Burns & Bruises

Her awkward, tiny steps down the street set her apart, but nobody bothers to notice. She passes in and out of our peripherals, like a blindspot we've grown accustomed to ignoring... to forgetting. Time has bent her now crooked back, weighed down under a lifetime of trial and tribulation. Drab, floor length skirts barely hide the worn sneakers that have taken her back and forth across the city a million times, and a million times again. She gathers her shoulders inside the frayed, royal blue cardigan, somehow drawing her arms further into its lengthy-sleeves - thin protection from a cold world. Thick, horn-rimmed bifocals sit perched on the bridge of her nose, but she keeps her eyes on the grey, unbiased ground in front of her.

When she does speak, her voice is thin and frail, yet with a lighter tone. Something that might have once held a music of its own - a symphony lost, a composer forgotten. She stumbles over her words, unsure of how much to say at any one time, as each trips out. It's not the language itself that's in short supply, but the confidence and poise. She doesn't care for it anymore though. It holds no meaning, no necessity for her. It has become but a means to an end - and not the end itself.

From a far land, she made the journey to this land of promise and dreams. She invested her hope in a new, better life for her and her family. One without political turmoil. Without social limit. Where the only limits to what you could achieve was what you could believe - and where, for once, what you believed could set you free.

Over 50 years later, she is alone. Her husband died long ago. Granted a small room in the basement of his house, she lives under her now wealthy, successful son - happy for his prosperity. She loves her quickly-growing grandson with all her heart, even as he makes his way to leave home. But she is alone. To everyone around, she has served her purpose: an archaic staircase for a machine that resorts to elevators. She is obsolete.

I see her now, as I leave the house to fetch the mail. She tends to the tiny garden with a giant house all to herself. A 9-5 housesitter. No friends - her family was the be-all, end-all of her life. She treks each day to her daughter's home, to take care of her younger grandchildren while she's at work. Nobody picks her up or offers her a ride - she does it willingly. Taking the same bus every morning. She lives for others, to feel needed, to escape her isolation.



Have you ever seen loneliness?

Humanity. Unlike any other form of life on the face of the earth in one, single, unique respect: our ability to communicate.

We are social beings; creatures of communication. We thrive on interaction - from a smile and a laugh, to handshakes and sex. We need others. Others to care for and be cared by. To love and be loved. To understand and be understood. To lean on and be leaned on. To live. A life without that kind of connection, that kind of tie, that kind of bond... is to be without that which gives us our fruitful existence. It fulfills us in ways we can't imagine being without.

Try to imagine a world without any interaction. Where day and night pass like cars on a freeway - countless and meaningless. Where every hue of every colour in every tiny, natural detail was lost to the depths of your mind - passing each rational barrier and every logical strain. Why? Because there would be nobody to share it with. No basis upon which to think, to learn... to grow. And if we can't grow, we can't live.

No man is an island, true enough. There's a reason 'Solitary Confinement' is the next-to-last resort in federal penitentiaries. It can drive you insane: alone with your thoughts, bereft of all human contact. We cannot do without it. Like a drug, this connection has its highs and lows, bringing pleasure - but always with the risk of pain. And not all pains are burns and bruises.

As this connection grows stronger, we feel needed. And to be needed, in even the smallest way, is something each of us craves. We feel purpose. We feel motive. We feel important. It's true that our relationships can weaken us and expose our vulnerability, but they can do far more than that. Our resolve to remain in another's life, to help them, mend them and be with them can make us powerful in a world where Life's own crux eludes us.

"Our prime purpose in this life is to help others." - Dalai Lama



I grip the shifter and throw the car into 'reverse'. Looking over my shoulder, I slowly roll back down the road towards the old woman. She doesn't look up, keeping her steady pace on the pavement. She doesn't see the beautiful summer blossoms nor the colourful billboards up ahead. Doesn't hear the whistling wind nor my car's rumbling engine. Smell the freshly fallen rain nor the propane from my neighbor's BBQ.
I roll down the passenger window and lean towards the opening:

"Do you need a ride?"

Crossed Paths

What-might-have-once-been a white mercedes touring van - caked with dirt, sand, and mud - pulls up to the Departures drop-off at Johannesburg International. It's already dark despite the sun having only just dropped below the horizon. The dodgy van's idling engine rumbles as the blaring sound of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody filters through its windows, turning the heads of bustling travellers that pass through the terminal's sliding doors. To match the van, a group of just-as-soiled backpackers file out from the rear while a mismatched pair - one tall and lanky, the other short and portly - squeeze out of the front seats and set about unloading the rickety-trailer in tow behind the van. The tired group stretch their limbs and yawn as they go about gathering their respective duffel-bags and backpacks. Their teamwork, like a well-oiled-machine, makes quick work of the heavy load and before long, the trailer's cargo stands neatly stacked on the terminal's cold pavement. The group then turn to face each other, at first unsure of how to say goodbye, but that quickly changes as they sidestep bags and trolleys to exchange hearty handshakes and heartfelt hugs. Emails and telephone numbers are quickly scribbled down and swapped, as the two mismatched guides stand to one side and look on. Their fists shoved into their pockets, they try to keep straight faces and blink away the tears that well up at the corner of their eyes. But they don't go unnoticed and the rest of the group quickly turns on them, smothering them with bear hugs and ardent thanks. The same are returned, amid lively laughing and thorough promises of returns and calls. But the planes and trains aren't patient, and the group remembers that their time is up. The night is wearing on, and after a few last handshakes, kind words and spirited waving, the group go their separate ways, some homeward bound and others on to other exotic places. And despite their different languages, home countries, beliefs, ideals, religions, ages and careers - they all shared an unforgettable time together.




It's an odd thing, really. It's one of those things we don't actively think about or even consider - at least, I didn't, until it was my turn to say goodbye. After 10 days and thousands of kilometers spent singing, laughing and sleeping in the back of that dodgy old van, I'd actually gotten to know that small group of people rather well. But as I fell asleep that night, I realized 10 days really isn't that much time at all. And yet, we each pass millions of people throughout our lives, each one slipping out of our conscious mind as quickly and silently as they came in. It goes on as we joke about prices at the gas pump, argue at the traffic lights, bump trolleys at the supermarket, or talk ourselves through leaping off the Victoria Falls (anybody?).




The fact is, we meet these people through the most unlikely, uncommon, unbelievable and unforeseeable ways, and yet we hardly ever consider how distinct and unique these lives are that we so briefly touch. But a group of 16 people make a 10 day journey across southern Africa, from Johannesburg to the Zambian side of Victoria Falls, back through Botswana's Chobe National Park and the Okavango Delta, covering thousands of barely-paved kilometers and hundreds of personal stories - and end with tearful goodbyes. How? Such an unlikely group come together from across the globe - from England, Ireland, Holland, Canada and South Africa - to discover the beauty of Africa, but share so much more.

Fairy Tales

Sitting in the small 17rd floor studio apartment I'm renting in Durban's Umhlanga Rocks, I turn on the tele and absentmindedly flick though the channels. It's not that the sound of the crashing surf several stories below me isn't a soothing lullaby - it's just that I'm sick and not feeling particularly outgoing (I'm sure I'll regret it when January rolls around and I'm taping down the toaster handles to keep myself warm). I finally find a channel that isn't in Hindi, Afrikaans or a re-run of Columbo, and it turns out to be The Blind Side. All-in-all, a damn good movie - even if it is the second time I've seen it - and not just because Sandra Bullock plays a hot-as-hell mom. For those of you who haven't seen it (and I suggest you do), it's the true story of NFL star Michael Oher. Growing up in the slums of Memphis, Michael was the son of a crack-whore mother and a runaway father. With his mum frequently running off, leaving him in a neighbourhood full of thugs with nobody else to care for him, he was on track to spending the rest of his miserable life dealing drugs and shooting up other gangs. Instead, he's picked up by a wealthy family who adopt him as their own and set him straight. They quickly find out (and not as if was hard to miss him being over 2m tall) that he's got serious potential as an offensive linebacker. Unfortunately, my foolish attempt at a summary doesn't nearly do the film/book justice, but there are a handful of other complications and plot twists, and I wouldn't want to ruin it too much.



The main point of my rambling is that as I sit here watching this movie, I remember how many people don't appreciate this kind of story because it's become so cliche. Many of my friends seem to think it's boring, predictable and overdone. I beg to differ.
We all remember the fairy tales our parents/grandparents used to tell us at bedtime, don't we? My dad used to tell me stories of the greek gods and heroes that I still find riveting today. They were so far-fetched, so inconceivable, so absurd - but I still love them. Stories of Theseus and the Minotaur, of Heracles and his twelve labours, of Odysseus' return from Troy... they made me want to believe the impossible was possible. Even the story of Merlin being locked in an old oak somewhere in England makes me look at every tree sideways whenever I go back. The fact is, stories like that of Michael Oher are so rare and so unlikely in a world where everyone and everything just seem to keep knocking you down, I can't understand why people think it's 'overdone' and 'boring'. That's the last thing I'd call them!



I look back out the window at my spectacular view, past the rolling surf and towards the horizon. How many other such stories are out there, waiting to be discovered? How many others have we missed? Stories of underdogs and dark horses beating the odds are to be treasured - not tossed aside as 'predictable'. And entertainment isn't the only end either! They inspire! Inspire like these waves, this beach, this unparalleled beauty inspires people all over the world. Personally, I love that feeling I get, leaving a movie that inspires me to better myself in even the smallest way. You know the one - it's that tiny speck of inadequacy set in a surge of power (maybe a little verbose, but it's a fantastic feeling!) It's the perfect combination, making you feel like you've squandered so much time and opportunity, but reminding you that you can do more, can do better, can be everything and anything you want.

Fairy tales aren't just the stuff of legends, myths and Mother Goose. They exist here, now, everywhere and always - you just have to look for them.

Things Left Unsaid

She puts her marguerita down as gently as possible on the marble surface. But she shudders as the clash of glass and marble draws the attention of the entire pub to their little corner booth. Max chuckles:

"Smooth."

"Shut up." she rolls her eyes, but smiles anyway.

His friend Jake pipes up, "So, Max, riddle me this? It's Five-for-Four-Fridays - how come you haven't got a girl on each arm?" The rest laugh, but still look at him questioningly.

With his beer in one hand, he drums his fingers on the table edge. The rhythmic beat is lost in the din of the evening crowd.

"See, guys," he turns to the rest of them, as they all take a swig from their beers and listen. "I'm - " but he pauses. His weathered-eye flicks across the pub to the table near the door. She's sitting there, as she does every friday night, as simply beautiful as she did the first night he saw her. He turns back to his friends, none-the-wiser of his practised, snatched look.

"Well?" blurts Sidney.

"We haven't all year, mate." laughs Marshall, already ordering his third pint of the night. "And neither do the girls!" hinting at a group of sorority girls who are eyeing Max from the bar's counter.

Max smiles, but looks up and around the table. This is his closest circle, his entourage... his friends. The group of people he trusts the most. They look to him, waiting for him to finish his thought, but he can't.



Now, try and follow me here, cause it gets a little dense. We all have our own definitions, or pre-requisites if you will, for friendship. And I don't mean the-guy-that-helped-me-get-laid-in-college sort of friend. I mean the true, honest, through-thick-n-thin sort. The sort that only come along once or twice in a lifetime. So, as these 'pre-requisites' go, most generally agree that true friends know you better than anyone else. You could be the most deceptively hidden and evasive character (like Max), but they would still be able to see past the common, everyday bullshit.

Max (and forgive the overrated, overused example) could be the classic playboy: smooth, suave and clever. But he wishes his friends knew that there was something else to his actions, some deeper motive hidden behind his flat-faced sex-capades. Unfortunately, Max is also not-the-type to share himself that openly. He doesn't want to simply explain his predicament, because that would be against his exterior character - against his self-engineered, outer facade.

So, it boils down to this. Sometimes (and I know I'm not alone here), we wish our own self-exploiting, self-sabotaging attitude wouldn't get in the way of those people around us understanding what we really mean when we say something entirely different - something the rest of the world expects from us - simply because we're not the loud, 2D characters that like to blurt out our inner thoughts and emotions like a cute Coca-Cola advert.

Yeah, there's the obvious solution of just 'saying what we mean', but - quite honestly - we don't want to give up our facade just yet. Why? Maybe because it provides us with some sort of comforting security after a hard-learned lesson. Maybe because we just don't fancy the idea of displaying ourselves for every window-shopper that waltzes past our shop. The reason changes from one person to the next - so don't press it. That may be selfish of us to expect that of our friends, but it's never so much an expectation as a small hope. Sometimes, we all just want to be understood and accepted without having to spell it out, without letting down our guard and without revealing that what Max really wants is the perfect girl to come along. Sometimes, we just wish that those'things left unsaid weren't lost to the ears of our friends and family.

Who Are You?

Who are you? No, I don't mean spoon-feed me your SIN, driver's license and health insurance card. On a deeper level, times come when we consciously reflect on the kind of person we've become. Yeah, we've always had that role model in our lives - mum, dad, Ghandi, Erin Brockovich, Harry Potter - and I'm not entirely sure about you, but I don't just scratch my head and stroke my beard at every choice or decision asking myself: "What would Jesus do?" (Those orthodox christians have us ALL fooled).


Fact is, these role models are generally subliminal. Their characters, personalities and personas are something we've tried to parallel, but try as we may, they're simply not who we are, trait-for-trait. Admiration is rarely overrated, emulation is often excessive, and worship is always unnecessary. But, from time to time, we do find ourselves at the end of a decisive moment, wondering how we came to that verdict or choice. Was it according to our beliefs? Our opinions? Our values? Was it honourable? Just? Fair? Honest? And then things get complicated - we start wondering "Where did I set out from in the first place?" We try to remember what it was we had tried to model ourselves on, and then groan in agony as we see our mistakes, or beam with satisfaction as we realize our success.

But do we really see ourselves as well as anyone else? I mean, c'mon, be honest with yourself. If you've even the tiniest bit of sense, you'll admit that you've a serious bias. And it's not just in one direction either - there are those of us who enjoy being a little lenient with our ideals, and those who insist on cracking the whip a little too much. Do we then turn to those around us? Are those judgements, the juvenile gossip and wide-spread-high-school-reminiscent stereotypes all far more accurate and honest than our own? Maybe so. Maybe you really are the brawn-over-brain jock who'll end up a balding, 50 year-old living in your mum's trailer still wearing that ratty old football jacket from senior year. Maybe you are that womanizing jerk who'll end up slapping ass and taking names for the rest of his life... playa. Maybe you're that computer dweeb who never leaves home without his graphing calculator and will likely never get laid. OR alternatively, you could be that modest, nice guy who everyone appreciates and respects - but hey, who wants to be him? That's just boring, right?

We can't objectively step out of our shoes and see ourselves without bias, but in the same way, we can't fully put our faith in those close to us to offer a clear and honest judgement. Ulterior motives are everywhere. So, then what? You can spend your entire life trying to shake off a stereotype, to free yourself from that gossip-born ball & chain - regardless of how it came to be - and still be burdened with it for the rest of your life. Why? Because that's society. That's the power of social interaction. We, humans, are creatures of communication, completely dependent on it to retain our sanity. We feed ravenously on its fickle ability to put us in the spotlight and give our fragile egos that boost they need so dearly... To be in the limelight, the centre of attention, to nurture and feed that image we crave so badly in an effort to escape our own dreary personalities - is it worth it? Instead, our directionless efforts either dig us deeper into that hole or throw us headlong into another. Even then, can we ever truly know if anyone knows us as well as we seem to know ourselves? A vicious circle; the more we try to be understood, the further from the truth (if one can even call it that) we seem to stray. We're then the puppeteer, the master, the mind orchestrating our own image - almost unconsciously.

The hunger will consume you, leave you powerless and debilitated with as much rational sense as a frenchman in a brothel. Who are you then? The creature of your imagination, the monster of the social body or a terribly wonderful mix of the two? Perhaps neither? And here's the sinker: Is it really up to you?

Metamorphosis

“I don’t want to be anything or anyone I wasn’t meant to be. I am who I am, and to be anything different isn’t being true to myself.”

It’s these words that bring me out of my half-dazed state in Rutherford Lounge. I shake my head, what does that even mean?

Tell me, when did humanity become so static? When did timeless Change suddenly decide that human nature was exempt? Since when were we just one person? One set of invariable and inert characteristics? Never.

I turn to my friend, drawing her gaze until I have her attention.

From the time we’re conceived, brought kicking and screaming into this world, we change. Time changes everything, second by second, day by day and year by year. To be so naive and self-consumed that we are one, stable being and character unaffected by Time’s eternal and inescapable grasp is a fool’s notion and is better abandoned than strived for.

She sighs, unconvinced, we are only as capable as the world around us allows us to be, operating within a set of limitations and boundaries. I shake my head.

Granted, we are small beings, but with immeasurable power over our own lives and others, our smallest actions reverberate through a world connected through emotions and feelings, thoughts and ideas. Not only do our own actions change others, but in so doing, change ourselves as well.

She rolls her eyes: it’s the fight for our beliefs against the accepted dogma that allow us to preserve ourselves. I nod: but does that fight not define you? Make you stronger? Make you more confident?

Why not embrace it and let it change you? Change can be beautiful too - you just have to change yourself to see it, accept it with new eyes. We build who we are over time, build character, integrity, courage, honour, trust, temperance, fortitude, prudence and justice. Trying to avoid it is futile; it is natural, it is all-consuming, it is beautiful. It takes so many diverse forms that we cannot even begin to understand how far it stretches, over boundaries, both physical and psychological. From the beat of the smallest butterfly in India, to the chaos of the largest hurricane in Mexico. From the most insignificant, fleeting wink, to the three most powerful words on the planet.

She raises an eyebrow and begins to actively listen, as I grin and continue.

We grow. We learn. We live. We love. We take risks, make choices, lay it on the line. All of these things change. Yeah, each choice is based on the way we think, but each choice in-turn changes how we think thereafter, influencing future decisions for years to come. Change is not biased, nor is it limited. It can act microscopically and macroscopically, changing everything and anything. The more we try to avoid it, the more we become slaves to it, letting it control our actions regardless; all done in a fruitless and barren attempt to keep it from touching us.

She taps her fingers unconsciously on the worn plastic table before us: But I’m no quantum physicist, Alex. I could sure as hell try, but I’d be a useless wreck. That’s who I am. I chuckle awkwardly, yeah alright, but there’s a difference between ability or potential and enjoyment. You might not be in place to enjoy quantum physics right now, maybe never, but who says you can’t do it?

People often say that they can't help who they are, that they can't escape it. It's your bloody choice to walk away and accept difficulty, to give in, to submit. Don't try. It's just an intention to fail. You choose from the very beginning to be overwhelmed. The human mind is capable of more than many of us can dream. It was once unthinkable to amass $1,000,000,000. Enter John D. Rockefeller. Human flight was a fairy tale. Thank the Wright Brothers. The very idea of a black president was a joke not even worth mentioning over dinner. Barack Obama challenged it. ALL of it has changed. Why? Because people believed that things could change. People can be selfish, can be cruel, can be wicked. But they can also be selfless, good and benevolent.

Blinking repeatedly, she ponders what I’ve said and the recognition shows in her sea green eyes.

You can sit on your ass and blame the world for your predicament, but quite frankly, it’s on you to change. It’s nobody’s fault but our own that we find ourselves where we are. A good friend of mine has managed to turn full-circle: 360-bloody-degrees. From a life he despised, from a past he was once ashamed of and from a future he saw as nothing but bleak and hopeless - he found change. He found choice and he realized it. He found happiness and he hangs onto it, clinging on to it with everything that he is; because he knows he deserves it.

I pat the same on the shoulder as he chokes on an Italian BLT, swearing at me through a mouthful of lettuce.

We trade youth for wisdom, opening our eyes and seeing a world we only strolled through and couldn’t/wouldn’t/didn’t understand. It’s these individual changes that shape us, mould us, make us. You never lose sight of who you are, nor do you become someone else. You’re still you, just more so with time. Time changes, and so do you.

So who are you? You decide. You don’t find yourself. You create yourself. You don’t know yourself. You understand yourself. Your very choices -from when to get up each morning, to which drug to take from a shady black guy with bad teeth and a wicked leather coat - shape who you are.

Every choice sets off another completely different set of decisions you can make, the lineup changing with each and every subsequent choice you make... each “encounter could create a time paradox, the result of which could cause a chain reaction that would unravel the very fabric of the space-time continuum and destroy the entire universe!... Granted that’s a worst case scenario.”

And though every choice is immortal, it's effect isn't. You choose to act on it, change it or keep it.

The table goes silent. Done with his sandwich, my friend’s eyes dart from person to person before decidedly ninja-ing the white-macadamia nut cookie sitting in front of me. Shoveling it down hungrily, he looks to each of us. What? I was hungry. You weren’t hungry enough. Cookie’s mine. So sue me.

Funny, I can’t remember him being such a goddamn fat-ass.

Everything begins with Choice.

Welcome to Evolution at its best, at its most microscopic and detailed level.

Welcome to Metamorphosis.