Thanksgiving.

So obviously we don't get the day off here in South Africa. My Favourite American Family celebrated with a dinner this evening. My - what a feast!

 

After being on set since 4h30 this morn, I was so excited to see the turkey that I lost focus. But that little girl's eye says it all. 

The friends were there in all their finery.

We ate and we drank and we ate some more. My very first taste of pumpkin pie. I say hmmmm and lick my lips.

So thanks to the Wampanoag people, thanks for rice and whiskey and music and airplanes. Thanks to that tearing mad woman who nearly ran me over the other day in Kloof Street. She made me realise how lucky I am to be here. Thanks to the Mother and the Father and the Daughter and the Visiting Cousin and all of the other great cooks in the world.

And good night to you lovely people.

The Moonlighting Insomniac.

May. I keep a journal on the nightstand to record my dreams before they disappear. Sometimes all I am left with is a few words in my head - I write them down in the form of a list in the back of the book. One morning at four, I wake up and write down the following: black happiness. Under that I write: transformation item.
    Sitting up in bed, I ponder these words. I know exactly what black happiness is. It's the black band in the rainbow, the one that isn't mentioned in polite conversation, but it's right there between indigo and violet. 

I'm not sure what a transformation item is, but I like the sound of it.

* 

Lately I've been sleeping at night. By this I mean sometimes up to five hours without interruption. A vast improvement from a winter of two or three wakeful hours per night. 

I must be doing something right.

George Clooney and the Unseen, Part Three.

One night I left George Clooney to spend some time with my sister, Ohtli. We laughed a great deal and applied smudgy dark circles around our eyes. In the morning when I awoke I saw that George Clooney was still asleep. His spikey black lashes lay on the tops of his cheeks. The crinkly feet of birds appeared at the corners of his closed eyes as he smiled in his sleep. I wondered who he was with. I knew that it was not one of us, because everyone else was awake.
   When he woke, he went straight to the river. I found him sitting there later that day. He looked sad and said that he wanted to go back to his own people. He yearned for the marrow of large animals and sweet gloomy drinks that fizzed. I didn't think so much of these things and found it hard to understand. But unlike the Unnoticed, we do not enthrall or ensnare, so when I told my father of George Clooney's wish, he said: Atl, take him to the end of the jungle.
    So I did. The night before he left, we had a big feast. There was dancing and drinking and the beating of drums. Before retiring, my father marked George Clooney's height on the wall of the fane. The wall of the fane was divided by an almost solid band of cross-hatched marks. The Unseen tend to grow to a similar height. Then there was the height of the missionary man, about one head taller than us. Then, towering above us all was George Clooney. The tallest man in the world. That night the two of us shared a dream in which we did the most outlandish thing  - we touched our lips together once, with some amount of pressure. It resulted in a pleasant stomach feeling. Like shiny dragonfly wings fluttering.

When I returned to my hut, I painted his bush-honey coloured eyes on the wall above my sleeping mat. If I squinted my eyes, I could imagine his face hovering there in the little sticks and dried grass. That night in my dream I saw George Clooney walking away along the river's bank. He turned around once and waved. He called out to me, but I couldn't hear what he said. He was already too far away.

Written by Lily Turner, March 2010.

Celebrity sells, we all know that. Strange, though, to experience it from a closer perspective. Since posting these excerpts, I've received many hits via The Huffington Post. They have a page dedicated to George Clooney and a box with constantly updated links from Digg, Delicious and Google Blogsearch. It was really weird to see my name there.

Cars and Jam.

I'll be working pretty much solidly for the next few weeks. Not a weekend off even.

There'll be plenty of this:

Maybe a little of this:

 

 
Not much time for contemplation. Writing. Cooking. Friends. Making the bed. 

But afterward, there will be money for jam.

Taking the word for a walk.

My friend Ming hosted a creative writing workshop yesterday at the Castle of Good Hope. Built between 1666 and 1679, surprisingly still there. I look at photos of old Cape Town and become so despondent at what we've lost. Don't get me started on the pine tree plantings at the Parade.

I love this castle. I've seen the ins and outs of it whilst shooting there, it's hosted some fantastic exhibitions and events, drinks up on the battlements... 

The workshop was held in one of the resident artists' studios on the far side. What a satisfying way to spend a saturday morning.

Renier sang for us on our tea break. We ate chocolate cake. I walked over to visit my favourite spot - the Dolphin Pool.

 
We wrote a poem using a different formula. 

sometimes the hopes are way too big for the pin
an image the face is cut in two
that reflection in the mirror it moves me
solidity veiled by transparency
the most quiet place I know is under the water
this is what I'm trying to say
a deep droning
I hear
like swimming in temperate seas
bursting with life
best when they're on their way out
inside I dream of green arrows and summer
sometimes the hopes are too big for the pin
I hear them saying
outside it waits. it waits

And cut out the tenth word to make something new.

For information regarding future workshops, contact Elsibe via her website.

Hail To The Thief.

I am surrounded by such incredibly talented people, it leaves me breathless. Talking to Brett Murray at his exhibition opening this afternoon, all I could think of to say was: It's so... BIG.

This is a year's worth of work and besides the satire and the tongue-in-cheek irreverence, what impressed me no end was the resolute technical proficiency evident in these pieces. I love a good finish and this is perfection.

My Virgo heart sang.

See the exhibition at the Goodman Gallery

3rd Floor Fairweather House, 176 Sir Lowry Road, 

Woodstock, 021 462 7573/4

Bijou Bisous.❤

My friend The Blacksmith bought the old Bijou theatre in Observatory many years ago to house his forge. Since then, he's also let out parts of the building as artists' studios. I've been to some great events here - the blowing of the anvil, a secret performance by the Violent Femmes, The Odd Engineers - glowing balls of metal whizzing through the dark (!) and of course, the annual open studios combined with live music.

Much to look at on our wanderings, faces old and new, interesting conversation. This is my winning photo of the day: The Spaniard shaved his beard as a birthday surprise for the Young Scorpio. I can't look at it without smiling.

 

The Blacksmith had these highly desirable knives on display. The Forge was at it's moody best.

 The Lovely Girlfriend and I rushed home to feed the hungry and exhausted Production Designer. We stopped off for sushi at Saigon (always the same, always good) and washed it down with a very old bottle of wine. This doesn't happen every day.

I like his t-shirt. It means: "To the kitchen with you!"

The two of them have been cosseting a monstrously large artichoke plant for many months now. It has finally delivered (one) fruit. Ultimate fate uncertain . . .