Beautiful Cards


lundi, le 19 octobre 2009

(The story in the photograph: My Witty Friend’s incredibly talented 17 year old daughter made me the most beautiful card.)

Taking a break


jeudi, le 15 octobre 2009

It was a wet, rainy day. The sun came through late afternoon. My Witty Friend, The Princess and I grabbed the opportunity for a walk in the mountains. It was the most heavenly thing I had done in a long time.

(The story in the photograph: The Princess was as elated on her walk today as she was when she was just a little pup.)

Happy Trip


mercredi, le 14 octobre 2009

OK I admit, this post is purely for NaBloWriMo browny points. It was a 13½ hour drive, it was exhausting, I’m exhausted BUT the best thing I could have done!

New Shoes


mardi, le 13 octobre 2009

It’s just one of those things. New shoes always remind me of Leo in Twin Peaks. That’s just the way things are.

Today my car got two new front shoes for our trip tomorrow. This time she has French shoes. I have a good feeling about that.

The Princess has her bags packed. She’s in bed already. She promised that she’ll drive the long, boring parts of our journey!

Best I go and join The Princess in bed. Tomorrow is going to be a very, very long day.

(The story in the photograph: The last time The Princess went on a road trip, I burst both the front tires on my car. On a Sunday, with nowhere to buy new tires. Needless to say, when the second tire burst and with the spare already replacing the first burst tire, we had to be towed to our final destination on a flatbed truck.)

In a nutshell



lundi, le 12 octobre 2009

… that is more or less the kind of day I had!

(The story in the photograph: The picture tells it all.)

Trip planning



dimanche, le 11 octobre 2009

My Witty Friend’s husband is really not doing well. She’s asked me to come and spend some time with her. For moral support, to help with the household chores, to do taxi runs for the kids and to have someone to sip a glass of wine with in the evenings.

The Princess’ hearing abilities never cease to amuse me. When she’s asked to bring her ball in the park, she’s as deaf as a door post. But mention ‘The Princess’ and a trip to anywhere in one sentence, and her ears perk up immediately. Her immediate concern is whether this means that she is being saddled with the arduous task of cat-sitting or whether it means that she can kiss her furry friends goodbye and go on an adventure. She established very quickly today that she’s going on a trip to where she’s never been before.

My Witty friend lives in the town where I went to varsity. It’s about a two hour flight from the city I live in, driving there takes about twelve hours, if not more. Flying down means I need to find a house- and Princess-sitter, which is easier said than done, especially at short notice and especially if I don’t know for how long. Driving down means the Princess gets to go on the longest road trip she’s ever been and My Bountiful Friend will do daily cat-calls to make sure that food and water bowls are filled to the brim.

I miss L’homme every single day of my life, but more so on days when I have to plan for unexpected trips and there’s a home and animals to take care of. If he had been the man of his word he wanted me to believe he was, I could’ve caught the first flight out and spent as much time with My Witty Friend as she needed. Secure in the knowledge that my home was being lived in, that The Princess was being cared for as she is accustomed to.

Alas, L’homme turned out to be as fake as he didn’t want anybody to believe he was. So now I have to make difficult decisions and sacrifices on my own. This time round the flying-driving decision was not an easy one. I’m still not sure that the driving decision is the best one, but it’s the best decision I could make today.

Tomorrow is going to be a hectic day with work in the way, the obligatory long distance car checks and a myriad of arrangements to get in place. Oh and some sleep somewhere along the way would come in handy! On Wednesday The Princess and I hit the long, long road.

(The story in the photograph: When I took The Princess out earlier this evening, I was just overwhelmed by the delightful Jasmine fragrance that filled the air.)

A Breather


samedi, le 10 octobre 2009

It was pure bliss to wake up this morning to the sound of birds happily chatting away in the trees. For most of this week the shrill screeching of electronic devises has woken me to tell me it is time to get out of my feathered nest and get my nose to the grind stone.

This morning I could stretch out, turn around, cuddle behind The Princess’ back and wonder what the birds were discussing. The Princess gave a big, lazy yawn and thought they were probably discussing where the juiciest worms were to be found. I reckoned they were discussing flight paths of the day.

I had a long, pampering bath and was sipping some soothing tea when My Bountiful Friend called. I hadn’t seen her in about three weeks either. This whole work thing really has this strange ability to get in the way of life!

The Fairy was having playmates over and My Bountiful Friend was dying for some adult conversation. I was simply dying for conversation. We chatted like great friends do who haven’t seen each other in a while. We were both talking at the same time. At any given point we each had at least four stories going. I don’t think we successfully managed to finish one of them. We did get around to discussing matters of life, of death, of the heart.

My Bountiful Friend made us the most wonderful Oeuf Cocotte for lunch. With a tummy tingling with delight and heart full of soul food, I headed back late afternoon for The Princess’ walk.

This evening I have been keeping one eye on the Internet and one eye on the TV. I’m tracking The Athlete’s performance in the Ironman World Championships. I have huge admiration for her single-minded determination and discipline. Not only does she have a very demanding corporate job, but she still finds the time participate in very demanding endurance sporting events and often wins her category. Truly inspirational stuff! Her swimming time has been on par with two years ago, but she’s burning up the track with her bicycle!! Way to go, my super human friend!!

Watching The Presidents Cup without L’homme is not quite the same. But it’s just one of many ‘without L’homme’ things that I’m getting used to. Watching it on my own is at least better than not watching it at all!

To all NaBloWriMo participants: One third of the way done! Two thirds to go!

(The story in the photograph: The Story Teller is delighted that it’s weekend. That means she gets to curl up on her favourite bed and explain to humans how work should be approached!)

Comforting Casseroles


vendredi, le 08 octobre 2009

My current favourite casserole: lamb and yoghourt! I made it for The Artist’s birthday some time ago and it was such a hit, that I thought it would be a great dinner for The Lawyer and family.

The Lawyer’s wife came out of hospital yesterday, but the young Scotsman still needs to grow and gain some weight. I saw photographs of him tonight. I didn’t think it was possible that a baby could be so tiny! But he came off the ventilator today and is doing just fine.

I decided it was necessary to take some time out of my hectic schedule and play in the kitchen. The problem with me and cooking is that I never stick to a recipe. I believe recipes are meant to be the inspiration and from there you make a dish your own. Today I decided to make the casserole more of a meal in one and added some rice noodles.

I love the richness of the lamb and the slight sourness of the yoghourt. For freshness, I added liberal amounts of chopped mint and dill. It made a wonderful supper with a crisp, leafy salad.

(The story in the photograph: The lamb and yoghourt casserole and I made it home just in time to post this before the day is over.)

Attention Withdrawal


jeudi, le 08 octobre 2009

Even The Princess is suffering from attention withdrawal. She can’t work out why her daily walk has suddenly turned into a short jog through the park. There’s no more lingering at the dam where she loves to swim, there’s no more indulging her hide and seek games in the water flowers.

I keep telling her that she is still very special, that I still love her very much, but it’s this avalanche of work. These numbers and graphs and all things boring that need to be turned into words. I keep telling her it will pass, hopefully soon.

She can’t work out why she now spends so much time in the big bed on her own. Maybe with a cat or two to share her space. But there’s no more me for much longer than an hour or two at the oddest hours.

The tragedy when work gobbles up life! But this too shall pass, hopefully soon.

(The story in the photograph: The Princess playing her private ball games in the water flowers.)

A Dull Girl


mercredi, le 07 octobre 2009

All work and no play makes Rispa a dull girl. Late to bed and early to rise, does not make her wise! I find myself buried under an avalanche of work. Which is not necessarily all in all a bad thing – far less time for gut-wrenching agonising.

This post is really just not to fall behind on daily NaBloWriMo posts.

(The story in the photograph: Some pretty flowers to brighten a hard working day!)

Polka dot bear


mardi, le 06 octobre 2009

Last night The Lawyer’s wife gave birth to a very little boy. This young Scotsman is bound to grow into an explorer of note. Two months before his scheduled date of arrival, he decided it’s time to leave the comfort of the womb and step into the big wide world!

I saw The Lawyer tonight. He reports that mom and son are both doing fine.

(The story in the photograph: Fortunately I saw this adorable little polka dot bear a week or so ago and could not resist buying it. Did I maybe suspect that the young Scotsman was going to be an early riser like his father?)

Anniversaries that I hate


lundi, le 05 octobre 2009

It is that time of month when the bitter anniversary comes around again. A week or so ago I thought it would be a good idea to invite my nearest and dearest friends for supper tonight. Those who have been so relentlessly generous in their support, their understanding and in the lending of their ears. Those who have been feeding me plates piled high with nourishing soul food. I thought I’d treat them to my French favourites, as a tiny gesture of heartfelt appreciation: Oeuf Cocotte and Magret de Canard.

But as today dragged nearer, I realised that I’m nowhere near strong enough to cook up a storm in my kitchen when the only storm I’m aware of is the storm raging in my heart and my mind. I’d be far more inclined to, in true ’Like water for chocolate’ fashion, shed tears in my delicious, well-balanced bitter sweet berry sauce. With an unattainable love in mind, I’d risk transferring my love, my feelings and my memories into my favourite dishes. I may end up with a dinner table of guests deeply melancholic or, heavens forbid, my culinary delights may inspire someone to leave my house naked with a revolutionary soldier. Not that I had a revolutionary soldier in mind to invite, but you never know what lurks in the hearts and minds of those I know well.

At least I get to visit The Shrink today. She asks me how I’ve been. I tell her stupid. I tell her I dropped a book off for L’homme at his place of work last week. I tell her I gave him access to some of the things I have been writing since he left. I tell her that the book was intended to explain my writings, to provide some insight on where I was coming from and where I am hopefully heading towards. I tell her that my writings about L’homme are not embellished, it’s the brutal honest truth of my life, my heart, my mind without him.

I tell her I always prided myself in never saying things about L’homme behind his back that I wasn’t prepared to tell him to his face. I tell her that I have lately been feeling that I am now discussing him with others and I am not telling him about it. I tell her that morally or ethically it has been tugging at my conscience. I tell her I had no choice, I had to give him the book and tell him what I was writing, to appease the voices in my heart and in my soul.

I tell her this sparked some e-mail exchanges between L’homme and I. He would fetch the book and he has always wanted me to write and now I am doing it and, as he expected, doing it very well. A blanket folds warmly around my heart.

I remind him that I have always written in the times without him. I have years of experience of gut-wrenching writing. He tells me he has read some more and finds it squirm worthy, but he won’t hold it against me. A blanket folds warmly around my heart.

Later he lets me know that he has read even more of what I have written. He thinks I write beautifully and that he is increasingly not looking good in what I have to say. He tells me I don’t come across as being bitter and bitchy. A blanket folds warmly around my heart.

I want to reply to him that I have never been bitter and bitchy where he is concerned. I have been wanting and needy, Nora and Timid Trudy, hurt and angry. I have been searching in every corner of his mind, in his eyes, in his touch, in the words from his mouth for intimate love I have found it not. I don’t reply.

I tell The Shrink that even later I get another message from L’homme. He says that my writing is not about him, it’s about me. And that it is addictive reading. I tell her that I burst out laughing. I tell her that only a true, blue-blooded masochistic narcissist could derive so much pleasure from reading something so squirm worthy! A blanket folds warmly around my heart.

That is why I love L’homme so very, very much. Oh my love, you have an uncanny ability to, with very few words, make me laugh at something I perceive so serious, so painful. With few words and a healthy dose of laughter, you can make me feel that everything will fine, it will be light, it will be bright.

The Shrink asks me how I’m doing with my list of things that are better/worse for me since L’homme has left. I tell her that I actually did re-visit my list the other day. I tell her I had nothing to add, my list still looks like this:

On a cold summer day I walk back home. At least my heart is wrapped warmly in the blankets L’homme gave me. It pumps my blood somewhat more easily through my veins, to my mind. I think back on the past four months. I think I may have shed some of my anger, but not my sadness, my love, my longing.

I wonder whether L’homme celebrates the anniversary with wine, women and song. I wonder whether he realises it is an anniversary at all. I wonder whether any of the uncomplicated sex he has found has already turned complicated, has followed the path from liking too much to wanting and needing. To making sacrifices, to buying gifts, to spending money, to taking trips. None on L’homme’s expense.

If this were true, would I be jealous? I think not. I will be hurt because of the ease with which L’homme can eradicate thirteen years. But for her I will mainly feel pity. It will just be a matter of time before she, too, gets hurt.

(The story in the photograph: In celebration of My Mother’s 90th birthday last year, I whisked her, L’homme and myself off on a journey on ‘The Most Luxurious Train in the World’. They make the beds beautifully in the evenings with soft blankets to cuddle under warmly while sipping sparkling wine and watching the moonlit countryside go by. A truly unforgettable experience.)

Secondly battling with words


dimanche, le 04 octobre 2009

Now in my room

Oh my Love
I found You again
I went out
for a pack of cigarettes
and there You were
I bowed to everyone
and they rejoiced with me
I lost myself
in the eyes of a dog
who loved You
The heat lifted me up
The traffic bounced me
naked into bed
with a book about You
and a bottle of cold water
~Leonard Cohen


Recently I started battling a bit with the word ’love’. Not quite the same way as the long, ongoing battle I have had with the words ’honour’ and ’respect’. It has been a more subtle battle.

When I tell L’homme that I love him, I know what I am saying and I understand the meaning of the word. I know, I understand the meaning of loving The Princess and all her many furry friends. I love good food, I love beautiful art, I love burying my nose in a good read, I love listening to music that touches my soul, I love Paris and I love France. In each of these instances I know what love means. I know what it feels like, what it tastes like, what it smells like.

But often on these pages I have lamented that, from L’homme, all I asked was love. All I wanted was for him to love me. As I would say this, a thought would scurry across my mind quickly, wondering what exactly I meant by that but not finding the time to linger or ponder. I wasn’t certain beyond reasonable doubt how this love would feel, would taste, would smell. I had this niggling sense that it sounded somewhat corny.

So I started battling with the love I so desperately wanted from L’homme. Recently it struck me that the love I was looking for would feel, would taste, would smell intimate. The more I mulled it over, the more I became certain that I wanted L’homme to love me intimately. Not only in the sexual sense of the word, but also in the familiar sense, the private, personal sense, the thorough sense, the close sense, the essential, intrinsic sense, in the sense found only in very close, very special relationships.

In that special way in which your eyes would momentarily lock across a crowded room and tell a fleeting heartfelt tale of love, of commitment, of involvement, of presence. In which a touch would convey the warmth of love, of commitment, of involvement, of presence. In which body language would bubble over excitedly with stories of love, of commitment, of involvement, of presence. In which a hug would enfold the intensity of love, of commitment, of involvement, of presence. What I wanted, was for L’homme to be intimate with me, in every sense of the word, also in the sexual sense of the word.

But L’homme could not do this. L’homme fears intimacy as much as he fears love, fears commitment, fears involvement, fears being present. Above all, he fears fear itself. To make it easier, he pours another glass of wine, lights another cigarette, searches for another girl on the porn site that promises uncomplicated sex.

L’homme would kiss me with his eyes searching past mine for what was happening behind me, he would mostly make love to me in a way that he couldn’t see my face, he would talk to me with his body turned away. I would feel saddened, I would feel hurt. I now understand why. His absent presence was not intimate.

Driving with The Princess for her walk today, I hear a local artist’s rendition of Pink Martini’s fabulous song ’Sympathique’. I bought the CD at a concert held on Mother’s Day. L’homme stood in the queue with me to have it autographed.

Long ago I knew the smell of love,
a million roses didn’t smell as sweet.
Now a single flower in my way makes me sick.

I don’t want to work,
I don’t want to lunch
I only want to forget and so I smoke.
~Pink Martini : Sympathique


I simply adore this ditsy little tune. Whenever it played in the shop, L’homme would merrily sing along and translate it for me. Occasionally he would take me in his arms and dance with me. I now understand those were occasional intimate moments, as intimate as L’homme was capable of being. From now on, when I say all I wanted was for L’homme to love me, I will mean that all I wanted from him was intimacy.

(L’homme and I are both Leonard Cohen fans. The inscription in front of the book reminds me that I bought it for us as holiday reading just before our trip abroad in 2007. In the beginning of last year, The Poet was between accommodations. He stayed with us for a few weeks. My and The Poet’s friendship got off to a rocky start many years ago, but over time we have settled our differences. Today I enjoy The Poet’s company. Here The Poet is reading the book. The Princess is comfortably snuggled up next to him, reading stories of her own through his glasses.)

Firstly battling with words



samedi, le 03 octobre 2009

I’ve looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It’s love’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know love at all
~Joni Mitchell : Both sides now


There are some words I inherently battle with. The first time I can recall hearing the words ’honour’ and ’respect’ was as a tiny little girl, sitting not quietly in church next to My Mother. The stern, strict and very learned minister spoke with sweeping gestures, the long arms of his black priest’s robe sweeping across the pulpit. He’d urge the congregation to follow the Ten Commandments. He’d urge me, specifically, to ’Honour thy father and thy mother that thy days may be long.’ I’d crane my neck to glance admiringly at my father sitting amongst the elders, I’d look up lovingly at My Mother sitting next to me. Their eyes fixed on the minister. I’d think how much I loved them and that my days were already long, especially on Sundays. Just sitting through the sermon was longer than an eternity could then be, especially at the age of seven or five.

The minister would warn how fire and brimstone, the agents of divine wrath, would be visited upon those who do not obey. I played with the pretty silver buckle on my new pink shoes. I accidentally bumped my psalm book. It noisily fell to the floor. I slid off the hard wooden pew to pick it up. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the fire and brimstone of My Mother’s hand firmly gripped my upper arm. She yanked me back onto the bench next to her and hissed that I should sit still. That I’m such a naughty child. That I am so unruly.

I instinctively knew my day had just gotten longer. Playing with the pretty silver buckle on my new pink shoes I’d thought that I honoured and respected. Suddenly, after honouring and respecting, comes fire and brimstone. After sitting through many similar Sunday sermons, I eventually formed an understanding of the words ’honour’ and ’respect’ and both had, indelibly imbedded in them, a healthy helping of fire and brimstone, a good dose of fear.

To this day I look at people strangely when they say that all they want is a little respect. I have no desire to be respected. For, should someone respect me, they would, by inference, also fear me. I really do not want to be feared. I would more like to be considered and once considered, judged on the merits of who I am. For, I am sometimes good, sometimes bad, sometimes kind, sometimes cruel, sometimes happy, sometimes sad but I am always me.

As of late, I have been battling a bit with the word ’love’. About that I will tell you tomorrow.

(Storm clouds gathering on a late summer afternoon.)

Nomenclature


vendredi, le 02 octobre 2009

Brave is still hobbling along on crutches. It seems like an eternity has passsed since he was knocked off his bicycle and it seems like another eternity is going to pass before he will be back on his own two feet. Literally.

Brave has sent Lovemore to help me out in the meantime. He is tall, thin, neatly dressed and laughs easily. Not quite as heartily and infectiously as Brave, but still. I like people who laugh easily, they generally deal with sorrow better.

I wonder what his parents were thinking when they gave him his name. Did they think they would need to love him more than others? Or did they think that he would love more than others? Or did they think he would simply love more people and things to do justice to his name? Did they instinctively know the importance of love?

Lovemore tells me he won’t be able to work for me next week. Nor the next two weeks for that matter. He is going to his homeland to visit his family. Selfishly I immediately think of my garden. It’s is again facing neglect with no-one to Edward Scissorhands the bushes into shape. Then I realise the sacrifices Lovemore has to make to spend the largest part of the year away from his family, his loved ones, to earn a meager living in a foreign land.

I give Lovemore his wage. I give him a little extra and tell him to have a safe journey. Tell him to take care of himself. A broad smile spreads across his face. He hugs me spontaneously. I think how easy it is to make a little difference to somebody else’s life.

(Life coaches and the like often pose the question: ‘If time and money were not the issue, what would you like to do?’ Right now I’d like to be in the city I like best, with a metro ticket in my purse, the cobble-stoned pavements beneath my feet and a street cafĂ© close by.)

Losing my life line


jeudi, le 01 octobre 2009

What a party! In celebration of her 50th birthday, The Jeweller pulled out all the stops. The garden was bathed in flaming torchlight, beautiful bunches of St Joseph Lilies were everywhere to be seen. Smartly dressed waiters walked around with trays of flutes filled with the driest of French Champagne. Then the snacks where handed round. An endless stream of the tiniest, bight-size delicacies.

My Witty Friend was the instigator of the party. She lives in a town about a two hour flight away, but her husband’s illness prevented her from making the trip. He’s not doing well at all. In fact, I think the end of his suffering is near. The Jeweller tells me that she has strict instruction from My Witty Friend. In her absence, I should have her quota of wine for the evening as well.

I seek out some old varsity friends. The wine flows, the snacks are devoured and the years that lie between us, are talked away until it feels like we are again sitting around a table in the quaint, leafy town where we attended varsity. Except back then the wine was much cheaper and the snacks were primarily crisps and peanuts. Only on very special occasions we may have had some dips to go with the crisps. But the chatter and the laughter is still the same. Thinking of My Witty Friend, I take another glass of red wine from the tray.

This morning I pressed the snooze button on my alarm clock many more times than I could afford. Waking up after an evening of drinking for two was not going to be easy. Clearing my head was not going to be possible.

I drag myself to my laptop and stare at the screen through the steam coming from the tea cup in my hands. No mail is downloading. This is too good to be true, the hangover gods must be on my side. But then I realise no mail is going out either. Then I discover that I have no connection to cyber space.

I make a frantic phone call to my service provider. All is in order. I make a frantic phone call to my ADSL supplier. Nothing is in order. There have been road works to some major throughway not far from where I live and the cables have been damaged. Sorry. No telling when they will be repaired. I stutter a few buts, try to explain about deadlines that I need to meet. I get told to check every half hour or so. I can tell my appeals are falling on deaf ears. Without bothering to explain about my pounding head, I put the phone down. I stare at my screen in disbelief.

I open a report I need to write. I battle to find the words through the red wine haze in my head. I have some more tea. I make something to eat. I stare at the screen. I start typing, but use the backspace key a lot. Eventually I make some progress.

Driving to the office late this afternoon with the finished report saved on a memory stick, I realise just how dependent I have become on the line that connects me to the outside world. Not only to earn my daily bread, but also for recreation.

Walking The Princess helps to clear my head. But I’m delighted when we bump into her best friend. All the ball throwing and ball picking up with a fuzzy head was becoming tedious.

I linger longer than usual with The Princess while she has her supper. I feed the fish and water some plants. Back at my desk I check my line to the outside world again. A solid green light appears on my router, mails start tumbling into my inbox, the remains of my hangover drift out the door. Delighted I pour myself a glass of wine and start bashing away at my keyboard.

(Our barge broke down on our trip through the South of France last year, a few hundred meters from a restaurant with really fantastic food. The wine, however, more resembled the cheaper variety we used to drink in our varsity days.)