Something Worthwhile…

Ma foi, vraiment, je ne supporte plus ce jour!
Why is everybody universally quiet, why doesn’t
anybody send me a message, a good joke or two,
give me something positive to do, read the expres-
sion of noble sentiment, anything but looking
at my document?

I’ve researched and researched everything, going
over and over the same ground, tried every possi-
ility, quite convinced it is as bad as I can get it, using
my unerring for the wrong word choice, making sure
I’ve got everything out of context, I can’t make
it worse, now it is time to focus on

Something worthwhile….

Drawing On Computers

When we first started to use a computer,
I was so impressed with the possibilities,
making drawings with the mouse, it wasn’t
to scale, but it was enjoyable all the same,
this one I kept because afterwards I couldn’t
do it again - never duplicate the same technique
and make another one…

Time Turns Into Molasses And Treacle

When inactivity forces one to live in the head,
when all has been done and said, when there
is need for change of scene but no power to
bring it about, the movie projector in my head
having been stopped, dredging up no more
memories, creating no more dreams

Enclosed within reality without the power of
meditation to help me through this boring spell,
in the general chaos, hammering and plaster
and noisy air-cons, I had my illegal sweet treat,
now it’s time to pay-up; holding my head upright
while falling asleep; the air’s getting thick

The flow of time turns into molasses and treacle,
I’m stuck in this moment and cannot move forward,
backwards there is the funny scene in Maskerade
where Iodine tells Peccadillo it’s hard to leave him,
every time I read it I laugh and hubby complains -
You cannot laugh every time! – but I can

Just as he listens to the Springbok’s victory game*
again and again… maybe I should go back to my
book and risk laughing at work, the old man sings
Questa maledetta in a tenor voice and Agnes re-
peats it in tenor also, the pianist leaning his head
on the piano, trying not to laugh

Then she must sing it like Christine and she does
Kwesta!? Maledetta!! the pianist shaking as he
holds in his laughter, he meant she must sing
soprano - getting it right – and for that reason,
the old man was killed, he believed in voices
while the opera ghost believed in looks –

Even if his vacant Christine resembled a
rather pretty bowling ball…

* On Saturday 22 November the Springbok rugby team
won against England

Terry Pratchett “Maskerade”, p. 101 & p. 35

Crystal-Clear Understanding

To All My Crocodilian Brethren:
I would give so much for the beauty of
crystal-clear understanding, respecting
the privacy of others mean that I may
not continue sending e-mail messages
once they have stopped replying, now
I don't know what is happening - if cor-
respondence friendship is THIS difficult,
it is no wonder that one-to-one conver-
sation is useless; when we have words
typed in front of us and cannot under-
stand each other, how much more im-
possible when the words are flowing
around us in fleeting melodies, in rolling
thunder, explosing in lightning feelings,
bringing sadness like falling rain of tears;
all communication seems like a non-sequitur
NO pertitent information ever gets conveyed
and NO understanding ever is created - what's
the use of the mammal brain when we operate
like mute crocodiles anyhow?

Fairies Flying About...

And the fairies flew about at night, amongst the stars,
amongst the moon so bright, glimmering and shining
lights, bringing dreams to children everywhere while
authors like Lewis Carrol and Hans Christian Anderson
smiled in the new dimensions where they had gone to
continue their fairytale life and original thoughts on
innocence and learning about unearthly life…

Adulation For fashionable Cynicism…

Just when I thought the situation untenable,
impossible for the hero to like the heroine,
suspecting the story’s creators couldn’t infuse
her character with redeeming aspects –
conceding idealism was an empty dream

They restored her admirable qualities in “My Fair
Lady” tradition, I was mesmerized, so pleased with
the plausible twist of events, deliciously delighted
by her integrity – my highest ideal, my most
wondrous dream

The evening becoming a renewal of my own pledge
to remain true to the my childhood dreams; not
succumbing to current materialistic cynicism using
ideals as ploys to attract the unthinking masses,
unwittingly providing ordinary people

With positive energy to face their lives with courage
and vitality while bleeding inspiration and greatness
from the thinking classes through their adulation for
fashionable cynicism…

Cantabile Discussions, Pianissimo Remarks

Drifting quietly at work, the cantabile discussions,
pianissimo remarks of my considerate colleagues
forming a strange background to my tired mind that
cannot be forced to focus on lists and statistics, all
meaning and significance of symbols flowing away
until only lines and smiles, forms and sounds can
calm my disheveled thoughts

Listening to the music of James Mokotong while
following the trail of the fairies traced by Google,
checking on opals as the king of jewels and stage
costumes in between, made it seem as if time started
to fly and ere long the long, buzzing afternoon was at
an end and I took my dying succulent – too little sun-
shine for my desert friend – and fled home

Singing “Blue Spanish Eyes” as I went, feeling the
need for a nostalgic atmosphere to enrich the day
wearing a shroud of rain clouds blue and grey…

We Cannot Escape, Try As We Might

Leading a good life, happy in content, treated
with respect by my beloved, peaceful work every
day, my only addition in visions to this life is the
requirement for more adventure and challenge
more daring events and excitement

All attempts to add something more has not yet
borne fruit, refusing to engage in dodging falling
pianos may not be most dramatic way to go, with
all so peaceful and safe life can be so boring and
stiff, I don’t know how to be foolish and innocent

Seeing pianos falling everywhere, knowing the result
before I start makes life so predictable, cannot suspend
judgment for adventure’s sake, cannot engage in
stupidity knowing the foregone conclusion,
cannot act the ingénue while I know

Every action has a counterbalancing reaction, every
change requires a certain price, calculating the price
and knowing humankind does not have enough to pay
for such momentous events, our minds too limited,
the scope of our imagination too small

I remain in this small, limited world created by intersubjective
criteria and irrational rules imposed by people on people,
a world without god’s rule because we are the creators our-
selves and we have given our power away a long time ago
and now, having sold ourselves to human powers

We are caught in a trap of our own making and we cannot
escape, try as we might…

Monday 10 November 2008

Maybe when I’m ensconced in the allergy, I’m learning
what it is to be dead, can’t think about duties or numbers
or responsibility, I feel nothing – as Death explains in Wyrd
Sisters – a dead person does not have the glands to secrete
hormones that register emotions, right now all my adrenaline
is all used up in mental flight from the all-destructive allergy,
I feel nothing about nothing, except that my head has turned
into a steam locomotive building amazing pressure and ready
to explode, I should never have eaten three kinds of allergenic
foods in a row, now no pill can fight the symptoms or stop the
pain; eating is the best way in which to punish myself, it’s kind
of unfair that the activity that ensures our survival should be
the cause of my chronic suffering; it is not as if I can stop eating
at all, I tried it before and while the headache and muscle
pains were gone, I was too tired to carry on; I wish I could jump
right into the middle of next week and feel immediately better,
renewed in body and spirit, clear of thought and mind;
right now the steam locomotive is picking up speed down
a steep ravine; crashing again, when shall I learn - if
food’s involved, probably never, I think…

A Place Where I Can Confess

I’m leaving reality to live in a fantasy, à la Wurmbrand,
I’ve accepted that nothing ever happened according
to the stories and myths we’ve been told, so I’ve chosen
the most beautiful story – of an overall consciousness –
a long time ago represented by a godhead dying on a
cross – of unconditional love and forgiveness –

As the fantasy to guide my life, I’ve reached the bottom of
the dark pit tonight, my powers are spent, I’ve had enough
of trying to pretend that I can do what I cannot do, that
I can like what I detest – I’ve been playing charades, using
subterfuge to create the impression at work that I can sit
at a desk, with a boring screen, and a boring document

My emotions cold, my heart frozen, words ugly and false,
read prescribed texts and translate them into words that
Anglo-Saxons can understand – my powers are spent,
I have no more power in myself, I’ve got to let go of my
pride in prowess, accept I’m a fool, unfit for carrying out
routine tasks as best I can, after reading Stephanie Dowrick

It is clear that I cannot live up to my ideals of being a
person of integrity who does every job as it comes, no
matter how hard I tried, I end up dead inside, if I don’t
turn away from my job, lightning pain in my head kills
me, Stephanie says that is wrong, I should be able to –
with sheer willpower – carry out the job I’m assigned to

Hubby doesn’t want to listen, no-one else to confide in,
telling someone who does not feel the same thing is like
talking to stones, I’m alone, Wurmbrand said when they
had convinced him by brainwashing in prison that God
was dead, he tenaciously clung to the beauty of
the fantasy of there being a godhead

Who was more wonderful than anybody imagined possible,
he loved the fantasy so much, he preferred it to reality –
though tonight I feel as if nothing beautiful is true, as if it is all
a thought in my mind, I’m declaring with Wurmbrand – I’m
leaving reality, leaving all pain and deception behind, leaving
all empty cynical emptiness to live in a dream

The dream of a superconsciousness who knows about me and
who really cares, not cares like hubby who tells me the rules and
stops there, but cares enough to listen to my troubles, my sufferings,
to whom what I feel is important enough to help me instead of
shouting me down – ordering me to keep quiet, a place where
I can confess and feel better about being the dunce

At work...

Let Me Taste Freedom

Wednesday 5 November 2008

Dreaming a dream, I may not sing,
sitting with an expressionless face,
may not get up and dance, may not
laugh without reason, all working in
the same space

A lovely beautitude of quiet reflection,
a sacred solitude, when feelings surface
from time to time, running into the passage,
returning as quiet as a mouse, sharing a
communal work place

Leaving no space for individual rhythms
of life, I consider my colleagues and they
are considerate to me; heavens above, what
a way to waste one’s life, all to get paid to go
away on holiday…

Let me sing my song, let my thoughts glow within,
let the dance be in my heart, let me
taste freedom…

Soft. Mellow Afternoon

Tuesday 4 November 2008: A soft, mellow
afternoon at work, my angst stilled, anger
abated, restful the company today, Hermien’s
aggressive typing has stopped, Hanlie calmly
at her computer, June installing Adobe Readers
everywhere

The permit I’m reading nonsensical, emotion
non-essential to exist like a stone, lying in the
pool of the office, boredom encroaching, voices
raised in discussion - a restful background,
seems like my colleagues are also in need of

amusement, living life as a typing vegetable
not exactly my idea of fun or fulfillment, surely
there must be a way to colour such a grey part
of the day – but how, and with what?

We Shouldn't Be Here...

We shouldn’t be here, in the coldness of
officialdom, we should be busy learning
how to become passionate human beings;
how to give free rein to our feelings with-
in the boundaries of respect and freedom,
we should be out on the farms in Senegal
helping that community to survive, or in
Ethiopia, feeling the problems on our skin...

This is where I long to be... Lambertsbay...

Saw the most beautiful turtle wandering about, eating flowers,
in Clanwilliam, another beautiful jewel of a place in the
wonderful Cape...

I want the feeling of freedom, a drink on the beach,
white sand, blue sea, sea-gulls above...

This is where I long to be, and this is where I’m not
Lambertsbay in the Cape, on the beach,
an open-air cafe...