Spring Cleaning

Saturday proved the perfect day for a Spring clean. It was the first time in a long time that I finally had some time to myself. A breathing space to sort out my mind, my thoughts and generally, my ‘stuff’. I got stuck in. Unlike some of the other members of my family, I am ruthless when it comes to clearing up. I don’t generally cling to things for posterity, or the off chance that I may need them in 53 years time. My mother on the other hand has a crusty tube of ‘Burnol’ that is estimated to be 15 years old. Apparently, it’s very good.
After clearing away most of the unwanted clutter I came across a blue bag. I knew what it was; I just hadn’t opened it for a long time. Life had just been too busy. At least, that’s the excuse.

Taking the bag through to the bedroom, I sat on my bed and opened the flap. Inside, was the familiar black case. Although it looked a little dustier than I remembered. A little sadder somehow. I drew it from the bag, and pulled back the small clasps that fastened it closed. I drew a breath as I opened the lid.
There inside it lay, like a forgotten child. The once dark and rich wood was now cold, and covered with a thin film of loneliness. The music it once played only an echo of a memory.
Looking down at the instrument was a glimpse at a corner of my soul. A part of me that I had allowed to be forgotten, which was now hidden, shrouded in darkness. It was like meeting a stranger on a bus. At least, you recognise the face, but you battle with the name. Taking each piece from the casing, and holding them in my hands in turn, was an elephant ritual.; turning the bones of the dead. Remembering.

Sitting on my bed that sunny afternoon, I remembered the joy and fulfilment the instrument had given me. It was time I remembered the things that are precious to me. It was time I stopped being so busy. It was time to play again.

Sitting on my bed that day, it was me that needed the spring clean.

Desperately Seeking

I need to get this off my chest. ..
It’s something I have been agonizing over for the last few days and I can no longer hold it inside of me anymore!

Well, to tell you the truth, I am desperately seeking.

I’m seeking the end of broken promises.
I’m seeking the day they phone me back like they said they would.
I want to know what its like to be told the truth.
To be treated like I’m the only person in the world.

People make promises but furnish shattered dreams.
They tell you they’ll call you but they never do.
They make you believe them; you can rely on them they say.
They look you in the eye.
Then they let you down, they crush you.

I am desperately seeking….. service delivery.

With the current saturation of possums, minks and imbeciles in business these days, I already turn a delightful shade of flamingo pink thinking of the upcoming 2010 soccer world cup to be hosted here in South Africa
That’s what I am when it comes to service delivery in this country: an embarrassed pink flamingo with my head planted firmly under my wing. Wake me up when it’s all over I say!

I decided in desperation one day to call a customer care line number.

I can say with absolute certainty that this particular call center is run by a wood goblin, because all I got on my side was panpipe music. I hate panpipe music. And I hate wood goblins. It was enough to make you want to drive a blunt pencil through your forehead.
An hour later, I managed to complete my query, after which I was compelled to book myself into therapy.

Yes, we need to upgrade our stadiums, and yes we desperately need to address public transport, crime and a host of other concerns. But if South Africa wants to compete at an international level, she needs to pick service levels back up from around her ankles lest she trips over them in 2010, otherwise she is going to be caught with her knickers down. I don’t care how good her legs look.

It’s going to be story’s of the lack of care, empathy and interest in our guests that will be told back home, rather than the fact that they sat in the new section of green point stadium.

In the meantime, I’ll be at the edge of the water on one leg, siphoning for freshwater plankton.

No Omlets Here

It’s been a while, I apologize. ..


For Himmler


She was sitting there at the table, with her flaming red hair. Her Coca-Cola making a ring of perspiration in the morning heat; I think it was her breakfast. I wouldn’t be surprised.
This is someone who used to race the little wooden book cart down the aisles of the school library.
With me on it.
No sensible omelets here.

I think I borrowed her tip-ex during an accounting class (don’t ask). I made a friend in return. It was all downhill from there.

11 years later, we find ourselves at the table, a little older, a little calmer. A little.

We don’t Xerox our faces anymore, or hold wild karaoke extravaganza evenings. We don’t have pizza binges and have given up our addiction for chocolate tumbles. We don’t sit in our comfy beanbags at the Zanzibar; we no longer sip our favorite wine.

But we do have coke for breakfast. And what a lovely coke it was.

I’m so glad I ran out of tip-ex.

Happy Endings

I read an interesting article in the newspaper yesterday about movie fans being able to change the endings of their favorite films using special software.
I would definitely have Leonardo Di Caprio toss Kate Winslet overboard right after saying “Do you trust me?” in Titanic. Yip that could definitely work. I’m seeing her washing up somewhere in Poland. Or being rescued by a fur seal. Or Vikings. Or having her toes nibbled off by surface feeders. The possibilities are endless.
And that’s what I like – the ability to exercise freedom of expression and get the creative juices flowing. So, in the true spirit of giving I thought Id hand over the reins to my devoted readers (I know you’re out there) to finish the ending of the story.

Post your one stanza comment, and let the story unfold.

Rules:
- No obscenity
- No foul language
- No testing on animals.



There is a place, down on the coast
Where the sea and river meet
The days are hot, the winds blow cool
And the fragrant blossoms sweet.

One fine day, a traveler came
With the northern breeze
A long grey beard and walking cane
(To help his failing knees)

He wandered into the nearest inn
And leaned against the bar
His eyes glowed like winter storms
And his voice as thick as tar

“A pint good man” he paused a while
His voice now strangely soft
“20 years in shackles I bin
And missed the liquid oft”

He told his story of long ago
Of when he was a lad
How he became a prisoner
The adventures he had had…

Heaven and Back Again

I’d like to hear from all of you who have (or say you have) experienced some kind of near death experience. By that I don’t mean the time you almost ate a green potato chip. I’m talking about the time where you experienced floating out of your body – you know with the white light and deep baritone voice accompanied by harps and panpipe lift music.

While there is no real scientific proof that life after death does in fact exist, there are so many people with compelling stories of their near death experiences. One such story -although not a first-hand account of a near death experience- comes from a good family friend. She tells her story from a few years ago when she was undergoing chemotherapy sessions for cancer. It certainly is food for thought and makes you wonder what really lies beyond the unknown…

I have known Cathy* for almost 20 years and you couldn’t wish to meet a more down to earth, happy and full-of-life person. She is vivacious, positive and fun and when you are with her you can feel the contagious warmth of her personality.
While undergoing chemotherapy in hospital, she recalls waking up one day in her bed and seeing her brother sitting at her feet.
She recalls his beard had grown thick and full and he looked radiantly healthy sitting there at the end of the bed. He assured her she was going to be alright.
Her brother, an avid pilot, had died in an airplane crash years ago.

When asked whether it could not have been the affect of medication, she remains absolute. It was clear, lucid, and certainly not a figment of her drugged mind. And I believe her.

Today, monthly checkups and scans confirm she is cancer free.

What’s your story?

(* Name changed)

Windows Of Opportunity

You know, we should all count our blessings. No matter what meandering path your life has led you down, there is always someone who has gone down a road with even more pot holes than yours. In some cases, they have veered off the straight and narrow and wandered into a bramble bush and in some severe cases, they have been flattened by passing traffic.

I was talking to someone last night about taking stock of what you have been blessed with in this world. It’s a worthwhile exercise, and once you start counting the good things in your life instead of always focusing on the bad, you will be astonished at how blessed you really are.

Imagine starting your life in a garbage bag.

Thousands of babies all over South Africa are literally thrown away with the garbage every year. This is because they are either unwanted, or the mothers cannot afford to keep them. Even worse, some babies are flushed down the toilet. Its part of the more gruesome reality of South Africa; a reality we don’t like to talk about. But, with a huge unemployment rate, and a huge chunk of the population living in squalid conditions, it’s a reality that many have to face everyday. And what a way to start your life: amongst the banana peels, maggots and rotting waste, under the hot African sun.

One organisation, ‘Hole in the Wall’, works tirelessly to help the many babies who are abandoned every year, left alone to die. The charity operates a ‘drop off’ spot – a hole in the wall – where mothers can leave their babies instead of throwing them away in the trash like an unwanted trinket. Its anonymous, it’s safe, and it’s a life saver.
Special sensors alert charity officials that a baby has been left at the hole in the wall. The baby is then collected and taken to safety and, where possible sent to a good foster home.
These babies are born again. They are reborn, passing through a second hole into a world with a brighter future and bluer sky.
They have been blessed.
You have been blessed.
I have been blessed.
Some
are
not
so
lucky.

Racism? What garbage.

After a nice long holiday break, it feels good to be back in the blogging seat.

I thought I would begin the new blogging year with a post on racism.
(Always a good ice breaker I always say…)

A few days ago…

There I was, driving along the freeway the other day, behind a dilapidated old truck, complete with smoky exhaust pipe and cracked tail lights.
Singing along with the lighthouse family, I was pretty happy until, all of a sudden, the unspeakable happened.
The driver of the pickup (in this case a black middle aged man), in his infinite wisdom, decided to throw out an empty 2liter plastic cola bottle into the road.

The events of the next 2 seconds unfolded as follows:
1. I had to swerve to avoid the litter- now hurtling towards my windscreen
2. I passed a kidney stone
3. I completely forgot the lyrics of the song in my fit of rage
4. I passed numerous expletives befitting of littering black people.

Once my blood pressure normalized however, I started to think over the incident with a bit more circumspection and objectivity.

Initially, I had thought “yeah, typical”, although not because I am racist. I know some truly wonderful and brilliant black people.
Here in South Africa, black people – generally speaking, litter. Don’t believe me? Come and visit.
It is common to hear stories of black people throwing out entire packets of leftover Kentucky Fried Chicken as they drive along the road – bones, boxes and plastic being strewn everywhere. Black areas of town are so filthy with litter you can hardly walk along the pavement. So it’s no wonder that black people in this country have earned themselves this reputation. It has nothing to do with racism – and everything to do with mass social behavior.

Generally speaking any country with a white population majority is spotless, while a country that is populated with a black majority is strewn with litter. Compare New Zealand, Canada, Australia with Kenya, India, and yes, South Africa. It’s not racist, it’s the truth.

I understand that the latter countries are developing countries – the unemployment rates, economic prowess and poverty levels cannot be compared to those of first world countries. However, placing an empty coke bottle in a rubbish bin costs nothing. It’s a matter of self pride, and pride in your country and environment. And if you can afford Kentucky Fried Chicken, you are hardly on the breadline.

Of course, white people litter too. Had the driver of the truck been a white person – or any other color for that matter, I would have been equally disgusted.

So why is this kind of environmental and social degradation allowed to continue? Surely we all have a right to live in a clean place? And surely we all have a personal responsibility to conduct ourselves that shows pride in the country we live in and respect for the people with whom we live?

I think one of the reasons there has been such a decline in these regards is that white people all over the globe are so scared to stand up for themselves in the fear of being called racists. Racism has become a comfortable scapegoat for unacceptable behavior. If S.A. truly was a rainbow nation, we as a people would be more demanding of each other – regardless of color.

I for one would love a clean, litter free country. But hey, call me a racist.