As I look back, my twenty-seventh year has been the most challenging and rewarding year of my life. I’ve been brave this past year but not fearless. I’ve been reckless but not inconsiderate. For the most part I’ve chosen to live through my experiences and adventures alone in an effort to become more familiar with myself. I hate birthdays, I really do. It leaves me feeling overly emotional and vulnerable and I prefer to shy away in the shadows and not exist for the day than be the centre of attention. I avoid most people and pleasantries, pretending that I no longer walk this plain because I know that I exist as different versions of myself in the mind’s eye of those you know me- so my existence remains assured for the day even without my own active participation.

I sacrificed a huge chunk of who I thought I was for who I am becoming. Challenge and adversity have thread me like a needle and stitched the tapestry of my life anew with vibrant colours. The crimson reds of love that is just out of reach, the sad opaque shades of grey that glisten in my tears, the vivid blue hues of the many oceans I’ve had the good fortune of swimming in. All these colours paint the halls of memory with a new spectrum of feelings and familiarity. I am grateful for the sadness and what often times felt like insurmountable challenges which I have faced because it has gifted me with a deeper sense of appreciation for all the small wonders and the breathe-taking beauties of life that I encounter from time to time.

I cry. I cry more now than I have ever done before. I’ve caught the reflection of myself crying, bone-tired and despondent. Salty tears gamble with my emotions, only offering sweet release on their own volition. But I’ve also wept at the desperate beauty of life. I’ve sat on the back of a big blue truck, bawling my eyes out as I watched a little boy deep in Slumber’s embrace, veiled innocence guarding his dreams. For some reason this is the memory that I hold on to with white-knuckled determination. No longer walking blindly, I can see the beauty in the simplest things around me. Beauty in pink sunrises, dark alleys and chance encounters. The haunting beauty of people. I now understand that it will always be people over places and things. That’s common nouns for you. Places are only beautiful because of the people who inhabit them.

I’ve found beauty hidden between the rise and fall of words. Beauty in paired words, strung like pearls on a noose. I can’t. He won’t. I shouldn’t. I’m fine. Vicious little lies we tell ourselves. Beautiful. Beautiful little liars we are. But liars are smart and resourceful, they’re inventive and convincing and soon those loaded pairs of words break up and get rearranged, revealing themselves as something entirely different.

I can. I will. I am.

I am.

Enough. 

I’ve had a notable journey since I last posted something here. I’ve lived through all sorts of experiences. I’ve survived the muted build-up of saying goodbye and leaving. Settling in with my new perception of time. I’ve stood precipitously on edge of everything I know and with reckless abandon, leapt head-first into the great unknown. Travelled. Adventured. Journeyed.

Journeyed alone, I’ve broken down to the very marrow of my bones and watched all the preconceived notions of myself whistfully swirl and tumble like dust clouds through the bare tundra of my psyche. There have been days where I’ve moved so sweetly, so serenely through my day. Awestruck by the beauty and joy of all the small things that occupy my present. I am, and remain to be, overwhelmed by life. Through the past few months, I’ve learnt and unlearnt so many things. Witnessed the imperceptible change of how I approach life. I’ve been scared shitless and have at times revelled in the reward of living bare-chested against life’s wild heart. I find myself occupying the realm of uncertainty. I feel naked. Vulnerable and hopelessly ill-equipped to live mindfully- to be irrefutably present in the moment. It is so infinitely harder than I had imagined- to open oneself up to feel everything so innately, so intensely. It’s tiring and terrifying…and I have a long way to go before I find a comfortable balance of self.

I’ve experienced the bittersweet clutches of homecoming. Where everything and everyone felt familiar but different. Things have changed. Things are changing.

Change is inevitable and perhaps change is the price we all pay in order to take part in the grand scheme of life. The admission for an authentic existence. You soon encounter that change and choice are skilfully disguised in the terms of admission of existance – the fine print of life. Each soul has a tax levied on it, a carefully calculated percentage of honest reflection and self-discovery is required as a result. We are all put through an emotional gauntlet where our morals and character traits undergo a conspicuous form of break-even analysis.

Maybe this emotional break-even analysis is a defining characteristic of those marching in the funeral procession of their twenties.  We inhabit a space of malcontent. Restless by nature. You find the desperate value in determining the exact point at which you either bend or break.  What happens after that point? I’m not entirely sure because it is at this exact juncture I find myself.  It was while reading a letter, penned by Hunter S. Thompson in his early twenties, that I found parallels between my discovery of this emotional breaking point and the age old question of “to be or not to be”.

“In every man, heredity and environment have combined to produce a creature of certain abilities and desires—including a deeply ingrained need to function in such a way that his life will be MEANINGFUL. A man has to BE something; he has to matter.”

We are the sum of our reactions to experiences and environment. I’ve recently realised that although I can’t control the onslaught of emotions, I can control the manner in which I react to them. It is with this self-awareness that we are able to plot our various abilities and characteristics on a moral ledger or existential spreadsheet, if you will.  Queue an emotional break-even analysis. We define our margins of safety. We assign values to revenue and cost.  In this scenario, we can view revenue as the collective term that encompasses fulfillment, the value that we assign to personal goals, as well as the sense of achievement and satisfaction. Cost is determined by how we react to uncertainty, our propensity to rise to the challenge, making hard choices and the amount of energy expended in the attainment of our goals.

There are times when life relentlessly and unforgivingly knocks you around, times when you just suck it up and dust yourself off. You hope that your your trusty friend Logic will prevail and decide to relegate emotion into cold calculations. You undertake an analysis to determine the point at which the revenue received, equals the cost associated with receiving the revenue. Basically, is it worth it? Does the hard work of self-discovery and brutal honesty warrant the payoff when the payoff seems frustratingly out of our grasp? I suppose breaking points by their very nature are true to their name. Do you bend or do you break? Do you resign yourself to taking the path of least resistance or stride belligerently into the great unknown? Do we float with the current or swim upstream? Maybe the beauty lies not in the substance of which path we decide to forge but in the fact that we have a choice at all.

Instead, we might find solace in where we find ourselves presently. On the cusp of an emotional tipping point – our breaking point. We exist in a sovereign state which is dictated by the forces of uncertainty and probability. We leer skittishly over the edge. Surveying the landscape of endless alternatives. We weather the winds of change and stand at a junction that forces us to engage with one of the most meaningful aspects of life - the definitive act of will. And so it is, that we discover that the act of free will (which defines man as an individual entity) reveals itself in the form of a way point. A way point on the summit of our breaking point.  The equal sign in our emotional equation. Free will defines us. It’s what assures our place as sentient beings. It forces our hand and demands a subjective approach to life.  Living through our experience subjectively provides the momentum needed for change. It is will that actions change. It is will that demands us to weigh the choices with which our path is beset.

In his letter, Thompson sheds light on this malady. He divulges his formula in which emotional revenue and cost is calculated against each other to achieve a sense of balance.

“As I see it then, the formula runs something like this: a man must choose a path which will let his ABILITIES function at maximum efficiency toward the gratification of his DESIRES. In doing this, he is fulfilling a need (giving himself identity by functioning in a set pattern toward a set goal) he avoids frustrating his potential (choosing a path which puts no limit on his self-development), and he avoids the terror of seeing his goal wilt or lose its charm as he draws closer to it (rather than bending himself to meet the demands of that which he seeks, he has bent his goal to conform to his own abilities and desires).

In short, he has not dedicated his life to reaching a pre-defined goal, but he has rather chosen a way of life he KNOWS he will enjoy. The goal is absolutely secondary: it is the functioning toward the goal which is important.”

Maybe more than choice, more than change, one should perhaps monopolise on chance. Chance, risk, will, determination, opportunity – they’re all different expressions of the same thing. ACTION. Movement and method...method to the madness of life. Be a verb and take action! I suppose if you want anything in your life to change, you need to make the choice and take the chance.

To be honest this is what I’ve had the hardest time with lately. Finding the right opportunity to take action. It’s so laughably obvious why I am struggling with this. It boils down to my reluctance to exist in the present moment. Who is to say when the right moment will avail itself? What constitutes the right moment? And so by extension, we can assume that the right moment can only ever exist in the opaque realm of probability. In a place removed from the present, namely the future. The root of most of my anxiety and frustration stems from my tendency to live in the future. Meticulously working through a probable list of scenarios that don’t actually exist. This cultivates apprehension and breeds doubt. How very tedious it is to expend so much energy on worrying. I suppose the consolation of my new found self-awareness is the fact that I am now able recognise the fact that most of my energy and intention occupies the wrong time frame. 

Maybe it’s about taking a moment to enjoy the view from the summit, to set my baggage down alongside the way point. To acknowledge that I’m at my breaking point. To stand in silence and remember the lessons that I forgot. To appreciate that I’ve survived up until this point. To readjust my focus and  forget about the big picture by looking at everything up close. To watch and to try and understand. To never avert my gaze from what is happening right in front of me. To get lost in the simple beauty of the unfolding moment. And to never, never forget.

We are kings and queens of the wind. Children of mystery and madness.

Sentient, indomitable, extraordinary… extraordinarily fucked up that is.

The absence of evidence is not the evidence of absence. Absent I have been, safely ensconced in my own twisted mind, plagued by MSG induced nightmares. Today marks the start of a new chapter. I quit my job, done my time, paid my dues, and gone to some effort to sever the umbilical cord wrapped tightly around my neck.

It’s a new day, a new dawn, so fuckit. The world is apparently ending in the next month and a bit…apparently. We had a meeting and Apparently can’t deny that the world is in fact, going to hell in a handbag. This leaves me feeling somewhat unaffected. Essentially I believe that every waking moment we are alive on this plain of existence, we are in a constant state decay, veering ever closer through various stages of death.

I know. I noticed the Buddhist undertones there too…must be all these nightmares. Sometimes nihilistic pragmatism can be beneficial, especially if you’re in an anarchic kinda mood. Because we’re there. In hell. Apparently. We had another meeting and me and Apparently disagree on the whole “waking, eternal damnation” part. This clearly illustrates the reason why I have a problem with organized theocracies. It’s in my nature to remain wholly suspicious of anything I don’t intellectually or intuitively agree with 100%. Ironically I do believe in reincarnation. Yip, that’s right. It takes a lot of work to be this morally obscure but someone has to do it. Newly unemployed, I might as well give it a go.

After diving into the rat race at 19, nothing gives you more perspective than spending your first day at home (after years)…alone….Unemployment sure is creepy, but reflective. Things I’ve learnt during my monumental two year lapse of judgement. Don’t work with family…ever. Don’t. Just don’t do it. Okay let me say this in a broader scope…don’t work with my  family. There’s logic involved.

How much time do you think the average person spends with their family in a period of a lifetime? What is an acceptable amount…and what are the effects of such exposure? All valid questions, all of which needs to be taken into consideration when attempting to understand my unique version of logic. Let’s do the math. From the moment of conception you do your best imitation of a directionless chesterburster from Alien for nine months until gestation lapses. The average mom takes 4-6 months maternity leave. Our average tally at this point is 12 months spent with a parental figure. That’s 52 weeks even. Twenty four hours a day of intense contact. That’s 8,736 hours.  It would also be a safe assumption that after that, the average person does not spend an extended amount of time with a parental figure. Generally, life does not necessitate this.

It should be noted that at this particular stage of life, you are completely vulnerable and in early stages of cognitive development. Basically, blowing spit bubbles is by far the highlight of your achievements to date. And you don’t have an opinion. You don’t even know what an opinion is. You do know that you like boobies, which happens to turn into a life-long fascination.

Governments get overthrown, mullets and handlebar moustaches have made their second comeback and Riaan Cruywagen retires.  It’s twentyfive-some years later and you have to spend eight hours a day, five days a week with genetic relations…for two years! Fuck me, Charlie. Do you know how much hours that is? 7,200 hours. 7,200 hours you can never undo. 7,200 hours you can never get back. And coincidentally it’s roughly (sort of) the same amount of time as our previous scenario. I have conducted this survey on one individual, which means 100% of the test subjects prove my theory. These are the facts…the results are irrefutable. This is science and Apparently said it was true.

Since I now boast the cognitive function and rational skill set of a functional human, spending so much time with them was…challenging at best. It’s unnatural. Show me, where this occurs in the wild. Show me. It’s science. Therefore sound logic is SOUND.

Shame, it’s not that I hate them, it’s that I hate being a part of that family…or A family, just so messy. These crazies are so much work. My mother’s standard modus operandi is panic and my dad is the splitting image of Saddamn Hussain and has the same grand delusions as our Brother Leader, King of Kings, Colonel, He Man and the Maters of the Universe, the most exalted Muammar Gaddafi. So absorbed in his own god complex. I do admire that they each operate in their own perfectly constructed universes, each at the helm as their own godhead. Revelry and nagging endearment, that’s what they evoke in me. At least they’re interesting, I’ll give them that.

With these sound reasoning skills I’m not too worried about not having a plan. It’s okay to sometimes not have a 12 step strategy and just move in whichever direction the wind blows, guided by Her Lady Destiny. Besides I’ve got this chaotic mess on my shoulders, sound logic and two legs that’ve gotten me this far… I’m sure I’ll manage.

Interesting times are ahead, I’ll tell you that much. Who knows what will happen, for there are known knowns, known unknowns and unknown unknowns…things we don’t even know we don’t know about. Meh. 

I said no offence...

This is my voice filled with ink and rage. Well, more like pixels and misplaced anxiety. I do declare that the novelty of feigned apathy has worn garishly thin. I've meticulously crafted a life where public access to my person is heavily regulated and restricted. And although I feel quite accomplished with my achievement, I've recently realised the cost of living the hermit lifestyle.

Balance is illusive and even if we for one fleeting moment... in our twisted way think we've achieved that, we pretend divinity. I pretend a lot of things, I pretend to pay attention ffs, but divinity, I most certainly don't pull off.

Functional agoraphobia. My grave, self imposed affliction. In ways, I can only complicate a situation further, my latest phobia goes beyond the basics. Don't get me wrong, I love being outside (provided it's not pissing with rain- thank you Cape of Storms), I just don't like being outside my comfort zone surrounded by strangers. So, basically you could call it acute adult-onset stranger danger syndrome. FML.

I'm not a fan of herding either. There's something about a crowd that dumbs people down, incites mass hysteria and encourages group stupidity. And we all know that stupid fucks are dangerous. Despite the fact that I can rationalise the necessity of my newly realised phobe with logically sound rebuttles of self preservation, I cannot as skilfully put my anxieties to rest. Maybe it's because I'm short. Maybe instinctively crowds and general public domain should unsettle me. Maybe I should just calm the fuck down and smoke a blunt.

My name is Charlie Sunshine and I'm a functional agoraphobic. A functional agoraphobic who quite ironically copes better fully exposed to the elements with hundreds, sometimes thousands of strangers at a trance party. I suppose the difference is that the heavy weight of unwelcome judgement dissipitates, outside, under a big open sky, in a field where everyone congregates, pulsing and ebbing to the DJ's sermon. Or at least it seems that way. Your background, demographic, preferences, associations....they don't carry any of the (mis)preconceptions or judgements and with them their resulting weight; like they do on the "outside"...and by outside I mean public realm. Maybe people are too fucked to care, too focused on achieving perfect equilibrium within themselves. On their own buzz. Maybe I'm just too fucked to care. I count myself lucky to have met some of the nicest, most considerate, honest, down to earth people during my trance adventures. Real authentic. People either accept you for who you are or move on. It's rudimental. No hidden agendas. And so in turn, it encourages you to be the most authentic version of yourself. No front, no barriers...just you, as you are in every fucked up shade there is. That's as fair as it gets. Don't get me wrong, sure you get your posers, Juice Monkies and Belles and Whistles, but the reality is they're everywhere. Their impact is insignificant at best. When the very atmosphere you breathe consists of the presiding energy of naked freedom, everyone is beyond escape. There's no time for bullshit façades. (bet you can tell I'm itching for an outdoor party...patiently waiting for spring to Sprung.)

Alas, I must continue to pretend to be searching for some balance. Not automatically hurtling into a fit of quiet panic every time I come into contact with strangers or anybody not of my choosing. The novelty of feigned apathy is a thin almost translucent layer, but it's the only layer I have left to protect myself. Protect myself from bullshit, that is. One day when I grow up, I really want to not care about what anybody thinks of me. Not just pretend not to give a fuck. Namaste.

Sometimes I wonder who the hell these people are competing with?

To be better than everyone else is not the point.

To be the best version of you…now that sounds more authentic.

Call me what you want, bestow me with any label you choose. Agnostic. Heathen. Pagan. Religiously misguided. New-age hippy. Sun-worshipper. It’s cool, really. Most times I answer with agnostic when people ask me and most times it’s the hyper-devout that bother to ask.

“Is that like Christian?”......<sigh>

I’m married to a militant atheist and I have absolutely no problem with this. And just because my idea of god is extremely obscure and more convoluted than the terms and conditions of your mortgage agreement, doesn’t make it less of worthy adversary in the age-old realm of whether a higher power exists or not. Moth never bashes my beliefs, he also doesn’t go around the neighbourhood telling hapless kids, that Jesus to him is just as plausible as zombies…hence Zombie Jesus, thus destroying their (ingrained/ predetermined) carefully constructed religious beliefs.  Unfortunately, I can’t say that when the situation is reversed that the same holds true. The high and mighty will smell you from a mile away. And given half the chance, will make any atheist wish he believed in a merciful god that would strike him down on the spot, when faced with religious lectures filled with dogma.

What you believe in is undoubtedly up to your own discretion, but an orange is an orange is an orange. This is where science comes along. If you have a belief/theory for it to be true you have to go through due process and prove it to be so... substantiated by evidence. Once achieved, your theory is acknowledged to be true unless disproven. Sounds reasonable to me. There’s been increased hype about the Large Hydron Collider and with it, it’s new discovery of the Higgs boson or the God Particle, but how many people really understand this latest discovery paving the way to understanding the universe before they totally discredit it?

Fuck me, a layman usually doesn’t encounter theorised particle physics in everyday conversation but it doesn’t harm anyone to educate themselves. Please allow my most likely poor attempt to do so. The Higgs boson is the energy field that gives all the other particles a mass. It was identified during experiments conducted by CERN (Da Vinci code much?) simulating the same environment that occurred during the Big Bang thus going some ways into explaining why gravity exists and supposedly sketching a clearer picture regarding the origins of the universe. What does this mean for religion? Are the gatekeepers of the spiritual world up in arms? I don’t know…most likely?

CONGRATULATIONS. YOU ARE THE ONE BILLIONTH PERSON TO MAKE A “LARGE HARD-ON COLLIDER” JOKE ON TWITTER. YOU HAVE WON AN ALL ACCESS PASS TO SEVERAL ALTERNATE PLANES OF PERCEPTION. I AM UTAPU, GATEKEEPER OF THE HIDDEN REALMS. I BID YOU WELCOME.
(from my MOST fave site..click here)

Do I care? Not sufficiently, no.

When people use religion (race or even class for that matter) as yard stick to determine and most often times prove their superiority over someone else, I’m not available to participate.  I doubt any deity works on a podium system, so why should we assume that as believers and non-believers that that’s the way we should operate on this physical plane. When people are so starkly categorised, we promote the subjugation of individuals, attaching an unwarranted and counterfeit value to them. When this happens; life becomes nothing more than a ledger of profit and loss…people become nothing more than pluses and minuses on some moral balance sheet. And at the end of the day, these theistic accountants become as morally bankrupt as those supposed sinners.

Contrary to popular belief, this is not a competition. Believe in whatever you goddamn want. If you think that there is one clear winner at the end of this Race of Faiths...I fear we may have missed the point. For all we know, we are just talking monkeys, on an organic spaceship hurtling throughout space...which is just as plausible as any theocratic belief system.

Sound logic is...SOUND.

So my lovable compadre, the awesome that is Moth has set me to task yet again. He has inadvertently pit two of my most beloved things against each other, namely my deeply rooted affection for fine green herb and, well… him. Okay, at least in my realm of thought this is how the following challenge is laid before me.

Challenge:

If I do not post something new on this here “revered” blog….within two days, before a very particular time of eighteen hundred hours- forty five minutes; I, Charlie Sunshine will hereby be subject to the most inhumane, slendiferously soul annihilating penalty of having my ganja privileges suspended until said new post is available for public consumption.

Personally, I think it’s a bit harsh. Secretly, I tip my imaginary hat and smile at this smarty pantsance spouse of mine. I see what you did there. So, here’s to trying my best. Yes, my inconsistent ass sometimes needs some firm guidance (ironically mentioned in previous posts) or how he terms it as “spirited encouragement”, but this, by no means imaginable can be touted as my support for the prohibition of cannabis.

Although I may not be deemed the most vocal proponent for cannabis, I am a proponent none the less. I intellectually understand all the benefits in both spheres of health and economics and I spiritually recognize the positive effects it has on my state of being.

Besides, I hate losing bets and I hate anything that could remotely be construed as punishment.  It came to me one night when I was obscurely thinking of star signs (I am a Gemini, who woulda thunk …) and I realised that although my attention span is as intermittent as my internet connection at work  (a trait any not-so proud Gemini can confirm), during those few seconds of undivided attention my brain has the (alleged) capacity to expend an insane amount of energy concentrating on the subject. That’s my version, nay, justification for being so scattered and inconsistent. And, that my friend, sounds like SOUND logic. My plan is to try and harness this fleeting ability and win the day, save the princess and return the ring to mount Doom, bong intact.

I pledge allegiance to my bong, to being consistent and to incorporating flossing as part of my daily dental regimen (might as well while I’m at it). Disappointment is not an emotion I’d like to bestow on him anyway, more than that I welcome the notion of Rising to the Challenge and Instilling Pride. Besides we recently procured a now cherished percolator that has obliterated the both of us and sent us lovingly off to sleep for the past few days.

 I’m surprisingly mute when it comes to discussing the societal and political aspects surrounding boom, it’s like discussing religion…or (trance) music. Severely personal. Too often I see people becoming completely absorbed in a “one hit wonder topic”, when its aaaaaalllllllll they talk about. I’m sure you’ve had an incident when someone excitedly explains the Law of Attraction to you over, and over, and over again.

Yes, I get it.…

Yes……

Yes, I know this.

The same concept applies to friends who incessantly post pictures of their new born on the book of faces. 

Yes, I know you have a baby…

Yes, I recognise that your baby looks fetching in a variety of outfits, in a spectrum of colours. It is acknowledged…

Yes, I am sure I want to delete you from facebook…

Delete.

Yoh, but I do love me some ganja…and I totally love me some happy go-lucky Moth. And if I can instigate a move where I have the best of both worlds, then why not? I’m coloured after all, I’m genetically programmed to mission. Organise, organise. Besides, there is potentially more content for me to inflict on you. No pressure.

It all shits and giggles, until someone giggles and shits themselves.

My body, your body, everybody’s body is one amazing machine. Yes, indeedy. And although I was the type of kid that would rather let a splinter the size of a piece of braai- wood assimilate naturally into my body than have one of my parents attempt to take out the sucker with a needle….- I am not immune to the seduction and account –draining lure of all the glorious pseudo-medical crap that the general health care industry tries to  peddle onto my all too-suspecting ass.

Like every non-German engineered machine, your body needs a little bit of help and perfunctory maintenance from time to time. Sometimes a stern lecture about bad habits, over indulgence and the importance maintaining a decent level of eyesight is necessary….well, for me at least. I have a penchant for rubbing my eyes and not wearing my spec-TACK-ulars. So much so, that one godforsaken day a few years back I gave myself a self-fulfilling case of conjunctivitis. #FML.

If you are giggling quietly to yourself…..what a sick, twisted person you are…just my kinda people- I say. But if you’re really my kinda people- you’ll allow me to weave a fantastical narrative and set the stage for this Machiavellian tale.    

Deep South in the trenches of conservative suburban hell, the awesome that is Moth escorted me in all my myopic glory to the closest chemist. Anti-inflammatory eye-drops aside…. my blurry gaze settled upon…..wait for it….an eye-patch!!!! KISMET….I shit you not. Somebody, somewhere was trying to tell me something. I gave Moth one of those mischievous looks (with a heavy misdirected under-current of how this might turn into something kinky) and like a Flake….all resistance crumbled.

He sighs, “Fine….take it.”

 

You don’t have to ask me twice.

He is supportive that one. Much in the same vein as Voltaire’s credo of “I do not agree with what you have to say, but I’ll defend to the death you right to say it” Moth’s management style (laissez faire- of course) with me has always been….”I don’t agree with your naughty impulses and obstreperous (coloured pronunciation- opstropolis) behaviour, but I will facilitate the process of you catching on kak.”  And rightly so. Damn straight!

And because he's such a fucking nice guy, he takes me to this treasure trove of a babi shop (corner store). Basically Cape Town's Indian version of Willy Wonka.....and I, the namesake in this glorious tale....the presiding Charlie to this VERY rinkydink Chocolate Factory. Glass display boxes, stacked like an imposing wall of tetris filled with fire balls, coconut puffs, sour rope, musky chalk sweets that are reminiscent of rat poison....as well as all the racialistic candy you could possibly comprehend.

Namaste!

For the sake of accuracy...I do have to state the facts. Yes....the Indian Willy Wonka did look more like a tan version of Mr. Burns from the Simpson's. And yes, if you gathered that I was sporting a powder pink eye-patch the minute I layed my hands on it...and dutifully proceeded to parade myself from the chemist, alllllll the way to the corner store; eye ensconced in all its pink plastic glory- you are correct!

"Those are just facts, and facts are just opinions, and opinions can be wrong. But confidence,....confidence is never wrong!"- Veronica Palmer 

In this particular corner shop, in this particular suburb, during that particular time......everybody made it their business to know your business. Now you see, I come from an extremely different background to where I found myself at that particular moment. They'd lynch me for saying this, but it's true that my family's version of community spirit starts and ends with being a Community of One, the One above any and everything.....put frankly Bigots Extraordinaire. By logical extention a community can not consist of One, it is the complete antithesis of what community stands for, so that should give you an indication of just how much energy they expend on being cognicient of other people and their surroundings. <sigh> So naturally I've adopted the polar opposite stance to almost all people and things- excluding bigots of course. My childhood was peppered with "Stranger Danger", "No, you can't play with the neighbour's kids"...and "Don't make too much noise outside, or you'll aggrevate Aunty Ruby's dog's epilepsy...again."(And to think that dog's name was Lucky....just another furry bigot in my books- how unlucky).

Soul-less childhood aside, let's be fair and admit that I prefer Nosey Parker's just as much as the League of Extraordinary Bigots. Both, ironically are fair game when it comes to whimsical mind-fuckery! Sometimes I think people are just waiting for it to happen.

Deep breathe. I channel Elle Driver in all her eye-patch glory. Look at Moth with my one eye, apologize in my mind. Lick my lips...and start whistling Twisted Nerve ever so quietly to myself. Smile and wait for the obvious to unfold in front of me.

We walk up to the counter, off load enough sweets to fill the counter, offend the morbidly obese, insulin dependent and possibly perpetuate racial pornographic slurs (if you don't know what I'm talking about they're called k__fir balls). I muster up the most Bambified, doe-eyed moisture soaked gaze...transfix it to Indian Mr Burns cum Willy Wonka...smile a small sad smile...and wait.

"What happend to your eye?", please feel free to add whatever stereotypical  accent you want in here.

I turn...smile inside.....look at Moth......

Look at Mr Willy Burns Wonka.....

"He hit me....."

I thought it was friggen h!-lar-ious, he thought I was serious....Moth was indifferent and taught me the consequence of my actions. Apparently my twisted humour is not readily appreciated in the suburban hell that is the Deep Dirty South.... especially around patriarchal Indian Willy Burns Wonka (lol- that name sounds like a title for a fetish porno).

Alas, I am no longer the Charlie to that Chocolate Factory and unfortunately  incognito rat poison shaped candy, imposing tetris walls of awesome decay-inducing sweets and the last remnants of racialistic confectionery are forever beyond my grasp. But I will forever remember the twisted power of that powder pink eye patch.

I didn't always feel this way, but if there's one thing I believe with growing certainty (well at least in my sphere of thought) is that we are all old souls.  I believe our souls are evident...constantly on some plain of existence. That we preside continuously on different levels of consciousness. Logic...or should I rather say Science dictates that energy can never dissipate. What are we, if we are not but intricate networks of charged vibrations, frequency and energy operating on a preternatural timetable? The point?

Well, my point is; that the point is (=)).....to discover who we are, as we are. As whatever role (child, wife, friend, adversary, teacher, partner); in whatever century, age, era; as whatever being- we have a Learning Journey ahead. And part of that learning journey is to find  comfort in those stolen moment of absolute joy, when the most minute of revelations set in...of who we are, of who we were or will be and of what we hope- like shared secrets nesting serenely between close friends.

The hardest part is trying to constantly remind myself  that that's my point. Preach? No, sir. But testify I will...TESTIFY, TESTIFY!!! So, shoo my dear, how I've fallen off the wagon! Problems people...I'm working on them!

So, although I'm back to courting cancer after a phe-fucking-nominal fifteen months (what can I say, Me and the Marlboro Man have a thing going on), the Mr. Delivery guy has seen my face more than my yoga instructor over the past month  and the inconsequential drivel of randoms has hit back with such vengance and furious anger like a home-grown strain of extremely drug resistant TB....I remain resolute.

I hate resolutions....I hate New Years resolutions, so much so.....it's February (well, almost March).....my point exactly.

But goals, alas, need to be set. In other words...I need a carrot...dangling ever so slightly out of my reach. Besides, I'm honest enough to admit that I function better knowing there's a gold star/ reward/ Noddy badge/ glittery crown/ cookies/ a garden of gange at the end of my rainbow. So, in keeping with my fervent and obsessive compulsion to, well, obsessively compile...lists, here we go. And, again, ladies and gentlemen...in no particular order (I just can't handle my own deadlines and expectations...and with it my own thunderously resounding guilt)...here we go, again:

• Maybe get a scooter, the obligatory license and maybe a few lessons.<PAUSE> Did you hear that? No? Sorry I couldn't hear anything over the sound of  myself having a stroke.So, how about I aim for something less mechanical...a bicycle...#FLASHBACK# ...wait # RACE CARD#. I must be the only person who associates a childhood bicycle accident with Apartheid. I could  never honestly tell you that I've felt oppressed or hard done by by an almost prehistoric government, although I am completely a consequence of the emerging society in which it played at minimum the preface and introductory chapters to my modern day. Nonetheless, this is the only experience that still holds up as clear as day for me and could explain my aversion to bicycles and maybe, church. I was five travelling with my dad on a bicycle on a busy road, got knocked down by fault of a really old-school Oom,who told my dad to "Hou his bek" and shoved a ten rand note in his hand. I was in tears, but this comes as no suprise; I am still known to this day to exhibit a flair for the theatrics. My dad crossed the road to a church just across the way, and the caretaker wouldn't let us use the bathrooms to wash the blood of my legs and arm....(sigh).....garden tap. OMG!!!! Not, Ayoba...goddamnit- I was freaking adorable- how can you turn that down? Anyhoo...now that I've relived that...unnecessarily, I recant the suggestion of bicycle. Nay. Scooter...and will just rock my two trusty legs and remain irreverant of any government. 

• And my two trusty legs will hopefully (?) definitely Tuladandasana my ass into a yoga retreat and teacher's course.

• I am going on a looooooooong road trip.....I am dragging Moth. No, of course we are not walking. Transcendent to that degree, I am most definitely not. But, grateful nonetheless that I have a husband whose delusions I do not have to accommodate as gravely as he does mine....and it totally doesn't hurt that has no qualms with automotive vehicles!

• Master the hula-hoop. You laugh....but really, you have no idea just how scary it is that I'm this close.

• And with that said, maybe honestly consider joining a squircus. Honestly. And when I'm really honest about joining...on that fateful day I won't call it a squircus.

• Find a willing Hari Krishna, go Debra Patta on his ass and give him the third degree. If he completes a set of innumerable and anguishingly insurmountable list of questions/ scenarios/ role play/ tests of agility, then maybe, just maybe settle diligently on this life philosophy.

• Go to the dentist.

• Figure out how to come back as a cat in my next life.

• Not make life changing decisions when I'm angry.

• Not make promises when I'm happy.

• Quit my job.

• Rediscover the grindstone...(for a limited time only...then discover owning a farm).

• Find a track, get back on it....and don't look back.

• And lastly....stop being so gawddamn hard on myself...these goals will be accomplished- whether in this life or the next! But also hopefully sometime this year....there we go again!

I’ve just narrowly survived the manic decent into the month of madness that is, and will be my December. I keep on returning from these missions and wild forays of lunacy with fewer and fewer marbles….always a little more restless with the mundane clutter and opaque shades of bullshit that sometimes colour my days.

I all too often forget the genius in simplicity, things that used to excite us as kids are still essentially the things that should prove just as important to us today. Walking barefoot, finding magic in secret places or rolling around with your favourite person under the warm guidance of the sun. Kids totally have it all figured out…until they start growing up and getting lost, often finding themselves on the back of milk cartons. Don’t get me wrong, I maintain the same exact phobia for kids as I do snakes; and in turn follow the same behavioural conduct….

1.       In no event make eye contact.

2.       No sudden movements.

3.       Avoid interaction at all costs.

To be honest, I actively promote the growth of these two phobias…and live in hope that one day they will sprout into debilitating fears; thus protecting me from child bearing and reptiles alike. Every once in a while I have to scare myself shitless. Just the other day I actually asked a friend to hold her baby…cute kid and all but I spent the rest of the afternoon slinging back every variation of mojito I could find and then watched an entire 30 second clip on how a poffadder unhinges it’s jaws to ingest large prey- with both eyes open mind you! Self-inflicted emotional trauma has been keeping me in line for years.

(For the sake of clarity when I say “large prey” I’m not implying baby ... in this particular instance, atleast.)

There’s no reason required  for me to be psycho-analytical about a three- year old’s life philosophy- but I sure as hell have adopted for this month. So in keeping, I’ve adopted a new fascination with the alphabet….so “F” is not just for “FUCK”……

“F” is for “Fuck Moderation”.  And that’s exactly the credo I’ve followed over the past few days.

He say's cookies, but I encourage you to substitute with any of your heart's desires......

Fucking Moderation comes at a price mind you. Starting off with me braving a Deadmau5 concert in heels for 7 hours….okay, so I wasn’t in the heels per se  for the duration of those 7 hours but let’s just say my feet and those shoes aren’t talking  any more.

Genocide….it can happen…. to feet, namely my own!

The Mau5 that is Dead was independently phenomenal… I have great respect for people who are admittedly blatant about including pop culture references and threading personal ciphers  into their performance or art. It’s a pleasant escape from all the petty functionaries who usually push out product instead of art. Before we even had enough time to sufficiently assault our bed with sleep, me and Moth were up and getting ready for Vortex.

 

We travelled with friends through the golden patchwork of harvested wheat and canola fields all the way to a River Without an End, to set up camp in the Circle of Dreams. Vortex is home to one of the best venues, this side of trance town and is definitely a firm favourite of my mine.  The Pixie in our crew got initiated into the tribe by a wise old Mother Earth type, the Reverend led us to his secret hiding place behind the stage to put magic in our lungs… and where the speakers were the best seats in the house.  Moth outlived all the dj’s sets and was bouncing along merrily until he finally passed out on the dance floor the Sunday morning and proceeded to take a nap in the exact same spot up until we went home later that afternoon. I, on the other hand managed to put my beef to rest with the hairy worms, (yes….even they showed up for the party) had a conversation with a dragonfly and kept a lonely bubble as my pet for a few hours.

We lost our minds, a few people and definitely some marbles along the way, but it was well worth it! So even though I’m still catching up on the days of sleep I’ve lost, haven’t even unpacked our bags from the weekend and conveniently painted my nails to cover up the residual crud that has imbedded itself to my digits, what does remain is a Sense of Calm I carry with myself….or maybe my body is just self-regulating its pH levels. Because we all know that acid makes for a good base, but who can tell me when is appropriate to take a Rennie ant-acid? Exactomundo!!!!

And so my old adage of “Who needs a roof to party?” remains unchanged. Just in the same way as “All we need is a cardboard box to have a good time”….which my bestie has so eloquently portrayed…….

She will never fully realise my sheer hatred of her eleventy-seven pairs of jazz shoes.

And so now, I’m hurtling towards the opposite end of the spectrum which involves me looking like something that can pass as socially presentable at no less than…My Best Friend’s Wedding! So next week around about this time I’ll be swapping hairy worms for hair curlers and turning my feet once again into indentured labourers (for the very last time-BIBLE)! Instead of a Sense of Calm which I suspect will have evaporated by then; I’ll bring a Little Book of Calm…."add a dab of lavender to milk, leave town with an orange and pretend you're laughing at it".......and smoke that shit up when faced with the inevitable questions of childbearing and snakes….

Sigh, the life and times of Charlie Sunshine, I'm off to babysit my mom's trans-gendered yorkie.... #truestory!

Firstly I'd like to preface this post by sharing my latest discovery with you. You might recall me mentioning a Hari Krishnoligist (either Hari Krishna or Scientologist) randomly giving me this book which proverbially set a swarm of bees on my bonnet. After the minimal amount of searching on the interwebs, I've discovered its not a cult, people. It's a legit Swami's account of the ancient texts of the Gita. So, not Scientologists. Right. Not that I'm disappointed or anything. A scientologist approached me once, but those fuckers are schneeeaky. You first have to pay R150 to watch an informational documentary/ movie, before they tell you anything interesting.

Well,

1. Firstly, I rarely if ever pay to watch a movie i.e information session i.e advertorial i.e opportunity for a captive audience to be brainwashed Thetan-style.
2. One hundred and fifty rands is more than  sufficient to get your hands on a Dancing Bear and you can have your own private conversation with God. Seriously, I met a nice guy called Jesus under a tree at a trance party a few weeks back. Nice dude, bad teeth.

It's hard enough as it is... for me to function, assimilate and keep track of every bit of semi-useful piece of information. Watch the news. Follow celebrity gossip. Keep track of which episode of Sons of Anarchy we last stopped at. Keep a low profile, stop speaking Evasive Mumble, remember to feed Funky (seriously Funky, we can all stand to gain some appreciation for those less fortunate and skip a meal for a day).

NAG. NAG. NAG.

You get so lost sometimes, in the everyday eyes-closed routine that you forget about your more decadent dreams. No, not porn- but I'm sure this post will circumnavigate back to that topic. TRAVELLING. The word alone elicits sheer panic and dread with Moth, which I totally don't understand (but secretly enjoy). So while I've been feeling like a Gypsy with cage-rot for the past few weeks (can you blame me? I've got the census people hot on my ass.) I stumbled upon an article about how the Japanese government is dishing out 10 000 round trip tickets (albeit radioactive) to bloggers willing to prostitute themselves for a free trip by writing about their experiences in the Nation of the Rising Sun. This all with the intention of boosting tourism.

And, so....Robert is your mother's brother and also the president of Zimbabwe...

ü   Blogger

ü   Forms part of a greater diabolical plan to convince Moth to travel.

Seeing as it's going to take a force majeure to generate any sort of continental drift in him, what better country than Japan. Earthquakes, tsunamis, near Chernobyl-like infamy. Ladies and gentlemen....looks like we have our contender. But if you think my fiendish plan to get his ass a-moving hinges on my obscure, slightly offensive ramblings- then we got problems.

So listen my friends, spare a moment while I undertake this exercise in futility.



Rice, great if you want to eat a
million of something.



I genuinely get excited when I check the stats and see which countries are reading my blog and Japan was one of the very first. Since then Japan still has only ever remained a one-hit wonder for me. (This is clearly a one-sided relationship. You don't like my writing...well I don't like rice- so there!) The first word that popped into my mind when I saw the hit was "Futanari"- Japanese anime porn! My thought process simultaneously went to, "How far removed is futanari from my life- there's possibly never going to be a scenario where I post about this".

Mmmm, and yet here we stand...

Futanari is something so essentially Japanese and something so essentially twisted. Grotesque and gaudy but so damn alluring and interesting you just can't look away. That's Japan, anything and everything almost goes- or at least is given the right to exist (ahem...re-education camps much...Chairman Mao?). This is partly balanced by the ultra-conservative and traditional echelons of elderly folk.

But its the dirty trenches and subcultures that build the foundation of every teahouse worth its poon in geisha's. So here's a couple of reasons why I, and so by natural extension you (Moth, that includes you too) consider adding Japan to your bucket list.

With the worlds longest life expectancy and the highest suicide rate for under 30's Japan also boasts the world's lowest homicide rate. So, we've clearly established that they might not like killing each other, but sure have a penchant for suicide.

ü   Kamikaze mentality resonates well. I agree with suicide.... for other people.

Japan is ranked top five importer and exporter in the world. That explains where all those sweets shaped like lil' hamburgers and hotdogs come from. C'maaaaan, really? Is food posing as another food really necessary. Weird and wonderful, Japan has it all.

Necessity has little value for me....incognito candy however- that ranks quite high on my hierarchy of needs.

ü   High fructose corn syrup....I need you in my life!

In such a homogeneous society where everyone looks the same, speaks the same language and genetically inherits ancient, social fears, Japan boasts the fertile breading ground for any and every subculture, preference and school of thought out there. The language in particular fascinates me, they have a specific word for everything....like bukaki- I encourage you to look up this word independently, when you have a moment. Some jewels are better discovered alone. Japan also signed a treaty that renounces it's right to wage war...like, ever. I like that.

ü   No war.
ü   Additional profanities to learn.

Its looking pretty good so far. Increased tourism numbers are meant to allay the fears of the local population regarding the radiatioactive fall-out. Because hey, it's totally okay to use foreigners as human capital to sway Japanese opinion...apparently. This sounds more like payback for a not-so-forgotten mushroom cloud that still looms in the recesses of public perception. Ironically, I mentioned this to Moth..his response,

"If you can guarantee I get bitten by a radioactive something or other, and through genetic mutation gain super powers...my ass is on the first plane to Tokyo."

I live in quiet desperation.

ü   Possibility of super powers......or grotesque mutation. Mmm, I'm guessing we'll take our chances.

The Japanese are also known to be quite critical of themselves, their culture and generally everything. From musical toilets that drowns out the noise of your ass trumpet, to the fairer sex butchering their eyelids to appear more Western and forests specifically designated for suicide- there's always a proper way to do improper things. Almost everything is frowned upon, but everything goes. So, like a lil'one being lured by misrepresented sweets and the empty promises of super powers, I gladly add Japan onto my bucket list...along with Easter Island and Machu Pichu because everybody deserves the chance to munch hallucinogenic cacti at ridiculous altitudes....who are we to judge? After all, we're not Japanese. Now just to find a Harashuku outfit that fits Moth....mmm...

So I bid you a fond farewell...I can now run like a dirty heathen through the backwoods of Paarl, guilt free...looking for Wally with the devil's neighbour and start thinking of which tropical disease I can contract for Monday....