February 17, 2007

Butterscotch Aeroplanes, Rainbows...

I had initial trouble coping, coming back to the States.

Because it shudders me to think…the world I knew before I left and the world I know now. Like I was alone, lost in the middle of a lightless forest…convinced a ghost or angry variety gypsy monster was treading my steps. Like I could feel it gaining, 10 steps back…soon 8 to 6 to 4. I’d turn to face it, scream off the fear and yet nothing gave chase. I was alone and would be frozen forever, unable to move…so afraid to continue and face the possibility that it would return.

I would die uniquely, standing, unmoving…either tragically brilliant or brilliantly tragic. These things, as you might imagine…so difficult to discern.



I used to wake in the middle of the night in Camps Bay. There was a mirror at the head of the bed I slept. And half asleep, I would turn over and look into the mirror, see my reflection and run from it, screaming, awoken by a doubled heartbeat. It happened seven or eight times before I learned to sleep with a poster of dolphins over my head.

I never punched the mirror and looking back, what a waste of a richly oozing…and pricey…and bloody metaphor.

Though, I don’t think all of the parties sleeping in that bed would have found equal appreciation.



It’s not easy. The first night I’ve had with an open mind since returning, the only thought in my head is running the Houghton Steps until my legs shake. I think of easing into the arctic South African Atlantic, letting it seep inside until I’m comfortably erased...

And so I am.