Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Home is where I want to be, but I guess I'm already there.

I fall asleep with images swirling in my head.
Blustery days, unexpected meetings on the street, abandoned gloves on the sidewalk,
the photographer in black.
Sean Penn in This Must Be The Place.
The view from the 26th floor of a building on the foreshore - windows with latches, now screwed shut.
The long legged man under a pomegranate tree.
Fragments of old porcelain from a park in the Bokaap.

My neighbor is such a bad piano player. Discordance wakes me, interrupting my dreams of animal metamorphosis. That white horse again - eating red apples in my kitchen, the floor a mess of juice and pulp. I lie there wincing, waiting for the next false note.
I think of Salieri, shouting at Mozart.
And I wonder...
what does one read after Murakami's 1Q84?
1318 pages, so few notes,
such beautiful simplicity.


D said...

This post feels like a lost Cape Town fragment of a Ben Okri novel (-:

the sourcerer said...

ooooh - thank you
I am a fan!