Thursday, 29 May 2014

The Earth Pods go up in flames!

 photos by Simon O'Callaghan

Our main mission at AfrikaBurn this year was to burn the three Earth Pods we built last year. This burning of art, what is it about? Is it just all craziness, pyromania, a brief but intensely celebratory revolution or a 21st century form of iconoclasm?
 
Any artist who has created and built a sizable burnable object for the Festival has the space and audience to burn it within safe perimeters guarded by 10 to 15 fire marshals (Note that all works built for AfrikaBurn does not necessarily get burnt; at the end of the Festival you can pack it up and take home with you). Seeing that Kim’s Fear Gods of 2012 did not flame up as spectacularly as wished, he approached this year’s burn with more thought-through planning. This year, unlike the Burn of 2012, there were no fierce winds and rainstorms to dampen the spirits and wood. From the farmers of the area we got the kind permission to cut pieces of dry gannabos spread over vast tracts of land in the Tankwa Karoo to use as burn material within each Pod. Added to this Kim packed each Pod with big pieces of dry thorn wood. It was a lengthy task and a real patience-tester. The interior of the Pod had space for only one packing person. Kim took on the role as Pod-packer. From below on the ground either Ben, Craig or I would pack together armsful of twigs, thorny branches and gannabos, tie a long piece of rope loosely around it all and Kim would then hoist it up. The bundle could only be so big, for the entry into the Pods was less than a square meter. Kim pulled up just under a hundred bundles in total. We had only one ladder, so only one Pod at a time could be packed. Indeed, a slow and zen-like process.

When we returned to the Earth Pods this year, we marveled at how well they looked after a year standing in the stark weather of the Tankwa Karoo. A few little birds used it as landing spots and we even found a nest in the tallest Pod. We removed the cabling and rebar - for they were not needed anymore. Clearly the Pods could stand on their own three feet without any support in all sorts of inclement weather. (Though, when Kim climbed into the first Pod to check how packing is going to be done, my heart pounded in my throat. What if Kim's movements in the Pod make the thing come toppling down? Do I run out of the way to save my own life or do I run to catch the few hundred kilograms of Pod and save Kim's life?) By the end of filling the Pods, Kim was one properly scratched, pierced and itching individual. I took a very gingerly climb up the ladder just to appease my curiosity on how the pods look like with all the filling packed inside. Oh, what an aroma captured in those Pods - just like the smell of freshly built weaver's nests.
 
Why is it that we burn? As AfrikaBurners we have often had the conversation about temporal art and letting go of Western concepts of monetary value, meaning, and cotton-wooling. While there are people who invest in art and pride themselves with the value and name of the artist, AfrikaBurners delight in burning these cherished beliefs to the ground. Yes, there is a quasi-maniacal aspect about burning! But more than that it brings forth a primal experience. Fire teaches us the meaning of conflict and peace, growth and death, scourging and purging. At AfrikaBurn it has become clear to me that the flames lapping around the sides of the art works are in itself an artwork. Fire has a hypnotizing aesthetic that makes us feel warm, safe and visionary.  Setting an artwork alight in a cold Karoo night is definitely much more spectacular than watching the slow and inevitable process of soot and pigeons gathering on the more permanent public sculptures in cities and towns. The flames you see curling over the Playa at night are the very flames that ignite shifts in each and every onlooker. It may be the smallest shifts, even just a fleeting question or idea that jumps in the mind to stir any stagnant air and bring a spark to the breath. Ahhhh.

The Art crews build their respective pieces in record time. And it is advised to burn them in record time. From catching conversations from some of the organisers and fire marshals at the Burn, it is preferred to have the bigger pieces burn with a fast and dramatic display of flames. The slower and longer a piece burns the quicker the attention of the instant-gratification-seeking-audience dwindles. And we do not want that, now do we?
 
The Pods burnt well. They were great balls of fire flaming in the sky, just as Kim had envisioned.

The last flaming Pod was pulled over by cabling by about 6 men, causing some comedic relief as the cable initially slipped from the hands causing the men to all fall down! But a second time round, gripping the cable tighter and fiercer the Pod came crashing down with flames and ash trailing like a long sigh.
 
It was hot. It was exciting.
 
The sobering part is the morning after – a lone bird came flying over the burn scars. Was it my imagination, or was he looking around for his high perch in the Pod's wattle branches and could not find it for it had disappeared overnight? Facing the burn scars brings up all sorts of memories and mixed emotions. Your eyes are the first to feel the loss of a beautiful man-made landmark. Disorientation sets in. Then a slight tremor of a heart-ache.

AfrikaBurn is not for sissies. The harsh conditions make surviving sanely and creating convincingly that much harder.

You stop the choke in your throat and step up into function mode – still-warm coals, metal wires and ashen sand is all that is left, and it ALL has to be cleaned up and taken back home with you – it is after all a leave-no-trace event. It took us two mornings to clear the debris of the burn. By this time any enchantment of being a pyromaniacal non-conformer and visions of flying high like an iconoclastic hero has worn off. Energy depleted. Body heavy. With an ashen brow you peer into the barren distance and feel the skin on your heels flicker with the flame of transience...

...and you wonder what can you burn next time?

***

Article "Demystifying the Desert-Dwellers: AfrikaBurn for the Uninitiated" in the latest Art Times >
http://issuu.com/arttimes/docs/south_african_art_times_april_2014

Thursday, 3 April 2014

tussen die lugholtes van my ribbes

dit is daar waar ek wil wees
daar waar kontinente van klank uit
my keel en vingers vloei
en ek aan 'n hele nuwe aarde geboorte gee

daar waar die magtige digkuns 
die ritme van die dag bepaal

ek voel alewig die klop in my keel
die nimmereindigende spits van my ore
ek staan op aandag
gereed vir die magtige vers
wat met volbloedige vlerke op my palms gaan land

ek grawe in die see-skulpe opsoek 
na die waarheid van die woord
ek krap onder die volstruispoot se toonnaels
honger vir die metafoor wat alle metafore sal oortref

die woorde lê soos spook-spore
op die skadu's van die nag 
weier om gesien of gevang te word

en tog, soos klein swart poppie-saadjies 
kom lê die 
voortdurende wilskrag van 
die poësie
tussen 
die 
lugholtes 
van 
my 
ribbes

as die woord kom
weet ek hoe verruklik die lettergrepe soos 
ryp snye avokado op my tong sal smelt

laat ek diep binne die greep van die woord lê
maak my lam, maak my onbewus,
maak my vlieg, maak my lag,
maak my ril 
en
maak my vry

Monday, 17 March 2014

into the deep salt of the ear and paper

in a language other than my mother tongue
i look for the hollows in my throat 
where the rain spiders can spin a web for my words
i fold my shoulders open
as if i had wings
feel the newest air fill my jowls
and every other crevice

and relieve me of my screen and button addiction

i am so in love with my idea of solitude
do i really know what it means?
is it a place where the scar tissue
in the mind and soul
can rest
and not get stung with unnecessary twists?

not just my mind and soul
but my skeleton feels the exhilaration
of the sad freedom of solitude

in the silences between the words
i hunger for the ritual of soil and water
and fire
simply this:
to touch these elements with all of my senses
the act-ual melting into the elements
and nothing more
if it does not come i am going to break
or break free

between dreaming, writing and shrinking
i choose writing
because it is a real caress weighing down
right into the deep salt of the ear and paper
where my proud anger can breathe a bit of looseness
into its rigidity
and rinse the mouth of all dread
and loosen the belt around my selfishness

i refuse to categorize anything
leave space for grey matters
it is both jeans and circumtrance that shape us
no running away from either, even though they keep 
falling off the restless bum

i have an indefatigable desire to 
be a better person than I am right now
i feel helpless, continually wanting to awol
to the deep pools where i can swim the seasons into each other
to my fantasies of words 
basking eternally under the sun
I want to run in the rain 
and feel again the slipperiness under 
my bare feet tripping over mud and gnarly roots

the days of the quaking reality 
trembling in the hand
are luckily not yet past


diep in die sout van die oor en papier

in 'n taal nie my moedertong
soek ek vir die holtes in my keel
waar die reën-spinnekoppe 'n web kan spin vir my woorde
ek vou my skouers oop
asof ek vlerke het
voel hoe die nuutste lug my kiewe
en al die ander holtes vul

en verlos my van my skerm- en tikbordverslawing

ek is so verlief op my idee van eensaamheid
weet ek regtig wat dit beteken?
is dit 'n plek waar die letsels
in my kop en my siel
kan rus
en nie verdraai word met onnoddige kinkels?

nie net my kop en siel
maar ook my skelet voel die uitbundigheid
van die hartseer vryheid van eensaamheid

in die stiltes tussen die woorde
honger ek vir die ritueel van grond en water
en vuur
eenvoudig dit:
om die elemente met al my sintuie aan te raak
die waar-agtige smelt diep in die elemente
en niks meer
as dit nie gaan kom sal ek breek
of vry breek

tussen droom, skryf en krimp
kies ek skryf
want dit is ‘n ware vertroeteling wat diep inweeg
reg in die sout van die oor en papier
waar my trotse woede 'n bietjie losheid kan inasem
in sy rigiditeit
en spoel die mond van alle skrik
en maak die belt rondom my selfsug los

ek weier om enige iets te kategoriseer
los plek vir grys affêres
dit is beide gene en omstandighede wat ons vorm
geen weghardloop van enige een, al hou hulle aan
om van die rustelose boude af te val

ek het 'n onversadigbare begeerte om
'n beter mens te wees as wat ek nou is
ek voel hulpeloos, wil alewig weghol
na die diep poele waar ek die seisoene aanmekaar kan swem
na die fantasieë van my woorde
verewig bakkend in die son
ek wil hardloop in die reën
en weer die glibberigheid voel onder
my kaalvoete wat trippel oor modder en dig-geknoopte wortels

die dae van die beurende realiteit
bewend in die hand
is gelukkig nie verby

Saturday, 15 March 2014

your sleep


                  for Kim

when you fall off to sleep
you glow
like the inside of
an almond
so alluringly touchable

yet Sleep is guardian of the body
shielding you from the world
and my stirring hands

your sleep is the still sleep of marble
sculpted by the gentle blade of shadow
and night’s light

you sleep quietly like plains of amber
open for the night to discover you in
all your sleeping splendour
the moonlit clouds break open
in whispers at the sight of your slumber

how blessed to wake next to you
like waking next to
a murmuring field of rye

if only i could be there 
deep within your sleep
and feel so entirely close to you,
so completely with you

Tuesday, 28 January 2014

ode to our legs


without asking you where
they have already begun to take you there
they like to run wide and far
if they could they'd run to the furthest star
unboundedly they sprint behind a frisbee in flight
leaping off the solid earth with all their might
give them pedals, chain, rings and two wheels
and they'll cruise around the globe like two perfectly paired eels
take heed, when they feel the rise of a mountain
they will unashamedly gush like a fountain
and go go go
till they've reached the top
they love the caress of flower and veld
and how they rejoice when you take them swimming –
the deep memory of a previous fish existence
makes them throb with the fins' delight

with locomotive pedidexterity
they stitch together the lengths of the lands
they do it with such metronomic regularity
that we can not help but pendulum forward on the path of life
after the heart, the legs have
the strongest sense of beat and rhythm
are we surprised then that our souls rejoice
when we take a walk or bounce into dance?

i love their quickwittedness and their swift ingenuity
they are programmed to dart from danger,
and dash toward a loved one
with them we can become a crouching tiger and a leaping frog
that particular proportion between thigh and calve
articulated by the magnificent joint of the knee
evolution has expertly engineered them into elegant machines
that launch us like beams of velocity
iridescently weaving
the
distances
closer

oh, Legs, you fine and marvelous things!
and not only have we one,
but TWO!
the wonder of the hominid rising to stand firm and tall
among millennia of Time's twists and turns

when these two brothers rest at night
they do not completely relent to sleepy quiet
for the memory of the day's roamings
shoots quivers of spasms through the muscles
and the dreaming of tomorrow's tread
pinches and twitches those nerve-endings
into adventurous thrills
that can not wait for
the new day's expeditions to begin

Wednesday, 4 December 2013

sentencide

Beach calligraphy and photo by Andrew van der Merwe
i take this pen
swallow the ink
drag the blade of word alongside my neck
and think how can i commit sentencide
without letting the blood flow

so it is with the fate of us writers
we are left to our own de-vices
to turn the blade
to swallow the poison
and hope that we can write
it down
just in time
so that
- literally -
something
of us writers
will remain behind
- - -
self-woordenaar

ek neem hierdie pen
sluk die ink
sleep die lem van woord langs my nek verby
en dink hoe kan ek self-woord pleeg
sonder om die bloed te laat vloei

so is dit met die lot van ons skrywers
ons is aan ons eie sinne oorgelaat
om die lem te draai
die gif te sluk
en hoop dat ons
betyds
die na-woordse nota
kan bewoord
sodat
- letterlik -
iets
van ons skrywers
sal oorbly

Monday, 2 December 2013

The Cross Roads IV

"This guava-pie is the best I have ever eaten!" exclaims the Wretch.
The days have been warm this winter and the guavas have ripened
into sweet and heavy specimens. "I woke up with fruit-flies in my bells
this morning" the Carillon excitedly reports "They are good company seeing that I have been rather lonely these past few months."
The Cave-Dweller smacking his lips on the guava's juices splutters "It has been too long since I have tasted fruits of such richness."
The Loner, clearly envious of the fruity breakfast he is not invited to
partake of, mumbles "How quickly sweetness goes to people's heads."
The Wretch wipes his mouth with one grandiloquent gesture and enunciates "These fruits taste so much more balmy in my mouth than this damn vinegar-tongue I have been cursed with!" All of a sudden the Carillon chimes a jovial melody from her boisterous bowels. "These blessed fruit-flies are tickling me in the most curious ways Hahaha!" The Cross Roads surfacing from a deep slumber confusedly remarks "Where are these sounds coming from? This is too jolly for my ears right now." The Wretch, still overjoyed from the guavas, insensitively shushes the Cross Roads "Come now, a bit of a janglin' tune is what we all need here on this desolate plain." The Anarchist, with arms swinging irately at his sides, storms up towards the Wretch "How dare you give such opinionated advice? Sweet fruits and tunes will not save the world from your wretchedness!"
For an elongated moment everyone looks with stunned eyes at each other.
Even the Anarchist could not hide the shock his own words caused him.
In the act of the Prehistoric Postal Agent opening his mouth in readiness to utter an appropriate or inappropriate reply, he is instantaneously silenced by a great clashing sound. "I am falling apart," the Carillon laments. The Prehistoric Postal Agent leaps to the Carillon with a concerned speed heretofore unseen by anyone.
After inspecting the innards of the Carillon the Prehistoric Postal Agent proudly broadcasts:
"I have good news and I have bad news."
Everyone pleaded to hear the bad news first.
"The bad news is that our most devoted and dutiful Singer of the Skies has lost one bell."
Everyone gave one loud sob and pleaded in great consternation to hear the good news.
With a mischievous smile the Prehistoric Postal Agent continues "And the good news is that it was the out-of-tune bell."

* * *

Although it is not necessary to read the Cross Roads poems in sequence I guess (and hope) it is rather interesting to follow the escapades of the characters as they appeared in the previous Cross Roads. Here the links to the first three Cross Roads poems >

Friday, 29 November 2013

imagination

the 
imagination
of 
stone
is
greater
than 
mine

Thursday, 21 November 2013

New Earth

that is where I want to be
there where continents of sounds
flow from our fingers
and our throats
and we give birth
to a whole
new earth

Nuwe Aarde

dit is daar waar ek wil wees
daar waar kontinente van klank
uit ons vingers
en ons kele vloei
en ons aan 'n hele
nuwe aarde
geboorte gee

Sunday, 17 November 2013

The Cross Roads III

With tears in his eyes the Cave-Dweller looks at the Cross Roads and bemoans his woeful state "I was hoping to set off on a journey to the Greener Lands, yet here I am forever stuck at the Crossing of the Roads. What will become..." The Anarchist chips in "Plant Green Seeds under your feet and it will rise up into Green Shoots and you'll have your Green Lands."
The Cave-Dweller answers "If I were to cultivate my own Green Lands I don't want you hanging around serving up unwelcome advice!"
In the far distance the Carillon chimes gently in 
the northernly wind "I wonder whether I will be welcome in these Green Lands? Nowadays, everyone seems to want Green Lands for themselves, fence it off and live on their ownsome selves. Lonesome ownsome Green lands..." the Carillon sings. 
The Wretch comes stumbling out of his hole, his vinegar-lips properly chapped and blistered, he enunciates slowly and deliberately "Why all these moanings?  I thought I was the one to carry the world's sorrows on my back."
The Cave-Dweller, not believing that he is still stuck at the Cross Roads with all these interjectionists contributing to his overly overwhelmed state of mind, utters in great dismay "I am leaving this very instant, I can not stomach these interminable pronouncements!"
Out of the thick shadows the Loner comes crawling and breathlessly gives voice to his rusty syllables "Mister Cave-Dweller, you can not run away, you belong in your Cave. The Green will get too Green for you and you will become insatiably unsatisfied."
At this moment the legs of the Prehistoric Postal Agent could be seen sprinting over the plains.
The Wretch vocalizes what was on everyone's mind "Argh, not him again!"
The Carillon chimes out one cacophonic chord to announce the arrival of the Prehistoric Postal Agent.
"What a dismal looking company thou art. I have come from yonder to deliver some invigorating news."
The Cave-Dweller rolls his eyes and exclaims "Make haste with your news, my Green Lands are waiting impatiently for my arrival!"
"That's the very thing I have come to report on" the Prehistoric Postal Agent glibly states.
"At the International Green Lands Convention it has been agreed that the Green of the Lands needs to be replaced with something new - inhabitants are getting disinterested and fatigued by this monotonous colour. It has been voted that Mauve is to be the new colour gracing our landscapes."
The Cave-Dweller couldn't help thinking aloud "Huh - I'm moving to Mauver Pastures - that doesn't sound pleasant to my ear."

The links to the previous two Cross Roads poems >
http://laraafrika.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-crossroads.html

Thursday, 14 November 2013

grond en vertering

en in die dae van die voete wat klou
aan die teerdruppels
tussen krake van vel
voel ek hoe my bene
al hoe korter word
in die smelt van die lyf
totdat ek verval in
die redding van grond
en vertering

Thursday, 7 November 2013

kalkulasie

Ek her-besoek dikwels my ouer gedigte en vind dit interessant hoe dit my maak voel. Dikwels kry ek skaam vir die naïwiteit en ongekunsteldheid van hierdie vroeër werke. Tog is daar 'n paar wat my nogsteeds diep laat glimlag, soos hierdie een, so agt jaar terug geskryf:

Kalkulasie

Kyk of jy die volgende kan beraam:
tel al die vokale saam
vermenigvuldig dit met die som totaal van die konsonante
(jy mag nota’s maak op die kante)

Tel die lettergrepe saam, bereken dan die vierkantkwadraat
(Jy moet mooi beraam en geen stap uitlaat)
Maal bogenoemde met die totaal eksplosiewe van elke woord
Dis ‘n som van ‘n ander soort

Bereken die proporsionele verhouding tussen werkwoord en punt
Jy sal gou die sin en rede vind
Deel dit met die wortel van elke dubbelsinnigheid
Woord en getal lê nou oral verspreid

Maal die omtrek van die metafoor
Met die diepte van die sin
Moenie jou som tot-taal verloor
Anders moet jy van voor begin

Bereken die spoed van die rym
Jagend deur elke lyn
En plus dit by die radius van my oë
‘n Moerse getal, kan jy glo!

Monday, 4 November 2013

Do not eat and read: It is dangerous to your health

canned, bottled,
vacuum-packed,
sealed, salted,
pickled, marinated,

frozen,

boiled, cooked,
roasted, refined,
diluted, reconstituted,
fortified, modified,

stabillized,

sprayed, sterilized,
iodated, irradiated,
sweetened, powdered,
skimmed, dehydrated,

cultured,

pasteurized, coloured,
anti-foamed, clouded,
purified, buffered,
inverted, thickened,

concentrated,

flavoured, filtered,
emulsified, artificialized,
baked, popped,
fried, liquified,

acidified,

            hydrolyzed,
blanched,
                                                                                                            bleached,

                                                            processed,
                                    preserved,                                                                              
           
deboned, dehusked,
peeled, pitted,
shelled, chopped,
sliced, diced,

hacked,

dried,
shriveled up
and
quite

DEAD!