seriaas?

So being the silly poenani I am, I have thought about this a lot so please bear with me – a lot ok – but I think when you travel, the people you meet on the way and how you can be anyone or anything you want is the clincher.

Look, I love making new friends from weird and wonderful places. If they speak a foreign language, even better. But I love it. So maybe this is why meeting these types while discovering another world is just too much fucking fun for mere words.

People not travelling: rank how rocking your car is, your job, who you KNOW, where you were educated, if you’re married, as priorities and status symbols. Not that this is wrong, because where we’ve developed roots and a place called ‘home’, is where this shit matters.

But I think I prefer the priorities traveller’s tend to adopt. That usual stuff doesn’t matter so much anymore, and you get happy very quickly.

Especially in places like France where it matters that you own good wine and eat around a table everyday, celebrating food and siestas. No one gives a continental that you drive a clapped-out piece of junk Renault 5, even if you live in a castle in the Loire Valley. Your wine collection makes you a millionaire.

When you travel no one gives a fuck that you’ve just bought a new Audi or if you’re CEO of an international pool pump company, specialising in patented suction control.

One of the reasons I ran away to South America was because no one has pre-conceived ideas about anyone. No one has agendas or gives a toss about them. I left out where I worked and that I’d just launched a novel as much as I could. I was just me, all that other stuff aside.
Travellers really seem to care about where you’ve been, where you’re going, and where you’re from. In fact all conversations started off exactly like that:

“Where’re you from then.”
South Africa. [Soth Efrika. They think your ekksent is cute when you speak. That’s a first]
Americans: Where’s that.
Brits: Oh yeah? Was finking of going to see Tabletop Mountain on my next olliday.
“Where’ve you come from.”
Mendoza.
“So what did you fink of the place, I din’know… I was pretty hammered and passed out in a vineyard and Freddie ran off wiff me hostel card.”

They care where you’re going to next. Most were travelling around the continent for months, some even a year, on end.
“You off to Columbia after this?”
Actually, I’m going back to work.
“Aw mate that suckkkkks more than a bag fulla cocks.”

But you can also be whoever you want. Or, if you’ve had to live up to expectations your whole life, you can simply be yourself.
Back when I backpacked Europe, my mate and I thought it would be sooooo funny to tell people we were from Northern Guatemala. Why the north, beats me. Lame.com.

But I mean seriously: you can walk into a hostel and if someone happens to ask what you do eventually, you can say: “You know the circus? I’m the freak show. I have an act and everything.”
And once you’ve said they can only see your official act, endorsed by Boswell Wilkie Esquire, is if they get you 8 jaegermeisters.
Then you won’t care if you cut shapes to Whitney Houston on a table in a hamburger suit AND juggle at the same time AND pretend you’re Eric Cartman from Southpark.

And people are generally happy and carefree when they travel. Or otherwise very philosophical, because they’re in the throes of finding themselves and stuff.

But the main point I think I’m trying to make here, is that bottom line: you learn not to take yourself too seriously. Yourself, others, or anything. We forget easily though, once we’re back in the rat race and the stress envelopes us. Suddenly everything is dire and hectic, intense and all-consuming. So my little March resolution is to remember to chill, and not to take myself too seriously. It’s only life after all. Am trying, it’s my new personal challenge.

Annnnnyway. Was thinking about that last night, nursing a pilates-elasticated hamstring, before I settled in with the Josef Fritzl book. I’m on the chapter which describes how he engineered the bunker. Eight doors with their own remote control system.
It’s. Fucked. Up.

If evil was tangible, then this type of evil has its own driver’s license.

caffeine shakes

Yesterday, I somehow managed to spend, yeah at a coffee shop and all that, but some adequate time with my new Coffee Friend. Four hours, in fact. That's a lot of coffee.
Shitters! I have either developed a crazy caffeine habit (God, these cappuccino's are so underrated. I used to get a jones for tequila, but now it's a good cup of Joe with froth on the top), or I've met a lovely person in the process, while balancing a growing caffeine addiction.

I lay on the couch last night with a friggin' heating pad on my lower back. Granny was half-crippled by nightfall, I think due from untimely duress.
Luckily Grey's Anatomy bought some light-hearted entertainment in light of Seth Green (cool cameo dude) bursting an artery right onto Meredith's unassuming sister, who'd just been fucked over by Alex.

Good times. Grey's never fails to entertain and thought provoke, on some shallow level, at any rate.

(Except the blood was a bit icky and all that.)

The Dove and I are proceeding with our series writing. She wanted to write a movie, but I think that might involve too much structure and plot analysis. And after mein buch, I think a series is far more doable and perhaps not too time-consuming in light of other career stuff.

We're going to be alter–egos, as our personal characters. Or people we aren't basically. This should be fun.

I can't lie...

...man, I just can't lie.

Cape Town has but been the best thing for me right now ever. Who. Knew.

I will hang my head and admit that a) it is so fucking beautiful in every which way; b) it's really helped me feel oodles chipper than what I was feeling a few days ago and c) any associations I had with the place before have been wiped clean. By choice. My family lives here, I have a strong base here, and it's really my second home.

Cape Town has really been the exact thing I needed.

Although let's just talk about Dad and his se motorbaaik for a sec.

I have been driving around with my fazsher all over the peninsula and environs on the back of his motorbike. Dad, by no means a Hell's Angel, has been driving this thing for over 28 years. With only one collision - which he beautifully elaborated on and described to me whilst driving down De Waal Drive during a full-on testicle-knackering South Easter. Perfect timing Dad.

I'm scared of motorbikes because a few years ago on Ko Phan Gnan island, I fell off a bike, breaking open my knee to reveal oh there is bone under skin after all. So I'm a little nervous, if not a little fucking tentative. And De Waal Drive during gale force winds isn't a good start for a bag of nerves as myself. He had the gaul to tell me I was being embarrassing when I started screaming.
(Beg pardon? Kettle, pot, black; what the fuck did you just call me?)

However, by the end of the day I was having a whale of a time with pops. Wind in hair, dorky helmet, leaning in the right direction into the curves - I was loving being on the bike with Dad.

I also got to see all my cousins, get ancestral paperwork for the possible emigration that may loom, walk and have sundowners with my mum, have a fabulous glass of vino at Rhodes Mem with Max, which, on that: the mountain burst into flame.

Just our luck, we go there, drink and leave. Actually admire the view from my varsity days, and then leave. As people do. Then, there's a fucking fire.

Did we set the mountain on fire. (Do bad things happen in fours, do they?). Oh God we set the mountain alight, we combusted the fucking mountain.
Except we didn't, so, like whatever. It was later extinguished by firetrucks, FYI.

I played with my dog. I threw out a few sonatas on my uncle's piano. I had a fabulous afternoon with my friend Kyknoord, ending up contemplating life at a beautiful dive called...Rascals.

I caught up with the French grandparents, and made peace with my father and all his crazy fucking ideas and eccentricities.

I am starting to feel normal again. No job - sure - but feeling normal and relaxed, even a little happy about my current joblessness, as I have prospects and am happy on how some of these things turned out anyway. At least right this second. I'm dreading heading back to the J-Word city, I am. But that's only in two days anyhow.
For now, I have re-fallen in love with Cape Town. And I'm sorry Cape Town that I ever doubted you or forgot - mainly - how kiff you actually are.

It must be said though that things like Easter and Christmas' etc are hard for kids of divorced parents. As a result, I'm not a big fan of these holidays at all. Splitting my time between mum and dad, and worrying whether I've spent too much time with one and have to head back to the other, diverting interrogations and questions referring to the other, and there's always half a family at the big lunch. However, the blessing? Both my parents are great in small doses and I prefer to see them in separate places anyway. And they're alive. Blessings, see. Count.

PS: Hair = rat's nest. Done some mileage on that motorcycle. And it certainly looks like it. Yeehah! Gimme more, gimme more.

PPS: Happy Easter for tomorrow! I will be doing it the Catholic Creole way, believe you me.

wanna know what's really going on?

I'd be lying if I said the past week or two has been easy. For they have in actual fact been hell. It's just been a trying, trying time.

Someone who knows about what happens when you stop drinking, said to me, “I know why you have this anxiety and crap at the moment. After 8 weeks, the shit finally starts to come out.”

It's like the clarity has become to much. And the one thing I cannot deal with or bear right now is anxiety. I am having around 2 to 3 panic/anxiety attacks a day.

This last week has been especially hard, because:
1)My relationship with my father, well I love him, he's my dad I'll do anything for him if he needs me, but I just can't be close to him right now. In fact, we are not in contact at the moment. I don't think I've ever been close to him, actually. It's heartbreaking, and hopefully after we both sort our shit out, we can try the bonding thing again.

2)My mother doesn't understand why I can't be close to my dad.

3)747 has been away a lot lately, and very stressed at work, and it's been quite hard. I have missed him.

4)I am having salary issues (late payment). Stop orders have flung me into the negative. Because someone at the top forgot to pay us. Again.

5)That's why I'm frigging just about to crack. Oh wait, I did. I screamed at work yesterday to the point where passers-by in the passage turned to stare, not to mention the attendees in the office itself. I properly lost my rag. Who knew I had such a BOOMING voice? Impressive. So let's assume, safely, that this 'salary stuff' will become a priority from now on.

I am a natural worry wart. That's normal, but this newfound anxiety has been quite debilitating. I had three drinks on Friday– as promised - at my mate's birthday party.

It went like this:

1 x white wine (what the fuck was I thinking)
1 x celery juice
1 x white wine (christ woman, not again)
1 x celery juice
1 x bubbly stuff that I presume to be a champagne of sorts (....)
1 x celery juice.

Maybe one more glass of wine. But the jury is still out.

I'm quite chuffed. I mean I stuck to my guns, and sure, I felt a little not-quite-completely-sober after that, and I certainly hobbled to my car, almost breaking an ankle, but whatever. Oh and I indulged in one of those stupid shit-talking philosophical conversations one tends to have after a few toots, which made about as much sense as algorithm coding, and I also found most of the jokes going around to be really funny. It's amazing how alcohol makes you do such predictable things. But! I certainly didn't go hammer and tongs, and politely declined the shooters going around. Ha!

I think my liver thought I'd booked it a ticket to fucken Malibu, when in fact it was clearly on its way to Newcastle.

But it must be said that I was on tranquilisers the whole time.
After tears and angst this and last week, including some untimely attacks where I thought I might possibly die, I have been swallowing many a tranquiliser. Panic attacks consume you, they are fuccccked uppppp.

Where have they been all my life?
It must be said that the insert does state that these particular tranqs aren't addictive, don't have they any side affects like drowsiness, nausea or the feeling of being stupendously high the whole time. Not that I'd give a shit. Because I'm going to be taking Biral for as long as I live. Suddenly you're not in a fucking panic! Biral speaks sense, it shuts the world up, it just makes me not overreact and not panic as a result of my thoughts.

Everyone say “Hi Biral,”, to my new guardian angel. Despite a few fine motor-coordination effects, (like dropping a few things?) they don't do anything except help my mind to rest a helluva lot more when I should be almost in tears. To stop thinking and spiraling into this fucking abyss of self-doubt and chaotic angst at least 4 times a day, it does it's best to affront this. It just.....smoothed the rough edges.

I'm hoping today will be yards better than yesterday. Last night Ant was in town and popped in for dinner. Again, hell I miss that girl, if only Sepoenda wasn't so far away.

dusting off the machinery

I'm officially back on my bike!
As the sting of my apparently-existing hamstrings starts to eat away at my Arty Brain (Arty Brain: a concept of being that prefers to lie on the couch watching telly/read a book/discuss an art movie/listen to 80s music) kicks in, I just remember a few things:

I want to be a friggin raging supermodel machine.

I will feel happy afterwards. Apparently there are little things called “endorphins” that kick in and make you feel super. Well I'm lacking clearly, because the only thing that used to make me feel instantly high and happy was A Grade pot. The Rastas will agree with me here, no doubt.

It means I can have super duper acrobatic sex.

And. I'll garner respect from those fitness freaks that tend to bombard me haphazardly during my weeks and make me feel like she who not only ate all the pies, but she who ate all the pies, the pie shop and Mrs Miggins. And bloody well enjoyed it.

Somewhere beneath the ruddy exterior of my thighs, there's a muscle screaming to come out.

PS: Like all habits, getting into a regular fitness routine takes five tries. Then you're in. You're part of the “I Exercise On A Regular Basis” club.
Smoking takes longer. And quitting makes you fat, psycho and dumb. Dumb because you have no idea where to put the hands. Fuck it. One thing at a time. Assholes.

crying

I've been crying all night. And woke up crying today. Jesus, mascara everywhere, I look great this morning.

Unexpectedly, the most crucial wounds of my emotional life have been ripped open. So unexpectedly. It all started with Atonement last night.

I'm so angry, at those around me too. Which isn't even rational, because the source of these wounds is the one person I should feel anger at.

These horrible memories have been locked away on purpose, why the fuck would I want to address them now when they are behind locked doors?

I'm not sure anyone even really understands. So giving me advice about it, or telling me what to do with it, or how to be, or my responsibility with it now is PANTS.

Fresh tears.

why alcohol IS poison

Something's happened to me. It's most extraordinary. I NEVER anticipated this in a million years.

I've been off the bottle for one month. And I think all these changes have everything to do with it.

The good changes:
1)I am so happy. That annoying, believes everything-is-simply-splendid-happy.

2)I'm stable. Almost worryingly so. I don't get shaky angry or maddeningly depressed anymore. It's like everything has just....calmed down. If I cause my own chaos, I really mean to do it. It wasn't a mistake. And I gave it lots of thought before impulsively causing chaos for no apparent reason. When I'm upset or angry, I know it's rational.

3)The clarity. The clarity. Everything was a fuzz back in the days of compulsive bingeing. I spoke to a teetotaling mate about this so-called “clarity,” and how everything is just...sharper. And he told me to wait until 3 months, and when the clarity kicks in, it's crazy as fuck. I think that's already happened to me, but maybe there's more coming.

4)You really get to know others around you all over again. You connect them them on a new level, and at first it's quite difficult. There are no barriers, or social-numbing through Bacardi Breezer. I have got to know 747, my friends and my family on a whole new level.

5)One of the original goals of my stopping drinking for a while has kicked in: Get to know myself again. And most importantly, address my hang ups and issues. Without the numbing of anything else. It's literally helped me to take a long hard look in the mirror. I'm dealing with stuff now that I've been pushing aside for YEARS. Going back nine whole years – and one big thing, is getting around trust and my parent's divorce.

6)Learning to be comfortable in my own shell. I thought I was a confident person, and I am most of the time. But I also suffer deep-seated self-esteem and anxiety issues that I've denied forever, which I'm finally working through.

7)Creativity. This was a tough one, because I thought without my after-work-glass-of-wine, I wouldn't be able to churn out more stories. Or think up grand ideas to take over the world. Well, actually, it's been quite the opposite. When you assess everything with a clear-head, you also start to find new things to keep you going. And it wasn't crack, surprisingly. I'm finding new, weird stuff with which to entertain myself all the time.

8)Coffee outings really excite me. Like how tequila used to excite me.

9)I never want to be in the place I was 31 December 2007 ever again. I fear getting back onto the boozewagon may just fling me right back there. If I don't give up booze forever - and I'm considering it - from March onwards the alcohol I do drink, will be very few and far between. Benders will only be for VERY special occasions.

10)There is no loser's complex. Ever. And I can't remember what a hangover feels like. Or even what it feels like to be drunk, come to think of it.

11)Mr 747 came along for the booze-free ride. I told him 1 January I was giving up booze for two months. I didn't ever expect him to do this with me. I did it believing I'd be on my own. He decided to do it too. And I can't tell you how much easier it's been having him along on the journey. We've got to know each other very well over the last month. And now we're onto Month 2.
The bad changes:
(I'm not sure if these are even bad. Perhaps they just take getting used to.)

1)A new kind of introversion. I'm no introvert by anyone's standards. And perhaps I haven't given myself a chance to be “party me” yet. I have been avoiding watering holes, clubs, and massive parties for a month now. I'll go, only to chat to people before they can't string a sentence together. Once people start getting loud and idiotic, I leave. Sober people can't handle drunk people until they've really got used to it. So I've been leaving places early, and enjoying a lot of me-time in front of the telly, with a book, going on long drives, etc etc. Stuff losers do, basically. I love it.

2)Sifting through my trust issues isn't just going to take two months of teetotaling. I'm considering therapy, as well as lots of hard work, and reminding myself not to panic.

3)It's hard when your mates are going out all the time, doing their usual thing. Things you were very much a part of every weekend. I go, but I'm there for a third of the time, not drinking, and just trying to feel normal as I do it. It still doesn't feel normal. I don't want my friends to think I'm boring. Or think I have suddenly become a different me. I don't think that's the case, but yes, I am a bit different now. Hopefully booze hasn't taken away my entire personality altogether. I don't think so.