Where was I? I think I'd just finished a conversation with her. We were sitting in a
park on a sunny afternoon in Winter in Cape Town. I'd just told her that I thought
that I was good, inside. I said that I could fly out and go crazy, wild and always, always,
return to that goodness.
I'm listening to my Suede album to workmen clacking outside. It reminds me of my
ex-girlfriend and I outside the art school at Wits in Joburg. I desperate, unable to
look at her even on my birthday when she gave me the album. We had broken-up. I
was so destroyed and never new then what I'd go through with her for the next five
years. We would see each other again and again sitting next to the road on cold
mornings. Listening now to the CD and looking backwards in my room, listening in
a different way: the notes, meanings, combinations with a truck starting it's engine,
almost six years later.
Lovely here these days in cape Town. Minds wondering, thinking such good, hard, things. Hard
things, so I must be mad, I think.
There is nothing more sublime than the self and the self then carelessly, running.
Left only to return later. There is a deepness that we walk on. A deepness
unsubstantiated which echo's as we walk. In an odd way, in the people we see,
between cars and trees.
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