»During a mellow debate which took global center stage on the minds of fans of double O’ seven which toyed with the question as to who should portray Mr. James Bond when Daniel Craig steps away from the role of the British spy a lot of commentators both abroad and home exclaimed that it was about time the franchise transformed. A univocal sentiment was bellowed: it was about time someone in the caliber of Will Smith or Idris Alba took the role in a bid to show that the franchise had entered the 21st century; that it, the franchise, was mindful of our global community (with Smith in mind this will be rather on the extreme, but why not? After all writers are versatile in spinning myths in any direction they so desire). I don’t know what flared up this explosive thinking that gripped at the British psyche as far as its gift to the world is concerned but unlike you I suspect that it was the casting of Naomi Harris as Miss Moneypenny that caused paradigmatic anomaly within the grand narrative of the famous British Spy syntactic construction thus making the latter thinking possible. May I hazard to say it is only a matter of time that the unfathomable happen. Perhaps in our lifetime. It as if someone let the door ajar to invite fantastic ideas inside.
*a deadlock between two equally matched opponents
I actually was contemplating doing a piece on the vandalism of the sculptures that represent our colonial past as well as the apartheid regime, however the recent Xenophobic1 violence that have awaken our country from it’s a stupor takes my pen’s attention towards its contemplation. The sculptures and the old regime’s memorabilia will have to wait; I suspect though, with the current rate of tension here and there in our country that before long that issue will re-occupy our national agenda just as xenophobia takes it turn again presently. But even as I respond in the present jotting I must confess to the reader that I am not best suited to offer a voice on the matter at hand. I am not confident. I am a writer enthusiast and writers write. May I press this point further by highlighting to the reader that what follows is my own observation of the situation that is unfolding in front of us; a meditation by all accounts. These scribbling can be seen in the final analysis as a subjective reaction of a South African¶
This is not an exhaustive exposition, it is a comment. There is so much that is going on in our country at the moment that gets one’s tongue wagging about the possibility of a bleak prospect as far as our future is concerned even if it is done in the safe haven of our closed doors. South Africans find themselves at a point whereby either fully acknowledge the problem that’s facing them or wait for a full scale implosion as far as race is concerned. For lack of space in the present article I do not want to focus on particulars of incidents that point to us that race continues to be a problem in our country neither do I have a fully fledged arsenal that can assist us in this regard as much as I desire to delve into an informed analysis, which might of course take time to be finished and whenever when that happens I might risk speaking above the reader. So I will shoot from the hip.¶
In the land of the Bunched Hunched up people
Ï watched my smartphone fall a short distance from the study table one evening during its charging ritual. A few seconds before, wanting to check messages, I’d sort of pulled it by the charging cord and, as the law of gravity would have it, its weight pulled it off the connecting point. It ceremoniously met with the ceramic tiled floor and the Lumia 800 hurdled towards permanent lights out. Heartbroken and instantly sore to the core from the thud sound I heard when the phone hit the floor I expected the worst damage as I picked it up. I could make out a few things on the screen for the screen was damaged but surprisingly not cracked… but the main buttons of Home, Confirm and Return were not responsive to my frantic fingerings. Something more in this harsh ordeal was that I could swear the screen was dying out for a dark purplish lava lamp like goo moved in slomo to blot out the screen. Bought for novelty’s sake than to fit in with the populace, this was a phone whose battery was non-removable; it possessed only two slots, one for charging and the other for the micro-sim. And now jammed into its spacious memory were important keys to my daily activities by way of a calendar, social media networking platforms, private documents, photos of where I have been or what interest me as well as an extensive address book of my contacts. A sad thought loomed in the background of this specter, I was being blurred out towards an erasure as the dark lava spread throughout the screen signaling the death of the device.
ïntraparadox is a coinage for the phenomena that occurs during an interview with an artist. Like any human being out there an artist has their own convictions and contradictions; for they are social animals. So intraparadox, as a dialogue produced as a result of an interview with the artist, is like an x-ray process that reveals the nature of the artist, their life and their art practice. It is important then that it, intraparadox, be written word for word based on the audio file gathered during the moment of interview with the artist, for I would like to present as closest an account as possible of the artist’s persona to the reader – a portrait of the artist. The reading must produce a reflection of the personality of the artist as it is, as it would be encountered when the reader, should the occasion present itself, meet the artist in person! The interview should be an intimate encounter of the artist in conversation about their work – this is the first task of writing the text. Secondly, during the interview as the ideals upheld by the artist emerge, teased out and made bare as the conversation develops around pertinent issues the artist is preoccupied with in their art production or practice; issues which might emerge during the dialogue, it is hoped, that an opportunity will be afforded the reader to delve deeper into the conception of the visual art object apropos to the artist undergoing the interview¶
*Soon passing out of sight, memory or existence
ΤΗΣ day I found friendship was the day Desmond and I were caught by surprise by a low flying airplane while playing on a mound of sand at my grandmother’s backyard one summer’s day. Having being forced earlier to drink castor oil by our mothers who happened to be affectionate friends, we messed our pants when we scurried away in a fright-flight away from the big iron monstrosity that streak-hovered passed us like a big gong bell.