Day 137: Wishful Soul

Yesterday I listened to a song and for the first time in over fifteen years I felt the warmth of a tear rolling down my cheek. The song which brought me to this state is called Wish and it's going to be featured on the debut album of an artist who I can honestly call my brother. It made me think that there's hope yet in this world; where we're constantly bombarded by sex, drugs and the aspiration to be better, faster and prettier than the next guy. Mutilation of the soul is what takes place here. The tears I cried were tears of joy in the strictest sense of the phrase. The artist is struggling financially and lives each day not knowing where his next meal will come from and yet he still has the absolute capacity to produce what I can only describe as a soulful masterpiece like Wish. What is more; he is the only person I know (including myself) who doesn't feel the need to be pretentious - he knows who he is and fills each day with twenty-four hours of that person.

The way I see it, identity is the biggest problem facing us today, and it doesn't need to be - we all know who we are, we just choose to withhold, boost or augment aspects of ourselves, mostly for our own gains or out of fear. In fact, right now I'm withholding aspects of myself through the vehicle which is this blog post out of fear. I could be completely honest in any given blog post but that would act to shatter the facade I've put up to the outside world and that, my friends, is the scariest thing I've ever experienced. We hide our goals and aspirations, our histories, our sexuality, our vices, our needs and wants, and essentially who we are for the purpose of staying afloat in our own minds. It's all very disillusioning and it strikes deep at our souls - who only wish for us to live without fear and doubt.

And so my quest now has an added goal - to find my identity and to be my identity. The system cannot break us; we only act to break ourselves, and we have as much capacity to create as we do to destroy, if not more.

Day 101: Rules

Newborn babies are truly free. It's sad that the freedom we experience only lasts an instant, because from the moment we open our eyes for the first time, we begin conforming to external and begin to impose on ourselves internal rules. And that's it, from that moment until the moment we die we are shackled by chains sculpted and forged by ourselves, for ourselves. We are in constant check of ourselves, fuelld by an (often) distorted sense of right and wrong; because we acquire our sense of morality from others (parents, guardians, teachers, peers, friends). We spend so much time and expel so much energy subconsciously conforming; in an endless, drab cycle of doubting and questioning, thinking about our choices, analysing every minute detail of our lives, making sure we follow the 'rules' to give ourselves a sense of pride; to tell ourselves that we're good people, to be liked and accepted by others, to keep ourselves safe in the knowledge that what we're doing is (supposedly) right. This is why we conform. This is our drug of choice; our common vice.

Day 86: Deep Down In Me

I've always been one to hate people trying to change me. I've always stuck vehemently to what I thought was me, and have fought tooth and nail to defend it. I remember when I had my very first girlfriend at 12; we used to write each other 'love' letters. Lying down on the carpet in front of the television at home, pen and green paper in hand, I recall defending my position - writing down in no uncertain terms that I didn't want her to change me and that I was quite comfortable with my being. I was 12! At that early age my every nerve, sinew and impulse was opposed to people changing me. I've been like that ever since and only now, at 27, have I realised that change isn't such a bad thing. Letting people change you (for the better) doesn't make you a weaker person; it makes you a learner. I've discovered that no-one can change what's deep down inside me, because that's mine - all mine. All mine...

Day 79: I

What am I thinking? Not much, actually. This turning off/shutting down works like a charm. Although, I wrote an email to my ex-girlfriend today; she was angry about some long blurb I wrote on her Facebook wall. I'd finished the email and read through it again which, mind you, is unusual because I never proof-read anything - I find I get bored after re-reading the first paragraph or so. But I made the effort this time to read through it - this was important, it was important that I got the message I wanted to get across, across. I was shocked and appauled by what I found, and each line I re-read cut deeper into my soul; etching away at its delecate form till it bled.

I had used the term 'I' so many times; a grave testament to my own selfishness - my own overbearing obsession with myself, my world, and my ego. I sent the self-obsessed brute of an email anyway, partly because I wanted her to know how I felt (which, in itself, is selfish), but mainly because I didn't know how to write anything else; I didn't know how not to be self-obsessed in my writing; how to not inject that into it. No matter how hard I tried to remove the 'I's', I couldn't - something inside me would interject and say "you want her to know how you feel; she has to know"...what nonsense!

I need to stop this...

Day 53: The Pink Finger

2008 will be known as the year Zimbabwe was almost absolved.

Day 52: Default

So it has been a long time, hasn't it (since I've posted something here, for those of you who aren't very good with implicit meanings)? I've slowly been realising, throughout the time I've been writing this 'thing' we'll have to call a blog for argument's sake (and since the time I decided to grow more fully), that I haven't been in control of my life. And this is not one of those "oh, God has been in control" realisations either; this one's a bit more sinister than that. I suppose I'd better explain (honestly, I spend my life explaining things).

I was on a course recently for work, and one of the tasks was to get into teams of three and elect a leader within each of those teams. Leadership of my team fell to me (perhaps inevitably). It was at the exact point when the trainer asked me how I had come to be team leader that the realisation struck me. "I sort of fell into it [the position], by default," was my answer; like most (if not all) of the things I was in my life, I was leader by default. Every decision I've had to make in my life has been a pseudo-decision; wholly dictated by something else, some external issue.

I fell into all my relationships; through no decision of my own. The first few didn't work out but, luckily, in the last one my woman was right for me. Still, I've done relationships backwards - getting into one and then starting to like (and perhaps love) the person I was with. I've been playing a dangerous game. And let's not stop there; the fact that I'm bald has dictated a huge part of my life. I started going bald when I was about 17; a genetic thing I guess, but when I was completely bald I actively stopped doing things associated with being 'young', partly because of fear of being mocked, but mostly because I didn't feel young. I was so self-conscious about it that it began to etch a path for me to follow in the game of life.

I remember being so nervous at parties and whatnot. It's a proper knock to the ego and it gouged a large chunk of my self-esteem out. I slowly began on a (mentally) self-destructive path - putting up walls both to fend off imagined attacks from the outside world and to stop myself doing things that would put me in the firing line. You know, basic self-preservation. People make assumptions about you; it's human nature. Over the years the walls became stronger; reinforced by every bad experience I'd ever had. I became a non-risk-taker.

So, how do I rectify this (i.e. how do I regain control of my life?)? Well, I've started by canceling all the email alerts I get from various places, which prompt me to login and do...something. A prime example of this is Facebook. How many of you have been absolutely compelled to login to Facebook and start messing around when prompted by an email alert (such as, "so and so has written on you wall")? I've been so guilty of that, it's unreal; spending hours within any given day, just clicking around Facebook, having originally been drawn there by an e-mail alert. You think it's a choice you're making, but it's not - it's a compulsion that you can't possibly hope to control. So, with no email alerts to speak of, I can choose when I commit some time to Facebook.

Also, and this was prompted by the trainer on the course I spoke about earlier, I've turned off that little envelope that appears in your tray when you have a new email at work (this I did quite by accident, but that's another story) because, again, you're compelled to open your Outlook inbox whenever that envelope magically appears (at least, I am) - another pseudo-decision. But by far , the biggest thing I'm going to do to try and minimize the pseudo-decisions I make, is to list out, right here, all the assumptions and beliefs I hold dear which only act to reinforce my insecurities and thus guide me on a path not of my choosing:

1. Bald people are physically inferior and, thus, do not stand a chance with people of the opposite (or same, if that's your thing) sex. My biggest influencer by miles. But what is it's basis? My conception of beauty I suppose. And what's that based on? Mass media projections - hard-bodied men and women running on beaches with hair flowing wildly in their wake. A woman running her hand through her man's hair while squealing with pleasure. But that's not real, is it? Real people don't do that in real life. Well, maybe some of them do, but what should that matter to me? Who cares? Tastes differ so wildly anyway. And who's to say that the media portrays an ideal? If it does, then it's a false ideal I'm afraid.

I can't wait for the day when the media is flooded with images of fat, balding old men being rubbed up by fat, balding old women. If and when that happens, I guarantee you that most of the world will experience a huge shift in their aspirations and beliefs as far as beauty is concerned. And, following on from that...

2. ...Beauty is purely physical. It's becoming more and more clear to me that this is not the case. I know what you're thinking - "that's just something ugly people say to make themselves feel better", except I'm not ugly, and have been told so on many many different occasions, so there goes that theory. I must admit that I thought that at one point too. Beauty is not purely physical. Attraction is initially physical in certain instances, but beauty and attraction are two different things. If beauty (and, for that matter, attraction) always purely physical, you'd be hard-pressed to find elderly couples roaming the streets clutching hands. Yet we see it all the time and, let's face it, it's one of our "awww" moments.

3. Some activities are reserved for people under a certain age, while others are reserved for people over a certain age. Another belief which has added to the (mis-)control issues in my life. While society dictates what we should and shouldn't be doing, that doesn't mean we have to follow this regime. We can do anything we want regardless of our age or perceived age.

4. You are a bad person if you suggest doing something that another person may not want to do (in your view). Ah, if I had a dollar for every time I've held back on suggesting an activity just because I didn't want to make someone do something that they wouldn't want to do. But the truth is, in most cases, if someone really didn't want to do something, they would say so there and then (or at least give implicit clues regarding their defiance), rather than do it and be miserable.

5. No world exists, save the world in my own mind. Yes, I've been seeing without actually looking. Being caught up in my own thoughts so often has been debilitating - over-thinking everything.

6. Women are idols, to be worshiped (This is in no way intended to be sexist and I apologise if it comes across that way). A long time ago my cousin, who's now happily married, said to me, "women are just as disgusting as men...at least once a month, anyway" I think no better statement encompasses the fact that women are human beings and should be treated as such, no more, and certainly no less. They have thoughts and feelings, they are subject to the same laws of biology as men are, they use the toilet and when they bump against an open closet door, they get bruised. I have been idolising women my whole life, which has made it difficult (and sometimes impossible) to approach them. While nature has made them the objects of affection; they are no different in any terms. Time to let this go...

Well, that's all I can think of for now. I will add more to this list if I think of them. The first two are the main ones after all. So there it is, my absolute lack of control laid bare. I will continue to strive to regain control, but be aware of the lack of control of your own lives - there are a lot of underlying beliefs and issues we've all gained over the years that hold us back from reaching our full potential. It is indeed, a sad situation.

Day 40: Nowadays

I was standing at the sandwich stall at lunch time today, waiting for my Cajun Chicken 'big boy' Roll when I noticed this stack of greeting cards next to me. They've always been there and I have, on occasion, browsed through them (I put this mainly down to boredom). So, between the time when I ordered my roll and the time the nice old lady handed it to me, I had a thought (which I smsed tomyself, lest I lost it) - greeting cards have become crude social indicators. Yes, I said it - social indicators.

If you look at the themes behind greeting cards - birthdays, anniversaries, new jobs etc - they all reflect patterns in what we, as human beings, do socially, and new trends in our social activities as well - look at this for an example, I saw a card today which roughly read, "You're leaving work to have a baby!". Now doesn't that point to the fact that more and more people are going on maternity leave? Agreed, as a social activity maternity leave isn't very rich in its substance, but the potential of greeting cards to act as social indicators is certainly there, isn't it? Especially nowadays. The fact that there is a greeting card detailing some activity means that that activity is being practiced on a regular basis, or at least an indication that that activity is being practiced more and more. Let's hope we never get greeting cards reading, "Hope the holocaust went well", or "Happy apocalypse!"

But all bad jokes aside (well, maybe we'll keep some in there for good measure), things are changing more raidly nowadays. To take another example, in the last decade digital pirates have become everything from social commentators to movie critics. I swear I was dumbfounded when, while downloading the torrent for some movie, I read the user comments - comments like, "artistically and visually, an excellent movie. Bruce Willis at his very best. Could do with a more well thought out sound track", and "what a crap movie! I don't believe anyone actually paid for that! Bad dialogue, poor acting - just Blair Witch Project in the middle of the ocean!" Artistically and visually?! You guys are pirating this movie! Who cares what you think?! You're not experts! Except, they sort of are (or have become) experts because they actually watch these movies and have built up a taste for what's good and what's bad (much like any other regular movie-watcher), and people do care what they think. Even me. I wouldn't download a movie if it's been branded crap by one of my fellow pirates.

Man, times are certainly changing. More dyslexic children, bigger wars, interactive porn. I was watching a television program the other night where they were describing this new concept. The viewer is capable of putting on a pornographic DVD and, instead of just watching it, is able to actually direct the action! Anal? No problem, just choose the option off the interactive menu. Is this going to give birth to a whole new generation of porn watchers - with dick in one hand and remote control in the other? So porn stars themselves are now straddling the line between actors/actresses and escorts/working girls and rent boys - virtual escorts at least, submitting to the viewers will (obviously within reason). the modern age really does boil down to the blurring of lines and boundaries, doesn't it? I built an entire MS Access database recently, having known absolutely nothing about MS Access in the beginning, with help almost entirely from the online community - forum sites and the like - from people who weren't even professional teachers. Or maybe they were - professional social teachers. I know what you're all thinking - Jesus Christ wasn't a professional teacher, but he taught. This is different though; now a wealth of knowledge is available at the touch of a button. It's amazing, and I love it!

I was reading an article online recently which hinted at people putting their gaming achievements down on their CVs. Amazing. It's amazing to think that the things you do in your virtual life should sit alongside the things you do in real life, and should be accepted by potential employers. The example the author of the article used was a person noting in their CV that they had run a guild in World of Warcraft. Looks like 'gaming', usually restricted to the 'Other Interests' section of your life story, is going to be making headlines in the main event.

I'm just in awe of nowadays, and it's not like we even notice how far we've come (which is quite sad). Nowadays we can do virtually anything, the possibilities are truly limitless.

Day 37: Untrusting Control Freak

I've been developing a database at work. Yesterday I learned something new about myself; throughout the development of my database I systematically looked for ways to restrict access to it's code and design views. This seems perfectly natural, after all, which software program do you know where the code is readily available for all to see? The thing is, I've begun to make restricting access an obsession - always thinking of and working on new ways to make my database fool-proof. Removing the 'close' and 'minimise' buttons from windows, disabling design view, throwing in simplified instructions here and there - all signs that I'm an untrusting control freak.

What is 'fool-proofing'? Why do we feel the need to strive towards it? Doesn't the very existence of the concept of fool-proofing mean that we, as human beings, have an underlying suspicion of other human beings, or at least of their ability. I know the act of me restricting access to my database says a lot about the extent of my suspicion of others and, as a result, says a lot about the extent of my cynicism. And, I'll face it, I am cynical.

Crap, I understand that a person's behavior towards a computer database can hardly give brief and yet in depth insights into their personalities but, like everything that a person does, it can give a superficial insight into a person's ability to trust others.

Years of Persecution at the Hands of Polar Bears: an outsider's view of an insider's peril

Part 1

(the views expressed in this piece are the author’s own. They are made up from a compilation of thoughts, feelings and experiences. While they are based on some factual knowledge, you will find no boring quotes and no references backing up what is expressed. As a result, this piece is vulnerable and open to criticism, of which I expect some)

All animals are self-interested. The desire to preserve themselves is uncontrollable. The Universe, believe it or not, is perfectly balanced in this respect; it allows for the expression of this instinct, because if it didn’t it would cease to exist. Ninety degrees north lies the northern most point of the earth; located within one of the most hostile environments in the world – the North Pole. At the risk of sounding as stereo-typically banal as the brave men and women who offer us a running commentary of our natural world for our supposed entertainment, allow me to make the following statement - a great battle for survival takes place in this environment – a battle fought between the inhabitants of this barren wasteland. Polar bears have been persecutor(y) (introspectively, for their own survival), while seals (mainly) have suffered persecution at their hands. But can either party be seen as good or evil, or does this cycle of persecution just act to reinforce the smooth running of the Universe?

When I was 18 my brother was tragically killed. At some point after that, and I’m not sure exactly when, I became two people. One essentially good, compassionate and sociable, and the other angry, obsessive, anti-social and out of control. I am now actively trying to kill the latter. I’ve systematically blamed this turning point in my life, if you can call it that, on me leaving everything I knew and transplanting myself into an emotional void.

Arrival

The United Kingdom can hardly be described as vast, but can most certainly be described as diverse, and daunting. I use these two terms in a seemingly ironic fashion in an attempt to describe the form my own mindset was abruptly molded into when I first set foot on this rock of opportunity. It's a crisp morning – the day after Valentine ’s Day and my father’s birthday - when the wheels of my very own life support system touch down on runway Infinity. And it is at that very moment that I, myself – in my own mind - touched down into my own, very personal, hell. Having left the sunny shores or Cape Town, South Africa, it's much more than the bleak and unforgiving weather which creates the surreal sense that I have made possibly the biggest mistake of my life.

I exit the aircraft and am immediately struck by the busy, blind and elusive atmosphere which characterises Heathrow Airport and which extends far beyond its walls. Baggage claim is a blur – I am still stuck in surrealism, my mind wrung into tiny creases; folded over itself in disorientation, uncertainty and dread. I need something familiar; something on which I could stake my claim and say, ‘yes, I know this’. That something is waiting for me just around the corner and even though I know that I, at the very same time, doubt it’s surety with every inch of my body and mind. I tug my bag off carousel Ambition in an almost automatic fashion. I am in much the same state as the Boeing 737-400 I had just disembarked was in for most of my flight – trimmed for straight and level flight; on autopilot.

Immigration. Every foreigner’s worst nightmare and every Zimbabwean’s recurring worst nightmare. Will my visa be valid? Will the thing my family had paid so much for; this stamp on one leaf of my passport hold up against the scrutiny of the juggernaut-like immigration officer who seems so determined to turn me back; so sure that I am not meant to be here. How could he even think for one second that I was meant to be here when I, myself, had thought quite the opposite up to this point. Standing in the long queue with all my colleagues from flight Determination, and others from other flights from other far away places, I try and pick out the nicest-looking and least intimidating immigration officer and, even though I know that my efforts are totally and utterly futile, I try to position myself so that when I’m stood at the judgment podium, she’s stood on the other side. Relief – my futile calculations seem to have worked; I’m faced with the immigration officer I’ve had my eye on since the back of the queue.

A quick hello, and then to business - no emotion, no attachment, just business. I hold out my passport, almost embarrassed at its emblem and green cover. I am certainly not a European; I barely qualify as an African with my passport held out in front of me. It’s funny how a little book can determine your fate. The bible saves people in much the same way that my passport can strip me of my dreams and destroy me. I feel naked and exposed holding it out in front of me. I place it on the brightly-lit table for my immigration officer’s perusal. She places the page housing my visa under an ultra-violet light to confirm or dispute its authenticity. I’m half expecting the page to merely disintegrate, and for armed guards (perhaps a specialist unit formed for this very purpose; to make the lives of Zimbabwean’s with unauthentic visas a living nightmare) to drop from the ceiling and crash through the windows all at the ready; waiting to ship me off to a detention centre or, worse, to send me back to the country of my birth. But, the sane half of me knows it will all be alright and that half prevails in the end. My immigration officer then checks a blacklist of Zimbabweans who are not allowed to enter the United Kingdom for political reasons. Here, again, my irrational mind takes over. Even though I know I cannot possibly be on that list, I’m still fearful. Sane wins in this instance, and Irrational is left wanting…again. Finally, I’m through. A quick medical questionnaire in a white and sterile room and I’m through. Ejected quickly from the airport building into the land of opportunity. I can’t wait.

Day 30: Black Tuesday

Today was a bad day. All the work I've done over the past few months was undone in an instant. Started off the day with a bad phonecall; an angry customer requesting...something - I was too blinded by anger to give a damn about what she was saying. It's funny how we let other people dictate how we feel when, in fact, we should be dictating how we feel. It's strange...

Day of the Dead (29): Blood-soaked Streets

So the government goons bumped off another MDC activist. It just seems like this type of event is all too common in Zimbabwe - ten to fifteen masked men show up at your doorstep chanting government war cries, you're thrown into the back of a pickup truck, or similar vehicle (they dare not use the characteristically ZRP-esque Santana's [Land Rover's], lest they be identified as closely tied to the security forces who'd sworn to protect the citizens of Zimbabwe no matter what), and you're never seen again - whisked off into oblivion - with a good dollop of pain thrown in.

El Día de los Muertos (The Day of the Dead) is a holiday celibrated on the 1st and 2nd of November in Mexico and certain parts of the US and Canada. It's original function was to honour the ancestors. Looks like every day is a Day of the Dead in Zimbabwe, only nobody is celebrating - people are just dying - and there is most certainly no honour involved. I was reading an article about how an MDC activist was murdered after being taken away by ten men. This man's brother made a valid point when he said 'They are cowards, all of them. Ten men to take down one unarmed man' (BBC Website, 23 May 2008). Certainly, there is no honour between enemies in Zimbabwe, and the situation is only getting worse.

The streets are becoming more and more blood-soaked every day, and nobody cares.

Day 26: Virtual Hunters

With online dating becoming more and more socially acceptable, I thought I'd give it a go. It is, after all a good way to weed out all the relatively uninteresting women out there (and, as I've recently found out, there are HORDES of them - lifeless zombies who take pleasure in actively draining the dating world of all their interesting thoughts). Yes, I said it! Everyone was thinking it - why would you put yourself on the line and ask someone on a date in real life (which in itself is nerve-wrecking), knowing little or nothing about them, only to find out on the actual date that you'd rather be out with that donkey from Winnie the Pooh? Why? No, you wouldn't - you'd much rather find some common ground with a potential partner, and find out more about them, without going through the pure agony of sitting through drinks with death herself.

I was lucky during my brief stint of online dating; all the dates I went on were quite interesting (yes, all two of them) and even though they amounted to nothing, were good (if expensive) nights out. Let's face it though, there's still somewhat of a stigma attached to online daters; there's something still taboo about it, and I felt the pinch of this stigma when I first started - the secrecy, dodging the questions, the lies about how you actually got that date. I think I spent more time and energy covering up my self-conspiracy to enter the world of internet dating than I spent on actively dating online. No doubt a large portion of the stigma that comes with online dating boils down to one, simple thing - being seen as unable to perform in terms of inter-sex (or intra-sex for some of you) relations in the 'real world'.

As men, we more often than not have to live up to the poor peripheral vision, blood-thirsty, go-getting hunter conception. And if we can't live up to the historical conception that all men are hunters by instinct then we're seen as weak, and not worthy of a second glance. That's why I think online dating is particularly difficult for men to admit having taken part in, because admitting it would raise questions about our sexual prowess. I know I've been guilty on many occasions of asking these questions in my own mind about other people. But I think some men are just not able to approach women face to face and ask them out, while others still prefer online dating because of the ability to screen potential partners before going any further. There are a number of reasons for online dating, a lot of which have absolutely nothing to do with a persons sexual prowess or lack thereof.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that women should more easily be able to admit taking part in online dating. I just think that there's more pressure on women to get married so it's a lot more acceptable for them to indulge in this kind of thing. God, I curse the year Bridgette Jones' Diary came out - now practically every woman over the age of 22 and not in a relationship thinks she's going to end up a Bridgette Jones. The number of online profiles I've seen saying exactly or a variation of the following: "I don't want to end up like Bridgette Jones", or "Bridgette Jones here, come and save me". But I suppose there's a biological reason behind their haste - after all a woman's biological clock starts slowing down after about the age of 35, and bearing children becomes more dangerous the older they get. The point is that the perceived reasons behind a person's choice to date online makes it a lot more socially acceptable for women than it is for men and that, I think, is just unfair.

So, why did I do it? Primarily because I was starting a life in a new country and I didn't know anyone (despite what we all see in the movies, it's difficult to approach an absolute stranger and ask them out on a date without getting mace in your eyes; more often than not relationships start with people you already know or through people you already know), and I'm going to continue doing it because it is, after all, about living life and meeting new people, some of whom you may have a connection with some of whom you may not. Just one piece of advice (for both men and women) from my experience - don't take it too seriously and don't expect to find your one true soul mate, even though that may happen actually expecting it would just set you up for disappointment every time it doesn't happen and make your dates boring. Have fun with it, and don't be afraid of it...half the time nobody cares that you're internet dating, partly because it's more socially acceptable but mainly because chances are they've considered it themselves.

Day 15: Reflexivity II - The Prison Within

Look, I'm going to get more serious now, because I believe that I'm in a transitional phase of my life and have been within this phase for a few years now (I know...long phase). I want to be free from myself, from my own prison, from my own personal hell - a hell which is lorded over by the ultimate, almost unconquerable, gaoler - the 'I', 'me', 'myself' - the Ego. There are many pieces of literature detailing the Ego and it's persuasion towards imprisonment of the mind. Everything we do, no matter how banal, is a testament to the power of the Ego.

Let's face it, from our early childhood years, we are primed to be imprisoned by our own Ego's - especially in this modern world where image is such an all important thing that it chokes the soul and bleeds it dry. Let me pose the following question: next to self-preservation (and this includes procreation), what is the one overriding urge common amongst all of us? Not much of a question, because I think it's a lot more rhetorical in its nature - it's a question everyone knows the answer to, although many may be afraid to admit it. The one overriding concern common amongst all human beings is the urge to be accepted and liked. Basic, isn't it? Being accepted or, at least, being able to perceive that you are accepted is possibly the most important driving force behind an individuals actions, and behind this driving force is the Ego.

People go to great lengths to gain acceptance (or perceived acceptance); their energies wasted on relatively fruitless activities. People push themselves to the brink of death on ridiculous diets, go under the knife in dangerous procedures and get involved in stupid antics just to satisfy the Ego. And I'm going to tell you the worst part - society not only allows this, but actively encourages it. Society, with it's beauty magazines, advertisements and various pressures pushing us to give in to our Ego's and be beautiful, cover our faces with make-up laid on so thickly it's like Siberia in the winter; masking every single little blemish - masking our souls.

Am I the only one who thinks this is sick? We have become worse than animals in this world. Animals have no rise to rational thought and do not engage in these seemingly savage activities. They do not diet, do not push each other towards spirals of uncontrolability and do not put pressure on one another to change. The Ego is, then, inextricably linked with our capacities for rational thought, and yet it is an irrational beast - stopping at nothing to get it's fix of acceptance, pushing us ever closer to the edge over which we will soon peek and be thrust into oblivion by ourselves.

It seems like rational thought is a double-edged sword; giving us the ability to reason, to think on a level other creatures would only dream of, but burdening us with this prison; the Ego in all it's infinite stupidity. I feel the need to rid myself of this burden; to let go of my Ego and, thus, be free of my prison, as should everyone else. But we've all come to depend on our Ego's. It is, after all, a part of us, isn't it? Yes it is, but so is cancer when you have it. Baby steps, though. Baby steps...

Day 12: Life Certificate

So I was browsing throught the BBC News website again yesterday and I came across possibly the funniest thing I've ever read. You know they run a 'diary' regularly where a young professional living in Harare - Esther (apparently, not her real name) - writes about how life really is in Zimbabwe. It's really quite interesting, but yesterday I had to keep myself from bursting into laughter in the middle of the office. I was reading Esther's diary entry - she was giving an account of how someone had been beaten up by a government gang for supposedly supporting the opposition party (MDC). After the gang had beaten him up, they had given him a certificate (signed and date stamped) to say he had been beaten up. He would then be able to produce this to evade further beatings by other government gangs.

I know, it's not funny for the person who had taken the beating, but it's such a ridiculous concept that in hindsight I would be surprised if he hadn't had a little giggle about it. Can you imagine what would happen if some other gang were poised to beat him up. What would he say? "Sekuru, tarisa tarisa! Ndarowa kudara! Ndarowa kudara!" (Roughly translated: "Uncle, look look! I've already been beaten! I've already been beaten!). You know those corny 'learn x language' tapes on which a phrase is said in a native language and a monotonous American man repeats the phrase? I can imagine what kind of phrases would be on a 'Learn Shona (native Zimbawbean language)' tape -

Foreign voice: "Tarisa, ndarowa kudara'
...cue Monotonous American: 'Look, I've already been beaten'

It's just ridiculous. A practice so ridiculous, it's made a potentially deadly situation hilarious! Welcome to Zimbabwe...make yourselves at home...

Day 8: The Great British Problem: psychosis and the anti-community culture

Ever heard Paul Simon's Still Crazy After All These Years? Well if you haven't, then get yourself a copy and listen to it - it's a good song. My father and I recently engaged in a very short debate about what the meaning behind the song was and came up with a few interesting theories. One of the more interesting ones had to do with the low-level psychosis running rampant throughout modern society (my father came up with that one. You know, credit where credit is due and all that). Well, I've had a think about it and have reached the conclusion that everything musical is, and should be, open to interpretation. But that's not my point, because what I also concluded (and, as far as conclusions go, this isn't really a big one) was that I wanted to think more about this low-level psychosis plague. So I did, and here I am.

I read an article on the BBC website today; a very good article about people fighting with one another. But what captured my attention wasn't the body of the article, oh no; it was the title - Why are girls fighting like boys? Now this is an interesting choice of words because I would have been inclined to ask why girls are fighting at all and, to expand on that, why are people fighting over seemingly petty things? What's more worrying about the title of this article is that it seems like, as a society, we've normalised violence amongst boys; we've accepted it. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those people who protest for world peace - I actually think war is sometimes a necessary evil (and before you get all 'oh no he did-int', I promise I'll explain myself on this in another post. Just hold your criticism for now).

I just don't see how a normal person can beat someone to a pulp for spilling their drink (note, I use the word normal in its broadest possible terms. I know that you can't really measure what's normal, I just can't think of the word which means 'normal in relation to everyone else in society' - I should have paid better attention in Anthropology 101!). I think there are two things at play here; first, the low-level psychosis I was talking about earlier and, second, a system built up not to just be apathetic towards this kind of psychosis, but to propagate it. This is particularly the case in Britain, and I only say that because I'm in Britain - and have not experienced anything like it anywhere else.

Society is a funny thing – functioning much like the individuals it houses and, despite what many think, society is a living entity; Concerned, primarily, with the preservation of self, and why not? Any society is designed, built and fueled by those who call it home and those very individuals are, themselves, concerned primarily with self-preservation. This is why one is likely to find in any society, primitive or modern, mechanisms dedicated to caring for individuals who are ill and mechanisms dedicated to protecting all individuals housed within. These mechanisms function on varying levels of complexity depending on the particular society in question. They are also judged and viewed differently because, as human beings, we cannot help but express our opinions. For example, the hard-hitting, zero-tolerance, limb-severing implementation of Sharia law in countries like Saudi Arabia is most commonly regarded as primitive or backward when placed against the liberal, democratic implementation of law in the so-called first world.

So, we have these phenomena called societies; housing these things called people; who are absolutely obsessed with preserving themselves, as individuals. Clearly, there’s something wrong with this picture. For all this focus on self-preservation, society still relies solely on its individual members to keep it going; members who are, themselves, concerned primarily with their own individual self-preservation. The other day, during one of my rare moments of interest, I picked up a newspaper. I don’t even know if it was current, but something had caught my eye - the story about a man who was murdered by a gang of youths while trying to save his son from falling victim to them. This took place somewhere in the United Kingdom; I’m not sure where – my attention span became a problem after I had just browsed through the article. He had telephoned the police but they were too ‘preoccupied’ (perhaps with tackling low-level crime) to respond promptly.

Now, it doesn’t take much digging to discover that incidents like this are quite common in Britain. But, that’s not my point, is it? No. What I find worse, in my, perhaps twisted, mind, than a man being murdered by a group of pre- or just post-pubescent youths is a man being murdered by a group of youths in front of or alongside a group of onlookers – supposed innocents – who do nothing. Oh, did I neglect to point out that the above man was murdered in a public area, in broad daylight, with a number of people watching?

Allow me, now, to break from this morbidity and share an interesting anecdote with you. I am from Zimbabwe which, for those of you who don’t know, is a small land-locked and resource-rich country in southern Africa. I am African in my in my mind, in my heart and in my soul, and I understand her politics somewhat.

It’s a Tuesday afternoon, at the peak of summer. The African sun, which is like no other, beats down on the white sedan I temporarily inhabit heating it up from the inside out, making it feel like a potter’s oven. We’re in the centre of town in Zimbabwe’s capital – Harare; on Moffat Street, where my father has a stake in a thriving flea market business – I’m 10 and have come with my father on one of our routine trips during which we ensure the smooth running of the market. Town is full today, which is surprising, given the intense heat - which makes you feel as if you could cook a three-course meal in the middle of the street (something we’ll save for another article). Suddenly we hear the all too familiar call of “MA TSOSTSI!” Someone had tried their luck at thieving and was making a run for it. I look up just in time to see hordes of people converge, with little grace, on a single point in the street – the budding thief. More people than I thought lived in the city were on that street that day; coming out of the shops, jumping off rooftops, coming out of alleyways and cracks in walls. The thief, needless to say, was in trouble – he was given the once-over before the police were called. Bloodied and beaten, and almost surely in for a beating at the police station, I have no doubt in my mind that he thought long and hard about his chosen profession and about partaking in further activities of its nature.

This did not display a sense of community – neither did it display that the people who partook in this activity lead relatively empty lives and would jump at the sign of any action. It was a savage display of brute force coupled with street politics – a politics which is ingrained on every street in every Zimbabwean and, dare I say, African city. The street says – “you make trouble on me, I’ll make trouble for you” and it works, to an extent. It serves to illustrate the ‘cause and effect’ thesis which everyone is familiar with and, perhaps, Newton’s third law. The latter clauses of both these notions – effect, reaction, retort, result – form a concept that is greatly lacking in Britain today – the concept that everything you do will be dealt with accordingly.

I am not suggesting that this type of street politics is imported into Britain, but if it was imported it would inevitably be viewed as archaic, savage or even anarchistic. But what do you call a group of youths - who should be in school, experimenting with the opposite sex, fishing or running - stabbing someone to death in the street while people look on and do nothing because they’re too concerned with their own self-preservation to care? The streets of Britain are stained with the blood of innocents – fathers who want to save their sons, sons who were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, human beings who put others before themselves and paid the ultimate price. And what solutions are put forward? Increase alcohol prices and dish out more Anti-Social Behavior Orders than can be enforced at a grassroots level. People will still consume alcohol and, dangerously, I have a bad feeling that having an ASBO is seen as ‘cool’ among youths – evidence of beating the system and avoiding jail. Psychosis, at this level, begins to grow and there's nothing to stop it. No sense of community or family and the sense that one is invincible to the long arm of the las.

What is missing in these cases is the concept that one’s negative actions will prompt negative consequences at a local level and the lack of this sense is exacerbated by the breakdown of the family unit and the breakdown of the community as a whole. The culture of the welfare state has poisoned the streets, with a U.O.ME culture prevailing. If just one person cared about another person’s child in their neighborhood, things would be different, I think. I’ll leave you with one thought – everyone is on about democracy in this day and age, and Britain is no different. Democracy is derived from the greek dēmos (mob) and kratos (rule). “Mob rule”. Why can’t we have less of the ‘mob’ and more of the ‘rule’?

Day 7: "Machinations of the British..."

Wow! My last post was just gay...I should really proof-read things before I write them - a skill I'm yet to perfect - I get bored very quickly you see. Still though, at least I have enough focus in me to complete a coherent sent....

...just kidding. OK, that was a bad joke, but I'm no stand-up comedian so what did you expect. You know what else is a bad joke though? The recent elections in Zimbabwe - my homeland. And, just as a side note, in case you were wondering - I'm not black. I only say that because one of my friends recently came up to me and said she was puzzled by the fact that I wasn't black even though I was born in Zimbabwe. She had been drawn in by the recent publicity the country had received in the media and was finding it tough to make the connection between seeing only black people on the news and the concept of a person, me, from Zimbabwe not being black. I found this hilarious and was only not offended because the depth of my mirth didn't allow me to be.

Anyway, as a socio-political issue (yes, I use big words), the recent election fiasco is Zimbabwe is very interesting. I must hand it to the old man (Mugabe) and his cronies - they managed to successfully divert the worlds attention just enough to enable them to 'steal' the election. And before you start saying run-off this and run-off that - it's not going to happen. Think about it, everything that has happened between election day (or even before) has been in the complete control of the ruling party - a control which was so implicit that it seemed like they were losing control. By focusing on the parliamentary results, Zanu-PF had effectively turned attention away from the most important results of all - the presidential results. Contesting the parliamentary results had more or less the same effect.

False Hope

This allowed the ruling party enough time to twist the presidential results to their own ends. But this is only the tip of the iceberg - the real party piece began when all the parliamentary results were confirmed - giving MDC a majority; giving the MDC and the world false hope and luring everyone, in essence, into a false sense of security. What does a person do when they feel secure? They relax, stop contesting and stop suspecting so much. It felt like the whole world breathed one big sigh of relief when the parliamentary results were fully released. But Mugabe was acting like a master general from the beginning. Holding out baits to his enemy, giving him small victories while knowing, all the while, that the ultimate victory would be his. Attacking in small bursts to breakdown his enemy (the recent beatings of MDC supporters, the raiding of the MDC HQ in Harare), Mugabe knew that if faced with a presidential run-off Tsvangirai would think twice before running again.

This is the case now - Tsvangirai is effectively in hiding outside Zimbabwe, while the MDC are lost without a leader. I sincerely hope that Tsvangirai plucks up the courage to go back home and lead his people because he would surely win a run-off, but I also hold a begrudged pride for Mugabe and the Zanu-PF - they pulled the wool over the worlds eyes and the people of Zimbabwe, and even their own supporters in an ingenious manner. The way it looks now, Mugabe may never have to give in to the "Machinations of the British" ever again...

Day 2: Reflexivity

OK, today I want to talk about something specific - mirrors. I know, it seems a boring and pointless subject, but bear with me on this one. I'm stuck in a job I vehemently detest so I try to maximise my 'out of office' time as much as possible. I achieve this in a number of different ways - heading to the other side of the office to have a chat with the people over there, getting myself cup upon cup of water and, the old chestnut, going to the toilet at least twenty or thirty times per day.

I'll bet you're wondering where this is going. Well, it was during one of my toilet escapades when I began to realise how often I looked at myself in the mirror during an ordinary day. That got me thinking - how many times do people check themselves out, make sure their hair has fallen the right way, check for any lipstick stains. I became a lot more aware of people around me shooting glances towards more or less any reflective surface - glass doors, those health and safety Plexiglas posters you get, and even cutlery. Yes, CUTLERY!

What's more, when people look at themselves they are no doubt sparing a thought for themselves. A thought which could last a from a fraction of a second to two or three seconds, to two or three minutes depending on a particular person's level of insecurity. This is disturbing, because after a small calculation based on a few basic and completely possible assumptions, I figured out that the average person spends about 2% of their lives on thoughts of themselves prompted by glances in reflective surfaces. That's not counting general self-centered thoughts brought about as a result of a compliment or insult by someone else, or some other external stimulus. Is it any wonder, then, why society is riddled with raging 40 year old wars?

Everyone is so caught up in their own heads that they couldn't be bothered to think about anyone else. No-one is open to the external world anymore, nobody listens anymore, and everyone thinks they know it all. Think about it, but don't comment on it, I won't be listening....

Day 1: The Friend you Never Want...

Human beings are strange, aren’t they? Always wanting what we can’t have and always, always having what we don’t want. I don’t get it at all. I am a mystery unto myself and I’m sure a lot of other people are too. I like being able to fix people, so all my relationships (or attempted relationships) have been with either socially dysfunctional or psychopathic women. Common denominator here: they all had something about them that needed fixing, and I couldn’t fix whatever that was. How bizarre. About a month ago one of my good friends went through a breakup with her long –time boyfriend and she was in a state. Needless to say, I couldn’t resist her. I fell madly in infatuation with her and told her this in, perhaps, not so many words. This happened because she needed fixing and I knew I couldn’t fix her, no matter how hard I tried. Anyway, I was given the cold shoulder for about three weeks, which acted to bring me to my senses, which in turn acted to remove any feeling I had for her.

Another thing, while we’re on this subject. The whole ’friend zone’ thing so popularised by Friends back in the 90s – it actually exists?! Crap! As a man, I’m completely astonished as its existence goes against everything I’ve believed about male-female relations since I was a snivelling, pimply teenager. It also, funnily enough, puts men everywhere in a very difficult position because if my argument about human nature posed above (wanting and having) is correct, because the concept of a ‘friend zone’ in itself makes the particular woman (or ‘friend’) virtually unobtainable to the particular man. How...on EARTH...are we, as men, supposed to deal with something like that?! A friend who’s a woman is unobtainable and it follows logically that any man would eventually and inevitably want all his female friends in ‘that way’, right? But that doesn’t seem to be the case. I myself have female friends who I wouldn’t go near in ‘that way’ – but, perhaps those feelings are still to come...I doubt it.

I still can’t believe the ‘friend zone’ exists, a point which is well demonstrated in my continued placement of the term ‘friend zone’ in inverted commas. Anyway, back to the point at hand – why, then, aren’t all men everywhere ‘going for’ all the women they know who are their friends? This is serious, people. We have to clear this up now, I’m afraid. I’ve spoken to a lot of women about the ‘friend zone’ and I always get the same, inconclusive answer – it does indeed exist, and it does indeed stop women dating their good male friends. Talk about insulting my intelligence – I know it stops women dating their friends, and everyone, at least on some level, has known of its existence for a long, long time – even me (though, I tried to deny it). I’ve also read a lot about it online; not because I’m sad, but because I’m interested in understanding the foe which has plagued me, and I presume a lot of others, since forever and in a quest to understand people, in particular women for these purposes, better.

Wait, this is sounding sadder and sadder the more I write. Anyway, for my first blog post ever I think it’s just fine. Oh, did I not mention that? Yes, this is my first blog post ever. I'm one of those people who always thought about it, but never actually went through with it - until now. So I think I’m allowed to be sad under these circumstances. Seriously. I am.

I'll stop now that I've given at least someone some food for thought. But consider this: what if the 'friend zone' is just a figment of the imagination? And what if knowing about the 'friend zone' places you in a self-fulfilling prophecy?