Abigail George

Abigail George

Abigail George is a feminist, poet and short story writer. She is the recipient of two South African National Arts Council Writing Grants, one from the Centre for the Book and the Eastern Cape Provincial Arts and Culture Council. She was born and raised in the coastal city of Port Elizabeth, the Eastern Cape of South Africa, educated there and in Swaziland and Johannesburg. She has written a novella, books of poetry, and collections of short stories. She is busy with her brother putting the final additions to a biography on her father’s life. Her work has recently been anthologised in the Sol Plaatje EU Poetry Anthology IV. Her work was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She briefly studied film.

The leaves wastes dance with confidence in the air. The wind reminds me of the mysterious chill of autumn. An eloquent, articulate state of mind. Focus and concentration calls for analysis not just intelligence.

I don’t remember the past.

For a long time, in schools in Port Elizabeth. Swaziland and Johannesburg I was very unhappy with myself. I thought my South African self, had not turned out properly. All neat around the edges. I had no identity to speak of, no culture, no tradition, no heritage, and most of all no inheritance. I only had the genes of my mother and my father on my side. So to progress in life I educated myself. I read all that I could. All my life I was the proverbial square peg in a round hole. This image or rather idea that I had of myself was not an identity. It was a spoilt, dysfunctional identity that had no sound psychological framework.

Let us start with what makes me unhappy comrades. This undiscovered bridge called language or rather mother tongue. The life of the artist, poet, writer who communicates the eternal heartbeat of the people. The working class experiment. Anticipatory nostalgia for the past.

They have a name. Millennial. Revolutionary. Comrade. Countryman. Youth. They have shamed us into thinking what was impossible before.

The rest of us are shamed by our silence or rather they are the reason we are filled with shock, fear, traumatized.

In futurity I want to find new realities in the notes from the universe. I think that is why I fluctuate from putting pen to paper short writings (for example, haiku, short stories, poetry) are what I write about mostly. People assume that writers and journalists must have the 'gift of the gab'. Some do. Others don't.

What the future holds for South Africa is more poverty, more polarization between the haves and the have nots if our leaders in government aren't younger and more or rather in touch with people from the rural countryside, and neighborhood communities at the grassroots level. The society that we live in today is dysfunctional to say the least.

Their souls are silent now. Shot execution style. Flowers do not grow on abnormality.

The reason I am writing this is to help someone who is in the same situation where I found myself eighteen years ago so they can benefit from my own funny, unique, sometimes hurtful, painful, uncomfortable and even humiliating personal experience.

Perfume.

Coming back to you. Half of my life’s work so far has been written in the vein of tragedy and when I have tried to write comedy. People laugh. They come to the theatre and they have a good time.

I owe people money and I am writing again. I must tell you. I love you my darling. I hope that you are not lonely. I have to do collateral damage. Please do not be angry with me but I have to write this play to earn an extra income.

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