A Raspberry tale

3 June 2011

I was saved by a raspberry. Today. 

Not just one from a supermarket or in a can, not even, heaven forbid, an artificial one smothered in ice cream! No, it was a late Spring beauty from our garden. Had been working in the garden, it was hot, pushing 28° C, the chickens were doing their chicken-thing, running around avariciously in dappled shade patches of the jasmine & rosed cherry tree, competing with each other for a worm or the stray cherries that were raining down on them because some starlings had been enjoying a late Spring tuck-in. And as I bent over the raspberry bush to dump my umpteenth load of grass cuttings, I pulled my hat to the side to create a bit more shade on my face, and noticed that there were already some raspberries hanging shyly in the bush. Not having grown up here I am always intrigued by the berry fruit of Europe, but not very knowledgeable about them. So I was not expecting such sublime aromas when bending down to inspect the small pieces of pastelly mauve-pink fruit proudly sticking up their faces into the late afternoon sun’s embrace. To me they were surely not ripe yet, too soon in the season, too little colour, not bold or large enough. And I felt truly guilty (imagine!) when I picked the one that seemed the least green, that looked soft and vibrant – only to feel it release itself, almost joyously, (I swear) into my hand, it became one with my untrained, innocent finger tips. My fingers brought the raspberry to my mouth but as it came close the most insanely colourful and heady perfume swept up into my nostrils- the raspberry was breathing its message of simple beauty and hope into my nose, and directly onto the olfactory receptor neurons of my olfactory epithelium (my wine training reminding me that humans can distinguish almost 10 000 olfactory molecules). In breathing its last breath into mine, enlivening me, the raspberry sent me so many messages, the most important being that there are, after all, still some things that make a new day worth looking forward to. And when I reluctantly placed it in my mouth: it slammed a tiny taste-mirror onto my soul showing me that after a year or so of troubles, of deep and dirty sadness, when the slightest phrase or tritest TV theme melody would silence me, bring me to a swaying stop, a raspberry could show me a new way, god in its purest form! 

Today.

Memories

Memories

I have recently given much thought, no, intensity and energy

to the question of 'memories'. 

Why do they so shadow us,

why are they so seductively exquisite,

so colourful and vital?!

And in particular, why and what do they say to us. 

Even a schoolboy-dissection of the memory phenomenon

makes us alive to the suspicion that there are infinitely more layers to it,

that it is not just a psychologically-explainable fact,

that perhaps memory is universal, a non-cerebral, ancient survival mechanism,

that memories function as the Keepers of Balance in our existence,

particularly in how we perceive ourselves within our lives, our souls.

The young Queen Memory rides our weary souls,

to keep her and our balance (the really important thing in life, balance)

in our patterns of existence.

Given that we all stand, lips apart, in everyday rank pools of green slime,

pools tarted-up by culture and Hollywood as pink dreams and lollipops,

yet populated by the vicious villagers and creatures of Bosch,

is it any wonder that some sort of balancing act is required

to prevent us from sinking even deeper into this smelly pool,

from where our souls may, perchance, never escape. 

Other cultures, other solutions: some cling to religion, even philosophy,

others Californian mumbo-jumbo. 

Yet the only one friend we have, we walkers of the dark road, denizens of the green pools,

are our timid but intoxicating memories, to remind us that

there had been times when the stench was not that bad really,

when the music soothed and rocketed us to a primal life,

whispering of friendlier, lighter and less painful times. 

Times when we believed in smiles, when sentences weren't written upside down,

and courage was not just a hope but seemed so, so possible. 

Perhaps that is why memories are so intense, so subjective, so not real:

to ensure we remember the memory not the grey-blue reality.

Thus the object of that memory is so much more beautiful, believable!

A true balancing act.

Is memory the mother or daughter of hope?

People talk about losing hope as being a sign of the end times,

that we cannot exist without hope - another real-life myth, there being no such thing really,

hope is just another bottle-blonded  illusion, hope will not enable us to keep our lips closed

and we will survive only by way of our memories! 

A good thing our that memories cannot outlive us, are not downloadable by other persons,

imagine if we had to live in a sphere of existence with everyone's false memories

floating about installing themselves on our hard drives in ourselves.

So forza memory, and thank goodness that we have them,

that they can fool and succour us,

our eternal Band-Aids,

keeping us nicely bandaged in our frail skeletons.

30 May 2011

Jong man met oumanervaring

Ten spyte van : 

die ou kremetartboom wat 

in my jonglyf ingroei,
die indunakleedjie wat
ongemaaklik om my blakende nek hang, 

die vaal-vaal wysheid wat my
so verrineweer, afsuig

het jy, selfs toe daar nie meer plek was nie,
jou anima op my onderbewussyn kom plak.

The Taking of a Red Bed

when I scrambled into my red bed

slipped quietly between the green

camouflaged sheets, my lips bled,

and the crimson sadly tarnished the sheen

of the silk pillows, (one below one of top of my lion-head)

eyes, ink-stained, peering in the glow,

listening to the minueting membranes

of the newly-dead;

it scratched crab-like yet daintily

at the staring windows, at first faintly

then more viciously urgent until

vanquished I slipped out over the marble sill,

looked back and saw its furry head

madly bobbing around in the red bed.

Hollywood-as-life

No, Hollywood has certainly been a failed model of life.
We have all seen the images, understood the concepts,
Whistled along on the rythm of its music,

Even strived for its cinematic moral lessons
But it was all a lie,
A big fat Gypsy-wedding lie.

24 May 2011

Afrikaans-Vlaams gelykenisse

My eerste werklike kennismaking met Vlaanderen was waarskynlik Hugo Claus se 'Het Verdiet van België', 'n meesterwerk wat, onregeverdiglik, nooit gelei het tot 'n Nobelprys nie.Dit was eers later dat ek geleer het dat die titel goed gekose was.

Dit is onherroeplik waar dat 'verdriet' inderdaad diep en breed ,oor en deur, die groen weiden en rooidakke van België vloei. As ek na Vlaamse musiek luister (bv http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5SoAarIhFCA) hoor mens hoe knuffel-digby die verlange en verdriet in die skaduwee van elke Vlaming loop. En hulle (Vlaminge en Hollanders) is maar ook soos ons, in elk geval as ek moet oordeel na 'n beluistering van Stef Bos (ooit die mooie duo gehoor wat hy met Johannes Kerkorrel gedoen het?) se weergawe van 'Suikerbossie' - sekerlik die mees ingrypende, vertederende weergawe van daardie o-so-tipiese Afrikaanse liedjie- in elk geval is dit mooier dan enige weegawe wat ek ooit gehoor het, insluitend die van in my laerskooldae! Luister hoe weemoedig, hoe waar, hoe Afrikaans Stef Bos dit sing:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ffL9ePuZ4x0. Luister ook na sy weergawe van 'Hillbrow': http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=coDERRy9upU

En is dit anders met Afrikaners? Moeilik, nee gevaarlik, dus om jouself as voorbeeld te stel -maar as ek kyk na al die kommentare op die verskillende fora en webstekke is dit duidelik dat meeste expat Afrikaners ook soos ek voel- daarom sal ek dan maar probeer ons universiële verdrietmantel op my te neem in die volgende paar postings.

Mees Tiperend Afrikaanse lied?

My kommentaar oor Laurika Rauch se 'Stuur Groete aan Mannetjies Roux' :

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HoJfwf0xdNg&feature=related

"Eens het ons 'n land gehad in Afrika, met 'n kloppende hart, eens het die riviere in ons gevloei en was die bosveldse sonsondergange mooi in ons oë te sien. Nou sit ons in koue, verre plekke, met alleen die wind as ons maat en verre blikke wat probeer om tot daar, daar ver, tot in ons jeug terug te kyk.Maar ek weet dat my verlanges my tog darem 'n bietjie warm sal hou.

Was daar ooit 'n meer tiperende Afrikaanse lied gewees dan hierdie een?