Ink stains and tobacco fumes

ex·haus·tion

Noun:

1. .  A state of extreme physical or mental fatigue. 2.    The action or state of using something up or of being used up completely: "exhaustion of fossil fuel reserves".

What is it about the end of the year that makes the bile in my stomach rise violently, the pressure becoming more intense as the last days drag by like dead animals?

Limping around on swollen feet through a campus full of people shying away from any human contact because, “I need to get my work done!” Red eyes framed in droopy eyelids heavy with the scratchiness of the Library. Ink and tobacco stained fingers cramping as I sit and type the first miserable sentences of my last essay, just one more go at it. My last attempt at achieving some academic goal set out by the conventions of our super efficient society.

Time is money, bra...

We sit, huddled against the wind, sharing limited thoughts through individual lenses of experience. One last drag, the deep breath before the plunge. Smoke forced down and held, gushing out suddenly, hoarse cough and all is well. Almost full cycle, nearly there, the last stretch. The wall has been hit and left behind in a pile of broken bottles, grimy scraps of paper topped by my favourite pair of sneakers.

Die visdam gesprek

"Geodkoop kitssatisfaksie..." FPK

Troebel is die water in die visdam, stowwerig die wind wat ligvoets oor die klippe, deur die bome speel.  Onstabiel die tafeltjie in die tuin, songebleik hang die tafeldoek met ‘n koppie wat staan, sonder struktuur omring deur krummels wat die miere en vliee onderhou. Die gras is lank en die blommetuin yl. Onkruid kruip teen die muur op, trek die vergeelde verf af. Soos ek, desperaat vir hulp. Ek sit, geboee skouers en staar na die son, my oë traan, maar ek hou aan kyk want ek wil sien. Skielik kyk ek weg en knyp my oë styf toe, die hitte is oorweldigend en vorms dans in my kop, rond en bont al hoe vinniger. Rooi en oranje  met pers wat wankel om die rante, die trane loop.

Ek het agtergebly soos die beskuitkrummels onder in my beker, opgeswel en sag soos my oë, seer na gisteraand. Ek het weereens ingegee tot die duiwel van vriende en die moontlikheid van ‘n goeie aand, ek was gekul want dit was weereens net ‘n cheap thrill gevul met die breinlose skaterlag van my keel en die rou geroggel van ‘n toilet wat erens spoel. Nog ‘n uur wat die verlede in warrel.

So dra ek my boodskap oor. In ‘n sterwende taal deur ‘n jeugdige mond, want ek weet ervaring  is te min en kennis is tekort, maar ek verwoord.

Want ek kan.

         

Daar is ‘n vraag wat skuil

‘n belangstelling wat skuifel

‘n oumens oor die teels.

Die onsekerheid, broosheid van my lus om te ervaar.

maar ek is,

Onwillig...

This town, small and incestuous...

Late afternoon and time to work, routine walk up to the department, frantic faces, sweaty armpits and exaggerated laughter hits me slap bang in the face. Login failed, retry...  Logged in, open a “new document,” stark white screen. Listening to my pretentious indie electro I try and gather the courage to start typing.

Once again I have disregarded the hand written “Things to do” list on my wall. I start typing, satisfying some primal instinct, some force within me. Hammering these keys, creating some kind of idea expressed in a borrowed language that I have made my own. I am the lonely one; I am the happy one in the crowd. Sometimes it feels like I am what I wish to see in a world where nothing is what you would expect it to be. Rotating at break neck speed like the CD in my drive, thoughts flick in and out screaming for attention, then flung back again, far away from the centre. I’m a spectator in a personal venture of exploration, studying the rest of you through a conceited lens of what I wish to see. 

I have come to live in a state of shabby gentility...                                                                                                                                                            

Lamentation on Res life

Sunday 11:30. Home, groggy and in fear of what the Dining Hall might offer today. Quick shower, some tunes to get me going. No clean socks, no cool sneakers. Lunch is a mess of people, chatting away about their, “hectic weekend bro...” Habitual cigarette downstairs and back to res to tackle the afternoon with some series or an unnecessarily long nap. My clothes smell like the stale grease in the Dining Hall, plonked down on my bed, a friend comes knocking bearing a scrap of paper. “

“I need to read this to you, I found it pinned to my door!”

“Dear... (for reasons of anonymity no name supplied)                                          

Your insensitivity to my abandonment issues has been noted. As someone who was forgotten at the hospital by his parents after birth, I do not look kindly on being left out.

I hope you enjoyed your indulgent consumption of calories with the new apple of your eye. I also hope you found a way to burn of those calories (know what I am saying?). I, meanwhile, have been burning studying accounting in the library. It is there where you may offer your apology.

Yours Sincerely

Dick Kestenbaum

The previous apple of your eye.”

It has to be noted that this is all in jest, but still. How on earth does someone come up with this kind of stuff? Living with 30 other, testosterone gorillas might lead to this state of mental delusion. Walking into the bathroom at 8 on a Saturday morning is like walking in on some bizarre artwork made of human excrement. Vomit, piss, goodness know what, on the floor, the basin, the toilet...

I hate this place sometimes, but somehow it has become not quite home, but also not just a place to lay a greasy, sweaty, beer stained cheek. Living in little matchboxes Res becomes a place of perfect routine. Wake up. Groggy, hungry, where’s my phone? Missed calls, nausea, coffee and here I sit rambling.

Procrastination is King..!  

Wiskunde op 'n Donderdag

Weereens 'n Donderdag oggend na ‘n laat aand van kuier en herontmoetings met mense wat ek in alle eerlikheid kan sê ek nie eers kan, of wil onthou nie. Ek dink terug...  

Ek sit in Wiskunde klas en teken prentjies met die grandpa headache powder wat ek op my boek uitgestrooi het,  eers sny ek lyne met dit soos coke, dan prober ek dit  snuif soos ‘n rockstar. Die kopseer is nie as gevolg van die poeier in my neus nie dis die blerrie wiskunde wat in rooi, blou en swart op die witbord in krom syfers en lyne my dryf tot waansinnige gesprekke oor wat ek Vrydagaand gaan doen. Ek kan nie, ek wil nie, maar ek moet! Wat is hierdie “moet” wat almal so op hammer?  Hoekom moet ek dinge doen en goeters leer wat my net moeg tot in my siel maak en gedeeltelik die oorsaak is van my verwronge aktiwiteite laat aande en vroeë oggende in leë huise as ouers op vakansie is? Die gevaar van té lekker huispartytjies, die veiligheid van ‘n 24 hour Mc Donalds en die wete dat alles more okay gaan wees, want ek het nog my kinderbybel  langs my bed en oor drie dae kry ek my sakgeld.

A delightful introduction

"He who makes a beast of himself rids him of the pain of being a man"                                                                  - Dr. Johnson

Back at the place I love doing the things I loathe. I always end up disappointing myself, work is piling up around me and here I sit typing away my inane ramblings simply to try and vent. Why this drive to self destruction? I am constantly working towards some final glorious apocalyptic end, my decisions lack insight, thought and time. I choose to throw away my most crucial resource into late nights and aimless afternoons. I am Hank-Gunn and this is what I fear I have to say, question and regurgitate into this foul year of our lord.

Sundays are days of anxious breaths in the morning, feelings of guilt cramping in my chest for not going to church. Last night once again, managed to not only wipe my memory, it broke me physically and emotionally, so now I will embark on one of those hellishly introspective Sundays. Breakfast is long gone and missed, the cup of bitter black coffee has become a sign of my uselessness, so lazy and distraught that I find it impossible to gulp it down while still hot. I smell like cigarettes, wine, lipstick and sweet perfume. The girl next to me is breathing rhythmically, her dark hair a tangle on the pillow.

I lie back and start fretting about the week to come; my heartbeat slows down and sleep envelopes me. I wake up with the sensation of someone stroking my back. “Sorry about that I tend to get a little out of hand, but thanks anyway I had fun, what time did we get home?”  These redundant conversations are what make me cringe and at the same time feel that inexplicable surge of life. I feel as if through my own stupidity I am able to create an image of myself through the eyes of others.

How does my perception of myself correlate with what people see and think when they meet me? Don’t we all strive for some ultimate version of ourselves, we all create little pictures of ourselves in our minds and then try to become that person in the picture, the picture keeps on changing and so we keep on changing and moulding ourselves desperately trying to become that what we want to be. My question remains, how does the self perception of an individual differ from that which other people have of the same person? Is there something like being true to yourself when the self can be regarded as being a construction made up of what I want to be and what other people think you are?