Freud, Smoke and Mirrors

After a full two weeks of watching the South African media chasing after the story of our Presidents genitalia, I've decided to sit at my desk and write, admittedly after hopeful denial, about Freud's place in this whole saga. I have no doubt that the corpse of Freud must be gloating at such a promising case study as South Africa has turned into.

It's one thing to debate - in a thriving democracy as ours - the pro's and cons of freedom of expression versus the individual right to dignity. I say this with gratitude, that we might have the space to debate on such a vivid spectrum of ideological colour. That it may have been reduced to glib racialised banter in most instances is another rather problematic issue altogether.

Mike van Graan's report in the Cape Times clarified the data; the who is Brett Murray and what the greater body of his work stands for. It also outlined the dangers of the ruling party using a racial reading of the satire to enrage potential voters of the basis of colour. The City Press boasted pieces by Zakes Mda and even Julius Malema. Phylicia Opelt's Op-ed in the Times stayed close to the ground. Ferial Haffajee got braai'ed with the stakes for her bravery. Oom Max du Preez's definitive conjecture has been painted with a brush of 'the potential racist'. And the Goodman Gallery made good on standing by their Art. But as Verashni Pillay of M&G said on twitter, in response to an accusation that she might be more of an artist than a journalist, that 'Artist' has become a bad word.

What have we become?

A country of sex-crazy, race-card throwing, spear-envious (I'd rather leave Freud's classifications to the textbooks) fear-mongering bigots. Yes. Freud would have been so proud. We've just taken the penis envy to another level. And we've uncovered a whole new can of worms for race discourse in SA. Rainbow nation just got smoked on - puff and pass- and we're left holding up the mirror to ourselves. Can you see what I see? It's a damning vision for you and for me.

Decidedly, the Honourable President Zuma is certainly no despot. A true autocrat would have called a spade a spade, or not, erm, re-named the famed Hillbrow tower #Zumaspeare and gone on with business as usual. So we have much to be thankful for regarding good democratic practice and all that. Be assured, oh fellow South Africans.

Gratitude, Love and Life

On May 5, 1928 a baby girl was born to Muhammad Osman Ghoor and his young wife Mariam Tayob out in the sleepy Transvaal town of Potgietersrus. Born as second to an older brother, she would grow up to be the eldest of five more sisters and five more brothers. Today, 84 years later, I revere her influence and inspiration in my life. She is my beloved grandmother, restfully living her reflective days in Durban, SA. This is why the east coast city holds just so much fantasy for me, I admire and envy it for the job it has to have my granny living there.

Ma calls us the cream of her life, because she says, children are the milk of life, and so grandchildren are the 'malaai', i.e the cream of the milk; the delicacy, the luxury as it were. I last visited her in Durban in mid-Feb, and so a visit is long overdue, and she shared with me that she had begun writing down her thoughts about her life, not so much memories or autobiographical accounts, but rather reflections on the journey. And then she sent me to the drawer where I would find the notebook and bits of card on which notes had been scribbled in her signature, classic scrawl. She asked me to read them out loud, and I did, stopping every so often to ask a question or to listen when she prompted me to, so as to give her a chance to add or annotate her notes.

I'm thinking about those notes now, and wondering how much more she has gotten to pen in the last few weeks. It's such a thrill to know that she's actually writing! I hope the muse will allow me the luxury to do so for the next 50 years :)

Happy Birthday, to my darling grandmother. May the Beauty we love in you always inspire us to generate more of it in the work that we do, in the love that we share, in the life that we live.

Social media reflective tug-of-war

I've often used this blog space for reflective, contemplative writings. Blogging goes back to the essence of those dear diary days when I thought and wrote for just one audience: the observations of my environment, together with the inner workings of my mind. And then came Facebook. The online chat relays stretched to a voyeurs dreAm: everyone's a stalker these days. As if the subtext wasnt inviting enough, along came stalkerville; oops it's actually called Twitter. Less than being about what a-little-bird-told-me, it catapulted to popularity based on it's stalker advocacy. Follow me! the banners squeal and entice. Twitter ruled the roost in snippets of mere 140, appealing to a progressivley compulsive generation of non- essayists. The Mxiteers and BBM'rs. A closer look reveals that it holds a certain magnetism for journos, writers, and yes, even essayists, now willing to challenge themselves to the new bite-sized mandate. Long-winded diatribes were quickly whittled down to power-packed fits of expressiveness (or not quite so)...

And so, writing and the way we present and package info has changed drastically.

Our approach and attitude to how we relate to people has altered just as significantly. Those same ethics don't apply. Newer ones have been configured at the utter bewilderment to those who haven't as closely followed social media trends and creating camps of resistance amongst some who are able to measure change over a length of time (say ten or so years). For those who have just started using newer and constantly evolving media platforms, the genesis of past and present makes only mythical sense if at all. Division is a bleak reality, and generational and other often observable gaps are planets apart in some respects.

How do we assimilate these new ways of being without alienating our mirror selves?
How do we retain human links while the machines take over our minds!?
Ideas, anyone?

Rainy Wits days, then vs now

I have gorgeous memories of rainy days at Wits as a student. Just sat at the bus stop on Yale Rd recapturing the olde moments and then decided that since those memories were literally freezing along with the rest of me, the olde bones should be relocated to a warmer enclave. Someday I will write an entire book narrated from a bus stop. Just not today! Chai Latte, anyone?

Read a Free sample of Belly of Fire (2011)

words died

these words, stilled
by the horror of
her killer's face
closing in,
asking
when

these words, dried
by the breath from
the heated hiss
that demanded
time

these words, broken
by the
slap
and then
the silence
of what was to come...

these words, bloodied
by a silver knife
that
seeped into flesh
and then
fell
impotent
to the ground.

clay

The potter's clay,
a sensual soul...
enticing, flattened bread at times,
and choking clumps
of mud in mouth
when you awake to sense