Left Alone

I was going to provide a detailed context, then I realised that you probably don't care, and I couldn't be bothered to type out the story.

She says he's going straight to nowhere
He should buy a ticket home
She's a straight line in a sharp bend
And he's an ending on her road
He's got no time to be a frontman
Tie his shoes or wear his clothes
She'll find a way to twist his fingers
He'll find a way to break her bones
And he's a doctor
He says he's certified
But she knows that is wrong
When she just looks into his eyes
He'll mend her heartbreak
She says that he has the cure
But that medicine don't kick in
Like it used to any more

But God loves a trier
And the devil loves a sin
And I guess he'll be a liar
And she'll take it on the chin

He's left alone
And he doesn't know
She's in control
And he sees her ghost
Every time he looks into her eyes
And what he knows is wrong
Is what she'll say is right

He knows she means it
When she says "I love you" back
She knows just how to tease him
Keep him happy, it's an act
And in the arms of all mistakes
Comes the collision of a word
From the fragile sense of "sorry"
To the promise he misheard

But God loves a trier
And the devil loves a sin
And I guess she'll be a liar
And he'll take it on the chin

He's left alone
And he doesn't know
She's in control
And he sees her ghost
Every time he looks into her eyes
And what he knows is wrong
Is what she'll say is right

But God loves a trier
And the devil loves a sin
And I guess I'll be a liar
And I'll take it on the chin

Traits of the Heartbroken

Imagine if everyone that’s ever had their heart broken had to walk around with some kind of permanent public mark. Like a little flashing light above their heads, or something, a bit like in The Sims, which is really weird, but just stick with me. So, you could be walking the busiest streets of the busiest cities, which can weirdly be the loneliest places, and you could be feeling broken through and through because someone bashed on this vital organ of yours, and it all came crashing down.

But you would see all these strangers walking passed with their little flashing lights, and suddenly you wouldn't feel as sad or alone any more. And they wouldn't need to give you a sympathetic nod when you pass, but just the fact that they are out there in the world, walking around and getting on with it, whether they had their heart broken last week or 20 years ago, would be encouraging. Because they lived through it. And they went to school or work, they ate their dinner, visited their grandmother, and got on with it. And I'm sure some days are better than others, and they probably cried on the phone to their friend, they probably wolfed through gallons of ice-cream or alcohol, but they got through it. And now, they’d walk the streets as living proof that the heartbreak didn't win.

I'm sure that there are people out there who live their entire lives without being heartbroken once. Some of those people are just really lucky. But some of them, and I don’t envy anyone for this, some of them just aren't risk takers. And it’s so easy when your emotions take a hit to just be really cynical and hard, and to retreat into a place where you just hate everyone because you feel invincible that way. But if you don’t take risks, you’ll never reap the benefits from the risks that turn out to be worth it.

Heartbreak isn't enviable. Though, what I think are enviable are the typical character traits of the heartbroken. Because we’re the optimists. We’re the romantics, the thinkers, the dreamers, the risk takers, we’re the idealists. We just awarded our trust to the wrong person. But at least we had trust to give. All those traits, no matter how many times I get my heart broken, they’re not traits I'm willing to lose. 

Broken Boards, Rashes & Entry Fees

South African surfing has come a long way in recent years. Every year more and more South Africans are qualifying for places on the elite World Championship Tour (WCT), and those vying for places on the WCT are blowing up the World Qualifying Series (WQS) with progressive turns, and aerial and barrel riding manoeuvres. Last year, the International Surfing Association (ISA) World Surfing Games saw a plucky Mossel Bay local named Shaun Joubert dominate the Panamanian waves and win South Africa the gold medal. Even the perfect right hand point that is Jeffery’s Bay is once again being featured as a stop on the WCT. Despite these leaps forward, there are, however, still some major drawbacks for aspiring surfers in this country.

Professional surfing is not all sunshine and perfect barrels. There are some major financial drawbacks that come with the decision to turn a passion into a life-long career. For example, when team SA went to Panama for the ISA World Surfing Games last year, they had no financial support from the South African Sports Confederation and Olympic Committee (SASCOC). This meant that a national team of athletes representing this wonderful country had to pay for everything out of their own pockets. These expenses included entry and travel fees, along with accommodation and all the other necessities one needs while executing massive carves on the rippable waves of Santa Catalina that put other teams to shame. These expenses were so high that Dale Staples, an original pick who was second in the world during his stint in the junior circuit, had to reject his place on the team.

This problem of funding is not limited to national participation. Several South African surfers such as Staples, Beyrick de Vries, Michael February, David van Zyl, Faye Zoetmulder, and even big wave legend Grant “Twig” Baker, have to be selective about which events they choose to enter around the world. Contrary to popular belief, sponsors do not pay for plane tickets, accommodation, entry fees or the emotional scarring caused by being dropped in on or a bad rash from a new wetsuit. They only pay for new boards, wetsuits and other merchandise.

This selective style of competing can result in a vicious cycle, not unlike being caught in the impact zone. If a surfer misses an event, they risk a huge drop in the world rankings as everyone around them climbs, and this can lead to surfers losing places in higher rated events, and can eventually lead to a loss of sponsors and a dream that has gone from a perfect glassy 10-foot Pipeline barrel to two-foot onshore slop in Muizenberg.

This lack of funding is certainly not a new problem to South African surfers. Even the mighty Shaun Tompson slept on a thin piece of foam while he was leading the charge and revolutionising the sport of surfing forever on the North Shore of Hawaii in 1975 (watch the documentary "Bustin' Down the Door" for more on this, it's mindblowingly amazing). Even he had to scrape money together to compete in events, both locally and internationally, although professional events during that period were few and far between.

One theory about this severe lack of funding is the stigma of a dreadlocked, laid-back, anti-society, weed-smoking, slacker way of life that still surrounds surfers today. This was certainly the case during Tompson’s time, but during his reign as a top South African surfer, he and a few other Australian pioneers systematically shattered that stigma by proving that surfing can be a legitimate professional sport. Local and international icons like Jordy Smith, Joel Parkinson, Kelly Slater and Travis Logie have been part of a professional movement that has furthered the progress, with Slater’s career winnings exceeding $3 million. 

While there is some funding to South African surfers, the large majority are left scraping together some coins for a plane ticket in hopes of furthering their dreams, even if it means sleeping on the beach in their boardbags. The dedication of these few brave souls is exactly what the sport needs, and this begs the question, what if the next Shaun Tompson, Kelly Slater or Bianca Buitendag is sitting at home, or more likely at work, watching their surfing brethren rip on the world’s best waves in a webcast on a small computer screen sitting in an uncomfortable office chair, all because they couldn't afford an entry fee?

Microsoft Word

I know this will probably sound like I'm trying to convince you that my Jack Russell mistook my homework for his red, rubber t-bone that squeaks when he suddenly seizes it in his jaw and shakes it around in a confused frenzy, but this story is completely true and I have a witness.

I spent a good two hours on a blog post about the wintertime today. I was feeling poetic and I decided to talk about something I like instead of something or someone I would like to send out on an ice flow in their crappy little vest. I wrote 413(ish) words about my favourite season.

If you're anything like me, you wake up grinning like an axe-wielding crazy person when it starts raining. Something about the winter makes you happy. The rain is like a blanket around your soul, keeping you safe.

In the piece, I remarked that I enjoyed the smell of rain in the teerpad as it breezed through the afdakkie tunnel side walks and trailed behind me on my way to get my boeretroos, that golden gift of the gods that fuels all this magical mystery mayhem, from the Kaif. Coffee has meaning in the wintertime. Side walks and street corners become monuments to our everyday existence.

I tend to get a little bit lyrical with the changing of the leaves. So much so that I wrote 400 words about winter and how (and also why) I prefer it over the summertime. Unfortunately, I was so distracted by all the other work that seemed to attack me from all sides because of exam season that I never saved any of it. I was about to, I really was. I had my flash drive ready and everything. I promise. At the exact second that my drive touched the USB port, my screen went blue. Everything gone. Die bus is vol. Cheers.

This made me very...disappointed.

I expressed my disappointment very...clearly. And also very loudly.

This indecent put a bit of a damper on my day. I just wish this futuristic typewriter had an automatic save function, or at least some sort of recycle bin area or something.

This blog shit can be traumatic.

Mornings

I had two very pleasant dreams last night. First, I dreamt I was surfing my favourite break and turned in for that one perfect barrel I have been chasing since I started surfing (despite the fact that I was on a bodyboard). In the other, I dreamt that I was drifting lazily down a warm river. There was no water, but my yellow, triangular, ambiguous tube boat floaty thing drifted along on warm clouds. Not real cold-ass clouds of condensation, though. It was more like what my four-year-old self would think clouds were made of. In both, I was completely at peace.

And then my phone rang.

We've all had the experience; you're lying in bed, sleeping like a baby after a bottle of warm milk and Ambien when someone phones you. At 7:25 in the morning. Five minutes before your alarm is set to go off. To ask a question about something that really could have waited eight more minutes before finally taking the hook out and throwing you back at 7:29. That last minute is a very angry one.

I'm not what you would call your typical "morning person". I don't wake up with a song in my heart - it's more of an extended groan in F# minor.

Due to my nocturnal nature, my mind tends to hit peak performance as soon as the clock hands tick past my bed time. That's when my brain starts to pull the day's thoughts into focus and I often find myself semi-sleepwalking around res late at night. This is my thinking time. Unfortunately, this cuts into the sleeping time that I need to be anywhere close to "functional". Mornings are like the harsh light of a fluorescent tube light that suddenly rips your eyes to shreds because it's too dark to see normally. It is safe to assume that 7:25 is not the best time of day to try for any kind of quality response from me. I don't know what this means for my exams, but that's another story.

At least I can see the sunrise thaw Grahamstown back to life on early winter's mornings when I'm standing at my window, clasping my coffee mug with two hands, re considering this whole "being awake" thing you all seem to be so crazy about.

Maybe I should go back to bed.

Living in Twilight

You look darkly on the day
With memories to light your way
A little sad, but it's all right
We are always living in twilight

No one knocks upon your door
Till you don't care any more
A little alone, but it's all right
We are always living in twilight

Living in a dream
Walking in between sunrise and sunset
Living in a dream
Walking in between sunset and sunrise

You get tied up in your day
So I let go and walk away
Now we're loose ends of the night
We are always living in twilight

So it goes
Till no one knows you like they used to do
Have a drink
The sky is sinking toward a deeper blue
And you're still all right
So step out into twilight

So I stumble home at night
Like I stumble through my life
With ghosts and visions in my sight
We are always living in twilight

Find the Others

Admit it. You're not like them. You may occasionally dress yourself as one of them, watch the same mindless television shows as they do, maybe even eat the same fast food sometimes. But it seems the more you try to fit in, the more you feel like an outsider, watching the "normal people" as they go about their automatic existences.

For every time you say club passwords like "Have a nice day," or "Weather's awful today, eh?" you yearn to say things like "Tell me what makes you cry," or "What do you think deja vu means?".

Face it. You even want to talk to that person in the elevator. What if they're thinking the same thing? Who knows what you might learn from taking a chance, or a conversation with a stranger?

Everyone carries a piece of the puzzle. Nobody comes into your life by mere coincidence. Trust your instincts. Do the unexpected.

Find the others.