A Country of Agendas

The ineptocracy of our government never ceases to amaze me. My afternoon was spent sitting around the dining room table having a jolly good laugh at the ridiculous level of corruption that accosts us everyday - anybody walking into the house would have assumed that we were having a merry old time exchanging jokes or humorous stories of the past week...when in fact we were discussing the Addington Hospital scandal where 8 billion rand was somehow misplaced (who misplaces 8 billion rand?!) and the fact that the next generation is even stupider than we could possibly have imagined. We didn't find it funny, but it was either laugh at it, or sink into an afternoon of depression thinking about the downhill spiral our country is heading for.

I've written about this many times before, and the fact that I'm moved to write about it yet again, just illustrates how absolutely incongruous I find this situation to be. You know, forget about stealing from us (those who can afford to live in wonderful homes, eat three square meals a day, send our children to good schools, pay towards a medical aid fund every month and generally have good jobs with a steady source of income), these officials in government who are supposed to be elected by the people, for the people, are stealing from their people - the very same ones who vote for them. I think it's disgusting that they've desecrated everything that their forefathers worked for in freeing our country from the Apartheid regime, by using their inherited seats of power to gorge themselves on the public treasury.

Our country survives by using the tax payments of its minority to support the non tax-paying majority. This is something that by now, nearly twenty years after Apartheid was abolished, should not be seen on such a large scale. The main issue is the lack of jobs to support that currently non tax-paying majority...which essentially leads us back to the problem of the state of education in our country. If people are educated, they stand to be more viable for the higher paying jobs, and would have a better chance at improving not only their own quality of life, but that of the rest of their family as well - higher paying jobs would mean a larger source of income and a greater ability to afford a stable quality of life and all the perks that come with it. It would, however, also mean that people are more likely to see through the cheap party tricks our governing body employs in order to win elections. As I drummed into the few learners who I had the opportunity to teach this year, "In the land of the blind, the one eyed is king." Keep the masses illiterate and uneducated, and they're putty in your hands.

And you know, the issue of gross idiocy is not just something that is occurring in only one ethnic group or race - it's across the board. I look at some of the kids and think to myself in awe, "Really, is this what we have deteriorated to?" And the scary part is, these kids will grow up and reproduce, and their kids will follow their example - unless they wake up one morning and realise that they want out of that rut. Sometimes, I look at people my own age and wonder how they made it this far in life (and really, we're only just beginning life.) The culture of irrelevance that is being cultivated is disturbing.

I was talking to a doctor today who said that she receives interns who don't even know half the things that they're supposed to: that terrifies me! She told us of the other day, when she asked for a patient who was hooked up to a ventilator to be moved down a floor for some tests; she left the patient in the care of the nurses and was shocked to see them wheeling the patient out of the hospital lift without the said ventilator. Here was a patient who COULDN'T BREATH, taken off the machine that was helping them to do just that. How are people being pushed through medical and nursing school who don't have the knowledge required to perform their duties effectively - or at all? They end up doing more harm than good. Yet, our government insists on rigging the system towards affirmative action - even in the case of such essential services like medical care - admitting those with below average examination results and turning away others who score well above the minimum requirements...all based on the colour of their skin. I wonder, if producing a generation of sub-par doctors is really a form of population control?

The people we choose to place in power, are the very same ones filling up their own pockets at the expense of the progress of the rest of the country. South Africa is such a potential-rich country, yet she is being exploited in all the wrong ways by all the wrong people. It's sad that in a country with so much resources, majority of its population is still uneducated and living below the poverty line, all because keeping them below the poverty line is what allows those in power to stay in power.

The grass is always greener on the other side...

You know what I can't stand? I can't stand people talking about the night my Grandmother passed away as if they were there. I can't stand hearing their narratives in voices brimming over with emotion. I can't stand to see their eyes go all glassy and their faces contort into their own definitions of grief...or sympathy...or pity. Or all three.
I can understand why they would do it - especially my mother and her siblings. They wished that they had been there. It hurts them most I think, that they couldn't be in the same room. Closure...I think that's what it's called. They didn't get closure. So, I guess talking about it, is a sort of catharsis for them.
But it doesn't mean that I have to like it, just because I can understand it.
I know, many would think me cold or hard-hearted. After all, it was their own mother who passed away...but you know what: it bugs me. It really bugs me. It irks me so much, that often I have to leave the room for fear of saying something that I'll regret. As Thumper's Dad in Bambi said, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all".
And every night I close my eyes, and see those last moments over and over again. And I can't help but curl my lip in disgust at the powder-puff memories that everyone else has. It wasn't easy, and it wasn't sweet. It wasn't contented, or peaceful. It wasn't like something from the silver screen. It was terrifying. And each time I remember that I stood so close to Death, I shiver. Each time I remember the look on my Grandmothers face, my heart shudders inside my chest.
I can't stand the false and fluffy narrations. I can't stand it when they talk about it as if they were there. They were not there. I was left alone to figure out what to do, when I didn't even realise what it was that was happening before me. Closure? It seems futile to me. I was there, and I didn't even get closure.
I can't tell them that of course, it would be too cruel. Rather leave them with their pretty pictures of death...and false memories to sooth their guilty consciences.

A little bit of sunshine goes a long way....

Everyone who knows me knows what a hazard I am to myself in the kitchen - I always walk out nursing some burn or cut or obscure wound (I mean, who on this freaking earth, above the age of retardation, manages to burn themselves on a George Foreman grill? I did it once). Today, however, Loyal Followers, I cooked and did NOT injure myself! This is a first by all accounts. Even my Grandfather was stunned as he sat there watching me closely for signs of my complete ineptitude at avoiding bodily harm. My dose of Vitamin D this morning seems to have served me well - I should do it more often - you try it, and see what a difference a little bit of sunshine will make in your day.

Surfing on sunshine

Do you know how long it's been since I sat outside in the sunshine World? No, of course you don't, not even I know the answer to that. It feels good. I know the winter sun is supposed to burn me to a crisp, but it feels so lovely - besides, I need to stock up on my quota of Vitamin D.

I'm sitting on our little landing outside the kitchen, leaning against a pole, staring at the deep blue sea with the sun warming my back. The ocean looks alluring today World...it's sapphire and azure all in one go. Oh, I really have the urge to pay it a visit - though I wouldn't dare go alone; even my beloved beach is no longer the safest place in the world that I used to think it to be.

Sitting out here I can't help but wonder in awe at how lucky I am. I get to live with the sea at my front and a nature reserve to my left. I could sit out here all day and listen to the bird calls, the rustle of the leaves as the wind whispers empty promises through the trees, and the beat of the tide against the shoreline. All of these sounds I know so well, I could recognise their familiar voices anywhere.

My Grandmothers Jasmine vines are drying out, but they still look so pretty creeping up the latticework. I remember taking a walk with her around this time last year, and watching her face light up in pride over the intoxicating flowers. I miss her World, I miss her so very much..I went to a wedding on Sunday, and got ready to run downstairs to twirl around for her in my pretty dress and high heels - how she used to love me doing that - and then I remembered that she wasn't around any longer for me to do that. She wasn't around for me to watch her face explode in delight at the sound of my bangles chiming, or for her to run her hand over the soft material of my clothes in appreciation. I really thought that she would be around for a few more milestones...

Every evening I go downstairs and make supper for my Grand-dad. I sit and eat with him too. It's sad how they get so old, so very fast. I still remember my Grand-dad as this robust, sturdy, strong man who everyone was scared of - he may not have been a very good father, or the ideal husband, but he was the best grandfather anyone could ever ask for. When I was little, I could never finish all of my food, and he would finish it for me so that I wouldn't get scolding from my mother - it made me sad when the other day at lunch, he pushed his plate towards me and said, "You finish this for me, I can't finish it myself." And then last night, watching him walk from the table to the bedroom, my heart sank even further: he's all bones and sharp edges. Running my hands over his aching muscles, I really just wanted to cry - of course I didn't - I scheme even if I had tried to cry I wouldn't have been able to (I sometimes wonder if my tear ducts are frozen?) - this was the man who used to lift me up high over his head so that I could peep into the neighbours yard and watch their mad dog barking; the man who used to take me to the beach front fun fair every Thursday night, and stand there for hours watching me have the time of my life;  the man with the booming voice who everybody was in awe of...and now he was just a skeleton with red eyes from mourning and muscles too frail to do anything more than the basics on his own.

I remember putting him to bed last night, and coming up the stairs, ready to jam on my earphones and blast on my Thirty Seconds to Mars and MCR mix - to beat the sad out of my system - and then, the most extraordinary thing happened: a rather ordinary kind of guy made me smile. And then I remembered seeing his smile for the first time - it's the kind of smile that makes you stop and stare, because really, it's pretty ordinary in itself...but at the same time, there's something indefinable about it, like in that one smile he's unconsciously saying, "Don't worry, the world's not such a bad place you know." And when he made me laugh later on in the evening, for the first time in a very long while, I kind of believed, that maybe...the world really wasn't such a bad place after all. And sitting out here now, in my beautiful beach side place, it sort of feels true.

Everything is more beautiful because we're doomed...

I'm not a crier. Anybody who knows me know's that - I mean, seriously, the day after my Grandmother passed away, I was sitting on my bed making my friends laugh...I won't lie, a part of me was dying inside, but it did it in private, quietly and quite dryly. I'm just not a crier.

So trust me when I tell you that I can count on one hand, the times a movie made me emotional:
1) The Lion King (come on, who DIDN'T cry when Mufasa died?! If Hitler was around, I bet you even he would have been bawling).
2) Harry Potter & The Deathly Hallows (When Dobby died...)
3) Troy.

Can you believe it? Troy turned the waterworks on. Of all things...Troy.
And it wasn't because of some mushy love scene either, and it wasn't some sappy dialogue...it was when Paris shot Achilles through the heel. I know how the myth goes, I did read Greek Mythology at campus last year, besides of which, you all know what an avid reader I generally am...but in this movie, Paris was a pathetic, lilly livered, spineless jellyfish, who didn't deserve the glory of killing the greatest warrior that lived - yet it was his. And, can I point out, that every time Orlando delivered a line I had the inexplicable urge to burst out laughing. I cried because of the unfairness of it all. It wasn't full on tears...my voice just went wobbly and my eyes stung (ok, so maybe there were a few salty drops), and maybe...when Paris called to Briseis to leave with him, I might have shouted at the television screen in fury (much to Bobs stunned surprise and amusement), "Fuck off!"

But there is no way you can disagree with me on this: Achilles deserved a more heroic death...and Paris was a little bitch

P.s. As I'm sure you've all deduced by now, I LOVED the movie. I don't know why it's taken me so many years to finally watch it. And honestly, Eric Bana and Brad Pitt are the only two men alive who can wear skirts, and still look hot.

It tastes like warm vanilla custard...

Here's the thing about forgiveness...we don't forgive to appease the other person's conscience - we withhold our forgiveness to make the one who has affronted us feel guilty...but ultimately, we forgive so that we can feel good about ourselves. It's not a pretty thing to hear, but it's the truth.

It's often been said to me, that I'm too good of a person because I grant forgiveness to whoever asks for it - and this is not me being arrogant, it's just a fact - usually, whether they're deserving of forgiveness or not. The truth is, I'm a very selfish person, because forgiving them makes me feel like a better person. Forgiving makes it easier for me to be happy - and I so do love my happiness. It takes too much out of me, to hold tight to that acquittal, and it sows too much dissent within myself.

I'm only human, and I get mad; I feel hurt; I can even, on the odd (very odd) occasion, turn irrational...but if it's in my power to show mercy to someone who needs exoneration - whether they've asked for it and meant it, or not - then I will. Don't get me wrong: step over a certain line, and my inner bitch will come alive...but really, what's supposed to taste like salt and ash at the tip of my pride...really tastes like warm, vanilla custard.

And it's not because I'm a good person or because I'm partial to their need for atonement...it's to appease my own need for self-absolution.

Surely a mythical creature...

Hi World - 3am and I'm sitting on the floor of my room wondering why the fudge I'm not asleep - and the only answer I can come up with is, "there's not enough hours in the day". True story.

I've recently read the much hyped about "Fifty Shades of Grey" Trilogy by Erika Leonard, pseudonym E. L. James. Getting through the first chapter alone was a mission for me - I had to fight the urge at every line to simply shut the book, and close it up in some dark hole for all eternity - after I made it alive past the first book, I decided to move onto the following book to satiate my curiosity and see where this Twilight-style saga led...my poor mind kept having trouble wrapping itself around the cloying cheesiness of it all (intelligent, handsome, untouchable billionaire with deep emotional problems and masochistic tendencies falls for the quiet, naive, mousy girl who he eventually cannot live without because she frees him from his inner demons with her pure, undying love - all in a space of less than three weeks).

And I sat there, incredulously, throughout all one-hundred and fifty shades, wondering, "this is on the world's best seller lists?!" Where has the culture of good writing been banished to? At first I simply could not understand the obsession that women the world over had for this book, but I slowly began to realise that the pages and pages of mediocre writing, tacky clichés, soft porn and,quite frankly, overkill baseline plot represented one thing that every woman wants out of life: more.

It's that need for more out of life than a single-minded career or some compromise relationship. Every woman, even us ambitious and independent ones, all want that elusive, "something more". The hearts and the flowers and the corny pet names, and the one guy who is willing to turn his whole life upside down and topsy turvy - to do just about anything to put a smile on her face, a kink in her day, a spring in her step and keep the big, bad world at bay.

THAT, is the reason why this rather glorified Mills & Boons is so popular among the female population of the world - and also the reason why, despite my appal at the uninspired use of words and unimaginative writing, not to forget the sketchy grammar and road-kill of catchphrases, I read the Trilogy from beginning to end.

It's one-hundred and fifty shades of fucked up - but also, one-hundred and fifty shades of More.

Say it isn't so!

I haven't left this town since the 10th of April this year. I realised this a few minutes ago. It's been one month and 21 days since I've watched a movie in a cinema, or eaten out, or even at the most base point, walked aimlessly through a freaking mall like most people do on a Sunday afternoon. That's 52 days since I left the middle of nowhere.

Someone save me! I'm turning into a hermit.