Verbal Diarrhoea

“The Meaning of Birds” by Charlie Smith

Of the genesis of birds we know nothing,

save the legend they are descended

from reptiles: flying, snap-jawed lizards

that have somehow taken to air. Better the story

that they were crab-apple blossoms

or such, blown along by the wind; time after time

finding themselves tossed from perhaps a seaside tree,

floated or lifted over the thin blue lazarine waves

 until something in the snatch of color

began to flutter and rise. But what does it matter

anyway how they got up high

 in the trees or over the rusty shoulders

 of some mountain? There they are,

little figments,

animated—soaring. And if occasionally a tern washes up

greased and stiff, and sometimes a cardinal

or a mockingbird slams against the windshield

and your soul goes oh God and shivers

at the quick and unexpected end

to beauty, it is not news that we live in a world

where beauty is unexplainable

and suddenly ruined

and has its own routines. We are often far

 from home in a dark town, and our griefs

are difficult to translate into a language

 understood by others. We sense the downswing of time

and learn, having come of age, that the reluctant

 concessions made in youth are not sufficient to heat the cold drawn breath

 of age. Perhaps temperance was not enough, foresight or even wisdom

fallacious, not only in conception

but in the thin acts

themselves. So our lives are difficult,

and perhaps unpardonable, and the fey gauds

of youth have, as the old men told us they would,

faded. But still, it is morning again, this day.

 In the flowering trees the birds take up their indifferent, elegant cries.

Look around. Perhaps it isn’t too late

to make a fool of yourself again. Perhaps it isn’t too late

to flap your arms and cry out, to give

one more cracked rendition of your singular, aspirant song.

Can we all breathe a collective sigh of relief? Can we all raise your fists in victory, whilst the song, “Eye of the Tiger” plays? Can we all donate R200 to my ever growing shoe collection? No? Well, it was worth a try.

So … I’ve been a little stressed at work, tying up loose ends of big ass project.

The initial idea of the project was that I was simply supposed to swoop in with my tights and cape and provide a colleague with guidance. Guidance soon morphed into “you fucked up so badly that I need to redo everything AND still meet the deadline”. The result is that I’ve been so stressed that I’ve been mainlining coffee and scarfing down so much chocolate I’d make Willy Wonka proud.

And whilst my fingers moved swiftly and confidently over the keyboard, the unavoidable thought that I was wasting my life stuck behind the glare of a PC, struck me. I wish I could say that this was simply a momentary thought; that I simply shook my head and went on my merry way, but I simply couldn’t help thinking of all the things I could be doing. I thought about how I should be standing barefoot on the banks of a river, the blades of grass prickling the soles of my feet. I thought about sunshine, laughter, friends, hammocks, books and road trips. I thought about all the things that made life THAT much sweeter.

Anyway, I’ve just completed THIS project (just handed the last of the reclassified datasets to the web developer) and thought I’d share something funny with you guys.

Saturday night

Barry: Sid, your cat’s sitting in the bathtub.

Me: Oh yeah, you’re supposed to open the tap for the cat. The cat only drinks FRESH water. She won’t drink water that’s been in a bowl for a few days.

And then Barry gives me this look like he simply can’t fathom the words coming from my mouth; as if I’d suddenly started speaking Klingon.

Oh baby baby baby babe,
How long am I supposed to wait?
I think about you nightly
Oh, can you tell I’m losin’ sleep?
Can you tell – Ra Ra Riot

I found the following flow diagram attached to an article on why women shouldn’t settle, and I absolutely had to share it with you guys.

*

And in other news that made me giggle … A pet tiger escapes in South African suburb. Who the hell keeps a tiger as a pet???

The daily journey to work should have taken me no longer than ten minutes. But I’d left the house late and now I found myself sitting in traffic.

Sitting there, hands clenching the steering wheel, lips chapped and attempting to sing along to The Postal Service, I noticed her running by. And instantly I hated her. I hated her and everything she represented. I hated her freedom. I hated the fact that it was nearly 8 in the morning and she wasn’t rushing off to an office with fluorescent lighting. Her fingers would not be gliding effortlessly across a keyboard, in an effort to update the latest database. I hated the fact that she had the luxury of spending her mornings exercising, her legs pounding away rhythmically. I imagined experiencing the exertion of my lungs, the cold air on my face and I hated her. I hated her pert ass and blonde ponytail swinging to and fro.

And as sat there thinking up a list of imaginary wrongs incurred by the young woman, I had what others would refer to as an “epiphany”. I realized that a few months ago my opinion of the woman would have been different. I would have looked at her in complete and utter awe. I would have admired her willpower. The discipline that it took to wake up at the crack of dawn and run anything further than a block, was beyond my comprehension. And this feeling of awe would soon be followed by one of dejection. I’d never be capable of any of this.

And now … Now all those things I’ve admired in other runners; all those things that I always I assumed I was incapable of doing, are easy. I’ve finally reached a place where I can run 8km comfortably. I’ve finally reached a place where running is actually enjoyable. I’ve finally reached the point where I can bite down and tell myself, “You’re not done yet. Dig deep. Find your inner strength.”

And as this realization hit me, I couldn’t help but smile.

As if there isn’t enough embarassing information of me out there on the interwebs, I bring you photos.

Ignore the fact that I’m wearing takkies to a party and that my fat stomach is showing. The bigger question is what am I doing and why? And if you thought THIS is bad, you should see me at En-dee!’s wedding.

This chick in front, with the grey T-shirt, is one of the coolest chick ever. How can I not love a girl who tries to embody the spirit of Britney Spears on the dancefloor?

Watching soccer.

EDIT: Just got the following gchat message from Dizzy.

Dizzy*: Your blog post today … I laughed so hard and it reminded me of the following pic …

This just in from my sister.

Tickets! Don’t lose out!

Category 1 tickets available for the first night of Taraweeh.

Price: Face value … Front row directly behind the Imaam!!! Unbelievable Atmosphere … Feel it … It is Near!

No vuvzelas; bring your tasbeehs.

(You’ll only get the joke if you were raised Muslim.)

A month or two ago, Barry and I attended a farewell party for his American friend.

The setting for the party was one of the most palatial houses I’ve ever been to. Seriously! With the house situated on the mountain and overlooking the ocean, the view was spectacular. And if this wasn’t enough the house contained a pool, two huge TVs (at least) and a projector. The whole time I was there I couldn’t help thinking, “Is this, what American dollars gets you?”

At some point during the party, someone brought out an American board game. The name of the board game escapes me, but I do remember that it was similar to 30 Seconds in that each person had to describe a term on a card and his/her team members had to guess the word.

Me: It’s something that you blow up. You can use your mouth or …

American man: Inflatable mattress?

Another American man: Penis?

Me: Erm … inflatable mattress is correct …

Looking back at the whole thing, maybe I shouldn’t have said, “You can use your mouth”.

On Sunday I was looking at babies.

In the whole history of Sid Kane, this is an unprecedented event. My usual stance of “Oh holy mother of fuck, why would anyone do THAT to their vagina” was replaced by looks of yearning, looks that has heretofore been reserved for hooker heels and men with really broad shoulders.

I’m talking about desire. For a baby. I Sid Kane, who previously duct taped a nappy to a kid’s ass and has often referred to kids as “rugrats”, am overcome with the sudden desire to have a little one.

 And all I wanted was the simple things

A simple kind of life

And all I needed was a simple man

So I could be a wife

It got so bad that while lounging at La Perla, I ignored any hot men in the near vicinity. Noting my fascination with the little buggers, Cazz finally commented, “You want a life altering experience? How about having one of those?”

Me: I did think about it but to be honest with you Cazz, I don’t think the parents would be too happy with me abducting their kids. Parents are kinda touchy that way.

I always thought I’d be a mom

Sometimes I wish for a mistake

The longer that I wait the more selfish that I get

You seem like you’d be a good dad

*Sigh*

I’m not quite sure what else to tell you guys. I guess I just don’t really want to tell you guys that for the longest time ever I’ve had this image in my head of me standing in front of my bedroom window, watching my husband and kids play soccer. Of course as the years have passed this vision has evolved to include me holding a camera, which has now become as much a part of me as my appendages.

Now all those simple things are simply too complicated for my life

How’d I get so faithful to my freedom?

A selfish kind of life

When all I ever wanted was the simple things

A simple kind of life

(Just reread this and can’t believe how girly and honest I am. And on a public forum no less. God I want to puke.)

The following story told by Dizzy*

Where you at??? I just have to share this with you. It’s too funny, and gross, not to.

So I haven’t had coffee in a while, right? I mean a really good, not-self-labour cappuccino (and with all the references to the good Italian cappuccinos in Eat, Love Pray, I’ve been a-craving) so I head on over to our local eatery in the business park here, meet up with Adrian for a lovely cuppa and catchup. And the coffee is soo good. Totally worth it and I get to the bottom of the cup and notice this odd cube-like thing the size of a 10 cent sweet at the bottom of my cup. I stop smaking my lips and start poking the bugger. And it has this firm, spongy consistency and Adrian takes is out of the cup and starts poking it, both of us trying to figure out what the hell it is while I try not to gag.

So then he cuts it in two and it has this weird off white, almost beige, stringy centre.

So I head on over to the counter and tell the two ladies, “Excuse me, but I found this, this THING in my coffee cup”. And they start poking it as well and then the one picks it up with her fingers, squashes it and says, “Oh, it’s a piece of chicken!”

And I’m like, “Ewww what?”

And cover my mouth as I feel myself grilling*!

And she responds saying, “What? Don’t you eat meat??”

WTF??! Clearly missing the point entirely!!

* Editor – Yeah, I’m not entirely sure what “grilling” means either.