Wednesday, 13 June 2018

Happy Birthday

Happy Birthday, "Dr" Gerald Brosseau Gardner. You would have been 134 years old.

Whatever your faults - as many as those of the rest of us, I guess - you still functioned as the catalyst around which the NeoPagan religion of Wicca crystallised, and for that I am very grateful.

Wednesday, 23 May 2018

Smell of Strawberries

Whether the Glaroon Slipped Up, or not, is probably highly hypothetical.

I mean, here it is - this life, these moments, these thoughts - and does it truly make a difference if it's stage-managed or not?

Not really, since the stage-manager, the Glaroon, the "they" who would presumably be handling it all are just another aspect of myself.

So have a laugh, have a bit of a marvel if you will and pass right along.

This morning I smelled strawberries on the bus.

Correction - I smelled an aroma which is what perfumiers like to think of as "strawberry".

There were only 3 other people on the bus: the driver, a middle-aged Indian woman and a youngish Black guy. I was sitting furthest back in the bus as is my wont, and I assumed that one of the other people on the bus had opened something with that strawberry smell; some tobacco, a packet of sweets or a cold drink. Except that eating and drinking is entirely forbidden on the Gautrain Bus, and no-body was doing any of that.
It's just possible that the smell came into the bus from the outside. Right this moment I feel that's the most likely answer, as I sniffed the same smell again 10 minutes later as I was walking down West Street.

It's also possible that my brain is Having a Moment and generating phantom smells. But I doubt that.That particular nasal shade of strawberry is a very human-manufactured one, after all.

My money is on a rogue vaporiser factory somewhere in the Sandton area.

There's always the paranormal explanation, of course...but let me not go there today.
Maybe Tomorrow.

Thursday, 17 May 2018

The Glaroon Slipped Up

Wednesday morning and Back on the Bus.

I'm the only passenger on the first bus out of Monte Casino and the terminus circle is oddly devoid of late/early revelers. It's just the bus driver, a couple of security guards hiding in the warmth of the carpark and three cab drivers snoozing behind the wheel.

When I get off the bus - in solitary splendour - at Sandton Station, it's cold. A feral pigeon and two glossy starlings have taken advantage of the dearth of humans to forage near the taxi rank, but flap away at my approach. The station guards, who I normally greet at just before 5:30 am, are nowhere to be seen.

Heading out of the station, the chill bites down a tiny, gentle bit. As if to warn.

The streets are dark and streetlamp-lit, but there are no people on them.

An empty taxi minibus cruises past.

Well, the streets and trees and shrubberies are all where I left them. But where are all the pedestrians?
There should be at least some precinct security guards posted at intervals along West Street. There should be passengers alighting from the minibus taxis pulling over every few metres. There should be folks exiting the Michaelangelo Hotel towards the station. There should be a small group of vendors coming up the road with their wares on their heads.

But there is no-one on the street.

I cross the road at the robots - admittedly dodging another non-stopping taxi - and make it to the office, having seen not one single pedestrian for the last 10 minutes. It's a bit eerie, but then it's Winter and fairly chilly so maybe everyone is getting up later.

That was Wednesday. Thursday, it was like Wednesday never happened. There were three more passengers on the morning bus, the circle at Monte Casino was fairly full of loud-mouthed drunks, the security guards were all back at their posts in the station and on West Street, and people were getting out of taxis like nothing happened.

I may sound crazy - and no doubt by this time I am, pretty much - but I had a distinct feeling of the heavy velvet curtains having been twitched aside prematurely 24 hours ago, before the scenery was all fully in place.

Tuesday, 15 May 2018

Billion Year Old Carbon

Thankful that the bus strike is over.

Perplexed that I've lived with an earworm of epic proportions for the entire strike.

Don't know what it means to have this constantly going through your head?

Welcome to my world.

Friday, 11 May 2018


I have most of my hearing back today - coming and going, it is true, but more here than not-here.

I stepped out on the decking which runs along the West Street side of the office and immediately a little bird flew down to sing at me. A robin.

Later, the same bird was perched, singing, on the second-floor fire escape, while I looked up at it and a pigeon on the third floor railing looked down on it.

Ken Wilber:

That very Witness is Spirit within, looking out on a world that it created. It sees but cannot be seen; it hears but cannot be heard; it knows but cannot be known. It is Spirit itself that sees with your eyes, speaks with your lips, hears with your ears, reaches out with your arms. When will you confess this simple secret and awaken from the gruesome nightmare? 

Can you see the words on this page? Then 100% of Spirit is present, looking out through your eyes. Can you feel the book in your hands? Then 100% of Spirit is present, taking the world in its hands. Can you hear the sound of that bird singing? Then 100% of Spirit is present, listening to that song.