George: The Englishman

I could have been 14 or so, Christmas day. My mother would shake me out of dreamland. My eyes would slowly open and for the 10th time, I'd hope to see a white blanket out the window with a snowman sitting on it, wearing a real scarf, carrot nose and green hat. I always hoped African Christmas snowed too and that's all thanks to a Miracle on 34th Street. We had to go for a visit, it was compulsory. I quite hated it, i always seen Christmas on TV and people generally stayed home, opened gifts and did the whole family thing. It just didn't make sense to be leaving the house on a 'being home day'. 

We would pack the few groceries and go into the public buses heading west towards the suburbs. After a few lousy minutes sitting next to the few who made trips on Christmas day, we'd get off, walk a few metres in the beautiful streets of Marlborough, the trees seemed to all lean in creating a tent for the streets. The sun would sneak through where the leaves gaped, creating polka dots of light and dark patches where we walked. 

Soon enough, he scurried towards us, arms held out waiting for an embrace. My mom walks faster towards him and we'd take a moment to take in the warm feeling around the air. The sun seemed to shine a little brighter, birds sang a little sweeter. A second later, he'd turn to me, it was my turn. I walked into his arms as my mum had and threw my hands around his waist as i was supposed to. He was after all my grandfather.

I don't know much about him as i sit here writing this, i don't know where he was born or how he grew up. His childhood was just but a mystery we never seemed to have come across. He was born George, well at least i imagine so, though i cant be entirely certain it wasn't a name given to him by the white family that he worked for from his late teenage years. i don't even know for sure what year he was born, in his late life he turned 18 a number of times, at least according to him (lol). Most of his life he lived under the white dominated regime, worked for a white family and  did everything for this family. He gave them over 50 years of his life, waking up to clean, sometimes cook. They told him how hands had germs which seemingly wasn't the best of things to tell my grandfather. That day on, nothing was put in his mouth if it had touched his hands. I am talking about a man who ate everything, i mean everything, with a fork and knife!

He also vigorously adapted the British philosophy that "there is nothing a good cup of tea cannot fix". With a time table, nothing could go on if his tea wasn't served on time. I learnt this when he moved in with us. He wasn't particularly a fussy eater but if he was going to eat it, then it "better damn well taste good!" Liberal with a reckless tongue that dared to speak about the things many of his generation wouldn't ever mention. He found freedom in himself. Amazingly fluent in English, he'd hit half the crossword everyday, bet on horse racing, entered the lotto and never left the house without his hat. My grandfather was an English-man. Groomed and bred in the English culture, i's dotted, t's crossed.

One day i heard he died. He just died. I don't know where, i don't know how. He just seemed to disappear from my life for a few weeks that turned to months, that turned to years. In the end, the last anyone has seen him. he was walking down the road his hat on, a newspaper in hand, like he'd done many times before. Now we are only left with that image of him heading into the shadows

RIP Gramps
George Matute
  

Dying life...

So lately i have been having a feeling like my end is near, like my world is slowly closing in and that my "purpose" as it maybe believed as the reason for human existence is served. I don't know if that would make a difference if still i am not 100% aware what the purpose is. It could be in anyway religiously i could look at it.  I am not suicidal, don't get it wrong, and neither am i aware of how i would die but it just feels like i am reaching close to my expiry date.  Maybe its a reminder of how fragile life really is or maybe its intuition or a sixth sense of some sort. I could never explain it .

Lately i wonder about death in itself and incredibly there is an unwritten fear of death and anything that may seem dark that seemingly accompanies it. Its the questions we don't like to ask that keep us floating in uncertainty and hearsay, uneven belief and cold blunt fear of what is unknown. There are so many theories...heaven, hell, 72 virgins, reincarnation, silence. Its quite a fascinating subject. I heard a quote one time that reoccurred to me.

"Death created time to grow the things it will kill." 

That really dissected in my brain today when the sun rose a few minutes later than it would in this season. Time became a factor i meditated on tied up with the aspect of death. Made me wonder,

Is life really life or are we in actual fact killed to live?

Stick with me a second here...let me perhaps try to untangle my thoughts.

So there is of course the believe of human existence as we are on earth. We all wake up brush our teeth and follow the paths of our lives wondering what exactly we are here on the earth for. We have gotten used to the capitalist world were money and sex are the main reasons of life and the proof of meaningful existence of whatever time we have spent on this earth. Perhaps back in the day people were slightly deeper in the sense that the pursuit of happiness was more than worldly possessions but the extremity of the joy and happiness one possessed not necessarily what one owned.

That said, If what makes the body actually live is the soul, that would make the body a vehicle which is driven by the soul and maybe dumped (death) at anytime. Therefore the soul may live (exist) on without a body (heaven/hell/72 virgins) or maybe may disappear to thin air? (Silence). Perhaps the soul does exist before it enters a body when it is born and exits when the body dies to "after-life" does that makes the soul immortal?

If this is the case then can i say we are born into the world to die? and if this is so, does that makes the act of being born be considered as dying?

If the souls are everlasting then when we are born we are actually dying and that means living life then becomes nothing but an experience of dying. And on the extreme that makes the act of dying the moment we gain life. Why? Why be born to die?

Who knows? Perhaps to prune the soul to maturity? To generate humanity? To be?

Perhaps when i do die live at the end of this human existence, my soul will find out the fundamental essence of a dying life.

It has HIT hard

The bug.

I've caught the deadly disease again. I've been searching for a light in my life and everywhere i turn i seem to be facing mediocrity. Nothing seems good enough. I am longing for something, anything, ANYONE, to just sandpaper the edges of my heart to a place of innate pleasure of existence.

Instead i marvel at loneliness. I do not want to speak to anyone, to do anything else but stay in my own company. I have started to slowly burn the bridges of everyone roaming around me. I marvel at the beauty of death, The easy feeling of silence, blackness, nothingness. I scare people with all these ideas and i could barely care less.

Perhaps a haircut? Get rid of the dreadlocks that are almost two years of some such agony. I watched them slowly as they slowly protrude from my scalp and eventually falling over to the back of my head as they were too long to stand tall or rather short? I find myself thinking of sitting out in the middle of the night dragging on a cigarette, enjoying the only seemingly beautiful thing in life. The evening silence.

My comfort comes with some strange tone and unimaginable need to just NOT be. I'm sure everyone will conclude in the same apparently medical diagnosis of depression. Well i guess if it makes everyone feel better i might have to just accept while slowly i embark on the weirdest, uncomfortable mood of existence yet. Yet its quite gratifying being so in touch with my feelings.

One breathe at a time. Or maybe not

Life, love, sex, intimacy - THE VENT

Why is it that when we look at a plate of food we first think calories before we think flavor? Why is it when we think life we think about money and all other material things we could possibly collect before we think of places we could visit, cultures to explore, connections to create? How is it living if all we would like to do is hold on to everything we possibly can without letting go of that which we cant collect? Why is love all about sex? Why can't Living mean more than a state of existence described by people who have decided to profit on other people's unhappiness? People who have installed in our minds that beauty is when you can count your ribs as you stand in the mirror and see your spine tracing on your chest? People who have said loving hard and true is for losers and sex is the highest currency? Drugs make a name and relevance start with a mass murder? That life in itself has become such a pessimistic endeavor and profits are in war?

I'm tired of being asked if everyone I am friends with is a lover. I hate being put in the same bracket as everyone else living a life of confused purpose accompanied a lack of values. I wouldn't want to be bracketed into a life of Quiet-dinners, sunset selfies, technological-brains, unreal-friendships and non-existent intimacy.

Its taken me two days to brawl with friends over my dislike for text messaging and chatting. And in both cases, my frustration spewed over into a vent which ordinarily was misunderstood and I was accused of being stuck up and boring. I apparently have a stick up my ass of late. I must be losing my head maybe because the Joan that used to sit quietly amidst the agony of boring conversation and hours of meaningless chats in order to make a person happy, the Joan that was born to be an angel, to make everyone but herself happy.

You know that Joan? Well she's dead.

We used to be...

i used to sit with him almost everyday and he was proud of being my friend. Always used to say how odd it was that we could just sit and talk about everything, anything or nothing for hours. Our coversations were so diverse, starting from love, to lesbianism, aliens, MH370 and the rest of everything that meant so little or so much. we connected on such a profound level even though we had a gap of more than thirty decades between us.

 He'd sipped on his beer at a pace while i slowly took baby sips on my naturally sweet red wine. His Great Dane sat beside us looking slightly intimidating and mostly bored. My then friend worried that i would disappear, i assured him we were such good friends there was no way i would just disappear like  without explanation or reason.

We havent spoken in weeks. The thought of meeting him again makes me uneasy, I barely know where i would start. how i can explain the reason for the undeniable need to not be in contact with him. The connection has diffused to nothingness for me right now. I'm not thinking about fixing it, neither would it mean much. I've been disconnected from him and unfortunately it seems like he's not the last to face the wrath of my solitude seeking soul. I have a need to be without. Sola. It seems the connections I've had I feel not to to want to rekindle. Does being without mean I'm more at ease living in my silence? Maybe my joy is no longer in forged relationships but in nothing and being without? Even if without means I lose a friendship worth saving?

hablo espanol...

I've been going to classes for over three months now. Every Tuesday and Thursday, my bag is slightly heavier than usual with the addition of my huge notebook for taking notes that are naturally in an disorderly fashion, abstract for my misunderstanding in the future.

My notebook is as bad as my mind is with names. I am the ultimate snob for usually forgetting everyone i see if they didn't make an impact like a branding stamp would sear on to a cow. i have my notes in such a random dismantled order i dare not help anyone with them lest i am guarantying their failure. Regardless, almost everyday, i sit on the desk i have secretly written my name on, at the back of la clase. 

Why español? 

That is the question. Well besides the small fact that a staggering 392 million people in the world speak it, there is something about the way Spanish words rrroll off the tongue, the gentle way you bite on your tongue when you spit out those foreign c's, topped with the sweet s's that envelope la palabras to a perfect 'T'.

español is like the perfect woman, mi tipo de mujer. She is passionate and gentle, mysterious in how she presents herself and yet undeniably fascinating. She is witty and complex enveloped with an easy understanding and a loyal catch when you have her.

But in this moment, for me, espanol is a breathe of fresh air, my getaway car from reality. In that hour and half, i am in a world of dreams and new things. I am among crazy dreamers that love fantasising about the European oceans that run endless towards the African shores. They fantasise about salsa and the men and maybe women who will sweep them away with "hips that don't lie", men and women that speak this love language. All this is headed by una profesora whom brings to life simple moments and daydreams to a temporary reality.

. . . . pero solo en la clase loca.

Once upon a tale...

I've for a while now wanted to write the tale of my life. Its a story worth telling yet i hide it mostly and only unveil it when i feel it benefits the other person more than the memories awakening could ever hurt me. There's been so many versions;

The vague one:

He sat under a tree, a piece of grass between his lips. H e gazed out into nothingness, the dry land around him seemed sad but it was his home. He's made it far enough to have himself most of what everyone wanted. The African sun smiled from the heavens and he smiled back from under his favorite tree. He remembered the time of the war when he'd run in the dry savanna, camp to camp, with messages from the majors to his battalions of the best strategy to take back the land, the soil. I watched him from within the house. I wouldn't dare try to get too close. It was odd watching my own father...


The Silly One:

Its like i had to be a boy to be the greatest daughter to him. I wanted so much to be out of his way such that i felt being extra-good was my invisible potion. I'd just rather sit under the dinning room table watching the different shaped feet sweep by. I'd sit for our making up things that didn't matter, making up stories in my head of the unfounded happiness i had created. I'd get my sister to join and to join me. we'd whisper our found legend of the Purple Carrot...


There is however the true one. A sad truth un-twerked for my audience. One that is as it should, as it was. The one i worry when read many would find very...tricky to relate to me. The sad truths though i write in gasps. Little breathes taken at an interval of unexpectedness.

It didn't matter that he loved me. It wouldn't matter. I didn't love him. Not really anyway. I only could survive by being a puppet. The one who has to take the sacrifice of their own joy and freedom for their own survival, existence. I sat in the dirt, slightly hungry. I thought i should have had my breakfast, there would be no other meal for me until after 10am. Snacks were not particularly for us, the kids, says my step-mom. I didn't care. She wasn't who i worried about. It was my father or rather that which was within him...