Archive for May, 2006

Up for Nabs

May 30, 2006

Nabeeha, my darling niece. This is for you. It's not a poem,but since you are so far away from home, it might be of interest. Tell me how it makes you feel.

“The fear of freedom is strong within us.” – Germaine Greer

 Legend has it that the surly, swirling blanket of cloud that covers the top of Table Mountain when the wind comes in fast from the cold Antarctic, blowing harsh and south-easterly across the city, is no ordinary cloud. No. The wind whistles a tale of two who sit upon a neighbouring peak, the craggy rock that bears the name of one: Devil’s Peak. The other is van Hunks, a constant visitor to the crags in his day, in his century gone by, who by his wilfulness is cursed to match wit and life against his strange foe.

And as the wind whistles, it whisks away from their lips the magic smoke that stems from ancient pipes they hold in their knotted hands; and it carries and caresses the smoke to its new home, spreading it thinly upon the mountain’s bare top. Sweeping back and forth between the sandstone slab and the two figures bent upon their undertaking, it gathers and trusses the fleece for its wispy fabric. Until the cloud drips along the entire fractured face of the rock, following its shape, formed by its shape, but longing to drop all the way down, longing to sink into the sea, but held there forever it seems, held there for just a little while longer, as one of the two figures puffs his next breath; until at last one of them puffs his final breath. Or until eternity comes. Then the cloud can come to rest. Then the mountain can crumble to the sea.

And in its imagined fall to the ocean floor, the cloud seeks to fulfil its destiny; seeks itself in its own destiny; seeks its future in the here and now. But finding only the past reflected, re-enacted, recreated. Endlessly. Needlessly. Uselessly. Finding itself trapped in the prism of history.

But the cloud is replenished even as it tries to drop. Curled back by the angry cross-winds shuttling between the two peaks, clasping the cloud on its feathery bed of rock. Until the wind grows tired of its task. And draws a last deep breath, gathering itself up from every corner, crack, crevice and cavity in the city; from the lowest sewer depths it could plumb, to the miles above where it gasps for air; from the dusty noise of the newest settlements, to the settled quiet of the oldest suburb. For the wind goes in everywhere, it sees everything. It blows into every house, into every breath that is breathed, touching the lips of those who sleep (murmuring in their dreams), touching the eyes of those who wake (muttering under their breath), taking away with it a word here, an image there. Piecing it all together, it tells itself the tales it fashions on the long journey home across the south sea.

And if you listen carefully to the wind as it subsides, the last gusts to leave will whisper to you a tale. The tale of tomorrow, and of all the tomorrows to come…


1-in-100 Competition

May 22, 2006

Hi Folks,

if you think you are the person who causes the counter on this site to hit the 100 mark, then please advise me via a comment of your details and the time of your visit. There is a prize in store. I just have to figure which store.

Or maybe I'll write you a poem.

Business Day

May 18, 2006

No, not the newspaper. But there is some news. It has been very busy business wise.
Thanks to Neil Horne, who helped put our electrifying solution onto the website. Put this in your browser and read all about it:

Damp Match Day

May 9, 2006

No, it’s not the state of cricket. I feel like I have no spark.
Going throught the motions. No emotions. A bar of music playing in my head.
tatatatatdundundad. Repeat.

My father has died

May 2, 2006

10 August 1925 – 28 April 2006

Aubrey Ignatius Morgan, father of nine, passed away in his sleep. We all saw him on Freedom Day at a braai at my brother’s house. My parents stayed over. The family was shocked that he did not wake up. It was totally unexpected, although he has had heart attacks in the past few years. He returned to the earth in his usual unassuming, diplomatic way.

We learned quite a lot from and about him in the last few days. He stayed over with us on Tuesday, and that evening I learned that he was a punctual person, wanting to get up at 06h45 for my mother’s appointment at 08h30 just down the road at Vincent Pallotti Hospital. Apparently, he has always been that way, without my noticing.

He taught Noah how to stand properly when batting, side-on. Yesterday, Noah was hitting the ball prodigously. And Jody? Well, he was just getting to know and like his Pa. He started calling him that, and wanting my dad to read to him. When we went to my mother’s the other day, he said ‘Pah’ when we pulled up, and he kissed the picture of my father. Hauntingly, he has also said ‘Pah doo-doo’s’ a couple of times, without any prompting. That relationship they were starting out on, is, for me, the greatest loss. All his grandchildren were devastated. My dad left a small inheritance, but a large legacy.

Death, as I understood it as a child, was a terrifying, fearful thing. But now it has just been very sad. I think those that remain behind do not know death. My father is dead, but only to himself. We know only loss.

The funeral service will be held on Thursday, 4 May at 10h30. Venue: St. Theresa’s Catholic Church, 4th Street, Welcome Estate.