Mr.Blobz

Take a seat. Sit and contemplate. Breathe in, breathe out, smile at something you see. Let go the mystery. Lean back and feel the freedom release from your gut, your stretching feet and reaching toes, your neck extending backwards, upwards, arms, folding elbows that rise to meet you, like two old friends.

Welcome yourself! Here you are.

Yes, all is just so, when you sit. One can now take the right measure, relax and resign to a more useful perspective.

Mr Blobz is one of a common tribe with a quicksilver conduit between brain and butt – an admirer of anyone who seeks an instant gluteal relaxation station, especially when they choose a discarded piece of crappy pine chair for lumbar support. Viva! The relief, the relief oh!

And to watch the world go by… with scribbles on your throne, codes and tags and scrawls of power and identity. Well, who is to say we have not stumbled into a palace of being?

The plight of the urban elephant, the soul-rememberer. This giant was felled by development adjacent to the old Bromwell Hotel in Salt River, now home to a ’boutique mall’ and a deli with an atrocious baguette, puffy and pale.

The pachyderm – unnamed – caught the pity of Mr. Blobz almost a year ago, as she lay, felled beyond the weedy grass that had overtaken this site, a squalid compaction of old plastic and oil fronting a rotten corrugation of assorted materials.  Now, scaffolding ensnares the fading corpse. When Mr Blobz paid a belated visit the puffy Congolesienne security man wanted to call the avarocious owner – No Photo! – even of a dead elephant.

Mr Blobz senses they know what they’re building on. An elephant graveyard.

Adrift, floating down the road in a Vanden Plas stationwagon….Mr Blobz is enchanted by the idea of a life on water, mesmerised by the ripples in the stream, those delicate shapes we create in our own wake, the patterns of our own waking… Streams of life and consciousness, held together in a wooden canoe. Floating, suspended.

My dear neighbour owns the boat and the car and the beautiful building behind (another story – this is where the Lower Main Road Xmas Party takes place every year.) In a secret workshop behind the wall, a smaller wooden canoe is being constructed by loving hands, for a son. Strips of rare wood bent to shape, brass screws holding wooden kisses together. Placing life in the stream. And, like the parent that he is, watching life grow up and inevitably away, around a bend in the river.

This… bucket has been perched on the pavement, untouched, unviolated, for about twenty one days. Innocent as fuck, corrupt plastic, resolute, politician-like, smeared with viscous violence and a stain of ghastly probability.

I pass it often enough to ponder a possible Satanic connection? Could it be a portal to the netherworld? In the UK, for example, these are well documented – see http://www.entrances2hell.co.uk/,  but here in SA, there is a paucity of data on such supernatural avenues. Please, dear readers, don’t lift the lid without wearing a silver cross and holding a clove of Kate’s Moss…

Aaah, to be at play. To forget. To be honest – for play, reckons Mr Blobz, is a place where we are really ourselves, as we have forgotten to be.

Play is such a blissful state of being – a mindset, a heartset. A tennis set! A cherished state we enter with the forgotten passport of childhood, that we inhabit when we’re free of the muck of daily life, the mood-sediment and undertow of our emotional tides… Yet how often we don’t even think to play, or refuse the idea, feeling like we simply can’t: or worse, that play is stupid, childish, retrogressive.

How good to see these dominoes plastered on the wall in some arbitrary Observatory back street.

They have such texture. While Mr Blobz enjoys the odd spot of online tennis, he prefers the thwock of a tennis ball on the backside in a game of stingers, or the joy of throwing a stone into a bucket. The simpler, the better.
So come and play, where we can leave things behind, where a ball or a card or a bow and arrow sing you back to yourself. Now it’s your turn.

This delightful instruction for dogs, which many of them will not be able to understand because the emanating turd looks a little like a tail and dogs are notoriously colourblind, was spotted by Mr Blobz on Lower Wrensch Rd., just metres away from his very first abode in this august ‘hood, way back when Mr Blobz was a mere spotty student.

No. 56 Lower Wrensch was formerly inhabited by the regal combination of Kate, Robyn, Stove and Dogs (no relation to the four-footed kind.) Mr Blobz moved in back in the summer of 1990, a mere twenty years ago, buying the carpet Stove left behind, which was soon home to one of the most renowned flea colonies in the southern hemisphere. Dogs also left for better things at this stage, leaving Mr Blobz with Kate and Robyn for company. Even with the addition of Nicky, this proved an unsteady foursome.

One of Mr Blobz’s repressed memories from this time, when his sanity was as erratic as the pinball scores in Mr Fuckit’s corner cafe, was of a sardine lasagne prepared by a housemate who shall remain nameless.

Another memory was of the Dogshit Marathon, a unique event humbly invented by Mr Blobz himself, where, barefoot, the peron who ran around the block in a combination of the fastest time (s), subtracting the mass of dogshit (g) scraped away from his or her naked heels in grams (with g=s in value), was the winner.

Sadly, the event was never held, and, judging by the mother grundy who has forbidden canines to deposit the remnants of their torried diets on this particualr pavement, never shall be.

Black on brown, malevolent sprites of crime, school of intent and line, wondering to the skyline, shapes of black fish-spine, cut in a wall, following all.

My eye was haywire with this orangeness on the road nearby.

Is there is some turmeric involved here? Foul play from mustard seed? White rice is conspicuous by her absence.

Perhaps a disgruntled pumpkin? Raised in terror, artificially fertilised and pumped with drugs, cut away from itself, loaded and trucked to a Fridge ‘n Aisle or Green Abbatoir.

Mr Blobz sees this orange splodge as the remains of a massive avian meal.

What is the most plausible origin of this remarkable splat?

Mr Blobz would like to know…

What better to do that flare up the ‘hood on a weekday morn’? This is one of Mr Blobz’s community-minded neighbours, adding some thoughtful action to the street. Why not?

Entrails. Aren’t they beautiful? Upturned and eviscerated, this rubbish bin spills a story onto the operating table of Polo Road, spattered by a street-surgeon that is a rattled bergie. What do we read, inside the blood, beside the filth? Crinkled stories in a Frito packet, a smile torn Black Label and the endless Savannah, coffeefalls, gushing gallons of Ricoffy, and Mr. and Mrs. Marlboro graining the patient with tiny studs of sticky tar… The surgeons hands recoil from the rubbished allegories that have crumpled here, tossed away, woven in a forgotten heap, decorated with a Jive and Diet Cream Soda…