To Write Love On The Shirts Adam Never Brought To Cape Town

It has been a good week. The ebb and flow of this life demands that with new birth comes certain death, as alluded to previously, and this week was no exception. I lost some good friends to the dirt and earth paradise that is Pietermaritzburg, yet managed in the same weighted breath of anticipation and forlongitude (I know what you’re thinking and yes I am qualified to inventify my own words), to witness the greatest show on earth. I stood ten paces away from an old friend on Tuesday night, in a crowded theater, moving with the sweat and life and hustle and flow of a thousand odd young faces to the melodic line of “the cross will cast your shadow” I stole a glance at Raymond as he engaged in a moment of requited glory. In the midst of a thousand faces and four thousand limbs, here stood my old friend, arms right up, eyes wide shut and heart laid bare. In this most unlikely of places I witnessed a man share a moment with who I can only imagine being, God. I lost my breath for a moment as one does when met with such un-anticipated beauty. There was no air of insincerity there as one might expect, instead what David Crowder calls, a beautiful collision. And in the same breath of fresh air, I witnessed again something beautiful and stark last night. I watched a man breathe soul into a saxophone. It was splendid. The kind of reminder to the capitilast in me that the essence of beauty is rarely not found in good music. A music-less world would surely be a bleak existence, most especially a saxophone-less world. Against popular demand, Ska refuses to die, and rightly so.



Although being a little under two months away from now, it must be said that I am giddy with excitement concerning my exit to Durban at the end of November, God willing of course. I long for the sweat and the crowd of the people of Gateway, the mosquitoes of Upper Phoenix, the smell of my Dad’s braaivleis on the patio and having one of only ten limited edition patent pending dispensers of Pronutro-On-Tap. Okay we don’t really have Pronutro on tap, but it has been my experience over the last three years to never ever be short of the chocolate flavoured majestical breakfast cereal. I don’t know how it works seeing as though my parents are AWOL from the country 10 and a half months out of twelve and my brother doesn’t eat the stuff. I ask no questions and I tell no lies, but there it awaits my return, there in Durban. Awaiting me, too, in Durban, or slightly north of it anyhow, are some friends of the North American variety, one of which taught me a very important lesson in life. Jonty, I think you might enjoy this one, if you haven’t already enjoyed it all the way down Martin Crescent in West(side)ville. The concept is called ghost riding on one’s whip. The occupant’s of given vehicle (or whip) should be listening to West Coast hip-hop (preferably E-40 or The Federation, or anything else really, native to the Yay area in Northern California.) The whip, or vehicle in vernacular, should be rolling steady at about 10kph (works best in automatics) the steering wheel aimed dead center, and gear stick shifted into neutral. All occupants of aforementioned whip should open their doors and get out of moving vehicle and proceed to dance either next to moving car, or get on the roof or bonnet of whip and dance thereupon. I feel like I owe you some money out of my wallet Lauren, for teaching me your NorCal skills. I kid you not. They were possibly some of the most entertaining twelve seconds of my life, and then I feared more for my little French Girl’s* car hitting the wall, than trying to establish my street cred in the parking lot of College. And plus, Justin Timberlake - gentleman and scholar that he is - wouldn’t survive his own twelve seconds with the Hyphy boys of San Francisco. (I need to get me some real hip hop.) Which brings me to this week. For one I should do some laundry, then later my cousins from Johannes-Burger are coming for a visit, although my cousins aren’t coming for the express reason of doing my laundry. But the culmination of both provides premise for a good strong week ahead. Smell you later, you Smellies. *Is the emphasis on it being a girl’s car from France, or is it that it’s a girl from France whom the car belongs to? It’s so hard to tell.