Feeling sadistic I decide to go for red wine on the day before my year-end exam. Talked into it, to a degree. My friend mentioned that he kissed the girl next-door. That’s all it took for me to sponsor this fuck it all event. Being a relatively senior student I had cash for cheap wine and beer.
We don’t waste any time finishing 2 bottles red Tassenberg. Switch to beer. “Te pletter” we drive away. Jamming into a car on the corner of Merriman and Strand. By accident I will state.
A chase with the police follows but not for long. Pulled off rather quickly by bikes mid way into Merriman; approximately across the University grounds. An argument with the women I drove into. In the Stellenbosch December summer heat. That’s all it takes for my friend to disappear from the foul scene. So I’m alone with this screaming woman. Her husband arrives shortly hereafter, considerably calmer. The police make me take a breath test. But to a degree I get this already. At least I’m here. Being in my shoes, I am on this pavement. I am on this pavement with spit marks. Not saying much except sorry. But I’m not “disconnected”. I’m present.
Things feel heavy behind bars. I’m going to have to sleep this feeling off on the cement. I think back about the conversation I had with the police. I did not try to do anyone in I reported. It got a bit out of hand, merely that. The detective had few things to say that really engaged me. Drawing comparisons with a kleptomaniac they caught the day before in Super Spar I drifted off. Thru the fog of the conversation I treasured only one word. Reckless. True - which I was. But really. I live in a world that is patched up with indifference. The word respect has a certain comical component in my shoes. For example, faced with time, one feels utterly defenseless. Many things leave me with a feeling of being stranded. That’s the way it is for me.
Waking up my head is a bad conflict of pain. But to a degree I get this already. At least there is nothing else to think about than my headache. It is really me that is in pain.
I is for I.
I admit it, I am not real.
All this being so serious, all of it.
Even the flakiest pencil line, on paper, will do me good.
And if I would give the slightest thought to do it, a well painted circle on canvas will keep my fulfilled for an afternoon, like a brisk morning swim.
It is incredibly effective, one has to admit. This machine on my desk.
Humming slightly but nevertheless. It is all, so easy.
It is my habit. I have become so at ease with the keyboard.
I have the opportunity now to watch myself bending over an antique looking notebook, with a black pen, hand in hair, in a relatively crowded Starbucks in Friedrichstrasse Berlin Mittel. It is 1 pm. I am opposite 2 nice looking girls.
The black cup of coffee is untouched.
The page is blank while he searches his mind.
He is telling himself what he will do when he gets back.
I am telling myself what I must do.
Like Gatsby's list, I am even numbering my actions.
As if I am robotic and needs to be programmed.
While I went for a #1 next to the road about 5 years ago I stumbled on two puff adders mating.
But I am telling myself so much stuff, you know. It is just a nice thought.
I admit it.
I am not real.
Sunday morning. A picture of a couple lying in bed. The cat, the newspaper.
Soft shade. Jazz. Fruit on a white plate.
This is not my picture. My picture is not this one of communion.
Dishwasher packed and turned on; I shoulder a bag with camera and notebook.
A walk to Starbucks. Café if you want to call it.
I’m preparing a text for the mind to keep afloat.
Abreast with this mantra people will whisper he is a new man.
A picture of a man in good state.
I will use this mantra to finish laps in the pool. This mantra will kick in when my alarm clock goes off.
I like to think of myself as one prepared not too look left or right.
I will stick to the business of repeating the mantra.
They will say - he understands the meaning of the word Surrender.
In the sea there is a fish a fish that had a secret wish, originally uploaded by vague blur.
My 1st painting used text.
I made this painting “So What” in a town Stellenbosch.
Saw many subjects that year. That town has no shortages of beautiful young girls. When the German Shepherd Cloë ran back home from our jog, the race was on. I ran this dog in the terrible heat of summer on the way to Jonkershoek singing “Take a look at my girlfriend”. You all know that song.
It goes “She’s the only one I got”.
I used this mantra (So What) to keep afloat. I took 3 days off and toured the streams surrounding the town, taken to Hemingway. It is really fabulous to imagine yourself to be Hemingway.
I made my 1st painting that year.
New linen on the bed and that catastrophic song on the radio made me remember.
To step out of the shower not to know if damn sleep will come even proximate.
Also, I washed the dishes (the machine did anyway).
Everything was done yet I carried a knife by the heart not to be undone easily.
Listening to that song my mind goes there, there precisely.
Phoning from the hospital. Her voice. Pulling the drip upstairs my mind by gone.
It is only I that transfer, I that know. Not even she knows.
It was only I that appreciated that murderous desire.
I can imagine how they met. Usually these things do not excite him a bit. Let me be clear: She is a goddess. He must have begged to Eros that night. Answering the phone the next day she probably knew immediately. It was crystal. They got married in 2 months. One say why wait. She moved in with him a couple of weeks in advance; they got thoroughly drunk, all over each other like rabbits. She called her friend afterwards. He smoked a cigarette with charade. I will never write about her (by herself). She will not be in my memoirs by herself.
Terminally uninspired, eyes fix to pavements. That’s what they call a linewhore.
Invites for the evening I decline. Roundabout 8:30 I take 2 Valerian Root tablets.
Nonetheless, at 3AM I usually wake, proceed to the kitchen and slurp a glass of milk.
I’m not sure if I dream of digits.
On the other hand.
She who I adore. Preserved, fragile.
A field of flowers.
Let say it rains, the clatter of hoofs.
She is untouched by the talk like kitchen towels, by routine.
In the world where I exist she will decline me.
I walked around and try to see a lot. That was the plan of action for Berlin.
It was a matter of time then I’ve seen too much.
I could feel the panic already of all that I’ve seen.
Thru some of the exhibition rooms I fled, speeding like an escaped goat.
I scarcely looking left or right, it was only a matter of time.
Outside the cold was nailing my back. Berlin it was in February 07.
I had a visibly bad leg and a mosquito flew into my left eye, it published a red layer all over it. I was going down.
I could stare at a gigantic pink shoe in a museum or the changing shadows in a display of light felling thru what looks like a chicken shed for hours.
I would sit down at dinner, exhausted, eating my pen’s back, notebook clutched between my legs. I pursued one ultimate goal.
Going fucking plain, as stripped as possible.
Straight after the Eisbein I hit the sack. It was recommended that I don’t dwell around in bars after 9. Alcohol was banned for me of course.
I walked around, sipping coffee, ideas shooting thru my mind like colored straws pushed into a jar.
Under the Brandenburg gate some splendid filth - that album of Peaches.
Discovering the hiding places that mystify a city like Berlin.
I’m that dead bulb in your picture she says.
In Dublin now the daylight keep long.
It’s a little thing that helps at this point.
I’ve been getting ‘the interest’ for a few mannequins.
I’ve been told I should not mention it.
At the same time, you know.
Some of them make me look twice.
Not bad, not bad at all, I tell myself.
They certainly display them well.
I know where is this going to get me.
Currently in Dublin, the day is long.