kagablog

October 31, 2008

the growth of free state black writing

Filed under: free state black literature — ABRAXAS @ 8:44 am

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The growth of Free State Black Writing (Part 7)

The latest edition of The growth of Free State Black Writing literary series (2008) has just been released.

The series has been published annually since 2002. In recent years the series has been edited by literary critic, Peter Moroe.

The latest edition contains almost ten articles; an excellent essay by Flaxman Qoopane on Free State poets and their books. We are also introduced to poets Serame Makhele (Icebound) and Neo mvubu who is given a lot of attention. Mvubu is interestingly described thus:

“Ms Neo Mvubu has a prodigious empathetic imagination which intermittently serves as a sort of solvent of its own tantalising literary hoard”

There are also articles on Bolaji’s latest work of fiction, Tebogo and the haka (2008). Then theree are essays on author Thabo Mafike among others.

This is a must read for all lovers of our writing!

To get your copy phone 0735657783

October 30, 2008

helgé janssen reviews sms sugar man

Filed under: 2008 - sms sugar man, helge janssen — ABRAXAS @ 8:36 pm

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I cannot remember when last I watched a film with my eyes SO WIDE OPEN. I looked in the mirror afterwards and my eyes were bloodshot: I had hardly blinked. Philosophically, this film has surely eclipsed the existentialist novelist Kafka, when, lost in the labyrinth, he was searching for meaning through the morass of bureaucracy getting nowhere. Here Kaganof searches for meaning by plumbing the depths of the male psyche, and gets everywhere. Post Jungian analysts would have a field day in recognising the various aspects of the psyche: the multiple levels of the animus and anima, revealed with such dramatic comprehension.

Put bluntly, SMS Sugar Man is a cinematic masterpiece of its time, its place: which just so happens to be Johannesburg, South Africa.

A man, tackling his similitude and going through the process of dissolution, requires great strength of character……for nothing can be predicted in this life-and-death struggle for authenticity…..if ever he comes out of it alive, that is…

However we must realise that in the real world, this is more likely the journey of the artist. And this is why the film triumphs so brilliantly - it is not just about the artist: it is about Every Man.

The intimacy of the process is perfectly captured by the three lead female characters - Selene: Deja Bernhardt, Grace: Leigh Graves, and Anna: Samantha Rocca - who, each in their own way, reflect the vulnerability that Sugar Man (Aryan Kaganof) eschews….giving performances that are beautiful, exhilarating, captivating - and their encounters with the ‘Wallets’: the men who pay for their favours. Kaganof’s screen presence is haunting, impressive, becoming the archetypal foil in whom the battle-lines for identity are drawn.

And thus it is that this eschewing relentlessly unravels him.

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The apprehension invoked through the very personal nature of their work (hookers - the nakedness, the openness: Selene’s arched back with Wallet no. 2, John Matshikiza) requires that the players develop a level of honesty that steps outside the realm of ‘ordinary’ relationships….making them intrinsically vulnerable to one another. Sugar man egotistically suggests that his sugars ‘think of him’ as they are about to embark on their solicitous appointments, where in fact they are perfectly in control….they know their territory…a territory he could never enter, never understand….while he insists on trying to keep a safe distance….which eventually obsesses him. As such, Kaganof - as author - exhibits a profound understanding of a woman’s intrinsic power, surpassing all the diatribe about sexism; feminism.

The dialogue is sparse, poetic, with not a wasted word, echoing the synergy yet clarity of sound (voice) and image.

Director of photography, Eran Tahor has done a masterful job of interpreting Kaganof’s vision and concept with its ‘Dick Tracey’ silhouettes where the use of cell phones intrusively and expressively perfectly captures and enhances both the genre and the technology…the films within the film; the characters within the character. And while the use of cellphones could quite easily have become the focal ‘reason de etre’ as it were, they are never allowed to be.

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Kaganof’s direction of the actors and actresses is insightful….particularly in the close-ups, the repetitive and insistent depth of intimacy:
“Who is the father….?……Who is the father…..?” where the inflection of the voice becomes as vital as the blue-eyed equivalent of Grace’s feigned innocence…luring, alluring, provocative….

And of course Sugar Man has to surrender, even if that surrender is forced upon him….which it both is and isn’t.

The ‘wallets’ surely need to be mentioned for their sensitive and mesmerising portrayals: Jerry Mofokeng with Norman Maake - his son, John Matshikiza, Ryan Fortune, Luthuli Dlamini and an unrecognizable Bill Curry.

The use of music enhances and interweaves the inventiveness of the narrative, never allowing the viewer to be lulled into a false sense of security….

Cinematically there are many highlights, but Deja Bernhardt surely takes this film to extraordinary heights when she calls Atilla (Atilla Barna) to arrange a meeting:

“attila…..it’s selene…..i need your help…..

The voice, that voice, that face, shall surely launch a thousand ships!

this review was first published on helgè’s website

October 29, 2008

bad vibes along the vibles

Filed under: mick raubenheimer, music — ABRAXAS @ 11:09 pm

A badly organised Festival and insufficient security on the French island of Mayotte leaves kwaito star Mandoza with a head scar……… flying stones, bricks and chairs endangered the lives of Thandiswa, Busi Mhlongo and other South African artists.

Friday night on the 24th of October Thandiswa Mazwai and her artists went off stage when soon after a local youth attacked Mandoza in what should be a restricted backstage area. Mandoza, who had to defended himself was soon attacked by more youth and suddenly chairs and loose bricks and rocks from within the stadium started flying endangering the lives of many South African artists including Busi Mhlongo, Thandiswa, DJ Castro, Mabi Thobejane and some 20 accompanying tour musicians. Tour organiser Lenny van den Berg from Peak Performances in Cape Town fast reaction saved her and a friend from a serious injury when she managed to narrowly escape a huge brick by diving under the stage. Husband Rouvanne van den Berg endured an injury to his hand and Mandoza¹s brothers (who defended other South African artists from a fast gathering crowd of a young and very angry mob armed with stones and bricks) came out bruised. Whilst the riot took place the organiser made a phone call to sack the festival security staff but never even bothered to issue an official apology to the South African team !

What could have been an extremely serious attack on South African artists followed a week of chaos and bad organisation, lack of communication, hostesses and assistants who don¹t speak English leaving the strain of the most difficult translation- and negotiation tasks to multilingual MELT 2000 label owner Robert Trunz who accompanied his artists Amampondo, Castro B and Mabi Thobejane.

Although the festival was fully sponsored and financed by the French government the tour organiser Lenny van den Berg had to delay her departure by 3 days trying to recoup outstanding artist performance fees and cost incurred. Days of difficult negotiations with what one would consider indifferent civil servants Lenny and her team left without being paid a remainder of over 200¹000 R. Attempts to get moneys recouped and to meet the festival organiser were unsuccessful and 3 hours of waiting for the local deputy president resulted in being told to apply for an appointment!

When Peak Performances finally the island without being paid they met disappointed members of Mocambiquan group Timbila Muzimba who also remained unpaid and were sent off told that payment would follow in two weeks. Mayotte¹s civil servants are far away and so is the metropol Paris ­ let¹s see when and if the money comes through ­ watch this space.

My Story (For Gcina Mhlophe on her 50th)

Filed under: poetry, mphutlane wa bofelo — ABRAXAS @ 5:21 pm

In between the blank
Spaces in the pages
Of history books
Lies the story
I deciphered
From the lullabies
Of love sung
In a blues beat
Sometimes hidden
In the melodic hymns
Overtly exalting
An imported colonial god
Covertly dedicated
To my ancestors
Stolen and caved
In museums and libraries
In far away lands
I the last one
Stand here to reclaim my gods
The stories I tell
Is our life-breath
Soul of my fore-bears
Poached out of the continent
Turned into collectors’ items
By thieves masquerading as connoisseurs
Now following my trails
Waiting for me to wink
Just for a moment
That they can steal my voice
& put copy and patent rights
On the stories of our people
That they may turn our
Heritage into a commodity
On the imperialist stock exchange
But I am the last one
Of my people
To learn our story
Through pain and struggle
Our children shall sing
Our stories in homes and streets
In public halls
On National TV & radio
On world stages
In their voices
On their own terms
For I am the last one

Nokungcina

Media Statement on the Passing of Dr. Es’kia Mphahlele (1919-2008) By Minister of Arts & Culture, Dr Z. Pallo Jordan

Filed under: free state black literature, literature — ABRAXAS @ 2:08 pm

Es’kia [Ezekiel] Mphahlele, doyen of African letters, passed away in Lebowakgomo, Limpopo, on the evening of 27th October, 2008 at the ripe age of eighty-eight.

Mphahlele was the illustrious author of two autobiographies, more than thirty short stories, two verse plays and a fair number of poems.

“Add to these, two anthologies edited, essay collections, innumerable single essays, addresses, awards and a Nobel Prize nomination for literature and what emerges is to many the Dean of African Letters,” writes Peter Thuynsma, a leading Mphahlele scholar, in Perspectives on South African English Literature (1992: 221).

A self-made man, Mphahlele received a BA degree in 1949, followed in 1956 by a BA Honours degree and in 1957 by an MA degree (with distinction). He studied for his three degrees by correspondence with the University of South Africa. In 1968, he received his doctorate from the University of Denver in the USA.

Mphahlele was born in Marabastad, Pretoria, on December 17th 1919. His parents sent him to Maupaneng, near Polokwane, to go and live with his paternal grandmother. He came back to Marabastad to start school and received his high school education at St. Peter’s College, Rossetenville. It was there that he encountered personalities whose lives would run a close parallel to his.

From St. Peters Mphahlele went on to study at Adams College in Natal, where he qualified as a teacher in 1940. He completed his matric, studying by correspondence while he held down two jobs as a teacher and short-hand typist at Ezenzeleni Institute for the Blind in Roodepoort, in 1942.

The 1940s were a decade of momentous change throughout the world. On the Rand, where Mphahlele was, a group of youthful members of the ANC came together to form the ANC Youth League. Dr A.B. Xuma at about the same time called together a group of African opinion leaders and thinkers to draft an African response to the Atlantic Charter, authored by Roosevelt and Churhill. With all these events swirling around him Mphahlele’s passion remained education rather than politics, however, and his talents were better suited to the classroom than the soapbox or newsroom.

He took up the post of English and Afrikaans teacher at Orlando High School. There, in the company of many freshly-minted from Fort Hare young teachers he became active in the Transvaal African Teachers Associaion (TATA). The 1949 Eislen Commission on Native Education, inspired by Dr. H.F. Verwoerd, the recently elected National Party’s Minister of Native Affairs, had recommended a radically new system of Education for Africans. TATA, together with other teachers’ organisations in the Cape, the Free State and Natal, took up the cudgels to oppose it. For his participation in that agitation, in December 1952 Eskia Mphahlele, Isaac Matlare and Zephaniah Mothopeng were dismissed from their posts and permanently banned from teaching.

Mphahlele returned briefly to Ezenzeleni as a secretary. In 1954 he left on his to teach at Basutoland (later, Lesotho) High School in Maseru.

Returning to South Africa a year later, he found work with Drum magazine, where at various stages he held the posts of political reporter, sub-editor and fiction editor. Mphahlele was something of a misfit there and, yearning to teach, he sought other outlets for his talent.

Responding to an appeal for teachers from Nigeria, Mphahlele left South Africa in 1957 together with a number of other African teachers whom the apartheid regime considered unemployable. The ANC requested him to represent it at the first Pan-African conference to be held on African soil and hosted by Ghana in 1959.

It was in West Africa that he began to blossom as a literary figure. Having broken out of the constraints of apartheid racism he was able to rub shoulders with other African writers and intellectuals. He had a brief association with Ulli Beier, a German Africanist whose literary journal, Black Orpheus, made a huge impact amongst African writers in the English language.

Mphahlele launched his literary career with the publication of “Man Must Live” in 1946. It was the second collection of short stories in English by an African writer after Dark Testament by Peter Abrahams, who had been Mphahlele’s classmate at St Peter’s.

In the 1950’s, Mphahlele wrote a series of stories published in Drum. The Lesane stories helped consolidate the short story tradition in South African literature that stands among the best in the world. The Drum era produced, in quick succession, Bessie Head, Arthur Maimane, Todd Matshikiza, James Matthews, Bloke Modisane, Casey Motsisi, Lewis Nkosi, Richard Rive, and Can Themba.

The autobiographical Down Second Avenue (1957), Mphahlele’s crowning achievement, has been translated into several foreign languages but not a single African language indigenous to South Africa. It became the second in a distinguished line of autobiographies by African authors from South Africa after Abrahams’ Tell Freedom (1954) that included Road to Ghana by Alfred Hutchinson, Chocolates for My Wife by Todd Matshikiza, Blame Me on History by Bloke Modisane and Autobiography of an Unknown South African by Naboth Mokgatle.

Mphahlele’s literary and academic career took off in exile. Two collections of short stories followed Man Must Live. The Living and the Dead appeared from West Africa in 1961. Six years later, he issued In Corner B from East Africa. The contents of both collections of short stories are included in The Unbroken Song (1986), which also contains some of Mphahlele’s poems.

Turning to scholarship, in 1962 he published The African Image, based on his MA thesis in which he provides a history of African literature in South Africa, which he juxtaposes with an examination of the African character in literature by writers of European ancestry. A second and revised edition appeared twelve years later.

His engagement with literary and cultural production in the African Diaspora finds expression in Voices in the Whirlwind and Other Essays (1972), which examines African and African-American literature in relation to the Western tradition.

His career as a novelist produced The Wanderers, a novel of exile originally submitted as a dissertation for his PhD in creative writing.

The Wanderers was followed in 1979 by Chirundu, resulting from his abortive attempt to establish residence in Zambia in 1968 and illustrating “the tyranny of place” and how exile defeated him.

A second volume of his autobiography appeared in 1984 as Afrika My Music, written in the convention of the memoir and depicting various people who have been part of the author’s life. Written after his return from exile, it also seems to rationalise his decision to return to South Africa at the height of apartheid repression.

For a while Mphahlele worked with the Paris based Congress for Cultural Freedom, organising conferences and workshops on education, literature, arts and culture. He was instrumental in establishing the Chemchemi Creative Centre in Kenya and the Mbari Club in Nigeria that became the hub of activity in African arts and culture. During the mid 1960s the Congress for Cultural Freedom was exposed as a CIA front organisation, employed to sow dissent amongst artists in the Soviet Union and other east European countries. Its activities on the African continent were probably as suspect. The journal, Encounter, published by this body, swiftly lost credibility and has since disappeared.

In a career spawning sixty years, Mphahlele received many international awards, among them: several honorary doctoral degrees and the Les Palmes Academiques medal from the French government recognising his contribution to French language and culture. In 1968, he was nominated for the Nobel Prize in literature. In 1998 President Nelson Mandela awarded him the Order

In 1957, Thuynsma writes, “he resolved to leave for a life in exile which led him through residence in Nigeria, France, Kenya, Zambia, and a double sojourn in the USA.”

Twenty years later, amidst much controversy, he returned to South Africa, feeling defeated by exile and yearning for home. His return to South Africa coincides with the last decade of the system that had sought so hard to destroy him. He devoted himself to literature and cultural work, eschewing hard politics.

Soft-spoken, humble, urbane, cosmopolitan, erudite and exuding ubuntu, Es’kia Mphahlele embodied in his person and in his work what he described as “the personification of the African paradox – detribalised, westernised but still African”.

Mokgaga oa Makubela, Es;kia Mphahlele, has left us. May he go well.

Z. Pallo Jordan.

Minister of Arts and Culture.

29th October 2008

For further information, call Sandile Memela, Spokesperson for the Ministry of Arts & Culture at 082 800 3750 or Premi Appalraju, Media Liaison Officer at 082 903 6778.

scentral fusion

Filed under: poetry, sarah hills — ABRAXAS @ 10:25 am

solitary confinement
was my sentence
so much forbidden
hidden
but i broke free
from those walls
my boundaries
melting
now my eyes
unfocused
see only starshine
and flowers drifting
scents awakened
with glowing step bells
ringing through my days
singing
love
is the only thing
you need

October 28, 2008

Filed under: catherine henegan — ABRAXAS @ 3:00 pm

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seeing now all there is…

Filed under: jimmy "wordsworth" rage — ABRAXAS @ 1:36 pm

this is where i end
and begin again
to say,
you hang in there
and take care
of your heart
and soul.
never for once
let go of the light
that shines
in you
and on
all that
you love.
life is a struggle
but a beautiful
one.
we are beautiful disasters
trying to live
our life
in this here

after.

some have

fallen

..from grace,
..from love,
from

heaven’s
open doors..
you know

this..

for you too,
are an angel..
with your wings
hidden ..

sarah hills, onstage with sunways, 2002

Filed under: sarah hills — ABRAXAS @ 9:12 am

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the blood of the lord of the day

Filed under: nikhil singh, photography — ABRAXAS @ 9:10 am

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There was once a fabulous city called Cuzco. Certainly if you search any atlas and peruse the eastern rim of Peru you will find it marked beside the mystic cosm of Lake Titicaca. But what you will not find will be the Cuzco of the Incas. Cuzco, the capital city of that lost race, was torn like skin from its native memory and written into the furious history of the 15oo’s. And it has lain there since, stripped of its magic and bloodied by the blades of conquistadors. It is difficult for us, the fragmented many of a world of strangers, to understand this ancient place as it existed then. Fantastical, oneiric and homogenous it thrived beneath the eye of the Sun God like a galaxy unto itself. The name Cuzco translates as ‘navel’ from the Quechua language. And like a navel, the city of Cuzco radiated outward from a central point; that point being the mark where the first King of the Incas set his staff into the bosom of Mamapocha, the earth. This radiated citadel was then quartered to embody the energies of the four cardinal points in seasonal rotation. These quarters were further subdivided into sacred geometries, and then orchestrated to portray in miniature the entirety of the Incan race. A single body comprised of many bodies, existing in a state of hive-like unity. This way the Sun King could treat the maladies of his far flung peoples without ever having to leave the city. The effects of said treatment relaying out to the entirety of his nation like medicine through a body. Indeed Don Juan, that mercurial sorcerer of the Castaneda books describes those civilizations of antiquity as living dreams. Here were actual ‘dream states’. Dream workings made flesh, rendered material and invoked en masse. Don Juan hinted that the lords of these civilizations spirited away entire cities into the dream realms, as a magician might dissolve a rabbit into the alleyways of his sleeve. Certainly there have always been whispers and rumours of lost Incan cities. Vast, mysterious structures cloaked forever in the depthless cradle of the forest; once great plazas and fallen pyramids, now the haunt of monkeys, shades and undiscovered spiders. Of these places there have always been whispers. And perhaps it was one of these whispers which led Hiram Bingham to discover, as late as 1911, what all those conquistadors had missed in their bloody junkets. For it was Mister Bingham who accidentally uncovered that long lost mountain complex known as Machu Picchu. And it was in Machu Picchu that modern eyes first beheld the Intihuatana of the Incas; the solar observatory stones which each city venerated as their nucleus of worship. The same stones which the Spanish soldiers so senselessly shattered in brutal efforts to crush the Indian’s spirit against their marching spurs. But Machu Picchu, built so in tandem with the lie of the land, escaped this deluge of beards and steel. The lianas of the jungle multiplied like cobwebs, the trees fanned their majestic wings, and like a dream the city dissolved behind a veil of nature for centuries.

It was fearful Pizarro who first sank his sword hilt deep into the legend of El Dorado. Pizarro, the Gorbenador of Quito who led four thousand three hundred and fifty souls into the Andean altiplano toward the condor haunted peaks of the Cordillera in search of cinnamon. Pizarro who fed his Indian guides to dogs and waterfalls, whose actions led to the Spaniard’s discovery of the mighty Amazon. Pizarro who emerged from the jungle with only eighty of those four thousand three hundred and fifty, infused with the legends of a fabled city of gold. And it was bearded Pizarro who dragged the Incan king Atahualpa from his palace in chains, announcing that he would have him sacrificed like a lamb unless his subjects brought to him all the gold in Peru. When the stunned king asked Pizarro how much gold he demanded Pizarro answered:

‘Lift your hand as high as you can and draw a line as blue as your blood around this chamber. Then order your vassals to fill the chamber with gold up to the line your hand has drawn.’

Like a broken hive of anxious bees, the king’s subjects scurried to and fro across the lands bearing great sacks of gold, the blood of Punchao, the blood of the sun. But Atahualpa was garroted before the room was even half filled. And the murder of the Sun King spread like poison through the body of the Incan empire. Weeping subjects fell by the wayside, haphazardly burying loads of religious gold, dying or dissolving back into the forests to take refuge in those disappearing dream cities. And like a broken hive the empire fell, spilling its honey back into the earth, much in the same way as the night steals the blood of the sun with the onset of dusk. And in the dream of the forest, the lost cities slept.

It was in the shadow of Mount Huayna Picchu, in the terraced avenues of Machu Picchu that the great poet Pablo Neruda found solace during his war torn years. Indeed he wrote of the Incas: ‘The conquistadors received a vast, resonant world in full creative fever; they left nothing but a planet strewn with ashes.’ For in the solemn twilights of Machu Picchu it is easy to understand how it is against the grim backdrops of great suffering that the legacy of the Incas begins to glow. Their majestic architectures which defy the onslaught of time like the bones of some great dream, the many faces of their Earth Mother whose likenesses align so sympathetically beneath the cowl of Nuestra Senora; the Virgin Mary. The transmogrification of the Catholic Christ into an incarnation of Punchao, Lord of the Day, and the maddening carnivals which spin so giddily into joyous orgies of ritual resurrected. For even the Inquisition was powerless to stifle the spirit of the Incan carnival. And in a dream of fireworks and masked, dancing devils are the passion plays of Catholicism so gleefully deconstructed. These Inca, whose religious beliefs stated that the past, present and future exist simultaneously, gather still in their forest gorged lands to watch over the wall of time. Their recurring pattern of splendour and tragedy embossed upon the fabric of the land like the portrait of some unspeakable divinity.

Sometimes ships which have not yet sighted land find themselves in the presence of a huge plume of muddy freshwater which knifes like a serpent into the blue of the ocean. This is the mighty Amazon River. A current which finds its source high in the Andes, yet cuts over a hundred and fifty kilometers out to sea before dispersing. The river dies magnificently in the depth of the ocean, and yet is at the same time born from its spring in the mountains. And like the flow of this river is the dream of the Inca perpetuated. Constantly living and constantly dying, remembered little upon waking. Intoxicating and gargantuan in dream.

October 27, 2008

happy at last

Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 10:04 pm

after years in pain
years of abject loneliness
i woke up one morning with
my wife on the far side of the bed
and my daughter in between us
and there was nothing else
for it but to prepare
breakfast

HENRY IN THE GUN SHOP (2)

Filed under: ian martin, literature — ABRAXAS @ 8:37 pm

From The Life of Henry Fuckit, 1950-2015

“My father, and his father too before that, they used to hunt bushmen, and that’s the truth. Jus’ like animals. They were vermin.”

“I’m sure they were.” Henry was shocked. “They must hardly have been human to have been capable of such heinousness.” The blue eyes regarded him uncomprehendingly for a moment, suspicion flickering just beneath the surface. “I suppose you’re telling me all this in order to illustrate some point or other - maybe even then, back in those dreadful days of decimation and extermination, maybe even then there was the right gun for the right job. Is that where you’re heading, Sir Fatguts?”

“The right gun for the right job! Just so!” He was grateful for the cue. “My father, he use to say to me, many times, Boitjie, you got to have…”

“Is that your name?”

“What?”

“Is that your name? Boitjie?”

“No, course not. What you think? We was a big family. He called all the seuns Boitjie. Anyway, that’s got fuck-all to do with anything. My real name is Gerhardus. But they call me Mike, or sometimes Okkie. You call me Mike.”

Now Henry was beginning to enjoy himself. This was just the right situation to stimulate his senses, which he felt had become rather dulled of late. Everything was a surprise and he was delighting in the absence of logic and predictability. He breathed rapidly and his eyes sparkled. Mike continued.

“The style of killing my father enjoyed the best was using a light calibre rifle. His style was slow and cool, never in a hurry. The idea he had was never to fire unless he can place the bullet in a vital organ. You see, if you places a bullet correc’ it doesn’t matter what the calibre. But you got to have nerve for that, that’s for sure. You get other ous completely different. Take my uncle Poeslap. Now he think…”

“Your uncle’s name was Poeslap?!” Henry was staggered. “Jesus man! Was he christened that?”

“Allemagtig man! It was his nickname - everybody call him Poeslap, even his mother, even his wife. Something to do with his bokbaard, jy weet. Hy was ‘n rooikop. His hair was red coloured. But what’s all this name kak? I’m trying to learn you about rifles. Now, Oom Poeslap was always a bietjie bang and he believe in the biggest bore rifle he can get hold of. A Rigby-Mauser double .577. He wired all two triggers together and when he pull the back one all two barrels fire at the same time. But he always fired too soon. I don’t think he got even one. Not even one. One time he went out to try catch them poisoning his sheep and when he come near the water he see them and fire, jus’ like that, from three hundred yards. Of course he miss the Bushmen but hit one of his own sheep. My father told me he seen that sheep later and it was just about cut in half. Now my father was different. He got at least six that I know of, before they all run away to the Kalahari. His favourite weapon was a Lee-Enfield .275. He only fired when he got real close and were sure of a brain shot or a heart shot. He believed the best ammunition was the old roundnose solid bullets. He sweared that were the best way to find the brain of a Bushman. You know, he said it was like shooting a springbok. When he come right up to the kill the body was still warm and soft and smelling just like a wild antelope; and, if the face wasn’t taken away by the roundnose, he see the last light going out the eyes, just the same like when you shoot a wildebeest. He said they were wild and beautiful just like the wild animals but they was wragtig treacherous and sly. I mean, he had to shoot them to protec’ his sheep, didn’t he? Ja man, my father learned me good lessons. It just shows you, you don’t need a big calibre. You mus’ jus’ stay cool and calm, and take your time like.”

“But I’m not going to be hunting Bushmen. Not even buck.” Henry had begun to perspire, and had to tell himself to stay cool and calm, and not allow himself to be overtaken by the funk he felt coming on. He was here to be entertained and educated. “I don’t think I need anything like a…”

“Wag ‘n bietjie meneer, wag ‘n bietjie. Ek gaan jou verduidelik.” Let’s say you comes home one day and you unlocks the door and goes inside. You hears something in the bedroom and there’s a fokken coon just finish raping your wife on the bed. YOUR bed. He look at you, you look at him. It’s that fokken garden-boy you klapped last week. You goes for your 38 but he jumps straight through the fokken venster, glas en alles, more expenses, and he’s up and running like a cat with its tail on fire. So what you do? Tell me.” Henry shook his head. “I tell you what you do. You goes straight away to your gun safe, you gets out the Springfield MIA and you goes out the front door, not the back. Out the back you got razor wire on the wall so you know he’s got to go for the front. That kaffirboy will be running down the middle of the road, eighty, maybe a hundred yards away. Nice and steady and cool you lines up your sights on the spine, you drops to the belt and you squeezes the five and a half pound trigger. He throw up his arms and fall flat on his flat kaffir face. Paralysed. Then you shouts, “Stop, or I shoot!” and you fires a warning shot in the air. If he don’t fall down you got another nineteen in the magazine and a range of four thousand one hundred and three yards. If you got him with the first shot, that’s good. Now you got all the time in the world before the police comes. You can skop his head and his balls just as much as you likes. That’s the advantage of the Springfield MIA.” He paused for Henry to express admiration and a desire to acquire such a useful weapon.

“Well, as I told you, I’m not married. I can see that this rifle could come in handy to a married man with an aggrieved ex-employee lurking in the shrubbery. But being a bachelor with…”

“God allemagtig!” He swore and banged the counter in exasperation. With contemptuous hostility he glared at Henry. “Can’t you use your fokken imagination? Don’t you read the newspaper? Don’t you ride down the street? Isn’t this the Republic of South Africa? Jirra Jesus! Look man, I can’t waste my time trying to educate you. You come in here for a gun. You needs four guns minimum - that’s what I’m telling you. One of the guns you needs…,” he stepped back, stooped and drew the fearsome thing out from under the counter, “… is a Springfield MIA.” He worked the bolt, pointed the barrel at Henry’s stomach and pulled the trigger click, click, click. “Rotating bolt, gas operated, semi-automatic, air-cooled, twenty cartridge magazine.” He threw it down on the counter. “Take it or leave it. Aaargh!”

Henry was surprised at the fierceness of this peroration and noted with alarm that the sanguine complexion had darkened to apoplectic purple. Boitjie/ Gehardus / Mike/ Okkie had made a strong statement when he said “Take it or leave it.” He had also added dramatic finality to his statement by simultaneously throwing himself into a chair behind the counter. What Henry heard as “Aaargh!” and understood to be an expression of enraged contempt, was, in fact, something quite different. It was a gasp of pain, enunciated as “Einaaa!” and quite easily mistaken for “Aaargh!” The pain was inflicted by the 38 Police Special in his hip holster when he chose to sit down with histrionic forcefulness.

Ian Martin’s controversial novel Pop-splat is now available from http://www.pop-splat.co.za.

Filed under: dionysos andronis, poetry — ABRAXAS @ 6:49 pm

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Dear Friends,

This was my first collection of poems, twenty years ago. All the poems are in greek. Now I only translate the lovely kagapoems in french, my second language.

Thank you, DIONYSOS ANDRONIS

maaike stutterheim, amsterdam, july 2008

Filed under: kagaportraits — ABRAXAS @ 6:44 pm

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a big shit

Filed under: kagastories — ABRAXAS @ 6:40 pm

you will not believe what i did today
we were having a strange and terrible
smell coming from, from where? well i went
down into the nether depths of the house, there
is a section - warrick’s basement that we have not
yet started using, and deep in the bowels of the house
there is a toilet
and in this toilet
a shit
probably 9 months old
a big rotten worm ridden very GRIME obsessed SHIT
and i flushed that shit
and then i spent all day scrubbing that toilet clean with my own hands
and now the smell is gone
and i feel wonderful
and i have learned
that given enough time
a big shit can do a lot of damage

Filed under: art, isabelle schiltz — ABRAXAS @ 5:42 pm

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construction 187

Filed under: photography, ewald steyn — ABRAXAS @ 9:51 am

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hanged man…cement hanging on feet

Filed under: jimmy "wordsworth" rage — ABRAXAS @ 9:49 am

..so brotha
i had composed
words in my minds eye
not about her
but about the other her..

(the all women beauty)

the one deep in my imaginings

i was open
straight
frank
said i wrote
this
and didnt send it
instead
i made
art of it

.. she was offended
what started out as innocent
and a deep desire
for caring and sharing my innervoicing
and rantings,
and beauty of life observed..
has been sunken into the realm
of being muddied and
even dirtied..
shoulda
kept it to yourself
he says now..
she likes you cus
i like you
you are in my life
because i allow you..
..
and now there is silence
a referent to my disorder

truth be told im saddened
by the entrapment
no one to be blamed
and shamed..
yet i feel shamed
caught
in a
the headlights
of an on coming
train
hanged man
cement
hanging on feet.

Quote of the Week

Filed under: miscellaneous — ABRAXAS @ 9:42 am

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‘I believe that banking institutions are more dangerous to our liberties than standing armies. If the American people ever allow private banks to control the issue of their currency, first by inflation, then by deflation, the banks and corporations that will grow up around the banks will deprive the people of all property until their children wake-up homeless on the continent their fathers conquered.’
Thomas Jefferson 1802

apropos framing, etc..

Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 12:06 am

when the succubus came
her every kiss was a
framing device
i was framed
in trouble
trusting
only
in
my
senses
therefore
defenseless

when the succubus came
she rode me
slowly
not
so
fast
again

tonight i’m sitting at my open
window watching the stars
perform their dark
miracles of
matter
while
i
wait
patiently
as usual for
the succubus to come again

October 26, 2008

Filed under: isabelle schiltz — ABRAXAS @ 11:46 pm

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no. iv

Filed under: art, Mia Mäkilä — ABRAXAS @ 11:35 pm

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Filed under: miscellaneous — ABRAXAS @ 11:03 pm

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CINEMA ABATTOIR presents HERETICS: QUEBEC’S ICONOCLAST CINEMAS

Filed under: film, censorship — ABRAXAS @ 10:02 pm

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at Madame Claude
Lübbener Str. 19 in Kreuzberg - Berlin

Thursday, October 30th
doors: 19h
screening: 21h30

Screening of extremely subversive short films from the most perverted filmmakers from Quebec.

In total opposition with the recent hypocritical interest towards Quebec cinema, Cinema Abattoir burst from a complete hatred and contempt for this governmental and academic cinema. The National Film Board, a production and broadcasting structure absolutely moribund, now gives praise to youthful debility. Young filmmakers birthed from institutions not only formatted and televised, but sodomized and defecated. A new generation emulating Denys Arcand. The new commercialized Quebec cinema upholds the mediocre Quebecer. It is morally weak, projecting a cinema of prostration, of amnesia, of defeat.

There is Pop Corn cinema and Cinema Abattoir: your friends are not ours!

A diagonal architecture scarifies itself through those cinematographic mazes. A tormented path, butting nearly forty years of stupidity to hunt down a few transgressives remains that are still vivacious (dating from « Cinéma direct ») or politically (Front de Libération du Québec). Cinema Abattoir then suggests Heretics: Iconoclastic Quebec Cinemas, a symmetric negation of that national cinematography currently in circulation. Only one common context, the underground. Only one solution, the subversion. You crave chromatic pixels storm, thermocalypses, kinetic atomisation, retinal aneurisms, cortical electroshocks, acoustic concatenations, solarised iris injections, narrative deconstructions, playful pedopathologies and coital scorns?

Welcome to Cinema Abattoir!
For the full program:
http://www.cinema-abattoir.com/projection-abattoir/heretique/heretique.html

avalanche mode

Filed under: luis hernandez, art — ABRAXAS @ 9:23 pm

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