Postcards from Babylon

28 July 2005. Today I was invited to a cafe at Bristo Place. I had been told about it, but had never visited it. I had been told about it because apparently it is run almost entirely by volunteers, people who are not paid but who do get a meal for their pains. Being on the poverty stricken side and a few family members away from trying my luck selling 'The Big Issue' on the streets, I was interested and asked what cause they supported.

"Well, it's kind of non-profit. It's vegetarian... I don't know. Just the common good I suppose!"

Sounded socialist to me. But then, I am hyper socialism-conscious at the moment. So I turned up today. The crazy decor didn't deter me too much. I 'grew up' in Grahamstown. And I thought, after my experiences at the yellow submarine hostel in Inverness, I was hardened. Then, as I walked to the counter, my eyes and senses were accousted not only by advertisements for Anacharist group meetings, but also by a large blackboard proclaiming the availability of GAY P**N [forgive the asterix, not too keen for my blog to become x rated] - "just ask". Everything goes in this place. I was afraid to go to the bathroom. But I had to go, and had to laugh - I found the walls were plastered with paper, for those who couldn't resist graffetti, and because the volunteers "were tired of painting", according to an official notice. I left the cafe pretty soon after being invited, by a reasonable looking person, to a party celebrating the Festival of Lunacy.

The city reels. It drinks deep of its dark imagination, and desperately dreams of light and colour. It moves to the beat of a muffled drum of tolerance. Self is good. Self is god.