Delusions of Grandeur: The Demise of the written word

I must at this point in time be rather blunt and very honest with you, my dear avid audience. As I am sitting here typing this, scratching at idle thoughts that venture into my mind, I am actually being plagued by a troubling thought- Is the written word dying?

Now before you form some sort of arbitrary pre-conception, and place me and my thoughts in "that box”: the way society has always done and will continue to do for centuries to come. Think for a minute about what I have said. Stop reading this, close your eyes and think. The quickest and easiest answer to that question is No. Naturally writing is not dying, as if it where dying I would not be sitting here in front of my desk writing this. Journalists would no longer be earning peanuts, while editors took most of the credit. If the written word was dying we mere mortals would have no basis for living, society would to a large part be lacking a very vital aspect of its being. Writing forms part of mans basic need for communication. However in this day and age writing is going though a metamorphosis.

As with most things in life, change remains the only constant. Now I do not claim to speak the Queens English nor am I the most professional of writers, As many a trained eye will be able to tell you, this piece of writing, these random words forming sentences on this no longer blank canvas will most definitely contain a multitude of grammatical errors (In fact I am sure that if I were ever to present this piece of writing to Her Majesty I would no doubt be sent to the Tower of London, shoved into a dark corner and forgotten). What I can lay claim to however is that I am witnessing a change in people's perceptions regarding writing and the written word. Previously writing was the domain of the intellectual; today it would appear that anybody can be a writer. It has become dare I say it "Fashionable" to write. It is perhaps this "fashionable" aspect to writing that has caused me to come up with my previous statement regarding the death of the written word. It seems that like that Gym membership that you keep telling your friends about, but in fact you never use. Writing has become the in thing. More specifically Blogging seems to have replaced the gym membership at the top rung of the fashionable ladder.

Now I know that I am at this moment in time the pot calling the kettle black because this is after all my blog that you are reading. However it is not with bloging that I have an issue, it is with what it has done to the written word. People seem to think that having a blog instantly transforms them into the next Ernest Hemmingway. Unfortunately for those that were under this illusion it does not. What it does do is highlight your eagerness to follow the rest of the little sheep. I write because it moves me, not because I wish to be well know, If I had intended to be well known I would have sold my soul to society.

Bloging and its plethora of shortened words and bastardised English can thus to a large extent be held accountable for the demise of the English language as we once knew it. Bloging is to the written word what the type writer was to the pen, although unlike the type writer I fear that this change is not for the better.

Picasso and the Paper Pilots

Possibly the best line I have ever heard in a movie was “ who’s the best pilot you ever saw?” This question started nudging the little gray cells that were left and I started wondering about this myself. Not so much who was the best pilot I had ever seen but what makes the best pilot you have ever seen?

Now there is no sure fire answer to this, I know there is definitely an answer as there is in most things in life. However the other question that plagued my by now exhausted brain was the question of “making” a pilot. One of those annoying TV ads comes to mind- but wait! There’s more, call now and not only will you receive a fully trained pilot. You will also receive a free Com license- Possible yes, plausible maybe, probably not. However this does not mean that a person cannot be made into a good pilot. Or for that matter that excellent pilot’s are born and not made.

Not everybody on this earth can be considered an Artist, because artists are in one form or another “gifted” with something that the rest of us “Plebs” sadly did not receive. They could, especially in Picasso’s case draw random coloured lines on a page and become famous for it (whether this is because they were truly artistic or just plastered is a different matter). However I am sure that Picasso did not start by creating a masterpiece, no I am pretty sure that he started with one squiggly line on a blank page. Now at this point you are probably sitting there scratching your head thinking- “what is this guy on about” Well, just like Picasso was born and started with that squiggle on his page so too us pilots were given the same blank page. Except instead of drawing lines on it we folded it into a paper jet and most probably threw it at our folks.

This urge that lay sheltered within us, just as it lay within Picasso was built on over time, we moved from paper jets to models to the real thing. However we have not created a masterpiece yet. O no, our masterpiece is ever changing, that possibly is our gift. We unlike Picasso are able, bit-by-bit to add to our canvas through constant training and vigilance. We, through the help of textbooks and preparation are able to remain on the edge, “five steps ahead of the aircraft” as my instructor once said. Pushing that envelope. This nonetheless sounds ridiculously easy, there are many people that push envelopes: Postmen for example are known for this quality. Let us however not forget about accountants who not only push envelopes they push pencils and pens behind there desks! A quality I am sure many of us spend countless evenings wishing we had.

However just because the accountant pushes pencils the entire day does not mean that he cannot become a good pilot of he wished. He might not have been born with the same Ethos of flight as a pilot who has know that his true home is in the cockpit since he was folding paper planes. But through hard work and training he too could become not only a respectable pilot but also a respectable member of the aviation society. However in our current year of flight I find that that much loved ethos is severely lacking, today it would seem that the mystical aura that has always surrounded flight has been replaced by a slightly uneasy feeling. The urge that was felt by the general public when we first took to the skies is no longer there. Perhaps it is because we have in there eyes reached our sell by date. All the great records have been broken, The Channel crossing, the Sound Barrier and the Space Race. All of these events were milestones in aviation history and, at the time were seen as the outside of the envelope. Not only that, but the Pilots who flew the planes were idolized, “The best of the best”. However although I am sure that they all had a passion for flight many of them were not born with it. Chuck Yeager, I read once was sick on his first flight. Can you believe that? The man responsible for breaking the sound barrier was sick on his first flight. This then goes to show that a person can become an excellent pilot without an initial passion for flight.

During the Second World War many of the British Pilots were rushed through their basic training in order to reinforce the heavy losses being incurred during the Battle of Britain. Now I am sure that many of the pilots that flew during the war were naturals (I don’t quite think under the circumstances that luck played such a large role). The rest of the pilots however had to adapt quickly and in time also became gifted pilots. This then means that it is very possible to have both a man who is born a pilot and a pilot who is born through a man.

It is at this point that some will argue that natural or born pilots posses a sixth or seventh (depending on who is doing the talking) sense. To a certain extent I agree, Pilots who fly often enough do posses this “sense” if one call it that. I have often felt it creeping up my spine on rather interesting (as I like to refer to them) cross wind landings. This does not mean that pilots that fly less often say for example your Paper pilot the accountant, will not have such feelings.

After all flying creates a bond between the pilot and his plane, which enables both pilot and plane to feel and to do things that defies all logic. Thus it is quite possible that your Paper pilot would be able to “feel” his plane just as well as a “Born” pilot. And so I believe that we can both be born “The Best pilot you have every seen” and become the best pilot you have every seen.

First Impressions

It is in the evening that the city shows her true self,
Coffee stained cubicles release like minded individuals.

A panicking exodus through a sea of faces,
life against the grain. We are left clutching at idle straws that make themselves visible among the stigma of life.

Men and woman sit and sip cocktails in the evening light.
With gay abandon they discuss their shallow existence.
They lie, impress and succeed in their goal.

They awake in the morning with dull eyes and make-up stained pillows to return through the sea of faces.
Once again the pulse of the city.

The Lattitude of Silence

I Recently found an old journal entry of mine of a motorbike trrip that I did in July, So since this is the 21st Century and man has progressed from pen and paper to keyboard and internet I thought I would share my adventure with you.

The needle krept past the 5000 rpm mark as I twisted the ear of the XRV, hunched low over the bars I slid out from behind the truck, up into 5th, the purr of the twin becoming a growl as the speedo registered 140km/h. Then sillence, no wind , no truck wheels grinding the tar next to me. Just nothingness, Rider and Bike hunched low over the road, moving swiflty next to the big 18 wheeler. The needle touched 160 as I slid past the cab of the truck and was spat out into the open road ahead.We had left at around 11 that morning after a brief stop at KTM CT to pick up a new helmet for my cousin and a pair of riding pants for myself, The plan was simple- at this stage there was not one. My cousin had to return to Wilderness with the police bike that honda george had loaned him and I for lack of a better idea desided to join him on the trip up the coast, heading up the N1 through the tunnel, (a little tip for the future, dont wear sunglasses while going trough the tunnel, 1- You CANT see ANTHING and 2- you CANT see ANYTHING). through to swellendam and then on to the N2 to George and Wilderness. The ride up had been pretty univentfull apart from the bit through the tunnel and one or two trucks that refused to remove themselves from the fast lane, I had tried my best to keep up with my cousins white 189km/h police commet and had riden with him until george, It is here that my adventure began..

From George I headed towards oudtshorn, going over the outeniqua pass where I was joined by a polite toot and a friendly wave of a rider on a KTM 990 who blitzed past me as we where heading down the pass, the expanse of wilderness lying bellow and around me, it was truly breathtaking.

The sun had begun its leasurely desent as I reached oudtshorn for a quick feul stop, then it was on to De Rust where I was to spend the evening with a friend of mine from varsity, the next day we were to takle the oysterfestival via the back roads.After meeting up with Andries and his GS 1150 it was desided that liquid refreshment was in order, now for those of you that did not know this there is in fact a Bar on De Rust, This fine establishment is know as Die Kaalgat Kudu, and what a Place it turned out to be. we ended up only leaving at around 11 after playing what became a mini pool tournament/ mampoer drinking competision with some of the locals, The next day we where subsequintly subdued and a small hangover recovery program had to be implemented, never the less we left De Rust at around 10 and headed to Knysna via the Dirt back roads between De Rust and Knysna, reaching Knysna at around half past 2 just in time for a cold windhoek and the rugby.

Day 3 had begun with the rather alarming decision that we where to ride into Die hell, So back to OUdshorn we rode, however apon reacdhing the petrol station in Oudtshorn the plan was changed so that now we would ride the Swartberg Pass and on to Prins Albert.The pass itself is just past the Kango Caves on the outskirts of Oudtshorn, a beautiful dirt road heading up and over the Swartberg Mountain range and then back down into Prins Albert.I had riden the pass once before but never on a Bike, it was breathtaking, the valley reealed itself to us as we switchbacked up the dirt pass, with nothing but the sound of our engines reverbarating against the kopjies and valleys of the mountain. In some places bits of snow could still be seen.

Still further up we rode, slowly taking in what was to become for me the latitude of silence. We reached the top and after a quick break headed down the other side of the pass, the Twin rumbling happily as I steered her through the bends and kinks in the road. standing on the pegs for a better view ahead I noticed the first of two water crossings coming to meet me. Down into first, stand up, look up and open up. The water rushed around the bike and the next instant we where through, streaming water as the tires bit back into the gravel. Once, twice and out the other end we went.
Once through the water crossings the road continued to lead us downwards towards Prins Albert, the mountain and the gorges enveloped us as we continued to descend towards our destination, reaching the Prins Albert 17 km later and enjoying a well deserved Breakfast at the Hotel.

From the Hotel we headed back to De Rust via another dirt road which ran for around 50km and came out at Klaarstroom, It was on this dirt road that I was to almost have a head on collision with an imbecile in a white taxi.We had taken the turn off from Prins Albert about half an hour ago and I was enjoying opening up the Bike on the much flatter open dirt than that of the restricted tight Swartberg Pass, Andries had ridden ahead of me and I was cruising at around 80km/h through the dirt and the occasional driffie when I noticed a white Taxi heading towards me, However this taxi was on the wrong side of the road and probably travelling at around 110, still heading straight for me, at around 400m he was still in my lane, I hooted and flashed but to no avail, The white Hi ACE kept its trajectory. at this point I took matters into my own hands and swerved into the right hand lane, standing up at the same time and opening up the throttle to give the tires more grip in the now loose sand, as I crossed over to the right lane with the white Hi Ace now meters away the rear tire hit a patch of corrugations which caused the bike to shudder and lose its grip on the gravel, the next thing I knew I was sideways almost drifting the bike around the taxi as if I had been a flat track racer, I have n Idea how I kept the bike under control but only that my guardian angels where with me during those moments while the taxi and its oblivious occupant blitz past me, still in the wrong lane. After I had got the bike under control I slowed down and stopped. Just rested everything and tried to get my hands to stop shaking.After around 15 minutes I set off again and I had a thankfully uneventful ride back to De Rust via the Meirigs Poort.I left De Rust at around 9 This morning and travelled via route 62 back to the Cape where I arrived at about 4 this afternoon, It was the first long ride that I had done and I can say without a doubt that it will remain with me for the rest of my life