Where the story telling all began.
Me on the left, in 1965 on my parents 28000 acre spread, off the Shamwari roadd, between the Munyati and the Sebakwe Rivers in Zimbabwe.
With his hand draped over the baboon pole is Patrick Mavros (who was visiting for the weekend), pulling the go-cart is cousin Bryyan (also visiting) and my brother Paul is sitting on the cart.
Here and there, mainly on the weekends, I manage to escape into my imagination for long enough to enter that special reveried state which allows the fragments of the past and present to intersect, like the woof and the warp, when the mind weaves a fable reality.
I create the snippets of this story, much like I used to fashion my sculptures when I still had the full facilities of my, back then taken-for-granted sight.
This is not a blog, Thus even though I may create my writing erratically, I post consecutively, so that the pages follow a broad story line.
I would like my tale to be endowed with three things,
A sense of place.
A platform for my missives on life.
I have 3 more pages written so far…. the Russians are coming…, should be ready by this weekend..