Social malcontent

There is a dry scratchiness in the back of my throat as I walk down another familiar passage to a bathroom that smells of ammonia and piss...

Strangers glance at me as I stumble past, through the maze of people and chairs littering the small space, hazy with the smoke. Anxious chatter, slowed down by sips taken from overpriced drinks. I weave my way back to the table; friends are waiting, chatting about another year that has flown by, gobbled up in the day to day. The tedious nature of “getting the next thing done!”

Empty smiles greet me as I sit down and take a deep drag, eyes watering I try to become part of another predicable conversation. As I shift my weight, it dawns on me: I abuse social lubricants to make it through, to impress and express these strange feelings of dejected malcontent toward people that I no longer seem to find interesting...

“I am moved by fancies that are curled

Around these images and cling:

The notion of some infinitely gentle

Infinitely suffering thing.”

Afrikaner Dom

Afrikanerdom...

Afrikaner Dom

So sit jy in die hoekie van die klas, penorent rug teen die muur. Aan jou bruingebrande bene is die khaki wat jy so hard teen geveg het. Om ‘n identiteit te skep. Kyk hoe sit jy daar, “branded” in jou T-shirt, selfoon in jou hand, jou hedendaagse Trompie.

Jy sit daar in jou hoekie vasgevang tussen die muur en die klas. Die onderwyser, Bybel in die hand met gebalde vuis kyk stip na jou elke beweging, daardie onwrikbare Calvinistiese gewete, sy hand warm om jou keel. Jy maak jou oë toe en dink terug na Vrydagaand.

Op die ritme van watookal deur jou are gepomp het, het jy dit afgeskud. Daardie neerdrukkende juk, die naarhied in jou keel as jy nog ‘n straatkind met ‘n geoefende rympie van die hand wys. Jy weet wie jy is... Klippies en Coke, die reuk van nog ‘n warm oggend in die Kerk, tussen Ouma en jou sussie – “sy’s nou ‘n Model hoor!”

Ongemaklik sit jy daar tussen Hemel en Hel ou mannetjie, jy wat jou jeug in die veld gelos het en redding kom vind het in die hande van jou vyand. Die stoel’tjie is klein, maar gelukking vermom jy jouself soms in die strate van Sandton as ‘n “nuwe Suid-Afrikaner” deel van die rainbow nation.

Jy bly sit. Of so kom dit voor, maar erens diep binne, onder al die jare van trek, veg en verloor. Onderdruk, verdruk, klop daar ‘n iemand aan die deur...  

Mediocrity

Up, down. Sigh, up...

Out of bed, the smell of stale cigarettes, dirty socks and me. Bleary eyed I turn on the first song I see on my media player. Tentatively I start to wake up, eyes clear, windows awash with the weather outside. Towel, barefoot run down the corridor and the day begins...

Wet hair and a black cup of coffee, franticly trying to get body and mind to cooperate, messages are being sent, very little received and I am the victim of a broken telephone. Cigarette, sigh. New song, the habitual struggle. Blank stare, eyes moving over the screen, hand darting restlessly across the page, feint and margin directing the flow of ink.  Sweaty patches slowly advancing despite the cold outside. The droplets flying in, little spots of wetness on my desk, straining under the pressure of another underachiever wielding the weapons of six months of subtle indoctrination.

Racing thoughts on this gloomy afternoon. Cigarette, coffee and a yearning for time to pass. “Sitting, waiting, wishing hoping for the best, expecting the worst.” Another cliché heard as I sit sharing some nervous laughter with my house mates, huddled against the cold. The wear and tear of just another year embodied in my routine existence.

"I don’t wanna work in a building downtown / Parking their cars in the underground     Their voices when they scream, well they make no sound / I wanna see the cities rust / And the troublemakers riding in the back of the bus..."

Symptomatic times

escapism
Noun: the tendency to seek distraction and relief from unpleasant realities by seeking entertainment or engaging in fantasy.


Blood pumping ten-to-the-dozen, saturated veins filled with the cocktail of another evening of hastily made decisions. I take a deep breath and plunge straight into it, the madness of another night. Becoming part of a wild mulling entity swirling, twisting, drawing me into a vortex of super charged vulgarity. The dace floor packed with sweaty bodies jerking to the rhythm of a repetitive track, the bass setting the pace of the swirling mass.


Time wasted, time spent...

"Time is relative," or so we are told by those who impose deadlines.


My ruthless pursuit, a symptom of my time. Never sick, never healthy hanging by the threads of my scull, thinking myself through another day. Lighting another one, in between times spent sitting mindlessly sucking knowledge. Ideas imposed on an already saturated brain, wreaking havoc in the cavities of our collective existence. The products of our predecessors.

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?