Him for Her

There was a cruel miscarriage of justice written in ash and embers. The amber glow of spent vigour twisted the vines that once hugged the old tree. Once brilliant with chlorophyll and teaming with life, the luminous veins were the symbol of a hope that lived before the sky summoned it’s executioner. Now ashen and frail they lay strewn amongst the blades of grass, robbed of vitality, bearing no semblance to there original beauty.

From the speckled screen of privilege, I was kept safe at a distance, watching the ruckus unfold. The storm would rile itself up with that thunderous call and response that claimed the stormy nights. The room would shake as the air, taught by the rain and imposing clouds, was cut clean by the limbs of lights that stretched down. Outside my looking pane, out of reach of the reality of it all, nature was claiming its dominion over nature. My mother told me that lightning never strikes the same place twice. I’ve heard the words repeated time and time again, now looking on at the remains of the old tree, smitten by the sky, I prayed the heavens would spare that patch of earth another bout of fury.

I can’t remember when it was that I stopped running from those thunderous claps. I never took note of the way the fear molded itself into fascination. I out grew the cowering and faced into the storm from the safety of my window. A veil clear enough to never hide whats there to see, but veil enough to to ensure I didn’t taste the sting of the moment.

The elements wear their emotions on there sleeves, never resigning themselves to the judgment of onlookers. The thunder has been praised and vilified, none of this had altered its readiness to do its bidding. Staring at the remains of the old tree I see that beauty has hidden bite, nature has hidden might, the sharp sparks of heaven could strike as marvelous, or touch upon earth with ugly hues of destruction. There is a pantomime of ether that will wind to unfold in unexpected endings, in unexpected beginnings, unexpected majesty and mourning.

 

 

There was a cruel a miscarriage of justice written in ash and embers. The amber glow of unchecked rage, rattled off in storms that ate away at her. Such jagged diction, then taken as norm, was gifted thoughtlessly until they touched on the sinews of that lone soul brave enough to stand tall in the open, weathering the storms.

I hate that I wasn’t the only one watching as another cloudy day claimed her smile as the hope that coursed her veins was claimed by thunder. Her voice was lost in the wash of a horse wind begging her to “Remember her place.”

“What place?” I thought.

Sadly I knew.

There are only so many storm that privilege can shelter me away from. With out the rain on my back I’m numb to the reality of the stand, I forfeit forever my watching post.

My sister. I will be counted in the forest that will grow around you. I will be there to stand by you when the world is all raindrops and fire. I will stand tall, rooted deeply, footing firm and far reaching so every storm will tread tentatively before washing the ground around you. She fights for her right to stand tall in the bitter air. She stands tall to outlive the roar of the witless lumberjacks chains, intent on binding her strength. I have watched those branches tapped for way too long, limbs leaking with majesty, bleeding your sustenance dry. Your crooked bark outlines the story that was written in silence, the broken Armour that recounts the nights fighting against the storm.

When the sky is all raindrops and fire, I promise to stand with you.

Wake Up Call.

 

Alarm_Clocks_20101105

 

I was challenged by my notion of passion. The thought caught me at an important part of my day, the moment when my alarm wakes me up for the first time. It’s always the same, I feel a heaviness in my body, my eyes timidly sip in the light, and I’m met by the snooze paradox, there is a split second decision to be made, to keep pushing or lay still.

I got into the habit of setting more than one alarm, I didn’t trust myself. This means that if I missed the first alarm, there would be a second, third and fourth to follow to rouse me and succeed where the first one failed.

I have over analysed that morning struggle for a long time. I always blamed the lethargy on my nutrition and sleeping pattern, I felt as though the reason I wasn’t as energized by that call to action was simply down to the fact that I wasn’t well rested and my body wasn’t fueled right. That argument made sense until the weekend rolled around. After a late nights sleep and having skipped a meal the night before I met the morning ready, raring to go, I was up before the sun had a chance to sneak in into my through the gap between my curtains.

It hit me, my will to rise wasn’t seeded in my diet, or the quality of my sleep, it was summoned from higher up. I wont deny the importance of food and sleep, but I ignore the excitement that filled my hear waking up to a blank canvas beckoning my mark.When my day was a fresh sheet I could carve and claim as my own it excited me. On the other hand when I was met by a paint by numbers scenario to step into my steps stuttered. Having to trace over somebody else’s work robbed me of planting my chance seed at the heart of it all. Something about being limited to the white spaces dotted around the page stole from the fun of the whole page.

People talk about the importance of “whys” an awful lot. I understood the concept well, I felt I lived inside the idea for a long time, for a very long time, I was wrong. We can retrospectively rationalize anything given half a chance, as humans we excel here. I was always ready, I held a hand full of reasons to offer up when I was presented with a question as to why I am a certain way. The whole idea of naming things, gave me a comfort in the mystery of everything, the devil we know is better than the devil we dont. I guess I was too eager to have an answer for the questions I had no answers to, I was rushing away from assumed uncertainty, I didn’t take enough time to answer them myself. I understand now that I don’t always have to have the answer. Sometimes its okay not to know, sometimes it’s better. It makes it feel better when you feel around that empty space and learn the true nature of it all, instead of padding the holes in our knowledge with an answer that sustains the illusion of control.

If you ask me 5 years from now, 5 months from now, or even 5 days from now, “What gets you up every morning?” my answer will probably change. But today… It’s this,

 I’m just excited to get better everyday. I’ve found this crazy canvas that would take a lifetime to paint, and I’m ready for the challenge. Allow me freedom to paint my masterpiece.

Are you working on your masterpiece?

 

S.K

 

Passing Time

 

It’s all well and good writing all day, I love it. Spending hour after hour picking apart and piecing together these word pictures. If I could, I would live inside these patiently woven word capsules and never catch sight of day. Words tend to take me places, crazy places where mystery meets magic and the wonders never cease. Reality, the cruel creature she is, strips me of my juvenile fancy to stay at play, so I have to take to finding solace and joy in the land of the living.

I’m a man of simple pleasures. I have a few vices that keep me human, a few friends who keep me toeing the fine line of sanity and a few core principles, these help steer this crazy fare ground ride in the right direction.
I try to feed my various faculties well. I got in the habit of making sure that my mind, body and heart were always getting there fair share of the pie. As with most things, the more I fed them, the more they grew. The more they grew, the more they wanted to consume. My entire life is now spent catering to these faculties.

I used to own a small book shelf, a quaint little thing. It held an assortment of fiction and nonfiction, from from a hand full of authors. That little bookshelf stopped being enough years ago. I discovered  that I always had to know more, I always had to read more, I always had to learn, leafing deep into the paper hides of everything that tickled my curiosity. My small collection has grown in size. Since I started feeding my mind I’ve had to reach out for more content to appease its hunger. I now have  a bookshelf, a duffle bags, and an assortment of storage boxes filled with literature I’ve digested, and literature waiting to be soaked in. I like to read.

The books and the writing cater to a more sedentary life style. I balance the quiet of the study desk with the action and vigour of sport. I was once a very keen basketball player, playing through all 7 days of the week if the opportunity presented itself. Of late, I’ve had to enjoy the sport more sporadically than I would like to. This hasn’t been a barrier enough to dwindle my physical exploits. I make the effort to work up a decent sweat as often as I can. I’ve recently started setting myself some challenges, something to keep me pushing the envelope and working to get better, fitter, faster, stronger. I’ve ran a few races with surprising success, a couple 10k’s and a Half Marathon. More recently I’ve taken up a new sport to sharpen me up a bit. Its all exciting stuff, hard work, but truly exciting stuff. I’ve always enjoyed the lessons in discipline that sport has been able to teach me. Eating well was always a true test of discipline, having to turn my nose up at a banquette of baked goods has been testing.

When all is said and done, I like to take time to take care of my relationships. Depending on who you talk to, I take to this with varying degrees of consistency. The down side to chasing storms is that you lose track of time, after the dust settles, everything appears strange and out of place, with your bearing a little off. In light of all the sacrifices I’ve had to make in pursuit of this vision of mine, a few faces have stayed close by despite the bouts of radio silence. Its hard to ignore those faces, without those faces the initial fear would have swallowed me whole and I wouldn’t have dared to try. Taking the time to share moments with these people is precious, it makes sure my heart is filled with all the right stuff. Whenever I step back to life I take the time to laugh, cry and make memories with them.

When I am not writing I try to make my days count. At times it feels as though there aren’t enough hours in a day, but for each day there is time enough for savouring moments. There are moments to grow, moments learn, moments to love, moments to live.

Blissful Nomad

 

 

 

Choice

4245793-river

Sometimes its easy, sometimes its hard, but making the decision is key. There are a thousand tributaries rooted in every second, every moment presents an option to reshape the course of the river. This body of time has life and a mind of its own, it keeps coursing, swallowing the world in its fluid steps. Gracefully supple, undeniably powerful, you have to take care and take to it in the right way.

There is a song that plays in the air as it cuts a course.The sweet and sour notes of this able bodied wine, aged since time in memorial, winds a testing harmony, demanding action or provoking complacency. Branches will fall from family trees, the ground will give way, there will be rapids that will beg you to find the strength to find air when it leaves you. When you fall victim to the notion that you are merely a passenger, you turn you lips to sour curves when greeted by the dissonance in the melody of you maladjustments. These twisted features steal from your chance to take ownership and rescue your rhythm. Tread carefully, pause and tread water, find the strength to command you minds oars.

I was in the habit of watching her lead. Infected by everything inside her, I lost sight of sense while spending time in her tranquil torrents. Like anyone else, I had my senses, I had my character. Without faltering I proved myself the master of my own thoughts on many an occasion rich with with her clear waters. She paralyzed this truth, with rapids, blankets of wash that showered me, washing my hands clean of confidence stolen from worldly things. Naked, I felt nameless, the river left me with many questions. Who was I? Where was I headed.

I believe our words are heavy, so I heaved a statement into existence that yoked my sense of self to effort. The river will always run, its race is longer and truer than mine. I will dive in and run with it while my body is able, while my breath is in action I will work with the waves and hold up my end of the bargain and cut my own course. There are a thousand tributaries rooted in every second, every moment presents an option to reshape the course of the river. I will be ready when the rapids return, captain of my voyage.

 

The List.

Today I left my house with a roughly folded note tucked into my jacket pocket.

I’m the kind of person who enjoys writing lists. So this morning, just before I put on my shoes to leave the house, I made a list. I decided to list the things I thought were important to remember and carry through the day. It turns out there were 7 things I felt I need to keep in mind going into the day.

  1. Write at least one true sentence today. Eventually you won’t suck.
  2. Spend some time reading a book, there is plenty of living in those pages. Chase an adventure.
  3. Be brave enough to sit in silence. Those little voices will wear themselves out. Listen to how your lungs invite the world in, how the world eases out again. Listen, the world is speaking.
  4. She’s only as beautiful as her mind.
  5. Call Mum.
  6. The day goes where you take it.
  7. Stay present, Time is money. Savour the worth of every second.

What does your list for the day look like?

S.K

Writing 101, Day 6: Character Building

Pardon me as I brush aside the cob webs of my blog space once more. My contribution to day 6 of this blogging challenge is finally up. I was asked to write about the most interesting person I’ve met recently. This was a hard one, this was an interesting one, this stretch my writing voice gave me a good old kick in the backside. After a lot of thinking, and a little bit of writing, I think I have something. Enjoy.

I remember pushing through the crowds. The air was worn and warm, weathered by the long days we worked in those crowded castles of concert. The spent air was heavy our necks, it ushered us all down the cluttered warrens of Bristol. Together we marched, our weary bodies angled in growing clusters, coursing through the city towards the train station. The working day was done.

I always look back to that day, puzzled with what ifs. Because I know, there was a moment that gifted me a glance into a precious moment. I would be one piece short of a stunning mosaic, if for some reason, the winds of fate swept across differently. If I stayed with that first wave, I wouldn’t have missed that train. If I hadn’t missed that train I Wouldn’t have been spending that hour amongst the silence that settled on temple meads after rush hour, I wouldn’t have met Kyza.

I didn’t mind the long waits at the platform, the book I had been reading was getting good, the words surrounded me with every page, an opportunity to leaf through those heavy pages of the Bhagavad-Gita was more than enough to settle my mind. I found it hard to really separate the world around me from the world on the pages while I was at home, there was life outside those four walls that fed my forever active mind. I don’t know why I thought the task was mine, but there was a code of character and human habit that seem to puzzle and tease me, begging me to crack it. Those daily commutes and spontaneous outings became a home for my curious mind, and became an opportunity to decypher the code.

I was greeted by a voice, “Awesome book!”

I wasn’t sure who she was, where she came from or what she was hoping to gain. There is a degree of isolation I’ve grown to expect from city folk, I’ve watched them and never have I caught them watch back from there tailor made realities. I guess that seclusion of well dress isolation had left with the cloud of busy minds that filtered into the earlier train, thick with haste and importance.

“I always thought it was my secret.” She continued, “I didn’t know many people read that stuff, these days.” I clearly remember being alone on that platform edge, those gusts of wind that chased the trains through the station must have washed her in silently and unannounced.

You never know when something will slowly pierced the perfect bubble that you coax into a neat circle of comfort. My world was changing under the pressure of evenly spaced type face, ink heavy with seamless intention staining the white pages with ideas that threatened my bubble. She had arrived in the same way as those words had done, unexpectedly, and in the midsts of a silent wait to reach something I thought was home.

It was her tone that was warm, twisted in a germinating evening chill, finding me unaware and prying me back into the word of tangible things. At first there were only those warm words, then there was a face sat next to me, staring right back at me. Strange eyes hiding a familiar want. Her eyes shared the same beat of a winged curiosity fighting to see deeper than the colour of life. We coloured the silent station with the conversation of familiar strangers.

I could rumble on at length, talking through the vibrant hues of her diction. The vibrant purple of her reassurance that, “not everyone will see the sense outside their sensibility,” the flickering yellows that eased themselves into highlighting the words that had captured her as wildly as they captured me, “Its crazy what you learn was wrong, from everything you knew to be right” she said ” Personal paradigms are crazy.” I laughed. I loved this spectrum she offered up, although I felt for the blackness she stifled when she fought back her cynicism, where did she find the comfort to share, when will I find this rainbow again.

If you asked the other eyes that filtered through the station, they would tell you about the wiry young girl, with a head full of curled up copper. Homely, with skin tickled by freckles around the nose. They would probably question her timeless attire, they would question her awkwardly draped clothes, the way she did seem to fit inside a world were the metronome of popular culture marks time.

Those filtering eyes leapt in and out of the passing carriages. Time stretched itself widely and into each pocket of times lapsing limbs we hid a truism of this hidden passion. It was liberating to free those hidden questions and thoughts without a chorus of judgement and scepticism. There was a treasure that defied the silence of the concrete world that day, the treasure that still accumulates its value long after the copper curls darted through the closing doors of one of those wondering steel carriages. Gone as suddenly as she had arrived.

Farewell Kyza

There were ambers that found there fire again. Its true that not everyone will see the sense outside their sensibility. Its truly crazy what we learn to be wrong insidw everything we know to be right, simply because personal paradigms are crazy. There is nothing sweet in the savouring of cynicism, hope and hunger will steady my spirits. Ill be curious, more now that before, because the unexpected can gift moments with no equal measure, this has made itself known to me now.

(c) Saili Katebe

Writing 201, Assignment 8: Ode – Ode to my Journal

 

Writing-is-art

I have broken the flow. As it stands, today, I am a day behind on Writing 201. Here is yesterdays assignment, better late than never.

Another day, another assignment. The ode, today’s (yesterdays) poetic form, is a longer piece with a more intricate structure, and is very much new to me. This assignment was another impressive contributor to my poetic education, I learned a great deal as I dived into the new and wonderful world of odes. I learned words like Strophe, Antisrophe, and Epode. Most importantly, I was fortunate enough to learn what an ode actually is. Needless to say I was , yet again, thrown well out of my comfort zone, and had my creativity and perseverance tested. I attempted to make this as much of an ode as I could, doing my best to follow brief. The prompt for the day was “Drawer” and out of my drawer I drew out, my journal.

Without further ado, I give to you, “Ode To My Journal” utilizing, Apostrophe.

 

You are never very far, you are stowed, to steal my mind,

still but never losing your zeal for holding ink.

We build and fill you wildly with every drop I can find

of the force that feeds my reasoning, soul and paper are linked.

Your have ledges bartered as ledgers for secrets I never told,

You have spattering thoughts bled from a struggle I couldn’t speak,

Of cumbersome weeks spent redefining my own being.

That silent vigil awaiting me, tucked in my tables hold,

is gold, it tips the scales of my mind, when tongue is weak.

You can picture every corner of me, without seeing.

 

For all your patient moments, so humbly poised, listening,

you have never spoken up to steady my ailing truth.

Your bathing in rugged strokes, ink on the page glistening

frustrates me, I’m waiting for something to set you loose.

I’m tired of your reminders, I’m well aware of the falls,

the fire that ate my bridges and landed me in despair.

You only talk in echo’s, you mirror my oldest prose,

summon your own voice, my mind has summoned its walls.

Your silence is suffocating, you need to feed me with air.

I’m tempted to keep you hidden, leaving your pages closed.

 

I’m troubled by burning prose, and unimagined mementos

you are the only aid that can save me wasting the fruit.

I’m furious when I struggle, when troubled by empty thoughts,

I appreciate your patience in all my written pursuits.

I’m a loose cannon of anger when words are hardest to find,

you’re kind and cope with tantrums, that take me out of my mind.

We often defy reason, with mine, your minds weaken the binds,

that tie me to the limitations of logic.

 

(c) Saili Katebe

Notes from Paranoia: Trust!!

20140407-024553.jpg

“Follow your heart they say, Use your head they say. Adding no direction the blind spiral, only in an attempt to sound like they helped!”

My mind and my heart love to play games, they indulge in a pentathlon of give and takes. On the looping itinerary I see the classics, tug of war, hide and seek and explosive bouts that last for seemingly infinite rounds. As destructive as they can be, the rubble the ruckus leaves behind serves as perfect tinder to keep the fires of my curiosity burning. The ambient question mark hooks me with curiosity, which burns bright as I hunger for answers. Trust is on the menu today. Today, like many other days, it’s unknowingly pirouetting on the spit as I chew on the concept. However, my hunger to know, knows no nourishment yet.

What is trust?

PARANOIA

“Trust means blunting my blade. Trust is ailing my dependency on me. Trust ignores the strange faces and is lax with the loose lips that leak lies and disguise truth. It’s putting a piece of me in some else’s hand and hoping they are sure footed. Hoping there going where they said there going, to do the things they said they would do and not barter away the piece of me I placed into their hands and waved off.”

Real trust is hard to earn, it’s not the sole purpose of an interaction but definitely enriches it’s quality. We always have an opportunity to deposit a little more trust into ever growing relationships. Trust can be built up, but will always fall short of absolute. This isn’t to spite the few you hold close, it’s quite the opposite. This bottomless reservoir plays in their favour, as it’s always provides room for more trust, new levels to ascend to in the wonderful and weird world of relationships, plutonic and otherwise.

Sadly, every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Trust can be lost, at far greater speeds than it takes to build it up. It happens and unfortunately we see it, sometimes you see someone bring their trust into the frame and it’s a weary vision. Tattered and plagued with patches, stitched firmly on with sweet and sour threads of hope and anger. The picture is subtle but there to be seen. Telling so much about a person but yet giving away so little. In the perfect world, badly placed trust wouldn’t be an issue, but bad investment are very much alive as this high risk, high reward aspect of living plays a leading role in the tale of interpersonal relations.

“I can’t tell you who to trust and why, I cant feed stock to this concept when the winters of cold hearts have left you brittle, shoulders chipped and wondering “why?” . You’ve been unduly introduced to a reality where altruism, is an untrue “ism”. Where it makes sense that if self preservation is too imprinted in human nature, the well being of another is surely an after thought…”

As I look at trust, Turning it this way and that, tirelessly hoping to learn, I fail. The same part of me that feeds trust life, obscures it to my logic. The emotions, the reasoning, the never ending ballet of heart and mind. Depending on the day, trust looks very different to me. I see this familiar stranger and know I can both trust and distrust, out of respect. I’ve seen what you can do!!!

,