Story of Remoteness, 2. "Words" by David Martinez Romero Sometimes, I do fall into long monologues, and words move me as if they were good, good mothers, unconditional friends, comrades. Just talking I sometimes heal from every evil that boils in the dead city, it cures me of all the sickness and all the sadness. Sometimes a talk is like letting the music play, and a voice that imposes with its brief strings is also peace, love, every thing that is worthy and comes back to claim its name allowing itself to be named by the same voice that unties it. Happiness could very well be just a word but it is mine in any case, it is in any case my truth, my ardent breath that happily becomes verb and resets my pain, my suffering and my agony shaping a tremendous smile that compares the moon with its beauty and in the end is mine, and only mine, and I give it away to those who have an ear for music. To talk, talking about anything, just saying beautiful things, not being afraid of the vacuum nor the sea of futility, loosing talk, saying yes, no, sometimes, saying that I love you, I’m out of here, so long, and then shutting up at the right time, walking and redecorating words when indiscriminately giving away phrases, texts, strokes, smiling to the stranger, to the walking woman, to the child that’s always playing. And just listening with unusual care to what they say. If they’re happy, the words are not only words. They are bridges lying between two shadows, they are lights in the starless night, they are huge windows through which the air passes and sometimes so do the spirits. Saying yes, when everybody else denies, is a cardinal virtue. To those who affirm with their voice, with their gesture, with their elegance should be granted the rank of Prince since their gallantry means highness. And talking with your own life, saying pretty things by just living, with the only air that you breathe, setting the example of laughing… that also justifies our existence. Because being is a problem and the very solution, just a word. Whether it has meaning or not, whether it is new or made up, the word, said in the appropriate space and time, lasts. It is stronger than stone. Children are always learning to speak: and so am I, for I am a child born of the heart of speech. And like a newborn to language I’m always looking for happy findings, I jump from complexity to simplicity, I lie, discover, celebrate, certify, extend grubby checks and introduce documents sealed with a carmine kiss that I always steal from a beautiful woman. I speak as well, for not only does the poet, other men speak too when they do not fear the nothingness, those happy flukes that take joyfulness as their own. Many believe they are talking, but they should just keep quiet. We, the happy, even in silence say tricks. Happiness: believe me, it is not only a word, but well spoken, it could also be true. -- Following on from last years "Artist Feature" spot on David Romero, he and I have since sparked something of a collaboration. Here's a new poem from him, translated into from Spanish to English - My role involved assisting with the latter part, that of streamlining the English version. This will not be the last of David's poems to feature on this site. For more on the poet, click on the link in the Blogroll to connect to his personal site. --
0 Comments
South Africa today: the state of the nation The Daily Maverick online Sometime late last year I wrote a short piece on South Africa and my (shared with countless other citizens) frustrations with the government (whom I did not vote for), bickering politicians and every other ill in this country - (the piece was inspired by the Marakana massacre). I felt compelled to write another piece. As the rape and thence murder of Anene Booysens continues to illicit a varied reaction across SA and the world, the deeper issue of the culture of violence permeating in SA has taken center stage . There are so many problems, so I’ll dive right on top of one of the biggest; though to be honest, no one could really change this in a substantial way – some problems take time to sort out, and some pain will only become manageable with even more time, the scars though, will remain, for a very very long time… I speak of Apartheid of course, and the fact that the nation of the New South Africa was born out of this heinous and evil construct. The nation which emerged was fraught with problems, but equally so, alive with possibility (to use a marketing catch phrase) and boundless potential. With such a fractured and divisive past, our subsequent number one enemy has always been ourselves. We know what we can achieve, and have achieved, but division persists with too many corrupt officials/government members, and an inactive public. However, everything I’m saying, and can and want to say, has already been said, so I’ll throw in some quotes here This is from a recent article on the Daily Maverick online newspaper: “We don’t know to what extent the frustration of young and old males, at their wits end in a society that has discarded them, where they have no jobs and women tend to get things quicker exacerbates the situation. That is not a cause, but could be an underlying issue behind incidence of sexual violence.” Link to full article here. "Cooper" referenced and quoted above is a doctor and psychiatrist. Of all the varied cultures we have in South Africa, the one we’re tending to cultivate and nurture the most in this near twenty year democracy, is violence. Here, where societal inequality is unparalleled (just the other day I watched a magazine program, showing off the a beautiful palatial mansion with sea views, a swimming pool and an entertainment deck – for the kids to entertain their friends with table tennis or snooker etc… meanwhile a few kilometers away, there are people who don’t even have a toilet in their own tiny house), dividing the country into the “have” and “have not’s”. As one local white comedian/ventriloquist put it “I grew up with the ‘we hate apartheid, but we benefited from it’ group”… the current democratically elected government has seemingly just left its people to fend for themselves – “If you want wealth, go get it”. This mentality, of every man for himself, has perpetuated from government down throughout South Africa, where we only seem to galvanize when our national sports team takes the field. There’s a lot of angst, frustration, unresolved anger, hurt and passion brewing beneath the surface, issues that weren’t dealt with in the Truth and reconciliation Commission (which should not have ended so soon) for example. Most uneducated black people (a result of every SA gov.) are too quick to haul out the race card whenever something goes against them, and most white people are too afraid/ashamed to talk about the past, and pain and suffering they know little of. I don’t know what it’s like to be forced from my home under an oppressive government and dangerous security police as I’ve grown up in a sheltered environment, mostly in the new South Africa, but older generations of my family can speak of such experiences – and that’s just one aspect… We’ve come out of an evil regime, and simply tried to live normally, act as we usually would if there was never an apartheid to speak of, but the scar on the nation as a whole is too deep to ignore. Plainly put, there’s very little dialogue between portions of society, a place or moment where one or many can vent their concerns and frustrations. So everyone seems to talk amongst friends, or keep their thoughts to themselves. I finished compiling and writing this article shortly after an introspective stroll down the Sea point promenade. Sitting there on a bench watching ships disappear and emerge from the mist off shore, looking down into the deep blue of the Atlantic, feeling the refreshing breeze which took the sting out of a hot day… What we see is nothing new; pain is pain, the world keeps turning and simple things will always be made to look complicated. Tides will continue to ebb and flow, and we will struggle on, always finding ourselves as our own worst foe.
The violence which has become common place in SA, and which for so many abroad is synonymous with us, is perhaps the civil war we should have had but didn’t. It was a miracle that we averted war – a poster for peace and reconciliation – but the same tools we carried in anticipation for conflict and survival, we now use on ourselves, frothing up in various forms, from drug and alcohol abuse to violence against our fellow men and women, compounded further by corruption, poverty, AIDS, all forms of crime, a lack of education, and thence morals and ethics - it's a different, passive kind of civil war. It's always amazing to me, just a few days ago my family played host to some friends from Switzerland, and their impression, along with countless others who've visited our shores, was that South African's are a warm and loving people, always ready to accommodate... so, when we put our best foot forward we can be example's for the world, but at the same time, our internal conflict can be the shame of the world - or at least one example of it... During the last days of apartheid, so many people prayed for a peaceful end, the country was a nervous hive of tension and prayer,as most sought God's guidance in our most trying time... how many though continued, and are still praying for the wellbeing of the nation? - It's an ongoing journey; a class which has been known to take lifetimes without a view to an end. An update on my progress thus far with regards to my book. So, after the first full proofread is complete by Judy (whom I trust) - certain rewrites are in order as well as a complete chapter by chapter breakdown... Now before you say "that should have been done already" I say this: "That's hogwash. As long as it gets done." Every writer has his/her own method. So why is this important, and why haven't I done it already? It's important as it casts your plot path in greater clarity, forming something of a map for the book, allowing you, the author to isolate events, maintain continuity and cultivate cohesion, among other things. Well, here's the thing... in the latter portion of 2010 I wrote a book; the longest writing piece I'd written before then was an 800+ word Essay in high school. All I did was knuckle down, and write, and write, and write... until the story ran its course. Sounds unspectacular I know. For the last two years, I've been cleaning it up up, self editing, subsequently writing a 2nd draft (eliminating the basic errors). But apart from that, it's been all about networking, creating my own writing footprint, becoming known within certain circles by my peers and like-minded individuals/professionals. Basically learning the craft and the industry whilst improving my product, improving my writing... always learning. The first draft was a behemoth 500+ (with double spacing) 144000+ word saga, but so far I've pulled it back to 127000/430 pages, with much more trimming to come. In essence, what happened was, I wrote a book, then I learned how to write a book (if that can be learned). What I am, is a writer - there's no turning back from that... Thanks to all my supporters, friends and family (mostly for your patience). I do believe "The Quiet Days" can be a great book - it's already good, but "good" just isn't good enough. FYI: the name "The Quiet Days" is subject to change - as soon as I finish this current draft. I shall make a fairly big reveal, sort of. Me, on Milnerton beach a couple of years ago 2012 marks a big year in my writing career... it may not look it, but many seeds have been sown. For one, I started this website and blog (albeit at the behest and encouragement of friends). I subsequently also joined Twitter... these may seem like small things, but for me and my trajectory as a writer/author, it is kind of essential elements, tools if you will, going forward. I also happened to trek through the Fish River Canyon along with a great group of people (read more about that by clicking on the Fish River Canyon tab in the sidebar). I also joined Joel Kanar's team as a film reviewer at Inthekan.net, then I became a member of the African Renaissance Foundation - accepting their mandate within a growing movement on this beautiful and troubled continent. I've made many new friends, both professional and social (Thanks to all of you, old and new), and am nearing the completion of a third (yes 3rd!) draft of my debut novel The Quiet Days (although this name is subject to change - once this draft is complete - I'm holding out though as I'm quite sentimental about it...) God has blessed me abundantly, though I know it is nothing compared to what awaits me in the coming year, as well as the responsibility which comes with it A Passion (albeit somewhat neglected this year) Progression by Bigup Productions - I recommend it It was released a few years ago, but watch it, if only just to see the legendary Chris Sharma send his Clark Mountain "impossible" superclimb project. Oh what the heck - just because I'm cool that way, here's a more detailed video of Sharma's heroic climb as featured on National Geographic. A while back my sister and I concocted a pretty lavish story set in some fantastical Science fictional world (what sci-fi story isn't?). Over the next few months we actually fleshed it out quite nicely... but, as is a habit of mine, before I delve headlong into something, I feel compelled to test the waters first. So this story came about as I undertook a veritable dip of my toes into the delightful cesspool that is, or can often be, the genre of science fiction. The main character of this story, who ironically doesn't talk (because he can't, he's catatonic) plays a significant role in the story we thought up; all I did though, was to jump ahead further into the future by a few decades... to see what may have become of him... * Sleeping dogs of war californica.wordpress.com by Steven Benjamin (2012) “Well, what have they got for us today?” “Oh, nothing new I fear; done this procedure many times.” “Really? One would think after all these centuries they’d have come up with a more efficient method. OH, but wait, we have… and yet, mine eyes do not deceive. You seem to labor still at the wheel of the archaic.” “Oh yes indeed, they have, many different procedures in fact, but each for different use.” “So, why this method for this specimen?” “Because he’s old. We’ve found that, apart from the sentimental value, retaining the methods that worked over the years yields better, or shall we say smoother results.” He paused, mid thought, “It makes progression seamless. Plus, in science, there are many examples where continuity and cohesion is called for.” “Mm. It’s still very crude though.” “Well yes, but we’re still leagues ahead of our predecessors. Xenos past used to use very elementary tools, and of course the procedure, as well as the results, was infinitely less refined.” “I heard, or actually read, that they had a very different name for it too. I forget it though.” “Oh yes…” his eyes focused, through the thin glass compound of the eye visor, at the intricately delicate job at hand. “Very different indeed.” He whispered, “And equally as unrefined. That’s why I prefer mine. Markedly more tactful,” “I thought it was a just a nickname until I heard a few stewards referring to it as such. Have you been spreading the word?” “Ha. No. It appears genius rubs off. Although that is something of a misnomer; if genius – in this case denoted as a noun – rubbed off, implying that it can thence be shed, or lost, the perceived intelligence would be diminished within the so-called genius – in this instance myself - and gained by the receiver – in this case being the stewards. Alas, it is something we have yet to perfect,” he paused again, thinking… “strange that…” “What?” Reems continued. “That we’ve apparently failed in the quest to develop an effective device for the procedure of intelligence transference.” “Oh. How did you come to that name though?” “Aah, it was bestowed upon me by my fellow …” “No. I mean this procedure: re-“ “Redressing, yes, that is mine. It’s simple really. Like putting on a new suit – getting dressed. He – or rather we – are simply giving him a new suit. For each role he plays he acts different, thinks different and usually wears something different. Hence: Redressing.” read more HERE... On our journey of progression, and for many of us, discovery, we focus on David Romero, filmmaker, writer, novelist, poet... A creative at heart, David is a man on the move with great insights as well as goals and surely someone to look out for in the future. It gives me great pleasure to feature this artist, whom I hope to work with someday: Poetry: Story of remoteness, 47. By David Martinez Romero The soul of an artist Gently silence falls as white bird eating holes in the clouds, where broken glitter beams cross needles in ice flowing, slow death of magma yesterday on our hands clasped, now lost underground. Because the dust has eaten the paintings in the library: those books, on which dreaming we once promised immense love and pleasure and caresses, have been lost, such as dust, as white bird that rises. Pages and pages of gray images, fragmentary, I remember the futility of all the roses and I know that beauty dies that woman is beautiful and her beauty shines, the time ineluctable push intensifies and a wave comes and goes like foam. Slowly, from a tear magnificent the whole philosophy springs, all the knowledge of the truth, the night, the sugar, all that is worthy of being known or kissed, glazed moons with lids wide open as if an albino animal had crossed the room at the speed of a smile: perhaps an angel ... perhaps the soul of an artist. * Videos by Eldorado Entertainment "Motorway" - Anni B Sweet. Directed by David Martinez Romero Movida Corona 2010 - Executive Producer: David Martinez Romero Mini Biography: Born in Madrid in 1976. Journalist, writer, video producer and on his way to make a filmmaker out of himself. Founder of Eldorado Entertainment, production company in which he has produced and directed from TV commercials to music videos and his first short film, The Offer. As a writer, he has published one Poetry book, El mundo cuando sueña, yet he has written several collections of poems, two novels and one autobiographical essay. He publish a blog under his own name in which he shares poems and other writings every week. Right now, looking for financial support for a documentary film. Q & A:
Zahara de los Atunes (a little town in Cadiz) La Judería, Córdoba For more, contact and follow David: Juanda Cortes Photography Referenced earlier: visit Juanda Cortes photography, another contributor at Eldorado Entertainment. - “But man could not cover what God would reveal; ‘Tis the sunset of life that gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadow before.” - Lochiel’s Warning, Thomas Campbell. [The reason for the deletion was purely for the sake of length. At the end of the first draft the book was well over 144000 words. However, because of the nature of this chapter (it would have been chapter 7) it could almost be considered as a stand-alone chapter, making up much of one of the sub-plot's in the story. I feel bad of course, because of the research I did on, not only the chapter itself, but the topic in general...] -- events occurring in late 2008 >>> Chapter (The Quiet Days, a novel by Steven Benjamin) I. Liverpool, England… Ronnie Killian was a veteran third generation seaman who’d once, years ago, captained a fishing trawler moored at Southampton. His love for the sea was absolute, as was his understated enthusiasm toward ships and virtually anything that could float. Almost ten years ago, when he’d been laid off for a small period, a good friend had found him a part-time job at a local shipping magazine. At that time the job had included menial roles around the office and hadn’t comprised of anything significant, until the day he was called into the editor’s office to write up a column on an Oil tanker due to dock soon. The news around the tanker was predominantly targeted around the parent company, which was in the midst of a public court case surrounding an oil spill close to the Canary Islands. Apparently one of the clerks working in the office had mentioned that Ron had spent a term on an oil tanker which had run into some legal issues off the coast of Nigeria. Naturally this fact made Ron the most qualified man in the office on the subject. This was beside the fact that that day they happened to have two employees off sick. It wasn’t a major article with any ground breaking expectations, though Ron had poured his passion for shipping into it – supported by his working knowledge, worldly experience and brusque tone. It resulted in an article, appealing to the avid reader, whilst even engaging the would-be non enthusiasts with his wit and blunt interpretation of events. Killian had integrated the small planned protest to be staged on the dock by a handful of environmental activists, and touched on the hypocritical nature of man protesting the negative effects of Oil companies operating on the seas, whilst neglecting his ‘neighbour’ who worked for said company to feed his own family, because it was the only work available. By no means condoning the avarice nature of these corporations, he cited man’s equal failure to do anything constructive about them – the inability to find suitable alternatives. His conclusion stated that little would change the “juggernautical” status quo, with the valiant but whispered cries of good men swept clean away in the salty spray of the unstoppable corporate storm. His wife and three children had subsequently persuaded him to pursue the somewhat more sedate life as a columnist. He’d soon establish himself within the magazine structures as one of their most reliable, and later senior, writers. On a customary gloomy winter’s day in Southern England, with his collar turned up rubbing against his greying stubble and his woolen cap warming his balding scalp, he turned the digital pages of another international online shipping newspaper. As he glanced over the section detailing any ships recently run aground or sunk, his eyes caught a story of a cargo ship having sunk in the Black Sea. Investigators claimed that the laden ship could not withstand the attentions of an especially heavy storm. (to read more, click here) [The reason for the deletion was purely for the sake of length. At the end of the first draft the book was well over 144000 words. However, because of the nature of this chapter (it would have been chapter 7) it could almost be considered as a stand-alone chapter, making up much of one of the sub-plot's in the story. I feel bad of course, because of the research I did on the, not only the chapter, but the topic in general...] The Quiet Days, a Novel journey... Its been an interesting year thus far, submitting to competitions, editing, some odd jobs, more editing, and on the rare occasion, some far flung adventurous escape. What's interesting about my book writing experience thus far, has been that apart from the re-draft and a couple of niggles here and there, the progress of the entire book basically/currently hinges on a few paragraphs. When I say hinges I mean bridging the divide between good and great, at least in my eyes. One such paragraph has been highlighted in red for the past few months as I try to formulate it and find the right words - its practically in the center of this 125000+ word novel, but it encapsulates so much sentiment and gravity. The timing of this paragraph is also crucial, coming at pivotal moment in the story. But, alas, this is what writing is all about; and so the journey continues... |
[Banner illustration by Joel Kanar]
WRITING
|