Margins v. 2.0

(Whew! Time I dusted off this old blog! I wrote this for Greti's birthday last month.)

His presence in the house was like a child’s breathing. He skirted around objects as if afraid to dirty them, the click of his crutches shy and delicate. When he sat on the couch, he perched on the edge lightly, never sitting on the cushions in full, foreign comfort. He often hid his stained fingernails by balling his hands slightly. His cheeks still stung where his beard had been shaved off. She’d often catch him running his fingers along the wool of the thick jersey she’d given him. Their cohabitation was a dance they performed in a stilted rhythm, neither really used to it, not quite sure how to speak or go about the tiny minutiae of every day life.

“It’s delicious. Thank you.” He said it without looking at her. In fact, he rarely made eye contact.
“I’m glad you like it.” They continued eating in silence. She liked to watch him eat. He savoured everything in a way she’d forgotten to do. He didn’t chase the salad around his plate, toying with it like she did, and seemed to genuinely like the broccoli she had to force down. She wondered how many hot meals he’d ever eaten.

The first time he’d come into her house, she’d felt ashamed. His leg was freshly set in plaster and he was struggling to get used to the crutches, so initially he spent large chunks of his day in the lounge. Whenever she saw his eyes flick around the room to all the expensive trinkets she’d collected over the years, her cheeks would flush. She tried not to calculate what they’d cost her, and how long that money could feed and clothe him. She wondered if he thought that too.

He’d been reluctant to stay with her, but she had insisted. He knew it was guilt that made her take him in, but once in her home he knew it was loneliness too. As he became familiar with the house, he noticed all the signs. The single bed, always neatly made. The underwear he saw drying on the line outside was all function, no frills or delicacy. There was no sense of there being space for another person’s clutter; every surface had a knickknack of some sort, every cupboard brimmed with the things a single person will collect over the years without someone else to curb their hoarding. The small dining room table had been set for one when he arrived. The couch had a bias on the cushion directly in front of the TV, home to just one body. And there was a tentative longing in her.

She struggled to fathom him. She sensed the wit and eloquence beneath his timid, cautious exterior. That he was well educated she had no doubts, she just wondered how he had gotten to where he was. But she was afraid to ask him, lest she seem judgmental or condescending. She found that she often had to guard her words, and catch herself before saying something that would seem unkind or patronising. She found it easier to share her home with him than she thought she would, but reasoned that it was easy because he did not impose himself on his surroundings. He rarely spoke, and when he did, it was little more than a whisper. He did not watch TV or listen to the radio. Instead he would sit quietly, unmoving, deep in thought, or pick a book from her shelf and devour it in one sitting, his brow furrowed, his lips forming the words silently. She would watch him for long spells, sometimes forgetting to catch the smiles that slowly curled at the corners of her mouth.

He slept in the spare room. It was just like all the other spare rooms you find in single-occupant houses. It was neat, the curtains had a floral print, and when you opened the cupboards there was a whiff of mothballs and musty boxes. She had bought him some clothing; plain t-shirts, trousers, underwear, socks, a jersey, running shoes. She’d tried to buy him nondescript clothes that he wouldn’t feel awkward in. She hadn’t thrown his old clothes away – she’d felt it would be arrogant of her – and so had washed them and put them in a bag. He had shyly accepted the clothing, and when she gave them to him they had both mumbled in embarrassment before she feigned needing to make a phone call. He kept his few things very neat, and she liked it when he spilt food on his shirt and clicked his tongue in dismay.

“You must be mad!”
“Why? I ran over him! It was the right thing to do.”
“The right thing to do would be to kick him out right this instant! He could take advantage of you in the night!”
“He wouldn’t.” A whisper, “Besides, I lock my door.”
“I should hope so! When will he move on?”
“I hadn’t thought about that. When he’s healed I suppose.” She twirled the phone cord around her finger. “I actually quite like having him around.”
“Well I think you’re being very foolish-”
“You’ve made it clear what you think. Look, I can hear his door opening, I’ll call you again next week.”
“I just want you to be safe!”
“I will be. Bye bye.”

She hadn’t thought about the end really. Until this point there had only been the now, and making supper, and asking after his leg, and if he was okay. She hadn’t thought about what would happen when the cast came off. Would he go off one day while she was out? Would she make him?

It was no accident this happened while I was listening to some shmetal...

Margins

His presence in the house was like a child’s breathing. He skirted around objects as if afraid to dirty them. When he sat on the couch, he perched on the edge lightly, never sitting on the cushions in full, foreign comfort. He often hid his stained fingernails by balling his hands slightly. His cheeks still stung where his lengthy beard had been shaved off. She’d once caught him running his fingers along the wool of the thick jersey she’d given him. Their cohabitation was a dance they performed in a stilted rhythm, neither really used to it, not quite sure how to speak or go about the tiny minutiae of every day life. She ashamed of her wealth. He ashamed of his lack.

Poster art

I love poster art from old movies (this was before photoshop came along and brought an end to illustrated posters). This is one of my favourites:



It's a horror movie, but the creature seems more sad than menacing. One illustration evoking so many conflicting feelings...

FUN

Almost a month to the day after our last show. It doesn't quite seem real yet.

4 months from today...

... I'll be married. I can't frigging wait!

Stories coming soon, just as soon as work stops being so intense!

These ancient places

I’d come a long way in 24 hours. From sitting in my bedroom in Durban here I stood in Athens at the foot of Hadrian’s Arch, the Acropolis rising in the background impressive and wise and ancient. It stands above Athens with a kind of antique though powerless majesty, like a dethroned king still sitting with a regal and haughty air on a kitchen chair.
I wandered crumbling alleyways on flag stones worn smooth and slippery from years of hurrying feet and came upon the Roman Agora and the Tower of Winds, and ran my fingers gently over the faded and perfect masonry. Feeling dazed and puny and young, I climbed the steep hill to the Acropolis, where sits the Parthenon unmoved and unfazed at all the attention it receives. I stood on the Areopagus and tried to catch snatches of Paul’s voice as it would have rung out almost 2000 years ago.
… and I felt greatly saddened. These places which hold such majesty and grace somehow also seemed like toothless old men whiling away their dotage in senility. Hadrian’s Arch sits cramped in a tight fence just metres from a busy road, itself the antipathy of the arch’s static state. I thought about Durban, where something built in 1800 is old, but in Athens everything is ancient, steeped in millennia of history. ‘History’, that word that rolls off the tongue, which when uttered as a whisper echoes with the clash of steel in antique battle, of witty retorts in the senate, of the wheels of chariots rumbling over cobblestone.
And yet, in this the most ancient of places, the locals do not glance at these monoliths of times lost and mostly forgotten. Every one of them pursues modernity; it must be difficult not to look forward when everyone else is looking back. Hadrian’s Arch is fenced in, almost as if to stop it from escaping and lumbering off to another land, one where it feels it most belongs, one of toga’d bodies and braying donkeys, to trap all this history here and stop this city from becoming like any other wreathed in smog and ringing with the expletives of bus drivers.
It’s so difficult to reconcile brash American tourists with their iPods firmly planted in their ears, boasting loudly about the previous night’s party, with the Parthenon. It seems counterintuitive for these two things to exist in the same space. And I think of the empire today which has replaced this discarded one. In 2000 years, will tourists visit the ancient Absa Stadium? Will the Empire State Building be an archaeological find? Will the numerous discoveries of McDonald’s franchises lead historians to believe mankind followed a deity called ‘Ronald?’ (In that respect, would they be wrong?) Will the writings of Dan Brown be to them our Plato?
I wondered what would become of these ancient places and mourned for the day when the last of these buildings crumbles into dust and is scattered by the wind.