kagablog

Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.
- Albert Einstein

Mick Jones wants to know what love is, and plaintively begs you to show him. Joan Armatrading sagely reckons there’s more than one kind, and Leonard Cohen laments that there ain’t no cure.

With drunken clarity I raved to a friend one night about ‘jellyfish love’, but failed to adequately convey the dream I’d had about translucent, non-gender-specific beings with glowing cores who only had to touch their foreheads together to completely know and communicate with each other.

Watching Avatar, I had an epiphany. ‘I see you’ struck me as the most profound and honest declaration of love I had ever heard (or seen).

I. See. You. Not what you look like. Not what you do for me. Not what I can get from you. Not how I imagine you. Just you. Who you are. All of you. Now and ever.
Ah, dreams…

Chicago – Could it be that blogs have become online fodder for the more mature reader?

A new study has found that young people are losing interest in long-form blogging, as their communication habits have become increasingly brief, and mobile. Tech experts say it doesn’t mean blogging is going away. Rather, it’s gone the way of the telephone and e-mail – still useful, just not sexy.

“Remember when ‘You’ve got mail!’ used to produce a moment of enthusiasm and not dread?” asks Danah Boyd, a fellow at Harvard University’s Berkman Center for Internet and Society. Now when it comes to blogs, she says, “people focus on using them for what they’re good for and turning to other channels for more exciting things”,

Those channels might include anything from social networking sites to others that feature games or video.

Older users

The study, released Wednesday by the Pew Internet & American Life Project, found that 14 percent of Internet youths, ages 12 to 17, now say they blog, compared with just over a quarter who did so in 2006. And only about half in that age group say they comment on friends’ blogs, down from three-quarters who did so four years ago.

Pew found a similar drop in blogging among 18- to 29-year-olds.

Overall, Pew estimates that roughly one in 10 online adults maintain a blog – a number that has remained consistent since 2005, when blogs became a more mainstream activity. In the US, that would mean there are more than 30 million adults who blog.

“That’s a pretty remarkable thing to have gone from zero to 30 million in the last 10 years,” says David Sifry, founder of blog search site Technorati.

But according to the data, that population is aging.

The Pew study found, for instance, that the percentage of internet users age 30 and older who maintain a blog increased from seven percent in 2007 to 11 percent in 2009.

Pew’s over-18 data, collected in the last half of last year, were based on interviews with 2 253 adults and have a margin of error of plus or minus 2.7 percentage points. The under-18 data came from phone interviews with 800 12- to 17-year-olds and their parents. The margin of error for that data was plus or minus 3.8 percentage points.

Social networking

So why are young people less interested in blogging?

The explosion of social networking is one obvious answer. The Pew survey found that nearly three-quarters of 12- to 17-year-olds who have access to the internet use social networking sites, such as Facebook. That compares with 55 percent four years ago.

With social networking has come the ability to do a quick status update and that has “kind of sucked the life out of long-form blogging,” says Amanda Lenhart, a Pew senior researcher and lead author of the latest study.

More young people are also accessing the internet from their cellphones, only increasing the need for brevity. The survey found, for instance, that half of 18- to 29-year-olds had done so.

All of that rings true to Sarah Rondeau, a freshman at the College of the Holy Cross in Worcester, Massachusetts.

“It’s a matter of typing quickly. People these days don’t find reading that fun,” the 18-year-old student says. She loves Facebook and has recently started using Twitter to share pictures of her dorm room and blurbs about campus life, which are, in turn, shared on the Holy Cross web site for prospective students.

Meanwhile, New Yorker Jackie Huang hasn’t made a posting on her long-form blog in two years, and she now uses Facebook and Twitter because her friends do – though she’s still not too hot on tweeting.

Now 25, she started blogging when she was in her first year at university, using Xanga and then Wordpress to tell friends, family and a few strangers about anything from travel experiences to pop culture to politics.

“My blog was my own little soapbox,” says Huang, who now works for a communications agency. “Unfortunately, I don’t think I’m interesting enough for my followers to want to know where I am every hour of the day and what I’m thinking.”

Blogging won’t die

Few doubt that blogging will die. Lenhart suspects that those who blog for personal reasons may focus more on events – a wedding, a trip, a baby’s birth.

Arax-Rae Van Buren, who writes about trends, travel and food on her Kiss and Type blog, is relaunching her site with a mobile audience in mind. “It is imperative that the site design is translatable to a phone,” says the 24-year-old New Yorker.

There also are early signs that “microblogging” on sites such as Twitter might actually create long-form bloggers out of people who get frustrated by the constraints of the 140-word limit. Already, sites such as Tumblr and FriendFeed have emerged to allow for expansion of thought and content, though it remains to be seen whether those services will catch on with younger people.

“Blogging is actually a quite involved form of self-expression. It takes a lot of time and effort,” says Eszter Hargittai, an associate professor of communications studies at Northwestern University.

She and other tech experts also suspect that fewer young people have an interest in sharing their every thought with the whole world.

“Five years ago blogging was a club,” says Sifry of Technorati. “There was this wonderful, delicious feeling of being able to talk privately or semi-privately with people who shared your interests. And there were few consequences of being able to share with your friends on a blog.

“I think we’re seeing a deeper awareness of the perception of privacy and how that can affect your life if it’s violated.”

this article first appeared on news24.com

‘The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything.’

– Friedrich Nietzsche

As I sd to my
friend, because I am
always talking,—John, I

sd, which was not his
name, the darkness sur-
rounds us, what

can we do against
it, or else, shall we &
why not, buy a goddamn big car,

drive, he sd, for
christ’s sake, look
out where yr going.

What is written without effort is in general read without pleasure.

Samuel Johnson

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth
There is no happiness like mine
I have been eating poetry

it’s the ultimate game –
the game for a lifetime –
if this…
if that…
if only…
but no matter the permutations,
no matter how clever your play,
it always comes down to this:
house wins
you lose

i saw you again the other night

as i looked over my shoulder
across the blurred faces of the audience
at the high school concert
my eyes went straight to you
sitting up in the gallery

your eyes were just as deep-set and dark
as i remembered
but you wore your hair a little longer
than when you were alive
and it looked good on you

the woman in front of you
leaned over to her companion
and i saw the lower part of the face,
the mouth and jaw…

my heartbeat slowed
as i expelled my held breath –
of course, like every other time,
it wasn’t you after all

Schrödinger’s cat sat on his favourite Persian mat
absent-mindedly watching a Foucault’s pendulum swinging
as he pondered the trajectory of mathematics
from Pythagoras’ theorem to Euclid’s Elements.
He washed his paws with thoughtful tongue,
then yawned: ‘I suppose it’s all relative’.
Curling himself into a Möbius strip
in a golden patch of sunlight
he fell into contented sleep
and dreamt of Pavlov’s dog.

Until the man you love has slapped you to the floor you just don’t know what it takes to get up and start picking up the dropped stitches of your life. But getting up is not always the smart option. The second blow is much harder, causing a plug of mucus and blood to shoot out of her right nostril. Right nostril. Means he’s using his left hand. ‘Always the gentleman,’ she thinks, and an irrational giggle bubbles up in her throat.

Still, it is enough to buckle her knees and make her fall down helplessly, stupidly; hitting her head on the floor. She gets up again, more slowly and warily this time, and suddenly both of the boys are in the room. They are in their pajamas, their hair dishevelled and their faces showing uncomprehending panic. Both are crying and screaming: ‘No, Daddy, no, please don’t hit Mummy!’ He backs off a little; nostrils flaring, breath coming fast and his eyes slightly unfocused. His mouth curls as he says, ‘You’re scaring the children. Go and wash your face, you stupid bitch.’

She walks to the bathroom like an automaton, flashes of the blow exploding behind her eyes in a womb-red starburst. At a sound behind she turns quickly to see Peter lurching down the passage towards her. She shrinks back against the wall as he thrusts his face close to hers and hisses, ‘Always have to make a scene, don’t you? Fucking drama queen!’ She feels his spittle on her face and smells his breath, rank with brandy and venom. She drops her eyes and holds the gagging down until she hears their bedroom door slam, then she stumbles into the bathroom and throws up into the basin until her diaphragm aches and there is nothing left but dry retching.

She rinses her mouth and face with cold water and only then looks up into the mirror. The side of her face shows a faint handprint, and her right eye is starting to swell. Her jaw hurts, but her teeth all feel firm. She’s washed all the blood from her nostril, but it still feels congested. Theo’s face appears behind hers, eyes still and dark in his pale face. Luke is clinging to his leg, his small face contorted as he cries soundlessly. ‘Oh, my boys, I’m so sorry,’ she says, crouching down to put her arms around both of them. Theo stands stiffly, but she can feel him trembling. Luke flings his arms around her neck, nearly choking her as she breathes in his warm smell and the saltiness of sweat and tears.

He clings to her like an orphaned chimpanzee as she carries him to bed, Theo following silently behind. Soothing words and a back rub soon has Luke breathing peacefully, but she can feel Theo’s eyes on her in the duskiness of their nightlight. She sits down on his bed and reaches out to smooth his hair, but he turns his face away towards the wall. ‘Sometimes grown-ups fight,’ she whispers. ‘Remember when you and Michael had that fight at school and the next day you were friends again?’
He nods slightly, then shakes his head.
‘It’s not the same,’ he says, the anger in his voice muffled by his pillow.

A breeze is picking up outside, relieving the pressing heat of the day. In the moonlight the Karoo koppies, so dull by day, look almost beautiful. The grass is cool underfoot as she walks down to the stream where the tall poplars are whispering. A bat suddenly swoops down low over her; she startles and ducks involuntarily. Behind her she hears a soft thud as a ripe pear falls down. ‘Help me,’ she asks, looking up into the sky. ‘Grant me strength, please.’ All she sees is the great expanse of night sky and the stars twinkling coldly, immeasurably far away. She doesn’t think that anyone has heard. From across the stream a donkey starts to bray loudly and abruptly. The sounds are like great gut-tearing sobs. She briskly rubs the goose bumps from her arms and turns back home.

***

She wakes to the sound of whispering outside the bedroom door. As she strains to make sense of the sounds, flashes of memory from the previous night jolt her upright. Peter lies sprawled across the bed, still fully dressed, breathing stertorously. The door swings open slowly and Theo enters first, carrying a tray with great concentration. Luke pushes past him and leaps into her lap, shouting ‘Happy birthday, Mummy, happy, happy!’ Peter jerks awake and assesses the situation through bloodshot eyes. Mumbling something, he makes his way unsteadily to the bathroom.

‘Happy birthday, Mom,’ says Theo. ‘I made breakfast for you.’
‘I helped! I picked the flowers!’ Luke adds indignantly.
‘Thank you, my darlings,’ she says. ‘It looks lovely.’
The toast had been burnt and scraped and thickly smeared with butter. She takes an enthusiastic bite under their watchful eyes. ‘Mmm-mmm,’ she manages before taking a big sip of mahogany-coloured tea. It is lukewarm and very sweet.
‘I used two bags,’ Theo says uncertainly.
‘It’s just perfect,’ she smiles. ‘And look at the beautiful flowers!’
Luke had picked daisies, kakiebos and a few ragged hibiscus; the stems all of different lengths, they’d been stuck haphazardly into a jam jar.

‘And look what else I got!’ Luke dashes into the passage and returns with an ice-cream container. He thrusts it close to her face. ‘A zillion grasshops!’ he announces triumphantly. She recoils from the sight of the insects swarming over each other and the scraping sounds of their futile efforts to scramble up the sides of the container.
‘That’s nice, sweetheart,’ she says faintly, ‘but I think you should put them back.’
Luke pulls a stubborn face.
‘I’ll help you,’ Theo says quickly. ‘Come, mom wants to get dressed.’
He gives her a conspiratorial look over his shoulder as he ushers Luke out, and she mouths ‘Thank you’ at him.

Peter steps from the shower, billowing steam. ‘Jesus,’ he says as he catches sight of her face in the mirror.
‘I can patch it,’ she says, ‘but you’ll have to cancel Camille’s and the babysitter.’
‘But I booked a table two months ago,’ he says wheedlingly. ‘And you’ve always wanted to go there. I did it especially for you.’
‘I’m not going, Peter,’ says Olivia. ‘Not now, and not like this.’ She dries her face and looks at him in the mirror, her eye throbbing. ‘We can rather take the boys to the Spur.’
‘I’ll stop drinking,’ he mutters. He swallows hard and then starts to cry. She turns, and he leans heavily against her, the basin cold against her lower back.
‘God help me,’ he sobs. ‘I don’t know what gets into me.’
She looks up at the ceiling as she strokes his wet hair. ‘Shh…’ she says. ‘Shh…’

***

Her mother phones just after lunchtime.
‘And how is the birthday girl?’ she asks indulgently.
‘I’m just fine, Ma. It’s a lovely day here. Think I’ve got a few new wrinkles, though.’
‘Nonsense,’ her mother tuts. ‘All set for tonight? I’m so glad you’re getting out for a change, and that you finally have a chance to wear that beautiful dress.’
Olivia detects a movement at the end of the passage. Their bedroom door is opening stealthily. She takes a deep breath.
‘Actually, we’ve had to cancel. The babysitter has flu.’
She holds the phone away from her ear for her mother’s protesting wail. ‘Oh no, darling!
If you’d let me know earlier I could have driven over and spent the night.’
‘Ma, it’s fine, really. We’re taking the boys to the Spur. They’ll love it.’
Her mother sighs. ‘Well, make sure that you take a rain check on Camille’s. And tell Peter to drive carefully. Watch out for kudu.’
‘Yes, Ma.’
‘I can hear your eyes rolling! Happy birthday, darling. God bless.’

***

Luke is riding horsy on the back of the vinyl-covered banquette. He proudly clutches his new balloon, hastily procured when the first one popped, causing a torrent of grief.
Theo is intently colouring a picture of a cute Native American boy on horseback, taking great pains with the rainbow plumage of the headdress. Olivia smiles at them, then says,
‘They’ll be getting tired soon. We should go.’
Peter motions to the waiter. ‘There’s just one more thing,’ he says.

Suddenly the table is surrounded by waiters and kitchen staff, smiling and singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to the accompaniment of Stevie Wonder. A spotty waiter with a bobbing Adam’s apple carefully places a sundae glass full of chocolate mousse and viciously whipped cream in front of her. A cake candle and a sparkler have been stuck into it. Theo and Luke are transfixed by the hissing, darting stars of light.

‘Make a wish, Mummy,’ Theo says quietly. He looks at her with dark, compelling eyes.
‘Make a good wish.’
Olivia looks around the table at her family. Three pairs of eyes are fixed on her.
Peter’s show hope, and a shadow of fear.
Theo’s are deep pools, the flame of the candle leaping in his pupils.
Luke’s eyes are feverish with excitement. He jumps up and down, clapping his hands and crows, ‘And you can’t tell anyone!’

She closes her eyes and leans forward to blow out the flame.

the blind woman on the train sings
‘turn my eyes away from worthless things, oh lord,
let me live through thee
allelujah’
she holds on to her guide as they shuffle forward
on worn soles, harmonising in resigned rhythm
my fellow commuters turn their eyes away
from her hollow eye sockets
no one digs into their pockets
my purse yields only a R2 coin and some coppers
that clatter into the empty enamel cup
a petty offering to assuage my guilt
at taking my sight, albeit it short, for granted
the guide dips two small curtsies from the knee
and taps her plastic toy tambourine across her heart
to thank me
in shame I turn my eyes away
allelujah, lord,
allelujah

die roetswart kraaie swiep en draai
teen die fatale blou lug,
hul koggelende gekras
’n atonale lied begelei deur die wind
wat oker patrone in die koringland waai
weerskant die voetpad na nêrens

die enkele geweerskoot
laat hulle uitmekaar vlie,
die vlerkgeklap soos ’n skielike bui reën
dan stilte en ’n dampie rook
en die swael reuk van buskruit

die man se kobalt oë word vaal
terwyl die karmosyn roos in sy bors helder blom en sprei
die kraaie hervat hul spiraal
wat ál laer swiep en draai
swiep en draai

Re-flex, 1983
Paul Fishman

We got the message
I heard it on the airwaves
The politicians
Are now DJ’s

The broadcast was spreading
Station to station
Like an infection
Across the nation

Well you know you can’t stop it
When they start to play
You’re gonna get out the way

The politics of dancing
The politics of ooh feeling good
The politics of moving, aha
Is this message understood

We’re under pressure
Yes we’re counting on you
That what you say
Is what you do

It’s in the papers
It’s on your TV news
Oh, the application
Is just a point of view

The politics of dancing
The politics of ooh feeling good
The politics of moving, aha
Is this message understood

I never got into porn. In both literature and image I’ve always found anticipation and suggestion more erotic than graphic depiction.
Despite personal preference, however, there is no escaping the ubiquitous multi-media assault of tits and ass, abs and buns, or the strenuous exhortations of women’s magazines (that fertile breeding ground of misogyny) to pole-dance your relationship back to happiness, which leaves one cowering in the corner of the dressing room as you regard your own flesh with fear and loathing in the harsh mirror of reality.
Celibate and single for a year, a month, three weeks and two-and-a-half days (but who’s counting – it’s by choice, OK), I looked at the himbo pics on kagablog with a sense of recognition.
Real bodies. Tangible, living flesh with taste and smell and texture. Vulnerable as my own; wanting human touch.
Memory stirred and realisation dawned: it is the unique imperfections that you come to love; the feel of flesh on flesh and breath to breath, not the gleaming pecs and poreless perfection of a photoshopped replicant.
Plucked and shaved and bleached and buffed (sounds sickeningly sacrificial, doesn’t it? To be laid [excuse the pun] on the altar of Synthetica?) to within an inch of being human, are these bodies you could love? Admire, maybe. Desire, I suppose. Fuck? Sure…
Fucking a perfect body is like eating sushi: fashionable, expensive, overrated; leaving you craving something more.
Making love to a real body is like eating a homemade stew: rich, spicy, tender, and satisfying.
Stand aside, metrosexuals. You, too, gym johnnies, poseurs, lotharios and narcissists.
Let the real men through.

Words ought to be a little wild for they are the assaults of thought on the unthinking.

John Maynard Keynes,

when i drove away
from our life together
you were all I could see
in my rear-view mirror
but as I gathered speed
and turned a corner
you became a speck
then nothing
i pull the lever for the reservoir
and watch jets of water
blur dust and salt and birdshit
on my windscreen
with decisive sweeps the wiper blades
reveal a future
clear as glass

Philip Francois Lintvelt
9 January 1971 – 17 October 2005

The dead and buried
become trees
who lift up their arms
to call the deaf.
With their long fingers
and green tongues
they divulge the secrets
of the Earth’s heart.

– Rumi, 13th-century Sufi mystic and poet

i’ll wash and stack the dishes
and peg and fold the washing
like you taught me, mama
like your mother taught you

but I will not learn to stir a pinch of bitterness
into my morning cup
or to fold away joy at the back of a drawer
to only be displayed
on special occasions