Tag: life lesson

To ignore what is obvious

SATURDAY, 27 SEPTEMBER 2003

Outside my former hiding place, as I was hanging the last couple of plastic bags filled with dirty laundry on my bike, I heard a young kid from across the alley shout something. Too busy to respond, I got on the bike and shakily rode away.

At the traffic lights I thought the kid probably insulted me, because the sounds he uttered were very similar (except for one word) to the words in the Taiwanese dialect for “fat, lazy woman”. For a moment I regretted that I didn’t have anything appropriately offensive to bark back. By the time I got to the next traffic light, I had dropped my regrets in favour of the idea that I ignored him, which I regard as a greater insult.

“Why so?” I wondered.

By ignoring someone, you deprive that person of your recognition of his or her existence. And who is so sure of him- or herself that they’re not just a little uncomfortable when they are among people who do not acknowledge their existence?

You could argue that people must see that you fill a particular space in their immediate surroundings, or that they have to know you exist, even if they don’t react to your presence.

The thought that someone should know, in theory, that you exist is not good enough. Who doesn’t get annoyed, at times angry and sometimes violent when your presence, and therefore your existence is not recognised?

We all need regular confirmation from other people (even from animals such as a dog or a cat) that we exist. It could be nothing more than a smile, the nod of a head, or an “Excuse me” when someone accidentally bumps into you, albeit without making eye contact.

Intimate contact – and even better, regular intimate contact – is the ideal suppressor of the latent anxiety (or uncertainty?) about our existence. Would this be the underlying motivation behind the desire (or instinct) to pamper a baby – to give the little person who had only recently become a separate physical entity assurance of his or her existence?

Being a Westerner in some Asian countries naturally give you more visible recognition of your existence as would be the case in your own country. One example is the insolent lout who insults you in a language that he thinks you don’t understand, just because he was an eyewitness to your effort, as a highly visible outsider, to balance your bicycle with half a dozen plastic bags hanging from the handlebars. Another example is the girl who hides behind her mother in the supermarket while she points her finger at you as if you’re a distant cousin of the Elephant Man. Also people who, long after you had passed them, shout “Hello!” at you like you’re famous. All these incidents confirm your existence at that particular moment and at that specific location, and in ways that are not necessarily the good (or bad) luck of the ordinary Taiwanese (in my case) with whom you share your street or supermarket aisle.

Would this perhaps explain the desire of some people to be famous or infamous – the desire for as many people as possible to nod their heads in recognition of your existence?

Another question: Why do strangers greet each other?

One reason is mutual recognition of their existence.

Why therefore, would someone not greet you?

One possible reason is that the person does not need your recognition of his or her existence at that particular moment, or in some cases may not consider it desirable.

Reasons why someone might not need your recognition? Other people in the immediate vicinity that already acknowledge their existence, like friends, or a child who is being held by the hand?

That they fail to greet you doesn’t necessarily have to be seen as offensive; it’s just that they already have what you would have given them, namely visible acknowledgment of their existence.

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Mistakes, insights, questions, new vocabulary, and advice

SUNDAY, 3 AUGUST 2003

Two mistakes I made in 1998 [during my experimental return to South Africa]:

1. My preparations were insufficient.

2. I buckled in a moment of uncertainty thinking it would give me a little security and … accepted an offer for a job.

And an insight:

The reason why many ordinary working people in the industrialised “First World” is not rich is because they have “good jobs”, and they are satisfied with what they earn. Also, because their lifestyle grows as their income grows, or in many cases even exceeds their income.

What do you do …

* if you are two months behind on your mortgage payments,

* if the water and electricity bills are more than a month in arrears,

* if the kitchen shelves are empty,

* if your bank account is depleted,

* if your car has been repossessed, or will be repossessed by the bank any time in the next week or two,

* if half of your furniture has been repossessed, and

* if the children are getting quieter by the day?

What, at the end of the day, are really your options?

Today I learned some new words:

* atrium – the central court of an ancient Roman house

* niche – a suitable and satisfying role, job, or way of life; an opportunity in business; the conditions in which a species can live successfully

* ethereal – extremely delicate and light, and seeming to be too spiritual or perfect for this world

* translucent – allowing light to pass through but not transparent

and finally …

* colander – a metal or plastic bowl with many small holes in it, used to drain water from vegetables

And one last piece of advice:

Surround yourself with people. It’s much easier to break away from people for a few hours or a few days if you need to spend time on your own, than to try to get people together when you suddenly experience a need for companionship after long periods of isolation.

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Time for calculations again | About potatoes and vegetables

FRIDAY, 25 JULY 2003

I have, seeing that I love calculations so much, counted my friends in this place: “four” is the number I came up with. Of these four, two are men and two women. I currently don’t have contact with any of these people.

It’s Friday night, already five past midnight (Saturday morning, then). A deserted plain of a weekend stares me in the face. I reckon my spirits will be in the gutter by early tomorrow evening. I’m going to want to watch videos all night while rinsing down deep-fried tofu and calamari with ice cold green tea. Then I’ll accelerate my metabolism with one Nat Sherman after another in the false belief that it would prevent me from getting fat from all the greasy food.

I’ll have to get out. Battle for the Soul. Battle for Survival. I know I need people, but sometimes you’re forced to make another plan.

The weekend is an empty canvass, unsullied by actual events. Time to get creative, otherwise reality may get creative with me …

SATURDAY, 26 JULY 2003

Eat potatoes or die – these are my only choices.

We all know what a balanced diet looks like – protein, dairy products, a variety of vegetables and fruits, and so on. But what do you do if you find yourself in a situation or environment that only has potatoes? Do you sit on a rock and cry, “I want fruit and vegetables, and milk and fish and eggs …”?

We all want to eat a balanced diet! We all know we need it! But there’s no fish or fruit or other vegetables at the moment! There are only potatoes! So eat potatoes or die!

Another thought: If you’re a millionaire, it is very likely the result of images you had nurtured in your mind at some point and actions that you had taken. Most “ordinary” people are convinced that they will always suffer. If they’re lucky, they keep their jobs until they’re 65 and then they retire with their aches and pains, and a small retirement policy or two. The fact is, if you imagine the right things and take the right actions, more than enough money can be one of the fruits you will reap.

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The poet learns to be smart

[The next piece was initially recorded in my notebook on the weekend of Friday, 27 June to Sunday, 29 June 2003, in my favourite place in this region, Hong Kong.

There was a problem with the booking of my flight between Hong Kong and Johannesburg. I arrived in Hong Kong on Friday morning at eleven o’ clock, but because I immediately had to meet an old friend at the airport, I didn’t confirm my flight to Johannesburg later that evening.

After brunch in the city my friend had to rush back to the airport. I walked around for the rest of the day and enjoyed myself thoroughly. At around nine o’clock in the evening back at the airport, a lady at the check-in counter courteously informed me that they were overbooked. She further explained that I had no choice but to wait for the next flight – which would only depart on Sunday night.

At first, I was taken aback. I had only had two hours sleep the previous night, and I was exhausted from all the walking around that afternoon and early evening. The lady assured me that they would provide a room in a good hotel, and a limousine that would take me directly to my lodgings for the weekend. And if I still thought about writing angry letters to the airline, they also conveniently had HK$2,500 on hand with which I could amuse myself (a sum of money roughly equal to so many South African rand, or about USD300).

I said I was very angry because it was my birthday on Sunday, and what now? But the fun I had had during one day in Hong Kong weighed heavily on my mind, and who was I to be rude when a big corporation wanted to pay me to spend an extra two days in one of my favourite cities? I said, okay fine, get my bags and show me where to get that limo.

I started writing the following note shortly after my registration at the counter for which I truly thought was going to be a long, luxurious car that would transport me to the hotel.]

SUNDAY, 29 JUNE 2003

I find myself in one of those absurd situations where I, the “poor white” poet, has to be treated like I’m rich and important. All the parties, myself included, are somewhat confused.

“But everyone can see there’s a tear in his shirt,” I imagine the young lady whispering to her colleague.

“I know. Shush …” the older man probably replies.

Telephonic confirmation is made in hushed tones. Sweat is wiped from a brow. Eventually everyone realises the unpleasantness simply has to be endured.

“Please come with me … sir,” the man with the sweaty brow reluctantly commands.

The Poor White Poet hesitates for a moment, first heads in the wrong direction, and is then called to a row of comfortable red chairs. An orange sticker is stuffed in his hand. He correctly interprets the label as a badge indicating his new status as someone who should be treated like other people who spend time at luxury hotels. He plasters it on his light blue “Tokyo III” shirt. It keeps peeling off. The other stickered individuals are several chairs removed from the poet. He speculates that it may be because of the small tear in his shirt, and doesn’t immediately consider the possibility that, after a day’s walking around in hot, humid Hong Kong, he no longer smells of the cologne he had so arrogantly sprayed under his arms that morning.

After fifteen minutes, the man who had given them the stickers approaches again. “This way please,” he friendly winks to the waiting group. This time the Poor White Poet walks out in front. Then he remembers the deodorant spray he had thrown in his bookbag and is suddenly annoyed with himself for making notes rather than refreshing himself.

Over the next two days the poet wised up to one important thing: One learns. In fact, the whole fancy hotel business, like the fancy restaurant business and certainly all the parts of a luxurious life are a game. You can figure out the rules and tricks of a complex video game and master it to some extent after a few practice runs. Even more so with the fancy business.

It’s about confidence. The more you are exposed to situations where you have to make certain “movements”, like in a video game, the more you learn to do it right. And the more you learn, the fewer mistakes you make. And the fewer mistakes you make, the more your confidence increases – and the less your sensibility becomes to being a stranger in an environment where you don’t really belong.

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[After two days and three nights the poet reached the town of which he had been dreaming for months – Bronkhorstspruit, fifty kilometres north of Pretoria. Forgotten were the months of adolescent humiliations and growing pains (have I mentioned that he had spent his primary school days here?). The school where he was prefect in his day, looks different, smaller. The Vetkoek Corner is still on the corner, but with a different name. The town seems generally shitty, but there was a joy to being back. And it was winter, the man’s favourite season. Dead yellow grass, a chill in the late afternoon air, and the smell of coal all overwhelmed the senses with a bashful question: “Welcome home?”]

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