I draw on the past – its shape and form becomes the terrain to understand experience. It is my scout as I enter into the unknown territory.
The landscape of memory is drawn in crayons of a child who runs down the road towards the past and says the unsaid. It sings in a dream.
The rocks balance in the wide-blue of the skyline of a countryside that cartwheels into my dreams in a playful grin of teenagers out veld-bashing. This is the Matoba Hills.
Records play on the turntable, singing my life. I ride on a song back to another country where an awkward youth scowls back at his old self. He is alienated from the group. Wide collars and big hair somehow still don’t make him cool enough.
I flinched. He told me, trying to belittle, I was gun-shy. Too fucking right. I can still feel the hard kick of the rifle. I shudder in memory. I am not made for this.
This piece also appears in placesthatsing.wordpress.com