I don't know much about it. I know it has something to do with an obviously thwarted plot to blow up British Parliament by a guy named Guy Fawkes on the fifth of November.
Apparently in South Africa, it is celebrated with eggs and fireworks and maybe knives and stones put into socks. But that's only apparently.
The ride to work was uncharacteristically smooth. Of course, I missed the 8:47 train. My phone has been acting up lately; it constantly believes that it is somewhere around 2:15 am and so I'm constantly having to manually reset it to ensure that I am indeed woken up at the right time. However, my guesswork isn't always the most accurate, and so when my phone said 8:47 this morning, I didn't believe it. Turns out, I should have.
I crossed the road right as the railway crossing was cleared for traffic to move through again, disappointment pouring out of me. Damn! I wanted to yell. Everyday I'm late. I'm supposed to be at work at 9 o'clock but I'm always on the 9:05 train, which presents a problem. I get to work around 9:30, my arrival usually precipitated by a text to my boss Rebecca sending my apologies.
*
My stress this morning was not undue: we had a writing workshop today. I enjoy these sort of things, even though they tend to be a bit repetitive. It's nice to brush up on things, remind myself why I'm not a journalist, and get some writing done.
Here's a snippet from a writing exercise:
· Silver, or gold, glinting in the sun. Except for the strips of silver tape hiding the cracks, the broken space with nothing behind it. 710-PTV, stamped on metal, sits in front of white-capped mountains and green plains. Zero, waiting for acceleration, the white light set against the bright blue of the background. Red lights flicker then disappear. Ignition. The soft purr is lost under the thrum of music, pouring steadily into the small space. Fingers touch a dial, but barely, and the sound fades then disappears entirely. The hum remains, louder now. Tan fabric, tan plastic interior. Gray spreads before me, leading into the glass-covered information panel. Bare feet press into the grooved pedal, easing, pushing movement. Glass, glinting in the sun, reflecting pools of sky and clouds back out to the world. Silver, or gold, glinting in the sun. Simon.
Ah, Simon. My beloved.
But I enjoy the presentations. They're a nice break from the monotony and they give my slagging motivation a lift.
Ah, I'll have two working weeks left once I return. That is when the most of everything will happen. There will be no time for sleep, no time to dream. Only to time to work, and write, and live. Oh, and packing must happen at some point. Here, there will be no time for going back, no time for things left unpacked, things left unfolded, no cupboard left unopened and cleared.
During this time, I need to finish editing a short video, writing a newsletter cover story about townships, writing a piece about wine, a piece about domestic workers, and a piece about American influence in South Africa.
And yet I hesitate here, knowing I've got so much. I want to relish this working environment by relishing my lack of productivity.
So I take my computer with me on the adventure and will hopefully get some work done while I'm away. That might be entirely a lie. Perhaps I'll get nothing done. Perhaps I shouldn't even take my computer with me.
Perhaps this is some morbid foreshadowing.
Ah. Decisions.
We leave tomorrow morning. I must be on the train at 7:21. From there, we'll pick up the rental cars in Cape Town and then drive 8 and a half hours to Jeffrey's Bay.
Three nights there.
Then two and a half hours to Knysna for two nights and then the return.
You'll be able to reach me by cell phone or email the entire time. Just a reminder, my number is +27 766658767 just in case.
And then two weeks until Denver.
Wow. Time is flying, speeding, and I'm just along for the ride.
No comments:
Post a Comment