SAY NO TO NURSERY RHYMES

Nursery rhymes are not as they have been made to seem. For hidden amongst clappy rhythm and flowery rhyme are age old horror stories that have stood the test of time.

It wouldn't surprise me if sex, death and violence aren't the first things that come to mind when you hear your younger siblings religiously chanting the words of Jack and Jill or Ring-o-ring-o Rosies but when you take the time to uncover the story behind the story you will soon discover that nursery rhymes are not really appropriate for children.

Childhood is a time of innocence. It is a time in one's life when it really is plausible that an old woman swallowed a fly that had in turn caused her to die. Everything is straight forward and possible in the mind of a child. Even memorising the absurd and seemingly nonsense lines of nursery rhymes could keep a child entertained for hours at a time. Ignorance is bliss. But hidden behind a visard of colourful illustration lies a blood-stained past. Did you know that many of the popular nursery rhymes reflect on political and royal turmoil from history?

People have always wished to voice the monstrosities of their time but to paint those at the top of the ladder in bad light would often lead to serious punishment, the most likely of which: death. To detract attention this social-commentary would be disguised in a cloak of child-like tune and shades of rhythm. Although the events have almost all been forgotten, their tragedies still haunt the world today, manifesting themselves in the sweet hum of children.

Mary, Mary quite contrary, how does your garden grow? Queen Mary, daughter to King Henry VIII, was nicknamed Bloody Mary as she was better known for the prosecution of protestants in a time when they began to break away from the Catholic Church. One particular incident involved three protestants who were accused of plotting against the Queen. She had them burnt at the stake, however rumour remains that she had had them blinded and dismembered thus giving rise to the all time favourite Three Blind Mice (which is not to be misinterpreted as a poem about a crazy farm lady who had an odd fear of small rodents wearing dark glasses).

Similarly the unfortunate events of Jack and Jill did not arise from the story of an unusually unlucky couple but was actually written as an account of the beheading of King Louis XVI which was later followed by that of his wife, Marie Antoinette.

Another disturbing tune on our pre-school play list was inspired by Peter who supposedly killed his wife for being unfaithful to him and hid her body in a giant hollowed pumpkin. This poem was originally created to warm girls of the seriousness of committing adultery.

You would not think twice to argue that it is morally incorrect to place a child of three or four in front of a horror or thriller to keep them entertained for an hour or two. Why is it then that we actively set out as a part of the education and development of a child to teach them the words to these nursery rhymes which are too essentially horrors? It is the duty of any person who will have an influence on the education of our youth  to know where it is these poems come from, what they mean and for what purpose they were written. We are brain-washing our children. You and me, well we are living proof. We can spit out the words of these nursery rhymes almost instinctively and why? Because we lost our battle at the hand of a few rhyming syllables.

Act now to put a stop to such injustice! Save our children! Say no to nursery rhymes in pre-school education!

Amused. I am really and I tend to do it to myself a lot. I find myself on this gloomy Tuesday afternoon cross-legged with my infamous purple file leaving its impression on my upper thighs. I have brought it upon myself to assume the role of art historian and critic as I embark on a journey through time.

A swift flight through the 19th century and I find myself visiting both the Romantics and Neo Classicists. They both told me stories of a very similar nature however differing predominantly in the decision of how much they would leave to the imagination (if you know what I mean). Trudging through their war stricken tales while balancing on the edge of life and death, I saw the light. So did the Impressionists and soon I was encapsulated in an atmospheric realm lost in amongst colour and reflection. My mind is swirling as this fast-paced art movement tries to explain to me the importance of capturing a moment but before I can grasp what they are trying to say the thought is gone. "It's about what you see and not what you know!" Surely I only know what it is I have seen? "I meant out there. Right now. That which you see in front of you." I guess I should open my eyes. That was implied. There were no shadows to hide amongst as the Impressionists had done away with somber tones. The unstable state of an artistic mind would get the better of them. They would soon want more. Simply seeing was not good enough. They needed structure, they needed durability, they needed emotion, they needed dreams. They would be defined simply by what they were not. What they weren't were Impressionists. What they were was individual. And this is the part of my journey that would first have me angry and then heart sore and then slightly amused but over all emotionally moved. I'm still not certain if it was the sudden increase in the average number of words used to summarise the life, work and ideology of each Post Impressionist but something was happening inside of me that had me treading on dangerous waters. I was interacting with history on a level I had never experienced before, developing theories and opinions that had little to fall back on. Silently cursing any praise given to Cezanne simply because his life story bores me. Also I really dislike his paintings, and the way he treated his family and just pretty much EVERYTHING about him. I know, strong feelings towards a guy that I've never met but I have a hunch that I wouldn't like him even if I had. Practically arguing with the photocopied notes that lie in front of me I was refreshed to see the heading "Cezanne's Death" (and this is a sadistic side of my personality that I am slowly discovering but death means end and I was slowly losing interest). With the same arbitrary, unjustified emotion that had left me red in the face I would experience a deep sympathy for Van Gogh as I slowly learnt of the series of unfortunate events were stringed together in a tragic and some what pathetic life story. I was experiencing the polar extreme of what I had not but half a page ago put myself through. My opinion is highly biased as he was quoted saying that "yellow is beautiful" and with those three words he crept into my heart. As somebody who doesn't like painting in general I did find myself enjoying the physical presence that his work willingly claims and as I look at his paintings I know how he must have felt. I get this sort of energy in my body as I pretend to stand in his shoes and I know what he meant. And then I become extremely frustrated because there is this language barrier that exists in the world when trying to communicate emotion as a person can only interpret another's feelings in terms of their own. I imagine that Van Gogh must have experienced a similar annoyance. This is fitting. Most of everything else however is not. And it’s all that other miscellaneous dribble and drab that had me catching a mild case of the giggles. 

“Welcome to my world”

No words in any one language could do my world justice. Something so complex can not simply be reduced to a few monochromatic scribbles on a piece of paper and I find it offensive that I am expected to try. It boggles my mind how anyone can have the audacity to place a word restriction on the “authentic” depiction of my entire existence. On a good day I like to challenge myself but the topic was too close to home and I could not stand to give an inaccurate depiction of who I am and the world in which I live.  I do not feel like I have failed you but if I were to have written a generic account of one minor aspect of my richly diverse life I would have failed myself.

You and I, we are sisters. We share the same mother but we did not share the same womb. We were both nursed by the hands of our planet Earth and nourished by her fruits. We are welcomed warmly into her world and within her back yard boundaries we seek to create our own.

My sanctuary, however, is a place that only I can visit. Every night I get a chance to escape the constraints of my daily routine. It doesn’t take long to convince me. I’m already gone. Soaring through the clouds I rejoice in the excitement of coming home. My toes tingle as they touch down in the centre of my luscious field of memory. Soft droplets of dew drip from the blades of grass quenching the thirst of seeds already sewn. Here it is spring all year around and I pick blooming ideas and arrange them in bouquets.

Beyond this field lies a small rusted tin, nestled in the depths of my imagination and somewhat like Mary Poppins’ handbag and the wardrobe that leads to Narnia, the size of my tin is not directly proportionate to the value of its contents. Its location is kept confidential by the likes of one, Indecision who works hand in hand with Logic and Reason to ensure that what ever it contains can never escape. The deteriorating container holds my entire life’s savings, a sixteen year collection of fears, passions and subconscious reflection.

My world is watered with imagination and the flowers that grow are dreams. At night, as I gently rest my head, I am greeted by a familiar face. She looks like me only like she belongs. Her aura is smiling as she says, “Welcome to your world.”

Song of self pity

Wipe those tears and open your eyes,

look out on the world that you've learnt to despise.

You have been looking in for way too long,

Can't say how you feel without the aid of someone else's song.

Those tears that stain your cheek are black,

only it is authenticity that they lack.

Pick up the pieces, you'll find there is only one,

you were never broken, it was all just some story that you spun.

Drifter

I'm floating around an empty room. Content. Nothing is wrong but I guess nor is it right. There is nothing. No emotion. No inspiration. No motivation. Everything about me is based on nothing and therefore I am non-existent, absent, invisible. I am hesitating. I have the time but I find excuses. I walk in circles staring at my feet as if they were someone else's. How the fuck did I get here? Where the fuck did I come from? 

If I were...

I may look a little rough around the edges but every scratch and imperfection marks the signature of both life and experience. I wear tattoos that read "I am" and "I have a story". The journeys I have travelled are tales waiting to be told, tales filled with adventure.

My life like most of my kind began at a coin mint where I was cut, pressed and polished (a rather painful process but you know what they say about suffering for your beauty and boy was I beautiful). I may have just been one in a million but I was determined to be the change. The time came for my evaluation and I past all tests with flying colours. As a young graduate there was a passion burning inside of me motivating me to make it out in the working world.

For all those who have started sinking back in their seats and the rest who hold their heads up with their hands, I hope you have used the opportunity to make yourselves comfortable because I have told you the story of my beginning but it is now time to begin my story. 

As much as I was excited I was scared. I had no idea what to expect. All that I had to go by were the legends told of life as a coin in circulation. I landed my first job in a small retail shop and fortunately for me it wouldn't be long until I was out of there. 

BEEP BEEP BEEP. It was dark and stuffy inside the till but the sound of items being scanned could mean only one thing: There would be a few moments when the cashier was counting change during which we could catch a glimpse of the outside world and if you were lucky score a free ticket out of there. Today was my day! I felt myself moving towards the light and from the warm sweaty hands of the cashier I landed in the soft palm of what I could easily have mistaken for an angel. She gently slipped me into her pink purse and then into her designer hand bag.

"Please, ma'am."

The small voice woke me from my daydreams. Ripped from the heavens I was placed in the cupped hands of a Stellenbosch bergie. Her fists quickly clenched and I felt the warm embrace of desperation. I hit the bottom of her rusted tin with a clink landing besides a plastic beaded bracelet and a few half smoked cigarettes. Every second in the jar felt like an eternity but in the fast moving world of today I knew it was inevitable that I would soon be traded in. I would move from hand to hand, wallet to pocket and back again. I could move from city to city in the space of a day and soon I would have travelled right across the country. 

Life threw me a curve ball when on a day I fell from the torn pocket of a young rocker. "FINDERS KEEPERS!" A young boy bent down and picked me up from the ground. He inspected me thoroughly like the day I had left the coin mint. He put me in his pocket with his well-kept bat-mobile and pulled me out again only once we had reached the safety of his own home. He grabbed the piggy bank off the shelf, holding it with two hands careful no to drop it as he placed it on the floor. With pride he inspected me one last time before gently pushing me through the slot on the porcelain pig's back. It is here that I would spend most years of my life.

Eventually coins like me would lose their value and production would be discontinued. Many years after this there is the possibility that I could be declared rare and then only will my worth increase again. The young boy will possibly pass me on to his son who will in turn pass me on to his son and I will make sure that I brought this family good fortune because...

...if I were a coin that were treated with care, I'd be a lucky coin. 

I may just be one but I could make your million.

Monday Mornings

Eyes the world over are tightly shut as life lingers in a world that is not our own; a world outside the realm of reasoning, where everyone decides for themselves which way is up and which way is down.  One becomes one’s own creator experiencing a sense of power and importance that is unknown to the average man. This is an ideal world that no one would ever choose to leave. 

Its almost time. This is the moment I have been waiting for. All pressure is on me. Forget the nerves, you’ll do great. Just remember timing is important! Do exactly what you did yesterday and everything will be just fine.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

“That mean Mr Alarm Clock! He is certainly punctual and is not shy to let this show.”

“That mean Mr Alarm Clock! He never fails to wake the world. It’s 6am on a Monday morning, he’s sure to let us know.”

“That MEAN Mr Alarm Clock! Is yelling out oh so loudly and ever so proudly that its time to get up and go!”

I take my job quite seriously and have never taken a single days leave but when us Clocks come together at a family reunion we never pass the opportunity to laugh at the amusing situations we may encounter during working hours. The funniest thing, and everyone would agree, to see at work is the physical reactions and transformations our clients undergo as they move from one state of mind to the other. Many curl in on themselves

backward, arching their backs as though their stomachs are already moving towards the kitchen before their brain has confirmed the hunger. Then there are the few who roll right off of the edge of the bed at the sound of my voice, successfully proving that yes the floor still is there even when you cannot see it. My personal favourite is the disfiguration of the face used as a physical indicator of fatigue.

I have quite an important job around the household you see. If I didn’t know better and could say so without sounding arrogant I would say that that it were the most important. Its up to me, you see, to make sure that the world wakes up on time in order to get on with business. There is word on the street that a distant cousin of mine once forgot to do his job. His clients, lovely people, had not been reminded to wake up so they went on sleeping and they slept right through the day. It was his client’s birthday, you see, and she had forgotten to wake up and she had forgotten to grow up.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

It’s 6am on a Monday morning, get up it’s time to go!

It’s 6am on a Monday morning, get up it’s time to grow!