How Dumb I've Become

School's not cool. Whoever said that?

Must've been a fool, some smart-ass brat.

Books, studying and wide-eyed nights.

Already wishing for my own last rites.

Missing the summer, the clear warm days.

The good times, great times, now all a haze...

And yet here I lie, awaiting the sun.

To hear some black-tie tell me how dumb I've become.

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 She is obsolete.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?"

Brave the Fear

"It's really not so bad once you get up there, you know."

Caleb strained his neck to see the top of the towering structure. Just looking at it made his head spin.

"I don't think I ca-"
"Then don't think! I've done that for you." laughed his older brother, slapping his back. "This is just one of those things, bud, that you can't think about... until it's too late."

Caleb's head whipped around. "Too late for what?!"

"Ermm, to... uhhh..." Calvin struggled.

"To realize how much fun you're having." supplied their dad, stepping in and shooting his eldest boy a look that said "Just keep your mouth shut."

"It's OK, Caleb." offered his mother, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Take your time and do it when you feel ready. There's always next year."

The little boy looked down at the ground, then back up at the giant structure. Massive neon letters blared red, green and blue all at once. And it always seemed to go the same way for him. Walk up, look down, walk down - rinse and repeat. Why do people feel the need to do something so dangerous? Strapping yourself into a rickety metal body and then shoot high and low through loops and falls... it just didn't seem sensible. Hell, didn't seem sane. Looking around, names like 'The Obliterator' and 'Killing Machine' didn't make it seem any more appealing.

A dad carrying his little boy on his shoulders waltzed through the entrance; the tiny youngster laughing the whole way through. That kid couldn't have been older than seven or eight! Damnit!



"I can't." he said, keeping his eyes on the ground.

Before Dad could stop him, Calvin crouched down and looked his little brother in the eye. "Look. It's ok to be afraid."

Caleb looked up. "You're not afraid."

The older teenager grinned. "Everyone's afraid, bud. But the only way to deal with it is face it."

"I'm not as brave as you are."

Calvin laughed and put his hand on the younger boy's shoulder. "You think so? Why?"

Keeping his eyes on his feet, he mumbled "Because you have more courage than I do."

A slight pause, as his older brother ran his hand through his hair. "What is courage, Caleb?"

"Not being afraid." he answered, eyes still on the ground.

"No." Calvin replied, shaking his head. "Courage is choosing to face the fear. Choosing to overcome it. It's the feeling. Being brave is just sticking with that feeling, going through with it - the actual act of facing fear wherever it might be."

Caleb lifted his head to look his brother in the eye.

Calvin continued: "Whether it's slaying a fire-breathing dragon..." He nodded his head at the entrance. "... or bunging it out on a roller coaster."

Caleb thought for a moment. "How do you know?"

Grinning, the teenager looked up at their dad. "'Cause a very wise man told me that when I was your age."

Two parents beamed down at their kids, and Caleb followed his brother's inspired look.

"Now." started Calvin, taking a breath and getting to his feet. "Whadyeh say?" He held out his hand. "Let's put 'scary' to the test."

Caleb smiled shyly, shoved his fists in his pockets and walked ahead of his brother. "Put that hand away, everyone'll think you're some scaredy-cat."

Calvin shot his eyes to the sky, but jogged after his brother and through the coaster's brightly-lit entrance.

Powerless

The colours faded,
Their luster gone.
No darkness nor light,
The twilight's eager dawn.

Our heart's hollow,
Our mind astray.
Senses clouded,
As the heavy fog's Grey.

We seek, search, forage,
For something hidden and lost,
Yearn to feel its comfort hold,
No matter what the cost.

But it's no item, no useless trinket,
That belies our aching mind.
Like a summer breeze t'will come,
To its will; resigned.

No power, nor say,
To forego its seamless right.
Veiled; your soul it seeps,
For all the endless night.

Question your heart, your longing lust
And all you that hold dear.
So then you see, what you want
Is really not so clear.

That thing worth finding,
S'not to be found at all.
Til we cease the search,
And heed it's timely call.

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.

Shades of Grey

Everything's still a little hazy, nothing like Hollywood's stuntsmen had taught me. Oh sure, the adrenaline's still pumping and my vision's sharpened - but my knuckles hurt like a bitch. I massage them bitterly, lifting my right hand to my mouth and sucking at the open wounds. It stings, but somehow feels better. The bitter metallic taste makes me gag a little.

We're standing in the corner of the alley, near the dumpster, and though I can remember the pungent reek of rotten eggs and off-milk from before - I can't smell it anymore. Matt and Frank are shuffling from foot to foot in the cold. With these temperatures, we had expected it to snow by now, but I guess Mother Nature's getting old and behind with the times. Three cops are standing in the opposite corner, talking to the pub owner; Ian. He's a small man, but he's got a big heart, often donating much of the pub's revenue to charity. Swell guy, he doesn't run it for the money. All of a sudden, one of the cops breaks off from his comrades and strides over. Jesus, I think, the guy probably has "anabolic" tattooed on his arm. He stops, puts his gigantic hands on his hips and looks down at us.

"Well, gentlemen?"



We pause for a second, looking at each other, unsure of how to proceed. The cop sighs and reaching for his back pocket, pulls out a pen and pad. He flips a few pages back and recites:

"One Mr. Taggert," he says confidently, looking back to us, "is currently in hospital with a concussion. Unfortunately, in his state, he could not answer many of our questions. The most important being, 'who hit him.'" He tucks the notebook back in its place and crosses the massive pythons across his chest. "Now, boys. I trust I don't need to explain the seriousness of the situation?"

We shake our heads unanimously.

"Good." He nods in approval. "Now, I'll still be needing an answer to that question."

Matt blinks a few times, totally flipping out in his mind. He's never been confronted by a cop before, and this arrogant dick isn't making it any easier for him. I guess that's his job though, I think to myself. I don't need to look at Frank to see the sweat breaking out on his forehead. Even in this cold. He's got a damn hot temper, but he's a solid friend. Always at your back, fiercely loyal and damn honest. I can see his breathing grow shallower as his asthma kicks in. Go figure, a fighter with asthma. Breathing problems aside however, Franky's biggest problem is his record. I shudder to think of how many times he's been involved in 'public disturbances' - almost always standing up for the proverbial 'little guy', in fights he has no business interrupting. But he does it anyway, any day, come rain or shine. He can't take another legal-hit.

Frank may be sweating, but he sure as hell doesn't flinch. I hear him suck in a deep breath, but I take advantage of how long it takes him to get started.

"Officer, It wa-" he starts

"-me." I finish.

So cliche. Everyone looks to me. Matt looks up from his frozen feet. Frank's eyes shoot to me, completely taken aback. Even the cop raises his eyebrows. Yeah, alright, I don't make the most convincing fighter - I'm a 5'10'', lanky computer-engineer that can't hold liquor to save his life. But it's not as if I couldn't hit anyone? My poor, split-knuckles sting more than ever. I should probably see a doctor, I think to myself.
In all honesty, I had started the fight - trying to take a leaf out of Franky's book and help the poor girl that Taggert had his hands all over. Ended up using his jaw to break my fist. If my friend hadn't come to my rescue, I'd probably be the one in the ER.

Franky's still flabbergasted, but I can see the gratitude in his eyes. The cop looks to me, obviously not the brightest, and asks: "Name?". I give it, "Richard McLeod". No flinching. Just like Franky.



This world isn't painted black and white, absolutists can spout and spew all they want. Yes, there is good and evil, vitue and sin (not in the biblical, staunch sense of the word),  but everything is made up of a combination of the two. And unfortunately, balance isn't something that comes to humanity naturally, so there tends to be more of one than the other at any one time. It gets a little trickier when you think about morality. It makes me wonder whether obvious evils like lying and killing are really so obvious... so pitch black. Richard lied - but he didn't do it selfishly. Does that justify his sin?

Yeah, sins like these are inherently evil, but I say again - this world isn't painted black and white. You'll have unfair run-ins with such moral paradoxes throughout life and the real answer won't be so obvious. I guess my point is: to fight the shades of grey, you need to choose the right combination of both.

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.