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:

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?


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


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.