I wrote a poem for The Awl about the messed-up tap in my bathroom, and about being AFRAID
I hiked in the Drakensberg recently, alone. Till my knees hurt, and my lungs. I swam in amber rock pools (I believe the cliché is ‘invigorating’). I was sure everything was going to be alright. I am just fine, I’m good, I’m fresh. The mountains weren’t green from far away, they looked motley, dry. But up close there were constellations of shape and colour that comforted me kind of in the annoying way hippies have of talking about ‘nature’. Connected. At one and henceforth.
Then I came back down, to the campsite, and slung a huge bag of warm clothes over my shoulders and hobbled to the furtherest ablution block clutching my toiletry bag and slip slops.
And I turned the tap on and got such a fucken shock and thought of course. Of fucken course.
Phew. Just wear those rubber shoes. Everywhere you go. Xx
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