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tenebris amplectitur

As the shadow clawed at his veins, tearing bits of the broken man’s soul away with nails exuding fetid remains of lives past ruined, he embraced darkness.

So much had happened.

So many lies. So much deceit. Dreams shattered. The last hope abandoned. Love. Obliterated.

Memory. Blunt recognition as the next stone is forced into place. A single bead of sweat embracing dried blood as raw muscle tenses. Determination drowns out cries from a society long since abandoned. Let them protest. Let them scream.

Everybody lies.

Shackles clink to the cursed rhythm of survival as it joins the symphony of endless legions, drowning out a single call for help. The man confesses his nonsensical belief in a concept which has had its throat slit by those whom deal vicariously in the destruction of others.

He must not abandon it. He cannot.

Live for love. Die with HONOUR.

nihil facit sensu

Jack was tired.

Dry blood cut through grains of endless existence, his world hacking away at what mortals considered everyday life. The heat, burning away any last vestiges of hope, begged to differ from what humanity had to say about the situation.

Raw leather bit into his soul. Hide supposedly cured of life, beat into the fallacious submission of acceptance. Those that had been sacrificed for the comfort of others, what remains of a greater good to be enjoyed by the elite of an ignorant society cursing those whom bring value to a concept inconceivable. The saddle was both a curse and a blessing.

Revelation had been absent. Mortals had interfered.

The desert made no sense. Jack cursed the burning sensation in his limbs, an effort not deserving the very consideration this world demanded of him. Physical depravity was no stranger, yet submission to the trod of what appeared to be acceptable eviscerated even the most immortal of souls.

8 years.


Well, almost.

That’s how long since I’ve actually published anything.

This is quite ironic, since the timeline coincides with so much that’s happened in my life since then. Eight. Years. That’s close to a lifetime in today’s terms. Possibly two, even three edging on seven.

And I didn’t write about it. At least not physically.

Tonight, Jack smashes his bloodied hoof in your face. Preferably with a bit of gritty desert sand to make you appreciate what you’ve got. I don’t give a fuck if it doesn’t make sense. Read this again in 20 years’ time and savour the moment you can barely remember.

So many stories since we last spoke. Demons. Mountains. Feelings. Emotions. Friends. Murder. Sex.

Regardless of how many times I’ve wanted to kill myself, there’s always something that keeps me coming back.







I’ve all but abandoned love.

“Live for Love. Die with Honour.”

Society had sold the lie of love to a young, ambitious man whom was willing to give his entire being to the concept of love. And so he gave all that he was, all that he had, all that he could…
to love.

What a grand lie this poor man had sold his soul to.



Then, his son was born.

As the man took another sip of the crispy Chardonnay from one of his favourite cellars, yet another concept demanded attention by oh-so-sweetly digging its talons into his thoughts. What some may construe as an evil grin crept across his demeanour, his lips almost twitching with glee. The sun blazing down in all its furious glory, appreciation for the shadowy haven under which he found himself that afternoon joined the feeling of satisfaction – satisfaction associated with the apparent onslaught of creative thought, inspired by a milieu he rarely has the opportunity to appreciate.

It is a well-known fact that I (still) don’t write nearly as much as I would like to. My professional ambition ruled my life for the past five years or so and did not, in conjunction with my social endeavours, necessarily leave a lot of space for much else. This past December also saw a man broken by Life take an extended leave of absence for the first time in years. I needed time to think, for a change, about a lot of things.

I set out promising myself that I would, amongst many other things, write more and so on and so forth. The breakaway from my fast-paced life in our wonderful Metropolis was going to be ideal for catching up on myself (if that makes sense). Needless to say, I found myself with more than enough time and opportunity to simply amble around with only myself as company (which is yet another tale to be scribbled down in the near future). Those of you who are curious enough to follow me on twitter or fortunate enough to be counted amongst my “friends” would have caught a whiff of the said trials and tribulations during this time.

it was good being home :)

In-between being cancelled on by a wide assortment of Cape Townians, almost murdering a few family members and appreciating my beautiful home country I also gave thought to the avenues I should explore in my writing. Quite recently, I was approached by a well-known publication (amongst others) and asked whether I would throw a piece or two their way. I was very flattered, of course, by both the commercial and personal requests (thanks again, guys), but simply couldn’t commit to anything outside of my profession at that point in time. I was already getting dangerously close to overworking myself and finding myself in the same position I did just before my little “tumble” back in 2008.

Even though the (very wide) assortment of scans, pokes, prods and probes by machines worth millions concluded that there’s nothing wrong with my mental ability (to the contrary, strangely enough), there were some notable changes after they finally discharged me from hospital. Over-and-above a bunch of negligible itches (like having to learn how to walk from scratch), I had noticed something not-quite-right with the colourful vocabulary I was so used to delve into.

Exemplum: I would know that I have the perfect word to express myself at that very moment, or smile as I describe whichever situation I found myself witness to…but I could not, for some inexplicable (and maddeningly frustrating) reason, put my finger on it. The word would literally be on the tip of my tongue – I just couldn’t remember what it is. Being as passionate as I am about my writing, I was driven far beyond the proverbial edge of what little sanity I have left each and every time this happened. Eventually I resigned myself to the fact that I simply have to calm myself down, close my eyes and consider the ocean of words prattling about in my noggin.

Flirtatious Writer’s Block aside, I was still determined to write more – about more. I decided to keep my current style and feel to the blog, but would definitely like to expand on the subject matter. Even though I don’t shy away from being referred to narcissistic bastard, I felt that I would most definitely enjoy writing about some of the topics I have been approached for over the past year or so. That being said, I would like to invite anyone who reads my drivel on a regular basis to assist in deciding what exactly and/or how much I should expand said subject matter.

Enter my very first (digitally verified) Poll:

As you may or may not have realised, I have quite an affinity for pretty much all these topics – and would most definitely enjoy writing about all of it, corrupting each topic with my own style. So, here’s to hearing from everyone and looking forward to a literary revolution throughout MMXI.


Oh, and P.S. go check this out: it’s frikken hilarious…

nigrum sericum



how sweet your taste, lingering forevermore upon lips
quivering with desire known only by your secret lovers.


How I long for black silk,
softly teasing with forbidden dreams
of what lies beneath…


how sweet your kiss, upon those icy lips of a broken man.



A growling hum fades into the background as it is drowned out by a sound revolutionised by a society in what some refer to as modern day. Megalomaniac chants of counter-culture, from the underground, halo-maniacal and harder than the rest. Celebrate relentlessness, menace to society. Refuse is our inspiration, terrorism our trade ~ sabotage and piracy ~ chaos our mental state. Like a fiendish tropic virus spitting bile at all you whores, razor-sharp tongue-in-cheek poking in your open sores.

I was going to write an extensive piece on one of many topics I find disturbingly interesting… sipping on my g&T and listening to some really good music, however, I decided against it. The past couple of weeks proved to be a roller-coaster of note: emotional high and lows, reminders of the financial Hell survived in drudging through my articles, people thought to be friends tallying their blood-money, old friends resurrecting themselves in a fashion I always thought they would (and thus confirming suspicions nigh decades old), value recognised in new people, nightmares of both lives past and future, death.

I have so much to write about. I would gladly sacrifice my ever-increasing bright future in the Corporate World to simply live each day…too bad it’s not practical. I haven’t met the love of my life. I won’t be able to afford a nutritious meal every day. I won’t be able to make a living. Hell, I can’t even afford to get to that sanctuary amidst my lost rainforests ~ the nearest stench of civilisation endless leagues away. It’s days like today which remind me of my sincere love for music, books, movies and my general disregard toward humanity’s affinity for sanity.

I write tonight because it is my Passion. It’s been just over six months since I’ve “officially” taken up the quill once more. Granted, I haven’t been able to share the World with the rest of you cursed lot in as much artful splendour as I would have liked over the past couple of months, but at least I’m writing again.  Following a hurricane of feedback from both my social media offerings (faceBook and twitter), I was enticed to blog ever so often as well.

Here I could go on and on about all sorts of codswallop reeking of anything I like. And I wasn’t necessarily limited to a mere status update or 140 characters. Furthermore, I have tons of drivel written in many a drunken haze – things I just needed to share with someone at that very moment, albeit in a somewhat extremely altered state of mind (I do some of my best work in said state). After several nudges and many gracious compliments on the short communicae I force upon people I consider (possibly) worth talking to, I decided to take my writing beyond the furious evenings of bashing at Qwerty’s ingenious invention and waking up the next morning only to find a splash or 7 of whiskey dangerously close to the equipment I use to carve a living out of this stone we call life.

That being said, I’m really going to try and subject any of you who might be remotely interested in my drivel a bit more. May you look forward to the odd splurge of digital ink I taint your existence with, my friends….

I know I sure as Hell am.


Per aspera ad astra

Molten lava dripped from what seemed like an appendage, her sneer clearly overpowering the sizzling chorus of liquid rock returning to its solid origin. As liquid rock-turds merged with their whole, the mystery of how this bitch managed to hurl curve-ball after excruciating curve-ball still eluded the beaten man as the smell of burnt flesh filled his nostrils. With an all-too familiar pain from the onslaught searing through his back, he dug his heel deep as clenched teeth held back another vile curse.

Months had gone by without the reprobate rearing whatever resembled her despicable head. Life, strangely enough, was good. Sure, there were some challenges hinting at negativity here and there, but all were met with ferocious valour and duly conquered. For the first time in almost a decade, everything seemed to work out for a man once broken by the World. Until but a short while ago, that is…

I'll have you someday, 'bunny...

I’m not going to mess about, do not intend on appearing to wallow in self-pity or worry about sounding narcissistic when I say I’ve made it through some bloody tough times. It took years to get to, and subsequently accept, the philosophy that I currently try very hard to follow when the proverbial shit hits the fan:

“It doesn’t matter how bad it gets – learn from whatever happened and use that knowledge to improve your life, and possibly those around you, going forward.”

This simple outlook has saved me many an evening destined for despair. Well, that and lots of wine. Yes: things have gotten bad. Really bad. So bad that you find yourself ambling down that tar-pit of emotion eventually leading to depression or something of the like. Yet, after finally accepting the mantra pixelated into existence (for your benefit, by-the-way) in the prior paragraph, it somehow just became easier.

Over the past few weeks, however, Murphy’s hit back with a quite vengeance:

  1. I think it started hinting at coming to a point when my BlackBerry got stolen this past Friday night… I, of course being in denial that she had returned to my life, did not take heed of this little clue.
  2. Apparently these f.ckers phoned a whole bunch of people from my (contract) phone on Friday night, just after jacking it. I was on international roaming at the time. At approximately R10 per minute.
  3. I can’t block the said stolen phone, ’cause Vodacom’s system is down (surprise!).
  4. At the back of my mind, I told myself “all is not lost – I’ve got everything backed up on my external hard drive.” My external drive with everything on it, kept in a protective sleeve casing since the day I owned it, crashed yesterday. That’s 1 TB of data… gone. My entire address book (numbers, e-mail addresses, birthdays), all my music, 7 years’ worth of photos (approximately 5000 photos), all my banking data, all my software installation files, all my updates, all my carefully-crafted VMs for work, all my databases, etc.
  5. My credit card is maxed out after picking up a R12k bill because of people simply leaving without thinking about how the heck the restaurant is going to get paid for their services. No guys, they won’t simply let you leave on “good faith” that you’re going to settle the bill tomorrow or on Monday.
  6. My (diesel) Volvo’s service light just went on. Awesome, eh?
  7. While I’m at it, I hate traffic.
  8. Everyone else around me is so frikken happy, I could just vomit the whole day. Literally. And no, I’m not kidding.
  9. My laptop’s release from Deloitte has been delayed for another day – I can’t work, I can’t access anything, “I can’t do shit.”
  10. I forgot my Starcraft II DVD in it when I sent it in – luckily the game isn’t in really high demand or anything like that.
  11. Did I mention it takes an average of 2 business days for a transfer to go through between two banks? Yeah – do the math on the $$$ that’s owed to me.
  12. Oh yeah, that BlackBerry? Brand new, yet-to-be-insured – just in case you didn’t know.

    Hulk BRAAi!

  13. I’m still single and ever-more convinced that I’m going to die a lonely, miserable death after this weekend. Sod off with your “don’t worry, she’s out there”; “Don’t look for that person, she’ll come to you when the time is right”; “fish in the sea”; “you’re such a great guy”; etc. etc. etc. – I don’t give a crap. Spend a couple of years in my shoes and then come regurgitate all that hogwash in my face again, OK?
  14. I’ve officially ran out of contact lenses. A new set for six months costs over R2k. Yes, I’m blind. And it happens to cost a fortune to see.
  15. I haven’t had a decent holiday (longer than 10 days, if that) in almost 5 years.
  16. Taking that into consideration, I haven’t seen my family for longer than a week in all that time either. Should you not be privy to the fact: we’re a very close family. I miss the living Hell out of them all.
  17. I just tried upgrading my new phone’s software – and that’s giving me crap as well. Endlessly. For no obvious reason. Exactly the same model and everything.
  18. My Jasmine flowers are all little yellow shrivels. Dead. Kaput. Klaar.

Now, I realise this might not be a real post or necessarily in the “calibre” of my other meanderings – but I just needed to vent someplace. I started bitching on faceBook, but decided I’m going to feel better if I just burn this all into an eternal archive via this ‘ere lil’ blog-thingie. Unless Murphy blows up the WordPress servers, of course.

It took some heavy tweaking, but my new BlackBerry ROCKED !..!,

I pride myself on the quality of pretty much anything I unleash unto the World, and hope I can make up for this little shit-fit in the coming weeks. I’ve got a lot of ideas and things I want to write about, so don’t give up on my just yet… that is, if good ol’ Murphy should (for some inexplicably obscure reason) decide to ease up a little on digging her claws into my scrotum.
‘til then, see y’all later.

//teh ‘bunny

Servamus et Servimus

The tarmac digging into my face brought with it a torrent of memories from almost a decade ago. Ironically enough, even though I (quite literally) left half of my body’s skin merged with Schanzen Road on the day replaying itself in my mind’s eye, my facial features were to remain relatively unscathed for at least another seven years or so. The many years of blood, sweat and tears associated with slaving away in pursuit of the revered Charted Accountant (SA) qualification also sneaked in there, just as I felt my four-figure business suit getting acquainted with gravel and an assortment of oils.

The situation I found myself in at the moment, however, was not the result of some ignorant fool endangering the seemingly bright future of a young man on a motorcycle, but rather the culmination of what some may refer to as our wonderful “law enforcement” system. This incredible service to society, of course, has a world-renowned reputation when it comes to protecting and serving decent, law-abiding citizens – an astounding untarnished track record of its commitment to fighting crime and corruption is absolutely iron-clad (*cough cough* Jackie Selebi *cough, wheeze*). But enough about that, let’s get back to my face being smashed into tar.

Even though I had to go in search of a bigger belt just a couple of months ago (in order to accommodate my uncomfortably expanding waste), I was rather surprised that apparently it took five or six police officers to wrestle me to the ground – I shudder to think of my bear-like strength when I actually make use of my gym membership instead of simply giving them a monthly contribution out of the goodness of my heart. The possibility that these “officers” were somehow deformed or incapable of perform strenuous physical acts was, however, also a very strong possibility – it took even more of them to escort my (female) friend from the establishment hosting our lovely evening.

At first I paid no heed to the throng of people in SAPS uniforms accompanying my friend – but when she did not rejoin us after about two minutes, my concern prompted further investigation into the matter. I thus proceeded to venture outside, in search of my friend, only to find her surrounded by a mass of people – the majority of whom were wearing SAPS uniforms. I approached the little get-together and enquired whether there was a problem and, if so, what the nature thereof was. According to our upstanding arm of the law, my friend was apparently the mastermind behind an elaborate fraud scheme. The case had already been opened at the local police station and she had just been pointed out, by an apparently very credible person, as being a filthy criminal.

At this point in time, a few more uniformed enforcers decided to join us. Subsequent to confirming with my friend that these allegations were indeed unfound, I too was boxed in by the group representing our illustrious police force. The phrases “take you away” so that we may “talk in another place” were distinctly communicated to us. Both my friend and I agreed that we were more than willing to go down to Douglasdale police station so that we may resolve this obvious misunderstanding.

The offer of our compliance appeared to upset quite a few of these morally sound individuals, who then all started speaking at the same time. I made vocal my observation that “this is obviously an unnecessary inconvenience to my friend and you are unfairly harassing her.” Threats of being arrested were then lobbied by several of the individuals, still surrounding us.

Feeling the tension rise, I singled out the guy who looked like the proverbial “big cheese” – surely the “leader” of this pack attained his rank by encouraging sound judgement and exercising his ability to defuse volatile situations. Note should be made that Big Cheese wasn’t sporting the washed-out SAPS uniforms his comrades were in. Still, hoping to solve the matter with reason, I asked the man for his name.

I’m no expert in the fine art of cultural differences, but my enquiry appeared to make Big Cheese very angry. The logic inside me was burning to know: “Surely, if this is all above board, you don’t have a problem giving me your name, officer?” Still, Big Cheese refused. Directing the query to the group of officers was also fruitless – they were obviously following the pristine example set by their fearless leader. Even now something just didn’t feel right. I managed to push my way through the collection of head-strong constables and managed to acquire a scrap of paper and a Pen – rumoured to be more powerful than the sword.

Upon wrestling my way through to my friend again, I brandished the Pen with full intention to use it. My faith in leadership unwavering, I asked Big Cheese for his name once more. My persistence resulted in the SAPS calling in back-up: another team-mate appearing to wear a black bullet-proof vest – you know, just in case my friend and I decided to open fire on them with our vast arsenal of deadly weaponry. Mr Big Gun was disturbingly excited about being assigned to confront me, preceding to steam-roll in my general direction and demanding boisterously why I dared ask for names…

Seeing that diplomacy had obviously failed, I noted “this is clearly a case of harassment targeted at my friend, as no uniformed person here is willing to give their names.” This upset Mr Big Gun a lot. Infuriated might actually be a better term. He lunged at the severely-out-of-hand-disturbing-the-peace-more-than-people-who-strike-and-threaten-nurses-at-gunpoint-to-leave-Intensive-Care-Units brigand (that’s me, by-the-by), seeing as this foul blight on humanity (me again) was obviously a dire threat to society. My courageous friend threw herself in front of the battle-hungry Mr Big Gun, resulting in the frenzied individual almost ploughing through her with the exact same intent.

“You cannot hit me – I am a lady!” came the cry from the brave woman taking on the armoured Mr Big Gun. Fearing for her safety, I once again faced the Enforcer. Introducing myself, as gentlemen do, I foolishly asked for Mr Big Gun’s name as well. The next moment this oaf grabs me by my chest and starts pushing me out of the group. His valiant action impelled another one of their merry band to join in the fun, and I was dragged off to one side for some “personal” attention.

Not necessarily appreciating being man-handled by a bunch of people entrusted with our community’s safety, I resisted. They were kind enough to share the fact that “We take you away! We go talk in another place!” as we approached an unmarked, silver BMW. Digging in my heels rather firmly, I exclaimed “this is not a police vehicle! What are you doing with me?” The relatively innocent question was met with a response by the person wearing the black bullet-proof vest: “we are taking you away! We are going to sort you out!”

Enter my monthly contribution to the gym down the road versus Bravestar’s “Strength of a Bear!” trick: I was not going to get into that BMW. Those who claim they know me rather well will attest to the fact that once I set my mind on something, come Hell or Noah’s next ark-ride, I ain’t letting go. The unexpected resistance queued calls for assistance to the group gathered where my friend was being intimida-, oh wait – “interviewed” – by our friendly officers. A bunch of them trotted over and assisted Mr Big Gun in reminding me what tar and gravel tastes like.

I voiced my concern as I felt the hand-cuffs slice through my skin, wanting to know whether they were simply accusing me of something or actually arresting me. I really wasn’t keen on a ride in that silver BMW – I’ve heard stories about it, and had worked too hard getting to where I am in life to fund the local police’s Bribery and Extortion gig. It is now approximately a month after the ordeal, and I still don’t have feeling in half of my right-hand thumb. I was almost relieved when I was hoisted on high and carried over to a marked police van rather than some slick BMW.

The “taxi-service” took me to Douglasdale police station, where I was thrown in a holding cell. Being an incredibly inquisitive person, I continued to pursue my quest for knowledge of pretty much anyone’s name at that point. In-between our scenic drive there, being escorted from the van to the cell, being handled by several people, etc. – I was still without a name. The cuffs took quite a while to get off, as the person charged with that uncomfortable duty struggled rather extensively in getting the actual mechanism to eat away enough flesh so that they may be removed.

Whilst idly admiring my quaint little cell, I noticed the pious source of the police’s reasoning behind our arrest arriving. Two very well-liquored boys stumbled into the little corridor next to my new-found home. I was astonished. Here I was sitting in a holding cell – someone who worked many hours free-of-charge in community clinics and served society in public service financially for more than four years – because some drunk kid pointed out my friend as the mastermind behind some bogus fraud scheme. And they still weren’t willing to tell me why I was there in the first place!

To make matters worse, one of the little snot-heads decided that he needed sustenance to continue their apparently well-planned rouse in making a couple of bucks with the help of our illustrious SAPS. And no, he wasn’t going to settle for a normal garage pie like any other ingrate his age: he wanted Andiccio’s. I’m doing pretty well in life, and I can’t even afford Andiccio’s! But let’s not make this about me.

What followed were several hours of doing the dance designated for us filthy criminals who dare endanger society and whom are not willing to pay extra for “protection” in our own neighbourhoods. The dance involved being carted around from “institution” to “institution” without being allowed to contact anyone from the outside world. I was also told that “no-one will find you” after I refused giving my name without being told what I was arrested for.

After eventually being released without the need to pay bail (yes, the allegations were that preposterous), we were informed that my (female) friend was still going to be held for the maximum time the law permits. Yes – they are allowed to hold you for 48 hours without having to charge you (or give you any good reason, apparently). Now, you can try and object this, but only when you’re fortunate enough to be assisted by someone who knows what they’re doing when dealing with the System (read: lawyers).

Sure, you can wait around to be processed without any help and put your faith in all that is right and good… but guess who you have to go through to get that far: the SAPS. Now isn’t that ironic?

Thankfully, at the end of the day, justice prevailed and two innocent people were allowed back into society, so that they may till away at their meaningful contribution to society. It may have cost them several thousand Rand and an experience neither should ever have faced in all their living years, but at least those Rands stayed out of the corrupt police officers’ grubby paws.

//’bunny out, living yet another day to fight both corruption and stupid people.


Following my release, I learned that the po-po needed to seize every piece of technology that looked like a computer from my (female) friend’s home – you know, for the case and whatnot. When the accusers admitted their incredible stupidity and my friend was (finally) released, we proceeded to set off on a quest of reclamation in the hopes of recovering the tools of her trade. Upon successfully extracting said goods, we started the arduous trek back home from the Ominous Johannesburg CBD.

Just as we thought we had finally been freed of Bribery and Corruption’s Very Fat And Smelly Bosom (for the day, at least), my Silver Carriage of Sanctuary (Volvo, to those of you who might lack my extremely over-active imagination) got high-jac- I mean – “pulled over” by the flagship of our war against bribery: the Johannesburg Metropolitan Police Department. Murphy received a very colourful array of “blessings” as my nostrils were set ablaze with the stench of very obvious bribe-fishery. And surprise-surprise: the whole exercise was re-enforced with the threat of being arrested!

Thankfully I had discussed the whole ordeal with my family the previous night, and was subsequently provided with a very useful number:

0800 203 712
This, my friends, is the Fraud and Corruption Hotline. As I took out my mobile phone, little Miss Piggy’s superior ambled over to my window and enquired as to what I was doing… I proceeded to share the fact that I’m simply phoning the said hotline, as I believed I was being held and threatened there illegally.

Before I could finish my sentence, I was waved on with the words “you may proceed” from the uniformed officer.

Tiny droplets race ahead of the impending deluge, scouting ahead of the crimson tide cutting a deep swathe across all it encounters. Perfection glimmers for a brief moment as sunlight dances off the surface of this strange land before it is engulfed by a sea of red gliding over it like silk. Reaching the end of what seemed like an endless plain of silver, the ruby beads let fly off the edge into the unknown.

Their new-found rapture in the wonder of flight does not last long as they crash into a forest of fibres woven with disturbing purpose. As the mysterious tangle absorbs the front-runners, the crimson flood arrives, bolstering the force’s energetic escape from a dark prison it found itself in but moments ago. Though formidable in its efforts, what appears to have been a river is quickly reduced to a trickle as the never-ending forest continues to quench its thirst, staining itself a similar scarlet in doing so.


The blade was buried deep, brought down with meaning and hopefully enough force as what all those who willed it to be there could muster. The man did not expect it. It was crafted well, with steel folded by true masters finding themselves in the forges of such things. He could feel this as the work of art dug deep into his back, making light work of any muscle or tendon foolish enough to challenge it. Although he did not expect the sliver of pain shooting through his left shoulder now, he was by no means unaccustomed to it.

dood deur middel van wortel

what you need will be the end of you

The assailant’s aim was slightly lower than the previous would-be assassin, assigned with a similar task. “Suppose that, at least, is a good thing” he thought to himself – the previous wound had only just healed, and scar tissue takes a bit longer to fix itself the second or third time around. A slight twitch as it dug deeper may have been less than they were hoping for, but he wasn’t going to give them anything more than that.

He could feel the grip around the hilt tear away as he turned to face the others in the room. She almost stumbled, her hasty retreat to the group executed with somewhat less agility than he had given her credit for in the past. What met him was an assortment of faces he had learnt to trust over the past couple of years – some of them only a few weeks, others months, but here and there even more than that.

“Are you fucking serious?”

You could see the surprise on the faces of those that have not known him for that long. They had all heard the rumours, the stories, the myths – the majority of them finding themselves not yet a part of his life when the apparent events transpired. Most of them simply brushed the tales aside as drunk-talk by someone angry at the world with unsubstantiated reason. Little did they know that they now found themselves amidst yet another chapter unfolding.

Even though I’d love to continue scribbling on about this fellow’s adventures, I’m saving that for something else. And yes, trust me: there’s a lot more. Basically, it’s a quick snapshot of my life over the past couple of weeks. Some hidden meanings and references more apparent than others, but I can guarantee you that the majority of people reading this piece of writing shouldn’t presume to think they know anything. To quote one of my most favourite Greek philosophers ever: “Assumption is, indeed, the mother of all fuck-ups.”

I like to refer to myself as a catalyst. “What is this inane reference to the field of chemistry, Ian?” you may ask. Well, for those of you not necessarily up-to-speed with the wonderful world of acids, bases and all its other fun little uses:

cat·a·lyst   [kat-l-ist]


  1. Chemistry . a substance that causes or accelerates a chemical reaction without itself being affected.
  2. something that causes activity between two or more persons or forces without itself being affected.
  3. a person or thing that precipitates an event or change: His imprisonment by the government served as the catalyst that helped transform social unrest into revolution.
  4. a person whose talk, enthusiasm, or energy causes others to be more friendly, enthusiastic, or energetic.

“OK – but how the hell does this pertain to you, oh mysterious and nonsensical one?”

Regardless of my very public distaste for humanity, I rather enjoy meeting new people – call it fostering some silly kind of false hope, if you need. As most of you know, I also enjoy partying it up quite a bit. That being said, it should also be known that I party in a very wide variety of circles. I find myself jiving with almost every stereotypical crowd there is. I shake my booty in the hottest clubs, I thrash out with head-banging to hardcore metal, I enjoy my whiskey and cigars in underground jazz clubs, I love a good pint at the pub, I suit-up for exquisite balls, lavish cocktails in lounges, I braai with the best “oppiPlaas” – everything.

I also enjoy bringing people together. People meeting other people, everyone having a good time, everyone just being themselves without having to hold back just because they’ve been labelled by society. I can proudly say that I have introduced people to each other whose paths would have never-bloody-ever crossed otherwise. A lot of people nod and smile when situations like those present themselves, going their separate ways after the fact – but some of these folks have even gone on to become the best of friends ever. As a matter of fact, the majority of people walk away from my mini-parties or get-togethers with a bunch of people they get along with very well. Where it gets sticky, is what follows.

Awesome – my friends all get along and enjoy each other’s company. I’ve managed to “make the circle beega” and enjoyed myself whilst doing so. After a while the people involved start drifting a bit. They become quieter, appear to not go out as much or always have some family thing they need to go to. I don’t really pay that much attention – I have a busy life-style too. Each member of my immediate family is more than a thousand kilometres away and I still don’t have enough time for everybody all the time. Sure. Next time. I’m sure I’ll be on the list next time when they go out.

Enter our lovely little social network sites – the most convenient way to keep in touch with anyone that knows how to operate a mobile phone (‘cause some people still find it incredibly hard to figure out those little things embedded in the Short Message System, or SMS). First the updates of the good night out with awesome people, when you were pretty keen to do something but ended up staying in because your mate seemed “too busy.”

Then the synchronisation of these instances among people you know. By this time you’ve found “more reliable” people who actually respond to efforts of communication, and as a result you may be enjoying that brewski with them rather than the former. Then the photographic razorblades. Parties, dinners, festivals – everyone there. Everyone you had introduced to each other. Everyone except you, the catalyst. “How the hell does that work?”

You see, in chemistry, after the catalyst has served its purpose by making the two constituents of whatever the desired product is work together, it’s no longer part of the picture. Neither the constituents nor the product give a shit what the catalyst does or what happens to it. It’s simply cast aside and moves on to find the next two parts it makes work together, still remaining on its own. In the greater scheme of things, the way this molecule is composed may be integral to the interaction with another singular molecule to produce something that is greater than any of the products resulting from its use as catalyst…

Unfortunately, in the cesspool that is our society, the possibility of this occurring is destined to remain a mere fantasy. In my short time on this Earth, fate has strewn thousands of souls across my ragged path. The illusion of true happiness had indeed taunted me on occasion, albeit for only a brief moment in the chaos that is my life, but never succeeded in digging its bittersweet claws into who I truly am. Until that day comes, I shall forever wander the wastes upon which humanity pretends to build its dreams.

you've been warned...


An eerie glow dances off the walls in a room, subtle ticks and clicks echoing from the strange device. An array of blue infusions cascade off wood, steel and fabric… complimented by the sporadic blinking of tiny LED buttons intent on communicating the sheer volume of work at hand being processed voraciously. Another Nitrogen bubble pops in protest as a crooked spine attempts to right itself, following countless hours of supporting a back bent over the ever-demanding Keys of QWERTY.

the glow.... the beautiful glow........

The origins of Tiberium...

I felt inclined to write that little piece last night whilst taking a quick break from being a genius. Those of you who follow have been fortunate enough to be deemed a friend (or eagerly follow blips of my existence on twitter) would know what I’m talking about. Strange how these bouts of creativity always seem to hit me when the stress levels are peaking, exhaustion kicks in or while I find myself embracing the loving arms of inebriation…

That being said, on to today’s meaningless banter: professionalism. I’d like to think myself being able to do the whole “working as a professional” scene rather well, even if I do say so myself. More often than not I find myself putting my clients’ needs and satisfaction before my own. I would much rather get a pat on the back from a satisfied client than someone living under the illusion of being my boss. As a matter of fact, I have been fortunate enough over the past few weeks to receive recognition from both avenues.

yep. you know it.

For years I had to be subject to what, in my opinion, may be considered legalised slavery – i.e. I was busy completing my articles for CA (SA). Even though I have the world’s respect for the women who was ultimately my boss, I found myself squaring off against pretty much all other forms of “authority” in our firm on quite a regular basis. I refused to be dragged into the slums of office politics, and endeavoured avoiding said politics as soon as its pungent odour seemed to whiff around. This, obviously, made some people very angry – not to mention frustrated.

Fortunately, I managed to catch the attention of an individual who had the same arrogant swagger as I did, of course sprinkled with a healthy dose of disdain for stupidity as well – acknowledgement was made relatively early on in the contracted era of slave labour. I got handed the more complicated projects and notoriously difficult clients (strangely enough), thriving on it instead of buckling under the pressure as the majority of brown-nosers would have hoped. This did not go unnoticed, which also (thank goodness) resulted in the majority of my projects being run directly with our main partner (boss-lady referred to above).

stfu, sir.

Though not at all times, but somehow the facts above facilitated avoidance of individuals who were intent on practising Neanderthal-reminiscent management styles. These kindergarten principles were still shoved up my nose, along with everything else the other control freaks deemed necessary for nasal ingestion, but I held fast to simply keeping my head down, doing my work and delivering a quality product to our clients. Sure, it’s not easy when you have a fat blob blocking your road to success, but by golly: I know how to operate a friggen chain-saw and I wasn’t going to let some sans ambition slug stop me! Needless to say, everything worked out pretty well.

In comparison, the new company I find myself working for at the moment is (almost) completely the opposite. Since day 1 here I’ve made no secret of my approbation for the executive team running things. Without exception, the guys at the top are all, simply put: brilliant. Even though every individual has years of experience on you and an unimaginable wealth of knowledge, they work side-by-side with the grubs and encourage personal development and professional growth around every corner. Regardless of them being able to afford it ten times over, there isn’t even the slightest suggestion of any “holier-than-thou” in the air – very pleasurable (and right down my alley) working environment.

But enough subliminal PR for today – in making sure you actually enjoy your work, the folks here pretty much guarantee quality service delivery to their clients. Whereas I held on to the fact that my clients were happy with my work in the past, I can now enjoy my superiors’ acknowledgement of “a job well done” as well (which is pretty frikken awesome, to be quite honest). In my opinion, the way any business is managed (especially its employees, growing proportionately with its size) determines its overall success. Ironically enough, the majority of companies sporting both middle and top management fail to realise that a happy employee is going to be far more productive than someone who’s miserable.

I’d also like to find out from you guys what motivates you to give your best in a professional sense of things? Customer satisfaction and learning something new are my main drivers – I love taking things apart, understanding them completely and then being able to put it all back together again (possibly even in an improved state, if at all possible). Should someone be able to benefit from the whole process (be it my clients, colleagues, employer, etc.), all the better!

Those of you who have spent more than just a drink in my company should also know I have big plans for the future… I distinctly remember someone I used to work with a couple years back even saying “No, Ian – I’m afraid I won’t be able to employ you on a full-time basis… you simply have too much ambition!”

I enjoyed that.

Someone not necessarily knowing you all that well having that much faith in your dreams and aspirations – just the right kind of thing facilitating the drive to excel even more :)

As divulged way up top, I started writing this little piece just because I felt like (digitally) scribbling some useless crap while waiting for a range of SQL databases to migrate and settle into their new home. I hope you inexplicably find some value in it and thus thank y’all for giving me the opportunity to waste a couple o’ minutes of your life – ones you’ll never be able to get back :)

Here’s to wishing you all a wonderful week and looking forward to hearing what motivates you to “Be All You Can Be” (in the professional world).

//‘bunny out.

birth of an apocalypse

As creatures of the night slithered away, savouring the wake of destruction and mayhem left by Midnight Storm, the herald of Day crested horizons across the world. Darkened chaos glittered with beauty as rays from the sun danced across and endless veil of pearls, little droplets nourishing all things living on a patch of dirt some refer to as Earth.



I am fortunate enough to be blessed with a disturbingly interesting life. Things Happen. It has been said I give new meaning to the phrase Carpe Diem. I like that. A recent conversation with someone I trust, more than most, revealed an opinion the world apparently has of the days I spend here: should life ever banish me to a small little town in the middle of nowhere, I would simply wither away and die.

I’m addicted to people. I need them. Ironically enough, the very concept of humanity sickens me beyond all comparison. I can’t stand it. Heaven forbid I ever get my hands on anything even closely resembling a Weapon of Mass Destruction – I’d have a frikken ball, completely with one of those awesome evil maniacal laughs you only ever see in the movies – and enjoy every minute of it with the glee only an evil master-mind could ever grasp. Don’t get me wrong: there are many things in this world I rather enjoy as well. If you know where to look, there are places and things hidden from plain sight which leave you, quite plainly, breathless.

Over the past few weeks I’ve had the most incredible dreams. To quote an update from my facebook profile: “my mind, especially the subconscious constituent, should NEVER be unleashed!”

why are you hovering over this?

where dreams are born

I had everything in there – family, aspirations, ex-girlfriends, Death (supposedly a good thing), the future from more than a few viewpoints, past lifetimes, friends, an ocean, a forest, a city wrought in devastation… everything. The worlds I explored in my dreams were a series of places that I had, in fact, visited before whilst escaping from the Real. I wish I had the talent to project these worlds on canvas – they are phenomenal, in every sense of the word. According the experts, one is not supposed to remember dreams in too much detail. Even though I’m sure there are many times I find myself dreaming and not even knowing about it the next morning, the detail with which I remember other times is amazing.

I’ve actually been considering jotting down the stories as they unfold in my World. More often than not, I recognise the milieu I find myself in. Every now and again I even live in these worlds as the same character, merely experiencing another sliver in their vastly complex lives. I’ve even had dreams where I’m a different character in the same dreams, albeit several years between these experiences and somehow remembering the connection when waking up the next morning.

OK wait – track back a bit. I’ve managed to interrupt myself in what I was originally writing about: people. Sure, dreams kind of have something to do with people – apparently specifically so when it comes to people in both my life and dreams. But that’s not the point.

I set out writing this morning because I simply wanted to. I woke up feeling great on a day most people despise about as much as a fat kid despises sharing his ice-cream. I rather enjoy Mondays – I have that whole feeling of new in everything I do. Fresh. Invigorating. Aspiration.

That very feeling this morning inspired to write more as well. I’ve apparently “resurrected” my “blog” from many years back – reviving a concept explored whilst going through a very dark time in my life, and before the advent and ever-increasing popularity of social media sites. It was literally the only way to share anything with whoever was interested in reading your drivel. Subsequent to those few rants from someone who didn’t have the faintest idea what to do with all this overwhelming emotion, Mark Zuckerberg was kind enough to throw faceBook out there. The social media site offered a new avenue of expression to the unfortunate masses who don’t share our love of all things Geek.

Facebook provided an opportunity to get into touch with the world on a whole new level. I’ll admit that the majority of my status updates in my early days there were still rather depressing and whatnot – I can’t imagine how anybody would be interested in the crap I posted. Just over three years later, I find myself using both Facebook and twitter as an integral part of my life. The term “micro-blogging” hails from combined statements made by Jack Dorsey and Evan Williams when describing their brain-child.

click it and see pictures.
Until recently, I was content with sharing my life via the said micro-blogging avenues – I tell the world everything via or Sure, a lot of people are concerned with their privacy and the amazing facility these technologies give to tweet. tweet.stalkers, but that’s something I’ll explore in another drivel-spat. As mentioned above, I find myself amidst a myriad of thoughts encouraging yet another bout of reconstruction in my life. I’m quite happy to do so – cut away the dead parts and prepare to become an even greater individual than before. In my never-ending quest for self-improvement, I have also decided to heed the many voices encouraging me to write more.

I would therefore like to commit myself to sharing with the world more often, from a platform allowing more breadth than an update here and there. It should also be noted that I am still new to the world of blogging, regardless of the time-stamps on my initial venture into the Digital Unknown. Seeing as the majority of people reading this are probably also following me on twitter or have befriended me on faceBook, I would thus like to invite everyone to give feedback on what they would find most entertaining from my perspective.

I know one has to explore oneself in finding what you prefer writing about, and I most definitely intend to do so in the coming weeks (with the help of many a bottle of fine red wine), but I’d still appreciate the odd nudge here and there.

Here’s to wishing y’all an awesome week ahead and looking forward to many a 2c being tossed my way.

//teh ‘bunny.

chilli farts. deadly.

Angel of Destruction

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