For Luke, an armchair vacation.......


photo by Rob Millenaar


photo by Rob Millenaar


photo by Rob Millenaar

"Can't sleep, clown will eat me"


Luke and I both have shall I put it......severe 'dislike' of clowns. In trying to find the source of this phobia, I have tried to remember any 'incidents' in my past which may explain why they freak the livin' bejesus out of me, but I can't recall any bizarre encounters. So do I look deeper? Perhaps some of these links will offer up an answer....... Where do these twisted psychos come from anyway? They set this up just to torment me, didn't they? Well no bloody wonder!!! The man with a plan

Seasons of the year.


It's a late spring afternoon as you watch her back, the length of her hair, the perceived hesitancy in her walk; all of her, slip into the crowd and disappear. For a moment, you clutch at the smell of salted butter, candyfloss and dead grass, as if it is the only thing that will keep you from falling. A ten-foot tall man strides past you while a small girl giggles at the weight of a giant panda, her laughter lost in the cacophony of fairground music.
Dusk settles, and the lights of the ferris wheel find their voice against the darkening sky. And it sounds like this.
It's a summer Sunday, the journey home begins. Speckles of sand cling to the hair on your legs, your towel is damp and slightly uncomfortable but you don't care. Traffic is moving at a crawl, the usual 20 minute drive is going to take at least an hour. So slow, in fact, that passengers are climbing out of cars to buy ice creams from the roadside stall. Behind you, a friend slides open the door of the van and you all gaze at the ocean, trying to come up with names for a blue you've never seen before. The heat is slowly dying, its last breath ushering forth the gentlest of breezes. It skitters an empty wrapper across the tarmac then, bored, it wisps its way toward the van. The wind sees what none of your friends do, and as if to say I know, it conjures a last gust that catches a few strands of her hair and lays them tenderly on your arm. She reaches to brush them off, but hesitates for a second, holds your gaze and smiles.
And you can sense every sweaty car, as this procession winds its way along the coast, every occupant echoing your thoughts. There will never be a day this perfect again. And it sounds like this.
It's an autumn morning. The rays of a harvest sun surge through a gap in the curtains, but the tepid smattering of light on your face betrays a waning strength. Ironic, as you too feel burnt out. His hands, last night. The hands of a god, creating a supernova, coaxing from you an explosion so coruscating, so white hot, that Time must have been consumed, it's ashes flaking the bedroom floor. Gravity seems particularly cruel this morning, or is it the weight of your heart that constrains you to this moment? Your arm, dangling from the edge of the bed, finds your dress but no trace of his shoes.
And it's resignation that finally raises you from the dead. And it sounds like this.
It's winter. And winter has no sound.

Our happiest days slowly begin to turn into dust....


I have never felt the sun on my back like this before. How can anything live beneath a gaze this unforgiving? I'd hoped the heat would sear through me, spear-like, gifting an end to this numbness that I have been feeling for days. But I still feel so cold. That word is strange, the meaning of it hidden from me for so long, yet now apparent and as inescapable as this ocean. Cold, arctic, bleak, frore.
Why have you abandoned me? Left me to feel that which goes against my nature? It is not the separation that has left me stranded, you have often journeyed thousands of miles away. But the current would always bring to me the sound of your heartbeat, a sound as old as the earth itself, a cadence I thought eternal.
I know you would not leave me of your own free will, I am as sure of that as I am of what I do now. But you have still left me; I can no longer sing for you.
I will lie here in this strangeness, unmoved. I can feel the sun still blazing, yet why does it grow darker? No matter, at least that word still hides its meaning from me. Darkness, twilight, eclipse, obscurity.
I am coming, my love. Together we shall swim the last of the hidden oceans.
This Southern Right whale was killed by local police, after having been stranded since Tuesday. Some said it had made a navigational error, others that it had been sick. Scientists and oceanographers are still at a loss to account for this tragic phenomenon.

Violent ... my ass.


So the Violent Femmes are coming to play in Jo’burg at the beginning of November. Whoopy dah for us, hey? FM and I were having a chat about this today and I absolutely dig this remark of his: “why is SA like the retirement complex of world music? Haven't toured or recorded anything for a decade? Re-ignite your international career! Come to SA!” This observation is so spot on - all we get are the has beens or no hopers. The Femmes were “bursting with curiosity” when I spoke to Brian Ritchie back in July ’94 … some people’s concept of bursting aint the same as mine. July 1994! This is the article as it appeared in the Saturday Star back then: In that same year, I must have interviewed or done profile/hack pieces on over a hundred different “alternative” music acts that were all seemingly raring to jump at the opportunity to come to South Africa. What happens though, is they all wait until their fortunes are waning or they are on the artistic scrap heap and nobody is interested in them anymore, then “Hello!” out of the corner steps a desperate and musically ignorant South African promoter, who is willing to flash a couple of bucks up their nose and Simsalabim they are here and aren’t we so lucky?! Fuck off. (Sorry to swear on FM’s blog, I’ll wash my mouth out with soap and water later). I could rant on about this for half a century – I practically have done – considering I’ve been banging this same old drum for nigh on thirty years. I just know Ministry will eventually hit Jo’burg, it’s just a question of time …. Ho hum … and I’ll probably be in a retirement village of my own by then,

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