So I thought this would help me move on or start afresh while making amends for anything and everything that may have gone wrong. Don’t even know where to start… HOW HAVE I BEEN?
LET’S SEE… …
I guess with all the revelations that have come to light to date, the fact that I was a fool is not really debateable, from the beginning I was never thee one for you. I was just filling in the gaps which is something I would have never optioned to be a part of, no self-righteous person would ever want to come second to anyone let alone another woman.
Cannot really blame everything on you from the get go I allowed my naivety to take control and let myself forgive you while blindly convincing myself that it’d all be worthwhile in the long run. I put aside my lack of investment in any relationship and went all in just so to prove myself wrong. Only if I had known, hey?
I am not transferring my burdens and faults to you but you were reckless not only with your own life but with mines and anyone else’s you may have been involved with and for that I do hold some resentment towards you because no matter how shitty you made me feel I trusted you.
Nothing annoys me more than your inability to talk to me, your transgressions and issues that may influence us in the long run are made public before I know of them. I am forever expected to get angry and then get over it like a good girl, but sadly I have never allowed anger to parade within me cause I just won’t let it consume me therefore I just hope for a more “grown you.”
Thanks to your actions I found myself going through a time of resentment, pain and self-hatred while lacking the very thing you promised me, which was ‘you.’ You promised to love me, you promised to be there but I guess I was just grasping at straws believing you. I hated you with every fibre within me and all I ever thought about was ending myself just so the pain would be no more, I had lost all hope maybe it was the hormones or the you deserting me but nothing made sense, therefore you cannot blame me for not trusting you.
The tears I cried were endless but you couldn’t care less as long as my nagging self was out of your way and I got the message loud and clear, I tried Lord knows I tried to let go but every time I had made amends and accepted the situation you would waltz in giving me hope of something better. I am not saying that you reasons for disappearing were never good enough but looking at the situation they were just pathetic, you had a child which you had never laid your eyes on. I knew there was someone else but even though I wasn’t good enough this innocent soul could not be made accountable for my inadequacies.
The love I had for you haunted me and clouded me with guilt, through all the pain I went through and the things I found out I vowed never to hold a grudge towards you or our significant other and child if need be but here I stand now wondering if I can allow myself to forgive and forget with there being a constant reminder of the fact that I have never been good enough.
On the other hand here you are standing before me asking for forgiveness, a new beginning and in hand you claim to hold love that is untamed. It has been a year since you and I have stood face to face but yet I still find myself weak at the knees, I love you with an unbound amount of emotion but a year has never been enough to forgive being made second best and being kept in the dark of the existence of another child for that I’ll have to forgive me.
It’s weird how I am asking for forgiveness, but I’m sorry for not reacting the way you’ve expected me to do so, forgive my inability to lose my sanity over something that is beyond my control. Just so you understand, I still do refer to you as my ex and not because I am going back on my word but because it’s more of a safety net, not allowing myself to let you in that easily again.
I forgive you for the lies, infidelity, and you being an asshole!!!
So I thought this would help me move on or start afresh while making amends for anything and everything that may have gone wrong. Don’t even know where to start… HOW HAVE I BEEN?
Maybe I should be arrested. Maybe I should not be here reminiscing about my art of killing. I left the scene quietly, no one saw me; no one can point to me. I left her lying there, with only her socks on. Her hair was red, from the blood running from her neck. Her smile, had dried up into a death grin. What is a death grin? Oh well, I am not trying to-.
Maybe I should have taken the socks off too. Oh! What a messy crime scene. Who commits murder and leave the socks on the scene? My mind was scattered everywhere, my heart pounding like athletes on the track. So, what now? Do I go back to take the socks off or do I continue to run away from the scene. Maybe I should make a few calls, ask Nandi to go and remove the socks from the scene. I cannot go back there now. I cannot face my deeds – although perfect, even if I have to say so myself.
I have never felt so free after taking a life of a person like the one I did tonight. I should do it again soon. Maybe this time around remember not to leave the socks behind. Wait, what’s that? Is that a knock at the door? Could it be the police already? Should I open the door or should I leave them knocking? Perhaps it is a guardian angel, coming to drop off the socks. Mh! That would be nice.
Alright, they have left.
Let me switch on the television and see what is on the news. Maybe the socks are talking through the channels.
Oh no! The socks are here.
Aiwa’s flying feet lead her towards the silver pool. With the touch of her hand she revealed the perfect picture of her golden body. In all her naked glory she dived beneath the gleaming water, into the loving embrace of death.
Deceived by trust on one moonlight night, faceless was her seduction beneath the high moon in the garden of Eden. The golden touch turned the garden into evil. Her once aching fingers turned into clawing nails digging into his corded muscles.
Faceless was her seduction…one touch…one whisper, an attack now remembered for eternity. High moon…the garden of Eden…Evil
Sephtis is a suicidal super-hero looking for an escape from immortality. With a rough childhood and the pain and resentment he has had to deal with, he has become tired and sees his powers more as a disease than a gift.
When he finally manages to find a way to end his life, he has to compete between the feelings of responsibility he feels for the family he loves and the public protests against his suicide.
There has been a flood not a conservation of water but everything that the child eats seems to taste like snow dripping like aloe sap. Secrets can be earth-shattering. Humanity is not meant to keep secrets. Secrets can kill. So their bodies flowed with the water and its carcass became two, and there is an obsession that they carry with them to the grave. Hearing voices, even in spirit Di steals. There is potential in its metallic caress but also nausea, paranoia, and insanity. My skin is a wall, a hellish ruin. A home where I do not want to be. The child Felicity cannot wail anymore. She cannot be held in Di’s arms anymore. This happy ending is washed out. The children involved have been brainwashed.
They both met the wolves at the door. Di’s last words must have been, ‘Beg.’ Then again she held no more power over him. James Smith’s addictions will never die and in his poetry there are shades of sirens. But Felicity and Di are also there, ghosts. Time was just pretend. People, women growing older around him while Di and Felicity stayed forever young. Tucked in a filthy grave made of earth both with their beautiful. With their dark exotic hair and foreign air but they are still in a homeless space. Di surfacing a grown up in a maze, an experiment and in the end she has won but in the end where is her speech. Her perspective, her poetry? Everything cannot have been destroyed.
What would she say? If she was still alive today. James Smith said, ‘Heal Di. Your words are practically magic. They give you an identity. At night, future stories will come to you in dreams. You are the only one who can make you feel safe. I divulge all of the world in my poetry.’ When he put his hands on her body and wrote love poems, loose translations naming the abandonment of body parts. Di was both an adored survivor but she loved to wear disguises. And after all the damages were done Smith said, May all their souls rest in peace’. Forgive me Saint Maybe.
What is there left to salvage? She wears a scarf around her neck. One of my own and now Felicity is an Eskimo princess pure through and through. Our foreignness appears less so now. You can be more bold now indiscreet. Now I live like a cloistered nun. Oh I much prefer it that way. I was dying before but I never had the words for it or the strength to say it when pain conquered everything. Now there is no more cold and no more talking. No more waking and aloof indifference. No more stupid winter London sky. Unstable water, pathetic people sitting on the park benches feeding the ducks.
You’re as frozen as the earth we’re covered in. Your atoms are merely biology, plenty scientific but here is where we say our goodbyes. At the opening of the graves. A kiss for a kingdom. Just a taste. A kiss for the dying but, see, it is far too late for that. It’s salt. Don’t ridicule me. Your behaviour has been far from exemplary. Di found herself locked in an embrace. Safe in the dark. Smith was a poet. Di was a poet with shark teeth. A torso stretched out in the local swimming pool. Daily she would begin a water baptism, a ceremony. There is a writer’s diary in water. The body is an earthworm, and like last chances they search for an intersection.
Once upon a time James, Di and their small daughter Felicity were a family. Then dysfunction ruled the day. James dreamt of his work, Felicity’s legacy. Di in her solitary moments was blue as she braided Felicity’s hair, prepared porridge for the breakfast for the three of them. I have to leave a note was all that Di could think of. I have to put my castles in the air in order. Di was the one who stood over the kitchen sink scratching the grease from the pan that James had fried the bacon in with her fingernails. Every landscape is an image. They have delicious photographs of families, of functions, of get-togethers that Di and James and Felicity was not a part of.
You see in the end I was not so tough sweetie on top of the lake. That list, my recipes keep them hold onto them, save them for the keeper. I’m not a complete hard-hearted fool. Just wounded. I know you’ve been about town and made no secret about it. There are pearls of wisdom. This swarm of words from a summer journal. I threw it into the sea.
Though his Geography teacher taught him all about how the earth spins, he never thought the world would turn on him through his former classmate. Let us keep us his name in fear of public reprisals–
of which he gets every day. Most of the years he was not working but, things went on well for him. It was after Matric when everybody he knew showed their true colours. Right now, he does not know the distinction between good or evil. Satanists want to change the curriculum that everybody is accustomed to in the name of A SECULAR STATE. Yes, our twenty year old democracy possess all of that in the name of Freedom but, Panyaza Lesufi must tread carefully before we have another SCHOOL ZOMBIE CASE. See, apart from a select few fake preachers, there are true healers who only get called upon when the going gets tough, when another man’s child get most feared influenza deadlier than EBOLA VIRUS, the healers get called upon to come exorcise the travelling demons of THE WALKING DEAD. Back to the true story, many men rise after they have fallen out of favour. Not this one. Thus until he get to know the difference between GOD and THE DEVIL.
There is nothing lost in translation when coming home to the mock husband. I am not coping because I am not the doctor. Because I am not the one who is fluent in the doctor’s language no matter how hard I try. How will I be able to benefit from wearing that white laboratory coat, stethoscope around the neck, with that particular bedside manner? Where is my infinite piano? Watch this. Watch this romance. It is clever math, no; it is elegant math with all of its violent alertness under my fingertips. What is the weather like in Los Angeles? What is a winter like in Los Angeles? What will my head say to my heart as I walk on that beach, or breathe in that valid air from that Parisian meadow with my moral compass to navigate me on those open roads, the wide open spaces of the Midwest? What will my limbs say to each other in London if I ever get around to having that London experience forgoing all my responsibilities as a writer and a poet in South Africa? For is not that what I am primarily. A South African writer and poet living in a post-apartheid apocalyptic city. City life as opposed to life in the rural countryside. Searching for greener pastures in the asphalt garden where everything is golden and chameleon-like. I have never wanted the experience of loss. The measure of loss but life has given me that responsibility. Sutures too.
And panic and I have had to thread both against threadbare knuckles. I have covered myself up with an American quilt. It has become my shroud. It has become my cover in other poetry. But I feel it all the time now. The warmth of anxiety. I feel it humming, humming, and humming in my bones. Singing to the leaves on the winter trees. Guests every one. They are like bees. They are a rapturous swarm. What do I know without having a sophisticated culture, a knowledge and education beyond this tidal moon and sun and then I think of the planets. How like the planets I am? I know my place. I know my place so well now that I cannot give it up. And why would I? There will never be a case of mistaken identity. All I will ever know about life is the predictions of Sappho, poetry and writing. And how sometimes how beautifully unpredictable life can be otherwise. There are storms in the dark and we need to speak about the acute pain from those storms in beautiful and wonderful ways. Mostly the image of depression is that of a wild thing. When I am crazy, I know that is when I am most alive. When I am not crazy, when I am most sober is also when I am most alive but I do not know it. All feeling leaves me and I long for the stress of crazy. I long for someone to tell me I am beautiful.
You are mine. The pain of Sarajevo is in my blood. Mingled there in my blood. Staring back at me in my blood and but what can I do but stare back at it? The door was somehow left ajar for me and my heart was bursting. It ready to be split open like a pomegranate. Seeds everywhere like seawater. I found wild oblivion, the safe passage from suffering in those seeds. At first I could not speak of the fantasy that I held in my hands and that my head wished for so ardently. I could not interpret those promised lands that my mocking husband returned from. I needed land and yet I needed to be reborn as well. I needed stress, a tour of the flesh like I needed the back of my hand. I flickered and then I was buried once again amongst the flowers. And with dirt upon my head I soon realised that I was supposed to be the beautiful keeper of the vanished and the unexamined. The apprehended. I do not want to age. To age means to give up your mortality like an artist giving up their brushes. To age means to give up everything. To age means that you are not bold anymore and that you do not have anything to be brave over. It just happens to be in your blood to think these things. Never mind how you try not to. I need to write to you of the quiet courage of our mothers and our grandmothers. So pay attention.
I will not smile because that is not what attracts you to me. Instead it is fire. Instead it is sitting in the school benches once upon a time, breathing lessons, celestial navigation, driftwood, and a forest of winter trees, the force of the night swimmers, the beach and making each one in its exclusivity sound poetic. Sound the most exquisitely poetic. What is the first memory, the first desire, the primitive attraction and separation anxiety of the magnificence of creativity in the origins of the organisation of feminine intelligence in contemporary poetry? Is the proper voice not the voice of the lover, the voice of the child full of jubilant innocence?
The voices of mother and father in unison giving their child their first standing ovation, grandparents in attendance looking on priggishly mere caretakers of the illumined situation? How quickly pasts are mended, futures are healed and mended? Here is the beginning stages of the organisation of the origins of feminine intelligence. She is schooled in thoughts of culture, a masculine wisdom, vision, and educated by an otherness in luminous stream of consciousness thinking, writing. We need to be drenched in both perspective and identity. Our winning power (that which will never cease) lies in trying not to destroy everything that is above us, and that we believe in. Even our failures must inspire us. For the woman who can’t have children her infertility must inspire her to greater heights.
Whatever was taken was the brightness from the air that made up the shine of artistic genius and it was given to me like the besotted Milky Way, the tangled fabric of the stars from the universe at night, the moon and stars inseparable intuits from the beginning of time. Both pulling down the shine of artistic genius a veil as thick as a tapestry. Is the sanity of a female poet as graceful as a shipwreck left to the gracious mercy of being the bride and bridegroom of nature as we think it is? Aren’t we all, aren’t you just a little bit at the mercy of the creativity’s elusive artistry. Its ravishing blues, the breakdown to end all breakdowns, the be all and end all of the nervous breakdowns? Is it just chemical?
Is the sexual impulse, and that drive just the glamourous rub of love, as glamourous as lipstick? Does the female poet promise that it, her words can never be more than that? Sometimes I catch myself saying those words without really meaning to say it, to say them. I try and detach myself from the glowing artful truth of them. Composing stillness, a courageous stillness, the stillness of intelligence, which is a feminine intelligence is poorer for having known the poverty of the world, and spiritual poverty. With all of the perversions that we discover in this world. With the intimacies, braveries, warriors we learn to let go, surrender if you will. We must or how can we live? We are all waiting for gifts. As a reward for futility or to take upon as just another responsibility.
There was a journal full of darkness in this most primitive of landscapes. Where winter promises snow, the harvesting of into the black, of one bleak and desolate landscape after the other the female poet projects herself into the canvas of her work. Her life becomes the poetry. Art mirrors life. Life mirrors art. The reflection of the female poet is a studious, effortless and conscientious project. The female poet only has to be wild and knowledgeable. She is an animal with a gull’s wings and fortitude. She instructs, she corrects, she astonishes, she admonishes and she knows that to live in this world she has to be the swan. She has to swim.
But she must also have the insight of the ugly duckling, the Cinderella phenomenon, the Plath effect. A female poet knows when to sing, when to be mischievous, when to be the swimmer, the bride, give in to the environment, nature and when to love until she can feel it humming in her bones, giving into it through the fabric of her skin. The female poet in love knows when to surrender. The female poet when casting spells knows when to surrender. The words are there for us to go back to like a complicated film of us in a breath-taking way. A female poet does not need the eye of the public to watch her every move to know that she has made a difference in the world. She only needs a child’s all-knowing eyes.
When it comes to rain it always dances like the gestures of imagination, and like the chilled earth in your hand that roses grow from, that fields of grass wrestle with themselves in, trees are not the interlopers but merely angels in another dimension with their branches acting like wings. You can tell yourself that here’s the breakthrough I’ve been looking for. Here’s the book of secrets my heart’s been longing for. And then you will realise that these are all gifts within the hours of your quiet desperation.
And that the vision of the female poet is in full bloom when she stands at the mouth of a river or not. When she’s hungry, whatever the origins of her beauty is, and most especially when she’s gone underground like some animal seeking shelter from the elements. There she stands. Blooming beautifully with her gift. Her poetry is fresh. It is her pound of flesh. It is her Renaissance. Isn’t the ancient dust under her bare feet delectable, hard won although it is a romance that is as good as dead, and she wants evidence of the cities, of life there because she doesn’t think she’ll make it if she’s plain? If she’s ordinary, if her madness is staggeringly ordinary and most of all if her poetry is not useful, pure enough.
Please do not cry too hard, it is not your fault
That I got rid of myself.
Trying too hard to make you proud,
I ignored reality and the commoness of being,
In fear that my being a typical youth
Might raise your brows. At least,
If I was not normal I could have
Been a rebel. But all I seem to be against
Is the intrusion of sunlight on my mornings.
I became a being of little significance
To the world, a wallflower choked by the
Weeds in your little garden.
My dear Jules*, I think you are a beautiful person
But a terrible liar. I think every time
Your husband loved you enough
To feed you, and bathe you and wipe you off;
You wished he didn’t.
You hate that he had to but you should know
You are more than enough of a person
To admit it. And good God you deserve
Ice cream and walking on the beach
And a day to cry! But you will need him for that too.
Darling, he will need your hand for it too.
I just thought someone should tell you. And
That I survived this long thanks to your emails
About the ducks in your garden
And everyone around you’s Alzheimer’s.
To my best friend, the one
Who started to stop liking good music
And Friday nights in:
You can keep the photo collage of our
Time as friends I never took down from
My living room wall
Since I was still able to look at the pictures
And see the happiness and not the
People I depended on for that happiness.
Really, take it! No one has to know
We forgot to know each other lately.
You were always a person of the world
While I could never seem to climb out
Of my own. For a while now
I’ve been my own keeper, burying myself
Alive under memories and nostalgia while
You grew up, I guess.
Anyway, I wish you all the good luck
You can bear and all the bruises on your
Heart it takes you to learn that you’re
Not his saviour and tequila is not yours.
To all the teachers who influenced me
In my short time alive: Because of you
I appreciate Literature but because of you
I appreciate Literature and that’s not
Making me a lot of money or making me too
Many friends. Thank you.
A big ‘fuck you’ to the boy who didn’t get to break my heart.
I wanted so badly to be known by you, to get felt up
And used by you like all the girls around you did.
But you were too busy being the ideal guy
To pay me any mind.
I know I’m partly to blame, I overcompensated
Your gentry and underplayed my interest. Still.
I hope you feel a tinge of guilt when you hear about this.
A special word of thanks to my neighbour,
Who only ever wanted to know how I was,
When his key didn’t
Unlock his front door fast enough.
If you were some nosy little shit,
You might have walked in on me standing in my window
On the 15th floor of our apartment building,
Ready to fall into the night.
You might have been able to stop me.
Finally, to my colleagues:
I will not miss the random
Conversations at tea and at lunch
About bad television series and how much you
Hate the people you love.
When this body wakes up, I will be dead, and glad
To be rid of this miserable person.
Well, I find myself standing at this point, again, staring at my iPhone with exasperation, wondering why he hasn’t called yet, and wondering if I was so wrong to continue straight at the famous end-of-date cross road. No left turn, no right turn, no good night kiss?
Maybe I gave away too much too quickly, those little messages – sent for no particular reason, in between meetings, during lunch, at the gym, everywhere – did they make me come across as being too involved, a little desperate, maybe? But what is desperate about wanting to be loved, especially when you haven’t seen a decent man in ages? The licentious ones are everywhere, heaven forbid, the childish, condescending type of man who perceives a woman as the modern version of a slave, born to mother him, and fulfill all his needs without question.
I admit that it has been a while since I met anyone whose departure has been worth tossing and turning over. Is that why I’m sitting here persecuting myself over this man’s inability to like me back? Ok, so maybe he does fascinate me, yes, that little bit. And maybe he isn’t that bad, not that elevated on the corporate ladder, but he knows how to bring out the little girl in me. Yes, he does. He says very little, but speaks volumes. I liked it the other day, when he spontaneously bought that blue dress at the flea market, and made me swear that I would only wear it when I am feeling beautiful. For the first time I didn’t care that something wasn’t an expensive designer piece. It was the sincerity behind the deed that really spoke to my heart. I want a man like that, who just flows with me, and begs for no approval, because he knows what he is doing.
Maybe it was the way he would call at twelve midnight, wanting to talk about nothing in particular, nothing life changing, then say it’s okay when I cut the call short because I would have an early meeting the next day. Was I too busy, too self-absorbed, too unavailable? Maybe I was too hurried to notice him needing me, in his small, silent ways, trying to find me, but I was too busy needing nothing from him, too busy being independent.
And what happened after the starter arrived, after he mentioned the two daughters that I have never ever heard anything about, until tonight? Ok, so he has never mentioned them before, so what? This was only our first real date. How much must a man say before he has said all that he needs to say? Am I really that allergic to baby and mama drama that I flee at the very first mention of the word baby? And maybe the flat yeahs and ohs, which followed that little event, are the reason why I am going to bed alone tonight. It’s not my fault that my ideal man has no entourage of wailing babies behind him. But then again, what does that have to do with the simple fact that I just adore Bheki, and I love his company, and the way he thinks, and the way he talks with his hands, and the way he just laughs from deep inside?
Can someone please tell me again why I am sitting here, sinking in self-pity while he continues with the rest of the party elsewhere without me? I just don’t see him sulking over me. He is too composed, and too self-sustaining for that. Or maybe I seemed like a self-righteous control freak when I emphasised how critical it is for a man to understand his moral obligation towards his wife and children. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned the word wife, or children. Maybe I came across as being too ripe for the picking, too expectant? Sigh.
Maybe I should have agreed to go over to his place when he asked me. And he did ask with decency, and caution. What did I have to lose anyway? I have stayed over so many times before with guys I didn’t really like anyway, how much more disastrous could this time have been, really? Would he have thought me cheap if I stayed over after our first official date? I don’t know, but that little sad twinkle in his eyes when I said no, said he wouldn’t have.
I am sick of fabulously rich, and boring, James. He will never leave his wife, nor his other mistress… And I am tired of lonely Saturday nights with bottles of expensive wine, used as an anesthetic to the gawking seriousness of my frustrating single-hood. Yes I feel like a hopeless misfit, because even those members of the female populace who are obviously much less appealing than yours truly, seem to somehow get it right with some type of a man. And then the wedding traffic starts, invitation after invitation, cordially asking me to share in bidding someone else’s solitude goodbye.
I feel like crying when I see my friends tear-filled and overwhelmed at the altar. Some of them don’t even love these poor men, for heaven’s sake! I am willing to marry for love. Will it ever be me standing there, all angelic with sparkling eyes, possessed by love, ready to devote myself to that one special man till the end of time? I believe that I have been blessed with reasonably good genes, I will obviously produce very good-looking babies, not to mention my not-so-average IQ. And I think I am tolerable, my irksome mannerisms are nothing an ordinary soccer-crazy man from Soweto or a mining magnate from Dainfern can’t endure. Yet, in spite of it all, here I am. It is a bit awkward, not to mention impossible, for me to find rationale or balance in the idea that I am sitting here alone, frantic and almost in tears, waiting for this (very wonderful I might add…) man to validate me with a little phone call. Sigh.