Auburn Guided Missile

New Chapters

2012-01-24T15:19:00.004+02:00

I felt really bad: spraying the wasp nest with bugspray. Some dropped instantly and some flew away to fatally dive-bomb the delicious-monster. Well, mixed feelings really, if I have to be honest. It all started on my birthday. the big five oh. I perkilly popped onto the deck to water the maltese-cross begonias that were really coming into their own and two whacked-out wasps attacked me from under the alcove and stung me in the middle of my forehead. eishh!! : let me try and explain the pain - I've often stepped on things like thorns or huge splinters or ripped my arm or shoulder while trimming the bougainvillea - but it was as if my head was clamped hard against a concrete wall and then struck with a couple of six inch nails. my language became explosively expletive as I wobbled back into the house... I enjoyed the anniversary of my birth with a pre-hangover hangover. I kinda forgave the evil little waspy tykes - but then was attacked a couple more times over the next few days. so forgiveness or not I nuked them with the bug spray. dead.

then the year staggered to an end. we enjoyed a few days with friends at Zinkwazi. one early morning I took a walk. (I found that away from home - it was difficult to get a bit of necessary alone time. well alone with God, I mean.) I set out with the guys who were going fishing - we walked north along the beach; and once they had consumed themselves with the business of fishing; I continued along the shore. The sand was snug and soft and tugged deeply at my ankles. The sea appeared glazed with the fine mist of morning. little crabs tumbled in the seeking surf as they fed off tiny nunus quite oblivious to my passing. a small sandpiper ran ahead - stopped - ran ahead as if to taunt me into a chase. and when I showed no threat - it moved off my path and busied itself amongst the flotsam.

I decided to walk until I could not discern a single sign of human life. a bit difficult really as my footprints followed me relentlessly. so I walked in the foamy water for a while until I found a huge fallen tree. it must have washed out of the lagoon when the recent torrents opened the river to the sea. it lay obliquely before me with its water washed trunk sticking out toward the murky horizon. I climbed on and made myself comfortable. Looking south, my footprints had been obliterated by the constant wash of the beaching waves. north : untouched beach and dunes. and before me, the vast and yawning ocean.

then I prayed. I thanked the Lord for all the stuff that makes life in the this part of Africa so cool. I thanked him for all the answered prayers. Then the hard bit: I said goodbye to those of my family and friends who had died during the year... I whispered words to each of them... and listened for answers but received only a lick of salty sea spray. I sat long and emptied my heart of the accumulated baggage of the year... on the return march I mentally ruminated on each upcoming project. new chapters with clean slates. I'd joined the Durban Mens Choir; and Patti and I were both co-opted onto the Durban Catholic Players' Guild Committee - plus a few other personal type projects (gotta get somewhere with playing my mandolin). soon I arrived back at my fisherfriends and their fisher-stories. and then it was back to brekkie and coffee. the new chapters have to be written...

"All the leaves are turning and the sky fades to gray
Strange our life coincides with the seasons of today
Who's to say where the wind will blow"

(lyric from Lifehouse - 'Chapter One') - pics taken at Zinkwazi

Common Sense

2011-12-14T10:48:00.000+02:00

She appeared to be trying to rub molten knives from her knees. She sat in her old wheelchair with her legs sticking straight out in front of her. And as we sang & played, her legs writhed to their own painful inaudible rhythm. We led the tenants of the Cheshire Home in their annual Christmas Carol Evening. The folks that could leave their rooms, were wheeled out onto the lawn under a murky, but merciful sky. Each person, in their wheelchair, sat buckled and bent, as if they had somehow turned into human pins in some bizarre ten pin bowling game. At the end of the carol singing, an elderly lady strutted out to the front of the audience to do the thank you's. Apparantly, she was the oldest person in attendance; yet she stood erect with a gleam in her eye and distinct voice, that displayed an alertness far younger than her obvious years. And all about sat these souls with battered and broken bodies that life had tossed into the home. out of view. and out of mind.

The lady reminded me of Mrs Saunders, who was my first school principal. Marlbororough Park Junior Primary on the Bluff. The year was 1968. Mrs S was equal in stature and age, tho diminuitive in height and she was the Law. Her only school rule was: "Use your common sense!" Which was great at the time, because any kid knows how to bend rules - but when you have to think first : you end up thinking twice before doing anything you shouldn't. anyway that's the way I looked at it. Just by-the-by, one strange memory from those days was the practice of and instruction of "volkspele." We had to all assemble on the quadrangle and do these orchestrated moves (you couldn't quite call it dancing), to Afrikaans folk tunes, like: "Ek soek na my Dina" (Dina is a girl's name), which I took to mean: "I'm searching for my dinner", which really added to the absurdity. but the phrase that jangled in my head and has remained with me till this day was the "common sense" thing.

and I may have mentioned it before, but as teens, a couple of my friends had cars, and coming home late at night from Youth meetings, the cars were always filled to capacity. One crazy stunt was to drive down a road and switch the headlights off before the intersection. The backroads on the Bluff were pretty dark at night and the deal was that you could see if anyone was coming toward the intersection because their lights would show. Then after we had whooped thru the intersection without slowing down or stopping - the headlights would be turned on again. Absolutely crazy and Zero common sense. but with maturity comes the realisation of the stupidity of some of the antics we pulled as youngsters. Back to the present and, well driving around my suburb of Ashley, morning, noon or night : you gotta really have your wits about you, as drivers totally disregard stop signs. Even the occasional wooden cross erected by some victim's family at the scene of a fatal accident is nary a deterrent at all. At moments like these, I wonder what Mrs S would say... oh! and maybe it bears little or no relevance, but the school motto embroidered on my blazer pocket back-in-the-day read: "Happy Landing".

the pic is of my brother Mallie from the same school - couldn't find a pic of myself. His shirt has the badge with the motto beneath it.

Curtains

2011-12-02T12:19:00.000+02:00

I've stopped dreaming. At night. My daydreams, however, are vivid. Which is just as well because the world has been so dull as it rained for almost 15 days continuously. And when the sun eventually emerged, bashful as a love-struck boy, the pendulous clouds clustered around and hid him from view - again. More wind, rain, puddles and broken roads followed. and while the weather did its thing, puffed-up-people-that-care gathered to talk about climate change and hopefully influence the puffed-up-people-that-decide-stuff. And above the incessant rain, above the blanket of grey black cloud - the sun sat with chin in hand and shone with love. Across the table - the moon basked in the display and reflected her lover's love with a luminescence of her own. and the stars smiled...

and just coincidently I was reading Isaiah, chapter 60, and verse 19 says: "The sun will no longer be your light during the day, nor will the brightness of the moon give you light, But the LORD will be your everlasting light. Your God will be your glory." which is so cool and reassuring, altho my reasoning is probably out of context, cos in my life - well my family really : there's been some serious illness. and while my loved ones lie inert and unresponsive in a sterile hospital bed - I am tempted to think the worst as if the miserable weather was controlling their health. (like englanditis or something). but in truth the Good Book uses the word 'everlasting' to describe the presence of God's light.

"Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun - Here comes the sun, and I say
It's all right"

and in the middle of the seasonal deluge I joined the Durban Mens Choir. and as part of the whole apprentice/rookie thing I was hailed to operate the curtain at a series of performances up-the-hill-in-Kloof. its amazing to travel at night in the rain when the world is as damp as a kiss. my eyes are shot at the best of times - but in the misty darkness - well... I passed a towtruck parked beneath a streetlight. His eyes glowed red from lack of sleep - (towtrucks are the urban vultures that must feast when there's prey to be had - and with the rain - there was carnage aplenty). I passed an upended bakkie half way up Fields Hill - blue lights blinking and slick traffic cones. Said a prayer of thanks for safe passage and arrived at the venue unscathed. and sitting on my plastic chair behind the curtain - I received my instructions on when to open and when to close. I opened the curtains on cue and the choir belted out their first song. The bass singers resonated my ribcage like the vellum on beaten drum. and I contemplated the curtains. heavy red things. closed : they held promise. open : they disappeared as the singing tableau unfolded. they became insignificant. and when the curtain closed for the last time dousing the sound of applause - I felt a curious sense of peace. I realised that altho they were closed and shut out the light. They would reopen at the appropriate time to thunderous applause. But whether open or not, God's Light was an 'everlasting' presence beneath my beaten breast

pic taken at Albert Falls on an overcast day & lyrics borrowed from The Beatles "Here Comes The Sun"

The Tingly Man

2011-11-16T07:21:00.000+02:00

"You with the sad eyes
don't be discouraged - oh I realize
it's hard to take courage
in a world full of people - you can lose sight of it all
and the darkness inside you - can make you feel so small "

some days Aidan gets to that place which is beyond the time for sleep. Through no fault of his own, the excitement of his surroundings heightens the 2 year old to the knife edge of
enjoyment. and it only takes a tiny pebble of a moment to trip him into the frustration of tantrum. there seems no way back - soothing words seem to increase the frenzy. just before the top of his head lifted in eruption, I scooped him up - tho he tried to wriggle and squirt out of my arms, I held him tight and walked out the front door. I pointed out the flaking garden gnomes and fiery fuchias in thumbelina tutus and still his hot body heaved in defiance. On the shady pathway, outside my bedroom window, just beneath the thorny arms of the christ-thorn a huge brown garden snail had snotted to a standstill. we investigated. bar a few strands of gunky black goo, its shell was empty - its body consumed by a multitude of nunus. I wiped away Aidan's molten tears. his temper had abated. he grabbed the empty snail shell and ran back along the path, heartache forgotten, shouting: "mommy mommy 'nail - yuck!!"

compelling impetus - forceful stimulus; call it what you will, there are those impactful moments that alter a person's tack in either a negative or a positive way. I carry a few migraine packs in my bag. (tho its an old leather camera bag - its seems as I get older, more and more of the contents could be found, rather, in a doctor's bag.) I found I'd been getting the occasional debilitating migraine. The pain I can manage to endure, but the blurry vision and pukey nausea, makes it difficult to drive the batmobile or look at my computer screen. It all starts with a bright flash of light : when I catch a glimpse of the guys welding in the factory next door - or when I turn to look out my office window and a car is parked in such a way as to send a blast of reflected light from its windscreen. It started this morning; sitting in my prayer chair - I had just finished the fourth decade of the luminous mysteries : The Transfiguration. the picture in my little meditation booklet is well executed in that it tells the story. It doesn't show tho, the glow or brightness of Jesus' robes. But I guess its pretty difficult to render the Lord's robes in a blinding luminescence when you only have printing inks to work with. I mused that the apostles' robes should also reflect that light - but sadly they appeared rather muted. Outside the sunlight was dancing thru the leaves of the African Flame Tree. The stark white shafts shot straight into my prayer room and directly into my eyes. I realised I should have looked away, but I wanted to equate what I saw in my book to the actual light outside. The awesome light seemed to eat away at the edges of the dark leaves and in seconds my head was spinning and it became difficult to focus on anything. Closing my eyes brought no peace either as I was carried like a discarded polystyrene cup on waves that whacked against the walls in my head. And that felt so real - those guys on Mt Tabor : Jesus, their master, emanating light - God's voice and the presence of the two heavyweights: Moses & Elijah. Those sights and sounds must have been indelibly imprinted on the disciples' minds.

Patti and I talk and share a great deal of dreams and fears. One of these fears we'd been carrying around for a while. After Mass last Sunday, we were standing in the church piazza and a little old man walked up to us, introduced himself, and began talking to us. Peace and joy emanated from him. Without our plying him - he seemed to offload quite a bit of personal info - stuff about overcoming difficulties and then about how he was blessed with a loving partner. At this point Patti felt compelled to relate one of our nagging fears to him. He said he felt 'tingly' from head to toe 'in a good way'. He said that he often received little messages in his heart and he wanted to reassure us that that problem would
resolve itself in time, God would take care of things and we needn't worry anymore. and we believed him.

"And I'll see your true colors - shining through
I see your true colors - and that's why I love you
so don't be afraid to let them show - your true colors
true colors are beautiful - like a rainbow"

Lord I pray that I may too be a positive stimulus - a catalyst of light and hope, to those I meet.

pic of a snail on our deck (not the same one) lyrics borrowed from Cyndi Lauper's "True Colours". Aidan is my grandson.

Unlearning

2011-10-26T15:39:00.000+02:00

A pair of african goshawks have nested in the valley below our home this spring. Their chick screams to be fed every morning as I take my bath. He's fully feathered, almost a juvenile, and tho he's already takes flight, (strictly under adult supervision), he's still unable to catch his own prey. Although predators have inherent natural instincts for hunting and survival - they still need to learn the "how to's" from their feathered folks. Last Sunday we watched as the three birds floated majestically over the valley. The parents circled around the youngster with hardly a flap of their dark wings. When one of the parent birds swooped away toward the horizon, the other was always in detached attendance. His hungry screams subside when I make my way into my prayer room. There are other bird sounds that become evident as the peace of the early morn returns: mourning doves, bulbuls, drongos and the worrying tik-tik-tikking of a little grey bird that I have yet to identify. Zazzles, the orange cat, drags against my legs silently and finds an empty shelf to rest on.

My Bible lies open on my prayer chair. My eye alights on the final verse of Isaiah 48 : "There is no peace for the wicked, says the Lord." and I think of all the stuff of everyday life that irks and abrades. Just as the beasts and birds we are all born with an innocence and a thirst for nurturing knowledge. But we pick up and learn and are persuaded into beliefs that turn us all wicked. Last Saturday, Patti and I had popped into Mr Price Sport for a couple of things and as we stood waiting for a free cashier; we heard and witnessed a loud altercation liberally sprinkled with the F-word as the couple before us attempted to return some article or other. We did our thing and then went into the Christian bookstore next door - as we browsed through the books, the same couple were there too... buying a book on Christian living.

Super Pastor, Rob Bell says in his book "Love Wins", that he tries to raise his own kids in such a way, that they won't have to 'unlearn' anything later in life. You see Heaven is our goal. And Heaven is the absence of unpleasantness and wicked stuff. So in order to be on the correct path, we have to shrug off all the contradictory things that will keep us from our goal. We have to begin to unlearn - or remain wicked ... and never find peace.
pic of Zazzles at peace

Another Spring

2011-10-03T09:34:00.000+02:00

the son of the Silent Queen lay beneath the verdant skirt of a ragged Yellowwood sapling and drank in the cool shadows. something stirred beneath his shoulder and he shifted his weight to his right to enable the creature to find its freedom. a shongololo. crimson with black stripes and a hundred busy legs. he watched as the little creature hurried slowly past his recumbent face passing in and out of blurriness as it went. memories of the tumtum tree came and went and he clenched his eyes to quell the heat wave of panic that threatened to deplete him. he opened his eyes and focused on the knobthorn that grew a few metres away. Basil. he managed a smile and thought for the umteenth time what a strange name for a mighty tree. Basil the Knobthorn grew strong and true out of the side of his fallen parent. His knobs looked like black knuckles each barbed with two or three tinier thorns. he was shy and shared only the barest of whispers with the valley breeze, but not shy enough that he would let you feel his thorns if you leant up against him. with the ebbing of the panic attack, he sat up and began to mumble a prayer of thanks.

...and I opened my eyes and lifted my head off the headrest. The radio played some forgotten song (Brenda Lee's coming on strong). I pulled the keys from the ignition trying to block out any negativity. Mom's in hospital with ruptured ulcers. They operate at 10. We'll hear the results later today. trust. spring is renewal.

"Trust in Jesus - My great Deliverer - My strong Defender
The Son of God
I trust in Jesus - Blessed Redeemer - My Lord forever
The Holy One, the Holy One"

(lyrics from Third Day's "Trust in Jesus" and pics from the bottom of the garden)

both sides now

2011-08-22T12:47:00.000+02:00

Elena has finally given up. the wind and the leaves have won. Elana is the lady that keeps the factory complex where I work clean. Today berg winds are tossing things about and the crisp yellow leaves are chasing the dust buddies in and out of the bright sunlight. For once the world seems to have a grip on itself. Robust wind in August. and I have a flashback to riding my bike across the way on the local soccer grounds: you gotta push your bike to the top of the hill - all the while slipping and scuffing in the dry red Bluff sand. Chris has one of those push scooters with the humungous white tyres and one kid has a chopper - but the rest of us have the regular garden variety bikes. at the top it gets a bit tricky 'cos even holding the brakes tight doesn't stop the bike from skidding down the slope. so its a kinda mounting the bike like you would a spirited horse. then you're flying man - no shocks on our three-speed bikes back then so each bounce rocks your skull.....at the bottom of the hill the groundsmen have swept those giant wild figleaves into huge neat piles - so you take your feet off the pedals so they can cause maximum impact and SMA-WHACK!! straight into the piles of leaves. they go absolutley everywhere and then with heart racing you gotta keep your feet on the pedals and use that pumping adrenaline to get as much distance between yourself and the men chasing with their huge rakes...

Growing up, it wasn't easy always doing the right thing. We were watching an episode of Combat Hospital. The commanding officer, Elias Koteas, who plays Colonel Xavier marks is once more faced with a dilemma: his Afghan interpreter knows and has spoken to an injured captured insurgent with a bullet wound in his back. The MP's wanna lock up the youngster without asking questions. The interpreter, Vans, says he is innocent and only spoke to the injured guy because he had grown up with him, and says he doesn't know if his friend is Taliban or not. The Colonel's staff are on Van's side and trust him implicitly (as does the Colonel) - but the rules dictate that he needs to relinquish control of the youngsters plight and release him to the police. The story reaches a climax in the Colonel's office: all his staff have bundled into it and disregarding army etiquette are begging for the Colonel to go with his heart. the camera moves across to where Colonel Xavier is playing backgammon by himself. The lesson is amazing: if you play both sides of the board, as we do, you win and you lose - you lose and you win. You can't have one without the other.

"Feels like the world is closing on me
Feels like my dreams will never come to me
I keep on slippin' deeper into myself
And I'm scared, so scared"

and Fr Justin spoke about the apostle Peter yesterday at mass. and it becomes so easy to identify with his humanness. like all of us, he was called, even tho Jesus understood and knew all his faults and foibles. He said inappropriate things from time to time and even denied knowing his Master when the poo was hitting the fan. Peter was chosen to start the church armed with the gift of the Spirit despite his weaknesses and failures. and now a couple of thousand years later, we're still stumbling around - on one side attending church with our community, singing the good songs -- but on the other side of
the backgammon board we're still allowing the world to dictate our next miserable move... But its encouraging to know that God knows where we're at - and calls us regardless.

"If you're troubled - You just gotta let it go
If you're worried baby - You just gotta let it go
All your hustles ain't for nothing - You just gotta take it slow
When you need me baby - All you do is let me know"

lyrics from Alicia Keys "Troubled" and a pic of the magnolia tree in early bloom

Conversation with a dog

2011-08-11T10:54:00.000+02:00

I heard the whisper of Spring. It was a deviant lie. the warmth that followed the intense winter rains was quashed by the rolling cold front. the distant grey clouds were flattened into weapons over the icy sea as the traveled inland. small clumps of lanky green grass appeared on the verges. the invasive mulberry trees filled with hairy little green berries and white flowers littered the tops of the avo trees. a false spring ... and mother nature chuckled over her double chin and had another sip of old brown sherry...

Its so easy on a day off to grab a book and while the day away while the tv flickers blurrily on the other side of my glasses. Feeling guilty - I decided to grab a brush and revarnish the music room door. the vervet gang had panelbeated the awning above the door by dropping onto it from the garage roof 10 metres above. after the awning's defeat the winter rains wreaked an assault against the wooden door that left it buckled and swollen and thirsty for attention. Once brush/ varnish/cloth/stirring stick/turps and standing-upon-chair were assembled, I set about the task. Then all hell broke loose:

Riff and Mr Moo flew into battle against a marauding pack of valley dogs. They snapped and snouted thru the bonnex fence wire. It was over in seconds. Mr Moo was unscathed but Riff dripped blood from his neck and nose. Riff is a bleeder - but can't resist a skirmish. So with downcast eyes he answered my call and shuffled onto the deck. I used a poultice of vaseline and applied a pressure bandage. Riff has a PHD in AHD so I fed him a couple of sleeping tabs in a rolled up piece of ham - otherwise he wiggles free of the bandage and the blood doesn't get a chance to coagulate. So back to the job at hand... I invited Riff to accompany me and share the varnish fumes - I figured if I didn't keep my eye on him, he'd lapse into thug mode again and do some serious damage to himself. All the time using Cesar Millan's advice of being in a calm authoritative state, I chatted to him about what I was about to do. The mutts are not always allowed in the front garden so Riff seemed quite complacent and chilled to lie in a patch of sunlight and chew the fat with me.

...and I asked him why he always flew off the handle and got into brawling knowing he'd come off second best? lifting an eyebrow he said the fighting wasn't his intention. despite his AHD personality he said he's pretty happy to let the world fly by... he said he regretted getting me angry and anxious... but you know things happen - there's like a switch inside that clicks over - the adrenaline surges and suddenly the bloody fur flies..."a bit like you?" he suggested...
"yeah - you're right on the button (thinking about recent lunchtime taxi skirmishes)" I replied, "so easy to seek calmness and serenity, but if you're made like us : with a savage side a mere balloon prick away - then you have to tippy toe thru life - like ol' Thomas Moore once said: 'a man should go where he WON'T be tempted' ". we held the silence for a time...
then I asked:

"What do you think of this whole "Woman's Day" thing?"
"are you asking me that - or asking about women in general?" he challenged, and not waiting for my answer, he said: "do you remember that it was a woman who cut my nuts off? oh of course you don't - you were too chicken to even take me to the vet. In fact the only male who was present was the assistant and he had rubber gloves on - like my bollocks were like unclean or something!!"
"hey pal - keep your fur on," I countered, "that op was supposed to calm you down - to make you a little less confrontational."
"again, I can't help thinking, you're still talking about yourself..." he whispered. And when I looked up I saw he had drifted off, perched in my prayer chair with his head on the armrest. and I noticed with relief, that the blood had not seeped thru the bandage, and while his solid chest heaved up and down; I started on the door frame.

When he awoke, he said: "anyway why're you treating me like a pup?" and like right out of the blue I said:
"do you pray?" he became pensive, shifted in his seat and said:
"well - think of it like this - when you see me wagging my tail..."
"wagging your body, you mean"
"...yeah whatever, when I do that, its like a prayer, and when you slide the door open and I show you my stuff, like how fast I can run around the garden, like that kid Moo can't even come close!!. Well that's like how I pray." after a little silence he said:
"but I don't pray to God - its all for you."
"What?!"
"you're the man, my man, my friend, my boss - you give me my spirit... ...and one more thing: dogs can't talk! this is all in your woolly head!!"

he was so right. but I had been spoken to. a man on a plastic chair with an old t-shirt tied around his neck to ward off the wintry breeze. His dog curled up on an old chair. and I sent up a prayer of thanks to God, my Friend, my Boss, the One that gives me Spirit.

How are you?

2011-07-22T09:15:00.000+02:00

Bakes asked me, the other day, how I was - spiritually. So I guess in part, this blog is in response to his question: Living under the purple shadow of the strangled tree (in the road-that-doesn't-end) - life goes on and on while the moon grins from a whale-ribbed black sky and Orion leans on the horizon. The Big C has nabbed a few of our friends and family in the last year or two - so when Patti kept on getting call-backs on her medical check-ups ... our horizon clouded over hard and tight. But our faith is super-solid and we're tired of stepping in the world's pissed-out pain. So our prayers got longer and our hugs more frequent - and when the results were revealed this week : that once more Patti, had the 'all-clear' - we were like two pigs on cannabliss. ...on my own, with an orange candle flame, the Word and rosary beads wrapped about my paw - the relief leaked from my eyes and salted my tongue.

and what of the Church? (and where have all the steeples gone?) of late - I've been thinking of the Church as a huge lumbering fire breathing dragon. With too much massive presence to be merely God's pet. ...and we're all contained within this creature. there are some in the Dragon's head - they know tons of good stuff. They can quote chapter and verse and know the why's and wherefores of who should be doing what and how often. They breathe out destroying-fire marginalising and quenching any murmur of opposition. And so they should - for anyone who is not for us is against us (?) Then there's the peeps that hang out in the tail of this huge ponderous Beast: they keep just a portion of the whole and put it on a lampstand for all to see. they blame their indifference and differences to how they've been brought up (we're old school) - or the leave the church to hold onto a remnant of the truth and with venom, swing their mighty tail, wreaking
havoc and leaving a trail of hurt and destruction. (You know there's even good old George out there who'd really like to kill this mega dragon with his sword of righteousness)

"If you get down and you quarrel everyday,
You're saying prayers to the devils, I say."

At times I live in the voracious maw of the dragon. At times I take my turn swinging its disparaging tail. But mostly I live in the ribcage as close to the heart as I can. Cause that's where the truth is. that's where the other stuff doesn't matter. where the pumping rhythm of life emanates from. God allows that heart to beat its sonorous hymn and most of the time I don't know the words ... but I sit and rock - tap my foot and hum along making a joyful noise.

"Why not help one another on the way?
Make it much easier. (Just a little bit easier)"

There was a time when vanity winked at me from the beckoning mirror. There was a time when it glared back under eyebrows of rueful judgement. A headful of false memories. Now I see a young old man with a twinkle of hope in his bloodshot peepers. ...if I linger the glass mists up and that's the way I like it...

Quaero Verum

lyrics borrowed from Bob Marley's "Positive Vibrations." pic of a gecko dragon on the kitchen window

where there's a will

2011-07-08T09:36:00.000+02:00

and talking about "wills" and death and such things - I wondered if one fine and friendly day my dead body was found by some CSI/Bones forensic anthropologist investigating type person - and I had known I was going down then, and with my sense of humour and all, I had sort of prepared myself. I mean what happens if I had downed a few glitter & chilled voddie shooters - how would they work out why my innards were all sparkly and who would they think was responsible .... and I was thinking about all the ladies with boobie-jobs and way into the future when their bodies were dug up and there's this like cage of ribs with two plastic packets with what-appears-to-be water inside just sort of resting on top - what a hoot.

which reminds me of cycads - they're incredibly poisonous. Not to be scratched by them, which is bad enough - but every part of the plant, if enough is ingested, will send you to Bye-Bye land. Now a weird thing is the ancient peoples; Aborigines, Red Indians, Hottentots and the like; knew about this but still used the pulp from the centre to make a bread. They worked out how long to leave the harvested pulp, often underground, so that the poison would leech out leaving a useful product. The early settlers crept around the globe and tried to copy them - making bread and finding out the hard way, after their buddies began dropping like flies that there was a little more to this home recipe than meets the tongue.

We've been watching the first season of Game of Thrones (stunning fantasy just by the by) - in the story, the Khal, the wild leader of the Dothrakians, the horse-warriors, dies after being stabbed by a poisonous bone. Well, he slips into a coma - but to his wild followers he is dead - because if a man cannot ride his horse - he is dead in the community.

"All around me are familiar faces - worn out places, worn out faces"

and death's presence is as evident as life itself. Patti was admitted to a hospital in deepest darkest Chatsworth for an investigative op. The offensive lump was removed and we await the results with confidence and prayer, but always the ringing of the reaper's scythe sounds in the shadows behind us.

"And I find it kind of funny - I find it kind of sad - The dreams in which I'm dying - Are the best I've ever had"

and one more thing about the 'death' thing - I've found that starting an open conversation about the pro's of a polygamous marriage, brings about a feeling of darkness and brimstone and all emanating from my dear wife, Patti's eyes...

lyrics from Mad Mad World by Tears for Fears and the pic of the Life in my winter garden

tragedies

2011-06-15T14:12:00.000+02:00

this day has the potential for tragedy. Just past a newly graffitied wall, the frowning traffic warden swatted us into the slow moving traffic up Caversham Road. As I turned the corner, my view ahead was obliterated by the stark winter sun that turned my windscreen into a blinding shining light. I immediately glanced into the rearview mirror to see how fast the car behind was approaching my bumper. The driver was a youngish woman. I hadn't seen her before. She had one of those downturned mouths that even when smiling remain upside down. What struck me was how bloated and blotchy her face was. Her vehicle moved forward slowly like an automaton - her eyes were rivetted on her own reflection in her rearview mirror. She was using her knuckles to try and press the puffiness of a night of spent tears away. - and I wondered what tragedy she had endured for her face to tell such a tale.

My mind rewinded to Fr Justin relating to us how a little one had died soon after her baptism after mass on that Pentecost morning = and I thought how those bereft parents must sport similar faces this morning as they fathom the why's and wherefore's of life and its deathly mysteries.

fast forward - and then arriving at the factory a few minutes later to be greeted by a closed automatic gate. One of the workers let me in and I was told that the electrical substation had blown up an hour earlier. So no Power - and no Internet and no Phone lines - which were the result of cable theft the previous Monday. When the first person to discover the theft phoned (by cellphone) to report it to the local cops; she was asked if she owned the cables that had been stolen. And when she replied that the cables had belonged to the telephone company, Telkom, she was told that they then were the ones that needed to report the theft, before they could initiate any response. Her question of "If I see someone stealing your car from outside the police station - am I not then allowed to report it, cos I'm not the owner?" received no answer.

Just as an aside : winter mozzies are antagonistic sadistic and relentless assassins. I nearly swiped my computer screen clean across the room in my eager attempt to eliminate the little black blighter. She still managed to sting me a couple more times before she became one with fibres of the carpet under my foot.

And then - on the radio - the announcer tells of a young woman who in December left from Joburg airport to a holiday destination overseas and left her dog in her locked parked car in the airport parking lot. The putrid remains of her pet were only discovered a
few weeks later. On her return, she was arrested and incarcerated in a mental institution. The lady was apparantly off her rocker. The crux of the report tho, was how the airport was going to recoup the overdue parking fees to the tune of about four thousand bucks.

And all of this in the week following the Church's birthday : Pentecost. When Christ's promise that we will not be left alone (John 14:18) was realised by the visit of the mighty Holy Spirit... but where is the Holy Spirit in all this clamouring chaos? where is the fiery miraculous power? Have we shut Him out, ignoring that Jesus once said "Knock, and the door will be opened"? (Matthew 7:7)

"It's tragedy. When the morning cries and you don't know why..." (The Beegees - Tragedy) the pic is of the roots of a fig tree that reflect the turmoil

System Restore Point

2011-05-09T11:44:00.000+02:00

the day I got my room back I sat in the tope chair, now grumpy and lumpy, with the Bible open. Isaiah. a heavy blue ball monkey thumped onto the roof and shimmied head first down the lichen covered drainpipe. inside - Korki - still covered said "out. out!" in that deep gravel copy of me. the tenant had left a clock behind - angled 5 degrees (clockwise) : the second hand chased ticks and tocks loudly. its gotta go. the floor once checquered with ali metal and grey alternating tiles was a mess - covered here and there with off-cut rugs that curled at the corners in a trippy way. alien remnants of friendly strangers... Isaiah 53:5 says "He was wounded for our rebellious acts. He was crushed for our sins. He was punished so that we could have peace, and we received healing from his wounds." This tormented room - a haven from tormentors wielding venomous words and weaving crushing cloaks. This open book - living words of hope and promise. the peace that resulted from his wounds. the King James version says: "...and with his stripes we are healed" - no promise there - a mere statement of actuality. I love the way the living words transcend time - freeze time. "we are healed"

I need to stop adding to His bruises to experience the peace, the wholeness, the completeness. How is that possible when instead of seeing Christ's bearing in those around me - I see only that of His tormentors. shadows.

do angels fly in torrential rain?

more bouncing furry feet on the roof tiles. (I'm gonna have to check if any have cracks sometime). becoming difficult to pray. I've been told that silence is needed to hear God's answers - that may be true but sometimes I'm sure He speaks to me in the clamouring clatter. from the valley, waves of a drumbeat tease my ears - the drums have called all thru the night - maybe they have something to celebrate - maybe a goat is dead - blood spilt for misgivings and confusion. flickering shadows.

but what of the Lamb? He lives now in my heart - once counted with sinners, His blood spent for eternal redemption mine. Hope... and then blessed silence ('cept for the clock-that-has-to-go). I carry my rosary out onto the patio. flattened grey clouds above the sea - the prophecy of cold to come... and gaze in solid prayer through the lifting shadows.

The Informant

2011-04-28T14:16:00.000+02:00

the blue bloodless gecko corpse lay amidst the folds of the passage mat. its legs and tail consumed by Zazzles the apprentice hunter. I had heard their battle in the early hours - This morning there was no scurry of gecko feet behind curtains and no glassy eyes following me as I put the kettle on. soon he'll move onto more substantial prey. cradling my cup I stood outside in the morning's bite and gazed at the den of 40 dreams; and my mind wandered as it so often does these easter days...

... there are two tiny glimpses from the Passion Play that the rapt audience never saw and I treasure their gift - their energy - they fuel my prayer: the first is after Jesus has been nailed to the cross behind that amazing curtain that weaves shadows into pictures. the cruel soldiers and Cain bend, lift and drag the cross upright to slunk into into its slot. for a couple of seconds Jesus rises over these bent forms, his body streaked with the ravishes of cruel attention. I cannot see his eyes. I wished I could have seen his eyes. They are hidden in the sharpened shadows of the thorny crown. his body sways as the cross finds purchase... and I'm in position behind the cross as the curtain again reveals the epic meeting at the 'Place of the Skull'. I'm not too sure why this tableau is imprinted in my mind. possibly the rising of the forgiving cross over the backs of the oppressors of the day. it lifts me out of darkness.

the second glimpse occurs a couple of minutes later - Jesus battles for breath as the weight of his body pulls him painfully down to the tomb and with love as hot as living lava he speaks to his mom. Mary. her heaving back hides her face from the audience. she rests heavily against John. her undulating breath echoes that of her son as he struggles for lungfulls of life. I stand in shadow and choke painfully as she says with shaking outstretched arms "Jesus...my son". almost every word that Mary utters in the play is a prayer - and almost every line I utter - is a curse.yes - these two images are the grist to my sporadic prayers.

...I realised that contrary to what people told me - it was far easier to slip into the characters I played - than to slip out again. far more difficult to leave behind the cruelty of the whip and the lashing of the tongue, than to embrace the reality and Light.

A few night's ago, in a local tavern, we sat huddled around a basket of nourishment and slaked our throats with cold beer. me, Baruch - my Mary, the smiling Christus, his friend John, the wise and older James and the one who applied the blood. we slipped in and out of character. what was Baruch, a snake of an informant, doing with this group of good folk. we learned much from each other and found the conversation and company greater comfort to the food and drink before us. and we became ourselves again.

"I have the view... that the human being was not made for pleasure, was not made to gratify the ego, was not made to make money, was not made to have babies: it was made to serve something bigger than oneself. We are built to serve." Jacob Needleman

My den is in darkness - my tenant has not come home... again. A fiscal shrike disappears into a croton bush with its wriggling breakfast in its beak. and I must pick up my rosary for the dreaded last decade of the sorrowful mysteries: The Crucifixion.

pic of part of our cross collection

hanging on

2011-04-18T09:44:00.000+02:00

Standing under a pounding hot shower while rivulets of mud brown make-up stream down my legs - I listen as Mary Magdalene and her broken friends discover that the tomb is empty... the sound is piped thru to all the dressing rooms; so there is this feeling of immersed participation even when we're not on stage. With most of the performances of the Durban Passion Play done and dusted, there are undercurrents of discomfort and evidence of exposed raw nerves; that if not diffused spark into confrontations. there are also many shining eyes and tired smiles reflecting the ennervating qualities and richness of the whole experience.

For seven months in preparation and then almost every night on stage for a few weeks, we've lived and grown and groaned with the same hundred odd folk. like minded, similar thirsts and yet worlds apart. For me - it seems that time itself has stopped - that I'm moving on an endless spinning wheel stuck in sweaty sandals. I know that Easter is fast approaching with its joy of the resurrection & the hope of new beginnings. but for now I live and relive the cruelty and misgivings of a culture not so far removed from my own present day experiences. I know that after our last performance on Easter Sunday : I won't have to cajole and taunt Judas or wield an angry whip on the backs and exposed necks of the two thieves - the show will be over. I will still, however, still be confronted with Colonel Kadhafi's cultivated cruelty and Malema's malignant madness and the general
blindness and plasticity of the world around me.

At times, at the Playhouse, I wish there was a place withing the building, to find seclusion and sanctuary : a kind of chapel : where one could possibly reflect a little on the Word or the message that this play generates. But again I reason that the busy-ness of backstage and the green room is necessary to undulate with the ancient rhythms of history and crowd hysteria. Its so surreal to stand in the darkness on the side of the stage gazing up at the curling smoke around the blue spots muttering the Glory Be in self preparation while Jesus lies draped over a rock pouring out his heart in despair in Gethsemane. Its annoying to watch the tittering teenage peasants, also in the wings, fawning over the handsome roman soldiers - and I'm reminded of how often that same situation must have happened in so many places in so many times : german soldiers passing thru conquered french villages or american marines meeting up with local lovelies in a Saigon pub... then there's the kids - unpredictable and perfect : pushing and prodding - lost in the moment and saying whatever comes into their heads - on stage - or off - as they would in any crowd, anywhere...

what is really cool is the amount of full houses there have been - indeed there are very few seats available for the last seven shows. and if a couple of those folk that have sat in seats before us take away more than the historical blood and magic of miracles - if they indeed, wear the autograph of God's love on their hearts: then this amazing labour has been more than worthwhile - has been my best Lent ever and something to remember all my living days.

"Life is a wheel of changes
But changes are life
And someday we will have to say good bye
But our spirit will survive
Love is phasing
Love is moving
To the rhythm of your sight
In the darkness I get closer
To the crossing point of light
Reason is lasting, passion is living
And dying is teaching us how to live" (Enigma - "Roundabout")

pic of "the blood"

ode to facebook

2011-04-07T09:40:00.000+02:00

some people thrive on the negativity they perpetuate. I don't. there are tons of things on facebook that we are encouraged to "like". there is still as yet no "unlike" button. so as a kind of ode - here are some of my "likes", in no particular order:

my Patti, peanut butter sandwiches, wet flowers, swimming underwater, waking up and realising I don't have to do anything, beer, black fruit sparkles, being invisible, my guitars, finding an unbroken seashell I've never seen before, amazambaan, the colour orange, strong coffee, the buzzing silence, huge deep hugs, innocence of children, being alone with nothing to do, my children, thigh high boots, braais, Patti's laugh, the smell of leather, starting a new book, finding a torrent I've been searching for, painting with my fingers, the Eucharist, walking barefoot on warm wet tar, the combined smell of acrylics and red wine, clean fingernails, going commando, early mornings before people, watching martial arts, clever comedy, long back rubs, my mom's unsaid words, cold mirrors, gardening, the beach without holiday makers, leopards, not using my free airtime, tiger balm, switching off the radio before they give the answer, my friend Jesus, parking far from my destination, touching, butterscotch, boobies, the forever quicksand of a passionate kiss, sweet memories my brain allows me to keep, the smell of a new book, black jelly babies, daydreaming, music, the snapping of an electric fence in the drizzle, having my hair washed by strong fingers, potato soup, knowing some of the answers, my grandson, South Africa, the stars that silently praise God.

the healer

2011-03-24T11:49:00.000+02:00

on Human Rights Day we visited the Healer. the day was a scorcher. as we topped the dune we beheld her cobalt splendour. she emitted a hissing white noise that removed us from the world. I removed my slops and had to jog across her stoep as the sand was hot and greedy. stepping over discarded shells and other death she had spat out in sweeping curves, I stepped into her coolness. her frothy fingers beckoned and pulled while the sand below melted, oozed and dragged. altho she had been there since verse 2 of the Genesis poem - her beauty and wiles were that of a young maiden: brilliant beauty and hushing song regenerated each day with the new tide. The full moon had encouraged her to bare the tumbled verdant green and pink weeds that lay like inverted bowls of steaming spinach which in turn hid the serrated sharpness of clamped oysters and barbed barnacles that nicked and scritched as I climbed over them on my way to her cool depths.

"And The Days Are Marked By The Heaviness Of The Heart
It Never Mends
Until The Healing Begins"

we had come to scatter Flavia's ashes with champagne, tears and salty smiles.

submerged below the frothy swell - I swam into the shadows beneath the natural pier of black rock. above me glistening worms poked and tasted. the heaving water thumped against the submerged tunnel with a deep whooomp that filled my chest and stomach. it was impossible to swim against her might. so I allowed her to lull and shush my floating body - using small hand and foot moments to steer me off the slimy crushing wall. a flock of entertwined striped wrasse came into then undulated out of sight. Feeding black purple surgeons and darting damselfish filled and swirled before me.

heaving myself out of the rock pool. I cracked a black label and ambled thru the hot little pools - disturbing dogfish and flagtail fry.

I mulled over what the Healer had taught me. possibly - that fighting against the pressing might of the world is futile. possibly - that moving with its muscle is wiser and with small ministrations I could carve my own destiny. and definitely that I will never fully grasp the majesty and expanse of God's created healer - the sea.

words from Tony Joe White's "Let The Healing Begin"

Between the Rock and a Hot place

2011-03-10T13:06:00.000+02:00

Heading back from dropping Robyn off after school, I stopped at the traffic lights at the end of Crompton Street. To my left, outside the Post Office was one of those Telkom plastic boxes - it was plastered haphazardly with stickers - all advertising 100% effective and painless abortions. I was shadowed by a BB bread truck on my right. It said quite proudly on the side: "Born and bread in KZN". To the left: death. To the right: life. I have always harboured a secret ambition to don a black hoodie and move thru town at night, sticking my own message over the telephone numbers on these death stickers. I've even had the stickers printed - they read "Let Us Pray".

Last night we celebrated Ash Wednesday, the beginning of our Lenten journey. The church was at capacity - everyone coming to be reminded of the transience of life - that we return to dust. our bodies, anyway. as the lines of folk returned to their seats sporting the cross of ash traced on their foreheads - I sensed a kind of bond - a unity of believers. not united in sin but in the recognition that we are all sinners and this process of Lenten healing - this scalding examination of self - is a necessary part of God's plan in this circle of life.

I thought of those two images at the traffic lights. the abortion sticker advertised a choice between murder and new life. it preyed on young mom's-to-be and their despair to get by in this tainted world. it used bright cerise ink to catch attention and words like "guaranteed" "100%" and "painless" to sway the young grappling minds. it spoke naught of the cost - to pocket - to sanity. the bread van - on the other hand - used humour in its message. prompting a sense of pride in local products - our daily bread. and I wondered if they realised another connotation - the symbol of "bread" - our daily bread that was born in Bethlehem (the very word 'Bethlehem' meaning "house of bread"). hope born daily in our minds.

two kids passed the pew where I sat with my family. the little girl examined her brother's forehead and exclaimed that the cross of ashes was not visible. neither was hers. The minister had dipped his finger in the damp ash and first traced the cross on the mom's forehead and had not 'refilled' before tracing the cross on the two children's foreheads - so that the image was almost non existent. To Patti and my amusement, they rejoined the queue and once the crosses were redrawn on their heads, they exchanged huge smiles and returned to their seats. they too wanted to sport the sign of the cross - to feel part of this whole thing. I'm sure they didn't understand the intended symbolism in the least - but now they were equal to everyone else in the church: one in belief - sin - and yes, love.

"So Don't yield to the fortunes
You sometimes see as fate
It may have a new perspective
On a different day
And if you don't give up, and don't give in
You may just be O.K."
and this morning's reading from Deuteronomy 30:19, is one I wish every young mom-to-be would read before she chooses to heed the enticing lures of the death-stickers :"I call on heaven and earth as witnesses today that I have offered you life or death, blessings or curses. Choose life so that you and your descendants will live." (God's Word version)

lyric from Mike + The Mechanics "The Living Years" - the pic is of our church bell.

The butterflies have returned

2011-03-07T15:47:00.000+02:00

the butterflies have returned. Autumn is late. paper patterned wings waft on left-over February heat. they tease, taunt and tantilise Zazzle, the apprentice hunter, as he lies amidst the bright green granadilla tendrils. the ragged flicks of his striped tail underline his intentions. the valley sends up shouts from the to-and-fro swinging grass cutters. sweat breeds tension. below the handrail, where Zazzle perches, moves a solemn procession of shiny black ants. they carry a discarded gecko tail. and I wonder how they don't drop it as it still wiggles from time to time.

it was then I saw the ghost. in the distance, rising above the trees. it wore the guise of a grey white cloud. the computer spat out telltale tweets of students on the rampage. attacking their lecturers. reasons were unclear. from the smell, it was rubber burning - probably tyres. the campus is a 5 minute walk from my home. and I thought of different tensions such a short time ago, as students in Christchurch searched for their surviving mates amongst the rubble of their fallen campus. the second earthquake in a year. major catastrophes like that leave me numb - unless I pause and put one of my family or friends beneath the rubble... yes, now I feel their pain. my chest hurts and my throat theatens to close altogether...oh Lord I pray for their souls. rapidfire sirens bring me back to this reality. how do I respond to this aggression? how do people join in with violent 'protests' causing harm to property and persons without conscience?

"So when you hear this Autumnsong
Clear your heads and get ready to run"

Zazzle gave up. the butterflies never came close enough. he loped along the balustrade leapt across the deck onto the windowsill and twisted himself thru the blind. paused for a moment to adjust to the dim light inside, then bounced off the ottoman onto Mr Moo's back. they mock wrestled. Mr Moo held Zazzle's head in his jaws while the cat raked his chest with his sheathed claws. A cat and a dog at play. natural enemies. and yet man - cannot love man.

the butterflies have returned. soon the days will shorten to duvet nights.

"Wear your eyes as dark as night
Paint your face with what you like
Wear your love like it is made of hate
Born to destroy, and born to create"

(Manic Street Preachers - Autumnsong) pic of Zazzle - apprentice hunter and future rat slayer

Biblical Bling

2011-02-25T09:35:00.000+02:00

my latest addiction is zuma-blitz. once a day for about 15 minutes I shoot coloured balls with my little zooty zuma frog and try to bust my previous score. ribbit. the graphics are extensive and hungry for graphic resources, so much so that it doesn't load on our home pc. I enjoy the part, about my seventh life, when I become so in tune that I can almost anticipate where the next shot should go. there's this puerile euphoria from letting off a shot and playing the next one while at the same time seeing the havoc wreaked with the previous shot and smirking inwardly in digital pride. its one of my daily treasures.

and then during the short ride to drop Robyn off at school, the conversation flows and I'm dispensing fatherly advice like a real adult and I can discern that the info is being received favourably and the repartee is rich - and I realise that there is an echo of the zuma-blitz euphoria. on the radio there's a report of a truck jack-knifed on Field's Hill and I ask Robyn if she knows what 'jack-knifed' means - and when she says that she thinks its being hijacked at knifepoint - well I nearly mount the pavement as I rollick in mirth - - another treasure to chew.ribbit.

this weekend we have the photo-shoot of the cast of the Passion Play. I'm a wealthy trader kinda guy in the play. I have a real hoity-toity shmarmy costume and now I need the bling to go with it. and in my search for this outward show of treasure and wealth I flash on the verse from Matthew (6:21) which says: "For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also" and immediately I think of my friend Flavia who died last month. and her new life in Heaven, and I know that she's there for certain, cos for ever since I've first known her - she spoke quite openly about going home where her treasure lies. and I am caught in a vortex of realisation - of my life sprinkled with moments of euphoria - moments of heaven.

A couple of my blessed friends recently had a similar status this week and I'd like to share it with you: "I wish you enough"

the collage is some of my own treasured moments

Origins

2011-02-16T15:12:00.000+02:00

I can't pinpoint my earliest memories exactly. Patti says I have selective recall. I think that more often than not the early memories are a combo of actual memories and incidents related to you from a parent or relative. My earliest memories are sometimes feelings or sounds. There is a definite memory of comfort sitting squashed against our maid's back; listening to her singing as she went about her housework - I was less than 3. There's also another sound memory from the same time: there was some sort of disturbance on the verge - the police arrived in a van : I heard a body being thrown into the back of the van and the metal door slammed with a kind of finality. clear as a bell. that was in Port Elizabeth. a little later we moved to Durban - I was 4. I don't remember the trip by mailship. One tiny memory is lying on a bed in a very hot flat off Point Road: my dad tried tricking me by turning the comic I was "reading" upside down. even now I can read inverted text to some degree. then we moved to a flat in Morningside - I think. I have a few vivid memory flashes from there. The 'flatboy', as he was called, wore that cool suit made from offwhite canvas with a red stripe on the sleeve ends and on the shorts as well. I think it had a red chinese collar too - always thought it was awesome. the thing that struck me about him was his pierced ears: he had these huge black and white discs forced into a stretched hole in his lobes. something happened there that left me confused, and I've thought about it for years: a passing cyclist hit the kerb and fell splayed onto the pavement - the flatboy dude ran up to help saying "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." I couldn't fathom why he was sorry as he hadn't caused the accident.

I'm rereading "Velvet Elvis", a book by Rob Bell in which he explains his version of what it means to live as a Christian. He says everyone follows someone or something. He follows Jesus. and in doing this he attempts to emulate everything about this Jesus. the notion isn't new by any means: that's what being a disciple is all about. those original disciple guys actually dropped their lives to follow their respective rabbis or rabonis. Just as an aside in one of the Nooma series of short videos - the speaker gives an inkling on why those fishermen James and John would've just dropped their fishing nets and followed Jesus on his gentle pursuasion. He explains that in those times all young boys, a radical statement in itself, knew the Koran word for word by the time they were 10 years old. amazing enough - the best of them went on with their studies to become students of the local rabbi. by the age of about sixteen, the best of these were again chosen to be followers or disciples of this same rabbi. So when Jesus, the Rabbi, arrived at the lakeside, and said to the fishermen: "Follow me". these guys who had failed to become disciples of their local rabbi, and had to fall back on the family trade, thought they had won the local lotto - these ordinary guys had been given a second chance to become followers/disciples of this popular rabbi called Jesus.

and so my mind triggered the memory of that old man at the flat we stayed at. and how he was sorry for someone else. someone who had suffered misfortune thru no fault of his. and I kinda realised what a huge lesson his reaction was and what a similarity he had in his actions to the Rabbi I attempt to follow...my friend - Jesus.

and yes, the pics are of me

please don't read this if you can't feel the music.

2011-01-20T12:23:00.000+02:00

please don't read this if you can't feel the music.

there was a time - not too long ago when the songs didn't make sense - but I can hear again. I'm here again. listening to a Tony Banks instrumental album ... and I recognised the tune .. from the pc game 'bejewelled'. closing my eyes and opening my mind I entered the sound portal and experienced the game. its a win. And there's a rendition of Genesis's "Land of Confusion" by Disturbed that rocks my boat from here to Hillcrest... especially the line "there's not much love to go around" - its relevant - it seriously rocks. and who would have thought the Yardbirds could have penned the words - back in the 60's - yesterday:

"Happenings ten years time ago

Situations we really know

But the knowing is in the mind
Sinking deep into the well of time

Sinking deep into the well of time"

The time seems to blur - the songs are on random play.

its no wonder I've had a solid headache for days - trying to think and plan too much - when the words have said it all and the rhythm is inherent/intrinsic/instinct. you can't slow down - you can't stop - like on a bicycle. Gotta go faster - get back in the groove - move with the melodies and meld your
future from what has already been sung in the past.

I watched Discovery channel's "Time Warp" last night - where they use their super high speed camera's to capture moments unseen by the human eye. The showed shots of a drum and cymbal being struck by a drumstick. The vellum (and metal) seemed to become liquid as the waves of sound are generated by the single whack of the stick. in normal view - he cymbal rocks a bit and you can barely discern any movement in the drumskin - but super slowed down the symphony of
life is a perfectly undulating and haphazard dance of movement and sound.

"It seems to me I've been here before
The sounds I heard, and the sights I saw
Was it real, was it in my dreams
I need to know what it all means"

I've been following various articles on music in the Southern Cross and other publications. and I don't think they'll ever get it. its kinda like what I read in Samuel this morning, about when Saul and David were travelling home after a resounding victory in which David had killed the Phillistine champ, Goliath with a well aimed stone. As the crowds sang there praise, Saul only heard that the crowd was praising David more than him, the king. He couldn't hear that they had won the battle together - that they were victorious and blessed as a nation. that God smiled at them. and its no wonder that David penned psalm 55 in reponse to all the flack he was getting - so that in verses 6 and 7 he says: "And I say, "Oh, that I had wings like a dove! I would fly away and be at rest; - yes, I would wander far away"

hey - the music will always play on - we gotta boogie
lyric excerpts from "Happening Ten Years Time Ago" by the Yardbirds

A Night of Memories

2011-01-18T13:31:00.000+02:00

the overhead jet was the herald of change - its headlight scored the dark clouds as it dragged the roar of its engines behind. the four of us, Patti, Flavia, Ralph and I, sat huddled together in the burgundy shadows, listening to Nibs play his penultimate performance at Vagabond Café. Altho the dancing fire in the wheelbarrow before us was comfortably warm; we had to drape our shoulders as the chill from between the cultivated rows of lavender and rosemary played up and down our spines. the giggle tree was lit by uneven rows of little orange glows that pulsed with each inhalation. sprite sparks from the various bonfires gambolled and frolicked to the tunes..."There was a man of water, and he spoke of the One to come, with fellow world, with hope and glory..." We sipped heady mulled wine from chipped coffee mugs and shared Flavia's offering of sandwiches and bananas. and the music played on..."They’re
crying out for something to believe in...Trying to work their way to find salvation...and the sounds of their beautiful feet." we spoke about meanings and mysteries and relished the time. it was late when after a few wrong turns, our little green-frog-spark found its way back to the freeway. and home. There was so much more - the memories sting my eyes.

I wish you could have known Flavia. She's gone home now. She left early on Thursday 13th January. She left as quietly as she lived. I only knew her for a few short years tho she left me her legacy of love. In her years after she left her
mother Italy, she and her husband moved from home to home... many homes. God wanted her to share her love and faith with many folk. She bemoaned the fact that she wasn't able to have one or two best friends, because of their constant moving from place to place. Such was her lot. and we were the beneficiaries.

"We gonna write it on their hearts - We gonna write it on their hearts
Forever..we will follow You"

lyrics from Nibs van der Spuy's "Beautiful Feet" - pic taken at Vagabond Café

listening to goldfish underwater

2011-01-10T14:58:00.000+02:00

I had to stop the neighbours' loud cheap prattle around their pool - it was too much and too intrusive. So I put on a Goldfish album - pretty loud - about one click under 'window rattle'. And as I lowered my head beneath the surface of the steaming bath water - I realised, I was in fact listening to goldfish underwater.

the hypnotic loops pulsed thru the house and tied up my senses, centering my thoughts. if I raised one ear, the lyrics were apparant, "put your arms around me when you hear this sound" - but with both ears submerged the sax and keyboard took prominence. I kinda did my own bath remix.

under water. pipes blurge. footsteps. something sliding. thoughts need to die. last year was hectic : my new years resolution was to remain under the radar - but too much introspection is boring and the year ended with both Patti and I with roles in the Durban Passion Play. so its necessary to refocus - I undertook to leave the old, in the soapy luke-warm water as a kind of immersion baptism.

so what will the new year bring? the news is still filled with tragic weather related stories - air crashes - with the shooting of an American politician and with our local politicians saying pretty things about nothing much in particular. yesterday Fr Southwood accused us of complacency in our Christian mission - there's something I could work on. yes and prayer - a whole bunch more prayer. prayers of thanks mainly : for where I am - for the family and special friends I have - for the incredible talents God has put into my stewardship - and prayer for the confusion and pain I see in those around me.

towel off - turn the music up!!

"Don't you want to live like you've already lived
Don't you want to use what you've been given
I don't want to live like I've already lived
But I do want to get busy living"

Goldfish - Get Busy Living

Tumbling Flotsam

2010-12-14T12:20:00.000+02:00

pic of a candle on its side

a long time ago... a one legged old man, we affectionatedly called Mr P, said to my friend and I: "If your back hurts - dig a hole" We had been bitching about our aches and pains. this Saturday, just gone, after guitar lessons; there was a break in the weather and my aching back, knees and stiff neck told me to find a spade. So with the echoes of a memory and set mind I tackled the first thing on my holiday to-do list : "Remove unsightly stump from front gate!" 3 hours later - with steaming muscles and joints I sat on the cool stormwater drain in the shade and sipped a tankard of passion fruit and soda. As the clouds above regrouped and got all pendulous on me and the magnolia tree spat leaves at my hat, I considered the past months. It has been a time of contrasts, a humbling time... a time to learn from crappy experiences and golden moments to treasure for the rest of the days.

I often hold back, when the things I have to say are rough or lack love. Then there are gaps in my journal and blog. but the retrospective view is always tamer, without the biting thorns. also reading the ups and downs of facebook friends - what I have to say may be corrosive or add to the flotsam that tumbles from the keyboards around the world. I don't like that....

I went to a funeral where I saw no one cry.

I saw a band play where the frontman had more photographs taken of him than there were people in the crowd.

I heard a sermon on Love and heard as the preacher man lambasted his helpers when they did their tasks too quickly.

...there is so much more. and many of my friends and family hurt. We watched the last episode of Dexter's season four. I have never before been numbed by a television series. the writers filled the last minute with so much blood and pain that all these thoughts of hurting family and friends seemed to be liquidised into a dark cocktail of discomfort. and amidst this all, there are those golden moments...

a telephone call that rejoices in the return of a lost soul.

the celebration of time spent with a friend.

a hug from a grandson.

...there is so much more. there is a collective celebration in sharing hurt. a gleaning of wisdom and an inkling of the wonder and magnitude of God's great plan. it becomes easier to shed the baggage collected over the years when golden experiences cause the harbouring of these grudges and pockets of pain to pale in their glow. Christmas is coming. Jesus said whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers... that you do unto me. so on Jesus' birthday, lets give Him a gift. lets just love...

joy

2010-11-26T12:00:00.000+02:00

"Rejoice in the Lord always, and again I say Rejoice" Philippians 4:4

a break in the weather and the saturated Earth breathed a sign of flying ants into the misty valley - We marvelled as kingfishers, barbets and swallows outmanoeuvred each other in their aerial feasting. Incredible to see about ten different species of birds in approximately 5 cubic metres of sky. I held Aidan on my hip and his utterances of "irdie", "irdie", "irdie", swelled my chest with joy. I thought to grabble for my camera but didn't want to lose a jiffy of the impromptu airshow before us. moustached drongoes, little black flycatchers and thick billed weavers joined the fray - wingtips almost touching as the flying ants were snatched up. a couple of hadedas came in low and freaky causing even more consternation and frenzy. then, as suddenly, it was over. Aidan turned his palms upward and said nothing.

"You don't have to feel like a waste of space
You're original, cannot be replaced
If you only knew what the future holds
After a hurricane comes a rainbow" (Katy Perry - Firework)

drawing of a thickbilled weaver superimposed onto granadilla vines

hope

2010-11-23T12:38:00.000+02:00

the harsh wet storm has washed away the balls of dust from the shadows. With the feast of Christ the King, this year of shadows has all but faded away. but in the deeper recesses are secrets and burdens that will need more than a healthy storm to dissipate. Standing on the brink of Advent :: the collective faith & prayers of the believers are needed. there is a stench without and within. from the greed and corruption of public figures to the rotting of our own thoughts.

"O please tears stay where you remain
Do not fall - Do not fall
Something greater is on the way
Just hang on - Try to hang on
Try to hang on"

some say that within every person lies a thing that is both good and evil. some will say that every person is inherently good, and that it is the free choice of our conscience that impells us to lean one way or the other. I'm not sure if there is a conscience in some of the creatures I see about.

"And yet, we are all damaged, it's sure.
So there is grace"

In the north, the planet starts to get colder and people start to turn within, to seek nurturing from purple candles and firelight, as the advent season sows its expectant glow. I'm glad that here in the south, spring co-incides with the advent season, cos as the season warms into summer, thoughts turn outward and beyond. To future possibilities where all things become possible again, fuelled by swollen paycheques and the hope that after squatting for so long before the blue glow of the television, the only way is up and onward. that with correct and better planning and a dash of luck, and an angel's smile, we may all embrace in the love of the Creator. there will be those that would seek to tarry awhile longer in the shadows, that shy away from the warmth of love and the reciprocation that will erupt from within. I say extend your hand - for it is, and always will be a better place in the warmth and light of the One who is to come......soon.

"The love of angels
Becomes the love of men
O heavenly light
Takes on a earth and skin
What a Saviour - what a King"

lyrics from David Crowder's "The Veil" and pic of water drops after the rains

perfect

2010-11-03T11:44:00.000+02:00

Perfect. When I say 'perfect' in my head, its with a heavy scottish burr. I had just exploded at my daughter and stood on the deck in the rain - to cool down. less than 5 metres ahead a blurred yellow ball slowly focused into the avo tree covered with yellow blooms and the promise they held. so perfect. my breathing returned as I turned my eyes and saw the purple jacaranda next door - my wet eyes conjured a lilac halo about the tree. to the left stands a fiddlewood flaunting its spring transition from green to orange. loud colours. My emotions are always so loud. there are always tears. always hurt. the rain helps. the words soaked into my sagging shoulders. a peaceful garden caressed by rain from
above...

"Praise for the sweetnes of the wet garden,Sprung in completeness where His feet pass." (Cat Stevens - Morning has Broken)

peace has returned inside. perfect peace.

at work - A jumble of images overwhelms me: matric teenager murdered by car hijackers (down the road) woman stabbed while dropping off her kid (across the
road from work) -- then the power goes out. my work ethic dissipates in harmony with the raucous warning beeps of the dying UPS. beeps. beeps for 90 long minutes. I try to sketch or formulate some kind of positive plan of action - but my failure as a Sound Bender allows the beeping to continue. suddenly 5 minutes of flatline and then the true blessing of silence.

peace has returned within - perfect peace.

pic of my perfect daughter, Robyn - learning history

crib notes

2010-10-14T16:03:00.000+02:00

look this weather is quite magical - like a jazzy riff. it rained and rained til the trees bowed with intense respect. when the windy rain stopped. the. irregular. spats. and buzzing gurgles from my phone as it received a wad of junk email filled the dark hours - keeping me awake. numbing & exhausting. the house chilled to 14 degrees - someone had left the front door open. the clump of house keys clinked against the open security gate. the neighbourhood thugs left us alone - maybe they thought it was a trap. the garden is mud. Mr Moo digs with delight.

and then a clearish day with faded blue sky til the wind. big wind. it blows the roof off the factory next door while knobs of black clouds gather and grumble above. and I think about those Chilean miners who've missed the honky tonk weather for the last two months. an interesting fact that hasn't been rated newsworthy on the networks is that they set up a makeshift chapel in a corner of their crypt - and huddled together daily to say the rosary. maybe that's what kept them sane. the world seemed determined to find something amiss with their health - but God answers prayers even in the depths of a living dark grave. I'm thankful - thankful that people can trust, and hope, and live together. I'm thankful too, that when my front door is left open all night while wailing house alarms in the valley punctuate the torrential rains, my prayers are answered too and my family sleeps on safe and snug til the safety of the day.

"Even if the curtain falls the final time tonight
All I gave you was a lifetime...
But you gave me the time of my life
THANK YOU"

lyrics Cliff Richard - "Thank You For The Lifetime" - pic of an overflowing gutter at work

What if

2010-10-06T10:55:00.000+02:00

Heavy big drops. So I walked between them to the car. passed the untidy little black sunbirds' nest - closed for business in the pouring rain. passed Mr Moo trying his damndest to lick a little more flavour out of his well chewed bambi bone. 60% chance of thunder showers she said - which means I have a 40% chance of staying dry. the shadows have all melted away into splashy puddles. maybe yesterday's film of sawdust will wash off the batmobile as I drive.

the last song playing on VH1 this morning was the one-hit-wonder Joan Osborne's "What if God was one of us". a song I've always had mixed feelings about - I mean - where is she coming from? is she being dof and innocently singing the questions in her head or is there a challenge in there - to which we have to reply : Of Course!! Amen!! God is/was one of us for about 33 years; and if He's "a stranger on a bus, trying to make His way home" - to us, then we've missed the bus totally. If Jesus is just a passer by - a commuter - "a slob like one of us" - then we're hearing but not listening. the first pope, Peter says, in Acts 2 verse 38 : "Repent and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins, and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit." - which is a radically different attitude than sitting there thinking that forwarding mails with a Christian flavour will get you to a closer affinity to the Lord and Saviour. If you're kinda thinking that Jesus was killing time til His killing time then read the Book sucker and get back down on your knees.

the roads awash with puddles and my head awash with melodies that have already been played - I think about all my friends and family that are travelling around the home planet. A cousin just returned from Australia / a friend just returned from meeting her mom, for the first time in England / a friend and his wife flitting from Russia to Germany / and yet another friend at a conference in Rome. My trip is much shorter - less than 15 minutes - and missing all the main arterials, out-of-order traffic lights and cranky taxi drivers. And I thought what if - what if I had the bucks to go wherever I wanted in the world - where would I go? Would it be to Rio to witness first hand the annual carnival, but then there's my abhorrence of crowds and their deadly spiders and mozzies that favour the daytime! Would it be to Vietnam to cruise the waterways and experience the cuisine and wonders of oriental massage and other therapies; there's the crowd thing again and the dreaded tummy lurgies that seem to target umlungus in particular. Okay then what about Orca watching off Canada's west coast - freezing cold there tho. So whom I fooling - if I had all the bucks in the world, my number one destination would always be : home. my heart. my wife and family. my slice of heaven.

at work. greetings. a few hours of mindless slog. and then - home.

the pic is of the little Christ Thorn blooms outside Robyn's bedroom window

work ethic

2010-09-27T14:15:00.000+02:00

I had to drive Shea to her first job interview at tea time the other day. Altho it was midmorning, there was still a large number of hopeful unemployed men that sat in the limited shade of the wall outside McDonalds. Its supremely tragic how they try to catch your gaze with the premise that you will beckon them over with the promise of employment; even for a day. The traffic was thick and stuttering. We inched our way to the traffic light where a small gang of municipal workers stood. Between them a small hole in the tar gaped. One stood, hands on his hips: The wielder of the wacker. One stood and rolled a smoke. One stood with his hands on the wheelbarrow handles and waited for sufficient time to pass. A tragedy. On the news the noncommital voice described how the strikes were put on suspension while meetings between the demi gods continued. And I wondered quite cruelly if the unemployed dregs were employed by the municipality tomorrow - if they would also embark on the same bleak and empty attempt at earning an honest day's wage.

The evening before we had bombarded Shea with edifying advice and tips, which I think in retrospect must have made the idea of sitting in front of a prospective employer pretty terrifying. The crux of the advice tho - was to be real to herself.

I sit daily in front of this computer thing and question why I am here. On the one hand, I am incredibly grateful that I have a job at all. I take home an equitable wage, but the job satisfaction - indeed the work ethic have long since disappeared into the ether. Short bursts of gratifying industriousness are interspersed with greater periods of boring-time-killing-play. I feel huge guilt. Not at the time spent in play - but in the helplessness of not being able to use the time more valuably in my eyes. I say 'in my eyes', cos my employer is happy with the work I do and has said so on occassion. But to me, the equation of work and play should be more balanced. So if I am here for a predetermined reason - the paradox remains - as I can only guess as to why.

Shea got the job.

pic of Shea in the 90's at the now defunct Midmar Museum

rehearsing my observations

2010-09-14T09:05:00.000+02:00

there is a low wall under a palm tree in the courtyard at Holy Family College. Its a great place to sit and chat while waiting for the Passion Play rehearsals to begin. However, its also harbours a few ant nests just out of sight below the lip of the wall. This results in a new style of dance form: the performer whoops while bending over and then straightening quickly while vigorously slapping their thighs and butt. A few swirls and jumps are also thrown in for good measure. (move over Beyonce). Then, miraculously all is forgotten until the next ant-dancer begins the ritual. What's amazing to me is that people are mostly warned not to sit there, but that whole "it'll-never-happen-to-me" rule seems to apply to this situation too.

Holy Family College is a wonderful venue for the rehearsals. Situated on the brink of Durban, with its wondrous views of the bay and beyond. Sadly, I have one huge issue with the whole proceedings: I'm not allowed to take any pics. This is only the second occassion, strangely enough also a Christian based activity, where I've been told that photographs are taboo. This is also the first time that I've been involved in any stage production as an actor, albeit amateur; so there are many rules pertaining to the art, and related activities that I need to glean. I find it kind of strange to be on a stage without a guitar or microphone.

The rehearsals themselves are great but tiring. I play a tiny part, so there is a lot of waiting - with the huge cast, its part of the deal. A little worrying, are the comments that I'm playing my part well. I play the part of one of the villains, so I'm not sure if that's a good observation. Have I been typecast? mwahahaha (with echo).

Well the song has only begun and I'm humming along with the lyrics I don't know. But the melody is as familiar as prayer and seems to come from deep within the heart. it often moves me to tears.

pic of myself, Janine and Treasure hamming it up in LifeTeen's "The Quest Begins" in 2008

or Kestrel Manoeuvres in the Light

2010-09-02T13:29:00.000+02:00

"Somebody said they saw me, swinging the world by the tail
Bouncing over a white cloud, killing the blues."

I shut down. Maybe it was unnoticed by those around me. After 33 years of playing in a church group almost every Sunday evening. We decided to call it a day. What was mission and food became taut and tedious. I kinda slept for three days. Well really I was at work then home then TV then sleepless tumble dreams. But essentially I slept. At the peak of my submission I imagined a miniature chinese lion lying panting in the shadow of the open door. I had to turn away when I saw the challenging twitching of his tail. And spiders - invisible spiders kept climbing around my ankles.

But the mist filled the valley announcing the new season. Spring. renewal and revival. I recall a verse from the Psalms in which the writer expresses his hope in spending more time in the Temple with the Scriptures. there's a parallel line in a song from "Fiddler on the Roof": "If I was rich I'd have the time that I lack, to sit in the synagogue and pray". and I am wealthy - a realisation I came to after the weekend's retreat: "Fully Human, Fully Alive" - my riches are not monetary, far from it - my treasures lie in my Lord.

And in these quiet realisations, comes a return to reality. I have a kind of personal mission is to slowly equate myself with all the fauna and flora that's in my garden of delights. Not so easy. Most of the plants I've planted myself, so that part is a little easier. When it comes to birds and bugs, I've gotta rely on what info I can beg, borrow or steal off the internet. I saw this bird - it looked like a young falcon or kestrel. So its out with the Newmans, and pawing thru the plates, I couldn't find the little guy. When he next appeared, I managed to take a grainy snap of him. Then the family got involved. The mutual agreement was that he was probably a juvenile and it followed that his colouring was way different to his adult plumage. Patti suggested that he was a juvenile Peregrine Falcon. I digested the pages on Wikipedia, discovered that kestrels and falcons were the same family, only to return once again to our well thumbed Newman's. Upon reading the little write up on Peregrine falcons, I discovered that they were prolific vistors to the country, often seen here in Kwazulu Natal. And then I read it: they visit the country in Summer. And here we are sweeping out the dregs of Winter with a fluffy young bird with no name.

lyric from Alison Krauss's "Killing the Blues" and pic of the unnamed falcon or kestrel

The Smiling Drongo

2010-08-12T10:45:00.000+02:00

I distinctly saw the fork-tailed drongo smiling at my frustration. Sitting at the tip of an umdoni branch, sprinkled with new green shoots, I saw his feathered whiskers tilt upwards - then he swoop dived and swept away on the chilly breeze. Having become a quasi disciple of the dog whisperer, Cesar Millan - I have attempted without much success to discipline, or even communicate an instruction to Mr Moo. At a few months old, he is springloaded, and can go from 0
to 60 in a blink. At first I thought he was a little deaf, now I've realised he just ignores me. Hence the apparent mirth of the menacing black bird. Mr Moo runs down to the fence and barks to tell me he's up to no good. When I call and whistle for him - he stops barking, looks over his shoulder to see if I'm still watching, then casually slips thru the fence to go about his shenanigans. frustration deluxe!!

Cesar says that the dog can pick up your vibes - so in order for you to be 'pack leader' - you need to practice a relaxed aloofness. Can someone please elucidate: how do I practice calmness when I'm drowning in a rush of frustrated anger? Cesar will say it is the human that needs the training, not the dog - so here I sit in front of cesarsway.com with a collar around my neck - learning the basics.

And sitting here listening to Mike + the Mechanics singing "Seeing is Believing", I wonder how the man can include "Jesus", "Lord of the Rings" and "Mao" in the same song... he's singing about a response to fear, about a reponse to termination of a time, of an end (or a new beginning). Its a return to basics too, when he sings:

"I believe in the magic
in the power of the soul
one to one's my equation
that carries the nation on to the goal
we're all brothers and sisters, I'm told."
And it all makes sense really: dogs - people - life. It all starts and ends with Love. And if I respond in anger - does it mean, I do it without Love... or does my huge love for life strangle my reponse into 'anger'. The fundis say that expressing anger in a assertive way, is a positive release, when the subject understands what is being expressed. Alternatively, suppressed anger can be redirected into another action or thought. The problem is that animals, or pups in my case, already glean this 'spirit' of anger whether its expressed or suppressed. How not to get angry, is that possible? ungaas
"I believe, I believe, I believe in love
do you believe what you're seeing
Oh I believe in love."

pic of poor-man's-orchid bloom on the kitchen sill taken this morning

Wake Me Up Before You Gogga

2010-08-04T12:16:00.000+02:00

broken sleep. The genet family have returned to our roof. They're late this year. I throw my lumpy pillow to flump against the ceiling and there is some respite. Its
3:16am - a reminder again of John 3:16 : God's embracing love and the promise of eternal life. And that's how my day began. I'm haunted by the ghost of Pierre Smirnoff as he taps on the inside of my forehead, and I wonder if my dreams will chase me thru the day.

taps on. dog out. covers off the birds. MTV on. kettle on. flex brain : begin...

I used to enjoy Lady Gaga; to the point of wishing to attend one of her concerts. Her real name is Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta, hence the stage name I guess. Unfortunately she has become the very monster she calls her followers. Videos - that started off with catchy tunes and outrageous costumes, have denigrated into borrowed tunes and shocking imagery of murder, sex, violence and what thoroughly riles me: the use of religious imagery that closely borders blasphemy. In her latest offering, Lady Gogga uses crosses, rosaries and her version of a nun's habit all to the borrowed tune of one of Ace of Base's hits.

Other great artists use similar ploys to sell their wares. Rihanna, who shares the same first name as my lastborn, won our hearts with her survival of Chris Brown's domestic attacks against her. But now, in her duet with Eminem (puke) she sings lines like: "Just gonna stand there - And watch me burn - But that's alright
Because I like - The way it hurts". (Love the Way You Lie)

Its almost as she's treading that same line between pleasure and pain that lead to the demise of Michael Hutchence of INXS in 1997.

wow, I get a little carried away at times. On the days that my dreams follow me, I have been known to ride around a traffic circle more than once as is my want. Its a pity that its impossible to travel the other way too > I think there is an element of time travel in there somewhere.... to return, however, to 2 verses I read earlier, both from the Psalms: Verse 12 from Psalm 27 seem to speak out against the
adversarial leaders in the celebrity world: "Give me not up to the will of my adversaries; for false witnesses have risen against me, and they breathe out violence." (English Standard Version). and a response to the previous verse, from Psalm 51, verse 10 says "Create a clean heart in me, O God, and renew a faithful spirit within me." (God's Word) I am weak but He is strong. Lead me on.

"Lead me on, lead me on, lead me on,
Lead me on where you're going.
You know my body's tired by my heart's inspired,My hunger's growing." (Gary Norman - Up in Canada)

pic taken at a Nibs Van Der Spuy concert earlier this year

moments

2010-07-26T13:11:00.000+02:00

out of the inky dark, she turned and put her hand on my chest. Then she curled into my embrace and mewled murmurs of comfort. this is a moment I cherish. There are others too, moments; that I embrace and cherish.

"They never tell you truth is subjective
They only tell you not to lie
They never tell you there's strength in vulnerability
They only tell you not to cry
But I've been living underground
Sleeping on the way
And finding something else to say
Is like walking on the freeway"

After a couple of weeks of silent attack, we sought nurture and forgiveness. we found it once again down a hundred stairs at the beach of treasures. The sea had spewed a fresh load of shells, bones and other colourful jetsam onto the warm sand. we walked among the skeletal remains of the sea's cemetery. the sea breeze hushed the world while the waves rushing requiem chorus filled the air with the sounds of angel wings and whispered prayers. Riff chased the sandpipers that humoured him by running along the wet sand til he caught up and then flipped up their legs and circled over the swell to land exactly where they began. Moo was overwhelmed by the huge selection of snacks; from crusty bait stuck to the rocks to crunchy crab shells. He found a discarded dead fish on the sand. He took his prize into the shadow of the dunes and feasted among the yellow flowers. he ate a pufferfish. The pufferfish family are the second most toxic fish in our rockpools. it appears that Moo is immune to poisonous fish. he expelled the contents of his gut onto the carpetted interior of my batmobile: bones, sand, crusty bait and pufferfish; and then slept peacefully all the way home.

"I've been living underground
Trying not to burn"

last week I concentrated on small moments. little steps that drew me onward. my drive home in the afternoon is short, ten to fifteen minutes tops. Still I take the back roads avoiding contact with the herds. there is a road that shines. the late afternoon sun illuminates the tar to an indescribable hue. I drive without the visor down and my sunglasses tucked away in their cubby. the sun sears. it demands attention. I imagine the oft described moments after death, when the soul is drawn toward a beautiful and beckoning light. a promise. if I had to drive that road - I'd like to do it in my batmobile.

"Your faithful people, LORD, will praise you with songs and honor your holy name.
Your anger lasts a little while, but your kindness lasts for a lifetime.

At night we may cry, but when morning comes we will celebrate." Psalm 30:4&5

there is a tree. avocado. its tall, and the humungous fruit hang high and pendulous far out of reach of any ladder. occasionally the road displays the flamboyant remains of the shattered pears where they've exploded on impact. As I pass, I think about gravity and how amazing it would be it could be switched off wherever there was a tree. Airplane manufacturers would have to shield their planes' fuselages, as these green missiles would go flying skyward from time to time. flying bananas would be hilarious (Headlines: Boeing Bruised & Battered by Bunch of airborn Bananas).

lyrics "Something Else" by Gary Jules & pic taken at the beach of Treasure

true colours

2010-07-08T09:43:00.000+02:00

Colours are, and have always been, a very important element in my life. In winter, the greyness drives me inward. For me the time is one of mulling over planted seeds. plans that need to be chewed.

I find it utterly fascinating that the 2 teams that have never won the covetted Soccer World Cup, now meet in the final on Sunday. Red meets Orange. Spain meets Holland. Both colours have been both banished and nurtured in my homeland, South Africa. The orange in South Africa's old flag, with Holland's 'Vierklier' emblem and a huge stripe of orange across the top. Gone - banished.

The orange in the old flag represented the 'courage' of the early settlers as they forged their communities into new life. Unfortunately, Orange became the face of the evil regime that kept people apart. But the culture that had spilled into the fabric of the soil remained. braais - sport - ubuntu, and the rest. the courage.

Spain is red with the blood of slaughtered bulls. Its how I see it. red too in their good wine. red was also the 'rooi gevaar' that lurked under beds and below the radar along our borders. The red of communism. the previous government banished communism from our land - and it also died in some huge countries around the world. however, a seed remains, and being a relatively positive person : I will suggest that the essence of comraderie, of honouring the struggle for vindication remains. yes and ubuntu.

"You with the sad eyes
don't be discouraged
oh I realize
it's hard to take courage
in a world full of people
you can lose sight of it all
and the darkness inside you
can make you fell so small "

Martin Luther said: "Sin Boldly!" it was not the issue of a licence, but rather a statement that said we are all sinners - deal with it; and when you sin, sin boldly, so that you expose your true colours, and in doing so repent, again and again, and be healed. don't hide behind the secrets that disease your soul - have the balls to admit the wrong that we contribute to the disorder in the world.

What has that got to do with the amazing colours of red and orange? I googled which countries in our world are the safest to live in - the answers are not what you would imagine. All nations have colourful histories. there are some awesome tragic incidents that will cause the world to walk with a limp till the end of time. But there are also the amazingly shining things that have made the world the beautiful place that it is today. A realisation of the spectrum of colour around us needs to be made. Without the brooding time of mourning - there can never be healing and new life. We need to let go of the sins of forefathers. brood. Watch the Ascension and relish the return of a New Holy Spirit - to be empowered - to live.

"And I'll see your true colors
shining through
I see your true colors
and that's why I love you
so don't be afraid to let them show
your true colors
true colors are beautiful
like a rainbow"

the pic is of the poinsettia in our back garden, known as "Flor de Pascua" (Easter Flower) in Spain. The italicised lyrics are from Cyndi Lauper's "True Colours"

hidden streetchildren

2010-06-30T13:34:00.000+02:00

As I closed the bathroom window this morning, the bells on the Hill of Mary were shushed by the tyres on the distant freeway. I remember hearing the same sounds last Winter (and the winter before that). The genets haven't chosen our roof to spend the cold season this year. Its weird really, but I miss their nocturnal scuffles during the dreamless dark hours of the night. with my hands on the cold window tiles I thought of Roy. Roy of Verilamb. His carport gapes empty now. they took his car yesterday and kicked him in the ribs as thanks. the tumbling bathwater blots out other sounds 'cept the thumping of the blood across my
temples. there is no solace in naivety. the sooner you realise that being bi-curious has nothing to do with a need to shop, the better. and with the knowing comes the herd of monsters that wrack and threaten to wreck the fabric of security that was - yesterday.

so the soccer world cup is reaching its crescendo. under a bit of public pressure Fifa have sent the blind refs packing. here on the east coast, the city is scrubbed and street children have been squirrelled out of sight into Westville Prison. up here in the little Town of Pine the litter gathers around fenceposts and blows unhindered across the unswept streets. it seems Durban needs every hand it can use.

taking my steaming tea outside onto the deck, Riff crashes into my legs. We hug. his fur is growing back and has all but covered the purple scar on his chest. he gives me hope. it swells beneath the flesh of my chest and chokes salty tears to blur my vision. the yellow cotton wool sun smiles.

pic of the wind chime thingy hanging from the eaves.

some wintry thoughts

2010-06-24T09:51:00.000+02:00

I don't like the way the garden chases me indoors. the icy cold blankets the home while the dark conjures up uncomfortable secrets and numbs hungry scratchy sounds on the plastic eaves. at a time when nature should be grabbing a bit of introspective shut-eye :: I discover there has been a some furtive growth : scraggly spears of bougainvillea thorns strike the night sky - sneaky granadilla tendrils threaten to cover my composting pot and late orange gooseberry blobs fall and litter the gray grass consuming the sharp night air with their pungent sweetness. the full moon shines from the black sky, draping exposed necks and arms with icy blue scarves, damp and heavy.

"While I stand alone
A bell is ringing far away
I wonder if you hear
I wonder if you're listening"

and while the world dies (my prayers are with yours, Rodney)
there is hidden life:
Rene, next door, is expecting a new arrival in 3 weeks.
Our home now has a perimeter fence.
The birth of security and wellbeing?

Across the road of our cul-de-sac, behind the embracing natal wild fig. There is an empty house. two slats from the wall lie bent and broken on the grassy bank. A snake of water seeps from somewhere beyond and dissipates into the mushy undergrowth. Over the wall, there is another chapter of secrets. I try but don't understand the whispering twitters of the pale flycatcher perched on an overhanging branch.

"I wonder where you are today
Good luck I wish you well
For all that wishes may be worth
I hope that love and strength
Are with you for the length of your time on earth"

pic of signs I've put on my new fence - lyrics from "Winter's Tale" by David Essex

The Good Referee

2010-06-11T10:27:00.000+02:00

Every fence tells a story. We have a low rusted wire fence in front, covered in parts by a majestic bougainvillea (when in bloom). Yet it belies the amount of traffic that has passed thru it and over it; by dogs, intruders, or family members without keys. Up the road, the cemetery fence is dented and buckled, where mourner buses have graunched against it as they turn in the limited space. I guess there's always people dying to get in.

Fences need to be mended. Last night the Soccer World Cup kicked off with an incredible concert. Tho some of the acts were too localised to be appreciated by a world audience. That being said, when they played, the crowd had the opportunity to replenish their plastic mugs with local brews. The highlight, for me, was the finale :: Shakira, barefoot, bare tummy, and wearing a black and white cutaway leotardy thing, with a strange bheshu skirt. With the Freshly Ground's, Zolani Mahola at her side, they literally set the night alight with the soccer anthem: Waka Waka (Swahili for ' to shine'). Talk about mending fences :: the undulating crowds waved their flags from all the nations, singing and jiving side by side. oh to have been there.

The LORD is my referee. I am never in need.
He makes me play in green pastures.

At halftime - He leads me to peaceful waters and replenishes my soul.
He guides me along the paths of righteousness for the sake of the game.
Even though I play against the dark teams of death,

because You are with me, I fear no foul.

Your whistle blast and your laws give me courage.
When the match is done, You prepare a banquet for me while the world watches.
You bless me and my cup overflows.
I know that your goodness and love will be with me all my life;

and your house will be my home as long as I live.

pic by Andrew Bevan and photoshopped slightly by me "The Light Beyond"

Layers of Emotion

2010-06-02T09:59:00.000+02:00

I'm almost finished painting my first seascape. I've called it "Layers of Emotion". My works are a direct response to my life - I work in spurts as the energy takes me; and like reading a good book, I fear that final full stop.

we've fallen behind in our DSTV payments (again) - so last night we watched a run of home movies. They're in such a random order that one minute we're watching Robyn's toothless smile, and the next we're laughing at Tracey, Wade and Shea's rendition of some 80's tune. All the pets / the evolution of our home - but always the energy of life, love and laughter. Quite an emotional workout. In fact the last week or two has been fraught with emotional upheaval. We're preparing for Shea's 21st, which altho hugely stressful, is quite a high. Then there's the tragedy of Riff :: He had a run in with intruders the other night. We were out, so he took them on, alone. They scored with some metal fencing and my stainless steel braai; but Riff was poisoned and then stabbed. He's still in hospital. Turns out he's a bleeder. But he's one taai little warrior and he should be home soon.

So sitting in my prayer room this morning / the room which doubles as my music room and which leads into my workshop/studio :: it was good to let some quiet wash over me. We've decided to heed Shea's request and pass the rooms over to her as part of her 21st prezzie. A decision not taken lightly, and once made resounding with doubts and misgivings. ah faith. So in a week or so she'll occupy a space filled with the energies of prayer, painting and song. It'll give me a degree of peace at night when jabberwockies and tokeloshes populate the dark ... that inside : angels, the murmurs of melody and the whiff of my paint rags will certainly filter thru and buoy her up.

The last element of my painting ... is a large shell. Not unlike a conch. In William Golding's "Lord of the Flies". It was used to rally the boys together to meet. Whoever held the conch, could speak. It was a symbol of power and leadership and order. When it was crushed by a rock - civilization on the island collapsed. There is no 21st Key for Shea - she accepted the Keys to the Kingdom many years ago. Soon I will paint this conch - let no-one dare crush it.

"I know a girl,
She puts the color inside of my world
But she's just like a maze
Where all of the walls all continually change

And I've done all I can
To stand on her steps with my heart in my hands
Now I'm starting to see
Maybe it's got nothing to do with me"

John Mayer - "Daughters" - pic of 'Beads" by Shea

Wild Rover

2010-05-21T09:10:00.000+02:00

there are those miserable emails that do the rounds - some for years. As nauseating as they are I found myself participating in the one that has a set of 50 questions. The deal is that your mates will learn a little more about what makes you tick. I was pleased that my answer to the question: "When last did you cry?", was quite truthfully "I don't know". If the question was asked today, however, my answer would have to be: "yesterday". You see I've recently received the entire collection of music by the now defunked band, Genesis. (Not only the band's stuff, but the solo careers of all the band members). Not everyone's cup o' tea I know - but to me :: it was like discovering a winning lotto ticket under my pillow!!

back to the tears. I was listening to the song by Phil Collins : "No Son Of Mine." The song deals with living in an abusive home environment. The dad is the villain. Unable to stomach it anymore - the lad leaves home. He returns many years later for an attempt at reconciliation; only to be told:

"You're no son, no son of mine
You're no son, no son of mine
You walked out, you left us behind
and you're no son, no son of mine"

Now my home years were amazing. Amazing parents with lessons I still benefit from today. Not quite picture perfect, but certainly a fertile and nurturing environment, that I've tried to emulate and evolve in my own family home. But what moved me to tears was imagining stepping across the threshold of Heaven ...

"He sat down to talk to me - he looked me straight in the eyes
he said: You're no son of mine"

What if I haven't been doing enough? What if there are some people that are being treated unfairly - and I've walked away. What if I've heard untruths and slanderous stuff - and I've remained silent and closed my office door? What if ... there's so many things. I have no excuses. I am forgiven - redeemed; but only for the stuff I've confessed. Its time I got back on my knees - I wanna hear angels - I wanna play my guitar in Heaven one day - but first, I gotta sort out some stuff...

"I'll go home to me parents, confess what I've done,
and I'll ask them to pardon their prodigal son.
And if they forgive me as oft times before,I never will play the wild rover no more."

(Wild Rover - traditional Irish Folk Song) - pic of my Dad and I braaing at home in 1984

Zombies

2010-05-11T10:00:00.000+02:00

little Kayla grew quiet for a while. She was alternating prayers and petitions with her mom. Her mom asked why she was quiet. She replied that God had answered her and she was listening. Her mom said that she hadn't heard anything. She closed her eyes and prayed: "Please God, next time, speak a little louder - so my mom can hear too..."

"Another head hangs lowly,
Child is slowly taken.
And the violence caused such silence,
Who are we mistaken? "

This excerpt is from The Cranberries "Zombie". In the video Dolores O'Riordan is covered in gold makeup and stands, disturbingly, in front of a cross. The cross is empty, with dangling ropes reminding us of the violence that preceded. Dolores is encircled by a group of children armed with bows and arrows which they are aiming at the sky. The song is about the IRA bombings in Cheshire in 1993 in which two innocent children lost their lives. I have a collection of favourite music videos; and we watched this video before church last Sunday afternoon. Once again, it left me emotionally raw : sad and disappointed in people, and strangely encouraged by the children fighting thunder with their toys.

"Another mother's breakin',
Heart is taking over.
When the vi'lence causes silence,
We must be mistaken."

I don't enjoy violence. Yet, I do enjoy a good martial arts movie. It seems to get the pulse racing and inevitably the baddies come off broken and beaten. There is a sense of victory, there is comfort in heroes. I read the last verse of Psalm 137 this morning and nearly choked. It read: "Blessed shall he be who takes your little ones and dashes them against the rock!". (vs 9) You gotta read the whole thing to get the context. Basically, the Babylonians had these Jewish guys as slaves and forced them to sing "happy" songs as they worked. The psalm asks for their captors to be vanquished to the point of killing their innocent kids. However, its good to sit back in the chair, close your eyes, and think about how things changed when Jesus arrived on the scene. Firstly, He welcomed children into His presence; even to the point of interrupting His work. And secondly, in Luke 9, we read how after a Samaritan town refused to cater to Him; the disciples, James and John asked Jesus: "Lord, do you want us to tell fire to come down from heaven and consume them?" Jesus told them not to be ridiculous - He rebuked them.

You see Jesus came to stop all this baby bashing stuff - His thing was and still is - Love. We could pray that God turns up the audio, but all the answers are already written. Make War No War / He who lives by the sword, shall die by the sword / "This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you." (John 15:12)

Spiricles of Silence

2010-05-03T10:44:00.000+02:00

Sitting, and waiting for the girls, to come out after LifeTeen. The motreen sparkled on the batmobile's hood. Spice Girls, "Mama" was playing on EastCoast, quite appropriate in this Marian month.... and I thought about my own mother's role in my walk thru life, how she has given; and afforded me my own opinions.... and I thought about the other mothers in my life: my own Patti and my daughter, Tracey.... and the ones that touch my life randomly.

"I didn't want to hear it then, but I'm not ashamed to say it now
Every little thing you said and did was right for me
I had a lot of to think about, about the way I used to be
Never had a sense of my responsibility"

And as I mused, my thoughts turned to the month of 'fools', the month just past. Possibly, the month of 'foolishness' would be better. I dwelled on the night before He died. Praying in that garden before His betrayal. And I wondered if His mom and the other women of the group were there too. I wondered if all the disciples fell asleep as He prayed, or was it only the foolish few? And who witnessed His terror as His sweat formed as "great drops of blood", and even who witnessed the assistance of the angel in His anguish. and I wondered if that witness was His mom, Mary...the one who related the whole experience to the Gospel writers ... much later. and I wondered if I, if I was there too, fatigued, would I foolishly fall asleep at this dreadfully lonely and most anguished time in the Lord's Passion.

Later, much later, 2:58am - in my own garden - the light showers stopped and the absence of the cricket sounds manifested in a sound of its own, a deafening silence. and I thought about Fr Christoph's sermon. About Jesus, the Bridegroom and how He has fallen in love with us, with me.... His bride.
"Behold, you are beautiful, my love; behold, you are beautiful..." (Song of Solomon 1:15)
And I realised how much work I have to do to make this marriage work :: in my appearance and attitude. There is no question of my love of Him :: but does it show? In Ephesians 5, in verses 32 and 33, it says "this mystery is profound...." talking about Christ's love for us , His church; and drawing 'profound' parallels between the love between a man and his wife...... and His love for us.

while we were at church, Mr Moo gorged himself on fallen avos. My rambling thoughts and the silence of the night was broken by his groans and mewls as his tummy struggled to digest what he had consumed. As I let him out this morning, his mom, Sharki bounced around in an expression of love for her son....... and I wondered about and reconsidered again, this amazing thing, this Love that is all around.

(lyric excerpt Spice Girls "Mama" and pic of Mr Moo in Patti's arms)

strange days

2010-04-21T14:10:00.000+02:00

I'm not really a John Lennon fan - but I enjoy a few of his songs and enjoy the fact that he stood for Peace. I found these lyrics in his song "Gimme Some Truth", that I could've included in my last blog: "I've had enough of reading things - By neurotic, psychotic, pig-headed politicians - All I want is the truth - Just gimme some truth". I wonder if he hadn't been assasinated if he would've eventually stumbled onto the Truth that he saught. I wonder where he is now. I, somehow, don't think he recognised "Jesus"; which is pretty evident in his song "God", where he states that God is only a concept, devised by man, to deal with pain. So there lived a man who sang and lived for peace, but rejected the God who could give him everlasting peace. I wonder where John Lennon is NOW?

"Nobody told me there'd be days like these
Strange days indeed -- strange days indeed
Everybody's runnin' and no one makes a move"

Strange days indeed. In our present time; people think it peculiar that Eugene Terreblanche, who lived by the sword; died by that same implement.

Strange days indeed. Every year as the days grow colder, Municipal workers go on strike. Litter is ripped from the black plastic bags by neighbourhood hounds. Then when the strike is done - the same workers need to remove more than double the amount of refuse from the kerbsides.

Strange days indeed. Tomorrow is Earth Day. the 40th anniversary. And as the litter blows up against barbed wire fences and red sand from uncovered roadworks coat the windows and dull the paintwork of parked cars; Mother Earth spews out ash and toxic filth into the sky. Hear the warnings.

I would bet on the fact that John Lennon thought he was right in his disbelief in God. Eugene Terreblanche, went to church. He professed a belief in the same God I adore. We all think we're right in our beliefs. We all choose our own path. We all hear the warnings.

these are strange days indeed.

"Nobody told me there'd be days like these
Strange days indeed -- most peculiar, mamaEverybody's smoking and no one's getting high"

(Nobody Told Me - John Lennon) and pic in pen and ink drawn back in my Technikon days

some truth

2010-04-20T14:25:00.000+02:00

I haven't watched a television newscast for a couple of years. This year I stopped listening to radio newscasts. Its difficult to sift thru the truthlessness. The news is in the sky - above Europe. it billows and limits movement. volcanoes broadcast with lightning.

in a tent on Saturday night, the humidity gathered on the ceiling in huge dollops and dripped onto the revellers below. the sound was Cape Town's "Good Luck". the sax played thru podcasts of pot clouds. there was truth - boundless and teetering.

a while ago - we sat in the lounge - me en-chair. The heat stuck to my back. Shea passed around chocolate. I smacked a mosquito on my ankle. My eyes lied - it was a chocolate crumb. truth can be hilarious.

hide

2010-04-15T08:31:00.000+02:00

I've been silent for a few weeks. A long time ago, my Dad related to me: "Rather remain silent and be thought a fool, than open your mouth and remove all doubt!" I read somewhere too, that if you don't have anything good to say :: rather remain silent. I spent Lent in the shadow of the cross and learned much of temperance, defiance and patience. The radiance of the Resurrection is blinding and yet who can turn aside from the wonders of rebirth and hope.

Last night, our little home-group resumed our meetings; we've begun the Fr John Powell course entitled: "Fully Human, Fully Alive". Its an amazing chance to grow as all those I know, that have done the course, have enjoyed it immensely. Well, imagine my horror, when I googled the author to find he is another of those accused of being a 'predator priest'. Again the supposed incidents happened during the 60's, and again the cases were settled out of court, and again the Church has remained silent. Fr Powell has since died - but his works live on.

Madeleine L'Engle said "The house of God is not a safe place. It is where we are challenged to live more vulnerably, more interdependently." and Hebrews 10:25 says "And let us not neglect our meeting together, as some people do, but encourage one another". So, I phoned friends, emailed mentors and discussed this with family. (love the sinner - not the sin). I must just say, as an aside, that I feel incredibly vulnerable when discussing the sins of another - its judgemental and wrong - and its almost impossible to hide the log which protrudes from my own eye. Now I'm not sure if the man had/has repented, but in 2 Corinthians 2, from verse 5, Paul explains how the body of believers endures the collective pain of the sinner - and/but the forgiveness by one person leads to the forgiveness of
another. He also warns that to forego the good, just because of an impurity or sin, causes Satan to rejoice because the 'fragrance of knowledge' is not spread among the believers (and others).

Jesus, (what an amazing Man), spoke with compassion to the woman caught in adultery. It was a lesson to us. Who am I, then to convict Fr Powell? His written works are good. They increase and buoy up the faith of the community. Back in the 2nd century, St Irenaeus said: "The Glory of God, is in man, Fully Alive". So, as a good friend said, the foreknowledge of the author will give depth to his teachings:: I look forward to learning and growing with my friends as we journey through 22 sessions and become fully human and, hopefully, fully alive.

friends

2010-03-26T12:42:00.000+02:00

there are some serious repercussions to firing your gardener :: one of which is feeling the bite of the bougainvillea. Their bracts of beautiful cascading blooms detract from their lurking lethal thorns. Grasses and other vines have discovered that they are safe behind the bougie-man and his barbed weapons; so they entwine themselves making a ridiculous impenetrable hedge that keeps dogs in and burglars out. Hat - gloves - boots - and electric hedge trimmer are as useful as a toy plastic lawnmower. However, I have a new friend :: a prezzie from last birthday : you could call it a bush-knife; but its more a cross between a knife and a saw. Brandishing this 'friend' as a panga, I made short worth of removing all the overgrown thorny hedge, groundcovers and overhanging branches. a little bonus is that this tool can also reach that part of my back that itches that my fingers can't get to - which is infuriating when a fly sits on that sticky trickle of sweat - aaaaaargh!! a quick skritch/skritch and I'm back in business.

I have another friend, that when I was growing up used to come between myself and my girlfriend of the time. I could never understand how anyone could bristle with jealousy over a guitar. There have been songs written about the friendship between the musician and his 'bak'. The late John Denver and Kenny Rogers are two guys that spring to mind that sing about their guitars as equals.

"I stumble to the kitchen for a bite
Then I see my old guitar in the night
Just waiting for me like a secret friend - And there's no end
While she lies crying"

sings Kenny in his song: "She Believes in Me". Anyway, this morning I plugged in my baby, fired up the amp and while you were driving to work, I scorched the early morning with my wails and laments, and it felt so good.

There's another friend too. The depth of the friendship seems to grow deeper and deeper over the years. And even now I keep learning more and more, and I can't wait to get back in the company of my Bible - God's Word. I read a ton: books, blogs, meditations & magazines: Many people spraying me with their infinite knowledge of our mutual friend - the Bible. And thinking about the rifts and separations between Christians of different denominations and distractions, there is one thing that cannot be disputed. When Jesus was asked what the greatest commandment was; He didn't hesitate to quote the first commandment, but then He added that the second was to Love each other as we love ourselves. So if you take away all the trappings, rituals, forms, formalities from all the different Christian assemblies - there will always remain that one huge truth. Love. Love is His Word. Love is His Way.

"So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love."

1Cor 13:13

dead bees

2010-03-17T10:41:00.000+02:00

I don't mean to frighten anyone with my leonine mane of orange hair. But I had been cautioned to be super sensitive with Rachel, my new seven-year-old guitar student; as she thought that anyone with huge hair and flaming beard had to be extremely intimidating. So we sat chatting about Taylor Swift and Mylie Cyrus while trying to tie her tiny fingers into her first few guitar chords. A bee flew into the music room, and flew ridiculously close to our faces as it orbitted the space. My instructions to remain peaceful and friendly were paramount in my mind. I calmly addressed the bee, as if we casually chat about this or that on any given day. And he kinda just flew off out of the room. I think I scored huge points with Rachel.

Later that morning, Patti pointed out that there were quite a few bees swarming under the eaves of the house. They were flying in one window and out the next, especially in the bathrooms. We closed the windows and sliding door. We had always had a resident swarm of bees that nested in a hollow tree; but the only hairy incidents with them, was a couple of times when they attacked the gardener brushcutting the lawn. I learned, (from the National Geographic Channel), that bees are attracted by the magnetic fields given off by electrical appliances. So when we thought the bees were attacking, they were only responding to their inexplicable attraction to the electricity.

Nonetheless, by the end of the day, there were stacks of little dead bees on the window sills. legs up - A very disturbing sight.

Recently the world has been rocked by earthquakes in a few different countries. And here at home the weather has really shown whose the boss. We've lost our telephone, network card and router to the electric storms of late. It appears Nature is angry. A friend of mine is a pest control expert, and he suggests that the bees had fed on poisoned flowers, and that in their confusion they sought refuge in the shadows of our eaves.

Well with us right in the middle of the Lent season - its a good thing to consider Death. Our own deaths certainly, but with the promise of the resurrection and all those good things beyond the grave. The deaths of others, friends and family, maybe - and maybe, if we're not already, make an attempt at steering them back into the Lord's embrace. But to me, most importantly, is the death of yesterday - the past - sin and the Devil's embrace. Its been my focus these last few weeks :: attempting to anihilate those things that hold me back - murdering the time wasting complications that tangle my brain and trip me up time and time again.

Every time I hear the parable of the Prodigal Son; its a kind of deja-vu for me. Because I am the squanderer in the story - the one who spends my time lavishly on the unnecessary. So every now and then, I've gotta spit out those dry corn husks and run. back to Him who waits with a welcoming smile and open arms.

"Don't give up, don't give up
To return, to return to innocence.
If you want then laugh
If you must then cry
Be yourself don't hide
Just believe in destiny."
(Enigma - The Return To Innocence)

the right root

2010-03-09T14:45:00.000+02:00

For the first Lent as far as I can remember - I've decided not to give-up anything. I decided this year to simplify things. I've been thinking about 3 things that I've heard lately. Firstly, Fr Justin spoke about our 'root' sins, or those things that are never confessed, they kind of just lurk in the recesses of our soul behind a curtain of lenient trivialities. Then there's a thing I read about our 'conscience', and how it becomes calloused and hardened, so that slowly habits form that are neither Christian or morally acceptable; and as a result cannot be relied on as a meter for good and bad. And thirdly, from a sermon of Fr Des last week, where the gospel related the parable of the farmer who begs time to nurture and cultivate a fig tree that hasn't played born any fruit at all.

Yeah - these 3 things have been a real challenge for me. Just the first one, digging inside to find those offensive 'roots' of my sinful life was a real mission. Because its admitting that I've been living a hypocritical Christian existence. I found that the 'root' was buried so deep that I really battled to get it into the light. And just when I start to recognise its ugly little mug, the Devil taps me on the shoulder and says: "hey pal - go for it, who'll know??" Which of course brings up the second point : the calloused conscience. That's the reason I guess for all the temptations that trot into my mind. There was a time when I firmly believed that my conscience was like a holy reminder that whacked me on the brain from time to time and kept me on the short and narrow. However, after a good few years, I've realised I've started wearing a big helmet that cushions all the whacking blows that should knock me back to my senses.

Point three - for me, that's the real biggie. So the owner says "bring the axe" and the farmer says "give me a gap, one more year - then if there's still no change, I'll chop it down for you". Phew - whenever I read that passage before, I always thought that there'll always be another chance to turn back. Another chance to say "sorry" and pick up where I had left off. But what if - what if this is the last year? the crucial last season of cultivation and nurturing?

So this my Lent - this is my cleansing and examining. I wanna really experience a good Easter. I wanna be scrubbed and ready for the light of the Holy Spirit. this time not bury the sin, but give it the boot.

pray for me - I pray for you.

pic of the passion flower

hoods in hoodies and the suicide gecko

2010-03-03T09:30:00.000+02:00

I read yesterday that NASA scientists have discovered that the Chile earthquake knocked the Earth's axis off kilter, and now our days are now a millionth of a second shorter! Well that may be so, but my last two nights have seemed to last for an eternity.

It all started with a bright full moon, which naturally gets the dogs in the neighbourhood all excited. Around midnight the barking was becoming more than just sporadic outbursts. The three mangy ones at the top of our road wouldn't let up; which set Riff off. Normally I give him a bit of rein, then after a firm 'Shaddup!!', he tends to throw in a couple of barks for good measure and then listen to reason. Not this time - he sounded pretty serious. I opened my curtains and spotted two furtive young men, beautifully silhouetted in the moon's radiance, approaching the gate. I shouted very loudly. after a brief hesitation - they bolted. I barked to Patti to put all the lights on and I took chase. (I did remember to pull on a pair of shorts). By the time I had unlocked the doors and gates - they were long gone - and my knobkierie could be put down, unused and unbruised. The girls slept thru the whole thing.

I have complete trust in the Lord, and firmly believe that ALL my prayers are answered. There is, however, that addendum: "in His own time", to consider. So there I lay ironing the sheet this way and that. the peace had gone. I went and checked the little blue bubble car - untouched. discussed a few things with Riff. drank a glass of water (always a little salty with a few drops of adrenaline). then back to the bed of restlessness. each glance thru the curtains revealed the same view - nada. Even after my limited trust, God rewarded me with enough sleep to get thru the next day.

When you've been burgled a few times, and been thru all your own financially limited solutions to household crime and urban unrest - the offered solutions of my friends seemed pretty absurd :: tanks of snakes on my verandah / empty tanks that look like they have snakes on my verandah / trip wires / multi-shot crossbows (that one appealed to the hunter in me, but the difficulty of shooting between the burglar guards, left it a little impractical). I resolved to upping my prayer tempo and working on the 'limited trust' issue, and adding a few fluorescent lights under the eaves when finances permit.

At this point, the thought may have crossed your mind as to the relevance of the "suicide gecko" in the title. Well in the midst of all this bedlam, I have been ministered to by 'angels'. The first, of course, has already been mentioned : with his cold wet nose, bright eyes and enough heart to repel a crash of rhinos : my Riff. The second wears the largest pair of slops I have ever seen, who despite being under the weather, and enduring limited sleep because of his ill son, still sat behind our lifeless pc (on account of the recent storms) and managed to get it well on the road to recovery : my son-in-law Andrew. and the third 'angel', dealt with our recent spate of appliance failure. our washing machine in particular. The 'speed' had long since left our 'speed queen'. He replaced the shredded belt; and when it still wouldn't get beyond an asthmatic 'walk', he took it to pieces. He discovered that an Al-Qaeda Gecko had crept into the machine, and had sacrificed itself, lying across the live microswitch thingies. After his stinky removal - St Mike put the speed back into the queen, and we're back to washing the burglar blues away.

Praise the Lord for my friends - 'angels' in disguise.

"You lay a place at your table
Let me sleep in your bed
You hurt and confuse me
My queen for a day

I know I'm foolish
Harsh and unfair
Cos my hour of need
I know you'v always been there

In your hour of need
I'll be there
Yes I will"
(Faithless - Hour of Need) (pic of Riff at play)

clouds

2010-02-23T10:54:00.000+02:00

self-control is such an affirming trait - I fail dismally at it. fasting is a cleansing tool in this dark Lenten desert. There is a euphoria that results from enduring any length of pain or suffering. Beneath my heavy cloak of self pity, I cannot escape the scorching Son.

"Was he the one causing pain - With his careless dreaming?"

there are sketched outlines - I have a picture in my mind of what I'd like to achieve. I see a vacant peaceful azure sky - but I paint pendulous clouds. The green bluff that sinks its paws into the cool sand becomes a phalanx of black rocks. there are no people.

"How can I be lost? In remembrance I relive.
And how can I blame you, when it's me I can't forgive?"

this canvas does not please me. there is a danger that I lift it off the grabby easel and place it facing away against the wall. and walk away. a way.

"Why can't I forgive me?"

words can be so sensual and soft - like oozing paint onto my palette - but thoughts, spark and sear my eyes, and blister my soul. The desert is always there. The dream is not a mirage, but a promise of hope.

quotes from The Unforgiven III by Metallica • pic of Treasure Beach

hiccups

2010-02-16T09:43:00.000+02:00

Now that Robyn has hit her teens and embraced all things worldly and teeny; its as if I've begun a new chapter too. Incredible that our last-born should be such a source of learning. Not that I didn't learn much (and still continue...) learn anything from the other three... possibly I've grown a little too. Its an enabler - this age thing. One thing that hasn't changed much is her acute sensitivity :: I picked her up after work the other day; she had a case of hiccups that threatened to stop her incessant clicking on mixit. She said the hiccups were making her chest sore and even drinking water hadn't helped. Well after a few minutes, the incessant clicking on her cellphone pad was hugely distracting - even worse was the lack of conversation that I always look forward to. I raised my voice [understatement of the year so far...], her hiccups stopped!! after a little silence she remarked that she never enjoyed it when I shouted. We smiled. Then we chatted. So cool.

I am told there are huge parties in Italy today. Carnivale. Its Shrove Tuesday. Here, in our corner of South Africa, we gather together in our church piazza and guts ourselves on pancakes; 'cos tomorrow Lent begins, the 40 days of preparation and awareness that Easter is approaching. In today's gospel from Mark: Jesus warns His friends about partaking of the 'leaven' of Herod and the pharisees. (Mark 8:15) My understanding of the word 'leaven' is that its what gives bread 'life' - it has a 'modifying' influence. Until Jesus arrived on the Palestine scene, King Herod and the Pharisees were the 'manne', the Popstars of the time. In our time, our popstars continually offer their 'leaven'. In the Black Eyed Peas video of their fantastic song "I Gotta Feeling", they show dagga cookies and cocaine powder as an essential part of having a good time. Even Shakira, in her latest offering, "Give It Up To Me", which she performs with Lil Wayne, (who will be serving a sentence for illegally toting a semi-automatic weapon on a tour bus), sings words that sell promiscuity as 'leaven' for our ears to gobble. Folk I speak to about song lyrics, often say: "I don't listen to the lyrics - its just a nice song". Jesus says: "Watch out; beware of the leaven of the Pharisees and the leaven of Herod."
I hope your hiccups have stopped.
"Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial, for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who love him." (James 1:12)

pic of Robyn's silhouetted feet on the side of our pool

just reward

2010-02-08T10:47:00.000+02:00

33° in the lounge is no fun for man or mouse. But next to the sea with the breeze and all, we gambolled in our slice of heaven. Andrew made his kite do tactical manoeuvres that would make a dragonfly envious. Aidan feasted on moist sea-sand and Robyn discovered the teeming life just below the licking swell.

Actually - the little fish that caught all of our attention, was a beautiful little raccoon butterfly fish. We call it 'lunula' which is a shortened version of its proper name: 'Chaetodon Lunula'. What was very unusual was that this little baby was in quite open waters amongst the bathers - and also it is quite late in the year to see such a young specimen. The adults which can grow up to about 20cm in length have a black stripe across their eyes which gives them their name. I also saw many commons:: black-tail, mullet, sergeant majors, zebras, a couple of different surgeons. And then I saw another beauty:: The moon wrasse. Also a juvenile, this guy or girl, (as they are hermaphrodites) floated by on the current feeding on the algae and other plant life on the rocks.

And so my bliss was complete - all that was left was to pack up - rinse in the baby pool and walk past the mouthwatering braais and drive back home to the furnace in Starling Place. and driving back home I lamented the time, a good ten years ago now, when we had a marine tank in our lounge - and we spent hours in the rock pools courting and catching specimens to add to the mini eco-system - and reading up in books (not on the net) about their names and habits and suchlike. And the transience of it all replayed in my head.

This year has already proven to be a real financial challenge - but these problems will also prove to be transient. There is a verse in my favourite book : The letter of St James; which says: "For the sun rises with its scorching heat and withers the grass; its flower falls, and its beauty perishes. So also will the rich man fade away in the midst of his pursuits." (Jas1:11) Altho James is referring, in particular, to the material riches of the world, if you read on, the next verse tells of reward for enduring the trials and conflict of our daily existence. Verse 12 says "Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial, for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who love him."

I wonder what I'll look like with a crown........

pic of the Moon Wrasse from Wikipedia

harmony in C

2010-02-05T10:56:00.000+02:00

"Everybody just wanna fall in love
Everybody just wanna play the lead"

"I can kinda see where this is going: this silence"
"what do ya mean?"
"everyday the brooding gets longer and longer: I know I'm watching"
"well I got stuff on my mind - I've gotta internalise, and digest"
"an I'm burning up watching you go thru it alone"
"what do ya wanna know....its death, 2 in the last week..... and birthdays"
"what's birthdays gotta do with it?"
"hey its like a constant reminder of the end, time just ticking over, like all the clocks on the walls that have stopped - you know, batteries just run out"
"you're wacked"
"well you asked - and another thing : there's too much traffic - busy noise"
"so what are ya saying? you wanna go somewhere quiet and die?"
"c'mon - do you wanna hear this or not?"
"okay - hit me with the rest"
"yeah so what about Tiger Woods and Zuma, what do ya think about them?"
"mm brown people with lots of money and licence to bonk whom they choose!!"
"hey don't you take anything seriously? what about ethics, morality and Christian values?"
"here we go again........"
" 'kay if you don't wanna hear...."
"You gonna tell me what's really bugging you or what?"
"still on that :: its a little thing really : I've been told I've got an attitude problem and its
affecting those around me - and the crap thing is - once the anger melted, I realised he was
unequivocally on the button......."
"mm pretty crap - how do you feel now?"
"hey humility makes me itch - but I stitched me some sorry-prayers, and I'm getting on with it :: the itch is still there, but it reminds me to pull my neck in when I should."

"And we looked at them eleven ways
You said, "Look at me". And looked away
And you wrote the song I wanna play
I'll write you harmony in C" (Metric-Sick Muse)

weekend anomalies

2010-02-01T09:54:00.000+02:00

we had an 'Anything Can Happen' Saturday:: from the moment I opened the curtain events beyond human control started unravelling. I saw that the interior light in Patti's car was on. I berated her lack of security only to find she had nothing to do with it and discover the passenger door was open 'cos some miscreant had decided to see what pickings he could plunder. As this was the third time this car had been violated; there was none of the previously experienced chest tightening angst. We assessed the little damage, opened a huge bag of seafood flavoured chips (my new favourites), and watched 3 episodes of Big Bang Theory. Sheldon's nutty grip on order seemed entirely appropriate. Then : no gardener = rain stops play, no guitar student = party stops play :: and then to discover that our slutty little pup had been successful on her neighbourhood romps and was halfway along to being yet another far-too-young unmarried mom.

Then the lounge clock lied to the tune of 45 minutes and we had to scamper to get to the Pav to see the matinee of 3D Avatar = we were too late and there were no more seats. I thought of that move that street dancers do so well : brushing an annoying imaginary speck from my shoulder. 2 fresh Kilkenny draughts at The Firken took a bit of the edge off the irritation and pleasant conversation and good meal sorta swung the wheel-of-fortune a little. Not that we found ourselves lotto winners or anything - just that fate-woman had taken off her blindfold and actually acknowledged my white flag of truce.

Saturday ended on a good note - after a more than decent braai - (thanks to Andrew & Tracey) - we watched a movie I had waited to see for quite a while. It was well worth the wait :: "Where the Wild Things Are" takes us to Max's imaginary world of monsters. I really enjoyed how the monsters and Max slept in a huge pile. I'm still digesting some of the imagery and innuendo.

The weekend's ups-and-downs left the family winded. Fortunately, I had the opportunity to start the weekend with an hour of adoration at church. The night's storm had left the suburb littered with fallen branches, leaves and mud; but inside the adoration chapel - there was - peace. Peace to take home and share. Peace to prayerfully distribute. And peace to soothe my bruised heart.

"I will seek a place at Your altar - humbly draw near to You
I will hide myself in Your shadow - worship in spirit and truth"

kiss my frog

2010-01-29T10:09:00.000+02:00

Patti went to dry her hands on my towel. Her left hand grabbed a cold wet and slithery something behind the cloth. The world nearly fell out of her bottom - it was a tree frog. He was very cool about the whole thing - I think there's a touch of aloof royalty in his blood. Anyway the poor blighter leapt across to the burglar guard wrapped in strands of long curly auburn hairs. It seems he got a wedgie for his trouble. Shea came to his rescue and carefully unravelled the hair from around his little body, and he left to do frog things.

We've been inundated with creepy crawlies of late :: I was greeted by a full grown bush snake when I arrived home the other day; if only he would do his job of eating the wall-staining geckoes I wouldn't be so put out. Those black geckies are my worst - they kinda look like they've got spiky black wetsuits on; but they still squash the same - we've got an array of flat skeletal gecko flatties behind the music room door. Yeah - I think this moist heat is definitely conducive to gecko breeding. Don't you just hate it when one of their poo's land in your bath water and when you try to scoop it out with the nailbrush : the poo molecules sidestep the brush bristles and make a large slick on the water's surface. eish.

but by far the most irksome bug of all is the one that messing up my DSTV reception. I've given up trying to watch some of the programmes on certain channels 'cos you can never see the end. What I can't understand is if the huge tree that's grown across my neighbour's sky is the problem; then why does it only affect some channels :: and when you try and phone the helpline number - there's a 9 million callers ahead of you, (which co-incidentally is same amount of bicycles in Beijing), and who has the furious tenacity to wait that long? and I went onto the forum pages on the DSTV website - hey I enjoy reading just as much as the next guy, but wow there's more text there to wade thru than the average dictionary. Whatever happened to pick up phone - a real person answers - I whinge and whine - he/she chat chat - I smile - we exchange pleasantries - put down the receiver and file the info away to bring up at the next braai?

"I'd like to make myself believe
That planet Earth turns slowly
It's hard to say that I'd rather stay
Awake when I'm asleep'Cause everything is never as it seems" (Fireflies - Owl City)

Hey - hlala kahle and don't let the bugs bite!!