Nightmare Before Christmas

There’s a funny thing about Christmas. Unless you are a child, have a child, or approach Christmas like a child, Christmas isn’t really going to do much to fill your heart with the jingle bells of joy. I thought of this when reading Gail Cornhill’s article in the Weekend Witness recently. She has such a gleeful approach to the holiday that she just has to enfuse everyone around her with her own delight.

Young children usually feel the same enthusiasm about Christmas. I only have to think back to my earliest memories of Christmas to remember that barely tolerable excitement that the mere thought of the day itself engendered. When my brothers and I were small, my parents used to let us stay up late on Christmas Eve. When midnight struck, we were finally allowed to open our presents. The giddy joy we felt on these special nights is captured in numerous photographs where we are posing with grins as wide as Santa’s sleigh in front of the annual Christmas tree.

One year in particular stands out more than any other. My father had come home with a wonderful set of candles and holders which were meant to be attached to the Christmas tree. As was the fashion of the time, the tree was one hundred percent synthetic and a brilliant unnatural green. We couldn’t wait to light the candles on Christmas Eve. The electric lights were switched off. We held our breath, and my father moved forward to perform the magical ceremony. He took out his trusty cigarette lighter and lit the first one. Unfortunately, the lighter had delusions of grandeur and it did a fairly good job as a flame-thrower that night. Its flames leapt up about three branches high, searing a path of brilliant red flame as it went. It took just a moment for the whole tree, lovingly collected ornaments and all, to disappear in a singe of flames. A sadly blackened wire skeleton took its place, and a mournful swirl of smoke lingered around the ceiling. My father’s face was a picture. For a moment, we weren’t sure whether to feel delighted by the tree’s dramatic moment of glory or whether to mourn its sudden demise. My mother soon made her feelings clear. My father was in the dog box, make no mistake. He had to redeem himself. And quickly. He disappeared in his car, only to return a few hours later. He had a box with him and a large smile on his face. Things were looking up. Out of the box he withdrew a snow white tree, as artificial as its predecessor. He’d managed to find one late night café open with a white tree on display. After bartering with the owner for who knows how long, he was able to return, in triumph. We were thrilled. No one we knew had ever had a white tree before. And in a brief moment, Christmas became Christmas once again.

I think that is the thing about Christmas. It’s the way we approach it that makes it what it is. If we see it as just another huge responsibility and chore – which I must confess I have done for the past few years – it loses its sparkle completely. But if we can put a spin on it, and change a holiday from the singed black burnt out skeleton of consumerism and chores into a feather light white froth of inconsequential joys, then perhaps we can recreate our child-like approach to Christmas once again. And maybe, just maybe, we can enjoy the moment like we used to.

608 words.

No Going Back scs 23 - 25

23. EXT. ROAD LEADING UP TO FARMHOUSE. DAY.

The blinding midday sun is beating down relentlessly as the couple drive their car towards the farm house. The low suspension of the car isn’t particularly suited to the rutted road.Caddie looks less pleased than she did before.

CADDIE:It looks a bit barren round here, doesn’t it?

FRANK:Virgin country, darling. Virgin country.

Caddie isn’t too sure about it.

24. EXT. OUTSIDE FARMHOUSE. DAY.

Caddie stands by the car, staring at the farmhouse. Frank looks at her anxiously. She imagines the printout with the luscious green fields and the pretty, homely building and can’t quite reconcile this barren wreck with her preconception. A name on a sign near the gate is obliterated by age and neglect. Only the first few letters of the name can be made out: “Goei...”Caddie walks slowly, silently, towards the farmhouse. Frank follows her, trying to reassure.

FRANK:Remember we said we wanted to start from scratch?

Caddie says nothing.

FRANK:Think of this as a blank canvas.

Still she says nothing.

FRANK:It just needs a little TLC, that’s all.

Caddie still keeps quiet. She is not convinced.

25. INT. FARMHOUSE KITCHEN. DAY.

The kitchen is a wreck. The sink stands leaning against the wall on one side of the room. A bare bulb hangs from the ceiling. The wooden floors are grey with age and neglect, splinters flaring up all over them. The room is dark and gloomy. Light barely manages to get through the tiny window because of the wrap around verandah which encircles the house. Frank tries to switch on a light. It doesn’t work.

FRANK:We’ll get them to connect us tomorrow.

CADDIE:(Baldly)It’s a wreck Frank.

FRANK:It needs some work, I did tell you.

CADDIE:(Gesturing around the room)But not this...

FRANK:Give me a few weeks, Cads. You won’t recognize the place.

Caddie turns the tap which is in the wall above the space where the sink used to be. She turns it. A brown trickle seeps out slowly.

FRANK:(Trying to make the best of things)At least it has running water.

Caddie shoots him a dark look.She turns to walk into the next room. It is a huge living room which has large (broken) windows and grey, cracked wooden floors. Everything is in a terrible state of disrepair. In one corner is a large old mattress. There are blackish stains in the middle of it. A heap of rubbish huddles in a corner nearby, feeling sorry for itself.Caddie shivers.

CADDIE:I don’t like this room...

FRANK:Don’t be silly, Caddie. Come on, you have to use your imagination here. We’ll get the rubbish out, sand the floors, paint the walls and it will be the largest and most inviting room we’ve ever owned!

Caddie isn’t sure at all.

CADDIE:I don’t know...

FRANK:(Holding her gently by the shoulders)We have to be positive. Remember? The clinic is the easy part this time. Now we just have to put a little effort into this place and in no time at all we’ll be right as rain.

CADDIE:Looks like it hasn’t rained around here for centuries.

FRANK:I know! Isn’t it great?

She looks at him blankly.

Cliché Calling

Yellow-billed kite
Swoops menacingly down
Determined to decimate
Designated prey.
Prey thinks fast
And reverses under wing.

Frantic Kite back pedals
Becoming a child’s cartoon
Of incompetent flight
Clawing to
Impossible scaly skid
In forgiving and compromising air.

Making Pancakes

The eggs crack bone-hard
on the side of the bowl.
As they plop and sink,
flour puffs up white dust.
Dust to dust.

Milk. Salt.
Beater.

Spun batter
spider webs on the bowl.

A scoop into the pan.
Sizzle. Spread.
Wait for the air bubbles.

Flip of the pan.
Brown the other side.
Pancakes for my boys.
Keep them full.
Safe and warm.

My little brother won’t be eating today.
Must feed my boys.
Keep tummies full
until after the funeral.

Outside Goose Cottage

Watching darkness grow
around the house - beacon
of light slicing
the gloom.
I light a Camel.
The first in
nine months.

A firefly indicates,
turns left.
A bat swoops
under night-
etched trees.

It is possible to
feel peace - at least
For a moment.
Or is that just
The nicotine?

Isolation.

Isolation tanks became popular - when? Was it in the free-spirited 60’s, or the mind-altering seventies, or the alternative eighties? Whenever, the image of Edina aka Jennifer Saunders in Absolutely Fabulous springs to mind as she dons her scuba-wear and descends into the tomb-like structure conveniently placed in her bedroom. Apparently the salt-water and darkness contribute to the greatest sense of well-being since the womb. Something must have been missing for Edina, though, as she always emerged more of a shivering wreck than the one she was when she went in. Perhaps it was withdrawal symptoms from the variety of substances she was fond of abusing. Whatever. I have found my own alternative isolation tank. It is found in most homes and costs much less than the professionally hired one. It is called a bath.

Now I know you are thinking this does not have the same Tutenkhamen-esque sarcophagus lid, nor the salt water, but believe me it works just as well. Epsom salts was ever the scourge of the old wives who prescribed this evil-tasting solution for almost every ailment from ingrown toenails to split-ends. It has one redeeming feature: used by the boxful it can make a bath seem as salty and soothing as the sea. Next, the question of the lid. I don’t know how many people really like the idea of being shut in darkness without any means of escape except perhaps students of the Marquis de Sade. I don’t need the lid to feel isolation. I just need the door shut.

There you have it: the modern day, easy to use Isolation tank. Prepare for at least an hour of uninterrupted snoozing or reading by telling everyone else you have gone out to do a large grocery shop, or to kill a wild boar, or something. Drive the car up and down the road for a bit and then park it out of sight. Creep back in as quietly as possible, trying to shake off the dog by throwing an old slipper or a dead rabbit, whichever is handier, for it to chew. Then sneak into the bathroom and quietly add water and Epsom’s finest. You’ll have to drizzle the water in very slowly so as not to alert the youngest member of the family who can’t bear a bath to happen without her. Be sure you have piled your favourite book or even a magazine discretely behind the loo-roll before the operation begins. If you want to be extremely organised, you could put your favourite beverage into the bubble bath container once you are absolutely sure it has been rinsed enough times. If you have done your groundwork properly, I promise you might even read a whole chapter of your book or even (no, really, this has been done) a magazine from cover to cover! There are a few hazards though. Dogs with a great sense of smell and a strong attachment to your person can blow your cover, especially if your bathroom door doesn’t lock. But keep a handy supply of aforementioned slipper or rabbit at your side and encourage enthusiastic hunting of the above as quietly as you can. Outside the bathroom of course. Now, the trick is to switch off your Pavlovian response to the screams of the children as they throw garden spades at one another, and to repeat to yourself as a mantra, “I will not answer that, I will not answer that” as the phone rings interminably. It can be done. But it takes a lot of practice. Believe me, I’ve tried. The trickiest bit is ‘arriving home’ without any supplies for the empty cupboard but I’ve learnt to describe a Startling Supermarket Check-Out Strike with such dramatic detail that the enthralled audience forgets its hunger for a moment. And the clean, rejuvenated me will then make inordinately interesting toasted sandwiches for lunch.

647 words.

Shining Shards - some poems

1. Wounded, Love paused.

Wounded, Love paused
On the steep banks of the
The river, as her heart-blood
Seeped into the
Muddied waters below.

Drawing ragged breaths.
She considered her
Course of action.
Should she press forward
Trying to claim the prize
For which she had been fighting?

Or should she stop
On the banks of the river,
Try to stem the flow of
Heart-blood,
While praying for
The healing rays
Of the sun?

She breathed a moment longer -
Then resolved to
Fight on...
Only, she found, her
Legs crumpled
As she tried to stand.

She looked down
And saw
The river below her
Was red
With Heart-blood.
There was nothing left to give.

She would have to pray
For the healing rays of the sun.

25-12-02


2. The Smell of Rain on Hot Tar.

For my brothers, Jimmy and Bundi, who died far too young.


The smell of rain
On Hot Tar
Throws me back
To childhood’s
Skippings in puddles
Alive with life:
Slippy spawn on small fingers;
Frogs the size of pennies;
Mud squishing through fat toes;
Tadpoles in murky jars
Growing legs to die
Not satisfied
By a diet
Of breadcrumbs.


3. Sorting Socks.


It is time to sort out my sock drawer.
It is full and thick with messy muck.
I can’t find a thing I’m looking for.
Where are the gossamer-sheer,
(not the condoms, silly) the glamour tights
Needed to transform me into Titania bright?
Are they still there? Perhaps under the
Preventative, practical, keep out everything,
Block all comers (especially dreams),
Thick and woolly heavy-duty socks?

Here are all the mismatched ones-
Where do they come from? Did I really buy these?
They drift and float in confused isolation.
They’ve all been kept in case a mate turns up.
“This eternal search for a mate is exhausting,”
They cry. “Let us go and dwindle in socky oblivion”.
Okay.
I’ll throw some out. But I’ll keep one or two.
Just in case.

I repack the sock drawer.
Some holey redundant overworked solesavers
Join the pile on the floor.
I think I can just catch a glimpse
Of a gossamer glow in the dark,
In the deepest depths, in the corners.
I know they’re there.
I’ll find them.

Don’t you just love psychotherapy!


4. The Perfect Pause.
(After a course in which living in the moment is the aim and a pause is the means to achieve it).

Pick a piece of perfect Pinter
By peeping into a pause:
Every perfect, pregnant moment
Plops plumply into place -
Propping up the silence
With pendulous space
And meaning and measure
Beyond all acts and deeds.
Dipping into the silence
Inspires, unveils, reveals
Depth, perception, promise,
Understanding of the NOW -
The ultimate in living
In the moment is, like, WOW!


5. A TIMELESS WALK.


The grass scrunch, scrunch, scrunches
Under each step of the leather sandles.
Dust rises in the hot midday sun
And hangs like glitter in the dry air.
Throat parched and skin stretched tight
I shield my face with a sheet of paper.
It forms an arch around my head.
Thoughts fly freely with every rhythmic footfall.
The winter-scorched grass
scrunch, scrunch, scrunches.
My dress brushes the tops of the dry-white tufts.

In mid-stride I am transformed
And out of time.
The paper shield is a kappie:
A voortrekker woman’s kappie.
My dress is hers brushing the ruthless earth.
The feet are ours. We share soles.
Contentment floods the being like hot sun.

It is good to walk on this hard winter land.
It is good to tread this African soil.

As whoever.



6. A Fertile Valley.


“You have a fertile imagination,”
A teacher once told me.
He didn’t realise what it takes
To find such a rich source.

To be fertile the mind has to feed
On compost,
In a bed rich and fulsome,
Made up of manure.

The deep-down layer is the most important:
The foundation.
Guilt droppings of Mea Culpas
Are the best and Thou Shalt Nots
Are useful too.
A shimmering spray of brimstone
Adds the necessary roughage,
Followed by a sugary sprinkling of
Politeness and Girls Don’t Do Thats.

Then you add the good stuff:
Familial discord, fractured feelings,
Broken lives and impotence.
Dish out this dirt with lavish ladles-
And cover with a large helping
Of Injustice. (Laid out, of course,
In neat piles of rotting corpses).

And there you have it:
A fertile imagination!

Here’s one I prepared earlier.




7. The Russians and Winston Churchill.

The Churchill Theatre is crisp
With sequins and satin
For the Russian ballet -
And that is only the audience.
Two plastic chairs cringe on stage
Trying to hide their drabness in the curtains
But they don’t succeed.
The dancers cavort, the costumes dazzle
And the woman bends her grey head
Towards her partner’s neatly groomed one.
In her hair are leaves and tiny plaits
Made by a child’s clumsy hand -
Forgotten momentoes of a winter afternoon in the sun.



8. South Coast Road.

The air shimmers
With Illovo-damp droplets
In the glistening heat.
Sugar cane sizzles
Under the buttery sun.
Palms and fronds loll
Lugubriously.
The atmosphere is
A charismatic priest
Who uplifts the soul
With a sense of
Hushed expectation.

Beneath the wheels of the car
The road sings
Like an obedient congregation


9. On: The Beach.


The beach
Draws up the foam
To cover her
Secret parts
But she can’t escape
The crabs
Who tiptoe up
To tickle her naked
Breasts.




10. Amuzing Tune.

The Muse
Is sulking in the corner,
Tired and Irritable.
Best thing is to
Give her the day off.
Leave her to paint her toenails.
She’ll feel better
After a day off sick.
This time
No muse
Is good muse.



11. The Toddler.

With unsteady steps
He reaches out -
Grasping to
Hold on to
The white-coated woman
In front of him.
She is his life-line.

His eyes bore
Into hers,
An arc of concentration
Vivid between them.

He reaches the table.
He feels for the chair.
He sits.
He turns and smiles.
Proudly.
He has made it.

It is lunch time in Frail Care.



12. For Nana.

10 August 1999.
The small body
lies curled
into a tight
ball,
the most common
position
known
to mankind -
the foetal.

This time
it’s fatal.

Your breath
is rasping,
mouth
Dry.
I bring
a
cup
to
your
lips.

Water
dribbles
down
in
defeat.

Your
eyes
open.
You look
right
at
me.

You see -

My long-dead father and brother by your side.
You say they are coming to fetch you.

I am glad.

I hope
They hurry.




13.

For C.

You dance and twirl
with filmy skirt
wrapped around
cheeky hips -

You mouth the words
to the songs
and flick your hair
in time to the music -

You are beautiful.
Full of joy.

I wonder
if I will
ever
be able
to dance
the joyful
dance
again.


14. Christmas In Africa 1.


The church is breathless and full.
Sweat drizzles down between my legs
As bodies press in on all sides -
We ooze and drip quietly
In time to the music
Trying to concentrate on the words of the songs
Giving up eventually as the African resonance
Makes a mockery of Westerners’ pipings.
Damp armpits blossom
Staining bright clothes.
The priest intones his message limply -

We pray
For a breath of fresh air.


15. Christmas in Africa 2.


In the white heat of the
Sweltering
Post Office
Queue
Christmas trees
With tinsel
Look out of place
And wrong -
Their brightness
Upstaged by the
African sun.


16. Christmas In Africa 3.


Smells of turkey
Stifle
In Suffocating
Heat.
Soggy paper
Plates,
Oozing with salad
Juice,
Collapse and
Implode.
Beetrooot
Bleeds
Into
Everything.

People who shouldn’t
Wear shorts.
Cellulite dimples
Out of tightly-
Drawn cotton
Which damply
Darkens
As the heat
Grows.

Christmas trees
Droop
With the exhaustion
Of holding up
Glittering balls.
“Not in this heat,”
They groan
And their limbs drop
Even lower.

The decorations
Look falsely
Bright -
Artificial,
Against the backdrop of
Hydrangeas and Hibiscus.
Bougainvillaea outshine
The baubles
With wedding gown white
And passionate purple.
Like primadonnas
They take all the glory,
Shaking their proud
Spanish Dancers’ skirts
In disgust,
Mocking
The shop-bought
Gaudiness.




17. Leap Year Day. 2000.
“Yesterday a 10 year-old schoolgirl was knocked down and killed on the R103 near the Cedara College. She was knocked down by an oncoming bakkie when she crossed between two buses.” The Natal Witness, Wednesday 1st March.


The body looks deformed -
Small, thin legs protruding
From a man’s jacket.

Feet are bare,
Shards of red brighten
The dust-coated brown legs.

It takes me a while to realise
It is a child lying in the grass,
Quiet as only death can make her.

The crowds around her swell,
Alive with outraged awfulness,
A sea of white shirts and black faces.

The driver of the offending vehicle is frozen.
Hysteria has given way to dumb shock.
Her blond hair shines in the early morning light.

School will start late today.

Today one little girl
Has leapt, from the struggle
Of school books and survival

Into a world of no demands.

The picture of her little body will not leave me,
Until I imagine lifting it up
And gently rocking it,
Soothing the broken body,
And gently rocking it,
To sleep.

The rocking comforts me.
We will both be at peace tonight.



18. Thought Droplets.


1.

a
happy
poem
is like an
unpopped
bubble
of
soap
floating
delicately
in the
rainbow
twilight
of
intimate
sweetness.


2.

A
contented
poem
is a bread
and
butter pudding
served
with cream and dreams
onto the
stretched-out,
belt-unbuckled,
lap
of a
feet-up-putting,
breath-out-whooshing,
me.

19. More Thought Droplets.

3.

A
Melancholy
Poem
Watches
Its
Hand
As it writes
And
Weeps
At the waste
Of energy
While
Bemoaning
The
Never-again-to-be-found
Moment
In
Loud
Declarations.

4.

a
Wild
poem
Throws its
head back
and
Grimaces
at the moon,
then lifts
its skirts
Up
to bare

Undergarments,
not caring
whether they are
Washed,
or
Not.




20. Two Last Thought Droplets.


5.

a
sad
poem
is a salt-drenched
liquid
growing to
greatness
in an
aching eye,
and then it
falls
over
itself
in its haste
to
slide
down
a
care-crumpled
cheek.


6.

A
Thoughtful
poem
scratches
its cheek
in
self-absorbed
contemplation


and ponders
the wisdom
of its
scratching,
so
Thoughtfully.


22. For Caitlin at Five Years Old.


I love you like
Roses,
tender and smooth
Petals of
Infinite softness.
I love you like
Roses,
sweetest scent
of princesses
and promises.
I want to absorb
your being,
breathe you in
like a drug.
You intoxicate
my senses
with your
Heady
essence of
Joy.



23. For James at 13 years.


I love you like a
Star
which once
nestled on
a chain
between my breasts.
Now you
are carving out
your own
orbit.
But sudden shakings
loosen shimmers of
stardust-closeness
and you
Blaze,
momentarily warm,
close to my
Heart.




24. For William at 10 years old.


I love you like a
Prickly Pear
on a humid,
hot day,
whose bony spines
do all they can
to push me
away -
But once I fight
Past the
daunting surface,
I peel back the thorns
and expose the
Tenderest, softest
flesh of your
Newborn
love,
which
nourishes
my thirsty
Soul.


26. First Born Blues.

You had the ejaculation
Then watched the rip of the knife.
This was your view point,
One aspect of your life.

I had the bearing-down,
The failure and the pain.
You had the pleasure
Of the little child to gain.

I had the shavings and the
Enema and the tubes.
You had the cigarettes
And the joy of spreading the news.

I had engorged breasts
While you had a party.
I had prodding students
But you were hale and hearty.

I was left confused and battered
In hospital with a baby boy.
You were welcomed back to work
Where you were greeted with joy.