Menopause is an unexpected turmoil. It spends a long time on the stage. First you notice your period disappear, which seems like a bit of a bonus when you haven’t yet connected it to the death of the woman you used to be. It comes back, you carry on. Then one day, you’re sitting in the doctor’s office trying to explain that it’s been missing for awhile, and he says it’s probably gone for good. Continue reading
“Steven’s heading for fifty, and he doesn’t want to start all over again in a country that’s going to the dogs,” I explained to my friends. Because by now his business was bankrupt and everything and everyone was to blame. Every night he’d deliver a tirade on South Africa’s imminent demise. He’d spew vitriol about the corruption of its leaders, its lack of safety and opportunity, its irredeemable future and inexcusable past. He’d embarrass me, accusing our friends of being too blind to see, and too stupid to leave. Continue reading
I didn’t like my husband when I met him. Well, maybe his looks, a bit. He was sprawled in a chair in the Business Class Lounge, looking slightly out of context and wearing just the right amount of insouciance. Like John Wayne, but without a horse. Continue reading
“I abhor grey. I want to skid right over its ugly landscape to the comfort of extremes. The black and white of absolutes.“
“Tell me more,” he says, hands like steeples.
“Grey is a flat-lining, lobotomized, sterilized, neutralized, dull as ditch-water, cardigan-slippered me. It’s an anaesthetic point of view. It’s middle-of-the-road people. Robert Frost said the middle of the road is where the white line is – and that’s the worst place to drive!.” Continue reading
I was perched on a wooden chair in the parking lot, trying to meditate while soaking up enough Vitamin D to keep me sane. Not that I looked it. Spying the postman and being prone to distraction, my mind seized on the idea of snapping a picture of this ‘dying art’. As I slowly raised my phone, which was hopelessly timing my lack of attention, he whirled around and flung his hands up in dramatic surrender. Clearly I had failed at being surreptitious, sitting on a chair in the middle of the parking lot, aiming my camera at his back.
You know when once in a while a movie comes along that touches your heart so precisely, it nearly breaks it? Seymour did that for me.
It’s about this wonderful pianist who retires from the stage at the age of 50, just to play and teach. Purportedly about Seymour Bernstein, all aglow with self-generated joy and comfort in his skin, it’s really about how daft it is to search for meaning.
We’re sitting on the sidewalk, eating focaccia. Not because I love focaccia, but because the sign said they make it with dandelions and pistachio. We have a brownie as a chaser, which is a bit dry, but laced with espresso. The point is, I’m making a meal of this and want to die living this way.