…learning by drinking /// trying to memorize the key terms for later in life: structure, mushroomy, complex, bouquet [valentine’s wine?], flowery, acetic, [come again?], berries [ok, that one actually I can taste], body [totally mysterious term in reference to a drink, I always drink one gulp at a time, never a lake, never a pond], casky [one can imagine], et yadda, et yadda. I imagine this being a blast if you get into it, if you allow for the compulsory 10’000 oenological hours /// sipho’s mind state: ok, ok, u can crack open the good stuff already – diddy: everything fine so far – ade: good, stuff is starting to get funnier ///
…cooking them down into a pulp to spread out and dry on a secretive stretch of pavement, thereby creating the grimmest, grimiest sheet of paper… [whereas here now, in the screenjaculated cloud, it is all super-aseptic and ephemeral and free of wooden fiber to a degree that both fakeracious greenoes and the very trees themselves rejoice… until we hit the print button that is]… the impression is that my mental cosm intentionally discombobulated itself from the spatiotemporal continuum of cape-town, only reaching out a metaphorical tentacle to its minor textures…. schmalaria!!!!
Our gracious somelieresse stopped us just short of us making of us the fools we were already becoming, the bronze receptacle down in the right is for no such salivating foolishnesses as “hit-the-spitoon” [and whatever children of midnight or CT might wish to play], it only just humbly drains the vino remains… Not that my mind could compute why anybody would spill away such formidable alcohlic drink made from fermented grape juice on the finest capetonian soils… non compos mentis is the working assumption
A single shining sentence will be worth both this life and the next.
For unknown reason loose, isolated, wayward words and sentences can sometimes generate some attraction or credibility or temporary hold-on-the-mind all of their own. In no relation to human experience, truth, reality or all the other fuzzy volumes of our living. They say read, write, memorize me for no good reason except that slight current of electricity/magnetism/insanity running in the emptiness between the words. Scribble, scribble, scribble. At time this is the sole, sad attraction of literature, the masturbatory brilliance of giving in to the bevixed witchraft of words. ––– A: No, it doesn’t in any strict sense of the word have to make “sense”.
Enter Neetlingshof. Colonial grandeur and lusty vino for a ludicrous 30R a pop. So you have more moolah left for actually buying their stuff. Which we did. Plus royal treatment: 500 pound oak table and seats in brocade, behind us planted in pools of half-dark, 5000 liter caskets of wine. Five thousand.
confixulent –IS NOT– misleadingly bucolic
btfw: pixOverbal dis–Junctures multiply according to their exposure to chaotic mental attractors
I’m too old to say I’m too young to die and you’re never too young to find out something new: this is heaven, heaven is on long street, it keeps standard store hours
Heaven: poetic/literary the sky, esp. perceived as a vault in which the sun, moon, stars, and planets [as well as a transfinite number of mind-searing books] are situated /// informal a place, state, or experience of supreme bliss, e.g. : lying by the pool with a good book is my idea of heaven
“This cape is the most stately thing and the fairest cape we saw in the whole circumference of the earth.”
– From the journal of Sir Francis Drake, on seeing the Cape for the first time, 1580
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