daar nike meer om te ontdek nie, so dan is introspeksie maar die next-best-thing.

Ek hou van nie nag, want my liggie is die enigte een wat brand.



*
I like working at night. Daylight disrupts my concentration. During the day there is so much to look at, outside, not in my little room. During the day, the dogs will come and lick my feet and lick their own feet and they will walk around and bother me. During the day the birds are busy outside. During the day the neighbours cut their lawns and the other ones are listening to music and the children of the other neighbours are watching TV and I can hear everything. During the day there is just too much to distract me.

But then darkness descends over Pretoria, my people are sleeping and I awaken. The curtains are closed, there is nothing for me outside to spy at. There is not a lot of time left and I must finish the task at hand, so my brain is completely concentrated on what I have to finish. These night-owl-hours are beautiful to be because I am alone and my mind and body are working in unison, like a machine. It is also not as hot and one can only faintly perceive the sound of a motorbike on the highway.

These are the hours for thinkers and poets. If one sits by oneself in one's room and there is nothing left to discover, it is inward that one turns.

I like the night, because my light is the only one on.

We don't need no education.

found on 9gag

Although 9gag is definitely not the most reputable source for news, this image is from the student protests in Bogotá, Colombia. For months they have been demanding free education and against proposed reforms to privatise tertiary education. For more information you can refer to the BBC's article.

This morning I was speaking to my sister about finishing my last exams next Wednesday and about thereby finishing my first degree. Since it is a BA ( Bachelor of Arts), many people dismiss it as being a degree for young ladies to find a husband and also as being useless in the market place. I know learning about post-humanism and Cartesian duality might not rake in big bucks for me in the future, and that I'll probably always be underpaid and overworked, and that finding a job will be harder than if I had studied engineering. But I am good at thinking. Not so good at math and calculations and numbers. So is it not more important to be good ( and associated with that, happy) than to be bad at your job and hating it?!

In any case, I am privileged to have studied at all, and to be able to further my education. This is a protest I would have liked to join, not students protesting about a fiesta being cancelled.

Seal it

When I was younger, my sister and I collected stamps and put them in an album.
These, by Susan Eve Woolf, would have been quite cool to add to the collection. This year, she created another series, called Gestures of Note, also based on the system of hand signs that taxi commuters use to indicate where they would like to go. I assume the system in Gauteng differs from the one in the Cape, because there I've seen people holding money bills in order to show how far they would like to go.

       

 

   

All via the South African Post Office

Protest

On TV, there are often ads encouraging responsible electricity use and tips on how we can contribute to saving the environment. But I wonder how many people actually do something? When they ask us to turn off all non-essential appliances like the geyser or the pool-pump, we don't do it. I mean, we do general things like recycling, turning the lights off when we're not in a room, having a compost heap ( well, sort of. We had one but rats started living in it so it had to be destroyed and now we collect all the vegetable/fruit rests and go bury them when the container is full) and not driving unnecessarily. But everything is also connected to saving money. I only boil as much water as I need, or my sister turns the geyser off, in the hope that it will reduce the bill.

The same goes for the rhino killings. I have no problem buying a bag at Woolies or sending an sms to donate R10, but actually going to protest somewhere seems like too much hassle. So there is a bit of a contradiction here: we want to save the planet without wanting to give anything up. But it shouldn't be easy to save the world. I mean, it shouldn't need saving in the first place if everyone could just have lived slightly more responsibly, but it's too late for that. We need to consciously take action. A friend of mine studies in Hamburg and he is constantly part of some student protest about fee increases, or world economics or saving the rainforest. When students at my university protest, it is because they feel the student elections are "racist" or because the food in the cafeteria is too expensive. The highlight was when they protested because Spring Day ( a huge get-drunk party) was cancelled. We still had a day off, but students were angry because the university did not provide a party. I think that was ridiculous. Find another party. Throw your own. Or maybe just do some work.

I think it was easier to protest in earlier years. There was one specific thing wrong at the time, and now it seems like there is so much wrong with the world that we don't know where to start. The ANCYL recently marched from Johannesburg to Pretoria to protest. My one friend works along one of the roads they marched past and she said she had never seen so much hatred. But I don't understand whom for. Who do you hate? The Apartheid government ended about 17 years ago, so that falls by the wayside.  Also, the Youth League should deal with the youth's current problems, like AIDS, education, getting people better living conditions, preparing them for a bright and productive future. Instead, 40-year-olds march in order to nationalise the mines, chanting "Viva Gaddafi" and singing songs that were deemed hate speech by a South African Court.

Half of what the ANCYL says does not make sense. I don't know it they are generally against anything ending with an -ism, or if they can define what communism is, or if know what they are marching for. How can you follow a leader who knows not what he says and has no respect for democracy? I would like to stuff Malema like a pinata and beat the shit out of him for taking advantage of people with no options and no education. If you don't know better you can't do better. But instead of inciting anger and hate, and basically destroying ideas of nationhood, unity and a "Rainbow Nation", you should consider what you are protesting for and if it will actually benefit the youth. Not by throwing money at a problem, but by actually trying to advance a society through hard work, education, dedication and compassion.

Malema has been suspended as President of the ANC Youth League.
Although this is great, it worries me that he could have become president in the first place and that the league is just a place for power-hungry people in their middle years to be overpaid for doing nothing. I say restructure the entire league. I say fire all incompetence and focus on building a better nation. We have so many other problems, a silly little man dancing on a podium should not be one of them.

Sundried

Fruit 'n Veg had a special on: 3 packs of tomatoes for R12. So I bought them and dried them. Normally I halve the tomatoes ( the small Roma ones), arrange them on baking trays, sprinkle over a salt/pepper/sugar/spices mixture and bake them at 100°C for a few hours. But yesterday the oven stopped working in the middle of my drying-out session. I figured out one of the fuses had blown ( a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle, hey?!).

So now the tomatoes have been actually drying outside in the sun for two days and it worked pretty well.
When they are dried to your taste ( I like them to still be slightly "wet" and then I eat them like candy) you can fill them into some glass jars and top the jars up with olive oil until all the dried tomatoes are completely covered.

Nice.

Pragtig

Pretoria city centre 2011.

As my neef iemand as pragtig beskryf, dan weet hy, sy is (dis altyd 'n meisie). Maar nou wonder ek, is nie almal pragtig nie? Is nie almal mooi op hul eie manier nie? Gister aand was ek by 'n partytjie en die twee ouens wat saam woon het die selfde meisie op 'n skala van 1-10 'n 2 en 'n 9,5 geprys. As twee mense iemand so verskillend kan sien, dan moet elkeen van ons tog pragtig wees vir teen minste een ander persoon? En dis nou net hoe mens lyk. Ons praat nie eers van innere waardes nie.


* If my cousin describes someone as beautiful, then you know she is ( it is always a girl). But now I am wondering if not everyone is beautiful? Isn't everyone pretty in their own way? I was at a party last night and two guys rated the same girl as a 2 and as a 9,5 ( on a scale of 1-10). If two people can see someone so differently, then every one of us has to be beautiful to at least one other person? And this just concerns what we look like. We're not even taking about inner worth.

The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths.

These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep, loving concern. 

Beautiful people do not just happen. 

--Elizabeth Kubler-Ross

via Dialogic

That's not my name

In The Crucible, John Proctor, a farmer who has an affair with a young girl, is willing to confess to witchcraft in exchange for his life. However, when they tell him his signed confession will be nailed to the church's door, he tears up the paper. To him, what others say and what he signs is not the same truth, and his name becomes essential as representation for his good character. Also, he cannot save himself through lies if others were willing to die whilst adhering to the truth. When asked why he will deny this confession, Proctor cries :

"Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another in my life! Because I lie and sign myself to lies! Because I am not worth the dust on the feet of them that hang! How may I live without my name? I have given you my soul; leave me my name!" ( Act 4). 

Not many of us will ever be in a similar situation, but I think many heard their name misspelt or misspoken or have themselves been unsure of how to say a name. I have been giving conversation classes to a Korean student named Taejin, and the whole time I called him Taidjin or Taygin, until I asked him how it was actually said: Tejin. One doesn't say the "a". 

Perhaps not saying a name right is not the end of the world, but like Proctor says, it is the only one we have and because our names are so interwoven with our identities, I think it is important to try and say them the right way. Sure, if you occasionally shorten it or if you prefer your pet name or nickname, that is fine. Or if you really dislike your name, you can still change your name. A friend of mine told me how a friend of his ( keep up now with whose friend it is haha) changed her name legally to William Kentridge, who is already a well-known South-African artist. I don't know why she did it. Does a name constitute the worth of an artist? Is it worth more because it is made by someone famous? Perhaps that is the commentary she was trying to make.  

But I like my name: Sabine ( please don't stalk me now). It stems from the name of an Italian tribe that was conquered by the Romans. So I like it so be said right. It has become increasingly irritating that people are just inventing their own little modifications of it. Or they call me S. I am not a l
eggy, blond bimbo in Gossip Girl, so I would appreciate people expanding on the one-syllable naming. Please. Occasionally it is fine, but please, it is not my name. I know I have said that as long as it starts with an S, I will assume you mean me. But it should continue onward from just the S. 


Have you seen Horrible Bosses? In it, the three main characters have a navigation system in their car which allows them to call someone if they need help. When they do call to find a dodgy bar, an Indian man named Gregory answers. They ask him if that is his real name, and he answers that his real name is Atmanand but that he was assigned that name because Americans would struggle with pronouncing the workers' real names. One of the characters says that he will call him by his real name, but after failing to pronounce it correctly states that "that name is a nightmare" and that they'll just call him Gregory. 


I feel that this is a typically American approach. If you aren't called Judy or Jim or if Robert can't become Bob the world of names does not make sense. I know this is a generalization, but if this attitude is sampled in quite a large international film, there must be some truth to it. 

Not that I can pronounce everything well: hardest for me are Xhosa names. There are different clicks and my tongue gets all tied. I am further afraid that by trying to say it right I am butchering your name and you will judge me for it. So I kind of avoid saying names that I can't pronounce.  Or I avoid saying names if I can't remember them. Perhaps my question is if it is better to butcher a name, but to try and say it and hope through repetition one will succeed? Or to just avoid the name-situation completely?

Books

*A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. 

I like to think I am a literate girl.

Read why You should date an illiterate girl by Charles Warnke (there are 2 pages, so remember to click 'next' at the bottom).

Koekeloer

* Jammer ek kry dit net nie reg om 'n dit (:) op die (e) te sit nie. Simpel Alt+ wil nie werk nie.

Party keer is ek moeg van sit en moeg om na my skootrekenaar se skerm te kyk en moeg om te maak as of ek gym toe gaan en moeg vir goed leer en moeg vir die mense om my en moeg vir die verantwoordelikhede van die aldag en net moeg vir die lewe. Party keer wil ek net my oe sluit en slaap tot ek volgende week van self wakker word en die wêreld heeltemal verander het.

Vandag het ek die tweede eksamen uit nege geskryf en ek is al klaar uitgeput. Dis nie dat ek dit nie geniet om te leer nie, dis net dat ek dit nie geniet om daaroor getoets te word nie. Ek sou verkies om net mondelinge te doen. Om julle te oortuig met my woorde, nie my skrif nie.

Nou ja. As ek moeg raak vir hierdie vier mure gaan stap ek party keer deur die buurt en koekeloer vir die mense wat hier om my bly. Noudiedag het ek die fantastiese heuwel ( haha) aan wie se voet ons bly  uitgestap (dis letterlik net 50m, ek laat dit nou na 'n berg klink). Toe ek aan die ander kant weer afstap kom 'n ouerige paartjie uit hul kompleks. Ek sou skat altwee was in hul sewentigs. Sy het 'n donker blou broek en blou toppie en 'n string pêrels gedra. Haar hare was mooi opgepof soos die dames in Mad Men. Die oom het 'n deftige helderbruin ( nie juis bruin nie, eer soos sandkleur) broek gedra met 'n ordentlike hemp, 'n bruin belt en netjiese bruin skoene. Dit was snaaks om mense te sien wat vir 'n sondagmiddagstappie so uitegevat lyk.

Die tweetjies het handjies gehou. Hulle skaduwee het een geword soos hulle die heuweltjie afgestap het. Hy het net een keer vinnig haar hand gelos om oor die straat te stap maar dadelik weer daarna gesoek toe hulle aan die ander kant was.

Ek powerwalk toe maar verby. Ek wil nie die derde wiel wees hier nie. En dit lyk bietjie snaaks as ek so vir hulle dophou. Dis snaaks wat mens so Sondagmiddag sien: kinder speel in tuine, mense braai, honde blaf. Dit lyk as of almal tog heel gelukkig is.

Later sien ek toe weer 'n ouer paartjie. Hierdie keer was hulle nie heeltemal so uitgevat nie: sy het 'n beige sak aangehad en sy wit hemp was die selfde kleur as sy hare.

Toe hulle sien ek stap aan die selfe kant van die straat as hulle het hulle vinnig gewissel. Ek wonder hoekom. Oor my? Ek hoop nie so nie. Ek hoor hy sê vir sy vrou dat die son nie so sterk sal wees aan die ander kant nie. Ek weet darem nie, dis 'n Sondagmiddag en die son is oorals.

Dis vir my lekker om vir die bure te kyk. Mens weet nooit wie woon agter al die hoe heinings nie en niemand gesels meer met mekaar nie. Vroeer het ons partytjies gehou en almal om ons genooi, maar daai dae is verby. Met party bure praat mens en het 'n goeie verhouding, maar met die meestes nie. Agter in die een hoek van die tuin is daar 'n hekkie wat na die bure se tuin gaan. Ek ondthou ons het hom toe ek klein was dalk een of twee keer oopgesluit. Nie meer nie. Ek wonder of die mense wat na ons in die huis gaan bly dalk weer die hekkie sal oopmaak of of ons gemeente maar almal agter hul mure sal skuil.

Street

I wish there were more street art in Pretoria. But we are so used to sitting in transport rather than walking ourselves that I don't think street art is "big" here. Also, I doubt whether all the nice neighbours will appreciate art on their pristine walls.

Here is one from my Paris days. Harsh?!

Finish something

found on Kate Voegele's website

Yes to all. Except number 5. 

Moerbeie

Die Boerboel blaf hier onder my. Genade maar die muurtjie is tog effens hoer as wat ek gedink het. Ek het op die muur agter in die hoek van ons erf geklim om die bure se moerbeie te steel. Hulle versteek hulle boom agter ander bosse en niemand maak gebruik van die glinsterende swart bessies wat swaar an die takke hang soos druiwetrosse. Ons erf grens an drie ander: daar is die een met die boom, die een met die Boerboel en 'n maar takkie, en die een van Tommy en Liesel.

Gelukkig sien mens my nie omdat die bos so dik is, maar almal se honde het agtergekom ek staan daar en blaf vir my. Nie juis die beste situasie om in te wees nie as mens besig is met diefstal. Ek pluk vinnig al die bessies wat ek kan en maak amper my hele bakkie vol. Maar daar hang nog só baie net an die ander kant, net buite my bereik. Die Boerboel se tuin het 'n elektriese heining wat ek verkieslik nie aan sal raak nie. En natuurlik sou ek verkieslik ook nie die hond se middagete wil word nie.

So ek hang maar tussen die takke soos 'n enorme apie en probeer elke bessie gryp wat ek kan kry. Eintlik wil ek die bure vra of ek kan kom en van hulle kant af die vruggies kan pluk. Maar hulle het ook 'n reuse Bougainvillea wat my ma en die tuinier 'n jaar of wat terug vergiftig het omdat die ding die heeltyd ons erf vol pienk blomme mors, so ek is nie seker hoe vriendelik hulle is nie. Toe ek jonk was het ek ook een keer my bal oor die muur gegooi en hulle wou hom nie eers soek nie. So ek skat hulle wil nie juis met hul bure verkeer nie.

Maar uiteindelik was my plunder nie te klein nie. Ek kon immers 'n botteltjie of drie konfyt kook.

Moerbeie uit hul tuin, appeliefies uit ons s'n.

Laat lê die bessies in lae met suiker vir 4 ure en kook dit dan oor 'n lae hitte om kopnfyt te maak. 

Drie botteltjies plesier. 

Ek het die konfyt en nog meer gesteelde moerbeie toe vir hierdie heeeeeeeerlike shortbread ook gebruik:

Austrian Raspberry Shortbread ( as always by smitten kitchen):

1 pound (4 sticks) unsalted butter, slightly softened (about 400g)
4 egg yolks
2 cups granulated sugar
4 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 teaspoon lemon zest

1 cup raspberry jam, at room temperature
1/4 cup confectioners’ sugar

-Cream the butter in a mixer fitted with a paddle attachment (or using a hand mixer) until soft and fluffy. 

-Add the egg yolks and mix well.

-Mix the granulated sugar, flour, baking powder, and salt together. Add to the butter and egg yolk mixture and mix just until incorporated and the dough starts to come together. Turn the dough out onto a floured work surface and form into two balls. Wrap each ball in plastic wrap and freeze at least 2 hours or overnight (or as long as a month, if you like).

-Heat the oven to 350 degrees.

-Remove one ball of dough from the freezer and coarsely grate it by hand or with the grating disk in a food processor into the bottom of a 9×13-inch baking pan or a 10-inch tart pan with a removable bottom. Make sure the surface is covered evenly with shreds of dough.

-With a piping bag with a wide tip or a zip-lock bag with the corner cut off, squeeze the jam over the surface as evenly as possible, to within 1/2 inch of the edge all the way around. Remove the remaining dough from the freezer and coarsely grate it over the entire surface.

-Bake until lightly golden brown and the center no longer wiggles, 50 to 60 minutes. As soon as the shortbread comes out of the oven, dust with confectioners’ sugar.

-Cool on a wire rack, then cut in the pan with a serrated knife. I find that for this an all bar cookies, chilling the pan in the fridge makes it a lot easier to get clean cuts. ( Ok I found it easier to cut them when they are warm...)

Love after Love

Love After Love

The time will come

when, with elation

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your own mirror

and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored

for another, who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,

peel your own image from the mirror.

Sit. Feast on your life.

 - Derek Walcott

57th percentile

I am a person that achieves. Not necessarily top of my class or best at something, but I like doing well. I guess everyone does. We like knowing we can do something better than others, that we are not just average and mediocre and that somehow, this being good at something enhances our individuality. Perhaps our achievements and talents are what set us apart from the other 7 billion.

English is not my strongest subject. At school I loved it because the ways of language made sense to me and it was enjoyable to learn. Now, however, English as subject has become tedious. I don't want to read Middlemarch or Portrait of a Lady. There is nothing in those words for me. 

Emma was great fun. I previously saw the BBC TV series with Romola Garai and the book was more fun having a specific image in my mind. It was therefore quite a surprise to get (only) 57% in my assignment. Normally, I do the assignments and I check that I answered what was asked and I move on. This was a punch in the face, a big red letter screaming at me :" HA! you underachieving shell of a person!" Somehow how I see myself is still always linked to how I achieve academically.

Sure, admittedly marks do not constitute a personality, but with a bad mark comes a lower average, and the lower average in English brings down my average in general, which could impact the amount of scholarship money I receive from the university for my degree. The better I do, the less I pay. So perhaps the disappointment is threefold: the work was not as good as I thought it was, my talent for English isn't either, and this will reflect badly on the amount I will have to pay for tuition next year ( since it is my mom who pays, it is even worse). 

There was a girl in school with me who always went to the teacher if she thought she could get just one more percent out of an argument. Even if she had 98%, it was not good enough. I also went to talk to my lecturer, but more to find out what I had done so that in future I could do it better. There are times when fighting for marks is the right thing to do, but here it was more of a learning curve. I still think marking is a subjective thing in the humanities, because it is hard to give the reason for each percentage. But I must admit my own mistakes. Also, there is no use in crying over spilt milk.

Now, after that lesson learnt, is another remark I have to make. 

Giving. 

There is a monstrous egotism that lives in people and they choose to feed it instead of combating it. Why would you give your old clothes to your cleaning lady, ask her to sell them to people living in poverty, and then still ask her to give you half of the profits? I know, you bought the clothes originally. But by now, you will not wear them any more. If no one would take them, you would probably throw them away. Furthermore, you have already replenished your wardrobe, I don't really see why you cannot just give your clothes away? 

The same goes for Matric Ball dresses ( = prom) . Mine was supposed to look like the one Catherine Zeta Jones wears in this ad: 

Needless do say, it didn't. 

But perhaps now someone else could use my dress. I won't wear it again. 

So if you are in the same situation, consider donating your ball-gowns to The Princess Project. I am unsure if they only take celebrity-owned ones, but that seems a tad silly. I mean, it is not as if SA has a lot of celebrities. 

Bride & Co has a similar idea in Johannesburg, so if you are in that area, you could drop your dress with them. 

Maybe I am a hypocrite. My dress has been hanging in the closet since 2006. I wore it once to Halloween. But I've never gotten round to donating it. However, I do clean out my closet about twice a year and get rid of everything that I haven't worn in a while. As in a year or three, not a month. Our cleaning lady takes the clothes and I assume she keeps what she likes and either sells or gives away the rest. I don't care. I am not wearing them any more and if someone else can use them and profit from them, that is my charity for the day. 

Swift Transitions 2

The 4th year Fine Arts students have to host an exhibition at the end of their final year. Last year, they were divided into three groups with different themes, and my friend Delène Human exhibited her ark. The other works are also by last year's group, but I cannot find the name of the artists.

Delène Human

This year, there were onyl two groups and both exhibited under the title Swift Transitions at the Pretoria Art Museum. If you are interested, this exhibition still runs for I think 2 weeks, so you can check it out. It costs something ridiculous like R5. 

Museum Hours: Tuesdays to Sundays 10:00-17:00
Closed on Mondays and Public Holidays

The first group was very disappointing and my friend and I were standing there, wine-less, not understanding anything and not even being treated to a pretty sight. I know art is not just something pretty ( yay for 3 years of art history) and that the status and definition of what constitutes art is constantly being questioned, but often I can not understand a work and still see something appealing in it. Sometimes, you can look at a work and inexplicably like it. In 2004 I went to Germany to visit my dad and travel with a friend. In Berlin, the MoMA was hosting an exhibition and we went. On a laptop screen Jackson Pollock's stuff just looks like a toddler had fun with paint and canvas, but up close, the works are immense and somehow suck you in. You can stand and look at it for hours without needing an explanation or looking for understanding, merely content in looking at paint on canvas.

So in comparison to the first Swift Transitions, Part II was greatly enjoyable. The work was interesting, there was wine and it didn't feel like a wasted evening.
Here are images of some of the works:

Ann-Marie Bothma, Reaction Ovservations ( video)

Stephanie Geral, Ambivalent Subject Matter 1

Lelani Nicolaisen, Hysteria

Herman le Roux, Number 5

Stephanie Geral, Connections 3

Leana van der Merwe, Baby's First Three Months ( out of nappies, earbuds, lace, wipes, breast pads..)

Leana van der Merwe, Surge

Leana van der Merwe, Surge (detail)

Christiaan Harris

Christiaan Harris

Christiaan Harris

I liked Leana van der Merwe's stuff because it is made out of ear buds and diapers and still looks very cool. Also, Christiaan Harris staged his photographs in Three Acts, and the last act is shot in 3D, so to look at the images one had to put on some 3D glasses. I thought that was cool because no one looks good wearing 3D glasses and yet everyone did it. Art :1, Superficiality:0.