The Goodfellas Paradigm

Ah, awards, choke, cough, grumble, grumbe-spit. I can’t seem to understand how the opinions of other people, like judges get me down. Everything has a flavour of the month and if what you do is good enough for someone to pick up on and it relates to them, not that it would be any good, then it wins. All about timing. All about luck-less skill than skill requires. A sort of top of the pops success, does it mean the persons responsible are good, or are they just holding on to a winning lottery ticket. There are always winners, and then there are always people like me who look for consolation in the form of telling ourselves that we aren’t concerned with awards. When in actual fact I feel almost dismembered and completely incapable. I am supposed to be a writer, a thinker and I can’t seem to get passed my own failures. The Goodfellas paradigm (eventually even Martin Scorsese's genius is recognised-SEE TIMING). Do I really care, well would you? How hard is it to remain optimistic and motivated when one of the apparent key motivators is entering a competition, right? However all that it does is create undue stress and anxiety, a build up to an anti-climax. How is any of that healthy? So I diddle about in feigned contentment, playing idly with my dead cat. My sweet little daydream. Now that I have no more justification for the ramblings of the broken hearted I will attempt being more frivolous and spirited, all hopefully for this glossy little future I am ascending into. I will start signing off with an “On the Plus Side”. Verification if you will that I am trying to always look on the bright side of life. Okay here it goes:

On The Plus Side- I have my health and I am not without any limbs. Thank you Jesus…

Anon

'By Anon'

I can't tell you who I am.

I have to share my demented plan.

Infested thoughts eat away at my brain.

I can't be alone I'm going insane.

Don't you just hate it when people post gross thoughts or put vileness up for public viewing, then write 'by anon' at the end - they can torture your head with gruesome ideals but don't have the balls to sign their names under their wickery.

When I have bad dreams I often imagine what the faces of my demons must look like. Anon are the names of masked men who torment me but refuse to face me. They are afraid of the sharpness of my blade and vast power packed in my punch. So, they hide in holes like moles, in your pictures like backgrounds and spit poison to the surface. HATERS!

I can't tell you who I am.

I have to share my demented plan.

Infested thoughts eat away at my brain.

I can't be alone I'm going insane.

our children

the art of manipulation. 

a feature perfected in the young.

the aware.

the kids who weave their dreams glazed with hopeful wonder, coated with the pow(d)er to possess all.

fairy dust, the dust of fairies, shaken in the tormentors wake.

the mighty knee-high samurai.

the doers.

the thinkers.

the movers and forceful shakers.

the children.

my little brother and your little sister.

and they say, as soon as you have sat down "oh please play with me"

and you reply "but I have work to do"

"well then who do I have to play with?" 

tears. 

the art of manipulation.  

Soet Lemon

Oranges are a funny fruit; not funny ‘haha’ but humorous contradictions of creation – they are sweet on the inside and sour as krauts on the outside; kind of like what mosquitoes are to the food chain, I’m sure there is pretty good explanation as to why mozzies only suck the blood out of mammals, but as if that isn’t sadistic enough they insist on keeping us up at night with that ridiculous calculated buzzing. Oranges are generally a bitch to peel and for some cruel indignity of nature they insist on leaving your fingers looking as shoddy as a chain smokers’ at a panel interview. But this doesn’t make us hate oranges any less. The sweet drip of a ripe sunrise slice trickling into your mouth and down your chin is enough to make catholic nuns croon on Father’s Day. Though squeeze a peel into your eye and arise a demon squint from a christened glance.

The disadvantaged of South Africa are very much the same, blood sucking like mosquitoes and sour on the outside like oranges. It might be due to pre-94 debacles or the bitterness of today’s empowerment structures, either way the bittersweetness prevails. There is a myth that black South African’s don’t like to see other black South Africans reaping success. Some may argue that it’s white South Africans don’t like to see black South African’s doing well, but the truth is that here in SA no one who has less than someone else likes to see another person achieving, be it out of hardwork or otherwise. Unfortunately the majority of Southerners come from impoverished backgrounds and nothing bites more than buzzing your arse off to see another mozzie gargling what could have been your piece of the action.

I hate to bitch and moan about injustices that I have no control over as much as I hate to write political metaphorical scenarios about the people I meet everyday. In my ideal world bitter or sweet, people would either love you or stop riding on your ass. Apart of me wishes that we cared more about growing together instead of always cheating each other. In understanding that this isn't a perfect world I can't wish for people to wish the things I fantasise about. Self-serving has become a cyanide like poison under the tongues of people who would rather see themselves prosper before anyone else. There is no such thing as 'Ubuntu'. 'Ubuntu' is a mythological concept that only exists in the memory banks of our minds. Capitalism has taken over and their is simply no way we can go back to living ordinary lives. Under our skin we may wish prosperity for ourselves and others, but our vanity isn't as discreet and honest. Our peel appears just, but in truth it is as dangerous to our sight than is to those who have more than we do.

Its all sugarcoated as fuck! Deal with it.