Stormy Waters

So.
Last week I went on a cruise from Kiel to Oslo. And forgot my diary in the cabin.
Those pages are a written testament from the moment I left SA, with all the trips, concerts, emotions and thoughts in between recorded in it. I realise full and well it is just paper, it is not the thing of most monetary worth that I could have lost. Yet it matters, because it cannot be replaced. I try to remember what I wrote down. The drawings I did of the covered Muslim ladies at Doha airport with their very fancy footwork. The questioning of whether the winter depression will ever end, whether depression can truly be linked to the darkness outside and is not simply a consequence of not being able to see the wood for the trees. Late night notes on a full moon admired from my bedroom window. Little trips to Copenhagen, Hamburg, Amsterdam. Drawn maps of places where I didn't have internet. Daily anecdotes on the long vacation back home. All these words, lost.

I've had diaries since childhood. In a box at my mother's house a dozen or more are gathering dust. Perhaps each of us has something that saves us, something that makes sense when everything else does not. For the one it may be a form of exercise, for another it may be escaping into WoW or League of Legends or some other alliterated game. It may be a person or a pet or dancing to 'Lotus Flower' when you are alone. Yet (I assume) we all need to flee our minds and our environments at times. And that is what these diaries have provided: a safe space to make sense of things. Not even to make sense so much, rather to release the jumbled mess in my brain onto the neat lines of a page. The written word, the word written in my handwriting, makes the bad and the good better.

My aunt asked me last year why I write. What is the reason to sit down, whether it be in front of a computer or a blank page or a diary or a typewriter or whichever other device you may choose, and to start pouring the words onto paper?

The answer is simple: there is nothing else. It is not about being read by others (although naturally one also wants to be read) or about creating the next great novel or changing the world. This writing is a chance to be selfish, to give all of myself to myself. It is a chance to see how I have changed over the years, how what seemed like mountains at the time could be conquered. It is a testament to the past, stemming from the fear that something might be forgotten. It is writing with my fountain pen when most things are typed these days. It is collecting tiny snippets of concert tickets and everyday conversations. It is knowing that words matter.



Quite fitting: this Scrabble ad. "There's magic in words". Indeed.

Choice Kingdom

"In late modernity, what it might mean to conceive of oneself as belonging to a nation is an interesting question. Are notions of national belonging based on geographical location, ancestry, race, ethnicity, culture? Are they a construct, the result of social and political structures? Might one hold multiple nationalities or none? Is nationality somehow fixed, set, or, in a modern, cosmopolitan context, is it possible to conceive of nationality as a choice?"

On the occasion of a conference on JM Coetzee in the World in Australia, in her article Is JM Coetzee an 'Australian writer'? The answer could be yes Claire Heaney questions whether Coetzee can still be seen as a South African writer, or whether he has become an Australian, both through his moving there in 2002 and his claim of Australian citizenship in 2006. More than the debate surrounding his work and choice of continent the paragraph quoted above spoke to me (also because it just consists of questions I constantly ask myself).

What does it mean to belong and what is it based on? When I am in Germany, I never feel at home; I can't breathe fully and at times an unknown darkness creeps in, like an octopus whose tentacles insist on wrapping themselves ever tighter around my body and my life. And yet, South Africa is ever so slowly losing what was 'home' about it. My mom lives in a different city now. Turns out my sister is not capable of showing that she cares over long distance.

This moment in time is entirely frustrating. On the one hand I want to build a life somewhere, settle in for a bit, meet up with people where I don't think that the friendship has an expiration date whilst knowing very well that if both don't put in an effort all friendships eventually drift apart. Is there just a small percentage of people who will consistently inquire about the well-being of the important ones in their lives, irrespective of distance? Is it only a special breed that insists on not giving up when the kilometres increase?

I desperately want the life of my choosing, the problem remains that I don't know what to choose. Do I go back, do I make the argument for being close to my mother, close to a few I remain in contact with, close to sunshine, close to mangoes? Or do I plant some roots in the Northern Hemisphere, get a retirement fund, forget about leaving all the time? Do I choose weekend-trips to Zürich and all the places I haven't been before? Do I embrace the possibility of actually wanting to make new friends that last?

More than the question of belonging to a nation, in your twenties the question is simply of belonging when your world is no longer a fixed place.

Reminders, Defeats

This year, man, this year.
The days a twisted game of Jenga,
with stacks of bureaucratic paperwork
and nothing really to look forward to.
Alas, this is just what everyone feels like
when big changes
are just around the corner
ready to shout "BOO!"
when you least expect it.

Made of Stone

The Forgotten One

Nicholas knows they can smell him before they can see him. What is he supposed to do? He can’t go back; there is no place to go home to and there is no place for him to go forward to. So he spends his life huddling into the spaces that others ignore. There is the corner of the bus stop where he can rest his head against dirty Plexiglas. Then there is the corner opposite the Indian restaurant where he can smell the coriander, the turmeric and the cumin combining with a hint of cinnamon, maybe some garlic and a handful of chili peppers to create their garam masala. Or on warm summer nights he can hide away from prying eyes behind the arches of the old rum storage hall near the harbour.

He does not grow embarrassed anymore. Now he simply exists as he is, waiting for a future that brings him no hope. What do they see as they walk quickly past him, fearful of him extending his empty coffee cup in that tell-tale way of the beggar? But he does not beg, even though his condition would be best suited to it. His wheelchair is a good start, but it is the burns on his face and upper body that could really make the people empty their wallets. The stench and the rags are just a bonus, something to add to his look of callous wretchedness.

Nicholas knows he scares them. He knows what he looks like. His once blue eyes have submitted to a greyish colourlessness and the right one has a droopy lower lid. He has no eyebrows left, his right cheek is torn apart by disfiguring burns. The right wing of his nose is missing completely, making him appear more skull-like than human-like. The scars on the top of his head he hides underneath an old beanie, but the ones extending down his chest and torso he wears as a shield of armour. Thick worms of badly healed skin crisscross down his torso like veins and arteries that have inverted their place in the body.

His looks he accepts, it is just one of those things. But the loss of his life he did not consent to. And now they walk past him, daily, the ones who loved him most also most afraid of him. He struggles to push his chair up the slight angle of the hill of the main shopping street. Cobblestones be damned. The plastic bags hanging from his chair’s handles sway-swish-swish as he tries to move forward. They contain all of his belongings, which does not amount to much: some ratty clothes, a pair of black boots for the winter, a towel and a bottle of wine. He is not really going anywhere, but the holidays have started and the city is inundated by them so he had to get away. He is advancing slowly, creeping up the hill, but no one offers to help. They part in front of him like the Red Sea.

He escapes and hides in the corner behind the church. No one goes to church any more, he knows he is safe from the hordes. The steeple casts a long shadow. It is 18:00. The bells start ringing all over town. Nicholas carefully fishes a paper cup from one of the bags and wipes it down with a serviette. The wine is pink and girlish but it was the cheapest he could find. He pours himself a glass and takes a big sip. But he does not gulp it down, no, he swirls it from one side of his mouth to the other, savouring the berry-like sweetness before he swallows soundlessly. The contents of the bottle disappear slowly; his head falls to his shoulder as he drifts into an uneasy sleep.

Only in this drunken stupor does he relive the horror of that night. The most joyous of them all, the night they had prepared for during the past 364 days. The day that ruined him.

All the preparations had been in order, his team had done a wonderful job and thought of everything. The first half of the night passed eventlessly, but then he slid down the chimney that would disfigure him forever. Nicholas had seen no smoke, felt no heat and smelt no soot so he felt safe. But when he reached the bottom he was engulfed by flames. The plastic imitation leather he was wearing because his workers no longer advocated the use of animal products singed and clung to his skin. It seared him, a fat steak on a griddle pan.

The children heard him scream. They came running but there was nothing they could do. Their parents appeared, tried to extinguish the man on fire in their living room. ‘How had he broken in? What was he there to steal?’ - they wondered. Good thing they let the fire burn. The parents phoned the ambulance and the police. Nicholas was rushed to hospital, but because he had no identification and kept mumbling that the children could not see him like this he was treated like a criminal, a pervert even. They barely patched him up, thinking him strange and scary and thus undeserving of proper care. Then they stuck him in a wheelchair and rolled him out of the front door. He had fallen through the bureaucratic cracks, no one cared what he did from that point onward.

Nicholas tried getting in touch with his office, after all he had worked there all his life and practically been the boss. But they only sent him a note: “Regret this happened to you, but we can no longer employ you. We hope you understand. Kind regards, Fir Tree Management”. He did not blame them, really, accepting that his looks made him ineligible to be the main guy any longer. But could they not have found alternate employment for him? Could his loyalty to the company for the past centuries not have been rewarded by something other than a letter of dismissal?

He started existing on the streets as he discovered the hidden nooks and crannies where he could breathe in peace. Worse than the betrayal by his employers and friends however was the way the children now looked at him. They retreated in disgust and avoided him at all cost. Nicholas had spent his life trying to bring them whatever they most desired, and this was the way they repaid him. He knew is anger was unfounded, knew that he should not blame them. How could the children recognize him like this? To them he was a crippled hobo surrounded by the stench of the streets, a urine-soaked figure of filth and human indifference. To them another Santa would be coming to town.

The takeover/ The sweeping insensitivity of this still life

3 Weeks.
3 Graduations.
2 of them mine.
Now it is all done with : no more waiting anxiously to walk across a stage for a full 20 seconds; no more balancing your hat precariously because it has chosen this (!!!) moment to slowly slide from your head; no more photographs in with hundreds of others just like you in the background.
Now there is nothing I actually have to do, to attend, hah, not even community patrol to drive.

A friend of mine posted a photo of himself five years ago and now, stating that although he felt much the same, he also didn't. And that he still wanted the same things.

In one month I'll be 25, and damn, this quarterlifecrisis thing has hit me over the head with a baseball bat before kicking me in the stomach a few times and then proceeding to steal one of my motherfucking kidneys. It has been nice enough to leave me my other kidney, because, you know, life goes on, and I should just man up. For a while there I felt like Charlie the unicorn heading to candy mountain: everyone asking you stuff and you're all miserable in your blanket of self-pity and then, in the end, it is all dreadful in any case.

But then, somehow, everything got better. I sort of might have a sort of job. I might still leave to teach English somewhere. I might still apply for Masters programs starting in the fall (well, northern autumn, southern spring). I might do nothing but Coursera courses this year. I might just do anything I want. There is no more findaman-marry-buyadog-buyahouse-havechildren-workworkwork-die. Perhaps that, and not the Internet or gay marriage or black presidents or female chancellors or whatever you like, is the fundamental change of the 21st century: the "knowledge generation" has the option of opting out. We (not all, of course) are choosing jobs we love and fulfil us, not work that pays the bills. Or ideally it should be so.

I am fortunate enough to have a mother who says I can still stay at home. I am equally fortunate to have chosen a degree I enjoyed very much, and where I was sure I was heading in the right direction somehow.

And I am fortunate to know how to write. This might seem trivial, I mean, EVERYONE can write. With millions of blogs/Twitter accounts/Pinterest/etc. everyone has a platform from which to promote their writing. However, an actual talent for writing is still a skill. Look, I very much doubt what I write and the words I choose and the self-obsessiveness that a blog seems to require. In order to write about your life constantly you have to admit to a degree of narcissism, but you also need to see the light and the dark in what you write. I went to this spoken poetry event, and it seemed as though everyone believed their poems to be excellent, even when they weren't. Nevertheless, it is easy for me to criticise because I am an uncourageous audience member, not daring to speak the words I dare to write.

But after having read the submissions some of my peers have made to one of the Coursera courses, writing well should be one one of those things you mention when the interviewer asks you about your strengths, because it is something to be proud of. The ability to structure an essay well, to spell correctly and to bring across an argument without blabbering on forever is admirable because not everyone can write, well, well.

And that has been enough to stop the lull in my life. Enough with this "meh"-feeling.
Writing. Writing. Writing.
And moving on.

Block und Bleistift

According to the National Geographic(the July 2012 issue, p. 28), cursive is dying out. In 2010, a survey showed that "85 percent of collegians printed when they wrote", and that as of this year, teachers focus on teaching their students how to type, not how to write in cursive.

I remember learning how to write cursive, how the letters needed to touch specific lines in our exercise books and how, in Grade 3, we started drawing little hearts and circles instead of the i-dots. I remember getting my first Lamy fountain pen, in blue. It is still the pen of choice when writing exams that take three hours.

Even if my handwriting is deemed illegible, I like it. Everything is so nicely bound, every word a little unit, tied by the cursive connectors, stitched, flowing, growing into something of meaning. How can cursive be dying out? The article states that all writing is, in fact, becoming outdated. It is true, no one really writes anything out any more. We type emails, not letters. We even type and print out letters. I mean, think about how often you still write things down? Even note-taking in class is increasingly done on laptops and ipads and whatever else. We WhatsApp, BBM, and sms to communicate. It is the sign of progress, but also a sign of loss.

My Afrikaans grandmother's handwriting is minuscule. My German grandmother's u's have a little line over them to distinguish them from her n's. My father's handwriting presses through to the next few pages clearly. My sister's handwriting is very straight and orderly and legible. My mom and I sign the 'zsch' at the end the same way. My friend Gunda's handwriting looks like it is always smiling. I know it is you writing without having to look at the name.

Cursive might be slowly disappearing, and I understand that legibility is important, but our handwriting is our fingerprint on the page. No Calibri, no Helvetica, no Times New Roman can replace that. It will be a sad day when handwriting becomes a rarity. Just look at these beauties:

Do you recognize your own?

nothingwrong

He said that by writing, one takes away the opportunity for another to write the same. Therefore, when writing one has to be considerate and reflexive. Weighing every word, making it count. I write because it is my act of courage for the day. It is wrapping my world in words and presenting them as a gift to whomever would want it to take it, even if just for a moment.

Others have touched with words for far longer and far more eloquently.

For instance: 

Sonnet
by Elizabeth Bishop

via Song of America

I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!

There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.

Life itself is gone

"It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop. Growth is exciting; growth is dynamic and alarming. Growth of the soul, growth of the mind. "

- Vita Sackville-West

Writing well

Here is some advice on writing poetry by Charles Simic, a Serbian-American poet, winner of the Pulitzer Prize in 1990 and Poet Laureate in 2007. I think his advice is applicable to any good writing? When blogging, I am unsure how much one considers one's readership. With smaller blogs it is probably more essential to focus on a specific area and so build up a readership - but with very popular blogs, I wonder if the writers think about what they are posting or if they are just glad 100 000 people are reading it daily. 

Charles Simic on Writing Poetry

A few things to keep in mind while sitting down to write a poem:

1. Don't tell the readers what they already know about life.
2. Don't assume you're the only one in the world who suffers.
3. Some of the greatest poems in the language are sonnets and poems not many lines longer than that, so don't overwrite.
4. The use of images, similes and metaphors make poems concise. Close your eyes, and let your imagination tell you what to do.
5. Say the words you are writing aloud and let your ear decide what word comes next.
6. What you are writing down is a draft that will need additional tinkering, perhaps many months, and even years of tinkering.
7. Remember, a poem is a time machine you are constructing, a vehicle that will allow someone to travel in their own mind, so don't be surprised if it takes a while to get all its engine parts properly working.

I read that everything that is worth doing takes time. I like writing, but I am sure it can be much ameliorated by following some of Simic's advice.

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.


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Blockage

When life is busy I have nothing to write about. I can think of not one thing that I would consider to be important. Sure, there is unrest all over the world and opinions that could be shared, but I feel like I would not do justice at the moment to their importance. Right now, arguing about religious views, or why young people have lost the desire to do better, or why life is beautiful, well, I just have no words at my disposal.

You know that situation when someone has said something mean or rude about you, or made a sarcastic joke on your expense, and you can say nothing witty back? But then, when you are sitting in your car or in front of the TV or wherever, you come up with the smartest comeback? Well, the French have a term for this : l'esprit de l'escalier. Directly translated it means the spirit of the stairs, or the wit of the stairs, and relates to Diderot, who said that he could only think of something clever when he was at the bottom of the stairs again ( in his time, the nobles would receive guests on the first floor).

Apparently there is a similar term in German, Treppenwitz ( Stair-joke). However, it is used more as relating to events that seem to contradict their own context. This is what Wikipedia says, but I have no idea what that is supposed to mean or what examples one could mention. What events seem to contradict their own context? Perhaps a situation similar to Frank Miller's comic book ( and later film version) 300, where 300 Spartans fight off the threat posed by the gigantic armies of Xerxes, would be suitable as a Treppenwitz?

Here a comeback from a man I would have loved to drink tea with :


During Winston Churchill's early career, he was at a meeting and another member was giving a long-winded speech. Churchill began to close his eyes and fall asleep. At the sight of this, the member became visibly angry and shouted: “Mr. Churchill, must you fall asleep while I’m speaking?”  Instead of making attempts at an apology or a cover-up, Churchill simply replied:

“No, it’s purely voluntary.”

You can find more clever comebacks here. 

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