Fucking sterile suburbia. Vredehoek since Sunday.
Has none of the life and texture of my streets. I emphasise sterility. As hot as a convection oven. The streets are clean. The walls are high and uncracked. Bleached of life.
No-one's on the streets except for those walking shiny-coated dogs or straddling titanium saddle mounts and two thin wheels, which alone are worth more than many years of working, or begging, for the average man or woman in my hood.
A total shortage of smiles and eye contact. People walking around barbed wired in and electric fenced out, lit with the secret language of little blue 'activated - don't touch lights'; 'cos personal walls are so last decade.
I'm house sitting in hell. But I sure love the aircon (we've all got our price).
And Stella, the wire haired terrier puppy and I have bonded on the couch; she's sussed me and has me at her beck and call.
It's scorchingly hot all day long; my glasses slide down the bridge of my nose and make me look like a bigger ass than I already am.
Psycholigally, what's behind self-deprecation? My answer? Humour.
I either laugh at myself or throw myself off a bridge.
Amen.
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