Christmas According to Dickens

A Christmas Carol

"I have always thought of Christmas time as a good time. A kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time. The only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely."

"I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year."

Doing Stupid Things

Doing stupid things is a funny business, funny (and annoying sometimes) to those around you and funny to you in retrospect. I’m sitting here and thinking of my total failure at successful romantic relationships with the opposite sex over the years. It all started when I was a pip-squeak and I decided to ask the hottest girl in the neighbourhood (no, not the sexy sixteen-year-old in flat number 103 but rather the beautiful twelve-year-old in flat number 4) to be my valentine. You see I thought I was a smart kid and I reasoned that if she said yes to being my valentine it was inevitable that she would be my girlfriend. The good news is that she said yes and the bad news is that I had no idea what to do with her now that she was my valentine. The whole affair was very awkward and I ended up writing her a letter proclaiming the extent of my love and thus started a chain of folly that I’ve been trailing around with me for many years. In the letter I said things like I’d jump down from the jungle gym for her, not thinking that she’d actually take me up on it. Seriously! That R Kelly dude sang about crossing oceans for some girl and I bet she never took him up on it. I jumped down the jungle gym and learned that I wouldn’t die in the process. The relationship was still awkward though.

The lesson I learned: don’t just want things, know why you want them.

Fast forward to my High School years and my letter-accompanied stupidity just became worse because I was an avid reader by then and what better way to get girls than to write them letters with quotes from Hearts in Atlantis I thought. I could never work out what was going wrong for the life of me! Were the girls stupid or something? I spat more game in my letters than the most charming guys in school and all they said was that’s nice.

The whole mess was really silly but I wouldn’t change it for the world because stupid things make super cool memories.

Dating aside I’ve done lots of stupid things over the years such as playing with fire and burning stuff like curtains and carpets; shoplifting (I stole a Game Boy at Reggie’s once and I’m secretly proud of that); stealing a gangster’s chips (don’t ask); drinking punch that consisted of vodka, whiskey, beer, wine, brandy and some other suspect beverages at a house party, breaking into what looked like an abandoned house and breaking all the windows only to find that a friend of my mom’s lives there and the list just goes on and on.

I’m comforted by the fact that stupid people are virtually indestructible; God loves us so much that He gives us a ridiculously long lifespan. It must be a punishment for smart people, putting them on a planet crowded with stupid people to annoy the cheese out of them.

Labor omnia vincit

My favourite fictional character of the month is Rock Lee (or Rokku Rï as the Japanese say it) from the animated series Naruto. The boy looks like the biggest chode in the history of the universe but he totally kicks donkey, which he achieves by working his donkey off. The boy’s Ninjutsu skills are sucky but through crazy amounts of hard work he manages to develop kick-donkey Taijutsu skills. He doesn’t come from a “genius” blood-line but through sheer willpower he shows that hard work can kick genius’ donkey. His name is inspired by Rocky and Bruce Lee, two dudes who kicked a whole lot of donkey.

Much respect to the man :)

Cool Bargains

I have eagle eyes when it comes to spotting good books in the most unlikely places. I was walking past a stationary shop yesterday and I spied a mound of forlorn looking books hidden in a corner. At first glance they were simply a bunch of romance novels for women who own too many cats but I found the most unlikely of treasures hidden beneath all the mushy stuff, George MacDonald’s At the Back of the North Wind for only three rand! I felt like a pirate who had just discovered the biggest treasure chest in the universe. There was a book by Peter Straub but I was too lazy to buy it (I know it sounds strange but I just wasn’t in the mood) and for some strange reason I bought The Mystery of the Strange Bundle by Enid Blyton, whose books I’ve always been indifferent toward. Maybe it was the title that intrigued me or the power of the magical number three that made some older and wiser primal force inside of me stir (this would explain why the Straub book put me off, it cost ten rand).





My friend, Leigh, also found some awesome bargains a few weeks back and she brought me back an ancient copy of Sir Francis Bacon’s The Essays. The book has some battle scars but they only make it look so much more like a source of great wisdom. Books have that sort of magical ability, whereas all earthly matter seems to run down with use they just keep on getting better. Ask any bookworm which book in their library they love most and they’ll most probably point to an old volume that’s just barely holding on to its molecular integrity. To an extent the same applies to the content of books. At no point do people say let’s stop reading Plato because he is simply no longer relevant, instead as time goes on people find themselves more in need of teachers like Plato and stories like Alice in Wonderland. We read some of Jorge-Luis’ short fiction in literary theory this year and he quotes from Bacon’s Essays in the epigraph of his story, The Immortal:

Solomon saith: There is no new thing upon the earth.
So that as Plato had an imagination, that all knowledge was but remembrance; so Solomon giveth his sentence, that all novelty is but oblivion.





C.S. Lewis always writes about how unoriginal most of his work is. He stands on the shoulders of giants. Literature does not need to be original; it needs only to be true. People never tire of reading the truth because they can never stick to it. We’re like children who never learn when their parents scold them. What’s wrong with you Johnny!? Didn’t you learn anything from the previous World Wars? Go sit in the corner!

*Burp*

I seriously cannot see what the hype is about when it comes to people attending parties and getting super drunk. I knew what the hype was about when I was in High School but I can't seem to remember it now. I was forced to attend a party yesterday and because there was nothing else to do I ended up drinking too much beer which turned out not be such a good idea because I ended up making a fool of myself (which I don't mind too much) and I have a hangover :(

To hell with being social with crazy people! I resign. I'm going home and I'm going to read Stephen King.

Catching My Breath

Shh... please don't tell anyone that I'm here. I'm a wanted man you see and this is the safest place I can find to gather my wits and prepare a plan of action. I understand that the festive season is a time for people to get together and make merry but they don't have to be so damn adamant about it. I am invited to a birthday party I'm really not in the mood to attend :( The guy who invited me promised me that there will be booze and girls. His idea of booze and girls is different from my idea of booze and girls. I'm quite certain what he really means to say is that there will be enough booze so that you might find yourself attracted to the giggling semi-ugly girls he will have lined up. This is not my idea of a party at all. I'd rather be on the beach watching the waves and talking to a beautiful girl who has a personality of her own. I know I'm being anti-social and it's not a cool thing to do but these people are so boring! All they do is talk about dull parties they've attended and dull girls they've slept with. All I want to do is sit under a tree and read Stephen King, is this a crime?

Sigh. I've got to go, someone has just spotted me :(

This Momentous Year

The number one lesson I learned this year is that *life happens. It’s like Fanta, it will find you.

Rush headlong and hard at life
Or just sit at home and wait.
All things good and all the wrong
Will come right to you: it's fate.
- Dean Koontz, The Book of Counted Sorrows

You can’t hide from life; it finds you wherever you are. The one thing you can do is choose the quality of your life and the path you choose to follow or carve out for yourself. You can live a reactive life and have things happen to you according to the whims of other people or you can be and take up arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them.

2008 has been a wonderful year when it comes to books and I’ve read everything that I’ve wanted to read save for George Orwell’s 1984 (which I’m just too lazy to read), Terry Goodkind’s Confessor (the library is being mean to me) and William Golding’s The Lord of the Flies (amazingly enough I never seem to be able to find a copy of this classic! I settled for the movie which was fair enough). When it comes to reading books I’m the sort of person who enjoys the journey and when I get to the destination I wish I could start again and experience the thrills all over. My reading experience is always eucatastrophic, I’m always happy that the characters I got to travel with find their heart’s desire but parting with them is always hard because they are more real to me than strangers I meet in the street. When I was reading Stephen King’s The Stand I fell so in love with the characters that I dreamed about them and had imaginary conversations with them as I walked down the street. I lugged that book around with me everywhere I went and snuck in a few pages whenever I could. I read it on the bus, in the library, in lectures, all over the house at home, under trees and just about anywhere where I was. When I finished The Stand I wept for all the people in it who died and for the survivors who must start rebuilding their lives – I felt like I was part of the struggle. The last time I loved characters so much was in 2003 when I read Dean Koontz’s From the Corner of His Eye.

When I talk about books to anyone there are two names that never fail to pop up, those being C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. At the beginning of the year when I was shopping for varsity text books I stumbled upon Tolkien’s The Children of Húrin and after a moment’s thought I said to hell with some of the books I had to get for English and bought the book. Tolkien writes of high beauty forever beyond the reach of evil and I derive the utmost pleasure from reading his books because he is lover of life. Tolkien loves language, nature and beauty something fierce. The man loves names so much that all his characters have more than one name because one name simply does not suffice to tell of the person’s beauty, wisdom and strength or foul nature. In The Children of Húrin Túrin is also named Neithan, Gorthol, Agarwaen, Mormegil (The Black Sword), Wildman of the Woods and Turambar. Peter Kreeft points out that in Middle-Earth matter matters, things are always more real there than they are in our world. Mountains have personalities and walking trees are the shepherds of the forest. I live in Johannesburg, a very bland part of South Africa so reading about such beauty is like crack for me. When I visit my grandparents in Sterkspruit I’m amazed by the fact that they have rivers and real mountains. But because of traditional laws I don’t understand one can never actually go and do any real exploring without getting the nonsense beaten out of you. This, for me, is much worse than living in Jo’burg, having the beauty and not experiencing it. In an effort to stick it to the man (don’t even ask me why that thought occurred to me like that, it just seemed fitting at the time) I decided that one of my life goals is to go to the Galapagos Islands because they are “howling with holy wildness”. Another thing I want to do is explore some of the beautiful places SA has to offer. Because I love leading a strange life I have decided that when I graduate from varsity I’m going to live in Japan. Imagine it, an African anglophile who majored in English literature living in Japan, pretty weird right? Then there’s also the plan to go to Oxford University for a Master’s Degree or something. I don’t like living an ordinary life because it dulls my mind and makes me forget that the world has much more to offer than going to work every morning and trudging back home every evening. Being a weirdo reminds me that:

There are more things in heaven and earth
Than are dreamt of in our philosophy
- William Shakespeare, Hamlet

Some people believe that there are less and those are the wet blankets I tend to avoid and throw stones at whenever I get a chance. Sometimes I run into the dullest people ever and I feel like punching them. I’m one of those social introverted types so I rarely pick up on the fact that people are dull because I create my own excitement with people. I’ll hang out with someone simply because he looks like an orc and get the biggest kick out of it. Thus if I think you’re dull you must know that you have problems.

Let me get back to what I was talking about before, our beloved Professor Tolkien. After The Children of Húrin I tackled The Hobbit (my third time reading it) and couldn’t get around to re-reading The Lord of the Rings. I have a sneaky suspicion that the Elder Days of Middle-Earth are more exciting to me than the Third Age, the only things exciting about the Third Age is Gandalf, Hobbits, Tom Bombadil and Ents. I reread Leaf by Niggle which is a beautiful story about the sort of man who is better at painting leaves than he is at painting trees. Niggle is as much a leafsmith as Tolkien is a wordsmith. As I was reading the story and Parish, Niggle’s neighbour, kept bothering him I wished he’d just throw rocks at him and get back to his painting. I was wrong it turns out because Christ says that no matter how demented your neighbour is and even if he does not appreciate your painting and it is suggested by the authorities that you use the canvas on which your masterpiece is painted to fix a leak in his roof you must always help him. Niggle should have lived in Japan, the neighbours there are much less demanding I’m sure. Tolkien’s essay, On Fairy-Stories, proved to be very humorous. I can’t get over the cool factor of a distinguished professor writing about fairy-stories in such a serious manner, it’s totally insane. I tried reading some book on Tolkien’s work as philologist and it was simply beyond my present abilities so I left that alone. The best is yet to come I always say because, like Dean Koontz’s Lorrie Tock, I’m an indefatigable optimist. When I finally got my hands on The Silmarillion I knew that the best had finally arrived, clad in a stylish black jacket. The last time I read this book was when I was still a snotnose in High School and most of it flew right over my head. This time around I think I grasped it and it was a joyous read. The characters aren’t as personal as those from The Stand; it’s more like reading about the gods on Mount Olympus but the tales are epic in scope. My favourite, for the lack of a better word, scene in the book is when Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor, mounted upon his great horse, Rochallor, and rode forth to challenge Morgoth to single combat. He even dared to call Morgoth craven! In our world this would be like Barak Obama challenging Lucifer to single combat. Fingolfin dies in the battle but manages to chop off some of Morgoth’s foot in the process and after that battle the Dark Lord never issued from his fortress for battle ever again. If ever a movie was made this would be the scene to see.

I love C.S. Lewis’ work very, very much and before I went to go watch Prince Caspian (which I watched three times in cinema) I reread all the Narnia books (save for The Silver Chair) and I was blown away all over again. I always preach this to anyone willing to listen, read children’s books because they always have the good stuff. Children’s books are dynamite in Technicolor packaging. After you’ve read a crate full of children’s books read Lewis’ Till We Have Faces because it is simply his most beautiful novel. The central question the novel asks haunted me for months. “Why must holy places be dark places?” Why must religion be so mysterious? Peter Kreeft says that part of the answer is that God hides himself so that only those who truly want to find Him do so. Salvation, thus, is not determined by intelligence, money or good looks but by faith. In the novel the Priest says of the gods, “[T]hey dazzle our eyes and flow in and out of one another like eddies on a river, and nothing that is said clearly can be said truly about them. Holy places are dark places”.

I even had a good time with the books I had to read for English and literary theory. I can’t say I care much for the ups and downs of modernist and postmodernist theories but postmodernist authors sure know how to write mind-boggling books. I read some of Jorge-Luis Borges’ short fiction for literary theory and the man is a genius at telling unconventional stories. For Borges the rabbit hole goes very deep. I acquired new names for my list of favourite authors, people like Paul Auster, Don DeLillo, Toni Morrison and Arundhati Roy. The God of Small Things is one of the best books I’ve read this year and there’s a chance that I might name my third son Velutha, I’m still thinking it over.

I went to the library a few weeks back and took out a massive George MacDonald book titled The Princess and the Goblin. It looked really cool and had pretty pictures. The librarian at the counter asked me if I was taking it out for a younger sibling and I was like, “No, dude. It’s for me.” I think I’ve lost any respect that dude had for me, especially after I went around the children’s section hunting for Pullman’s His Dark Materials books and for books by Anne Fine – whom I think is a damn fine novelist.

There’s still so much to read and so little time. At the beginning of the year I bought Milton’s Paradise Lost, Homer’s The Iliad and The Odyssey and I still have to finish those.

I’ve had a good year of books and that is always a good thing so I’m one happy dude. Life is good even when it’s not so good and everyday is of utmost importance (Read Lewis’ The Great Divorce to make sense of what I’m actually saying in this sentence).

Not one day in anyone’s life is an uneventful day, no day without profound meaning, no matter how dull and boring it might seem, no matter whether you are a seamstress or a queen, a shoeshine boy or a movie star, a renowned philosopher or a Down’s-syndrome child. Because in every day of your life, there are opportunities to perform little kindnesses for others, both by conscious acts of will and unconscious example. Each smallest act of kindness–even just words of hope when they are needed, the remembrance of a birthday, a compliment that engenders a smile–reverberates across great distances and spans of time, affecting lives unknown to the one whose generous spirit was the source of this good echo, because kindness is passed on and grows each time it’s passed, until a simple courtesy becomes an act of selfless courage years later and far away. Likewise, each small meanness, each thoughtless expression of hatred, each envious and bitter act, regardless of how petty, can inspire others, and is therefore the seed that ultimately produces evil fruit, poisoning people whom you have never met and never will. All human lives are so profoundly and intricately entwined–those dead, those living, those generations yet to come–that the fate of all is the fate of each, and the hope of humanity rests in every heart and in every pair of hands. Therefore, after every failure, we are obliged to strive again for success, and when faced with the end of one thing, we must build something new and better in the ashes, just as from pain and grief, we must weave hope, for each of us is a thread critical to the strength–to the very survival–of the human tapestry. Every hour in every life contains such often-unrecognized potential to affect the world that the great days for which we, in our dissatisfaction, so often yearn are already with us; all great days and thrilling possibilities are combined always in this momentous day.
- Dean Koontz, From the Corner of His Eye

*The experience of being alive; the course of human events and activities (the mundane stuff included)

The Blandness of Our lives

Sometimes we allow ourselves to forget how precious our lives are because modern society allows us to lead repetitive lives. People wake up and they go to work for eight hours doing the very same thing they did the previous day. As a result our minds get stuck in a bog and we become bored – bored people, in my experience, are boring people. The funny thing is that modern society provides many opportunities to lead a wonderful life if you think outside the proverbial box. If you live in a country that is not run by a dictator(s) and where people have the right to go about their lives as they please (as long as they don’t get up to anything criminal of course) then you have it good.

So go ahead and lead a wonderfully strange life :)

Prayer

Prayer (I)

Prayer, the church’s banquet, angels’ age,
God’s breath in man returning to his birth,
The soul in paraphrase, a heart in pilgrimage,
The Christian plummet sounding heav’n and earth;

Engine against th’ Almighty, sinner’s tower,
Reversèd thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear,
The six-days’ world transposing in an hour,
A kind of tune, which all things hear and fear;

Softness, and peace, and joy, and love, and bliss,
Exalted manna, gladness of the best,
Heaven in ordinary, man well dressed,
The Milky Way, the bird of Paradise,
Church bells beyond the stars heard, the soul’s blood,
The land of spices; something understood.- George Herbert

In my last post I spoke very briefly of taking some time out of our “busy” schedules and spending some time in quietude. Peter Kreeft says that everyone who lives in a metropolitan area “has a desperate need for the three S's: silence, solitude, and slowing down—both for psychological sanity and for prayer”. We all like moving around and being “active” because it gives us the illusion that we are alive. When people are still and quiet we believe that they are dull and boring, but in actual fact we need to stop being so restless and start being quiet enough to be aware of what is going on around us.

The most wonderful way to quiet your buzzing mind is to converse with your maker in prayer. In the poem above George Herbert tells of the power of prayer. Just sit and think about what happens when you pray... you actually speak to God as if He were in the room with you and amazingly enough He is in the room with you. People got all excited when Bell invented the telephone but God gave that sort of technology to humankind from the very beginning. Prayer is free, wireless and no matter where in the universe you are there’s always service.

Inner Peace

The main problem many of us have is finding inner peace I think. For the last few weeks my life has been going very well because I'm chilled about things. If there is any worrying to be done I just don't do it. I'm the laziest person I know so this is the first time I can apply my super sloth skills to something good, I wake up in the morning and start worrying about a host of random things and before it gets out of hand I decide I'm just too lazy to worry about stuff.

All the great teachers recommend silence as a cure to the bustle of modern life and it really works, I've been trying silence for some time now and it gives me the chance to relax and contemplate obscure things like why the love affair between Josh and Lucy on that weird soapie I watch would just not work out. Sundays are my favourite quiet days. I wake up, go to church and then spend the rest of the day reading. It's holidays for most varsity students so there's a lot of chill out time. Party like mad but have a time-out whenever you can, you will absolutely love the inner peace it gives you.

Lady Leigh of the Meadows

Source

Of all the Great Ones who dwell in this world the elves hold Varda most in reverence and love. Elbereth they name her, and they call upon her name out of the shadows of Middle-earth, and uplift it in song at the rising of the stars.

– J.R.R. Tolkien

A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING MOURNING.
by John Donne

AS virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"Now his breath goes," and some say, "No."

So let us melt, and make no noise, 5
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ;
Men reckon what it did, and meant ; 10
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers' love
—Whose soul is sense—cannot admit
Of absence, 'cause it doth remove 15
The thing which elemented it.

But we by a love so much refined,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss. 20

Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so 25
As stiff twin compasses are two ;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam, 30
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run ;
Thy firmness makes my circle just, 35
And makes me end where I begun.

There must be a certain magic in the air when you meet people that you love with your whole being. These people come into your life and fill a void that you didn’t even know existed and when they have to leave for Europe you just know that life will be strange without them. I met one such a person, Lady Leigh of the Meadows, my most beloved of friends. I wish you well on all your endeavours and I'll see you again, either when you return or when you come visit me in Japan in 2010. Have fun travelling through Europe (which I know for a fact is a scary place because it's not home), make many friends, eat strange food, swear at people in Xhosa and steal any good books that you come across.

I'll see you again very soon :)

Life's a Game

I had the shock of my life over the weekend!

I was playing Oblivion because I was tired of reading (and this is saying something) and I had nothing else to play. As I was trying to level my character's destruction magic level so I can use my newly acquired Fingers of the Mountain spell to electrocute those pesky wolves that just seem to pop up everywhere in the wilderness, I had a scary thought. "Real" life is a lot like and RPG - you get born and start to level up. Take for example the things I want to do next year; get my drivers' license, work as an English tutor, work as a linguistics tutor, finally complete my degree, work on a super cool thesis for Honours the following year, go to lots of rock shows and so on. I seriously want to do all these things but when I list them they smack of leveling up in society don't they. I'm crazy scared of having achieved a list of things but never having enjoyed them. That's what counts for me, the life lived in those achievements and failures.

When I first played Oblivion everything was okay and I enjoyed it, especially the Dark Brotherhood quests and then I realised that all you ever do is go on quests in this game. Many of these quests are cool, especially if you have a high level character who can bash the nonsense out of bandits or hurl deadly Wizard's Fire at unsuspecting necromancers, but they get repetitive very quickly. I was so sick of exploring caves and elven ruins by the end of the game that I almost threw up. If real life is like this I will most definitely throw up. I was speaking to a very dear friend on the phone last night and we were discussing how predictable life often is; school, work, retirement. I already lead a half strange life so I'm happy that my path through life is not a graceful arc but a herky jerky line like Jimmy Tock's (minus the clowns and the violence). People who lead these perfect lives where everything happens as planned are probably sad. I sometimes hate my life, I sometimes love it and sometimes I wonder about the weirdness of it all. I prefer my schizo life to 'perfection' though, I think it's fun.

My advice to you: be strange and don't be like a character in Oblivion who does nothing but level up but has no real joy.

Check out this video for some inspiration: Dragonflies & Astronauts

The Power of Words

studentsofenglish.blogspot.com/2006/01/muses.html

I don’t recommend that you spend fifteen minutes doing introspection because at the end of it all the only thing you will learn is you are not as awesome as you think. I’ve spent the last decade or so thinking that I have an overactive imagination and I prided myself in being able to out-imagine other people. Fifteen minutes of self-contemplation and all my pride is gone. I have a normal (okay, maybe just a notch above normal) imagination it turns out – everything else is borrowed from all the books I’ve read and the movies I’ve seen. The writers of the books I’ve read and the people behind the movies I watch have great imaginations. I simply have all their great visions in my head.

Words, they have a power. A good book or movie can help you see the world from a different angle. Words can clarify things that were always vague but words can also deconstruct. Eminem says that words are a mother[humper], they can be great, they can degrade or even worse, they can teach hate. One of the reasons Hitler was such a powerful character was because he had a way with words – he certainly wasn’t a kung-fu master or anything cool like that. Great people like Ghandi and Mandela also fought many of their epic battles using words. The ancient Greeks thought words to be so important that they sent people to university to learn the art of rhetoric. In Greek society only people who could use word to influence others remained in power for very long. Strength of arms was secondary to rhetoric.

Back to what I was saying in the beginning, words are cool because even though my imagination is limited I can piggyback on the imagination of Tolkien, Shakespeare, Gabe Newell or Steven Spielberg.

P.S. Don’t bother with introspection because you’ll just burst you own bubble.

GravityGunSlingers & Exams

I've been writing exams for the past few days and it's been rough. All I do is write essays for three hours every sitting. I'm not complaining though, because I'm rather good at writing essays and thus far all my papers have been good. Exams aside there has been something exciting happening. Sleuth and I play Half-Life 2 Deathmatch after each of our exams. We only play with the gravity gun, no other weapons are allowed. It's such a blast hitting Sleuth with boat or a fence. It just makes me feel so ghetto. The coolest thing is chucking around toilets though, that just totally kills me :)

A Dude Named Dean

When I was in High School I wrote a poem about a dude named Dean because he incites in me such powerful emotions. I never just feel mellow about Dean as I do about Sleuth. For Sleuth I feel a constant stream of love and wonder. The dude baffles me in a quiet way and in his presence I’m like a dog who cocks his head in a quizzical manner at the strangeness of his master. Dean, on the other hand, makes me rage with emotion. I love him something fierce and I hate his guts. He is the most intelligent person I know and the most stupid person I know (second only to myself). He is the kindest person I know and the biggest jerk I know. The dude is crazy and belongs either in a mental facility or a prison cell in Gotham City. Hanging out with Dean is an experience that can be compared to being on a roller coaster, it freaks you out but it's exhilarating.

Natura Morta “Howling with holy wildness”

We are noisy, dull and bored most of the time. We rarely take some time out to listen to the small voice that constantly haunts our souls. We are always too busy, too busy doing I know not what. We are bored with our lives because 50 Cent and Paris Hilton tell us that we don’t have enough bling or pairs of shoes. The only beauty we know is plastic and metal. We ignore real beauty because we are afraid of it, I suspect. Look at the gusto with which we chop down God’s trees and pollute His rivers. Nature scares us witless because she whispers to us of high beauty forever beyond the reach of our destructive habits. Peter Kreeft, in his profound talk about the sea, says: “Maybe God puts cotton in our ears because such great beauty would drive us mad . . . we would be unable to eat or sleep or reproduce or survive . . . in this angel haunted universe.” Some time ago I was telling Sleuth what a good thing it is for the human race that most people on the planet think of sex as the pinnacle of joy. If there were more chody people like me around the human race would not be around for too long – we’d all be too busy lying under giant oak trees to procreate.

I don’t think that you can find the raw stuff of life in any metropolis in the world, but when you walk into your neighbor with green fingers’ backyard it is simply overflowing with the stuff of life. Nature is fertile, wild, soothing, dangerous, exciting and truly alive.

My message to you: be still for a few minutes and let God speak to you and when you’re outside allow Nature (God’s other book) to tell you about life and the love thereof.


The Jaguar

The apes yawn and adore their fleas in the sun.
The parrots shriek as if they were on fire, or strut
Like cheap tarts to attract the stroller with the nut.
Fatigued with indolence, tiger and lion

Lie still as the sun. The boa-constrictor’s coil
Is a fossil. Cage after cage seems empty, or
Stinks of sleepers from the breathing straw.
It might be painted on a nursery wall.

But who runs like the rest past these arrives
At a cage where the crowd stands, stares, mesmerized,
As a child at a dream, at a jaguar hurrying enraged
Through prison darkness after the drills of his eyes

On a short fierce fuse. Not in boredom—
The eye satisfied to be blind in fire,
By the bang of blood in the brain deaf the ear—
He spins from the bars, but there’s no cage to him

More than to the visionary his cell:
His stride is wildernesses of freedom:
The world rolls under the long thrust of his heel.
Over the cage floor the horizons come.

Ted Hughes

To The Light House (And Back Again) [2nd Revision]

Image: Salvador Dali, Hermes, 1981

I wrote this story in an English lecture on Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse. I wrote the story simply because I got a kick out of it, so don't expect anything epic :)

To the Light House (And Back Again)

Once upon a time, in a light house there lived a beautiful maiden. The house in which this maiden lived weighed only two kilograms and the curious fact that there were thousands of colourful balloons tied to the roof resulted in the house floating away on a gentle breeze. So for all intents and purposes our maiden was a damsel in distress (even if she would never admit to it if asked). The kingdom in which this story takes place was filled to the brim with brave knights in gleaming armour (there were so many of them in fact that the king hired them out to neighbouring kingdoms), but none of them could fly and they all feared shooting at the balloons with arrows in case any harm should come to the maiden. In a stable (a very heavy one I might add) a peasant boy had an epiphany. He would borrow the god, Hermes’ winged sandals and use them to rescue the maiden. He jumped on a donkey and set out (at a rather slow pace) to the Sometimes Holy Mountain, north of the kingdom of Ramsey. Hermes often visited the mountain to drink the wine he stored there in a cave. Most of the wine came from sacrifices, for in those days people were very fond of sacrificing things to the gods – things like useless pieces of string, flowers, virgins, cows, goats, wine and so on. The special thing about this mountain was that it was surrounded by ‘certain airs’ that were detached from the wind and these mysterious airs resulted in a curious property being added to the mountain; that property being that none of the gods, save for Hermes, could see the mountain – it was simply invisible to them. Hermes being quite an alcoholic (as history fails to mention) often retired to this mountain to enjoy a few drinks without being hassled by the rest of the gods on Mount Olympus. Since Hermes wasn’t there all the time the mountain was only holy at the times that he was there. Our peasant boy rode to the mountain in the hope that it was holy on that day. I’m told that he was smart as far as peasant boys go, but it was quite sad that his name was Rubbish. His father was a very busy man and had simply named the boy after the first thing that popped into his mind at the time, which happened to be a pile of rubbish which he remembered he must take out for the king if he wished not to be beheaded. Rubbish, being a vital young man, did not let this get him down for he believed that if people could be made from dust and some of them transcend their dusty state to become something like gods, so bright and radiant that looking at them is blinding, there was nothing stopping him from transcending his unfortunate name. Rubbish arrived at the foot of Mount Sometimes Holy as the sun was setting; he said a quick prayer (not knowing that the gods on Mount Olympus could not hear him) and started his search for Hermes’ cave. He found the cave just as the sun disappeared behind the mountains in the west and on that evening Lady Luck (because she is technically not a goddess and she had no other plans for the evening) was on his side, the god of the mountain was lying on a bed of straw (one would think a god would bother with his sleeping arrangements more) in a drunken stupor, his winged sandals floated around the room chasing each other in a playful manner. Rubbish thought he’d be polite and not wake Hermes up (no one knows what a drunk god would do after all); he quietly snatched the winged sandals out of the air and tiptoed out of the cave. At the mouth of the cave he slipped on the sandals and they rearranged themselves to fit snugly on his feet. He took off with a little jump and zoomed through the air. After a few hours of flying around he spotted the house floating gently on a light breeze. Candle light came from the windows. Rubbish flew right up to the door and like the good mannered boy he was he politely knocked on the door. It is a strange thing being in a house that is floating high up in the sky and hearing a knock at the door. The maiden peeped through the keyhole and was thoroughly surprised to find Rubbish at her doorstep. She opened the door and invited him inside. “O! Dear Rubbish,” the maiden cried when they were inside the house. “It’s so good to see you.”
“It’s good seeing you too, Irene.”
Rubbish and Irene were very good friends so it was really a pleasant surprise for her to find him at her doorstep. “How ever did you manage to get here?” Irene asked.
“I had some help from one of the gods.” Rubbish pointed to the winged sandals.
“Do you think they will be able to carry the both of us?”
“How will we know if we don’t try?”
Rubbish held Irene by the waist and she put her arm around his neck. “Ready?”
Irene nodded and they jumped out through the front door of the floating house. The sandals rapidly flapped their wings in order to adjust to Irene’s added weight and off to the Sometimes Holy Mountain they zoomed.
Rubbish’s plan was to return Hermes’ sandals before he woke up and then he and Irene would ride the donkey he left grazing at the side of the mountain back to Ramsey. But, as anyone with sense knows, something strange always arises to mess up good plans.
Hermes rose from his drunken stupor just as Rubbish and Irene landed at the mouth of the cave. He immediately noticed that his winged sandals were not floating around the cave playfully chasing each other. “Blasted sandals...” Hermes muttered, “Where’d they get off to?”
Then he spotted the couple at the opening of his cave.

Both Rubbish and Irene froze with fear when Hermes’ eyes fell upon them. The god was immediately on his feet and before they could even blink he held each of them by the scruff of the neck and dragged them inside the cave. I don’t know if you have ever been manhandled (or maidenhandled in Irene’s case) by an angry immortal who has just woken up from an alcohol-induced slumber, but I can tell you that it is a very frightening experience. “A pair of thieves, eh?” Hermes roared.
“Please don’t blame Rubbish, sir. The only reason he took your sandals was to rescue me from floating away with my house.”
I mentioned before that Rubbish was an intelligent boy as far as peasant boys are concerned and so before Hermes could reply he said, “Hermes of many shifts, blandly cunning, robber, cattle driver, bringer of dreams, watcher by night, thief at the gates, please do not let loose your wrath upon us for the theft of your sandals because you are a god who condones the practice of thievery after all.”
Hermes burst out in laughter that shook the cave. “Well spoken… very well spoken, dear boy. I do condone theft if the thief does not allow himself to be caught. Since you are caught you will have to perform a certain task for me if you wish for me to spare your lives.”
“Very well then, tell us what to do,” Irene said.
“By the manner of your speech, I take it that you are from the kingdom of Ramsey. I need you to deliver a little gift to a friend of mine, who currently resides in the dungeon of that wet blanket you call a king.”
King Ramsey was the most unpleasant ruler I can care to think of. He was as thin as a reed, possessed a hooked nose and he had the look of someone sucking on lemons on his face. Rubbish and Irene agreed to undertake the very dangerous mission of sneaking into King Ramsey’s dungeon.

The rest of the evening was spent drawing up plans and feasting on honey, cakes and roasted lamb, which Hermes produced from a hidden larder in the cave. Once the two children got past his alcoholism and their fear of him, Hermes proved to be a charming host. He told them of some of the adventurous errands he has undertaken for his father, the mighty Zeus and how on the day of his birth he stole oxen from his brother, Apollo. By midnight Rubbish and Irene were fast asleep with smiles of contentment on plastered onto their faces.

Hermes flew the two children to the kingdom of Ramsey at the crack of dawn the following day. He dropped them off at the city gates and before departing he presented them with a sealed package and the helmet of Aïdes as a gift to help them on their mission.

Sneaking into King Ramsey’s dungeons was no easy business, even with a helmet that renders the wearer invisible – especially since the helmet could only cover one head at a time. Rubbish and Irene managed to sneak into the castle undetected because everyone was too busy to bother with two children. Ramsey did not hesitate to behead those who did not attend to their duties and thus everyone in the castle minded their tasks and naught else. At the passage that leads to the dark and dingy dungeons Rubbish donned Aïdes’ helmet and immediately he became invisible. “Stay here, Irene,” he whispered, “I’ll be back in a flash.”
Irene hid in a dark corner whilst Rubbish trotted down the passage to find the prisoner Hermes had sent them to. It did not take Rubbish long to find the prisoner, she was hard to miss in the midst of all the ruthless looking men who inhabited the cells. The prisoner wore a long, white gown that was in total contrast with the squalor all around her and her light brown skin glowed as if some inner light was struggling to escape through it. Although there was not a trace of hair on her head, no one could mistake her for a man, so striking was her beauty. “Ah, there you are.” She said in a voice that was like the sweet music of Apollo’s lyre. Rubbish looked around to see who she was talking to. The prisoner laughed and said, “I’m talking to you, dear boy. The helm of Aïdes cannot hide you from me. Come closer.”
Rubbish stepped closer to the prisoner and fumbled with his cloak, trying to take out the package Hermes had given him. He finally managed to free the package from his cloak and he handed it over to the prisoner through the cell’s bars.
“Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure, ma’am.” Rubbish said shyly.
“I suggest that you do not linger too much, but before you go I have a gift for you.” She touched the boy’s head and he felt a tingling sensation all over his body. When she was done she said, “Now no one who sees you shall ever call you Rubbish again. From this day you shall be known as Michael, a name that befits a brave, young man of your stature.”

Michael and Irene made their way home safely through the king’s dingy dungeons and to their merry surprise they found Irene’s house returned to its original spot. It also seemed that the house had acquired some weight along the way. Inside they found a note from Hermes demanding a month’s supply of good wine to be delivered to Mount Sometimes Holy for the favour and the swift return of the helm of Aïdes. In the days that followed Michael thought much about that strange lady in Ramsey’s dungeon and he hoped that all was well with her.

Alas, the story of Michael’s quest to the light house and back again must I end here for now. There were many adventures that followed and many of them included that strange lady Michael encountered in Ramsey’s dungeon. I am told by my sources that her name was Palesa, which means flower in one on the tongues of the South.

Galápagos

I was randomly watching late night TV when I came across a BBC series called Galápagos. What caught my attention was the enchanting narration by a voice of a woman who was born to tell epic stories. It turns out the narrator is Tilda Swinton, who plays the White Witch in The Lion, the Witch and Wardrobe. The islands and their inhabitants are beautiful and deadly at the same time. The islands have been called hell on earth and so on but the life that flourishes on them is just amazing. The Galápagos are a place that every man, woman and dog must visit at some point in their lives.
Here are cool pics from Wikipedia:














*All images from:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Galapagos_Islands

March On

This post is dedicated to all of my goodbuddies :), even though most of you don’t read my blog – you bast1ds ;) Maybe one day when I am dead and some of you guys are still kickin’ it strong you’ll be digging through the archives and stumble upon this post. To all my friends, from people I’ve been with me for years to that one person I just said hello to on the bus this morning, I love you guys like mad (but I still reserve the right to hate your guts if you behave like a chode – a word which here means jerk).

Never again will a single story be told as though it’s the only one. – JOHN BERGER (Epigraph to Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things)

It makes me feel fuzzy inside when I see my friends doing awesome things that make them happy.

Sleuth, with help from Dean, put together a respectable PC (from my point of view anyway) and he has been gaming the days away. His supply of games is drawing to an end though because he plays 24/7.

Dean got himself a new graphics card and he’s got some major plans for upgrades throughout next year. The dude’s playing Crysis and having a good time of it. He’s also getting into the local rock scene and he’s planning to attend a few gigs and, naturally, I’ll be tagging along.

Last time I spoke to Anouk she was having boy trouble and not listening to my sage advice because she felt like being stubborn. Get yourself sorted dear girl! Just hook up with H. and see where it leads you. Here’s the mantra: how will we know if we just don’t try?

Sleuth and I hung out with Katie yesterday and dragged her around campus showing her what the student life is all about. It’s not as glamorous as all the poems say ;) Katie is doing well at work and she got a promotion a month or so back. Respect to the woman.

I hung out with M’Jackknife last week and the man’s having a tough time with accounting. It’s your own fault buddy; you should have studied medicine like you were planning in High School. You’re my most disappointing friend of the day ntanga (I’m getting you Fight Club for Christmas; maybe Tyler Durden can talk some sense into you.

To the rest of my goodbuddies: keep the faith strong :) *Live it up to the best of your ability and make sure your strand gets woven into the great human tapestry.

*Just to clarify, my definition of ‘live it up’ is reading as many books as you can and lying under as many trees as you can – that’s why God invented trees and people make paper from trees after all.

International Translation Day

Listen up guys and gals, you’re about to get an education ;)

I bet none of you knew that the 30th of September was International Translation Day. The theme for this year was “Terminology: Words Matter”. After spending some time with postmodernist texts that whispered language fails to convey meaning in my ears it was quite refreshing to step back into a world where words mean. When it comes to the beauty and power of words I’m an inhabitant of Middle-Earth where speaking words can sometimes unleash great power. There is even a patron saint of translation! His name was Eusebius Sophronius Hieronymus, but you can simply call him St. Jerome. He translated the Old Testament from Hebrew into Latin and the New Testament from Greek into Latin. I imagine he was a charming gentleman and legend has it that he removed a thorn from a lion’s paw. The Department of Linguistics and Literary Theory hosted a workshop presented by Wilna Liebeberg on the 29th of September to commemorate the day and all us 3rd year student got to attend. Even though the talk on how to start your own freelance translation or editing practice was irrelevant to us at this moment in time I enjoyed it. During the break I got to speak to a very friendly gentleman named Jerry Ngubane who runs his own translation freelance practice and makes a comfortable living from it :) It was a cool experience being a room full of professional language practitioners and laughing at how childish they are at times.

Check out the South African Translators’ Institute and the International Federation of Translators to see what the hype’s about :)

Underoath Concert

Charlie went to his first rock show and he was totally blown away! We (Sleuth, Dean and I) watched some local bands perform when we got there and I was instantly hooked. I always thought that live music was the suck but when you’re there and your heart is pumping along to the music and there is sweat flying all over the stage you just have to shut up, appreciate and let the music move you. The venue, Bell’s Sundowner, was very intimate so the music was in-your-face live! We almost sacrificed Sleuth to the ancient powers of rock by nearly throwing him into the bonfire they had going there but, as per his usual self, the man was too slippery.

When Underøath came on stage the crowd just went animalistic and you could just feel the awesome vibes oozing from everyone. When they played To Whom It May Concern I knew that this is what I came for. They played quite a number of my favourite tunes like Writing on the Walls, which I sang so loud the girl next to me gave me a perplexed look; they played Desperate Times, Desperate Measures and when they played You’re Ever So Inviting everyone just lost the last of the marbles they had to spare. After we all screamed loud enough to get the band back for two more songs some madman decided to get on the stage and jump into the crowd but he fell on an unsuspecting girl :( The band was nice enough to stop playing and Spencer (the lead singer) asked if people were okay before they carried on again. Spencer (who has a very Captain Jack Sparrow madness to him) kept spitting water into the crowd, which I thought was awesome and I got some on my face :) Only at a rock concert can one get excited about being spat on. We were quite close to the stage and Tim (lead guitar) touched my hand for a nanosecond and that stoked me out like crazy. James (rhythm guitar) is the only chilled dude in Underøath, he was playing pretty close to me and where all the other members were going mad onstage he was just super mellow. Aaron (drums/clean vocals) was quite far back on the stage and I couldn’t hear him all that well but it’s all good. I never had a drop of alcohol but when I left I was drunk on rock.




I really enjoyed the concert and my only regret was that Underøath didn’t play Too Bright To See Too Loud Hear, I can just imagine the crowd clapping and chanting, “Good God! Can You still get us home...?” I would have died and went home, straight to Heaven.




Shout out @ Dean: Goodbuddy, thank you for orchestrating the event. Much respect to you :)

Defining My Great Line

I’ve heard it said that the years you spend at university are the ones that mould your character and define how you will live your life in the ‘real’ world. For me, personally, it seems to be true. The last three years have been the most turbulent in my relatively short stay on this planet. I’ve been lonely, sad and heartbroken. I’ve fallen in love only to think that it might not have been love, after all, I’ve tried to find out where I fit into society and I’ve lived outside of society when I felt I didn’t belong. I’ve known joy that made my heart soar, I’ve had laughs with good friends and I’ve accumulated, what seems to me, vast amounts of knowledge. The most concise way in which I can summarize the last three years is: life happens.

In an interview, Christopher Dudley from the band, Underøath said about their album, Define the Great Line, “[Y]ou just have to find that line and that way to live your life". I can’t agree more. I think I’ve come to a point where I’ve found that line, I know how I want to live my life and now I have to step up to the plate. My life is a tad bit strange but that’s what makes me love it something fierce. Like Odd Thomas, I’m something of an oddity and that is the quality that keeps me on my toes – my life is exciting enough to keep me alert and quiet enough to make me feel serene.

Tonight I’m going to see Underøath with Dean and Sleuth and as you can imagine it’s all rather exciting. Hopefully “[a]t the end of the road [I]'ll find what [I]'ve been longing for ”. The camera on my cellphone is pretty sucky but I’ll take pics anyway and post them on Monday or something :)

Remember: life happens ;)

Answering This Calling

And when the Lord saw that he turned aside to see, God called him out of the midst of the bush and said, Moses, Moses! And he said, here am I. – Exodus 3: 4

I’ve been hearing the call to start my journey home and like Niggle I’ve been procrastinating and loafing about with the silly notion in my head that it can be put off. If I was to be president of South Africa for one day [the 19th of October for example ;)] I’m pretty sure the country would suffer irreparable damage that would make people think the current administration to be divine ministers of justice.

The scariest thing I do on a daily basis is say to God, “Thy will be done.” As Narnians point out, “Aslan is not a tame lion.” One never knows what He might do to you. He starts out by fixing the leak in your roof and if you don’t stop Him, He starts fixing all sorts of things you never knew were broken and because He sees the bigger picture He breaks all sorts of things in order to make space for new ones. I’m scared of this and I don’t like it one single bit – like my destructive habits.

God worked discreetly, and in the ways that pleased Him. It had pleased Him that the Children of Israel should sweat and strain under the Egyptian yoke for generations. It had pleased Him to send Joseph into slavery, his fine coat of many colors ripped rudely from his back. It pleased Him to allow visitation of a hundred plagues on hapless Job, and it pleased Him to allow His only Son to be hung up on a tree with a bad joke written over His head. – The Stand, Stephen King

I imagine that Joseph learned the lessons of humility and forgiveness thoroughly in his time as a slave, in jail and then seeing his brothers again. Joseph was not perfect and God, through hardships, raised him up pretty damn close to the standard. But Jesus was (and is) perfect, so perfect in fact that He came down from Heaven to be the sacrifice for our sins by suffering unspeakable agonies on Calvary. Peter Kreeft repeatedly points out that Jesus came to set the standard for us and that His suffering was not an exception to the ‘rules’ of Christianity. If Christianity requires that you give your life for people who spit at you, you give your life without complaint. Thus, every time I say to God, “Thy will be done.” I say it with fear and trembling. What I’m really saying in my heart of hearts is, “Thy will be done” if it does not include pain, suffering, sacrifice, humiliation and a host of other unpleasant things. But count me in on the milk and honey parts, I’ll roll with that. I’m being silly, there is no place in the universe where God allows people into His kingdom without having faced the trial of living in this universe where you might get stabbed, hugged, shot, kissed, pelted with rocks or showered with love. With so many other people with the same free will you have about just about anything might happen. All one has to do is to keep on walking the narrow path that leads home.

With great consideration I’ll choose the path to follow
I’ll pick up my sadness, madness and new-found gladness
And together we’ll walk down that winding path
Singing our tuneless song into the sunset - Young Man Going West

I’ve been feeling overwhelmingly sad at the meanness, spitefulness, pettiness, bickering and stupidity of human beings of late and so I dedicate this post to all the wonderful people I come across in my life. Thank you for touching my heart.

Dean (bestbuddy): No worries about life, let’s stay chilly and enjoy the ride because the best is yet to come. On the 26th we’ll go see Underøath and totally party it up :)

Sleuth: You’re my rock k1d. Respekt!

Anouk: I don’t like that I get to see so little of you :( You make me laugh with your stories about Hermie and Emo Guy. The fact that you talk more than me still perplexes me :?

Leigh (most beloved of friends): If you weren’t already taken I’d marry you. If I was limited to just one friend at varsity it would be you. I’m keeping you in my life forever and there’s nothing you can do about it, you great big lunatic.

Lydia: Even though you’re a girl you’re my boy.

M’jackknife: Hola ntwana!

Tshepiso: Hey bro’ :) I miss you dawg. I hope your gynaecology studies are going well, you great big perv ;)

Sinqobile (lil’ girl): Hugs all the way from Jozi to Cape Town.

Catharine (Katie): Sometimes you and Raycene weird me out but it’s all good.

Raycene: You’re a mad person who asks me too many questions for which I have no answers :) You’re like a younger sibling on crazy pills.

Zay: I’ll bring the movies I promised you. Please don’t bash me ;)

Lulama: When are we going to the pub so you can buy me a beer?

To the semi-sweet sipping peeps of ol’ school: Graqa, T-Bash and Lee – I miss you okes :)

Through the Eyes of the Observer

I wrote this poem two years ago and now it reminds me of Randall Flagg from Stephen King's The Stand and of my goodbuddy Super Sleuth :)

Young, silent observer
In social circles he stands reserved
He is part of all, but not
Jotting down notes with his elegant flowing mind script
Always adding to his intelligence supreme
Like a journalist in a war zone he can do nothing
Nothing but record the terrors
Taking note of human errors
Always adding to his heavily guarded vault of infinite intelligence
Observe is all he can do
It is no fault of his
He seems without feeling
Emotionally void
Grey-eyed ghost
Hands stuffed in pockets of faded blue jeans
He scours rodent-inhabited streets
To add to his already extensive library of thought
His presence paradox, phantom but not
His lips dry like the arid Kalahari from the lack of use
In the shroud of city death the grey-eyed phantom stands
Unseen, listening, jotting down and storing in a box
That might one-day spill all the secrets of life under a cranium saw

“Why do you just stand there?” I dare to ask
No reply
Just a penetrating silver glare

Blood begins to fall from a wounded sky
Drops fall like crimson jewels
He stares at the bleeding sky, emotions from the dawn of time finally stirred
Platinum tears hit the blacktop with unheard plops
He falls to the ground on his knees, arms skinny and limp at his sides
“Father, why?”
He asks in a parched tone

"The Lord said, ‘I was ready to answer my people’s prayers, but they did not pray. I was ready for them to find me, but they did not even try. The nation did not pray to me, even though I was always ready to answer ‘Here I am, I will help you’."

Spring Has Sprung

Spring has sprung. The sun is shining, birds are singing and the grand theme of the day is rebirth. People are refreshed from hibernating in winter and they’re rocking their summer threads – I’ve been seeing short skirts and legs that go on for kilometers this morning – and steaming cups of java have been replaced by cans of Coke :)

Winter is always hard on my skinny frame so I’m quite happy that it’s over. I feel like a new dude; it’s like I’ve died, decomposed and been reborn in the compost heap of my former self as something bursting with God-given life.

I wish all you lunatics out there sunny days of glory :)

P.S. This post is dedicated to Tamsin Mackay, former editor of PC Format.

Too Much Green To Feel Blue

Coffee first thing in the morning is not the best idea, I'm sitting here with caffeine surging through my body and as a result I'm one messed up dude this morning. I spent the whole weekend reading three books at more or less the same time because I'm really not into delayed gratification. I feel like my brain has been hijacked by three totally different plots and I keep muttering lines from The Stand about the Walkin' Dude coming to get me and I see vast cornfields in my head that just refuse to go away. My zombie state and the pile of work that looms ahead of me this week aside I'm one happy dude because the sun is shining again. Winter wears me down. Everything's in bloom so a jolly green day to all :)

Life

Rush headlong and hard at life
Or just sit at home and wait.
All things good and all the wrong
Will come right to you: it's fate. – The Book of Counted Sorrows

I’m sitting here and reading through some of these posts and my goodness! At times I’m such a dramatic lunatic. I remind myself of the guy in Asterix and Obelix who always thinks the sky is falling. I spoke to two people this morning who think that all bloggers are narcissistic people who think that they are really clever. All bloggers do, according to these two sources (who are Honours students in Philosophy I might add), is sit around philosophising about silly things. Looking at this blog they might have a point, most of these posts scream I’m so cool and everyone else is so strange… yak, yak, yak, I’m so misunderstood. I’ve been told to get a life a number of times in my er… well… "life", everyone else has one. Lives are apparently mass produced and sold on every street corner on the planet. One size fits all. I think I’ll take a yellow one; it reminds me of SpongeBob. I’ll bother venturing out of my head and taking my new life for a spin. I can’t seem to find the seatbelt on this thing though… you’d think that at a speed of 24 hours a day a seatbelt would come standard.

Lost in the Cosmos, Project Enlightenment

This morning it finally hit me. Lo! And behold; illumination! For the past few years I've had a problem with the reality that is people and objects. I could never understand why life just kept happening. Whenever I'd hear people complain about one trivial thing or the other I'd think Dude! You're worried about the colour of your socks in a universe such as dangerous as ours. I always felt like some great pretender when I went about my daily business. Making coffee in the morning never felt real. I mean, what profound meaning is there behind making coffee? Now that I think about it, making coffee is riddled with meaning... Napoleon Hill told me this way back in high school but I think we can all safely conclude that I am a dummy. When I stand there making coffee and thinking about what my plans for the day are I'm enjoying the sweat of many brows; the people who plant the coffee beans, the people who package the coffee, the people who ship the coffee, my mother who earns the money to buy the coffee and so on. What does this all mean? I have no clue but I could go on about the intertwined destinies of all these sweating brows if someone was holding me at gunpoint and I had to say something to save my skin. Okay, I'll just shut up and smile because I'm just talking trash right now :)

The Grand Wizard

This post is dedicated entirely to the strangest and most wonderful person I know, my dear friend, Lex Luth. I'm a tad bit strange but if there was a category for strangeness in the Olympics between the two of us ol' Lex Luth would most definitely take the gold home with him. Everyone I know has some sort of expectation that I try to live up to; when I speak to my mother I think okay this is my mother, I have to behave in this manner and when I'm with other friends of mine I think okay this is what is expected from me. This is probably a shortcoming that can be attributed to me but when I hang out with Luth life becomes almost surreal. I can talk to Luth about a dragon for hours on end. Seriously. We'll sit there and discuss dragons in great detail, we'll talk about their scales, claws, wings and the fire that they breath and anyone walking by and catching snippets of our conversation might suspect the use of drugs. This is a wonderful quality of Luth, I think, the ability to just absorb everything and to keep up with any of my many fantastical thoughts. We never discuss 'real' things much when we're hanging out, our talks always take place in some realm of Faerie where great wizards wield powerful magic. What makes Luth so wonderful is that he is a traveller in all the realms of Faerie. He spends the majority of his time exploring these realms and like the grand wizard that he is he never imposes his will on any of the inhabitants or objects there, which is why the people of Faerie always welcome him. He is not a conqueror hellbent on conquest but rather he is the sort of guest who shows up at a doorstep and though he is uninvited one is pleased that he came at all. He is ever the unexpected guest that one always has room for in your house. It is said by some sects that you should always be courteous because you might just be in the company of angels. I believe that when you are with Luth you are in the company of a great wizard. There is no way that Luth is a native of this world. Though he does not know it he must come from one of the realms of Faerie. Of this I am certain.

The Ol' Ball and Chain

We have a weight to carry
and a distance we must go.
We have a weight to carry,
a distination we can't know.
We have a weight to carry
and can put it down nowhere.
We are the weight to carry
from there to here to there. - The Book of Counted Sorrows

It's like the title of Escape the Fate's song, Dragging Dead Bodies In Blue Bags Up Really Long Hills; all one does the whole day is drag around, in my case, 65 kilograms of flesh, blood, guts, bones, water and stuff - it's quite terrible and very funny really. It's also like the Greek myth of Sisyphus in a way, all he does is push a rock up and down a mountain for eternity and people like Samuel Beckett will tell you that that is the lot of mankind. Everyone I know consciously loves their meat suit but the subconscious is a different matter all together; people smoke, drink, get high on banana peels (this is actually possible I'm told) and drive their cars really fast down really long hills because it's fun they say. In a way it's pretty morbid how we kill ourselves bit by bit everyday and then we turn around and tell people not to jump off of buildings. It's the plank in the eye story all over again.

Magic

I propose to write a short piece about magic and the nature of magic both in our world and in worlds beyond our own of which we sometimes catch a glimpse in the work of various authors who have written accounts of their visits to those wonderful countries. Before venturing any further I need to define what magic is and how I plan to make use of the term. If you were to refer to Peter Kreeft he might tell you that magic and technology are similar in their vision of progress. Technology means instant everything and magic (in a Faustian context) meant turning lead into gold in an effort to satiate man’s greed. This, though, is not the sort magic that I wish to speak of. The one thing that one has to understand about magic from the onset is that like gravity you can use it to work for you or against you. Like all good things evil can pervert it and use it in a mocking fashion but that is about all. J.R.R Tolkien noted this fact; when magic is wielded for the benefit of others it can be used to, in the term that Tolkien uses, sub-create. In a letter Tolkien refers to in On Fairy Stories he wrote:

“Although now long estranged,
Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
Dis-graced he may be, yet is not de-throned,
and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned:
Man, Sub-creator, the refracted Light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind.
Though all the crannies of the world we filled
with Elves and Goblins, though we dared to build
Gods and their houses out of dark and light,
And sowed the seed of dragons – ‘twas our right
(used or misused). That right has not decayed:
we make still by the law in which we’re made.”

Man is like Hagrid, the half-giant in the Harry Potter books, who had his wand broken but continues to wield it in secret when no one is looking. Man wields the magic to sub-create art that is so beautiful that it tugs at the heart strings of his peers. This sort of magic is simply as Peter Kreeft puts it, "the magic worked by our souls". Our ability to sub-create stems from a certain magic "that is worked upon our souls" though. Every single beautiful thing that man creates is inspired by a power he does not understand though that power knows him through and through. I think of artists as wizards who specialize in different fields, like the wizards in Terry Goodkind’s Sword of Truth series. Some artists are prophets, some are healers and others are war wizards. I watched Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children yesterday and in it I found magic that did marvelous work on my soul. All the epic stories whether they are Eastern, Western or African tell the same story: they all tell of the war between good and evil. That is the drama of our lives. With the little pixie dust that is given to us we sub-create great art to remind us of the ongoing war between good and evil. The best magic, I think, is the sort of magic that goes unnoticed. In one of the Sword of Truth books Zedd (if my memory serves me well) explains the role of wizards in a war to Richard. Wizards on both sides of the conflict always seem as if they have no effect because their magic reaches an equilibrium, the one side works magic to counter the other's magic and then tries to slip a spell past their defences until an equilibrium is reached and the men at arms can fight it out. But if the one side fails to maintain the balance one witnesses the destruction that magic can cause in a battle. Real magic is something like this, it works for people without them ever noticing its presence but if if it were to stop working the repercussions would be felt immediately. In The Matrix, the Oracle notes that we never notice the programmes that do their job, but you always hear of those that are not doing what they are supposed to.

There is also the magic that can be found in nature; the magic of trees, lightning, the ocean, the roar of a lion. This magic is so awe-inspiring that pagan societies fell down on their knees before the majesty of nature. With the invention of telescopes and spacecraft nature has become even more majestic. Even when you try to reduce the universe down to science it never ceases to astound. Sir Isaac Newton said:

"I do not know what I may appear
to the world; but to myself I
seem to have been only like a
boy playing on the sea-shore,
and diverting myself in now and
then finding a smoother pebble or
a prettier shell than ordinary,
whilst the great ocean of truth
lay all undiscovered before me."

The universe, multiverse or whatever you wish to call it is lined with mysterious magic that we sometimes capture in the beauty of art and thus I believe that artists are prophets of something so huge and beautiful that it would blind us to look at.

The Numinous

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in our philosophy. – Hamlet

The one book that is constantly on my mind at the moment is C.S. Lewis’ Till We Have Faces and Peter Kreeft’s talk thereon has me thinking about the central question that the book asks. This astounds me because when it comes to Christianity I am a simpleton – I simply believe. I am one of those people who do not need a concrete reason to believe (by which I mean I cannot present a convincing argument for my faith to a board of very rational people), I simply believe because in some indescribable way Christianity makes sense to me. Religion is difficult for anyone to practice but throughout human history it has been constant. The ancient civilizations looked upon the sun and the sea and felt the need to bow down to these forces because they were greatly moved by the majesty of nature. Everything in the universe shouts the existence of God so loudly that people who have never heard of Him feel the need to bow down to the things that symbolize Him. All religions stem from humans realising that there is some higher power that governs the affairs of man. All religions are like pictures of God by different artists and naturally some of the pictures are clearer than others. The central question that Till We Have Faces asks is this: “Why must holy places be dark places?" Why must religion be so mysterious? If I was a detective I would either be uncannily good at it or the worst detective in existence because I would primarily rely on my “sixth sense” to crack mysteries. The mystery of God is the same for me, I simply believe because in a strange way it makes sense to me. For other people, though, this is frustrating and they demand clear answers. The only thing I know is that, like C.S. Lewis says, Christianity is hard in many ways and very easy in many ways. Christianity is not an escape from earthly suffering it is simply the truth. Like Morpheus, Jesus only offers you the truth. In fact He, Himself, is the way, the truth and the life (John 14: 6). Zion is under siege and inside the city walls there is pain, bloodshed and sorrow. Christianity is like J.R.R. Tolkien notes of good fairy-stories in his essay, On Fairy Stories; it is a eucatastrophe – “the good catastrophe, the sudden joyous ‘turn’”. Our lives are ones of suffering but in Christ the shadow will pass to reveal infinite beauty and we will not know whether to laugh or to weep. We will be like Samwise Gamgee in the heaps of Mordor when he sees the white star twinkle for a moment and its beauty smites his heart and he realises that the shadow is a thing that must pass and that there is light and high beauty forever beyond its reach.

In a previous post titled, Life’s Wonderful, I said that all the really good stories that have ever made you so happy that you both wept and cried are more or less true and in his essay Tolkien agrees; there is no other story that is so wonderful that everyone would have it be true than Christianity and then Joy of all joys! It turns out to be really true.

People must believe what they can, and those who believe more must not be hard upon those who believe less. – George MacDonald

Knowing People

About two weeks ago my friend, Raycene, asked me if it is possible to really know people. I replied that one can learn to know people but only to a certain extent. The thing with people is that they are not very stable - they are like radioactive atoms just waiting to go berserk. I'm reading A Passage To India for my English Literature class and the same question popped up, this time in a different guise. Can human beings really know the world around them? The linguist, Ferdinand de Saussure, tells us that language is arbitrary and that the words we use to describe things are just random letters assigned to objects we wish to describe for the sake of convenience. A cat does not look like the letters C-A-T but when one sees the word cat the animal that it represents comes to mind. In this sense language is like an allegory for reality; words stand for real objects in the world. The primary tool that people have for interacting with the world and each other is language but the snag lies in the fact that we do not know anything other than language to describe ourselves and our world. Imagine standing in a cave and having an experience that shakes you to your foundations and trying to tell it to someone else. Words fail to truly capture what you felt, they simply fall short. We have nothing outside of language to work with or to critique language with. Humans and language, I think, cannot be independent of each other. Language can be regulated by people but it is also self-regulating. I can get, in my mind, a glimpse of someone else through language and I can give other people a glimpse of me by language. God gives us a glimpse of Himself in language, a way to get closer to Him. I thus figure that it is not possible to truly know every aspect of someone else or the universe in our current state. Every single person I know hardly know themselves. There comes a point where language is not enough, a point that requires a being to transcend. This whole business is like the arguments Job and Orual (in C.S. Lewis' Till We Have Faces) present before God and then they realise that language fails when one sees God face-to-face. Orual says: "I ended my first book with the words no answer. I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer would suffice? Only words, words; to be led out to battle against other words." I think that we cannot truly know ourselves, other people or the world in which we find ourselves in Till We Have Faces, we have to transcend above something that is not language. I personally believe that that something is God.