For the love of poverty

Sometimes I sit in my head and watch what’s happening in front of me and try figure it out. I sit there in my head while my body stands there and I watch it all happen. Through my eyes I watch and I talk in my head and say “You know what? It’s okay.” I watch kids doing stupid shit and tell myself that it’s their choice to be stupid. In my head, I’m drinking a glass of whiskey, smoking a pipe am in a velvet robe sitting in a comfortable leather rocking chair and am pensively adrift concerned with much deeper things like should I pay my maid R12,500 a month?

 In reality I’m in the cold drinking a black label beer on an empty stomach and stomaching what I hate most. People ask me if I’m enjoying myself at which point I smile nod and pretend to sway to the music. In reality I have no fucking clue what I’m watching and why everyone around me is enjoying it so much. To me it sounds like progressive rave and I don’t care much for it. Then the progressive ravers tell the crowd that they made a new song inspired by the South African youth…

“Fuck off.” I move away from the front of the show and get to the back where at least I can smoke a cigarette in peace away from the madness of those fairer around me. At the back I have a conversation, much of which I don't remember because I’ve anesthetized myself quite successfully by buying two drinks at a time. The conversation at least is cool and engaging. The music on the other hand, isn’t bad it’s just progressive rave. The only song I wait for is a mild of version compared to the remix I much prefer. They seem okay but nothing more than that.

Okay so whatever no harm no foul. I’m in jozi for the weekend and no longer have to suffer these types of fools right? Au contraire mon frère, I’ve forgotten that being in the middle class we’re programmed to do whatever assholes deem is cool and that means gaining cred by driving to SOWETO to watch a fucking Swedish band. Christ my luck. It happens again, again I rather engage with an old friend than listen to the bullshit that has everyone else around me entranced. Finally the show is over and everything can return to normality right? Fuck my life.

We-Are-Crackers decided to shoot a music video for these assholes somewhere in the fucking G-Hetto. Dirty fucking black children scurrying around them getting a chance to play with their percussive instruments (cause I mean that’s how they’re born right? With rhythm in their fucking bones).

“Let’s show the world that Europeans can visit the shacks of Cape Town and make something beautiful out of the disgusting poverty we’ve created. Isn’t Cape Town Africa’s Europe anyway? This proves that we are one! They’re just nigger Europeans is all. And look at them! So poor! So happy! This proves that money isn’t the be all and end all of everything! Watch the poverty stricken monkeys dance to our music! They don’t even sneeze in the dust!”

On top of cultural misappropriation we’ve got the glorification of the fucking status-quo. Something We-Are-Crackers have been doing forever but I have never wanted to speak up to cause like now I will be perceived as just being a sour asshole. But this is the turd that clogged the goddman bucket toilet system. I kindly say fuck you!

At least it was well shot. 

Hopefully the rest of you can enjoy the video

http://vimeo.com/48599759

Fleeting seconds: It's Time

A few people who have and make an impact on this life.

Successful Failures

I probably epitomise  middle child syndrome. Growing up my sister and brother used to make fun of me on family trips by car. “Leave me alone!” my sister would shout then humph in my direction. “No one understands me!” she’d exclaim. She and my brother would laugh while I tried to read. They’d poke fun while I felt the eternal angst of being the one caught in between. I’ve probably carried the whole misunderstood thing with me my entire life: Making jokes no one else would really get and not hiding how hysterical I myself found them. Doing and saying things in accordance with my own world view and structure without really taking into consideration the thoughts and perceptions of others. The consequence of what others thought about me had never really played an important part in my life until I actively became socially aware and realised that I needed to express myself better when making friends. I think all of this childhood trauma has resulted in the misdiagnosis about my political feelings towards our most monumental political figure... Yes you called it. Drum roll please:

Chauffeur Roleyshlarshlar Nelly Mandy-L.A (Rolihlahla Nelson Mandela).

Even some of my friends have taken to the notion that I do indeed hate the South African liberation icon. Worse yet some of my family members think I hate this inspirational figure and magnanimous hero of the struggle.

I do not and am inspired by his achievements every day I breathe and am not locked up on the streets for being what I am. And even then I fully recognize that I have it lucky as there are restrictions to my detention. All because he and a thousand others like minded in the pursuit of social justice laid down their lives so I could exploit these luxuries.

 Jock adequately ridden?

A couple of weeks ago I found myself back in the vehicle for a family trip. I decided to resort back to my childhood antics of attention seeking via being an instigator of heated debate. I opened with:

“Did you guys see the open letter on News24 talking about how Mandela sold out the blacks?”

Even if you are politically apathetic there will definitely be three parts of that sentence that will invoke some sort of gut response. Either: News24, Mandela or blacks.

 If you are somewhat politically minded the entire sentence will strike a chord and like you have an asshole an opinion will form (Thank you method man.)

The long and short of this little debacle is that my mother was deeply insulted by the assertion and probably more hurt with the fact that I could identify and understand with what the writer of the letter was saying in his letter. After a while my sister was able coax me into admitting that the titling of the letter was indeed sensational but did not necessarily take away from the emotions expressed in the letter nor their validity. Thank you once again News24 for providing a point of contention on the day the man was meant to be celebrated most through his failing health and the country’s increasing fragmentation. I suppose being 94 and having done so much doesn’t exempt you from what were once your responsibilities and promises.

So I can obviously understand my mother’s hurt and anger. Firstly at me for having brought up the issue and expressing the fact that I could understand it. She must be thinking that I am the most ungrateful pile of bones to have ever been fed. Secondly because the power of the legacy that is Rolihlahla Mandela should not be tarnished as that is the biggest point of reference when it comes to the idea of South African liberation.

Unfortunately I cannot simply ignore the gaping holes left by the power exchange of CODESA merely because I became one of its immediate beneficiaries. While it may be idealistic to speak of immediate and widespread economic transformation back then. The question then becomes; when should the it take place? There has been a mere quota-system put in place to signify “change”. The freedoms gained have been social and political forsaking economic freedom. Without economic freedom the social and political themselves become restricted resulting in no real change at all. People are told that there has been a change rather than feel it happen themselves.

 While I can’t fully say with absolute conviction that I’m ready to commit class suicide in order to aid the revolution and change the global status quo I still can’t ignore the facts. I’m merely a black kid on the white man’s playground trying to playoff catch by his rules. A game I shall never win when the rules keep changing in his favour to make sure that power is maintained. A regular of arbitrary arrest by the same people with whom I share a skin pigmentation, the game has had me fucked long before I was conceived. Trying to be an individual in communal poverty means only one thing: Insanity.

While poverty may not purely discriminate on race it has chosen  to play favourites aided by historical foresight.

I understand that had there been a complete takeover of economy there would have been a fucked up situation that would have probably resulted in a civil war. But with our violence statistics so high up are we not already at war with ourselves?

Just because you can’t see it does not mean it’s not happening. With the greed and corruption enabled by a fear of never again going hungry, are we not already at war with ourselves?

With the supported  ignorance of unaccommodating  of fundamental difference within our own communities and gender based violence are we not already at war with ourselves?

With misplaced self righteousness, aloof to the idea that people can speak and think for themselves and do not need to be spoken of or around but rather to, are we not starting a war ourselves?

The lack of basic services housing, water, electricity, food, clothes, health care, education, sanitation DIGNITY, SOVEREIGNTY are we not killing ourselves?

Old structures keep us running in the same wheel because we decide that there is nothing else for us to see, build, do or even to think about. Instead we come home and switch on the T.V because it’s the easiest way to escape from the realities at play. We hate ourselves and kill each other one crime at a time. And yes overt ignorance is a crime. While some people don’t want more (2 and a half kids a white picket fence and a Labrador) some people do because they have nothing and have realised that the only way to get it is to take it.

Those with passports will wipe their brows when the aeroplane finally lifts off the tarmac and the anxiety attacks will subside as they watch the airports they had been in moments before go up in flames.

It’s not Mandela I have a problem with. It is the idea that people have turned him into. I am grateful for the freedom he gained “millions”. He did not do this alone. Read a book for once. There were still gaping flaws left in the negotiated freedoms of his legacy. No man is perfect. No idea is perfect. No execution flawless. Nothing beyond criticism. So when I criticize and make fun of him I am not being insensitive on the contrary I am using the same freedoms he and thousands of others fought for me to have. Everything needs to be interrogated and seek to be bettered. Hindsight gives 20/20 vision but most are blind to it only because the only thing they want to look at is a mirror held up to their own faces.

When the revolution arrives at my door step I have two options: 

To hide underneath my bed, type as furiously as I can trying to make my last words count: My last status update, my last tweet and my last blog post to make sure that the world knows I existed.

Or

Get out into the streets, shut the fuck up and just do. Join the people fucking shit up symbolic of their  bonds and finally accept my fate when they realise that I am merely an agent who did nothing in their aid and actually gained from their pain.

For the sake of my parents I hope I choose the latter.

Probably just an alarmist.

Talk or Do?

I’m getting the itchy and restless feeling again. I don’t know what it is but there’s something that tells me I need to do something. I need to fucking make something. I want to make something. I’d like to make something! But there’s only one thing stopping me from doing or making anything! Firstly money! I’m probably the brokest kid from the burbs alive.

Money is the most elusive article in my life. I just don’t know how to make any. I remember thinking at some stage of my life that some bold headed jewish guy was going to show me the way to make the gold but alas was once again reduced to the dop system and had to fight to get scraps for shit I did for him. Then I moved onto an internship and fucked up a job that I was being groomed for. Then there was the stay at home situation where I sat at home and just tried to get fat off the free food. Now I’m working another internship where at least I’m being given a monthly allowance. Thing is the place is not giving me a sense of fulfillment. I just wanna create. I’m really tired of putting shit together to aid middle class old white people choose their best vacation options. I just wanna fucking create.

I kinda wish that the department of Arts and Culture was an actual department in government that encouraged uncontrolled creativity. I kinda wish that there were motherfuckers in South Africa that understood the value behind making cool shit beyond advertising. I kinda wish that there was a bored motherfucker with a squizmillion in his pocket waiting to off load that shit to someone who had the simple intention of making cool shit. I kinda wish that my friends and I could be given that squizmillion and get paid to talk and make shit.

I then realize that I don’t necessarily deserve all the shit that I kinda want. Cause I haven’t done enough. I haven’t executed half the ideas I’ve had this year. Some of them haven’t even started. I haven’t made anything that has made anyone’s mind bug before exploding; leaving bits of their brain cells in my open mouth at their reception of my creation. I haven’t proven that I’m able to stand heads above motherfuckers yet. I haven’t even put the right shoes on to run the fucking race. All of that and the fact that I stay drunk.

Is this the voice of the world’s worst hangover? A toast to everyone out there actually creating instead of smack talking about how they think it could be done better. Shut the fuck up, do and show. 

He's off and I'm here.

When I caught the cab today that was to take me to work, I saw homey waiting half way up the hill, when I had clearly stated that I was on the corner. When he realized I was his guy, he proceeded to roll down and opened the door. The rotund face of weary Xhosa man, I hoped to not be in for too much conversation:

“Kuhle mhlekazi?”

“Akonto tata, siyazama, unjani wena?”

“Hayi ndi right. Undisaphi namhlanje?”

“11 on Addereley.”

“Let’s go then…”

He explained that he had to stay up the hill because Cabnet refused to pay for a new battery and that they said it was cause he used the heater (Are we not in winter? ) and because he left the car radio running.

“Can you see a radio here?” He asks, but before I can respond he carries on to talk about how he would need the car to be on, in order to use the heater otherwise it would simply play the role of air conditioner.

“Informal employment is sometimes, not the right thing ne? Because now, some people have more rights to exploit others. The Muslims and coloureds here in Cape Town, the Indians there in Durban and even the blacks are doing it to each other. It’s only the whites who are not allowed to exploit people there. The government is busy going around to the farms and looking for children, saying that it’s child labour, but don’t even do anything here in the city. Some of the buildings here have little children maybe about 10 or 11 years old busy sewing in a factory, but you don’t see cause the doors are closed and locked with those big chains. Here at the taxi rank there a children who should be at school but are busy learning to be gartjies and they don’t do anything. Why? There in Gauteng there was a factory that burnt down and seven people were burnt to death because of those locks on the doors and the government kept quiet? As long as they stay in power it’s fine.

 All they say is: “Here have these monkeys”

 so that they can still make money and tell us that they’re giving us jobs but all they are doing is exploiting us. Indians, the coloured and the Chinese are allowed to exploit us so long as it’s not the white man. And they know we’re still going to vote for them. That’s why it’s fine for me to work this hard because I need to make sure that my children get educated so that they can’t be exploited like this. Because it’s not so easy to exploit someone who is educated.”

“I’m going to have ask that we get into this lane so I can go to the bank.”

“Okay, I’m just going to have to put myself in here… Don’t worry that’s what we need to do, sometimes you must just take. Don’t worry about this monkey making a noise with his hooter, people were making the same noise when he was doing the same thing to get here, now he’s acting like an angel.”

He starts laughing

“Hey! I’ve heard songs, I heard this song that says an angel is crying. Have you ever seen a picture of an angel? Have you? It’s always a picture of this pretty white girl? White people are full of shit. Before they came here, we didn’t have these ideas of angels and gods, we were fine. There were just people. And then they came here with their shit stories of jesus. Hayi…”

“Xholo ukhuphazamisa tata, kodwa I need to get out here so I can get the money.”

“Oh, okay.”

I draw the money and pay with the little tip I can afford. His eyes seem flat and without character but still they manage to scrutinize me.

“Enkosi ke buthi, I’m sure we’re going to be seeing each other again anyway.”

“Ndiyabulela tata.”

“Shap ke mngan’am.”

He’s off. And I’m here. 

Just because I'm a punk ass soft kinda guy I'ma play you some cheese now

Laugh Again My Beloved Country

I look at the topic on everyone’s lips today in our country and am happy that people have finally decided to open their mouths instead of speak under their breaths or constantly make references to the nice men Nelson (Nelly) Mandela and Desmond Tutu and about how they saved a nation. The past few weeks have been remarkable in terms of free flowing discourse and debate. The complexities that make up our country have been interrogated by the people who make up this country. Finally, there has been a real voice of civil participation in the changing landscape of this adolescent democracy. I say adolescent cause at 18 we are still very much adolescents.

As adolescents we should still give ourselves the freedom to have a wide range of views. People are complex and do not all subscribe to a certain way of life, point of view, or even choices of food. We’re constantly shifting and reacting in accordance to each situation or surroundings. Contexts are what make us up. This applies even more so to an entire country! We seem too eager to forget that our past is what defines our future in the pursuit of the euphemized concept of a rainbow nation. We are not a rainbow. We are an eclectic mix of individuals and communities. We don’t, nor should we, share a brain. We can’t be asked not to say things simply because they might offend others. Whilst a person retains the right to be offended, that right doesn’t override the fact that the other has a right to an opinion and an equal right to voice that opinion. The right to voice an opinion comes with its own responsibilities and whatever opinion has been voiced should note these responsibilities and be held accountable to them. The Brett Murray and Jessica Leandre debacles are prime examples of these. But that is not my focus at the moment. The point that I want to make in this little write up is for the case of Mdu’s comics. I probably won’t be helping his case because my aim is to offend as many as possible.

Do I think my country and government are retarded? Indeed I do. I use the term retarded in the strictest definition of the term and do so very much aware of the political incorrectness of the term. (generalised disorder appearing before adulthood, characterised by significantly impaired cognitive functioning and deficits in two or more adaptive behaviors.)Why do I think they are retarded? Because neither the people nor the government seem to be able to take criticism, a juvenile trait if ever there was one. The complexities that make up this country and moreover the world, still need be ironed out and dealt with in depth. And for as long as people are unable to deal with sensitive issues in an engaging manner there will never be any form of genuine progression. What is this engaging manner you may ask? Hmm… I don’t know, how about humour?!

Mdu’s comics have been making top notch South African comedy with widespread appeal. This appeal would tip the demographic scale in  favour of the greater majority. Why would you not want that? It’s the same ‘don’t let the people think too much’ idea, so that they can manipulate them a lot easier by regurgitating rhetoric. When we breakdown the aesthetics of this cartoon what is really going on in it? One, it is not black Jesus! Let’s get that out of the way. It is Jesus of the ANC! And this is his fourth appearance. He first appeared last year to steal all useful goods out of Zulu boy’s house. Next he was bleaching himself like kwaito sensation Mshoza. He then came down to visit us and was shocked by petrol prices, DA posters and the OMO man. Now he’s back to talk about not really being the son of God but really just being a Shangaan. 

Tsonga people in this country have always been given a hard time tribally, along with Venda speaking people. It’s about time that someone unpacked the facts of how we look at people and the beliefs people carry with them about others for absolutely arbitrary reasons. In essence Mdu’s Comics are questioning the uninformed nature of discrimination we have as a country. The Christians who feel slighted by this should question themselves why? I leave you with a South Park video to present my view to you

Bantu Biko taught me to write what I like. I will use my freedom of speech and if all you do is get offended by my views and don’t interrogate them, engage with them or you’re doomed to be a blind follower like the nazi nation. Or perhaps a nation of privileged people who didn’t question a racially divided system. Hint: this is a reference to Apartheid! Nothing is beyond criticism including this open rant. And before you ask for it here’s my apology:

The Experience that is the Burn

Here we go again, another post and this time on the very ambiguous Afrikaburn. I’ve been a fierce critic of this little pop up community for the longest time, based on two principles. One: The name. A spinoff from  Burning Man, I still can’t understand why it would be named AfriKaburn. There’s way too much unpacking that needs to be done on that conjoined word. Two there’s a sanctimony it’s attendees carry with them that I can’t get down with. A complaint I heard from a purist not so long after getting back is that this year wasn’t the same. It somehow had been tainted by a new element that turned it into a festival which it is not. Damn! I missed out on the good old days!

Anyway, I went, loved it, fell into an unexplainable spiral and now know this:

 Nothing can ever really prepare you for it.

I really enjoy feeling welcome in a place, especially if the welcome comes from a place of personal sincerity. There’s nothing like an embrace from a connection made from a natured honesty. A full acceptance of the self. I enjoy an encouragement which is of personal fulfillment no matter what the avenue one chooses to drive, ride or walk down. Basically I like genuinely nice people.

A night spent in jail, a full day at work and then the trek out to the desert. Eight hours later we’re in a muddy desert and have entered the sleeping community as the birds (had there been any) were about to stir. I’m tired, I’m muddy and I’m fucking scared. A little bitch; I had to have a cut on my pinky finger washed off using Listerine as the antiseptic, fearing an infection from digging one of the cars out of a muddy ditch for two and a half hours. We’ll go back there. We park the car and decide it’s time to go and talk to people, it’s only 04:00, they should be up anyway. Stop, listen… follow the music!

Two Afrikaans dudes with a battery powered music generator (I didn’t see what they were playing off, all I know is that it was fucking loud.) welcome us to their fire and hand us sachets of homemade honey. Kous and other Afrikaaner. It’s a bit gutting that I can’t remember his name. It’s a motherfucker cold and we’re only opening the vodka now, so we need the fire. We chill, make small chat and poke fun at the funny.  Like an old Afrikaans guy saying: “Wasup my niggas!?”  A few uncomfortable glances exchanged we stammer our laughs and lose our first man to the car. They’re nice enough chaps and we have at least two real jokes where we all find ourselves laughing. At last their battery dies and we take that as our cue to start exploring. The sun is approaching and we’re in the desert. Kous is sad and airs that we were there only for the music. I suppose disgruntling the locals isn’t a very good start to a four day adventure in the desert. Wait… Did I say happy Freedom Day?

Assume I am Carlton Banks. I actually have no place to speak real talk. By the time we’re into it I realise I am Carlton Banks. My sphincter is so tight I’m surprised that my sag is still intact and that I’m not wearing suspenders. First time going on an adventure this big without my squad. I barely know any of these people except for the one I’m sleeping with and even she’s still a rather new addition in my life. They’re loud and I’m just not that kind of brother. Except they're funny and having fun and I wanna be that kind of brother. It took Super Mum-Z two and a half hours to dig out the car, he allowed the polo 1.4 to help pull the Mazda out the ditch and then I stepped into a pile of mud wearing my favourite pair of skate shoes, that I don’t skate to  finally give into the desert. At 07:00 O’clock I finally take off my shoes and socks feel the mud cover my feet and jeans, while Mile’s Davis played in the background to realise that my life at this point was pretty much a cheddar cheesy Hollywood fucking movie scene.

 “I’m in the desert for the next four days. Fuck it.”

A first time club member I’m still anxious as the city wakes up. I greet with a handshake and enunciate every part of my name. The inevitable, "Punani?" Still comes, fuck it. We’re a pair it seems to me. I’m the Tourist; wide eyed with my camera and loving the spectacle that is the desert, she’s the Terrorist; inventing the plots and schemes on how to fuck with people’s perceptions. We’re actually suited to this climate. We eventually touch base with the other non-others and I finally feel like I can kick off my shoes, grab a beer out the fridge and talk shit about the game. Still I notice their eyes telling me not to get too comfortable or anticipating a statement to fuck with everyone’s mellow. We pick up on the shifts each time and the Tourist and Terrorist move onto the next exhibition or structure to snap or burn.

We love every moment out there and the fucked up moments are few and far between. There’s no fighting in the desert but if I could find the translucent skinned blonde haired fuck who ran into the Terrorist at full pace and quantified it by saying:

“I hit you really hard hey?!” then proceeded to run off into the dark. A man could very easily lose the use of his limbs.

 Unprepared as fuck the free ticket was exactly that. I appreciate the opportunity to witness this rare glimpse of uncivilized society being extra ordinarily ordinary. Imagine Cape Town had an actual public art policy…  Now don’t it’s a desert without buildings, just flammable art.

 I have to admit that I love hating on the whites as much as the next cell number, but sometimes they get the party right. For a while I’m happy that I’m there without my friends, I love them and all but we’re all into similar shit and sometime’s don’t know what we close ourselves off to. But the one thing about my group of friends I do miss is that critical point of engagement and not accepting everything for its surface. While I agree with the spirit that the place is trying to invoke; that pure spirit of humanity: both acceptance and giving best exemplified in the gift economy. I still see the societal pressures of the outside entrenched in the fiber of a lot of these beings. At the end of the day this is a playground for the rich. Although the policy is of acceptance of everyone the poor who attend the fest are still  made labourers, only getting the chance to participate because of the gift economy. Welcome, but don’t feel at home. I am the Tourist, lucky to know the Terrorist joined at my hip. I don’t know if I would have loved it otherwise.

For real pictures of the burn visit http://www.madsnorgaard.net/afrikaburn-2012 that guy takes real photos.

Passive Aggressive Labelling

"Ja Phums always the suspect never the victim hey?!"

I don’t know what has me more annoyed the fact that a lot of people think that I’m a racist or that I’m constantly harping on about subject matter which shouldn’t  matter. I don’t know how many times I’ve been asked to stop being so racially sensitive or to just chill out and move on or get with the times. I don’t know how many times my experiences get watered down to isolated occurrences out of my own provocation because I have an antagonistic attitude towards authority. I don’t know how many times I’ve been told that I’m keeping myself back in the way that I think or been made the example of what a reactionary I am. I don’t know how many times the title “Decolonise the mind” has been misappropriated to label my world view.  Hello racism how you living? Under a label? What?!

We’ve all got our own set of prejudices and what not. Let me isolate this and I say I have my own prejudices and believe that everyone else does to. What pisses me off are people who won’t admit to having these little idiosyncrasies and would rather opt to look past them. Or just to qualify them as being awkward. What’s the difference between having a real interaction with a friend and having a polite conversation with an acquaintance? Have we now decided in order to actually get a long  we must simply jump to humour without acknowledging or fully understanding the historical context of jokes and their relevancy in the contemporary world? How am I taking myself too seriously when I’m offended or directly affected by a perpetuated systematic  way of thinking that continuously opts to keep a certain notion alive; that my sight, sound and speech  are to be denigrated in a corner, where the sullen fist has always been kept. How am I supposed to not air my thoughts on the way I see things with the very same people I believe I share a sort of kinship with? The kinship? That of equality. Too long has discourse dictated the expectance of my actions towards certain people. As if “I’m expected to know better”.  How many times would you like to tell me that I’m a smart guy, give me a pat on the head and try and shape the way that I think so that I can further enlighten myself. If you haven’t noticed the language I’m using at this moment I’d suggest you head for the door now.

So what has brought this little tirade about?  .

There’s this thing that people like to do. Especially when they feel threatened… If there’s someone who says too many things that make them feel uncomfortable or perhaps hit a little too close to home, they decide to paint the image of a conspiracy theorist. Except there’s no conspiracy here; just a knowledge of hundreds of years of foul and violent history with the sprinkled bacon bits that are: contemporary economic subjugation. Too much? Is this all histrionic rhetoric? Well I’m not saying anything new here and if you find it so then again head for the door.

 But it’s weird, cause language has been a very large role player in this constant struggle to find an equilibrium. When one engages in colloquial terms and settings it’s labeled emotional and sensitive. And then if they take to a more formalized approach they’re labeled the conspiracy theorist finding coincidences in everything or are are attacked on technicalities on the use of the language. How is one meant to win then?

It’s weird people decide when and how they want to act. When it best suits them. But the favoured disposition is that of ignorant condescension. Not only a historical ignorance, but rather social blinkers, driven by intellectual hubris, which often leaps to label what it cannot deal with in order to make things move a long. It’s an unwillingness to accept that we live in an uncomfortable society driven by so many socio-political and economic factors and band aids won’t work! Does this not leave us in the same boat as our parents? Well that’s fucking retarded isn’t it? Considering we grew the fuck up together. I’m tired of the assumed superiority which entails bludgeoning we the unconvinced into conceding that your point is more valid than our voices.

Misguided is what we are and our thoughts still need shaping.

I have a nut sack that needs gargling

Language: It gets very interesting when one points out the exclusionary (yes I do mean to use the term exclude. Everyone wants to make it into the club) language that gets used it becomes a simple case of semantics and contextualization.

So let me get this right? I can’t fully understand or know what I’m talking about cause I’m not a first language or a native speaker. While you can play and tweak the code wherever you see fit, cause you grew up with the rules? This means that any person winning a fight dictates the rules of engagement. But then we need to find out who’s fighting for what? I’m fighting for equality, while you’re fighting to hold onto your superiority complex. Now this is obviously a natural primal instinct, but at what point do you actually concede the fact that there really is no difference between you and I? When do you actually acknowledge that you are not better than me? When do you publicly apply this in practice? Is it a theory you enjoy verbalizing? A public persona perhaps?

I can never understand how people can get along with me, until I start asking them questions that they don’t want to answer, or worse cannot answer. What about the answers they give me that I do not agree with? There’s always a shift in engagement people have with me when I express my political and social outlook. Why don’t people wanna engage me? I suppose passive aggressive one liner statuses are funnier and easier. Also I get too sensitive about issues. I suppose I always make it about race. I suppose I’m the problem. I I I I I I I I I I. It’s all on me.

Why don’t people talk anymore?

Affordable Train Ride

After reaching his destination from a trip that seemed to have taken forever and a day, from a day that seemed that it would never end, whilst probably thinking it was the worst birthday known to man, the kid sits at the Gautrain station waiting to be picked up by his sister who had forgotten his birthday. If this is 21 I should have stayed 20 he thinks to himself. He knows his sister will move at a slugs pace in leaving the house where she's probably already put up her swollen feet and will probably be cursing him for making her leave the house in her condition. I'm pregnant, do you know this? The question he anticipates her to ask.

Still in transit and waiting to make it to the final location of rest and good company he takes in his surroundings. A guy not dressed in rags and bathing in ethnic privilege walks around the train station, desperation marring the preconceived ideas of how deep his wallet goes. The Gautrain guards take a no nonsense approach to begging at the station regardless of accent or skin tone. The kid watches the man walk into the station only to be escorted out. The mans frantic energy increasing, he loses his temper at the brown hands escorting him out. "I'm not fucking begging! I just need money to catch a taxi!" He yells at their backs.

The man walks past the seated youngster a couple of times, looking to ask everybody except him for the taxi fare required to make his way to wherever he needs to be. She has long wavy blonde hair and dons a pair of D&G sunglasses. Her jewelry is the that of subtle  luxury. The man she walks with has that air of self importance that says any person walking by me must keep a 2 meter radius. The non-beggar seems to shrink as they appear and his hunched approach to them is a cringe worthy spectacle. Unamused eyes the kid keeps his balls fixed on the pending train crash. "Hi sorry, excuse me, can you please help me with some taxi fare." The snobs seem to put their noses higher in the air, feigning an ignorance to the non beggars presence that must have made him feel a slap would have been more welcome. At least they would have acknowledged his presence as a person and membership of the lucky sperm club. The non beggar resumes to roaming around all the while getting closer to the kid, who watches the man inch closer with each pace up and down in front of him.

"Hi, sorry, I really didn't want to approach you for this, but it would seem that even my own people don't want to help me and I really need to ask for some taxi fare. I just need R12, the people who were meant to pick me up have switched off their phones and I don't know what to do. They just kicked me out the station for begging and I wasn't begging I was just asking for taxi fare!"

The kid searches his pockets and hands the non beggar the last R4 in his pocket.

"Thank a lot man."

Is that really how the world works? The kid thinks to himself

Shots I think

For some arb reason I can't get all the images that I shoot on manual on my computer, I think the memory card is bugged or some shit cause I can only get the pics I take through Magenta's filters on, which kinda sucks, cause I've been fucking around way more with her manual settings and have a few favourites I've been wanting to put up. Anyway here are a few shots I took over the last couple of days. Their in Sepia and Film Grain. I still control shutter speed and apperture so I'm not completely useless. Oh have I mentioned that I'm not a photographer? 

Freedom or Death

I really don't know where to begin with this post or how the fuck I'm going to make my point. Maybe I should start with: I have very little faith in the humanity and intellect of most religious people. Hmm... Okay I'll start there. For some reason most people who have faith in higher powers seem to relegate reason and rationale to the back back of their Bibles, Torahs or Qurans.Do Buddhists and Scientologists have books? They also have this nose in the air, beady eyed stare about them that makes me want to kick their teeth in all the time. Now don't get me wrong some of them are cool and I'm able to kick it with them. I mean some of my best friends are religious, some of them are really smart people, you should meet them I'm sure you'd get a long really well.

Anyway, my brother and I went on our usual Sunday skate mission yesterday and something kind of.... Actually something  really a mother fucker cool happened. While I was going for a grind on one the Civic Centre benches I saw an older lady and what I assumed to be her grandson coming from church, on their way to catch a bus home. The kid was probably four maybe five. As he and his supposed grandmother approached me, the lady seemed to be smiling. On my skate back to try set-up for the trick again, I watched the kid trying to take in the moment and see what exactly it was that I was doing. I went for the trick almost (doesn't count) landed and went back for the reset-up. As they passed the woman looked at the kid with a huge smile and said

"Uyabona, nawe uzokwaz'ubaba." Look, one day you'll also be able to fly.


Upon hearing this the kid started jumping up and down and cheering. They stayed a while watching me go for the trick before walking off. And I remember thinking "Damn I wish I could have shared a moment like that with my religious adults."

See the thing is people fear and hate what they can't understand. This city fears and hates what it can't understand. Breaking established codes and conventions has been something that has never really been encouraged. Most black people who see us skating tell us to get off our boards cause we're fucking shit up or because we're going to hurt ourselves. As if there's something wrong with hurting yourself if you doing something with a purpose. This kid who was probably making his way back to the hood was just told by his grandmother to let nothing ever get in his way of what he wanted to achieve. Whilst still recognising that he was going take hard knocks on the concrete. She told him that one day he was going to fly.

So often religious people use their books to suppress freedom rather than grant the people the ability to achieve their aspirations without letting anything get in their way. Shouldn't the role of religion be that of encouragement rather than discouragement.I'd rather have a happy pious man than a cynical bible basher. Now I recognise the fact that I'm pushing my own agenda here, but then again it is my blog. I know that I'm throwing a lot of generalisations here but it's my experience and again my blog.

I think that kid is going to remember yesterday for the rest of his life. I hope his grandmother stays with him for as long as possible, whispering those kinds of wisdoms till he actually internalises them. I hope he gets onto a skateboard this week. A surf board at 7. Goes snowboarding by the age of ten. And keeps the mentality to everything he approaches. The bigger the trick, wave or mountain, the greater the feeling of defiance. I hope he internalises that going against the odds means that you have a greater chance of being the first at whatever you do. Freedom or Death! Skate or Die!

Oh yeah and fuck you DA!

Other Verses The Self

So my friend Vulkan Cydeburner and I have this little project. It's something that I've been thinking about for a while and it's a way for me to get on stage and kinda mic what I like. See what I did there? Anyway so we had our first performance this past weekend. It was a lot of fun. It had been over two years since I had stepped on stage and the crowd seemed rather receptive of the project (I must admit I did have a bit of a rent a crowd situation going). I send huge love to all my friends who decided to pull through, whether you truly enjoyed it or not is irrelevant, but the fact that you were there to show support means to you like me, you really really like me! Anyway the performance wasn't bad for a first try. I mean we weren't as tight as what we'd have liked to be and that just comes down to rehearsal. Also the concept wasn't able to take on its full shape because of the little rehearsal time, so it's still going to transform, be a lot more experimental and the improvisational style will stay. The lovely miss Caitlin Hill was kind enough to record the debut and experiment at the Mahala event: Debuts and Experiments held at the Assembly. It was also Roger Young's farewell party as he has decided to hand in his final and official resignation from the internet mag. Things won't be the same without his imposing figure. Roger taught me to stop pussying out when writing and has been very supportive with this whole Misteaken blog thing. He also took me snorkelling with him out in Simon's town once where watched black children, who were unable to swim being tossed into the ocean and told to use the whites around them as flotation devices. Yes Rog was one of the flotation devices. We also got to kick it on an arms deal boat which was sweet and got mad food and shit. So he really is a cool guy.Rog thanks for the so much that I should thank you for.

So back to Saturday what's to be said we had a ton of fun. I rarely ever get to get drunk with Jake and we did. We partied with a Hipster version of Donomic, Eitan once again showed us his high standard of women that he finds aesthetically appealing. Thandi and Jason were being pink as fuck as usual. D was wallacing all night long. Fuzzy's the village drunk. Edward's the village jester. Rob father has adopted Caitlin and I and still licks my face to show his affection, Nozipho is queen of the whites. And the greatest legends of all Banesa and Kyla, who left a festival to watch our show! Like we didn't have pressure before. But you guys are a motherfucking mazing for pulling through seriously! So enough with the pink here are the two video's taken by Caitlin, I haven't watched them so... like... yeah.

All My Friends Are Dickheads with Jelly-Fish Lips!

So I've got Magenta back in my life and I've always been in favour of her Film Grain art feature. The past few weeks and weekends have been interesting. The title speaks for itself. Uhm... Yeah we have a few inside jokes, so what?