Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Life through the eyes of a South African writer: The erratic wind within
Life through the eyes of a South African writer: The erratic wind within: "This morning I was quite astonished by mind’s level of activity. At regular intervals I tried intervening but all that seemed to achieve was..."
Life through the eyes of a South African writer: The Arty
Life through the eyes of a South African writer: The Arty: "THE ARTY The arty, silent servants of the high masters of art from the forgotten land of spirits Where the breathing, introverted river of ..."
Life through the eyes of a South African writer: ...And The Writer Was Found
Life through the eyes of a South African writer: ...And The Writer Was Found: "…And the writer was found Rantoloko Molokoane It was January 2001, the first school day of my grade eleven year. It started of normally: I..."
The erratic wind within
This morning I was quite astonished by mind’s level of activity. At regular intervals I tried intervening but all that seemed to achieve was add more vigor to its activity, as if I had added the catalyst that was needed to further intensify its activity. My mind bounced back and forth off all the walls that held the thoughts that it delved in.
This led me to wonder why we can be so dependent on such an unstable medium forever changing direction involuntarily. Like a plastic bag enslaved by a wind that knows not where it is headed. More knowledgeable beings call this wind the ego, a part of us that seeks fulfillment by any means possible.
Since I am not one of those knowledgeable beings, I’ll settle for calling it an erratic wind searching for refuge among weak structures. As this wind travels back and forth it finds such structures and for that duration when it is resting the mind seems focused and in respite. But the wind keeps growing as the rest of its immense body proceeds to gather in this refuge, and inevitably the structure gives in and the cycle starts again.
I have learnt that such a wind cannot be controlled; only observed. Observation which can only be attained only when one retracts from the world of rigidity that we have learnt to praise and nurture.
Learn to see the true form of all. All is mere energy changing from one state to another. Only then can the mind’s form of rigidity be transformed to its true form that is unmoved by any wind.
Learn to poke holes into the mind so that observation can take place!
This led me to wonder why we can be so dependent on such an unstable medium forever changing direction involuntarily. Like a plastic bag enslaved by a wind that knows not where it is headed. More knowledgeable beings call this wind the ego, a part of us that seeks fulfillment by any means possible.
Since I am not one of those knowledgeable beings, I’ll settle for calling it an erratic wind searching for refuge among weak structures. As this wind travels back and forth it finds such structures and for that duration when it is resting the mind seems focused and in respite. But the wind keeps growing as the rest of its immense body proceeds to gather in this refuge, and inevitably the structure gives in and the cycle starts again.
I have learnt that such a wind cannot be controlled; only observed. Observation which can only be attained only when one retracts from the world of rigidity that we have learnt to praise and nurture.
Learn to see the true form of all. All is mere energy changing from one state to another. Only then can the mind’s form of rigidity be transformed to its true form that is unmoved by any wind.
Learn to poke holes into the mind so that observation can take place!
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
The Arty
THE ARTY
The arty, silent servants of the high masters of art from the forgotten land of spirits
Where the breathing, introverted river of life rests
High masters, serene spirits floating upon the calm surface of the river of life
Under the loving, warm gaze of the original sun
The light, humble sun wearing illumined robes weaved by the ever-creating hands of Kreya, the goddess of creation
Robes made out of unnamed colours inspired by the nomadic, fragrant breath of the river of life
The very breath that would rise to impregnate the infinite, hovering space of nothingness, so more space can be born
This infinite space, the art gallery that exhibits the newly created, imperfect works of the master artists
Works of yet to be dreamt, fluorescent dreams that leave voyeuristic Gods in awe
The very Gods that peer through all to see pure beginnings
So as to remember the secret power of forgetting
These fluorescent dreams. Worlds to which the light spirits of the arty would travel to
To fetch vibrant yet to be learnt lessons of creation
The arty with minds stilled by images whispered into life by merchant winds
Merchants that exchange the mystery of things to those that offer to part with their cherished, glistening thoughts
The silent ones
So they can again be the instruments of Kreya
So they can feed the hungry universe with creation
So we can finally speak the language of our gods
The arty, silent servants of the high masters of art from the forgotten land of spirits
Where the breathing, introverted river of life rests
High masters, serene spirits floating upon the calm surface of the river of life
Under the loving, warm gaze of the original sun
The light, humble sun wearing illumined robes weaved by the ever-creating hands of Kreya, the goddess of creation
Robes made out of unnamed colours inspired by the nomadic, fragrant breath of the river of life
The very breath that would rise to impregnate the infinite, hovering space of nothingness, so more space can be born
This infinite space, the art gallery that exhibits the newly created, imperfect works of the master artists
Works of yet to be dreamt, fluorescent dreams that leave voyeuristic Gods in awe
The very Gods that peer through all to see pure beginnings
So as to remember the secret power of forgetting
These fluorescent dreams. Worlds to which the light spirits of the arty would travel to
To fetch vibrant yet to be learnt lessons of creation
The arty with minds stilled by images whispered into life by merchant winds
Merchants that exchange the mystery of things to those that offer to part with their cherished, glistening thoughts
The silent ones
So they can again be the instruments of Kreya
So they can feed the hungry universe with creation
So we can finally speak the language of our gods
...And The Writer Was Found
…And the writer was found
Rantoloko Molokoane
It was January 2001, the first school day of my grade eleven year. It started of normally: I woke up at half past four in the silent morning that wore the cold whispers of the Vaal River that peacefully glided passed Parys, my hometown. I had been waking up so for the past five years when I started attending at multi-racial schools in the then racially divided van der Bijl Park, so I had long forgotten how to complain about waking up at such a time. I took my ritual bath and prepared myself for school while waiting for the ever slow transport to pick me up. My eyes glowed with excitements that pierced the darkness that embraced the outside surfaces of the house, exposing the elusiveness of the dark and I felt as infinite as the sky, my eyes the sun that illuminates the earth.
It all seemed to be proceeding normally as we arrived at school, me and Azariel the guy I had been schooling with since we black people started to flood the multi-racial schools in 1995(the year after the first democratic elections in South Africa). Everything seemed to be as it should be: the lost new recruits wearing long skirts that hid their shy knee caps, searching for refuge from the unknown that plagued their young faces with a once forgotten nervousness. Some of them wearing proud smiles that nostalgia had drew on their faces, nostalgic of when they were gods and everyone else their servants. New recruits harassed by the distinct smell of starch from their uniforms that announced to them the unpredictable nature of that day. I passed familiar faces, bright from the rains of memories that descended from the peaceful clouds of joy discovered during the holidays. Their mouths, wide open as if competing to swallow the sun, narrating new chapters from their books of life to any willing to listen, forcing birds of silence to migrate again. As usual some seemed distant from the present, hoping that wearing distance as a mask would scare the present from exhuming the buried secrets of their holidays.
At last I found my crew, we used to call ourselves DFN(I think) an acronym that was supposed to stand for ‘Different Kinds of Style’. We even had our own traditional manner of greeting. About a meter apart we stood and praised each other with a litany of friendly words before shaking hands in our own customary manner. After the greetings were concluded we joined the cacophony of voices and sang about our holidays to each other, but before we could hit the high notes the school bell rang reminding us of the school tradition that we had to uphold as senior students so as to set an example for the juniors. Subconsciously we proceeded towards the hall with our tongues still thrashing the air with our explorations, we were sculptors chipping at the present so it would exhibit our pasts. As usual Michael would exhibit his that would be the most admired, one that spoke of broken hearts and new bodies explored, narratives about tertiary women who mistook him for their peer.
As the tradition dictated, we assembled in the school hall every first day of a term. We intruded the aged school hall with our feet sweeping its floor with the rough soles of our shoes; with our different smell and emotions. A school hall that had had married silence in our absence and conceived peace. A hall that had had grown old with only dust to convey its secret age. The silence and peace that we had had chased away with our voices. The age that we had had wiped off the seats with our tissues and moisturized palms. We sat and sang from the hymn books as we were commanded, singing in foreign tongues to praise a foreign God led by the piano through unknown passages. Our hearts ached with desires of singing about our holiday escapades. In the midst of this feast of monotony a surprise was added as a new ingredient in the great pot of monotony.
There was an NGO called the Rotary Club with an award to give to a prestigious student in English. I was the student much to my dismay. Rantoloko Zacharia Molokoane, the nerd who had been collecting academic awards all his schooling years. At least the black primary school, Botjhabatsatsi, that I had attended before 1995 couldn’t afford such luxuries and all they ever did was pat me on the back and go praise my father, their colleague, for bringing up such a brilliant child. But in the multi-racial schools it had been award ceremony after award ceremony, picture after picture and speech after speech. By the time I was in grade eleven it had all become invasive and my greatest burden, a sadness celebrated by those that yearned to be in my tight-fitting shoes. That day when the principal called my name as the recipient of the Rotary Club’s award, I hesitated to stand and proceed towards the elevated stage to receive the award. I felt more invaded than ever before. For on this day when we were meant to retell our new narratives, I would have to receive an award in front of the whole school reminding them entirely of my burden that they praised. The new recruits’ diaries’ pages would be filled with ‘A black nerd received an academic award on my first day in high school’. Maybe an inspiring tale for them, but for me it felt like swimming from the sea of monotony into the ocean of monotony.
With my friends nudging me to stand and the eyes of that knew the award-winning nerd scorching me with their warmth, I stood and walked towards the stage. Like the Pantsulas of the dusty streets of Tumahole, my township, walk so I walked. Through body language I invaded their ceremony, as I had been invaded, treading over their rigid etiquette. As I walked all I heard was the sound of my well-polished Bucaneer shoes abusing the floor, and screams from within trying to tell them I had grown tired of the monotony.
I took the award, a dictionary, and went back to my proud friends and whished I could erase the whole ordeal from their memories, yet my eyes’ glow was too dim to evaporate the residues of this event from their memory banks. That day the tin man discovered his heart. I decided it was time I learnt more about society and less about textbooks.
That day I Wrote My First Poem… And the writer was found!
Rantoloko Molokoane
It was January 2001, the first school day of my grade eleven year. It started of normally: I woke up at half past four in the silent morning that wore the cold whispers of the Vaal River that peacefully glided passed Parys, my hometown. I had been waking up so for the past five years when I started attending at multi-racial schools in the then racially divided van der Bijl Park, so I had long forgotten how to complain about waking up at such a time. I took my ritual bath and prepared myself for school while waiting for the ever slow transport to pick me up. My eyes glowed with excitements that pierced the darkness that embraced the outside surfaces of the house, exposing the elusiveness of the dark and I felt as infinite as the sky, my eyes the sun that illuminates the earth.
It all seemed to be proceeding normally as we arrived at school, me and Azariel the guy I had been schooling with since we black people started to flood the multi-racial schools in 1995(the year after the first democratic elections in South Africa). Everything seemed to be as it should be: the lost new recruits wearing long skirts that hid their shy knee caps, searching for refuge from the unknown that plagued their young faces with a once forgotten nervousness. Some of them wearing proud smiles that nostalgia had drew on their faces, nostalgic of when they were gods and everyone else their servants. New recruits harassed by the distinct smell of starch from their uniforms that announced to them the unpredictable nature of that day. I passed familiar faces, bright from the rains of memories that descended from the peaceful clouds of joy discovered during the holidays. Their mouths, wide open as if competing to swallow the sun, narrating new chapters from their books of life to any willing to listen, forcing birds of silence to migrate again. As usual some seemed distant from the present, hoping that wearing distance as a mask would scare the present from exhuming the buried secrets of their holidays.
At last I found my crew, we used to call ourselves DFN(I think) an acronym that was supposed to stand for ‘Different Kinds of Style’. We even had our own traditional manner of greeting. About a meter apart we stood and praised each other with a litany of friendly words before shaking hands in our own customary manner. After the greetings were concluded we joined the cacophony of voices and sang about our holidays to each other, but before we could hit the high notes the school bell rang reminding us of the school tradition that we had to uphold as senior students so as to set an example for the juniors. Subconsciously we proceeded towards the hall with our tongues still thrashing the air with our explorations, we were sculptors chipping at the present so it would exhibit our pasts. As usual Michael would exhibit his that would be the most admired, one that spoke of broken hearts and new bodies explored, narratives about tertiary women who mistook him for their peer.
As the tradition dictated, we assembled in the school hall every first day of a term. We intruded the aged school hall with our feet sweeping its floor with the rough soles of our shoes; with our different smell and emotions. A school hall that had had married silence in our absence and conceived peace. A hall that had had grown old with only dust to convey its secret age. The silence and peace that we had had chased away with our voices. The age that we had had wiped off the seats with our tissues and moisturized palms. We sat and sang from the hymn books as we were commanded, singing in foreign tongues to praise a foreign God led by the piano through unknown passages. Our hearts ached with desires of singing about our holiday escapades. In the midst of this feast of monotony a surprise was added as a new ingredient in the great pot of monotony.
There was an NGO called the Rotary Club with an award to give to a prestigious student in English. I was the student much to my dismay. Rantoloko Zacharia Molokoane, the nerd who had been collecting academic awards all his schooling years. At least the black primary school, Botjhabatsatsi, that I had attended before 1995 couldn’t afford such luxuries and all they ever did was pat me on the back and go praise my father, their colleague, for bringing up such a brilliant child. But in the multi-racial schools it had been award ceremony after award ceremony, picture after picture and speech after speech. By the time I was in grade eleven it had all become invasive and my greatest burden, a sadness celebrated by those that yearned to be in my tight-fitting shoes. That day when the principal called my name as the recipient of the Rotary Club’s award, I hesitated to stand and proceed towards the elevated stage to receive the award. I felt more invaded than ever before. For on this day when we were meant to retell our new narratives, I would have to receive an award in front of the whole school reminding them entirely of my burden that they praised. The new recruits’ diaries’ pages would be filled with ‘A black nerd received an academic award on my first day in high school’. Maybe an inspiring tale for them, but for me it felt like swimming from the sea of monotony into the ocean of monotony.
With my friends nudging me to stand and the eyes of that knew the award-winning nerd scorching me with their warmth, I stood and walked towards the stage. Like the Pantsulas of the dusty streets of Tumahole, my township, walk so I walked. Through body language I invaded their ceremony, as I had been invaded, treading over their rigid etiquette. As I walked all I heard was the sound of my well-polished Bucaneer shoes abusing the floor, and screams from within trying to tell them I had grown tired of the monotony.
I took the award, a dictionary, and went back to my proud friends and whished I could erase the whole ordeal from their memories, yet my eyes’ glow was too dim to evaporate the residues of this event from their memory banks. That day the tin man discovered his heart. I decided it was time I learnt more about society and less about textbooks.
That day I Wrote My First Poem… And the writer was found!
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