The calling

Fog settles over the water. Obscurity before vision, impairing primary senses.
The water is eeringly still, not even wavelets lapping at the sides of the boat.
A smell of rotting rests upon the water, it is sickening. As if the water had been stagnant for months, no new life, not even in the byproducts of the cycleless festering.
The captain is hesitant, visible unsure of his own actions. I pity the fool. He's leading us all to our doom.
He bends his head, listening intently. That's all we have out here, the sounds and the gut. Noses are clogged with decay, eyes milky with the veil drawn in front of them and nothing but the taste of a dry, parched mouth.
What is that fool listening for? Or, worse, what is he listening to! He's listening like the lives on this fate-weighted vessel depend on his two last remaining senses. Listening, for the call of doom.
Why doesn't he just use his gut? Why don't we throw anchor and wait for the fog to rise? I sense he's been here before, in this same situation. Maybe this captain is not so much a fool as he is our saviour.
I hear it! Its beautiful! A voice, like ambrosia, sweetly deadly. Where is it coming from? She loves me! She loves me alone! Her song makes her dreamingly intriguing, creating images of serenity, untainted splendour.
I must find this voice, find the origin of this honey for ears, find the source of this pleasure forthcoming. She is so close, I can almost feel her. Feel her breath on my neck and in my ear, prickling the hairs on my anticipative skin like a cold, fresh wind.
Where is she? Why does she sing so? She's lonely! She's hurt! I must help her. She's in danger. I'm coming! I'll save you!
The captain hears her too. He wants her all to himself. I won't let him.
Captain, why do you draw your musket?
Put it down, or I'll gut you, you selfish seadog. She's mine. She only loves me.
Captain, why did you pull the trigger?
I'm bleeding, my hand extended before me is warm from the blood running down my arm.
Before it fades to black, I realise that the fog has lifted, revealing our collective doom.
Our captain, you saved me from a guilt ridden hell, but you have cursed yourself by taking my life. Thank you.
The light fades, eyelid's close. I smile as I realise I can hear the wavelets caressing the soft belly of our boat once again. Such a soothing sound it is. I could fall asleep to this rhythym. Sleep and dream, and never wake.

Cruising at thirty-five thousand

So I got a chance to type a bit, everytime I fly to Cape Town I think of one particular night on a lengthy bus trip to the Cape, overnight. The bus was cruising along, a new bus, smoothly. The sun had set as we left the bus terminal in Johannesburg, we were now just past Kimberley.

The moon was out in its full glory, lighting up the karoo with an eerie glow, like there was a huge filter over the sun, or wearing 4 pairs of sunglasses at the same time. Picture it, the shrubbery whizzing by, just outside the bus, my head in the openness of the window and the wide panoramic view it afforded. That moonlight squashed all the stars out the night sky it was so intense.

So, why I am I heading down to Cape Town? Well, the primary reason is to attend one of South Africa's first Web Standards related conferences or forums. The tied first would have to be to see Mom and Patrick :)

Work hasn't been going well. There are so many ideals and dreams not realised at the office. It's just a routine again, something I detested when I worked at Dimension Data. Maybe I need a change.

Part of me is thinking I need to just get out of here. To run away and do something totally offbeat. One of the ideas was to help out in some volunteer organisation, you know, do something like help a biological research team in deepest darkest africa, or visit a foreign country, learn a foreign language and be a foreigner for a year or two.

But then I am reminded of the typical thinking, Buy a house, marry, have kids, raise them to do the same. That sounds so, erm, typical. I keep thinking, why is it neccesary to make money? Maybe thats the reason for wanting to disappear, is to understand that money is not everything. I want to wake early in the mornings, work for my food and lodging and enjoy doing it.

Radical.

Bluesy Betty was an enormous woman. She was that graceful yet extremely lazy elephant of a woman.

Every Monday, Wednesday and especially Fridays she had a gig at the corner Blue Foundation Cafe in down-town Chicago. Life for Betty on the outside was a glorious affair one of soulful rhythyms, huge smiles and glorious tones. Inside, she was unhappy, a hopeless dreamer singing her lonely call three times a week. This inner beauty shone through when she sang, it had meaning, loaded with experience.

Slim-Joe and Earl, two ungainly characters were Betty's entourage. One a double-bass plucker, the other, a keyboard dabbling monkey, both hell bent on finding that perfect vibe to bring out Betty's soul, that soul that kept the crowds coming back, session after session. There were always the fascinated regulars at the cafe, but for the most part the cafe earned its exceptional revenue from over-priced bourbons served to the dollar swinging tourists. 3 times a week, Betty sang her lonely song to herself, and like a caged bird the onlookers came to see her and feel her call within themselves.

"Everyone is lonely" Betty would say to her boys. "You've gotta sing to that lonely person inside" She would say...