Tuesday, July 14, 2009
nakedness, cathartic howling & flying creatures of the macabre
I promised myself this week that I would do something – actually action something to get me out of this awful, depressed I-Hate-Joburg rut I have found myself in over the last few weeks.
Getting myself to actually step out of a bad comfort zone and do something different is another ball game altogether, so I’m going to have to start slowly.
Otherwise it’ll sit on a list and I’ll never do it. Baby steps.
Maybe teensy little things that automatically make me feel better. Or things that can propel me into a new space.
My three objectives for this week:
Be naked as much as possible
It’s simple – you start to lose your sense of sexuality, or any iota of sensual awareness when you’ve been wearing clothes for too long. For the last few months, I’ve been layering and pairing fucking vests, stockings, socks and coats, and I’ve forgotten what it’s like to actually show a little skin already.
I’m not talking about going outside in the freezing cold without a bloody jersey, but sleeping naked. Prancing about my house naked. Dancing in front of the mirror naked. I used to do this shit. In summer. And it felt good, albeit scary for any neighbours.
The one thing that got me all excited about the concept of Mozambique is being able to direct my big, fat white ass towards the sun, in a bikini. Suncream, skin in the open.
What does that even feel like anymore?
I’ll bust up the heat in my flat and go full out starkers as much as possible. Attend to simple things like body butter on my stomach, where before now, I was so cold, I’d jump from the bath and straight into my fucking Bridget Jones winter pyjamas. No lathering of cream.
No. No more. I’m sleeping in Chanel No. 5 going forward. Only Chanel Number 5. It worked for Marilyn, and it’s going to fucking work for me. Even if I’m the only one smelling it.
I’m a girl, I really should be doing more of this. I realised I haven’t cried – like properly wept, in months. I’ve been close. There’ve been a few tears, but it’s short lived, and it’s usually because of something like MJ dying.
I think I need a good old fashioned howl. Enough Whitney Houston will do the trick.
Join a club or go to fucking gym
I’m looking at clubs before I look at gym. Something I might even enjoy see.
Did you know there’s a fucking Bat Club? The Gauteng Bat Interest Group. I jest it not – can’t find a bloody ‘Let’s Talk German And Swig On Frothing Tankards Of Ale Club’ – oh no – but it seems there are a few questionable people in this city who have a bit of thing for bats.
How very odd. I like it.
I’m thinking they probably all dress up like BatMan and drink absinthe while doing weird pagan rituals while hanging upside down. Maybe, maybe maybe it’s just a front for a really really cool club.
Or of course, they really could just be interested in bats. Bat wingspans, bat crap, bat anatomy, bat diet, bat mating habits.
Maybe I should go, I mean, I’ll let everyone else cover the usual dinner party topics of marriage, politics, religion and economic crises, and I’ll fill in the blanks with random pieces of bat trivia:
‘They say the economic crisis is on an up, but by next year, it will double bounce and be on the down again.’
Peas: Yeah, I heard that bats are known to eat whole bananas in Hawaii.
‘I think we’re going to try and get pregnant this year.’
Peas: Yeah…did you know if bats fly into your hair, they’ll crap, and then tear your hair out.