Jackdaw

My random jackdaw thoughts are on auto-shuttle through my cranium and behind my tired eyes; I'm having these while on the couch downstairs.
Staring out of the window at the rain that began 48-hours ago, they are mostly, and understandably, sunless: the rain's pattering down hard on the verdant, broad-leaved sub-tropical vegetation. The scene and sounds could, easily, be out of any of countless movies I've never seen.
A scraping then spraying of a battered black pan in the kitchen; subdued rain-sodden thoughts while I wait for my chicken-chili omelette; the rattle of long blunt-but-powerful Doberman claws ticking across terra cotta-cool tiles; a boy-and-girl being loud Sunday afternoon neighbour's kids other side the fence; then the crescendo of a silent but cloying fart, same Doberman, that causes me to wrinkle my nose in disgust.
Random photos and memories from last week; we went to Durban's Grey Street market finding disappointment; then - by accident - mysterious undercurrents in the much less formal, but intriguing muti market that's woven itself like a spider's web around Durban's train station. I'd describe it as a symbiotic relationship in a truly African sense; but I didn't feel at ease, nor completely welcome, rather like a spy from the other-side. And conspicuously white.

Turbulent

I'm alone on the narrow strip of beach that's left thus far untouched by the incoming tide; all alone except for Sasha. She was sheared today, except for her head and tail; and looks like a good looking but emaciated lion.
A sand-coloured crab runs crookedly-straight across my vision.
The tide is angrily trying to get me, I still have some leeway though: not sure which is going to get me first, the tide, the dusk, or the approaching fiercely-beautiful storm?
It's my first alone time today, my artist-writer needs it.
We - me and the elements - are turbulent. But free

Staring reality in the face as the tide comes in

Sitting on the ocean edge watching more rain coming in from the south - it's close-by now and I will be soaked - and the tide's coming in: it's a battleship-grey kinda day.
Earlier I slipped on schloffy jeans and slipped off my sneakers; wearing a beanie I leashed up Sascha and walked to the sea for some us-time.
It's going to be a moody-wet weekend, which I'm ecstatic about.
The ocean is so huge that I cannot imagine it being over-fished and severely environmentally at risk; the problem is that my imagination's obviously too small; and living in a spacious and relatively unpopulated 'corner' of the planet, I can't begin to fathom this incredible planet's resources ever being even remotely stretched (that's the problem with imaginations, sometimes they have to stare reality in the face to get the picture!).
Two things are striking me right now:
Perhaps I cannot believe that people who spend so much time on the very edge of the ocean - fishermen - could be so untouched by its grand-splendour as to, disrespectfully of both it and themselves, never mind others, pollute its beaches and rocks as much as they do?
That global companies - and local national brands like Unilever's Dove - can still be so arrogant, unthinking and uncaring as to produce the blue-plastic earbuds that litter our shores at spring tide; have they honestly not yet considered bamboo as an alternative? Decision-made: I will never again purchase a plastic earbud. (And I challenge their CEO to come walk with me and, while he's picking up his litter, to explain to me why on earth they're still on plastic.)
An almost transparent and minute red ant struts - between sea sand granule rocks (it's all relative isn't it?) - utterly weightless across my bare left foot and leaves me gaping in awe: this frigging life-thing is truly miraculous, from the subatomic level and upwards!

Dear Ingrid

I ran-walked to the ocean's very edge today, then sat just within its tender reach of salt-spray.
Barefoot and bummed on a rock outcrop I contemplated the nearness of God, the grayish scudding foam suds, and the Afrikaans poet Ingrid Jonker who committed suicide. She walked into the icy Atlantic from Seapoint, Cape Town. Although this is the warm and mostly friendly Indian, I could not imagine walking into it one-way; on this cool grey day I'm repulsed at being swallowed in, deep, by it. And I'd never have the balls.

I also thought about my days in the army - which at the time I thought to be my last.
Later, when back at the house and talking to Lee on our unmade bed, triggered by my beard I told him a story of my last days of 'national service'. Those were robot-acted out in the Koakaveld, just south of the then South West African, and Angolan, border. That's where I smelt what the killing fields reek of, and lost the remnants of my innocence.
I then got-up-and-off-the-bed and shaved (no full stop intended)

It's raining now.

I've just wolfed down a slab of chocolate cake, and a cappuccino, at what has become my 'local' coffee joint - at Tiffanys.
I wonder what Monkey's doing right now, and my mother.
It's a misty, moody and rainy elephant grey dusk, with much dripping.
And there's some decisions I need to make, in utter faith that they are right decisions.
Two beautiful, and also extremely slender women walk past in the prime of their womanhood; the scent of their perfumes and soaps, which I don't recognize, waft on the wind to me: I'm carried away to a world that's not mine. Just a glimpse please I'm curious...thank you.

Pan's labyrinth

These photos also taken on Saturday in Durban reflect my darker, more somber mood of today. This afternoon I'm walking slowly but stealthily, and without my usual smile, through Pan's labyrinth...it's been a downward spiral into the depths of my garden; but now I'm seeking light and for Him to walk with me: it's our secret garden after all.

Durban, botanical garden

On Saturday afternoon, late, we visited Durban's botanical garden; it was good.
As my blood sugar levels dipped, I got high on a craving for Castle milk stout, and the glucose I sucked from the super c sweets I bought for emergencies, like that one.
The brilliant summer sunshine quickly gave way to elephant gray moodiness; then from Sunday early afternoon until now, rain.
Although my favourite weather, I now confess to a mild bout of cabin fever.
I tune in from autopilot to the swamp frogs that I can, with ease, hear through the open windows.
Elephant gray doesn't cease to be the theme and texture of my last, but not last, 48-hours.

sam. smile. negative. Ganesha

Close to midnight and the temperature has dropped; the wind is rustling-tussling the leaves on the milk wood below the wood-frame window; the frogs have piped down to a hardly-noticeable audio wallpaper; the old fan moans as it stutter-swings rightwards, every-single-time-to-the-right.

Late afternoon, just on the right side of 34 degrees Celsius, we sat on the shop side of Sam's table in Tambetha, Umhlali. Lee drank red wine out of a mug, green tea and ginger for me. We bought a mauve essential oil burner: from Thailand the ceramic Ganesha elephant bears a lotus flower on its back; a tea candle aromatically roasts citronella and tea tree in almond oil on my bedside table, right now. (I only noticed the Christ thorn and aloe in the large ceramic pot outside the gate as we left at dusk.)

At 13h30, like two little wide-eyed vivisection monkeys about to be experimented on, we sat on the edge of a white-iron clinic bed. Aids tests for two. By two we knew we were HIV-negative times-two.

ocean. inspiration. healing

mighty OCEAN, constant roar, smell & sound of GOD o' universe: I bow down, in awe

I left my room-and-creative studio, then the house, at 6h30; Sascha the blonde German shepherd tried to follow me. But today I wanted to be alone (who on earth said you can't start a sentence with but?) so I shooed her away.
The house is 800m from the Indian ocean, that includes a steep 100m drop from the cliff top to sea level; one day I'll count the steps as I charge back up them: it's my proof to self that all resistance can be whipped, even twice if need be.
I ran to The Royale (so un-aptly named, never mind un-aptly designed: where do bad South African architects spend purgatory? I know! In Tuscany. Tuscany, Italy that is), then took the slippery steps and the winded path to the beach.
I love stripping off my vest, kicking off my running shoes, the first feet on sand-surf-white foam: At sea level, with The Greatness before me, I give thanks for my aliveness and for my healing.
This place - 595.3 km from Waterval Boven - is where I have come to live, to heal, to recuperate, to love, and to e loved.
Yesterday I rested from phone and email, today I work: I am location independent.