Of EXQUISITE and DEAR things

This day is made for the monumentally suicidal. The updated weather forecast says “Mostly cloudy” which is overstated optimism. The mountain is shrouded in the kind of mist that is determined to last for ever, to become a legend spoken of in awe by people not yet born.

So I’m restless and grab a girly magazine – I don’t like these magazines, they’re too shallow and assume I think the same as the rest of the female population – but it’s lying on the counter, bought for a 20 word caption under a picture mentioning my niece. I find these types of magazines dictate a uniform which doesn’t suit me and tell me that if I want to be eternally happy, I should a) find the perfect man (you cannot possibly live without one of them and we’ll tell you how to catch one), or b) I need to realise, accept and yes! embrace! that I’m either gay (which is still frowned upon but which we won’t admit to) or abnormal (which should make me sublimely unhappy).

While I’m waiting for the kettle to boil, I page through the first few advertisements for perfumes which will make me irresistible to the opposite sex (or the same sex – see above). On page 27 is an article by Nataniël, our local conscience and waker-upper of long forgotten mores. He’s unflinchingly gay, sexually and emotionally, and I love him. I read his article where he asks how we are soothed and he goes on to tell of his gift Encyclopedia  of the Exquisite given him by his friend Diane which makes him think of what is exquisite in his life. He has fallen in love with a coat made for one of his stage shows by Floris Louw and wants to be buried in it. He loves the new CD by 3rd World Spectator called The Theory of Everything. Not major things like sweeping landscapes and the usual dew-drop-on-a-petal kind of exquisite, but the smaller and therefore possessed of greater impact, things to marvel at.

I look out the window where the mountain should be and reflect on what those exquisite things in MY life are. I’m overwhelmed by the task and realise I should distinguish between What is exquisite and What is dear. It is the perfect day to brood and become poetic about life. It is no easy task and I decide to brood over a raw chicken, stare at it for awhile until I decide how it is to be prepared to show it how immensely grateful we are for its demise.

I shall get back to you about both the chicken and the poetry in my life.