The Fire

She is learning how to be grateful.

The steps are small, barely noticeable as the world calls and keeps on… There is not much to protest against, though the monsters in her head growl in a constant chorus of unfortunate beginnings and endings.

Nothing ever really ends where there are memories involved, and doubt is a frozen statue, alive enough to keep haunting her and misleading her… it wants to be a pillar and all she really wants is for it to disappear.

It is cold.

Everywhere.

Her teeth speak their own unknown language as the piercing breaths let out their steam and she knows she is alive and alove. Perhaps alove is the problem, the threatening to word alove out her mind and into the hearing range of that other…she is so alove it hurts, it wobbles her walls and her frozen castle begins to melt, but it is cold…

Everywhere.

She smiles unintentionally. There is a face, there are hands and lips and traces of traced bodies in subtle nights without beginnings and without reservations… or were there reservations? She wears a scarf

It is cold.

Everywhere.

So alive and alove she waits… she anticipates the return of her strength which is barely a word away. She imagines being sucked into that warm embrace and the doubt disappears. Her breath becomes natural and it lightens up like the darkness in her eyes as it begins to fill up with light.

She knows that this is it, that this is visible for the first time and once a problem is shown, it is also known, thus becoming an advisor rather than a nightmare.

It begins to change her perspective and she begins to understand… that warmth is not only a touch… it is a letter, it is a name and comforting kiss… It is hearing how much you’ve been missed and out of nowhere –  a sun appears; though

It is still cold.

Everywhere

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And baby… oh, by the way;

Her forehead had suddenly become the home of a trillion sweat droplets

The scent of a lost race against emotion was on her like a stale ashtray left in the middle of a tiny room for decades

perhaps the ashes of that which can never be repeated were exactly that

and the thoughts; no matter how consistent could not

clear out the depths of the buds; the heart that beats without feeling

the eyes that see without seeing

the sound of music without reaction

the dripping of sacred juices without an allure of passion

 

And baby;

That phrase will never be repeated

baby

that home will never be rebuilt

skin, fingers, flowers, and hair

are the forefathers of a numb heir

to an empty castle

with naught but walls, bars, creatures, dragons and demons

 

the wolf alive in me alone will continue

baby

but wolves

oh wolves love once only

and… baby..oh by the way;

once only

Lullaby! (To Dad)

Dear dad!
I miss you.

It’s been a while and I know it’s my fault mainly
I really should write to you more often
You speak to me in a way that no one else knows
Like the chirping of the bird outside my window while my stone heart begins to waken
And it is pain at first
And hopelessness
But then a spark of life happens in my wolfy veins
That is barely noticeable enough at first
Then day after day you whisper breezes of wind in return of the scorching memories and fears…

Years have passed since I truly felt like a weaver of words;
I knew I died then
Perhaps with you – is it beautiful to finally be a part of everything again?
Do you miss her?
Whoever she was…
I think your love for her inspired me so that I could not help but fall in love with that planet; a woman!
The galaxies of female curves I have seen
Left me broken dead and empty.

I am much better now though
I’m learning to forgive
To let go of the things I cannot change
I think I’m learning how to live.

Are you proud of me?
I still feel like your little girl.
I have written so much just tonight only to avoid telling you for the first and only time : I am hurt

Hurt but still breathing
Crippled but healing
With every cell in me that yearns to be
Someone worthy

Tomorrow I will continue my quest and I will fail a little less at disproving the impossible
And fail a little less again the following day
Until impossible is nothing

Because I think not even you believed in what you chased
Not even you could dream that big
Oh but you insisted that I learn
And so I did

I dream a little less these days
I focus on success
Not in material value though I’m sorry; I’m quite alright with just being me
But I succeed a little more each day
I manage to keep me complete.

I have started learning how to be brave
And yes
Yes dad, she’s teaching me.

That nothing is ever really worth it unless it hurts a little at least!

The Gentle Of Unspoken

Next to me
A sample breath reduces
The fear in spaces otherwise preoccupied
A thought descends of spoiled tenderness
A kiss on screens with
Compositions of romantic sentences
Not allowing the same…

Next to me

The gentle cupping of scarred hands
Temper with inadequacies imprinted internally
Showing nothing,
Feeling
Feeling
More than what this here could ever describe

A broken mirror
I am

Unable to reflect
The heartfelt
Perhaps united soul and anguish
Keep a sacred mask under a key
Of the true self
Within
And
Next to me

A beat is audible
A
1, 2, 3…
Poking out from inside my chest

For the first time in millenniums

For the last sake of smitten mittens in winter
Dividing the dead cold from the
Living
Warmth

And in a
1,2,3

The footsteps
Up the wooden stairs

Next to meSAM_3203

Birds, skirts and cigarettes

Her name was…

I do not quite recall.

Her smell intensely reminded me of the wet dreams I’d had about, well about her. Only in my dreams she had no face, only an outline, an odor, a possibility.

I had been travelling the day, in search of spiritual connection – and without success, when my best friend called and said I would be helping out at a friend’s warehouse for the weekend. The owner had decided to chase adventure, she was to leave the next day.

He had told me about her prior to the first feast of fleshy fathoms. I had no idea whose lair I was walking into as I passed the badly secured giant steel doors of Granualie’s Warehouse. Perhaps that was her name? Granualie… what do names matter anyway. Her name would not have altered the texture of her skin, the taste of her tongue in my mouth.

There were no discreet gestures… just flesh and passion, two strangers invading one another without care or remorse, with an audience though it was – she was spectacular . A mind fuck as well  as… the other kind.

Approach was clinical and I had no desire to know her name.

Perhaps that was it; the lack of desire for whatever juices in my body she was after. I had nothing but a thrust, a thump, a grunt and a cigarette before the taxi drew me back into the comfort of my untainted world. She wasn’t sublime or taboo, she was a fantastically easy artwork to ‘work’… to obtain. I wasn’t tame, I was loose… loose enough that her grip had no control over me; I had control over me… and she got nothing more out of me than what I chose to allow her to see and for that brief period of time; believe that she had me, even if for just a moment.

So what is the point in saying to a reader that I remember her name… It makes  no difference , desire was not with us, dream was more absent still.

I cannot lie dear reader, for a writer’s reputation is always more tainted than the dark of his actual character. This was an artwork, she was finely chiseled, her voice smooth, her breasts firm… but her well was empty … indeed she was an artwork, because I decided her one, I was her creator and she was nothing more than a vessel trimmed out to catch my attention for long enough… just long enough for me to find my feet again.

Now I stare at the artwork on her designated spot and my fancy evaporates as the last traces of sweat dry on her skin.

She didn’t see the winter start a little early this time around.

Winter, pulls me to just that one sound…

Thump

Thump

Thump

Heartbeat

They Sleep

No sleep

Somewhere in the crooked spots unseen she melts, cradles and cleans
Those bits of her that remain haunted
Stalked by:
What could be insanity, but

Is it?

No sleep

Her body no longer controlled
Maneuvers its way in confused motions around the breadth of her bed
Heat rising
Although
Not arousing
She stares out of the window at Sky and dreams awake

She dreams
Of being asleep in the moment of bliss
In the absence of kisses
Replaced by an embrace
Lacking tenderness in ways, yet
Reassuring her that
Dreams happen not only when we are asleep

She sleeps

In waking terror
Running ever toward the place of
Darkened snow where
She waits for her
Awake
In a dream of her
And her
With her

Eye-lids close
Others open

Then…

The last,
Haunting sentence before they both vanish:

“We’re here at last!”salome

Glorious Mistakes (part 2)

Among the 1 800 goths: or should I say the constant of about 600 of them at my bar alone; a small and narrow face peeked at me curiously. His hair was bushy and the animated way in which he carried himself was a little difficult not to notice.

The smoke machines were heavy, ventilation felt almost non-existent and soon I seemed to have run out of oxygen. Meanwhile; across the main floor our neighboring bartender at ‘The Wizard’s Bar’ had just collapsed, however this wasn’t just due to the heat and shortage of air… In his case, slight intoxication was a contributing factor.

That same hobbit-like person came rushing to my bar,then under it and straight to me.

“Hi! My name’s Tristan! I heard that someone had K.O.’ed and had to make sure that it wasn’t you, but I can see that it might be you very soon, so you’re coming with me to get some air!”

So out I went, dodging the angry screams and violent hand gestures of the 600 obviously grumpy goths who now had one of two choices:
1. Wait for me to return
2. Wait at another bar behind at least 300 other goths.
In the end they seemed to have picked the more sensible option; 1.

That was Zeplin’s the way I remember it. Grand, vibey and never short on clientele. The music always amazing, the company never boring – it was the home that so many of us so desperately needed, but above all Zeplin’s brought Tristan into my life.

My dad was never fond of any of my male friends… And upon discovering that I am not very “straight” he seldom liked any of my female friends either so I found his excitement about Tristan in my life inexplicable, especially since he had piercings, painted his nails black and his means of trabsport was a motorcycle. They used to sit on for hours just chatting away about life and love and ambition, dreams, goals and things I had never dared attempt to speak to my dad about.

A day or two without Tristan around was too long for my dad… At times he would ask me to invite him over and I did… Tristan seemed to be just as attached to him, so when the news came to him that my Dad had left our world… He grieved with me…

A few months passed, his gentle way was difficult to resist. His persistence made him strangely attractive and the way he stole my whole family’s heart was extraordinary. He taught me to ride his motorbike, I taught him to DJ and in this way we were constantly doing things we both loved.

I broke his heart in the end… Being unable to change… Knowing that my lifestyle was never a choice, for if I had the ability to simply wake up and decide to want to be with him the way he wanted to be with me – I would have done. I did attempt to make that choice when I said “yes!” to his proposal… Yes the one where the boy gets down on one knee and asks the 4 words that most of us long to hear…

A few months passed before he could speak to me again after we realized that there are just certain things we couldn’t change. But those months went by rather swiftly and soon we began to tread on a new path of friendship. He soon found Chantal and his happiness was infectious…

Alas… A year and a few months after my dad passed… Tristan did too. In among my tears I smiled a lot, knowing that soon the two boys (my dad and him) will probably be chatting away again just where they had left off.

This post is to him and to my dad and to Zeplin’s… Neither of them exist in this reality anymore, but in my mind they will always be there… The smiling faces… The warm embraces… The grandeur and atmosphere of home… The man who understood my love for Zeplin’s and who fell in love with the personality of the boy I miss so terribly this morning.

I would say I am sorry for the mistakes I made in my life… But considering the joy they brought with them… No…

They were glorious…glorious mistakes.
They were mistakes that now give me hope for the love I know I seek… Unconditional, gentle, innocent.

Perhaps he was it?

But I’ve been visitted in my dreams by him many a time since then and he keeps convincing me otherwise.

So here’s to you Tris!

To us…

To you if you are reading this and to the glorious mistakes we’ve yet to make!

Glorious Mistakes

My Dad was an awesome man. He was soft and understanding, but when it came to certain things he could be the military style parent. There were many speeches, I remember each of them and they have shaped the person I am today.

Not long ago I was asked to sell myself to someone and I didn’t know how… I had no idea of what my selling points were. The past while I went into hibernation, just to catch a breath and refrain from losing my mind completely – it was during this time that I thought about what it was that actually kept me from being able to step back, look at myself objectively and say, “this is what I am good at…”

I have spent a mere 22 years in the vortex of the living dead. Not presuming to know much more than the average 22-year-old female, my experience has taught me that people don’t really care about other people’s problems unless they are either family or really close friends. This is where this page fits into the scheme of things. As humans we will have our ups, our downs and perhaps our moments of stillness… But at the end of it all; we seek to find the happy ending to every sad story so that we may be able to hold on tightly, with hopefully and extra fill of faith.

I would like to share a story with you today. A story that is personal but worth hearing methinks…

To remove conflict of understanding… I have not always been dating women… And although this story takes place years after my coming out… I am still me… perhaps just a little dusted off and polished…anyhow;

The CBD of Pretoria (SA) was home to the greatest alternative club in Southern Africa. ‘Zeplin’s’ was a two-story building with 8 bars and 5 dance floors all within the genres and sub-genres of the alternative and goth scene. Just before my 18th birthday I was lucky enough to start working there. It was a dream come true. The neon paintings, the grandeur and old architecture, the friendly smiles and almost completely victorian sense of fashion along with the music that spoke in a thousand different ways to my soul – they all contributed to the home that Zeplin’s was and still is as I reminisce…

My Dad walked with me to my first day of work at Zeplin’s so that he could meet the people who would be in charge of me and to decide whether or not he really was going to let me work there . Now keep in mind that not many a parent will smile broadly upon walking in to a double story place filled with extravagant Goths and black walls.

All in all however; being as awesome as he was – my dad looked past the stretchers, piercings and tattoos… He ignored the heavy make-up and the black clothes, he walked me out and said that he believes this will be more than a home for me. I was proud then… I was proud of him and I was proud of me for being from him.

A week later I had moved up from bar-tending the quietest bar in the entire place which at that point was the ‘inferno’ bar to one of the 3 main bars… My first shift on the bar was scheduled for – Halloween 2008…

1 800 Goths later…

… To be continued

Nil Sa Saol

24/01/12 20:24

 Dear diary

‘I saw the gap again today, while you were begging me to stay….take care not to make me enter because if I do, we both may disappear’

There is no love in fear

My biggest fear is fear itself. Anger is not only an emotion but an anchor; an ointment to still the throbbing of our wounds. This tourniquet absorbs fear like a supplement and thus it grows and rules leaving no space for reason or compassion, yet it is passionate and loving.

We’ve fought many battles… It is a struggle as the self breathes down my neck hoping that I may slip up and give her gap to surface again. I can never merge with that self if I am to fulfill my curious purpose.

15/07/1994

Dear Diary

‘I will choke until I swallow… choke this infant here before me. What is this but my reflection? Who am I to judge or strike you down?’

There is no love in fear

There is no escaping the monsters although I’m not entirely sure that they are real. Toys are extras in this thriller of incapability. Strawberry is my doll; I hold her face right next to my own then turn to look into my mother’s mirror. Strawberry’s face is vibrant and bright next to my own dull reflection. Through the mirror I see how small I am compared to the vast space filled with scattered furniture… it’s been so long and she still hasn’t called, my own mother doesn’t want me. I smothered her with all my love so she left, to teach me a lesson, so that I may know anger and resentment.

It distorts; the face that used to smile is dark, my eyebrows clamp together and a tear rolls down my cheek. This chest starts throbbing and my throat is tight and lumpy, mimicking my fantasy as I seek the strength to choke this reflection to death. I know anger so where is she?

In my mind I smell her perfume; she reaches out, touches my face and the anger subsides.

She may be gone but I am hers and therefore I must take care of this girl and overcome the longing to hate, judge and hurt her petite infant.

But you’re pushing and shoving me.

You still love me, and you push it on me.’

“Gin!”

No! It can’t be.

This was it?

“Gin, honey? Mommy’s home!”

I am stumped and my throat tightens some more. In a split second the self takes over with an emotionless expression.

“Aww sweetie! Come here, mommy’s home now and she isn’t going anywhere.”

Most little minds would be thrilled, happy, crying. I want her to get away, to stop touching and smothering me, I have so many questions…

“Say something baby, come on… mommy’s missed you she loves you so much. Hug me now will you?”

She clutches onto my clothes and pulls me, she pushes me.

(At that instant I knew; I knew what fake smiles looked like… I knew how to lie!)

“It’s ok mommy!”

The anger burns through my veins as I slowly get closer to her with a hug.

“That’s ok mommy, I love you too!”

11/04/2009

Dear Diary

‘Rest your trigger on my finger

Bang my head upon the fault line.

Take care not to make me enter,

‘Cause if I do, we both may disappear.’

There is no love in fear

Memories are the music videos of our past, only the instrument that triggers them is not a remote, no one hears your mind slipping way back as the faint smell of humidity fused with medicine kills your perception of time. It thrusts you right back into the arms of that dark, daunting space of yourself as your half grown hands shove at your Dad’s lifeless body for the last time; the smell takes me right back to when I stood there not even wanting to hold her back… I needed her darkness and anger; I needed not to feel pain. It was an easy goodbye, no tears… only that invisible rope around my throat. I don’t remember the last time I told him that I love him, but he knows now…I really hope he does.

‘Slipping back into the gap again, I’m alive when you’re touching me…

Alive when you’re shoving me down.’

My pillar faded with the sunset today, he lay as obedient as I had ever seen him in the ambulance as they drove off. The night brought with it the comfort of the arms I had longed for. I look for anger, I turn my heart inside out to try and bring it out, but her hands soothe and nurture, and for this moment she loves me again. I can’t breathe as she suffocates me with the arms of peace and the breath of mist, she responds to my body and I am willing to gasp just like this for as long as I live.

‘But I’d trade it all for just a little bit of peace of mind’

Hers are the eyes I look into as I force my own to open up. Our love remains nothing but a stolen moment as she sits up and calls me ‘friend’. There will be no peace now in my mind or in my heart so the two of me rise and walk away.

26/02/2011

Dear Diary

‘Put me somewhere I don’t want to be;

Seeing someplace I don’t want to see;

Never want to see that place again…’

There is no love in fear

There are shadows along the wall and they seem almost synchronized. I recognize them and I move along knowing that one of them is mine. I close my eyes and I go back into the forest where the ‘Jedi’ mind pulls me out from the tombs of ‘Krom’*. My body feels pleasure while my spirit cries and I am afraid to stay in the forest, afraid to taint the purity I found. Self registers spirit and recognizes the undeniable bond between fog, magic, love and fear. Reality is hot, wet and dirty, oh but now I know… concrete, ancient truth.

‘If when; I say I may fade like a sigh if I stay, you minimize it anyway then; I must persuade you another way.’

A woman’s silence says much according to her circumstance. Shakespeare is resurrected through the movement of my lips while the self attempts to choke and kill contentment. I see the gap I have left and I know the war is inevitable just as I realize that this battle will be the last regardless of the outcome.

24/01/12 23:59

 Dear Diary

 

‘Staring down the hole again

Hands upon my back again

Survival is my only friend

Terrified of what may come’

There is no love in fear

Education is the artillery with a lifetime guarantee and language is the indestructible force barging bravely through borders, barriers and between cultures, enabling a leniency towards others and their spirituality or the lack thereof. The old self turns her back to me, and the new self synchronizes with the movements of the old. Fear is now a polka dot skirt around the two, walking hand in hand with certainty.

A rainbow is most prominent in the act of letting go, of coming to terms with one’s own heart which loves, hates and sins even in purity…until the colours mix to create our own shade of grey.

‘Just remember I will always love you; even as I tear your throat away, but it will end no other way’

 

Darkness is the product of light when light willingly goes back to sleep in order to heighten the appreciation for both in amongst all living things.

You must go where I cannot,
Pangur Ban, Pangur Ban,
Nil sa saol seo ach ceo,
Is ni bheimid beo,
ach seal beag gearr.
Pangur Ban Pangur Ban,
Nil sa saol seo ach ceo,
Is ni bheimid beo,
ach seal beag gearr.
  – **

Life is mist. Life cannot be without a beating heart, yet mist cannot be without fear, just as a heart cannot beat without love.

 

*Krom – ref: Irish Myhology
 
** Aisling’s Song – http://thesecretofkells.wikia.com/wiki/Aisling’s_Song
 
Ref: Tool – Pushit (Salival 2000) lyrics