Tag Archives: robson

Finally – an explanation

It’s no secret I’ve not been active on my blog this year.  I can now offer a brief explanation.

 

My place of employment had some tough decisions to make.  In a nutshell, a restructure was called for.  That restructure meant my going from full-time employment there to being utilized on a freelance basis.  The change took effect on 01 July, but we all knew about it months ahead of time.  In anticipation of the shake-up in my life and the effects it would have, I started preparing early by channelling all of my energy into learning as much as I could about the entire spectrum of my trade.  See, if you do freelance videography in Namibia, your chances of surviving off a regular income are slim to zero.  I therefore considered, and after much hand-wringing, decided to start up a videography production company with one of my colleagues once our time at our previous place of employment lapsed.

 

We are in our first month now, and it is a scary ride so far.  As you can expect, starting up a business of your own takes up a lot of time and energy.  So much so that I’ve not been able to write or read very much for some time.  Of course, I’m hoping that all changes as quickly as possible and that my blog can once again become a part of my life and routine.

 

I want to thank all of those of you who continue to support me when I do post.  Please don’t see my absence from your own blogs as rejection – I dearly want to catch up with your exciting journeys.  You have all been so inspirational to me, and continue to be.  I value all of you.

 

For those of you who are interested, you can see our company showreel here: Page Ten Productions – Showreel
We also have a Facebook Page here: Page Ten Productions – Facebook
 

Thank you all once again for your marvelous support.  I will be back.

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By Way of Absence

I had to find myself

Back in the desert

So I hung around

‘Til the skies turned gray

Suicide in the rain

City streets wash

What remains

What remains?

I found myself underground

With commuters and the homeless

Restless travelers’ destinations

Built on broken dreams

Suicide in the rain

City streets wash

What remains

What remains?

I have to lose myself

Stand still in a storm

While flood waters rise

My illusion sinks

Suicide in the rain

City streets wash

What remains

What remains?

Coming Soon – Part 2

A couple of weeks ago some colleagues and I were filming a one minute ‘trailer’ for a non-existent television show. The post with my character’s picture is here – Coming Soon

This is one of the other characters as played by Callie, a colleague.

Photography: Andrew Robson
Model: Carel (Callie) Louw
Copyright: 2011

Strawberry – trucker trouble

Continued from yesterday…
“Good morning, Sir. Have you been helped yet?” the drawl of her smoky voice has a history of poverty.
I shake my head, unwilling to trust my own voice. It feels like someone is strangling me. I am faint. My blood is boiling in my head.
“Hang on a sec for a menu, okay?” she says, then walks toward the till.
I am weakened and thrilled by the sight of her pert ass jiggle from side to side underneath her skirt. The backs of her nude, white legs, formless as pencils and so confident in their youthful stride, captivate me.
She whisks a menu from behind the counter and starts back. I avoid her eyes by looking elsewhere, only to see the trucker lick chocolate covered fingers with salacious delight as she passes by him. I bite my lip.
“Here we go,” she says placing the menu in front of me with a graceful sweep that brings with it a waft of her deodorant tainted sweat. “Can I get you a coffee?”
“Yes.” It’s my voice. Sounds so foreign. Still, I avoid looking at her.
She walks off again. I peek.
“Hey, Honey,” the trucker grumbles, stopping her with a hand as she is just about past his booth.
She gasps. Even the kids in the background fall silent at the sound.
“How ‘bout another one just like that,” the trucker says and stabs his empty plate with a blunt, fat finger.
I am already halfway to my feet before I catch myself. This is none of my business. I sit down again. The trucker looks straight at me with icy eyes and cocks his head back; a challenge.

Strawberry – entering the diner

When I enter the diner that’s the first thing I take in. The space. How it’s filled. How it exists.
The most dramatic and immediate change from the space I’ve just left behind is the assault of cooking oil and ammonia on my nose. Do people still clean with ammonia?
Then the colors. Red leather benches. White tabletops. Pink uniforms.
A toddler three tables to the right of the entranceway pitches a spoon into the air. It forms an impressive arc before it comes to a ping and skittle on the cream tiled floor. His brother laughs. His mother scolds.
I head left. I pass an enormous trucker wolfing a chocolate and syrup waffle. An old man stares at his reflection in a mirror behind the counter as he waits for his change. The waitress, whose rings under her eyes match her charcoal hair, scratches in the till with her fingers, and the flesh of her underarms flaps gently.
I take my seat in the last booth before the bathrooms. My back is against the wall. I sense someone behind me. She exits the corridor wiping her hands on her apron.
Her skin is like snow right before sunset; her hair the sun about to set. Her lips are a strawberry, her eyes are two invigorating pools reflecting the sky on a mountaintop.
“Good morning, Sir. Have you been helped yet?” the drawl of her smoky voice has a history of poverty.