portent \POR-tent\, noun:

1. A sign of a coming event or calamity; an omen.
2. Prophetic or menacing significance.
3. Something amazing; a marvel.

This arrived in my inbox. I am watching Kill Bill. I have discovered a place that sells fresh curry leaves. I am reading ‘Underworld’ by Don De Lillo and am transfixed.

I got some new writing work, sort of PR but it’s a challenge. I cooked pork sausages I bought from the butcher in Valley shopping centre and I remembered why it’s so legendary. Ever had pork sausages that smelt and tasted like real pork. Doesn’t happen that often.

Bought a kilo of cleaned tripe. Not the same as cleaning it oneself but it saves time. The only thing that Uma Thurman has not done yet is marry me.

Dreamed about the Transkei last night and find myself homesick despite the quick fix and instant gratification nightmare that is Joburg. I want potholes and crazy people. Hours on the road where I don’t see a whitey for miles and people are intrigued because whiteys don’t usually stick around.

The city centre that comprises a group of hawkers selling fresh veggies and fruit. The taxi rank where the drivers are just as crazy, if not more so, than Joburg but far more relaxed. Maybe Transkei A Grade. The backpackers that have lost their way and are at the mercy of the Transkei ebb and flow. The Vubu flooding the sea with mud for 4 or 5 kilimetres and the feeling in the air of something, a portent of strangeness still to come.

It’s where Nelson Mandela sent Chris Hani when De Klerk revoked his amnesty.

It’s where my home now lies although it is not a fixed abode but rather a place in time that I can lay claim to and call my own.

Nights in a tent where the only sound is the ocean, tree dassies and frogs. I still can’t really put it into words, not through lack of trying but it always sounds cheesy, romantic and downright utopian. It’s not safe. There are far more ways to die than there are on offer in Joburg, much to ire of the big city.