(written 24 September 2009)
I wish I was a ninja because how cool would it be to be a ninja? Nobody asks a ninja how much wood would a ninja chuck if a ninja could chuck wood. Also, ninjas can climb trees like nobody’s business.
Sunday:
Began like any normal Sunday, driving Bron & my sister up to the Hilton Festival to watch a play at 8:30 in the morning…
Cath has made a mix tape for her alcoholic friends which features only songs that are about drinking way too much. We listened to that in the car, and then we listened to the Moldy Peaches, driving along the Hilton Road in the morning sunshine, passing the horses and the sunny trees. Then we walked around the Festival and managed successfully to conjure tickets into our hands and ourselves to the door of Memorial Hall with 2 minutes to spare. It was a shining example of that can-do-Sunday attitude that is normally so lacking on Saturdays.
We drove back at around midday and arrived at the house to find the lunch party already pulling the hooter. My friend had made the mistake of getting stoned on her own, so we remedied that fairly easily by becoming completely fucked up in 10 minutes flat – like going from zero to hero but without a mission or camera angles or a theme song. I went to the loo, and landed up brushing my teeth with Darren.
I tried to make lunch for myself – a chicken mayonnaise sandwich. After about 20 minutes I had managed to cut open a bit of French loaf. We went and sat on the lawn so the kids could put on a show: Caitlin did poi and collected the afternoon’s takings. William did his strong-man-with-sucked-in-tummy routine. Leith, caught up in the giddiness of the moment, took of his pants and ran around in his underpants shouting “I’ve got no underpants”. Emma recited a poem about an elephant that no-one could hear. Rob found some dried up old pieces of dog shit and threw them at me.
Driving:
It’s best not to read too much into stuff you see when you are driving. I saw a bakkie full of coffins driving up the hill on the way home today. Last night, driving home in the mist, the petrol station looked like a UFO.
The trick with poems is that they are fucking boring, especially that now we’ve got computer games and cool TV programmes and the Tour de France, so poems that have metaphors of life being like a lake or a colander are just going nowhere. By contrast I have written a poem about my pajama pants. The great advantage of this poem is that you can come and see my pajama pants for real:
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My pajama pants are grey
They’ve got Mars and astronauts
They got the Shuttle from the top
And the Shuttle from the back
They’ve got the Shuttle lifting off
With its giant tanks of gas
They’ve got the moon, a spiral galaxy
and half a million stars
They’ve got a mighty meteorite
That’s heading straight for you and me
With a burning yellow tail
of burning fireballs and stuff
My pajama pants are grey, mostly –
other bits are blue.
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And then I said: Well if I had a Llama there’s no fucking way,
Tom
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