Are we earth’s virulent virus. Is Man a virus destroying his host?
We operate under the guise that we are an advanced creature. However we do not act very advanced. We appear so insecure that if there were a more advanced creature on earth, we would have set about destroying it along time ago. The threat would have been greater than trying to understand our advanced neighbour. Like cancer our suburbs erupt, blighting a perfect landscape. Black tar and concrete oozes over pristine fields. Monoxide blankets the once clear skies. If this is evidence of advancement, then we are really just fooling ourselves. Advanced systems or species create environments of self-preservation first; this is not what mankind practice. We act more like a virus as we parasitically stifle the fragile life systems of this earth. We are hell bent on self-destruction and we are actually getting it right. Like any virus we kill our host and hope to god another one swings by before it’s to late.
Our cities verses cancer cells
When analysing mankind’s cities one cannot help but wonder how far removed they are from the beautiful landscape that used to be before the onslaught of man. Our cities ooze tar and concrete all over a once abundant life filled landscape. Where once thousands of creatures and plant life lived and died, now a fraction of different, introduced forms of life inhabit. For us to inhabit a space we change completely the natural order of the Eco system. We do not find a way around our environment; we obliterate all that was once the environment.
Man and his present system appear to be a fast killing virus. Mankind’s very small time on our earth and his ability to wipe out functioning Eco systems instantaneously, make man an extremely dangerous virus. The earth is millions of years old, with Eco systems equally as old. We have managed in a split second of time to bring these environments to there knees. Even viruses that prey on us don’t kill their host as fast. Given the age of the earth and the time man has been on earth. When comparing our life span and viruses that effect us. The virus that is man would kill us in 0.000000000001 of a second. Making us the worst form of parasite yet. As understanding increases of our fragile earth a small part of mankind is stemming the tide of wholesale abuse. Imagine if cancer had small parts of its collective that thought altruistically. We would need only to encourage the growth of that small segment of the collective in order to overcome the threat on the human body.
To bring about change in human perspective is difficult. To try and educate people to stop abusing our fragile earth is impossible. Man will always have the element of self abuse within his ranks and to try and control these individuals is not really the answer. Man will only effect change when his life or resources are coming to an end. We are simply very selfish and will only leave our ingrained habits when the water rises above our heads or the heat of our own fire starts to burn our own flesh. That moment is fast approaching.
Where to from here?
Our city architects have expounded their wisdom and our builders have touted their talents. We have many examples of mankind’s talents. Man does not try and live simply within his means. We have tar and concrete up to our eyeballs. We use every form of soap and insecticide to sanitise our already sanitised living spaces. Few cultures and human forms of life leave little or no scar on the landscape.
What is our answer?
First and foremost we need to humble ourselves and stop thinking the sun circles around us. By this I mean we need to stop thinking we are the smartest life form on the planet. If we where so smart we wouldn’t have a fraction of the problems we do. We are one of the only life form that practices wholesale abuse on an unprecedented scale. (Compared to Earth’s other passengers) If antelope or squirrels showed as huge degrees of difference between individuals, as humans do, we would have desert squirrels living at the bottom of the ocean. We have a vast amount to still learn and we need to acknowledge this lack of knowledge, unpack our existing building processes and start rebuilding our environments with the sensitivity of a few select cultures who have understood clearly our place and space in the universe.
Our structures and cladding could be a living. We could develop architecture that protects us but it itself is alive. So when this fragile structure starts dying we can immediately address the fundamental issues. The structure itself acts as a thermometer to our destructive tendencies. We need to grow our structures as a shell grows around its organism. The individual organism is responsible for its own sometimes-living shelter. When we work with organisms like the organisms creating coral in our oceans to create our shelters, we might have advanced to the next level of our survival on this planet. We might start to understand the synergy we where designed to live by.
We think to permanently about our homes. Homes must provide shelter for us today not necessarily be around in 10 000 years time. Each successive generation should have the privilege to build their own structures. Learning from past endeavours and improving on future concepts. Our structures at the moment are permanent fixtures. Along with the scar of the quarry that the stones for our homes where hewn out of. Our building materials must be alive; they must provide an unseen energy, which flows through our human experience. The only type of construction on earth I can think of at present that fits into this thought process is the polyps of coral and the small creatures that create them.
This form of construction using living building material will form an early warning system to potential environmental issues. Like the rose trees at the edge of a vineyard detect problems before the vines fail.
Mankind will reach the next level of his advancement when his energy to put back into the universe is greater than his energy to take out. We are incredibly destructive creatures who need to stop feeling where the top of the food chain and start realising we are in actual fact a very, very small part of a massive system. Of which we have not found our correct place in yet. It appears through instinct, wisdom most of the planets other passengers are able to get along without interrupting the natural flow of things. We can learn so much from systems around us – and we have the wisdom to find the best system that will best suite our needs. Unfortunately we are still quite far from this point in our history.
Quinton J Damstra
www.erxell.com
www.qjdamstra.com
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
The bird whisperer - copyright 2009
Konraad Jacobus Smit was an intensely quiet man, introspective reflective to the point of being extremely rude. To Konraad, peripheral talk did not interest him at all. He enjoyed his own company and chose not to speak, let alone meet people. The very thought left him feeling cold and in a strange way violated. His small holding was a suitable distance from the Karoo town he chose to settle in. He never received visitors and his trips to town were short and decisive. When the townsfolk tried to include him initially, many years before, he made it known in no uncertain terms, he wanted to be left alone. So for 40 years he lived off the interest of his parent’s substantial inheritance, not knowing or caring about whatever happened to the family home in Stellenbosch and the holiday homes dotted around South Africa. Konraads parents passed away disenchanted by their only son, who was lavished with attention, only to reject all emotional advances unequivocally. From a very early age he willfully shunned all forms of human interaction. Now days the only time Konraad interacted with anyone was when he gruffly walked into the institution that had been managing his financial affairs. He cared not for the entire amount or for the wealth of the full portfolio, only for that which sustained him at present. Konraad knew exactly what was happening around him, he was aware of what was expected of him. For reasons not even fully understood by himself, he just did not want to give up his thoughts, feeling that every thought or notion was a valuable piece of treasure. A treasure that would get depleted with every word carelessly spilled from his lips.
Konraad had a mysterious gift, a gift his parents could never understand. Where did Konraad receive this gift, this strange but wonderful ability. They fathomed over the meaning of Konraad’s gift, whilst he sat silently wishing only to be left alone with his thoughts. He watched owlishly the numerous professional people who tried to unpack and unpick the sacred trove of his mind. Reverting ever further inwards into the deep dark recesses of his inner sanctuary. Simply put, his strange gift was that he could call the birds. Konraad would sit outside on the grass and make a gargling rasping sound with his throat. A single bird would flop down from the sky and land close to him, not so close as to appear startling. The bird would appear drugged and confused, staring transfixed at the source of this strange sound. Within a short space of time birds would appear from all over. It wasn’t just the shear volume of birds but the variety, all mesmerized by the strange little man quietly gargling and gasping. The trees surrounding this spectacle would become heavy with birds. Konraad would tilt his beaked nose this way and that, perfectly mimicking a clucking chicken. Konraad would keep this charade going waiting for his favorite bird to make an appearance. The beautifully green malachite sunbird would dart this way and that through the throng of feathers, its beautiful plumage catching Konraad’s peripheral vision, before disappearing in another direction or behind a more drab, dull counterpart. The sunbird perfectly reflected his own mind and thoughts, with concepts racing through his mind, out of reach. Konraad read thousands of manuals for appliances, cars, "how to books", mathematical reference material and scientific journals. He would inevitably have better ideas, more advanced concepts than the ones put forward. He zealously guarded these concepts, however, squirreling them away like a crow, to be recalled at will and ripped and pulled apart at his leisure like a giant bird of prey. He would chortle and chuckle to himself , budgie like, for improving the relativity theory or a mathematical formula. He knew he had the answers sought after by the great minds of the day, but he would not impart with his nuggets. They were safely stored in the vault of his mind, never to escape the tightly sealed chasm, never to see the light of day.
There came a point in the calling of the birds that a single sunbird would hover effortlessly infront of him, beating its tiny beautiful wings thousands of times a minute. He would sustain this moment for as long as he could, all the while staring transfixed at the tiny frail bird in front of him, taking in the extraordinary beauty of this truly magnificent bird. The 2 creatures locked in a strange frozen moment , with thousands of onlookers.
As he reached out next to him, he reflected how ironic it was that he had been given this unusual gift. He continued to marvel at his ability and the trust this tiny bird put into him, a strange cold hearted creature, like a moth to a flame. Konraad was still enchanted by his extraordinary ability and the irony as he took aim at this little bird and squeezed off a single shot that exploded the entire mass of birds into a flurry of activity. The vortex of this turmoil left Konraad with the slowly fading flapping of wings and thousands of tiny feathers , mostly green, slowly , silently drifting to earth.
The "resignation of abilities" end.
Konraad had a mysterious gift, a gift his parents could never understand. Where did Konraad receive this gift, this strange but wonderful ability. They fathomed over the meaning of Konraad’s gift, whilst he sat silently wishing only to be left alone with his thoughts. He watched owlishly the numerous professional people who tried to unpack and unpick the sacred trove of his mind. Reverting ever further inwards into the deep dark recesses of his inner sanctuary. Simply put, his strange gift was that he could call the birds. Konraad would sit outside on the grass and make a gargling rasping sound with his throat. A single bird would flop down from the sky and land close to him, not so close as to appear startling. The bird would appear drugged and confused, staring transfixed at the source of this strange sound. Within a short space of time birds would appear from all over. It wasn’t just the shear volume of birds but the variety, all mesmerized by the strange little man quietly gargling and gasping. The trees surrounding this spectacle would become heavy with birds. Konraad would tilt his beaked nose this way and that, perfectly mimicking a clucking chicken. Konraad would keep this charade going waiting for his favorite bird to make an appearance. The beautifully green malachite sunbird would dart this way and that through the throng of feathers, its beautiful plumage catching Konraad’s peripheral vision, before disappearing in another direction or behind a more drab, dull counterpart. The sunbird perfectly reflected his own mind and thoughts, with concepts racing through his mind, out of reach. Konraad read thousands of manuals for appliances, cars, "how to books", mathematical reference material and scientific journals. He would inevitably have better ideas, more advanced concepts than the ones put forward. He zealously guarded these concepts, however, squirreling them away like a crow, to be recalled at will and ripped and pulled apart at his leisure like a giant bird of prey. He would chortle and chuckle to himself , budgie like, for improving the relativity theory or a mathematical formula. He knew he had the answers sought after by the great minds of the day, but he would not impart with his nuggets. They were safely stored in the vault of his mind, never to escape the tightly sealed chasm, never to see the light of day.
There came a point in the calling of the birds that a single sunbird would hover effortlessly infront of him, beating its tiny beautiful wings thousands of times a minute. He would sustain this moment for as long as he could, all the while staring transfixed at the tiny frail bird in front of him, taking in the extraordinary beauty of this truly magnificent bird. The 2 creatures locked in a strange frozen moment , with thousands of onlookers.
As he reached out next to him, he reflected how ironic it was that he had been given this unusual gift. He continued to marvel at his ability and the trust this tiny bird put into him, a strange cold hearted creature, like a moth to a flame. Konraad was still enchanted by his extraordinary ability and the irony as he took aim at this little bird and squeezed off a single shot that exploded the entire mass of birds into a flurry of activity. The vortex of this turmoil left Konraad with the slowly fading flapping of wings and thousands of tiny feathers , mostly green, slowly , silently drifting to earth.
The "resignation of abilities" end.
Monday, February 16, 2009
retribution
RETRIBUTION. – Copyright ARTSMAD PUBLICATIONS 2009
Lord Carnevon was in serious debt, the 25-year-old son of a very wealthy 17th century ship merchant, he had squandered his family’s wealth to near nothing. His family’s predicament did not really bother him, not nearly as much as the London underground who were now demanding in full their paid promises. He was starting to doubt the word of his accounts manager Ernest Smythe and his business partner Charles Radcliffe. The year was 1815 and through various missed deals, lost opportunities and shocking advice, Carnevon found himself in Ceylon India, trying to salvage the last of his father’s lucrative empire. His reputation, which was starting to precede him, stated simply that Lord Carnevon’s hands were never dirty but his heart was as black as coal. There was a certain Machiavellian imagery to this that appealed to the dark recesses of his inner being. As his financial security fell around him and his business relations dwindled, a vengeful spiteful streak started to overwhelm him becoming an all-consuming hatred. He put the blame for his financial demise at the door of his 2 closest business associates. He would stop at nothing now to see they ended up in the same foul waters he was finding himself submerged in. even if it meant getting his hands filthy dirty.
When Carnevon booked his passage back to London on the East India ship the Arniston, he knew he was facing complete financial ruin back in London. His very life would be in danger if he couldn’t manage to make good his debt. This worried him but the plotting and the scheming to undo his 2 accomplices kept him from jumping into the cool clear Indian Ocean. He already felt the cold foul waters of despair overwhelming his thoughts. So the natural extension of this was to quietly let the Indian Ocean deal with his carcass. This was a far cry better than the polluted Thames river, which had quietly received many such as himself, willing and unwilling over the years. To his mind the ocean would be a pure washing of the blackness which was overwhelming his vision, it seemed a fitting end. The first part of the journey was uneventful, however as the convoy of ships progressed, he became aware of the long tentacles of his debtors. As is always the case the bullyboys form part of the first wave of intimidation and it became apparent a ship in the middle of the Indian Ocean, was still well within reach of his other life. He was aware of being followed by someone for the last year. in a dark passage near the galley steps, his doubts were put to rest. He could talk away the bruising to the face as the ship was rolling and many a wrong foot on the stairs led to nasty injuries. So it was that Carnevon found himself in the first class lounge more often than not, raking up a debt which in itself would take years to pay back.
It was a viscous storm and a tragic event, which changed the course of his life. The Arniston broke away from the main convoy during the storm and was driven to its resting place on an impossible stretch of the South African coast . Out of the 279 passengers 6 men where reported to have survived. It was fortunate for Carnevon that he washed ashore much further down the white sandy beach. He was not alone; one of the London underground toughs had stuck to his job impeccably and had also washed up alive, nearby. Obviously Carnevon was worth a lot more alive than dead. To an observant rescuer something might have seemed amiss when a man’s body was found above the high water mark. The man had Carnevon papers in a tweed jacket 2 sizes too small for him. There was also the imprint of finger marks on his neck and the sign of a huge struggle etched in the white sand. The single set of footprints with the intermittent drops of blood leading into the dunes where quickly being erased by the wind. This was lost to the mortified rescuers who had the grim task of burying the wreck’s unfortunate passengers. The papers back in London pronounced the death of lord Carnevon who’s body is buried on a remote stretch of beach in South Africa.
The next year or 2 of Carnevon’s life was unimaginably difficult. Every step was made with the all-consuming vitriolic hatred for the men who had put him in this insufferable situation. His will for revenge was always stronger than his will to live. He learnt how to survive in the wilderness between the wreck and Cape Town. Being detected was not an option and anonimity was vital for this next phase of his life to work. The altercation in the white sands had left him with a broken nose and a ghastly slash across his face. The wound and the disfigurement untreated left him with terrible facial scars. Hardly recognizable as the once dashing Lord Carnevon he hoped to shadow back into society just long enough to inflict his venom, what happened next did not really matter. Getting back to London was never going to be easy. It was a cold June 1817 morning that saw a disheveled spectacle make its way across the Cape flats to Cape Town. By this time Carnevon was heavily bearded, a fraction of the imposing 6.2 man that had slipped from society 2 years previously.
No questions asked, none given – Carnevon started begging and eventually found casual work at the harbour as a carpenter’s assistant. He found, his grossly disfigured face prevented people from asking questions, being to embarrassed too look at him, let alone engage him in conversation. This suited him just fine, Carnevon slowly built up his financial resources, he also to his own amazement became an excellent ships carpenter. And his skills became needed on most of the new ships calling into port. It still was his absolute hatred that kept him from slipping into the cold waters of the Atlantic harbour sea port. It was the year 1825 and carnevon now Jack Smith had amassed a tidy sum and a solid reputation. In the Vasco Da Gama pub which he frequented he had actually made a few valuable friends. He found he enjoyed the hard work, which often took his mind from his one and only mission. It was a July morning when he lit upon the face of Sophia. She was a beautiful woman; her eyes sparkled with her smile. Surprising even himself with the vitriolic hatred that cursed through his veins was what now seemed to be the capacity within all this to discover an equal but opposite capacity to love? He found himself staring and thinking of her obsessively. She worked as a maid for a wealthy British family near the docks, when Jack did eventually engage with her, she appeared to look past his appearance and became a genuine confidant. A spoilt, self-obsessed man such as Carnevon lacked the capacity to see beyond himself. But lowly Jack Smith, disfigured and disheveled was capable of turning a black heart red. The days were spent working and thinking of his new obsession. His previous reason for living was shoved to the back of his mind. He was actually becoming happy and contented, he was definitly going to ask for the hand of Sophia and he knew she would say yes. If it were’nt for the arrival of the 20 gun British man o war ship, HMS Martin, Jack Smith would have probably moved on from his vendetta in London and lived an accomplished simple life as a ship’s carpenter with his beautiful young bride.
The HMS Martin was a British man of war ship, which arrived in the Cape on her way to Australia, in 1826. She needed a few carpentry repairs. Jack Smith was the expert carpenter chosen to oversee the reparations. Normally a man o war does not take on passengers but whilst working near the captains cabin Jack heard recognizable voices. The HMS Martin was secretly carrying 3 passengers to Australia. Now usually this would not concern him or even bother him. However in this case 2 of the passenger’s voices were well known to Carnevon. Whilst working undetected in the cabin next door, Carnevon over- heard their mission. Smythe and Radcliffe were on a top secret mission for Her Majesty to infiltrate the Australian underground. It appeared both were Queen’s men and infiltrating established crime sindicates was their job.
Carnevon’s rage went to a white-hot level. All the hatred and vitriol solidified in his cursed veins. He needed a plan; he needed retribution, he wanted revenge. He carried on the repairs as best he could; he had no worry of bumping into Smythe and Radcliffe, if that was really their names. They were well hidden and it was fortuitous he had stumbled upon their meeting with the captain. His nights were spent conceiving his plan. It all came to him simply enough, he would sabotage the ship. It seemed the entire British fraternity conspired against him. It was fitting that the establishment would pay in full for their deed. Being an expert carpenter he felt he could undetected weaken areas of the ship’s woodwork. In so doing the first big storm would send her to a watery grave almost immediately. This was a suitable end , which almost mirrored his own previous demise perfectly.
The last part of his plan would need to be done just before the ship sailed , he wanted to weaken the rigging on the main mast. He planned to sneak on board late at night and do the necessary and then slip into the shadowy night undetected. He would then comfortably resume his Jack Smith persona, marry and live happy and contented for the rest of his life.
Carnevon gathered his bag of tools and headed for his date with destiny. He had a jaunt in his step and the air was crisp and clear. He loved Cape Town at this time of year, he loved being here and he loved Sophia. His life was good and once he had accomplished this sinister deed he would symbolically remove the foul, wretched stench of Carnevon from his memory forever. Approaching the docks he thought he heard a noise behind him. Turning around he saw a harbour rat the size of a small cat slip into the black water. Creeping on board was easy, as the men had exhausted themselves in preparation for the huge ocean crossing. Carnevon set about sabotaging the key areas of the rigging. It was early morning as he slipped over the side, dropping into the harbour waters. The cold Atlantic Ocean seemed to cleanse and cool his hatred and as he stepped on shore he was now completely the phoenix - Jack Smith.
Jack watched the HMS Martin set sail that early 1826 morning. A wry smile pursed his lips. He watched her from Signal Hill and once she had disappeared from sight he left to go find his true love. He had a tidy sum of money stashed away; they would live in a cottage he had been eyeing near the harbour, kids would be great and maybe a dog. Life was really good that morning; Jack Smith was a truly contented man. The bones, the rancid flesh of Lord Carnevon had now been laid to rest forever.
If you walk up near the top of Signal Hill, there is a lone tree set apart from the rest. It is a gnarled twisted tree, grown in an impossible spot, exposed to the harsh Cape storms and searing African sun. The seedling had been put into fine soil but as nature would have it, it had been washed into this impossible spot, growing into this hideous apparition you will now see before you. If you look very carefully at the branch facing the setting sun, you used to be able to see a rope burn, but that I think has grown over now.
In late 1826, the accountant Willaby Smythe and businessman Charles Radcliffe still in London, read a very confusing note sent from the Cape. The note simply read, "your voices now over whelm my every waking moment". Signed Carnevon. Smythe threw the garbled note in the bin – slowly recalling a distant business acquaintance called Carnevon, who recklessly squandered his family assets.
You see, Jack Smith made his way to Sophia’s house in the Bo Kaap full of expectation, her mother was surprised, shocked to see him. She informed him that she had said goodbye to Sophia early that morning. She said Sophia had followed him to the docks the previous night, she had seen his travel bag and she couldn’t bear the thought of him leaving without her. She had rushed back and packed a few things and said she would stow herself away on the HMS Martin. She was prepared to travel to the ends of the earth, where-ever in fact, Jack Smith might go.
The end
Shipwrecks along the South African coast. – parts of this story are true -
It is not only the Waratah that went to a mysterious watery grave along the SA coast. Numerous other ships have completely vanished along this treacherous stretch of coast. The HMS Martin was one of the first large ships to disappear without a trace after leaving Cape Town harbor in 1826 on her way to Australia. The wreck of the Arniston claimed 273 lives in 1815 with only 6 known survivors. 25 of the victims were regretably children.
Lord Carnevon was in serious debt, the 25-year-old son of a very wealthy 17th century ship merchant, he had squandered his family’s wealth to near nothing. His family’s predicament did not really bother him, not nearly as much as the London underground who were now demanding in full their paid promises. He was starting to doubt the word of his accounts manager Ernest Smythe and his business partner Charles Radcliffe. The year was 1815 and through various missed deals, lost opportunities and shocking advice, Carnevon found himself in Ceylon India, trying to salvage the last of his father’s lucrative empire. His reputation, which was starting to precede him, stated simply that Lord Carnevon’s hands were never dirty but his heart was as black as coal. There was a certain Machiavellian imagery to this that appealed to the dark recesses of his inner being. As his financial security fell around him and his business relations dwindled, a vengeful spiteful streak started to overwhelm him becoming an all-consuming hatred. He put the blame for his financial demise at the door of his 2 closest business associates. He would stop at nothing now to see they ended up in the same foul waters he was finding himself submerged in. even if it meant getting his hands filthy dirty.
When Carnevon booked his passage back to London on the East India ship the Arniston, he knew he was facing complete financial ruin back in London. His very life would be in danger if he couldn’t manage to make good his debt. This worried him but the plotting and the scheming to undo his 2 accomplices kept him from jumping into the cool clear Indian Ocean. He already felt the cold foul waters of despair overwhelming his thoughts. So the natural extension of this was to quietly let the Indian Ocean deal with his carcass. This was a far cry better than the polluted Thames river, which had quietly received many such as himself, willing and unwilling over the years. To his mind the ocean would be a pure washing of the blackness which was overwhelming his vision, it seemed a fitting end. The first part of the journey was uneventful, however as the convoy of ships progressed, he became aware of the long tentacles of his debtors. As is always the case the bullyboys form part of the first wave of intimidation and it became apparent a ship in the middle of the Indian Ocean, was still well within reach of his other life. He was aware of being followed by someone for the last year. in a dark passage near the galley steps, his doubts were put to rest. He could talk away the bruising to the face as the ship was rolling and many a wrong foot on the stairs led to nasty injuries. So it was that Carnevon found himself in the first class lounge more often than not, raking up a debt which in itself would take years to pay back.
It was a viscous storm and a tragic event, which changed the course of his life. The Arniston broke away from the main convoy during the storm and was driven to its resting place on an impossible stretch of the South African coast . Out of the 279 passengers 6 men where reported to have survived. It was fortunate for Carnevon that he washed ashore much further down the white sandy beach. He was not alone; one of the London underground toughs had stuck to his job impeccably and had also washed up alive, nearby. Obviously Carnevon was worth a lot more alive than dead. To an observant rescuer something might have seemed amiss when a man’s body was found above the high water mark. The man had Carnevon papers in a tweed jacket 2 sizes too small for him. There was also the imprint of finger marks on his neck and the sign of a huge struggle etched in the white sand. The single set of footprints with the intermittent drops of blood leading into the dunes where quickly being erased by the wind. This was lost to the mortified rescuers who had the grim task of burying the wreck’s unfortunate passengers. The papers back in London pronounced the death of lord Carnevon who’s body is buried on a remote stretch of beach in South Africa.
The next year or 2 of Carnevon’s life was unimaginably difficult. Every step was made with the all-consuming vitriolic hatred for the men who had put him in this insufferable situation. His will for revenge was always stronger than his will to live. He learnt how to survive in the wilderness between the wreck and Cape Town. Being detected was not an option and anonimity was vital for this next phase of his life to work. The altercation in the white sands had left him with a broken nose and a ghastly slash across his face. The wound and the disfigurement untreated left him with terrible facial scars. Hardly recognizable as the once dashing Lord Carnevon he hoped to shadow back into society just long enough to inflict his venom, what happened next did not really matter. Getting back to London was never going to be easy. It was a cold June 1817 morning that saw a disheveled spectacle make its way across the Cape flats to Cape Town. By this time Carnevon was heavily bearded, a fraction of the imposing 6.2 man that had slipped from society 2 years previously.
No questions asked, none given – Carnevon started begging and eventually found casual work at the harbour as a carpenter’s assistant. He found, his grossly disfigured face prevented people from asking questions, being to embarrassed too look at him, let alone engage him in conversation. This suited him just fine, Carnevon slowly built up his financial resources, he also to his own amazement became an excellent ships carpenter. And his skills became needed on most of the new ships calling into port. It still was his absolute hatred that kept him from slipping into the cold waters of the Atlantic harbour sea port. It was the year 1825 and carnevon now Jack Smith had amassed a tidy sum and a solid reputation. In the Vasco Da Gama pub which he frequented he had actually made a few valuable friends. He found he enjoyed the hard work, which often took his mind from his one and only mission. It was a July morning when he lit upon the face of Sophia. She was a beautiful woman; her eyes sparkled with her smile. Surprising even himself with the vitriolic hatred that cursed through his veins was what now seemed to be the capacity within all this to discover an equal but opposite capacity to love? He found himself staring and thinking of her obsessively. She worked as a maid for a wealthy British family near the docks, when Jack did eventually engage with her, she appeared to look past his appearance and became a genuine confidant. A spoilt, self-obsessed man such as Carnevon lacked the capacity to see beyond himself. But lowly Jack Smith, disfigured and disheveled was capable of turning a black heart red. The days were spent working and thinking of his new obsession. His previous reason for living was shoved to the back of his mind. He was actually becoming happy and contented, he was definitly going to ask for the hand of Sophia and he knew she would say yes. If it were’nt for the arrival of the 20 gun British man o war ship, HMS Martin, Jack Smith would have probably moved on from his vendetta in London and lived an accomplished simple life as a ship’s carpenter with his beautiful young bride.
The HMS Martin was a British man of war ship, which arrived in the Cape on her way to Australia, in 1826. She needed a few carpentry repairs. Jack Smith was the expert carpenter chosen to oversee the reparations. Normally a man o war does not take on passengers but whilst working near the captains cabin Jack heard recognizable voices. The HMS Martin was secretly carrying 3 passengers to Australia. Now usually this would not concern him or even bother him. However in this case 2 of the passenger’s voices were well known to Carnevon. Whilst working undetected in the cabin next door, Carnevon over- heard their mission. Smythe and Radcliffe were on a top secret mission for Her Majesty to infiltrate the Australian underground. It appeared both were Queen’s men and infiltrating established crime sindicates was their job.
Carnevon’s rage went to a white-hot level. All the hatred and vitriol solidified in his cursed veins. He needed a plan; he needed retribution, he wanted revenge. He carried on the repairs as best he could; he had no worry of bumping into Smythe and Radcliffe, if that was really their names. They were well hidden and it was fortuitous he had stumbled upon their meeting with the captain. His nights were spent conceiving his plan. It all came to him simply enough, he would sabotage the ship. It seemed the entire British fraternity conspired against him. It was fitting that the establishment would pay in full for their deed. Being an expert carpenter he felt he could undetected weaken areas of the ship’s woodwork. In so doing the first big storm would send her to a watery grave almost immediately. This was a suitable end , which almost mirrored his own previous demise perfectly.
The last part of his plan would need to be done just before the ship sailed , he wanted to weaken the rigging on the main mast. He planned to sneak on board late at night and do the necessary and then slip into the shadowy night undetected. He would then comfortably resume his Jack Smith persona, marry and live happy and contented for the rest of his life.
Carnevon gathered his bag of tools and headed for his date with destiny. He had a jaunt in his step and the air was crisp and clear. He loved Cape Town at this time of year, he loved being here and he loved Sophia. His life was good and once he had accomplished this sinister deed he would symbolically remove the foul, wretched stench of Carnevon from his memory forever. Approaching the docks he thought he heard a noise behind him. Turning around he saw a harbour rat the size of a small cat slip into the black water. Creeping on board was easy, as the men had exhausted themselves in preparation for the huge ocean crossing. Carnevon set about sabotaging the key areas of the rigging. It was early morning as he slipped over the side, dropping into the harbour waters. The cold Atlantic Ocean seemed to cleanse and cool his hatred and as he stepped on shore he was now completely the phoenix - Jack Smith.
Jack watched the HMS Martin set sail that early 1826 morning. A wry smile pursed his lips. He watched her from Signal Hill and once she had disappeared from sight he left to go find his true love. He had a tidy sum of money stashed away; they would live in a cottage he had been eyeing near the harbour, kids would be great and maybe a dog. Life was really good that morning; Jack Smith was a truly contented man. The bones, the rancid flesh of Lord Carnevon had now been laid to rest forever.
If you walk up near the top of Signal Hill, there is a lone tree set apart from the rest. It is a gnarled twisted tree, grown in an impossible spot, exposed to the harsh Cape storms and searing African sun. The seedling had been put into fine soil but as nature would have it, it had been washed into this impossible spot, growing into this hideous apparition you will now see before you. If you look very carefully at the branch facing the setting sun, you used to be able to see a rope burn, but that I think has grown over now.
In late 1826, the accountant Willaby Smythe and businessman Charles Radcliffe still in London, read a very confusing note sent from the Cape. The note simply read, "your voices now over whelm my every waking moment". Signed Carnevon. Smythe threw the garbled note in the bin – slowly recalling a distant business acquaintance called Carnevon, who recklessly squandered his family assets.
You see, Jack Smith made his way to Sophia’s house in the Bo Kaap full of expectation, her mother was surprised, shocked to see him. She informed him that she had said goodbye to Sophia early that morning. She said Sophia had followed him to the docks the previous night, she had seen his travel bag and she couldn’t bear the thought of him leaving without her. She had rushed back and packed a few things and said she would stow herself away on the HMS Martin. She was prepared to travel to the ends of the earth, where-ever in fact, Jack Smith might go.
The end
Shipwrecks along the South African coast. – parts of this story are true -
It is not only the Waratah that went to a mysterious watery grave along the SA coast. Numerous other ships have completely vanished along this treacherous stretch of coast. The HMS Martin was one of the first large ships to disappear without a trace after leaving Cape Town harbor in 1826 on her way to Australia. The wreck of the Arniston claimed 273 lives in 1815 with only 6 known survivors. 25 of the victims were regretably children.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
AN EATING PROPS - SPOTLIGHT ON - copyright
I am a veteran of 70 film shoots over 2yrs and now as a very much retired movie extra I have decided to lift the lid, shine the spotlight on my experiences on a few of Cape Towns film sets.
For the first time in my life I can now understand the concept of a pecking order , the feudal system, dictatorial governments and Robert Mugabe. On some shoots as an extra you are nothing more than an eating prop , a necessary nuisance - must be seen and not heard. You are basically the meat and you have absolutely no rights what so ever. Your basic human dignity is left at the set door, to be picked up pummeled and battered on your way out.
The pecking order consists of an 18 yr old Pol Potted, wrangler who has somehow walked past a branded clothing vending cannon. Each item of hugely expensive clothing flung or shot onto his body at great speed . Creating a very desired wrangler effect of an expensive bush backwards. when this person tells you to jump , you jump so high you get the bends. It doesn't matter that your 32 years old, married , have 2 kids and at the moment are dressed in wardrobe that makes you look like Donald Trumps straggly toupee hair in a howling blithering south easter.
I found the big shoots the worst sets to be on. over 2000 extras bussed on set from far and wide . All excitedly meeting at 2 in the morning to be whisked away on one of 36 busses to a secret squirrel location. The battery chicken hocks we passed on our long trip to the set looked very interesting, almost inviting. We would spend up to 14 hours on set - cooking in the sun, asking the same question - "when we going to wrap, when we going to wrap?"
An interesting anomaly was when one of your extra buddies, a comrade in the trenches got promoted to featured extra. They immediately and without fail crossed over to the dark side instantly. Some people can go from humble, normal movie extra to snooty fruity high and mighty featured extra at the drop of the following sentence. "hay! you there , come stand next to Heinz wrinkly ----- NOW !!!"
And whilst they are languishing in palm frond heaven , you are left feeling like Cinderella waiting for your glass slipper to be found. Unfortunately I was never a featured movie extra, although my big toe , pinky finger and left ear are splashed across your TV screens from time to time. My kids bask in my featured appendage glory and my pinky finger signs autographs noun again. The little git actually feels like a celebrity.
On one set we where driven out to the Atlantis dunes , squeezed into a black wetsuit and unceremoniously escorted to the middle of the dessert. All 40 extras at 40 degrees. What awaited us was something out of a Ryder Haggard novel. A director sitting in an air conditioned cubicle barking instructions to the wranglers for us to prance, march, dance and star jump in the extremely hot sun. After 6 hours of this little spectacle and feeling like Henri Charriere afloat on the Caribbean sea. I was about to start the first ever South African extra revolt. because this involved toi toing, I didn’t. (incidentally South African extras are remarkably tolerant and obedient). When all of a sardine a very angry 18 to 25 year old wrangler mob , accused us of collectively master minding a wetsuit hood heist. Where we would put a hoodie in a skin tight wetsuit I don’t know. I stared in disbelief and amazement as all my rights and human dignity evaporated in the hot sun. The mob did not realize that the theft would have been a hobbit miracle under the watchful eye of Sarumaan in his air conditioned cubicle, on the dune. Anyway we where briskly frog marched back to the busses, where for 2 hours we had to individually go fetch our personal belongings off the bus and parade it in front of the newly formed inquisition. Which consisted of the bush back wards wrangler brigade and the assistant director. I did hear a few snickers from the dead pan inquisition when my sons Batman undies had some how landed amongst my early morning stuff as I stampeded out the house at 1 in the morning. I was a little embarrassed as im a Spiderman kind of a chap myself. It was eventually found that the hoods never left the Cape Town film studio and just before the triggers where pulled and the nooses tightened, we where prodded back on set with no apology given, non expected , for more of the same R200 a day torture. Incidentally I can do a mean dry wetsuit star jump in 40 degrees heat, thick sand, lots of rolled eye shouting and no water.
Those are the days I think of when Im feeling very stressed. - funny thing is I don't ever use that international product I sweated for. When I see it lurking up behind me on a super market shelf, I literally break out in a cold sweat and I automatically check all my pockets in case a wetsuit hood has found its way there.
I suppose on most sets I enjoyed my experiences even with the few power hungry set officials. ranging from directors to wardrobe ladies to featured models and artists. They still didn't overwhelm the genuine folk I worked with and for in this interesting field. My toes still curl when I walk past a craft table or set toilet watching some old, some new faces being herded from one small space to the next. I cant help musing that South African extras are remarkably tolerant and obedient prey for the capitalist giants advertising machine. Cattle, communist Russia and Orwell all surprisingly spring to mind at these very emotional moments. The perfect fusion of communism in its raw capitalist form.
Being a movie extra with absolutely no rights was a very humbling experience – which I hope never, ever to repeat for as long as we all shall live.
THE END – copyright Quinton J Damstra
For the first time in my life I can now understand the concept of a pecking order , the feudal system, dictatorial governments and Robert Mugabe. On some shoots as an extra you are nothing more than an eating prop , a necessary nuisance - must be seen and not heard. You are basically the meat and you have absolutely no rights what so ever. Your basic human dignity is left at the set door, to be picked up pummeled and battered on your way out.
The pecking order consists of an 18 yr old Pol Potted, wrangler who has somehow walked past a branded clothing vending cannon. Each item of hugely expensive clothing flung or shot onto his body at great speed . Creating a very desired wrangler effect of an expensive bush backwards. when this person tells you to jump , you jump so high you get the bends. It doesn't matter that your 32 years old, married , have 2 kids and at the moment are dressed in wardrobe that makes you look like Donald Trumps straggly toupee hair in a howling blithering south easter.
I found the big shoots the worst sets to be on. over 2000 extras bussed on set from far and wide . All excitedly meeting at 2 in the morning to be whisked away on one of 36 busses to a secret squirrel location. The battery chicken hocks we passed on our long trip to the set looked very interesting, almost inviting. We would spend up to 14 hours on set - cooking in the sun, asking the same question - "when we going to wrap, when we going to wrap?"
An interesting anomaly was when one of your extra buddies, a comrade in the trenches got promoted to featured extra. They immediately and without fail crossed over to the dark side instantly. Some people can go from humble, normal movie extra to snooty fruity high and mighty featured extra at the drop of the following sentence. "hay! you there , come stand next to Heinz wrinkly ----- NOW !!!"
And whilst they are languishing in palm frond heaven , you are left feeling like Cinderella waiting for your glass slipper to be found. Unfortunately I was never a featured movie extra, although my big toe , pinky finger and left ear are splashed across your TV screens from time to time. My kids bask in my featured appendage glory and my pinky finger signs autographs noun again. The little git actually feels like a celebrity.
On one set we where driven out to the Atlantis dunes , squeezed into a black wetsuit and unceremoniously escorted to the middle of the dessert. All 40 extras at 40 degrees. What awaited us was something out of a Ryder Haggard novel. A director sitting in an air conditioned cubicle barking instructions to the wranglers for us to prance, march, dance and star jump in the extremely hot sun. After 6 hours of this little spectacle and feeling like Henri Charriere afloat on the Caribbean sea. I was about to start the first ever South African extra revolt. because this involved toi toing, I didn’t. (incidentally South African extras are remarkably tolerant and obedient). When all of a sardine a very angry 18 to 25 year old wrangler mob , accused us of collectively master minding a wetsuit hood heist. Where we would put a hoodie in a skin tight wetsuit I don’t know. I stared in disbelief and amazement as all my rights and human dignity evaporated in the hot sun. The mob did not realize that the theft would have been a hobbit miracle under the watchful eye of Sarumaan in his air conditioned cubicle, on the dune. Anyway we where briskly frog marched back to the busses, where for 2 hours we had to individually go fetch our personal belongings off the bus and parade it in front of the newly formed inquisition. Which consisted of the bush back wards wrangler brigade and the assistant director. I did hear a few snickers from the dead pan inquisition when my sons Batman undies had some how landed amongst my early morning stuff as I stampeded out the house at 1 in the morning. I was a little embarrassed as im a Spiderman kind of a chap myself. It was eventually found that the hoods never left the Cape Town film studio and just before the triggers where pulled and the nooses tightened, we where prodded back on set with no apology given, non expected , for more of the same R200 a day torture. Incidentally I can do a mean dry wetsuit star jump in 40 degrees heat, thick sand, lots of rolled eye shouting and no water.
Those are the days I think of when Im feeling very stressed. - funny thing is I don't ever use that international product I sweated for. When I see it lurking up behind me on a super market shelf, I literally break out in a cold sweat and I automatically check all my pockets in case a wetsuit hood has found its way there.
I suppose on most sets I enjoyed my experiences even with the few power hungry set officials. ranging from directors to wardrobe ladies to featured models and artists. They still didn't overwhelm the genuine folk I worked with and for in this interesting field. My toes still curl when I walk past a craft table or set toilet watching some old, some new faces being herded from one small space to the next. I cant help musing that South African extras are remarkably tolerant and obedient prey for the capitalist giants advertising machine. Cattle, communist Russia and Orwell all surprisingly spring to mind at these very emotional moments. The perfect fusion of communism in its raw capitalist form.
Being a movie extra with absolutely no rights was a very humbling experience – which I hope never, ever to repeat for as long as we all shall live.
THE END – copyright Quinton J Damstra
UNISEX TOILETS - copyright
As society supposedly evolves and issues dissipate into everyday life. I just want it to be known I QJD say NO to unisex toilets, a resounding unequivocal NO!
I know it’s very fashionable in some society's to embrace this little bodily exercise liberally. I.E. urinals that have the guy’s head and feet showing on a busy intersection say the corner of Loop and Long Street. Although it might be very liberating for some guys to express themselves in the open like this. Making eye contact with people at the same time is definitely not my idea of being liberated. (Acute wierdonitus springs to mind)
My little story on why I feel so strongly on this subject unfolded in one of these liberal restaurants. Although my head and feet were not showing whilst I was busy - I still felt similarly vulnerable.
The restaurant was pleasant enough with candles, mood music and a not too friendly waiter. The evening was shared with my family in-law and my wife. We were celebrating the usual family experiences one has when plowing through life. (For me, it was my daughter losing her Ken Barbie - yippee, I personally had nothing to do with it but I think prince Stephan Barbie is next to go walkabout - I will slowly introduce action man as part of my master plan)
I needed the loo after a beer or 2 and was slightly taken aback that there was no obvious men's and ladies signs. I was a little more surprised when I found the toilet facilities lurking behind a flimsy screen wall. No door to the wash basin area and a biggish loo which obviously had a door. All very new age vogues, fairy whistle-stop if you ask me.
Anyhow I did have the presence of mind to lock the door firmly behind me. I was doing what I set out to do when I heard ladies voices outside. It was a giggle of ladies, so I'm guessing about 3. I went into stealth mode immediately. A fairly advanced tactical maneuver - that is I stopped aiming for the middle and started concentrating on the side of the bowl - far less noisy. This technique requires considerably more skill, especially after 2 beers and should not be tried at home. It was only at this moment I realized the toilet was filthy dirty! the previous 20 patrons could have been men or to my mind the notorious non gender sprinkle gnome. Although it is urban legend that men can not aim properly , by the evidence in this loo , these ladies would have enough evidence to put me away for life - castrated. I was also becoming acutely aware of the smell and the vast mounts of wet bog roll on the floor. Evidence, mounting, stressed Eric - I by default upon stepping out the door took ownership of creating all this filth - that’s how I felt after 2 beers anyway – after 3 it would not have bothered me.
Now for the ladies let me explain the rule of law in the guy’s loo. We are confronted with this situation all the time in our territory. You finish your business in the loo, walk out and you can look the next toilet user in the eye if you like and challenge him to a,"yes the loo's a mess but you are welcome to try and prove it was all me." You can then do one of 2 things, mimic a head butt (2 is good -not too much of a point) or you can give the Neanderthal look, which only a few alpha males have properly mastered. I know at this stage the ladies are finding all this guy stuff highly advanced. And there is no pressure to understand the dynamics, simply put, read very slowly for emphasis- its a very tough sort of look, theirs no flowery mumbo jumbo.
Anyway getting back to my giggle of ladies outside the liberated freaking toilet door.
My dilemma not at all an easy one, my mind was racing what do I do hotshot, what do I do? . Do I try the Neanderthal look - which would definitely not be understood? That approach would just put my face on the 'notorious sprinkle gnome" for these ladies. I could open the door and point out the fact that as I am taking medicine, the now very yellow water all in the bowl certainly does not match the 20 color variant puddles on the toilet seat. I could offer to go get my antibiotics and vitamins from my car as exhibit a and b.
Or I could do something I have never even remotely considered until this moment. CLEAN THE FREAKING LIBERATED PUBLIC LOO AFTER USING IT. First thing which was easy is I opened the window wide. Next the toilet seat - and it was at this moment whilst cleaning someone else's mess on the seat - I suddenly, very briefly I must add, identified with women worldwide. You see we have a disgusting, worthless sprinkle gnome that plagues our house and I am going to have to clobber the filthy varmint soon, as it always gets me into big trouble with my wife and daughter. It cleverly only operates at night, so catching it will require cunning and serious patience.
On with my dilemma - as I started rolling up my sleeves to clean the wet bog roll, there was a nervous giggly knock at the door. I didn't realize that to anyone on the other side there where loud clanging and clunking noises going on - the giggle girls probably thought I was R2D2 in the house. LITERALLY _ the freaking liberated bog house.
Well after another 5 minutes of cleaning the floor to a reasonable level, I stood back and admired my bog cleaning skills. As a pseudo perfectionist I was about to start taking off the vile graffiti and to space plan the room better. When there was another more agitated less giggly knock at the door. I then realized it was pedantic to actually try spacing plan the room, as I would have to go fetch my leatherman. Which was surprisingly in the car and the window was to small for me to fit through.
When I eventually opened the door, I had this proud look on my face. I almost stood back and swept my arm out to show my first time ever accomplishment. All my hard work was so wasted and lost on this unappreciative bunch. As the moment I stepped out the door, 3 ladies, no giggling lots of bad ass glaring herded them selves into the cubicle and slammed the door emphatically shut. After a few seconds resuming absolute normal conversation. Now theirs a bit of ladies logic for you which could take a lifetime analyzing - woman are talking, laughing, chatting, swapping recipes, giggling all together in 1 toilet cubicle. Whilst men are strictly business at the urinal, look ahead and definitely no sideways peaking – this is an unwritten rule of the jungle respected by 95% of guys universally.
Well back to my main point - there are something's in the universe not to fiddle with and it’s to my mind men's and ladies loos are one of them. Up there with cloning - imagine 50 Donald trumps with trumped up hairdos stalking around firing people. So lets keep the little gender mysteries, mysteries. As for me I will petition to the end of the earth if unisex loos become a more definite threat. I will beat my chest, huff and puff, do the Hakka, and beat my chest. Or ladies better just learn to understand the Neanderthal look. wanting to have a sprinkle gnome witch hunt at every restaurant with this arrangement. I can imagine it now, a gaggle of ladies starting a kangaroo court near the door, surveying suspiciously the list of suspects. The shifty eyed guy in the corner or the guy who obviously didn't wash his hands, the guy clinking money in his pockets, the oak with the hat, urine samples, DNA testing, castration, out of flipping control man!
Please stop the madness of innocents like me being pier pressured or gender bashed into cleaning public loos.
Call 555 555 to place a confidential vote to n.w.t.u.t .com (no way to unisex toilets) or for free lessons on male Neanderthal telepathy (basic, advanced, super advanced, beyond s.a, doctorate level, beyond d.l, arnold swartzenative level - Konan level. Zen level, beyond Zen, Ube Zen times 2, super duper advanced X 10)
Before I forget anyone wanting to buy cheap a Ken and or Prince Stephan Barbie – let me know.
THE END copyright - Quinton J Damstra
I know it’s very fashionable in some society's to embrace this little bodily exercise liberally. I.E. urinals that have the guy’s head and feet showing on a busy intersection say the corner of Loop and Long Street. Although it might be very liberating for some guys to express themselves in the open like this. Making eye contact with people at the same time is definitely not my idea of being liberated. (Acute wierdonitus springs to mind)
My little story on why I feel so strongly on this subject unfolded in one of these liberal restaurants. Although my head and feet were not showing whilst I was busy - I still felt similarly vulnerable.
The restaurant was pleasant enough with candles, mood music and a not too friendly waiter. The evening was shared with my family in-law and my wife. We were celebrating the usual family experiences one has when plowing through life. (For me, it was my daughter losing her Ken Barbie - yippee, I personally had nothing to do with it but I think prince Stephan Barbie is next to go walkabout - I will slowly introduce action man as part of my master plan)
I needed the loo after a beer or 2 and was slightly taken aback that there was no obvious men's and ladies signs. I was a little more surprised when I found the toilet facilities lurking behind a flimsy screen wall. No door to the wash basin area and a biggish loo which obviously had a door. All very new age vogues, fairy whistle-stop if you ask me.
Anyhow I did have the presence of mind to lock the door firmly behind me. I was doing what I set out to do when I heard ladies voices outside. It was a giggle of ladies, so I'm guessing about 3. I went into stealth mode immediately. A fairly advanced tactical maneuver - that is I stopped aiming for the middle and started concentrating on the side of the bowl - far less noisy. This technique requires considerably more skill, especially after 2 beers and should not be tried at home. It was only at this moment I realized the toilet was filthy dirty! the previous 20 patrons could have been men or to my mind the notorious non gender sprinkle gnome. Although it is urban legend that men can not aim properly , by the evidence in this loo , these ladies would have enough evidence to put me away for life - castrated. I was also becoming acutely aware of the smell and the vast mounts of wet bog roll on the floor. Evidence, mounting, stressed Eric - I by default upon stepping out the door took ownership of creating all this filth - that’s how I felt after 2 beers anyway – after 3 it would not have bothered me.
Now for the ladies let me explain the rule of law in the guy’s loo. We are confronted with this situation all the time in our territory. You finish your business in the loo, walk out and you can look the next toilet user in the eye if you like and challenge him to a,"yes the loo's a mess but you are welcome to try and prove it was all me." You can then do one of 2 things, mimic a head butt (2 is good -not too much of a point) or you can give the Neanderthal look, which only a few alpha males have properly mastered. I know at this stage the ladies are finding all this guy stuff highly advanced. And there is no pressure to understand the dynamics, simply put, read very slowly for emphasis- its a very tough sort of look, theirs no flowery mumbo jumbo.
Anyway getting back to my giggle of ladies outside the liberated freaking toilet door.
My dilemma not at all an easy one, my mind was racing what do I do hotshot, what do I do? . Do I try the Neanderthal look - which would definitely not be understood? That approach would just put my face on the 'notorious sprinkle gnome" for these ladies. I could open the door and point out the fact that as I am taking medicine, the now very yellow water all in the bowl certainly does not match the 20 color variant puddles on the toilet seat. I could offer to go get my antibiotics and vitamins from my car as exhibit a and b.
Or I could do something I have never even remotely considered until this moment. CLEAN THE FREAKING LIBERATED PUBLIC LOO AFTER USING IT. First thing which was easy is I opened the window wide. Next the toilet seat - and it was at this moment whilst cleaning someone else's mess on the seat - I suddenly, very briefly I must add, identified with women worldwide. You see we have a disgusting, worthless sprinkle gnome that plagues our house and I am going to have to clobber the filthy varmint soon, as it always gets me into big trouble with my wife and daughter. It cleverly only operates at night, so catching it will require cunning and serious patience.
On with my dilemma - as I started rolling up my sleeves to clean the wet bog roll, there was a nervous giggly knock at the door. I didn't realize that to anyone on the other side there where loud clanging and clunking noises going on - the giggle girls probably thought I was R2D2 in the house. LITERALLY _ the freaking liberated bog house.
Well after another 5 minutes of cleaning the floor to a reasonable level, I stood back and admired my bog cleaning skills. As a pseudo perfectionist I was about to start taking off the vile graffiti and to space plan the room better. When there was another more agitated less giggly knock at the door. I then realized it was pedantic to actually try spacing plan the room, as I would have to go fetch my leatherman. Which was surprisingly in the car and the window was to small for me to fit through.
When I eventually opened the door, I had this proud look on my face. I almost stood back and swept my arm out to show my first time ever accomplishment. All my hard work was so wasted and lost on this unappreciative bunch. As the moment I stepped out the door, 3 ladies, no giggling lots of bad ass glaring herded them selves into the cubicle and slammed the door emphatically shut. After a few seconds resuming absolute normal conversation. Now theirs a bit of ladies logic for you which could take a lifetime analyzing - woman are talking, laughing, chatting, swapping recipes, giggling all together in 1 toilet cubicle. Whilst men are strictly business at the urinal, look ahead and definitely no sideways peaking – this is an unwritten rule of the jungle respected by 95% of guys universally.
Well back to my main point - there are something's in the universe not to fiddle with and it’s to my mind men's and ladies loos are one of them. Up there with cloning - imagine 50 Donald trumps with trumped up hairdos stalking around firing people. So lets keep the little gender mysteries, mysteries. As for me I will petition to the end of the earth if unisex loos become a more definite threat. I will beat my chest, huff and puff, do the Hakka, and beat my chest. Or ladies better just learn to understand the Neanderthal look. wanting to have a sprinkle gnome witch hunt at every restaurant with this arrangement. I can imagine it now, a gaggle of ladies starting a kangaroo court near the door, surveying suspiciously the list of suspects. The shifty eyed guy in the corner or the guy who obviously didn't wash his hands, the guy clinking money in his pockets, the oak with the hat, urine samples, DNA testing, castration, out of flipping control man!
Please stop the madness of innocents like me being pier pressured or gender bashed into cleaning public loos.
Call 555 555 to place a confidential vote to n.w.t.u.t .com (no way to unisex toilets) or for free lessons on male Neanderthal telepathy (basic, advanced, super advanced, beyond s.a, doctorate level, beyond d.l, arnold swartzenative level - Konan level. Zen level, beyond Zen, Ube Zen times 2, super duper advanced X 10)
Before I forget anyone wanting to buy cheap a Ken and or Prince Stephan Barbie – let me know.
THE END copyright - Quinton J Damstra
VIOLENT SA - copyright
This rather bizarre story was a wakeup call which highlighted problems living in a crime ridden society like South Africa.
I live in a really beautiful part of the world with a railway line that hugs the coast, next to awesome surf spots. Its really easy to travel to these surf spots as the train drops you off at well positioned stations close to the beach and the main road. I have my ritual of putting my wetsuit on at a bench over looking the beach, next to the main road. There is a slight hill on my left with the railway line between me and the beach in front, with a beautiful Victorian station 500m down the road - absolutely stunning.
I was halfway through my wetsuit donning procedure when I heard a huge amount of shouting and screaming from over the hill. I straightened up just in time to see 5 young guys come into view , running flat-out towards me. The suspicious guy a little way in front was being pursued by 4 other guys. He had baggage under his jacket and by the flashed panicked looks of all these guys, this looked almighty serious.
The robber out front was straining under his load and by the looks of things was out pacing his pursuers easily. I had absolutely no time to take the situation into full perspective. I.E if their was a potential knife , gun - this was very dangerous stuff ,I was very scared. I had witnessed a violent mugging 2 weeks previously on the train and didn't have time to get involved in that case - enough is flipping enough - so as the vicious looking felon approached at lightning speed, I stuck my shoulder in the way of his speeding frame. Very foolish I know , a gun could of gone off , stabbed, eye poked out -frightening stuff.
I didn't quite do this as clinically as i would have liked. Fortunately he looked like he would be winded for at least 2 minutes. this robber was smartly but not to effectively , flung over my shoulder with me on top pinning his escape to the ground. My half naked frame as I was only half wetsuited. I did feel at that moment a little mention in the old press of my heroics by my comrades (the 4 pursuers) would be great.
It was then that the script started coming horribly undone - in fact ,very frightfully so.
The 4 comrades , brothers in arms , the cavalry, flashed past us at pace. Me the hero mugger slayer and my felled felon. This was so not supposed to happen!!! What in the blue blazes is a half-naked, semi clad wetsuit guy supposed to do with a potentially violent mugger, on my own nogal? Was this guy alone? Were the pursuers being pursued, guns, knives, weapons of mass destruction, Tony Blair, oh Bush dust? These thoughts completely over whelmed me, as I lay entangled with my groaning robber.
It was then I had a full perspective moment. Whilst the full impact of what I had done sank in as quickly as I had summed up the obvious situation. 4 tired guys boarded there train they where all sprinting for.
So now even in our violent SA society, if a chap with a lone ranger mask and a TV set sprints past me at pace – I definitely don’t get involved, its probably a fancy dress repairman from Addis Ababa or maybe even Iceland.
THE END - copyright Quinton J Damstra
I live in a really beautiful part of the world with a railway line that hugs the coast, next to awesome surf spots. Its really easy to travel to these surf spots as the train drops you off at well positioned stations close to the beach and the main road. I have my ritual of putting my wetsuit on at a bench over looking the beach, next to the main road. There is a slight hill on my left with the railway line between me and the beach in front, with a beautiful Victorian station 500m down the road - absolutely stunning.
I was halfway through my wetsuit donning procedure when I heard a huge amount of shouting and screaming from over the hill. I straightened up just in time to see 5 young guys come into view , running flat-out towards me. The suspicious guy a little way in front was being pursued by 4 other guys. He had baggage under his jacket and by the flashed panicked looks of all these guys, this looked almighty serious.
The robber out front was straining under his load and by the looks of things was out pacing his pursuers easily. I had absolutely no time to take the situation into full perspective. I.E if their was a potential knife , gun - this was very dangerous stuff ,I was very scared. I had witnessed a violent mugging 2 weeks previously on the train and didn't have time to get involved in that case - enough is flipping enough - so as the vicious looking felon approached at lightning speed, I stuck my shoulder in the way of his speeding frame. Very foolish I know , a gun could of gone off , stabbed, eye poked out -frightening stuff.
I didn't quite do this as clinically as i would have liked. Fortunately he looked like he would be winded for at least 2 minutes. this robber was smartly but not to effectively , flung over my shoulder with me on top pinning his escape to the ground. My half naked frame as I was only half wetsuited. I did feel at that moment a little mention in the old press of my heroics by my comrades (the 4 pursuers) would be great.
It was then that the script started coming horribly undone - in fact ,very frightfully so.
The 4 comrades , brothers in arms , the cavalry, flashed past us at pace. Me the hero mugger slayer and my felled felon. This was so not supposed to happen!!! What in the blue blazes is a half-naked, semi clad wetsuit guy supposed to do with a potentially violent mugger, on my own nogal? Was this guy alone? Were the pursuers being pursued, guns, knives, weapons of mass destruction, Tony Blair, oh Bush dust? These thoughts completely over whelmed me, as I lay entangled with my groaning robber.
It was then I had a full perspective moment. Whilst the full impact of what I had done sank in as quickly as I had summed up the obvious situation. 4 tired guys boarded there train they where all sprinting for.
So now even in our violent SA society, if a chap with a lone ranger mask and a TV set sprints past me at pace – I definitely don’t get involved, its probably a fancy dress repairman from Addis Ababa or maybe even Iceland.
THE END - copyright Quinton J Damstra
MATTERS OF THE MIND - copyright
I am Doctor Dirk Potgieter and my secret obsession all started innocently enough. As the leading expert in matters of the mind in South Africa, it was really just a natural progression, to start testing my mind theories on those closest to me. I assume total control of any and all my social interactive situations. This makes it easy for me to manipulate myself into the puppeteer position, to test and research my latest social interactive theory. Or S.I.T. as I call it. I pull, knot and carefully stitch the fragile strings of human interactive psychology. Like a skilled heart surgeon stitching up tiny arteries, I ply my skill. I secretly liken my art form to the careful manufacture of an intricate bomb, a social house of cards. The true art is in knowing when to introduce my innocent victim to the tiny trigger or spark. The ensuing social explosion between oblivious partakers leave them completely emotionally drained and exhausted, Unaware of the gentle baiting, teasing and stitching that eventually leaves them feeling emotionally lobotomised. At this point I quickly provide the needed emotional antidote without a moments hesitation, to make sure I remedy any and all frail minds affected by my important research. In so doing I inevitably look even more professional and learned to all present who have just witnessed my absolute genius at work. I have all the answers to the contrived situations and revel in the awe of those who listen to my awesome theories of the mind – I literally leave a room of participants completely spellbound. Sometimes I administer this antidote just in the nick of time, just before the person is lost to the wilderness of the mind from which there is no coming back.
This scenario is extremely rare to achieve – but when done properly it will leave a room of people completely speechless. Spellbound by my impressive mind analysis theories and absolute caring humanist persona. The by now suicidal participant is also absolutely elated to learn the fundamental issues that plague them. They actually feel in debited to me for my accurate revelations and unique understanding of their space and place in the Psychological Social Interactive Universe. P.S.I.U.
Very tragically my research has had collateral damage, in the early days. On one occasion I made my one and only fatal error of taking too long to supply the participant with the social antidote. Unfortunately one of my more sensitive partakers, oblivious to my important mind research tragically killed herself, by plunging to her death, head first from the third floor toilet window, whilst our dinner was being served.
As I opened my first practice soon after this tragic event, for awhile I eased off on my art form. However, the research is just to important to stop completely. My research is of vital importance to humanity. The power I am now aware of, that I can wield with my mind is all encompassing. In most cases when supplying the antidote I do not even charge for my expert advice and suggestions. The person actually receives my brilliant direction for free, which they can really gain from and use.
I don’t really have a name for this real out, real in psychology, which leaves oblivious participants teetering on the brink of insanity. It is much like hypnosis, with some people being more susceptible than others to my mind manipulation. Over the years due to my constant practice and obsession with this mind study, people slowly have withdrawn from me. For no obvious reason on their part, other than whenever I am vaguely present. Wives want to divorce husbands; depressants or the newly depressed, start thinking about wrists, bridges and copious amounts of alcohol and pills. I am constantly seeking out new social circles to conduct my mind research and social experiments in. This does not really bother me much because this ensures people do not get to close to me to observe a pattern developing. And I consider it a form of marketing for my now bustling practice. I often sleep at my office and shower and ready myself for my morning patients. I am meticulously careful never to try this secret obsession with any of my current patients, as that would be completely unprofessional. No, I reserve the research strictly for after work social interactions.
My latest secretary is a beautiful woman. I gave the institute where I run my practice my detailed list of requirements and because of my accurate description of what I was looking for, did not have to go through a long list of candidates. This suited me just fine as my schedule is very busy and wasting time is never an option. My previous secretary resigned rather suddenly. As I never fully mix work with pleasure, I only slightly tested my mind theories on her. She unfortunately left before I could apply the antidote to her manufactured emotional issues. It was really her own fault, as she should have stayed longer. Now there is a poor woman who believes that her husband has whittled her away to a R100 for groceries and R10 for herself weekly servant. She also believes that she misplaces things and loses money all the time due to my implied subliminal memory loss implication techniques. I was also just starting to research a new mind technique of following her around and staring at her from a distance. She would never see me of course but I realise now the theory of someone staring at you constantly, even though you could not see them is very affective. But this is very advanced psychological study and is very new to me. I will perfect this research over time and document my findings for you all to benefit from.
Due to the high number of sexually deviant patients that come to my practice. The psychological institution that I run my practise in has had to suddenly become incredibly strict. I now have to see all my patients at my office under strict lock and key. Additionally due to the high number of germs carried by these miscreant patients they have to come and see me with white coats on. Even my new secretary has to wear a coat. In order to get through my workload of patients, I am finding I have to sleep at my office every night now.
I will be publishing my thesis shortly for humanities benefit. All participants in my research will be amazed at the roll they played in this important and revolutionary document. It will finally validate my position as South Africa’s leading mind expert.
THE END - copyright Quinton J Damstra
This scenario is extremely rare to achieve – but when done properly it will leave a room of people completely speechless. Spellbound by my impressive mind analysis theories and absolute caring humanist persona. The by now suicidal participant is also absolutely elated to learn the fundamental issues that plague them. They actually feel in debited to me for my accurate revelations and unique understanding of their space and place in the Psychological Social Interactive Universe. P.S.I.U.
Very tragically my research has had collateral damage, in the early days. On one occasion I made my one and only fatal error of taking too long to supply the participant with the social antidote. Unfortunately one of my more sensitive partakers, oblivious to my important mind research tragically killed herself, by plunging to her death, head first from the third floor toilet window, whilst our dinner was being served.
As I opened my first practice soon after this tragic event, for awhile I eased off on my art form. However, the research is just to important to stop completely. My research is of vital importance to humanity. The power I am now aware of, that I can wield with my mind is all encompassing. In most cases when supplying the antidote I do not even charge for my expert advice and suggestions. The person actually receives my brilliant direction for free, which they can really gain from and use.
I don’t really have a name for this real out, real in psychology, which leaves oblivious participants teetering on the brink of insanity. It is much like hypnosis, with some people being more susceptible than others to my mind manipulation. Over the years due to my constant practice and obsession with this mind study, people slowly have withdrawn from me. For no obvious reason on their part, other than whenever I am vaguely present. Wives want to divorce husbands; depressants or the newly depressed, start thinking about wrists, bridges and copious amounts of alcohol and pills. I am constantly seeking out new social circles to conduct my mind research and social experiments in. This does not really bother me much because this ensures people do not get to close to me to observe a pattern developing. And I consider it a form of marketing for my now bustling practice. I often sleep at my office and shower and ready myself for my morning patients. I am meticulously careful never to try this secret obsession with any of my current patients, as that would be completely unprofessional. No, I reserve the research strictly for after work social interactions.
My latest secretary is a beautiful woman. I gave the institute where I run my practice my detailed list of requirements and because of my accurate description of what I was looking for, did not have to go through a long list of candidates. This suited me just fine as my schedule is very busy and wasting time is never an option. My previous secretary resigned rather suddenly. As I never fully mix work with pleasure, I only slightly tested my mind theories on her. She unfortunately left before I could apply the antidote to her manufactured emotional issues. It was really her own fault, as she should have stayed longer. Now there is a poor woman who believes that her husband has whittled her away to a R100 for groceries and R10 for herself weekly servant. She also believes that she misplaces things and loses money all the time due to my implied subliminal memory loss implication techniques. I was also just starting to research a new mind technique of following her around and staring at her from a distance. She would never see me of course but I realise now the theory of someone staring at you constantly, even though you could not see them is very affective. But this is very advanced psychological study and is very new to me. I will perfect this research over time and document my findings for you all to benefit from.
Due to the high number of sexually deviant patients that come to my practice. The psychological institution that I run my practise in has had to suddenly become incredibly strict. I now have to see all my patients at my office under strict lock and key. Additionally due to the high number of germs carried by these miscreant patients they have to come and see me with white coats on. Even my new secretary has to wear a coat. In order to get through my workload of patients, I am finding I have to sleep at my office every night now.
I will be publishing my thesis shortly for humanities benefit. All participants in my research will be amazed at the roll they played in this important and revolutionary document. It will finally validate my position as South Africa’s leading mind expert.
THE END - copyright Quinton J Damstra
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