This is the picture I wanted to add in the last post, flying around a dance floor avoiding stilettos. The person behind me is Theo, just in case he complains he wasn't mentioned, one of the salsa dancers; everyone changes dance partners all through the night, that's the way it's done. I think this was taken in Fiesta tapas bar where people dance on Fridays, but not hundred percent sure; anyway, as you can see from the TV screen in the background, it's sports vs. salsa, you get two types of men here, the 's' for salsa men and the 's' for sports men.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
IN ACTION
This is the picture I wanted to add in the last post, flying around a dance floor avoiding stilettos. The person behind me is Theo, just in case he complains he wasn't mentioned, one of the salsa dancers; everyone changes dance partners all through the night, that's the way it's done. I think this was taken in Fiesta tapas bar where people dance on Fridays, but not hundred percent sure; anyway, as you can see from the TV screen in the background, it's sports vs. salsa, you get two types of men here, the 's' for salsa men and the 's' for sports men.
BEING HERE
Lots of people have been asking what it is like here, so here are some great pics I got from the capetown tourist sites (google for them) and it really does look like this, I'm somewhere to the left of the big picture, and everywhere you look around Cape Town, there's a mountain. The big mountain, Table Mountain, is the distinctive feature, and the waterfront harbour in the big picture is where I was the other day.
ACTIVITIES
Well, time has flown by and the lack of posting on my blog has a lot to do with the fact that I didn't have email access for a while; and when I did I had to restrict it to mostly academic purposes. Having turned up late in the year, I've had to launch into catching up with everyone else who has been here since February. I'm still hunting for a car but hope to have one soon, and then I'll be FREE!
BEWARE OF GREAT WHITES
I'm referring here to the ginormous sharks that lurk the coast and gobble up seals that act as tourist attractions. Well the sharks too are tourist attractions; tourists enjoy being dangled in shark cages, pretending to be bait, as they survey the giant teeth and mouths of the great whites who apparently are not that interested in the tourists. However, if you wear a wetsuit or are on a surfboard then you really do look like bait, resembling a seal, and there have been cases of great whites mistakenly chewing on humans instead of seals. I'm not sure actually why I'm writing about these, except that I did get the chance to go on a friend's (very little) yacht and I decided to fish, dangling a spinner on a line attached to a hoop I hung from my arm. After catching a very large piece of deceptive seaweed, and an equally convincing white plastic bag that slithered through the sea at the end of my spinner as I pulled in my line, I returned catch-less to shore. I then found out that the type of fish that go for spinners are the giant tuna and yellowtail, twice my size, the kind they strap sports fishermen to chairs when they fish for them, and if one had got my spinner I would have been yanked into the sea, no doubt into the welcoming mouth of a great white after my respective yellowtail/tuna. So it's lucky I'm a terrible, if optimistic, fisherman(woman).
BEWARE OF STILETTO HEELS
[Image: copyright Jade Gibson 2007]I feel obliged to warn would-be salsa dancers of this extreme health hazard, especially in crowded places. It is a salsa dancer's lot to be repeatedly stabbed in the very painful surface of each foot by stiletto heels or the back of the leg. You can spot a salsa dancer due to the numerous healing bruises on the tops of their feet or the sides of their legs. At the moment the floor at Buena Vista Social Cafe where I dance on Sundays is caving in, the floorboards individually settling at different heights. There is a hole in one of the floorboards however, where ones stilettos tend to go through and get stuck, revenge I reckon from the Almighty for the repeated battering of other dancers.
I am going to post a picture of me dancing, but it seems I must put in a new blog post to upload the picture, so I will do so now.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
SUN AND SEPARATION
[being cool in Cape Town, copyright Jade Gibson]The sun is out today, the harsh dry radiation-filled heat of South Africa, against a clear blue sky. I hear it is sunny in London too. There is an absence of the roar of traffic here; traffic, yes, but interspersed with birdsong and stillness. It is afternoon, and I've just returned from the University, where we discussed the concept of everyday life, an interesting yet troublesome one when one considers apartheid was once part of 'everyday life' in South Africa. Yesterday there was a seminar on the historical obtaining of freedom by a slave 'concubine' in the Western Cape.
My head addled with academia, I took refuge in a new experience; being 'cool' in a Cape Town music venue; semi-contemporary jazz, surrounded by designer dark dreadlocks in suits meandering between blonde six-foot-something men wearing sports gear (Dutch heritage, I'm told), all of them out with that contrived look of cool-ness, thinly masking the fear of not being as cool as everyone else. What does it mean to be 'cool' really, does it mean to be afraid, to ultimately be conventional, to always wear a social mask? That's what it seems, at least.
My head addled with academia, I took refuge in a new experience; being 'cool' in a Cape Town music venue; semi-contemporary jazz, surrounded by designer dark dreadlocks in suits meandering between blonde six-foot-something men wearing sports gear (Dutch heritage, I'm told), all of them out with that contrived look of cool-ness, thinly masking the fear of not being as cool as everyone else. What does it mean to be 'cool' really, does it mean to be afraid, to ultimately be conventional, to always wear a social mask? That's what it seems, at least.
Cool-ness aside (interestingly, on the salsa floor, one strives to be known as 'hot'), the streets are beginning to look more familiar, and London is a distant smudge of bright lights and salsa floors, crowds and hurried encounters. Here, there is talk of liberation, and struggle in the past; histories of resistance and secret political meetings taking place in dance venues. Tomorrow is woman's day, a struggle in South Africa I feel still has much progress to make. As ever, a place of contradiction.
My dose of coolness over, I return to writing poetry. The wind was howling this morning, and it entered my poems, squoze between the words and infused them with gale-force emotion. When one travels, the wind bears new meaning, suggests places far away, is a means of connection with what you can't see. For the next few weeks, I think I will continue to feel there are parts of myself elsewhere, there are parts of me that others here cannot see, because they have not lived them.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Of mermaids and mountains...
[copyright Jade Gibson 2007]Well, I saw my first mountains again, in the real sense. When they stand stark and solemn against a night sky, with a three quarter moon rising above a swelling sea coated with a sheen of moonlight. A friend drove me down the coast towards Kalk Bay (harbour), Fishhoek (beach) and Boulders beach (where the penguins are) in the evening, after I declared I hadn't seen Cape Town properly yet. The dark streets with firmly shuttered and burglar-barred shops turned into an open stretch of sky with bright stars circling the moon.
'I can breathe again,' I said. After a year in London, I could see far again, across a sea that suggested new horizons, a vast sky unmasked by buildings, neon signs and massive crowds.
I remembered once, seeing over Kalk Bay harbour wall on a dark night, a luminescent seal shooting through the waves. 'Red tide', explained my friend, 'when the algae come in they float in the water, and when they are disturbed they give off fluorescence. The squid come in too, and people fish for squid.' I remembered the seal; a flash of bright phosphorus green, spectral in the water, as it chased food, the squid also luminescent, darting in bright sparks under the waves. The seal swirled in the dark, appearing translucent as it awoke a haze of spinning green light around its body, seeming almost human in its silhouette. I understood then how sailors could easily believe in mermaids, strange spectres that ghostily haunted the waves with fish-like tails.
Earlier, I danced, my own spectral mermaid, amongst a sea of floating colours. Up to now, I have been looking at Cape Town from the outside inside; as a visitor, a spectator. There comes a time when you move from living in a place from the outside, to a time when the place takes over and encloses you, becomes shell-like, protective, and the two of you are in unison. I am not sure if I am there yet, a little torn between two places, but, slowly, I feel I am growing wings here, and soon, like the seal, will be sailing in my own light.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
SETTLING IN...
[Image: copyright Jade Gibson 2007]
A few days later, I've just attended my first return-to-writing-group class in Cape Town. It's an all-women's group, although this is not always exclusively, apparently due to the chauvinist upbringing of many males in South Africa, who are brought up to think they should be in charge of women and, I'm told, try to 'take over' and prove themselves all the time, and possibly the fact that the women themselves restrict their creativity and self-expression in front of men here as well. Sometimes men are allowed in, those who are seen to be 'liberated'. I am not sure as yet if I agree or not with this, and maybe there are other reasons also, but it does mean, as opposed to my London group, there is an absence of thrillers, detective stories and male murderers in the novels. The men in my London group were not at all controlling; all very nice and should definitely be invited over to present an example of non-chauvinism to the groups here, in fact they are more likely to be subject to expressions of self-doubt and insecurity; a trait I find somewhat endearing.
I return to South Africa to hear one artist I knew has died, another was killed in the township, being mugged for money. Hijacking has apparently gone up, and it is, I'm told, unsafe to hike in pairs on the mountain now (before, it was on your own). Second-hand cars are unbelievably expensive, because the cost of new ones is out of pocket (for example, a second hand automatic 1985 Peugot in good condition, was advertised at 16,000-17,000 rand, well above a thousand pounds, whereas I've seen perfectly good second hand cars in London for 200 pounds!).
Banks here are remarkably efficient. I opened a bank account in about half an hour, bringing proof of address (in the person of my friend I'm staying with!), and received my printed bank card about ten minutes later, while I tapped in my pin at the desk. So much for the fact Lloyds in the UK took 3 months to re-open my old account properly and lost my bank card several times (once in the internal post)!
Well, the only similar thing to the UK here is the weather. I read the weather temperature is about the same; it's raining here too. Although this is winter here, and it's summer in the UK... There are floods here, and many people consequently homeless. On the radio, I hear a social worker being interviewed about the high level of child abuse in South Africa, and how there is a desperate need for foster and 'safe' homes to put children in. So, if you want to support charities... you know where to go.
I registered at the University, met the fellow fellows and department, as well as external funders who happened to turn up on more or less my first day. It seems as soon as my feet touch the ground, they are forced to keep moving (and not just on the dance floor!). I'm considering a bit of voluntary work on the side; this place is always open to skills if you have them to share, at the moment it's a question of where.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
BACK TO A LIFE OF CRIME...
We went dancing last Saturday, and my friend L came to pick me up. She spent an hour first having drinks with the friend M I'm staying with for two days. A thunderstorm raged (once again) outside. Well, this weather is good for something, she said, it's the Great Policeman of the Sky...
What do you mean? we asked.
The crime rate drops when it rains, she says. Didn't you know that?
Only in the Monsoon in India, says M. (Not that he's ever been there).
That's because everything is flooded, I say. Anyhow, how do you know something like that?
M shrugs. I just do, he says.
I'm telling you, the crime rate drops everywhere, says L.
After drinks, we went outside to her car to drive to the salsa venue. Oh, f*** f*** f*** f***! she screamed, they've done it again, they've got into my car and the stereo is gone. Even the speakers!
It seemed the thunderstorm had kindly masked the car alarm going off. First night going out in Cape Town, my friend's car stereo is stolen in one hour of being parked outside the house. It's the norm here. You can buy the removable fronts, so people still steal the inner sections.
I'll report it tomorrow, she says. Let's get to salsa. So we did. Nothing's changed here, even the Great Policeman in the Sky is corrupt. But the dance goes on...
What do you mean? we asked.
The crime rate drops when it rains, she says. Didn't you know that?
Only in the Monsoon in India, says M. (Not that he's ever been there).
That's because everything is flooded, I say. Anyhow, how do you know something like that?
M shrugs. I just do, he says.
I'm telling you, the crime rate drops everywhere, says L.
After drinks, we went outside to her car to drive to the salsa venue. Oh, f*** f*** f*** f***! she screamed, they've done it again, they've got into my car and the stereo is gone. Even the speakers!
It seemed the thunderstorm had kindly masked the car alarm going off. First night going out in Cape Town, my friend's car stereo is stolen in one hour of being parked outside the house. It's the norm here. You can buy the removable fronts, so people still steal the inner sections.
I'll report it tomorrow, she says. Let's get to salsa. So we did. Nothing's changed here, even the Great Policeman in the Sky is corrupt. But the dance goes on...
Monday, July 30, 2007
LONDON SHRINKS, INTO CAPE TOWN DARKNESS
[image from Wikipaedia, London page]Leaving London; the plane rose, the houses shrank, red buses moved like beetles along the streets, slowly shrinking too, the streets became smaller and smaller. What was I doing there? I thought. As if the jaws of a steel cage had suddenly released. It was a beautiful day as the coast receded and became blue sea. I arrived 6am in Cape Town, dark and in a thunderstorm. But, out in the dark, there was mountains and space. And, at the airport, was my sister, wondering why the plane was two hours late.
I explained that as we were about to take off from Frankfurt, and approached the main runway, the pilot explained there had been an urgent telex from airport control and he was waiting for it. After a while he explained they had found landing parts of an airbus of the type we were in on the runway, and needed to send an engineer to check it was not our plane. After another very long wait, we were told our plane was safe, the parts had not fallen from it. As we turned into the main runway, and gathered speed, one of the passengers shouted out, 'We are now in God's hands...'
Well, whoever's hands it was, we got to Cape Town, although the luggage of my co-passenger, a young Scottish woman headed to work on a game park, didn't. So she headed off without any kit to her next destination as I entered Cape Town. I had over-optimistically expected to see the mountains as we came in, but all was dark as the sun was out and the wind and rain were howling (haven't you heard rain howl before?). They had been working on the airport car park so we entered a building site as we came out of the airport.
Despite expecting major cultural shock, as I had always had coming back to London, I didn't have any going back to Cape Town. Nothing much has changed, only salsa venues, and the weather maybe, which is apparently more wet than normal. No jokes about bringing the British weather with me, please. On the salsa floor, people were much the same, in fact, most of them looked better than before. It may have been my jet lag affecting me though, as I was a bit tired after packing and working non-stop before leaving the UK.
So, I'm off to explore culture and look at the theory of how creativity and practice crosses nations; hence my own translocation as my own guinea pig. And, as they say on the dance floor, one step at a time, before the spinning begins....
BACK COPIES OF LONDON LIFE
What comes before this post are the copies of earlier things I wrote on London, after my arrival there last year, just as an interesting comparison to life in Cape Town (and who knows where else?) this year.
Any interesting places to visit suggested welcomed.
Any interesting places to visit suggested welcomed.
COLD IN JANUARY 1 15 07
It is cold in January, and it is dark. Darkness consumes everything; the sky never opening up, and the sound of waves and the heat of sun so far away it is as if they never existed. People walk around sniffing with sore throats and colds. The sky is so dark it is sleeping.
I am looking forwards to leaving this country again. However much I try, despite the good people and the good times, I do not feel alive without the sun. It is like being buried underground in a constant underground party; but, still, it is not sunlight.
I am looking forwards to leaving this country again. However much I try, despite the good people and the good times, I do not feel alive without the sun. It is like being buried underground in a constant underground party; but, still, it is not sunlight.
EXCERPTS FROM NEWSLETTER
EXCERPTS FROM NEWSLETTER NO. 2: AN ANTHROPOLOGIST/ARTIST/WRITER INCAPE TOWN 9/12/06
Ah yes, I guess you thought I got swallowed up byLondon, and indeed it did feel a bit like that;something similar to Jonah and the Whale; I wasswallowed by the big underbelly of London for a whileand South Africa seemed like a tiny desperate pinprick on the other side of the Universe which I closedfrom my mind as it seemed so difficult to reach...
But then one bounces back and finds your way out ofLondon, up through its gullet and somehow back in thewaves - rocky and unpredictable, yet with some form ofhorizon and sense of journey in sight. I spent some oftoday looking at sites on arts events, research andevents in South Africa and feel a sense of comfort andwarmth again, as well as finding the research and workitself exciting. Perhaps local dispute and contentioncan appear frustrating and difficult; but from theother side it also shows a society that is dynamic andcontroversial; whereas here it feels bureaucratic andeverything is organised through call centres on theother side of the earth and it's always 'thegovernments fault' and never ones own personalresponsibility.
I have tried very hard to imagine the grey andbrown-brick buildings and more contemporary building'smetallic surfaces are high-walled mountains and rockycrags but seem to have failed to. And undergroundrailway lines cannot resemble wild tufts of grass andprotea, and, despite the fact there are (unbelievably)seagulls here that peer over the Thames on grey murkydays, the only thing resembling the sea is the heavingmass of bodies that throng through Oxford Street atthe end of the day.
There is hope, it seems. The distant pin-prick hasbecome a promising ray of sun and I realise things arenever so far away that they are untouchable, in yourmind at least.
RESEARCH NEWS
So, what has created this sudden burst of optimism andconnection with South Africa again? Partly I can nowfind my way around London again without feelingtotally lost, and secondly because I'm looking intoresearch opportunities one the net through university topossibly be able to link with South Africa, and seeing pictures of similar places and faces. At the momentit is just talk and ideas and looming grant proposals,but I am considering two main ideas - one concerningissues around diversity and perceived culturaldifferences, and how museum and art artefacts and/ordisplays relate to this, and thus may be challengedand changed (comparing London and Cape Town, ofcourse) - and the second a bit more cognitive - alongthe same lines - or maybe even linking in - which Ihave not quite resolved as yet as I need to talk withpeople and read a bit more. There is apparently a lotof work here on how people 'read' and 'interpret'objects.
DANCE NEWS
Enough of that. Those who are not interested inresearch will be yawning by now, so I move to thesalsa and dance scene here. I am proud to say I wentto my first Eastern European Balkan (I think) eventwith an additional polish gypsy band. The band camedown and danced with the crowd after and by the end ofthe evening I could dance to Balkan music (actuallyit's not that hard but it's a lot of jumping - veryenergetic). Salsa however is still full of guys who think it is'Strictly Ballroom' and discuss dance moves like theywould cars and stereos, and when I dance with them Ifeel like a clockwork doll. Occasionally I come acrosssomeone who dances with the feel of the music and ampleasantly reminded of Cape Town jazz (now turned salsa, methinks) dancers who have real rhythm. Is thisnostalgia setting in, I wonder? An altruistic androsy-pink view of life in Cape Town? But there is ahuge difference between a society where music anddance permeates the environment and social events andone where music is absent. A South American friend once told me this true storyof his first time at an English party. He went in andpeople were standing around drinking and talking andnibbling little snacks. He waited, and they keptnibbling and talking. He waited more, and still the same. Finally, he went up to the host and asked him,'excuse me, when is the party going to start?' The host looked puzzled and said, ''but this IS theparty!' I meander. Time to move on to the next subject....
VISUAL ART
Well, I helped edit a forthcoming book on Thupelo workshops for a while for Gasworks (Triangle Network),and they graciously included a tiny excerpt from mydoctorate on the workshops I attended (mostly attendeeartists quotes), but hey, I'm not complaining. It wasfun, and I learnt a lot about the Triangle network. For those who don't know about it, you can alwaysgoogle. I went to the Tate Modern for the first time the otherday and saw the Kandinsky show and realised there wasquite a lot variety to his work than one usually sees.One of my favourite paintings was very dark and madeone feel slightly nauseous when looking at it. Andthere was another very lovely very figurative painting on glass, although to be truthful, the postcardversion was better. So it got me thinking I should take up paint andpaintbrush again and deprive myself no longer. Build asketchbook.And now for another topic...
WRITING
I formed my own writing group! At present it consistsof three regular writers and three totally unreliableones. But the important thing is the other tworegulars have published already and the group is verysupportive. I have my three chapters ready and a roughdraft for a cover letter and an agent contact, but thetruth is my job hunting has taken priority as I needto get work soon to pay the bills and get a place onmy own as I'm in a very temporary space. I think alsothe cultural shock, missing SA and the pressure ofneeding to find work took over my book and made it hard to edit. I think that things are easier now, and going better.
London is surprisingly devoid of enthusiasm for serious writers groups. I went to a large writer's meeting and was a bit shocked to turn up to a meeting where I can truly say two of the 'writers' (and possibly a few more) shouldhave been certified insane. One member argued that, aseveryone was an 'intellectual', that the next sessionshould start with a general knowledge questionnairelike 'who wants to be a millionaire', and he thenstarted firing general knowledge questions at everyoneand didn't stop. The other asked if anyone couldrecommend a book no longer than 80 pages as he couldnever read a book longer than that, and then added that people who have read the film AND the book amaze him, as he usually has done neither. He also tookcopious notes on the first man's general knowledge questions and answers. Not quite like the Touch of Madness Group in Obs - but maybe the two groups should change names...?
Enough of that. Back to...
MORE NEWS AND VIEWS
Today is 9/11 and British TV is full of programmes onterrorism and even feature films on it. The situationblurs reality and fantasy; when the British thirst forthrillers and suspense on TV is replaced by 'truestories' of conspiracy and secret 'cells' in the UK breeding terrorists in numbers. There is an amazingparanoia about anyone who is muslim and, it seems,resentment for the large numbers of Eastern Europeans flocking to London. People are often tense about crimein SA, but I see a different form of tension here onthe underground, a nervousness. Or maybe it is mynervousness. The converse thing is it's safe to walkaround the centre of London on my own, but feels lesssafe to be on public transport. At first, it was very hard to take the British newsseriously compared with South African news - it seemedvery 'tame' and a bit of a joke. News like do British children eat too much sugar, etc. The last week or so it's been much more serious.
Ah yes, I guess you thought I got swallowed up byLondon, and indeed it did feel a bit like that;something similar to Jonah and the Whale; I wasswallowed by the big underbelly of London for a whileand South Africa seemed like a tiny desperate pinprick on the other side of the Universe which I closedfrom my mind as it seemed so difficult to reach...
But then one bounces back and finds your way out ofLondon, up through its gullet and somehow back in thewaves - rocky and unpredictable, yet with some form ofhorizon and sense of journey in sight. I spent some oftoday looking at sites on arts events, research andevents in South Africa and feel a sense of comfort andwarmth again, as well as finding the research and workitself exciting. Perhaps local dispute and contentioncan appear frustrating and difficult; but from theother side it also shows a society that is dynamic andcontroversial; whereas here it feels bureaucratic andeverything is organised through call centres on theother side of the earth and it's always 'thegovernments fault' and never ones own personalresponsibility.
I have tried very hard to imagine the grey andbrown-brick buildings and more contemporary building'smetallic surfaces are high-walled mountains and rockycrags but seem to have failed to. And undergroundrailway lines cannot resemble wild tufts of grass andprotea, and, despite the fact there are (unbelievably)seagulls here that peer over the Thames on grey murkydays, the only thing resembling the sea is the heavingmass of bodies that throng through Oxford Street atthe end of the day.
There is hope, it seems. The distant pin-prick hasbecome a promising ray of sun and I realise things arenever so far away that they are untouchable, in yourmind at least.
RESEARCH NEWS
So, what has created this sudden burst of optimism andconnection with South Africa again? Partly I can nowfind my way around London again without feelingtotally lost, and secondly because I'm looking intoresearch opportunities one the net through university topossibly be able to link with South Africa, and seeing pictures of similar places and faces. At the momentit is just talk and ideas and looming grant proposals,but I am considering two main ideas - one concerningissues around diversity and perceived culturaldifferences, and how museum and art artefacts and/ordisplays relate to this, and thus may be challengedand changed (comparing London and Cape Town, ofcourse) - and the second a bit more cognitive - alongthe same lines - or maybe even linking in - which Ihave not quite resolved as yet as I need to talk withpeople and read a bit more. There is apparently a lotof work here on how people 'read' and 'interpret'objects.
DANCE NEWS
Enough of that. Those who are not interested inresearch will be yawning by now, so I move to thesalsa and dance scene here. I am proud to say I wentto my first Eastern European Balkan (I think) eventwith an additional polish gypsy band. The band camedown and danced with the crowd after and by the end ofthe evening I could dance to Balkan music (actuallyit's not that hard but it's a lot of jumping - veryenergetic). Salsa however is still full of guys who think it is'Strictly Ballroom' and discuss dance moves like theywould cars and stereos, and when I dance with them Ifeel like a clockwork doll. Occasionally I come acrosssomeone who dances with the feel of the music and ampleasantly reminded of Cape Town jazz (now turned salsa, methinks) dancers who have real rhythm. Is thisnostalgia setting in, I wonder? An altruistic androsy-pink view of life in Cape Town? But there is ahuge difference between a society where music anddance permeates the environment and social events andone where music is absent. A South American friend once told me this true storyof his first time at an English party. He went in andpeople were standing around drinking and talking andnibbling little snacks. He waited, and they keptnibbling and talking. He waited more, and still the same. Finally, he went up to the host and asked him,'excuse me, when is the party going to start?' The host looked puzzled and said, ''but this IS theparty!' I meander. Time to move on to the next subject....
VISUAL ART
Well, I helped edit a forthcoming book on Thupelo workshops for a while for Gasworks (Triangle Network),and they graciously included a tiny excerpt from mydoctorate on the workshops I attended (mostly attendeeartists quotes), but hey, I'm not complaining. It wasfun, and I learnt a lot about the Triangle network. For those who don't know about it, you can alwaysgoogle. I went to the Tate Modern for the first time the otherday and saw the Kandinsky show and realised there wasquite a lot variety to his work than one usually sees.One of my favourite paintings was very dark and madeone feel slightly nauseous when looking at it. Andthere was another very lovely very figurative painting on glass, although to be truthful, the postcardversion was better. So it got me thinking I should take up paint andpaintbrush again and deprive myself no longer. Build asketchbook.And now for another topic...
WRITING
I formed my own writing group! At present it consistsof three regular writers and three totally unreliableones. But the important thing is the other tworegulars have published already and the group is verysupportive. I have my three chapters ready and a roughdraft for a cover letter and an agent contact, but thetruth is my job hunting has taken priority as I needto get work soon to pay the bills and get a place onmy own as I'm in a very temporary space. I think alsothe cultural shock, missing SA and the pressure ofneeding to find work took over my book and made it hard to edit. I think that things are easier now, and going better.
London is surprisingly devoid of enthusiasm for serious writers groups. I went to a large writer's meeting and was a bit shocked to turn up to a meeting where I can truly say two of the 'writers' (and possibly a few more) shouldhave been certified insane. One member argued that, aseveryone was an 'intellectual', that the next sessionshould start with a general knowledge questionnairelike 'who wants to be a millionaire', and he thenstarted firing general knowledge questions at everyoneand didn't stop. The other asked if anyone couldrecommend a book no longer than 80 pages as he couldnever read a book longer than that, and then added that people who have read the film AND the book amaze him, as he usually has done neither. He also tookcopious notes on the first man's general knowledge questions and answers. Not quite like the Touch of Madness Group in Obs - but maybe the two groups should change names...?
Enough of that. Back to...
MORE NEWS AND VIEWS
Today is 9/11 and British TV is full of programmes onterrorism and even feature films on it. The situationblurs reality and fantasy; when the British thirst forthrillers and suspense on TV is replaced by 'truestories' of conspiracy and secret 'cells' in the UK breeding terrorists in numbers. There is an amazingparanoia about anyone who is muslim and, it seems,resentment for the large numbers of Eastern Europeans flocking to London. People are often tense about crimein SA, but I see a different form of tension here onthe underground, a nervousness. Or maybe it is mynervousness. The converse thing is it's safe to walkaround the centre of London on my own, but feels lesssafe to be on public transport. At first, it was very hard to take the British newsseriously compared with South African news - it seemedvery 'tame' and a bit of a joke. News like do British children eat too much sugar, etc. The last week or so it's been much more serious.
THEIVES AND POLICEMEN WITH RUSSIAN INTERESTS... 10/02/06
It has been raining. I am becoming more and more English every day. A little like metamorphosis; not turning into a fly, but maybe a fish, a water-paddler; a duck. The rain swirls and soaks and umbrellas go up like mushrooms around London; wet and slippery and different dulled colours trying to be bright.
In the evenings, it becomes dark, and cold now. It seems the heatwave, occasionally hinted at by sudden unexpected bursts of sunshine in the mornings, was a distant melting dream. Now, the full blast of winter looms with its ice pick-axe; a lean iciness enters the faces of Londoners, their eyes resembling a Munch painting. Inside the salsa club they are still dancing, but now there are less of them, less tourists, the floor thinning out so that for once people can move and only kick eachother accidentally occasionally.
Londoners remind me of desert flowers; bursting into blossom in summer for a brief period of time at first rain, then back again to stark and bare. Only, of course, London is messier. Taxis hurtling around corners looking for lives to kill, red buses chasing them, shop windows gleaming with reflections of car headlamps, pedestrian crossings, their own brightly-lit displays. It gives one the sense of inadequacy; surely, one should be buying everything; if not, what is one's purpose in this place?
Meanwhile, there are hubs of stillness. I start a writing class at the City Lit on Saturday mornings and they are writing about a peaceful haven. There is a South African woman there who writes about the danger of living in Joberg; I, however, write about the fact my purse was stolen yesterday in Oxford Street by very professional theives who unzipped my bag while I was wearing it and took my purse out, whereas not once in seven years in Cape Town was my purse stolen. Sod's law, I think, but then at the time I'm not thinking about Sod's law, I'm thinking life is a sod, and of course, I hate London.
I reported the crime at the police station. A policeman takes my details. Turn off the light, he says to his fellow policeman behind the glass window, that's better, I hate it so bright in here. Our lights stay on, and me and my fellow female friend who had been present at the crime watch his shadowy figure as he writes.
One of the contents of my purse was a UCL alumni library card. Ah, says the policeman, my old college. Oh, I say, what did you study there? Russian history, he says. Fat lot of good that did me. If you had known it would have led to a career in the police, I ask, would you still have studied it? Probably not, he says, and shrugs. Why did you choose Russian history? I ask. It was either that or Chemical Engineering, he says.
Transformed temporarily from uniformed police officer to ex-student with a Russian interest, possibly with communist tendencies, the policeman becomes a human being.When we leave, he says, I can give you a leaflet, we're recruiting right now. We laugh. He was good-looking, wasn't he, says my female friend. I didn't realise until he told me about the Russian history.
In the writing class, however, I hate everyone and everything as the anger emerges. That evening I go dancing and someone steals my salsa fan. The next day I leave my A to Z in a cafe. It has my email in, but no-one calls me. I imagine my belongings being whisked into space and disappearing, it's a bit like sending emails, or something from the Matrix, not being sure whether something will stay real or not. So, when I got home, I took the aspirin pill...
In the evenings, it becomes dark, and cold now. It seems the heatwave, occasionally hinted at by sudden unexpected bursts of sunshine in the mornings, was a distant melting dream. Now, the full blast of winter looms with its ice pick-axe; a lean iciness enters the faces of Londoners, their eyes resembling a Munch painting. Inside the salsa club they are still dancing, but now there are less of them, less tourists, the floor thinning out so that for once people can move and only kick eachother accidentally occasionally.
Londoners remind me of desert flowers; bursting into blossom in summer for a brief period of time at first rain, then back again to stark and bare. Only, of course, London is messier. Taxis hurtling around corners looking for lives to kill, red buses chasing them, shop windows gleaming with reflections of car headlamps, pedestrian crossings, their own brightly-lit displays. It gives one the sense of inadequacy; surely, one should be buying everything; if not, what is one's purpose in this place?
Meanwhile, there are hubs of stillness. I start a writing class at the City Lit on Saturday mornings and they are writing about a peaceful haven. There is a South African woman there who writes about the danger of living in Joberg; I, however, write about the fact my purse was stolen yesterday in Oxford Street by very professional theives who unzipped my bag while I was wearing it and took my purse out, whereas not once in seven years in Cape Town was my purse stolen. Sod's law, I think, but then at the time I'm not thinking about Sod's law, I'm thinking life is a sod, and of course, I hate London.
I reported the crime at the police station. A policeman takes my details. Turn off the light, he says to his fellow policeman behind the glass window, that's better, I hate it so bright in here. Our lights stay on, and me and my fellow female friend who had been present at the crime watch his shadowy figure as he writes.
One of the contents of my purse was a UCL alumni library card. Ah, says the policeman, my old college. Oh, I say, what did you study there? Russian history, he says. Fat lot of good that did me. If you had known it would have led to a career in the police, I ask, would you still have studied it? Probably not, he says, and shrugs. Why did you choose Russian history? I ask. It was either that or Chemical Engineering, he says.
Transformed temporarily from uniformed police officer to ex-student with a Russian interest, possibly with communist tendencies, the policeman becomes a human being.When we leave, he says, I can give you a leaflet, we're recruiting right now. We laugh. He was good-looking, wasn't he, says my female friend. I didn't realise until he told me about the Russian history.
In the writing class, however, I hate everyone and everything as the anger emerges. That evening I go dancing and someone steals my salsa fan. The next day I leave my A to Z in a cafe. It has my email in, but no-one calls me. I imagine my belongings being whisked into space and disappearing, it's a bit like sending emails, or something from the Matrix, not being sure whether something will stay real or not. So, when I got home, I took the aspirin pill...
MUSIC FESTIVALS AND DIVERSITY IN LONDON MAY 06
I have been going to festivals. They are free and outside. For the cost of nothing, you can stand with crowds and hear bad sounds systems bellow out what is declared to be the latest musicians from around the world and then spend heaps of money on eats and drinks. I considered it part of my re-integration into London life and culture.
I went to a Philippino Festival on Sunday (the day I had the wierdo tube encounter) and despite being half-Philippino, felt like a complete outsider. There is nothing more bizarre than being surrounded by hundreds of people who look vaguely like you, and some who might even be related to you, but whom you have nothing in common with. The place was full of food stands and banks for sending money abroad and had one music stage. It was part business venture and part place to hang out. I looked at food names where I had no idea of what they consisted of, except for stewed chicken feet, which I guess was stewed chicken feet.
At the Turkish festival I bought yohurt and halloumi cheese and watched an overly-thin belly dancer strut poses on stage, while a more agile onlooker got the crowd's attention as she danced on the grass. I met two Bulgarians there and have signed up for Bulgarian dance classes at the Bulgarian Embassy, which they promised they would follow up on. We shall see...
The Cuban festival was very good, with a lot of salsa lovers attending. But not a lot of dancing, the grass is difficult to spin on, and I realise Londoners are reluctant to dance in pubic spaces.I went to a Diversity festival in Finsbury Park where people gathered at diverse spots - Africans gathered at the African stage, salsa lovers at the Cuban tent, hip hop, bhangra, mainstream and Eastern European at their respective stages. Yes, it was diverse, but not really integrated. At least everyone was in the same park, I guess.
I went to a Philippino Festival on Sunday (the day I had the wierdo tube encounter) and despite being half-Philippino, felt like a complete outsider. There is nothing more bizarre than being surrounded by hundreds of people who look vaguely like you, and some who might even be related to you, but whom you have nothing in common with. The place was full of food stands and banks for sending money abroad and had one music stage. It was part business venture and part place to hang out. I looked at food names where I had no idea of what they consisted of, except for stewed chicken feet, which I guess was stewed chicken feet.
At the Turkish festival I bought yohurt and halloumi cheese and watched an overly-thin belly dancer strut poses on stage, while a more agile onlooker got the crowd's attention as she danced on the grass. I met two Bulgarians there and have signed up for Bulgarian dance classes at the Bulgarian Embassy, which they promised they would follow up on. We shall see...
The Cuban festival was very good, with a lot of salsa lovers attending. But not a lot of dancing, the grass is difficult to spin on, and I realise Londoners are reluctant to dance in pubic spaces.I went to a Diversity festival in Finsbury Park where people gathered at diverse spots - Africans gathered at the African stage, salsa lovers at the Cuban tent, hip hop, bhangra, mainstream and Eastern European at their respective stages. Yes, it was diverse, but not really integrated. At least everyone was in the same park, I guess.
SALSA DANCERS, SAUNAS AND SEDUCTION IN HEATWAVE LONDON, May 2006
It seems to me that not only is the London Underground a sauna, but so are London salsa clubs. In Cape Town, there was some air, one could dance without melting into a heap of slippery jelly, and being showered in other people's perspiration. Here, they deliberately turn the airconditioning off and don't give out tap water, or else even charge one pound for a glass of tap water. I suggested salsa dancers take ectasy and collapse on the floor, and then the clubs will have to provide water, but the salsa dancers are already in ectasy with dancing, so I guess they will all have to keep dehydrating.I read that the Greeks and Romans used to continually smother themselves with olive oil to make their bodies shine. Grease was in. I can imagine while dancing salsa what it must have been like to hang out with the Greeks and Romans, especially during bouts of wrestling. In fact, I think salsa should be renamed a form of martial art. After all, it requires quick reflexes and responses, especially when grappling with an opponent who insists on spinning you out of time. The answer is to try to pre-empt the next move and avoid any uncomfortable arm locks. Capoeria developed into a martial art, why not salsa?I stayed late at Sound Bar in Leicester Square on Tuesday the other day and watched the salsa floor turn from a night of performance to a night of predation, as men went desperately from partner to partner hoping to catch prey for the evening. I failed miserably as a prospective target as I wasn't drunk enough (actually, not at all), but I saw one Colombian hit home with a Spanish woman as they swayed inebriated around the room. I met three Iraqi salsa dancers. How does it feel being Iraqi and living in London? - I asked one of them. It's obviously not very popular right now, he said, in fact I'm Babylonian Iraqi, that's Christian, and I've been here fifteen years. His eyes shot elsewhere. - Excuse me, he said, I just have to go speak with that woman over there, an old friend of mine - and he shot off after the trajectory of his eyes to a woman with short hair and a shorter skirt, who he clearly didn't know well, but perhaps was hoping would become a new friend. Clearly, politics is not a good pick up topic, but he was a good salsa dancer.
HOW TO MEDITATE ON THE UNDERGROUND DESPITE SECURITY THREATS...
Londoners seem very tense these days what with declared heat waves and ongoing security threats on the underground. It seems normal to be stuck somewhere deep below the earth under passing feet and traffic above, while a train breaks down, there is a signal failure, the next train fails to leave the station, and there are ongoing repair works on the railway tracks. During these periods it becomes hotter and stickier - the passenger's faces glance nervously at each other and at anyone's rucksack, while beads of perspiration form on their brows. The metal vertical bars you hold onto are damp with perspiration. Sometimes the whole carriage appears to be passing out from heat and lack of air, there are people falling asleep all the time, heads flopped to one side, or wobbling forwards above their knees. At rush hour it feels like being in a sauna in a sardine can, and usually smells like one.I have a fan. Not a human one, although that would be nice, but a Chinese one I got from a stall at the Trocadero for two pounds. When I use it other passengers stare at me enviously. I would like to share it but it would break the British rule of non-communication to strangers on the Underground. Although, strangely enough, when I first arrived, everyone spoke to me, strangers at bus stops, at the underground, on buses. I am wondering if my face now has that semi-glazed disinterested look cultivated by all Londoners. Deep inside, I am concerned it has. It seems to me that there should be a means of meditating on the Underground in order to relieve the stress. To stare at a single spot and focus on that, its details, the markings, the colour, the texture. However, beware if someone appears to be meditating at a spot on you, they could be completely mad, as the very strange guy on the Underground who deliberately came and sat opposite me on a fairly deserted carriage chose to do the other day. I deliberately chose to get off the carriage two stops on, and catch the next train.
BACK TO LONDON FROM CAPE TOWN, POEM, 2006
London is dark. Back to dark London.
Grey dead skies flaking like dead skin.
Faces riveted to underground stations, passing
In torn rivers down escalators, elevators,
Refrigerated lives devoid of bare flesh, of exposure
To skin cancer through sun, the red glare
Of no sun-lotion, of mountain-climbing.
I am back to dark London, where puddles
Seep, creep beneath my feet,
Where the sky shivers and squeezes between
Building tops, where buy me, buy me,
Is the meaning of lives that pass
Hurried, past each other; no brother, sister,
Only madam, mister; faces that I try
To catch a piece of light within, only
To see it shiver, fragment, glance away
In flurried moments on the tube, on street
Corners. Like their bodies, Londoners bury
Their hearts deep within; never exposed
But tucked under layers of self, weatherproof
Clothing, and armoured minds.
Grey dead skies flaking like dead skin.
Faces riveted to underground stations, passing
In torn rivers down escalators, elevators,
Refrigerated lives devoid of bare flesh, of exposure
To skin cancer through sun, the red glare
Of no sun-lotion, of mountain-climbing.
I am back to dark London, where puddles
Seep, creep beneath my feet,
Where the sky shivers and squeezes between
Building tops, where buy me, buy me,
Is the meaning of lives that pass
Hurried, past each other; no brother, sister,
Only madam, mister; faces that I try
To catch a piece of light within, only
To see it shiver, fragment, glance away
In flurried moments on the tube, on street
Corners. Like their bodies, Londoners bury
Their hearts deep within; never exposed
But tucked under layers of self, weatherproof
Clothing, and armoured minds.
LONDON ARRIVALS, LAST YEAR
EXCERPTS FROM MY PERSONAL NEWSLETTER ON MY RETURN FROM LONDON TO SOUTH AFRICA MAY 2006
Today was a day of rain seeping between pavementcracks and my feet walking across rain, and me getting progressively wetter and wetter. London people can look lovely, but on the underground on a wet day they look like half-drowned rats. Late at night Londoners are usually very drunk and lurch around as if they are semi-comatose, which in fact they are, due to all thealcohol. London seems the same but not the same. A bit cleaner. There is less immediacy in people's faces here than in Cape Town, and less trauma; it is as if people arewrapped in insulating tissue paper you can't getthrough. On an individual level, they are very genuine, but busy. You won't meet them usually walking around but I joined a writing group and dance salsa, so am getting to meet them.
However, the Londoners I tend to meet may not be your typical 'English' as in the stereotypes, they are often from abroad, or haveat least one parent from abroad. I am rapidly coming to the conclusion I am just not made for grey weather and sitting on the London Underground waiting for the latest news on train signal failures. Nor for a nine-to-five job. So if anyone hears of an unorthodox job or project which involves a well-travelled creative artistic anthropologist who can write, do tell me - I'm off and away! It was a complete novelty to be able to walk around in the middle of the night and feel completely safe, and catch night buses any time I liked - at the moment Iam doing it because I can, and salsa ends late, but when sleeplessness takes over the novelty will no doubt wear off. I have been lost several times and taken the wrong underground train also in the wrong directon a couple of times.
A big change in London is that when I left seven years ago or so, people used tostand in the street and hold placards on sticks with the words 'THE END OF THE WORLD IS NIGH' written onthem, but now their placards say things like 'MCDONALDS THIS WAY'. London is also deadly expensive. 25 rand (for SouthAfricans) for a coffee in the centre of London and no free refills which is financial death for a writer wholived off refillable coffees in Mug and Bean in Cape Town while working on marking papers, writing, and at one time, my PhD.
DANCE AND MUSIC IN LONDON (FOR THE DANCE AND MUSICLOVERS)
There is no shortage of music and salsa here. At least 8-10 salsa clubs alone at night in London. The dancing is very different from South Africa - less dips, less improvisation I think. As people are from all over, the styles vary on the same dance floor from Colombian to Cuban to Puerto Rican to English versions of the same. In a funny way I think South African salsa in CapeTown is actually better now than in London. Maybe I have not as yet seen the best here, as I've only been here a short time. The styles are more traditional here, with more footwork, but there are a lot of people who dance it well but have little true rhythm or feeling for the dance. Of course the Cubans and Colombians have the feeling and rhythm but most are sticklers for the more traditional forms of salsa. I met a couple of people who probably have some dance training who are more experimental but I think the Jazz dancers in Cape Town who have learnt salsa are rapidly taking over in style. People here dress up much less too, (or maybe that's the British bad dress sense, and they are dressed up, need to work that one out).
I met a bunch of Colombians who took me to a completely Colombian salsa club - big containers of beer on each table with taps - which finished at six in the morning (they did not tell me this, so my intended 1 o'clock return was somewhat later). Apparently the whole of that particular area of South London (Elephant and Castle) is pretty much Latin America now. I had to quickly remember the Colombian dance styles I learnt so many years ago -footwork from Cali, cumbia, and some new styles. Reggaeton is also very popular but danced much more moderately in London than in SA from what I can see (this is what I thought until I saw Latin American teenagers dancing). Whole familes come; all the older generation hanging out till 6am. No-one is too old to dance here. I also went to another club where people were quite arrogant and very British and thought they were brilliant but actuallywere not that good. There is also a cuban festival here with some very famous bands coming to London on the weekend after next - people from los Van Van and Sur Caribe etc. It's completely free and runs for several days.
ART STUFF
I went to an exhibition on Surrealism (related to theSurrealist magazine publications) at the HaywardGallery, South Bank, and to get there walked across the bridge that is now enlarged from the Embankment,towards the big wheel on the other side that wasn't there when I left London. I descended in a lift that smelt of urine to the South Bank and walked to the Hayward Gallery in grey rain with an umbrella that kept blowing inside out. The exhibition was reasonable and included a few Picasso paintings, films and interestingly lots of artifacts from Africa, and beyond, described as 'primitive' artworks which apparently had inspired the surrealists. There was a drum, masks etc. It was wierd to see a trace of Africaness in a European exhibition on Surrealism, a strange sense of familiarity and groundedness in what was supposedly a fantastical exhibition.
ON WRITING
My last edit of my near-completed novel hasn't seen much lightbut now I'm attempting to get moving on it, sendingoff letters to agents etc. which I hope to do this week. Encouragement really appreciated as I'm totally isolated in my writing a book here - missing mywriting groups. Also, I went to a poetry slam (still not sure what that means) where poets performed their poetry - mostly crass humour stuff. I didn't understand a word of what the person who won said, but he performed it well. There isn't much mugging and murder or major political angst or HIV here so the poems were about - I think - dead cats, men who shout rude things at women, waiting for night buses (I mayhave this one wrong), racism (that one was very good), love, and worms.
After 3 hours of this I decided I will join a smaller writing group in future although I still may go read my poetryat another slam but it was a bit of a marathon. I've found out about one writing group and will go tomorrow, but am still looking around.
END COMMENTS
Having culture shock in what is meant to be your own country is quite bizarre. The main amusement of people who know me here is my ability to race across roads at full speed in fear of being run over due to my familiarity with Cape Town drivers. Oh, and there's a distinct lack of chillies in the supermarket here, the lack of which I am really suffering from...
Today was a day of rain seeping between pavementcracks and my feet walking across rain, and me getting progressively wetter and wetter. London people can look lovely, but on the underground on a wet day they look like half-drowned rats. Late at night Londoners are usually very drunk and lurch around as if they are semi-comatose, which in fact they are, due to all thealcohol. London seems the same but not the same. A bit cleaner. There is less immediacy in people's faces here than in Cape Town, and less trauma; it is as if people arewrapped in insulating tissue paper you can't getthrough. On an individual level, they are very genuine, but busy. You won't meet them usually walking around but I joined a writing group and dance salsa, so am getting to meet them.
However, the Londoners I tend to meet may not be your typical 'English' as in the stereotypes, they are often from abroad, or haveat least one parent from abroad. I am rapidly coming to the conclusion I am just not made for grey weather and sitting on the London Underground waiting for the latest news on train signal failures. Nor for a nine-to-five job. So if anyone hears of an unorthodox job or project which involves a well-travelled creative artistic anthropologist who can write, do tell me - I'm off and away! It was a complete novelty to be able to walk around in the middle of the night and feel completely safe, and catch night buses any time I liked - at the moment Iam doing it because I can, and salsa ends late, but when sleeplessness takes over the novelty will no doubt wear off. I have been lost several times and taken the wrong underground train also in the wrong directon a couple of times.
A big change in London is that when I left seven years ago or so, people used tostand in the street and hold placards on sticks with the words 'THE END OF THE WORLD IS NIGH' written onthem, but now their placards say things like 'MCDONALDS THIS WAY'. London is also deadly expensive. 25 rand (for SouthAfricans) for a coffee in the centre of London and no free refills which is financial death for a writer wholived off refillable coffees in Mug and Bean in Cape Town while working on marking papers, writing, and at one time, my PhD.
DANCE AND MUSIC IN LONDON (FOR THE DANCE AND MUSICLOVERS)
There is no shortage of music and salsa here. At least 8-10 salsa clubs alone at night in London. The dancing is very different from South Africa - less dips, less improvisation I think. As people are from all over, the styles vary on the same dance floor from Colombian to Cuban to Puerto Rican to English versions of the same. In a funny way I think South African salsa in CapeTown is actually better now than in London. Maybe I have not as yet seen the best here, as I've only been here a short time. The styles are more traditional here, with more footwork, but there are a lot of people who dance it well but have little true rhythm or feeling for the dance. Of course the Cubans and Colombians have the feeling and rhythm but most are sticklers for the more traditional forms of salsa. I met a couple of people who probably have some dance training who are more experimental but I think the Jazz dancers in Cape Town who have learnt salsa are rapidly taking over in style. People here dress up much less too, (or maybe that's the British bad dress sense, and they are dressed up, need to work that one out).
I met a bunch of Colombians who took me to a completely Colombian salsa club - big containers of beer on each table with taps - which finished at six in the morning (they did not tell me this, so my intended 1 o'clock return was somewhat later). Apparently the whole of that particular area of South London (Elephant and Castle) is pretty much Latin America now. I had to quickly remember the Colombian dance styles I learnt so many years ago -footwork from Cali, cumbia, and some new styles. Reggaeton is also very popular but danced much more moderately in London than in SA from what I can see (this is what I thought until I saw Latin American teenagers dancing). Whole familes come; all the older generation hanging out till 6am. No-one is too old to dance here. I also went to another club where people were quite arrogant and very British and thought they were brilliant but actuallywere not that good. There is also a cuban festival here with some very famous bands coming to London on the weekend after next - people from los Van Van and Sur Caribe etc. It's completely free and runs for several days.
ART STUFF
I went to an exhibition on Surrealism (related to theSurrealist magazine publications) at the HaywardGallery, South Bank, and to get there walked across the bridge that is now enlarged from the Embankment,towards the big wheel on the other side that wasn't there when I left London. I descended in a lift that smelt of urine to the South Bank and walked to the Hayward Gallery in grey rain with an umbrella that kept blowing inside out. The exhibition was reasonable and included a few Picasso paintings, films and interestingly lots of artifacts from Africa, and beyond, described as 'primitive' artworks which apparently had inspired the surrealists. There was a drum, masks etc. It was wierd to see a trace of Africaness in a European exhibition on Surrealism, a strange sense of familiarity and groundedness in what was supposedly a fantastical exhibition.
ON WRITING
My last edit of my near-completed novel hasn't seen much lightbut now I'm attempting to get moving on it, sendingoff letters to agents etc. which I hope to do this week. Encouragement really appreciated as I'm totally isolated in my writing a book here - missing mywriting groups. Also, I went to a poetry slam (still not sure what that means) where poets performed their poetry - mostly crass humour stuff. I didn't understand a word of what the person who won said, but he performed it well. There isn't much mugging and murder or major political angst or HIV here so the poems were about - I think - dead cats, men who shout rude things at women, waiting for night buses (I mayhave this one wrong), racism (that one was very good), love, and worms.
After 3 hours of this I decided I will join a smaller writing group in future although I still may go read my poetryat another slam but it was a bit of a marathon. I've found out about one writing group and will go tomorrow, but am still looking around.
END COMMENTS
Having culture shock in what is meant to be your own country is quite bizarre. The main amusement of people who know me here is my ability to race across roads at full speed in fear of being run over due to my familiarity with Cape Town drivers. Oh, and there's a distinct lack of chillies in the supermarket here, the lack of which I am really suffering from...
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