Yesterday was a palindrome, at least in some countries.
The sea is quiet today, mostly in a grey, introspective mood. With a bit more sun it feels a bit more reflective, but still subdued. Two days ago it was angry, spitting and furious to be exact. Yesterday was still unsettled, but not as rough. More tired, almost spent: just habitually uneven. Today the wind turned, with it the mood shifted to more somber.
I'm flying to Pretoria tomorrow, then the UK on Thursday. Leaving is slightly easier this time, but it is still a tricky business.
Showing posts with label longing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label longing. Show all posts
Sunday, 3 January 2010
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
Newspaper clippings
My mother sends me random newspaper clippings. It's a way to keep in touch with more than just emails. It keeps me up to date on the current affairs back home, and conveys a bit of the world left behind. And I like receiving a real letter. In an envelope. With stamps. And a short handwritten note. Handwriting makes people so much more real.
But somehow I always find myself reading the backs of the clippings. Snippets of articles accidentally included: the last paragraphs of a corruption trail, a column of housing, a snippet of education. And advertisements. Boerewors. Metres of meat, at ridiculously low prices. Nappies and All Gold. The things you forget.
But somehow I always find myself reading the backs of the clippings. Snippets of articles accidentally included: the last paragraphs of a corruption trail, a column of housing, a snippet of education. And advertisements. Boerewors. Metres of meat, at ridiculously low prices. Nappies and All Gold. The things you forget.
Tuesday, 1 September 2009
Monday, 24 August 2009
Fig tree
Three months ago, just before I moved into the new house, we had a barbeque here. Outside, next to the quail, with 40 years of fig tree towering above us. It was filled with small green figs. I picked one the sticky milk, scratchy little hairs and above all the scent of fresh fig tree transported me to long summer afternoons on the Highveld.
We had two fig trees in our garden, three actually. An ancient tree, probably planted by the ancestors on the small irrigation gully that ran through the garden, was well past it's prime by the time I started noticing trees. The other two were planted later, when I was young, to catch the overflow from the dam. One rewarded us with sweet figs every year, the other grew faster, taller, with large leaves but very few fruit. Finding another tree, half a world away, was a good sign, it made me feel at home.
Sadly, the tree was rarely watered, resulting in tough leathery runts instead of proper figs. And, in the tradition of trees planted close to houses, it discovered our plumbing. So the landlord decided that it had to go.
Two men came this morning, with saws and ropes and tools, and removed it. I fled the house to avoid the trauma. By the time I returned there was a tree-shaped hole in the garden. Lots of new sunlight. But still a hole. And it smelled of fig everywhere.
We had two fig trees in our garden, three actually. An ancient tree, probably planted by the ancestors on the small irrigation gully that ran through the garden, was well past it's prime by the time I started noticing trees. The other two were planted later, when I was young, to catch the overflow from the dam. One rewarded us with sweet figs every year, the other grew faster, taller, with large leaves but very few fruit. Finding another tree, half a world away, was a good sign, it made me feel at home.
Two men came this morning, with saws and ropes and tools, and removed it. I fled the house to avoid the trauma. By the time I returned there was a tree-shaped hole in the garden. Lots of new sunlight. But still a hole. And it smelled of fig everywhere.
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
Home
Today I feel far away again. Usually, in the rush of to-ing and fro-ing, in publications, buses, graphs and snow, I'm too busy to really think about it. Today the distance is palpably present in every email and conversation and piece of paper I come across.
This is home. After good rains, about a year ago. With dusty sky, rusty fences, limping gates, the smell of acacias, prickly katbosse, guinea fowl, screeching windpompe, the co-op's grain silos in the distance. And the rich red soil that can, at times, seem so harsh.
I miss it.
This is home. After good rains, about a year ago. With dusty sky, rusty fences, limping gates, the smell of acacias, prickly katbosse, guinea fowl, screeching windpompe, the co-op's grain silos in the distance. And the rich red soil that can, at times, seem so harsh.
I miss it.
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