Open Writing

My new neighbour was at my front door bleeding. “Do you have a plaster?” I sat her in a chair and pushed an ashtray towards her. “I don’t smoke,” she said.

“That’s to bleed in,” I replied as I dashed to the medicine cabinet. No plasters. I have a problem with things. I mislay them, so the hunt was on. I eventually found them on the bookshelf.

“Here you are, love,” I said as I stuck the plaster on her no-longer-bleeding finger. “From heaven,” I babbled, “we expect comfort. From me you’ll get assistance.” I was trying to cover the problem I have with names. I felt a cup of tea was called for.

The injured one sat facing my portrait. I noticed her eyes crossing. “That was painted by a friend; she was in her cubist period. You will find an eye, ear and nose, if you look carefully.” She gulped her tea.

I wanted to share my passion for the visual arts, but I have a problem with the opaque veil of forbidding phraseology and couldn’t find lucid words to express cubism. All I could manage was, “Think about it as a revolt against the camera. Interesting, isn’t it?”

“It’s beautifully framed,” said she.

“What is your passion?” I wanted to know.

“I’m involved in good causes.”

“Like what?”

“Well, feeding the hungry, comforting the sick.”

“I have a problem with that,” I blurted. “It seems to me a charity helps the charitable, and you can always tell the helped by their hunted look.”

She gasped, and I bit my tongue. I knew that I had to get onto a safe topic. “Your hair is attractive. Who is your hairdresser?” That made for flowing conversation until I was asked about my hairdresser. “Well, actually I have a problem with hairdressers. You see, I was paying them for finding my hair, so now I just pull my fine hair into a ponytail.”

“Charlize Theron looked great with her hair pulled back,” she said kindly.

“I have a problem with that.”

“What? With her hair?”

“No, love,” I replied. “My problem is with the cult of celebrity. Most of us now worship a merciful God in ways that divine us, but we still seem to need idols, idolatry, celebrity worship.”

She sat there blinking at me, took a deep breath and said, “I must tell you the cute thing my son said.”

I interrupted her because I have a problem with the cuteness of people’s children. Remembered my manners and continued with the child theme. “I’m reading self-help books to enable me to get in touch with my inner-child.”

She half rose out of the chair and gasped, “What?”

“Let me explain what I mean. What I’m talking about is a journey of self-discovery as opposed to having role models. I have a problem with being encouraged to be like someone else. I’m sure you agree with me, that copying is stupid.”

She looked somewhat confused, rose to her feet and made for the door. Horrors, no key in the door; it was double locked. “I have a problem with keys,” I giggled, “must have left them in the biscuit tin.”

“They are where you put them, in your pocket. I feel I must get out right now.”

I grabbed her hand and assured her that she did not have to bleed to come in for a chat. She dashed out.

I locked up, thinking that I have a problem with someone who looked like Vogue and was so terribly vague.

Johannesburg U3A