Home Affairs

On Monday I visited the Wynberg Branch of  Home Affairs.  On Tuesday I started to  write a long account of my visit but didn't finish it. I know I pressed SAVE, but now this post has disappeared.  I expected to find it in Drafts(sic) but found no sign of it. I shall just have to write up this experience again.
Here we are:-

I knew I had to change my ID document from a book to a smart card. I seemed to remember something in the newspaper about having to do this in my birthday month. As my birthday month was rapidly drawing to a close. (It was the 30th of May already, only one more day to go) I decided to take the morning off from my usual chores and brave the officials at the nearest Home Affairs branch. As I was about to leave my flat I remembered that I had ordered lunch at Evergreen's Restaurant, the Bistro. Should I cancel?. Ever the optimist, I think I would surely be back by then. It was only ten in the morning after all.

I was dreading going to Home Affairs. the very name conjures up newspaper pictures of hundreds of refugees crowding into offices, picketing at gates and languishing for days in long queues outside in the road. I was pleasantly surprised. There were long queues. It did take all morning so that I had to
ring to cancel lunch and get for a take-away instead. But, to my astonishment I had quite a good time and really enjoyed the experience.

At Home affairs you find a cross-section of Cape Towns very varied population. The offices were full of people of all shapes and sizes from all walks of life. Sitting waiting to be called to one counter or another, I struck up conversations with a Rasta poet, a young Xhosa mother and a middle- aged PR assistant, all of them very friendly and very willing to help this bewildered old woman.

I was impressed by the efficiency with which the large numbers of applicants were processed. It is all done by numbers. As you enter the atrium, you are issued with a number depending on what piece of paper you are applying for (ID, birth certificate, passport etc.) and sent to a queue where you are given another number. You are then sent to one or other side of a large hall to sit on a bench and wait. At frequent intervals  numbers are called out.. Number 173 to Photo booth 1, Number 156 to counter 11, number 142 to counter 3. etc.

In Photo booth 1 I was made to perch precariously on a swivel chair while an unflattering pic was taken and sent to be printed on my new card. After another wait, I was sent to counter 9 for fingerprinting. Everything had gone swimmingly up to this point, but now we hit a snag. I just don't have fingerprints. Long years of working my fingers, not exactly to the bone but very close to it, have worn them away. The charming young African gentleman on the other side of the counter was extremely patient.
"Just try once more, Gogo," he pleaded, holding my fingers firmly onto the glass of the scanner,   After several attempts prints of my fingers were captured,but my thumbs were just too smooth. I sucked them vigorously over and over again and the young man took them over and over again and  pressed them down on the scanner at every conceivable angle. No lover has ever held hands with me as long. At last he allowed me to go saying that I  would be advised when to come and collect my
Smart Card. Now I know what to expect I am almost looking forward to this occasion.  I just hope they won't try to fingerprint me again.

Franschoek Festival 2016

I nearly didn't get to the festival. I would only have been able to make the Friday sessions in any case because of proir commitments, but when my car's clutch started to give in and my friend Jenny was not able to drive us there, I thought I would have to give the festival a miss this year. I was bitterly disappointed. Then I wondered whether my friend Sindiwe, who was taking a major part, and would definitely be there on Friday, would like to take over the tickets I had bought. When I rang her, she refused the offer, (she  had been been given tickets for Friday) but she told me that her daughter, Thoko, was going separately and would like to give me a lift.  It meant leaving quite early, but other wise was the perfect answer. So I had a great birthday after all.

I went to five discussions altogeter and all of them were worth attending.
Schools Poetry: Write Read, Hear
Finuala Dowling  discussed how to bring poetry to life with Linda Kuomo, Isobel Dixon,and Wendy Woodward. Linda talked about the Badalisha Poetry Exchange a collection in which  poets are filmed reading their work and which makes African Poetry easily available. Isobel spoke about the many opportunities for hearing and sharing poems in the UK and Wendy spoke about the teaching of Poetry, how to read it and how to write it. All of the poets talked about how the were introduced to poetry at an early age and how much this has meant to them.

Paying Tribute to Sindiwe Magona.
Elinor Sizulu introduced Sindiwe, told us something of her life and conducted the interview.. I was not very impressed with her as an interviewer. She was lucky in her subject. Sindiwe is an excellent speaker and seldom at a loss for words and she was able, with the minimum of prompting to excite and captivate her audience. There were only a few tributes  from the floor, most of them very complimentary.  There were a few awkward questions, but these were ably fielded by the speaker
She really is a pro!I noticed that all the books put out on display were sold very soon after the session ended. Most gratifying.

The language of Poetry
Karen Schimke spoke to Mbongeni Nomkonwana, a South African poet, Jumoke Verrissimo, a West African  and Safia Elhillo, an Arabic poet who lives in America and writes in her own language as well as English. They talked about the problems with translation in getting across both the meaning and the feeling of a poem,but also the inspiration and richness that comes from multilinguism. I found that this was a very interesting discussion and I was disappointed to see how few festival- goers had turned up to hear it. I know poetry is not the most popular of subjects, but these were all people who were interesting in themselves. They all three had interesting histories and fascinating stories to tell.

Crime procedural
Jenny Crwys Williams interviewed Charlotte Otter, Liad Shuham and Mark Winkler.about their crime novels. I have read Mark Winkler and admire his work, but I had not heard of the other two. Charlotte Otter lives in Germany, but her novel is set in Natal and I think was published in this country, I considered buying her book but decided that the other two seemed more interesting.  Liad Shuham, is apparently a best seller in Isreal( and probably in the UK too). He was most entertaining. I just loved him. I am reading his book now. It is very good in the Police procedural  genre,( but not better than out local crime novels.). He said he was influenced by Scandinavian crime writers, but I llike his book better than any of those I have read, I shall look for his other books in the library.

Writers of Fewer Words
Karen Szczurek hosted this one.and Mark Winkler, Nick Mulgrew and Niq Mhlongo talked about the difficulties encountered in writing short stories. They all spoke well, Niq Mhlongu was particularly entertaining. I didn't like his writing as much as I liked Mark Winkler"s, (I am sure I have read stories by Nicjk Mulgrew, but can't bring them to mind.) but he was the star of this particular show. They all cane to the conclusion that short stories were more difficult to write than novels and poems were the most difficult of all. Obviously none of them is as lazy as I am. I have yet to fiinsh a novella, let alone a full novel,  I aked Nick Mulgrew about publishing short stories. He says Prufrock does publish a few. I am going to sen them one or two of mine. Can't hurt.

With much effort and after a fight with my new phone, which has a definite mind of its own,,I was able to contact Thoko and meet her at a cafe on the Main Road. Here I ended my day at the festival being treated to white wine and red velvet cake, kindly financed by Thoko.

Being Right-handed

I have been thinking about being right-handed and how limited I am compared to so many left-handed people, many of whom are  close to  being ambidextrous. My husband used to write with his left hand, but played Squash with his right. As a cricketer, he bowled left-handed, but batted right-handed. (as an aside, our family is a perfect example of Mendel's Laws of inherited characteristics, of 4 children, two are left-handed and two right-handed)

Left hand/ right brain, is there a connection?

A writer friend has broken a bone in her writing hand. What should she do? This would not be much of a problem for me. I never write by hand, everything goes straight onto the computer screen. My left hand can take over what my right hand usually does. Of course the piece of writing would take longer, but wait a minute. Would that be the only difference? 

Thinking about being right or left handed, I remember an essay by James Barry. He was afflicted at one time with a bad case of what he called “Writer’s Cramp”.( I think that it was actually a form of arthritis.) He was forced to learn to write with the other hand. ( I am not sure whether it was his left hand, but it probably was.) Something very strange happened. He found that what he wrote with his left hand was very different to the kind of thing he wrote with his right. A play or story written with one hand had a kinder, more gentle aspect than a play or story written by the other hand.

I have decided to put this to the test with my own writing. Up to now I have typed all my stories or poems with both hands,

NEW PHONE (left hand)

The girl behind the counter was so kind,

There was a long queue behind me, but

she took the time to tell me all about

the features of  the

model I had chosen.

Pity she didn’t tell me how to use it.

So

Don’t ring me. I can’t answer

Don’t text; I can’t reply

I am excluded from the Net,

I’m techno-gagged and

I’ve been

cyber-silenced.

TOUGH SCREEN( right hand)

My fingers are so clumsy, I can’t type

he simplest message. I do try

but why do o’s turn into p’s and why

does the whole message vanish

before I can press SEND.

Bring me someone young, I cry

Someone like the girl at our poet’s group

Who can read from her Smart phone

so many lines she has written with such ease.

I wish that  she were here,  but I reside

In an old-age complex. where technology left fogies  

far behind, a long, long time ago.

It’s no good asking them.

and all my grand-children have gone away.

The staff are much too busy

for such a trivial problem, and so

I am left lamenting, all alone, 

my new and shiny, useless, touch-screen phone

(I would say left hand does better than right.)

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In Praise of the Men of Cape Town

Last Saturday I was at a poetry workshop where we share the poems we have  written during the past month. Many of these poems had the theme of violence against women, This was not surprising when you consider the shocking cases that have been recently reported in the media. I was feeling most depressed thinking about this as I was taking my dogs for a walk. But then I looked about me and what I saw lifted my spirits and made me happier.

The suburb where I live contains a mixture of large old houses, dilapidated tenements, gated
complexes and cheaply-built modern flats and the inhabitants are similarly mixed. It was late afternoon and there were  all sorts of people walking about. These were the happy sights I saw:
I saw a young man cheerfully helping his pregnant wife with her shopping, and an old man gently leading his disabled spouse over the road. I saw a new father proudly cradling his tiny month-old daughter. I saw a grandfather happily chatting to his daughter as he pushed a grandchild's pram. I saw a father smiling at his two daughters, who were jumping up and down with excitement because he was taking them on an outing to the beach. All around I saw these men, good men, strong men, real men.

You mothers and fathers of boys. Teach your sons to recognise  real men like these, to celebrate them, admire them and aspire  to be like them.

CONSTANTIABERG

Just over a week ago I had a very unexpected experience. I had to be carted off to hospital in an ambulance. This is something that has never happened to me before. I have seldom been in hospital and never found myself regarded as an "emergency" But I must say that if one has to be hospitalised, Constantiabergis a good choice. I was most impressed with the kindness and care I received. there.
This episode has made me realise how unpredictable life can be. I am now much more hesitant when making long-term plans. Two trips are scheduled for later this year. The first, a weekend at the McGregor poetry festival in August, the second,a trip to Hogsback with Cynthia in October. I now almost regret arranging them. My health, once so reliable, now can't be trusted to hold out that long.
But, perhaps I feel this way because I am still recovering, Convalescence is slow when you are over eighty. I may feel differently in a week or so.

I hope my little chapbook will be in print by August. Then I can take it to McGregor. "The last to leave" sold quite well in 2014, but that was after I had read my poems.. Steph and I both have small books to sell. We should be able to move some of them after doing our readings. I am looking forward to doing a presentation with Stephanie. Her work is so clever and so funny. Her poems are different from mine, but I think complement them.





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Hospital

I seem to have lost the last post. (That sounds ominous "Last Post"is the call over graves.) I wanted to add some poems, so I minimised it and that seems to have made it disappear, What it was about was just the unpredictability of life, especially life when you're over eighty. On Easter Sunday, ievening, i had just enjoyed a lovely day; the morning with my Grandson Luke and the afternoon with Danielle and Tyler. then, suddenly,in the night, a gastro attack. I had to call the nurses. they helpedme and in the morning, had Christo call an ambulance. He told me later, that he was the one who notified, Luke and said how relieved he was, to find that Luke was in Cape Town and not back in George.

Being carted off in an ambulance was a new experience for me. It was also a new experience to be in a hospital ward, immobilised, attached to a drip.  I must say that if one has to be in hospital, Constantiaberg is a good place to be. I was impressed by the kindness and care I received there.

This experience has made me think twice about making long-term plans. I used to take my rude health for granted. Now I know it can no longer be relied upon. Two trips are scheduled for later this year. : Steph and I are going to McGregor in August and in October I am going to Hogsback with Cynthia. I almost regret having made these arrangements. Perhaps when I am more fully recovered I will feel differently.

I am going to try again to post a poem relating to the experiences referred to above.

NIGHT IN THE HOSPITAL WARD

  

Bright lights shine in the corridor

outside my door. I hear footsteps.

People walk up and down.

In the next ward someone coughs

another moans incessantly.

A tap drips in a basin. I can’t get up

to turn it off

I lie

caught like an insect in a web of tubes

that dangle from the ceiling,

imprisoned by liquid dripping

into fragile veins.

The cougher stops, the moans cease too.

Perhaps they both have died.

I think of dying, joining loved ones,

husband, parents, dearest friends

Do they wait for me?

Dreaming of them, slide into sleep

and then a big, black, male nurse comes,

wakes me, adjusts the drip.

The coughs and moans start up again,

I hear

soft conversations in the passages.

Somebody rings a bell.

Time crawls, the night goes on.

Giving the Peace

Sitting next to me in the pew there was somebody new in church today. She wasn't new to me.We had met before, a long time ago and since lost touch with each other. It was great to make contact again. It's a lovely congregation isn't it" she said and this made me see my parish church afresh. How it is a place where there is so much love, where every one is made welcome, where when we are invited to say"Peace be with you," to one another, everyone around me gives me hugs and kisses. It made me think about why I attend every Sunday, why in this mixed "rainbow" congregation  I have a feeling of belonging that I do not have anywhere else.

It also made me realise why, in spite of the doubts that often plague me, I am a Christian and have been for most of my life. I see how this wonderful faith, a faith base on love, has inspired ordinary people . My devout parents dedicated their lives to helping others. Seated around me during this service are numbers of people doing unselfish loving things. One regularly visits prisons, another provides sandwiches for the poor, another has fought tirelessly for justice in this country. I could go on and on.

If I am deluded, as my atheist friends tell me,I decide, that deluded is what I wish to continue to be.