There were a thousand thoughts this morning. But i sat down, thought about rhythms and rituals. Thought about our equilibriums and the things that makes us tick. Water the flower my leader, i imagined my friend saying to me. that thought came prancing in my mind as i saw a meme i've seen a thousand times, one of those Dalai Lama wisdom quotes.

I am forgetful at times, not because I am actually being forgetful. My whole sphere of being has always come back to art. I am an artist and I move and dance when the universe moves and dances with me; I guess you are my universe. Amen.

There is a story told about a soldier who did not want to go to war, but wanted to be a soldier none the less. They say when the day came he froze in his bed, at the harbour, in his bunk, and at the frontline. i don't know why that came to mind but that was a good start. Inspiration is back and it is going nowhere anytime soon. I am happy again. The soldier shot his first shot when it mattered, that's all. That... is the moral of the story. I think.

It is in the air, active like the ether has sent it. Hectic because I don't know what to do with it; it is confusing yet so clear. I give in to it, that hypnosis. That fountain that drips thunder-lighting moments and clumsy nervous blunders... brings a smile to my face, a cautiously deep one; feels like a dream. I am awake though, I keep dreaming, my love. I dance to your beat.

The way it is going, I am going to start to have your selfies as screensavers. I am enchanted to the point where my heart is in a perpertual jaundiced state. It is joyous sickness with me and thoughts of you queen of my mothership.

I perambulate parabolically delicously with diabolical tantalizing treats, your smile in my memory kills me dead devilishly. I relish wishing your gentleness was a reality i could touch and feel like how my heart reaches out to you and yours; I got the feels for you- I feel you.

You floor me, flower.  Your power shines through the way you call my name, in the way you manage to creep into my conversations. I drown in happiness. my soul spirit blossoms at your bosom blossom, spiritual juice. Deduce it, it all seduces me. It is cold when you are not around.

It feels like hide and seek, like the mountain is opening up and the lava that flows pours like thunderstorms with clear white ice balls, from my soul. it is uncanny, almost unreal; like i walked out of a dream. i need to go back, to the basics. when the world's roundness was a simple curiosity. I am learning to be me, learning to breathe again- trusting my me-ness; oozing with pure creative meanness. Jah bless- I am missing somebody actually... blessed is the most high.

Everything is starting to make sense. My process of creating what i think is art is unfolding. it is being precise not at at the start like a perfectionist would demand.

it is listening to the ether and letting the art come out of you. it is tuning into a particular frequency listening and enjoying the ride so that you can ride to your own shine.

it is about respecting your place of creation. that place that you go to when inspiration comes in a form that you never expected.

if accidents are acts of God,
then we need to trust in the magic of accidents giving us an ability to make things better.

I am tapping in to my process.

Such a crappy week, woke up yesterday ready to tackle the world. Ready to trot the globe and then ahh well some people are just geniuses. So as you read this my heart has bled with no tears shed.

You see the office has an air conditioner with one setting, make them two; very cold and extremely hot. There are no in-betweens. Since the heatwave has given itself unscrupulous weather power- the first setting is very much cherished. No complaints there.

I am strolling around thinking about things important and imperfect. About art and life. My sweetheart and what she might be doing. You know mos. Random doodles of the mind that invariably lead to thoughts about you. Then you chuckle here and there just to tickle the soul because you can.

So I open the fridge and there's my drink. I'm happy. It has been sitting there from Thursday last week so you can imagine those crispy bubbles and the tingle that that carbonated water will leave as it saunters in a gallop down mine throat. That tantalizing thought of that refreshing feeling of fake apple juice dressed as an energy drink vibing in my mouth.

The office is cold so i decide let me take a walk in the heatwave so that i have a real excuse of drinking it. Great bloody plan. I remember toying with myself. Should i drink it. No maybe later. Drink it now. No don't be greedy. Take a walk. Thats what I did. The walk I took.

It was there for the whole weekend. I take the stupid walk, go have a smoke. Light conversation here and there. I come back.

Open the fridge. My Play is gone, my cold caffeine fix gone. Just like that. Sullied my mood.

Mxwiim. Thats all i've gots to say to the culprit.

Hatfield breezes, the ones i would feel waiting for you at the Gautrain Station fill up in me. That familiarity awakens. The hotness of Pretoria burns in my memory like i was there just yesterday. the river that needs to be crossed is not an obstacle any longer. the dream I reach for tastes like bliss. The feeling that i feel is as awesome as the first time i felt lust, the first time i knew what it feels like to have a crush. I am bound, not really i am happy to be falling for you again. to be talking about you in my sleep. to be boring my friends with tales about you. you are with me wherever i go, wherever i breathe. you are the essence of who i am. the silverspoon, my everything now.

Buckingham Palace

The energy is in the air here, my palace transforms into my creative lair there. Buckingham palace, where the poet resides and sometimes hides.Where he bribes his consciousness sometimes, where he imbibes and spits out his imagination flaws. Colours his mistakes on a canvas waiting to be filled with eccentricities and pot shots like artistic entities. He is an artist, period. Centrepiece, period.

Reborn, born again and again but no cat with nine lives tales. No fairy-tale. Somewhere the destination reforms to inform itself. We don't know where, we don't know how, but we work it out everyday. Each day and each time we try. There is indeed a mystic flowing through the air. The poet feels this flair without fear his queen is on his side and calls him her lion. Tau e legageng la yone,  The lion is not hiding in his lair. He is unleashing his creative battalion force by fire and african chemistrical sorcery on a Credo Mutwa side-dish tip.

The lion checked in from sleep in his lair.

Buckingham Palace.

Parliament in progress.

I am conquered, smashed and grabbed like a bugs bunny caught in front of headlights, stunned. Munching on a carrot. One morning, that is all it took. cosmopologies just aligned and made things to froth. i dreamed my dream came alive and then i felt it like reflexively. And then boom like we were thinking alike, messages flew in codes.

Do not know how to explain it though. I am giving things a real try. So working on a technique where i write the song using a poem or lyrics or mashed up words so that something that i want to say with the instruments can come alive.

The song will go a little something like this:

Everything is going according to plan
Patience you found
Waiting for me or not
Friend it doesn't matter
In the end we bond
by love that was always meant to be
my lover my friend
love you till the end.

      I think when the dew melts and all is well and when the rain comes filling up wells perhaps i will be able to stand tall. It is not simply just a matter of finding that language in particular texts but it is about not being able to get this one specific person out of my mind. 

     Even as i try to articulate myself in imperfect reflective tones she comes in and invades my thought space. the literal laterals form holographic intentions that i can't shape but feel. like i am connected and disconnected, i am desired and not desired all at the same worrying bloody time. it's an addictive violence i come to perpetually.

      it reminds me i am human and i am not perfect. I am not God's gift to women, i will not be a perfect husband, i am not a genius- i am a creator, i am an artist; i eat, sleep, drink and fart.

Opening Prayer

Woke up in good spirit, my first gift pack, thank you for listening and being a friend gold pack is almost done now. the finish line is preparing itself. More than anything it is a mark of a journey and many other journeys i am rediscovering. to be honest to self and others so that the path to the greener pastures is seen and pursued selflessly. that mountains are meant to be scaled, not always to the top, sometimes just around them, where footpaths can be drawn and worn down, where it is easier to navigate to our destinations peacefully at peace with our spiritual selves.