Waiting For Emails & Other Types of Hell

I watch the refresh-wheel-thingy spin on my phone, it says "Updated Just Now" but that was two minutes ago, TWO whole minutes... Ugh, I hate liars. When I read that last sentence I hear Tyga's verse on Deuces: I hate liars, fuck love I'm tired of tryin'. I feel you, dog, I feel you. 

The thing is, if you freelance or actually do absolutely anything that requires other people's approval or more importantly authorization to get paid, then waiting for emails is a thing. Not always a bad thing, I mean, Zadie Smith once replied to an email, but a thing nonetheless. 

But as the year enters its victory lap the only inbox that I will concern myself with is my mouth as I eat my way through Cape Town. 

P.S. PLEASE PAY ME YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE KTHANKSBYE. 

Here's A Story

A portrait of a freshly-baked 26 year-old. 16th November 2014. 

It is the worst day: the day after my birthday. Like Boxing Day but worse because there are no leftovers. So in keeping with the melancholic mood, here is some of my personal anguish in letter form...

So here's the thing: I started writing this story about two years ago. I thought that there was a real, proper novel somewhere in my brain waiting to be shoveled out. Now I am not so sure. I think most of it (this is just a slice) is pretty shoddy, this part I kinda like, but again, I am not so sure. I think that I should abandon it and start something else but then I lose five years of my life on Instagram and next thing I know it is bedtime. 

Here it goes:

John outstretched his arms and took both of her shoulders into his embrace. He held her with an earnestness not commonly found in young boys or even men who had not seen their mother’s weep. Thoko and John had known each other’s faces since they had known their very own. 

Growing up with their houses kissing, it was only a matter of time until they kissed and never stopped. The first one was the best one. John and Thoko had been racing each other; they danced through the urban obstacles, the faceless women selling fried food, the stray dogs yelping at a yet to be announced death, the small and hungry children clutching the knees of passers-by.

They ran until they laughed soundlessly, their thumping hearts pleading their legs to stop and so they did, right under the old wizened tree with roots escaping from the cracked soil. Panting in harmony, they smiled at each other as if they both knew a joke that no one else had heard or ever would. John touched Thoko’s cheek with his full palm unembarrassed by the obvious show of affection. Thoko did not flinch and she tried not to blink. She thought to herself that this is what it felt like: happiness.

He moved his hot and glowing face right into hers, nose-to-nose his eyes never left hers. Years later when she was all kinds of lonely, Thoko would greedily recall how moments before her first kiss John did not say I’m going to kiss you now, instead he said something far more heavy, he said I’m going to love you now.

She had always thought that what she needed was lightness. She had believed that the death of her mother and the paper-cut disappointments of the world had made her heavy and tear-sodden. John made her see that what she wanted, what she actually needed, was to be bound to this world. She had been floating just above the ground for so long. Lightly tethered, John’s words made it important that she remain here. 

Someone loved her and that was her responsibility to bear. 

Long Time No See!

Jeez, I don't even go here anymore... 

Let's put it down to an end-of-year slump and be thick as thieves all over again, kay?

This photo is from around about this time last year. Tommy took me on a mini-break for my birthday (I probably, definitely blogged about it), and for a weekend and a bit the world was just as it should be. A universe of two. The best part was eating breakfast together in "our kitchen". I felt like a child playing a hyper-real version of adult-adult. Things like that weekend away kinda eat me up inside (in a good way). 

Nostalgia is one helluva drug. 

The reason being, growing up I never imagined being 20-something. Actually I didn't really imagine being any-something. I was too knotted to my everyday concerns, I didn't honestly see the bigger picture. Also, I feel like I'm between 12-16 years old on most days.

If you read this blog, you probably already know I'm very feels-y. In other words, I feel things, fucking too much I'd say. So doing things like a weekend away is pretty wild to me. Like, how amazing? I have a real boyfriend who does nice things?! Say what?! Insert an existential crisis, giggling and heady dose of impostor syndrome and you've got my average thought pattern. 

A peephole into my mind:

Oh-my-fuuuck + I'm so happy/nervous/excited/scared/pissed and/or terrified + laughing at my own useless jokes + how old am I again? + I should totally just get a dvd and take up daytime drinking

Not being able to imagine myself at this stage has meant that my adult life has really been one big surprise after another. It is like a poorly planned surprise party everyday. Sometimes fun, sometimes exciting, sometimes the-worst-thing-ever. 

Things I have learnt thus far (an incomplete list):

1. Haters don't hate everything. 

They (I mean, me) just know that pretty much everything sucks majorly. BUT! The things in life that don't suck at all are so great, so delicious and beautiful that it makes up for the nonsense. 

Things that don't suck: love, sushi and most fish-based meals, driving fast on the highway at night specifically on a Friday, getting better, friends of mind, doing work that blurs the line between playing and working, cold sheets in summer, making the world as small as just you and the page you're on in the book you're reading. 

2. I can just do stuff.

When I was in school I used to think that life was a bit like a video game. My personal favourite was Crash Bandicoot. So, you had to break boxes, munch apples and climb levels to get what you want. 

Fast-forward to today and I still kinda believe that for certain things but there's also this whole bunch of other things that don't require a regimented approach. Like life in general, for one. You can just do things, like, just nje. No permission required.

3. Literally no one cares about the things that you want more than you do.

And that's how it should be. Act accordingly. 

But hell, this is all just a roundabout way of saying that it's my birthday on Sunday!
Gift ideas for my generous internet friends:

1. Pug
2. Money
3. Mochachos vouchers

I've got a good feeling about this. 

My future family portrait:

Screw You, Marie Claire!

So there was a time, not too long ago when I really wanted to write, badly. 

But, here's the zinger - I didn't want to tell anyone. I was scared and embarrassed, I mean shouldn't I have already published a novel or something? Also, what if I sucked balls? 

So my usual M.O. was to secretly submit things that I had written to any publication with open submissions. I submitted this boo-hoo fest to Marie Claire in the hopes of exorcising my demons and finding a 6-figure book deal. Alas, not a word from MC (I am still holding out for the book deal), but hooey, here I am, I'm gonna self-publish this biatch because it hurt and it is important, albeit cringey to me. 

I think I wrote this last year in winter.

When my father died I was nineteen. My aunt told me what had happened and without strength I wept into her shoulder. All language mutes in the presence of grief. Well, that’s somewhat true, as I later learnt the simultaneous futility and satisfaction of a multitude of four-letter words. 

I remember the bizarreness of that first day that I had found out. How it hadn’t really sunk in, so I could still joke, albeit meekly, and smile as though my very own Atlas who had stoically held my world together hadn’t shrugged off and left me. I often think that my occasional smile must have seemed cruel and perverse, but it was all that I could muster, stupefied by the audacity of the universe. You see, I had always thought that my dad’s presence was a non-negotiable. My mother had died before I could remember her and I naively thought that the universe was a strict score-keeper meaning that I would be exempt from any future pain. Oh ha-ha, how that theory has been proven wrong. Seriously Universe, you are fucked up!

In the beginning, when I had just found out, the only time that his death really punched me in the stomach, quite literally, was in the bathroom. Alone with only the mirror to remind me of my feeble mask, I tried to understand that my daddy, my darling daddy was dead. When my mother had died, I didn’t have to think about how to deal with it, I was two years old and I don’t remember anything about her or her death. The rivers of pain that were to follow soaked my childhood with tears and loneliness, but I was just a child so I didn’t consciously navigate the grief or pain. I just felt the pain and let it colour my tentative picture of the world. 

However, as a nineteen year-old I was at a total loss. I had lost my dad, my compass, my home and I didn’t know how to deal with it. Technically, I stress, purely technically, I was an adult and as an adult, sadly, you are meant to lose your parents, so why did it feel so four-letter word, four-letter word, unfair?

The pain I felt was overwhelming and confusing. It screamed for attention like a bludgeoned wound. Yet, a part of me felt that I wasn’t allowed to feel so bad. I was a big girl now, I better act like it, right? So I tried to mourn with faux dignity, to only cry enough to lightly moisten the tissues in my purse. I now laugh resentfully at all of this. What to mock first? When I was a child I would always stubbornly say that my mother had died, she didn’t pass away or worse, I didn’t lose her. She died. I half-heartedly invited the awkward silence that inevitably followed my blunt statement as proof that the pain that I felt wasn’t insignificant. I found the whole dilly-dallying of words insulting. Why should I dress up death? It only looks good in black anyway.  

The days following the passing of my dad were some of the worst days that I have known. The person that I would have turned to in a crisis or even for a quick gossip was the very person that I was mourning. I stumbled around with my pain as though it were a septic limb that I couldn’t get rid of. I pathetically tried to be ‘normal’ with my friends and I attended lectures. I was genuinely surprised when I was granted an extension on all of my examinations, prior to that the world had cruelly continued to function as though nothing had happened. I found this all infuriating and I wanted to tell anyone who would listen that my world was falling apart, yet in reality I couldn’t say much and I reserved my feelings for quiet moments alone in my flat or as I’m now embarrassed to admit, while walking the busy streets of Cape Town. 

I remember the first time that it happened. I was walking down Long Street, a place that I had first discovered with my dad, and overcome with anger and sadness, I cried and cried, my collarbones collecting my tears. Looking back, I think that I felt so alone in the sea of faces and I knew that no matter how many people I saw, my dad would never again be one of those people.

Now five years later, I think of those early days without my father as a turning point in my life. As I slowly and stubbornly realised that I could be happy in spite of his absence, I became braver and more decisive; after all, what could the world possibly throw at me that could be any worse? I still miss him every day and I desperately wish that I could just hear his voice or see his sad blue eyes, but I now know that I am luckier than most. 

My father, John Clancy, loved my brother and I so intensely and doggedly that even five years following his death I still feel his love swimming in my being as though I had just spoken to him. I once read that real love is like fluoride in the water, it makes us stronger without our knowledge, this is certainly true. I know that all those years in the sunshine of my father’s love have given me more than enough strength to face the beautiful, terrible and wonderful world without him. I wish I could have told the nineteen year-old me sobbing in the street that although I won’t see him again in person, if I looked, not even very hard, I could see his love everywhere and sometimes that will be enough.

Malawi!

I never thought that I would go to Malawi, not because of any reason in particular but mostly because I never really thought about Malawi all that much.

Only a two hour flight away, Malawi feels like it's really far from home. Both a complete outsider and yet still a fellow African, I attempted to juggle my amazement and embarrassment. It seems that in my life, I constantly oscillate between the two. 

I was amazed at its quiet-loud nothingness and it's vast compactness, a small-big country with opposites and questions and silence, lots of silence. I was embarrassed by my ignorance, the worst tourist with the worst questions, I smiled a lot and tried to not to think of Malawi in American "poor but happy" terms. It was hard, they are so poor and happy... Fuck. 

Our tour guide told me that in 1966 only six tourists visited Malawi. I wondered what they thought. I saw a women waiting (maybe she wasn't waiting) by a tree with no leaves, when we left the hotel a few hours later she was still there, waiting or not waiting, just standing in the same spot by a tree with no leaves. Time felt longer there. 

I tried to remember as much as possible, I tried not to sleep in the car, I tried to not think about other stuff. I didn't remember how to say "hello". I did sleep in the car, badly. And I thought a lot about other stuff. I was hard not to, it seems that life follows you wherever you go. 

Malawi is a really special country, I mean it. Maya Angelou said something along the lines of:

You don't remember what people said or did or whatever, you remember how they made you feel (not a direct quote obviously). 

Well that's like Malawi, it sneakily touches your heart and you don't how or when, you just kinda wish it well and want to send it a card a Christmas time.

The people that I met were at times so earnest that I felt bad. My favourite person that I met was the driver, Patrick. I really wanted to show him a picture of Patrick Star from Spongebob, I don't know why. I didn't, thankfully. But he was so great, so sweet and he laughed like I'd imagine a tortoise would laugh. 

Malawi is really great, just go and feel all warm inside. 

Me and Patrick:

I Like What's Going On Here

I feel like there's a link between these images but I'm not going to get into it, I just really like it okay.

But also, (here's the fun part where I talk about myself) I'm kinda liking what's going on right now. I mean, as my people know, I got a new job and with that a new sense of oh-my-gosh-I-am-not-deathly-sour-in-the-morning. Then there's the whole "my people" thing, I mean, everyone has their own "my people" but not everyone has cultivated such a fine collection of human beings like I have. Okay let's be real, the collection is small, exclusive some might say, but it is all mine. 

Special S/O to all those that send me photos of Asian babies and pugs, you know who you are. 

So in order to spread the good cheer, here are some other things that I'm liking right now:

YOUR FACE. 

Mad Men on Catch Up

https://nplusonemag.com/

FRIDAY!

The stars have aligned.

It is Friday, payday & the last day of my Jay-Oh-Bee!

In the immortal words of Bey: "Lawd I'm gon' have me a time!"

I Feel Like I Look A Little Bit Like Ryan Gosling

Just a little bit. But it is undeniable okay.

This photo was taken on a very sad day (I always smile through the tears).

Now, now, it wasn't a sad day for anything real or important. Never that. Concisely, it was a sad day because #middleclassproblems.

Tommy and I had gone to the Winter Sculpture Fair (great idea) but we didn't draw cash before (very bad idea) and so with most of the card machines not working we shared a single glass of wine and a single tuna patty! THE HORROR. Listen, I had planned to eat like it was the last supper. I didn't really give a hot damn about the sculptures. I mean, I'm all about food, really. So it was quite tragic. Also, it wasn't very funny that the event was sponsored by Mastercard. But, I got quite drunk (I'm sad and cheap like that) and it was very pretty and the people watching was excellent. 

So basically this is a note to myself: pack cash like you trying buy a-grade drugs. 

White Sock & Other Fantasies

This photo does things to me. 

Back in the dizzle, when I was would wear a moon-bag (with no irony), I would imagine my future to be something like this: smoking, sportswear X lifestyle and you-can't-sit-with-us eyes. I mean, it is like this photo is stolen from my ten year old brain. 

The bright white socks alone make me lick my lips. At the ripe old age of 25, I still attempt to recreate this vibe into my day-to-day look, although more cautiously and more aware of the omnipresence of my thighs. 

Unfortunately, I don't have you-can't-sit-with-us eyes, rather, I have been gifted with everybody-talk-to-me eyes which mean that I have been asked for advice, toilet paper and political insight from a menagerie of strangers. I actually enjoy talking to people so I don't mind, although I wish I could be Naomi cool. She's apparently dating Michael Fassbender hey... 

I should probably just go whole-hog and live my fashion dreams, I mean YOLO dressing is a thing (see here) but at 7 in the morning when I am getting dressed I don't think about fashion or anything really. I just think about tea and my afternoon nap; I'm basically a baby adult. I bought cute socks from Cotton On recently so it is a start. Like the Manrepeller says: Carpe Diem, it’s Latin for YOLO.

Matchy Matchy!

I'm quite happy to let certain trends pass me by, I'm a grown-ass woman, I can't be acting da fool like we're on the set of a '90's teen movie. Others trends, I flirt with and sometimes invest on a small scale level (see: Mr. Price). This one though, has me by the heartstrings! 

No one dressed me when I was small, my dad did not blink when I wore pajamas with jeans for a chilly winter back in '96. I've been doing my own thang for so long that I've been through so many fashion phases... Including but not limited to: Boyz 2 Men X Playground (think fake FUBU meets friendship necklaces). Anything with an animal on it. My fave was a Big Five tee I got at Sabie Sabie. Proud memories. There was also the whole J-Lo velour frenzy that included me buying a baby blue number at Edgars (I hate myself). But it didn't stop there... Huge gold hoops were also part of the swag, thanks Jenny. Also not forgetting the infamous twinset phase (I had a million cardigans). 

So because I've been on the fashion roller coaster for so long I really enjoy the simplicity of the matchy matchy pants/skirt and top. There's something minimalist about it. It childlike in a sense but also Japanese-ish (I'm forcing that one). Also, Topshop have got on it so I'm literally dying to regret my life choices by spending all my money there one Thursday afternoon. 

Why a Thursday afternoon you ask? Well, friend, it is the best day to shop obviously. Shops get new stock on Wednesday but they take their time bringing out the fresh goods so Thursday actually is the best day 'cause you got all the new ish coupled with the fact that the next day is Friday and guess what? Friday is thee most amazing day already but, oh child, but, if you have a new outfit, well then, Friday is fucking fantastic. 

P.S. The two gems at the top are Topshop, obviously. The gingham one is also Topshop (I die) but the dude's one is Christopher Kane. 

May Your Week Be As Cool As This

Remember Devon Aoki?

Last week I found myself in balmy Umhlanga pretending that I was a sassy retiree with nothing better to do than eat pastries and swim in the Indian Ocean. I highly recommend this kind of behaviour. But next thing I knew it was March and all that idling away the days seemed to be a middle finger to my dreams for 2014. Productivity kinda takes a dive when you eat a cronut for breakfast...

Anyway, I'm back. Working part-time kinda makes people hate you, quite a lot actually. It's all lols for me though. I mean, working "overtime" for me means clocking out at 2.30pm. Big lols. But, it also means that I have to decide how to spend my time in a way that serves me best. I might not have to do anything but I certainly want to. Sometimes, like today, I bake and bake and then I bake some more. My hair starts to smell like cake and I have probably washed the dishes about five times but in those hours I am meditating. Do anything that you love for long enough and it becomes meditation. I also watched The Fixer but that doesn't count... Oh Livvie. 

Happy Monday and all that good stuff. 

I just watched Lupita's acceptance speech, how great? 

Birthday Week!

And this is how I feel. Don't hold me back, I'm golden! 

That's My Shit: Harriet The Spy!

Nostalgia on a hundred trillion. 

This was the first movie that I watched at the cinema during the week. My dad took me to Fourways and I was amazed that people actually did stuff on a school night. The trailer included the pilot episode of Hey Arnold! How's that for winning? 

For months after watching this movie I ate tomato and mayo sandwiches just like Harriet and I attempted some part-time spy work on my neighbors with binoculars and a notepad to boot! I still have that notebook and I must say that my rather keen eye is wasted on this life, with insights such as "her nose looks like it belongs to an angry pig" and "he shouts with his eyes" I should have become a P.I. instead. 

I would like to revisit this movie but experience has taught me that that's a bad idea. Still, it remains worthy of being the first entry in the That's My Shit category. 

P.S. Did you know Eartha Kitt was in Harriet The Spy? I knew I loved her from a past life! (See here too). 

Naturelle, Peanut Butter & The World!

This peanut butter is the champagne of the peanut butter world. Straight outta the fridge and straight outta my dreams, I want to eat this with everything. But actually, I like it best on its own. This terrible (beautiful) habit stems largely from my favourite movie during high school, 25th Hour. 

To bring you up to speed: Rosario Dawson's character, Naturelle made me consider homosexuality. But more importantly, in the movie she eats peanut butter fresh from the tub and it just looked so damned good. So that's where my love affair with the always claggy delight began. At the time I really hated peanut butter, so you can perhaps grasp the intensity of my affection for Naturelle Riviera. Up until then I had always associated peanut butter with grade one boys' breath. But Naturelle ushered in a new phase of peanut-loving that has served my belly well. 

This book is not at all related to my useless homage to peanut butter and the seemingly ageless Rosario Dawson, but it is my reading matter right now and it pretty much has me captivated. The title alone is gold. Plus, the colours of the cover reminded me of the peanut butter tub. Yup, I'm in that deep. I see it everywhere. 

Sowing My Seeds!

I thought that my black heart would prevent anything from growing in my presence. But hey! I'm so excited that my mini Basil has decided to sprout. 

Everything Starts Somewhere

When I was little I thought that I had to build my life up, up, up into the sky so that God would see me all the way down here. 

Roshe!

Tommy upgraded my life (yet again) by buying me these beauts. 

The inspiration and name comes directly from the word “Roshi,” which is a title given to a Zen master.

I don't know about Zen but I do know about love and this right here is some serious shoe loving. I mean I really, really love them. Look at the lime lining for goodness sake, it's pure magic. 

I Don't Have An Explanation

I just like it. 

Cape Town!

KAAP Stad!!! Cape Town, Ape Town, Mother City, Little Europe... Whatevs you want to call it, we were there. 

And boy oh boy, it was good. 

We laughed, we laughed alone, we laughed at each other, we smiled, ate, ate some more, complained about eating too much and then ordered some more, drank milkshakes, downed shots, got drunk, danced, kissed, watched two seals, got watched by the lecherous eyes of the chauffeur, jacuzzi'd, searched for our doppelgangers, sang, harmonized, repeatedly said 'hallo' in a German accent, wore each others clothes, bought some more clothes, watched reality TV late at night, watched Man of Steel, drank too much coffee with cream, walked in the rain, waited for the rain to stop, played games, played "what if", got sky high, did things for the first time, got lost, got lucky, ran out of luck, ran out of money, found more, found happiness again and always. 

When you find someone that you think is literally the best person on this planet you plan a holiday and instead you get the most delicious and juiciest slice of happiness. 

My Bestie The Internet!

I have been thinking about the internet a lot lately. There's no denying that I spend hours trawling the interwebs but the question remains whether I really should actually be doing this or if it is as I tend to suspect it is; a really (really) delicious but dangerous time eater that hates my dreams. 

Reasons I like the internet (incomplete list):

1. The Guardian. Sweet baby Jesus. I survived a 9 to 5 thanks to this gem. For realz.

2. Puppy sandwiches, Tumblrs dedicated to Corgis (click, click, you gotta see this), 9GAG and anything utterly ridiculous yet undeniably life affirming (see: puppy sandwiches). 

3. Wiki-fucking-pedia. In varsity I was told to hate it but now free of the shackles of tertiary education, (my bubbe thinks I have a doctorate) I can love and kiss Wiki all I want. Gee whiz, the Random Article button alone deserves mad love.

4. Need I say more? 

5. Good Reads. Quotes from just about any author or book. I am sincerely in love with so many dead people thanks to this website. 

6. My dynamic girlfriend collection. The internet has introduced me to so many beauties. 

a. Julia, oh Julia.

b. Hanneli, sweet Hanneli Mustaparta!

To be continued (basically my back hurts and I need a nap)...