No News Is No News

When my landlady knocked on my window to check if I was still alive, I realised that I really am not home all that often.

When the check-out girl at the supermarket said, “You really like red wine, hey?”, I realised that I might be overdoing the glassss-a-night thing.

When my daily friends kept asking why I haven’t posted anything on my blog recently, I realised that I’ve been neglecting my blogging.

I haven’t been neglecting my writing, as I spend many an evening in front of my pc with my cat on the monitor, a heater at my back, and a glass of wine in my hand. Another evening in Dronkwordspruit. It’s just that I’ve been pouring my arbitrary analysis and petty pet hates into personal emails. But I’m still writing. It’s my biggest addiction.

With two weeks, one day and 5 hours left of life as a food tech green-cap, I have been stuck on a mental analysis of my current situation. Just to kinda get a grip on what exactly it is that I’ll be leaving behind. And I’ve realised that I’m living a pretty damn comfortable life. I’m financially independent. I’ve got amazing friends. I’ve got a promising career ahead of me. I really dig my job. I love South Africa. I love the people. Even with many things missing from my life, I’m happier than some people will ever be.

So this is the perfect time to give everything up. It’s the clever way, like walking out of the casino when you’ve won your bucks. Thanks, much appreciated, check you later. Leaving a pseudo-perfect life behind means that my move is out of choice, not out of circumstance. I’m not running away from anything. I’m not leaving in fear of my future. I’m not seeking greener pastures. The grass I’m feeding on is pretty damn green. But I’ve never grazed on Japanese grass, which is more than enough reason to do it.

We’ve only got one planet. Go explore it.

I Don't Dream

This picture has been floating around in my head the past few days. It was the first Dali I ever saw, in a book about dreams or psychology, something of the subconscious.
Can't remember, I was very young..

Speak Softly

I've been so manically busy at work the past few weeks, that I haven't checked out my friends' blogs in quite a while. I don't see them half as often as I'd like, so The Blog plays a convenient, yet sterile role in me knowing what's going on in their lives. Make do with what you have.

I gave up on cleaning schedules and micro reports, and decided to wander down their mind lanes for a while. It left me feeling the way that I feel after witnessing any great work of art - both inspired and despondent. But for different reasons, this time around.

Be kind to people you meet for the first time - every person is fighting their own personal battle.

Experiencing A Slight Change In Pressure

My options are limited:

1) Take an aimless walk around the factory

2) Phone a friend

3) De-scale the kettle

I've already done 1 and 2, and option 3 will have to wait a while, as I'm letting the water cool down for my umpteenth super-sized cup of green tea. No one should have to be at work at 4 o' clock on a Sunday afternoon. I'd rather be sitting outside with the sun on my face, reading the Sunday newspaper. But eh, you can't always do what you want. If you could have, free will would have lost it's novelty years ago.

All the white men who work nightshift here look like pedophiles with hidden collections of kitty and kiddy porn in their basements. And toy trains. I greet them with a friendly smile, but from afar, in fear that they might smell me. There's a younger nightshift guy who looks like a really scary Wolverine. Imagine Wolverine on meth for 6 days straight, lost in an industrial area. Wearing dark blue overalls. Scary people.

Yesterday, I took a manic drive from work to home to Pretoria, making my way to a non-compulsory JET Q&A session at the Embassy. Initially, I decided to go to check out my fellow jets, but in the end the gathering proved to be informative. Fortunately or unfortunately (I've yet to make up my mind), I've been researching Japan/JET like a crazylady for almost a year now. My brain is super-saturated with island info. Please, I'm looking for a distraction. Tell me a story, or invite me to something.

Time to de-scale that kettle, I think.

Sunrise in Bronkhorstspruit, Moonrise in Delta Park

Afrikaners is Plesierig

What I do when I visit my parents:
1) Eat as much candy as I can
2) Catch up on all my internet time (because work days does not allow for tea, lunch or casual surfing)

I've also been catching up on reading alternative Afrikaans online articles. Die boys (and the occasional skurwe girl) from the watkykjy team had me sniggering in front of the pc like an idiot. Moerse funny artikels. Dis my tipe people - born and bred in die Vaal Driehoek, 'n tersiêre geskiedenis in Pretoria, en 'n bitter siniese uitkyk met 'n tikkie galg humor. Love it.


Verontskuldiging
Alle pics in hierdie post is ge-rightclick, gesave en gesteel van watkykjy.co.za af. Dankie, ek waardeer dit. Spaar my die moeite.

Manzini Memories

Should you ever find yourself in Swaziland, be sure to drive past Mbabane, onwards to Manzini and stop at House on Fire. It's worth every lush grassy hill.

This is also my 100th blog entry, so let's open that bottle of champagne...

Lost Pixellation

Kid's colours. Bright red and turquoise are kid's colours.
It whispers to the brain to move into nostalgia mode. It begs for memories to be recalled.

Orange, on the other hand, is the colour of winter and tigers and citrus and institutionalised crazies, and monks, walking through mountains, holding umbrellas. It's a jacket zipped up to hide 'Easily Distracted'. Not many people wear orange. I'm very greatful for that.

On the subject of colour (a recurring theme), I wanted to comment on the spectacular clouds that were featured in the post below.

All four pics were taken while driving from my current home to my childhood home. It's a two hour drive (if traffic has not completely tapered out) on a long, farmstyle road that eventually curves past the airport. Before you actually hit traffic, you drive through this amazing landscape with a full, 360 degree view of the surroundings.

What I love about that road, is that you can look in four different directions, and see four different skies. 1 o' clock presented a grey sky with darkened smudges of rain, connecting the earth and the clouds. 4 -5 o' clock had a rain of a different kind: every shade of yellow, orange and gold pouring down from the sun, discolouring the clouds at such a sneaky tempo that every time I glanced, it was a completely different scene, each more breathtaking than the previous. My rear-view mirror displayed an innocent baby-blue sky with little white cartoon clouds. Looking over my left shoulder, I could see two rainbows drawn next to each other. A horison filled with colours.

The point is:
I was struggling to keep my eyes on the road. So many other things to look at. And I thought that I could not remember such amazing skies. Then I realised - Approximately a year ago, I was driving to my parents' place, on the very same road, struggling just as hard to keep my eyes on the road, when I was pulled over by cops. Speeding and swerving. I did get a fine, but talked it down, telling him the truth: My eyes were not on my speedometer, but on the clouds.

Because I'm Practical

I really do dig my hair. The supposed Winona Ryder style (huh, Ree?). So I shaved it again tonight. To be more specific, my brother shaved it for me, between snips and giggles. I just realised I wore the same freaking shirt the first day I shaved my head (scalp-skeer). Got the shirt from on of my weirdass female flatmates from my Pretoria days. The girl whose boyfriend worked at a butchery, and was addicted to Grandpas. The headache powder; not inverted peadophilia.

The point of the post (not all that comfortable splashing my face over my blog - especially not in a "before and after!" mediocre make-over setup.)
The point of the post was the following: I like having a mess of hair. So, to be really practical, I timed my hairgrowth that it would be of a messable lenght by the time I get to Nippon. No cutting, styling, brushing or serious washing in my future! Never thought I'd be blogging about my hair. Wonder if I'm slowly turning into a real girl. Best I stop while I'm a-head...

Autumn in BHS

I remember when I moved into Bronkhorstspruit, I saw the letters 'BHS' everywhere; on rubbish bins, on electricity boxes, on streetlamps and manhole covers.
"Wow," I thought, "The local High school must be very active in the community service thing," misreading the HS as "high school". It was, in fact, "horstspruit" (what a cool combination of letters).

I love my little house, I love my sample garden and the missing tree and the fact that I can get onto my roof in 9 seconds and I love autumn and the colours of the dorp and I'll miss it but I shall remember it.

Future Rewards

The sheer goodness of my moodness lately is due to a combination of things. Part of it is the country-hopping expedition that is one day closer every day. I knew that I’d be going to Japan in July, but hearing the name of my future home-away-from-home just added to the reality of it all. In a little over two months (damn, still so far away) my new address will end with Niimi, Okayama prefecture, Japan. I’m as excited as a kid waiting for Christmas, and my current reality is suffering because my head is already on the island. No, my current reality is enhanced; it’s just my work that has regressed from being arbitrary to now being ridiculous. I do try to focus, I just forget to do so sometimes.

They say that you don’t realise how much something means to you until you lose it. So what happens when you know that you’re going to lose something in the near future? You appreciate it more than ever before, while you still have it. A future that involves leaving is a wonderful filter through which to perceive your world. I breathe in every morning and every night. I feel the stable earth of Africa under my feet, and sit hypnotised under the African skies. Autumn has transformed my town into a kaleidoscope of colours. Once again, I love this place. Every visit with my friends and family is a chance to absorb their presences while I still can. In my mind, I’m collecting images and moments. In my head, I’m saying goodbye to everything that means something to me. Every day is lived as if it’s the last – because the last day of this phase is just around the corner.

I should have taken my camera with. But, this having been my second funeral ever, I was a bit uncertain as to the correct funeral etiquette. Is it rude to take photos? Do you say ‘cry!’ instead of ‘smile!’ when pushing the button? In the end, I left it at home, and regretted it within the first 20 minutes of driving:

The road to Nigel is long and straight. It runs in between farms and small dorpies. The red soil has discoloured the tarmac into a pink-brown strip that carries on forever, over flat hills. I drove past a guy on a donkey-cart who waved as I moved to the other lane to pass him. A little bit further on, there was a black guy in a blue overall next to the road, clutching a white, awkward-looking chicken in each of his hands. Harvest-debris rolled up into huge balls of animal feed, so big that you mistake them for cows from afar. Black cows on a pale brown land. Brown. Winter is brown; all shades of brown. Luckily the sunsets are a picturesque pink and blue.

What Does One Wear To A Funeral?

The previous post was about life. This one is going to be about death. The two sides of the existence coin.

My uncle died last Friday. He’d been fighting cancer for a while, but the disease had a good start, and won the battle in the end. My perception of death has been on my mind a lot the past week, and I realised that I’m so calm about it that it borders on being blasé. I doubt that I’m ever going to feel sad about his passing. I even really enjoyed the funeral. Like stepping into an 80’s movie, I watched friends and family hold hands, exchange long hugs, an look at each other with half-smiles, not saying anything. The unspoken languages. I love it.

I suppose I just enjoyed watching people swell with emotion, confusion, relief; death and life intertwined into every moment. People from the past. So many people whose paths crossed with his – I could trace my memories of their family just by glancing around and spotting the familiar faces of people I met years ago. People that I’ll never know. Maybe I just enjoy seeing humans being human.

Funeral moods:

I think the funeral to aspire to, is the one at the end of Big Fish. A big party in the memory of the deceased, and everyone is laughing through their tears. Today’s funeral reminded me of that, just more.. Afrikaans. Subdued. Relief and love: That was the mood. What would the mood be like at the funeral of a teen suicide? Or a car accident victim? Sudden deaths. Disbelief? Heart-wrenching sobs that haunt you years after?

Here’s to happy funerals.

Star Struck

...I'm kinda...

...hypnotised...


I kinda... lost..
..my..


structure of thought


...along the way...

people can be

very addictive
....people...
can feel like home...

From Pretoria with Love

I've been missing this dude a bit. Especially over the weekend, driving down roads that used to lead to his house. Especially after just reading his blog update.

He's in Sicily at the moment, soaking up sun and eating pasta, and it sounds like he's well, which makes me miss him a little bit less and even more.

Cheers dude, I'll see you in 2007. Oh, I changed our destination to one island east from Koh Samui. Check out Koh Panang when you get the chance. We'll have the party of our lives.

The High Cost of Living

To confirm my acceptance into the JET program, I had get myself checked out by a doctor. Even after having been a salarygirl for 1.5 years, I still scrape the bottom of the barrel, come end of the month. So when I found out that all the local rip-off doctors were going to require a few hundred rands from me for tests and x-rays, I decided to phone a friend.

Eric has been one of my friends for years now. We even went to our high school matric farewell together. Our paths split during uni years, and after tertiary education, we ended up living half an hour’s drive away from each other. He’s a doctor-in-training in a government hospital, and he totally agreed to play doctor in order for my JET form to be completed. I drove through after work, arrive, eat a chocolate Easter bunny’s head, and mission off to the hospital.

First, I have to open a file. Eric hands me a slip of paper which says ‘CASUALTY’. Cool.

“Go to the counter. Tell them that you drank a lot of pills. You need to be admitted. Remember: You’re overdosing on pills.”

I hadn’t planned on playing sick. Pills? What a siff way to try and kill yourself. Stomach pumping and all that. I take my place in the queue of three people and try imagine why I’d drink too many pills. I decide that I’d been visiting some dodgy friends, who dared me to swallow a handful of pills, which I did, because I am dodgy. And I wait. I hold my stomach. And I wait. I run my hands through my hair, repeatedly (all the better to shape an afro, my child). And I wait. I rock back a forth. And I wait 25 minutes before the guy at the counter finished flirting with his dying patient, and I get to open my file.

I shuffle over to the counter (pills. I drank pills), take my seat, and groan a “Sawubona” to the chick behind the glass panel. She doesn’t return my greeting. She just stares at me with crazy eyes. Finally, she speaks:

“Don’t take this the wrong way but.. are you a man or a lady?”

Her comment shatters my suicide facade, and I burst out laughing. So much for dying, eh? As a fan of androgyny, she unwittingly gave me the biggest compliment. I quit pretending to be dying, and she happily fills out my form. I become an official patient of the inadequate South African Governmental hospital system.

Next step: x-rays of my lungs, to check for da TB. My suicide becomes stupidity:

“Just tell them that you swallowed a pin, and you experienced shortness of breath afterwards, and you need to get an x-ray of your lungs”

Another 25 minutes wasted on cheap plastic seats. I walk around, reading leaflets on breast feeding and poems about death. I get my x-rays and have it analysed. Even with a history of smoking, my lungs are in prime condition (I thank Taoist breathing exercises). My clavicle has healed (I have the best collarbone x-rays, defined by screws and plates). My piss is pure. My blood pressure is textbook. My eyes are 20/20 all the way. My heart beats 80 times per minute. I am sane. I am free.

Slavery Is Not Job Creation

If I were a vegetarian, I’d probably be a mellow fanatic. I wouldn’t wear leather shoes, I wouldn’t eat jelly babies that contains gelatine form mammalian sources, my catfood would be dolphin friendly. When there’s a mindset that I disagree with, I refuse to be part of anything that supports that mindset. And this leads me back to my job.

Obviously, the aim of any major company is to make money. Minimum expenditures for maximum profits. But when is the price you pay too high? The company I work for is situated conveniently close to an informal settlement. This means that they (I refuse to say “we”) can dip their greedy hands into the struggling community and provide them with jobs. Some job creation is better than no job creation, but after hearing some behind-the-scenes info, I cannot imagine how the company’s owners sleep at night.

a) Some big bosses came to visit the factory, and noticed that we were using raw materials that had expired more than a month before. They made a big hoo-ha, the managers made a big hoo-ha, and everyone passed the buck until it landed on the poor sod who issues the products from the fridges. They opened a disciplinary action against him, humiliated him in a few shouting matches, and finally suspended him from his bottom-of-the-barrel fridge-packer job. Once the big bosses left the building, our managers recalled all the rejected raw materials and insisted that the factory continue using them. Because it still smells alright, and is worth a lot of money. They are rolling around in double standards and new cars, and the fridge guy now has no way to support his family.

b) Yesterday I found out that some people get payed not per hour, but per weight of raw material/product they prepare. This is grand, because the harder you work, the more you earn. Incentive? Not here. The line of ladies who spend every day on their feet, from 6 am to 3 pm, cutting raw meat into 1x5 cm strips are paid by the bucket. R6.00 per bucket filled. It takes them a goof few hours to fill a bucket. The ladies who cut spinach have it even worse: They are paid 50 cents per kilogram of spinach prepared. Spinach is feather-light, especially when cut. It takes them an average of four hours to cut a kilo of spinach. That’s 12.5 cents per hour. South African cents. That translates to $0.01 per hour, working with sharp knives and standing on your feet for 9 hours.

 

This company is grating against my moral grain.

 

Vanilla

Very tired. I've been almost falling asleep all over the show. Today, the rest of the country is sleeping in and having breakfast in bed in the name of Family Day. The bakery manager asked me what the date is. "It's the 17th today," I replied. "It's supposed to be family day." I haven't seen my family in months. I also haven't even seen an easter egg, and Easter is basically over. After having spent my Easter at work, the bakery man crushes the last little wakefulness I had by replying: "Oh, but this is where you should be today. This company is your family now."
Three months and counting. I'm resigning on the 14th of June.

The past week or so has brought forth a series of extremely ironic events. So many absurd interactions with semi-strangers that I'm not quite sure what to make of it yet. I suppose I'll have to let it sink in first, do some mental filing, sexual admin. But first, I need to get through the day. QC sessions and cleaning training awaits in a company that go against the grain of human rights. They are slave drivers. Im referring to the poor black people they use as the cogs & wheels for profit. This is me, digressing. Back to the point:
I do believe that, as humans, we rock individually and connect invisibly. But I forgot that we do. Until recently I've been picking up small connections between me and the semi-strangers. Picking up the phone just seconds before I get an sms from samesame - six times in a row. Or dreaming the burn's blog address - and being out with two letters. It's always the little things that kill, the little things that thrill.
And the main act in this lip-synch circus has yet to make his entrance..

I Am Near

In three months' time, you'll find me on a different corner. I'll be here. Where? Somewhere. I don't know yet. I'll know by mid-May, and I'll steal another map from Google and add it into a post. All I know at this moment is that I still have to get arond to a doctor so that he can analyse my piss and observe my cough.

And tell the friendly JET people that 'm lesharpa to cross the ocean. That I'm free of TB and HIV and MSG and LSD.

The other thing that I do know, is that I'll be taking ground in Tokyo on 31/07. Damnit, we're only in 04 now. So close, but yet so far.. I love saying it. "I'll be landing inTokyo...." The words sound alien, coming from my mouth. But I can get used to it. Let me say that again.. I'll be landing in Tokyo...

I Am Here

This is where I am currently geographically situated. If you follow the red arrows, circling around a specific spot like patient vultures, you will more or less get an idea of where I stay.

Ag shite, no arrows. Well, this is the town where I stay. I live in the "Bester" area, which consists of the main square in the map. "Erasmus" is to the left, comprising a grand total of 15 streets, most of which have animal names. Elephant Street. Lion Street. Zebra Street. I don't know or care much about the "Masada" area, but I suspect that alcoholism and wife-beating is a national sport on that side of the dorp.

Drive straight North across the bean-shaped province, the province that is neither Orange, nor Free, nor a a State. Cross the border into the former Transvaal, now remaned to a more politically soothing "Gauteng Province", GP, gangster's paradise. Drive on and on like a halycon, until you reach the Other Mother City. Ons sal lewe ons sal sterwe, ons vir jou Pretoria. Five years of my life spent there. Five years that changed me so much I have no idea to return to what I used to be, and no desire to do it either. Pretoria swallowed me whole, chewed me up, spat me out, played with me and wiped off the film of drool. I'm still clammy and slightly dented, but I've been to places I cannot describe with words.

When you get to Pretoria (also identifiable by the name "Tswane") turn right and drive for 30 minutes. I'll be waiting on the corner. I'll be the chick with the frazzled grey-and-white beanie tripping over my words, spare toothbrush in my pocket. Because you never know.

Map of the World

So I've been accepted into the JET program.
I have three months left in the country with the most beautiful sunrises
(rumour has it)
only three months left in the job that I lost all passion for
I'm too sleepy to type now.
Maybe later.

For Every Action...

..there's an equal, but opposite reaction.

So I spent most of my morning typing up a list of all the things I'm required to shove down my throat on a daily basis. The zillion components part is a new thing. So I drew up beatiful tables and so forth, printed out the list (four pages), and plopped it down on my manager's table.

"Hi, here's a list of everything you expect me to QC every single day of the week. I'd appreciate it if you could join me for these QC sessions, so I just want to kow what time will be convenient for you. How does after lunch suit you?"



My component QC list dropped from 131 products to 11. I feel lighter already.

Food Stopped Being Love

I'm so sick of eating. It might be due to the fact that I'm forced to eat, like my over-active liver soon has to be the base for a delicious human fois-gras. It's the joys of being a food technologst for a company that produces over 250 different types of convenience foods. And I hate the heat-and-eat society, the society that don't know their children's names, but have flatron tv screens in every room. The society that take pills for every problem from depression to erection, who believe in quick fixes and instant highs. Of course, I am part of this society - it's inevitable. But it doesn't mean that I have to agree with it.

The popularity of conveniene foods is just an after-dinner burp of the society that is too freaking busy to spend five one hour to prepare a proper meal.

At work, I'm forced to eat. They call it daily QC - quality control. I call it the reason I might just become bulemic. Fortunately, our office is a good 5 minutes' run from the closest toilet, so bulemia seems like way too much trouble. Oh what the hell - I'll swallow. Bring it on.

We used to only have to do it once a week. As of tomorrow, I have to force down, I mean QC, the following:
22 flavours of sandwich
4 flavours of omelette
131 components (which includes things like rocket, 6 types of cheese, 7 types of red meat, 11 types of sauce, hard-boiled egg, mayo mixes, tomato, parsley, pizza bases, breads, dips, ugh..)

That's the daily list. I have a weekly list as well. It includes a page of other crap, with cheese on top.

I'm not complaining. Wait, who am I trying to kid - I'm complaining. I realise that there are starving kids and poverty around the corner. Those guys are more than welcome to come do my QC sessions for me. You buy the plane ticket, I'll hand over my lab coat and green mopcap. Really. Any applicants can leave me a message. No dietary restrictions, please. Absolutely no vegetarians.


PS - The bird is to make me feel better. So is the green tea.

Palate Scratch

There’s beauty all around us. There’s beauty in the breakdown, there’s beauty in violence, and inspiration in it all. We just tend to get distracted by the now, the current; the ingrown nails and mosquito bite itches. But while we walk around with scowls on our faces and thunderclouds above our heads, the beauty of everything is still very much alive, and patiently waiting for our gazes to return and absorb it.

On my way to work, a head muddled with irritation, I drove my familiar route in autopilot mode; smoothly, but with no thought behind the action. To save battery power, my radio was switched off and my mind switched on. I was mentally grumbling, old lady with wet panties syndrome, going on and on about the inconveniences of life…

… and then a flicker of pick caught my eye.

I became quiet, and noticed the breath-taking start of another day. A autumn blanket of mist was covering the farms alongside the road – clumped up in the shallow valleys and disappearing like ghost breath on the horizon. The crisp morning green was dotted with patches of wild cosmos flowers, braided into the long, wispy grass that shimmered with gravitised fog.

I opened the windows to breathe in the first light of the morning, wondering how I managed to not notice it in the first place.

When there’s a thorn in your foot, and you choose to focus on it, even Armageddon will be second in line for attention.

Double-clutch

There’s a definite rhythm in the chaos.

If I switch my car off, I have to jumpstart it to life. I can deal with that. It’s during events like this that my faith in mankind is rebuilt – whenever I’m drowning, there’s always a hand that reaches out to grab me. I lead a charmed life.

After work, I stop by the garage to pick up something. I plan the whole event; I’ll drive up to the shop entrance, leave my car idling, and run in quickly, trusting that my readily-consumable car will be where I left it when I return. I drive up to the garage, pull up the handbrake, and suddenly one of the garage attendants runs up to me and knocks on my window:

“Don’t switch your car off. I’ll run in to go get what you want.”

I stare at the guy in disbelief. How did he know? Incredulously, I hand him my twenty bucks and my order. He runs inside, does my shopping for me, and returns with the correct change. My car is purring like a kitten. I’m trying to fathom the moment. We exchange goods, and I ask him how he managed to read my mind.

“Oh.. we just know. You know how it works here. We know.”

Indeed. It seems that they do.

Bring it on..

I'm the ultimate cliche. I line them up, one after the other. Got proverb? I'll live it out for you. This week, my proverbial theme is: "It doesn't rain, but it pours."

First my cellphone broke. I replaced it.
Then my car inconveniently gave up its battery in the middle of the week, far away from my house. I replaced it. Missed a day's work and a week's spending money.
Next, my computer died (it was on life support, I pulled the plug).
Then, my kettle stopped working.
My body knocked off early without telling it's co-workers .
And for the final act, my car boomeranged and has, since yesterday 5:26pm, refused to start. No one can tell me what the problem is, but I'm convinced it's spelled with Rands and Cents. It's just very inconvenient, because I have places to be and assignments to hand in. I don't have time to waste, and yet I'm forced to sit at home and watch it drip, minute after precious minute, into an irretrievable void.
My current carkey is in the shape of an old pair of jumper cables. How to make friends and irritate people.
Last night, I had the best sleep of my life, because for 6 hours I didn't have to deal with all this crap.
I'm considering resigning myself over to alcohol, but all I could find was sterilising alcohol handspray that they use in the factory. So I opted for peppermint crisp dessert. And lots of coffee. I hate this constant frown. So I'm shaking my fist at the universe, cartoon-character style.

Generic Holiday

Just what the doctor ordered.. literally.

I haven't had much time to sleep lately. I suppose if I cut out social gatherings and late-night mail-typing sessions, I'd have more than enough sleep space, but I do need some variety in my life. So last week my meaty vessel decided 'screw you, lady', showed all the cards it had, and folded. I got slightly irritated with falling asleep in meetings, in conversation (sorry, Gert), and feared falling asleep behind the wheel. So I decided to get myself booked off.
As a student, there were so many times where I'd chain-smoke a few cigarettes (all the better to cough with, my child), walk around in the cold with summer clothes and run to the campus doctor (for increased body temperature), all in the vain hope that he/she will write me a standard sick note, and I wouldn't have to write the test that I didn't study for.
9 times out of 10 this technique didn't work. Thank goodness for affadavids. Who can spell that, cause I surely can't.

Not in this town, senorita. This is how it works in the lovely little town of Bronkhorstspruit.
There are three standard doctors. They are all fat, with jolly round faces, Saint Nick beards, and shows you into the examination room with a "ho-ho-how are you feeling today?!". Lovely. I love going to the doctor here. You pay a flat rate of R170. Then, they wait for your sob story. Mine was very truthful:
I've been feeling like crap for a week now, I don't have time to rest and recuperate, I need some time off. Help.
He whipped out his magic sick-note pad, and said, "It's Tuesday now, I'll give you till Friday. Is that alright, or do you want to stay at home for longer?"
I was mentally rubbing my hands together in glee. I settled for 3.5 days off work, and he started dishing out the government-issued drugs. Bag upon bag of pills; pink ones and green ones and tiny white ones and large purple ones. I had to stop it. I asked what they were all for.
Oh this one, he replied, is for pain and fever.
But I'm not in pain, and I don't HAVE a fever, I argued.
He looked up at me, blinked and said, "Oh, then just add this to your personal collection. You're bound to have pain or fever some day in the future."

After my second visit to the local doctor's association, I've got enough 'future medication' to cook up some seriously wicked psychedelics in the comfort of my home. I'll never have to visit the pharmacy again.

Big Sister Is Watching You

Sitemeter has this nifty little function that you can use to sniff out your readers like pure-bred policedogs. I've become secretly addicted to it, watching you watching me, curiousity and travel-mindedness getting the better of me. Interestingly enough, most of my pageviews are not from South Africa (i.e. my four friends that read my blog), but from Mauritius.

Aloha-ha-ha! Or is that Ha-ha-ha-waiian? I've been racking my brain to figure out what or which post could have led to a connection with a small little honeymoon island that I've never been to (and might never go to - seems a bit commerical - but that's judging a book even without seeing the travelogue cover). I have no idea. Maybe there are a lot of Buddhists on Mauritius. Or people with mango orchards. Or girls with green shoes. Or cats that park and purr on computer screens. Who knows? Not me.
But this is my ola-aloha to Mauritius. Do you have a couch I can come crash on?

Unused Opportunites

It's totally free and I totally won't make it.

I'm more or less over the whole clubbing era of my life, nothing only means that much. I do love dancing though, the moment when movement becomes meditation, and my body switches over into autopilot mode, thus enabling my mind to observe my surroundings from a different altitude. I don't miss trancing, but I always have a good time when I do go.
The only reason why this party caught my eye is because I saw the poster on the wall next to the local supermarket. Normally, those walls are flaking with bad ads; farmers selling tractors or horses, housewives selling beauty products from their kitchens, mothers offerings their babysitting facilities, and I've even seen ads for earthworms and eggs.
Yesterday though, the walls announced a party. Literally down the road from where I stay. It would be good to go, but even though it's free, I know I'll have to pay a hefty price.
I've been running out of time. I've been wishing for 26-hour days and 9-day weeks, because my current helping of time just doesn't provide me with enough time to waste... and I do love wasting time. The 18th/19th is my working weekend, which means I will drive past the turnoff to this party. This free party. It also means that my giant assignment has to be handed in the Monday following - which will be the reason I will pretend to not see that turnoff, leading to a long dirt road that will in turn lead to self-built toilets, dudes with dreads, tie-dyed clothes and the beat that just goes on.

Cover Artist

One of my first online connections told me : "Don't judge a book by it's cover, for else it may never be read."

I had to change my cover though. The blog template I had previously irritated the living crap out of me; the fonts were bad and inconsistent, it was toooo white, the entries amoebae'd into each other, comments ended up below the worngs posts, all in all, it was a sucky choice. Almost as sucky as deciding to take an alternative route to class in 5 o' clock traffic.
Changed my template, checked out the new look, and thought, damn this looks familiar. I'd chosen the same template as w had. Made another attempt, checked out the new look and thought... wait.. this looks kinda.. sorta.. familiar. Well, they only provide us with 10 freaking options, and I don't like dots or white. That leaves me with.. uhm.. 10 options, actually.
I have to go check out some trucks. What a day. A significant day, in some minor, obscure way.

Seven till four

I work with some strange people.
Walking into the micro lab, I see Moroga standing with one hand on the incubator, and one hand rubbing her breast. She stops to watch me enter the lab, and continues with her circular movements while looking at me with a half-pained, half-smiling expression on her face. Uhm. She mutters something, and I have to ask her to repeat it, still distracted by her unabashed boob-rubbing. "I said, the cold makes my nipples hurt."

I'm kindof a trainee food technologist at the moment, I have to take over this other girl's department when she goes on maternity leave. She's very much pregnant, but there's three or so months to go. But in my life, I have never seen anyone eat as much as she does. For breakfast this morning, she had two toasted sandwiches, two bars of chocolate, coffee with rusks and biscuits, and a 500g fruit trifle. Lunch was 2 portuguese milktarts, two huge hamburgers, and another chocolate bar. Damnit, i WISH I could eat that much. And she's a tiny girl, aside from the belly part.

How Not To Start A Week

Last night was not a night for being inside a car. Three reasons:

4:30) Thanks to quiet roads and smooth driving, I make it to class an hour early. With 62 minutes to spare, I decide to take an alternative route, a road I’ve never taken before. MISTAKE. I end up stuck in the dead centre of JHB, surrounded by taxis, no clue where I am, unable to move faster than 4km/h. Eventually this scary man with a leathery face knocks on my window and asks for a Rand. I swop him R1.20 for directions, and find my way to class – 15 minutes late. Me and my dumb-ass bright-spark ideas.

21:00) The silver sliver of a moon is high up in the sky, and I’m on my way back home. On the highway, just before the Hans Strydom turnoff, an old white car speeds past me, taking up two lanes to do so. Just as it passes me, it swerves more hectically, the guy loses control of the car, rolls it over the two lanes (thank goodness there was a third lane), it hops into the bushes on the side of the road, and hops back onto the highway. I have to slam on the brakes to avoid being caught up in the roll, hard enough for everything in the back seat to end up on floor in the front. Burnt rubber and shattered glass, with a twist of metal.

I do what any concerned citizen would do: I phone 112, the free Vodacom emergency line to get an ambulance, to report the accident. After the phone rang for about 30 seconds, a robot finally picked up:

If you are in a life-threatening situation, please press 1. If you have having problem with your cellphone, please press two.

Great, I thought, so either I’m bleeding to death, or I don’t know how to send a text message. I pressed 1. It rang for another 30 seconds.

Dear caller, your call is important to us. All the lines are currently occupied. Please hold, caller.

Love how they try to personalise the whole thing by calling me “caller”. Long story short, after being transferred 4 times and holding the line for close to six minutes, I finally got through to the ambulance people. Hope the car-rollers are alright.

3) One more street to go, then I’ll be home. I spot a cat on the left side of the road, and purposefully drive on the right side, cause I can, cause I’m the only one in the street. And the damn cat runs all the way from the safe side straight into my trajectory, under my car. I mentally close my eyes as I feel a bumpity bump (pretty little siamese kitten), look in my rear view mirror, and see the kitty jumping around playfully, off to go climb a tree or something. Phew. Too much action for one night.

Stop The Boat

It started with a stuffy head. Stiff neck. The shakes. Indecisive body temperature. Lazy cough.

Flushed face. Rollercoaster head. It grieves me to say this, but I think I'm getting sick.

Beautiful virus though, if you check the picture. I almost don't mind playing host to Mr & Mrs Flu and their future offspring. I actually don't mind being sick - I just hate feeling sorry for myself. And it's inevitable. Last night, as I was rolling around in feverish sleep, it already started: 'poor me poor me'.

With the way I've been not sleeping and not eating properly and driving around all the time and not seeing my friends for verbal TLC and walking around naked in the cold, I'm actually surprised it took so long. But yeah, I was waiting for it, and now I'm sick.

Movies & Marshmallows

This weekend has been the closest thing I've had to a holiday in yonks.
I'm still in the pajamas that I donned on Friday evening. Didn't even bother with a shower yesterday. Mrs Nature has opened her box of winds, it's been ice cold the whole weekend (hmm, electric blanket), the wind teasing the windows with haunted verses.
Saturday was spent channel-hopping under a huge quilt, munching chocolate, jelly babies, and ice cream with marshmallows. The beautiful thing about the E! channel is that watching it involves no brain activity, and I was able to do some lazy lusting after the 101 sexiest celeb bodies. Followed by some hot chocolate. And hotdogs.
I crawled into bed wearing the same pajamas, and only got up at 10:30 this morning. Was stirred from sleep by my mother crapping out my father because he bought powdered custard and not UHT custard. Yeah. It's the little things that kill. Woke up sore, stiff and confused - my neck overslept into the sixth dimension, and the traces of an all too familiar dream still clinging to my skull. If this same guy features in my dreams again, I might just go crazy upon awaking. For now, I'll just groan into my pillow.
It's been good to be useless. But I've got an assignment to do. Suppose I should take that shower.

United We Attempt To Stand

I work in a food factory that employs approximately 850 unskilled workers. I can count the white labourers on one hand. There's the bearded lady that always talks about apples. The short guy that cooks pasta and struggles to count past ten. The tiny woman in the bakery that looks like a tired prostitute, and then there's helena. Helena is beautiful. Both men and women stop to stare at her, to absorb her perfect face, sparkling blue eyes and gorgeous smile. She's perfect, and looks very out of place with her heavy red industrial apron, standing over a huge pot, digging into 50 kgs of mincemeat. But that about covers the white workers.
The more you get to deal with another race, the more obvious the little differences become. In SouthAfrica, there's a mentality that the black folk are trying to get across to the white ones, a mentality called "ubuntu". This loosely translates into "the spirit of togetherness", which translates into "if you are happy, we are all happy. If you succeed, we all succeed". I think this way of thinking is born from a physical closeness that black people grew up with (were forced to grow up with?). Rural black people stay in small houses, and often share a room with a whole family. There's a whle sex/AIDS theory that stems from the last sentence, but focus first. Because many blacks grew in a community system, as opposed to the white individual system, they were brought up with the spirit of ubuntu.
The problem with many white people seems to be that, because they were taught to fight for the individual, it's easier for them to trample others into the ground in the attempt to get to the top of an imaginary ladder. I know I'm generalising, but it's neccessary. Ubuntu also has its glitches, but white Southafricans can learn a lot from the black way of thinking, and vice versa.
I love this country. We're the experimental tip of Africa.
This physical closeness not only breeds a way of thinking/doing things, but also makes them more comfortable with each other. It's the one thing I cannot get my head around, the one thing I see at work every day: they all hold hands. Men and women, women and women, men and men.. People will always be strolling down the corridors, holding hands like it's rush-hour in lover's lane. And there's absolutely nothing sexual or suggestive about it. They just do it. It's just such an oddity to see two 40-year old black guys holding hands while chatting about soccer.
I was talking to a girl in the micro lab, when she asked me whether I had any kids. Haha, nono, I'm only 24, and I'll need a husband first. She seemed honestly surprised: "Oh? You want to be married before you have kids?" Uhm, like, yah. I don't do Pregnancy a la stranger. A small, yet huge difference in way of thinking. They do not mind having babies at age 18, fathered by someone who will never be a father.
Disclaimer - When I refer to 'black people', it is in reference to those who work with me. Move to the city, and you get a completely different mentality. Trying my best to be very P.C. - it's the language of the sensitive seffrican.

Skip This Post

I'd like to quickly mention the JET program, and it's role in my current reality. There's a lot of shitty blogs out there, written by current and ex-JETs, and the idea is to not fall into the 'yeah so now i'm in japan and this is what I ate today' trap. Not likely though. These blogs do serve a purpose, it's one of those technological wwwonders that enables people across the globe to still know what is potting in each other's lives. But dis ain't one of dose blogs, no sirree. Let me just get to the point:
So the story goes as follows - I decided in june/july 2005 to give up my har har career and devote three years to travelling. An easy way to do this SEEMS TO BE travelling & teaching. I mainly want to go to countries where my friend English is not the first language, so it's makes sense to teach, save, and travel. Plus, you get school holidays. I do feel like cliche at times, because so many people are doing the same. But this is my story, so the others do not matter.
I decided "let me head east" (many reasons, different blog entry, maybe). Did my share of online research and stumbled upon this interesting little program called JET, which would be an acronym for JapaneseExchangeTeaching. Dunno where the "exchange" bit comes from, as I've only seen mentions of them importing people into j-pan. Not the other way around. So I sent my seven thousand pages for the appplication. made it to the next round - interviews at the Japanese embassy. Dusted off my high-heeled shoes, double-checked my self-confidence level, drove to Pretoria (not knowing where the embassy was, but I found it via luck & logic). There I wrote a 45 minute English test which included a dreadful comprehension test, no, two dreadful comprehension tests and some duh grammar questions. All done, had an interview with three people during which I talked non-stop dribble and forgot basic English words such as "passion". Throughout the interview I was so, sooo thirsty, and kept eyeing the bottles of 'made in japan' water that the interviewers had to quench THEIR thirst. Damn, I lose track quickly. Made the shortlist though, even though I praaayed for a yes/no answer. No is fine. No means I'm going to Bangkok.
Already this is too long to be a post, I'll just type this for myself. So I can look back one day, and remember. These entries are like photographs made up of words. Graphographs?
So : Why JET? a) because I'm lazy. No, no, maybe not. I just like taking the path with the least obstacles. The road with the least number of stopstreets. JET seems to provide basically everything, you just hop on the plane and sit through a crapload of orientation sessions. It also seems to pay well, and it's this little factor that leads me to b) JET is step one. the ideeeeeaaa is to go japan --> thailand --> south america. From where I'm standing now, 2 March 2005, this is my plan. But life loves a well-executed curveball, and I might be dead or in Delhi in a year's time. I don't know. But it's wonderful to have a plan, for the first time in 24 years.

Step To My Beat

I've been listening to my heartbeat for hours. Just me, the dark, and my heartbeat. I can feel it pulsating in the space where my ribs meet, I can feel in in my temples, in my fingertips. My vital organ, my built-in clock. Independant of will but dependant on time, it serves as a traffic cop for oxygen, no rest for the ticker. My textbook heart separates blue and red blood, and channels the two colours to their individual destinations, without them even having to ask for directions.
It's been busy for a long time now. It's always been there, almost from the start. Roundabout the time my mother most likely realised that she was pregnant, my heart was already the feature of the show. In proportion to my four-week old body, my heart would have been nine times larger than an adult's heart. No one told it what to do; it has just always been doing what it does best - keeping me alive.
It has been slowed down in deep sleep; those moments where everyone looks as innocent as they once used to be, It's been quickened by narrow escapes, intimate eyecontact, anticipation, emails from strangers, games of hide-and-seek, orgasms, rollercoasters, hockey matches and hidden crushes. It has missed beats, it has done two-steps tangoes, it has turned to ice and has smouldered like fire. But it has kept on beating. Until death do us part - my natural rhythm, my muscular metronome, my heart.

Reptilian Blood

My ear is still warm from a long converastion on the phone with wessel, during which we spoke a bit about blogging. Speaking about blogging, and blogging about speaking, a ring is round and has no end. In his blog he commented that my blog was the blog that got him blogging. The blog that got me blogging belongs to a fish in japan, the chick whohasaboat. Lately I don't have time for bloggunication anymore, but I read her posts on wessel's blog. Somewhere there's a full circle in there as well. I do miss writing down arbitrary thoughts, Not as much as I miss my friends though. And sleep.
My place is such a mess. I had to look for the keyboard under a heap of crap; broken mirror shards, nail clippings (DNA), half-drawn crossword puzzles and worksheets for mock classes, tampon wrappers, peach pips, scratched cds and dry, lonely twigs that were once heavy and proud with sweet, black grapes. There's also a variety of dead insects, those who thought they were on a bullet train to enlightenment, only to hit the glass bulb and burn to death, Rest in peace, nê?
After not sleeping for more than 24 hours somewhere in the middle of the week, I turned the corner into my room, and almost tripped over this huge gecko that decided to wait for me on the floor. Tense, frozen, poised to dart away at the slightest hint of movement. I slowly backed away, not making a sound. I got my camera, I mean my phone, and tiptoed back, making sure that I stay in the shadows. It hadn't spotted me. On all fours a slowly crawled closer to get a nice-full screen shot of Mr Lizard. I was like a thief in the night, like shadow-woman, like underground paparrazzi. I snapped him, and shimmied away, gaining +10 points in stealth.
A few minutes later, I walked past there again, and he was still chillin' in the same spot. I walked closer. This time in the light. And closer. Until I could turn him over with my foot. Which was when I saw that, where his stomach used to be, my cat had chewed out a sizable chunck of essential tissue. At least now I have a picture of a dead lizard on my phone.

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.