There we stood, in front of his vertical mirror. I, adjusting my lipstick and hair – him, entering in a swift, sudden action of affection, bringing his arm around my shoulders. I stopped, playing my fragmentary role in our impromptu tableaux. We stopped. For a moment : just looking at ourselves together.
I quickly turned away and broke off.
What is it about mirrors that provoke emotion? Or is it not the mirror, but me? The sudden inner churning of my temperament at the signs of affection. My compulsive, uncontrollable, sudden need for space between the other entities of the world and myself… yet the ease with which I can cast the blame to the mirror is far more appealing than a self dissection.
The ease with which plain glass forces us to confront reality is fascinating. How can it lie, when it presents before you all that your eyes can see true? Standing beneath the arms of someone in front of that polished world shows you for who you are, and who they are in relation to you. It scares me. Why would I glance away, seek refuge, from what I’ve created? Life, for an instant, became unbearable – for in that instant, I was chastised by a looking glass, and saw truly what I have become. Not who : what, for underlying reasons and complexes are irrelevant to the stark realities etched into the glass.
Look away, look away.
Shattering glass would never fix what stands before it.
Monday, 19 December 2011
Sunday, 18 December 2011
Just 4 U.... LOL JK No
Language : part of the list of apparent traits that differentiate us from other hominins, shining glory on our apparently well developed cerebrums. Yet of what true value is it to our basal existence?
A few nights ago, I accompanied my aunt to the established Playhouse in town. We had received complimentary tickets and were most enthusiastic about watching Cinderella – but little did we know, we had received tickets for a much more Afro-New Realism styled theatrical spectacle entitled “Just 4 You”. We only realised this during the final call for the production as we read over our tickets and decided to be good sports and join in.
Now, I had previously seen posters advertising this work along street poles – they comprised of a bright yellow background with a triangular tableaux of African people: one female taking the apex, flanked by grinning males. It seemed a hearty comedy, and my naive mind assumed the work would be in English. How wrong was I.
The play showed a distinct amalgam of Brecht and New Realism : relaying both the internal and external environment of the set, whilst using characteristics of Epic theatre to distance the audience from becoming emotionally identified with the characters via songs, dance and verbal dynamics/body percussions at moments of tension. Whether this was deliberate or the result of a workshopped concoction gone wrong, I cannot say. What I can say, though, was how interesting it was to be the only person in the audience who did not understand 80% of what was being said.
Indeed, at times the characters launched into spasms of English, with soliloquies belonging to a certain character being almost as plastically pronounced as the set (a downtown area). Despite the poor singing and the tension evident in the performer’s body, there was something vividly real in the way sweat poured down their faces. There was an earthen truth to the way they spoke their tongues and I was forced to blush for my choice to study Afrikaans for the past 7 years.
Yet knowing the details of every word became unnecessary. I began to notice finer details that I would have neglected should I have been exposed to the old Realism styled theatre of Shakespeare. Every muscular movement became a tome to interpret, the pitch, pause and rhythm of speech became more important to me than the actual spoken word : I began to detach from the logistics of the speech and focus on the tangible performance before me. It became an appraisal of emotional depiction rather than the comedic weaving of many stories about the seedy past of individuals.
I began to understand this emotion in a manner sought out by the highly praised, original “Woza Albert” performers (Percy and Mbongeni), where the portrayal of an emotion or feeling takes precedence to the spoken word. I understood the disposition of a few of society’s fragments, not an isolated character telling of his tragedy.
It was then that I realised that the finite study of play texts has become subordinate to the physicality of performances in most instances of theatre seeking to portray New Realism in its methods. Furthermore, maybe in our everyday conversations we should begin to take special notice of how something is being said : note the use of facial muscle in response to words, analyse the dilation of pupils and see beyond what is being said. All in all, this is but a means to fortify the way we understand each other : elite cerebrum or not.
What I’m trying to say is this : note not only what is being said, but how. . . and sometimes, words aren’t the only way to convey a profound message.
PS
The play’s title had nothing to do with the actual work.
Best Line (that I heard in English) : How we look, is not how we think.
Haha, that kinda negates my entire blog post, but they were talking from a more literal stance : how people dress and act on the surface isn’t equated to what they think, but a poker face can sometimes betray a man.
A few nights ago, I accompanied my aunt to the established Playhouse in town. We had received complimentary tickets and were most enthusiastic about watching Cinderella – but little did we know, we had received tickets for a much more Afro-New Realism styled theatrical spectacle entitled “Just 4 You”. We only realised this during the final call for the production as we read over our tickets and decided to be good sports and join in.
Now, I had previously seen posters advertising this work along street poles – they comprised of a bright yellow background with a triangular tableaux of African people: one female taking the apex, flanked by grinning males. It seemed a hearty comedy, and my naive mind assumed the work would be in English. How wrong was I.
The play showed a distinct amalgam of Brecht and New Realism : relaying both the internal and external environment of the set, whilst using characteristics of Epic theatre to distance the audience from becoming emotionally identified with the characters via songs, dance and verbal dynamics/body percussions at moments of tension. Whether this was deliberate or the result of a workshopped concoction gone wrong, I cannot say. What I can say, though, was how interesting it was to be the only person in the audience who did not understand 80% of what was being said.
Indeed, at times the characters launched into spasms of English, with soliloquies belonging to a certain character being almost as plastically pronounced as the set (a downtown area). Despite the poor singing and the tension evident in the performer’s body, there was something vividly real in the way sweat poured down their faces. There was an earthen truth to the way they spoke their tongues and I was forced to blush for my choice to study Afrikaans for the past 7 years.
Yet knowing the details of every word became unnecessary. I began to notice finer details that I would have neglected should I have been exposed to the old Realism styled theatre of Shakespeare. Every muscular movement became a tome to interpret, the pitch, pause and rhythm of speech became more important to me than the actual spoken word : I began to detach from the logistics of the speech and focus on the tangible performance before me. It became an appraisal of emotional depiction rather than the comedic weaving of many stories about the seedy past of individuals.
I began to understand this emotion in a manner sought out by the highly praised, original “Woza Albert” performers (Percy and Mbongeni), where the portrayal of an emotion or feeling takes precedence to the spoken word. I understood the disposition of a few of society’s fragments, not an isolated character telling of his tragedy.
It was then that I realised that the finite study of play texts has become subordinate to the physicality of performances in most instances of theatre seeking to portray New Realism in its methods. Furthermore, maybe in our everyday conversations we should begin to take special notice of how something is being said : note the use of facial muscle in response to words, analyse the dilation of pupils and see beyond what is being said. All in all, this is but a means to fortify the way we understand each other : elite cerebrum or not.
What I’m trying to say is this : note not only what is being said, but how. . . and sometimes, words aren’t the only way to convey a profound message.
PS
The play’s title had nothing to do with the actual work.
Best Line (that I heard in English) : How we look, is not how we think.
Haha, that kinda negates my entire blog post, but they were talking from a more literal stance : how people dress and act on the surface isn’t equated to what they think, but a poker face can sometimes betray a man.
Monday, 12 December 2011
Who Made The Silence?
Silence festers like a gangrenous wound to the soul. It fills my home, occasionally relenting to the distant chirping of birds and the predictable grunting of neighbours. The drone of the nearby freeway is so familiar that it becomes an invisible amalgam to the absence of tangible, welcome sound.
But what of this silence? Some revel in it, allowing it to engulf them as a white blood cell carries out phagocytosis, while others grow perturbed and paranoid : every sound is a suggestion of The Others coming to take them. Personally, I’ve become quite accustomed to it – to a point of indifference. For a finite span of time, my sofa may be shared and the television on – yet even in those gaps, silence is forever the background. This leads me to meditate upon the concept brought forth by Beckett in his splendid work ‘Waiting for Godot’. I do feel much like the tramps Estragon and Vladimir, where when confined to the silence – saying anything is better than saying nothing.
At first, this was my modus operandi : hum songs, perform a lyrical disquisition of my neighbours activities to myself, give myself a hearty laugh through snide comments in reaction to the daytime television ghouls that haunt my DSTV decoder. Beckett’s lamentations on silence further suggested that to say anything merely for the sake of saying something is equivalent to saying absolutely nothing. Indeed, as the week passed, I became inclined to save my breath. Silence grew comfortably in my home, breaking at about 6PM when my father’s car rolls into the driveway.
However, at times it is a burden, a great sagging sensation weighing my soul down. It tires me, fills me up and throws my centre of gravity through the hoop of insanity. The walls of my home become a blessed prison, where existence is placed in a contrapuntal relationship with life characterised by the humble breathing noises that neglect the rules of silence. Restless, I pace my home like a lioness in a cage. I read a few chapters and grow bored. I switch the television on but the gormless words fail to serve as anaesthetic to the indefinable mood silence sweeps over me.
…and when it breaks, oh how I long for its sweet return.
Last night, I lay upon my bed, feeling the rain around me and the thunder strike. I thought of my roof, humbly serving its purpose while the gods hurled forth water from the bowels of their grey skies. I thought of how glorious it would be to be immersed in that rain, to lay upon the moist earth and let my bones have a taste of the mud it would soon decompose in, covered by a silky layer of natural water. Indeed, the best way to shatter the reverie of silence is the clap of thunder. So fearsome, so powerful – and so primal.
Bearing that in mind : is silence a natural phenomenon? Or has the modern man devised it by his four walled constructions, blocking out the finer, sensual sounds more closer to home. Closer to Earth and her fertile bosom.
But what of this silence? Some revel in it, allowing it to engulf them as a white blood cell carries out phagocytosis, while others grow perturbed and paranoid : every sound is a suggestion of The Others coming to take them. Personally, I’ve become quite accustomed to it – to a point of indifference. For a finite span of time, my sofa may be shared and the television on – yet even in those gaps, silence is forever the background. This leads me to meditate upon the concept brought forth by Beckett in his splendid work ‘Waiting for Godot’. I do feel much like the tramps Estragon and Vladimir, where when confined to the silence – saying anything is better than saying nothing.
At first, this was my modus operandi : hum songs, perform a lyrical disquisition of my neighbours activities to myself, give myself a hearty laugh through snide comments in reaction to the daytime television ghouls that haunt my DSTV decoder. Beckett’s lamentations on silence further suggested that to say anything merely for the sake of saying something is equivalent to saying absolutely nothing. Indeed, as the week passed, I became inclined to save my breath. Silence grew comfortably in my home, breaking at about 6PM when my father’s car rolls into the driveway.
However, at times it is a burden, a great sagging sensation weighing my soul down. It tires me, fills me up and throws my centre of gravity through the hoop of insanity. The walls of my home become a blessed prison, where existence is placed in a contrapuntal relationship with life characterised by the humble breathing noises that neglect the rules of silence. Restless, I pace my home like a lioness in a cage. I read a few chapters and grow bored. I switch the television on but the gormless words fail to serve as anaesthetic to the indefinable mood silence sweeps over me.
…and when it breaks, oh how I long for its sweet return.
Last night, I lay upon my bed, feeling the rain around me and the thunder strike. I thought of my roof, humbly serving its purpose while the gods hurled forth water from the bowels of their grey skies. I thought of how glorious it would be to be immersed in that rain, to lay upon the moist earth and let my bones have a taste of the mud it would soon decompose in, covered by a silky layer of natural water. Indeed, the best way to shatter the reverie of silence is the clap of thunder. So fearsome, so powerful – and so primal.
Bearing that in mind : is silence a natural phenomenon? Or has the modern man devised it by his four walled constructions, blocking out the finer, sensual sounds more closer to home. Closer to Earth and her fertile bosom.
Thursday, 8 December 2011
The Most Ironic (And useful) Post Evorz
Digivice (GTFO Digimon) : Digitial Social Advice
X : Heyyyy baby
Y : Heyyyy sexyyy
X: Na ah yooooou sexy
Y : Hehehe nooooo you are
Apart from the poor grammar and decline in salient conversation, the above conversation is utter nonsense. The gist of one of the digital era’s many social detriments is the decline of good conversation : everyone can type text and send it at rapid speed. Some gormless idiots take advantage of this powerful tool and use it for spam, and the sending of useless messages that in no way enrich our lives.
But, I digress, the point I shall address here is a very valuable piece of advice given to me by a wise soul : nothing online is real.
Take x and y for example. If X and Y go out, chances are he won’t really call her sexy. Conversation could flow comparatively less, and this pseudo-electro-chemistry that exists online could dissipate in lieu of tangible meetings. Fortunately, I haven’t personally experienced this – but I do have friends and a vivid imagination who tell me how plausible it is.
Apart from virtual humdrum, there’s the factor of statuses and responding to virtual stimuli. Let’s say someone you’ve been seeing has a status up about another girl. Is there evidence that he’s actually been OUT with her? People can cajole, flirt or fight online : but all that’s left are black splotches against the background of a screen. The truth of a matter is manifest in the world of the living, where breath for breath the compatibility of two social entities may be weighed fairly. Nothing online is real – spending hours chatting to someone on bbm counts for naught if you meet the next day and don’t really know what to say to each other. Seeing a guy fawn over someone on Facebook but spending most of his time with you renders all online tidings null and void.
We, as a society, should step back from our high speed connections and connect with touch. (This blog post does not condone rape.)
What I’m trying to say is… don’t let something you see on a screen affect your emotional balance. Don’t let words online upset you. Transposing the digital to the emotional is as warped as Crash Bandicoot 3 (man I miss that guy).
OMG THE IRONY OF A BLOG POST ABOUT NOTHING ONLINE BEING REAL OOHHHHHH THE LOLZ
X : Heyyyy baby
Y : Heyyyy sexyyy
X: Na ah yooooou sexy
Y : Hehehe nooooo you are
Apart from the poor grammar and decline in salient conversation, the above conversation is utter nonsense. The gist of one of the digital era’s many social detriments is the decline of good conversation : everyone can type text and send it at rapid speed. Some gormless idiots take advantage of this powerful tool and use it for spam, and the sending of useless messages that in no way enrich our lives.
But, I digress, the point I shall address here is a very valuable piece of advice given to me by a wise soul : nothing online is real.
Take x and y for example. If X and Y go out, chances are he won’t really call her sexy. Conversation could flow comparatively less, and this pseudo-electro-chemistry that exists online could dissipate in lieu of tangible meetings. Fortunately, I haven’t personally experienced this – but I do have friends and a vivid imagination who tell me how plausible it is.
Apart from virtual humdrum, there’s the factor of statuses and responding to virtual stimuli. Let’s say someone you’ve been seeing has a status up about another girl. Is there evidence that he’s actually been OUT with her? People can cajole, flirt or fight online : but all that’s left are black splotches against the background of a screen. The truth of a matter is manifest in the world of the living, where breath for breath the compatibility of two social entities may be weighed fairly. Nothing online is real – spending hours chatting to someone on bbm counts for naught if you meet the next day and don’t really know what to say to each other. Seeing a guy fawn over someone on Facebook but spending most of his time with you renders all online tidings null and void.
We, as a society, should step back from our high speed connections and connect with touch. (This blog post does not condone rape.)
What I’m trying to say is… don’t let something you see on a screen affect your emotional balance. Don’t let words online upset you. Transposing the digital to the emotional is as warped as Crash Bandicoot 3 (man I miss that guy).
OMG THE IRONY OF A BLOG POST ABOUT NOTHING ONLINE BEING REAL OOHHHHHH THE LOLZ
Monday, 5 December 2011
For Le Moment Like Thiiiiiiiiiiiis
Whilst walking down to the beach, his arm around my waist, he asked if I was cold. A slight, standard sea breeze was blowing – and I said no. Yet he grabbed me closer and said, “Don’t worry, I keep you warm.”
The song by The Killers : Bones, comes to mind.
Whilst actually breathing within the boundaries of life’s moments, sometimes we forget ourselves. Our mind adrift, waves of what to do when we’re home, when next you’re gonna get to play Skyrim etc. and during these moments, instead of appreciating them, we end up thinking ‘WTF this guy is a bit creepy, but cute.’
Prompted by many years of literary analysis in and out of school, it’s become a habit of mine to run through my day before bed. Pre-REM defragmentation, before I knock at the dream kingdom’s door (no, TS Eliot, I’m not dying). That’s when it hit me : I actually experienced something of a … romantic (for lack of a better word? Cue Deadmau5 in the background) moment – something from a cheesy teenage movie; something I never thought I’d get to do. Thinking on life’s experiences somehow seems to make them more meaningful, as if reflection were a rag with polish, making memories glimmer like summer stars in your mind. In the moment, what we may find creepy may actually be laden with meaning or good intention.
However, the drawback of this thought process is over analysis : finding meaning where there is none. For example, he didn’t eat nachos. This doesn’t mean anything. Even if it did, I don’t care because it’s so insignificant. To those completely infatuated, though, every little detail becomes a complex series of meanings, where they begin to formulate pseudo-paradigms and work themselves up to naught.
Perhaps the lesson of life is to, indeed, enjoy the ride, and to enhance the present, sometimes glancing at the rear view mirror can bring a profound sense of satisfaction to a weary mind.
The song by The Killers : Bones, comes to mind.
Whilst actually breathing within the boundaries of life’s moments, sometimes we forget ourselves. Our mind adrift, waves of what to do when we’re home, when next you’re gonna get to play Skyrim etc. and during these moments, instead of appreciating them, we end up thinking ‘WTF this guy is a bit creepy, but cute.’
Prompted by many years of literary analysis in and out of school, it’s become a habit of mine to run through my day before bed. Pre-REM defragmentation, before I knock at the dream kingdom’s door (no, TS Eliot, I’m not dying). That’s when it hit me : I actually experienced something of a … romantic (for lack of a better word? Cue Deadmau5 in the background) moment – something from a cheesy teenage movie; something I never thought I’d get to do. Thinking on life’s experiences somehow seems to make them more meaningful, as if reflection were a rag with polish, making memories glimmer like summer stars in your mind. In the moment, what we may find creepy may actually be laden with meaning or good intention.
However, the drawback of this thought process is over analysis : finding meaning where there is none. For example, he didn’t eat nachos. This doesn’t mean anything. Even if it did, I don’t care because it’s so insignificant. To those completely infatuated, though, every little detail becomes a complex series of meanings, where they begin to formulate pseudo-paradigms and work themselves up to naught.
Perhaps the lesson of life is to, indeed, enjoy the ride, and to enhance the present, sometimes glancing at the rear view mirror can bring a profound sense of satisfaction to a weary mind.
Saturday, 3 December 2011
I'm So Hollow Baby, I'm So Hollow... lol jk, it was a Deadmau5 show
Bodies. So many bodies. Shapes, sizes, textures, height : irrelevant to the sweat and shrieks of ecstasy (be it the drug or emotion) that coated the night of the Deadmau5 concert. What is it about this mass of people that held me paralysed, for a moment? Was it the unity : the profound surrender to digitised beats and the bodily Simon-Says when he raised his arms (or weapon) and we all followed? Or the realisation that, in amongst this mass – you were nothing to everybody, but you were part of the everybody that the godlike mau5head played in front of?
I’m not sure what I was looking for when I entered the gates, but I know amongst the smoke, the tequila and the beating around me : I was left somewhat empty. As a child, I thought this was everything. This is life. Or, ‘the’ life, rather. But somehow, the temporal pleasure I gained seems presently insignificant. The transcendent experience of being a part of a mass chanting lyrics seemed to not have grown me, but rather left me with this hollow crash as I blog about my night at 1:26AM.
As I left the bathroom, there was a girl shouting at a boy about what an asshole he is. Around the food area, there were people half dazed, passed (or passing) out. There was an emptiness that Vwater, Olmeca and God knows what else could not fill. Where there’s people, there’s inevitably drama – and I probably contributed to the percentage of lacklustre hearts with fired bodies that populated the main area. Indeed, a single personal confrontation with whom I previously deemed a beautiful soul left me feeling smaller than the percentage of people that left the night sober.
But, it did help me realise something. How insignificant are these tiny moments of heartbreak, when all we do is really calculated by the raising arms of the DJ, whether his mau5head comes on or off, whether he builds or drops…and whether we choose to go through life drunk or sober, or a tizz in-between. The world is filled with thousands of bodies, all congested into a mass that excretes a single chemical composition of sweat. Nobody is perfect. Nothing will ever be perfect, and I guess all we can do sometimes is wait for the next build.
Or listen to Hannah Montannah.
Lol jk I’d rather die.
I’m not sure what I was looking for when I entered the gates, but I know amongst the smoke, the tequila and the beating around me : I was left somewhat empty. As a child, I thought this was everything. This is life. Or, ‘the’ life, rather. But somehow, the temporal pleasure I gained seems presently insignificant. The transcendent experience of being a part of a mass chanting lyrics seemed to not have grown me, but rather left me with this hollow crash as I blog about my night at 1:26AM.
As I left the bathroom, there was a girl shouting at a boy about what an asshole he is. Around the food area, there were people half dazed, passed (or passing) out. There was an emptiness that Vwater, Olmeca and God knows what else could not fill. Where there’s people, there’s inevitably drama – and I probably contributed to the percentage of lacklustre hearts with fired bodies that populated the main area. Indeed, a single personal confrontation with whom I previously deemed a beautiful soul left me feeling smaller than the percentage of people that left the night sober.
But, it did help me realise something. How insignificant are these tiny moments of heartbreak, when all we do is really calculated by the raising arms of the DJ, whether his mau5head comes on or off, whether he builds or drops…and whether we choose to go through life drunk or sober, or a tizz in-between. The world is filled with thousands of bodies, all congested into a mass that excretes a single chemical composition of sweat. Nobody is perfect. Nothing will ever be perfect, and I guess all we can do sometimes is wait for the next build.
Or listen to Hannah Montannah.
Lol jk I’d rather die.
Saturday, 19 November 2011
Relationship / Reproductive Isolation Barriers In My Life : The Sympatric Speciation of Me.
Speciation refers to the formation of a new species from a pre-existing species. A species, in turn, refers to a group of organisms that look similar and are able to interbreed to produce fertile offspring. I am an extinct species. The only of my kind, and it looks like I shall stay forever alone, because hey, I can’t breed with myself, can I? Sympatric speciation gives rise to speciation by reproductive isolation barriers : producing infertile offspring, behaviour specific courtship rituals, breeding at different times (temporal) and mechanical isolation or physical incompatibility. I blame these barriers (and some personal ones attributed to my incredibly emo (temporary) temperament) for my present situation.
Let’s start with breeding at different times: which is not to be taken literally. Of the people in my life, many are in phases beyond that of my own. The most basic example being the lucky ones that have hit a superior, legal age and can revel in Origin, Cube etc, to be more specific. That’s not to say I’ve not had my fair share of frolic; hardly so. Yet the quintessential plane that separates me from these specimens is the inherent freedom university and age has brought them. So, should I seek to once again fall for some young chap at university, I should be wise to think twice – as I can hardly frequent Origin every second night. They mate whenever, wherever and however they like. I, sadly, am presently limited by my green identity book and my yellow matric time table … of which the latter shall disappear in a week (HELL YES).
Next comes infertile offspring : the formation of useless relationships that bare no fruits of use to my life. Such liaisons tend not to be productive – fair weather friends, parasites that made me write nice page for their matric diary but didn’t bother to make one for me and people that I only speak to when I’m really bored… or temporary friends : the ones that you can’t quite figure out. The ones that you don’t speak to for weeks, but when you do speak it’s like you’re best friends forever – those kind of people. It’s through this troublesome barrier that I’m left questioning the very existence of relationships that will yield love and support… thereby leading to personal isolation.
Thirdly, we have species specific mating rituals. I honestly don’t understand most people. The signs, signals, hints people profess to have dropped tend to fly over my head like the plane that hit the twin towers in 2001. However, I’m completely immune to the language of ‘hint’… except those I seem to fabricate in my mind. For example, the obvious hint : “I think you’re really pretty.” I’m indifferent. The statement : “Hey heyyyy” = OMG THERE ARE SO MANY YS I THINK HE LOVES ME. This misinterpretation of signals, incongruity of communication and lapses of judgement have resulted in much forever alone-ness.
Lastly, mechanical isolation – this in the animal kingdom refers to species being physically unsuited for coitus. Me? I think my personal mechanical isolation could be how I make the wrong choices in people, sometimes; choosing people that I may be totally incompatible with, people my friends think are mingers … or generally not nice people that I try really hard to be friends with but end up disappointing myself.
To wrap up, I’d like to mention how every second thing makes me sad these days. True story.
*insert sad music here*
Let’s start with breeding at different times: which is not to be taken literally. Of the people in my life, many are in phases beyond that of my own. The most basic example being the lucky ones that have hit a superior, legal age and can revel in Origin, Cube etc, to be more specific. That’s not to say I’ve not had my fair share of frolic; hardly so. Yet the quintessential plane that separates me from these specimens is the inherent freedom university and age has brought them. So, should I seek to once again fall for some young chap at university, I should be wise to think twice – as I can hardly frequent Origin every second night. They mate whenever, wherever and however they like. I, sadly, am presently limited by my green identity book and my yellow matric time table … of which the latter shall disappear in a week (HELL YES).
Next comes infertile offspring : the formation of useless relationships that bare no fruits of use to my life. Such liaisons tend not to be productive – fair weather friends, parasites that made me write nice page for their matric diary but didn’t bother to make one for me and people that I only speak to when I’m really bored… or temporary friends : the ones that you can’t quite figure out. The ones that you don’t speak to for weeks, but when you do speak it’s like you’re best friends forever – those kind of people. It’s through this troublesome barrier that I’m left questioning the very existence of relationships that will yield love and support… thereby leading to personal isolation.
Thirdly, we have species specific mating rituals. I honestly don’t understand most people. The signs, signals, hints people profess to have dropped tend to fly over my head like the plane that hit the twin towers in 2001. However, I’m completely immune to the language of ‘hint’… except those I seem to fabricate in my mind. For example, the obvious hint : “I think you’re really pretty.” I’m indifferent. The statement : “Hey heyyyy” = OMG THERE ARE SO MANY YS I THINK HE LOVES ME. This misinterpretation of signals, incongruity of communication and lapses of judgement have resulted in much forever alone-ness.
Lastly, mechanical isolation – this in the animal kingdom refers to species being physically unsuited for coitus. Me? I think my personal mechanical isolation could be how I make the wrong choices in people, sometimes; choosing people that I may be totally incompatible with, people my friends think are mingers … or generally not nice people that I try really hard to be friends with but end up disappointing myself.
To wrap up, I’d like to mention how every second thing makes me sad these days. True story.
*insert sad music here*
Thursday, 3 November 2011
FLUSH IT!! FLUSH IT ALL!!
I’m usually a happy person. I also usually make an effort to be erudite, and create reasonably intelligible sentences. But sometimes life gets so full of shit that you can’t. Which is what I’m going to do now. I’m going to flush the shit down the toilet of life in this blog rant.
My point here, is, how do you exactly pull the chain / lever? When you’re filled with negative emotions, drowning in the sheer tsunami of diarrhoea that’s suddenly hit you from almost every aspect of you life HOW THE HELL DO YOU EXPRESS IT? Or do you bottle it up, keep calm, and eat bread to bind everything in your stomach? I can’t exactly walk up to the people that are annoying me and say “Your mom was full of shit, so when she gave birth to you, you got that for brains. You lucky c*nt.” No… that’s bad karma!
However, it’s highly unhealthy to bottle up ones emotions. They usually need to be expressed in one way or another. The source of such emotions is irrelevant – women have this whole ‘talking’ business all wrong. See, when you’re discussing how annoyed you are, it’s wrong to focus on the cause of your annoyance because you can’t take it back. Neither should you dub the person who annoyed you as an unholy shithead never to be spoken to again and who deserves to also be flushed down the pan of life with a samurai sword as a toilet plunger to make sure they comes back up so you can stab him down again. It’s all about dealing with stuff rationally – multiply by a surd.
This being said, as I’m writing finals currently, I’ve realised the emotional stability I have is equivalent to a bag of rats burning in paraffin. It’s in the negatives. So, I have options to deal with stuff:
1.Keep repeating ‘I don’t care’ – this, I’ve been trying all day. It’s not working.
2.Admit you care about the situation and it’s affecting your mind in strange, vengeful, angry ways. Resolve to calm yourself down and go through the motions…
BUT HOW THE HELL DO I DO THAT!?
Maybe all I need to do, is play some Call of Duty / Guitar Hero, listen to My Chemical Romance and eat cookies. But then I’ll just annoy myself because the songs will ring in my head while I’m studying; and I just ate already so eating more will upset me.
ONE SOLUTION!
*reaches for the Allergex*
I’ma pass the fuck out, k bye.
My point here, is, how do you exactly pull the chain / lever? When you’re filled with negative emotions, drowning in the sheer tsunami of diarrhoea that’s suddenly hit you from almost every aspect of you life HOW THE HELL DO YOU EXPRESS IT? Or do you bottle it up, keep calm, and eat bread to bind everything in your stomach? I can’t exactly walk up to the people that are annoying me and say “Your mom was full of shit, so when she gave birth to you, you got that for brains. You lucky c*nt.” No… that’s bad karma!
However, it’s highly unhealthy to bottle up ones emotions. They usually need to be expressed in one way or another. The source of such emotions is irrelevant – women have this whole ‘talking’ business all wrong. See, when you’re discussing how annoyed you are, it’s wrong to focus on the cause of your annoyance because you can’t take it back. Neither should you dub the person who annoyed you as an unholy shithead never to be spoken to again and who deserves to also be flushed down the pan of life with a samurai sword as a toilet plunger to make sure they comes back up so you can stab him down again. It’s all about dealing with stuff rationally – multiply by a surd.
This being said, as I’m writing finals currently, I’ve realised the emotional stability I have is equivalent to a bag of rats burning in paraffin. It’s in the negatives. So, I have options to deal with stuff:
1.Keep repeating ‘I don’t care’ – this, I’ve been trying all day. It’s not working.
2.Admit you care about the situation and it’s affecting your mind in strange, vengeful, angry ways. Resolve to calm yourself down and go through the motions…
BUT HOW THE HELL DO I DO THAT!?
Maybe all I need to do, is play some Call of Duty / Guitar Hero, listen to My Chemical Romance and eat cookies. But then I’ll just annoy myself because the songs will ring in my head while I’m studying; and I just ate already so eating more will upset me.
ONE SOLUTION!
*reaches for the Allergex*
I’ma pass the fuck out, k bye.
Saturday, 22 October 2011
Something You Already Know About Love Songs
Sometimes, when you’re done with studying for Mathematics paper one and two, you just want to listen to some music and… feel emotion, as opposed to the logic you’ve been forcing on your brain for the past ten hours.
For example, when I was at maths tuition today, I heard this song blaring out of some random gangster (Reservoir Hills gangster, it’s an Indian thing) – it’s called Pee Loon Hoto Ki Sargam. Yes, I do enjoy the odd Hindi song – but it kinda has to be amazing for me to love it. Anyway, I heard a single verse during the extent of the gangster’s revving and speeding past the road. It struck me as quite sweet, so I used that nifty Google button and found it. Wow. It’s beautiful…and I’m currently listening to it for the 20th time while typing this. I almost cried.
And that’s when it struck me. A good love song doesn’t necessarily make you think of one particular person and invoke emotion as a result of that person – a good love song basically makes you feel love by listening to merely the words and rhythms. It catalyses emotional change unto itself, not through the vector of someone’s predetermined crush.
I think that when a song truly speaks to you, when a song invokes true emotion… that’s when some great cosmic relationship is formed between the singer and your tympanic membrane. And the beating of the membrane…is amazing.
For example, when I was at maths tuition today, I heard this song blaring out of some random gangster (Reservoir Hills gangster, it’s an Indian thing) – it’s called Pee Loon Hoto Ki Sargam. Yes, I do enjoy the odd Hindi song – but it kinda has to be amazing for me to love it. Anyway, I heard a single verse during the extent of the gangster’s revving and speeding past the road. It struck me as quite sweet, so I used that nifty Google button and found it. Wow. It’s beautiful…and I’m currently listening to it for the 20th time while typing this. I almost cried.
And that’s when it struck me. A good love song doesn’t necessarily make you think of one particular person and invoke emotion as a result of that person – a good love song basically makes you feel love by listening to merely the words and rhythms. It catalyses emotional change unto itself, not through the vector of someone’s predetermined crush.
I think that when a song truly speaks to you, when a song invokes true emotion… that’s when some great cosmic relationship is formed between the singer and your tympanic membrane. And the beating of the membrane…is amazing.
Wednesday, 21 September 2011
The Pseudo-Spark
The Spark. What is it?
No, he’s not a famous author (hi Nicholas Sparks).
It’s a classic example of two deep relationship issues :
- A lame excuse to leave someone hanging
- An example of a hopeless romantic trying to find something that doesn’t exist.
One is the worst kind, which I don’t want to talk about. Let’s look at the second one.
In life, we’ve indeed been conditioned by the world to believe such a spark exists. It’s in every bloody romance movie… but the truth is, if you’re looking for a brilliant, passionate spark in every relationship you form – you’re going to end up alone. You’re looking for something that doesn’t exist, and in doing so create a barrier between yourself and those that could make you happy : because that’s all the true spark really is. Making someone happy.
As humans struggling through a hostile universe, all we really want is to feel happy. To feel good. Not to be consumed by sparks of insanity. So when you tell someone who makes you laugh, and makes you happy, that there’s no spark between you two –then I think you’re making a mistake.
In a relationship, all you ultimately offer to another person is a warm heart. It’s not about your body (well, maybe that’s why there’s no ‘spark’) or your attitudes and values. It’s about giving a fraction of your identity to a fraction of theirs and together amalgamating. To create what? A simple form of unified happiness.
Something's Wrong With This Graph
Life, can be compared to a very annoying function; forever repeating with increasing and decreasing values and turning points. Between turning points, there are usually expositions and dénouements, right? Just like a well-made play’s structure. Yet this isn’t always the case – because life thinks itself a nonconformist teenager, and is often inclined to throw you ‘curve’ balls.
How is it that life can juxtapose highs and lows within literal minutes? Is it nothing but a test of character, to view whether our inner peace can easily be reduced to rubble should the winds of change blow too quickly. Or maybe it’s like that old wives tale – where if you make a funny face and the wind changes…it’ll stay like that. So why is my face not funny? Don’t answer that.
Essentially, I had an amazing night. Truly. It made my heart beat like an 808 – cheesy imagery for cheesy emotions. And I didn’t even pay extra for the extra topping; the cheesy simply came naturally. Obviously, it was about a young man. And, obviously, the low was as a result of this entire issue being suddenly reduced to meaning nothing. Let’s not go into details. However, it’s very amusing to think back – as I stood next to his friend and watched him get into the car, his friend turned to me and said, “Don’t give up.”
“Why?” I asked.
“…because nobody’s ever gotten anywhere by giving up,” he simply replied.
As to whether this advice is still relevant to my love life I cannot say. However, within minutes after receiving a text from my wonderwall saying that there’s no “spark” (which I will write about soon) I received a phone call from a wealthy investment company saying I’ve been considered a finalist for a bursary they’re offering. Wow. I’m going for final interviews blah blah blah soon.
There’s something wrong with this graph.
Maybe there’s no spark, or whoever’s drawing it isn’t very ‘bright’.
So, when I woke up at 4AM after processing these key moments in my life, I’m still not sure how to react. But than again – who needs to react to anything, anyway? Screw the system. I won’t cry or be happy about stuff.
How is it that life can juxtapose highs and lows within literal minutes? Is it nothing but a test of character, to view whether our inner peace can easily be reduced to rubble should the winds of change blow too quickly. Or maybe it’s like that old wives tale – where if you make a funny face and the wind changes…it’ll stay like that. So why is my face not funny? Don’t answer that.
Essentially, I had an amazing night. Truly. It made my heart beat like an 808 – cheesy imagery for cheesy emotions. And I didn’t even pay extra for the extra topping; the cheesy simply came naturally. Obviously, it was about a young man. And, obviously, the low was as a result of this entire issue being suddenly reduced to meaning nothing. Let’s not go into details. However, it’s very amusing to think back – as I stood next to his friend and watched him get into the car, his friend turned to me and said, “Don’t give up.”
“Why?” I asked.
“…because nobody’s ever gotten anywhere by giving up,” he simply replied.
As to whether this advice is still relevant to my love life I cannot say. However, within minutes after receiving a text from my wonderwall saying that there’s no “spark” (which I will write about soon) I received a phone call from a wealthy investment company saying I’ve been considered a finalist for a bursary they’re offering. Wow. I’m going for final interviews blah blah blah soon.
There’s something wrong with this graph.
Maybe there’s no spark, or whoever’s drawing it isn’t very ‘bright’.
So, when I woke up at 4AM after processing these key moments in my life, I’m still not sure how to react. But than again – who needs to react to anything, anyway? Screw the system. I won’t cry or be happy about stuff.
Monday, 19 September 2011
Lined Memories
As I fill in these skinny lined pages, I wonder : what’s the point of all the prettification? What’s the point of leaving behind our marks and our goodbyes when the person may never look back at our little farewell message again?
More specifically, I began to think of the temporary nature of human relationships. How fragile we are in our friendships…and our very existence, for that matter. It’s quite something, putting your diary out there and asking someone to write in it. It’s like saying : “Here, if I ever choose to look back at my final year in school, I’d like to see your token of superficiality.” You’re putting yourself out there. As I stick in a picture of the guy I took to my matric dance, the thought of whether or not to ask him to write within the pages of my textual time capsule occurred to me.
How do I phrase it? Indeed, I would love to have a memory of him – as I’m one of the few nostalgic souls who can spend hours lamenting on the past- yet I don’t want to pressure him into writing something he doesn’t mean, as we aren’t the closest of friends. Yet somehow, by virtue of the fact that I’ve spent the apparently most important night of the year with him, I’ve forged this inexplicable bond in my head that only the dizziness of female emotion would induce. Therefore, I have come up with the following question – being the smooth operator that I am :
“Hey, so …I’d like you to sign my diary – you can write something in it if you want, but just signing it is okay.”
The setting of pen to paper would help verify the reality of time passed. Was March really that long ago? Are these memories really … just memories? It’s funny how the fleeting moment becomes transposed into simply a memory : as the time you’ve spent reading this will become nothing but a memory of time spent trawling a chick’s blog.
Matric dance partners aside, what of the people in your life beyond school that mean something to you? The friends you’ve made along the way. Would they be perturbed by the fact that you’re asking them to enter a piece of themselves into your memory book? Or flattered? Or – maybe worse than the both of these – completely indifferent.
Relationships are so confusing. Putting them onto paper seems to clarify them, to me, but it’s asking the person to write that’s most unnerving.
Thursday, 8 September 2011
The WonderWall Theorem
Sitting here, at 5:31PM the day before le Life Sciences paper two, listening to You’re The One That I Want off the Grease OST. Yes, there is a valid reason to this maddening infatuation, as I shall go on to explain.
Somehow, in my history for the past few years, I’ve discovered a pattern in my love life that can be summed up in two words : wrong timing. I tend to fall for someone at critical moments in my life, especially evident at this point…and I know exactly why. I call this the WonderWall Theorem.
We tend to fall for people, because that love makes us feel good about life. It’s a balm, a salve, a tender band aid to the cruelty of life and its scathing ways. It’s a way to deal with the injustices of society, you and your little happy, heart shaped fantasies. The person I fall for becomes my WonderWall. He don’t save me, though, I save myself getting lost in thoughts of him instead of the reality I have to face.
And that, my friend, is the way of the escapist.
Above all, the most fabulous thing about this is he probably doesn’t read my blog. Which is for the best, he might get scared. Win/Win situation.
Wednesday, 7 September 2011
Keats, Godot & Feeling Lonely : But hey, we’re all dying anyway.
According to Sartre, in life, man lives by a code of morals and ethics. These morals are determined by none other than man himself – since science and pure fact have no emotional connotations whatsoever. Thus, man is governed by his own rules and his own sense of conduct – not by any law. So if an action is considered immoral, it’s through your own interpretation : not anything else. This entire concept blew my mind.
It is upon this free flowing principle of thought –that man is entirely his own device, that Absurdism came in. Here’s something to think about : “We are born astride of a grave” (Waiting for Godot). Essentially, we are born to die. Anything we do in between – form relationships, study, worry, work – will go in vain in this life. Yet, regardless of this impending death, we go about our lives in our own way. We perform our absurd duties in our absurd world with the full knowledge that it’ll all just end one day! Why? Why do we continue to push, pull, worry and strain our hearts and souls to no avail? Is it because we fear an Ultimate Judgement? We fear The “Great Judge President” of Paton’s A Small Boy Who Died In Diepkloof Reformatory? Or is it something more?
Man is placed between the horizontal axis of earth and the vertical axis of religion and morals. Wherever you place yourself is ultimately your own co-ordinate decision : yet what good does it serve? I understand, were it not for this metaphorical Y-Axis we’d all descend into madness…but, would we be happier?
I recently read a poem by Keats, “When I Have Fears” – and it is precisely these fears that have assimilated into my life over the past few years. It’s this impending force of death, lurking around any corner, that pushes me often into a catatonic state of… sadness, for lack of a better word. I, like many people, often fear that I shan’t have the chance to be wholly and truly loved in return for the extent of emotion I feel for someone else. It’s comparatively easier to give love freely…. but when you reach a point where you feel as if you’re casting stones into an ocean that will never lap at your feet, the effort to pick up each pebble would leave you numb (as Keats stands alone, so do I, at times).
Perhaps this is the cause for our human frenzy in life. We rush about before the light that gleams an instant (more Godot) ceases to burn. Paradoxically, we may rush relationships to get them to where we want them to be, instead of enjoying the journey. And maybe that’s why so many teenage relationships fail; you’re too excited when you find someone you like, and want to love, that you end up messing it all up because you can’t wait to shower rainbows and fluff onto them.
But hey, we’re all dying anyway.
And yes, like Keats, I too experienced the joy of a Fair Creature for a moment.
Wednesday, 24 August 2011
11:06PM Life Fuzz
It’s 11:06 PM.
I’m in my final year of high school, with trials exactly 5 days away. Well, 4 days and an hour…and I’m here, listening to slow love songs with green tea like a Hipster. And I’m okay with that.
Throughout my life, I’ve heard that people should condition themselves for greatness. We need to ‘be all that we can be’, we need to push a little further, we need to extend ourselves to these amazing heights and achieve. We basically need to save the world. And anyone who doesn’t – or cannot – is a selfish mother…yeah.
Why?
I think, in these moments of comfortable guitar strums and poetic words, I’m okay with not being the one geared for amazing success. In the movie “Fame”, it is said : “Everyone has potential…but not everyone recognizes it.” And we should look down upon those that don’t. In a world where we’re looking over our shoulders and at the person next to us, it’s difficult to follow your own path.
But if your path is the one of warm nights with personal soul and pretty words…what can the world do? If your light shines through your contentment, I’m sure the happy vibes of the world shall all come to ‘light’ :)
Maybe I’ll regret this time I’ve wasted. Maybe I won’t. I’m dealing with the fact that I don’t think I’m prepared to sacrifice hours like these to draft in depth systems and megatronical devices to harvest light energy for the greater good of humanity. Instead … I’ll make up words like megatronical and contribute to the general fuzz of poorly blogged blogs that pepper the internet.
Monday, 11 July 2011
If You Have a Best Friend, Don't Say It : On Giving People Titles
People are all around us. Relationships, friendship, kinship…whatever you call it, we associate ourselves with others. But, in doing so, we tend to want to define relationships. You are person A : you are my friend. You are person B : you are an acquaintance. In giving relationships these definitions…we must be careful not to give people titles they do not wish to have.
Friendships are tricky, especially new ones. Especially with females. When I make a new friend of the same sex, I get a bit excited and don’t quite know whether to stop speaking to continue talking, whether I’m being a bit of a rash or whatnot. It’s almost like having a new boyfriend, to think of it. New people excite us, they make us want to talk more, reveal more and interact. But beware of naming such relationships too soon. Getting close very quickly and springing the “OMG you’re like my best friend!” could become intensely awkward if the person sees you as nothing more than just a friend.
Then here comes the crux of the matter : the expectations associated with the title. It’s usually this that people can’t deal with, not just the title itself, for that is just a word. Let’s sustain the example of “you’re my best friend.” People may not want to bear that weight – to be the ‘best friend’ implies you’re willing to help them out when things are tough, listen to their endless moans about life, take their 6AM phonecalls etc. If someone isn’t willing to deal with the baggage associated with a title then… they get freaked out and may change the way they interact with you.
And that’s where the trouble begins on your part. You begin to see another side to your new friend. You become disappointed with the way they react to you because they’re suddenly drifting from the predetermined mould of what you’d regard as a best friend. Your fault, really. You shouldn’t have had expectations in the first place.
This is the end of my sad drone. So don’t be quick to call people something, or categorize them in your life. Let relationships with people be whatever they will be, homie. Now, what expectations does homie carry? Nothing, really. It’s just a stupid slang word we use with connotations of friendship. Keep it neutral. Use the ‘homie’ word.
Sunday, 19 June 2011
Getting IN to being Emotionally INdependent
We’ve all been guilty of this, at some point.
To the day, whenever I experience any issue or problem or am confronted with that terrible thing called emotion – I run crying and screaming to somebody. This, I realized, has to stop. When someone asks me how I am, “Oh yeah, it’s chilled” – next second “BUT OMG I HAVE A PROBLEM…” and blah blah blah I rattle on. What’s wrong with us? It’s not a matter of lacking logic, I feel perhaps it’s an inability to apply such logic when the field involved is yourself.
This has to stop.
I’m growing up, and as time passes, I’m not going to have an array of people there to tolerate the crap that spurts out of my mouth. I’m preparing for my crazy cat lady future, where I’ll have 0 contacts on whatsApp because hey, everyone I know is either dead or changed their phone number to avoid my incessant blathering of personal issues.
In my life, I have 3 more or less longstanding pillar, to which I usually turn to for ‘advice’. Firstly, there’s a person I attended high school with, and have known since grade 8, who is presently ahead of me in university years. She’s always been around to listen and give me the best advice anyone can give ‘ it’s up to you’. Whilst there’s never any tangible plan of action, she tackles issues in a level headed manner, allowing me to give vent to my emotions and in doing so feel significantly better. Then she prompts soul-searching where I should do what I need to do : it’s my life, I should be making my own choices. In other words : grow the hell up, sunshine. I love her.
Next is my elder cousin, that I tell EVERYTHING to. He’s understanding and utterly hilarious. I’ll ask him if I should call a guy, or sms a guy and he’ll say something completely random and opposite to it. He helps me by essentially swearing people that hurt me and making me laugh like a psychotic lunatic. But, he also understands me thoroughly and has always been there…I mean, ALWAYS. Yet, he has his own life. Who am I to intrude and constantly shove my issues onto him? Well, I do it anyway – but it needs to stop at some point. At some point, I need to sort myself the hell out.
Lastly, I have an awesome guy friend who gives the best advice I’ve ever heard and is a neat amalgamation of the two other pillars. Yet he isn’t always mentally available, which is understandable. Sometimes he’ll be all STFU FO and I understand it. Because he has his own life, he’s human, and he helps me realize HEYYY WOMAN, THERE ARE PEOPLE OUT THERE THAT HAVE LIVES AND DON’T WANNA BE LISTENING TO YO MOANING FOOL.
Which helps me realize, that I need to stop.
But it’s hard, living in a world where man experiences the testimony to Sartre’s ideology of man living in a hostile universe, where nothing really makes sense. We’re ultimately responsible for our own choices in life – therefore we can’t blame anyone when things go wrong. Yet, in living in this universe, do we not have a need to seek out help? To communicate with people, to laugh, to discuss problems and try to figure out our future? No man is an island – but, I think at the end of the day, we do need to keep some water between our islands at a reasonable level. Just to keep things level, and so we can appreciate how awesome people are when they voluntarily approach us to communicate.
Friday, 17 June 2011
System.out.println("Epic life advice");
Some very wise programmer told me this:
"The past cannot change, the present is currently a set of unassigned variables that only YOU can give values, and the future depends on them.
Now you can make a call to the garbagecollector() method, give up and Application.Quit...or you can continue the while loop until success = true; "
......and what makes you so special is you'll understand that where a lot of people would look at me funny and walk away.
Stuff to Do To Pass Your NBT - Learning from Shreeya's Mistakes
The things I wish I knew before I wrote the National Benchmark Test…
Righto, lots of pressure, right? You want to get accepted into UCT / WITS / TUKS etc and are forced to write the Benchmark test in the hopes of getting a badass score and getting offered early acceptance. When I wrote mine in April, I was quite clueless. But I’ve complied some information to help you study for this test: yes, you have to study. Start now. There’s nothing in here that you don’t know already (or you should already know) but it’ll help if the information is reiterated. Start well in advance with your revision, it’ll help you.
Let’s establish the basics:
What nobody told me about the Academic Quantitative Literacy test was that it’s timed. That freaked me out. What happens is, your entire 3 hour test is broken down into a few questions, alternating quantitative literacy with English academic literacy. Once the time is up, you’re not permitted to turn back. So pace yourself well. NO CALCULATORS ALLOWED.
- Mathematics
This test is for the people applying to degrees that require mathematics as part of the degree course. It’s 3 hours, and is a free for all compared to the AQL. You work at your own pace for the 3 hours and can leave after about 2 hours, if you’re done early (geeks). NO CALCULATORS ALLOWED.
WHAT TO AIM FOR:
Academic Literacy:
Select and use a complex range of vocabulary; understand and interpret non-literal language; understand and critically evaluate the structure and organisation of texts and ideas within these texts; evaluate and use a complex range of different text genres; develop academic arguments; evaluate and interpret the evidence for claims.
Quantitative Literacy:
Select and use a range of quantitative terms and phrases; apply quantitative procedures in various situations; formulate and apply complex formulae; read and interpret complex tables, graphs, charts and text and integrate information from different sources; do advanced calculations involving multiple steps accurately; identify trends/ patterns in various situations; reason logically & competently interpret quantitative information.
Mathematics:
Demonstrate insight, and integrate knowledge and skills to solve non-routine problems and make competent use of logical skills (conjecture, deduction). Tasks typically require competence in multi-step procedures, represented in the framework outlined below:
Modelling, financial contexts, multiple representations of functions (including trigonometric), differential calculus, trigonometric and geometric problems (2D and 3D), measurement, representation and interpretation of statistical data,
So…how do we get there?
To achieve a proficient level (which we’re all aiming for) it’s a good idea to check out the NBT site’s specifications. Pretty demanding, eh?
Here’s some stuff I wish I did before the paper:
Academic Literacy :
- Try and get your English teacher to give you editing skill exercises, which are as close as you’re going to find to the syllabus manifest in the AQL test. Focus on questions where they ask you to provide synonyms / replace parts of the sentence to change it’s meaning
- They’re basically looking to test your understanding of text : they can provide you with an arbitrary sentence and ask you a comprehension question on it. Try reading through newspaper articles and pick out random words like ‘they’, ‘this’, ‘a study of’ and try to match what exactly these words pertain to in the greater context of the article.
- Grab a mathematical literacy paper and turn to the statistics section. Or look at some grade 9/8 papers involving long division and multiplication to brush up on your basic maths skills. It may seem demeaning, but lots of us forget our basics.
- You’re not going to have access to a calculator, so devise quick methods for manipulating decimals, percentages, fractions by all the BODMAS rules.
- Practise working with pie chart percentage values to two decimal places. Try and calculate the whole number each percentage represents in the chart out of the total amount of given data.
- There’s special conceptualization, too : how would this figure look from angle x,y,z
- Rewriting equations in different forms as per a word problem : if Person A earns x amount and x is 20% more than person B’s salary write Person B’s salary in terms of x blah blah
You can get a maths lit paper here : http://www.education.gov.za/LinkClick.aspx?fileticket=2t55qj7lVmk%3D&tabid=528&mid=1484
Or get others by googling the exam paper name followed by dbe.
In that paper, questions to take note of are:
1.2
3.2
Question 4
Question 5
But practise the entire paper for your own benefit.
Mathematics:
- Memorise your special angles
- You’re given a formula sheet, though, so don’t stress about that
- Don’t neglect your trigonometry and graphs – how the graph would look as an inverse, if reflected about whichever line etc
Sunday, 5 June 2011
Hiding Our True Dreams In a Cupboard Under the Stairs
There comes a time in ones life, where the question of the future must be answered - sometimes it’s in matric or it could start as early as grade 11. Everywhere we go, people inquire: what’re you going to study? What would you like to become when you grow up? Become. Are we not something at this moment in our lives? Do we need to moult our youthful skins or undergo a metamorphosis of sorts to ‘become’ something else?
Change in a person is inevitable, yes. But that’s not the topic of this post. What I’m questioning is: how honest have you been when answering the question of your future? When other people ask you – do you answer with your heart or your pre-programmed response? Or do you brush it off altogether with a sullen “Idunno”.
I think this is a response to the predetermined nature of humanity : judgemental. We are so afraid of failure, so afraid of being shunned that we give answers to cover up our true desires. Not all of us do this, but I know I’m a blatant victim of this sociological syndrome : hiding my dreams in a little cupboard under the stairs and hoping the Hagrid of reality doesn’t whisk it off to the open world. But, than again, my dreams are so far fetched that they probably DO belong in Hogwarts.
In the community from which I hail, some young ones are indoctrinated into assuming the role of ‘future doctor / accountant / engineer’. Is it fair to cloud a child’s reality with a preset future to ensure their monetary success? I’m not sure. I wish my mother did that. But she gave me these wings. And oh, how I long to fly and be free. But the mere thought of failure, the indomitable fear of failure makes me tremble.
So, when asked of my career options, I’ll dogmatically spout something socially acceptable, but nonetheless a solid career choice, “Comp Sci. Maybe law. Still deciding.”
Oh yes, I’ve decided a long time ago. But, Heaven forbid we admit the goals of our heart, lest they crumble. Why are we so ashamed of ourselves?
Moreover, why do we laugh when people fail? Perhaps that’s the real crux of the matter; not my childlike insecurities. We live in a society conditioned to giggle at gruelling failure. To make ourselves feel better.
Let’s all chill the hell out and do what we love. And if it doesn’t work out, do someone* you love. That is all.
Saturday, 28 May 2011
How to Judge a Guy : A Geeky Rhyme that's not really that Fine
If he’s got a BB
You know where to be;
If he’s got an iPhone
You know you’re in the zone.
If it’s a Nokia,
Chances are he’ll knock ya.
Any Motorola?
Start rola-ing away.
If he’s pulling up with a BMW
There’s going to be fun for you.
But that old GTI?
Girl, say bye bye.
If he’s rolling in a Merc,
Absorb his sexy smirk.
But if he’s got leather seats,
There won’t be any tasty treats.
Going by personality,
If he’s got a lack of mentality
Then, no sentimentality –
Try : finality.
He uses a Mac?
Then girl, you’ve got his back.
Chilling on Windows 2000?
He certainly won’t get 1931 less than his OS.
(if you get that joke, call me).
The richer the better,
In java, use a getter –
But don’t return his value as null;
Parse your parameters.
Jamming is the way,
Peanut butter is here to stay.
Bread or no bread:
Get this in your head.
Women are easily said than read.
Monday, 23 May 2011
Pick the Responsibility Box, Not Your Sores of Lameness
This is a short note to me to learn to grow the hell up. I think that the greatest challenge in life is learning to take responsibility for your own shi…- actions.
We do things. We’re alive, as per the MRS GREN thing for all living organisms – movement, respiration…all that leads to people that are capable of doing some pretty screwed up shi-…stuff. When this ‘stuff’ hits the fan – or hits you, you’re not always going to have someone to bail you out. You’re not always going to find some magic glittering fairy to wave her badass wand and provide solutions.
Oh and let’s not get started on the solutions to solving your problems, because they tend to cause more problems and create a snowball bigger than the pig in Animal Farm.
So maybe the wise thing would be to think about your actions before you undertake them. But than again – we’re young and psychopathic. Thinking is what you do sometimes when you’re in an exam, not when you’re out there…doing stuff.
Sunday, 24 April 2011
The Boulder of Unmet Expectations
We’ve all felt it before. Where you elaborately predetermined the outcome of situation A, B, and C and chose the best possible plan of action … only to have a spanner thrown in the works. Sometimes, it isn’t even a spanner – because spanners can be pretty useful at times, it’s usually a HUGE BOULDER SET TO CRUSH YOUR SOUL AND HOPES. It feels like disappointment, but on a higher level. Like someone literally hit you with that boulder.
That’s the thing about humankind. Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot raises the point of mankind’s permanent hope for a better tomorrow by presenting audiences with a bare tree that miraculously grows leaves in the span of a single act. In order to attain that better tomorrow, we tend to plot and scheme our way – we envision ourselves enacting out ideal scenarios. Whether these scenarios entail you dancing in an open field with your beloved, clad in brightly coloured sari / kurtha, Bollywood style but ending up being told you smell like cabbage and being broken up with … or your ideal scenario is hooking yourself up with some delicious oily takeout only to find your mother was suddenly inspired to cook a four course meal: such is life.
It really is our own faults. Why do we set ourselves up with fantastic expectations? Too high standards? Are we blindly optimistic? Or just hoping for a better future? Moral of the story is, we all need to get off our fat, fantasizing bottoms and become twisted cynical folk. So we can be pleasantly surprised when things really do go our way.
Or we can revel in our sadnosity and disappointment at not having things work out, whilst indulging in copious amounts of food by comfort eating…
Either way, happy Easter.
Thursday, 21 April 2011
The Female Elephant and Her Ladders
(Approach this with the mindset of a first world country, with financial aid readily available, not a rural poverty-struck dustbowl)
Rhodes, UCT, Comp Sci – NO, MEDICINE! UKZN, ID Numbers, Faculties… it’s around this point in time that lots of matrics begin thinking about what they’re going to do with the rest of their natural life. University? Technikon? Point Road….err Mahatma Ghandi Road?
What I’m about to put forward isn’t necessarily my personal life plan, but it’s something I realized we need to think about as a society. Let’s cast our mind’s back to the bra burning feminists of the roaring 60s : demanding women be valued for their entire persona and not just their physical beauty. This tangent isn’t about beauty though (listen to that Christina Aguileira song if you wanted that kinda stuff) – this is about the place of women in society.
Over the past, there have been countless demonstrations regarding women and education. Equality and all that jazz. Fast forward to the present and we’re left with a society acceptant of highly educated women. There are even female presidents (but, than again, we don’t need to run a country to let men know we RULE hahahaha). In 2009, women made up almost 50% of the American workforce. That’s pretty sweet right? But let’s probe a little deeper.
Look, from the society I come from (middle class Durbanite) – education is a prerequisite for life. You get educated, you go places. You have a dream job (whether it’s your own dream or your parents’ fantasies of having a Phd kid). We’re from a society where a woman is EXPECTED to be fully educated within the capacity of her family and be out on the field, doubling as a wife should she get married.
That’s what I’ve been thinking about.
Amidst this rush for work and high profile jobs for women, we’ve created a stigma around women who chose not to climb the corporate ladder, but chose to climb ladders to reach the sugar on the top shelf at home. We’ve begun to shun house wives within society, raising an eyebrow should we hear a lady would rather be a mother first than a corporate vixen. And that is the offensive truth.
I read an article recently about women and their hormonal clock – power suit clad canaries flying high in their fields, yet wanting to have babies after they’ve reached their peak…which tends to be after the childbearing age. What’s wrong with not wanting to pursue a job? What’s the inherent crime in wanting to rear the offspring, should there be a stable income source within the family?
In society, we are too quick to judge. As women, we’re taking on the 
role of nurturer and matriarch. We want to lead the herd and rear the calf. Elephants, however, don’t have a judgemental society. They’re quite chill, flapping their huge ears. Until a lion attacks. Then they’re all *finger snapping…. / tusk snapping* hell to the no!!! Trampling the dust out of the carnivore to SAVE THE BABIES.
Moral of the story, career women or not, we should accept that women should be able to have a choice between having a job and a family, or just a family. The woman that chooses to make her family her job is no less an awesome elephant than the woman that chooses to work. We shouldn’t expect a woman to get a job.
Than again, who said men can’t stay at home, instead? Hmmm.
The Charm of Textually Based Eloquence
The Charm of Textually Based Eloquence
(Note: writing some blurbish garbage on English doesn't necessarily mean I'm a smart ass and know everything about the language. Silly errors are bound to appear, so don't nitpick and judge, yo).
[Note Note note : since Blogger has gone all psycho, I'm using some nifty e-mail to blog system thing. Just thought I'd share that awesome info with you, in case the whole thing attaches some dodgey spam about Russian brides for you to buy online at the end of my post. Word]
Language is dead. Or, rather, it's lying on the floor, making 'awkward turtle' hands at the world as we are bombarded with " HI HW U" and " K N U". How did we get to this stage? How did conversation … 'evolve' from:
"Good afternoon Sir Fabulouslyeloquent, how are you?"
"Why good afternoon my fair/ average complexion lady! I am well and yourself?"
To:
Bob: Hey.
Mary: Hi.
Bob : how u
Mary: ok and u
Upon many occasions, it has been said that nobody really has control of language – there is no "Language Police" (credit due to Mr.David there, a fine English educator) that patrols the tongues of unsuspecting civilians, eager to beat them to a pulp should they let slip a slang or a lazy pronunciation. In terms of natural selection, the organisms most adapted to living within the environment will outlive those that cannot. So, does this mean that our language is catering for a lazy environment?
We're living in a world proficient in it's technological advancements, yet as time wears on and predictive text pulls in, we find ourselves negligent of spelling and grammar. When I type on my Blackberry, I (at times) make a conscientious effort to count the number of spelling errors I make to try and better myself, instead of typing gibberish and hoping the dictionary would enlighten me with the supercalafragilisticexpialadocious word I would like to use. But not all of us do that. People that send messages containing wrongly spelt words that own a phone with built in dictionary have some long, hard thinking to do about their lives and the way they spell it.
However, in a world where two sentence questions and one word replies fly back and forth over cybernetic high ways (low ways in terms of conversation, haha – your dose of dryness) … it's somewhat special to find a person that types out words in full. A person who presents themselves eloquently over text based communication. It's fantastic. What's even better, apart from minding their p's and q's, is the thought that they're making an effort. I guess that's all we really want in life: to see people are making an effort to talk to us, impress us, engage us. It's stimulating.
However, I know there are people in this wordy world who type like pros but cant converse to save a life. If you're intending to be skilled at one medium, at least attempt to balance it out on the other half. It's useless being a written Jedi when you can't wield the lightsabre, you know?
Therefore, I'll be proud to admit that I would undoubtedly be more inclined to speak to the weirdo that says "Hey, how're you doing tonight?" than someone insanely hot who says "Hey. Sup?" Having an excellent command of language isn't a definite prerequisite for a good friendship, but it sure as hell makes you slightly more attractive…however, if you rock up with a message reading "Good evening, fairest maiden, I love you. In manus tuas commendo spiritum meum".
The latin, you see. Kills it. Whattt.
Oh, by the way, what is the purpose of having entire conversations based on the sending and receiving of SMILEYS / EMOTICONS!? Grow up and learn to speak.
That will be all, now I'm off to pwn n00bz @ COD ;).Monday, 18 April 2011
The Arrogance Effect – like the Axe effect, but better.
Confidence, they say, always grabs the eye. You could be dressed in dreary rags, yet with the right attitude, could be seen as the hobo equivalent to Giselle Bundchen. But what do you get when an individual has a surplus of such attitude? A confidence overload. Yes, you got it : arrogance.
Let’s take two scenarios, referring to each gender.
Scenario 1:
A man spies a woman across a crowded hall. The woman looks at him for a brief moment, then turns her nose up and looks away. He thinks “Arrogant Cow.”
Scenario 2:
A woman sees a tall, okayish looking man at a crowded venue. She’s trying her luck, looks at him and smiles. The man avoids eye contact entirely, and looks away. Her intuition (skillz, yo) tells her the man knows precisely her intentions, but he’s obviously too important or amazing to go near her. She thinks “Must…have…hot…man….” Instant attraction, better than that of any deodorant.
Perhaps the stronger of the fairer sex (women, in case you were wondering) would be able to resist the arrogance effect, and unto them I say “WELL DONE. DON’T YOU DARE FALL FOR THE NEXT SWAGGERIFIC BROTHER WHO THINKS HE’S GOT THE MOVES”. To the rest of us (mostly myself) it’s quite an issue.
I had recently fallen prey to such an effect when I ventured into conversation with a fairly normal looking young man of about 20. His features were plain, yet it was his attitude that transformed his physical limitations into that of a glowing demi-god. His flattish nose became equivalent to the beauty of the Sphinx’s missing facial feature (really hot, since it’s in Egypt
“Must….have…hot…man.”
Now, I’m not a genius, but I am a bit bookish and quite capable of civil conversation, yet this young man seemed to find endless opportunities to ‘chirp’ me. Although I was hardly roasted in the conversation (heat proof fringe), it was the emotional distance that was maintained that became thoroughly exciting. My irreverent yet witty jokes were met with an eyebrow raise where they usually ignited polite laughter. It was intriguing how real he was – how unafraid he was to imply, “Stop, your jokes are terrible”. All this was possible because he was very much assured that I would still be attracted to him; regardless of any verbal exchanging of blows (that’s what she said, although nothing came to be of it. Sad face) …. And he was very much correct.
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| Men and Women : Prehistoric Stage |
I’m well aware that such an archaic urge usually belongs to the not-as-fair sex (men, duh). Yet inevitably, as per Jungian Psychology, we all contain common archetypes within our subconscious psyche. Therefore, as a woman, I probably acknowledged his level of testosterone to be breaking the barriers of common humanity, essentially conveying the prehistoric message of: Man tough. Man provide for woman. Make babies. Ug ug. Grunt. Protect woman and babies. Ug ug.
Although in reality his urbane, perfectly clipped nails and pristine hairstyle wouldn’t stand a chance in a battle to protect our cave from a T-Rex, he’s undoubtedly the modern equivalent of the macho caveman. His Mercedes would parallel the rock throwing skills of the man of the stone era, his highly skilled university degree (Bsc/Bcomm/BComp Sci/ BEng … basically anything but a BA ) would serve as his spear to defend us from the saber tooth tiger of poverty and his parent’s palatial house coupled with his private apartment would represent our cave (that’s what she said).
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| Men and Women : Present Stage. Ooh, sexy and too cool for me. |
Oh, did I mention such arrogance only ever really becomes that much more attractive when he smells like money…err I mean D&G Blue. Perhaps the whole reason some women turn to gold digging is because their subconscious need to be provided for is uprooted by the man, who instead of bringing home freshly killed pterodactyl, brings home 6 digit paychecks.
Sunday, 17 April 2011
The Unnatural Equating of a Matric Dance Date to Spouse
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| Above: Matric Dance Night(mare). |
The lights. The glamour. Your teachers in a row to greet you, with standards higher than the marks you score with them. Hair perfect, lustrous and stylish; nails immaculately preened, an alluring figure, an outfit to kill…and on your arm… A HIDEOUS TROLL OF A PARTNER.
Above scene : not too cool.
Most (normal) students equate their matric dance night to be the culmination of twelve years grinding (in whichever way you interpret that) under the regime of a principal and an armada of teachers armed with chalk … or whiteboard markers if you consider yourself ‘too cool for a government school’. The dance is supposed to be the best night of your life. Your life. Singular. Yet a date is made compulsory, preferably a member of the opposite sex. That’s where the trouble comes in. If you took your boyfriend or girlfriend to your dance, bugger off – this article isn’t for you.
When it comes to matric dance partner selections, there is a set criteria of qualities that prospective dates must meet. In my mind, the following was a must:
Taller than me
Not to be fatter than a whale…generally a lean build would’ve been nice
Personality!!!!!
Taller than me in heels
Nice face
Taller than me
DTF. Not literally, but have a bit of that rawr quality .
Super duper tall
Was that an impossible-to-be-met-knight-in-shining-armour list? Not really. Yet a few months prior to the dance, most of us girls began to panic. A frenzied, animalistic kind of panic – like a woman from a period romance impregnated by their Barbados
This is written from a female perspective, so bear with me.
First comes the dress – what style? Colour? How much weight do I lose to fit into a fishtail? Or should I use a buffon underneath? Such a fuss equivalent to that of young brides is created as varying designs accost parents’ pockets. Quite naturally, they’ll find the most affordable style favourable, at which point the precocious female’s taste swings to the precise opposite of the design spectrum. If dad hates it, I LOVE IT.
As for the groom, or matric dance partner, there's the question of matching. A tie? A cravat? What waistcoat ? Who will pay for the threads that link us as a couple as we walk down the aisle…errr enter the hall? Although there’s less stress in the male sheathing department, the significance of matching is still very much prominent : the significance of appearing as a couple. A unit. Husband/wife. Partner/date. Suspicious? Very much so.
Next come the corsage. Never take it for granted that your partner will get you one, especially if you’re in an all girls’ school such as myself. Such a floral arrangement can be equated to a wedding bouquet , although traditionally the bride will ensure she has one, not the groom. However, the floral symbolism is still significantly evident. This can be compensated for with a delicious box of Lindt, which I received from my tasteful partner. Seriously, though, to me : eating pleasure > looking at an arb bunch of flowers on my hand.
Lastly, are the photographs. Today I showed the shots of me and my partner to my aunt and uncle. My uncle started asking questions about my date’s father, their family name, religion etc and ultimately concluded that he ‘liked’ that boy. What exactly he liked the boy for, I am still unaware of. Then, it hit me. My date was Gujrathi. My cousin, their son, married a Gujrathi girl. You get it.
What further ads to this hullaballoo are the dress makers, who snidely remark to our parents, “Oh the next time you’ll be making a fuss like this is at her wedding day.” Then it strikes us: our partners become something of a one-night husband. A groom for our vanity. A human-skinned clutch bag… The chaste may not necessarily agree with my next point, but generally you’d want to take someone along that you’re attracted to – should any ‘clutching’ occur. A hot boy :)
If we review the list and discussion, we find a succinct parallel created between matric dance partners and potential husbands and wives. Matching morals and values usually correlate in terms of sustaining conversations and relating to each other as human beings / frisky teenagers.
Thus, unless you can tolerate a meaningless arm-accessory, there needs to be an element of depth in the chosen one. They should be as special as NEO leading you into the MATRIX of your matric dance (haha, see what I did there?). Generally, in our hormone driven decisions, we just want to have fun with someone sexy. No pressure, right?
Oh, one last thing.
Make sure you’ve seen them dancing before. You've been warned. ;)
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