This is how it goes.

You start with a circle, like so:

Every day, more stalks of grass. Just weave 'em in.

Tinker's cuss. There's still a hole on the other side...

But five or six days later - left over right, right over left and Bob's your uncle.

And Nelly's your aunt.

So you make a big ruckus...

Call that broad over.

and if she doesn't like it... 

Well.

 You start with a circle.

Seeing in a different way.

Working in film has changed the way I experience movies. I find it hard not to be over-analytical. It's particularly difficult when I watch something that I worked on. I watched Lord of War the other night. 2004: I was subcontracted to work on one set only - a swish New York apartment. As I watched I found it impossible not to feel what was happening behind and around the camera. And then the circles get wider. I remembered driving to the studio on cold winter mornings, the refinery's flame wavering in the predawn light. One day I had to dress a child's bedroom in near darkness, while listening to Nicholas Cage rehearsing his lines through a paper thin wall. I remembered that feeling of unsettledness - I loved a boyfriend to distraction, for I was coming to the realization that he couldn't love me back. Long talks over soup and whiskey at Cafe Ganesh. Even though no mirrors were broken,  many years of bad luck and sadness would follow.
But I didn't know that then.

Arcadia asked the other day if things get easier as you get older. My answer is Yes and No, but mostly Yes. May the wonder never stop.

The verdict.

 Lately I've been getting a lot of invitations to events with the very thinly veiled "and then you can write about it on your blog". I've even been offered free stuff "for a mention". People say to me: but you can make money - advertise!

Well. No thanks. I've never wanted to do that here.

I think the most important thing is that this my place. I like it here. This is not work.

Do I feel sheepish that I couldn't even stay away for two weeks? Nope. I am listening to my heart -

thank you Marie.

I've been spending some time on the farm around the corner. Spring is really here. My friend the Jujuman tells me that this sheep is in love with him. My special beau is one of the medium sized black pigs. He sees me and comes galloping along to snuffle my shoes. Sometimes he just parks his snout against my shin and we stand there for a while, both of us slightly at a loss. It's a slobbery business, but it fills me with well-being.

Mose Allison, he plays it like it is.

I love the "notes" on the sleeves of old records.

According to Mose, "Transfiguration of Hiram Brown Suite" is a serio-comic fantasy based on a perennial theme. Hiram Brown is the naive provincial who dreams of a life of opulence in the city. He goes there, is overwhelmed and disillusioned, longs for his youth, realizes that this too is an illusion, despairs, goes through a crisis and is "transfigured". This is Mose's own interpretation. He hopes that this Suite can be enjoyed from a variety of viewpoints and, most of all, that it swings. - Teo Macero

It had been a long time since they had sat at the same table. He said he felt out of sorts - a little queasy with apprehension. She drank coffee, he drank tea. An Afrikaans expression crossed her mind: koeitjies en kalfies. For a while they spoke of small cows and calves. That is to say of things that didn't bear weight or importance. Music. People. Four tears were almost shed - one from each eye, but only because she spoke with longing about his children.

They shared a messy sandwich.

He gave her the record and they said goodbye on the street.

After that he sent her a message:
I thought I had lost you.

She didn't write back, but if she had, it would have been to say: It's a combination. You have, and you haven't. This, now, is something else.
 
She remembered reading years ago about a choreographer, she couldn't recall his name. He spoke about the people he had met in his life - a succession of friends and lovers. He ended by saying: That's life, that's love, that's the world. It had angered her. But that was when she'd believed in the myth of one true love.
 

There was a time when even her skin hurt from missing him. Around her were holes in the shape of him. But as she looked at him across that table, unblinkered, she saw not the centre of a universe, but a man.
A man of flesh and blood and bone.

Let's talk about knives.

The photograph that Karl Lilje took of me and the big knife has been commented upon, written about and questioned. For the compliments, I thank you. As for the rest - let me put your minds at ease: I love cooking. I like sharp knives to cut things up with in the kitchen. Dicing and filleting. That's it. This trait runs in the family, but we don't throw knives at other people. At least not without good call.
 
My personal hell will be filled with blunt knives. I'm the kind of person who takes a Swiss Army and a Victorinox paring knife to picnics. Longer than a day? I'll pack the medium chef's knife too.
 

***

I keenly wished to love him. It's possible to learn a myriad of skills, from new languages and swimming, to being a calmer person. You can bend and mold your body - build muscles and mind power. But there is simply no way to make yourself love someone, even if it seems like the best idea in the whole wide world. We spent hours together reading recipes, cooking. Even now, the smell of freshly ground cardamom takes me back to that kitchen with the scary-sharp Sabatier knives, the blades flashing like sunlight in his hands. He was an adventurous cook. He delighted me with irreverence.

He took me on picnics in the forest.
Outdoor opera.
Shaolin Monks.
Veuve Clicquot in misty cold glasses.
Morello cherries, picked by us.
Blue blooded cheese from France.
His heart on a plate.
Figs stuffed with nuts and honey,
in golden paper pastry.
Dark smoky wine, the scent of chocolate and coffee.
A salad of the tiniest baby leaves. Spanish ham, translucent and salty. Spindly mushrooms, pale and delicate as ghosts. Walnut oil. Pomegranate molasses...

At the dinner table, he held my hand gently, rubbing the pillow of my thumb. I used to listen to him talk, lulled by his beautiful deep voice. Fears banished, doubts quelled. Lazy eyed and full bellied. But somehow it wouldn't last - despair would slowly take hold within me, the way ink spreads in water, and I would leave. Again and again.

The last time I went to his house, he wasn't there. I stood wretchedly looking at the fruit trees in the garden. Wishing for a different world and something else. I left the lime tree at his door. Pitiful I know, but it was something that could grow. 

*

Black into blue.

I left home at 4h30 am. Flashing blue lights at the bottom of Sir Lowry's Pass meant that the mountain was in flames. Meant a 90 minute detour along the coast. As I drove I thought of the last time I'd been on that road. It was almost a year ago and I was immersed in abject misery, my heart a pulpy mess. I wrote a story back then called She smells like cotton candy, which I still can't read past the first paragraph without my stomach twisting into a knot.
*
A pale dawn broke somewhere between Pringle Bay and Kleinmond. Slim Gaillard laughing in rhythm. I thought about the nature of heartbreak and how it's true what they say about time.
A friend sent this to me late one night:
You let time pass.
That's the cure.
You survive the days.
You float like a rabid ghost through the weeks.
You cry and you wallow and lament and scratch your way back up through the months.
And then one day you find yourself alone on a bench in the sun and you close your eyes and lean your head back and you realize you're okay.

I savour that feeling, for long minutes at a time.
*
I followed the markers down Appletiser Road into the Elgin Valley. Apple country. I passed orchards of trees bent double with loads of blushing fruit.
At base camp we packed our furs and our swords and sailed to set on three barges.

The calm ticking of clocks. By some fantastic stroke of synchronicity, I have found myself a place on a team without drama. So we worked together and we ate together, we laughed a lot and at night all of us slept over in little wooden houses overlooking the lake. A working kind of holiday.

I drove back to the city through the smog hanging over Athlone. Sat for a while in the morning rush hour, listening to Public Image Ltd, loud. Campfire smoke in my hair. Content.

Day Eight.

I drove home past a herd of goats. Some thoughtful cows lying under a tree, chewing their cuds. Boys and men playing soccer together between makeshift posts. Table Mountain shimmering in the distance. 

I thought about the people in my life, the ones who mean the world to me.
How I struggle to say it sometimes.

And then I thought of something
someone said to me a while back.

"Love". No matter if you can't muster the "I" and the "you". That puny little word has the power to stand on its own.

Secrets from the reservoir.

As I ran around the reservoir this morning, I happened past two ladies walking and talking. They were perhaps fifteen or twenty years older than me. This is what I heard as I approached and then passed them by: "As with most things in life... take for instance relationships, the secret is...."

And the rest was tantalizingly lost to the breeze.
Hm.

So, on the next lap, I stopped and said hello.

Turns out that their conversation had been about how people sometimes let themselves go and become bigger than they'd like to be. The taller lady said to me: "It's about being aware. Keeping an eye out. When things feel wrong, even slightly so, take action immediately. And this is the same for relationships. If something feels wrong, do something about it. And if it stays wrong, get out, because otherwise you are wasting precious time and it only gets harder and harder to leave."

As I ran off, she called out: good luck!

You can't sway someone from their journey if it's what they have their heart set upon. But it all goes back to one of my favourite quotations from the man of the generous heart: "Dis okay om foute te maak, maar as jy nie leer van jou foute nie, is jy 'n doos." (It's okay to make mistakes, but if you don't learn from them, you're a c*nt)

I'm not saying I won't make mistakes again. But hopefully next time when someone I'm in love with looks me in the eye and says: "You know I'm a louse, baby.", I'll try to listen past the stars in my eyes and the humming of that tuning fork in my body and take more care. And maybe eat less chocolate.

Love is not a hat.

If one more man says to me: 'I could so easily fall in love with you', I'm going to throw up. 

Don't you get it people? 

With love, there is no choice. 

You may as well try to stop the rain from falling.

 

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.

Some questions answered and George Clooney, continued.

Google Analytics tells me that this blog has had 628 visitors up to date, for the month of November. Not big on commentary you lot, but I understand that, this being a series of random things that probably don't form a whole. For some reason, though, my snippet of a story yesterday elicited a flurry of e-mails. Even a phone call or two.

~ Thank you ~

So, to answer some questions:

No, Mister Clooney is not my favourite actor. I'm more of a Boy Next Door kind of girl.

I saw Up In The Air one night in March and this little story popped into my head as I later lay in bed. Eventually I got up to write it. (Another sleepless night ...) It was a gift for The Lip, who remains a great fan of George Clooney.

Yes, I do have more stories. There are poems too. And recipes.
 

The photo was taken on the way to Beira, Mozambique. I need to go back there some day.

Movie most enjoyed this year? An Education.

And Roy: thanks for the offer. I'm flattered. But I'm taking a sabbatical. For now.

George Clooney and the Unseen. Part Two.

Although I never considered George Clooney to be mating material, my friends and family all teased me mercilessly. I tried to tell them how I felt: He is not a good-looking man. He is a bad, no, atrocious hunter. He is way too tall. He walks funny. He calls me Addle.
    But they carried on and so I learnt to smile and ignore them. The previous faded man who had visited us, was known of only because of the outlandish pair of pants he had left behind, and the mark of his height on the wall of the fane. We as a tribe had little curiousity or wish to know more. The children followed George Clooney for a few weeks, mainly because of the novelty of it, but when that wore off, he was mostly on his own. I could see that this bothered him inordinately. I guessed it was because of his lost life of celebrity and that he missed having an entourage. The men tried to teach him, but his hunting skills remained poor. The women giggled behind their hands when he approached.

At night in the hut we would lie at opposite sides, facing each other. In the morning we woke at the same time and talked about our dream. George Clooney could not understand how we could dream the same dream together. Often we would continue a conversation that we had started sometime in the night, in the middle of a dream. It left him mystified, but also filled him with delight. After some time, once we had become comfortable together in our dream world, he showed me what it looked like in the jungle where he came from. I was enthralled by the high structures and moving machinery. The amount of people in those dreams was staggering. It was a big surprise for me to see amongst the faded ones, some that were drenched in a kind of glossy darkness. There was a dreadful odor in those arid tree-poor places, filled as they were with all these bleached and tarry people. Some nights George Clooney would meet others in my tribe for dreams. But mostly it was just him and I.
    When the cool rains came, we moved closer at night. I knew without him saying so, that I was also not attractive to him. We shared warmth as cubs would do. Between us was a bond like that of a sister and a brother. It was better, because we were not born to it, but had chosen it to be so.

Written by Lily Turner, March 2010. Conclusion to follow.

Keepsake #2.

 Stamped on this ring are the words: Suikerbossie ek wil jou hê. It's a line from an Afrikaans folk song that translates to ‘Sugarbush I want you so’, sung by girls and boys a-courting. A Suikerbossie is a sweetheart but also a kind of Protea bush which bears South Africa’s national flower.

I no longer wear it and the white line on my finger has faded.

Mister Nimbus and flying in sunlight.

The word about town is that Mister Nimbus is coming home to visit. I look forward to seeing them and a new baby cloud. I wrote this when he left, almost three years ago.

Today my friend flies across the ocean to be with his bonny in Oslo. Although we don't spend inordinate amounts of time together, he has a large presence in my thoughts and he will be missed. I have built towering fortifications around myself over the years. I like to think of them as impenetrable, but now and then someone comes along and walks through an unmanned gate, surprising and delighting me. Once again, I have spent a wakeful night. Often thoughts of flying eventually lull me to sleep. When we say good bye, my friend and I, we promise to see each other in dreams. I think of him on the plane and remember the last time that I flew. It was pure escapism. I bought my ticket in the late spring. I remember coming home afterwards, taking a bath and then sitting on my balcony in the weak sun, with bare arms and wet hair. Everything was hurting and all I wanted was to get away to some place with no memories, a city I could walk around in and not see any familiar faces.
To fly across Africa in the daytime is a wondrous thing. I like following the line on the dinky little digital map, but actually have no idea where we really are. There are settlements down there, with huts and cooking fires and animals and people. Suddenly vast slate mountains appear and then hours upon hours of sand. Sahara. The name alone inflames my old-fashioned heart. The dunes form strange patterns from above. Spidery sea things, varicose vein networks. By the time we get to Europe at four pm, it's velvety dark and Paris is incandescent. It gives me a thrill of perfect pleasure. A wing-tip comes close to brushing the Eiffel Tower, it leaves behind a white-hot retinal ghost.
London is a beast of a different stripe, the luminous rush-hour python that is the M25 coiling and hissing around the cosmic sprawl. 

Excitement like soda water in my blood.

It waxes gibbous.

A difficult, even dangerous day in all astrological traditions. It is suited only for struggles with enemies and the destruction of anything outmoded. On this day, good deeds and noble actions may bring a very different result to the one you had been hoping for. It isn't suitable for starting anything important, especially connected with earning money. Marriage is undesirable, and you should also avoid drunks.

 Oh dear. I have a nasty cold. Luckily there are movies to watch. There is miso soup with rice noodles and crunchy mange tout and baby corn. The Morning Visitor has extended his visit and lies purring on my best blanket. Seems I chose a good day to stay in bed.

Birthdays & Love Affairs

This from Fraulein M: "Lili, I want you to put this recipe on your faceblog!"

Laughter and the clinking of glasses and spoons against bowls. There's something immensely satisfying about feeding a bunch of hungry friends.  My love affair with food will certainly never end.
 

 Felt a little delicate the next morning. Wandered through the National Gallery with the Better Halves. They were married in the Gallery last year, next to the painting of the horses. I think their love affair is rather grand.
 

He inspects...

From Pierneef to Gugulective. An outstanding collection of South African art and photography from 1910-2010. Lovely till the batteries all ran out. How do girls wear heels every day? The red boots are nice but definitely not made for walking. Though they did get me a compliment from a stranger. Thanks guy, you made me smile.
 

 I was looking forward to dinner at Ginja - I wanted them to blind me with science. But they have closed. Again. So to The Wooden Shoe we went. Still the same, after all these years! Veal cooked with brandy, cream and mushrooms, served with pan-fried spätzle. Hmmm.
 

 There's much to be said for being taken out to dinner by someone who knows you inside out. Our love affair is over and we've seen the best and the worst and all of the in between but we still have time for each other and probably always will.

Thanks to The Lip. 

❤

The Wooden Shoe. St John's Rd, Sea Point. 021 439 4435

The Torch Bearer.

 The first thing I saw when I ran in from the rain was a slightly murky fish tank with one large, stationary fish. Then, under a skylight in the kitchen, a family-size aviary, with some cockatiels and budgies. Drifting feathers, trailing plants... I'd heard a rumour about a guinea pig, but today he was absent from his post.

This is The Torch Bearer, they've been in business for seven years, but it's kind of hush-hush. The clientele was mostly men in their sixties, talking about their ex-wives and taking calls from their bookies. But they left me alone and there was plenty to look at. I would have taken a photo, had it not been for one of the ladies of the house watching me with a gimlet eye as I sipped my wine and scribbled in my book.

You can have a substantial meal for R30. Chicken/chops/steak/prawns/no vegetarian and there's a fully stocked bar. This is not fine dining, but I'll definitely go again. It's the kind of place where they'll remember your name, in fact there was a little chorus as I left of bye bye Lily! Warms the heart.

 

  9 Essex Street, Woodstock. 021 447 2639

City Mouse visits Country House

The Better Halves picked me up and whisked me away to the misty mountains of Suurbraak. Their house is the perfect mix of old and new. There's an Esse stove just like my granny used to have:
 

 The gas spectacular:
 

 As well as an open hearth in the corner, for geselligheid and the odd indoor braai. Our party of six included the canine contingent: Sir Max and Lady Seven I've known since they were kids, but the new guy was a wild card. I saw him eyeing me as I piled up a second plate of supper. (Lady who are you eating all the fillet steak like some polite kind of wolf?)
 

  At night I slept under striped linen and a pile of fluffy quilts. It felt like the story of the princess and the pea, but in reverse. (The pea in question being a dog named Jean, who finally gave me the nod.)
 

 I got up at six and stood on the stoep, looking at the mountains. A long-forgotten fragment of poetry came to mind: as the mist leaves no scar on the dark green hill...

The breeze was warm and promised something about summer coming and feeling different then.
 

 Sheep grazing in the cemetery. Farm gates. Mustard mashed potatoes. Apple tart and cream. Coffee in bed. Dog's wet nose. Snowdrops. Demented roosters with no grasp of day or night. But the best thing of all: seeing the way these two people appreciate each other. Kudos.