The Frog People*

*Writen in response to a challenge over at  Blokblog to write a piece titled “The Frog People”.

All those boys I’ve kissed. The frog people. The ones you kiss, wondering if he’ll turn from green to gold. A prince. The ultimate girly, amphibian hope.

The first was Older Boy. The less said about him, the better. I don’t remember the second. I wonder if we ever do? It’s only the first. Then the English boy. Who I demanded kiss me after hours of talking politics and philosophy. Who wrote to me for years. Whose mother writes cook books for the masses. Then Surfer Boy. Who kissed me in the car until the windows steamed up. Who came to my house tasting of salt and sex wax. Who, to date, is one of the hottest boys I’ve ever snogged. Then Mittens. Who wore black and relished his reputation as a Satanist. Who had one girl pregnant and was looking for conquest. Who never brushed his teeth.

The next memorable one; Lean Machine. Tatoos and a penchant for AC/DC and Mocador Liqueur. He had a tongue like a cat. Raspy. He loved me (he still does.) Then the Timberlake boy. Whom I’d loved forever and never thought would actually kiss me. Until one Christmas Eve, when he slipped his hand into mine at Midnight Mass and I knew. He was gentle and sweet but ultimately not interested in me, really. Then Red. Who growled his savaged-eyed way into my heart. Who demolished himself with drugs and a lack of vision. Then the arsehole. Who made promises and broke them just hours later. Who made me feel like dirt. Like something to be used.

Then the Cook. Who spent vast amounts of money on the right olive oil and salt. Who wanted so hard to please me. Who kissed me on the beach at night, as stars moved across the black. Who kissed me in my grandmothers house. Who I think I hurt with disinterest.

And then you. Tall and intense. With a lover’s hands, a broken nose and an artist’s eye. Who made me feel like anything was possible. When the whole world exploded with colour and newness and roads untravelled. You, who broke my heart and left me cold for decade.

In the cold years, there was House Boy. Who, with every intention, wanted to teach me about the London House scene, but who could never leave the house once he’d kissed me. And Aussie Boy, who left rude notes on my desk and stared at me with a visceral hunger. And the designer’s step-son. Whose kisses were so slow and sweet, I lost my footing. And Arsehole Two, who left my house with my lipstick still on his mouth, to return to his fiancé. And the Italian, who called me Bella and looked like a movie star. And, in a strange full circle moment, The Dungeon Master. Who seduced me unexpectedly and deliciously.

And the barman. Who saw my fragile self and with a laughing, cheeky grin, made me feel flirty and fabulous again. And Blue. For whom slow, Sunday sun-warmed kisses will always have the fragrance of canola fields. And now Pool Boy. Whose jaw bone is a line made for kissing. Rough edged and hard. Which, when cracked in a dimpled smile, makes my knees week.

And so. A litany of frog people. And me a lucky frog princess.

o** koek*

Right. So muggins here, in a moment of total, screaming dementia, has agreed to do the Whale Trail. Next week. In five days time. The Whale Trail. A 5, yes F.I.V.E. day hike through the De Hoop Nature reserve. Sleeping in huts. Bringing all your own food. Wearing strange hats and fighting over the bug spray. And stuff.

Ja, ja, I hear you folks say. “Sjoe, Dolcarina, The Whale Trail? Don’t you usually have to book a year in advance? Someone dropped out of a group? Oh man. Lucky, lucky lark lark lark. Spectacular views. Cavorting marine life. More glorious views than you can shake a shaky stick at. I’m so jealous.”

Easy for you to say, folks. You don’t collapse from exercise-induced pleurisy when you walk around the block. You don’t have sweat aversion. Or, for that matter, a perfect funnel effect. You don’t fear laughter and derision as you’re airlifted out of a beautiful nature reserve because your legs have fallen off. Oh no, folks of the raised eyebrows. It’s true, it is. I is unfit. In the most monstrous way. Grannies over take me on the promenade. I’m so stationary in motion that dogs think I’m a fire hydrant (must get rid of that red tracksuit).

Sure, sure, jokes aside. I’ve managed a bit of gym related stupidity in the last couple of months. But what, on god’s green bottle of moonshine, do I think I’m doing, imagining I can manage a five day hike. Sheeesh. You know. Maybe if I’d started on a 5 hour hike, I’d be, like, able to work up to something impressive. But noooooooo, I’m G.I. Jane. I’m a frikkin’ hero. I think I can do a 54 km, “moderate to strenuous” week long marathon of walking.

*weep*

So, excuse me while I nervously chew my fingers off and step hesitantly into Cape Union Mart to enquire if they’ve got those timberlands in a nice heel.

*Having a “taal” headline week. Don’t know why. It’s just working.
** Apparently the original “oh” can like not to be appearing in “die taal”. Ta Eagle-Eye

Velvet

Today I’m so utterly sad I can barely breathe. I’m so far beneath the velvet, wrapping weight of a grief I can’t articulate that the light is just something I think I once imagined. Seventh wave swells that catch me unawares. Just when I’ve caught my breath. Just when I’ve found my feet. I’m under again. Knocked down. Knocked out. I know it’ll pass, I know. Like a metronome against my breast bone. I know, I know. (I hope, I hope). And still the luminous dark rises against me. Gulping, fighting, the first faint fingers of panic creeping. I’ve forgotten how to float, how to be, how to live within the calm circle of breath in, breath out. How to let the tide of all this pain hold me up instead of pulling me under. It’s indulgent. Selfish. Boring. (And though it all, I hear you say “I told you so”. And I’m pissed off because you’re wrong. But right. But so wrong again.) And still the water rises. Every day another flood. (Every night receding.) And I don’t know what to do. Run. Weep. Hold out my arms and shout “fuck you” to the world and this tiny fragment I exist in. I have no where to go. I have only this (…there’s only this, no day but today…) I have only this for now. I can have anything I want. Except knowing what it is that I want. And feeling the weight of all that possibility, wasted.

VINCENT AND MATT…the update

a comment I made on MY blog just got booted because I used the work “fuck” in it. Are you a bunch of soapy-mouthed facists all of a sudden? My god? What has this place become. You’re kidding around huh? Jokin’ with the populous? Have you, the voice of media reason in this country, really become so school marmish? FUCK THAT!

Please remove this function or I’m outta here.

Update:
Sorry, your comment has been rejected because it contains one or more of the following words: porn
Please try posting your comment again, but without these words.

Now I’m really pissed. I just lost the reply to all the comments left last night because I used the word PORN in one reply. NO WAY?

blah blah fishpaste

Technorati Profile

Rather ominously, this apparently releases the spiders.

Soms ‘n Gem, soms ‘n Naai

No Anderson Cooper dreams this year (grr)…but a whole lotta birthing day fabulousness.

Thanks for the on&offline greetings and salutations y’all, ’tis much appreciated!

 *blush*

 I feel even more “special” than usual.

x

A thought for KC

Joggling

Right.  So I’ve been know to smirk about my gym habits. 

 Ha. 

Joke’s on me poppets.  I’m suffering from gym-fatigue.  Can’t, for love nor money, drag me lovely derriere out of the snake pit in the mornings anymore.  Impossiblé!  And I’m bitter.  Because it’s the perfect time of year for the gym.  All the hibernation means less queues and less fighting for space with the wobbling masses.

 But nooooo….instead, I’m snoozing that snooze button.  Rolling over for another stab at nod.  And having odd, rage fuelled dreams filled with dragons and traffic jams.  I’m reading books into the wee hours and getting up in the dark to stare at the trees.

 And god forbid another suggests going to the sweat fest in the evenings.  Pah!  That would entail having energy at the end of the day.  Who’s got that?  All I have left at the end of the day is enough juice to get the cork outta the bottle.  Yum. 

Ag.  Probably my usual mid-year malaise.

Come to think of it,  I can think of better ways to get my heart rate up.

Sliiiightly less grumpy now

have vaguely figured out how to use some of this stuff.  Still grumpy because I’ve gone all strawberry on myself (cover me in cream, baby) and because I can’t be arsed with a lot of this to’ing and fro’ing. 

 But I think I can live with it.

grrrrr

 Which brings me to a small point.  At what stage did I opt in for the daily grind?  Life is very much wake, gym, eat, work, sleep, wake….all very well, but not exactly what I had in mind.

 And it makes me nervous.  Because when I feel like this, I tend to poke very happily pottering parts of my life that shouldn’t be poked.  And there are usually lovely consequences.  Which make life, um, interesting.  Which is kind of what I want.  But not really.

 Pfffffft.

Vincent Maher is a fluffy bunny*

If I wanted this type of blog, I would have stayed with my blogspot one.

 YUCK.

 Blogmark was cool because it:

a) was a communal blog

b) was easy to navigate (don’t have to have 18 pages open to keep up with blogs)

c) was different to anything else out there. 

AND WE LIKED IT BECAUSE OF THESE EXACT THINGS

 This sucks.  Seriously.  If we wanted “individual”, stand alone blogs, we could have joined wordpress or blogspot or 24.com

 Can we have blogmark back?  Or at least, can’t you give its carcas to one of the clever, IT illlerate bloggers here and we’ll just limp along without you?

In the meantime.  Bye.

*ok happy now