Camping: No thanks
Artist, with romantic glaze in his eyes: “Why don’t we go camping this weekend?”
KC: “Have you lost your mind entirely?”
He has been working with glue and stuff, so being stoned could be the reason for this highly dubious suggestion.
Artist: “No, it will be great, just the two of us, in nature.”
KC: “Nature is messy and dirty. I don’t camp.”
Debate ensues.
I hate camping. I don’t feel close to nature, I feel dirty and plagued by insects. Anyone seen those spiders in Namibia? Why can’t we stay in a nice little bed and breakfast and do day trips “into nature” – an altogether more tolerable state of affairs?
I can’t cope with the creaks, tent bits flapping, weird noises that could easily be a lion or a very large spider or something altogether worse. Like a cannibal in them there hills. An inbred cannibal.
And the camping with ablution blocks is even worse. I feel like I want to wear my whole wetsuit and booties just to take a shower, which somewhat negates the purpose of the whole thing. There is always black mold on the floor and god-alone-knows-what horrible infectious diseases left by other campers.
Then there are the horrible cooking utensils. Which all need to be washed and by that stage generally have congealed gunk of unknown origin on them.
No – camping is a disgusting pastime. I will not do it.
Yeti
Artist (plaintively): “Are you ever going to shave your legs again?”
KC (astonished): ‘Maybe?’
Yes, folks, when you are actually sharing a bed with someone you can’t do the usual chick thing and go into yeti mode for the winter. Well, I guess you could, but then kiss any sex goodbye and endearing nicknames like ‘Svetlana’ hello.
So, yesterday I bought new blades and today was shaving day. Feels better, but I resist in winter. Who wants to stand in a shower, with various bits freezing off so you can spend the time shaving your legs and pits? It sucks. And shaving in the tub is uncool little hairs can get trapped in places you really don’t want them.
So, I have clean shaven legs again. For now. It may change again, the next icy cold snap we have. Then I may not care and just drag out the thermal jammies. Who needs sex anyway?
My artist never complains I can change hair colour, length whatever. This was a first. Hence rapid action on my part.
Spent the day playing volleyball at Emmarentia. It was hot, so thank god I could roll up my jeans without worrying about stabbing my team-mates to death with stubble if I bumped into them.
Today’s Boots
For all you boot fetishists out there…
Keep up the good work. Chicks with a passion for boots require an adoring fan base.
Dead Animals
I don’t understand the general revulsion for skinned and/or stuffed dead animals as décor and apparel. In no way do I think hunting is ok, but there is a great deal of antique and vintage dead animal paraphernalia around that should be made better use of. These animals are dead. Long dead. And they were killed in order to be worn or displayed on a wall. The *vomit* noises and general shunning I received from my artist upon my exuberant discovery of a full fox fur stole, is entirely uncalled for.
It was attractive. It had nice glass eyes and still had its claws, nose and tail. Very good condition and only R240. Yes, folks, two hundred and forty ZA Rand. Good deal huh? Not according to my family.
Then there was the ancient zebra skin. It had holes and mangey looking patches, but it was done it that old way where the ears are pinned back and everything left on. Very nice. Except the guy wanted just under R4k for it. I could get a better rug out of my mother’s daschund (one example of humane pet euthanasia if ever there was one – the little rodent eats books, passports and half done jigsaws). If it had been reasonably priced I would have stuck it onto the old kelim rug that was killed in a flood at my old house.
I am not sure how this dead animal fetish started. I was anti-fur for the longest time. Now I find myself scouring antique shops for them I just have not yet found the perfect thing. Someone suggested today that I go to some taxidermist out in that god-forsaken hell hole called Fourways, but they miss the point. I don’t want a NEW dead beast. I want an old one. That wasn’t shot in some sort of canned fashion. I want one that was stalked across the savannahs and shot by some crusty old pom called Nigel or Rupert or something.
It is my dream to one day have one of those giant stuffed polar bears in my hallway to put my hat collection on. It’s glassy little eyes can peer out at visitors from beneath the brim of my panama, while he dangles the others off various other parts of bear-body.
When I am not me
There is a brief moment when I am not me, a moment before all the history and facts of what I have done falls into my awareness. The building blocks comprising me lock into place and I know who and what I am. Where do these pieces of me go when I sleep? Why can’t I leave some of them behind upon wakening?
Some mornings I come crashing in on myself, but the ones when I wake up on my own, leaving behind the dream… those days I emerge slowly. A soul putting on the clothes, item by item, of its human existence. Until there I am. Full of memories, hurts, joys, fears- loves. Given a choice I would leave the fears and insecurities behind.
Most days, the blocks, the clothing, leave me feeling strong and prepared. But there are other times- When the me that comes together is not so light. These are mornings when my first conscious thought is a massive fear, or destructive self-loathing. Somewhere, in the place they went to, the blocks and garments become jumbled some days. All I can do then is try not to live that day wearing those clothes.
In those mornings I need to spend more time with God than my cursory daily ritual of ‘Your Will, not mine.’ In those days I have to do a mental gratitude list, proper prayers and maybe read something uplifting.
I work hard to clean up my thought processes, make peace with the things I have not liked about myself, or my actions, during this human experience. Yet, wherever it is that I go when I sleep, something there can rearrange them at times and make the blackness stronger than the light when I come together as I wake.
Today is such a day.
Larissa
There are some of you who won’t see me quite the same way again after this blog. And to you, I say: ‘I don’t give a damn.’ Or something ruder. You are not the kind of folk I have ever wanted to be around. Anyway, this is a gentle piece, maybe, about the first girl I ever fell in love with. Her name was Larissa and she was perfect.
Obviously, because I am not a lesbian, it did not last for long. I think about three months. Added to that she was the most glorious woman and I don’t know how to handle beautiful women. She had cappuccino coloured skin and the longest legs- man, they went on forever. Her walk was the lushest thing- She did this little scrunching-toes-twist. It was not contrived, it was like she danced with every step.
I was seventeen, Lari was about 19. I adored her. We met at a nightclub in Harare and I just, well, fell in love. The first time we kissed I thought I was going to pass out. I was hopelessly crap in bed. She was so beautiful and I felt so clumsy. Little wonder she dumped me for a black Englishman with a big cock and a passport out of Zim. Larri looked a little like Grace Jones, but softer and she was meant for bigger things. It took me about six weeks to get over it.
We clubbed together and kissed and held hands on the dance floor. She really was a good dancer and we are talking about the late 80s when most people did some sort of zombie-shuffle. My friends were wonderful about it. So were my folks. ‘Just another phase.’
Me? I was convinced this was IT. Hahaha I was seventeen! Still, 20 years later I can still see her walking towards my car with the wind blowing her skirt, those flat shoes she always wore dancing along.
I was one of those odd kids- you know- all my friends were strange in some way or other. Gays, lesbians, other colours, journalists, photographers. Never normal. Never main-stream. I am deeply grateful to my parents for never teaching me prejudice. This has meant I have never once judged a person based on anything other than how they treat me or interact with me.
My Space
Today I evicted the things that have been invading my space for months on end. I turfed My Artist’s dead relative’s ashes in their nasty little box, I threw away all the miscellaneous Barbie crap, I dusted off my desk, I moved the arbitrary bits of sculpture and put the TV room stuff where it belongs. Yes, today my study became my own again. And I found the key. Those aliens that I live with can leave me alone when I want to be alone.
I still have three massive bloody 30 year old model airplanes hanging from my dado rail but I don’t know where to put them without pissing on somebody’s battery. They will be noted as missing if I burn them or throw them away. My green death star light is shining bright and my blinds are closed. My Catholic stuff and pictures of the small aliens are on the wall. I keep seeing things that do not belong to me and reallocating them to where they should be. Give me a few days and this space will be filled with only my memories. My scratches on the wall, my spider diagrams of my stories. My books. My iPod and Bose setup. My Pin-Head. My dolls. My little spare bed. My erotic armchair. My pinboard. My little collection of things. MY SPACE.
For months while we redid the TV room I have been unable to even look at my study. It was like a junk yard. Everything from everywhere else was stashed in here. I got a bit resentful. Maybe that shows? Hah! No longer. The reclamation process has begun.
I am lying here, on my little bed, sulking a bit because I can’t find one of the twenty fucking extension cords we own, but it’s MINE. All mine. They can whistle. Artist can cook. Kids not here.
Buwahahahahahah.
What brought this frenzy on? A new book. Something to write. Something proper. And it requires space and time that is not continuously interrupted by the aliens and their needs.
Things are getting back to the way they ought to be in K Chasu’s universe.
“It’s never too late to abort”
It has been one of those family evenings. Today is my dad’s 59th birthday and, because Purple Dot’s is the day before, he generally comes down to Jozi to be with family for a few days. So there we sit around the big table at my mom’s Parkhurst hovel, each of us jabbering away delighted to all be in one another’s company at the same time. I am sick, barely coherent but doing my best to ask dad to please get on blog and adequately explain my entropy/life theory to GaryM who is deliberately being obtuse. This leads to more physics, astro and meta debate while the others are talking about whatever floats their boat.
My brother, who I adore in a love-hate way, is trying to compete with dad’s ipod in the bose blasting Hayseed Dixies, by turning up some or other crap on his mp3-playing mobile. Kit is dressed in her Spanish dancing outfit having just given us a small show on the upper deck. My ear hurts.
My Artist is discussing brush strokes with my mom, who is the Ice Queen as far as dad goes, but keen to learn more so that her new hobby of oil painting can improve. My mom is frigid because my dad has finally come out of the closet publicly about the new woman in his life. This has already lead, within the first five minutes, to my brother accusing me of taking my dad’s side. Blah blah. Of course I take my dad’s side. He never quite tumbled from that pedestal. Me and my dad are two peas in a pod.
Artist’s dad is eagerly listening, he also paints. Artist’s dad is about 76 years old. His wife died four years ago. It took him a while to recover, but now he leads a bohemian lifestyle in Umhlanga and has grown a David Beckham hair style- I suspect that he has finally twigged on that a long-haired artist pulls more chicks than a computer programmer. Better late than never huh?
Purple Dot has glued herself to the couch in the TV room. She has long held the view that I should have been reported to Child Welfare when I got rid of it.
Sister in law is discussing work. She frequently does. Then money and spirituality.
Then the discussion turns to movies. We all agree that Sin City and 300 are excellent. Talk about V for a bit ag the usual agreements/disagreements. But I have learned better than to try and debate certain things with my brother. He, for example, spews venom when I talk about how I love Shiamalan. I don’t have the energy to communicate in a confrontational way tonight. The pain in my ear has taken over my entire existence.
This then leads to discussions around TV series. I throw in a comment: ‘I would love to own every episode of Dallas on dvd.’
*silence*
My brother, looking pointedly at my mother: ‘It is never too late to abort.’
This caused far too much general mirth at table for my liking.
The day I decided looks wouldn’t cut it.
(I am so undecided about posting this particular blog here amongst you vicious piranhas. Done it twice and deleted it immediately. Oh well. Let’s see.)
I was about eleven years old. The local high school was having a beauty contest for kids and we were allowed in our age group. To this day I cannot remember what on earth made me do it. It is unlikely that I really thought anything about it other than that it was an adventure. I was still making bombs with my brother and setting fire to empty plots at that stage. Or playing with Cindy dolls. Yet, there I was, dressed in a red, white and blue frock, off to the beauty pageant. I dragged my best friend Sharon along too.
My dad spoke to me beforehand. He said: ‘I may be biased but I think you are the most beautiful girl in the world.’ Armed with these words I went, feeling positive after all, dad was still on his god-like pedestal in those days. If he said I was beautiful then I must be.
My gran had bought me the frock. A word I detest, but it really, honestly and truly was one. We all lined up off stage, after handing in our names and been given instructions. We were to walk out of the furthest wing, across the stage, to the front and then down the steps where we would wait and watch the others.
I did my thing, smiling cheerfully, walking in my best way. My mom was big on posture so I knew I had that right. Sharon joined me shortly after, flicking her usually blonde, but now green from the chlorine, hair happily.
We watched the other girls all pretty much as confident and yet awkward as us. Then on walked Samantha.
At eleven years old, that girl slinked. She tossed her hair and gave a very un-childlike swivel of her hips. She was in a gold dress. Her brown skin sort of glowing. Her hair all streaked from lots of days in the summer sun. I was milk-bottle white. I have a skin that has never and will never develop an adequate tan. She was 11, but she was sexy.
Samantha won. Of course she did.
That afternoon I sat at home and looked at myself in the mirror and decided, emphatically, that I was plain. I never once thought again that I was attractive or beautiful. Instead I got caught up in being thinner. Maybe that would make the difference. It didn’t, instead my mom threatened to put me in hospital if I didn’t start eating and stop weighing myself 15 20 times a day.
So I just got more and more heady. And weirder. The kid with the spiky hair and black clothes? That was me. The odd one. Somewhat extreme huh? I didn’t win. So what? It wasn’t even like I cared in the first place. I must have been kind of nuts back then even to have taken it the way I did.
I always knew my brain functioned so I took refuge in that.
I have very unusually blue eyes. I was about 18 before I even realized it. I also realize now that I am in fact attractive. It’s only been the past couple of years that I have been able to look at a photo of myself without wanting to destroy it. I have never, since that day, compared how I look with anyone else.
People tell me I am looking great. So I have chosen to just believe them. I can’t see it. Genuinely. I can post my pic up on blog now without feeling like some sort of troll. I have a close friend who I trust that tells me I look good on any given day. I know I dress well. I have good taste and I buy good clothes.
So, what happened? I didn’t suddenly get beautiful. I just became a lot more comfortable in my skin. This is who I am. This is what I look like. It’s called having a sense of self and some modicum of self-esteem. I still have off days. When I look in the mirror and don’t want to do the day. I still feel fat, so I need the scales to reassure me.
I had forgotten that stupid little beauty competition until I watched Little Miss Sunshine. What an impact it had on me though.
Sex and infidelity: A theory
I have a theory about sex. I could be wrong, but it occurred to me yesterday, so I am testing the waters here. Basically, sex is the reason most people are unfaithful. This may not apply so much to women who are more likely to cheat because they are not getting what they need emotionally- blah blah.
Anyway, here is the theory: Most (not all) people have some fairly interesting places they go in their sexual fantasies. Generally, most of us want to act out on those fantasies to one extent or another. An example: A gay friend of mine, who is a total slut, picked up a guy. This guy was drunk but his fantasy was to take a dump on my friend- That is what did it for him sexually. It did not do it for my friend so he left the building quickly. Another example might be the person who wants to dominant or submissive, or sadistic or masochistic. Maybe it’s a threesome, or anal sex or whatever we have absorbed from porn or romance novels. Many of us don’t actually act out on these, but they loiter in our minds.
And this is where there can be a problem. In an intimate (as opposed to intense) relationship, once the initial extreme lust has died, we care too much about the person to act out. We start making love instead of just fucking. We have a three-dimensional person in our life as opposed to a sex-object. It’s all wonderful. We love and respect the other person. We lose interest in the kinky sex with that person. Nobody who loves and respects someone actually wants to crap on them, share them with another, tie them up and beat them etc.
But those sex fantasies still remain. I think this is where men can do the ‘I love you, but she was just sex’ thing. Women tend not to see this as a reasonable perspective, although I do know some who do. I am not saying that men cheat because their girlfriend/wife won’t do certain things. I suggest the men don’t want to do that with the person they love. The same is true for some women.
I am not sure if this makes sense. But it was a train of thought that I thought I would jot down.
