I fantasise about the worlds given to me by
It’s 9:30 on Saturday morning. I wake to
Jimmy knocking on my bedroom door, ready for the previously agreed upon 10km run to Llandudno. A tanned body with a tattoo on the back of her neck moves momentarily next to me. I’m renting a house in Sea Point with a crazy Polish marketing manager while I contemplate my next corporate move. An architect at one the city’s more promising firms, I still fantasise about being a rockstar. Not today’s rockstars though. Not the Mikas or Paris Hiltons but the Led Zeppelins, the Bob Dylans, the Lennons or The Stones. I’m looking at buying a vintage 1968 Porsche, I’ve started playing the sax and last night I fucked a Brazilian model named Gabriela. Signs of a man having his midlife crisis. Only thing is I just turned twenty-seven. 106
one small seed
Kerouac, Miller and Salinger but am reminded by Easton Ellis and Bukowski that it’s all gone to shit. After all, I am of the generation of near misses – too late for the sixties, free love or Studio 54. Instead we’re burdened by the morning after of crystal meth, heroin and Aids. A generation brought up on guilt and responsibility caused by our parents’ carefree infidelity. We’re the ‘make love not carbon emissions’ bastard children; white collars living in an ailing environment. We chase green cars and buildings while working jobs we’re overqualified for to survive in a world we’re not responsible for. So what can we do? Let’s fuck up the economy. Wait, someone just beat us to that.
I get back from my run and find Gabriela has
left a note saying, “Call me, Beijos!” I probably won’t. Jimmy and I head over to Sandbar to meet Frank and Roxanne for a light brunch. The pristine beauty of Camps Bay beach across the road almost overwhelms the personalised number plates of the million dollar cars parked along the roadside. The ocean makes me think that people once flocked here for far less pretentious gratifica-