Scripted or scripting?

Of course, emphatically, most of us will state that we are the scribe of our script.
A scribe in this sense being this omniscient piece of us that ‘sees all and knows all’ and can, therefore, script the play of our life.
Undoubtedly, this scribe is in charge of direction, events, goals and ultimately results.
Being so all-everything takes a lot of pressure away from the ordinary human being who makes up the rest of that big piece that we are.
I suppose this scribe within us also has to be fed. I imagine the food is the reward of success it achieves through the script.
“Creation feeding the creator.”

Dare I allude to a God-like core within us?
Well, I have decided to dare.
Where there is God you also find Anti-God.
Am I now going too far in my script sketch?
Is this Anti-God just the figment of a split mind?
That belief of the Anti-God comes from much simpler, other examples, like for instance: where there is light there is a shadow. And, has the brightest light not also got the darkest shadow?
Definitely, this world is composed of contrast and opposites, so we all know who or what the contrast to God is.

Back to the scribing part.
The scribe is in cahoots with DNA, evolution, the ancestry chain, and, in collaboration with the mind affects us with an illuminating, motivating and often automated influence.
Can I seriously have any say over what is happening, never mind exercising a veto right?
Who am I then but a puppet in this predefined process? A quasi-liberated pawn, but one who in addition to being conscious and aware also has the responsibility of a conscience flung upon him.
Pawn or not, I certainly am unable to just heed these embedded forces with blinders. I will question them and attempt to dictate my own destination, — for the better or something different.

Clearly, however, there are original, fundamental, immutable parts or ingredients that are manufactured already and that define my motion in life.
So then there is a script, right? Some cloud walkers say that there is a contract. Or, at least, there is this idea that we have been provided with all the tools to survive this life episode.
We wouldn’t have made it this far if our tribe wouldn’t have survived. But, this is where it gets interesting. If it were a ‘survivor’ game, then surely there wouldn’t be so many of us around and constantly increasing? Although, nobody actually survives in the end. We are subjects relegated to keeping the treadmill of life moving. Does it need a conscience for that? Seems like an overkill to me.

The notion of survival, and surviving under all circumstances, also does not apply anymore. It is 2017, for script’s sake. Dog eats dog is for dogs, and an eye for an eye belongs in the Old Testament. When life becomes survival again then the achievement of humanity has slipped through our hands (like, sadly, in so many parts of this planet, for reasons (obvious) and not to be expanded upon here).

I think the primordial drive within, that combination of all the forces and influences that have brought us here, cannot be changed. We should, however, as early as possible, become acquainted with what drives us before worldly influences shape us. That’s why entrants into this life (babies), because of the ‘gift’ of cognitive awareness, should not be chiseled into this existence but allowed to enter gently. Earliest influences are absorbed into the hungry strains of new life as the stepping stones onto the stage of Life. We don’t need another pawn or survivor, we want another free thinker.

So, looking at all of this, I venture to conclude that we can write our own script and we are actually meant to, because, why would we have been given all these ingredients if everything is pre-determined?
Even further: scripts are generally used in movies and they can go into any detail and include as many actors and events as I, the scriptwriter, can imagine.
And, because as we have heard that so much happens in automated mode, I don’t even have to write the script, I just have to direct the movie.

Just as a side note: My written material is never meant to offend and my disclaimer always applies.

While some of the lines in my script are certainly my creation, where did the rest come from that I can’t figure?
My script has run out prematurely, no arguing here.
Could there perhaps be more than one script?
And what if the movie director(Moi) is a flop?
Well, fire him. The imbecile. Get Moi the 2nd.

Here comes a new script:



A handsome, scraggly bearded, shock-headed alternate is holding a brown paper packet, wiping his mustache with his dirty coats’ cuffs, stretching his feet like in rigor mortis.




A lean looking, brown, sophisticated adventurer, resembling the park bench occupant, starts the radial engine of the float plane. His beautiful woman beside him looks on.
He looks at her, their eyes meet and seconds later he switches the plane’s engine off and leans over to her.



turbulent saudade

Verandah rain

Ver and Ah

Like a thousand times before in my life, I stood on the verandah.

I overlooked a flourishing green garden that could creditably claim the term ‘Lebensraum.’ An Olympic stone throw away gaps between the trees provided glimpses of the mountains in the distance.

One could mistakenly say that I was looking, but I wasn’t entirely just seeing something ahead of me. It was a seeing, – but more in a knowing way seeing in my mind, – all that what was around me, even assuming a deep metaphysical dimension too. I saw with my mind’s eye, – that eye, which adds imagination to vision, – in parallel to my real eyes that were somewhat inexplicably staring in a removed way, out of focus from reality.

A pronounced and conscious experience of the present unfolded itself. An enamored bond, – of having been here in this exact location a thousand times before, thinking similar thoughts, – enacted itself like a ritual. A magnetic attraction to a place of origin pulled me along.

In case you wondered, I was not having the cognitive experience of let’s say a visitor who comes with a fresh, curious and receptive look.

I was in reflecting mode and felt encouraged with hope as I stood on the open verandah, refreshed deep down into my soul by the view directly into nature. However, I was also prone to flooding by emotional thought drowning from the weight of the intensity of my imagination reliving events.
At the opposite extreme was a determination and belief that my reality is adjustable to my wishes and dreams, perhaps whims too, if I can only get in touch with this inner being called ‘Life.’

The land of nature presented a captivating view.

Grass spread like a living, deep-pile carpet towards bushes and shrubs giving way to trees sloping gently down towards a river hidden from view. There was an un-invaded openness and the occasional hill posing like a sentinel, – guarding the dragon mountains that pronounced themselves behind the horizon on a background of the deepest blue sky, smudged with white blobs and the dew point flirting with ambient temperature in the creation of a baby called Rain.

An inner turbulence of Saudade, – a melancholic hue with a cloudy patch of shadowy sadness and an indeterminate incompleteness, was in abstract contrast to the warmth and light of the late summer’ midday.

The summer-rain latitudes express boundless gratitude with profuse growth and breathless beauty in nature. A thousand colors pinked and perfumed with Double Delight and Mint, with touches of plumbago blue, bottlebrush red, cumulus white and Chinese-lantern orange, escalating into undocumented green presentations beyond the scope and comprehension of mere definition. Thoughts were punctuated by the melodious call of the Black-headed Oriole and the announcement of the Red-chested Cuckoo with long moments of haa-haa-haa-de-dah of the Hadeda’s, awakening the last slumbering senses.

Memory was choreographed against a scenery of unrestraint growth painted with the tincture of eons of existence and strains of loose imagination. Events re-lived themselves as if their stories had to be highlighted once more and gain attention, connecting the thread of existence with the fabric of eternity, materializing in this unique present. An invitation to re-read the past with the lantern of ‘now’

(‘now,’ this whole, current cognitive, conscious awareness experience a human has: re-inventing itself periodically through subconscious actions on a different level to the physical, with emotional, compassionate and passionate growth)

illuminating pages hitherto less exposed, their meaning obscured until now, as the dots of life started connecting through lines: revealing a path, pointing to a purpose, exposing a gift, – presenting a meaningful picture that quite naturally highlighted and indicated a preference. The invocation of one’s creative spirit in a way that kindles meaning and brings benefit and pleasure to all concerned.
(There are many rituals, ideas, substances, practices to invoke the spirit – ideally find your own)

Everything rhymed in colorful poetry as nature’s hormones reacted to a dose of growth-vaccination in the form of heavenly water.

Remembering became an act of adding content to what seemed an immutable forest on the canvas of life by superimposing events sometimes so grossly out of touch with the underlying reality that they created a contrasting inset of disharmonic visual irritation. When the drive to understand life is also an incognito mission to retain sanity, then answers are essential for maintaining stability. They provide views through a stabilized gyroscope in the turbulence of Saudade. Answers are the voices in our silent universe of thought and they are the conversation that leads to more enlightenment and knowing.

For the 1001’s time I am standing on the verandah, – once again looking for knowing and starting the ritual from the beginning, accompanied by a deep sense of feeling.

Mel an’ Choly

Whoman He

I don’t know what and when
It is all hidden in my pen
Memories of forgotten days
are mixed with fears
of future’s ways

And even if the sun shines bright
I might not realize that it’s light
The darkness just like fire spreads
The night is glowing cold, the black I dread
This is the story of my plight

A mind so bent a crumbled string looks straight
Nothing, clueless, lost, I wait
Sometimes my dreams dream that I elevate
another force inside then subjugates
I’m told my worries are man made

The coffee cold, unshaven, and the purse deplete
A worn old shirt that screams of ironing that it needs
A figure sculpted by the thoughts the mind conjures
and by all events that life endures
Continuously I seek and seek

In this reality the hundred meters that I see
must stretch out of necessity
beyond that mark towards my ecstasy
unless I cannot choose my destiny
But, how then could I be me

Why am I stuck as if I’m planted like a tree
Forever in one place, I cannot flee
When I was born what words were put into my crib
“Go sail the seas but finally we sink your ship”
In the clouds I want to be eternally

A told me that I should be B
C told me that I should be D
Eventually then when I was E
They screamed and said I must be G
I turned around and went to P
Flashed them a sign reversed the T
Now I’m the Cuban Susans Whoman He
Nothing, clueless, lost without a key
I am sinking in some sea

To the water I will eventually return
Humans decided that I needed to burn
So hot even my soul in smoke evaporates
Escaping from these dire straits
I will not be put behind some other gates
Spill me, let me take another turn


Longshadow serenade

Long shadow


You’re never alone. Not in the winter season. There’s always a shadow around.
Sunrise is two hours later and sunset is two hours earlier. It doesn’t sound like much but it’s four hours less sunshine a day or four hours more no-sunshine. Whichever way you prefer.

Far more obvious to me though is the path of the sun through the sky, and you can call me a liar, but I’m not far off when I say that it sets in the north and not in the west.
It rises dead-on in the east, shines into my kitchen, skips the centre of the zenith above entirely, and heads straight for the north. In that process the shadows get no break, being stretched to the limit from dawn to dusk, and then they work overtime deep into the night because the lights are switched on early.

For me, there is something incredibly magical about winter here in South Africa. I mean hey, you can run around barefoot, in shorts and t-shirt most of the time and get a tan and hardly work up a sweat. You can make a lunch time braai and relax because the next thunderstorm is still three months away. And no, a braai is not a barbeque! That is some American grill-thingy using gas, burgers, and sausages. We use wood from our gardens to make a fire and then braai on the coals and the carnivores here eat real meat like beef and not that refined supermarket mash of dubious origin.

It’s the best time of year to see the animals in the bush because the grass has stopped growing and the foliage thins out and everyone enjoys the sunshine.
It’s the safari season.

Far away

Far away

Dormant 4×4 vehicles of all shapes, sizes and descriptions rumble into action, get all packed up and disappear for weeks into the African yonder, somewhere far out. In distant places we sit around campfires sipping Shiraz and Famous Grouse while listening to lions roar, hyenas laugh, elephant trumpet, hippo’s snort, leopards bark and baboon’s wa-hu.
Shiraz and Famous Grouse

Shiraz and Famous Grouse

Idol of any cat

Idol of any cat

We heard him roar all night and finally tracked him down early in the morning. He had killed a baby elephant at night.

The ancient dust of Africa is like an aphrodisiac to the soul and winter is the druggiest time. The mornings might touch freezing and early afternoons can reach +30C (+86F). Such are the extremes that await and bewitch the courageous adventurer.

Another log on the smoldering coals, an old kettle boiling the coffee and puffing away, woodsmoke, and coffee smell, you’ve come to the right address.

Old kettle, fresh coffee

Old kettle, fresh coffee

Unbelievably so the Lion’s Tail or Wild Dagga as it is also called here, Dagga being the local name for Marijuana, is a huge attraction for the most magnificent, colorful Sunbirds.





Obviously, the flowers are intoxicating because the Sunbirds will visit every day and don’t mind that I sit a mere two meters away and watch and wonder if there is more than just a sugar attraction. But the Wild Dagga has very little if any THC and therefore is legal in most countries.
Leonotis leonurus

Sunbird’s heaven, Leonotis leonurus

Winter in these parts of Africa is just summer in another way. It is a Longshadow serenade. Even some of the roses bloom and bees buzz around. While some deciduous trees leaf and the grass might go brown in patches from the morning frost, the sky is a bright, light blue and the clear nights bring infinity onto my doorstep. Did I hear paradise? At least until the next cold front.

South Africa what a beautiful home!

Greater Double-collared Sunbird

Freedom of: What did you say?

I mean the Freedom of Speech.
I have cogitated for long about this simple statement. I thought it was clear at first.
However, we humans have made it extremely difficult to the extent that it actually only exists within contained walls.
We have controlled speech on all fronts and the curtain is getting thicker and closing more and more.

Some inflated individuals can stretch their freedom of speech unaffected, others better whisper if they want to survive.
I order to get a grip on it we should really be tought what it means before we start thinking to use it for what it doesn’t mean.
But who will teach us?
Government, religion, philosophers, fanatics…

I can’t actually believe that speech is so unfree. It’s ‘freedom of speech’ for heavens sake.
Some of us know about the power of words. Words are thoughts expressed. Words are two-thirds towards action.
We need no licence for words. Our birthright is ‘Freedom of Speech.’ Words: just say them and watch the ripples turn into eruptions.

But, are we not heading towards Newspeak, George Orwell’s fictional controlled language used in the totalitarian state Oceania in his novel Nineteen Eighty-Four?

I was recently inspired by what British comedian Bill Hicks wrote about freedom of speech in 1993 when he responded to a priest who had bemoaned the ‘blasphemous’ content of his television special. He said:

“‘Freedom of speech’ means you support the right of people to say exactly those ideas which you do not agree with. (Otherwise, you don’t believe in ‘freedom of speech,’ but rather only those ideas which you believe to be acceptably stated.) Seeing as how there are so many different beliefs in the world, and as it would be virtually impossible for all of us to agree on any one belief, you may begin to realize just how important an idea like “freedom of speech” really is. The idea basically states “while I don’t agree or care for what you are saying, I do support your right to say it, for herein lies true freedom.”

The full article is here:

Most constitutions mention the freedom of speech. Some countries just sweep it under the carpet and many people are non the wiser either.

In the South African Constitution
Chapter 2: Bill of Rights
Section 16: freedom of speech and expression, including freedom of the press and academic freedom.
Explicitly excluded are propaganda for war, incitement to violence and hate speech (advocacy of hatred that is based on race, ethnicity, gender or religion, and that constitutes incitement to cause harm)

The First Amendment in the US protects the freedom of speech. It then dives at length into what is and isn’t allowed to be said.

I am shocked to read that the Australian Constitution does not explicitly protect freedom of expression and yet I have watched full-on confrontations between radio presenters and government officials.

In modern Germany, the Grundgesetz guarantees freedom of press, speech, and opinion, but censorship does exist especially when we take certain perpetuated historic events into consideration.

In the UK free speech has long been recognised as a common law right.

As I sit here and write I know many of us want to say some things, talk about some things, bring them into the open, instead of silently accepting because of the ‘grave repercussions’ our exercise of freedom of speech could have. I just need to look at what some famous and outspoken authors and commentators have been subjected to and I’d rather leave that exercise for another day.

Here it is again: ‘Freedom of speech’ means you support the right of people to say exactly those ideas which you do not agree with.

I do support that right! I would expect that my right to freedom of speech therefore also exists(?)
I can dust off what I don’t agree with and what I don’t care for and move on.

Thank you Bill Hicks (Rip)

fly me high

Version 2

I saw you in the sky
 You where so high
 You drifted by
 High, high, high
 I saw you in the sky

Amongst the scattered clouds
 floating about
 I saw you 
 I wanted to shout
 Between the white and blue
 I saw you flying through

The sun came up and there you were
 hanging on the invisible air
 I touched the sky to feel you fly
 but you were so high
 I wish to fly with you
 I'm in despair

Oh sky so high when can I fly
 I want to watch the world drift by
 Never once I found my feet
 nor was I meant to dig so deep
 I want to fly and be so high

Everyday I look into the sky
 Sometimes I see you gliding by
 Playing with your friend the wind
 in the thermals of the air I think
 I cry, I cry, I want to be so high

I want to fly the airy ocean
 and land on cliffs and trees
 Soaring, zooming, diving, tumbling, 
 would keep me from insanely mumbling
 My freedom's in the flying motion

My wings are open like a book unread
 each page a feather full of promise
 When you read it then you let me fly
 that's how I find some solace
 There are no limits just look ahead

 I am in the sky again
 with you
 I waited not in vain
 We fly, fly, fly
 We are so high
 and very thankful too

two drawings


I have made two drawings:
 the way my life is now and the way it will be,
 the current state and the desired reality
The difference between them is easy to see: 
 question marks, dullness and a head hanging down
 versus color, poise and a smile with no sign of a frown
Vividly I believed and I wore that hat
 filling the page I outlined my vision in black
 and then added some colour so I‘d remember to act
I imagined, I felt it and I was focused like a beam
 not on what wasn’t or what broke or all that had been
 but of flying a kite, my symbol of freedom, and
 living my dream
A drawing quite clearly it needed to be
 because a picture brings out the purest form
 of my fantasy
 while words would leave far too much room for ambiguity
Inspired by and credit to Patti Dobrowolski 
 Draw your future, TEDx Rainier

Who do I salute?

We are clueless and lost and come up with nothing to resolve the issue.
It is the fiasco in the Middle East I am talking about.

Like so many of us, I just don’t want to hear about it anymore.
I am so disillusioned with ‘Talks’ and ‘Coalitions’ and statements of more aggression and increased military action.

I am absolutely stumped that ‘an eye for an eye’ is all the ‘intelligent’ world can come up with to root out this evil that is invading our ‘free’ world.

Endless criticising without proposing a solution is as frustrating to me as any loudmouth shouting.

There are statesmen puppets that will do what their puppeteers decide. Other leaders think they gain stature by tough talk and muscle flexing and violent action. Others again only know how to follow the lead dog(s) or are driven by pain and loss and retaliate in blinding hurt.

But what if psychologists could analyse the weak spots of these offending fanatic fundamentalists and come up with proposals to swing them our way by using subtle means?
What about a ‘propaganda coalition,’ where instead of destructive bombs we drop irresistible temptations on our enemies. With every item we drop we could suggest, – in every language, shape and size, – how good our world is and how screwed up theirs is. We could encourage them to defect and welcome them with open arms, give them jobs, use their skills and will-power and create an awesome future for all of us instead.

In our hatred we think that extermination is the answer. I am sure it is a good feeling to retaliate with all the might of our insane destructive devices. But, we are not solving the issue. The problem is in the minds of those people. We need to address their mind. We have to entice them, weaken their belief and wean them off the breast they falsely believe leads to a blissful world.
We have to work on the psyche of our enemy. How better to do it but to bombard them with information and objects that are certain to sway them in our direction. You cannot tell me that a soldier of the evil forces does not sit down sometimes dreaming of another life: a life of security, enough food, family, fun, peace and happiness. But, we drop bombs and shoot and act like the madmen they are just with a different uniform.

The combined knowledge of humanity: from China to Russia, India, Europe and America can surely come up with a way to defeat this enemy. With so many experts and lateral thinkers a psychological solution, a ‘propaganda assault,’ – bombs filled with sweets and chocolate and delectables and perhaps some wine too, books and notes and electronic devices capturing the imagination of our adversaries, – would surely win us this war?
Those embittered ones left behind will have a broken back and no more power to affect anything.
Why don’t we influence the minds of our foes so they can’t sleep anymore and they are left with one desire: to cross over into our camp and enjoy our lifestyle and our freedom.

Those who get this right are the ones I salute and respect. The rest of the fighting force, – no matter how skilled and versatile these modern gladiators are, targeting lives with their deadly machinery, – they don’t impress me one iota.

what would Freedom say

I didn’t know it then but when I was a young boy I had immense freedom:
I was free of worry because everything I required was taken care of;
I lived in a quiet place on a hill, away from the city, with nature at my door and neighbours far away;
I spent time outside, – not inside exploring some technological wonder like an iPhone or TV or such, because we had none of that, bar an old crackly valve radio;
There was peace in my life, others around me made sure of that and shielded me as much as possible from the turbulence of life and its tragedies.

As I grew up Freedom retained its core importance in my life. It took on new facets like responsibility and conscience. It wasn’t always easy to be free as life got busy. Often it felt that the default was being ‘not free.’
From having had immense freedom, pure freedom, freedom to be myself within a very loose framework of upbringing, every ounce of that freedom now had to be fought for.
My deep love for Freedom has been a guiding thread all my life. When I felt as if something was encroaching on my freedom I would deal with it. That voice of Freedom inside me would become quite loud and demanding. Like when I took stuff I should have rather left alone. Or when I felt the roof was caving in over my head and I had to escape.

But, even the voice of Freedom must have gotten tired along the way because another voice far cleverer, knowing everything much better, assumed governance over my affairs. It used something called logic. Not logics logic, but my super-logic, and my super-logic stipulated that if something makes money then Freedom is out of the equation. That ‘it’ was of course my ‘brilliant’ mind. For a while it even seemed to really be brilliant. The reason for that deduction was simple. Money gave ‘freedom.’ However on closer inspection the ‘more money’ actually led me to mortgage my freedom in return. In my flawed business model of life the more I wanted the greater my dedication to being a prostitute in my business became. One side effect was that I built up this non-caring, ‘mercenary’ attitude as long as it served my purpose. It also created an unbearable discomfort in the background. Freedom never actually gave up its claim over me. It was so deeply engrained from early on that it was part of me. My craving for freedom grew proportionately to the amount I ignored it. It expressed its desire to be acknowledged by stepping on its own accelerator and that had the label of ‘extreme’ pasted over it. Oh boy, now I was in for a ride and a half as that desire sought fulfilment in adventure. Naturally drawn towards adventure in any case, Freedom knew exactly what buttons to press. These buttons did not come cheap either and so a cycle started that eventually had to find an exit point.

To be free is my natural way of being. I shouldn’t even have to insist on it. My spirit wants to soar and has to be free to maintain sanity. But how do I regain that freedom from that ball and chain around my spirit?
The answer as always is simple. The path to the answer however was a maze. Determined to find one, even despair was no permanent obstruction for Freedom to triumph.
I looked at the issues that bother and burden me: like an ex that did something or my fasting bank account. Then I go and meditate, creating the picture of the issues to the vision of the thought, “I am free.” Now I did it. I said it. I declared my intent and I might have to reiterate once or twice but the issues have been shown the door.

Whatever it is that obstructs the very core of myself to function as per ‘design,’ it needs to be exposed. In the process it helps to be honest with myself.

To me the question not to forget is, “What would Freedom say?”