Nothing really.

Sometimes Saturdays are scrumptious and sometimes Saturdays are a word that doesn't exist because it would be a terrible word and no one would want to explain its meaning to children because they would die of terror and then there would be no children and then the human race would eventually cease to exist. Sometimes I have wonderful things to tell the people who will follow the link to my blog that I post on Facebook, and sometimes I have no things at all. I.e. Nothing. Today I will make something out of nothing. Because I really like this blog thing.

Today I went to the bank. The people there could not help me with what I needed help with so they dialed a number for me and said I could speak on the phone to someone who could. The first lovely lady said I should call a different number. The receptionist dialed the number for me. The next lady said I should call a different number. The receptionist dialed it for me. Lovely lady number three couldn't help me so she transferred me. I was transferred 5 more times (with a whole lot of holding in between, which included a voice telling me I should never give my pin to anyone, which just brought up a lot of guilt) until I asked, "Why are you lovely ladies playing hockey with my call?" "I don't know, let me transfer you to Customer Services." The game finally ended after 25min 34sec (according to my Sudoku game, level easy) and the last lady, the loveliest of them all, put an end to my misery, and activated my debit card to be used in Uganda. So we paid for our parking ticket and went home, James.

My family abandoned me for board games and a concert so I was alone at home, thinking of all the plans I could have made for my day but didn't because a) I don't make plans very well b) I needed to pack for a 6 week trip abroad c) I love being home alone. I don't really love being home alone, but if I did, it would be an excellent reason to stay home alone.

When my parents came home, I was so ecstatic that I laughed and had a bowl of celebratory sorbet and had the hardihood to write a blog post.

Hardihood is a pretty cool word that I just discovered. I may incorporate it into my everyday vocabulary.
"I cannot believe you would have the hardihood to not replace the toilet roll."
"I love charlieissocoollike because he has the hardihood to be cool."
And other such riveting everyday speech.

I'll bet you love sorbet. Sorbet is the dessert of the people. It is low-fat, dairy-free and suitable for vegetarians. I know what you're thinking. (I don't now but I will after you read the next sentence because then what I write will be in your head) To hell with vegetarians! I'm ok with vegetarians. When I was young...er, I had a friend who converted to vegetarianism and although it was traumatising at first, I dealt with it. The way I dealt with it was by mocking her. I don't think she minded. She had bigger celery sticks to fry.
Sorbet is also awesome because it melts a little quicker than ice cream and gets all juicey.
...It's more poetic when eating it than what I can put into words.

Great. 15th December, I salute you. Goodbye.

Morning 293 840 139 750 139 849 310 199 990 124 892

Mr Golden Sun
Trickle in to kiss us awake
Splendidly lighting on sleepy lids -
Coax me into the dreamiest of dreams.

Our hearts lift with the dawn,
Harmonise its feather pink song.

This morning is the cup that holds You,
Heart drink your fill.

First before everything,
                                                                                    Secret, plain,
                                                                                   Whispering, singing,

                                                                                   Good.

Spring

Bang!
Jack-in-the-box colour
Wound 3 months tight.

Brown magicked to green
Pop-up flowers
YellowPinkSo much purple
(Jacaranda City)

Roses, roses, suddenly roses!

Thunder storms booming relief, the
Sun curling her beams around us.

We are friends again with the weather,
The laughing trickster!

#5

Driver’s Licensing Exam.

18 October 2012

09:30 Off on our expedition, hearts wet with hope and mouths dry with anticipation.

Our first stop is for petrol and rescue drops.  I have never taken rescue drops but since my fear-filled ordeal last time, I count them as my grace-gift from God (for only R69,00 a bottle at Clicks).

The drive down to Four Rivers is long; it’s at the southern tip of Gauteng. We were there just 2 weeks ago to book, on account of them promising quick deliverance to broken hearts.

11:30 When my dad and I arrive, I do some driving around this strange, small town and notice the road markings have faded into an almost indistinguishable state.

(It’s such a beautiful day, the sky is a brilliant, honest blue with picture-perfect pure white clouds.  The sky is so much bigger than the road, bigger than me.)

12:30 I meet my friend Thapi, who is testing at the same time as me. We talk about snow and tornadoes and the glory of thunder storms. We watch a family of cows wandering around the roads and hope they will not want to compete with us for road ownership.

13:05 Finally, a short, red-shirted man calls, “Hohls!”

I follow him, with my head held high as possible, into a small room where he tells me the rules I know by heart. “You will not roll, you will not touch a pole, you will not mount the curb, you will not cross any solid white lines. If you do any of these, it is an immediate fail. We will start with the yard test which you are to complete in 20minutes and we have 15 minutes for the road test. Any questions?”

“Yes, when you were a child did you want to grow up to be a driving tester?” I don’t ask this.

We go outside and I show him our car, little CFC (christened after its new Gauteng number plate.)

“I like these types of cars.”

I wonder what’s so special about golfs but I nod that I am just as in love.

I run seamlessly through the external check and interior checks.  He says in a bored voice for me to continue to the yard test. I feel fluid, like the car and I are one. Through all our trials, we have bonded. I feel like the car is Optimus Prime and I am his owner, whatever the other guys name is. Although, Optimus seems more important, so I think I’ll claim being him and  CFC can be the human. So…

Optimus Prime and CFC are doing well: we fly through every parking test with flying colours, as if we were birds: flying. My checks are precise, my steering is purposeful. 

The last test is the incline. The tester gives me the instructions to drive up and stop before the line, then to pull off without rolling. 

I drive up and stop. Pull up the handbrake. Slowly let out the clutch. Rev the accelerator. Let   the   handbrake   d   o   w   n….

I want to say it happened in slow motion- I wish that it had because I would have slammed the brakes before rolling. But no, it was over before I realised it was.

The tester was outraged.

 “Why are you rolling back? This is the last test in the yard before we go into the road!”

 He seems more upset than I am, his eyes are bulging and his logic confusing.
But we both seem to want the same thing...
The disappointed faces of my driving instructor and my parents flash in my mind’s eye, and the pain that brings is overwhelming.
So do the only thing I think of: I beg. 

“Please, please let me try again.”

“No, why did you roll back?”

“Please! Please!”

“No, this is the last test…”

We are like two lunatics chasing each other in circles.  Finally he calms down enough to tell me that trying again is against the law so: "drive back."

13:15 I fight back tears as we walk into the office. He hands me my mark sheet with the terrifying  “FAILED”. Note to thrifty self: I should start using these sheets as giftwrap.

13:20 I find my dad and water his shoulder for a bit while he comforts me gently.

13:25 Now for a long drive home.

A whining voice begins in my head, “You’re not really good at anything, not one thing…” I stare at it in the eyes until it shrinks away.

It must have been the rescue drops: as soon as we are on main road, I am already back to “tis the season to be jolly, falalalala….” But I’m still bitter enough to make a snide comment on my dad’s driving.

You would think the useless dog in my chest, Pride, would have died by now.

The stars are still holding their breath, they must be blue in the face, waiting for my wishes to come true.

And God, the Author and Perfecter of my faith, will give me my licence when I need it. For now, I live off lifts and kindness.

Drive Like a Boss....'s Lowest Employee

There is one test of skills and one test only that shreds my brain into a state of screaming terror. One that activates my sweat glands to waterfall mode. One that has seen the my heart race like that guy named Lightning or something.

Heights? They make me laugh. Snakes make me coo, spiders don't interest me, the dark is my element, I speak to a full room as if the people hang on my every word.

And yet...

More horrifying than a second language Zulu exam, more adrenaline pumping than a modern dance concert, more paralyzing than a practical piano exam, more humiliating than any Afrikaans oral, more numbing than any performance of skills I have yet experienced.  

Drivers. Licence. Exam.

Looming, ominous, and I lie defeated before it.

(Fall down seven times, get up eight.

In my case, it's fall down four times, stand up five.

My parents pocket's hold thumbs that I am not the one to fulfill that Chinese prophecy.)

K53, I bow and scrape to the song of your finicky demands. I am checking those mirrors like a Paris Hilton wannabe. Checking those blindspots like a secret agent. Hand-signals like a gangster. 

But then I rolled - like a gangster. And I pulled out dangerously in front of a huge truck - like a secret agent. And I was unroadworthy - like a Paris Hilton wannabe.

This fruitless pursuit has involved 11 visits to 4 different lisencing bureaus, and more money than Ihave the guts to count. But oh to drive! Independance and freedom are yet to be mine.

The Princess and the Weeds

"Mother! We eradicate every weed from the garden,

For though the Summer rains have greened the grass

And coaxed out blossoms

It has brought to life weeds.

They've been lying dormant,

waiting,

anticipating,

the return of their reign.

Now they grow stronger every day -

We shall - we must!- out them, 

Restore the place!"

"Ok. But I think you can leave the ones under your window, the pink flowers are quite pretty."

The world world grew heavy, pulling her to her knees. Keep the weeds? Keeps the weeds? 

Wherefore shalt she keep the weeds? She gasped in wordless outrage and then stormed outside with the herbicide. 

What was her mother thinking? They are weeds, they do not belong in palace gardens. They are parasites. If they were mushrooms, she would love them and serenade them in the shade, Sylvia Plath in hand. If they were a sapling, she'd measure it with daily eagerness. If they were roses, she would bury her nose into them and breathe in a kiss of dizzying gentleness. But weeds? They were not poetic, not absorbing and certainly not romantic.

But her mother was never wrong.

She angrily sprayed the other, plainer weeds with chemical death, skirting around the weeds under her window. Until they were the last and final soldiers. They seemed defiant, turning up their nose at their dying companions, ignoring their sure and certain coming death. 

"So, you think yourselves pretty?

Be sure, you are the lowest of low

and you deserve to die.

But my mother thinks you're lives are to be spared

On account of your pink buds.

You have yet to win my favour

Since I am your reeper, 

I am the one to please."

They weeds said nothing. Their weak, gawky long stems swayed slightly in the breeze. They seemed to realize their current position though, because they did not look her in the eye. The princess waited for them to do something impressive in order to save themselves. But all that happened was that one of the flowers began to cry. The princess was take aback since she had never known a flower to cry. Since it was a weed, it was quite an ugly cry.

"Weed... you weed...

You are now...

Behaving weedy..."

She was lost for words, for the second time that day. Her stutterings would not even come out in cursive. So she decided to let alone the weeds, since those who took away her words were those that won her respect. Although she continued to pretend they did not exist, the weeds flourished proudly, for they had been pardoned by a princess.

Stuck With You - the late but finally existent story of the adventure Carmen and Kate (didn't) have one day.

Suddenly Carmen and Kate's stifled giggling is cut short by a loud noise. Something like "ba-boooo-creeeeeee-ee-e-k-k-k-isssshhhhh". And the lift stopped. They stared at each other wide eyed. The lift meter says it's on the fourth floor, but when Carmen pushes the |< >| by her hand, the door opens to reveal only a cement wall, a floor between the levels. Kate hears a girl gasp behind her.
She looks over her shoulder and sees a petite brunette clutching her face in terror. Kate quickly pushes the >||<.
Stunned, she looks around the lift. There were five of them. Kate, Carmen, an old looking man - assumingly a lecturer, a boy with purple headphones around his neck and the frightened girl.
The lecturer sighs and, without looking at anyone, slides to the floor, pulls out a book and begins to read.
Kate and Carmen raise their eyebrows at each other.
"So...." it's the boy. "I guess someone should call the lift service."
He makes his way to the lift control and pushes the emergency help button.
"Dammit," whispers Carmen in Kate's ear, I've always wanted to push one of those!"
There's a ringing noise and then a Zulu-ed voice: "Uh, hello?"
"Ja, we're stuck in the lift."
"Which level?"
"4."
"Ok, just wait there, ne." And then the shuffling sound of a reciever being replaced.
"As if we have a choice." Kate jokes. The girl in the corner begins to cry, collapsing down to the floor.
Carmen sidled up to her and rubbed her back. "It's ok," she mumured quietly.
"Ah great, no signal." the boy moans, jamming buttons on his cellphone. "Anyone go any food?" He sits down too.
"I have some ... but wait, we should ration it, we don't know how long we're going to be here." The boy stared at Kate's practicality. His Volcom t-shirt screamed the need for instant gratification.
"Great, should we ration the air too?"
"Better idea," proposes Carmen, "I have a pack of cards. And food. Let's pool it and gamble it out."
"No we should share!" Kate protests.
"I'm all for survival of the fittest." Offers the boy, and receives the acute type of death stare administered by females.
"What do you think, Milly?" Carmen asks the girl. She still had her arm around her. Kate wondered how Carmen got a name and then sees that it's written on the girl's backpack.
Milly continued to sob quietly.
"Milly, do you have to be somewhere?" tried Kate.
Her face buried deeper into her hands.
"Maybe she's claustrophobic" the boy suggested.
"'She' can hear what you're saying," Carmen throws back.
"Great! Milly, nod if you're claustrophic." Carmen punched the boy on the arm.
"Ow! Fiesty." The boy grinned at Carmen, who promptly punched him again.
Kate glanced at the lecturer. He had not shown any sign that he knew they were there. The novel he was reading was called "Stuck With You".
"I guess now we have no excuse not to learn for the test tomorrow," Kate shrugged at Carmen.
"No! Procrastinate forever! Put those notes away! This is quality time."
"How romantic." Kate rolled her eyes but smiled.
"Let's make it a picnic," the boy urges.
And so into the middle of the circle was piled all the food they had. The plunder includedone packet of Cheddars, two apples, a ham roll, a banana and then...
"I also have some," Milly's voice is soft, punctuated by her sniffing. She keeps her eyes  down as she slowly adds to the pile a tupperware filled with cupcakes. They are iced pink with glitter and big bright white marzipan stars shine from the top.
Everyone shouts in delight, the boy high fives her and she is proclaimed Carmen's new favourite person.
"Milly did you make these?"
"Ya..."
"They're too pretty to eat!"
But everyone (except that weird lecturer) eats them anyway. The mood of the lift was suddenly like a rainbow smacking into a unicorn who was rolling about in a green meadow and there was sunlight everywhere and lots of fairies and butterflies bigger than your hand and so much shininess and smiliness...the cupcakes were made with magic.
After everyone returned from their brief visit to heaven, Milly admits she is studying to be a chef.
"So we could basically live here," the boy says happily.
Confused silence met this remark, then the lift rang with girlish laughter.
After a while, Carmen sighed and started pushing random lift buttons above her head. The lift suddenly began to lift itself up and they were sliding their way into freedom.
"Yaaayyy!!"
When the doors opened, the building was entirely empty.
"Wow. We were in the lift so long we missed the end of the world," the boy whispers in awe. the lecturer walks away crisply without a word. Milly gave a nervous giggle.  Then someone was running past them to the exit. "Snow ! snow snow!"he was screaming wildly.
The four lift campers look at each other in disbelief and then broke into a run. A crowd had formed outside, surrounded by soft, drifting snow.
Turning their faces to the sky, the snow was black against the bright white of the clouds. It could have been thousands of tiny insects hurrying, flurrying downwards. Swift: it came down and came down, like dry and friendly rain. Every flake whispered joy and the world seemed to reverberate and radiate with the magic of the soft mystery.
Carmen took a breath and sighed, "I love Wednesdays."

I believe

I believe...

...that there is a God
...this God is holy and perfect
... this God is three in one, God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Spirit
...God created mankind to be in relationship with Him
... He created the world to be inhabited by mankind.
...mankind rebelled against God and resist Him out of pride and desire for personal glory. We have and served created things rather than the Creator Himself who deserves all our attention.
...mankind are full of filth and greed and are entirely selfish.
...mankind don't deserve to go to heaven or to know who God is.
...God loves people and He loves restoration and so...
...Jesus was sent to earth to die the death every person deserved to die.
...Jesus was perfect and didn't deserve to die so He rose from the dead
...that in Jesus's death, all my wrong-doing against God is accounted for
...in Jesus'death I am without blemish and free from accusation
...I will go to heaven when I die.
...I have the Holy Spirit as a guarantee of heaven, and to lead me to live like Jesus.
...the Bible is the perfect word of God and is 100% true, to be entirely accepted and obeyed.
...while I'm on earth, God wants me to tell people about what He has done for us and the plan to rescue mankind.
...church is where God's adopted sons and daughters meet to encourage each other, to be united in love, and to prepare ourselves as one bride.
...Jesus is returning soon to earth to end all misery for once and for all and to start a new and perfect world where God is center.

Outgrowing Stuff

So I know personal poems are supposed to remain personal, but it's just what I'm writing right now. So here goes!

Haunted House
Haunted house, my breath is shy.
Rotting shadows consuming rotting shadows.
With flightless fear, I caress abandoned you.
My dark, looming treasure,
I hold together infested floors and doors,
Tape shut gaping holes.

With you perishes hope.

Now my Alice-limbs stretch out your doll-house windows
Because the springy world pushes back against my soles.

Going Back

The following poem I wrote after a 2 week visit back to Durban. It was the first time I had been there after 5 or 6 months in Pretoria.

Going Back

Roads and skylines like the back of my hand
Faces familiar as my freckles.

Our shadows fit together like cogs
And details spring back: a dream suddenly remembered.

 Dusty paintbrushes tinting my cheeks
"Old Flame Red".

Well-worn, faded denim memories
Dug out from the back of my cupboard.

When the punctual tide sucks me back to the starless city,
I forget to say goodbye.

- July 2012

On Loving

"The difference between him and the other boys at such a time was that they knew it was make-believe, while to him, make-believe and true were exactly the same thing. This sometimes troubled them, as when they had to make believe that they had their dinners. " - Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie

How true is this when it comes to Christians and loving people?

We suck at loving people.

I'm learning so much, and all of a sudden, about how love is a practical thing and definately not just a feeling.

We say we love people but, like the poor lost boys in Peter Pan, their stomachs are still empty! They don't get any physical experience of it. It's just an idea. 

The thing about ideas, is that they are subjective. I say 'dancing'. You think about ballroom dancing. She thinks about dancing in a club. He thinks about a flashmob. She thinks about a father-daughter dance at a wedding. But we're all thinking about dancing! Even if you start giving specifics, people are still going to imagine it differently in their heads. 

Love is not supposed to be subjective. The bible (1 Corinthians 13) gives very clear specifications as to what love is. The only way we can know we are loving is by comparing our ACTIONS to those specifications.

So go love someone. For Real. 

Why didn't you tell us?

The other day in Physiology class, our teacher asked a question (as teacher's are wont to do).
Some kid behind me murmured the answer but didn't put up her hand to share it with the whole class. After some uncomfortable silence, a five minute sub-lecture followed, of how important it is to do prep and reading work. And then a half hour re-cap of the previous lecture.
If that kid had just answered when the question was asked, everything would have been sunshine and daisies.

 What about the ultimate question  (Slightly more ultimate than ''what hormones are released by the pituritary gland?") ... What is the meaning to life? The world agonizes, experiments, theorises, gets depressed over, this admittedly important question. Why are we here, what are we supposed to DO - besides take up space, make waste, and make more babies who take up more space and make more waste. Knowledge? Love? Just have a good  time?

I think a lot of Christians are the same as that girl that sat behind me. And I'm not talking about people judging my hairstyles. Maybe we can blog about that later.

We know the answer! Jesus said, "I am the bread of life! Eat of me and you will not hunger again! I am the water of life! Drink of me and you will never thirst again!"
Has anyone ever said anything more beautiful?
Find Jesus, and your search is complete!
So why do Christians, who've found this answer, sit in the corner and whisper the answer into their sleeves?
When the world is agonizing, theorizing, experimenting, getting depressed over this question.
As Paul said, their ignorance is a judgment on our lives.

I have this most awful playout in my head of judgement day, where some of the people I know look at me like, "why didn't you tell us?"

Hunger Poem

Ravenous rumbunctious rage
Hunger is a lion pacing its cage
Kitchen Cupboard Trick or Treat
Give me something, anything to eat.

Fresh coffee, omlette, coco pops.
Cheesed cauliflower and pork chops.
Sugared plums, hot custard, chocolate mousse.
Chocolate anything-you-choose.

Thick, tender steak cooked just right,
Cafe latte frothy and light.
Pasta Alfredo with mushroom sauce,
Mocha cheesecake for the final course

Ravenous rumbunctious rage
Hunger is a lion pacing its cage
Kitchen Cupboard Trick or Treat
Give me something, anything to eat.

Cow ribs, crabsticks, peppermint tea.
Samp and beans, juiced celery.
Shark fin, hagus, sheep eyeballs
Birds nest soup, appetite calls!

Ravenous rumbunctious rage
Ravenous rumbunctious rage

Ice cream with tomato sauce
Creamed cabbage coconut crunch
Chicken feet yoghurt with marshmellow rice
Sardined brownies, sausage with icing
Broccolli burgers,

Delicious
Delirious
Something, anything to eat.

Home Sweet Home

Shut out of our own home. For the last half hour, all I had been obsessing about was a cup of bitter, hot cocoa to warm me against the Pretoria cold. And then bam. This automatic gate won't open. I can almost hear the low triumphant laughs of technology, 'they created us but now they are ruled by us. Muhahaha.'

My brother comes out of the house with the gate remote. He pushes and pushes that button. Sugababe would have been proud. But to no avail. He holds the remote right up to the gate box. The gate box ignores him like a pretty girl. My dad asks to try. My brother and I exchange looks of relief, knowing that once my dad pushes that button with his magic fingers, a miracle will occur. Lol, jk we're teenagers.
Richard runs inside to get the security gate key.

"Why don't you climb over?"
"I don't want to leave you." Half-true. My dad and I are in this together, stranded. But that hot cocoa isn't going to make it's way out here.
After a while, we started wondering where my brother was. Hunger and vacancy consume us.Time is distorted and mirages plague our mind. He has forgotten us and locked himself into his gaming world, pushing out all reality of his abandoned family. He was making himself a four course lunch. His repression skills are so developed that he has no memory of father or sister. He has always lived alone.
I volunteer myself to reach into the depths of the dark forest that is his mind and shake him back to real life.

Then I had to climb over the gate.

Our gate is one of those where you can tell the designer had made thousands of boring gates and began pining for his young days where his career dream was to be the Picasso of the millennium. In this state of mind he wistfully and nostalgically embelished the gate. This once humble security item is elevated to a status of semi-supreme craftsmanship.

Climbing it will not be simple.

My dad decided this should be a team effort. As I attempt to conquer this eighth world wonder, my dad suggests a foothold. I put my foot there and find myself in a position to envy the most acclaimed Twister champion. I try something else, only to be advised again by my dad. It's pretty clear we have different ideas about climbing this gate. I come back to the ground to take off my boots. "I'm sure it will be easier with your shoes on."

Allow for a description of afore mentioned boots. They are fake uggs, mistakingly bought a size or two too big, with a thick foam sole. If anyone should wish to spend a day in my shoes, they should simply attach buckets to their feet. I choose to decline my dad's advice.

Slowly, oh so cautiously, I eventually make it over. I say a weepy goodbye to my dad through the bars, and as I make it towards my regained home, I find a reborn appreciation and fondness for these walls. I tag out my brother and soon we are all triumphant champions, together to the end, home at last.

Electric Blue Words

There is something about the bible. I read it every day but I don't read it like I brush my teeth. (I don't want to exactly but it's kind of necessary so I'll spare 2 minutes.) If I had to compare it to some other daily task it would maybe be to eating Future Life. (A breakfast cereal that has made into one of my top 10 reasons I love life. Maybe even top 5. It's that delicious and nutritious. I ain't even mad.)

Ok so the bible isn't really like breakfast cereal.

It's God's tool in my life. "A living sword." I get this picture in my head of a long sword that's white hot and glowing an electric blue, the kind of blue you get in a really hot fire. That's God's words.
He says whatever He needs to say to me. Some days He corrects the way I think, some days my actions and habits I need to change, some days He just uses it to show me what beauty is, what love is. God uses the bible in my life as a microphone, a dishcloth, a light switch. He uses it to give me a hug. Man, the way I live for those hugs.

It's truth. Truth is pretty hard to come by. Sometimes even with friends and family, I get confused as to what is truth, what is implied, where should I colour in the gaps, where should I take people at their words. But the bible is pretty solid. It's straightforward. There's nothing in it that can be proven a lie. It is not in any way tainted. And that really clears my head. God shows Himself to be real, and He also shows what He expects from me.

It's tough. In a life of frivolous conversation and shallow facebook updates, the bible is so very refreshing. It challenges me in so many ways. It whispers that God is real, heaven is real. Life is real so don't mess around. Don't live half-heartedly. Run to win. Run with everything you're worth. Don't build your life on things that are unimportant. Build your life on something that's going to last. But more than that: reading it is like trying to reach the horizon. The more you learn, the more there is to learn. I love the way the Jews describe the Word: it's a seventy sided jewel, hold it up to the light, the light shines through it in the most amazing way, but turn it just a little and you see the light refract through it in a different way, and again and again. It's beauty is so limitless. I just want to go as deep as I can.

The bible gives me hope like nothing else. It's a tool, it's the truth and it's tough. Nothing in the world is as satisfying.

Look me in the Eye

"Please, please mam." His tone is unique to the South African beggar, light hearted, as if he doesn't really care whether she helps him or not. Some beggars can make up to a grand a day, depending on their spot. If she refuses, he will forget her in a moment. If she acquises, he will forget her in a moment. It is the unseen coins in her purse that his attention is fixed on. Coins: small  and powerful magnets. Flat metal pieces with a life-or-death meaning stamped into it. His glazed eyes belie the pin pointed determination in his mind. Being so fixed on such a simple goal - how could he not be successful. Never looking at the person belonging to the hand that will feed him breakfast, buy his taxi fare, a cigarrette.
Maybe she can wake him from his mindset.
Maybe he has been taught his mindset repeatedly by the ones handing him his treasure: never looking him in the eye.
How can we know we are human unless we are told. By God or by man, we long for this affirmation.
"Please mam, just R5."
Just R5? Is that all you are worth to me, my brother? Facing this harsh, destructive wind that is life, side-by-side. Same city, same sky, same sun. Maybe different chances, different experiences. But same fragile flesh, same terrifying-red blood, same spiritual yearning. Same hunger for love, same need for food.
We're both so weak my friend. Humanity is so pitiable.
"You must make a lot of money here."
"Yes, some people are generous, mam. Like you."
Like me.
Me and my pompous R5. If I don't have any use for it, I'm sure you won't. Are all the generous people like me?
"I'm under 16 I can't get a job."
Of course you can't get a job, you're on the streets. Please brother, you don't have to under-explain to me this state you are in. I know it's not because of one distant written law but because of many, many happenings. A victim of the destruction of human greed, of lack of love, maybe a warped mindset. Don't worry, I know you don't have a job because of all of us. Because of Eve. Because it's the way things are.
"Where do you stay?"
Please brother, let's be humans to each other. Let's learn each other and be friends. Isn't friendship more than R5?
"Under a bridge in town."
And then a hooting car pulls me back to my life.
"Sorry I have to go!"
"Ah mam don't be like that."
Don't be like that. I hurriedly pull out R5 and press it into his palm.
"That's all I have,
I'm sorry."

Breathing Out Hope

When the computer requested that I name this insignificant blog, I stuttered.

It should be humble, as all good things begin (including each wonderful member of the human race) but something that said, "I have something to give to this world." Something undramatic but beautiful.

And that's what hope is.

Hope has no limitations. When we dream, we are anybody, somebody, powerful beyond physical measure. Hope is what motivates everything we do. Hope brings life and light to me when I want to hate myself, when I want to judge other people and when I want to be bored and be nothing. Hope lifts my eyes and gently nudges me to understand that the sky is way more vast than I am.

Hope is Jesus. When I look at Jesus, I see restoration, broken things being whole again. I see that He has designed me to be unique and to reflect His beauty as well.

Here are things I hope this blog to be:

A medium through which my creativity will expand and explode.

A place where I can learn the discipline of writing.

A source for people to find enjoyment.

I think those are things worth starting a blog for :)