Find us on Google+ my wits' ~ licentia vatum: September 2010

Thursday, 30 September 2010

thought for the day

Ask not what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive... then go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.
-- Howard Thurman

"The strength or weakness of a society depends more on the level of its spiritual life than on its level of industrialization. Neither a market economy nor even general abundance constitutes the crowning achievement of human life. If a nation’s spiritual energies have been exhausted, it will not be saved from collapse by the most perfect government structure or by any industrial development. A tree with a rotten core cannot stand."
-- Alexander Solzhenitsyn
(1918-2008) Russian novelist, Soviet dissident, imprisoned for 8 years for criticizing Stalin in a personal letter, Nobel Prize for Literature, 1970
Source: National Review article (Sept. 23, 1991, p.24)

"I have great sympathy for the oppressed but I do not expect them to be
morally superior to the oppressors. I merely expect them to be oppressed."
-- Jerome Barkow
Source: Dalhousie University, 1989

salvation, at the zoo lake

The first gig I dragged that young woman to, was the Salvation Army Band playing the Zoo Lake in '62.

We would've stormed the gates if they'd apartheid-ed this neck-of-the-grassy nod to the old colonial mother-land, Empire and that-sort-of-thing.

It was my first taste of brass, and broke my milk-teeth on it, it pulsated and glinted so hard.

I must've been four-or-five years old. The genre, and name of the band, 'Dang-a-Dang', shaped with hard consonants.

Later still, it shaped into Tijuana Brass and finally Loose Tubes, live at Ronnie Scotts, London, via Koh-i-Noor Jazz Bar's many exquisite lessons-and-treats (Blood, Sweat and Tears, Chicago, et al) on Kort Street, JHB

That first escort of mine, my Ma, would refresh my memory years after.

She lives still, through her fine musical spirit, and her unfettered spirit of freedom, afraid only of, as she would demure, " man, only God"

The Salvation Army Band plays, in j'annah, under Bibi Hejira's ferociously free eye and untethered ear

Wednesday, 29 September 2010

voodoo chile - jimi hendrix (1942-1970)

The night I was born, lord the moon stood a fire red.
Said the night I was born, the moon turned a fire red.
My poor mother her cryin', she said "The gypsy was right!"
And she fell right dead.

Hey, and he said "Fly on, fly on!", 'cause I'm a voodoo chile
Lord knows
I'm a voodoo chile.

The dainty bin

A wife's earthly attachments, peripheral feminine accouterments a woman bound to naturally, lie around.

I observe the phenomenon, objectively, as a natural -- ok -- kitchen scientist might, seasoned by hard earned experience, now mere curiosity, sans expectation.

She concludes the non-expectation. As she must. Buys a dainty trash can.

Now both feminine things lie around.


skop, skiet and blunderbuss

The (street wise) thing they did in Fordsburg.

"Hold me, hold me , I'm gonna hit this guy. I'm gonna hurt him...".

Sometimes they let go of him, register the panic, "Ok, ok.... I would've hurt him, badly"

 ("... stop, me, please, this, validation, connectivity, social networking; it's not real, don't need it")

Tuesday, 28 September 2010

thought for the day

You know, the very powerful and the very stupid have one thing in common, they don't alter their views to fit the facts, they alter the facts to fit their views, which can be uncomfortable, if you happen to be one of the facts that needs altering.
-- Doctor Who
Source: The Face of Evil

I sit on a man's back, choking him, and making him carry me, and yet assure myself and others that I am very sorry for him and wish to ease his lot by any means possible, except getting off his back.
--Tolstoy (via Imran Garda on FaceBook)

People sometimes rationalize their greed by saying that it is all for the good of their children but this is nothing but an excuse they use to make their despicable actions appear respectable and praiseworthy.
-- Democritus (460-370 BC)

Monday, 27 September 2010

the visitation

Occasionally, often never enough, I visit the khabrestaan
Among the rock-beds of strangers and loved ones, all at one for death, rest the remains of my beloved mother.

On the occasion of my last visit to her grave-side, I encounter Esa.

I know Esa in passing, and approach him as -- most do -- the resident neighbourhood eccentric

The  exchange, de rigueur, complete, not always easily accomplished with Esa, it occurs to me, in the emboldened state purchased at having looked the dead in the eye, to risk enquiring, further, his purpose at this staid, old jaunt. At lunch-time on a Sunday.

Vacant. "My son's buried here".

Both involuntarily still.

"He was killed, a few years back, returning from a party celebrating his high-school final year".

Stopping short, I imagine him sparing me. "You didn't know?"

"Everyone knew. They, you, should do. There were three of them, kids still, in that accursed car, that night, starless and bible-black*. At the prime of their lives".

"... Allah knows best", he might conclude.

In a moment's reckoning, I understand that eccentric is an easy way of maybe saying, t/here's good cause for him being, if he is, unhinged.

Meaningfully -- defeated, to be sure-- I splutter, quietly.

"So... you come to visit...", searching for the right phrase, not sure to use 'him' or 'his grave' or 'your son' or your 'son's grave', ".., like every week -- every Sunday?"

"Well", he smiles, "he  won't visit me now, will he?"

No. I aver .

We part with the salaam, hands clasped briefly, then observe -- there's nothing else to be done -- slowly, deliberately, his making his way to his son's tender grave.

Esa is clean, shaven, kufya purposefully on. Shoulders hunched, in his Sunday best, the conversation with his son fragrant with the evergreens he bears for the visit.

the musician

A player should come to a gig first as a human spirit, second as a musician and third as an instrumentalist.

Too many players reverse that order.

-Herb Pomeroy

Crash Landing

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot

S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep… tired… or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."

. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

zoo lake, maghrib

african fusion dusk
jazz.  children
twittering, so the birds;
mini jam/a/a(r)t alfresco, falls gently as
One, to sijdah
Evening prostrate
ushered by Hand
drawn in  Torch, fire-red

once in a blue(s) moon

When I was younger, they dragged me off to the shrink.

Now it's the barber.

Got to be shorn once in an equinox.

Now & Zen(apologies Robert Plant)

Rhapsody on a Windy Night by T. S. Eliot

Twelve o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions.
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Half-past one,
The street-lamp sputtered,
The street-lamp muttered,
The street-lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."

The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.

Half-past two,
The street-lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
So the hand of the child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.

Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smooths the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and eau de Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain."
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars.

The lamp said,
"Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."

The last twist of the knife.

Sunday, 26 September 2010

hell is other people

Sartre said.


met the Don's son

at the Zoo Lake today, Peachie!

PS mentioned the muti shop on Becker St !

thought for the day

The Indian conceived an eager desire to learn wisdom from the Master of Life; but, being ignorant where to find him, he had recourse to fasting, dreaming, and…incantations. By these means it was revealed to him, that, by moving forward in a straight, undeviating course, he would reach the abode of the Great Spirit.

- Pontiac

in search of the lost chord

in search of the lost word

Saturday, 25 September 2010

Friday, 24 September 2010

schoenberg was naf

European culture is stylized tribalism, no more, no less superior to anyone else's cult.

Depiction of performing chamber orchestra in last night's movie , Chloe -- engaging film at Rosebank Cinema Nouveau --  case in point.

Savagely beautiful, but savage. An air of refinement. Just that, an air.

Qawali, say, a lot more honest, unpretentious. and uncondescending.

PS Texan Chilli Burger at Spurs, perfect. DVD thereafter, nice close to Heritage Day. Courtesy vrou

I made 8 cents with adsense today

 Daddy, that's just humiliating your self. Mikayla

do you still crave, after 25 years?

yes I do.

will expound on it after I beat it down to the ground. Insha-allah, god-willing.

PS monkey's always on the loose, not always visible eh

Thought for the day
If the saint drinks a poison it becomes an antidote, but if the disciple drinks it, his mind is darkened.. Mevlana Rumi

post jumma lunch easy, attention deficit in-order

My son's working his guitar, picking-and-strumming his way through Stairway to Heaven, off his own bat (with a little assistance here and there of course from his mother and I, friends Reza and Jeremy, and his teacher Paul).

Sound stuff, this.

Experiments on the 12 string, the steel string, the classical, tapping, hammering on-and-off, percussing (on) the thing.

Never forced or compelled him. Didn't want to try live my thwarted ambitions through him. He just more-or-less over his 12 years on the planet, would pick-and-fiddle, bash, claw at the thing, as it suited him.

School had been complaining -- interminably. Teachers, OT's, even the shrink, kept saying to us, he's short attention span (what's the current jargon, attention deficit disorder?) A little defensively perhaps, I would say, to myself mostly, well who isn't?

Most apparently successful, well-adjusted careerists can't sit through a meeting without drifting, picking their ontological noses, or fantasying about fornicating (with) the secretary, or some such, and that's OK. Capitalism seems to be built effectively on the idea of A Portrait of The Yuppie as a Young Man (nothing inherently wrong with that, pretending that it's otherwise is).

And some of those, the secular priesthood -- neo-missionaries,with a chemical attitude and power-suits for qurtahs -- who've been co-opted to oversee the wellness of the system and rationalize it, reap the dubious rewards of stigmatizing healthy children.

Give me the Ritalin actually, and finish off the act for the day, with the Valium or, preferably, the barbiturates there's a stockpile of. Weapons of mess destruction.

You've forgotten what you were like at age seven, or so? The magic of perception. The freshness of experience dismantled, frontal lobotomy style, by a mind-numbing system housing killer-boring, fractious adults posturing tiredly as teachers for 6 tedious hours at a stretch, daily?

Tameez is a dreamer. I know, he caught it from me. And because they've quarantined me on-and-off for this infectious condition, have been saying to him, "my china-little, you got to learn how to get effectively through the system, learn to work it, else you're gonna have issues".

Seems he's been figuring the stuff out himself anyway. He's doing alright.

And making sound noises for the coolness of a father's ear , whilst he works things out

Thought for the day(via
Truth shouldn’t always be revealed. One should be careful , by repeating the proverbs, generated by hypocrisy and misunderstanding ( Abai, “Book of words”, 29 word)


Noor Inayat Khan

I first encountered Hazrat Inayat Khan, the Sufi mystic and musician, through interviews I read with the great musician John McClaughlin, one of my all-time role-models for guitar playing.

The story really got fascinating when I discovered the story of Noor, Inayat's daughter, as follows:
"...the first female radio operator to be sent into Occupied France to aid the French Resistance..she was[ betrayed, captured and] executed..."

Thursday, 23 September 2010

Mikayla's friends

Beautiful kids,  Rumana (12),  Zafeera(7) and Uthman(2) .

penny, thought a day

recovery, the confessional
...when the penny dropped, turned out ('twas) counterfeit

For the Ex-Wife on the Occasion of Her Birthday by Thomas P. Lynch

Let me say outright that I bear you no
unusual malice anymore. Nor
do I wish for you tumors or loose stools,

and this too shall pass

it's your life, do as you please, you will anyway, with or without the thin veneer of accordance you might deign to confer on your wilfulness

A rose by any other name?

thematic apperception test

It pisses me off when my willingness to try to remain open to others' needs and foibles, my mindfulness is trashed by licentiousness or carelessness in their actions, deeds  and words.

Wednesday, 22 September 2010

thought for the day

The human race's prospects of survival were considerably better when we were defenceless against tigers than they are today when we have become defenceless against ourselves.
-- Arnold J. Toynbee (1889-1975) British historian

music and literature, a blessing

there is no profit to this... they've always said so to me.

A curse; observation?

thought for the day

Boredom is the feeling that everything is a waste of time; serenity, that nothing is. -Thomas Szasz, author, professor of psychiatry (b. 1920)

the headmaster

Met a man whom my Dad's befriended in our neighbourhood, who works as a head-master at a school in Soweto. He chose to share, immediately , perhaps spontaneously, provocative and interesting facets of his life, observations pertaining to drug-ab/use locally.

thought for the day

if you want your children to be intact, love not only them, but their mother. Anon.

Think this simple notion is the single-best homily that serves me

uncle willy

insisted that if I observe carefully enough, a 10 year life-cycle characterizes (most) our lives.

rheumatoid arthritis

swollen feet better than swollen head, I s'ppose

crosby highlander

I crawl to 172 this week, it's been a long, long stint

pis-ta & chio

 ..classic rock and coffee, whilst I ponder poverty and other bits-'n-pieces of con-fusion.

George Thorogood playing right now...'i want 1 bourbon, 1 scotch, 1 beer...'

carry on...

...jou ma se moer.

sorry, a south africanism I can't help myself with this morning

PS Sid James was born and raised in South Africa, no?

h'it the ground, mu'a's'ala -- knots worth 'standing

If you could just be still,
stop rushing round and round
in search of God—
You'd find Him as your Ground.

-Angelus Silesius

Tuesday, 21 September 2010

where do i stand

in relation to God? Best you ask him. And be sure to let me know what he says please

Monday, 20 September 2010

this flight tonight - april '85

We s'mile-stoned the eve of departure, to Broadway Lodge, a Drug-and-Alcohol Treatment Centre in the UK, at a Pizza Hut not far from the Carlton Centre in the Johannesburg Central Business District.

the real gabooza - blind faith

 ...that drone in the air has always been there, think I've just been temporarily distracted by my life, and the dunya.

thought for the day

Fill your bowl to the brim
and it will spill.

Sunday, 19 September 2010

sin and cure

Proselytizing against the same New dis\Order which facilitated his sinecure, my erstwhile acquaintance--erstwhile artist--now Chief Clerk in an increasingly undusted corridor of the bureaucracy nominally responsible for the arts, our nouveaux ethnic bwana of note-and-noire segues into the ooze which necrotic tissue, wantonly seeped as incontinent rant, may miraculously still further be misbegotten as spewed chic

A case of the brag being worst than the bite? His woof worst than his warp...

rough hewn shaving(s), addiction

...the inscription on the tablet reads; eat of the (good) things.

Free-base cocaine is pure enough as a human device, to flatter.

Mimicry,  really,  though, this emulation of the smokeless fire of the djinn.

Delusional, a semblance (similitude?) of God brushing your forehead with divine light. It is not the light though, this dance, wisp of the smokeless fire; danse macabre in your case always, for you are human, not djinn.

No easy passage to nirvana, this, or any other, for that matter.

The ill-prepared, ill-timed journey, with provisions one can only but be blithe about, has rigor mortis set in before its allotted time.

And because it's not (yet) your time, for arrogating to yourself the divine prerogative, a more profane death for you, many times over, than death by its dutifully, arrogant and cynically-obliging, and timely nature always is

university of(f) the street

numerus clausus: dead-in-your-tracks, a stymied tertiary education under the g'Nats. I

numerus clausus

nice phrase, for how the Nats stopped my formal education


loosen your grip, before it loses its

g(l)owering your g(l)aze

cover up, please, you're not too sexy for your shirt, nor as cool as Narcissus, the more for it, a jactitating ass

Saturday, 18 September 2010

if you don't listen, I will

...beat you with my miswhaak.

If the cap fits

No fear of truth being stumbled on, nor sought, hunted down and lynched by the frenzied mob, or by your clever friends, or you for that matter.

Truth just petrify's by neglect and refracted logic, the same logic that serves concealed self-interest

Teaser and the Firecat

Prefer crunching on Cat Stevens' grit to

thought for the day

The artist is a receptacle for emotions that come from all over the place: from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape...
-- Pablo Picasso

smoking in bed, domestic guernica god even fled the scene of my crime last night

Friday, 17 September 2010

dervish spaces

In the sinews between the light, I, nose-twitching-in-a-slightly-too-refined-air

fowl, merghu?

the day Fowlie learnt to drive, spelt the end of life as I knew it

pappa was a rolling stone

mamma was a 5-time a day namazi-- with music in her soul

Papa Was A Rolling Stone

Rashid Vally, my friend's brother

When the formal light of learning and advancement is, perforce, made

Rashid Vally -- somebody up there digs me (Kohinoor Jazz Bar)

Rashid Vally grew up in downtown Johannesburg. The Champion Buildings, where he was born in 1939, still stand on Market Street today.

note to me

Nasser and Sumaya visited, cool couple, whole bunch of good things I need to observe, not least of which Bhaylu


treat spaces and things, everything, as sacred,

Paint it Black

Talking to the dead this morning,

Thursday, 16 September 2010

thought for the day

Let there be no compulsion in religion.

1977 haze

baby, you're a big girl now

recovery from addiction, a year on(1986)

Silence compounded, on an edge

thought for the day

Hast thou seen him who maketh his desire his god,

tough morn

Grateful to medical science--at least today. Without cortisone, I might capitulate to my shoulder's inflamed aspiration to be excised

to be

I have to make music every day. It is my oxygen, and without it, I perish

parlez-vous français?

european civilization, be con of light for mud-people,

how more romantically can "piss-off, we don't like your kin'" be articulated than in that sweet language of love, Français?

Django Reinhardt, will Nicolas Sarkozy disown him?

...for reign, legion

Wednesday, 15 September 2010


Oscar Wilde is alleged to have said, "It's better to have a permanent income than be fascinating".

If you have neither attribute?

Tuesday, 14 September 2010

ditching spring...

...too light, and airy

oil-can guitars and the double-dutch

Hard to reconcile certain contradictions,

keeping up appearances

Saw Physician Specialist earlier this year. Annual general check-up, shy of twenty odd years late. Instead of clean bill of health, got more like a punitive fine of five grand -- for not keeping up (with) appearances?

Heal Yourself: Hypnosis , cheaper?

crisis? what crisis!

August, higher education institution, three member panel interview, for software developer position.

Stock question, "So, how do you deal with a crisis?".

wahabee funk

Ta'Limul Islam, Rudiments and Theory of Music -- strange bedfellows, strange attractors, rest on their laurels by my pillow side.

...hardy bouys

fe'roza, m-air'dim- fr'end, aye, ancy stal' wi'd

...happened to be in London in '88.

Feroza, journeying on ANC/UDF/Woman's League business to Canada, looked me up.

Robbie Jansen

Pacific Express, Estudio... Spirits Rejoice, Robbie Jansen in attendance


I'm nothing if not the greatest cultural procrastinator the Boorany tribe has produced,

death of a salesman

Because the deceased are evidently unable to defend themselves, we're not to say anything negative about them.

The Lahnee's Pleasure

‎"You worry, you die, you don't worry, you still die. Why die?", barfly.
The Lahnee's Pleasure by Ronnie Govender

sound ideas the kids, off-key musings on music instruments spelling

confusion will be my epitaph

Listening to the sound of one hand clapping, it's in 5/4 time, and it's not Take Five

Imbibing a revolution

My late friend, Ahmed Pochee(Magic), had a namesake. The obituary

Monday, 13 September 2010

Magic - Ahmed Pochee (Ryklif), 1956-1995

Frienchy (sometime Haroun Dadabhay) taught Magic and I (how) to play The House of The Rising Sun on the guitar; we were fifteen.

The three of us would jam on it daily at one stage, after school at flat 503, my ma's blom-spot.

The song was a Makhosa House special too, Dynamos' Club, a little young to attend we, but still did

Magic had a huge impact -- on me, and just about everyone who knew him, growing up; apart from possessing the gift of laughter  -- at everything -- he'd always be singing...

...could never catch (up with) him; no one could, but (finally) did death...

Sunday, 12 September 2010

the eye of the tiger blind

a hadeeth profane

pontificating last night to my better half,the islamic idea that god conceals one's sins.

In my stride,'Die here het gese...', when she interpolates,' jy poep, moet jy tjoep'. Scraping my jaw off the floor, still, what's left off it.

Dear Aunt Air-Gonnee

Sometimes,when my wife has a go at the kids for their tardiness, I back her up righteously, smug

no one came for miles around

...and said man, the music is really hot

proko vision

wirling jam with Prokofiev and Rachmanioff


The Unbearable Lightness of Lay Lightly Salted Crisps.

Next: The Dialectics of Paan.

(nothing if not a khotch-khauw)

Dialectic of Enlightenment (Cultural Memory in the Present)The Unbearable Lightness of Being: A Novel


Love it when you talk foreign. Say it again, please, like, 'you're vrek-dom, boo'

T-Shirt Mens Black " WHAAAT? Don't you speak Afrikaans? " Languages Large

not porn?

Rhapsody in blue. It's not porno? So what key's it in then?

Gershwin: Rhapsody In Blue/An American In Paris

we are the world -- sometimes

20 million homeless,bunch of people dead and counting,and no one's humming 'We are the world'? Pakistanis'

bra - zen ?

Bra advertising,wrapped up in ritual (virginal) blood sacrifice,aimed at the (not so) teeny-bopper market,Buffy the Vampire Slayer and co. The more we change, the more we remain the same-- money, gore and sex,nicely packaged now for our civilized convenience Buffy the Vampire Slayer - The Complete First Season (Slim Set)


tamalaykie; chorya dipped in a newspaper satchet of salt-n-masala, jubdaan tossed aside, a moment stolen from the bhaangiesaap's mellifluous reminder to asr, madresah exit drenched in an African sunset

The Conference of the Birds: A Sufi Allegory - Being an Abridged Version of Farid-ud-Din Attar's Mantiq-ut-Tayr

Conference of the Birds: A Seeker's Journey to God

Saturday, 11 September 2010

witchy woman, damned if she do, damned if she don't

Test of guilt from days of Europe's yore (Days of our Lives?), for the love of god--and fire and water

Toss suspect witch into a river(or some such puddle one supposes). If she be innocent, she'll

foot-loose, fancy-free; in memoriam

Curtsy a drug-and-alcohol fueled lubricant, Patrick stumble's finally into proper oblivion barely having found his footing.

Just out high school. 

(His) epitaph: don't take life too seriously, it'll only laugh at you.

No it won't, it just remains steadfastly indifferent

...retort i thirty diffident years late'r

dhey, after the [eid] night before

mistee ma pyaar peree gyo, awë ghaan chëch-rech nê

Thursday, 9 September 2010

for my children, an heirloom

My late mother, deeply devout, had a profane moniker for marriage,"sh*t life", she’d curdle, witheringly.

Why then, would I beseech her -- never any the less bewildered for her contemptuous repetition -- do you insist on it as a necessary step in our lives?

Peremptorily she’d spit at me, "because it's everyone's duty to do sh*t life -- thus it is ordained, thus is it decreed!″.

Go figure.

Further, and by the way, for what it's worth, your granny insisted too that no man worthy of trust (should) be -- at least not in a woman’s nor in god’s eye. Manly, (fatherly?), in spite of myself, or perhaps because of it, I am necessitated to concur -- or, at least, pass on without judgement

Wednesday, 8 September 2010

All dressed up, and nowhere to go

"You know little, lightie, and need years 'fore you say anything", I'm dressed down in a far-off time and place not so long ago.

"What you know is irrelevant and obsolete, timer". Now, in my place I'm put and told.

Friday, 3 September 2010


sweet child
comes looking
for something to do
empty pockets
quiet soul
got some gum to chew

children's song

a splash of light
a curse at night
a silent drop
a fallen kite
my mind the stop
a dot on the i
the whispered cry
a fish in a flop
an empty sigh
a harvest, a sop
to each man
...his own lie

---for Raisa, my daughter, at age 3


I see mouths forming lies
minds making bombs
I see last minute sighs
and men writing songs

I see chain-shackled hands
politicians posture amens
joy melt to sorrow
to dust, once graceful land


de li rium tre mens, 'severn tea se ver'n

or fur'l-d my 'and
abut, sa'id 'e -- s' ad hoc
barley an' hop sac'd:
'e wood knot have'r wan'
hap' lest wid'th' tea i gri' ve 'im, an'
th' lull'e pop, fo' ie gras, an' h'aught,
ver-i cross bun.
eye deed knot wan',  too
t'wo 'urt 'is fiel' teas'; by'
ref'use 'is wife meth's les' scions
an chweeng gaa'm sect'sê sions
ma'ych m'ind sore an m'ein ay'che;
two'k 'im aught, in t'wo th' su'n
lao st'ê tung, ma'n
saw bat ma'n, be'ano, an'te nietzsche
neat chi t'wu
an' spat  h'orn an'nee soup'er fli tha' chancre'd
to fli ght fur'wryly h'our whey

wee'd jou'st gourd in'n to eat wan'da tea'r bog' ars' dow'n
'w'ot e's thirs'?' 'e sa'd fie'erst foo'ly
fi'esrt w'ily
through a fir'th'en' shoo'k th'grownd
 look eye

ch'air'q t'hat kno' wand err row'n
an i rite, th' whor'l sh'wer'e far kin' mess
t'ruth a'peer, wee 'er'e 'rung
so, sp'rung arp an' go'
hopi'n dien or'ph, an'
o-ring th' sun
wood knot set
to eat be 'fore th' door'n
an' lo an be h'old!
s'ky turn't too blu'
wee cay'm dow'n
air'n naught ar' ad just'id
jis laaik j'ue
dj'ewe-l j'am...

di's'till, hap err le'igh

s'tumbled out the rat raze a few ma'nths ergo, un'aye bill to credence the real i'sat'ion that i' a fai'lure at meeting the axe sect'ing requirements of being ~ an urban'e rat; t'ur ban'd rat n'or

shoe'd b' coarse 'fore a dent to the fad' e'dish deaf a 'nit'ion of/f  salv' air' steam...i sur pos' -- it.

eye suppository.

hap er lee, ha/r/p' a wail still.

sentinel, san tin ni'l

The trap, pings of material suc', cess...pull, suffocate.

Silence, then I’m assailed .By' their silence, their presence, the solely complete witness' to my life.

Mute. Cheap. Things:  plastic, and metal; paper, wood be... large; small; baubles, stood upright, mark, mo' ck to attention.

Sentinels, keeping order

...they jeer when I’m not looking [but i 'eer the'm]

They [will] remain, when I’m gone.

Still, mute witness’ to my lie'f.

Thursday, 2 September 2010

The barb'arian, the in'vader

"...'tis faizel...soma like hazel, but  with a' 'F'", say i  to the music-shop Assistant...

...with the rude shock of red-hair.

...possessed,  th' expression of a man been beaten one-too-many times...with-or-without reason

...mouth puzzle'd, agape permanently

...writhed into a smile, offers, ” mean, loik, F sharp 'ey!”


...'long with the discounted guitar strings and plectrums.

The hospitality of the Sun, the Street, warm, an' the after-glow