Snick. Snick. Steady stroke of diamond stone hones the edge of the bone-handled hunting knife not too long a blade to scream bad-ass alpha male but long enough to reach between the ribs if push comes to shove.
Snick. Snick. Droplets of life tremble at the sound of carbon steel meditating on the task of slicing and dicing digging for the truth separating layers dissecting gristle stripping muscle bare shaving the lard from lardass biting into bone all for the sake of proving a point of sticking to the facts of knowing that between known and unknowing is a razored spine of disappointment if only liFe was as simple to separate as death.
Snick. Snick. The neck hairs bristle the eyelids try not to confuse the view of metal once molten fused and beaten with fire iron in the steel calling out to iron in the blood: “Be free, Become one with me”.
Road trip with Dad a visit to the lake maybe fishing a braai with steak and boerewors but just a quick stop first at the friendly bottle-store Cheap box wine and Mainstay cane the all-day-breakfast of champions Fishing started well then stopped for food My dad more engrossed with liquid than the fish His ham-fisted attempts to fight the fire with flames Charred meat, soldered sausage I didn’t mind just happy to spend quality time with my father. Bored and rummaging in the car’s cubbyhole for playthings I pulled out his gentleman’s pistol a small Czech-made James Bond wannabe the budget-bargain Walther PPK if you prefer He sometimes joked about ending it all saying farewell to this cruel cold world. I checked the magazine, loaded with puny-shiny bullets.
A few hours later we started packing up
Always way too drunk to drive
but that never stopped him trying.
Weaving our way back
along a dusty dirt road
my mouth stuffed with
salt and vinegar crisps
and soggy chunks of hot-dog roll
I wondered if I’d make it home alive
Home to a bruised-emotionless mother
Home to an eating-disordered sister
Home to a defiantly-inflamed brother
who skulked in the shadows of
art homework and rock music.
Home where the heart never beats
Home where friends were not welcome
Home where every family gathering
was dissolved by the ninety-percent proof libations
of my father’s dedication to
holistic inebriation.
The drive home was liquid
the booze sloshing around
the old man’s body like the
dozens of empty liquor bottles
rolling beneath the car seats
and the steady streams of
tears and terrified snot
that poured down my
nine-year old face.
Quality time with my dad
consisted of this sea:
buckets and buckets of liquid
beating like angry waves
between the shores of
a drunk’s lead-lined liver
and a child’s eternal hope
some day things might
turn out different might
end up okay in the end.
More than thirty years later I’m a father myself I’ve done extensive research on the cunningly-baffling personalities of Cape wine and Polish vodka I have started the journey of one thousand and twelve steps. Sunday is Father’s Day Here’s hoping I’ve learned something.
Mudthang's Musings 