Two roads behind me I can hear the fishermen calling. They have fresh fish today - Kingklip, Harder of dalk ‘n Snoek. People are stumbling out of their houses, slightly sleepy in the afternoon sun, but ready for a quick chat over the catch of the day. 
A heavy mirror broke today. I carefully pick the shards up and wrap each one, like a present, in sheets of newspaper. This takes forever, I am catching up on news. I read again about the climber on Everest whom no one could help in his last moments and recall seeing how painfully hard it was for people to walk away. Now, I read, a team of agile sherpas was sent to clean up the mountain, but respectfully left him there. Whenever I see a fraying prayer flag, I am always momentarily frozen in thought. He is at peace I am sure (please say this is so).
Oh strange and slightly disturbing plastic doll, I always just manage to save you from some or other extreme situation. There, back up you go.
You even saw a movie here what feels like not so long ago. Today there are just rails of clothes and a funeral. To the left the foyer is filled with wreaths and silence, but outside a person to the left is shouting to someone on the right.
I love how you are giving us a slight dirty look for coming home. This used to be your playground, now three of you have to share. Even though you all get annoyed, I am convinced that late at night you all sit up, share stories of crunching on delicate birds bones and occasionally dare one another to cross the road mere seconds before a racing car passes.
The children are playing in between the sheer layers. One minute hiding, as if behind a mother’s legs, the next letting the dresses dance in the wind as they take off laughing.
A painted lilac heart, upside down and out of place. Creativity won in the end.
On both sides the rest of the carriages stretch into the distance. This one is imperfect and just perfect.
There is something therapeutic about tracing each line with a pointed finger, slowly.
We close our eyes and say that these little feet will one day climb the highest mountains and swim in the deepest seas.
I have always thought these to be the most magnificent art projects, all crepe paper, origami folded and stapled by many nimble fingers at night.
She likes sitting here, he likes sitting there. They hold hands in silence and stare out onto the bare street. No one came to visit today.
Next, these poles tip to the right, one by one, in slow motion with only a series of dainty orchestral triangle pings.
To the left a woman is leaning over the balcony. Hair in curlers and cigarette in hand. This is her street.
This door and lock, a present and ribbon.
I like to imagine the anonymous man on the bike riding so fast that he takes off effortlessly into the grey sky to cycle a lap of weightlessness.
A brother and sister are playing at the top of the stairs. They are the only children around and are filled with boundless energy and resilience, bouncing from being sworn enemies, back to the best of friends. He is the leader and her hero.
I would like to think that the reluctant model lies with a look of slight apprehension subdued by a brave streak, but she is rather bored with my coy antics. Perhaps she has just seen it all.
Let’s all follow the white rabbit down into the deepest hole we can find.
Cars are passing in front of me at a frustrating pace. They are too fast to cross in front of at a walk and too slow to sprint through. I remain standing and take this picture.
This simple arrangement commands museum-like silence.
Like broken dolls with home-cut hair and pushed in eyes, there is many a shoe that needs a hospital.
Never have I had to think hard about salt or pepper. They just are and have always been, yet I am sure there must have been a time when this was not so.
Even though I don’t go into one very often, unless for birth or death, I can’t help but feel emotional at old rituals and songs that I have heard so many a time as a child. Yet somehow I never know the words. I feel too bad to stand with my mouth shut, thus mime and feel guilty.
If this shop was magical, these pretty pictures would interchange every time you walked through the door. The girl and dog would bound up the steps or the angels could sit pretty in the trees.
To my right a man is standing, leaning against the inside of the wall. His aging arms are folded like snapped twigs, all sharp bones and stretched skin. He is telling overlapping stories. It is hard to walk away. I turn around and wave good-bye.
How can life not be perfect, but for a second, when wearing a crisp white robe.
Such a pity that this café remained closed, as I can only imagine the treasures to be found. Perhaps I would have found another ring with the letter A or the most picture perfect painted enamel ware. Or some old marshmallow fish or home made milk tart, like that time we found the best “soetkerrie” jaffles known to man in the middle of nowhere.
I don’t know anything about these rows of white crosses. I am crouched down and can barely fit the lens through the ornate black fencing. They stand to attention, upright like soldiers.
Just ahead of this fan, cars are slowly driving by. People are staring at the lunch-goers, amongst whom, us. We are in turn staring at them. Two perspectives on one moment in time.
These doors, salvaged from many a home, are beckoning me closer. They seem so light, as if you could flip through them one at a time with a merely a finger, yet there hangs a heavy aura in the room.
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