Out Of My Control

Outside, darkness chokes town in a tightening grip of ever decreasing circles, as December chills cling to every wall and crawl into every corner; while snot freezes on the Beagle's nose; while pigeon feathers splinter in the freezing cold; while ice cubes clatter loudly down the road. Pity the lack of snow.

Inside, the fading evening is illuminated by the heavy, warm embrace of the soothing, orange-yellow-ish glow of dying candles, as it sends calming, ever-so-comforting ripples across the stillness of my sea of eternal numbness. Pity the lack of a storm.

And as the bottle steadily empties, the future looks - for the fraction of a fleeting moment - brighter than ever, while I watch it slip through my fingers and fade away like the last chord of a lover's lament. Pity the lack of love.

And through the shielding glass of the window, I stare down into dark alleyways, where predators with slicked-back hair ostentatiously pound their puffed out chests and chase their eager, mini-skirted prey, while the White Rabbit stares at me with bulging, begging, blood-shot eyes. It checks its watch and shrieks "Don't dawdle! There is no time!", and impatiently pulls my sleeve.

And while the predators victoriously dance around their hunted prey, I wonder whatever happened to the faithful soul, whatever happened to constancy, whatever happened to the things we vowed to do? 

Should I smoke this cigarette while I watch you bleed? Should I join the hunt or lay down to die? Should I let it pass and ask myself what could have been?

"Relax.", says the Hookah-Smoking Caterpillar. "It'll all be fine. There's still plenty of time ..."

Box Of Rain

'Stay hungry. Stay foolish.'

Steven Paul Jobs passed away on October 5, 2011. He was 56 years old.

Thank you for giving us the future. You'll be missed.

Image used with kind permission from Wired.com.

Summer In The City

This year's May ultimately unmasks last year's August as the deceptive and shamelessly lying crook it turned out to be.

While the ones' name promised joys of summer, making merry in the greenest of meadows and frolicking in the sun, it let the heavens pour at leisure instead, sucking all the colour from the sky, crowning weary mountain tops with unwanted caps of snow, reintroducing cardigans to an audience dying for the tiniest leftovers from a memory of warm and sunlit childhood summer afternoons.

The other - proud, loud and self-assured in the glistening sunlight - is far ahead of its time, blinds you with over-exposed imagery, belies its ancestral place and mocks the changing of the seasons with its overheated temperament, wanting to be top dog in a summer yet to come.

I look down on crooked rooftops as they simmer in the brightly burning afternoon sun. The heat parades triumphantly through streets, leans on terraces, lingers on squares, and invades the most private, hidden corners of the city.

Dehydrated tourists stagger aimlessly through winding cobblestone alleys like drugged lab rats through a maze. Water spills from a bottle and evaporates before it hits the ground. Steve McQueen completely loses his cool. A pigeon lights up like a match as it lands on the hot tin roof. I scatter its ashes across the concrete below, while a premature summer laughs in the rotting face of winter's corpse.

"Shadows Grew Into Giants And Died As The Sun Burned Orange And Sank."

It is the only sentence taking root in the mind. The rest is blurry, out of focus, as both brain and eyes are distracted far too easily from the excellence that is the text they should adore:

The ant that scuttles along the farthest corner of the eye. The wave of cheerful laughter wafting over from the Bistro across the street. The young, stout, arse-wiggling girl with the overblown makeup of a parisian drag-queen. The roaring noise of passing cars that always seem to come in threes. The brief moments of silence in between it all.

I take a sip from my cup of coffee. It has been sitting in the glaring sunlight for almost half an hour. It is nearly cold. A mosquito sits on the saucer. It flaps its wings, feeling its way on the unfamiliar surface like a blind man, slipping, falling, landing on its back, struggling back on its feet, performing the strangest dance on its porcelain stage.

A cyclist approaches and gracefully parks his bike alongside the hedge that borders the beergarden. The way he flounces across to the tables exposes him as the show-off he is. He takes a seat at the table next to mine. In his attire he looks like a member of a SWAT team, a fireman from a future where they don't read books anymore, but burn them instead. I firmly hold on to my novel, as for a split-second I expect him to produce a flamethrower. It turns out to be just a lighter. As if to belie his outfit and his athletic build he orders a pint and lights up a fag.

The cyclist uninvitedly introduces himself as Heinz and throws sentences over to my table. I smile and nod occasionally, resort to the briefest possible replies, while still trying to read. It is in vein, as the verbal bombardment increases.

While still trying to remain polite I decide I've had enough. I look at the sky, then at my watch, and pretend to realise how late it has become. Swiftly I drink up and pay.

I apologise to my newfound, unintended friend and make an exit, as shadows grow into giants and die, as the sun burns orange and sinks.

Funeral Spring

The sky is an orgy of grey and blue and yellow, as I drive into a busy Saturday morning. The streets are bustling with cars of all makes, shapes and colours. Like little baby spiders they scattle out from under every stone, out of every hole, rushing frantically through the madness that is morning traffic, changing lanes like a crazy murderer on the run from an overzealous law enforcer.

I shut out the insanity around me and turn up the volume of the car stereo. Roky Erickson's "True Love Cast Out All Evil" provides the perfect soundtrack, as I leave the city behind and follow the straight, vulgar, invading grey line cut into the gentle beauty of the rural landscape, which is already showing signs of spring's zenith.

All the fields of rape have already turned from bright and even plains that blind the eye with colourful, yellow monotony into a checkered mess of darkish green and dying yellow. Adjourning fields, then brown, exposed and naked in the glaring sunlight, are now covered by a silky blanket of pallish, swaying green. Trees with branches groaning under the weight of clusters of white and pink now lounge in gentle green, while the remnants of their colourful dresses lie rotting in the sprouting grass.

Sunlight bounces off the windscreen and the sky changes colour yet again, as impressions of an ageing spring make way for the return of civilisation. In the distance, six broad and busy ribbons made of asphalt, each one speckled with tiny dots of colour rushing to and from its circular centre, meet to form a star, as I take the lane that gets me on the motorway.

Here, madness is swift and comes in shiny, polished disguises. As usual I try to occupy the middle lane, and while I leave the lorries behind me to the right, groaning, puffing and blowing as they carry their heavy load, the cavalry thunders past me to the left. Porsche, Audi, Mercedes, BMW. The fast lane - a catwalk of the vanities. Bored and lonely drivers revel in their voyeurism, as they are rushing past. I did not invite them, yet they nosily peer inside my car like they would peer inside my living room, windows open and curtains drawn back.

Again I turn up the volume and listen to Roky once more, while outside the race continues. On the motorway. In a race where there is no winner, no first, no second prize. Yet everyone still wants to finish first.

Ghost-Town Of My Brain

Lonely winds send tumbleweed across neglected alleys, as I stand by the dusty roadside of my mind. Glaring sunlight bounces off the fissured asphalt and blinds my hazy eyes. There's a dead poodle rotting away in the remains of a puddle. A flock of wild piglets feeds on its bloated carcass.

In the distance looms the tattered silhouette of what has now become a ghost town. I meander through its empty streets. Blunt, revealing sunlight stares at decrepit roofs. Mad coyotes rummage through dented dustbins. Dust gathers on keyboards. The silence is unbearable and there is only so much cricket chirping a man can take.

"Stop meandering down memory lane", grunts the old shepherd. "Move on! What you want, what you are looking for, we don't sell it here no more!" His complacent and sardonic grin grimaces at me through rotten teeth, but I know he's wrong. The shop around the corner isn't doomed quite yet.

I was not lost in the jungles of Argentina. In fact, I have never been there. And while the hands have been idle, the mind was not. Knuckles will be cracked once more, keys will be punched yet again. The brimful drawers of the mind will be emptied and webspace will again be wasted.

And while I contemplate, let us marvel at a glimpse of spring:

January Git

January passes almost without mention. It is bitterly cold and its funeral is dreary and bleak. The brass band never shows up and there are no mourners, except for the drunken beggar and his crippled, one-eyed dog. They stare into the open grave, while a murder of crows glides through the heavy, grey sky, carking noisy insults at the pathetic gathering.

The priest holds his sermon. It is short and plain. There is nothing much to say, yet I reminisce while the coffin slowly descends:

The last remnants of the festive season gradually disappear. Skeletons of christmas trees, deprived of their tawdry evening gowns, litter the pavements. Grandchildren rush into shops and exchange unwanted presents. The last of the Christmas decoration is put back into its dusty dosses.

Spring rears its sleepy head and nature hints at April. Sunshine briskly glares at naked roofs. White becomes brown and green. Footpaths become sludge and melting snow reveals a plastic bag, carelessly thrown away on a cold December evening walk.

It lasts a fortnight, until winter launches a successful comeback, descending upon the world like a predator on its unsuspecting prey. Again white is the dominant colour, and while Australia is being swept away and revolution ripples through Arabia, here early morning life comes to a stop, as the world drowns in a sea of white feathers. Busy townspeople arm themselves with snow shovels. Their battle cries - aluminum on asphalt - are heard on every corner. Their fight is brave, desperate, in vein.

Roads are littered with cars helplessly sliding across the road, dancing their dance on a slippery stage in uncoordinated symmetry. Display of chaos by the ballet of the disabled. The performance lasts until nature surrenders to salt and steel and finally the curtain falls. No-one applauds, no-one bows. Everyone moves on.