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.

 

 

For My Entertainment

I've rediscovered superglue and instantly bonded my skin to both a pair of sunglasses and my trusty bag.

 

In my quest to become more of a chick, I decided to investigate the contents of my bag. It's not a handbag, handbags are impractical and you have to handle them with care. You cannot, for example, fit 2 books, 5 cds, a bottle of water and a stack of dvds into a handbag. Impractical.

 

Today, and today only, I have in my bag:

* A Student card from 2 years ago

* An unused bag of green tea (mint flavour)

* 4 Tampons

* 2 Stiffy disks with I assume some e-mails on them

* My ID book

* My passport

* The lyrics of "dream a little dream of me" by Louis Armstrong

* A bottle of Kaleidoscope deoderant, oh sorry, perfume body spray by Lentheric. Says on the side He stared at her walking down the street. It should have been illegal for her to appear in public without warning. She was about to 'CREATE STIR'. Bahaha! I just prefer not smelling like sweat, doubt it's so powerful as to warrant a warrant of arrest.

* 3 incomplete and 2 completed Sudoku puzzles

* A copy of my passport & ID, stamped and signed by the police.

* A stack of dirty, crumpled up forms I had to fax a month ago in order to finally get a tax number after more than a year of earning a salary. Hope no one from SARS ever stumbles upon this blog. I never faxed it.

* January - June 2006 Almenac for Nan Hua temple

* A copy of The Tao of Health, Sex & Longevity by Daniel Reid a.k.a. my personal bible

* Program for Chinese New Years (arf! arf!)

* Payslip for January 2006

* Printed e-mail from Marcel that I might have replied to

* 5 ml plastic measuring spoon

* 2 black pens

* 5 Norflex muscle relaxants

* Spare key for car (because I've had to break into my car like 7 times before, and once break a window - now I have 4 spare keys planted in mysterious places)

* USB 128 MB flashdisk

* Housekeys with Avalokitesvara keychain (now I know)

* Crumpled up receipt for JET application sending

* Wallet (what that contains is a whole other paragraph)

* TEFL reading pack # 1

* 2 pairs of sunglasses - one with skin from my fingers on the lenses, one without

 

Me, in a bag.

So Close, but yet So Far

Herewith follows the 5 precepts of Buddhism:

 

1 - No killing

2 - No stealing

3 - No lying

4 - No sexual misconduct

5 - No polluting of the body

 

I'm so close.

Aside from unwittingly stepping on worms and insects, I don't kill. Okay, okay I eat meat, but if I don't, I get haemoglobin anaemia and then I can't climb stairs without panting like a puppy. And I just love tearing into a chunk of red meat with some cheese and mushroom sauce. And I encourage my cat to kill, but he's very far from reaching Nirvana, so he's a lost case. I don't kill.

The only thing I've ever shoplifted was a black balloon (not inflated). The only things I ever steal are ideas and concepts, but I remodel them and make them new, make them my own.

Lying - can't do it. I had to lie to cover myself breaking the 5th precept, and I hated it. I'm on such a truth mission lately, because the truth shall indeed set ye free. Damn, I love telling the truth, maybe because it's a bit scary sometimes.

I suppose sexual misconduct is defined as sleeping around with no love to base the sex on. Actually, sexual misconduct is defined as "behavior of a sexualized nature that betrays sacred trust, violates the ministerial role, and exploits those who are vulnerable in that relationship.” Whatever. Point is, I haven't been doing any sexual misconducting for a veeeeery long time now, so I'm almost like a sacred cow or something.

Haha. then we get to point 5...

 

My dear Point 5.

You were the cause of my big moral dilemma. I walked into the shrine, and looked up at the three Buddhas. 22.5 tons of Burmese teak and gold leaf plating looked down at me, looked through me, and saw how I failed because of you. You, Point 5, are the cause of my agitation - when will I stop spending weekends in toxication? Is 24 not a good time to cut down on things available both on shop shelves and the black market? Why am I not feeling like crap? It would be an incentive to stop. I think I'm just overprotective, protecting me from myself, my daily companion. Or I need a real issue. Or a real lover. Even Daniela told me that over the weekend: "you need to get yourself a lover". Mail order russian bridegrooms here I come.

 

Here's Lookin' at You, Kid

I have a tendency of falling in love with Buddhist boys - even if it's only for the briefest time.

Two bowls of muesli and three easter eggs later (hey, is it easter already?) I'm finally waking up. Looked at myself in the mirror this morning and the first thing I thought was "hmm, Buddha". All the Bodhisattvas and Buddhas have slits for eyes. Enlightment seems to remind of intoxication. After very little sleep, very little food and the death of brain cell community, only ephemeral enlightenment is on my menu.

I almost fell asleep on my way to work. Good thing I wasn't driving. My sleepy absent-mindedness earned me my millionth nickname at work, today everyone is calling me "Tuesday" because I kept saying Tuesday when I meant Saturday in conversation. What's in a name, nê? After this weekend, it's all the same to me.

I'd like to thank Anne for inviting me to the temple for the weekend, it really was grand. I learnt so much. Ever wanted to know more about the Dogs of Fu, the symbolism behind phoenixes or fish, dragons and pseudo swastikas? Chanting ohm mani peme hung, offering peanut butter sandwiches to the triple gem, the five precepts, the six perfections.. Amitabha Buddha, Avalokitesvara Bodhisattva, Sakyamuni Buddha, art as a meditation, lotus flowers, Dharma protectors. I learnt so much. Thanks, Nan Hua. Oh, another thing I learnt was that "Nan Hua" means Southern Flower. In the middle of Afrique du Sud.

Woza Weekend..

If I can get away from work, I'll be able to go steal some desserts, pack, shower, and hit the road, Jack.

Pretoria is inviting me with open arms, very much looking forward to this weekend.. First time in yonks I'm gonna get to see the majority of my friends all together on one evening. December holiday has come to an end, and the University kids are slowly returning to their flats and communes. Oh, and lobster. I'm finally getting that lobster that I've been anticipating for weeks now.

Then Saturday early-morning return to Bronkhorstspruit, complimentary lunch at The Temple. They have such good food. All vegetarian, of course, but oh so good. Strange tastes, I'm sure they balance head and heart, and all the other organs in between.

 

Now, for those desserts....

Not Just Another Piece Of Toast

Life would be so much easier is I had a digital camera, a USB cable, a laptop and free wireless internet. No it would just make my blog more interesting, more photos of my feet, maybe of my ribs only they don't show through my skin unless I inhale deeply and use stage-strenght lighting.

 

So in the name of my ribs, I've decided to starve myself for 3-5 days. Breakfast only, because I want to be like Ghandi, but I like to eat. The rest of the day consists of endless glasses of water and cups of green tea. I'm starting to feel silly though, because I have to go to the toilet like 20 times, and every time I have to walk past the highly pregnant lady. I'm peeing more than a pregnant woman, that's saying something. Probably washing all the vitamins out of my body as well.

 

I was looking for some packaging earlier, when a huge metal mixer fell from the top of the cupboard and into my leg. Can't wait to see if it turned blue, it hurt like hell and gave me a limp for 2 minutes. I've been having a lot of near-fatal experiences lately, something's probably telling me to renew my lust for life. The previous time it involved a popping champagne cork. I just had a haircut at work with a paper scissor, this is how we spend our afternoons.

And it rains.

 

I sit outside smoking the last cigarette in my pack, and watch my car's tires disappear in the ever-growing pool of water it's parked in. I think of Noah's flood. I think of tropical storms. I think of forests that smell like moss and pine needles. It's well past sunset, but the sky burns a purple-red. Soon after, the sky confuses itself by lighting up, flashing like a fluoresent light switched on in the dark of night. I finish the rest of the champagne and undress, excited about the prospect of being lulled to sleep by the heavy downpour.

 

Expectation vs realisation, my friend.

 

No sleep. I chang from a sheet to a duvet to this wonderfully soft loosely woven blanket. Still no sleep. I take a shower. No sleep. I make some green tea. Nothing. Listen to the rain. Get irritated with my cat for sleeping, the bastard. Wake him up, he looks at me and falls asleep again. Read a few chapters. No sleep. Extreme tiredness, and a mind so clean and clear a buddhist would envy me. Three steps away from eternal bliss, and it's on tea break. Clip my nails. Do breathing excersises. Watch the rain. Scheme "milk contains a chemical that induces sleep, let me have some yoghurt". Love yoghurt. So does my cat. Become irritated with the rain. Become irritated with an outisde light. Become irritated with wakefulness. Read some more.

I was so looking forward to sleep. Next time, I'll embrace my insomnia and sweep the floor or study some katakana.  

Another Day, Another Quote

I get a new word in my inbox every day. It's the only newsletter I am subscribed to, and I love it. Must admit that I sometimes sip the word, and scroll straight down to the 'intellectual' quote for the day.

Let's see today's:

repartee (rep-uhr-TEE) noun
1. A quick, witty reply or conversation.
2. Cleverness in making witty conversation.

[From repartie (retort), from repartir (to retort), from re- + partir(to part or divide), from Latin partire (to divide), from pars (part).]

But the quote is what got to me.

Between men and women there is no friendship possible. There is passion,enmity, worship, love, but no friendship. -Oscar Wilde, writer (1854-1900)

Damn you, Oscar, you speak lies. How can there not be friendship? Why must there always be hidden intentions. I suppose gay friends are the loophole in this thought, and somewhere there's a memory that Oscar Wilde was a raging homosexual.. but I could be confusing him with Mozart or Gaugin. But I don't think so.

When I moved into a flat in my second year at uni, my mother told me that I'm not allowed to have a male flatmate. Thinking her prudish and conversative, this led to many an argument. Her reasoning was, if you put a male and a female together in a room for long enough, something sexual will result from it. She took Oscar's side in saying that with constant closeness, it is impossible for only friendship to exist between a man and a woman. I believed only my own stubbornness and went against her advice.

Turned out, she was right.

Taking Sides

This all started with an idea. Somewhere, on the road or in the shower or just befefore falling asleep.

The idea was to have a long street in a big city, that is all restaurants. And every restaurant from a different country. What are you in the mood for: Vietnamese food, Micronesian, Costa Rican, Canadian (whatever traditional canadian food is - but that's the point), Estonian, Kyrgyzstanian, Omanian, Polish, etc.

Part of the grand idea was to go to each and every country, and harvest people there with a brilliant knowledge of local cuisine, music, decoration, ambience and cutlery. And in the process, further the journey to globalisation. I'm always very pro-globalisation because I believe that borders don't really exist, and the illusion must be broken down. It works in a 'ideal world' mentality. We can try.

When my brilliant brother was shown away from a job interview with the words "You are perfect for the job, but you're too white and too male, and you don't fit our colour quotas", I was even arguing for the opposition. The tendency is to import engineers from India, because they're not white and therefore the right colour, thus leaving the qualified caucasian engineers with computer-shop jobs dreaming about bigger challenges. But it's globalisation, baby!

So I did a bit of reading up on the topic. And I think that I'll have to review my opinion. Globalisation brings with it the cigar-smoking fat cats that retrench qualified workers because there are starving slaves who'd do exactly the same job for a quarter of the pay. There will always be money driven power monkeys who screw up something as possibly unifying as globalisation. Makes it kinda hard to be optimistic.

I'll keep on focussing on breaking down borders.

Feet For Thought

This is for Stigma & Jurras.

Enjoy boys.

Cabbages and Kings

There's this theory that.. oh, wait.. I've already covered that topic.

All of the pixars of myself on this blog are a misrepresentation of the truth. I just happen to have a cd filled with pics a friend & I took messing around with belts and mosquito nets. My hair's grown so much that it chooses sides when I get up in the mornings. Gently shaped by pillow pressure. Love it. Bed-head is very sexy. Also a bare foot appearing from the bottom of a jean. The only feet I've recently seen popping in and out of jeans are my own, but I still think it's sexy. Would be nice to see someone else's though.

I love cheap, chunky jewelry. No interest in diamonds and platinum and all that jazzlery. It would be fake on me. Fake things on a real person, that's how I maintain a yin/yang relationship with my accessories.

When I turned 12, my mother celebrated this.. stepping into adulthood.. by buying me a bracelet made from freshwater pearls. "Pleeeease don't lose it, " she said while I was admiring it. Guess what, I lost in within the next 24 hours. She pledged to never buy me real jewelry again, and I never wanted real jewelry again. Saving myself future trouble.

Shoes and Ships and Sealing Wax

There's this running theory that Africa is still a third world country because it's so flippin' hot.

Take the Europeans, with their snow and shiver temperatures. You're cold. What do you do? You build a house, a fire, invent the lightbulb, the gas heater, thermal underwear, igloos and Horlicks. You invent, develop, store up fat, start a club, indoor sport - it's the fight for survival.
Then you have Africans. Winter is nice and balmy, so you hunt and gather and a nice fire, shagging and uhm buffalo skin is more than enough to keep you warm in the evenings. Summer comes, and it's so soooo fucking hot you can't move. So you eat your share in the morning, find a shady spot, and sleep through the heat if the day. Check what the lions and buffalo skins do. If you're ever on a game drive, or safahahari as the tourists call it, don't go look for the Big 5 around noon. Firstly, because you'll pass out from heat exhaustion, and secondly because they'll all be sleeping in mud pits and under trees.

On an after-noon game drive at Loskopdam, the only animal we saw up close was a dead warthog. Like Puumba. Apparently the pork industry kinda took a knock after the release of Babe. Lots of kids all over the world quitting bacon. Heehee. Wonder if Finding Nemo did the same for the fish industry.

Orthodox Indoctrination

I buy a Sunday Times every Sunday, and read it throughout the week, not missing an article. Like slow-release tablets, it nourishes me for much longer than the name suggests.

Yesterday I came across an article that had me laughing in disbelief. There's a lot in the daily news that tests my comprehension, but because this article touched the mentality of the community I was raised in, it meant so much more.
Some highlights:

Women have been shut out of most leadership poitions in one of the country's most orthodox afrikaans churches.This decision comes after nearly two weeks of men-only debate by almost 300 church members at a synod in Potchefstroom in the North-West.......
In a report, church minister danie Snyman said that. based on the Bible, the man was the head of the household."A woman may not be in an authorative, instructive or ruling position over a man. A woman's right to speak is limited," he said.....
Snyman, the minister at Magalieskruin in Pretoria, said while he could stomach woman deacons, he would probably leave the church if it accepted women minsters."The way i understand the Bible, it's a sin for a woman to be a minister," he said....
Sitting quietly at the back of the synod meeting this week, was Ronel Pieterse - who preaches at a Dutch reformed Church congregation.As the men handed out yellow A4 voting sheets to other men, she wasn't given any.

I guess segregation and manipulation are still very much alive, even though I'd love it not to be.

More Domestic Ramble

As I'm withdrawing money, I get a double surprise: Firstly I find out I have more money in my account than I thought I had, then I look up into D - a local connection-'s (punctuation effective?) face. We roll our trolleys into the PnP together, and I realise that this is the first time since I moved here that I'm shopping -with- someone. Running in with someone to get cigs or wine doesn't count. Leisurely strolleying down the aisles while chatting. D has nothing of significance to say. He doesn't talk much. Actually he does talk; he keeps mumbling while in front of me, and when I ask him "eh?", he just replies: "No. Nothing." So I never get to hear what he says between the brumbles. I suspect I'm not missing out on much though,

 

Again I'm aware of the glaring differences - the me vs. them complex. I'm getting really good at this spot-the-difference game. To my trolley I add Litchis from Tzaneen, Mangoes from Hoedspruit, Red wine from Stellenbosch and grapefruit juice from Parmalat. His trolley gets fatty red meat and a 2 litre bottle of Coca Cola. For dessert I get a packet of wine gums, while he gets a bag of chips. Maybe my lifestyle is not as bad as I sometimes fear it to be.

No Title Required

What a neat function. Blogging from my e-mail. Now I don't even have to connect to Da Net. I've been connecting to the www from someone else's account; recklessly, frequently, bloggingly. Then the girl whose account I've been using (not out of malice, but out of comfort - her name & password has been on my pc for months now) noticed my loophole, and changed the login to my name & password, with the threatening words "Big Bother Is Watching".

 

Blahblahblah this is actually a reply to the zillion comments I got from W in my inbox. Hallo, focus a little bit.

 

Re: Titles - you just.. fill in the little block at the top, the rectangular one, the one that's there for your title field..?

 

Re: Paragraphs - Hey! I have no idea. But I'm super-chuffed. It re-appeared as suddenly as it disappeared. Might have somehting to do with the fact that I composed in the HTML function, not that I know any computer languages..

 

Re: Pic - I have no idea what pic you are referring to. But I'll check back later to see which post you commented it on. Pic.. Pic pic pic? I don't know.

 

raait nê? Bonne journee Mkoswami.

Yesssss!

Ladies and Gentlemen, Sisters and Bretheren...

 

Bask in die functionality of my resurrected paragraphs.

Walala Wasala

Recently I have been entertaining the thought to have my own business somewhere in the future. My ideal, of course, would be to have my own winery or olive farm, but I'll probably have to win the lotto before I'll manage that one. Then I'll have to start playing the lotto. I actually dreamt some lotto numbers last night, and a slithering heap of the most horrific reptiles in my shower. But that's besides the point.

For a business to work, you need to identify a gap in the market. I've been struggling a lot to get packaging for my products, and saw it as a gap in the market. And because the whole economic world is China crazy, my idea was to be an intermediary between a Chinese packaging company and South Africa. But one day, at the moment I've got other selfish plans. The Chinese do cheap, intricately designed, beautiful paper and foil packaging. It made so much sense.

Today I had yet another packaging crisis, but my furstrations were halved and then quadrupled when I heard that, not to worry, there's a new guy in the business who has hooked up with a connex from China, and will soon be importing cheap, intricately designed packaging in paper and foil. Shite!

But starting my own business is not for me, not now. I know nil-per-brain about business in any case. Haven't even read my copy of 'Rich dad, Poor dad'. I've got some good friends / connections, cause it's about who you know, you know? And they offered to help me, but later, later. No idea where the next 3 years is going to take me, but it's not going to be as the head of a company.

As for the China import/export idea: you snooze, you lose. Or, as I prefer it in isiZulu: walala wasala. My other favourite Zulu expression is zonke bonke which means something in the line of 'everything for everybody'. It's the slogan of the biggest funeral house. Death is a lucrative business in AIDS country.

It's almost the beginning of a new year.. In Chinese terms, that is. We are soon saying hamba kathle to the year of the Rooster (mine, by the way), and sawubona to the Year of the Dog.

This 'ere temple in the picture is just around my corner; even closer that Checkers. Last year, I went to one of their weekend retreats which was exhausting and cleansing at the same time. I'd love to do it again, we'll see. After the weekend, I was feeling so enlightened and stuff that I added my name to the volunteer list.

With the up-and-coming Chinese New Year celebration (29 Jan), the temple lady phoned me and asked whether I'd be willing to help out. But of course! I said. She filled in details by saying that I'd have to be available to answer questions people might have, so I'll need to go for a little briefing session. This is grand, because I'll get to hear the symbolism behind all the buddhas and lions with the bells in their mouths. Then she invited me for a lunch on the Saturday, oh and why don't you sleep over at the temple as well? Retreat from the real world for a day or two. So I'm gonna do it.

Today I asked W to join me. He'll be leaving for London soon, and I won't be seeing him for ages to come, plus his head is shaved, so he'll fit right in. Dunno what I'll be doing with myself if I had to walk around on my own the whole time. It's not like people are there to make small talk. And no girls. I'll probably end up staring the pretty buddhist boy out of his robes, and feeling a hell of a guilty for even thinking it.

Yoi ichinichi o

The difference between people. My colleagues and I are both on google images. I'm trying to find an image that depicts interconnectedness, while the two of them are ogling pictures of flower arrangements and wedding dresses.
I know I talk about me vs them a lot, but it's the effect of my environment. Stay in a place long enough, and you become one of its people. It rubs off on you. And between half of my matric class and all of my pregnant colleagues, it was inevitable that I started doubting whether or not I chose the right path. I don't know anyone like me. And I'll take that as a compliment.

See, these moments of self-doubt normally don't last longer than an ad-break. But I'm back, hello! and the point of this post was not to wonder about my normality, but to appreciate the people whose paths have crossed, and sometimes intertwined with mine.

I decided not to blog (for like a day) because of various reasons, the main one being that (as an effect of my environment) I've started posting about cleaning products and handwashing. And yesterday, washing wineglasses, I caught myself lazily composing another entry in my head. At that point I realised that I really do need to get a life. After which I realised that hectic times are on the horizon, I'm just too impatient to wait for them.

Change of job (within the company), February brings with it a three month TEFL course in JHB which means new people, new routine, new student card, JET on the horison.. acronym anyone? And my friend Gert is treating me to some lobster tomorrow evening, driving all the way to Deadville, SA to come see me. It's gonna be good.

Humanism
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
Jump to: navigation, search .
Humanism is a broad category of active ethical philosophies that affirm the dignity and worth of all people, based on our ability to determine what is right using the qualities innate to humanity, particularly rationality. Humanism is a component of a variety of more specific philosophical systems.


I though of labelling myself as a Humanist. Cause I like humans, and stuff. No, actually because the only thing that makes me lash-out angry is when people look down on others because they are different. To quote Tom Robbins, "there is no such thing as a weird human being - it's just that some people require more understanding that others".
Although I'm sure my Humanism thing came from a racial segregation weekend issue, I still like that quote.

Maybe I'm a bit like Princess Leigh-Cheri in the fact that I just want to buy the world a Coke.

Which Side Are You On?

Being the product of a male chemical engineer and a female art teacher, I've found myself torn between left brain and right brain my whole life. Do I create, or do I maintain? Do I go for sciences, or arts? Do I dream, or do I do? It was because of this see-saw of thinking that I ended up in New Product Developement, which promised to require functional creativity. On paper, that's what it is. In reality, I'm so bored that I blog to pass time.

So last night I was having my weekend conversation with my mother over the phone. It's the start of a new academic year, and she has a new class of confused 14-year olds who believe they cannot draw, but she'll prove them wrong in 4-6 weeks. So she tells me, as she's explaining the left-brain/right-brain concept to them, she realised that this has been the way she raised her kids (biological). When we steered too much to right-brain activity, she pulled out some logic; when we were over-analysing, she handed us crayons.

A beautiful balance, but it's so much easier to be inclined towards the one side. The problem with infinite options, is that you get lost in them.

So, har-har, we talk and laugh about brains lobes and the like, when she comments: "You know, sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't have just dropped you at day care like the other mothers. I really over-stimulated your brain at such a young age. Maybe, if I did, you wouldn't have grown up to be so screwed up."

I'm sure she meant that in the nicest way possible.

I don't know why it upsets me, because there's no point in being upset. Or rather, there's nothing I can do about it.
Worked over the weekend, and being slightly clueless, I just wandered around the factory, chatting to the factory workers. There are about 800 workers on the production lines, doing mindless, repetitive jobs such as.. sticking lables on packaging.. buttering bread.. stirring pots of pasta.. basic unschooled, dead-end jobs with minimum wage.

Making small talk with George, who spends 28 days a month packing strips of bacon onto a griller, I asked him what he'd rather be doing with his life.
"I want to be a mechanical engineer," he said, "I don't always want to be here."
So what's stopping you, I enquired.
"Money. I don't have the funds. I started studying, but could not support myself".

He has such bright eyes, but if you live on a salary that only enters you in the struggle for survival, how do you get out of your circumstances?

He told me later than his younger sister got a bursary to go study medicine, and she's well on her way to become a qualified doctor. I get so frustrated with wealthy white people who bitch and moan because there aren't bursaries available for whites, but they grudingly manage to send their kids to University. There are people who need it more, people who, if it weren't for those 'previously disadvantaged' bursaries, would spend the rest of their lives packing strips of bacon onto a griller.

generic medicine tastes like dentists' gloves

I just read on BBC news that old old map of earth is being relooked, as it could prove that China, the buzzword in today's economy, was the first to discover the Americas and Africa,

This will mean that the lesser-discussed Zheng He stepped foot on the Americas in 1418, meaning he beat Christopher Columbus to it. Tests are being done on the map to gauge its age, and the results will be available in February.

Mister Columbus (I think) was quoted as saying "Let China sleep, for when she wakes, the world will tremble".

I think he was just paranoid that the world would discover his dirty little lying secret.

Whullage?

Ullage is the space in a bottle or barrel that results from the wine inside evaporating or leaking out, either past the side of the cork or through not-too-well sealed barrel staves.
When this happens in barrels, winemakers refer to this loss from evaporation as the "angel's share" of the wine.
For wine to last a long time it needs as little air contact as possible to prevent oxidation.
Winemakers top up their barrels frequently to keep the air space to a minimum. Most wine bottles are fitted with a capsule that hides the cork.

Sleepwalking

I woke up one morning with my mosquito net wrapped around my neck, like I've been strangled in my dream womb by my shadow sister. Do twins share umbilical chords or do they each get their own? Or is it one that forks like a meaty wishbone?

Yawn. Boredom has to be the most evil thing since refined starch. Boredom leads to apathy, apathy to recklessness, and before you know it, you're acting like a teenager. I'd be so lucky. I just eat. It takes freaking forever to cook potatoes, and that is my mission today. Well, I offered. "Please can I cook your potatoes for you?" Cause then I'm closer to my pc, which means I can..

Dumb addiction.

So I've been sitting in the kitchen reading about wine's ullage whilst waiting for the 'taters to soften and.. do what they do. Ate three bran & raisin muffins and drank a cuppa green tea. All the time while breathing in the smell of boiling potatoes. I prefer the smell of raw. I used to put raw potato on my face but stopped, cause I ran out. Should actually go buy some. It was the last thing I smelled every evening before falling asleep - raw potatoes. Almost as nice as raw beet, but not quite. Beet has that.. freshly ground wet earth smell to it. And the colour kicks boom, especially in smoothies. And if you eat enough of it, your piss is sure to go pink, just like that of a My Little Pony.

Cirus da Virus.

"Hallo. Is this Marilu?"
Yes...
"Yeah, this is **** at Doctor Rose's office"
Yes...?
"He asked me to tell you that... all your tests came back negative"
Both of them?
"I repeat.. all tests are negative"

Oh, Daniela e-mailed me today that Albert Hoffman, the discoverer of LifeSupplyDrugs instant enlightenment turned 100 years old this week.

So there are two less things to worry about when I can't sleep. I'm really running out of issues here.

I Used To Be Hardcore.

Whaaaaat?

But I don't know why my blog is showing as blobs. But it looks like crap. Where are my paragraphs?

Digesting the News

One of the things that makes life worth living is that there are no certainties. You plan and plan, and then life throws you a curveball, so you hit it or duck or pretend you didn't see it, whatever you want to. I was putting all my focus into this going to J-pan mission, like a bull that saw red at the end of the tunnel...

..and then..

today happened. Friday the 13th. My small-town pseudo corporate employer (it's a factory. a food factory) functions on a system that doesn't function. I'm not getting into dreary details. Point being, I've been moved. Between departments. After more than a year of working as a dessert designer (my pretend occupation. It sounds cool, methinks), I received the news today that I'm now going to be working in Technical. I have no idea which sub-department. I don;t even know what I'm going to be doing, starting next week.

For an hour or so, this new development in my life completely threw me off my one track destiny. The corporate world seemed appealing, my options many, the ladder shiny and fun to climb. I lost focus on j-pan and interest in this post. I keep biting my tongue on the same spot and it's fucking sore by now, so much so that I'm lisping.

My first crush

Meet Donatello. He likes purple and plays the Bo staff. He made my heart beat faster when I was still an avid watcher of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I think it was his voice, his pacifistic nature. He's the type of turtle you can take home to your mother. Well, my mother at least. He'll fit right in with my engineering family, if they can just look past skin colour. And species.

About himself, he says:

"I'd rather talk things out than fight, making me an unlikely combination of a Ninja warrior/pacifist. Unfortunately, in our lives, it's rare when talking things out is an option.
I long for the days when I can work in peace on my inventions and explore genetics and mutation in depth, minus all of the violent distractions provided by our various enemies. Some day I'll have the time that I need. "

spooky.

If you haven't noticed yet, today is Friday the 13th.

There's been a lot of them, and there will be one more this year. Normally, people just cruise through it, with an 'oh hey look' but not much else. For some reason though, everyone around me is super-aware of the fact that the superstitious stayed in bed today.

I was born on a Friday the 13th, so I'm always expecting a good day when the calendar coincides with my birthday, regardless of the month. What makes today's extra special though, is that there is a full moon tonight. And it's the first one of the year.

Today also marks the birthday of a girl I lost contact with years ago. We used to be best of friends, and spent many hours in my back yard baking mudpies. We also used to bath together, something I'll never do now. But I was 8 years old at the time. I saw her once again, a few years ago, and she had shockingly green eyes and a prominent forehead. Not the way I remember her. Oh, it was also with her that I fried marshmallows over candles, and ate so much of it that I puked. It was good, being a kid.

For the whitest whites

Check, I'm a messy person. If I come back from a party, and I don't have dirt under my fingernails, bruises on my legs, and cuts on my hands, it wasn't worth going to.

So now I work in a kitchen, and my little white apron never stays white for longer than 5 minutes. I'm typing this boring post because I just had a boring discussion with a colleague. We were discussing :

BLEACH

Me being a recent discoverer of the hypochloric acid, and so impressed with the fact that.. shit man, it makes white things white. This is huge. So much so that I chucked a lot of clothes in there that wasn't white to start with. And now my wardrobe looks like shit.

I've been thinking of brushing my teeth with bleach, seeing as it's so damn effective. But my gums are already dissolving, so maybe I'll give it a skip.

One Down, One to Go

I'm malaria free.

So it was probably just a hangover.

Why am I here again?

I've been blogging since I got to work. All the females sitting in the kitchen, laughing loudly. I blog. Some vanilla flavour emergency, and I blog. More talk about pregnancies, I blog. The youth of today, and I sit with my back to the pc, awaiting a chance to blog.

I work with 5 pregnant ladies, and there are at least three conversations about pregnancy per day. Graphic ones, at that. Detailled descriptions about hacking through layers of stomach muscle during cesearean section. Did you know you have to go for an enema before you go into labour? And what happens if you don't? Crap, I've gone through childbirth twenty times already since I've stared working here, and I've never even been pregnant.

Had to look at baby pictures over breakfast. Gross. They all look the same.

Doh!

So I'm sitting at work, and I get my doctor's note out to give to the relevant people.. only to see that I've actually been booked off until Saturday. Lekker doffies.

crazycat

Rainrainrainrain

Crisis!

The constant rain is giving Ichigo cabin fever. He was happily muncing away on my bonsai, and I just had to resque my oxford dictionary from him. Antistatic to beluga now has more holes than the standard sieve. Now he's giving my scarf a go. Yes, I named my cat after an anime character, I lose-uhr. Why? They both have orange hair.

the healing powers of empathy

I love my friends. They made me feel so much better, both physically and about the fact that I wussed out and went to the doctor. Everyone who knew I was feeling a bit off phoned or sms'ed, and I even got some free reiki healing from 70kms away (thanks IsaBee).

What I hate most about feeling sick, is that I feel sorry for myself. Boohoo, poor Marilu, is it sore to swallow, little girl? But I did get booked off from work for the day, so it wasn't all in vain. And the visit to mister healthcare was surprisingly pleasant, what a nice GP. A Santa Clause lookalike, Dr. Rose, who kept joking about his weight and didn't blink when I requested an HIV test. He is professional, after all. Such a nice visit, I think I'll sommer go again at the first sign of a sniffle or cough.

So now I'm the proud owner of four bags of pills (green ones, pink lozenges, purple ones and brown & white antibiotics). I've already skipped it twice, and I only got it yesterday. Bah, I hate pills. Love 'em, but hate 'em.

Today is a bad day

I hate going to doctors. I haven't been in a doctor's office in yonks. I'm talking about normal GP's here. In fact, I'd rather go to a hospital than a doctor, because the possibility of some anaesthesic is there. The true sleep of the dead. Do I mention death a lot? It seems so.

So it's been just more than ten days since the Swazisquitoes sucked me dry. My throat's been sore for three days now. My neck stiff for two days. I've been writing it off as the result of an apathetic lifestyle. But last night I woke up at 3:03 a.m. in the most horrible of hot-cold-hot-cold sweats, with the words "malaria.. malaria.." drifting around in my confused dreams.

I had those frustrating 'stuck in a particular loop' dreams, where I kept waking up on my futon, to discover that my house was broken into/ there were people parked in a dodgy car outside my house, me screaming and smashing windows to frighten them away/ my floors were smeared with blood/ wild animals were walking around on the other side of my mosquito net. Every dream snippet ended in cold fear, and I was placed right back on square 1, back on my futon, to discover the next horrible thing, never knowing whether I was awake or dreaming.

So after an eventful restless night, I got up and cleared away the remains of a wine binge with local friends, my home smelling of old cigarettes and mango peels. I remember devouring a mango just before passing out, believing that it mattered. Fibre.. must have.. fibre...

So I booked myself an appointment with a local doctor (already I don't trust him). If they're going to draw my blood, I think they should sommer test for HIV as well. I did the nerve-wrecking test at the start of my career in celibacy, but you can never be too sure.

See what all those AIDS campaigns are doing to me?

Tuesday 10:06 am

Sitting on the office floor, methodically cutting open blue plastic bags with which we're planning to cover some files. Stationary department is all out of decifix. My colleagues are discussing the best ways to potty train kids, the merits and demerits of plastic sheeting under bedsheets, whilst I'm troubled by my body pH.

Normal urine pH = 6.0 - 7.0
Mine = 5.5

Normal saliva pH = 6.4 - 6.8
Mine = 5.5

The logical thing to do would be to look at my diet/lifestyle to find the source of all this excess acid.

The three things I've been consuming on a daily basis:
Mangoes: pH = 2.6 - 5.0
Grapefruit juice : pH = 3.0
Green Tea: pH = 7.0 (oh I love you, Camelia sinensis!)

According to Taoist principles, there are five basic flavours, connected with five elemental activities. These are:
Sweet (earth), Sour (wood), pungent (metal), salty (water) and bitter (fire).
Each of these flavours feeds a different organ as well, and bitter is linked to the heart.
In normal diets, the neglected taste is bitter, mainly because, well, it's bitter. When I realised that I'm the only person responsible for the happiness of my heart, I decided to pepper my diet with bitter foods. All those acquired tastes - olives, coffee (no sugar thanks), g-T, g & T, red wine, grapefruits, andsoforth.

As a sidenote, I've been thinking of naming my first-born daughter Mara, which means "bitter" (well, in the bible it does). I just wonder if I'll be cursing her with a name that reminds of scrunched-up faces and difficulty in swallowing.

Start -> Programs -> Accessories -> Notepad

Seven thousand stories told without the distracting of buttons and toolbars. I sleep on the floor. I handwash my clothes. My cd walkman is held together with cellotape. I use notepad. My pc can't play any videos. Or music, for that matter. I haven't worn nailpolish in over 5 years. I've never plucked my eyebrows. I only have red wine and grapefruit juice in my fridge, ever. I believe in love.

I read a quote on wikiquote that went something like this:"It takes only twenty years for a liberal to become a conservative without changing their point of view."

By the way, I love wikipedia. And the sister-sites it spawned. Wikiquote, Takipedia, Wikitravel, and if it exists, Wikimedia as well.

Pitter Patter

It's been raining the better part of today. A soft drizzle. Soft enough to walk around it, leaving me clammy, but not soaked. The spiders seem to like it, they're all over the show. Saw a big one in a beautiful, circular web outside. Got a flashlight for a closer look, and jumped when the light threw a huge spider shadow on the wall behind it. What a spectacular spider, all black and orange, with a cross on its belly. Armoured up and ready to go to war. I hope that all these spiders are a sign of good luck. I know praying mantises are good luck. Or a premonition of death.

M is for...

On Sunday I seeked some relief from a migraine that felt like a rusty sneak knife lodged in my left brain lobe. The rumble of city traffic made me cringe, and I was certain that my left eye was protruding from its throbbing socket. All pharmacies were closed, so I opted for some alternative healing. With some convincing from my friend, I stopped at a herbal homeopathic pseudo pharmacy, requesting a quick fix. Teehee, it was like visiting a mainstream sangoma - all these jars with powders at the back, most of them a sickly green. After consulting his textbook (not very encouraging), he made me a mixture of cayenne pepper, catnip, eye of newt and some bat wings, "The problem is that there is not enough oxygen flowing to your brain, the cayenne pepper will improve your circulation". While he was searching for M is for Migraine, I felt like screaming No you moron, it's because I slept my neck into an advanced yoga position, jus' gimme some muscle relaxants! (Alternatively, it's the first symptoms of Malaria)

I payed for my powder, got some iced green tea with plum juice, and headed to the Smoothie shop with Wessel to get something to wash it down with (didn't think of the iced tea hey?). It was fucking horrible. It clogged up my esophagus. I choked. I burned. I couldn't get my smoothie to go up the straw. I coughed. My eyes watered. I couldn't speak. It formed a paste on my palate. I couldn't get it down. What a scene, right by the smoothie shop. Wessel was laughing up a storm. I would have found it very funny as well, except for the fact that I was having a near-death experience. Finally I managed to swallow half of my strawberry smoothie with the paste in my mouth, causing the confusion of a mouth on fire and intense brainfreeze combined.

Screw that. Next time I'm taking what works; 70mg orphenadrine citrate + 900 mg paracetamol. Mental note to take 5 boxes of Norflex to J-pan, though I think that paracetamol is illegal there.

Bend 'em while they're young

I was woken up by a wet, musty smelling cat this morning. My cat, whom (if you can use that word in reference to felines) I hadn't seen for three days. The reason simply being that I'd been visiting in Pretoria for the weekend. Cats are less maintenance than bonsais. And I've been treating my bonsai like a cat (come to me I'll give you love, if you don't I'll forget). No wonder it's been.. "dormant" for months now. I refuse to admit that I killed it. It was a birthday gift, after all; responsibility in a pot. I sat with the bonsai in my hands last night, on a mission to channel some energy into its dry bark. I wanted to speak to it, but couldn't get myself to smalltalk with a dead tree. What would I tell it? "So, nice weather we've been having? Did you like the supplements I gave you? Not too strong, eh? How do you feel about the global village concept?" So I opted for visualisation. I looked at it and remembered what it used to look like; small dark green leaves, so shiny that it seemed to be dipped in wax and polished. I imagined it growing, flourishing, pushing out new buds, opening to reveal tiny purple and white flowers. I slept with it next to my head, falling asleep with my fingers tracing the branches, silenty hoping that my bonsai would speak to me in my dream; but my sleep was deep and dark, with no dreams to chew on in the morning. I remember holding the bonsai, and the next thing I saw was a wet cat talking to the rhythm of the rain outside.

Philosophy of Blogging 101

I've been thinking about the act of blogging a lot lately. because I've been thinking in blog logs lately. And I think it can become a physical addiction. Psychological. Because it goes two ways:
If you use the blog, as I do, to lay down a few thoughts with the knowledge that it is there for anyone to see. All they need is a key in the form of a url, and they can see into your life, your thoughts, your experiences. It's sortof like looking into the abyss; and the abyss looking back into you. Because you create a post around a thought, every random thought could become a possible post. Every thought is captured, every moment, however trivial forms the basis for a new story, for a new blog entry.

By thinking like this, by embroidering or dissecting daily events, you become all the more conscious of your current reality. Your perceptions are enhanced, your thoughts are over-active, you are more alive than before. You're high on.. blog.

Case Study:I was washing clothes a bit earlier. Such a schlepp, but it's part of The Eternal Struggle, and therefore unavoidable. Today, up to my elbows in warm soapy water, I romanticise the whole event, and type it mentally. handwashing becomes something that binds people (mostly women, i suppose?) from the beginning of mankind. Everyone had to wash clothes! Everyone knows this feeling! I feel connected with my foremothers, and scoff at those consumers of the modern world with their washing machines, bah! I remember washing clothes in winter, late at night with a chill in the air. Steam rising from the basin outside, the warmth of the water over my hands and arms, with my fingers running through all those different textures. The cold water that drips as soon as the clothes are squeezed dry, and the washing lines full of hotpants and skirts; steaming in the dark.

I am Marilu.

Out of interest and boredom, I've decided to google Image my name.

Results 101 - 120 of about 6,330 for marilu. (0.21 seconds)

I've never met anyone that shares my name, although, while at university, I accidentaly took a marked paper from a heap that had my name on it, only to realise later that it was another Marilu. Another Marilu, same year as me, also in a B.Sc direction. I felt cheated and cheap. Thank God I never met her.

Lots of photos of Marilus across the globe. Most of them seem to be Brazilian though, strange, never thought of my name as Spanish. Actually it was born from a combination between Maria and Lulu. Maria could be Spanish though, or Roman Catholic, so I suppose it's your basic female name, like John for guys.

Hey, there was a Marilu Santana that was Mrs. Central States! Hotel Marilu in Tuscany. Marilu Henner, of course, I think she used to act in Cheers. Guadalupe Marilu Canizales Claros. Marilu Cruz. Marilu Rodriguez. Marilu García. Marilu's bed & breakfast in Chile. "Today, Marilu is teaching people how to purify their water and avoid drinking water like that which is found in the typical washing area shown here. She is on call 24 hours a day to deliver babies and provide crisis medical care. A doctor is only available a few hours a week." That's not me, by the way.

I'm all over the world. But maybe I did lose part of myself in South America in a previous life. I've been fascinated by it for years now, and will try to live there for at least a year, somewhere in the future. Then maybe I'll meet another Marilu, face to face, and shake her hand.

consume

One thing that is really positive about being back at work :
I'm back to an average of 5 cups of green tea before 16h00.

Think I'll open that bottle of red wine tonight. Antioxidants, you know. Kept it for an occasion, but the occasion will be in opening it. Anticipating the pop of the cork. And the four empty gulps of air before the red liquid comes pouring out.

Memory tripping : And the day after...

Sunday was supposed to be spent in cultural villages, soaking up the local flavour. A huge breakfast leaves us incapacitated, and we lounge around like fat crocodiles next to the pool, on the grass, reading in the shade, dozing, chatting, scheming, dreaming. I talk to a guy from England whose natural rhythm is not having a natural rhythm, and whose hairwrapping skills payed for him to go to Swaziland. Because I'm a sucker for stories, I believe that a floating shoestore is one of the seven wonders of the modern world. He talks about reality tv in Japan where the purpose of the show is to lose your virginity, and the infamous suicide clubs. The evening passes too quickly, and we never get to play fire for the group of girls from Holland.

The next morning we get up early, sluggishly, sad that we have to leave. Still spend a good three hours talking crap and eating hotdogs with suspiciously orange-tinted sausage inside. Finally we tear ourslves away, and visit a candle factory, a batik shop where I buy another Africa shirt to wear in Eastern countries, return to House on Fire for some daylight photographs, the road is long and the weather humid and hot. My jeans are sticking to my legs and my feet are itching like crazy where Swaziland mosquitoes had a all-you-can-eat feast on my feet. I've never been bitten this badly, not even in high summer. My feet resemble a leper's, and I'll be surprised if I don't get malaria.

We drive up and down a few wrong roads, all directional mistakes providing us with new, amazing views. Some black teenagers shout at us to turn around and go the other way, and for a second I feel like an intruder, unwanted in this country. We drive past billboards advertising MTN and Shoprite, and warning against AIDS for old time's sake. Moloko and more mountains Stamp our passports, stop in a beautiful pine forest for a smoke and Baker's biscuits. Mariska shares her knowledge on mushrooms, we spotted five different types in a 100m walk. We stop at a very small town called Chrissiesmeer to stretch our legs, and while waiting to pay for my juice, I overhear the cashier and another lady complaining about the pointlessness of life. "Eat, sleep, work and shit. That's all that happens in life, you know it."

Another stop in Ermelo for lunch, a burger with so much chutney that I have to ask the cashier for a wet cloth with which to clean myself afterwards. In Secunda, the town where I spent the first three years of my life we have coffee, we switch cars, I consider amputating my itchy feet; we exchange luggage, sort out money and I'm on my own again. Singing along to Morcheeba, I become addicted to track 6. The roads are - as all my roads in 2005 - long, straight and dark.

Saturday Morning 3:00 am

Designated drivers staying up all night talking, cringing at Wonder Showzen and watching Green Card. Irresponsible but oh well, trusting caffiene and nicotine to keep out eyes on the road. Small cups of coffee and dodgy toilets at garages. Quiet, dark roads with mystery landscapes. Panoramic sunrises, 5 a.m. is still my favourite time of the day. Artificial forests seeping mist into the roads and the border approaches. A donkey stops in the middle of the road to scratch his ear with his back hoof. We're the only white people in rows of black faces. We lose cellphone reception, and the breakaway truly begins. We drive through Mbabane, Manzini, past billboards where the only intelligible word is hiv+. We get lost, find our way again, almost get crushed twice by manic drivers, and turn into the backpackers, shaken up but still alive.

The staff are friendly, the house has character and the atmosphere very relaxed. Clean up after yourself, especially in the kitchen, aside from that your happiness is pretty much your own indaba. There are bins for organic waste and non-biodegradable waste. A solar cooker outside that cooks water in 15 minutes, on sunny days. Slow internet and a lunar bar, with U2 and St Germaine playing over the speakers. Huge dogs and cows. A few posters for Swazi School of Poi, sealing the thought that there will be some fellow firespinners in the crowd. On the one door there is a letter, written by a little girl who lived in the house before it was turned into a backpackers. The letter is addressed to the house, thanking it for all the good days, the protection, the memories.. and wishing it good tenants for the future, with written regrets that she has to leave. They discovered the letter under some floorboards while they were renovating the house, and stuck it on the door leading outside, with an explanation of the story.

We switched years at a place called House on Fire, which I'll ooh and ahh about some more where when I have pictures to justify the amazement I felt walking through the best venue I've been in my whole life. Gallery cum venue cum outer-space creation from the artistic underground, it felt like we discovered a lost Gaudi village, inspired by Mama Afrika. Left the party physically exhausted, slightly drunk, slightly stoned, missing skin on my fingers, clammy with sweat, and very satisfied. 4 a.m. swim, chlorine stinging my fingers, and the sleep of the dead.

I left a piece of myself in Swaziland

This is where I spent my New Years weekend : Swaziland. Home of both the Swazis and also Swazi. 'Lush' is the word that comes to mind when I think of Swaziland. Green. Rolling hills covered in more shades of green than I could imagine. Rural, but charming. I say this as an outsider, someone who had a tourist's glimpse of a place so close yet so different from her own. Surely there are places in South Africa that are similar, off the beaten track, but the fact that you cross a visible border does add dimension to the fact that you are not in your own country anymore.

We stayed in a backpackers close to Manzini, the second largest city, which was equal in size to most towns I know. I have no idea how many people reside in Swaziland, but I do know that approximately 40% of all pregnant women in Swaziland are HIV+. The dreaded virus is in your face the whole time, with every second billboard reminding the Swazi folk that sex can wait, and that no one is worth a sickly and stigmatised death. Their government is a monarchy, and King Mswati III's photo adorned many a wall of the places we visited. I never any locals whether they are happy with the arrangement, whether their king is good to them or not. I read a quick paragraph somewhere that there's feelings of segregation - the royal family on their little throne, and the people herding cows and walking for miles. The Kingdom of Swaziland. It looked like paradise to me.

It reminded me why I want to live in other places, and not just visit. The tourist's view is a biased one, as the experience is very one-sided and can unfairly be influenced by bad weather. There were so many things I wanted to do that two and a half days didn't allow. 2.5 days, bah. It's barely a long weekend. When I go there again, I'll quadbike through the hills and stop at the villages for tea and stories. There are waterfalls I didn't get to see, rocks I didn't get to clamber up, I didn't sit by a fire or go to the North eastern side. I did see the stars though, and a morning sky in fluorescent pink with pastel purples. We camped on dark, soft soil in a mango orchard. Prior to this weekend, I'd never before seen a mango orchard, I just always assumed that, unlike money, mangoes grow on trees. The branches were heavy with mangoes, all still green, unfortunately. While we were setting up our domes for the weekend, a jersey cow and her calf were cruising around in the orchard, a white bird following them lazily on foot.

It was also my introduction to the backpacker's world. There is this itch inside me to pack everything up and get on a plane, go see what else is out there. There's an eternally running blockbuster show called Earth, and i really want to get a ticket to go see it. It's almost like a controlled frenzy, this urge to see and learn and absorb what I can from other places, because it's THERE. But there's this giant waiting period waiting for me. What am I saying, I'm already in it. The struggle between daydreaming about the future, and staying focussed in the now, because it still requires your attention. I trust that travelling will be one of those things that are worth the wait. I'm just so damn impatient.

I did not want to leave on Monday. But my current reality called, and I had to return to work yesterday. My friend Wessel and I got invited to play firepoi onstage at the New Years party, in front of a hundred or so strangers. Or two hundred, I've never been able to estimate the numberof people in a crowd. My brain doesn't have that function. On the way back home, we stopped at a few crafty stores where I bought earrings made from peacock feathers and the first badge in my not yet extensive collection. The badge says "I Love swaziland", and is pinned to my jeans on the floor, crumpled up next to my futon. At the craft shops a guy stopped me to mention that he saw me play fire at the New years party. Chatted a bit, and I told him that I had to be back to work the following day. He asked 'Back to playing poi?', which I found surprising. I suppose there isn't such a thing as a 9-5 face; if there is, I obviously don't have one. See, it's a sign! Quit job, pack up, leave... Soon..