Clever buggers..

I heart mosaics. I heart the spark of friggin genius that does this kinda stuff. And if i had a girlfriend this is exactly how i would say "i heart you, babe".

Margret blinked again

"That's.. me. I'm a lampshade?"

Three weeks ago it was a block of wood. Now it was a face, geometrically arranged to capture hers, with a red lightbulb grafted to her fixed palm.

Margret didn't usually bother with that room in her life. The way she saw it, one's life was like a house with many rooms. And that if one always thought this way, one day she'd also have a house with many rooms. That room, where lampshades and art belong, she called "the extras" - also stored there was her make-up, pictures of her parents and her beadwork.

'You're not a bloody lampshade,' the artist defended, 'you're a light-giver!'

Mother. Wife. Daughter. Teacher. Prostitute. Breadwinner.

She sold her an inch of her soul everyday so that dinner would be hot and that her boy could one day write his matric exams.

"With a good education and pride in himself he'll never become like his father.." that was the steel resolve that kept her fixed on tomorrow. Today was killing her, but tomorrow would save her.

He'd turn out different. He'd be strong enough to open his heart to a wife and to the world. He wouldn't pour every fucking day down his throat.. and send his fucking fists at her drowning eyes.. He would spoil his wife with gifts and he'd never let her sell her sex to pay his bills. He'd remain the man her daughter-in-law fell in-love with.

He'd be nothing like him. Thanks to his mommy who kept the light on, no matter what.

My shadow makes a cameo 

 

For Craig who loves Rhinos.. 

House on Fire. A simple archway transverses Colonialism and Tribalism.  

Bricks are pixels. Walls are masterpieces.

House on Fire is the child of two brain hemispheres. The left is an architect; the right, an artist. In between: magic. There is not a person visiting this blog that should not go there. It will humble you, as all genius should.  

No matter how much lime is in your limelight, God always steals the show.

Another mindblowing sunset in South Africa. Another crap day in London.

You were joking about the cane rats, right?

Nope.

Fuck.

Sealy Posturpeadic was no match for nature's fluffy mattress..

It was 4.45pm and about time for a nap in a sugarcane field..

I'd told Thomas that cane rats grew to the size of cats and enjoyed feasting on ankles. That got him very nervous. But after a long drive and some local herbology it was lights out..

Roughly 1 hour later I woke up to a low-muffled growl. I thought it was a fucking cane rat (which of course, don't growl at all..). I was so fucking scared* until the Great Dane licked my face.

I'll take slobber over mangled ankles anyday.)

* Note to self: never believe your own bullshit

Like all victories, we celebrated finding the way to Swaziland with a coke.

And an absurdly large amount of weed.

(It's a miracle we made it home.) 

..lost!

..bloody..

so

..are..

We..

Hellooooo isssss annnyboddy ouutttttherreee...

(Thomas took pleasure in scaring the forest animals with a modern viking war cry.)

This is so Blair-Witch..

Just because we misread the map, took the long road, got lost in the woods.. does not mean I can't spontaneously strike a pose.

There.

Let's just fucking get there. So long Barbarton.

Not much to do in ole Barbarton except play pool

And these fuckers are good. Allow me to illustrate: a ball is centre table. The white ball is on the end cushion, also centre. My opponent slices the ball and pots it in the centre pocket. Not easy, china.

The oke was so pissed he could barely walk, let alone see. And he kept crying if he missed a shot. Actual tears, man.

He slaughtered me in 5 shots.

He must've had it in for me 'cause he also tried to coach Thomas with secret 'Barbarton pool hustler tips' into beating me. Tom decided to get the guy to cry again by losing on purpose.

Niagra falls..

"Is jy blou bulle?!!??"

Thomas and I nodded hoping to avoid hurting the drunk mullet's feelings. Hennie then insisted we help start a conga-train through the semi-packed Iguana nightclub.

And thanks to the cheap booze and remoteness to anything vaguely familiar, we did.

For like 15 seconds.

Okay, it was a minute.

And a half.

Read every last word

Click on the image, squint till its legible.

(This is one of the many relief pieces on the walls of House on Fire.)

The couple

I don't care if the music is kak
I don't care if they call us "over-the-hill"
I don't care if we're not wearing Diesel
I don't care if we've both had the shittest day
And I don't care if her ass is smaller than yours

(Ain't love grand?)

Hotel Phoenix

The only place taking in strays like us in Barbarton.

Needless to say, they don't make'em like they used to.

(And thank God for that.)

Queen Victoria stood in her stetsons

"Fucking locals..." she thought as her Adam's Apple lilted on the third note. "They just don't get me.."

The Iguana wasn't packed (not like last Wednesday, after the match), and no one really paid attention to Her Highness' song about farmboys-in-love. The bit about the goats was also particularly disturbing.

She was born Victor in a town where women can blind-test Castle and Amstel, and tell you which's which, and the men frequently cry as they screw up a pool shot.

Couldn't have been easy. Respect.

The border closes at 10.

Brent: "I'm a tad pessimistic."
Thomas: "I'm a tad optimistic."

We didn't make it. But we sure made Barbarton.