I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it ……………………………… It’s a trap an illusion It taunts me clutches me like quicksand, or what we imagine quicksand to be, the fictional kind. It’s a trick, a confidence trick, a lie that changes every so often, like you’re figuring out the path and then suddenly the environment changes up on you, suddenly your senses are failing you, deceiving, the world is tapping incessantly on the dome of your mind, And then they say “no, that’s normal, writers are supposed to feel like that, writers are supposed to be a little MAD, a little cu coo.” And that’s like saying “yes, you’re meant to drown, that’s kind of your job, to sink in the sand, be covered, embrace the submergence, You chose this didn’t you?” But then they say we don’t get to choose, “we are chosen” Writing is a gift, and the writer is merely the recipient, fulfilling his role, obligated to use that gift, obligated to sink. To be taunted by confidence one moment And then the rug pulled out the next, as we slip into self doubt ... again Sooo, that’s the idea then, to just walk this imaginary line traced along the edge of an imaginary cliff; confidence on one side, and doubt down below on the other. With sympathizers isolated in their own world, offering small consolation, all they can do really, a simple frown, a shrug, palms up… “what can you do?” Maybe you can try to not be a writer, maybe that will solve it? Maybe I could try that, try, try to not be it, try and pretend for a while, being stuck somewhere else. I hate it I hate it because this is simultaneously exactly where I’m meant to be and it is exactly… nowhere. Forever nowhere Because the truth is, if writer’s are the observer’s of the world, and this world isn’t or wasn’t good enough so we decided to make their own worlds, to invent or reinvent stories to explore deeper meanings of pure truths that are hard to comprehend on just the physical plain, then what does that mean? The reality is that if we’re in this world just observing then we’re not technically part of it, we’re just stuck here, dreaming of some other places. There we are Back on the edge of the cliff again Confidence in the imaginary Doubt in reality Pitiful. I hate it So that’s it then, to struggle in quicksand and fight your way out… some of us never do Some of us will always be trapped … I don’t like it. There are only 26 letters, more in other languages, but 26 in this one. That's it. we are not reinventing the language, all stories have been told, we only look for ways to tell the same tales in a different way. Every new generation comes along discovering life and the world anew, because they’ve never seen it before, or heard the stories before, so those same old stories get told, get read, get heard and live again in the minds of a new crowd. That’s the cycle. That’s the trap, the confinement of letters and words, because words are what we have, but they are not enough, even though they have immense power, to inspire, create, reconcile, heal, secure and define... Scribbling to paint some vague picture, just an image of what is actually going on here. So we’re trapped, in between letters and words, in between realities… and the imaginary. I’m not stuck. I just haven’t moved much, not in this world anyway. I don’t like it, because those who I want to see me, do not. And what started as a lament on the war with words, a war with time and being, and seeing and feeling, is all of a sudden put in its place... given new context and meaning the root of this struggle... - “We have so many different and conflicting selves within us that you never know which one will prevail, even when we don’t want certain of them to win" "The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us..." The original Greek for "Word" used in John 1, is Logos... LOGOS (noun) the Word of God, or principle of divine reason and creative order, identified in the Gospel of John with the second person of the Trinity incarnate in Jesus Christ. This methodology then proceeds ‘downward’ to the Incarnation, to the event in which the Word or Logos became man in Jesus Christ. (noun) a symbol or other design adopted by an organization to identify its products, uniform, vehicles, etc.. the Olympic logo was emblazoned across their jackets synonyms: emblem, trademark, brand, device, figure, symbol, design, sign, mark, insignia “We are not made for the mountains, for sunrises, or for the other beautiful attractions in life - those are simply intended to be moments of inspiration. We are made for the valley and the ordinary things of life and that is where we have to prove our stamina and strength.”
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Poem: 'When the sand hits the wood' -Soul and the sand- by Steven Benjamin * When music fades with faltering voices through blurred vision When the grip slackens on the cold metal and feet stumble around on the wet soil When the breath stutters - words fail What remains abide Grasping the dimness What remains is time a slow beat A stare A wave The falling and - hammering grains The shaking breath With trembling hands The grip The failing heart The quiet tears When the sand hits the wood When the soul unfastens its hold The remains pour Prying open the hands of time Falling between its fingers To let loose another * * “The foods I’ve eaten, and the beds I’ve slept in”… it was a working title of a book my father never wrote. It was one in a moderate sized list of things he never got around to doing, or goals that remained in the realm of dreams. But, if he were here today, now… he probably wouldn’t list it under regrets. He wasn’t the type to carry them, barring maybe one or two from his youth that he probably mentioned in passing once or twice, in the time I was a part of his life. But even then, the word ‘regret’ was never used. [Contentment] Sometimes I feel like I’m on the brink of something big, forever questioning whether or not I’m prepared for it, whilst other times I feel like I’m paddling upriver. I’m doing some real work but if I look at the shore, I’m actually going nowhere. I'm aware that in time I'll look back on this piece or period, and what concerns me… Well, I think what will concern me then, is what concerns me now. It’s strange when you find yourself on a road you kind of never chose. I know there’s always a choice, but writing was never in the running in terms of my career choices. I’ve never met anyone who said that when they were young they always dreamed of becoming a writer. Now that I am one, I understand why. There’s a saying, I don’t know by whom but it says ‘people don’t choose to be a writer, Writing chooses people’. I believe there is some truth to that. I think that many folks seem to have an idea where they want to go and affix their sights on that and move toward it. For me that never happened with Writing. It’s like God took me along the road, showing me various inviting avenues, that I would ultimately not take… and one day he brought me to this point {a ballpoint, hehe} where, in hindsight, many things began to make sense. It’s a diversion I never thought of. It elicits many mixed feelings, because its like I was going one way (a way that looked right and seemed to fit, but just didn’t feel 100%), and God tapped me on the shoulder and said, “No, you’re going this way”. So I feel honoured to have been “selected” for this road, but the struggles I face brings me to realize why it must and can only be a chosen few to travel it, who have the stomach for it, otherwise anyone would do it. And with that in mind, getting selected to travel down this particular road, although there are exits and options to divert from this course, or so it seems to the “outside world”, from my perspective, there really isn’t. Otherwise it’s like descending down a mineshaft, and the only way you’ll emerge in public again, is if you keep on digging, keep on mining until you hit something of value to take up to be scrutinized. And the thing is that we all feel like we’ve found gold, but the public doesn’t seem to think so, or some folk acknowledge that what we have does hold some value, just not to their pockets. So you’ve found (created) something, now the job is to decipher if what you have is real gold (of whatever purity), or just some shiny metal, or just some plain metal… Although any writer will argue that the market needs all kinds of metals, we just need to ensure that we’re peddling our wares to the right crowd. One man’s junk is another man’s treasure (though I’m not saying what you have is junk, but rather that in someone’s eyes - someone reputable, other than yourself – what you have could be a treasure). And so it goes. We forge on, in solitary self doubt, and often darkness, to find a glimmer of light… And it’s not easy, especially when dealing with that ever present companion I just referred to, called doubt. And he’s not alone either. Not only is there the personal doubt, but the often silent doubt (hand-in-hand with waning confidence) of your fiercest fans and loved ones - your virtuous "true believers", if you're fortunate enough to have some. You might say you’re mining (in a way), but perhaps they think you’re sailing, and that your boat is sinking, and there’s no wind to guide your sails. You might think a great many things, that so what if you’re on an allegorical boat, and that you’re fanning the flames of your own budding career, using what looks suspiciously like wood from your own, very same, sinking boat… - what if someone sees those flames? What if someone wades out to ‘rescue’ you… Because maybe they believe, as you always have, that you have a story worth telling. Maybe your chunk of metal isn’t meant for a necklace or ring… maybe it’s meant for a gun barrel, or silverware or a key To unlock other worlds... and if that sounds like a cliche, then you know the kind of plywood we're dealing with to keep the boat afloat. We scratch, mine, sail, sink and/or swim by our hopes... and NOT our fears. . [Image credits: pixshark.com, Radka Malbeck photography, "boy writing"- Ernest Cole photography, thedirtlife.blogspot.com]
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! 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. |
[Banner illustration by Joel Kanar]
WRITING
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