Bullet the blue sky

Sometime back I was sitting in my office in the early morning, catching up on my e-mail and having a cup of coffee, when I heard gunshots fired outside my office window. Just as I was about to stand up to have a look, a bullet comes smashing through the window and flies through the ceiling. I almost shat myself. The bullet could have bounced off the wall, and God knows gone where.
Then yesterday afternoon I'm waiting for the gate to open at work, and suddenly all Hell breaks loose on the street. Three armed men come running down the street firing shots over their shoulders at two security guards giving chase. I'm still watching in fascination, when I hear a loud ping and a whistle as a bullet glances of the front gate and flies past my open window. A second later, another ping as a bullet hits the fence to my right. I instinctively dive down behind the dashboard.
As I slowly look up I'm just in time to see one of the men stumble as a bullet from the security guard hits him in the upper leg. The other two scramble up the embankment of the highway and I hear the screeching of tyres as they run blindly across the three lanes. Two private vehicles stop and the occupants (also armed) join the chase. I leave work and make my way home under the passway, and about to turn right when one of the armed men races across the road, about twenty metres in front of me. Deciding I've had enough, I put foot and race away from the scene.
They say third time lucky?

The three Symbolisms in Chi

The Black Rose
Represents my love-hate relationship with Anarchism.

I believe that people should be able to govern themselves and their land, not through political representation, or government legislation, but a grass root tribal system. It’s that Anarchic foundation that I believe in. The capacity to express the millennia-long aspirations of peoples to create their own self-administered social structures, their own forms of human consociation by which they can exercise control over their lives.

It is the Punk-rockish idea of lawlessness that I deplore, and which is much to blame for people and governments misconception of fundamental Anarchism.

The Half Buried Sword

The sword symbolises the laying to rest of my violent past. My newfound love for intellectual dialogue means I lay my destructive nature to rest and embrace a dispassionate tolerance for stupid people.

It does not symbolise the ‘pen is mightier than the sword’ analogy, which as a realist I find unable to believe.

The sword is only half buried as a symbol of my willingness to defend my freedom, by way of necessary force.

And the antiquity of the sword represents the violent history of my ancestors.




The Fallen Cross
Represents my disbelief in Christianity and all religions in general. It does not symbolise ungodliness or Satanism.

I believe Christianity has lost its direction in almost every aspect of modern life, and no longer represents spirituality or the belief in a righteous God. Although I’m non-religious, I still believe in a single God, without the trinity and the idolising of inanimate objects.

I simply do not wish for Christianity to be my representative to God, and I despise the fanaticism associated with most other religions.






Find the three symbolisms that represent your life. Past Present or Future.

Sin City

There is a Sub city here beneath us. A sub culture of near-humans, living among graffiti adorned buildings and rubbish-strewn pavements. The smells of piss and shit, a reality-covered bullet to the senses. The feeling of despair is as tangible as the nightmare I had two nights ago.

Driving down Rocky Street, these thoughts come to mind as I revisit the entrance to my University of Life. It was here, back in 1980 that I first came face to face with the nightlife of Johannesburg, and long before I ventured to the seedier side of the ‘Brow’ nearby.

Rocky Street is but a shoestring’s width from Malvern where I was born, and the flood of memories surface as I take the short drive and stop across from the ‘Ou Apostoliese Kerk van God’ in St. Amant Street. The house where I grew up is right next-door. The apple tree long ago flattened for what is now a parking lot. I remember stealing grapes from the pastor’s house with my Porra buddies, back when I was only hip-high to my father.
The corner café is now a curtain shop, and the old BP garage has since changed to a Taxi workshop. I ran away from home once, and thought the garage was a world away. That was until the Police picked me up and took me back home. They first had to lure me with some Jelly Tots and a cool drink so stubborn was I, even back then. I drive back to Rockey Street again, passing through Troyville, and crisscrossing my way over Linksfield to the new China town, in Cyrildene. All the while remembering my youth, as I pass the old Bruma Lake (now Asian City), and join the highway south, back home to the countryside. A 12-year journey of discovery - squeezed into a two-hour trip of nostalgia.