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Tuesday, 28 February 2012


The unravelling continues. The small joys permeate my spiritually abundant existence. I even embrace my insomnia because now I am reading truly inspirational texts in the half-light, having memorised the most delicious recipes, and cleared and defragged my laptop of all ties to my protracted corporate confinement. Interesting to find that as I transposed my contacts list, whom I wanted to keep and whom I wished well and deeply into the Recycle Bin, that they may resurrect as new beings who know how to treat people and with a reinforced backbone to take on opponents their own size. I know, not very all-worldly EQ, but in my defense I did say I am on a journey of discovery, not bloody perfect!

Almost as sexy as hindsight is the Clarity of Distance. You know that after-the-rains and post-divorce 50% + the kids feeling??? Well, then you're in it. That's the clarity of distance, and it comes about in the most remarkable ways. Not unlike the very sexy milkman on Tuesdays ...alas, in Wonderland, I digress ...
It comes about when you stand outside yourself and your pre-programmedness, and see the wood for the trees. And you can seperate the men from the boys (why bother I ask) and the corn from the chaff and all that. It's like falling out of love or Coming into your Own, understanding why some relationships are toxic or how blonde does not look great on everyone. And as long as we stay too close to something, or if we've done it on autopilot for too long, we miss the detail.

So signing on dotted lines and clearing Outlook folders have brought about that clarity. I just see all the nonsense and the pointlessness and the fear that seeps in through the cover-your-arse emails and the aligning with dark forces to stay in the running, and the almost violent selectiveness to feedback. Invisible shields worn to meetings, and the politically correct over-utilisation of the BCC function.
Say what you mean and deal with the consequences helps a great deal into the future, but it requires a certain platform or cultural evolution.

I am instead plying my trade on the domestic landscape.

Unable to afford a helper or handyman, I have taken to help myself and be darned handy while I'm at it. It was only when I was standing with an axe and a hammer in the garden that I realised how far I had come. Physically and mentally, I was exploring new territory. The overgrown lawn was not going to get the better of me. My life is as a blade of grass, and in any second, the latter part of this one included, could be over. So no point really in allowing just anyone to speak into it and try and determine my path. Not even with the best intentions could anyone account for my decisions and actions, and on comes the surge of freedom, as I stand to be counted. In front of my newly defrosted (with a blowdryer) fridge, but counted all the same.

Having abandoned Corporate Confinement, I am fully into Joy & Bliss Reloaded. Game on!

Monday, 27 February 2012


It has been such a long time since I visited here - this site or indeed this mental space I have achieved over the past few months.
I have fought hard for my freedom, and in the process lost and won a few hearts. Never needing to be popular, I have seen myself and my series of life choices in a whole new light.
Having decided to leave my job which was getting me absolutely NOWHERE on so many levels, I served a protracted four month notice. I didn't realise how crazy that idea was until I sat on New Year's Day with only one resolution: To Get Out and in one piece if at all possible. Now, with one and a half days to go, I am inspired. And divinely and abundantly favoured. I have no job to go to this week, but I have clarity of vision and am inspired by the simple things once more.

I derive immense joy from domestic chores and have taken gardening to a new level. Am even prepared to display some level of discipline as I learn to bake (which requires exact measurements and taste-testing). Cupcakes and cheesecake lie before me in the manner of liberating nutrition. Finding the pantry near-empty the other day was a wake-up call. There was so much cleaning and straightening I could do, and when I fill it again, may it be with healthy things that I actually enjoy, not prescriptions from a magazine or some lame ex's snack wish-list.

Starting over is such a powerful thing. And while all my friends and family, God bless them, are having sleepless nights about my unemployment, I feel I am doing what most people dream their whole lives of doing. Taking the plunge, living on the edge because I know it is the gateway to what I deserve. My coach always talks about the fact that most people live lives of quiet desperation, and in honour to God who created me perfect and for greatness, I will live a true, authentic life.

It's not even about the immaturity and the drama and the politics and the brown-nosing to get to the top of the rickety corporate ladder that so freaked me out. It's about being OK with standing alone and being accountable for my decisions in every moment, every time.
I was torn between being the "better person" and just walking away. The former being too hard from too many iterations of the same BS, I opted for walking away slowly. A four month walk to freedom to be exact. It is hair-raising that almost immediate surge when I think of how much I CAN NO LONGER BE A PART OF THIS WORLD. Eyelashes, gel fix and good Brazilian extensions constitute my allowance for sexy fake. Nothing else allowed.

The following are immediately and absolutely excluded:
1. Demons parading as people-centred humans
2. Glory Hounds with no personality and original ideas about what needs to be done
3. Name droppers who thereby have a false sense of security. When the friends are disbarred,
    dismantled will be their careers
4. No clue parading as EQ
5. Carbs with a revenge agenda

How did it all come about?
Like all good things that count, it was an insidious process. Small seeds (weeds) planted. Little niggly things in the  background suddenly blocking my vision and my peace. And no, I speak not of a well-hung lover. Just a more discerning eye and seperating the needed from the flushables. And in clearing the forest of my discontent, I realised that uprooting would be needed. And it met with a myriad of things ranging from the anxious to the manipulative, but that surge propelled me forward each time. And when the nausea of uncertainty subsided, the freedom flux came through. My resolve became stronger and my purpose clearer ...

It became almost too easy to ignore the whispers of fake and fear, and to listen to the voice of Faith and Fortune. Because I know with a death-defying certainty that everything is as it should be and God will never let me down. It's just not how He rolls ...

Tuesday, 6 September 2011

The Art of War - Surrender at Sunrise

I firmly believe in conserving energy for real eventualities so scant chance of finding me aimlessly jogging, walking or hiking, taking in scenic landscapes. Having worked really tough jobs in childcare, psych wards, trauma counselling and urban living proper, I relish the energising quietude of my darkened room and the coolness of satin sheets against my body. Despite it taking small forevers to achieve a fully restful state, nothings beats that place of dreaming and fantasising, and of course those trigger-moments at which the subconscious does its best work. And it worked very well until recently.

Somewhere between the medication, mood swings related to said medication, attempts at meditation and general life analysis at midnight hours, sleep has been giving me a head-start on some game and then promptly left me to attend to some other sheep auditing programme update! So at some point in the a.m. I surrendered, admitting that my evening from all-light-to-cave-night rituals were rendered ineffective through ... well ... mating and playing-hard-to-get cats, howling at the moon and their unfed state dogs, competitor insomniac drag car racers and the general unravelling of an overachieving, but resignedly tired mind. Promptly at 3am I woke to the sound of my beating heart and the need to remember the dream. My bladder has of late outsourced its alarm function to the Tarantino nightmare folder of horrors and thrillers, many of them scarily recurring, which rouses me at a tremendous pace, searching all the sounds for footsteps, alarms, door-bells, phones, snoring, fridge motors, the list is endless. Mostly though, I just need a quick trip and if I'm really quick can fall back to sleep almost immediately. OK, this is mostly during the vodka and shooter comatose campaign, but doable all the same.

Generally though, that jolt is the trigger for a much-delayed sunrise. So I have time. A time to pray and love and miss the many people who have crossed my path. For loves shared and lost, for lives touched and for memories no canvas could capture. I sometimes marvel at the technology our minds have to protect us and that space where you can no longer remember anything, not even a person whom you have loved your whole life.

Sometimes the forced wakefulness is  like the mother who has tired of speaking to you whilst you offered half an ear, and whose voice is now loud enough to silence any resistance or counter-terrorism or sabotage. It blasts all the regrets and recriminations and To Do lists, and Elimination lists with cymbals. And the Darkness, supposed to protect me,  instead offers no way out, taunting me from all over, reminding me that unless things were swiftly dealt with, they would come back, louder and more forceful than before. That suffices for me to make mental and other notes about what and who really matters, and to face my developmental demons and to cease interrupting myself and to debate with a view to reaching some kind of draft conclusion no matter how pedestrian (as opposed to the existential problem-formulation exercise I've embarked on years ago, so engrossed, I failed to realise the sands have run out of the hour glass and the session is in fact over)

Just before sunrise I am courageous enough to surrender, having fought the internal and external enemy, prepared for normal heartbeat, and to cover my battle scars in well-to-do foundation and double volume mascara. And no-one needs to know. In fact, most often I struggle to remember what the fight was about in the first place. But I know that it waits for me at twilight ... and through each victory I will come closer to wholeness and depth.

So 'Good Night' is just the war cry ... Game On!

Monday, 5 September 2011


My stalker did not materialise. So no closure on that score. He must've hitched a lift to his planet of origin. I am free to loiter on my own corner waiting for my own taxi which I will pay for with my own money.

The weekend was delightful. Lots of rest, punctuated only by midnight panic attacks mostly related to unfiled documents, undumped wannabe faithful boyfriends, tax returns and the return of the crazy, uncommitted (as opposed to non-commital) Hugo. He hovers around wafting of illegal crumpets or pancakes: sweet, syrupy, saccharine poison that fills my everything with absolutely nothing. Not completely convinced of the logic therein, but in my defence, most people get away with being just a little under the sanity radar with books of feel-good therapies that are enriching and lining some pockets and fixing nothing in particular. Red wine, and re-runs of old movies complete the scene. I am now au fait with the soundtracks, scripts and credits of all of them ... Who wants to be a millionaire? I could answer most questions about even the gaffers and the stunt doubles ...

Anyhoo, about Hugo ...
I want him to sign his own commitment sheet, to put on his own back-to-front pyjamas and take his own meds and sit quietly in self-imposed solitary confinement. No resistance. Just an acknowledgement of his unbridled craziness. He cannot be allowed to pretend to be OK, with that sweet smile and those cute words (the easier SMS's he does respond to) and the absent words (all the hard texts that require direct, honest, mature answers which never materialise). He has no airtime / signal? So what are those antennae for? No-one can be such a blue-eyed something of the selective everything gods. He selectively accesses reality and then waxes - all over in fact, but - lyrical about how he needs time to "fix himself up". My God, TIME is not the issue! It's all the other chemical, psychiatric and power-tool resources that we need to call upon. And of all the other roadworthy alter-egos he could chose, he clicks on Victim!!!???  Auto-programmed and dysfunctional, and believes in the way of the criminally uncommitted, that things are fine between us, and that upon fixing of self (other personalities nothwithstanding) things will go back to how they are supposed to be. Now that RED FLARE that so closely matches my pashmina, is my warning sign right there. How are things supposed to be when the foundation is pure unadulterated LIES and we are going to build on it? There's an intensely painful physical picture for me: me, blindfolded in crimson pashmina and whip jumping landmine-style over the cracks.  I'm thinking it's TIME for ME to keep it real for ME. There is always the danger for contracting some of these altered state bugs, and soon I'll be down with a nasty case of the NUTS and ROSES, and believe me, it sounds way better than it is.

This morning however, I was ready to take my power back, telling my alarm clock promptly that I would NOT be beckoned and managed by something so miniscule as to be absent on my bedside table. What with all the novels and the tabbed and colour-coded To Do Lists from the 1990's. The nerve or battery or whatever ...
So I swopped my oats for some marshmallows and winked at the Chardonnay displaying exasperatingly powerful come-hither behaviour as I found the milk carton, and quit playing  peekaboo with my Intray.

And as I started doing something to ease the pain somewhere, the day became lighter. The universe afforded me numerous opportunities to assertively yet lovingly send certain forces to the runway. I will be here when they return, but none of it is automatic or even mandatory. And upon their return, they should be ready and trained to deal with someone a little different.  I can no longer be the ATM, dispensary, shoulder, pillar, wheel-barrow, punching bag or dart-board. I cannot be Every Idiot's Fan Club and rescuer of Post-Traumatic Anything. I have my own stuff, and I can be strong when I've taken care of 'my things' (ironically one of Hugo' favourite references to me!!??) The metallic aftertaste of that irony! And as for the recurrence of unresolved issues, I have a karmic mission to complete. I DO NOT WANT TO SEE ANOTHER HUGO, PIERRE, TREY, PETER, JOHN DOE in another shape or form. Whether he has a butler or can be one, whether he can mix cocktails, sew buttons or harvest healthy crops of  mange tout, he must immediately to another be assigned. I will it so.

I declare the rest of 2011 stress- and stalker-free. By order!

And if signing on the dotted line is misread as earthspeak Morse code for the inter-planetary social network, to each his own. May they find their own (milky) way with strong teeth and all manner of Bones ...

There are many rivers to cross ... and I'm feeling very Cleopatra in a memorable sunset chardonnay on a gondola ... Cheers!

Friday, 2 September 2011


Onwards my journey to wholeness. Another instalment of the crazy and bored gods at my expense. Problem is it's now a daily occurrence and Bridge over Troubled Waters comes to mind.

Twice this past week I was waiting for a taxi. Whilst I submit to attracting the faulty and the foolish with loads of grace most days, PMS and ruminations of my still fresh seperation from Hugo had me in a pensive-bordering-on-perpetually-pissed-off mood. Thus I was not in the mood when a very scary, bird-like man came to stand alongside me after doing a thorough top to toe scan of my person. First he asked me where the taxi was going, but everything else pointed to the fact that he knew the area. I was also not buying the BS about 30+ boys with a built-in GPS for strip clubs and pubs, NOT knowing where they're going. Accepting too, that asking for directions is not part of their uber-man DNA, he has his whole life to figure it out. BUT, and there's always a but ... I was raised to at least be polite so I told him and turned my back, praying that he had passed the module which confirms non-verbal cues as the strongest indicator. But ALAS - in Wonderland - It comes back asking whether I worked in town. At this point I just ignored him and kept my back turned. 128 seconds later he pipes up claiming that he will pay my fare, to which I gave him an incredulous "Why?" and a part of my stomache ignited the bile and the concise but roadworthy F-word dictionary that I saved for Monday mornings, irritating colleagues and an all of my PMS calendar.

As I turned to tell him where he could shove his kindness (big neighing Gift Horse very close to my Gratitude Journal standing over the flush bowl), the taxi came, and as he held the door for me I realised in an instant that I could not get in. I could not do it. That I would have to diss the universe sending me this gift. That I would be late for my meeting, and through a power I now possess as casualty in Frivolous Hospitality Gods experiment, that he was a griller at Wimpy. From the deep fryer into the gas, it had to end.
Insult to injury, I attend a team building session later that day where we watched a Dewitt Jones clip called For the Love of it, about how feel-good comes from paying the toll fare for the vehicle behind you!!!!! Here someone was trying to do that for me and all I thought of was a tollgate on the Bridge over Troubled water and kidnap and human trafficking not through reputable travel agencies.

A day passed and there we were again. This time I was ready, feeling better about Hugo being further away in the distance - like that bridge, Sooooooooo over him. I was also enjoying Spring Day, feeling sprightly and knowing that sometime during this romantic drought I'd get to do it on the petals, champagne corks being the only real obstacle to floral ecstasy.

He looked a tad unsure of himself as we stood looking across the street. Well, I had been staring into the distance anyway, doing a mental Thanksgiving, when I was interrupted by the voice of It: 'So are you going to work?' and I couldn't help but marvel at the fine line between brave and crazy perfectly depicted by men forgetting that hormonal imbalance and homicide have a history richly documented, and some bodies have not been found because we deemed it so, and not for any other spiritual or medical reasons.
Each one has a season and as I looked at him I thought: Your Spring has come, dude, it is the Spring of your life and you don't even know it.

But I held my thoughts to myself and stared at him quizzically, until he dropped his gaze. And I stared at him still, trying to sense the roots of his incredible ability to irritate, harass and grate. No-one could be that calm, careless or crazy that early in the morning. He looked up again for another line and found me still staring at him. He longed for a taxi, a getaway car, anything. I could tell. Eventually his chariot came and took him off into the sunrise.

But ...
I know it is not over. Our paths  and pavements shall cross and I will get to the bottom of it.  It does boggle the mind. Most of the men I want to see are out seeing other people, spaced out or wanting space. And in true damage control mode, the universe sends me a replacement. A stalker stopper, an interim irritation with a penchant for forced interviews with strangers. When next I hear of billions being ploughed into intergalactic research and life on other planets, I am submitting my request.

This one needs to go home now. Beamed up or beaten up, he will have to go.

Wednesday, 31 August 2011

SCHINDLER GOD - The Lift Speaks

I recently attended a session with a most prolific Motivational Speaker who recommended that to deal with the cosmic tension in lifts, to thank everyone for attending the meeting.
Thinking about how the workers in my building could neither greet others nor their reflections in our very ergonomically out there lifts, hilarity prevailed.

Today, I was ready to call that meeting. Ice Breaker-ready, in fact. I had all the pick-up lines and the pick-me-up quotes to start a small revolution in a very confined space. Our tight group of about 8, all wearing purple and black - not Random, instead cosmically ordered - were a tad more upbeat than the normal crew, predicting weather with layman's palette: cold, hot, windy, uncertain, bearing germs and subtly holding onto the uncomfortable communion that preceded a hesitant disembarkation onto a silent floor with a barking In Tray.

But my rise to Motivational Speaking Glory in a Schindler Creation was shortlived by a very eerie pre-recorded message declaring: "Do not be alarmed; Help is on the way!" It repeated the consolation enough times for us to determine that this was the standard debriefing for elevator malfunction and the concomitant panic that accompanied being stuck for an undetermined period in a cubicle with 4 x 4 full-length, amply illuminated mirrors and companions not of your choosing.

OR ...

It could be that message in a capsule that we all need all day long, with every question and every breath. That God is there, ready to help, fixing things in ways beyond our reason. Reminding me that whilst I had spent a significant amount of my meagre education on problem formulation and consolidation of alternatives (one progressively worse than the former), HE has ALL THE ANSWERS, planet and species solutioning on a meta-everything level that years after, with a rather pathetic post-traumatic optical dependency called hindsight, we are still thanking Him for the things He gave and the things He didn't and the Serenity to know the difference.

Moral of the story: listening to voices is not as cracked up as it's made out to be. May it be the Right One ...

Tuesday, 30 August 2011


There are a couple of reasons why I believe in the law of attraction.
a. I have a visceral reaction to pink Motel signs
b. Most of the food I've ever tasted, licked, read about or eaten are all 
    around me in a very permanent relationship
c. The gods and angels need mortals to prank and miracle practise on (I
    am a channel of their peace and instrument of their trials)

So when I asked the universe to send me a multi-everything  butler named Miguel, there was all of a 12-month delivery period, punctuated with many other men in the hospitality industry thrusted into my life. I didn't figure it all out until I thought about HUGO BOI, the latest instalment in the fast metabolism, smooth talking, too-gorgeous-to-be single Rastafari restaurant manager who really whet my appetite. Well for certain things, and regrettably, for not a very long time. I must admit though, of all the cocktail mixing, cutlery from the outside in group, he was the best. And as I am editing my cancellation request to the universal post-office, in many ways perhaps the worst. Everything about him, apart from his very lean and almost bony butt, was homely. With him I wanted to share everything because he spoke about his mother and sister so much (one would think that strong women would influence his faulty mind, but alas, they worship him just a little more than I do) He ate all the time, loved music and the mirror ... I never imagined observing vanity being great for self-esteem, but try hanging out with a man who considers himself a perfect specimen of the Almighty, who hogs the mirror and smiles at himself with so much pleasure I suspected for a short while my foyer was haunted and that he was communicating with some unseen beings.  

But I digress or regress or whatever ...

Then there was Peter who followed me, wine in paper cup, deeming me the most beautiful woman he had ever seen (He's like 45; has he lived in a cave for the past 44 and half, and how are his eyes reacting to light?) and immediately saw me on his CV. Fortunately I was able to talk him down from the ledge in the restaurant where I was sitting and upon further investigation, discovered that he was recently seperated from his wife (I suspected they would reunite again in their drive-way later that evening) and owned a chain of fast food franchises. Hospitality or hospitalise me!!?? All I wanted was a butler of African descent from the agency, not the mob!

Tony, 58 yr old refugee, another 5-course dilemma all on his own. Loves and stakes out all the restaurants I frequent, and knows the menus of most by heart and price range. He loves food and polishes plates. Literally. Mister Muscle of the Platter. He insists that it has everything to do with his impoverished war-torn childhood,  where often they grated two or three veggies to make a broth for the entire family. And whilst I celebrate his coming out, I cannot help but picture a Macbeth scene with witches and cauldrons and soup regrettably not palatable for the average detox regimen.

Of late, I have 20 year old waiters lingering over the more than 40% tip with promises of clearing my table, my way and temporarily my mind in the most imaginative and delicious ways. 

IT ALL ENDS HERE. I am sending Miguel to Finishing School and thence to my friend Mabel. I feel like I've waited for him my whole career, and now that he's here, there are replicas or at least of similar qualification, with added weirdness, all around. I SURRENDER! Henceforth I will eat simply. Dishes will auto-clean or be recycled. I shall fetch my own mail and do my own shopping from a list not telepathically forwarded to over-efficient, gifted and gorgeous person, but written by my own hand or stored on my own phone, dammit. OK, once own phone is retrieved. I shall queue in all manner of spots by myself and look happier for it. I shall with immediate effect online-everything else as I learn to know all the rooms in my home and master the art of laundry, ironing and sorting by texture, colour or event!
I will live with the silence and pouring my own welcome home drink and pouring out my heart to my very self-absorbed therapist who is decidedly anal about the upholstery on his couch. From Freud to friggin madness if you ask me nicely! Anyhoo, dealing with the matter at hand, henceforth, Accounts payable will be an action and not a filing tab.

I can be that bulb-changing, landscaping, catering and hosting so-and-so with great prospects. 'I have nothing if I don't have you' sings another diva, but I am writing a new song from one of my personal greats: I'm gonna make a change for once in my life ... I will omit the Man in the Mirror chorus which drags me back forcefully and lovingly to Hugo ...

Oh Dears, wish me well. I will have to stand on my own two feet in shoes I've bought and drunkenly retrieved from under the chaise myself, myself.

How treacherous this life!

But I see no way around breaking the food guy spell of really crazy runners, (head) waiters, baristers,  and restaurant managers, owners and Quality Assurers in the dairy section ... who have come in search of 'love' (moist and manic mostly I suspect) and who have driven me round the bend and up the pole...

In the words of my wise, first-time-round divorce lawyer: "be careful what you wish for; you might just get it." And thinking about You Go (Hugo's) vintage Bob Marley collection, it's worth the consideration!