Kachasu

Tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn I am leaving for the Karoo. In other words, I am being dragged from my deathbed because Artist has a big unveiling of the wooden monuments. I am not keen on the trip. I am still violently ill and can think of far better things to do than spend 12 hours in a car to a pokey little dorp. But this is what being in a supportive relationship is all about. AAAARGH!

Anyway – please everyone keep writing on that bestseller – pass the baton adequately to the next person and then hopefully when i get back on monday or tuesday i can slap it all together in a coherent way. If anyone feels up to it, please by all means combine the bits and repost to keep it alive on the blog page. we just need to keep track of who did what and i will take over again when i get back.

There may or may not be signal in the Karoo. And i don’t dig their crappy little internet cafe, but if i can i will log in and tidy it up.

Aaargh. I don’t want to be in a car tomorrow for 12 hours with artist and kids squabbling about “are we there yet?”

Erbert was an emu. Over and above this obvious biological challenge, which will be recognized by anyone who has seen a picture of the ungainly bird, Erbert also had a speech impediment, lived on the wrong continent and carried a tremendous resentment towards the universe as a whole for his inability to fly.

He didn’t mind the speech impediment, because it annoyed every other animal he came into contact with and Erbert liked to be annoying. We won’t talk much more about this, but to understand the complicated crevasses and folds of Erbert, it is an important part of the picture.

He regarded it as everybody else’s fault that he could not fly. These days most folk (and I use the term quite loosely, given that these were mostly animals) stayed away from Erbert. He was grumpy, could kick quite hard and his beak was particularly painful when thrust repeatedly against the side of one’s head with emphasis.

He preferred living in Africa and not Australia. He didn’t have much patience for Kangaroos, cute Koala bears (who hogged all the limelight) or for Australian people. Africa, he felt, was a far more civilized and cultural place for an emu with panache.

Despite liking his environment, Erbert could not manage to fit in with the African animals and developed something of a resentment towards the Zoo that had sent him here in the first place.

To be clear: African plants, animals and people are, by and large, very friendly and welcoming (with a handful of sharp teethed or venomous ones being the exception) and the problem did not lie with them. The problem lay with Erbert, who considered himself really quite stylish and unique.

Deep in Erbert’s inner heart, he wanted to be an eagle. Even a hadedah would do, if he was honest with himself. He wanted to fly. He felt there was a cruel injustice in the world that he couldn’t. He paid no mind to all the things he could do.

Erbert lived on a game farm in a part of South Africa called The Karoo, where he had been taken as a very young bird. That first trip of his life happened in error.

A zoo in Sydney, with a particularly dim ostrich keeper, called Bruce of course, had mistaken him for one of the African birds and shipped him back to Cape Town. The zoo had been having problems with the ostrich residents and were not keen on keeping them. Unless they were fed a certain amount of food they stopped behaving like ‘proper’ zoo animals. They simply sat in their enclosure and stared at each other, occasionally shrieking and dashing around from one foot to the next and wildly wiggling their hips, or what passes for hips for an ostrich.

Australians do not understand the form of protest known as toi-toi and were troubled about it being some form of bird rabies. An executive decision was taken by zoo management to return the delinquent birds to their home. Erbert had been caught up in the rush and shipped, poste haste, to Africa.

(i have finished this story. but bloggers have gnat-like attention spans)

In the furthest end of my grandmother’s house stood a cupboard filled until the contents teetered with the past lives of my mum and my Aunt Alice. For many hours I would gaze at the carefully kept treasures, fiddling hardly at all. When I did touch with nimble small fingers, I was always careful to not disturb or break. Stored there by my grandmother, who we called Nain, these were exotic beyond measure for me.

Nain’s old house, nestled at foot of the Vumba mountains, was a place of concrete floors, spiders, frogs and copious snakes, when not phsyically present, betrayed by their shed skin. A place where my mother and her sister had grown up, played, cried and loved. We are a family of story tellers and I knew early on about the strange and interesting women who had come before me. Tales of fairies, earthquakes, illness, the death of a much-loved brother and grand adventures in a family bus called Emily.

The depths of the cupboard told the tale in a tangible way, its darkest corners holding secrets and glimpses of personalities that I longed to be close to. Hats, card games, mechano, photographs and clothes all ordinary enough. Yet in that cupboard were some of the most astonishing small objects I have ever come across. The strange things belonged to my Aunt Alice.

A miniature bottle of Brut aftershave captured my attention for weeks. I carried the green glass everywhere with me and took surreptitious sniffs. I sat in the frog-infested bathroom putting miniscule drops in the tub, not realizing that the scent would, forever more, create an immediate weakness in the knees for any man wearing it.

Then there were the small vials of chicken blood. Dried out, mostly, but chicken blood nonetheless. Mildly frightening but extremely exciting. What did she do with it? Why did she want it? How did she get it? My gorgeous aunt with long flowing hair, gentle but firm voice and the most marvelous hips God ever gave a woman, was a secret witch. Or perhaps it was a way of preserving the lifeblood of an animal. I never asked. It seemed too dark a secret to ever broach verbally.

Most marvelous of all, a testament of true love and childhood shamanism, was her collection in an old Lion matchbox of her father’s toenail clippings. A surprising find and one that told a story of adoration. Over the years of my life I have done the same thing teeth from loved ones, hair, items of clothing. Somehow by keeping these things safe and treasured, it keeps the one I love closer to me. To touch my child’s first milk tooth fills me with such love, brings me so much closer to the person and let’s me feel like by treasuring the things that have been a part of them I can keep them safe.

My Aunt Alice has raffia sandals. I don’t think she wears them anymore. She has two grown up sons and lives in a house in the English countryside, very far from the wild Africa the family grew up in. I bet money that somewhere in that house are secrets, special things, stored away. The mind that would delight in collecting toenails, chicken blood and men’s cologne is a thread in the fabric of the universe and that gives me great comfort.

REMEMBER FOLKS – WHEN WE GET MONEY FOR THIS THING WE ARE USING IT TO FIX THE BLOG (via my cayman islands account) I think Sili and TinCan dude could add some stuff – and bovine. but maybe not flying spaghetti monster, somehow i can’t see it. Arbchickaboo – what’s your fiction like?

Tito found himself on the stairs. His head hurt as though a hundred weasels were racing around in that small space smashing hammers against his skull. His mouth tasted like month old yoghurt and even greater vintage cigarettes. He fumbled for the dead spots in his memory. What had he done? Was that blood on his shirt? What had he said? Who had seen him like this? Who had he called? What messages had he sent? What time was it? Was he bruised? Pounding fear rose in his chest. The last thing he could remember was standing at the hotel bar with Abel, discussing soccer. Stumbling to the window, he checked that his Toyota was there and not too badly damaged this time. He rampaged through his small home hunting for a hidden beer. Hair of the dog. But for Tito it always lead to missing days blurred them all together. Despite this, today he went through the usual routine. Opening a beer, downing half, vomiting and gulping the rest. He leaned against the tiles, waiting for the alcohol to settle, sweating and fighting more nausea.
With half a beer in him, he headed out to the bottle store, pausing to swear loudly at newspaper littering his driveway, cast aside by someone and carried by the wind. A headline caught his eye: Man sought for murder pub brawl ends in death.
Tito blinked in the bright light. A wave of dull pain nestling in for the journey.
With vodka in hand, he headed home. He bent to collect the newspaper, casting bleary eyes over the story again. Had it been him? Would the police come knocking on his door? Tito read carefully, hands shaking so violently he had to put the paper down on the counter to keep it in focus. It was his local pub, but police could find no witness. Relief. Fear. Holes in his memory. Blood on his clothes. What had he done? He dropped his head on the dirty newspaper, nausea rising up amidst the dizziness and pain.
Tito felt that he had to leave town, at least for while to clear his head and make sure the Police weren’t after him. he had a sick feeling in his stomach, not the booze, this time about the previous night. As much as he tried to tell himself that it was an unrelated incident, his gut told him otherwise.
He changed his clothes, he didnt want to be seen with blood stains, he grabbed his keys and took one last blury look at his place,locked the door as quickly as he could manage and left. By the time Tito reached the bus station he was quite tipsy again, with his Vodka hiding under his anerack and some cash in his wallet.He took the bus to a town about 50 kilometres away. He passed out on the bus, his head was dizzied out…
When Tito arrived at his destination he had woken to find that he was the last passenger to climb off the bus. He thanked his booze he hadn’t stayed sleeping and gone back to where he had came from.
Tito trumped into the next pub around the corner, ‘billy’s’ they called it. “One Blackie please” Tito muttered.
The barman opened and then plonked the beer onto the counter with out even as much as a small smile, and very plainly said,” that will be six rand please”. Tito wondered if life was some kind of bad joke. “What happened, I was always so full of life” he thought sadly. “oh well, I guess I’ll finish my beer and get back to that thought later”.

CHAPTER 2.

She hadn’t really thought about Lauren for a while now. It’d been weeks. Or months? Best friends in high school..promised to open a doctors practice together and heal the world. Only now, Lauren was a jeweller in New York – her biggest worry was trying to sell conflict diamonds and dodge certificates from people who wanted to do the “right thing.” The same people who wore Nike and Guess clothing made from sweatshops could ignore fat logo’s on their chest advertising their apathy. But they couldn’t wear a diamond ring that came from some conflict in Africa. And she was a teacher at a school teaching remedial lessons to children who would never amount to much. She knew it, their parents knew it. Oh, one or two might excel and become something – an auto mechanic or a driver, maybe even run a small business. But not the forty-two that sat before her day in and day out.
She needed to call Tito though. He’d know what to do in this situation. He always knew. Like the time they were almost expelled and it was dropped to a suspension because of a minor loophole in the education system that Tito had found. And the time they crashed Uncle Marks car and sent it to a workshop in the township. It was fixed by the time everyone else came back from the holiday. And at a fraction of the cost.
She glanced briefly at the poster of Nelson Mandela in her classroom. What does a man do for twenty-seven years in a jail cell the size of a restroom cubicle. Does he say the Lords prayer all the time and some peace mantra or does he worry about everyday things? The slightly unrecognisable mush that was lunch or how the kids were doing at home?
The growling in her own stomach brought her attention to her own hunger. Her eyes fell on her diary. In irritation she skimmed over the things she had not done yet. The day would end sooner than she thought, as usual.
“Call Tito at 7pm.”
“Remind Gerhaard about tax forms.”
“Call attorneys about garnishee order from hospital.”
“Call Discovery first and check particulars of the kids hospital plans.”
“TITO” in big letters. Scratched into the page.

Who is next?

OK folks. I had a brainwobble. How about we play a game? Remember when, as kids, you would start telling a story and have someone else finish it? I think we should do this. I have a few words i have scratched together. So, here is the thing… The next person writes the next few words and nominates another to do the next… Here are my words and I think Sugar ‘n Spite should write next – then nominate someone else. Sound reasonable? if you don’t want to sns, then nominate someone else. we can donate income to BM so they can fix the features on the blog.

*******

Tito found himself on the stairs. His head hurt as though a hundred weasels were racing around in that small space smashing hammers against his skull. His mouth tasted like month old yoghurt and even greater vintage cigarettes. He fumbled for the dead spots in his memory. What had he done? Was that blood on his shirt? What had he said? Who had seen him like this? Who had he called? What messages had he sent? What time was it? Was he bruised? Pounding fear rose in his chest. The last thing he could remember was standing at the hotel bar with Abel, discussing soccer. Stumbling to the window, he checked that his Toyota was there and not too badly damaged this time. He rampaged through his small home hunting for a hidden beer. Hair of the dog. But for Tito it always lead to missing days blurred them all together. Despite this, today he went through the usual routine. Opening a beer, downing half, vomiting and gulping the rest. He leaned against the tiles, waiting for the alcohol to settle, sweating and fighting more nausea.
With half a beer in him, he headed out to the bottle store, pausing to swear loudly at newspaper littering his driveway, cast aside by someone and carried by the wind. A headline caught his eye: Man sought for murder pub brawl ends in death.

Tito blinked in the bright light. A wave of dull pain nestling in for the journey.

With vodka in hand, he headed home. He bent to collect the newspaper, casting bleary eyes over the story again. Had it been him? Would the police come knocking on his door? Tito read carefully, hands shaking so violently he had to put the paper down on the counter to keep it in focus. It was his local pub, but police could find no witness. Relief. Fear. Holes in his memory. Blood on his clothes. What had he done? He dropped his head on the dirty newspaper, nausea rising up amidst the dizziness and pain.

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i love these guys.

My mother buys books because they have interesting covers or are on a bestseller list. One would think that after 37 years of knowing this about her, I would stop accepting books that she passes on as remotely readable. Except once in a while she really gets it right. The Book of Lost Things was the last one she lent me and I loved it, rushed out to buy more of his books only to be quite disappointed. I am at a low ebb, however, and am barely well enough to watch Monk reruns without losing the plot, literally. So today I accepted a book. Well, two of them. One was my dad’s so I know that will be good it’s about terra-forming Mars but my brain just couldn’t quite get past the first couple of sentences. So I picked up the other one.

It’s by a woman, I think, called Karin Slaughter. I have not let my eyeballs or brain take in such utter shite in a very long time. The cover punts it as scary, thrillsville and excellent writing. In fact, one quote says ‘other writers will be envious.’ It took me about two hours to read, I consume books very quickly. The only thing going for it is the first murder, in which a young boy falls of a bridge, or is shoved as we later discover. He has lots of body piercings and Slaughter describes what happens to his scalp, genitals etc very graphically. I like violence and gore once in a while. This was well-described.

The book is appallingly written. There are murdered blind twins, stabbed 8 month pregnant women, a barely credible drunk woman who was nailed, like Jesus, to some rapist’s floor for two days. Ag you get the picture? The motives and characters are desperately poor. The dialogue I don’t actually know how to explain it. Hell, I can write better than this on a good day. And there are some bloggers, like Ramon who really can write brilliantly consistently.

So how the hell does this woman end up on a bestseller list with books selling for R240? Your guess is as good as mine. Some of you are wondering why I bothered reading the whole thing? Well, my brain is not working very well but I feel too wired on various drugs to sleep. The effort involved in moving myself to my study to scratch for some novel I haven’t read is just too much to consider. If I close my eyes, I have nightmares.

I logged on here in the hopes of finding a new treasure, to erase the pain of this crap thing that is supposed to be a book. No luck. So far. But I am going to keep on digging, failing which I am taking my Dormicum and the world can burn.

I am going to sleep in a mo. But have a question about the wisdom of being put on cortisone. I am all in favour of chemicals and medicine, but this is the first time I have been on the damn things and it bothers me. When my daughter had leukemia she spent months and months on it, which I understand. It makes the body more susceptible to the chemo, softens the cell walls or something. All I have is a garden variety pneumonia. Could it be that doctors are over-prescribing cortisone in the same way that they do antibiotics?

This has nothing at all to with the fact that I have not eaten since Friday and still put on three kilos. OK well, maybe if I hadn’t discovered this morning that the weight was on I would not have been googling for hours about the side effects. Doesn’t look good though.

I need the antibiotics. And I think I need the snot medicine and bronchodilators and things. But I dunno about the cortisone. I believe it is anti-inflammatory, but it also leaves me open to other infections because it lowers the immune system. I only took antibiotics and cortisone yesterday cos the other stuff was making me feel worse than the actual pneumonia. The drugs gave me double vision!

There are hectic long-term side effects of cortisone. So does anyone have any wisdom on this? Johan if you comment please try not to have a generic warble about the evils of medication. Let’s just stick to cortisone huh?

And let me tell you it is not fun.

Artist came home, so I thought I would make an effort and get out of bed. I fell over.

*drama*

Off to doctor. I don’t much like doctors. I have huge fear and hypochondria. So if i get a headache i am convinced it is a brain tumour and refuse point blank to see anyone about it just in case they confirm my fears.

Anyway, stethoscope and sticking of light things in ears and wooden things down mouth.

Doctor: “Breathe”
K Chasu: *cough*

Doc: “I really should admit you to hospital”
KC: “No chance.”
Doc: *sigh*

So here I am folks. I have proper pneumonia, a middle ear infection and more drugs than Robbie Williams could get through on a weekend.

Oh and I have to take eight cortisone pills a day and I am not allowed to smoke. My bed survival pack includes:

Cortisone
Cough Stuff
Moksifloksasien
Myprodol
Sinugesic
20 Stuyvesant Blue
Humidifier
One pink lighter
My laptop
YOU LOT.

So, play with me. I am so up to it. But nothing that means real thought cos it’s not nice to take advantage of a stoned sick girl. I know this goes against your programming Bov, but just try.

Purple Dot would use her feminine wiles-.

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Before really showing her teeth

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And Kit would adopt thug Avril Lavigne mode-

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Then try the butter wouldn’t melt look-

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And if all else fails flash your tits.

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I was in two minds about this pic. They are really just messing about with some kid bras my sister in law got. Neither of them has anything to show. Kit’s one is padded. Who the hell makes padded bras for kids?

Anyway anyone finds this offensive or deems it kiddy porn I will take it down.