I've just realized that it's the last month of summer, and my legs have not seen the sun YET AGAIN this year.  That makes around 5 years of lily-white I think - and no, I'm not posting pics, or I'd blind the lot of you.

I spend my working life in jeans, and as work is about all I do, I have a lovely "farmer's tan" on my arms and other exposed bits, while the legs literally glow in the dark.  Eish.  Even gardening in snatched moments of free time is done full-length, as my garden is still at the hack-and-chainsaw stage of clearing that requires protective clothing, and nowhere near the gentle maintenance point where one can drift around in a summer frock and admire the blooms and blossoms and bees.

The last time I put on shorts half our network went down in horror a few minutes later, and I had to revert to jeans to go sort it out... :-)  So no, no shorts, short skirts or other leg-exposing things for me.

Maybe next year?


I could write books with what goes on in my head every day.  Except when it comes time to put it into words, or write it down in a way that anyone would want to read - I have no words.

The habit of keeping quiet is spreading to my ability to write....  Either that or age is already beginning to impact my brain.

What could be

You know those days where your entire being rebells against the to-do list, the mindless tasks, the endless sideshows, the constant sukkel with people that goes on and on when you have to keep a business going?

Yup, today's another one of those.

Some people would say "my kop raas".  But it's not noise in the head, it's all that stuff I could be doing, would rather be doing.

The older I get, the more tired of the ratrace, the endless chase after the numbers in the bank to cover the numbers going out of the bank, the often-meaningless routine, and the never-ending slog I get.  There is more to life than this hamster-wheel, but at the moment the hamster-wheel is unfortunately where we have to be.

To exit the hamster-wheel requires more numbers in the bank.  Many many more numbers.  Perhaps that's something we secretly all strive for, why we drag ourselves through commuter traffic each day...

It's not that I don't want to work though.  Doing "nothing" would drive me completely insane.  It's just that I want a chance to explore the things I'm interested in, or do the things I love.  And although most days I love what I do (always better than a desk job), there are other days when I simply want out.

Quite frankly, I think it's the stress that's the problem.  I never used to get stressed - anything that happened would be treated as "water off a duck's back" because I knew if I didn't, it would affect me in ways both physical and mental.  That has gradually changed.  I've started internalizing and blaming myself for a lot of stuff over the years, taken it all personally, to the point where I live with an almost constantly closed-up-throat feeling, random heart palpatations, aches and pains, etc etc (but this is not an organ recital, so will stop right there).  I'm convinced taking on all this stress has undone years of looking after myself.  I've aged drastically in the past year.  Arthritis at 45 has me on daily meds.

Hence the occasional flight of fancy that takes my mind completely out of the game it should be in.

I'll be scrolling down Facebook and see some fantastic photos taken out in the bundus - and my soul wants to be there doing that too.

I'll drive past one of the new "rich man's squatter camps" going up behind security booms and security fences, and that comprehensive plan for a completely different "housing development" that I'd love to build pops up in my head again.

I'll come across a beautifully-presented dish and realize how boring and uniteresting our meals are.  All those things I want to bake, make, cook, preserve..

Then the gardens.  Oh, the gardens.  With our Level 3 water restrictions mine is largely dead.  The only exception are the few plants in pots around my kitchen door that are kept alive with an allowed bucket-watering.  I have no time to tackle the increasing jungle of weeds, vines and overgrowth.  I dream of carefully tended greenery, rich soil and the kind of surroundings I know I could create given enough of those numbers, time and energy.

I'll be reading a random paragraph and realize how much I still want to learn about the world, about stuff in general.   

I see a posting by an artist of their latest work and realize I've lost my creativity.  The piano gathers dust.  The paints are probably drying out in their tubes.  I haven't written anything (including here) for so long.  I haven't worked with wood or clay or light.

I hit Google Maps to find a client address - and then notice all the roads I have never been down, the places I haven't seen.

I'm confronted with the constant noise of traffic outside the office, of people talking endlessly, of phones and machines and alarms - and my very centre longs for absolute silence with only the noises of the natural world around me.

Today's a daydream day. I'm feeling stuck.  The only way to deal with the continuous, monotonous slog is by letting that head "raas" just a little bit now and then while the hands carry on with their duties as normal.

How to kill yourself

I don't often say a whole lot (anymore), but it doesn't mean that I'm not absorbing info and forming opinions.  And there's a whole lot of info plus daily experiences that are culminating in some very hard truths.

Just one example: at age 44, I am suffering with relatively bad arthritis in my hands - making daily jobs (and even typing this post) difficult, painful and just a little bit terrifying.  I used to have strong hands, now it feels like they're going to break.  And why, at my age, am I in this situation?  It's simple.  Inflammation.

Inflammation is a leading contributor to a whole range of horrible health problems (link to 2004 TIME article - this is not new news).  Simply put, it's your body attacking your body - misreading info on what's going on, sending in the troops to fix it, and in the process making it worse.  Kind of like killing a spider with a nuke.

And what causes it?  Many and varied...  but basically it's nutrition and lifestyle issues.

In my case, I've literally worked my fingers to the bone.  My last few jobs have involed hands-on hard work, and my fingers have taken a hammering (as well as a scraping, bashing, straining etc).  Between stripping e-waste and climbing towers / pulling cables they've had it rough.

But they could have handled it a lot better if I had been providing a bit of background support.

Let's start with the obvious one:  nutrition.  Inflammation is fought with appropriate amounts of anti-oxidants.  Years ago I used to eat loads of tomatoes, fruits, green veg.  All good anti-oxidants.  I drank a litre of milk a day (on average) - good bone and joint support.  Now... well not so much.  Our eating habits are sporadic at best, to terrible.

Which brings me to the lifestyle part.  When you spend your days running to keep business/es afloat, stressed out by work and clients and pressure, and then drag yourself home exhausted both work day and weekend, it starts to wear you out.  Lunch often goes missing.  Supper is "whatever is to hand".  Sleep (and proper rest) may or may not happen.

Big, bad circle of life.

The thing is this.  It's killing us.  I am not convinced we will last longer than the business will.  In fact, many days I think it will get us first.

And it compounds with every passing year, month and day.  I'm not getting any younger.  What I do now is going to determine how well or how badly I age.  The things I put into my mouth now will be the building blocks or lack thereof in years to come.  The stress I'm facing down daily will determine whether I go insane earlier or later, whether I lose my sight gradually or quickly, whether I'm mobile or immobile at 80.

In short, it's rapidly getting too late to change the future.  May already be too late.

And that is very scary.


I've misplaced my core of contentment.

I need to get it back....

Creative outlet

I am not the world's best artist.  That is a fact.

I'm not the world's best writer.  Fact again.

Nor musician.

Nor gardener.

Nor chef.

Nor photographer

Nor woodworker.

Nor decorator / home maker.

But that doesn't mean I can't do my own version of all of the above - and more.

For the past few years, as we've been building a company or two, time has been in short supply.  Specifically time for non-business-building activities.  Every waking hour it seems is devoted to slaving away in order to provide other people with happiness / service / the things they pay us for.

It's truly a never-ending slog.

In the midst of it all, any attempt at balance has been basically non-existant.  Which is fine for a time, but not forever.

Us humans are creative beings.  We have an innate desire to make things - things of beauty or excellence, that might not have anything to do with putting food on the table or a roof over our heads.  It's why we scratched figures on cave walls.  Why archeologists find intricate gold beadwork.  Why gigantic heads watch over the horizon on Easter Island.  We simply can't help making stuff, even while our main priority is not being devoured by a sabre-tooth beast.

And yes, you can spend your days commuting and typing and working and never see the stars.  But one day the time will come when those creative urges can no longer be surpressed.

Me, well I've taken to occasionally splashing paint on a canvass.  Not enough thereof, but it's a start.  The piano is languishing in a corner, and when my arthritic fingers are not too sore it gets a quiet tinkle.  The garden...well, that's simply a work in progress, a battle to keep ahead of the morning glory vines.  We'll get there.

Yet very often I find myself daydreaming about the other creative stuff I want to do.  There are words I want to write down (whether they're ready by other people or not).  Things to make in wood, wax, metal, clay.  A sewing machine waiting for inspiration to be stitched into reality.  Cameras with shuttered lenses biding their time.  A house that needs turning into a home.  An entire world out there that I have yet to explore, document, absorb and embody.

It's hard to express how I crave that outlet at times - it's a feeling of artistic dehydration.  Days like this past weekend where I feel I may lose it if I don't get a chance to do something - anything - arty.  Yet all of that gets cancelled out by the need to make numbers that go into computers in a building called a bank - where those numbers can be given to other people to keep body and soul together or the rain off your head.  The constant chase after money - it kills that little flame.

Or not?  Because as focussed as we are on making a living, still that pilot light of a fire burns away, waiting for the day it can be released and run wild, fleshing out those daydreams and ideas and imaginings into things you can hold in your hands and see with your eyes.

The day is coming.  It has to.


What, exactly is success?

I'm 40-something.  Should I count success as (at this age) owning property, driving a snazzy paid-off car, never counting cents at the Pick 'n Pay tills, and being able to take holidays overseas?

If so, I'm definitely not successful!  Although I work myself ragged every day, most days it still feels like I'm treading water, struggling to survive, getting nowhere except backwards.  There are months where I can live comfortably on what is coming in - and others where I barely survive.  I own no property - I have one old Land Rover that is paid off, but am working to give the banks money for all our other fleet vehicles each month (as most businesses are).  Holiday?  Not to speak of in years.  Definitely not overseas.  Even a weekend off is pushing it.

So am I successful?

I don't know.  I certainly don't feel it.  Yes, my name is listed as owner of two businesses.  Yes, I have raised a child without killing him.  And yes, I have an awesome amazing wonderful man who shares my heart.

Yet still so often I feel like a complete failure.

I dream big dreams about how life is supposed to look, how I'm supposed to feel at this age (retirement is not too far off!), what I'm supposed to have accomplished - what I still want to accomplish.

Beyond that though are the needs.  There are so many things I need to have done by now, which I can't and haven't.  Stuck due to a lack of time, a lack of funding, a lack of who knows what.  A lack of success?

So how do I measure success?  The fact that I can still get up each day and go to work?  That my better half is still with me after 8 years together?  That I have a roof over my head and probably more food in the house than most of our population?  That I still have the ability to dream, to bounce back from setbacks, to make a plan when a plan needs making, and somwhere under the frazzled exterior the ability to create?

I don't know.  Today, I'm not feeling it.