So, I've started going to gym.
Again.
I mean, I belong to a gym. And its great: I live with the peace of mind that anytime I wish - anytime at all, I can indeed get off my lazy ass, and get ... whats that mythical thing of which I hear people speak... 'fit'.
Which is also good news for the donkey.
Now before you go all 'what a waste of money' on me, let me say that I used to be pretty good about taking full advantage of my membership.
Three times a week pretty good, in fact. Then I went overseas for a month and thats when things started to go *ahem* pear-shaped.
Now, 'overseas' really means I went back home to visit family. Not a glamarous getaway to some idyllic location where I spent my days wasting away on some bejewelled beach sipping sangrias and working on my hammock technique.
Nay.
I went home.
Going home of course means spending quality time with family, great food, not having to do a whole lot. The perfect storm for blossoming into a human blimp.
It also means getting told how very thin you are and how you need to put some meat on those bones, as mothers the world over tend to do when their prodigal returns from overseas.
And so it was, that my mother took on the responsibility of reaffirming her matriarchial dominance in the family hierarchy, the role of caretaker. Awesome!
I had the most amazing home-cooked meals made for me. Every. Single. Day. And let me tell you, my mother is a great believer in the deep fryer. If it can be dipped in hot oil and sizzled to a golden crisp, it will be. Watching her cook is like watching a sacrificial rite where some pour soul is surrendered into the bubbling wrath of the deep-fryer volcano.
And so, after a month long sojourn at home, being served everything under the sun, (all beautifully crisped, of course) I came home a couple of kilograms heavier, and with a big fat smile on my face and a belly to match.
Gym, was the furtherest thing from my mind.
And this remained so until last week Saturday when I decided to venture out to the gym once more - 2 months on. Ironically, this coincided with panicked realistion that I no longer fitted into my jeans unless I wore them with the button undone, which I can resolutely say is not a good look (unless your going for the whole 'I'm a beer toting trucker' look).
So instead of buying new wind socks erm, I mean jeans, I decided that I already had an investment at the gym and dammit, I would use it. Saturday was the natural choice, given that I knew the gym would be relatively empty. Perfect for refamiliarising myself with where everything was.
It also meant I could adjust the weight down to a couple of bars (to avoid the risk of an annurism) without being scoffed at. Needless to say, after my inaugural workout, I barely made it home, and as I type this, I feel as though I have recently been involved in a severe car collision. I have a new apprecaition of muscles I never knew I had.
Despite the pain, it feels good to feel like I've put some effort in. Each painful letter I type is a testament to the fact that I have made a start, and when it comes to gym, that’s the most difficult part of all.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
Resurrection
Hi everyone - after a long absence I am back here at TigerEffect.
Something keeps pulling me back here - its like a great big fridge magnet.
I'm not going to make hollow promises about being sure to post something new everyday, or that the quality of my incessant ramblings will always be of a particular thouroughbred standard.
No dear readers. What I can tell you however is that I shall post when I can, and what I can, and live in the desperate hope that its packaged in such a way that I can hold on to whatever small following I have. Even if thats just the one of you (love you mom).
Much has happened since my last posting - a move across the world, the start of a new career and moving upstairs from a brothel. Yes indeed, its a very spicey life I lead boys and girls.
So hold on to your hats, Im blogging again...
Something keeps pulling me back here - its like a great big fridge magnet.
I'm not going to make hollow promises about being sure to post something new everyday, or that the quality of my incessant ramblings will always be of a particular thouroughbred standard.
No dear readers. What I can tell you however is that I shall post when I can, and what I can, and live in the desperate hope that its packaged in such a way that I can hold on to whatever small following I have. Even if thats just the one of you (love you mom).
Much has happened since my last posting - a move across the world, the start of a new career and moving upstairs from a brothel. Yes indeed, its a very spicey life I lead boys and girls.
So hold on to your hats, Im blogging again...
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Fear Factor
OK!
All you faithful little tigers out there can at last heave a sigh of
relief: The tigereffect is back in the blogging seat.
Don’t roll your eyes boys and girls I know you want it.
It’s been a while, I admit and I take full responsibility for any
reader's deaths caused through the sustained pining away for more
insightful blog entries. Life can be cruel.
Today’s blopic concerns our innate tendency towards fear as we age.
In English, that means that our propensity to crap in our pants
increases in correlation with our age. And I’m not talking about
incontinence or the origins of Dr Whites. No, ladies and gentlemen,
Im talking about fearing more as we age.
For example, a 10 year old child will blissfully board an airplane,
his only concern being the sweet old lady next to him who smells
vaguely of potpourri and who seems to be going for the
how-many-mints-fit-in-a-10-year-old world record.
(The answer, by the way is 31 567 set by little Jimmy 'Roundmouth'
Jenkins on a British Airways flight from New York to London in 1992.
But more on that in another blog.)
In thirty years time, our same specimen is clutching his seat with
whitened knuckles and sweat beads forming on his forehead. And that’s
just in the taxi on the way to the airport.
At the tender age of 10, the thought of the engine falling off the
left wing, and the plane plummeting 30 000 feet in a blaze of fire
simply doesn’t cross his mind. At at the age of 30, we start having to
drug ourselves before we board so that we can bypass the horrors of
dying in a great fiery inferno. Instead the only drug induced dream
we have is of teletubbies. I’m not sure which is worse.
Nevertheless it seems that as we age we all tend to become more
cautious of life, and in doing, we start restricting possibility. And
what is life without possibility? Its arriving at your destination
all sweaty palmed - wishing you were that little mint smelling ten
year old whistling blissfully through customs.
All you faithful little tigers out there can at last heave a sigh of
relief: The tigereffect is back in the blogging seat.
Don’t roll your eyes boys and girls I know you want it.
It’s been a while, I admit and I take full responsibility for any
reader's deaths caused through the sustained pining away for more
insightful blog entries. Life can be cruel.
Today’s blopic concerns our innate tendency towards fear as we age.
In English, that means that our propensity to crap in our pants
increases in correlation with our age. And I’m not talking about
incontinence or the origins of Dr Whites. No, ladies and gentlemen,
Im talking about fearing more as we age.
For example, a 10 year old child will blissfully board an airplane,
his only concern being the sweet old lady next to him who smells
vaguely of potpourri and who seems to be going for the
how-many-mints-fit-in-a-10-year-old world record.
(The answer, by the way is 31 567 set by little Jimmy 'Roundmouth'
Jenkins on a British Airways flight from New York to London in 1992.
But more on that in another blog.)
In thirty years time, our same specimen is clutching his seat with
whitened knuckles and sweat beads forming on his forehead. And that’s
just in the taxi on the way to the airport.
At the tender age of 10, the thought of the engine falling off the
left wing, and the plane plummeting 30 000 feet in a blaze of fire
simply doesn’t cross his mind. At at the age of 30, we start having to
drug ourselves before we board so that we can bypass the horrors of
dying in a great fiery inferno. Instead the only drug induced dream
we have is of teletubbies. I’m not sure which is worse.
Nevertheless it seems that as we age we all tend to become more
cautious of life, and in doing, we start restricting possibility. And
what is life without possibility? Its arriving at your destination
all sweaty palmed - wishing you were that little mint smelling ten
year old whistling blissfully through customs.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, March 05, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
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…
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…
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
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)
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)
Friday, January 26, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Ornithology 101
My grandmother passed away a few years ago.
She was a sprightly, eccentric, eighty year old. In her hey day had been a consummate musician, playing first desk violin in symphony orchestras, and teaching music right into her old age. She was a grande olde dame - an actress – a drama queen and known by everyone in the little town she lived in
In her last years though, 60 years of smoking started to take its toll. She had taken up the habit as a young girl, when it was fashionable and trendy. In the end, she battled to breathe. She always had an asthma pump close by, and finally an oxygen tank towards the end.
She had also started to go senile, and started asking the same questions repeatedly until it drove us completely and utterly mental.
One question in particular comes to mind. She always asked it while she sat on a comfortable couch in our lounge, gazing out into the garden, sipping her wine (she always had to have a glass of wine) and eating her lunch.
“What is that” She would ask – a bony finger extended towards the glass door panes,
“– hanging in the tree down there? Is it a bird’s nest?”
“No gran” one of us would reply, “that is an air plant.”
My mother had a bunch of wispy air plants which she liked to hang in a tree which stood directly in front of our glass doors. They looked like Gandalf’s flowing beard hanging there, grey and delicate swaying gently in the wind.
A few minutes would pass. Gran would sip her wine and gaze out at the garden. And then…
“What is that – hanging in the tree down there? Is it a bird’s nest?” Again with the finger.
Eyes would roll in our heads. “No gran, it’s an air plant.”
After the 5th time we were all restraining ourselves from screaming deliriously like possessed banshees.
This would carry on for half an hour until the wine glass needed refilling. And then the question would resume unabated.
Everyday would be the same. Lunch would be served, gran would get her glass of wine, and while we sat around her, she would repeatedly ask:
“What is that – hanging in the tree down there? Is it a bird’s nest?”
And every time, we would take it in turns to answer. It was not a bird’s nest, it is an air plant. We did it in relays, just for the sake of sanity. By the end of lunch we had bulging veins in our foreheads. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
One afternoon however, we sat as we always did. My gran was in her spot on the couch, with a glass of sweet white on the coffee table beside her. Her lunch was on a tray, complete with condiments and napkin and we all silently prepared ourselves for the inevitable. My mother took her Valium®, I took my Calmettes™.
Sure enough, after a few minutes, the inevitable persistence began.
“What is that – hanging in the tree down there? Is it a bird’s nest?”
“YES!” my father burst out like a popped balloon “YES! YES! YES!”
We all looked at other, stunned. We were all wide awake now, sitting wide eyed on the edge of our seats, waiting in anticipation of what would happen next. The room had gone suddenly silent.
“OH!” replied my gran unperturbed, taking another sip of wine. “Well it’s a very strange looking bird’s nest.” Another sip. “What kind of bird is it?”
“A red breasted coastal chook” my dad replied, with the calm of human kindness.
We all looked at each other.
“Oh,” muttered my gran “I’ve never heard of that one before.”
She never asked about the nest again.
Today, any anomalies we come across in our family are known as red breasted coastal chooks or sub species thereof.
She was a sprightly, eccentric, eighty year old. In her hey day had been a consummate musician, playing first desk violin in symphony orchestras, and teaching music right into her old age. She was a grande olde dame - an actress – a drama queen and known by everyone in the little town she lived in
In her last years though, 60 years of smoking started to take its toll. She had taken up the habit as a young girl, when it was fashionable and trendy. In the end, she battled to breathe. She always had an asthma pump close by, and finally an oxygen tank towards the end.
She had also started to go senile, and started asking the same questions repeatedly until it drove us completely and utterly mental.
One question in particular comes to mind. She always asked it while she sat on a comfortable couch in our lounge, gazing out into the garden, sipping her wine (she always had to have a glass of wine) and eating her lunch.
“What is that” She would ask – a bony finger extended towards the glass door panes,
“– hanging in the tree down there? Is it a bird’s nest?”
“No gran” one of us would reply, “that is an air plant.”
My mother had a bunch of wispy air plants which she liked to hang in a tree which stood directly in front of our glass doors. They looked like Gandalf’s flowing beard hanging there, grey and delicate swaying gently in the wind.
A few minutes would pass. Gran would sip her wine and gaze out at the garden. And then…
“What is that – hanging in the tree down there? Is it a bird’s nest?” Again with the finger.
Eyes would roll in our heads. “No gran, it’s an air plant.”
After the 5th time we were all restraining ourselves from screaming deliriously like possessed banshees.
This would carry on for half an hour until the wine glass needed refilling. And then the question would resume unabated.
Everyday would be the same. Lunch would be served, gran would get her glass of wine, and while we sat around her, she would repeatedly ask:
“What is that – hanging in the tree down there? Is it a bird’s nest?”
And every time, we would take it in turns to answer. It was not a bird’s nest, it is an air plant. We did it in relays, just for the sake of sanity. By the end of lunch we had bulging veins in our foreheads. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
One afternoon however, we sat as we always did. My gran was in her spot on the couch, with a glass of sweet white on the coffee table beside her. Her lunch was on a tray, complete with condiments and napkin and we all silently prepared ourselves for the inevitable. My mother took her Valium®, I took my Calmettes™.
Sure enough, after a few minutes, the inevitable persistence began.
“What is that – hanging in the tree down there? Is it a bird’s nest?”
“YES!” my father burst out like a popped balloon “YES! YES! YES!”
We all looked at other, stunned. We were all wide awake now, sitting wide eyed on the edge of our seats, waiting in anticipation of what would happen next. The room had gone suddenly silent.
“OH!” replied my gran unperturbed, taking another sip of wine. “Well it’s a very strange looking bird’s nest.” Another sip. “What kind of bird is it?”
“A red breasted coastal chook” my dad replied, with the calm of human kindness.
We all looked at each other.
“Oh,” muttered my gran “I’ve never heard of that one before.”
She never asked about the nest again.
Today, any anomalies we come across in our family are known as red breasted coastal chooks or sub species thereof.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Go For Green
Life is the most complicated, intricate, cruel and beautiful creature I have ever met. It’s quite beguiling. It can hold you tenderly in its hand and nurture you. It can also squeeze you till your very last breath is all but spent and the fire has faded from your eyes.
There is no beast as cold and unforgiving. Yet there is nothing so fragile and vulnerable. There is nothing more robust, and full of hope and potential, yet nothing more fleeting.
Above all however, there is no taming this beast. No cage or whip exists that could bring this Flaming Tiger into submission. It’s utterly fascinating,
One story which has stayed with me since I first heard it is a perfect example of the Tiger Effect. It makes you realize that we are more than the sum of our parts, that what we do today – however ordinary we may think it may be - could change the face of the Earth tomorrow. It shows that we are all interconnected and that we are all a part of the Tiger.
SEPTEMBER 10 2001
A young woman shops in a downtown Manhattan department store. It is her husband’s birthday and she wants to buy him a new golfing shirt.
He always looks so good in them, she thinks to herself, running her hand down the rack. She narrows her choice to two final colors – green, and orange.
She pauses for a few seconds and holds the two shirts at arms length. She decides to go for green – it will complement his eyes.
He can always change it if he doesn’t like it, after all…
SEPTEMBER 11 2001A young man walks through the main entrance of a department store in downtown Manhattan. He walks straight to the inquiry desk. His pace is brisk – he is late for work already – but this should only take a few minutes.
Placing the plastic bag he is carrying with him on the counter, he explains to the assistant that he would like to exchange his green golfing shirt for an orange one.
Moments later, an explosion is heard as the first of two commercial jet liners slam into the World Trade Center, where he worked on one of the topmost floors.
* * *
Who could have guessed that in those few casual seconds, as she waived her hand from golf shirt to golf shirt, the woman was deciding whether her husband would live or die.
Orange, Green, Orange, Green. This is the TigerEffect.
There is no beast as cold and unforgiving. Yet there is nothing so fragile and vulnerable. There is nothing more robust, and full of hope and potential, yet nothing more fleeting.
Above all however, there is no taming this beast. No cage or whip exists that could bring this Flaming Tiger into submission. It’s utterly fascinating,
One story which has stayed with me since I first heard it is a perfect example of the Tiger Effect. It makes you realize that we are more than the sum of our parts, that what we do today – however ordinary we may think it may be - could change the face of the Earth tomorrow. It shows that we are all interconnected and that we are all a part of the Tiger.
SEPTEMBER 10 2001
A young woman shops in a downtown Manhattan department store. It is her husband’s birthday and she wants to buy him a new golfing shirt.
He always looks so good in them, she thinks to herself, running her hand down the rack. She narrows her choice to two final colors – green, and orange.
She pauses for a few seconds and holds the two shirts at arms length. She decides to go for green – it will complement his eyes.
He can always change it if he doesn’t like it, after all…
SEPTEMBER 11 2001A young man walks through the main entrance of a department store in downtown Manhattan. He walks straight to the inquiry desk. His pace is brisk – he is late for work already – but this should only take a few minutes.
Placing the plastic bag he is carrying with him on the counter, he explains to the assistant that he would like to exchange his green golfing shirt for an orange one.
Moments later, an explosion is heard as the first of two commercial jet liners slam into the World Trade Center, where he worked on one of the topmost floors.
* * *
Who could have guessed that in those few casual seconds, as she waived her hand from golf shirt to golf shirt, the woman was deciding whether her husband would live or die.
Orange, Green, Orange, Green. This is the TigerEffect.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Friday Nirvana
Friday Nirvana
“Lying straight facing upward
Limbs sore, stiff and cold
Soul flying towards heaven”
“Lying straight facing upward
Limbs sore, stiff and cold
Soul flying towards heaven”
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Wednesday Vista
Wednesday Vista
“Golden orb at twelve above
The climber’s summit
The view before the descent”
“Golden orb at twelve above
The climber’s summit
The view before the descent”
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Friday, November 17, 2006
Pass Me My Kimono
I just love haikus. They have a certain charm about them. They are so just so damn cute. They are like little bubbles of flavored words that are simply bursting with meaning and emotion. You can almost put one of these raspberry flavored tidbits into your mouth and feel it pop against your tongue.
Haiku tasty, berry tasty.
Traditionally, the Haiku originates from Japan, being written for thousands of years by long bearded Japanese sages as they sat under the magnificent flamingo canopies of peach blossoms, the dappled sun upon their silken Kimonos.
It’s no wonder that most portray images of the nature, perfection, emotion and beauty so evident in the incredible vistas and cultures of ancient Japan.
The Japanese with their bonsais have an incredible fascination with petite perfection – small reflections of a greater beauty. So it is with the Haiku.
Only three lines of 7, 5 and 7 syllables, Haikus are capsules of inspiration.
Words are chosen with utmost care and it’s not unusual for those three lines to leave an indelible impression on your mind, long after the last words are read.
These are some of the reasons why I love haiku and why I have decided to start a mini blogthology based on a ‘days of the week’ theme.
Readers are welcome to submit their own little bursts of joy.
Here is the first of the series:
Friday
“Smile inside a cubicle
Sparkle in the eye
The face of liberation”
Haiku tasty, berry tasty.
Traditionally, the Haiku originates from Japan, being written for thousands of years by long bearded Japanese sages as they sat under the magnificent flamingo canopies of peach blossoms, the dappled sun upon their silken Kimonos.
It’s no wonder that most portray images of the nature, perfection, emotion and beauty so evident in the incredible vistas and cultures of ancient Japan.
The Japanese with their bonsais have an incredible fascination with petite perfection – small reflections of a greater beauty. So it is with the Haiku.
Only three lines of 7, 5 and 7 syllables, Haikus are capsules of inspiration.
Words are chosen with utmost care and it’s not unusual for those three lines to leave an indelible impression on your mind, long after the last words are read.
These are some of the reasons why I love haiku and why I have decided to start a mini blogthology based on a ‘days of the week’ theme.
Readers are welcome to submit their own little bursts of joy.
Here is the first of the series:
Friday
“Smile inside a cubicle
Sparkle in the eye
The face of liberation”
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
All Things Bright and Beautiful
“All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all…”
Snigger. It’s this thing I have started doing lately…I just can’t help myself.
Every time someone starts talking to me, my mind automatically begins assessing which animal they most closely resemble. And let me tell you, sometimes the likenesses are uncanny.
I wish I could stop but I just cant, and its severely impeding my focusing skills.
How am I supposed to concentrate on a conversation when it’s coming from the horse’s mouth, so to speak?
So far today, I’ve had close encounters with a hippopotamus, a lemur, a skunk, and a dingo. And its only 11am. Where are the FENCES?
I can just imagine some of these people, ferreting about, eating berries and nuts. Gathering nuts. Licking their nuts.
And, just like their animal counterparts, some people are furry, some are poisonous, some are highly strung and some people are completely slimy and loathsome.
Like Big Toad sitting over there near the photocopier machine. Ribbit.
Yes ladies and gentlemen we certainly live in a menagerie of creatures great and small.
And what matters is not so much that we should tolerate and embrace the fact that everyone is different and unique. It’s not that we need to learn to respect the incredible variety of our species, which reflects the amazing diversity of our cultures, our heritage, and our history.
What matters today is where you sit on the food chain. What drives the world is money, greed and power.
What a sad indictment for a creature that has more possibility in a fingertip than all the animals in the world.
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all…”
Snigger. It’s this thing I have started doing lately…I just can’t help myself.
Every time someone starts talking to me, my mind automatically begins assessing which animal they most closely resemble. And let me tell you, sometimes the likenesses are uncanny.
I wish I could stop but I just cant, and its severely impeding my focusing skills.
How am I supposed to concentrate on a conversation when it’s coming from the horse’s mouth, so to speak?
So far today, I’ve had close encounters with a hippopotamus, a lemur, a skunk, and a dingo. And its only 11am. Where are the FENCES?
I can just imagine some of these people, ferreting about, eating berries and nuts. Gathering nuts. Licking their nuts.
And, just like their animal counterparts, some people are furry, some are poisonous, some are highly strung and some people are completely slimy and loathsome.
Like Big Toad sitting over there near the photocopier machine. Ribbit.
Yes ladies and gentlemen we certainly live in a menagerie of creatures great and small.
And what matters is not so much that we should tolerate and embrace the fact that everyone is different and unique. It’s not that we need to learn to respect the incredible variety of our species, which reflects the amazing diversity of our cultures, our heritage, and our history.
What matters today is where you sit on the food chain. What drives the world is money, greed and power.
What a sad indictment for a creature that has more possibility in a fingertip than all the animals in the world.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Calling all Kooks
My mother. She’s as kooky as ever she could be. I sometimes just stand there, mouth agog at some of the hair brained schemes she comes up with – all with complete conviction. Every plan she hatches is to her a stroke of pure genius, such that would bring a tear to her eye should it ever make the shift from the conceptual to 3D reality.
Truth be told however, the vast majority of these schemes leave most people a little pale or at the least, feeling slightly uneasy. Stomach cramps and the like.
The latest plan she gleefully shared with us the other day was another sparkling gem of insanity. And it weighed about 82 carats.
“Lets make a huge aviary out of that great chasm !!!”
She points ecstatically over the lawn to a huge fissure on our farm carved out of the ground from millions of years of erosion.
An uneasy silence hangs in the room as we all look at each other nervously. Somewhere in the distance a dog barks. Time passes.
The site of this proposed aviary is probably big enough to engulf a whaling boat, a double decker school bus and the British Armed Forces with a few spaces to spare. Its bottom is filled with water, which in turn is inhabited by crawly things and legavaans [sic] (which are huge komodo type dragon reptiles with forked tongues and an appetite for little fluffy creatures. And birds. And bird eggs.)
The fact that you would need about 5 kilometers of netting, 300 tons of pre-stressed steel, 3000 pine trees in decking, a rifle (for the dragons) and a Masters degree in engineering to get the job done doesn’t seem to enter her mind at this point.
My father looks vaguely stressed. I would imagine he’s feeling pretty much the same as an Egyptian slave whose just been shown a copy of the blueprints for the pyramids of Giza.
At the end of the day however, these golden nuggets are what make her the person she is – they are her idiosyncratic fingerprints which no one else (God willing) could ever come close to replicating. To think of her as completely sane and practical would be stripping away the gloss from her personality. And trust me; we need glossy people in this world of ours.
If it weren’t for these people we would probably not have half the amazing inventions we take for granted today, that in the beginning were greeted with animosity and cries of “preposterous!”
Things like the telephone, flight, and wonderbras™
So to all you kooky people out there: I thank you.
Truth be told however, the vast majority of these schemes leave most people a little pale or at the least, feeling slightly uneasy. Stomach cramps and the like.
The latest plan she gleefully shared with us the other day was another sparkling gem of insanity. And it weighed about 82 carats.
“Lets make a huge aviary out of that great chasm !!!”
She points ecstatically over the lawn to a huge fissure on our farm carved out of the ground from millions of years of erosion.
An uneasy silence hangs in the room as we all look at each other nervously. Somewhere in the distance a dog barks. Time passes.
The site of this proposed aviary is probably big enough to engulf a whaling boat, a double decker school bus and the British Armed Forces with a few spaces to spare. Its bottom is filled with water, which in turn is inhabited by crawly things and legavaans [sic] (which are huge komodo type dragon reptiles with forked tongues and an appetite for little fluffy creatures. And birds. And bird eggs.)
The fact that you would need about 5 kilometers of netting, 300 tons of pre-stressed steel, 3000 pine trees in decking, a rifle (for the dragons) and a Masters degree in engineering to get the job done doesn’t seem to enter her mind at this point.
My father looks vaguely stressed. I would imagine he’s feeling pretty much the same as an Egyptian slave whose just been shown a copy of the blueprints for the pyramids of Giza.
At the end of the day however, these golden nuggets are what make her the person she is – they are her idiosyncratic fingerprints which no one else (God willing) could ever come close to replicating. To think of her as completely sane and practical would be stripping away the gloss from her personality. And trust me; we need glossy people in this world of ours.
If it weren’t for these people we would probably not have half the amazing inventions we take for granted today, that in the beginning were greeted with animosity and cries of “preposterous!”
Things like the telephone, flight, and wonderbras™
So to all you kooky people out there: I thank you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)