I am becoming more and more acutely aware of something as I go through my daily life, experiencing the world, all its woes, its glories, its failures and its triumphs. And this thing that I am constantly being exposed to, constantly being reminded of, constantly seeing, feeling and experiencing is, in my framework, a bitter pill to not only have to swallow, but almost silently so. Now more than ever.
Now you might be asking what exactly it is that I am becoming aware of and after a whole paragraph of (hopefully) keeping you reading to get to the answer, I will finally and with a peculiar and almost unprecedented sense of pride, say:
I am not an African.
Yes, I can hear you all moaning and groaning, and I can almost hear in some familiar (and often familial) voices, the obvious comments, but the point that I am trying to make is slightly more profound, I can assure you.
I grew up and I have lived in various provinces in South Africa, almost every single province in South Africa, as someone dutifully pointed out to me just the other day. My father was a pastor and therefore we travelled around a lot. Most of these I can’t really remember, and it’s rather sad when you think that so much of your heritage and what has shaped you to be the person you are today, is lost beneath layers and layers of other information in the tiny vessel of memory we refer to as our brain. Remember this statement. It’s important for later.
This upbringing, this journey that has brought me to where I am now has often been a tough one. But in some small, insignificant way I have often comforted myself with the notion that I am a child of Africa. I have experienced the country side, I have experienced the cities. I played cricket on a dirt road outside my house, I have slept under the stars on a farm in the Free State. I went to an Afrikaans, mixed-race school, I went to a private English school. I studied at a liberal arts college and I finished high school at a proudly Afrikaans institution. Somewhere along the line I guess that I have seen myself as a ‘child of the new South Africa’. I was born in 1990, so therefore any memory I have left of my childhood would be post-1994 and, in my mind at least, that signifies my life being a part of our new democracy. Even though it’s not factually true, I have always considered myself to be as old as our democracy is. And that, that is the reason why I think I have such a deep respect and admiration for the people that have fought so hard to make this country the place it is today, with all the opportunities it can offer me.
I might also be stepping on some toes here, but really, what else is a blog for? I also didn’t think that I needed to be black to be an African. And I still don’t.
I am of the firm belief that being an African means being a child of the soil, growing up with the harsh African sun on your back, feeling the effects of drought on farmers, loving the great outdoors, protecting what is yours, fighting for what it is that you believe in. It means being patriotic, not being afraid to say where you were born and, of course, knowing the words (and the meaning) to ‘Nkosi Sikeleli Africa’. These are all things I know, things I have experienced, and journeys I have made. This is my country as much as it is anyone else’s.
And so now I ask you why today I don’t feel like an African.
My citizenship has not been revoked; my name is the same, my race, my skin-colour, all remains as it was and yet; something has changed.
Maybe it’s because I feel that after today; I don’t want to be an African.
And yes, maybe I am more melancholic today, but such is suited to the black garb that I have donned on this ‘Black Tuesday’.
For those of you not aware of the situation in my beloved South Africa, I suggest you Google ‘Black Tuesday’ or ‘SA Secrecy Bill’ to see what I am referring to. This blog is not going to be as informative as the many qualified sites out there will be.
Upon hearing that the bill was passed in the National Assembly today, I felt my heart sink and a stunted scream of pain escaped almost inaudibly from my lips. Not because the bill has yet been put in place, not because it has directly started affecting me. But like a teenager discovering for the first time that their parents aren’t flawless or like a parent discovering for the first time that their baby boy or girl had turned into someone they didn’t know, I felt a sudden mixture of rebellion and confusion. Somehow, and I’m not sure how just yet, but somehow the phrase: ‘’We stopped looking for monsters under our beds when we realized they were inside us.’’, fits in here so perfectly.
This fault, this flaw that I discovered today, this shaft that is hampering our progress as a young democracy, has somehow left me so detached from all that is this country and everything that Nelson Mandela, Oliver Tambo, Walter Sisulu and Steve Biko fought for to achieve that I started to wonder whether the sacrifices of these individuals were at all necessary. I started to see more and more flaws, my eyes opened up to a whole new world.
As an artist we often deal with politics and one can almost say that all art is political. However, I have always sort of detached myself from that aspect as I felt that one needs to tell one’s own story and there was never an opportunity for me to tell my story; had I told another’s I would have felt like a hypocrite. And as much as I have always tried to stay on top of current affairs and have some idea about what is happening in this country as a whole, I have never really felt the need to get involved in politics. As a white male in SA today, I have never felt I had enough say or much leverage to say it. Somehow I had always managed to stay out of heated political discussions, because in my experience these tended to lead to very little actually being done. When voting day came, I cast my ‘’Democratic Alliance’’ vote proudly, but I never felt an urgency to do more. Until today, that is.
As is often the case with these enlightening moments, I immediately wanted to know more, before I could write this blog, and, although I did find out quite a lot, there is a lot more that I still want to know.
Today I read Lindiwe Mazibuko’s moving speech to parliament in which she proclaimed that the DA will not stop fighting this secrecy bill. The power of her words as she, young, black South African woman, faced an entire parliament of people far beyond her years moved me. She confronted them with words that said: ‘What will you, the Members on that side of the House, tell your grandchildren one day? I know you will tell them that you fought for freedom. But will you also tell them you helped to destroy it?’’. I also read that she had confronted someone about their use of the word ‘darkies’ in parliament and that his rebuttal was to call her a ‘coconut’ (brown on the outside, white on the inside). This exemplary child of Africa, a young black girl with a past that resembles that of most in South Africa, a young black girl with dignity who has carved her own way in the Democratic Alliance in as little as four years. This woman who now, not much older than I am, is standing in front of hundreds of men who have fought for this freedom that she has and is confronting them about the bad decisions they are about to make. This takes strength, character, dignity, respect and a lot of hard work. This, this is what I thought meant being an African.
I read an interesting article today where a reporter who was due to interview Ms Mazibuko, wanted to get a clear sense of what the everyman (or woman, in this case) thought of her. The reporter showed a picture of Lindiwe to her domestic worker whose response was: ‘DA. Bad.’ I heard that Ms Mazibuko can speak 4 official South African languages and has lived in suburban and rural South Africa. And just because she dares to oppose, as the DA’s national spokesperson, a government so inbred with their own propagandas, their own pride and their own misguided sense of power she is labelled as not being a ‘true African’ or being one of the enemy.
Therefore I think it’s important to assess one thing: Who is more African? The corrupt? Those who steal from the people to fund their own pockets? Those who are quick to jump on the ‘race-train’ whenever they are being held accountable? Those who keep their affairs a secret, because they know that it is not within the best interests of those they govern? Or is it those who stand up for what they believe in? Those who are prepared to fight an uphill-battle? Those who stand in the face of adversity and keep their head held high, because even if they don’t know where they are going, at least they know where they have been?
I would argue the latter.
Our generation, my generation, we’re always saying how we haven’t had anything worth fighting for. Well, this is basically being handed to us on a silver platter. The time of posting protesting status updates and protesting tweets is over. I think it’s safe to say that the government couldn’t care less about your 140 characters. There is no point in wearing black clothing anymore unless you’re wearing it whilst toyi-toying. Silent protest is a thing of the past. I think it’s time that the youth of this country rally up with the same amount of force that they did in 1965. The time has come that we start marching through the streets again, holding our heads high. The time has come for us to go out there and do something. And say something!
I was scrolling through my friends’ status updates on Facebook today and the general consensus is that my generation - of all races, colours and creeds – is ready to start fighting for this country. And so am I.
Speak up, speak out, and march, march till your feet bleed, march till you faint under this glorious African sun. Because that’s how you change a country, that’s how you get a government to listen. ‘’Nothing will change if you change nothing’’.
That is what I call being an African. It has nothing to do with skin. It has nothing to do with who was here first, which language you speak or which tribe you belong to. It has to do with an inherent urge to fight for what it is you love.
I feel, at this point, that it’s an appropriate time for me to directly address the ANC:
I am not an African, purely because you all call yourselves Africans. And if you are the barometer to which I should measure my African heritage, I want nothing of it.
I want to be a South African. I want to be a South African like Nelson Mandela, like Lindiwe Mazibuko, like Helen Zille, Ingrid Jonker and Ferial Haffajee. I want you to remember my name. I want you to see my face and be haunted by it. Because in the very near future it will come parading down the streets, joined by thousands of young South Africans refusing to sit back and watch you destroy what our forefathers fought so hard to build. Because I have feet and I will march them. I will march them till I feel that my legacy has been left and felt. I will not tell my grandchildren one day that I stood by and watched our beautiful young democracy being destroyed by an authoritarian government who themselves have turned into the very monster they fought so hard to conquer many years before.*
I am 21 years old, a child of South Africa, and I am not afraid to fight for what I believe in. And that makes me more of a South African than any of you.
I have now fully disclosed.
ANC, your move.
*October 19, 1977. South Africa’s Apartheid Government bans several newspapers for publishing news articles about the beating and murder of Steve Biko at the hands of police. The ANC protested this violently.
November 22, 2011. The ANC passes the Protection of Information Bill allowing the incarceration and banning of any entity that publicizes any information about the corrupt nature or actions of members of government.
The nation must know.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Sunday, November 6, 2011
love?
Just wanted to share.
I thought it was beautiful.
Wise words from 'Dr Meredith Grey' in Grey's Anatomy.
<3
Thursday, November 3, 2011
thought of you
This song is so beautiful, and I never thought that animation could drive me close to tears, but Ryan Woodward is obviously a genius.
To download the song, go here. It's called "World Spins Madly on" and it is by 'The Weepies'. (appropriate name, considering this song, methinks.)
I, being a drama major, love the symbolism used in this piece. The dancing is also exquisite, but mostly I love the attention to detail the artist has used to illustrate the muscular movements of the dancers.
Let me know what you think...
<3
To download the song, go here. It's called "World Spins Madly on" and it is by 'The Weepies'. (appropriate name, considering this song, methinks.)
I, being a drama major, love the symbolism used in this piece. The dancing is also exquisite, but mostly I love the attention to detail the artist has used to illustrate the muscular movements of the dancers.
Let me know what you think...
<3
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
polishing stars
In the profession I am in, I often get to shine. On stage, in the rehearsal room, in the music studio etc, and often one can forget that just because you are a bright star in the night sky, that you are not the only bright star. And often, in this profession, you find people who love to ramble on about all the things they are so great at, myself included occasionally (although I am trying to work on it). These people make it their mission to polish off their stars in front of the rest of the galaxy, so that it is their SHINE that illuminates the night sky.
There is, a very old myth about one of the biggest stars in the world, the Sun. Legend has it that the Sun was so full of himself and wanted so badly to shine brighter than any of the other stars that he eventually became the hot, molten ball of gas we know today. And even though the Sun has many great advantages to many life-forms, to this day, the Sun is the loneliest star in the whole heavenly realm. It shone so brightly that no other star could come near it ever again.
Now, as cool as it would be to be the Sun, metaphorically speaking, there is one specific star I would never want to have too far away.
It's my great privilege to introduce to you my dearest friend, Chloë Kiley. This girl is honestly one of the most talented people I have ever met and also my best friend in the whole world.
So, if there's one thing I can always say about myself, perhaps one good thing in a sea of flaws, is that when I love, I do love passionately. And when I am loyal, I am fiercely loyal. I once stopped going to lectures, because the lecturer had acted unjustly to a dear friend of mine. So yes, in that aspect, I am not too bad.
I decided to brag a little about my friend tonight, to polish off her star for her a bit, since I'm not sure she does it often enough. So this clip posted here in this blog is of my friend Chloë Kiley singing "The Wizard and I" from the musical 'Wicked'.
Please listen, share, comment and just enjoy.
Chlo, if you ever read this: I love you my "person".
The Wizard and I - Wicked by chloe.mairead
To hear more of Chloë's phenomenal voice, go to http://www.soundcloud.com/chloemairead
<3
There is, a very old myth about one of the biggest stars in the world, the Sun. Legend has it that the Sun was so full of himself and wanted so badly to shine brighter than any of the other stars that he eventually became the hot, molten ball of gas we know today. And even though the Sun has many great advantages to many life-forms, to this day, the Sun is the loneliest star in the whole heavenly realm. It shone so brightly that no other star could come near it ever again.
Now, as cool as it would be to be the Sun, metaphorically speaking, there is one specific star I would never want to have too far away.
It's my great privilege to introduce to you my dearest friend, Chloë Kiley. This girl is honestly one of the most talented people I have ever met and also my best friend in the whole world.
So, if there's one thing I can always say about myself, perhaps one good thing in a sea of flaws, is that when I love, I do love passionately. And when I am loyal, I am fiercely loyal. I once stopped going to lectures, because the lecturer had acted unjustly to a dear friend of mine. So yes, in that aspect, I am not too bad.
I decided to brag a little about my friend tonight, to polish off her star for her a bit, since I'm not sure she does it often enough. So this clip posted here in this blog is of my friend Chloë Kiley singing "The Wizard and I" from the musical 'Wicked'.
Please listen, share, comment and just enjoy.
Chlo, if you ever read this: I love you my "person".
The Wizard and I - Wicked by chloe.mairead
To hear more of Chloë's phenomenal voice, go to http://www.soundcloud.com/chloemairead
<3
Sunday, October 16, 2011
the inexpressible
"After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music."
Aldous Huxley
With each new post, this blog is becoming more about sharing and less introspective. I am not quite sure whether I like it. But, I suppose change is as good as a holiday.
Here are links to some songs that are on my playlist right now:
I will always love Ingrid Michaelson. Her music moves me.
This is "Keep Breathing".
And here is another: "Turn to Stone" also by her.
I also love Regina Spektor and this song "Eet" is weird and wonderful.
Lastly, as far as Regina Spektor goes: "Samson" is also beautiful.
Being a huge Grey's Anatomy Fan, I love http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sara_Ram%C3%ADrez and her version of this song, "The Story" is one of my all-time favourites.
Enjoy... <3
"It was my 16th birthday - my mom and dad gave me my Goya classical guitar that day. I sat down, wrote this song, and I just knew that that was the only thing I could ever really do - write songs and sing them to people."
Stevie Nicks
Aldous Huxley
With each new post, this blog is becoming more about sharing and less introspective. I am not quite sure whether I like it. But, I suppose change is as good as a holiday.
Here are links to some songs that are on my playlist right now:
I will always love Ingrid Michaelson. Her music moves me.
This is "Keep Breathing".
And here is another: "Turn to Stone" also by her.
I also love Regina Spektor and this song "Eet" is weird and wonderful.
Lastly, as far as Regina Spektor goes: "Samson" is also beautiful.
Being a huge Grey's Anatomy Fan, I love http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sara_Ram%C3%ADrez and her version of this song, "The Story" is one of my all-time favourites.
Enjoy... <3
"It was my 16th birthday - my mom and dad gave me my Goya classical guitar that day. I sat down, wrote this song, and I just knew that that was the only thing I could ever really do - write songs and sing them to people."
Stevie Nicks
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
let it be...
One of the most powerful scenes I have seen in a long time.
This remains one of my favourite songs of all time. It has such a transcendent quality that is even more so illuminated in this video with the use of the gospel choir.
I love the words: Let it Be.
It's so important to remember, isn't it ? We can so easily forget that: things go on.
And it's so interesting that in our times of trouble, we are not told to fight it, let it consume us, let ourselves become controlled by it, try to control it ourselves.
We are told to let it be.
I have decided that, if anything, I am going to let God work in and through my life as He sees fit.
And yes, perhaps I have let myself taken control of the steering wheel for a while, and perhaps I have lost sight of where I need to go, and somewhere along the line I have forgotten who is in charge of my life.
Stupidly, I thought it was me.
But, the events of the last couple of days have taught me this: Just let him take over. He's been doing it for thousands of years. He's got a lot more experience than you do.
And no, I still won't call myself religious, I won't even call myself 'spiritual'. I want to go as far as to say: I have such a special relationship with Him that it can't be put into a box. It can't be defined because attempting to define it will diminish it's prominence.
I had a conversation with a dear friend of mine, the other day in which she asked me whether I believe in God. I hesitated to answer, not because I was ashamed of what I believe in, but because so many things were running through my head.
She then said: "Well I don't believe in God. But, if you can prove to me that He exists, I will believe you - I am agnostic."
To which I replied, "I most definitely believe there is a God, but I think everyone on Earth is in for a big surprise one day. Because He is so different from everything you have read, everything you have heard and everything you've seen. I think a lot of people have tried to put God into a box and therefore His magnificence has been diluted and diminished. I don't know about you, but I can't wait to be surprised."
But in the meantime, maybe we should let it be, let it go, let the river run, let the wind blow, let the loose, let it wander.
<3
This remains one of my favourite songs of all time. It has such a transcendent quality that is even more so illuminated in this video with the use of the gospel choir.
I love the words: Let it Be.
It's so important to remember, isn't it ? We can so easily forget that: things go on.
And it's so interesting that in our times of trouble, we are not told to fight it, let it consume us, let ourselves become controlled by it, try to control it ourselves.
We are told to let it be.
I have decided that, if anything, I am going to let God work in and through my life as He sees fit.
And yes, perhaps I have let myself taken control of the steering wheel for a while, and perhaps I have lost sight of where I need to go, and somewhere along the line I have forgotten who is in charge of my life.
Stupidly, I thought it was me.
But, the events of the last couple of days have taught me this: Just let him take over. He's been doing it for thousands of years. He's got a lot more experience than you do.
And no, I still won't call myself religious, I won't even call myself 'spiritual'. I want to go as far as to say: I have such a special relationship with Him that it can't be put into a box. It can't be defined because attempting to define it will diminish it's prominence.
I had a conversation with a dear friend of mine, the other day in which she asked me whether I believe in God. I hesitated to answer, not because I was ashamed of what I believe in, but because so many things were running through my head.
She then said: "Well I don't believe in God. But, if you can prove to me that He exists, I will believe you - I am agnostic."
To which I replied, "I most definitely believe there is a God, but I think everyone on Earth is in for a big surprise one day. Because He is so different from everything you have read, everything you have heard and everything you've seen. I think a lot of people have tried to put God into a box and therefore His magnificence has been diluted and diminished. I don't know about you, but I can't wait to be surprised."
But in the meantime, maybe we should let it be, let it go, let the river run, let the wind blow, let the loose, let it wander.
<3
Sunday, September 18, 2011
the shark and the boy
I am tired.
And I know I have said this before, but it applies again, and therefore I am most definitely going to say it again.
These past couple of days have been spent on improving my blog, it's user-friendliness and it's appearance. I have added some functions as some of you will have probably noticed. Not that I am at all convinced that many people read this. But after posting this, I have decided that this is going to be like my private online diary in which I can say absolutely anything. And if anyone should stumble upon it by accident, then that would be a bonus.
But I am going to tirelessly write what I think, what I feel, what I experience and how these experiences have touched me.
As I am typing this I am so very tired that the very action of my writing this blog is mainly to stay awake.
It's so interesting to me sometimes, when I think back on all the times when, as a child, I used to imagine how marvelous it would be to have a fast-paced busy life, chasing dreams, reaching goals, climbing to the top, no matter what. And while I still want these things, and while I still have enough ambition in me to want to climb that ladder, I have now started to realize that, occasionally, it is important to take one step back instead of rushing forward.
Then I read a quote on Pinterest, that basically read: Don't be so busy making a living that you forget to make a life.
That kind of stuck with me. I started thinking exactly how much of my day is 'living' and how much of my day attempts to 'make a living'. The ratios were extremely disproportionate. I got tired just thinking of the amount of time I spend working.
And just when the home stretch seemed too far, just when I thought I couldn't possibly get through another week without collapsing, I did.
André P Brink once wrote in his novel 'A Dry White Season': "We have yet to understand the subtleties of God's infinite grace." After I realized what this week is bringing, I was reminded of this powerful quote. Every time something happens to me that is in no way significant in the grand scheme of my life, I am reminded that it is often in the subtleties that the true grace lies. The phone call from a dear friend after a particularly lonely day, a cup of coffee with someone who doesn't need to ask to know how you are feeling, all-green traffic lights on the way home from work, promotional prices on essentials, especially when you are broke.
These subtleties, these little moments of grace in our day-to-day struggles, are often overlooked, but are important, to keep the pillars of our lives from crashing like the proverbial Samson's temple.
I started thinking after a while, exactly how many of us have a 'step-back' plan, as mentioned two paragraphs up. I compiled a mental list of all the business people I met, all the really successful ones, and I started to imagine what they consider to be their daily dose 'living'. It didn't take me very long to realize that a smart businessman is one who knows when to rest as well. Even God rested after six days of work. I started thinking of all the CEO's I know, the business owners, successful artists, performers and I realized that the most accomplished of these people were those who found time for 'making a life' as well as 'making a living'.
I am too busy making a living.
Merely, because I have neither the means nor the motive to take some time for myself. Always rushing to and fro, always somewhere else to go.
And occasionally, when I am bored, when I have exhausted all opportunities that the television can bring, I will surf the internet and read up on some interesting stories filled with bizarre people doing incredible things. I suppose, in a way, the internet has become the adventure book to my young boy.
That was when I stumbled across this story. Enal, a six-year old Indonesian boy, is swimming with his pet shark, and not because he has to, but because he wants to. I am going to quote from Cracked.com, who also ran a story on this boy:
"This is Enal. He swims with sharks. If you need more information than that, perhaps you should take a step back from the computer and contemplate how spoiled modern-day media has made you - that a boy gleefully riding a shark like a little Thai Aquaman is somehow not "enough" for you. But okay, fine, details: This image was not taken out of context, and it was not a once in a lifetime thing. Enal begins every single day by slapping on a pair of goggles, slipping into the penned area beneath the Indonesian fishing community he's a part of, grabbing the nearest shark by the tail, and then steering it around like a murderous jet-ski. There is no further purpose for this action - it's not training for anything, it's not a show for tourists - the only benefits that daily shark-wrangling provides Enal are a quick and energizing way to wake up, and presumably an unflappable sense of invulnerability that borders on madness."
"No further purpose for this action."
Wow.
How many of us can say that we do things like this all the time? How many of us can say that somewhere at some stage in the day we take 5 minutes to 'swim with sharks'? How many of us can say we take 10 minutes a month, to wake-up and 'swim with sharks', even though it has no purpose?
I know I can't.
Well, I couldn't.
Until this happened:
This week marks the beginning of another exciting journey for me in the form of a drama trip that we will be taking to a little town, named Nieu-Bethesda in the Eastern Cape, South Africa. I had completely forgotten about this trip in between my never-ending lifestyle. And boy, was I relieved when I remembered.
This will be my second visit there and for those who have never experienced the Karoo, Nieu-Bethesda is the place to do it. It's peace and tranquility is really only outweighed by the hospitality of its handful of inhabitants. No ATM's, no cellphone coverage, no credit card machines, very few cars. This is cultural, rural Karoo at its very best. Below are some pictures to generate some curiosity. These are pictures I took last year when we took the same drama trip.
Above: The Ganora Farm we stayed on for the duration of the trip.
Above: One of the many beautiful buildings to see in the picturesque town of Nieu-Bethesda
Above: The majestic rocks that form a part of this natural wonderland
All of the above pictures were taken with my very ordinary FujiFilm camera, so yes, the colours really are that vibrant.
My official 'step-back' is going to be this trip to the Karoo. Every morning I will climb rocks, lie in hammocks, eat too much, drink too much, sleep too much without any 'further purposes for these actions'. Because sometimes taking one step back is more important than rushing 2 steps forward. And yes, financially it is a burden for me since I will need to pay for the trip and miss out on valuable work-time, but you know what? Screw it.
This week I'm swimming with friggin' sharks .
Well, metaphorically, at least.
How do you plan on taking a step back this week ? Start by doing one thing.
And perhaps we can remember how it feels like to be Enal. To feel so much joy and happiness at doing something we love doing, that we can't help but show it on our faces.
Perhaps then, we will discover, not only the youthful exuberance that 'doing nothing' brings, but also the resulting endless energy to 'do something'.
And I know I have said this before, but it applies again, and therefore I am most definitely going to say it again.
These past couple of days have been spent on improving my blog, it's user-friendliness and it's appearance. I have added some functions as some of you will have probably noticed. Not that I am at all convinced that many people read this. But after posting this, I have decided that this is going to be like my private online diary in which I can say absolutely anything. And if anyone should stumble upon it by accident, then that would be a bonus.
But I am going to tirelessly write what I think, what I feel, what I experience and how these experiences have touched me.
As I am typing this I am so very tired that the very action of my writing this blog is mainly to stay awake.
It's so interesting to me sometimes, when I think back on all the times when, as a child, I used to imagine how marvelous it would be to have a fast-paced busy life, chasing dreams, reaching goals, climbing to the top, no matter what. And while I still want these things, and while I still have enough ambition in me to want to climb that ladder, I have now started to realize that, occasionally, it is important to take one step back instead of rushing forward.
Then I read a quote on Pinterest, that basically read: Don't be so busy making a living that you forget to make a life.
That kind of stuck with me. I started thinking exactly how much of my day is 'living' and how much of my day attempts to 'make a living'. The ratios were extremely disproportionate. I got tired just thinking of the amount of time I spend working.
And just when the home stretch seemed too far, just when I thought I couldn't possibly get through another week without collapsing, I did.
André P Brink once wrote in his novel 'A Dry White Season': "We have yet to understand the subtleties of God's infinite grace." After I realized what this week is bringing, I was reminded of this powerful quote. Every time something happens to me that is in no way significant in the grand scheme of my life, I am reminded that it is often in the subtleties that the true grace lies. The phone call from a dear friend after a particularly lonely day, a cup of coffee with someone who doesn't need to ask to know how you are feeling, all-green traffic lights on the way home from work, promotional prices on essentials, especially when you are broke.
These subtleties, these little moments of grace in our day-to-day struggles, are often overlooked, but are important, to keep the pillars of our lives from crashing like the proverbial Samson's temple.
I started thinking after a while, exactly how many of us have a 'step-back' plan, as mentioned two paragraphs up. I compiled a mental list of all the business people I met, all the really successful ones, and I started to imagine what they consider to be their daily dose 'living'. It didn't take me very long to realize that a smart businessman is one who knows when to rest as well. Even God rested after six days of work. I started thinking of all the CEO's I know, the business owners, successful artists, performers and I realized that the most accomplished of these people were those who found time for 'making a life' as well as 'making a living'.
I am too busy making a living.
Merely, because I have neither the means nor the motive to take some time for myself. Always rushing to and fro, always somewhere else to go.
And occasionally, when I am bored, when I have exhausted all opportunities that the television can bring, I will surf the internet and read up on some interesting stories filled with bizarre people doing incredible things. I suppose, in a way, the internet has become the adventure book to my young boy.
That was when I stumbled across this story. Enal, a six-year old Indonesian boy, is swimming with his pet shark, and not because he has to, but because he wants to. I am going to quote from Cracked.com, who also ran a story on this boy:
"This is Enal. He swims with sharks. If you need more information than that, perhaps you should take a step back from the computer and contemplate how spoiled modern-day media has made you - that a boy gleefully riding a shark like a little Thai Aquaman is somehow not "enough" for you. But okay, fine, details: This image was not taken out of context, and it was not a once in a lifetime thing. Enal begins every single day by slapping on a pair of goggles, slipping into the penned area beneath the Indonesian fishing community he's a part of, grabbing the nearest shark by the tail, and then steering it around like a murderous jet-ski. There is no further purpose for this action - it's not training for anything, it's not a show for tourists - the only benefits that daily shark-wrangling provides Enal are a quick and energizing way to wake up, and presumably an unflappable sense of invulnerability that borders on madness."
"No further purpose for this action."
Wow.
How many of us can say that we do things like this all the time? How many of us can say that somewhere at some stage in the day we take 5 minutes to 'swim with sharks'? How many of us can say we take 10 minutes a month, to wake-up and 'swim with sharks', even though it has no purpose?
I know I can't.
Well, I couldn't.
Until this happened:
This week marks the beginning of another exciting journey for me in the form of a drama trip that we will be taking to a little town, named Nieu-Bethesda in the Eastern Cape, South Africa. I had completely forgotten about this trip in between my never-ending lifestyle. And boy, was I relieved when I remembered.
This will be my second visit there and for those who have never experienced the Karoo, Nieu-Bethesda is the place to do it. It's peace and tranquility is really only outweighed by the hospitality of its handful of inhabitants. No ATM's, no cellphone coverage, no credit card machines, very few cars. This is cultural, rural Karoo at its very best. Below are some pictures to generate some curiosity. These are pictures I took last year when we took the same drama trip.
All of the above pictures were taken with my very ordinary FujiFilm camera, so yes, the colours really are that vibrant.
My official 'step-back' is going to be this trip to the Karoo. Every morning I will climb rocks, lie in hammocks, eat too much, drink too much, sleep too much without any 'further purposes for these actions'. Because sometimes taking one step back is more important than rushing 2 steps forward. And yes, financially it is a burden for me since I will need to pay for the trip and miss out on valuable work-time, but you know what? Screw it.
This week I'm swimming with friggin' sharks .
Well, metaphorically, at least.
How do you plan on taking a step back this week ? Start by doing one thing.
And perhaps we can remember how it feels like to be Enal. To feel so much joy and happiness at doing something we love doing, that we can't help but show it on our faces.
Perhaps then, we will discover, not only the youthful exuberance that 'doing nothing' brings, but also the resulting endless energy to 'do something'.
Friday, September 16, 2011
It goes on...
God knows, it's been a strange couple of weeks.
Its been a roller-coaster of emotions, pensive thoughts, fears, loathing, loving, pretending, sincerity, lies and truth.
So basically, just another week in my life. Not much new.
I miss blogging though. But I still have that principle that I will only ever blog/write if I have something to say. This is also partly a reason why I will probably only ever release one poetry collection, since I will never write a poem if I'm not completely feeling it. I did, however, start an Afrikaans poetry website, Gegrif, which will feature some of my stuff. But, if it's not rolling off my tongue and onto the page, it's not being written.
I feel the same way about blogging.
I did get a little sad this week when I logged on after a long hiatus of blogging and realized I still only had 10 followers. It's very demotivating to realize that the thoughts I have, some of which can be very profound (well I think, at least), is only being read by a maximum of 10 people.
But alas, I suppose blogging, like most forms of social media is very much a self-indulgent, personal, therapeutic journey and I shouldn't feel discouraged by my lack of avid readers.
But sometimes, I like to dedicate blogs, as I have done before, and often these for me can be a lot more therapeutic. Perhaps it's the knowledge that at least person will read this and think: 'It's like it was written for me'.
"Acting is probably the greatest therapy in the world. You can get a lot stuff out of you on the set so you don't have to take it home with you at night. It's the stuff between the lines, the empty space between those lines which is interesting."
These are the words of Robert Carlyle, a Scottish film actor, and after reading this I must say that I definitely agree.
Well, for me, at least.
Acting is my therapy. It's the way I have learnt to deal with life and everything it throws at me. Whenever I find myself down in the docks, I read a really dramatic scene, sing a power ballad or I write a piece of poetry.
It's also very interesting to watch how different people allow themselves to be immersed in their pieces. Natasha, whom I have mentioned before, once did a piece from "Mamma Medea" translated by Antjie Krog from the Greek play Medea by Euripides. She asked me to stand opposite her in the one rehearsal as Medea's husband "Justin", who has just told Medea that he is leaving her and her children destitute. The monologue she did drove her to tears, as it did me, and I distinctly remember Natasha coming to me afterwards uttering, rather dramatically: "Die monoloog fok met my kop." (loosely translated as "This monologue is messing with my head"). I have never forgotten it, because this is one of those things that I aspire to one day - to have a piece of text 'mess' with my head.
But as any actor will tell you, the clarity, the euphoria, the triumph of performing a piece like that outweighs any amount of therapy you can buy.
For me, those moments, as Robert Carlyle said, between the lines are the golden ones. These are the moments where your acting becomes so much more than just reciting someone else line's. It's in these silent moments that we often bring our own insecurities, our own vulnerabilities, our own fears, our own personalities into the mix and it's often these moments and how they are 'played' that can define a great actor. Playwright Harold Pinter even had a "dramatic pause" named after his love of dramatic pauses in theatre and acting.
This brings me to the role of theatre and film and storytelling in therapy and in healing and restoration.
It's a well-known fact that millions of people have watched a film or a play and have left the theatre feeling emotionally stirred, touched or moved. This is because in these stories we often, (very often sub-consciously) see aspects of our own broken lives that we can relate to or that we can empathize with.
These are the essential roles of actors in society, to tell the stories. And some actors, will go to extreme lengths to put themselves in the exact position as the character they are playing. This is called method-acting. They believe that this is the only real way they can feel what that character is feeling and thinking. And I suppose that there is some truth in that, but I prefer the Stanislavski method. This is a method where an actor draws on the text to see what the story is saying and they use personal experiences from their own lives to re-tell the story.
What I am trying to get at, in this long-winded dialogue about the founding of 20th century drama, is that we often forget how powerful our story can be to someone else. Today, after a long interval, I started chatting to a dear friend of mine who has been through hell and back these past couple of months.
It was so great to hear from her again and she told me about her thoughts, her feelings and her situation. Although I couldn't relate to the situation she had found herself in, there was so much of what I read in her texts that made me want to burst out in tears. Because, I suddenly realized that so much of what she was experiencing, I had been through. In fact, I had even blogged about it. I immediately sent her the link to the blog post and after reading it for a second time (the first time she read it was when it was first published), she said she saw it in a completely different light. And I felt such a sense of fulfillment in knowing that my 'self-indulgent, personal, therapeutic journey' had meant something to someone.
To my dear friend, whom I am dedicating this blog to, I cannot fathom what it is that you must be going through, but I do know what it feels like to go through it.
Remember the best thing about 'going through the valley of the shadow of death' is that it contains the word 'through'. Eventually we have to go through it, we can't stay there. Robert Frost once said: "If I had to sum up everything I have learnt about life in 3 words it would be: it goes on."
But I know that you don't want to hear this now, so here are some helpers of mine that got me through that stage in my life.
1. Read this (again)
2. Listen to this
3. Listen to this
4. Watch a lot of this
5. Cry it all out.
In 1990, Oprah Winfrey interviewed Truddi Chase, a woman with 92 personalities due to a disorder known as dissociative identity disorder. This was obviously a very hard interview for this woman, with 92 distinctive personalities, to sit through, but years later her story about sexual abuse by her stepfather has sparked hundreds of people to step forward and tell their story. And in doing so, continue the healing.
You know that saying: "To the world, you are just one person, but to one person you can mean the world." ?
It might be a cliche, I know, one of those typical soppy Facebook status updates that love-struck teenagers use because they read it on the back of a cereal box or the bumper sticker of a car.
But sometimes, this is true. Sometimes, our own life experiences can mean so much to someone in their time of need, we don't need to know what they are feeling, we just need to know what we did when we felt like that to make ourselves feel better.
As a closing note, I would like to share with you all her exact words to me on a message she sent me:
"I think after being to so many psychologists and councillors, I have come to the conclusion that the world isn't lacking people who have the right qualifications to help others, but it is lacking people who are willing to live and help others with that experience. The tangible human, tough shit, get down and dirty life experience. You help me like that."
So next time, I am complaining about my measly 10 followers, please will the person closest to me give me a slap in the face? Because I might not mean something to billions of others, but in that one moment, I meant something to one person.
And that is enough.
'It goes on.' - remember that.
<3
Its been a roller-coaster of emotions, pensive thoughts, fears, loathing, loving, pretending, sincerity, lies and truth.
So basically, just another week in my life. Not much new.
I miss blogging though. But I still have that principle that I will only ever blog/write if I have something to say. This is also partly a reason why I will probably only ever release one poetry collection, since I will never write a poem if I'm not completely feeling it. I did, however, start an Afrikaans poetry website, Gegrif, which will feature some of my stuff. But, if it's not rolling off my tongue and onto the page, it's not being written.
I feel the same way about blogging.
I did get a little sad this week when I logged on after a long hiatus of blogging and realized I still only had 10 followers. It's very demotivating to realize that the thoughts I have, some of which can be very profound (well I think, at least), is only being read by a maximum of 10 people.
But alas, I suppose blogging, like most forms of social media is very much a self-indulgent, personal, therapeutic journey and I shouldn't feel discouraged by my lack of avid readers.
But sometimes, I like to dedicate blogs, as I have done before, and often these for me can be a lot more therapeutic. Perhaps it's the knowledge that at least person will read this and think: 'It's like it was written for me'.
"Acting is probably the greatest therapy in the world. You can get a lot stuff out of you on the set so you don't have to take it home with you at night. It's the stuff between the lines, the empty space between those lines which is interesting."
These are the words of Robert Carlyle, a Scottish film actor, and after reading this I must say that I definitely agree.
Well, for me, at least.
Acting is my therapy. It's the way I have learnt to deal with life and everything it throws at me. Whenever I find myself down in the docks, I read a really dramatic scene, sing a power ballad or I write a piece of poetry.
It's also very interesting to watch how different people allow themselves to be immersed in their pieces. Natasha, whom I have mentioned before, once did a piece from "Mamma Medea" translated by Antjie Krog from the Greek play Medea by Euripides. She asked me to stand opposite her in the one rehearsal as Medea's husband "Justin", who has just told Medea that he is leaving her and her children destitute. The monologue she did drove her to tears, as it did me, and I distinctly remember Natasha coming to me afterwards uttering, rather dramatically: "Die monoloog fok met my kop." (loosely translated as "This monologue is messing with my head"). I have never forgotten it, because this is one of those things that I aspire to one day - to have a piece of text 'mess' with my head.
But as any actor will tell you, the clarity, the euphoria, the triumph of performing a piece like that outweighs any amount of therapy you can buy.
For me, those moments, as Robert Carlyle said, between the lines are the golden ones. These are the moments where your acting becomes so much more than just reciting someone else line's. It's in these silent moments that we often bring our own insecurities, our own vulnerabilities, our own fears, our own personalities into the mix and it's often these moments and how they are 'played' that can define a great actor. Playwright Harold Pinter even had a "dramatic pause" named after his love of dramatic pauses in theatre and acting.
This brings me to the role of theatre and film and storytelling in therapy and in healing and restoration.
It's a well-known fact that millions of people have watched a film or a play and have left the theatre feeling emotionally stirred, touched or moved. This is because in these stories we often, (very often sub-consciously) see aspects of our own broken lives that we can relate to or that we can empathize with.
These are the essential roles of actors in society, to tell the stories. And some actors, will go to extreme lengths to put themselves in the exact position as the character they are playing. This is called method-acting. They believe that this is the only real way they can feel what that character is feeling and thinking. And I suppose that there is some truth in that, but I prefer the Stanislavski method. This is a method where an actor draws on the text to see what the story is saying and they use personal experiences from their own lives to re-tell the story.
What I am trying to get at, in this long-winded dialogue about the founding of 20th century drama, is that we often forget how powerful our story can be to someone else. Today, after a long interval, I started chatting to a dear friend of mine who has been through hell and back these past couple of months.
It was so great to hear from her again and she told me about her thoughts, her feelings and her situation. Although I couldn't relate to the situation she had found herself in, there was so much of what I read in her texts that made me want to burst out in tears. Because, I suddenly realized that so much of what she was experiencing, I had been through. In fact, I had even blogged about it. I immediately sent her the link to the blog post and after reading it for a second time (the first time she read it was when it was first published), she said she saw it in a completely different light. And I felt such a sense of fulfillment in knowing that my 'self-indulgent, personal, therapeutic journey' had meant something to someone.
To my dear friend, whom I am dedicating this blog to, I cannot fathom what it is that you must be going through, but I do know what it feels like to go through it.
Remember the best thing about 'going through the valley of the shadow of death' is that it contains the word 'through'. Eventually we have to go through it, we can't stay there. Robert Frost once said: "If I had to sum up everything I have learnt about life in 3 words it would be: it goes on."
But I know that you don't want to hear this now, so here are some helpers of mine that got me through that stage in my life.
1. Read this (again)
2. Listen to this
3. Listen to this
4. Watch a lot of this
5. Cry it all out.
In 1990, Oprah Winfrey interviewed Truddi Chase, a woman with 92 personalities due to a disorder known as dissociative identity disorder. This was obviously a very hard interview for this woman, with 92 distinctive personalities, to sit through, but years later her story about sexual abuse by her stepfather has sparked hundreds of people to step forward and tell their story. And in doing so, continue the healing.
You know that saying: "To the world, you are just one person, but to one person you can mean the world." ?
It might be a cliche, I know, one of those typical soppy Facebook status updates that love-struck teenagers use because they read it on the back of a cereal box or the bumper sticker of a car.
But sometimes, this is true. Sometimes, our own life experiences can mean so much to someone in their time of need, we don't need to know what they are feeling, we just need to know what we did when we felt like that to make ourselves feel better.
As a closing note, I would like to share with you all her exact words to me on a message she sent me:
"I think after being to so many psychologists and councillors, I have come to the conclusion that the world isn't lacking people who have the right qualifications to help others, but it is lacking people who are willing to live and help others with that experience. The tangible human, tough shit, get down and dirty life experience. You help me like that."
So next time, I am complaining about my measly 10 followers, please will the person closest to me give me a slap in the face? Because I might not mean something to billions of others, but in that one moment, I meant something to one person.
And that is enough.
'It goes on.' - remember that.
<3
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Safe. Not Saved.
It has been too long. But, today, as I logged into my blog account, I had one of those sentimental sensations. You know, in the movies, when two people haven’t seen each other in a very long time. The long hug, the longing look. The works.
This reunion was not one of those that I had planned for weeks to come. It was more like a spur of the moment, irrationally impulsive decision. And, as I have always said: I will only write when I have something to say.
I recently read a quote by Bob Dylan that really fascinated me. No doubt the man was a genius. He certainly was a poet and he obviously had some profound knowledge of the world around him.
The quote read:
“Don't matter how much money you got, there's only two kinds of people: there's saved people and there's lost people.”
And at first, I didn’t think about the quote, then later as it started to mill around in my head, and as I was contemplating the depth and the complexity of that particular statement, as I riding around Cape Town on my trusty scooter, as one does, I started to really understand it. And, perhaps quite inevitably, I started to ask myself which category I fit into. And it started to become very apparent to me that I don’t fit either category. I’m not lost, well, not that lost, but at the same time, I am nowhere near ‘saved’.
(I don’t mean this in a religious manner at all, so those of you starting to worry about my soul: stop)
The idea of being ‘lost’ to me, always has a strong connection with being lost at sea.
For some reason when I find myself metaphysically ‘lost’, I garner up strong images of a floating raft somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic.
But first, perhaps it's important to talk about being 'lost' first.
At the moment I am participating in the Waterfront Theatre School’s version of ‘Hairspray’ the musical, where I am playing the role of Edna Turnblad. Playing this role has, for me, opened up a lot of fears about myself that I didn’t really know previously existed. Or maybe, I was just hiding them that well. But regardless, I found such a resonance with the character that I am now facing every method-actor’s predicament: that thin line between illusion and reality has become a lot thinner. And I find myself repeating this one line that she says in the musical over and over.
“I am like a half-filled book of green stamps, beyond redemption.”
And so I decided to look at the meaning of “beyond redemption”, because it is quite a profound thing to say.
Essentially, it boils down to: I cannot be saved or redeemed anymore.
I thought, wow, how far must one go into the abyss to get to a point where salvation has become a fairytale?
And it’s exactly this that brought me to my next argument, which, in a sense, if I understand Bob Dylan correctly, will contradict him ever so slightly.
I am neither lost nor saved.
I am neither on board the Titanic, hearing the soft humming of “Nearer my God to Thee”, and I am not drifting at the bottom of the ocean, yet. nor am I home, tucked into my warm soft bed.
So where do I fit in? As usual, with me, this question will have a very complex answer.
(Another Bob Dylan quote: All I can do is be me, whoever that is.)
But, I suspect I might not be the only one whose answer might be a little more complex than the usual
So I thought about the movie “Titanic” and I remember the scene where Jack and Rose are floating on a door in the middle of the ocean. And then I remembered the scene in 'Poseidon' where the entire group was sitting in the red life raft.
And I realized: that is where I am now.
I am in the life raft of my life. I am not lost at all, I am nowhere near the darkness, but I certainly have not been rescued.
I am safe, but I am not saved.
And I am not too sure how I feel about that. Is it nice to know that you are far from danger, but at the same time, still not that far from it?
If you find yourself in the same boat as I do (sic), the only advice I can give is to clutch onto hope. To live in the moment and to, I don’t know, enjoy the scenery.
And that sucks.
But, as always, there are worse things.
I would rather be safe.
Because as much as being ‘safe’ sucks because you have been rescued, being lost sucks infinitely more.
(The most times I have used the word ‘sucks’ in any piece of writing.)
I shall now hop onto my scooter and continue to contemplate the meaning of life.
How bohemian is that? Ha!
Till then.
P.S Be sure to check out my new blog: filled with my favourites in Afrikaans poetry. It's named "Gegrif" as in the Afrikaans word for 'engraved'. (loosely translated)
This reunion was not one of those that I had planned for weeks to come. It was more like a spur of the moment, irrationally impulsive decision. And, as I have always said: I will only write when I have something to say.
I recently read a quote by Bob Dylan that really fascinated me. No doubt the man was a genius. He certainly was a poet and he obviously had some profound knowledge of the world around him.
The quote read:
“Don't matter how much money you got, there's only two kinds of people: there's saved people and there's lost people.”
And at first, I didn’t think about the quote, then later as it started to mill around in my head, and as I was contemplating the depth and the complexity of that particular statement, as I riding around Cape Town on my trusty scooter, as one does, I started to really understand it. And, perhaps quite inevitably, I started to ask myself which category I fit into. And it started to become very apparent to me that I don’t fit either category. I’m not lost, well, not that lost, but at the same time, I am nowhere near ‘saved’.
(I don’t mean this in a religious manner at all, so those of you starting to worry about my soul: stop)
The idea of being ‘lost’ to me, always has a strong connection with being lost at sea.
For some reason when I find myself metaphysically ‘lost’, I garner up strong images of a floating raft somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic.
But first, perhaps it's important to talk about being 'lost' first.
At the moment I am participating in the Waterfront Theatre School’s version of ‘Hairspray’ the musical, where I am playing the role of Edna Turnblad. Playing this role has, for me, opened up a lot of fears about myself that I didn’t really know previously existed. Or maybe, I was just hiding them that well. But regardless, I found such a resonance with the character that I am now facing every method-actor’s predicament: that thin line between illusion and reality has become a lot thinner. And I find myself repeating this one line that she says in the musical over and over.
“I am like a half-filled book of green stamps, beyond redemption.”
And so I decided to look at the meaning of “beyond redemption”, because it is quite a profound thing to say.
Essentially, it boils down to: I cannot be saved or redeemed anymore.
I thought, wow, how far must one go into the abyss to get to a point where salvation has become a fairytale?
And it’s exactly this that brought me to my next argument, which, in a sense, if I understand Bob Dylan correctly, will contradict him ever so slightly.
I am neither lost nor saved.
I am neither on board the Titanic, hearing the soft humming of “Nearer my God to Thee”, and I am not drifting at the bottom of the ocean, yet. nor am I home, tucked into my warm soft bed.
So where do I fit in? As usual, with me, this question will have a very complex answer.
(Another Bob Dylan quote: All I can do is be me, whoever that is.)
But, I suspect I might not be the only one whose answer might be a little more complex than the usual
So I thought about the movie “Titanic” and I remember the scene where Jack and Rose are floating on a door in the middle of the ocean. And then I remembered the scene in 'Poseidon' where the entire group was sitting in the red life raft.
And I realized: that is where I am now.
I am in the life raft of my life. I am not lost at all, I am nowhere near the darkness, but I certainly have not been rescued.
I am safe, but I am not saved.
And I am not too sure how I feel about that. Is it nice to know that you are far from danger, but at the same time, still not that far from it?
If you find yourself in the same boat as I do (sic), the only advice I can give is to clutch onto hope. To live in the moment and to, I don’t know, enjoy the scenery.
And that sucks.
But, as always, there are worse things.
I would rather be safe.
Because as much as being ‘safe’ sucks because you have been rescued, being lost sucks infinitely more.
(The most times I have used the word ‘sucks’ in any piece of writing.)
I shall now hop onto my scooter and continue to contemplate the meaning of life.
How bohemian is that? Ha!
Till then.
P.S Be sure to check out my new blog: filled with my favourites in Afrikaans poetry. It's named "Gegrif" as in the Afrikaans word for 'engraved'. (loosely translated)
Monday, April 25, 2011
Would you have walked?
Sometimes the most mundane things can fascinate me.
I find often beauty in tiny details.
Examples of these are: the way a soft fabric, like silk, moves in the wind; the way a flame consumes a match stick; a bird floating effortlessly in mid-air; the ambience of a single candle in a dark room; lanterns on a veranda or walkway.
When I look at these now, it is evident that I have two common denominators within these examples: light and air.
It’s true.
I’ve always been fascinated by light and its rare capabilities. The amount of light that’s essential in creating atmosphere, the direction of light that’s important for creating visual images or effects, the quality of light that creates or removes ambience.
How often do we see the phrases: just follow the light; the light at the end of the tunnel; look into the light? Is it because, as opposed to darkness, light brings warmth and gives guidance? In daylight, we can see and know everything, but in the absence of light, we are vulnerable, alone and uncertain. There is no road ahead and the path you take will only be revealed to you when the morning comes.
Light also saves lives.
Lighthouses around the world have rescued many a wayward ship.
Also, in the middle of the night, when life is uncertain, light is a guiding star or a lit candle far away in the distance.
Light is hope, light is comfort and light brings clarity.
I need some light.
In a recent devised project that we performed at college, ‘The My(d)us Touch’, we experimented a lot with the notion of light being a beacon of hope for the future, a sense of security, a lasting legacy, an adornment to what seems almost ruined to begin with. We played around with the contrast of light in darkness; the ambient feeling of lanterns in a soft glow. Stark, bright lighting that reveals all details and even all flaws.
The lyrics to the song ‘Light’ have become a sort of anthem for what I am experiencing right now, in this space, in this time.
And slowly, I am realizing that I am drawn to light because I feel like I am lost.
I am without.
Light.
The cave of my mind has become an endless plethora of darkness and confusion, uncertainty and fear.
Without wanting to sound self-indulgent: I am lost in the caves of my mind and I’m afraid that if I continue walking in these circles, I may become too fatigued to want to find the answer.
And here is where I need the light.
I need something to guide the way.
Sure, I often light a lantern that helps me to see two feet ahead, but that is never enough.
Here is where I find that I need that all-encompassing light that reveals all, that answers all questions about the dark. This is where I need to see the light at the end of the tunnel. This is where I cannot walk around in darkness, possibly in circles, anymore.
Here is where I need direction and focus. To see the road that I need to walk, the route I need to take.
How have I come to find myself in this darkness you ask?
This is what happens when the little lights and lanterns that you used to have to guide you along the way, fade away or come to the end of the wick.
There is something worse than finding yourself in complete darkness.
Being surrounded by pure light and THEN complete darkness.
At the moment, sinking into darkness seems easy, manageable almost. Letting darkness absorb and consume me seems to be so much less trouble than trying to walk on.
I then started thinking of ways to ‘see’ the light.
A new career choice, perhaps? A new hobby? New friends?
What will enlighten me and make this journey easier?
And nothing is coming to mind. Nothing is offering any solutions.
So, I keep treading through swampy caves, step by step, with one or two lanterns to help me out, lighting two or three feet in front of me.
And as I’m walking, I’m suddenly reminded of the song ‘Light’ that has become my anthem.
“We need some light.
First of all, we need some light.
You can’t sit here in the dark, and all alone,
It’s a sorry sight.”
And I started thinking about the actual meaning of the lyrics, especially the opening line: “We need some light…”.
She never asks for all the light she needs. She asks for some.
Because, some light is all we need, isn’t it?
Maybe we are only supposed to be seeing two feet ahead of us?
Maybe it’s better for us not to know where the road may lead us ~ truth be told, if many of us had known the road we’d be walking, would we have continued walking?
I would argue, no.
I am going to continue walking.
My lantern in one hand, my faith in the other.
Yes, I won’t know the whole journey beforehand, but what’s the fun in that? Isn’t that part of life, finding your own path, step by step?
I will only be able to see two feet ahead of myself, but that’s okay.
Being lost is okay. Being uncertain is okay. Being worried is okay.
Sitting all alone in the dark is not okay.
So, my dear reader, I am walking, now until the day I die, as should you.
And I pray that one day, when we do find the light, it will be worth struggling through darkness to get there.
“People don’t drown because they fall into water, they drown because they stay there…”
I find often beauty in tiny details.
Examples of these are: the way a soft fabric, like silk, moves in the wind; the way a flame consumes a match stick; a bird floating effortlessly in mid-air; the ambience of a single candle in a dark room; lanterns on a veranda or walkway.
When I look at these now, it is evident that I have two common denominators within these examples: light and air.
It’s true.
I’ve always been fascinated by light and its rare capabilities. The amount of light that’s essential in creating atmosphere, the direction of light that’s important for creating visual images or effects, the quality of light that creates or removes ambience.
How often do we see the phrases: just follow the light; the light at the end of the tunnel; look into the light? Is it because, as opposed to darkness, light brings warmth and gives guidance? In daylight, we can see and know everything, but in the absence of light, we are vulnerable, alone and uncertain. There is no road ahead and the path you take will only be revealed to you when the morning comes.
Light also saves lives.
Lighthouses around the world have rescued many a wayward ship.
Also, in the middle of the night, when life is uncertain, light is a guiding star or a lit candle far away in the distance.
Light is hope, light is comfort and light brings clarity.
I need some light.
In a recent devised project that we performed at college, ‘The My(d)us Touch’, we experimented a lot with the notion of light being a beacon of hope for the future, a sense of security, a lasting legacy, an adornment to what seems almost ruined to begin with. We played around with the contrast of light in darkness; the ambient feeling of lanterns in a soft glow. Stark, bright lighting that reveals all details and even all flaws.
The lyrics to the song ‘Light’ have become a sort of anthem for what I am experiencing right now, in this space, in this time.
And slowly, I am realizing that I am drawn to light because I feel like I am lost.
I am without.
Light.
The cave of my mind has become an endless plethora of darkness and confusion, uncertainty and fear.
Without wanting to sound self-indulgent: I am lost in the caves of my mind and I’m afraid that if I continue walking in these circles, I may become too fatigued to want to find the answer.
And here is where I need the light.
I need something to guide the way.
Sure, I often light a lantern that helps me to see two feet ahead, but that is never enough.
Here is where I find that I need that all-encompassing light that reveals all, that answers all questions about the dark. This is where I need to see the light at the end of the tunnel. This is where I cannot walk around in darkness, possibly in circles, anymore.
Here is where I need direction and focus. To see the road that I need to walk, the route I need to take.
How have I come to find myself in this darkness you ask?
This is what happens when the little lights and lanterns that you used to have to guide you along the way, fade away or come to the end of the wick.
There is something worse than finding yourself in complete darkness.
Being surrounded by pure light and THEN complete darkness.
At the moment, sinking into darkness seems easy, manageable almost. Letting darkness absorb and consume me seems to be so much less trouble than trying to walk on.
I then started thinking of ways to ‘see’ the light.
A new career choice, perhaps? A new hobby? New friends?
What will enlighten me and make this journey easier?
And nothing is coming to mind. Nothing is offering any solutions.
So, I keep treading through swampy caves, step by step, with one or two lanterns to help me out, lighting two or three feet in front of me.
And as I’m walking, I’m suddenly reminded of the song ‘Light’ that has become my anthem.
“We need some light.
First of all, we need some light.
You can’t sit here in the dark, and all alone,
It’s a sorry sight.”
And I started thinking about the actual meaning of the lyrics, especially the opening line: “We need some light…”.
She never asks for all the light she needs. She asks for some.
Because, some light is all we need, isn’t it?
Maybe we are only supposed to be seeing two feet ahead of us?
Maybe it’s better for us not to know where the road may lead us ~ truth be told, if many of us had known the road we’d be walking, would we have continued walking?
I would argue, no.
I am going to continue walking.
My lantern in one hand, my faith in the other.
Yes, I won’t know the whole journey beforehand, but what’s the fun in that? Isn’t that part of life, finding your own path, step by step?
I will only be able to see two feet ahead of myself, but that’s okay.
Being lost is okay. Being uncertain is okay. Being worried is okay.
Sitting all alone in the dark is not okay.
So, my dear reader, I am walking, now until the day I die, as should you.
And I pray that one day, when we do find the light, it will be worth struggling through darkness to get there.
“People don’t drown because they fall into water, they drown because they stay there…”
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
"But then the earthquake hits..."
It’s been a while.
But, I’m back.
Back from the incessant tribulations and trials that is life as a student in 2011. Yes, I am studying what I am most passionate about, which is probably more than could be said for some, but even passionate flames dim in the mist that envelops our lives from time to time. And it’s that flame that lights the way for me in everything I do on a daily basis. It’s my guiding sceptre to cross through the valley of the shadow of death.
And it’s when that little flame dims that I start becoming unsure of where I want to go next, and inadvertently, I can lose sight of where I am, who I am and what I am.
The term “ruin” is one of my favourite words in the English language. Not only do I appreciate the phonetic quality that it possesses, but up until a month ago, I have always had a fascination with ruins of any kind. It has always interested me as to how they became the ruins they are today and I always try to imagine how they looked before they were ruined.
That’s not the right word, though, is it?
‘Ruined’?
Ruined refers to something losing complete means, position or hope.
And more often than not, this is not the case with most ruins, is it?
Life is a constant construction site. At any given time, we are building houses, structures, friendships, careers, relationships, children, finances, reputation and so on and so forth.
And from our Sunday School days we have learnt to always build our houses on strong solid foundations. ‘Build your house on the rock and you will prosper’, my teacher would say. ‘Don’t build your house on the sand like the foolish man’.
And so we would find the most fantastic mound of rock and we would start building on that firm foundation. Even heavy rains couldn’t knock us down. We weather the storms, we fight the hurricanes and we survive the tsunamis, because our house is built on the rock, like the wise old proverb teaches us.
But then the earthquake hits.
We run around our shattered dream of a sturdy structure and we yell and we scream and we curse and we wonder why we had never made provision for an earthquake – something so intense it has cracked and broken the core of what our structure was built on.
Maybe the earthquake in our life was the scandal we had thought no-one would find out about, the time we cheated on our spouse, the time and money we invested in the wrong enterprise, the time we became friends with the wrong person or even something as small as that time when we stayed quiet when we should have said something or that time when we said something when we should have stayed quiet.
And suddenly we are faced with the ruins of what once was.
And it’s heart-wrenchingly painful – to see the hard work of many years lying in ashes and dust in front of you.
Suddenly you are infuriated at the thought of all of the hurricanes and tsunamis and heavy rains and howling winds that you faced – all of which, now, seem so pointless.
And for a while, there is what is commonly called, the mourning period. The introspective look at how we built wrong, how we might have caused this. The amount of times that it is the fault of the builder is about equivalent to the amount of times it had nothing to do with the builder.
And then comes the big question: does one start afresh somewhere else or does one start rebuilding the ruins, fixing and mending and restoring to its former glory?
My dear readers, this is the question that has been the dagger in my chest for the past 3 weeks.
Sure, I used to love ruins, I loved admiring them. But they were other people’s ruins.
There is something so different about watching your own. It makes it almost impossible to not feel like the world has crashed down alongside your structure.
Therefore, for a while, the first option felt like the best choice. So we start on a clean slate of solid base, making sure that this base is stronger than the one before, and we build a bigger and better structure and we forget about the ruins, the lost memory of the former structure we used to have. Except maybe once a year or so, we go to visit it to remind ourselves where not to go wrong in the future.
We learn from it, but we move on, we start again.
It can be immensely difficult, because we have become so use to the comfort of the location where the ruins now lie, but we ‘suck it up’ and we go on.
I decided that this would be the best choice at first.
I was going to leave the ruins to decay into its own infinity and after that I would never allow it to remind me of its guilt, judgment, shame, dignity or integrity.
I am very good at getting up and moving on. This is something I have learned about myself. Life hasn’t gotten me down yet, it hasn’t pushed me down into its deepest dungeons of despair just yet, and for that I am thankful. But, if ever I should be pushed down there, I am sure I will find my way back again soon.
I might just stay there a while for a moment of indulgence, but that’s neither here nor there.
So, I resigned myself completely to starting the building process somewhere else, using the lessons learnt.
But after a while I realized a huge disadvantage to a new location.
With the old structure, at least I knew what I was up again and I had an approximation of where the boundaries to my structure’s strengths were. With the old structure, I knew that it would take another earthquake to break.
What was it going to be with this new location?
A heavy wind, some rain?
Was I really willing to go through every thing I did before just so I didn’t have to be faced with the mistakes I made on the previous construction site?
And it was then that the notion of ‘ruins’ and ‘ruined’ came to mind.
I was starting to think about the ruined building, the cracked foundation and the hopeless efforts of the house to rebuild itself. And I realized that what I had here was the remains of a once glorious structure, a majestic construction that took blood and sweat and tears to complete.
And it was in ruins.
But it wasn’t ruined.
Let me explain: to be in ruins means to be totally destroyed and unfit for the intended purpose. However, ruined means that is in decay without means, position or hope, right?
So it was then that I came to the realization that my building wasn’t ruined.
It had hope, it had potential, I would just have to pick up the pieces and start again, on the same location.
At least with my ruins, I knew what it could withstand. I knew its strength and I knew its weaknesses.
And maybe the ruins of my once majestic structure have taught me this: that every building has the potential to fall and to break. But it also taught me that, even after the toughest earthquakes, we can rebuild.
I have started picking up the pieces again, I’m not sure how long the building will take, but I know that when it is done, it will be a building that has been built, with the knowledge and experience from before, invested in its every fibre.
Here’s to you, reading this.
I hope it has answered some questions.
But, I’m back.
Back from the incessant tribulations and trials that is life as a student in 2011. Yes, I am studying what I am most passionate about, which is probably more than could be said for some, but even passionate flames dim in the mist that envelops our lives from time to time. And it’s that flame that lights the way for me in everything I do on a daily basis. It’s my guiding sceptre to cross through the valley of the shadow of death.
And it’s when that little flame dims that I start becoming unsure of where I want to go next, and inadvertently, I can lose sight of where I am, who I am and what I am.
The term “ruin” is one of my favourite words in the English language. Not only do I appreciate the phonetic quality that it possesses, but up until a month ago, I have always had a fascination with ruins of any kind. It has always interested me as to how they became the ruins they are today and I always try to imagine how they looked before they were ruined.
That’s not the right word, though, is it?
‘Ruined’?
Ruined refers to something losing complete means, position or hope.
And more often than not, this is not the case with most ruins, is it?
Life is a constant construction site. At any given time, we are building houses, structures, friendships, careers, relationships, children, finances, reputation and so on and so forth.
And from our Sunday School days we have learnt to always build our houses on strong solid foundations. ‘Build your house on the rock and you will prosper’, my teacher would say. ‘Don’t build your house on the sand like the foolish man’.
And so we would find the most fantastic mound of rock and we would start building on that firm foundation. Even heavy rains couldn’t knock us down. We weather the storms, we fight the hurricanes and we survive the tsunamis, because our house is built on the rock, like the wise old proverb teaches us.
But then the earthquake hits.
We run around our shattered dream of a sturdy structure and we yell and we scream and we curse and we wonder why we had never made provision for an earthquake – something so intense it has cracked and broken the core of what our structure was built on.
Maybe the earthquake in our life was the scandal we had thought no-one would find out about, the time we cheated on our spouse, the time and money we invested in the wrong enterprise, the time we became friends with the wrong person or even something as small as that time when we stayed quiet when we should have said something or that time when we said something when we should have stayed quiet.
And suddenly we are faced with the ruins of what once was.
And it’s heart-wrenchingly painful – to see the hard work of many years lying in ashes and dust in front of you.
Suddenly you are infuriated at the thought of all of the hurricanes and tsunamis and heavy rains and howling winds that you faced – all of which, now, seem so pointless.
And for a while, there is what is commonly called, the mourning period. The introspective look at how we built wrong, how we might have caused this. The amount of times that it is the fault of the builder is about equivalent to the amount of times it had nothing to do with the builder.
And then comes the big question: does one start afresh somewhere else or does one start rebuilding the ruins, fixing and mending and restoring to its former glory?
My dear readers, this is the question that has been the dagger in my chest for the past 3 weeks.
Sure, I used to love ruins, I loved admiring them. But they were other people’s ruins.
There is something so different about watching your own. It makes it almost impossible to not feel like the world has crashed down alongside your structure.
Therefore, for a while, the first option felt like the best choice. So we start on a clean slate of solid base, making sure that this base is stronger than the one before, and we build a bigger and better structure and we forget about the ruins, the lost memory of the former structure we used to have. Except maybe once a year or so, we go to visit it to remind ourselves where not to go wrong in the future.
We learn from it, but we move on, we start again.
It can be immensely difficult, because we have become so use to the comfort of the location where the ruins now lie, but we ‘suck it up’ and we go on.
I decided that this would be the best choice at first.
I was going to leave the ruins to decay into its own infinity and after that I would never allow it to remind me of its guilt, judgment, shame, dignity or integrity.
I am very good at getting up and moving on. This is something I have learned about myself. Life hasn’t gotten me down yet, it hasn’t pushed me down into its deepest dungeons of despair just yet, and for that I am thankful. But, if ever I should be pushed down there, I am sure I will find my way back again soon.
I might just stay there a while for a moment of indulgence, but that’s neither here nor there.
So, I resigned myself completely to starting the building process somewhere else, using the lessons learnt.
But after a while I realized a huge disadvantage to a new location.
With the old structure, at least I knew what I was up again and I had an approximation of where the boundaries to my structure’s strengths were. With the old structure, I knew that it would take another earthquake to break.
What was it going to be with this new location?
A heavy wind, some rain?
Was I really willing to go through every thing I did before just so I didn’t have to be faced with the mistakes I made on the previous construction site?
And it was then that the notion of ‘ruins’ and ‘ruined’ came to mind.
I was starting to think about the ruined building, the cracked foundation and the hopeless efforts of the house to rebuild itself. And I realized that what I had here was the remains of a once glorious structure, a majestic construction that took blood and sweat and tears to complete.
And it was in ruins.
But it wasn’t ruined.
Let me explain: to be in ruins means to be totally destroyed and unfit for the intended purpose. However, ruined means that is in decay without means, position or hope, right?
So it was then that I came to the realization that my building wasn’t ruined.
It had hope, it had potential, I would just have to pick up the pieces and start again, on the same location.
At least with my ruins, I knew what it could withstand. I knew its strength and I knew its weaknesses.
And maybe the ruins of my once majestic structure have taught me this: that every building has the potential to fall and to break. But it also taught me that, even after the toughest earthquakes, we can rebuild.
I have started picking up the pieces again, I’m not sure how long the building will take, but I know that when it is done, it will be a building that has been built, with the knowledge and experience from before, invested in its every fibre.
Here’s to you, reading this.
I hope it has answered some questions.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
A Hiatus in Experience?
It has been so long since I last wrote a blog, that the very writing of a blog has become a foreign practice to me.
I’m not saying that I didn’t want to write a new blog, I’m merely observing that, in essence, I had nothing on my mind.
This is the premise for any of my blogs, as those of you who follow me, will know. I only write when something is to be said or if I have something that I would like to explore.
Often with me, exploration is a mental activity, a labyrinth of passages leading from into the next and often refusing to end until I have reached the centre and the core of what I want to say.
When I say: mental, I mean as in: ‘of the mind’, not: ‘relating to insanity’.
Although more often than not, the latter is most true.
Recently, I have been trying a new outlook on life, a much more disciplined one, a much more focused one. And as a result, I have started losing weight again, I have started exercising more and I have started to keep a diary planner, the very thought of which used to make me sick to the stomach. Now, in 2011, at the tender age of 21, I have decided that I need to start realizing the responsibilities associated with being an adult and being a professional in my chosen profession.
As one does, when one feels that the time has come to turn over a new leaf, the rest of the book has to be deleted and one has to make space for the new and exciting direction into which one is being pushed.
For me, this started with going through photos and deciding whether these photos were really a part of my brand new focus forward.
Needless to say, I deleted a substantial amount of photos.
And afterwards, I felt kind of sad.
It felt as if I was denying myself the chance to look back on these memories and really re-live them. For a day or so, I tried everything in my power to retrieve the deleted photos, (I had already emptied my recycle bin), but to no avail.
After a period of intense struggling I finally surrendered to the great force of technology and I made peace with the fact that I had lost those photos.
I was angry at myself, angry at my new focus, angry at technology, angry at the world.
The world was an unfair rugby coach and I was a timid, scrawny twelve-year old pushed into the ‘under-21’ scrum.
Later that evening, I watched the stand-up comedy DVD of Dylan Moran, entitled: “Like, totally…”. In it, Dylan made a very poignant observation. He noted and said that we spend an incredible amount of time taking pictures of ourselves on different holidays or at events or next to a celebrity. According to him, a photo was a hiatus in the experience, not a recollection of the experience.
When I racked my brain that evening, lying on my couch, I realized that what Dylan Moran had said, actually had tremendous value.
I decided, then and there, that the human race is slowly losing the ability to experience a moment, a second in time. We have lost the ability to ‘breathe’ in an experience as one would the smell of home cooking.
Why is it that we walk into a store or a restaurant or any public place, and immediately is overcome by a sense of nostalgia, because there is a particular smell that we can associate with a smell from our childhood? Why do we not need a photo to remind us of those moments when our mothers would take a casserole out of the oven and the intoxicating fragrance of rosemary would pervade the air?
Because, my dearest readers, very few of us have photos of those moments and because they were so precious to us when we were experiencing them, we engraved the entire experience: the sight, the smell, the taste and the sound into our memories so that we could always remind ourselves that there was a time when we were truly happy.
So then why is it, in this modern world of ours,that we so desperately need to document every experience we have only in terms of sight?
And now, with the advancement of technology, we have gone one step further and we have invented digital photos where we can delete an unwanted photo and pose to take another one. We have become so obsessed with getting perfect documentation of what it is that we experience on a daily basis that we forget that it’s sometimes the imperfect photos that matter the most, because in imperfect photos, we show the experience for what it truly is.
Personally, I am not a huge fan of a photo. Maybe it is because of my Aquarian nature, but I often feel robbed of my moment by posing for a flash or suddenly just seeing a flash as I was still enveloped in a beautiful sunset.
Almost always, the moment lost can never be regained.
I often find myself adjusting my posture, lifting my chin and forcing a smile whenever a camera is present at a gathering. All of this subconsciously, of course.
But in my mind, I am thinking: I should look good in this memory when I want to look at it later. And in those seconds of subconscious adjustment, I have lost countless irretrievable moments.
On a different note: how many times have we looked back at these photos and thought: was I really THAT happy at that specific moment?
How often is the answer no?
More than we would like to admit, I would say.
When Pres. Barack Obama used to be Sen. Barack Obama in 2005, he met Nelson Mandela, an honor which some have said is deemed higher than meeting the Pope. In a smokey hotel room, the two discussed several topics and Sen. Obama was so intoxicated with the experience of meeting Mr Mandela, that when the time came to take a photo, he refused to pose for one. A bystander then took an amateur photo in which Sen. Obama’s face wasn’t even visible. Years later, Pres. Obama sent that photo, signed, to Nelson Mandela, who now hangs it proudly in his office.
When I saw the photo at first, I was disappointed that no better photo was taken of two of the world’s greatest leaders. Afterwards, I realized that the amateur photo was actually a perfect example of what a photo should be. It should be a true reflection of the moment, not an interruption of it. For Pres. Obama, a photo would have intruded on the intimate moment that he was in with one of the most inspiring people on the face of the earth.
Is this not the mindset we should adopt?
I think so.
So after much deliberation I have decided that I will not cry any more crocodile tears over spilled milk, I refuse to let those photos be the only recollection I have of the memories, and often memoirs, that I have had in my 21 years on this earth.
This coming year I am going to focus on taking more ‘mental’ pictures. And when I say that, once again: mental as in ‘of the mind’ and not as in ‘relating to insanity’.
Although, once again, the latter has its strong potential.
When I take a mental picture, I would like to be fully encroached and engulfed in the sights, sounds, smells and touches of that experience. When I am old and blind one day, I need to have a gallery of pictures from whence I can choose. And when I decide to relive these experiences, I would like to be back in that moment, exactly how I remember it.
That’s the whole idea of re-living, isn’t it?
To ‘live’ a moment again, not just to see a snippet of it on a piece of glossy paper.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not saying that we should stop taking photos. What I am saying is that we need to make sure that we have completely absorbed every aspect of every moment, every sensation, every emotion, every physical feeling; before we decide to document it.
.Maybe then, we will really start living? When we start forcing ourselves to really and truly soak in every sensation of every moment, when we start actually living in that moment, and when we treat every moment as the last one we will ever have.
Only then, when we are old, can we re-live it, not recollect it.
Here’s to a year of ‘mental’ pictures, in both senses of the word.
Say ‘cheese’ !
Barack Obama meeting Nelson Mandela in 2005.
I’m not saying that I didn’t want to write a new blog, I’m merely observing that, in essence, I had nothing on my mind.
This is the premise for any of my blogs, as those of you who follow me, will know. I only write when something is to be said or if I have something that I would like to explore.
Often with me, exploration is a mental activity, a labyrinth of passages leading from into the next and often refusing to end until I have reached the centre and the core of what I want to say.
When I say: mental, I mean as in: ‘of the mind’, not: ‘relating to insanity’.
Although more often than not, the latter is most true.
Recently, I have been trying a new outlook on life, a much more disciplined one, a much more focused one. And as a result, I have started losing weight again, I have started exercising more and I have started to keep a diary planner, the very thought of which used to make me sick to the stomach. Now, in 2011, at the tender age of 21, I have decided that I need to start realizing the responsibilities associated with being an adult and being a professional in my chosen profession.
As one does, when one feels that the time has come to turn over a new leaf, the rest of the book has to be deleted and one has to make space for the new and exciting direction into which one is being pushed.
For me, this started with going through photos and deciding whether these photos were really a part of my brand new focus forward.
Needless to say, I deleted a substantial amount of photos.
And afterwards, I felt kind of sad.
It felt as if I was denying myself the chance to look back on these memories and really re-live them. For a day or so, I tried everything in my power to retrieve the deleted photos, (I had already emptied my recycle bin), but to no avail.
After a period of intense struggling I finally surrendered to the great force of technology and I made peace with the fact that I had lost those photos.
I was angry at myself, angry at my new focus, angry at technology, angry at the world.
The world was an unfair rugby coach and I was a timid, scrawny twelve-year old pushed into the ‘under-21’ scrum.
Later that evening, I watched the stand-up comedy DVD of Dylan Moran, entitled: “Like, totally…”. In it, Dylan made a very poignant observation. He noted and said that we spend an incredible amount of time taking pictures of ourselves on different holidays or at events or next to a celebrity. According to him, a photo was a hiatus in the experience, not a recollection of the experience.
When I racked my brain that evening, lying on my couch, I realized that what Dylan Moran had said, actually had tremendous value.
I decided, then and there, that the human race is slowly losing the ability to experience a moment, a second in time. We have lost the ability to ‘breathe’ in an experience as one would the smell of home cooking.
Why is it that we walk into a store or a restaurant or any public place, and immediately is overcome by a sense of nostalgia, because there is a particular smell that we can associate with a smell from our childhood? Why do we not need a photo to remind us of those moments when our mothers would take a casserole out of the oven and the intoxicating fragrance of rosemary would pervade the air?
Because, my dearest readers, very few of us have photos of those moments and because they were so precious to us when we were experiencing them, we engraved the entire experience: the sight, the smell, the taste and the sound into our memories so that we could always remind ourselves that there was a time when we were truly happy.
So then why is it, in this modern world of ours,that we so desperately need to document every experience we have only in terms of sight?
And now, with the advancement of technology, we have gone one step further and we have invented digital photos where we can delete an unwanted photo and pose to take another one. We have become so obsessed with getting perfect documentation of what it is that we experience on a daily basis that we forget that it’s sometimes the imperfect photos that matter the most, because in imperfect photos, we show the experience for what it truly is.
Personally, I am not a huge fan of a photo. Maybe it is because of my Aquarian nature, but I often feel robbed of my moment by posing for a flash or suddenly just seeing a flash as I was still enveloped in a beautiful sunset.
Almost always, the moment lost can never be regained.
I often find myself adjusting my posture, lifting my chin and forcing a smile whenever a camera is present at a gathering. All of this subconsciously, of course.
But in my mind, I am thinking: I should look good in this memory when I want to look at it later. And in those seconds of subconscious adjustment, I have lost countless irretrievable moments.
On a different note: how many times have we looked back at these photos and thought: was I really THAT happy at that specific moment?
How often is the answer no?
More than we would like to admit, I would say.
When Pres. Barack Obama used to be Sen. Barack Obama in 2005, he met Nelson Mandela, an honor which some have said is deemed higher than meeting the Pope. In a smokey hotel room, the two discussed several topics and Sen. Obama was so intoxicated with the experience of meeting Mr Mandela, that when the time came to take a photo, he refused to pose for one. A bystander then took an amateur photo in which Sen. Obama’s face wasn’t even visible. Years later, Pres. Obama sent that photo, signed, to Nelson Mandela, who now hangs it proudly in his office.
When I saw the photo at first, I was disappointed that no better photo was taken of two of the world’s greatest leaders. Afterwards, I realized that the amateur photo was actually a perfect example of what a photo should be. It should be a true reflection of the moment, not an interruption of it. For Pres. Obama, a photo would have intruded on the intimate moment that he was in with one of the most inspiring people on the face of the earth.
Is this not the mindset we should adopt?
I think so.
So after much deliberation I have decided that I will not cry any more crocodile tears over spilled milk, I refuse to let those photos be the only recollection I have of the memories, and often memoirs, that I have had in my 21 years on this earth.
This coming year I am going to focus on taking more ‘mental’ pictures. And when I say that, once again: mental as in ‘of the mind’ and not as in ‘relating to insanity’.
Although, once again, the latter has its strong potential.
When I take a mental picture, I would like to be fully encroached and engulfed in the sights, sounds, smells and touches of that experience. When I am old and blind one day, I need to have a gallery of pictures from whence I can choose. And when I decide to relive these experiences, I would like to be back in that moment, exactly how I remember it.
That’s the whole idea of re-living, isn’t it?
To ‘live’ a moment again, not just to see a snippet of it on a piece of glossy paper.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not saying that we should stop taking photos. What I am saying is that we need to make sure that we have completely absorbed every aspect of every moment, every sensation, every emotion, every physical feeling; before we decide to document it.
.Maybe then, we will really start living? When we start forcing ourselves to really and truly soak in every sensation of every moment, when we start actually living in that moment, and when we treat every moment as the last one we will ever have.
Only then, when we are old, can we re-live it, not recollect it.
Here’s to a year of ‘mental’ pictures, in both senses of the word.
Say ‘cheese’ !
Barack Obama meeting Nelson Mandela in 2005.
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