They are everywhere. You see them too. The people with hips rolling to the beating of unseen drums, recklessly pumping bystanders with the addictive hum of a tune that can’t be shaken off.
At times the hum is just that but, no sooner do the iron fists and their shepherd gloves appear then so do the songs of defiance. It is even before the first hymn is sung at temples and tents that a song of praise welcomes the dawn. It cannot be avoided. Music is the ultimate drug.
It does things to us we might not otherwise do. It possesses us with its beat, lures us in with a verse, hooks us with a rhyme and rips us apart with a single chord.
And so it comes as no surprise that music has a checkered past. The people consumed by it don’t hide it. They can’t. Music manifests itself in the things we think, say and do. It is the strain that snaps the chain of those condemned to serve. It is the war cry that precedes the bloodshed. It is the lament that follows death, and the ululations of celebrations. It is one thing and also in all things.
That is why we must never forget the power that music commands. For those who own it govern it. So, one can either own their music or be governed by it.
Own your music. Live your life parallel to the soundtrack you want to play.
When there’s blood on the streets you’ll find the prelude to war on the lips of the masses that have been massacred. Music is the fuel that fans the flames of revolution.
start something
that time cannot wipe away.
it takes one verse.
Namaste
Wednesday
Sometimes, Words
Sometimes, words don’t say what we want them to say.
The words we throw as lifelines
fall as prejudgments on the ground,
and the healing in every letter
becomes the blade in every word.
Sometimes, apologies are watered down
by the tears in our eyes.
The words we surrender as compromise
are in turn used to hurt us,
and the sacrifice in every act
becomes the fire that burns us.
Sometimes, love does not breed love.
Words we give to protect
are the same words used to bleed love,
and the forgiveness of one cruel act
becomes the bullet that kills love.
Sometimes, words don’t say what we want them to say.
Namaste
The words we throw as lifelines
fall as prejudgments on the ground,
and the healing in every letter
becomes the blade in every word.
Sometimes, apologies are watered down
by the tears in our eyes.
The words we surrender as compromise
are in turn used to hurt us,
and the sacrifice in every act
becomes the fire that burns us.
Sometimes, love does not breed love.
Words we give to protect
are the same words used to bleed love,
and the forgiveness of one cruel act
becomes the bullet that kills love.
Sometimes, words don’t say what we want them to say.
Namaste
Tuesday
Chance
This poem, it was said, went out looking for me
and so I wrote it.
Laid it out.
Thick and fast.
Then I spoke it.
Said it would
open up to me.
Unfurl the very shell
it parades as self.
This poem gave this line to me;
spit in my eyes to help me see.
This poem’s a cold melody.
A slow symphony of rifles
that sees bullets run ahead of me.
Clicking and tapping,
tripping and crumbling
to the a capella of falling bodies
ebbing and flowing,
moving and dying.
This poem, when we met,
would show itself to me.
Stretch the limbs out.
Uncurling the verses into
the stanza you see.
And then
screaming and wailing
breathing and dying.
A line.
This poem birthed
a rhyme.
Namaste
and so I wrote it.
Laid it out.
Thick and fast.
Then I spoke it.
Said it would
open up to me.
Unfurl the very shell
it parades as self.
This poem gave this line to me;
spit in my eyes to help me see.
This poem’s a cold melody.
A slow symphony of rifles
that sees bullets run ahead of me.
Clicking and tapping,
tripping and crumbling
to the a capella of falling bodies
ebbing and flowing,
moving and dying.
This poem, when we met,
would show itself to me.
Stretch the limbs out.
Uncurling the verses into
the stanza you see.
And then
screaming and wailing
breathing and dying.
A line.
This poem birthed
a rhyme.
Namaste
One African
It turns out that there is only one type of African. This, honestly, upsets me a smidge. Not because this definition of this African is nothing like me nor anyone that I know to be African. My itch lies in the fact that I just don’t believe this African will and can ever exist. Let me explain what the One African is.
He has skin darker than the shoe polish I’ve seen some of us use on our heads. She is the colour of a starless night sky. He is built like a rock, with elephant skin. She is supple and as sturdy as instsika. He speaks African. She has hips the size of mountains and feeds villages from her bosom. He breeds a nation and fathers no one. She is this and not that. He is them and not us. She is the rise and the fall.
The mistake lies in the classification. African is not a definition of one thing or person. It is not an exclusion of other, but the inclusion of all.
There are Africans that are the colour of milk, summer, leather and ebony. There are Africans built like mountains, rivers, the wind and dreams. There are those with eyes made of water, coal, fire and the red earth. If you look real close, you are sure to find Africans who aren’t Africans. These too, are Africans.
There are those of us who don’t want to be defined. We too, are African.
So, maybe when we stop defining who we are and start living, we might just let others live as well.
Namaste
He has skin darker than the shoe polish I’ve seen some of us use on our heads. She is the colour of a starless night sky. He is built like a rock, with elephant skin. She is supple and as sturdy as instsika. He speaks African. She has hips the size of mountains and feeds villages from her bosom. He breeds a nation and fathers no one. She is this and not that. He is them and not us. She is the rise and the fall.
The mistake lies in the classification. African is not a definition of one thing or person. It is not an exclusion of other, but the inclusion of all.
There are Africans that are the colour of milk, summer, leather and ebony. There are Africans built like mountains, rivers, the wind and dreams. There are those with eyes made of water, coal, fire and the red earth. If you look real close, you are sure to find Africans who aren’t Africans. These too, are Africans.
There are those of us who don’t want to be defined. We too, are African.
So, maybe when we stop defining who we are and start living, we might just let others live as well.
Namaste
Sunday
Melville is Alive to the Sound of Poetry
The rumbles of age-weary motorcycles and vehicles drag on outside to mark the empty space between poets. And then this woman of living ebony effortlessly drowns out the rumbling to a hum with a steady stream of words. Uhuru waga Phalafala, a Limpompo native, unravels and unpacks line after line of verse. She is followed by Yoliswa Swa (Mogale) who had earlier in the day performed an a capella piece weaving the spoken word with her faultless Soweto twang. The poems she recites for the room full of ears at Koffie Huis on the corner of 4th Ave and 7th Str send soft vibrations through the bodies, and feet start tapping to the rapping of fingers on tables.
This place, hidden behind the manufactured towers of a metropolitan city, is as real as the truths delivered from the book shelves, street corners and roofs that the Melville Poetry Festival has brought together.
And on the topic of rooftops, Buntu, an Imbongi, perched atop the ex-Nike building lures passersby, diners and patrons outside with his booming voice. I’m reminded of home. The voracious onslaughts of Xhosa send the hairs on the nape of my neck reaching for the heavens. I think back to isibaya and oomadala, how days became nights around fires and the timeless clicks of my mother’s tongue. IsiXhosa asitolikwa.
Of course, there’s much more to this Festival. There’s Andries Bezuidenhout, Rennie Alexander, Lithal Li, Mac Manaka, Ron Smerczak, Pam Nichols, Wiseman, Angifi Dladla, Ahmed Patel and the Botsotso Jesters. Then there’s slam poetry, prose, music and the written word. And then there’s still more here. But, you see, that’s not just it. This place, this day, the performances, the discussions, books, recitals, the food and being in the company of two intriguing creatures inspires me.
And so I write.
A Poem
A poem is a song not sung,
a book not writ
and a word not spoken.
It is what it cannot be,
the obvious you do not see.
It is the is and the is not,
the known and the forgot.
A poem is.
Namaste
This place, hidden behind the manufactured towers of a metropolitan city, is as real as the truths delivered from the book shelves, street corners and roofs that the Melville Poetry Festival has brought together.
And on the topic of rooftops, Buntu, an Imbongi, perched atop the ex-Nike building lures passersby, diners and patrons outside with his booming voice. I’m reminded of home. The voracious onslaughts of Xhosa send the hairs on the nape of my neck reaching for the heavens. I think back to isibaya and oomadala, how days became nights around fires and the timeless clicks of my mother’s tongue. IsiXhosa asitolikwa.
Of course, there’s much more to this Festival. There’s Andries Bezuidenhout, Rennie Alexander, Lithal Li, Mac Manaka, Ron Smerczak, Pam Nichols, Wiseman, Angifi Dladla, Ahmed Patel and the Botsotso Jesters. Then there’s slam poetry, prose, music and the written word. And then there’s still more here. But, you see, that’s not just it. This place, this day, the performances, the discussions, books, recitals, the food and being in the company of two intriguing creatures inspires me.
And so I write.
A Poem
A poem is a song not sung,
a book not writ
and a word not spoken.
It is what it cannot be,
the obvious you do not see.
It is the is and the is not,
the known and the forgot.
A poem is.
Namaste
Tuesday
Lobola. Explained.
When I used to think that I knew everything, or at least a lot more than I really did, I wrote a handful of these.It is a time-honoured tradition. There is much more to it than the silly tabloids say. Let’s also try and clear this up for you.
1. Lobola is NOT Payment offered to the woman’s family as an I’m-taking-her-off-your-hands and I Own Her Now gesture. Lobola is a Thank You. It shows Appreciation to the family and the parents for raising (what we assume and hope) to be this Lady of my heart, Life partner and mother to nurture and help raise my heirs and beloved children.
2. Lobola is a Promise. It says: “I realise that you are losing an integral and priceless treasure to your family and I promise to Love, Honour, Protect, Care and treat Her like the Queen she is.” That simple.
3. There are two parties to be concerned about when Lobola is on the books. Not his family and her family. That will end badly. It’s Us and Them. Us being him and her. Them being the two families. No one else, the neighbour, friend and shoulder to cry on don’t have a leg to stand on in these negotiations. Us will have to make a life after Lobola. Them will have to be considerate.
4. Price. No matter how you break it down. Lobola is still a financial obligation (whether it’s cows, cars or cash), it’s not a burden. Only agree to a price that will neither be a future burden to the Us party or patronise or blatantly insult her family.
5. Save Up in Good Time. Don’t be a senseless idiot and come with a backdated checque that will bounce like a rubber playball the next day. That is insulting. You know what you can afford and what you can’t. Do you know how much the engagement and wedding rings cost, Mr Big Spender? Do research.
6. Discuss. Discuss. Discuss. Talk to her. Yes, that woman who will be your wife. If she thinks you are the Reserve Bank Governor although you are on your last reserves with the bank and living on overdraft, she will not understand if you pay any less than what she thinks she’s worth to you.
7. Do it right. If you do not know what the procedure is, Captain Westernised, find out fast. Don’t make your lawyer represent you. This is not a pre-nuptial negotiation. Man Up. Do It Right.
8. Know your options. Installments is one of those options. Three installments is understandable. A 60 month installment will not fly. You are saying thanks, not buying a car. Okay, Mr Wonderful?
Namaste
1. Lobola is NOT Payment offered to the woman’s family as an I’m-taking-her-off-your-hands and I Own Her Now gesture. Lobola is a Thank You. It shows Appreciation to the family and the parents for raising (what we assume and hope) to be this Lady of my heart, Life partner and mother to nurture and help raise my heirs and beloved children.
2. Lobola is a Promise. It says: “I realise that you are losing an integral and priceless treasure to your family and I promise to Love, Honour, Protect, Care and treat Her like the Queen she is.” That simple.
3. There are two parties to be concerned about when Lobola is on the books. Not his family and her family. That will end badly. It’s Us and Them. Us being him and her. Them being the two families. No one else, the neighbour, friend and shoulder to cry on don’t have a leg to stand on in these negotiations. Us will have to make a life after Lobola. Them will have to be considerate.
4. Price. No matter how you break it down. Lobola is still a financial obligation (whether it’s cows, cars or cash), it’s not a burden. Only agree to a price that will neither be a future burden to the Us party or patronise or blatantly insult her family.
5. Save Up in Good Time. Don’t be a senseless idiot and come with a backdated checque that will bounce like a rubber playball the next day. That is insulting. You know what you can afford and what you can’t. Do you know how much the engagement and wedding rings cost, Mr Big Spender? Do research.
6. Discuss. Discuss. Discuss. Talk to her. Yes, that woman who will be your wife. If she thinks you are the Reserve Bank Governor although you are on your last reserves with the bank and living on overdraft, she will not understand if you pay any less than what she thinks she’s worth to you.
7. Do it right. If you do not know what the procedure is, Captain Westernised, find out fast. Don’t make your lawyer represent you. This is not a pre-nuptial negotiation. Man Up. Do It Right.
8. Know your options. Installments is one of those options. Three installments is understandable. A 60 month installment will not fly. You are saying thanks, not buying a car. Okay, Mr Wonderful?
Namaste
A Sliver of Hopelessness
As it turns out some grim civilisation a very long time ago is said to have predicted the end of the world. How convenient it is then that they should all miss the big finish.
The media, for all its balanced and factual reporting, would like us to believe that this day is the 21st of December next year. That’s kind of a letdown, considering the christian version of the messiah has his birthday four days later. Although it would be suiting if on the third day all mankind would arise from the dead so that on christmas day we can all amass in celebration and then confucious would have his version of the apocalypse with babylon falling during the party.
Talk about creating equal opportunities.
This prediction begs some inspection since this nigh end is within our lifetime.
So what is one to do? Build a bunker in the basement or shuttle off into outer space perhaps. Maybe closing one’s eyes and reciting some revised incantations might offer salvation. Idol worship is another option, but the jealous, merciful and all-loving sentient being might smite thee before the grand end of days for doing that.
In any case what are the exact terms and conditions of this apocalypse? Are there any exceptions or loopholes, because what I understand of this particular prediction is that there is no magic sign that can be stamped on one’s forehead to exclude them from the final fireworks display when brains and bowels will explode into a thousand colourful pieces, depending on what your final meal was and what time of the day it is.
If all humans are going to die then no matter where you, uninhabitable 3d planet or parallel universe, you are doomed, unless, of course, you die prematurely and get reincarnated as a cockroach. If the earth is going to implode, then a space capsule might be a good investment. The bunkers might not be such a bright idea though. Actually no matter what form the end comes in – be it flood, fire or attack of the machines, clones and undead – an underground bunker is pretty much useless. Sure, it seems like a novel idea at first. Shopping for five hundred tins of baked beans and gas masks is pretty cool until the day of the apocalypse passes and you can’t afford to pay the bond for the house that your bunker is attached to.
Other endings are no prettier; one supposes that stars will fall (that’s other planets), the moon will disappear (so will the tide) and insects will have their day – so coming back as a cockroach or locust might not be such a terrible idea after all.
And if we believe in the big bang, should we really be expecting another bigger bang or maybe just a small fizzling out – if the universe can’t outdo its opening act. No big finish then?
And those righteous few who’ve led allegedly pure lives and whom we should do as they say, not as they do – what of them? Are they safe? After all we owe at least one death, unless you’ve been reborn a number of times. In that case you’ve worked up quite a bill.
Maybe, we’re all wrong. Instead we might go the way of the overgrown lizards and have an asteroid plunge us into an age of darkness, brimstone and sulphuric fires. Oh, how picturesque.
In any case, no one is impervious to death so, why stress and bicker when you can drink and be merry.
Namaste
The media, for all its balanced and factual reporting, would like us to believe that this day is the 21st of December next year. That’s kind of a letdown, considering the christian version of the messiah has his birthday four days later. Although it would be suiting if on the third day all mankind would arise from the dead so that on christmas day we can all amass in celebration and then confucious would have his version of the apocalypse with babylon falling during the party.
Talk about creating equal opportunities.
This prediction begs some inspection since this nigh end is within our lifetime.
So what is one to do? Build a bunker in the basement or shuttle off into outer space perhaps. Maybe closing one’s eyes and reciting some revised incantations might offer salvation. Idol worship is another option, but the jealous, merciful and all-loving sentient being might smite thee before the grand end of days for doing that.
In any case what are the exact terms and conditions of this apocalypse? Are there any exceptions or loopholes, because what I understand of this particular prediction is that there is no magic sign that can be stamped on one’s forehead to exclude them from the final fireworks display when brains and bowels will explode into a thousand colourful pieces, depending on what your final meal was and what time of the day it is.
If all humans are going to die then no matter where you, uninhabitable 3d planet or parallel universe, you are doomed, unless, of course, you die prematurely and get reincarnated as a cockroach. If the earth is going to implode, then a space capsule might be a good investment. The bunkers might not be such a bright idea though. Actually no matter what form the end comes in – be it flood, fire or attack of the machines, clones and undead – an underground bunker is pretty much useless. Sure, it seems like a novel idea at first. Shopping for five hundred tins of baked beans and gas masks is pretty cool until the day of the apocalypse passes and you can’t afford to pay the bond for the house that your bunker is attached to.
Other endings are no prettier; one supposes that stars will fall (that’s other planets), the moon will disappear (so will the tide) and insects will have their day – so coming back as a cockroach or locust might not be such a terrible idea after all.
And if we believe in the big bang, should we really be expecting another bigger bang or maybe just a small fizzling out – if the universe can’t outdo its opening act. No big finish then?
And those righteous few who’ve led allegedly pure lives and whom we should do as they say, not as they do – what of them? Are they safe? After all we owe at least one death, unless you’ve been reborn a number of times. In that case you’ve worked up quite a bill.
Maybe, we’re all wrong. Instead we might go the way of the overgrown lizards and have an asteroid plunge us into an age of darkness, brimstone and sulphuric fires. Oh, how picturesque.
In any case, no one is impervious to death so, why stress and bicker when you can drink and be merry.
Namaste
Monday
The Message
Life is a reel of moving pictures
frames of undulating, blended pixels
Tomorrow is today’s inevitable consequence
Your conscience holds the promise of your deliverance.
Believe in this.
TV is as real as some things will ever be
The mind fills what the naked eye can never see
The heart understands what your neighbour will never feel
One small seed is all we need
to find the bonds of tolerance between you and me.
This is The Message, are you listening?
frames of undulating, blended pixels
Tomorrow is today’s inevitable consequence
Your conscience holds the promise of your deliverance.
Believe in this.
TV is as real as some things will ever be
The mind fills what the naked eye can never see
The heart understands what your neighbour will never feel
One small seed is all we need
to find the bonds of tolerance between you and me.
This is The Message, are you listening?
Friday
Another Native Dead
In the news tonight,
aircrafts plummet midflight
and on the ground, the streets turn red.
The commies come out
with their protest shirts and bloody riots.
A convict escapes.
A lost docket, a jar with no jelly and a pocketful of lies.
Someone’s elected then someone gets fired.
Retrenchments and henchmen, hoodlums and crooks.
A stabbing here and a loaded gun, then someone dies.
Another ad break.
A moment of silence.
Back at the back of a bar somewhere
front men find scapegoats and kick backs.
Hijackings and rapings, muggings and victims.
Handshakes seal fates, the sound of cut brakes.
One red robot, another drink for the road, then a drag race.
A line of coke, a dare and the walk back home turns into a procession.
A drunken statement, a bent cop and an open hand
a wink here, a nudge there and palm full of rands.
Another constructed testimony
and the gavel falls.
A moment of silence.
At the bottom of a bottle
a lit cigarette shrinks into a stompie
and a gun goes off.
Another Native Dead.
A scream calls the next of kin
the receiver falls and the reverend speaks of sin.
A hymn cuts off the wailing
mourners and a box descends.
Another Native Dead.
A moment of silence.
©
Namaste
aircrafts plummet midflight
and on the ground, the streets turn red.
The commies come out
with their protest shirts and bloody riots.
A convict escapes.
A lost docket, a jar with no jelly and a pocketful of lies.
Someone’s elected then someone gets fired.
Retrenchments and henchmen, hoodlums and crooks.
A stabbing here and a loaded gun, then someone dies.
Another ad break.
A moment of silence.
Back at the back of a bar somewhere
front men find scapegoats and kick backs.
Hijackings and rapings, muggings and victims.
Handshakes seal fates, the sound of cut brakes.
One red robot, another drink for the road, then a drag race.
A line of coke, a dare and the walk back home turns into a procession.
A drunken statement, a bent cop and an open hand
a wink here, a nudge there and palm full of rands.
Another constructed testimony
and the gavel falls.
A moment of silence.
At the bottom of a bottle
a lit cigarette shrinks into a stompie
and a gun goes off.
Another Native Dead.
A scream calls the next of kin
the receiver falls and the reverend speaks of sin.
A hymn cuts off the wailing
mourners and a box descends.
Another Native Dead.
A moment of silence.
©
Namaste
Thursday
The trauma and bliss
once in a while the crackpot hopeless romantic in me pops out the box.
the last time this happened, before now, i wrote this.
--
The trauma and bliss
Her kisses
like violent waves
pound at me.
like a symphony of sounds
her lips strum
melodies on mine.
to the subliminal beat
of everyday life
her touch is the rhythm
and her kiss is the rhyme.
And every minute
after she is mine,
I will labour to manifest
that moment
and harvest it
into a line.
©
Namaste
the last time this happened, before now, i wrote this.
--
The trauma and bliss
Her kisses
like violent waves
pound at me.
like a symphony of sounds
her lips strum
melodies on mine.
to the subliminal beat
of everyday life
her touch is the rhythm
and her kiss is the rhyme.
And every minute
after she is mine,
I will labour to manifest
that moment
and harvest it
into a line.
©
Namaste
Wednesday
Dear Artist, (this is no love letter)
Don’t expect apologies at the end of this.
They say it’s hard out there. They say, dear artist, you will have to die before you make the money deserving of your talents. It’s unfortunate, I know, but do you know something?
These things happen.
You can either make them happen or you can hope to catch them on the late night news as they happened earlier that day.
You see, dear artist, it’s up to you. Do it or get off the stage. Stop painting. Speak less. Close that book. Put that piano in the corner over there. Stop plucking at those strings. Drop that pen. Stop sketching. Rest that mind of yours. No one cares, can’t you see?
Why do you persist to take your pictures? No one looks at them anymore.
Your book of rhymes and big ideas is clutter. How then, pray tell, are you still an artist? What qualities set you apart from the rest of us? Don’t they call that claiming?
So, dear artist, you’re claiming.
Masquerading as something you used to be or maybe could have been.
Things aren’t looking good for you, you know.
But, then again, who’s to blame for your misfortune? You can still be great, only because you already are. Your greatness is not the thing that you must chase; it’s that which you must stop running from.
Find your sweet spot and enjoy life.
No one is going to attain your dream for you. In fact, no one is going to dream it for you either
Namaste
They say it’s hard out there. They say, dear artist, you will have to die before you make the money deserving of your talents. It’s unfortunate, I know, but do you know something?
These things happen.
You can either make them happen or you can hope to catch them on the late night news as they happened earlier that day.
You see, dear artist, it’s up to you. Do it or get off the stage. Stop painting. Speak less. Close that book. Put that piano in the corner over there. Stop plucking at those strings. Drop that pen. Stop sketching. Rest that mind of yours. No one cares, can’t you see?
Why do you persist to take your pictures? No one looks at them anymore.
Your book of rhymes and big ideas is clutter. How then, pray tell, are you still an artist? What qualities set you apart from the rest of us? Don’t they call that claiming?
So, dear artist, you’re claiming.
Masquerading as something you used to be or maybe could have been.
Things aren’t looking good for you, you know.
But, then again, who’s to blame for your misfortune? You can still be great, only because you already are. Your greatness is not the thing that you must chase; it’s that which you must stop running from.
Find your sweet spot and enjoy life.
No one is going to attain your dream for you. In fact, no one is going to dream it for you either
Namaste
Tuesday
Comrade Citizen (satire)
written on 10/02/2010
The Jay Code?-
An in-depth interview with Jay President, leading up to the 2011 State of the Nation Address.
Jay, what does it feel like doing your third Address after the pipe coup d'état a few years back?
Eh, Comrade Citizen. I see, you think you’re funny.
This is a hard time to be president of the country. This government has had to manoeuvre around a possible economic meltdown during the recession, we have kept promising the citizens better service delivery and accountability. I have had to watch many of my close friends and alleged co-conspirators get caught at the hands of a usually ineffective police system. Corruption and cover-ups have cropped up in all the avenues of government. I would be embarrassed by it all, were it not for the successful youth festival hosted by the national youth development agency recently.
You see, Comrade Citizen, inasmuch as we must point out our faults in order to make more convincing promises to the general public, we must also celebrate each success we have.
For instance, the havoc-wreaking, placard-swinging masses in Egypt appear to believe that a democracy is more important than their Pharaoh being the richest man in the world. Where is their national pride? Why can’t they be happy that at least one of them has made it?
Jay, you’re losing me now.
There is nothing to lose. It’s right in front of us now.
Even in our own country we have naysayers who actively go out and spread hate and lies about The Ruling Trinity. We are still a very young democracy. People must be patient.
Ya, nhe, Jay. Who can get anything done in 16 years?
It’s like this new thing about more jobs and such. I’m so tired of making the same promises. I really can’t be expected to save the country all by myself, in just one term.
I see what you mean about the expectations folks might have about you running the country, when you clearly have so many more people to do. It’s not like that is your job.
Who do they think signs important papers all day and suffers from extreme jet lag all the time?
Yes, Comrade Citizen. It’s Me!
I suffer the cold glares of opposition parties and the dirty words of The Divergence Cadres time and time again. It’s not easy but, the pay helps me make it through the day.
About the approaching Address, what do you think the public wants to hear this time around?
More of the same I hope. I really haven’t had time to come up with new material.
What about the new jobs that you have promised to pull out of a hat by 2020?
What jobs?! Who said anything about jobs?
Hehe. I’m just playing a joke with you, Comrade. The Presidents of The Ruling Trinity and all government intends to stick to their word. In fact, we can guarantee, with a 100% certainty that in 2016 We will be promising the public free housing for 2,6 million people. It’s an ingenious plan.
You see, the public will be so overwhelmed by the willingness of their government and the money set aside that they won’t even see that there’s no such nonsense as free housing.
I see. And you all truly believe that the public won’t notice?
Yes.
Oh. Okay. Tell me about how voting for you will get me in heaven.
Eh, you see Comrade Citizen. In truth, I am not meant to share this news with the people just yet but, since you asked.
The God People have agreed to let all our cadres into heaven. One thousand percent guaranteed!
All we have to do, in return, is to let The United Entitleds rape and abuse our land, our labour and the entire system, in fact. A very good deal, you see.
We are trading our way of life for Life-Eternal.
Alleged Life-Eternal, Jay. What about the other faiths. Are they supposed to just drop their own version of the afterlife for yours?
Not at all. If you vote for us you will get into heaven, if you don’t then you won’t.
How will you know who votes for you and who doesn’t? The system is independent and fair. There’s no way you can know.
Okay.
Okay?
Yes. Okay. Kanti undifuna ni wena? Dlulela.
Education suffered a severe blow last year. Any new bag of tricks we can expect from them? Maybe a new minister again, perhaps.
We will no longer have an education department. Instead, we will finance the national youth development agency to subsidise an education for the nation’s student population. This is something we are very happy about. We have successfully nationalised the department.
Eh, education was already nationalised. Save for a few private schools dotted on the landscape.
Oh. Then, there’s really nothing to talk about in that respect. Next question.
The roads are in a deplorable state, what is going to change about that?
Nothing. We are just hoping that they won’t get worse.
And there is the problem of clean water and proper toilet facilities per household.
What’s the problem?
The problem, Jay, is that people living in rural areas and squatter camps don’t have access to proper toilet facilities and clean water.
That’s been sorted.
We will be bringing down the numbers by compiling a census.
Compiling a census?
Yes. We always make up the figures. Who do you think has the time to go around counting people?
Oh. But, how will that lower the numbers?
After the census we will reclassify dwellings that look half-hearted and cheap as natural shelters. No government can be expected to plant toilets and taps next to all the caves and under all the trees all over the countryside.
I see how that could be a private joke?
In fact, yes. We will not joke with the people of this country. You must meet Us halfway. Imagine if we had to have a justice system. Who do they think would be president? The guy with the pipe?
The people of this country must learn to be happy about the way things are. Why should we change anything, in fact?
Why should you have to even go through the process of voting ever again? We must just hog all the power and write status updates and tweets about how well We live.
So that the people can stay motivated.
You know about status updates and tweets?
Of course I do. I have many female followers and friends.
Any news in that department?
What department?
The Presidential Harem.
Not as yet. You never know. Oprah might accept my friend request and want to elope with a real man.
[At this point, Comrade Citizen realised that this could be a practical joke, and subsequently left. Two days later he received a friend request by someone named TheRealPrez. He never accepted.]
- Comrade Citizen is a fictional character. So are his guests. If there is some resemblance to real people, events or places, that’s just purely coincidence.
Of course the government is not out to get us all.
2011 © COMRADE CITIZEN
The Jay Code?-
An in-depth interview with Jay President, leading up to the 2011 State of the Nation Address.
Jay, what does it feel like doing your third Address after the pipe coup d'état a few years back?
Eh, Comrade Citizen. I see, you think you’re funny.
This is a hard time to be president of the country. This government has had to manoeuvre around a possible economic meltdown during the recession, we have kept promising the citizens better service delivery and accountability. I have had to watch many of my close friends and alleged co-conspirators get caught at the hands of a usually ineffective police system. Corruption and cover-ups have cropped up in all the avenues of government. I would be embarrassed by it all, were it not for the successful youth festival hosted by the national youth development agency recently.
You see, Comrade Citizen, inasmuch as we must point out our faults in order to make more convincing promises to the general public, we must also celebrate each success we have.
For instance, the havoc-wreaking, placard-swinging masses in Egypt appear to believe that a democracy is more important than their Pharaoh being the richest man in the world. Where is their national pride? Why can’t they be happy that at least one of them has made it?
Jay, you’re losing me now.
There is nothing to lose. It’s right in front of us now.
Even in our own country we have naysayers who actively go out and spread hate and lies about The Ruling Trinity. We are still a very young democracy. People must be patient.
Ya, nhe, Jay. Who can get anything done in 16 years?
It’s like this new thing about more jobs and such. I’m so tired of making the same promises. I really can’t be expected to save the country all by myself, in just one term.
I see what you mean about the expectations folks might have about you running the country, when you clearly have so many more people to do. It’s not like that is your job.
Who do they think signs important papers all day and suffers from extreme jet lag all the time?
Yes, Comrade Citizen. It’s Me!
I suffer the cold glares of opposition parties and the dirty words of The Divergence Cadres time and time again. It’s not easy but, the pay helps me make it through the day.
About the approaching Address, what do you think the public wants to hear this time around?
More of the same I hope. I really haven’t had time to come up with new material.
What about the new jobs that you have promised to pull out of a hat by 2020?
What jobs?! Who said anything about jobs?
Hehe. I’m just playing a joke with you, Comrade. The Presidents of The Ruling Trinity and all government intends to stick to their word. In fact, we can guarantee, with a 100% certainty that in 2016 We will be promising the public free housing for 2,6 million people. It’s an ingenious plan.
You see, the public will be so overwhelmed by the willingness of their government and the money set aside that they won’t even see that there’s no such nonsense as free housing.
I see. And you all truly believe that the public won’t notice?
Yes.
Oh. Okay. Tell me about how voting for you will get me in heaven.
Eh, you see Comrade Citizen. In truth, I am not meant to share this news with the people just yet but, since you asked.
The God People have agreed to let all our cadres into heaven. One thousand percent guaranteed!
All we have to do, in return, is to let The United Entitleds rape and abuse our land, our labour and the entire system, in fact. A very good deal, you see.
We are trading our way of life for Life-Eternal.
Alleged Life-Eternal, Jay. What about the other faiths. Are they supposed to just drop their own version of the afterlife for yours?
Not at all. If you vote for us you will get into heaven, if you don’t then you won’t.
How will you know who votes for you and who doesn’t? The system is independent and fair. There’s no way you can know.
Okay.
Okay?
Yes. Okay. Kanti undifuna ni wena? Dlulela.
Education suffered a severe blow last year. Any new bag of tricks we can expect from them? Maybe a new minister again, perhaps.
We will no longer have an education department. Instead, we will finance the national youth development agency to subsidise an education for the nation’s student population. This is something we are very happy about. We have successfully nationalised the department.
Eh, education was already nationalised. Save for a few private schools dotted on the landscape.
Oh. Then, there’s really nothing to talk about in that respect. Next question.
The roads are in a deplorable state, what is going to change about that?
Nothing. We are just hoping that they won’t get worse.
And there is the problem of clean water and proper toilet facilities per household.
What’s the problem?
The problem, Jay, is that people living in rural areas and squatter camps don’t have access to proper toilet facilities and clean water.
That’s been sorted.
We will be bringing down the numbers by compiling a census.
Compiling a census?
Yes. We always make up the figures. Who do you think has the time to go around counting people?
Oh. But, how will that lower the numbers?
After the census we will reclassify dwellings that look half-hearted and cheap as natural shelters. No government can be expected to plant toilets and taps next to all the caves and under all the trees all over the countryside.
I see how that could be a private joke?
In fact, yes. We will not joke with the people of this country. You must meet Us halfway. Imagine if we had to have a justice system. Who do they think would be president? The guy with the pipe?
The people of this country must learn to be happy about the way things are. Why should we change anything, in fact?
Why should you have to even go through the process of voting ever again? We must just hog all the power and write status updates and tweets about how well We live.
So that the people can stay motivated.
You know about status updates and tweets?
Of course I do. I have many female followers and friends.
Any news in that department?
What department?
The Presidential Harem.
Not as yet. You never know. Oprah might accept my friend request and want to elope with a real man.
[At this point, Comrade Citizen realised that this could be a practical joke, and subsequently left. Two days later he received a friend request by someone named TheRealPrez. He never accepted.]
- Comrade Citizen is a fictional character. So are his guests. If there is some resemblance to real people, events or places, that’s just purely coincidence.
Of course the government is not out to get us all.
2011 © COMRADE CITIZEN
The Rock & The Flower (part one)
In our attempts to heal and rectify what wrongs have been inflicted upon us, as well as those we inflict on the self, we have lost much of who we are.
For it is not with the waters of compassion that we have chosen to feed the seed of change within and all around us, instead it is with monsoons and tidal waves of rage, defiance and vengeance. Who we are is not a reflection of the capitalist, imperialist or tribalist status quo.
We are not pawns for the culture of cash (consumerism) and credit. We are not the manifestation of ideals pushed unto us by some foreign power and oppressors, and we are not the result of one group’s actions towards us.
We are creations, first and foremost, of the creator. All of us.
The girls and women of the world are not slaves to the whims of man. They are not instruments which we, as males, ought to pleasure ourselves with. They are not to be shackled, literally and figuratively, to the concept of perpetual victim, weakling, feminist or dominatrix.
They are, in their truest light, queens. Each and every one of them. No exceptions.
The daughters, sisters, mothers, friends, grandmothers and goddesses. All of them, leave for none, are queens.
It is not for any man or woman to delight in the subjection or oppression of any woman. It is the responsibility of all who inhabit this world to remove the false ideas of woman that have been perpetuated by external and internal forces.
I can find no single individual or event to be blamed for the obvious deterioration of the rock (woman), and the decay of the flower (girl-child), that is her virtue, integrity, pride and soul.
In that same breath, without shifting the blame to another, we must all be held accountable. You, me, him, her. Everyone.
The woman who believes herself to be smaller or greater than any other holds blame. She who belittles others in order to shine is a vacuum, not a light. She devours the light of others, and through that one act becomes a monster unto herself and others.
The woman who cowers under pressure of others holds blame. She victimises herself more than any other person, man or woman ever can. Shrinking in the face of adversity fixes nothing. It is much like a scab left to fester. The scar gives of a stench that attracts those who prey on the helpless and weak.
ah, woman.
Woman.
sing me between the lines of your verses
plot me through the pages of your book.
body like a song.
Voice like the colour yellow.
The stanza in the poetry of my blues.
And I already told you
she’s way too mellow
for soul,
so she lives it.
strums it with her lips
plucks it.
pounds it with her hips
Have you seen
how she walks it.
ah, woman.
--
Namaste
For it is not with the waters of compassion that we have chosen to feed the seed of change within and all around us, instead it is with monsoons and tidal waves of rage, defiance and vengeance. Who we are is not a reflection of the capitalist, imperialist or tribalist status quo.
We are not pawns for the culture of cash (consumerism) and credit. We are not the manifestation of ideals pushed unto us by some foreign power and oppressors, and we are not the result of one group’s actions towards us.
We are creations, first and foremost, of the creator. All of us.
The girls and women of the world are not slaves to the whims of man. They are not instruments which we, as males, ought to pleasure ourselves with. They are not to be shackled, literally and figuratively, to the concept of perpetual victim, weakling, feminist or dominatrix.
They are, in their truest light, queens. Each and every one of them. No exceptions.
The daughters, sisters, mothers, friends, grandmothers and goddesses. All of them, leave for none, are queens.
It is not for any man or woman to delight in the subjection or oppression of any woman. It is the responsibility of all who inhabit this world to remove the false ideas of woman that have been perpetuated by external and internal forces.
I can find no single individual or event to be blamed for the obvious deterioration of the rock (woman), and the decay of the flower (girl-child), that is her virtue, integrity, pride and soul.
In that same breath, without shifting the blame to another, we must all be held accountable. You, me, him, her. Everyone.
The woman who believes herself to be smaller or greater than any other holds blame. She who belittles others in order to shine is a vacuum, not a light. She devours the light of others, and through that one act becomes a monster unto herself and others.
The woman who cowers under pressure of others holds blame. She victimises herself more than any other person, man or woman ever can. Shrinking in the face of adversity fixes nothing. It is much like a scab left to fester. The scar gives of a stench that attracts those who prey on the helpless and weak.
ah, woman.
Woman.
sing me between the lines of your verses
plot me through the pages of your book.
body like a song.
Voice like the colour yellow.
The stanza in the poetry of my blues.
And I already told you
she’s way too mellow
for soul,
so she lives it.
strums it with her lips
plucks it.
pounds it with her hips
Have you seen
how she walks it.
ah, woman.
--
Namaste
Monday
Political Foreplay
Politics this, politics that.
Ever stopped to wonder what politicians are saying.
Ever stopped to wonder what politicians are saying.
The language of politics is much like ikota (bunny chow), where russians are thrown in with atchar, chakalaka, polony, egg, bacon, viennas and a dollop of spices. Just for shits and giggles.
Words like accountability are as hollow as the promises one makes to another during foreplay. Mumbled whispers to the effect of; I love you so much I’ll buy you a plane are as reliable as promises of accountability during election time.
Political language is loaded.
Stuffed to capacity with deception, misdirection and outright lies, political promises are all part of the smoke and mirrors of foreplay. As soon as one understands that, then when a politician is quoted as saying something that resembles selflessness to any degree it is to be expected that someone’s about to get screwed.
That’s because we should be old enough to know that one goes through foreplay as a means to an end, not for the sheer thrill of being rubbed up the right way and left turned on.
Next time you get an earful of political foreplay, whip out a condom and remember to ask for taxi fare in the morning.
Thursday
Ndiredi
i am ready
for the monsters of anarchy
and the masters of liberation
to choke out the life within me,
grab my frail sanity
and hold steady
on their promise
of deliverance.
i am ready
for the socialists
to capitalise on the angst of the victimised,
to continuously sodomise
the spiritually crippled and
i am ready
for the "capitalist niggers"
to socialise over the corpses of vain believers
and hold high drinks with religious deceivers
and trample on the dreams
that reality is based upon.
i am ready
for the political preachers of economic salvation,
the robe-shaming individuals of truth deprivation,
those spit-on-you, spit-on-me, "i-built-this-nation"
shit talkers.
i say i am ready
for the shameless "i-am-eternal"
velvet conscience, red carpet crawlers,
those - living to die for betterment wishes,
dying to live in sky high shacks,
drowning in a puddle of instant riches.
i am ready.
i,
yes.
i.
am.
ready.
for them "bring-me-the-world,for-i-am-the-saviour's-sent",
those crooked self idolising patriarchs of stupidity hellbent
on choking the life within me.
you will not have me.
i.am.ready.
indeed
i am ready
to dismember the lies painted
across the history of this soul
i am ready
to capitalise
on your fear of losing sight
"you-blind-fool-that-see-nothing,not-even the light",
i am ready
i am ready
you cannot stop me
i am ready
you shall not sway me
i am ready
and you shan't have me
i.
am.
ready.
# # #
This piece is an old one. I guess for the sake of posting something (worth reading, I hope).
Namaste
for the monsters of anarchy
and the masters of liberation
to choke out the life within me,
grab my frail sanity
and hold steady
on their promise
of deliverance.
i am ready
for the socialists
to capitalise on the angst of the victimised,
to continuously sodomise
the spiritually crippled and
i am ready
for the "capitalist niggers"
to socialise over the corpses of vain believers
and hold high drinks with religious deceivers
and trample on the dreams
that reality is based upon.
i am ready
for the political preachers of economic salvation,
the robe-shaming individuals of truth deprivation,
those spit-on-you, spit-on-me, "i-built-this-nation"
shit talkers.
i say i am ready
for the shameless "i-am-eternal"
velvet conscience, red carpet crawlers,
those - living to die for betterment wishes,
dying to live in sky high shacks,
drowning in a puddle of instant riches.
i am ready.
i,
yes.
i.
am.
ready.
for them "bring-me-the-world,for-i-am-the-saviour's-sent",
those crooked self idolising patriarchs of stupidity hellbent
on choking the life within me.
you will not have me.
i.am.ready.
indeed
i am ready
to dismember the lies painted
across the history of this soul
i am ready
to capitalise
on your fear of losing sight
"you-blind-fool-that-see-nothing,not-even the light",
i am ready
i am ready
you cannot stop me
i am ready
you shall not sway me
i am ready
and you shan't have me
i.
am.
ready.
# # #
This piece is an old one. I guess for the sake of posting something (worth reading, I hope).
Namaste
Saturday
Unpublished
Please, don’t get published.
No one wants to die without publishing something, even if it has little meaning or adds no value.
That’s because some of us who want to remain in the hallowed hallways of libraries and educational institutions have nothing more to offer the world than the regurgitated, paraphrased and misquoted theories and ideas of others. This is not a result of a wanton lack of meaning or value within ourselves. Far from it.
Getting published and becoming a bestselling writer seems to be on every person’s bucket list.
This means that even though, month after month, manuscripts are churned out and turned into book-club favourites with official sounding ceremonies popping up quicker than mushroom churches, more of these best-sellers and literary-prize winners are worth less than local swazi sativas found in the shadiest part of town.
Baby steps. Before you publish, you must edit, credit and re-edit. Before that, you must write. Just before that, research – a book that was never researched reads like a manual in a foreign language. Useless. But first, read.
One last time: read, research, write, edit, credit, re-edit.
Namaste
No one wants to die without publishing something, even if it has little meaning or adds no value.
That’s because some of us who want to remain in the hallowed hallways of libraries and educational institutions have nothing more to offer the world than the regurgitated, paraphrased and misquoted theories and ideas of others. This is not a result of a wanton lack of meaning or value within ourselves. Far from it.
Getting published and becoming a bestselling writer seems to be on every person’s bucket list.
This means that even though, month after month, manuscripts are churned out and turned into book-club favourites with official sounding ceremonies popping up quicker than mushroom churches, more of these best-sellers and literary-prize winners are worth less than local swazi sativas found in the shadiest part of town.
Baby steps. Before you publish, you must edit, credit and re-edit. Before that, you must write. Just before that, research – a book that was never researched reads like a manual in a foreign language. Useless. But first, read.
One last time: read, research, write, edit, credit, re-edit.
Namaste
Wednesday
The Hole My Writing Went To Die In
When you find out that even one person reads your blog, you will start writing absolute rubbish. And that’s not a vodka ad.
After long periods of binging and round-about deliberation I have stumbled upon the solution: stop writing.
If writing is for you, it will make its way back to your loving, and over-protective, arms that suffocate the creativity out and wring out any sense left in your ego-centric posts. Otherwise, you’ll be writing blogs about your new girlfriend (the third one this month), popular fad-theories (are gay people born that way), how you intend to quit your job (as if you can afford to pay the electricity bill that keeps the laptop you use to post mundane things on your meagre wishful-salary), and your latest travels (how you planned over 4 months for a 3 day trip into the uninsured part of town). Wow.
It gets worse.
You start posting essays worth of pompous first-class garbage to some anonymous okey’s comment. You feel inclined to explain yourself, so that “your readers” can “get” you. And then you become one of “those” people who never miss a chance to put quotes on random words to make emphasis and in the hopeless attempt to seem slightly intelligent and wildly interesting.
It’s really that bad.
All because you wanted the real you to be known and understood by the three people that faultlessly revisit your blogs for a sign of sanity – only to be met with more of your nonsense.
Writing is an art, not a science. You can juxtapose a noun next to a punctuation mark and sprinkle verbs and adjectives all over to make it look pretty, but as one oke might say; garbage by any other name smells just the same.
Namaste
After long periods of binging and round-about deliberation I have stumbled upon the solution: stop writing.
If writing is for you, it will make its way back to your loving, and over-protective, arms that suffocate the creativity out and wring out any sense left in your ego-centric posts. Otherwise, you’ll be writing blogs about your new girlfriend (the third one this month), popular fad-theories (are gay people born that way), how you intend to quit your job (as if you can afford to pay the electricity bill that keeps the laptop you use to post mundane things on your meagre wishful-salary), and your latest travels (how you planned over 4 months for a 3 day trip into the uninsured part of town). Wow.
It gets worse.
You start posting essays worth of pompous first-class garbage to some anonymous okey’s comment. You feel inclined to explain yourself, so that “your readers” can “get” you. And then you become one of “those” people who never miss a chance to put quotes on random words to make emphasis and in the hopeless attempt to seem slightly intelligent and wildly interesting.
It’s really that bad.
All because you wanted the real you to be known and understood by the three people that faultlessly revisit your blogs for a sign of sanity – only to be met with more of your nonsense.
Writing is an art, not a science. You can juxtapose a noun next to a punctuation mark and sprinkle verbs and adjectives all over to make it look pretty, but as one oke might say; garbage by any other name smells just the same.
Namaste
Tuesday
Wise People Say A Whole Bunch
Whether its sages, soothsayers, naggas or oracles; wise people, or at least those that we refer to as having a general sense of wisdom, are quoted to say a whole list of things that often don’t make sense at first glance. Other times these things they say, these wise people, leave me questioning the very nature of wisdom.
Who spends an afternoon stalking a spider or following ants? Where do these people get the time to look at a wet wall and walk away with an insight? When I gaze into a freshly painted wall, all I walk away with is a slight dizziness. That’s it. No revelation of the earth’s wonders and absolutely no sign of an insight.
I was taught to believe that being idle is not wise. How much of a rush do you think one has to be in to follow an ant? None at all. So, what’s the rush?
And do you know that the reason why wise people have no friends is a direct result to the origin of their awe-inspiring anecdotes, statements and revelations? I confirm; wise people bite from their friends.
And that’s what makes them so wise.
Namaste
Who spends an afternoon stalking a spider or following ants? Where do these people get the time to look at a wet wall and walk away with an insight? When I gaze into a freshly painted wall, all I walk away with is a slight dizziness. That’s it. No revelation of the earth’s wonders and absolutely no sign of an insight.
I was taught to believe that being idle is not wise. How much of a rush do you think one has to be in to follow an ant? None at all. So, what’s the rush?
And do you know that the reason why wise people have no friends is a direct result to the origin of their awe-inspiring anecdotes, statements and revelations? I confirm; wise people bite from their friends.
And that’s what makes them so wise.
Namaste
Saturday
The Poet
* a poem I once wrote a while back. a very long while back. *
They say you speak in riddles.
Spluttering utterances of injustices,
When mutterings of blind hope will do.
A devil in shimmering gowns of deceit.
Leading astray the unintelligible masses and hordes,
With all your belligerent symphonies and glistening lies.
The flawed offspring of anarchy, a child of dead dreams.
You emancipate souls and still they call you unwise.
Old wives tales and fables of foolishness,
Bringing change with your words,
Dressed in tomorrow’s hope and old sentiments.
They call you lost.
And still you speak?
They say you speak in riddles.
Harbingers of truth, Kings and Queens of the unknown.
Farmers of knowledge, teach them that reap while they sow.
They say you speak in riddles.
Posing as mortals, when in truth you live on,
Through prose and myth, music and lore.
Eternal in thought.
Gatekeeper, Peacemaker, Truth bearer, Sage.
They say you speak in riddles.
# # #
Namaste
They say you speak in riddles.
Spluttering utterances of injustices,
When mutterings of blind hope will do.
A devil in shimmering gowns of deceit.
Leading astray the unintelligible masses and hordes,
With all your belligerent symphonies and glistening lies.
The flawed offspring of anarchy, a child of dead dreams.
You emancipate souls and still they call you unwise.
Old wives tales and fables of foolishness,
Bringing change with your words,
Dressed in tomorrow’s hope and old sentiments.
They call you lost.
And still you speak?
They say you speak in riddles.
Harbingers of truth, Kings and Queens of the unknown.
Farmers of knowledge, teach them that reap while they sow.
They say you speak in riddles.
Posing as mortals, when in truth you live on,
Through prose and myth, music and lore.
Eternal in thought.
Gatekeeper, Peacemaker, Truth bearer, Sage.
They say you speak in riddles.
# # #
Namaste
The Perfect Sentence
This week is Bubble-Bursting Week.
During this time we will help each other let go of baggage we can do without. Much like huddle-gossip; the fact that a friend’s lovelife is as private as the gaga person’s carnivorous fashion statements, will be discussed, at length even. So, with that in mind, to the writers; the perfect sentence does not exist.
I’m not at all bothered about the voices in my head (and probably yours too) that keep telling me otherwise. If it were to come to pass, I’d gladly retract this, and the perfect sentence were to exist there would be so much more to play with.
The perfect sentence, in my most sober thinkings, is not one that accounts for the use of all the elements of writing; the grammar, punctuation, aesthetics, connotation or otherwise in their most glorified individual form. This particular sentence would not play at all by the rules. Not recklessly rebellious, just effecting change. This would be a sentence that is the sum of all things. It would be less, not more.
And if you ask me, that’s where the problems start.
In order to write something, say a book that not only reads well - but flows too, you must be willing to cut back on what you think is the individually most-perfect sentence. Consider, it might be the same sentences that wrote you into a wall.
For your book (poem, play, speech, etc) to flow as easily as it reads it must be a harmonious system.
And I know that I don’t want to let go of that perfect sentence that seems so clever, it forgot to make sense.
Namaste
During this time we will help each other let go of baggage we can do without. Much like huddle-gossip; the fact that a friend’s lovelife is as private as the gaga person’s carnivorous fashion statements, will be discussed, at length even. So, with that in mind, to the writers; the perfect sentence does not exist.
I’m not at all bothered about the voices in my head (and probably yours too) that keep telling me otherwise. If it were to come to pass, I’d gladly retract this, and the perfect sentence were to exist there would be so much more to play with.
The perfect sentence, in my most sober thinkings, is not one that accounts for the use of all the elements of writing; the grammar, punctuation, aesthetics, connotation or otherwise in their most glorified individual form. This particular sentence would not play at all by the rules. Not recklessly rebellious, just effecting change. This would be a sentence that is the sum of all things. It would be less, not more.
And if you ask me, that’s where the problems start.
In order to write something, say a book that not only reads well - but flows too, you must be willing to cut back on what you think is the individually most-perfect sentence. Consider, it might be the same sentences that wrote you into a wall.
For your book (poem, play, speech, etc) to flow as easily as it reads it must be a harmonious system.
And I know that I don’t want to let go of that perfect sentence that seems so clever, it forgot to make sense.
Namaste
Monday
The Story Is In The Detail
Thinking back on the days when I used to read (it’s been well over two months now) one incident with a stack of pages; printed, bound and covered with a curiously misleading wrapping stands out.
A book I was offered to jump in turned out to be a bottomless pit of depressing detail. My doom was paved with monotonous explanation after monotonous explanation.
A book I was offered to jump in turned out to be a bottomless pit of depressing detail. My doom was paved with monotonous explanation after monotonous explanation.
One popular solution a writer might give to another is that of knowing all the detail (as the storyteller) of any story one writes. Great advice, as long as you approach with more caution than an alcoholic exercises when walking up to a bottle store.
This book I had a run-in with, yes we’re back to that now, was action packed with so much dreary and mind-numbing detail that less than eight pages into it I gave. No more. I’ve never seen that book since, and I must admit that there’s no love lost between us. I call back on this experience as a belt notch-collector would call back on a run-in with a nameless lover – without fondness or favour.
Just because the writer must know all the details of the story does not mean that all these details must be told to the reader (eg: the cream shawl which looked white once upon a time lay scrunched up on the chocolate corduroy l-shaped couch on the far east corner of the room, opposite the small television set that had become the live-in substitute of the 47 inch flat screen that had grown a mind of its own and had walked out on the legs of a burglar and his cronies). Yho. That’s a blemmin’ long sentence. In real life people who speak like this spray it (when they should say it) and have followers and virtual friends (none of which have invited them to a social gathering of any sort, ever).
Don’t tell the reader that the sun is hot (“the sun was hot that day”), show them (“eighteen ice-cold dumpies of lager later, Sue was still sweating like a pig, but now she was out cold”).
As a reader I know I don’t care much about the chequered or striped t-shirt hanging on the chair, not unless it’s the murder weapon or a kinky play thing. In other words, does it do anything for the story? Does it drive it ahead or does it poison the whole river? Is your gift of giving vivid detail killing your story or helping it? Know when to just glaze over the details.
Not every story must be 1000 pages long.
Namaste
Tuesday
There are far worse things in life than closeted homophobes and bad grammar - at least that's what I've been told
Considering I haven't posted a poem in a quite a while here, and also there has been no post in the past... arghh, I don't know anymore. Time just seems to do its own thing. And I've never been one to stress about much, so I stole a post from an unpublished series of work that will never make it to the light of day.
from: Diary of the Infidel:
When a bad day comes-a-knocking, whether it comes in the form of a “dear john” letter (as a prelude to a broken heart) or even as a an armageddon-like flaming ball of death, it’s always best to do more than bellyache, bitch, gripe and curse the heavens (whatever might be up there).
Reality, as it turns out, is a better pincher (to get you out of the dream world) than, say, a pinch itself.
Unfortunately the world is made up of more than fantasies, nightmares and bad friends. There are a truck load of things that one must contend with in pursuit of the finish line. But, wait, doesn’t the finish line come with its own dose of finality? We all seem to be racing and chasing the end, as if there is more to it than a funeral, expensive coffins, bad eulogies, fraudulent “last wills” and maggots.
When we get caught up in our own distractions; be it a weekend of binging, a bad relationship, illness or certain death, we tend to forget that a bigger picture exists.
I say this again, there’s more to life than the “little things”. They might seem like hurdles today but, tomorrow promises to deliver far bigger hurdles than today may offer. The trick, should we be so brazen as to call it that, is to look, learn and grow.
Some of us, truth be told, left learning behind along with the days of multiplication-tables and “a-is-for-apple”. The wisdom of learning from the past (the mistakes, bad deeds and deviations) appears to have lost its appeal. The novelty of learning has been overtaken by the need to have more.
More than yesterday. More than the neighbour. More than everyone else.
If you are not out there hustling, bustling and fighting (tooth and nail) for more, clearly there is something the matter with you.
Greed, it seems, is the currency of the times.
Trade in your humility for a box full of “more”.
More of what?
More of the same garbage we’ve been getting.
More prejudice. More doubt. More complications. More distractions and more confusion.
There’s more to life than people we aren’t too fond of and the decline of a language.
Read between the lines.
# # #
Namaste
from: Diary of the Infidel:
When a bad day comes-a-knocking, whether it comes in the form of a “dear john” letter (as a prelude to a broken heart) or even as a an armageddon-like flaming ball of death, it’s always best to do more than bellyache, bitch, gripe and curse the heavens (whatever might be up there).
Reality, as it turns out, is a better pincher (to get you out of the dream world) than, say, a pinch itself.
Unfortunately the world is made up of more than fantasies, nightmares and bad friends. There are a truck load of things that one must contend with in pursuit of the finish line. But, wait, doesn’t the finish line come with its own dose of finality? We all seem to be racing and chasing the end, as if there is more to it than a funeral, expensive coffins, bad eulogies, fraudulent “last wills” and maggots.
When we get caught up in our own distractions; be it a weekend of binging, a bad relationship, illness or certain death, we tend to forget that a bigger picture exists.
I say this again, there’s more to life than the “little things”. They might seem like hurdles today but, tomorrow promises to deliver far bigger hurdles than today may offer. The trick, should we be so brazen as to call it that, is to look, learn and grow.
Some of us, truth be told, left learning behind along with the days of multiplication-tables and “a-is-for-apple”. The wisdom of learning from the past (the mistakes, bad deeds and deviations) appears to have lost its appeal. The novelty of learning has been overtaken by the need to have more.
More than yesterday. More than the neighbour. More than everyone else.
If you are not out there hustling, bustling and fighting (tooth and nail) for more, clearly there is something the matter with you.
Greed, it seems, is the currency of the times.
Trade in your humility for a box full of “more”.
More of what?
More of the same garbage we’ve been getting.
More prejudice. More doubt. More complications. More distractions and more confusion.
There’s more to life than people we aren’t too fond of and the decline of a language.
Read between the lines.
# # #
Namaste
Thursday
The Gremlin Within
A very smart lady once told me not to ever let the gremlin within get the best of me.
To this day, she still gives me words of encouragement and tries to make sure that I keep to my word of becoming a better writer.
At first I did not fully understand what the gremlin within was.
She explained it to me (in hindsight, I should have known), and pointed out that everyone has it.
It's that voice (for me it's a choir) that keeps telling you that you're not good enough, you can't possibly do this, there's no way you can make it a success and other disheartening statements that not only kick you when you're down, but drag you deeper into the abyss (if you don't keep it in check).
Self doubt is the worst form of self medication.
It treats nor solves nothing. Instead it makes a mountain out of a mole hill.
My gremlin is big one day and small the next. I don't think I would want to completely remove it, sometimes it keeps me grounded, but sometimes I need to be up in th sky.
Onto the point;
Each person has a gremlin, so does each character in your book.
Find that gremlin within. Acknowledge it and move ahead knowing that it's there.
Namaste
To this day, she still gives me words of encouragement and tries to make sure that I keep to my word of becoming a better writer.
At first I did not fully understand what the gremlin within was.
She explained it to me (in hindsight, I should have known), and pointed out that everyone has it.
It's that voice (for me it's a choir) that keeps telling you that you're not good enough, you can't possibly do this, there's no way you can make it a success and other disheartening statements that not only kick you when you're down, but drag you deeper into the abyss (if you don't keep it in check).
Self doubt is the worst form of self medication.
It treats nor solves nothing. Instead it makes a mountain out of a mole hill.
My gremlin is big one day and small the next. I don't think I would want to completely remove it, sometimes it keeps me grounded, but sometimes I need to be up in th sky.
Onto the point;
Each person has a gremlin, so does each character in your book.
Find that gremlin within. Acknowledge it and move ahead knowing that it's there.
Namaste
Starting A Band (the novel I haven't written, yet)
Last year, I'm sure I've mentioned this before, I took part in nanowrimo.
I didn't finish. I blame this on eskom (although for that month the only blackout was in my head), sabc (for being such a brain drain) and social networking (for giving me too many virtual friends).
I should also blame it on the devil or the media in general, but that's so passe.
The novel I was writing (my third attempt anyway) was a satirical, dark comedy about two hustlers (nothing to do with hef) that thought it possible to start a band (as much as I thought it possible to write a 50 000 word novel in 30 days). Wishful (and demented) thinking.
Here is an excerpt from that incomplete novel (one day is one day, chaps).
STARTING A BAND
Fake nails and gold tooth sat back down between purple extensions and another girl, whom Lester assumed to be the leader of the pack. She was the loudest and kept demanding the attention of others, which she would get, by either tapping on their arms or raising her voice over whoever was talking at that point. She did this quite a few times and Lester could tell that all the other girls were sick of this tactic, but much like any hierarchy in place, they did not dare stop her nor complain about it. The loudmouth wasn’t the biggest in the pack. That was the fourth girl, but she wasn’t remarkably larger than any of the other girls. Lester had only noted her size because all the other girls either wore mini skirts or skinny jeans, but the fourth wore a bright floral dress over her jeans. This, Lester noted, was something that most girls who were unsure of themselves or their bodies usually wore.
I didn't finish. I blame this on eskom (although for that month the only blackout was in my head), sabc (for being such a brain drain) and social networking (for giving me too many virtual friends).
I should also blame it on the devil or the media in general, but that's so passe.
The novel I was writing (my third attempt anyway) was a satirical, dark comedy about two hustlers (nothing to do with hef) that thought it possible to start a band (as much as I thought it possible to write a 50 000 word novel in 30 days). Wishful (and demented) thinking.
Here is an excerpt from that incomplete novel (one day is one day, chaps).
STARTING A BAND
Fake nails and gold tooth sat back down between purple extensions and another girl, whom Lester assumed to be the leader of the pack. She was the loudest and kept demanding the attention of others, which she would get, by either tapping on their arms or raising her voice over whoever was talking at that point. She did this quite a few times and Lester could tell that all the other girls were sick of this tactic, but much like any hierarchy in place, they did not dare stop her nor complain about it. The loudmouth wasn’t the biggest in the pack. That was the fourth girl, but she wasn’t remarkably larger than any of the other girls. Lester had only noted her size because all the other girls either wore mini skirts or skinny jeans, but the fourth wore a bright floral dress over her jeans. This, Lester noted, was something that most girls who were unsure of themselves or their bodies usually wore.
Lester decided to act on his investment and approached the cackle, carrying no free drinks for them, but loaded with charm.
The barman watched him pull a chair closer to the table and seat himself between the purple extensions and the flowery frock. He watched as the group all turned to him, hesitantly at first, but were soon caught in guffaws of laughter and shoulder-stroking. Whatever it was that Lester was saying was working. About ten minutes later, having been offered a permanent seat at the table and Lester gracefully refusing, but obligingly accepting phone numbers, he arose and walked out of the bar. Pride unwounded and wallet untouched.
# # #
Namaste
Wednesday
The VERY Real (life-threatening) Dangers of Gift-Giving
For instance, today I learnt that people aren't only paranoid, but incredibly unimaginative as well. This is not to say that I have an imagination and others don't. In fact, we all have an imagination, but much like a pair of shoes that never get worn, the ignored imagination will only house cobwebs and moths until someone tries it on for size.
On my way to my book-giving rendezvous I came across a charming rottweiler with a full head of teeth. The owner, a red-haired woman in her late forties, chose to be apathetic to the plight of a pedestrian about to be devoured by this overgrown monster.
Now, consider that I am carrying an armful of books and suffer from a very rational fear of dogs.
While the dog was trying to charm the meat off my boney frame (an arduous task if you ask me) I was torn between running in the opposite direction or fighting off the charmer with the books in hand. The rational human in me told me to run, the fearless warrior urged me to duel with paperbacks, but the mindless numbskull within stood his ground with books in hand trying to convince the charmer to stand down.
I am proud to announce that the mindless numbskull succeeded and lives to run on another day.
However, I am not happy about the stereotypes that people have.
Just because I am a black male standing on the street does not mean I am wanting some sort of financial gain.
I've just lost interest in telling the whole story.
MNXIM to all those people that pretended to be on the phone or avoided eye contact with me just because of their self-involved stereotypes.
Namaste
Tuesday
Music, The Muse
MUSIC IS DIFFERENT THINGS.
It is the hallowed and the immaterial.
It is truths written through the stencil of wisdoms.
It is the percussion, the base,
the harmony, the acoustic
and it is the clang of the cymbals.
It is the heart song, the party mix,
the live act, the street performer,
the choreographer that moves along with each note.
It is the drummer who gives birth to the beat,
and it is the pianist whose fingers play from memory.
It is the jembe, the bullhorn, the triangle and the trumpet.
MUSIC IS EVERYWHERE.
It is the answer contained within the riddle of riddims.
It is in the foot tapping, the hip shaking,
the lip pouting, the jig making and the flow.
It is called home by many
and yet plays out like a soundtrack in everyone’s life.
It is the soul, the poetry,
the ballads, the blues,
the jazz, the hip hop,
the rap, the rock,
the roll, the pop,
and the jam session.
MUSIC IS IN EVERYONE.
It is the off-tune song sung in the shower,
the a capella genius of street-corner boy bands.
It is the beat box, the freestyle,
the battles, the beef,
the wars, and love affairs.
It is in the school teacher,
the university professor,
the heart surgeon, the artist,
the builder, the cleaner,
the ceo and the unemployed.
MUSIC IS FOR EVERYONE.
It is for the leaders,
the followers,
the masses
and the individual.
It is for the blind,
the deaf, the mute
and the ignorant.
MUSIC IS EVERYTHING.
And I carry it with me wherever I may go.
Namaste
Monday
Religion, Faith & Culture in Writing
An enlightening conversation, which I took no part in, played itself out this particular afternoon in a minibus taxi. Two men, of no certain age or disposition, fiddled with topics ranging from the meaning of names to the culture of spirituality.
This reminded me of the common error that we writer’s make in discovering the characters that make up our stories. We treat one’s religion as an obstruction to their true selves, and in that single misconception we miss the point entirely.
Check your spelling. Check your grammar. But, most importantly check your common sense.
Namaste
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)