Prizefight

The moon was high and magnificent in the August night- DH LAWRENCE

What a day. The flashes and the pulses. The classes were swarms and uncontrollable snakes writhing in and out of doors, a clamour that I tried to shut out in my subterranean place, filled with fatigue and sensual dreams.

I posed for two photos, one with the grade 11's, a class with some of the most despicable young people a school has ever scene (including creatures like Kamogelo Nakedi, suspected of rape - this he confided to me - and his name has also been mentioned in the staff room under suspicion of being the school's expert at pickpocketing and stealing cellphones - as I wrote out a detention form), and Thuli Jobo - name alone should suggest how hysterical and irritating she is). I didn't smile for that photo because I can't pretend to gush over that tribe of pubescent monsters.

I did smile for the photo of the under 18 hockey girls.

At the end of the day I spoke to the headmaster, asking him whether it was clear whether I'd be working at the school in the 4th term. He said: "It's not looking very promising."
I asked if I would be allowed to remain in the hostel and he said, "No."

Given the paragraph above this one, I had mixed feelings. Looking for a job in this country is hard work. I feel I am ready to leave my present vocation. I also feel I will be able to maintain a fairly modest life and income since I am already earning a steady stream from my writing.

That said, I got this email today from Isobel (from Blake Friedmann publishers):

Dear Nick,

Thanks for sending this information – it was good of Carle to suggest you contact me. However, I take on very few new clients and looking at the description I can tell this isn’t one for me, so I wish you better luck elsewhere. The Writers and Artists Yearbook has lists of agents you can consult.

All the best

Isobel

and my response:

Hi Isobel
Thanks for getting back to me. I realise the description is filled with references to 'God' (which is a boring and controversial subject at the best of times) but the story itself is far more subtle. I hope you at least opened the document and read a paragraph or two.

Nick

I also spotted the September edition of GO! and alas, my Tour de Free State story is not in it. I called Andrea Weiss who told me she was sick, and then she stuttered for a moment when I asked why I had received no replies to emails, sms's etc. She said the article has been moved (again) to the October edition. At least it's not dead in the water.

Fransa and I also walked into Heartland offices. The secretary (basically a woman who seems to hang around there) had headphones over her ears, and after scurrying off we checked behind the laptop she was working on to see that she was playing solitaire. When she returned I asked: "Are you busy?"
"Yes, very."
"Oh, with poker?"
"No, SOLITAIRE!" she said severely.

Lucille appeared, more in control of herself than usual, and attempted an explanation of their position. I walked out of the office (which has been divided in half) with a scrap of paper and their lawyer's name. Jaco (my lawyer) says it is only a matter of days before we get our summons and can then seize computers etc. I also called Quentin who said, "Speak to my lawyer." These are people who gave me a contract asking me to do work, and then when I invoiced them, simply made promise upon promise, default after default. How can you expect to run a business like that, much worse work for such a silly circus. Even my job, mad as it is, makes more sense.

Maria also came to do some spring cleaning. Took a snapshot of some dark pink blossoms dripping with rain at 108 when I dropped her off.

Mr Smuts gave us our first lecture on Sons and Lovers. Quite disturbing how closely Mrs Morel resembles my mother. And after finding the first 20 pages of DH Lawrence dull, Mr Smuts has highlighted enough brilliance in his work for me to find it worth a second absorption.

I feel like I am in an extended prizefight. I feel like patience is the virtue I need most, but it is a type of patience that is characterised by endurance. It's actually worse than that. It's a constant delaying of a reward that becomes maddening, and what Satre (or someone) described as: being nauseated by the futility of existence.

I also discovered that my view of God seems to be something like William Blakes. A connected, cohesive, natural view, not an exclusive inorganic one infused with rituals.

Meanwhile, the prizefight continues. It's a fight where your own strength sometimes counts against you, because, after all, the longer you can endure the blows you're receiving, the longer the long term damage, and the more incidental the prize money becomes. And then the question emerges: what are we doing here, with our lives? What is the meaning of it all? Is it grubbing for money?