Monday, May 21, 2007
and so i'm off to the hospital tomorrow. i'm scared. and worried that my cute abdomen will be marred by this ugly scar for the rest of my life, just when i was considering hitting a mozambican beach bikini clad. there goes that plan...anyway, shall have to keep my fingers crossed that all goes well. my mom says it's like pulling out a tooth...somehow, i think she's just saying it to make me feel better!
Sunday, May 13, 2007
What a day…
I had just gotten back from a long overdue meeting that literally sealed the fate of our documentary. I was proud of myself. I had been able to lift myself from my customary Sunday vegetative state and actually got something very important done. I came back to a flat filled with the aroma (no, not just any old smell) of barbecue spatchcock (thank you, flat mate), a fitting meal, in light of my mild hangover. I dug my nose deep in the Sunday Times (thanks again, flat mate) and ate my heart out, bones and all. It was the perfect end to a productive day. I couldn’t wait till I got back to bed to read a novel that was turning out to be quite a find (eh, thanks flat mate).
Flat mate departs leaving me with the entire couch to myself and most importantly, the remote control. Ah…what a day. As I’m trying to decide whether it was cold enough to go fetch my blanket from the bedroom, I hear a series of very loud bangs. The kind of bangs that are accompanied by images of head on collisions or a car rolling over and over along the road. I am shit scared. I’m thinking my flatmate has just left and I know at least 10 other people who live in the neighbourhood. After attempting to call flat mate several times, I decide that this is something worth investigating. I walk out of the flat, phone in hand (thank God), but without shoes or a jersey. I bump into several neighbours sprinting down the stairs. Okay, this is scary. I eventually get to the bottom of the stairs, walk out the building and find a small crowd gathered on the road. Fok, okay, this is scary.
I soon find out that some drunk prick crashed his big four by four into most of the cars parked in front of the building. This prick found the time and energy to pull out of the mess and drive off. Thankfully, no human beings were in or near the cars. The car owners are understandably pissed off but I’m glad that the entire ordeal only amounted to material damage. Cool, now back to the blanket, the couch and the remote control. Yay, for Sundays. I get into the lift, and listen to the familiar whirring sound as it makes its way up the floors. The crank of a thing stops on my floor but alas, the doors don’t open. Okay, I’ve never been stuck in a lift before. I press the alarm button and fortunately, somebody is there to hear it. I scream “Help” through the closed doors, and soon after, I realize what a clichéd movie-like thing it is to do. The caring voice on the other side of the door yells back that they will call the security guard. I’m thinking, I know the security guard on duty, and his blank face does not strike me as one that belongs to somebody who can get me out of here. He just doesn’t look like the bright type.
Always remain calm, I think. I’m not scared. Just buggered that I’m not wearing shoes and it’s getting pretty cold in there. This mild irritation is compounded by the fact that my medical expert mother who has been in the nursing profession for almost three decades convinced me to take seven pills towards the fixing of me. She had to explain the whole thing to me four times before I bought into it - once in person, and three times over the phone. I had never ingested so much medication at one go. I could feel the tingling sensation of medication and blood traveling to my brain (at least that’s what I think it is). I’m thinking that if this medication and my body don’t make the best of friends, I’m better off outside this lift.
And so I call my brother to hear a friendly and soothing voice. I proceed to tell him about the accident and that I in fact suspect it was one of his friends who smashed into those cars, the one who drives a silver four-by-four and lives in the vicinity of where the car came from, of course. Ah…eye witness accounts…In the conversation, I mention, in passing, that I also happen to be stuck in a lift. The poor guy shrieks in a panic, not forgetting to mention how weird I am for not telling him this in the first place. He calls my mother, who calls me back, also in a panic. His girlfriend calls me, in a panic. His friend calls me, in a panic. He calls me back, in a panic, just before he calls the lift company, in a panic, I’m sure. He thinks the lift is going to go plummeting down the floors, with poor me, in it. This is all very sweet. But I’m thinking if the phone stopped ringing, I could actually find out about my rescue mission, if it did exist in the first place.
Thirty minutes in a stuck lift on my own, feet freezing, and antibiotic overdose induced nausea and constant calls of panic from beloveds, and all I could think about was the fact that I had something to post on my blog. Weird, this life.
And so the lift company takes its time and the not so clever looking security guard wrestles with the unrelenting door until it pops open. I’m glad to be out of there, especially because there was no handsome stranger to offer me his jacket and a shoulder to rest my frazzled head on. I ’m feeling even more nauseous. I’m very glad to be out of there.
As I write this, I’m thinking, why did that happen to me? What could it all mean? I came up with several answers that seemed just right:
When you leave the confines of your home, always wear a pair of shoes, take your cell phone with you too.
The lifts in my building are old and should be avoided at all costs
The security guard with the blank, not so bright look, can in fact, rescue one from a stuck lift.
It feels so so good to be loved.
Peace, love and light!
K!
Flat mate departs leaving me with the entire couch to myself and most importantly, the remote control. Ah…what a day. As I’m trying to decide whether it was cold enough to go fetch my blanket from the bedroom, I hear a series of very loud bangs. The kind of bangs that are accompanied by images of head on collisions or a car rolling over and over along the road. I am shit scared. I’m thinking my flatmate has just left and I know at least 10 other people who live in the neighbourhood. After attempting to call flat mate several times, I decide that this is something worth investigating. I walk out of the flat, phone in hand (thank God), but without shoes or a jersey. I bump into several neighbours sprinting down the stairs. Okay, this is scary. I eventually get to the bottom of the stairs, walk out the building and find a small crowd gathered on the road. Fok, okay, this is scary.
I soon find out that some drunk prick crashed his big four by four into most of the cars parked in front of the building. This prick found the time and energy to pull out of the mess and drive off. Thankfully, no human beings were in or near the cars. The car owners are understandably pissed off but I’m glad that the entire ordeal only amounted to material damage. Cool, now back to the blanket, the couch and the remote control. Yay, for Sundays. I get into the lift, and listen to the familiar whirring sound as it makes its way up the floors. The crank of a thing stops on my floor but alas, the doors don’t open. Okay, I’ve never been stuck in a lift before. I press the alarm button and fortunately, somebody is there to hear it. I scream “Help” through the closed doors, and soon after, I realize what a clichéd movie-like thing it is to do. The caring voice on the other side of the door yells back that they will call the security guard. I’m thinking, I know the security guard on duty, and his blank face does not strike me as one that belongs to somebody who can get me out of here. He just doesn’t look like the bright type.
Always remain calm, I think. I’m not scared. Just buggered that I’m not wearing shoes and it’s getting pretty cold in there. This mild irritation is compounded by the fact that my medical expert mother who has been in the nursing profession for almost three decades convinced me to take seven pills towards the fixing of me. She had to explain the whole thing to me four times before I bought into it - once in person, and three times over the phone. I had never ingested so much medication at one go. I could feel the tingling sensation of medication and blood traveling to my brain (at least that’s what I think it is). I’m thinking that if this medication and my body don’t make the best of friends, I’m better off outside this lift.
And so I call my brother to hear a friendly and soothing voice. I proceed to tell him about the accident and that I in fact suspect it was one of his friends who smashed into those cars, the one who drives a silver four-by-four and lives in the vicinity of where the car came from, of course. Ah…eye witness accounts…In the conversation, I mention, in passing, that I also happen to be stuck in a lift. The poor guy shrieks in a panic, not forgetting to mention how weird I am for not telling him this in the first place. He calls my mother, who calls me back, also in a panic. His girlfriend calls me, in a panic. His friend calls me, in a panic. He calls me back, in a panic, just before he calls the lift company, in a panic, I’m sure. He thinks the lift is going to go plummeting down the floors, with poor me, in it. This is all very sweet. But I’m thinking if the phone stopped ringing, I could actually find out about my rescue mission, if it did exist in the first place.
Thirty minutes in a stuck lift on my own, feet freezing, and antibiotic overdose induced nausea and constant calls of panic from beloveds, and all I could think about was the fact that I had something to post on my blog. Weird, this life.
And so the lift company takes its time and the not so clever looking security guard wrestles with the unrelenting door until it pops open. I’m glad to be out of there, especially because there was no handsome stranger to offer me his jacket and a shoulder to rest my frazzled head on. I ’m feeling even more nauseous. I’m very glad to be out of there.
As I write this, I’m thinking, why did that happen to me? What could it all mean? I came up with several answers that seemed just right:
When you leave the confines of your home, always wear a pair of shoes, take your cell phone with you too.
The lifts in my building are old and should be avoided at all costs
The security guard with the blank, not so bright look, can in fact, rescue one from a stuck lift.
It feels so so good to be loved.
Peace, love and light!
K!
Friday, May 11, 2007
Untitled
NOTE: This guy lives mostly...in my head...
It had all ended in a non-dramatic fashion, not at all what he had imagined. She was worn out by the drama. In fact, he couldn’t remember a time when it was not there. The humiliation had turned into something he couldn’t deal with, something that he could not name. He felt like everybody they knew, had heard about it, her side of the story, of course. They all looked like they were pretending not to know. Their smiles looked strained, like their jaws hurt. Serious facial muscle exercise all for the sake of not showing him they knew. How considerate. But he could make out fake smiles from a mile away. He could just imagine what was going through their minds and it ate him up inside. He knew how to play the game, though. His mother had taught him well. Never ever let “them” know that you are not okay. Wash everyday, shave like it was your wedding day, walk with a perfect posture, always…always strive to look “okay”, whatever “okay” meant. He was trying. Every single day, he tried.
But slowly, that feeling started crawling into his mind, invading every space he had tried to protect. It was no longer only when he tried to sleep or when he had a flashback of that fateful night. These days, it came all the time. Like the time he was called into the boss’s office for the “disciplinary hearing.” He could see his lips move, and the look of concern on his face (yet another great performance), but his voice somehow floated far away from his ears. He kept on mulling everything over and over in his head. He had done this so often that nothing made sense anymore. He knew that this one-sided memory of the entire thing was fucking with his mind in a major way. The more he thought about it, on his own, without a second opinion or an interrogation of sorts, the angrier he got. It was the kind of fury that drove people to kill cold-bloodedly. It scared and frustrated him all at the same time. He was too much of a woose to take his own life, let alone anybody else’s. Besides, he wouldn’t know who to kill, really. Her? He knew he had fucked up majorly. Him? He was just some other guy who was there at the right time.
Why couldn’t he have been the perfect boyfriend she wanted him to be? Why couldn’t he have grown up in a normal home like other people? The word ‘normal’ was beginning to get to him, too! She kept repeating it, over and over to him, like she was doing it on purpose. It was almost like she knew that he would never be normal. She kept demanding the impossible. He had lost the understanding of the word. What the fuck is normal anyway?
He needed a drink. He had tried to stop, for her of course. But things seemed so much better when he was drunk. No, tipsy didn’t quite describe the state. Motherless would be the appropriate adjective. He wanted to drink everything, anything, just to get a taste of that freedom again. He didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of him when he was drunk. The fake smiles didn’t bother him so much. In fact, they cracked him up. He didn’t care if they thought he had lost his mind. But most importantly, he didn’t care how he looked. They could talk about it all they want. Him, rugged, having been drinking since the sun came up, samples of his various beverages of choice all over his white shirt. It seemed the best place to be. He could taste yesterday’s alcohol, that sourness stuck in his throat, head pounding. There was only one thing that could take that away and that was more alcohol.
He couldn’t stop. His so called friends showed a lot of concern. Even those who were not close to him, showed a lot of concern. A bit too much, when he thought about it. He knew he was flavour of the month. Their boring lives had suddenly been made mildly exciting by his crazy antics. He thought he should get a Nobel Prize for it. What would Joburg North suburbia be without a charity case like him? He reminded them of what they used to be. Reckless, was the word. Behind their masks of stability, lay envy. Of course they would never admit it to themselves or to each other. But they yearned to let go, like he had.
Yes, he loved her. He had never loved so much. It was the kind of love that was doomed. It was just too much, almost unbearable. Sometimes he couldn’t breathe, at the thought of it. He knew he could never ever shake it off. It was like some plague he had knowingly contracted and now no cure in the world could rid him of it. He couldn’t imagine how she could move on like that, get engaged to the first guy who came along. He was prissy. The kind of guy who would laugh at the sight of an obese woman trip and fall. He was the kind of guy who could hold an entire conversation about how cheap the next guy’s shoes were. His face just screamed “punch me, hard” and it seemed like however much or hard you punched, the idiot would never wake up to the fact that he was a fucking loser. He had no substance, he thought. Perhaps she was doing it to hurt him? Perhaps she was going to come right back when she realizes that she could never love anyone else.
Perhaps he had worn out her heart so much she couldn’t love that way again.
All he knew was that he couldn’t afford to love that way again. He had been a victim of big love way too many times. This sensitive shit made him too vulnerable. He couldn’t run away. He couldn’t kill himself because he was just plain chicken shit scared. He hated to admit it, even to himself.
There was just one thing left he could do. He could be the asshole that all women seemed to fall for. He could try out an entirely new image. Nobody would fuck with him, now. It could be his little experiment. He could finally get a taste of what it feels like to be normal, be one of the boys. Yeah, perhaps that’s what she had been saying all along.
It had all ended in a non-dramatic fashion, not at all what he had imagined. She was worn out by the drama. In fact, he couldn’t remember a time when it was not there. The humiliation had turned into something he couldn’t deal with, something that he could not name. He felt like everybody they knew, had heard about it, her side of the story, of course. They all looked like they were pretending not to know. Their smiles looked strained, like their jaws hurt. Serious facial muscle exercise all for the sake of not showing him they knew. How considerate. But he could make out fake smiles from a mile away. He could just imagine what was going through their minds and it ate him up inside. He knew how to play the game, though. His mother had taught him well. Never ever let “them” know that you are not okay. Wash everyday, shave like it was your wedding day, walk with a perfect posture, always…always strive to look “okay”, whatever “okay” meant. He was trying. Every single day, he tried.
But slowly, that feeling started crawling into his mind, invading every space he had tried to protect. It was no longer only when he tried to sleep or when he had a flashback of that fateful night. These days, it came all the time. Like the time he was called into the boss’s office for the “disciplinary hearing.” He could see his lips move, and the look of concern on his face (yet another great performance), but his voice somehow floated far away from his ears. He kept on mulling everything over and over in his head. He had done this so often that nothing made sense anymore. He knew that this one-sided memory of the entire thing was fucking with his mind in a major way. The more he thought about it, on his own, without a second opinion or an interrogation of sorts, the angrier he got. It was the kind of fury that drove people to kill cold-bloodedly. It scared and frustrated him all at the same time. He was too much of a woose to take his own life, let alone anybody else’s. Besides, he wouldn’t know who to kill, really. Her? He knew he had fucked up majorly. Him? He was just some other guy who was there at the right time.
Why couldn’t he have been the perfect boyfriend she wanted him to be? Why couldn’t he have grown up in a normal home like other people? The word ‘normal’ was beginning to get to him, too! She kept repeating it, over and over to him, like she was doing it on purpose. It was almost like she knew that he would never be normal. She kept demanding the impossible. He had lost the understanding of the word. What the fuck is normal anyway?
He needed a drink. He had tried to stop, for her of course. But things seemed so much better when he was drunk. No, tipsy didn’t quite describe the state. Motherless would be the appropriate adjective. He wanted to drink everything, anything, just to get a taste of that freedom again. He didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of him when he was drunk. The fake smiles didn’t bother him so much. In fact, they cracked him up. He didn’t care if they thought he had lost his mind. But most importantly, he didn’t care how he looked. They could talk about it all they want. Him, rugged, having been drinking since the sun came up, samples of his various beverages of choice all over his white shirt. It seemed the best place to be. He could taste yesterday’s alcohol, that sourness stuck in his throat, head pounding. There was only one thing that could take that away and that was more alcohol.
He couldn’t stop. His so called friends showed a lot of concern. Even those who were not close to him, showed a lot of concern. A bit too much, when he thought about it. He knew he was flavour of the month. Their boring lives had suddenly been made mildly exciting by his crazy antics. He thought he should get a Nobel Prize for it. What would Joburg North suburbia be without a charity case like him? He reminded them of what they used to be. Reckless, was the word. Behind their masks of stability, lay envy. Of course they would never admit it to themselves or to each other. But they yearned to let go, like he had.
Yes, he loved her. He had never loved so much. It was the kind of love that was doomed. It was just too much, almost unbearable. Sometimes he couldn’t breathe, at the thought of it. He knew he could never ever shake it off. It was like some plague he had knowingly contracted and now no cure in the world could rid him of it. He couldn’t imagine how she could move on like that, get engaged to the first guy who came along. He was prissy. The kind of guy who would laugh at the sight of an obese woman trip and fall. He was the kind of guy who could hold an entire conversation about how cheap the next guy’s shoes were. His face just screamed “punch me, hard” and it seemed like however much or hard you punched, the idiot would never wake up to the fact that he was a fucking loser. He had no substance, he thought. Perhaps she was doing it to hurt him? Perhaps she was going to come right back when she realizes that she could never love anyone else.
Perhaps he had worn out her heart so much she couldn’t love that way again.
All he knew was that he couldn’t afford to love that way again. He had been a victim of big love way too many times. This sensitive shit made him too vulnerable. He couldn’t run away. He couldn’t kill himself because he was just plain chicken shit scared. He hated to admit it, even to himself.
There was just one thing left he could do. He could be the asshole that all women seemed to fall for. He could try out an entirely new image. Nobody would fuck with him, now. It could be his little experiment. He could finally get a taste of what it feels like to be normal, be one of the boys. Yeah, perhaps that’s what she had been saying all along.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
And so I found a lovely little hair salon…
And so I found a lovely little hair salon (AKA salunu AKA ko moriring) there by the bundu burbs of deep Pretoria North where my mommy has settled down. I'm thinking, this is going to be an interesting experience, when I walk through the dark and lovely/sun silk poster-filled-once garage-now-budding-hair emporium. I’m thinking, I seriously need to get these braids done here cos I know I ain’t gonna find them cheap ko Rosebank.
But fact is, I’ve never liked hairdressers simply because they tend to have a whole lotta attitude despite the fact that you are paying them a considerable amount of money for their service. It's a freakin business transaction for crying out loud...But the more I blog the more I realise just how traumatic childhood experiences have had a significant influence on how I turned out as an adult.
FLASHBACK TO THE GOOD OL’ DAYS: I have an aunt, who once, after deciding that teaching wasn’t quite for her, went with the tide and got herself a hair dressing certificate from some fly-by-night establishment in the city centre. Back then it was all the buzz so you ’d find one of these at every corner you turned. So after successfully completing the (very short) course, she came back home and alas, there was no long line of people waiting to pour their money into her newly acquired skill. Left with nobody willing to pay for her services, she started “practicing” on her helpless nieces and nephews. And so “the soft and (oh so) free” was bought in bulk and the honing of a recently acquired skill began.
I always had my hair relaxed when I was younger. It was just the right thing to do for any dignified female, young and old, alike, ko lekeisheneng. I never liked it. And it’s not because I didn’t like the way it looked on me. I just couldn’t stand the heat! The damn thing was hot. Too many times the thing stayed on for so long that it fried my scalp leaving me with pieces of skin peeling off of it, scarred for life, I tell you. Ouch…and then there’s the maintenance…All that oil moisturizer everyday, everywhere, on your pillow, for pete’s sake please can I play in the sand, water and run in the rain, without worrying if my hair is going to get ruined. But what I hated most was that I didn’t have a choice in the matter.
You can imagine that when my aunt started experimenting on our heads, I was livid. Now my mother didn’t have to pay for my hair to get done. Happy happy Christmas, the salunu was right in our house 24/7. So every time my aunt noticed a little bit of growth (AKA kaffir haar) starting to show, it was time for a relax. And so we suffered through the fire, the combing out of the growth to make it as straight as possible before you jump off the chair and run to the nearest tap to wash the damn chemical off cos it’s burning now and you feel like your brains are about to pop out of your skull. No matter how much we cried from the pain, she’d keep at it. Because: Bopila bo a llelwa (basically, you have to suffer for beauty). I remember my brother cried once during an s-curling session. The biggest challenge was to try your damndest not to cry, no matter how much it hurt, because you’d become the laughing stock of the entire clan. Believe me, we always sat there and waited for the tears to come. It made us feel better about our own pain, I guess. Shame, the s-curl must have really really hurt. I don’t think he ever let anyone do that to him again.
So when I could finally leave home and live on my own far far away from the tub of soft and free relaxer, I too vowed never ever to do that to myself. I guess the older I got, the more the reasons transcended the pain it involved, what with newer inventions that only burn your hair and not your skin along with it.
FLASH FORWARD TO 2007. I’ve just done a bad job of cutting off my own hair and I desperately need a professional but not expensive braiding job. At the sight of my hair, the lady (my only hope), pulls a face, starts scratching her long nails through my “kaffir haar” and asks: “Wena, ke eng mo?” like she’s touching an old piece of fish. I don’t answer because I’m pretty sure, from looking at and touching my hair that she knows exactly what it is. My pride’s telling me to walk out of there and make another plan. My vanity on the other hand…
So, we agree on a price and the easiest, least painful style she can pull off with such a disappointment of a head of hair. I’m like, cool sister, I shall stay here and listen to you moan about the texture of my hair while Michael Buble and Atomic Kitten blare through your speakers (stru!) It’s fine. I want look nice, nice! I shall go with the groove.
And so, throughout the entire ordeal, she moans and moans. I keep quite, fighting back the feeling to get up from that hard, ass-numbing chair and walk right out of there, straight home. But I can’t, what with a quarter of my hair with these things attached to it. I didn’t have the energy. And my mother would have to explain my behaviour to them long after I was gone. She’d probably have to find another garage to do her hair. That wouldn’t be nice. These are the thoughts that go through my mind as I sit there listening to this not so nice lady talk about my hair. And then, to top it off, she starts going on about how big my head is, how she’s never going to finish, as if it was the first time I was made aware of the largish nature of my head. In my head, (yes, this big one of mine) I’m thinking, I’m paying this woman. Where in the world does she get the nerve to say these things? But I sit…because of my vanity of course and the fact that the shit she’s doing with my hair is starting to come together in a really nice way.
The entire experience is made even more unbearable when they ask me what I did with my severed locks. HUH???? It turns out that you can sell or donate them, once you’re done with them of course, so that they can be attached to someone else’s hair, so they don’t have to wait years and years for their own hair to grow. HUH???? Ewwww…!!!!! Just as this whole thing sinks in, I notice that the other hairdresser is spotting a full head of locks but the hair closer to her scalp doesn’t quite look like the hair at the end of her neatly tied ponytail. I am freaked out and decide not to find out any more about this new technique in the world of hairdressing. Tjo!
Eventually she finishes the job, and it looks damn nice, and I’m glad despite all her bitching. I leave, but not without giving her a big tip to compensate for the texture and size of my head of course. Emotional blackmail, I tell you. When I get back home and look in the mirror, I’m glad that I didn’t lose my temper, like I normally would when getting really bad service.
I guess it’s the nature of hairdressers. They know that you want to look pretty and that if you throw a tantrum, you just won’t. Straight and simple, really. It’s one of the biggest power trips in history. I guess those of us who choose not to get our hair relaxed are worse off. The choice to keep my hair in its natural state makes me a hairdresser’s worst nightmare and it irks me to no end. Solution: I don’t know, man. I could slap somebody, but my mama didn’t raise me that way (plus I’m probably the biggest sissy in the entire world)! I could keep my hair locked forever, which is a great beautiful long term plan. Or I could, during this experimental phase, find the biatch in me and reciprocate the nastiness. But I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t help. I found out, after she had left, that the very respectable looking lady who sat next to me while getting some kick ass West African type do, came crawling back in shame after once telling these people she was never going back to do her hair there. Of course, they laughed at her after she had left – an evil, nasty shriek, it was. Bopila bo a llelwa, ka nnete!
But fact is, I’ve never liked hairdressers simply because they tend to have a whole lotta attitude despite the fact that you are paying them a considerable amount of money for their service. It's a freakin business transaction for crying out loud...But the more I blog the more I realise just how traumatic childhood experiences have had a significant influence on how I turned out as an adult.
FLASHBACK TO THE GOOD OL’ DAYS: I have an aunt, who once, after deciding that teaching wasn’t quite for her, went with the tide and got herself a hair dressing certificate from some fly-by-night establishment in the city centre. Back then it was all the buzz so you ’d find one of these at every corner you turned. So after successfully completing the (very short) course, she came back home and alas, there was no long line of people waiting to pour their money into her newly acquired skill. Left with nobody willing to pay for her services, she started “practicing” on her helpless nieces and nephews. And so “the soft and (oh so) free” was bought in bulk and the honing of a recently acquired skill began.
I always had my hair relaxed when I was younger. It was just the right thing to do for any dignified female, young and old, alike, ko lekeisheneng. I never liked it. And it’s not because I didn’t like the way it looked on me. I just couldn’t stand the heat! The damn thing was hot. Too many times the thing stayed on for so long that it fried my scalp leaving me with pieces of skin peeling off of it, scarred for life, I tell you. Ouch…and then there’s the maintenance…All that oil moisturizer everyday, everywhere, on your pillow, for pete’s sake please can I play in the sand, water and run in the rain, without worrying if my hair is going to get ruined. But what I hated most was that I didn’t have a choice in the matter.
You can imagine that when my aunt started experimenting on our heads, I was livid. Now my mother didn’t have to pay for my hair to get done. Happy happy Christmas, the salunu was right in our house 24/7. So every time my aunt noticed a little bit of growth (AKA kaffir haar) starting to show, it was time for a relax. And so we suffered through the fire, the combing out of the growth to make it as straight as possible before you jump off the chair and run to the nearest tap to wash the damn chemical off cos it’s burning now and you feel like your brains are about to pop out of your skull. No matter how much we cried from the pain, she’d keep at it. Because: Bopila bo a llelwa (basically, you have to suffer for beauty). I remember my brother cried once during an s-curling session. The biggest challenge was to try your damndest not to cry, no matter how much it hurt, because you’d become the laughing stock of the entire clan. Believe me, we always sat there and waited for the tears to come. It made us feel better about our own pain, I guess. Shame, the s-curl must have really really hurt. I don’t think he ever let anyone do that to him again.
So when I could finally leave home and live on my own far far away from the tub of soft and free relaxer, I too vowed never ever to do that to myself. I guess the older I got, the more the reasons transcended the pain it involved, what with newer inventions that only burn your hair and not your skin along with it.
FLASH FORWARD TO 2007. I’ve just done a bad job of cutting off my own hair and I desperately need a professional but not expensive braiding job. At the sight of my hair, the lady (my only hope), pulls a face, starts scratching her long nails through my “kaffir haar” and asks: “Wena, ke eng mo?” like she’s touching an old piece of fish. I don’t answer because I’m pretty sure, from looking at and touching my hair that she knows exactly what it is. My pride’s telling me to walk out of there and make another plan. My vanity on the other hand…
So, we agree on a price and the easiest, least painful style she can pull off with such a disappointment of a head of hair. I’m like, cool sister, I shall stay here and listen to you moan about the texture of my hair while Michael Buble and Atomic Kitten blare through your speakers (stru!) It’s fine. I want look nice, nice! I shall go with the groove.
And so, throughout the entire ordeal, she moans and moans. I keep quite, fighting back the feeling to get up from that hard, ass-numbing chair and walk right out of there, straight home. But I can’t, what with a quarter of my hair with these things attached to it. I didn’t have the energy. And my mother would have to explain my behaviour to them long after I was gone. She’d probably have to find another garage to do her hair. That wouldn’t be nice. These are the thoughts that go through my mind as I sit there listening to this not so nice lady talk about my hair. And then, to top it off, she starts going on about how big my head is, how she’s never going to finish, as if it was the first time I was made aware of the largish nature of my head. In my head, (yes, this big one of mine) I’m thinking, I’m paying this woman. Where in the world does she get the nerve to say these things? But I sit…because of my vanity of course and the fact that the shit she’s doing with my hair is starting to come together in a really nice way.
The entire experience is made even more unbearable when they ask me what I did with my severed locks. HUH???? It turns out that you can sell or donate them, once you’re done with them of course, so that they can be attached to someone else’s hair, so they don’t have to wait years and years for their own hair to grow. HUH???? Ewwww…!!!!! Just as this whole thing sinks in, I notice that the other hairdresser is spotting a full head of locks but the hair closer to her scalp doesn’t quite look like the hair at the end of her neatly tied ponytail. I am freaked out and decide not to find out any more about this new technique in the world of hairdressing. Tjo!
Eventually she finishes the job, and it looks damn nice, and I’m glad despite all her bitching. I leave, but not without giving her a big tip to compensate for the texture and size of my head of course. Emotional blackmail, I tell you. When I get back home and look in the mirror, I’m glad that I didn’t lose my temper, like I normally would when getting really bad service.
I guess it’s the nature of hairdressers. They know that you want to look pretty and that if you throw a tantrum, you just won’t. Straight and simple, really. It’s one of the biggest power trips in history. I guess those of us who choose not to get our hair relaxed are worse off. The choice to keep my hair in its natural state makes me a hairdresser’s worst nightmare and it irks me to no end. Solution: I don’t know, man. I could slap somebody, but my mama didn’t raise me that way (plus I’m probably the biggest sissy in the entire world)! I could keep my hair locked forever, which is a great beautiful long term plan. Or I could, during this experimental phase, find the biatch in me and reciprocate the nastiness. But I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t help. I found out, after she had left, that the very respectable looking lady who sat next to me while getting some kick ass West African type do, came crawling back in shame after once telling these people she was never going back to do her hair there. Of course, they laughed at her after she had left – an evil, nasty shriek, it was. Bopila bo a llelwa, ka nnete!
I woke up early on Friday morning, in desperate need of some good ol' mommy love. The desire to escape was overwhelming. Despite the millions of big city long week activities that were before me, I just didn't want to be here. So much so, that the chill of that winter morning couldn't stop me. I knew that if i partook in the partying, I'd go right back to where I no longer want to be and trust me when I say, that ain't no place to be for anyone. And so I wept, because my decision meant that I would not get a chance to see friends I haven't spent time with in a while, people I missed dearly. But I knew that it was something I had to do....
And so I went home in an attempt to escape the rush. I don't go home often, despite the fact that home is just in Pretoria. So it's always quite a thing to go back there and be in a completely (nicotine and alcohol starved) mode. I never think I'll survive, but somehow, I always do.
It was great...All I had was my very funny mother who keeps me entertained and knows when to let me be when I just want to chill. And so I read, slept, cooked, laughed, chilled hard, drank a lot of green tea and felt completely at peace with myself. I didn't want to leave. I didn't want to think about coming back to whatever I was running away from. I started thinking that it would be great if i just stayed there for a while. Wouldn't it be nice to just run away...and never come back?
And then Sunday comes. My brother comes to fetch me, taking me right back to Jozi mode. I have a good ol' time with the boys and long after everybody has left, myself and my beloved brother from another mother, start drinking like there ain't tomorrow, as we always do when we're together. I can feel my weekend of sobriety quickly slipping away.
The next morning, comes the hangover from hell and the realisation that I can't run away forever...and that I have to deal with shit.....But I know that my mother is there when I need her...and that I have my brother from another mother too...and my beloved wise friend who always knows what to say...but above all, i have me, my shit, and a whole lotta dealing to do, on my own...
And so I went home in an attempt to escape the rush. I don't go home often, despite the fact that home is just in Pretoria. So it's always quite a thing to go back there and be in a completely (nicotine and alcohol starved) mode. I never think I'll survive, but somehow, I always do.
It was great...All I had was my very funny mother who keeps me entertained and knows when to let me be when I just want to chill. And so I read, slept, cooked, laughed, chilled hard, drank a lot of green tea and felt completely at peace with myself. I didn't want to leave. I didn't want to think about coming back to whatever I was running away from. I started thinking that it would be great if i just stayed there for a while. Wouldn't it be nice to just run away...and never come back?
And then Sunday comes. My brother comes to fetch me, taking me right back to Jozi mode. I have a good ol' time with the boys and long after everybody has left, myself and my beloved brother from another mother, start drinking like there ain't tomorrow, as we always do when we're together. I can feel my weekend of sobriety quickly slipping away.
The next morning, comes the hangover from hell and the realisation that I can't run away forever...and that I have to deal with shit.....But I know that my mother is there when I need her...and that I have my brother from another mother too...and my beloved wise friend who always knows what to say...but above all, i have me, my shit, and a whole lotta dealing to do, on my own...
Monday, April 23, 2007
The Light...
I'm obsessed... again...with Pharoah Monche's "The Light". I happen to think it's one of the most legendary love/lust/mack hip-hop tracks in history!
"no cock-blocking please, this one's mine" LOL!!!!!!!
"She could serve me pain all night...And I could tolerate....I'm her horizon, right...But in the night, though...Night glow type shit"
Ha ha ha!!!!
Killa killa lines....
"no cock-blocking please, this one's mine" LOL!!!!!!!
"She could serve me pain all night...And I could tolerate....I'm her horizon, right...But in the night, though...Night glow type shit"
Ha ha ha!!!!
Killa killa lines....
Remembering Koko…
Remembering Koko…
I remember her very vividly. I remember her scent...a mixture of onion and cocoa butter. She was a large woman, full of warmth. I remember how I used to lie on her bed, resting my head on her big arms. It was damn nice.
I remember how she woke up at the crack of dawn, every single morning, to do whatever it was she thought she was supposed to do. Sweep, make porridge, make lunchboxes, sweep some more, get on her knees and scrub the floors. I always wondered where she found the energy. I guess it kept her going, even though, we told her numerous times that we had in us enough energy to get all the chores done without her. Despite how tiny that one-bedroomed apartheid structure of a house was, there was always at least a dozen pair of hands at any given time. But she never wanted to relax, she didn’t see why she should. I don’t think she knew how.
I remember how she called oranges, oronjes. We always used to laugh at the way she said things. She didn’t like that.
I could get the whole idea of keeping chickens. There were the eggs and of course, a chicken for those Sunday lunches just before payday. But pigeons? Who in the world keeps pigeons? Well, she did. They went off during the day to do their own business and came back at night to sleep. Weird, my grandmother was.
I remember her stories. I remember how she told us about the days of Marabastad and how they were eventually bulldozed to Atteridgeville. I remember eventually reading E’skia Mphahlele’s ‘Down Second Avenue’ and literally being able to smell her off the pages. I could see her chilling somewhere on the street corner right in the middle of the story. I remember how she told us about the various boogie men that terrorized them in Atteridgeville. I always found it weird that all the boogie men came before any of her grandchildren were born. I felt cheated that I would never be able to tell my grandchildren about the boogie men of my time.
I remember how she told us about her children’s shenanigans, about how my mother, in her heydays, was the diva of the hood. There are loads of pictures of her Afro donned fineness. I remember the stories of the ghost ridden village she came from. And of her two sisters that did not live to meet us or our parents.
I remember how she loved cooking for us. My grandmother made the best ‘dibeibi’ (some call them magwenya) in the entire world. I’ve never come across better, and believe me, I’ve searched. I remember her gemmer. Dope ass fermented brew best served ice cold. She made it even when there was no special occasion, all because we loved it so much. And then she’d make cake, cookies, milk tart, everything! And then we’d eat and shower her with compliments. She loved that a lot. I remember her curried fish! Damn! That was nice. It had a thing to it! I’ve searched and searched, and have still not tasted such. My mother tries, my aunt tries, it does not come close. And her mageu…okay, I’m getting really hungry.
I remember how everything had to be done in moderation. When there was all this food and drink, it could be enjoyed, but one day at a time. When there was a sack of “oronjes”, we’d never get one each. She’d slice it in four and distribute the pieces amongst us. If there were six of us, same story, but six pieces. We’d savor the taste and get on with the day. We never questioned it because like she always said, or sang rather, “Tomorrow is another day”. That was her mantra. The food would still be there tomorrow. There was absolutely no need to indulge today, and have nothing tomorrow.
I remember how she loved singing her favourite song with everything she had. “Kgabo Mokgatla” Ha ha…We used to laugh at that too. There was a special jig that went with that song. But she also loved Whitney Houston. She dug the Bodyguard soundtrack deeply. And with every trend that my aunts got into, she joined in. When Boom Shaka was big, she was right there doing her jig. Who can ever forget the New Year’s parties and my aunt’s annual kitchen parties? My very with-the-times grandmother took her groove out and got down with the young ones. We laughed at that too. She liked us laughing at that.
I remember her fahfee days. I remember how we woke up every morning to the question, “O lorileng maabane?” (“What did you dream of last night?) I always felt bad because those days I could never remember my dreams, no matter how much I tried. All my other cousins would have an answer. I never did. I always wondered if they made these dreams up. And so she betted, sometimes won, sometimes didn’t. I remember how our alcoholic neighbour who had become the designated fahfee runner, tried to cheat her out of her winnings. My grandmother knew a lot of fahfee players so sooner or later, word of the winning number would reach her. It turned out that that particular day, my grandmother’s dreams were aligned with that of the MoChina and our not so trusted neighbour decided to claim that another number had come up. As my grandmother would say: “There was hell to pay”! It was hilarious, to say the least.
But mostly, I remember how one day, I woke up and remembered dreaming that I was on a plane to somewhere, I don’t know where. The first thing I did was tell my grandmother, not thinking it would help, but ecstatic that I too could dream. And so she placed a bet on a “big bird”. And what do you know, SHE WON!!! Ha ha! I was the star of that day and many more to come. She bought us something nice with the money, I don’t remember what it was. Unfortunately, such a lucky dream never came my way again, despite constant pestering from my grandmother and our alcoholic neighbour who had also caught wind of my ‘gift’.
I remember how there were so many people at our house, all the time. If it wasn’t her sweets and ice-cream customers, it was the ones coming to buy cold-drink. She had great business acumen. I guess it’s because she had so much warmth. They kept coming back, some so often, they practically became family. I have many many uncles and aunts to prove it. I remember when she used to sell beer. Most of her clients bought and took ‘take-away’, but the most privileged got proper VIP, restaurant type service on our garden furniture under our big big tree. I could never understand why they didn’t just go to their own homes. The spot under the tree was our favourite, so on these days, we could never play there. We were always being sent for something…an opener, glasses, cigarettes, wallets that people had forgotten at home, and things that were totally unrelated to the beer drinking session. “Here are some children. They look bored. I guess, I can send them to go pay the rent that I was supposed to pay, while I chill here under this cool shade and have a cold one.” It had its perks, I guess. We got to leave the yard for a while and often got a 50 cent coin or two out of it. These became my uncles too.
I remember how she cried when my grandfather died. In her heartbroken state, she woke up early the next morning, to collect his pension. It was money much needed for the funeral, she was the only one who was allowed to do it and she knew that if word of his passing got around, it would be months until she’d see that money. It just had to be done. And so she stood in that long queue, straight-faced, pretending that it was just another normal pension-collection day. I was astounded at her strength. But I also remember, how happy she was, when we unveiled his tombstone the following year. Her jig had returned, we’ve got the video footage to prove it.
But these days, I remember her death, mostly. I remember how helpless she looked on that hospital bed. I remember how she hated it so much she no longer wanted to be of this world. She was not used to being helpless. I remember how I cried for her even through my mother’s friend telling me never to cry for the living. I couldn’t help it. I knew, for sure, that she had died. I cried and cried and cried until I couldn’t cry anymore. I just knew. I knew when I was with my mother and we were driving past Kalafong Hospital where she had been admitted. I remember the gigantic chimneys on top of the ugly building. I remember the light, white smoke churning out of them. I remember imagining her spirit floating out of the ugly, terrible building where she didn’t belong, right into the air and all the way up to heaven. I remember not wanting to tell my mother that I had just seen my grandmother go to heaven. I knew it would upset her. We got to the house that day, and found out she had indeed passed away. I didn’t have much crying left in me.
All the hundreds of uncles and aunts were there, filling our tiny house, heartbroken. Some heard the news months later, and they came. I remember one particular afternoon when a woman, I did not remember, knocked on the door saying that she had come to see “Mama”. When we told her that Mama hadn’t been around for a while, she broke down in tears. I was amazed at how many people my grandmother had touched.
I miss her, especially on very bad days. I miss feeling like in her death I lost a home. I miss the feeling of finding her in the kitchen. I miss her a lot.
I write to her sometimes. I’m also scared that she can see my shenanigans from up there wherever she is. I wonder what she thinks of me…
I remember her very vividly. I remember her scent...a mixture of onion and cocoa butter. She was a large woman, full of warmth. I remember how I used to lie on her bed, resting my head on her big arms. It was damn nice.
I remember how she woke up at the crack of dawn, every single morning, to do whatever it was she thought she was supposed to do. Sweep, make porridge, make lunchboxes, sweep some more, get on her knees and scrub the floors. I always wondered where she found the energy. I guess it kept her going, even though, we told her numerous times that we had in us enough energy to get all the chores done without her. Despite how tiny that one-bedroomed apartheid structure of a house was, there was always at least a dozen pair of hands at any given time. But she never wanted to relax, she didn’t see why she should. I don’t think she knew how.
I remember how she called oranges, oronjes. We always used to laugh at the way she said things. She didn’t like that.
I could get the whole idea of keeping chickens. There were the eggs and of course, a chicken for those Sunday lunches just before payday. But pigeons? Who in the world keeps pigeons? Well, she did. They went off during the day to do their own business and came back at night to sleep. Weird, my grandmother was.
I remember her stories. I remember how she told us about the days of Marabastad and how they were eventually bulldozed to Atteridgeville. I remember eventually reading E’skia Mphahlele’s ‘Down Second Avenue’ and literally being able to smell her off the pages. I could see her chilling somewhere on the street corner right in the middle of the story. I remember how she told us about the various boogie men that terrorized them in Atteridgeville. I always found it weird that all the boogie men came before any of her grandchildren were born. I felt cheated that I would never be able to tell my grandchildren about the boogie men of my time.
I remember how she told us about her children’s shenanigans, about how my mother, in her heydays, was the diva of the hood. There are loads of pictures of her Afro donned fineness. I remember the stories of the ghost ridden village she came from. And of her two sisters that did not live to meet us or our parents.
I remember how she loved cooking for us. My grandmother made the best ‘dibeibi’ (some call them magwenya) in the entire world. I’ve never come across better, and believe me, I’ve searched. I remember her gemmer. Dope ass fermented brew best served ice cold. She made it even when there was no special occasion, all because we loved it so much. And then she’d make cake, cookies, milk tart, everything! And then we’d eat and shower her with compliments. She loved that a lot. I remember her curried fish! Damn! That was nice. It had a thing to it! I’ve searched and searched, and have still not tasted such. My mother tries, my aunt tries, it does not come close. And her mageu…okay, I’m getting really hungry.
I remember how everything had to be done in moderation. When there was all this food and drink, it could be enjoyed, but one day at a time. When there was a sack of “oronjes”, we’d never get one each. She’d slice it in four and distribute the pieces amongst us. If there were six of us, same story, but six pieces. We’d savor the taste and get on with the day. We never questioned it because like she always said, or sang rather, “Tomorrow is another day”. That was her mantra. The food would still be there tomorrow. There was absolutely no need to indulge today, and have nothing tomorrow.
I remember how she loved singing her favourite song with everything she had. “Kgabo Mokgatla” Ha ha…We used to laugh at that too. There was a special jig that went with that song. But she also loved Whitney Houston. She dug the Bodyguard soundtrack deeply. And with every trend that my aunts got into, she joined in. When Boom Shaka was big, she was right there doing her jig. Who can ever forget the New Year’s parties and my aunt’s annual kitchen parties? My very with-the-times grandmother took her groove out and got down with the young ones. We laughed at that too. She liked us laughing at that.
I remember her fahfee days. I remember how we woke up every morning to the question, “O lorileng maabane?” (“What did you dream of last night?) I always felt bad because those days I could never remember my dreams, no matter how much I tried. All my other cousins would have an answer. I never did. I always wondered if they made these dreams up. And so she betted, sometimes won, sometimes didn’t. I remember how our alcoholic neighbour who had become the designated fahfee runner, tried to cheat her out of her winnings. My grandmother knew a lot of fahfee players so sooner or later, word of the winning number would reach her. It turned out that that particular day, my grandmother’s dreams were aligned with that of the MoChina and our not so trusted neighbour decided to claim that another number had come up. As my grandmother would say: “There was hell to pay”! It was hilarious, to say the least.
But mostly, I remember how one day, I woke up and remembered dreaming that I was on a plane to somewhere, I don’t know where. The first thing I did was tell my grandmother, not thinking it would help, but ecstatic that I too could dream. And so she placed a bet on a “big bird”. And what do you know, SHE WON!!! Ha ha! I was the star of that day and many more to come. She bought us something nice with the money, I don’t remember what it was. Unfortunately, such a lucky dream never came my way again, despite constant pestering from my grandmother and our alcoholic neighbour who had also caught wind of my ‘gift’.
I remember how there were so many people at our house, all the time. If it wasn’t her sweets and ice-cream customers, it was the ones coming to buy cold-drink. She had great business acumen. I guess it’s because she had so much warmth. They kept coming back, some so often, they practically became family. I have many many uncles and aunts to prove it. I remember when she used to sell beer. Most of her clients bought and took ‘take-away’, but the most privileged got proper VIP, restaurant type service on our garden furniture under our big big tree. I could never understand why they didn’t just go to their own homes. The spot under the tree was our favourite, so on these days, we could never play there. We were always being sent for something…an opener, glasses, cigarettes, wallets that people had forgotten at home, and things that were totally unrelated to the beer drinking session. “Here are some children. They look bored. I guess, I can send them to go pay the rent that I was supposed to pay, while I chill here under this cool shade and have a cold one.” It had its perks, I guess. We got to leave the yard for a while and often got a 50 cent coin or two out of it. These became my uncles too.
I remember how she cried when my grandfather died. In her heartbroken state, she woke up early the next morning, to collect his pension. It was money much needed for the funeral, she was the only one who was allowed to do it and she knew that if word of his passing got around, it would be months until she’d see that money. It just had to be done. And so she stood in that long queue, straight-faced, pretending that it was just another normal pension-collection day. I was astounded at her strength. But I also remember, how happy she was, when we unveiled his tombstone the following year. Her jig had returned, we’ve got the video footage to prove it.
But these days, I remember her death, mostly. I remember how helpless she looked on that hospital bed. I remember how she hated it so much she no longer wanted to be of this world. She was not used to being helpless. I remember how I cried for her even through my mother’s friend telling me never to cry for the living. I couldn’t help it. I knew, for sure, that she had died. I cried and cried and cried until I couldn’t cry anymore. I just knew. I knew when I was with my mother and we were driving past Kalafong Hospital where she had been admitted. I remember the gigantic chimneys on top of the ugly building. I remember the light, white smoke churning out of them. I remember imagining her spirit floating out of the ugly, terrible building where she didn’t belong, right into the air and all the way up to heaven. I remember not wanting to tell my mother that I had just seen my grandmother go to heaven. I knew it would upset her. We got to the house that day, and found out she had indeed passed away. I didn’t have much crying left in me.
All the hundreds of uncles and aunts were there, filling our tiny house, heartbroken. Some heard the news months later, and they came. I remember one particular afternoon when a woman, I did not remember, knocked on the door saying that she had come to see “Mama”. When we told her that Mama hadn’t been around for a while, she broke down in tears. I was amazed at how many people my grandmother had touched.
I miss her, especially on very bad days. I miss feeling like in her death I lost a home. I miss the feeling of finding her in the kitchen. I miss her a lot.
I write to her sometimes. I’m also scared that she can see my shenanigans from up there wherever she is. I wonder what she thinks of me…
Thursday, April 19, 2007
The Pursuit of Normality
The Pursuit of Normality
I was eleven when my life stopped being the perfect picture. I guess the perfect picture is a myth, but my life then, was pretty close to it. It was a dramatic kind of stopping, the type that even eleven year olds can notice as a major life change. I wasn’t ready. I was literally having the school break of all school breaks. We had discovered and invented new games that kept us going from morning all the way until we had to bath and watch TV. The games were so cool that even television had lost its appeal. I was happy and the only thing I could think about was the looming end of school break. It was a perfect time though, a time during the school break, when all the ads are still about Christmas. A time when school seems far far away…..
And then smack in the middle of that high, it ended! Who is ever ready, I guess.
But since then, I have carried this uneasy feeling. The feeling that anything could change overnight, so I better be cautious not to get attached to anything or anyone. After my premature life-change, I grew very weary of humans. My mother was pretty much my only solace. But we all grow older and at some point, leaving the nest is inevitable. And so I went to varsity, scared as hell, wondering whether I’d make it on my own. My brother was always there, but the poor guy also has a life, and it doesn’t always include making sure that little sis is not crying again or coping with adulthood.
And so I made friends, and sort of unconsciously became part of a tight click. I had invested some emotion into other people with whom I do not share a bloodline. Cool, dandy, I am after all, normal. But these were still females, of my age, with similar types of backgrounds, likes and dislikes. It wasn’t too hard.
Of course I was nowhere near thinking about having a boyfriend. Good Lord, I thought, that would mess me up for real. I was happy observing my now close friends’ ups and downs and on and offs with relationships. Such drama! Even though my very limited experience with such did not make me the best advisor or comforter, I was okay with it.
And then, as all things go, I fell for a friend. It was beautiful. Amazing…we had so much in common. I fell hard. I did all those things I swore I’d never ever do in my life but I loved every bit of it. But somewhere between a magical romance and the most hectic break up in history (my limited history, of course), something happened. I guess I became attached. That was never the plan. I did the one thing I feared the most and it had come back to bite me, or so I figured in my head. Mister was all too happy to find magic elsewhere, and me being me, went berserk! I will not withhold the fact that I, too, made many mistakes. It was a crazy feeling. A feeling I always knew would come if I let go, even just for a second. I had…and I didn’t like the results, especially because I had predicted it.
I got a better job and moved cities. REMIX: I found a better job in order to move cities. Distance would sort me out. I’d forget. I closed my doors and never let anyone in again. I moved alright and so did he, soon after. The time between the moves was long enough for me to grow detached and apparently hotter than I was when we were together. And so I tortured him with all I had. Flirted, seduced, lured him in and dropped him as I pleased. If moving cities was not going to cut it, revenge surely would. But even after all of that, I still wasn’t healed. I became even more cautious of getting attached. No matter how much I tried, I’d never let anyone in, except on a physical level of course (way too many times)
Time passed and as all things go, I eventually grew attached again. There was nothing but warmth. I liked it there. It was a nice place to be. So nice that I developed some form of tunnel vision. All I saw was this awesome warm place and nothing else. All I saw was this place that apparently only existed in my crazy mind, I later discovered.
This, as you can imagine, brought out the crazy in me, again. I didn’t like it. This time around, it was messier. It made me feel like I didn’t want to be here anymore. I couldn’t leave. There was nowhere to go. And because this thing apparently only existed in my mind, I was the town madman. All my emotions were laid bare as everybody looked from a distance, in empathy. Shame, she really isn’t coping. Perhaps she’ll get over it. Perhaps it’s a chemical imbalance. And all around me, life went on, except for mine.
And so I did all the embarrassing things I thought I’d never do again. And all those things came with their own hangovers making the whole thing a huge mess. But the will to get over it fast in order to get on with the business of life, dawned on me. I had to let it go and reinvent another security measure. I’m still trying to figure out what it is, but I’m pretty sure it won’t be letting people in on a physical level. I’m glad that I at least grew out of that one, thank God.
But I’m obviously wounded and have no sense of relationships. I’ve just never known how to do them with caution or restraint. I truly think my DNA is faulty. When the almighty was handing out the ‘normal’ gene, I totally got skipped. I must have been out partying or perhaps I overslept that day. It scares me to no end. It scares me that I have a fear of intimacy and that I view giving into it as a sign of weakness or failure.
I cannot imagine who in the world I’ll click with. I cannot imagine that they won’t see me as a psychopath. I cannot imagine wanting to ever entertain the idea of it. I cannot fathom, no matter how much I try, being in a normal relationship. I’ve heard, over and over again, that one needs to be okay with oneself before they can be with another. Perhaps I am okay with myself, when it’s just myself and myself alone.
So on that note, I pose these questions: What if I am not wired to be okay with myself in order to be with another? What if it is in my genes to never be comfortable with my own insecurities enough to show them to somebody else? What if, there is no one in this entire world, who’ll be able to accept me for the psychopath I have proven to be?
Some would suggest psychiatric inspection while some would try to comfort me with clichés like “there is someone for everyone”. But I know I have issues. I guess the problem is that I’m not okay with the idea of normality. Perhaps my resistance to be normal will eventually lead me to eternal spinsterhood. Me and spinsterhood wouldn’t work out, either. I’d be companionless for the sole reason that I’m just not a pet kind of person.
I mean, is the very act of posting such a personal blog, not psychopathic in itself?
PS: I foresee that this hecticness too shall pass and I will be writing about arb things like birds and traffic, sooner than I thought!
I was eleven when my life stopped being the perfect picture. I guess the perfect picture is a myth, but my life then, was pretty close to it. It was a dramatic kind of stopping, the type that even eleven year olds can notice as a major life change. I wasn’t ready. I was literally having the school break of all school breaks. We had discovered and invented new games that kept us going from morning all the way until we had to bath and watch TV. The games were so cool that even television had lost its appeal. I was happy and the only thing I could think about was the looming end of school break. It was a perfect time though, a time during the school break, when all the ads are still about Christmas. A time when school seems far far away…..
And then smack in the middle of that high, it ended! Who is ever ready, I guess.
But since then, I have carried this uneasy feeling. The feeling that anything could change overnight, so I better be cautious not to get attached to anything or anyone. After my premature life-change, I grew very weary of humans. My mother was pretty much my only solace. But we all grow older and at some point, leaving the nest is inevitable. And so I went to varsity, scared as hell, wondering whether I’d make it on my own. My brother was always there, but the poor guy also has a life, and it doesn’t always include making sure that little sis is not crying again or coping with adulthood.
And so I made friends, and sort of unconsciously became part of a tight click. I had invested some emotion into other people with whom I do not share a bloodline. Cool, dandy, I am after all, normal. But these were still females, of my age, with similar types of backgrounds, likes and dislikes. It wasn’t too hard.
Of course I was nowhere near thinking about having a boyfriend. Good Lord, I thought, that would mess me up for real. I was happy observing my now close friends’ ups and downs and on and offs with relationships. Such drama! Even though my very limited experience with such did not make me the best advisor or comforter, I was okay with it.
And then, as all things go, I fell for a friend. It was beautiful. Amazing…we had so much in common. I fell hard. I did all those things I swore I’d never ever do in my life but I loved every bit of it. But somewhere between a magical romance and the most hectic break up in history (my limited history, of course), something happened. I guess I became attached. That was never the plan. I did the one thing I feared the most and it had come back to bite me, or so I figured in my head. Mister was all too happy to find magic elsewhere, and me being me, went berserk! I will not withhold the fact that I, too, made many mistakes. It was a crazy feeling. A feeling I always knew would come if I let go, even just for a second. I had…and I didn’t like the results, especially because I had predicted it.
I got a better job and moved cities. REMIX: I found a better job in order to move cities. Distance would sort me out. I’d forget. I closed my doors and never let anyone in again. I moved alright and so did he, soon after. The time between the moves was long enough for me to grow detached and apparently hotter than I was when we were together. And so I tortured him with all I had. Flirted, seduced, lured him in and dropped him as I pleased. If moving cities was not going to cut it, revenge surely would. But even after all of that, I still wasn’t healed. I became even more cautious of getting attached. No matter how much I tried, I’d never let anyone in, except on a physical level of course (way too many times)
Time passed and as all things go, I eventually grew attached again. There was nothing but warmth. I liked it there. It was a nice place to be. So nice that I developed some form of tunnel vision. All I saw was this awesome warm place and nothing else. All I saw was this place that apparently only existed in my crazy mind, I later discovered.
This, as you can imagine, brought out the crazy in me, again. I didn’t like it. This time around, it was messier. It made me feel like I didn’t want to be here anymore. I couldn’t leave. There was nowhere to go. And because this thing apparently only existed in my mind, I was the town madman. All my emotions were laid bare as everybody looked from a distance, in empathy. Shame, she really isn’t coping. Perhaps she’ll get over it. Perhaps it’s a chemical imbalance. And all around me, life went on, except for mine.
And so I did all the embarrassing things I thought I’d never do again. And all those things came with their own hangovers making the whole thing a huge mess. But the will to get over it fast in order to get on with the business of life, dawned on me. I had to let it go and reinvent another security measure. I’m still trying to figure out what it is, but I’m pretty sure it won’t be letting people in on a physical level. I’m glad that I at least grew out of that one, thank God.
But I’m obviously wounded and have no sense of relationships. I’ve just never known how to do them with caution or restraint. I truly think my DNA is faulty. When the almighty was handing out the ‘normal’ gene, I totally got skipped. I must have been out partying or perhaps I overslept that day. It scares me to no end. It scares me that I have a fear of intimacy and that I view giving into it as a sign of weakness or failure.
I cannot imagine who in the world I’ll click with. I cannot imagine that they won’t see me as a psychopath. I cannot imagine wanting to ever entertain the idea of it. I cannot fathom, no matter how much I try, being in a normal relationship. I’ve heard, over and over again, that one needs to be okay with oneself before they can be with another. Perhaps I am okay with myself, when it’s just myself and myself alone.
So on that note, I pose these questions: What if I am not wired to be okay with myself in order to be with another? What if it is in my genes to never be comfortable with my own insecurities enough to show them to somebody else? What if, there is no one in this entire world, who’ll be able to accept me for the psychopath I have proven to be?
Some would suggest psychiatric inspection while some would try to comfort me with clichés like “there is someone for everyone”. But I know I have issues. I guess the problem is that I’m not okay with the idea of normality. Perhaps my resistance to be normal will eventually lead me to eternal spinsterhood. Me and spinsterhood wouldn’t work out, either. I’d be companionless for the sole reason that I’m just not a pet kind of person.
I mean, is the very act of posting such a personal blog, not psychopathic in itself?
PS: I foresee that this hecticness too shall pass and I will be writing about arb things like birds and traffic, sooner than I thought!
Monday, April 16, 2007
Today I love more than I don't
I love...
I love the scent of rain and soil
I love that most people love the scent of rain and soil
I love sunshine, in all its forms, with all my heart
I love the sound of my mother’s voice on the other end of the line, on a bad day
I love the impending birth of my very first niece (or nephew, of course)
I love being in the middle of a heated, often crazy, funny discussion with “the boys”
I love it when people who know me well say things I am already thinking
I love laughing about absolutely nothing...and about bad times that have now passed
I love cold fresh pineapple juice on a hot day, when I least expect that the restaurant of my choice serves it
I love those who keep me in check, tell me the truth, even when I don’t want to hear it.
I love the phrase: “I get over the highs…”
I love music… a lot…
I love memorable movies that I can watch over and over again and never get bored
I love the memories I have of my grandmother
I love that my brother is my memory bank, lest I forget
I love fresh grapes….and red wine
I love a good party, so good that my body hurts the next morning from all the dancing
I love taking long walks...
I love meeting new, crazy cool people that I never thought existed
I love uninhibited fantasizing sessions with my friends
I love waking up to the memory of a crazy, out of this world, complex, Matrix type dream
I love our flat…it’s big and sunny...and I have a room I can retreat to and be with just me...and someone else, occasionally.
I love the fact that I am able to take time out of my days to do something as self-indulgent as blogging
I love the fact that I can type almost as fast as I can think
I don’t like, so much:
I don’t like, so much, that I smoke so much
I don’t like, so much, that I hardly ever do what I plan to do
I don’t like, so much, that I live in the now so much
I don’t like, so much, that I am afraid so much
I don’t like, so much, that I can be very self indulgent
I don’t like, so much, horny construction workers that hurl nasty come-on lines at me when I’m taking the walks that I love so much
I don’t like, so much, cold feet
I don’t like, so much, the idea of me wearing heels
I don’t like, so much, mean ass hairdressers with issues (mnxim!)
I don’t like, so much, my mother being broke…
I don’t like, so much, being ill….and hospitals
I don’t like, so much, the fact that everyday I find it harder to recognise my own hand writing.
I don’t like, so much, the creeping claustrophobic feeling of living in Jozi
I don’t like, so much, that I cannot afford to travel
I don’t like, so much, the phrase: “I don’t like, so much”
I hate that this post is much longer than I intended it to be…
One more thing that I love? I love that there are more things I love than there are things I don’t like so much….today, that is!
I cut my hair...
I had been toying with the idea of cutting my hair for months for purely cosmetic reasons. I kept postponing it out of the fear that the flat back, dropped-on- the-head-in-infancy shape of my head would not be too flattering. On this particular morning, I woke up feeling the urgency to cut it all off. It was post a crazy episode-filled night. My emotions were high but this time around I could not cry, no matter how much I tried. I couldn’t send rage-filled smses that would leave me embarrassed the day after, either. I thought about jumping off the four story high balcony of our flat but I knew I wouldn’t make a pretty corpse and “a girl must be pretty at all times”. I couldn’t bring myself to slit my wrists. I didn’t know how, and deep down inside, I feared I’d survive the whole thing and end up with really ugly wrists….people would stare…and wonder…..why did she do that to herself? Perhaps it was the feeling I had long been waiting for. I knew I didn’t want to die. I knew that the craziness was way too crazy to die for. I knew that the craziness had finally ended and I had to start putting it behind me…
It is then that I took a pair of sharp paper scissors and began dabbling with the idea of cutting off my long beautiful locks. I looked in the mirror and noticed a certain beauty about my hair I hadn’t noticed before. My locks were long, even-sized…they had a glimmer to them that seemed to scream: “Don’t you dare do it” Without thinking too much about it…I put scissor to hair and started snip-snipping away. After cutting off the first chunk of hair in the front, I realised what I had done and wished I hadn’t done it but knew that I did not have the courage to go out in public with five locks missing from the front of my head. So I continued and the experience suddenly became very liberating. I felt like I was peeling off a layer of skin that had gone dead and had been hanging on my body for way too long, making me look old and haggard. After a while, it became a more practical exercise. Does the right side look much higher than the left? Is it too short? And most importantly, do I look like I was dropped on my head when I was a baby?
I guess all of this didn’t matter. My hair was off my head. I was probably not going to be greeted with “Greetings, irie sister” when I walked through the Rosebank Rooftop Market. I would probably not get the usual “Ooh, your braids are so beautiful. How do I get my hair to do that?”, from ignorant white people. I wouldn’t be able to have my hair in a ponytail and let a few locks fall onto my forehead fringe-style which always worked for evening events. My head no longer had much hair on it. To top it off, there was a visible bald patch just above my left ear (everybody makes mistakes). This was hairless me and sooner or later I had to get used to it and bring my sexy back quick and a fast!
I’m not going to go on about it like it was a life-changing experience. But I do believe that our hair does carry our burdens or the energies that come with them. There is a great feeling of control that comes with cutting off one’s hair. There is also a feeling of lightness and the hope of new beginnings. I don’t regret it one bit. It served its purpose…
Next time you see me on the streets, though, I hope to have gotten the hot, sexy braids that sometimes come to me in my dreams! HOLLA!
It is then that I took a pair of sharp paper scissors and began dabbling with the idea of cutting off my long beautiful locks. I looked in the mirror and noticed a certain beauty about my hair I hadn’t noticed before. My locks were long, even-sized…they had a glimmer to them that seemed to scream: “Don’t you dare do it” Without thinking too much about it…I put scissor to hair and started snip-snipping away. After cutting off the first chunk of hair in the front, I realised what I had done and wished I hadn’t done it but knew that I did not have the courage to go out in public with five locks missing from the front of my head. So I continued and the experience suddenly became very liberating. I felt like I was peeling off a layer of skin that had gone dead and had been hanging on my body for way too long, making me look old and haggard. After a while, it became a more practical exercise. Does the right side look much higher than the left? Is it too short? And most importantly, do I look like I was dropped on my head when I was a baby?
I guess all of this didn’t matter. My hair was off my head. I was probably not going to be greeted with “Greetings, irie sister” when I walked through the Rosebank Rooftop Market. I would probably not get the usual “Ooh, your braids are so beautiful. How do I get my hair to do that?”, from ignorant white people. I wouldn’t be able to have my hair in a ponytail and let a few locks fall onto my forehead fringe-style which always worked for evening events. My head no longer had much hair on it. To top it off, there was a visible bald patch just above my left ear (everybody makes mistakes). This was hairless me and sooner or later I had to get used to it and bring my sexy back quick and a fast!
I’m not going to go on about it like it was a life-changing experience. But I do believe that our hair does carry our burdens or the energies that come with them. There is a great feeling of control that comes with cutting off one’s hair. There is also a feeling of lightness and the hope of new beginnings. I don’t regret it one bit. It served its purpose…
Next time you see me on the streets, though, I hope to have gotten the hot, sexy braids that sometimes come to me in my dreams! HOLLA!
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