Tamboerskloof.
Opening night of the newest hot spot in Rape Town. Rafiki's.
Woke up on Tuesday and my life was in tatters.
"Is there any more tassies left there?"
"What goes up must come down."
"Why?"
"I'm shpangled bru, fully."
Michelle's a shrink. Makes her bucks analyzing physical theatre.
Me I'm wired on self-satisfaction. The music playing is Tricky.
The hipsters are all technology freaks, splicing the virtual cuts.
"Do I come out with two plaits and a greasy parting or do I
wash it?"
"Oh! Your hair's soft."
Everybody here is talking about something and I don't understand
what. I never understand what. Do they understand what? Why so much
talking? Why am I here? I should be at home writing my manic depressive
poems and monologues. Instead I'm trying to be hip. Sitting
here doff and clueless while the folks around me all talk at a frantic
speed. It looks like they understand each other. I need a clue. What
language is it all in?
"Parergon is the frame."
"My alter ego's are all at rest tonight."
"Why is knee nee and not k-nee?"
"I lost my best friend to the kabbalah."
The owner of this establishment drifts over to where I'm sitting
with a slack look on my face, pretending not to want to explode. He
grins at me through forty black teeth and a massive dreadlock wig.
"One day when you're ready I'll talk to you about
something."
"I'm ready."
He runs away. See. People don't want to be understood. They
want to say things and they don't mind it if you say something
back, as long as there is no point of connection between the two things.
The speaking is just itself. It doesn't reach out and refer
to or represent anything. My grave mistake at the outset
was to assume that 1. people meant what they said and 2. that they
cared about communicating something. This is obviously not the case.
What people say is mainly nonsense. It's only when they're not talking that there is even the possibility of them having
something worthwhile to communicate.
"Are you having a miserable life or just a bad day?"
This is the chick with red hair. Now what she's just said to
me might be an opening line but the crucial problem is that I know she expects me to offer to buy her a drink and I absolutely refuse.
Chick, with an opening line like that you better come quick with a
margarita or the double Jamesons. That's what I think. What
I say is as follows:
"I'm learning to hold my piece."
What she says is:
"I can make a dead dog taste good."
Does any of it make sense to you? She brings me a glass of mampoer.
It's revolting. It gets me but quickly spanked. I mean beautifully
spanked. I'm unplayable. I'm revolving.
"Are you alright?"
"Hundred per cent. Hundreds."
Then I have to stand up. The blood drains from my head. I sit down
again. The owner with the black teeth and the wig sits next to me.
"I love the desert."
Everybody is smiling at me. The owner takes off his wig. His head
is shiny. A bald dome. He continues to talk to me about all the GOOD
TIMES that he's had on drugs.
"We were E'ing our tits off."
I ask him to hold my hand because I'm dying. He laughs at this.
"I don't know fear baby."
Now the red head chick comes back with more mampoer which I am not
drinking this time. She snarls when I say no to her poison.
"Trolls are not all bad!"
Underneath his bald head the owner of Rafiki has a microchip computer.
He is one of David Icke's lizard people, come to collect information
on people like me, who don't have cell phones or wear underpants.
"I spent three months in Valkenberg."
Michelle the shrink sits on my legs and points to an absurd adornment
in her hair.
"Does this become me?"
The red-haired chick comes back with her friend the White Lady. She
chops her friend into four parallel lines and we snort her. We schnarf
her. We get shpangled, even more so.
"Do you wanna check Getafix out?"
They carry me out and into the coffin which is nicely parked in the
back of the hearse. I can hear everyone dancing. It must be full moon.
You see I was right, theory just acts as a container for the intuition.
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