To build a home

Like books. We’re stacked one on top of another

Each with a story we’ve been meaning to read

But just haven’t the time.

Three thousand bodies carried by concrete
that hum to the music of its giant flute

And along with birds wings

Dogs barking

Zionists

And spinning rubber across the bloodstained spine of Slovo. 

I don’t know if it’s going to rain today

But the patter of small feet trickling down the staircase

Tells me that everything will grow despite.

Its purple across Joburg.

My words tremble with the thought of year-end already.

But I can’t feel it.

Because my body hovers -

Somewhere between the sky and its South African ground

So I open the window and try connect.

Of all the apartments I see, I wonder

If we really are

That far apart.

A pregnant woman walks into a mouldy rented room.

He kicked for the fourth time that day – but this time it was followed by a sharp pain that shot down my spine and into the back of my knee. I bent over slightly, relieving myself of the discomfort and noticing something decidedly squashed beneath my peach pump. I heaved down onto the bed and reached for it – the wrinkled paper took its time to part with my shoe as it was fastened by the elastic minty unease of a piece of gum. I looked around the room to check for more littered surprises but all that tired sun could find for me was a dampened dark spot on the carpet just near the doorway. I took a deep breath in as he kicked again. A vile fusion of instant smash, toilet spray and moth balls painted the air – I was craving rocks again. Avoiding the gum I opened the paper – it was a till slip.  R25 Cream donuts.  R34 Malboro gold. R40 Dulex tender play. R 15 Bath sponge. R60 Chef Dinkleys kitchen knife.

I felt like I needed to look around the room one more time in case I was missing something. But the room said nothing. It just stared back at me – unblinking - like the hole in the gate at the bottom of the garden. Oh god – I touched my belly. Is this what he really wanted for me?

Toward

It was morning. He stepped forward into the forest. Heart beating. Breathless -  ready for another sprint, knowing this time he would beat it. Stopwatch set, he leapt forward into the quiet excitement of dawn.

Gasping for air his eyes shot open and felt the weight of his aged body outlined by the gravity that had held him through the night. A dark blur of sleep had him sit up. It was morning but his alarm blinked 12.32 - it was broken again.

He had always wanted to live in the mountains. The altitude and perspective provided him with space and concentration to focus more clearly on what he loved most.

He shuffled through dust particles in peaceful decent towards the floor. The ominous body of a giant grandfather clock towered above him with a pendulum that swung as if it the weight of the world in its meter. It was 10.58. The clock in his hand was definitely wrong.

The forest was a blur and if it weren’t for the crack of a distant tree branch the forest would also be silent. He forced himself forward – his body in time against time. 

He cleared a space amidst the clutter, the cogs, the batteries and pins and angled the light of a nearby lamp towards his operating table. Committed to surgery he opened the back of the clock and set to work.

Remembering the golden orb of time that hung from his father’s pocket and its graceful demand of his attention whenever he came to visit made it his best kept article of worth. He made sure he travelled with it, polished it and checked it whenever he could.

Just a little further. He could do it. It was 10.58 and counting. Never mind the pain.

The pain leapt through his left arm and made him groan. This had happened to him before and knew that fresh air would calm him. He stumbled across the lounge toward the front door – his mind set on the forest, on the edge of the garden and it’s expanse.  

At the highest point of the trail one can see the ocean on a clear day. Today was a clear day. He smiled. He had caught sight of the end.

But to his surprise he wasn’t alone. Another figure stood there too. It looked tired. Old. Familiar. On approach the figure collapsed. Frantic – deliberate, he shook his father and leaned closer - his breathlessness against his breathlessness. Eye contact. A small murmer.

“Just in time” he said - and then closed his eyes forever.

Lakes in the city

Heritage Day reflections.

In.Side.

Character study # 1

I swung my collection of cellphone chargers between the stream of trucks, bakkies, Kia's and mercs - waiting for the the hiss of that one particular Peugeot to find its stop at my feet. It was almost like every other day, except today there were no pigeons... and she was pregnant. We exchanged our usual glances - her's with lusty mascara what-whats and lips pursed around that fucking e-cigarette. I said my usual thing; "howzit, madam?" and curled my finger round the charger chord like i had a lock of her hair in my hand. "Piss off!" she'd always say with the flick of her chin and smirk in the rearview mirror.

I looked at her rounded mass of new life and felt my jeans tighten at the thought of my flesh inside hers - growing into something together. "I said, get your kak out my window" she teased.

I stared - blessed with her attention.

"I see you're pregnant. How about something for the baby?" I suggest.

She rolls up the window. I see my reflection and a pigeon fly past.

Oh, but it is just like every other day i think.

The Peugeot pulls off with a screech and i'm left standing in the invisible smog of parenthood.

How could it be this elusive?  

Because we're homofabula

Why do we write? Or perhaps, why do we continue to write for a populace that’s increasingly preocular? With the advent of digital publishing we’re like insects that trickle across content, probing bits and pieces of story and information with antennae – always searching and never really getting deep into the big pieces for the sake of something else close by, tempting the senses. 

Yet, despite our limiting attention spans and hyper activity – books remain and writers still write.

On the 24th of May at the Kingsmead book fair in Johannesburg, the multi- award winning Israeli novelist Shifra Horn shed some light on why and how she continues to write.

Jokingly, Shifra says that writing stops her from seeing a psychologist. But inherently, Shifra says that the act of writing and reading a book gives you perspective on your life – allowing you the time and space to digest your own lived experience via story. Shifra draws her inspiration from being an ardent lifetime student of Hebrew and the Bible. Shifra’s legacy includes a dynamic collection of both fiction and non-fiction but has recently begun exploring the delicate art of writing children’s books. “It’s like eating sorbet after a heavy meal” Shifra says smiling - contentedly.

A large part of why Shifra writes is hidden within how she writes. It’s about solving a riddle – putting together the pieces to present you a whole – it’s to uncover a particular message. “I begin writing from the senses. I focus on a smell, or a sound or a particular sight and grow the story from there”. Shifra writes intuitively, allowing her imagination to create bits of chapters, endings and beginnings before stitching it all together into one coherent story. According to how Shifra writes, writing is about making sense of the world.

Why we write also has to do with what we write. Shifra’s modus operandi is fiction writing and says that fiction can sometimes present you with a better representation of the truth than non-fiction can. Where non-fiction can sometimes distance a reader emotionally by the hard cold nature of factual recall – fiction encourages the reader to believe and feel from the depths of their imagination, their lived experience – from the depths of their own personal truth.

We are homofabula; meaning half human, half story. The power of writing allows us to connect the two halves. In South Africa where our national identity is threatened by the diaspora of dialect, class and culture, Shifra believes that the power of story is the only thing that will, and can, bind us all. Having her novels successfully translated into eight international languages – this is particularly true. For the writer and the reader, even though we’re distracted by cheap and quick stories fed to us by the information age, books will never stop being written and should never stop being read so long as we call ourselves human.

Exclamation

25 ways the Internet has made you, you.

1. You’ve got mail!

You can send and receive messages instantaneously

2. It’s your humour

Where would the world be without Chuck Norris Memes, GIFS, Vine compilations and 10 reasons your cat wants to kill you?

3. It’s your travels

See, hear and explore what China is like from the comfort of your home in Johannesburg. Your travel itinerary is but a click away

4. It’s your news

Nothing beats the live streaming of a murder trial.

5.It’s your music

Find and listen to mixed tapes, album launches, new artists and all the latest news about your favourite musician.

6. It’s your art

Share your tutorials, upload your work and become your own style guide.

7. It’s your stories

Blog, tweet and facebook about your day. There’s always someone listening.

8. It’s your interest

Find and share your interest with people who also like pinna colada’s and long walks in the rain

9. It’s your shopping

Spend hours trawling shops for the perfect purchase without leaving the comfort of your bed.

10. It’s your finances

Manage and get access to your finances straightaway.

11. It’s your politics

Say what you want to say. Follow who you want to follow. Starting a revolution is easier than you think.

12. It’s your connections

Everyone you want to know can be found, followed and networked into your realm of contact.

13. It’s your business

The world knows about your business.

14. It’s your marketing

Measure, optimize and advertise through social media at little to no cost.

15. It’s your library

Everything you need to know about anything is somewhere on the net. Google it.

16. It’s your god

Spend more than an hour without Internet and you’ll start feeling lost and without purpose.

17. It’s your friends

Keep in touch every second of the day with people who really matter.

18. It’s your lover

Fall in love and share your life with them.

19. It’s your missing link

Analyze Big Data and connect the dots.

20. It’s your discovery

Research the reams of information online and come up with your own conspiracy theories.

21. It’s your voice

Finally, there’s a place that allows you to express yourself however you want to.

22. It’s your world

Find your exact geographical location from space.

23. It’s your moments

Share and search for photos that mean something to you.

24. It’s your body

Be your own doctor and diagnose yourself with a rare disease.

25. It’s your life

You’re immortal - your digital footprint lasts forever

Year of the horse.

On Saturday the 1st of February 2014 -  China celebrated the start of it's new calendar year.

While fireworks painted the sky with sulphur, charcoal and nitrate, my head was bobbing in a basin full water. My moans echoed down the drain and that's when i heard it again - you know, that still, small, inner voice? Funny thing is, mine isn't still or small - it's a big neanderthal man who offers me wisdom as bad rhyming couplets and puns. Standing with a rock above his head and bone through his nose i heard him say:

"Fireworks in sky not in eye"

Yes... yes, i realise.

I enjoyed the whole event despite having one teary, burning swollen eye with which to view the world.

"red-eyed rookie must eat fortune cookie"

I also bought a red balloon so i was easy to find. Turns out being almost 6-foot amongst a crowd of 5- footers is enough of a clue that i'm alive.

Commissioner street is not for ants. That place is recklessly alive with every kind of gangsta, thug and crime syndicate Quintin Tarintino could imagine. Navigating down town Joburg takes some skill - although i've seen most people just close their eyes, put their foot down and drive. After making my way successfully through the gauntlet of car guards cart wheeling in front of my car for attention i tried ramping the pavement a few times but to no avail. Turns out no matter what button i press, or dial i turn, or what choke i pull, my fox jetta just wont kick into diff lock.

I digress to impress.

Point is, we managed to park in a fairly well lit side street close to the festivities. Little did we know however, that all a well lit street on Commissioner provides is a chance for people to actually see you get hijacked.

But we braved the street anyway and it was worth it.

Commissioner street transformed into little China and highlighted the booming Chinese market of downtown Joburg. It was a melting pot of sound, smell and person. The fireworks were some of the best i'd ever seen and left us all a little more than blinded. Shell shocked and full of ash i stood standing with my big red ol balloon smiling and tearing at the the fire in the sky, the bravery of those around me and the dodgy heartbeat of an infamous street full celebration rather than desperation.

Once the dancing lion had made its way to the end of the street, the event was over and people just seemed to scatter in a matter of minutes. The remnants of the happy go lucky rainbow national crowd we stood in five minutes earlier were now just skittish shadows across abandoned buildings. No matter who you are, there are parts of Joburg that'll first steal your courage before anything else.

Sensing imminent danger - we approached two policeman getting into their vehicle and asked if they'd escort us.  The reply was simple - "no, we're not going that way". I knew commissioner street was dangerous but damn, it's so dangerous that even the coppers refuse to go in it's direction.

So Gabrielle and I took a deep breathe and ran. Yes, we ran. Upon arrival we slowed as the sight of a foreign body standing at the car... no wait, he's at the door... no wait... he's getting into the car and bam. Just like that - he sits in my car - casual like. We had two options. The one was to run toward the vehicle screaming or to run away - screaming.

We took the third option. We just screamed.

The intruder who was by now so confused at what there was to steal in my car, eventually realised that our screams where in his honour. Seeing the disparity of my vehicle, I'm sure he contemplated leaving behind a few rands for me, but a good criming is all about the timing and so he casually slipped back out the vehicle as quickly as he had entered. Our screams had roused a fleet of men that bolted after nothing but a wispy footprint of man. We didn't hang around to see what had happened.

So we got in the car -grateful to still have it. I closed my eyes, put my foot down and drove. I don't know how we made it actually - what with my blindness, our shell shockednes and the horror of how blatantly incompetent the police force is.

Anyway,

I digress.

The point is - gratefulness. It's the year of the horse right - so no long faces?

How to say "Gherkin" in German.

Ok let’s just be honest, music…. is.

It's recommended for pregnancy, played at our funerals and sits upon the seat of memory as King. It’s a force to be reckoned with, played with and above all, it’s a force you simply cannot live without.

Imagine the profundity of the Music Festival - a place where humans gather as one muscle to flex the beauty of existence. I’ve been lucky enough to experience this quite a few times but The Hurricane Music Festival in Scheessel, Germany, is one I’ll never forget.

Watch the Aftermovie here.

 The trip began in my varsity years. 

I met Tamaryn Sutherland - a girl who stood out, stood up and became my friend. She was my confidant in pretty much everything, especially when it came to music and the arts.

Tamaryn married a German philosopher in 2012 and consequently moved to Hamburg. She asked me to visit her in June 2013. She also mentioned The Hurricane music festival and rolled out the band line-up like a red carpet to the stars. The festival was to host a smorgasbord of sound from all over the world. From Sigur Ros to Queens Of The Stone Age and right round back to the beats of Sibot – our very own. I downed a glass of water, smashed the piggy and booked my air ticket straightaway.

I'm not Rockafella, i'm the other fella.  

Traveling with the buck is hard. You’re quick to know that the only thing to buy in Dubai is time. Trawling rows of dates and running out of naked skin upon which to squirt complimentary perfume I was more than happy to sheik Dubai’s dust. Despite it being the second busiest airport in the world, Dubai is surprisingly dismal and their currency – too foreign. After eight mind numbingly boring hours to the power of Instagram I was once again on route to Hamburg.

Hamburg is that congenial, overcast, well-packaged guy who reached into the breadbasket same time as you, causing you to blush. Hamburg’s made love to many, especially the Beatles. Known as The City Of Rivers, Hamburg’s charming water supply snaking through the city carries ancient stories of exotic shipments and visitors to the doorsteps of modern Hamburgers. By day it’s a bustling metropolis of businessmen and pigeons – by night it definitely is not - Google Reeberbahn.

Hearing The Kings Of Convenience carried on the wind over the gates of the city park and into the happy throng of peasant music lovers who couldn’t afford a ticket, I got a real taste for three good things in Hamburg: a dream come true, a Saturday afternoon in June and real black forest cake.

 Listen to the best Kings Of Convenience album - maybe ever. 

Summer in Europe is all about spring. 

My friend’s apartment is nestled between two hedges amid a row of sky scraping poplar trees. Every spot of vegetation wields a magnificent explosion of green. Everything is moving – trying to soak up as much sun before the hellish nature of winter takes its grip for the most part of the year. European lifestyle seems to me a balancing act of seasonal scales tipping the weather from one extreme to another.

Sausages. 

Love em - and the Germans are good at making em. Enough said.

Scheessel... 

...it's just an hour or two outside Hamburg and boasts nothing more than a few sheep and well, 80 000 drunk Germans once a year. We walked for about an hour into the venue to find our camping spot. Our two-man, neon green camping tent was posted between a camper van and what looked like a camper tank.

The festival grounds are massive and muddy and make for an interesting walk back to your camp non-compass - mentis in the dark. On several occasions I lost my legs to deep pools of mud and grime and then after having found them, have them lost again to the multitude crowd of grooving guten tags. Gumboots and swag – two things I forgot to bring to the Hurricane Music festival.

Best performance goes to Paul Kalkbrenner. 

Known for his highly coveted platinum track “Sky and Sand”, he’s Germany’s homegrown talent, Captain of House, King of Techno, Master of Minimal and ambassador for East Berlin. Everyone loves him – he mediates and pacifies the underlying disconnection between Germans through the joy of his music. It was a rare privilege to experience his gig. It’s outrageously fun, meaningful and uplifting. 

At one point i had squeezed myself into a melting pot of race, creed and culture that was sandwiched between a rainbow on the one side and the sunset on the other. I was overcome with gratefulness at the shared community of youth, freedom and life he made us all feel – if only for one brief moment.

After three days of World Class music, World Class sound and World Class mosh pitting I felt overindulged, hung-over and completely in love with life.  The train trip back to Sheessel had us standing in a queue for over three hours watching person and possession fight their way back to civilization. It must be said that I love the Germans – but don’t come near me with that language.

How to say Gherkin in German - By Tamlyn.

In conclusion, here’s a list mind blowing acts from the Hurricane Festival 2013:

1. Paul Kalkbrenner

2. Queens Of The Stone Age

3. Moderat

4. The National

5. Sigur Ros

6. Tame Impala

7. The Maccabees

8. Bloc Party

9. Of Monsters and Men

10. Portishead

11. Parov Stelar

And tailing the besties were these disappointing beasties:

1. Smashing Pumpkins

2. Ramstein

3. Alt J

On the flight back to Johannesburg I was the poorest I’d ever been and yet – strangely enriched by a country, a festival and a friend I’ll forever be grateful for.