Walk it off.

It was not like touching another living thing. Snakes, dogs, cats, lovebirds, horses, sheep, cows, humans, everything that breathed still somehow conveyed its being-alive-ness. I mean, Jesus, that snake-touching was no fun because it was a 3m python, but still, through the clammy coldness it was alive and, well, it could (try to) eat me.

Not the elephant though. The elephant felt strangely like touching a stuffed museum exhibit. Her skin was harder than I had expected, seemingly impenetrable, with bristles sticking out and a layer of mud caked on. I knew she was observing me, and feeling me sort of man-handling her stomach, the bottom of her back foot, the hairs at the end of her tail and the patch of skin behind her eye with some kind of special gland in it (I wasn't listening as intently as I should have to the elephant handlers). It was as though I was playing every part in the parable of the blind men and the elephant, except that I knew I was touching an elephant.

Only upon touching the back of her ear did it feel less like interacting with a 7t dirty rock and more like she could crush me whenever she felt like it. I felt an interesting contradiction between fascinatedly touching something so big and powerful, but at the same time so silent and vulnerable. All the elephants at the sanctuary near Hartebeespoort are orphans. Their families had been culled because of overpopulation in the Kruger National Park, and they were the only ones that could be relocated. So aside from the threat of crocodiles mauling their trunks, predators attacking them and humans killing them for their ivory, the elephant is on the endangered species list because it needs space to survive, and we are encroaching on its habitat.

It was a bit sad to have to resort to making an interaction with elephants all about taking photographs. On the tour one hears almost everything one can about the loxodonta africana. Then one proceeds to feed them handfuls of pellets, after which one enters one by one to pat the elephant down and pose for a photograph. At the end one walks around an enclosure, with the elephant's trunk in hand.

The entire visit was very cool to experience, but it also felt a bit rehearsed, as though we were at Disneyland queueing to go on a ride. Here we were just queueing to touch something frightening and beautiful. For instance, for the trunk-in-hand walk, I know the elephant did not want me to hold his trunk (I was walking with a different one than Ms. Elephant) because he kept pulling it away. Which I can understand, I also don't like holding people's hands. But then the handler would authoritively say a command, and the trunk would be back in my hand. Sorry Mr. Elephant.

If you are ever in Gauteng and don't know what to do, this is great. But I would bear in mind that this is an animal that could crush you, and not merely a great photographic opportunity to show to your friends back home.

Hello Ms. Elephant

Dark Storm

N4 just before entering Hatfield

It had been excruciatingly hot all day. The kind of heat that makes one listless, unable to move, unable to concentrate, unable to do anything besides taking a long nap. 

A friend proposed an art exhibition to go to that night, and on my way there the sunset was marvellous. This image does not nearly describe the colour of peaches and raspberries and cherries and blueberries all merging into a glorious end to the day. 

It is strange to think how we are never afraid at sunset, but as soon as the last rays are gone and darkness descends, real and imaginary monsters find their ways to scare us. A sound, which during daytime would not even have been noticed, can make the heart quiver in the night. Maybe it is the threat of the hidden, of that which we cannot see, of the surprise that might be lurking, of an unexpected pounce on our sense of security. 

Lord Knows

as so often via Patron of the Arts

Confused by Confucious? Me too.
People should just spell correctly.

Spring can be the cruellest of months/ but...

The geckos are back on the walls. (Which freaks me out.)
The garden smells like Jasmine. (Which I adore.)
The evenings are too hot for my blankets. (But I am too lazy to change them.)

And these beauties have resurfaced.

 

Now just the Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow needs to start blooming in front of my window and I'll be in smell-heaven. 

Quarter past wonderful

Unexpectedly
I found
this
in the National Geographic.

Boston's Old Customs House in Hotel RoomI, 1999

Santa Maria della Salute in Palazzo Livingroom. Venice, Italy, 2006

Manhattan View Looking South in Large Room, 1996

All images are via Abelardo Morell's site, it is just beautiful. 

Also, here is a link to National Geographic's video on the Camera Obscura article that features Morell. 

Camera Obscura - Video, Camera Obscura - Pictures, More From National Geographic Magazine

Pragtig

Pretoria city centre 2011.

As my neef iemand as pragtig beskryf, dan weet hy, sy is (dis altyd 'n meisie). Maar nou wonder ek, is nie almal pragtig nie? Is nie almal mooi op hul eie manier nie? Gister aand was ek by 'n partytjie en die twee ouens wat saam woon het die selfde meisie op 'n skala van 1-10 'n 2 en 'n 9,5 geprys. As twee mense iemand so verskillend kan sien, dan moet elkeen van ons tog pragtig wees vir teen minste een ander persoon? En dis nou net hoe mens lyk. Ons praat nie eers van innere waardes nie.


* If my cousin describes someone as beautiful, then you know she is ( it is always a girl). But now I am wondering if not everyone is beautiful? Isn't everyone pretty in their own way? I was at a party last night and two guys rated the same girl as a 2 and as a 9,5 ( on a scale of 1-10). If two people can see someone so differently, then every one of us has to be beautiful to at least one other person? And this just concerns what we look like. We're not even taking about inner worth.

The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths.

These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep, loving concern. 

Beautiful people do not just happen. 

--Elizabeth Kubler-Ross

via Dialogic

Postcarding

Back of an old postcard I found at a fleamarket in Perpignan, France, 2010. 

I like writing postcards.
I like telling the recipient of the card that they are wonderful, that they are special, that they make life better by being in it. And then I leave the postcard unsigned. Since my handwriting is rather discernible and because not many people write postcards, I guess whomever receives the card knows it is from me, but I sort of want it to be a sign from the universe.

I want you to get the card in the mail, hidden in between bills and ads for Pick 'n Pay specials. I want you to stumble onto the piece of cardboard and start smiling. I want a piece of paper to make your day. In the end, I want you to feel happy, even if it is just for a minute, and then I want you to go and place the card on your fridge to remind you that someone cares.

If you own any apple device, a (devilish) blackberry or are running Android, you can now get the "A postcard a day from Gauteng"-app, mahala ( this means for free), on your device. It is an application that sends you a pretty image from around the province daily. You can also submit your own image to the site.

Although I prefer the handwritten cards, this is a nice initiative by the province. There is so much beauty all around us and often we do not realize how fortunate we are to live here, now.


.

Marked (wo)man

Spring has hit South Africa like a sudden tsunami, the youth has pulled out shorts and shorter skirts and colour from their cupboards. Older ladies stop wearing stockings because the heat and the touching thighs to not go well together. Flip flops are welcomed back. We come together more for braais in afternoons, meat and salad is abundant between conversations about the December holidays and plans for next year.

We are jumping the gun and heading sea-side earlier than expected. And with the beach comes that dreaded undressing and presenting of the body in clothes that you would never wear elsewhere in public because they hide no imperfection. Women have to go through torturous extractions and manipulations of natural hairlines. They feel the need to do Special K's "drop a dress size in 2 weeks" diet and eat cabbage soup and  use de-cellulite creams and mould their bodies so that they will look ok in a bikini. 

But I have noticed that all of this is rather mindless: sure you want to look good, in any case, and all the time. I am pretty certain no one prefers to look shabby and messy to being attractive to others. However, I have been using my great voyeuristic talents and observing people's bodies on campus and I tell you now: even the thinnest of girls have cellulite and stretchmarks. It seem to just be the skin's way of saying "screw you and your need for even perfection". 

In the poetry anthology Difficult to explain, edited by Finuala Dowling, Heather Tibshraeny captures Stretchmarks:

pink wiggly lines

like earthworms lined up along my upper thighs

No, they are not from having children

No, they are not beautiful

they are from pushing something too far 

till it breaks

like curfew

like third base

They are from a time

when youth went galloping forward brazenly

but skin stood still

. 

Yesterday Today Tomorrow

The greatest joy of spring is smelling the yesterday, today, tomorrow bushes ( or trees?). There is one in front of my window and the scent fills my room slowly while I am at the university and then when I get back my room smells so great. I just want to wrap myself in this pillow of soft-blossomed-sweetness.

Spring must be everyone's favourite time of year. Summer is way too hot, winter way too cold, and autumn does not really do anything for us, except if you live somewhere where the leaves drop from the trees in amazing showers of colourful diversity. But here, well, autumn is nice with slightly milder weather, but you know winter is coming when the earth goes dry and all the previously lush front lawns suddenly become this light-yellowish place of drought and one can see the red-brown earth surfacing between dying blades of grass.

The one bad aspect of spring, for me, is shaving. During winter there is no need to shave one's legs, because they are always covered, and even if you wear stockings your hair growth will be covered. But oh no, come spring, everyone suddenly wears non-existent shorts and skirts that barely cover the behind when one is standing. Not that I conform to unnecessary showings of flesh, but a skirt of decent length sadly also requires that one shave. Ugh and I hate it. I almost cut half my leg of once and since then I am really not into the idea of scarring myself permanently again. Shaving is a risk. But on the other hand, the stubble that has formed over the winter hibernation does look slightly unsightly and it doesn't feel to great either if touched by someone who is not a guitar player and thus does not have really calloused fingertips.

My sister and I once jointly bought an epilator. I think that is what the torture machine is officially called. Heidi Klum advertises for it ( well, she really advertises for everything). The monster individually pulls out the hair and the sound it makes is just torturous. It makes this really fast squealing sound and I just think that that is enough to put me off. I tried the monster on my knee once, but I am against inflicting pain on myself if it is not necessary.

In any case, I had to bring out the shaver again, but I do not trust the little blade, and I am kind of inclined to forget about shaving only to realize in class that my legs look quite unevenly tanned and rather furry. But luckily my original hair colour shows itself on my legs and the little hairs are too light to see if one is not quite close. I understand women with darker hair cannot make the same mistake and have it not be noticeable.

I think we should all just let everything grow. Go back to our primal, hair-full selves. But then again, we all conform to photo-shopped smoothness of media depictions of what "normal" people look like and perhaps subconsciously we want to be only selectively hairy. Maybe the hair-loss is also a sign of evolution, a distinguishing mark of having moved beyond the ape. Its quite ironic that women go to extreme lengths to remove unsightly hairs and men go to extreme lengths to grow hair.

I don't really know. I was just thinking about how I will wear pants tomorrow because I am too lazy to shave.

This is Noah and the Whale with " I have nothing".