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.