THE VISITOR

Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too? 

Douglas Adams

‘What do you mean?’ Maureen’s jaws had stopped pumping. A large soggy chunk of orange pound was now stored in her cheek.

They were sitting on Beth’s diminutive back porch drinking Earl Grey, eating cake. “You’re the only person under sixty I know who invites people round for tea and cake girl” Maureen had said over the phone when Beth had asked her to come.

Now she sat squished into one of Beth’s wicker chairs, her jelly fish stomach struggling tautly against a caftan above her lard thighs. A bright orange tie—dye headband held her course hair off her big face. Beth liked Maureen but couldn’t look straight at her fatness. It embarrassed her. The delicate porcelain cup with its hand—glazed pink flowers looked like a toy in Maureen’s farmer’s—wife hands. Maureen winked over the rim at her. “I need to take you to a jazz club sometime and show you how we boogie in the 21^st century”.

It was a perfect day, hot and still; the lavender, motionless, sweated under the golden sun, leaking its wild scent into the day. The only sound aside from distant traffic was the zzzz of a heavy bumblebee that mooched torpidly from head to head.

‘Just … I don’t know. Don’t you ever wonder what happened to them?’

Maureen insulted the day’s stillness with her characteristic guffaw. “Happened to them? But sweetheart, they were never there; figments of the imagination at best, explanations for unsettling mysteries at worst. Perhaps a few of them were personifications of rivers or bogs ... or high windy hills”

Beth fell silent fanning hot air onto her face with her hand as she gazed at her garden. A small white butterfly skipped along the scruffy grass. She didn’t have the heart to pull out weeds. They were also living plants weren’t they?

“They must have been real on some level” she said; “even if it they were just an energy pattern in the collective subconscious or something like that; they weren’t just stories made up to scare children with… they were really there. People left milk out for brownies and carried charms to protect themselves when they travelled. We were aware of them; even if they weren’t physically present they had enough influence to make us engage with them; hence the idea of them as etheric beings.”

She looked back at Maureen who had one thick eyebrow raised towards her moist, messy hairline. “Where did our magic go? Now it’s all strip malls and cheap soap—opera values. We no longer speak to the bees or honour the cycles of the moon or wait for the sap to rise before we harvest our herbs. I think we’ve lost touch with something wonderful”.

Maureen’s voice was flatly sarcastic; “Something wonderful like imagining little winged people in green hats living at the bottom of your garden?”

“Ugh whatever” laughed Beth, and then said, “oh that’s nice”. A cool breeze had blown through the thin hem of her summer dress, the fine white—blonde hair at the base of her neck. “Yeah” said Maureen.

The bumblebee had disappeared. The lavender heads bobbed and the grass rustled.

“People were terrified of them you know” said Maureen. “Most of the folklore involves getting rid of the little fuckers”. Beth winced at Maureen’s vulgar language. “No seriously. All the stuff about cute little banquets with lights and tinkly music in your front garden is a Victorian fantasy. Folk lore is more concerned with how to stop them… you know…abducting children… what were they? Changelings; even brownies turned vicious if they didn’t get their milk. Contact between the two worlds was never a happy event; not for humans anyway. It was something that people got away with by luck or irrational fluke.”

“I suppose… but I prefer the Victorian version. Gentle folk; Fair folk; Shining folk; halfway between angels and man; and they are more than welcome in my garden”

The breeze had picked up and was soothingly cool. A cloud of midges had blown in and spun wildly in their microcosm. The lavender heads bobbed noisily. The garden whispered.

“Uh huh” said Maureen; “Orlando Bloom is welcome in mine”

Beth laughed “You’re irredeemable! Anyway; what’s wrong with believing in something that makes you happy?”

“Orlando Bloom makes me happy.”

“You have no romance in your soul.”

Maureen looked at Beth with cynical amusement; she could be pretty irritating that way, thought Beth… half looking down her nose and smiling as though she knew more than Beth did.

“Tell you what girl, wear some glitter in your bra if you want magic in your life you’ll feel much better. It’s never healthy to believe in fantasies. They tend to dissolve when you reach out to touch them. I think we need to get you on a date sometime soon. You’re going batty like old maids do”.

Beth smiled, rolling her eyes.

“Listen, this was great, thank you.” said Maureen. I have to get going though – can I help you wash up quickly?”

“Fairies will do it for me” winked Beth.

She escorted Maureen’s huge body as it stomped through her comparatively narrow passageway to the front and drowned temporarily in her goodbye hug. They made an arrangement for the next week and Maureen went down her front steps like a great ship leaving harbour. Beth stayed to wave as she drove off in her SUV. Then she hurried back to the garden. She’d sensed something there; something more than the insects and the grass blowing in the breeze. The talk of magic seemed to have evoked … she couldn’t say what but she wanted to see.

She reached the porch and glanced over the garden. The busyness that had been there moments before was gone. The garden sat as if feigning innocence. She looked searchingly through the quietness and saw nothing. Disappointed, she picked up the tray from the wicker table, pausing to look once more just in case she had missed something; and then, in a moment of pure inspiration she whispered; “You will always be welcome here. Always and all ways.”

She didn’t see, as she turned to walk in with the tray, the little shadow that scuttled into the house behind her. Black in colour. Coal—dust in texture. Spider—like in movement. Malicious of heart.

What you Probably would Rather Not Hear

I made myself very unpopular with someone the other day.

The lady in question makes “healing jewellery” out of semi-precious stones. I think she sells about R4000 a week. Good business.

Now I’m not one of them, but there are people out there who believe that crystals have curative properties. And being the earth loving, lentil eating, patchouli wearing activists that they are, there is a huge outcry among them regarding unethical crystal mining.

Unethical crystal mining incidentally is where you get a crowd of callous non-vegetarian Mexicans with beards to rip crystals from mother earth using explosives, tractors and cranes.

Ethical crystal mining is done by asking the brownies to grow them in their little gardens after which they are lovingly hand harvested and traded for cow’s milk.

But seriously. Crystal mining comes loaded with ethical problems like child labour, explosive open cut mines and chemical pollution; just like any industry that maximises profits to feed global demand.

I had to ask:

“Are you aware”, I probed gently, “of the ethical issues surrounding crystal mining?”

“Oh yes” she said. “But they’re going to blow the stuff up anyway and as long as I’m not personally doing it…" her voice trailed off here as her thinking scattered into sub-cognitive fog.

Well you can imagine how the rest of that conversation went. But as I was driving home I thought about the general state of things and realised that we are all guilty of this kind of dumbed-down inertia.

Somehow we don’t connect our sushi order with the near extinction of blue fin tuna, now being fished from the worlds oceans at a rate of 20,500 every fifteen minutes. We’re not thinking about the pending water crisis as we flush nine litres of fresh, drinkable water down our toilets every time we go pee pee. We’re not realising that the plastic bottles, Styrofoam containers and bags we see lining our beaches and streets wouldn’t be there if we weren’t buying the soft drinks, fast food and groceries that came in them.

It’s actually bizarre that this kind of cognitive dissonance exists considering that a) most of us care and b) most of us know the drill.

We need to grow up about this and understand that we are not the victims of corrupt big business, or incompetent government. Big business only exists because of our Rand by Rand contribution.

No one holds a burning flame under the seat of your pants to shop at three-layers-of-packaging-Woolies instead of supporting a corner grocer where you can purchase fresh vegetables that come in an eco-friendly cardboard box.  

No one forces you to burn all your lights at night, use disposable diapers, buy plastic toys for your kids, buy soft drinks, buy plastic bags to carry your groceries home in, avoid public transport, swap out your cellphone every two years, print your emails, buy fast food, use your tumble dryer or buy first hand appliances.

We need to realise that we are directly responsible for the dire big picture situation we find ourselves in. It is not the fault of some amorphous “them”. It is our own consumerist apathy that has made things the way they are. We are no longer in a position to assume that things will change without our contribution.

Perhaps we need to stop caring so very much about this and instead, start to look at it in real life terms. Ethics can go to hell. Our ability to curb our consumer mentality is directly related to our continued capacity for survival. 

Simply put, if we don’t understand our contribution to the global crisis on a personal level, if we don’t start changing our choices, we will find ourselves within the next twenty years living in a world where acid oceans, climatic chaos and poverty will be our heritage.

Sins of the Spirit

3rd degree’s recent coverage on the top five blingers in South Africa got me thinking.

Our Deborah got herself comfortably settled into one of Khanyi Mbau’s leopard-print armchairs with her usual agenda – in this case, specifically to get under The Queen of Bling’s skin and break down that empty headed smugness.


Go Deborah!


She made some pretty hard nosed statements too. Comparing Khanyi to famous-for-being-famous Paris Hilton, she … well, impotently… implied that Khanyi’s lifestyle was inherently immoral saying: “In a country where we have such extreme inequalities, to display wealth so ostentatiously is no different to Marie Antoinette saying “let them eat cake”.


Actually it’s very different. Khanyi is not the queen of Africa. She is not answerable to the people of Africa. She’s just a simple girl who got lucky.


Deborah didn’t get under Khanyi’s skin either. The bling queen hardly batted a false-eye-lashed lid as she rode the storm of criticism, secure in her right to the exquisite opulence she commands. Good for her.


If Deborah had had any inkling of the actual ethical issue at hand, she might have wiped the floor with Khanyi; but she missed the point entirely.


While there are many who think Khanyi is awesome for being stylish, perky breasted and rich (which, in their view makes her an aspirational role model) there are those of us who cringe with perplexed repulsion at the mere thought of her. We know instinctively that there is something wrong; we just don’t have the foggiest clue what that might be.


Khanyi is the unwitting ambassador of a value system which is becoming alarmingly prominent in all levels of our society, from those who rent swish apartments in Camps Bay right down to those who live in Khayalitsha and keep a single starving cow in their metre wide back yard; one where our primary life aspiration is to affluence - not for the educational or altruistic opportunities that it provides but for the mere sake of unrestrained and mostly unaccountable indulgence in extreme consumerism; being able to buy whatever you want - be it the 1x2 meter TV screen, cocaine sniffed through a crystal straw, truffles flown in from France or the power to experience any sensual fantasy you dare imagine.


We’re starting to choose rich over enriched.


Khanyi tells us that she started out as a girl with a dream. That dream was to become famous for her work. She found a short cut to famous by marrying money. Now stupidly rich and workless, she insists that her dreams involve owning a private jet and being able to throw parties where everyone sips the best champagne.


It makes one feel a little sorry for her, really. It makes one realise that she is as much victim of the consumer driven value system that is raping our planet, our minds and our time as those who look enviously in at her from the trash laden streets through the windows of their television screens.


Whether these values are morally wrong or not is a separate debate (unless you take sustainability of planetary resources into account, in which case the argument becomes a no brainer) but it makes one wonder if Khanyi ever managed to answer to her heart’s desires rather than chasing money in a vain attempt for fulfilment.


We all know that excessive consumerism may be entertaining for a time, but what the heart truly desires cannot be bought; authenticity, connectivity, respect, eureka moments, love, creative inspiration and humility in response to beauty. These are only available when one gives something of oneself; when one looks out and chooses to give instead of wanting and wanting more.


And yet, it seems that wealth has become the sole benchmark of success for us. We have chosen to respect each other for what we have rather than for who we are. We are so out of touch with our extinct ethics that when we experience vestigial distaste at the likes of Khanyi, we have no idea why we feel the way we do.


Yip, it’s a funny old world.

The Janitor

So there’s a man.  A quirky, kooky man, who has decided to do something about the Pacific Gyre trash heap. Some of us sit gnashing our teeth impotently and lamenting what we’ve done to this beautiful old world. Others don’t want to hear about it, their sense of tragedy being too much for them to bear confronting it. A few are too brainwashed by consumerism to care.

But Richard Rinehart is sitting up late at night, piecing together drawings of the machines that he hopes to lash together out of scrap iron and military salvage with the help of a bunch of out-of-work welders in San Felipe so that he can haul his arse out to the Pacific Gyre and start fetching plastic from the ocean on a shoe-string budget.

The Pacific Gyre (and this applies to all the world’s gyres) is miles away from all of us. Yet, it is all of our problem. It is an uncompromising testament to the fact that the way we live needs to undergo radical change. Change that we have no idea how to implement. Most of us have no idea how we would even start to contribute to cleanup.

Many have said that the world’s governments need to launch a group effort, but we know we’re fooling ourselves; governments have more far more pressing problems to deal with. The various research foundations involved with the project simply don’t have the budget or the manpower and the rest of us have a living to make.

The gyre has become the embarrassing room in the house of the world – the one we shut the door on so that guests won’t see what’s mouldering away inside.

Enter one madcap hippie and his junk ship. Superpower: Janitor.

His vision is clear; his heart and will aligned. Presently he is looking for a steampunk engineer who will help him design and build his spare-parts trash collecting equipment.

His initial trip to the gyre will be done with a 1/20 scale mock-up so as to iron out practicalities and establish a working system. His long term dream is to scrape up corporate or government funding wherever he can, and build a ship mounted machine that will pull four and a half tonnes of plastic debris out of the ocean every day, compact it and take it back to land where it will be fed into existing large-scale recycling systems that produce building material from waste. “If we have 30 of these set-ups working together,” he says, “it would be a party”.

You can shoot Richard Rinehart down easily. Pick apart his half formed plan, laugh at his lack of large-scale funding, dismiss him as a kook. Or you can admire him for the courage it takes to recognise that something needs to be done and to elect oneself as the person to do it while the rest of us mumble into our beards or stand around in helpless bewilderment as the portly sea lion, the playful dolphin and the ominous albatross choke on our debris by their hundreds of thousands.

And if you think about our history as a species, it always takes this, doesn’t it? For one person to make a start; to leap off the cliff with some wooden wings strapped to his shoulders. Then others follow, offering support where they can. If they do, Richard Rinehart stands a hope in hell of succeeding.

If we do, perhaps it will show that we humans are not such bad eggs after all. That we are still able to come together out of our own free will, step away from the money machines that lock us into consumerism and achieve the ideal of living in a world where we can say that we have showed some respect for the creatures that live with us instead of destroying the planet for the sake of our own greed.


http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=564366903#!/pages/People-in-Support-of-Richard-Rineharts-Pacific-Gyre-Cleanup-Project/164166763619697

Love Letter

 

Soft pillow

Wrinkled sheets

My arm around you in your 

Warm dreams

Ears up

Nose tucked

My darling... how i love to feel  your belly rise and fall with each breath 

As you snore like a fucking tractor.

Hans In Love

Hans pushed his shopping cart down Finnigan Road and enjoyed the feeling of the Cape Town morning sun warming his back. His shoes flapped against the tar where the soles had separated from the tops, and the string that held up his pants chafed against his hips every so often. He smelt the morning air, and knew that this would be a good day. True, he was poor, he wasn’t good looking, and he probably stank a little ‘cos his last bath had been four days ago; but today, he was buoyantly happy. Today, he had a New Girl and he loved her with all his might. 

Hans scratched in the dustbin of number 25. There was an apple with a bite taken out of it exposing the rotten core, some tins with scrapings in the bottom, and some vegetable peels. He left them. The bin at number 27 revealed half a Kentucky chicken burger and a clump of chips right at the top. Oh yes. Betsy would like that! Hans wouldn’t touch it, even though his stomach was grumbling a little. He would put it in the bottom of his trolley and save it for his lovely new girl with her knockout smile, and the playful twinkle in her eyes. 

The woman from number 29 was sweeping her stoep as he walked past. She was usually quite friendly. Hans stood a respectful distance away and bowed servilely. She glanced up and smiled; the smile was a little forced, a little tense, but it gave him the gap he needed. 

“Hello Mies.”
“Morning Hans, are you well?”
“Ja mies. Is mies well?”
“Yes I am thank you Hans.”
Hans straightened up and put on his sad face.
“Mies, does Mies have anything for me today please? I haven’t eaten since Tuesday.” It was a risky lie, but worth it. He had someone to look out for now; someone special. He didn’t want to go home without something nice for her. The lady from number 29 scowled slightly and said, “I’ll see what I have Hans, stay there.” He waited for her and thought about Betsy. 

At his age; to have found such joy in the company of another; to have found someone who understood him so completely; it was impossibly wonderful. He scratched his buttock and found a new hole in his trousers. Oh Well. Maybe he’d find a new pair today. 

The lady from number 29 came out with half a loaf of bread.

“Haai thank you Mies,” he said as she handed it to him, turning away as quickly as she could. “Sorry Mies,” he could see her irritation building; “sorry Mies, sorry.” he repeated, “Please Mies, do you have a little money for Hansie? Just a five rand or a ten rand?”

“I’m sorry Hans, I can’t give you money,” she said sternly, “you know it’s for your own good.” Her expression’s thin veneer of compassion betrayed a thick wad of impatience; she wasn’t going to give him more. Ah Well. He could have the bread, Betsy could have the burger; and there were lots of dustbins left. 

He was missing her already. He’d thought of bringing her along, but he hadn’t wanted to tire her, so he’d hugged her tight and asked her nicely to stay and wait for him, promising her that he would be back as soon as he could. He hadn’t wanted to expose her to these people with their disapproval; didn’t want her to see the way they looked down on him. He’d thought it might upset her a bit. And what if one of them were nasty to her? He couldn’t bear the thought. At number 48, Hans found a two litre bottle with some flat coke in the bottom, which he drank. At number 57, a T-shirt that had been used as a rag; no holes; it went into his shopping cart. 

When he got to number 60, his friend Clive, who had just arrived home in his bakkie, greeted him enthusiastically. “Hans! How are you today my broe?”

“Nee, master, I’m good today,” said Hans smiling.

“Hey dude. I have some work for you,” said Clive. Hans had a bit of a headache from the sun, and he was tired from pushing his trolley all the way from the railroad tracks, but work meant money. Money meant that he could get something nice for Betsy; so he pushed his trolley onto the pavement and helped Clive to pack some building rubble onto his truck. It was hard, heavy work and Hans hadn’t eaten yet; he wanted to wait till he got home so that he could eat with his new girl! As he lifted planks and chunks of cement, he thought of the way she looked at him, and it made him feel warm inside.

“You look happy today my broe,” said Clive as he watched Hans work. What’s happened? You win at the horses?”

Hans couldn’t help cracking a wide grin. “I have a new girl, master” he said, shyly.
“Haha that’s great,” said Clive, but his half smile told Hans that he was thinking; “these fucking coloreds… breed like rabbits… unbelievable.”

Hans didn’t mind. He knew it wasn’t like that. He had found true love; even though he was just a vagabond, Betsy didn’t seem to mind. She’d already made it clear that she loved him for who he was. Hans was ready to bet poor old Clive didn’t have that in his life. He finished loading up and wiped his dirty hands against his dirty pants with their new hole. His head was throbbing now, and he was a little dizzy and covered in sweat. He stood patiently as Clive thanked him and went inside to pull money from his wallet. Clive wouldn’t open his wallet in front of Hans; as though he thought Hans would grab the money and run.

Clive came out of the house with a whole fifty rand! “Go get that new chick of yours some good wine Hansie, no meths you hear?” He laughed.

“Thank you master, thank you very much,” said Hans, bowing repeatedly. With this, he could buy Betsy a meal fit for the queen that she was! He put the money carefully into his pocket and pushed his trolley off the pavement. He pushed his trolley all the way to Steers at the bottom end of Brooklyn and bought spare ribs for Betsy. His heart sang as the lady shoved the box into his hand. His new girl was in for a real treat! They both were; he would have Kentucky, she would have Steer’s ribs, and then she would lie in the crook of his arm and he would whisper the story of his day to her, and every so often, she would kiss him gently.

From Steers, he walked all the way back past Finnigan Road and on to the abandoned railroad tracks where he lived. It took him an hour and a half. The whole time he walked, he smiled to himself. He knew she was going to be happy to see him! She would be even happier when she saw what he had for her!

Hans went past the tracks to behind the gutted station house building, where he had found an abandoned, rusty old carriage for himself. There were lots of old trains lying around here, decaying slowly in the sea air. Betsy was in the third one from the end, a rope around her neck, where he’d tied her up that morning. He was anxious to let her loose. Maybe she needed to pee. 

He climbed into his carriage and called softly. She was sleeping peacefully on a bundle of blankets on the floor, her nose hidden under her elbow. When she heard him she sprang up in delight, her little tail wagging so fast that her whole bum wiggled with it. “Betsy my darling, my new girl,” said Hans. “Just wait till you see what I’ve brought you!”

3 am

3 am no footfall.
A city on pause
Its streets anointed with silence
Its Buildings discontinued

The city trees brush the cheek of night with sentient leaves
Bringing down the dreamtime,
bailing out the old gods
Who dance hoke-ily
Balancing on their crutches
Leaning on their zimmer frames
As they long for the good old days
When fragrant grass cushioned the ground under their ticklish hooves
When gamesome vines tangled in their horns
When they laughed
Under the honey scented sunlight
In the first year of the world