The Trance sender: We must Trance-send...

The Trance sender: We must Trance-send...: "Not silenced by the reality they weave we have learned to amplify our ancient voices We have learned to stand on the heads of the images ..."

We must Trance-send...

Not silenced by the reality they weave we have learned to amplify our ancient voices

We have learned to stand on the heads of the images of us ,that they feed from their metallic suns, pages tilled by their forked tongues, and scream forgotten truths from the bellies of our hungry dreams

 

And now with our dreams burning holes into their rigid reality...  

 WE TRANCE SEND!!! 

We must Trance Send 

'Read, Write Dreams Into Life' Book cover

Read, Write Dreams Into Life

‘In a world that forever stares one down to the point of inferiority, it is imperative that one soak in the light from fires lit by dreams in the eyes of children. ‘


It has been ten years since the pen first enchanted me; seven years since the stage first felt the weight of my frail body. Alas the writing will be available in a book for anyone to purchase. The book is called ‘Read, Write Dreams Into Life’ and will be available for R140. Ten percent of book sales will go into buying Afrikan literature, history, spirituality books for my starving township library in Tumahole. The book will be available from 06 August 2011. For more information please join the facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Rantoloko-The-Truth-Molokoane/204023842972219

If seeing is believing then this I offer thee.





Read, write dreams into life and love her...

Arty Spirits on Liquid Stages

The many ways of bringing the writing to life...







Then one finds their own view of the world and suddenly the questions grow. And creation whispers from all that is..




First one has to accept their insanity. The insanity to dream that Afrika will one day break free from the deadly grip of a reality created by those who profit from our poverty, political corruption, lack of infrastructure, aids, lack of strong leadership, and the unending battle with identity. I have accepted my insanity, and I have dreamed of a better day when Afrika will stand on its ancient feet and dance itself back to health. Together we can create.



To those who have been insane enough to follow my writing, I am humbled. Know that this is just the beginning. Read, Write Dreams Into Life And Love her...
For updates on my book developments and performances please like the page 'Introducing The Truth' on Facebook.

I have chained fear and decided to walk out of our stationery relationship anchored in the middle of an immense sea of doubts. For many non-cherished moons has the mirror like surface of this sea plagued my eyes with grotesque scenes of my peril, while the winds of logic held me back from abandoning ship as they screamed their favourite song; the song that deafens the ears from hearing the enchanting whispers of dreams.

There are days were I have watched the township streets dance until clouds of dust gathered to blind dreamy eyes. Eyes with still wet paintings of dreams and when the eyes would cry the dreams would be washed off. All that would be seen would be the roads built to possess us township residents. Roads decorated with glimmering limits and street signs that glow in the dark so that they are always seen. Street names like ‘child grants association rewards for teen pregnancy here’; ‘open bar traded for dreams’. And at each corner there are temples where the incessant chant ‘nothing good can ever come out of the township’ floats all around seducing the educated to sing along as they flee to ‘greener pastures’, too scared to taint their white papers with the dust of township streets.

I have taken the plunge, all I know is if I drown so be it. Truth is whether writer, politician, engineer, teacher, lawyer, painter, journalist, doctor, cleaner, manager, etc. we hold the keys to changing the reality that confronts us. With imagination, just as cities and affluent places were created we can create a better life in townships and in Afrika.

I invite you to the feast of those who hear whispers of dreams. Go to facebook and like the page ‘Introducing The Truth(Rantoloko Molokoane)’. There you will find information about my first book offering that is to be published either in July or August. The book will be a collection of poems and prose work. Ten percent of book sales will be used to buy African Literature books for my starving township library. You will also find information regarding the performance poetry tour that I am planning.

Together we can create…

Son of forgotten Gods

Life through the eyes of a South African writer: Life through the eyes of a South African writer: A...

Life through the eyes of a South African writer: Life through the eyes of a South African writer: A...: "Life through the eyes of a South African writer: Africa, the burial ground of creativity: 'Guarded by thin concrete walls deemed brave enoug..."

Life through the eyes of a South African writer: Africa, the burial ground of creativity

Life through the eyes of a South African writer: Africa, the burial ground of creativity: "Guarded by thin concrete walls deemed brave enough to stand images catapulted by strong flexible Afrikan tongues into empty child-like space..."

Africa, the burial ground of creativity

Guarded by thin concrete walls deemed brave enough to stand images catapulted by strong flexible Afrikan tongues into empty child-like spaces that played willing canvasses for the wandering minds, I sat.  Mind wandering through unnamed forests of memories where proud trees held blazing images, embodying colourful acrobatic emotions, as their fruits.  Guarded from growling Jozi streets angered by the weighty bodies propelled by ambitions of find pots of gold at the end of fading rainbows painted by aged brushes now retired to enjoy the comforts of the paradise island of nostalgia.

 

Nostrils charmed by the dancing air draped in aromas of lively coffee beans dancing to the eternal mantra hummed by the air-conditioner in attempts to rid the air of bad energies and moans of shoes tormented by memories of heavy rains now reduced to mere myths by the smoldering heat, I sat among the audience; the audience with ears standing upright and open like waking flowers ready to receive rays of life from the loving heart of the golden Afrikan Sun.   Their minds ready to tour dreams of those with spirits endowed with jewels from the treasure chest of dreams dreamt by a resting Afrika awaiting imagination to rouse it back to wakefulness.

 

The first stood; a songstress with locks like scrolls carrying the ancient writings of the sun; with eyes hiding behind heavy looking spectacles.  The guitar shyly trembled as she caressed its strings and notes of appreciation strolled out of its hollow, circular mouth; enchanting melodies leapt out of her and our enthralled spirits listened.  All else faded and only her music came to life, bearing echoes of the music that cushions Afrika’s unending dreams.

 

In that trance state thought well taught in Africa’s inherited babbles recorded by sanity asked: ‘But where does she fit in Africa’s music industry?’

 

Only after the marching stars had appeared and disappeared twice upon the naked canvass of the sky did the spirit answer, as if emerging from a deep meditation where Es’kia Mphahlele’s spirit teaches:

 

‘Africa is a burial ground for creativity, only Afrika dreams magical spaces ample enough to exhibit the works from sons and daughters of forgotten gods. Many know Africa, yet many have yet to meet Afrika.’

 

Son of forgotten gods!

 

Life through the eyes of a South African writer: ALL I COULD DO IS WRITE

Life through the eyes of a South African writer: ALL I COULD DO IS WRITE: "January the tenth, while the community of Tumahole was possessed by the unbound music that ruptured the sky’s still portrait and draped it w..."

ALL I COULD DO IS WRITE

January the tenth, while the community of Tumahole was possessed by the unbound music that ruptured the sky’s still portrait and draped it with fiery colors that leapt from torches used to celebrate a year’s infant steps; while minds ,caged in prisons of time heavily guarded by regrets, sought new gods for freedom as they sung new hymns of resolutions to the gods’ pleasure; while thoughts took on many forms so as to sculpt glittering sculptures of the future, a call that quaked my still world and sent monstrous waves down the ocean of my quiet life I answered: ‘Rantoloko, hurry to your grandmother’s house apparently she has been murdered.’

 

She was laid to rest aged eighty nine years, the second elderly women to be raped and murdered by those that worship the dark clouds that hover over my township.  My family tasted the bitter raindrops that fell from these dark clouds singing of a future that my fellow neighbors have fallen blind to.  My mind emptied of weeds of questions that profusely grow in the garden of my thoughts, I followed lullabies that sprouted from the loud mouths of emotions and I was lost in a delirium.  There I saw boys and girls plant seeds and their weakly bodies struggle to pick up the vessel used to water their seeds; I saw shadows stealthily poison the water in these vessels and work together to poison these seeds; I saw elders weary of the weight of the vessels give in and drink out of lighter vessels so as to forger and rid their bodies of the aches induced by the vessels.  I watched these seeds crookedly grow into trees bearing fruits with hatred flowing through their veins.  From everywhere I heard the few dying trees scream the message from Gaea:  ‘Warn them out of their illusive stupor brought on by the sparkling wine of youth.  Only they now possess the strength needed to bend the road away from oblivion.  Tell them to protect the elderly for they know the ingredients of ancient potions that lightened the vessels, only they still remember where the road needs to be bent to.  Protect the old spirit trees only they can teach my language, only they still remember the songs that shatter the shadows.’

 

ALL I COULD DO IS WRITE…

Family matters?

Yesterday, with mind silenced by fragrant words from the flower that brightens the garden of my imperfections, I walked my township streets; morning slippers celebrating the freedom of traveling wherever by picking up layers of dust as mementos; heart beating compositions heard from the realm that exists beyond love.  Every now and the dodging taxis, carrying the tired unappreciated workforce of the white owned town, driven wildly by young black men attempting to escape their present; ears enchanted by the choir of loud voices abusing the air, as if announcing their significance to maps that reduced their existence to a mere dot on a colored paper.

 

Then voices from the owners of the township streets knocked me off-balance and the silent mind was no more.  I observed a group of young girls, grade four or five, spewing malicious words that flew from the streets to invade households, their faces glowing with delight as they told the world who their next victim would be.  Onwards I looked as they ran towards their victim, just as them she looked like a young girl with fragile hands easily bruised by holding pens at school.  I turned away from them, not wanting to adorn their ceremony with my energy and walked on wandering what had changed.

 

My troubled spirit turned teacher posed this question to a class of thoughts and only one stood proudly up to answer:

          Thought: ‘It should be noted that every culture has a very fragile balance maintained by their practices.  With the introduction of rights of children and banishment of corporal punishment, most black parents’ hands were tide.  This is not to say corporal punishment is right, but to say that it was a tool used in the maintenance of the balance.  When it was removed the balance was compromised and disorder reigned.  The error was that in the removal of this tool, the users of the tool were never taught how to use another tool and so the imbalance persists.’

 

Beyond all I still find instilled in me that even when I step out of my home and into the streets, that those elder than me are still my parents and should be respected as such.  Then again it is said that times have changed, so I ask: ‘In these days where parents’ work demands that they leave their children behind to be raised by TV; days when children raise children; when alleged child on child rape accusations arise from school premises only later to be found to be consensual sexual intercourse between minors on school premises; when children pornographic materials are found in the possession of primary teachers’ hands and when alcohol is the preferred beverage among primary school children.  Are all these indicators of men’s evolution, or times that have changed and if so, does family still matter or are all these just family matters?  

Life through the eyes of a South African writer: Create and live; sell to survive? YOU CHOOSE!

Life through the eyes of a South African writer: Create and live; sell to survive? YOU CHOOSE!: "Everyday bits of this rich soil enriched by the blood of ancestors and a magic that once flowed from our way of life are auctioned off to th..."

Create and live; sell to survive? YOU CHOOSE!

Everyday bits of this rich soil enriched by the blood of ancestors and a magic that once flowed from our way of life are auctioned off to the highest bidders so as to create jobs and alleviate poverty.  Traditional healers are labeled as evil-my father was one might I add- African knowledge systems are referred to as primitive and too regressive for this tumultuous era of ‘evolution’.  Though language policies have been put in place so as to ‘preserve’ our mother tongues, institutions that teach these languages are marred by lack of resources, stigmas attached to public sector service delivery, while schools that teach in the dominant languages, English and Afrikaans, with always defined as skilled white teachers are revered as the institutions that offer quality education to children and are backed by private enterprises in many of their endeavors.

 

I remember the day when the flower that brightens the garden of my imperfections spoke of such matters.  For two hours we left reality to discuss if, as if we were gossip stars that chose the sky as the safest place where our whispers about earth could not be heard.  Car windows fogged as our spirits were galvanized; rain fell softly to curtain us from the outside.

  She argued that the state of Africa, South Africa to be specific, is one that lacks opportunities of development especially for people in my field, art that is.  She stated that there is a culture in South Africa that promotes that which is recognized overseas-deathbeds of many sons and daughters stolen for slavery- and to look down upon what is from South Africa.  She stared at me with her eyes that shamed even the proudest stars and sternly said that that is the reality of our state, one has to first be revered internationally before being acknowledged in South Africa.

 

Teary eyed and eyelids swollen from my brutal encounter with reality, I told her that only we can change that.  Living in and environment adorned with pearls of paradoxes and high paid painters that paint over these paradoxes with their tongues, I have watched performing artists protesting in a country-that claims to promote proudly South African products- for a chance to exhibit their local talent on an African world cup stage; I have seen producers of local content aired by the national broadcaster protest against the possibility of being cut off while more international content is being imported; I have seen black sales persons-clad in Steven Bantu Biko t-shirts- helping black customers with disgust on their faces and then turn around and help white customers with a smile and a face possessed by inferiority-I don’t blame them their Jesus is said to be white-; I have seen leaders in black expensive German cars drive on pothole infested roads past shacks with offerings of promises for a better life for all.

 

A question then arises in my insane mind: ‘Shall we ever be ready to create oR do we have to keep selling Africa to survive?’

 

Create and live; sell to survive?  YOU CHOOSE!

 

 

Life through the eyes of a South African writer: brought back to life by flowers

Life through the eyes of a South African writer: brought back to life by flowers: "Some days are harder than some.             I awaken light-headed as if I had been one with clouds, unbounded and foreign to limits and fea..."

brought back to life by flowers

Some days are harder than some.

            I awaken light-headed as if I had been one with clouds, unbounded and foreign to limits and fears of soaring with no wings beyond all touched by the stained hands of reality.  Then I suffocate in the heavy air adorned in garments of energy left by my fluid dreams; walls looking gruesome, stained in spurts of blood from wounds inflicted by the sharp edge of reality's light upon the backs of my dreams(coward!).  Heavy thoughts playing musical chairs upon my head, games they play to earn the right to reign over the kingdom of my spirit; blankets whispering stories of how they have helped many imprisoned like me to escape life.

 

With newly-borne limbs I would grapple with the heavy air; shifting it laboriously just so that minute spaces friendly to movement may be found.   Eyes turning into wells bearing ‘holy’ water to sanctify the air and quench the thirst of the unseen; I would reach the window, a warrior against time with dust particles as trophies of days defeated, and I would open it as if crying to the world to save me from my dreams, or for the warrior to anoint me with a dust particle that would lure me to once a good day.

            Sure enough the world would enter just after sucking the heavy air out, conquering my dreams and ‘saving’ me.  Energy shifts; paradigm displaces thoughts and the world being the tyrant it is my room would be colonized; screams from beings enslaved to push the cogs of the clock-like world so it can go around would torment my frail spirit.

            Out the room I would run, eyes tightly closed so as to avoid the sight of islands I had vacationed in, islands held by the comforting hands of shelves; hurriedly past my aging mother with a face that reality paints with elusive colors of disappointment inspired by hopes, ambition and success.

            Feverishly I would trip upon the broken pieces of my heart, being mended by a love beyond, into an untrimmed rose bush with thirsty thorns.  Dead I would lie only to be brought back to life by clouds of rose petals bearing a scent that speaks words from the ancients: ‘Certainty is an illusion, doubts are the sharp spearheads of reality that steer you to certainty.  Lie silently and allow death to embrace you.  Only through death can we again live.  Only in the dark can we see the light.  When the world morphs into tornado, stand still and smell the flowers.’

 

You that read this blog, or attend poetry sessions to listen to me; you that loves the wretch that I am, and you that have learnt to silence the world as you mother me, are my flowers.

 

BROUGHT BACK TO LIFE BY FLOWERS!

Son of forgotten gods.  

Silent Midnight

Oh, silent midnight

Empty canvas of the light kingdom

Of winged sacred spirits that have surpassed flight

Companions of shadows, guardians of the god of light

 

Daughters of the blind gods of creation that wore stars for sight

Weavers of nets that sift the contents

Of souls suffering from reality's plight

Childish gods of creation that play at the infinite shores of the present

 

Dipping their crafty hands into the glistening ocean of life

To mould meditating sculptures that exudes a harmonious energy

The everlasting breath of peace

That quiets the tides of the ocean of life

Warriors armed with stillness

At war with monsters that ride upon the backs of the winds of time

 

Oh, silent midnight

Goddess of the stars

Monks that praise her through their light

Daughter of the forgotten gods of dreams

 

Brown skin beings

That dreamed themselves out of reality's seams

To take refuge on the land that

Resonates laughter when the tree of life breathes

 

Brown skin beings born from leaves

Plucked from the en-flamed branches of the golden great tree

Leaves that whisper secret conversations of the tree of life

To the unborn

 

Oh, silent midnight canvas of the light

My soul laughs with thee

At reality's fragile light

Oh, silent eve

That stars praise through their light

I have joined the insane choir conducted by the sea

Forever bless us with your silence

As we laugh till the END OF TIME

 

 

 

The looting of society’s dreams and imaginatio

It is as if they have consciously built a cinema that incessantly plays one movie that reinforces its walls and rids us of the nuances that illumine us.

 

Their eyes carry heavy residues from dust clouds breathed to life by the lies they speak to keep the monotonous reality alive.  Their eyes blinded by this weight, they walk and stumble in their life journeys and attack each other with foreign phrases, foreign beliefs, and foreign identities for protection while those that hold the bricks of building communities sit and clap, entertained by all this.  And the children have found fun ways to deal with the pain.  They have found a way of dipping their tongues into bottles that scream to be emptied, and with those tongues they paint over their paintings of dreams so as to forget them.

 

See, being from a small town such as Parys and an unknown township called Tumahole, one sees how a reality is created and how it’s fed constantly so it can sing a mantra that deafens the ethereal whispers of dreams.  One observes how crowds gather on Saturday mornings with tears playing hide and seek with the childish winds of sorrow, hiding behind eyelids while another is being buried; metallic shovels sending flights of red soil into holes to blanket expensive caskets.  And on Saturday nights with eyes tired from grappling with tears the same crowds gather and with hands bruised by the unfeeling metallic shovels pick up glass shovels and send numbing rains of distilled liquids to bury their dreams that lie in reinforced caskets of fear.

 

Still the created reality sings its mantra: ‘ride the waves of conformity or drown in the endless ocean of self’.  Seduced by the fragrances of the unknown I drown, with a still mind, a heart enchanted by the magic of love, and an imagination fueled by the creative energy that binds all.

 

It is sad to watch politicians and social "servants'' loot the society of its money, but it is death to watch them loot the society of its dreams and imagination.

 

Son of forgotten gods. 

A fresh breath of air

At times writing is like a strenuous climb upon a walking mountain with a slippery and unstable surface
A mountain with a peak far from being tainted by the stench that reigns at its monstrous feet
An infectious stench that turns all that it kisses into a rigid structure that has become a stranger to silent remembrance and emptying forgetfulness, still gods with the scent of yet to be born flowers living in their breathes
A scent that cracks open a forever changing passage through the stench’s immense kingdom
A passage that leads to the mountain’s monstrous feet, temporary refuge for escapists of rigidity
Escapists with hearts that beat songs from mute ancients that studied and mastered the art of metamorphosis from form to formless
From nothing to human
From human to nothing
From life to death
From death to life
To the in between untainted

Songs that lead to the still gods that grant passage to those light enough to ascend the mountain
A walking mountain with a peak exploring the infinite nothingness where nothing needs to make sense
Freedom from rigidity
Freedom from the stench
Freedom from reality

At times writing is like a deadly climb up a mountain just to inhale a fresh breath of air.

Son of forgotten gods