Of course, this title is untrue in my world. I am entirely surrounded by humanity, being in the City of Melbourne, and have been riding the agitated river that we two leggeds embark upon Christmas-wards, forming queues in shops that sell colourful plastic rubbish destined for the garbage bin in a week. This festival wordlessly imposed on the citizenry, even though significant parts are Muslim, Hindu, Jewish, atheists. I wonder if everyone just comes along for the ride, as really, they have no choice when our whole year revolves around this holiday and the sales. “Consumer confidence is down”, or up, or whichever obtuse code the high priests of Capitalism measure the mystery of economics. I really don’t believe they have a true grasp on what is occurring. If they did, economic crises would be averted and volatility would be an under-rated concept.
But that’s not really what I wanted to write about. It’s the festive season after all, and I’m not entirely cynical. Two weekends ago after my morning shower, my coffee pot followed the arc my body carved as I turned quickly from the stove, as if connected by an invisible line. It dipped and tipped, and with fantastic speed and a triumphant crescendo, the white porcelain smashed into the black ceramic kitchen floor tiles. The hot black liquid covered my legs and feet, cooling surprisingly quickly; it dripped down the walls in elegant dribbles.
I’d needed that coffee. It was 11am and my head was thick, swollen with heat that my liver kicked out. An eruption of anger shot up from the base of my torso, larva, but I paused, reluctant to give it steam or space. Could I really be bothered with another morning of extreme emotion, rage against what simply is? What occurred, objectively, I thought, was that my favourite coffee pot tipped over because I’d switched the cast iron pot supports above the gas jets when I cleaned the stove, and hadn’t noticed that the vessel wasn’t adequately supported. What happened was that the coffee pot had smashed and the floor and walls were now covered in coffee and porcelain shards. That was all. I chose to simply clean it up, rather than falling into the torrid stream of thought where existence was punishing me, neglecting me once again.
Instead of writing, as I had planned to do, a prospect I regarded as enticing as cleaning the fridge, I decided to go to the Mediterranean Wholesalers on Sydney Road and buy a new coffee pot. I’d also buy one for my ex-boyfriend whose last girlfriend broke his, the emotional context of this breakage politely undefined.
What a fabulous exit strategy from the onerous task that writing a novel had become.
The Saturday morning traffic crawled down Sydney Road, predictably everyone and their kids out. The ring of pre-Christmas shopping thrummed in the air and I was pulled deeper into the Mediterranean Wholesaler by the sensory cacophony of this broad, bustling, purposeful community.
On top of the usual Saturday morning business, people hovered around the mountains of panettone and Christmas sweets. Beautiful tins of biscuits embossed with nostalgic pictures of little girls, delicate butterflies and misty-eyed damsels from that romantic yesteryear were on display. Plain torrone or covered in chocolate and filled with Strega, thirty varieties of bright fruit liqueurs, mountains of wafers, crackers, cookies - everything looked delectable.
Without warning my heart sent a lump of sadness to my throat to burn the back of my eyes – my family. Christmas again in this hot mad land of Australia with no family. I chose it again this time, needing a break from the financially draining transcontinental travel, needing to stabilise my health and income after a year of sizzling burnout.
But this searing, this sadness that fell over me like a useless tent emptied me out, cut off all connection to the buzzing families around me. Once more I was truly alone, relentlessly, excruciatingly alone.
Submerged under this hollow fog, I wandered down the Aisle of Pasta; I’ve always loved being in this spacious shop; the sense of it, of Europe, of an old fashioned family store. The giant pasta shells appealed to me, and I found anchovies, a pale smelly cheese, preserved artichokes, the coffee pots I wanted. The packs of lemony crostoli were too big for one person.
Once safely out on the pavement, I considered that I could act on the sadness and buy an air ticket to Jo’burg that afternoon, mess up my finances and create more recovery work but bask in the perfection of Johannesburg's summer, or wait for the wave of sadness to pass, and plan for next year.
In the hot Aussie Saturday summer, I moved up Sydney Road through the crowds of Muslim women draped in fabric, dark moustachioed Mediterranean men and the bright pale skinned young things seeing the world through their heavy black eyeglass frames and kooky gear, into the refuge of Spotlight where the beauty of hundreds of pattered fabrics soon diverted my heart’s focus from its empty homestead to enchanting prospects of all the things that can be made, sewn together; the bliss of fabric.
So soothed, I made my way home, and the next day my dear friend’s mother announced without prompting that she was adopting me, that I would spend Christmas with their family and always be considered part of their family. How sweet, and kind, and timeous.
I feel less alone, and have been very attentive to my mother that she is taken care of for Christmas, spending time with her family in Pretoria, as her tired eighty year old heart would also be heavy. And my brother so far away in London; well, they’re burying his wife’s mother this week, the deep sadness around and life moves on. So fast, and so intense, that I daily have to slow down, slow right down to locate my heart and assure it that it is safe, that all is ok. And today is Chanukah - which is about light, peace and those lovely donuts. Blessings to all this festive season!
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