One of A softer world's webcomics
I love these quirky webcomics… In fact, I think I’m a fangirl of A softer world. Cheers me up immensely. Not much else to say, except that you have to check out Emily Horne and Joey Comeau’s brainchild for yourself. They’re popping cute kittens all over the place… Sometimes, it will make you cry.
Tinkerbell. Seriously, what's not to like?
It’s a week and counting today to the big 3-0. And I’m in the middle of an existential crisis. Basically, Tinkerbell pyjamas: to buy or not to buy?
It’s been a rough few weeks. You wake up one morning and emo teens are calling you tannie (and the one has the nerve to go on about how you “look good for your age”), somebody says “you look just like your mom” and your evil already 30-something-year-old friends start their cautionary tales of a slowing metabolism (apparently, I can’t blame the Pill), why I can no longer pull off jumpsuits and how everything/ everyone I forget has to do with my dwindling age-related memory faculties.
I hid their bodies somewhere they will never be found.
Then there’s planning the party. The bloody thing snuck up on me. It was going to be a huge, glitzy bash of beautiful people eating dainty canapés and cream puffs, sipping Moët and looking out over the city from an exotic and uber-chic warehouse in the inner city somewhere.
It’s still gonna be huge. But my friends are a motley bunch and it doesn’t help that I themed things as a “communist party”. And it’s at my home, so now I have to hide the porcelain and the little pots of lavender and put a fence around the swimming pool. For in case the older people fall in and I have to pay their pneumonia bills. And I have to feed them, with their various allergies and dietary requirements. Damn you, friends.
Then, the horror of decorating. You’d think that with all the flags floating around these days there’d be some that aren’t world-cup related. Say, Cuba, or Russia, or China… But nooo. Luckily you can count on old Che’s face on a flag somewhere. As for the rest, if anyone comments on the lack of decorations, they’ll promptly be declared an enemy of the people.
So I’ve technically been too busy thus far to actually have the existential crisis that goes along with unexpectedly leaving your twenties at breakneck speed…
Until I saw them. Beautiful winter pyjamas… In tones of pink, grey, yellow… With little Tinkerbells all over the place. I fell in love immediately. I walked up and stroked the fluffy material. Now this would keep me warm. Heal my cold winter feet. Make me look all cute and girly and not-about-to-crash-into-30-at-all.
But something stopped me from immediately swiping my credit card. I went back to work, and we had one of our random debates. Tinkerbell pyjamas: pros and cons.
Cons:
• They’re the epitome of anti-sexytime.
• They’ve got little pictures of fairies all over them.
• They’re pink.
• No, really, you’re almost 30, stop wearing pink.
• Are you saying I’m old?
• No, I’m just saying they’re pink! And fluffy!
• And one random person: oooh, are they in the kiddies section? You find the coolest things in the kiddies’ section! (They’re in the adult section. Woolies are trying to make a point.)
Pros:
• They’re warm and fluffy winter pyjamas (well, you might as well buy some practical flannel PJs then!)
• They made me feel all wriggly and happy when I saw them (revert back to Donnay, 25 years ago.)
• They’re… erm… pink?
My long-suffering husband thinks I have an obsession with remaining a young girl. Well, duh! For the first time, those “look great at any age” features in girly mags make me shudder. ‘Cos in your 30s, it’s not about flaunting your “firm, glowing skin” anymore. It’s about hiding dark circles, making sure you replace the collagen in your sagging skin and stepping away from the bright blue eyeliner and punk skirts.
Nobody asked me if I was happy with these rules and regulations. I’m still twelve years old in my head, dammit! And if I want to wear fingerless gloves sporting skull designs, then I shall.
Like I did at a gig at Cool Runnings last night. An evening that totally broke through the fug of my melancholy. ‘Cos first, the doorman asked me for my ID. Then, some cute emo-boys clumsily scoped me out (well, I’m choosing to see it as “hey, would you look at that!” rather than “erm, should she be wearing those biker boots?”). Then, we unselfconsciously went bos to the sounds of ShortStraw. ‘Cos when you’re almost 30, you don’t give a damn how you dance, or what other people are thinking about your dancing. In fact, the more sprinkler and robot moments in there, the better. Then, I played foozeball – and actually scored some goals. Old, me? Bah!
Then, I stumbled home before I could misbehave – or pass out.
My husband was waiting at the door. He started laughing before I got out of the car. “So you brought your drunk blue-eyeliner besmeared butt home?”
Yep, I did indeed. And just for the record, it ain’t a 30-year-old butt just yet!
Today, somebody’s baby died.
It wasn’t a planned pregnancy, or expected, or, sometimes, when she could whisper it behind her hand in some dark corner, wanted.
It wasn’t an easy pregnancy either. How could it be, to someone who seemed to have been dealt a disproportionate amount of unfair hands in her life?
But we watched her struggle through it. The two-minute noodles for lunch, the smoke breaks, the tears when a toothache became too much without the traditional meds a non-pregnant person would use, the visits to emergency rooms and the helpless shrug in her shoulders as she tried to make sense of what the doctors and nurses were saying – and not saying – to her on each check-up.
She struggled through it, and we all planned in whispers what we should get her for the imminent babyshower, because where do you start with someone who really has nothing, needs everything?
The SMS came that said her son was born. She was fine; he was fine, onwards and upwards.
The SMS came that said her son was dead. She woke up after a nap with him in her arms. Blood on her shirt, in his mouth, in his nose.
Dead, after the doctors told her that “all babies get tummy-aches”.
Dead, after a week of crying and the doctors saying “this too shall pass”.
Dead, after his incessant crying finally began to peter off and they could both fall asleep for a short nap.
Now she has to make sense of what those doctors and nurses did – and didn’t – tell her. ‘Cos they’re the people who’re supposed to know, right? The people who you go to when things get scary and your baby’s sick ‘cos they know what they’re doing, right?
Apparently not, if you’re one of the less-fortunate people in South Africa and you can’t afford private medical care and have to rely on the harassed white coats in the cesspit that’s our public healthcare system.
Somebody’s son is dead. And you could blame everything from apartheid to Zuma to Malema to corruption to Manto to poverty to lack of education to natural selection to the unfairness or life. He’ll still be dead.
Riku Latti in die Neelsie aan't sing.
As jy my sien huil in die voorste gestoeltes (of die derdes, as it may be), moenie my vra of ek okay is nie.
Ek is, ek belowe.
Maar as jy my gaan vra, gaan ek beheer verloor oor my styfgespanne kaakspiere, my onderlip gaan begin bewe en die traantjies wat so oor my wange biggel, gaan verander in Niagra Falls. Dit kan ek jou waarborg.
Sit ek toe en wonder of my traankliere verhuis het tot binne-in my hart tydens Laurinda Hofmeyr en Riku Latti se laaste vertoning van Met jou hier op die maan by die Neelsie teater op Oudtshoorn.
Want dis allesbehalwe hartseer of traumaties, maar ek huil al sedert die eerste akkoorde deur die lug klank. Het lankal ook nie meer tissues nie… Snuif maar hard elke keer as die gehoor hande klap om dit uit te sort.
En so snotteer ek voort totda Riku se temaliedjie vir die komende fliek Die ongelooflike avonture van Hanna Hoekom my kaakspiere laat uitspring.
Die musiek is net vir my sy mooi. Ek kry nie hoendervleis nie, ek raak betraand. Dis embarrassing.
Ek huil al heelweek. Vir een sinnetjie in Nico Luwes se resensie van Dood van ‘n verkoopsman: “Daai oom wat voor my gesit het met die groen blokkieshemp vat sy vrou met die pers top so halfpad deur die stuk om die skouer en trek haar nader. Teen die einde van die stuk hoor ek hom so half skorrerig in sy vrou se oor se: ‘Ai, Jirre, Mamma… Ons moet goed wees vir mekaar…”
Sien, daar huil ek alweer. Dinsdae by Morrie het my ook gevang. En die pragtige foto van Mathys Roets gesilhouetteer teen ‘n venster. En toe ek vir die eerste keer daai laventelsjokolade van Rococo proe, toe skiet my oge ook vol trane. En Bob Marley se Redemption Song een aand op die rekenaarspeaker. En natuurlik ‘n kollega se papegaaigrappies – maar daai was huil want jy kon letterlik nie meer lag nie.
Miskien is ek net oormoeg. Dis nie speletjies om ‘n feeskoerant elke dag aan mekaar te sit nie.
Of dalk is dit net die skielike oorvloed van Afrikaanse kultuur en passie wat my omring. Ons Johannesburgertjies is mos maar nie altyd in touch met wat aan die gebeur is in die kunste nie – te besig om die spitsverkeer en taxi’s te probeer oorleef.
En nou’s die laaste Krit ook op straat: en ‘n span vreemdelinge-nou-vriende spat weer uitmekaar na die uithoeke om hulle alledaagse dinge op te tel en daarmee aan te gaan. Dis maar ‘n bietjie surreal. En sad.
Ek gaan huis toe, en ek’s moer happy, want homesick wees is nie pret nie. Maar ek los ‘n stukkie van my hart sommer net hier.
Right.
Ek huil alweer.
Bring tissues na die Krit-kantoor, Suid-Kaap-kollege, Adderleystraat…
* Written for Krit, official KKNK festival newspaper, April 2010.
One of the vintage gems Miss Moss has collected on her site.
Go check out www.missmoss.co.za – a truly awesome local site filled with quirky, beautiful images, artwork, spots to shop and things to dream about… It’s run by Diana, a local graphic design artist, with a clear eye for the unusual and the enchanting! You can spend hours browsing her site, and following her collection of links. Yummy way to spend the time on a rainy day! Thanks Michelle for the link! 
Spock maak sy opwagting in - dun dun dun - die Klein Karoo!
Vir ‘n oomblik dag ek my koorsdrome hardloop met my weg…
Deur die waas van vitamien-B inspuitings en laataand eggo’s in die koshuisgange doem sy gesig voor my op: Spock. In die Klein Karoo. Beam me up, Scotty, want ek het nou amptelik kop verloor.
But wait, there’s more! Twee bittermooi mans wat soos vroue opdress wat van mans hou maar eintlik van vrouens hou… En wat albei blykbaar vir Spock stukkend smaak, soos wat hulle om sy gesig pruil en flirt. Dis seker sy ore. Of dalk die intense blik in sy oe…
Ek weet nie veel nie, maar soos Oprah weet ek een ding verseker: daar’s baie grimering op daai gesigte. Baie hare in daai pruike (is dit real?). Baie pienk, baie volstruisvere, baie glitter… Baie blose van die tannie in die voorste ry, wie se handsak-inhoud nou summier op stage ondersoek word. “You’re due for an upgrade, sweetie!”
Lilli Slaptsilli en Keiron Legacy is twee baie sexy vroue. Scary, maar sexy. Daai bene… Lucky legs eleven sowaar! Ek kan sien hoe die mans in die voorste ry kriewel: hoe dan nou hierdie skielike begeerte wat soos hartkloppings uitslaan? Want dis dan twee mans daai… Twee wonderlike, aaklige, verskriklike mans-as-vroue. Oftewel fopdossers. Dis ‘n lekker woord…
Ek wandel later uit die Jamstreet-teater se impromptu volstruisveer-bordello.
Dis nag in die Klein Karoo tydens die KKNK, maar die reen bly weg. Gelukkig beteken dit dat daar baie sterre in die lug rondhang. Hulle maak wel sulke silwer strepies in my sig. Seker die moegheid.
Die spiertjies langs my ore trek styf van al die lag, more-oggend gaan ek sukkel om te praat. Daar’s vuur in die konkas rondom my, die reuk van Alpacas op die wind. Dis Moooi, soos die naam dit duidelik uitspel.
Ek’s in die Klein Karoo, en Johannesburg se toeters en rook is vervang deur musiek en fairy dust. Ek kan nie aan ‘n beter plek op aarde dink om in hierdie oomblik te wees nie.
En al sit ek vir die res van die fees in Krit se kantore en woorde uitryg, ten minste weet ek ook dit: I’ll always have Moooi…
* Written for Krit, the official festival newspaper of the KKNK, 3 April 2010