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Monthly Archives: November 2008

 

copulation-copenhoargen-in-red-009

Saturday night was a bore, movies and videos, theatre on Sunday, drinks with another. People dancing silently in their heads across the backdrop of spitting lies, draining common sense and troubadour conclusions. Today I do not feel like talking. 

Guitar Amps, stands, cables, snares, drum stools, cymbals and a kick pedal lay stranded in the dust. The lights had not been switched off yet so the smell was still visible. A comforting horror surrounded the impertinent youngsters. Destined for greatness and trashed for success. They lounged comfortably in clichés and cardigans, ripped at the elbows. Co-ordinating local performances and trying my damndest to stay behind the scenes was getting me down. I could feel patience and virtue slipping into all too familiar categories. A period of post-photo shoots had dawned for my ego and me. W e had been over exposed and under appreciated. Sophistication of primary colours were no not sought after. A real deal in conjunctions of interventions.  

Stark grey is like inhaling the carcass of a dead pig. His actions were the cold room in butchery. I t stinks of crystal vomit chrystal meths and unchanged underwear. We were standing next to the stairs leading up to faint light wafting greasily in from a Bauhaus window high up on the wall, where no man could reach to escape, even by forming a human stepladder. The door in front of my eyes was a lifts door. Large and cumbersome, old stainless steel with a pane of glass. I was standing naked with blue toes and fingers, isolated and indifferent.  

Lusting over the sweat excreting out of pores on the pavement, ina semi-confidant mood, dope smudged and half a gram of cocaine next to the syringe and needle bought at a Muslim pharmacy. I crossed the city hall. Protestors scattered like discarded Checkers packets littered the view in my mind, which was swimming a lazy backstroke in the back of a pick-up truck. Sanity with style lingered in the umbra of no arguments and bitches like spears failed to pierce this mood. Word on the street smelt of Sunlight soap washed middle class. It reeked of the pesty nastiness of black ambition, digging their dirty grey fingernails into the back of white westerners. Mirroring trends, which were passé before the French word had even been invented. A great sense of pity came over me and I lit a Camel cigarette to kill the edge of discontent.

There is a man who walks alongside the park – his face is all messed up and he doesn’t have a chin.

After leaving the park a snatch of my memory awakens to leave me with the awful regrets of remembrance. False sprawl from the nozzle of a spray paint can switch trendy anarchic blah-blahs across the wall of the technikon. Students with Nike packpacks and cell phones eating doughnuts made me feel sick again. I could imagine them going home to their stupid communes filled with even stupider consummates, smoking dope and making pasta.

This is the design war. The second coming, the holy war. What will Jesus be wearing for Apocalypse 2000? When you strip away the floorboards you find mini dust balls and greying fluff from toenails. Like sand in my bed amidst the sheets, I blow to see it stay and continually make me uncomfortable. Fashion is the plaque on my teeth. 

I had a talk with my best friend the other day on the bus where I sit. I lunge my friend into the window and smile pleasantly at her whilst she eats her fingers. Diabolical we are and very interested in each other.

You are late again.

A row of voodoo masks lies scattered on the burnt grass. Ranging in size, grotesque grimaces greet the squinting eyes of the flea marketers. A beautiful black ebony with Ivory Coast smile explains prices to customers. Ranging from R150 rands to R800 for dis one. Dis one is a very special mask, originated from Ioa, won of de spirits of de monkey gods. It is used to create wealth and how you say um success. These bloody foreigners with their crap.

Meals on wheels, homes for the aged, meals on wheels, homes for the aged…

Trancelike the passers by ignore the weathered skin of an old women on the steps nearby, with a S.A peak cap, cardigan and slippers. 

There is an African man approximately 30 yrs of age who skates around the city with his arms, his legs are fucked. He falls in love with a female white car guard, who buys him a loose cigarette now and again. She kills him one night and then commits suicide by jumping off a small insurance firms fifth floor. Skateboarders from all over the province pledge their allegiance to help the physically disable not fall in love with any one wearing a luminous orange vest with dirty fingernails and no bank account. 

Couch room at the Blue Waters hotel, overlooking a rather rainy Battery Beach. It feels as if someone turned the tone down on the computer screen. A turquoise and white striped Asian bus arrives on the scene. The sea is unbelievably calm like it just had a good shit and busy dwelling in its post good shit feeling. Lay abouts, walk abouts, arb abouts hang in the drizzle, near the paybox across the road, whilst people with large plastic drums filled with sea water enter the bus. A dull Afrikaans farmer conversation of chicken curry ensues in the background. 

Sitting at the pools behind Tekweni and Animal farm – black and Indian kids splashing in the pool, 1000’s of them. I think I crawled into a moles hole and came across a Sol Kerzner underground microscope of Africa’s last forgotten voodoo playground. 

You’re dead, last night, slipped again. Like you said, we just drift, we flow in by the way, of course. 

Tonight I saw a dead Lebanese guy with short bleached hair, still shaking his foot under the table, whilst his 4 yr old yawned and longed for bed.

 Thursday evening back at Battery Beach. Blessed in diluted sewerage, they stumbled across the sand swells, screeching over the windswept grains, their private praise served only a private bliss; I could not begin to understand. Hands held in long stained dresses wet, vacuum packed. A small circle on a dirty beach, one was white. Their children slept peacefully on their backs. What insignificant pleasures calmed scathing eyes? And slow to depart with plastic bags and wary limbs, softening the taste of irony………………………………………………………………………

Then the telescopic view of the plasma within ditched it’s dirty head and dived into the disturbed rhinocersous fest of the ancients. Screeching and chanting driven to distortion is

 Only scarce moments of clarity

now control this moment. I foolishly

rebuke and accept

wrong doings with regional emotional settings, turned up then down.

A man in black constantly walks

in with hard plastic cases delivering profit and exiting with none.

The void has prospered again. When these nights now fall, I scramble

to find a meaningful hour of passing time. Yet each night is over in a blink of an eye with the help of valium. it soothes the scratched throat and clawed mind. I only remember painfully. A memory of bliss is overshadowed with shame and contempt. All efforts of regaining a simplicity of knowledge, scar and ridicule balance. Signs are tilted and replayed at paces that rival their destination and once again the void wins. It is a tiring process, life. It battles galliantly on, rationalising every decision. When you’re a survivor you become a statistic. When you lose – you win. Rather die than face the tediousness of yet another cycle. So best not think yet that is thought itself so be no scared as fear is forever and tomorrow is gone.

ITS ALL NONSENSE REALLY. I MEAN HOW COULD THEY REALLY UNDERSTAND? JUST A BUNCH OF FUCKIN CLOWNS. BUILD A WALL, AND PULL IT DOWN. AND WE ARE NOT ALL JUST LITTLE GIRLS. BORED? COMPLETELY. Just too bored to do anything. They all want to be someone special, but then again. we are not.

Jackie and Clara are not well today, they’ve being busted 8 times this motnth. All 8 times they’ve done twice as much drugs after the bust to try and deal with the sorry state their lives as become. Carla is on the verge of suicide she ‘s kind of flipped. My name is Jackie and this is my story.

 We were getting our drugs from Jacque. Jacwque didn’t even take drugs but he was a nice guy. He had cool tattoos of dragons and skulls on his arms but he still didn’t take drugs. I had asked him, ‘Jacque how can you have tattoos and not do drugs.’ and he said, ‘ I don’t need that shit, I got bigger problems.’ We used to think Jacque was a satanist’

 This is Gaffer, he’s fuckin cool.

What’s up, girl.How you hanging

What are you doing?

Oh I was bored, so I was putting the baked beans in the puppet’s mouths

fucking idiot, that’s like the last food we have left till Friday

well its not my fault

 Robert, what are you doing

um, nick said I must throw salt around the place, do um get the evilness out

don’t be stupid

 can’t you just get it together? for once?

can’t you just not react? just slowly chew on your spit and swallow?

why do you always have to jump the gun?

 They planned the afternoon with the shoreline. In mauve and calves that run up sand. Fickering light hit your locks where you could not look – as your back was turned from him. He was your average good looking man from a family who enjoyed braais on the weekend. He and his 21st spit, drank champagne with his mom and beers with his dad. He had a degree in commerce which heeded no use in his career path as a sales rep for a reputed computer software company. The gym where he had a family membership applauded his discipline and the receptionists shared Tupperware parties with his fiancé. he was happy as thoughts that question were foreign in his head. He agreed to obey life. He could only remember one occasion where he and his father had fallen out and he’d rather forget….

 It all started 4 months ago. I moved to flat number 306, ———. I had a few things – a bed, a tv, a computer and some tables and chairs. it was the first time I had lived by myself except for the time when my ex-husband had left me although we had never been properly married. But then I had a serious drug problem, I was a heroin addict with a bit of crack on the side. A whole lot of drinking and the occasional every 10 minute hit of dope but that was in the past.

Now I had a future and it was in this flat.

 At that moment I rejoiced that I was free of possessions, free of all ties, free of fear and envy and malice. I could have passed quietly from one dream to another, owning nothing, regretting nothing, wishing for nothing. I was never more certain that life and death are one and neither can be enjoyed or embraced if the other be absent.

I’m getting seriously bored,, talking about revolution, talking about stuff I don’t even know what I am talking about. Talking about night and talking about day. Talking about how things were, are, will be. Talking about the other day, my other friend, her brother and their cousins dog and stuff. Talking about getting trashed and talking about where its at, where it was and where its gonna be. Im getting seriously tired of talking about midnight and sunsets, mountains and mcdonalds, abattoirs, the difference between logic and reason, how I felt, who I am, what its all about. Talking about things which don’t count and things that do. Talking about food, music whose doing what and what the rain will look like tomorrow. Talking about smack, talking about rap, talking about taking the rap for the smack. I’m tired of talkig bout the direction of my head, my location and your ideas. I’m tired of talking about everything we have to talk about and would just prefer to keep quiet all the time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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neegle

neegle

Traveling home in a car with friends. Seemed to know driver but don’t remember him properly. I know he was very drunk, coming back from town, driving without headlights on. Turned in large wide road straight into a roadblock. Driver slammed on breaks. Cops all around the car, me in the back seat. Notice that there is another car like a minivan, large bakkie with canopy on back (white). All cars stopped in the middle of the road. Cops pulled me out, all of us in the car, seemingly at once. Can hear and feel the situation is fucking dangerous. Cops seem more pissed off with us for being there than anything else. Very rough handling – the one cop drags me out then flings me down quickly on the side of another police vehicle and falls on top me, shooting. As a wave of bullets start being fired at us. I can feel his bullet proof vest digging into me. As a wave of bullets start being fired at us, I can feel his bullet proof vest digging into me. Only then do I realize there is a sophisticated and violent gang fight going on that had been intercepted just before our cars arrived. I lie scared out of my fucking mind, praying to anyone that I don’t die.

 

After the shooting I start screaming at the drunk driver of our car. I argued, protecting myself, with the police and eventually get them to give me a ride home to my flat (new and on the beachfront, residence, my dreamapartment)apart mental.

solon gold friend of mine

solon gold friend of mine

Another strange night, joined some old friends, from the Westville side, westville always reminds me of laural canyon for some reason but with no music producers or sexy Mexican guitarists, we headed up north. Another bar, another bar, a walk along the shoreline, someone produced kat which I haven’t seen in Durban for months but then some have visited the cape of good hope and we all need hope, hope springs a kernel, danny chrane.  Then minutes became strange shadows, the north turned into the south coast and we were at a live music venue where I remember lush puppy playing, when I used to manage them, the barman knows me, he knows what I drink, I think, I drink what I think. Then black, woke up sometime this afternnon in umdloti, pristine flat, white, neat, clean. Sharp lines like an old hash flashback remembering I had a court appearance. Ray drives me downtown in a matter of minutes. My lawyer is hot and young. He lives up in summerfield and is my age with a built in spoilt girlfriend who refuses to work, for some – suntanning is enough to settle the conscience. He was pissed off I was late, smelt sweaty and had pupils the size of atoms. I felt atomic. The Durban court house is a drab establishment, I felt shitty, shifty, seedy and white amongst the old mommas with multiple babies tied to their backs and middle aged farmers with numerous documents tucked under their arms and dead fire in their eyes, I murder flies. The coffee here is shit, I’m scribbling in my diary, which I haven’t used for the specifics this entire year. Looking back its been one of the worst of my life, or laziest, or most fucked up or chilled depending on the chemicals, the day and the weather. Yeah I’m a loser baby so why do you thrill me. Anthony is rustling through the papers, we apparently have a good chance, he smells of hugo boss, if I knew what hugo boss looked like ant could be his younger brother or an I.T guy.  These three Indian dudes are staring at me from the corner, maybe they’re rapist, my rapitst, the bus bastards, who knows, serendipidity doo dah, we are all connected. The police are here, I ‘lend’ a smoke off the guy who arrested me, Anthony is pissed off with me, I tell him its cool. I go smoke the smoke with the pig. He tells me he’s really sorry, they weren’t out to do a drug bust, it was a drunk and driving charge, I wasn’t driving. We were stationary, we were at hime in bed, weren’t we? How the hell am I going to get out of this when I thought they bust the house not the car, god damn, this is getting confusing.  The judge who is overseeing our little soiree has taken ill, we get a woman judge, who then walks out of the court with a big sigh. What the fuck. Anthony is telling me to stop writing. I stop. We’re cool. There’s technicalities, a new s.african judge who happens to mention to the police that they’re ‘wasting the courts time’, I kid you not, I could have told them that a week ago, dismisses the case. Still the 5 g’s in lawyers fees but fuck it beats being physically locked up. I manage to get a lift back to the forest. My james beckett painting has fallen off the wall, I snort 3 8mg subutex tablets and drink 3 beers whilst reading valley of the dolls. I’m feeling angry today, uncomfortable. I want to go  forward but I doubt I can even buy xmas presents this year. On the way back we stopped to buy booze and when I asked the car guard how she was doing she responded ‘can’t complain’. I think I’m going to become a car guard.

 

i'm more fuck than turkey more hot than cold

i

 

 

this sleep problem is becoming drastic, i managed to sleep for about 2 hours this morning, its too hot to sleep, eat for fuck. pulled a fast one with some stolen doctors prescription and managed to score bupe, forget the sweaty withdrawal, cold turkey is for kickers, the grass has grown threefold in teh past 20 minutes and the flys are getting on my nerves. i should be concentrating on that big white mountian but my mind is reckless and restless with indecision, to stay in durban or move, to stop or to continue, to breathe or in or out. this is a transitional stage young lady, get a grip, show some character, stop spending hours in the bathroom shooting snorting and smokin that stuff, have a proper bath, one that will actually cleanse, get your camera back, get your life on track. i’ve lost my weed.

 

 

ts true, i don’t sleep in late, in fact the longest i’ve slept for is 9 hours and that was thanks to the rohypnol. lying snoring like a little child on my bed payed for with my money in a hotel somewhere in manchester. i had 11 minutes before the time on my hair dye was up, 19 hours until my time with him had come to an end. and then what. I cannot think or presume to imagine the staggered levels of defeat i am destined to fall. Stupid girl, you knew, don’t anybody pretend that you didn’t. What was the point of all of this. Oh yes, so you can write. Stupid girl, are there not more noble reasons or subjects to engage that sulky interest. Could you not have at least curbed the incessant bottle to mouth and stood back and watched,

 

The sleeted drive through rectangular whisperings, with you in my ear, you’re amazing. The skin on hand like skin on shaft like skin on skin on skin on skin on skin. And then what? Nothing. Stop it. stop it stop it.

 

You told me that you wanted to make changes. changes that would change things

 

So broken and humbled and seething on the insides. So ashamed and confused and nervous. So much knowledge power respect. So deeply cut so fucking scared of tomorrow and that voice and number and letter. And i pray to you lord, please do not steal this from me, please do not harm me, please do not strangle these times, please look after and protect and help and aid and cherish and hold me lord jesus, and him and her and us. Pleae keep the evil one away from this world, please arm me with your holy spirit and your love and faith and strength to know what is right, to heal me, to exalt me for your good.

 

you are my frontier.

i spent hours in the vacumm, dissecting the layrinth of letters and phrases, tearing the mantis till she cried in vein over the toilet bowel afraid of honest words, pure light, manipultating the cartesian equation to elongate make sense of this geography i find myself lost in unable to capture the what the hell was it about you. Where lies the volume of work that will harness entrap the intrigue, wherein the library of this work does the conclusion end? And I fight, and i fight my insides and my head and my friends to make sense make me understand that you are the whispering that will some day just make me smile in disbelief of my warrant hydrographic exploitations of foreign plasma, how it slipped and spilt, craving the shore which is offered everytime i hear read your voice. i am the water i am the desert

so heavy and i am sorry jonathan, and one day i hope we can understand my and yours and this. though i am honest in my verbal frivolity, and i mean it with every last lingering sensation i can muster across my telescope which is weak and needs constant reinforcement against the erosion of rationality, alcohol, life, fuck if callahan can break horses i can harness them and you, and it kills me that i think you are the one, and i want it to be so, just so i could hold you forever and be part of the experience, to be with someone that made it all special and the thunder so much louder. and i am afraid of the return journey, the lack of your protection

for i was not meant to lead an easy life and i know i have been promised much but my evil deeds are too much to bear sometimes

and i love you with those three words my new dogma

and sometimes i don’t care if you have already rolled over

and sometimes i’m glad that you have

love

claire

 

i bind and rebuke myself

i bind and rebuke myself

oh dear oh dear, this damn skype is the type that can turn your bones to glass. and what prey tell is the pointof scribbling away hilst big sister is a watching you from your evil eyes. commited tot eh script breakdown, yeah its all going down tomorrow, thank the allmighty heavanly jesus from keeping me from harms way. yet this morning i lay in teh bath, exorcising the chemicals from my skin, praying that i would bind and rebuke all unnecessary evil, but she don’t work. my gods have forsaken me, i end up in point road, teh killarney, teh downtown. retrived a cellphone yet agreed to slowbones. jonathan is a blast of electrolight sultans determned to hold me in this mirage, i like what i see yet cannot touch. can you send me 300 rands it will make the night chills warm and the morning thrills dawn and i can be functional without leaden legs. the sho won safm went well lastnight. i didn’t realise how many people tuned in though i think many refused drop out. what is that saying about sertan individuals burning far too brightly, i’m just frightfully inches backwards till i arrive at my skin and sin and face it like a warrior, send cash cheques nd dark chocolate and i’ll return the favour with wit and tender strokes

Everyone had left. This fucking place felt like an abandoned aircraft after a turbulent landing. The silence of routine was a stench that got up my nose, up my legs into my blood. It scared me that I was living off this shit. That this was my life-force – this banality – emptiness – hard crack resilient shell – and had I tried. Had I pushed and poked and broke. Had I broken? Neville was complaining and agreeing. I couldn’t understand a fucking word he was saying. He shrunk of piss. The road stunk of piss. A long building – another inconsequential structure. Some imbeciles in a car. Black like spilt oil were laughing. I was trying to look at something – anything. There is nothing to look at here. There is constant banging and drilling. And only one that is good. They are installing lights to ruin my shadow, my lost friends.

Is it so hard to even minimize the building blocks I had swallowed and given back to you? Would it take an apology – a confession or just dismissal of reason – where it’s not reticent or ridicule? But a plain and simple point of view. Is your unaware a mystery or another carbon copy sheet – when I prophesize do you fantasize – is there any feeling in your head.

Let’s strip away these mannerisms. I was walking slowly I thought. I had been thinking far too long. Or not thinking. It’s a ménage a trios. Lets have a manage a trios. I was not walking, I was battling. Walk was a by-product. It was the mechanical action stemmed by this mental pace. It was lyrical. I am not lyrical. I am shining. Let’s just be shining. Come on lets.

He was not talking. A condition of commitment. I can’t seem to arise out of this bubble. This superficial carnage. My last sentence is slurry. It’s a self-dismissal mess. I saw your ears turn red as you never missed what I said. Why are these girls dancing on the table? What planet are they from. A gay bar is mentioned. We leave. There’s a cab. Twenty thousand photographs are constantly recorded. He is tired – he said. i just knew we were going to go to bed

dollove

dollove

 

I tasted you once – you were

 

sad and cold but I’ve been here before

and it’s getting rather old

3 years off the saddle and 12 in the chest

The bathroom tiles are dirty

theres shit on my breasts

One red light above the tv

Another in your head

When this is all over – you drop and leave me for dead

A black penis stands in the doorway – another in my cunt

it’s bigger than before but I’m so misled

I think it’s a door

to another room

 

lord oh lord make me never a father, make me never carry bad words that rip apart the larynx and corners of thy eye into spasms of sadness. its been a tough day to say the least, trying ot get a handle on this winston story, slowly and slower seeing the finish line however short term memory loss is a sea we all try to swim and i’m out of my deep violet brown that enhances teh script and tomorrow is a day where i repeat the process in order to complete the hurdle and i’ve been offered by the kind lady monica down the road, who seems to think i’m some kind of minor celebrity free reign, there is apun in here somewhere, full use of her horses, and if you are a friend you know my affinity with the horse, so rides around these green hills are imminent and fuck the puff adders and hornbills, swans, fish eagles, bunny rabbits, wildebeest and tractors for i am and will be part of the genteel that take to a bit of gallop in the misty afternoon. still undeceided about the script and the process and the move up country and god only knows i’m miserable now. been down for so long its beginning to look up but only dead fallen leaves and snails to apprehend the view from total claireangeliqueishness distortion. where is my love? where is my family? how can you be a hero to few and a waste of time to so many. i can’t manage teh dividing line, the median, when that damn morning bird calls, i will personally take my gun and shoot it though it’s pulsing heart, then wrap it in plastic, and intravenously shoot it up, i shall finally have a soul to call my own

 

coke a cola flying ants

coke a cola flying ants

Slowly and lapsing the mistake of opening mouth and words words words are bad to use when truths are swimming in the deep end. When the rest of your stutterings were thrown and my heart finally felt that maybe there was an honest back door that would lead to that place in the park, that bright place where silhoettes were friends this judgement and its conquerer are only versions of your body. These midnight calls that are life and alcohol and small rythms which must stop soon. it must end as is the cycle that dictates our courtships with the unknown for that is why it is the unknown for there is no answer there is no ultimate realisation and understanding. we sit with nought on our minds and nought in our laps, our hands, our fingers and the implication that i am scared might finally be the final curtain and i miss everything about you and i should rather concentrate on these beads that work their perfect shape in spite of the spitefulness that taints my mind and eyes and heart and why this fever of forgotten and forget it. the final words were NO NO NO. and now the big black which must dress the wound, i never asked to be attacked.

 

 

Sitting down on the sidelines of another hotel room, thank god. It’s strange how these paths these mumblings this rubbish keep leading me back to the same place, the place where i am alone, alone with all these tangled thoughts and feelings which i seem unable to escape. It takes 4 months to gather the shrapnel and 2 weeks to implode it. It freaks me the fuck out. I read Ecclesiastes today in vein, searching desperately for the answers the wisdom that ancient text brings and it did. And I wanted to listen absorb the sacred knowledge, recapture the holy spirit who once held and exhalted me from my nightmares but alas the heart is transient even in mourning. And I was thinking how ironic it all was just like the text that reads itself back to me that I should once again be trapped but with limited words and much much more exhaustion and sadness. That this constant cycle the prophets have spoken of, the sages have understood, the human condition, the vanity, the pointlessness, the Solomon, the drunk, the father, the son, the mother, the daughter, the friend, the ally, the enemy, the pop song are correct. And I can hardly begin to want to believe them, for i want something so much bigger, i want good things all the time,prove the melody unsound, distort the harmony. I crave the glory, the result that is ripe that dances with abandonment, refusing to remove the make up.

 

Falling in love. What crime and punishment the philosphers abhorred and rightly so. How can one redeem the redeemer. Impossibility and fate collide within seconds, my our corrupt corruptness. To shy away, to regain or retain the seconds that were sliced away by one persons eyes, smile and touch.

But this is the essence of existence, for are we not the only breathing creatures capable of love, well other than dogs and that’s not saying much for dogs eat their own shit but then again metaphorically it is my routine.

 

Oh enough, I can’t stand it anymore. Best to retire to bed, to read and find solace in sleep, in literature, in thoughts and all incoherent dreams. The mirage is being drowned by familiar absolutions and lie lie lies i am so ignorant when it comes to this game. I am so open for wounding, i stand in the street and scream it. But i never thought you would be the one to fuck me over. I just thought you were the one. And you are.

 

i only steal beauty

i only steal beauty

several hundred thousand millon breaks before these words appeared. this life. strange the celine cannot describe the distorted beauty of mangled moments. i remember this from the other plate. when in evening time lapse of mornng walking up along those deserted streets to get home to that room and those tryng to  closed curtains and seals that was another life altogether. i am trying to remeber why i created it or dealt with round corners and stones wrapped in plastic and those fucking fridges with the beer stains as foam something by product. not good. the whole experience of working the late night shift on the opposite side of the city because of a lingering promise of free access to gigs. funny how i was fired 2 weeks before the show at the same venue took place. i so didn’t want to work in london. but fuck i tried all the angles. the catering faction, the rugby and soccer vip rooms, serving  boiled roast chicken and cheese soaked polenta with a side of british salad during the game. those people that frequented the club rooms, and the spanish girls with booze problems that ran the whole set up. that one girl who i worked with twice was rumoured to have a drug problem with cocaine. but she was beautiful but bossy. nobody had any respect for her but i liked her. i liked how some of the broken down and out south africans took direction, were scared to assert resistance. the ones that applied themselves. what a strange situation it all was. to get to london and then to work menial jobs that just got you by. i have no understanding how those guys lived. they were all renting cheap rooms or sharing rooms, all the south afridcan boys, wanderers from the army, the ones from poor backgrounds, no skills, no other hope, sidetracked and but not always narrow minded about south africa. i wonder how or what the attraction is to get out of this country with white south africans. is it just because of the lingering commonwealth policy and its a part of what you have to do to make you appreciate your equally nowhwere situation back at home, so you go and take a lot of cheap e’s and work your shitty job, and live in your shitty couch, room, if you’re lucky bed apartment and the pay off is what, experience, hardship, does anybody actually save money. well i guess that girl  and her boyfriend did. 10 years they were away dodging visas and residency and they must have saved up a bt of cash whatever they were doing. but then they got back to durban and broke up after buying a house together with her dad’s help and then i heard a couple of weeks ago that her friends back room she was staying in after they took a break from each other was actually this catalyst for an extra marital affair between her friends father and her. they were booking into the blue waters and havin it on. these things always land in tragedy and she has dissappeared.

 

 

so thankful and confused about these blessings. performance anxiety. all this energy and that journey. i tell the war stories to open ears but really the trauma is far reaching. strange strange to remeber those hours under the cameras up north scoring smack and rocks. the guy from liberia. all the african boys working it and my irish dustbin, niall. iwonder what i was doing in those situations, lying in his bed in that deserted apartment, block of apartments, staring at myself in the mirror, going to the toilet incessasantly, the playstation dvd not working, the conversations about ireland, the irish. the waste. it kills me those moments, the same as wth brad. the pointlessness of the journey. i remmber the non logic of the conversations, his arguments, my he is young. just after jonathan. what and who was jonathan, just a wonderful 2 weeks and then the linger. and that letter he sent me and my answer and his never writing  back. the squat with the spanish guitarist and the guys from beirut and yugoslavia and their computer upstairs and that room below the stairs the basement, the guy next door in the coma. what happened to me in the last couple of years. always so close to stopping it all. so fucking close and yet the wound never heaLED. thank god, and thank everything. and please let me do something with understanding and relevance and that touches an d reaches out in between the surface of the living. its such a big responisbility and i just need your help dear jesus christ dear god please correct and repair these indiscretions, and anatol, what a boy, just ridiculous the day, and i know not such a good idea, but then i think maybe why not but of course not. the house keith showed me showed me so much more. how much i don’t get life or how some live it.i haven’t the first clue in processing these lifestyles. that is why anthony referring to me as a slut and jeff’s ‘not bad for a girl from the bluff’ comments ripped out my heart so much. it was like the bully or the kid with money or the kids that didn’t have money or just those kids i remember from primary school when my mom made the biggest effort for me to win the raffle thing. to prove something. my mom always wanted to be the best. i think both my parents did, in their respective families. that is why no matter what has happened between me and my father, i love him with all my heart because i think i understand how he feels, he’s restess like me. we are restless. but my mom she is just so clever. she is lacking in confidence. she has no idea of how great she could  be. i wonder what they were like when they met, much younger than i am now. but she said his flat was always very neat, and he used to cook her dinner. and then she fell pregnant with me and they were married within a month. i don’t understand their lives now. i don’t think they understood any of it.  i think it was a god send that we had involved hobbies, the dancing, the distraction kept them occupied. that day at the motocross when i saw him with that woman, but i can’t remeber what they were doing, kissing or he and her were just playing around. i don’t know. and that scary cancer looking woman entered our lives, and the gym, was he having an affair, i think my mother thought so. and then that kate woman. i wish he would understand the force he is aligned to and i wish she would take the next step.

 

so there I was about to direct my first feature film with so much complication. who would have thought. i can’t remember my focus or who is important. these wordsnow in the morning are bolts and back stabbing. 3 days to go. i falll in love too easily. we are sleeping. i haven’t been up this late for months but  i remember the sensation and i remember that there was always alcohol in the kitchen and the internet. maybe its a good thing i don’t have that vice. although this whole undoing of him and everyone who knows is my own undoing.on purpose and for what purpose. why does this disease creep in when i get fucked. what is the fucking point that this is what i resort to. i think i am a really complicated person. i wonder if it is from all the drugs but i honestly don’t think so because  i am sure i have always been this way and that is why i took the drugs. and this drug thing. what is going on with that, will it it willl be like this forever. and then i think about lex and his money choices,and the ridiculousness of the alcohol situation. and why i loved him so much at some point in my life. and how that is not even a remote possibility now but there is always a small white plastic packet in my pocket that makes me feel a little bit better again

 

there is a lane that i belong to

there is a lane that i belong to

arriving back full of mirth from a dinner at the divine, why oh why does financing of a film take so long. supposed to have movedt o jhb this week but on the delay until the new year. heard from anthony mr dod mantle and subsequently had a semi heart seizure. hard at mental work with the new film, white mountain, its all in my head its all in my bed, which is hot and sweaty after a turbulent night of tossing and kicking that damn monkey, but she sprang again. had a double brandy and coke at the downtown hotel, don’t ask me why people are scared of our west african neighbours, incredibly politeful lot. though no ice for the thirst quencher. managed to score two grams, if you can honestly call them that, however it keeps one awake and writing into the early monring of lost shadows, and i need to commit to these thoughts about the mountain yet working with no money to pay rent could send any person to drink or throat cutting. i seea webcam on this computer and try to sever the paranoia that we’re all being recorded. frogs, crickets, pipes that go bump in the night my only friends at this hour. i orgasmed in my sleep last night, dreamt of an arabian elder who was fucking me from behind, all quite sexy thank god for dreams and cold turkey. i’m scared because i have no money. i;m scareed because i can’t buy my mom the pretty clothes she so wishes to wear. i’m scared bcause my dad is constantly depressed. i’m scared because the pigs know who i am and where to find me and i have a court hearing on friday. i’m scared because i owe my accountant money yet there is not one dollar bill in my pocket. i’m scared that the waiting is too long, far too long dear friends, where are the benefactors. suzy bell offered to pay for me to attend a course about breathing. apparently it will help me sleep, write more rationally and give my blood oxygen, like my blood needs another bloody substance to confuse us. and where are my friends and where is my family they’ve all gone away yet its i who have left them. brandy and coke at both mornings, i wonder why i always have two mornings yet only one very strange and incandescent evening. more darkness like in denmark, less rain. less pain. i’m living on immodium, i’m living on extracted codeine from myprodol, sunday experiments gone theright way up. there is much to be written, especially this feature on the winston hotel, bless that church, been going for so long been going for a song. i have to write the script breakdown these next two day sto hurry that development money up otherwise i’m done for. why do people get so freaked out and nervous when i mention i want to die at the age of 40. it gives me a good 9 years to get two more feature films into the market. dead lines are good. it’s in my nature to obey. i’m not suicidal just indifferent and realist to the point. i make films, i make words, images and sounds, i make them because i want you to care for me, like i care for you so much. don’t forget me, i won’t forget you, just fall down the well and well try as hard as you can, this is my initiation