Outside the sun shines as green leaves are tickled by the slightest of breezes.
Inside, I wait to head out, feet frozen because wearing shoes inside will never be normal for kaalvoet kinders. Today may be the day I find my own place and move out. What a difference space makes.
And it is desperately needed - earlier on I was skyping with a friend and had asked which room would be best, where would I least disturb, where could a conversation be had behind a closed door. I asked, I adapted, I offered to change if/when needed. In the middle of our conversation about politics he busts in, fumbles around behind me, listens in, mumbles approvingly at some of the things my friend is saying. I ask whether he wants to work, if I should change rooms because I'd like to speak in private and not have my entire conversation surveilled. He goes off on a tirade about how we share space and that he has the right to enter where he wants when he wants. Which is true, this space belongs to them, and I am a tenant of sorts, a presence that one has to tolerate because it is what familial expectations dictate. But is privacy not also a right? Is having a moment to talk to a friend on my own without the hearing ears of others not also just a sign of respect? It is a constant challenge navigating these waters.
Yesterday I was again skyping (thanks Skype for being such a lifeline to sanity), this time with my mother. At some point she made the thumbs-up sign and said "Shap". How easy that was. Shap Shap. All good. Everything's ok. The reassuring sign of my mom indicating that everything was as it was supposed to be.
Focus Sabine. It's all good. This is nothing.
How you doin', you good? Ja man, hundreds.
I'm hundreds.
Showing posts with label observations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label observations. Show all posts
Thursday, 5 May 2016
Thursday, 27 August 2015
All the luck in the world
I can hear the boats creaking, the waves clashing against their hulls.
Cars rumble past, at times with a momentary hint of loud music.
Then the up-and-down creaking is back,
Almost clock-like,
A thump-thumping in the night.
The occasional gull caws.
Voices of people walking past at this time, no longer today but tomorrow.
Then the creaking returns.
And all of this life I listen in on
from the comfort of my bed.
Today I said the first "see you soon". I hadn't thought about having to say goodbye, about probably not seeing people again, about things ending. All the packing and panicking has been occupying my mind and my time. Moving is such bullshit. Throwing away things, wondering if you should be on Hoarders, packing things as efficiently as you can possibly imagine (the threat of having to move everything in one car always looming, the constant questioning of where everything came from, and then the stress of hauling the stuff around. Strange how we attach meaning to objects that we could very well live without. This sedentary lifestyle, enabling us to believe there is value in keeping things.
Tomorrow I pack up the last bits and move everything to the ground floor before friends come over for a last celebration. And on Saturday it is really goodbye. Damn. How time flies when you don't know what the hell you are doing.
Thursday, 18 June 2015
The Wolf at the Door
All these people coming in these doors. They do not see me, yet I see them.
I observe their mannerisms, the unfriendliness and superiority; the ones intent on a quick chat, the ones in a hurry, the ones that know what manual labour means and the ones that don't.
On the weekends an older man comes in with a tiny felt bag that fits two plain bread rolls. He looks like rat-man Peter Pettigrew in the Harry Potter films when he becomes human again. The top of his head is bald whereas the white whisps of hair around the sides stand out as though he has been electrocuted. He walks slightly hunched over, shuffeling wherever he goes. His face has a gnawing look. All of this I can chalk up to old age and genetics. The thing that freaks me out though are his nails. Long, hard nails that scratch my skin when he hands me the money for the bread. Those nails. The only thing that shifts my facial expression from friendly to freaked are those nails.
Today an older gentleman walked in with his young son. I'd estimate him to be in his mid-50s and his son about 10 years of age. They just wanted to cinnamon rolls, Zimtschnecken with either chocolate or normal icing. Deliciously sweet. As the father handed me the money, his hands were shaking. Shaking constantly. What it means to not be in control of your body, this. Wondering whether he has had a stroke, an illness, or whether the shaking was never not normal to him.
An lady of advanced age comes by daily. She brings her own miniature yellow coffee pot for one. The lid is chipped, the pot stained by daily Danish coffees. We fill it up, and she goes home.
An American woman comes in ever so often. Loud, brash. What you would expect an American to be, stereotypes not being disappointed. She comes in eating sweets and buys more pastries and breads. I like her because I can speak in English but her loudness and her insistence on having a chat at times becomes an obstacle when there is a line and I can see Europeans not understanding why things aren't being done chop chop.
There is a Spanish lady as well, in her early 30s. Her husband sings at the theatre here. I have never been. She speaks in Spanish to me, asking about the day, but then switches to German when she orders.
At times, friends suddenly stand there when I look up. At other times, people I recognise from somewhere, class perhaps, but where I can't put my finger on it. All these people, waves of them, crashing into the heat of the bakery. And I, sweating, in an ill-fitting T-shirt and unwashed hair, I see them all.
I observe their mannerisms, the unfriendliness and superiority; the ones intent on a quick chat, the ones in a hurry, the ones that know what manual labour means and the ones that don't.
On the weekends an older man comes in with a tiny felt bag that fits two plain bread rolls. He looks like rat-man Peter Pettigrew in the Harry Potter films when he becomes human again. The top of his head is bald whereas the white whisps of hair around the sides stand out as though he has been electrocuted. He walks slightly hunched over, shuffeling wherever he goes. His face has a gnawing look. All of this I can chalk up to old age and genetics. The thing that freaks me out though are his nails. Long, hard nails that scratch my skin when he hands me the money for the bread. Those nails. The only thing that shifts my facial expression from friendly to freaked are those nails.
Today an older gentleman walked in with his young son. I'd estimate him to be in his mid-50s and his son about 10 years of age. They just wanted to cinnamon rolls, Zimtschnecken with either chocolate or normal icing. Deliciously sweet. As the father handed me the money, his hands were shaking. Shaking constantly. What it means to not be in control of your body, this. Wondering whether he has had a stroke, an illness, or whether the shaking was never not normal to him.
An lady of advanced age comes by daily. She brings her own miniature yellow coffee pot for one. The lid is chipped, the pot stained by daily Danish coffees. We fill it up, and she goes home.
An American woman comes in ever so often. Loud, brash. What you would expect an American to be, stereotypes not being disappointed. She comes in eating sweets and buys more pastries and breads. I like her because I can speak in English but her loudness and her insistence on having a chat at times becomes an obstacle when there is a line and I can see Europeans not understanding why things aren't being done chop chop.
There is a Spanish lady as well, in her early 30s. Her husband sings at the theatre here. I have never been. She speaks in Spanish to me, asking about the day, but then switches to German when she orders.
At times, friends suddenly stand there when I look up. At other times, people I recognise from somewhere, class perhaps, but where I can't put my finger on it. All these people, waves of them, crashing into the heat of the bakery. And I, sweating, in an ill-fitting T-shirt and unwashed hair, I see them all.
Wednesday, 9 November 2011
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.
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.
Labels:
afrikaans,
age,
anecdote of everyday,
love,
neighbours,
observations,
short story
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