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..