Some Place Else

The other night I met my friend's little one. He is two weeks old but 8 weeks too early.

INCREDIBLE.

Incredible that he is here so early.

Incredible that he was supposed to be some place else - deep inside the warmth of his mother's belly.

He seems too big to be inside anyone's belly. And too small to be out of his mother's belly.

He was asleep for almost the whole time we were there. [Himself] held him in his arms and I remember thinking "Not once does your hugeness make this slip of a thing look fragile." Instead, both [Himself] and this 8 weeks early boy looked perfect.

Towards the end he opened his eyes. He looked around a bit. I thought of his eyes, they have only been used for two weeks, and they are 8 weeks early. They are almost brand new. they are supposed to be closed in some place else for another two weeks. Does he feel it's better here or back there where it was warm and his little body and his eyes didn't have to work so hard. What is he thinking, I feel he is thinking - but what is it? Is he thinking he is supposed to be some place else; with no vocabulary, no way of interpreting the unidentifiable things, sounds, sights around him, no way of sense-making. Because its too new, too soon. Because he is supposed to be some place else. Only he is here now. And there is no going back.

Today I feel exactly like that.

Last night I foolishly - but it was necessary - opened a Pandora's box that opened my eyes. I sit now, without the vocabulary to express what is. No way of interpreting things that before were so well-known to me and now seem alien and strange. Nothing makes sense. Beliefs I held now lie ruined, meaningless at my feet.

I want to scream: I wasn't ready!! And I wonder maybe, just maybe, I ought to be some place else. Only I am here now. And there is no going back.

Mozambique and Smurffette

I am going to spend 10 glorious days surfing, eating fresh seafood and cashew nuts, saying sexy things like 'hola' and 'como estas' and 'obrigada' ('hallo', 'how are you' and 'thank-you' in Portuguese), steal kisses from [Himself] in the sun- be it on a towel on the beach or at the table in a beach restaurant. I am going to Mozambique over the holidays. I need not tell you how much I love this beautiful, struggling country that is trying so very hard to rebuild and heal after almost 15years of civil war left its brutal mark on it. It is one of the worlds poorest countries and on it's coastline its poverty is enunciated bizarrely by it's beauty - limited infrastructure means little development, which means unspoilt natural beauty; but also it means the local people have no access to most facilities like electricity and running water that you and I may take for granted. Yet they are incredibly kind, generous and warm with what they have (okay except for a few characters who will try to swindle the unsuspecting tourist - but you will get this anywhere in the world as long as you have unsuspecting tourists in the same space as someone looking to make a quick buck).

And before any of you haters remind me that it's rainy season and it can pour sometimes for days on end, did I mention our beach-front accommodation with sea views and the half a dozen books I have stored away that I CANNOT wait to sink my reading-teeth into?? Did I mention that even on the rainy days I would still be able to eat fresh seafood and cuddle with my man and read for hour-after-uniterrupted-hour?

I. Need. A. Break.

I have already started giving myself small breaks. Today I took 10minutes to ponder on this:

Smurfette (and the Smurfs) was born French. Her original name was Schtroumpfette. She and her boys were subsequently exported to a number of nations where she became Smurfette (English), Schlumpfine (German), Puffetta (Italian), Pitufina (Spanish) and Smurfin (Dutch). What would she be in Zulu? uSmefet? Nomasmef?

Just saying...

We went to a wedding this Sunday last. There were many highlights - the groom is Nigerian... and Nigerians are a colorful and fascinating people strongly rooted in their culture even when a thousand miles from home... a recipe for highlights - but for me, the biggest highlight was reliving a moment I will never get tired off: The moment in which I look at [Himself] all dressed up and think, "That's one sexy beast".

[Himself] really looks good in a slim-fit shirt.

Just saying.

He may sometimes insist on looking like a slob in casual wear (but he's MY slob). But when you spy him in his formal wardrobe, all 6ft1000 of him in a well tailored slim-fit shirt, better when it's white showing off his slight but evident tan, well then... move over George Whatsername Clooney!

Yes. This really deserved a blog post on its own. My pervosphere is wider than Dwayne Johnson's perfect teeth and Vin Diesel's sculpted biceps you know! Sometimes I don't have to turn to E! or surf the net to get a fix of hotness, it's right here next to me scratching it's balls.

Black Tuesday

The picture above is my alma mater's home page for today. UCT is lending its voice to protest the information bill which was, sadly/unfortunately/alarmingly/horrifically/[insert appropriate reaction], adopted by a majority vote in parliament today.

In a nationwide protest, the pressed labelled today Black Tuesday and encouraged anyone opposing this bill to wear all black... this is in reference to Black Wednesday when the apartheid government at the time targeted and banned anti-apartheid journalists and newspapers.

I saw a new headline:

Black Tuesday: The Beginning of the End of Freedom of Expression

A bit dramatic perhaps but one can't help but get that shivers-down-your-spine feeling that something is horribly wrong with this picture. It seems this bills spells out nothing but doom and gloom for South Africa.

What a sad day for democracy.

On being okay...

Sometimes I am thrilled by simple philosophies. This post by Akona thrills me. It reminds me of one of the most gratifying, satisfying, inspiring moments I have ever had as a lecturer.

One of my students, in a sociology class where we were discussing identity, seemed to be having a bad day, and went off on a rant about society's need to 'fix' things without actually realizing what we want or need,or if the result of an action or implementation is what we desire.

He finished off his rant with a deeply exhaled and plaintive "Can we just be ok with not being ok. Please. Can we start there?"

Could I have said more, in that moment after he had so perfectly spoken to the theme of that morning's class? I truly didn't think so. Only I was the lecturer and dismissing class after a robust 'Amen' was not a very lecturey thing to do. I did hope that my student's concluding statements had sparked some sort of existential inquiry in his peers minds.

I just felt like right there was the crux of all things identity: To stop for a minute and just be okay with being (as long as the basics are ticked as Akona writes ... I mean it's hard to be okay with a growling stomach). And maybe then...

As a researcher I know how endless the possibilities that 'maybe' offers. It's exhausting. I am black and have race politics hypothesizing my possibilities, I am a woman and there are state departments dedicated to empowering me and my peers through endless gender programmes, I am a third culture kid and have rims upon rims of literature espousing the panoramic potential of capabilities... and on and on and on.

It's exhausting. And sometimes I need to stop and take in that moment and breathe and recognize that right now, sans aspirational goals to whatever, I AM OKAY.

Homeware shopping tips

Before you go off and get yourself a vacuum cleaner I suggest you equip yourself with nothing less than a 4year university degree in science or engineering... rocket science is preferable.

What ought to have been a simple excursion to Makro this weekend for a vacuum cleaner turned out to be an hour long session involving the dynamics of suction; the advantages of hepa* filters over water filtering systems; the virtues of canister or upright vacuum cleaner on deep-pile carpets; curtain and upholstery brushes and - within that - the mechanics of brush rotation... and so on and so on.

When did a vacuum cleaner become more than a vacuum cleaner??

I discovered the difference between a R500 vacuum cleaner (which merely rearranges the dust in a room by sucking it up in one corner and, through a poor filtration system, blowing it out to another part of the room) and a R3000 vacuum cleaner (that not only removes 99% of the dust in an entire household but if given the chance, could solve the world's problems because it's just that smart!)

So what did we get? [Himself] and I illustrated the textbook definition of compromise in a relationship. His thrifty self was violently opposed to spending R3000 on a vacuum cleaner shrewd self would not be taken in by the unnecessary gimmicks slapped onto a suction device and inflating its price (I mean why do I need a vacuum cleaner to play the stock market for me?); while my snobbish self was mortified at the thought of a vacuum cleaner that cost less than a cup of coffee pragmatic self warned against the likely non-durability of a cheap machine.

We settled on a respectably priced bad-body that looks like a robot (canister; though without changeable suction settings, it has hepa*-filters). While it may not sing classical music nor check my emails like its higher-priced counterpart, it will certainly do what a vacuum cleaner is supposed to do: clean.



*Whatever those are

Italy... or South Africa?

Who cares... it's all the same.

Being neither an economist nor an expert in the financial markets*, its rather bizarre to watch how Italy seems to have plunged the financial world into madness. Literally. I imagined Berlusconi's resignation might provide some relief to Italy's crisis but alas. It seems the immediate relief is only to the millions of Italians who have been mortified and angered time and time again by their scandalous leader's blatant disregard for the laws of the land and for the moral esteem constituents would like to hold a leader up to. It appears that, for now, B's resignation will do nothing to soothe the jittery investors who will continue to flee as the country enters into a period of political (and thus fiscal policy) uncertainty till after the logical move toward new elections.

One of the headlines in the UK Telegraph today:

Italy's debt crisis: doomed by corruption, bloated bureaucracy and poor productivity

With indices like:

...Of the world’s top 200 universities, only one is Italian – Bologna University in the north, one of the oldest in Europe...

...Italy also performs poorly in global rankings of transparency and competitiveness...

...Italy’s National Statistics Agency has estimated that the “black” economy makes up at least 16 per cent of GDP...

...Tax evasion is almost a national sport. Italians resent paying high taxes when they feel they get little in return – streets are potholed, hospitals are overcrowded, playgrounds for children are often smashed up and covered in graffiti and public transport is frequently shabby and outdated.

...And they have been set a terrible example – among the plethora of accusations that Mr Berlusconi has faced in his many trials are those of tax fraud and false accounting...

...The unemployment rate for young people between the ages of 15 and 24 is close to 30 per cent...

...Seeing no prospects at home, young Italians are leaving in droves to seek better opportunities in Britain, the US, Australia and the Gulf, in an accelerating brain drain that will deprive the country of much-needed entrepreneurial talent...

I couldn't help drawing parallels. Just a couple of name changes here and there and one could be reading from the pages of a report on South Africa. I love Italy and harbor dreams of one day being made an honorary citizen of Roma. I wonder if I can use my South African experience to motivate for how I will feel right at home as an Italian.

*Being neither an economist nor expert in financial markets also means I do not engage financial news with anything more than lay-interest (except where implications on my passions - education and unemployment - are direct). I prefer to wait for [Himself] to explain the financial news and all its inaccessible jargon to me in simple English over a leisurely Sunday morning breakfast. Financial crises are best understood this way I find.