Questions for Inequality

Questions for Inequality

The above link takes you to a submission, written by me, for the online magazine, ITCH.

Read and enjoy, comment if you must.

White Lies

    by Stanley Motjuwadi


Humming Maggie.
Hit by a virus,
the Caucasian Craze,
sees horror in the mirror
Frantic and dutifully
she corrodes a sooty face,
braves a hot iron comb
on a shrubby scalp;
I look on.


I know pure white,
a white heart,
white, peace, ultimate virtue.
Angels are white
angels are good.
Me I'm black,
black as sin stuffed in a snuff-tin.
Lord, I've been brainwhitewashed.


But for Heaven's sake God,
just let me be,
Under cover of my darkness
let me crusade.
On a canvas stretching from here
to Dallas, Memphis, Belsen, Golgotha,
I'll daub a white devil.
Let me teach black truth.
That dark clouds aren't a sign of doom,
but hope.  Rain.  Life.
Let me unleash a volty bolt of black,
so all around may know right.
________


Upon reading this piece line for line it's easy to detect the essence of what the writer is conveying.  Simply put: that he wants to re-teach the old stereotype that has been ingrained in our minds and hearts that white is pure and black represents everything that is not.  Lies poignantly built up to the crescendo of declaration of truth in the last stanza.
He entices us with a story-telling verse in the first stanza, of Maggie.  We all know Maggie.  She's the woman who has taken to assimilating to the white aesthetic that has become the universal imprint for what belies beauty.  Maggie doesn't enjoy her own image, as she sits before the mirror - she prods and adds to her to change that image, to look more (white) beautiful.  Stanley does little as this is played out before him, except look on in disdain and perhaps, overcome with an unplaced sadness that will not allow him to say anything.
Stanley speaks for every one who is cast under this shadow of their blackness being ill-defined; who wishes to restore the dignity of a self that fights the daily battles of notions that are hard to die, to re-establish all of that and for the world to see the beauty that lies in darkness too.  To tame, re-take, and to reclaim it all.  
F. Fanon makes mention of this conditioned evil too, in Black Skin, White Masks (I mention this book a wholly lot, because it is the truth) - it's that inherent burden that every black-wearing skinned person wants to shed.  Trayvon Martin took this burden to his grave with a shot to the chest, only because he was wearing black skin.  So, maybe we should add Florida to Stanley's line of, "On a canvas stretching from here to Dallas, Memphis, Belsen, Golgotha, I'll daub a white devil."  And, some would argue Spar too, in the light of Jessica Leandra's racial slurs spewed at a black-skinned man who might not have been "a sign of doom" as she had feared.


This is a brief, surface interpretation of this text and I'm hoping that with the traces I've just laid out you will re-read the poem and make your own findings and draw ideological nuances from it - and perhaps, share them with me.

Wrote this to 'Fix You' by Coldplay

Just played the song and pen and paper happened...


When you try your best, but that smile summoned from a deep-seated place within is all that lays on the surface.  You're wearing your best one, dressed up and ready to cheer up those around you with what's really an empty, feigned happiness.  When your eyes are stinging from shedding so many tears and from your soul receiving no rest.  Because, even when you're tired, so tired that all you want to do is lay your head down, to sleep, but you can not.  And your body pains and it's weary, your mind is lacklustre and your speech is forced.
You need fixing.
When you don't want to tread around your words and build up metaphors to get them to comprehend your plight and you choose to rather be quiet, to be still about it.  Anxiety is building up in your bloodstream, like iron, and you feel it in climbing into your bones, it's escalating, reaching a crescendo until it collapses to a melancholic state - something they'd call 'depression' in some far away clinic.  You've learnt to deal with these bouts of overwhelming underwhelming feelings, they're familiar to you now, natural, they're all part of the package.
When you've got the support of dear loved ones but still, in the trenches of your being, it's not enough.
You need fixing.
When new friends awkwardly fumble about when they learn about your humanness.  When they assume a tequila shot or many lined up will resolve the unsettling in the pit of your stomach and all you can do is spew its contents from your gut when it fails, again, to solve anything.  When you know about and know of others, many others, who are walking the same, winding and dusty roads as you - you realise the prevalence of it all.  What has befallen us?  Tears stain our faces.  It could be worse.  We could be apathetic.

"Nothing common...

about this mountain and concrete agreement/ You seem to know me well, but not well enough to dodge the awkwardness/ I sometimes find myself scratching at dirty surfaces to understand this a little better/ But then I always come up with my palms empty and desolate and/ More vagueness than before because then, it seems we've started all over again/ Back to when we knew nothing at all about life and the philosophies beckoning at our front doors..."


---Poetry, from a recent free-write

Wisdom via The Richest Man in Babylon

A quaint little book, words largely printed and thinly bound – easy to read, quick to finish but vast amounts of lessons to be absorbed.  This is not a review courtesy of me and my blog, just my willingness to impart with you some of the very basic insight from George Clason's work.
I've been passing along the book to the people in my life, whether they would away with more sense and purpose for their cents, is their doing.  I'm always eager to share what I learn and know – Maya Angelou says, "What you learn, teach" – but there's only so much I can do on my part.
Continue reading and prosper your thinking:

• Firstly, know that wealth is a power that – many things are possible with it.
• Save and let your savings earn more for you – this is a very basic rule, overlooked especially with my generation where instant gratification is king.
• You will fail at business endeavours & investments but try again.  Remain determined.
• Something that encompasses all aspects of life: opportunity wastes no time – set a task and see it through.
• Again. Save.

The read's humorous and nothing droned with business and economics jargon.  If you don't aspire to be some corporation's bitch for all your life (that may not appear in the book and are my sole views) you'd find it it fruitful.

• Build your own fortune.
• If that latest gadget is not an emergency, put if off until you're able to afford it without having to incur debt.
• Budget.  I'm a dismal failure at this.

There's a lot said on investing.  What it basically boils down to is that one should make provision for the future.

• Put more interest in your work, concentrate upon your task and put more persistence in your efforts.  And that goes for whatever you do.
• You won't get rich by gambling.
• When lending/borrowing ascertain that the purpose is wise and the ambition honourable.
• Better a little caution than a great regret.  Another of my miserable failures, I'm prone to impulsive extravagance which I later rue but this is not about me, so...
• Your debts are your enemies, pay them don't avoid them.

There are many more tales and wise words, get yourself acquainted!

If that's not possible I hope that what I have summarised here will be to your benefit somewhat.

Take care... 

of your money.

All that I've read

In the past few weeks I've read three books, the first one: Coincidences, Chaos, and All That Math Jazz by Edward B. Burger and Michael Starbird.  Now, this is not a book for finding the answers to the countless mathematical equations out there - but it is a tidy, put-together book relating real life instances to maths; and all that we were not taught in class.  Quite fascinating really, to discover how mathematics flourishes in nature and sadly, how we are not aware of its beauty.
No maths jargon, no incomprehensible ideas, no cryptic symbols, just the artistic pursuit of mathematics.  I quite enjoyed it and almost anybody would, you don't even have to like numbers to  appreciate all that this book contains, only intuition and being able to relate to reality.  
The authors wrote in a light tone and made use of humorous nuances.  There is an abundance of math trivia too, the origins of the many questions that exist in the math world and its human history.
To loosely sum it up: There is a story ready to unfold whenever we look at something, and pay it close attention in the intense light of focused simplicity.

Then, I read Oprah by Kitty Kelley.  I must say I was reluctant to because I've read about it, heard about it, and developed an indifference to it.  Also, I'm not a fan of biographies, they just lack the intimacy that comes with reading an autobiography scripted by the protagonist him/herself.  Biographies tend to be cold, distant and too factual, no real story-telling and when I look for a book to read I search for qualities to the opposite effect of those.  In any case, I read it.
Kelley's foreword already had me sucking air through my teeth in short timely intervals, breathing in the scepticism.  It's an unauthorised biography, which means that it is written without the subject's cooperation or control but completed by using various sources; related or unrelated to the subject.  People have always been in a hurry to sprinkle dust over Oprah's name, she's been fighting that battle since I can remember watching her show and following her career.  So my expectations as to what was to follow had already been tainted.  Some parts I enjoyed, the bits I never knew about; other times I felt that I was reading a bunch of ramblings.  It's an interesting take and Kelley is a renowned best-seller of this genre (unauthorised biography), and you can tell why, the book is the compilation of a vast amount of history and notes.  She has been quoted as saying that her writing is about "moving an icon out of the moonlight and into the sunlight." 
In a short summary the book sums up this about Ms Oprah Winfrey: "Sometimes generous, magnanimous, and deeply caring.  Sometimes petty, small-minded, and self-centred."


And then, The Color Purple by Alice Walker.  You know, when something is entirely too good for any words?  Well, this is it.  The story is narrated through letters written by one character.  I am not going to give away much, because you should get it yourself to read, you'll thank me after.  The narrator's English is poor, she isn't schooled plus it's written in the Southern American tone - a little difficulty grasping it at first but you soon get a hang of it.
Alice wrote the story in wonderful depictions of human sacrifice, compassion, empathy and apathy, the roles of loved ones in your life and the lack and loss of them too, negligence and abandonment; she touches eloquently on the subjects of God, the bible, religion, African History and so much more.  It ends on a note of reconciliation, forgiveness, mediation, understanding, love, caring and personal development and growth of the characters.  A heart-rending story that tugged at my heart strings, I found my eyes filling at the brim with warm tears every-so-often.
I love how poignantly educative this novel is, people have a tendency to dismiss novels as wishy-washy stuff but most of the ones I've read have been filled with an abundance of knowledge and not too mention literary beauty.  I will forever regard The Color Purple in high-esteem, I'm a fond reader of Alice Walker's poetry and short prose - this would be my first novel of hers that I've read and certainly not the only.


Currently, am reading Iyanla Vanzant's Peace from Broken Pieces, I've only just started so there's not much to elaborate upon - although, I can say that some of what I've read resonates and I will probably finish it with more terms in hand to express life's throes.

An Evening with Josh Groban

The arena is filling up, we're all giving our watches or phone clocks glimpses in between two second intervals, we look to the stage, find nothing there and then exhale the anticipation.

For a split second I let my thoughts wander, so when the lights drew dim and the crowd in some parts of the Superbowl started cheering and chanting, I was still lost to another place - then I saw him stroll across the stage, passing his band and orchestra and taking a seat at the piano.  He didn't even give me a chance to gain my composure, and he began to sing his heart away.

Josh Groban has engraved his mark, I will probably for a long time coming associate the 27th November with his concert.  It was spectacular in a way that exceeded all my expectations.  I really don't want to use superfluous adjectives and expressions to describe it.  But I will say that when he mentioned that it wouldn't take him another five years to come to South Africa to perform for us again, I instantly knew that I would do it all over again.

The thing about him that made everything all the more endearing and sentimental was how well he incorporated us, the audience, into his show.  He appeared nothing less than natural and almost had us fooled that we all knew each other on a personal level.  He is witty and has a charming sense of humour about him, when he wasn't singing we were laughing.  Yeah, he had the ladies wrapped firmly around his little finger.  We didn't mind that position either.

The songs that stood out for me through the late afternoon/early evening, what-have-you hours, were You Are Loved (Don't Give Up) from the Awake album and Higher Window from the Illuminations compilation.  Oh, and Alejate, it had the room reverberating.  Now, that is not to say his other offerings fell short - the show was thoroughly amazing and every song he performed stood stellar in its own right.  Lullaby and Weeping performed with the Soweto Gospel Choir impressed the South African audience, naturally.  February Song and Mi Mancherai were standouts too, and I have to add You Raise Me Up - it was the sing-a-long song, after all.

The short narrations in between his songs are really something you had to be there for to have experienced and to have established that connection he has with his music and to live it with him.  I had many overwhelming goosebumps moments,  and I tried videotaping bits and pieces, here and there, of poor quality via my smartphone (which I'm afraid to post here without any rights).  So those are the crumbs of memories I'd have taken with me from the concert.

According to him, a fan from the previous night's concert was a little "angry with him" for not performing Vincent, so thanks to her, we were the lucky bunch graced with that performance, which was b-e-a-u-tiful.  Broken Vow grabbed hold of everyone's breath too, and you could hear the collective sighs at the end of that last note.  It was sublime.  A surprise for me was how much I enjoyed Machine, a song I almost never listen to.  He did a solo drum set piece, accompanied by his percussionist, now that was hot!  You could almost hear the droplets of sexy hitting the stage floor as he oozed such appeal, it was that palpable. It was an enticing variation from his sitting at the piano, that's for sure.

He ended the evening with two encore pieces (Yay! again for us,) Smile was the finisher - we bid our farewells, exchanged some love and Josh's time with us was over.  Bittersweet.  Sweet, that I would never forget the experience, bitter because it felt like it ended too soon - but how could I hold on to that feeling, when his parting lyrics soothed me with, 'Light up your face with gladness/ Hide every trace of sadness.'

Well, xthank you (that's how he said 'thank you' to us in Xhosa.... Oh, the laughs!) Josh Groban, for an amazing show.

Writing poetry

I write poetry, I've mentioned this before.  I have been writing since that moment when it dawned upon me that certain words put together form structures that sound lyrical.  I also learned, that by putting into the words the feelings I felt and I held onto that.  I must have been a decade old or so when I first started, I'd write to my family, put them in letters to my friends - those are the ways I continued to nurture this art.  Some years I'd write less than others, but anyways this is not about then.  I'd like to share with you what I did this morning.  It's roughly written, but that's what I want to show to you, my unpolished thoughts.

Here goes, it is quite long so I'll only be posting bits and pieces of it, the ellipses indicates the omitted parts.  I'll post the whole things once I've cleaned it up:

There comes a time

When you dust away the old for the novel

The old truths

In your back pocket

You sit upon them in deserted places

Where in dark alleys aged men greet you

They were never married

( ... )

And the wisdom you've picked up along the road

Cradled them in your arms

Like gathering leaves after autumn’s fall

You place them in between pages and close the book

For the next generation to find the golden promise

There comes a time

When everything you imagined important

Has slowly dissipated and dispersed into nothingness

You’re searching for it but your memory holds no recollection

( ... )

There comes a time

When you want to sweep across the horizons

And breathe in the goodness of the river’s mist

And to catch the fragrance of the rotten flowers in your throat

Where you speak of blossoming into whatever life purposed you to

You want to swing in the open air where rain travels

 And the winds dance their way to and fro

( ... )

You have taken the decision to cease the trite

And pursue the more urgent and the apt

You take scripts from the predecessor’s mistakes

And note them down to remind yourself –

And to push yourself relentlessly because you are capable

There comes a time

( ... )

 There comes a time

When your feet are sore and they are bruised

From worthless heartaches and meaningless lessons in love

You’re tired from being out of breath

Chasing him to assure you

That tomorrow he’ll come by again

To validate to you about a love that will sustain you

You’ve pushed through the pebbled roads

And dusty fields as he keeps moving ahead

You’ve chased him down and he still wouldn’t stand for you

You make lists out of excuses that excuses him of his mistreating you

Trying to convince everybody else that he’s not that bad a guy

Even though you’re tired of telling yourself the same silly lie

( ... )

the rock at your gate

Put there by a kid, innocent and explorative, destined to one day too

Reach the wisdom you’re at now

He will learn too that happiness cannot be planted in somebody else’s garden

That the seed is within and only he can nurture its potential

There will come a time ...

© Lucinda de Leeuw 2011

"What if nothing exists and we’re all in somebody’s dream?"
—
Woody Allen

Strange.  I always think this -- we are insignificant manifestations in a vast universe.  A universe that could easily belong to a dream of some person somewhere far and away.  We are dust, we are ash, but we are also the greatest determinants of energy.  Energies that go on infinitely and energies that sustains, and creates life.
I am always seeking the answers or at the very least plausible explanations, nothing really ever suffices but to know a little more keeps my belly, temporarily, warm.

I am November's child

And even though I’m not for getting over-excited for my birthday, I do hold the month and day very dear.  I feel that November children are a different kind of special and that sentimentality runs deep, therefore, I will pen a piece of poetry in honour of us all.  Hopefully, I won’t procrastinate it until November’s over.

And, for more splendour in November, I’ll be seeing Josh Groban live the 27th, I can hardly breathe from all the anticipation.