Madness by Angela West

When you read this poem, read it while going on a rollercoaster. Feel your stomach and your head churn. listen to the whirring noise from the rails and the obliviousness of it all. Hear the distorted voices and see the people as they wave from a distance underneath. Feel your insides. Now read the poem .....

Madness by Angela West 

If my stomach would stop churning

And the world would stop turning

And my head would stop worsening

If only for one minute

My ears would stop ringing

And the music stop playing

And my head would stop singing 

If only for one minute 

If that voice can just stop talking 

And those birds just stop squawking

And I can stop tiredly yawning 

If only for one minute 

My madness is walking and stalking

Its crawling and withdrawing

Its spawning dawdling galling imploring

If only for one minute 

Its observing reemerging hurting

And its searching urging referring reaffirming

And its worming and concerning

If only for one minute

The wheels of the bus.

Its freaking hot in the desert. The school bus is like all other school busses except its off white. Perhaps it is safer to say it has no colour. Anyhow, its just after midday and the mother has appeared on my stoep. She does not speak English and my halting Arabic is of little use. Our conversation is limited to smiling and nodding.

The bus can be heard in the distance as it turns of the main road and onto the gravel. The chanting rhythm of Arabic music is screaming down the side roads, scaring even the biggest goat of the herd. The camel who has developed a fondness for the plants growing by my neighbours water leak looks up and blinks disinterestedly. They really have seen it all. The chanting now becomes an unpleasant earsplitting vibration in my ears. My windows vibrate as the driver throws the bus around the corner and comes to a screeching halt in front of our gate. We are momentarily blinded by the red dust.

The driver opens the doors. "Salaam" he shouts above the noise. He waves and smiles. As a foreigner I'm wondering if all Arabic children are deaf by the time they are 12. Is this normal?  There are mostly big brown eyes peering at me. I'm not sure how many little faces there are, but its a lot. A host of papers, tissues, cooldrink cans, tin foil gets thrown out of the windows of the bus. The children are screaming and laughing loudly trying to talk to each other. Finally here she is. She really is quite stunningly beautiful. She is only 7. She walks down the steps carrying a far-to-big pink school satchel.  She smiles at me first, dutifully, then runs off upstairs to her apartment followed by her mother.

The bus driver gives me a final wave, the red dust bellows up as he fires up the engine and off he goes. The music still blaring until he drives around the big hole in the road and onto the main road.
Silence at last. I go inside.  My children have got headphones on. Their silence deafening.  

              

The Big Picture

It’s the day before New Year’s Eve, 2017. I find myself being reflective.  I’m struggling to find direction. I have purpose, I just can’t find direction.  Terry Pratchett, an English author once wrote in his book I Shall Wear Midnight , ‘If you do not know where you come from, then you don't know where you are, and if you don't know where you are, then you don't know where you're going. And if you don't know where you're going, you're probably going wrong.’ 

This kind of circular thought is counterproductive and to my mind, obsequious and a little bit disturbing. I am once again in Oman. I previously left Oman, only to return here. My whole life is just like watching a movie called The Big Picture, only I’ve arrived to watch it ten minutes after the movie started and now no-body will tell me the plot.  I have to work it all out myself using those dastardly frustratingly illuminating clues. Clues that are sometimes small imperceptible nuances from my life story sandwiched in between those excruciating rewritten lines of The Big Picture. The action of scribbling my thoughts down provides a beginning, a middle and an end product, a commentary for my jumbled up thoughts. I do write better in the silence and the desert provides few distractions. Besides, I cannot start whining at this stage of my life. It will take too long and I won’t have any time for life left. Surely all of us hope for a little distractive redemption, whether we deserve it or not.

I hope good things are on their way this year of 2018. Although life has circled back upon itself I feel the journey has been fruitful. My Chair that I previously wrote about in this blog, called Night Ramblings, mocks me.  I know now though, where it is, just not how to get there. I’ve caught a glimpse of the plot, perhaps a gift delivered to me by virtue of my greying hair and ever-deepening wrinkles. My Chair has a tremendous sense of gravity, a kind of ever-present heaviness, an awareness that I have not reached my destination or my purpose yet. The neon flicking signs firmly planted along my path show ABUNDANCE FRUITFULNESS FERTILITY. Well, anyone can rise if they have enough yeast. The quiet nuances are also not silent if you have an open mind. The trouble with having an open mind is that people are always trying to put things in it: stuffing it up like a pork sausage. I think sometimes, one has to turn the facts around in several directions before finding the perfect fit. After all, the path to your own story does, in fact, start with a small step. If you don’t write down your own story you become part of someone else’s life story. My Chair will never allow that!

                                                                                                                                                      

Between the Outeniqua mountains and the Indian ocean

This year has been quite a year for me which is why I haven’t written in a while.  True to my previous prediction, life did change for me.  It took a while and things got a bit anxious, but it seems it is all over now. 

What do you call someone who comes from George?  A Georgian or Georgette?  When I lived in Worcester I was a Worcesterite.  Am I a Georgerite?  I am, we are, from George.  Martin and I have bought our forever-house here in George and I have decided I am never going to move.  I love it here. I love our house, a renovators dream.  It has its own magic forest at the back and a real South African stoep.  My own dream house.

 I live between the forests of the Outeniqua mountains and the Indian ocean.  It rains a lot here and there are quite a few waterfalls, but after the longest spell in the desert, rain is beautiful and refreshing. The Indian Ocean is warm.  George is in the garden route of South Africa. Victoria Bay, a surfer's paradise is only ten minutes away. Also, just over the hill is Knysna and its oysters, as well as Wilderness and some of the most beautiful, scenic coast-line in the world. Everything is green and lush. The district we live is called Eden. 

The town is small and has a great Afrikaans community.  Everything is within walking distance, except of course, the new mall, which is very far away. On Saturdays they have iron-man competitions; they run past my front stoep.  Watching it is exciting.  The neighbours get their camping chairs out, sipping coffee or beer from huge mugs; the police lights flash, the dogs bark and the children wave.  What an occasion!  After that, it’s Great South African rugby and lots of braaiing. The smell of boerewors hangs thick in the air as tunnels of smoke can be seen coming from almost everyone’s back yard.  At our house however, the children and I have started our own new Sunday tradition; First, Church in town, then we come home and Matthew lights a fire and we have a braai, finished off with a Sunday afternoon sleep.  It is a routine now. Traditions are good for the soul and predictability is grounding. Something to rely on. 

The boys are really looking forward to meeting new friends at the English school here in January. They have got a huge challenge ahead of them, but hopefully it will be easier to fit in here. Nicholas decided a while ago that he wants to be a pop star.  He definitely belongs on stage and has quite a presence.  Matthew, like his father, is more of a thinker and is quietly intelligent.

Andrew has got engaged and is starting a new business venture in Saldana Bay.  At twenty-years-old, this seems like an awesome responsibility, but he takes it all in his stride.  Krystle loves and supports Andrew. I can see that they are happy together and they communicate well. To me this is a good start.

Jayne is in Port Elizabeth and is doing very well in what she does.  She has just moved into Andrew's old flat.  I am looking forward to seeing her closer to Christmas when she takes a break from her very busy work schedule. She also has a dream of starting her own business one day, but is struggling with the path. I am very confident in her abilities and support her decisions regardless.

Martin is still in Nizwa.  I miss him every moment of every day. I know he misses us too.  He would have nine months left on his contract, if he resigned before too long. Martin has been promoted to TOEFL Lab Supervisor which means that besides doing the work he did before, he is now also teaching.

I managed to get a four month old Dalmatian-cross puppy whom we like to call Archie, who bites everything and is growing by the nanosecond. He is keeping our boys very busy at the moment.  He has one black eye. We have to take our little Archie down to the botanical tea gardens most days otherwise he sits by the door, leash in mouth.  Yesterday I bought him a huge cow leg-bone and he hasn't stopped grinding his teeth on it.  The whole night there was a kind-of grating noise coming from his bed. I think tonight I am going to let him sleep outside.      

Looking for a job is proving to be difficult.  The people around me tell me I should hang in there.  I will get one. It’s just a matter of time.  Since I am now in my third year of studies, I would like to somehow combine my love for psychology with my previous work experience.  I am struggling with this at the moment.  I do love to work and need to contribute to our finances.  To quote Rogers - Life is a struggle for meaning.

What has happened though, and this is important, is an imperceptible shift of consciousness here.  If I leave now, there will be a small space where I left. Because I haven’t been here that long, it’s only a small space, but I’m going to work on growing that space.  I am recognized as a person and I am important. The people at the shop, at church, at the library and even my neighbours, all recognise me. The call me by name and I am no longer invisible. I have found a very small space in the world that I fit into, which is mine. I have found my VOICE. 

Stoepstories

I read the other day, that the stories Athol Fugard wrote were mostly autobiographical, or stories of his own life although, he describes his work as fiction.  Some characters, certain attitudes, most noticeably that dehumanizing policy, apartheid, creep up in his work and fill his pages.  I ask myself what, as a white English-speaking South African, would I write about?

Would it be the controversial BEE policies, which is the reason I live in this dustbowl? - I am currently studying and living in the Middle East.  Would it be the mess the ANC government, with absolutely no consequences, has put South Africa in?  JM Coetzee wrote about the powerlessness of white males in his book, Disgrace. He writes that us whites should all start again from a point of disgrace.  Perhaps I should write my stories from that angle, since it is what we whites are all experiencing at the moment.  But these attitudes are easier to reflect upon, I am sure, while Coetzee is sipping his Australian wine.

If I were to write an account, my account, of apartheid, would the ANC government ban me from being too controversial?  Would I go live in America like Fugard, Anne Landsman, or Tony Prile. Perhaps they will ban me like the then South African government banned Breyten Breytenbach for marrying the wrong person and just being too outspoken.

Just lately Zuma has mentioned several times that if you toe the line with the party, your business will flourish. Is the converse also true then?  He does rather seem hellbent on giving all South African children his own peculiar measure of education, or is it ‘uneducation’. I ask myself, what is he doing to all of us as a nation, and to me and my children? Will they even be able to read the mutterings that I so dedicatedly put down. Will my grandchildren?

It is my belief that a child is brought up, not only by school, but by a myriad of experiences within the community where he/she lives - a kind of shared ubuntu.  Perhaps it is these other experiences I should write about then and not about the unequalness and reverse-discrimination policies; about how my children formed their own unique characters and attitudes.  As a junior nurse many years ago, I looked into dying people’s eyes, heard their regrets and achievements, all of which seemed to be centered about their own family. That is what I shall focus on - mine.  A kind of autobiographical essay with, of course, a lot of imagination to fill the pages.

I have started a new blog, a blog for my children, so that one day they will remember how it was.  They carry these stories inside of them. It’s in their eyes and in their attitudes. Thank you Athol Fugard, for showing me the way. I called it Stoepstories. Enjoy!

http://stoepstories.blogspot.com

Merry Christmas to you out there in the Great Beyond.

Its Christmas, or so they tell me.

There are no decorations in the shops, no maddening crowds, no embarrassing parties, no other kids for my children to celebrate or compare their presents with, no church to remind us of what Christmas is all about and no indication, other than the date, that it is Christmas at all.  The children are suppose to go to school today, Martin is at work. It is just another day here.


It is left up to Martin and I to  carry forth our traditions and beliefs.  Telling one's children about baby Jesus can be a daunting task. As I tell them, I am not sure they believe me. When the presents arrive under the tree they decide between themselves that it is worth believing me. But they intensely dislike the taste of Christmas mince tarts and turkey.  I cannot convince them otherwise.

During my travels I have learnt that those physical things that we surround ourselves with, those excessive things we buy on impulse, create our identity and give us comfort.  I have always traveled light, but this Christmas I miss things, physical things that I can call my own.  Silly things, like the pink spotted gown I had in the UK, ugly things like the African face masks and comfortable things like the couches we had in South Africa.  I wish the things that are in my house were mine. But as we move into the New Year, I know things will change again for me. I will be throwing things away again, moving on.  The bin outside will be piled high with things I would love to take with me. With a 23 kg limit on baggage I know that the things I bought with such care and thought, are actually worthless.  It is only a matter of time.

On a more cheerful note the children are very happy with their presents. Nicholas loves his new music player. He is very happy because, as an added bonus he has his own remote. I am not sure whether standing on the balcony to turn the music on full blast is going to please the neighbors.  Matthew is taking pictures of these new developments with his new camera.

This morning my Arabic student neighbour tactlessly called me 'big' and 'old'.  Nobody told him that comments like these are rude in a western culture.  Despite this, I wish him well.  He has failed his maths three times and will be going home to his family without his degree.  He tells me he will not get a job.   He comes from a lesser tribe and so his fate was sealed at birth whether or not he got his degree. 

And so Christmas seems to grind on for me.  I miss my older children who are so far away.  Matthew, Nicholas and I have decided to eat lunch with Martin at the canteen at work.  I will be taking my own food.  I have grown tired of cardamom, chickpeas and tasteless rice served by uneducated Indians who think because I dont wear a hijab I am fair game.  I am stared at, lusted after and insulted by arrogant Arabs and ignorant Indians.  I feel dirty and gross.  I no longer like to go outside the flat. I have become a prisoner.  But today, because it is Christmas I will venture outside.

For you out there in the Great Beyond.  I sincerely hope your Christmas carries many blessings. For my children Jayne and Andrew, Matthew and Nicholas, I love you all far too much.  I pray that we can all be together someday.  Mom, Rob, Eds, Alan, Elmare, beautiful Jess and sweet Cara know that you are all precious in my heart.  I pray for continuing health for Mrs Clegg and that Martin's sisters find peace in their hearts today.




 

Night ramblings

Its 23.44 here in Oman.  The rest of my family are sleeping.  The dog is curled up in the corner of my office snoring his Arabic head off. I think he really does bark in Arabic. Spikey the invincible, wadi dog of note.

And here I am.  I tried very hard to sleep.  Closed my eyes, counted sheep, nothing worked.  Every time I close my eyes I get a picture in my head.  Im tired of trying to sleep, so I'm going to bore you with the details of this picture simply to get it out of my system. Please excuse my grammar.

I see a chair.  Its a blue chair.  It has  fish and whales on it.  Its a beautiful chair that tells stories.  It is my chair.  The fish and whales are circular in motion, fluidly swimming around.  The fish and the whales are speaking to me, telling me, whispering to me, letting me know.  Its in the corner of my room and it's from there that the rest of the house gets its look and design.  The design is uniquely me. It's like I have found my purpose and it's now swimming around my head.  It's who I am. It's what I am meant to be.  The colours are blue and cream.  Johlene is smiling at me from heaven right now. She knew how I felt, even back then when I was a awkward teenager. I think I will always miss her.

Only I sit in my chair.  I can hear the voices of my children, my daughter Jayne is the loudest. I am home, finally. Jayne is still ungraciously cautious. I knew she would be. Jayne is the link to my past and my future.  Jayne knows my stories, I told them to her when she was young.  She has forgotten them, her subconscious my treasure chest.

People say one should follow ones heart.  This chair is my home, it is where I belong.  I feel it, I see it and I know it.

The chair is an armchair.  Firm and comfortable.  When I sit in it, the stories in my head come alive and I am able to write it all down.  My fingers will not type fast enough.  The story starts writing itself.  I am a mere vessel in the jungle of words pushing forward to come out.  I wish I could tell you of the things this chair has told me.  I wish I could express it all, release the burden of my heart.  Years of observation, years of questioning, years of searching. The fish show scenes of imaginings, hearing, reading, observing, obvious fiction, my prayers, my hope and my longing.    

It is the most beautiful of all chairs.  I am going to find it, sit in it, pray in it and most of all I am going to listen to it.  It is calling me.  That is why I cant sleep tonight.