ode to tall kings

i am a rock, i am an iiiiisssllaanddd vibes

Over the course of the last week, I spent most of my time in - and I shudder to say this - that great Orange nation of our country, the Free State. Some time in August (my mother likes to get a head start on things), I sat, buried in extracurricular organisation and paperwork and my phone chimed to ask two questions from the family group chat - Drakensburg or Clarens for our final holiday? The vote was almost unanimous (barring just me). The people wanted Free State.

I am a sulky person on family holidays. Some time over the course of my second year, my brain stopped being one thing and became another and the long fuse, which I’d spent all of my childhood years lengthening, became much shorter. The conversation gallops around and around whatever fabulous dinner table we have chosen to spend our time at, jumping over me as a hurdle. I felt, sometimes, that I had taken a vow of silence in my sleep, unable to contribute. Unwilling. In the five-hour car ride to Clarens, my younger sister playing Indie girlies I had never heard of and did not care to know, I felt my chest constrict and tighten, the slow snake of A Mood start to wrap itself around me. Made worse, always, by the heat and the lack of a Wifi connection, I knew the farmhouse we had chosen in the middle of the Free State wild would not be good for me.

For three years of my university career (before the novel coronavirus pandemic), my twin sister and I made what I have come to think of as a pilgrimage to our childhood home in Rustenburg. Twice a year, we’d load up the car at six in the morning and begin a two day journey from the big city lights to the industrial mines. The contrast, in both of our heads, could not be starker. I’d come to enjoy this pilgrimage with my sister. We did not speak often. We took it in turns to drive, asking, sporadically, probing questions of what was happening in the other’s life. Whoever wasn’t driving was in charge of music and I found myself relaxing into my sister’s classical music. It became a way to strip ourselves of the burdens of the year, a physical movement from place to place that readied us for the geography of home. When therapists tell me that walking helps clear your head, I believe them, Driving across the country over two days does too.

The issue with these drives was always that around 4pm on the first day, we would pass over into the Free State. Reader, when I tell you I HATE that province. I believe, truly, that something evil happened there and that it has not cleansed itself of the stain of its history yet. Ever. The route we take shows Free State to be an ugly, barren place, completely flat and hopeless. Over the years, we spent the night in Bloemfontein, Trompsberg, other godforsaken little dorpies populated by closed-off, ugly people who bared their teeth at us when we bought mince vetkoek from the local snoepie. These people were distrusting, always on guard, angry in a way that suggested the perpetual threat of danger. But it was not crime these people were wary of, I don’t think. Whenever we were in these towns, I was reminded of the existentialism of Athol Fugard, of Boesman and Lena stuck in the mud, of the characters of Victory navigating a hopelessness. These people seemed to resent us for having left them behind. To be in these towns was to confront something ancient and forgotten, seething, for an overpriced Coke Zero. The heat bore down on us in Summer and the cold was unforgiving in Winter. It is a province that exists at extremes. Unmerciful.

When we arrived in Clarens last week, wary of the existential dread of the Vrystaaters, I could feel my breath change. It was unrecognisable to me, and I whipped out my phone to Google whether or not this place was actually in the Free State. It was. We drove the long dirt road to the farmhouse we’d rented, my father swearing as he dodged sinkholes, my mother’s car making concerning sounds behind us. The mountains loomed large, watching, taking stock of the five ‘Transvaalies‘ and one KZN-er pushing their way through the terrain. When we arrived at the house, I stood for very long on the veranda, not moving, and watched back.

It is strange to undergo spiritual rhapsody on a family holiday. You are still responsible for witty banter, but you feel something sliding undone inside of you. I had never before known the Free State to be wonderful. As we traipsed through the shops of Clarens, I left the group to wander the town on my own. To Think. This is something I pride myself on not doing often, but the geography of this place demanded it. You have to be away from other life forms to breathe in the mountain.

Two years ago, while tripping on what critics are calling ‘magic mushrooms‘, I became transfixed by the view of the mountain from outside a friend’s Obs apartment window. It was September green and, between mouthfuls of the mushroom risotto cooked up as sustenance by my best friends, I turned, again and again, to the scale of the thing. It seemed to me that life was inevitable then, that preservation was the natural order. I am not an environmentalist and I confess I do not really care for animals beyond their capacity for cuteness (though I fear this reveals something deeply wrong with my character) but I felt, in that moment, a desperate need to protect as I had been protected by this mountain. It seemed to me that nothing bad was of any real consequence as long as that mountain was standing. Something in me solidified that day, turning from bubbles to bark.

When I left the rapture of the dwelms, I noticed the window was dirty and I had a stomachache from too much risotto. The mountain burnt six months later.

There are days I feel completely incapable of affection. I feel embarrassed by sentimentality and unable to properly communicate the depths of my feelings in words (an awkward affliction for someone who considers themselves a writer). When men become besotted with me on social media or dating apps, that is my queue to leave. My friends tell me I am not good at hugs and my quiet fear is that intimacy does not come naturally to me. When I give compliments, I deliver them in a matter-of-fact way, because I believe them to be important truths I must impart, not niceties. I often leave a conversation feeling that I was too cold and unfeeling, but unable to be any different. Teaching has helped me to become warmer, has required it even, but still I struggle with how to affirm students without saccharine. On my worst days, they are ‘my students‘ and it is only when I feel less impenetrable that I can call them ‘my kids‘. I love them, so I cannot condescend them with sentimentality.

On Saturday, we drove through the Golden Gate Park, about thirty minutes outside of Clarens. It sits right on the Lesotho border and it is magnificent. We drove in awed silence, all of our necks craned upwards to gawp at the structures far above us. A mountain road took us all the way to the top where we stood, eating oily salami sticks and gazed down below. There were no animals, but the geography seemed to move, to be life itself. The mountains fold over on to each other as you drive around the bends - every one is impossibly beautiful, must be the most astounding thing you will come across in your life, and then you turn a corner and you are confronted with five more that are even better. They bleed into each other, so it is impossible to tell where one stops and the other begins. Where the Earth stops and the mountains begin. Where you stop and begin. For a week, I appreciated, again and again, the scale of my life and my body. The structures, still and impenetrable. Like me. I waited for someone else to say something and as we drove out of the park, my dad whispered, softly, ‘I feel really really small‘. We are not from tall people. I feel I will always be the shortest man in the room. But here, next to these structures, you feel spiritually small, deeply inconsequential to the beings that put us here. In a good way.

Something is knocked out of place in you when you see something like that. I thought of the people of Bloemfontein and Trompsberg, on the other side of this province. I thought of my aversion to sentimentality, to affection. I thought of the nausea towards the students who were open about the fact that they needed validation from me, of the way I see the world, art, other South Africans, myself. Disdain has been a primary organising principle in my life, but it cannot coexist with awe. Mostly, what I am thankful for over the past year as a teacher and in the Free State and over the many years with my family, is the human capacity of awe. Affection must surely follow.

Siri, play ‘Come and Get Your Love‘ by famous band (person?) Redbone! My lovelies, it has been calendar years since last we did this! I won’t apologise because I have been busy being EMPLOYED and maybe if you have a problem with that, you should get off your ass and GET A JOB! It’s not easy running a critically acclaimed Substack AND being the HOD of Drama at [Redacted] College AND running Grade 11 English AND running Grade 10 AP English AND being on [shudder] the Social Media team (though I will not take responsibility for this, I asked to be removed from that portfolio!) That being said, I have missed sharing hot hot boys with you and I am pleased to give you a Double Feature this week! Hot Boy Consultant, over to you!

Thanks so much Substack Anchor, great to be here! First up on the bill is someone I have recently fallen DEEPLY DEEPLY in love with. He was named one of the New Yorker’s Best Performers of 2023 and is a comedy and human genius, most notably for his incredible, world-ending, life-changing special Rothaniel. Smart boys are always sexy! So, for our first hot boi of the week, I give you:

He gives gay (and is) but in a chic way, and his directorial debut On The Count of Three is funny and poignant and stars other hot boi of the newsletter Christopher Abbott! Go stream! Plus, he is also just really hot in a nerdy kinda way (the best kind!) Inshallah he allows me to follow him on his private Instagram!

Number 2 was actually a submission by Boyfriend of the Newsletter Angelo and he was RIGHT on the nose with this one! As you all know the 2010 FIFA World Cup Reprise has been going on, which of course gives us a LOT of material to work with. But it was Angelo who managed to gaze down into the murky waters and see a true winner. May I present to you:

Achraf Hakimi! WHAT a king, people! Look at those soulful eyes. Such joy! Look at those ears! Sexy! Look at that smile! Members of my family have access to this publication so I will not go further, but you can rest assured I am looking disrespectfully! I have no real idea how he did in the 2020 FIFA World Cup Reprise, but he won the most important prize - my heart!

Here is a photo of him and Mbappe together for good measure hehe:

CHOO CHOO! All aboard, amirite!

For Sexy Song of the Week I will have to follow the crowd (but sometimes the crowd is RIGHT) and give you one of the best songs on her new album (and not only because it’s got Mother Superior Phoebe Bridgers!):

This song is so so sexy and sad as well! I love SZA I think she’s a really interesting artist! The way it’s giving Danny Phantom, but Danny Phantom as a 25 year old Sad Boi from Gardens? And I feel like he’s possibly Jewish as well? Now that’s mother! (This is my favourite phrase at the moment, please indulge by sending ‘that’s mother‘ memes).

Guys, I love you lil weirdos man! Feel like it’s a littllleee corny that you keep coming back here even after I neglect you for months at a time (get a life vibes, amirite). But I love you! Happy festive! Complimentsss, etc! Hope you have a lovely week! May you grab your bags and go (Christmas bags that is!) May you try to hide (Behind the Hannukah candle that is!) May you open up your eyes (To the holidays that is!) Love ya’s!