Flash Fiction: This (short) story is an 'interview'. It came about through two completely unrelated character sketches I was playing with... also, I was toying with character cliches. Titles I considered were 'Oceans, sketches & Sway', 'The Immortal tides'... He had a weather beaten look, like life had flung him across icy oceans, then dragged him down to the depths in mere moments, before the waters finally raised him against some craggy beach where the sun and wind had dried his skin, but where the saltiness remained. His wispy hair and gaunt, lined face seemed like more of a sketch than a real man. His movements were deliberate too; his hands moving like those of time itself. Have you ever been married? I heard myself say, trying to restart the conversation, which felt like trying to get a steam engine back on the rails. His eyes moved across my general vicinity as though they were lazily and haphazardly rummaging around, and casually assigning relevance to whatever he saw. Eventually his chapped lips parted, and a whisper snuck out. It sounded something like “… always” There was something different about his eyes. It was not a sparkle that one would liken to excitement, no. This was dimmer, like a flame, or glowing ember. There was a hint of warmth to his shifting stare. Somewhere, somewhere deep, a few memories were dancing around each other, coming into focus as they neared on whatever distant dance floor they were held. This was enjoyment of a different kind, like he’d rediscovered an old bottle of whisky, and had proceeded to study the label, despite knowing it by heart. He was now taking a sip of the memory, gently, letting the aroma meet him before the taste. It was a lesson in savouring. Whatever sadness lurked there, on the edge of that distant dance floor, waiting to cut in, seemed diminished by time. This dream of a memory was a quiet, melancholic enjoyment, the kind that seemed to never fail to inspire rekindling in this man, adding shades of life affirming color to the sketch of his face. It seemed to have greatest effect when coaxed out from wherever he’d tucked it, those many years ago. I watched him now. " It always started with the glide. The sound. Hard rubber soles over dusty wooden floor boards. A rare and unforgettable richness in timbre. The heel would come down with a dull clap. And then the glide again. Her leg jutting out, followed or led by her hip… Her head arched back. Her eyes were closed. Her neckline flowed in the dim light, over her chest beneath the cotton dress, to her belly. Her arms unfurled, wafting slowly above her head, ending in a cock of the wrists, and stiff straight fingers. A moment of stillness. Her fingers moved. Then her wrists straightened, and slowly the movements began to pour over the rest of her body. Before it reached her feet, the sound of gliding was at my ears. And then the clap of the heel again. It was the only way she knew. This was her story, and how she told it. One of grace, of sound, of stillness, and of sway. The rhythmical claps of the heels were reminders of bygone hitches, stifling the flap of her wings. This was a song of defiance and graft, a dance that continued well after the possessive smiles and reverent cheers of old crowds had faded. But her message was written in movement. I remember her movements more than her face, which always came in glimpses. Time does this. Faces change and fade in the memory, but her melody can never fail me, her story remains. That wind may be stifled, but it’s enough to keep these sails true. Her hushed movements, in the back of memories, lingers immortal. " I watched him in his thoughts. Before he took another sip, of the drink on the table I thought he’d forgotten about. With wet lips he whispered her name. Or at least I think it was her name. As he said it, a bus rolled by bellow the café window, muffling whatever his raspy voice had offered. I thought of asking him to repeat it, but hesitated. Perhaps it was a sign that I was not meant to hear it after all. And with that, the sounds of the day filtered back to my ears, brought back to the present after being taken by the brief old wind which quietened my thoughts for a few minutes, whisking me off to another time. I don’t know what I expected from this old man. But what I got was a few notes, a broken melody perhaps, like hearing someone attempt a tune on an old piano a few rooms away. I would let it be. Perhaps one day, without prompting, the melody, hidden from me, owing to time, dust and fog, ebbing even in the best of times, would once flow to visit me, in a dream perhaps. Sometime later I walked away from that old sailor, hoping perchance to stumble my way to that shore. And that the elusive tide would flow to meet my toes and dance before for me, just once. A faint whispered hope. But perhaps my own depths await, to one day earn the wash of tide through a half remembered dream. - Flash Fiction by Steven Benjamin. "For all is like an ocean, all flows and connects; touch it in one place and it echoes at the other end of the world.' - Fyodor Dostoyevsky {Image credits: pinterest.com, paintinghere.com}
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“May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.” – Ps 19:14 "So many men make the mistake of thinking that the woman IS the adventure. But that is where the relationship immediately goes downhill. A woman doesn't want to be the adventure, she wants to be caught up into something greater than herself." --- Extract: 'Wild at Heart' - John Eldredge. Secret thoughts on Beauty What is it about this thing? What is it that draws my gaze, my thoughts, my being? I’ve read and know that beauty nourishes, it invigorates, inspires, uplifts and sets fireworks in the imagination. Ohhh, the imagination… and this is where we’re at – or, where I'm at, You see, the imagination… Here’s an ironical thought; imagine a world where people didn’t have an imagination. Could we live in a world like that? Now take this; imagine a world without beauty. Could anyone live in this kind of world? Think of everything that is not beautiful, and feel the corners of your mind shrivel, and the depths of soul shriek in agony. Our senses cannot live without avenues such as these. We need the nourishment for this journey. But, and here’s the thing, beauty has another side. Because we’re drawn to it so, and because our soul craves it, we can at times allow it to overwhelm. And it can consume, it can consume. It happens most with artists, when they search for the meaning, the depth of it, and they delve into it, exploring something we cannot understand. The risk is raised when Love steps in. Again, for the artist, love and passion is all entwined in it. And it seems and feels pure, when all these fine elements are interwoven within. But what happens when it’s projected, or when life’s happenings and emotions become entangled. It’s why when looking at famous artists in time we so often see their loved ones dragged down by these seemingly honest pursuits. It’s where we falter. Because deep down, when all these various glorious elements like love, beauty, passion and raw emotion are explored, we find that at the core is something quite fragile. And if we really want to go there, if we really want to delve deep, we’ll find that that fragility is tied to everything in this world. It speaks to our very existence, and the world we live in. And this is where it becomes dangerous, because so often, it is unbalanced. In this broken world, beauty was always bound to be abused, tormented and wrought under the talons of depravity as men try to control or capture this illusive something. And how pure intent can get warped Pity we have to grow old Pity we have to lose our childhood innocence. Naivety can be the saving of some, and the death of others. And so, when we shoehorn ourselves into an odd quest to preserve something pure and beautiful, we have to constantly guard ourselves. Think about this; a man looks at a beautiful woman – and what does he think? What thoughts play in his mind? What are his secret thoughts, his secret desires? Sometimes its not that hard to see when witnessing their facial expressions just passing a woman on the street. A man can voyage to save something pure, but what if he were told that he was the very threat to that purity. Could he stay away Some talk of a secret thought life. If we could wear these thoughts on our bodies, what would we look like? And so, we can see how easily it is to pervert something pure… As a writer, no, never mind that, I’ve always lived inside my mind. My father said I have an overactive imagination (which was one reason why I had nightmares as a child), but as an adult, it helps me create believable fantasy, or in most cases, believable fiction, or interweaving fiction with reality. My mind is my strongest quality, and with that, potentially my greatest strength. When I explore something, driven by passion, my mind leans on the obsessive side of my personality, and here’s where the danger comes in, speaking of consuming. I’ve been told I would make a good detective, due to this very dog-with-a-bone type quality. But, the consuming comes into it when I take on pseudo problems that have no solutions, or when trying to understand and work people out. People are our currency, our inspiration for story, our subjects, and when we don’t understand them…where are we to go? And guess what? All those elements I mentioned earlier; love, passion, beauty – can all be found and explored in the brokenness and fragility of us, People. This is the crux – we’re a simple fabric made with a complex thread. It elicits ecstasy and pain all the same because all this grows from our soul. So when it feels like its deep, it’s because it is just that, it’s exactly that. People tend to undersell it, or take it for granted. That’s why sex is on the same level as shopping for shoes. Beauty or more specifically, sex (as sexiness) is used as a bartering tool to sell objects. Flesh is sold. People are sold… and whether overtly or covertly, people even sell themselves. Reverence isn’t enough, or it’s sometimes too much. When it comes to our secret thoughts, it’s invariably a question of balance. So let me end on a note of hope, instead of a hope for the best but prepare for the worst, or a ‘where did everyone go wrong’ – So, there is a way back, for me it’s through the Almighty, because if you cannot contribute-to/give/unveil/preserve/protect/nurture beauty, then at least just, Let it be. The torment in our souls is due to the lack or failure in searching for something that cannot be found in this world. If you're wondering where all this is coming from, well, we preach only that which we ourselves need to learn. As a man and as a writer, I constantly seek to understand, and when something riles at my core, it falls under my microscope, specifically and intensely. Beauty is otherworldly, but to truly appreciate it, we must focus and grow closer to the creator of that beauty, lest we fall and find ourselves settling for inferior pleasures, or idolizing earthly things. It's where it all started, with pride and betrayal in the garden of Eden, and the struggle within man continues to this day. This is simply part and parcel of my endless quest for purity, in God's eyes. "Never have I dealt with anything more difficult than my own soul" - Imam Abu Hamid al-Ghazali [Images: via pinterest.com] [For Doreen Benjamin] What was I doing? I was cleaning the microwave tray from excess milk. Why? Well, because the milk boiled over. But I wasn’t crying; no one was. At least they weren’t anymore. But let me explain; You see, this spilled milk was over two weeks in the making. It was yet another turn in a series of unfortunate events which led me to that moment of taking that simple step, with my sister casually looking on opening the little door to the microwave, peering in, and then throwing my head back to look to the heavens in a proverbial “OHHH Jesus Please… (take the wheel)” Which prompted my sister to abandoned me after her initial sharing in the groan of frustration. But why two weeks? The fact is that this spilled milk could be traced back and blamed solely on one thing, and one thing alone… Pneumonia. Mm hm. That foulness that collects on the lungs and that is of no benefit to the world or humankind whatsoever. This ‘P’ word is to blame for my moment of woe. But allow me to divulge a titbit of backstory. Had my Grandmother not contracted Pneumonia, I, or any of my other family members, would not have been at my Uncle’s flat to begin with to aid in the matriarch’s recovery, after she’d spent a tiresome long-weekend in hospital. Not a slight thing by any means; waking up and not knowing where you are with no one familiar around; this coming after a hazy and delirious few days, involving a backache inducing overnight vigil (by said Uncle) and a somewhat unconscious ride in an ambulance. So there I was, making a round of coffee for several of us. My uncle meanwhile, had stolen himself away from ironing some of his Sunday best shirts, and was now attempting to turn on the geyser. We wanted to give Granny a relaxing bath earlier, but my uncle’s attempt to reprogram the geyser’s timer had only succeeded in making it fail to come on at all. So there he stood, behind me in the kitchen, leaning precariously on a small wooden stool to reach the geyser’s control panel. Then he asks me, over his shoulder, to run inside and switch off the iron. And so I did. Low and behold the iron was there in the back room, huffing and puffing away like it was dying of thirst. And so, that jog to the room, unplugging the iron, and making the return journey had cost me a minute, and one could not pass by Gran’s room without checking in (costing me several more precious seconds). The consequences of which were evident at the opening of the microwave. SO, you see, had Pneumonia not struck down my Gran, she would not be recovering at my Uncle’s place, he would not have been stretching to reach the control panel (during a session of earnest ironing) and I would not have been there to make some cups of coffee that required milk at an above-than-ambient temperature… Hence, no milk would’ve spilled. As it is, or was, many prayers were said before the milk boiled over, and many since (from around the globe mind you). The old Lady (I shan’t reveal her age… ladies take issue with these sort of things) is on the mend, stubborn as always, craving ice cream and Ginger beer whilst smuggling sugar replacement sachets for her afternoon tea. Although it must be said she was preparing herself for her date with Jesus whilst curled up on a gurney a week prior (I would be too mind you), but she has not sung her last song just yet… and she does love to sing. Thanks to Jesus for taking the wheel, healing a loved old lady… a family can draw nearer. And so, Pneumonia and spilled milk aside, there are some deep positives to this tale: beauty that runs deeper than tired legs, battered lungs and a tray of medication . . . but runs through heart and mind and soul, witnessed in moments and memories - a soothing bath, combing of hair, or sharing a warm meal at a table a half a century old. An old lady fell And a family rallied around her, to share in this fragile and mysterious thing we cling onto, holding on so dearly, when its most flagrant. --- God Bless you all. Artist Feature "Eldorado. Actually, it is 8 years old. But it did not become an independent brand until the second year, so you could say Eldorado Entertainment started 6 years ago. Eldorado Entertainment was my first project as an entrepreneur/ producer/ director. I am not sure what will come of it in the future: I believe I will make only fiction out of it, I mean, if I am lucky: tv series and movies. On the other hand, The Homo Artifex Project is the main project, very soon my new company, and I will base its business model on two directions: one, tv spots, virals, commercials and other stuff for clients; two, Homo Artifex, an internet video channel in which I will publish videos about artistic processes and many other things related to arts, science and philosophy. But The Homo Artifex Project is still developing into a proper company. My objective: launch the channel before the New Year and make it a profitable company this very year, Already working on projects on demand by new clients. You will see some of them very soon." - statement by David M. Romero Showreel 2010 from Eldorado Entertainment on Vimeo. And speaking of Homo Artifex, here's the latest video "Glede" Introduced as such -- While the official presentation of Homo Artifex presents the theme of 'in the distance', we had the opportunity to participate in a particularly interesting project, and put it to video; a gathering of musicians of Norwegian and Spanish jazz, we have called "Glede" (joy ">, in Norwegian). I hope you enjoy it, as it also serves as an incentive, for the expectation of the arrival of our next work. Glede from Eldorado Entertainment on Vimeo. Another recommended video by David Martinez Romero, showcasing his directorial work... ***ANNOUNCEMENT***: Steven Benjamin will be away for the month of August, so there'll be no Blog updates till September. God Bless! Are we talking literary or literally? Well, I read an article on the importance of writing and storytelling, and the author recalled a time when he was a paramedic… so no, we cannot literally save lives, as in resuscitate a person with words (literally), but we can save lives in other ways. It may seem like a simple realization but it’s one we need to remind ourselves of every so often. Looking at news reports of plane crashes and the military assault on Gaza - what can writing do - those people are dead? But writing can communicate the truth and inform those still living. Educate the present so the future doesn't reflect the past. Then there is also the nobility and catharsis, of just telling their stories. I was talking to a friend of mine recently, and she was sharing her recent trials and quite frankly, life threatening ordeals working with (reforming) drug dealers and gangsters – and her blunt reply about writing when I mentioned to her that it can’t save lives, was simply: “but it can”. One day I will write her story… And I'm sure it will reach out to someone in a dire situation in need of motivation through their struggles, even if it’s just that one person. On a more basic level, how does education work, how do we learn – through books, through writing, communication – without these simple elements - like textbooks, how many lives would’ve been lost? How did the medical profession come about? Someone had to be the pioneer, to analyse the human body and record their findings. Corpses were involved, and would not have been pretty, or perhaps even legal, but in that, in some way, the dead served to preserve the living... hows that for a story? So, I encountered this issue because I am a true believer – a believer in stories, writing and storytelling, and because I’m tired of the mediocre and the dilution and saturation of art. To further put this in context, I’ve been wrestling with an article on story, and the essential organs of it as it applies to a very popular TV series – and thence the temptation to dismiss it all and banish it to the box of “it’s just a TV show/it’s just a movie” – because this is what modern films, especially, have taught us with their lack of quality storytelling.
And so, we’re meant to sift through the dregs, to locate the stories we’re allowed to make a fuss over because there’s a place for the serious stuff, and a place for things like superheroes. Because we’re allowed to take fantasy series’ or books seriously, but not cartoons… Where do you draw the line, because there IS a line? Believe it or not, words are life – language, communication – words feed souls. We are on this journey and yet do not understand how there is a link between health (physical, spiritual and mental) and the power of words. What we see, and hear affects the way we feel, how we act and perceive things. We shall all die one day, and there is plenty of depression, misery and depravity in this world – and you may find that often some will not offer any solutions to the problems we’re facing, but will merely explore the problems further, holding up mirrors to it. I feel that part of being a writer is to feed the soul and in some way provide a light or a way point in the journey of discovering the meaning of this thing called life – for those curios about it – and stories are one such medium of discovering those morsels of meaning, so that regardless of your existential beliefs, it is not all for naught. Stories. They’re the beating heart and simultaneous nerve-center of us writers. They’re in and apart of us just as much as they abound everywhere. The plain truth is, our brains crave stories... "Classical story design charts the vast interconnectedness of life from the obvious to the impenetrable, from the intimate to the epic, from individual identity to the international infosphere. It lays bare the network of chain-linked causalities that when understood, give life meaning.” "In storytelling, the stimulus of words brings about the production of inner images, an extraordinarily creative play involving the entire brain. Each new story requires a whole new set of neural connections and reorganizations of visual activity within - a major challenge for the brain. . . . So neural potential goes unrealized and development is impaired - unless storytelling and play are provided on a regular basis." [Images: via pinterest, unless otherwise stated] Related posts: Why I write What will Matter The Flaw in Game of Thrones Category: Writing "Human beings devised writing to explore why we are here..." A night in Gabarone about a year ago As my now good friend Jonathan pointed out, the lighting was all wrong… it lacked that certain moody ambiance reserved for romantic occasions – despite this not being a romantic occasion. You see, sometimes you just need that option, a certain warmth or glow, even if it’s just “available”. But again, we weren’t here to embrace any quixotic inclinations, despite the unmistakeable buzz of imminent wedding celebrations dancing in the evening air… but still, even the décor was wrong – note to the wise: don’t use dark wood with a light floor tile; it elicits a rather cold black and white tone. Nevertheless, there we sat supporting of a friend of ours who just so happened to be the in-house/restaurant entertainment. The night was decidedly nippy in Gaborone, conveniently inspiring a variety of impulses involving tapping your feet to the beat, patting of the knee and bobbing of the head, even if just to stay warm. Yeah, it was that kind of night, when dancing was also convenient. We knew the music would be good, the food; well, considering we were only there for dessert the margin for error seemed reduced; add a cappuccino and you start to slip into the flow of things pretty easily. Now it must be said that I am known in some circles as a lover of coffee, and was once called a connoisseur of ice cream, so when you tick those two boxes on the menu and throw in some good company; well let’s just say it’s really hard to go wrong from there. But that’s all relative. You see, it’s easy to allow the inconveniences to get the better of you, whether it’s the dust, the heat – which actually wasn’t that bad this time around, generally speaking, I’m really liking this autumn thing – or the flat spider (of unknown species) which scurried across the floor when I dropped my bags in the room where I’d be sleeping… these are just things. Okay I’ll admit, the spider took some getting used to, but I’ve seen worse, waaay worse. You see, when it comes to Africa (more specifically rural Africa), you’ll see things – good and bad (the "bad" aids in heightening the good)– that may send tremors down to your core, forcing a re-evaluation of the way you partake in this thing called life. Everyone needs this kind of meaningful ‘intervention’ every now and then. As another new friend, Lily, jokingly put it whilst in her pyjamas, listening to some sound advice “Hang on, I’m listening… this is a life moment here…” – I don’t feel like explaining the context right now. So what does this have to do with listening to good music and dancing in your chair and laughing with friends and family? Well, “life moments” happens all the time, and often, when we’re not paying attention. I know what you’re thinking. It’s natural; there will be so many moments of subtle splendour to make a fuss over, so if you miss one, you’re probably not missing much, right? Truth is, as I embark on another journey (this one through the pages of a book – something which I haven’t done in a while, I am ashamed to say that), a lesson I’ve just learned again, yes again, is that when you glance back over your life, you only really remember certain highlights, never the whole picture – that’s just the way it is… so it behooves us to make even the simplest moments count, and count again, so that in our flashes of reflection our life’s tapestry, in and amongst the boring bits, the brighter strands will leap out even more. By the way - this month my blog turned 2 years old. Thanks for visiting and your continued support! A friend asked this question on Facebook: Why do people thank God/(whichever deity they serve/believe in) for their success, when its clearly as a result of their own hard work? It’s not about us, it’s about God. When we acknowledge Him as our saviour, it is a complete and all encompassing decision that involves every aspect of our lives. --- There’s a scene in the TV Show ‘The Cleaner’ where the protagonist (Benjamin Bratt’s character, known to have ‘conversations’ with God) is asked by drug rehab centre competitor: “if you’re so righteous and are apparently on some mission from God, why is it that you and I have the same success rate with the people we want to get clean?” If all Christians were well off and living a peaceful and successful life with a great job/house/car, wouldn’t the rest of humanity/society recognise this and gravitate toward it, toward the status, that success in a veritable move of “I want me some of that” – It would be a pretty simple and easy choice. But God is more interested in transforming you inwardly first – physical and material wealth will come in their own time. Of course, the common tagline in these situations is that “it’s all a test” which it is, but it’s not a typical pass/fail scenario, because we will all fail – the point is in developing our relationship with God. And it’s in the trials that we experience the most growth; in our lifelong path. But in accepting Jesus, we take on a lot more than physical/material success. We’re also acknowledging an entire spiritual realm – the supernatural. Choosing this path is accepting that there will definitely be challenges, because it’s about Our Relationship with God! The goal here is, not to invest so much into the materialistic and fleeting nature of this world, because it all ultimately ends in death. So, in taking this path we’re undertaking a full spiritual transformation (or just acknowledging spirituality to begin with), which is the ageless struggle – involving things like faith, spirit, soul etc… --- CS Lewis. “We don’t have a soul. We are souls. We have a body” And whilst we do that, we also look at the world around us differently, the natural world, because we see it in an entirely different context (kind of like IT being the tip of the Iceberg, and we’re focussing on the unseen bit). Of course there’s the shorter answer: that when you choose to believe in God and acknowledge his power, you also come to realise that “without him, I would not exist”, and neither would this world. I exist because of him (I am here because of Him). For a God that has created worlds, what am I, who am I, or where do I fit in? I thank him for being my creator, and thank him for the ability to work and achieve, as well as giving me life… whereas others choose not to (thank or acknowledge him). |
[Banner illustration by Joel Kanar]
WRITING
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