over achiever

Sometimes I cannot handle the weight of my own expectations. Sometimes I think I cannot do something, cannot achieve what I have wanted, cannot get past a failure. Sometimes the self-doubt is greater than the totality of a wondrous ( wander-ous?!) life.

Sometimes I make the mistake of seeing me the way you do, and then I think this is all I am. Sometimes you make me feel like this could be me:

Use the truth as a weapon to beat up all your friends
Any chink in the armour an excuse to cause offence
 ( from the Swell Season's In These Arms).

But after wallowing in self-pity, I think most people move on. There is nothing else to be done. Change what you can, but do not become obsessed with the things you wanted to do but never could. With losses and disappointments. Either try again, or try something new. There is plenty more you could excel at.

Today might be slightly to personal to share with the Internet. Today I am emo without the excessive fringe. Today I feel betrayed by circumstance. Today I feel like the uncontrollability of existence is too overwhelming. Today I am Carrion Comfort ( Gerard Manley Hopkins):

NOT, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me	5
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?
Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,	10
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

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i ♥ you

To some people it comes very easily to say that they love someone. It seems natural to them to slip the three words in at the end of a phone conversation or when saying goodbye. The other day I was standing in the queue at Pick 'n Pay and observed a woman and her daughter telling the dad that they were going to another shop while he was paying and that they would meet him somewhere afterwards. When they had almost left the store, the girl and the mother both turned around and told the father that they loved him. And he then said : " I love you too my darlings." and smiled.

It was weird to me: they would be seeing each other in a few minutes. I think saying that one loves someone is a big deal. It is a commitment to that person. It is telling them that you give them a piece of your heart. Just like that. They can have it.

So saying it too often to me steals its significance. Perhaps others feel that one has to say it often to affirm the love one feels. And one has to hear it often to be secure of the other's devotion. Or that a child needs to hear it frequently to feel safe and, well, loved. I don't know. I can understand how this family wanted to make sure each one knew they were loved. I can understand how my friend always tells her sisters she loves them because she has lost others close to her. I can understand why my mother says it. I can understand saying ILY. But I cannot understand the feeling, because to me there are different types of love. The way family loves is different from friends, which in turn is different from passionate love.

Humans are obsessed with love. We sing about it. We write poetry about it. We devote entire oeuvres to a feeling that cannot be defined equally for each. We love to ♥.

Maybe I cannot understand it because I cannot box it in and store it away in my mind. Perhaps I cannot understand it because as often as it is true, it is also a lie.

Je t'aime. Te amo. Ek is lief vir jou. Ich liebe dich. I love you. Hmm.

It does not matter how many languages I learn, I cannot say it.
Which does not mean that I don't.



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Family

My grandmother has come for a visit. I do love her, but after about 500000 cups of tea and her mood swings, I start to despise her. Misery and pessimism seep into the air you breathe when she sits down. You feel disheartened. If she is what I'll end up as, why live at all? If this is the reward for living, what is the point? There is no dying happily, embraced by your better half. There is no pain-free end. Life is not celluloid.

I have to remind myself : she is 82 ( I think). I should be nice. I should kill her with kindness. By becoming so old, she deserves my respect. I am nothing without her. But it irritates me to have to keep my mouth shut and my opinions to myself, out of fear of offending her. The old are fragile. Do not try to change them. You cannot teach an old dog new tricks. 

No, you can't. But hell, the world evolves. Even if you don't like it, you must acknowledge that you cannot stay stuck in a mindset not suited to a modern era.

My grandmother proves you can. Many people seem to not want to adapt to any change. I presume it is out of fear. The young can face hardship. The young can suffer for longer. However, when you are old, how much more can you take? How many more aches? How many disappointments? 

I forget that you were young once. I forget that you were me, 60 years ago. 

Then I look at you again. Sunken skin. Match-stick legs. A slight hunch. Crooked hands. Two holes in the bottom row of teeth. You almost died last year. I thought you would. 

We are driving and I have been disappointed in you for 200 km. I feel you are not a movie-grandmother. I believe you do not try to feel anything positive any more. I feel you have forgotten what happiness is. 

A hand is touching my shoulder. A peeled slice of apple lies in your hands, reaching in between the two front seats. That is all I need to forgive you for being like this now. That is all I need to acknowledge your own suffering: it must be hard not to be able to remember where you placed your toothbrush. Or that you should pack warm clothes. Or that we just had tea.  

Ouma. Moenie worry nie. Eintlik weet ek jy's meer as wat jy nou wys. 

 

Hail

I would really like to go to the Arctic Circle. The last time I checked a two-week cruise set you back around $25 000. So maybe in a year or 20.   

It hailed today and I got embarrassingly exited about it. 
Look at Spitzi. He has to come along.

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It's 21.30 and I'm exhausted

Perhaps I took on too much this year. Perhaps I just can do it all.
Meanwhile, this is what I'm rocking to:

So just shut the f*ck up, you're starting to piss me off.


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Mense. Ek kyk vir julle.

Disclaimer: my Afrikaans se spelling is nogals sleg.

Onder eikebome en jakarandas wag ek vir klas om te begin. Die lewe is groen om my terwyl die bankie om die bome slinger, herwonne plastiek deurgesit deur jare se swaar boude. Hout hou langer, ek sien dit sommer.

Die meisie links met moë oë wie se lippe beweeg, sonder worde om laaste brokkies te onthou. Sy lyk tipies: jeans, 'n grys t-hempie, 'n grys truitjie, swart chucks. 'n Blou rugsak langs haar, haar hare vaal en in 'n ponystert vasgekam. Sy dui met handbewegings in die lug haar kennis aan, dalk sou 'n dowe persoon beter verstaan. Ek sien haar lewe voor my : dis 'n lewe vol leesstof en opdragte maar sonder enige ervarings wat nie uit boeke kom nie. Ek skat sy sien die wereld nie groter as Pretoria nie.

Regs sit ook 'n meisie, met skinny jeans, 'n oker geel toppie en bruin truitjie. Ek verstaan nie hoekom altwee 'n trui aanhet nie, dit is 30 grade buite en hulle hoef alby nie 'n groot lyf onder klere te versteek nie.

Die meisie het brëe bo-bene, dra sandale en kort swart hare wat sy net-net in 'n miniatuur bolla agter kon vasknyp. Haar naels in skoon en haar hand permanent aan haar selfoon vasgeplak. Dit blyk sy wag vir iemand wat nie bestaan nie.

Verder links sit drie werkers, dit is middagete tyd en hulle pak toebroodjies en coke uit. Ek wonder hoe die oudste man dit gaan eet, hy het geen tande meer nie. Dalk suig hy die brood tot dit soos babakos lyk?

'n Tannie, om die sestig, staan drie verdiepings oor ons en beloer die skouspel nes ek. Sy geniet haar sigaret op die wenteltrap. Met 'n oorgroot pienk en wit hemp en en 'n witbroek lyk sy soos die dames wat sondae met hoedens uit die NG kerk peul. Haar gewig is toepassend aan haar ouderdom, haar gesig  beoordeel almal onder haar : God vat 'n lunchbreak.

Oorkant my staan 'n wit bakkie in die skadu van die Ou Lettere gebou geparkeer. Die man slaap, sy kaal voete hang uit die venster. Ek is lus om hulle te kielie. Skielik skrik hy wakker en strompel uit die kar. Hy lyk soos iemand wat terug wou gaan Witbank toe na 'n harde dag by die werk en sy pad verloor het. Rooi-bruin vellies smelt in die Afrika aarde in, sy blou werksbroek en blou werkshemp het al te baie die wasmasjien leer ken. Die broek is te kort, die hemp te groot. Sy wit-geel hare staan soos bossies in elke rigting, die Einstein van die platteland get aangekom.  Die man se beloning na die middagslapie : 'n bottel guava mengsel, just add water ( 4:1).

En ek in die middel van dié middag, bruin leer skoene, 'n rokkie wat val en 'n manlike leerband om my arm om nie soos almal wat by Jay Jay's koop te lyk nie. My linker oog is rooi soos die robot. Hy waarsku almal om nie te naby te kom nie. Pink eye sou bang wees vir hierdie vlam. Dalk ontplof hy binnekort, wie weet.

Mense stap verby, future-engineers wat bang is vir meisies, girls met kort broekies, koshuis meisies, 'n meisie met boude wat enorm lyk vir haar klein beentjies. Blinde mense wat gelei word, sienende mense wat leiding kort. Almal lyk anders. Almal lyk eensaam.

Moenie bekommerd wees nie, mense. Ek kyk vir julle.
Nee, ek sien julle.  

Lunch Hour Concert: Charl du Plessis Jazz Trio

I don't like Jazz. One song, maybe two. But I won't go to a Jazz club and spend my night sitting at a tiny round table, ordering whiskey and enjoying the music.

To my surprise this week's lunch hour concert's performers were incredible: yes they are a Jazz trio, but they redid classical music and jazzed them up, literally. The trio consists of Steinway Artist if 2006, Charl du Plessis, on piano; Hugo Radyn on drums and Werner Spies, who is almost as tall as his instrument, on bass.

See more about the Charl du Plessis Jazz trio here

In the hour they played, I closed my eyes and travelled around the world :
Mozart's Andante from Piano Concert no 21 transported me into 70s style Brazilian hotel lounges: sipping a caipirinha, then driving down the Copa Cabana, wind in my hair, sunglasses on and ready for a great day.

Next came the Argentinian pampas, riding horses and herding cattle with Chopin's Waltz in C minor ( Op. 64 no 2).

From Argentina I became a red balloon, released into the air at a carnival.As I slip from the small hand and sense freedom, Bach's Prelude and Fuge in C minor ( WTC I no 2) accompanies my joyful flight. But as night descends, so does my fear and the music rumbles like an approaching thunder storm. The instruments turn to day again and on my balloon flies, happily drifting in the sunlight.

The trio had a face-off in Johnson's Carolina Shout, which made me think of living in Kentucky or Tennessee, drinking a mint julep and listening to the insects buzzing in the garden while relaxing on my porch.

Lastly, they "funked up" Chopin's Prelude in C Minor ( from 24 Preludes, Op. 28 no 20), through which I became Daddy Cool, running my own sin city and driving around in some badass black car. The music changed from playing in the trailer for some Bruce Willis film to soft, delicate notes, almost like moonlight caressing a peaceful world.

That is why I like music : I don't need to physically go anywhere to see the world and learn something new I had not previously considered.