01FOAD The Rising Fire at Dancing with the Cats

7/30/2019 01FOAD The Rising Fire at Dancing with the Cats

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We had become a faithful part of that cross country road, to the surprise of regularcommuters overtaking us with a honked of encouragement. these familiar cars takingdistance no sooner vanished with the tarmac amongst the wavy Highveld hill. we prideourselves ridding through inbound Pretoria's peak traffic, on the occasion caching up thesecar in a bottleneck. We split. my brother riding on to high school, and over the years, Iheaded off for constructions sites dispersed across the city and its outskirts.

scenic sun settings over the tarmac that cuts expanses of golden Savannah weren'twhat I look forward to, coming offconstructions sites after sweating out aday's work. there seemed no relief frommy harsh existence as I jumped on mybike. The leading road endless.spinning feet, cranking the chain to a

soft fidelity purr that rolls the links. Onthe way tracking down my brother whofinished school a few hours earlier.

On that morning, I drove theVolkswagen Beetle with a foot light onthe throttle pedal. amused by astreamlining experience, the windtunneling through the popped outwindshield my face in the air, and outthe rear, of windows discarded in thewayside veld.

Two months earlier on themaiden voyage from Capital Park newcar showroom I made myself a firm

hroughhehe flameslamesffody languageanguage


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Thursday s .' Soon adding an exception to the day of attending class at the technical collegedowntown. I grew breaking every rule, admiring the bright white padded interior, the odor,lounged in the bucket seat at the controls of a glider's cockpit. I lead a life increasingirresistible against the triathlon. listened to the pet engine behind the rear seat, with astruggling roar uphill, changing tone by shifting gears, to revv wild and whining all the wayhome.

The tumbling experience in the car tamed my racing adrenaline as I pulled up the wideningpaved driveway to the bishops' residence under renovation. instead of stepping off a bikewalking away sweat dribbling underneath a gorilla skin of heated muscles. Light on my feet,void of a black leather jacket wrap preventing an early morning drastic body chilling down. Istepped around the car in shame, resisting the sleek apple green gleaming undulations. outto catch by sight lurking eyes in the shadow of door and window opening at the wing underconstruction. Before turning the corner, I squint backward with a fever of remorse toward thefuture of the metallic bubble buckled like a discarded tin hurting myself against a moralsymbol provided by nature as a first aid survival kid. the damages characterized in theaftermath of a fire extinguisher spraying at my wits by a deliberate test drive on the familiarcross country straight, midway interrupted by a traffic circle.

Speeding up on a bike conjugatinga a free wheeling inflection through corners withthumb thick tires for road grip. At the velocity of the car's approach of the Morna Valleytraffic circle through a morning drizzle, I shifted down gears deducing its breaking speed.The road grip resisted a gravity sway pulling me over and back from the bucket seat. Whenthe exit curve came in sight, a thought crossed my mind; 'I might have broke n a record ,' andstepped the throttle. Gentle and unexpected a cycloramic landscape rotation constrainingthe orientation with an oil smooth acceleration. a nausea mounted while helpless at thecontrols, and in my horror the slow Head over Tail course brought me in line with anupcoming red car.

A while later, the Afrikaner in khaki overalls and hard hat stood twice the height of his

Mini Minor station wagon when I crossed the virtual fence from the existingresidence over to the construction site. in all innocence a virtual envy

billowed me, spelling a rookie not to cross the ankles of a foreman.The man leads me through the dark interior of the wing underconstruction. Directed me on deck where a carpenter nailed a fewfinal cleats finishing off the raw wooden support to the formwork.

by late that day, the Boer who demanding from the nativeworkers a Baasb of respect, insisted I called him 'Oomc Jan.walked me to stand with cement burned white leather boots by theconcrete slab that earlier a crew of black laborers poured on the

adjoining driveway. I tended to ignore the pointing finger, commanding a dog;Sit and in the tone of voice he said; Float it!

I hunkered down, and with hands cement burned to leather, spinkled with a blockbrush water and grunted a wooden float in rotation. in the vicinity of the joint pressed on anosing tool up and down along the edge of the formwork forcing andpersisting against a setconcrete. As I struggled to stirup the crusher stones sinking inan otherwise quicksand. Iglanced up the raw brickbuilding, eyes crying without

tears. Returned to the chore ofbringing slashd up to smooth down the surface. Iadvanced at the rate of a snail in desperation,


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the openings from the depths of the dark interior. My biological clock brought anxiety needn't see workmen gathered tools at the other side of the building. They left site by therear, and soon I felt the crawl of dusk and the pressure on my shoulders as a net of despiseweaved in me.

After weeks of growing impatient at empty inconvenient moments, I resumed anunder broken symbolic return. With a moral of a new relationship, I emerged from the panel

beater workshop. headed home, driving by a resolution of duality the Beetle for the love ofits fidelity, amiable in it apple green, hostile toward its lack sprightly sport's touch.

Washed, I opened both of the built-in cupboard doors, clearing a wardrobe I sharedwith my brother. My eldest sister, Anoli stepped in beat me to deciding what to wear Wewere a gender of boys and girls a little raw on the edges. In a large family getting the sametreatment. Playing 'What's the Time Mr Wolf' in the midst of homes in perpetualconstruction. There, she found our lost childhood pulling out some old clothes. assuring herseniority since all ages, said; Put these on.

while she disappeared from the room, I slipped into the pants and shirt that shehanded over. She returned scissors at hand, and no sooner bedeviled my clothes. Turning

around me with a brief hunkering. As shearing up the cloths wasn't enough, she raised adiabolic wit with a shy broadening smile the moment she had sought to get back at me forhaving had to lead my life. Her hands wild, tearing up. Then she stepped back washing medown by sight, and with a final gaze, in silence said; 'You're a wreck .'

Moments later I stepped out the house with a clear view across the SmallAgricultural Holding. Stepped across the white grit garage apron toward the Beetle, fromwhere I drove off. Circling an island that branched a way to the rear Poultry Farm. I washeading through rows of firs. At the sound of the cattle gate rattle, I emerged from home'ssweeping flirt of the driveway run up to the intersecting thoroughfare. pulled up at amidpoint, in the spirit of two cities revealing their ghosting traffic.

Daring, I gaze across the black strip, slipping deep into my seat, as the Savannahlie wedged out through the shallow valley laying a golden shine to sleep. I threw myexistence into the passing blacktop, shying away from my right oure customary bicycle routeinto the Afrikaner's month. Pulled off swerving left, accelerating by the gravity of aself-conscious melting into the discrete angel of the Beetle's leading shadow. The desertstraight curved left, slipping aside by a few degrees the next stretch. the cross countrystraights ran through distant lies of dusk vanishing across my way, reappeared shuntingleft, the route east in an ongoing Southward orientation to ran into a major intersection. Anhill rolled over and to my surprise saw through the night veil the commercial capital accruingscintillating city lights.

Suburbs still for supper as I moved along the leading road. Disappeared with lightenclaves deep in a barrel vault foliage and meandering with rows of sidewalk woods.Emerged, clearing a stretch on the rise. Craved for the park in peace hiding out in the moodwith the animals in zoo cages, as I ride through lampposts my face dabbed by lightsslipping down my torso to disappear over my lap. Time an again in the spotlight, I searchthat entertaining evening influx of traffic for a loose regard while prolonging the massivestone wall. Brought into sight the University campus. Rode over central station's field ofrailway lines making my entry into the grid of streets. Eyes shifting at spotting upoverbearing city building, rising blind above the windshield, which never appeared so tallwindows in numbers ghosting out an eye to get a squint of me. I swerved into Rissik street'ssmall quiet One Way side street. Pulled up and parked. In shame stepped out gazing

around the Beetle's roof up desert sidewalks, as with shifty eyes I rushed a path through thepedestrian crossing, and swerved left. While walking along Market street along a trickled oftraffic, I picked up front in-sitters moving by without sparing a glance, and grew to deducing


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Wall recess with a silhouettes wrap of a larger than natural dancing Fred Astaire with GingerRogers leading the wide sleek steps up into the lobby.

That first and fluttering impression initiated by an invitation following up on anadvertisement in the entertainment section of 'The Star' newspaper, branded in mind.Thereafter every time I walked up to the reception counter, the outdoor posted silhouettes ofthe dancing couple underlining the words 'Fred Astaire' was brought forth in rehearsal. The

tall male slipping off the posted entrance window to appear ahead elegant in a penguin suitbehind the counter. At sight of me he motion toward the distant contour of the furniture.While, in my path toward the rear crystal room, from the shadow of a rising bloc floorparquet, the gleam of light dissipated by the impeding appearance of a short man. Elegantin manners, he held back the tall figure, and I was slow at blending my boyish naivety in anadult world, to allude to gays and partnerships in the business. The short penguin figureslowed down my run up. Understanding an approaching welcome. Declining my innocencebeyond a ledger and regulating accounts. Gentle, a colliding air buffer brought us shuntingsquaring up together to the paraphernalia spread on the counter.

In the passage of time, captured by the grace of these man ghosting in each other'sdignity, too shy at asking the men, when neither in gender replaced the silhouette of Ginger

Rogers. until the Barby Doll of a figure formed a trio, eavesdropping in on Miss Brice,emerged English names like Adam and Turner ending a long standing confusionf.

in a wild rush that day, I escaped the following shadows held back behind the closingglass door. Breaking in on a vacant reception, wasn't it for Miss Brice, transparent in herdisguiseg, tall on heels the sight of me in shreds disappearing, discreet in her surprise. Theeyes that reflected my Tango teacher and the changes before her time .

My first encounter with a dance teacher gentle and fragile leading me away from thereception to the rear. She moved with a sharp swerve through her flimsy dress from the

crystal room to left side doorway. There, sun-filter nets in folds curtained peripheral wall

heights from discreet street regards. She explained what didn't sink to mind. Beginning ademonstration, pursued calling out, repeatedly, and as pathetic repeating in a side by sideduo; One, Two, three... With eyes down, I stepped an imaginary square box and told;Hold the forth beat as the playing music spread wings rising to take flight, my feet were inconcrete clogs. Neither did I step the bloc underneath a shiny parquet floor or pick therelevant notes on the playing Blue Danube Waltz. A childhood not so fast to relent thesounds of Tam-Tam beats rising from the jungle floor to dissipate into the silence ofmoonless nights.

As fragile in her dress than her figure, with soft and patient eyes, she pulled awayfrom my side and in a whip face me with a stern determination. Her feathery finger grip wrapmy gorilla paw, and with a heel pressure in my palm heaved the wooden balk of a muscular

arm to stretching outward. As her other hand guided my arm for an embracearound her figure. At the moment she let go, my fingers pads flirt with the

soft tissues of her dress dabbing a porcelain doll. She called out, Holdfirm, her hand shaking me in my back and my hand. While insisting, letgo off her hand and firmed my grip beneath her shoulder blade. light as a

breeze she strained her arms, pushing me around, reminding me, Raise youreyes from your feet. gradually my feet precipitated on and off notes. In timeafter a few sessions in as many weeks, the little creature, petite, insisted asshe pulled me up near. The full frontal body contact was an illusion, until sheinsisted; Lead with your body.

My teenage years were groomed by the blinding reign of apartheid.Beyond the White-Black-Asian miscegenetic social integrity. Thepuritan and Cartesian governing system blended in with our
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=UCtym_bRjKshttp://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=UCtym_bRjKshttp://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=UCtym_bRjKshttp://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=UCtym_bRjKshttp://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=UCtym_bRjKs


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muscular machine with an extenuating frown. A signs of impatience I picked up by myeldest sister. As facial creases ironed out, the ghostly gleaming parquet floor raised a magicmusical chair of apparent changes. Unlike home living in permanence with sisters andwithout preferential treatment to the boys. The mood of female teachers at the crystal studioin beauty characteristics of their sex appeal, romantic, catty in disguise.

My new world in a captivating va-et-vienth, emerge from the learning stages of

ballroom music. Grunting steps change to a Latin American; One, Two, Cha-Cha-Cha...tune, and while improving catching on the doubling notes raising the adventuroussensation. Free from body contact, given room for movements to a persistent kidneys rockand roll. At every session I started from the cold. Warmed up by the beat permeating.Progressed through an underlying childhood African Tam-Tam beat heating underneath theball of my feet, the fire of the flames ever high, till possessed by the playing music.

When Miss Brice appeared on the scene, to an order the sentinelsi in penguin suitsretrieved with their studio principle. Instead, the Barby Doll alive with an organic flare,

stepped up to the boy still in me. Daring an adult catty paw rub. Misplaced. An

understanding welcome, deceiving by the proximity of the reception counter as a physicalcomposite in my life. I sought that ecstatic body language taking my mind in trance. Miss

Brice was that metaphysical raft along with other teachers and women navigating in thecurrent of my rough waters. She went on leading me through the fluidity of the Tango. But,not before the flurry of all age people in the crystal studio, where I had the fun of emergingwomen in the manners of their reflection from the mirrors to dance. These idyllic figureschanged to fire fighters. In mood with fire extinguishers, they killed the flames leaving mewith the cinders of confusion.

In the aftermath of fun made of me, handing me a bottle washed ashore from theshipwreck. On a lost island beach, leaning against the reception counter in my shreddedclothes and touting with glugs. Back to business at the studio, from the familiar faces. Bythe sense of an innate sister,she was the one I offered toaccompany me to my apple

green beetle my compound

possessions, even if only by

titles, taken that the financial

organization are the brittlepedestal in ametaphysic-chemistry of themoody elementj. I opened thedoor to Lynn Gird and watchedby as she stepped in. Closed

the door and came around thefront of the Beetle to take myseat along side and drove off.Bubbled in the spirit of a coupleby the interior atmosphere, Isteered the route she directedwest out of the city. Droppedher off at a typical face brick suburban house against the hill that faced the Kensingtonsuburb. No sooner did she disappear behind the door high on the stoop, did I pulled off. Mycourse home closed a symbolic circle with a backspin in the following weeks, settling aroutine in picking her up on my way to the studio.

Illustration 1: Composite of physical possession in the mood ometaphysic element.


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... a /... In the sense of the chemistry of mind over motions

... b /... Afrikaans; My Master.

... c /... Literally Afrikaans Uncle.

... d /... sufficient cement coated river sand and small stones slop

... e /... My brother and me,

... f /... The tall figure wasn't Fred Astaire

... g /... Not as drastic than her usual self

... h /... Musical rhythm; Comings and goings

... i /... The initial pair of partners

... j /... Recurrent in different forms, the chemistry of metaphysic, in all my works

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01FOAD The Rising Fire at Dancing with the Cats