At 16

In the months leading up to my wedding, I observed a sort of ritualistic catharsis by reading through old diaries.

The entries, as one would expect, were a riot of cringe, funny, angst and pain.

It felt a bit odd going through each one, almost as if I was an intruder bearing witness to the life playing out on the pages.

Because I was so different then, but still so Saaleha.

I ended each quasi-voyeuristic reading by tearing up the pages. 

I was letting go to make space for new things.

However, like any wannabe godplaying wordsmith, I took notes. 

I never wanted to forget what 16 was like. 

Even though I'd grown beyond the insecurities and other mental blocks, it was an age ripe with what was to come.

Here are some of those notes, with a little careful editing to preserve some semblance of pride.

(I'm not sure why I tend to refer to myself in the collective, perhaps I'm spreading the loaded responsibility of what I write across all my personalities.)

--

At 16 we're emo. 

Dramatic. 

Over the top. 

Histrionic, theatrical. 

We overuse metaphor - bunjee jumping, precipice, mach 3, ground zero, sans parachute, plummeting.
We overuse words - pain, rejection, unrequited, dramatic, therapy, voices in my head.

We begin with new years resolutions for the year 2000-

• lose weight
  
• read namaaz
  
• read quraan
  
• study hard
  
• be disciplined
  
• make an effort not to miss school or madressah
  
• be more assertive - as headgirl and in everyday life.
  
• be neat
  
• learn how to drive
  
• talk less and listen more
  
• 'be there' for my friends
  
• refrain from gossiping and passing bitchy comments
  
• look upon everything and everyone as beautiful in their own way
  
• smile more
  
• be more understanding
  
• learn how to cook
  
• drink 8 glasses - more if possible- of water daily
  
• start an exercise routine and stick to it
  
• build up my self confidence
  
• finehone my writing skills - start a thought journal
  
• remember that folks are just folks and people are rarely intentionally nasty or stuck up
  
• don't be judgemental
  
• compliment at least one person daily
  
• don't be a doormat
  
• get up earlier
  
• be more helpful and considerate
  
• don't litter- don't be part of the problem, become the solution
  
• set an example
  
• lighten up
  
• save the world!
  

---
Death shocks the young - we wrote of a friend's passing, the regret and the lessons learnt - to not hurt each other because life is indeed short and the Almighty knows best.

We had self-esteem issues - never thought we were good enough or deserved the best. 

We seemed to prefer fantasy, living in that dream world. 

We learnt not to underestimate ppl or pass judgements.

"I like to write in pencil, easier to erase"

We thrived on unrequited love, the chase, the longing
We used to listen to 5fm while we wrote in our diaries, pencilling in the name of a computer college advertised, because we weren't quite sure where we fitted.
We had a crush on a boy.

We tended to vacillate -I love him, I cant believe I ever liked him, and on and on.
We were superficial.
We were terrified about the future. and being friendless and nameless.
We realised we were on the continuous search for The One, the elusive ideal.
We used to write for an imaginary audience that we obviously tried very hard to impress.
We realised we wanted to write. Really write. We wanted to inspire awe, be glorious and spellbinding.
We thought we hadn't suffered enough to write brilliantly.
Our fear was that we would waste our talent.
We feared being ignored.
We thought we were manic-depressive.

We met someone at a party. We thought he was amazing. We were swept up in the moment. We forgot what he looked like and made up a picture in our head when we spoke to him over the phone. We learnt soon that evening-time was a witch who liked practical jokes.
We panicked when he put his hand on our thigh during the longest trip home.
We cringed and we wanted to die.
We were horrified when we learnt he didnt like poetry.

We were more attracted to boys who didnt show any interest in us.
We often wrote about suspected psychological disorders.

We liked writing because it immortalised the ephemeral.
We liked using words like ephemeral.

We thought often of the One.
We didnt want a mirror of ourselves - someone who reflected our faults, shortcomings or virtues. We didnt want perfection.

We made the 'first move', and it was thrilling and scary.

We loved the power, the fact that we could make things happen.

We found out he liked another girl. She was pretty, funky and thin. For us this meant she was perfect, and better than us.
We liked his goofy laugh and smile, the dumb things he said, we admired his confidence.

We were afraid of commitment, afraid of solidifying things into concrete definition.
We didnt know if we were in love, only that we felt deeply.

We couldnt get over the fact that someone crushed back, that we were desirable.

Our last matric paper was Afrikaans. We were afraid of the changes that we'd see. 

We felt like we were losing something. We were afraid we'd never find friends like the ones we had.
"leave the sunshines of your past to face the fires of your futures" - something we wrote once.

Our weight was a 'heavy issue' - we intended all puns.
We realised we always fell for the goofiest, quirkiest characters.
For us, leaving school was like jumping off a very high cliff.

We learned that good can come from bad and that we learn from every life experience.

We were intrigued by the strange boy who'd come to the shop and stare at us.
We felt fat, unattractive, stupid and unfriendly.
We were whiney, yet we tried to inspire ourselves towards Better.
We realised we liked goofy quirky guys because they didnt intimidate us.
We were afraid of failing at varsity, of making the wrong friends or none at all, of losing ourselves.

We seemed to feel empty alot, We doubted whether we'd ever find the real thing.

We got our matric results - 4 As, 2Bs.
We got interviewed by Radio Islam because of this success.

Our insecurities concerned us. We wanted to be thin and pretty. We wanted fame and acknowledgement but were afraid of becoming conceited.
We didnt want to be a carbon copy, we didnt want mediocrity to swallow us.

---

Ennui Eyes

258.

That's how many blog posts I've pushed out since I got serious on this platform at the end of August 2005.

The sound the Most Prolific Blogger award makes is "whoosh-thik", as it clips me on the shoulder and soars past towards others worthier on my google reader.

Genesis

It was our Honours year. 2004.

Razina (now a perspicacious Fourth-Estater with the Financial Mail) and I (Jane-of-all-trades who does a bit of wordswork) skipped out of our Journalism Theory class, our heads full of Anton Harber-isms and this Blogging thing. 

Off to the post-grad computer labs to get in on the action and become the cyber-bastions of Truth, the wwwatchdogs of the State, the free voices giving voice to the voiceless, wadda wadda, all that stuff you write for the entrance applications.

The first blog I ever really got into was written by Reza in Canada. "Musing Over The Ontological Status of a Boiled Egg". With a title like that, sure, it's gonna grab me by my metaphorical cajones. It's defunct now, but you can still go through his archives. Brilliant stuff.

While setting up my blogger account, I stared at the hulking grey servers making fresh pasta of the data cables, and I thought, "Hmm...you know what, that looks a lot like electric spaghetti..."

I'm now a blogger!! k3wl!!

My first few posts were hardly the stuff of killer citizen journalism we were creaming ourselves over in class. A kitschy poem that rhymed (yeah, I used to do those) and a list of words I found interesting (I recall flocculent, being one of them). You could tell I was farting fairy dust at the time.

And blogging bored me. Mostly because no one read me (what did I know of link-baiting and comment-whoring then. I thought that if I built it, Google would make them come). So I left it to die a slow, stinky death.

The becoming.

Then this guy decided to turn his weekly Randeree-roundup email into a series of  blogposts. Suddenly, my blog was up on his link list, it was being read. I should've been elated right? Instead, I was horrified that friends and strangers would be reading the twaddle. I deleted everything, and put up a little spring-clean notice. It was time to decide what the blog should become. 

A space for me to write to keep the rust away.

And you know the rest

Personal observations. Me, without too much me. Rare bits of social commentary. Travel stories. Ad-jamming. Obscurities. Little things I do in Photoshop and InDesign. Fun with 419-ers. Monologues. Trying to be a bit clever and fancy with the words. Amusements. A real salmagundi, the phenotype of what it's like in my head sometimes.

Ennui eyes?

It could be due to my current frustrations career-wise, that I find this blogging thing iffy and blehsome of late. I'm easily annoyed at people who poo-poo ponitificate all over the place (and I've used that term in conversation with at least two friends so far). I'm irritated by the judgements I see cast, the idiocy that gets the approved sticker from quality control and an undiscerning audience. I can't stand the sheer amount of inane convoluted verbiage (and I use that word ironically) that's out there. 

I don't want to feed into this.

I wasn't always like this. This critical, this angsty.

So I guess, I'm saying I'm just tired and a little jaded.

And maybe I need to eat more soya beans.

Day One

It was hard for me to bask in a spiritual infusion today, when my brain must’ve been trying to escape through my eye sockets, for all the pain I blinked back.

Hello Caffeine Dependency, you are such a bastard.

A website I was working on had its database eaten by some e-tokoloshe.

That translated into two full days of work having to be compressed into a couple of quicksand hours in order for us not to look like inept fools should some client surf over. This excluded the two hours of downtime we experienced due to the power being cut-off because someone was having a Marie Antoinette moment down at the municipality.

It takes a strong person to not want to smash up the internet and unleash an inner Gustav on anyone within arms reach.

I am not a strong person.

I tried to smile, and I failed.

The frustration and the physical fatigue gave my aura the brown-colour wash of a party-pooper. I could see relief iron out the wrinkles on my boss’ face when I asked to leave early.

I admit the juggling is a feat and I’m trying very hard to keep work, pray and kitchen in smooth circles up in the air.

But this is only Day One. I have an entire month (and beyond) to work out my arms.

And there is something truly magic and complete about breaking your fast with someone who builds your world.

The not-quite-Ramadaan-greetings post (updated)

The best e-card site ever (ever!) has come up with a range of messages just for Ramadaan.
As these have been conceptualised in line with their usual facetious-tongue-on-dockers-clad-butt-cheek offerings, do not send on to people who take themselves too seriously.

They've also introduced a create-your-own e-card function which, as evident below, I thoroughly abused last night.

(As kids, we'd call people who didn't keep their fasts 'kotchcows'. I don't know the etymology behind this one)

chipping the block

I did it.

My first one ever.

Not a paragraph, not a character sketch, not amputated dialogue, but a whole story. One thousand four hundred fifty five words worth.

It's rough I know, it's still in first draft. It's simplistic, there's undeveloped characters, sparse dialogue, inconsistencies, mixed up tenses, bad grammar, probably a million holes and it doesn't have a title, but I don't care. It may have a face only a mother would love, but this is huge for me. I've never finished a piece of fiction before.

Thank you 5g33k for being such a fucking nag of a muse, couldn't have done it without you Genius.

Read the piece here.

And yes, I want to know what you think. Pat on the head or evisceration, I welcome all feedback.

*July09/08 edit* Have since removed the link for some official purposes. Thanks for all the feedback guys, it's been taken in to consideration for the final edit.

Just for tricks

A little game to play on those days when your triplo espresso isn't quite cutting it and other homo-sapiens suddenly look like they'd make a good first course (with lemon-pepper marinade and an accompaniment of fava beans).

When asked - "That's so unusual. What does your name mean?" - respond with random combinations of subject, verb, object. Your statements do not need to follow through logically. In fact, logic is besides the point.

In practice:
you - "Oh my name? Well, in [insert vernacular here] it means..."

possible responses -

"She who walks with the ducks"
"She who farts in the dark"
"She who is praised by the monkey-people"
"She who flies with the ants"
"She who is revered by those who revere the ones who are revered."
"She who is what she is when she's not something else"
"She who will hail the Annanuki" [queen_Lestat edit - annUnAki]

etc.

happy day.

I'm not feeling lucky...

... hence the need for GoogleLife.
Mountain View, are you listening?
GoogleLife: A pocketable widget that uses whatever holy algorithm you internet overlords conjure, to offer up search results for lost time and my car radio's removable face-thingie. Ideally, it should automatically index Life during sleep and be totally ad-free.

Kinda like This, but better than beta.

Tuesday tchotchkes

- Getting the mobile and macbook acquainted. Involved some power-googling, breaking out the blue-teeth and a bit of gentle persuasion in the form of scripting but it's obvious to anyone who'll see, they are soul-mates.

- Sky-tripping, road-running, contiki yippie ka yay. The Munshi's and I will bring a lil mzansi into the european equation, come June 25. Details to follow as soon as that pesky schengen gets sorted.

- Crazy housemate got evicted. No, seriously, ta-na-nas, as in medically certified (that, and 'They' were out to get her). Too much manic paranoia and there were whispers she'd been stealing the cheese. Big misunderstanding since I was the thieving so and so. That fact aside, some arcane incident involving tupperware and fruit juice proved to be the proverbials that led to a massive showdown in the communal lounge. I kinda miss her though. I didn't mind her exploding teabags in the microwave and she had that endearing quality of batty that made me feel like I wasn't alone in the world.

- Kewl words I'm looping until they just sound stupid - kaizen, ukase, argot.

voices from behind

Composed: Wednesday, January 4, 2006,
Delivered: Monday, March 5, 2007

Dear FutureMe,
Unless he's in your life, he better be out of your head.

It's the feeling you get when you come across an old diary. You wonder what foreign tongue dribbled its ink in slashes and dashes here; the ascenders and descenders wiggling in sanskrit-samba on the page. You hold the paper within sticking distance of your contact lenses, as if mere proximity will decipher this marriage of rambling thought and tactility. And this for the next page and each page after.
Strange, the stranger one becomes as years tack off.
Invite a you from every year to a party, expect the room to spin with the eclectic meld of personality and characters.

And it was like this when an email from the past dropped into my gmail.
Saaleha circa early 2006.
Evidently, this chick had some issues at the time.
And when I read what "I" wrote back then, one of the voices in my head riposted, "eh?".
And the others guffawed when the memory-dam breached. "Oh. that."
(Embarrassed silence amplified in the little-monarchy-in-my-head)

And the fifty-cent epiphany:
The things we lose sleep over now, are the things we won't dream about in the future.
All will come to pass, even the issues that look set to fail us.

capsule roadtrip (mafikeng)

There’s something about a 300km stretch of tar.

Something about the road that pulls at you to start pulling together.

And that’s what happens on the N14 from Krugersdorp, all the way through to Ventersdorp and the R503 pass Coligny and Lichtenburg on the route to Mafikeng.

You pull together.

Just me, Duritz and De La Rocha (who screams in an oracle of irony, “Fuck the police,” just as I drive pass a hoot of speed cops on the roadside.)

Just me and a long way ahead

The Aveo chews kilometres at a rate she never dreamt when her rubber smacked the streets of the city. But out here, her voice breaks, and she croons like a lounge singer to her audience of enquiring sunflowers who could not tear their faces away.

And while Aveo is seduced by the way she’s been allowed to stretch out on this country route, the mind of a lone driver charts its own course, looking forward, back and where I’m at.

And on that road to Mafikeng, one realises that there’s lots to pull together.

So between the RATM and Counting Crows, old risks are weighed up against each other, their consequences lined up like dominoes arranged to form the face of Elvis.
A finger nudge, tik tik tik tik….
I count the number of times on one hand. I will nudge again.

The edges of some parts of the road looked like they’d been masticated by a tar-monster on a bulimic binge. It was only suddenly, when static washed out Duritz telling me that Richard Manuel is dead, and the rooibos-bred voice on the traffic station floods out my speakers, that I wonder if I entered an alternate dimension when I passed that roadside stall selling “Tamaties!!!*”
I drive on with my fingers melted securely to the steering wheel, generating reservations about the innocence of the seed bars I ate earlier. The traffic voice stops its loop about the backup on the N1 and the trouble with the traffic lights near Booysens. Duritz displaces the weird energy left behind by the strange intrusion, “And what brings me down now is love, Cause I can never get enough.” Sing on man. I pull together.

Priced to go...

I park at a garage rest stop where the signs proclaim the toilets to be clean. I order a cup of coffee at the take-away. “Percolated?” they ask which confirm my suspicions that I’d entered into the bizzarro space-time continuum at the padstaal* with the histrionic tomatoes.
“Yah, that’s fine,” I say, hearing the crackly jingle, “Ricoffy, fresh percolated taste” ricochet in my head disturbingly. I wonder when they’ll start calling it filter coffee in these parts.
What I receive tastes like ditchwater that’s been strained through two layers of dirty dishcloths and nuked for good measure.
So much for percolated I think as I empty the blasphemous abomination out onto the lawn. It’s so vile, I forget about any ants encountering the liquid and mutating.

And I’m on the road again, carding my thoughts, making neat piles of things as I pass a small dam, its water reflecting scatters of the sun, so pretty and sparkly.

The drive is longer still and I start thinking about the people in my life especially the one whose eyes crinkle up at the corners when they smile and the thought of whom leaves me with a warmth and tenderness I can not title.

I pull together until the sign ahead reads Mafikeng.
The woman at the guest house offers to take me to the halaal steers. Those questionable seed bars ingested earlier were about as substantial as eating clouds.
She can see I’m hungry enough to devour anything in an unladylike manner.

Every sentence out of her fastens to a close with a ribbon of “mm” or “aah”. The next day I find this to be a general idiosyncrasy of town’s inhabitants. It’s such a distinctive “mm” conveying agreement and consideration in just that one sound, Mmabatho*.

In the afternoon I pensivate my route back to the city.

There’s just something about a 300km stretch of tar.
It pulls at you to pull together.

---

*tomatoes
*roadside stall
*an area part of Mafikeng.

Das Kapital revisited

With global trends charting an acceleration towards Merger and Conglomeration, there is no longer an "I" in Capitalism.