tonight i reckon we rob a bank

This here's Miss Bonnie Parker. I'm Clyde Barrow. We rob banks.

what do you say bonnie?

sweet child o' mine

don't expect him to marry you just because he says he'll never leave you.

















you cannot always believe with gasping faith that someone will stick around for good. most of the time they don't. and then you cannot live.


things start spinning and you feel like you could have fallen, but your feet not touched the ground. chasmic spaces and a headrush. the electric touch.

the Fear takes your breath, just like he did. censorship, dumbness, heart-racing, recoil.

so wouldn't it be better, then, for all of us to be cynics?

don't care what my hair looks like

...or what the fuck my reputation looks like either.

crumbling brick and mortar

the truth is that i do care what she thinks.

i don't mean to play the victim or the bad guy, even.
the truth is that it hurts when they criticize me. they always seem to notice when i can't do anything right. they say it too. mostly they mean it. sometimes i'm not sure what they say and mean, and what they say just out of anger. i take most of it to heart anyway, just to be safe. it's not safe though, this business of taking things to heart, because often it just means that you get yourself into trouble. i am chastised again and again. the hurling of resentment clouds our interactions. the television drowns out the arguments over dinner. the dishes go unwashed.

they are alien to me. i have become alien to them.

i can do no charities in this house. if i ever did it'd never be enough. i am never enough.

we are all aliens under this roof.

no more than mere innocence

do you wanna come and play in my tree house? usually it's no girls allowed, but i like you a lot and think you're swell.

bonnie & the drag nun

art as performance is pretty much an extension of 'happenings' in everyday life. it may be a suicidal accountant telephoning his bank to cancel his credit cards before throwing himself off the brooklyn bridge at noon. it may be a zombie flash mob in the streets of new york city. even a man being shot in the left arm with a rifle by a friend standing 15 feet away, just like Chris Burden did in 1971. some people will go to great lengths to make a statement, even if it means blood, tears and civil suits.

so, anyway, new york city isn't the only place where weird shit happens. keep your eyes peeled as potato skins and you may see something you weren't supposed to see. or, most likely, something you thought you saw and weren't sure and had to look twice.

walking on long street on friday night i noticed a nun dressed in drag. a man, dressed as a catholic nun, conversing with the bouncers outside some club. i wondered what she was doing so far from the convent, bearded, and resplendid in a habit and veil, showing no signs of obediance, chastity or sacrement. i thought this was pretty funny. perhaps i should name her sister frank benedictine and make up a story.

Scene:

what you doing dressed like that?

dressed like what? a woman?

a nun. you're dressed like a nun.

so i am. it's because i am one.

what do you mean? you can't possibly be a nun. you're a man.

no. i am a nun.

you are a man dressed as one. that doesn't make you a woman, or a nun.

it makes me what i says i am.

you have a beard. and you are drinking bourbon straight from the bottle. you are a man, a drunken one at that, and dressed like a woman, who thinks she's a nun. nuns don't drink bourbon.

they don't, eh? i tell you girl, all nuns drink bourbon. just not in public they don't. but i can promise you that they'da done it long before i ever did.

barbara

zapiro does it again

whoever said evolution is a phony didn't consider south african politics.

a home i can compare

it's been a while since europe. i miss it. home doesn't quite compare.



clyde and i went to greenmarket on friday night to a place on the square for some music. i was surprised to find it relatively unpretentious (for cape town) and pretty well-turned out, even though the clientele were mostly one small seedlings who had nice hair, or a hat, and shiny pockets.


the square is pretty at night. there's a church, like the ones in france, and cobbly stones. only because it's africa you can smell bergie piss. haha. but besides that, i found it charming.

one day when i am back in europe i will be home, home i can compare.

i guess i just want to feel at home in myself. maybe craving europe is my running away from reality. reality sucks. i want paris.

a song by the doors, with chords.


People are strange when you're a stranger
Faces look ugly when you're alone
Women seem wicked when you're unwanted
Streets are uneven when you're down

/ Em - Am Em / Am Em B Em / :

{Refrain}
When you're strange
Faces come out of the rain
When you're strange
No one remembers your name
When you're strange
When you're strange
When you're strange

/ B - / G - B - / - - / G - B - / - - / - - /

People are strange when you're a stranger
Faces look ugly when you're alone
Women seem wicked when you're unwanted
Streets are uneven when you're down

people are such cunts.

why are people such cunts? big question. lots of little, tiny answers. maybe people should stop letting their dogs shit in parks and start using a pooper-scooper. maybe librarians and coffee ladies and office clerks and departmental wallies should stop being assholes to people who need to ask a question. ever heard of interpersonal skills? look it up blondie.

also, maybe people should stop acting like herd animals and stop following what that jerkoff with the bright spark idea to climb the plaza flagpole naked and sing the old national anthem did. maybe people should stop littering, or cutting queues, or maybe wrap their own fucking presents for some undeserving brat. maybe people should stop poaching rhinos and elephants for profit. same goes for people who borrow things and never return them. same goes for the underbaked cynics who write for uni newspaper. same goes for whiny bloggers who seem to think everyone cares about their trivial post-high school dramas.

same goes for YOU.

maybe we should all just get a fucking clue.

p.s. just watched fight club. am now angry. knuckles itching to beat someone. toodaloo.

the fucking neon

ART SNOB, more like it.

sublime

"Andrew Putter's sublime Secretly I will love you more won a richly deserved award. The artist utilised the exhibition space, creating an antechamber into which one stepped in order to gaze at an apparently traditional portrait of Maria de la Quellerie, wife of Jan van Riebeeck. Reminiscent of Frans Hals' portraiture, the formal three-quarter pose is rendered intimate by the direct gaze of the sitter and the delicate lighting filtered through from one side. However, just as the portrait's tranquil presence asserts itself, one is unsettled by the moving lips of the sitter and the gentle Khoikhoi lullaby issuing from these lips. The video-installation was inspired by the story of Maria de la Quellerie who, shortly after her arrival in the Cape in 1652, adopted a Khoikhoi girl-child. The intimacy of the mother-daughter relationship subverts the racial segregation and conflict that usually characterise South African histories. With Secretly I will love you more Putter puts forward an alternative narrative of love and longing between traditionally conflicting cultures" - Tavia McIntosh, http://www.artthrob.co.za/

maria 's animated portrait framed and contained sings a haunting khoikhoi lullaby that is enough to give me nightmares.

hogwash

Figure A: a fright of academia. choking on rotund sentences, which as all furious Latin to me.

oh, it's a jolly holiday

just something light to make things a little brighter. there's nothing quite like a disney song to recommence one's childhood.


Ain't it a glorious day?
Right as a mornin' in May
I feel like I could fly
'Ave you ever seen
The grass so green?
Or a bluer sky?
Oh, it's a jolly holiday
With Mary
Mary makes your 'eart so light
When the day is gray
And ordinary
Mary makes the sun shine bright!
Oh 'appiness is bloomin'
All around 'er
The daffoldils are smilin'
At the dove
When Mary 'olds your 'and
You feel so grand
Your 'eart starts beatin'
Like a big brass band
Oh, it's a jolly holiday with Mary
No wonder that it's Mary that we love!
Now then what'd be nice
We'll start with raspberry ice
And then some cakes and tea
Order what you will
There'll be no bill
It's complimentary
Oh, it's a jolly holiday
With you, Bert
Gentlemen like you are few
Though your just a diamond
In the rough, Bert
Underneath your blood is blue!
You'd never think of pressing
Your advantage
For bearance is the hallmark
Of your creed
A lady needn't fear
When you are near
Your sweet gentility is crystal clear!
Oh, it's a jolly holiday with you, Bert
A jolly, jolly holiday with you!

i feel a poem

Thumping deep, deep
I feel a poem inside
Wriggling within the membrane
Of my soul;
tiny fists beating,
beating against my being
as it tries to break
the navelcord,
crying, crying out
to be born on paper.

Thumping
deep, so deeply
I feel a poem,
inside ...

Don Mattera

waiting for godot

As a fairly new addition to Cape Town’s rhetorical stage of theatre sports, The Fugard Theatre has established itself as host to a number of top-class productions over the past few months. The internationally-acclaimed Waiting for Godot is no exception.

Like many curious audiences I was drawn to the big names that were thrown about in all the hype generated by this play. Sir Ian McKellen, whom most of our generation knows as Gandalf, delivered both a skilfully blundering and articulate performance alongside charismatic Roger Rees in what is considered one of the most prominent works in the ‘Theatre of the Absurd.’ This pair of celebrated actors took to our local stage in an eccentric rendition of Samuel Beckett’s absurdist play, under the fine-tuned direction of Sean Mathias.

In what reminds me of a melancholic Laurel and Hardy episode, Rees and McKellen provide empathy within their misplacement. With childlike delight and ironic moments these characters unravel a tragicomedy that extends beyond their clowning around in a stark, elementary landscape. They remain in perpetual waiting, of human consciousness and of time, and delayed in any true understanding of the meaning of love. Instead this fringed pair of vagrants wanders the timeless space that is staged by the play’s raw naturalism.

As soon as the interval lights went on I wandered out of the first half of Godot feeling perplexed and a little frustrated. It was enough having seen Sir Ian McKellen in the flesh, but the play itself had also just about enough existentialist pondering to last any intellectual or critic a lifetime, let alone the average theatre-goer looking for a good matinee of weekend entertainment. By the end I had questions. Many. As a play conceived so essentially and stripped down to its purest theatrical elements, it is no wonder that it can be interpreted in a myriad of social, political and religious takes.

Waiting for Godot was famously described as ‘a play in which nothing happens, twice.’ That’s the point: there is barely one. The true ‘point’ of Godot is to make you feel uncomfortable in your cushiony seat of being, to challenge your existence and to ask things. There is so much room for interpretation, but maybe a degree in English Literature or Philosophy might help you to leave more satisfied with your understanding of Waiting of Godot’s crafty philosophic innuendos.

survive us.

imogen said it best.


"It's that time of year,
Leave all our hopelessnesses aside (if just for a little while)
Tears stop right here,
I know we've all had a bumpy ride (I’m secretly on your side)

How did you know?
It's what I always wanted,
You can never have too many of these
Will ya quit kicking me under the table?
I'm trying, will somebody make her shut up about it?
Can we settle down please?

I think something is burning,
Now you've ruined the whole thing
Muffle the smoke alarm
Whoever put on this music
Had better quick, sharp, remove it
Pour me another
Oh, don't wag your finger at me

Will ya get me outta her, get me outta here
Just for now
Just for now. "

fear as clear as daylight

what is it that you are afraid of, girl at the window?

what is it that you see beyond that casement, something that stirs outside and so you shy away?

itchy feet

what i wouldn't give to run away, right now. tonight.

the finest thing i learned while i was overseas is that there is so much more out there than to which my closet life is confined. i was dislodged and discomforted to find that the world is so exponential in its variety that i almost forgot totally about my previous concept of home. home became a a dislocation. it was distanced from my wanting. i had to adapt myself almost entirely. upon entering a foreign household, hearing the unfamiliarity of a language that was not my own and suffering quietly from the constant missing of somebody who has since left me, i realised that being alone is not the worst thing that can happen to a person.

went to school and was very nervous.

those corridors, i won't forget them. they were the least inviting spaces i'd ever entered, as though i'd stepped into someplace so unfamiliar i believed i was going to forget my own name.

i think i'd forgotten any kind of motion, other than to swallow hard. swallow hard my fear, as i tried to swerve and duck under toneless echoes that were terrible, vague and sounded like madness.

the schoolyard, i remember, was like a desert. the sandstorms, gusty and gritty, ruined everything. there was no prospect of play, or laughter, because they all seemed to stare with pitiless eyes.
looked right through me.

i asked teacher what was my lesson and she looked right through me. told me i'd do better to go home, there was no place or time for a lesson here. what could they teach me anyway, other than to be like them?

i was very very nervous and felt ill. felt like my feet were growing clumsy underneath me. as heavy as the satchel on my back. they'd never ask my name and i'd need not tell them. i seemed to have forgotten anyway.

working girl

'i love london

i love its rudeness, its lack of community, its impatience

i even love its weather.

but most of all i love the anonymity.'

the first thing you should know about me is that i'm a whore.

intime.

suddenly everything is disclosed and inconsequential.
each moves closer in the dark, writhing in adolescence. a touch's just within a grasp. flighty little touches, adolescent, these are as good as her consent.













when it's over and virtue spilt.
those budded rosy lips
shall likely wilt.













http://blog.wearemjr.com/archives/143

next thing, we're touching.

of consequence

wear this , not your heart, on your sleeve. .

'hey, nice shoes.'

all the world's a stage

we've all heard this one before.

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts...

William Shakespeare, from As You Like It Act 2, scene 7.

why am i posting it today? well, it came to mind when i thought of what i'm doing up today. why the hell did i get out of bed? i guess i had to play the stage today, like everybody else. i had to make my entrance and sing my lines and take a bow.

why bother with your lines if you don't have an audience? there's no rehearsal. this is it. there will always be an audience, like it or not. people will watch you, scowl at your attempts. praise you even. know this. they don't always applaud.

so break a leg. or both if you must.

picasso and africa

Les Demoiselles d'Avignon, Pablo Picasso, 1907





















Fang mask, Gabon

is affinity just a fancy euphemism for stealing?

just to be with you

to be unafraid
and feel you close.
it is enough.

the traveller to istanbul

How art thou falln Imperial City, Low!
Where are thy Hopes of Roman Glory now?
Where are thy Palaces by Prelates rais'd
Where preistly Pomp in Purple Lustre blaz'd?

Constantinople by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu


Written January 1718 in the Chiosk at Pera

I don't know much about Istanbul, but I would so love to go there.

riding in buses with boys

Clyde and I caught a bus to Hiddingh Hall today with some particularly loud and prosey drama students.

some things I have noticed today:

-some Jammie drivers take their good sweet time, because, really, they have no place better to be anyway. well, until their shift ends at least.
-others like to take to woolsack with great velocity and attempt to beat their previous time, which makes for a bumpy ride down the mountain.
-when some bodonkered pick-up truck driver attempts to drive THE OPPOSITE WAY down Long Street (which is a one way up) it is okay to yell profanities at the rest of the traffic that have complied to driving in the RIGHT direction.
-i have an obsession with scarves and wearing them correctly.
-there is not enough romance in Cape Town.
-cannabis/weed/cannabis may be purchased in broad daylight.
-you can tell an authentic gucci bag by the initials of the designer on the zipper.
-pigeons on hiddingh campus are a different species to those scavenging rats on upper.
-clyde and i talk a deal of nonsense on the bus.


isn't it funny how there seems to be nothing much to write about unless there's opportunity to procrastinate, in which case the words flow freely and time floats by swiftly. when there's really and honestly nothing else you ought to be getting on with, time seems to move glacially, and there's really not much to say.

anon

when does a person become

that ambitious

that she no longer sweet-talks for babies, or pities pedestrians, cringes at someone else's shame, or even blushes to her own misdemeanor?

when does she become so hardened by the eggshell of her self that she can no longer crack ?

strange analogy to use, i know. but how can there be so many people in the world, but just not enough friends?

my precious way

i try not to be a brat about it

but i like to get what i want.

always.

and most of the time i do.

you don't know it but you're beautiful

hello it's twidle

i seem to have a small and inconsequential crush on an english lecturer who is currently lecturing us on passage to india. i don't think he's every girl's dish though. sort of skinny with glasses. what we'd call the 'nerdy' academia type. nonetheless i think i am more enthralled by his name, which is 'hedley twidle.'

what a darling name!

p.s. my boyfriend need not worry because although twidle's name may be darling, lecturers make bores for lovers. touche.

twee sunday