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.