I think I'm in love...

TTS: Interludes of Life: Karma My Sutra

22:08p.m., Friday, 22 May 2015

Karma Sutra, Kosher Sex, Foods for Fabulous Sex... Yes -- I got it from my mama.

And no, you naughty minds, I don't mean it that way. What I mean is:

Not every parent is comfortable having the sex talk with their kids, let alone using the S word in front of them, but my mom was the rare exception. It's not that she was comfortable doing it, but the need to be open with us overrode every fear and discomfort she had. She based many of her talks and lectures with us on music videos, TV shows, movies, and other peoples' and her own personal experiences. With the increase in adolescent sexual activity and pregnancy, she wanted us to understand that our chastity was a sacred entity, and not something to lose simply to fit in. While those messages were comforting at home, reality was a little harsher in the confines of school grounds and social circles -- where virgins were colossal losers -- ranking at 100 on a scale from one to ten. But you live through it, fortunately with your self-esteem and hymen somewhat intact. Turns out my mother's messages never fell on deaf ears and I was able withhold the urge to indulge in the forbidden fruit until a few months before I turned 21. As raging as my hormones were throughout my teenagehood, somehow, I managed to shift it completely to the back of my mind and remain immune to the 'power of the penis'. But that's a chorus for another song.

Before I did the deed however, a few months before my Empress passed on (aka 'the apocalypse'), she sat me down with her in the bedroom I then shared with my sister, and we had a heartfelt discussion I didn't see coming. I had always been a highly ambitious young person growing up, and my lack of (or well-concealed, rather) interest in men concerned her (and even triggered fears of potential lesbianism). She didn't want me to be one of those hardworking women with all the money in the world and no one to share it with, and she did her best to let me know in a series of talks we had regularly. On this one particular day, she gave me a gift I didn't feel I was prepared to receive. She reached under her feet, and, stacked in a small pile were about six books she handed to me. She began to explain that now was probably not the right time for me to explore their contents (with me being a manless virgin and all), but assured me the time would come when I would find them useful. She just wanted to ensure that I was well-equipped whenever the opportunity availed itself. Naturally, I was overcome by embarrassment taking books with erotic titles like Karma Sutra, Kosher Sex and Food for Fabulous Sex from my Mom, but I'm immensely grateful she did that. It was her subtle reminder that she too had been young, clueless and in need of sexual guidance. And there wasn't anything wrong with that.

Naturally as you would imagine, I never read the books while she was around. In fact, I kept them hidden far; I didn't want to give people the wrong impression about having them in my possession. I'm already non-religious so the topic wouldn't sit too well with my religious friends; they'd be convinced this was certainly the work of the devil, and I wasn't in the mood for another failed exorcism. I continued to hide them for more than  three years after 'the apocalypse'. But earlier this year, while searching a few boxes for my old notebooks and journals, I stumbled across them. The smile I had on my face in that moment thinking about Mommy Dearest and the day she gave them to me... I realised I'm a grown young woman, and there's nothing wrong with having these books a part of my visible book collection. It's my space, and I'll do with it as I please. Just as equally, I read what I like. Excuse me while I be frank, but there's nothing wrong with someone wanting to explore the limits of their bodies and their sexual pleasure  -- whether it's  for themselves or their partners. And women are just as entitled in that regard as men are.

Who needs picture-perfect, when you have the perfect picture?
-- Tracy Wilbon

Jo'burg City: My Once Shimmering Mirage

12:37p.m., Sunday, 24 May 2015

Who needs picture-perfect when you have the perfect picture?

I had just taken a photograph of my sister who had then become a new mom when that statement occurred to me. She'd been standing about a few minutes by the large scale window in our dining room which overlooks Ponte City and Ellis Park Stadium. She simply stood there, looking out as though in deep thought, pondering her life and her next big move. Upon noticing her, I rushed off for the camera and silently captured her in time. The curtains were spread wide open with central east and south east Jo'burg in full view behind her, forming a captivating and distinct backdrop; the weather almost sympathetic with her mood. She noticed me standing there after my first few shots and I asked her to remain as she was. She acquiesced, and I continued to capture her. What beautiful pictures that moment made for. And how beautifully they concealed one of our many struggles of living here at the time. That's what a photograph in the city is supposed to do; it serves as a soughtafter mirage.

The slums of Jo'burg photograph beautifully, and so do the people. The light, the colours, the daily drama -- they tell some intricately gripping and moving stories. But the reality of living here is a far cry from glamorous.

Struggle knows no race here, and people will rest heads just about anywhere they can afford to. It's quite the norm to have up to five families of five crammed in two- and three-bedroom apartments with living areas and even bedrooms subdivided with sheets and curtains to create some form of privacy. Depending on how dire the situation, some people settle for being housed in kitchens, balconies and even bathrooms. It's not the best in accommodation, but it'll do for the time being. The upkeep of these buildings deteriorate increasingly fast as people who occupy them don't pay levies and don't understand its purpose in maintaining the upkeep of the place, which is why they don't seem bothered when it comes to filthy hallways, broken windows, stolen fire extinguishers and lifts that can remain out of service for months and years on end. They don't have a stake in the property, so it doesn't bother them. All they have to claim is that tiny roof over their heads they secure for a few hundred rands a month. Now that's their only concern. Not the streets which are rubbished with litter, or the deeply potholed roads, or the traffic lights that don't work, or the stolen fences and vandalised swings in the local park; only that few square metres of room they occupy. It's no wonder the owners and other residents are expected to pay triple and quadruple the initial amounts of levies, rates and taxes. It isn't fair, but that's the way it is.

Hearing a round of gunshots or prostitutes singing and making a raucous serve as your lullaby before you sleep, and the live band from one of the million nearby churches plays as your unsolicited alarm every Sunday morning. I guess it's better than having Sbu blaring music from his car speakers for the whole neighbourhood to hear every other day. You could call the police on him on the basis that he's disturbing the peace, but it won't work here. That behaviour only exists in the suburbs. In fact, calling the police for anything in these parts can be a game of luck or misfortune: you're lucky if they pitch -- even if they prove to be useless, or you're unlucky because they attack or rob you themselves. I don't know how many times I've seen or heard of people who've jumped or accidentally fallen to their deaths from high-rise buildings, or people who've been stabbed or shot, only to have their bodies removed many hours later or even the next day, simply because the police showed up late, or the official at the public mortuary was still asleep or off-duty. Yes -- you're working on their time here, not yours.

Let me not get started on the petty thieves, shitty franchises, road kill and crime syndicates -- it might scare off the newly relocated suburbanites.

Amidst all the chaos and drama, three things will always keep me loving this place: the bold, defined and mesmerising architectural gems; the people, who are some of the most authentic, genuine and caring individuals you'll ever know; and the fond memories I've collected during my time here. You don't have to look long and hard to realise that this place used to be for the rich and famous with its fancy façades, closed down cinemas, indoor pools, private lounges and expansive penthouses -- it used to be the 'it' place of 'it' places, and I still feel it; I still feel like an integral part of that forgotten pot of gold. I'm far too grateful just being in a place that many could only dream of, to dwell on the negatives. Although the paint has chipped and many of them remain vacant dilapidated buildings, their true grandeur and beauty have never faded. At least not to me.

Jo'burg City will always be my once shimmering mirage.

TTS: Interludes of Life -- Baby Infatuation

11:04p.m., 5 March 2015

I think I'm on a white. I've transcended my serenity and currently sit in the lap of surrender. I've done my best to control the situation in every way I can, however, I'm going to have to relinquish my role in that regard before I drive myself insane and allow this matter to consume me unnecessarily. I've surrendered, and it's the most liberating thing I can always do for myself. It's like gently untying the noose I put around my own neck with all these wishes, and thoughts, and expectations, and hopes. Before I know it, I'm exhausted and I've barely crossed the starting point. I know it isn't love. It's just infatuation.

Boy, do I love to babysit Baby Infatuation. During the times I have him over, I set up his room, refurbish his crib and make his bed. I feed him constantly throughout the day -- between 8-10 times, change his nappies, brush his hair, bathe him and occasionally buy him new clothes when he grows out of the old ones. At times, even though I'm the one doing the looking-after, he's nurturing me. I feel myself become a better person, just knowing he's there and reciprocates my attention. I don't know how many Baby Infatuations I've babysat in my life, but they don't usually stay long enough for me to see them grow. And that's alright; it's for the best. It chops down the tree of attachment before it borderlines madness. It also eliminates the need for more... more time with him, more responsibility, more titles. 'Bye bye, baby, but nanny's got to go now. Don't worry, you'll find someone else to love you.'

And on to the next one it is...

Fleeting Thought

Still trying to wrap my head around being licked on the cheek... Twice. In one year.

Strangely adorable. :)

TTS: Think, Damn It. Think.

12:52p.m., Thursday, 21 May 2015

You know what irks me? My people. Okay, not necessarily my people, but their way of thinking. I love my people, but their way of thinking (or nonthinking) frustrates me. As beautiful and overpopulated on this incredible planet as we are, it's strange that we've fought for every cause to liberate ourselves in every way imaginable, except for what I feel to be the most important one: The fight to learn to use that mushy thing between our ears -- the one with the left and right hemispheres... Our brains. As it stands, I feel it's a case of not wanting to use them, and not knowing how to. For instance, people who live in very impoverished places like villages and townships (with a few exceptions), have very little to no ways of receiving quality education. They have no access to the internet, and even if they do, it's often a luxury they cannot afford to make use of. Basic education and computer illiteracy in these parts also add on to the problem. Urbanites, on the other hand, also experience their fair share of setbacks and hardships, but have every service of convenience at their disposal: world-class infrastructure, good quality schools, internet access and devices with WiFi capabilities, book stores, public libraries, public and private training initiatives... the works. It's disappointing to see that even with such a wide range of learning portals, we still fail ourselves when it comes to the art of thinking.

When I say thinking, I'm not referring to the mundane acts of pondering on tonight's dinner, the meaning behind someone's last text to you, the colour of the shoes you need to match your new outfit, who you want to hook up with later, or what beverage you'll be sipping on after this post. I'm referring to the ability to think coherently, critically and analytically: to ask and answer serious questions, to question your ideals,beliefs, actions, interests, motives, purpose, and to find ways of understanding and reasoning these with yourselves, if not with others. This is not to impress anyone, but to truly understand the importance and significance of all that we do that contributes greatly to the lives we lead. Even people with a certain level of academic experience aren't exempt from this one because our priorities as a people still seem to be disorganised.

It's a no-brainer: Black people know how to dress. We know how to photograph, get the party started, know of the best and most expensive clothing brands, hang out at the most exclusive spots, drive the fanciest of cars, sought out the best neighborhoods, drink the finest alcohol, befriend the coolest of cool and use the very best in gadgets and electronics. In fact, we do all of these and more, so well, that we usually do it better than every other human race on the planet. It's undoubtedly a title that's our for the taking -- hands down. I just have a question or two: How is that winning? What legacy is there to gain from this? Sure -- we get our 30 minutes of fame and might rake in a bit of cash from being brand whores while we still matter, but what real legacy are we leaving behind about ourselves as consumers besides Best Dressed and Most Monied Up Person You Know? We cut it when it comes to endorsement deals and advertisements, but why aren't we good enough to head up at an executive level for these companies? Why are we settling simply for being the face of this or that company? For as long as we're not heading up, creating or revolutionising anything worth acknowledging, the history books will never know us. We'll simply remain a means to an end and as cash cows for companies that have no respect for us but continue to flood our shores with their franchises because they know we don't have the drive and discipline to sustainably create our own.

With that said; wouldn't it be nice for us to have something to offer the world for change, instead of merely just receiving from every other country? Wouldn't it be nice to contribute towards your own economy and legacy? 

Think about it.

Just think about it.