Bring your own salt.

A storyteller is the most ancient kind of spellcaster, insidious and omnipotent, you hear his words and they stick on the inside of your brain, and something of himself is planted there forever, not quite the speaker himself (never fully) but one of his creations, invisible and yet springing to life on the stage of inner image, emotion, and sound. Once the spell of his words has entered your mind it can never be undone – or unheard – or un lived . You can but hope his words are those of a soothsayer, and not those of a sorcerer. For with tongue and throat and mind he wields the imagined power of words: the power to soothe, to please – or enrage. And the means too by which we occult and enthrall and enslave. It's impossible not to think the thoughts they command, these symbols, and once we have thought a thought we've in some very real sense also  lived  it – the actuality of the experience is utterly irrelevant, for it  has   happened . Stuck now in...

Taken in Hermanus where I grew up.   Memories stir at scenes from years ago. I remember walking these cliff paths, and how the tides still tug at me.

The heavy steel shaft stuck clean through the assassin’s shoulder, stapling him to a crack in the rock wall. Before pain or shock could paralyze him he yanked at the bolt. It barely budged. The wounded swordsman advanced on him, and the bowman winched another bolt into place. The assassin moaned as his body registered the tunnel of ragged flesh bored through his shoulder. Fuck. The waves of agony crashing against his consciousness all but dragged him into oblivion. He’d have to act fast – the bowman was already sighting down his weapon. And this time he was aiming for the head. The circling swordsman lingered just out of reach, awaiting the shot. His blade would ensure there was no doubt about the fate of their quarry. The assassin closed his eyes and slipped once more into Samatha. Time became fluid. To the assassin it seemed like the flow of its passage seized up, allowing a mere trickle to slip through, but to the hunters the world move on unaffected – except for the instant in whi...

The assassin skidded to halt in the darkness. Squinting into the black depths of this raw rock chamber revealed nothing but the silhouettes of the pillars holding up its sloping vault. Yet he knew the three who pursued him were lurking just out of sight. Over the pounding of blood in his temples he could just barely make out the creak of leather as the hunters shifted position. The sound was so subtle he might have imagined it, and its location was nearly impossible to determine. Nearly, but not quite. Not for one of the Chimera. He focused inward, slipping into a deep reserve of practiced calm. He became intensely aware of every fibre of his being, until he was as one with each of the systems at work within his body. He inhaled. Samatha. Entering the Ocean. The assassin allowed his consciousness to expand until it merged with every sensation brushing against his skin; with the air streaming into his lungs, and with the tiny pressures playing against his eardrums. Xa’ka-Tur. Ripples A...

Father is a sailor, he is humbled by the sea Me I stay at home and build my models of the Ark We are our parents' product, The product of our parents: I mean we're really little more than Packaged triumphs and mistakes (plus the pressure points of private hopes), so 'It's okay to cut yourself a little slack, son, Every now and then again.' Set to sail on God's ocean, Set sail till the engines fail, and then: 'Oh well.' 'Guess our kids will deal with this mess.' Forced into the waters, we were born swimming, swim and fail ash and oil coats our skin and then and only then. Perhaps. How many adults hiding in pathetic lifeboats point the Finger scream and (case in point) shout out until we're hoarse, it won't stop us sinking, no, won't get us to shore anymore – just how much more can we take, can we take any More? Well we are not children We are, well…are we ...

 Benson, in the combi on the way to a midweek game: “ Ag man, don’t worry so much. They don’t get it. I mean, unless you’ve swung for the fences, how would you know?” I mean: you just won’t get it unless you’ve been there. Unless you’ve taken a pace delivery to the box, and your eyes watered as you walked it off, fighting to keep your face neutral, to give nothing away . Of course – of course – everyone will resonate with the writing in their own peculiar way, because how could I possibly know how these words will ring against your experiences, the way it feels in your head when you read them? But. The way it feels to hit a six. Now that’s quite something. The way it feels to be the opening batsman, who tells himself he’s one of the best in the team, but he’s scared to hit lofted shots. He always angles the bat down, settling for fours, avoiding the risk of being caught out. Tells himself his responsibility is to stay in as long as he can, that his job is to k...

the box glows blue channels one to seven billion we are not even present flicker, flicker, a taper for your dream cushioned consensual comas it's nice flick, flick, flicker the box glows blue the background noise squaring some view by standard definition limiting horizons the box is you the telly, who knew? aloof on a pedestal the box glows blue blankly witnessing divorce its quality is true it's quality the box glows blue Channel 666: Another standard – hand – held – remote – control. With buttons. Rectangle horizons set sunsets without warmth. Serial cycles: death, credits, rebirth The recent eternal, those pesky men of straw are at it again "Tonight in Hegel's Dialectic see truth being bludgeoned by hillbillies, Survivors, <celebrity_name> , <politician_# 93419 > , the News at 7, <CurrentPropagandaPiece> . Don't miss it!" …at home on the couch, with filters wide open ...