"No under 18's allowed in main bar or in the gaming area. By order [in italics] management"
A black and white cat, unfazed by me, hovers in my space; I just know we're cool, with, each, other. I don't even have food, yet, to be begged.
An empty dark-brown milk stout bottle stopped rolling the floor of my car when I stopped driving; I bought it in Amanzimtoti after a random gym session: milk stout is good for lactating women, also for filling a tummy while simultaneously taking off that emotional edge one sometimes feels while contemplating the universe and, simultaneously, staring into the abyss; I'm not an alcoholic, but I have altogether stopped my mood enhancers (haha, what do you call yours?).
Ok, let's get to the punt (that's Afrikaans for point): I've thankfully gone off my beaten track.
I'm also reading Lonely Planet's 2005 edition of their Travel Writing, which I got for Christmas, in London, in December 2006 just before I threw up my life as I knew it. I read, very sadly, parts of it in Marrakech before chucking it up (the manual that is); but dropped it once (later) in the bath as I fell asleep (the only time I've ever done that).
"What makes a wonderful travel story? In one word, it is place. Successful travel stories bring a particular place to life through a combination of factual information and vividly rendered descriptive details and anecdotes, characters and dialogue... The best travel stories also set the destination and experience in some larger context, creating rings of resonance with the reader."
I'm also, simultaneously [am I the only person on earth that uses this word?] reading Erich Fromm's - 1957 - "The Art of Loving". About which I have one query: why the hell is this brilliant book not a firmly set set-book at schools across our planet (because no-one has a clue about loving, after they've fallen into it).
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