Own life

In bed with a book and with my own life, responsible to no-one but me and God.
It's honest and raw and real.
Crickets, no frog-croak.
Jozi; between the three phallic symbols I grew up beneath: Brixton and Hillbrow, then Ponte. How else could I have turned out but me?
What I do know is that this city is, right now, the most happening city - in the most unhappening way - on the African continent.
Crickets, no frog-croak.
Bought two books today at Arts on Main:
One: Writing the City into Being, by Lindsay Bremner, and
Two: Portrait with Keys, Joburg and what-what, by Ivan Vladislavic.
It's blooming Jacaranda time, and the blossoms that go plop beneath the rubber tyres on black hard tar, are deep mauve-blue this year. Not the same every year.
Tonight I feel strangely light and free. It's because I have fire in my spirit, I am publicly standing up to a bully, and because I'm finding my voice. My own
And I thought just now, fondly of Rob. I wanted to phone him and ask him if I could come around for coffee. But I don't think he is free to receive me. Nor do I think he would have coffee. Nor is he free.
But I am.