How does time matter?

I never thought I’d see the day! I just saw a black guy do an Al Pacino. Ok. It was just a moment. But it was so Pacino’s life language and even tone of voice. Reminded me of Two for the Money.

“For a minute,” mean for ages; longer maybe. Gives new meaning to, “Just give me a sec.” Time be precious, Dude. Ain’t gonna be throwing that stuff around hap-haz-ard-lee.

And having said that the night air just went up-close and siren-loud. An Armageddon moment. A nano second, not a moment. Then it went dead, close by. Maybe an ambulance got there too late. Heaven forbid.

Time. I have a time thing. It is a real thing. I have windows of opportunity for adventures, if I miss the minute, then I don’t venture. Let alone adventure.

And if it’s night here, it is morning somewhere else. So, how do the Shin Dalets know when they have rights to shadow pedestrians? Do they move with the lines as the globe moves. Or are they only night shades? Are they all over? In all time zones?

And as to keeping the Sabbath – it is different everywhere. Does it matter when? I know. Random thought. I don’t know the answer.

Friday night has not had a power outage. Yay! (whispering, touching wood; the night is young).

I am still watching The Start Up. For all the stuff about whites being racists, I always end up loving the black guy. Edi Gathegi is not only the salt, his beautiful face changes with the light and the angle. His eyes … They are sometimes hidden beneath lids and lashes and all you see are the whites. When he gets real his eyes deep dark pools. I would love to go eat dinner and listen to his stories. I bet he has a few.

And his Mama just told him of he takes a buy-out he’s going to be nothing but a rich thug.

I have just got to the episode I started watching with my Storm. I was half listening while knitting.

She got up to make coffee.

“What happened?” She said from the kitchen. “I don’t know…”

“Mom! You have to watch!”

So now I am watching. An exciting series. Will be sad to say goodbye.


Starting Over

The story of my life. That is a blessed thing. It is a gift, I think, to be able to start over, re-negotiate the terms and conditions and face life, which insists on happening, for our edification and merit, and be able to hit the ground running.

With covid (not giving it capital letters) life is imperative. It holds acute consciousness and we choose each moment to “choose life.” Okay, for me anyway because of my age and my long term end of days consciousness.

Some days I think it is apocalypse now; on days like today I have hope that this is not that, not just yet. Hope for the Lord to tarry.

And while I am digging deep others are on the edge of life with all their life’s work gone in a blitz in Ethiopia. Starving here and in other places. Dying hard everywhere.

Watching The Start Up. “What is the difference between a rich thug and a poor thug?”

I see Ertugrul appear in the oddest environments and bravery never fails to impress me. Thugs exists. Some use guns. Others are slimy smooth smilers with agendas that serve the self alone. And the villains are not disabled any faster, even with guns (IN FICTION – just saying). They roam free to cause more havoc in this series. And it is as frustrating.

But in real life villains don’t even know they are villains. And neither do we, it would seem.

I listened to the leader in Ethiopia mouth off about fake news regarding his government. He sounded genuine, but since Trump-time we can’t even guess the truth. Is he a villain or a good leader with unmanageable issues with “troops” running about destroying people’s lives and things and crops. He may sincerely believe that he is a good leader. He may well be. Who can tell.

What could be the purpose of this miracle? Those guys who run about with fire and guns must think they are fighting for something. What is it? Or is it the jealousy? That’s what my country calls such a thing, as far as I know.

OR is it just the lust for power over anything that doesn’t have the means to fight back. The adrenalin of holding a gun cannot be disputed. It is an awesome power and if you have none, but you have a gun, and you may also be high and autistic, and schizophrenic or something psychopathic in your trauma… Maybe it is that. Just a primordial scream against the lack of justice perceived or … One can only pray peace and love and repentance and a heart that opens to the light.

One is told to look at the fruit from the tree. But the tree is often pruned at blossom time and there is no fruit. A long serving strong leader like say Putin and Merkel get a chance to do solid work. We may not like Putin, but he is responsible and uncompromising and … well… It’s a soup bowl with meat and we are vegan, but hungry, and we have hope where there is life.

Brotherly love is not communism. We don’t seem to know the difference. Capitalism, Ayn Rand style is not white supremacy.

A value is something we act to gain and keep. We keep sacrificing higher values for lower values. And these systems that seem to prosper for years, tumble down eventually because only goodness wins, in the end.

Why can’t we hang onto the higher values? I don’t know. Instant gratification is still our thing. Killing the pain softly is a slow process. I don’t think we can go through a painful thing fast. We may crash and burn. It is a slow, turn the page and read one word at a time thing. And, I believe, crying is required.

Prayers with tears command a whole army of angels and reaches God’s ears at once. Fast as a text message fast – high internet – fast-fast.


Darkest Africa again!

I am without tales today.

I went out. Came home and did goodness knows what before I managed to just fidget my way back into my knitting when the power went off. I have another hour and a half of darkness before I can get back to it.

I am close to covid. Really close. But I expect I shall be fine.

My breakfast bestie said she is hoping to make it to 80. I can’t imagine living another ten years!

Old is just useless, frightening and a rubbishing time of worry about stupid stuff like teeth falling out, falling in the bath or running out of money for the big stuff. On the other hand, one looks forward to early parole. I got life. Who knows what for, but if I behave, I might get time off for good behaviour.

Sick of our worries, we have become as daring as teenagers.

“What the heck. I may be dead tomorrow. I will have the nicer gin!”

Never mind that we are both broke and we are not half way through the month yet.

We think we are bullet proof and we don’t care if we aren’t.

And, I lost my sun glasses in a shop somewhere. I am grieved.

The notices for load shedding require a superior intellect. I have no certainty when reading the schedules. All I can gather is that I shall have to invest in a lamp or many candles because it’s likely to last all winter.

So from a not so chipper crone in the dark here, I bid thee all a good evening.

LOVE AND LIGHT ( No pun intended, but light would be nice)

“It’s my party”

Digging down further.

Why do we have a barrage of stuff we refuse to look at? Perhaps we were too shocked (at first) and/or inept to admit loss, accept rejection or acknowledge insults. And, only spent moments before emotional exhaustion took us to nightmares, thinking about what we should have said/done in the very moment it happened.

We never think of waking others up at two in the morning, ten or twenty years later, to tell them that was totally rude, unacceptable, reprehensible for someone with a high intellect. Fools may be forgiven, but really? Really?

We don’t. We just think about saying all that for as long as we have before the next thing bashes our brains out.

Are we too emotionally undeveloped (at the time) to respond properly, and so rather hold it in abeyance, as if we intend to get to it, in due course, when and if we ever mature enough to be able to deal with the thing that knocked our socks off.

When things happen, our life outside of our emotional existence demands a shoulders back, head up and a firm handshake. We haven’t the time afterwards to play the re-run.

We go to school. We go to work. We have a family of faces to meet and greet. We don’t want to cry at our own party. Later.

Now we will have another glass of wine, light another cigarette, and say outrageous things to strangers like, “I swear by my life and all I hold sacred that I will live for no man nor expect any man to live for me.” and mean it, and then, very oddly, ask, “Are you good in bed?”

What, pray, is the standard? Both you and I had no clue.

One should have asked, “Do you hold sex to be the highest expression of romantic love?” One would have had a different response instead of, “I don’t know. I haven’t tried myself,” which only served to make one feel absolutely stupid for asking a dumb question.

Having missed the moment, that instant that required a clear, rapid response, we put the pot on simmer for as many hours as we have people to face. Is that why we become hermits later in life and decline invitations to lighten up? By the time we can, we don’t cry. We are too tired. We can’t care even if we wanted to.

After a good sleep the thing is still there but less noisy. Abeyance. Abeyance. In due course. But then more stuff happens and … Well it is all too much to take in. Deflect. Defer. Deny. Dumb down. D-words dominate the spreadsheet as one takes them down like a long equation, years and years after stuff, without connecting the lot to a thing, a time, or somebody in particular that severed the threads that secured our place in the fabric of society.

We age and then we are left with gaps where threads pulled and broken in the fabric. If we had eyes to see, the gaps form obvious patterns, and our life’s work is perhaps to weave new threads into the fabric.

Instead we grow more shells. We forget it all started with Johnny at my party.

Lesley Gore’s songs … I had forgotten them until now. “It’s my party” and I’ll cry if I want to…

I think that is pretty much it. I now own my dark. I am looking at it. Not crying. Just looking. For now.


Phiano – Theophanies

The power is out again

It’s just gone dark. And quiet. Not counting distant ambulances and cop car sirens. The day was so pretty. Our winter is still autumn.

My sleep pattern is out of synch. I will no doubt not read as I desire. And, I know! I am without a story here. Moving on despite the apparent lack of grit. It is there. I just have to fish in deeper waters.

I so appreciate you. You hear me go blank at the wall, the shell, the kli. And if this battery dies, my lap top is ready. Take that! I shout at the Shin Dalets dancing about on Wednesday nights.

The Rabbi said that watching the news is worse than eating pork. He is clearly disgusted with the state of the world whereas I feel at peace. What you going to do? If we are in the last days, gird up thy loins, for fierce times are a comin.

Later – 2.42 a.m. I fought with something in my sleep. The power came on, I swithed my light off. Slept a lot more. It is now, more conveniently, off again.

I have another chance to reflect. No ambulances or cops bee-baaing in the early hours. Not one peep out of birds. No questions from the owls. The roof coughs.

I recently became aware of a dimension which my medication hides from me. I stopped taking it, thinking surely it has died. But, all the stuff that was driving me nuts, with indignation mostly, aka ego, is still there, roaring away. I had forgotten about it. I thought it was dead as coral with global warming. Washed away in Cape Town’s angry wind. No. It is a crouching tiger waiting to pounce. The cage created by Miradep holds the beast back.

Clearly I can’t stop the medication. Also clearly, I can’t ignore “the realm of hungry ghosts” (Mate Gabor) where my unmedicated dream self prances in a forest full of half remembered demons.

I’d be wielding my sharpened, glistening sword, waiting for my particular villains to come at me so I can yell with all my voice like Ertugrul, Turgut and Bamsi before I cut them down. The tiny muscles in my face will reveal my loathing and disgust. All that, I feel without medication.

I obviously watch movies that feed my ghosts. Shooter. Sniper. Hacker. Die Hard. Warrior. The 100.

Just like I have decided to own my grey hair and my Catholicism, I shall have to find a way to deal/own with my tranquilised demons.

How could I have thought, “I forgive you,” when all I have done is silence my feelings and paint you in brighter colours because I can’t stand looking at your treason.

This is the beginning of healing. Owning the pain, I suppose. Like grey hair, it is just there. Why not own it?