Mutiny

on

The

Bounty

I suppose that a dot pn has it’s charms…

Bucky had these antiquated notions about what sorts of attributes were acceptable and what sorts of attributes were not acceptable if one strives to be A Lady.

The first notion which can be brought into question is who the f*ck cares if one is thought to be A Lady or not.

It is an odd list of attributes, of does and don’ts. A Lady never chews gum, or if she simply must, never, ever in public. A Lady doesn’t eat like a field hand in public ( hear ole Mammie there , in the windmills of your mind, pointing out to Scarlett that Miss Melly eats like a bird ?) . I watched Bucky push many an expensive plate of food around with her fork, a bored expression on her face, and then snarf down an entire package of Pecan Sandies once she was safe within the darkened womb of our happy little home.

Of course, my going to the school where I did brought in many She’s a Lady points, which Bucky seemed- somehow- to feel was a reflection of her own Lady-Like qualities. Perhaps, she reckoned, blood does tell, after all.

Now, apparently ( or at least according to Bucky’s Cabala of Lady-Hoodness) having high arches in one’s feet is also a sure sign of being A Lady. She was very fond of telling complete strangers that I had very high arches in my feet, this brought in mucho She’s a Lady points, right up there with going to an all girls school.

High arches in your feet.

Remember that.

She never mentioned that while I do indeed have abnormally high arches, my feet are almost as wide as they are long. Ladies, you see, don’t have feet like a duck. No. Just not done. The feet of A Real Lady are so slender that they must have their dancing slippers custom made.

Taking notes ?

All of these rules of Lady hood surfaced the other day, when I finally unstrapped my sandals, placed them in my closet and brought out my winter shoes. If I were French, crumbling cookies would bring back memories of the past, but I’m not French, am I ? I have to make do with shoes bringing the wisps of days gone by up to the surface of my consciousness.

Now, you may- or may not- recall that about two years ago, I grabbed two pairs of shoes one fall day on sale. The Clark’s are dead now, these black Loins remain. Nice shoes. Spanking new. My kind of shoe.

But new shoes- of any, closed sort- are reminiscent of the Chinese custom of binding feet if one has high arches.

Oh, after about two, sockless weeks, the leather will have stretched out, become comfy, and I shall love these shoes, wear them until they are rubbed out tatters.

But for now, my feet are killing me.

I’m a stinkin’ cripple.

Think : hobble.

With an s. I need buckets.

Bright side : I can dose myself with antihistamines and not worry about falling asleep before The Father gets home.

He’s a clever lad : he will notice that bucket in the middle of the stairwell, realize that water is dripping from the light bulb hanging there and not flip on the switch.

Yes. His IQ is much higher than mine….

He’ll notice the bucket, the noise…

The stinkin’ roof is leaking.

No, wait : give me a moment, I can find a bright side to this….

I have it !

Mr.Jo is going to be here tomorrow anyway, he will make this all go away. Looking at my bloodshot eyes as he sips his bakkie of coffee, he will wave it all away, magically, with his hand.

And in dialect he will say to me : piece of cake.

Towels. I need towels…

( Wisdom says that when one can’t say anything nice, one should remain silent. )

I rarely mention what I am reading because usually I think that I’m reading crap, garbage, wastes of good paper and ink. But lately I’ve been reading this.

I’ve always been a sucker for stories about The Bounty.

I’ve read just about everything that H.Rider Haggard wrote as well.

But as I read this new Bounty book, with years of experience behind me and – one assumes – the wisdom that comes with age, I can’t help but feel that blue balls and nubile Tahitian babes had more to do with the mutiny than a Charles Laughton type character stomping his stockinged feet over some missing coconuts.

This was a choose wisely, grasshopper situation : on the one hand, life in merry old, as one of the poor folk, not one of the gentry. Yes indeed, what sort of life must one be leaving behind to find scrubbing decks with vinegar and eating mushy peas every day a good and steady job. Your peers ( both male and female) are pock-scarred , with stumps for teeth , how often does bathing take place ? I imagine that the harsh weather, the hard labor, the meager rewards thereof aged people beyond their years, bent and crippled their minds and bodies, freeze dried their souls.

And in the other hand- in a nutshell- is paradise. If you think of how Tahiti must have been then, why, it almost sounds like that paradise that suicide bombers are assured they will enter, right down to all the willing, eager and fresh pussy one could ask for. ( As an aside, The Father once asked a very devout Muslim friend of his what a female suicide bomber would find- 40 horny, 18 year old males ? His friend may have blushed, but honestly admitted that he hadn’t a clue…)

Does anyone really think that Bligh’s coconuts had boo- shit to do with that mutiny ?

( Here I must confess : I haven’t finished the book yet.

I must also confess that I find myself in day 4- or is it five? who- is- counting- when- you- are- having- fun… of a wretched run of insomnia. Truth be told, it’s my allergies acting up at night, but the result is the same : I’ve only had about 4 hours of sleep a night for the past number of days. Nights. Some hardy souls would find this more than satisfactory.

Not I. I need 8 good ones a night and become very contrary indeed when I am deprived thereof.

But I hide it well, don’t you think ?)

Does anyone else think that I resemble a memo- pad ?

You know, a square, yellow block of post-its ?

I just came very close to killing my scanner. It’s not the most expensive of scanners, but it’s a nice one, only months old. And the fearful groans that came from it, the poor dear…

It all started rather innocently : The Father is working every evening this week and so I was fiddling about on the computer, passing time. I’ve a yen to collect scans of photos of the eyes of women in my family, stick them all together. Won’t go so far as to call it art or anything, simply something that I fancy doing.

So, things were toodling along quite well, when I realized that I also wanted a scan of Carrie’s eyes. They say that she was mad, dontcha know.

I have two photos of her, taken in the twenties, about three inches wide, six inches tall- but very clear, precise photos. And so, I jacked the dpi from 200 to 600. Suddenly, I could see her face. From 600 to 1200 – the fine quality remained, details jumped out from my screen.

You can guess where this led to- oh, the groans coming from the depths of the wee, poor machine !

I’ve continued to use this modern day microscope on other photos- passes the time- and the things that appear – weddings rings, goiter shaped necks, eyes sad enough to break one’s heart.

I’ve at least 20 other photos I want to zoom in on… sadist that I am.

Poor scanner.

Mr.Jo has been here since last week and today a repair man came to take a look at our washing machine, which has died. A bad and terrible thing in a house with three children, two of which are girls who change their clothing…hourly.

When he pulled out a special lamp in order to do an internal exam- so to say- of the machine, he said- to no one in particular – that he was going to take a keekje.

I found myself smiling and realized how much I enjoyed hearing these little bits of dialect once again.

They sound so pleasantly comfortable, the verbal equivalent of a flannel nightgown.

A few moments ago, The Boy breezed into the house. He was returning from a trip to the toy store, where he bought a small packet of Yu-Gi-Oh cards. As he passed me, he mentioned that he had just been behind a bunch of American tourists, and when they saw my poster, one of them commented ‘Good thing it’s on the other side of the window’. Then The Boy went into the kitchen to open his package of cards.

I- of course- wanted a little more detail, and so once he had glanced at his cards, I asked, do tell more.

As he was coming home from the store, he noticed a group of about 20 tourists standing in front of our house. They were clutching the collars of their coats tightly together and were wearing rain caps. When it became obvious that The Boy lived here, one of them pulled out a Dutch for Travelers type book and began thumbing through it. ( Here- as he told the tale- The Boy rolled his eyes about a bit and said he simply just started speaking english to them).

They asked him who on earth would vote that way, he replied that he would. It was pointed out to him that he wasn’t allowed to vote, not if he lived in this house. They then asked him why not vote for Bush.

Pulling out his keys for the front door, The Boy told them that if they wanted to have another year of disasters, vote for Bush. And he came inside.

There was another group following them, he told me. And they were all taking pictures of our window.

Here is one of your very own: and this one was taken on a sunny day.