Alice is a mover.
She's not a shaker yet, but give her a week or two.
For today she's just smiling, smiling and smiling, and communicating telepathically with her cats. (Don't worry my babies, I'm on my way, I'm coming to get you, it's not long now.)
Yeeeeeeehaaaw!
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Look up
It becomes obvious.
When traveling your eyes are always searching for a new skyline. Your head is up, your attention projected. The picture that grows around you is fresh and wide, it stretches as far as the eye can see and so your world becomes bigger and you automatically stop worrying about the little things.
When you live in one place your world shrinks and your eyes follow the pavement. You know the scenery and stop paying attention. You obsess about the little things.
There really is no competition here people.
When traveling your eyes are always searching for a new skyline. Your head is up, your attention projected. The picture that grows around you is fresh and wide, it stretches as far as the eye can see and so your world becomes bigger and you automatically stop worrying about the little things.
When you live in one place your world shrinks and your eyes follow the pavement. You know the scenery and stop paying attention. You obsess about the little things.
There really is no competition here people.
A prayer
Amadlozi, we call you
The old ones
Who still clamber around in our bones
The old ones
Who’s blood rushes through us
The old ones
Who know the sound of our voices
And the thud of our footsteps
On the ground
The Ones we knew
Whose names we still howl in the night
And the Ones who we’ve forgotten
Who still watch us from the shadows
And cry for our forgetfulness.
Badimo,
I have not forgotten you,
See for yourselves.
Here is your child,
I crawl ever closer to your ears
And bring the food that you crave.
See for yourselves,
There is the beer,
And there is the whiskey,
And there is the snuff.
I have not forgotten about you.
Madlozi
The old ones
Who still clamber around in our bones
The old ones
Who’s blood rushes through us
The old ones
Who know the sound of our voices
And the thud of our footsteps
On the ground
The Ones we knew
Whose names we still howl in the night
And the Ones who we’ve forgotten
Who still watch us from the shadows
And cry for our forgetfulness.
Badimo,
I have not forgotten you,
See for yourselves.
Here is your child,
I crawl ever closer to your ears
And bring the food that you crave.
See for yourselves,
There is the beer,
And there is the whiskey,
And there is the snuff.
I have not forgotten about you.
Madlozi
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
The architect.
Five more days of limbo. Life encroaches.
Monday the movers come. They will delve out the boxes, bags, tables and chairs found stacked in the garage and escort them to a newly rented flat in Bloubergstrand. By lunchtime everything accumulated over the years should once again be assembled in the same place. Money will be handed over, the sound of a truck pulling off. Then silence.
In the afternoon I will uncover a past life that’s been waiting mutely in boxes, covered in dust, and as I unpack each one memories will surface (then disperse like clouds overhead). A jumble of forgotten furniture, clothes, my gran’s brown crockery. A book filled with pictures from another life: a happy couple on the beach, at home.
I will re-arrange my life, putting up paintings against the walls, arranging the lounge just so. Friends will come over and throw themselves down on the couch, talk about this and that. It will be my house they’re visiting, my space, my life.
Within a week or two the old contexts of those things will dissolve and I will return to an older version of myself. The girl who lived in Wynberg. The one who runs a business, who writes, jogs, watches dvd’s, goes to the beach, meets with friends, life goes on.
I am the architect of my own existence, picking the elements I want to keep, turning them over in my hands like precious stones, and chasing out of the ones that are no longer useful like old ghosts.
New elements, dynamics, hopes and dreams. New world. New day.
New Alice.
Monday the movers come. They will delve out the boxes, bags, tables and chairs found stacked in the garage and escort them to a newly rented flat in Bloubergstrand. By lunchtime everything accumulated over the years should once again be assembled in the same place. Money will be handed over, the sound of a truck pulling off. Then silence.
In the afternoon I will uncover a past life that’s been waiting mutely in boxes, covered in dust, and as I unpack each one memories will surface (then disperse like clouds overhead). A jumble of forgotten furniture, clothes, my gran’s brown crockery. A book filled with pictures from another life: a happy couple on the beach, at home.
I will re-arrange my life, putting up paintings against the walls, arranging the lounge just so. Friends will come over and throw themselves down on the couch, talk about this and that. It will be my house they’re visiting, my space, my life.
Within a week or two the old contexts of those things will dissolve and I will return to an older version of myself. The girl who lived in Wynberg. The one who runs a business, who writes, jogs, watches dvd’s, goes to the beach, meets with friends, life goes on.
I am the architect of my own existence, picking the elements I want to keep, turning them over in my hands like precious stones, and chasing out of the ones that are no longer useful like old ghosts.
New elements, dynamics, hopes and dreams. New world. New day.
New Alice.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Unfortunately.
When you join two people who are both in pieces, they don't necessarily make one hole human being.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Bliss me.
After having lived the life of a virgin for going on a year now, the idea of bliss and where to find it has become a prominent preoccupation for yours truly.
There are few things at first glance that have the ability to bliss one out to the same extent as a good and proper rodgering by someone you adore. However, the person in question needs to be very familiar and comfortable with the workings of their own gearbox, your wiring, the labelling of your buttons and your heating system in order for the bliss factor to happen. It is often necessary to supply them with a map and if they still struggle you might have to show them exactly where the gold has been buried in order to get all blissed out. Worthwhile work my friends, worthwhile work.
When this kind of attention to one’s under carriage isn’t an option, you have to start looking around for other things that might evoke a similar reaction. Similar in the sense that it leaves you feeling relaxed, calmed and satisfied, somehow connected to the world and yourself. Blissed my friends, that’s what I’m talking about.
For a long time I thought that alcohol blissed me out, but I’ve finally realised that it actually just makes me drunk and later hung-over and depressed.
Jogging blisses me out. By the end of a nice long jog through the leafy suburbs of Stellenbosch my brain switches off and my body becomes warm and radiant. It took me a long time to realise that exercise was a bliss zone. For most of my twenties I looked for bliss in every self destructive thing I could lay my hands on. I'm glad I'm not 20 anymore.
One of my goals for the year is to take up yoga – I have it on good authority that it will have the desired effect. Writing a fabulous blog entry has the ability to bliss me out. The idea of living with my cats again, that blisses me out.
A wish: may my life be filled with bliss from morning to night. May I find it in places that supply the real deal. Good quality, 100% bliss in a can. May I have it on hand whenever I need it.
Bliss me Universe, bliss me.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
In retrospect.
One of the most basic meditation techniques goes as follows:
Sit comfortably. Breathe deeply. When you are relaxed and calm, look around the room where you are seated, concentrate on each thing that you observe around you and name it out loud. A cupboard, a table, a chair.
By naming these things you instantly pull yourself into the moment and become present. This is the goal of any meditation technique: to be fully present and aware of your surroundings. To stop living in the past or the future. To trick your brain for long enough to really appreciate the beauty of the here and now, and if you could manage to do that you would live without attachment and in peace. You would be able to completely accept, absorb and let go.
Whilst doing research for a project I read up about the meaning of swans and it turns out they're a symbol of spiritual enlightenment. Buddhist masters are referred to as “Paramahansa” which means “Great swan” because the swan is able to live on the water but it’s feathers remain dry. The swan lives in this world but doesn’t get attached to it. It soars to the skies as easily as it swims on top of the water. The swan is a symbol of graceful detachment.
Travel brings you into a state of constant meditation because everything is new. You spend your days walking around strange places, observing, taking pictures, naming. This is a cathedral, a strange person, a big shop. This a famous bridge, a potential friend, an unknown place. Your body goes into a state of alertness, because in the unknown lies threat, a bit of distrust. You are ripped out of your comfort zone. You can't get attached to anything because you know that tomorrow or the next day you'll be moving on again. You become a zen master.
However, the repetition of newness also becomes predictable, and so at some point it becomes advisable to do the opposite, just to keep you on your toes and all. I go back to predictability. Live in one place, drive the same way everyday, have a clear routine. I'm amazed at how much detail everyday possesses, how much I previously missed.
I go for lunch with my cousin. She tells me about a couple who walked across the continent. It took them three years. She tells me about their trials, the people they met, the lives they lived. Under the table I can feel my toes curling up and my heartbeat quickening. I know that no matter how difficult their time might have been they will remember their trip in detail for the rest of their lives. I envy them. I want more.
I can't begin to tell you in how many ways my trip has changed my views about life, myself, the world. It's woken a sleepy monster in me that won't allow me to sit around for too long. Don’t hoard too many possessions, it says. Live light. Don’t get too attached.
Surprise yourself.
Sit comfortably. Breathe deeply. When you are relaxed and calm, look around the room where you are seated, concentrate on each thing that you observe around you and name it out loud. A cupboard, a table, a chair.
By naming these things you instantly pull yourself into the moment and become present. This is the goal of any meditation technique: to be fully present and aware of your surroundings. To stop living in the past or the future. To trick your brain for long enough to really appreciate the beauty of the here and now, and if you could manage to do that you would live without attachment and in peace. You would be able to completely accept, absorb and let go.
Whilst doing research for a project I read up about the meaning of swans and it turns out they're a symbol of spiritual enlightenment. Buddhist masters are referred to as “Paramahansa” which means “Great swan” because the swan is able to live on the water but it’s feathers remain dry. The swan lives in this world but doesn’t get attached to it. It soars to the skies as easily as it swims on top of the water. The swan is a symbol of graceful detachment.
Travel brings you into a state of constant meditation because everything is new. You spend your days walking around strange places, observing, taking pictures, naming. This is a cathedral, a strange person, a big shop. This a famous bridge, a potential friend, an unknown place. Your body goes into a state of alertness, because in the unknown lies threat, a bit of distrust. You are ripped out of your comfort zone. You can't get attached to anything because you know that tomorrow or the next day you'll be moving on again. You become a zen master.
However, the repetition of newness also becomes predictable, and so at some point it becomes advisable to do the opposite, just to keep you on your toes and all. I go back to predictability. Live in one place, drive the same way everyday, have a clear routine. I'm amazed at how much detail everyday possesses, how much I previously missed.
I go for lunch with my cousin. She tells me about a couple who walked across the continent. It took them three years. She tells me about their trials, the people they met, the lives they lived. Under the table I can feel my toes curling up and my heartbeat quickening. I know that no matter how difficult their time might have been they will remember their trip in detail for the rest of their lives. I envy them. I want more.
I can't begin to tell you in how many ways my trip has changed my views about life, myself, the world. It's woken a sleepy monster in me that won't allow me to sit around for too long. Don’t hoard too many possessions, it says. Live light. Don’t get too attached.
Surprise yourself.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Companions
I dream about my cats.
In 12 days they will once again be shacking up with me, 8 months after my departure. I feel like the children are coming home from the war I’m so excited. I want to buy them a big jungle gym, feed them only chicken for weeks on end, dream up recipes for cats and publish a cooking book.
Will they still remember me? I try to remember the way I used to speak to them, our private lives. When I see them I’ll remember.
What if they don’t want me anymore? What if they’ve forgotten me? What if they pine for their garden in Melkbos and my new flat is too small for them? What if they pine for their kitty friends who reside their with them? What if it doesn’t work?
I imagine that they dreamt of me last night. Our dreams intersected and they woke up this morning thinking of me, knowing that I will be coming for them sometime soon.
I’m coming my babies, I’m coming!
In 12 days they will once again be shacking up with me, 8 months after my departure. I feel like the children are coming home from the war I’m so excited. I want to buy them a big jungle gym, feed them only chicken for weeks on end, dream up recipes for cats and publish a cooking book.
Will they still remember me? I try to remember the way I used to speak to them, our private lives. When I see them I’ll remember.
What if they don’t want me anymore? What if they’ve forgotten me? What if they pine for their garden in Melkbos and my new flat is too small for them? What if they pine for their kitty friends who reside their with them? What if it doesn’t work?
I imagine that they dreamt of me last night. Our dreams intersected and they woke up this morning thinking of me, knowing that I will be coming for them sometime soon.
I’m coming my babies, I’m coming!
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Future: uncertain
Home: check
Mover: check
Furniture: check
Stuff: check
Money: hmmm
Job: Nope
Balls: check
Lover: Vacancy. Apply within
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Overhaulin
Some relationships are clear cut and easy to explain. You are my mother, my friend, my lover. The mechanics and rules inherent to it never change. These types of relationship are predictable, that’s why we need them, but there are some relationships that don’t fall into any one category, blending from one to the other and back again. They are more dangerous than the others but much, much more fascinating.
I spend Sunday sitting with an old friend who is giving my computer an overhaul. I ask him to fix one or two minor things but the more he checks the more he finds and it ends up taking hours. I sit on his bed and watch DSTV whilst he fingers my equipment and stares deeply into my screen.
I’ve known him since I was 15. We met one vacation by the sea and fell crazy in love. It was doomed from the start. He lived in Bloem, I was in Jozi, then he moved to George and I moved to Cape Town. In 2000 he got married and moved to Cape Town and so our relationship changed and grew into a friendship of sorts.
Whilst I went off in search of adventure in the US he got divorced from his wife of 9 years and so for the first time in a long time we now live in the same town and are both single. We’ve both changed, we’re not the same children we were on that beach in 1992, but I can still see the 18 year old boy who didn’t want to go to the army, the rebel, the artist. I can see it in his eyes when he smiles. I can see it when he talks about his kids.
He plays me his favorite music: Paganini, Stef Bos. We drink wine, sit on the porch watching the kittens play with each other on the grass and laugh at their antics. Whilst he upgrades my computer we sling insults around and talk about everything. I remember how in love with him I was at one point of my life, how I cried and yearned for him. I remember going to visit him by bus in Bloemfontein and how I believed he was my destiny. When he’s finally done my laptop is brand new, clean and virus free.
He is not my friend, not my lover, and it's been like that for over 16 years.
A one of a kind relationship.
I spend Sunday sitting with an old friend who is giving my computer an overhaul. I ask him to fix one or two minor things but the more he checks the more he finds and it ends up taking hours. I sit on his bed and watch DSTV whilst he fingers my equipment and stares deeply into my screen.
I’ve known him since I was 15. We met one vacation by the sea and fell crazy in love. It was doomed from the start. He lived in Bloem, I was in Jozi, then he moved to George and I moved to Cape Town. In 2000 he got married and moved to Cape Town and so our relationship changed and grew into a friendship of sorts.
Whilst I went off in search of adventure in the US he got divorced from his wife of 9 years and so for the first time in a long time we now live in the same town and are both single. We’ve both changed, we’re not the same children we were on that beach in 1992, but I can still see the 18 year old boy who didn’t want to go to the army, the rebel, the artist. I can see it in his eyes when he smiles. I can see it when he talks about his kids.
He plays me his favorite music: Paganini, Stef Bos. We drink wine, sit on the porch watching the kittens play with each other on the grass and laugh at their antics. Whilst he upgrades my computer we sling insults around and talk about everything. I remember how in love with him I was at one point of my life, how I cried and yearned for him. I remember going to visit him by bus in Bloemfontein and how I believed he was my destiny. When he’s finally done my laptop is brand new, clean and virus free.
He is not my friend, not my lover, and it's been like that for over 16 years.
A one of a kind relationship.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Horses and demons.
Over the years it's become obvious that most of my girlfriends go for a specific type of guy: the joker, the bad boy, the wild man, the doctor, the guy with tattoos. Every new boyfriend might for an instant appear to be different, but soon you discover that he’s exactly the same cup of tea as the previous one, just dressed in a slightly different outfit. Sheeps and wolves come to mind here.
I’m a “dark horse” kind of girl, nothing thrills me more than a man with a social inept-ness that can’t do a 9 to 5 job and writes bad poetry in his spare time. The list of famous dark horse types I aspire to sleeping with include Dr House (otherwise known as Hugh Laurie) Tom Waits, Nick Cave and Tom Robbins.
The only man I really felt even vaguely attracted to whilst I was in the US of A was a man in his late 40’s who was a philandering womaniser who drove his wife up the wall. However, he looked spot on like Tom Waits, had more brains than all the people in the room put together and painted like a demon. I had to leave the party in order to cool down.
My list of previous engagements with men read like a who’s who of Dark Horsey-ness. There’s been a musician, a dope head, a magician, a small town boy, an artist… All of them sporting some kind of addiction, history of abuse, depression and the like.
The one that pushed my buttons the deepest dragged me home with him the first night we met to "show me his collection of David Lynch movies", and so I sat watching Eraserhead whilst he kissed me up and down my neck and told me about the genius of the filmmaker in question and his travels to Spain. Night after night I would listen to him philosophying with his Spanish mentor in the restaurant where I worked and without even realising it I became obsessed with him, his leather jackets, his sad eyes. He was so big, so strong, and yet so vulnerable at the same time. It was round 2002 that he overdosed purposefully on heroine.
See, there are a number of problems with dating this specific type of man. Off the bat they aren't that easy to track down and once you do, they're often non-committal jittery types who don't like to be pinned down for too long or don't want you to interfere with their art regime. Besides for that they are often anti-social types so where the hell are you supposed to meet them I ask you???
Oh, dark horse man, I'm over here in my room if you need me. Just leave a message on the door or something, and someone will get back to you sometime soon. Perhaps we can meet up Dark Horse... Perhaps...
I’m a “dark horse” kind of girl, nothing thrills me more than a man with a social inept-ness that can’t do a 9 to 5 job and writes bad poetry in his spare time. The list of famous dark horse types I aspire to sleeping with include Dr House (otherwise known as Hugh Laurie) Tom Waits, Nick Cave and Tom Robbins.
The only man I really felt even vaguely attracted to whilst I was in the US of A was a man in his late 40’s who was a philandering womaniser who drove his wife up the wall. However, he looked spot on like Tom Waits, had more brains than all the people in the room put together and painted like a demon. I had to leave the party in order to cool down.
My list of previous engagements with men read like a who’s who of Dark Horsey-ness. There’s been a musician, a dope head, a magician, a small town boy, an artist… All of them sporting some kind of addiction, history of abuse, depression and the like.
The one that pushed my buttons the deepest dragged me home with him the first night we met to "show me his collection of David Lynch movies", and so I sat watching Eraserhead whilst he kissed me up and down my neck and told me about the genius of the filmmaker in question and his travels to Spain. Night after night I would listen to him philosophying with his Spanish mentor in the restaurant where I worked and without even realising it I became obsessed with him, his leather jackets, his sad eyes. He was so big, so strong, and yet so vulnerable at the same time. It was round 2002 that he overdosed purposefully on heroine.
See, there are a number of problems with dating this specific type of man. Off the bat they aren't that easy to track down and once you do, they're often non-committal jittery types who don't like to be pinned down for too long or don't want you to interfere with their art regime. Besides for that they are often anti-social types so where the hell are you supposed to meet them I ask you???
Oh, dark horse man, I'm over here in my room if you need me. Just leave a message on the door or something, and someone will get back to you sometime soon. Perhaps we can meet up Dark Horse... Perhaps...
Friday, January 15, 2010
Give
Miracles do happen.
Yesterday, more than 2 months after Standard Bank deducted unautherised charges off my account, I was finally reimbursed. If you remember correctly it was the second time this happened on my travels except that the first time my money got paid back within 48 hours…
I don’t know if I’m supposed to laugh or cry about it but I'm happy to have gotten it back right this second. Still work-less, still in limbo, but the future is starting to look bright at least. The world has slowly started to notice that I’m back, like I’ve been dawdling in a dark corner where no one could see me. The world slowly opens its fist and starts to give again. My feet grow back into the African soil and I start to bloom again.
Yesterday I had one of those days that I pined for so often overseas: visiting good friends, having a laugh, just hanging out. I looked at my friends and thought: You are awesome. Don't ever go away. Please stay.
I'm mad, you're mad, we're all mad here.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Momentum
Alice has found a home.
(See me dancing the jig, stripping down naked, running out in the street and hollering like a banshee.)
As of the 1st of Feb I will once again inhabit a hole of my own, with cats, in Bloubergstrand.
How long has it been? 8 months in the end, all that time leaning on other people, depending on them to take me, drive me, feed me and house me. Ah yes, it was good being a homeless bum. (I will always remember you homeless bum. Respect.)
The hole in question is situated conveniently close to friends, the fabulous beach, the shops, yoga classes and pretty much everything else that an Alice might desire.
Indeed, my Ancestors have been good to me even though I could have been kinder to them over the last couple of months.
Watch out world. I’m gathering momentum.
(See me dancing the jig, stripping down naked, running out in the street and hollering like a banshee.)
As of the 1st of Feb I will once again inhabit a hole of my own, with cats, in Bloubergstrand.
How long has it been? 8 months in the end, all that time leaning on other people, depending on them to take me, drive me, feed me and house me. Ah yes, it was good being a homeless bum. (I will always remember you homeless bum. Respect.)
The hole in question is situated conveniently close to friends, the fabulous beach, the shops, yoga classes and pretty much everything else that an Alice might desire.
Indeed, my Ancestors have been good to me even though I could have been kinder to them over the last couple of months.
Watch out world. I’m gathering momentum.
Niknaks
The first Thursday of the month means FREE HAIR DAY at Poxy’s salon. Employees are allowed to bring family in the late afternoon to have their hair done and I do believe out of all of them Poxy has the most. There’s me (not really a relative) her cousin (who’s name I can never remember) and Kitty and Honey who’ve adopted Pox since she moved down here a couple of months ago. Today it’s just me and the cousin who arrive and qeue up excitedly for our turn. What in the world could make me happier.
Now, they say it's free hair day but really it's free blonde day. Everywhere you look there are family members getting the crap bleached out of their skulls and looking really pleased about it. Yup, you guessed it. Me and the cousin are totally keen and so when Poxy says “Sit down,” we hit the chairs as she clearly wants to get this over with asap.
The first time I got my hair bleached it was really quite pleasant. Nothing major, she put stuff on my hair, I sat around, read a mag a yazoom! Hair as white as the lilies of the field. The second time was not quite as calm.
Poxy chucked the white stuff on and then got involved with her cousin’s highlights whilst I disappeared into a mag. After about half an hour she tapped me on the shoulder. She was frowning and looking at my head. “It’s dried you know, which means it’s probably going to go yellow.” She said this in an accusational tone, like I had some mysterious hand in it, like my scalp is too warm or something. “You need more bleach doll,” reaching for the pot of Omo paste and layering more goo onto my head.
It took about 30 seconds for me to start bouncing around the salon like a delusional puppy. Oh. The. Pain. It felt like a thousand warring ants have invaded the country of my head. “Don’t scratch!” she screamed everytime I reached up. “It’s going to blister if you do that!”
Oh misery. Yellow hair and no scalp. The only thing that could possibly cheer me up was looking at the girl a couple of rows down whose hair had just come out a lovely shade of niknaks.
“Is it very yellow?” she asked anxiously, her eyes darting around the room. “No dahling no, nothing we can’t fix,” one of the hairdesses chirped from the side and I thought to myself: Never, ever have your hair done by that one. There are few things as evil as a hairdresser who lies.
Maestro Poxy toned my hair (and scalp) and wha-la! I was once again a natural blonde.
Now if only my scalp will grow back before the next Free Hair Day…
Monday, January 11, 2010
Sing it.
Freedom. The idea of it haunts me. Whilst driving in my car, going for a walk, before I go to sleep. It’s always there scratching at the walls of my grey matter, an itch I can never quite reach. I went in search of freedom when I left for America and I’m still not sure I ever found it. Bits of it perhaps, small sweet morsels that I savored and rolled over my tongue, but inevitably it melted away before I could identify any of the defining traits of it and so I'm back to square #1.
Over breakfast Poxy does my numerology chart and my root number ends up being 5. She flips through her book and opens a page with a big heading that reads: “Don’t cage me in.” Yes, I decide. I am a 5. Don’t cage me in. Don’t tell me what to do. Don’t marry me. Don’t have babies with me. Don’t expect the same reply from me everyday. Don’t become predictable. Don’t put me in a box. Don’t define me as one thing only. Don’t assume to know me. Don't expect too many things of me. Don’t don’t don’t.
Ever since I’ve been back in SA I have had little good to say about being here, but the truth is that when I went abroad I gained one freedom and lost the other. I gained America but lost all sense of privacy because I had to live with people in small confined spaces for most of my trip. I had to give up my own head space completely and perhaps that was the most difficult thing to do. In many respects I lost my independance because I consistently needed other people to take me, drive me around and feed me. At the same time I gained the freedom of movement, of choosing where and when and for how long. I gained the privilege of snap decision, of very little responsibility except to myself. I had to pay a price for it though.
Today I signed a 1 year lease on a flat that will cost me twice as much as the one I lived in before with half the features. My overheads will have more than doubled in the last six months, but hey, I am still a single woman without kids or a family. The only person I can really let down is myself. I am jobless at the moment, a small fact I might be able to remedy but it still remains to be seen. It’s starting to knaw at me. My sleep cycle has gone to the birds and my brain spins like a hamster on a wheel when the lights go out.
I go for tea at a friend’s house and she encourages me to get a full time job. “I just think you’ll be great in that kind of set-up,” she says. “You know, working with a group, being in an office, that sort of thing.” I cringe. The idea of spending every single day in the same place with the same people doing exactly the same thing is enough to bring on nausea. Meeting with a crew once or twice a week and working on my own for the rest of the time, no there’s a recipe I can deal with. Send me on assignment for God's sake, let's pretend I'm 007 for a second and you can send me to as many tropical islands as you like, but just please, please don't put me into an office for 8 hours a day.
Perhaps I lie to myself about all of this. The question becomes: what is freedom? How does one define it? How does Nelson Mandela live in a cage for so many years and come out being so nice. How do people go to war, live as slaves and still come out smiling and having joy inside of them? Their secret surely is the realisation that no one can cage you in and that any perception that you might have that suggests that you are not free is an illusion. Can someone please upgrade my hard drive?
Maybe I’ve watched the Matrix a couple times too many. Maybe I read too many self-help books. Maybe I’m just a privileged girl from a rich family who thinks she is privy to too much.
To Alice there is nothing more important than freedom.
Over breakfast Poxy does my numerology chart and my root number ends up being 5. She flips through her book and opens a page with a big heading that reads: “Don’t cage me in.” Yes, I decide. I am a 5. Don’t cage me in. Don’t tell me what to do. Don’t marry me. Don’t have babies with me. Don’t expect the same reply from me everyday. Don’t become predictable. Don’t put me in a box. Don’t define me as one thing only. Don’t assume to know me. Don't expect too many things of me. Don’t don’t don’t.
Ever since I’ve been back in SA I have had little good to say about being here, but the truth is that when I went abroad I gained one freedom and lost the other. I gained America but lost all sense of privacy because I had to live with people in small confined spaces for most of my trip. I had to give up my own head space completely and perhaps that was the most difficult thing to do. In many respects I lost my independance because I consistently needed other people to take me, drive me around and feed me. At the same time I gained the freedom of movement, of choosing where and when and for how long. I gained the privilege of snap decision, of very little responsibility except to myself. I had to pay a price for it though.
Today I signed a 1 year lease on a flat that will cost me twice as much as the one I lived in before with half the features. My overheads will have more than doubled in the last six months, but hey, I am still a single woman without kids or a family. The only person I can really let down is myself. I am jobless at the moment, a small fact I might be able to remedy but it still remains to be seen. It’s starting to knaw at me. My sleep cycle has gone to the birds and my brain spins like a hamster on a wheel when the lights go out.
I go for tea at a friend’s house and she encourages me to get a full time job. “I just think you’ll be great in that kind of set-up,” she says. “You know, working with a group, being in an office, that sort of thing.” I cringe. The idea of spending every single day in the same place with the same people doing exactly the same thing is enough to bring on nausea. Meeting with a crew once or twice a week and working on my own for the rest of the time, no there’s a recipe I can deal with. Send me on assignment for God's sake, let's pretend I'm 007 for a second and you can send me to as many tropical islands as you like, but just please, please don't put me into an office for 8 hours a day.
Perhaps I lie to myself about all of this. The question becomes: what is freedom? How does one define it? How does Nelson Mandela live in a cage for so many years and come out being so nice. How do people go to war, live as slaves and still come out smiling and having joy inside of them? Their secret surely is the realisation that no one can cage you in and that any perception that you might have that suggests that you are not free is an illusion. Can someone please upgrade my hard drive?
Maybe I’ve watched the Matrix a couple times too many. Maybe I read too many self-help books. Maybe I’m just a privileged girl from a rich family who thinks she is privy to too much.
To Alice there is nothing more important than freedom.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Feedback.
A couple of days ago I posted two entries on my blog. Luckily a reader soon posted a comment about it that made me realise that it was perhaps too close to the bone and so I removed both of them within an hour or two.
However, I would like to address one of this reader’s statements. As you may or may not know, I work as a traditional doctor (in Africa known as a Sangoma). Part of this work is doing bone-readings which is a way of tracking a person’s cycles and patterns, thereby giving them insight into situations and sometimes even possible future outcomes. This particular reader stated that he/she had been a client of mine before and that they were confused as to why I couldn’t have summed the situation in question up better if I have access to bone readings and work as a healer myself. Surely, they thought, I should have known better than to walk into such a destructive situation, surely I should have known what the outcome would be?
Dear reader, it is always easier to have perspective about other people’s lives than it is to have it in your own. We all have our own lessons to learn and if you believe that I am devoid of that you are sorely mistaken. Just like you I can be very vulnerable and sometimes believe what I want to believe rather than what the actual reality of the matter might be. Suffice to say that the event I mentioned had a very positive effect at the end of the day,helping me to move on with my life, and for that I am very grateful.
Thank you for reading, coming with me on my journey, and keep posting your comments.
It means a lot to hear your thoughts.
Alice.
However, I would like to address one of this reader’s statements. As you may or may not know, I work as a traditional doctor (in Africa known as a Sangoma). Part of this work is doing bone-readings which is a way of tracking a person’s cycles and patterns, thereby giving them insight into situations and sometimes even possible future outcomes. This particular reader stated that he/she had been a client of mine before and that they were confused as to why I couldn’t have summed the situation in question up better if I have access to bone readings and work as a healer myself. Surely, they thought, I should have known better than to walk into such a destructive situation, surely I should have known what the outcome would be?
Dear reader, it is always easier to have perspective about other people’s lives than it is to have it in your own. We all have our own lessons to learn and if you believe that I am devoid of that you are sorely mistaken. Just like you I can be very vulnerable and sometimes believe what I want to believe rather than what the actual reality of the matter might be. Suffice to say that the event I mentioned had a very positive effect at the end of the day,helping me to move on with my life, and for that I am very grateful.
Thank you for reading, coming with me on my journey, and keep posting your comments.
It means a lot to hear your thoughts.
Alice.
Friday, January 8, 2010
I'll be back.
Dear Lovelies,
The strangest thing happened today.
I was outside playing in the garden of our house in Benoni with my sister and our new kitten, Dinah, when I fell flat on my face on the paving in the driveway and passed out cold for at least 30 seconds.
Now my sister says she tried to revive me but she's always had it in for me. I'm certain she left me there for dead whilst I was dreaming the weirdest collection of shit you could possibly imagine.
America... Dishes... I don't know. Suffice to say it was detailed and long and kinda nice, but then I woke up. Someone had chucked a bucket of icy water in my face and I sat up like a revived corpse, all stiff-like and gasping.
Dreaming. It’s a funny thing you know. At some point you always wake up.
Today was that day for me.
I’m back ladies and gentleman.
I’m back.
The strangest thing happened today.
I was outside playing in the garden of our house in Benoni with my sister and our new kitten, Dinah, when I fell flat on my face on the paving in the driveway and passed out cold for at least 30 seconds.
Now my sister says she tried to revive me but she's always had it in for me. I'm certain she left me there for dead whilst I was dreaming the weirdest collection of shit you could possibly imagine.
America... Dishes... I don't know. Suffice to say it was detailed and long and kinda nice, but then I woke up. Someone had chucked a bucket of icy water in my face and I sat up like a revived corpse, all stiff-like and gasping.
Dreaming. It’s a funny thing you know. At some point you always wake up.
Today was that day for me.
I’m back ladies and gentleman.
I’m back.
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