Monday, December 11

You are my sunshine

Dear Daniel

I recently betook myself to watch James Bond - Casino Royale. I do not generally like Bond movies, finding their formulaic plots, corny one-liners and sexually bland characters as attractive as a pig's anus.

However. The last James Bond, featuring Pierce being beaten up and tortured, gave me hope that Bond was on it's way to a better cinema experience for all. And I didn't fall alseep once.

And then. You came along. My darling, you are so very beautiful I almost cried. You are so very hot I could barely keep from sliding off my chair. Daniel, your searing - but not overwhelming - sexual appeal will keep me on tenterhooks for the next Bond movie. You may sleep with as many woman as ethically possible without introducing condoms - because then I get to see you naked. You (and obviously the forward thinking producers, director and scrip-writers [wouldn't want to forget them]) have brought life to the ailing and limp-willied personalities of Bond.

I love you. You are beautiful.
Yours in love,
Dorothy

Hot.

Tuesday, November 28

Ah, such bliss is mine

mumps/mʌmps/ – noun (used with a singular verb) Pathology
an infectious disease characterized by inflammatory swelling of the parotid and usually other salivary glands, and sometimes by inflammation of the testes or ovaries, caused by a paramyxovirus.

or

mumps - noun
an infectious disease that simulates old age and retirement by subjecting its victims to daytime tv and soft vegetables

So. Watched Borat on Friday, climbed a mountain and rolled down hills on SaturDAY, felt a little glandy Saturday NIGHT, stayed in, went to bed. Woke up Sunday morning with the right side of my face swollen up like a very swollen up thing.

Drove in a daze of self-pity to M-KEM in Bellville - 25km away from Woodstock but with nice tannies and ordentlike susters - to get the verdicts from the Meneer Doktor.

Mumps.

I am thirty for godssakes. T H I R T Y.
This is only supposed to happen to children right?


oh god
and tv?? it's SO HORRIBLE. it's so very very horrible.

i currently know that:

  • dezi wants to buy the boutique but jan-hendrik isn't keen (can you say D I V O R C E)
  • marlyna is the killer and that psychic's vision is going to come true because john is going to shoot her
  • brooke is still a slut and that lard arse mother in law of hers, stephanie, still a frigid cow with hair issues (not to mention botox girl's splendiforous lips)
  • um what else...oh DALLAS yes...um i had no idea Bobby was so hard core and Priscella such a Little Miss Priss
  • all my children...Anna might've lost her baby.

and that's only since Sunday.

I WANT MY LIFE BACK

as some of you may or may not know, i have this falling down dead issue. being in the same family as a nasty childhood friend of mine, meningitis, mumps upsets me and requires me to drink my OMEGA 3s like a drunk on parole.

that's all i have to write for now. my jaw is stiffening up again and the chill setting in.

Fare Thee Well Fellow Bloggers.

Yours in Fever
Dorothy

xx

Friday, November 24

The Black Hole



What you see here is The Terrible Bundle of Lost Things - what many have to know simply as The BAG. (I've included my mobile to validate size.)

My BAG is much like my CAR - a repository of crumpled and empty things, lying around for no other purpose than to irritate me and, more irritatingly, lying around for no other reason than I put it there.

My BAG has become an amusement to those around me - friends, family and strangers alike - and so I decided to peruse each item that has made its way into the various pockets and folds and to share with you the contents...

I challenge one and all to do the same - BAGS and MAGS (Man Bags) alike -

EMPTY YOUR RECEPTICLES OF STUFF AND SHARE WITH THE WORLD ITS CONTENTS!

here are mine:

  • 1 x Nokia
  • 1 x wooden bangle
  • 6 x Narcissus bulbs
  • 1 x Beat up Haruki Murakami - The Elephant Vanishes
  • 1 x crumpled tissue of unknown origin
  • 1 x overdue Notice To Apply For New Credit Card Format Driving Licence (an unnecessarily long title for UPDATE DRIVER'S)
  • 1 x overdue car licence renewal
  • 1 x journal
  • 1 x diary
  • 1 x passport
  • 1 x yogazone time schedule
  • 1 x wallet
  • 4 x pens
  • 1 x pilot flexigrip (just the best pacer in the whole world)
  • 1 x partnerless pen lid
  • 1 x undeveloped film
  • 1 x unsent letter
  • 1 x herbal mooti
  • 2 x starking apple
  • 10 (TEN) x hairbands (for what purpose TEN hairbands - i know not)
  • 1 x seapoint shopright till slip
  • R7, 15 in small change
  • various small bits of paper
  • an olive pip

Cough up people - what you got hiding in your bags...

Wednesday, November 15

sweat

yoga this morning

each move, each posture compelling the sweat from my pores - the power of bikram compels you, wet demon (except now, instead of Father Marion, I've got Martha Stewart buddahism).
i will my body to cry it's salty tears; my eyes are dry. mostly.

i imagine that out of my blood, my skin, my bones, the poisons will be extracted and left inconsequent on my limp towel - all traces of alcohol, nicotine, caffeine; all those memories of you lying hidden in my marrow, my cells, my stomach slowly drawn out with each breath

- breathe in, lift your arms, bend forward, stretching out your back -

the converted office with soft lighting and wall-to-wall mirrors is an office still. it is not a stretch for the hungry mind to savour the memories that come to me today. a smaller room of course but an office still - emerald green mats for grey, stark flourescent light for soft yellow light, real humidity for imitation

- second set, breathe in, lift your arms, bend forward, keeping your head up -

my whole body is still full of you. patience

- release, breathe out -

let go. i don't resist the memories any more. instead i welcome each one, turning it around in my mind's eye and inspecting it from each angle. a mother to a child not seen for years. what changes are there? none. they are still as they are, only not anymore. and no longer mine.

- come up, breathe in, lift your arms, turn to the side, begin -

i feel my muscles pull and twist, catch and ease into the mat. i am off balance today. my eagle is wobbly and the bird lopsided

- into savassana -

the corpse pose.

if this was then and the carpets emerald green and the lights flourescent and white white, i would leave here by a heavy metal door, find my slippers amongst the pile and head downstairs into the busy morning outside. the incense from the temple next to the scooters and the stench of chicken shit from the garden opposite would catch my nose. up on my scooter, the rush of morning air only vaguely cool and heavy with exhaust fumes already, brings me to our metal door and you still sleeping

- get ready for a slow sit up, inhale as you come up -

now, i leave the soft light and the grey carpets to go out into the city alone. out on the sidewalk smokers stand crosslegged, on the street taxis fly past. now i have my car to drive away in and the crisp atlantic ocean to blow my mind clear

- namaste

Monday, November 13

Why Straight Girls Like Gay Clubs

I went to my first gay bar on Saturday. The occasion was a birthday and the night was balmy.
I was wearing heels.
I had been warned and intrigued about Bronx by many (it's a hole but just so much FUN x 78) and it was time to check it out.
This is what I came to understand about Why Straight Girls Like Gay Bars.

1. They play Dolly Parton remixes.
2. The barman make good eye candy and you can oogle without anyone thinking you're trying to pick them up.
3. You can sit at the bar by yourself without anyone thinking you're there to be picked up.
4. You can dance your little heart out without anyone sidling up to you or grabbing your arse.
5. Nobody gives a toss how you look or how you dance.

Point 4 could be debated though. I was having a ball until Bernard decided God had a plan by placing us in the same seedy joint and proceeded to try gettin' jiggy wit it with me.

Damn straight boys - just never around when you want them to be.

Thursday, October 26

it's my party and i'll cry if i want to

There is only one day I hate more than New Year’s, it’s birthdays. I can’t think of a more self absorbed day where the onus to make a year worthwhile is entirely your responsibility. At least New Year’s is everybody’s problem.

When I was young(er) I thought that by thirty, I would:
BemarriedHavechildrenBesecureBesureofmyselfHavewrittenabookBeabletolove
supportacceptwithoutcritiscismwithouthesitationwithjudgementBeconfidentinmy
skinbebeautifulWithoutfaultWithoutflawWithoutpersonalityqiurksoratleastwith
confidenceenoughtocarrymyhugeegothroughtosomeshoreofcompletionHavecreated
somethingworthwhilemeaningfuleternalHavedealtwiththatcrazedmonkeyonmyback…

I had a dream once, where a feminine alien creature had a message for me:
You have the taste of Death on your lips, she said
and I floated off in the image of Captain Janeway.
But the fact is, that the act of my Living Life has always been coloured around the edges with a darker shade of dying. It’s perhaps why I found this particular birthday so particularly heavy. In my heart of hearts I never thought I would outlive my mother. And here I am outliving her, non the wiser or more expansive of presence.

Smallmindedness seems to run in the bloodline no matter where it’s cut.

I received an pink frilly card yesterday – the kind reserved for greetings sent from grannies to their unappreciative twelve year old grandchildren. Except it said ‘30’.

So, in recognition of the year past I decided to list some of the bigger things I learnt and am still trying to learn ------------------------------------

There are people you have to say goodbye to.
There are people that will have to say goodbye to you.

Things change - it is my next most dreaded fear next to death - i still respond to it like a child.
We are all essentially alone.

I will probably never shake the infantile need to connect totally to someone.
I will probably never shake the pointless desire to disconnect totally from life.
I am learning to be ok with so many things that I thought wouldn't be able to process.
If things do change - can I be certain that I will?
Theory means nothing.
I think one of the biggest paradoxes in my life is that i love life and abhor it in equal measure.
My hiccups are only cured by drinking water upside-down.

and the biggie is that, sometimes, shit just needs time.

Thursday, October 19

The Bog

Tell me, men, what is it exactly that you guys do on the toilet? No, seriously, what is it that compels you to spend half an hour to forty minutes on the porcelain altar? I have a housemate - not to mention past boyfriends - that actually spend this kind of time on the bog.

I'm compelled to question this strange behaviour until I am presented with a satisfactory response. Are there no better places to read a book/study your toenails/decipher skin and hair patterns on the tops of your feet? Because surely these are pasttimes better suited to other rooms in the house. So, really, WHAT IS IT YOU DO?? Are you communing with the gods? Are signs of the future to be read in your stool?

Anyone.

Please explain this strange compulsion.

Tuesday, October 17

Quotable Quotes

When your kid turns one, it's like hanging out with a miniature drunk. You have to hold onto them. They bump into things. They laugh and cry. They urinate. They vomit.
- Johnny Depp

Friday, October 13

the light & the dark of bonsaiing



The Light - plant steriods: SUPERTHRIVE





The Dark - mealybug: THE WHITE PLAGUE

God curse the mealybug of which I found one whole 2mm body on my recovering olive tree this morning. I feel no remorse for my actions. With a sharp intake of breath I whipped that soft little body of evil pus off the bark and squashed it between my fingers. I will show no mercy to the mealybug and it's fleecy vileness. And it with it's death it will spawn no others.

Thursday, October 5

Better red than believable

(I HATE BLOGSPOT'S INABILITY TO LOAD IMAGES)

As you may or may not have realized, red seems to be the new black for this season’s ad campaigning. I didn’t think it could get much worse than Coke being the beverage of choice for Chè. Now we have Zapatista Liberation Movement being flouted to sell liqui-fruit. It seems life’s become an anarchic rush to freedom for the young and beautiful. And lord knows, we all get thirsty during a heady bout of couping. Though I can’t for the life of me understand what the hell they’d be rebelling against? Are they slaves to the fashion industry?

It would’ve been far more believable - and infinitely more amusing - had they all been wearing black masks. But instead, semi-naked girls and boys of handsome expression suck back the tangy delights of fresh fruit and pour litres of juice down their throats whilst brandishing non-descript flags and hurling themselves over piles of non-descript stuff (maybe the remnants of believability) in a frenzy of primal fever that’s not entirely unlike a Hollywood rendition of a Rio carnival.

It’s amazing what a combination of Hollywood chic, good weather and stereotyping can do to enhance ones image of a distant near-impoverished,third-world country.

So it’s no small wonder that only revolutionaries south of the equator have garnered any interest from the Olympian heights of the marketing gods. Lord knows there’s nothing more unattractive than the hairy legs and bent backs of the commies up north. Not to mention that nasty starved and deformed look their comrades further east have going for them. Yuck. And no matter how you try, you simply couldn’t put a hunky spin on Mao, or a handsome, devil-may-care twist on Pol Pot. Not too mention Stalin and all the other fat pasties that make history so twisted.

My question is, when does socialism become cool here? I don’t see anyone hailing Zuma as the next Chè. Certainly COSATU doesn’t conjure up images of hot Latino summers filled with sex and rebelling against the system. In fact, when COSATU tries to fight privatisation, we’re mostly too busy shaking our heads and whining about the crap service we’re getting from these self-same companies. WHERE’S MY MAIL / CLEAN WATER / JOB / PUBLIC TRANSPORT / ELECTRICITY!!

Anyway, back to our ad. When that bronzed lady - the liberation leader I assume (it’s such an egalitarian world this new age of liberation) - adjusts her cap bearing the trademark Zapatista red star, and its all I can do not to choke on my wine. Later, a young lad bounces up and down, attractive in a rough and not-so-chocolate-box kind of way (those smart agencies), hand outstretched, beckoning, one imagines, to follow the gang into the great wide yonder of - what? Sex? Fruit juice? Make mine apricot please!

It seems that we’ve post-moderned ourselves out in the woolly world of sometime philosophy. And when anarchy and revolution become the dribbled-down wet dream of fashion designers and advertisers, you just know there’s something wrong with the world.

That's my two-cents about it.

Monday, August 28

lark - the herald angel sings


And summoned us to Mercury this Saturday past.

If you're looking for Cocteau Twins meets Electro-Goth Opera they're the band for you. I haven't been that turned on since Massive Attack.

Check out Lark here and if they're playing in your vicinity ignore the inevitable herds of britney goths and get your bottom there.

Thursday, August 24

The Life and Times of the Blog

Maeree and Arcadia both got me thinking about the concept of blogging this week. About the role it plays it adding depth to that ethereal sense of virtual community.

I was a late starter to the whole blogging thing and I quite like it. It’s home to all those little opinioned pieces that enjoy dialogue - in the limited sense of dialogue that my subject pieces allow - and that would be lost and lonely in the dark recesses of my journal.

But it does bring to question a few relevant issues for me, of which the exhibitionist nature of divulgence of whatever kind - physical, emotional, opinion - and blogging as a natural progression in media and communication interest me the most. The fact that there are entire sites dedicated to ‘normal’ people posturing face and fanny online and even more who feel a need to express themselves - and gain recognition - to and from a mostly faceless audience requires less a disparaging attitude of ‘the masses as opposed to the real artistes’ and more of a serious consideration of this phenomenon (of blogging) as an aspect of generational communication that stands as descendent to the Gutenberg press.

If limited and time consuming media served as an ideological stronghold of the religious and political oligarchies in the past, surely blogging and the global exchange of information on the web by the indiscriminate masses is something to be revered in the present day?

Maybe in our ‘free and fair’ society we have succumbed to the saccharine pleasures of online self-indulgence, but if blogging and the power of mass discontent having a voice was without tooth and claw, it would be difficult to understand why places like China bar or monitor the practice.

Even in South Africa bloggers were the first to question the absurdity of Zuma raping an HIV woman without a condom and then proclaiming that he was HIV free.

Huh?

The papers couldn’t run that. Maybe editorials could allude to the fact, but they couldn’t say outright: Zuma you dumb fuck: 1+1=2.

As for the literati - and my god I hate that word - being the only ‘group’ whose mutterings and quiverings about life are privy to exposure of whatever kind, I say this: humans are communicative, social creatures that will use whatever tools available to connect and express their own personal sense of divinity. The singular point of Being Published in a Book, and thus gaining access to that inner circle of Intellectuals and Artistes, has less to do with talent than it does with business acumen and marketing; and it has nothing to do with what should be deemed valuable.

I’m not saying that there aren’t works that have left indelible prints on culture and the collective consciousness, but making a change in somebody’s life with words is a power that we all have, that we exercise every day, and is hardly limited to the inside of a book cover.

I guess people like Marianne Thamm feel that the nebulous and thoroughly intangible online world diminishes the importance and structure of conveyed knowledge. Maybe it does - here today, deleted tomorrow hardly carries the weight of a universal, incorruptible message. But that in itself is the nature of our times. It seems out of place that there are those that still worship at the feet of Ozymandian concepts about art and literature.

Tuesday, August 22

where is satan

So Maeree wants to know how to see the evil - that GM so kindly warned us about - lurking in Sarah Moon paintings.

Loooook veeeeeeerrrrryyyyyy carefuuulllyyyyyyyy....

Saturday, August 19

Moonings about kitsch

Maeree's recent 'it's my blog and i'll post what i want to' and Do Kwang's loo artwork reminded me of Sarah Moon, that enigmatic pale faced pouter that adorned at least one wall of any house I walked into as kid. Anyone remember her?


I always pictured Sarah Moon to look something like her paintings - a flowery apparition in a haze of incense and rose petals. Turns out Sarah Moon looks less like a seventies love child and more like a cocktail-sipping retiree in Florida (couldn't find any younger pics of him).


Bijan Djamalzadeh

I had a heated debate with some friends of mine about the 'cool' value of certain pieces of established kitsch. Whereas Sarah Moon will never - in my books - be cool, pieces like Tretchikoff's brill blue and black faced girls are elevated to that realm of 'collectable kitsch'.


I think this'll be my kitsch week. More on this later.

Thursday, August 17

SATAN IS LIG



So this is how it's going to be. I noticed a little something wrong with the universe a few weeks ago. But nooooo, everyone was talking farms and music and and and...

This morning Marita informed me that the diabolical evil that is Lig magazine has swooped upon Chris Chameleon. As if stealing Nataniel from the bosom of cool wasn't enough, they've weasled their way under the skin of dear Chris and begun the promised metamorphosis of character so fataly prophetic in his name.

Please, dear friends, spare a tear for The Metamorphosis of Chris - the kind Kafka would cringe at.

one

two


three


What the fuck? WHAT IS THAT!? What have they done to your hair Chris?? Who is that pawn of Beelzebub clawing you to her lime-green bosom?! (oh, i just read the caption - it's your mother...even worse - Freud would have something to say about this)

WHY OH WHY HAVE YOU SOLD YOUR SOUL FOR GOLD?!

Don't misunderstand me - I'm all for change. Change is as good as a holiday as my mother always says. But good god. PASTEL??


Thank you for that insightful caption Lig - you've created another monster with a bad smile and heavy base.

WILL SOMEBODY PLEASE STOP THESE PEOPLE!

Monday, August 7

nothing dreadful ever happens

I don't have a TV (which isn't a problem really because I'm not fond of addiction), but I do so like movies.

If I like a movie especially well, I tend to watch it as often as possible, usually right after I wake up or just before I go to sleep. It's in these spaces that the lines between reality and the dreamworld are blurred, where the underlying essence of the movie is distilled and absorbed by your subconscious.

In particular, I've really enjoyed:

Donnie Darko





Spirited Away












and most recently, Dancer in the Dark.














Although Dancer didn't grip me in quite the way I'd expected while I was watching it, I was fascinated by the Von Trier adaptation of fifties musicals to that crunchy hard-reality thing he has going for him.

You see, I love musicals. It's a little soft spot I have. My favourites include High Society, Silk Stockings, Easter Parade and White Christmas - to name a few.

The fascination is not difficult to understand. In musicals, Selma (Björk) tells us, nothing dreadful ever happens. The Villian is never consequential, the problems never insurmountable and only the Communists are poor. It is, I think where Woody Allen drew most of his movie lifestyle inspiration from. In the city, everyone is rich, drinks whiskey and smokes cigars; the woman wear fur and drop diamonds from their lips when they speak. There are values with a comedic hint at liberalism. In the country everyone is happy, healthy and mannered.

Nothing dreadful ever happens.

And even if someone or something hints at destroying the perfect equilibrium of peace and humanity, one doesn't have to wait in terrible anticipation for some outrageous dues ex machina to fix the problem, because there is always a hero - who is morally if not physically infallible - to smooth the edges, calm the storm and dance the dear lassie's problems away.

And everyone - always - lives happily ever after.

Though, saying that, I've always felt a little uncomfortable at the ending of My Fair Lady. Whatever happens after that last scene where Eliza brings him his slippers? Do they become lovers? He's a little old and patronising isn't he?

Anyhow.

Dancer also reminded me of an idea I toyed with a while back - a modern day South African remake of The Sound of Music. Set in The Apartheid Era, we can swop Captain Von Trapp for Meneer Van Tonder and Maria for Beauty from Kayelitsha.

It throws a whole new light on 'Favourite Things' -
When the dog bites, when the shacks burn, when we're being beat...

Thursday, August 3

Wednesday, August 2

what a girl needs

1. A Hammer.

2. To Know How To Make A Fire.

3. Batteries.



:)

Tuesday, July 25

viceland

A friend of mine got me into this site. Apart from all the other funny fluff, they have a legendary Do's and Don'ts section. They've even brought out a book, collecting all the Do's and Don'ts they've published through the years. It is - needless to say, otherwise I would be blogging this - hysterically funny.

Here's my recent favourite:


Another gooder for people who like to rip stupid famous people off is Go Fug Yourself.

Again, a real knee-slapper.

Good night all. Deadline is being pushed forward because I am not God.

No really. I'm not.

Thursday, July 13

the magical mystery tour - (an aside)

Now, although time is of the essence (looming deadlines), I have not forgotten Small Thoughts and Big Thoughts and the like, and these shall all be elaborated upon in due time.

However.

Before I go any further I need to get this little issue off my chest.

The Commission on Gender Equality has found that two guest houses in Cape Town catering only for homosexual men are within their rights, saying this accommodation is a "necessity in our democratic society". iol

One headline even read that this was 'good discrimination'.




Now, I can't, for the life of me, figure out why heteros would even want to go to a 'gay' hotel (sies Mimi weet jy wat doen hulle daar?!), and I understand that no one feels comfortable being gawped at while you're trying to hang out and hang out and about.

But whatever is 'good discrimination'? Although it's never safe to polarize these issues into simple equations of :

discrimination = bad

acceptance = good

the contradiction is so blindingly obvious it's difficult not to balk.

In a free and democratic society would I be able to set up -

  1. an all boy's club
  2. an all-whites hotel
  3. a heteros-only restaurant

Whether the pink people like to admit it or not, the fight against discrimination started a long time before they pulled their collective fanny's out the closet. The struggle to free marginalised groups from sweeping generalisations and prejudice should hardly end with those self-same groups brandishing the concept of 'good discrimination' as a means to protect their interests. It seems retarded in logic.

Anyways, I'm sure the mysoginistics apes that frequented the old boys clubs thought it a good idea also.



Tuesday, July 11

the magical mystery tour - Part I

I don’t pretend to be well read. I’m certainly not. I wouldn’t know a Bronte from an Austen or a Shelley from a Coleridge; I’ve never finished The Odyssey and I all I know about Sophocles was that he was a Greek something or another. I never liked On The Road and couldn't understand The Wasteland if I tried. I’m bored quickly and even so, managed to lose my fascination for riveting fiction a few years back when it occurred to me that too many good writers spoil the proverbial broth.

To the point, even, that I don’t have the patience to sit through a long blog. Even less if it’s well-written or challenging in any way. (Probably the reason I’ve developed a penchant for children’s books - and then only if they have many beautiful pictures and few words.)

The aim of this tediously long intro is to begin a little excursion into a subject inspired by a few Small Thoughts that have recently culminated into A Big Thought (and then only just) by a fabulous movie I watched the other day - TransAmerica.

(note: Here I would've loved to add a picture but blogger's being full of shit again)

All these thoughts have been discussed ad nauseam by people far more versed in the subject of gender and sex and with oodles more patience and time than I do. So this could all fizzle out for me tomorrow and I’d simply write nothing more about it or I could continue and write something so tragically off the academic index that you’ll think I’m just stupid and boring.

Rest assured, you’d probably be right. Because not only with this not be well- researched / defined / footnoted, I’m simply not a funny person.

As a little horse de oovrey, below are listed and shall be discussed the Small Thoughts (in no particular order) -

1) Mostlyblue’s introspection regarding gender roles
2) The Vagina Monologues (or the drunken Vagina Fiasco)
3) reclaiming the word cunt
4) Camille Paglia (no assumptions here please)
5) Fag Hags and Cunt Cowboys
6) ‘new’ feminism as opposed to ‘old’ feminism (and What the Fuck is Feminism Anyway?)
7) the sacred feminine
8) my granny and getting older
9) tits, breasts, boobs - The Poetry of Body Parts or Whatever The Case May Be, They All Sag Eventually
10) mothers and sisters
11) blood and shit
12) penis envy
13) rape and abuse
14) masturbation and my friend Percival
15) the Sacred Whore
16) the Black Madonna
17) Eve and Lilith
18) Paris versus Madonna
19) the gigolo and the slut
20) loreal - because you’re worth it (and what was up with that terrible credit card ad with the perfectly English-accented homeless children?!)
21) The Red Shoes
22) Virginia and Sylvia
23) Hieros gamos
24) the nude, the naked and the body - John Berger’s ways of seeing woman objectified
25) the nude, the naked and why we hate our bodies
26) ritual and initiation
27) Simon De Beauvoir - Being a woman is such a drag
28) Women, fags, queers, queens, transvestites - Being a woman is such a drag

Which leads me to -

The Big Thought. Which now as I face it again escapes me, But it has something to do with TransAmerica and What is a Woman. Almost as indefinable, it seems, as that very annoying question - What is Art. Except I practically failed art history in school and I’m far too self-absorbed to give a shit about the technical differences between Greco and Caravaggio.

So sit back, relax. Read the blog. Don’t read the blog. Comment. Don’t comment. There’ll be lots of swearing I’m sure and talk of sex and body fluids.

And maybe an odd post about politics and The State of the World Today.

Love and hugs,
Dorothy

Thursday, July 6

my nemesis


Why oh why do I always fool myself about this. It looks so innocent really. So very very reassuring. Just two glasses - good lord how bad can that be? But before long my internal editor's desperate protestations have drowned out by a flood of goodwill towards men etc etc and the rest is history.

Or at least it would be if I could remember it.

Monday, July 3

kami


I don't always. But I like this postcard because it reminds me of the warm sun filtering down on my face and the enormity of the tree reminding me of time and God.

I have a Big Question that used to plague me. How do you pray for belief?

the smell of excess

This is a public service announcement for all ex-Stellenbosch students.

Dear Maties

Now we're totally aware that this is not going to go down well with some of you. But in the inimitable words of Mary Poppins, just a spoon full of sugar makes the medicine go down etc etc



There won't be a lot of sugar, but we'll say it now so as to soften the awful truth that follows.

All of us that have discussed this issue, love you and care deeply for you. We all think you are very smart and deserve all the recognition and justification that is due to you. I repeat: We think you are smart (but of course so do you), we love you (and so do you), we care about your well-being (what else is there?!).

Now we realise it was a lovely time in your life and you met wonderful people and had many, many exciting times. You came into your own really, grew up, developed something of personality (at least as much as you could between drunken episodes ha ha ha). You explored, you became aware, you found the font of knowledge and wisdom - and verily it was within you! You became aware of your awesome power to change the world. You bonded with your fellow world learners, you chatted until the wee hours of the morning, you woke up under bushes in the morning. It was a time if greatness.

We see that. We understand.

But.

It's time to move on.

Whether you're aware of it or not, that strange mafioso thing you guys have got going for you is not enviable. It's sad. We're not saying that a little natter about the good ol' days isn't out of the question. But all the time? Has nothing else happened? Is there no other point of connection?

And no, we're REALLY, REALLY not jealous.

Go well, keep strong. Trust that there is, in fact, life after Stellenbosch.

Love,

The Rest of Us

xx

Wednesday, June 28

end times



What's the first thing that comes to mind when you see this picture? These form part of a collection of 27 pics - each depicting a child in various stages of emotional trauma. You can view the entire collection here.

Here's the deal. The photographer, who is clearly talented even though her figures all exhibit a kind of photoshop plasticity that should place them firmly in the realm of the Uncanny Valley, took these images as some sort of Democrat outcry against the war. Read 'politically charged photography' with both 'political' and 'personal' relevance using a subject la'taboo - children in pain.

Now, we join this story in the midst of a heated debate as to whether these photo's are unethical. Thomas Hawk brands her work abusive, sadistic and unethical. The reason? These poses were induced - in other words, the esteemed artist made the children cry to get a pic.

Says Thomas:

"Jill is the one who strips kids [all under the age of 3)] down and then works them up into a state of emotional distress and then shoots them distraught and in anguish, tears running down their little face, and calls it some kind of protest art against the Bush administration. "

Says Jill:

"I manipulate my subjects to evoke an emotion to illustrate my personal beliefs…I had to learn the hard way that they had to be no older than three because beyond that they just don’t cry so easily"

and

"Kid models aren't very expensive -- not as expensive as monkeys, for example."

Hm. I'm not going to begin a tirade against the obvious display of moral bancruptcy involved here. If you want, you can start reading the entire thread here.

Jill defends her actions by saying that she simply followed the Hollywood style of giving the kid a lolly and then taking it away.

So those little American children in these pics got themselves into such a fit of rage and alienation because their lolly was taken away? This woman is either as insightful as a brick or the tantrum inducing 'gimmies' of the American attitude truly is part of their molecular profile.

Tuesday, June 27

happy little nightmares

The London Independent reports that 100 selected paedophiles will be placed on prozac to help them with their naughty ways. Apparently anti-depressents have a nasty little side-effect of numbing your libido. This, they reckon, will be able to curb the obsessive and anti-social ways of these nasties and help keep their willies in their pants.

AND help them to think clearer and put them in a good mood. It has proven to work - i.e. stopped the urge to molest - for a whole 10% of convicted paedophiles that have been selected.

What about the rest? Are they now simply less conflicted about their sexual deviation?

For those that do not respond to this mild treatment, there is another process that can be used. It's called chemical castration. (The Independent article does mention it, but The Sun is far more entertaining in its description.) Here, the offenders are 'chemically castrated' by being 'given regular injections of leuproreline, a prostate cancer drug, or depo-provera, which act as a temporary castration by slashing testosterone levels'.

Both processes are said to be a 'Successful management of offenders' and is 'the most cost-effective way to protect children.'

What I enjoy about this concept is the perpetuation of the notion that those horrible people (and all the rest of those types) have nothing whatsoever to do with us. That somehow they're a nasty pustule on the backside of life that we had no responsability in putting there. Not to mention the whole 'name and shame' campaign - a shockingly backward approach to crime and punishment reminiscent of Jackson's The Lottery.

I'm hardly a punter for 'human rights' when it comes to people that have denied others that western pleasure we take as an infallible universal law. But let's not pretend to help the pustule by putting salve on it and hoping it'll go away. We've got to lance the mf and realise that for every fully functioning body there is a backside. And if we don't take care of said backside, pustules are likely to crop up more often than not.

The only 'cost effective' way of preventing child-abuse is to start by paying attention to our children now. It's a far greater task that will take a whole lot more effort for everybody than a simple injection after the fact.

Thursday, June 22

an inconvenient truth



Although I applaud Gore's effort and intention, it's a pity that it takes a spliced diced voiceovered piece of hollywood bling laced with visually dramatic effects and perfectly timed score to bring the message home.

I'll be sure to rush to the movie when it comes out. I'll have a shower using soaps and ungents that come in plastic wrappers made from carcinogenic ingredients, brush my teeth with toothpaste made with highly toxic chemicals, get dressed into clothes that have been made by four year old slaves a few thousand kilometers away with textiles made in China because it's cheaper to import than pay locals a fair price, eat my veggie dinner (with tofu from crops that rape the amazonian landscape) get into my fossil fuel driven car that adds to the carbon monoxide buildup, race to the movie house where I'll buy a ticket made of paper from an unreplenished tree source, using money that I earned from working infront of a computer that has a 'low radiation' output - along with the other 30 computers in my office - all day engrossed in world that doesn't really exist, grab a quick MacDonald's fries and then settle into a plush movie chair, remembering to switch off my cellphone.

And none of this will change anything at all.

Monday, June 19

jack & jill

Reading a piece from book on the Doa De Jing, I came to a bit about 'Appreciating the Particular' . It's quoted from the American philospher William James in a piece titled: What Makes Life Significant?


Every Jack sees in his own particular Jill charms and perfections to the enchantment of which we stolid onlookers are stone-cold.

And which has the superior view of the absolute truth, he or we? Which has the more vital insight into the nature of Jill's existence, as a fact? Is he in excess, being in this matter a maniac? or are we in defect, being victims of a pathological anæsthesia as regards Jill's magical importance?

Surely the latter; surely to Jack are the profounder truths revealed; surely poor Jill's palpitating little life-throbs are among the wonders of creation, are worthy of this sympathetic interest; and it is to our shame that the rest of us cannot feel like Jack. For Jack realizes Jill concretely, and we do not. He struggles toward a union with her inner life, divining her feelings, anticipating her desires, understanding her limits as manfully as he can, and yet inadequately, too; for he is also afflicted with some blindness, even here.

Whilst we, dead clods that we are, do not even seek after these things, but are contented that that portion of eternal fact named Jill should be for us as if it were not. Jill, who knows her inner life, knows that Jack's way of taking it— so importantly—is the true and serious way; and she responds to the truth in him by taking him truly and seriously, too.

May the ancient blindness never wrap its clouds about either of them again! Where would any of us be, were there no one willing to know us as we really are or ready to repay us for our insight by making recognizant return? We ought, all of us, to realize each other in this intense, pathetic, and important way.
If you say that this is absurd, and that we cannot be in love with everyone at once, I merely point out to you that, as a matter of fact, certain persons do exist with an enormous capacity for friendship and for taking delight in other people's lives; and 'that such persons know more of truth than if their hearts were not so big.

It was a weekend of friends and the appreciation of friends and what-makes-a-friend questions (it was also a weekend, coincidentally, of questioning the question that plagues me endlessly at the moment - why oh why do I fall inlove with everyone I kiss?)

Anyway.

I liked this piece. Read up some more here .

Tuesday, June 13

outside my window



The rain's cleared up for a bit and given me chance to poke my nose out the window for five seconds. And in this crisp misty morning sea air, laced with just a hint of carbon monoxide, what do I see in the distance but a billboard for a lovely new series called Commander-in-Chief. It sports a witty little by-line: Finally, a president that can multi-task.

Because you know that's what we woman are really good at. Muti-tasking.

Forget about stategic thinking, the finer matters of diplomacy and managing the economic balance of world power. One needs to be able to file and drink coffee whilst discussing an annoying case of nucleur disarmament in Iran. Talk about lowering the bar. But hey, I guess after ol' Dubya what's there for a pres to do but flutter about looking busy. At least between holidays that is.

Anyway. It got me thinking about another series that shattered the presidential WASP stereotype: 24.

President Palmer was everything a Pres should be (everything the current US president isn't) - smart, ethical, honest, strong. Oh and black. But that's a little by-the-by. Anyway, not all good things last and towards the failing breaths of the third Most Terrible Day in Jack Bauers life, President David Palmer's Strong Character had a brush with Political Chess and he lied. BUT then quit. What a guy.

And now there's Pres McKenzie. A strong woman. Brunette. She's woman enough to wear makeup and man enough to run a country.

Hollywood sure is pushing the envelope. But I guess the regular stupid white man formula is boring and certainly hasn't scored America any points.


I won't be watching the series. Not only because I do not own a television but because I'm saving myself for a really REALLY extreme pres makeover series. I'm thinking: Hispanic and Gay or Chinese and paraplegic. Or a cigar smoking body builder from Austria. Whichever happens, I can only hope and pray that this little stint does for Geena what did for Keiffer.

Wednesday, June 7

it's clearer now, we should've known

In the list of woulda coulda shouldas, I have a couple that make me wince. More than wince. Cringe. Not necessarily because the things I wouldacouldashoulda done woulda been terribly life-altering, (I console myself that All Is As It Should Be *ah fuck just can't get away from them! *) but because they're there at all.




The conscious act of allowing a moment to Be without the intervention of expectations (coulda) and judgement (shoulda) is something that has clouded most of my enjoyment in people and situations for a greater part of my life. Sadly the person I've least been able to enjoy with this attitude is myself.

Of course things change and life moves on and we learn kindness and compassion towards others and ourselves etc etc but when it comes right down to it, how much are we able to change the very western force that's driven us to this point we're now at? That 'better is always best and best is always on the other side of the fence' attitude - a better house / car / career / body / spirituality / partner / friends / individuation / clothes / buddha statues / heaven / country/ soul...something that has to be gotten, attained, worked at, achieved, prayed for. And hard. To do this, we should have that. To get there, we should be here. And if we don't get there (up the ladder, nirvana, the goal, the point) or become that (rich, happy, complete, together, cool) then there are the excuses that consume both our past and future that we gently flaggelate ourselves with: I could've done that if only, I would've done this if only...everything would be so much better.

A friend of mine once summed up the word NOW - No Opportunity Wasted. I enjoyed this and wrote it down in my journal. But often, using an opportunity - a moment in time that is fully experienced instead of being casually overlooked - means simply to Be in the moment. No more. No less. No talking, no processing, no thinking, no dialogueing.

It's not a new topic and hardly earth shattering for most. But something that's been on my mind lately and something I'm trying to do more every day. I really should try to Be more.

Hold on.

Damn.

It's such a conundrum.

Friday, June 2

on a lighter note

Exclusives rocks. I read a whole book (well most of it) in the comfy seats they provide for their patrons (that would be mostlyblue who actually bought books - enough to make up for me as well).




He's just not that into you is laugh-out-loud funny. Go here for an excerpt.

I laughed and laughed at the silly women until I realised that I was one.

Thursday, June 1

yup yup

I have a friend that is a great conveyer of, and believer in, the Emailic Power of the Power Point Message of Peace and Happiness.

Today she sent one that was a little more than the usual frill.

I've cut it down for your viewing pleasure.










I'm not sure much can be done about world hunger and the inevitable downward spiral. Every-drop-in-the-ocean-making-up-the-sea and all that aside, I think - mostly - that it's enough to contextualise our lives and give thanks to the great Out There for the very fortunate position we find ourselves in.

Friday, May 26

is you is or is you aint my baby


I've always loved Nat. I'm not blogging much of interest at the moment because I'm haunted by a terrible patch of 'relationship' neurosis. This happens often - hence the name of this blog - and before you all jump up in consternation, I am seeking professional help for it and one day hope to be Normal. And then turn grey.

Anyway.

Lately there's been much talk about one-night stands and having a shag simply because it's something fun to do. I'm terribly overwhelmed by this. I've never had a one-nighter myself. Just very short relationships.

But as we all head off into the weekend, I would like to know some opinions from the floor (and feel free to post anon. if this is all a little too spicy - write as you or as your alter-ego, I don't mind) - do you one night stand? Do people actually just want to shag or is everybody - deep down - looking for someone to pat and kiss them and call them bunny?

Tuesday, May 23

Trampoline Boy

Another phrase for your pleasure. This was a collaborative piece with Mostlyblue and myself at the Woodstock Lounge on Saturday. All hail the Trampoline Boy.

Trampoline Boy n
A boy or man used as an emotional/sexual rebound to soften the blow of the demise of a serious relationship with another partner. My trampoline boy is really sweet but he's becoming too involved.

Friday, May 19

Thursday, May 18

Nervous Conditions

A friend sent this to me yesterday. Apart from the fact that this woman is sickly, the juxtaposition of her skeletal frame against those of the large black ladies is thought-provoking.

A book by Tsitsi Dangarembga, Nervous Conditions, is one of the few to discuss - amongst a myriad of interweaving themes - the affects of anorexia on African women.




At one point, one of the lead characters is taken to hospital for her illness. The doctor sends her away with the comment that "black people don't suffer from this white disease".

A while back The Guardian ran a fantastic article on this problem - anorexia and its growing prevalence amongst African women. I wasn't able to find it, but a search on their database brought up over 500 articles mentioning anorexia, with over 30 posted for this year alone.

I found this article instead. Some parts of it read like a 19th century book on 'the negroes':

'Dr. Brooks said experts traditionally had thought that "anorexia and bulimia didn't happen to black, Asian or Hispanic women, that they were somehow immune."

could write more about this, but i'm tired and i'm meeting bordello for coffee. so. good bye.

Tuesday, May 16

Because you're worth it


I think I should probably have added my reasoning behind this little lovely. In discussion the other day with a mate of mine about his take on lipsticks and the like, I was once again filled with the sudden inspiration to scoff at the ridiculousness of elegant facepainting.

Now I've certainly had my days of base and blush. I moved - thankfully - away from the whole sticky mess quite a while back. And just so's I don't unpset the whole the applecart too much, it's not make-up itself that I direct any sneer at.

It's the belief that there is grace and refinement attached to the process of covering one's face with costly lacquers and powders. That painting one's nails and striking the perfect balance between shimmer and sheen is somehow indicative of one's personal worth as a woman - or man for that matter.

The fetish of make-up has been divorced from its historical reasoning. It's purpose made out to be something other than it is. Instead of being an indicator of the terrible sophistication we like to pride ourselves on, make-up at its most basic level is nothing more than the war-paint, the shamanic ritual of otherness, the preening mating dance of tribal ritual.

All this civilised stuff we spend fortunes on, and the sentiments are still the same - to be more, not less, in the eyes of foe and Fate.

Monday, May 15

Uit sy kassie



I was more than amused the other day when I walked past this little gem.
The beautiful ambiguity of it is enough to bring a tear to my eye.

And look how happy he is. Pulling at his tie, cracking his makeup, upsetting his toupe -
Hy's net so MAL! Is dit omdat hy uit sy kassie is? Ag genugtig Riaan, ons is so bly dat jy nou lekker saam kan speel.

Anyway. To round this all off, the website says this of their cover:

"Nie net is Riaan ‘n ikoon van Afrikaanse televisie nie – hy word deesdae gereken as Suid-Afrika se eie Chuck Norris."

So he's out the closet AND he's the new Chuck. Am I the only one that thinks the editor of should be fired?

Friday, May 12

The Eyre Affair


This has to be the best fiction I've read in ages. Billed as a 'silly book for smart people' it plots the heady adventures of Thursday Next. What makes her adventures all the more exciting is that they take place in a world (like ours but dimensionally squiff) where literature became the lifeblood of the people and a Prose Portal can take you into the narrative of any book you give to the Book Worms to mull over.

It's a brilliant fight of fancy - I laughed, I cried, I wanted to be Thursday and visit Rochester. She saves the day, the book, the world and, of course, gets her man.

Jasper Fforde is the dude for Pratchett fans who don't like reading Pratchett.

Wednesday, May 10

Dialogueing

Seapoint is full of strange people - lots of old Koogles (what is the correct spelling for that?) clawing on to their glory days of beehives and bright lipstick, Jehovah's Witnesses handing out pamphlets of hope and happy lambs, toothless bums lying on the grass smelling like shit and booze - that sort of thing.

The other day I walked past a woman that was having a full on conversation with herself. I watched her walking towards me, lips moving, furrowed brow. I looked for bluetooth contraption hanging off her ear, thinking that she was perhaps in deep discussion with some significant other, but there was nothing. Just her and her self. As she walked past me, she caught my eye and instead of stopping her conversation kept right on talking to herself.

Ha ha, silly bat, thought I and forgot about it. Until today.

You see, there's this thing I do - and I'm sure many people do it also - which I like to call dialogueing. It's when you're unable to vent the stress of a relationship and instead of actually verbalising your problem to the actual person involved, you imagine possible conversations - including utterances, rebuttals, subtext and - if you're really getting into it - expression.

Usually I do this in my head.

Today, walking along the passage to our neat little garden with the red door I found myself in a loaded conversation, full of projected shock and fatalistic endings - perfect, in fact for the likes of a soapie. I was getting really involved with the course of my created revelations when I suddenly stopped. I'd been doing this all out loud.

It's a problem I think that needs to be addressed. Not the fact that I dialogue, but the fact that I don't realised I'm doing it out loud.

I wonder now how many times people have walked past me, staring and saying to themselves - silly bat, take your meds.

Tuesday, April 25

the other spaces


I had this dream last night where I went back in time to warn a friend about another friend's death.

Let's call them Dick and Bob.

'Dick,' I said, 'you don't know me [yet] but in October Bob's going to OD.'

'Ha ha,' said Dick, 'you're crazy.'

'I might be, but you'll be there when he does and you'll be the only one who can stop him.'

End dream.

I've had dreams like this before. I tried to warn John and Yoko once. On the morning before he stepped out into his death. They were hanging out in the bedroom whenI swept in - a ghostly apparition in their reality I think - and although I was a little taken aback by seeing John in the buff, I got straight to business warning them about his untimely demise in what was only - in their time - an hour or so away. Instead of paying heed they offered me a joint. And the rest is history.

This got me thinking about time with a capital T, warnings, those last few minutes and The Millisecond of No Return - that infintesimal space in Time where actions are edged just that one hairsbreadth too far and your life is changed forever. The slip in the shower that leaves you paralysed, that extra milligram of kat that your body just can not process, that footstep that misses the foothold. That one word that tips the scales. All these small moments and the terrible processes that are set in motion because of it - the irreversable ripple.

What if someone could meet you there in that quiet moment before a catastrophe and say, simply, 'stop'. Which moments would you choose?

I woke up this morning with the sudden rush that maybe Bob would be alive somewhere, that my dream had somehow worked. I had to muster some semblance of rationale - if he was alive it couldn't be in this reality. Nothing can be proven to be impossible against unthinkable realities.

Whatever the case may be, the day is made up of these infintesimal moments and maybe somewhere inbetween them, John's still getting stoned with Yoko and Bob's on his honeymoon.

Tuesday, April 18

Cunt Cowboy

Ladies and Gentlemen,

Herewith a new phrase is released into the wild for your use and abuse.

Cunt Cowboy n
A gay man who spends an inordinate amount of time with straight woman, supporting their heterosexual tendencies towards stupid straight men.
(opp. Fag Hag)

This word is not TM'd but should be because it's so beautiful.