Category Archives: *aimless wanderings*



There are moments when being alone feels ok.  When the wide reaches of time feel like luxury and indulgence.  When silence is opening and healing.  Like a deep, unfettered breath.  When alone is just a state of being complete.  And then there is the alone of crowded spaces and forced conversation.  Where time aches.  And stretches with unfathomable distortion.  When alone is lonely.  And it feels like clouds and trees and sky conspire.   There are times when alone is perilous.  When alone feels like weight and sorrow.  Tomorrow I might be able to breathe again.  But today I am alone.

The infrequent blogger

I write blogs in my head all the time.  Great blogs.  Filled with pathos and drama and carefree wit.  I write them in traffic, in the bath, just before I fall asleep.  Problem is, I don’t remember them.  Or I don’t have the time to nail them down into pixels on the screen.  So they fade, like breath on a window.

My 20 year school reunion.  Exploring BDSM.  The building work on my house.  The question of my diminishing grandmothers. The joy of having a minion.  Notes on the art of slow. A rant about my family.  A soft ode to mist.  And maybe another about the smell of oranges.

Riffs on fragments on themes on life.  I don’t know whether to be delighted with the fullness, or frustrated that I can’t find the still gaps to capture something of now.  I’m going with the former.

In the meantime.  I miss this.  And you.

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What if I told you a secret?  Gave you a piece of me that no one else had?  A piece like Venetian glass. Fragile and delicate.  What would you do?

Trust is such a curious thing.  You either do.  Or you don’t.  A choice at every single point on the path.  Can it be broken and fixed?  Or do those fine lines still show, where the broken pieces have been stitched back together.

Once I choose to trust, the bond is fierce.  Loyal.  But fuck it up, and I’m gone.  It’s the only way I know how to be. 

Fear and loathing on the Gaza Strip

We’re driving along the Gaza strip. At night. He’s sick; down with sunstroke from showing off all day. She’s pissed off. I was along for the ride, the day out. Now I’m driving someone else’s C Class Mercedes, shifting gears with my right hand and driving on the wrong side of the road. Pitch black on either side. Halos of car lights the only warning of the approach of kamikaze Israelis who seem hell bent on driving me off the road. And all I can think is “Don’t break down, don’t break down. That’s the fucking Gaza strip, Dolce. Mines, snipers and barbed wire, oh my”.

I don’t know why this moment sticks in my head. A 15 year old memory, but still visceral with light and dark and movement and emotion. I think I keep it to remind myself that I’m capable. That when there is no choice, I hike up my skirts and do what needs to be done. Because if I can drive a strange car in a strange land alongside the goddamn Gaza strip, in the dark, then really, a little daily domestic fear is nothing.

On the upside. The sunrise at Masada was worth it.

Masada image from here.

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Her fragile faith a silvered thing. Woven in dark hours, filled with breathless, whispered singing. A crooning sweet string of notes. Brailled on her skin, her tongue, her feet. Her fingers knitted together. Her brow a furrow of concentration. If she just believed, if she just believed. And the dark wind stirred her hair, raised gooseflesh on her arms. And still she hummed and sang. Afraid and shivering, but singing still. Until the spiders came, soft and grey. To help her build her silvered thing. Their calm kind eyes filled with spider tears. Spider dreams trailing silk and hope. Weaving legs whispering spider song. ‘Til her ears were filled with tenderness. And she could sleep again. Wrapped in fragile silvered wishes.


Your face hard and cold.  Like slate.  Like stone.  Shocking.  Your kind, beautiful face.  The face I knew so well.  Knew with my eyes, my mouth, my hands.  Your face.  Closed and hard and cold.  The light that used to greet me.  Gone.  Completely gone.  And I wonder; do I deserve this?  This casual cruelty.  Did I make this happen?  Or is this just how this is?  No part of you is mine anymore.  Not even kindness.   Just memory, and a certain rhythm, and words that ambush me.  And I find I am sad all over again.  With unexpected loss.  And so all the things I had hoped to say, all the questions I finally had the courage to to ask, they dry up and drift away.


“Your whole idea about yourself is borrowed– borrowed from those who have no idea of who they are themselves.” Osho

Sometimes I feel like I’ve been stitched together from other people’s expectations and that if I unpicked the stitching, I’d unravel completely.



I flay myself open.  The scalpel draws a red line down my chest.  Sharp metal like a zip.  The skin tugged back.  Look there, the red flesh of me.  Sinew and meat.  Glistening, shiny me.  I lie opened.  On display.  Skin pinned back like the wings of a moth, like the grand curtain of a stage.  The line of each perfect muscle.  The shape of bone.  The connections of cartilage.  And you stare.  And stare.  Mouth turned down in concentration.  Brow furrowed.  Your gaze intense.  You watch the dance of veins and ponder the pulse of a hidden, bruised heart.  You cup your chin in your hand. You sigh, and you say, “This is not what I expected”.


How curious this.  This breaking of rules.  This exploration of darkness.  This permission to be bad.  I know it’s the other side of a coin.  I know it’s not safe.  I know I shouldn’t.  I know there will be regrets.  I know.  I know.  I know.  But…

A boy said to me, once a long time ago, “I want to suck the marrow out of life”.  I keep coming back to that.  To the choice one has.  To exist.  Or to live.  The crazy challenge being to brave the hurt without hiding.  To brave experience without building a callus of uncaring.  To be fierce without causing harm.

Sometimes I wonder how I’ve reached 36 and can still be so naïve.  And sometimes I grin with glee that there is still so much to do.  That old adage, that the only thing you’ll really regret are the things you didn’t do.

It’s been a good / bad week.  And I’m not entirely sure what to do with what it’s brought me?

A collection of random

I seem to be the only person actively hoping that the Myans were right.  A nice apocalypse would go down really well about now.  In fact, couldn’t we just bring the schedule a little closer?  Say, like, next Tuesday?

Facing ‘life as we know it’ or ‘the alternative’ (love a euphemism), why aren’t I embracing change?  If I’m planning the destruction of my piteous being anyway, why not just sell the house and travel for thousands of South African Rands worth and then top myself.  Even better, why don’t I borrow vast sums of dosh, live like there is (literally) no tomorrow and then send a picture of my chosen bottle of life-ending pills to my bank manager?  Huh?  Huh?

Why do people think that inviting me to parties will lift me out of the sads?  Self: I feel like gnawing my wrists open and praying for Yahweh to stamp on my face.  I know what I need!  A room filled with strangers who want to get right off their narcissistic faces and ask me godawful meaningless questions like “how are you?” and “are you having FUN?”  Do you really want to know?  No!  So fuck off.

There are lots of sad people out there.  Lots.  Was this always so?  Have I just been a total arsehole for not noticing?  And we all have names for deep black hole that we slide inexorably into: the black dog, The Nothing, the sads, the sea, the big blue, the wilderness, the darkness, the gray.  Things get named.  This interests me enormously.  It implies a presence, a kind of physicality to what plagues us.  We don’t name other emotional groups like this (do we? Not with a definite article, surely?)  Which is comforting.  Because it means it’s not ‘all in head’.  If it’s named, it is.  And so it isn’t just me.  I haven’t made this up to get attention or to provide an excuse to lay about in bed all day.  And so the naming makes me sigh a huge sigh of relief.  This isn’t a figment.  Make sense?

People don’t seem to react much to my profound statement “I have depression” (largely because of the melodramatic, mock-gothic tone I use – I’m still taking the piss a bit, in an effort to make it manageable.)  However all of that changes when I idly suggest I might be pondering, in a most happily Plathian way, the most effective methods of making it stop.  That seems to scare the crap out of people.  I think I might have to reign back on that level of sharing.

Oh, and by the way, in case you’re wondering.  No.  This is not a cry for help.  I wish it was.  But it’s not.  It’s just a rant.  A vent.  A whinge.  When I start posting pictures of sad bunnies, you can start to worry.

The wind has been howling in Cape Town.  For days.  The violence of it makes me feel better.  I like being shoved around on my forced marches (I’ve  been taking forced marches, because apparently exercise helps).  I like coming back looking like I’ve been in a blender.  It makes my outsides look like something is going on, even if my insides are like a beige carpet.  So I go outside.  And take it.

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