[Authors note: The slightly constipated language of this is post is intentional and is meant to mimic the language of my betters. Specifically the platonic style still apparently favoured by some universities. I choose to use the first person singular instead of plural to individualise the style. Ho ho]
There are words the hover around the edges of my mind. Half defined or undefined, they linger there, surfacing every now and again in an article or podcast.
Two of these words arose this week as I was contemplating a way to approach this topic:
Exegesis: 1. critical explanation or interpretation of a text, especially of scripture.
Semiotics: 1. the study of signs and symbols and their use or interpretation.
So let us examine and interpret this phrase:
"what to listen to in oneself"
First I note the lack of punctuation. Is this a question? Is it a phrase picked out of a text? Possibly "One will learn what to listen to in oneself as one becomes still," or some such sagacity. Is it something written in haste? Something trivial or something trivialised?
What about it's context. On social networks everything is contextual and this phrase was indeed passed to me on a social network, in response to my request for subjects for this blog.
So it is the potential subject of a blog post, it's potential now realised.
I move now to the content of the phrase. It has two parts.
The first "what to listen to" seems at first glance to be simple enough. It is "what" which indicates multiple things that can be enumerated; and "listen" which would seem in the fuller context to indicate things which make a (possibly intelligible) sound or create a resonance. Whether that sound is metaphorical or not is moot for now.
The second part is "in oneself." This is the more immediately difficult part. Without knowledge of the questioner, with false ignorance as
it were, I cannot know what they mean by this. Let me assume for now
that they are not referring to external sounds that are actuated within
the hearing system. This would seem to defeat the inclusion of this clause.
I will also note the use of "oneself." The neutral term means that the questioner is not asking me to examine generics. They did not say "in myself" or "in yourself." They are asking for a treatment that is at least nominally neutral.
So what is "oneself" that contains these things to be listened to? The biological self? Does it include the rumbling and trickling of the bowels? The creak of the neck after too many hours sat typing? Or should I confine myself to the inner dialogue of the one's mental self? Are they talking about isolating different parts of the one's psyche, or about competing drives that the one could either listen to or resist?
Again I come back to context. There is a clear and definite road along which I could carelessly storm with the context inside my mind. And you, my long-suffering reader, could as easily careen down a different path given this phrase. Thus we would not only arrive at different answers but start from different questions.
Without an understanding of the author of the phrase it is difficult to arrive at an acceptable meaning for the phrase.
[Here I need to step outside the narrative and say that I am not going to describe said author to you, which would be required by the process, but I am going offer my best guess at their intent given what I know. Let's pretend I have given you the juicy details and led you down some logical alleyway to the next sentence]
With this knowledge of the author, I can rephrase the question as follows:
"Which aspects of one's drives and motivations, or body and soul if you prefer, should one readily express and which should be managed more carefully or shut down completely."
This is a question to which there is no clear answer. To answer it intellectually is a fool's errand or, given the style of this post, an academic's errand.
Since I am neither an academic nor a student playing at being one, I will quickly and jarringly switch to a mode in which I feel I can answer.
To the self and the myriad selves I say "we are at war with ourselves."
'We', and not 'I', for how could a unitary 'I' have such conflicts.
'War' because I can feel the wounds and I can see the dead selves lying on the road to now.
To the surviving selves I say "there will be no peace until the last of us dies."
'No peace' because I do not seek peace. Peace stinks of stagnation.
'Until the last of us dies' since in the pine box at the end of our road there will be peace.
To the questioner I say "listen to everything inside."
"Listen" because that requires focus. Let the selves speak. Do not silence their voices nor their weapons.
"Everything inside" because the world can be too much with one.
To the reader I say "This writing like a student lark is bloody hard."
"This writing..."
Ah, screw it. I am no good a Gibran either...
Friday, February 28, 2014
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Fighting with my wife
If we are fortunate, most of our lives consist of evolution. If you are a Syrian refugee or child pop star, this may not be true, but most of us deal with the everyday annoyances of time, money and relationships as they come along. This may improve us or turn us into hollow husks, whatever.
Every now and then, though, we have a revolution. This may be a good or bad revolution. I was going to list some of each, getting married or divorced; getting or losing a job; then I realised that any of those could be good or bad.
I would like to talk about a specific kind of revolution - fights with my wife.
Those of you who know my beautiful, caring and all round wonderful wife would doubt that any man could ever fight with such a blessed creature. I am sad to report that this does happen on occasion.
By fight I do not mean argue, or display signs of irritation. That happens and it is part of the evolution. Every now and again we fight. The causes are varied, it could be a something someone has said or failed to say; some disagreement about how something was handled; or just general boredom because we haven't had a fight for a few months.
There are some ground rules to a fight that we have refined over the years:
The fight itself has four steps:
Some sniping may occur after this, but only light sniping. Flesh wounds. Something to make the other realise they are in no-man's land. And dawn is coming.
This is usually followed by a day or so of silence. Not an armistice exactly, more a regrouping of the forces.
Then comes the peace. This is normally the calm reasoned discussion that real adults are supposed to have in the first place.
And then... a funny thing happens. One of us, or maybe both, will change. "Yes, you have a point. And not just that arrow-point aimed at my jugular."
Yes, I am too involved in my internal world.
No, it's not useful when I keep avoiding talking about [...].
Yes, we do have to sort our finances out.
No, I don't have to give you a solution to every problem, sometimes a hug or commiseration will do.
Those changes, year by year, have made our relationship stronger. We have not slain all our monsters. We are not the perfect couple. But every fight makes us that little bit better, together.
Every now and then, though, we have a revolution. This may be a good or bad revolution. I was going to list some of each, getting married or divorced; getting or losing a job; then I realised that any of those could be good or bad.
I would like to talk about a specific kind of revolution - fights with my wife.
Those of you who know my beautiful, caring and all round wonderful wife would doubt that any man could ever fight with such a blessed creature. I am sad to report that this does happen on occasion.
By fight I do not mean argue, or display signs of irritation. That happens and it is part of the evolution. Every now and again we fight. The causes are varied, it could be a something someone has said or failed to say; some disagreement about how something was handled; or just general boredom because we haven't had a fight for a few months.
There are some ground rules to a fight that we have refined over the years:
- Not in public.
- Not in front of the kids (Not the bloody parts anyway).
- Not while drinking. Bar-room brawling has no place for us.
- No character assassination (character commentary is fine though).
The fight itself has four steps:
- One of us will say A flippantly.
- The other will respond aggressively and say B.
- Soon C-Z and more has also been said.
- Then one of us - usually me, I'm a sulker - will saunter off nonchalantly.
Some sniping may occur after this, but only light sniping. Flesh wounds. Something to make the other realise they are in no-man's land. And dawn is coming.
This is usually followed by a day or so of silence. Not an armistice exactly, more a regrouping of the forces.
Then comes the peace. This is normally the calm reasoned discussion that real adults are supposed to have in the first place.
And then... a funny thing happens. One of us, or maybe both, will change. "Yes, you have a point. And not just that arrow-point aimed at my jugular."
Yes, I am too involved in my internal world.
No, it's not useful when I keep avoiding talking about [...].
Yes, we do have to sort our finances out.
No, I don't have to give you a solution to every problem, sometimes a hug or commiseration will do.
Those changes, year by year, have made our relationship stronger. We have not slain all our monsters. We are not the perfect couple. But every fight makes us that little bit better, together.
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Vampires and other beasts
 |
| "She only comes out at night" |
So what is this thing that teenage girls (and boys and adults) have with vampires. Why would anyone be drawn to a creature that inflicts pain and fear on others? Why would we walk towards an undead being that would see one as a piece of meat more than anything else.
Of course when said vampire (or werewolf) is played by a very good looking boy with a certain androgyny or a Monster High doll for the younger kids, we can understand, but there is a darker side to the fascination. Being called 'dark' or 'evil' is far better than being called 'creepy' or 'weird'. Serial killers get nude pics and marriage proposals.
I have never been a teenage girl and my last personal interaction with a teenage girl was 15 years ago. (Relax, she was 18 and I was... a bit older.)
Fortunately for us, I believe in the universal subconscious and have almost immediate access to every emotion felt and every thought thunk by anyone ever.
The teenage mind is readily accessible with the right preparation. A mixture of raging hormones, peer pressure, great expectations and parents in their psyche will reduce the casual observer to a quivering wreck in seconds.
Thankfully wine, cigarettes, age and too many swift ones off the wrist have made me impervious to these distractions. I shall go there shortly.
Vampires are a bit more difficult, since they don't exist. So let us look at the best known foundational myth of vampires. For this we can turn to my great, great X 27 uncle, Vlad the Impaler. You see, my family's name was originally von Schwarzenburg. We came from a region of southern Germany adjacent to Wallachia and Vlad's brother, Radu, was the duke of Schwarzenburg.
Uncle Vlad was known for his cruel but effective methods in war. It can be argued that he played a decisive part in saving Europe from the Ottomans in 1462. He achieved this by destroying vast border areas and killing every man, woman, child and beast in that place; by filling the battlefield with the impaled captives (impaled anus to aorta on wooden poles) from previous battles and raids, some still crying out as they bled to death from internal wounds. By being, in short, the nastiest man in town.
And for that he was cursed by the pope and by the people. He and his family and all their descendants to the end of time were excommunicated and damned. As a final insult, many hundreds of years after his death, a drunk Irishman took his story and turned it into a caricature which persists to this day. Vlad III, Dracul, Prince of Wallachia became Dracula of Transylvania, a blood sucking demon that did not die. He has not died.
There is a legend in my family that any son born with a birthmark on the neck will die a violent death before his fiftieth year, an interesting twist on the bite marks of vampires. It is a silly superstition, but my uncle Clive had a birthmark on the back of his neck and he died in a car accident when he was 52.
Thankfully wine, cigarettes, age and too many swift ones off the wrist have made me impervious to these distractions. I shall go there shortly.
Vampires are a bit more difficult, since they don't exist. So let us look at the best known foundational myth of vampires. For this we can turn to my great, great X 27 uncle, Vlad the Impaler. You see, my family's name was originally von Schwarzenburg. We came from a region of southern Germany adjacent to Wallachia and Vlad's brother, Radu, was the duke of Schwarzenburg.
Uncle Vlad was known for his cruel but effective methods in war. It can be argued that he played a decisive part in saving Europe from the Ottomans in 1462. He achieved this by destroying vast border areas and killing every man, woman, child and beast in that place; by filling the battlefield with the impaled captives (impaled anus to aorta on wooden poles) from previous battles and raids, some still crying out as they bled to death from internal wounds. By being, in short, the nastiest man in town.
And for that he was cursed by the pope and by the people. He and his family and all their descendants to the end of time were excommunicated and damned. As a final insult, many hundreds of years after his death, a drunk Irishman took his story and turned it into a caricature which persists to this day. Vlad III, Dracul, Prince of Wallachia became Dracula of Transylvania, a blood sucking demon that did not die. He has not died.
There is a legend in my family that any son born with a birthmark on the neck will die a violent death before his fiftieth year, an interesting twist on the bite marks of vampires. It is a silly superstition, but my uncle Clive had a birthmark on the back of his neck and he died in a car accident when he was 52.
The myth of vampires transforms historical facts into a farce for the entertainment of the masses. Families take the story of a long dead descendant and turn it into a curse, a 'raison de se cacher'; a reason to hide from the world.
This does not explain the teenage girls attraction to this figure, though. Vlad is a better as a role model for hedge fund managers than as the object of teenage affections.
I have put off that access to the teenage mind long enough. Let me see...
This does not explain the teenage girls attraction to this figure, though. Vlad is a better as a role model for hedge fund managers than as the object of teenage affections.
I have put off that access to the teenage mind long enough. Let me see...
---
im fat no one will ever want to marry me i have a test on monday i should have studied tonight clint is quite a caring guy everyone will laugh at me if i speak to him i told sandy that james is sooo cute he's ok whats moms problem i know she has issues but shit she should just sort them out i don't know why she and mike are still together i bet she is doing it for me and sandy thats so fucking i mean bloody messed up does she think she is doing us a favour by staying with that arsehole they fight every night the way he looks at me the creep...
i frigged myself last night its wrong but what about how steve said he was a vampire the idiot but what if vampires really existed...
i frigged myself last night its wrong but what about how steve said he was a vampire the idiot but what if vampires really existed...
He stands at the top of the marble staircase. He is dressed all in black with a cape. The inside of the cape is dark red satin.
I stand at the bottom of the stairs. I am scared, but I can't move. There are people all around me. Everyone is looking up at him, but he is only looking at me.
He slowly walks down the stairs. He smiles at me. I can see his incisors are long. Jesus, he is handsome. No, not Jesus, I will scare him away if I think that.
He walks straight to me. He reaches out and takes my hand, "Shall we dance?" The band starts playing and we dance. I don't know how to dance but he looks into my eyes and it just happens. He is so strong.
He dances with me the whole night. He takes me to his table on the stage. There are some very important people at the table, he is talking to them and they are laughing. I understand everything that is happening. The whole night his hand is on my leg.
Then the band stops playing and the people at our table disappear. There are still people below us at other tables around the dance floor.
He looks at me, he stares straight into my soul. "I want you to stay the night. Do you understand what that means?"
I am not sure, is he going to drink my blood? Am I going to die? I nod yes. He is so beautiful. I will do anything he asks.
"Say it." He commands.
"You want to drink my blood."
"NO! I do not want your blood, I want you."
I'm confused. I just stare at him. "You are going to be mine. Forever. We will drink the blood of others together."
"But why me?"
"Don't you understand? You are beautiful, I want you to be my bride. You will have everything you ever wanted. You will lack for nothing. But you must understand the cost. Your life as you know it will be gone forever. You will be tutored here, you will grow to a woman. Your family will be taken care of but you will never be able to return to them. I love you, Belle. You are such a beauty and I know I am a beast..."
---
Ooookay...
Beauty and the Beast = Vampires? Did we give our daughters a monster to play with when they were young and it grew up with them? A monster that offers them escape from the mundane. Who offers everything and demands everything. Who may yet be saved from his curse by a working class girl.
Do our sons fantasise about being a beast? Do they sometimes look in the mirror and realise that they will never be prince charming, but Dracula, the Hulk or Al Pacino? Maybe.
I have had some flirtations with the darkness, here is one:
"What would you believe
To relieve
The insane
Pain
Of nothing?
I cut myself
As the blood flowed freely
I took it as ink and wrote
Above my bed
"I AM"
Ultimate insult to the god of my fathers
Final acknowledgement of the blood of my mothers (Blest be ye)"
Perhaps I should look inside myself for these answers. Why do I love the darkness? Why am I drawn to be Dracul? Why is it that a girlfriend expressed the fantasy above in relation to me?
The void. We all know the void. It is with us every day. Some use it as a canvas, some mock it, most ignore it. A few look into it.
I quite enjoy the void. It is calm. No one comes looking for me there. There are no bills there, no chakras to clear, no relationships to rescue, no dogs to walk and no cats to feed. It is the grave animated. It is infinity and eternity. I can sit there and be insignificant in peace.
At the high table of count Dracul there are no parents, no exams, no questions about what you are going to do with your life. There is no prince charming to sweep you off your feet before you have even found them. He is dark, he is dangerous, he is powerful. He is all or nothing. He is the final grave and the temporary pleasure.
Come, drink.
(DISCLAIMER: The true story of Vlad III is even more awesome than my version. My father's male line come from a stone mason in Pomerania who came to SA in 1839. However my mother's paternal line does come from the brother of a man killed in a cathedral Robert the
A snowflake and the 10 commandments
Snowflake responds to the law.
You shall have no other Gods before me
"I am glad this came up. But it's OK. As long as you keep me there or thereabouts."
You shall not make for yourselves an idol
"My ironic photo of the Jesus painting is fine but whoever painted it is most probably going to hell."
You shall not misuse the name of the LORD your God
"Um, who is my God again? I feel I should know this."
Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy
"Remember to breathe. No, seriously, just chill the fuck out sometimes, dude."
Honor your father and your mother
"Awkies. Um..."
You shall not murder
"In my mind is fine though. I think. As long as I have the violence in the video game of my mind set to 'low'. Blood spatter is definitely not cool."
You shall not commit adultery
"OK, this one is for you, not me. Get your hands of my ass."
You shall not steal
"Yeah, whatever."
You shall not give false testimony
"But social lying is fine. Really, I should try it sometime. Truth is one thing, my brutal honesty is quite another."
You shall not covet
"That shit doesn't mean anything anyway. Rings on their fingers and smells in their toes."
You shall have no other Gods before me
"I am glad this came up. But it's OK. As long as you keep me there or thereabouts."
You shall not make for yourselves an idol
"My ironic photo of the Jesus painting is fine but whoever painted it is most probably going to hell."
You shall not misuse the name of the LORD your God
"Um, who is my God again? I feel I should know this."
Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy
"Remember to breathe. No, seriously, just chill the fuck out sometimes, dude."
Honor your father and your mother
"Awkies. Um..."
You shall not murder
"In my mind is fine though. I think. As long as I have the violence in the video game of my mind set to 'low'. Blood spatter is definitely not cool."
You shall not commit adultery
"OK, this one is for you, not me. Get your hands of my ass."
You shall not steal
"Yeah, whatever."
You shall not give false testimony
"But social lying is fine. Really, I should try it sometime. Truth is one thing, my brutal honesty is quite another."
You shall not covet
"That shit doesn't mean anything anyway. Rings on their fingers and smells in their toes."
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Suli Breaks vs Bruce Springsteen: A review
 |
| Suli Breaks and a white guy |
I have been to see two events this month: Bruce Springsteen (~40 000 attendance) and Suli Breaks (~50 attendance).
I have been a Boss fan since 1984 (June, Dancing in the dark, Pop-Shop). Before 2013 I had never heard of Suli.
Synopses: Suli ripped The Boss a new one.
Bruce Springsteen was a disappointment. Not personally, you understand, but those tepid, vacuous fans of his. Too much for me. Shouting at people for dancing in the stands? Seriously? Go home, white boy. Take your heart meds or Viagra and go home.
Tonight it was Suli. Short set. Meeting and greeting. His girlfriend taking photos (gotta be his girlfriend, cause ain't no woman gonna have time for this unless she loves the man.)
He starts with a humorous piece about social media and how screwed up we are. Just to let us know that he is not all serious.
Then RIP. It doesn't have to mean what you think it means. It won't mean what it meant to me until now and that means a lot to me.
He tells us about his life. Highschool: passed. Law degree: passed.
Then took a job as a cleaner instead of following the path more travelled.
Then he gets serious. A poem about a Muslim girl. Inspired by his sister who wears a niqab. Not a hijab, the real deal niqab. Its raw. It hurts.
He finishes off with his first hit, "Why I love education, but hate school." You gotta hear it to understand. It's about choosing your path.
Enough with the facts. Let's get into the ebullient praise.
This man is a future. Most probably not the future we are going to follow, cause humans are pretty messed up, but a future nonetheless.
His words drag our 18 year old selves out of their graves and kicks them until the rise up. He doesn't shout, he hardly swears. He tears us apart gently, like damp origami. "Remember, repent, renew." This is not "born to run", this is born to remain. We know who we are and we aren't go'in nowhere.
He gives a shout out to his "unemployed graduates... cleaners... tellers", he has done all of those jobs and more.
He does photo's with his fans, before and after. He is here. Not here in a phalanx of bodyguards, not here on stage. He is present. He is undeterred by the tiny crowd, he thanks them for taking the time to be here.
We meet Sizwe and Lindi. He has dragged her along because she's his girlfriend and she has to see this. After the show we see them again. She is a fan too. If you are not a fan after seeing the man you have no soul.
Suli should be in every school. He should have a chance to speak to the nation. He really is that good at speaking the truth.
Saturday, February 15, 2014
Just Leonard Cohen this time
[Fade in mobile screen]
"... no fucking way dude am I even discussing Leonard Cohen."
[Cut to sleeping mother and child]
Ah, yes. Definitely the sisters of mercy. Hint of Suzanne in the mother? Definitely. She gets you on her wavelength, time after time.
[Cut to shot of this screen. Empty wine bottles in the background. Dirty dishes. Some signs of clealing. Wineglass, some wine. "Closing time" plays.]
"The chain's too tight, the moon's too bright. The beast won't go to sleep."
[Fade to black]
Well, we shall discuss Leonard Cohen here then.
Green Day "St. Jimmy" is thumping in the background. Sweet catharsis. "I don't care if you don't care..."
Let us begin...
So who is this Leonard Cohen?
Everyman?
No.
The people's bard?
Nope.
Barbie whatsit and the vagina of doom?
Uh-uh.
The demon from the everlasting hell of unrequited love?
Close, but no cigar.
Look inside, look deep. See the worm? Feel the worm? That dissatisfaction with perfection? The search for never never heaven?
How the worm turns.
Leonard Cohen. Jew. Buddhist monk. Singer of songs and talker of truths.
How the turn twists.
We are not happy, we are not satiated. Sitting at the feast of love or begging at the wells of disappointment. There is never enough. We are the harlots in the night, we cry out for more. We humble ourselves with our beggars bowls and our scarlet souls. Oh, how we beg for that which cannot be and is not advised.
"... and something on the side." As if one would hope to be the salad, or possibly an entrée to her feast.
The Cohenim is strong with this one. Shallow us, we drown in his words. He sees us by seeing himself. He strips away our faux morality. He breathes the fire of life into our loins. This one is strong in us.
"I like to see you naked over there, especially from the back, oh take this longing from my tongue..."
She comes to me. Nude, naked, unclothed, natural. She is muse and fate. Myth and woman. She is lying naked on his bed in the Chelsea hotel. She is smoking a cigarette. She is...
She is not here.
Leonard Cohen knew her. Mother, lover, daughter, he knew her every aspect. He never passed her by in the street without knowing her.
"... and all these useless things my hand has done. Let me see your beauty broken down."
Yes, yes, yes and a thousand times YES!" let me see you beauty broken down. Let me see it's composite parts. Let me see the nails that bind you to your cross. Let me see the inner curtains of your sanctum sanctorum.
"Like your would do, for one you love."
"... no fucking way dude am I even discussing Leonard Cohen."
[Cut to sleeping mother and child]
Ah, yes. Definitely the sisters of mercy. Hint of Suzanne in the mother? Definitely. She gets you on her wavelength, time after time.
[Cut to shot of this screen. Empty wine bottles in the background. Dirty dishes. Some signs of clealing. Wineglass, some wine. "Closing time" plays.]
"The chain's too tight, the moon's too bright. The beast won't go to sleep."
[Fade to black]
Well, we shall discuss Leonard Cohen here then.
Green Day "St. Jimmy" is thumping in the background. Sweet catharsis. "I don't care if you don't care..."
Let us begin...
So who is this Leonard Cohen?
Everyman?
No.
The people's bard?
Nope.
Barbie whatsit and the vagina of doom?
Uh-uh.
The demon from the everlasting hell of unrequited love?
Close, but no cigar.
Look inside, look deep. See the worm? Feel the worm? That dissatisfaction with perfection? The search for never never heaven?
How the worm turns.
Leonard Cohen. Jew. Buddhist monk. Singer of songs and talker of truths.
How the turn twists.
We are not happy, we are not satiated. Sitting at the feast of love or begging at the wells of disappointment. There is never enough. We are the harlots in the night, we cry out for more. We humble ourselves with our beggars bowls and our scarlet souls. Oh, how we beg for that which cannot be and is not advised.
"... and something on the side." As if one would hope to be the salad, or possibly an entrée to her feast.
The Cohenim is strong with this one. Shallow us, we drown in his words. He sees us by seeing himself. He strips away our faux morality. He breathes the fire of life into our loins. This one is strong in us.
"I like to see you naked over there, especially from the back, oh take this longing from my tongue..."
She comes to me. Nude, naked, unclothed, natural. She is muse and fate. Myth and woman. She is lying naked on his bed in the Chelsea hotel. She is smoking a cigarette. She is...
She is not here.
Leonard Cohen knew her. Mother, lover, daughter, he knew her every aspect. He never passed her by in the street without knowing her.
"... and all these useless things my hand has done. Let me see your beauty broken down."
Yes, yes, yes and a thousand times YES!" let me see you beauty broken down. Let me see it's composite parts. Let me see the nails that bind you to your cross. Let me see the inner curtains of your sanctum sanctorum.
"Like your would do, for one you love."
Friday, February 14, 2014
Write he said
(A guest post from my wife)
Write he said. Three words, very simple.
Do you have any idea what those three words are hiding? No you don't. Me neither. The longer I wax questioning about the comment, the longer I can skirt its meaning. It's like the cockroach in the middle of the room that I keep walking around, hoping that at some point it'll blend into the wood.
Okay, I'll stop. Let's start here. Writing is a form of communication - usually putting thoughts down in words. So let's talk about the plug in my throat.
It's a perfect fit, I can feel it now. It's not altogether comfortable. My throat feels constricted, but at least that saves me from feeling free or being able to swallow or breathe properly. Yes okay, at least I don't have to feel exposed. Exposed to all the vultures who'd like to peck through my ribcage into my flesh.That's too raw.
As an aside, my therapist supported the astrologer. Your whole perspective of me has changed now - hasn't it? Mine too. White, middle-aged, middle class woman who's stuck in the middle sampling possibility of an experience that'll make me thrum. The point is this - I'm sitting here writing but I am not thrumming. Actually I think it is an arbitrary thing to be doing on a Friday morning. My therapist warned me this would happen too. He told me I would sabotage the process. Don't you love these self deflating bootstraps!
Write he said. Three words, very simple.
Do you have any idea what those three words are hiding? No you don't. Me neither. The longer I wax questioning about the comment, the longer I can skirt its meaning. It's like the cockroach in the middle of the room that I keep walking around, hoping that at some point it'll blend into the wood.
Okay, I'll stop. Let's start here. Writing is a form of communication - usually putting thoughts down in words. So let's talk about the plug in my throat.
It's a perfect fit, I can feel it now. It's not altogether comfortable. My throat feels constricted, but at least that saves me from feeling free or being able to swallow or breathe properly. Yes okay, at least I don't have to feel exposed. Exposed to all the vultures who'd like to peck through my ribcage into my flesh.That's too raw.
As an aside, my therapist supported the astrologer. Your whole perspective of me has changed now - hasn't it? Mine too. White, middle-aged, middle class woman who's stuck in the middle sampling possibility of an experience that'll make me thrum. The point is this - I'm sitting here writing but I am not thrumming. Actually I think it is an arbitrary thing to be doing on a Friday morning. My therapist warned me this would happen too. He told me I would sabotage the process. Don't you love these self deflating bootstraps!
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Sex, Leonard Cohen And Jesus: How I met my wife
It started with a bang.
And a whimper.
It all started about a week before it started. On or about Saturday, the 4th of December 1999 at 21:30 I was hanging out at Cool Runnings with my posse of perennial bachelors. When I say "my" posse, I really mean Darrel's posse, but he wasn't there that night.
A trucker, three programmers and a man with no visible means of support. They were serious, honest men, I was the scoundrel. My last relationship had fallen apart some time before, must have been at least a week.
Amidst the philosophical discussion that all decent bachelor guys indulge in: "why do women prefer bastards"; "what is wrong with us?" Yada, yada, yada... I espied two lasses with no place to seat themselves. With the confidence borne of not giving a shit, I stood up, walked over and invited them to join our table. They agreed. I sat back and watched.
(Now, it is important to say again at this point that I had recently felt the comfort of consensual love making. There is a certain sans souci that a man feels when he is not desperate for a woman's love. This is an important point to the narrative arc.)
The evening passed amiably enough. None of my friends where arseholes and the (Potchefstroom) ladies were indeed perfect ladies. There was talk, of what I know not. There was wine and there was beer. We parted on good terms with hugs all round.
As we were leaving, the alpha lady pressed a piece of paper into my hand as she hugged me, "call me."
I called her. How was I to know the sweet agony that was to emanate from that call.
The next Saturday I drove to Potch. I wish that words could express the delight of being drawn into another's planned fantasy.
My car and bags went to a flat that she had borrowed from a friend for the night. We went for dinner. I met some of her friends. We went back to the flat. Until 2am she tortured me with the lust and the love and the passion of words; of a broken heart splayed wide open.
Then we made love. We made something. Eye to eye, no compromise, no let up, no surrender.
It was detailed, precise, exquisite.
"I have to go home," she apologised.
"I understand," I begged.
"My parents will be suspicious if I stay out all night."
"OK..." my somniloquy.
"And I have to go to church in the morning..."
"I'll come with you if you want," I confessed.
"Really?" she orgasmed.
And so it was that on Sunday 12 December 1999, the first day of the rest of my life, for the first time in seven years I found myself in a church on a Sunday morning with about 3 hours of sleep under my belt and a pastor trying my resolve.
She slid her hand into mine during a prayer. I bravely closed my eyes. Oh what miracles that hand had wrought not 7 hours before. I swear I smiled AMEN!, or Hallelujah!
We had lunch with her folks; a slightly stilted but generally pleasant affair. Her mother seemed to take to me and her dad was not obviously revolted. I am certain that they saw my sallow eyes and their dearest daughter's freshly fundamentalised joie de vivre, but se la vie...
As she walked me to my car, she gave me two gift's:
1) Her copy of the NG churches catechism.
2) Her CD of Leonard Cohen's greatest hits. With a request that I listen to 'Take this Longing'.
So the fantasy was completed with a book of faith and the music of the faithless. We kissed, we hugged, we said goodbye. I drove back to Johannesburg.
I went back to Cool Runnings to meet the herd. One of them showed up and we chatted for a while. It was a lazy Sunday and I was at peace. He had to leave. I SMS'd another member to find out if he and his cohort were coming.
I laid my phone down and closed my eyes. Bliss? Peace? Simple satiation? Exhaustion?
I opened my eyes and saw her. I felt the shock of recognising someone I had never seen before.
"I know you." I saw her for the first time and her surname was Cohen.
A short while later I walked inside and met my wife.
I can no longer recall the name of the lady of Potchefstroom.
And a whimper.
It all started about a week before it started. On or about Saturday, the 4th of December 1999 at 21:30 I was hanging out at Cool Runnings with my posse of perennial bachelors. When I say "my" posse, I really mean Darrel's posse, but he wasn't there that night.
A trucker, three programmers and a man with no visible means of support. They were serious, honest men, I was the scoundrel. My last relationship had fallen apart some time before, must have been at least a week.
Amidst the philosophical discussion that all decent bachelor guys indulge in: "why do women prefer bastards"; "what is wrong with us?" Yada, yada, yada... I espied two lasses with no place to seat themselves. With the confidence borne of not giving a shit, I stood up, walked over and invited them to join our table. They agreed. I sat back and watched.
(Now, it is important to say again at this point that I had recently felt the comfort of consensual love making. There is a certain sans souci that a man feels when he is not desperate for a woman's love. This is an important point to the narrative arc.)
The evening passed amiably enough. None of my friends where arseholes and the (Potchefstroom) ladies were indeed perfect ladies. There was talk, of what I know not. There was wine and there was beer. We parted on good terms with hugs all round.
As we were leaving, the alpha lady pressed a piece of paper into my hand as she hugged me, "call me."
I called her. How was I to know the sweet agony that was to emanate from that call.
The next Saturday I drove to Potch. I wish that words could express the delight of being drawn into another's planned fantasy.
My car and bags went to a flat that she had borrowed from a friend for the night. We went for dinner. I met some of her friends. We went back to the flat. Until 2am she tortured me with the lust and the love and the passion of words; of a broken heart splayed wide open.
Then we made love. We made something. Eye to eye, no compromise, no let up, no surrender.
It was detailed, precise, exquisite.
"I have to go home," she apologised.
"I understand," I begged.
"My parents will be suspicious if I stay out all night."
"OK..." my somniloquy.
"And I have to go to church in the morning..."
"I'll come with you if you want," I confessed.
"Really?" she orgasmed.
And so it was that on Sunday 12 December 1999, the first day of the rest of my life, for the first time in seven years I found myself in a church on a Sunday morning with about 3 hours of sleep under my belt and a pastor trying my resolve.
She slid her hand into mine during a prayer. I bravely closed my eyes. Oh what miracles that hand had wrought not 7 hours before. I swear I smiled AMEN!, or Hallelujah!
We had lunch with her folks; a slightly stilted but generally pleasant affair. Her mother seemed to take to me and her dad was not obviously revolted. I am certain that they saw my sallow eyes and their dearest daughter's freshly fundamentalised joie de vivre, but se la vie...
As she walked me to my car, she gave me two gift's:
1) Her copy of the NG churches catechism.
2) Her CD of Leonard Cohen's greatest hits. With a request that I listen to 'Take this Longing'.
So the fantasy was completed with a book of faith and the music of the faithless. We kissed, we hugged, we said goodbye. I drove back to Johannesburg.
I went back to Cool Runnings to meet the herd. One of them showed up and we chatted for a while. It was a lazy Sunday and I was at peace. He had to leave. I SMS'd another member to find out if he and his cohort were coming.
I laid my phone down and closed my eyes. Bliss? Peace? Simple satiation? Exhaustion?
I opened my eyes and saw her. I felt the shock of recognising someone I had never seen before.
"I know you." I saw her for the first time and her surname was Cohen.
A short while later I walked inside and met my wife.
I can no longer recall the name of the lady of Potchefstroom.
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