Welcome to me


Time Kills

FB_20140815_05_25_08_Saved_PictureSpeed kills, the advert will advertise. Time kills; adversity thus enriches the mind of a poor man. For, He has went through all stages that would see a man not recognise himself, stages that would make a man recognise himself more, and stages that would make a man denounce his own recognitive loop, if the word exists.

When the emotion is strong, time goes hitherto between its length and its shortness, as you could rarely catch your breath, you are still panting from yesterday’s emotion. It feels so brand new, it feels like yesterday, it has been ages and yet the feeling is still as strong as the hold time has over it.

Hate is now, loathe, NOW. Love is tomorrow, the future. Respect is yesterday and tomorrow, remembering the day you did this and the day you did that, with the promise that you would continue to do this and that.

And it is a love hate relationship, as sometimes the best way to represent it is with the words: “sometimes…” That is the only way to represent the truth, as being relative to some of the times in which it exists. You make me cry, you make me laugh and that is the sum of our times.

BUT THAT IS ONE WORD, they say. Say it out loud, sometimes. Say it when there really lies a conviction behind the saying of the word, when you are torn between the reality that is now, and how time will make a fiction of the afflictions you might have felt. At the depth of the emotion, time was a shallow grave.

Bury the hatchet, they would say…and time would be the judge. It would be prying over the situation, eavesdropping until the nauseating influence of its power calls for an end to the ignominy. Time will nominate one or two, to serve as a justification of its being, its power and its seduction. It will, with your own will, have you think about the future, now. It will have you think of the past, NOW. Now, that is one way of making you forget about it while thinking about it at the same time.

Is that time the time of your life? Were those the times of your life? In your lifetime, would you revel at how you went about living your way to death? The hammer hangs over your head as you try and have a sneak peek at the future, you want to catch time out but that is only fast forwarding until time is out.

Death is the future. What can be sexier than sex? In the times where people want to be sexy while they don’t want to be seen as a sex symbol, reality would strip us of the veil we use to cover our eyes. And bodies will forever be stripped of whatever dignity they had, for everyone knows that sex is the ultimate sexy, engraved in the mind, men and women will subliminally explicate this in ultra-nudist fashion. The crass judgement is lost to the boy or girl who would engage in things that sexy people do, in bedrooms, by the beach, in a music video, with doors open.

Is this world shocking? It forever finds new ways to shock the young and fragile, through a video that serves as an induction. A porn message that debunks all myths about the fairer sex. While the boy was dreaming about an innocent kiss to the girl, shock says: “This is what we do to them, this is how we treat them, and they are ours”. And the child is in shock, he wants to buy this beautiful girl all that his lunch money can buy, but the coolest thing he can do to her is what the video says. And then there was more shock. Porn.

It is disguised as a trend, modern. And time hides it well, it allows us to grow fast and die young. In reality, we die young and grow slow, for the NOWness of time has shocked us to such an extent that after that sudden shock, we recover slowly, in a spiralling motion that has us in commercial loops of love, lust and all the erections of the world’s libido dominandi.

Making waves, the trend is the aftershock. New fashion, new styles, a renewed dress sense that purports without any ire or irony: “Retro is back”

Retro IS back, retro is back in the days. It is not the time that is brought back, it is only the spotlight that shone on a time that is being borrowed, to show once again the power that the trendsetters have in having us killed by the same time, over and over again. Killing the imagination, a 14 year old watches a 60 year old during her prime, in the time when she was sexy. Let us all announce: “Youth is sexy” while watching raunchy Sharon Stone videos, or while overlooking the hip hop video. With vixens in a position to be the fox, and yet they play the victim and purport the daily vox in sexist Ville.

Time kills, and thus we decide to kill time with a laid back tune, the drink and the company that keeps us sane. We are now, and now that we have decided to kill time, it will be the time of our lives. It is not revenge, vengeance needs an ultimate consciousness of our actions and the repercussions, but we don’t care, and we won’t stop. We have been shocked and now it is in our hands how we should or could continue to shock ourselves some more. Kill more time, there will be more time to kill later, and the only thing that bears witness is the body. And the only thing that has been advertised for the body is sex. “Youth is sexy” we recall, and remember that we forgot about the body.

Sexercise and exersises. We have found that the most comfortable position the body finds itself in is either below someone, or above them. Or rather, that you should exercise for a sexier body. “Men are self-centred, women are centred around the self” a sexist war rages on in the guise of a war of the sexes while it is just a war of the sexy. In essence, what else could be longer than time, and sexier than sex? All of these questions, time kills.


Please mind your head

The sane rule.

And thus the impetus is put upon you. The beginning of your understanding starts with you beginning to question what you know or understand, if the two could be separated. Again, you break boundaries in the way you begin, the supposition of a question unanswered brings life to a body of knowledge, an embodiment of your understanding and the trajectory it sets you upon.

To graph the sinusoid representation of life and its passions, ups and downs are such that an emotional attachment is added for clarification, but the sanity of the thrill in going up, or the dip when going down remains a question we do not answer. The fallacy which is a zero sum accumulation of emotion and memories leaves us knowing things we do not really know, and feeling emotions we couldn’t really re-enact, lost in time is the memory as we know it and the feelings it brings, in the past and from the past.

Left to recall a time which has passed, we add spices to the story and upon further recollection we discover that the whole story becomes the spice. These are the times of your life, and you grow to find that memories do not live like people do. Don’t, this is what cynicism would have of your fondest recollection of the times in which you were cooler, smarter or happier. It would be given to you, like a scout-badge, the atavistic nature of your being a happy animal, even if it is a purely fabricated state of mind. Do continue, accumulating memories through the picture, the souvenir and all other mementos of the moment, but polish the lie of a planned trip that will bring happiness, the promotion that would mean being better off and the lump-sum that would cement a better life.

Happiness and sanity come from the same place. The placenta of the said happiness is insanity relative to the status quo. The rebellion found in a night out, the quirky jokes and individuality at its best has us under the spell of organised fun. There you go on a roller coaster ride, gravity evokes happiness and resurrects the stale mind by creating a deadly rush to frighten your inability to have fun, on your own.

Who wants to live forever?

Long life, the ilk of society and its predecessors are said to have craved this elusive thing. In the ages of myth, the fountain of youth and anti-wrinkle creams give us a snap-shot at evolution. From the Stone Age to the modern times, the illusion of long life remains.

To the dearth of a suffering man, he thinks he wants to live long. The weekend seems to be growing shorter and shorter as he works to pay off entitlements he will never be entitled to. On that Friday night, he drinks. He binges again the following day and also on the Sunday. It is all so sad that when he quits the frivolous life he finds that he cannot live another life. He cannot afford a quite Sunday afternoon tormented by his thoughts. He doesn’t know what to do to himself besides kill the body.

Die, that’s what the need for wisdom says to him as he finds no peace in his mind. The sun and its fall always taunt him to do something either to himself or for himself. He fathers a nation but he finds that the notion was the furthest thing from his mind. He isn’t pleased when he sees the sign: “Please mind your head.

Please mind your head, as you navigate a world in which the light has lost its way. In the beginning god created light, but towards the end it is light that wants to create god. Until this day we struggle to identify which of the two was more divine. The sun proves to be the coldest source of warmth as it just watches, day in and day out. With its presence, it taunts you to do something. In its absence, you are tormented and you cannot do anything. The age of ideas is the idea of ages, a history which isn’t in the making but merely in the thinking. For all have been done, and much more still needs to be done but the reason why we do these things is lost in times, ages.

The sophistication of a lost notion is such that a person frowns upon a fly that is perched firmly on their nose. The stupidity of a lost notion is that, the stinking rich/poor turn up their nose when it should be obvious that they are what they smell.

Please mind your head, as you bump the latest tunes.

Please mind your head, as you read the latest good reads.
Please mind your head, as you start that radically new diet.

Please mind your head, as tautology gets mistaken for emphasis.

Again, I will intricately repeat what is already on repeat. Blah blah blah, blah blah black sheep.

Please, mind your head.


The Matador and the Bull

The matter that dominates the sentimental bull, is immaterial to the sentiments of those sold on the bull. This, as every day, people declare the shortcomings of the black nation, extracting themselves from the generalisation. “They are lazy, those who do not know how much I worked for what I have” the ignorant one retorts, as he cements his lack of knowledge on the black child by placing a distance between himself and his reality.

From that, an activist takes a different view, he says: “ I will share what I clearly do not have, with those that clearly need it” He goes about and does the ground work, and with his hands dirty, he licks his wounds as the soil continues to cry for the seeds of the future. He is the matador, he is the bull. He seeks to emancipate himself by emancipating the others. The others are a great part of him as they deconstruct his knowledge and help him construct a clear image of his sufferings. You are a black nation in you being a black child.

It dawns on the best prospect, the best amongst them, that their inferiority reigns supreme in that it holds the largest pot of humanity. The guinea pig was in the experiment, and now it needs a new experiment to help it realise where it belongs. When Bacon talks of the afflictions of Job, little did we know that we would talk of the affliction of the job. Employed, your majesty is deployed to walk a field that would have you lost in a maze. Amazing how you are also in the ring yet you grasp at a certain pride, you matador. In your head, rings a master. In your head, you are the ring master. In your head, you are mastering the art of serving the bull what it deserves. You serve the bull a red flag to flag its one track mind. One tracks its vision and lays it in plain sight. Gallantly dressed we take pride as we are the bull, we are the matador, we are also the crowd.

Does it matter though? Whether one is a matador, a bull or the crowd itself? It could if only it couldn’t. As the systematic complexity of our inferiority makes certain that the camouflage is compelling attire, the best suit to suite your native vanity. He wears the suit for the office, he wears boots for the mud, he wears a white mask to hide his own face. Torn apart, the tears continue to smudge his make-up. For it is fake, and in that it finds that there is no original. There is no longer any original. In the heat of the moment, a passion that inspires a life, you proclaim Africanism in a certain look. The beads, the cloths, the colours and the hair. The hair, the colours, the cloths and the beads do not make you what you were from birth, they are lost when they are worn by one in a million. And yet they are a win, when one finds himself in them. The colours of your tribe, the tributes to the animals, the prints that offer dashes of hope in a race against racism. All they say is that: “He is also a king.”


Born into this

The umbilical cord creates an appendix of suffering. The first cut is a disconnect between the cry and what held, and kept it quiet. Quite the event, it becomes your first date with suffering, your birth day.

There is a maternal, pertinent devotion to nurturing the appendage. In the age of bringing to this world, a bright spark, we find that this dark one only inherits a right. The lost right, creates a ritual of rights, a paradoxical suffrage. The community finds that it is a society that creates a world that has standards, only for your grade.

He is fed what he isn’t fed. He was spooning with the cord, and the break in transmission showed him that, he was fed what he wasn’t fed. With no silver spoon in his mouth, he has to grow teeth to gnaw at the ignominy of growing a bite that will forever be bite-sized. They, his parents, were the body of food while also being the embodiment of the need for food. Their hunger fed him hunger, and he found that he wasn’t deprived of food, but he was deprived of the feed itself.

But honey, as the throne continues to hone it, the bees grow extinct. The single celled sickle cell that has the queen as the queer recipient of all the works breeds a royalty of symbols that the poor will continue to work for. The emblem, seen in the labels, is the reason why they trampled on lions to create the castle. It is the reason why the brave calls himself lion heart, as the castle continues to knight him the custodian of safety and honour in the very same castle. And that is what transpires on the other side of the world.

But, he is here, a place which wants to announce the birth of the future generation as a curse. The ones better off proclaim: “don’t have kids if you can’t afford them”. It may be affording to them, but there are many affordable things we cannot afford. Thought, poor or rich, does not breed kids which will be better off. The natural order exists naturally, and sometimes we may try and claim that famine isn’t suitable for breeding. Through the stomach, we forget how to control a mind. Through our thinking, we forget that the stomach is quick to forget. Thus we fail to fully digest, what really grows when a woman’s belly area bulges? Why are some nations still alive, if the women are pregnant while the girls have kwashiorkor? If the men are soldiers while the boys can’t soldier on.

Why are some nations still alive, if their existence reeks of death while they are not killers? Their bodies, highlight the realities of war and the lowest lights of humanity. The reel of carnage raises more questions on why him and her were born into this…


Kill the Activist.PT 1

HIM

He offers, through motivation and laborious application of the mind, a certain, infinite vigour that refines the path of the quotidian lives of all like him. He re-joins the link between knowing and doing, by admitting that the mind doesn’t know what the mind doesn’t do. He is an activist, acting on the heart, impulsive if you may, naïve is his cup of tea. He is an activist.

As the world weighs heavy on the common man, the loss is a loss of the definition of what makes him common amongst other commoners, as he celebrates the loss by escaping the quotidian life with a quote. A quote to sip on the intellect hovering above his head, a quote as he sips on anything that would make him drunk and numb, yet ready for the feelings he escapes on a daily basis. That basis, the day, is laid down for him in such a way that, he could rename the Monday and make it blue. He wishes it would rain on Thursday, with thunder showers. He finds it frivolous, that we would thank god for Friday.

Drunk as he isn’t, the drink calls him by name and tells him how much he needs to feel what he feels even though he isn’t aware he is feeling it. The penumbra reels in an enlightenment that is overshadowed by the routine that steels the nomadic will, that emancipatory vision that is still left in animals as the elephant thuds and thuds towards the place it dreams of. We, the ignorant ones, think that animals in their majestic prowess, wander while it is us who wander around with no direction besides the directive. The social norm is of such a conclusive form that the questions raised about it are all the same, at prescribed intervals. The nomad is primed to rebel at certain ages as the adolescent stage of his un-discovery of true being hangs over his being natural and true. Thus he dreams of a dream he hasn’t dreamt, the naked picture is nuked by the artificial implantation of morals in a morass of public indifference towards the need for the said morals. The dialogue paints a sad mural which uncovers a sleeping giant inside of a midget. When faced with a wrath that is multinational, he cries for Irish luck but the cries propel him into an orbit of a heightened sense that understands the pub and all its feelings. With pride, the cub becomes a lion with no match. The match-up doesn’t exist as they have all forgotten what makes them common as commoners.

At the wee hours, with a crepuscular light that sheds a tear for them as it is due, they discover that they are family. And they sing. They denounce the high pitches and pronounce the low ones as they sing: “We are family”.

He is soon to find brothers and sisters that do justice to what he feels. The brothers and sisters in law are at once the devil’s advocate as they share with him the vanity of his thoughts, and make them thoughts on vanity. For, who are you to change the world if you can’t change yourself. There is a loss attained in their cause in law and they find that the devil’s advocate grew from the advocacy of the devil. Thus the sacred is broken and now we have to build new saints, and others choose to pronounce: “Let us now praise famous men”.

Twice, he marries the cousin. The relatives of his mind-set keep a cycle of cyclical cows that milk his udder as he milks the other. Two for two, the commoners pair themselves according to a typeset premeditated, as a cure for an ailment that meant to show one how the ribs make you frail. We are what we are, and in solving other people’s issues we either look down upon them or hold them up high as the key to our own emancipation in practice. The practice is emancipation, and it is frustrating to think you are free when you have to free yourself from that which enslaves you so well. The narrative calls for a hero, and this heroin is the drug of the narrative.

He is an activist, the activity of the mind and the heart is what makes him. Made of a fine mettle, he settles the bills by the bull he is against.

The matador and the bull

The matter that dominates the sentimental bull, is immaterial to the sentiments of those sold on the bull. This, as every day, people declare the shortcomings of the black nation, extracting themselves from the generalisation. “They are lazy, those who do not know how much I worked for what I have” the ignorant one retorts, as he cements his lack of knowledge on the black child by placing a distance between himself and his reality.

From that, an activist takes a different view, he says: “ I will share what I clearly do not have, with those that clearly need it” He goes about and does the ground work, and with his hands dirty, he licks his wounds as the soil continues to cry for the seeds of the future. He is the matador, he is the bull. He seeks to emancipate himself by emancipating the others. The others are a great part of him as they deconstruct his knowledge and help him construct a clear image of his sufferings. You are a black nation in you being a black child.

It dawns on the best prospect, the best amongst them, that their inferiority reigns supreme in that it holds the largest pot of humanity. The guinea pig was in the experiment, and now it needs a new experiment to help it realise where it belongs. When Bacon talks of the afflictions of Job, little did we know that we would talk of the affliction of the job. Employed, your majesty is deployed to walk a field that would have you lost in a maze. Amazing how you are also in the ring yet you grasp at a certain pride, you matador. In your head, rings a master. In your head, you are the ring master. In your head, you are mastering the art of serving the bull what it deserves. You serve the bull a red flag to flag its one track mind. One tracks its vision and lays it in plain sight. Gallantly dressed we take pride as we are the bull, we are the matador, we are also the crowd.

Does it matter though? Whether one is a matador, a bull or the crowd itself? It could if only it couldn’t. As the systematic complexity of our inferiority makes certain that the camouflage is compelling attire, the best suit to suite your native vanity. He wears the suit for the office, he wears boots for the mud, he wears a white mask to hide his own face. Torn apart, the tears continue to smudge his make-up. For it is fake, and in that it finds that there is no original. There is no longer any original. In the heat of the moment, a passion that inspires a life, you proclaim Africanism in a certain look. The beads, the cloths, the colours and the hair. The hair, the colours, the cloths and the beads do not make you what you were from birth, they are lost when they are worn by one in a million. And yet they are a win, when one finds himself in them. The colours of your tribe, the tributes to the animals, the prints that offer dashes of hope in a race against racism. All they say is that: “He is also a king.”

He is also King…

He is also a king, the one we tend to speak of in past tense. The intense, atavistic nature of our past presents us with gifts that are surely passed down the bloodline. The victims offer the link between freedom and slavery. He is the link in his availability for both. The brand of the brandished ones is dished to the liking of those who master the negativities over the negritudes of the Bantu. In the countries that are country, in the nations without the notions there lies a master.

He is also king, as he walks in a field filled with land mines. The explosive subjects offer a negotiated path, yet the bargain is a loss of the most important unit, the land and the mine. And thus, his salvation army needs a lot of aids. He gives them guns, and they shoot from the hips. He gets them education, but they learn to forget. He reminds them of their heritage, and they go for the braai. He governs a lot of innocent men, and thus ponders whether they are yet to be born into this sin.

The mental block continues to colonise the mind, as the ones who see remain gutted by the ignorance of a people. The blissful realisation is not lost on them too; the journey is his and his brothers. He shouts: “Why can’t these people understand what I understand?” He is tempted by his thoughts and registers himself as the only one who knows, as people do not show him what they know. He is lost, but he is also king…

 

 


Oliver Tambo Twist

When one labours hard to see their ideas into fruition, only for the push to take their life, what we get is a political orphan.

 

The grave idea as in Tambo’s epitaph:
“ It is our responsibility to break down barriers of division and create a country where there will be neither whites nor blacks, just South Africans, free and united in diversity “

The first thing the orphan did was break away from those who mistreat it. The ones who gave the orphan shelter and maybe even a trade to call its own. To break away from the shackles, the orphan had to spit at the “Novel illustration of the tender laws of England! They let the paupers go to sleep. “Hungry and in shacks.

The journey of an orphan is a Freedom Charter. And with the poor state of public transport in South Africa, questions are raised about how the people are governing. The nation demands that:
Security and Comfort shall not be attained by building people poor RDP houses.
The doors of learning and culture are not closed by Exclusive Books and Institutions of Learning.
And we ask
Shall we continue to work as security officers?
With the country’s wealth stored in stocks and shares, can it be shared by those who work it?

Fathered by the need for action, and smothered by the ANC, the ANCYL was borne of a rich history. It had amongst its ranks many who believed in action. This poor political orphan. What we need is action, lest we forget what we need to do to counter apartheid.

“ Forgetting apartheid is part of apartheid, because it is also apartheid of memory, of history, of the social, etc.” Baudrillard.

We shouldn’t forget the systematic oppression as we will let it rise again. Today we see apartheid restaged in a colder, systematic way, beyond race and colour, in class.

Young South Africans cannot afford travelling around their beautiful country. Young South Africans have no share in the wealth of their country.

If a Soweto youth cannot Bungee Jump at the Orlando towers then where is the monumental change in SA? If an Ekurhuleni youth has never seen the OR Tambo International then we haven’t taken flight in the freedom charter. Tall gates, that’s what the toll gates present to us.

We are political orphans, hence we see more NGO’s being started and subsequently failing. We the activists are political orphans and it pains us when Cheesekids and Loudmouths walk into the Youth League. We wander, and search for the structures which will bring the action. Political Orphans, Youth.