What 23rd October 2015 Taught me about: Humanity & Empathy

There comes a time, in every classical plot development, where once the Shire is out of sight, the character learns something. A profound revelation of sorts. This learning can be a steady process, with an eventual ‘aha’ moment; or it could be a flurry of thoughts and ideas flung at said character’s brain until it was battered , bruised – and wiser.

These past few days have rapidly expanded the landscape of my thoughts and ideals, tearing at my tunnel vision and helping me see beyond the dogmatic cycle of highlight, flag, do tutorials, revise notes that has underpinned 2015 for me.

It began for me on Wednesday, 21^st October, when despite multiple e-mails against this decision, we sat to write an exam ‘in a secret venue’. I was angered that this department thought itself above the proceedings of the Fees Must Fall movement; outraged that despite the police beginning their oppression through arrests and rubber bullets less than 24 hours ago, I was supposed to write an exam. Write an exam and pretend my brothers and sisters were not arrested or feeling the sting of rubber bullets. Pretend I am in a bubble and beyond all of this.

So when our exam was disrupted and we were forced to leave the venue, I almost sighed in relief that I was standing in solidarity with a cause I believed in – without being prejudiced in missing an exam. My year group was forced to listen as gate cutters were used and the exam called to a halt.

I didn’t bat an eyelid at the tense, nervous looks of the lecturers as they watched EFF shirts dance and flail sticks in the air. They knew this would possibly happen. What were they afraid of? Boards? Not getting results in time? Salient. But only large to eyes without the glasses of perspective.

This was beyond us. Beyond an exam. Beyond this year. This was about students everywhere that felt the brut of financial exclusion and inaccessibility to financial aid. But, I’m not here to sell you the cause. You believe what you will.

Moving on, I found myself often in a catatonic state of distress as I glued my eyes to eNCA live streams and the horrifying tweets of being shot at. Of the deafening stun grenades. Of the sheer risk students faced – putting their bodies on the line for a movement. Kids younger than me. Babies. Out there against police on the streets of Cape Town. Their crime was singing and asking for a basic human right. This is where I say: some of us lost our humanity along the way.

It is baffling to me how people can look at this situation and not feel their heart being ripped apart. Those people who felt the tear gas and stun grenades are humans. They are our brothers and sisters. They are someone’s daughters or sons. They could be younger than you yet they are fighting to change a broken system, shouldering the pain and responsibility for an outcome that would possibly benefit everybody : even the student that was not at parliament, but in his porcelain parlour at home. How could we not feel for them? Why did our country not come to a standstill? Where was our humanity?

And this is the crux of my struggle. I felt that, when I was made to write that exam, those students who could physically remove themselves from protest environments, emotionally detach themselves from the pain of those who felt police brutality, and focus unrelentingly on their books would prosper. And those who let themselves feel humanity, empathy, sadness, a distress proportional to the magnitude of the events for the week… would lose out. And I felt trapped in a society that clearly rewarded robots. I always knew it existed, but I had never come across an example so concrete of the ‘good robot, you will win in your clinical coolness’ approach.

It flabbergasted me. This is what corporate seems to want from me. Nobody cares if the world is burning or your personal life is in tatters. As long as you continue to bear the burden and turn the cogs of this dysfunctional society, there will be money in your pocket to shop at Woolworths.

Then yesterday, 23^rd October, when the 0% increase was announced by our President, I was overjoyed at the small victory, but aware that it just was not enough. The yield was not proportionate to the hurt and the pain that was caused along the way. It just was not enough. And what further had me glued to my screen all damn afternoon were horrifying live updates of continued violence outside the union buildings. TUT students burning things, police chasing students and shooting at them, tear gas being dropped by helicopters. WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT.

I was defeated. Paralyzed. What made it all the more ethereal was that people were carrying on with their lives in an eerie contrast. Someone I know got engaged, while outside the union buildings students were bleeding. This is the insanity of life. Our world. How was our nation not at a standstill. How did we go out for coffee that evening and talk about our feelings. How did we go to Woolworths and buy our roast chickens. How did we drink our tea, eat our toast? Are we perhaps already the robots they’ve always wanted us to be?

At a simpler level, this is exemplified by the desensitization of doctors and their dealings. Victims of abuse, gunshots, near-death patients must be treated at an arm’s-length. You cannot take that pain home with you, lest you have a nervous breakdown from a heart so heavy with other’s pain. It is a built in mechanism of the human soul. To pull away from disaster and turmoil around us – to be that rock that stands firm despite the crashes of the ocean. 

I feel guilty, though. I feel guilty for consciously compartmentalizing my empathy and humanity so that I may move forward. So, that evening, as I had a cathartic chat over coffee with an empathetic friend, I knew I couldn’t trap myself in my empathy. I could no longer grasp at my humanity and cry over what had happened to my brothers and sisters, lest the world trap me in a hurricane of bad-tidings and horrors.

So, I woke up today, made my breakfast, and carried on with my life. Just like millions of people do each day in this mad, mad world.

On Decisions: Indecision, Outdecision & Terrible Metaphors

“Free yourself from this insufferable, self-indulgent self-doubt! Wake up and see that you already have the answers you need. We like to dwell in our choice and make no decision, sometimes. We take a twisted pleasure in going back and forth between our choices purely because we’re afraid to pick one. Why are you so insecure? I should just give you a whack!” – said a Holy Man to me, this weekend.

The above is actually a censored version of the sage-wisdom I received about my inability to make an important decision. I poured over mentors and books and people - asking for advice and perspective; and subsequently accumulating a wealth of wise opinions. But, perhaps, I forgot to ask the most important person for an opinion – I forgot to really bear down on my own mind and squeeze out an answer to the age old question: “What do you want?”

If we all had the answer to this question, life would be a simpler way to pass the time before we die. But it isn’t. Our insecure human nature sometimes drives us to oscillate between our choices, hankering after and fermenting our insecurities in the sordid pleasure of ‘option value’.  We use phrases like, “Oh, I don’t know, but it will be nice to have the option.”

Indecisive folks alike will sometimes accumulate these options like the tazos of long ago, and pour over the 150 ‘options’ in front of them with a gluttonous glimmer in their eyes. Unfortunately, at the end of the day, though, when you want to knock down a tazo tower – you can only hit with one shooter at a time.

I think it takes a lot to make a decision truly for yourself; it takes a lot to pull away from the crossroads and say ‘no’ to something and ‘yes’ to something else – especially when neither choice is inherently ‘good’ or ‘bad’. Not everything is a dichotomous angel on the right shoulder situation; indeed, morally questionable choices could perhaps be interpreted as easier to make because we inherently have a distinction between good and bad, and right and wrong – and if you don’t there are multiple religious texts set to guide us along the spectrum of absolutely abhorrent and sinful versus righteous and ideal.  

Perhaps the only consolation to making a decision is that it allows you to actually walk the path. It allows you to move beyond the intersection and into the next phase of growth – to be confronted again with more choices! I hope it becomes easier. I hope I become braver in my decision making. I believe resilience and strength of character will readily follow, regardless of the decisions we make: because it is left to the individual to bear the consequences and to feel time press slowly on her shoulder muscles as she is touched by the ever-winking tick of the clock. Metaphors aren’t always as simple as the life they seek to mirror.

I am Fine, Indeed

This process of self-love is not mechanized. The cogs do not dance at the click of a button. Results don’t appear from the chanting of a special “I love myself” mantra. In the short term, indeed, it is comparatively easier to construct a self-image within the bounds of your brick-walled apartment, signing along to feel-good pop music and chatting to yourself in the mirror each morning.

However, I feel, the real test begins when we step outside our door.

And it isn’t necessarily our fault.

It is hard, I have found, to hold your own when you are faced with the personification of everything that you are not. When you meet women who effortlessly personify the stock-standard image of beauty (you know, the standard that has continuously been fed to you via an IV-drip for your whole life) do you use your fight or your flight instincts?

To some extent, I believe, women have been taught to see each other as competitors. This is further affirmed by feminist Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, who describes this phenomenon as ‘women are taught to see each other as competitors, but not for jobs, but for the attention of men.’ Is this the problem? When we are confronted with what we perceive to be the perfect woman, do we self-deprecate over the fact that this woman might be a better mate than us?

Self-love can fly out the window very quickly, unless it has actually taken root within you.

See, what I have learnt, is that it is far too easy to love yourself in isolation. In a context away from society and their need to pick apart every fragment of a woman’s body and rip her self-esteem to shreds for entertainment, you can feel safe and confident.

What we must learn as women, is to love ourselves in the context of this dark and confusing world, where it may not necessarily be ‘the system’ that is our enemy, but the innate jealousy and unworthiness we may feel when faced with the inevitable reality of ‘there are girls out there much better than me – what right do I have to feel good about myself?’

And that is where you remember that you are more than this conditioning mind-set of comparatives. You are more than what the world thinks a woman ‘should’ look like. We will only truly be able to experience ourselves and to grow once we place ourselves in this larger context. It is trial and error, and the sooner we push ourselves into the world beyond our bedroom door, the sooner we can change that world.

There is nothing wrong with other women being perfect. There is nothing wrong with naturally typifying what you have been taught to be the ‘best’ qualities within a woman. The issue herein lies in that there is something wrong if you feel utterly inadequate when placed next to this kind of woman.

You are more than your inadequacies.
You are enough.

And the more you are meant to face up to these battles, and the more you come up short, one day you would have gone through the motions so many times that you’ll be able to look at yourself – not just in the mirror – but in the reflection of all that you ‘want ‘ to be, and say to yourself: I am fine, right now. I am fine, indeed. 

Rise

I get into my head a lot, over the tiniest details. I can ponder for ages over whether coffee tastes better when I drink it with the lid on the takeout cup or without; I can contemplate outfits days ahead of going out and I probably spend immeasurable hours thinking about how I feel.

How do I feel about this? This person? This object? This situation?

The unfortunate coupling of self-awareness and introspection often leads me to judge myself for my emotions; and for the conscious effort I make to keep them in check. It’s tedious to not accept yourself for who you really are. Why do I do this? 

Note the use of the word ‘I’: once upon a time, when I did a creative writing piece in high school, I used to generalize my personal opinions behind the veil of ‘we’. It would be ironic to try to hide myself, now.

Would the world, I wonder, be a brighter place if we all wore our hearts on our sleeves? Would my, tiny, world be a little bit nicer if I chose to let myself live without fear? I know other people are scared, just like me. Scared to let themselves love in the way they want to. Scared to reach out a little bit more. Scared to let themselves free fall through the infinite skies – to feel their hair burn around their face and the pressure crash through their bodies as the world plummets.

So, so scared.

If you’ve been looking for a sign to let yourself feel what you’ve been trying to hide: this is it. Take my hand, and let us, together, experience ourselves through the depth of emotion birthed by our own souls. For all emotion is fuelled by love – love gained, lost, craving, absent; and love is above all things. Maybe falling isn’t what we should be doing – we should, rather… rise.

I'm, undoubtedly, selfish in this invitation to you to let yourself live with your emotions - because, truth be told, I want company. I would love to see people smile when they want to, bubble up inside when they see people who make them happy. It would warm me to see people laugh until their sides ache, and to tell all the people that they love how they truly feel. 

In a world where your emotions are put aside so you can fit the grey scale description of perfection - let us together have the courage to colour the sky with the palettes of our hearts.  

"Your Skin Is Not Dirt"

I found this incredibly powerful; coming from a culture where peroxide is set to skin and where actresses enter Bollywood the gorgeous colour of almonds and leave blanched. Where we look at the array of crèmes behind the counter at Gorima’s and wonder about whether we, too, should be using Golden Pearl.

Stop.

We are beautiful. 

If ever I’ve thought about a cause I could fight for – or see myself advocate close to home – it has to be the issue of the Indian female complexion. It was a topic as potent as the smell of peroxide.

I was in high school when a family member and I experimented with peroxide; it was a hideous smelling yellow powder that was applied to my skin – and it burned me. It hurt something awful. I had to wash it off within a few seconds of it touching my skin.

Looking back, I feel absolutely ashamed for all the times I’ve used Fair & Lovely, Golden Pearl or any of those terrible skin lightening creams. For what? Perhaps it was the murmur at the back of my mind at how everyone loved how fair my mother is; and how I did not match her yellow-white glow. Perhaps it was the realization that Rani Mukherjee, whom I saw a lovely caramel colour in one movie became an ivory beauty the next. Or, perhaps, it was the way that Bollywood lyrics idolised the ‘gori-gori’ fair glow of a lighter skinned beauty.

It was an issue I, thankfully, left behind in Durban.

When I got to Cape Town, I found myself walking. A LOT OF WALKING. The sun exposure was not avoidable at all. I could hear my mum chirping at the back of my mind – ‘Don’t walk in the sun, you’ll get so dark’ – but, what could I do? I had to live. I also learnt that sunblock has no bearing on whether your skin will tan, it just mitigates sun damage.

I think lots of girls realized this, too, and in doing so, we came to see how really unimportant the issue is. We joke about it, laugh about it while we walk from upper campus to lower campus, giggle at how the sun is tingling against us – but, the sad reality is, these jokes all have deeper origins. Darker ones, for a terrible, terrible pun.

So, to those ladies who are trying to look like almond milk.

Stop, sweetheart.

Chai comes in many shades. 

On Burning & Being Indoctrinated By One's Uterus

“Ohfooh ma, I don’t even want to get married!” The heroine vehemently exclaims, burring her milky, doe eyed face into her hands while the eternally maternal Kirron Kher figure pats her on the back going on about a certain boy who would be appropriate. Indeed, this is the very foundation of most of the Bollywood movies I’ve watched this week. However, even when the heroine craved to see the face of her hero – as when Kajol scampered about in her famous white outfit in the rain during the first song of Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge – she eventually found him. So I guess someone always wins in these scenarios.

The issue, I find, is when women feel almost reserved about admitting that finding a hero falls into one of their life goals. As if, post-bra-burning, it is something to feel shy about. We whisper it to each other in our accounting lectures and throw hints by posting links to the songs we love from abovementioned cliché movies. Yet, I always feel as if I’m disappointing my gender by admitting to this. I mean, you barely see a male figure blogging about finding a lovely little Bindi-Binki-BCom-Babe to settle down with. So why should females say the same?

Personally, I wonder if it has something to do with the casual ability we have to carry life within our bodies for 9 months. We’ve quite possibly been indoctrinated by our own uterus – feeding us subliminal desires through hormonal changes. Furthermore, this organ will not be ignored, kicking us from within whether in anger form not being used through monthly cramps – or lashing out by a kicking baby when used. We can’t win – can we? But that’s another story. I digress.

Refreshingly, a few days ago, I read a line from The Carrie Diaries by Candace Bushnell, where Carrie asks herself whether there is anything wrong with her wanting to be with a man, and further questions the fact that she knows she would forever want to be with a man. In juxtaposition, we have the perpetual ‘I don’t need someone to rescue me. I have a job, an apartment, my own life. I don’t need any hero.’

I think the flaw there is that, in one frame of mind, Carrie seeks something of a lifelong friendship. She doesn’t necessarily want to be ‘saved’ from her invisible demons, but rather looks to perfect her otherwise adequate existence. However, when we begin to look at a partnership as hero and sidekick, the contention begins and we find ourselves mumbling uncomfortably that we don’t really care about being married because it would threaten our independence and sense of self-constructed confidence.  

In a world feeding off a buffet of love stories of every flavour, portion and appearance, how do we know whether we just want to order off the menu? Naturally, it is impossible to try each and every dish – and most are perfectly content to dine alone. But, this is about the awkward ones approaching the buffet, completely overwhelmed and confused about how to perceive all that lies before her.

The truth is, there is no definitive answer as with most things. I’ve observed that my opinion of the entire scheme of things changes with each pop culture item I am spoonfed and with each glace of Mr. Darcy that makes my heart stop. 

Indeed, the malleable temperament of opinion is what keeps relationships and our perception of reality in flux. 

The passage of time slowly etches away at our wood-hearts; some initials are engraved, some lightly written – and there are some names waiting to be brought to the surface.  

Edit:

In all honesty, I felt completely ashamed to have written this post. No, rather, to have published this post and I would feel far too shy to share it on a more public platform. It is completely soaked in the bittersweet taste of irony that, as mentioned above, I would feel ashamed to shout this from the rooftops. This all in a quest to protect my future felicity, for I know this would readily terrify any and every male who were to read this post. Naturally, you would all assume me to be some positively hormone driven lunatic whose sole purpose in life would be to get you to book out the infamous Kendra Hall.
But, I pray, do not flatter yourself. 

Hope & Fear

She walks in cool, calm, collected. Her dark heels click to the tiles in seemingly rehearsed coordination. Perfectly poised and planned. Her glasses perch at a vogue angle on her nose, eyes wide and alert – quickly scanning the room calculating every possible scenario that she could fathom and a possible reaction. She wears a tweed blazer and a matching skirt, in a regal (albeit far too mature for her age) yellow with dark undertones. Her hair is dark and she is in control. Fear is not withered. Fear is not cowering in the corner, hiding herself.

No, she is not.

Hope glides in on her bare feet, on her tip toes just for fun. She wears a long, white flowing garment and you can’t quite distinguish her body shape beneath it- but you know she is simply lovely. Hope is simple yet frivolous. There is not much to her at face value – her complexities only emerge when you begin to make enquiries; but most people are happy to simple sit and look at the way her hair glistens in the sunshine.

Hope does not rule, she simply is.

I would rather be fear.

The revered Nelson Mandela once said that he hopes our choices do not reflect our fear, but rather our hopes. Yet, what is wrong with making life decisions based on our fears? Making decisions within the bounds of a given situation to mitigate future perils appears rational to me.

I wonder, what is wrong with being a fearful person? A fearful person is not backed into a corner because she has thought about each window in the room and the number of glass panels comprising the windows and how she could kick them out if she needed to. Fear knows every centimetre of the room and makes her decisions such that she isn’t in the corner. She is Baby from Dirty Dancing – and has taken the calculated risk to make that terrible joke knowing someone out there will cringe reading it.

Indeed, the next question would be what fear would do when put into a completely different house let alone a new room. Fear probably knew this might happen because fear has a close friend called Paranoia who likes to play on the tight rope of Fear’s nerves. Consequently, because Fear thought this may happen – fear is not jarred and instead attempts to pre-empt and solve the new house’s issues.

The crisis, it appears, is when fear becomes paralysed. Then, there is neither Hope nor Fear, rather a senseless melancholy from which no inspirational quote can save you and instead you must pray for Hope.

This is because Fear and Hope works hand in hand – because Fear is there to protect the goals that fragrance Hope’s skin and dance on Hope’s lips. Once you have Hope, I suppose, stashed away in a corner of your heart with a desired outcome, you can let yourself be guided by whatever means you find necessary to pursue it.

I Wish Mindy Kaling Gave Me Permission To Dream Much Earlier In Life & Back Door Bragging Through the Front Door

My heart is ablaze. No, cliché, my heart is working at maximum capacity,  providing infinite voltage into an electrical, nervous, giddy smile. There is a slight dusty smell in the air and the dark red velvet curtains are shoddily drawn such that I could peep at the front row audience. But, I don’t have time for them because I am too busy being a bossy 7 year old and checking if everyone knows their lines. Yes, those were the days. Those were happier days.

The funny thing is, I always knew those would be the happiest days of my life. I hoped, but never thought, I would get to write, direct and act in shows all at once ever again – so I wrung the happiness out of each skit inch by inch until the joy was tucked away safely in the corner of my soul. It was true, however, that I wouldn’t grow much into the spotlight as I would have, had I been more confident.

I think that confidence might have been given the jumpstart it needed had I seen Mindy Kaling. She was amazing for me. A woman, my own race, complexion, body shape (okay, she has bigger boobs than me, whatever) actually succeeding in front of a Western camera would have shaken my little box and made me realize I have the talent to be who I could have been; I would have let myself dream things I never dared to entertain.

Instead, when I became involved in Drama at a High school level, I graciously bowed out and dedicated myself to excelling at the theoretical side. Oh, no, don’t get me wrong, I would average in the 90s on both practical and theory. But although I was good at both, I was scared to invest too much into the practical part because I knew I wouldn’t get far with it. High school made me realize there were so many people better than me. Although I could make people laugh, I couldn’t make them swoon with my beauty; nor could I fit into a dress below size 10. It was crushing, on reflection, that I let those little things get the better of me.

I think if I had more tangible evidence of women being themselves and still being successful in entertainment that I would have felt a whole lot more confident about the situation. I saw local females bleaching their skin, taking pills to get fairer and everyone around me just being thinner than me. I was chubby, yes, but it wasn’t because I ate a tub ‘o lard on the regular, hardly, but rather it had more to do with repercussions of some treatment I had undergone as a child. Niggling little things like that can really leave an impression on your mind.

I guess I’m full of excuses, as well. I mean…rather an excuse than a failed attempt? Actually, that’s probably the most pathetic sentence I’ve ever written, hah!

But it’s okay. I know I was great. I was a top 10 finalist for the Bruce Piper Award, an annual award by the Speech & Drama Society of South Africa. I wish I would have had the faith in myself to not need a Mindy Kaling to show me the way. But, now, I am so happy and grateful that she is around. I’m so happy Indra Nooyi is the CEO of Pepsi. I’m so happy that Delphine Govender started Perpetua. All around me I see these amazing women growing into someone I would like to become – but I could never mirror them, no. Rather, they remind me of needing to be the best person I can be… and hopefully I can let some little kid out there realize she has the right to be the writer, director and actor of her own life, too. 

I Hate Horses & Pottery

I haven’t blogged in a while.

But, hopefully, the things I’ve learned in this while will set. Like a newly formed pot, I’ve learned lessons throughout my life, but sometimes I haven’t given the pot enough time to set into its shape. Cracks form, my hands get dirty from constantly trying to prod at the wet clay of ‘lessons’ and things get distorted. Then a new experience comes, I try to make the pot again and I err. I guess we will continue to make new pots until we can let the clay dry and fill our pots with sweet water – and on that day, we will thirst no longer.

It’s so haaaaaaard to do things. Life in general is diiiifficult. I don’t know what prevents us all from just locking ourselves into a padded room and laying there and never doing anything with ourselves ever…wait… *goes to google the number of the local asylum*

Let’s revert back to the age old horse riding metaphor. I feel like getting on the horse for the first time is phenomenal. Trotting around, wind in the hair, having that Black Beauty Kimye fantasy life happening is incredibly brave. So, imagine how much braver it is to get back on the horse when it kicks you off and runs away into the distance laughing at you. It’s pretty much the same feeling you have when you throw a Pokeball at Latios or Latias without having Scary Face or anything keeping them there – they just escape like lol after you get the message saying ‘argh! Almost had it!”

So this is me right now. Writing again for me is scary. I haven’t done it publically for some time other than the tiny food blog I have. And I know exactly why. I stopped having faith in myself for a lot of reasons. I became more geared towards a different way of thinking; looked to driving cars (haha, pun) and shunned horses for a bit. Currently, I have a smashed car and no insurance and I’m looking at the horse like, “Please be my little pony again?” and the horse is like “No bye lol.”

Let’s pretend that little dialogue didn’t happen.

Moving on, a lot of things have happened and I’ve been terrified to restart my life. It is so easy to practise knowledge, wisdom and advice when you’re in a good place. When things are going right it is easy to dissolve into what you know to be right and to commit to the right path. It is only in the storm that it becomes hard to remember the stillness. I am grateful for my storm, because I have surprised myself. I haven’t gotten back onto the horse yet - but I have it around… been grooming its hair and feeding it sugar cubes and so forth. I want to start. And start I will. 

Perspectives, Musings & Questions on Relationships That Are Considering Using Anti Aging Cream

Justin Timberlake wasn’t really on some scandal-laden Illuminati fuelled psycho-distortional binge when he sang the lyrics of ‘Mirrors’ because, just like looking into a mirror, a relationship can be presented to the eye in one way – but be interpreted in a completely different sense. This post attempts to discuss some issues in relationships: from walking completely past the person you love, to overflowing with love, to our need for validation and a bit of other emotional gunk that I’ve scraped out from between the bricks of the dammed up walls of my heart-river. (Gaaay.)

You can be with a person for quite some time – to a point where the qualities that attracted them to you in the first place become almost commonplace. To you and your partner, both: a beautiful woman’s partner neglects to compliment her beauty, and maybe she herself tends to neglect the occasional maintenance act of waxing. It could be said that the relationship has dragged itself out until you begin to walk past your love. Or it could be said that the relationship has deepened to a point where you’re not taking each other for granted in as much as being in a deeply communal existence, where you’re no longer seeing her beauty but you’re seeing the lady beyond her qualities, and have come to value and feel her essence as a person. How to explain this… you’re not in love with her qualities or actions anymore. You just love her.

This isn’t cheap logic to use as an excuse to not compliment your partner, by the way!

Continuing on this trail of compliments comes the need for validation. A very wise guru said that we should, for our own sake and for the sake of our relationships, always assume the other person in the relationship loves you. It’s easy to come a year along and wonder whether your partner feels the same. It is hard to push for affirmation. We want this affirmation to reinforce our stance in a relationship. We want to feel wanted to know we carry some weight and that the other person would notice if we don’t come home one day. Why? Our ego needs satisfaction. Our identity, the fragment based on our partner, needs to be validated. We want to validate ourselves. What pressure to put on another person! I’m terribly guilty of this. Of paying a compliment and also wanting to hear something just as nice as back. I’m still trying to work out whether this makes me a weaker person, an insecure person or a person so vain that she needs to hear that you think that she’s just as amazing as she thinks you are (all this in addition to being a normal human being, you know) .

Just as being at the bottom of a well, almost near drowning,  is a difficult place to be at – being very much in love is an engulfing situation. A year later, still being completely fascinated by the person you’re with, the way he speaks, smiles, laughs, puts you in a position where every action you undertake and most of the emotions you feel move from the bottom of the ocean of love with such unnecessary force and immensity that it could overwhelm. One of the hardest things I’ve found is trying to control my emotions and affections in a way that are palatable, easily and readily, for my partner.

It must be a terribly awkward position for someone who has their act together to be the recipient of regular love-smacks across the torso by a partner wielding a tonne club of affection.  Where the occasional pinch once in a while may be pleasurable, controlling your club may be useful.

Why is everything so hard? Why are there so many rules? Why can’t we just be? Why are there invariably so many nuances and over thinking traps to fall into? To respond, does doing everything the way you want it to always lead to happiness? Say for example, you are an early riser. And you like to practice the cymbals every morning. You do this every day on your own path and you expect your partner to wake up and praise your playing. But instead you’re dating Father/Mother Time and they tend to rise when the clock hits noon. You’re going to be in an unhappy position. Thus, consideration of loved ones and the impact of our behaviour on their happiness would be a logical facet to factor into our daily decisions.

This isn’t to say you shouldn’t be yourself. If it is in your true nature to rise early, by all means do so. And occupy yourself with an activity more considerate of your partner’s need for slumber. Ideally, however, you would want to be with someone that would enjoy the clinging of the cymbals regardless of the time, place or sleep depravity. Right? Who ends up waking up with you is something you can control.

Something I’ve yet to figure out, though, is what the ideal is when it comes to hobbies and passions. I would love some input on this, as I assume it varies in different relationships as people hold these things close in a number of different degrees. How important is it for you to participate in your partner’s hobbies? For example, let’s say there’s a typical man: wholly interested in soccer – watches every match, has a fantasy football team, tracks players from their waking moment to bed. And there is a female who enjoys flower pressing – selecting the flowers, preserving them, musing over old albums of flowers and such. She has little to no interest in soccer. He has little to no interest in flowers. But they’re both really important to the individual.

I suppose if she lived in hope that he wouldn’t make her watch every single match, and if he lived in the hope that she won’t make him identify each flower by texture in her book –there wouldn’t be an issue of fairness if they both decide to not involve the other in their hobby. The problem that arises, though, is when she secretly hopes he would view and appreciate her work in a way similar to him wanting her to watch sport with him, it’s a question of sharing worlds and wanting to form such a world together. Tricky, hey?

On the other hand, it is critical to maintain an individual identity in a growing relationship. So by the individual pursuit of hobbies, their individual personas are strengthened and thus the fraction of their happiness that is dependent on their partner grows smaller. The smaller this fraction, it can be said, the greater the overall happiness in the relationship because there is no ‘need’ for the other person. It is a warm, tingly, “I want you, with me.”

What do you think?

When things grow into comfort, I think, they take on a special sense of intimacy. A night in with pyjamas and tea, sitting at a desk and your partner chilling in the other end of the house can be just as emotionally fulfilling as a night out on the town dressed up head to toe. Comfort shouldn’t be scorned nor devalued in relation to specific appreciation – but where there are gaps in that appreciation deficiency, I feel, it’s a chance for you to work on your own self esteem: “I’ve been with this person for a year, they must see something amazing in me. Why do I doubt this and demand to hear it from them, when they’re free to walk away tomorrow if they really wanted to?”

And if my relationship ends tomorrow or next week, you guys will all think I’m an idiot with unfounded opinions  - but I feel that I have learnt an immeasurable amount in this past year. Immeasurable.

Old Lady Personality Seeks a Retirement Home.

Some people …

No, most people …

People in general…

An increasing number of people …

No, who am I kidding, let’s not hide behind generalisations this time, I, personally, hate being alone. I’m assuming that I’m not the only one (because rarely is anybody ever the ‘only one’ to do or experience something). I also applaud anyone who can relish their own company and space – those who can be perfectly content not being juxtaposed to another breath – because it is something I entirely can’t seem to do… much like I can’t play a musical instrument or ride a bike.

I know exactly why, too. I find myself to be insufferable. I know who I am, and I don’t like my own company. My mind is shared by the personality of a fuddy duddy 100 year old boring lady whose hobbies enjoy jigsaws and crossword puzzles, tea of all sorts (yes, tea can be a hobby) and hating things. Sounds like delightful company, no?

So, being alone forces me to invite said old lady over for psychoanalytical tea, where we have impetuous words over every fragment of existence (some call this over thinking) that can, at times, be entertaining. But most times I wish she would just shut up.

I guess this syndrome is exacerbated by my workaholic tendencies and my cramped apartment: where I work until I cannot anymore and I pace until I simply must sit. Those 20 minute delays in texts and hours of waits between company passing through my door force me to entertain myself. How. How do you entertain someone that doesn’t really like to be entertained, especially when she is in a mood ?  I try to please her constantly but somehow she shrugs it off.

So, if anyone knows a good retirement home, please tell them I would like a space for my personality.

Thank you.   

495 Words Dedicated to an old Friend | or | Journey to the Center of the (Shre)Earth (haha)

As I write this I am countries and continents away from my tiny studio apartment in Cape Town. In fact, had I taken a quick jog across the southernmost pole, I might have taken a shortcut to my current place of contentment: a delightful, homely cottage by the sea in the finest, fairest, four-leaved-clover land of them all: Ireland.

Okay so I am not really in Ireland. But I know that’s where I want to be, one day. I had forgotten this quite some time ago – the power of hours home alone coupled with a carefree mind can create a powerful excavation tool for nostalgic desired buried at the core of one’s inner planet.

My planet is quite a strange one, where  - despite my persistent tendency to live in my own head – I have not visited it very often. It scares me. I’d rather drift around the stars, come back to the tangible Earth or just enjoy the blackened cosmos between my eyelids when I sleep. However, this is a problem.

How can you go on living in contentment when you’re not quite sure of who you really are and what fills the land and sea of your own planet? Loneliness is a plague that has scourged the land we live in, with the salve being human companionship and love – but how much richer would our lives be if we didn’t fall victim to the plague at all?

Prem Rawat said:

“And we are never lonely, for we always have ourselves.”

But who are we, really? A task I had set for myself some time back was to find happiness in myself and to get to know myself better. However, I seem to have subtly rejected calls from myself on more occasions than I’d like to admit. I’ve cruelly read messages from myself and chosen not to respond – how horrible must I have felt to have seen the ‘read’ receipt but not received a reply!! I am the worst.

Yet, I must say, it is not too late.

Once again, I will commit to becoming my own friend. Once again I will take up the pen and tapdance on my keyboard to type out boring blogposts to myself in a way of saying: “Hello, my friend, sorry I have been away so long – how have you been?”

 I am booking a ticket to my inner planet, naturally there is room for anyone who may like to join me, and I am going to get to know myself this year a bit better. I am going to do the things I love more often. I am going to put down IFRS now and then and let myself draw, paint, read and lay in the sun more often.

I am going to remember to breathe more often, and fill all the little gaps that people, things, my cat and clouds of candyfloss cannot fill … and I am going to fill it with my own joy.

PS

I am not going batty, nor have I been abandoned on the side of the road in a dustbin waiting for DSW to take me away. In fact, I am quite happy and thought this little identity discussion might inspire you to get to know yourself a little better this year :) 

2014: The Foo Fighters Quote Year

Oh for the love of furry baby seals and mink coats – not another blog post on the new year!! Gaah… gaaah…  *death by eye rolling*

Luckily, this isn’t about resolutions or something preachy about how this is going to be ‘my’ year (we all know that this and no other year will never belong to any one person including Disney Princesses because Wicked Witches never really die). This year I have just resolved to do just one simple thing: not quit.

It’s okay to take breaks, be derailed and not do that which needs to be done today. But I will not allow myself to quit. (“ YOU’RE THE ONE YOU’RE THE PRETENDER ! WHAT IF I SAY I WILL NEVER SURRENDER?” – Foo Fighters)

Quitting is the darndest, sneakiest dream destroyer because sometimes you never know that you’ve actually quit. Then - before you know it - a year has passed and you haven’t even made it halfway across the ocean to get those exotic spices from the land where they ride elephants, nor have you even filled that diary that was meant to help you remember the better days when you get Alzheimer’s.  You slowly slip away from the things that mean the most to you because you become lost in new adventures that slowly found their way to your doorstep – while your true passions and goals were sitting at your back door like Taylor Swift wearing fake hipster glasses shrieking “PLEASE LOVE ME AGAIN”.

So, yeah, this is the year I will not quit. I will think about quitting, yes. I will get lazy and bugger off to my cave in the mountains muttering about how I hate everyone and everything on the planet. But I will come back. And I will carry on.

Will you make this an un-quittable year? 

A 19 Year Old’s (Somewhat First World) Perception of Freedom

In the previous month, I was interviewed by a talented young lady, Sara Hartinger, about what it means to be free. It didn’t take me long to answer at all – in fact, I knew what I was going to say the moment the rising inflection rolled off her tongue.

Freedom can be aptly described, to quote, as a feeling of being “eternal”, as captivatingly described in The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky. It’s that feeling when the only thing that goes through you is air, and it fills your lungs with a gaping emptiness so vast that you feel your existence scattered through the air around you. That amalgam of adrenaline, cool, strong winds and pure exposure to a world that has no obligation to accept you: bareness. A feeling often taken as ‘youth’ – but, oh, how tragic that would be! I feel as if I should end my life now if I can never feel that way, again.

Fitting yourself comfortably into the gaps between stars, having an unabashed smile and driving down a long road while a song that Takes Your Breath Away (not necessarily Berlin) plays in the car and the love of your life is at the wheel is freedom. Freedom is an empty joy – it is not an emotion itself, as happy or sad is, but it is distinct moments where you go beyond feeling any banal emotions and you simply exist with a belly full of life and the caving in chest heaving nothingness of the world sucking you into a beautiful, beautiful spell.

I’m not saying that Apartheid ended so I could go look at stars and listen to old love songs. I’m saying that freedom gives me the ability to exist in a space so open and comfortable that I can let myself exist beyond the boundaries of my own self and become something more.

Something so, so much more.

Even if just for a moment.

That is freedom, to me. 

Waiting, the Rational Investor & Uncertainty

They say “Good things come to those who wait”. Whoever ‘they’ are, surely, should be knowledgeable since ‘their’ knowledge has been promulgated throughout society and the minds of little children. What are some of the things you’ve waited for in your lifetime – and I’m literally referring only to things you had to just wait for, without much action on your part? Things beyond your control – perhaps waiting for your mother to finish cooking dinner? Waiting for the train to come?

What made you so sure dinner would ever be done? How did you know the train was coming? There must’ve been a degree of certainty to ensure that you would eventually receive these abovementioned ‘good things’. A twilight zone formed between the probability of encountering the train and some sort of faith formed by trusting your mother or, at a more complex level, trusting the train’s routine as you’ve come to observe its dependability. 

Through this twilight zone you came to wait, either by force or by faith.

So, what do you do when confronted with situations where you could – readily –  walk away from the wait entirely? Naturally, you wouldn’t receive the ‘good thing’ that the wise old ‘they’ have extolled through proverbs. However, in this particular situation, there is very little gauge of probability and there is virtually no observation of dependability through pattern formations – essentially there is a very high level of uncertainty.

Let’s put the question to the floor- any takers?

Some wise old soul would bring up the principle of the rational investor : risk versus reward, taking up the investment where there is the least risk for the most reward. Naturally, there seem to be quite high risks as there isn’t much data available for the calculation of the probable outcome.

But, in life, how can we measure ‘reward’ ? Is it how badly you want the ‘good thing’ or is it the value of the ‘good thing’ itself? Our wants may override the value of the reward in itself – where a burning need for a toffee may elevate the worth of a 50cent sweet exponentially. Such is human nature;  to offset numerical values with emotional or intuitive interventions.

Waiting for me to get to the point, already? 

I have no point, other than to ask you, would you wait for something even though you had no idea whether or not your investment would yield sufficient return for time spent waiting with escalating opportunity costs?

I also think that, even if the investment does yield some kind of return, would we not begin to resent the yield if it does not live up the costs incurred to obtain it? Waiting could also, itself, be detrimental as it may build unrealistic expectations.

Just throwing a few thoughts out there. Curious. 

Awe

Perspective is a force of thought more powerful than the events themselves that compose our reality. In order to nourish this perspective, to help cut the human crystal so that it shimmers in a thousand and one ways, to transcend the meaning of life – it is important to be left in awe. Regular, small miracles are easier to  stumble over and not appreciate (like that breath you just took) – but some moments in life help redefine your existence… and the awe I felt as I basked in the shadow of the poet-master that I had come to idolise was inexplicable. He towered over me, slight angst, slight spite – but blatant inscrutability: Dante Alighieri, master of The Divine Comedy. 

His towering statue in Florence, Tuscany helped me realise how very insignificant my life is. Yes, this sounds like it is taking a turn towards the self-imposed Inferno – but, I pray you, listen. Perspective is the salve to all our meaningless issues. There are cities, people, microcosms linked through roads and skies that function regardless of whether you’re on your university’s merit list, or whether you fit into a size 8 pair of jeans, or whether you’re experiencing the pangs of unrequited romance. Ages pass, worlds and words spin around – and you are but a golden fleck on the ceiling of the Vatican Museums.

This awe:  this feeling of tininess before figures so beautifully painted on the ceilings of the Vatican, this feeling of bewilderment before the perfection of Michelangelo’s  David create that trembling wonder that makes life worthwhile. See how small you are, and revel in the amazement the universe has in all its crooks and corners. Inspirations spews unparalleled from joy, and the ecstasy I have seen in the Sistine Chapel, the years that I have felt (quite illegally) in fading tapestries and carved stone pillars… the eternal marble I have slid upon have captivated my very soul. 

Rome, Florence and Venice have stolen me. Bewitched me in ways I could not comprehend through your juxtaposition of rich history alongside Mercedes and racy motor bikes while greying women beg, clasping onto their rosaries. 

Where will life take you? Will you find a place to fall in love with… or come to find Stockholm Syndrome on your front porch? The elixir of eternal youth, truly, is made of proportions of curiosity, excitement, fascination, rapture and awe. The more you see, the more you thirst. The more art I saw, the more I wanted to know: who painted it, what did it mean, what did the people think of it, what meaning did it have to me? 

Layers and layers reveal themselves as time slides on and the world shyly comes to bear itself to you. 

Fabulous Fantasy Fiction Holiday Reading List of Amazing Fantasy

With the holidays sprawling ahead, some of you bookies must be looking forward to laying on the sofa with a great read. For those of you that see Fiction as a reading genre, not a club on Long Street, here’s 5 great fantasy fiction reads you need to get down to this holiday!

                                                                                                                                                                 

1.       The Hobbit – J.R Tolkien                                                                                                

Getting into the Middle Earth buzz, don’t let yourself get left behind as ardent fans rave about the similarities between book and movie. It’s a quick, interesting read filled with activity and great narrative. Great for both young and old, there is a classical tinge to the tone it has been written in.

Bilbo Baggins, a casual Hobbit that is fond of minding his own business, is thrust into the adventure of a lifetime quite unwillingly. Expect goblins, eagles, shape shifters, treasure and – naturally – a dragon waiting at the end of it all.

2.       The Belgariad – David Eddings

Mature fiction begins with David Eddings : he is my favourite author and the master of words. This is a series of 5 books:  Pawn of Prophecy, Queen of Sorcery, Magician’s Gambit, Castle of Wizardry, Enchanter’s End Game.

These five books, although bearing simple chess related titles, comprise an elaborate, elegantly told story about Garion, an orphaned farm boy and his quest alongside his aunt Polgara as they pursue the Orb of Aldur : an orb fashioned with a living soul.

“Long ago, so the storyteller claimed, the evil God Torak sought dominion over all and drove the world to war. Now the one talisman keeping this sinister force from seizing power has been disturbed--and no one will be safe. . . .”

3.       A Song of Ice & Fire – George R.R Martin

Otherwise known as “A Game of Thrones”, the book series is as equally riveting as the televised one. A rugged amalgam of romance, pillaging, sword bound violence and lust for power find their way to the pages of A Game of Thrones, A Clash of Kings, A Storm of Swords, A Feast for Crows and A Dance with Dragons.

The story, simplistically, tells of an array of character’s pursuit for dominion of the Iron Throne, and power over the kingdoms in a fascinating fantasy dimension. Each chapter follows a different character, making for interesting reading as you put the pieces of each perspective together in Westeros.

“In a land where summers can last decades and winters a lifetime, trouble is brewing. The cold is returning, and in the frozen wastes to the North of Winterfell, sinister and supernatural forces are massing beyond the kingdom’s protective Wall…”

4.       The Black Magician Trilogy – Trudi Canavan

Ah, these fantasy writers do love their series, don’t they ? A feminine outlook on fantasy, The Magician’s Guild is split into:  The Magician’s Guild, The Novice and The High Lord.

This story follows a young street girl that possesses skill to shock masters of magical discipline, where in a fit of rage she is able to pierce a barrier protecting a master and consequently renders him unconscious.

So begins a race to capture and contain the Guild’s worst fear: an untrained magician being on the streets.

“She must be found, and quickly, before her uncontrolled powers unleash forces that will destroy both her, and the city that is her home…”

5.       Green Rider – Kristen Britain

No, a Green Rider is not someone closely affiliated with Green Peace. In this world, a Green Rider is an elite, almost legendary messenger to the King. Entrusted with a secret message to be passed on to the king as a Green Rider takes his last breath, follow Karigan G'ladheon through four novels: Green Rider, First Rider’s Call, The High King’s Tomb and Blackveil. While galloping through these, beware the “shadow man,” and never, ever read the letter passed to you. It’s for your own safety.

“Ride! the voice commanded.
            The buildings of a village were a smear they left behind. Two arrows, she knew, sang behind her and would not stop till they found their mark.”