In my jaundiced eyes, Mylie Cyrus’s apology seems like just another one of those mea culpas issued only because everyone, i.e. everyone on whom she depends for income, got upset. It was a Pyrrhic apology, like when criminals get all repentant only after they’re sentenced to prison. If Eliot Spitzer hadn’t been caught, would he have apologized to his constituents? If no one had batted an eye when Jane Fonda said “cunt” on The Today Show would she have apologized? (Even so, should she have apologized?)

The conundrum is that Mylie Cyrus is like a girl who can’t live alone (even though she has her own living quarters apart from her family) so she’s courting her next boyfriend before ditching the old one. She’s fifteen (one year younger than the pregnant Jamie Lynn Spears AKA Zoey 101) and her Hannah Montana days are numbered. But she’s made a mint as Hannah Montana and who knows what lies ahead? Hollywood is haunted by former teen idols (from Shirley Temple to Lindsey Lohan) who were unable to successfully transition into adult careers.

Before all the brouhaha, Mylie Cyrus, in the upcoming Vanity Fair article, written by Bruce Handy, was quoted as saying, "Annie [Leibovitz] took, like, a beautiful shot, and I thought it was really cool. That's what she wanted me to do, and you can't say no to Annie. I think it's really artsy. It wasn't in a skanky way."

After the shit hit the fans, she recanted, saying, "I took part in a photo shoot that was supposed to be 'artistic' and now, seeing the photographs and reading the story, I feel so embarrassed. I never intended for any of this to happen and I apologize to my fans who I care so deeply about."

Well, of course, she cares “so deeply” about her (shit-covered) fans since they are her cash cow. (Is there any other reason to care about fans when you get to her level of celebrity-dom?) But would she have felt it necessary to apologize if it was the AARP who objected to the photos?

These cover-your-ass apologies seem to be more and more de rigueur these days but to have less and less substance and sincerity. I wonder if they’re ultimately undermining the value of a good, old-fashioned, direct amends which seems to be thriving only in 12-Step programs (and even there it is an endangered species of communication).

Eliot Spitzer certainly owed an apology to his wife but why couldn’t he have done it in the privacy of his own home instead of humiliating her in public? I assume the answer is that it’s easier to stare a camera in the eye and confess to anonymous millions who can’t talk back than to face one single, dear face and possibly get rebuffed.

As one who has gone out of her way to make many sincere and direct amends in order to clear away the wreckage of my past, I feel that these people are missing out on a unique spiritual opportunity. For alcoholics, the Big Book promises that “If we are painstaking about this phase of our development [i.e. the amends process], we will be amazed before we are halfway through. We are going to know a new freedom and a new happiness. We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it. We will comprehend the word serenity and we will know peace. No matter how far down the scale we have gone, we will see how our experience can benefit others. That feeling of uselessness and self-pity will disappear. We will lose interest in selfish things and gain interest in our fellows. Self-seeking will slip away. Our whole attitude and outlook upon life will change. Fear of people and of economic insecurity will leave us. We will intuitively know how to handle situations which used to baffle us. We will suddenly realize that god is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.

“Are these extravagant promises? We think not. They are being fulfilled among us – sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. They will always materialize if we work for them.”

Ah, work for them – key word, work. As I discovered with most worthwhile things such as my relationship with God and my husband of twenty-four years, you can never rest on your laurels. It’s work and more work.

Speaking of my husband (sly segue), here’s a little something from the Internet about men. Disclaimer: this does not reflect my views about my husband, or men in general.

WHY MEN ARE JUST HAPPIER PEOPLE

What do you expect from such wonderful creatures? 

Your last name stays put. 

The garage is all yours.

Wedding plans take care of themselves.

Chocolate is just another snack. 

You can be President.

You can never be pregnant.

You can wear a white T-shirt to a water park. You can wear NO shirt to a water park. 

Car mechanics tell you the truth.

The world is your urinal. 

You never have to drive to another gas station restroom because this one is just too icky.

You don't have to stop and think of which way to turn a nut on a bolt.

Same work, more pay.

Wrinkles add character. 

Wedding dress R5000. Tux rental- R100.

People never stare at your chest when you're talking to them.

The occasional well-rendered belch is practically expected.

New shoes don't cut, blister, or mangle your feet.

One mood all the time.

Phone conversations are over in 30 seconds flat.

You know stuff about tanks. 

A five-day vacation requires only one suitcase.

You can open all your own jars.

You get extra credit for the slightest act of thoughtfulness.

If someone forgets to invite you, he or she can still be your friend.

Your underwear is R18.95 for a three-pack.

Three pairs of shoes are more than enough.

You almost never have strap problems in public.

You are unable to see wrinkles in your clothes.

Everything on your face stays its original color.

The same hairstyle lasts for years, maybe decades.

You only have to shave your face and neck.

You can play with toys all your life.

Your belly usually hides your big hips.

One wallet and one pair of shoes -- one color for all seasons.

You can wear shorts no matter how your legs look.

You can "do" your nails with a pocket knife.

You have freedom of choice concerning growing a mustache.

You can do Christmas shopping for 25 relatives on December 24 in 25 minutes. 

No wonder men are happier!!

 

Haiku’s on our landscape: the Land Art of Strijdom van der Merwe

Right on the doorstep of Oudtshoorn a couple of signs read “Haikoes.” Nothing else. The more curious among us would venture up the winding gravel road to see why Japanese poetry might be presented in Afrikaans, but not a great many. According to Strijdom van der Merwe, acclaimed land artist (among other things), this is fine with him – he prefers to be away from the maddening crowd (!). Strijdom has a message, one that travels the world, such an exhibition sponsored by the United Nations is “visiting” Europe right now. Strijdom feels that those who appreciate the subtleties, the silence, the small variations on the canvas of nature, will venture out to the high ground where he has set up an ensemble of 163 white canvas sheets on which haiku’s by 45 poets have been printed. All around are the blue of sky and mountains and underfoot the soft shades of khaki of the Klein Karoo’s humble but powerfully resilient vegetation.

Although no Greenie, Strijdom want people to look at his work – there has been a canvas shelter erected for that purpose – and to listen. Listen to the wind beating at the canvas, the singing of the wires, the rustling of leaves and tiny feet: nature breathing, moving, living.

Land art started with artists making huge holes in the ground, but eventually the approach has become more subtle – it’s not the impact we make on the land so much as the impact the land makes on us, according to some artists. True enough, but nowadays we are impacting heavily on Mother Earth. With Strijdom things have come full circle in more than one way – he has returned to the veld which he remembers from childhood, although in another milieu, that of Meyerton, Gauteng, and he has also come back to Oudtshoorn, where has last exhibited a decade ago. Most importantly he reminds us of our blessings and responsibilities – of our collective footprint deep into the bosom of our world.

That’s why he says that when he lies on this deathbed, he will want to know that he has done everything he could to evolve as a human being; to experience a variety of landscapes (he is a intrepid traveler), be influenced by others (this explains the international content and structure of his work) and to have subtly touched (influenced) others.

Monet had to paint several works to depict the changing of light effects during different times of the day, but Strijdom’s “prayer flags” are changed by nature herself – as if breathing, moving, living …

“So, Strijdom,” I ask, “which project is your favourite?” He smiles “The one I am going to do next. Always.” I certainly hope there will be many more.

The author: Dr Francois Verster, company archivist of Naspers, former teacher at Ladismith High and one of the 45 poets mentioned. [Note: Francois and I found each other on the internet and believe we are distantly related.]

I’ve only been blogging a short while but it’s already clear to me that humble pie must become a staple diet of the blogger, the Internet user, and the e-mailer. One has to mind one’s Ps & Qs and I don’t mean pints and quarts, but, rather, the keyboard where restraint of pen and tongue is required now more than ever since often one is corresponding with someone who is a stranger, and therefore less likely to grant one the latitude of a friend.

I was fortunate to have something I’d written called to my attention by a person who had every right to be aggrieved by it, yet was gracious enough to call and find out if I really meant what I’d written. I was grateful that this person came to me with the intention of healing the situation and minimizing its gossip potential. I also appreciated the way this person handled the call – by being direct and open without being judgmental so it allowed me to hear another point of view. I went back and re-read what I’d written and realized that it was much harsher than I’d intended so I revised it.

Believe it or not, I was extremely passive for most of my life and somehow menopause has lifted my fear of what people think of me so I’m reveling in “letting it all hang out,” but also working on bringing the pendulum back to the middle.

I’ve been a journal writer for many years so I’m used to poring my guts out on the page, both parchment and electronic, and this act for me is like hang-gliding – a virtuoso soaring on the wind currents of my own hot air. Therefore, it’s easy for me to overlook the fact that more judicious editing is required in a blog since it, unlike my journal, will be readily accessible to all who care to read it.

My goal is to become a producer of harmony rather than confusion, however, I have to wonder if there something I’m gaining from being a producer of confusion. This reminds me of the time I was in the third grade and there was a girl who came in wearing a ring she’d received. At that time, an eight year old girl who possessed a ring was the Paris Hilton of the class. Well, everyone oohed and aahed over it ad infinitum and then she must’ve put it down somewhere and one of the students must’ve officiously put it in the lost and found box where I stumbled upon it. My first thought was of annoyance – who in that class could possibly not know that ring belonged to her and why didn’t they just give it directly to her? And then against my will, almost, I stole it. I really didn’t want the ring and certainly everyone would know it wasn’t mine so I could never wear it even if I did so I don’t know why I stole it. But perhaps what I wanted was the attention I got by stealing the ring, even if it was negative attention, which certainly outshone any attention she’d gotten by having the ring.

I stuck the ring in a drawstring bag that the teacher required every student’s mother to make to hold pencils and crayons and such which was draped on the back of my chair. The student finally noticed her ring was gone – was she in a coma? – and a hue and cry went up, as first the students and then the teacher searched high and low. Oh, it was gruesome. Finally, the teacher had each row of students go outside while other students searched their desks. It was excruciating to watch row after row get up and leave, knowing I would soon be next yet I was unable to move or speak. And then I was with the other students from my row standing shivering outside as I leaned against a rough brick wall, my mind a rat scrabbling at a metal barrier. And then I was in front of the classroom which was silent and airless as an oven on broil while the teacher excoriated me for a thief and a liar and reminded the class where people like me went straight to. And then my parents were hovering over me, wringing their hands, castigating themselves for not setting a better example, my father wondering if his stealing wooden hotel hangers had had a negative influence on me when all along it was something much deeper.

Perhaps I’m the kind of person who thrives on other people’s attention. Perhaps I’m unable to handle positive attention so I create scenarios that generate negative attention. Perhaps I should learn to cultivate an appreciation for God’s attention.

I just got my social security statement, and the good news is that if I work until I’m 70 I’ll get about $1154 a month. The bad news is that “The law governing benefit amounts may change because, by 2041 [when I’ll be 87], the payroll taxes collected will be enough to pay only about 75% of scheduled benefits.”

Okay, let’s start with the good news first. Some years ago, my husband and I met with a financial planner who asked us when we planned to retire. Brian and I looked at each other and said, never. I can’t imagine not pursuing some kind of creative endeavor, however, my creative endeavors have so far not been very financially rewarding. Then the planner asked how much money we wanted to set aside for burial expenses. Since we both wanted to be cremated, I guessed $700 apiece would be sufficient. The planner gawked in amazement before telling me that would not be enough. “Can’t we use that place in Georgia?” I asked, referring to the funeral home that got backed up on its cremations and started chucking the bodies into a lake. I figured they’d be looking to build their business up after all the bad publicity and might be offering discount rates.

I really don’t care what happens to my body after I’m dead but given my druthers I’d like a simple cremation in a cardboard box and then a sentimental scattering in a spot significant to the scatterer who will presumably be my daughter if she’s not too mad at me for not setting up a college fund with the financial planner. Turned out we couldn’t get a plan because the whole thing was geared towards people who have a steady income which gets divvied up into monthly bills and entertainment, college and retirement funds, and then those pesky burial plans. Unfortunately, actors and writers at our level of success don’t have steady incomes. With Brian more so than me it’s like playing the lottery for a living.

Onto the bad news. With Bush as president, I've been feeling pretty third world lately (like I might have to give my daughter up for adoption so I can get a son to take care of me in my old age). But here’s a message from a guy in South Africa (whom I met on the Internet because we might be distantly related) which really gave me pause to count my blessings:

“Here in South Africa people are worried about retirement, because of the rising cost of living, no security - against criminals (we have the most rapists, murderers and child molesters in the world) or financially, because the present government have been in power for 14 years and all service delivery, hospitals, education, police, whatever, has gone down into chaos. Now they have “discovered” that electricity provision is not in par with the growing population – power cuts are now everyday occurrences and the government says we should go to bed earlier and that this is actually good, because more sleep make one more intelligent … Anyway, there is no way anyone can describe our situation to someone living in a first world country – it all seems too far-fetched to be anything than science fiction!”

One way to count one’s blessings is to do a gratitude list which I can start by being grateful that I have electricity so I can sit in front of my computer all day and write. (Although, after reading Christopher Hitchens’s beauty makeover saga in Vanity Fair in which he quoted Brazilian waxers as saying their male clients were mostly Wall Street guys who got their butts waxed to avoid getting ingrown hairs from sitting all day in front of the computer, I have a new phobia to add to my list.) God forbid I’d have to go back to the old days of pen and paper although that might severely reduce the competition that is clogging the publishing world since a place on the bestseller list would be granted to those who could hold out longest against writer’s cramp!