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He is currently creative director at a leading Cape Town agency. He lives in Cape Town with his family. I cannot see any of those things. When I find her, I see she has no head, and her hands are aloft as though searching for it. The bat or butterfly image is hardly innocent — its wings are shredded, torn, holed. It seems a sad thing to find. Me, I see the face of a beast. A hellish wild pig, with angry mad eyes and tusks.

Apparently that makes me a little paranoid. Am I the only one who feels this city shift as if it were floating on water? I feel it shiver in its changes, a tectonic island nudged here and there by what lies beneath, and it feels like the slipping of a carpet on a tiled floor. What could it be other than water?

And if it is, why do we have so little, eking out our rations between sunset and sunrise, if and when the Council of Ten allows it, filling pots and jugs so that we may make tea or wash our armpits? It falls warm on my bare skin, and when I awake my pillow is soaked with perspiration. There comes Douglas, scooping his fingers through his long hair. Dashing Douglas, Sindi calls him. I hide the browser before he gets to my desk, and the pig is gone.

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Maps unfinished, dead-end research paths, the black blots of wild pigs. You can imagine the mirth, the virgin birth jokes, the requests that I walk across the empty swimming pool outside the restaurant. Douglas comes around and leans over my desk. He peers at the map on my screen, breathing on me. The second card surprises me.

Like the others, this is symmetrical, and black, but there are smears of red top and bottom. Three-six-nine, the goose drank wine. Somehow the song they were singing had stopped mid-phrase, freezing them forever on the page just as their hands touched. It means I relate to people.

The Inkblots

At least I am spared that. I am a cartographer. Or more accurately, a geography honours graduate who fell into making maps. What else would you do with a geography degree? And now I work for Douglas, who works for the Bond Foundation, as does Sindi, and as James used to before his body was found washed up in the desert against the dry wave of a dune. That his lungs were full of water left no doubt that he had drowned, although nobody could say how, or why.

Sometimes at night the slightest wave will lift my bed before putting it gently down again. A sudden subtle movement might cause a stumble on the stairs. Just a few days ago when crossing the Square during my lunch break I saw perhaps two dozen people waver, just once, like reeds in a gust, as the world undulated beneath us. He held his bottle of water closer to his chest and his eyes narrowed.

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I cannot see anything but two figures beating on a shared drum. There is something ancient about them. Most apparent are the breasts on the figures. But above their knees is a protrusion, a broken femur perhaps, or the representation of a penis as painted by someone who has never seen one. The notes are vexing. To see the figures as female, as I have, is to be homosexual. To see them as male is to be heterosexual. Does this apply to men and women alike? And the notes say nothing about the foetuses I see dangling in the void behind each figure.

A great beast or man, feet made enormous by the low perspective, threatens from the card, ready to attack. You should simply see a standing figure, or a bear, or a gorilla. No surprises there, then.

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He probes the issue often, from different angles. I wonder how much time he spends thinking up new ways to ask the old question, while Sindi and I compare centuries-old maps with the way our city is laid out today. Even Douglas must know by now that I will not speak about it. I get out of the bed. I have nothing on, except too much flesh for a young woman.

Inkblot: Drip, Splat, and Squish Your Way to Creativity by Margaret Peot

But I have little — in this sense — to hide from Douglas. He has no interest in the skinny women who wander the City with their crotch-gaps and their tiny tits and their blued cheeks and their hair piled high in stiff sculptures on their heads. He has said as much, often, nuzzling into my softness. This is why I overlook his long teeth and garlic-tainted kisses, and why I forgive him his constant hair-tossing. From the dresser I take a sheet of paper and hold it up to him. There are forests, which I have drawn by clumping together what I recall of images of trees. I cannot think of a way to indicate the glacial depths of the lakes, and hope that their purple-inked surfaces might be enough.

I suddenly feel shy, as if the map has made me more naked than I am. He sits up in the bed and leans forward, squinting at the paper. He looks up at me to tease. They say that there used to be millions of bats in the caves and crevasses of the mountains behind the City. Silent and invisible during the day, they would mass at night and float shrieking over the streets in great dark clouds as they cleaned the air of the mosquitoes and midges that used to breed in the swamps. There are scratchings on the walls of a few caves that some believe show a close relationship between the bats and the Primitives, although the nature of the relationship is yet to be defined.

Sometimes schoolboys will bring home frail matchstick bones or eggshell skulls from their adventures, giving credence to the old stories. After the swamps dried up, the elders say, the insects died out and the bats starved. In the caves that once dripped with water only stalagmites and stalactites bear witness to that faraway past, even as they crumble to dust.

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Sindi trawls through the City Archives and the only museum that is still functional, and she scans the ancient charts she finds on the machine seconded to us by the Bond Foundation. The three of us will pore over the scans and, based on the indications of old ponds and wells and streams, will try to determine where the water once came from, using logic and deduction rather than fact to pinpoint the mountain aquifers, old sewers, market gardens, remnants of dams and ponds that may once have held ground water, or reservoirs that once drew the living water from the veins and arteries of the mountain streams to slake the numerous thirsts of the City.

The results have been interesting only archaeologically, when old walls that bore the marks of water erosion were turned up, or canals filled with sand uncovered, or the bones of a mother and child buried in a bag found — all of them stained black or purple or deep ochres by the soil. Not once has water, or damp evidence of it, been discovered as a consequence of our work. And yet when least expected, the city shudders with the power of it. After the cotton crops failed and the sheep all died in the sun, the people of the City turned to their dogs for food and clothing.

Often in my childhood I would see their hides salted white and pegged out in the sun to dry, later to be turned into coats or bedcovers. The sixth image shows such a pelt, stretched taught across the card. I do not see the mushroom cloud or the men with goatees who may or may not be there. Douglas comes over to my desk and once more I hide what I am looking at. He asks where Sindi is and I tell him she is out scouring the City for maps, even though her pickings are becoming thinner with every passing day. He looks around to make sure of her absence, and then he pulls her chair towards my desk and sits down.

I try to recall a moment when Douglas has allowed his confidence to flag like this, slipping like a bathrobe from his shoulders, and I cannot. Two little girls, rendered in soft greys, face each other with their ponytails flying in the air. These aspects give the girls a certain vulnerability, and if their ponytails are flying, they must be jumping, which makes me wonder what will happen when they land. The City is a dangerous place.

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People are sometimes killed for a bottle of water and a few coins. Thirst-crazed bands have been known to invade family homes for their last drops of water, and if they are caught they try to deflect blame to the Primitives. Searls uses this unlikely-seeming artifact to illuminate two histories, one scientific, the other cultural, both full of surprises. With The Inkblots , the Rorschach, in all its ambiguity, finally has the richly complex life history it deserves.

The Rorschach inkblot is like the enigmatic corpse in a mystery novel, and Damion Searls is the passionate and encyclopedic detective who unpacks the intricate and twisted story of how it came to be. By the end, one feels that Rorschach and his test are the key to understanding the whole 20th century.

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Searls is a wonderful writer: Hermann Rorschach, while tracing the strange half-life of his cards as they appear, Zelig-like, at key 20th-century moments. Along the way, it almost inadventently uncovers a hidden history of social attitudes and cultural shifts over the past years… Searls creates a warm-blooded portrait of a man who feels like a Hollywood biopic in waiting.

Most of the founding lions of psychoanalysis often seem as petty and infantile as they were at times brilliant and inspired. Vividly sketched with many new sources, The Inkblots reveals Rorschach to be a fascinating character: This is a book that challenges us to consider the relationship between what we see and who we are. The Enigma of the Nazi War Criminals.

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