Artbud

‘a small lateral or terminal protuberance on the stem of a plant that may develop into a flower, leaf, or shoot’ 

I am still cranky from being away from the wordmachianikon for most of this year but the writerly bug juice beckons; the writing about nothing or everything or something gropes around. There is just a myriad of experiences that flood my psyche. To log into one is to gingerly watch every step of where I am going because everything is so muggle lest I get lost in the byways. So perhaps I should use a delicate scalpel to slice off this little tale…  

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Absence

‘the state of being away from a place or person’

At this time of the year people make resolutions to do better in the New Year. For a guy who does not make resolutions I think it is great if the resolutions that they have made the previous year have been realized even if it is partial. Whichever way you look at it this is the time of reflection. A time of taking stock of things. I am not a guy who shoulder New Year’s resolutions very well simply because I just think resolutions can be a strict way of living one’s life. Since in the past when I made resolutions I tended to drop them quarter-way in the New Year after a stern concentration of seeing them through for a spell.  Look, I acknowledge that there are moments when one just makes a decision to do something with their life and the pursuit it naturally. For some people it comes without effort. Like those artists who work day and night, throw consignment all over Gauteng in hope, topped with some spunk, to withstand the torrents until someone gives a big break.

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The Writerly Bug Juice: An Eulogy for Bok

I have no recollection how we got Fifi boxed in that afternoon. It was raining lightly and as the raindrops dews splattered gently besides the drain furrow, moistening the soil and collecting into streams around us to flowing into the furrow where our tussle was underway as our figures wrestled that of Fifi. Three against one. The power of memory is able to jolt scenes into stark relief without their sources except the impressions left behind by byways that lead us there time and again for a lifetime.

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#theWriterlyBugJuice(v)31/03/16-The Shadow of the big boss


 

Critical distance affords those who watch unfolding events from a distance a vantage viewpoint. For the actors in the unfolded events only in hindsight can they make sense of the nexus of those events.


HISTORYWe were not actually sure but it was there, like a hunch that everybody feels at the same time but for lack of a firmer grasp of reality do not want to or cannot acknowledge what’s happening because time has yet to give the unfolding phenomena in front us a shape, a form.  And perhaps, at a sympathetic level that is, everyone is hesitant to acknowledge what is happening because all are in it – all are in the box-set of a moment with no leeway for critical distance myopically. I saw it flush around on the faces of majita like a shadow of doubt or a bulb moment as the judgment was passed on by the principal (most of the time pronounced presbala) flanked by the Tight Three: SRC’s president, chairman of the SGB and Prime leader of the Educators. It was a disciplinary hearing and they were facing the rest of those attending the hearing in the staff hall. Our parents dotted that sea of attendees.  On the opposite side with us sat our leader, head sunken to his barrel chest, I could not make out what was going on in his mind due to his sunken head  and the fact that I beheld it oblique as I was sitting several people away on his left so the positioning of his face defied a reading. His mom sobbed silently while his dad sat unemotionally on the right hand side of the two rows of chairs separated by an isle facing the big boss and the rest of us. I come to think of it I never thought of him as a mama’s boy kinda of an ou. Clearly his pap could not care less. I laughed silently imagining how the old man was dragged from home to hear a stout baas’s case.

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