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!
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What lies behind the unexpected? When a stranger talks, what will you believe? Short fiction by Steven Benjamin “Where are you?” I share almost everything with her. And she’s looking at me. And when she looks at me with vague concern mixed with curiosity, and her eyes change colour ever so slightly, with her question still hanging in the air; I’m then conscious of the burden weighing on my shoulders. That she sees this strain, means it’s affecting me in more ways than I know. It’s time to tell. I just need to soak it in and make sense of it on my own terms. My thoughts were with that of another man. A man I’d met earlier that day. One who would not change my life in any major distinguishable way, but definitely in the way I looked at things - the world around me. And so I told her of my day, watching her as she listened, to gauge how my words were being received. “He didn’t give me his name. He wore a shirt buttoned up to the neck but didn’t wear a tie. I don’t remember how we started chatting, but there we were; middle aged, I think we were both distracted by the same thing. I do remember asking him why he’d come to the country. He said that he was actually on a return visit. He’d come to see a man with whom he had a special relationship. He said that this man he was going to meet had become quite influential since they’d first met; he’d since gained many unwanted followers. That was months ago by the way. I asked him how they did meet – you know, just advancing the conversation. And then he said that this man he was going to meet was in prison, and that some months ago, he had tried to kill him. I thought I miss-heard him when he said that , but then he said it again “Yes. He tried to kill me.” He said it, almost like he couldn’t believe it himself, or couldn’t believe what he was saying. Anyway. He said this man had changed quite dramatically since they’d last seen each other in court. I asked what made him change, and this man said that he thought the man found God. I asked if he believed him, and he looked at me, straight in the eyes, and said yes. He was nodding when he said that, his voice a little cracked. I asked what made him believe him. And he said that he didn’t know, but that it felt… natural. He said that little would change if their roles were reversed. I don’t know why I asked this, but for some reason I did; I asked him how the man tried to kill him. He looked at me and shook his head; even half smiled. And then he said he was a tourist, actually no, he was working but had taken some time off to roam, and he was in the wrong part of town, trying to do something stupid and illegal. He said this man tried to chop his head off, with a long blade, like a machete.” “What?” “That’s what I said. He nodded to me. Said he almost succeeded. I didn’t understand, or maybe I didn’t completely believe it. We sat there, not talking for a while, just letting his words hang in the air. And then he looks at me again. It feels awkward, you know. His eyes a bit like glass. So he reaches up and undoes his shirt's top button and pulls his collar clear of his neck. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. It was a half inch thick scar running across his neck. I couldn’t see where it started or where it stopped. But it cut across his windpipe, and several big veins. He touched it gently with his fingertips. It’s like he was making sure it was still there. And then he nodded and buttoned up again. I thought I was imagining it. I was blinking trying to freeze it in my memory. He said that he wasn’t the first person to be under that blade. But he was quite certain that he was the first, and so far the only person, to get up afterwards, after it had come down. It took some weeks mind you, to get enough strength back just to stand, he said, but still. I asked him how, how he was still alive. He said he didn’t know, but that what he believed, is not what everyone else would believe. He then asked me something. He asked: ‘Does death happen to us? Can death happen? I mean its only the absence of life. So by rights, life happens, death is just what we call it when life is no longer there... absent. When life stops.’ “’All I know is this’ he told me, ‘death was supposed to come. But here I am, sitting beside you.’ He says the man who tried to kill him looked like a ghost when he eventually saw him again, still alive. He said the man started screaming, acting all mad, before he collapsed in shock, and started weeping.” I was thinking about all this when my wife asked me another question. “Do you think he was telling the truth?” “I know it sounds naïve, but there was no reason for him to lie to me. At the very least it is true that it is a story. But whatever… I believed him when he told it to me” And then there’s that scar. So there I was thinking; sitting, and thinking. Mostly I was just thinking about what to think. Was this Pandora holding my hand and smacking me in the face? – sounds like something my Dad would say. Like I said; it didn’t shake up my life in any visible way, but it did something to my mind. Like you’ve spent a lifetime building something with small bricks, one at a time, and here someone comes and shifts something out of place. Now everything looks the same, but it isn’t, you know it isn’t, but you’re not sure where that missing piece is, or how it will affect everything else, or how it’s all still standing. All I know is; it’s very simple, you see, it’s the way he said it. Something was supposed to happen, something expected, something inevitable even… but it didn’t. So. Now... tell me, what happens? I’ll ask you what I asked my wife; what happens, when something that’s supposed to be inevitable, that’s supposed to occur… doesn’t *** I thought my days were ash, but what are days really? There was a time many moons and suns ago, when I was a different color. I was young once too you know. I’ve heard, or actually since I don’t hear, I’ve felt that I am descended from a long line, that my ancestors on these great dry plains are plentiful, some might even still be floating around. The old ones. One or two passed me by in my younger days. Those were but brief encounters. Time stands still in those times when the yearning thirst for rains and moisture are long, here within the shimmering furnace of nowhere. I am sure that had I eyes to see, I would not be fond of the view, because despite the changing seasons, there is not much change on these distant plains – I can feel it. I thought my day was up, or days. I thought my roots had reached for the last damp, or the last lick of dew to be had in this rocky outcrop, in the hard and the dry. I have let go pieces of myself – there will always be a branch to spare. I suppose I should’ve expected it, having experienced the faint wisp of a passing relative, that I one day too would be free. But now I am. I’ve caught a second wind, or second hundredth – I lost count when I was but a sapling that age ago. Now I feel many things, mostly hard. But, in lifetimes of mostly wind and dust and rain and the heavy undergrowth, a rock or several hundred are welcome acquaintances than simply floating against the bareness. I passed by some embers some time ago, can’t say how long. It could well have been some relatives of mine, giving way for another world, another time. The wind will claim them. The wind claims everything, just as it carries and rolls me along. It’s still dry here. It’s always dry here. Ancient murmurings make this to be that place called the cousin to a desert. Why, because what little growth there is – like myself – provides that glimmer of hope, where a desert has none. I have passed by some far off dwellings and some lonely living things. All are waiting, that is all anyone does here, to wait, for those clouds to bring a faint promise... We wait. I use to wait too, until I took this journey, this long journey. Who knows how long it will last or where I will go. I do know that there is no more waiting, not for me. But, I do feel like this journey, my only one of substantive distance, shall be my first, my last, and my only. For now, I tumble on… and in this vast land of nothingness but dust and thirst I am what I am. I am home, in this place without time, of dust and rock and me, where the sun is my shelter, referred to by many in a grating whisper, on an umpteenth wind as, ‘Thirstland’. --- Flash fiction by Steven Benjamin [flickr.com, mikerossi.co.za, jbaynews.files.wordpress.com, northerncape-info-directory.co.za, rainharvest.co.za, theday.co.uk, karoospace.co.za, lessonsleatlastnight.files.wordpress.com, portfoliocollection.com, themaxefiles.blogspot.com, safaribookings.com, thewildangle.com, savingwater.co.za, dressedbystyle.com] Fact: South Africa is 2nd only to Australia in the world, when it comes to the countries with the most Windmill's. Evolution and decay Poem by Steven Benjamin Walking through the infield, I hear the whistling trees The howling wind, and the rustling reeds. Listen to the silence. As the sun dawn’s, over the lonely racetrack Secretly. There was a time when championships were run here, Emotions too. The track is clear now, the crowd long silent, passed on even. I still hear their roar, or is it the engines An echo of memories, or imagined. Here, the earth moved once, The chequered flag was there, raised, waiting… breaths were held heroes were made and lives were claimed. With weeds glancing my shins I stride through the beautiful decay, A monument to past untamed passion. Abandoned, ever waiting Whispers of her past on the backs of leaves tumbling down the embankment over cracked tarmac. A past of danger, and of glory. She dared men. A different time, a different world. And in the minds of a brave few, long gone This patch of brokenness, was a frightening and daunting giant of chance. The world evolved around her. She remained, now Half claimed by time Waiting for death, or an odd few wanderers Willing to linger, and listen, to her soft whisper, that was once an old taunting song of vigor, once vibrant and wild, now just a cold, distant hum *** The original host of the 1950's French Grand Prix at Riems, the circuit is abandoned, but the main pit straight with Grand stand opposite, is part of a main road. Authorities have left it as a monument - tourists are free to roam and investigate, but asked to respect the place, hence no graffiti or demolition. I would’ve brought this post to you yesterday but it took me a while to actually look for the original poem in uh, shall we call it my ‘personal archives’. The thing is that the original version of this poem is one of the first I ever wrote – I was around 14 at the time and it was for a school project… so I wrote about something that I loved, but with a slight twist. The original had to do specifically with the first Formula 1 race in 1950, entitled ‘Evolution’, and I wrote it as though I was actually there, living the experience through the ‘memories’ and pictures of others – a fabricated memory so to speak. I went looking for it again because I was reminded of it after watching the film ‘Rush’. I reviewed it last year for ‘In The Kan’, and I recently bought the DVD… I highly recommend it. The feelings of nostalgia I felt prompted me to have another look at this piece. The changes I made (call it the 'decay' portion) were simply to reflect a lifelong desire of mine to visit some of the old racetracks of the world – something I imagine only aficionado’s dream about. You see, the old tracks weren’t governed by how many spectators could be seated in the stands (some didn’t even have stands) or which corners could best be captured on TV to cater for the massive audience and commercial rights… no, the best tracks were carved or laid out on unforgiving landscapes – a niche sport that was half banished to rural back countrysides, mountains and forests, well outside city limits (barring Monte Carlo of course, the first anomaly and part of what made it the jewel in the F1 crown, because it was and still is – 100 years on – the center stage filled with glitz, glamour and not to mention royalty - the first street circuit). Tracks like the old Nurburgring around the Medieval castle from where it got its name, the old Monza Oval, Spa Francorchamps – the original was a 15km monster track in a rough triangle connecting 3 towns, the original Osterreichring in the Styrian Mountains, the beautiful Charade Circuit in central France – and those are just the famous ones… there are so many that lay forgotten, overrun with weeds, half demolished, like forgotten cities of yore. Just like the Roman Colosseum and other such ruins, these tracks are ruins with less age but a folklore all their own. It says something about time – something like the automobile, that has captured the hearts of so many men, yet as it has evolved and outgrown eras and arenas, so we can see how fleeting it all is, just like the moment when one of those cars speeds past – it’s all recorded by time… one race after another, trying to beat the next man or just the clock, and that, as it turns out, is ultimately what always wins. --- Here's a short story I wrote with similar nostalgia "Black Velvet Ring"... Days of Glory [Image credits: silodrome.com, tumblr, pinterest, basementgeographer.com, wikipedia.org, retrorides.proboards.com] {A story in development - for writers, every story is in development, until they decide to abandon it... I haven't quite abandoned this one just yet. At the moment, its just a vent for an idea that's still brewing.} “Do me a favour.” It read. She set the paper down. She wasn’t quite ready for it. She turned off the TV, she saw enough of herself in editing. She strode out the kitchen and up the steps, then down the short corridor to one of the two upstairs rooms… her room. Or at least it used to be. She sat down on the bare single mattress, and then started reading again. “Look out the window at the sky. Whether nightly stars, clear blue, or laden clouds… curl your knees to your chest, and keep looking. Now look at yourself. Look at your legs, your hands, your feet… what do you see?” She glanced out the window. Then around the room and at the closed door, as if expecting someone to walk in even though the house was empty. She looked at herself, just as she’d read, running her hands over her legs and feet, then staring at the palms of her hands. “What do you see?” she read it again. “It’s you. Little you in a big world. I did that too you know. I thought to myself: how small I am. How small I am that you’d think of me. We are not giants in this world… although our spirits may be.” “I saw you walking up the lane at the back, outside. I also liked to do that. It’s because of that lane and the field that I bought the house. Even when it’s dry and brown in summer, I still go. There was a fire once, burnt half the hillside. Can’t remember how we put it out… All I remember is that people came out of nowhere to help. When they left, and I was standing on the stoop, sweating, tired, I remember thinking: ‘that wasn’t boring’. “I danced upstairs, alone, with no music, maybe even in your room. I was drinking so I don’t remember what room… probably wasn’t such a good idea – could’ve fallen down the stairs. I remember that I danced because my feet made a loud noise on the wooden floor boards. I always wanted to do it, somehow that time it just felt right. And so I tap danced; I think I was laughing as well, but I don’t know why, it wasn’t a normal laugh. “I write this to explain myself. You were younger, and I could’ve told you then but these things need time to, unravel. We were broken, both of us. I could not allow your mother’s death to intercept or delay your future. This place has taught me, that everything passes. I told you, and I’m sure you noted how small we are. Remember our trips to the beach. Remember how we watched the waves, how we fell asleep. And when we left the tide had claimed our footprints. There we saw, we saw something that has been for many years, centuries, so our visit to that shore was like our visit to this life… In my years I have seen what time does to the human body. I’ve seen how nature will reclaim everything – but we are not our bodies – we are simply driving them – for a short while. So, do not despair, for they are not meant to last. I write this also, to apologise. There is something I need to apologise for, and although I cannot for the life of me put my finger on it, I can sense its presence – that vague guilt of something I did or didn’t do. I am aware of the vacancies within our little tapestry of family life, but as you know, I’ve never been a good seamstress.” She chuckled to herself, remembering a time he’d called the ladder in her stockings ‘steps’. “I love you. I agreed to you leaving so forcefully because I wanted you out of the shadow that this house was in back then. Those are probably the times when people should remain close, but sometimes proximity has little bearing on the emotions. Sometimes you can live with someone, but also just pass them by day by day. It made the time we did spend together that much more precious. Thank you for not questioning my odd ways. I did not plan it this way; I too was once again a student… “I leave this house to you, and everything I own. You are strong woman, and I am a proud father.” She paused before reading the last line. “Be without hindrance.” She looked at the paper in her hands. Then she thought of that time when she looked at the house as they drove away, watching it grow smaller through the car window. She thought of the sum of material things which constituted her ‘life’, piled into that car. She thought of the goodbye with her father. Holding him, pressing the side of her face against his chest, her eyes closed, his hand on her head. She could not remember breaking the hug… in her memory, it never ended, even though she remembered him driving away in the old car, waving, and then looking at her in the rear view mirror. That picture of him through the back windscreen sat in her memory, just the back of his head over the headrest, through the window. She hugged her legs to her chest, resting her head on her knees, she closed her eyes. It wasn’t long after when she lay down, pulling a blanket over her. The house had always felt big, too big for the just the three of them, or the two of them... It didn’t feel that way now. The single bed upon which she lay, felt small and cramped. It had been years since she’d heard the creak of these bed springs. Her father seemed to see this place as a kind of unwanted anchor for her, a place that would hold her back. But lying there, with her eyes closed, she felt tethered for the first time in years. And it was a good feeling. He would've wanted her to sell it, but for her, this was her one secret place, one she needed, considering all her days chasing the truth. She took comfort in knowing that she knew how to hide from time to time. They say the truth will set you free, but for her, all the truth the world offered - she needed this escape, this truth. This was real. it may be a largely empty house, but her memories were not. [picture credits: digitalcameraworld.com-Gianluca Bennati, aso-geopark.jp, prettylittlenest.com] Mark Twain, AKA Samuel Langhorne Clemens (1835 - 1910), as Publisher's Weekly once noted: "this manic, profound, daft and provocative mad genius of American culture." Author of the so-called, 'Great American novel': Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (and the one he wrote before that, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer). Hence, he's often called the 'great American novelist'. With that intro, plus the fact that his works and philosophies are enjoying a resurgence in modern literature and even political commentary, it's no stretch to think he'd have tips and relevant opinions on writing itself. Here then is his 18 tips on writing, followed by a short story which I thought appropriate for the sake of this blog - and my writing career. "To succeed in life, you need two things: ignorance and confidence." - - Twain Mark Twain's Rules for Writing 1. A tale shall accomplish something and arrive somewhere. 2. The episodes of a tale shall be necessary parts of the tale, and shall help develop it. 3. The personages in a tale shall be alive, except in the case of corpses, and that always the reader shall be able to tell the corpses from the others. 4. The personages in a tale, both dead and alive, shall exhibit a sufficient excuse for being there. 5. When the personages of a tale deal in conversation, the talk shall sound like human talk, and be talk such as human beings would be likely to talk in the given circumstances, and have a discoverable meaning, also a discoverable purpose, and a show of relevancy, and remain in the neighborhood of the subject in hand, and be interesting to the reader, and help out the tale, and stop when the people cannot think of anything more to say. 6. When the author describes the character of a personage in his tale, the conduct and conversation of that personage shall justify said description. 7. When a personage talks like an illustrated, gilt-edged, tree-calf, hand-tooled, seven-dollar Friendship's Offering in the beginning of a paragraph, he shall not talk like a Negro minstrel at the end of it. 8. Crass stupidities shall not be played upon the reader by either the author or the people in the tale. 9. The personages of a tale shall confine themselves to possibilities and let miracles alone; or, if they venture a miracle, the author must so plausibly set it forth as to make it look possible and reasonable. 10. The author shall make the reader feel a deep interest in the personages of his tale and their fate; and that he shall make the reader love the good people in the tale and hate the bad ones. 11. The characters in tale be so clearly defined that the reader can tell beforehand what each will do in a given emergency. An author should 12. _Say_ what he is proposing to say, not merely come near it. 13. Use the right word, not its second cousin. 14. Eschew surplusage. 15. Not omit necessary details. 16. Avoid slovenliness of form. 17. Use good grammar. 18. Employ a simple, straightforward style. "The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time." My debut As a Literary Person Short Story by Mark Twain In those early days I had already published one little thing ('The Jumping Frog') in an Eastern paper, but I did not consider that that counted. In my view, a person who published things in a mere newspaper could not properly claim recognition as a Literary Person: he must rise away above that; he must appear in a magazine. He would then be a Literary Person; also, he would be famous--right away. These two ambitions were strong upon me. This was in 1866. I prepared my contribution, and then looked around for the best magazine to go up to glory in. I selected the most important one in New York. The contribution was accepted. I signed it 'MARK TWAIN;' for that name had some currency on the Pacific coast, and it was my idea to spread it all over the world, now, at this one jump. The article appeared in the December number, and I sat up a month waiting for the January number; for that one would contain the year's list of contributors, my name would be in it, and I should be famous and could give the banquet I was meditating. I did not give the banquet. I had not written the 'MARK TWAIN' distinctly; it was a fresh name to Eastern printers, and they put it 'Mike Swain' or 'MacSwain,' I do not remember which. At any rate, I was not celebrated and I did not give the banquet. I was a Literary Person, but that was all--a buried one; buried alive. My article was about the burning of the clipper-ship 'Hornet' on the line, May 3, 1866. There were thirty-one men on board at the time, and I was in Honolulu when the fifteen lean and ghostly survivors arrived there after a voyage of forty-three days in an open boat, through the blazing tropics, on ten days' rations of food. A very remarkable trip; but it was conducted by a captain who was a remarkable man, otherwise there would have been no survivors. He was a New Englander of the best sea-going stock of the old capable times--Captain Josiah Mitchell. For the full story, click HERE "Patriotism is supporting your country all the time, and your government when it deserves it." When he died, American newspapers declared (typically arrogant, though somewhat retrospectively prophetic) "The whole world is mourning", The following quote is perhaps his most famous... "Truth is stranger than Fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn't." So, again, this is a little abstract for me.. it was quite interesting dredging this story up to see how the years have treated it, and I must say I'm both intrigued and a little befuddled by my own work (which I'll take as a good thing). Here's part 2 of * Corner of fourth and main (Cont.)... Short Story by Steven Benjamin (2004) I focussed on her, her eyes. Taking a step closer; our moment of eye contact, observed in two minutes, as the world fell silent. If that world could see her eyes, peace would reign. She looked right through me, as if inadvertently mending my future – injecting hope. Her passive stance, yet lucid, compassionate eyes. ‘Why me?’ I wondered as trepidation crept up my spine. Fear, as her gaze consumed me. She gave of her life, to somehow compensate for the lack in mine. Hitherto, I was at the pinnacle of my life – my wife told me: she hoped our child would take after me, especially my passion for success. I was a warrior – the courtroom was my battlefield. The agency had abducted me, robbing me of my sanity, accusing me of betrayal, threatening my family. Two days in an interrogation room… felt like two weeks in a torture chamber. I had no information to give, I was innocent. Awakening, intense light blinding me; it was a hospital room. I emerged from it, my body aching, the noise deafening. I was told to visit the morgue, to certify that my wife and unborn child were dead. The world turned vertical. The pain signalling that I’d collapsed and hit the floor – darkness. Standing at the corner once again, the street empty. She was an adversary of the agency, whom I had worked for, thus I blamed her, God, the law, everyone, for taking my life. The discernment came when this woman unconsciously injected her purity of life into mine. God wasn’t the enemy, or the law. The agency whom I’d been a part of, had erased myself worth. The foe I fought was I, my mind. I was the common denominator, the origin of my own life’s destruction. Self combustion. Walking down the empty street, away from my infamous corner, I accepted that I had to share my world with her. This connection, would progressively emerge as a new paradise for our souls. Meeting her at the end of the block, her smile could make evil men repent. We embraced as mankind reappeared around us. Observing the street now, I realised we were standing on the corner of fourth and main – again… -->> It's the abstract nature of this story that gets to me the most, using an almost poetic narrative to tell the tale which is somewhat illusive. I believe the core storyline was something very basic, but the trauma of events lent something of an intangible quality to the story, leaving you and me wondering; how much of what the protagonist says, actually happened...? NOTE: *** I will be on the road (as in road-tripping) and/or in a different (neighboring) country during the next few weeks, thus don't expect any updates for a little while... God Bless! Stay cool, Stay Calm and Read On. If I do post in the coming weeks,it will probably be pictures from my travels, but I won't make any promises. ***
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[Banner illustration by Joel Kanar]
WRITING
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