Mad Politics

Oh how ugly we can get when called on to vote. How nasty we turn when we have to carry out a simple yet crucial democratic right. Never mind the petty, childish bickering and name-calling among the political parties. Take a look at us. We get whipped up by the election jingoism, the propaganda, the fiery rhetoric littered with mundane promises which almost always turn to lies the minute they leave a politician’s mouth.
At rallies we dance, sing, chant, shout, scream, and even cry (enthusiasm or just madness?). They’ll preach and boast and mudsling. And we’ll gobble it all up, as if it were the gospel (according to whom?).
Speak to your average Joe/Jane Public and they’ll regurgitate the drivel back to you, be it in maybe a more précised, crude form. But it’s a carbon copy nonetheless of the election manifestos and sad attempts at the orotund political sermons offered by our “esteemed leaders”. At a public debate in Delft in Cape Town recently, supporters of 19 parties (most of them one man and a fax machine groups, but I guess parties all the same) illustrated perfectly how blind faith often translates into blinding madness and stupidity. The scene resembled a school sports day or swimming gala. A hall full of adults behaving like children, teasing, heckling, joking, dancing, arguing each other as liberally as our constitution allows. The sprinkling of children in the audience provided an interesting contrast and conflation. These little ones happily played among one another amid this cacophonic din, while the adults gurgled and belched out insults of all kinds. They didn’t know or care what was being said, the youngsters, that is. I stared longingly at them, wishing I’d sink back into my childhood away from the ugliness of politics and reality, retreating from this pedestrian, moronic display of electioneering and feverish devotion. I wished for the acceptable ignorance of childhood, where such pettiness didn’t matter. And as the grown ups swopped derision, the politicians squabbling on the stage seemed to forget that outside the community hall pictures of real abject poverty, in other words the real problems, were as evident as ever. All these idiots were doing were adding their personal touches to the woes of the everyman. Where’s the sense, the intelligence? I fear there is very little of this as we enter our fifth democratic elections, which are arguably going to be our most interesting since 1994.
Democracy in action? Nope. Democrazy in action.
At the end of the 3 hours I picked my sanity up at the door, as did most of the party supporters, and almost fell to my knees and found religion, thanking the heavens elections only come around every 5-years.

Silence is golden

Stop what you're doing. Don't move. Not a muscle, not a twitch. Dead still. Stillness. Or is it? Does the din of traffic ever die? Does the sound of the atmosphere, as imperfect as we've made it, ever subside into nothing? Do people ever end, ever stop to exist in a space of time for longer than 5 minutes, away from you? That would be a heaven of sorts. No people. Just you, I guess the thoughts will come as the mind ticks into circles. The warmth of others makes you coldThere is no such thing as silence. Pure, true, absolute silence. Not in the (dead) night. Not in ever. Overpopulation storms ahead, meaning that groan of homo sapien interaction comes with, which is further attached to relationships to be formed. We entwine ourselves into people and abandon possibly abadon (some surender) their right to complete silence. "Silence, something about that makes me sick, coz silence can be vioelnce sort of like a slit wrist" barked Zach de la Rocha. He's right.
The assault of mass media fuels the imbroglio, true, it's the essence of the profession, but it's been superceded now by the mumbled roar of stupidity. A cacophony generated from hot air, a general irreverance for everyone and a neanderthal-like obsequiousness.
Should we shudder at the thought of a future controlled by these types, the silence robbers who corrupt us of that blessing and beautiful solace of stillness.
These days we've (those who crave silence) been displaced from the public to toilets. Cubicles have become the confessionals of our bowels and the last bastion of time to ourselves almost a hundred percent free of the world's noise.

Scabs are our friends

While scratching a particularly annoying scab on my arm I started pondering about the usefulness of this part-time skin appendage. It may look gross, but it covers a wound, away from the glare of judging eyes and squeamishness.

My nails picks at it, poke it, circle it like a vulture to a carcass. The encrustation comes undone, accompanied by a sting and wince and a need to peel it away and expose the inglorious wound to the cruelty of reality.

Once exposed the raw red sore smiles at the pain, amid is bubbling suppurating relish. Through this anatomical sadism I learn to also smile and accept the wound is now my scar and imperfect friend, as it is a part of me and must add to my imperfections.

The moral of it all - scabs must be as humans are, annoying, painful and necessary.

5 Useless Uses for Julius Malema

1). Painting him pink and using him as a dildo. Extra strength grip and lubrication.
2). Babysitting. Who better than the prez of the youth league to keep an eye on the young 'uns. He can play with their malleable minds (only to realise 4-year-olds can blink and chew at the same time, unlike him).
3. He could be the second coming. Jesus in disguise, a strange disguise but come all ye faithful and learn to forgive Julius as the Big J died for all our sins.
4). Lightning conductor. He usually attracts stupidity so imagine after a few million volts of electricity poured through his skull. Light bulb! he could be rendered intelligent (if it's a Roadrunner cartoon, maybe). On the bright side, he's be reduced to a pile of ash. Yay.
5). A model. Strutting his sexy self down the catwalk is in his blood. I just know it! He loves fashion, expensive things, he can't speak English properly and can't seem to think... just like a supermodel.