Set it off

Shut up, just shut up! We don't need to talk. I'm just as comfortable here in this silence, this silence filled with the sight of your smile and your smell. Smell is not the word, smell is harsh. Fragrance is false and scent... now scent is close but not perfect. Scent is primal and basic. If you could mix scent with something like the way you breath deeply in my ear, that would be the word. Your hot breath in my ear. It drives me fucking insane and you know it. It's your leash over me, but a leash that is comfortable. No pain involved, just like silk. A silken leash that gestures and doesn't pull. You're amazing to me.

I close my eyes and imagine the lights are out. I know you're close, but I can't feel you. I can feel you, but I can't touch you. That's a six sense we have. A sense for presence. Picking up energy, boundless energy that awaits to fuel internal fires. Internal fires, how lusty of you to think. I'm talking about internal fires that fuel more than the engine room and keep the lights on in the cabin. The fires that keep the music playing and the little people aboard this vessel smiling. I can't say boats - just a vessel.

But you're not here, and I'm not here either. I feel like I've been preparing my whole life for the time that I will spend with you. I've disciplined my mind, but I know that no preparation can prepare me for when I am with you. I don't need to prepare, because the mistakes I make will be as important as the gestures and the fact that I'm just being me and you're totally into it. Maybe that's what I want. To be accepted. My faults will be anchoring points as strong as the strengths I offer. That rock in the road is there to make the car bump, not puncture the tyre.

Does anyone else think that possible negative qualities in someone, are just as sexy as their good qualities?

The invite

A short story inspired in part by truth

The child's cries for help didn't go unnoticed. The terriers barked at the walls of our house, as if the walls themselves were at fault. Inbetween the yips and woofs I could make out the faint sound of a child in distress. My heart raced as I climbed the stairs to the master bedroom on the first floor, a vantage point. The shapes made more sense as I squinted through the tinted windows, 4 men were dragging a pair of goats into our neighbours yard. The goat was bleeting an alarmed and scared tone, a sinister, primal tone.

What should I do? What shouldn't I do. Here we were in civilised suburbia and our neighbours are taking in a pair of goats for butchering. It seemed so cruel, so basic. Then I thought to myself, who am I to label another culture's activities in such a way? They have as much a right to live here in Pleasantville as I do.

The witnessed story came up at dinner.

"You can take them out the bush" sneered my father-in-law. A bitter statement from someone who's expected to set the example. I recoiled inside, I wanted to right his wrongs in front of my impressionable younger brother.

Mom dodged the statement as always and instead offered her own. "They've invited us around for a Thanksgiving evening on Saturday". She looked over at me and asked: "Would you like to go with me, Shaun?"

I felt cornered. I'd like to think I have an open mind, but the thought of spending an evening with complete strangers frightened me, even if I stuck my head over the wall to say Hi every now and then. Not to disappoint a lady asking for a dance, I said yes. A date with my mom. Saturday. Dress Casual.

Saturday was upon us. I put on my favourite jeans and a comfortable shirt and headed upstairs. A quick survey revealed the goats were still leashed to the tree in the neighbours backyard. Hopeless goats. Mom emerged freshly powdered, she was ready to mingle.

We stepped outside. There were cars parked wherever pavement allowed, fancy Mercs, plenty of BMWs and even a car guard walked amongst them. I rang the bell, acting as mom's bodyguard. Jazz oozed out from behind the front-door, oozing that soon overflowed when the door swung open against the tide. A lady in her late 30s greeted us in English with a quizzical look on her face. I responded in Xhosa, she smiled. I felt the mask being lifted off my face.

Once inside, smells of earthy cooking and cigarette smoke came to. I felt like the clothes on my back were being scrutinised, that my walk was being studied. I felt naked. Mom was equally tense but smiling like a trooper. Our hostess introduced us around, names I could scarcily reproduce. I was never good with names. A drink in hand each, we started to relax. Mom was chatting to our neighbour while I shot-gunned the breeze with her equally aged son. He was a perpetual student. I was a work-a-holic. He was religious. I had given up hope. He liked Castle Lager. I had just finished my third Amstel. Or was it my third?

The party evolved and I bore witness to Darwin's theories being shot to pieces. Booze can be a terrible thing. An elderly, twisted man came up to me. He wore critique on his face, maybe even a snarl. To cut the ice I asked if he'd teach me some Xhosa words. He whispered in my ear. Everyone else had stopped their conversations and were watching the exchange, trying to eavesdrop on his whisper in my ear. In a slurring English and Xhosa he whispered in my ear "Tell them the following... " "Say to them..." and what he said I can't repeat. Seeing I was on stage, I turned to my audience and said in fluent Xhosa: "He said I must say to tell you all that he's got balls the size of an elephant's!"

The crowd burst out laughing and I too laughed. Mom stood there trying to make sense of it all, laughing along with everyone else. My antagonist was not even smiling. One of the uncles came forward and put his burly arms around the two of us and made us the best of friends. We shook hands and shared more drinks to the sounds of "No hard feelings" in Xhosa. I felt at peace.

That night, the goats too found peace.

A blank <textarea>

This is a first, I'm actually typing into the LJ Entry field, as its coming to me. Before, I used to save an HTML draft on my PC then copy-paste it to this entry field.

I tried to do some writing earlier this month, but I wasn't happy with it, so I left it out. I've been thinking a lot about dreams, specifically mine and how to deal with them. I have a mountain in the way of my idyll, like a lost world. For some reason I sit here instead and try pass time as fast and memoryless as possible.

Why is the easiest route normally the worst for you? Why does the fatty, oily food taste the best? Why does crime never pay? Surely evolution is about taking the easy route, or the most obvious. e.g.:

You need to evolve your walking fore-arms to grasp a tool. Your survival depends on it. First, you start freeing up your fore-limbs by standing on your rear-limbs first. Your brain develops to cope with the new balancing act. Your rear-limbs change shape to accommodate the new load. Your fore-limbs start to take less load than before, so they too change by becoming lighter. Your eyes move to the front of your head so you can judge distance. You develop joints so intricate the muscles have to be stowed somewhere else. Your brain reports gridlock on the now bustling neural highways. You frustrate yourself as a baby would, struggling to communicate with its parents, as its parents do.

Surely it would have been better to use mental telekenisis to grasp a tool instead? How much easier would it have been to just grow a bigger brain?

Maybe that's the thing. Maybe the easiest choice is not the rounding choice, that is, the choice that builds and develops you. Why have we as a species resorted to the easiest choice? Why do we daily take the shortest and quickest route to the destination? Are we in for trouble by being the instant-gratification ceaselessly-demanding species? Are we surviving now or is the rest of the world trying to survive in our wake?

Maybe humans have bridged the need to survive. We're our own masters now. We may die, but as a species we're the ones climbing on the PA aimed at the stars shouting how successful we are. Is that arrogant to say and think we will overcome all? When does mother nature throw us the curve-ball? When are we to be faced with that Extinction Level Event? Maybe it's not going to be a flaming meteor or the sun burning up. Maybe it's us. Aren't we our own ELE? In our blind fumbling arrogance are we going to trip over the coffee table and smash open our heads like you would with grapes in a grape press?

I'm driving up to Joburg tomorrow. I'm dreading it. I've been so happy in my sedated nirvana here. Back in Joburg I have to face new horizons as well as send letters to the people staying behind. I have to close chapters of my life whilst signing up for the new publishing deal that I've been mulling over for the last 3 months.

One way to escape is to read. It's the same as playing on the PC for me. Mom says I should rather read so I can formulate an opinion on a book, so that you've got something to talk about. It makes you... interesting. It's the same as reading the paper, even if the hogwash you're reading is totally negative, possibly propoganda propvol and well... mediocre. At least you can formulate an opinion on the current affairs. Isn't having no opinion on current affairs just as good as having an opinion (an opinion that could be influenced by afore-mentioned subtle propoganda).

I guess that's what it's all about. If you want to mingle with the Average Joe, you've got to at least think like him, talk like him, eat the same (fatty/oily) food as him. You've gotta say: "Man, have you heard Paris Hilton's latest single? It Rocks!". [While I'm reading this, I can't help but think that I want to become a total hermit. I want to find my log-cabin in the woods (maybe somewhere Canada-ish) and learn how to fend off the Canada-ish grizzlies and fish for Canada-ish food. Then when the human race wipes itself out, I'll emerge from the woods and weep. - Now, why is that?]

This sentence is total nonsense.

Adventures in fiction

I have a book recommendation. (Fancy that! I have an opinion on something!)

I went book shopping (cos the games on my PC were getting old, and it is Mom's birthday soon). The place: Exclusive Books, Cape Gate. I found a good book for mom, then my escapist-addiction clawed at my happy nerve like a dog at your ankles wanting a scratch. So, I asked the clerk if he could recommend a book similar to "Life of Pi" by Yann Martel.
"Did you know that book was a cheap rework of some old eastern story!" He proudly exclaimed, proving to me he had an opinion on the subject.
"Uh, no, I didn't. Is that so!" I retorted, trying to sound interested whilst I was recoiling inside - All I wanted was a fucking book recommendation!
"I haven't actually read it though. A friend told me."
"..."

So it seems these days you don't even need to read something to formulate an opinion on it. You can take your friend's opinion and use it as your own. Maybe spice it up with a bit of spittle and words such as cheap. All the cynicism aside, he did perform. In my grubby paws I've got the latest winner of the Whitbread Literary Awards. It's called: "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time" by Mark Haddon. Linky. It's different. It's smart. Maybe it's different because it's smart. I dunno. I'm a third of the way through it, and enjoying it. Maybe you would too? [/Unpimp.]

Funny that, I did an Amazon search for "Life of Pi", and my book recommendation, like the book-clerk's recommendation, is sitting fourth in the search results. Go figure.

It's late and I've got a lot of driving to do tomorrow. If you don't mind, I'd like to escape to my bed. Good night.