STILLE RUNAWAY

Seasons apart

Soms is jy vir my vier seisoene in ‘n dag. Elke keer wanneer ek die keyboard nader trek en my vingers onvoorbereid oor die letters vir jou wil dans, hul woorde wil leegbloei, besef ek opnúút wat ek in jou gehad het.

Die streelsagte warmte van ‘n goue son wat met uitgestrekte arms my in ‘n nuwe dag verwelkom, my omhels en toevou en ‘n sierlike geel strik om my bind om seker te maak ek bly veilig naby jou.

‘n Kaleidoskoop van aardse kleure in my herfs-uur waar jy saam my, langs my, die monsters soos die blare op die grond voor ons wegskop. Waar jou herfs-asem die bang, vrees, paniek en angs wegblaas en jou woorde ‘n muur om my bou om my te beskerm.

Jy is my winter wanneer ek nodig het om af te koel en my voete op die grond te hou. Die wyse waarop jy al die goeie oomblikke saam vir my preserveer het, orals vir my reminders van jou incredible menswees gelos het. Ek deur die ysige glasruit kan staar na bevrore animasie en vir ‘n klein rukkie langer kan vashou aan dit wat (amper) was.

Hoe jy (selfs in jou afwesigheid) ewig en altyd my lente sal wees .. my nuwe lewe, my nuwe begin, my motivering, my hoop, hoe jy die skaduwees in my monochrome lewe inkleur en diepte, dimensie en betekenis verleen aan dinge wat andersins ‘doodgewoon’ sou wees, hoe jy my van elke sintuig bewus maak, hoe ek verlang na jou soos wat ‘n mens na ‘n lentebloeisel kyk en dit amper oorhaastig in antisipasie oopwens net om die volgroeide blom in al sy glorie te kan waardeer .. flippet hoe ek elke liewe dag begin en eindig in gebed .. wanneer ek jou naam fluister aan Iemand wie ek hoop en bid my hoor.

Ek wens soms .. in die dapper oomblikke .. dat jou somer my van die winter sal kom bevry, dat jou lente musiek sal maak waarop my herfs sal kan dans.

Ek wens soms .. konstant ..

Hmm, dis nou Winter in die Kaap. Selfs al was dit Somer.

Min dae

.. die uurglas is besig om leeg te loop ..

[maybe the odd post or two in the meantime]

.. but in essence, óne more story to write ..

No cure for my silence

Write, upload, publish. Dit is die roetine wat ek met al my blogposts volg. Ek lees hulle as ‘n reël nooit weer nie. Want skryf is soos asemhaal, en mens asem verkieslik nie dieselfde lug twee keer nie.

Maar vanaand het ‘n eenrigting-straat my teruggelei na Spooklag. Dis waar, elke liewe een van ons skryf daagliks aan ons eie lewensverhaal. Maar wat gebeur as jy as outeur en hoofkarakter jouself uit jou eie verhaal skryf?

Ek blaai toe vlugtig deur Spooklag se stowwerige vergete bladsye .. en meeste van die tyd val die woorde met ‘n vreemde akkoord op my oor, asof dit nie my eie is nie. Ek herken op party plekke nie eers die persoon wat daar geskryf het nie.

Ek is nie ‘n skrywer, musikant of kunstenaar nie, hoewel ek daardie drie genres aanbid. For some reason, as far back as I can remember, I have always put my trust in words. I have depended on them to bring my dreams to life, to ask questions, to give answers, to comfort, to make sense, to be honest, to take chances, to take the hand of another, to be able to love, to be able to forgive, to colour my rainbow a million different shades of black and still leave me in total awe.

Woorde was my manier van asemhaal. Now suddenly I find myself suffocating. My woorde is weg .. en dis nie skrywersblok nie. Ek ken die verskil. Inteendeel, ek wens dit wás ..

My gedagtes kronkel al langs die treinspoor tussen die kreukels van die berg terug na my jeug. Daar was ‘n verborge vryheid aan kind-wees wat ek eers as volwassene leer waardeer het.

En die eerste platform waar my gedagtes tot stilstand kom is die kunsklas. Ek onthou presies waar in die skool dit geleë was. Groot glasruite wat uitkyk op die seuns se speelgrond. Dit was ook een van die grootste vertrekke in die skool, juis omdat kuns persoonlike werksruimte vereis .. iets wat my soos ‘n handskoen gepas het.

Ek onthou die reuk van pastel wanneer mens die kaleidoskoop van kleur uit die boksie getrek en daardie ‘klewerige kryt’ in jou hande geneem het .. ‘n gevoel van tevredenheid. Ek onthou die blou potte satynsagte poeierverf. Ons was net van vier kleure voorsien: drie primêre kleure en die enigste wérklike kleur: swart.

Ek onthou hoe alles en almal om my in die kunsklas verdwyn het. Agtergrondsgeraas geword het. Dit was net ek, die wit papier voor my en die oordra van die prentjie wat ek in my kop gesien het. Eindelose eksperimentering met kleure.

En hoe ‘n paar druppels water die verharde verf van vroeër weer kon verdun vir verdere gebruik. Soos trane wat mens stort oor foute wat jy gemaak het, dit verdun en die les wat jy daaruit geleer het (m.a.w. die bruikbare deel) aanwend om ‘n nuwe tekening of fase in jou lewe mee te skets.

Ek onthou ons steenkool sketse. Pikswart. Maar met tegniek, die gebruik van kontras, buitelyne, kontoer en skaduwees, kon jy ‘n meesterstuk skep. En klei. Hoe my moed in my skoene gesak het wanneer daardie klipharde bol klei kaplaks voor my op die tafel beland. Maar ek het gou geleer mens kan nie klei ryp druk nie, jy moet die rumatiek uit hom uit werk.

And then .. behold .. how vulnerable it became in the hands of its’ master. My siel was klei in jou hande. How you could suddenly use it to build a fortress, to spell your name, to make a flower for your friend. Ek het die kunsklas gelief .. I became a somebody in my world once I passed through those doors. Dit het ‘n mate van vryheid en sekuriteit ingehou.

Ek hoor die trein ritmies stadiger beweeg tot by my volgende stop. My taalklasse, meer spesifiek, opstelle. Ek sou na skool AL die huiswerk voltooi wat ek nie die volgende dag beplan om af te skryf nie, behalwe my opstelle. Dit sou ek los vir middernag, wanneer almal in die huis slaap en dit net ek in die geselskap van die donker nag se stil skaduwee is. Eers dán sou ek my hand op papier plaas en my woorde vlerke gee .. en daar sou vryheid in woorde wees. Daar sou vrede in woorde wees.

Daar is ‘n legio ander onthouplekke waar hierdie gedagte-trein halt kan roep. Maar dis vertel wat kan wag vir ‘n anderdag se sonsopkoms.

Hier sit ek .. Elf .. ‘n stille runaway gypsy met ‘n spooklag wat woordeloos wasem teen ‘n glasruit. Ek teken dieselfde prentjie oor en oor en oor .. soos wanneer mens die syfer 8 herhaaldelik oor dieselfde lyne teken totdat die papier dun raak en skeur.

Die naïewe sorgvrye kind in my lê op haar maag op die vloer en teken haar drome met vetkryte op ‘n groot stuk papier. Eers harde buitelyne wat as grense dien om die sagter inkleur daarvan gevange te neem. En voor sy klaar is daarmee, skryf sy haar naam met trots in die hoek regs onder.

Dit is egter eers met die opstaanslag om haar kunswerk vir een van die grootmense te gaan wys wat sy dit sien .. sy het in vervoering van die papier af op die teëls geteken. Bewyse .. sy was hier.

Soms kom daar mense in jou lewe wie verby die lyne inkleur. They enter your life as somebody and when they walk off that page they walk away as your life. Die prent is skielik weg, maar hul naam is van die papier af in die klipvoer van jou lewe gegraveer. My vingerpunte skryf herhaaldelik oor die groefies in die klip om jou naam oor en oor te lees.

Hier sit ek nou agter die glasruit van my rekenaarskerm .. the black keyboard in front of me proudly boasts with 26 letters of the alphabet. Ses en twintig letters wat weier om my woorde terug te gee, wat weier om die onuitgesproke antwoorde waarna ek smag met my te deel, antwoorde wat (w)antwoorde word.

Soms, net soms, maak daardie damn spacebar die afstand nét te groot. Hier sit ek met ses en twintig letters tot my beskikking aan my vingerpunte maar ek spel my naam met syfers ..

Go figure .. die eggo van ‘n flippen sug.

An Autumn Mourning

It is autumn.

I awake from reality and open my eyes into a dream. I find myself in the forest, before the break of day. From where I am sitting, a veil of fog is concealing the stems of the trees closest to me. Even if the sun was shining, I would not be able to see it.

I blink my eyes a few times, because everything appears hazy. It is twilight. I look down at the little drops which appear like little diamonds embroided onto the black velvet of my dress.

I stand up and make my way towards the stairs in the distance .. they’re part of an old ruin. They aren’t visible to me from where I stand. But my feet know their way amongst the wooden pillars of the forest.

The piper of my soul is calling, even though nothing but the dampened sound of my footsteps on the bed of leaves is audible. There is no breeze, no movement of air at all, and even if there was, the damp leaves covering the surface of the ground are too heavy to rustle at all.

And yet .. I pause on the steps for a while, turn my head slightly as if to listen, when my pale face issues a satisfied smile. There is an echo .. there are footsteps beside me. You are here. This is where we usually meet ..

I continue climbing the stairs. Without any effort or concentration. Every time I come here, the décor has changed. Like a trip down Nostalgia Avenue, you have changed the pictures in my mind. With every step .. hmm it’s like looking through an old photo album. Slowly turning the pages. Being captivated by every sepia faded photo telling a story of its’ own. Holding a memory within its’ frame.

And the more I remember, the more visible you become beside me. If I could only hear your voice .. I can see you, smell you, touch you .. but I can never hear those unspoken words which hold all the answers ..

Wait! Where have you gone? I look around, distressed. Then suddenly I feel your arms grasping me from behind, pulling me closer and holding me, just for a little while. It feels as though everything is happening in slow motion, and I wish I could prolong every second to last a lifetime.

It’s getting late. We have to get going. We walk through the forest, we know these trees by name. For we have been part of this world for which seems like an eternity. We walk in silence. Besides the fact that I am unable to hear you, words seem unnecessary at this point in time.

You suddenly softly take hold of my elbow and pull me to a halt. I turn around and find you kneeling amongst the foliage, as if you are looking for something. Then you hand me a crimson coloured wild flower which you picked for me. The petals feel silky soft in my hand.

We continue walking until I see it .. and suddenly freeze. You slowly walk past me, until you stand in front of me, looking me straight in the eye. Then you whisper, I can barely hear the words, ‘do you have it?’

There is a shallow grave dug in the ground before my eyes. I nod hesitantly. You whisper ‘it is time’. I am holding a small box in my hands, a black ribbon tied around it. Ashes. A box containing ashes of a dream. A box containing the death of us.

I feel dizzy. Short of breath. I am holding on to the box, clutching it with both my arms as though I want to keep you from taking it. You try to calm my, my head is shaking profusely .. ‘not now!’

I start fighting you, but you’re stronger than me, you always were. You hold my face in your hands and slowly wipe the tears off my face with your thumbs. I am still holding on to the box .. begging you .. ‘not now, not yet, please?’ ..

I dream my way back to the stage of reality. Where I can make-believe, dress-up and smile at nameless people all day long, where I can lose the key that will give anyone access to the little box of dreams locked away in my heart.

As it fades

Close your eyes beloved angel of mine ..

.. let me tuck in your wings as you rest your weary head on my lap, while I watch you being taken hostage by a deep and peaceful sleep. Your soul is tired, I know. For it has travelled much further than your feet. Your heart weighs heavy upon you, much more than the baggage your hands have to carry for miles each day.

Close your eyes beloved angel of mine ..

.. I am right here by your side. My right arm is resting upon your sleeping body. My left hand is following the contours of your beautiful face as drawn by the illuminating silver moonlight breaking through the blanket of darkness covering the night sky.

Close your eyes beloved angel of mine ..

.. I will watch over you like the stars in the sky, for I know deep down they belong in your eyes. The evening breeze will reside in your breath, while the nearby stream will run through your veins. Never before have I held something so precious, something so beautiful in my hands .. someone I wanted to protect with all my life, with every part of my being.

Open your eyes beloved angel of mine ..

.. and wander back into my dream. Where a journey awaits as soulmates take hands, a bond unbelievably strong. A timeless grasp of souls intertwined, beside each other where they belong.