Wednesday, September 28, 2011
It's dusk, and from the ridge where this wonderfully enveloping house commands a view to the north and east, I can see the cityscape, close-by. Especially the angry pimple-red head of the Ponte building.
I've spent two hours reading in a naturally lit upstairs bathroom (the one with the large, wonderfully faded Persian rug) that casts a gentle eye over the garden below.
And now for an hour-long full body massage.
It's been a truly pressured day, despite my pj bottoms and tussled hair, he same for week, month and year. Foundation work, I call it.
Looking forward, but shy. I hope she respects my silence.
It's a welcome gift from someone close to me, whom I deeply care for.
Sixteen past midnight and just into bed. After a piping hot shower and soap I don't recognize. But like. And to stand in front of a different mirror and other lights, to see me in a new light. Looking for decay, and stress and for more lines around my eyes. To pull im my stomach to see that they are only less worked muscles.
To be in the city, not the mountains or in the lowveld's bush, or among it's people, often slow-dripping with dourness.
It's a magnificent old, well built and spacious double story art deco home constructed on a ridge T-junctionimg into Johannesburg's Berea and then CBD. Magnificent view.
My first security alarms in years, in the distance.
And now my lids seek welding shut.
And my brain to percolate while I sleep on tomorrow's challenges.
It's a new chapter.
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Sunday, September 18, 2011
It's now six-seventeen, dark outside and the buffeting wind's suddenly died.
There's some silence; there's water trickling through the old bath's overflow; every now and then a change in the breeze allows me traffic sound from the highway 2km away.
It's filled with people cursing the weekend's end, while they rush between Mozambique, Nelspruit, Lowveld and back to Gauteng, sub-Saharan Africa's economic powerhouse.
Back there to work and treadmill lives.
Leaving behind lovers and loved family members, animals, homes, fights, assaults, quite possibly a murder. Great memories, even appalling ones. Vast amounts of noise, and alcohol. But back to my bath...
I'm in an interesting phase, what I'm reading confirms that, also that I'm heading somewhere else:
'I celebrate myself,' Bill Morgan's biography of poet Allen Ginsberg;
'Freedom (the courage to be yourself),' by Osho;
'Leadership wisdom from the Monk who sold his Ferrari,' by Robin Sharma;
'A guidebook to the Camino de Santiago,' by John Brierley;
'Thoreau and the Art of Life,' edited by Roderick MacIver; and 'Creating a garden with Keith Kirsten'.
My mind is whirring. As soon as I got remotely bored, I picked up the next.
Now to jump out and nakedly stride into the nearby kitchen to fill a glass with chilled sauvignon blanc ('Fat Bastard'), then back in to shave my legs. I maintain that it's a hangover from my cycling days.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Bang, bang...bang. I awoke with the wind roaring over the edge of the escarpment at 2h37am. The blinds were clattering and the doors banging. Stumbling around the house closing doors and windows, I wondered whether the first rainstorm of the season was coming.
Currently we’re living in a tinderbox after the harsh, dry winter. Everything, except my lemon trees, are a tawny lion colour. I’m having to use the sprinklers in the garden every second day, or lose the seeds that have been planted, as well as the new shoots.
Getting back into bed I pulled the covers over my head savouring the scent of rain on the air, and let sleep take me back home.
It’s overcast today, but still the rain has not come. But I trust.