Category Archives: Graphing Auto Bio

The Rogue

The conversation went like this: "But, when you were in your twenties, surely you had people following and emulating you? “No, I was a rogue. I travelled, I went my own way, didn’t ask blessings, didn’t ask for endorsement.” “But surely people looked up to you? Admiring what you did, and how you did it?” “I don’t think so. I wasn’t trying to be admired. I was on a very wayward mission that greatly differed from any norm I was exposed to. I was a rogue” “So you ... continue reading

The Belt

From the first time I took a ride from a bicycle rikshaw cabby in India I was hooked. I was exhilarated beyond measure by the casual way the driver weaved his way at top speed through the hideously disorganized and misshapen traffic configurations of New Delhi, deftly swerving in and out behind mini-trucks and ox-wagons driven by five-year-old, dread-locked and sooty-faced peasant children. I did not know fear; sometimes I turned right around, and faced backwards, into the mob of advancing rikshaws. ... continue reading

My friend Gavin and the legacy of Rockey Street

"...we surfed freakland & yet we never slid into that morass of free peoples mediocrity..." says my friend Gavin to me now, February 2010. Gavin is an old buddy; an ancient buddy. I met Gav somewhere in South Africa, and we hung out in Yeoville in the nineties, on Rockey Street, in Johannesburg. Rockey street, with all its mayhem, all its flotsam and jetsam, it's street junks and goths and its Lizard Lounges and tatoo parlours; Rockey Street, that changed the direction of its one-way traffic ... continue reading

Rotterdam by Night

Walking the Streets of Rotterdam in late December 2009, The night is dark and so very cold tonight as I shuffle along Rotterdam's spinal cord - the Westersingel. I am heading for Rotterdam’s central station, and it's way past 10 pm. My side of the street seems asleep, in the darkness. All of sudden a door bursts open at the top of some steep steps, and two wayward women laugh and talk as they come trampling down into the cold, and careen across the empty street to the iced-over ‘gracht’, where ... continue reading


An autobiographical piece A native speaker of any language usually has a cultural homeland: a place where he or she associates the deepest and fondest memories of childhood and rhyme. Such a place exists for me, though it is now just a memory, for it was never mine to keep. For one, the place itself, and the notion of family life, adorned with images of mothers holding freshly baked cakes and Christmas trees and suchlike are disassociated from one another in my case due to cirumstance. This ... continue reading