A closed mouth gathers no foot

The news today is full of death and disaster, abuse and accidents, near misses by meteors and asteroids. The social media reflects people's opinions on all of these things, supporting and condemning, covering up and exposing, in an unstoppable avalanche of free speech which reveals both the depths and heights achievable by mankind in its assessment of the world as we have made it.

Modern technology has made all information instantly available to just about every person on the planet who owns a cellphone, with the sharing of photos with barely a minute passing between recording the image and relaying it to millions of viewers, and no possible way of preventing the misery and misfortune of others from being broadcast to the world. What happened to respect for people's privacy, for thinking before doing, for holding back before reacting, for just allowing people to be, without feeling obliged to pass judgment?

It's even worse to have to read all this vitriol in the 'comments' section which is attached to everything that appears in the media, social or antisocial. Nothing will ever be gained by negative outpourings. What the world really needs is upliftment and support for victims of circumstances which are not always within their control. Those who stand up in defence of both sides and call for empathy and understanding for those involved are ridiculed, with snide remarks being posted to draw attention to their naivety.

One can only feel sad for those whose only way of communicating is through denigration and the limited vocabulary of the gutter. They are the ones in greatest need of non-judgment.

We could do worse that follow the old adage: If you have nothing good to say, say nothing.

Mother's Valentine's Day

In our family, Valentine's Day is Mother's birthday. This means we can't buy her flowers, because they are overpriced for the occasion or else in short supply. We can't go out to eat because the restaurants are having a Valentine's menu and are fully booked and not able to offer their usual standards of food or service. And apart from all that, she has such a busy life that she is usually doing something on her birthday anyway. Today she went to a Probus lunch, which is not subject to the vagaries of Valentine's day, being a society/club that meets every month. Unfortunately, she cracked a tooth and so will be spending tomorrow at the dentist, which puts paid to a postponed prandial party.

Next week will be their 61st wedding anniversary, which doesn't coincide with any event warranting capital letters, and so we will be going to one of our favourite eateries, the Pickled Fish at Imhoff Farm, Kommetjie. We go there separately and together quite often, as we have never yet been disappointed in the menu and in fact recommend it to all we know, for the delicacy of flavour of the fare, without forfeiting the heat and spiciness required for a robust prawn curry and paella to die for. The setting, in one of the original farm buildings with walls as thick as the length of your arm, is simple and welcoming, and the service efficient and unobtrusive.

It's unlikely that anything on the menu will crack a tooth, so I can guarantee a good time will be had by all!

Horsing about

Every time I turn on Sky News, the main story still seems to be the horsemeat 'scandal'. While I appreciate that the British culture and most of the Western world does not involve the eating of horsemeat, it must be remembered that many European countries condone it, regarding it as just another form of protein, similar to eating cows. I am unable to comment on whether Eastern cultures eat horsemeat, but considering that cats and dogs form part of some menus, there is no reason not to believe that all animals are considered 'fair game' by one culture or another, depending on what is available in the environment.

Those who have indulged are quite open about how tender and tasty it is and that it is their meat of choice. For vegetarians, all forms of meat eating are taboo and repulsive to them, while certain religions forbid any contact with pork. Maybe they would eat horses. I haven't studied the subject, but it would be interesting to know.

However, the extent of the outrage and investigative journalism going on seems a little out of proportion when considering that the vast majority of the population is prepared and indeed eager to eat burgers, fried chicken, processed meats and a variety of fast foods that are so far removed from a piece of 'virgin' meat as could be dreamt of in Horatio's philosophy! I would be far more frightened of eating these than a horse steak.

While a nation that invented the deep-fried Mars Bar as a takeaway snack foams at the mouth at having been illicitly served a slice of a beloved domesticated animal, one wonders what really important events are being allowed to slip by unnoticed in the background while the popular press and government mouthpieces grind this headline news out day after day.

Go gentle into that dark night (apologies to Dylan Thomas)

It's late at night and all is quiet. The intense heat of a perfect February day in Cape Town has transformed into a perfect balmy February night, with the inky blackness punctuated by a billion stars surrounding our planetary home. It is so still that not a star twinkles, the light uninterrupted as it shines down on us in patterns that have guided explorers across the ages to find their way to new places and home again. The crescent moon set early and the brightest object above us is Jupiter, descending into the Atlantic as the Milky Way sweeps from north west to south east in a magnificent arc of glowing gas, dust and rock.

The faint glow of the lights of greater Cape Town outline the mountains to the north, the familiar Table Mountain easily identifiable even in starlight, and the measured flash of the Slangkop lighthouse signals to passing ships that tonight is a good night to be passing the fairest cape in all the circumference of the globe. Cicadas are shrilling in the milkwoods and night herons call as they pass overhead to their nocturnal feeding ground beyond the lighthouse.

A small shore break reminds me that the sea is close by despite the warmth in the air, and an occasional drift brings the scent of ozone and salt and freshly turned kelp wafting in my direction. There are lights on all around, reminding me that we are actually in the middle of suburbia. If there were none, it would be easy to imagine that I was an early inhabitant, looking at the stars and listening to the sea from my rock shelter a little way up the mountain.

I wish it could be so for everyone - to have a night filled with nothing but peace and tranquillity.

Survival

Some time back, a shrub in the garden was stripped bare by a team of 4 very large, but beautiful Death's Head Hawk Moth caterpillars, and I thought that it would surely die. Within a week of the devastation, tiny buds appeared all over the shrub and within 2 weeks it was restored to even better than its former glory. Such is the survival instinct of nature.

Since then, my Parrot/Dragonflower creeper has been subjected to the same treatment by tiny black hairy caterpillars, leaving long strings of bare stalks trailing all over the place. And now I see the tree fuchsia and another shrub are showing signs of leaf chompers at work. I thought how disappointing it must be for these plants to have put all that effort into new shoots at the beginning of summer, only to find themselves under attack from a predator with no defence. Yet, once again, close inspection reveals new life budding from the wounds of battle.

It becomes obvious from these instances of renewal that the eating of the leaves by caterpillars enables them to continue their lifecycle, while the plants appear to benefit by starting afresh with new, healthy growth after an enforced 'rest' period. And it occurred to me that in our human lives, we should take a lesson from nature.

When life appears to have stripped you bare, if you can accept what is and not give up all hope, your inner strength will rise up like sap in the plants and allow you to have a fresh start all over again, that may lead you to an even better life than you thought possible at the time of your lowest ebb.

I think it could be referred to as being rooted in faith.

Rocking with Rodriguez

I was lucky enough to get a last-minute ticket to see Sixto Rodriguez on his current South African tour. Having just watched Searching for Sugarman, I realised that it would be mutually beneficial to go to the concert; for me to show respect for the man's talent and contribution to the world and for him to use that talent by performing for his fans. And they were there in their thousands. I asked the man next to me if he was a big Rodriguez fan and he said, "You know then!" - a good old 1970s phrase - and he sang and clapped throughout like a teenager although in his 60s. He told me that he didn't care whether Rodriguez sang well or not, he just wanted to see him on the stage in real life. And I think that was the attitude of most of the audience.

Before the show started, Rodriguez's daughter stepped out from behind the curtain to wave and take pictures of the audience - a heartwarming and endearing moment as she recorded the world's appreciation of her dad, which was so long in coming.

The performance was everything I hoped for and more. The old familiar songs that created such a following in the South Africa of the 1970s have not lost their message and forty years later he still has his unique and so listenable style. His daughters were close at hand to lead him on and off stage, as failing eyesight makes him seem frail, but his arms are still strongly muscled from years of labour on construction sites and, of course, playing guitar.

I wore my Rodriguez hat, and so did he.

A cultural evening

Attended a piano recital last night - Francois du Toit, Professor of Music at University of Cape Town, and acclaimed concert pianist. It never ceases to amaze me how, first of all, someone wrote the music and secondly, another person can translate those lines and symbols into a sound that is literally music to our ears. It is another form of written language. A note from an instrument is given a name and placed in a particular place on two sets of defined lines, and that representation of a sound is recorded for posterity. Genius at work.

The works of Beethoven, Mozart and Haydn were composed and played on instruments quite different to the modern-day piano, and I would be interested to hear how the music differed, in a kind of New School, Old School comparison such as we hear on the radio today for remixes of the songs from our youth. I suppose the transition from basic piano to advanced model was a little like the electrification of the guitar, and the increase from 5 octaves to 7 octaves must have given the composers a huge scope for adding drama to their music with the deeper notes and lighter, more fanciful interludes at the higher end of the scale.

It was a virtuoso performance, attended by hundreds of middle-aged to elderly people, and as I mentally compared it to the rather aggressive and repetitive rappers at the other extreme of the music spectrum, I felt saddened that such a large proportion of humanity might never have the opportunity of appreciating music that truly is a gift from and to the soul.