Belles of the Ball...

...or balls at the bell?

While we live according to race, colour or creed | While we rule by blind madness and pure greed | Our lives dictated by tradition, superstition, false religion | Through the eons, and on and on...

In the light of my last post and the merciful fading to memory of the Democratic National Convention, a couple of updates. Any notion that David Weinberger would forsake his blog for a week in favour of a newspaper was sorely misguided. I wrote that late at night or early in the morning. Neuronal activity was slow at the time and my nerves were shot. Well, they must've been, eh? David's blogging of the DNC and his links to others have given this foreigner a comprehensive overview of (or grandstand seat at) a time-honoured American tradition. That said, I think attendees and time will be the only entities likely to honour the DNC in Boston.

As forgetful as the event turned out to be, bloggers mentioned in my post below and countless others made what was otherwise a quiet week on the blogs worth following—and, of all the essays, Jessamyn West's essay on Day 2 stood out. Having read countless reports of the event, I feel the DNC has more in common with a Billy Graham revivalist meeting (replete with pamphlets and placards for the faithful, cued applause, tacky advertising and pre-packaged, mass-consumption messages designed to massage the minds of the numbskull masses) than it has with meaningful political change.

Why not send 15,000 reporters to Afghanistan and Iraq?

Bloggers covered the event well but, beyond the usual suspects, failed to criticise it in great depth. Tom Engelhart, backed by a good post from Frank (yes, with others), represents the exception to numb acceptance. He offers a fine piece dissecting the hysteria and stupefaction attending this inordinately costly exercise designed to anaesthetize the minds of those still in possession of one. Credentialed blogger participation should be reviewed. While paid reporters spent their time nervously denigrating the bloggers and the bloggers spent theirs highlighting reporters' shortcomings, media owners probably sifted through reports in search of pixel-maddened hotshots. They couldn't give a shit where they find them. They want vanilla copy with grab and they'll pay for it. If they can replace paid reporters with underpaid bloggers in dire need of real jobs, they will. And they'll then mess with the newcomers' heads before beating them into a shape acceptable to those footing the bill for their drug habits.

Private participation in such events counts for nothing but the perpetuation of the status quo. In one of her thoughtful barbs to the base on the American Street, Shelley raises the question of gender equity in political representation. Somehow, commenters confused gender with colour. You tell me why—I think people have a hang-up with "multi-culturalism". Theirs is of a particularist nature built on the detritus of "separate but equal" (see Lenny Bruce circa 1962). Anyway, they confused women for the Kenyan delegate who is, when all's said and done, a damned fine orator. But he ain't no "woman".

By the way, what's the big deal with Obama's 'blackness'? Well, the white boys need a token nigger to whitewash their latent racism. But, whether they make him president or not, he should remember where he comes from and, next time he heads for Boston, pack a pair of running shoes. The Marathon's coming up and he can mix it with his homeys while winning one for the Gipper Zipper asshole put into power. For now, though, he can enjoy his twenty minutes of fame. He has, after all, served the white man a damned side better than the formerly favoured Bush rent boy and traitor, Al Sharpton.

But, much as the air around Barack Obama is suffused with a paternalistic racism, I digress. Shelley's post highlighted for me just how vacuous U.S. politics has become. How do women get representation in business and the Beltway? Here in South Africa, it was easy. In the early 1990s, when the ANC was hammering out detailed policies supplanting those of the National Party, its members demanded that, from the outset, 30 percent of all parliamentarians should be women. The party leadership, which came from the people, knew it would be fatal to mess with the intent of around 10 million South African women voters and buckled like schoolgirls at a Ministry concert.

Female "representativity" in parliament under the National Party government was non-existent and the apartheid state took some pride in its global gender equity ranking of 141. In April 1994, the jackbooted fascists were thrown out and, implementing an initial quota of 30 percent, the ANC leapfrogged South Africa to #9 (we've subsequently slipped to #12 with Rwanda in top spot). The U.S. languishes at #58. Gender equity in parliament is no longer an issue here, bar the need for the Commission for Gender Equality to keep pushing for 50 percent representation. South Africans do not care whether politicians are black, white, brown, male, female, straight or gay. They are all twisted and that's all that matters. In conducting affairs of state, they are not to be trusted and must be watched at all times.

Unable to hide behind facile arguments around gender issues, South African politicians and voters tend to focus on issues relevant to the person in the street. In the United States, women are, to put it bluntly, screwed. The voice of the voter counts for nothing in a country where power-crazed politicians are put into place by a complex comprising military, pharmaceutical, business, academic, energy, financial and other interest groups. Until American men and women reclaim the political process, gender equity will remain what, in the political trade, is politely termed "a low-priority issue".

Today, white American males are a fast-shrinking minority in a country they believe, through conquest, is theirs. In twenty years' time, they will know it's not as they reap the whirlwind of their shortsighted policies and insatiable, self-serving greed. Those policies, hidden in obscene budget deficits and fast-rising Medicare costs, will serve to bind a new and brutal majority born of harsh necessity. I give the masses four more terms of reptilian rule before they rise up and bring Bubba low on Pennsylvania Avenue, there to confess his heinous crimes before being mercilessly beaten and driven out of town like a broken-backed whore.

Why the hell not? Anything would be better than a week choked by sleazy choirboys jerking off on a global stage.

Oh yes we'll keep on tryin' | We'll tread that fine line | Oh oh we'll keep on tryin' | Till the end of time | Till the end of time

Freddie Mercury | Innuendo

Conventional Wisdom

The Triumph of John and Teresa...

C'mon take me to the Mardi Gras | Where the people sing and play | Where the dancing is elite | And there's music in the street | Both night and day

Paul Simon | Take me to the Mardi Gras

"Objectivity is a worthwhile objective, but it needs to be recognized that it can't be reached."

David Weinberger

One of Shelley's first posts on The American Street, pointing to the Democratic National Convention (DNC), elicited a somewhat unfairly sceptical retort from yours truly. At the beginning of the week, it seemed to this non-American that the DNC and RNC serve as scripted devices whipping up an hysteria that sucks sane minds into a vain, costly and manufactured consensus underwriting a corrupt system. No matter public support for it, it remains flawed.

Why then, I asked myself, bludgeon these normally sane people into participation? The answer seemed simple enough. Because nothing binds like complicity; and the more twisted the system, the more closely participants are tied to the consequences of their participation. The end result is a quelling of dissent and the system's perpetuation.

First impressions from Jay Rosen (and, as I later discovered, many U.S. bloggers) showed the DNC to be a scripted and costly charade. In his first post from Boston, Rosen interrogated its "made-for-TV" wisdom in an attempt to discern good reason for its ritual nature. His conclusion, that conventions serve as connections "backward in political time", giving the GOP and the Dems "a storied past", is meaty. He feels this connection with the past to be vital "with the transformations of politics in the media age" and concludes that, without it, the parties and political journalism "...would seem even thinner and less substantial."

Okay, but that's only half the story. Given "the transformations of politics in the media age", I'd ask Jay whether the ritual does more than lend a veneer of credibility to the proceedings. Does this connection to a manufactured history validate participation in a process dominated by thin and insubstantial parties covered by watered-down political journalism?

Jay readily answers the question. "But this is mostly a property of their form; the old contents have been drained. New contents to fit the age have not been found." It seems Rosen carried these views to Boston with him. His interest lay not in connections to the past but in pointers to the future. Credentialled bloggers, of which he is one, promised such forward direction. As an outside observer, I'd say they've delivered.

Day-to-day reportage could not be better than that offered by Dave Pell's Electablog. Dave's been blogging every aspect of the conference and provides links to key speeches (bar Obama Barack). He makes for easy, uninterrupted reading and gives outsiders an insider's view of the U.S. political machine at work. When a reporter (Dave's training) likens Bill Clinton to a rock star, you know that—for good or ill—you're getting it like it is.

I've not had the time to track down the bloggers I know to be covering the convention. David Weinberger (who admits political speeches can reduce him to tears) is blogging for some Boston paper, so that's one blogger sucked out of circulation for a while. David, however, is a dab hand at being everywhere at once and knows what to feed back into the blogging soup. The nugget prefacing this post comes from an interview with USA Today blogged by Jeneane. A result of the breakfast (blogged by Jay) wherein AP's Walter Mears unwittingly—and unnervingly—boasted the press's irrelevance, it forms a neat answer to allegations of 'subjectivity' that might be directed at credentialled bloggers by an increasingly nervous press corps.

The upshot? The results of the DNC are much as I expected. The lie underpinning the show remains, the system rules, and bloggers do it better (although only the hardened old pros, e.g. Rosen, Weinberger, et al tend to ask the hard questions). But these are the subjective opinions of a hardened cynic. For different perspectives, check out the usual suspects (no pointers needed). Lastly, bundle the stuff with which you've filled your head and, for all the right reasons, take it for analysis to Jeneane, who goes on to point to this stunning photo essay.

So far meandering through the blogs covering the DNC I see lots of middle-age white guys writing about how a lot of other middle-age white guys are hard to hear. Boys, boys, boys. We pack you up, we send you off to tend to the Important Duties of the Nation, and this is what we get? I want a refund.

Why's this girl rotting in Atlanta when she's needed to shake things up in Boston? She and Shelley both.

Take your burdens to the Mardi Gras | Let the music wash your soul | You can mingle in the street | You can jingle to the beat of the jelly roll | Tumba, tumba, tumba, Mardi Gras | Tumba, tumba, tumba, day | Mm...

Paul Simon | Take me to the Mardi Gras

Aged American Held Four Years Without Trial

Jailbird [Pic: Johann van Tonder]

Hunsaker is just one of thousands of prisoners packed into Pollsmoor Prison - a heaving cesspit of about 8 000 prisoners or three times the normal capacity - where rape and sexual abuse are rampant, conditions are unhygienic, which is understaffed and where corruption is rife and the notorious "numbers gangs", the 26s, 27s and 28s, operate with impunity. more...

This report should warm the cockles of George W. Bush's heart. While he oversees the development of a global gulag, Cape Town's notorious Pollsmoor Prison has been hosting 82-year old Salt Lake City resident Edwin Hunsaker for four-and-a-half years. And he's yet to get to trial. Independent Online gives the full story.

Thousands of South African men, women and children have been lost inside Cape Town's Abu Ghraib, where gangsters offer services similar to those of private contractors in Iraq (including beheading—by pocket knife). But that's our problem and, like many others crippling South Africa, a solution looks a long way off. For now, volunteers do their best to alleviate the plight of those incarcerated by an unfeeling, indifferent and corrupt officialdom.

But surely, in Hunsaker's case, the U.S. embassy could do more to get this obviously unbalanced octogenarian a lawyer able to take his case through the courts? Or doesn't it matter?

Things to do in Cape Town When You're Dead

I've been bemoaning local problems of late (YBLOG ZA?), but Cape Town leaves me little choice:

Girls as young as 13 and 14 from the relatively upmarket Fish Hoek valley are going into neighbouring townships to prostitute themselves for drugs, often still dressed in their school uniforms. There are reports of the young teens having sex with multiple partners to get their hands on their drugs of choice, making themselves vulnerable to HIV infection and other sexually transmitted diseases. And it's not limited to girls. Young boys are also selling sex for drugs.
more...

Given the dearth of rehabilitation facilities (a national tragedy and disgrace), the lifestyles these kids' parents live, and the money to be made off their addictions, I see little chance of Switzerland's Koda prescription programme being replicated here any time soon. These kids will either die or sell their bodies and souls for no return inside Pollsmoor.

Representing Berlin

The Other Side

In Representing Berlin (in the Context of Toronto), Doug Ord forsakes graphics for prose, draws his readers into the subtext of his subjects' work and delivers compelling evidence of global undercurrents we'd rather ignore. Criticising Within and Beyond the Wall: Berlin Photographs 1957-2003, a costly, complementary exhibition of photography at Toronto's Harbourfront Centre, Ord immerses himself in the work of nine photographers from former East and West Berlin and emerges with a 15,000-word essay highlighting the many layers and stresses of social forces shaping Berlin, Toronto and just about any other city you'd care to mention.

As South Africa totters through the honeymoon of its liberation toward the bright lights of a shambolic future, it would do well to heed the continuity and irony of history and beware our many pasts' ability to blur distinction, paralyse thought and expression, lull us into ignoring the tone of the times, and seduce us with the mystique and forgetfulness of any type of oppression ("The longer the Wall stood the more it fell into oblivion..."). Ord reminds us that the variegated layers of our episodic histories remain forever with us, and vain attempts to circumvent their myriad consequences ultimately destroy us.

Nor can we, as South Africans, view our country as the only crucible in which new histories are forged. The city of Berlin is a human work in progress, an experiment in grappling with possible futures illuminated by its artists drawing conclusions on memories beyond the Berlin Wall. In as much as the Wall and its fall signified 'the end of the Cold War', it pointed to a broader dynamic, a change in 'the way we do things around here'. Today, as West continues to face East and free to face the consequences of histories from which they cannot escape, Germans find it necessary to adapt to the strictures imposed by globalisation, a barrier more pressing than any cast in stone.

Across the ocean, as if transmitted virally but substantially by immigrants such as Mies van der Rohe, Germany's forgotten past surfaces in corporate and social boardrooms where avaricious champions of outdated ideas espouse discredited strategies drawn from states of engineered forgetfulness to implement Final Solutions [pdf]. Berlin has seen this deadly dance of deceit before. And as the United States and Canada slouch in retreat to morbid practices redolent of Nazism's rise, the work of artists becomes more valuable as it becomes more vulnerable.

That Within and Beyond the Wall: Berlin Photographs 1957-2003 attracted little attention from Canada's mainstream media is of little importance. That it remains uncovered elsewhere is irrelevant too. The media are changing, and it's through essays such as Ord's that one discovers the value of others' work. By interpreting, dissecting, collating and articulating that which the photographers assemble (I found the analyses of works by Christian von Steffelin and Kai-Olaf Hesse especially helpful), Ord does justice to their art and gives us qualified insight into their vision. Ord's is a necessary, educative task. His is an original, authentic voice criticised largely because it rings true among those entangled in history's small events [pdf].

Lengthy, but carrying Doug Ord's trademark—a precise, measured tone driving relentlessly to carefully considered conclusions, Representing Berlin is a synthesis of disturbing ideas defying further distillation.

And yes, the photographs are pretty good too...

Show me your Context, Baby

"Show me your context..."

Tolling for the searching ones, on their speechless, seeking trail | For the lonesome-hearted lovers with too personal a tale | An' for each unharmful, gentle soul misplaced inside a jail | An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

Kate Baggott's essay, Show Me Your Context, Baby: My Love Affair with Blogs won the Editor's Choice Award in trAce and Writers for the Future's New Media Article Writing Competition.

Show me your context, baby. I already know the world you live in; tell me only how you see it.

I am among the most demanding readers of blogs, or web logs, or on-line journals, or whatever you choose to call the daily missives individuals post on the web. I want the whole story: the profane, the sacred and the essential facts. These are the demands we make of great literature too, but that comparison is too limiting.

[...]

Through blogs I have found another conduit into the awesome responsibility of being human. This electronic nervous system of interconnected thoughts highlights the individuals in the masses while strengthening the ties that bind us. In the tales of your cancer treatments, in your accounts of trips home, in your assertions that your fathers are all assholes, I have found solace and fresh understanding.

You are, like me, mostly a powerless human with only your unique perspective to save you from feelings of helplessness in the face of despair. These are times when you can declare that the universe is not unfolding as it should. These are times when you know exactly who to blame and you should demand that other voices join your plea for sanity. This is when you blog and I read you. more...

The above extract does not do justice to Kate's short essay. It should be read in full. It was posted to the Web a month ago, but I picked up on it only now, at cogdogblog. Leaving the "blogging as journalism" debate aside, Baggott writes blogging pretty much as I’ve come to understand it over two years.


Phillipi: Cira, Lunga and Mpumalelo [Photo: Fred Clarke]

Starry-eyed an' laughing as I recall when we were caught | Trapped by no track of hours for they hanged suspended | As we listened one last time an' we watched with one last look | Spellbound an' swallowed 'til the tolling ended

The "blogging as journalism" debate? Ah fuck it. To give that one a wrap, here's Andie Miller, as quoted by Jay Rosen in his BloggerCon essay, Journalism and Weblogging in their Corrected Fullness:

South African Andie Miller, If Kapuscinski had a weblog. "Whether we call them journalists or not, what bloggers invariably possess – that much of journalism with its deadlines and word-counts has killed in its reporters – is an enthusiasm for telling the stories. If a young Kapuscinski was starting out today, and publishing his writing on a weblog, perhaps we wouldn't call it journalism. Perhaps we would call it "literary reportage", as Kapuscinski himself describes his writing. But whatever we called it, we would be richer for his desire to experience the world, and his passion for sharing those stories with us." more...

With Steve Himmer's lengthy essay The Labyrinth Unbound: Weblogs as Literature further illuminating the medium, it's clear blogging has a future.

The weblog, though not universally or always intentionally, resists commoditization in a number of ways. The play of time, and change over time, make impossible the capture and containment of the weblog as a "complete" work—there is always more to come, so whatever particular fragment is torn from its context for commoditization or display necessarily and insistently refers to its own incompletion, via links to earlier pieces and other sites, or references to information about the topic or author contained in an earlier post or promised to appear in a later one (other posts written by Delacour further explicating his relationship with Ikuko, for instance). The weblog as a work, and therefore each individual post contained within it and, too, each link to any other weblog, is unavoidably altered by the addition of a new post and the creation of new possibilities for traversing and interpreting the labyrinth of the work. more...

The literary side of the Web is either under-rated or overlooked (some 'communities' remind me of latter-day Bloomsbury Groups). There are many good practising literary sites and rogue or renegade writers and they, rather than the 'journalistic' sites, hold the medium's greatest promise.

Okay, given some experience of blogging and a healthy lack of respect for the human race, I do not believe—as Kate does—New Media blogs represent our "our one true hope". We of the Twenty-First Century media squash "true hope" without second thought. We are, after all and as Kate notes, human. But, a self-admitted blog lover in the throes of her spring romance, she frames her hope in irresistibly good taste and a sensible perspective. It is conceivable, albeit unlikely, that we'll save this medium from the banal mediocrity of mainstream media.

For my money, it's deteriorated considerably in two years and I'm not completely to blame.

It's difficult to believe Show Me Your Context, Baby: My Love Affair with Blogs has not been heavily linked to by every two-line, link-whoring, traffic-chasing ego freak now cluttering the Blogosphere. But neither have Steve's or Andie's essays been picked up and explored. Mind you, on consideration, thank God they haven't...

Let's savor our momentary innocence.

Tolling for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed | For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an' worse | An' for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe | An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

Bob Dylan | Chimes of Freedom

Buckets of Rain?

Buckets of rain? [Art by Catt]

I been meek | And hard like an oak | I seen pretty people disappear like smoke. | Friends will arrive, friends will disappear, | If you want me, honey baby, | I'll be here.

Wonderful song this, especially the sneering disclaimer or "out" in Dylan’s question at the close. But that is neither here or there. So to speak. Hmm... it's been a rough week but no-one said it was going to be easy.

But enough of me. I wanted to comment on Nick's entries dissecting a series of two articles on 'poor whites' (pointed to by Rethabile and condemned by others), but the damned thing's for subscribers only.

The Mail & Guardian's reluctance to share its feature articles with all and sundry means most will miss out on Andie Miller's deliciously ironic piece on law and order gone wrong, The Enemy Within. The inaccessibility of Miller's piece can't detract from its quality (which, to me, counts as journalism). Andie's long been a great writer in search of a decent publication, and it's fitting the one paper that has consistently "told it like it is" should articulate her voice.

What is it with our local papers, by the way? Why hide the good stuff, a la Salon (also available to MWeb subscribers), behind a subscription fee? I’d rather not buy the paper. Millions are looking forward to Seymour Hirsh’s next article in The New Yorker and will read it when it comes out. Having just read Susan Orlean’s The Outsiders, I’d be inclined to subscribe to the magazine because that which is available online promises more of the same high quality offline.


"Ain't got no money..." [Musicians: Gugulethu, Cape Town]

Ain't got no home | Ain't got no shoes |Ain't got no money | Ain't got no class | Ain't got no mother | Ain't got no culture | Ain't got no friends | Ain't got no schoolin' | Ain't got no shine | Ain't got no underwear | Ain't got no soap | Ain't got no A-Train | Ain't got no mind...

Hair | Ain't Got No

Eh...sorry, let's get back to 'da white folks', rich or poor. Through circumstance and deceit, it happens white South Africans are generally to be found clinging assiduously to trappings of a misappropriated wealth. However, picking up on last week's entry on hijackings in my suburb, our community paper today offers further evidence that "haves" are living ever closer to "have nots". Three local residents were hijacked in their driveways this past week; two being mothers driving new cars and the other a man accompanied by his girlfriend and his mother.

The paper goes on to list further advice (see last weeks tips before driving to work tomorrow) for surviving a hijacking. The cops, who assume hijacked cars are used for heists—but add that they have no leads backing their assumptions, tell us most people are accosted in their driveway. Because this is so, Capetonians can minimise the risk of attack by taking the following precautions.

• Drive with your doors locked and windows closed, especially in built up areas.
  
• Keep everything of value out of sight.
  
• Be alert. Hijackers prefer residential areas where motorists are more relaxed and traffic lights and intersections are closely spaced, forcing you to stop.
  
• Be vigilant at shopping centres, where you can be hijacked without others noticing.
  
• Be alert at gates, driveways, garages or any other place where you may have to slow or stop.
  
• Ensure your driveway is well lit. Hijackers often lie in wait in your yard.
  
• If you feel something to be amiss, drive away—to your nearest police station if necessary.

Should it not be pointed out that one should drive to a police station only if absolutely necessary? The Claremont police station and cells have been attacked a number of times and are now protected by a private firm. They're no longer safe.

Anyway, hammering away on the subject of 'poor whites' last night, I took a slightly different route to Nick, but arrived at the same conclusion. So I dropped the post and opted for a short one this evening instead. In South Africa, poverty and wealth are obscenities that care little or nothing for the colour of one's skin. Those excoriating Nick would do well to revisit papers that came out of 2002's World Summit on Sustainable Development in Johannesburg.

Crime is not our most pressing problem. Poverty, in all its guises, is.


"She rides a Harley Davidson..."

Somewhere on a desert highway | She rides a Harley-Davidson | Her long blonde hair | flyin' in the wind...

Neil Young | Unknown Legend

One last thing. Why ask for four wheels when two will do just fine? The answer's in an article open to Mail & Guardian non-subscribers. In their attempts to follow the 'high road', South Africans could do a lot worse than follow Togolese exhaust fumes:

Need a taxi in Togo? Climb aboard a Zemidjan, or "take me quickly", motorbike and get to your destination faster than you would do in a car. These small motorbikes, which take a single passenger on the pillion, are all the rage in this corner of West Africa. They also provide a regular source of income to thousands of people who would otherwise be jobless. more...

A rough week? It began last weekend with a middle-aged, mildly psychotic woman walking five miles to the seedy side of Cape Town, spending an afternoon in a shebeen (informal tavern) frequented by West African refugees and drug dealers, being saved from being hit on before being served dinner in a run-down tenement by three brothers (an artist, the artist's apprentice and the guy that did the cooking) and, sans money, walking back home at midnight through Cape Town's lawless streets, where armed hijackers lie in wait in every driveway.

Agh, but that story will keep... it gave me time to write my last post (it told the story—in places and in the time posted). For now, the storm is over and things are looking up. The kids are out and Wendy and I have the evening to ourselves. We'll watch TV, or something...

Life is sad | Life is a bust | All ya can do is do what you must. | You do what you must do and ya do it well, | I'll do it for you, honey baby, | Can't you tell?

Bob Dylan | Buckets of Rain

Note

I've posted a link to The Positive Connection at the head of this page. Pointed to it by Ben Sassman in the course of a business-related conversation, I believe a site offering and promoting "a dating service for people living with hiv / AIDS" epitomises the spirit of a country able to overcome its myriad problems.

As Rethabile points out on his site, "Get the poverty and you get the f*****g virus. Women are especially vulnerable for a variety of reasons. Africa as a whole needs to wake up to the fact that it was built and is held together by women, yet they are precisely who we're destroying."

Please support Ben's initiative and Rethabile's advice in any way you can. For further information on hiv / AIDS in South Africa, Health-e is a fantastic new resource run by a strong team of experienced journalists. Our community rag (that which has a "thing" about hijackings) today runs an article on Capetonian and Treatment Action Campaign (TAC) activist Zackie Achmat by Health-e editor, Sue Valentine. It's damned good, but I can't find it on the site right now...

Ah well, life certainly isn't all bad at the Southern Tip.

Another note

Just when things were looking up. Saturation coverage given the sad kidnapping and murder of Leigh Matthews, a wealthy, blonde, 21-year old student from Gauteng, strengthens Nick's argument. Her death has been followed by many dumb statements, including the following:

"Prominent South Africans joined the country in mourning the killing of kidnapped Johannesburg student Leigh Matthews, while the Matthews family set up a trust fund to contribute to the serious and violent crimes unit of the Johannesburg police."

While the president, deputy president, and Madiba indulge their "profound shock" at the girl's murder (and the country grieves), iAfrica.com reports that some 4,000 South Africans are kidnapped each year (IOL revises the figure to twelve—the other 3,988 constitute child theft, domestic disputes or car hijack victims taken by their attackers). Either way, South Africa is one of the world's top five kidnapping countries. The DA, ever ready to join the ghoul fest by lending perspective, points out that 23,000 South Africans stand to be murdered by year end. iAfrica.com then goes on to... you guessed it, offer a list of precautions one can take to avoid being kidnapped.

Gah! When a single murder (out of 23,000) garners such attention for no discernible purpose—trust funds, condolence boards, Web sites, telephone hotlines, political posturing and media schlock), you know something other than poverty is gnawing at the brainstem of white South Africa. I've a feeling most of our TV-and-tabloid-saturated retards grow out of Disneyland and into Hollywood without noticing the transition. Either way, they don't live in Africa.

(See S. Africa grieves for slain kidnap victim, a comprehensive overview and what might be construed a less jaundiced view from the Toronto Star.)

Surfing the Mighty Zambezi

"Look at 'em, ordinary fucking people, I hate 'em."

In death, you face life with a child and a wife | Who sleep-walks through your dreams into walls. | You're a soldier of mercy, you're cold and you curse, | "He who cannot be trusted must fall."

By stressing the importance of controlled experience and sensation as the building blocks of training, behaviorism reveals its inability to deal with the inconvenient truth that a huge portion of experience is conceptualized in language. Without mastery of language and metaphor, we are condemned to mystification. The inescapable reality is that behind the universality of abstraction, we have a particular language with a particular personality. It takes hard work to learn how to use it, harder work to learn how to protect yourself from the deceptive language of strangers. Even our earliest experience is mediated through language since the birth vault itself is not soundproof.

John Taylor Gatto

As a precursor to the Mighty Congo River Surfing Safari (there to find the perfect wave; a task set me by Madame Levy prior to my acceptance as a commissioned officer in any army she might have), Father Christopher suggested I limber up by surfing a couple of spots on the Mighty Zambezi River. "The Congo's a tough one," he said. "Besides, if you're to find the perfect wave, it'd be a good idea to learn to ride it."

My Spiritual Guide and Mentor (SG&M) generally has a point but, in this instance, he had ulterior motives as well. Having invested hugely in the Mighty Congo River Surfing Safari by way of supplies, armaments, satellite link-ups and the dispatch of the carrier F.C.S. Argo to the west coast, cash flow needed a boost.

"I understand, Father, and will head out tomorrow morning," I told him. "But surely a preliminary trip will increase rather than decrease cost?"

He gave me an almighty smack across the chops. "You blithering fool," he screamed, "Who the fuck are you to question my will? Do I not have your best interests at heart?"

Chagrined, I bowed my head. He settled back in his chair, composed himself, and began to teach.

"Listen, Dickhead," he continued quietly, "My house has many mansions, but if you think I can afford a bullet-proof door for each of them, you're sorely mistaken. Where's your blog?"

I looked up, startled. "My blog?" I asked.

"Your fucking blog," he exploded, clearly exasperated. "Out2Lunch."

"Well, it disappeared, Father. You know that."

He nodded and proceeded to explain his plan to me. "Out2Lunch may be gone for now, but PaxAfro, the new overnight rock sensation sweeping Africa, is hitting Victoria Falls tomorrow. The launch party for their new CD, Back2Black, is set to be huge. Somehow, these fuckers have got their hands on millions of dollars in a country full of starving, AIDS-addled people and I want to know how they managed it."

So there was more to it than met the eye.

He continued. "Boost cash flow and we'll relaunch Out2Lunch using The Jesus Bunker's backing band, Pax™Vobiscum.

"That's great news," I said. "But they're Zim dollars. They don't mean all that much."

"You think what we have here means much?"

I took his point. "Have you any idea how they got their hands on the money?"

"Of course I have some idea," he sputtered. "But, as you know, although the Church may be universal the joints sometimes creak. I need you to check up on Archbishop Moyo. He's diddling us and will be at the launch. I want to know what that cocksucker's up to."


Surf's up!

In the Federal City you been blown and shown pity, | In secret, for pieces of change. | The empress attracts you but oppression distracts you | And it makes you feel violent and strange.

My SG&M's juxtapositon of Cardinal Archbishop Professor Moyo and fellatio was intentional. Since former President Canaan Banana's 1999 conviction for sodomy and his death from AIDS in 2003, Cde Robert Mugabe, Zimbabwe's effete, cross-dressing premier, international statesman, freedom fighter and humanitarian, has sought to reclaim his country's masculinity by waging relentless war on white, British, colonialist pooftahs.

To this end, he enlisted the help of then Archbishop Jonathan Moyo, former leader of Zimbabwe's EGR Irregulars—now known at The Jesus Bunker as The Fallen Angel. Relieved of EGR duties and told to put all monies accruing to my SG&M to good works, Moyo continued to pay interest on investments until the 2001 death of his right-hand man and live-in lover, Chenjerai 'Hitler' Hunzvi.

Driven crazy with grief, Archbishop Moyo set himself up as a theologian and embarked on genocide before stopping all payments to The Jesus Bunker. The truth was evident to my SG&M. EGR money was to launch Back2Black into the swirling vortex of Zimbabwe's era of wanton bloodletting. Like body fluids flowing into the mortuary drain, the gurgle of our holy dollars sounded a terminal tone.

And that's how I came to find myself sitting astride my board in my crocodile-skin wetsuit off the decrepit remains of a once prestigious Zimbabwean resort town, waiting to pick a wave from the sets rolling in across the reef beneath the Victoria Falls on the Mighty Zambezi River.

My assistant, the beautiful Erythstrata Lysistemon, accompanied me.

My conversation with Father Christopher seemed long ago and far away. But I am a blogger and a hard man to boot. I felt strangely peaceful learning to surf in this setting—albeit a bit nervous at the absence of monkeys, the appearance of hordes of edgy crocodiles, and the sight of the Back2Black party setting sail aboard three houseboats blaring Send Them Home from the Mercure A’ Zambezi Hotel.

The sun shot flames to the sky; birds filled the air with color and the jungle spoke in strange and twisted tongues. The beat of the drums booming from the boats grew loader and I told Erythstrata to stick close to me. She smiled, filling the world and my mind with a languid torpor. Her soft scent, wafting over the waters, complemented the franji pani she wore in her hair. I shook myself. This was no time for sentiment.

We were in the thick of things within minutes. Taking off on a large and somewhat gnarly wave which closed out almost as soon as I took the drop, I almost tumbled into a houseboat packed with over-dressed, drunken revelers guzzling Moet et Chandon mixed with cheap wine and Coke. Before wiping out, I glimpsed football administrator Ndumiso Gumede defecating over the side as Minister of Justice, Legal and Parliamentary Affairs Cde Patrick Chinamasa made out to wild applause with Cde Webster Shamu, Minister of State for Policy Implementation.

It soon became apparent that the pilots of the boats felt it their due to carouse with the partygoers. The three vessels zigzagged wildly through the chop as the cacophony booming from large speakers drowned sense and sensibility. The press was conspicuous by its absence, but I guess it had been told what would happen beforehand. By nightfall, the CD launch had deteriorated into a drunken orgy. Minister of Information Cde Jonathan Moyo, who authored the album's 26 songs, presided—occasionally dropping opposition supporters with grenades tied to their bodies over the side of the lead boat.

Around 8p.m., Erythstrata was killed by one of the drunken vessel's razored screws as she tried to pull a bound-and-gagged MDC supporter from the jaws of an ugly, 12-foot reptile with cold eyes and large teeth. A beautiful girl, she might have become far more than my assistant. Devastated at losing her, I decided to get the hell out of there, cast a wreath of Flame Lilies on the bloodied waters and, tracking the distant lights of Livingstone, paddled to the Zambian side. Reaching relative safety, I tore off my wetsuit and toweled myself down. I saw two of the boats collide and sink as Shine On, African Sun played on. The third vessel headed for the Elephant Hills Hotel, where a fire later broke out.


Partying with The Fallen Angel

Warlords of sorrow and queens of tomorrow | Will offer their heads for a prayer. | You can't find no salvation, you have no expectations | Anytime, anyplace, anywhere.

"And check on the monkeys while you're at it," Father Christopher had commented, almost as an afterthought.

I pulled up short in my mental tracks. "The Monkees? They're over the hill. They'll never sell."

He glared at me. "The monkeys in Zimbabwe, you fool. If the revolution's to succeed, we need to replace the chimp in office with one that'll do the job properly. If you pull off the Mighty Congo River Surfing Safari, we'll bump the current idiot and invest one of the Bonobo. Nobody'll notice, we'll restore world peace and things'll get back to normal around here. Speaking of normal, where are the girls, anyway?"

"Erythstrata didn't make it back, I'm afraid. But Brother Marek took the others to the Park®. Nature study."

"Eh... Well, work is work I suppose. Pity about that assistant of yours. We might have made something of her. Let me know when the others return."

With that, my SG&M settled back down into his favorite armchair for his afternoon doze. I bowed and prepared to leave. At the door, I asked him, "Father, some accuse you of obscurantism but clearly you know of much. How is it that you are able to read us so well?"

Without opening his eyes, he chuckled. "Perhaps the Mighty Congo River Surfing Safari will enlighten you. For now, bear in mind that there are many ways to Skinner cat."

Speaking of boxes, Skinner commanded boxes of legal tender lecturing and consulting with business executives on the secrets of mass behavior he had presumably learned by watching trapped rats. From a marketing standpoint, the hardest task the rising field of behavioral psychology had in peddling its wares was masking its basic stimulus-response message (albeit one with a tiny twist) in enough different ways to justify calling behaviorism "a school." Fat consultancies were beginning to be available in the postwar years, but the total lore of behaviorism could be learned in about a day, so its embarrassing thinness required fast footwork to conceal. Being a behaviorist then would hardly have taxed the intellect of a parking lot attendant; it still doesn’t.

John Taylor Gatto

Mercury, gravity, nobility, humility. | You know you can't keep her and the water gets deeper | That is leading you onto the brink | But there's no time to think.

Bob Dylan | No Time to Think

Angel of Death

US government has videotapes of boys being sodomized at Abu Ghraib

Anal rape of children is bad. This is a sentence that, in the normal course of things, one would think that it would be unnecessary to write. I'm pretty sure -- much as I loathe humanity, most of the damn time -- that the majority of humans on this planet, obsessed as they tend to be with their progeny, would agree with me that raping children is a bad thing. One of the worst things that you can do, they'd probably say, short of maybe genocide. more...

Note: Video loads with article.

Fathers, Sons and Holy Ghosts

"Father, we are here to help each other get through this thing, whatever it is."

Mark Vonnegut

"According to the vast majority of contemporary critics, King Lear simply cannot be in any strong sense a "Christian" play, for charity neither redeems the world nor does it even save its only clear embodiment, Cordelia. But the play is most Christian in just exactly this respect. Its unflinching attention to the way the world really works does not permit us to imagine either that charity redeems the world or that it can be in any sense a fit basis for political rule. On this side of eternity, there are at best fleeting though magnificent moments of glad grace, such as the one we witness between Lear and Cordelia. Although such moments are vastly more redemptive than anything else in the world of Lear, they are finally unworldly, in the world but not of it. The best the world can give us is a justice that is blind and that abides only so long as it remains blind. The best that the God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and Jesus gives us is a love that sees and that nevertheless abides forever. This charity is truly redemptive, but it is more than human flesh can bear for long.

[...]

"Telling stories and seeing plays (presuming, of course, that these are the right stories and the right plays at the right time) are far better ways toward understanding and even managing these matters of love and justice than any number of other strategies often thought to be superior for such purposes (therapy, life experiences, support groups, etc.). It is finally Edgar's telling of his and Gloucester's pilgrimage together that moves his father to that point of joy and grief (a combination of feelings very different from despair) that is fitting for one who has come at last to see the world feelingly. ... Finally, our seeing Edgar's story and the others in King Lear moves us to understand the visions, wordless discernings, disguises, longings, refusals, blood-lusts, fears, rivalries, hopes, blessings, mistakes, sorrows, apprehensions, and "touching" moments of grace that are all a part of the lived experience of filial and parental love. Ethics may be finally a matter of perception, of seeing the human world aright, and perception in matters of love and justice just is a matter of seeing the world feelingly." more...

Mark R. Schwehn King Lear Beyond Reason: Love and Justice in the Family
D. Anthony Storm on Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling
Dorota Glowacka Sacrificing the Text: The Philosopher / Poet at Mount Moriah

Waves of Change

Through the mist lightly...

Meet me in the morning, 56th and Wabasha | Meet me in the morning, 56th and Wabasha | Honey, we could be in Kansas | By the time the snow begins to thaw.

Bob Dylan | Meet Me in the Morning

Well, I don't know about Kansas, but the allusion to summer's about right. Maybe California...on the beach. Wendy and me, with the kids and some friends tagging along...

It's been quite a day. Actually, it's been quite a few years, but it was this afternoon that things started looking up. I made mention below that Wendy was slated to see a psychiatrist at Groote Schuur this week. The appointment was this morning. It was, in many ways, a last-ditch appeal by her for a way out of the hell she's found herself in these past four or five years. And they, in turn, have merely been an extension of a lifetime of uncertainty, confusion, stuff ups, false starts and a suffering it'd be difficult to communicate.

Knowing the state of our public health services, I must have known I was going to go up there with her, but I let myself in on the secret only last night. Distancing oneself from a loved one's suffering calls for a certain amount of denial, something of which I have some experience and expertise. I generally leave her to do the hard work, while I complain and suffer with the rest-of-the-best should the train derail. This past week, though, my psyche has been stretched tighter than a drum. Sometimes, no matter how much you're able to detach from another's anguish, it affects you profoundly. I have, to put it bluntly, been at the end of my tether; out of options and fresh ideas. Racing in to today, life in the fast lane looked like taking its final toll and I had my hands in front of my face, preparing for the inevitable smash.

This one was for both of us.

We were up there at seven, fighting our way through labyrinthine corridors designed by a deranged architect determined to prevent those on the outside getting in and those on the inside getting out. Groote Schuur's on the slopes of Devil's Peak and it shows. Finding your destination within evokes the thrill of topping an alpine summit. But, as with mountaineering, the weather's prone to change. Facing the innards of an institution in which she has spent several months of her life, my wife was in a state of high anxiety—and showed it. "I want out," was the gist of her refrain but, as expedition leader for the day, I inveigled her to soldier on.

Four to five hours in the psychiatric outpatients' waiting room of one of South Africa's largest hospitals will wreak havoc with the most balanced individual. For somebody uncertain as to whether they exist in their own right or are merely a figment of the Devil's imagination, a morning spent in the guts of this gargantuan monument to academic medicine proved a descent to Hell. Three times she wanted out and three times I managed to head off another failed attempt at meaningful therapy and a shot at normalcy. Manipulation and begging have their uses and places. This was a time for shamelessness. Besides, Wendy is comfortable with these things. After inveighing against bureaucractic sloth only once (to the receptionist), she saw the doctor.

'The Doctor' is a psychiatric intern who, because he spent time eliciting an empathic case history, won her confidence. Accepting of the space Wendy has been and is in, he immediately saw the need for a rigorous, long-term psycho-pharmaceutical regimen. Unlike shrinks in private practice who promise to fix your mind while charging an arm and a leg, these guys don't mess about. Lending weight to assertions that what Groote Schuur lacks in capacity it makes up for in quality, he took his initial findings to a consultant and came back with a prescription showing an appreciation of her needs. In fact, he proved to be the first doctor Wendy's seen in twenty-five years willing to prescribe short-term medication others have denied her, and in doses that make a difference. He knows what she needs over the next few years and is willing to give it to her.

If there's one thing my wife deserves to feel, it's a quiet sense of being okay in the world. She was given a shot at a normal life today and it's up to her to accept or reject her future. For what it's worth, as the meds kick in and bearing in mind that prejudging these things is an exercise in futility, I believe she'll grab it with both hands. It's been an exhausting few weeks but, with the support of friends, I'm pleased I opted to dive in at the deep end. Ultimately, we all live with the results of our choices. Today, heading into tomorrow, I'm more than happy with mine.

Note Have I been feeling sorry for myself these past few weeks, months and years? Over and above the nightmares that hide behind the placid text, "You betcha." If you haven't picked that up, you haven't read this blog. But, if I'm to feel comfortable with what I write or write that with which I'm comfortable, I need to allude to or speak of realites that affect me and many others. Otherwise it's all bullshit. Leslie's comment—from someone who speaks her and many other minds—says a great deal. Too much is unspeakable and too often we avoid writing the stuff that really matters to us.

That really fries my soul. My family means more to me than anything else and, bearing in mind the dictum "No shame, no gain" (or something like that) I'll do anything for them. So, anything blogged here is done so with their permission. We talk about this kind of stuff, not because we choose to but because we have to. These things, which bedevil us for years, cannot be brushed aside or relegated to a state of "non-being". They'll always out, even if we believe we say nothing of them. If I'm to speak openly and honestly, I'd rather be upfront. Wendy feels the same way. She's no nut. More often than not, she's the saint of sanity. Like all of us though, she has problems. But, with what little support she's had to now, she's dealing with them.

And, as noted above, people like Joel, Leslie, those who mailed very special thoughts, and many others who have stuff in their lives that precludes them saying anything (believe me, they're out there), come through and wipe out self-pity and muddy thinking through criticism, empathy or understanding (stated or not). What I say doesn't count for much. What they say, does. Without detracting from my sense of who and what I am, their statements give me a far clearer idea of where I stand or fall. And that gives this medium infinitely greater and more far-reaching value than any other I've come across.

They say the darkest hour is right before the dawn | They say the darkest hour is right before the dawn | But you wouldn't know it by me | Every day's been darkness since you been gone.

Bob Dylan | Meet Me in the Morning

The Doctor is In

The Doctor Is In

"Golby, thou art one weird fucker."

Doctor Boy

Well, the diagnosis is in. I must say, nobody's ever given me as clean a bill of health. Nobody (bar my first psychiatrist—who got me off the booze some twenty years ago but was struck off the roll shortly afterwards for taking advantage of his female patients) has understood me as well. Nobody, to quote an old South African TV ad, has been as nice to me...

I'm absolutely overwhelmed...

Bloggers worldwide will be pleased to know Doctor Boy has taken up residence at The Jesus Bunker and now offers consultations online. For a nominal fee, of course [please see the armadillo for details].

"Oh, frabjous day," as the Good Doctor's Intern would say...

Puppet Girl and Billy the Kid

Dreamer [Catt]

In your teardrops, I can see my own reflection, | It was on the northern border of Texas where I crossed the line. | I don't want to be a fool starving for affection, | I don't want to drown in someone else's wine.

Bob Dylan | When the Night Comes Falling from the Sky

Posting the article on whites fleeing Zimbabwe (below) led me to poring over a map of that benighted land. Intrigued, Wendy joined me, pointing out the towns and areas in which she'd lived. Born in the Midlands (and bar a time in Mutare), she spent her early childhood in the bush.

Being in tsetse control, her father moved around and her fondest memories are of the northern border areas from Kariba in the west to the Mazoe River in the east. Watched over by her father's chief gun-bearer, Nyamawishu (who died only a few years ago), she and her twin brother grew up in camps, treating the wild as their backyard. Old family movies bear this out. They show an Africa now relegated to readings of Robert Ruark and Isak Dinesen.

With civil war raging in Mozambique, families working on Cahora Bassa would slip into Zimbabwe where white Rhodesians were at war with Mugabe's Zanu-PF which, although it enjoyed overwhelming support in Zimbabwe, also came over the border (from camps in Mozambique and Zambia). I remember there being around 250,000 white people in Zimbabwe in the mid-70s. Most males spent six weeks of every twelve in the military and, being up against fellow Zimbabweans fighting for their freedom, their war was particularly tough.

Treated as one of South Africa's provinces, Pretoria sent police and troops to bolster Smith's forces in their fight against "the communist onslaught". Wendy's family were in what she terms "a hot spot" and, when the going got rough, the army told her family to get out. Her parents moved north into Malawi (another South African surrogate) while, like most kids, she continued her schooling in Zimbabwe's Midlands.

I dunno, but I don't buy the "most kids" line of thought. Life affects each of us differently. My wife was a remarkably sensitive and creative child, and the family's dislocation and boarding school drove her crazy. Nevertheless, although she's spent way more than half her life down here, she's never accepted South Africa. Zimbabwe and, later, Malawi remain home to her. I suppose it's the result of an expat-cum-colonial upbringing combined with a deep love of her country.

Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to have her recall the past because, when I wandered into the kitchen for some tea a while later, I found her slicing at her wrist with a large carving knife. The wounds were relatively superficial but, nonetheless, it's always a hassle.

"Shit," I moaned. "Why do they give you women these bloody knife holders? No matter how much I come to terms with this stuff, I still have work tomorrow and I'm bound to worry through the day."

I found a bandage and started dressing her arm. "What's wrong? Was it speaking about the past that brought this on?"

"No. I'm fine."

"I can see that. It still stresses me out, though. Are you on a bummer?"

"No. I told you. I'm fine."

Having been decidedly shaky throughout the past month, she seemed okay. And there was little smell of booze. Alcohol numbs the pain, but to feel again, the cuts are far deeper. After you've slipped in a pool of bright scarlet replete with globules and what appear to be pieces of skin, you become inured to this sort of thing. But I'd still rather somebody else cleaned up the mess.

Wendy has an appointment at Groote Schuur this week. I'm counting on it being the beginning of something good. She made the appointment herself, before threatening to jump from a railway bridge over a month ago.

We had some tea and listened to the radio. They were playing schmaltzy, never-grow-up sort of stuff, i.e. Streisand, Sting, Whitney Houston, Diana Ross and Will Young. Occasionally a good Van Morrison number would sneak through. We discussed the need for male singers to adopt a broken-throated cry to succeed in pop. Sting does it well, as does Rod Stewart, but the former has the control of a Whitney Houston. It makes a difference.

I fall asleep listening to such music, but I can see why makes good red-wine music for lonely hearts.


Cardgame [Catt]

There's guns across the river aimin' at ya | Lawman on your trail, he'd like to catch ya | Bounty hunters, too, they'd like to get ya | Billy, they don't like you to be so free.

"You know, of course, that this sort of stuff is phone sex for old ladies?"

She smiled but didn't comment.

"I mean, if you do want to talk, you should get yourself a blog on TeenOpenDiary."

That opened things up a bit and we chatted. Catt, my thirteen-year old, took over the PC and was hammering away at her blog (hosted on TeenOpenDiary). When Wendy hustled Groote Schuur into giving her an appointment, she followed up on therapy she'd organised for Catt. In April, we'd been called in to see her headmaster because she seldom attends school. Wendy had applied, before then, to have her assessed at Cape Town's only child psychiatric unit. We passed on the partially completed referral forms, marked 'Urgent', to the school for processing.

A couple of days before the bridge incident, she chased up the school to see how our daughter's application was doing. The school psychologist hadn't passed it on and immediately regretted it. My wife, when angered (and when scared her daughter may be affected by or afflicted with her little idiosyncrasies), is not to be messed with. The forms immediately went through to the William Slater Adolescent Clinic, but it was the school psychologist who phoned me to tell me my wife was threatening to jump off a bridge.

What goes around, as they say, comes around. We expect our daughter to get her appointment sometime in August. It's been five months...

It's difficult to explain to people why others cut themselves. "I don't know why I do this," Wendy has said on occasion, looking in bemusement at a bleeding arm. She did the same last night. "Read A Bright Red Scream," I told her. "It's not a book on Ferrari's winning streak. I don't think anybody knows why you do this, but I don't think that's too much of a problem."

Our problem or, more particularly, Wendy's problem is her concern that Catt shares her behaviour and models herself on her. Both are incredibly sensitive, in a good way. Both are artistically expressive; Catt more evidently so. Both are immensely strong-willed. They share these things with my eighteen-year old daughter and twenty-two-year old son. But, while the former runs a bookstall outside the local rich-bitch mall and the latter is a systems manager for a national telecoms company, they're more like me, i.e. healthy, balanced, rational, insightful, caring, compassionate...

As far as Wendy and Catt are concerned, the DSMIV gives as sharp a picture as you're likely to get. These two women define Borderline Personality Disorder (BDP). Few people understand what it's like to live with somebody afflicted with BDP and few will ever understand the disorder itself. I could care less. I suspect few affected by it are religious in any way. No god with a shred of decency dumps this one on anybody.

Of the eleven personality disorders, it's the most difficult to treat, requiring long-term chemical and behavioural therapy. Given a chance, it's manageable. But we live in South Africa and, bar a half-diagnosis during a three-month in-patient stint in 1980, Wendy's not been treated specifically for BDP. Cruelly, the disorder was itself formulated only that year and the shrinks treating her found themselves dealing with a mix of maladies that boggled their brains.

Well, fuck 'em. We've managed. I've learnt the meaning of Dylan's line, "When you think that you lost everything, you find out you can always lose a little more," and she's been through a living hell. I blame the medical profession and other people for that. While responsible for her actions, without medication and therapy she's not in control of them. Me? Fuck, I gave up on control twenty years ago. These days, I just cause shit and watch it unfold.

Catt's a different kettle of fish though. A volatile artist, musician, designer and all-round teenage drama queen of the Courtney Love variety, she needn't face twenty-five years of anguish because, believe me, that's what's in store for everybody affected by it. Besides, any twelve-year old cutter should receive therapy immediately, no matter their problem. She's now thirteen.

Mm... I'm rambling here. Monday evenings should be devoted to recharging the old batteries...but there is a point to this.


Clouds [Catt]

There's eyes behind the mirrors in empty places | Bullet holes and scars between the spaces | There's always one more notch and ten more paces | Billy, and you're walkin' all alone.

Bob Dylan | Billy

My daughter has an imaginary friend and the two of them are plotting to murder Wendy and me. I'm suspicious, though. I think I might have had a hand in shaping her imaginary friend. Here...meet him:

New beginning

Pick me up and take away my blood. Clean up my hopes, disguise me, my love. Can't be here no more. Lets run away, drift away from this terror, and then we can be happy. Now i see the times, they've changed as well as my own personality. I hope that one day i can find a dark and quiet place to leave my hurt behind. Wake me up, i'm ready, i've stopped. You can love me now, and i won't be able to hurt you. Why are you walking away?

Living the Hollowed Life

Throwing it all away as if you never had it all, it makes you liven up to see your child thrown across the floor. Makes you smile. You take out the shotgun thinking, Maybe if you just end it all everyone else will be happy...You weep, like the tears falling to the floor, you scream. They split. Your mind has split, and yet you can't seem to understand the way my mind works. Everyone has that voice in their head telling them to kill, you just have to block it out, so please don't come any closer, don't pull that trigger. You know it'll just make things worse. Your eyes scare me, please don't pull the trigger. I hear the screaming raining in my head, like little acidic drops hitting the surface of my mind as it all seems to die in a drunken swirl. I'm bringing me down, so i can clean up this mess. So much blood. You cut me up...you weren't alone, now i have to leave this place. You all have a chance to kill. I have to cry just to get what's mine. I do...I create my own feelings, acting to just get swallowed. You have to promise me...Shut up little girl. Yes Billy...Cut them up, little girl. Yes Billy...Cut them up good. Yes Billy...Now Pull the trigger. Yes Billy...You have to promise me. No Billy...You shot it all away. It's all better now, don't cry, it's going to be better now. I'm so sorry...It was the only thing I could find...I'm so sorry.

Train Your Boredom

I can cry, and when i awake i can see your smile. When i sleep i stare right into your face. I can feel the tears fall down onto my own shattered mind. Mother awake, she tastes your pain, father awake, he'll cry as soon as he sees. When i awake i will see your light. I can feel your scars drifting into my dreams. Won't you help me escape from this nightmare. Mother awake...you are not my parent. Failing in hopes and dreams, they crash and fall to the floor. Broken upon his touch, you understand how i feel. Crying with me, i'll see your love, don't leave me alone, father will cry when he sees his daughter dead. They'll miss me, and you will see the pain that haunted me, so hungry. I swallow everything, its hurts. I have to get rid of this weight. I fall, i hit the ground. I'm sorry...i'll make it up to you....i promise. Reading in between the lines, the truth. The truth, it hurts.

The above’s from her blog. I've asked her permission to use it. As evidence. Just in case, you understand. She agreed. A while back, I heard her playing Knockn' on Heaven's Door on her guitar. We got to speaking about it and, within minutes, we were listening to Dylan's soundtrack to Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid. It's a far cry from Rancid, NoFX or The Distillers but, what the hell, culture counts. I think she enjoyed it and that, combined with the Kid as he appears in The Simpsons (she's taped the program since about age seven and watches constant reruns), shaped Billy.

I'm not too keen to go into this whole BDP thing right now. Few people touched by it are able to approach it analytically and meaningfully. Those best placed to do so are people who find it in themselves to do so (in more ways than one). I will say two things. First, I know the last thing my wife and daughter want to do is make others' lives any tougher than they are. Secondly, having had to deal with things many will not face in their lifetimes, I've come to understand something of the nature of love.

Quite what, I'm not sure. I do know it has something to do with that immortal saying, "Shit happens." Ultimately though, over twenty-five years there's no love lost between my wife and me. In the best possible sense, I hasten to add.

For all eternity I think I will remember | That icy wind that's howling in your eye. | You will seek me and you'll find me | In the wasteland of your mind | When the night comes falling from the sky.

Bob Dylan | When the Night Comes Falling from the Sky

Whites Flee Zimbabwe

Fat Chance...

"The irony is that throughout the four years of jingles about land and prosperity we were hungry. We were standing in food queues, waiting for hours for just one loaf of bread and traipsing from one shop to the next desperately searching for a kg of sugar or a bag of maize meal." Cathy Buckle

"The exodus of Zimbabwe's small and anguished white population is under way with record numbers leaving their homeland, mostly for Britain or Australia. Few have the R30 000 (US$5,000) they need in foreign currency to transport their goods to new countries, and most are starting new lives with 22kg of clothes and a few photographs..."

"Estate agents say there has been a flood of houses on to the property market in the past few weeks that has slashed prices to record lows. Thousands of homes from bungalows to mansions along suburban avenues are on sale for as little as R150 000 (US$25,000). Up to three million black Zimbabweans have also gone into exile, mostly for economic reasons, but they hope to return one day. Most whites, of whom perhaps 30 000 remain in Zimbabwe, say they will never return..."


Prevailing mood... [Chikonzero Chazunguza]

"Among about 350 white farmers who remain on the land enduring varying levels of instability are some who have never been touched by ruling Zanu-PF party militants but are now abandoning their homes. 'We have recently noticed quite a number who have been left alone the last four years but are leaving,' said Hendrik Olivier, the director of the remnants of the once 4 000-strong Commercial Farmers' Union (website closed).

One of Zimbabwe's most successful younger industrialists, who asked not to be named, decided to go to Australia a few months after his family was attacked in December in their home about 20km south of Harare. The family moved to the city and tried to settle in a new and glamorous mansion in a leafy suburb. It is now up for sale.

'We couldn't recover. In April I sold my business and as soon as our work permit arrives we will go. We have young kids and schools are a problem. I will miss it, especially the bush. We have family in South Africa, but the future is uncertain there.'" Independent Online

Meanwhile, the fat cats party on...

Note Recent legislation allows the ruling Zanu-PF to monitor all incoming and outgoing e-mail. Two generations of my wife's family live and farm in Zimbabwe, but we receive little news (most Web sites died around 2002). Reading between the lines, the situation appears worse than is being reported. Given escalating violence against people because they are white, my wife is concerned about her parents' and sister's family's wellbeing.

"Today is my sister's wedding day and I am not able to be there. She is a Zimbabwean in exile and the air fare for my son and I (sic) to go her wedding is 10 million dollars." Cathy Buckle

Spider-Man Arrested in Johannesburg

Customs officials at the Johannesburg International Airport have seized Spider-Man - and the movie only started on the big screen in South Africa today!

This was confirmed by Fred Potgieter, MD of The Southern African Federation against Copyright Theft (SAFACT). Spider-Man, flown in on a flight from Singapore, was found in a wooden container in the cargo section. "Spider-Man," said Potgieter, "came with false documentation, including a false passport and a sizeable stash of Nigerian coke."

The documentation stated that the cocaine was imported by a company in Malaysia called "Rehash Trade". "Spider-Man is a massive problem. He's corrupting the minds of our youth and eroding our profit margins," said Potgieter. Passing out large wads of freshly printed cash to airport customs officials, he applauded their 'alert actions'.

Spider-Man was handed over to members of the South African Police Services (SAPS) and is expected to appear in court on Monday. Sunday Times

Hearing Voices

"I told them it wouldn't do them any good..."

Would I have married her? I don't know, I suppose. | She had bells in her braids and they hung to her toes | But I kept hearing my name and I had to be movin' on. | I saw screws break loose, saw the devil pound tin, | I saw a house in the country being torn from within. | I heard my ancestors calling from the land far beyond.

As Father Christopher reminds us, Christianity—practised correctly—is the most revolutionary and subversive of religions. That's why they put out the eyes of the Apostles. When it came to my turn, I told them it wouldn't do them any good, but they went ahead anyway.

Today, I'm still tortured by horrible visions, but can't share them with anybody. I'd share them with Madame Levy but, for now, I'm committed to the Mighty Congo River Surfing Safari, finding the perfect wave, and claiming my commission in M's army.

This morning, I tried disgorging my view of life, the universe and how dumb we are on to Wendy, who'd just couriered a long-stemmed rose to FC and made me a strong cup of tea. "I've seen the future," I told her, "And it's terrible." After I'd elaborated on this somewhat terse introduction for about ten minutes, she ran screaming from the room. "You're fucking with my head," she howled. "Why do you think these awful things? They don't change a thing."

Really, I don't know what I do to deserve such bad press. You'd think I was beating her. And it's not like that at all. Besides, it's all her fault. Last night, she told me of an incident involving the landlord's son, a builder's worker and our caretaker. It was the usual grim suburban story of repressed rage and pervasive fear but, by morning, my mind had thrown the sticks, done the paperwork, snared the globe and everything was clear.

We live in dark and grisly times. Look, I know it and I know you know it. But there is hope and much of that hope resides here on the Web, the finest literary work of the Twenty First Century. But that's where I'll leave it for now. Instead of spending the day explaining why I see a short post on FiL's old slippers as the greatest contribution to Western culture since Dylan got the Beatles stoned, I did the shopping. Alone.

Sometimes, life's a real bitch. I'll write that post, though. The future is riding on it and I am, after all is said and done, a good Catholic boy and a blogger to boot. Trust me.

And them Caribbean winds still blow from Nassau to Mexico | Fanning the flames in the furnace of desire | And them distant ships of liberty on them iron waves so bold and free, | Bringing everything that's near to me nearer to the fire.

Bob Dylan | Carribean Wind