The end of 2012 brought not so much the end of the world, but rather the end of an era. And this post contains no added Mayans... well, ok, maybe one little reference. But the rest of it is guaranteed Mayan-free. I hope.
It started off with a quiet weekend in the mountains that ended up in one rather sparkly rock being offered to me. After making sure the man wasn't joking or delirious, I accepted with a very happy heart. When we got home I heard that the job I'd applied for before we left was available to me, and the ball really started rolling. Suffice to say, by the end of 2012 I'm engaged, looking forward to starting a new job and in the process of moving house. It is ending on a note of wonder, terror, excitement with a quiet counterpoint of nostalgia.
The last few days I have tackled the messiest room in the house; packing that which needs to go into temporary storage, setting aside that which needs to go with to the temporary accommodation with fiancee, and that which must be discarded. It's a surprising and nostalgic journey, going through all the drawers, folders and boxes that somehow accumulated in between the book cases and desk. I found everything from grade school books to saved giftwrapping. Maps of places I've been and brochures of those I intended to visit. I kept reminding myself to be ruthless in this spring-cleaning process - don't hold on to old notes written in class, but don't throw them away either before reading them one more time. Somehow you revisit your life by reading little scraps of paper with odd notes, finding photos used as bookmarks and forgotten in between the pages, trying to decipher cryptic scribbles in your own handwriting. It's a flashback journey, little windows into your own history filled with glimpses of forgotten moments.
And sifting through it, I decide what to keep and what to let go of; sometimes much more than just a secret note or a long-forgotten address. Saying goodbye has never been easy for me, and some letters were not let go without a teardrop stamp. But they are not let go of lightly; they were held, read, and purposefully let go; sometimes with a fond farewell, at other times with regret. But it's time to move on, and it's more easily done with a lighter load.
With the new year lurking in the wings, perhaps it's a good time to clean the unused and unwanted things off the stage, setting it up for new memories and experiences that will complement the good that has already happened.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Friday, October 5, 2012
The stage is a but a world...
... where we strut, fret, rouge and ruffle. And that is but the top of the iceberg.
Which, perhaps, is a great likeness for any stage production. What the audience sees is but the top of a floating behemoth, dragging with it tons and tons of hidden mass in the shape of preparations and backstage action. The audience may never appreciate the blood, sweat and tears - and that's just the costume sewing - that goes into a production. Of course the actual execution carries a whole other dimension of work.
Even now, two days before the actual show, there's enough backstage nerves to power our country for a month. But now is the time! If you want to worry, do so now. If you want to fuss with your costume, there's no better moment than now. Because on the evening this giant is going to move along it's inevitable course, whether you're ready or not. And yes, everything will not run exactly as you'd planned; the art lies is in active and calm crisis management. Like a swan gliding along, furious feet activity hidden beneath the waterline, a show is not so much run as managed, held together by a good stage manager, the determination to survive, safety pins and glitter.
Glitter?! Yep, glitter, at least in this case as it involves a bellydance extravaganza. Which also means it has an added dimension of terror ... beads & sequins. Scoff if you want, but have you ever stepped on a bead with your bare feet? Not to mention the drama that could ensue with a costume malfunction - the polite way of saying you bared more than your soul to the audience and possibly pushed up the show's age restriction in one go. As our teacher sagely advised us: "If you're going to fall of the stage, remember - legs straight, tits out and smile as if that was exactly what you planned."
Why do we put ourselves through this?
Because of love
We love what we do, we love the people who share our passion, and we'd like to show those we love what we get up to in class.
So let the games begin.
Lights.... glitter.... and action!
Which, perhaps, is a great likeness for any stage production. What the audience sees is but the top of a floating behemoth, dragging with it tons and tons of hidden mass in the shape of preparations and backstage action. The audience may never appreciate the blood, sweat and tears - and that's just the costume sewing - that goes into a production. Of course the actual execution carries a whole other dimension of work.
Even now, two days before the actual show, there's enough backstage nerves to power our country for a month. But now is the time! If you want to worry, do so now. If you want to fuss with your costume, there's no better moment than now. Because on the evening this giant is going to move along it's inevitable course, whether you're ready or not. And yes, everything will not run exactly as you'd planned; the art lies is in active and calm crisis management. Like a swan gliding along, furious feet activity hidden beneath the waterline, a show is not so much run as managed, held together by a good stage manager, the determination to survive, safety pins and glitter.
Glitter?! Yep, glitter, at least in this case as it involves a bellydance extravaganza. Which also means it has an added dimension of terror ... beads & sequins. Scoff if you want, but have you ever stepped on a bead with your bare feet? Not to mention the drama that could ensue with a costume malfunction - the polite way of saying you bared more than your soul to the audience and possibly pushed up the show's age restriction in one go. As our teacher sagely advised us: "If you're going to fall of the stage, remember - legs straight, tits out and smile as if that was exactly what you planned."
Why do we put ourselves through this?
Because of love
We love what we do, we love the people who share our passion, and we'd like to show those we love what we get up to in class.
So let the games begin.
Lights.... glitter.... and action!
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Survivor... icecave!
Whether they like to admit it or not, everyone develops a life-motto somewhere along their journey. To date, mine goes something like this: "I will try almost anything at least once."
Not very snappy, nor does it roll easily off the tongue, but there you have it. It's a philosophy that's served me well, and certainly applies to my latest adventure.
As someone who appreciates the great outdoors and finds herself lucky enough to be dating someone who also shares that love of nature, it seemed inevitable that at some stage or another I would have to experience genuine hiking. I'm not talking about a meander up a nearby mountain, a spot of tea at the top and then a stroll down. Oh no, not this time. It was to be a 4-day trip into the Cederberg mountains, with cave-camping and VERY au naturel ablution activities.
Part of me was very excited, and a slightly larger part was a bit apprehensive. Cold was going to be an issue to me, that's a given, but would I cope with the (for me) heavy backpack? Would I hold the rest of the group back and earn their resentment while I crawled up the track? Did I pack enough food? Did I leave my last will and testament in an obvious place?
As my significant other put it upon our arrival at the start of the trail: "Is your trepid a bit acious?"
It was. In large, super-sized scoops.
But the scenery was gorgeous; winter-streams gurgled down a rock-strewn 'kloof', ancient ceder-trees giving a welcoming nod to passer's by. A grassy plateau followed, then some more rock-strewn uphills with a final boulder and scree-strewn slope before we reached the cave that would serve as home for the next few days.
And now for a word from our sponsors.... or at least a grateful acknowledgement to them. Trekking poles rock! They are great for balancing backpack-heavy hikers. And those pocket-heaters: rip packet, expose to air and *poof* a treasured little source of heat for up to 24 hours. Ah... bliss!
And now back to the action...
It was with great relief that I undid the backpack once we reached the cave. The hike up had pushed my limits for sure, but it did deliver that personal sense of accomplishment nothing else can manage. These trips also brings with them a sense of simplicity - you cease to worry about all the vagaries of modern life, and instead focus on the smaller, essential things. Your day now breaks down into waking up, first cup of tea, morning ablutions (finding a quiet spot and, ahem, contemplating nature), exploring, breathing, sharing....
Of course it wasn't all moonlight and roses.
It was cold. I gained a lot of experience by being told what I should've done just after I'd done something. More cold. Sense of humor loss. And cold again.
There was also a death-defying trip to the top of another mountain named Tafelberg, featuring great gaping chasms filled with roiling lava and the scaling of a soap-smoothed vertical cliff.
Well, ok, maybe not quite that bad, but it certainly seemed that way to an inexperienced hiker as myself.
But with supporting friends (quite literal at times) we all made it to the top and safely back down again.
As I sit here now, cup of tea in hand and modern life blaring away around me, I start to remember it with a lot more fondness. The views were spectacular; the full moon cresting the saddle as the sun sank in the west, the fantastic patterns of ice sheets, water trickling down the rock behind it. The simple joys of warm food and good company.
Will I do it again? Probably . . . but not just yet.
The memories of fear and anxiety need to fade a bit more, to be balanced by the richer colors and warm fuzzies inspired by the good moments.
Oh, and the swelling on my twisted ankle needs to go down as well.Who thought I'd return from a weekend of freezing my extremities off only to snuggle up to an icepack back home.
Ah yes, that's the great outdoors.
Not very snappy, nor does it roll easily off the tongue, but there you have it. It's a philosophy that's served me well, and certainly applies to my latest adventure.
As someone who appreciates the great outdoors and finds herself lucky enough to be dating someone who also shares that love of nature, it seemed inevitable that at some stage or another I would have to experience genuine hiking. I'm not talking about a meander up a nearby mountain, a spot of tea at the top and then a stroll down. Oh no, not this time. It was to be a 4-day trip into the Cederberg mountains, with cave-camping and VERY au naturel ablution activities.
Part of me was very excited, and a slightly larger part was a bit apprehensive. Cold was going to be an issue to me, that's a given, but would I cope with the (for me) heavy backpack? Would I hold the rest of the group back and earn their resentment while I crawled up the track? Did I pack enough food? Did I leave my last will and testament in an obvious place?
As my significant other put it upon our arrival at the start of the trail: "Is your trepid a bit acious?"
It was. In large, super-sized scoops.
But the scenery was gorgeous; winter-streams gurgled down a rock-strewn 'kloof', ancient ceder-trees giving a welcoming nod to passer's by. A grassy plateau followed, then some more rock-strewn uphills with a final boulder and scree-strewn slope before we reached the cave that would serve as home for the next few days.
And now for a word from our sponsors.... or at least a grateful acknowledgement to them. Trekking poles rock! They are great for balancing backpack-heavy hikers. And those pocket-heaters: rip packet, expose to air and *poof* a treasured little source of heat for up to 24 hours. Ah... bliss!
And now back to the action...
It was with great relief that I undid the backpack once we reached the cave. The hike up had pushed my limits for sure, but it did deliver that personal sense of accomplishment nothing else can manage. These trips also brings with them a sense of simplicity - you cease to worry about all the vagaries of modern life, and instead focus on the smaller, essential things. Your day now breaks down into waking up, first cup of tea, morning ablutions (finding a quiet spot and, ahem, contemplating nature), exploring, breathing, sharing....
Of course it wasn't all moonlight and roses.
It was cold. I gained a lot of experience by being told what I should've done just after I'd done something. More cold. Sense of humor loss. And cold again.
There was also a death-defying trip to the top of another mountain named Tafelberg, featuring great gaping chasms filled with roiling lava and the scaling of a soap-smoothed vertical cliff.
Well, ok, maybe not quite that bad, but it certainly seemed that way to an inexperienced hiker as myself.
But with supporting friends (quite literal at times) we all made it to the top and safely back down again.
As I sit here now, cup of tea in hand and modern life blaring away around me, I start to remember it with a lot more fondness. The views were spectacular; the full moon cresting the saddle as the sun sank in the west, the fantastic patterns of ice sheets, water trickling down the rock behind it. The simple joys of warm food and good company.
Will I do it again? Probably . . . but not just yet.
The memories of fear and anxiety need to fade a bit more, to be balanced by the richer colors and warm fuzzies inspired by the good moments.
Oh, and the swelling on my twisted ankle needs to go down as well.Who thought I'd return from a weekend of freezing my extremities off only to snuggle up to an icepack back home.
Ah yes, that's the great outdoors.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Animal talk
Those of us who share an abode with a furry companion (no, the dust bunnies under your bed doesn't count) or perhaps more correctly, serve as staff for an animal companion will know all about animal communication.
I don't mean crystal-channeling, incense-inhaling channeling of your familiar. Rather, that collection of dqueaks, grumbles, sighs, claws and stinky-breathed yawns that make up the more usual repertoire of non-human communication.
Over the past few years I have become quite fluent in tri-colour cat-speak - a specialty discipline where the feline in question's mood ranges from miffed to 'bemoerd' (an Afrikaans term that finds a rather lackluster cousin in the English 'F'd off') and all the shades in between, much like their coats. Savannah also has the added weaponry of her infamous yellow-glare; known to give spine-chills at a distance 10 paces or more. Tri-colours are known to be among the more verbal moggies around, and any owner will very soon learn the difference between 'nice-to-see-you-where's-my-food' and 'oh-what-is-this-before-me-an-empty-bowl-I-am-starving-ergh-ergh-ergh' accompanied by dramatics that would put the Royal Shakespearean Company to shame. Said tri-colour is by no means starving (stop dialling the SPCA number!) as evidenced by her rather rotund shape which she still manages to tuck away somehow when doing her starving-kitty impression. Said tri-colour is the brains of my little feline tribe; if you look carefully at those scenes where the evil genius is stroking a white cat, there's a tri-colour in the background trying to hide the puppet-strings attached to her claws.
Last night I arrived home to find yet another expression of cat dissatisfaction. It'd been a long day away from home, and with the encroaching darkness, howling winds and icy rain the cats had no doubt decided that dinner was going to be late. Unacceptably late, regardless of whether mom might be lying in a ditch next to the road somewhere. So the tabby huntress of my little tribe decided to send out for food; I arrived just in time to see her crouched on the rim of the bath-tub - a sure sign that something rather interesting was lurking at the bottom. Step 1, evict all cats from the bathroom and close the door firmly. Step 2, gingerly lift the cooler-bag that was left in the tub for cleaning to discover.... a rodent! A nice plump one at that; and I can't help but wonder whether she was going to give it a quick rinse before serving it up.
The dog also has her say, usually leaving me paw-printed notes in the garden in the shape of holes you can hide a horse in. The number and depth of holes can be directly related to how badly she feels in need of a walk outside the yard.
Then again.... maybe fat-cat has bribed her into body-disposal duty, and I just happened to come along at the wrong time.
Hmmm.....
I don't mean crystal-channeling, incense-inhaling channeling of your familiar. Rather, that collection of dqueaks, grumbles, sighs, claws and stinky-breathed yawns that make up the more usual repertoire of non-human communication.
Over the past few years I have become quite fluent in tri-colour cat-speak - a specialty discipline where the feline in question's mood ranges from miffed to 'bemoerd' (an Afrikaans term that finds a rather lackluster cousin in the English 'F'd off') and all the shades in between, much like their coats. Savannah also has the added weaponry of her infamous yellow-glare; known to give spine-chills at a distance 10 paces or more. Tri-colours are known to be among the more verbal moggies around, and any owner will very soon learn the difference between 'nice-to-see-you-where's-my-food' and 'oh-what-is-this-before-me-an-empty-bowl-I-am-starving-ergh-ergh-ergh' accompanied by dramatics that would put the Royal Shakespearean Company to shame. Said tri-colour is by no means starving (stop dialling the SPCA number!) as evidenced by her rather rotund shape which she still manages to tuck away somehow when doing her starving-kitty impression. Said tri-colour is the brains of my little feline tribe; if you look carefully at those scenes where the evil genius is stroking a white cat, there's a tri-colour in the background trying to hide the puppet-strings attached to her claws.
Last night I arrived home to find yet another expression of cat dissatisfaction. It'd been a long day away from home, and with the encroaching darkness, howling winds and icy rain the cats had no doubt decided that dinner was going to be late. Unacceptably late, regardless of whether mom might be lying in a ditch next to the road somewhere. So the tabby huntress of my little tribe decided to send out for food; I arrived just in time to see her crouched on the rim of the bath-tub - a sure sign that something rather interesting was lurking at the bottom. Step 1, evict all cats from the bathroom and close the door firmly. Step 2, gingerly lift the cooler-bag that was left in the tub for cleaning to discover.... a rodent! A nice plump one at that; and I can't help but wonder whether she was going to give it a quick rinse before serving it up.
The dog also has her say, usually leaving me paw-printed notes in the garden in the shape of holes you can hide a horse in. The number and depth of holes can be directly related to how badly she feels in need of a walk outside the yard.
Then again.... maybe fat-cat has bribed her into body-disposal duty, and I just happened to come along at the wrong time.
Hmmm.....
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
On the trail again....
Of what you wonder... an escaped criminal, a missing particle? Common Sense?
None of those - it is simply my wrangling of the Willie Nelson 'On the road again' title; and the theme of a recent hiking expedition in the Tsitsikamma area.
"And I can't wait to get on the road again.
On the road again
Goin' places that I've never been.
Seein' things that I may never see again"
I've always been interested in experiencing a proper multi-day hike, and also slightly terrified of the distance and the whole tortoise approach to being outside. I had visions of cheerfully strapping on my backpack and then keeling over slowly in cinematographic slowness.
Then I heard a word which gave me hope, parting the heavens to let a beam of light shine through and highlight the forested hills of Knysna .... 'slackpacking'!
Let me explain while we wait for the jeers of serious hikers to die down. With slackpacking you pay for porterage of baggage / food that you don't want to slog along every day. In our case, this meant that your sleeping bags, extra clothes and daily food (stored in a fridge until use) was delivered to your destination hut every afternoon. Which leaves you to carry only the essentials - warm and rain-gear, food for a day and as much curiosity as you can manage.
Our intrepid little group set off all bright-eyed, equipped with enough cameras to make a tour group envious, stocked with what we thought was a day's rations but could probably feed a small country for a week. Cresting the first rise we whipped out our official hike map to take a look at what glorious peak we'd conquered .... it was a hill. It was barely away from the hut. And that was our first introduction to quantum-distances.
Yep, the mapmakers were either very nasty or very clever; distances, landmarks and path-contours did not seem to match up with our experiences. Hills seemed higher, gentle-descents more like sheer cliff-faces and river's sneakily playing peek-a-boo with thirsty wanderers. And then we discovered creepy-kilometers; they are sneaky those creatures, and masters of deception. The first three of every day seemed to zoot past, leaving you with the impression of a shady glen, a gurgling stream or a blossoming hillside. The next few blurred into rolling walks broken only by your stomach announcing something akin to lunchtime. And then the last 6 or so....just....dragged....on....
The signposts were no help either, either with distances helpfully blanked out or offering misleading indications - never have I encountered a mere 1.5 km that lasted so bloody long! Speculation began as to whether the signs were actually counting up at one stage. Trying to match map with signpost just led to frown-induced headaches, and our group soon adapted a very zen-like approach: When we get to the hut, we stop.
And perhaps that was the whole purpose of the trail after all. You've done all the preparation you can, now just relax and enjoy the experience. And that we did. We wandered from forest to glade, up hills and down ravines, baking in the sun and soaking tired feet in icy streams, marveling at the sheer scale and beauty of this corner of Africa.
"Like a band of gypsies we go down the highway
We're the best of friends
Insisting that the world keep turning our way
And our way
is on the road again.
Just can't wait to get on the road again."
None of those - it is simply my wrangling of the Willie Nelson 'On the road again' title; and the theme of a recent hiking expedition in the Tsitsikamma area.
"And I can't wait to get on the road again.
On the road again
Goin' places that I've never been.
Seein' things that I may never see again"
I've always been interested in experiencing a proper multi-day hike, and also slightly terrified of the distance and the whole tortoise approach to being outside. I had visions of cheerfully strapping on my backpack and then keeling over slowly in cinematographic slowness.
Then I heard a word which gave me hope, parting the heavens to let a beam of light shine through and highlight the forested hills of Knysna .... 'slackpacking'!
Let me explain while we wait for the jeers of serious hikers to die down. With slackpacking you pay for porterage of baggage / food that you don't want to slog along every day. In our case, this meant that your sleeping bags, extra clothes and daily food (stored in a fridge until use) was delivered to your destination hut every afternoon. Which leaves you to carry only the essentials - warm and rain-gear, food for a day and as much curiosity as you can manage.
Our intrepid little group set off all bright-eyed, equipped with enough cameras to make a tour group envious, stocked with what we thought was a day's rations but could probably feed a small country for a week. Cresting the first rise we whipped out our official hike map to take a look at what glorious peak we'd conquered .... it was a hill. It was barely away from the hut. And that was our first introduction to quantum-distances.
Yep, the mapmakers were either very nasty or very clever; distances, landmarks and path-contours did not seem to match up with our experiences. Hills seemed higher, gentle-descents more like sheer cliff-faces and river's sneakily playing peek-a-boo with thirsty wanderers. And then we discovered creepy-kilometers; they are sneaky those creatures, and masters of deception. The first three of every day seemed to zoot past, leaving you with the impression of a shady glen, a gurgling stream or a blossoming hillside. The next few blurred into rolling walks broken only by your stomach announcing something akin to lunchtime. And then the last 6 or so....just....dragged....on....
The signposts were no help either, either with distances helpfully blanked out or offering misleading indications - never have I encountered a mere 1.5 km that lasted so bloody long! Speculation began as to whether the signs were actually counting up at one stage. Trying to match map with signpost just led to frown-induced headaches, and our group soon adapted a very zen-like approach: When we get to the hut, we stop.
And perhaps that was the whole purpose of the trail after all. You've done all the preparation you can, now just relax and enjoy the experience. And that we did. We wandered from forest to glade, up hills and down ravines, baking in the sun and soaking tired feet in icy streams, marveling at the sheer scale and beauty of this corner of Africa.
"Like a band of gypsies we go down the highway
We're the best of friends
Insisting that the world keep turning our way
And our way
is on the road again.
Just can't wait to get on the road again."
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Why scientists are crazy
Or at least my version of the story; which may be a wave, a particle, neither or both. Ask Schrodinger's cat.
My particular brand of madness reached new heights shortly after a final full-stop on a research report. Or perhaps it is rather a symptom of ScAD - Science Affective Disorder. That empty and slightly lost feeling you get after completing a specific research task.
You spend so much time preparing the experiment, collecting data, making feverish promises to the scientific deities of GoodData and NonInstrumentFailure while hoping for the best. And then you have it - endless streams of alpha-numerics that form an overwhelming mass threatening to drown even the most determined swimmer in scientific waters. The time for alchemy has arrived, turning that heap of information into nuggets of knowledge. You sift, discard, cleanse and apply the dark magic of statistical analysis to emerge triumphantly with....
.....
.....
two measly little tables, barely filling half a page.
All your effort, hours of wrist-breaking mouse work, swearing at the vagaries of software that suddenly refuse to plot a simple time-series graph as it has done a thousand times before.... everything is condensed in those two little blocks.
But listen closely, and you might hear those blocks talk. They whisper of trends, possible futures and .... wait.... yes....
'more data is required'!
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Adamastor Writers' Guild: February 2012 meeting
Adamastor Writers' Guild: February 2012 meeting: The Adamastor Writers' Guild will be hosting an open writers' workshop for folks wishing to touch base with Cape Town-based authors of F/SF...
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