Me, myself, I (& eddy)
Writing about yourself
I lay in bed & a massive moth flew straight into my face.
I’d just bought a new oscillating fan to chase the mozzies away. According to urban myth a fan is just the biscuit to do that job. The blades make a kind of wind-wall that mosquitoes can’t navigate. Apparently.
“eddy,” I called across to where he was propped up on his stand, facing the picture of the Dutch girl.
“The mozzies aren’t here, eddy, but the moths are.”
“That always happens,” mused eddy. “You solve one problem & something else rears its head.”
“I’ll live with the moths, boet.”
“Klopdisselboom.”
We were quiet for a bit. The fan hummed. The moth had gone off to sulk somewhere in the curtains.
“You know, eddy, I write a lot about myself. It seems, my friend, that I learn about myself by reading what I wrote about myself. Talking to friends isn’t always the same.”
“Haaibo!” exclaimed eddy. “What about me?”
“You’re the exception, old friend.”
eddy was silent for a moment, the way he gets when he’s lining up something proper.
“Writing about yourself is good for the soul, Mastelek. It’s like cleaning the old bicycle chain. You get the grit out. Most people walk around with half-understood feelings stuck in the links, grinding away. When you put it down on paper you force yourself to look at it properly. You see the pattern. You see what you keep doing. That self-awareness is the difference between just existing & actually riding the road you’re on. Happy people aren’t the ones who never have problems. They’re the ones who know themselves well enough not to keep crashing into the same pothole. Healthy minds do the same. They notice the warning signs early. Writing is one of the best ways to notice.”
I smiled in the dark.
“Thanks for that, eddy. I’ll reward you tomorrow with a good wash using Sunlight soap. You’ll be all sexy for those Bianchis.”
“Lekker, Mastelek, you need to trim your beard & look respectable for your trip down to Slaapstad.”
Just then the Dutch girl piped up. She hardly ever speaks. She just looks at the world with that mischievous grin on her face, hanging on the bedroom wall.
“I’ve been alone since the 1950s. My creator never painted me with a companion. All I’ve had is the samovar & now eddy. All he says to me is that I should have been Italian.”
“Sorry, Gorgeous,” replied eddy, trying to dig himself out of the hole he’d dug.
“What do you think about being alone?” I asked her.
“Well,” said the Dutch girl, “you will find yourself when you’re all alone on some beach, staring at the crashing waves & the rising sun, with no one around except the feel of sand between your toes.”
eddy & I thought about that.
She was absolutely right.