Streams

Instant moment with near instant thought process.

'Rails'

He said we have time before the poles come down.
Three and a half ‘pardons?’ later, I understand the poles mean the booms at the level crossing 50 meters down the line from his makeshift home.
Standing ground-level and inches from a thundering train is ominous. The weight and suffocating smell of steel reverberate through my body; it seems effortless to step in front of a speeding train and a brave way to end one's life. That nanosecond feeling again, daring me to try. It's the same prod standing on top of a high-rise, a faint tug of war between brain and leg, with the brain thankfully winning each time.
He picks up his trolley cart hood ornament and I shoot like a madman; I want to be off the rails before the poles come down again.

'Wedding'

I follow another attendee through the feverish labyrinth of the Cape Flats, desperately maintaining an eye on the lead vehicle while constantly assuring Table Mountain is in my peripheral vision; if still visible, it will serve as the beacon for the supersonic dash to the exits later.
The small DIY wedding is in a dusty back garden somewhere east of that giant Table. 
Purple is everywhere — backdrops, tablecloths, napkins, cushions, dresses, jackets, ties — my eyes take a moment to adjust. The two large jugs of neon orange cool drink on the table look fabulously out of place.
Shane's new mother-in-law unquestionably agrees with her daughter’s choice. His father and mother have boycotted the event — something to do with him now wanting to leave home.
Speeches and eats are sped along, dishes are starting to be washed, seconds are not even attempted — the couple are in a hurry to get back to the forest for wedding photos. 
Have they not been taken yet I ask? Yes, but the bride wants more.
The entourage squeeze into an off-duty taxi and tear away leaving the guests in a mild state of anxiety — small talk is drying up faster than the dishes.
In the west I can see Table Mountain.

'Octopus'

I’ve walked across three times to see what they are pointing at.
Each time I’m told it’s an octopus, and each time I look down into the water, I see just that - water, and a plastic bottle: no octopus.
I’m beginning to wonder if they know what an octopus looks like, or is.
They soon lose interest in tormenting each other with what lurks beneath the surface and continue cavorting: jump in, thrash to the steps, get out; on repeat and all done with ear-piercing shrill, with some swimming in between.
The jumping gets extreme as the bravado intensifies: back flips, forward flips, and a sideways contortion that can morph into either a back or forward flip - often a belly flop, depending on the quality of the launch and that split-second indecisiveness that passes through the mind mid-air.
The train arrives and departs with the boys on board. The tidal pool is suddenly quiet.
I walk back to the edge and the settling water and look down into the glassy perfection, keenly wanting to see the octopus I may have missed. Sadly, besides the plastic bottle now escorted by a chip packet, there is no octopus.

'Ma Beatty'

I invite Ma Beaty for a sitting; she has back pain, and maybe I'm asking too much of her.
I thought it would be a welcome respite from the heavy Last Will and Testament conversation I've just overheard in her kitchen.
I sense her weariness when she exclaims she would give her stuff away on the day she dies.
I hear my impulsive voice mention that she may be busy that day.
Mercifully, she has a sense of humour.

'Karate Kids'

The loud Thwaak got me up here, to this semi-derelict workshop.
It's the sound of a well-placed kick to a punching bag hanging from a rafter.
The younger of the two brothers looks on in deep reverence: I swear, if there's a thought bubble hovering above his head, it's reading, 'One day...one day'.
The older brother is majestic; if there's a thought bubble above my head, it's reading 'I stopped karate: too much aggression, too much noise for my 9-year-old self, but a lost opportunity in hindsight's 20/20 version of my life'
They look robust in their karate gis.
Then the image crashes to the floor as I become aware of the older brother's slight stammer when I ask his name. My heart goes out to him: I, too, get a bit stuck when nervous.
I tell him never to give up.

'Julius'

His name is Julius.

In the nanosecond my face flinched and I inwardly cringed, he exclaimed, 'Not that Julius.'

We crossed the finish line of mild horror together: a tie, or snap for those of us who can't play anything but Snap in high-stakes card games.   

Here on the tip of Africa, the name Julius hasn't been synonymous with Caesar for an eternity.

Mention the name and everyone here thinks of the half-baked revolutionary wannabe currently stalking this land.

Being half-baked gives me comfort knowing Caesar will make a comeback in the near future.

In the meantime, this Julius is hustling me for anything I have in my van, apparently, his football team needs a new kit. Sort of like the other Julius.

'Teddies'

Walking to the rear of the house, up a narrow staircase leading through a dark corridor and exiting into a small room.

There's a preacher nearby shouting at his congregation through a bullhorn.

The plastic-wrapped teddies in the corner amplify the already macabre atmosphere.

I hear Jesus isn't going to take kindly to sinners; the voice sounds raw from the shrill.

The plastic feels old and brittle; they've been in this position for a long time.

Clearing the small centre table of its orchids, I place my camera on the stable platform and take their portrait.

The sermon is reaching its climax, promising a fair amount of fire and brimstone as I retrace my steps back down the corridor.

I believe the owner of that grating voice will sleep well tonight.

'Seal Selfie'

Here she comes.

I know she's going to.

And she does.

How many portrait studios have gone bust since the invention of the phone camera, or is it the camera phone?

Palmer Studios: the one-stop shop for all things photography in my small town in the '70s. Passport, driver's license, school, wedding, and the big one — the studio portrait; if Palmer Studios couldn't do it, then, well, he couldn't. But mostly he did.

Buzz Palmer: he had swagger. I had never, until then, come face-to-face with that level of confidence; it spooked me.

I was asked to smile at the Birdie. It drove me nuts. I could never see anything that resembled a ball of feathers on two sticks. But being afraid and not wanting to disappoint, I smiled as if there was a flock of pigeons in the room.

Possibly, I saw one once, in the lens glass, but it was extremely fast. How many exposures were ruined with kids looking intently for birds?

So I wonder what she's telling him to do?

She has his attention.

'Victorian loo'

I’ve ambled around, possibly too long, admiring the design.

I sense the janitor’s suspicion.

The conversation I initiate regarding this Victorian public toilet sounds nonsensical.

But it is a charming building.

He says go inside, and I’m almost certain I hear- if I like it so much try it out.

I do, even though I have no immediate need to try it out, it’s an escape from the one sided architectural discussion going down in flames outside.

I walk into a vapour wall of industrial strength disinfectant.

Whatever old Vic fittings there once were, have been replaced with a bare basic public works sanitary budget: there is plastic everywhere.

Sounding nonsensical one more time, I mention that I prefer the outside.

'Egg'

What is this thing - a giant egg? And who put it here - an ancient yet superior civilization, all the way from somewhere else to Glencairn?
There’s an old bar across the road – what came first, the bar or the egg?
It’s full of bikers. Is there anything more impractical than drinking beer and riding a motorcycle?
I give this egg a light kick and the pain in my big toe jets up to my brain and teleports it back to a distant soccer field where Mr Leckie is shouting, ‘don’t toe punt it, don’t toe punt it; instep it, instep it!’
Mr Leckie was our Under 10 soccer coach; I had just scored a goal and looked at him for approval, surely that mattered more than how the ball departed my foot?

‘No, it isn’t,’ growled Mr Leckie,

‘But I scored,’ I yoo-hooed

‘You got lucky,’ thundered Mr Leckie

From then on, I ran with my foot at a 90 ° angle to my forward motion.
Of course it was difficult, actually near impossible. My leg, from hip joint down to big toe, transmuted to the contour of a golf club. And wanting to be ambidextrous - it was the only way I was going to turn pro one day - I was now running on two golf clubs. Not to be left out of the fun my lower body was having, my arms automatically swiveled too; palms facing the same direction my body was moving into.
The bikers come outside, and the motorcycles roar into being. The noise, the noise, man I hate noise – it’s worsening the older I become.

'Fighting'

Feet follow fists - round and round he goes. I almost feel dizzy.

Each punch into the void is accompanied by a ‘PFFFT’

Hook - PFFFT

Left jab, right jab – PFFFT, PFFFT

Uppercut - PFFFT

Lowercut (is there such a thing? Who cares) - PFFFT

Float like a butterfly – PFFFT, sting like a bee - PFFFT

I know a lady whose father once took her to a boxing match where she cried through the entire bout. It was one of the most endearing things I had heard. We became lifelong friends.

PFFFT PFFFT

Remember primary school yard fights? A seemingly quiet morning, shattered by the high-pitched, bloodcurdling shrill - ‘barney, barney, barney,’ and the entire playground musters around the duelling duo to satisfy their inner savage? How bizarre to think this lunacy starts around age 7. Those are some crazy demons we are born with.

PFFFT

1976 South African TV - 19 Hours of test pattern and 5 hours of absolute crap in the evenings. A Saturday night on my mom’s boyfriend's couch, bored senseless as the only thing to watch is 12 rounds of boxing. Praying, nay, begging for a knockout so I can go home. Is there anything worse than having to wake up and go home?

PFFFT PFFFT

Remember high school yard fights? ‘Barney, barney, barney,’ was replaced with homemade weapons, motorbike helmets, and one evening, a stolen military rifle. The curtain was coming down on my time in the deep south of Johannesburg.

I wave goodbye to my new boxing friend; he rapid-fires two quick punches my way – PFFFT PFFFT – thankfully they miss - of course, on purpose. I wonder what a professionally well-placed uppercut must feel like - sending and receiving.