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Munich Sheep In Winter
A woman reading a book in a museum imagines she is cleaning the house. It was there. A thread of winter’s bone communicates the royal sorrow of flowers, its perils while I sleep. I woke up from a dream. The woman with hair like silk didn’t leave me, didn’t leave him, her family. I gardened like voodoo, a parent like Mozart composed his music. Blood stings like a wasp, dragonflies approach, so does sleeping, closing it and clear words. A stubborn ghost that I can’t get rid of. I was a woman for a lifetime of dust, sun and touch where heaven meets heaven on earth. Flames, soot, coals, dark light, goals and dreams stuck in ears I have never seen in a mining town. Such drama. Tenderness is every burden, masked and unmasked, the flesh, the image of Christ, and the genesis of the wedding cake. It’s there. About fifteen years ago. case. Matters of the heart. A man and a protected woman, a child in her womb, a garden as rich as a constellation, a galaxy. I got in the way.
What do you do when someone has broken your heart? You come home, clean house.
I wanted to know that you still think about me, dream about me, elements and dimensions of our relationship, with one eye open and the other closed like the moonlight and your soul kills me. I try and not think of your cold touch close to my icy heart. Sin blooms as dark as the sun. There is no violence so early in the morning. My thoughts are getting darker. Where do people go, where do they come from (swimming with the fishes)? Its glare was like a disease. Blaming the hunter is easy, the red chakra light seeping through the woman’s physical body. Its own relevance, silence, the force of where it came from and its own opinion. He was understanding to me the day I realized that he was not, could not leave the life of his family. His hands were white. Eyes of the giants. In the night he will open my veins, the true blood, spill into the pool that covers Canada in my heart, it will hiss like a strain in the force of fluttering, torture, sickness.
Women in Johannesburg know about abortion. You can go to a hospital or a private clinic.
People walked past me on the winter road, more damaged and serious than me. I pulled my scarf tight around my neck, fisted my hands in my coat pockets. The moons I addressed with stars in their eyes, with their celebrity hanger-on style, revealed what I could not know or understand. I hate it in my world, in my reality. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a man on the opposite side of the road with his pose. His Hitler mustache. He looked terrible. The double life in German history is as terrible as it gets. I turn off all the lights when I leave the room. Press repeat button on classical music. I am mystified by the onion and all its layers. The thrill of the knife in my hand as if I was going to kill. His complex patterns are not the same as the married man who charmed me at twenty-two with a boldness, a boldness that made me feel bright, capable, extraordinary, exceptional, and brilliant. Of course he doesn’t remember Tragi-Comic Me.
How could you ever feel wound up in a house full of books, layered from top to bottom?
I never believed in diamonds, furs, monthly maintenance checks, finding love after Mr Muirhead, wives and children, being a teacher past my thirties, religion and church. Men can teach a girl many things outside of the bedroom. They can educate them on grief, abandonment, manipulation, mean smiles, loneliness, music, despair, loneliness, self-help, denial, the grown-up game of maternal thrones, and even as they bark madly at you, their words sound simple. A tree that leaves you wondering where these petals fall.
He taught me, mainly, how to cry in the bathroom and Immaculate Conception is not his. A family is only perfect in a photograph. They are thoughtful about sex, romance, death and being dysfunctional. Do Munich sheep feel as cold in winter as farm sheep in post-apartheid South Africa? I believed in hitting the repeat button to hear the spiritual frenzy of classical music over and over again. Muirhead taught me that.
For a long time I felt nothing, no love for anything green.
I dreamed we were perfect but the flesh on my wrist was calling to me, the shark teeth of a razor blade. There is no more welcome mat at the door for people here. I am a shell, purified by ritual, by ceremony, sometimes a brooding thinker, sometimes a child from a fairy tale childhood standing on the shore facing the emerald hypomanic Monday ghost of the sea. Jean Rhys dances. She dances her heart out on stage but knows it will never be enough to make up for the childhood she lost in Dominica. A green feast of rolling hills and valleys before her. Her wounds have not yet healed. They entertain us by being annoying. Tragedy. freeze close to That door of childhood was closed forever. And we both believed that love would save us. A tenderness in the dark that will bone us both forever. He was the enemy. thief A woman writer. Watch them as they quickly flex their muscles, gathering their day’s work, creativity and enthusiasm.
Their brains are like crumbs, cuckoo clocks and think tanks of war poets all inseparable.
He says, ‘I am a new leaf, collaborating with destinations anywhere, transport and people.’ He manages time and routine with striking maturity and brilliant clarity of vision like any great poet, great thinker. Oh, to walk without direction, to think only of pure thought, ritual and nothing else but then again the mocking, terrifying and informative needle, the doctor in her white lab coat (who exactly is the rat here), the merry bunch of student nurses, the mansion, Dollhouses, swimming pools, libraries, teenagers in their liberal ways, romantic eating disorders, tics, marijuana addiction. I guessed everyone was an alcoholic until they turned twenty one. This was the next phase of my life. Damage, breathing lessons, physical science for twenty-two and tongue matriculants. Every day at Tara there was a curious oppressive ring in the air, the texture, the sense of the sun. I can’t function anymore.
I wanted to be silent, praying at night that there were no ghosts that had set foot in the corridors.
North America fascinated me, even though I couldn’t do anything and think straight anymore. My writing room is very comfortable. The room is quiet and gets lots of light, the room is open with only a few essentials. My writing desk that I can’t do without and my bed pushed against the wall. It’s a small place but it’s my place. If I want to sleep, I sleep. If I want to read, I read. And I left the people of Johannesburg and the Swazi girls behind me at St. Mark’s High. The air in Swaziland was full of sweetness. Bad memories are bad for you, they are worthless, they starve you of goodness and intrigue. Good memories give you stories, make you charming but they attack you quickly, quickly forgotten. Mantra, meditation or prayer? He needed to explore the world. I didn’t. He had a collection. The friendship ended and a big trouble started for me. He had to be the curator of his own museum. The light passed from my eyes, so did the moon of the world, innocence it touched.
Not for me, cry for Africa for your children, cry for courage, pray for your sins to be forgiven.
And so my life began in Port Elizabeth with my father and my mother once again at twenty-two in a post-apartheid rainbow nation of African renaissance kitchens with ripe figs and children. The fig trees in the courtyard were slowly dying. My father and I used to go outside and gaze at the stars in the polluted sky (we lived on the industrial side of town) as if the stars were divided into districts. The intricate lines on his face didn’t bother me, each ripple, each wave multiplied. He still became a ‘daddy’ since the birth of his first grandchild. sleeper Ethan was a three-month-old cherub named Heath or Ambrose. Babies don’t run on electricity. They run on a diet of milk, not pasta or films directed by Tarantino. And that’s how I felt again. I felt love again. You can never completely let go of the past because it made you the person you are.
Our kitchen smells of love like it hasn’t in years.
Love, passion, empathy, it has influenced me in a way, even though I have yet to swim with dolphins or go to Starbucks on Wiltshire Boulevard, I am a slave to it. It is a family made for eight people. It was once a family of five and we were four then but now we are eight. Eight is an extremely charming number. Eight plates, eight knives, eight forks, eight glasses. Cooking pots on the stove, fragrant meat, this house is home again. And I loved this wedding almost as much as I loved studying history at school. Add the old one. Add the old one. what to do what to do Wait for it to dissolve, dissolve, dissolve but then those living in poverty will have nothing left to live on. I recognize them by their old shoes. They drink water like there’s no tomorrow and possibly flush it all out of their system as they starve, scared to death just thinking about where their next meal is going to come from. And it’s not focaccia, it’s chicken and it’s not spaghetti.
Is poverty’s glittering, disillusioned test God, my assignment, my grand purpose?
My sister tells me that she stands on top of buildings in the Johannesburg Central Business District and takes photos of sunsets on the rooftops of other buildings. Not bad at all for a beginner. Either people dream of London, Thailand, India, North America (Florida and New York), Cancun, Mexico, she is ready to book plane tickets, get visas and pack bags. My sister is a wedding photographer. She takes pictures. After a while she rests, talking to a man who has taken an interest in her, her friend calls it ‘love at first sight’. She wants everyone to mate her, drink sparkling wine, compliment her on her dress, talk about my sister’s speech at the reception at the thornbush, and have the bride’s parents make their own gifts. Weekend twice a year but my sister doesn’t get any of that. She is friendly. She’s always friendly but if she’s not interested, she’s not interested.
‘He can’t take his eyes off you.’ says the bride. My sister just rolls her eyes in disgust.
You see he is not the first. My sister wears ivory and rain in her hair. Her hands are golden, light skinned like my mother (Germanic, St. Helena blood in her I think) and her palms are shiny. I remember we used to feed the chickens biscuits in my grandmother’s yard, eat ripe figs, take as many as we wanted, carry them in t-shirts. But it was an acquired taste and as kids we didn’t like the taste very much. It was a strange fruit. The seeds tasted like confetti on my tongue. We used to split them in half and look at them almost in awe and wonder because we had never seen such a fruit before which had a beautiful white flower that looked like a jasmine. But we ate in front of her because we love her. I loved her hands, her beautiful hair, her fine collection of hats for church, her cooking and Sunday after church baked potatoes and her Sunday lunch pickings. She loved making soup and wholesome nutty homemade bread for us as she greeted us from school in the afternoon. She loved watching us eat, she couldn’t take her eyes off us like us.
But now that door is closed for her forever.
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