Heritage Day

Today is my last day

 

I manage to crawl off the bed that ceased to be coupled almost a decade ago

then land in my still relatively tiny bathroom, though my own physique seems to be shrinking by the second now

I look up at my reflection and I realise the purpose of mirrors

There is a headline,

my face

wrinkled and grey beneath its letters seems to unfold like an over ripe flower without ever having been touched

it says;

Heritage Day

I shuffle along until I trip over the now almost dry white board marker and I begin the list:

One: I inherited the dark lines of deceit off my mother’s core

Two: I learned how to live with being a liar

Three: I came as a foreign being full of love

Four: I was denied love but I’m still leaving filled with only those four letters

Five: Life was beautiful though the darkness is always the beginning of a new story

Six: I inherited the art

Seven: I will never forget

 

I rinse myself off and decide that it would be better to leave full of hope

After all

3 months before they expected me I was ready

13 years before I was

they weren’t

my family

 

The wardrobe whispered the call of majesty

I obeyed my longing eyes

past the dioors and my goodbye suit

I found the two letter phrase barely in disguise and I remembered why

Heritage day:

One: I learned how to judge myself better than anyone had ever judged me

Two: It wasn’t always sunny

Three: How to fake the smile through heartache

Four: How to cause the same

Five: My clothes are cheap

Six: I am unworthychocolat_l

Seven: I knew this each time we made eye contact… after all; we are self proclaimed judges

 

So neat, tidy and fresh I walk towards the lonely seat and the non functional tv

and on the top right hand corner of the screen

A phrase in white paint screams out at me

Heritage Day:

One: My skin colour murdered my first love

Two: I inherited the skill of not caring much for those attributes

Three: My father Died of a broken heart

Four: You saved mine

Five: Our life was puzzled together by vibes and muted sentences

Six: In the end, my quirks were irrelevant and your were my indica

Seven: I fell eternally asleep with the very thoughts that days and nights before had always haunted me.

 

Palm on palm now

My eye lids find their space

No tears left in me

My heritage day is eternal

and I only grew to know that the moment I looked into you!

 

 

 

 

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Letters To You…(1)

I am reminded of you no matter what I do.

There are parts of my life that I cannot quite remember, they are usually those which do not include thoughts of your face or voice… I promised you that I would one day tell you the stories of yourself that you have not yet heard…

This is the beginning of those stories although not chronologically at the start; this is the first time that I feel you deeply in a very long time. You press yourself to my chest like a comfortable pillow, impatiently waiting for our contact. The cinema seat cradles me and the pre-film music prepares me and I can almost smell the way the atmosphere smells when you’re close to me.

I remember that life is not unbearable… I think of you and know that you are in my life, you have found me and oh my – you pull me out of the gutter like a magnet designed to lift my heart up – out from under the layers of ‘hell’. Like a quiet whisper which calls me to itself over, and over, and over…2007_11_serendipity

You are my teacher, yet you are unaware of how much I learn; from your silence, your distance and disposition.

I am deciding, that cliché as it may be; I will write… each thought of you and colour as well as I can the squiggles and dots with this pale ink in my grasp.

I will clear my heart out and fill it with the innocence of my feelings… I will purify every dirty speck in my anatomy and mind with the sanctity of our memories, or rather; my memories of you.

I will focus every bit of pink and turn it into black – and blue.

Black… as the night sky of my humble realization that you bring me comfort.

Black… as the space which surrounded us when you touched my hand.

Black as my room, black as the landscape whenever my face lit up the world at the sight of you.

Black as the innocence at the roots  of my core, black as the infinite grandeur of my craving for… blue.

Blue… as the shimmer in your eyes when the same coloured your coat and you’d waltz onto my territory…

Blue… as the morning sky when expecting your return to this continent…

Blue as the dreams while you sleep at night…

Blue as the watch on my wrist, the pen in my hand, the covers of my bed, the clothes that I wear…

Blue as the colour Black chose to remind her of you…

Blue… as a dream come true!

Pre-Noir

I need to create an instance, a circumstance where light is eradicated. What would humanity be if we were to live in darkness?

What would humanity see?

How would you react if you were to suddenly be shown that the core of humanity is actually demonic?

Is it so difficult to understand that darkness is at the core of our natural state of being?

When you close your eyes… you re-generate into a state of darkness. We wake to light – to

live the surface life of flesh and ‘sin’… our fake i.e: carnal-lives are composed of what we term as “light”.

Darkness does not provide for the flesh or the body… even so – some of our most physically gratifying moments stand out in our memories as moments of pleasure under a dark blanket in the arms of someone we love.

Black_4

The blind may not see but they dream as we dream and imagine as we imagine!

Switch your light off and see what happens!

Become still and unfettered.

We need  to be freed from the blinding light in order to win beneath the veil, to fight the battles that many are still unwilling to acknowledge!

What is the use of making love if our souls fail to sing out louder than our physical bodies do?

Where am I going with this?

We all want to be heard or seen, but in reality, all we actually strive for is to connect, to be FELT and RECEIVED instead of rejected. In darkness rejection would be impossible… there you would simply have the magic between souls and the texture of it.

At some point in my life, a sip of Gin could help place a smile back onto my face.

What a paradox…

Loving something as clear and see-through as Gin yet romanticizing the darkness.

The hero of my own literature shall then be named ;

Noir…

Gin Noir!

A Story of A Blue Sun

Just a poem written for someone 🙂 very late one evening!

Blue-Sun-web

Yellow
They said was what made the world red
And red being the color of love… meant that everything yellow
was good for a smile and a dance
But his color was blue
So he thought it true
When the world would tell him he couldn’t

One evening he slowly
headed for home after a long day of shining blue light on the world
he though to himself a miserable thought
that all was lost at bright yellow’s high cost
and about love he completely forgot
With his sad face on his chest
and a torn heart at his breast
he continued to walk on home

Until one day while shinning sadly on us
a stranger figure appeared before him
and she seemed to like his blue light
she told him that one day blue would take yellow away

His heart trembled gently
with wild butterflies in his sight
when she looked at his blue with her eyes
and such a surprise for the color of those eyes were so
shining
and loving
and blue

so since that day
when any man says that yellow is the color of a true sun
he smiles broad and brightly
and holds his love tightly
and he says’
“So?
blue is the color of love”

For K.

Glorious Mistakes (part 2)

Among the 1 800 goths: or should I say the constant of about 600 of them at my bar alone; a small and narrow face peeked at me curiously. His hair was bushy and the animated way in which he carried himself was a little difficult not to notice.

The smoke machines were heavy, ventilation felt almost non-existent and soon I seemed to have run out of oxygen. Meanwhile; across the main floor our neighboring bartender at ‘The Wizard’s Bar’ had just collapsed, however this wasn’t just due to the heat and shortage of air… In his case, slight intoxication was a contributing factor.

That same hobbit-like person came rushing to my bar,then under it and straight to me.

“Hi! My name’s Tristan! I heard that someone had K.O.’ed and had to make sure that it wasn’t you, but I can see that it might be you very soon, so you’re coming with me to get some air!”

So out I went, dodging the angry screams and violent hand gestures of the 600 obviously grumpy goths who now had one of two choices:
1. Wait for me to return
2. Wait at another bar behind at least 300 other goths.
In the end they seemed to have picked the more sensible option; 1.

That was Zeplin’s the way I remember it. Grand, vibey and never short on clientele. The music always amazing, the company never boring – it was the home that so many of us so desperately needed, but above all Zeplin’s brought Tristan into my life.

My dad was never fond of any of my male friends… And upon discovering that I am not very “straight” he seldom liked any of my female friends either so I found his excitement about Tristan in my life inexplicable, especially since he had piercings, painted his nails black and his means of trabsport was a motorcycle. They used to sit on for hours just chatting away about life and love and ambition, dreams, goals and things I had never dared attempt to speak to my dad about.

A day or two without Tristan around was too long for my dad… At times he would ask me to invite him over and I did… Tristan seemed to be just as attached to him, so when the news came to him that my Dad had left our world… He grieved with me…

A few months passed, his gentle way was difficult to resist. His persistence made him strangely attractive and the way he stole my whole family’s heart was extraordinary. He taught me to ride his motorbike, I taught him to DJ and in this way we were constantly doing things we both loved.

I broke his heart in the end… Being unable to change… Knowing that my lifestyle was never a choice, for if I had the ability to simply wake up and decide to want to be with him the way he wanted to be with me – I would have done. I did attempt to make that choice when I said “yes!” to his proposal… Yes the one where the boy gets down on one knee and asks the 4 words that most of us long to hear…

A few months passed before he could speak to me again after we realized that there are just certain things we couldn’t change. But those months went by rather swiftly and soon we began to tread on a new path of friendship. He soon found Chantal and his happiness was infectious…

Alas… A year and a few months after my dad passed… Tristan did too. In among my tears I smiled a lot, knowing that soon the two boys (my dad and him) will probably be chatting away again just where they had left off.

This post is to him and to my dad and to Zeplin’s… Neither of them exist in this reality anymore, but in my mind they will always be there… The smiling faces… The warm embraces… The grandeur and atmosphere of home… The man who understood my love for Zeplin’s and who fell in love with the personality of the boy I miss so terribly this morning.

I would say I am sorry for the mistakes I made in my life… But considering the joy they brought with them… No…

They were glorious…glorious mistakes.
They were mistakes that now give me hope for the love I know I seek… Unconditional, gentle, innocent.

Perhaps he was it?

But I’ve been visitted in my dreams by him many a time since then and he keeps convincing me otherwise.

So here’s to you Tris!

To us…

To you if you are reading this and to the glorious mistakes we’ve yet to make!

Glorious Mistakes

My Dad was an awesome man. He was soft and understanding, but when it came to certain things he could be the military style parent. There were many speeches, I remember each of them and they have shaped the person I am today.

Not long ago I was asked to sell myself to someone and I didn’t know how… I had no idea of what my selling points were. The past while I went into hibernation, just to catch a breath and refrain from losing my mind completely – it was during this time that I thought about what it was that actually kept me from being able to step back, look at myself objectively and say, “this is what I am good at…”

I have spent a mere 22 years in the vortex of the living dead. Not presuming to know much more than the average 22-year-old female, my experience has taught me that people don’t really care about other people’s problems unless they are either family or really close friends. This is where this page fits into the scheme of things. As humans we will have our ups, our downs and perhaps our moments of stillness… But at the end of it all; we seek to find the happy ending to every sad story so that we may be able to hold on tightly, with hopefully and extra fill of faith.

I would like to share a story with you today. A story that is personal but worth hearing methinks…

To remove conflict of understanding… I have not always been dating women… And although this story takes place years after my coming out… I am still me… perhaps just a little dusted off and polished…anyhow;

The CBD of Pretoria (SA) was home to the greatest alternative club in Southern Africa. ‘Zeplin’s’ was a two-story building with 8 bars and 5 dance floors all within the genres and sub-genres of the alternative and goth scene. Just before my 18th birthday I was lucky enough to start working there. It was a dream come true. The neon paintings, the grandeur and old architecture, the friendly smiles and almost completely victorian sense of fashion along with the music that spoke in a thousand different ways to my soul – they all contributed to the home that Zeplin’s was and still is as I reminisce…

My Dad walked with me to my first day of work at Zeplin’s so that he could meet the people who would be in charge of me and to decide whether or not he really was going to let me work there . Now keep in mind that not many a parent will smile broadly upon walking in to a double story place filled with extravagant Goths and black walls.

All in all however; being as awesome as he was – my dad looked past the stretchers, piercings and tattoos… He ignored the heavy make-up and the black clothes, he walked me out and said that he believes this will be more than a home for me. I was proud then… I was proud of him and I was proud of me for being from him.

A week later I had moved up from bar-tending the quietest bar in the entire place which at that point was the ‘inferno’ bar to one of the 3 main bars… My first shift on the bar was scheduled for – Halloween 2008…

1 800 Goths later…

… To be continued

Nil Sa Saol

24/01/12 20:24

 Dear diary

‘I saw the gap again today, while you were begging me to stay….take care not to make me enter because if I do, we both may disappear’

There is no love in fear

My biggest fear is fear itself. Anger is not only an emotion but an anchor; an ointment to still the throbbing of our wounds. This tourniquet absorbs fear like a supplement and thus it grows and rules leaving no space for reason or compassion, yet it is passionate and loving.

We’ve fought many battles… It is a struggle as the self breathes down my neck hoping that I may slip up and give her gap to surface again. I can never merge with that self if I am to fulfill my curious purpose.

15/07/1994

Dear Diary

‘I will choke until I swallow… choke this infant here before me. What is this but my reflection? Who am I to judge or strike you down?’

There is no love in fear

There is no escaping the monsters although I’m not entirely sure that they are real. Toys are extras in this thriller of incapability. Strawberry is my doll; I hold her face right next to my own then turn to look into my mother’s mirror. Strawberry’s face is vibrant and bright next to my own dull reflection. Through the mirror I see how small I am compared to the vast space filled with scattered furniture… it’s been so long and she still hasn’t called, my own mother doesn’t want me. I smothered her with all my love so she left, to teach me a lesson, so that I may know anger and resentment.

It distorts; the face that used to smile is dark, my eyebrows clamp together and a tear rolls down my cheek. This chest starts throbbing and my throat is tight and lumpy, mimicking my fantasy as I seek the strength to choke this reflection to death. I know anger so where is she?

In my mind I smell her perfume; she reaches out, touches my face and the anger subsides.

She may be gone but I am hers and therefore I must take care of this girl and overcome the longing to hate, judge and hurt her petite infant.

But you’re pushing and shoving me.

You still love me, and you push it on me.’

“Gin!”

No! It can’t be.

This was it?

“Gin, honey? Mommy’s home!”

I am stumped and my throat tightens some more. In a split second the self takes over with an emotionless expression.

“Aww sweetie! Come here, mommy’s home now and she isn’t going anywhere.”

Most little minds would be thrilled, happy, crying. I want her to get away, to stop touching and smothering me, I have so many questions…

“Say something baby, come on… mommy’s missed you she loves you so much. Hug me now will you?”

She clutches onto my clothes and pulls me, she pushes me.

(At that instant I knew; I knew what fake smiles looked like… I knew how to lie!)

“It’s ok mommy!”

The anger burns through my veins as I slowly get closer to her with a hug.

“That’s ok mommy, I love you too!”

11/04/2009

Dear Diary

‘Rest your trigger on my finger

Bang my head upon the fault line.

Take care not to make me enter,

‘Cause if I do, we both may disappear.’

There is no love in fear

Memories are the music videos of our past, only the instrument that triggers them is not a remote, no one hears your mind slipping way back as the faint smell of humidity fused with medicine kills your perception of time. It thrusts you right back into the arms of that dark, daunting space of yourself as your half grown hands shove at your Dad’s lifeless body for the last time; the smell takes me right back to when I stood there not even wanting to hold her back… I needed her darkness and anger; I needed not to feel pain. It was an easy goodbye, no tears… only that invisible rope around my throat. I don’t remember the last time I told him that I love him, but he knows now…I really hope he does.

‘Slipping back into the gap again, I’m alive when you’re touching me…

Alive when you’re shoving me down.’

My pillar faded with the sunset today, he lay as obedient as I had ever seen him in the ambulance as they drove off. The night brought with it the comfort of the arms I had longed for. I look for anger, I turn my heart inside out to try and bring it out, but her hands soothe and nurture, and for this moment she loves me again. I can’t breathe as she suffocates me with the arms of peace and the breath of mist, she responds to my body and I am willing to gasp just like this for as long as I live.

‘But I’d trade it all for just a little bit of peace of mind’

Hers are the eyes I look into as I force my own to open up. Our love remains nothing but a stolen moment as she sits up and calls me ‘friend’. There will be no peace now in my mind or in my heart so the two of me rise and walk away.

26/02/2011

Dear Diary

‘Put me somewhere I don’t want to be;

Seeing someplace I don’t want to see;

Never want to see that place again…’

There is no love in fear

There are shadows along the wall and they seem almost synchronized. I recognize them and I move along knowing that one of them is mine. I close my eyes and I go back into the forest where the ‘Jedi’ mind pulls me out from the tombs of ‘Krom’*. My body feels pleasure while my spirit cries and I am afraid to stay in the forest, afraid to taint the purity I found. Self registers spirit and recognizes the undeniable bond between fog, magic, love and fear. Reality is hot, wet and dirty, oh but now I know… concrete, ancient truth.

‘If when; I say I may fade like a sigh if I stay, you minimize it anyway then; I must persuade you another way.’

A woman’s silence says much according to her circumstance. Shakespeare is resurrected through the movement of my lips while the self attempts to choke and kill contentment. I see the gap I have left and I know the war is inevitable just as I realize that this battle will be the last regardless of the outcome.

24/01/12 23:59

 Dear Diary

 

‘Staring down the hole again

Hands upon my back again

Survival is my only friend

Terrified of what may come’

There is no love in fear

Education is the artillery with a lifetime guarantee and language is the indestructible force barging bravely through borders, barriers and between cultures, enabling a leniency towards others and their spirituality or the lack thereof. The old self turns her back to me, and the new self synchronizes with the movements of the old. Fear is now a polka dot skirt around the two, walking hand in hand with certainty.

A rainbow is most prominent in the act of letting go, of coming to terms with one’s own heart which loves, hates and sins even in purity…until the colours mix to create our own shade of grey.

‘Just remember I will always love you; even as I tear your throat away, but it will end no other way’

 

Darkness is the product of light when light willingly goes back to sleep in order to heighten the appreciation for both in amongst all living things.

You must go where I cannot,
Pangur Ban, Pangur Ban,
Nil sa saol seo ach ceo,
Is ni bheimid beo,
ach seal beag gearr.
Pangur Ban Pangur Ban,
Nil sa saol seo ach ceo,
Is ni bheimid beo,
ach seal beag gearr.
  – **

Life is mist. Life cannot be without a beating heart, yet mist cannot be without fear, just as a heart cannot beat without love.

 

*Krom – ref: Irish Myhology
 
** Aisling’s Song – http://thesecretofkells.wikia.com/wiki/Aisling’s_Song
 
Ref: Tool – Pushit (Salival 2000) lyrics

Inspiring Hopeless

By Nimue Brown

Hopeless Maine, for anyone who hasn’t encountered it, is the island setting of a graphic novel series. www.hopelessmaine.com It’s dark, full of strange magic and peculiar creatures. Iva asked me to blog about what inspired it.

Tom always likes to claim joint ownership, but really speaking, this is his island. I just came along and filled in a few details, worked out a few explanations, that sort of thing. Mostly it doesn’t feel like making something up, it feels like a real place that sends me postcards now and then. In the beginning, Hopeless was a peninsula, not an island. I’m not sure when it changed. The gothic gloom, the fog, the creatures, are like a dark mirror reflection of how Maine is. There are a fair few horror writers from Maine – Stephen King most notably, and Tom’s explanation is that it is a creepy sort of place, and this is just a natural reaction to it. Having flown over Casco Bay and seen the islands, and a lighthouse that looks a lot like ours, I have a keen sense of a magical, mysterious landscape, a bit alien to me, very remote.

There is another strand in the creation of Hopeless though, and that’s my landscape. Back when Tom was on one side of the Atlantic and me the other, I’d sometimes help by looking out visual references for him. He’d ask what a space might look like, and I’d make suggestions. About the worst thing you can hear as a creative person is ‘oh, do what you like!’ Some kind of focus or direction is always helpful. I used to send Tom images from the town I grew up in – Dursley. The same Dursley that inspired a certain muggle family for a certain wizarding boy, as it happens. Hopeless Maine, as a consequence, is a strange amalgam of actual Maine, the English Cotswolds and the things we found in our heads.

Much of it comes out of playing with each other. One of us does a thing, and the other picks that up and does something to it, and passes it back. By this means creatures, landscapes and stories evolve. Tom drew some ruins, I had to figure out who built them, new stories resulted. It’s a very chaotic, organic sort of process.

These days, I will confess, we do a lot of our most creative thinking work in bed. Our life is quite tough physically, some days we fall into the duvet so wiped that we can’t move. When I get that tired – and this is probably true of other people too – things happen to my brain. Tom calls it ‘being punchy’ but correlations form where no logical connections should be made, and all kinds of ideas flow. Lying in the darkness, we ask what if? And why? And could you put goggles on it? Most of what we talk up in those strange, semi-comatose conversations never sees the light of day, but every now and then an idea turns out to be strong enough to survive the light of the following day, and some have enough legs to clamber out of our heads and get themselves established in the world.

I have a fantasy about getting together a few of my favourite creative people for something a bit like a sleepover. Professor Elemental, Edrie Edrie, and Dr Geof are high on my current wish list, and then, pyjamas, and pillows and barely awake conversations. I think the consequences would be wild!

In terms of themes and ideas underpinning Hopeless (to get back on topic), those are very much shared. We wanted to explore what effect apathy and little acts of carelessness and unkindness have. Most evils are not very big, after all, and the larger ones are often made out of the little ones, slowly escalating towards a banal, complacent kind of horror. The normalising of cruelty and indifference, the rationalising of hate are all things that I want to explore and challenge. We knew from the start that we wanted a heroic tale that was not like superhero tales at all, and that hangs on the characters. Salamandra does have magical powers, but she doesn’t really have any drive, or ambition, she’s just muddling along. As the story unfolds, it’s the non-magical Owen with his overwhelming desire to make things better, who really drives the action. That’s important to me. All the magic in the world, is of no use at all if you aren’t using it. All the talent, skill and genius imaginable are of no use if you have no sense of direction, no ambition.

We also wanted to tell a good story, that would entertain people, and hopefully inspire others a bit. That’s one of the functions of it all being a bit grim. The darker the night, the brighter the stars shine, and the descent into darkness is often a quest to find light. It’s very hard to make sense of anything without seeing the contrasts, and so Hopeless, is very much a story about hope, in a roundabout sort of way.

Finding Nimue

There are not many things that inspire me actually. This means that every time I find something that does seem to stimulate the creative flow, I tend to keep it as closely as I possibly can. Among the chaos I am lucky enough to stumble upon something really great and worthwhile along the way.

All in all however art is the pinnacle of most of the individuals who inspire me, be  it the art of writing, of singing, drawing, painting, loving or teaching… after all there are so many different forms of art. I believe that everything we do could be seen as a form of art, I am quite sure I’ve mentioned this before. My creativity is still at its worst, but the aim of this blog is to give thanks to those who had inspired me enough to start with Born For Copper just a few months back.

Thinking about all the inspiration that was simply just transferred from a few images and words, a part of me feels rather guilty about the fact that I allowed for a silly dream to devour it all. I am currently reading a fantasy novel called ‘Lord Foul’s Bane’ and it is written by a great man whose name is Stephen Donladson. Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever is the main character and part of why it is taking me so long to finish this book is because I see so much of myself in him… his hate for himself, the anger, the weakness… and once he is thrown into a better world where things are mainly simple and magical, he decides that none of it is real, that he is dreaming and that at any moment now he might wake up to find himself, back in his abandoned house, having to live in constant fear of his leprosy. Waking up and realizing that the white gold ring on his finger no longer represents the ‘Wild Magic’ with which he could save the world, that its power has disappeared and the painful memory of his wife walking out on him returns.

I came across Nimue Brown’s Druid Life blog page one day as I was trying to broaden my knowledge on Druidry. Frankly I had never been a blog reader but something about it grasped me and I found myself unable to stop reading, and with every word I read a certain feeling of contentment and gratitude seemed to soothe my  strained spirit. My curiosity sparked friendly correspondence and soon after that I discovered Nimue and Tom Brown’s Hopeless Maine… So far I do not recall having been more excited about the release of anything as much as I am about this one. If you’re a part of my friend group in SA, you’d have heard all about it, but since SA does not include the rest of the world I thought it might be good to ask Nimue Brown if she would be kind enough to provide us curious souls with more info on Hopeless Maine and what inspired it. She has been awesome enough to go with it so I am very excited about the next post! Really! I am!

Those were my main sources of inspiration, I felt like Covenant does in the Land… now I feel like I have been shaken out of that world and placed right back into my own… this world where nothing is magical or inspiring, just tiresome.

Although lately… my head’s been in the clouds I still feel dead to my words.

So if the next blog seems way more grammatically correct and interesting, it’s because it isn’t mine but Nimue’s.

This is all for today though…

I’m desperately working on my writing problems, I do apologize and thanks for reading!