Thursday, June 19, 2014

from a piece of blue

I've never even been to Big Sur, nor have I read Jack Kerouac's novel, nor have I watched the film adaptation of said book, in the light of which it seems downright bizarre to spend an afternoon making a paper collage that says Big Sur under a big blue wave.

Except, of course, it's such a delicious combination of words, I love how it feels when I say it my head and although I have to admit I have never explicitly articulated the fantasy of going there, I guess it is one of those places that capture my (cinematically indoctrinated) imagination.( Like Baja, maybe, which makes me wonder, did they talk a lot about Big Sur on Beverly Hills, 90210?)

Truth be told, I've also been thinking of Hokusai's waves (right now, I imagine Hokusai is all, "damn girl, why you dragging me into this?!" - except in 19th century Japanese, of course), which I finally got around to process into something.

By the way, I cut this from a piece of glossy, blue paper, and except for the G and two blue space gaps between the letters S U and R, it's all in one piece.

Insert applause.

Sunday, June 15, 2014

A photographic tour of the neighborhood in which I was left behind as a human security deposit

Johan and I spent our first day in Cape Town wandering about a semi-gentrified neighborhood called Woodstock, which, I guess, one always feels like an ass for doing, because gentrification really is a two-cheeked thing.

One minute you feel kind of rugged and good taking the unbeaten path and investing your tourist-$$$ in a hitherto neglected part of town. The other minute, you feel like such a predictable doofus for spending time in a shop selling owl-printed ceramics and artisan nougat.

But hey, since this is not a particularly socially conscious blog, let's just go for it and take a culturally insensitive stroll through this really lovely and colorful neighborhood.

Misstep #1: First stop we made was in a discount grocery store where we admired the design of the generic brand Ritterbrand and bought a few samples of pineapple jello to bring back home. Buying food solely because of their aesthetic properties has to be pretty much THE most asshole-y thing to do. Especially if you document the process with your huge D-SLR.  

Incidentally, Woodstock is also the home of The Test Kitchen - the sole African restaurant that has made it onto the list of the World's 50 Best Restaurants. As luck would have it, we managed to bypass their 3-month wait and do a walk-in for lunch on account of someone just having cancelled their reservation.

Now, eating in a place like this is usually completely out of my price range, but thanks to a world economy and an exchange rate that are completely in our favor, we had the privilege of of experiencing a 5-course lunch with wine for two people for an indecently fair price. (Less than $100.)

And, as we were sitting there, savoring our luck for getting a table at this amazing place, who do we bump into but one of Johan's friends! (Seriously, what are the odds of meeting a fellow dane sitting down to lunch in the the exact same restaurant? Well, considering the guy is living in Pretoria, I guess the odds are greater than I make them out to be, but still!)

And, as we were sitting there feeling on top of the world for bumping into familiar faces in a fancy restaurant, God said from above: "Hey you two, don't be so cocky and full of yo'self. Have you even checked to see if you brought your credit card to pay for all this nonsense food, which honestly looks a little like cat barf?"

Of course we hadn't. And so Johan had to leave me behind in the restaurant as a human security deposit, while he drove back to the hotel to get money.

And that, my friends, was the end of our first day in Cape Town.

Sunday, June 8, 2014

For us, the anxiety-ridden

Via Monkino. One of those blogs that makes me high five myself every time a post pops up in my reader :)

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

The things you do on a morphine high

A woman, who prefers to stay anonymous, but who may or may not have given birth to me, called me yesterday with an unexpected confession.

Said women recently had knee surgery, and while she's up and walking during the day, come night time, her knee hurts like a bitch. And so she has resorted to popping an occasional morphine pill when the pain gets unbearable.

"You know", she said. "I don't think I'll ever become a drug addict, but if I do, I bet I would grow obese in no time."

"Oh", I said, "why's that?"

"I get the munchies when I'm on drugs," she said matter-of-factly. "And. it. is. not. pretty."

The night before she had taken a pill, gone to bed and next thing she remembers was the feeling of toppling over. Turns out she had sleepwalked into the kitchen in her morphine haze, where she suddenly snapped out of it and found herself standing by the sink.

"And you know, what I was doing?", she asked.

"No, tell me", I said, although I didn't expect whatever she'd done to be half as good as it turned out to be.

"I was spreading butter on a piece of toast", she said. "With a dish washing brush. There was butter on the bristles and all."

 Apparently she had found slices of toast on the floor too, but no word if and how they'd been buttered.