The Box

When we were kids, we couldn’t wait for Santa to come, we would put out the cookies and milk and hope we have been good boys and girls just to get the best gifts. The biggest box, or the one with the prettiest wrapping. A lot of effort was put into making us believe the bearded man existed and we would only get these magical presents if we were on our best behaviour. Once a year if we were fortunate enough, we would celebrate our birthdays, people would give us gifts or cards to make us feel special for turning one year older, oh how excited and special we felt when we received that present which took up half the room, or the gift that sparkled brighter than a clear starry night. Imagine we got a box that was empty, and the card read, it’s the thought that counts. Could a thought be tangible in that tiny box? Or was a box made to be filled. And made to fill what? A diamond ring that announces to the word that two people have committed themselves for life. Or a Barbie doll wrapped in shocking pink paper with the purpose of making a little girl smile. What’s in a box I ask?

With the passing of a Gran, the pain before the death and the anguish after, what are we left with? The tangible being is gone and what is left is a lifeless person. A person that was once smiling or joking. Was walking or running. Was planting new beautiful plants in the garden or removing the weeds that constricted life.  We all must die one day. But what are the people here on earth left with. A tombstone we can visit occasionally and feel the somber sad cold feelings of a cemetery. Leave flowers at the site of the dearly departed. Or in my families case. We are left with a box. My mind is finding it hard to deal with the fact that, the ash is the box is really her. How is that possible that an entire life can be summed up by one pink wooden box?  All the memories, thoughts and past is nested in that tiny box. For someone whose personality was bigger than any mountain, they were now known as a box. And what of the inside? Is it the thought that counts, the final remaining tangible assets of someone moved on. It’s really true.  The hour class of life once tipped, all the sand rests at the bottom, lifeless. The final candle expired and now the sand of time rests in the box from the crematorium.

A box to me is a gift, something we keep dear. When I receive a present wrapped up, ribbons, cards. I smile and the thought that someone has gone out and bought me something, a special something. This box however, is it a gift, is it a person, is it a life gone. The post funeral dispersing of ashes is one where you go with the family to lay them to their final path of life. Whether you do it in their favourite garden, or stand on rock and throw the dust into the sea. Once the thoughts of that box are rained out into the wind. They are gone. There will be no sign left that they once were physically here, sure we have photos, we have our own minds, but we all know past fades.  Soon enough my family will embark on the final journey and last chapter of Oumas life. But where to lay her to rest. Me, id keep the box. That little gift is the last present she left us.  

A box, something we may actually not recognise as being meaningful, but remember this. That special moment when you open that box to find a ring, or get that awesome new pair of jeans you have been eyeing out, that happy feeling is one you must cherish when you are alive, as we all know how short life is. Make the most of it, make new memories, and just be. As one day when all is said and done, your family saw you as a gift and will choose to hold you dear. It’s the thought that counts.

Romeo and Julian

The hate of two houses, the swords of the crest locked in translation. Two lovers, hell bent on making a statement, while giving the finger to the man, no pun intended.

Romeo, tall, dark and handsome. Eyes as clear as day and a smile that shatters hearts and mirrors alike. Dressed to impress, Levi Jeans, Gucci boots, Prada button down black collar shirt, revealing the gentle chest hair, teasing the eyes. The iconic star on the modern age, the James Dean of the 21^st Century. Romeo, oh Romeo, where art thou Romeo. In the house of Bolshevik he dwells, captured by his parent’s generous materialistic affection. In his loveless tower, he nests and dreams of the outside world, what is behind those castle walls?

Julian, mystic baby blue eyes, dirty blonde with a laugh that captures an entire genre.  A causal dresser, will wear a shirt from days ago, picks it up and sniffs it, if there is no B.O., he will wear it. Not content with being cooped up in and shelter, he is one with nature and lives day by day to the fullest. The legendary rebel, the dangerous being. In the House of the Tsar, he defies the elders, he defiles the rules of communist household, he selfishly confides in himself and lives for himself, and he believes he is the only person who cannot hurt himself, naive. Blissfully sits on a rock and salutes the sunset. A new dawn will come.

Romeo disputes that he must attend the annual Bolshevik ball extravaganza, yet is forced into it, enticed by the family heirlooms’. He slides on his mask, a pale black shimmer less facade. A limber smile peaks through the open mouth piece, he climbs into the black bronze car, and is escorted to turgid affair. Julian, excited for the chance to cause a stir amongst his families debacles with the Tsars, he attaches a glittered up, sparkled head piece, bound to attract attention and cause a riot in the minds of the family’s opposition. He gladly strides the family’s prized black stallion and gallops confidently towards the ball.

The music blaring, the masses caught in an alien dance, grinding and shaking to the beats of a music box. The glasses cheering each other on, the people laughing and conversating. Enter the dramatic unimpressed son, Romeo, a hint of a fake smile greets his square jaw line. He strides straight to the fish tank, he is like the fish, beautiful and idolised, yet he is trapped in a blue world much the same as the glorious goldfish. He wallows in misery. A sparkle to the left catches Romeos eye, Julian has graced the party with a grand entrance, he slides down the immaculate policed staircase railing straight into the centre of the dance floor and is greeted with a jeer of admiration. He owns the spotlight. Unknown to Romeo the masked bandit is none other the enemy, a Tsar.

The night transcends into a greater darkness, yet by the centre piece the water filled treasury called the fish tank, a lonely Romeo stares blindly into the glass, he places his hand on the glass, and proceeds to stroke the glass. He stares at his hands reflection as they follow each other up and down the water tank. He notices that the hand is larger than his, magnified by the water, he then takes on finger and slides towards the exit, and bang, the glass shatters, water, fish and glass invade the packed ballroom, yet, he is greeted with a smile from the now barrier less room. Who is this masked bandit, and why does he smile at the devastation. Romeo turns to run from the destruction, yet he hears the faint footsteps following his in the darkness. He turns and he greeted face to face by the bandit Julian. Quietly they stand and stare into each other’s radiance. No words uttered, only a connected understanding. They peer into each other’s souls. One loner and one rebel. Julian begins to untie Romeos mask, he falls to the floor with a silence. Julian shocked at the sight of the enemy, Romeo removes Julian’s mask and takes a step back and falls into a crystal clear pool, the splashes pierce the emptiness, he comes up for air. Thinking the enemy has fled, he is dragged out the pool by a worried Julian, lying on the shallow drenched steps, they begin to giggle at how dramatic the pool incident is. Content to sit there in each other’s grace, they sit, and ponder running away together. But, a loud bang is heard, a warning shot the master of the Bolshevik house stand with a gun pointing at Julian. ‘Jail this son of a bitch’, the guards surround him and pull his from Romeo. Romeo stand motionless is the pool, the raging insults run off his like water off a ducks back. He stands defiant, ‘Jail me to father’, the master is silenced by the request. ‘No, you will live a life locked in a tower like that harlot mother of yours ‘. Shackled, he is waltz up the stone stair case, to await his fate.

The next day he is greeted with sounds of an angry mob in the courtyard, he looks out the window and is faced with a terrible sight, Julian is tied to a post and has mountains of hay lying at his feet. The Master Bolshevik stands with a long, thick cigar, smoking and saying a speech of how Julian invaded his palace in attempt to defile and corrupt his only son. Julian and Romeo make a strong locked eye connection. The sadness of an untaken journey is felt in the air. The master see’s this and drops his cigar onto the hay, Julian goes up in flames. Cries and screams rain out of the marbled garden. Romeo see’s Julian in pain and leaps out of the window and falls to his tragic death. The lovers die together with a future unlived, a death made possible by other peoples ignorance and moralistic depravity. Love knows no bounds, let love live.

A Type ?

When you are having the greatest time ever, do you stop and look at everyone and think, is this my life, did I wake up today and plan to be where I am. Most times I know what’s what, and where I’m going, who will be there, it’s the control freak inside me. Sometimes you do the spontaneous thing, jump in your car, drive to a bridge and pretend to pull a titanic move without the jack, or go eat at a dodge Chinese food station. We generally conform to what we like, who we like. All things in life don’t add up to 23, they add up to type.

What is type, what cars we like, food we devour, colours we dabble with, the people we hang with, the shoes I’m wearing? Is everything categorised? Is everything like a world library, arranged by name, style, creed, fashion? How do we mix it up and not stick to the status quo? It’s difficult to break out and do something different. We grew up with a strong hand telling us no and yes, right and wrong, but as we grow up into adults, we find our own paths, we create our own version of a reality untold. Do we really want to be a step ford wife robot doll? The term rebel, someone who gives the finger to the man, does things on his terms, many people in history have been this rebel. Marilyn Monroe, the beautiful curvy lady who came from nothing and no one to become one of the most recognised faces in history, since when did the mistress strike fame and rock the pages and screens of the day. Madonna, the over sexed young girl with cone shaped bras and sex books, coining the taboo crown. A rebel has a voice, and a rebel is a type.

What type are you? What is your type? When you pull up your Calvin Klein’s, then the levy skinny’s and a simple yet colourful t-shirt, who are you? Society and media has created your niche and market focus. We all have place in the world, and we define it through fashion, hair styles, careers, and other people. Have you found yourself type and self type? Still looking, yea they make two of us. What I more interested in is the term ‘opposites attract’, is this fact or like a work of Santa Claus fiction. Taking my own life into account, I know what my type is, tall dark and handsome, yes that describes the old school Hollywood leading man of the 60’s. I like someone with ambition, confidence and a sense of unhindering mystery. Smart, funny and witty. And the end of the day the picture in my head is decide, true and won’t change. Yes, I’m single, but my type is something I won’t waver on. It’s not being fussy, its type choice. You might like blondes with blue eyes and size d breasts, or you may like a short hairy man with a bubble butt and glasses. We all have types.  But how do two different types mingle? Are they like a stiff martini or a jumbled up fish bold. Or in a lot of cases just a quick fix shot glass. To keep someone interested, you must not show all your cards, keep some mystery, makes the next coffee just that little more interesting.

A creative meets the law world. One career is colourful, fast paced and fun, what happens when this meets a fact or fiction, right or wrong, hard, dedicated work. Not saying people are defined by their career, but personalities fit into certain aspects of our life’s and work, to be happy, our jobs must enhance our life’s, as must the people.  But when two opposites come together, it’s hard to establish a middle ground, a centre base to build on. People are complicated as it is, but when there is two, the complications get bigger, and it’s how you deal with the type difference that will decide the outcome of the attraction. The more you get to know one another, you start picking up on the little things that make its priceless and happy when you are together. It’s the times you’re not together when the mind ticks, and you try break apart every aspect of them, this causes insecurity. From the get go, establish whether or not, this is someone you want to engage with, someone you can see yourself spending a lot of time together, if you can’t write a list of the pros and cons, and the cons outweigh the pros, nip it in the bud, and walk away. Maybe they weren’t your type. But I always say learn and try everything, you never know what type can swing and change your perception. 

Risk. What is life if you can’t risk a bit, take a leap of fate, try some sushi, try sky diving, try a pair of skinny’s, sure they might crush your testicles, at least you tried something new. Life is for the living, the now, we make mistakes, we date mistakes, but life is like playing Russian roulette with people in the barrel, you never know what you going to get, so take a spin, take a shot, maybe it’s the last time you will blow the single gun. You never know. In my life, it’s a long shot, but I say why not. Trying a new type… wish me luck.