...the green fuse...

I go for a run in the near-rain wearing a pair of tight black short-pants with reflective stripes on the legs and an old green hooded sweatshirt. I have this idea that I will look really young and fit in this getup, but when I check the mirror I am actually a little ridiculous. I push myself to run up all the hills, looking only at the road directly in front of me. If I look up the whole hill I won’t make it. I listen to "The Dark Side of the Moon", which conjures the apocalyptic emotionalism of adolescence, especially when paired with the balls-out energy of running. I am probably breathing embarrassingly loudly, but I can’t hear it because I’m sprinting like a demon along with the music that fits my life perfectly for these 20 minutes or so: “And you run, you run/ to catch up with the sun but it’s sinking,/ racing around to come up behind you again./ The sun is the same in a relative way but you’re older—/ shorter of breath and one day closer to death.” Can you imagine living in a time before those lyrics existed? For a moment I feel that everything depends on those lines, that the whole thing would just collapse if you took them away. I think about the necessity of music, even though I don’t always want it playing. Sometimes, there’s too much piping, spooling, zigzagging noise in my brain to handle adding some kind of melody in with it. It is possible that at times like those, a melody and the mathematical coherence of music would actually calm the noise. It might give the noise something to wrap itself around, some kind of structure. I am thinking of frames for topiary. And then, obviously, I’m thinking of “The Shining”. I decide that I will run all the way back up to the top of the neighbourhood, so that the first and the last hills will be the same. Can I make it? “Money” plays and I feel disgusted, enraged, strong. Then distanced from it. I have to stop near the beginning of the hill to stretch. There’s some stiffness in the torso. Also in the hips. Does this mean something? I run up and up and up slowly, steadily. At the top everything is supercharged meta-vibrato and the near-rain turns into proper rain. I am basically in a cloud, so I stick my MP3 player in the pocket of my hoodie. There seems to be a theme lately of “moisture and electronics don’t mix”. Discuss. The road is slick and black and seamed with bright green moss. Asphalt fissures. I like this neighbourhood because it is a little bit feral. The flora go wild here. The colours keep me alive. I need the rampant, confetti bushes; the muscular aloes; the fat grey sky. I yank the earphones out of my ears and then there is the rushing static of water on water and the maniac snarl of a chainsaw. There is a massive truck loaded with beautiful, enormous logs. The wood is a thousand luminous shades of brown. I walk down past it, toward my house, and see that some men are trying to repair this beast of a machine, groaning with timber. They are messing around in the front by the engine. They've got it all taken apart. I am impressed that somebody actually knows how to fix a truck like that, in this rain.       

I see horsey people

Well, I promised a post about horsey people, but I don't know if I'm going to be able to write it. The thing is, I talked a lot of smack about them before moving to Hout Bay, and didn't really consider that I would soon be living right on top of them. And now that I am here, and can look down into their very fields and paddocks, can smell their manure and hear their infernal clippety-clop (I even found a broken stirrup lying in the dust by the side of the road this afternoon), the need for caution arises. You see, horsey people make me extremely nervous. Anyone with even the most rudimentary sense of correctness will tell you that there is something deeply wrong with horsey people, that there is something in them to be feared.

I struggle to pinpoint why this is, or where it comes from exactly. Is it the jodhpurs? Yes and no. The snobbish equestrian helmets? Sort of. Is it the wacky, horse-centric worldview? In a way. And what about the queer imperiousness of the horsey person? Only at ease with horses and other horsey people,  she regards the non-horsey person as a lower life form, a pitiful drone lacking in all natural vigor. To her, the non-horsey person is a variety of infidel, a simple barbarian with no appreciation for the unimpeachable glory of all that is equine. And we haven't even gotten to the flies yet. Any given horse will inevitably attract numbers of Musca domestica on par with that of a sizable municipal landfill. Are horsey people really so breezily immune to irritation by these busy, buzzing fiends? I think so. And this also indicates that there is something unnatural about them.

One of the most insidious things about horsey people is how innocent they appear to children. Little girls in particular are not equipped to recognize the dangers posed by them or to feel horseyness as a threat at all. My own daughter regularly points them out to me without the briefest quiver of anxiety. She seems entirely unaware of their darker aspects, her easy sing-song ringing true as she chides me for my trepidation. People all over Cape Town agree that Hout Bay is a great place to raise kids, but no one ever mentions all the horsey people. They are like the elephants in the room, those equestrians in the valley. But whether we acknowledge them or not, I now have real reason to worry that one day one of my daughters will look at me with her bright, guileless brown eyes and make the unspeakable request: "Mom, can I have a pony?" Because we've all seen "The Silence of the Lambs" and we all know that we do not seek out things to covet. No, "we begin by coveting what we see every day." Some children, if not carefully monitored, can become transfixed by the horses in their neighborhood, and easily led astray by the people who ride them. They grow up to become horsey people themselves. That my daughters now see horsey people on a daily basis has led me to reconsider this move: maybe we shouldn't have come this beautiful minefield; perhaps we were safer in Obz among the capering criminals, the brassy lunatics, the chatty one-eyed drunks.

But Hout Bay is certainly not the only area of the Cape Peninsula with a heavy concentration of horsey folk. When my mother was visiting back in January, we drove  to rural Noordhoek for lunch one day. I'd heard that there was a good child-friendly eatery there, and was very keen to try it. We found the place (Café Roux) and the food was excellent. I had one of the best salads of my life, with lots of trendy, tasty flourishes that I'd never have at home: fried butternut, goat's cheese, pumpkin seeds. Sun-dried tomatoes, obviously. It was great. I ate the living daylights out of that salad and my children more or less left me alone while I did it, thanks to the large playground adjacent to the restaurant. My mother ordered the roasted appendage of a baby sheep, which she devoured contentedly in a kind of glassy-eyed, carnivorous fugue. When our meals were finished, I played with the kids for a bit, enjoying the weather, which was cooler than in town, and breezier. 

When it came time to leave, we decided to mosey past the shops near the restaurant to see if they were selling anything we couldn't live without. They were not. But it was still very agreeable, browsing the array of items on offer (the usual calendars, ostrich eggs, pricey flip-flops) in that pleasing pastoral environment, with uncomplaining children in tow, after such a satisfying meal. But then, just as we were about to head to the car, I spotted a bulletin board on the door of one of the shops with the words HORSEY BUSINESS stenciled across the top in large brown letters. HORSEY BUSINESS. Further inspection revealed that the board supported numerous notices exposing a formidable horsey subculture in Noordhoek: horsey paraphernalia were advertised, horsey lessons offered, horsey advice given, horsey condolences expressed, horsey ideas bandied about. Icy nausea rippled within as I comprehended the extent of their fraternity. Indeed, we were deep in horsey territory and were in danger of lingering too long. I hustled my mother and children to the car and high-tailed it for home. I haven't been back to Noorhoek since.

Looking back, I can see what a fool I was. Any trembling amateur with a passing knowledge of the Cape will tell you that Noordhoek is a horsey place. It's a horsey destination, for heaven's sake! People come from far and wide to be with the horses of Noordhoek. They even take their horses to the beach down there! Now this is something I've never understood: horse riding on the beach. I don't mean to be disagreeable, and I certainly believe in romance, but there is nothing appealing to me about riding a horse on the beach. Why don't we bring the goats down to the shore, too? How about the chickens? They can lay their eggs tenderly upon the sand. It will be so divine. Wait a minute... No, it won't! Possibly, if I were alive in olden tymes, with a home near the sea, and had a nice horse that was my primary mode of transportation, I would ride along the shoreline to visit a friend in a nearby village. This would be an acceptable reason to ride a horse on the beach. Most modern instances of horse + beach, however, are highly objectionable.

It is worth noting that there are certain types of horsey people who do not offend, and who even conjure within me a feeling of unique respect. These are the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and the nomads of Mongolia. It must also be said that I have nothing against horses. I admire their strength and grace, and feel kind of sorry for them. They come into the world with this wild, joyous energy, and then humans try to harness, subdue, and break it. It's really awful, actually. But then, they're the ones that went and got domesticated, so it must work for them on some level. You don't see many zebras putting up with that kind of thing. 

I even rode a horse once, in Colorado, when I was about ten years old. It was on my grandmother's friend Lydia's ranch outside of Grand Junction. She had a few horses, but was definitely not a horsey person. The one they had me ride was kind of old and grouchy. We picked our way very slowly up a rocky, snowy trail, and the sky was this deep, gorgeous, untouched blue. The Rockies were off in the distance like a colossal oil painting, and I just wanted to go faster. As a kid, that's what you always want to do. I'd been very excited about riding that horse, imagining pounding across an open plain with the wind in my hair and my heart in my throat. Instead, there we were plodding along at a stupefying pace, with my crabby mount begrudging every step. It was a little disappointing. But this is the thing: I am just not a horsey person. A horsey person would've been in seventh heaven their first time on a horse, regardless of the pace, regardless of anything, really. The horse could have thrown them to the ground, kicked them in the head, shat on them, and then bolted with their brand new camera strapped to its saddle, only to lackadaisically return a few hours later without it. And the horsey person would be smitten. The animal would've won their heart.

I suppose in the end, you either are or you aren't. And if this is true, then maybe horseyness is in the genes and I have nothing to worry about. My daughters may grow up to be strong and graceful themselves without ever popping the pony question. But until they're out of high school and far away from Hout Bay, I remain eagle-eyed, vigilant.

Over the hills and far away

I want to write like a female, but  it is impossible. I don’t want to write about myself, about what nourishes me or my experiences. I want to be a character, a different voice. I paint my toenails hot pink, which was my favourite color when I was eight years old. There is a splash of it on my hand, a long drizzle right along my thumb. No one will notice this, except for Chui. She will notice it immediately. Sometimes I feel like I have two daughters because I have so much male energy. It needs to balance out. Hector also has a lot of male energy, obviously. He is a very male man. My favorite writer, Martin Amis, has said that his overarching subject is “masculinity”. I want to write about the green grey hills and the sea I can hear in the distance. But there’s no time. There are birds circling overhead, and stupid flies are plonking against the window. The baby will wake up any minute. 

Now.