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PEN WORK – WITHOUT THE ALPHABET

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A click for images and ideas for cool [creative] commission work.

https://www.facebook.com/xaxahuys

Oom Koos sê dankie. (Jy sal ook)

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SOMTYDS SWEM EK

DIE AVONTURE VAN MANGO BEK.

Ek het nog altyd n groot liefde gehad vir water. Met Portugese soutwater vrate en Viking ysmanne vir voorvaders het dit my plig geword met geboorte en gene om ook van water te hou. Ek trotseer die blou al is dit so koud soos jou skoonma se blik, so rof soos n biker se vuishou, so diep soos die kamp long drop en so ontstuimig soos oom Koos se wenkbroue.

As ek n lang ruk nie myself deurdrenk met die vars vloeistof nie, kry ek ontrekking simptome en vel wat begin knetter, krimp en kraak soos Breyten Breytenbach se interpretasie van ‘Tyd’.

Dis somer en natuurlik ek besluit om bank duik voor die televisie te ruil vir n duik in die gimnasium se lieflike soutwater swembad. Iemand moet daai baaibroek in my kas vir die son wys. My hande vol hare is plat gedruk in die silicone doppie, padda oë op my kop en handdoek om my lyf, trotseer ek die reuk van chloor. Opsoek na n oop baan besef ek die onmoontlikheid van die taak tussen die male meule van arms en bene wat verwoerd heen en weer swaai soos roei spane op die Oranje Rivier. Uiteindelik skuif G.I. Jane opsy om te deel. So gaaf. Terwyl ek nog ‘plesiere en maniere’ vang my oog so deur die gespat en gespartel n oom wie mik vir my plekkie. Nog voor ek swembroek uit my boud trek, arms swaai en spiere klap, duik ek vir volk en vaderland.

Dis koel soos ek die stille water wêreld binnetree. Ek kan hoor hoe my vel sug van plesier soos ek omvou word met blou. Dit word toe vinnig realiteit dat ek nie kiewe geërf het nie, maar wel n stel longe wat skree vir lug. Ek skep n vinnige asem, koes vir n paar arms van 2 bane links, en swem histeries, padda oë om my nek.

Met n hoes, (poep), spoeg en spat reik ek na die kant muur vir oorlewing en gryp n enkel. Kneukels wit, kyk ek op teen die goue lig en die vollengte profiel van spiere glimlag vir my. ‘n god, arms gevou, tuur hy die verte in terwyl die lig om hom saggies sing. Ek dog ek het in die muur vas geswem en is in die hemel toe Adonis vir my kneukels kyk en die padda terug moes duik vir oorlewing.

‘n paar lengtes later staan ek rooigesig en hyg, maar in my noppies. Ek staan en lag vir myself oor hoe bang ek was to my nuwe buurman langs my opkom en dit is Adonis. Ek vat n long vol lug om weg te skop voor ek in n tropiese kleur verander, toe hy vir my vra: ‘nice dueim swim gulash bub?’. Natuurlik het ek maniere en probeer myself regop kry om te chat met my trouman maar ek val gesig eerste en spartel soos ek verdrink word deur die hande van verleentheid. Terwyl ek myself amper verdrink, skiet my regterbeen bodem toe om vir sy hand in huwelik te vra, kry ek dit reg om myself te stut vir n sekonde. Ek knik my kop, gee n spoegbek glimlag en val verder onder die water.

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TRANSPORT TOWN

Train.

I grab onto a pole as the (naturally overfull) train starts inching closer to the city. The smell of stale smoke and listless conversation seeps through the scarf wrapped over my mouth. A craned neck and quick step usually secures a seat but today there’s no space for stretching and two stepping and I am stuck with my ass in the hands of the kind sir behind me and my nose in the unwashed hair of a high school teen. Merry Christmas.

I shift my leg to supply blood to my toes and read some French text messages of the passenger to my left. Why did I ever give up my French? Fait is faire is to do. Ok, so she is going to do something. Maybe she’s planning a heist. Kidnap the president (sighs of relief). Next station. Some security guards consumed in conversation walk past looking very security-like in their orange vests.

The doors close and I say a silent prayer for my handful of extra height, stretching over a small man in tweed, I seat myself between miss big boots and missus Sunday buffet. Then cursing my ridiculous height, I squeeze my knees to my chin and stop the blood flow to my legs completely.

A wave of pungent garlic breath hits my unassuming nostrils like pots and pans clanging together in disharmony, as the missus turns to her still-sleeping friend and starts sharing about her baby boy – who is probably prince doughnuts, still in his ‘matrix’ jersey from ‘05 – and his BIG birthday (literal referral?). Her face animated as she describes her self-designed dress in red with naughty sparkly bits and litres of lace. She probably had garlic bread stuffed with garlic bread for supper.

There are light chuckles and girly giggles as the ladies exchange some detail reserved only for cake and coffee dates while Madame pouty lips in the corner, with the life-time supply of lip gloss, pouts in the direction of a young man in a neat suit, a clerk at a massive law-firm, at least that’s what I imagine he does.

More people push in and pour into the aisles at the next station when ‘whack!’ Clerk-boy lost control of his briefcase, given to him by his dying rich grandfather, and took a swing at my head. Now he is a toilet scrubber, in my mind. Too early for words and afraid of last night’s supper repeating on his breath, he mumbles an apology and looks at the train door with crimson creeping in his neck.

I revert my superpower and stare, more like ‘pretend to’, out of the not-so-transparent train window, deep in thought about Dr. Medicine man and the patients for penis enlargements. I wonder if the man in tweed ever thought of seeing a doctor. He is incredibly short.

My toes feel like they belong to the sleeping man across the aisle. It’s raining now and I have forgotten my umbrella on the dining room table.

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THE RELIEF OF RELEASE

go.TO “LET GO” TAKES LOVE

by author unknown

To “let go” does not mean to stop caring,
it means I can’t do it for someone else.

To “let go” is not to cut myself off,
it is the realisation I can’t control another.

To “let go” is not to enable,
but to allow learning from natural consequences.

To “let go” is to admit powerlessness,
which means that the outcome is not in my hands.

To “let go” is not to try to change or blame another,
it is to make the most of myself.

To “let go” is not to care for,
but to care about.

To “let go” is not to fix,
but to be supportive.

To “let go” is not to judge,
but to allow another to be a human being.

To “let go” is not to be in the middle, arranging the outcomes,
but to allow others to affect their own destinies,

To “let go” is not to be protective,
but to permit another to face reality.

To “let go” is not to deny,
but to accept.

To “let go” is not to nag, scold, or argue,
but to search out my own shortcomings and to correct them.

To “let go” is not to adjust everything to my desires,
but to take every day as it comes, and to cherish myself in it.

To “let go” is not to criticize and regulate anybody,
but to try to become what I dream I can be.

To “let go” is not to regret the past,
but to grow and live for the future.

To “let go” is to fear less and love more.

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Yesterday, today, forever

Ek mis julle vandag.

Die reuk van koel sement plaveisel, braaivleis, songebakte gras en n staysoft handdoek vol somerson.

Ons eet Griekse melktert met ons ingelegde swembad kloor hande.

Waatlemoen drup by ons bene af en los taai strepe bespikkel met pitte.

en agter in die hoek staan die yesterday-today-tomorrow.

Ek noem dit sommer die yesterday-today-forever.

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