Two years ago, you spoke words of the simplest magic.
Happy Anniversary, love.



somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

e e cummings

A forest


a forest

Picket Fences......


A meme stolen from Pretty Cunning. 1. Pick 10-20 films you loved/thoroughly enjoyed. 2. Find screen captures (stills) for each film. If you can’t find a still, pick a new movie. 3. Post the pictures with the rules; let your readers guess from what movie each still is 4. NO GOOGLING! This includes using IMDB if you recognise an actor Okay then, a mixed bag.......... 1 1 2 2 3 3 4 4 5 5 6 6 7 7 8 8 9 9 10 10


You know its going to be one of those days when you're stirred from a restful night's slumber by the sound of the neighbours performing an exorcism...........


My right foot is itching. On the underside, in the middle of the arch. I try to stick my finger down the side, but my glove is too thick and the gap between sock and shoe too narrow. I rub my foot against the grass, hoping that the sole of my shoe will press against it and provide me with a measure of relief, but it does nothing. It has been itching for a while, but thus far I have been able to ignore it. Not anymore; it is now the only thing I can think about. My existence revolves around the alleviation of this affliction. Perhaps if I try distraction, convince myself that the itch is insignificant......so I think about her. Her slight build, her diaphanous skin, that delicate smell that lingers all around her. And still, this itch pierces through everything, makes me want to peel away every layer of skin until there is only sinew and bone. The flesh is weak and sickly; it succumbs so easily to infirmity, to misery.
I reach for a nearby twig and snap it with both hands. The sound is pleasing, it quells for a moment my growing distress. I am briefly struck by the absurdity of my situation; surely I can just untie my shoe and be released from this ordeal? But that would signal defeat, and defeat is for the weak. I am not weak.
So I slide the broken twig into my shoe, and after a few slight adjustments I can feel the roughness of the stick against my skin. I jiggle it back and forth, lost to the wave of deliverance that washes over me.
No longer fettered, I continue dragging the body toward the lagoon. I carefully slip it into the water, pausing only to watch a nimbus of dark hair snake toward the surface.
She is too fragile for this world, and there are those with impure, violent thoughts who would only seek to damage her. I have saved her from that fate, I have set her free.
I wait for the water to fill her lungs, wait to watch it claim her. Then, with the stars echoed in the lights of the houses on the shore, I turn and make my way back to the trees.
The more I stay in here The more it's not so clear The more I stay in here The more I disappear As far as I have gone I knew what side I'm on But now I'm not so sure The line begins to blur
As I lie here and stare the fabric starts to tear It's far beyond repair And I don't really care As far as I have gone I knew what side I'm on But now I'm not so sure The line begins to blur **************************************** This in this morning's paper. Lyrics from The Line Begins to Blur - NIN



Not nearly as far as I'd like to be, but happy with where its going. May have to take off work 'sick' and lock myself away from the world to get it done, so just so you know where I am if you don't here from me ;~) For those who have no idea what I'm talking about, go here. And for those who do, and are perhaps even the slightest bit curious about where I'm headed, here's a short extract: Oh, and its called Grass Kings Chapter One Cape Town is a city on the move; not upward, but outward. It sprawls, like an oil slick across tarmac, until the ocean blocks its path. Freeways coil themselves around islands of tin and corrugated iron, a circus-tent of cable darting in and out of roofs. But it’s not water that separates these islands from the mainland. For most who live in these townships, their birth legacy is the rain that turns their floors to mud. Their inheritance fire, a thief in the night, dancing as their possessions turn to ash. This ash is their message in a bottle, swept up by the South-Easter as it gusts and swirls toward the mountain. It falls on castles and palaces, kings and queens who wear no crowns and fly no banners. Camelot is the DVD on the bookshelf, a sword is the toy forgotten in a child’s cupboard, under a pile of tiny plastic warriors. Yet servants still scurry behind moats of steel and barbed-wire, surrogate mothers to the children of the New South Africa. Chivalry is dead, but the Golden Rule is still emblazoned on their hearts. Those who have the gold, make the rules. They call Cape Town the Mother City, but does she love all her children equally? One could forgive Her for this; never has a mother been tasked with the care of so many unruly offspring. Sarah gazed out the window of the train, comforted by the knowledge that on a day like today, Kalk Bay seemed to carry Mother’s favour. As the train held tightly to the coast, the sea spread out like a bejeweled garment, the sky was impossibly blue. Sarah closed her eyes and let herself drift off in the wash of nostalgia coming from the buildings clustered together a stone’s throw from the shore. Her feet could recall every side street, every inch of cracked pavement. Her fingers could trace the fractured patterns of flaking paint on the walls of antique stores and tiny coffee shops. Childhood may not have had much tangible to give her, no doll houses or gleaming bicycles, but her memories were happy ones. The smell of vinyl as Graham would tell her where to catalogue Billie Holiday, the raging debates that would eventually leave him and his customers breathless with laughter. He had owned the second-hand record store for as long as she could remember, wedged in the corner of a building that included the local café and Mrs. Kensington’s curio shop. She loved the music the wind chimes would make whenever the door opened, she loved Mrs. Kensington’s accent and her mock anger whenever Sarah tried to imitate her. The sound of the sea, as her father and Uncle Robby would leave on the fishing trawler from Kalk Bay Harbour in the mornings. It always seemed to be whispering to her, reassuring her that those men would return safely. She found comfort in the waves, serenity in that liquid thunder. And mostly, she found a sibling, with sea shells in her hair and salt on her lips. At thirteen, she hadn’t quite understood why Graham had died, and why his friend David had wept like she had never seen one man weep for another. Sarah understood now, which is why as soon as the train pulled into Kenilworth Station, she would begin the ten-minute walk that would take her to St Josephs. Nursing had not been an easy path to follow, but her father seemed reinvigorated by the image of his daughter rubbing elbows with doctors, and had thrown himself into his work, determined that money would not be a reason for her to fail. Even her secret sister expressed the desire for Sarah to succeed by offering up more of herself then she had for many years. Every week, the crew of that trawler would shake their heads in amazement, as nets overflowing were dragged on board. In the morning, as the dawn mists obscured the harbour lights, they would all sit quietly, fearing that today would mark the end of the ocean’s generosity. For two years, that day never came. And when it did, Sarah could never have guessed that her sister would take something in return. She’d never know where she found the strength to finish her final year. Her mother had been hysterical for weeks, then struck down by a grim lethargy that banished her to days of sleep and nights of harrowing shivers. His body had never been found; for Sarah there had been no grief, no tears, she’d felt hollow. As if the merest gust of wind would carry her away. Her sister, her betrayer. She could only hope that somewhere within that vast, blue coldness, answers lay like wrecked ships, waiting for her to discover them.


The background: Sin City was released locally about three weeks or so ago. Before the movie starts, instead of the heady mix of mindless advertising and movie trailers that cinema-goers are usually obliged to sit through, it was decided that a locally made, five-minute long film would be screened instead. Certain cinemas advertised this fairly clearly, others not at all, which meant that a large group of unsuspecting viewers would no doubt have an opinion on this. Now, the tricky part of this is the subject matter of this short film. Rape, or more specifically, baby rape. Something which occurs with a frequency that should leave your bones cold. Something which is reported on in both television news and printed media, and if you live in South Africa and are not fully aware of the horror of this reality, then somewhere there is a rock with a man-shaped hole underneath. I saw Sin City last Friday night, and was unaware that this film was going to be shown beforehand. I was both highly impressed with the style of the film as well as the way the subject matter was handled. It used symbolism in an original and quite brilliant way, and the abstract style conveyed a powerful impact without resorting to overtly graphic images. (for example, the baby of the story is sometimes portrayed by a pile of bandaids or breadcrumbs) Fast forward to this afternoon, driving to a client and listening to the local (only) talk-radio station. This film and the way it was presented has clearly ruffled more than a few feathers, and so they have as a guest one of the creators as well as inviting people to phone in. Letters had been written and phonecalls made, complaining about being 'sideswiped' or 'tricked' into seeing something they were not in the mood for, some even going as far as to demand their money back. Fortunately, these opinions seem to be in the minority. Now, I agree that it was perhaps not the most ideal way to screen this movie, and that people should be able to choose what they see, but is anyone else struck by the same sledgehammer of irony that I am? This is freakin' Sin City people! Probably the most violent movie of the year, a movie in which young girls are raped and brutally mutilated by one of the main villains! Yet your sensibilities are offended by a five-minute movie where the only violence is implied? Sanity seems to prevail for the first ten minutes or so of the interview, until some moron phones in and poses these two questions to the creator. Where do most of these crimes take place? And where was this film shown? The implication was this. Most child rapes occur in poverty-stricken areas, and this film would have been shown in mostly upmarket centres. So why is it shown here when clearly the problem is elsewhere? Can you believe this guy!?!?!?! There was about a 30 second silence as both the guest and host were trying to figure out if this guy really did ask what they thought he asked. Well....er....I dunno.....maybe because if we live in a society where baby rapes occur on a regular basis ITS EVERYFUCKINGBODIES PROBLEM! That the key to solving poverty lies in the hands of those very people sitting on their lazy asses on the nicely cushioned cinema seats. So let me get this straight, it is acceptable to bitch about having to sit through a short but very relevant film about life in this country, but if I rant and rave about why I should sit through 15 adverts telling me to drive a Land Rover and use Revlon and Gillette and drink J&B and how pathetic my life is if I don't have a cellphone with both camera and mp3 player, then I get stared at like I should be in a straightjacket. I can take a few minutes to write a letter of complaint about how my movie-going experience was ruined, but I can't write a letter to the local government telling them that ONE baby rape is unacceptable, let alone FOUR in the space of two weeks. But I'm misunderstanding, I hear a voice from the back pipe up. It's not about the subject matter of the movie, its about choice. The choice to switch off the news if I don't want to see what's happening, to turn to the sports page instead of the frontpage. My apologies. Clearly I must be wrong. I mean, look at the wonderful Utopia that attitude has provided us with so far............

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