The Great Rescue

It's nice to know that there are friends you can call at 02:00 that will be there to bail you out of sticky situations. It is also comforting to know that these friends have learned to take me with a pinch of salt - I'm no easy force to contend with, and those that survive my rough seas find themselves in a highly respected circle of closeness that can only be claimed through sheer understanding of how its magic works. So it is, that I have one such friend who has offered his services as an-on call knight in shining armour! I don't consider myself someone who needs to be rescued, but paranoia at the hands of assault in my own bed has led me to appreciate the luxury of having an escape route when the need arises, as it dually did.

My flat is laid out with my bedroom against the passage that runs along our L-Shaped block, allowing me to be in tune with even the most secluded of noises that issue from below. Our gate has a padlock, and the front door merely slides open, unable to lock. This is a sound I have grown accustomed to in the wee hours of the morning when my housemates come home from their nighttime activities. Last night was no exception. Lying in a state of medium sleep I heard the familiar fumbling of the lock, the door slip open and movement in the passage. Fear struck like a cold brick with the stark realisation that no one had left the house that night, and that both roomies were sleeping snugly in their rooms.

Instinct has saved my life once before, so I picked up my phone, turned it to silent and sent a message to my knight as I heard the familiar sound of a zip, and of movement in my lounge. Listening to the bangs and the attempts at keeping quiet by the unknown impostor, I let know that there was someone in the house, and that I was stuck. Shaking, to say the least, I rolled over to pretend I was asleep, listening for the sound of a car, and a police siren.

True to his word, I was met within 5 minutes as the gate buzzed open. There was nothing for it but to leave my room to release the intercom, where I noticed the state of my front door. Locked from the inside, padlocked. Closed. I ran through a quick check of the house and went out of the front door to be met with quite a sight. There stood my knight in the downstairs car park, flanked by no fewer than 15 armed policemen, the bomb squad and a curious neighbour!

Realising my submission to paranoia, I apologised as they surrounded the building and came to my flat, where I had to politely tell them that I had been mistaken, and that everything did indeed seem in order. As I was speaking, I happened to glance over my shoulder back into the flat, only to see one of these officers shining a torch on my sleeping flatmate. Sometimes, these things happen. I sent everyone home, thanked my knight and returned to bed, hoping that it was a dream, or that, to save my sure embarrassment, everyone involved would wake to wondering whether or not the late night prowling of my flat block had in fact been real.

I have the nicest flat mate there is. This morning she brought me a cup of coffee on her way out, and politely asked if there had been anyone in the house last night because she had thought that someone had shone a torch on her, but wasn't sure. As I explained the story in full detail, so she began to giggle. Unbeknown to me, a mutual friend of my 2 housemates was sleeping over in the flat, and was due to arrive in the early hours of the morning after a night on the town. She had been a little tipsy, which explains her trouble with the lock and the banging, and had also unzipped a bag to find her pyjamas.

Looking back, I know that I have at least one friend to call at 02:00, and think that I should perhaps offer to buy him lunch for his efforts - there are not too many people that organised at such ungodly hours, so I'm quite touched. The whole story ended in a fit of laughter over morning coffee, when Jana politely passed the comment "Well, at least we know you have the flats security sorted!"

I can't say that I don't have an interesting life.

Peace Treaty

It never ceases to amaze me how easy it is to miss a person. For all intent and purpose, and for all the voices of reason that keep such close watch over the inner workings of love and trust, there is always one that disagrees. It's the voice of regret; the little voice that's there to remind me your happiness is not a conscious decision that can be bought with a promise to love you.

In battle, there are no winners, there are no grand ceremonies to celebrate victory, and there is no soldier unaffected by the cruelty of his actions. Each fights for himself, fighting the reflection of his own heart as he tries so hard to see it in the hands of the other. On so many levels, love is a joint decision. A treaty of peace to mark mutual respect, and an agreement to honour the boundaries between what is claimed and what runs free.

On Life, Love and Everything...

What it all comes down to in the end is realising that life, although nicely presented on a silver platter, doesn't always come with serving spoons. Sometimes you need to just get in there and dig around in the soggy entree before your fingers are sticky enough to hold a firm grip on what you are really after - those cream covered peaches in the centre of the tray. Slippery, messy and dripping with juice so sweet that for the briefest of moments as they brush passed your parched lips the world itself makes sense, they can stop a man's bleeding heart.

It restarts of course, beat by beat... enriched by the sweet pap of love, and the incomparable milk of wonder.

Happiness

Maybe I'm just facetious, but being happy is a question of allowing yourself to not fear the guilt of genuine happiness.

It all started with my purchase of 3 small "Rough Guides to the Wonders of the World" books, and a comment that I will always travel, one way or another. What took me by surprise was the blatant cynicism with which this was met by my collegue, and the honest response of "Well, if that if that's what you think you will do than good for you, but reality and dreams are two different worlds. Good things don't really happen to people. People are bad. Paradise is solitude." Interesting.

What followed was a psychological trip to bitterness and loneliness, all because you are too afraid to let yourself enjoy the good in the world. I have seen this before. This continuous need to find things that make life seem harder than it is, or more complicated, or less inclined to accommodate a mere you in the depths of other peoples success. The impact of difference in perceived experience has seldom been clearer to me as it was during our virtual travels through the books of the world.

You love the look of Kenya, but could never go there, what if you caught Malaria, even with the little white pills? Europe looks like fun, but there are too many things to see, where would you start? The Australians are rude, New Zealand is bland, South America may just give you a tropical disease. The Middle East - fascinating, except for the risk of sunburn and dehydration in the scorching heat. You won't travel the world until you have seen your own country first. Fair Enough. You want to visit the Freestate, but won't go; Bloemfontein is for farmers and you are above the ranks of the flatness with which a Bloemfontein farmer goes about the business of living his life. No, farming won't do either, best stay in PE where you are protected from the possibility of being touched by this little thing called happiness.

I think what I'm trying to say, is that not wanting people to get close to you is not a fear of hurt, but a fear of being loved. A fear of getting Malaria is not the fear of sickness, but not catching it the fear of having to realise that you are blessed with good health. Regrets are not there to remind us that we have made mistakes in life, and that we are bad. Regrets are there to show us that there is more to the way of the world, and that there are multiple answers to the questions we force ourselves to ask for fear of having all the answers.

It turned out to be an interesting evening in the end. As I watched you drive away a usual smile broke over my face, making me fully aware of the enormity of the difference between us. You in your car, afraid to breathe in case you enjoy it. Me in my car, singing opera, watching the world unfold.

An Aquired Taste

"You're an aquired taste," he slipped in casually. As with all matters of the heart, a little too casually.

I have always avoided that word, "aquired," as though it covers all manner of sin. Aquired friends, aquired taste, an aquired affinity for the unknown which makes me string my heart across bustling cafe-lined streets, and the tiny space between head and heart where even the best forget to breathe. For all the people who have lined my streets with their hot cinnamon buns drenched in icing-sugar, buying their cheap souviners from the local trade stalls, none have stopped to listen to the subtle sounds. The quiet that resonates in the cracks of the walls and the cobblestone pavings that hold it together. Some have grown to love the taste of lust as they sip Chardonnay on the banks of my heart, chatting in stark animation of worlds that exist beyond my horizons. Others are waiting. Waiting for the right time of day, the right light; Perhaps the right way to look at me, the right way to fully appreciate the crispness of my air and the intensity with which I colour my world.

It's ironic. I pride myself on the openness of my heart, and the free assosciation with which its' residents carry out their daily lives. There are no price tickets hanging in shop windows, no sale signs, no menu's, no servants, no cheap wine in cardboard boxes. No competition. People grow to love this place with it's little chalets, its singing birds and shaded side-walks. Ironic that this is my downfall. Maybe I let them all in in the hope that one day, just once, someone will walk through my gates and call me home, without needing to aquire a taste for the quiet sounds in the cracks of my walls, or the intense hues with which I paint my world.