“In the face of pain there are no heroes.” ― George Orwell, 1984
The future of democracy is uncertain after the recent xenophobic attacks in South Africa. Apologies ensued very quickly (especially from those who did not want to relinquish the political power that they had in South Africa). Everybody (journalists, poets and writers) had something to say about it.
People grow up (as I did) believing that in order for political change for the good of all human life not many things had to take place.
Only because of how lives were taken during apartheid. Through the systematic punishment of men and women who were doing something extraordinary (living their truth) in their interrogation and detention there would be both a chronic synchronicity in breaking them down psychologically. Everything that had to do with apartheid in the old days was psychological. Everything was done under the cover of darkness. Murder was secret.
It came like a thief in the night much as if it does now. The only way to curb this insanity is to refrain from being a part of it at all. It almost seems as if the revolution that began in apartheid and that is ongoing is a secret, underground, subversive organisation. At its best, I should to all intents and purposes call it an unconscious revolution. Every South African is a part of this matrix. Man, woman and child.
The cities that we live in, the social media that we connect and have a network with informs us all the time that we are free if we want to be. Ignorance is bliss. Emancipation from oppression has come at a great and terrible price for men, women and children have lost their lives in order for us to live the way we do today. Xenophobia is the enemy. Stigma. The same can said of mob justice, flagrant sexual violence, pornography, mental illness and not innocent people.
The only object for the revolution is for us to be free thinkers, visionaries who are aware that there is a vision greater than we are, and that the vision is the rights of humanity. In the powers that be of the hierarchy, in order for them to survive (for the middle classes, for the class system to survive, and the establishment), there must always be poverty at the most grassroots level which is usually the rural countryside and corruption at the highest order.
In politics, it always rained men when it was time for votes to be counted. Politics ruins men faster than women. The women nothing more than trophy politicians to ward off the whispers of corruption. As a tribe, a nation (South Africa) of different races we are unfortunately emotionally damaged. We have been through war. I do not really understand why the world does not see it or the international press.
Crimes that were committed during apartheid were crimes against humanity and today the people responsible for those crimes live as free men and women. Ultimately they are afraid what is going to happen to them but most of all what is going to happen to their children which is why they send their children abroad to study, to learn to speak English as a first language and which is why in the early years of our new democracy there was the ‘brain drain’.
People leaving the country for Canada, America and England wanting to get out, eager, homesick taking everything with them. In South Africa, we do not worship the alien or anything that we did not grow believing in as children. We only believe in the rituals that we were taught since childhood. We do not find the fact that now we have to build novel relationships now in a profoundly optimistic way with those who once gave us sanctuary.
Every South African is walking around with their own manifesto inside their heads. They each have their own reality like a fingerprint. In South Africa, you will find that we are struggling with the psychological framework of a psyche and intellect that is still being sabotaged by the memory of apartheid. The desire of course is to forget. To release the burden of destruction but the fact remains who is responsible for the nature, the catalyst of apartheid. A man or men?
When it comes to xenophobia, it is kind of a macabre parade. It is a parade or zoo where people discover that terror and murder, alarming and frightening people and having children witness this is a natural way of life. People want to lock apartheid away in a museum. This is a time of deceit. A time of homophobia, racism, the building up of the worst kind of vitriol and belligerence, prejudice, racism and genocide (in Africa).
In South Africa, you will find human minds that have been so disturbed the best way to describe this manifestation is like this. It was democracy itself that was a revolutionary act from within (self-conscious, it starved you of your own humanity, made you sensitive to the rights of human life and it educated you about pain and torture). Xenophobia does not require education or intelligence but a kind of extraterrestrial aggression, brutality and violence against man.
We are all at heart children searching for in the emotional complexities and anxieties of our vulnerabilities truth and beauty. A child is ignorant of fear. The only thing that stimulates the death of fear in a child is their loss of innocence. Barbarous habits are the keys to opening Pandora’s Box. History has sometimes given us exactly what we wanted but it has always come with a terrible price. Sometimes our nightmares can take us further from the truth.
Reveal the monsters hiding under the bed. The ghosts in our head. They are the voices, the hallucinations that only we can see and hear. The past gives us insight into our future. All the futures of our tomorrows. The media tells us that we are more equal than others are. They do not tell us what the intentions behind massacre are and what are the intentions behind the methods of massacre? Apartheid changed us. Everybody has a story to tell.
Ghost stories (or should I be using the word/term propaganda here). Everybody wanted to be free and equal during the wuthering heights of apartheid so why deny those rights to other people from other countries all over Africa. There is something so beautiful about the words ‘equality’ and ‘human rights’. Why do South Africans have little or no empathy or consideration for Africans of other countries?
After apartheid, after the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, after affirmative action what would our ancestors expect of us? Honestly, would they be expecting us to build museums for the dead? They are surely turning in their grave. We have not made much progress then in twenty years. The Rainbow Nation buried. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. The African Renaissance the only liberty that we are clinging to.
These days every person wants to be part of the African Renaissance. Ordinary young men and woman became radicalized, recruited, politicised and some of them were even destroyed. We sometimes forget that.
Harper Lee’s sigh towards God and the signature psychology in her writing of To Kill A Mockingbird
There is blood in our silence, and in our silence the milk and honey, assertion and defiance of language lives and breathes. In our projections from the past, of our cultural background and history, and so, we are transformed by the social and political evolution of the lonely and simple, the mood of innocent and innocence lost and frighteningly dysfunctional country that we live in. I touch on the Mockingbird book for a number of reasons. Why would it inspire a South African poet living in an oblique African narrative, writing in the context of a divided self with emotional vigour. Meditative scenes and the climate of narcissistic visions of the dominant patriarchal landscape, the consumerist environment that we live in now.
Nelle Harper Lee, was she a pioneer stylistically, a visionary writer ahead of her time, or, a one hit wonder who just disappeared from public life never to be seen of or heard from again until her death? What exactly did Harper Lee fall victim too? The voices of her characters inside her head, her craftmanship, the assault of the popularity and critical success of the Mockingbird book. Were all calling to her, speaking in tongues of stigma change and brutal racial discrimination, the inner self, the system of the nuclear family, alienation, self-imposed isolation in a small-town setting? It deals with paranoia (so she was both eminent author, and feminist thinker) as an epidemic, to the freezing response of the strangeness of personal grief.
The nostalgic sentiment of childhood barricaded under the gaze of progress, dissemination of information, and the policies of racial conflict, racial hatred that is still an act of terror at the heart, the root cause of our neurotic behaviour all over the world. Audience and censure interplay in the novel. Any kind of discrimination is a fork in the road, the other side of silence. This other voice of racism perpetuates the struggle of divide and conquer, separate but equal. Hate is night. Gazing into the past. It is very much an absent waking from reconciling falling to the land of the European, being classified as Non-European. Race relations is an emergency continued on the universal horizon.
It is still setting the maladjusted stage in this modern age, in this society. The book also talks about causal issues of objectification, the anxious fear and ‘montage of heck’ subjugation that exists in the paradigm of a small-town community, the racist gender bias leaning towards the traitorous, fearful figure of Boo Radley who rejects the community, and is rejected in turn, giving up a life contributing positively to society. My response to this is to be a parting realist.
The same fears in this book are the fears that I have. The happiness in this book cancelled out the discrimination in my own life. That is why I read female writers so voraciously. The comedian, the exploratory-novelist who dissect the issue of post-coloniality in their literary pursuit, the experimental-novelist, the children’s writer, contemporary female poets, but when it comes to male writers, I only stick my neck out for Updike, Hemingway and Salinger.
Those are the books I grew up with in adolescence. The Music School, A Moveable Feast, and Catcher in the Rye. I didn’t know any brown novelists. Any poets who were of mixed- race descent. There is recognition of Harper Lee’s sign towards God. The sign is a sigh. She is statue-like. The Harper Lee when the Mockingbird book was finished had the finesse of a bird, of a swan. Her features destroyed like blue sky by rain when she disappeared from view. Hidden, shielded from the publicity machine by her editor. Her sabotage by the roughs of this world. Both men. Mainly women. She plays this game. This game she knows so well. The anxiety and discrimination of anxiety. The undertaker is menopause. Eyes cast down. In the name of extinction, the dodo’s modus operandi, out about her pain, she tells herself to write everything down. She must. She must. In the name of the night watchman (for she is the night watchman), she must. She simply must. And yet light appears. And yet light appears. I am slowly going insane this time because what it comes down to for me is living in a brown South Africa. Not so much elegantly so. Growth via belonging are elegantly slow in those fields. Being a poet in a brown South Africa. Being a novelist in a brown South Africa. Wanting to be a pioneer on the same basic grounds that Harper Lee and Truman Capote were for those times. Politics is politics is politics. People are people. It comes from our childhood. If we grow up to be racist, now, whose fault is that really? Are we too defined by the class regime?
Something distilled now appears to transcend the established automata of To Kill A Mockingbird. All I see is darkness all around me. Now all I hear are the voices from the dark past. I tell myself that they are angels. But sometimes the things they say and tell me are hellish territory and I know then. That I am bound by oath and oar to boat and rope. The hangman’s noose. And everything is a political movement in the book. The father is a lawyer who loses the case of a lifetime, while his children grow up in this autobiographical account of racism in the Midwest. Lest we forget. Time is longer than rope. The gospel truth is that what Harper Lee wrote about then, it is a universal story.The flexibility of stigma and the spinning wheel of discrimination have shaped South African history for the longest time. It is a different kind of war. What in childhood shapes you,it evolves you into adult life.It is both mandate and contract. Other lives have other languages. Racism is central to the story, a muse, ‘the’ muse, a symbol of what has been lost and possessed, the dual images of both. It is a brilliantly sacred account of a complicated transforming wound for these times that we are living in. The light echoes. It is the end of another day. Tomorrow we wake up and the line of disparity continues. We live in denial, denial, denial, as if discrimination and the social system of race, and class, and struggle, and liberation is a falsehood. Believers are like the leafing owl and the flaming bowl of the moon. I just want something simple to believe in, that’s all.
Our norms and values make us who we are as a country, as a society, divide us too as a country, as a society. The religious say it is our duty to pray, and the politicians want our vote. The newspapers print what they think is the gospel truth. It is important what our novelists write, think. It is significant. What a poet’s response is, is this. As advocacy body, outreach, confessional analysis. The poet is fulltime activist. They can write in rhyme, in verse, or, meter.Words count for something, is what Nelle Harper Lee presupposed in the Mockingbird book. Regardless if it was before my time. I listen and I listen and I pay attention because I too want to put my best pioneering effort forward. There is freedom in creative expression.
As writers, novelists, you don’t write for the establishment. You don’t write to make a name for yourself, for glory, for name and fame and to put away money in the bank for your retirement, or, to secure financial security for yourself and your family. You write to impact and change the world around you for the betterment of humanity. You want your voice to create a force for good. Far away, I think of Harper Lee making notes as she made breakfast, or, sitting at her typewriter punching out a manuscript, changing the ribbon as I did when I was a teenager. She never married. Never had children. Never wrote more than two books. I have written ten, and I’m still going. Churning out poetry, novels, short stories, essays, plays.
My motivation will always be just to transform one life, one sociological perspective, one crisis of identity, one vision comparatively at a time, one strategy,one history. One reality.
Therein lay Harper Lee’s profound brilliance. Her triumph was her appeal to reason. To challenge the status quo of every nonconformist thinker.
Vincent van Gogh: The Other. Now we will both drown in agony, despair and ecstasy
Now he belongs to the elite.
Like a photo workshop, even the trying decline of the citizenship (belonging to the working and lower middle classes) of stigma and the super-rise of discrimination amongst the mentally ill has myths and attitudes. It has become kind of like an occupational hazard that swings black veins here to know and understand this ‘captive-apartheid’ (separate but equal mentality, this psyche) of what it is like to be mentally ill, to be hospitalised, institutionalised on a long-term basis, the conflict in the home that leads to isolation, withdrawal from the community and broader society of the ‘victim’. In the discontent, in anger and agony, there will be violence and assault against the mentally ill that is never spoken about. There will never be an apology. The arrogant and thoughtless perpetrators from all quarters would think that with time memories of the past injustices and brutality will fade like a season. That the mentally ill sufferer would forget the pain of the mental cruelty of the emotional abuser. I think that we are all victims. All artists become victims. The dysfunctional household, the nuclear family hanging on by a thread becomes anti-powerful, antisocial, and rather than address these questionable and brutal actions, this avalanche of sin against the creative-minded and imaginative bipolar sufferer, or, the mentally ill sufferer who has an artistic temperament the result can lead to the dynamic of social alienation from society. The artist may be seen as a deteriorating misfit and living in declining living standards. Having a low sense of self-worth, no identity to speak of, or, frequently in the mode of identity crisis.
Frequenting brothels, becoming hypersexualised, or, befriending people living on the fringes of society. Cast out of society, Vincent called upon interlopers like himself, marginalised, disadvantaged due to poverty, neglect, and abandonment, and the liberties of discrimination. I have spoken about the spoiled identity before. I am more moved now to write about how the socialisation of discrimination against the mentally ill sufferer came about, than press-ganged stigma. There is a different mode of operandi for both. Like the Dutch painter, I tried to outrun the dawn, befriend the working class, those living and working in poverty, those gone in a drink, but the world has become a sticky place. Vincent held up a paintbrush and it became an alpha and omega talisman in his hands. He never sold a painting in his lifetime, had experienced unrequited love in his life, lived in abject poverty, befriended and even painted his circle of confidantes, prostitutes. He painted the wilderness in a chair, he painted the bone-filled face of the moon, he painted portraits in which he portrayed both the androgynous effect of the mind and the male and female landscape there, he painted self-portraits displaying his nature, his a-typical personality for the entire world to see, and he painted sunflowers. He engineered grasses, torment (even in the stars), the genius in the mundane, the banal. Even in the mediocre he found light and improvised comfort for himself in that light as if it belonged to the arena of God. He found the heart and the liver in the shadow of the destitute weeping over the figure of Christ, and for me, there’s a vague anguish attached to the scale of the page.
I think that when Vincent was painting himself, these complex pictures were so layered with subtext, so conceptual, yet, the broken link was there all along. The psychology of it all. And in extremes magical, in bursts of creative thought with an almost unreal substance sticking to it as if mentally he was getting rid of things that had robbed him of life. Marriage, children, ‘the’ career and a loving wife. When I look at the depressed views of himself, the imaginative portraiture, of course, of course I see myself. I see my own writing. I see myself as a poet, second and novelist, first in this phase of my writing career. Not confident in his talent, or, sure, is this a gift. His work was not ‘art’ in a commercial sensibility that would see him gaining financial security from his monumentally gifted work in his lifetime.Vincent’s nightmares like mine must have been intense and terrifying. I journal, Vincent painted. I didn’t handle my nervous breakdown every well, and subsequent nervous breakdowns, and hospitalisations. Stress, burnt out, depression and mania. Both common in the artistic temperament as well as female poets suffering from the Sylvia Plath Effect. He knew the business of internalising emptiness, the nonconcrete, turning it into the uninvolved non-event of the morose state of affairs of both affective pressure and fatalistic depression. I concentrate on the good things.He was a Renaissance-wolf. Hanging on by a phantom thread (as is due to artists who are mentally ill).He knew the voracious destructive pain of being rejected, that matters of the heart have two definitions.To be loved in return, or, to remain single, unloved.
And have many love affairs always trying to make up for the one that you lost to another. He plugged the gaps with the divine, albeit psychological art. In a South African, African context, the artist should be an enfranchised individual. It is important to realise that not just as newspaper gospel, but as a universal challenge, and as truth. The climate of freedom comes to the enfranchised. A kind of innermost peace in the lonely nights. Where did the origins of Vincent’s art, his utter focus, the language of his concentration, the fact that he was so prolific, as hardworking as spit come from, from childhood, or, from a psychiatric disorder? I have struggled with this realisation for most of my adult life. What does every bold incident of trauma inspire in the ‘disaster’ artist? The sunflowers of the creative spark, or, the madness life in the very ill.In the end, ultimately Vincent was the winner. He was the heir to whom the voice of God belonged to in his own time. I see his work speaking to me as diagrammatic. As a photo ark speaking in hundreds of tongues.What is writing, writing for pleasure, what exactly does that mean? What is painting, where is the voice in the painting, to whom does that voice belong? To me, truth resides in the forms of succession (what is the reward for the artist, what is the hereafter and the aftermath). By design the boiling kettleof the psyche brings to life the work, the vision, the art. Where dawn meets nightfall, the music of the hours, the silence by the beach with sand, the knot on the counter top, the muted television, the lost television remote, posterity and legacy, immortality and the mortal; the intellect is the master.
I think ofthe light in the fridge. How for me it can sometimes illuminate, radiate, light up the entire phenomenological plan of the order of this planet, of what I am writing, but the question begs, does the artist have an ego, is it unfulfilled, is it more mythic embryo than the odyssey in the womb. What is talent, that seems to come so naturally for the chosen, or, plays out as dubious and unnatural for the audience. Can the negative, can depression fuel, and nurture art?There is both affected dark in that supremacy, and light.
And of damage, of the photograph album of the soul rising to the surface; art too can heal, and can be a blessing. Yes, yes, the misfit can heal, and can be a blessing. We need not only look at Vincent van Gogh as a Dutch painter who never sold a painting in his lifetime, we can look to Africa’s nonconformist artists (Dambudzo Marechera, Richard Rive for example), and we can look to the universality of the world. Look upon the broken link to find the livid owl. Look upon the psychological education of the artist from childhood to death.
Every day in this country there are men, women and children who live without honour, decency, values and integrity. This is Africa and sub-Saharan Africa’s masterpiece that we have discovered.
Time is running out on us to develop successful behaviour. The future is now. Life is impoverished, marginalised and disadvantaged areas are teetering on the brink. What has led to the inevitable decline that has advanced upon the poor in Africa during these turbulent times. I think of the visionary leadership of President Trump.We live in a world of simulation, where there is no contact between a large number of people due to the digital divide, information technology, poverty and prosperity and wealth, although we are all linked by the matrix and flux of culture. These multiplying and restructuring connections through serves evolution. I think of Kelly Askew’s “hydraulic needle theory”, Neil Armstrong, Thomas Jefferson.
Knowledge is intense. We tell ourselves that good will attempt to overcome terrorism. Resistance is futile.
A digital evolution where advancements are being made everyday all over the world concerning the rights of the third world countries in Africa. Sanitation, wells, electricity are linked and frame health subjectivities.
It is oral evidence, proof of the comprehensive contribution to positive social outcomes in this age of modern society, God and the revolutionary spirit, religion and the church that has given us life. The private of identity history of the economic apartheid of Africa, its stranglehold on its residents, has forged key figures and major role-players in African history to flesh out our relations of ethnicity, class/ruling class/president-elect/occupation, holistic democracies. The Coloured contextualised means of mixed race.
For humankind “to live long, and prosper”, we have to accept counterpowers, mental and cyber-freedoms.
Is this the legacy the leaders of our government and the African Renaissance want to leave us with? South Africa is on a self-destructive mode even more so than Zimbabwe. Stress and depression are rife in the workplace. People still ridicule mental illness and depression (for example, John Nash and Anne Sexton). We are missing the childlike innocence all citizens had in the novel beginnings of the new South Africa. Our Rainbow Nation. Our global village. We don’t have enough intelligence at our disposal as first world countries. We think of transport and we think of roads, we do not think of the bigger picture. Trade. Trade routes. Free trade. Why is it impossible to have rocket men, far-reaching satellites, astronauts from Africa?
As an empire, America is a stronghold, the leader of the free world, the home of the free, land of the brave.
Africa has good politicians, and bad politicians. Africa has corrupt politicians, as is the upper hierarchy that exists in the corporate world. The nature of the new game-plan is how fast can I make new money and spend it. On our school playing fields there exists an uninhibited violence and pornography is rife in homes. What would the dead heroes and heroines of the struggle desire be for revenge on all the negative issues that are prevalent in today’s society? Only time will tell. Even with the horrors of defeat facing us in all spheres of the human condition we must look upon positive solutions to free us from daily pessimism. With every psychological framework of an extraordinary mind comes perception, even before education.
Analysis will always lead to the final break, or unnatural breakthrough devoid of anthropological subculture.
It is illegitimate to write the history of only part of an absolute, and total community.
War crimes, hate crimes, slogans, speeches, murder, spy games, warfare, guerrilla tactics, scorched earth policy, Intel, intelligence, collateral damage, inconclusive, sectors, precincts, districts under guard and who still remembers Guantanamo Bay? The stuff of movies right. Perhaps a film by Orson Welles. The magical stuff of the imagination. War games. Spy Games. There are no sides here.There is only the ferocious coupling off of countries and citizens against terrorism (for example, cyber terrorism, eco terrorism). There should be only one allegiance and that should be to the one country empowering other people in developing countries. How can you hold a superpower responsible who diminished the UN Security Council? Let us think of the computer logic of world superpowers and the elite such as Saudi Arabia, Korea, Japan, and Russia.
That were never even intimidated by them and who doesn’t even think he, his country should be held responsible for the war crimes in Iraq? Perhaps in the past (as history has foretold), the accountability of the decision-making of Bush and Blair will rest on the world’s regard for these two world leaders. Somehow these days it feels closer to home. In mass media today, I think of Black and White personalities that have made their mark on society throughout the ages with their social point of view, their beliefs and existence, however fragmentary and dominating, mechanized and robotic. When that is projected before the followers of essentially two worlds, present and future, we still consider the scientist with all of their expertise as viewed as either a villain or the saviour. In the computer age, everything is mentally, verbally projected.We must start thinking of a specific parent culture when it comes to the divide and conquer rule of the world of computers.
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