雨 • Ame • Rain

This morning I woke up to the sound of soft rain on my window. I went from feeling comfortable, to nostalgic, to sad. Comfortable because, like most other people, I really enjoy the sound of rain falling against the windowpanes. There’s something considerably more romantic about it than the constant drone of passing cars (my house is right on one of the main highways in Cape Town). Then I felt nostalgic because I hadn’t heard that sound for so long… and that’s what made me sad.

The drought situation in the Western Cape has become so terribly dire, that our dam levels, last I checked, are at around 10.7% total capacity. We’re scheduled in the next few days to move on to Level 4 water restrictions. We’ve been asked time and time again to reduce water consumption, and to some degree that’s been achieved. But like most issues, once the initial emphasis is lifted, people sort of forget that there was a problem to begin with because it isn’t affecting them directly.

I work in a hardware store on weekends. People have over the past few rainless weeks of winter (when most of our rain is due in this Mediterranean climate) come into the store to buy new fixtures for their taps and hose pipes and pools. Being the idealist I am, I assumed that they were addressing problems that resulted in water wastage: leaking taps, worn pool pipes, and so on. But when I asked some of them, the responses were a little more than disappointing.

“Well I can’t just let my grass die, now can I?”

“We don’t have a grey water system, I can’t just dump my dishwater in buckets on the grass…”

“What’s the point of having a pool if I can’t use it?”

It’s a classic case of ‘that’s not my problem, I pay for this service.’ You know what, Cape Town? It is your dam(n) problem. Having water is not a service, it’s a privilege.

“No, it’s my right.”

Sure. Humans have the right to clean water… but what if there’s no more water available? Whose problem is it then?

I get myself worked up about issues of sustainability and longevity of resources when people have this ‘it’s not my problem‘ attitude towards them. It’s the most frustrating thing. Get with it, people.

/endrant

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Keystone

In an attempt to distract ourselves from scientific writing for a while, I challenged a friend of mine to a short story writing challenge near the end of 2016. The challenge involved providing each other with a single word, which then had to be translated into a short story of no more than 2 pages. It was harder than I thought it would be to get back into the swing of writing fiction. Being primarily a descriptive writer, I spent a lot of time just sitting quietly and letting my brain run on its own – not thinking, but imagining. The word given to me was “keystone“, and this is how it played out.

 

Keystone, by Hana Petersen

I felt her before I saw her.

She had followed me. Her amber eyes stared intently at me, though I avoided looking her way altogether. I didn’t want her to know that I was aware of her presence. I kept my posture confident yet vigilant. I walked through the grass, allowing my fingertips to brush against their awns and collect fine white pollen from the exerted stamens hanging limp in the absence of wind. The pollen clung to me. Her eyes clung to me. I wandered closer to the edge of the grassy plain, eager to be nearer to a more heterogeneous landscape. My heart pounded in my chest. Large, hot beads of sweat poured from my temples down my neck, between my breasts, and down my legs. I suddenly felt the weight of my solitude. Where were the others? The scouting should have ended at second noon, and they should have returned by third. The fourth star now shone brightly at its red zenith, leaving the plains awash with golden hues, and setting her unfaltering amber gaze on fire.

I had to run. My only salvation was that if I knew anything in this world, I knew these plains. I knew the exact spot where I was born, just above the first terrace. Minutes after I was jolted to life, I instinctively knew my way from that terrace to the place where my people gathered water. I could smell it. From the minute I was born, my instincts had guided me across every inch of these plains. I had seen the same instincts in my children. I knew the exact path they followed as they grew accustomed to using their legs, strong like their mother’s, to chase their father as he cantered into the distance to scout. My people had thrived here for aeons, blending in to the tawny grasses that nourished us. When the tawny grasses grew thin at the turn of the season, we would migrate northward to the mountains and allow our land to recover, and then return here to bear our children so that they too would know these plains. These were our plains, and we thrived here, until They came. And when They came, They brought Man with Them.

We had heard about Them and Their Men before. News had travelled from the grasslands in the far East that people were being slaughtered and eaten, and the grasslands cleared for construction of Their dens. Wherever They moved with Their packs of bloodthirsty Men, destruction had followed. Our people, we heard, were shepherded into enclosures and guarded by Men through all four cycles of stars. The Men had even gone so far as to bind and bridle our people, enslaving them for hard labour and transportation until they collapsed of exhaustion. The grasslands far East of here, and our people who resided in them, were laid to waste. Where grasslands once stretched for as far as the eye could perceive, the landscape was now scarred with garish brown mounds of earth and fenced enclosures. Our people were now all but extinct in those parts, and the system was mourning them.

We had been forewarned of Their movements, and had been scouting more and more frequently. We were to evacuate as soon as They showed an intention to invade. The scouts that had gone out at first dawn had yet to return, and now here was this intruder with the amber eyes, eerily alone, as was I. I had no choice. I had to run. I knew she would be after me the moment I tensed my muscles, so I began at a walk. Then a trot. I fixed my eyes on the line of trees beyond the terraces and broke into a gallop. I galloped as fast as my legs would carry me, feeling the sweat fly with centrifugal force from my face and away from the centre of my chest. I could not see her, but I could hear her brushing through the tall grass with remarkable agility. Her legs carried her at a speed that was engineered to challenge us. She was designed a predator, and I the prey. My legs, though strong, could only gallop for so long before they needed rest. My body was heavy. I felt the sweat pour from me in burning hot streams. The air felt thick and viscous in my airways. My hooves pounded the earth with so much force that I felt throbbing all the way up my abdomen and in my shoulders and neck. My veins stood thick and dilated at the surface of my skin. The trees in the distances were still only in the distance. How long had I been running for? When had it become so dark? What were these blotchy figures moving in the grass beside me?

All I remember as I took my last step was the excruciating pain in my left flank. Hit with such tremendous force, and my flesh pierced with something so sharp and unrelenting, I could no longer move. My legs seized. I crumbled to the ground on my haunches, as my torso was thrust forward with yet another blow. As the light faded ever more rapidly, I could still see bright amber eyes – several pairs of them now – peering at me, coupled with menacing growls. I closed my eyes and wished never to reopen them, realizing what must have happened to the others. My people had been stalked and ambushed by Them and Their Men, never to return home. That day, I was hunted and killed by Them, skinned and spit-fired by Their Men, and my carcass tossed comfortingly near to the place just above the first terrace where I was born. Perhaps my death was a better release from this life than to be enslaved to Them and Their Men. Where They went, Man followed. These plains were ours, we thrived here. We held it all together; as we took from it, so we fed back into it. These Men only took, and never gave back. And where Man went, and where They took and did not give back, destruction and collapse was sure to follow.

 

On introversion and parallel dimensions

 A (relatively) brief conversation I had with a good friend of mine prompted me to write about this. Both of us are reasonably (with the necessary cautions, of course) taken in by the pseudoscience that is the Myers-Briggs personality test. The test is based on Carl Jung’s typological theory. In his 1920 publication, Psychological Types, Jung identified four key psychological functions, each of which could be experienced in an introverted (i) or extraverted (e) way: thinking (Ti/Te), feeling (Fi/Fe), sensation (Si/Se), and intuition (Ni/Ne). Our personalities, and therefore everything associated with our personalities – such as our engagement with people, our perception of our environments, our sexuality, our conduct, our values and beliefs, and our decision-making processes, to name a few – are thus (very broadly) categorized into one of 16 types:

Extraverted
Introverted

ESTJ

ENTJ

ISTJ

INTJ

ESTP

ENTP

ISTP

INTP

ESFJ

ENFJ

ISFJ

INFJ

ESFP

ENFP

ISFP

INFP

If you’ve not already taken such a test, I would go so far as recommending it – if only just for some fun and light reading. I’ve found that it’s remarkably accurate at categorizing people according to their personality traits. So let’s get into it.

I am classified as INFP – introverted, intuitive, feeling, and perceiving – the ‘idealist’ and the ‘healer/mediator’. My good friend, as an INTP, bearing only one difference in psychological function to me, understandably shares similar sentiments with me. Now if it wasn’t apparent from my previous post, I do often struggle with anxiety. This, in conjunction with introversion, is a tricky path. What I’m getting at is this…

Have you ever had an encounter with someone, and then, long after the encounter is past, still agonized over what you had said, whether anything you said had been offensive, why they had reacted the way that they did, whether you could’ve said something wittier or more relevant…?

*cue resounding nods from the audience*

Me too. Every – Single – Time.

The conversation with my INTP friend was along these lines. I discussed with him the possibility of the existence of parallel dimensions, in which every single alternative scenario of every encounter you have ever had in your life actually exists as a separate dimension, instantaneously, until one of them becomes reality. A myriad parallel dimensions open up as soon as you come into consciousness on a given day, and close as soon as your reality unfolds in your daily life. This morning, a parallel universe existed in which I had yoghurt with granola and papaya, but the dimension which opened up unto me was one in which I had Otees. In a parallel dimension, I was eating veggie noodles at a Chinese restaurant for lunch, but that dimension collapsed in the wake of me eating crackers and cream cheese. Yes, this all sounds delightfully recondite and abstract, but if you’ve ever found yourself wondering about concepts like destiny or fate, then why should parallel dimensions be any less far-fetched?

But, being the empirical scientist that I am, it’s a difficult concept to fully accept. Food for thought, though. The alternatives could exist, in which case all you need to do is to pull them into your reality.

References:
  1. 16 Personalities (©2011-2016 NERIS Analytics Limited) (accessed 30 Nov 2016)
  2. The Association for Psychological Type (accessed 30 Nov 2016)