EarthFireCatWater

Moerse.

I've seen better photos of me playing fire. But I'm trying to work with what I have.
Scene : Parking lot next to a row of blue and red postboxes.
My brain is the internet.
It's good to walk, what a lovely night.
I've gotta go to TEFL class. Now, not that night,
Infinite initiative start something and finish it.

If you turn your head 90 degrees.. no, to the right.. it almost looks like a 'tsu'. Keep your head upright and it could be a mirror-image 'U'. Putting the "u" in marilu.

gotta go.

On Your Feet

There are three truths: Your truth, my truth, and the truth.

I used to have a 66% belief in that statement, the same way I could only believe in 66% of Christianity and 66% of Buddhism. Majority rules with a limp wrist and bloodshot eyes. Until I recently had a very good conversation with a friend about “The Platonic Form” of things, and strangely enough had the topic repeated in my TEFL class a few weeks after. In class, the reference was probably to language – the platonic language, the frequency we all surfed before the tragic fall of the Babel tower. Why is English the universal language, when it has such a damn nitty-gritty syntax system? Mouse and mice but house not hice.. Please memorise this list of words that do NOT adhere to all the rules that you’ve had to memorise before. Exception to the rule uses deception as a tool.

One guy said: “English has never met a word it did not love.” Apparently jungle and pajamas are Indian words. Sushi and karate Japanese. Mayonnaise and garage are French. Sommer and mos Afrikaans. And that is exactly why it won the MC battle of words. Unconditional acceptance for whoever decided to nest in its vocabulary. There are as many English speakers on earth as there are speakers of Chinese, and singers of Hebrew (or whatever media the mosque uses to get it’s invitations across). Just because you can sing a prayer, does not mean you understand what it means. Like mantras. But if you chant with belief and you project with power, you can light a fire regardless of the voice it is said in. It becomes the platonic prayer.

Monitoring the Spinx

More cats.
A cat.
MY cat.

My scabby, stinky, skinny ginger.

Sheize. I'm turning into a real bachelorette.
But, no, really, how cool is that.
He fits purrfectly onto my screen
and keeps me company as I'm typing my soul away.

Constructiveness

This is how I spend my time alone.

and now for something completely different…..

I checked my blog early this morning to see whether or not my latest posts have been updated..
I lie, I’m addicted to my own blog.
I lie, I’m just trying to kill some space here.

But WHEN I checked my blog, for whichever reason that might be, it looked so damn cluttered, with obituaries and half-naked-in-bed pictures sharing space. And they don’t go together. My body is so sore it pains me to lift my super-size cup of green tea. From mopping and poiing - not at the same time though. Oh I’ve got another nokia moment pic to post. Fergot all bout that one.

As a note on the side, I was well on my way to self-pity this morning (no time no sleep no food no work please help), when I realized that Wednesday is a public holiday. Voting day, on which I will not vote, except in silence and I’ll be voting for a life led by choice and not by circumstance.

Miaow.

IsaBee recently lost someone.

Most of the time I think myself to be a cold-hearted mermaid of steel, but Kyra’s death actually caused me to stop for a minute and take inventory of the moment that is now. After I read the sms that announced the finality, the music stopped, the night grew quiet, the earth paused on its axis, and something fell from my heart like a leaf from an autumn tree. I bid my silent farewells to a cat that was not mine.

I had to do something, I had to fill the empty moment with something that I could attach to her image in my mind. Because you only die once. At the temple, you can hire-a-monk (TM) to do eight hours of solid chanting in the name of a loved one, if they’re recently deceased. This enables the soul to quickly pass over to the next level, guided by spiritual song. I tried desperately to remember the mantra for this, or the name of the Buddha you had to consult, but I only got the answering machine and I didn’t leave a message. Instead I opted for the mantra of compassion, the mantra for 2005: Om Mani Peme Hung. A few minutes of that, plus some lotus-position meditation and visualisation... Once again, I feel that I either have some power in me, or that I’m slightly delusional. I’m willing to accept either.

Slightly sad about the cat that was not mine. As soon as I opened my eyes after I felt I’d expended the energy I needed to expend on acknowledging a feline soul, my miaow jumped through the window, and I cuddled him for a little while. Not the cuddly type. Neither Ichi nor me. My spicy cat, fur on fire. On Saturday I will play fire in Kyra’s memory. I’ve never played fire for a dead pet before. But I like the idea. It’s all about the thought behind the action.

Labelled, sanitised, clinically wrong

I had such a good idea. I took a thousand bitmap pictures with my new, second-hand phone. The things that surround me. The cat on my pc. The ugly green mopcap I have to wear at work. The cannabis plant flourishing in my garden (raid me, my friend). The butterfly swinging by saturn on my wall. The bald-headed androgenousness that I painted before I shaved my head. I had such a good idea. I'd mail the pictures to myself, and fil the colourless void that is left by the absence of images.

I just came out of The Meeting Of The Year, a powerpoint presentation on The Three Year Plan. I looked round at my colleagues, all with controlled looks of disbelief on their faces. Luckily, I am not part of The Three Year Plan. I have a Three Month plan, and I'm holding onto my phone in the name of my Three Day Plan, awaiting a decisive called from Michelle, the JET lady.

I'll make a note on the JET thing later, but I just smelled some bacon and got an invite to assemble a late breakfast for myself.

Conceive. Believe. Achieve.

I’m beginning to think that I might be a magician.

Those who know me are well aware of the fact that I have a lingering paranoia with car tires. The paranoia stems from the fact that, in the span of just over a year, I’ve had to replace 3 tires that burst while driving (on separate occasions, thank goodness), and driving quite fast. I’ve heard so many horror stories of people who went through the same, but unlike how it worked in my case (tire pops, I turn the music down, wonder why my car is losing speed, pull over, etc.), these other stories all end in upside-down cars, reconstructive surgery, emotional scarring, and vehicle write-offs. Mine just ends in “ag crap.” So I thank the universe for taking it easy on me, change the tire, and go on my merry way.

This has happened three times. Three is a sacred number. I’m convinced I only had three chances. (There are some loopholes in this belief – but let’s not complicate this). So after pop-goes-the-weasel Vol. 3, I’ve been haunted by the idea that the next time would be THE time. Where I also become a statistic car-rolling scar-wearer.

So for some reason, my paranoia flares up again this weekend, and I tell the boo-hoo story to anyone that would listen. And I check my tires, and I knock on wood. But I mention it to too many people – I send the idea out onto the universe. This morning, I get into my car at 5:45 am to be at work at 6 am, because I’m a little teapot short and stout. And something’s not right.

Yeah it’s like three days after I started writing this, just can’t come to a point, can I? So the end of the boring, long story was that talked about flat tires too in one too many sentences.. Then I dreamt that my tires was flat.. and woke up the following morning to find that, against all freakin' odds, my tire was flat. Spent 8 minutes and 37 seconds changing the tire, got to work a little late, quite dirty, and very annoyed that no one even offered to help me. I didn’t want their help, just their offer.

The Only Thing You Have To Fear

When we got our first colour screen computer, and we were really gettin’ hip with the technology scene, we got a complimentary copy of Encarta 90-something with it. My brothers and I spent many an educating afternoon nailed to our seats in front of the monitor, looking at pictures of exotic animals, listening to snippets from other countries’ anthems or to the calls of wild moose in Canada; it was better than television. Then we discovered the Quotes section – from long ramblings in high English to beautiful, rhythmic passages that left me hypnotised.

Then I happened across a quote by Franklin D. Roseveldt. It was read slowly, puncturing holes in my memory with a deep, dark voice. The only thing.. we have to fear.. is fear itself. We loved it. Play it again, Sam! Again, again! The only thing.. we have to fear.. is fear itself. We sat at the breakfast table, bubbling the quote into our cereal bowls' leftover milk. We used it as bullying justification (when you’re pinned to the floor and you KNOW you’re gonna get a glob of spit on the forehead, all of a sudden you don’t give a shit about fear itself). We drove ourselves crazy saying that sentence over and over, mostly in distorted pulled-tape-deck voices. Theeee ohhwnleeee thunggg we haaaave to feeeeuuhr.. is feeehhur itseeehhlf...

It must have stuck somewhere, because of all that repeating. Unintentional self-drilling. I’ve been thinking about that recently, because I have been noticing fear all around me. Now that the moon is waning, it seems that the dark side is growing in the hearts of those around me. Fear lurks around every corner, in varying forms and functions. There’s the fear of new things, the fear of heights, the fear of driving because it’s not your car, the fear of breaking up with someone, the fear of falling in love, the fear of seeming foolish, the fear of the future, the fear of the past, the fear of not knowing, the fear of knowing too much.. Every situation can be a double-edged sword, laced with bitter fear. Mostly, I see the fear of the unknown in peoples’ eyes, reflected as they look past you. The fear of fear.

I’ve never claimed to be fearless. A lot of my recent decisions have left me shit-scared. But I invite fear, I find it to be an amazingly strong fuel. Fear gives me wings.

Still No Pictures

Life-altering things can happen in the span of a minute, or even a second. Think about getting struck by lightning, being abducted by aliens, falling from a tenth-story window, Spanish inquisition, getting impregnated, buying an airplane ticket, handing in a resignation, betting your life savings, taking the first drag of a cigarette, pulling the trigger, leaning over just too far, clicking the “Send” button or deciding to take the stairs instead of the elevator.

So if your whole destiny can be altered in a matter of minutes, imagine what can happen during a whole freakin’ day.

This morning I overslept for about half an hour, drowned by my pillow. I couldn’t even remember hearing the alarm go off. By the way, after being inconvenienced to breakpoint with a malfunctioning cell phone speaker, I finally bit the bullet and got myself a new phone. With colour screen and camera, and I suppose a thousand other useless functions. Even with it’s dazzling display, it still irritated the crap out of me, because you had to go through 7 menus before you’d be able to send an sms. Send message to.. search.. Name. Yes, okay. Next screen : Name again. Click okay. Next screen : His phone number. Yup, it’s fine, you can send now. Next screen : Name & phone number on one screen. Click. Next screen : Are you sure you want to send a message to this person? Yes I am, otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten this far hey? Next screen : About to send message to ---- , this is your final chance to back out.. Crisis man, if I ever send a message to the wrong person, I’ll have to brand something on my forehead. A seahorse, I think.

Last night I taught my first mock TEFL lesson – Intermediary level to a class of 5, plus scary-looking teacher lady, observing/judging us for the evening. Her face was either revoltingly ugly, or goddess-style beautiful – I couldn’t make up my mind. No, the fact that she had striking and unconventional features means that she is beautiful. Perfection through imperfection. After my lesson, she asked me how long I’d been teaching, to which I replied, laughing: “Oh, I’m a scientist”. It was my first lesson ever. But a very well received compliment – I felt like a cat with a saucer of cream.

As a side note I’d like to mention that I don’t think myself to be disillusioned. Concerning the teaching thing. Yes, the plan is to teach & travel, but I do not expect to have classes that answer me when I ask them questions; classes that actually give a shit about the English language, pupils with an interest in bettering themselves. I do hope that there are souls that feel the urge to grow, and if I can steer them, I’d love it. But I’m very much prepared to be spat on, kicked in the head, left in the rain, be ignored and grow bored. It’s all give & take.

My ladies in the development kitchen gave me a Zulu name today (my mother & youngest brother both received Sotho names later in life). My new name is “Naledi”, and it means star.

Just Passing Through

I'm alive, violently so. Like a tiger trapped in limbo. I've nowhere to pack my normal clothes, I've no computer to communicate from. I've been walking through the factory like a hobo, a blue bag containing my crumpled up day clothes - bright pink shoes nested inside a red velvet hooded top. I'm a stranger in the Technical department, while the girls in Development now greet me with a "hey, what are you doing here?". The great thing about limbo is that the next step is so uncertain, and that it leaves loads of room for potential.

 

The office is waking up, human traffic building up, my typing time is decreasing. The storm has broken. I've been averaging 4 hours sleep per evening, my mind racing with ideas, conversations, plans, time management. Started my TEFL class. I might have bitten off more than a mouthful, not more than I can chew though. TEFL is going to be a lot of work, technical is going to be a lot of work, I'm stressing about finances because I spent half of my money on crap, and now I have to drive about 750km per week to get to class and back.. No More Mangoes. Three months of non-stop action, the end of which is bringing the unexpected yet highly anticipated arrival of someone I know and yet don't know at all..

 

There's an ethical audit that needs shadowing, and knowledge to be gained. A locker to be organised. Factory trials to be confirmed. Hygiene training to sit in. A reflective journal that is aching with empty pages for my hand to soothe it with a paragraph or two..

 

I can't imagine being bored again.

WordTheft

Vanaand gaan ek al my trane stort/ want iets is kort/
iets is kort/
ek's so bly my voet is hier op die ou pedaal/
hosepipe stuur 'n gas wat sluimer/
en kom om my te haal/
bye bye bothaville/ bothaville/ bothaville
ek's so bly en 'n bietjie nervous/ oor die hiernamaals
ek's so bly ek kan klaarmaak met my/
vervolgverhaal

 

I'm well on my way to listen this cd to death. Some of it is indeed about death, a la own hand. Everything sounds so much better in your mother tongue. Even the sadness of nothingness. Not that I'm at all that way inclined. But this music is growing on me, in all it's garagey rawness.

 

sy staar net na haar Bybel/ te bang om die boek oop te maak/
sy lewe kuis/ amper nonlik/ haar kamer ken net een persoon/

 

Ichigo (the feline man in my life) has found a new favourite spot. He't got some strange habits. Whenever I shower, he patiently waits outside, on the towel for my freshly washed feet. The moment I get out, he gets in, and sips on my soapy water. It's our shower routine, exit stage left. Recently he's taken to lounging on my pc monitor when I'm typing, with his sleeping head hanging over onto the screen. His ginger head looks lovely with the white notepad background, framed by my paragraphs.

 

en ek wonder hoekom alles/ altyd moet ontrafel/
en ek voel so fokken eensaam/
al is daar mense om die tafel/

 

In my ideal home, one day, the house where I'll watch my children grow up, the house where I'll cook meals for a family, in that house, my one day house, I want an orchard. It must be the most wonderful thing to pick fruit from your own back yard. We had a lemon tree, a peach tree and an apricot tree in the house where i grew up. My mother made apricot jam, and these little fruit rolls that I voraciously anticipated eating, and stole before they were completely dry. I don't particularly like jam, but I love the smell of it cooking, and the sweet foamy suds that drift to the top. One day, I'd like to walk through my back door, and climb up into trees to pick baskets of plums, mangoes, avocadoes, I'd just sit my trees and gorge myself on fruit, juice running down my arms and chin. One day...

 

driepootpot/
voetstoots gekoop by 'n heks/
ek kyk hoe wit pap kook/
jy's in die kombuis/

 

While I'm on a roll using other people's words to watch this space, here's a Why for those struggling with Point 4 (sponsored by the Fans of Mister Robbins foundation):

 

To approach sex carelessly, shallowly, with detachment and without warmth is to dine night after night in erotic greasy spoons. In time, one's palate will become insensitive, one will suffer (without knowing it) emotional malnutrition, the skin of the soul will fester with scurvy, and the teeth of the heart will decay.
Neither duration nor proclamation of commitment is necessarily the measure, but finally there is a commitment (however brief), a purity (however threatened), a vunerability (however concealed), a generosity of spirit (however marbelled with need), an honest caring (however singed by lust) that must be present if sex is to be salubrious and not slow poison.

Just For A Moment...

Imagine for a second that you decide to move to a small town. You move there on your own. You don't know anyone in this town. You move there for work reasons, and the first people you meet are those that share a workspace with you. You live on your own. You choose to not own a tv. You are alone. You attempt to meet people. You join the library, the aerobics class, you go to a church gathering or two, you go to primary school concerts, you hang out at the temple, every now and again you go drinking with your colleauges. The people you see at work become the people you see after work. They're not your type of people. You grow to love them though, the same way you grow to love the town that houses you. But there's no connection. There's a fondness, but no enthusiasm. Their belief systems is a definite mismatch to yours. They've never heard about the Illuminati, Graham Hancock or the Dave Matthews Band. You talk less and listen more, because talking would mean disagreeing. You sit politely and listen to their gossip, their racism, their fear of change, their indoctrinated ways. You learn a lot, but you have no idea what to do with that knowledge. Then you begin to formulate an escape plan, but putting it into action takes time. You spend night after night in your own exclusive company. You use the time to read, to watch dvds, learn survival methods, do yoga, contemplate life, follow the cycles of the moon and catch up on lost sleep. After a year, you get bored. You've seen every interesting dvd, you've lost interest in reading and the clouds obscure the moon.You've grown bored with yoga, bored with self-investigation, bored with cellphone text conversations, bored with yourself. You lighten the load of empty hours with selective intoxication, but you soon grow bored with that as well. You forget how you used to stay entertained. You rebel against yourself for some new ideas. You lose yourself in yourself. You watch helplessly as aloneness slowly turns into loneliness. You suspect that you're losing your social skills. You crave human interaction, human touch. You fear self-pity, for there's nothing more disgusting. You doubt. You frown more than before. You wish you could cry, but you've forgotten how to. You know yourself better than ever before, yet you don't recognise yourself anymore. You type silly blogs in the third person. You grow bored with boredom. You grow impatient with impatience. Then you realise that this too will pass, and you raise your head towards the light. You open the curtains because the night wind is carrying rain. You sit outside and breathe in wet soil and electricity. And you remember that it's always most silent before the storm.