cobblestones
neatly placed
leads to nowhere
but secluded avenues
whore houses
shit stained beds
verbal assaults
hurdled like stones
***
colourful houses
decorated in resistance
artistic violence
against the hegemonic
tendencies covered
in universal redemption
from hell cast in blood
and fear fabricated
on lies
***
breathe
— in —
— out —
— in —
smell the city
and its hope
that lay crushed
in the gutter
but remember the good days
An Ode to the Girl Who I Could Never Write
A Girl Lost In Cape Town's Streets
The girl was lost in the streets of Cape Town, South Africa. I walked behind her, but I became her shadow, following her every step but she never saw me. Unbeknownst — unaware — of her own castings, the light that shines through her being, she did not see me follow her into back alleys and whore houses, pissed-stained bars and sleazy motels.
I wanted to declare my poetic love to the girl, roaming the streets, but she did not slow down, the only thing driving her forward was a passion, a lust, a strange coercion that manipulated her every move.
And like so many stories, so many narratives, I wanted to play the hero that saved this damsel in distress, this wildflower that did not know any better. But is this not an outmoded trope, the street girl being saved by the male hero? Funny how we gravitate toward stories where the hero saves the vulnerable girl.
But this was no ordinary love affair, containing no physical threats, only mental ones. The girl who I could not write, now walking down the streets of Cape Town, did not find danger in those streets, which were safe. Instead, danger lured in the pages of books, through which both she and I lived our tropes, hidden from plain sight, saturated in bold neon colours, covering the real truth...
She climbed the stairs and an image from divine paintings rose in my mind, with the female protagonist rising to the heavens leaving her body behind in the garden, her soul ascending toward a higher being.
And suddenly, behind colourful doors, layers of paint on worn-out canvases, the girl vanished from my sight.
I was no longer the shadow that followed her every move, I no longer saw the ascension from the staircase leading to the heavens, I was merely another cobblestone in the infinite fabric of the universe on which anyone could walk.
I thirsted for her being, to recast myself as her shadow, but for now, I could not find the wildflower that disappeared behind paper-thin veils of violent colour.
Yet strangely enough, I could sense her being not far away from my own, I could sense some cosmic bind that remained, that tethered my hope to some fixed point in the universe. I could smell the desire that she wore like perfume on her skin. Delicate skin like a flower petal, easily bruised by the touch that is just too hard.
I did not dare follow her, as I remained fixed in the belief that she would return. Maybe, just maybe, the hope that I cling to was not all that false.
The mountains loomed like giant monsters in the background, and she again walked over me, as I renewed the shadow position. The sun was shining and the clear sky demanded a bright shadow on the cobblestones. I followed her to the extremes of the city, only to realise that we never parted our ways...
Postscriptum, or So all Adventures End with Ice Cream
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All adventures ending with ice cream lead to all-around smiles. The girl and I could not have ended the adventure better. All good things come to an end, even perpetual ice cream will make you dull. But the memory will last for a while, not as fleeting as the ice cream moment.
For now, I will again try to write the girl, finding her in new places.
Happy photographing and keep well.
All of the musings, writings, and meanderings are my own, albeit inspired by the girl who I could not write. The photographs are my own, taken with my Nikon D300 and 50mm Nikkor lens.