Martine evoked Hilda, having met the woman in the course of the day, saying, “She’s always been like a sister to me.” Understanding a relationship with her brother Paul, fifteen years her senior and youngest of the ‘Van Der Hoeven’ clan of three. We chatted across a glass of wine on a terrace table and suscitated me to soar with a bird’s-eye view, to an impelling countryside blind bend in the road. When the swell summer thicket green foliage, flash a red and gleaming a metallic squared out fenders shaped in the midst of the bubbly windows. Martine continued chatting, though she elicits the late sixties, through the model of car crossing my vision. Unconsciously, she piped me into an era to which she was witness, while in the present she impaired, saying curt and flat out indifference, “His girlfriend died!”
Martine evoked Hilda over the past week, leading me to drive the Audi outbound in pursuit of road pointers, on our way meeting her habitual fortune teller. We ahead a way out the residential arena, and through the industrial zone marked by the Volkswagen factory in Forest. Breaking through the cast shade of the southern underpass to the highway. in the ensuing bright midmorning sunlight, in a brief stretch of road curving off right toward the on-ramp, appears in a virtual glaze bubble, the motion pictures and recurrent red car, which emerges from the blind bend. The red flash across my way plowing straight through a farmer’s yard to ram the left corner of the house and ceased a course underneath a large window.
The emergent holographic motion at the call of Hilda in a colloquial circle, bringing me every so often in tracking Martine’s brother at the steering wheel in a face-to-face with his girlfriend. Judging from Paul’s expression, with a reflective comportment of the woman sitting in an upright twist of the figure in the passenger seat. They both trailed an unaccomplished dispute stoke the hearth of fatality. Her surviving transient genie, evanescent as a demister, the scene a tale in wrath. Hilda seems to challenge the abstract psychiatric treatment, while Martine’s brother carries the heavy burden on his bend shoulders. His baby sister left in all ignorance, with the living friendly talk, at recommending in exchange her regular session with the fortune teller.
driving along the city inner peripheral highway, in a daylight that set the mood of the moment, when hurtful to sight, a triplet of a cast concrete footed flocculent greenery of staggering apartments at scraping the sky. static as landmarks ought to be, through the chaos of a destined life.
Unimaginable, though upcoming through a few decades, such as an invasive flocculent green canopy, swallowing the conglomerate thinning toward the distant naked downtown. On my initiation, I headed through the western outskirts of Brussels, in a trickling traffic. In a rising anxiety over missing in an affluence of road sings the exit, potentially placing my Audi in the wake of a white Peugeot. adapting to a free driving mode, reading the driver’s intent, shunting the white stippled lines underneath the hood. In a mode of contact surveying destiny, I locked in support a further car length up front, to the guiding red Citroën easing by the spiting concrete curb. in trio riding down by the vertical rising concrete off-ramp wall. slowing down in the bright afternoon dark casted shade toward distant standing vehicles.
Confident, I liaise passing the prolonging face of the upfront apartment tower my exit course by the right of a converging one way street, crawled on butting my way up to the emergent box road beneath the bridge. At the instant of halting for traffic at the red glow of traffic lights. I veered off in a suspect side road, teasing the policing red traffic lights to the thoroughfare, my way out. warping the curb. engaging the straight. borrowing a village era from the milkman and the coal merchant’s horse drawn carts the narrow street.
From the point of a cuneiform wayside grass island, I ran sight up the historic cobblestone, smoothen over with asphalt, butting a tall brick gable end to the podunk row of townhouses. sweeping a peering eye across the way, by the tide of time, the terra cotta wall of townhouses, missing expropriated teeth, these interstices hence ‘workers’ houses, spreading the grass covered ground to the rear raised by an apparent concrete good at believing in a pedestal to the flanks of trio looming artifact.
Despite the occasional veil drop of a cast shade, reminiscent of that first passage to the end of the townhouses, clearing to a doubtful crawl, an apron confused from a doubling up width of the street. conjugating my entry to an emergent assuring driveway of a jaggedly coiling route to the carpeted lawns footing the towers.
Symbolic of a relationship in motion, the Audi sky-gray hood heads in view of a singled out squad. I placed my thumb through the steering wheel spoke, spinning my hand. Leaving the in-leaf row of cigar shaped poplar trees that marked a cul-de-sac, rotating the landscape over with the emergent moving traffic across the skyline, squaring up into the parking bay. pulling up with sight falling short on the concrete parapet wall, to a halt, with a lookout over the terra cotta row of rooftops, our course earlier through the rows of townhouse.
Martine, though skeptic at initiating into the abstract of life, she rose a head tall over the Audi rooftop onto facing the rear of the car. There, in unison we head across the driveway off side in the midst of the wide interstice, the far left tower at a stance stretching out a reflective facade. looming a sunlight medium of intrigue, to the disgraceful opposite facing tower, the rich oxygenated green bleeding lawns. breaking the bound over the juxtaposed horizon, at the expense of infinity, to fall into the mysterious depth of the azure sky.
Martine steps offside venturing for the light swallowing medium. a presage in the perspective of the grounded concrete stretch of the facade. from the girdled carpet of lawns, emersed in a moonlight the leading paving slabs, way toward a sentinel, which apparent trio of shrubs, punctually line up at the entrance.
through a glazed aluminum framed doorway, we entered the lobby, to the symbiotic spirit of the Tiger in Martine. in a few bounds, she faced up to a large grid of a labeled wall directory, pounced ostensible and random pressing a calling button. excited by a mere pause, at the crackle of a voice, she briefly announces, “Martine!” sprightly she heads off toward the reflective daylight. by magic, she meets up to the buzzing latch. At a length behind her, to the swing of the glazed door, clearing the interior further. She vanishes at the speed of a shadow around the blind corner. Catching up with her, at the instant of her retrieving finger to the glow of the calling knob, simultaneously pulling the elevator door, she seemed to move through the wall, where I followed her natural gait, a step into the cabin.
The door shut us in, sparing a brief thoughtful moment at a soft whining trawl into distant heights, to a stop. Martine pushes her way out, and sentient of the claustrophobic heavenly rattrap, in a pursuit tracking back three floors higher, through a whithered white corridor, a way out one section, ensuing an approach to a distant door light.
Rose Delbruyere’s mother stood ready to welcome us, on that particular Saturday. She waves us through the hallway, onto a doorway into a transient personal lounge. well padded and bright colored florals against the white walls, for a moment blind of the black printed fabric backgrounds that emerges along the leader of a wood duco display cabinet.
When Rose Delbruyere emerged with the swing of a flash panel white door, partially obliterating the ghosts of passages to a singled out lounge chair. with a view across the window light initiating a intriguing lavish kitschy décor. sparse portraits from the cabinet onto the walls pictures family orientated. without a spare space, in the midst of fundamental Judaic relics, delicately confused in a Gypsy style.
By a visible eye exchange, Rose Delbruyere relieved her mother from duty. with a slight reverence hanging on the door grip, she pulls the door to a close, as Martine questions the daughter, “May he come in with me?”
“Sure,” Rose Delbruyere answers, in an insinuative tone that says, ‘[there is nothing secretive in my prognostics – if you’re OK with what the cards reveal.]’
Hiding behind her attained integrity, Martine by a sudden step heads by Rose Delbruyere and through the doorway. On her heels, I were to enter the estranged, austere and clinical white little room. A worktop stretching into the light of the window, free of kitchen utensil. I turned away after Martine, no where to lay sight and catch a curiosity, than the opposite wall, jealously sticking to a brown mahogany square little tabletop, embraced by a set of three wooden chair backrests.
Rose Delbruyere break the chill, saying, “Take a chair!” which left us with a choice, while she maintained the stoic stance of a reservation one and united with the chair in the light of the exit door. Martine hesitant over the choice. the time Rose Delbruyere grasps to glance across the cause of what occurs at the table, pointing eyes in a glowing daylight, saying with an ironic smile, “I leave the sash open to let the [bad] spirits out.”
in the clairvoyant’s retrieving regard, the beacon of sight and light (third eye) returned from reckoning with the Audi below the balcony, to an expiring patience. I moved on by Martine’ shoulder. destined to elicit a spiraling finality sitting down in the coordinates of my spline, the back of my head toward daylight, which arouses Martine onto sitting. Rose Delbruyere following suite, releasing her clinch on the door lever. Gathered around a little table, the gleam of a shy blue wall of ceramic tiles, distinctive overseeing Rose Delbruyere brings her hand around the rear of a triple deck of tarot cards. From the genie of the blue gleam, appears to sight writing matter, I asked for a brief moment before. Topped with a ball point pen, while Martine at the point of an excuse while chatty breaking the chill, saying, “Hilda – my ‘step-sister’ – she recommended I come and see you!”
Martine’s fluttering words, attained Rose Delbruyere, whose hand slips, dissimulating emotions, over the tabletop. Her hand brings the first deck of cards over. Centering, to meet a croupier other set of nimble fingers. raising the deck from a potential collusion with the wood grain. After shuffling the cards a few times, Her hand moves afar the table and pulls a straight streak of cards in front of Martine, saying, “pick twenty-one – with your left hand!”
Martine, straight as a corkscrew in the coordination of the present, picks at random the cards into a scenario of her existence. When Rose Delbruyere takes over the rite, in an apparent semitrance flips over the first card from the pile. pretty fast she briefs Martine, bringing by the next few cards her marital status to the resonance, to reason, speaking of “Children [my boys,]” into the equation. representative by the interaction crisscrossing our relationship, not to question Rose Delbruyere deeper. She gazes into the court in a three card spread, and brings up, “A married woman,” and thoughtful, “Do you know a Libra woman?” she says. She frowns, the shadow in the darkness off a virtual bonfire light which Martine exercises in my life. Rose Delbruyere fingers curl up, one, and more, and in a circle unearth the sense of the top cards of a nine card layer. Frowning, at the similarity that holds with both of us, from which emerges clear and definite, “You’re going to make a journey to that [my marriage] effect.”
in the aftermath of note taking, questions, which answers Rose Delbruyere orientates outside the course of her reading off tarot cards. Coming down to a preludious conversation into the official ‘marriage’ over the spiritual wedding appropriated at the procreation of life. I track a way out these sessions, in supposition of holding my existence’s destined course. no sooner out in the open air, such as the memory ramification in passage at autumn, the leaves wither and fall to the ground in oblivion.
From the grounded radicals, the recollection,such as a capillaryeffect that breaks in winter sapmoving through the brushwoodreaching the twigs. Rose Delbruyere weighs in the ghostly leave breathing the air of transcendency.
the trunk in the perspective of a country of origin pertaining the issued Final Order of Divorce. Rose Delbruyere spider crawledthe court of tarot card, reading pyramidal a course of life, with branches bend across the seas.
over the hearth of home on another continent, to a saplingbudding a spring season of experiences. She has vision of a growthand futuristic intermingling branches, though she lacks sight of the official refuted document by the local administration, that shadowsa veil of doubt, for Martine brings up an indiscreet question, to spur on a journey and see for herself, asking me, “Aren’t you still married?”
since I live abroad, lurks thin as air my annual intercontinental flight, leaving giant stepping stone treads of shy stopovers between continents. Pilfered from such a stopover routines, preemptive shadows the soft at heart a return. I’m driving my Audi, the gycloramic windows open to the world – a few months after I consumed an airliner ticket home to the issued office – relative to the period, cosmic, a breath elating a virtual soap bubble, which envelop the coordinated of my present new lifestyle, at the instance of heading to the Brussels International Airport.
Martine and I, we checked in our luggage, and with time to spare, turned our back to the departure concourse. step a moment later with friends seeing us off, enter the self service to the panoramic restaurant. old and bald, Smeets like a mother rubs her infant to bring up a burp, brings to attention by a hand rub of his bloated belly. Leads us to the self serving counter. he orders mush potatoes and a steak. Onto following our little crowd past the teller, dip a hand in his back pocket onto paying, as we head in view of the airfield to rest drinks and food on a vacant table. Jean-Francois Smeets take the last chair to be seated with a glass of beer at the round table. The snacks cleared, he express the moment, “Allee gij,” motivating Christiane on her thirty third birthday, raising his glass. Martine’s friend, the women joint, raised a bowl of red Porto, to my red wine a tinkling of glasses, and bringing Christiane a toast.
cheering time caught up with our flight announcement over the loudspeakers. we stand up, leaving me disillusioned over a takeoff we had no control over, and dithery head back onto the departure concourse. I rushed a farewell, scattering us, to be off with Martine. We pass the passport control, follow lengthy corridors, and taking a breath boarding the aircraft.
The cabin light on, the passengers settled, in a ritual of services by stewards, the air hostesses in distant aisles, without a thought bearing toward Rose Delbruyere prophesied flight than years later, and only referring to the epic of a pregnancy. Flying in an nightmarish episode, when the lights go off. dozing off, timeless seated abreast Martine, raising calm and elating in the prospect of an interminable flight. Into the night, my head in the fog, surging an obsessive cadence to leap an outer aircraft flight ahead. my body stiffened in the sense of shaping muscles hard to the mold of the seat, bar my terminated limbs, my hands and feet.
restraint to the notches of a dial, upon ten exhausting hour to touchdown. in an apparent slow motion, I watch out the window the remaining upcoming taxiing lag of time. imagining stretching my legs, in the upcoming Jan Smuts International airport, I reasoned myself, into a judicious standing up, over and again, through the rotating the buildings, facing up to the mirror effect of the sky we left behind, and blindly pull up, onto walking for the exit.
In the stream of passengers, I welcomed the endless corridors, and emerge behind queues. Martine slips behind a “foreigners passport” banner, which lines I cheated, for the “residents.” Showing my identity, I moved on behind the row of control booths. Together we moved on, fetching our luggage by the carousel. Before meeting the cul-de-sac, clearing a pair of wing doors, the custom officer’s piercing eyes didn’t fail to make me feel guilty without reason. Where we passed the virtual gateway, where at lose of sight people crowded at a guardrail. The instant to skim the deep crowd, I lay eyes on a free moving head, none other than the baby of the family. My brother Ivo moved offside down the extreme right, as we meet the encroaching crowds, in the clearance, his hands came leading. with a weightlifter agility, he fetches our bags, and greeting us, “Hi – How are you?” in a sweeping movement turns around, leading us on by sight.
We cleared the crowd, Ivo leading us on the penultimate day of February toward a distant and deep peering rising sunlight, off side silhouetting figures, to a shining concourse floor. approaching the slit across to the glazed front, out door to the underside of the overhead deck. without giving a thought to the eclipsed moon of a winked out constellation, in the wake of a bright sunlight. neither wonder over the eve of the tenth day, a sunset is to escorting us by leading driveway above through the virtual gateway out the country onto our scheduled flight.
Beyond the concrete design pillars, gleams breaking a parking lot over the car rooftops. We weaved by long shadows, in reverence at our feet, until Ivo stopped by the trunk of his Mercedes. He loaded our bags, when such as pets cowered in the depth of a kennel, a few cement bags meet the giant deflective sunlight. At my surprise, he’ll say, “For traction!” I’ll deduce, hence, the apprentice, becoming fully fledged mechanic, insinuating, ‘Weighing down the rear suspension!’ timid, laughing at himself, he pulls down the trunk lid, onto moving on rounding both car fenders, to an hesitant door pause, at a lagging pneumatic unlocking suction, we progressed inside taking our seats.
Rose and the gypsy
Ivo reversed out the parking bay, to rotates a view of the parking lot, into the straight of the lane to a brief pause at changing in forward gear. heading off, we weaved a way from the vicinity of the terminal building toward a changing sky waning the fringing gray veil of a night. By intricate ways, in the gap to the distant cargo warehouses, wayside raised from the blurry ground fencing, radiant against an azure sky pretentious iconic bright colored fins.
Ivo veered at successive slip lanes, breaking through the shadow, entering the underpass, a transient passage to an emblematic axis, failing to break highway traffic, across to the town fringes of Kempton Park.
At the coordinates, like crosshairs on a spectrum of changing colors that spiral like a staircase around the sun. ‘tween decks of the Chinese calendar starting off the year of the Monkey. In a renewing cycle points a dozen years earlier, in the vicinity of converging highways. A vehicular period attributed to my bright orange Mercedes, and driving in an outbound direction from Johannesburg toward East Rand. on my way breaking the boxed shade beneath the flyover. the shine of a reflective scorching summer light, spurred to mind, ‘Stop!’ I slammed breaks. improvised pulling over in the rough grass shoulder. At halt by the open door of the caravan. Skeptic, and lacking courage under the calling eyes of the gypsy guy. In the momentum, I entered, pinned down to a session, piping the coordinates of a transcendent daughter, into a lapse of time building up a force of volition at channeling toward birth.
Ivo and Caroline
from the main street entering downtown Kempton Park, Ivo veered us by a horseshoe ride, the leg that weaves a way by Rhodesfield suburban villas. At an upcoming intersection, to an open field off the right, to a local store and near a school. on the opposite corner, we crawled by the front yard grass to a church building. short of ending a spiral course, to a coincidental curiosity down the straight. Our stricken regard, bar Ivo across the hazy highway fencing, to the few lurking bright iconic colored aircraft fins.
We puled up the driveway through the front yard to a halt short of the garage door, focused by the series of large windows. the maid draws back the curtains to a boy looking out. the next window little daughters turned away their preying eyes, asking to themselves, ‘Daddy – what have you been up to?’ we stepped out the car, spare a brief moment at the trunk, to head for the footpath. the windows cleared, and at the kink, the children clasp their mother’s skirt, who is standing by the open entrance door to the dark interior.
Ivo heads past the gathered little crowd, while in a brief exchange of greetings, to Caroline whisking off in and after indoor. In the classic furnished living room, Caroline heads off by an hesitant husband, into the leading corridor. Offside she enters, to take a stance showing us the girls’ room. Ivo trailed behind, comes around the chattering women and watching girls, with their elder brother. As my brother poses the bags, indicating nearby the place on the floor for mine. without apparent rush, In his retrieving movement, Martine, and I, we’ll meet the children in a game around the kitchen table fetch the Alsatian, and locking the guardian in the sleeping quarters, in a flash Ivo heads off, followed by the children dressed in their school uniform.
Caroline lingering in the house, while my mind urged me onto Peter Few. In view of negotiating with Jean while in ‘town’ a visit. mediator in a year long ongoing negotiation, in sight of the forthcoming school vacation, at giving our teenager boys the opportunity to visit their father overseas.
Caroline, leads me to a phone cradle, in a corner on a dresser between the formal and casual lounges. I dialed Perter Few’s land line number. such as an extension of a correspondence over the past year, to the paradox of teenager boys asserting themselves from the iron clutches of their mother – the thriving curse, making my entry into the South African airspace, break through the spell, to win a brief moment with my boys.
Saturday 1 March 1992
I hung up the handset, to the kitchen window offered a back yard view to be taken advantage of, to Martin’s symbiotic lone Tiger. soon after breakfast, outside the back door, she crosses the grass. She steps down the pellucid sky blue pool. proclaims her first dip, which twenty five degree Celsius cold water, for native South Africans, is a risky adventure. I stand by Martine’s kinky moments, till she steps out, and heads inside the house. getting dresses, while the black maid sweeps the house.
Caroline ready to shuttle off to work heads off outdoor. Imposing, the Mercedes, which eclipsed the midget blue Nissan 1200 pickup, now a vacant spot as we backed out the driveway, leaving me thoughtful, ‘Each [personality] their means!’ Martine and I, afforded in a bright sunlight ride downtown into the trickle of traffic. On the brink of Kempton Park, in view of the railway station, we swerve off by a slip way left and duck a passage in the shadow of the railway line. Emerging in the industrial zone, collimating the Spartan thoroughfare, we zigzag a way that brings us to a series of offices windows, at pulling up to a low forefront building barring in depth the industrial shed.
Caroline steps out the car, leads the way through the entrance of their Engineering Bom-Mach label. in the lobby catching up Caroline in the blind corner behind the open door. She entertains a troubled eyed young Indian, ghosting in the chair he left bend over accounting books. raised in the light of the large window to view the massive workshop shed. She thanks him, and heads off in the stretch of a corridor. By the open door, and again, she introduces the family relationship to a young woman standing bend over a desk, and shadows a groping woman seated across. Martine and I, moved on her heels to a door before the corridor kinks off to the rear, and introduces us to her sister.
Caroline through the flow of movements waves us in diagonal across the corridor, lagging behind to the clearing large office. a pool of daylight highlights by the large window picturing the street of our earlier arrival, to encounter a glowing desktop, which Caroline contours. Agitated in her shadow, the woman in a reprimanding posture, earlier across the corridor. She pressed her way speaking, the words that raised Caroline to dithering. the woman preemptive split a desk contour. insistent bending over the large desk, at the moment Caroline is writing off the pressure, and among the women arouse a part of my past. the desktop designed for the spread of construction plans. Martine and I moved away from the pair of visitors’ high backrest chairs, hence I watched visitors sitting low across the wide desk, raising the sense of being undesired. We zigzagged our way through the staff kitchen from the administrative block out to a narrow alleyway.
across the threshold, I was bound to finding the foothold of another personality, in the world of mechanics. the light of an industrial gate, waxing the sleek effect of pressed metal plates, to the point of the matte gray sprayed undercoat paint. hence, a brother’s dream, postponed, accruing films of dust. In the depth, of the naive stanced Volkswagen double cab pickup, awaiting to load a crate engine to embed in the platform. shines impressive like a ravaged black antiquity site, an amalgam of dismembered massive earth plant. from the bulk heavy broken bright painted carcases, the larger pieces staggering down, scattered afield to a rubble spread of the smaller greasy and oily shine of spare part. Divided by a surgical alleyway meeting the light in the rear of the shed at the industrial gate into the yard.
Proceeding by sight in the peaceful entourage, far from stoking morales, the alleyway through virtual ruins. The in-and-out production line floor, suscitates a silhouette between gateways. the white eyeballed black mechanic, points us offside. from a glimpse questioning the [little jewel of a brother’s manufactured] compactor. Martine and I, head off, without giving the machine another thought, for the immediate call of the shine of a doorway underneath a thorny bush of shelved parts gathering dust in the corner. Approaching the light of the doorway, Ivo figured giant in his blues. From behind a little wooden desk, with a broad smile, he invited us in. filling the little cubic office, with a handset wedged by his left shoulder, the spiral cord trailing to the cradle across right, he takes notes. In the waiting with a panoramic view of the floor, I went on sitting down, and drowned in his extended call, placing a purchase order.
Ivo leads the way out his workshop, up the factory driveway toward the street. at the Volkswagen minibus, he hands me over the keys, as a token, ‘Have a good trip.’ He stands by, while I adapt the strange seated upright position over the concrete driveway surface. We pulled off with a hand wave, onto a while later, driving a way out the industrial zone for the circling suburbs. Questioning the absurd notion, of our brother Igor, naughty, uncured naive cowering that exempt him in childhood from blame. The transaction with Ivo acquiring the vehicle leaves much to doubt – the instant prevailed in the aftermath, haunting me, to questioning, ‘Was I too preoccupied to perceive the signs, or destined flaw of [morality] wiping off the slate clean over an upcoming fatality, so that Rose Delbruyere omitted to notice the circumstance?’
from the East Rand, I drove in the axis, a tortuous way westward, through scattered bush that shadowed the wild spirit of the golden savanna. amidst two wrangling cities, jealously watching sprout from the veld the unimaginable ongoing progressive lifestyle that growing up implicated. A metamorphic tale of adolescent brothers and sisters, fading to extinction a past. find my way targeting on the horizon the rising lonesome tower. Hence, awaking our entry in a conglomeration, arousing a complex reference point learning over again.
Such as a coincidental return, in a swamp of buildings Sandton City in bright sunlight brought to discover the shadowed entry and drove through the undercover parking, as though, I never left the area. we pulled up in the midst of cars, step out, invited by the glaze to a bright tunneling glitter. Martine’s eyes walk displays windows the mall through. She stops by the railing to watch the impressive atrium void. couldn’t start imagining a comparative lifestyle. She notes, ‘More posh than back home the deficient goal-orientation of the Golden Fleece Hotel!’ as the glittery walls glides with a few cabins that serve hotel rooms.
Igor and Robyn
Martine and I, we returned in the spell of the exposed concrete, and drove off, at emerging from the cool medium of parkings to an energetic sunlight. veering off left into the street to zig-zag a grid outbound and westward into the suburbs. Closing in on the fringes of Johannesburg, like a mindset of settlers. hence, a sprightly development of reflective home, where people hoed yards and planted greenery. The green bloom and swamped habitations, frayed and shied away the white walls and blended into a predominant Afrikaner town. We weaved a way into these Randburg streets. Hence, fields of virgin bushland, Igor and I, in our adolescence, were riding up in our club jersey on Sundays to the start line of road races. By the tide of change, we borrowed the farm panel van. girls appeared sporadic, and accompanied road bikes and riding mates, and grew to crowd by the finishing line. A magnetic conservatism sets in, Igor marrying in the town of his English in-laws. He moved ‘third time’ lucky to the house with a white security wall.
Martine and I, we pulled up, stepped out the minibus, and rang the bell to the seclusion. Sasja, followed by Liska’s curiosity cleared an invitation into the light of the opening door. Making our entry into my brother’s home. By evening in the coordinated axes of a journey, over a glass tabletop that bears no reflection to our summer wear. Prolonging the day into the evening chatting on the terrace, over a glass of wine, a parapsychological invitation to us, lodgers.
To Martine’ free spirit the bushes in the yard flowered, and the flowers amorously inspired, brightened by her touches. Far form a preoccupation outside family circles, the enclosure to everyday life, wasn’t fluid, and warrant the strength of a system shock, at suscitating the thirteenth trump of divination, during a session with Rose Delbruyere. The fire in the Leo, which emblematic lackadaisical lion in the shade under a bush, Igor, bears in symbiosis the ambitious Rat. And, behind his studious regard – lurks one’s profound characteristics – the predominant elements – his prevails, innocence, comfortably surrounded by his pack of females.
One is bound to see the transcendent proximity of false twins, offset by wed, though his wife Robyn host our visit, her mythical Dragon, saying, ‘I rule and I’m invincible.’ In brotherhood in symbiosis with wifes the moon in the Libra, weighs off a pair of boys against girls. Sasja preceded Lionel by a year, while taking distance, to Gavin two years to his youngest daughter Liska.
Destiny lies in ruins
emergent and free, the soul of mine wondered off, and as ghostly I treaded down a heap of rubble, measuring by the size of the surrounding raw sandy deep colored rocks of a peripheral wall, I related my place in a sinkhole.
A tricky way down on an antiquity collapse to a pile of rubble. the gravel of which accumulated finer at the bottom. when I deemed safe to tread, I lift my eyes. laying sight in the mysterious tapering down of the earth’s crust to ruins. agape, the lips of antiquity, sporadic and scathed smooth the rough rocks. The masonry of a civilization, lures me on to the threshold of the cave.
My eyes adapting through the dark entrance into the underworld, to sensed the chill of a catacomb. Proceeding, unveiling in a soft light to seized my presence in an antechamber. cleared of defunct remains, which were never there, though brought to wary monsters in hibernation.
Skeptic, I paced without my feet lifting a puff of dust from a blanketed of eons. a daylight leading my line of sight, in the systematic gallery of a cloistered colonnade of leading archways. tapering off an evanescent miner’s tunnel, in a stiffing daylight, blending closed infinity into blurry surroundings.
Behind the rising quoin, which runs without a flaw around the crown the archway down the other side. subject to my beacon of sight [‘third eye’] silent paired radar echo to my integrated ‘ears.’ I conceded fearless off left the blind barrel vault and latent exhaust of an ensemble that projects a kiln. bearing a skeptic pursuit off my right shoulder, a preemptive regard launched in the coordinates. ahead of my presence, I focused around the quoin of large hewn ashlar that dressed the foursome archways. Following a lurking chill down the blind barrel vault. Outstretching, sensing the endless cold cowering lie to a latent source. of no concern, I stopped proceeding saying to myself, ‘No [You’ll find nothing] – not there!’
my sight in retrieve, and in the wake of my leading sight, I momentary relent concern bearing into the unknown. stepping straight taking leave of the transversal channel, my eyesight prowls on through the sturdy shouldering walls. huge and striking part of the up and coming quarters of stumpy abutments. Cautious slow, in view of the rising four quoins of the groin vault, I glanced in opposite to the air vent hollow, preemptive wary to fall prey. Peeking, I venture around the blind corner, in a latent transparent immaterial tunnel, sniff the secretive punitive cold. in the perpetual chill, I struck a definite latent at hearth stocking, and profiling the dire of an unknown soul.
systematic as I advanced through the gallery of massive supporting abutment quarters, and around the blind elevating quoin to the leading furnace arch, in the depth of the tunnel, I encountered a dragon breath. a few meager flames inoffensive killing the chilly spell in the far indistinct source of the tunnel. In a few sequences I learned to reach behind the dragon breath, approach stoking at hearth, tongues of convoluting flames, finger clasp into a fistful fireball, leading me to a variety of souls identify the spirits of various at heart clinching energies.
time and gain, I discard the vile angers of mild flamethrowers. Until, the stoker of a virtual steam machine, wrath at heart, roars, billowing a ball of fire up the channel. In the wake of the trailing barrel vault on fire, I found the stoker in hiding. perceptive of my approach, the instant of the malicious spirit falling prey of my sensors. I watched the impressive instantaneous fall back of the fire trail. vacuumed at length to die at the hearth of the stoker, hearing a distant person’s living voice say onto itself, ‘This isn’t a good idea [being identified!]’
Lionel and Gavin
from the hands of the cosmos, I was beamed back into a tangible world, the fire blasts bypassed the conscious. the existence of maledict spells to resolve at the cumulus level, where minds weather a transcendent medium –.
driving the minibus on loan, symbol of a vehicular relationship, my subconscious unfurls the umbrella for cosmic protection. north bound in the tracks of the Voortrekkers to ‘Halfway-House’ an established town since the days of knight on horseback saddled a fresh horse at the relay outpost –.
In our adolescent years we found a car workshop and gas station on the spot. in view of the industrial zone, we swerved off onto meandering the wavy hills. Hence, sight of a magic sprout in the wild savanna, the sporadic shine of white and geometric villas. Until, ‘Vorna Valley’ resonates, onto rhyming with Peter and Rita.
we pulled up along a suburban precast concrete wall, on the grass shouldering the street. I stepped out and up to the paved apron. The driveway slipping underneath the gates, after pressing the calling button, watching through prison bars Gavin a number of lengths out the light of the entrance door, head up in the wake of his brother. Lionel unlocks the padlock, drops the ends of the chain, launching himself off on me into a long embrace. He left his place to Gavin, and onto calling Martine to join us into the Few-Whitehorn household.
boys anxious in childhood dreams, at the forthcoming realization, Lionel and Gavin lead the way. bushwhacking in an historic nurtured exciting atmosphere. they lead me across the threshold into an estranged household.
Although, in the wake of my boys, I hit an instant surge of skepticisms. Lionel turned around, killing by a regard my lurking anxiety of entering private quarters. Changing a light glowing concept, the virtual hallway bleeding across the ceramic tiles, in which my boys had taken a stance, opens beyond a familiar extended interior.
My naive outlook over an inert and silencedin house excitation, to fall ‘in the wolf’s mouth,’over the years excavating my proper lifestyle from the family, to Jean looming over my every move, though destined to lay her life in ruins –.
meeting hearts’ mischief that lies in wait, which Ilona, in the moon sign of the Libra. hence, my session by Rose Delbruyere, sisterly, I inadvertently associated an highlight wrangling over money, as heart burning fever in which the means of a trio of Libra women brought confusion. visibly out of the equation my sister-in-law Robyn, falling flaw as a source. I skip identifying Jean’s phenomenon. in the perspective of a motherly behavior for the good of her children. Transparent behind her acquired name, dug-in shyness, she averts the fluidity that pipes minds. Prevents clairvoyance, which other than a prevailing violent system shock, at bringing the tarot card tell, a deep hateful regret toward her proper person –.
silence lurks toward Martine bringing indoor her presence, while I noticed her shadow in the light of my ‘Wind Mansion.’ She keeps at bay, in the perspective of a family constraint, in return a milieu Martine is foreign to –.
Over on my left, beyond the round table huddled by half dozen backrest, Rita stands facing the kitchen window, lackadaisical busy over the sink. In an abbreviated glance, she saw the specter of her sister that ought not to be. such as echoesin distant mountains, Martine shadowsout of the daylight at the entrance door. in the wake of her prodigious brother-in-law, a geisha– when minds fillsthe gapsof exorbitant lifestyles. to sight the plane of continuity, hence dating her sister – brief strayed eyes meet, and Rita says, “Hello –!”
In a prolonged wait, dawns in conflict identifying Rita a fever at heart, with a spell of malediction, at the kiln of a familial culture. Extinguishing through a notion over the boys, when the wall behind the teenagers that shadows a doorway, swings to light. Peter appearing from the passageway out of the sleeping quarters. Cool as our correspondence over fax machines, he greets me. When scatters than puppies from between his legs, two little girls head off in the direction of their mother out my field of sight. Peter and my boys group and lead in the opposite direction. Coming around the coffee table, come to sit on the couch in the midst of my boys. in diagonal off right, retrieved, inscribing through a virtual conversation pit, the rules in regard to my boys. Outnumbered, with only the noise of my prowess letters, powerless, I capitulated to Jean’s exigencies.
Jelly and transparency
Rose Delbruyere destined at staging tarot sessions, with pride in her voice, at the wealth of living a subliminal integration. She pursues my proper equation at a transcendent level, at the choice of my existential direction, which I ought to see, and didn’t. I arrived earlier in a down to earth frame of mind and accordingly,predictive, prejudging. In turn, I entered a cosmic programming, beyond my cerebral genes. inspired by the window daylight over my shoulders. Suddenly, I watched her physique unfold holographic fingersflipa card that she lies atop the three row of 7 cards. Checking out, she is a sibyl ghosting a lip talk, as her fingers spider crawl to a deepened read, without an echo. I grew conscious of the ephemeral instant, and sought to distinguish elements, watching her synchronized hand and arms, surveyed her distinct rubber doll forward out of the blue dress she wore, and taking the pulse of her breathing, expecting such as weighing up a woman’s bust, her reaction. To my dismay, she continued picking cards, reading in total ignorance of her state of being, when a voice intones tells me, ‘Look – she’s pure [like a flawless diamond] – she’s flawless honest [don’t concern yourself] – you can trust her!”
with a sibyl’s knowledge far out of mind, we hit the road, the concrete surface slips under the still black rubber wiper blades against the windshield, which road surface vanishes away underneath our sitting upright to the dashboard. Johannesburg’s Southern Bypass Motorway without the hell of a shadow, surged a circumspect perpetration of the canned notion of the chassis. traveling with us, at an apparent loss of co-ordinates, along the exterior of the minibus, spurs in the roundabout to a sporadic metallic resonance. I tracked by hear, the entry onto echoing the interior of the vehicle. cluttering and manifest an orientation toward the front left wheel. knocking harder, and faster beneath Martine seat, the surprised warning at the instant of loosing control.
Far from sparing a reflection at breaking a bad spell inhibited to identifying the morale issue of a soul, in view of the prolonged downhill. My mind flash in the period of adolescence, the spectacular wave of hills, which Igor and I borrowed. Starting at the abutment of storm water drains beneath the road, we competed for the crests. shuttling on our bikes the country road to Pretoria, to spectacular track on the open road of traffic accidents. at the Kyalami wayside family farm stall, which car drivers reported. Ignorant, such a witness understatement, ‘when experience prevails over prayers –’ in saying, “a preacher drove!” over the minibus that lost a right front wheel, shunting the oncoming traffic lane, at tumbling head over tail into the wayside tuft grass, at finding the lie on the spanned barbed wire fence to a private property.
On an apparent peaceful ride, I’ll soon discover the latent maleficent shadow which hung clandestine underneath the chassis as the desert concrete highway lies ahead. In a sun reflective white, the pair of concrete bands prolong scattered villas, which distinctive stole wayside a nestling in a blending whitish field of rocks. Given a promising long journey overseeing the valley, a way stippling through ripples of rusty Highveld grassland, to a frightful reminder. in mind resonates, ‘The preacher who died – he slammed on breaks!’ though my foot released the throttle, and irresistible shifted a feather touch of the fatal brake pedal. In the rear end compartment, the whining engine relapsed and sap the energy no sooner changing down gears, to free a sense of acceleration. sight roiling over the dashboard and on the road with a toppling over sensation. at risk of feeling the biting breaks, and to my silent relief, in the nick of time, we came to a halt in the security lane.
I stepped out, contoured the front, inspecting the wheel, under Martine’s naive gaze. to my disbelieve finding the lose wheel, and catching a fright at the possible warn away threads onto jeopardizing our journey. I opened the door, pleaded Martine to move over, and fetch the wheel wrench and jack behind the seat. Preoccupied by my brothers, onto swearing hell and high at imagining the black mechanic earlier in the workshop, forgetful, after changing wheels. My initial fear attenuates, as each of the lug nuts rotating in the helix thread, to a balanced tightening. As in mind, I imagined returning behind the steering wheel, and pull off, I moved around the wheels, standing on the wheel wrench, with a body weight jerk for each of the lug nuts.
Riding along the hypnotic whitish concrete strip, up and down the gentleslopes, my foot floors the throttle, while such as children in the rear falling bored, the four engine pistons fails to rev up the dynamics at changing into top gear. the sun probed us onto a leading shadow, as the provincial highway runs into an interminable drag, before the median drew to a close and the lanes folded down into a two-way leading black tarmac strip. equidistant on our journey, we swerved off to face northbound land billowing up into sky space. At the crest heeding to a curiosity, we pull over by a tuft of shading bicentenary eucalyptus. Martine at the touch of the historic remainder, which stippled by far Voortrekkers trails in our cause. the countryside reminiscent of pioneer driven oxen drawn cart from a sun scorching earth, her hand on the burned black bark, and a few massive trunks in depth she stands amongst lush growth of green grass from the recent ravaged veld fire.
We pulled off, fetch the shallow wave length onto the remote skyline. at length of time approaching the mountain range into being swallowed by the hills. Not before, the plains break up at the foot of the massive, into an agglomeration of town streets. we take a break on the porch in view of the remnants of the pioneer outpost. After a snack, we ride outbound Lydenburg’s main street, straight up the piedmont to the whining engine. mountaineering into the mischief of the road, ceaseless changing up and down gears, at leading a passage through the mountain pass. In the heights, as the leading road vanishes into a mystique fog of the ‘dragon mountain’ at the tail end, Martine calls out, “Pull over – I want to get out.”
in the rear the engine idles, as I watch unveil Martine’s mysterious intentions, pacing in summer mauve clothes a short distance up front, onto pressing an arm’s length vanishing into the bristly wayside. The tightly hedge seeming to pull her over by the hand, as she steals here and there a trumpet white lily. Going on picking and gathering long stalks, to a sweeping bouquet in her left hand, when I joined her at the toll of air chilling me to the bones. hanging out until she walks back, to crawl to the comfortable interior of the minibus. We had apparently pulled off to Martine’s earlier persistent stop calls, that I followed her once again from afar to her figure in whole pressing the stalky eden of nature, picking these scattered white and purple turk’s-cap, bundling up to a latent awareness of a listing, protective over the wild species.
Arriving at the mountain ledge, facing the Lowfeld, the road brought us onto hanging along the dark vertigoes face a descend along the escarpment wall, through the pinnacle of the Long Tom Pass before meandering a long descend. Short of the town which borrowed the name from the down stream, we swerved off right at the road bearing sign.
Driving in the shadow of the night trailing on us, such as a latent prophetic meandering, interpreting Rose Delbruyere co-ordinates of the Sabie river, at twins with the national hillside road. we borrowed the secondary back roads. plowing through banana plantation. gliding through rolling hill, Martine pointed to a slip road off on the right. finding ourselves heading up a dirt track to a train wagon perched on the hillside. Halting on the earthworks into the hillside, to step out, and along the blue railway car to the edge of the terrace. After standing a brief moment, satiate a rising constellation of lights, the delta slumps the town of Hazyview in a night lie, we fetch the leading tarred roads, after turning away from the hillside.
on the moonless night the wayside shadows dissipated behind into the umbra of the passing headlight. Such as a flashlight sweep, brushing the leading tarmac aside, off right targeting a roadside apron. we placed our faith in the short of the up creeping dirt road. Until, arouse the specter of a hand etching the structural members, materializing a bridge crossing – .
emblematic over an abyssal fissure, the abutments of the period, sums up a fax exchange of correspondence digitally stamped. Measuring the spans over the means of a transaction during the late months of ‘1991.’ Inconsequential to the abyssal depth, the lagging confusion over bank authorizing transfers in an advancing technology, while leading into the creation of the abyss, by the eventual transaction making up the deposit to the acquisition of the number fifteen on [French] Queen Marie Henrietta Avenue –.
remotely blind, over engrossing financial consequences, Martine and I, in a subtle pursuance of an evanescent road. leading tracks at the reward of a few distant soft shinning windows. Approaching, to pull up aside the lair. headlight dying to a graphite sketching, coloring the depths of shades, bringing forth a flocculent ground crown, from which around the front, rises, inherent to mother, her exulting voice from a distance, calling out, “[Flemish] They’re here – Ho, you are here [at last!]” sprout father and mother from their lie in wait, and particular to their gait, rushing at our encounter.
Martine didn’t laugh then, masking her mother’s Flemish heritage, adopting the ‘General Civilized Dutch‘ in greeting, “[Dutch] Hello Bon’ma (Grandmother – nick named by the generation of grandchildren,)Hello Bon’pa (Grandfather!)”
My old folks, curious enquirers, father by a silent watch, mother twinkles in her eyes, thoughtless rolling words. they lead a way around a natural grown perron of tropical shrubs to the shabby house, and symbolic embraced our architectural deed, making our entry to a soft light. Martine a bouquet of wild flowers at hand, fuzzy in mother’s eyes, as nature provide her everyday exotic and bright. as she overlooked the bouquet, not to swamp a jolly-story, Martine lies the bunch of wild flowers on the first surface, the dining room tabletop.
where Africa in the morning awake with the songs of the birds, mother leaves us behind, not without a latent forethought for the wellbeing of either children of hers. She drives off, by father’s choice, his, the gray 1980 Volkswagen Jetta. Hanging up his butler’s apron, father takes his chair at the head of the table, to an open hearth, to a random stone masonry rising to the hanging family coat of arms, bearing the five blue lilies. He finishes with us the breakfast he prepared earlier. a while later, as guardian of Ilona’s Alsatian. Heiger leads a way out the house. The dog highlights the night before path across the bridge. Brings dimension to symbolism, as the dog fearless along the shallow bank, enters the murky water of the crocodile infested stream. proudly Heiger leads the trio of us, humans, return up the gentle farm land slopes, a workout way, and such as calling in on his master at the dining table. snout rubbing a thigh, saying, ‘We’re back!’ tolls the phone, calling eyes to the corner. Father lifts the handset from the cradle, and after a few words, passes me on Ilona at the other side of the line.
As though I merely said, “Ilona invited us to the Game Reserve,” I sought in mind the latent road of a few years before. Recollecting a glimpse at that ought not to be structuring in the chaos of nature. The pipe up, I hurt sight at the emblematic elephant head on the wayside sign, in rusty disguising colors oddly striking a gritty dirt road splinting from ensuing the tarmac. the sand road curved left for us to pursued a path inland, the Krugerpark in. Coming to a bend off to the right, clearly in the lens of a theodolite defined geographic coordinates, void of heavy earthwork machinery into the wide and whitish road through a shallow thick bushy valley tapering off the run to a futuristic forecast traffic. We came to the point and conceded fearless to the bushveld on the receding road. The mind knock at loss of the wild rustic trek, to pull up through a stockade the driveway sand wash the bay of a kraal out through interstice of thatched bungalows. struck by oddly shining pointers, welcoming us to the Sabi_Sabi Games Reserve estranged such as neon light in a nigh street. we entered the door clearing another world, appropriated to a white woman in a khaki dress behind the straight lines of a barring reception counter.
She glanced at us, as it dawn on the woman, announcing, “Is Ilona here – She’s expecting us.” Her child’s stupefied regard, going for the offside doorway light, became ephemeral busy, repetitive hesitant at crossing the threshold. the receptionist gathered her courage and vanished in the light, to an imminent appearance that didn’t happen. Until, my big sister, Ilona shows up stirred, apparently bugged by the inconvenience of a little brother, who just budged in.
Ilona’s stern expression dissipated, as she grasped control, that predominant element of her Libra, straight as the accounting figures bound to balance in the end. Perceptive as a toddler, the big sister which knew the moment to take my hand and leading me on into a blaring fanfare, and reared within that intersecting Electra and Oedipus complex with our parents. I watched her rising grin, as she books us in, needless to ask a question, while in her wake, the receptionist sends us off with a black porter. On the way by hut high trees spread canopies to our bungalow, I couldn’t begin to imagine getting up at five the following morning.
Before the trees orchestrated a morning chirp, Martine and I, were ready and stepping out into the night, heading to the spot of our arrival. Waited at bay as people trickled up, boarding the all-terrain vehicles. Pulling off, turning around, onto driving out around a distancing stockade shacking as we drove the wilderness in. we left the bumpy tracks, for a rocking and rolling off track penetration, to a stop. the ranger stepped down, gathered the folks. Over a coffee break, watching an ongoing changing twilight. we climbed back into our seats, the vehicles dispersed. the leading black tracker, to rangers communicating over breaking radio voices, while watching the sun pencil rays arouse the horizon to the bush lurking with the shadows. Herding with the animals around a water pond, when the skies announced a sun scorching ground. by midday turning up at the lodge, to walk under a thatched roof crossing other guest to an open air luncheon buffet.
By late morning, Martine and I returned to the crossroads of a few landlords, to a latent downtown, and veered right a zig-zag way the block down a cul-de-sac. Sway right and away from the rural store, to pull up at an high security fence. stepped out, head along the flanks of the minibus toward the rear, in view of the broad white fascia camouflage across the industrial building. Entering underneath the Spar logo, which colors plastered across the storefront bargain prices. Peering out for my sister, in the light of an office alongside the row of tellers, asking Ilse at sight, “[Flemish] how are you – where is mother?”
“You’ll find mother in the storeroom,” Ilse answered.
On my way through chock-a-block shelving, off the leading aisle in the depth of the store, we crossed Gearard coming off the delivery bay, challenged a moment to greet, onto treading up a few stairs, at find mother, her symbiotic Capricorn shy to her Monkey, fumbling eyes and hands through a giant carton. My greetings in vain, as Martine exults a musical lyrics, saying, “[Flemish] Good day Bon’ma!”
“[Flemish] Ho – you are already there,” mother says in an insinuating tone of voice, ‘Time is flying away?”
“I have a customer waiting!” Mother says, and no sooner, she has sight of herself at the mercy of Gerard, unapologetic suscitating a let go free expression, at the thought, ‘That can wait.’ Mother enters the magic world of surprises, facing Martine and saying, “[Flemish] Our Ilse and Gerard invited us for dinner –. turning her eyes fixing me, ads, “You better be on time – you now how it [punctuality] is with them!”
by evening mother drove up in the Jetta, and while greeting, and chatting, in the instance of vanishing in the badge colors of working clothes, reappearing a moment later she emerged from the doorways dressed for dinner out.
father took the steering, taxing us at dusk the bright contrast local sand road, across the intersecting asphalted provincial roads. After a short ride cleaving rolling hills, mother in a self mocking tone of voice with a serious taint [how could it have happened?] say along the hillside sweeping road, “[Flemish] Here in the bush – they had to come with a tow truck the next day to pull the ditched car out.”
“It could have been [fatal] worse – She walked all the way home,” father infers at mother’s habitual gradual ascend after work, at the threshold of a changing landscape.
“[Flemish] The worst – I had to leave the car – thieves stole everything from the interior – Lucky the boot was locked,” mother said sighing, ‘it could have being worst!” Negligent of the mountain’s nipple of Ilse and Gerard’s lookout post over a cloak of dense bush to the river. we came around entered the imaginary private property leveling off to the point of the convergent dirt road with the Sabie road blacktop lie. void of traffic, we pulled across up at the gate. the grill rolls over behind the wing wall, and moving up the paved driveway to the sprawl of the white house gradually filling our field of sight.
Unlike a touristic guide, defining traced coordinates, in the aftermath of a session with Rose Delbruyere. her mentioning “water,” left me imagining my wildest dream. Standing high on the cliffs overseeing the awesome ocean calm and pacifying. Then again fearless on the ledge to an awakening temper –.
living with the perception of bushwhacking my way through a latent juggle such as after we stepped out the car. proceeding to house lights that shed the path of a leading force to-and-fro work. Where notions dawn, relating a prophesied bid from the strength of blood relatives, attaching relevance to the property cloak of bush. shy beyond the in-leaf flocculent swells of front yard in the tropics. Not ignoring that across a farmers’ irrigation channel, bush is home to uncovered ground, the property borrowed, such as the latent water frayed earth crust to bald black boulders that vanish into the streaming Sabi river.
I laid to sleep the scenario of my imagination, Martine and I, on mother and father’s heels, cross the threshold to an inseparable hallway clearing a white and glittery dressed dining table. Cluttered into the far exit corner of the room, amidst a family of Jack Russel Terrier, bursting out of joy, eyes sparkling, out of a ‘liter’ of five, to seven, short legged sprightly jumps alternating a head-to-tail lap dance. Ilse sits dressed in a Spar dustcoat, unconscious, in the path of recognition by the ghosting maid. She parades evanescent and emergent enterprising in the light of the night-hall. The doorway timely dressing the table, where short of the doorway, Ilse occupied fondling her pets out of a lifeless diurnal red wood house furniture.
Ilse, inadvertent in a symbolic forbidding passage, short of the maid doorway light, timely taken leave for the night way through the kitchen the back door out. warning her visitors, for the least of greeting her husband susceptible to be distracted. Apart our parents, nevertheless apparent customary at standing by. Martine and I, dangled at the loose ends. And as for myself, held at bay, the far wall vanishes in a two-way mirrored transparent glaze, outlining Gerard’s dynamics hobby shifting worktops over blurry utensils. Waiting, arouse a sense of guilt, after my idle hand and a cerebral fading concentration.
Gerard peeks through the doorway, and away from a taxing job, calls out, “Hello [everybody!]“
the joy in Gerard’s voice, stupefying, hard at imagining myself. I perceive preparing dinner, to the extent of aching arms and dorsal muscles, feet in gumboots, sweat drying on my skin while shoveling a concrete pour into place under a summer scorching sun at the zenith of the day. Empathic over his tiring day at work, thawing my guild, at sharing his culinary labor with our little crowd. The Ox in him comes to drops out in shame of the Cancer’s emotions, brining his glance down to fix at Ilse, implying, ‘Get your family seated – I’m about to served up.’
Hence, the children of a large family reared around a dinner table, timely a widowed granny addition by father’s side at the head of the table, and by mother among us toward the other end. Father’s authoritarian voice and critique instances around a meal. in a virtual tumbling from upstairs a way the head size age gap. He comes onto us, stutter over the initial “I” calling down to the seventh who menaced his authority. the out of control gaffe, break lose his stern expression, breaks through the Capricorn’s dry sense of humor, falling upon his soul.
Gerard little signs that purfles envy billowing waves, sarcastic tainted such staggering remarks, ‘You have a slim figure.’ Distorted from pinpointing a profound sensitivity of the possessive Cancer, onto cowering behind the strength of purpose Ox. Gerard in Martine, he leaves to understand his subdued massive blob of a body. absenting Martine from his shifting glance, he marques the head of the table chair, shifty on me, in a monotonous sand grounding voice, his words spell out, “Why don’t you sit down?”
Gerard sits down, I follow up on his invitation, off his left taking the free chair, to his launching gazes down the length of the table, leaping two cooking pots. the message passes to Ilse. In response, she lifts the lids in turn, dishing up, to his per-emptive call, “Bon appetit!” ensued by an impact of icicles falling and shattering amongst us. The chill between the couple has nurtured mother’s culpable bearing. The silence she begrudges, mysterious and profound hence against father, for not having considered her intuition. her daughter Ines in the current of a tragedy, which brings mother rolls out words, shying from hearing her thinking mill (how she could have avoided the tragic death.) Which, raises Gerard with as many contradictions, onto animating the table, an evening alike many others.
Beyond the wall of creation – such as taking these lives, like sapping a source, blind to the ramification, as we were reared with a sister out the litter, and left alone to deal with the disappearance of the father of her children. We were reared with a mother jibbing instincts didn’t bear to lie out, and perceived witchy without scientific exactitude, which father brought to doubt. mother sees the living soul of her child, from the comical eccentric girl, which smothers the insensitive hearts, being a daughter, bearing out grief –.
beyond genetics, I imagined my driving curiosity – and on the provincial road toward the capital, at an apparent gate to downtown Nelspruit. I turned off at the traffic lights from ensuing the thoroughfare. Pulling up in an early morning parking lot, timely at the opening of doors. Through long assertive strides, I rushed onto eying promotional posters through the portal into a mall lingering night air. along my way, by the sheer number to a sufficient absorption of a Saturday paranormal fair, from the surprise effect and deflect. Approaching with a long time nurturing curiosity to the erection of a promotional stall, which in mind obliterating the point of intersecting to the main gallery. Hence, the fall of a latent idea. Like a chargehand shadows on construction site, a man come up and around the front. From a distant stance surveying the exterior presentation of the stall, I found the stranger in my path, and accosted the figure with a lingering question, “Where [Who] did I get [inherit] these paranormal manifestations from?”
the man’s big eyes didn’t see me, which brings me reminiscing such a brief encounter with the Chief rabbi of New York. On par with their myopic lens that takes the eyesight back, with the eyes wide open, subduing the universe, which stands for Rose Delbruyere while gliding in the light of time. Scarce on words, the man stares ramifying the past. fetching timely at the hearth of a soul, leaving no doubt, when roll over his lips, saying, “Your grandmother – she was a very good person [bourgeon the gift of clairvoyance.]”
‘She is a Scorpio!’ raised to mind. “She never…” I started saying, before falling fool what the man tag as ‘good.’ Never recalling grandmother addressing me a word, for all the ‘good’ I envisaged mother.
Children reared by mother’s occasional ‘hypothetic‘ forewarning, which predestined fetch of such a tragic ambush which caught Ines’ husband, for a combative fatal terror from amidst co-ordinates between hell and heaven without apparent tangible or fast rules.
despite pursuing the ‘good’ human preached, Ines barred, the Pisces in her moon in symbiosis with the Goat in her year, taking her hyper-sentient spirit in her exclusive retreat. or, by oversight of a profound cosmic insight. Ronnie left his life, as a sergeant in the special police task force, stationed near the northern borders, with three other officers, at random of three co-ordinate, which cast before dawn, from grazing that return route from patrol.
Prophesied pregnancy and 19 September 1993
given to ‘respect the tools of nature’ at breaking the force spells, from a worldly pervasive environment, Martine and I, in a latent retrieved home, summarily withered the fever of tempers.With the forbearing deep blue escarpment wall to stand in sight. approaching in our field of sight on a horseshoe trail through the piedmont town of Sabie, on an outing with my old folks. We cruised at leisure, to pull up by the sightsee. Paradoxical, coincidental we stepped out to walk up to the ‘bridal veil.’Signaling without being aware at the time, the symbolic transcendence of marriage to dawn on us.
Hence, in the bare and cool little white kitchen, Rose Delbruyere prophesied a pregnancy, too abstract hence, the moment of renovating the townhouse, such as a cosmic cradle preparing a baby’s room. the thought suscitated a heartthrob surprise sparkling to Martine’s eyes. And, reappearing in the third deck tarot spread, which means ‘imminent,’ and Rose Delbruyere says, “The card are affirmative!”
reflective of a phantasmagoric high rocky cove taking father’s life in the sprinkling of the frayed threads of water to the pool, disappearing in the pellucid waters at the level of a cosmic new generation –.
I awoke with an extended glimpse through the window. At leisure glanced at first light, sentient of the upcoming day’s mood. picturesque and shy, mirrors in the twilight the peering across the cut out collage, the eyelids of a cosmic eyesight.
silhouetting the nigh cowering up the rear facades of the neighboring row of townhouses, I assimilated a wintry plucked naked dark brushwood yard treetop. sentient at the tick of time, the day dawn with precision co-ordinates, sketching a spell in transit, and choreographic stage sitting across the window sill, to an emergent two-way mirror, lining the hearth of intimacy.
Golden penciled sun rays fetch in hiding the night shading. In a rising glow of sunlight, the gray distills, brushing and brightening streaky green weathered terracotta roof tile discolorations. Accruing the angles capping party walls, and off rear facade brickworks, the saddled warped and aged roofs.
my eyesight in retrieve, perched sentient of the backyard hollow, and backing up through a streaming blue and white striped and deeply engulfed curtain folds. purfling in hiding the sharp edges at the raw hands of the renovation, Martine’s decoration.
By the distant brash of the sky, the tread of sunlight jumps the window sill, and across the aisle embraces white butterfly wings. angelic at the touch of the voile curtains, imposing a planted body of the yellow oak post in view diagonal across. dawns the shadowy range of muddled up bedding to the extent of a sleeping lizard along half of the king size bed.
Without the sign of a wiggle, until seismic aroused the befuddled bedding, by the roll of a tuft of hair. meeting Martine’s driving idea through her sparkling eyes, to a pause. spur after a restful moment, a wild dragon twist and clumsy drag of the eiderdown, rolling over and rising after her eyesight to a fixation, that says, ‘I have something to tell you!’ Martine stages a shoulders’ leap overbearing on an elbow prop, palm’s her jaw in a cupped hand, and sprightly as a sun stroke, in an over and done tone of voice, announces, “Do you love the name Louis!”
ceased in a flash of surprise, into an equatorial sunlight, where the black secondary suburban street disappear from sight the course of mother cycling to and fro work in the night. Shy as the main arteries reflective of a moonshine, as apart distant native villages from our childhood White [colonial] suburb. A ‘[native] (house/garden) Boy,’ dressed in white (a White man’s clothes,) explosive in the middle of the street graded by the lava sand, off the purlieu volcano silhouette in the background with the brash of the in situ quarry.
The black man monkeys in arms and legs, running up wildly calling out, “[Swahili] Your grandmother, your grandfather!” I didn’t quiet grasped the alarm in our quiet little town. In the passing the native heads on downtown, leaving me with my curiosity after the unrelenting and insistent finger point the house that ought not to be a hazard. renovated from a cement block shack to a villa separating a pushy girdle of lawn, the bushy vacant parceled surrounding plots.
From around the dense bush, I wade across the front yard grass, identifying Ant Carla’s hands in the bloom of the oval flowerbed. I tread the few steps at pushing the front door left ajar by the leaping off ‘boy’ heading up home a few blocks down the street, before his recourse.
Shyly, discovering by the slit up the hinging door, the estrange daylight sprawling an extended window glow, gleam the sizable terrazzo tiled floor, frightful cowering into the cast shadows underneath the skimpy wooden furnished dining room. At liberty, a pace indoor, by a leading sweep of sight with the plane of the door swing. along the back and plain white wall, I butted sight against the red wooden door, which shelved the former shack, and let be, to pad the backrest of a couch and virtual room divider.
In the light of the distant door, I found my way prowling by sight around the door leaf, up to the huddling coffee table in the shadow of the couch, and onto the flash panel the door deflecting a blind light. Coming around the door jamb, I lay sight on the sculptured figure of my grandmother sitting on the far edge indenting the sleek bedcovers which outlines the double bed from the seat high and lighted window sill.
skeptic of ‘[Flemish] the thin grandmother’ as we children differentiated the Somers’ from father’s side. I don’t recall ever been addressed an inviting word, picturing offside in the light of the large rear window. bend over, elbows propped on her thighs, arms resting along her lap, hands and fingers convoluted in the fold of her printed dress between her knees. her cheeks softly rolls a few tears. Her dreary regard in fixation a distance short of pointing out the floor. Out of the simplistic sculptured figure, pictures her ankles and the shoes she wore. a confusion arouses. Intrigued by the puzzling outlines, my mind fills in the gaps, to notice the facing soles of a man shoes, paired, standing lopsided on toe caps.
my mind targets questioning the vamps against the laws of physics, standing at an acute angle, and a diamond pattern of socks that exposes the ankles from the double folded trousers cuffs showing a logic direction of grandfather’s suit, and the ensuing dressed figure stretched out in the shadow of the blind aisle toward the head of the bedstead, and retrieved without disturbing the air.
In that child withdrawing a twisting body and mind from around the fatal bedroom doorway bringing the armrest of the couch in my filed of sight, as the force of a winter gale wind brought mother from behind the entrance door. taken in by the swirl of the times, to Martine arousing the zombie of grandfather from his grave. In need to justify my reasoning, and resorted to a curt question, “Why Louis?”
“It was your grandfather’s name,” Martine instantly replies.
In the light of the window, I watched Martine, sentient of my bereaved mother at the loss of her first-born son. in the wake of mother frightful of losing a son again, my life wasn’t exempt. haunted by the living shadow of death, of a four-month old brother, who sporadic dawns on me by a conducive name.
I foresaw at maintaining the purity of a transcended-volition, at the choice to infuse her fetus, from the leash at flaw of a contagious death, toward the freedom at exercising a living purpose proper to the soul. Raising the absurdity of her conviction, I ask, “What would you do, if it’s not a boy?”
“I know it will be a boy. I know! I feel it’s a boy!” Martine kept repeating.
“Would you be deceived, if it is a girl?” I asked. And, in as many time over and again, than Martine maintaining her stance she succumbed to doubt. I grew to wondered over her assertiveness, to a rightful genderless spirit, thinking to myself, ‘The alternative to a boy, is a transcendent-volition lurking aggressive, to the existence of a tomboy.