COUNTRY OF MY SKULL

Valentine

2012-02-14T11:55:00.001+02:00

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.

Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.

by Carol Ann Duffy

Confession

2012-02-09T23:57:00.000+02:00

waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the
bed

I am so very sorry for
my wife

she will see this
stiff
white
body
shake it once, then
maybe
again

"Hank!"

Hank won't
answer.

it's not my death that
worries me, it's my wife
left with this
pile of
nothing.

I want to
let her know
though
that all the nights
sleeping
beside her

even the useless
arguments
were things
ever splendid

and the hard
words
I ever feared to
say
can now be
said:

I love
you.

by Charles Bukowski

In each age men of genius undertake the ascent

2011-12-21T00:05:00.004+02:00

“In each age men of genius undertake the ascent. From below, the world follows them with their eyes. These men go up the mountain, enter the clouds, disappear, reappear. People watch them, mark them. They walk by the side of precipices. They daringly pursue their road. See them aloft, see them in the distance; they are but black specks. On they go. The road is uneven, its difficulties constant. At each step a wall, at each step a trap. As they rise the cold increases. They must make their ladder, cut the ice and walk on it, hewing the steps in haste. A storm is raging. Nevertheless they go forward in their madness. The air becomes difficult to breath. The abyss yawns below them. Some fall. Others stop and retrace their steps; there is a sad weariness. The bold ones continue. They are eyed by the eagles; the lightning plays about them: the hurricane is furious. No matter, they persevere.”

Victor Hugo

A Brief for the Defense

2011-11-28T19:50:00.000+02:00

Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that's what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.

by Jack Gilbert

Poets say the most beautiful things

2011-05-30T22:33:00.002+02:00

"I've learned that making a "living" is not the same thing as making a "life." I've learned that life sometimes gives you a second chance. I've learned that even when I have pains, I don't have to be one. I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." Maya Angelou

Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines

2011-05-08T23:03:00.003+02:00

Can there be any poem more beautiful than this? I think not.

Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

by Pablo Neruda

BEE, BBBEE, AA, EE, the ANC & other types of madness

2011-02-28T09:29:00.004+02:00

Firstly an advance warning

In view of South Africa’s addiction to racial profiling, I’m going to regularly throw about the words white and black to make my point. I don’t speak or think like this, but I’ll use these terms to show how stupid the ANC’s policies on BEE, BBBEE, AA, and EE really are.

Now take a deep breath

The other day @comradesipho made the point that BEE was necessary to “fix economic discrimination.” I agree with a lot of what he says, but this is just lunacy.

Now I’m all for black people making money so the real question is how to do it? The ANC has tabled a whole gaggle of policies to fix this, but all I can see is a bunch of politically connected black billionaires who were at the right place at the right time. These people are not genuine entrepreneurs or risk takers but opportunists. Meanwhile, a whole industry of consultants and companies has sprung up advising companies on how best to “game” their empowerment credentials so the government leaves them alone. This system is working especially well for all the president’s men.

How long must these policies remain in place? “Look to the US,” says @comradesipho, “memories are long”. Well the US has elected a black president and the African American economy is about ONE TRILLION DOLLARS, which would make it the 15th biggest economy in the world crushing that of any country in Africa. That’s a whole lot of social justice. So how did they get there? Certainly not by government programs.

If the government wants to fix economic discrimination it must focus all its energy on creating, encouraging and supporting an entrepreneurial environment for everyone regardless of their skin colour. In 2004, a Harvard dropout, barely out of diapers, started Facebook, a $60 billion dollar company, which if listed on the JSE would be the 4th biggest company in the country. Now that would go a long way towards fixing economic discrimination.

Entrepreneurs start businesses. Businesses employ people and with youth unemployment sitting at 40% this is where you start. There is no other way to create wealth. If the South African economy was opened up to allow true competition and the government stopped trying to “fix it” it wouldn’t be long before the law of numbers would see black business dwarfing the white economy.

Instead we have a government who believes that they are better placed to allocate capital and determine who should win the lottery. Not only does this strangle innovation, but it also creates further hurdles for genuine black entrepreneurs because without the right connections they’ll have no chance of getting passed the gatekeepers.

When the Chinese commodities boom comes to an end, South Africa is going to find itself deep in the sh#t. It’s time that we stopped relying on what comes out the ground but focussed on what’s in our heads. Our economy needs to grow and diversify, but the government’s policies rely on the white man to give the black man shares and a job. It would be far better to let the black man eat the white man’s lunch.

A message for African children everywhere

2011-02-23T18:13:00.003+02:00

I read Khaya Dlanga’s blog “Sorry white people, we are not the same” and it left me feeling a little sad. It read to me like a my life is more miserable than yours pity party in which there are no winners only victims.

So we are not the same and we haven’t had the same opportunities in life. Now what? Everyone knows this, but opportunity is a relative concept and the child soldier in Liberia or the child labourer in Pakistan would only look at Khaya’s life in envy. I constantly bitch that I wasn’t born rich with a ticket to Harvard and a trust fund to match. But there we have it and there is always somebody out there better off and worse off than us and there are people out there with half the opportunities I’ve had who will go on and accomplish ten times more than I will. The moral of the story is - the world doesn’t care.

I see that Khaya is a Christian, well so am I, and in the Bible there is a story of a man called Joseph who was sold into slavery by his brothers but went on to run Egypt. How’s that for opportunity? We should all care about social justice but our lives are more than what colour we were born or where we went to school. Anything is possible.

I say fu#k white people. We are irrelevant in Africa. We are not going to build your roads, your schools and your hospitals. We are not going to bring up your children, teach your kids or govern your countries. We are not going to launch your businesses, pay your taxes, write your stories or make your movies. Take control of your own destiny.

There is a quote I love and it goes like this:

“The first step towards success is taken when you refuse to be captive of the environment in which you first find yourself.” Mark Caine

Khaya step outside and smell the air. Take a deep breath. You’re free. Africa is your oyster.

A message for Arab children everywhere

2011-02-22T00:00:00.001+02:00

I love the Persian poets Hafiz & Rumi and in light of the monumental events led by the youth in the Middle East I want to post this beautiful prophetic poem written by the great Arab poet Nizar Qabbani.

Arab children,
Corn ears of the future,
You will break our chains.
Kill the opium in our heads,
Kill the illusions.
Arab children,
Don't read about our suffocated generation,
We are a hopeless case,
As worthless as a water-melon rind.
Don't read about us,
Don't ape us,
Don't accept us,
Don't accept our ideas,
We are a nation of crooks and jugglers.
Arab children,
Spring rain,
Corn ears of the future,
You are the generation that will overcome defeat.

A history lesson

2010-11-19T22:15:00.000+02:00

My take on Bob Dylan's Subterranean Homesick Blues

A history lesson

Bougainvillaea

2010-10-28T00:13:00.000+02:00

I found this magnificent piece of writing by the South African writer & poet, Haidee Kruger. Enjoy.

I am here, because even if he was my ninth man, he was the first to fuck me like I was really there. I am here because he digs into my flesh, unavoidable like a stone in a shoe. I am here because with him I am container and contained. I am here because with him I can be meat and word.

I am here, for this. So I think.

He warned me that it might not be enough. He spoke about the way roads melt in the heat, about the sullen, mute plain, about the unexpected sinkholes. He spoke about the dust sucking up time.

I smiled and thought about his cock.

I brought a rain-water tank, for the risk of rain; a clock, with teeth to trap time. I brought my collection of crimplene dresses in pink and red and turquoise as antidote to the bleached air. I brought enough disposable razors, because he likes me shaven but slightly stubbly. I brought a fan. I brought as many words as I could, carefully wrapped in novels, e-mails, magazines, cookbooks, newspaper clippings, dictionaries.

When we first arrived it was night. The plain looked like a puddle of milk; the sky was filled with the whites of eyes. The house was an inkblot against the shadow of the mountain behind it. We left everything in the car. We went inside and fucked on the wooden floor while the sky watched through the window. I got splinters in my knees, but liked the way the pale light spilled over our skin.

In the morning we drank hot black coffee. I purposely angled my cup just enough to ensure a stain on the sheet. I spent a long time looking at the mark, trying to find the shape of him inside of me inside this place inside it. But I couldn't quite fix its contours - the bare margins of the bed kept crowding into my field of vision.

Outside the landscape folded and unfolded without sound.

We talked some, but the words seemed to be tugged out through the open windows, into the thirsty space outside.

"Do you like it?"

"I like you."

"Here?"

"Yes. Here."

"..."

The rest disappeared into a sudden draught coming up through the floorboards, like the soil exhaling. My skin stood on end. My mouth echoed like an empty reservoir. He put his tongue in it to make it better.

He fills me up. He does.

At night he goes out and cuts holes in trees so that the telephone wires can go through them. If he didn't, municipal workers in orange overalls would come and chop down the trees. It's lonely work; quiet, obsessive. But he likes it. He likes the idea of making holes in things as a way of keeping them whole. When we talk he carefully orchestrates his words around the gaps, like a funeral director fussing about the way the flower arrangements are placed around the grave. When we fuck he plays me like a game of pool.

Every morning, when he comes home, he first sharpens his tools: saws, shears, axes. He does it in a closed room, shuttered against the chronic glare, while I watch. I like the blades, the serrations, the edges in his hands. I like how they move. I think about how they eat into wood. I think about how they eat into skin. I think about wood and skin and blades, until they become something else, something that makes my insides contract. Afterwards we take off our clothes, watching ourselves in the reflection of the polished metal lying on the floor.

We sleep most of the day, while outside the light throws itself against the walls of the house.

III 

At night, when he is away, I play scrabble. I play against myself; I change the rules as I please. The object of the game is to find the word that is him.

e r s v e

sever eve verse veers serve

l w o s e v vowels sew love solve vow wolves

r s e n e p t  serpent enters rents present tense trees repents

I keep the best ones to show him when he gets home. I put them in his hands. They are currency, exchange. I watch him sharpening his tools in a dark room.

I'm not sure when it started happening. Things started disappearing. Things stopped growing back. It was like everything was involuntarily in love with absence, like everything gravitated towards the blankness of the landscape outside.

My books started to shed. The first time I noticed it was when I looked up the spelling of bouillabaisse in the dictionary, and saw that there was a word missing, between bouffant and bough. I cross-checked in all my other dictionaries, but everywhere was just a neat white hole in exactly the same place. I tried to forget about it, but it kept happening, more and more often. I would open a book, and a few words would just be gone. I spent nights fixing the broken lines of type, but the fractures grew faster than I could mix up mortar.

My body became smoother, softer. My pubic hair no longer grew back after I had shaved it. My legs stayed glabrous, unmarked. I didn't have to cut my nails. The sensation of fading followed me through the house like a powdery trail. On photographs I looked pale and muffled, disappearing into the background. One day, looking at myself in the mirror I thought I was looking through an open window.

We didn't talk about it much. There was too much whistling space around. But I did start writing on him while he was sleeping - random amulet strings of words winding around his legs and stomach and back:

minstrel ignite gossip

flash diptych of

parasol peppermint fricative

graze somnambulism alkanet

paradox do rhizoid

wince future concertina

equator marshmallow neither

okra cynic borax

unpossessed trap mantissa

jinx naked synchronise

cellulose in levitate

When he woke, always, his skin had already faded back to white, like the endpapers of a book.

He sharpened his tools more meticulously. He went out earlier and earlier, barely waiting for dusk. I imagined him spacing the branches around the holes more carefully. At home, I worked harder at shoring up letters around the echoing blanks.

Then one night the box was empty. The next morning he wasn't there.

I am here, for this, I thought.

I watched and waited. The landscape slowly swallowed the house, like a boa constrictor digesting a rat. The walls tilted inwards. I pushed back. I built struts and trusses. I barricaded myself against the saline, leaching soil.

I watched and waited. But the first morning I woke up with salt between my teeth and the wind like a blade in my neck, I left.

I did not look back.

I live in the mountain. I am a blank page between its covers. Even if you squint, you will see no difference between me and it. My skin flakes like shale. I collect dust under my tongue. The soles of my feet have the brittleness of scorched paper.

I am here, for this:

I close my eyes and wait for it to come. From between the stones and shrubs, it swells. It rises up through my legs, through my cunt, through my stomach, into my chest, out of my mouth and ears and eyes and hands.

I spell it out in stones against my flank for you to see.

Today's word is bougainvillaea.

Quote for the day

2010-10-22T09:09:00.002+02:00

Travel is a brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of the familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things – air, sleep, dreams, the sea, the sky – all things tending towards the eternal or what we imagine of it. (Cesare Pavese)

PRICKLY PEARS

2010-10-21T09:34:00.000+02:00

after Frida Kahlo

With his soft painter’s hands
how quickly he peels me

like a prickly pear
removing my thorns.

In one flash
he becomes Diego the butcher

whose third eye can see
into the abattoir of my chest

where my heart hangs
from a meat-hook.

by Pascale Petit

How cool is this thing?

2010-10-20T08:18:00.000+02:00

How hot is Ceridwen Dovey?

2010-10-19T08:20:00.000+02:00

Very.

I'd never heard of Ceridwen Dovey before until I stumbled upon some videos she made for the big think website. Ceridwen Dovey is the South African born author of Blood Kin, a celebrated novel about a fictional military coup from the perspective of the overthrown leader's portraitist, chef, and barber.

I found Blood Kin at my local library (have I told you how much I love libraries?) and read it over the weekend. I really enjoyed the book and found the writing quite haunting even though it left me feeling a little sad in the end.

Now, I don't agree with a lot of what she says in the videos, but that doesn't matter because she's beautiful and happens to have studied at Harvard, which must mean she's a lot smarter than me.

I think I want to have her babies.

The rotten stink in the South African publishing industry

2010-10-18T07:45:00.005+02:00

This blog is written by the most important person in the South African book publishing industry – me – the consumer.

And so it was one Sunday morning, I found myself on the way to Kalk Bay Bookshop to buy Lauren Beukes’ debut novel “Moxyland,” but unfortunately the book’s sticker price of R170 (or about £15) meant that I left the store empty handed and disappointed. I’m simply not prepared to pay R170 for a paperback novel that should be selling for half that price.

So it was no surprise when I read an article in the Mail & Guardian about the challenging times the local book publishing industry is facing.

In a country where half the population lives on the breadline, the last thing most people can do is buy a book, never mind one that sells for twice the price you pay anywhere else. Given how important reading is to the nation’s education, coupled with the low levels of literacy in South Africa, this is truly a tragic situation.

What perturbed me most about the article was the following comment by an industry insider:

“Book prices are generally high in South Africa, compared with other countries, and the prices of e-books are going to be fairly high too.”

Can you believe that? There is absolutely no reason why this needs to be the case and furthermore it reflects an ignorance of even the most basic economics. If book prices were halved, volumes would pick-up and more money would be made. It’s that simple. On top of that, e-books can be distributed for a fraction of the cost of the physical product, which means that the only reason for high prices is pure greed.

When I used to live in London, it would be nothing for me to walk into a bookstore and leave with 6 books. An average paperback book in London costs between R60 to R100 (£7 to £9). If you didn’t buy books even cheaper on Amazon, most bookstores would offer a “3 for the price of 2” deal which means you could often buy 3 books for R120 to R200 (£14 to £18). Given that incomes are much higher in England than South Africa, the relative value of book prices means that not only are books cheaper in England, but also take-up a smaller portion of your disposable income. That’s a double bonus.

It was suggested to me that the Government charges a 40% import duty on the price of books, including VAT, which is something the UK government doesn’t do. Curious about this situation I decided to visit the SARS website to see what they had to say (this is not something you want to do). After spending hours navigating a multitude of dead links and redundant information I finally managed to locate a document that said there were no import duties (there is VAT) on imported books.

Something is horribly wrong.

I imagine that the unit cost of printed books is similar the world over give or take national variances on the costs of production. If anything, the costs of production should be cheaper in South Africa than Europe. I would also find it hard to believe that Moxyland is printed in Europe and shipped to South Africa. The logistics and economics don’t make sense. So why the price of R170?

I’m no expert, but I don’t see many bookshop owners driving around in Ferraris or living in Clifton. Book printers probably don’t make much money either – it’s a commodity type transaction, which doesn’t have much pricing power. So that means either the publisher or distributor must be making a massive margin, pushing up the final price to consumers. You don’t need to be a genius to know this is not how you increase sales.

My guess is that a small number of dominant publishers and distributors are in bed together and have a stranglehold on the market (Competition Commission, please investigate). This kind of oligopoly is all too common in South Africa.

America has seen an explosion in e-book sales and the capitalist death-match that plays out in their marketplace means that most consumers get a pretty sweet deal. Not so here. But I’m hopeful. We live in an inter-connected world and pretty soon I won’t have to buy any of my reading material from a local distributor or bookshop unless the price makes sense.

Long live the Internet and learn to love your library, where I was able to borrow Moxyland for free. There is no reason I should pay more than R100 for a book and neither should you.

Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole

2010-10-15T08:54:00.001+02:00

More Martha Wainwright - powerful song, powerful lyrics

"Poetry has no place for a heart that's a whore ....."

Don't Forget

2010-10-14T11:46:00.001+02:00

Poems in disguise - Martha Wainwright's beautiful song "Don't Forget"

I'm too sexy for my pants

2010-10-13T11:23:00.000+02:00

Absolutely Clear

2010-10-12T09:22:00.002+02:00

My last poem in this series is also written by Hafiz, who was born around the 13th century. I think poets like Hafiz only come around every couple hundred years or so. It doesn't matter when you read his poems; today, tomorrow or in 500 years time - they will still ring true.

Favourite poem #4

ABSOLUTELY CLEAR

Don’t surrender your loneliness
So quickly.
Let it cut more deep.

Let it ferment and season you
As few human
Or even divine ingredients can.

Something missing in my heart tonight
Has made my eyes so soft,
My voice
So tender,

My need of God
Absolutely
Clear.

Love Song

2010-10-11T15:15:00.002+02:00

The next poem is written by the Persian poet Hafiz and is arguably the most beautiful poem written in the history of mankind.

Favourite poem #3

LOVE SONG

I taste what you taste. I know the kind of lyrics your
Soul most likes. I know which sounds will become
Splendid in your mind and bring such pleasure
Your feet will jump and whirl.

I have no use for divine patience -- my lips are always
Burning and everywhere. I am running from every corner
Of this world and sky wanting to kiss you.

I am rioting at your door;
I am spinning in midair like golden falling leaves
Trying to win your glance.

I am sweetly rolling against your walls and shores
All night, even though you are asleep. I am singing from
The mouths of animals and birds. . . to let
you know the Beautiful Truth.

Eurydice

2010-10-11T10:07:00.001+02:00

Yesterday's poem by Margaret Atwood and today's poem by Sue Hubbard are both based on the Greek myth of Orpheus, a distraught wandering minstrel, who entered the underworld to search for his dead nymph wife, Eurydice.

EURYDICE is a public work and can be seen among the bums and buskers on the IMAX underpass at Waterloo Station in London. Before I left London, I took photos of it to remind me. The words are sublime and the amazing thing is Sue Hubbard wrote it for Waterloo Station on demand, no inspiration necessary. That's scary talent.

Favourite poem #2

EURYDICE

I am not afraid as I descend,
step by step, leaving behind the salt wind
blowing up the corrugated river,

the damp city streets, their sodium glare
of rush-hour headlights pitted with pearls of rain;
for my eyes still reflect the half remembered moon.

Already your face recedes beneath the station clock,
a damp smudge among the shadows
mirrored in the train’s wet glass,

will you forget me? Steel tracks lead you out
past cranes and crematoria,
boat yards and bike sheds, ruby shards

of roman glass and wolf-bone mummified in mud,
the rows of curtained windows like eyelids
heavy with sleep, to the city’s green edge.

Now I stop my ears with wax, hold fast
the memory of the song you once whispered in my ear.
Its echoes tangle like briars in my thick hair.

You turned to look.
Second fly past like birds.
My hands grow cold. I am ice and cloud.

This path unravels.
Deep in hidden rooms filled with dust
and sour night-breath the lost city is sleeping.

Above the hurt sky is weeping,
soaked nightingales have ceased to sing.
Dusk has come early. I am drowning in blue.

I dream of a green garden
where the sun feathers my face
like your once eager kiss.

Soon, soon I will climb
from this blackened earth
into the diffident light.

by Sue Hubbard

The Best Poems in the World Ever

2010-10-10T14:59:00.000+02:00

Over the next couple of days I'm going to post some of my favourite poems. It's impossible to choose "the best one," but I've given this some thought and I've narrowed it down to four of them. At the moment, my favourite poets are Charles Bukowski, Carol Ann Duffy & Lisa Zaran. I haven't chosen any of their poems for my top 4 list, because I love so much of their stuff. Instead I concentrated on outstanding poems written by poets that are a little off my radar. So here we go ...

Favourite poem #1

VARIATIONS ON THE WORD “SLEEP”

I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.

by Margaret Atwood

Unhappy birthday to you!

2010-10-08T09:26:00.001+02:00

"Almost always you can bet your bottom dollar that God is going to be on the side of the one who is being clobbered." Archbishop Desmond Tutu

So it was Desmond Tutu's birthday yesterday and I missed it. That always happens. Archbishop Desmond Tutu is South Africa's next big thing after Zoo Biscuits, Jelly Tots and Mandela. He is a Nobel Peace Price winner and really likes the colour purple.

In light of this event here is my poem for the day:

Unhappy birthday to you!

I hope the sun didn’t shine and it rained all day.
I hope you were lonely when no one turned up.
I hope the balloons burst and the decorations were dull.
I hope the clowns cried when their jokes fell flat.
I hope the music was old and the dance-floor dreary.
I hope you were sad when nobody sang.
I hope your fingers burnt when the candles didn’t blow out.
I hope the food was cold and your cake collapsed.
I hope your flowers died and your presents were crap.
Then you’ll see how I could be so blue when I wasn’t there for you.

(by Jean-Michel K.)

Scratch & Dent Dreams

2010-10-06T22:40:00.000+02:00

Slam poetry at its best, with Eric Darby

The City-Dweller's Lament

2010-10-04T01:03:00.001+02:00

No longer to be poisoned by civilization he flees, and walks alone upon the land to become lost in the wild
Alexander Supertramp

Baby screams twist through the block of flats,
then shattering sounds, domestic rows,
TVs saying: lines are open now.
The grey roads swill with rain,
and advertising hoardings turn,
then turn again,
as pizza heats through in my oven.

Something wild calls in me, but no thing calls back.
Can’t stop these stupid, manic fantasies
of deep and pathless forests —
dells awash with bluebells, needles,
rabbit-flesh and pear-flesh;
bats cover the face of the moon
like carnival masks…

But I am spoiled.
What would I have me do?
Trill to birds like some Disney Snow White?
Forage like some broadsheet tourist?
Imagine the cold — no fridges, no taps.
I’d bore myself, kill myself; can’t even strike a match.
I’d end in constellations of maggots.

But still, where is our succour?
The park I must avoid after dark is not enough,
the basil pot in its wrapper is not enough,
the organic cheese is not enough,
the raggedy fox is not enough,
the limping pigeon is not enough,
the sunflowers in Sainsburys are not enough.

(by Clare Pollard)

How to get rich quick

2010-10-01T11:20:00.007+02:00

"A $1,000 investment in Berkshire Hathaway in 1965 was worth $4.3m at the end of last year. However, on a hedge fund model, $4m would have gone to Buffett and only $300,000 to the investor."

Terry Smith, a senior City figure, has investigated the effect of the "2 & 20" fee structure used by private equity firms and hedge funds around the world. The long-term effect of this on investment returns is staggering.

I've long believed that the only people who really get rich in the private equity and hedge fund industries are the owners and not the investors. Diversification and uncorrelated investment returns are the popular reasons that fund managers like to throw around when they want your money. And it is a good reason, but does it have to cost so much?

I'm a big fan of low-cost index trackers. Most active fund managers are unable to beat their benchmark indexes over the long-term in both rising and falling markets so why pay more?

The Invitation

2010-10-01T11:00:00.000+02:00

Every now and then I'm going to post a poem I like, like this one:

The Invitation (by Oriah Mountain Dreamer)

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dreams
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life's betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your
fingers and toes
without cautioning us to
be careful
be realistic
to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.

If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand on the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
"Yes."

It doesn't interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after a night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the center of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.

The Pope, pomp & ceremony

2010-09-24T23:46:00.002+02:00

I was surprised to see how closely some people in South Africa were following the Pope’s recent visit to the UK. It seems that everybody had something to say and given the recent scrutiny the Catholic church has been under with the child sex abuse scandal there is no doubt that they have to get their house in order.

Over the centuries the Catholic Church has been no stranger to scandal and enemies of the church have been predicting its demise for as long as the church has been in existence. I believe faith and the search for “why?” will be with us till the end of time despite the best efforts of Dawkins and others who see religion as the root of all evil.

I’ve been a Christian for over 20 years and despite my struggles and questions it’s something I cannot shake. Faith, for me, is an intensely private matter and for the most part I don’t talk about it. I have no problem discussing it in an environment of tolerance and respect and genuine curiosity, but too often it leads to confrontation.

Regardless of what we believe or don’t believe as individuals, we have to share this planet with people of all faiths, speaking all kinds of languages with traditions that might seem strange to us. It’s up to us, as individuals, to understand the paradigm through with other people view the world. It’s too easy to say “THEY must change.” I must change. It starts with me. And you.

Without taking responsibility for building bridges and better relations with people different to us we will forever remain locked in conflict.

Recently, I couldn’t help but comment on the Mail & Guardian’s Thought Leader website after the inference that you have to be ignorant and stupid to believe in God. This can only come from people who believe they are intellectually superior to others. If only that was the case.

In any event it matters little to me for I believe, I believe in a God that cares for stupid people, people like me, and that even if I do the dumbest things I can always find my way back. I recently came across this beautiful story of faith changing lives where it matters most, among the poor. Read it here and see.

There is something splendid about you

2010-09-21T22:19:00.001+02:00

There is something splendid about you,
I can see it
In your brown eyes
And the way
You smile
At strangers,
I can see it
In the way
You lift your hands
To the sky
And the sun
Shines.

There is something splendid about you,
I can see it
When you sleep
And the moon
Lights
The silence,
I can hear it
In your stories
Weaved
In make-believe.

There is something splendid about you,
I can read it
When you write,
Because no matter
What you say
The words spell
Kindness
And loveliness
And I know this
Because it’s true.

(by Jean-MIchel K.)

I want to see you naked

2010-09-20T17:04:00.003+02:00

I want to see you naked.
I want you to stand
In the centre of the room
While I stop and stare.

I want to see the curve
Of your breasts and
The colour of your skin,
And the way your hair falls
In dust beams and half-light.
I want you to keep still.

I want to watch you forever,
Silently suspended, over there.
I want to feel the brush stroke,
And smell the oil.
I want to imagine the taste of you
On my tongue.

For you I would go crazy.
I would drink whiskey till I drop.
I would piss in puddles on the floor.
I would cut off my ear.

(by Jean-Michel K.)

Elizabeth

2010-09-19T11:01:00.004+02:00

Your name is wonderful,
Elizabeth.
Say it slowly …..
whisper it with mystery,
Elizabeth.
Let it fill your mouth
and roll across your tongue
like chocolate,
Elizabeth.
Feel it
on your lips.
Let it flower in your mind
like daffodils,
beautiful,
like Elizabeth.
Elizabeth.

(by Jean-Michel K.)

The Seashell's Song

2010-09-17T09:26:00.001+02:00

Tossed by the hand that turned the tide,
I, who was swept onto your shores,
Lay low under the sun soaked sky.

Furious waves raged against
The stone stubborn rock,
And you, who sat silent in
The moonless night
Pitch-black and star-struck,
Missed the moon to your night.

Soon shined the fiery sun
And you, who chased the wind
Down the sun-dappled path to
Where I lay low, listened to my song
Bringing day to my lightless night.

(by Jean-Michel K.)

Valhalla

2010-09-15T20:41:00.003+02:00

Swallowed by an eternal sleep
I saw a Valkryie at my feet
With blazing eyes and fiery hair
She swept me up into the air

Far beyond the clouds we soared
Past the ancient stars that roared
We came upon the Northern Lights
In all the colours of the night

Throughout heaven she did wield
Flashing light from her golden shield
Emerald streams of orange green
Transformed into a yellow beam

Then under banners proudly arched
Maiden warriors and heroes marched
Across the Rainbow Bridge that lies
Before the gates of paradise

(by Jean-Michel K.)

Desolation Angels

2010-09-14T21:18:00.001+02:00

I watched him die
Lying there on the bed
His great big human heart
Counting down the beats
Till the blood stopped
And life left his skin

She told me how they met
That summer in sixty-four
Barefoot on the beach
He always made her laugh she said
Right up to the end
Her tears had nowhere to hide now

The room is turning with the tide
Even the moon is drifting through the dark
Lost in space
Isn’t it beautiful?
Doesn’t it make you sad?

Sleep in my arms tonight
Let the world be still
This is all we have
The stars, they shine for no one
Dead men ache for dreams
And we are all alone in the end

(by Jean-Michel K.)

Evening Song

2010-09-13T23:01:00.003+02:00

Enter the empty streets
Of the moonless night swept in
Screaming sheets of rain soaked air
In stairwell halls of ghost light lamps
Lit in haunted halls and houses warm
With fireside laughter and supper time
Magic breathing in the corridors of
Dish-washed kitchens packed with bodies
Bathed in oil and scent smelling incense
Turned in beds behind day tired doors
Shut to sleep with fairytales told
Of dragons dead in dreamtime bliss
Shut the book and give me a kiss

(by Jean-Michel K.)

Wage Peace

2010-09-11T23:10:00.001+02:00

I came across this beautiful poem by Judyth Hill, written in commemoration for 9/11

Wage Peace

Wage peace with your breath.

Breathe in firemen and rubble,
breathe out whole buildings and flocks of red wing blackbirds.

Breathe in terrorists
and breathe out sleeping children and freshly mown fields.

Breathe in confusion and breathe out maple trees.

Breathe in the fallen and breathe out lifelong friendships intact.

Wage peace with your listening: hearing sirens, pray loud.

Remember your tools: flower seeds, clothes pins, clean rivers.

Make soup.

Play music, learn the word for thank you in three languages.

Learn to knit, and make a hat.

Think of chaos as dancing raspberries,
imagine grief
as the outbreath of beauty or the gesture of fish.

Swim for the other side.

Wage peace.

Never has the world seemed so fresh and precious:

Have a cup of tea and rejoice.

Act as if armistice has already arrived.

Don't wait another minute.
Celebrate today.

Auld lang syne

2010-09-10T11:39:00.003+02:00

Pack away the past

Shake off the mourning

Turn the page

Close the book

Forgive

Let go

Take the time to forget

It’s over now

Be free

Tomorrow

Is almost here

You can see it

In the distance

Where scattered trees

Draw silhouettes

In the sunset

(by Jean-Michel K.)

Marcel The Shell With Shoes On

2010-09-09T18:58:00.000+02:00

This is the funniest thing I ever did see ....

MARCEL THE SHELL WITH SHOES ON from Dean Fleischer-Camp on Vimeo.

How to look good naked

2010-09-08T23:47:00.001+02:00

I’m fascinated by this story written by Liz Jones, a well-known British fashion writer, about the beautiful actress Christina Hendricks of the TV series Mad Men, being unable to find a designer to lend her a dress for the Emmy awards because she’s too big.

My first thought was why doesn’t she just buy a dress? But this is not how the fashion world works when it comes to award ceremonies, super stars and tons of publicity. Top designers lend dresses to famous people for free publicity, which leads to higher sales. It’s a win win.

Despite the fashion industry’s good intentions to project a healthier image of the female form it appears that those in power seem reluctant to change their behaviour because it makes economical sense for them to design clothes to fit a size zero model. Most size zero models look skanky naked and the vast majority of guys, outside the fashion industry, prefer a healthier looking girl.

Ultimately the real power here rests with consumers, particularly female consumers who are probably not size zero models. So it seems to me that women are their own worst enemies. If women want the fashion industry to change and start portraying healthier women - stop buying their products, stop buying their clothes and stop buying their magazines!

If you hurt their wallet they will change overnight.

Goodnight

2010-09-08T22:26:00.004+02:00

It’s night time now

and I can see shadows

swirling through

the concrete walls

everywhere.

I can feel my toes

against the sheets

and the blanket

on my chest

and the cool night air

creeping through

the open window

by my head.

I can hear a truck

changing gears

down the road

maybe the driver

is listening

to the late show

on Capital Radio

and thinking

about his girlfriend

and his little boy

back home.

I can hear you

sleeping

next to me

and realise

there is

nowhere else

I’d rather be.

That’s how

lucky

I am.

(by Jean-Michel K.)

You rock my socks and paint my skies with rainbows

2010-09-07T18:00:00.005+02:00

I don’t know what words to write

that would make you mine

or how many ways I can say

I love you.

I don’t know any secret spells

or magic incantations

that would make you turn around

and fall in love with me.

I don’t know to what foreign gods

I should pray

or where to put the lucky charms

and talismans.

I don’t know where to hang the mistletoe

to trap you with a kiss

but all I know is how

you rock my socks and paint my skies with rainbows.

(by Jean-Michel K.)

I have fallen in love with a ghost

2010-09-06T23:22:00.001+02:00

I have fallen in love with a ghost
Not just any ghost
You see
But the most beautiful ghost

She has my heart and I have hers
And when the night comes
I see her
Through my words

I am in love with a ghost
Who knows
What I think
Of her porcelain skin

And her gentle eyes
That watch me all the time

I have fallen in love with a ghost
Whose transparent heart
Sees no end to her love
And devotion

I am haunted by a ghost
Not just any ghost
You see
But the sweetest ghost

I light candles for her
And she whispers to me

(by Jean-Michel K.)

The Skin Map

2010-09-05T12:27:00.005+02:00

So Stephen Lawhead has released his 24th book The Skin Map; A BRIGHT EMPIRES novel. Not only is Stephen Lawhead a great writer, but he's also a damn fine human being and for this reason alone it’s okay to steal money from street kids to buy this book.

I first met Stephen Lawhead and his lovely wife, and slightly less lovely sons, when I was working as a volunteer for Schloss Mittersill, a castle high on the hills in the snow-capped mountains of Austria. Unfortunately, I was not the king but the kitchen help and used to spend the most part of my waking days washing dishes. One night during the Christmas party, faced with a trillion dishes to wash, Stephen Lawhead came into the kitchen and helped me wash the dishes so that I could join the party.

Can you believe that? Either you have to be really, really crazy or really, really kind and Stephen Lawhead definitely isn’t crazy.

The writer Stephen Lawhead & I

Shine

2010-09-04T09:12:00.005+02:00

Do you wonder where I am when you watch
the stars perform their midnight mass?
Do your eyes reflect Sirius, the Dog Star,
shining by Orion?

Do you wonder what I’m doing
in the silence of the space between us?
Do you wish on falling stars while supernovas
drift by wandering suns in halos of golden light?

Are you lonely when you look at the moon?
Is your heart empty inside?
Can you see the nebula clouds glittering with stardust
while Alpha Centauri stands guard at heaven’s gate?

Do you wonder what I’m thinking
right here right now?
Jupiter serenades its spinning moons,
but all I can do is write a message for you:
The stars don’t love you.
I do.

(by Jean-Michel K.)

Abracadabra

2010-09-02T23:45:00.002+02:00

Here I give you this-
a starry night,
seven moons and a castle,
mountains wrapped in snow.

Here I give you a story-
a swinging lantern,
an urgent secret,
a hero in great danger.

Here I give you a blazing sun,
empty beaches
and a turquoise sea.
A shipwreck. Sunken treasure.
A survivor.

Here I give you rivers
flowing through your front door,
rainbows in your living room,
the plumber a prince,
a kiss, a fairytale wedding.

Here I give you this-
a poem.
May the words put a spell on you.

(by Jean-Michel K.)

Evaporation

2010-09-02T00:11:00.000+02:00

Okay, so my last blog died after a mysterious earthquake hit the online world and now that the dust has settled I’ve decided to get back at it. It’s going to be like it was before only a little different. I thought about starting over on tumblr (what with new friends and all) but all those flashing lights and links left me so confused I could barely login, so this will have to do for now.

So my blog has moved and in real life I’ve moved too; from Sea Point to Sunnydale, a suburb even more boring than Fish Hoek if such a thing is possible (but the beaches are better). My neighbour, on the other side of the electric fence, likes cars. I mean he really, really likes cars and his driveway has a number of them in various stages of decomposition. At night he listens to music with a lot of base in it. It’s hard not to notice when I’m lying on my coach with a copy of Allen Ginsberg’s Selected Poems and I’m wondering why the walls are shaking.

I forgot to ask the landlady about the neighbours. She said everyone’s pretty friendly (on the inside perimeter of the electric fence) and that having a cat is not such a good idea, especially if it’s prone to climbing fences. Everything’s changed. Again.

My love affair with poetry continues and so I wanted to start this season with one of my favourite poets, Lisa Zaran. Look what she says in only 6 sentences…

Evaporation

I've left pens in a red rush behind me, full of words I meant to write.
Scars on the soft edge of nouns, verbs I meant to give life to and forgot.
Stories, once started, lost reason, as adjectives fell left and right.
There were times I believed, I'm a thin woman now, my children stand
on a dusty road, their witness-mouths twisted shut. Every night, I wish on a star.
Oftentimes, the desert sky is dead in all its eloquence. I still whisper.

24 Frames of Light

2008-05-29T20:32:00.000+02:00

Motion pictures for general release are photographed and conventionally shown at 24 frames per second. This frame rate limits the quality of presentation to the viewers of such motion pictures, due to the impartation of artefacts such as grain, image instability and flicker.

There is a problem.

I have 15 minutes before the gate closes for my connecting flight to Cape Town. I’m waiting to collect my luggage at the OR Tambo International airport in Johannesburg and there seems to be a hold-up. I ask a bored airline assistant if I’ll make my flight; disinterested, she tells me there’s still time. Finally, my luggage appears on the carousel and I grab it and rush for the exit. I have to make my way to the inland departure terminal and check in again, but the signs to the domestic terminal are hidden behind construction boards which seem to be everywhere. I spot a despondent passenger slumped on the floor next to a mountain of luggage and ask him where the domestic terminal is.

“Straight ahead,” he shrugs.

I begin to run dragging my luggage through a sea of African faces milling outside. It’s chaos and I’m bobbing and weaving through the crowd as fast as I can. Behind me I hear someone trying to catch my attention; a rogue porter wants to carry my luggage for an exorbitant tip. I have no time for these negotiations and pick-up my pace. My shirt is wet with sweat and I’m breathing hard. I can hardly speak when I get to the check-in desk.

“Cape Town,” is all I can manage when the check-in clerk looks up at me. She’s seen it many times before I suspect. I don’t know what it is with airports and construction and bad signage that conspires against you no matter where you are.

“The gate closes in 4 minutes,” she says handing me back my passport. Her tone suggests a challenge.

I begin to run again. Departures are on the third floor. I bound up the escalators; taking two steps at a time, swinging round, up the next one and the next one and the next one. At the top I see a queue at security, but run to the front desperate to get through. Everybody is eyeballing me, but I don’t care. I’m determined to make my flight. My departure gate is at the end of a long corridor, quite literally the furtherest point possible from the international terminal. By now I’m sprinting down the corridor to find the passengers have already started boarding the flight. I get there just in time. Exhausted, I’m about to collapse.

I’m going home.

It’s been a long time since I last called South Africa home. For the last decade I wandered around Europe waiting for life to start. In London, I stumbled into a career and grew comfortable with life forgetting what it’s like to be under the hot African sun. I became accustomed to the grey skies and the low-lying houses in their neat little rows and the small spaces inside. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy London though. I did, but I grew bored.

I earned enough money to buy a get-out-of-jail-free card for about 4 weeks a year and I travelled a lot, until one night I found myself on the beach in Tamarin Bay, Mauritius. I was walking back home after a party and I decided to sit on the sand for a while and watch the luminescence of the waves running up the shore. From across the bay I could faintly hear the remnants of the party: people were laughing, the music was playing and someone started to sing along in a slurry voice. They were at that point in a party where people are too drunk to be having fun and I was glad to have left.

Suddenly before me a huge fireworks display erupted into the night sky from the opposite side of the bay. It started to rain reds and blues and all the colours of the rainbow. The sounds of the explosions were muted and delayed, nothing more than a gentle popping sound. It was beautiful.

I could live here if I want.

It was just a thought. But I knew it was also a choice. Somewhere in the back of my mind I realised that my life in London wasn’t a dress rehearsal for the real thing - it was the real thing. I had to make a choice and so I left for a better life in South Africa.

“Can you recommend anything for us to see in Cape Town?” asked the elderly couple seated next to me.

They were an amiable couple from Seattle. It was their first time in Africa and they were excited about the trip. I was going to suggest Table Mountain, but it seemed kind of foolish. It was on the cover of their guidebook and it would be like recommending the Empire State building to a tourist in New York. It’s too obvious, and besides it’s not considered cool for people from Cape Town to talk about the mountain. Its flat tabletop and rolling cloud cover can speak for itself. It doesn’t need people to rapture about its beauty. You only need to see the mountain and you’ll understand. It dominates the city's skyline, and much like the stars, you can take your bearings from it when you travel around the city.

I give up. I realise how little I know about the place. I tell them I’m not from Cape Town and that I haven’t lived in South Africa for some time. They’re curious now and start firing questions at me. Soon the story becomes too complicated and I’m tired. I suggest they do a wine tour.

“Apparently the wine is really good,” I say. I don’t really know. I know nothing about wine. I can’t stay awake and drift off to sleep.

“Cabin crew please prepare for landing. Welcome, to Cape Town everyone. We’ll be touching down in less than 10 minutes,” announces the pilot over the radio. We’re circling around the city and below I can see some small beaches sitting like washed-up shells along the shore.

It feels good to be home.

Like a stone returning to the quarry from which it’s hewn, there is something inevitable about it: as if I was fighting fate all along; resisting life, struggling to stay away, struggling to fit in somewhere I don’t belong like an awkward ornament on the mantelpiece purchased from some faraway country on an exotic holiday.

I booked a taxi before I left and I find the driver standing in the terminal reception area holding up a paper sign with my name spelt wrong. I figure the taxi driver must be in his late fifties, pale and paunch. I notice his long fingernails. We get in the car and he starts talking to me. He seems surprised that I’m coming back. His daughter is overseas and she’s never coming back.

“There is no future for her in this country,” he says, “since they took over everything has gone downhill. In the old days there used to be a little bit of corruption, but now the corruption is in the hundreds of millions of Rands.”

I groan inside. It’s too early for me to be having this conversation. I paid for a taxi ride not an opinion. I try to change the subject, but it doesn’t work. All I want to do is sit in silence. I don’t understand why so many people have an aversion to silence.

We drive past the sprawling townships of Guguletu and Langa. They look like mushrooming shantytowns burgeoning with human existence. I see people walking around carrying buckets. I wonder which shack is theirs. The shacks all seem so fragile, pieced together with corrugated iron and bits of sheet metal like a house of cards ready to fall down. I can hardly believe they survive Cape Town’s notoriously fierce wind. The taxi driver tells me the government is building small concrete houses for the residents in an effort to move them before the country hosts the World Cup football competition. It seems like an impossible task I tell him.

At long last we get to my Mom’s home in Fish Hoek, a quiet suburb 40 minutes drive from Cape Town. She lives with my Grandmother in a neat little house near the back of town. If you stand in the corner of the garden you can see the mountainside. It’s warm and pretty.

My Mom and Gran are so happy to see me.

They are walking down the driveway to greet me. It makes me feel guilty for being away so long, but our family has always been like this - travelling from one continent to the other, always on the move like restless gypsies. My Mom makes me some tea. I see that she is shaking a little more than the last time I saw her. Know one knows what’s causing it; even the neurologist couldn’t diagnose it. I watch her carry the teacup with her shaky hands while she takes small steps forward. The cup begins to rattle on the saucer. I can see the tea just about to tip over the edge. I’m transfixed by this, curious to see if she’s going to drop the whole thing.

For the next two days I sleep, and watch TV, and read the newspapers. A stream of depressing news hits me from everywhere. It seems like the government has dropped the ball on pretty much everything and now marauding machete-wielding mobs are on the hunt for foreigners in a frenzy of xenophobic violence. The body count has hit 30 and the TV flashes images of widespread looting and dead bodies being moved about like heavy sacks of potatoes. The newspapers carry a photo of a Mozambican man who was burned alive. He has that haunted look on his face of a man who knows he won’t live to see tomorrow.

My elder sister comes to see me and tells me how two burglars tried to break into her home. My niece hit the panic button and locked herself in the toilet. The armed response company arrived 4 minutes later along with the police and an ambulance for good measure. The burglars fled on foot but were never caught.

“We’ve put razor wire on top of the perimeter fence now. We’re also going to get another two dogs; for extra protection you know,” says my sister. I suggest electric fencing and ask myself where it will all end.

I decide to phone a good friend of mine to let him know I’m back in town.

“Come into town tonight. We’re having a potjiekos competition,” Nevin says.

“At what time?” I ask.

“We’ve started already. Just get in your car and come in man.”

And so I drive into town via Chapman’s Peak, a spectacular mountain pass carved into a cliff, which drops off into the Atlantic Ocean. The road takes me into Hout Bay and passed Llandudno and the ever-trendy Camps Bay before winding into Clifton, an exclusive suburb popular with wealthy foreigners.

By now the evening sun is melting into the sky to create a rich canvas of purple and red as I drive into the city. It distracts me and I forget which road I must turnoff on and end up doubling back to find myself in the middle of the city stuck behind an old African man walking in the road pulling along a big fridge balanced precariously on a shopping trolley. I’m tempted to hoot to see what he does, but realise he doesn’t have that many options and it’s not like he’s going to speed up or anything. I wait for an opening in the lane next to me. Eventually it comes and I pull out.

I find a parking spot and a car guard approaches me for a few Rands to watch my car. Car guards are everywhere in Cape Town. They are poor and unemployed and will watch your car in return for a small tip. I think of it as an unofficial unemployment tax. It’s a grim way to make a living, but they have little choice.

The party is heaving when I get there.

I make my way onto the balcony overlooking the street below. Groups of people are making potjiekos, a traditional South African meal where stew is prepared in a cast iron, three-legged pot. Crowds of people are gathered around the open bar, bottles of wine and champagne sit on tables everywhere. I find Nevin in the crowd and he introduces me to a few people. Everyone is so friendly and unreserved, I’m not used to it anymore.

I meet people from everywhere; Cape Town seems to be full of expatriates and relocated South Africans. There are people from Germany, Zimbabwe, Malawi, and French speakers from the Ivory Coast. Everyone has a story, some have returned to South Africa from places like London and Sydney; others have simply come to find work.

The party starts to get louder and a waiter is walking around with shot glasses of Jagermeister. I go to the toilet and find the walls are made of one-way glass. You can see everything happening in the bar area from inside the toilet. It’s unnerving at first and a girl comes up to the toilet I’m in and presses her face against the glass to see if there is anyone in it. It reminds me of a peep show and I turn my back just in case she can see something.

Nevin introduces me to a tall, lanky guy, “Gary, a musician,” he says.

I ask Gary what kind of music he plays.

“I’m a singer songwriter in the style of John Mayer.” he replies.

It seems like he’s quite well known in Cape Town. I struggle to make conversation with him and all the questions are going one way. It’s clear he’s not interested in talking or even being polite and I feel like telling him look dude you haven’t hit superstardom just yet so get in line. I sometimes question if these people will look back on their life when they hit 60 and wonder why they had to behave like such a twat. A girl rushes up to him.

“I wasn’t sure if it was really you,” she gushes.

Gary beams in response. She goes on to say he should charge to come to events like this. This is my cue to leave and I go.

It’s late at night and I take a slow drive back to Fish Hoek passing the southern suburbs and the wealthy neighbourhoods of Constantia and Bishopscourt with their stately homes and large manicured gardens hidden behind high walls. I then turn into Ou Kaapse Weg, a scenic mountain road that elevates me over a million shimmering lights burning like holy candles far into the distance. Only the hum of the engine breaks the silence and the roads are empty. There is something peaceful about it and I feel totally relaxed.

The next evening I pick up Claire, an attractive English free-spirited hippy girl with a penchant for bracelets and community living. I’ve known her for a few years and she always surprises me with her opinions. I met her at a fancy dress party several years ago when she started waving her wand at me. I’m not sure what she wished for, but we became friends.

We go to the Polana Hotel in Kalk Bay, a quaint fishing village 10 minutes drive from Fish Hoek. The hotel has a bar and restaurant area with large French windows overlooking the ocean. When the tide comes in the waves splash onto the windows. There are large leather couches everywhere and a fire is going. The atmosphere is cosy and we sit and chat and drink some wine.

Or she drinks wine and I drink lime and lemonade. I have to drive.

“You know what this world needs is more female energy,” explains Claire.

“What a relief Claire. For a while I thought you were going to say more taxes.”

“Seriously, there needs to be more female energy to counter all that negative male energy.”

“Oh I get it. You mean like the Spice Girls, girl power and all that stuff?” I say.

Claire is not amused. I decide to get her another glass of wine. Perhaps she can drink me interesting. I thought being a hippy was all about free love and fun. They’ve all become so serious these days.

By now the bar has started to fill up and a band unpacks its instruments. The crowd seems to be far more laid back than last night. There are pretty girls in floral dresses and bearded surfers in shorts, flip-flops and torn t-shirts. I can see some old weather beaten fishermen soaked to the bone with whisky and ice trying hard not to spill their drinks. Everyone is smiling and laughing.

On the way to the bar I meet a sweet blond girl with short-cropped hair. She tells me she’s spent the day shooting a TV advert in Kalk Bay’s small picturesque fishing harbour. The production crew have all come out for a party. We get squashed in the crowd and she whispers something in my ear.

“What did you say?” I ask. The band has started to play and I can hardly hear her.

“I like your t-shirt,” she whispers a little louder.

I don’t want to be rude to Claire so I decide to head back to our table with her glass of wine. I find her in an animated conversation with the group sitting next to us. They are shouting at each other over the music; they are discussing something about cooking oil and animal fat. Someone turns to me and asks my opinion. I tell them I don’t cook, or eat, and that I’m saving myself for the animals one day. One of the girls in the group almost laughs, but the group’s energy has turned against me, branding me an outcast, an enfant terrible, and she’s not brave enough to laugh without the approval of her friends. Claire is glaring at me.

The band is singing 80s cover songs and people are dancing on the couches. Everyone is singing along and swaying and knocking over drinks. It’s madness and I’m not in the mood for this so I decide to leave after our drinks.

It’s Saturday morning.

I’m supposed to meet Gavin for a surf at Big Bay when he calls me up.

“There is a surf competition on. We’ll have to call it off. Do you want to meet me tonight for the rugby instead? The Stormers are playing the Waratahs from Australia. The company I’m going to start working for has a corporate box and they gave me some tickets. There will be free food and booze.”

It takes me about half a second to say yes.

Until then, I decide to catch-up with Dalen for the afternoon. He’s an old friend of mine and works as a photographer with a studio in town. It’s good to see him again and he tells me his news. It’s clear he’s passionate about his work and asks me if I want to help him with two photo shoots he has scheduled for that afternoon.

“Sure,” I say.

Dalen introduces me as his assistant when his clients arrive and I spend the next few hours moving around lighting equipment and switching on lamps while Dalen directs his clients in all manner of poses. His camera is whirring and clicking, light flashes everywhere.

I’m in a green jeep outside

It’s a text message from Gavin. He’s come to pick me up to go to the rugby stadium. It’s pouring with rain and we park the car nearby. We are sopping wet by the time we get to the corporate box, but we are greeted with bowls of biltong and beer and curry and everything is soon put right.

Gavin works in the fashion industry and introduces me to his new boss, a rich local businessman used to having his own way. I try to think of something intelligent to say, but what I really want is another beer. The place is full of fashion aficionados and women with bony shoulders and disappearing waistlines. They are all shrieking at each other.

I’ve known Gavin since high school. He’s an easygoing guy with dark olive skin that gives him a Mediterranean complexion. He was the popular guy in school who could switch on the charm at will. He is effortlessly trendy - right down to his shoelaces. He tells me how much he’s travelled for work over the last few years, keeping abreast with the latest fashion trends.

“I know New York like the back of my hand now. And Los Angeles - LA is so plastic it’s fantastic. I’ve spent about a year in China; it’s changing so fast. Every time I go back there it’s completely different,” he tells me.

The game is about to start and we take our seats. There are two girls sitting next to us. The one closest to us is a slender, petite brunette with curly hair. Her name is Angie and she is an assistant fashion buyer for the company. Her and her friend Tiffany, another fashion buyer, are having a girl’s night out. Tiffany is the poster child for Cape Town: a tall, willowy blonde with big blue eyes, high-cheek bones and perfect pearly teeth. Every now and then she breaks out into a well-trained laugh. She is a pure thoroughbred human horse. If life were a contest she would be the first prize.

Angie and Tiffany are talking furiously about boys and boyfriends and potential boyfriends and past boyfriends. It’s still pissing down with rain and I wonder if their conversation will turn to another topic like the game or even the weather, but it doesn’t. They go on right through the match, barely stopping to breathe. At half-time Gavin turns to them and asks them about their wine. Their faces light up with his attention. They seem overjoyed to hear he has just joined the company.

“Strategic projects. I’m going to be heading up strategic projects,” he tells them.

It feels to me like all my friends have accomplished so much in the last few years. I’m not sure if I can say the same thing. My passage in life has been more difficult to define, my journey an inner journey that doesn’t easily lend itself to conversation.

Gavin asks me how I’m settling in. I tell him about my frustrations in finding a short-term mobile phone contract and my struggle to get voice mail set-up and how expensive an Internet connection is. These are relatively simple things to organise in London that have somehow become a logistical nightmare in Cape Town. I find myself continually having to adjust my expectations.

“Dude, always remember: this is Africa. Take a few steps back and wait a week,” Gavin says. We talk about the news and the crazy political environment.

“You’ve got to realise, this country is a banana republic,” he says, “there is crime, chaos and mayhem everywhere. We’re living in a bubble, wrapped in our own little world and we hope like hell the bubble doesn’t get pricked.”

I think about this. Maybe he has a point; it certainly seems like a good way to pack all the politics into a box and forget about it. The country is awash with opportunities if you’re lucky enough.

“Have you found a place to stay?” he asks.

“Not yet,” I reply, “I’ve been looking at a few places in Claremont, but I reckon the city bowl is a better bet for me even though it’s more expensive. It will give me a chance to get to know the place a bit.”

“Why don’t you consider Bloubergstrand where I live? It’s kite-surfing capital out there and everything you need is close by, only the traffic is a bitch in the mornings though.”

After the rugby we go to a local bar for a few more beers before heading home. It’s been a good night.

The next day, I decide to go surfing and drive to Muizenberg, a well-known beach break popular with local surfers and great white sharks. Muizenberg is located on False Bay and used to be a haven for Cape Town’s Jewish community when large expensive houses used to line the roads near the beach. Since then it fell into disrepair and became a home for lowlifes and drug lords before the developers saw a moneymaking opportunity and moved in.

I pull into the parking lot by the beach and watch the sea for a while. The waves are about 3 to 4 foot high with only a few surfers in the line-up. I get out the car and clamber into my wetsuit. I struggle with the zip on my back and the guy in the parking bay next to me offers to help; he’s wearing a t-shirt that reads: waiting for waves is okay, most people spend their lives waiting for nothing.

I start to paddle out and a wave comes along. I push under it and the ice-cold water clasps my head in a vice. I can feel myself holding my breath as a trickle of seawater finds its way into my wetsuit and down my back. I remind myself to keep breathing. My arms aren’t used to paddling anymore and it becomes hard work to get out to the backline beyond the waves. Once there, my arms are tired and heavy and I sit on my surfboard while I wait for a wave. I look back to shore and the view is awesome, a natural trinity of sea, beach and mountain. A seal breaks the surface of the water next to me. There is something magical about it and I can hear the ocean breathing as a wave starts to break.

It’s good to be home.