Modern Fable: Kitchen Table Conversation

After fifteen years together they had nothing to talk about. He would read his newspaper in the morning; loudly slurp his breakfast cereal and spill some coffee on his blue-striped shirt. On autopilot she would get up, reach for the kitchen cloth and wipe his shirt clean before rejoining him at the table. She would always sit opposite him, her eyes shifting between him and the main door. In the deafening silence all she could hear was the disturbing sound of the boiling kettle, the tictacking of the clock and his noisy mouthfuls. Oh, how she hated that blue-striped shirt, thinking that it looked like a pyjamas.

She knew the routine by now. Soon he would get up from his chair, wobble into the bathroom and get ready for his nine- to- five job. She would stay behind listening to the sound of the bathroom sink, the uttered ‘fuck’ as he would accidentally cut himself while shaving, and after that she would watch him exit with a white plaster on his neck and a slam. She would then ignore the slamming of the door telling herself it was just the wind, nothing else. And then she would continue suppressing the horrible feeling of loneliness that was consuming her, leaving the kitchen table; her breakfast untouched, knife and fork in the same place as before.

She would get ready for work, put on her make-up and while combing her curly, wild hair the screams from the crying canary bird, caged in the corner of their bedroom, would pin her ears back. Before feeding the canary, which was always hungry, she would gaze at herself, her eerie reflection, and ask for whom she was dressing knowing that the answer was no one.

At work, she would hate the whole idea of lunch breaks because she knew she would waste it chitchatting to colleagues pretending that she was happily married. Around five she would do the regular grocery shopping, walk quickly past the baby section of bottles and dummies at Woolworths, drive home in her fancy BMW, make dinner and wait. Wait for yet another silent dinner conversation and the kitchen cutlery’s heartless scrapping against plates.

Yes, life couldn’t have been better. At least it wasn’t Monday, because Mondays were the worst. After every weekend she dreaded the question of what they had been up to during the weekend. She would always make up the most mind-blowing stories of fishing adventures, mountain hikes and steamy lovemaking in the forest. Everybody at work envied her, but she knew that there was nothing to envy. She knew that she spent weekends alone, or together with her husband in front of the TV, but chose to lie because she couldn’t deal with the fact that her first real love had turned into dead love. The truth was that she had spent the last months in the guest room and she couldn’t really remember how her husband looked like without the blue-striped shirt, not even if she tried.

Somehow the cycle needed to be broken, but she didn’t know how and refilled his cup with coffee. She usually wouldn’t, but she wanted to keep him there a little bit longer for a change, even though his company was as close to nonexistent as it could be. He grabbed the cup without saying anything, not even a muttered “thank you,” and downed it in seconds. She poured another one, but this time it spilled over and the black coffee flooded the white kitchen table and his denim pants.

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry,” she cried reaching for the kitchen cloth as she sat down on her knees to rub the stains off his pants.

“Thank God, the coffee wasn’t hot,” she said as she continued rubbing the stains away with hasty movements.

As she was doing that, two threads of curls fell down her face forcing him to look her in the eyes. Hesitantly, like a young boy who had never touched a girl, he led one of them behind her ear, caressing her earlobe softly between his fingertips. She looked beautiful like that; when she was blushing and didn’t know where to look.

“It’s ok. You couldn’t help it. These things happen, you know.” He answered overwhelmed by the beauty that he had just rediscovered.

He didn’t care about the coffee stains and grabbed her pixie-face between his hands as he bent down to kiss her. It was so long ago since their lips last met that they had both forgotten the rush of a kiss. It was like the first; sparks travelling with the speed of light, erasing any feeling of loneliness that she once harboured. She let go of the cloth and started kissing his ear, his neck. High on his cologne she unbuttoned his shirt, bit by bit. She couldn’t wait to throw that stupid shirt onto the kitchen floor. As her hands drifted down his bare chest he stopped them for a brief second, holding them gently in his and said:

"Honey let’s sell the house, go travelling and set the bird free."

1-minute Poetry: Bukowski is blue

Bukowski is blue

Dogs are barking
Rain is pouring

Hands are typing

Bukowski blues

He who no longer hears the dogs

He who no longer types

But still appears on shelves

I read his poetry

I read his Bukowski blues

While the dogs are barking

And the rain is pouring

I see more than a misogynist,
but I still haven't read his short stories.

Breakfast in Bed Day..

So they say Valentine's day is a commercial invention

"Oh, all those card companies pulling in the big bucks"

For some it's the only day they actually get some attention from their better half

(what a weird term by the way, because for some it's just not better, but worse)

"No" says Tarjei, "Don't write that! That's sad"

Well, sometimes you have to write about the sad stuff

"But Tarjei, I'm going to write about something pleasant"

"I think we should have breakfast in bed day like we have valentines day"

"Maybe there could be one for the ladies and one for the gents?"

"Like mother and father's day"

At least then we would get breakfast in bed once a year

- Not just a card

And we could all stay home from work

------------------------------------------------------


Dictionary from http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/my-better-half.html

My better half - My husband or my wife.

Origin: This term wasn't originally restricted to referring to one's spouse as we use it now, but to a dear friend. It was used that way by the Roman poet Horace and later by Statius. The allusion then was to a friend so dear that he/she was more than half of a person's being. That meaning persists, although these days, if the term is used seriously rather than sarcastically, it is generally considered to mean 'the superior half of a married couple'. That is, better in quality rather than in quantity.

Sir Philip Sidney was the first to put into print the use of this phrase to mean spouse, in The Countesse of Pembrokes Arcadia, 1580:

"My deare, my better halfe (sayd hee) I find I must now leaue thee."

1-minute poetry: Forest of Tokai

In the forest of Tokai
I will undress
I will open up my chambers

I will call the birds
I will show the trees
that I am naked and free

I will speak the truth
And you will know
She has left her past behind

If I ever take you walking in the forest of Tokai

People & Haiku

John Security Happy Birthday

He turned 60 today
I gave him a choco chip muffin
The smile on his face made my day

Word of the Day: Vellicate

To touch (a body part) lightly so as to excite the surface nerves and cause uneasiness, laughter, or spasmodic movements.

To irritate as if by a nip, pinch, or tear.

To move with spasmodic convulsions.

....But then again what's spasmodic??

Relating to, affected by, or having the character of a spasm; convulsive.

Happening intermittently; fitful: spasmodic rifle fire.

Given to sudden outbursts of energy or feeling; excitable.

Bebop (Music:) Isbells - Isbells (2009)

Trapped in a web of spoken words - The first words of Isbells' song 'Without a Doubt' - describe exactly how I feel when I listen to Isbells. The good way of trapped. I can't move, but I can hum and harmonise.

I'll press the play button before bed time. It is very calming and suits perfectly as my chamomile tea (with some lemon drops of Bon Iver and some honey S Garfunkel - because that's who they remind me of.)

Their album is also called Isbells. I'm unsure what it means. I guess Bells are Bells, and Is might be ice, because that's what it means in Norwegian: Icebells.

I think of them in winter, when snowflakes are falling and I hear the tintinnabulation of church bells.

The band's from Belgium and should not be confused with Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit. Band members are Gaëtan Vandewoude - who originally started off solo - Naima Joris, Bart Borremans and Gianni Marzo who joined in.

Their music is lush and soft, and is for sure my preferable transport to dreamland.

Lowlight: At times a little bit too much Ray LaMontage.
Highlight: Oh how they harmonise. Especially in their first song"As long as it takes," which is one of my favourites. They also have interesting instrumentals like a little bit of banjo and percussion in "Without a Doubt," some electric guitar in "Maybe," and a tantalizing vibraphone to "I'm coming Home."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NTmRkxF7SIY&feature=related


Thank you Oliver for giving me this wonderful album.

Haiku Photography

My granddad's shoes

In your footprints
places I've never been
stories of heroism

From Street Soccer to the World Cup

Schaapkraal – In the outskirts of Cape Town, 14 days before the official kick off of the FIFA Soccer World Cup 2010, another World Cup was the centre of attention in Schaapkraal where the South African Homeless Street Soccer (SAHSS) was holding their first trial for the Homeless World Cup. The cup will take place in Brazil in September later this year.

“Everybody is into playing street soccer these days,” said Clifford Martinus, one of the directors of SAHSS, as he added that there will also be an opportunity for the girls to enter the cup this year.

“We are currently trying to get commission to bring a girl’s team along.”

Martinus has been working with youth development for the past 15 years and founded the Western Cape Street Soccer League together with David Abrahams in 2006, the same year as Cape Town was hosting the Homeless World Cup. The league turned into the organisation South African Homeless Street Soccer, which today operates on a volunteer basis, aimed at keeping homeless people off the street and away from peer pressure.

“Our aim is not only to offer them an opportunity to join the cup, but to permanently keep them off the streets,” said Martinus.

The players who make the team will be staying with the organisation before and after the HWC until they are ready to start a new life on their own. In addition to training for the cup they will be introduced to various life skill programs based around topics such as drug awareness and the dangers of gangsterism.

“When we return from Brazil we say: 6 months ago, you were on the street. Now that you are back, what do you want to do with your life?’ explained Martinus.

Around 20 homeless boys and men, from 16 years and up, were gathered at the Oasis community building on Friday. They were divided into teams and given their numbers for the try outs. All the players were prepared for the game in their own fashion: some with blue soccer socks, only one shoe or t-shirts stating “soccer hero collection” and “street ball.” While some of them walked onto the makeshift soccer field of tarmac and gravel for the first time Jonathan Tose, 32, has been trying to make the team the last three years.

“Last year I couldn’t make it because I was missing documents and passport. I really hope that I will make it this year,” shared Tose between the matches.

Tose has been living on the street since 1984 and currently lives on the streets of Nyanga. He has been playing soccer since 1986 and when he was younger he wanted to play for one of his favourite teams: the Kaizer Chiefs.

“My dream now is to go to Brazil and play for my country. This is an opportunity for me to change my life,” he said as he ran back onto the field, sporting the number 8 stuck to his back by safety pins.

“Corner!” shouted Colin Davis, 19, the referee, as he blew the whistle.

A year ago Davis was living on the streets of Cape Town, seeking shelter under bridges during the night. While on the streets he used to play street soccer together with his friends, and one day a passer-by told him about the HWC.

“He told me that I should play because I was pretty good, but when I first went I didn’t think I was going to make it. There were too many players,” Davis said about his try-out experience.

He made the Homeless Team 2009 and a couple of months later he entered the San Siro Stadium [also known as Giuseppe Mezza] in Milan, Italy, to play on the same field as his favourite team Inter Milan.

“Wow, the crowd man. I will never forget it,” he smiled. “This experience has made me hungry for more opportunities in life.”

Since a player can only join the Homeless Cup once, Davis was using his soccer expertise as a ref during the trials. A year after the cup he has a permanent home and coaches soccer to kids in Bo-Kaap, working with what he loves the most.

“I’ve learned to be a better person and not to live in the past, but to live for the future.”

The burden of a young poet

I can argue that I am a poet, though I haven't been published yet. I write poetry. That's what poets do. But this entry is more about being a writer. A writer in its broad sense from the creative to the newsworthy. Young poet just sounded more poetic as a title, and since I'm a poet/writer - I'm weak for the poetic.

As a young aspiring journalist you often set yourself up for disappointments. I'm talking out of own experience, but I'm sure others can relate to what's not even rejection, but silent non-existent response from editors whose desks or email inboxes are flooded with hopeful submissions. What are the chances of your story getting read? I actually tried to calculate the probability, but truth is that I don't have a clue.

When I write a news feature or a profile feature I believe in myself, and I'm often convinced that this is it. This piece is going to be in the Argus, the Cape Times or the Mail & Guardian. I picture myself getting up early early in the morning - no snoozing - rushing to buy the newspaper, overly excited of course, holding it in my hands, opening it up - electric fingertips and all - and there it is: by Siri Linn Brandsoy.

This hasn't happened yet, though I've gotten some positive feedback. I'm still waiting for my debut knowing that expectations can be dangerous - they are the root of all heartache according to William Shakespeare - but still I expect. I dream. And I'm writing this blog to publish myself, to better my writing muscles. It keeps me committed, though I don't write every day. I'm to busy trying to get published elsewhere because the "high achievement always takes place in the framework of high expectation." (Charles F. Kettering (American engineer, inventor of the electric starter, 1876-1958.)

There was in particular a story that I was really passionate about writing, and publishing in the Big Issue, about the South African trials for the Homeless Soccer World Cup 2010. I thought it was a wonderful story because most of us don't know that there is a Soccer World Cup for homeless people. It's such a great contribution to support and help 'the people of the street.' Even though it's not the Fifa World Cup we should know about the event so we can cross our fingers for the South African team when they go to Brazil later this year. We should show our support, wish them good luck and acknowledge them because they've spent enough time in their lives without recognition.

I talked to the Big Issue editor on the phone, I called her up to remind her to read my article, I wrote her emails and eventually she said "I'll read it and get back to you next week." Next week passed and I contacted her again without any luck. I'm not mentioning this because I'm bitter. I do understand the burden of an editor as well as my own burden. In the journalist world I'm still a nobody. I'm in the nobody pile. The irony is that someone has to be the first to open up the door, to read my article and to publish it for me to be somebody. And if no one does, who will know the stories of our ordinary heroes? Who will know that Colin Davis (19) went from living on the streets of Cape town, playing at the Homeless World Cup in Italy 2009, to coaching soccer to underprivileged kids?

I'm committed to telling these alternative stories that challenge our stereotypes. I know that one day I'll buy 5 copies of a newspaper rather than 1, because my name is in it: by Siri Linn Brandsoy. I'm like that boy in Charles Dudley Warner's quote: "The boy who expects every morning to open into a new world finds that today is like yesterday, but he believes tomorrow will be different.”

Charles Dudley Warner was a writer and an editor.