Brutal, honest and blunt: Charles (bloody) Bukowski

Not one died. I know now - after being away two years in a row at this time of the year - that my flat-full of plants can survive at least two weeks without and spoonfeeding. Summer would be a different story.

Rutter's Requiem: III. Pie Jesu. I turn up the volume, rewind, play, rewind, and play again. One of my favourites. Takes my heart up somewhere high; maybe, rather use the word lofty, Charles? Spotify; I'm on a three-month free trial; so far so good.

Maybe I'm buzzing these last two weeks because I've a muse in my life who doesn't yet know he's a muse. Intensely blue and beautiful eyes. Germanic features. A goofy smile. A highly disciplined mind that also burns with an intense brightness, and superb intelligence.

Much happened, actually, and without me necessarily consciously aware of it at the time, during those potent two weeks in my Mpumalanga hideaway. It's a reminder of why I must overcome the initial resistance to leaving these overflowing, intensely distracting and luring fleshpots of Cape Town.

Every morning I had time with God in the front room of the house, which used to be a verandah. It's where the sun rose over the koppies and trees in front of the house, at about 08h00 this time of the year, and poured like liquid apricot over my head, shoulders, lap, then pages, finally my legs.

Morning birdsong. Also, sometimes the believe-it-or-not comforting sound of a chainsaw - confirmation that this is a deeply rural setting, not the city - in the near distance. Also, sometimes, a train en route to Maputo screeching (steel-on-steel) in the valley's shunting yard, in this town famous for its rail origins.

It's warming up, my hands are no longer chilled and sore from the cold; yesterday and last night were icy. Today's temperature has risen by a sharp 5 degrees; that's what I love about Cape Town: the cold fronts have a passionate arrival, but then just as quickly move northwards, and westwards, to torment the rest of the country, quite often dumping snow on the mountains between us and the rest.

I've the flat sliding door wide open so as to welcome in the warmth and glare reflected off of the shiny and also rusted corrugated iron roofs of Woodstock.

Just before heading 'home' late in June I'd serendipitously picked up a copy of Charles Bukowski's novel Women lying, literally, across my path. He's another favourite writer of mine.

I'd started reading the work immediately but had somehow been revolted by his coarse but awfully impactful writing. I had thought it would make great reading for the two-hour flight to Joburg and back again. I decided against it. I wanted to get it back to the library ASAP.

I've picked it up again and am devouring it. I'm ready for its nuggets now. I'm learning much, also laughing lots, making pencil notes on the pages, turning the corners to mark fascinating pages. I will get my own copy though, maybe even later today. That's if I even venture out.

Bukowski is revoltingly larger than life character, which is why he constantly has to appear in his own writing (there's nowhere else to put him); though he makes no effort at all to pull punches about himself.

Breathtakingly brutal. Repugnantly honest.

(The days are lengthening.)