Eating with Elvis at Marilyn Mania

In the middle of nowhere, a sleepy town amidst the thick foliage of forest which ran in every direction  as far as the eye could see, sat a large diner and milkshake bar. It’s main source of illumination- cheap, rainbow neon signs. ‘WELCOME TO THE 60’S’.

You know those black and white or techno films that could essentially  create and fill up a “vintage” aisle in the video store? Now I felt like the modern kid who was zapped via a malfunctioning time machine,through the decades. Little round tables wih cushioned stools were generously scattered in a smoking section. The waiteresses wore tight white blouses and pouffy mini skirts in coordinated bubblegum colours. Their hair was larger than life and expertly teased. As we made our way through the  cancer-causing section and entered the foyer we were greeted by the King himself , Elvis Presley (no really there was a talking cardboard cut-out of Elvis) While my dad placed our order with the smiling hostess, pulled by my penchant for history I couldn’t help but wander through this breathing surviving bit of the past…

Which brought me to yet another dinning area. The walls splashed with articles and photograph’s including up to date recordings of Marilyn Monroe.The next room which had a colour scheme of red, black and white. The walls bore gratification to Marilyn, looking ravishing in her signature white halter dress and golden hair.

On the opposite end of the dinning area lay an entertainment centre. A giant working pinball machine from the 60’s stood strong. In the centre of the checkerboard floor a groomed timeless Harley beamed. Along the sides gloated three antique motorbikes. The decor in this room included several Elvis posters and quotes and two Rolling Stones covers. The bathrooms were divided like at any other facility, according to gender. Only here you weren’t “male” or “female”, you were either “Elvis” or “Marilyn”. If that isn’t fandom to a peak I don’t know what is!

This experience was as through I’d run my fingers along a timeline and came to a halt somewhere between the 50’s and 60’s. An entire diner paying tribute to two icons of the time and to think we’d almost drove right past it, none the wiser!

_Quixotic Novelist

My liaison with the land

I don’t remember falling [though I am usually falling in the physical sense, I ask, just this one time, to take “falling” in the figurative sense] it may very well have been a case of love at first sight. All I know is that I am head over heels in love. All it took was one look and I was completely whipped…

My lovesick heart and infatuated mind is however proud to boast that this love affair does not involve a pretentious prince or an ostentatious conveyance. This is the tale of my short lived romance during the vacation of my dreams with a piece of paradise that may more commonly be recognised as the coastal heaven, Knysna.

My senses enjoyed the tranquility and peace of the vibrantly serene sights. Each passing day saw to the rapid growth of my blooming fling.The fresh air sans the pollutants of cosmopolition city life carressed my lungs.  The crystallized waters allured me to fall into it’s swaying arms. The elusive caves invited me to slip into their massive entrances. The hills wooed me with the promise of pleasant picnics upon it’s cultivated shoulders. The teasing waves tickled my toes with their refreshing touch. The welcoming docks spoke of a hospitable disposition and the seaside restaurants provided culinary orgasms. The setting sun set a gold glow in the crisp afternoon as the adventurous, twisting trails and puzzling pathways courted me on summer strolls. Away from the distractions of civilization without the interference of society,I fell in love…

Publicising my affections seems like treason, a breach of the most intricate affairs and yet some of our greatest love story’s lie in the dusty inked pages of an authors dream. My love story is purely non fiction by withholding it to the confines of my heart  it seems selfish to deprive the universe of a love so epic that the sea met the mountains for.

Hoplessly in love
_Quixotic Novelist

PS- If you haven’t already I beg you to make the trip down to Knysna, I’m a little possessive but a place so prestine was made to be appreciated ♡

Old age- the Oligarch

Another fear of mine that has become startlingly more pronounced over the past few weeks is the inevitability of old age. If seeing is believing then I have certainly observed this destructive disease eat away at a woman who means the whole world to me. My grandmother. 

Growing up I was yet to meet a woman more dexterous than her. I recall numerous events where she barely paused to catch her breath and continued with whatever had to be done. Not once did she complain about the floods of people who occupied her home.

I can hardly comprehend that the same woman who so speedily and efficiently made a bed in record time now sat, crumpled in a dampening hospital bed. The same woman whose face shone like the silver moon when the entire house was drowned in darkness during a power shortage now wore a mask of defeat and fatigue. The woman who would carry and console me as I cried and wailed as a child now silently pleaded for comfort.

It breaks my heart watching her deteriorate , the sound of her ardent laughter dissipating into a foreign memory. This is who she is now and yet she is still the same woman she’s always been, I see it in the subtle smile she gives as her contribution to the streaming conversation around her. I see it as her eyes grow wide in disapproval when one of us haphazardly close the curtains and leave it a degree less than where she’d always drawn it.

I guess I do fear old age for it is a plague that creeps into each of our bones from the moment we hungrily gulp our first breath. I do not wish to wage a war with aging nor do I try to escape it, rather I accept it. We all age, those before us have and those still to come will fall prey  too. One side effect of aging may be the loss of one’s memory but if the past few weeks with my gran has taught me anything it is that the memory of oneself lives on in the memory of others.  For that reason it is in my and everyone’s own interest to create and leave the best impression possible to exist on even after we become victims to old age.

_ Quixotic Novelist

Bad hair day

This afternoon I was occupied with life guard duty. A group of youngsters were spending the sunny day in the cooling waters. Among them was a scrawny boy in green swimming trunks. Most alarmingly startling was not that his baldness made his head seem prominently large, he had a tattoo printed upon the flesh of his head. 

Now I do have poor eyesight and the curiosity within me demanded I go for closer inspection.  From only a few feet a way a massive lump developed in my throat. The boy did not have a tattoo, the design upon his head was made up of patches of falling hair.

He gave me a sheepish smile and dived straight into the dancing water. It’s a good thing no one decided to drown that day because I was definitely unable to be the the hero when I felt like yhe victim.  I stood transfixed at how one so young could endure such a nefarious burden. His frail, awkward shoulders could barely support his petulant growth and by the looks of it he hadn’t surpassed more than 10 years of age. It seems trivial and even vain but I could not remove my gorging eyes from his head which ought to have supported an uncontrolled crop of untamed hair.
I concluded that he wasnt supporting some unorthodox punk trend but he had a severe medical ailment along the lines of leukemia or a blood disorder.I wish i were able to extricate him from his condition. I wish I could prevent other people from staring the way I just did, no one lest a child should undergo the stares and puzzlement that exotic animals recieve from the other side of their enclousure windows. D
Expunging my revierie, the boys waged a splash war and they showed no mercy to the weak boy. Solicitious, I wanted to yank him out of harms way. Thanks to the perpetrators themselves ,my faltering faith in humainity was soon restored as the boy’s bubbling laughter floated back to me. I realised that I have no right to want to keep him in a safehouse because that would be denying him the happiness he so richly deserves. He was being treated as an equal, like another snotty nosed brat who disobeyed pool rules…and he was wonderfully content.

I think we greatly underestimate the importance of hair. I spent the afternoon dumbfounded at how this seeningly insignificant thing that we often complain about “why isn’t my gair straight/soft/curly/long/short/etcetera…” How dare we declare a “bad hair day” when so many don’t even share the bounty o Everyday motion of I ripping my brush through my hair, disregarding the many strands that fall to the floor or get stuck in the bristles of my comb because I know-without even considering it- that my hair will continue to reproduce.

_Quixotic Novelist

Tyger Tyger

If I describe a magestic and deadly beauty, a stripped beast with focused golden eyes and disciplined posture. The silent, somewhat serene and sensual prince of the jungle..
.What comes to mind?
-Richard Parker?

You may have read that with a very indian accent because like majority of DSTV users, you watched Life of Pi last Sunday. On Tuesday this week I recieved a live audience with not one but two Richard Parkers. (My ignorance was later made evident as it was pointed out that both were in fact female: Olga and Lacey)

Six of us entered their night rooms under the supervision of a zoo keeper, Elvis. Almost immediately a powerful bulk began pacing fervently in it’s allocated vacinity. On the far end of the area in an identical cage sat a less large replica.Placid upon face value but her anxiety was heard as low, menacing growls resonated deep within her throat. My hair stood on edge as both tigers analyzed our group. No doubt picking out the weakest link, the easiest target, facile prey. My shoulders felt suddenly heavy as an invisible bulls-eye was plastered upon my back with the alluring golden orb gaze of the tiger.

We proceeded into their enclosure. Up to our knees in grass, barely a bird dared to chirp as we trudged through tiger territory. A bright orange ball captivated our attention, upon inspection the spherical play toy was mutilated beyond recognition.  Claw and teeth marks imprinted deep into the ostensibly valiant plastic. The walls of my brain echoed with the comforting words of one of my companions'”Just imagine what it could do to your skull…”. Our trek continued only to discover a mauled bird, fresh blood clothing it’s deceased feathers. At which point we made a hasty exit. 

The next hour saw to washing, sweeping and scrubbing the night rooms. The scent of blood thick in the air. (Being a vegetarian you may understand my distress in this matter)

Finally we had completed our duties and emegered exhausted albeit (thankfully) alive though smelling potently of wet cat and raw meat.

This community service experience was rather fitting as the last poem we covered was “The tiger”. I, like Blake was left mesmerized in awe at the enchanting lure of the tiger and I too, couldn’t help but question ‘What immortal hand or eye/Could frame tht fearful symmetry’. One mystery still baffles me: how can something so gorgeous excrete such foul odored ashen faeces, which, mind you, we had to scoop up. Its about time someone taught the big kitty to utilize the litter box!

_Quixotic Novelist