Tuesday, June 24, 2008

and everytime [I touch you] you just tremble inside

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering – these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love – these are what we stay alive for." [Dead Poet's Society]

Human relationships fascinate me. The love hate relationship between two people who won’t admit their attraction for one another; a domestic dispute between two people in love; the good girl from Park Avenue and the street boy; the untamable shrew wooed by the rugged stranger; the misdirected burnout who takes Mary Jane to the prom. The bad girl over the good girl, it seems.

I’m still not self-actualized; still, I have such a hella way to go. But my perspectives have been breathed into, somehow. And I’ll get back, slowly, pull myself together.
I couldn’t escape my own thoughts, feeling INside, looking only at my own self and what I felt of the world. Why, this world is so much magnified, 10 times at least, because everything I see is intensified. I must be the most self-absorbed person I’ve ever met.

People say, they say that it’s just a phase. They tell me to act my age. Well I am.

Things seem to be consuming me. It isn't any wonder that I feel like taking two steps backwards, and then perhaps another two, and then throwing up my hands and saying that I have come now to the end. I am not well enough, not smart enough, or beautiful enough, together enough, to love enough, to give enough. Enough. Enough, not enough.

I feel more than ever that there is something wrong with me. Why am I still alone? I guess I'm just torturing myself wondering when my life is going to start.

Sunday, June 22, 2008

my fundamentalist oxford comma

I sometimes wish this insensible life would just stand still. Your best friend in the world is your worst enemy, your greatest burden. The boy you love is your hater. Up is down. Inside is out. I’m interested in causes, politics, rights, struggles, riots, war and peace. I’m interested in world media, issues, global warming, the environment, saving the forests, medicine, cures, vaccines, news bulletins, newsprint, posters, propaganda, North Africa, Jamaica, reggae, Rastafarianism, dreadlocks, Bob Marley, HIV/AIDS, Save Darfur, genocide, guns in America, terrorism, famine, kitsch, bright red telephone booths, that haunting hunger in girls that could so easily be fed [anorexia], glamour, old-school, curiosity shops, retro eras, the 60’s, Cuban cigars, CUBA!!, vintage magazines, fashion design prints, animal rights, graffiti and public buildings. I am going to visit the Kalk Bay Trading Post and pick up a few ideas from the dusty stash of treasures I can find there. Long Street will also have some interesting things, if you just look very carefully, like in second hand boutiques and thrift stores.

If this is brainstorming, it’s gonna be thunder and it looks like rain.

Coffee makes civilized conversation possible in these demanding times. The camera is the glass lens through which your world becomes an artwork, or perhaps the only way you can remember a particularly drunken night out. They sold their souls and put the money in the money tin or piggy bank. The fire is represented by a match box (understated by still life object); for genes a pair of jeans; for global warming perhaps an ice cube and for the environment a jar of earth. They stowed away family heirlooms in jewelry boxes, acquainting with dust and years. They wanted change but got only coins. And so on.
I am beginning to be inspired by the unobvious boldness of still life…stating the obvious though rebelling against the ordinary. It’s deeper than simply an arrangement of objects on a surface. It’s a mockery of the mundane, and I’m going to make it worth something, make it an idea, a philosophy, a message that I am going to communicate about the irony of reality. “Ceci n’est pas une pipe,” says the impudent statement of René Magritte upon stating that his seemingly obvious drawing of a tobacco pipe is, in fact, not what it is. Still life is impertinent, cheeky, with a kind of motionless, silent audacity that makes it so fascinatingly unreserved. I wish I was as unassumingly presumptuous as still life, with confidence to get through each day without worrying about my reflection in nearby windows.

I love the ironies in life, the bitter contradictions and the bold and dastardly arguments between chemistries. I see these ironies in everyday life, driving past in the city, in traffic, in crowded places. A vagrant rummaging in a trash can below a towering glamour poster for Gucci as rain drizzles down around him.

I want to write songs and poetry, though how can I when I have no experience of real love? Perhaps I could write about loving but never truly being loved?
I’m afraid.
I wanna stick my life all over my walls. I wanna document my life, put it all in pictures, then collage myself on the walls to remind me of who I am and where I’ve been.

Why are walls so significant to me?

Friday, June 20, 2008

i carry your heart ( i carry it in my heart)

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)
i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

ee cummings

my dear, we're slow dancing in a burning room

ever since i first knew you, babe, we've been ‘slow dancing in a burning room’
we know that what we both feel, and it isn’t right yet we carry on.
we ignore the turmoil around us, fires and arson and chaos and we’re going down and you can see it too.
you're trying to keep me away, pushing me and looking away, he who won’t look me in the eyes
he won't have the alarms raised
yet we're slow dancing, here, in this burning room.
we can both feel the temperatures raised
we're scorched and burning, as we know that together will never be a true together
except in
the ashes of our hearts.

I’m waiting. Smoked out cigarette stumps and piles of musty old books; she read them over and over. These are occupations of waiting, waiting for him to return. Die waiting. Waiting, forever.

I was thinking of writing in my novel about a girl who regularly visits a psychiatrist, however reluctantly, and gets annoyed when he speaks to her as if she is a crazy person. She also hates it when the furniture always looks the same and sterile hospital smells. She’d rather walk on a beach and let her trousers get wet and sandy. She wishes she could let go and not have to hold them up as she walked.

I’m scared because I don’t know myself. I can be fire one day and water the next. At full moon I feel off, and then I’m down and then I’m bored and tired and frustrated, I will never say ‘I’m happy’ because happiness is fickle. It comes and goes; it’s really just you saying that everything is swell when actually it’s not so just get that into your head and deal with it. Fuck it. Lately I have thought people are very stupid. I say this several times a day. "God, he’s so fucking stupid." "What the fuck."

P.S. watch Garden State

Thursday, June 19, 2008

i need your grace to remind me, to find my Own.

It's as if
the only one who ever loved me doesn’t love me anymore.
It is as if
he's there but not for long
he's leaving, may it be
a rainy day
a stormy night
may it be
his last salute
it is as if
he is turning to his duty
he's going off to war
and leaving me behind.
his country before his darling.

good luck, so long, and good night.

Don’t forget me.
Just please, don’t forget me.

emotional [weather] report

I wrote this when I was fighting with my parents

Now I’m fighting with my parents and then trying to be better but it never works out and it ends up happening all over again. One big mess where we’re all fuckups. I often feel like the blackest sheep of all the black sheeps in every family there ever was.

I can’t wait to get married and collect dozens of pairs of shoes and receive full dinner services and move furniture around. I can’t wait to get out of here, feel a fresh new breeze and be independent. I want to stop getting things all wrong. I want to get it right for a change. I sometimes feel like I have some kind of dyslexia in this confusing life, like I can’t just be competent and correct, I always make mistakes. Stupid ones too, because I lose my head. The future could look bright, if only I just kept my eyes on the prize. The future could look bright, if only I would just make this right, fix this brokenness, BANG! and I killed it.

wednesday's child, you're full of woe.

I’m Wednesday’s child, full of woe. I was born on a Wednesday, so should I be conditioned to break?

You've been crying in the rain
You've been drowning in your pain
Ain't gonna die
Do the right thing
Win or lose
Don't confuse Wednesday's child
Walk on by me Don't deny me Anytime
Scatterbrain You've been crying in the rain (crying in the rain)
You've been drowning in your pain (drowning in your pain)
Ain't gonna die
Do the right thing Win or lose
Don't confuse Wednesday's child
Scatter brain You've been crying in the rain
You've been drowning in your pain
Ain't gonna die

Monday, June 16, 2008

oily marks appear on walls, where pleasure moments hung before

There’ll be those marks upon the walls, to remind me of what once was, of what we were, what we had. I want to be reading letters, not writing them. Taking pictures of anyone...

I sometimes feel scared that I’m not the best person I can be. I want him to point at me at say ‘that’s her.’ I want to be the girl that you’ve never met anyone else like before.

this is the ransom; it was for her broken heart
that he would pin up on his wall
dearly-bought for his luckless darling
she taped up her mouth with newspaper word cut outs

i don’t believe you
but still loved you with all the pieces
you swallowed your words
spoke no feeling
i’ll rip up the imaginary love-letters
because you packed up your love in boxes
and left.

my heart is part of the furniture
not much else but something you left behind
the dust will settle soon
on my suddenly still life

[this insensible life
you’d rather forget.]
as for the girl,
well, what did she say?
nothing but oily marks on walls
hmm what did she say?
just murmurs of days before the takeover
you won’t find her waiting
and asking

no, you won’t catch her around here.

This life has become all quiet. There’s this silence, this stillness. Without you my world has become a frozen piece of time, motionless and inanimate. You put up my heart up for display. It’s part of the furniture now, just a dusty object left among the mismatched array of things you left behind when you were gone in a hurry. I am nothing to you now but a memory, an object from the past, kept high upon your shelf. I’m part of the composition. I’m useless and desperate and I’m as still and lifeless as the scattered belongings that you left behind. I’m just a piece, but you didn’t put me in your suitcase. You left me with all the other memories you’d rather forget.

as I wrote a letter to my love but on the way I dropped it. Sometimes she’d turn all dark and shut herself in her room for days. She’d say she had no appetite. She’d stare at the ceiling and talk to herself. And talk back. And then she’d complain of lethargy and feelings of emptiness, saying her arms felt strangely heavy, and although she was sad she could not cry. Sometimes she would lie on the floor. When she eventually became bored of this she’d arrange her bookshelf in alphabetical order. And then lie down on the floor again. When it got dark she would not turn on the light. She said she hated artificial light anyway and preferred the dark. It was comforting somehow. We’d come over to visit her when she was like this. She wouldn’t take advice. She’d pull at her sleeves when she got nervous. The best thing we could do for her was to tell nonsense stories and read to her from Jane Eyre. She loved that.

The easiest way to my heart is with a knife, but the second easiest is by writing me a song and singing it off-key outside my bedroom window.

Still. Life? Is there still life? Stillness of life could come around when you don’t know where to go. When you’ve lost someone. When you feel empty and everything is a mess. Still life is ironic. A tree is still but living, so it is still life. I am still but living, frozen and hurt and choked up, but my heart still beats...technically, life.

I’m going to frame words, mess upon walls, play hide and seek.

Saturday, June 14, 2008

do they think that walls can hide you, johanna?


I feel you, Johanna,I feel you.
I was half convinced I'd waken,
Satisfied enough to dream you.
Happily I was mistaken,
I'll steal you,
Johanna,I'll steal you.
I'll steal you, Johanna,

I'll steal you.
Do they think that walls could hide you?
Even now, I'm at your window.
I am in the dark beside you,

Buried sweetly in your yellow hair!
I feel you, Johanna,And one day I'll steal you!
Til I'm with you then,I'm with you there,
Sweetly buried in your yellow hair!

I wish a boy would sing to me, while I sat in my window, above busy London’s street…“I feel you, Roseanna…”
And then he’d come and save me from the ‘asylum’….to rescue me from my prison.
I’ll steal you, Roseanna.
Because her name is Roseanna.
Where is my Anthony? I am his Johanna.

Friday, June 13, 2008

"The Star: World fuel price fury"

I seem to be caught in this stop motion picture I call my life.

I noticed, driving past the gas station yesterday, the looming billboard displaying the current price of petrol. Our lives have become leaded with prices of our unleaded and diesel. The wealthy complain about filling the tanks of their off road four-by-fours, while the poor are despondent over heating their stoves with the increased price of paraffin by 0.94c. Although oil price fluctuations may subside in the future, the global shortage of diesel will prove problematic in the long run. South African farmers and truck companies are feeling the heat while the South African population as a whole is struggling to pay the price of getting anywhere at all. And jet fuel? You can say that again. Forget that travelling by air was a better option– the increase in jet fuel price to a record $90.30 per barrel is likely to cause airline tickets to go up. According to economists ‘it’s not looking good.’ Maybe it’s just fuel sensationalism. We tend to feature too much bad report in our evening news bulletins. The news-anchor seems to often be the bearer of bad news.
As I noticed in my very own small town, petrol prices are indeed at the never-before-seen hike of nearly R10 a litre. It has been estimated that the rate could increase further within the next year to R14 per litre, not to mention diesel to R16 per litre. I suppose I should forget the road trip then, huh.
Apparently we “need to do everything we can to make the rand strong against the dollar.” We cannot control political instability in the Middle East, Nigeria and Latin America, which is the main reason for the heightening fuel price, but we can control the strengthening of our own currency. However, we pay the prices of high inflation (ever wondered why, on your routine trip to the supermarket, basic groceries such as bread and milk seem to be priced as luxurious commodities?) and high interest rates (better watch your credit card’s every move from now on).

bad fuel day
The mood or feeling one experiences after having just filled his or her vehicle with $4.00+ per gallon gasoline. (Usually consists of a sense of great economic despair, impending doom, anger, frustration, depression and/or a combination of all the above)

a series of unfortunate events

The last time it was Friday-the-thirteenth I got a fortune cookie that said success, wealth and happiness will be yours.

If we all followed the advice of fortune cookies, well, perhaps we’d all be looking forward a bit more. If a piece of paper could predict the course of my life’s fortune, I’d eat a fortune cookie everyday, without realizing that each and every one contains a good fortune, and as far as fortune cookies are concerned, bad luck doesn’t exist, except if the recipe failed or the oven wasn’t hot enough. Fortuity is a chance happening, beyond a person’s control. I don’t believe it is something divine; it is merely a hiccough in the usual logical mathematical sync of the universe.

Not all fortune is a four leaf clover. Luck, as a fallacy, is perhaps ‘probability taken personally.’ Avoiding beliefs that are unscientific, a rational conclusion of luck would be to apply the rules of probability. A gambler’s luck involves denying the unpredictability of events occurring at random, presuming that if one has not rolled a seven all week, one is bound to roll one tonight.

According to supernatural and spiritual beliefs luck is ‘conjured’ by the performing of certain rituals in order to avoid the inverse of fortune, bad luck. This may be prayer, sacrifice or interpretation of omens. Numerology may also be a way of evoking luck, such as lucky telephone numbers or license plates. Both the number thirteen and Friday are considered unlucky by most English-speaking countries. Thirteen, an irregularity, is a number one more than Jesus Christ’ Twelve Apostles, threatening completeness.

Today's Friday-the-thirteenth doesn't seem like an ill-omened day to me. Perhaps my fortune cookie of 2006 will prove to be protection against today's superstitioned date. Fortune may come standard when it's a confection, but then Fortune does taste good.

my impossible complexities

I hate airports. It’s almost always a goodbye affair and rarely ever a happy hello. I’ve watched many friends depart from airports and never return. And now . Though, as much as I hate leaving cherished friends behind at the departure terminals, I can’t help dreaming of the day when I’ll be the one going on a jetplane adventure, off into the sky and away. I looked up at the bulletin board today, like I always do at airports, fascinated by such distant places ticket-holders would be flying to that very afternoon- Kuala Lumpar, Berlin and San Francisco…

I wish my family was as interesting as ana’s. She and her mum live in Soho, in a refurbished flour storehouse above a Greek bakery. I think her mum’s interesting, but I haven’t said that to ana-Jane. I’m sure I would get annoyed if my own mother tried to force-feed me soya and cursed every McDonald’s, declaring the Rise of the Golden Arches. But still. She tie-dyes clothing and hangs it out on balcony, studies Native American culture and organizes demonstrations against ‘billboard pollution’ and forestry. You can sometimes hear her practicing on her guitar and singing Creedence Clearwater Revival on warm evenings, but ana-Jane stopped having slumber parties some time ago. The Volkswagen beetle that was once a regular old rust on wheels has become a statement of colorful whirly flowers. But since the recent rise in the petrol price her mum has decided that using the car from short trips was unnecessary, as well contributive to carbon emissions in the atmosphere. ana-Jane walks to school with me now.

Sunday, June 8, 2008

girl you have no faith in medicine

A certain ms. anna-jane Fray, having had much to say, her cat eyes and untied shoelaces - they say she was formidable. But I keep it all in jars. She’d tumble about in laughter. They were forever telling her to curb her enthusiasm with messages in the form of little white pills to make her well. But she wouldn’t become like the others…it was her own head or none. She told them to go back to where they came from. They were making her nervous. All that she couldn’t keep bottled up inside caused people to walk away shaking their heads. Sit still, they said to her. Wake up raw child.
I am awake. She was alive with the thoughts she would die without…of war, of peace, to shimmy and disrespect politics, [green]peace, what she planned to fight for, her fast-forwarding mind too great for her outnumbered age. TAKE ME SERIOUSLY?

(remember the days of the) old

I could have spent all day in the Kalk Bay Trading Post. If ever you’re looking for what you couldn’t find, pay a visit to that village and live for a while in quaint wonderland and the Curiosity shops.

Objets d’art.

The place is so instilled with Retroversity, you can feel it in the pots and kettles hanging from painted walls, down the narrowest alley ways with cobble stones, the vibe and energies, the swinging shop signs, bric a brac piled outside, to the ceiling and behind glass case. I would smile all day at antique spoons, Wedgwood china in dusty windows, telephones from the 50’s (you, know, the kind with the dial and shiny black receiver), gramophones (oh the golden flower!) just vintage. Oh so BoHo.
Up the stairs into the 1960’s where you find posters of old Vogue, LP vinyl bags and Marilyn resurrected. Those the wire words, chic chic chic, antique collectables – an amalgamation of artists in one sea side village, wartime posters of Drink delicious Coca Cola, radios, small liquor bottles (some still half empty). I saw colored glass bottles lined upon the window sill. I ate in a café devoted to Fauvism and Henry Matisse, complete with those bright colors of red, yellow and blue he uses in his paintings. I paged through a 1964 edition of Women’s Weekly and its sewing patterns, reminded of changing roles in society, elapsed popular culture meshed with the present, dinky toys, collectable phone cards raising awareness to the average person about AIDS and ecological devastation (‘No earth, no tomorrow’). These are the old keepsakes mementos, memories and remindings of what has passed, but still lives and breathes in all the essence of a preservation of beauty and art and all things novelty. Old tins become novelties of pop culture, Hulletts sugar, Glen teabags or Lucky Star pilchards. We’ve all seen it before, but only in this magical place can things like these become worth looking at twice It’s the whole knew revelation of it, you see things differently. It’s not the brash, cold hard plastic consumerism we’re subjected to day after day. This is the charm of individual thinking, touches of each art-befuddled mind that make it the trendiest quirk on the coast.
Oh, the railway line, the old station. The quarter and wood-finished book store with books stacked high to the ceiling. It’s the adverts in shop windows for shows at the theater, like ‘don’t understand me.’ The shops next to the ice cream store are obliged to put up signs on the door saying ‘no ice cream in here please.’



Dear Mandela

Chew On This

"KFC suppliers cram birds into huge waste-filled factories, breed and drug them to grow so large that they can’t even walk, and often break their wings and legs. At slaughter, the birds’ throats are slit and they are dropped into tanks of scalding-hot water—often while they are still conscious. It would be illegal for KFC to abuse dogs, cats, pigs, or cows in these ways.
KFC’s own animal welfare advisors have asked the company to take steps to eliminate these abuses, but KFC refuses to do so. Many advisors have now resigned in frustration."


[save my Life from slow Motion]

I am considering. I am considering myself. I am trying to self actualize. I would like to write a book, a story of me, something new and fresh and glamorous, but real. I keep thinking about it, wanting to start but where? I can’t do it now - that would be unwise, because I have to focus on my last year of high school first. How would it be? Like this, a diary? I want to write something personal. Something that speaks, like a voice in words. I really wish I knew more about people, though I'd like to keep it that people know little about me.

A lot of things scare me. Inspiration doesn’t come standard. I’m scared that I would find my inspiration and that I’ll dry up in this heat. I’m scared of drying up and being useless, because I have gifts, but what if they were to be taken from me? Oh God, I am beyond help. Someone cure me from this self destruction. Save my life from slow motion. Make this my daily torture. I am so sick of fading into the background. I’m so tired of not feeling happy with who I am, because I am what I am…but this torture is such that I just cannot feel content being just that – me. Should I, shouldn’t I? Could we? Shouldn’t we? Would you call me perfect? That’s all I want. Perfection. I hate it.


i just love a little poetry after supper...

What to write today…a little poetry perhaps, a song? ee cummings maybe…maybe, maybe. I’ve had too much caffeine again and now I’m up at 10:43pm writing stuff to myself.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate.”

I’ve been watching Amelie. She likes to skim stones at the Canal and has been diagnosed mistakenly with a palpitating heart, though the real reason for this condition is the nervous fluttering she suffered as a child when upon occasion she visited the doctor and experienced unusual physical contact. Her mother died when a suicidal woman jumped from Notre Dame and landed on top of her. Her mother liked to unpack her handbag, clean it out…and pack everything back again. She disliked wrinkly fingers from too long in a hot bath. Amelia’s quest is to track down the owner of a box she found in her bathroom wall containing treasures of a childhood from the 50’s. She feels the sudden need to help humanity, starting by leading a blind man to the subway while rapidly describing to him everything around them on the streets, lollipops in the bakery window, children, dogs, the smell of melons…then hastily bids him au revoir and leaves him standing perplexed at the subway entrance. Amelie works at the Le Deux Moulins (the Two Windmills) where the regulars include Gina’s unrequited lover who returns each day to sit in the same booth and jealously watch her every move. Georgette is the hypochondriac who works behind the cigarette counter. Another patron is an air hostess who leaves her cat at Amelie’s apartment when she’s away. She likes the sound of the cat’s china bowl on the tiles. The cat likes to listen to children’s stories. The man in the apartment next door is careful about who he meets. He never ventures out onto the landing for meaningless chit chat. He stays indoors and paints ‘Luncheon at the Boating House’ reproductions every year. Except, he can’t quite capture the girl drinking from the glass. She didn’t play with the other children. She’s there but not quite…I guess the loneliest place in the world is a room full of people in which you don’t know anyone. I. I like the smell of old books, the kinds with yellowing pages. I like to drink coffee with skinny spoons. His cards lay in a box. There were none from his eldest daughter there. She’d stopped writing him cards a long time ago. They speak so fast in this movie.

my jeans come with holes

It’s all in my genes – to be cynical, to be satirical, to be provoking. I wear them like my favourite jeans.

I wear my hair in a braid, slung around my neck, over my shoulder. I have a style. Eat that. I can’t airbrush my flaws forever. Swallow me or choke. Either way I’m going to get into you.

I’d mix my paint with my tears. That’d make a really faithful representation for the demise of my world, the crashing hopes and the nothings to replace it.

I’ll have to console myself in hope that things will change, the assurance that I’m not done yet…I haven’t even started. When I do, the world will be my coin, for me to flip either way I like. Thanks for being the dumb idiots for me to watch waste away – you taught me much about what not to become. If I go without cutting my mark in this life, then I will fucking sue God.

it's the end of the world (as we know it)

I live in a fishing village. Living here a while, you get used to the fishy smells from factories down at the harbor. Rusty old trawlers going out empty and returning plentiful. You can wake up one morning and smell the sea, or fish smells in your kitchen. Down by the quayside you can hear a seaman’s cursing on the air; a place of nautical treasures and take away cafes.

I’m anti this town. I’m sick to death of being a small town girl. I’m sick of this small town talk. Everywhere I go it’s Hout Bay this or Hout Bay that. I long for the city. There’s a lot of love about this place, the Cape, where I live… things I could capture with my camera. The colour, the noise and the audacity of this place. But I need more. I want to get out of the Bay and into the global society

Drunken people are easier to talk to, I guess because they won’t remember anything, and will think I’m pretty anyway. I am surrounded by people with an identity crisis.

One of my favorite politicians is Al Gore, who made an Oscar-winning documentary about global warming and demonstrated the rise in fuel consumptions by hitching a ride on a movable step ladder.
Jacob Zuma, with a merit of no formal education, proclaims that showering after unprotected sex will prevent you from contracting HIV. That’s promising. A man that may one day become our country’s president is only popular with his own tribe, who pledge their allegiance to him on the basis of, “He’s a Zulu, so we'll follow this guy.”
And the ANC, well, here’s to a bunch of self-important slurring black politicians, full of themselves because they think they won the struggle… well sorry, you have a lot of mess to clean up around here, boys.

I am purposefully politically incorrect, because why shouldn’t we be able to SAY IT HOW IT IS?? I’m so irritated by the propaganda of our educations system, attempting to brainwash the post-1994 generation in order to compensate for the evils of apartheid. Our society is extreme – we condone violence and sexual profanities in film and media, children with guns, yet become absurd and hypersensitive about potentially offensive terms, such that we have to think up nonsensical euphemisms for the most specific concepts that probably wouldn’t have bothered anyone in the first place had they just been left as they were.

“Where does all this stuff that you’ve heard about this morning – the victim feminism, the gay rights movement, the invented statistics, the rewritten history, the lies, the demands, all the rest of it – where does it come from? For the first time in our history, Americans have to be fearful of what they say, of what they write, and of what they think. They have to be afraid of using the wrong word, a word denounced as offensive or insensitive, or racist, sexist, or homophobic.”

Our text books tell us to be citizen of new South Africa for the empowerment and betterment of new society, but for what? To revive the cultural retardation that the majority is inflicted with? The majority being blacks, by the way. Leave the brains to the colonists, I say.
I’m so tired of this Black Economic Empowerment nonsense, and how they have to rub in their previously disadvantaged-ness. We can’t help everyone just because we drive a car and have pale skin. Does this all come down to how much melanin we have in our complexions? Those people at traffic lights tapping on your window and asking for change…but really, they’re not asking for coins. They want change.

As for George Bush, well, if ever I was interested in politics it was because of old Georgie. And he’s good for cartoons.
So here’s the thing. Is ‘War on Terrorism’ just another nom de plum for “Let’s raid those guys and see what oil they got down there, y’all”? George Bush is my home boy.
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