This land is my land, this land is also my land

Can I cook? The answer is an easy no.
Do I have patience? This answer is situation dependent.

It has been brought to my attention time and again that these two go hand in hand. They are like the fat kids that always lapse to the back of the race and have to fight each other for second last place. Or for the last twizzler.

By that definition alone it is confirmed that I don’t like candy or running and that I may or may not be competitive. Anyways enough introspection.

So as I was saying I hate hate hate cooking. The one I shared the womb with received that gene along with patience in every situation except when in traffic and dealing with asshole drivers. it is not that I am incapable, I can list some damn good dishes that I make better than most. Unfortunately I have very few witnesses as the desire to create strikes me once every blue moon, and it must be said that these creations are no longer limited to eggs on toast (it is possible to fuck this up)

A man told me today how his wife the caterer lives, breaths and eats food. I told him about the fire that burns in my soul to fight such urges to make anything. I like guys who can cook. I also like guys who can wash up and clean my house. Just kidding.

I just wanted to mention that I hate cooking and if I have to choose two things to forever live on I don’t have to think too hard.

Whiskey and salmon. I would be a healthy drunk it seems.
Game over.

Off balance

He stands there, shifting between his feet, constantly caught off guard by his own weight. His legs no longer trust his body or perhaps it is his body that should no longer trust his legs. My first thought is that he has come from a wedding, only later do I wonder if perhaps it was an occasion that drives one to drink but not in celebration.

An umbrella in his right hand which he does not let go of even when he stumbles towards the ocean, playing with kelp like a curious child. His middle finger rises up into the air. A silently loud gesture sent out into the ocean. His movements are angry; perhaps he has a strong dislike for the ocean. Or maybe he is a man that does not feel warmth for the world at this moment. Either way he is odd. We all watch the odd man in his freshly ironed shirt and suit pants, act out on the beach. 

Even at a distance he stinks of sadness, for this I feel sorry.

Creative laxative

I told a friend, who gets as much of a kick from taking the piss as I do, that I I cannot write as I am all blocked up. He told me to take a laxative.
Funny one smartass.

All I know is that I have a million thoughts a minute. Perhaps the curse of the creative block is the inability to write as fast as I think.

I remember going out at about age 6 half dressed, funny the things we remember. I must of been dressing and at some point gotten bored by this activity and shifted my attention.
When someone noticed; they could very well have just told me they thought it looked like rain out, by my calm reaction.

Now the thought alone of walking around half naked makes me blush a bit and I’m really not so conservative. Well maybe a touch.

I just wander where along the way we started caring so much. My favorite once witnessed a little girl bouncing around a room practicing her ballet, his reaction-

Now if I just broke out in dance people would think I was mad.

Yes, they would for some reason adults walking around half naked or breaking out in dance sporadically, is socially unacceptable to the point of being frowned upon.

No one will be stepping on your blue suede shoes, don’t bother shining them up, they are going to be hidden at the back of your cupboard until people learn to relax and regain their sense of humor.

As he who dreams about a cabin in the woods always says-

Why so serious?

Staying on the edge

I don’t know what the fuck I am doing. Truth be told I don’t think anyone does. We held our breaths as the world didn’t end.

Well I lie I was never at the point of turning blue but I guarantee there were many who were. Perhaps it is those who have been living the last few weeks like they are no longer attached to a lead of some sort. Isn’t it sad it took threat of the end to actually bring some people to life.
So many this year have told me they have lived their lives on auto pilot, what does that mean.

Are we such a passive animal we can’t even claim rights to our own lives.

In conclusion so what if I don’t know what I am doing at least I am moving forward instead of standing still.

Staring at the ground

I was walking today paying more attention to the world then usual. A man made eye contact with me and held it for sometime. This surprised me more than it should have.

I have spent some time thinking about it, I realize the worlds we all live in now a days are becoming further and further apart. We are in fact disconnecting from one another as well as raising a future generation that doesn’t understand the connections we once possessed.

I am not talking about amongst those we know, I am concerned for the connection we fail to possess with those we do not know.

It is not a deep connection I refer to which we are actively hunting for. Its more of a, we are connected by the fact we walk the same earth. Drink of the same water and both bleed when cut. I fear that it is this very lack of connection that allows the hungry to grow hungrier, the poor, poorer. The depressed more depressed.

As when we feel connected to those we don’t know as opposed to only those we know this is when we feel with great certainty the world is shifting for the better.

The burn proof bra

He was telling me about a country he loves I think my words returned were on the lines of, if not exactly “You will not catch me dead there”

I am far from running in the street burning my bra at every sexist utter I hear. Or nowhere near telling my friends I don’t need a man to have a baby (these feminists exist). One doesn’t have to know me that well to know ‘A thousand splendid suns’ upset me or that every time a women is stoned to death my blood boils, not to mention advertising that keeps women trapped in time, trapped in the kitchen.

In the above conversation I referred to the fact that I will never visit a country that mistreats its women or have different laws for foreign women as they have for their own women.

Jumping to more recently I asked our building caretaker what was bothering him. He told me he is lonely he would like to find a girlfriend. I asked him why he has not found one already. He is a nice guy, I doubt he would have much trouble. Oh okay the picture is coming into focus now, he has a girlfriend and children back home.

But Zuma has many wives he says, so I should as well.

Perhaps I don’t live in a country where women are discriminated against when looking at the law. But I certainly do live in a country which fails to teach its people about respect for women.

One doesn’t need to look passed our president to know that this is true.

There is something in the water

Her body language was quite revealing. Her face an open book. The story it told did not impress, it intended only to pour more petrol on the open fire.

Leaning towards the seated women, her face wrinkled around her sharp tongue. Her shoulders hunched inward. Her dress stuck to her elderly body. The smell of disgust leaking out of her every pore.

Words bouncing between them, back and forth. Unable to add my own as involvement in such a situation is not my tea of choice.

The other lady, being looked down on in more then one way. Curls bouncing with a shaking head and square glasses balancing on the tip of her nose she proceeded to hold her sword up high and not let her blood be split. But she might as well be holding her hands up as the sword sits at her throat. She knows this movie, she has clearly watched it a million times.

I held my wallet in my hand as my turn to pay came.

When asked what had happened the cashier explained she was from Zimbabwe. Not something her paler black skin could hide. I look up just in time to catch the zulu lady, with a handful of threats limping out the door.

Xenophobia is not just a word, it lives and breaths

Social experiment THE conclusion

I have a scar on my face. I do hope it goes away but as I said previously I think you have to be prepared to do the silly and live with the consequences if you want to be a writer. You can’t just speak of the sky diving video you watched without being prepared to take the big jump yourself. One must be a see’er and do’er.

Having a scar means I gave up on what was so visibly stuck on my face. -Gave up- are not my words. One day, I loved it. The next all that was left from the night before upon waking was a hang over and all I could think of was the claustrophobia having this thing on my face was causing me. I couldn’t for the life of me get it out, my hands were to slippery. I ended up taking the surgical gloves from my hair dying kit and with them on, (looking all doctor like myself) removing my self infected dot from my face.

A week, 7 days is a silly number of time to have held onto something that I did think was cool; and not commit to. Why did I get rid of it?

When I looked in the mirror I never saw myself. And the fact that 7 days later that reflection staring back at me was still not clearly me, was my sign to rid myself of it.

Judging by my last statement I think that it would be most rational to conclude that because I never felt like myself with it. I was overly conscious of how other people saw me. Its like wearing your gothic best friends clothes. They look cool on her. Trying them on they are comfortable but you are introduced to a person you don’t know and whom you are now forced to be.

I do think that on the other, heavily tattooed hand, we are most definitely judged by our appearance. This would be a natural flaw of us humans. We take in what is first presented to us and than we deduct how many more layers of someone we want to unravel passed this initial meeting.

I don’t regret it, I was chasing the fun and that it most definitely was. And funny enough I did inspire someone else’s sense of curiosity, she looks so nice with hers its safe to say it will last longer than 7 days.

Brand spanking damaged and not heavily intoxicated me

I got glasses today.

The look I was going for- the sophisticated twang I say. They are incredibly hard to get used to. I was thinking on my way home from dinner tonight- how glasses are an admission of weakness. I. Have been wearing contacts for years by the way. I came with these eyes they are clear contacts.
Down to our rawest subconsciously motivated behaviors when it comes to picking a partner it is well known that we look for a partner who would be a good half to the puzzle that would be your future child.

Glasses say – I’m screwed and I’m not even going to try hide it. You only have to put my glasses to your eyes to see- that I can’t (well not well at all) without my brand spanking new pair of guess glasses. No need for any guesses I put all my cards on the table. My children are in line for the same fate. I can cover this fact up with contacts. Laser eye surgery ( which is on the cards one day) will not alter nor spare my kids the same fate of sitting in that chair only years later in a more updated world of technology.

I do love my new glasses, I feel like me but a more sophisticated version, a writer without glasses just isn’t a real writer.