Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Doesn't take a Rocket Scientist to figure that out.


Doesn't take a Rocket Scientist to figure that out.

It's funny how fate always finds a void to swallow a small segment of your life, no matter the circumstance. Perhaps, because space is so empty, and sparse, our lives always inevitably reflect the cosmos which dictate us.

But if you ask an optimist he'd tell you that space is full, full of stars shining bright, spinning planets, other random floating chunks of rock, and Spice Girls CDs budding rocket scientists decided to get rid off. Well it does all depend on which way you look at the glass (or if you're peering into space, looking into the glass.

Alternately we all know that space contains a myriad black holes which have swallowed up a thousand hopes and dreams, bright stars, and a pet dog called Laika. Which is pretty much what earth is like. Read Anton Chekhov, listen to Kurt Cobain, and visit your local S.P.C.A to confirm the above.

You'd be surprised.

And sorry to burst any bubbles, but all those stars you ponderously look up to every night are actually dead. Ask the scientists. They burnt out a long, long time ago.

Sound familiar?

Now's the time when all of you still listening to Elvis, 2Pac, Bob Marley or John Lennon nod your heads in startled assent.

Space is the literal translation of disconsolate freedom and loneliness enmeshed into one.

I suspect chunks of it fall down to earth when no-one's looking, not even Chicken Little. Last night, on a late night drive, I saw two teenagers riding their bikes on the sidewalk, they seemed happy. Not twenty minutes later I drove past them again, sans their bikes, perched upon the pavement looking dejected. One seemed to be crying, but the streetlight shone too dim for me to tell for certain. It was not only their bikes the thieves had taken though, it was their dreams as well.
It's funny how fate always finds a void to swallow a small segment of your life.
It doesn't take a Rocket Scientist to figure that out, though.


Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Life in a Petri Dish...


Life in a Petri Dish...

So like I write poems and stuff.....

Hopes haunted him
with interminable swiftness.
Like cracks in the ceiling they leapt
out to divide his mind.

Life in a Petri Dish, cracked along the edges.

The edges of tables stared
across their sparse loneliness
to the chairs for comfort.

Life in a Petri Dish, cracked along the edges.

War put out its cigarette on a child's head
under a bright blue sky.
Never-never land and napalm.
Afternoons measured by armed platoons and

Life in a Petri Dish, cracked along the edges.

His heart haunted her,
but she smiled and swallowed sadness,
walking unevenly over the scattered eggshells
and dreams she'd left behind.
A cold wind kissed her and brusquely moved on,
moved on away.

Life in a Petri Dish, cracked along the edges.

When I decide to blog


When I decide to blog

So I'm sitting alone harmlessly, listening to Simon and Garfunkel when I decide to blog.
But Paul Simon's singing Bob Dylan's lyrics so beautifully that I can barely pause to ponder when suddenly a swift realisation (or perhaps an axiom) barges into my thoughts yelling, "Good music died with the 70s!"

But hip-hop's its reincarnation.

Now the alt. rock-heads are smashing their axes and the emo-kids are bawling their eyes out cuz I haven't included their beloved sub-genres in the category. And my Mum shouts from downstairs for me to keep it down but by now the rock-heads are slamming E-chords and F-sharps in quick succession while the emo-kids are furiously scrawling poetry across tear-stained pages when, out of a Picasso painting, the art students stagger and skip in, casting meaningful looks over a room with no meaning. Paul and Art are strumming my heart, with whispers, but no-one really cares because they're all too busy yelling and tearing at the limbs of this child they call Music.

Outside African Weavers cackle mischievously, as a drunken man staggers to his feet, their cachinnations pervading my mind when I decide to blog.


Your Blogging Type Is Thoughtful and Considerate

You're a well liked, though underrated, blogger.
You have a heart of gold, and are likely to blog for a cause.
You're a peaceful blogger - no drama for you!
A good listener and friend, you tend to leave thoughtful comments for others.

Thursday, July 27, 2006

Mind your unfinished business


Mind Your Unfinished Business.

Clang! In the impenetrable dark of a South African winter night it's awfully unnerving to hear a grand piano suddenly begin playing. Yet there it was, way beyond midnight, keys crashing together in an eerie crescendo. I sat up straight and swivelled my head in disbelieving fright.


There it was again, a strangely discordant harmony of ebony and ivory trailing towards my room. As far as I know none of my neighbours own a piano and if indeed any aspirant musicians decided to practise I highly doubt it would be at one in the morning. My mind racing, without warning, a cloak of darkness swept through my room and a dog howled outside.

I was terrified. My mouth housed my heart for a while.

Now I was really creeped out, duvet crawling closer all around me. Some people dismiss the supernatural as over-imaginative garbage, fair enough, each to his/her own. But I HAVE met a ghost before. It visited me in a public bathroom stall, slamming doors and flushing toilets, with me running out, tail between my legs, and still very much in need of a pee. My brother insists our neighbour's house is haunted telling me of taps turned on late at night, usually when our single neighbour is away. I laughed his suggestions off, but this time I wasn't smiling. Paranormal activities? In my room?

Which way is the toilet?

I'm not sure what a ghost would be doing in my house, they generally have unfinished business to take care of, and in a capitalist society where business is oh so very important I suspect it was a matter of the utmost urgency. I'd be happy if he didn't visit again though!


Positively Putrid. The Flags Are Sailing West.


Positively Putrid. The Flags are sailing West.

Alright. I'll be the first to admit it, most of my life I've been a negative thinking sort of person. Not in a pessimistic manner but more of an existentialist, it doesn't really count does it, so what the hell, kinda way. I guess I have a right to. My life's been littered with mishaps and shit. Copious quantities of it.

You try piss blood.

But occasionally off run a few electrons and my mindset shifts to a more positive, the sky's blue but I'm not outlook.

What would life be without vicissitudes?

So on the thirteenth of July 2006 (maybe I picked the wrong date) my heart smiled for a change and affirmations aplenty were bustling for room within my conscious. I was going to pass my drivers license, her and I would someday be together and things were looking okay, if not good for a change. A nervous sleep lay me to rest that night, albeit one of a positive proleptic.
Flash to 14 July 2006, 14h00 C.A.T.
My house had been broken into, I dismally failed my drivers license and Miss Right is probably out suntanning in Mongolia while I'm here dying.


Positive thinking backfires, with a vengeance. So much for that. Guess it doesn't really work when you're five feet deep. Someone pass the shovel already. I'll be at the harbour waiting, let me know if my ship comes.


Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Poignantly Pondering - A brief tale of love and heartbreak


Poignantly Pondering - A brief tale of love and heartbreak

Before you know it, it happens. You fall headfirst, stumbling into the stupendous stupour that some call love.
The outdoors seem airier, the sun lighter, birds in trees sing Mozart, and even the neighbourhood stray smiles at you while lifting his leg before catching a whizz on the post-office delivery truck.
Time passes, but it seems a constant. An implacable reverie of good dreams replayed.

Then you trip facefirst, into the hot coals some call heartbreak.
Clouds thunder overhead, vultures encircle your excuse for a heart, and cracks in the pavement seem like earthquakes.
Time passes, yet it feels like a constant. The incessant pecking which Prometheus endured.
And before you know it, it happens. Your indubitable vision of love fails again, shattering your hopes, your dreams, and your heart.


Thursday, March 23, 2006

Carnivalesque Protests


Carnivalesque Protests

Bright lights entice and coerce the unwary, the mangling of man and machine in unmitigating motion, laughter fills the dark night, and feet trod swiftly onward through the maze of amazement. William Wordsworth was shocked and horrified when he first encountered a fair, however, today the Ferris Wheels and Candy Floss of Carnivals allow for beatnik escapism from the drudge of our everyday lives.

Going to a fair in your old hometown can be a little unnerving and yet overwhelmingly exciting. Old schoolfriends, your first crush, fights fought and buried; lost kisses all come to life in your mind, recollected in the ephemeral daze of carnival. Swings and ships swish through the air as do the sounds of joy and exhilaration emanating from the contraptions. Sweet treats placate little children and their overbearing parents.

Yet in the midst of the thronging crowds, in a world packed with nostalgia and sentiment, eyes and experiences connect reminiscing on relationships that could have been, and shouldn't have been. Young girls and boys sway with the movements of their unbridled hearts toward desire and desolation.

Shit! Now look at what I've gone and done, this was supposed to be a perfectly ordinary insight into the fair I'd visited and yet it has become fettered by the fancy-free flux of my feelings.

I should stop writing about love, ah fuck it, I don't think I have the heart to.


Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Walking Downtown


Walking Downtown

There are too many broken hearts here,
stood on, trod over,
crushed, squashed,


Picture courtesy apparentlynothing.com

Friday, February 24, 2006

Sapphic Burning Sapphire


Sapphic Burning Sapphire

Yesterday I saw lesbians. I don't get it, normally it would excite me but then I realised - even girls get girls before I get girls. I don't get it, I don't think I ever will.


Thursday, February 23, 2006

A Dreamlike State


A Dreamlike State

Sometimes I ponder, in fact most of the time I ponder, the rest of the time I'm sleeping but that's when I'm dreaming.

I ponder - what if life was like dreams, not dreams in general but those special ones that stand out like a black dude at an opera. Where soulless sports stadiums and tepidly decorated shopping malls could transcend their status to unobtrusive (with the only camera being your mind) locations where trysts are formed and forged. Where my mind gently lets go of reason and allows intuition to create my ethereal path without wondering why the path gets so hilly. Where I get you and you get me, mentally. Where she gets me and I get her, physically. Where amazing experiences are encapsulated and captured, rather than dilapidating in the old attic filled with grey matter upstairs.

But then I ponder, nightmares are dreams that stand out too.
Maybe life is a lot like dreams or maybe dreams are a lot like life, fused between our conscious and subconscious.
Or perhaps our lives forever aspire to be like our dreams and dreams subtly desire to come to life.

Dreams give us the opportunity to live the alternate lives we crave for.