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.

Yes…yes, I know. This post is not up for public consumption in the allotted time previously agreed to. What can I say….I’m a creature of bad habit and some behavioural patterns are set in stone. If you are salaciously wondering about how I’ve been so vehemently denied my most basic human right due to obvious consequence, I’m afraid it’s rather disappointing.

Think what you want. I’m not going to question the status quo….or the inaction of a certain individual.

My post (now late),  my ass (high as a kite) and his calculated silence. We each possess a unique cache of artillery, the important thing is to identify your not-so-secret weapon, use it, abuse it and hope to Jah that it remains as useful as the first time you discovered it. Having a bergina and being recognisably koot helps....A LOT and has garunteed my safe, smoky passage up until now. It's a deadly combo, and I'd say the two characteristics are interchangable...but they really aren't. Bergina always stands victorious.

 Bambi eyes and quarky can only get you that far, though. The rest is all about…

Source unkown

C-harisma

U-niqueness

N-erve…and

T-alent

Lipstick on a pig in other words, which brings me neatly to my next point. I suppose there are very few categories a twenty something girl can claim virginity in, mine would be tattoos. Rather late than never, I’ve always been keen on the idea of having myself inked. The only reason it took this long to get it done was figuring out what I wanted permanently etched on my skin. Besides the obvious cosmetic implications, getting a tattoo is quite an investment. 

There’s money. Good tattoos aren’t cheap, and cheap tattoos aren’t good. 

There’s time. Rounded up it took almost five hours to finish my piece.

And most importantly finding a skilled artist in a good studio. This is so key. Plus I like their mission statement.

No Picking. No Scratching. No Bitching.

No Ego. No Bullshit. Just Passion.

When sitting braless in the middle of winter for five hours, the setting is crucial. Nipple stand ruins lives (depending on your profession- it might enhance lives), and so the heater and cellophane wrapped pillow was most welcome.  Bestie bumz in tow, cupcakes, smoke breaks and hi-fucking-larious renditions of the CaptainPlanet theme song got me through, relatively unscathed. Going under the needle is totally manageable, it’s not the most pleasant- but it’s totally worth it. The worst thing is being plastic wrapped like a forlorn tuna sandwich for the following two days…and the surgical tape….(oooohhhhh, the humanity)...the tape kills me and was without a doubt the most painfull thing about this whole experience.

It’s true what they say, it’s addictive. And if you really are a “come as you are” type of person, body art could count as one of the most honest forms of self-expression. I was banned from even writing on my hand as a kid. I grew up in a concentration camp. Really. A concentration camp on the Cape Flats. I remember asking my old man what he thought about tattoos… eish, that was the furthest thing from a fairy-tale. My dad’s brother came home from school one day with an off kilter heart tattooed on his forearm done with a school compass and stained with battery acid. My granddad conscientiously took a scissor to my uncle’s arm (who was thirteen at the time), scraped that heart until it was no more and then, for some reason spread a thick layer of condensed milk onto the open wound. Not sure how the condensed milk was meant to help, but that horrific image has been imprinted in my brain ever since. Bitter sweet indeed.

Is mutilating a child really neccessary to prove your disdain for something? Really? Why can't people just be free to mutilate /modify/accentuate/ express what ever they like,as they damn well please? Tatoos throughout the ages have historically held contrasting significance. From the old world, differentiating the high born from the slaves, to the old-skool world where only sailors, prostitues and criminals were bestowed with colourful epidermis. I see walking canvases. Not delinquents. 

Present day, tattoos are more mainstream and the only thing that poses as a limitation are your brainwaves. Some people are prophets of doom preaching gravity and old age.  I'll probably look the same as any sixty year old, just colourful and did I mention badass. Since when is this the Moral Olympics? I must confess, I feel a slight obsession growing.

Source unknown

If I had to take 15 million steps back (give or take a few), I’d find myself in the exact same place, where I found him. On the edge of a continent, on a street that is Long, in a club now closed and at a party that would make even the likes of Chuck Palahniuk proud, we stood contently beside each other as strangers…or so we thought.

I know now that I knew him long before that fateful night (4 am, Rum Diary drunk in a club). Long ago, under a different set of stars, on a different street, as someone not too unfamiliar from who I am now. We knew each other.

63 million breathes have ushered us to this point. SIXTY-FREE-MEEEEEEERRRRRION…..sixty fucking three million moments…

Moments of jumping off bridges, sleeping under stars, rolling down hills in giant plastic zorbs that would make any hamster jizz their pants. Moments of bribing caretakers in coastal dorpies to feed some godforsaken octopus that Moth remembers from a family holiday long ago. Of sleeping under the night sky in summer, off getting kicked off farms and invading others. Moments of self-inflicted madness, getting lost in the height of summer in apple country with no liquid or music in sight or sound…after an insane trance party…which I take full responsibility for. Ahem! Moments, dressed as memories…decorate the halls of my mind. Suit and tie, ceremony and pomp…when underneath they reveal the true identity of us. Two (now) barefoot kids hurtling towards each other at the speed of light.

So it’s been six years. Pats self on back. We’ve come a long way him and I, from getting caught by the poh-lice trying to catch a free show (they were actually nice and just doing their job looking for some runaway kid, they even told us where they wouldn’t likely find us…so we went there instead)…. to having a place of our own place. Our first place was so empty when we moved in that we’d create multifunctional zones. Amongst them we had a designated MMA/ capoeira area and a breakdancing zone, this was partly due to a bout of insomnia I was having and CTV (love me some community TV). Now, we have a small Nation and a few surviving plants. We pay our TV licence. We are anti-procreation, he proports to be a militant atheist but every month I’m sure this is challenged when he’s as grateful as fuck. So he’s gotta be praying to someone.

I’m always grateful… and I will pray to anybody/thing to secure the integrity of my bergina…and sanity. I also believe in science, so either way. I don’t pretend to be on the forefront of what makes us work (however, I feel strongly that the no-kids-thing helps), what I do know is that it does and that he has my heart. And in the quiet of the night, when darkness asserts its dominion over us all, I lie awake restless and listen to his heart beating.

Two and a half BILLION times over, each resounding thud provides mortal assurance to the inevitability of the next few billion heartbeats to follow. He is my heart and keeps me safe in the warmth of his. Because at the end of the day all we need is somebody to love….smoke bongs with…and cuddle.

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.

So, there are a few things I don’t believe in:

1.      Diamonds

2.      Family

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t doubt their existence, but I sure as hell don’t promote their ideals. In my mind’s eye, they leave behind them nothing but a path of false ideals of value, pain, suffering, guilt and a clear distinction between those who “ have” and those who “have not”. Now I’m not suggesting you adopt any of the above philosophies as your own, but I think it necessary for me to bring them to light, set the foundations and impart (my) frame of reference in order for you to understand the gravity and significance of my latest ramblings….as stated below.

 An open (and most likely undelivered ) letter to my Momaschnu…

MOMMY!!!!!!!

Now that I’ve got  your attention, Ol’ Lady, I’d like to set the record straight.

I f*cking, totally, TOTALLY love you! (#mftotes). I’m glad that I share your genetic make-up (and predispositions for a vast array of medical conditions- not forgetting insanity) and that you’re MY mommy.  I know I’m not the easiest pigeon of your pair- but thank you.

 Thank you for teaching me how to worship the sun, to blow bubbles and making me understand that my two legs can carry me anywhere. Thank you for making me experience the bone chilling fear that runs rampant within in me, whenever you drive. No motor vehicle will have the satisfaction of me driving it.

Thank you for saying “NO” to Spice Girls shoes and blessing me with the metabolism of a tweaked-out gerbil. So even though, I’ve inherited your goldfish memory/ attention span and your indulgent flair for panic….I still want to impart my gratitude, because I must declare that these “inadequacies” are best suited to the likes of us.

Thank you for instilling in me a hyper-exaggerated hatred of cellulite and for teaching me how to appreciate an ice cold beer and how never to drink rum on a boat. For cheering me up with Naked Mexican’s when I’m sad. And although, Darth Vader shows more affection to his offspring than you could ever possibly muster up- I still totally love you. Besides, I know hugs would be much too awkward for the both of us. Thank you for teaching me to always be honest- even when honesty hurts.

And even though, you’d never say, you are the one who encourages the spirit of adventure that burns bright inside of me. Thank you for teaching me how to love and respect  animals and for nurturing a deep fanaticism for books and reading…..even though you are saddled with the by-product years on. Narrating Button Soup is not a useless ability…even now when I don’t need to hear it before I go sleep!

So here’s a secret… during those many self- imposed orphan years…I missed you the most. I’m not apologizing for the tears shed for and about me, but I love you and want you to know that I forgive you for those reciprocated.

I have yet to master your weapon of mass destruction…”le silent treatment”…because really- you couldn’t shut me up for a second even if you tried…so there are still so many things I have yet to learn from you. So don’t fret Ol’ Lady, you and me have many more adventures ahead!!!

I’d also like this to serve as an official and very public apology for an incident that occurred circa 1991. It regards a certain school project…on budgies. More especially the incident relates to photocopied pictures of budgies which you so lovingly coloured in…on my behalf…without my consent. I’m sorry I had a cadenza of such epic proportions, and yes- to this day it’s still clearly a sore point…more than a decade on…. But you don’t just colour someone else’s budgies in without asking first…. #ffs…who does that?

<PAUSE>

Again, I’m sorry. And yes, the Encyclopaedia Britannica and the local library’s photocopy machine was the only way you could incorporate some visual imagery in a school project back in the day. That said, I do remember getting a good grade for that project- no gold star mind you…but at least it helps mend the wound and ease my ridiculous anguish.

I love you, Momaschnu- and I’m giving you the biggest telepathic hug in the omniverse (because that at least has to count for something…even if I have to live through an imaginary awkward moment).

All my love,

You perfectly imperfect daughter

P.S   It’s not budgies…it budgerigars… “Besides, you’re saying it wrong. It’s LeviOsa, not LeviosAR!”