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forgetting to remember

forgetting to remember


… remember that story before the glass slips brain slips..its happening again, liquid distraction, thank you, fuck you bless you for that delivery… Autumn is heroin. For me its the epitome of my most prominent memories with the drug. The mist, the light, the leaves, the wind, the chill in the bones so easily solved. Belushi ‘don’t take shit from anyone’ echoes off old pages of music magazines, which brings me back to that room, and the dealer outside the window throwing rocks up at us and belushi was on the laptop screen and there their bottlenecks and my spoon and a heater and so much warmth in the quasi designed starkness but that was on the other side of town, and its saturated grey and autumn again and the walk in cupboard where I preferred to shoot up in, and their being no more need for vitamin c because we’re in Thai town now and the fuzz of the beachfront and the otheryou telling me about hiv and the otherme that floods apartments and hotel rooms and petrol stations and perceptions and knocks on your door at 3am with 3 friends with 3 bags and 3 beating hearts that need a room and a space to just, won’t be a second bro, thank you so much dude you won’t believe what just happened tho, there’s always cops, there’s transport nightmares, puking on corners, fuck it excuses there’s then another excuse for the abuse and you just ignore the vibe, push the other three aside, hit his toilets and hide.
Mattress basing, how low can you sink, i’ve taken plain rides to the other sides in a 3 minute black out rat poison motherfucking track tracing the cold changes the veins, won’t shoot in my neck again then again then again, fuck it there it is. John stewart has been on the whole day, sabc 2 don’t cut it round here can’t remember anything they’ve said, zean knocks at the door: are you dead?
Tantrem’s all in a rage, I just jumped the psych ward 4 mins down the road 2 weeks after cannes, keep forgetting second chances again.
Again blood on the hotel carpets I’m told I must pay floor getting kicked off another ‘chance’ I haven’t paid for, fuck them all just fuck them all, this run is too easy, got money don’t have money I don’t even have to pay for.
Oding on the 8th floor, oding on the first floor, oding on the ground floor oding on the second floor the third floor the sixth floor the 19th floor, oding oding, the floor the floor always the floor, getting fucked on the floor, getting off the floor, finding powder on the floor bags in the corner, under the sink, the toilet lids, the basin hids, the mirror, the three bloody ties behind the bathroom door, you can taste yourself in your mouth before your jaw breaks and you get off the floor and dont answer the door, another lame metaphor
cape ivs call it spikkie, old timers call it neds, white dudes downtown jack black jack dudes won’t use needles, they smoke hold your hand in instead. We’re being thrown out again, so we’re back in his mansion again, no fun anymore, weezles creep up for more, graffitti jokes, french blokes, russian blokes pull out vodca hidden in cases, I recognise this guy’s face’s from berlin, he saw me tap dancing outside the mandela hotel, can’t hide this shit no more, no more reason why, peters high, thomas on my arm, the gates remain open, i’m not used to this heroin, too slimy too dark, its not tar there’s no road there’s no bridge, I wake up on a ledge in a pool looking for more works On the sand for sunrise, at war with the mystics, thinking back to my durban beachfront, berea centre, esplanade rides shooting up by myself arms fucked under my shirt, nerves shot, hands numb smiling inside. I used to rule the world comes on, no one notices the coldplay till its too late, it’s too late we all get it, we got it, we’re gettimg it forgetting it refusing to remember it but there’s so much more to tell, vuse passes me a half a gram for real, I got 3 meetings and a script to sell, fireworks.

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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.