Dolce's blog

The fabulous Olga the Travelling Braand her friend Claire (not our Claire) have had a wonderful idea for breast cancer awareness month.

Smoosh Your Boobies!

Aaah. The sweet joy of finding something and thinking "I wish I'd thought of that"....

Justin Hartman has started a site called SAA SUCKS, which it does. A lot. With bells on.

I posted a story immediately. This one from November 2006.

The harsh white light framed her body in a silhouette.

Because

Meh. For the last two weeks I’ve been woman-down. For the last weekend, I’ve been dead. Drowning in gloop and goo. Coughing like an Alsatian on a choke chain. Covered in soggy tissues and Vick Vapour Rub (don’t even think about it Vapour man). All in all? Not pretty.

After a particularly shite week, last week, I commiserated by have too many of these with Zeph and a handful of other reprobates (remember Starshine, anyone?)…

He sat in front of her, droning on about cost cutting and capacity needs.

Sitting on a plane. Eyes closed. iPod on. U2 carving right into my head.

I read a post from Girl with a One Track Mind last night, and Zoe Margolis*, you marvellous woman; in one paragraph you have articulated what I’ve needed to hear for most of my sexually active adult life.

**

There are days when I just feel wicked.

Night one in Grahamstown. And off we went. Wrapped up in a million layers against a fah-fah-fah-ha-reeeeeezing Eastern Cape June night, we wandered down to the TapHuis, found seats and were told that there were actually 4 artists on for the night. Bonus.

The National Arts Festival. Man. Even thinking about it makes me a bit leapy and excited. I love it. Always have. The raw talent. The shite. The motley crowds of arty, student, poncy, hippy, culturedy types. The mix of classical and contempory. The jazz. The dance. The comedy. The drama. It’s my yearly treat to myself.

Right. So last night there was a light little gathering of blogstresses and one lovely sidekick, Angel (poor bastard).

Today I’m interested in the cyclical nature of stuff.

Click at your own peril caveat: Totally self-indulgent, shouldn’t-even-post-this, ridiculous stream of consciousness whinge. Does not require “the world is full of rainbows” comments. Begs to be derided as drivel and left to rot on the sidewalk. Capishe. Good. Now where was I…

One thing I love about living in Obs in Cape Town is that it’s full of artists, hippies, weirdoes and whack jobs. Often talented ones at that.

I’ll tell you this for free: traffic is bad enough without rolling waves of nausea threatening you with the rising panic of your utter lack of an expedient escape plan. I’ve just had the longest drive into work. Ever.

Curled into the slow ending of a day.

Evelyn waited on the ridge, as she’d been told to do. The wind howled and whistled along the bones of the mountain, biting at the exposed flesh of her neck and wrists. In the distance she could see the valley, her village, smoke rising from the small collection of homes clustered together in the stark landscape. She was cold.