My name is Anél and I am a Jealous.

Some wise-ass once wrote that jealousy is an indicator of what we really want. When you’re jealous of something/someone or something that someone has/does – ask yourself: ‘Is that something I really ought to be doing/having?’

I am on a journey to embrace myself, proverbial warts and all, so I’ve decided to befriend my green-eyed monster.

“Hey you – you’re an ugly fucker, aren’t you? How ya doing?!!!”

No – seriously, though. In light of that I’m thinking of my pangs of jealousy today around all of those accomplished artists at the Goethe, as a little green fairy that lives in my tummy and is poking her sharp fingers upwards into my most-innermost, whispering ethereally.

“That is for you Anél – go create. Become…”

This is something I visualise as so irritating, if that fairy was sitting next to me I would be tempted to warn her she’s tendering for a sticky slap. ‘n Taai  klap as we say in Afrikaans. This type of thinking is more conducive to my growth than what was, in a very natural and familiar way for me, passing through my mind (and later through my mouth to my beloved’s ear) earlier today:

Jissis, then Antjie Krog was ganing on about how when she as a writer is asked to analyze her own text, she knows deep down what she wants to get to, however that art is diluted when it needs to be explained. She’s like  (miming Antjie Krog’s Afrikaans accent when she speaks English) ‘This is why JM Coetzee only ever agrees to read from his work and answers no questions.’

“Then why the fuck is she on the panel at Goethe for this symposium baby? She’s a decision maker, completely aware of the Q & A at the end of a reading and then whines about diluting her art?  You know, my love –  writers and journos are two sides of one coin. The journo wants the scoop and much later for the person subjected to that, and the writer wants the story published and fuck the public who pay to read that story. These people are so spoilt!”

Then I realise I am jealous. Verskriklik fokken jaloers.  I’d rather be up on that stage whinging about compromising my own abstract process than sitting in the audience begging for a scrap of enlightenment from golden heroines whom all turn out to have clay stilettos…

And so my little fairy is poking my ribs and soft pulmonary tissues and my heart and my most-innermost and she winks, you know – ethereally: “Remember when you auditioned for Drama School? Remember you were reading the Alchemist? Remember that all the universe conspired? Just like Paulo Coelho changed his dream and that dream became true…” (love that pragmatic approach – well, my dream right now is…) “Just like that – change your dream to Poetatrix and all the universe will conspire once again for you…”

I am Anél and I am a fledgling Poetatrix and aspirant Metaphysastrix™.

(Please note that Metaphysastrix™  is the IP of Anél Olsson. Request my kind permission to use it. No really. Do. I am rather litigious. Many fools I have suffered will confirm this.)


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