force fed suicide

I have never felt air as heavy as that.
In the nights that followed I could not sleep under its weight, I could feel it encapsulating my body in its malignant filth.
Was it the impending death that polluted that winter nigh or was it the unfathomable things I had seen.
Some questions, I suppose, are made to linger (the Gods have a nack for the theatrical)

It was slight hysterics that cracked on the two way, a request for medical help. The paramedics, they said, wouldn’t touch him.
In our haste to fetch the doctor and take him to the boy neither myself nor Johan had imagined what we would be faced with.
In hine sight I imagine that the word suicide was yet to be defined in such tangible graphic terms in minds that attach foot notes of movie scenes to such a situations.

There were flowers laid out behind the car and he had locked his dog in with him. “he didn’t want to die alone.” People said
I was younger then and could not fathom how the prospect of death was less intimidating than being alone, this, I would only learn to understand this years to come.
People said many things and they still do.
Culers and Koeksissters on off chance run ins regurgitate a distortion of colored in details.
“Oh but he was gay you know”
“They say they found drugs on him”
In unison they shake their heads and rub their chins each one a better informant then the other.

But it was a different picture that tragedy painted that night.
Such a young body with his head slumped forward onto his chest, the light in the car port was stark white and chemical to my horror widened eyes.
A little dark trickle painted the back of his neck and the hair colorant coagulated in clumps in his hair.

When the doctor rushed past me and moved the cop out of the way I caught a glimps of the medic as he leaned against the van.
His face was set and his eyes unmoved.
Mechanically he answered the onlookers pleas for help.
“ I told you before lady, his a suicide the medical aid doesn’t cover it, you have to wait for the other ambulance”
it twisted my mind to the point pain to imagine a life that would kill a heart like that and I felt sorry for him.

When I breathed again the sickness about it stuck to my skin.
They had moved the boys body onto the ground.
1…2…3… Now blow 1…2…3..Now blow
It was slight at first and then it came in thunderstorms.
Under Johans hands the boys chest convulsed and jumped as it sucked in gasps of air.
Then it when still and he opened his eyes.
Where am I? he gasped at me
“Your home your going to be alright” my best efforts could not have hidden it from him
“where’s my dog is he okay?” he asked in a stronger voice
“His fine, his in the house”
then the purple framed eyes misted again and he cried harder than I have ever seen.
No No No he shouted and moved fast.
Lifting his head up and banging it down on the floor.
Holding his breath it became clear that the cry fro help my have been a serious attempt to harm himself.
He would pass out from lack of breath, wake and do it all again and again.

It sat there like cancer on my spine for nights to come, it left shadows on my mind as I tried to imagine how completely consumed he was by grief that it would drive him to that.
I concluded then that I didn’t have the capacity to feel that big….
But, again, I was young and would still grow to respect heart ace for all her destructive magic

I saw the boy the other day
As he drove by he smiled and waved
He passed and he was just like many other people in my life for a moment. A smile a face a voice.
Meat and bone and not a thought more than that.

Dead of day

Have you ever woken up
To die a thousand times
Was the sin of slumber
The sweetest of illusions

Have you fought against the light
Just for seconds in his arms
Just to taste the sweet poison
Of nights changing joy

Has it cut through your skin
To see the morning dawn
And do your dreams bleed for you
With old hurts
That sting today

Stop my breath
Because with morning he dies again

20/03/07-

Slave in my mind

This is an attempt to let the civilized world know that I am still here
Its my cyber S.O.S from the vast deserted dessert of GPRS.

My plans to resign took an interesting turn and instead of cutting all ties with the company I worked for I am still affiliated with them in a very complicated way that I am yet to get my head around.
I am now the struggling, dead broke, tired and over worked owner of a Bond Origination company.
As I explained before this is a hard company to start as it demands all your time and energy to start but does not generate an income for many months.
I am also battling with infrastructure at the moment.
I am working from home right now.
This is nice for some people but working from home in Nestpark means that your phone lines only work 2months in a year.
This is attributed to the bustling trade in copper wire that thrives in our underground.
After the lines were stolen and replaced 3 times in the last few Months Telkom has given up and I have been told that they don’t plan to replace the lines at all this time. “Sit tight” they said “we’re going wireless”.
Good Luck with that!
Problem is that this will only happen at the end of next month, bringing my chances of Fats fabulous broad band ADSL to zip.
I am now running a webmail e-mail and fax to mail fax line from my cell phones very delicate GPRS connection.
It also seems that every printer I approach registers it dislike in my character by spitting out every document in blotchy crumpled messes.
Thank you very Bloody much.
I now pay Post net 7 bucks a pop for A4 color prints.

I am also, after making 50 phone calls to Estate agents in a fruitless attempt to market my little campaign, in the process of rethinking my marketing strategy.
I have decided that even telemarketers hate telemarketers and my telephonic efforts have made me sound like a telemarketer and thus I have no ground to blame the sorry sods that turned me down.
I am currently rethinking things and plan to think out of the box as soon as things get organized enough for the box to be located.

On the bright side of things.
I do have two meetings set up with two rather big estate agents.
These meetings feel like job interviews and I feel it would be much simpler if everybody just saved time and presumed that I know everything.
However until such enlightenment reaches the other elements of this market I will just have to grin and bare it.

At least Stiffla still follows orders as he should.
He has recently taken a great liking to the song De La Rey, I am terribly proud of this fact and so I only swear at him a little when he laughs at mine and Ducklings heated fights.
For those of you who don’t know… Duckling is my car.
Well at least that’s the generally accepted term.
Duckling doesn’t have rims nor does she have hub caps. She rides on rusty shitty looking wheels wrapped in rubber of discernable origin in the thickest profile I have ever come across
I could tell you that commuting in the sorry thing was a protest against stereotyping as this creamy colored Golf is the last thing people expect me to drive.
Unfortunately I doubt that there is any moral or political ploy I could use that carries enough weight to explain this.
You see Stiffla is not concerned with the fact that the front and rear bumper don’t match in color or model. He is not even concerned with the fact that Duckling doesn’t have a radio (not cd player, radio my friend) and the only sound you get to enjoy is the volksie beetle like buzz of her ill kept engine.
No Stiffla derives his pleasure from the cars most obvious incarnation of its dislike for me…. Its doors
The handles have been changed twice to no avail.
You see out of the four doors on the car it is the drivers door that will not open from the outside.
Meaning that I have to clamber in the passenger side (when I am in public I pretend that I have a reason for this behavior) and open the drivers door from the inside, run around the car and then get in.
This routine is better than trying to lift the door of its hinges to unlatch the bloody latch, because I am often confronted by car guards accusing me of attempting theft.
This often ends in me having to explain to the car guard that, considering the shape of the car, it is a bloody cheek to ask for a tip and that they should rather pay me to remove the car from their premises.

The silver lining is in the fact that Stiffla owns an OPC with a Turbo that refuses to boost and has to go in for a looking at.
While the OPC is in for repairs Stiffla is left with no alternative and will be forced into Ducklings company for a day
RA-RA


Well look there that was actually a post
Ill be……

P.S. I doubt that I will have time to comment on everybody’s blogs everyday for a
While so all I can do is promise to try and get around to everybody soon

Peace peeps