Concluding as God intends

There's something about a vulgar, engrossing pain that shatters and substitutes everything you’ve ever counted as hurt.

There’s that irresponsible, overflowing river of emotions that makes you feel like morning will bring no joy or retreat.

Something elusive about even an ounce of joy in the midst of a graduated level of disbelief and agony.

Something about mourning that confirms it a dreaded and condemning authority.

Something about the wisest of words that removes encouragement when you feel powerless.

Something about not having anyone wipe your tears away to rub in the fact that you are damaged.

Something about this kind of selfish pain that feels close to death even when a hug consoles you.

Yet, somehow, everything will conclude as God intends.

Deciphering the sweet and the floury stuff

Okay, I am not inspired by having biscuits for breakfast – be it the act or the idea. I dislike how the taste of sugar resonates in my throat after just three of those. Especially since I’m in the habit of having them with strong coffee, a drink to which I am a trustworthy slave. This toxic relationship is one which I find myself moderately ashamed of. I should be – after having given most of my friends and acquaintances a talking to for their smoking ‘addiction’. What hypocrisy I display! Of course I’ll never admit to this…

I highly doubt that even a scone would inspire anything out of me – jam or no jam. Cake may stand a chance, just as long as it has no carrot in as an ingredient or in its title. That I can’t stand unless it’s my mother who made it. Not necessarily because she makes the best but because I would want her to not feel like she wasted her time baking in the first place.

Aah, the biscuit! It may be nutritious, easy-to-store, long lasting, and blah-blah-blah, but I couldn’t care less. It’s sweet, fattening and all the things we’ve been warned against. I am not fooled. It resembles nothing good. It is almost evil. Perhaps that’s a heavy word, an unnecessary word in this context. I love how I rebuke myself. I’m almost a conservative parent’s idea of an obedient child.

Here’s the deal: Ginger biscuits only serve to reinforce the tale of the Gingerbread Man. What ill fate! That story talks about the biscuit’s escape…only for it to get caught by a fox, of all things. Chocolate biscuits give me an image of being wheeled to hospital on a stretcher. And I'm not even a health junkie, not even close.

Staying off biscuits will probably mean having more bread. I don’t mind bread, as long as it’s not low-GI, wholegrain, seeded this-and-that. To me, that just sounds pretentious, I can’t deal. Call me plain, but I am a white-bread type of girl.

I could simply have a rusk, but that would just remind me of my inevitable aging process. The day evidence of this shows I will know my beauty has been depleted. Which girl wants to leave with that!

Basically, I’m screwed. What a flop!

Bruising my talents

There’s nothing I do as well as to procrastinate. I suppose I could give myself more credit than that. I have just come to the realization that I am onto something – something I’m sufficient in. . . .

Even my talents have grown weary of scolding me, pleading with me to write that article, strike up that conversation or send that email – whatever. I annoy them more so when I’m completely aware of the progress I would unlock if I would juuuust make that move. At first my inactivity ticked my talents off and they remained hopeful, thinking I would someday change and lean towards actually doing. At this point they are busy washing their hands of me. I’m hurt mostly because the blame is mine to bear.

My talents! Their dominant body language is easily readable. ‘Nudge, nudge’ they constantly went in my head. They fell short of slapping me only because they lack the physical build. Their frustration exceeded everything else, so nudge they went again.

Falling victim to something you allowed to take advantage of you from day one is just appalling. But it’s easy. I was not led on, I gave my consent. Indeed, it was out of my own discord that I fell deeply for tempting short-lived pleasure. In my head it would ring that I was fighting progress. Yet watching something meaningless on TV became meaningful. Even repeats did nothing to deter me from watching the first time.

Observation was spared for activities that drew from me (in energy, money and TIME) and left me without. Steps taken were often facing in the direction most people take; backwards. I seldom made time for growth, satisfying the temporary want and choosing to be taken by it. Perhaps never doing meant never fearing not to succeed.

It was like a lover I was addicted to, knowing perfectly well that he was poison wrapped in attractive packaging I still went back for more…and more. Funny as it may seem, it may be that I was unknowingly addicted to disappointment. I had no will to fight this lover off, but it didn’t keep me resenting him. And this was a cycle which never failed to repeat itself, each time with equal success.

Only much change can heal the broken bond I once shared with my talents, before I weakened them. Rejection after rejection, their ego has been severely bruised. Breaking habits has never been something I found easy. Being flexible I can do if it does not concern the body. Falling has left me with physical scars, but I dare to try with my talents again, that I may fall having at least stood up and smelled the fresh air in the sky. If I fall yet again, I will rejoice at the smell of grass. I have to.

…Now that I have determined all this, will I go back to ‘my ways’?

After Tears parties: to have or not to have

The concept of an ‘After Tears’ party is one which makes some people cringe. Another lot do not see a problem with it. Their common justification is that as you should not put your life on hold. Probably another excuse just to down the liquor?

The party after the funeral provides attendants with an opportunity to catch up with old friends and family members who we see only at funerals and weddings. It’s also an excuse to drink, not that one really needs an excuse for anything they wish to do. Basically, it’s a social gathering with plenty of hugs accompanied with the cliché ‘long time, no chat’.

Mourning takes the backseat. If you miss your chance to mourn during the service and when the casket is released, you might have missed your chance to mourn on that day. The party must go on, right? Let’s just remember that mourning is generally defined as ‘a state of sorrow after the death of a loved one’. If sorrow and dancing go hand in hand together…

After Tears parties are normally characterized by the presence of cases of alcohol and a beat to get down to. At times, transport is even organized for the partygoers to be ‘shuffled’ home. It is probably not as extravagant as a wedding reception, however. Just like any other place which involves alcohol, it can get rather rowdy, causing attendants to forget the reason they gathered in the first instance.

A letter of the Kwazulu-Natal Christian Council dated October 2008 rightfully states that holding after tears parties is becoming customary after the burial. The Council goes on to say that not only is an after tears party an unnecessary expense but that it also disregards the family’s need to mourn. Fair enough, families themselves do sit down over a few bottles.
A term which refers to an after tears party which I find somewhat funny is ‘funeral bereavement function’. In any case, these parties are normally so informal that the word ‘function’ almost sounds as if it dignifies them.

Generally speaking, people no longer observe customs as far as funerals are concerned. Not that I am advocating customs, not that I am not. The older generations mostly wore black to funerals, had a no-pants policy for women who were also prohibited from entering the burial site, should their heads not be covered. And you best believe they took these strict laws seriously. They were not funeral dressing guidelines, they were the ‘funeral dressing laws’. Men have more room to breathe, though to this day, in some cultures they are required to wear jerseys (or something akin to that). Though, as those who frequent funerals may have observed, nothing is set in stone. Nowadays there are exceptions with just about anything. It’s this thing they call freedom, neh?

Just what does these after tears parties achieve? Are they meant to celebrate the lives and achievements of the deceased? Well, can’t you atleast wait for the anniversary of the death to celebrate! If it’s a question of ‘honour’, why not drink only at the parties of people who consume alcohol? Perhaps the deceased must even sign a letter of consent that allows an after party. After all, some say that an after tears party is not there to ridicule the memory of the person who has just been told to ‘rest in peace’ just before funeral attendants get ready change into more comfortable clothes (ladies) and to pump loud music we intoxicate themselves. These parties have ‘gatecrashers’ too, but nobody really sees them as outsiders. A party for one is a party for all. I wonder if people compete to see whose relative’s after tears party attract the most ‘happy mourners’. You could be forgiven for thinking that they do, the way they go on about them.

Disclaimer: As much as I don’t want an after tears party for myself, I bear no grudges against the celebrating of my life, should those in my circle deem it necessary. Though, I must stress that unless it is humanly impossible, I will turn very badly in my grave if people gather in memory for the sole purpose of an After Tears. With that in mind, should you deem it necessary to hold an After Tears for your loved ones I might consider honouring an ‘invitation’.

Matric pass rate increases, apparently

So, Matric results have been released, and it seems some people are not impressed (or convinced) by the rise of the pass rate. Basic Education Minister Angie Motshekga describes this year’s results as a ‘remarkable achievement’. The pass rate stands at 67.8%, slightly below the targeted 70%. My eyes popped when it dawned on me that they increased by 7.2% from last year.

What is remarkable; however is that the ‘increase’ emerges from an academic year characterized by disruptions – the teachers strike and extended school holiday during the World Cup in May/June. These events would imply to a regular thinker that there was less teaching time invested. The teachers did, afterall, spend plenty of time outside the classroom. I’m in fact joking when I say that 2010 was practically a school holiday. Yet somehow, the results increased. Now, that’s remarkable. Congratulations, Minister!

One wonders what happened from the time the results were handed to quality assurer Umalusi on 24 December until today. Oh yes, most people were on leave, so the question of rigging I shall not entertain. . . There’s really no use in speculating, for we may never know what really happened. Well, not unless there’s 1. anything to know and 2. a whistleblower waiting to prove a few funny theories. Perhaps WikiLeaks has something on this? Or perhaps the majority of these students really did study vigorously? Perhaps?

Fair enough, it is not all that tricky to pass the exams if a pupil needs just above 30% to walk through the doors of a tertiary institution, student card in hand. It gets less simple in varsity, but some of them won’t even make it that far, whether or not they passed or not.

It almost sounds like students are being ‘passed’ at an extraordinary rate. Whether or not this is acceptable is not for me to judge - if it is even the case.

I imagine that the consequences of this ‘remarkable’ pass rate include students having poor reading and writing skills as far as English (and other languages) is concerned. Apart from that, I don’t see them suddenly becoming inspired to study extensively when they go to tertiary. What's the point? The cycle repeats, poor matric results – poor pass rate in varsity, well for some institutions. The consequences are far more in number. Nevertheless, only 23.5% of last year’s students obtained university entrance, so why entertain this argument in depth?

As is, trade union Solidarity said earlier this week that the future of matriculants looks bleak in that the majority of them will not find jobs. There’s nothing new there. One wonders what some of these ‘educated’ people will do, what they will resort to for survival. I wonder if someone in the Education department has the impression that we are a country full of budding entrepreneurs who do not necessarily need a good education, whatever that is.

Passing matric, however, is seen as a major accomplishment and it should not be taken away from anyone. Whether or not it is an M-pass or an S-pass, as some still refer to it. It is probably a teenager’s largest feat; I remember it that way for me. Afterall, they are yet to be married or be parents – in some cases. . .

For me personally, it is rather annoying that the results have to be published in newspapers for all to see. That must mean double the anxiety for some students, especially those uncertain of their results. You know for a fact that everyone knows you either passed or failed, in some instances, long before you do. Yes, the newspaper publishing thing is a pain. There must be a violation of some rights somewhere in there, not?

Just plain addicted to busy

I hate having time on my hands and having little to do. I am rather terrible at just sitting around looking pretty. Never would I feel more useless! Mental stimulation is the order of the day, every day. Something must always be in motion – be it my hands, feet or any other body part. I am convinced that this is built in.

Growing up, each time my chores were complete, my mother would always tell me that one could never say that they have completed their chores. For example, no matter how clean the house looks to you, it’s actually still dirty. This applies even after you have spent hours on your knees, scrubbing the floor to the point where you can clearly see your reflection on it. So there’s always something to be done, always. There was always Maths equations to practice – not that I had any interest in the subject whatsoever.

It doesn’t feel legal for me to sit down and just relax on a weekday. Well, unless it’s late and I have to watch some TV.

What’s far worse is the feeling of not being busy enough at work. I always want to have something to do. I want to be productive, and as such, nothing puts me down as much as this. What’s worse is that my mind wanders off quite easily – even when I seem quiet – so I need to curb its ‘hyperactivity’. For me, slow days resemble something akin to claustrophobia.

If I twiddle my thumbs for no justifiable reason, I am not busy enough. If I yawn continuously during the day, I am not busy enough. If I suddenly remember when last I updated my Facebook status, something is really wrong. Seriously though, I think I am just addicted to busy.

The type of wife I will become

Several of my friends are getting married, and I admire their courage in deciding to take that step. As some have put it, “it is part of life”. I do suppose the twenties are generally that period in one’s life where marriage seems the logical thing to engage in. Perhaps it’s even the convenient thing to do for some people. But it’s just safer for me to say that different people marry for different reasons.

I also form part of the female group that one day wants to be referred to by a man she loves as his wife. I do experience a mild shiver when my mind dwells on exactly what kind of wife I will be. My main problem with myself is that I have too many sides to me. In that sense, I am balanced, yet I am really not. . .

Okay, let’s talk practically about this wife thing. A wife is stereotypically (though to a lesser degree) expected to clean and cook well - among other things. Though I can manage both of these things, I am perhaps not the neatest person in my street. Not to say I can’t or won’t clean, I just normally tend to need some sort of motivation. Visitors are a prime example of the kind of motivation I am talking about. Let's face it, people care about impressions. Imagine Sidney Sheldon with his writing ability but no motivation to write. He may have never published any book. That’s just the way it is. My mother, who can’t stand a dirty house, should have been my role model in this regard. It’s just a pity we had a ‘helper’ for most of my life.

As for my cooking, it ranges from excellent to reasonably poor. While some people can’t get enough of my pasta, others would rather have bread instead of my pap. It’s no natural talent of mine, but I can hook up a mean meal when I am in the mood. Sundays must be special, as that is the only day in the week when I really feel the need to don a kitchen apron.

I am not the most patient person either. My principal flaw is that I am a selective perfectionist. I use the word 'selective' only in the sense that I can be indifferent when it suits me. My friends describe me as ‘strict’ and comically express how sorry they feel for my future kids. Rest assured, I'm not laughing with them.

Most women are infamous for sometimes being moody, so that probably deserves no mention. I must stress that I am not large-scale moody. I can safely say I make up for it by being sweet, considerate and nurturing to those around me – so my kids are safe.

This post may have been an absolute waste. Maybe, just maybe, I should give my boyfriend a detailed questionnaire to complete about exactly what kind of girlfriend I am. That should give me an idea of the type wife I will one day become. . .

Indigestion and digestion in 2010

The last year went by without as much as a glitch. No, really, that’s what I call a blatant lie. It was hiccups all the way, actually. But they have all stopped and I can pause for five seconds and just smile as I reflect. The rain has dried up, and the sun is out to heat up my cheeks.

I was all things in 2010 – a temperamental freak, a great lover, a wonderful friend, a pain, and still – a success. I did not achieve many things I set out to make mine; however, I maintain that God played fair…

Laziness and procrastination must have had a productive meeting when they colluded and clung on my back. My tongue didn’t hold out enough to gather more saliva; it was always in a hurry to utter that which my mind entertained. Subsequently, pointless grudges were unfortunately formed against me. My honesty gained me life-long friends but pushed away new ones faster than I can spell holiday.

It was not a wasted year: I got a new job, I filled up one page of my passport, I increased the number of times I have flown, I took more walks, I temporarily took up running, and I never quit discovering myself.

All in all, survival is the main thing, and I did more than that. I pulled off a great leap into 2011.