The west coast

The west coast horizon cuts your eyes with it’s marble glare. A straight blade of sea meeting the distance, plating out your thoughts. A pink horizon, in a rush gradient to blue, makes you think of things like. Why mathematics is so important. How the ocean is 2 thirds of the earth. Why waves break in sets of 7. How Charca-brikette smoke is the same hue as the skyline. If I had a fishing boat, what would I name it.

The light on the west coast has only two settings. Off, and burn your pupils out. To white wash your walls seems like the only sane reaction to the glare. People say the west coast has a stark beauty. To me it’s dusty beauty, as if the whole coastline had been left for a week on the back of a bakkie. It’s chalky brownness blankets everything. Just three days in and I had ran out of things to take photos of. Lighthouse. Check. Washed out faces of the locals with no front teeth. Check. Dirty bushy barbed wire fences. Check. Roads. Check. More dusty roads with horses. Check.

You have a different clock while in the middle of nowhere. Your priorities change when you’re sleeping in a deck house in the bush. Does it suck your ambition to just lie on this beach rock, no longer caring if you’re going to ‘Be International’. You want to lie on this hot rock. You want to take out of focus photos of your girlfriend swimming in the rock pools. You forget about the Loeries and how Andrew Human reminds you of your geography teacher.

After a week of the above, it was time time to head home to Twitter. To Freshbooks. To kloof street Vidas. To the macs. To brainstorms. To gmails. To football 2010 adidas Viras. To the big fat private yachts fighting their way into Granger Bay. To the quick surfs at glen. To security checkpoints at Wembley Square. To the perpetual feed which is google RSS. To 2010 where I’m going to create something beautiful.