Dirty Dancing - How To Horrah 21.05.2015

The two things I love about a wedding: the salmon board while photographers document a day, and the washing machine spin-cycle of the horas that’ll leave you in a sweat. the rest is for the dvd.
This article is a short illustration of the horas you should be doing on your wedding day, if youre jewish or just want to be New York-cool.

1.The Classic
This is the go-to hora, its easily understood by all participants. Even the kids that struggled to put the square toy in the square opening will get this hora spot on. One circle of mates going in one direction, and an inner circle of mates going in the opposite direction. four rotations and you have a successful dance. spinning too fast could alter the internal comfort zone of the venue.

 2.The Square

                                                                    The Square is a little harder to arrange, afterall not all of us are accountants. But you really have to have buy-in on this dance. You don’t need to choose team mates, just grab the closest chosid, pull him to you tightly, shoulder to shoulder and command the floor. you'll be required to separate the participants into 4 groups. This isn't the Civil War, for here North engages South and East engages West. North and South move towards each other bumping chests, then return to their original spot. East and west do likewise. If you're creative, you might get your team mates to clash into the opposing team backwards. Try it. It's fun.

 3.The ‘You spin me right round like a record player..’ manoeuvre.
This is really basic. Your best mates make a giant circle moving in a chosen direction, using the classic, right foot forward, then left foot forward , then right foot behind left foot hora step. You the groom jump into the centre and grab your old man, while your boet grabs your uncle. You begin doing frenetic circles, toes against each other  holding hands. It's a roller coaster and you didn’t even have to fit under the gold miners hand.

 4.Sifting soya

This move is daring and the groom has got to give his go-ahead. You’ll need 2 fresh table clothes, big enough to sift rocks, but not let them through. Usually as many lads as possible hold onto the edges of the cloths while the groom jumps onto the stretched ‘skin’. Think, fire fighters. From here on in, he has paid his entrance money and the ride takes its course. ’Ground control to Major Tom’. The lads proceed bouncing the cloth up and down, the groom with it. Like bouncing beans on a drum the howls of laughter or screams of fear will echo off the Sandton Shul halls walls. The lads must control the grooms flight and direction. Houston we have lift off.

5. ‘The Bridge over the River Kwai’
This dance is ‘extreme’.  Each of the guests grabs a partner, face to face, interlinking arms, creating a tight bond. Each pair gets close to one another, shoulder to shoulder. The groom runs and jumps onto the ‘bridge’ arms in front like Superman. It’s critical that his feet are held down by the participants. The groom gets bounced forward, momentarily suspended, flying. 'Is it a bird?, is it a plane?, no, it's Moishe'. A dream come true.

6. The 'A' train

This dance ain't exactly a night out in Manhatten, but it'll make uncle Max happy to be part of the festivities. It comes about when we're lost for ideas on the next move. This is the dance that gets you a view of more than the big flower pot with its hay fever pollinating gladioli. Here you’ll walk the length and breadth of the dance floor, gaining a fish eye view of a whose who at the wedding. Evoking the figure '8' is common in nature, even educated bees are doing it. Should this dance hold one's attention for long enough, that number might be achievable. All you got to do is grab the closest yid on his shoulders, ensure he does likewise with the next closest yid and just start heading uptown.

 7. The Wrecking Ball

This vigorous move is an exciting assault on the senses. You're clustered in groups of four, huddled spinning, spinning. it might happen that you collide with other clusters. this dance is galactic, and my personal favourite.

8. The 3 Scoop

Who doesn't love a 3 scoop? As a regular wedding goer I am yet to see this move, or achieve it. my lungs often shredded from screaming '3 circles, 3 circles'. The 3 Scoop is made up of 3 concentric circles rotating in opposite directions. 'People, it just takes a little bit of organisation and innovation. that's all.' this is undoubtedly the golden ticket of hora manoeuvres and looks phenomenal from a bird's perspective.

                                                                            

 9. The Skipper

If you ever had dreams of being like Rocky Balboa but never been to Philadelphia, now is your chance to show how good a skipper you are. No need to guide a ship through stormy water or land a wayward rocket on the moon, just jump over a moving string. strong legs and out stretched arms and a quick reflex will get you applause. two lads each take the ends of a long table cloth turning it into a 'rope' for skipping. the protagonist, the person who wants video coverage has the courage to go ajumping. this is school playground kind of fun.

 10. The Bucking Bronco/Hold the Hankie

This move takes initiative. Someone from either men's and woman's section must run to get a chair for both the bride and for the groom at the same time. Splitting the red sea couldn't have been more difficult. then you require strong lads to heave the groom/bride upon the chair, twirling them and showing them off like a marvelled Oscar statue. The idea is then to get the bride and groom together to share holding a handkerchief... sigh...love

 

 11. Pop the Balloon

The brides organiser friends make sure she has things to pop-long polls wrapped in beautiful ribbons with colourful balloons attached. The bride is placed on a chair with a sharp object while her friends holding the polls circumnavigate the lucky lady. as they pass by pop pop the bride goes.

There are many more hora ideas, so be innovative, be exciting and make sure to entertain the bride and groom.

Bowling For Ballen - The Tale of a Two Scoop 19.05.2015

The king of ice-cream,  Paul Ballen.

 I scream, you scream, we all scream for Ice Cream.
Like the arrival of The Beetles at the Met, the ice cream frenzy is extra-planetary.

Of dad from NY City and of artist mom, split in two, a twin, Paul Ballen experienced life less ordinary, a life more exotic. Cultured in the arts, worldly in travel, and with a taste for food, the world was his perogan.

Educated in the black, whites and blues of King David Victory Park, he followed the beaten path.
A BA in History and Psychology and an honours in Clinical Psychology, he was a little uncertain.  And so, a gap year filled with numbers, a PDM at Wits business school. 

Holidays filled walking the streets of New York City while visiting his granddad was life education, Paul got his. The steamy streets, the sweat dripped brows of hot New Yorkers, and the jungle humid caverns of the Metro underground. I love New York in June. ‘So who wants an ice cream?’

Paul’s sister’s boyfriend got an ice creamer maker. In 2009 Paul wanted an ice cream maker too. Churning out a batch of ice-cream had the neighbourhood screaming for more. After throwing his first 'ice cream and waffle' day at his folk’s house in the summer of ’09, the drooling throngs of fans arrived. Paul’s Homemade Ice Cream had erupted.
 

With social media ripe for launching, lots of ‘likes’ on Facebook , images of the ice cream, of the machine and the process on Instagram, and a streaming Twitter feed creating further hype, ice cream orders flooded in.  His one over-worked ice-cream machine was increased. His artillery became 3.
Under pressure to progress, his mom designed a logo, he filled tubs, continued doing ice cream and waffle events and pushed hard to get into stores. One, then two. Braamfontein. Illovo. They released the flood gates, and the ice cream flew out of hipster central.

Things just happened, they fell into place. One meeting led to another. Roger, his dad, advised, 'have meetings, chat to people and things will happen'.

A gaping gap in the market, and the right space in time assisted Paul. There was momentum.
There were doubts in his mind though. ‘Should I do this?, do I have the time?, will this work out?, Should I not be pursuing a staid office job? Once the deliberating debate with his mind had settled, the realisation was that ‘I’m young, and I’ve nothing to lose’. And so he took the leap.

Ice-cream making is a creative process, requiring traditional business aspects along with a need for a passion for food. Paul understands he has many skills, none specific and this pursuit has allowed him to utilise his vast array of talents.
Paul’s Homemade is changing our perception of ice cream as a crafted, artisanal product made with care and patience. It’s  associated with memory, it’s not trending, it’s not a fad, it’s sustainable.

The two scoop has gained momentum. With the growth of the business, Paul and his creative spirit have now been twinned with Josh Amoils and his business acumen. They have since moved in to new premises, a building in Orange Grove, a yawing ships cabin.

‘Operating your own business has its difficulties, and criticism is directed at you.
It’s a heavy blow being up against the ropes. You've got to be passionate and driven enough to ensure the product is successful.’ Paul is fighting a market that is driven by economics, that wants a cheaper, value-for-money product. Adrenalin, belief and passion drive Paul, there is no time for sitting still.

"Is it important to have a goal?" I ask. Ballen responds, 'Is it your personality?
We’re unique. He didn't ever anticipate being where he is. He never ever said, 'I’m gonna be...' Some people have a better understanding of their skills and strengths allowing them to envision their pursuit.'

His success is seeing a product people enjoy, appreciate and identify as being quality. 'Ice Cream is only the beginning'.
‘Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts’, Winston Churchill

Motivation, a strong work ethic, a responsibility to clients, a ‘no half measures’ attitude , some vision and support from his parents have been cool components in his rise. His parents gave him the chance to try. All our experiences are learning curves.

Live each day as it comes, be passionate, reflect on what you’re doing and reassess. Be happy, the moment you aren’t happy or you aren’t learning or have doubts, it’s time to move on.

Next time you’re considering a two hour session at a psychologist, lick a scoop of Paul Ballen’s  Homemade Ice Cream and stretch a smile.

Walkman's, Hotmail, North Star Takkies 23.04.2015

In a series of Interviews i did, the Russian Bear Hunter next caricatured Jonathan Liebesman, Holywood Director. You might recognise his most recent flik, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

I called the United States and at the other end of the ‘dog n bone’, was Lily, PA  to Jonathan Liebesman, Hollywood Director and good guy with a good head of hair.

Those late Sunday afternoons when the stray boerie was left on the bbq and the sun was dipping beneath it’s clouded blanket, the carte blanche soundtrack beated a limp feeling in our hearts, there we were playing tennis-court cricket focused as the great Hansie. But tonight as I spoke over the crackled line to the States, I found out he wasn’t focused on the game, he was dreaming of making movies.

I grew up with Jono, we got dirty riding bikes in velds and playing hourless cricket, we drank grape Fanta, and swam till we turned to raisins. We lived through the lens of Steven Spielberg’s viewfinder. As we grew up, that lens found Jonathan and he sought it.

Jon races through his career like Eastwood hunting the Ugly on the moving set of a Western.
King David, AFDA ‘s South African School of Motion Picture Medium and Live Performance, NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, short film, agents ,LA Hollywood , Darkness Falls, popcorn coke and Box Office Number one.
Like John Wayne to wild horses, I reel him in. I need to pull him back to get where he was, where he is and where he is going.
At NYU in 2000, Jonathan reeled in the Student Short Film Award at the Austin Film Festival and the Hollywood Young Filmmaker Award at the Hollywood Festival. His adaptation of Roahl Dahl’s ‘Genesis and Catastrophe’ had quivered the nostril hairs of movie  agents in Tinsel Town.  No sooner had he picked up the award, the cameras for Darkness Falls were rolling and Jonathan and baseball cap were sat in the director’s chair.

As a young school going lad, Jon wanted to make movies that he wanted to see. He put all his efforts, concentration and focus in achieving this dream, of making  the silver screen his reality.

The film industry is a cage fight. As the director, you fight hard for what you envision, for what you hope millions will see.  Bidding for the opportunity to direct a movie is stripped of Hollywood glam and red carpets, it’s gladiators fighting  till the death for an opportunity to create, to turn picture boards into movie motion. To retain creative integrity the director sets out to compromise as little as possible. You’re chosen for your skill set, for your conviction, for believing in what you’re presenting and making them believe you are the best.

Jon defines his success as being able to do what he loves doing, being able to make a living creating movies.
Jonathans sensitivities  and humility transfer over the ether as he engages where he is currently. He acknowledges success; that it has come through a constant inner drive and determination. Realising that you’ve reached the pinnacle, remember to enjoy it, remember to appreciate it. That is success.

The industry is a scene from a mob movie, it’s tommy guns, black coats and sock daggers. Jonathan is dumbstruck by the lack of integrity, fidelity and trust that Hollywood’s film industry imbues. He holds dearly the importance of family, and the trust that comes with his familial relationship. He advises never to be surprised by anything and don’t take business too personally.

Every opportunity to direct a movie is seen as an achievement. Jonathan takes little for granted.

If he had to koki pen his highlights of his time in the hills of Hollywood, directing his favoured actors,  Ralph Fiennes and Liam Neeson, two actors that starred in his number one flik Schindler’s List would no doubt be the pinnacle.
Life isn’t that rosy when you receive a pasty review, however, when you’re in the field he so dearly devours, lowlights aren’t even worth while mentioning.

Extracting Excalibur from the rock is less difficult than following one’s passion. It’s seldom the practical option, however, whatever you do, find something within that which you are doing  that you love and indulge in it.

So the next time you’re at the cinema watching Battle LA, Texas Chain Saw Massacre:the Beginning or Wrath of The Titans hold fire for  the director’s credit for you’ll see a familiar name. Jonathan Liebesman.

Dairy Don't Do It, Eat Sorbet 09.02.2015

A while back I was taxi’ed through the grottiest areas of Lagos, Nigeria. Our client was researching beauty parlours in this more-24-hour-city-than-New York City. We hopped puddles of raw sewerage, sticking out like Tweety birds in a coal mine, as we peeked through windows of back door salons where Lagosian woman with technicolour nails, and fire red lipstick chatted as they were being plucked, pulled, painted and frizzed. But who cares, this isn’t about me, this is about Ian Fuhr.

Leaving university mid-degree to sing in cocktail bars floored his folks, but it was a passion and love for music that landed him at Gallo Records. After 18 months flipping through vinyl LP’s, he departed, leaving behind his first and only experience clocking time.

Fuhr’s sheltered Jewish upbringing dodging matzo balls didn’t exactly expose him to the realities of apartheid South Africa. It was only until he landed himself in a managing position at Kmart, a consumer goods company he and his brother established that he’d be touched by South Africa’s ills. He had his work cut out for him naively managing a compliment of staff who were expected to be productive and ethical, yet simultaneously suffering the dramas of a cruel regime. Launch, a learning curve.

Meanwhile, music in the racks of Kmart introduced Ian to two popular artists, Letta Mbulu and Caiphus Semenye. Cementing a relationship with these two exiled stars, he was granted the distribution rights of their tunes in South Africa. This led to Fuhr establishing a record label, Moonshine. Flogging the label in ‘85, he returned to Kmart.

On his return, using Kmart as a test tube for mending walls, he developed programmes to assist in bridging the disparities of the black staff within the work environment - promoting blacks into management was unique for the times. This experience heaved him in to creating a race relations company called Labour Link Consultancy. After a seven year itch, Ian returned to the newly named Super Mart, which the brothers Fuhr primed for disposal to Edcon in 2002/2003.

Super Mart was Ian’s springboard. He activated the opportunities presented to him. I don’t know what defines an entrepreneur but Ian’s case presents a study.
Not dictated to by degrees or predetermined paths, not straight-jacketed by the lure of loot nor the sniff of success, not afraid to fail, not afraid to explore Fuhr tried, that’s all he did, he tried. ‘Life is what happens while you’re busy making plans.’
Relying on a pioneer’s recipe of intuition, courage and determination, following the paths which lead to other paths which lead to further paths, Ian created the doors to opportunity. For Ian, as an explorer, a pioneer there are no road maps, or evidence for the journeys he takes. A fighting entrepreneur paves the path, draws the map, engineers his/her own highway, his own trajectory through investigation, research and will.

Ian discusses intuition, for it hints that something is inherently right but there is no evidence to prove such; courage, for there will always be obstacles and challenges, and thirdly; determination, for, without it, you won’t be able to see your venture through to completion, this coupled with a naive confidence that it'll all be okay.

Drawing on his life’s experience, his relationships, his visions, his efforts and his intuition, he kick started his next adventure.
While laying on a massage table, chatting to the masseuse with an ear close to the ground, the opportunity presented itself.
Sorbet, not a two-scoop, but a chain of beauty stores.

 Telling me he’s not got the face for the cover of a magazine, at first he didn’t think beauty to be a great idea. But having the itch for diving into existing, established markets, to upset apple carts, Ian heeded to intuition, and the masseuses coaxing. Through investigation, he determined the fragmented industry had no multi-unit chain. This was his opening. And so with a lion’s courage and a dung beetles determination he leaned in. With sufficient cash from the Edcon deal he went on a buying rampage, picking up independent beauty salons, spinning pumpkins into chariots. And so Sorbet came to be.

As he’s grown up sprouting grey hairs, his success has been his contribution to the lives of others: what have I left behind, how have I touched the lives of others?. Sorbet has given Fuhr the opportunity to greet 1000’s of guests, to influence them positively, to turn them chipper. Today Sorbet numbers 117 stores and continues on the march.

I remember cruising down Grant Avenue in 2005, listening to Sheryl Crowe thinking a new ice cream store had arrived, alas. That year, 6 were launched. This this isn’t about me, this is Ian’s story.

Baking It Good 08.04.2015

This is a story not about the Russian Bear Hunter, but a girl baking it good.

While on my Wednesday run, in the dark of the morning, trying to keep up with my sibling, I heaved out that I’d just interviewed Linda Lipschitz. I managed to get out, on one breath, that she’s the softly spoken woman with the jet black hair who created Belles Patisserie. As we hurtled up Knox street, my lung in my throat, he said, ‘and, so, what did you learn?’ having quenched my dry lips with the lick of my tongue, I said that I was struck by how she’d created a business from nothing- no baking degree, limited business knowledge and years of focus elsewhere, yet ingrained with a desire for self actualisation, she created something alive. ‘Dude’, he said, ‘you’ve got to watch Ratatouille’.
And so in a messy dorm room in the Old City, I did. ‘Not everyone can become a great artist’, Ego, the food critic said, ‘but a great artist can come from anywhere’.

After 19 years as a speech therapist and an academic, enough was enough. She had pulled the plug on a career that lasted a generation, aching for a new lease on life and a whole lot of fun. She left the profession unable to define her future, unable to envision a path. She pondered, and she considered. Her continuous inquiry lasted five years speckled with the birth of two kids. The thought of being a stay-at-home mom did not bring fire to her spirit. And yet, in her, a passion for all things tasty, burned .

As a foodie with buds for pastries, no croissant on the Highveld could tickle her fancy. And so she decided to begin baking. She had a chef teach her how to bake thee croissant, and a host of other flacky, fluffy delights while all the time enjoying the creative process.
On a journey to America she came across the Red Velvet cake, as yet unseen in Johannesburg.
On return, on family vacation to the Cape she didn’t see the light of day until that velvet beamed a bright red. Sun up to sun down, she beat and mixed and tasted and swirled and licked and pondered and kneaded. She read and she investigated, she dabbled and she experimented. And finally she had it. The magnificent Red velvet.
‘I want to run a baking business’ , she said. Her husband wasn’t too enamoured and responded, ‘When you have some sales, call me’. And so she hired a chef and baked cupcakes and tarts and all things nice, and dropped taste boxes throughout the hinter land.

For Linda, it was important that the cakes didn’t just look good, but that they had one’s taste buds doing triple pirouettes.
The store, ‘Life’ loved her Red Velvet and another client, ordered ‘100 lemon meringues by Friday’. Her pastries had traction in the mouths of fans. She had started a business.
Linda, her daughter and a best friend baked from the kitchen, then the garage. And when the orders expanded she took on a pastry chef.

‘When the student is ready, the teacher appears.’
The time had arrived to call her husband who advised her. Linda knew nothing about business but surrounded herself with all the right people. She stresses the importance of a mentor, someone who can see the greater picture and assist in guidance.
As tough as it was, she realised it was time and necessary to relinquish some responsibility, continuing, though, to oversee everything but still driving creative decisions.

3 years ago her head chef departed, opening the door for her current French chef, and together they’ve opened up a store. From baking in her garage to her flagship in the Blubird Centre, to a factory employing 80 people, the screen play for a buoyant business has been written.

Every business has its difficulties-flexibility and the ability to adapt are imperative except when it comes to her cakes-clients demand the same tasting bite every time.

A book, ‘Creating something from nothing’, she read to her kids reads, ‘start small and dream big’. Just begin. Try new things, be innovative and have fun. We limit ourselves by our beliefs and what we’re expected to be. Don’t be afraid to start something in your study, in your bedroom, in your closet. Never follow the recipe. Remi didn’t.
‘Belle’ says the goal is imperative, however there is no ideal, no perfection. ‘Forget about time, one cannot put a time limit on the course of life. Live in the now.’

For Linda, success is personal success. It’s about being happy with your level of behaviour in everything you do, how your children mirror you as a mentsch, that makes you a success.

As I leave the country in pursuit of a vision, of clarity, I reflect on Linda’s journey. We have got to keep moving forward. Break the shackles of societal demands and pursue that which is burning inside of us.
See the world through Red velvet tinted goggles.

Cat Gut Suture 17.10.2014

In Israel, fridges explode with wedding themed magnets, mullet hairdos are seen as high culture. Cut, stone-washed jeans are the epitome of power, tinted hair is bourgeois and ‘gangdam style’is only now receiving Youtube hits from this little sliver of democracy. Cliché and hummous drip heavily off the mouths of the inhabitants, but with the arrival of the Jewish festivals, their unique expression is abundant.Heading out the Old City, beyond the castellated walls dodging the slick light-rail, I stroll on up towards Mea’Sharim, the Charedi vein of The Holy City. The white-lettered blue street sign guiding me towards a shtetl-like past. Here the streets are gummy underfoot and their pin-hole width cause me claustrophobia.

Squeezing me, squeezing me, the oesophagus movement pulls me in. The glossless stores peddle utilitarian wares, but it’s the array of kippot, stringy, stripped garments, pewter-ed goblets and thumbed Torah books that are the treasures in this sheenless environment. Little snotty nosed kids with flailing cork-screw payors run helter skelter in their tiny whites. Hurtling, rimless cars force pedestrians to crabwalk along crowded narrow pavements. The area bristles, it is bustling. The narrow drag sprouts side winding roads that encourage cascading perspective. The suburb is bursting as an over-stuffed falafel. With it’s haphazard facade, a patchwork quilt of necessity. Beauty and harmony are stuffed in a back pocket. The organic evolution of the buildings, a creaking ship’s hull, it’s yawing grunt an expressive sound echoing beyond Jerusalem’s borders. The monotone dress and grey scale backgrounds place me in a 1940’s movie reel. Colour is left for high concentrate sodas.

This is an eye-contactless stroll.

The dark hues turn dramatically to softer greens as the stock-exchange-like Sukka-markets open to selling etrogs and lulavs. Palm leaves sprawl across the landscape softening the urban edge. The search for the perfect spear-like lulav and lemon-lime textured etrog fills the minds of many. Eye glasses, magnifying glasses, and a sense of the best ensure an intricate inspection. The air is scented by the sweetness of the 4 species tenderising the hearts of the anonymous throngs. As the night charges bull-like into the red day, spirits are high. Cutting a long diagonal swathe through the teen-heavy Ben Yehuda Street, the Cobb and I bounce through coarse Nachlaot, Jerusalem’s hipster central. The once-working class area is now home to hippy, sandal-wearing Jews. Quarters are close, and one can hear voices through walls. The temporary Sukkas abound, packed tightly, decorated in many an extraordinary kind of way each revealing its owner’s leanings. My eyes, the spies of my body, seeking , searching, oggling at the outdoor activity and the celebratory action the festival delivers. We alley-dock into Yomtov’s party.

With his huge fox-haired streimmel hovering as his halo, his white, silver embroidered kittel his regalia, and his curled-to-a slinky set of payors, Yomtov saunters confidently into his Sukka, his palace.

His guests, drawn to this heavenly body, gravitate towards his energetic pull, staring starry-eyed. Here he reigns. As he sits seated in his bear-clawed throne, he’s handed his acoustic. Plugging it deep into his Marshal, the amp hisses. From the palm-leafed covered Sukka drops his microphone. ‘I need someone on drinks’. I took the lead grabbing six bottles of wine. His nephew popping a red, presents the bottle to his uncle. Swirling the deep ruby in his giant glass goblet, the aroma tickling the flaring fancy of our host he takes a giant glug and commands us to dance. In the throes of excitement, I just stand, ponder my position, pull my lips as wide as they can stretch, feeling so out of character, and in total disbelief I glean a giggle.
As the night slipped deeper into another night, I returned to Mea’Sharim.
With my eyes open to their widest aperture, soaking up life’s sensitivities for an experience, I nervously joined Mea Sharim’s Simchas Beis Hashoeva parties. These Sukka parties abound in the most religious areas in Jerusalem.

 Entering this giant, swollen hall, pummelled black and blue by a robed throng, heaving Chassidic Jews link arms moving in a snake-like trail. We tear open the bind, grab hands, and are immediately drawn into the swirl. I have no control, no-one does. The tide pulls, it pushes. We try tread water but you’ve got to give in. In a foreign place, in an unusual setting , in a distant landscape, that gummy smile returns.

With sweated arms, we leave being cooled by the breeze of the changing seasons. The streets still athrob for another 6 days of celebration.  After my mind had been rattled by excessive thoughts and wanderings, this festival brought me to a place I could smile once again.

Tearing away the carapace of frustration and growth that’s been still-born stunted, i’m slowly regaining my taste for experience, and being once again energised to place myself in obscure situations to gain obscure stories. My awareness continues to evolve, my thinking continues to be  sharpened and my place in the world is slowly being chiselled. This is a journey about a lad, a lad named Dan.

 

Brides Head Revisited 11.09.2014

This isn’t a journey slapping the streets of New York sniffing out sneakers, nor is it a journey trudging through Finnish snow to get a glimpse of the feted architect Alvar Aalto’s Paimio Sanatorium, nor is this a journey about flipping through comic books in downtown Tokyo. This, this is a journey of understanding. It’s about understanding who I am, where I am, and where I’ve been.

After months seeking solutions to career fatigue and my tether frayed, it was by blessing that I got to see Sassoon’s movie on the late Rabbi Goldfein. With the pearls I saw produced by the Yeshiva Gadolah, I decided on my life’s next strategic move. Yeshiva in the Old City of Jerusalem.

Pulling the plug on a job that was good to me and leaving my azaleas, my Poppy and my dearest behind, I booked passage on the cheap-as-chips Ethiopian. Relaxing on 3 seats was a dream, and though the kosher grub went down like a lead Zeppelin, my good fortune saw me being bumped to business class on the home stretch.Dropping into Ben Gurion, I, a Litvak sweated a stream while my eyeballs fogged up at the humidity. My hands clammy, clutching the new shekel, I rode backseat  in a shirut as it heaved me from side to side as we criss-crossed the valleys and hills of rocky Jerusalem. Dropping off my fellow passengers, the taxi snaked across the lunar landscape sweeping past pockets of green and clusters of milkybar buildings set deep in the contours of this historical land. Staring outwards, the welding-light bright sunshine reflecting off of the Jerusalem stone forced my eyes to squint, hindering my ocular experience.

Rising out of the mall, the masons masterpiece, the pedestrian gates of the Old City, greet me. The Harp player caressing her strings creating memory through her song takes my mind off of the knobbly cobbles beneath my feet and the tourist trinket stores corrupting the treasured experience. Having breached the Old City, my time warp begins, my spirited journey is launched.

I stare with heavy penetrating eyes into the Wall, puncturing history. Working through the onion layers of my thoughts to find my emotion, tears turn me vulnerable. I need to think deeply with much introspection to understand my location in time, in space and in spirit. The ‘hair on the back of my neck’ moment doesn’t materialise, needing to be massaged over time.
For now I leave the Wall behind and rise up and out of this sanctuary heading towards the Yeshiva i’ll be attending for 3 months. Finding the Yeshiva with the help of a printed wall map, I knock, knock, knock on heaven’s door. I’m greeted by the madrich who leads me to the dorm rooms. And so I settle.
I wear no yarmy, no white shirt, and no black pants. But I know I’m in the right place. The seforim which clad the periphery of the Beis Midrash, await my imminent plunge. The structured form of the Gemorah, and the holy black text await the opportunity to become animated. This is G-d’s country, and I’m in it.

The learning frustrates me, it pains me, it’s traumatic, this isn’t fun, but I know this is where I ought to be. The sea is vast, but I’m slowly building a boat that’ll set me journeying through the liquid Torah. Through study I work on myself, building character, awareness. Through speaking to people I gain knowledge about me. Through this experience I hear my mind speak. It’s an extraordinary journey of movements of growth.
Three months might not be enough to resolve Dan, but slowly I’m skinning the apple, revealing, little by little, more of the core. I hope to garner tools with which i can fill my tool bag of life, to be able to negotiate the difficulties and the pleasantries of life’s marvellous musings. What a life. What a journey.  This is a story, about a lad named Dan.

I’d chosen to go to Yeshiva Bircas Hatorah in the Old City having met the Rosh Yeshiva, Rabbi Tagger in the ‘burbs of Joburg, South Africa. With a hand shake and a smile by the salt-and-pepper bearded, charismatic Rosh, it was a done deal.

As I narrowed in on my destination, the aroma of coffee and Israeli chocolate-jammed pastries tugged at my nostrils delivering me to the entrance of Mamilla Mall, my approach to the Old City.  With its bougainvillea shading, sculpture-lined walkway and documented stones numbered and consecutively positioned, the city of old reflects the city of new.

The Old City is mangled spaghetti. Weaving my way through the tight network of hooking streets, the passages, an arms-length in width, tinted in sandy Jerusalem stone, tower above me huddling me in the city’s grasp. The narrow streets, coursing like veins, pulsing with people, instances and nuances pulls me like a gushing pipeline, streaming down past yeshivas, and squares, past the Hurva, burgerias and pizzerias, plummeting towards the heart centre of the Jewish people, the Holy Kottel. Pooled at the Western Wall, Jews of all types collide. Typical, non-typical. Black hat, black yarmie, white yarmie, an army yarmy.  A streimel, and a ‘nah nach nachman’ wooly one, a baseball cap, a crochet and a bowler.  All one nation, unified, spilling their spirit of emotion, turning to jelly at the Walls sight.

The beauty the city holds in my mind is pummelled as I make the prerequisite erev shabbis journey to Machane Yehudah, the street market. Here i’m jolted back into reality. Naive as a pimply teen I head into the bowels of this food lovers emporium and like a pinball i’m ricocheted from one person to the next bouncing off aggressive bobbas and over tanned servicemen. My shins splintered, bruised by pram wielding mommas. Trying to seek a deal on hummus I find myself forking out more than Israel’s military budget. I’m traumatised, moving upstream against the clashing crowds, I burst into sunshine, into freedom, vowing never to repeat the journey again.

Smoking Cigarettes 20.06.2014

There are sweet wonders in this world of machinery. There are reliable machines. There are machines, simple, efficient, and steady. There are those that are built to last, those built rugged. There are those aggressive in stance. And there are those that are blistering in pace. There are those you’d want as a trusty friend, and those that you’d name. There are even machines fuelled by bottom- less tanks giving the cockpitted pilot unhindered journeys, unhindered experiences. There are those enigmas of machinery that make the cover of magazines. There is this machine perched in my garage. It’s the Toyota Tazz 1300, bleached white and stainless. I’ve pushed it to its limits and I know it has further to go. My white Toyota Tazz, huge underhood, Italian under foot.

Me, my Sugar and my Tazz rocked the east of Africa. Mozambique. The darkness. The journey was one in search of a product to return back to SA to make my Scrooge fortunes.

With a fuel tank larger than a Ukrainian powerlifter, the sipper sipped. Nelspruit, Komatipoort. Lebombo and after 5 hours we breached the border posts without interruption/corruption. The open road into Maputo is a drag. Our vehicle hovered above the darkened, heated tar racing past the tracer-bullet like divider lines.  All is a blur, nothing scenic, nothing for the eye. Every kilometre is destructive as the bugs splat face first against my windshield turning Tazz white into Jackson Pollak.

We sweep past Maputo, but the white shirts are out. The Tazz pulls purrs to the side and we blah blah blah to the officer, he gives us a check, an arrogant nod and some attitude, and we’re off with a grunt. After some 14 hours of road work we heave a sigh of relief. We’re in Xai Xai, a little one road town African in energy, European in structure. The street’s bursting like paw paw seeds. Dust hoverin

g at nostril level clogging my vision. We’re still ten kays short of a good time. The sun is double dipping and my legs are turning to sweaty liquorice.
We reach the beach, a sandy road and an arrow to our location. I’m thinking this ain’t all that bad and then I feel the car losing traction, the back wheels violently sidestepping like Joost on an All Back defence.
I’m not sure. I take my foot off the gas and well, now we’re done for. Stuck stiff like beaten mousse.
My hands crashing against the steering wheel in dismay.  I want to bawl my eyes out. The Tazz’s super fluorescent lights tearing through the liquid black of the African darkness , dust criss-crossing the beam playing chicken. A planetary interlude. Dead silence. 1 kilometer from anywhere. Upon hands and knees we shovel sand, the dust fine dune enveloping the tires still.
This wasn’t The Bear Hunter hunting alone, here he had his sugar by his side, and this scenario racked my nerves.
As we locked the car up, by the light of my head torch we walked leaving behind the disgruntled, stymied beast. She of chipper smile, and calm remedies tried desperately to sooth my angered nerves.
We reached lifesaver safety. Two mozambican locals smiled, walked us back to the car and with iron arms dug us out. Once they’d given me the all clear made like Tom Cruised and did a Days of Thunder. My eyes steely, my arms stiff, and my foot flat we ramped ditches, dongs, hillocks and humps. I nearly soiled my self but me, my car and my self were free.

Wooah, what an experience?. With my heart throbbing inside my throat over whelming my apple this was an outer body experience. My Tazz, a beast of burden, punching above its weight was an overwhelming champion. And with my sugar on my side as a coolant we endured.

Matthew Broderick Mind Games 01.06.2014

Comrades 2014

For six months you give everything you got. You give your heart, your iron structure, your soul and your will. You compromise on the late nights, you limit the liquids, and you set aside the carbs. You turn your focus inward. You see illness as danger and injury as trauma. You see rest as weakness. You count the days backwards. You alter what you did last year, working harder this year. You see warm summer mornings invaded by icier winds and an over throw of winters hues. You see the sun’s  arc peak and drop. You see the green over-fed trees turn gnarly, nobbly at winter’s appearance. You beat the tread of 1200km together with your running partner. You scrawl each run down, each hour of sleep and each minute of mileage. Your guilt is your strength. You’re in it and, you’re committed.  Your sugar is on the sidelines watching and your brother is there as a spire. Big Al is there with his famous P and J zarms. It’s a giant of a day. This is the year. This is the year.

Me and Marty linked on the Saturday eve. We slept in single beds in Pietermaritzburg. We ate chicken breasts the night before.  We stood side by side in our pen. I sat behind my glasses. He behind new emotion, new experience and a new start.
And that was the last time we were together.
They say the race is 90 percent mental. And as my mind’s wanderings travelled beyond where I was, beyond the distance of Pietermaritzburg and Durban, it wasn’t the fitness of my body, but the malleability of my mind that was my unravelling.
My 2014 edition of the Comrades Marathon was my thoughts crusade.

My energy had bottomed out turning the day tough. I remained introverted, stuck behind my shades. My eyes and globular brain holding my misery, my pain, and my many wonderings of the years thoughts. The pains of my career traumatising my mind space, the years of tumult scarring my jellied tissue. Where am I going and what am I running towards?. Mumbling very little. Marty drove the pace, pushing us half way in 4hours 50.it was brilliant. But still I felt discomfort. Physically, I was steadfast.

At 55km I forced Marty to leave me to run our own races.
62, and with 28 to go, I sat down. Finished to the world. A half litre of water gushing down my gullet. Brushing aside the concerned comments, I stepped back onto the heated road, still my legs uneasy.  My body was deflated, my mind warped. My body double bent, a crowd member offering a hand. And then Carmy K gave me the 3^rd.
At the top of Fields and with a half marathon to go, I crushed a coke down my throat. As the power aid careened past my parched lips, coating my furry teeth, hastening down my gullet, gaining super electric energy, rushing past my stopped heart, the defibrillator-like effect on my spirit was galactic. From 0 on the speedometer to a hyperventilating 160, id been brought back from oblivion.
My lips turned from bull nose to a smile, a vessel pooled with excitement, spunk and power.
Fields Hill blessed me with rolling speed, and trundling energy. My pulsing pistons purging my sluggishness. My chatting chirping and yodelling driving the unwaivering crowd.

With 13 to go I bumped into Marty. Pinetown. Rooted to the ground he had nowhere to go. Marty’s muscles had left him stranded, splintered. I had to say goodbye, again.
With 5km to go, Elton, with the claws of a backactor scooped me up, and together we hurtled our punished bodies into Durban and onto the softened turf of Kingsmead Cricket Stadium getting us in under 10:30.
You never know this race, a chiselled body demands a chiselled mind.

White's on Rice 14.03.2014

Africanx

This was no bullsh*t facebook photo of you and your mates slotting a tequila at a party stiffer than a cadaver telling the world how rad your life is. This was no cheap selfie of your ‘amazing’ journey to Cambodia where really you had the runs, and were sharing a shower with 300 other inmates. This was no hugging your girlfriend while the sun set in the back ground, you clinking glasses and the waiter is trying for the fifth time to shoot the right shot. This was what we did every day for 3 days. 90 kays, 1000m rise in altitude, the hills the valleys, the mountains of the cape, of grabouw, of apple picking country. This was the African X, this was real, the pain, was real, the heat, was real. The dirt in your nostrils caking like a bat cave, the fyn bos licking your calves to bleed. The sun, it's angle of radiation hell bent on toasting you. That was all real.

The Sherminator and i teamed up for an adventure we’d read about in a Jules Verne novel.
With 6 months of training staring dauntingly at me, the screws needed to be turned, I needed to deviate from the luminous throngs of freshly inspired runners. I needed something new, where the masses weren’t. I needed to mix the bag of nuts up. I needed new adventure.
And as I flipped through the Discovery magazine looking at the pictures. The only article catching my eye read, ‘do something different’. AfricanX.
And so I threw a hook by way of the Sherminator and well he bit. Houwhoek, the Elgin valley, this is apple pie province.  Here the cider house rules. John Deere’s, harvesters, no Tobey McGuire but Batman and Robin.

We geared up, the Sherminator and I. Trail shoes, our ones n twos, hydration packs, gums and gu’s. Rain jackets and reflector packets. But we were Born to Run weren’t we?  So we took two heaped teaspoons of ‘kicka*s’, dumped the lumo crowd, joined the ‘Trail mix’, stirred it up and ran AfricanX.

Leaving Cape Town airport we turned our backs on pouty-lipped sea point, and dropped the stilleto’ed shmodels  hanging around coffee bars and fast cars and guys in toupees  and headed for the Cape van Riebeek could understand. The scented fyn bos, the yellows and the reds of blooming bush, the red dirt and rough rocks. The crystalline lakes, vineyards and apple ‘chards, the guttural Grabouw, it seems to have given itself a name. If it ain’t apple pie its Cape Epic territory, it’s AfricanX territory.

Day one and we sucked up the air we could, for up there there’s more to breathe. Our Transvaal lungs nourished by a high dose of oxygen. We had fast kick backs and switch backs, our toothy grins left dust dirty. The tree covered paths cool to the touch. Over bridges and past trails named Skaapsteke. ‘Have we run to Australia?, I enquired. The crunchy gravel crunching under the treads of our NB’s. No terrain like this exists on the Highveld.  33kays. And the day was done. A plunge pool our respite. as i peeled my nipple tap off squealing an echo off the mountains facade, a chocolate mik calmed me, rebuilt my muscles, for day 2 was up next.

Day 2 and we felt the landscape reach out and touch the sky. The mountainous profile puncturing the blue. The start from the bottom of Sir Lowry’s at Ongegund, a 5 star resort in a 3^rd world settlement. The run gun triggered and we were off mounting ascents, the competitors snaking the hills slowly. Luminous shirts, a safety feature not a fashion trend surely, splattered the terrain as exploded paintballs. The race took us up steep tractor paths and deep into vineyard country. The glutes pulsed and the quads felt it. This day was devastating. 35 kays of arduous trailing. The suns beam blistering.  Snaking  train tracks across the landscape like braces on a pimply teen. The chopper up above, cutting the thick oxygenated air, banking and hovering, capturing real moments, of real time action. Our feet dug in, this aint the beach, but the sand’s the same, engaging diff lock, we gain traction. The dew off the apples reflecting our hard work. Hands on thighs we climbed. Squirting gu’s at the tops of ascents, our lips stuck, no words. This day was gruelling, demanding. Without leg strength you’re running on legs like liquorice rope.  
 

Day 3, 21kays, a blanket of fog tucked us in, at 8am we peeled it away, the sun dried it up. The start gun dissipating. Tracing our fingers along the profile saw us run run, no walking. Ten kays of running. And then more climbing, clambering, then she passed us, nimble as a mountain goat. Hurtling. The rock loose, the decent fast. I sounded, ‘sweet gsus’. The vistas were a beauty, she was too. I chooned the lad. ‘No walking booi’. We took her on the straight.  We could hear the PA system, but the thread, we’d pulled it, stringing stringing we still had mileage to get through. Dropping down into Houwhook was fast like gushing water, crossing the final bridge, your smiles edges flicking the lobes of your ears. This day was like finding a tenner in your pair of jeans. It cemented the AfricanX in orbit. Ground control, we have touch-down. We’ll return.

The journey was dusted. Trail running, it’s a liberation. It’s running cos we can, it’s running to feel the landscape, to get a better understanding of it, it’s running for the sake of our pliable iron muscles, its running for the views and for the travels, its about shedding the threads of competition. It’s running cos We were Born to Run.                                             

Sex, Parks and Recreation 03.06.2013

Run Like a Deer
Be Strong like a Lion.

Having missed the flight because COSATU felt it necessary to turn the country further into a jelly state, and having been forced  into ‘standby mode’...twice, because no flights to Durban were empty and with Friday turning from day to dusk, I had no choice but to drop a testicle on a tacky business class seat on an SAA flight.  Seated, consoling myself, I ordered two cokes to stabilise me and two bottled waters to get my money’s worth. And while I thought things couldn’t get worse, while sat waiting to taxi onto the runway my running partner, my anchor, my Linus blanket and great friend Marty calls to say ‘Danny, I’m not gona make the race, the funeral’s on Sunday’.

There is no Dr Phil book or Oprah episode or Fortune cookie that prepares you for the emotion you’re about to trawl with you on the 45 minute flight to Durbs.
As I bobbed my eyeballs in a pool of salted tears, rubbing my dribble on my sleeve caking it to stiffness, I couldn’t but feel that business class is a waste of money.
The trauma I suffered that day was inexplicable, even receiving a call from the bereaved to consol me.
The SAA staff anything but sensitive to a situation, their arrogance unnerving and my voyager mile status leaving me as wines dregs, I hope never again to fly ‘Africa’s best voted airline’

Not even Spielberg could write this kinda intro to my eve of the 2013 Comrades Marathon. I shivered in expectation, brr brr.

As I woke at 3:30am on Sunday the 3^rd of June with a smile on my face, you slept after a debauched eve of greasy pizza pie and thunderous amounts of alcohol.
While Michael Stipe sang the chorus line to your peaceful sleep, we rubbed our eyeballs to light, applied Vaseline down our nether regions, taped our nipples, sun creamed our necks and pinned our numbers, lassoo-ed our one’s n two’s, ate peanutbutter toasties and hurtled down to Durban Town Hall.
While you dreamed of being the fat kid swimming in a river of syrupy chocolate in Charlie’s Factory, we were vibrating in nervous throngs in our pens, our nostril hairs vaporised by the throbs of Deep Heat, our teary eyes pulsing as a woofer to the echoes of Vangelis’ Chariots of Fire.
While you sipped on water to tenderise those parched lips, and slipped back into peaceful slumber, we strode at the crack of the cannon, over the line for the start of the 2013 Comrades Marathon.

While you breakfasted at Tiffany’s, we shivered for the giants, but we ran. While you flicked on last eve’s episode of Game of Thrones, we ached at the thought of 70kays to go, we were on Cowies and our energy levels didn’t even know it. We ran.
While we felt the dripping sweat make sticky our backs as we chugged up Fields, my memory bank telling me to hold back, you percolated your coffee. And we ran.
While you hit the gym hard, ‘booi’, for an hour clenching your butt at a sweat 1000 class saying ‘gsus that was a tough work out’, Lance, David and I basted the heated tar eclipsing Botha’s. And we continued to run.
When we hit the halfway mark at Drummond and with still 43 km’s to go, you hit the showers and knocked back a fruit shake. We were still running.
While I hugged my brother at the rise of Inchanga, tore at a nougat warming my Gu-filled gut and wondered how the hell I was gona scale this lofty hill with still 5 hours of running to go, you jumped in your car, stuck on the radio and took a drive down the highway. And We still ran.

While you lunched with family and friends over a bbq, toasted a marshy and chugged a beer, we hit Camper Down, and still, we ran.
While morning spun into afternoon, we felt temperatures rise and shine, we saw runners around us capitulated in the searing heat, lying flat throbbing for assistance, you took your doggy to a doggy party at the park. And. We still ran.

As the day saw the sun dissolving, it’s effervescence fading, we mounted Polly’s. You might have gone to a late show. And we still ran.

And as the km boards settled down to single digits, with smile and comfort  we rolled on forward, the banner nearing the fresh grass smelling. While you put on that teevee at 4pm after an exhausting 10 hour day to watch 50/50 we raised our arms beneath the banner that heralded 10:33. And Finally, We stopped running.

We don’t choose our days or our conditions. We can only ask why or what. Sometimes the dice rolls for us, and sometimes it doesn’t. Somehow we get back on that saddle and somehow we ride.

The Flaming Aubergines 28.04.2013

I don’t use words like ‘lol’, or ‘lolo’ or’ fomo’. I  don’t ‘LFMAO’ nor do I ‘Yolo’. I do though Moma and I can play yoyo like no other. I ain’t no trend surfer, or trend getter. I don’t listen to Justin Beaver nor Highveld Stereo. I listen to my ipod or i spin my vinyl in mono. I wear blue velvet, but I don’t eat Red. I share my rolo, and I eat bolo. I never was into Marcels, but I loved to lick Carvel.
I don’t call myself  an ‘entrepeneur’ on Linked In. I don’t surf no social wave, but I would crowd surf.
It was on this day in April that I tramped the trend travellator, hopped into my Toyo’, and headed out for some ‘Fro Yo’.

A ‘fro-yo’ asteroid has rocked Jozi and as we left our red velvets sprawled on the windshield as a splattered flying insect on our journey to our next trending destination, we headed to victory park for food far greater, far smoother.

The Filo store is wedged on the bend of a strip mall with a Spur spaghetti-twisted playground it’s back drop and the glowing Woolies and their futuristic food in the foreground.
There I stood on the wooded floors, grabbed a Filo bucket and with a firm grip of the knob protruding from the stainless steel dispenser called “Spaceman” I pulled hard on the throttle engaging the flow of dense starry eyed frozen yoghurt. And being whipped into hyper space I didn’t want to let go of the swirling excitement.
Feeling like a fighter pilot engaging the full propulsion of the thrusters the experience engaged.
I rocked the base with the mint green of pistachio and topped it off with the chocolate hazelnut cos I don’t do fruits. I’m no tree hugger but it so happened the colours were leafy and complimentary. My cup brimming, I by-passed the smarties avoiding a coronary and sat my bucket upon the weight watcher scale, leaving it looking sheepishly left. right. and left again.
The tarty choc sweetened by the dribbly lick of the ‘stachio. This was no movember but I made a yoghurt moustache. Look ma, i’m a hipster.
Having arrived feeling as though i’d swallowed a turbo boosted chain saw, swallowing lactate would be against all doctors orders but it was the sticky sweetness of  the yoghurt dessert that soothed my firey tonsils.
Sundays in the roaring ol’ eighties were often dedicated to a road excursion to a Carvel ice cream and this little journey ripped that memory from my brains bank and heaved it to the forefront.

For one small moment I felt like the fighter pilot I’d always wanted to be. For one small moment  I felt like I’d been given a nickname like ‘Maverick’ or ’the Sherminator’. For one small moment  I felt like I’d experienced the gravity of 300 G’s.
But for that one small moment I tstill didn’t feel like I’d just made sweet love to Kelly Mcgillis.

Leatherman Super Tool Patent Pending 02.12.2012

The year 2012 brought me to the architecture of Frank Lloyd Wright, it brought me the chance to see the last rock band i’d ever wanted to see still performing, it brought me a rapid Tough One and an unsettled mind. It brought thoughts of where i’m going and where i’ve been but it brought me too to a hike i’ve only experienced through the epic imagery and words of the Klotz and langeman Patley. Now it was my turn. the pinnacle of hikes, the much feared, but necessary, Great Otter trail.  My life is complete.

With the blood draining from my head, desiccating my brain on scouring and finding my wallet ID-less at the Kulula check-in counter at the airport, I thought it was over. Rapidly I, with my fingers shaking trying to dial as in a horror movie, managed to get my mom on the dog n bone and had her wade through my condom filled bed side table to photograph my old school ID document and with such relief, our plane engaged, banked, and thrust its jet engines. We had made passage to George.

The Otter Trail hugs the serrated coast line of the Eastern Cape, just nearly knicking the West. The launching pad, the Tsitsikama Forest. The end, Nature’s Valley. The trail’s elevation dips and rises as a healthy heart beat. The boil and wart plagued forest floor, knobbed in protruding tree roots and stumps best negotiated by a hobbit, a brown wizard, carpets our path. The forest canopy thick dense like grandmas hair-net, protecting us from the orange-juice sun beam. The heavy branches casting snake-like shadows on tangible surfaces, our guide ropes. The pebble beaches twisting ankles, looking a greyed charcoal bbq, pixellate our views.
The trail throws us into Tolkein’s dense mystical forest, looping us out on to the continents edge.
A landscape for an adventure, for a big budget flik.

The terrain inflicts drama. Our thighs trying to bust out of our skin, our muscles inflating at every step. Blood zipping to body parts most needy of nutrient. With the strength required to kick start a Boeing we negotiated the course whilst sucking on the teet’s of our Camelbaks.  The salted sweat dissolving the pigment of our shirts. The crusted salt caking our faces. As we stand staring down the line of the trail, the smooth palette of greens and wooded browns don’t reveal the grainy grinding structure we’re to endure.

The trail demands its hikers are self sufficient. Loaded with hammers and gu’s, chunky fruit packs kilos of meat, chunked tuna and Nandos convenient packs concealed we are sustained...just. Backpacks grafted to our skeletons, as a horticulturalist only knows. Our socks, shirts and backpacks an extension of our form, an exoskeleton of necessity. The weight is gravitous.
 

Each day the softness of the forest is torn to reveal the rugged cragginess of the coastal rock. The sea coursing it’s way through the rocky, craggy crust, panelling it into shape.
The Otter’s trail is cut by veinous streams of cola tonic infused tint. The rivers colliding at the seas mouth each tearing at one another as lovers grappling to merge. Light-pulsing blue and cool cola, a pantoned cocktail. The power of the two forces tearing and tugging us, treading, flailing. Fighting nature’s current we emerge, dripping excited by adventure. The crossing of the Bloukrans, a daunting challenge.
Plunging waterfalls. Deep ponds. The water lilies, the pads, nature’s geometry.

Our legs shredded by the fynbos, revealing a sweet scent, as tickley as a banky of Mary Jane, it’s blessed with pigment only an HDtv could reveal. Purples and yellows, reds and blues, the colours of our yogic breathing splashed upon the landscape.

After gruelling, unrelenting days our wooded cabins gave respite. Cold showers pricked our energies, refreshed our spirits. Rest couldn’t come sooner. We giggled and we exposed ourselves. We were lads being lads. The memory stick of city bullshit had been downloaded and disposed of seawards . The gluttony of suburbia dissipated in the smoke of the heated fire warming our blistered souls.  We hike ‘cos it returns us to our senses, to what’s important, to the basics and to an appreciation of a sculpted world.

The trail caught me off guard, it was more aching than anticipated. It didn’t give us slack. It crushed my cartilage, exposed my weakness. It left my spirit wounded, it challenged me. I felt I achieved.

...and Dan, Stermer, Big Al and Darwin walk off the stage to huge applause having picked up a coveted Oscar for best performance in a lead role in a Drama....

My Life is Complete

Four Strings Tuned in Perfect Fifths 01.11.2012

The JPO.
I love the orchestra, i love the strings and the woods, i love the flautists and the double bass. I love each instrument. I love the idea that a pained callous is a resultant sound of beauty. I love real music. I love the physical effort involved. 

With the ease with which ultra mel custard gently glides across jiggly jelly, so the smooth sounds of a well tuned orchestra send light tremors through my being enhancing the vibrancy of my aura, a palette for a Henri Matisse.

jpo.co.za

The Linder Auditorium, acoustically magical, intimate and warm to the touch, rendering Northgate a used condom.
A Thursday night, it’s gallery night, but i pass go paying one fifty five and slip into night one of the JPO’s 4^th season.
We dress up, we stick on a collar and we iron our Shannon Brooks to have the crease running down the front.  I leave the tie behind though, it was my old school blue. I polish my one’s and two’s. I don’t care to dress up for a flight on an SAA Boeing, but still I’ll dress up for a cocktail of strings, winds, brass and percussion.

The chipmunk chirpy MC at front and centre delivers misery. the coffers have been plundered. There is no more money, the musicians were short a salary, a salticrax month endured  and that gutted me as a baby dolphin on the shores of Yokohama.

Seated in the nose-bleeds, moments before i blacked out from cerebral edema, the playful cacophonic sounds of the warm-up session fires up my pilot light and settles me in my plush chair. My knees blocking my nostrils, but I don’t care cos i’m about to be aurally tenderised.

And then silence mutes us. Only the sound of a cough splutters the tranquillity.
The dramatic stage has been set, the conductor with stove pipe slacks, his white socks a Michael Jackson length and his American drawl, baton in hand boards the platform. As a co-ordinated air craft controller his waving arms, his torso pivoting, he delivers a back hand, the match is struck, the orchestra begins burning. The orchestra is catapulted into fighter jet action.

The union of the violinists sawing at Tchaikovsky’s strings. The bows bobbing, spearing the swirling air above, an harmonius draw that tears me a Cameron Diaz smile. It’s the gorgeous girls sketched in black in the violin section mesmerising me, turning  my legs to soggy marie biscuits. my mouth’s drool sopping my collared plaid shirt.
The double bass , an instrument of beauty, they are deap but they anchor the shrill. There are few in number . With the bow, the page is turned.
The black tadpole figures of musical notes bound by horizontal lines hang ordered, they sit as players on the steps of West Side Story, delivering only the sublime. The brass, polished to a reflection. They air their opinion, a huff and a puff, they blow the house down to rapturous applause.
Ebonies and ivories. his hands the lines of longitude, stretching to deliver the key note.  Rachmaninov drawing tears from the wells of my eyes as a biblical Isaac. I now longed for that opportunity to return to the keyboard of my youth i so rapidly gave up for Nintendo game time.

I grew up with green thumbs potting plants, the State Theatre part of my lexicon, the ballet as shades of pink, and the classics as a gift my folks blessed me with. I wasn’t only dished up with the A and B’s of culture but of the greats in the arts.
The JPO must not die as the romans, or the greeks before. It’s a sign of our culturally anorexic society when our Philaharmonic begins to haemorrage. The orchestra must continue to fight the wave of Dashin Kards and the instrumentless Gaga’s we’re flooded with daily. Let us fete the du pre’s and the Barenboims, because they’re worth it.
Don’t let the M&M store be the glowing memory of a trip to New York. Let Carnegie assume the rightful space in our kids memoirs and the Royal Festival Hall and Barbican be etched in their cerebellums for their future enjoyment.

As I ran through Soweto, skimming past the beautiful glistening new Music Hall, I hope I don’t see wild game come to the city. Elephants are for the Kruger.
Let us not show our naivety to greatness, to the arts.
Don’t ‘spear’ our culture of the great stuff.