How Clint Eastwood made my day

December 24th was a bit of a bust for me. A meeting about the cookbook left me irritated and frustrated and a tad emotional. I left it to rush over to Nazareth House hospice, to see one of the cleaners there, who I counsel.

The hospice was silent but full of people. Wrapped in blankets against the chill of their disease. On a 27degree, windless day, Summer day. The session was sad and harrowing and knocked me no little. I cried my way home. I was really angry with myself. What the fuck was wrong with me, getting all up in my ego about a cookbook? I was due to join my brother Mark and our friend Jen for a movie. But now I really didn't feel up to it. So I moped around at home for a while - beating myself up about how shallow I was. Then it occurred to me that I was just doing more of the same. So I pulled myself towards myself and Cavendish.

I missed the importance of the ‘95 Rugby World Cup to South Africa. Partly because I’ve never been a major sports fan. And partly because late June is peak touring season in Europe and I would have been on the road somewhere working. Yet, for two hours on this Christmas Eve – I became totally engrossed in Clint Eastwood’s take on John’s Carlin’s book “Playing the Enemy”.

I’d read all the criticism: Matt Damon has the emotive range of a salamander (he is playing a rugy player, besides - oh, who cares, have you seen the man?), Morgan Freeman’s accent is patchy (heard much Xhosa in the US, then?), the rugby was ’staged’ (no shit, really?). So I wasn’t expecting much. But I loved every moment. Invictus was the antidote to my day. It is about hope and determination. About possibility. It is about putting something else before your ego. And it made me smile, and cry, and be awed, again, by Nelson Mandela's mind.

I met him once, at SA house in London late April 2001. R.E.M. were playing the Freedom Day Concert in Trafalgar Square and I was co-ordinating the media. Madiba sent word to the soundcheck that he wanted to meet everyone involved in the show. We trooped upstairs to a room in the Embassy – and in he came. Moving from person to person: shaking hands and thanking each for their time. When he got to me, I got all choked up and could hardly talk. Michael had to tell him my name. He stood there until I composed myself, then asked:

“How long have you been away?” ”16 years, Madiba.”

“16 years? That’s long enough – its time to take what you have learned and go back. We will need you.”

I just nodded and he squeezed my hand: ”I’ll see you back at home”. And he was gone.

And here I am – back in Cape Town; Madiba's not a bad guy to take career advice from.

I think Matt did a great job as Francois Pienaar – a decent man who understood what his President was trying to achieve. Morgan’s accent and mannerisms were spot on. And Clint really got the importance of rugby to this country, and the politics that go with it. So, ignore the hairsplitters, the movie is a must see. Watch it with your heart.

PS: The name of the movie comes from a poem that helped keep Madiba strong while he was in prison. It’s worth a read – I’ve take the liberty of printing it below.

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

William Earnest Henley

(note: Portions of this blog appear on SA-People.com)

An ill wind

Florence's house burned down at 3.30am Saturday morning. A neighbour rushed in screaming - the fire had eaten it's way through two other houses and was licking at their roof. Ten minutes later, everything Florence and her husband owned was gone.

Florence lived in a Wendy House. A whimsy of a name for the structure of corrugated iron and wood it describes. Usually erected behind someone else's home, these shacks are the accommodation backbone of the informal settlements. They are made with whatever can be found. Revealing a genius for foraging amongst the very poorest of our country. Its not unusual to see portions of old cars, billboards and flattened coke cans doing sterling duty as roofs, windows or cladding. One of the houses on the way to the airport even boasts a second storey with a balcony - made from a light-aircraft wing. This is recycling at its most imaginative.

Florence's home was a bit different. It was made of new iron, new roof tiles and proper, glassed windows, and she had just finished paying it off. It was set on a concrete slab to keep out the Cape damp and cold. And it stood behind her brother's brick house: so had the benefit of (almost) legal electricity and water. And was secure.

But not from the guy at number 1. Who came home drunk from a shebeen, fancied a bit to eat and knocked over his parafin stove. And not from the howling south-easter - which did the rest.

I was in Tulbagh when Florence called me. In a small cottage built on someone else's property. I'd had a couple of drinks with friends, a meal cooked outside and had retired to my bed - lit by candle and gas. I was marveling at how fantastically well we were all handling life without electricity.

Only difference was: we was paying for the experience. I'm sure the irony wasn't lost on Florence.

Curb Your Sadism

I've just joined a new gym. One that offers yoga classes every day. It's in a happening part of town - so negotiating one's way through it at 6.00pm can be hazardous.

I'd just made it through the sweat-pit of the weights area, holding my breath against the reek of steroid and testosterone (some big ole Marys in there); when I bumped into the yoga teacher:

"Hurry up, hurry up, no need to sightsee".

I looked away from the muscles and did a double-take - there he was, all skinny legs and inappropriately wide shorts; waggling his head at me. "He looks like someone I know" - I thought staring at him. "But who?"

"You must be new", he said.

"Not at all. In fact, I've been used a little."

"Very funny - now go sit down".

I worked my way around his little paunch, and obeyed, racking my brains.

I knew we were in for it when he instructed us: "Follow after me when chanting the OM". Usually we all chant together. And, man, did he have a whole bloody aria worked out around that one sound. I was rolling my third eye so hard I almost fell over: "New lady in the purple top - sit still or leave". That voice, those legs ... who? Then I got it - Larry David. Oh my God - it's Larry David. Larry David is teaching me yoga. I peeked at him and he frowned. I stayed put - this was going to be interesting.

After the divine formalities, Larry got straight down to business: "I'm the teacher here," he barked, ordering us to the wall, "so shut up and listen". Now, usually I like a bit of direction from my men ... but this was something else. The woman next to me broke out in a sweat and was visibly cowering.

Its fascinating to see what happens to 20 people in a room when they believe they are in the presence of an expert. They'll try and do anything. Regardless of ability. For the yogis among you - he taught us all - beginners included: downward dog for 20 minutes and then went right into full dolphin. For the rest of you - it was like moving from a crawl straight into a handstand. No-one questioned him - they all did as they were told: variously sweating, grunting, falling over, and, in one case - tearing up.

My neighbour told me later she's been in his class for three years and was terrified of him - "but he's a genius". No he is not, luv. He's that very worst of asanas - a yoga fascist.

So, Larry - my apologies. This guy might have looked like you - and even behaved a little like you do. But he had no sense of humour. This guy was just mean. Hey - it's yoga, dude. It's all about inner calm and peace. You should remember the first rule they ever teach us - and leave your ego at the door.

Oh - and wear more seemly shorts. Your iyengar was dangling.

When shopping IS cheaper than a psychiatrist**

My much-loved friend, Claude (aka Wah, aka 'The Accidental Chef" ... find her blog at claudiagiulia.wordpress.com/) is having a tough time of it at the moment.

She's been through eighteen months of "will we or won't we divorce" with her husband Eddie and all the self-doubt and anger that goes with it. Claude lives in LA, in one of the most beautiful spots in the world: with her lovely dog Ottie. And occasionally with Eddie. They're exploring a rapprochement. She sought refuge in her job these past months, cooking up a storm of glorious desserts and cakes. Leading to promotion and a raise.

On the face of it - these are positive developments - with potential to create happiness. So why are they making Claude so stressed and miserable?

In her latest blog she describes going to the WholeFoods Market in Brentwood (a rich and chi-chi part of LA) - and the mean-spirited, glum, whiney, unappreciative folks who shop there. WholeFoods Market is an organic supermarket chain in the US. And they are fabulous shops - able to sell you virtually anything foody that your heart desires. There's one in each of the ritziest neighbourhoods. Perfect positioning when you consider the average peach costs $6.00 (R60) , a pound of coffee $35 (R350). The shops are gorgeously laid out, warm, friendly, lots of free tastes. Upbeat, well-informed staff, glowing piles of perfect organic fruit and veg. Blissful destinations.

I used to walk past the one at Columbus Circle on my way home from work in NY, and pick myself up some dinner. $50 dollars later, I would be out of there with my brown bag of deliciousness. Smiling despite the day, feeling like someone had just told me they loved me. Claude walked away from her Brentfwood encounter feeling like she had been stamped on and spit at. Which got me thinking - what the hell is going on in Brentwood? Is it a LA thing - care less about people and more about money? Is this what's at the root of Claude's unhappiness?

Then I was at Pick'n'Pay the other day and I couldn't find limes. Or sage. Or chili-paste. Or ground almonds. I was annoyed and huffy. Even the poultry counter was blocked. A young woman was picking through the display. Looking at every damn packet. Oh, for God's sake! Was she planning on introducing herself to every piece of chicken? How inconsiderate. I stood there fuming until I realised that she was looking at the prices on each pack. Sorting through until she could find one she could afford.

When she did, she smiled at me in relief - "It's good", she said.

There I stood; all sweaty frustration because I couldn't find out-of-season products which would have had to been flown thousands of kilometers to make it to my table. Because my expectations were out of touch with reality. Because I had nothing else to worry about. And I realised - I was one of those shoppers in Brentwood!

Wah, its time for us to shop local.

(**Thanks to Tammy Faye Bakker for the quote)

The Lost Art of Happiness

Tal Ben-Shahar believes we can learn to be happier.  He defines happiness as being "the overall experience of pleasure and meaning".   Being happy, he says, means knowing what makes you happy.  Being happy takes practice and dedication.  Being happy has nothing to do with how much money you have. And, having just finished his book "Happier" - I find I agree. 

A departure for someone who used to get stuck on the money point.  My fear was always of living out my old age in a cold water flat, with an incontinent daschund.  I was convinced if I didn't work my ass off every day I would end up one of those old ladies on the high road who left a trail of eau de wee as they wafted past.  My last two pounds weighing down the pocket of my grubby, pie-gravy smeared cardigan.  So I worked for people I didn't like for far too long.  

Ben-Shahar is not saying that happiness lies in poverty.  Not at all.  He acknowledges that money can play its part in creating happiness by freeing us to do more of what makes us happy. What he is saying is once the three essentials - home, food and education are covered - the possibilities to be happy are infinite. Just so long as we know what happiness means to us. 

Positive Psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (pronounced 'cheek-sent-me-high-ee') believes that we experience happiness when we are in a state of Flow. Flow, he says, is when 'action and awareness are merged'.  In other words, Flow comes about when we are completely absorbed in a task or experience. 

I thought back to the last few of times I felt that way:  drinking coffee today and reading this month's American Vogue, making sandwiches at a music festival, painting flower boxes in the back garden.  I didn't hear the friend greet me, I hardly felt 6 hours pass, and Saturday afternoon was over before I knew it.

Time flows when you're having fun.  

Each of these experiences passes Ben-Shahar's MSP Process evaluator. Each held Meaning: I was learning, helping, improving. Each gave me Pleasure, reflected something that I enjoy: fashion/music/food/people/home. Each required a skill level or Strength that I have.  None of them were done for the approval of others. 

Ben-Shahar's theory is simple.  For something to bring us happiness - it must have an intrinsic or inner importance.  And must satisfy our interests, values and beliefs.  Trying to create happiness through something of extrinsic or external importance - needing others approval, or amassing status symbols - will leave us short-changed.  The happiness will be fleeting and we will have to start all over again to achieve the same result.

But Tal is a pragmatist - he knows that we will sometimes have to do some things that we don't like. However - if these experiences help to facilitate ongoing happiness  - we can make them part of our lives.  Just not all of our lives.  

Ben-Shahar also points out that we should not expect to be happy every living moment, it's an aggregate of experiences across our whole lives.  Sometimes we will have to do things we don't love doing - because they will help facilitate the things we do.   A job that doesn't challenge - but brings in money for the holiday we want to take.  He reminds us throughout his book that happiness is not a place, a state, a destination - it's a journey.  A constant work-in-progress. That when we evaluate all of our experiences, on aggregate - we should feel happy.

I've been worrying about what next year will bring work-wise.  I've decided to stop that and focus on doing more of what I am enjoying right now.  My three essentials are covered and it's time to invoke that old coaching saw:  do more of what works.  I'm happy and I am going to keep working at it. 

Making ends Meat

The man on the side of the highway was trying to show me something he had on a tray.   It was that time of the evening when the early dusk renders everything in shades of grey and I couldn't make out what he was carrying.   We were both dwarfed by juggernauts moving livestock, lumber and sugarcane down the long road to Johannesburg.  I was alone in my hire-car and had a three hour journey ahead of me: we hadn't moved in ten minutes. 

  
He came closer and tilted his offering towards me.  All I could see was a pile of something gleaming in my headlights.  Then he was at my window and I was looking at a dark heart, a pair of lungs and a shiny, coiled intestine.   Artfully arranged on a steel board.  My stomach clenched in a moment of pure horror - and then I realised: we're in cattle country. 

I smiled and shook my head and he laughed:  of course not. A crowded taxi pulled out of the traffic onto the shoulder and he turned towards real customers.  Clamouring for the offal.  He gave me one last smile and plunged into his negotiations. 

  
A true entrepreneur.  

A right old carry-on

It's hard to know exactly what went wrong - but the last week of the holiday was a bust.  I don't think my companions would mind me saying that - though they undoubtedly have their own words to describe it.  For me, it was challenging, disappointing, uncomfortable and occasionally fun.  

I spent the flight home asking myself why is it so difficult to have a successful holiday with people you really like, and sometimes even love?  

Psychologists rank going on holiday as being the fourth most potent relationship stressor:  after death, moving house and childbirth.  Why is that?  Does the sun bring out the worst in us?  Are we untruthful about our expectations? Or do we not pay attention to the fine print - misreading a trek through the Andes for a beach vacation in Antigua?   

Or, if a vacation’s success depend on whether we are either energised or enervated by the challenges presented us, is it just a character thing?  

I think it is, in part.  It's about emotional flexibility.  About managing your own expectations and about being able to embrace ambivalence.  And seeing the travel and the inevitable delays or problems as part of the trip - not as life-threatening.

I also believe it's about timing. It's about knowing when to go and when to stay. About identifying how much we can actually deal with at that moment.  It's about acknowledging that this holiday, for whatever reason, might not be the right option for us, right now.  And that sometimes ‘she travels lightest who stays at home'*.

But, ultimately, I think it's a baggage thing.  We all drag invisible carry-on with us. We take with us our fears of being in uncontrolled environments, our feelings of inadequacy, our dislike of surprise or change. We pack the anxiety of not being understood, of becoming vulnerable, of being lost.  We bring along our life hopes and expectations, then try and graft them onto our new environment.  

This luggage may not weigh anything at check-in.  But it can cost us dearly on arrival.  Because it sits, unpacked and mouldering in our rooms.  And our companions have to try and manoeuvre around something no-one (including ourselves) knows is there.  An impossibility that can result in an inevitable tripping up and falling out.  Fortunately we didn't get to that place. And I am not too sure how we avoided it - maybe the strength of our friendships or empathy with each other's situation over-rode our frustrations.  But we could have.

(*apologies to Thoreau. And Kipling, after.)

Under the Volcano

My landlord is an awkward man - in a number of ways.  He cuts people off when they are speaking, refuses to engage with anyone who doesn't interest him, and says he has to leave Sicily because he can't stand the expats.  He says they never tell you the whole story; you're always left guessing about something.

It's when I'm standing at the top of a roaring highway, looking up through the smog at the volcano - that I realise I can see his point.  After all - when he told me how to get to Mount Etna (a bus, a train, another bus, another train) - he omitted to mention that the first bus of the day is also the only bus of the day.  So here I am, in Catania, fresh off the train he recommended I take.  Only I am half an hour late and 20 miles short.   And that's as close as I am going to get to the mountain today.

I've been sent from pillar to post by the locals - all unwilling to tell the 'stranieri' that her trip wasn't going to happen.  Eventually a woman at a local travel agency confirms my fears.  "And so", she says;  "there are now only two things you can do.  One is to go home.  The other is to go to the market and then to the church where we are celebrating the Festa della Madona del Carmine."  

Santa Carmine is the patron of the Carmelite nuns.  I was brought up Catholic so this intrigued me.  And so, of course, I opt for the latter.

The market was packed with humans and with goods.  Heaping scales of fish, miles of shoes, seas of swimsuits, acres of fruit and veg.  Pradda, Guccy, hamsters and trilling red-beaked songbirds.  I love it. How come we don't have markets like this?    Why did we turn a real-life, in-yo-mouth adventure into a stroll down the sanitised aisles of a supermarket?  This is much more fun.

I make my way into the church.  It is roiling with worshippers.  They have bought long, drooping, yellow-wax candles and handed them over to young noviates outside who were setting them alight.  Molten wax was everywhere, the smoke stinging our eyes.   White flowers are bunched up on all the altars and their scent is making it hard to breathe.  The women and children are wearing rough brown cassocks with little string necklaces, bearing S. Carmine's likeness.  People were coming and going, taking calls on their mobile phones.  Children were crying and the organ was severely out of tune from the heat.  I sat watching for a while until the humidity and constant jostling became unbearable.  On the way out I noticed the holy-water font was parched.  Not bloody surprising.

I walked until I found myself again confronted with a distant Etna, then I gave up.  It was just too hot and the joke was getting old.   I stood at the bus stop for 20 minutes.  An old woman insisted on showing me her arm muscles.  Earned, she insisted, from carrying such heavy bags.  She was strong, she said, 'forza' and mimed boxing my jaw.  Like she needed it - her breath could have killed me at 10 paces.  Losing interest in me, she got into an argument with another old lady - something to do with the 'scifo' quality of the bread on offer at the Spar.  The fault of shit American grain they're using.  Next thing everyone at the bus-stop is involved, screeching at each other.  Then the bus arrives and they all stop and hustle onto it.  Except for most vociferous of them all, a tiny old bat, the height of a 7 year old, who suddenly turns frail and asks the 'bella signora' for money.  I stepped over her.

A crazy gets onto the bus behind me and starts singing 'Volare' loudly in my face.  I could see his spit hitting my sunglasses.  I move to the back of the bus and he follows me, still singing.  I am almost beside myself at this point and suddenly hear myself shouting "LEAVE ME ALONE".   The bus stops abruptly, he gets off and everyone goes quiet and looks off towards the horizon and the volcano.  Mortified by my eruption.

It's time to move on.  And I am tomorrow.  Naples for a day then meeting up with Carla and Karen for a week on the Cilento Coast.  It'll be fun to drink a glass of wine with someone I know.

sweet like a honey bee

though apparently Sicilian api are a lot harder to handle than their Italian counterparts.  Wilder.  A bit excitable.  Which is why the honey they produce is so much more delicious than any other in the rest of the counrty.  Daniella told me this at the Cafe Sicilia in Noto.  

I took a day trip there yesterday because I had heard that the pastry chef, Corrado Assenza, created fabulous treats.  The best in Sicily reviews said. And they were.  When she realised that I was writing an article about the cafe - Daniella proudly bought me cake after biscuit after chocolate.  Even two balls of ice-cream - one; lemon and saffron, tasted like late afternoon sun, the other: montezuma chocolate, was flavoured with cinnamon, candied orange and almonds and flecks of pure, mexican chocolate. Almost as good as being there.   All this was rounded off by a blood orange granita and a glass of ice cold, home-made, lemon/lime flavoured moscato. Created in the 'old method'.  It was like drinking joy.

And then the honey - ginger, white pepper, bergamot, orange.  Made by the excitable bees.  Flavoured by Corrado in his laboratory.  Magnifico. I washed all this down with a coffee, and thanked Daniella for taking such great care of me.  "No", she said "thank you - for me this is a joy".  And I know she meant it.  

I headed off to Modica - higher up in the mountains in search of Sicilian Chocolate.  The province of Ragusa is apparently the only place in Italy where the cacao plant is grown.  

The chocolate is cooked at a lower temperature than commercial varieties (113 degrees) for 30 minutes. As a result the sugar doesn't melt leaving a grainy consistency.  I went to  Antico Dolceria Bonajuto - well known in the province - to try it out.  And I didn't love it.  The chocolate was crunchy and granular and resembled something that had been melted in the sun and reconstituted.  I had better luck at a co-operativo down the hill.  They were making and packing the chocolate by hand and insisted I try it.  Still granular - but gorgeously rounded and bittersalty. I kept a bar.    

I had two hours to kill until the next bus came so I wandered up the 200 odd stairs to the cathedral of San Giorgio.  Regal, beautiful but fraying at the edges.  A little past it's prime.  But, as I sat watching, two young men began to deck the church out in pale, soft, cream roses for an evening wedding.  Hundreds and hundreds of roses.  Bowls, sprays, balls, arrangements, bunches, centrepieces:  it was breathtaking.   As the sun started to set behind the mountain, the grand old building softened and sighed: and it seemed a perfect place for two youngsters ('the daughter of a famous man') to start their married lives.    

Then I missed the bus.  Or he missed me.  He drove into the parking lot, accelerated and drove right out again. With me running behind in my flipflops, waving my arms and shrieking "stop stop" (in English, go figure).  Not my finest moment.  

It took me two busses and four hours to get home.  Accelerating wildly in and out of deserted towns to the radio station's all-night tribute to Michael Jackson.  We arrived back at 10.30pm and the shuttle had stopped.  So I had to walk the half hour from the bus station into town.  Took a shower and suppered on a glass of wine, cheese and stale bread.  I should have been exhausted and crabby - but I wasn't.  Because, despite the 'buss'-up; for me it was a joy.

Roadposting - Garda to Ortigia

Arrive in Ortigia after 4 fab days spent with Manu and Sue at Lake Garda.  We stayed at a B+B called La Tinassara which boasted the grumpiest manager since Basil Fawlty. He refuses to allow his guests to take sugar in their coffee.  He won't help carry baggage.  Surely a reflection on the way he sees life - though the irony is unmistakable.  Apart from Giuseppe's various nonsensenses, Tinassara  was a lovely place to stay - cool, rustic rooms, simple surrounds and pretty central.  We battled to get a really great meal - and the service was pretty much lackadasical wherever we went.   Save the place where I got food poisoning from the vitello tonnato.  That host was genial and welcoming. The subsequent genuflection in the bathroom was not.  But I recovered and we added it to the list of things to laugh about. A list that was long and varied - no sense of the 20 years that had passed since we we were all last together.

My apartment in Ortigia, which is the old centre of Syracusa, is in a small alley off Via Giudecca.  Which, as the name suggests, was the Jewish ghetto in Syracusa.  My block is one of the safest in the city - 3 Mafia Capos live here.  Right over the alley from me.  And I hear them having dinner each night.  Big, loud, rambunctious meals.  One of the Capos is a woman.  She inherited the job from her eldest son who had followed his father and two brothers to an early grave - by way of the job.  Apparently she runs her branch of 'la famiglia' with an iron hand.  Though she won't tolerate women being picked on.  One local legend has it that she returned a handbag, stolen from an elderly English woman by two locals on a Vespa.  And not a thing was missing.

The mafia are apparently moving into more legitimate pursuits - some call them 'mafia bianca' - the white mafia. Though apparently, rather like Mae West - they tend to drift.

I have spent the last two days walking around Ortigia.  There is an fabulous cathedral here - moved from Syracusa mainland to prevent it from being sacked by the Visigoths.  My landlord Kevin, a retired lawyer from LA, took me on a 4 hour tour last night.  It was fascinating - he knows the entire history of this island. The cathedral was adapted from a Grecian temple dedicated to Minerva.  So you have classic Grecian columns lining the outside of the cathedral - 24 in total - which were transported onto Ortigia on barges specially designed for the purpose.  (I should mention that Archimedes lived here - so there was some precedent.)  Yet the inside of the church is all Roman Catholic.  I love the pragmatism of it all.

I haven't experienced any of the fabled Sicilian machismo here except for a moment at the market the other morning.  I was buying tomatoes from one stall when the owner of the stall next to me started to hiss - rather like calling a cat.  I ignored him and he grew louder and louder.  Suddenly I heard a voice yelling at him in Italian and turned to find an elderly lady, complete with osteoporosis, stick and shopping basket, telling him to stop immediately.  He stopped immediately.

Tomorrow I am going on a day trip to three villages that are considered foodie destinations.  I am taking the bus.  Daniella at the ufficio turistico was horrified to hear I was hiring a car.'Perche?',  she asked 'take the bus, we all do'.

So you'll find me at Piazza Archimede at 7.30am tomorrow morning waiting on the #20 if you want to join me.  Failing that - watch this space.

fastapproaching50: Barbarism on youtube

fastapproaching50: Barbarism on youtube

Barbarism on youtube

I received a link to a youtube video today which is about the threat posed by the Muslim world and the Nation of Islam (www.youtube.com/watch?v=6-3X5hIFXYU).  I received it 5 times - from friends and colleagues worldwide.  I sent everyone the same response.

 

"My opinion .... Sorry folks - but this is ugly shit and amounts to hate speech.  Not every Muslim or member of the Nation of Islam is a terrorist.  Not every Arab wants to destroy the world. Christianity has it's own share of ugly, murderous behaviours going back thousands of years.  It all starts off rather well - we create beliefs which we use to define a scary and unpredictable world.  Then we get pissed with someone who doesn't agree with us so we subvert them, rewrite them and corrupt them to suit. I was brought up Catholic - I think we can look to Rome for some of the most outrageous acts of greed and barbarism ever perpetrated in the interests of 'the holy word'. Yet it's somehow more acceptable because these wars, these rules and these abuses are dressed up real nice and live in the Vatican rather than in caves in freezing deserts.

Sometimes I wonder if God wakes up screaming at what we've become."

I'm posting this because I believe we need to start shaking hands with the person next to us. Whether they are wearing a taqiyah, a tiara or a yarmulke.   A 'hello' and a smile wouldn't hurt either.

Bringing in the Harvest

The past couple of weeks I've woken humming a Neil Young song: 

"Out in the fields they've been turning the soil

I've been sitting here hoping this water will boil."

It's from Harvest, it's not a favourite, yet there it is day after day.    

I've had bone harvested in my mouth but that seemed an easy answer and a long reach.  My sister is furious with the family right now.  And the whole episode has been sitting heavily on my fair-play sensibilities.  I have been wondering if I have done right by her, by my parents and by myself.  I believe I have.  

So what then?

I realised what as I watched a man running down a road, towards a stadium. He was about to win a marathon.  Yet he kept turning around to see who was behind him.  And no-one was. 

Despite the delighted cheers, despite the outriders flanking him on his way to victory, despite the young men galloping alongside him, just otherside the barriers.  Grins splitting their faces as they paced him - delighted that this man, this Zimbabwean man, this non-favourite, this Stephen Muzhingi: was ahead of the pro-field.  

Still, he couldn't believe. He turned around again and then again and almost tripped.   As tired as he was, if he went down, he was unlikely to be able to get back up.  As I was yelling at him to stop worrying and look forward I thought - that's what it is:  you've been waiting for something to happen.  Boil your own damn water.  It's that simple.

No more fear.   

the fear

Who would have thought I would identify with Lilly Allen?  http://www.myspace.com/lilymusic

But this song is genius.  At first blush it sounds like a shallow 'gimme gimme' ditty:

 "I wanna be rich and I want loads of money.  

I don't care about clever, I don't care about funny'.  

On second listen she's echoing how I feel today:

 "I don't know what's right and what's real anymore, 

And I don't know how I'm meant to feel anymore.  

And when do you think it'll all become clear?  

'Cuz I'm being taken over by the Fear"

I love every word of this song.  She's nailed the celebrity culture and the notion of becoming famous at any cost.  The video's great too - there's this sense of a woman wise beyond her years but still gawky awkward.

Why am I feeling the Fear?  I don't know.  I guess because work is slow, because I don't have a clear sense of direction right now, because I am  still getting better from the virus, because of Swine flu,  because my friends are losing their jobs, because an acquaintance took his life this week, because things are changing.

I saw Grand Torino this weekend.  Another incredible bit of art.  Bloody and real.  A movie about a tribe of people  - the Hmong - who now live in Ohio because they picked the wrong side in a ridiculous war.  And they're still at war (in the movie) now with their own.  The movie shows an unlikely redemption.  But you believe every minute of it.

What the heck happened to us humans.  In evolving we somehow devolved.   But I'm not giving up - I'm still working on the gratitude.

apres les virus la gratitude

The last week was not a good one. I have been whipped like a sick dog, walked over, bitch-slapped and sicked-on by something I couldn't even see (hmm reminds me of some of my ex-boyfriends) and it's all going to end with me having something I don't want pushed down my throat (yep, that's familiar too). In short - I caught a virus. In just 12 hours - I went from having a small cold to vomiting so hard I had to hold onto the toilet bowl to stop myself being thrown across the bathroom by the force of the heaving. I haven't left the house in 8 days. And I can't even think of drinking coffee.

The doc has no idea what it is. But he dosed me effectively and and has recommended a gastroscopy to try and get a picture of my insides. Lucky me.

No really. Lucky me. This week has given me a deep lesson in gratitude. I can't imagine what it must be like to get that sick and to have no bed to go to, no warmth to cover you. No roof over your head to keep you dry. No toilet in walking distance. No fresh water, no access to a doctor, no money for medicine, no brother to look after you, no family or friends to call and check on you, No fresh foods to help rebuild your strength.

The lack of any one of those would have made the last 8 days hard. The lack of half of them - a nightmare. The lack of all of them unthinkable.

And so many people live without these things. I've got a touch of the after-virus blues right now. And those thoughts make me a bit teary. And a lot grateful.

There's many a s-lip

This afternoon I was at the gym: stretching on my yoga mat, when a gym cougar hove into view. There's a few of them at the institute: girls in their very late 40's, in damn good nick, who prowl around flirting with the 20-something trainer boys.   

The gym cougars are always in full hair and make-up.  They wear the latest Nike's and strap i-pod nanos to their forearms.  They get the young guys to spot them on free-weights or to hold the boxing bag.  They're seemingly oblivious to wrinkled skin on their inner arms, or the wattle on the back of their thighs.  I've got to be honest, I am fascinated:  it's like watching your mum get drunk on sherry and can-can at your engagement party.   

This cougar's wearing teeny-weenie tie-dyed booty shorts and a matching vest. For those of you who don't know what booty shorts are - check out any rap video happening poolside. Those tiny little short shaped bikini bottoms ... dem's booty shorts.   

She mounts one of those big inflated gym balls, centres herself, lays back and splays her legs into a wide V.  I'm trapped, sitting about three feet away and facing her ... eye to eye with her va-jay-jay.  I'm a bit panicked, what do I do, shall I move - no I'll just brazen it out, take a yoga stance of no judgement.

Then La Cougar starts crunching away energetically, and suddenly a lip pops out.  A shiny bit of girly lip.  I got such a fright I choked on my own spit. It took me a good few minutes to pull myself back together, and when I looked back (WHY, WHY, WHY did I look back??) she caught my eye and smiled holding my glance for just a second too long.  

I'm still in shock.  What now?  I can't go back.  I'm going to have to avoid the gym for a while.  And what if she greets me when I do see her next?  

Gone Fishin'

There's been so much in the media about Madonna and Jesus Luz, I am not going to weigh in. Especially as I really haven't much of a leg of my own to stand on.  I've dated men younger than me.  Though, none more that 13 years my junior.   I have a policy:   anyone who could have come from my womb, should not be going back up that way, ever.  

Jerry Hall is quoted in the Sundays today saying she finds it "a bit creepy" that Mick sleeps with women as young as his daughters.  I do too - but isn't he with L'Wren (where did she get that name) Scott now?  She's a grown-up girl.

Could Madonna take a lesson from Mick?  Wouldn't it be great to see her punching above her weight?  Matched with a man as smart, as able, as driven, as successful, as unique as she is?  A fella who knows how to behave.   A guy who doesn't publicly refer to her as "It"  (as in - "must get home or It gets mad" .. shame on you Mr Ritchie.   Whatever happened, she's the mother of your sons.  Grow some balls.)

I would like to see Madonna date someone in her class.  But that's an unpredictable pool.   Those boys have minds and money of their own.  And, competition at that level is fierce. Maybe that's why she sticks to the shallows.  

Kidney chi and jelly

This blog was born on a massage table. It was born whilst a masseuse held my foot and told me she was checking my 'kidney-chi'. Huh? "Your kidney chi". She shiatsus a spot on my right instep and it hurts like hell: "because women your age start to lose their fire and I want to see how you are doing".

What? Then it dawns - oh my god - she's talking about menopause! She thinks I'm old enough enough for the menopause. I'm only 48 for God's sake. Priya senses my shock - she looks down at me and smiles: "you're OK - you've got masses of fire left...." Good to know - but it got me thinking..

The fact that I am fast approaching fifty had become a new persona for me. My younger friends love to introduce me: "this is my friend gg, can you believe she's almost 50!"    Responses vary – "wow you don’t look it",  "you could never tell",  "blimey - you look nothing like my mom".   And once, memorably;  "Lishen, the reashon I’ve been talking with you so much ish I love to fuck older women".   This from a 250 pound, 32 year old man, who could barely stand for the number of vodka tonics he’d been throwing down his neck all evening.   

"Thanks for the kind offer, but I'll pass."  

"Oh come onnn, you're almosht fifty."  

The web is full of sites aimed at me: arguments for and against HRT, statistics on the difficulty of finding a man after 50, tips for dealing with mid-life depression, cosmetic surgery hints.  Forum after forum bemoan this dark-age which seems to be heralded by a newly dry vagina. I mean, when on EARTH did that become an appropriate conversation starter? And hello ... anyone familiar with the letters K and Y?  

I still wear 7forallmankind jeans and t-strings. I go to yoga classes and have fashionable bikini waxes. I read fashion magazines, watch new movies, travel, love art and a great cocktail, adore 30Rock and buy lots of new music. I'm not ready for a dry anything at all.

And, I don't believe that '50 is the new 40' nonsense. What the hell does it mean anyway? I'm certainly not about to start doing things I didn't do when I was 40. I'm still embarrassed about some of the things I did do. 50 is not 40. Fifty is fifty and anything else is an ill-advised leotard,

So - my plan is to make sure that '50 is the new 50'. I am going to do that by really participating in my life. For the next 15 months (at least) I am going to go where I am invited, try new tastes and sounds and colours and looks, write up my experiences - and generally put together a "write of passage" into my next half century. I have no idea what that will involve ... but I am going to find out.

What the fuck .... Ken Starr + Prop 8

Who woke up one morning and make Ken Starr the conscience of America?  Now he is out in California prosecuting people who got married because they love and cherish one other and want to show their commitment by spending their lives together.  Why is he doing this?   Because they are not heterosexual.  

Ken Starr and the Proposition 8 Legal Defense Fund are trying to overturn California's law permitting same sex-couples to marry.   They have filed legal briefs defending the constitutionality of Proposition 8 (which maintains that marriage can only exist between a man and a woman) and are attempting to forcibly divorce 18,000 same-sex couples that were married in California last year.  Some of whom are friends of mine.  

The Supreme Court will hear oral arguments in this case on March 5, 2009, with a decision expected within the next 90 days. 

I am at a loss as to his reasoning.  I mean, it's not as if the male-female combo has proven fabulously successful in the marriage and child-raising arenas, has it Ken?  Or perhaps that's the problem - maybe Ken fears that gay folks will show us heteros up?  

The Courage Campaign has created a video called "Fidelity," (using a gorgeous song by Regina Spektor as it's soundbed) that puts a face to some of those 18,000 couples and stands up for all loving, committed couples seeking full equality under the law.  Check out this link.   www.couragecampaign.org/Divorce

 And given that  today is Valentine's day - spread the love a little by forwarding it on to friends, families, lovers ....    Maybe we can make a difference by registering our outrage through adding our names to their petition. 

Really Ken, given all the help that's currently needed in your country - could you not turn your prodigious energies and (reportedly) considerable intellect to a cause more fitting?