Intimations of mortality

A Honda 750 4-pipe: my bike 30 years ago

When I was young, I never really believed I would die.  I was, in my heart of hearts, not just immortal but invincible.  As an example, I used to ride a big motorbike along De Waal Drive, which is an old, very winding freeway along the face of Table Mountain in Cape Town.  Drunk.  And I survived, idiot that I was, to tell the tale.

But over the last few years, I have had several warnings from Ἀργυρότοξος Ἀπόλλων  ( Silver-bowed Apollo)  A heart-attack scare, a cancer scare, decaying knees, gut problems,   The sore knees won't kill me (I hope!) but they're just another sign of wear and tear.  And tiredness,  I used to have abundant energy.  Now I seem to need more sleep in the day, but can't get a decent night's sleep at night.  Boring.

Yet I might live for another 30 years.  Who knows?  These days I live as I did then, from day to day.  Then because each day's fun was immediate and thrilling.  Now because I don't know when it'll all end, and since there's sweet FA I can do about it, I  might as well get on with life.  The deep depression I endured after Henrik died is past.  All the same, I'm still not joyful, as I was then.  I miss the insensate joy of those days 30 years ago, driving too fast on a sharply curving road along a very steep mountain, drinking too much without ill effect, staying up till all hours, sleeping with unsuitable people, finding out about literature, music, art, cinema, talking intensely with other people about the meaning of life.  But I am still alive, for now, and there is still beauty and interest in the world, despite everything.

Bikie lust

A rather precarious place to fuck, I would have thought.  But aren't they beaut?

Pic from International F***ing Day

Touch

A short story, about a two friends just starting down a different road.

Touch.  It can be more eloquent than words.

Majorca Flats -- 93

Jason was paid by the day, directly from the till. He paid no taxes, no Medicare levy, but his pay was reduced accordingly. He had accumulated a few hundred dollars and felt good about that. It felt like real money, not some magical credit to his bank account from dividends or bond coupons. He'd had jobs before, but more because he was supposed to than because he'd had to. Even then, though, the job at the pub in England hadn't lasted that long. He realised that he might have to go on working for the rest of his life. And though he found it hard to imagine 'the rest of his life', he had found to his surprise that he enjoyed the job. True, there were the occasional arseholes, and there was always the tedium of wiping down surfaces, stacking the dishwashers, sweeping and tidying. But there was also Keith, who was funny and tough, and could easily humiliate a difficult patron with a few well-chosen words and a tough mien which kept all but the drunkest or most aggressive patrons in check. If “take your sodding wankiness outside, sister” didn't work, Keith would fetch Tom, who would reach under the counter for his baseball bat, and stride forth like a leather-and-chain-clad bikie, ruthless, tough and foul-mouthed. The best times, though, were after The Lord Grey had closed, and he and Keith and Esmé were sitting over a coffee (and sometimes a brandy) talking about life and their part in it.

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