Father 17.04.06

You rail at my

inability to talk

to you

Not understanding

the child's voice

in me

two and ten and

sixteen years old

howling at the

three times departed:

returned figure

claiming to be

my father

for I am still the

children that

I was

and unforgiving and

uncomprehending as

they were

I still am

Communication 24.04.06

I.

Would it be all right for me

to cry on your shoulder

and for you to look

the other way

while I do it?

Would you mind

clasping my wet hands

in yours,

but not asking why

when I do it?

II.

It's not so much the measured way I laugh

as you do what you can to insult me,

Nor the times I did my best to listen

as a trail of your tears marked your passing.

Now all I demand is the solitude

of being alone, of the silencing,

of the lost, the measured, the quieting:

the weighting of the words that muted me.

III.

cold cape winter darkness

shone in the moonlight

captured by the moon

caught by the stars

clasped in raindrop reflections

shining darkness!

luminous alive darkness!

i am so enamoured

you are quiet forgiving

and do not need my

requited affections

IV.

There will be time for us to talk

when this is all over and done

I will no longer hold her then

her markings on me will have gone.

We will laugh and I'll be joyous

so please don't lament for me now

The steel's in the knowledge of love,

not its give, its take, or its how.

The collector 30.04.06

is an old man

stooped in his speech

but restless in a body

prematurely aged

(at least so he considers)

he places me on the wall

next to him:

smiling, made

content in collection

he wanders around us

the collected, the

claimed. He smiles

and he laughs

as much as he collects

us we are that which

collects him, gathering him

placing him upright

(the redressing of age)

he is weakly lined now

his speech is lighter

and his hearing clear

of memories

for they are unnecessary

in our presence we

are his fleshed memories

we are his bodied moments

and in us he meets himself

again and again and again

retreating into the collections

of his past, his immaturing body

(at least so he considered)

Grand 01.05.06

My father won't hear any

question whether his mother

was a great woman, an angel,

or whether she was

mean or moody

he talks of her as he

would of a luminary,

a truly great person

“A woman of integrity

and such kindness”

when all I recall of her

is a hunched woman

closed navy blue shoes

a strange rank air

an other woman not

my mother

Nana would scold me for my

childish ways of too much noise

and too few manners

though most had thought me

a silent, polite child

I am told that the woman

I recall is not her, his mother,

but some other creature:

age and disease had

possessed the woman I met

it all makes me unsure whether

his memory or mine is

the realer and, if I was once

an angel to him, what

does that make me now?

Mbizo¹ 28.04.06

Have I been named

and I live up

to calling

In naming you:

Would I be a traitor?

Would I be cheating

on what called us?

Or would it be

fateful, even

normal

For me to so renege

on our honest deceptions?

For they were

and they are the

unguilty constructs

of those unfamiliar.

And so I don't believe

myself traitorous,

simply unwise.

I name you.

I call you.

Neither of us shamed.

Distinct 28.04.06

Yes you are attractive

Yes, I like you.

Yes, you are sexy.

And all of that is good

But No, I have not

fallen in love

And No, I will not

commit

But that doesn't

mean that my bed

does not desire you

nor that we should wait

for perfect moments

or timed romantics

in the absence of love

we can still grow

and move beyond

its vicious timings

for I am not re-prepared

for it, we are not

permanent and I shall

not be here long. Choose.

Stomping prawns 04.05.06

As a child,

less disobedient than

I am now, we would,

each summer,

make a mission of

our fishing in the mouth

of the Keurboom River

it was not without preparation:

our feet were the missionaries

into the prawns' homes

coercing them out of the

mud beneath our feet

nudging them from

quieter existences

into our neatly muddied

buckets

When learning to cast the rod

to which I had tied

my prawn, my feet

were cold and I didn't

dare say it. I was a big boy.

I didn't really like stomping

prawns, although you'd

thought me enamoured of

it in the gameplaying and

laughter that you made of it.

I never had the knack for

catching them. I was far more

interested in seeing how they

got away and every one

I caught was a moment lost,

an escape to which I was not

made witness.

Lookout² 04.05.06

It is a late night sea

that stirs before me

my feet in the turmoil

of its grip, slipping

through the sand and

waters covering my feet.

I am thirteen years old

and I am quiet on this

dark beach the lonely

waves curling their

way above my knees

my knuckles bony and my

windsheeter slapping my neck.

I am tall at fifteen

and the sea grips my

heart in its cold, wet

hands reminding me

that my standing here

is a lonely affair: the wait

between the water's kisses.

And it is a winter of

another birthday loading

the sea, the sand – the water

always lurking in my

in my mind guiding me

towards it, towards child memories:

The sea was the house

of my youth's innocence

stored there yearly and

returned summer-strong

the hot days and cold

blustering nights of

fishing, pansy shells

and the recollection

of moments of the

sea's love for me, its

unconditional acceptance,

its giving tides.

Arrivals 08.04.06

You are sharpened for me

in the distances that

separate us

although threatened by the

habits of my myopia

you resisted

the inclement weather of

your arrivals and departures

is shuddering

I hope it rains so that we can

stay indoors and I shall

look at you closely

African Revolutions 08.04.06

It is startling

you know

to see the formation

of it to

see its structure

spring up and

around me:

burgeoning civility

it is in the habits of

words their

seemingly instinctive

slip-slop

movements from the

mouths and

hands of mayors, MECs

and presidents

there is a photo of a

handshake between a white

man and a black man

another with

the hands of two

black men clenched in

'Comradeship' (pat

on the back strong)

it's about histories I'm

told, that they're constructed

and aided and abetted

by the evility

of Europeans who stole from

us Egyptian heritages

or in the momentous

let-downs of colonials

who colonised, sucked

dry and left messes

of institutions and hazards

of politics

but the limelight, green and

brown as it should be,

has yet to fall at

the feet of

any who accept guilt, or

at least responsibility

for to do such would be

truly revolutionary

and no one really

wants to start

yet another

African Revolution.

Leather Cuff 08.04.06

I carry you in the

oddment of velcro

attachment

you slip off quite easily

the rip/tear of

detachment

had it always been

that easy for us

we may

have left each other

in slightly less

disarray

Translation 11.04.06

translate the moment:

take the language of it

the commentary, it is

all contained, inherently

worded the structure

contained

the aphorism of it

is in the explanation

the interpreted moments

translated for you

principled and hoped

formal, hoped complete

but the missing: the

apothegm - the

completeness is flawed

the circle slashed and gutted

in its formality, its attempted

grace – causelessly

imperfect and its

arisen nature and I

incapable of translating

this: these times, these

gonenesses these missings

these nows

Taken 11.04.06

delved and dug

out the thrown soil

of that which

so sustained me

I was beneath it, held

under the earth

roots lifelong deep

and reclaiming water

this is the ideal, taking,

feeding off of the earth

quenching the dry

landscapes, dusted

as they are with but

the raindrops of my

consciousness, seen as

I am the morning dew

falling off of the grass

bodies and reentering

the earth as I would setting

roots down once more

Chromatic 13.04.06

and the rush of it through my veins and

blurred pumping in my head

and the idea or persuasion of stars

in my bloodshot eyes

“it's mounting you know the tension

the excitement of how people are

reacting to it, the meaning of all

these people, the famed and acclaimed

moving around in our spaces

we see them and know we

can ultimately be like them”

and it's the lights, the mirrors the fuck-off

fast-moving shiny cars

and the breast implants the good ones that

actually look touch-them-real

“I saw her you know, the red-head

with those gorgeous breasts and that

CK dress, but for the Donna Karan watch

she would have looked really, so

awfully damn good, the watch should've

been Cartier you know and maybe

the shoes by someone better and that

fragrance she was wearing...”

and I see them waving and I wave back 'cos

that's what you have to do

and the shit-skew walk and credit card credit

card jack-lime strong babe

“but I'm not sure if he's straight of

if he is not, but he dated that

girl, you know the model, and she

was highly sexed (I know) and

he wouldn't have pulled it off if

he were gay, but maybe he likes

that stuff too much and I always see

him with that guy you know...”

and it's the short skirts, the ones the 12 year olds

are wearing sweetie

and the hair back tight and Beyoncé front curl

and the tight black so-80s retro

“and the mirrors sweetie, they're

fucking everywhere, it makes you

feel narcisississitisic... vain you

know, but ok really, because we're

hot and other people want to see

us like this and it makes it easier to

make sure that we're hot and not

looking like something dragged in”

and, truth be told, I couldn't give a shit

about it anymore.

I observe a Picasso 13.04.06

the idea of three people

beneath the idea

of a tree

neither a complete

concept nor an

independent one

there are three figures

sturdy, brown and

weighty

but they are the concepts

of people, the imagined,

the gone

beneath a mark of nature

that neither resists

nor deplores

its changed state, its denial

or its restructured

immanence

mostly, what disturbs me is I how

am stirred by three figures

beneath a tree

Savanna 11-14.04.06

windswept grasses on

the plateaux, baobabs

grown from the deepness

of waters that run beneath

the scratchy tarmac on

bare feet, buildings

erected from the dirt

the dusts and sinews of

rain-warmed rivers

tumbling into the sewers

of my dreams and beneath

bridges arcing over

what is my mind

what is this loam

what is this land

that is my home

Standing 01.03.06

There is a wreath of madness on it

cutting crown of thorns deep

and allegorized down down

passed down

imprint:

the scars on my forehead

the tattooed path of blood

down my neck

placed in ceremony the

wreath curls its way around my head

cutting the tendrils of sanity

separating skin and mind

copy:

the dark hours spent in

light and the half light

damaged, thrown beneath feet

The trial was held at midday

the laughter of the law

and the giggling whores

making imperceptible my

flickering eyes forcing

the recusal of my innocence

it pulled itself away it did

then claimed it was guilty

to much satisfied applause

A Passing 08.03.2006

Strange to miss

the pain instead

of missing you

to be aware of

an addiction and

to dismiss it

as to miss the

intoxication and my

vibrant self-destruction

I missed you and

pained and missed

pain and missed

my own passing

from no longer missing

to that which is gone

Heard 17.03.06

I wonder if you want me to interrogate you

to uncover events and feelings I did not

know or did not care to understand

it is a plagued existence to be unsure of

my own questioning, of whether there is

need in you to be understood, for you

to feel as though I have recovered you.

But all is not as it would be, the uncalm

me picking my way through the leaves

and sticks of the paths you've left behind

for me to follow. Here and there I see an

indication of what you want, but I remain

unsure, uncertain as to your intent and my

role. Friend I have been and always am

but you felt information would change that

which surrounded us, revelation and dawning

knowledge. But it cannot prevent the growing

closer, the tightening of old bonds better rooted

now, now that I know, now that you are free

at least so free in the knowledge that I am here

that I support you and that should there be

those who would despair, and should you lament

I know and I will hold myself up for you. You

can and must be free with me dear friend, and I

will do my best to question you, and to listen

Memoirs 18.03.06

I saw them coming from behind your teeth

that space where the mouth and incisors

hide one another, they slipped down the

side of your mouth and crawled their

way towards me, unattached to your words.

They were so nonchalant in their damage

so unforgiving in their intent, but still

I would do my best not to bow down

beneath their weight – the weight of

overwhelming histories and dreaded

forgetfulness. Because, I see you have

forgotten and that you have passed by

the past that was once present for us

in this here space, this bed, this chair

and the photos gazing on us in their

unknowing audience to all that would

follow – to conversations, crying and

moans of rapturous guilt that it had been

you and me and the destructive spiral

of shared un-knowledge. Thank you.

Embrace 18.03.06

You know that I might

hold you, that I could

be holding you tight

against my chest, bare

as it would be with its

hair against your cheek

and you listening for

the intents of my heartbeat

for they are sometimes

disinclined to communicate

themselves in the natural ways

but letting you know them

through your touching me

through your knowing me

and reading the litany of

skin, the raptures of my hair

Corralled 18.03.06

In the space that separates denial

and assent lies an area of vanished

acceptance and unuttered rejections

seeing it some have thought that

the light that shone was that of the

moon through thin clouds

others thought they felt sand beneath

their walking feet and others grass,

soil or the dustiest of stones on soles

and none of these follow some implied

conclusion, nor do they necessitate

shouted concurrence nor a sighed renege

it is difficult in the shallow light to

know or not to know, or to be certain

that uncertainty is pervasive

instead inner turmoil is calmed and

the outer emotions of befriended space

belie the temptations that stand there

Withstood 18.03.06

I do not stand well here.

The angle of the ground

does not support me

nor does the incongruity

of your speech.

There are jarring sounds

in my ears – the screeching

halting train too many people

full – moving from your

mouth and heading

towards me standing

bent-kneed and

confused and almost

knocked down by its

pressure on my skull.

But it was insufficient.

I was neither knocked

down, nor shaken. Reality

corrected itself and I was

no longer crippled in sight.

The scripted 19.03.06

I see your legend, the

mark of you branded

on me, it is a raised

mark: you burned

yourself on me and left

your scriptures on

my body, fueled and

flamed on by ignorance

the wind of mine was

pervasive blowing it

all, blustering you up

until all that was left was

the inevitability of your

implosion and how its

shrapnel would sever

any and all connections

that we shared, share

and ever could share.

I do not blame, neither

do I accuse, I accept

the raised skin on

my arms and the branded

notation of your distrust

lingering and dissonant.

'tatious 20.03.06

Are we callous that we

engage in these fruitless

games? This hopscotch

of juvenile words and

glances – intimation.

Brush my hands closer.

Say my words smoother.

The flirting of it, the

wordless tension that

tightens its fickle grasp

to emancipate us, bring

me nearer, distance you.

Confining in human space.

Defining in rhythmic pace.

Her lips curl back in an

attempt to avoid smiling

but I catch their misstep

and laugh to myself, glad

I could witness satisfaction.

Natural intimacy 21.03.06

The wind flirts its way beneath

the denim of my jeans an

unembarrassed lover exposing

me to her openness

luring me into her cold

yet her hands so easily release

their grip leaving me

unsatisfied but still gracious for their

momentary engagement for

a chance at natural intimacy

shivering I close my jacket around

me wondering on loves lost

and the allure of cold liaisons

tightening my skin, exciting me

but leaving me less warm

When we are burning 22.03.06

when we are burning bright

and hard in the summer's light

that is when you arrest

me, that is when you

capture the flaming fields

of my lips and douse

them quickly and smoothly

with your irreverent touches

and left so grounded and

so flushed with the colours

of flame and water and

steam I clench my fists

my lips and my eyes

tightly, tightly, tightly lit

they are and burning still in

the waters of your mind

Autumn Hymn 23.03.06

The jacaranda sheds it

wilted flowers in a serenade

to the morning wind

the dancing lilac of it

overwhelming my sensitive

observations

I see our children feet

here, smaller and

catching on the brickwork

our chasing-games in

the cacophony of falling

leaves and a shower of purple flowers

we are neither running nor

barefoot any more, my

feet are closed off and

invulnerable to the vividness

of crushed flowers underfoot

the crinkling of soft histories

lost child moments in the

chaos of falling flowers

My sister, Vanessa, just got a lead part in a new South African film. I don't know what it's called, except that it's a comedy about The Comrades Marathon and she is playing a star Russian runner. Thankfully I can't give away any of the storyline. What I do know is that it is going to be premiering in December for the Christmas season. SO COOL!

Why guilt? 01.03.06

This is a much discussed subject, but I wonder about the role of guilt. Guilt in itself is an emotional response to an action that one has taken.¹ In this way one feels remorse, sadness, culpability of some sort. It is furthermore possible that one needs to seek redemption in some fashion, some action that will negate the previous action. By negation I mean that it will take the previous action and try to reverse the emotion that one feels for it. For example if I have done something wrong, such as causing an accident, I may seek redemption or, I suppose, emotional deliverance for my negligence or my purposeful wrongdoing by remunerating the person monetarily, apologising, or going out of my way to do whatever is possible to see that that person has adequate care (on the assumption that my actions injured them in some way).

Notwithstanding all of this humanity through the experience of guilt, the question I want to ask is why is guilt so pervasive. Why do we feel it so regularly and possibly for actions that do not cause the repercussions that we think they may. Because of theories of mind that we have, we conjecture as to what others may be feeling. We impute emotional reactions to that which we have done. This imputation results in us feeling guilt, feeling bad, feeling generally as though we have caused some hurt which may be irreparable.

The problem for me is this, on a personal level do I experience guilt in the same way that others do? If I realise that I am 'guilty' of some action, should I feel perpetually sad because of having taken that action, or should I feel the guilt, recognise its momentary worth, take what I believe is redemptive action and then move on? Or should I wallow in the experience of the guilt and not move on to forgiveness? The problem with guilt is that one both has to seek forgiveness from someone else, as well as seeking to forgive oneself. I think the argument as to which is harder depends on the people involved. However, I centrally and personally believe that the latter (self-forgiveness) is more important in order for one to move onwards emotionally and actively.

The question is whether the experience of guilt actually results in resolution, or whether our feeling and indulging in it can invalidate any future interactions because of our inactivity which is as a result of our wallowing in guilt. It is further not to use metaphors that include water as a medium of understanding. Why do we feel that a water or mud-like metaphor is apt? Is it because of the idea of one floating if there is no guilt but sinking if there is? If guilt results in us being in a possibly better situation that we originally – through our penitence – then surely it shouldn't use metaphors of sinking, but rather of further upliftment! Or rather, it shouldn't use metaphors of water at all. Personally, I seem to be at a stage where I dislike the idea of everything being either up or down. The concept of a specific vertical continuum applied to emotional contexts seems, to me, to be inherently flawed. My experiences of emotions (including what I perceive as guilt) are not necessarily up or down, high or low, they encompass a landscape of emotions that do not necessarily attach to an up-down direction.

Even so, another concept which needs to be considered is the relationship between remorse and guilt. If I feel guilty for something, does that mean I should regret what I did? Should I feel remorseful? Again speaking from a personal standpoint, in certain specific contexts even when I have subsequently felt guilt for having taken a specific path of action, I subsequently realised that I would most likely had I been able to go back and choose again, I would have made the same choices and simply suffer the guilt. The existence and experience of my guilt does not necessarily imply that i should want to go back and change what I did. It does not imply that I should regret my actions. I could have learned something valuable which I would not have learned otherwise, I could have experienced or understood something which would not have been revealed to me had I not taken that course of action. Again this links to remorse. Should I feel remorseful if I feel guilt and should I wish (in hindsight) that I could remove that action, that if I could edit history, I would delete that action from my personal history. I don't necessarily think so.

An additional problem is the link that exists between guilt and memory. If I am guilty of some action, for which I then forgive myself or for which I am forgiven by another, is it possible that that forgiveness could be revoked. Can I take away forgiveness once it has been given? In a simple two person relationship does this mean that if I did something wrong for which my friend forgave me, can they subsequently say that they actually revoke their prior forgiveness and that they wish for me to feel more remorseful, or to act in a way that is more penitent or to act in such a way that they feel as though I am more penitent than previously? If this is the case then guilt (although it is never itself erased) can be forgiven, but lives in a limbo in which this forgiveness can be taken away and the guilt experienced even more. This is why I believe that the idiom 'Forgive and Forget' is apt – there is a significant relationship between memory and forgiveness and hence between memory and the experience of guilt. I will feel guilt as long as I remember a specific action that I have taken which warranted my experiencing guilt. If I can no longer remember that I have performed an act for which I should feel guilt, should i still feel guilty? Is it really contingent on others not remembering? In which case for true forgiveness, i.e., ignorance of guilt, both me and others must forget what I or they did. This in itself plays havoc with the concept of history. People claim that they have forgiven actions against them by others, but if it is continually being recorded is that really the case?

I conjure a hypothetical here: if we took two random children one that we told was 'Jewish' (although that wasn't necessarily true) and another that we told was 'Aryan' (of Germanic descent) and then gave them history books and the ability to read them, would they act in ways which we believe would be consistent with forgiveness (assuming that Jewish people have forgiven German people for the Holocaust, or more locally that Black African people have forgiven White African people for Apartheid or colonial domination)? Or, conversely, would the fact that it had been recorded and read result in actions by either individual which would make them act in such a way that made the 'Aryan' feel guilt(y) and the 'Jewish' individual feel victimised? I don't know. I really have no idea, I just wonder what this kind of experiment would produce. It is entirely unfeasible, but it is interesting as a personal thought experiment. On a personal level do we actually forgive people for what they have done, or do we rehash it with ourselves, blame them for certain things, claim that they are responsible for how we are now. At what point can we claim that we actually did not forgive them, or at which point is forgiveness simply superficial? Again I don't know, it's just something that I am thinking about.

Anyway, these are some of the thoughts running through my tired brain. I'll slap them on my blog soon and you can have a rant and a rave at me for my strange late night contemplations if you are so inclined.

Si

Painting the Lion 18.02.06

It stands there in the glory of all who have stood before it

labouring to cover its surface, to fill the niches, to cover

its mane it the colours of their manifest expression. Its regal

nature overcomes any shade it has been painted and will

ever be covered in, deeming future and past a part of

its tribute, the victim of its sacrificial hunger and bathed

in the blood of its bacchanal glory.

She wept into the sheets upon which she had bled and

on which they had sweated and rolled and come together

she had fallen and fallen and felt so taken that his departure

had seemed natural, had seemed part of the course of an

evening, of the ritual of lovemaking and the way that

these things did and should evolve. That was until she

found him kneeling at its base, covering it in red paint

hallowing it, and giving it the love she deserved.

A fratboy turns

a freshgirl comes

the blood she bled

it runs it runs

the paint the blood

the lion's roar

the sounds beyond

a dormroom door

a scream a shout

the cream and pink

barely noticed

the vomit's stink

to wit to woo

to barely stand

but beyond the love

he's made a man

and she so cold

a virgin lost

her story told

her body's cost

placed 19.02.06

And now, in the moment of

attendance,

there is such

lightweight movement, such

graced eyecontact

you are not here

knowing this gives

me happiness knowing

you are,

but sadness in your lackness

so a moment of waiting

of indefinite exposure

to between times,

the intervention of

the ill-timed

Relating to Josef K. 19.02.06

I claim precedence in hearing

that of which you speak

the words with which you

judge me: the actions, the

punishments that you seek.

As filmed from a camera

I stand behind a podium hands

spread seriously before me in

pleas of innocence and lacking

ballast for my position

although it is wholly defensible

you find ways to twist the words

to change my intents to

your own malice, to moments

of disengagement, of dismissal.

I claim deference in hearing

that to which you listen

the lashes on my skin

the water in my eyes

the worded torture you hasten.

I was unaware of the brash

dishonesty of truth of speaking

my mind and having its beauties

turned against me, their intents

damaged by your maligning of them

But I will continue on my dread

campaign to uncover my honesty

although you would arrest me for

its use, for its avid embrace of my

everyday, my violable liberation.

The Gone 19.02.06

A man stands on a hill

waving his arms to stop

the movement of the world

past him, he would arrest

its serial nature

but clouds and wind do

not stop and neither one

claims independent shape

of the other they revel in

their simultaneity

parallel he cannot help

being defined from moment

to moment to moment

as timed as sequential and

so trapped by the gone

corridors 20.02.06

It is a corridor with a grey carpet, the scratching of it as it

catches on my shoes, is reasonably typical and indicative

of the care that they don't put into looking after those

who make demands of them, there one sits behind a

glass door, the type that blurs the image beyond: they are

the black haired, dark-suited glossaries at the backs of

books about which no one cares and they know that

beyond their immediate ability to impede me, they have

no influence over life, neither mine nor their own and

the aggravation is made manifest in their slow ums and

aahs the debilitating nature of the law unknown to

those who are meant to enact its nature, its ignominy

At liberty 25.02.06

to discuss and dream

to think and suppose

and possibly imagine

a world of words

and a painted stream

of the thoughts running

through my untidy mind

caught up in uncertain

rhythms and a lack of time

in between thinking

that would be the liberty

to pause to stop for

a moment the goings

on inside to listen

to observe unencumbered

It is a strange one when you think about it, the idea of intimacy. In what ways do we construct the methods by which we become intimate with people? How does our intimacy with certain people grow? Is it through the mutual uncovering of histories, of the objects and subject which make us 'us'? To what do we owe a discovery of relatedness, of the things that make us similar? Do we necessarily have to become sexually intimate in order to cross certain boundaries of understanding with other people?

For me, I have a genuine enjoyment of trying to understand peoples stories, I sometimes do so in an almost invasive manner because stories intrigue me so much – the things, the people, the ideals and values that people hold dear. These are important to me. Perhaps it is part of a personal quest to attempt to understand myself and that which I perceive is important to me. Perhaps it is simply because I am inquisitive and need to satisfy that desire. Regardless of either of these, the fact that I like to get to know people is interesting to me. I also like to meet and engage 'new' people, uncover and relate to new stories. This does not mean that I value the stories and the lives of the people that I know any less, it simply means that I derive enjoyment from the creation and relation to new connections, new ideas and the ways of life of people who I have not encountered before.

Of late I have been interacting with a group of US girls. They are variously from the East and West coasts of the US. This makes them far more liberal than the average US citizen. Apart from this fact, which makes it easier to relate to them, they have intriguing views on life, on people and the interconnectedness of different methods of living. We have had funny and interesting discussions on the differing cultural bases of our two societies (as much as either South African or US society can be accepted as a single agglomeration of 'one' titanic geo-culture). Apart from this, they are uniquely interesting women (I have interacted with the women more than any of their male friends).

Now this brings me to another interesting sphere of self-analysis, I am not that interested in relationships and/or flings right now, for whatever reason. I am enjoying just getting to know these ladies, something which relieves the pressure greatly (for there is almost inevitably social pressure to engage people sexually) is the fact that two of them have boyfriends. My accession to my disinclination to engage them sexually is not a comment on their attractiveness, in fact they are attractive, greatly so really. What is more important to me is the relating, the getting-to-know, the rapport and the dialogue. This equally does not mean that all of this is a 'learning process' for me, it is a combination of me enjoying meeting people and getting to know them, as well as needing to be away from the normal. I am restless at the moment, for numerous reasons really. Meeting and getting to know new people both relieves and spurs this on. What fun!

So yes, why am I restless? Is it simply because I need to get away from history? I definitely like the idea of blankness, of being something onto which people can project some idea. Equally my past, my history is a part of me now, it has aided in my construction. My restlessness is, I claim, part of a desire for distance. To use the common metaphor of burning, one is more sensitive immediately prior to such an experience, and even more so if it is exacerbated by other actions (of others or oneself). Notwithstanding this, I do also want to know more, experience more, and, because I am 'working during the day' (so to speak), I feel that my time is available for other things. Sociability. Avoidance. Intimacy. How do they relate? A subject for contemplation I am sure.

At Touch of Madness with Holly, Benna & Becky
New Photo from Si

And us again with me!
New Photo from Si

Holly and Beer
New Photo from Si

Video from US People Party
New Photo from Si

More Random US Students from Valentine's Day Party
New Photo from Si

Some More Random US Students
New Photo from Si

Becky, Benna and Holly (US Students I met last week)
New Photo from Si

What's going on? (Something I would have submitted to the Mail and Guardian if I didn't think it had been all but written off)

There are several problems that have not seemed to be considered in terms of the publication of the Danish cartoons. The first, is whether publication of such material is responsible. Secondly, did it warrant the violent reactions that responded, several months subsequently to the publication. Thirdly, is the acceptance of liberal values such as the freedom of speech of the individual valid in the context of their the development which coincided with the Judeo-Christian dominance of international culture and economics. Lastly, is reproduction of the text viable for international news literature viable in terms of critiquing the original acts?

On the first topic, regardless of the constitutional right of freedom of speech, or whether the publication is deemed to be hate speech or not, in the current geo-political context it is outrightly irresponsible for any 'western' publisher to portray the Prophet Muhammed as a proponent of violence. Had we instead had Saddam Hussein or any Al Qaeda leader portrayed as carrying bombs it would have been far less likely to incite such hysteria, although there would most likely have been some repercussion for that. It is not politick to insult the historically peaceful and loving agent whom is the Prophet of Islam. On its own it was an irresponsible act.

The second point is equally important – did the initial act justify the violent reactions that we have seen worldwide? My personal, although secular, belief is that it did not. Islam at its core is meant to be a peaceful and gracious religion. It is meant to propagate itself through love of the family and through prayer on and study of the Qur'an. The Prophet Muhammed was not a violent man, nor did he advocate violence. Hence, I believe that the violent responses are unwarranted, and, more dangerously, to the right-wing prejudiced people who believe the texts themselves, they vindicate their publication because they now have an easily identifiable violent reaction which (to them) would prove that they are correct in believing that Muslims are intrinsically violent (a fallacious belief and a spurious conclusion to draw). If one assumes unilinear causality, it brings one back to the problem of identifying where a root cause lies. Coincidentally, the best response I have seen thus far are those by Muslims who condemn both the publication of the cartoon and the violent responses, instead advocating a peaceful response (the likes of which is more prevalent in South Africa).

Thirdly, many people in western culture have this automatic acceptance that neo-liberal values are 'right' or the 'correct' way that one should construct a society. We do not have any real factual basis for claiming that this is the case. Moreover, liberal values (originally coming out of Britain and Europe) are inherently connected to those who propagated them – the businesses and people coming from Europe and thus inherently linked to the Judeo-Christian people who were spreading this ideology. It is because of this that Jewish and Christian people are often less likely (but not at all less inclined) to act against texts that may insult or undermine their religious beliefs. Conversely, we then have to understand that attempting to place a western ideology that developed concurrently with the modern forms of Judaism and Christianity on a religious and ideological framework that does not incorporate such values will quite possibly be fallacious. To many Christian and Jewish people the violent protests will seem irrational and silly, this is because of the attachment to neo-liberal values which resulted in the disassociation of church, state and the individual. We cannot use such lenses of interpretation on the Islamic world. (Note: this is again not to claim that various Muslims do not ascribe to liberal values, many do, my comment is more on the concurrent development of ideological positioning and religiosity).

Lastly, the reproduction of the texts in my opinion was necessary in order to make the original acts and the original publications comprehensible. In my own anecdotal experience, I did not understand what all the furore was about until I saw the originals, as well as investigating the context out of which they came (right-wing newspaper that the original publisher is). As a social scientist it is necessary to view original, rather than secondary, texts in order to create an informed opinion. The access to such original texts would have been far more difficult were they not republished in South Africa (regardless of their accessibility online). As such, as a tool for understanding and re-interpreting their re-publication was a necessary evil in order to ensure that a valid dialogue would occur in South Africa, rather than something based on florid and often biased reports that came out of international news literature. For that I am grateful to Ferial Haffajee and her compatriots at the Mail and Guardian.

Thus the original production and publication of cartoons was irresponsible, the reactions by large numbers of the Islamic community were equally so, but the subsequent discussion and understanding needs to be located in a context that acknowledges cultural and ideological differences and the problems of moral absolutism (i.e. Assuming that liberalism is the political ideology). Lastly, for the sake of science and adequate response I thank the Mail and Guardian and I hope that they continue to facilitate the responses that they do in a responsible and peaceful manner.

misremembered passages 06.02.06

the wind was

colour-burst alive

standing there

clad in the naked

darkness as I was

blown around me

were colours I had

forgotten to forget

in the abuse from

which you delivered me

shadow time purged

from me by wind

and words carried

on it from innocent

voices in restoration

the wet hair that clung

to my skull lightened

my child-blondness

and giggling a blessed

departure from memory

Delayed 06.02.06

It was her intent that morning

to be at work on time

until he caught her

at the bus stop

He told her there was something

important he needed to

talk to her about as

he closed the door

It was as important as him pulling

down his pants and tearing

her clothes off of her as

she cried futile Hayikona

She had a job in the city working

to save money so that she

could sell Bibles to feed

her family

Her employers did not understand

her taciturn silence or why she

now came late for work though

it was to avoid him

They also thought her irresponsible

when they found out she was

pregnant 'at such a young age'

and possibly sick

But that happens to black people

and it happens to women

the treasured virgin

in curing innocence

South African Streets 06.02.06

I walk down a pot-holed

street with a burden of

shame seeping from

my pockets

there it seeps past

my fingers, my inability

to keep my anger locked

away that root of the sin of

those who fuck children

and rape women whose

only dream is to save money

and care for sick sisters

And my anger makes me as

worthy of shame, I have

no power over them and

the powerlessness

is the root and the growing

rot of it crumbling certainty

of our compliance and our

growing acceptance

Dorian's Grey 10.02.06

Inside me there is a painting

that, although it could be ageing,

absorbs and emotes the living

the passing moments I'm engaging

it grows larger in my bellicosity

and shrinks in the occasions of my

emotional paucity, but the overriding,

the dominant message is the showing

I can see the reds in my face light

up in rages, while the colours of delight

range across my body in their desire

and the flaming grimaces of my ire

each momentary and feeling trace

that could cross my body my face

left abandoned to the painting

that inhabits the greyness of my living

the capture 06.02.06

easier to be caught

between polarities

the aurora of dawn

not as beautiful

as that of the sunset

their signal of some

end some beginning

linear opposed in

some real existence

independent free

but eternally caught by

the other the paradox

unspoken acquiescence

north-south bound

my attempts to float

in freedom are tied up

tied down to not-me

to women to the body

of the other and my age

is only relative to young

and the old in their living

I wish to be untied

to do so requires complete

loss no me no sex

no age no place

no memory of what

makes real real

no no no polarity

The issue of descent 12.02.06

I was once fearful of my descent into woman

of my movements into and through her, the

myriad ways that I could penetrate her and

feel myself held by her, gripped and fed

by our joinings, our mutuality.

It was the end of isolation which inspired

my fears so, which penetrated the depths

of my careless mind and caught my cringing

in some ineffable way, the shadowed places

of my spirit held me there.

That was until I began to understand that my

acts are not so detrimental to my loneliness

that I could not retreat were it necessary, but

that I could celebrate our fractious becomings

our passing creating of moments.

It is those moments when I am both alone

and together with you, when I am isolated

and intimate and unable to define when the

one becomes the other, when I have let go

but maintain my ultimate control.

These moments which make the loving of

you – woman – the more miraculous, the

moments of too much noise in my head

accompanied by a symphony of silences,

your breath in my hair.

Sense of 13.02.06

I am caught up in the smell of change rooms

clinging to the depths of my thoughtful nostrils

deep-tied to memory: the awkwardness of

growth, shaved head adolescence shy.

I smell the ones I've come out of barefoot

my feet cold slapping the plaster, the tiles

and nailed tight to the tar in an assurance

of acceptance of shared pain awareness

I remind the pinning up against walls and

pushing my way out striding and swearing

punching label-laden lockers, gay-boy, afro,

weird kid, with me brokenback stronger now.

I walk in and through them now with clichés

tumbling from my tired head my fists silent

but aiding recollection by pushing back my hair

in reminiscence-borne commands, I am not

that which I once was tired and lying back

against blue locker doors, screaming to get

away, to leave and be unburdened. But I

remained and so I shall, eternal resilience.

The DA and 'Racism' 22.01.06

Over the years in which I have been eligible to vote as a young man in South Africa, not much has made me more frustrated than the posters put up all over Cape Town before the national and regional elections. However, I have yet to be as annoyed and enraged by the recent posters that I have seen put up all over Rondebosch and Claremont around the university where I am currently studying to complete my masters.

The following are on the posters. A picture of Tony Leon (a white man) accompanied by the slogan 'The DA delivers', a poster of Helen Zille (a white female) with the slogan 'Zille for Mayor'. Neither of these are particularly inflammatory. However, the most angering of the posters is that which states 'End ANC Racism'. This slogan, combined with the two white faces that pre- or proceed the posters, immediately implies that the racism is of black individuals towards white individuals. It does not take much insight to construct this link.

Disregarding this insight for a moment, the fact that any party in South Africa, ten years after the advent of democracy, decides to plot its election strategy in terms of race politics is disturbing. In fact it is more than ill-conceived it is offensive. If the DA decided to attack the poor roll-out of anti-retrovirals (ARVs), or if they wished to interrogate the problems of service delivery (which I assume is what the 'The DA Delivers' slogan is intended to mean), or if they have problems with education and its management, then all of these attacks on policy would be at least in some way warranted. But, attempting to assert that the ANC in any way supports some racialistic ideology has the potential to damage the burgeoning democracy upon which this country is based. Accusing any one individual in a position of power, or any powerful of organisation, of racism is equally damaging and can undermine any achievements we have made thus far in terms of democratisation, deracialisation and the desegregation of politics, services and the institutions of South African society. I struggle to understand how the DA, their strategists and their members of parliament could possibly assent to a mode of political attack that involved the accusation of racism. At the minimum it is short-sighted, if nothing else it is grossly incompetent.

In terms of possible policy options I had considered voting for the Democratic Alliance. As soon as I saw the poster making the claim that the DA intended to 'End ANC Racism' I knew that I could not be a conscientious voter and support the DA in the upcoming regional elections. I wish that the DA had considered the gravity of their actions prior to taking this stand on domestic politics.

Ok, so here are some more recent writings from me. I apologise for the possible limitations in terms of subject matter, but it is something that I have been thinking about. Not that I want any of you to worry, in my writing I am a multiplicity of people, not simply 'Simon Halliday' (whoever that person really is). Nonetheless, 'I' have written these pieces and you are welcome to indulge in them.

Clouds and Sun 20.01.06

The sun is running up, out and through the top

of the gutters on the side of the buildings

liberated from the plastics in the return, the

homecoming of sky and clouds: running

stalking their way across the skies of

Cape Town bashing their way past signal

hill and attempting the climb of Table

Mountain. Fatigued they limp their return

to the sea, briefly blocking the sky and

managing a brief dalliance with the

Table Bay coastline. The echoes of their

intermittent passing felt in the wetness

of faces, the damp ground momentarily

more fertile, the nascent dreams of plants,

grass and the ever growing and diminishing

clouds entreating the water to return to the sky.

Turned Hands 22.01.06

Instead of your upturned

hands in supplication, in

mute demands of me

your hands would

be better poised

turned downwards

wrists together

Although your movement

is free, the imprisonment

you feel is far

more stringent

and encapsulating:

your hands, turned down,

would indicate this.

The Mute 22.01.06

Are so made by

unhearing ears and

sightless eyes, blind

to requests for

money or employment

by the grace of

someone else's god

If I could offer

words of revival

or advice unwanted

as they may be,

I do not know

whether they would

be deciphered:

From my mouth

would come the moaning

attempts at speech

of the unendowed

the unvoiced and the

indiscriminate nonsense

of poverty

Clouds in my room 22.01.06

On occasion, I wish that fog were stronger, that it could make pause

the realities we so easily construct in our domesticity. A fog that

could penetrate through the open doors and windows of my home

and make these spaces unfamiliar, darken them with dampness and

opaqueness – clouds in my living room, my study, my each and every

private space invaded by the waters of alien spaces, penetrated by

air almost drinkable in its thickness.

It would take a strong movement for me to open my mouth and

begin quaffing it down, imbibing this invasion, taking it into me,

swallowing it down and ingesting it – the process of both alienation

and familiarisation with that in which I have lived, in which I have

made myself present and unforgivable. Having taken them in, I would

remove myself, I would spew the contents of my feasting out into

the streets, into the city, out.

Out of my body, how I hope that the process of being lost in the

familiar could liberate me, and that in my ingestion and in its

pursuant liberation, I would be free of memory.

Those Nights 24.01.06

It is those nights

when what feels

like need

burns from the

bottom-most bones of

my feet through and up

my deep set spine

it is those dark nights,

those nights when the wind

clamours against my windows

and doors, sounding like

your voice calling from

the depths of need

a need that only I could

quieten,

that it is the most difficult

Those nights, replaced by

breeze-easy days

silent and well-lit

and I am made dumb

by this censure of days

on those my nights

Untaught 04.02.06

Love is not learnt

it is not thought

or contemplated

or written

it is obliviousness

of the world around me

faded pastels and unkempt

greys searching for the

injection of what a moment's

experience of this could provide

it is the anger and the bursting

consumption of my fleshy body

the browns and whites thrown

about blown apart from an

inadequate sense of attachment

to the part of me that is here

and it is immature and old the

fossilised body of a hominid child

cowering and clinging yet held

forever in stasis forever in perfection

forever in that moment, that instant and

held held held constant because it cannot be

you did not learn me and neither did

I ever think of learning you but

the moments of love were perfect

and engrossing in recollection and

worthy of every tear that I have shed and

now that love is not there, I will learn you.

It was not learnt

it has been thought,

contemplated and

so tragically written.

Forgiving separation 04.02.06

I am not good at letting go, at least not

in the moment in which it has to be done

and I detach and rationalise in hindsight

in the measured and practised defences of

one at comfort with disconnection

But that is far from accurate, in any sense

far too intellectually driven and unemotional

(although you could claim I am so disposed)

but all of the grammar, all of the correct

spelling and the efficiently placed words

are such clichéd approximations of separation

such an imitation of politesse for one in

suffering, one unable to wear hearts on sleeves

or collars for fear of their consumption and

their bloodied remains strewn across starched shirts.

It is thus with you, and I forgive myself daily for

those subjects undiscussed, the compliments ungiven

and the wonders I beheld at every moment watching

you walk through scratch-grass veld but which remained

interminably unshared. I forgive myself.

But I will not damn myself by asking for yours.