The Lion walks commentary

I started this project as an idea that my mother and I discussed trying to publish a book that was a collection of Witch Doctor and similar stories that captured the wealth and depth of the mystery that was and probably still is South Africa. I felt that the collection would need a framework or vehicle to carry the reader from one tale to the next. I was not comfortable with the idea of just presenting the public (reader) with another collection of stories. So I took a page from Robert Aspirin's Sanctuary series which were a series of short fantasy stories told by various authors all under the roof (or rather within the walls) of a Fantasy setting called Sanctuary. To some degree those books did work for the most part.
I later was forced to abandon the project as running down enough source material became tedious and bothersome to collect and my own creativity was pulled to other projects and the requirement of basic income consumed my energy to expound on the original concept. Added to that was a failed attempt to return to SA to add to the collection and give some fresh experiences to fill out the background more thoroughly.
Finally, and perhaps most disappointing was the total lack of enthusiasm I received from pretty much everyone I talked about the project to.

So, I put it all to the side and begin work on some non-fiction project that have consumed me (for the most part) until recently.

Who knows if I will return to it. it would help if I knew I had an audience for the amount of effort that it will ultimately take to produce it with any real quality.

A Lion walks under the shadow of the African Valley of the Moon: A Trek into the stories of Southern African and one man’s heart.

Bartlomeus Ridder lived a life filled with trouble and turbulence of which his boyhood chum, Michael knew nothing of save that he had always suspected that Bart’s future would not be promising or bright. Bart’s life ended at forty leaving a shattered family and a lost brother somewhere out in Namibia not knowing that Bart had died. Michael, who had found Bart through Facebook and had just begun to recover the lost years since he had returned to the States, did not realize the impact his friendship had made on Bart during those brief years at Max Stibbe.

            Michael had already looked in returning to South Africa to meet up with his old friend and look for others who made up his own past. His experiences with Facebook had forced him to reevaluate his own interpretations of his life, but with Bart’s sudden death had made it unavoidable for Mike to confront his own demons rather than just consider them. Michael decided that it was time enough to return to the Dark Continent, the land of his birth.

            To those of you, who have never been to Africa, know this, Africa is about land and this fact has more impact on a person’s soul than most can possibly recognize. Once in Africa always in Africa, the land is as inescapable as the promise of death. There is something about the land that will never let you completely go. Sure you can go somewhere else, live someplace else, even call it home and believe every word of it in your hearts of hearts, but Africa still owns a piece of that soul regardless. This was especially true for Michael.

            Michael had the advantage of being born there, so the part that belonged to Africa had settled in his soul from the beginning. He considered East Tennessee his home, did not long to live elsewhere and figured he would die there as well. But when he would close his eye and let his mind run free it would return him to the veldt of the Transvaal and he would run with the buck through the long grasses.

            He could not explain it to anyone who had never been to Africa, had ceased trying to talk about how it was almost like hearing the mythical drums in the jungle when his mind would wander. The drums had sounded louder and louder over the past few days since the news of Bart’s death had reached him in a tearful phone call from his estranged daughter Natasha. Michael knew that he would have to go and help Natasha put the pieces together, never mind say goodbye to his old friend.

            Michael’s mother was from East Tennessee and his father was from the Transvaal. His parent’s had met in Europe in the sixties and fallen in love and later married after his mother came to South Africa. They settled down to life in the largest city, Johannesburg. That was many years past and life had not gone quite what it should seem, but Africa had gotten into his mother’s soul as well. Michael had come along after another child and apparently was a bit of a surprise for his father when he did.

            Michael’s parents had not remained in South Africa long; his father had dreams of American living and persuaded his mother to return there. So an ocean crossing by ship was arranged and they were bound for the promise land. American life was very much a dream for Michael, a waking dream from which awakening as the eventual return to South Africa seven years later. His parents could never quite explain the reasons for going back, at least his mother had a firmer idea of what she had wanted, but his father avoided the topic completely for many years following.

            Michael first met Bartlomeus Ridder in the spring of 1981 at a school out in the middle of nowhere in the veldt east of Pretoria, the capital city of South Africa. Max Stibbe School was a boarding school on farm outside of a small town (someplace) east of Pretoria about two hours northeast of Johannesburg.

Juliet

Juliet, 

She is my poem, my muse, my love song
I sing it to her above me up there on her 
balcony
Under this full moon out from her bedroom
her hands fall upon the iron rail
my Shakespeare fails and speechless my words
run dry in my arid throat
words no longer rhyme as if the stop thump of 
my heart has forgotten how to start
She sings my name into the night
I find the pen is in my hand 
it is heavy with my sudden delight
to scratch to scrawl to write our names 
entwined on the white city walls
Juliet, I love you more than the stars
above, more than the flowers in the spring
more than the water in the well
more than the empty oaths I will tell
call to me and I will come to the
window where her lamp light breaks
on a stage, on the paper on the tattered page
her ink is scribbled on my heart
her lines are read written for her part
I life is a play and we stand now upon his whim
will William give me a chance like this again?