There we stood, in front of his vertical mirror. I, adjusting my lipstick and hair – him, entering in a swift, sudden action of affection, bringing his arm around my shoulders. I stopped, playing my fragmentary role in our impromptu tableaux. We stopped. For a moment : just looking at ourselves together.
I quickly turned away and broke off.
What is it about mirrors that provoke emotion? Or is it not the mirror, but me? The sudden inner churning of my temperament at the signs of affection. My compulsive, uncontrollable, sudden need for space between the other entities of the world and myself… yet the ease with which I can cast the blame to the mirror is far more appealing than a self dissection.
The ease with which plain glass forces us to confront reality is fascinating. How can it lie, when it presents before you all that your eyes can see true? Standing beneath the arms of someone in front of that polished world shows you for who you are, and who they are in relation to you. It scares me. Why would I glance away, seek refuge, from what I’ve created? Life, for an instant, became unbearable – for in that instant, I was chastised by a looking glass, and saw truly what I have become. Not who : what, for underlying reasons and complexes are irrelevant to the stark realities etched into the glass.
Look away, look away.
Shattering glass would never fix what stands before it.
Monday 19 December 2011
Sunday 18 December 2011
Just 4 U.... LOL JK No
Language : part of the list of apparent traits that differentiate us from other hominins, shining glory on our apparently well developed cerebrums. Yet of what true value is it to our basal existence?
A few nights ago, I accompanied my aunt to the established Playhouse in town. We had received complimentary tickets and were most enthusiastic about watching Cinderella – but little did we know, we had received tickets for a much more Afro-New Realism styled theatrical spectacle entitled “Just 4 You”. We only realised this during the final call for the production as we read over our tickets and decided to be good sports and join in.
Now, I had previously seen posters advertising this work along street poles – they comprised of a bright yellow background with a triangular tableaux of African people: one female taking the apex, flanked by grinning males. It seemed a hearty comedy, and my naive mind assumed the work would be in English. How wrong was I.
The play showed a distinct amalgam of Brecht and New Realism : relaying both the internal and external environment of the set, whilst using characteristics of Epic theatre to distance the audience from becoming emotionally identified with the characters via songs, dance and verbal dynamics/body percussions at moments of tension. Whether this was deliberate or the result of a workshopped concoction gone wrong, I cannot say. What I can say, though, was how interesting it was to be the only person in the audience who did not understand 80% of what was being said.
Indeed, at times the characters launched into spasms of English, with soliloquies belonging to a certain character being almost as plastically pronounced as the set (a downtown area). Despite the poor singing and the tension evident in the performer’s body, there was something vividly real in the way sweat poured down their faces. There was an earthen truth to the way they spoke their tongues and I was forced to blush for my choice to study Afrikaans for the past 7 years.
Yet knowing the details of every word became unnecessary. I began to notice finer details that I would have neglected should I have been exposed to the old Realism styled theatre of Shakespeare. Every muscular movement became a tome to interpret, the pitch, pause and rhythm of speech became more important to me than the actual spoken word : I began to detach from the logistics of the speech and focus on the tangible performance before me. It became an appraisal of emotional depiction rather than the comedic weaving of many stories about the seedy past of individuals.
I began to understand this emotion in a manner sought out by the highly praised, original “Woza Albert” performers (Percy and Mbongeni), where the portrayal of an emotion or feeling takes precedence to the spoken word. I understood the disposition of a few of society’s fragments, not an isolated character telling of his tragedy.
It was then that I realised that the finite study of play texts has become subordinate to the physicality of performances in most instances of theatre seeking to portray New Realism in its methods. Furthermore, maybe in our everyday conversations we should begin to take special notice of how something is being said : note the use of facial muscle in response to words, analyse the dilation of pupils and see beyond what is being said. All in all, this is but a means to fortify the way we understand each other : elite cerebrum or not.
What I’m trying to say is this : note not only what is being said, but how. . . and sometimes, words aren’t the only way to convey a profound message.
PS
The play’s title had nothing to do with the actual work.
Best Line (that I heard in English) : How we look, is not how we think.
Haha, that kinda negates my entire blog post, but they were talking from a more literal stance : how people dress and act on the surface isn’t equated to what they think, but a poker face can sometimes betray a man.
A few nights ago, I accompanied my aunt to the established Playhouse in town. We had received complimentary tickets and were most enthusiastic about watching Cinderella – but little did we know, we had received tickets for a much more Afro-New Realism styled theatrical spectacle entitled “Just 4 You”. We only realised this during the final call for the production as we read over our tickets and decided to be good sports and join in.
Now, I had previously seen posters advertising this work along street poles – they comprised of a bright yellow background with a triangular tableaux of African people: one female taking the apex, flanked by grinning males. It seemed a hearty comedy, and my naive mind assumed the work would be in English. How wrong was I.
The play showed a distinct amalgam of Brecht and New Realism : relaying both the internal and external environment of the set, whilst using characteristics of Epic theatre to distance the audience from becoming emotionally identified with the characters via songs, dance and verbal dynamics/body percussions at moments of tension. Whether this was deliberate or the result of a workshopped concoction gone wrong, I cannot say. What I can say, though, was how interesting it was to be the only person in the audience who did not understand 80% of what was being said.
Indeed, at times the characters launched into spasms of English, with soliloquies belonging to a certain character being almost as plastically pronounced as the set (a downtown area). Despite the poor singing and the tension evident in the performer’s body, there was something vividly real in the way sweat poured down their faces. There was an earthen truth to the way they spoke their tongues and I was forced to blush for my choice to study Afrikaans for the past 7 years.
Yet knowing the details of every word became unnecessary. I began to notice finer details that I would have neglected should I have been exposed to the old Realism styled theatre of Shakespeare. Every muscular movement became a tome to interpret, the pitch, pause and rhythm of speech became more important to me than the actual spoken word : I began to detach from the logistics of the speech and focus on the tangible performance before me. It became an appraisal of emotional depiction rather than the comedic weaving of many stories about the seedy past of individuals.
I began to understand this emotion in a manner sought out by the highly praised, original “Woza Albert” performers (Percy and Mbongeni), where the portrayal of an emotion or feeling takes precedence to the spoken word. I understood the disposition of a few of society’s fragments, not an isolated character telling of his tragedy.
It was then that I realised that the finite study of play texts has become subordinate to the physicality of performances in most instances of theatre seeking to portray New Realism in its methods. Furthermore, maybe in our everyday conversations we should begin to take special notice of how something is being said : note the use of facial muscle in response to words, analyse the dilation of pupils and see beyond what is being said. All in all, this is but a means to fortify the way we understand each other : elite cerebrum or not.
What I’m trying to say is this : note not only what is being said, but how. . . and sometimes, words aren’t the only way to convey a profound message.
PS
The play’s title had nothing to do with the actual work.
Best Line (that I heard in English) : How we look, is not how we think.
Haha, that kinda negates my entire blog post, but they were talking from a more literal stance : how people dress and act on the surface isn’t equated to what they think, but a poker face can sometimes betray a man.
Monday 12 December 2011
Who Made The Silence?
Silence festers like a gangrenous wound to the soul. It fills my home, occasionally relenting to the distant chirping of birds and the predictable grunting of neighbours. The drone of the nearby freeway is so familiar that it becomes an invisible amalgam to the absence of tangible, welcome sound.
But what of this silence? Some revel in it, allowing it to engulf them as a white blood cell carries out phagocytosis, while others grow perturbed and paranoid : every sound is a suggestion of The Others coming to take them. Personally, I’ve become quite accustomed to it – to a point of indifference. For a finite span of time, my sofa may be shared and the television on – yet even in those gaps, silence is forever the background. This leads me to meditate upon the concept brought forth by Beckett in his splendid work ‘Waiting for Godot’. I do feel much like the tramps Estragon and Vladimir, where when confined to the silence – saying anything is better than saying nothing.
At first, this was my modus operandi : hum songs, perform a lyrical disquisition of my neighbours activities to myself, give myself a hearty laugh through snide comments in reaction to the daytime television ghouls that haunt my DSTV decoder. Beckett’s lamentations on silence further suggested that to say anything merely for the sake of saying something is equivalent to saying absolutely nothing. Indeed, as the week passed, I became inclined to save my breath. Silence grew comfortably in my home, breaking at about 6PM when my father’s car rolls into the driveway.
However, at times it is a burden, a great sagging sensation weighing my soul down. It tires me, fills me up and throws my centre of gravity through the hoop of insanity. The walls of my home become a blessed prison, where existence is placed in a contrapuntal relationship with life characterised by the humble breathing noises that neglect the rules of silence. Restless, I pace my home like a lioness in a cage. I read a few chapters and grow bored. I switch the television on but the gormless words fail to serve as anaesthetic to the indefinable mood silence sweeps over me.
…and when it breaks, oh how I long for its sweet return.
Last night, I lay upon my bed, feeling the rain around me and the thunder strike. I thought of my roof, humbly serving its purpose while the gods hurled forth water from the bowels of their grey skies. I thought of how glorious it would be to be immersed in that rain, to lay upon the moist earth and let my bones have a taste of the mud it would soon decompose in, covered by a silky layer of natural water. Indeed, the best way to shatter the reverie of silence is the clap of thunder. So fearsome, so powerful – and so primal.
Bearing that in mind : is silence a natural phenomenon? Or has the modern man devised it by his four walled constructions, blocking out the finer, sensual sounds more closer to home. Closer to Earth and her fertile bosom.
But what of this silence? Some revel in it, allowing it to engulf them as a white blood cell carries out phagocytosis, while others grow perturbed and paranoid : every sound is a suggestion of The Others coming to take them. Personally, I’ve become quite accustomed to it – to a point of indifference. For a finite span of time, my sofa may be shared and the television on – yet even in those gaps, silence is forever the background. This leads me to meditate upon the concept brought forth by Beckett in his splendid work ‘Waiting for Godot’. I do feel much like the tramps Estragon and Vladimir, where when confined to the silence – saying anything is better than saying nothing.
At first, this was my modus operandi : hum songs, perform a lyrical disquisition of my neighbours activities to myself, give myself a hearty laugh through snide comments in reaction to the daytime television ghouls that haunt my DSTV decoder. Beckett’s lamentations on silence further suggested that to say anything merely for the sake of saying something is equivalent to saying absolutely nothing. Indeed, as the week passed, I became inclined to save my breath. Silence grew comfortably in my home, breaking at about 6PM when my father’s car rolls into the driveway.
However, at times it is a burden, a great sagging sensation weighing my soul down. It tires me, fills me up and throws my centre of gravity through the hoop of insanity. The walls of my home become a blessed prison, where existence is placed in a contrapuntal relationship with life characterised by the humble breathing noises that neglect the rules of silence. Restless, I pace my home like a lioness in a cage. I read a few chapters and grow bored. I switch the television on but the gormless words fail to serve as anaesthetic to the indefinable mood silence sweeps over me.
…and when it breaks, oh how I long for its sweet return.
Last night, I lay upon my bed, feeling the rain around me and the thunder strike. I thought of my roof, humbly serving its purpose while the gods hurled forth water from the bowels of their grey skies. I thought of how glorious it would be to be immersed in that rain, to lay upon the moist earth and let my bones have a taste of the mud it would soon decompose in, covered by a silky layer of natural water. Indeed, the best way to shatter the reverie of silence is the clap of thunder. So fearsome, so powerful – and so primal.
Bearing that in mind : is silence a natural phenomenon? Or has the modern man devised it by his four walled constructions, blocking out the finer, sensual sounds more closer to home. Closer to Earth and her fertile bosom.
Thursday 8 December 2011
The Most Ironic (And useful) Post Evorz
Digivice (GTFO Digimon) : Digitial Social Advice
X : Heyyyy baby
Y : Heyyyy sexyyy
X: Na ah yooooou sexy
Y : Hehehe nooooo you are
Apart from the poor grammar and decline in salient conversation, the above conversation is utter nonsense. The gist of one of the digital era’s many social detriments is the decline of good conversation : everyone can type text and send it at rapid speed. Some gormless idiots take advantage of this powerful tool and use it for spam, and the sending of useless messages that in no way enrich our lives.
But, I digress, the point I shall address here is a very valuable piece of advice given to me by a wise soul : nothing online is real.
Take x and y for example. If X and Y go out, chances are he won’t really call her sexy. Conversation could flow comparatively less, and this pseudo-electro-chemistry that exists online could dissipate in lieu of tangible meetings. Fortunately, I haven’t personally experienced this – but I do have friends and a vivid imagination who tell me how plausible it is.
Apart from virtual humdrum, there’s the factor of statuses and responding to virtual stimuli. Let’s say someone you’ve been seeing has a status up about another girl. Is there evidence that he’s actually been OUT with her? People can cajole, flirt or fight online : but all that’s left are black splotches against the background of a screen. The truth of a matter is manifest in the world of the living, where breath for breath the compatibility of two social entities may be weighed fairly. Nothing online is real – spending hours chatting to someone on bbm counts for naught if you meet the next day and don’t really know what to say to each other. Seeing a guy fawn over someone on Facebook but spending most of his time with you renders all online tidings null and void.
We, as a society, should step back from our high speed connections and connect with touch. (This blog post does not condone rape.)
What I’m trying to say is… don’t let something you see on a screen affect your emotional balance. Don’t let words online upset you. Transposing the digital to the emotional is as warped as Crash Bandicoot 3 (man I miss that guy).
OMG THE IRONY OF A BLOG POST ABOUT NOTHING ONLINE BEING REAL OOHHHHHH THE LOLZ
X : Heyyyy baby
Y : Heyyyy sexyyy
X: Na ah yooooou sexy
Y : Hehehe nooooo you are
Apart from the poor grammar and decline in salient conversation, the above conversation is utter nonsense. The gist of one of the digital era’s many social detriments is the decline of good conversation : everyone can type text and send it at rapid speed. Some gormless idiots take advantage of this powerful tool and use it for spam, and the sending of useless messages that in no way enrich our lives.
But, I digress, the point I shall address here is a very valuable piece of advice given to me by a wise soul : nothing online is real.
Take x and y for example. If X and Y go out, chances are he won’t really call her sexy. Conversation could flow comparatively less, and this pseudo-electro-chemistry that exists online could dissipate in lieu of tangible meetings. Fortunately, I haven’t personally experienced this – but I do have friends and a vivid imagination who tell me how plausible it is.
Apart from virtual humdrum, there’s the factor of statuses and responding to virtual stimuli. Let’s say someone you’ve been seeing has a status up about another girl. Is there evidence that he’s actually been OUT with her? People can cajole, flirt or fight online : but all that’s left are black splotches against the background of a screen. The truth of a matter is manifest in the world of the living, where breath for breath the compatibility of two social entities may be weighed fairly. Nothing online is real – spending hours chatting to someone on bbm counts for naught if you meet the next day and don’t really know what to say to each other. Seeing a guy fawn over someone on Facebook but spending most of his time with you renders all online tidings null and void.
We, as a society, should step back from our high speed connections and connect with touch. (This blog post does not condone rape.)
What I’m trying to say is… don’t let something you see on a screen affect your emotional balance. Don’t let words online upset you. Transposing the digital to the emotional is as warped as Crash Bandicoot 3 (man I miss that guy).
OMG THE IRONY OF A BLOG POST ABOUT NOTHING ONLINE BEING REAL OOHHHHHH THE LOLZ
Monday 5 December 2011
For Le Moment Like Thiiiiiiiiiiiis
Whilst walking down to the beach, his arm around my waist, he asked if I was cold. A slight, standard sea breeze was blowing – and I said no. Yet he grabbed me closer and said, “Don’t worry, I keep you warm.”
The song by The Killers : Bones, comes to mind.
Whilst actually breathing within the boundaries of life’s moments, sometimes we forget ourselves. Our mind adrift, waves of what to do when we’re home, when next you’re gonna get to play Skyrim etc. and during these moments, instead of appreciating them, we end up thinking ‘WTF this guy is a bit creepy, but cute.’
Prompted by many years of literary analysis in and out of school, it’s become a habit of mine to run through my day before bed. Pre-REM defragmentation, before I knock at the dream kingdom’s door (no, TS Eliot, I’m not dying). That’s when it hit me : I actually experienced something of a … romantic (for lack of a better word? Cue Deadmau5 in the background) moment – something from a cheesy teenage movie; something I never thought I’d get to do. Thinking on life’s experiences somehow seems to make them more meaningful, as if reflection were a rag with polish, making memories glimmer like summer stars in your mind. In the moment, what we may find creepy may actually be laden with meaning or good intention.
However, the drawback of this thought process is over analysis : finding meaning where there is none. For example, he didn’t eat nachos. This doesn’t mean anything. Even if it did, I don’t care because it’s so insignificant. To those completely infatuated, though, every little detail becomes a complex series of meanings, where they begin to formulate pseudo-paradigms and work themselves up to naught.
Perhaps the lesson of life is to, indeed, enjoy the ride, and to enhance the present, sometimes glancing at the rear view mirror can bring a profound sense of satisfaction to a weary mind.
The song by The Killers : Bones, comes to mind.
Whilst actually breathing within the boundaries of life’s moments, sometimes we forget ourselves. Our mind adrift, waves of what to do when we’re home, when next you’re gonna get to play Skyrim etc. and during these moments, instead of appreciating them, we end up thinking ‘WTF this guy is a bit creepy, but cute.’
Prompted by many years of literary analysis in and out of school, it’s become a habit of mine to run through my day before bed. Pre-REM defragmentation, before I knock at the dream kingdom’s door (no, TS Eliot, I’m not dying). That’s when it hit me : I actually experienced something of a … romantic (for lack of a better word? Cue Deadmau5 in the background) moment – something from a cheesy teenage movie; something I never thought I’d get to do. Thinking on life’s experiences somehow seems to make them more meaningful, as if reflection were a rag with polish, making memories glimmer like summer stars in your mind. In the moment, what we may find creepy may actually be laden with meaning or good intention.
However, the drawback of this thought process is over analysis : finding meaning where there is none. For example, he didn’t eat nachos. This doesn’t mean anything. Even if it did, I don’t care because it’s so insignificant. To those completely infatuated, though, every little detail becomes a complex series of meanings, where they begin to formulate pseudo-paradigms and work themselves up to naught.
Perhaps the lesson of life is to, indeed, enjoy the ride, and to enhance the present, sometimes glancing at the rear view mirror can bring a profound sense of satisfaction to a weary mind.
Saturday 3 December 2011
I'm So Hollow Baby, I'm So Hollow... lol jk, it was a Deadmau5 show
Bodies. So many bodies. Shapes, sizes, textures, height : irrelevant to the sweat and shrieks of ecstasy (be it the drug or emotion) that coated the night of the Deadmau5 concert. What is it about this mass of people that held me paralysed, for a moment? Was it the unity : the profound surrender to digitised beats and the bodily Simon-Says when he raised his arms (or weapon) and we all followed? Or the realisation that, in amongst this mass – you were nothing to everybody, but you were part of the everybody that the godlike mau5head played in front of?
I’m not sure what I was looking for when I entered the gates, but I know amongst the smoke, the tequila and the beating around me : I was left somewhat empty. As a child, I thought this was everything. This is life. Or, ‘the’ life, rather. But somehow, the temporal pleasure I gained seems presently insignificant. The transcendent experience of being a part of a mass chanting lyrics seemed to not have grown me, but rather left me with this hollow crash as I blog about my night at 1:26AM.
As I left the bathroom, there was a girl shouting at a boy about what an asshole he is. Around the food area, there were people half dazed, passed (or passing) out. There was an emptiness that Vwater, Olmeca and God knows what else could not fill. Where there’s people, there’s inevitably drama – and I probably contributed to the percentage of lacklustre hearts with fired bodies that populated the main area. Indeed, a single personal confrontation with whom I previously deemed a beautiful soul left me feeling smaller than the percentage of people that left the night sober.
But, it did help me realise something. How insignificant are these tiny moments of heartbreak, when all we do is really calculated by the raising arms of the DJ, whether his mau5head comes on or off, whether he builds or drops…and whether we choose to go through life drunk or sober, or a tizz in-between. The world is filled with thousands of bodies, all congested into a mass that excretes a single chemical composition of sweat. Nobody is perfect. Nothing will ever be perfect, and I guess all we can do sometimes is wait for the next build.
Or listen to Hannah Montannah.
Lol jk I’d rather die.
I’m not sure what I was looking for when I entered the gates, but I know amongst the smoke, the tequila and the beating around me : I was left somewhat empty. As a child, I thought this was everything. This is life. Or, ‘the’ life, rather. But somehow, the temporal pleasure I gained seems presently insignificant. The transcendent experience of being a part of a mass chanting lyrics seemed to not have grown me, but rather left me with this hollow crash as I blog about my night at 1:26AM.
As I left the bathroom, there was a girl shouting at a boy about what an asshole he is. Around the food area, there were people half dazed, passed (or passing) out. There was an emptiness that Vwater, Olmeca and God knows what else could not fill. Where there’s people, there’s inevitably drama – and I probably contributed to the percentage of lacklustre hearts with fired bodies that populated the main area. Indeed, a single personal confrontation with whom I previously deemed a beautiful soul left me feeling smaller than the percentage of people that left the night sober.
But, it did help me realise something. How insignificant are these tiny moments of heartbreak, when all we do is really calculated by the raising arms of the DJ, whether his mau5head comes on or off, whether he builds or drops…and whether we choose to go through life drunk or sober, or a tizz in-between. The world is filled with thousands of bodies, all congested into a mass that excretes a single chemical composition of sweat. Nobody is perfect. Nothing will ever be perfect, and I guess all we can do sometimes is wait for the next build.
Or listen to Hannah Montannah.
Lol jk I’d rather die.
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