WordTheft

Vanaand gaan ek al my trane stort/ want iets is kort/
iets is kort/
ek's so bly my voet is hier op die ou pedaal/
hosepipe stuur 'n gas wat sluimer/
en kom om my te haal/
bye bye bothaville/ bothaville/ bothaville
ek's so bly en 'n bietjie nervous/ oor die hiernamaals
ek's so bly ek kan klaarmaak met my/
vervolgverhaal

 

I'm well on my way to listen this cd to death. Some of it is indeed about death, a la own hand. Everything sounds so much better in your mother tongue. Even the sadness of nothingness. Not that I'm at all that way inclined. But this music is growing on me, in all it's garagey rawness.

 

sy staar net na haar Bybel/ te bang om die boek oop te maak/
sy lewe kuis/ amper nonlik/ haar kamer ken net een persoon/

 

Ichigo (the feline man in my life) has found a new favourite spot. He't got some strange habits. Whenever I shower, he patiently waits outside, on the towel for my freshly washed feet. The moment I get out, he gets in, and sips on my soapy water. It's our shower routine, exit stage left. Recently he's taken to lounging on my pc monitor when I'm typing, with his sleeping head hanging over onto the screen. His ginger head looks lovely with the white notepad background, framed by my paragraphs.

 

en ek wonder hoekom alles/ altyd moet ontrafel/
en ek voel so fokken eensaam/
al is daar mense om die tafel/

 

In my ideal home, one day, the house where I'll watch my children grow up, the house where I'll cook meals for a family, in that house, my one day house, I want an orchard. It must be the most wonderful thing to pick fruit from your own back yard. We had a lemon tree, a peach tree and an apricot tree in the house where i grew up. My mother made apricot jam, and these little fruit rolls that I voraciously anticipated eating, and stole before they were completely dry. I don't particularly like jam, but I love the smell of it cooking, and the sweet foamy suds that drift to the top. One day, I'd like to walk through my back door, and climb up into trees to pick baskets of plums, mangoes, avocadoes, I'd just sit my trees and gorge myself on fruit, juice running down my arms and chin. One day...

 

driepootpot/
voetstoots gekoop by 'n heks/
ek kyk hoe wit pap kook/
jy's in die kombuis/

 

While I'm on a roll using other people's words to watch this space, here's a Why for those struggling with Point 4 (sponsored by the Fans of Mister Robbins foundation):

 

To approach sex carelessly, shallowly, with detachment and without warmth is to dine night after night in erotic greasy spoons. In time, one's palate will become insensitive, one will suffer (without knowing it) emotional malnutrition, the skin of the soul will fester with scurvy, and the teeth of the heart will decay.
Neither duration nor proclamation of commitment is necessarily the measure, but finally there is a commitment (however brief), a purity (however threatened), a vunerability (however concealed), a generosity of spirit (however marbelled with need), an honest caring (however singed by lust) that must be present if sex is to be salubrious and not slow poison.