scriptorium

थे Exile कुक Book

2011-03-08T14:41:00.000-08:00

Dear Friends and Family

As the years have gone by here in South Africa, I have often made dishes that remind me of our friends and family, following in my parent’s footsteps, as they collected recipes from home before they went into exile in Denmark. We all still use that little faded and stained handwritten brown book, my mother began before 1978…which continued to be filled with recipes from the people we met over the years in Denmark and Tanzania. When I think back upon our childhood in Denmark, I remember Keld’s soups, our Chilean friends homemade mayo, Maria’s Mediterranean spread, Linda’s Frikadeller, Aunty Joyce’s Eable kage, just to mention a few. I guess cooking these dishes now, are a way to stay connected and to remember you by…also it has become a way to bring the past and my childhood into the present, through recreating the taste and smells we remember from the smells met in your kitchen and in ours, marking everyday rituals, a shared meal, a special event, most of all the smells, taste and textures that has come to define who we are. Our kitchen, food and eating culture is saturated by the relationships we forged with people and even to the extent of our (my families and my own) political solidarity. In many ways our menu can be read as a map of belonging, love, friendship and solidarity with people and places. To celebrate these relationships and to reflect the poetics of politics and love through food, I would like you to participate in a joint project to submit any food recipe, a meal, an anecdote you have shared with us or that have come to influence your life, memory or thought in anyway. I imagine that the end product will be presented in the form of a book that is a combination of how we remember you and you remember us…reciprocated in recipes.

Love
Simmi

Please write to me about your experience to sdullay@gmail.com
I accept anything from a few lines to a paragraph or even a short story. I will try and conduct interviews with those of you who for some reason cannot send me written submissions through skype when I get this installed. But I would very much like written submission, in Danish or English.
I am not working with any budget, but will try apply for one. If anyone knows how these things work or who to apply to, or have any suggestions, please let me know.

2010-03-14T17:10:00.000-07:00

DAmn

2008-06-07T17:17:00.000-07:00

been a long time…
Not because I don’t want to write…but I seem to have been forced to stay away…due to my own conservative sensibilities. Can u believe I realized its just me not wanting to be judged.
Its
Eish…how pathetic!!!!!

Well, I guess they did a better job on me than I care to admit. I thought I escaped the lobotomy induced by socialization………education and all the other bullshit…but here I am…and all I want is respectability in society. Ouch! How fxxkng boooring…and as I write this my chest is tightening and my heart beating faster….its (gasp) so damn atrocious!

I really don’t want to be them…those righteous anal fxxkups, but im tired of fighting them. Sometimes I consider just getting married and baking him beautiful cupcakes with pink frosted icing, but anything with ‘him’ is just damn complicated…so much so that I don’t know if I even want it….I feel so damn defeated.
I recon with my self that I would be far better of knowing that ‘he’ would be there in all his brutish masculinity when the scabenga’s are on the prowl…thing is its quite hard to discern who gets away with the biggest loot….

Damn..i just rubbed chilli’s in my eye and im seeing double through a sheet of tears running from my left eye…ofcourse this has nothing to do with my broken heart, nor the half bottle of gin and tots of saki I have managed to consume on this Friday evening…

2008-05-27T08:13:00.000-07:00

man...i dont know what's happening anymore. the leval of violence is overwhelming. My friend and fellow artist Gabisile Nkosi was shot in the early hours of this morning by her boyfriend. he shot her despite knowing that she is a mother...her son is twelve. Its so damn meaningless.

Jan Jordan wrote this in memory of Gabi.

It's with a great sense of loss that Art for Humanity (AFH) reports
the tragic death of celebrated KZN artist, Gabisile Nkosi in the early
hours of this morning, 27 May 2008.

Born in 1974 in Umlazi, Durban Gabisile had built a significant career
as an artist in her short life. She received her BTech in Fine Art
from the Durban University of Technology in 2002. Thereafter Gabisile
was based at the Caversham Centre for Artists and Writers in the
KwaZulu-Natal Midlands facilitating printmaking workshops with
well-known artists and local communities.

Gabisile was involved with AFH for almost 10 years with her
participation in two of AFH's print portfolio projects. In 2000,
Gabisile contributed a linocut, "Break the Silence" which discouraged
the practice of polygamy in rural areas to AFH's "Break the Silence"
HIV/Aids awareness print portfolio. In her artist statement, Gabisile
emphasized the important role art plays in advocating social issues,
"If you want to get a message across, it's better to do a colourful
visual rather than text. As an artist, I feel privileged to play a
role in HIV/Aids awareness through the medium of visual art."

Her print was then flighted on billboards at taxi ranks and train
stations around the country as part of the billboard advocacy campaign
and her participation in this project received a lot of attention from
radio stations and the local Zulu communities as her work confronted
controversial issues.

From this point, Gabisile's career took off and her work has been seen
in several group and solo exhibitions in South Africa and abroad. She
was particularly interested in the therapeutic effects of art making
and in 2005 she collaborated with Cape-Town based poet Mavis Smallberg
on AFH's "Women for Children" print portfolio. Gabisile strongly
advocated women's rights in her linocut, "Sisterhood". In her artist
statement she gave a personal account of her experiences and
inspiration:

"As a female artist who has personally experienced domestic violence,
it is my privilege to contribute to this campaign. This image is about
the power of sisterhood. It derives from a trauma that my son and I
experienced in 1998, an abusive relationship which left scars on both
of our lives.

Through the support of my metaphorical sisters, I found joy and
strength. Instead of breaking under the pain, I decided to confront it
as a challenge for a brighter future - for all children have the right
to a happy mother no matter how much heavy baggage may weigh.

This image stresses the importance for domestic abuse victims to
engage in dialogue and to find relevant ways of dealing with these
situations. The repeating arms represent the different spirits which
support me. The flying dresses symbolise the many roles I play as a
woman – as daughter, as mother and father to my son, as a leader in my
community. All women and children deserve to celebrate life."

Gabisile also received art awards and prizes, during and after her
studies. Amongst many other collections her work is also included in
the permanent collection of the Durban Art Gallery, South Africa.

AFH treasures the opportunity of having worked with Gabisile. She made
such a powerful impact with her capacity as an artist and as an
educator in numerous communities. Her passion, kindness and commitment
to helping others through art inspired and touched many lives. We will
miss you Gabi.

2007-09-03T12:57:00.000-07:00

In my craft or sullen art

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.

-Dylan Thomas

I also am maadly baadly in luuuvvv with the words of Patti Smith

"Jesus died for somebody's sins but not mine
meltin' in a pot of thieves
wild card up my sleeve
thick heart of stone
my sins my own
they belong to me, me"

scriptorium: BODY OF EVIDENCE

2007-09-03T04:40:00.000-07:00

http://www.newagebd.com/2006/oct/15/eidspecial06/poetry01.html

IS THERE SUCH A THING AS ENGAGING SPAM?

2007-08-18T18:39:00.000-07:00

Recently I have been receiving spam that is coherent, entertaining and witty...its even corny........Am I loosing my mind?

Is there any one else that has conversations with their spam? I need to get out of virtual reality and back into the real world...

Some faults are so closely allied to qualities that it is difficult to weed out the vice without eradicating the virtue. There are no eternal facts, as there are no absolute truths. Christianity is completed Judaism or it is nothing. Accidents, try to change them -- it's impossible. The accidental reveals man. There are evils that have the ability to survive identification and go on for ever... money, for instance, or war. Nothing can add more power to your life than concentrating all your energies on a limited set of targets. Business today consists in persuading crowds. Besides pride, loyalty, discipline, heart, and mind, confidence is the key to all the locks. With so much information now online, it is exceptionally easy to simply dive in and drown. Live always in the best company when you read. Don't wait. The time will never be just right. Like dreams, small creeks grow into mighty rivers. The hardest years in life are those between ten and seventy.

AS WE CONTEMPLATE THE PLACE AND BURDEN OF PAINTING...

2007-08-07T03:12:00.000-07:00

I wrote this short article for an art publication by the KZNSA after having participated in a critical writing workshop run by Sean O'Tool. There were a few topics to chose from.

I chose to write about painting, exile and social transformation which slotted very easily into Olu Oguibe's text: As we contemplate the place and burden of painting…

AS WE CONTEMPLATE THE PLACE AND BURDEN OF PAINTING

The burden of painting in the postcolony, argues Simmi Dullay, is to negotiate the liminal space between the perceived and the real

… I am compelled to confess my inadequate disposition, as each attempt at reaching a serene state for contemplating “place” and “painting” has failed. Inevitably, when I think of art my thoughts turn to anarchic revolt; I become submerged within the combat zone of aesthetics, representation, ideology, sex, murderous plots and even … strategies of world domination. Do not be fooled by the glossy veneer and luminous colour, the world of art is a dangerous one. Let’s not forget that artists across the disciplines are often the first to be censored and persecuted in undemocratic regimes.

Within the lethal but intoxicating fumes of pigment and oil, my place belongs in the visceral embodiment of painting, unravelling worlds of exile, into one space, which becomes physically tangible and discerning. My love for painting is bound in the violent subtlety, its gentle incitement to revolt and ability to change the way we think through unspoken imaginary spaces.
I am trapped betwixt: “place” recalls colonial rupture, as I belong to a history of violent discontinuities, ‘placing’ me outside, beyond or simply in between cultures, histories and continents. My own exile was pre-empted by events in the fifteenth century, the rise of colonialism and global capitalism. During this period, European painting was governed by naturalistic representation; paintings represented exact copies of reality, recording land, wealthy people and their possessions, to be hung in magnificent chambers of churches, palaces and museums, all signifying power and status.

In the early twentieth century Picasso renounced the essentialist academic values of the elite in favour of the humanistic sentiments he saw imbued in African art – the power of spirituality, emotion and the subliminal. African, Asian and South American art revolutionised European art and came to define breaks with the long-standing traditions of the bourgeois aristocracy. Tri-continental art had not yet been marred by capitalism; art was still created for the people. Symbolic representations could equally be utilised in ritual and as objects serving the community, a far cry from the institutionalisation of art in the West.

In our current media orientated society, obsessive logocentrism – the act of centrally locating discourse around art in pure reason – has resulted in cheap repetitious representation. Visual culture now is a spectacle of consumption. While colonialism in the tri-continent is a thing of the past, its legacy remains entrenched. Economic value is determined according to the signification of identity, based in turn on race, gender and geo-cultural location. The imperial hegemony perpetuates itself.

The burden of painting remains to negotiate the liminal space between the perceived and the real, to inflame the spirit of humanity in creativity.

Simmi Dullay

Edited by Sean O'Tool

WILD AT HEART

2007-06-24T13:01:00.000-07:00

I couldn't sleep, and was to brain dead to focus on my research....so I wasted the night away finding out all kinds of thing about my self...that most likely wont make a difference anyway...but it kept me entertained. I took every perceivable free online test ranging between the parameters of self-awareness to demonology. It seems like the underworld and I are on par regarding most issues.

This test What's Your Relationship Destiny?was easy and makes me more desirable than the goddess of love Aphrodite. Please do understand that these test produce the TRUTH and nothing but the truth! I am a love goddess. There might be one or two minor details like that I would appreciate something a bit more permanent than a rendezvous...I really don’t know how all that wild at heart romance will endure with my current preference of wearing pajamas day and night...and the fact that I don’t bother with shaving for quite extensive periods.I remember a night quite a few of us crashed on the (huge) sofa at my sisters place, after a gig and in the morning, as I sit up, this very close (lesbian) girlfriend of mine exclaims "SIMMI, wha the...??? I thought I was sleeping with a dude", due to the fact that all she could see sticking out from my duvet, was my mammoth hairy legs! thing is that it’s not a political statement, though I don’t see the reasons why we should shave, when (most) men don't. To be honest, I don’t find hairy men nor women hot. I don't generally like hairy buts, or hairy chest, but if I’m in love and my man's got that, I’m sure I would find it the most ravishing hairy but in the world. If I had been just a tad more idealistic and lived by what’s ethically and morally right, I would refuse to shave for aesthetic reasons and wear my sassy little skirt exposing my legs 'au natural', but hey, its with a heavy heart that I confess to being bewitched by the patriarchal gaze, I really think it looks bizarre... if only I could refute it all. What if we had not been exposed to the male gaze and I still felt that hairy legs and skirts were a no no? On the other hand hairy legs - shaved legs, even poky stubbly legs hasn’t made a difference regarding hot mind-blowing sex. I remember the first time with Akira's father.....it was the kind of sex one dreams of , incredibly romantic, breath-taking, smoldering, aching, simmering sex that began in a public toilet and ended sometime after midnight on a mattress on the floor in my room, surrounded by candle light, school bags and half empty glasses.We met during our first year studying graphic design, he was 18 and I was 23. Afterwards I remember him moving the duvet to check out my 'toes', they must have been the only part of my body he hadn't really seen...of course I was more concerned about him scrutinizing my hairy legs, which he didn't even notice. I guess that shaved legs might look sexy, maybe even feel better regarding their smoothness, but makes no difference when fucking transcends the superficiality of flesh -really, most of the stuff considered sexy (on telly, the media) like famous; film stars, models and the rich..... busy carving away at themselves in their plastic surgeries, is really just a 'model' an object of the human body, a representation the human body. A pornographied body...which can be mildly pleasurable, but can't even begin to compete with a real connection..........were the act of fucking, making love -call it what you will, transcends lust and becomes love. I can't help it, I’m a hopeless romantic. See for yourself, even my reading affirmed it:

Your relationship destiny is to Have a Romantic Rendezvous

Wild thing, you make our hearts sing. Daring and headstrong, you know that the world is full of all kinds of adventures and possibilities, and you want to try as many of them as possible. Whether you've already met the action hero who's bold enough to join you on your travels, or are still looking for a soul brave enough, you're sure to enjoy the search. A risk taker by nature, you're not afraid to put yourself on the line, whether you're scaling mountains or falling in love on the first date. Sure, that means you'll get a few bumps and bruises along the way, but for a courageous spirit like you, that's part of the fun. How romantic!

............sigh

2007-06-19T13:15:00.000-07:00

I prefer it in colour, this version might be slighly different from the other black and white. This ones got more fucking around and less art. Its connected, innit? I should be painting or writing or something...even got Amilcar Cabrals 'the weapon of theory' chapter ready to be devoured, but alas Im a lazy bum, maybe I should sleep and begin early...its all so bloody futile. Akira is at home (schools have been closed down for about two weeks, due to the strike for ) which I fully suport...but it does not allow any time for writing. I cant do all-nighters any more, as it is Im sleep deprived. Someone suggested I smear those dark shadows under my eyes with hemmoroid cream. Would have, if I knew what make to use. Any suggestions?

UPRISING RISING

2007-06-19T12:41:00.000-07:00

THE UPRISING FEST BE THERE!!!!

(got this from the SIBLINGS)

Hey you all better be at The Winston Pub tomorrow it's going to be cool ekse, Lowprofile, Go Go Bronco, Mea, Black die grace only R20 entry free Pop Corn, R10 quarts, loads of cool merch to buy loads of food to munch on. Cool sound, cool lighting (very unheard of in The Winston) so be there for the time of your life. Over and out. Later o and pool and drinking comps. It's Madness, just madness The Uprising Festival is expanding it's early it's here get ready let's go!!!!

scriptorium: PICASA ROCKS

2007-06-13T09:08:00.000-07:00

scriptorium: PICASA ROCKS
Images can be found here

PICASA ROCKS

2007-06-13T09:02:00.000-07:00

BODY OF EVIDENCE

2007-06-10T07:10:00.000-07:00

I am posting this here, hoping the incredible philosopher/teacher/writer/thinker/activist/scientist (and so forth) Azfar Hussein might come across this letter, as I have not been able to reach him via email. You see, I read that he finds it quite amusing to google himself and I hope that this letter will show up when he does. I know it's quite unlikely, but hey, its worth a try.

Dear Azfar Hussein

I am a post grad student based in South Africa, completing my Masters degree in Fine Art. My dissertation is part praxis (cultural production) and part theory. I am of Indian descent, making me 5th generation Indian South African. We came to South Africa as indentured labourers during British rule.
My fathers anti-apartheid work in the Black Consciousness struggle, forced us into exile in Denmark in 1978. After fourteen years in exile we returned 'home' (to S.A.).
The impact of exile was/is all defining. And subsequently resistance struggle, exile, racism/sexism and other socio-political subject matters have become central in my work.

About two weeks ago or quite recently, I stumbled across an article in Literatti, I have only had the pleasure of being introduced to a very limited amount of your writing and some interviews.

One of the articles you wrote in Literatti was side splittingly funny and profound...........and made me recall my first encounter with postmodern theory.
I remember thinking:
There's my life translated into aesthetic theory.
But, why isn't the connection visible between liberation struggles, activism, resistance, black consciousness, anti-imperial literature and contemporary academic theory?
Is 'appropriation' a word that legitimizes plunder, theft, stealing, robbing, larceny, pilfering etc.?

And then to my astonishment I was being questioned regarding the 'authenticity' of my identity, from all sides of the camp...either I was to 'black' in Europe or to 'white' in Africa and to ‘unconventional’ amongst the larger Indian community, to Indian for the Africans, in general my identity seems to be to much of the ‘other’.

In addition, I find it preposterous to be questioned about the subject of authenticity and language...English was not something I 'appropriated' or chose, as it's part of a violent colonial annexation and loss of (my) 'land', (my) 'labour', (my) 'language', and (my) 'body' -Powerful words from your mouth, which you seemingly identified with ease and contextualized rightly (in my humble opinion) by locating land, labour, language and body within a 'economic' context, given the bizarre and deeply perverted fact, that people of color (or ‘post’-colonial subjects) are paying dearly for the burden of colonization. This is not to disregard the importance of keeping the (respective) mother tongue alive. Though for some of us (like me) identity is marked by the many ruptures and dislocations left enroute of the particular Diaspora. Due to spending my formative years in Denmark I learnt to read and write in Danish. Regarding English, it was the language we spoke with our parents and which they insisted we keep alive to be able to communicate with relatives and friends left in South Africa. It was near impossible for my parents to teach us Hindi (which they only learnt as ‘kitchen Hindi’), or to teach us Zulu (which my father had learnt as a child on the farm where he grew up), because firstly both languages (Hindi and Zulu) had been acquired orally, and secondly the hardship of integrating into a new society is a struggle and all consuming, hardly leaving any strength to contain and maintain all the fraction of ones identity. The tiresome labour of having to justify and verify ones existence (to either side/s of the fence) is hopeless, as returning to the past is unattainable.
The politics of land, labour and language is embodied in my skin, a testimony of flesh, a body of evidence.

....Which (eventually) brings me to the original intent of this letter, I wanted to enquire about the publication of your book "Toward a Political Economy of Land, Labour, Language, and the Body", as I tried to google it but only found mention of it in its preliminary process?

It has been an exceptional and profound pleasure to have been acquainted with your thoughts, especially in consideration of the trouble I am having with 'legitimizing' my experience as a valid form of knowledge, without having to apply a “Western/European methodology, that in any case has been 'appropriated' (and altered) from the South.
I found it disconcerting and that hardly anything has changed since the publication of Bill Ascroft's ‘THE EMPIRE WRITES BACK’. But faith was reinstated when I read your work. It has unlocked a thousand silenced thoughts.

BREAK DOWN THE WALL

2007-01-30T09:13:00.000-08:00

Do you know what I mean, when I feel that life has lost its luster? Persecuted by the grand colonial scheme …nothing inspires or excites. When one feels both misplaced and lost, trapped in a wilderness of fools? I have come so close to giving in, giving up, when one’s spirit and bones grow weak and tired of resisting, so tired that I have been numb, anesthetized enough to be swept away by the force of this tidal wave, which serves none other but the same ugly stone hearts of the empire

Are you familiar with this song by Pink Floyd

Comfortably Numb

Hello?
Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me.
Is there anyone at home?
Come on, now,
I hear you're feeling down.
Well I can ease your pain
Get you on your feet again.
Relax.
I'll need some information first.
Just the basic facts.
Can you show me where it hurts?
There is no pain you are receding
A distant ship, smoke on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves.
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying.
When I was a child I had a fever
My hands felt just like two balloons.
Now I've got that feeling once again
I can't explain you would not understand
This is not how I am.
I have become comfortably numb.

O.K.
Just a little pinprick.
There'll be no more aaaaaaaaah!
But you may feel a little sick.
Can you stand up?
I do believe it's woring, good.
That'll keep you going through the show
Come on it's time to go.
There is no pain you are receding
A distant ship, smoke on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves.
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying.
When I was a childI caught a fleeting glimpse
Out of the corner of my eye.
I turned to look but it was gone
I cannot put my finger on it now
The child is grown,
The dream is gone.
I have become comfortably numb.
------------------------------------
------------------------------------

I could write about all the sweet things I have been doing with my son and paint an idyllic picture of sacred fucking self-sacrificing motherhood and don’t get me wrong I love being Akira’s mother, but I want to do it my way, not live up to some perverted Mother Mary ideal. God, I hate Christianity (excuse the pun) and every other fucking self-righteous religion…but at least Kali is cool. She seems to embody all the fantastic, the ugly, the good and the bad….the orgasmic fucking wonder of life and death.
…all there between her thighs. Kali’s power or the nuances of her femininity is at least acknowledged. She doesn’t have to sit there with her legs crossed and pretend that her cunt is a ‘void’ and fuck ghost to be impregnated, smiling sweetly all along. For there after to be immortalized on canvas, and crappy kitsch velour wall-hangings, breast feeding her child. Breast feeding…another romanticized and sterilized iconic image.
Im sure you know the nipple has a direct line to the clit, so when any one sucks those pretty sanctified nipples it tugs strait at the clit (it also contracts the womb when breast feeding), and no, it didn’t turn me on, it was more of a sensual/bonding with my baby. For the record, I breastfed for two years, because I wanted to give him the best start possible. To all the Mothers who choose not to or can’t, I have the utmost respect. With no support system (extended family, economic support, domestic help, emotional support, free medical care etc), it is no wonder that women go through post-natal depression.

Imagine that during the Second World War, when the boys where killing each other, the American government realized that there was dire need for the women to get out of their kitchens and into the workforce. Or the American economy would crash. With immediate effect transportation was sent to their doorsteps, domestic services and government care centers for kids were up and running and on top of all that they could pick up a hot home cooked meal when they fetched their kids!

Today, most families rely on a two income salary, so there’s no time to breastfeed anyway. With the pressures of keeping the house (and your self) from smelling like sour vomit and baby crap, sleepless nights, getting back into shape, being a sex Goddess, a magician in the kitchen, for breakfast, lunch and supper, picking up and dropping of…and last but not least mourning the girl you once were, looking for her amongst all the scars and wobbly bits, wondering if there is any possible way that you could squeeze an intelligent thought out… since basic survival and sanity is already hanging from a thin thread.

Although I do believe that breast is the healthiest nutrition and psychologically important between mother and child, I also believe that it is of more importance that the mother stays alive and sane enough to care for her kids.

What I am bitching about is the connotations attached to motherhood: the uniform; frumpy floral frocks (which is bad enough), the a-sexuality, the imposed guilt if one dares to have just the tiniest bit of ones self left…all the ‘expert’ books on how to raise your children the RIGHT way, incase we produce a child who might actually think for its self. I don’t believe in corporal punishment (though I have been guilty of it), but the last big ‘NO NO’ is how shouting will damage your child for life. Of course we are not speaking of abuse and excessive verbal carnage done to the child, what I am saying is that I loose my temper when I have spoken and explained and turned it inside out and upside down
And the child’s behavior is harmful to himself or others and I am at my wits end. Then I will shout, I roar, I scream (my sis says I sound demonic). Most often he understands that he must stop…anyway, the point I am making is that shouting is a danger warning. After explicitly explaining and saying NO! The SHOUTING translates to ‘back off, you are violating my rights!’
In regards to society I hope that he will be able to make enough noise when his rights are violated and understand the power of being voiceciferous. So, all this bullshit about ruining your children’s life by a little shouting is really about creating little meek weak individuals who will find it unnatural to speak out against the system, who will turn their resentment and anger inward and become broken down cripples who will do as Big Brother tells them.
Hell No! My boy will learn to love life in all its complexity, and understand the bravery of being fearless enough to love and get hurt, and love again. To question, to disagree, to agree to disagree, to fight and forgive and make mistakes, to be afraid, to ask for help, to learn to say no, to see through hypocritical values and empty promises. Such as the glory of Death, Destruction and War. Let the old men fight their own wars, and leave our children alone. Values and the education system is all part and parcel of indoctrinating our kids into becoming mindless zombies serving the fat capitalist pigs. Training girls to become empty vessels, to serve their husband and children and the boys to become emotionally stunted killing machines. If you think I am over reacting, tell me why do all boy toys simulate war, from weapons to army prints on baby socks (which is just sick and perverted) and killer Lego robots, with girly toys simulating ‘wife’ (kitchen utensils, playing house), mother (dolls, cute cuddly toys and ‘baby’ thingies which die when neglected) and last but not least the highly sexualized femme fatale ‘Barbie’ along with all the other thrills such as plastic high heels, clip on ear rings, fake cutex and that horrid salmon pink/orange lipstick. Girls are encouraged to be passive, to be quite, to please and pleasure everyone else but her-self. Both are literally PRODUCT’S of society….just another brick in the wall

Another Brick in the Wall (Part 1)

Daddy's flown across the ocean
Leaving just a memory
Snapshot in the family album
Daddy what else did you leave for me?
Daddy, what'd'ja leave behind for me?!?
All in all it was just a brick in the wall.
All in all it was all just bricks in the wall.
"You! Yes, you! Stand still laddy!"

Another Brick in the Wall Part 2 (Waters) 3:56

We don't need no education
We dont need no thought control
No dark sarcasm in the classroom
Teachers leave them kids alone
Hey! Teachers! Leave them kids alone!
All in all it's just another brick in the wall.
All in all you're just another brick in the wall.

We don't need no education
We don’t need no thought control
No dark sarcasm in the classroom
Teachers leave them kids alone
Hey! Teachers! Leave them kids alone!
All in all it's just another brick in the wall.
All in all you're just another brick in the wall.

"Wrong, Do it again!""If you don't eat yer meat, you can't have any pudding. How can you
have any pudding if you don't eat yer meat?"
"You! Yes, you behind the bikesheds, stand still laddy!"

Another Brick in the Wall (Part 3)

[Sound of many TV's coming on, all on different channels]
"The Bulls are already out there"
Pink: "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrgh!"
"This Roman Meal bakery thought you'd like to know.

"I don't need no arms around me
And I don’t need no drugs to calm me.
I have seen the writing on the wall.
Don't think I need anything at all.
No! Don't think I'll need anything at all.
All in all it was all just bricks in the wall.
All in all you were all just bricks in the wall.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Having a child I have no choice but to resist, regardless of existing on the periphery like a pariah-wolf, rather that than being on a ship of fools.

2007-01-19T14:10:00.000-08:00

Mellow intoxication at BBB...

SOS INDIA

2006-12-13T01:14:00.000-08:00

So my parents are in India. Actualy in Bombay. Is there anybody who can show them around?...or make contact, they dont know a living soul there. They will be going all over India, Delhi for sure. As soon as I know the proper details I will post them here. My folks r pretty cool people, they r on their first pilgrimage, searching for our ancestors etc. My Father is a English teacher, has been involved in the anti-apartheid struggle, a music lover (especially 50-60-70' music), he is a art lover, at present he does the pr for one of the major universities. My Mum has trained as a teacher/paedagog and also been an activist, she has a wicked sense of humour, very creative, loves shopping, dancing. They are pretty vibrant people who would like to get to know India from a non-tourist point of view.
Can any one help?
Send me a message on my email.

sdullay@gmail.com
simmidullay@yahoo.com
simmi@dullay.com

ABSENCE

2006-12-10T14:36:00.000-08:00

Oh, well…fuck, it’s been long, I feel like I have been busy rotting away. Have done nothing which excites me...seem to feel most things are futile. I might be down…got the blues…unable to switch on…maybe I could choose to break out of this stuffy gloomy state of mind…but seems I don’t have it in me to transcend the curse upon my life….

Why is my life always in such a fucking state of emergency…I imagine all the dead bodies pilling up and haunting me….for all the loss, the dead ends and all the misfits born from my mind, my doing…and my life…my loneliness.
Its fucking pathetic…though that still doesn’t make it less real or less painful…and I dull the pain another day, holding on to the brilliant flicker of glittering diamonds and gemstones dazzling me for a moment, blinding me with its sweet momentum…though I abruptly wakeup when I realize, I have no one to share it with….And then the resent sets in, for being such a weak fuck that my life has to be validated through some one else’s eyes.
So who gives a fuck if you think me piteous. I am so tired of fighting to belong….must I embrace my disposition and wallow in the shadows of my mind….outside…beyond sanity….half crazed woman who doesn’t care any longer to apologize for her ill-befitting behavior.
Why cant I just toss my head back and laugh at the absurdity of life, (as I do when I think back about it) but in the moment it hits me HARD and always…always knocks me down to the ground. Humiliated, undignified, naked…the other extreme of erotic, exposing the sadness burnt in my flesh, the dark rings under my eyes, the scars on my body, the ripping sagging weakness of my ageing, loss of control, the decomposition and another step toward death without having been able to fucking figure out love; in motherhood or between a man and a woman, between friends or parents……which ever way………..I tend to fuck up, by giving in too much or too little. BUT …worst is that there is no outstretched arms to fall into, to wipe the mud from my face, fuss about the fresh cuts, the wounds, wash the crusty scabs, the dried tears, the dried snot (that has left a light peeling across the side of my check which I tried to wipe away)…love me through all the sordid abhorrence I come across in my life…which makes me cry and hurt cause I am innocent….
U must be wondering what the hell has set of this self-pitying tirade.........nothing out of the ordinary. I have had a long standing battle with my institution which I have fought and won. I have produced some interesting work, done a lot of media, turned 33 on the first of dec. Met some wonderful people, got my-self a supervisor I could only have dreamt of in my wildest dreams, got my self the most loving, intelligent, stunning child, got the house to my self for six weeks as my folks r of on their virgin trip to India….but it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to….. .......................................................................................................................................................................

Nostalgia

2006-12-05T17:36:00.000-08:00

2006-11-13T12:15:00.000-08:00

I LOVE NINA HAGEN

I was still a baby when I first heard of Nina Hagen and was at first more taken by her beauty than her music...which later grew on me

I have not heard about her for the past 20-odd years and got quite excited when I found her on my-space.
...Though I find it a disgrace that the so-called 'Punk' revival has completely forgotten her.

She is still sooo hardcore and radical. It was fucking amazing to find her still fighting the system...rather than the wanna-be-punk-bands like Blink-whatever and Avril (though I confess that I like the 'Skaterboy'-song)..but it still doesnt make it punk, does it? It's not just the music, it's the anger, rage, mockery, anti-establishment fuck-you-attitude that seduces me...and ofcourse the fishnets, heavy eyeliner and tu-tu skirts .

These are some of the links I found on her site
http://www.womensaynotowar.org/

http://worldpeace.beeplog.com/
and Im sure you can find more on her site.
http://www.nina-hagen.com/

2006-11-12T14:54:00.000-08:00

2006-11-12T13:40:00.000-08:00

BABY BOYS AND BUTTERFLY KISSES

I love this picture of my boy on his fourth birthday...
I cant believe he will be six in a few months. I get pangs inside when I realize that he is a big boy and no longer my baby.

I still blow butterfly's on the soles of his feet...or "BLUTTERFLIES" as he says.

The picture was taken at about six in the morning, before he had to get ready for cresh...he ate all the cream but did not touch the cake...he really is like a cat...
makes us all believe that he is doing us a grand favour by allowing us to pick up his toys...but when it is just him and I, he helps me with everything...and tells me that when he grows bigger than me, he will take care of me:)
my heart is already breaking, thinking of him leaving to stand on his own two feet...I know Im a sentimental old fool.

2006-10-31T14:29:00.000-08:00

We drove by in a big tourist bus

I was tired and sleepy

from sneaking back into the hotel

at dawn

after dancing the night away

in Costa Del Sol

I was bored

with all the tourist sites

until we came across

Hunderwasser House

I rubbed the dreams

from my adolescent eyes

and felt that my life

belonged in that house

excitement

crept

through me

as i looked up

wondering what was behind the windows

like looking into

a loved ones eyes

a similar familiarity

of quite contentment

and my heart sank

as we drove away

19 years later

I feel the same

it is still my dream house

still curvy, moving

moaning with

pleasure

growing, organic

sparkling, shiny

a fairytale castle

for an off-beat princess

2006-10-29T21:30:00.000-08:00

IN MY LIFE

It is humid and hot here in deep darkest Africa and I am dying from a broken heart … the sky is overcast and there are occasional sheets of fine rain soaking the soil.
I’m in a bit of a strange place, feeling tired and weary of life, I have been hiding away from people. I sense that they want something that I have, that does not belong to them.
I am terribly bad at saying no…which makes me feel sordid. (I must make it clear that I am not speaking of having sex with any one, though some might want that). I am just too polite. I smile and feed their egos, when I really feel that they are intolerable.
…Sometimes I wish I could return home to him, strong enough to hold me together in the comfort of his arms…sigh.
Instead I am slowly falling apart…bit by bit. It gets harder to pick the pieces up and put them together again and again, without the hairline cracks and fissures showing.
……..So this is where I am after all the adventure, alone…the price you pay when you are an uncompromising idealist and a hopeless romantic.
Did not in my wildest dreams think I would ever be on my own.

I’m throwing all modesty out the window right now (so you, dear reader can understand why I am so bewildered and lost) …… I am a catch, I’m hot, and great in the kitchen, as for the bedroom…. it goes without saying. I can (nearly) out-dance Shakira (at least I think so when I’m smashed). I am fairly successful at what I do. I try to be compassionate and fair, I am well read, intelligent, dangerously sexy (at least this French guy visiting at the time burst out in front of my parents “urrr eyes sooo sexyyy, but moi afrrraid of the dangerrr they hide”). Anyway, his comment was slightly different from the norm and he did not give too hoots about my parents’ presence… I remember him. It is harder to remember all the others who say: ‘may I ask you if anyone has told you what beautiful eyes you have got’
What am I supposed to say? If I am honest I would have to answer ‘weeelllll, most people do, (I say nodding my head up and down) and have since the day I was born, it’s really out of the ordinary if people don’t turn around and look at me, or stop and ask if I am wearing contacts, or if they are real…..actually my family (parents, sis and son) all experience the same. Would that be conceited?...or is this one of the be-silent-smile-and-shake-ur-head moments? Please don’t let me be misunderstood…I appreciate a good compliment and know how hard it is to summon up the courage…it’s just that some compliments are less worthy than others.

One exceptionally bitchy x-girlfriend of my sons father, blurted out when she saw my sons green eyes (which now have turned more hazel than green, but are none the less striking) ‘oh, so your eyes are real’. Apart from the make-up, signature eyeliner all else is puka.
Let’s return to me…I could have been the perfect courtesan, I throw fabulous parties, and I am a gracious host…. When it comes to witty jostling ‘my tongue cuts like a razor blade, stings like a bee…’or I could spin a cocoon of candy floss around you, let my words soothe your fears away and leave you floating in between dreams and the sweet taste of milk and honey. Beyond that I have style, I have flair but I can also slum it…I don’t have to put on make-up to go to the kiosk…I am fun and play full, I love to go dancing be it a punk-ska mosh pit, Latin rhythms or bhangra…..but I am still all alone.

There have been many a-willing candidates, but none appropriate. Why can’t I find one good man to sweep me of my feet? My dream man would be partly gypsy, partly Mediterranean, a wanderer and storyteller. He would enchant and make people dream, collect their stories and transform them into songs. He would have passed through many places and many hearts and would be at ease at the kings table as well as a paupers.
I imagine him arriving at dusk, wearing a hat. A silent silhouette, casting a long shadow dressed in a dark coat, of which he wears a crisp but flowing white cotton shirt beneath. He will speak many languages, be well read, a writer and a poet… and would have perfected the art of swearing, which he will teach me over a bottle or two of red wine, while we cook stroganoff and listen to Ragas. I can smell him, a scent of sweet sweat, Tuscany, wood and wild herbs…and his kisses will be wild and tender…………….and I should stop dreaming. I have never met him or come across a man like him. I don’t really mind where he is from, as long as he can dream, on a houseboat or on a Persian rug, under the shade of an apple tree with my son and me
……………………………………………………………………………………………..

This weekend has been quiet. I spent some time with my sister, went for dinner at my favorite Italian place Spiga d’Oro with my son and a friend. Earlier that day we had sat on Su’s rooftop balcony drinking red wine belting out and grooving to old Madonna tunes. Went to my sister’s favorite Chinese shop where I stocked up on crispy pork wantons, spicy noodles and 56% sake. I cooked yesterday, Spaghetti bolognaise and a beef goulash, fried some Chinese prawn crackers for late night movie snack. Read some beautiful exile poetry.

Thought about love and the places I have been in my life. I had the wildest romance with my first love in Rome and later we sailed to a small Yugoslavian Island in the summer of ’85-86. It was the grande romantico journey. Ohhhh, I always return to romance and love…but apart from love my life has been exciting. In Tanzania we saw the Savannah, ate snake and Zebra. Saw a family of lions lazing in a tree after feasting on a fresh kill. It was a whole ox or wilder-beast still intact and there we where in a land rover just beneath them, cautiously peeking through the sun roof while they languorously looked down at us. The ox was still whole, just the stomach had been ripped, because the lions first eat all the soft easily decomposable bits, like the guts, heart, liver etc. it is amazing, I wonder if it is intelligence or instinct or just survival skills.

Talking about survival, we lived in an ANC camp in Morogoro for a year. There was tight security control, one needed permition to leave or to enter. The camp was situated inside the crater of the mountains. There were no shops, hospitals or anything remotely close to what our life had been like in Denmark. It was a training camp for the Umkhonto we Sizwe (the military wing of the ANC), but there was also a school and a University. We attended the school were my Mother taught, while my dad was employed at the University. Although we only lived there for a year it was an eventful time, filled with sub-tropical beauty and extremes. Mosquito nets and malaria (ten times), Majestic Masai people who used to bath in milk and my dad and uncle Alan would always give them a lift, which my sis and I found a bit nauseating cause they made the car (in 50 degrees heat) smell rather peculiar. Give us a break; we were 6 and 8, so we were just being honest…with all due respect to the Masai, whose traditions, way of life and survival I have the utmost respect for. We still have the hand-carved ebony sculptures, merscum pipes, and ivory jewelry bought at the market place. My mother even learnt traditional South African bead-making there, while we were taught to do the gumboot dance.

It is due to my parents that I have got this travel bug and desire for adventure brewing in me. From Rome to Cape Town to Paris, were I visited Jim Morrison’s grave at the Pere Lachaise Cemetery. I was surprised at the amount of famous people buried there…no wonder Jim Morrison wanted the Pere Lachaise to be his eternal resting place…. amongst artist, painters, dancers, writers, singers like Isadora Duncan, Maria Callas, Edith Piaf, Marx Ernst, Oscar Wilde’s lipstick kissed shrine and Napoleon’s Mistress Marie Countess Walewski whose heart is entombed there, while the rest of her remains have been returned to Poland. How macabre and romantic.
Imagine each night the souls come alive… the dance of the dead, conversations between Proust and Morrison. Modigliani and Duncan getting smashed, ghost crying murder and young lovers seeking the solace of the grave yard for that first kiss……. Cold stone alters and mausoleums of love, loss of virginity and innocence…….as long as the heart is there…grave yards.

In Paris we lived in a dingy motel, with a horrible red light and upon opening the window we discovered no view, but another building. Between our Motel and the building, a metal grid like mesh which people used to dispose dodgy garbage like the discarded encasing of a Lolita doll, we found on the ledge of our window sill. It really wasn’t too kosher. I was relieved to have left the Grand Cru region of St Emilion (were we stayed at a wine château) as I had gone cold turkey on any Indian food for about 21 days by then. The food in the Grand Cru region was delectable especially the Crepes Suzettes, but I began missing curry terribly by the second week, so by the time we hit Paris I was going through severe withdrawal symptoms. Irritable, short tempered, shaking etc. Luckily for us there was a tiny but up-market North Indian restaurant opposite our Motel. We walked strait in and got a table for two. I think we ordered everything on the menu, roti, Dal Ghost , bhaji, pickles etc, and I could hardly control the way my mouth was watering when the waiters came and began laying the table with forks and knifes etc. which I promptly sent back to the kitchen. I have always wondered how the hell one eats Indian cuisine with a fork and knife. There are so many dishes and the art of eating with your fingers includes how to select and mix the various dishes with the roti or rice, (and I’m a die hard roti girl). To me Indian food is pleasurable because each bite is different, it is the sensation of the cold yogurt with hot curry, a bit of lime pickle and dal, it is a sensual way of eating. Metal on the other hand changes the taste of food, and does not allow the sense of touch. Eating Indian should be done with your fingers and for weddings I would go as far as to say it should be done on banana leaves.
Eating curry is addictive, as well as cheese and chocolate, as the chili releases endorphins….I don’t care what they say, take it from all the exiles, expatriates etc they all know what I’m talking about, after the first few tasty morsels of curry and the pleasure spreading through my body and veins is sweet as an opium rush. While my x-boyfriend and I were eating (he being a blonde longhaired Scandinavian) all the Indian waiters and the chefs came out to look at us, smiling quite bemused and then began asking ‘but, where are you from (as most Indians can see I am not from India). The second time we visited the restaurant we were greeted with such warmth and the head waiter called into the kitchen ‘prepare something special for the puka Indian couple’

The identity issue is something I am constantly confronted with. Not just by other Indians, but by Africans, Whites, etc.
Sitting at the pavement table at Spiga’s, a South African Indian (quite intoxicated man) came up to me and began chatting me up. He then asked ‘are you Indian?’…’cause you don’t look Indian’. ‘I don’t’ I replied. He said ‘You do, but you don’t’, but you are very beautiful….I then had to excuse myself and go wipe my sons bum. (Which, by the way he is very capable of, but when we are out will kick up such a fuss that I will rather avoid the embarrassment and get it over with). The waiter did the same (no, he did not expect me to wipe his bum), he just asked ‘where are you from?’ I wonder what it is that makes us seem foreign here in the country of my birth…after living here for 11 odd years. Is it my manner? Or can they see my rootlessness, I wonder where I look like I belong or to whom? For I have still not given up on love…

(Lennon/McCartney)

IN MY LIFE

There are places I remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all

But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more

Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
In my life I love you more

2006-10-24T14:54:00.001-07:00

2006-10-24T14:06:00.000-07:00

2006-10-16T22:20:00.000-07:00

11 JUNE 1996 DURBAN. S.A.

Kære Sure

Im still on my mission of seeking forgiveness. I don't know for what, or whom I shall seek it from. Maybe it is not forgiveness, but love I seek, and on my mission I am getting more and more bruised, like a mango, Im afraid that I shall just rot like a fruit forgotten on the shelf. You see I am too passive, sometimes I don't make anything happen, and I as a person yearn for happenings. But being in a strange country, I am at times afraid.

I must say that I really miss you and Stumps company. It was somehow easier when we where a
group. We were never on our own. There was always someone who knew our background, humor, way of thinking. Of course Ive got mummy and daddy, but they are my parents, and there were many things that I only would share with you and Stump. But I think you where my closest confidance, for you I have known through out my life.

I have been watching some skiing programs, that really fascinated me, so I thought about learning to ski, you could teach me.

Today I have been listening to Led Zeppelin, started a poem, made a onion cheese quiche, talked on the phone. Mark called, Arvin called, and I called Miguell. Mark and I talked about Zack, Then discussed music. He sounds like Zack, they have got the same rhythm of speech, and that same madmans laugh. On the phone I could be deceived to think that they where brothers.
Miguell and I discussed theater, architecture, the new galleries opened, starsigns, tarrot cards, marriage/ personal life, generation X, and the new South Africa.

Arvin told me about his new job, at the post office, and he just passed his exams. He was quite drunk at the time, so he was babbling on about allot of things, I just tried to keep up. I really like him. He is the kind of person I feel I really can trust no matter what.
Ive been trying to sort out my thoughts by writing them down on paper.

Mark and I where supposed to go to a poets society at the theater, but we didn't make the transport, so we will be going to the Rift tomorrow instead. We will be meeting Miguell at a place called Banana Joe's before rifting. Its a really sleazy joint, but the drinks are 1 rand. Saturday night I went out with Mark. We started of at about 9 and finished 7 in the morning. I think we danced for about 10 min. and the rest of the night we spent talking. the next day I thought I would be doing one of your "Bixen" tricks, but I survived. We where drinking some Red Sambuka, which stained my hands so badly it only went of today.

Lovers? No, I haven't had any, no sex for 6 months, not even a good old fashioned vibrator.
Good men are hard to find, not that I have been on the look. Well if some beautiful man like Keanu came by how could I refuse. But he hasn't.

I went to a big reggae concert 2 weeks ago. Peter Toshes son played there. It was wonderful, apart from the bad company, the guy I was with couldn't handle the erb, so he got really sick. After tacking care of him, for a few hours I locked him in the care took the car keys and went of by my self, met a lott of people, strangers, but was too tense to really enjoy the scene.

Daddy is in Joberg, on business, and mummy is at a meeting at her school. She still gets very tense when she is premenstrual. None of us can handle it. Yesterday daddy phoned and they had a argument, After she slammed the phone down, and cooled down a bit, I asked what it was all about, and she shouted: oh fuck you Simmi.
A simple " I-don't-feel-like-talking" would have been fine.
Well, luckily I had to go and study with a friend from my course, so it didn't turn into a major fight.
So we covered allot of our work, while we drank champagne and orange juice.
I usually get on with mummy, but she still has this obsession with cleaning, and that does cause fraction.
Neville is down, he arrived Saturday, and came over Saturday night, but I only just said hi, since I had plans with Mark. Neville will be coming with us to Port Shepstone this weekend, Im looking forward to it. I like him. He reminds me of these laid back friends daddy and mummy used to have in DK.

So how is your life going? Mummy and I often talk about you. She says she was extremely jealous when she and daddy first started, so you properly have it from her. How's Stump and Roberto? I will be writing a letter to Stump as soon as i have received the cards.
Did you receive my last card?

You remember that fatal night of mine, where I called you, The Fayde incident. Well if it had not been for you 2, especially you, I wouldnt have pulled through. My mind shortcircuits once in a while. So, how is the flat and living together?
Do you know that I have to restrain my self from writting to you, I often have these long conversations in my head, with you. But I cant help but feeling hurt about only recieving 1 letter in 6 months, and a letter that hardly says anything. I miss you, sister!

Hows the catz? Muni here is fine. She fights with the other catz, and comes home all bruised, then we tend to her wounds, one day her front paws where so badly hurt that we had to bandage them, she licked the bandage so hard it came of. But she is better. She had a girlfriend out there, and is always fucking horny. But shes cooling down.
Hows all the other friends of ours? Has Shant returned?

All in all Im feeling better, the course has given me some kinda purpose w. life, and I feel I can comunicate with the people I see now. Im writting exams on the 14 of july. I hate exams.
Any way, Mum is back, so I'll go chat to her.

LOVE

2006-10-16T13:28:00.000-07:00

Brev fra 1996…tror jeg.

MIN KÆRESTE VENINDE KATJA.

Jeg kan ikke huske om jeg allerede har skrevet til dig eller om jeg ikke har, for jeg har haft travlt med mine studier. Jeg skal til eksamen den 5 nov. så jeg er igang med at forberede mig. Men dit sidste brev lød virkelig spændene, jeg blev helt misundelig over alt det du oplever. Jeg elsker følelsen af at være forelsket. Jeg er glad på dine vegne, selv om jeg ved hvor hårdt det er at være alene. Dette er første gang siden jeg blev teenager at jeg har været alene og i så lang tid. Det er ikke til at holde ud. Jeg er ikke alene typen, jeg skal helst have mange mennesker omkring mig, men det ved du jo fra lejligheden. Jeg savner lejligheden og dets miljø, jeg savner også Stump, for han er alligevel den som kender mig best ( foruden Sure) men det er på en anden måde. Sureka er stadig min lillesøster. Jeg har ikke lyst til at starte forfra igen, men nogle gange er han den eneste jeg ved der ville kunne støtte mig. Vi var sammen i 6 intense år, og vi har oplevet mere sammen end mange mennesker opnår gennem en hel livstid. Han vil altid betyde noget specielt for mig.

Jeg er begyndt at gå til Aqua Arobics to gange om ugen, og det er hylende morsomt. Vi har et lang skumgummi agtig rør mellem benene for at holde os oppe (det eneste der har været mellem mine ben i ualmindelige tider). Men det er også lidt hårdt. Mandag, onsdag, og fredag går jeg en lang tur på stranden, eller rulleskøjter. Jeg er på en ni dages anti kød faste, for at blive de-toxicated, men jeg drikker og ryger stadig, så jeg ved ikke hvor sund jeg er. Livet her er ret ensformigt for mig da jeg stadig ikke arbejder, jeg gider ikke blive servitrice, for de betaler en 30 kr om dagen, resten tjener man på drikkepenge. Der er simpelthen ikke nogle jobs der ude, hvis man ikke er klar til at blive behandlet som en slave. I dec. kommer jeg til at arbejde, for der er jeg færdig med en del af mit kursus.

Sureka og Roberto kommer den 12. dec. Jeg glæder mig vildt til at se dem, især Sure.
Helt ærligt syntes jeg det er underligt at Roberto kommer, for ham har jeg kendt siden jeg var tolv. Da jeg gik inde i byen med de "grove" og vi hang ud foran Mc Donalds. Det er så underligt at ham og Sure skulle finde sammen 8 år senerer, og pludselig er han så tæt en del af famillien. Jeg har ikke noget imod fyren, han er en genial graffiti maler, og han er også sød, det vigtigste er at han elsker Sureka og behandler hende godt. Men det er fandme underligt som vores skæbner hænger sammen, ikke fordi at ham og Sure er noget definitivt, men alligevel.

Tænk på dig og mig. Hvis der ikke havde være diktatur i Portugal, eller Apartheid i Sydafrika, var vores forældre aldrig flygtet, jeg tror det samme gælder for Robertos forældre. Vi er alle fire børn af kloden. Sure og jeg har tre bagrunde (dette er forklaringen til min schizophreni) Mine forfædre, kultur og religion fra Indien, min politiske holdning, afrikanske identitet, african time og forfædre fra Sydafrika, og i Danmark ligger min barndom begravet, men jeg har også taget en del af kulturen til mig, små skikke, tankegang, hygge kultur og min individulitet. Dette skimmer kun overfladen, men det er mere end nok for mig, jeg kan næsten ikke holde ud at tænke på min arv.
I det attendeårhundrede flygtede min tip tip tip tip oldemor fra Indien. Hun var blevet giftet bort i Indien, og led i et dårligt ægteskab, hvis hun valgte at tage tilbage til sin famillies landsby ville hen uungåeligt være blevet stenet, så den eneste udvej hun så var at tage med båden til SA, der mødte hun en mand og blev gravid, men giftede sig med en anden da hun kom hertil (dette er fra min mors side). Jeg syntes at det er død fedt at stamme fra en stærk kvinde som hende, de gamle i min famillie snakker aldrig om det for det er stadig tabu. Mine tip tip oldeforældre fra min fars side sad i fængsel (da Gandhi var her) på grund af at de brændte deres pass. Jeg ved ikke særlig meget om min bagrund, men er ved at finde ud af det, og det føltes underligt pludselig at have en så stor arv, det giver en fjerde dimension til alt hvad der er sket, alt hvad jeg foretager mig, og alt jeg kommer til at foretage mig. Min farfar havde en cykel butik, hvor han reparerede alt fra mortorcykler til elektrisk hardware, han lavede også våben til ANC, og var fængslet og tortureret på grund af det. Min farfar havde en Harley. Det syntes jeg er død sejt. men jeg vil skrive og fortælle dig mere om min baggrund når jeg ved mere. Skriv til mig snart, du ved jeg elsker at få brev fra dig.
Hvornår kommer du og besøger mig?

2006-10-14T10:45:00.000-07:00

Saturday Nite

Im keeping a very low profile. Been reading old letters, trying to paint, planning on sorting out my reviews and interviews, keeping out of anyone's way...but failed at nearly all. Hired a few movies. Looking forward to 'Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas', last thing I read by Hunter S. Thompson was 'The Rum Diaries'.
Bought six bottles of a South African Cabernet Sauvignon, its ok, not the worst, not the best, but far superior to the sweet white wine my dad buys.
The heat has set in...It is repressing, I hate the humidity.

The other day my mother hired a bollywood comedy...its so strange. The 'hot guy' pranced around near naked, in skimpy faded-blue-denim cut of shorts, shaking his touche'...That is just fucking weird. Its odd how wrong bollywood movies get what 'cool' is supposed to be. No offence to gay people, but most bollywood 'hot guys' remind me of a stereo typed gay centre folds...uber glam, leather cap and all...
WHY?
I am not anti-gay/lesbian, drags, cross-dressing, fetish, S&M...(though I hate jock couples who dress in matching clothes)...... On the contrary, I find the boy-on-boy action in "My Own Private Idaho" and the make out scenes in "My beautiful laundrette" some of the hottest ever, the biggest turn on...Mmmmm. But not tight shorts on a big burly man with manicured nails and fresh-from-the-salon-hair. It just freaks me out.

The weekend is here and I have decided to be less of a hermit....another artist just called, he's coming over. We going to be creative, create some kick-ass pieces.............................................
do the Sunday thing, make a huge brunch, read the papers, stretch some canvas's, and verify what great and misunderstood artist we are...
discuss the eternal isolation our work craves and other existential issues at hand...and plot a art ambush on the next iluminati-cum-biennial.

So now I must jump into the shower and change into something more descent than my this thin cotton nightdress.

2006-10-13T07:23:00.000-07:00

I found this relevant to the post by Zaphod at http://cityoflaughterandforgetting.blogspot.com/
tittled BLOOD IS RED.

IDENTITY POLITICS

Being the daughter of revolutionaries (whether in Europe or Africa), my entire life has been a witness of my parents active participation in rectifying stereotypical myths surrounding race and gender. The concepts of colonial ideology versus post-colonialism are rather blurred to me. Comparing South Africa’s apartheid politics (the quintessential epitome of colonial imperialism), to Danish social-democracy during the seventies and eighties, the difference was evidently marked, though racism was/is very much alive and kicking. Within the Scandinavian context the form of racism fitted neatly into the “modernist canon” of Eurocentric superiority which gave birth to concepts like “the noble savage” which was a patronizing projection and “othering”. The general consensus among the Danish population regarding South African Whites was of disgust, though at the same time White South Africa allowed the rest of the West, and Europe to pat themselves on their backs as their humanity was verified by the barbarous acts of White apartheid. “Old Hegemonies in New Packages” is an apt description of post-colonialist ideology, whether on the African continent, Europe or elsewhere. Identity politics have been ineluctable for me, through my political upbringing and the fact that I cannot escape being confronted with my “otherness”, due to my race. In Scandinavia it was not really significant being African or Indian; all that the Danes saw was that I was black. I have been called ‘nigger’ or told to “f… off to Africa” on numerous occasions. Racism and Ethnocentricism does not allow you for one ephemeral moment to slip out of your flesh. The name calling is merely a symptom of how deeply ingrained racism is. The projected stigmatization embellished in ethnocentrism might not be law in the West or Europe, though the principles of Apartheid are echoed in these very societies. Apartheids main ideology was to create a class system based upon race/racism, which through denying basic human rights of food, shelter and clothing, creates an impoverished working class. In Europe and the West the lower end of the hierarchy (regardless of the political system being capitalist or semi-socialist) refugees (read Blacks) generally and conveniently are placed into this bracket of the working class. Coming from South Africa, I identified my self as African. Issues of my South Asian heritage were never pivotal to explore. It existed as a natural extension of my South African identity. When Peter Tosh sang “No matter where you come from, as long as you’re a black man, you’re an African. No matter nationality, you have got the identity of an African...”. I identified with the ‘Asian-ness’ as part and parcel of my Blackness. It was only upon my return to South Africa that I was confronted, discriminated and differentiated through my inherent South Asian racial descent. This revealed that identity is contingent not only upon socio-geographic origin, but also through the pragmatic experience of how one is perceived by the given society. I found it necessary to explore the ontology of my Asian-ness and iconoclastically, challenge the philistine concepts of “sameness” by asserting my cultural heritage. Being met with racism by the very same African people, who had experienced the harshest form of discrimination, had a devastating effect which led to a complete deconstruction of my belief and knowledge of humanity. I was recently introduced to the film producer Zikhethiwe Ngocobo, who co-directed a documentary about her life as a second generation exile returnee. It was the first of the Project Ten documentaries celebrating South Africa’s ten years of democracy. In the documentary she visits friend/relatives in England, and during a discussion with people of similar experience they discuss the problematic issue of exile. “asserting Africaness in exile, and not being African enough in Africa.” I recognized myself in that sentence, so simple yet so momentous. The disillusion that followed eventually made me realize that a society saturated by the divide and rule politics of apartheid, had been so effective in its racist indoctrination, that liberation, freedom and equality was really only relevant in regard to which racial group one belonged to. The assertion of my Asian background is equivalent to what Black Consciousness did for people of colour. It is in no way antagonistic, or to further the gaps in our differences, it does not aim to negate culture or race, which differ from mine…in essence it is about embracing difference and allowing the various races and cultures to exist together. In relation to the Indian community in South Africa, we are not perceived as too Black, but not entirely accepted, due to us being perceived as differentiating to them, by being too ‘culturally colonialised’, politicized and polluted by our liberal upbringing. In the worst case, I find one of the most problematic things about African and Asian cultures, is that they can be highly traditional and dogmatic, so that life often becomes prescribed and predetermined. The exhibition “A place called home” contains all of the notions symptomatic of the Diaspora, and more specifically explored through the South Asian lens. It was here that I was introduced to Chila Kumari Burman and saw her work for the first time. The energy she imbues is saturated in her images. In a poem titled “Don’t get me started Gidha pa” Burman writes :”…Who says all working class Asian girls are quiet, Wha’ in are house Wild women, Punjabi, Bhangra Gidha, sticky sweets, sweat, who’s wearing the best salwar keemich, glittery, satin & velvet rage…” To me these lines shimmer with luminosity. The glow is created by the cultural layers which are connoted through colloquial speech, and through challenging and subverting the stereotypical subdued and glamorized objectification of Asian women. The vernacular style becomes a fusion of working class Liverpool slang, Hindi and Urdu words, written with a punk attitude only Cindy Lauper could possess. Parts of Burman’s art could be a translation of Cindy Lauper’s girlie anthem “Girls just wanna have fun”. The images are effervescent with the authenticity of Burman’s life, and not the fabricated colonial fantasy/projection of the exoticised/eroticised Asian Female, an image which is reputedly, an authentic description.

Authentic: “1. Of undisputed origin or authorship; genuine- an authentic signature.2. accurate in representation of the facts; trustworthy; reliable, an authentic account… [Late Latin Autenticus coming from the author. From Greek Authenticos from Authentes one who acts independently, from AUTO + hentes a doer…]” -(Collins English dictionary1985:96)

2006-10-13T07:17:00.000-07:00

THAT DARNED CAT

Isabella was found in a bed of Busy Lizzy’s, after meowing for two days. We took her in and named her Isabella, but we call her Isa or Tisse Myre (which is one of these ants that pee) because she went crazy when my son was born. Isa began pissing on the bloody micro and on my fathers shoes (his own fault, he was always shouting at the cats). I guess Isa went mad because we threw them out of the beds when my son was born, due to his post nasal condition. We have three cats, Muni, (her brother Muna, was run over by a car) and Mirabella. I stopped carrying them because I had Kia on me all the time and their fur would stick to everything I was wearing.
I feel really bad, because Isa began spraying (territorial pissing) every where…being an exile I understand the need for territorial pissing…but the damn cat made the house stink!
When she began spraying on us, I had enough. I would refuse to pick her up, and even push her away when she would come and rub against my legs! Eventually she began pissing on every bloody thing.
Isa would ask for food (although there was food in her bowl) and if we did not give it to her fast enough, she would jump up on the kitchen counter and piss in defiance…I remember once we were having visitors, and my dad bought this huge box of decadent cream cakes and miniature fruit tarts from “Christina Martins”, (who has the best French pastry chef in town)…my dad left them on the counter, and as the guest walk in, Isa jumps up and pisses on the bloody cakes...

Soon Muni and Mirabella were forced outside, due to my son’s sinus problem.
I would never have let this happen…my dad did it on the sly, when I was in Ireland!
Though I have tried to bring them back into the house, Isa f*s it up by pissing all over again. So our cats are now in exile.
It is rather strange that she won’t stop, because she is really intelligent. She used to use our toilet and her and Muni would always try and pick up the phone when it rang.

Muni, (by the way) is a boy…she is just really pretty.
I found her and her brother (Muna), out side between a window and a sheet of glass, when they were tiny. It was storming and all the other kittens had been eaten by the dogs around here. The mother must have been out hunting…and I stole them, the cat mother looked for them for a week, pacing around the house, mournfully calling her babies…but if I had left them, they would have suffered an early and brutal end. Muna was a solid grey striped cat (he reminded me of the laughing Buddha) and Muni was this fluffy white thing, with a black and brown marking on her back. Muna made friends with me immediately, but Muni was suspicious and hissed at the slightest move.

Her brother would do everything for her, he would lick her clean, suss out the territory for danger and then signal to her that the path was clear…then she would come out from hiding, happily bouncing… swaggering like a big tiger, puffing her self up and hissing at a harmless fallen leaf…but dare the wind make the leaf move and Muni would dart beneath the closest cover where she would stay forever. By the time we finally would get her out, she would hiss, fight, scratch and bite, and her little heart would be pounding fiercely He would let her eat before he ate and he would hold her when they slept. It was so sweet. When Muna died, (he was nearly an adult cat by then) Muni sat on the wooden chest of drawers, by the front door for a week and waited for him in vain to come strolling in. The day he died the neighborhood cats came wandering in to the back yard. For once there were no cat fights, they just made themselves comfortable, on the stone steps, between the bougainvillea’s, on the wooden bench, in the mango tree, on the slate wall, outside the kitchen door, and there they gathered…To my amazement they stayed there till late into the night…it was like a wake. I have not seen it since, neither seen it before…what else could it be?

Muni grew up fast, and became the Master of the house. Some time later a little black cat with long fur, a bit of white on her chest and a gorgeous long tail kept visiting…we wanted to adopt her, but my dad refused and would always chase her outside. Muni was not too impressed with having to share her palace with another cat, but Mirabella was unfazed.
One day my parents were having a hawan, and in all the commotion Mirabella slipped inside and snuggled up comfortably, just next to the fire and the offerings of flowers, incense and ghee. My Father was just about to throw her out when my mother firmly said no. NO! Who ever walks into our house today is a blessing…and that is how Mira came to adopt us.
Because of her sweetness we named her after the wild cherry Mirabella in Denmark.
Unfortunately when I was on one of my trips abroad, my x-boyfriend (who was staying here with my folks) heard her calling outside the door to my room. When he opened the door, Mirabella was standing there with half a tail…the rest was bitten of by one of the stray dogs.

Muni grew to accept Mirabella (who was still only a kitten) and the most fascinating relationship between the two developed. Muni (although a male) would let Mirabella suckle her…it’s a bit weird, but amazing to see how Muni took care of Mira. I have always questioned Muni’s sexual orientation, because before we had her balls cut of, she would always try and rape other male cats…Had she been human she would be such a queen!

Isa has just jumped in through the window. I better go and feed her.

scriptorium

2006-10-12T15:59:00.000-07:00

scriptorium http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/574/3428/1600/blues.jpg

2006-10-11T13:31:00.000-07:00

2006-10-10T11:07:00.000-07:00

Fumblin' With the Blues

Friday left me fumblin' with the blues
And it's hard to win when you always lose
Because the nightspots spend your spirit
Beat your head against the wall
Two dead ends and you've still got to choose

You know the bartenders
They all know my name
And they catch me when I'm pulling up lame
And I'm a pool-shooting-shimmy-shyster shaking my head
When I should be living clean instead

You know the ladies
I've been seeing off and on
Well they spend your love and then they're gone
You can't be lovin' someone who is savage and cruel
Take your love and then they leave on out of town
No they do

Well now fallin' in love is such a breeze
But its standin' up that's so hard for me
I wanna squeeze you but I'm scared to death I'd break your back
You know your perfume
Well it won't let me be

You know the bartenders all know my name
And they catch me when I'm pulling up lame
And I'm a pool-shooting-shimmy-shyster shaking my head
When I should be living clean instead

Come on babyLet your love light shine
Gotta bury me inside of your fire
Because your eyes are 'nough to blind me
You're like a-looking at the sun
You gotta whisper tell me I'm the one
Come on and whisper tell me I'm the one
Gotta whisper tell me I'm the one
Come on and whisper tell me I'm the one

-TOM WAITS

2006-10-08T14:49:00.000-07:00

A Natural Mystic

There's a natural mystic in the air today...a large family of mongoose dug a dusin or so holes in the front lawn...my father gave me strict instructions to ambush them if they come to vandalize again tomorrow. Went to visit my friend and found wild spinach growing every where.
Pluck't half a bag full.
Found a mulberry tree and I ravished the last offerings of this season. Purply black, sweet, soft berry's staining my hands and my lips...lucky I was wearing black.

Nearly got eaten by two viscious dogs, but got so furious because I was standing on a ledge, holding my balance by gripping a branch, while reaching and picking with the other, that I turned around and barked back....instead a spider bit my wrist.

There seemed to be a land incroachment by shongololo's (milipeeds) *dont know the spelling. They were everywhere in their garden, in shiny slick black, deep brown, bright red with black stripes and some strange fusions I have not seen before.

Even found thick ripe juicy sugarcane. Got her dad to get the panga and chop the cane for Akira to taste, but it was me who couldn't stop chewing, sucking, spitting...what a rush.

Got home, dumped him in the the bath and cooked up a mean dinner of T-bone steaks, red potatoes, creamed spinach and mixed veg. Ofcourse my Ma had to critisize the mess. Later that night I overheard her speaking to my aunt praising me to the sky. She was in the paper today, at shot taken from the opening at the Kizo gallery...the collumnist describe her as 'the regall beautifull Mala Dullay'...she's so right, my mum is the Queen Bee or a lioness...

and now i should drift away into the sounds of the night, the crickets are serenading outside and the moonlight streaming in.

On friday the moon was full. Sitting and eating at this Bombay restaurant I was starring out into the night and the moon came sailing out from behind an illuminated cloud, which made everything look ghostly romantic. When the sky cleared up the moonlight was brilliant pale gold, with a bloodred halo around it...sigh.....goodnight

'THERE'S A NATURAL MYSTIC FLOATING THROUGH THE AIR
IF YOU LISTEN CAREFULLY NOW YOU WILL HEAR'

-BOB MARLEY

THE TRUTH

2006-10-07T12:36:00.000-07:00

*This was sent to me by a friend, if any one knows the original author please do not hesitate to let me know. It's brilliantly funny!

10 TRUTHS BLACK AND HISPANIC PEOPLE KNOW, BUT WHITE PEOPLE WON'T ADMIT:

1. Elvis is dead.
2. Jesus was not white.
3. Rap music is here to stay.
4. Kissing your pet is not cute or clean.
5. Skinny does not equal sexy.
6. Thomas Jefferson had black children.
7. A 5 year old child is too big for a stroller.
8. N'SYNC will never hold a candle to the Jackson 5.
9. An occasional BUTT whooping helps a child stay in line.
10. Having your children curse you out in public is not normal.

10 TRUTHS WHITE AND BLACK PEOPLE KNOW, BUT HISPANIC PEOPLE WON'T ADMIT:

1. Hickey's are not attractive.
2. Chicken is food, not a roommate.
3. Jesus is not a name for your son.
4. Your country's flag is not a car decoration.
5. Maria is a name but not for every daughter.
6. "Jump out and run" is not in any insurance policies.
7. 10 people to a car is considered too many.
8. Buttoning just the top button of your shirt is a bad fashion statement.
9. Mami and Papi can't possibly be the nickname of every person in your family.
10. Letting your children run wildly through the store is not normal.

10 TRUTHS WHITE AND HISPANIC PEOPLE KNOW, BUT BLACKPEOPLE WON'T ADMIT:

1. O.J. did it.
2. Tupac is dead.
3. Teeth should not be decorated.
4. Weddings should start on time.
5. Your pastor doesn't know everything.
6. Jesse Jackson will never be President.
7. RED is not a Kool Aid flavor, it's a color.
8. Church does not require expensive clothes.
9. Crown Royal bags are meant to be thrown away.
10. Your rims and sound system should not be worth more than your car.

2006-10-06T13:38:00.001-07:00

LETTER TO A VIRTUAL STRANGER

How are you feeling?
I enjoy hearing from you…and I had actually expected to maybe speak to you last night and maybe tell you more. You know more about me than I do about you…don’t even know if you are white, black, brown or blue. Not that race matters, but I would like to visualize you. I am a goddamn artist, a very visual person.

I was excited to see all your replies, and slightly tickled that you were thinking of me.

I confess, I check my mail all the time.

My favorite scent. Right now I’m wearing Issey Miyake. Though I love Dolce and Cabana, Magie Noir, Samsara, Opium, and Allure by Channel. Eternity on a man drives me insane. Armani is great for both. I prefer proper perfume, but it is quite difficult getting here. When I was in Paris I bought lots, wish I could go back to this perfume house which can create personalized scents. Parfume turns me on. Scent, even bloody benzene (I know it is quite perverted), and of course I do not sniff it.

What turns me on?

art
freshly cut grass
the moon (it is full right now)
twilight
dew
water
boys
writing
Rome
kickboxing
watching
skin
herbs
picking berries
paint
talking
playing
flirting
dancing
making love in the morning
love
cats
history
glitter
poetry
black panthers
revolution
experimenting
reading
sleeping in the mornings
chocolate
cream
Danish butter
Summer nights
Music
Language

Well, I have never had a relationship to any one more than 3 years older than me. During the last three years my lovers have actually been much younger…Between 18 and 21. I would be such a bastard had I been a man. Though, lately I have been dreaming about a hot older man. Someone sure of himself, but still able to play with me…god, even a guy my own age would be an ‘exotic’ experience.
Though it is quite a long time ago since I had any…sex, or relationships, and I think I’m becoming quite desperate. All my relationships are platonic, but the other night I nearly called this guy (I had a crush on some time back), and my intention was to tell him strait out to come over and …well, you can imagine. I did not, as I am slightly romantic, but really in dire need of plain old fashion sex. Anyway, the other night my girlfriends and I spent the entire night discussing sex toys. They are fun, but I’m a carnal sort of girl, and quite like the unexpectedness of what he does, sending addictive flushes of endorphins through my veins. It can be the way he sighs, or becomes breathless, a touch, my name, talking dirty, a secret spot he kisses, a look, his smell sending shivers through me.

I usually wear black. Love high healed pointy boots, but resort to my sneakers, as I often end up going to ska-punk gigs. Though I wore these denim stilettos the other day. I layer my clothes. Skirts over pants. Lots of belts, chains, and cut off lace gloves. As I said, my hair is dreading, and I recently coloured it red. I’m addicted to black kajal, lipgloss and shimmer. Long sweeping skirts, scarves, and if I’m in the mood short balloon skirts, net and lace, with garters, silk stocking and wicked pointy boots/shoes, corsets. I like classic cuts, ties, blazers, but usually covered in badges. Though, I also love wearing my dads 70’s suits, men’s pants, and shoes. I don’t know it all depends on what I’m in the mood for. I love wearing saris.

Family relations are quite hectic. We love each other deeply, can’t live without each other, but we fight, scream, laugh, kiss and make up. All very Italian with a twist of Indian melodrama.
We have intense temperaments.

I don’t have time for sports, and I somehow always hated it. I used to roller-skate. But don’t think I could even stand in them now.

I am quite social, but I do like time to my self. Creating Art is so isolating, so I kind of get my space through working. Though, I love to read and write.

I’m currently into my second year of my Masters in Fine Art.
Will you come to my next exhibition?
Amongst favorite writers are Anais Nin, Baudelair, Blake, John Irving, Henry Miller, Sartre, Homi K Bhabha, bell hooks. The last book I bought was “Nexus”, from a garage sale on the side of the road, along with some stunning old bags. I came back with seven items, and spent only 30 rand.

Food.Mmmmm…love cooking, and eating. I cook everything apart from Japanese and roti. I love both but have not mastered it. I eat everything apart from eyes and bird-nest soup. I don’t do insects either. At the moment I make a mean carpacio inspired dish. A huge rump steak that I dump into a packet, with a split onion, garlic cloves, good quality balsamico, red wine, warsarbi, salt and pepper. After half an hour I sear the whole thing on a red-hot pan. Arrange the rocket salad on a large dish, place rump on top, then cut it in thin slices. Add more balsamico, warsabi, drizzle olive oil, add grated pecorino or parmesan, and lots and lots of fresh coriander. Serve with lots of good bread, extra cheeses (I prefer a smooth gorgonzola), and a few really good bottles of dry red wine. Every time I have made this dish, the meal becomes a feast; people eat, talk, laugh, remember good times…and just celebrate. The meat must be very rare. Dripping, red and juicy.

I have a studio at the institution I am studying at. At home I just work all over. Though I do have a study, but it’s more of a library. Right now, I am working in the garage. My work is a mixture of installation art, paintings and photography.
We have a two story house, and the bottom belongs to me. So it’s our bedroom, study, lounge, bathroom, and a washroom, which I could convert to a kitchen. Though, I don’t want to live here forever, so I’m ok sharing the upstairs one.

My baby sleeps with me. I know that he needs to get his own bed, but it is hard to change habits. I do want create his own little space, but then I will have to move into my study.

I love many people. Think of the Beatles song ‘In my life’.

There are many people who have inspired me. Frida Khalo, Che Gueverra, Dan Elton, Spivak, Manu Chau, Bob Marley, John Lennon, Steve Biko, etc, amongst others.

You wrote ‘Do you work better when you're turned on?’ never thought about it…why, does my work turn you on?
Some of the models got pretty possessive over me, but I don’t normally shag my models while we work. Though, there has been one or two occasions were sex was either part of the piece or that it led to some hot passionate session… don’t start fantasizing about girl on girl, as it has been my male models. Unlike you, I don’t really mind mixing work and pleasure.

I take my son to the park, beach, sometimes to gigs, to openings, the movies,
to visit my friends, to University. God, I even bloody breastfed him in class!
We go to the aquarium, and museums, to the botanical gardens, and listen to music by the lake. My friends and I pack a huge picnic basket full of goodies, take lots of wine and juice for the kids, toys blankets and spend an entire afternoon in the sun. The kids tumble and play while we relax.

We went into exile because of my dad’s anti apartheid work. He used to work with Biko. He carried me when I was a baby. I have met Mandela and most of the others. Have never been to Robbin Island.

I sell my work.

you asked "And yes - how do you like to be kissed?"

Well, are you planning on kissing me?

If I knew what your lips looked like maybe then I could tell you………………

The ball is in your court…

2006-10-05T03:04:00.000-07:00

SLICED

Thieves and angels and devils in disguise
Sit in two’s, move around groups, leaning against the bar
Scouting for some one, something, anything to keep out the isolation
The bordello is lit up
With broken hearts and broken dreams and loneliness
Mirrored in the chandelier
It cast shadows of ice
smoking crack
doing smack
fucking drags
and we talk but no one listens
windows rattle
shivers
and a stripper looses her finger
in the ornate steel gate shared between the church
and the courtyard
the nail was long
sparkling scarlet
deep red
crusted with cocaine
she claims that she couldn’t find the exit
she did not talk
was the finger positioned
pointing out the mystery
to the undercover cops
and their revealing coctails
machismo and cosmopolitans
plain stupidity
gun-toting maniacs
a razor blade, a knife
there was hardly any blood
it was sliced right of
clean
black night
bad moon
clenched jaws
and blue velvet
rustling trees and the howling wind make the candles
flicker
we burn
inflamed
petals of blood
drops
on to the sheets
running onto the street
black tar bleeding
and the grass is wet
beneath my soul
..............................

POINTLESS BLOG

2006-09-29T21:47:00.000-07:00

I am eternally grateful to all who take time to read these rambling inconsistant thoughts...
though I would be gratefull if u might consider leaving a message here
....isn't that the point with a blog?
or i might as usual have it all wrong.

2006-09-22T09:23:00.000-07:00

'DON'T JUMP IN THE WATER IF YOU CANT SWIM'

I was thinking of the past and all of the people I grew up with and befriended, across the continents, beyond class and creed and colour….. We all seem to be tethering on the brink of inferno, some of us are lost in the blaze, some badly burnt, some manage to keep the fire from consuming us, and some have (to soon) turned to ashes.

And as I sift through the memories, I can not claim to have belonged to any at all…or to one more than the other. I can’t claim to have belonged, though my entire life seems to be saturated by nostalgia and belonging… longing to belong to someone, something, country or kin …
I have always found my self in between places, cultures… even friends.
I remember a close friend (Zena), more like a baby sister to us, who was at one of our party’s and she said ‘it’s so strange; there are so many different people here’.

Hip Hop artist and graffiti painters in one corner, metal heads in the other. Artist, writers and actors around the coffee table, in the kitchen a group of radical activist fraternizing with (what I choose to describe as) noble thieves, a scattering of hippies, a few dealers and some family, old and young, black, blue, white and every shade in between and it has stayed like that.
Some of them I have lost along the way. Lost because of to early deaths ....and some I have lost contact to, due to travels, growing out of the friendship, changing, moving on.

I remember Frede short for Frederico. I was still in school (I guess I still am) about 13-14 when I heard of him. The other girls were talking about this drop dead gorgeous guy, with blond dreads, partially Danish and partially Brazilian or some thing like that.

I was intrigued by their stories, as he seemed like such a contradiction…and had to be really hot, for the stories about him were at the least quite horrifying. Rumors were that he didn’t bath and had occasionally slapped his girlfriend around. He smoked allot of dope, was terribly charming, well read, eloquent and a bit on the wild side. He had to be uber hot to get away with murder, for my friends were no bimbo’s, they were all children of hippies/ activist/ academics (which makes it worse, doesn’t it?) who had been raised consciously, regarding racism, sexism and any other ‘ism’ conceivable.

Any way, we used to go to the Sold parties (a monthly pre university party), which we had to be smuggled into (through the toilet or cellar windows) since we were too young…That is where I first met him. He was hot, but I was just not attracted to him, I thought I could become… maybe.
None the less, I was rather curious about him. When we were introduced, it seemed that like him, my reputation had preceded me...at least he claimed to have heard about me.
We kept bumping into each other and he would always be really flirtatious ...and he didn’t smell! So I concluded that either the bathing issue was just a phase or a rumor. His nick name was Frille short for frivolous, and an old fashioned Danish term for a lady of dubious morale.
I remember one night we bumped into each other at this Club ‘Club Fisk’, (in the Latin quarter of Aarhus). We spent the night in awe of each other, talking, drinking, and gazing into each others eyes, dancing, holding hands, flashing shy smiles at each other.

As the night came to an end we stood tripping around each other on the narrow cobble stoned street, in awkward anticipation wavering between hope and summoning up the courage to…I realized that I didn’t want to break the spell. The light was trickling through the clouds fast enough to leave me gasping for time…. so I jumped in a cab, sped of and tumbled into bed…..dreaming of the events that could unfold, though never in my wildest dreams did I imagine the turn of events.

It was the end of the summer vacation and the last few days of complete irresponsibility…or call it hedonism…but it was guiltless and left me with sweet memories leading up to my departure from home to the private boarding school ‘Eriks Minde Efterskole’. Whilst there, I was isolated and held prisoner in the tranquil country side of Denmark, ruled by the foul mood of insecure threatened, seductive power-hungry adolescent infants. At first I believed it would be interesting, though it turned out to be far too provincial. The first weekend back home was like the return to paradise. Frede and I bumped into each other again and he asked me why I had gone underground. I gave him the address and phone number of the school and the next thing I knew, he was standing there…at the bus stop in the middle of nowhere and smiling at me.

I was going through my plastering-everything-on-the-wall phase, heavily dominated by images of Rastafarian culture, black and white photos, flyers, letters and postcards among revolutionary posters and books every where. (Just realized that not much has changed, though I prefer paintings in the house, I’m still an anti-minimalist and my studio space looks alarmingly similar to the boarding school room).
I did not expect him to come all the way out there, but it was a welcome distraction from those bitchy wannabe hippie girls and my morbid time at the church yard talking to the dead. Ah, I could never resist melodrama!

By then I had made it quite clear that if he did visit, it was to be platonic. Thinking back he must have found me attractive though did not fall in love with me until he stepped into that room. You see, Frede was having a full blown love affair with Reggae and Rastafarianism. He dreamt of dropping out of society and moving to the West Indies to become a recluse, a Rasta Messiah living on ‘erb, visions and meditation. So there he was staring into my Rasta shrine and fell hopelessly in love with me. I took pity on the poor boy (as I was trying very hard to forget my first love) so I let him kiss me, but Alas, I felt no magic, so we lay in my single bed and spoke and argued and got to know each other. His life was so different from mine. He was raised by his mother, was tired of all those Danish girls throwing themselves at him, and confessed that he had rebelled against everything at one point by refusing to bath or comply to uphold some sort of cleanliness. He said he had been so repulsed by the mindlessness of everything, that he had preferred to spend his time watching the bugs scuttle over his floor and squish them under his nail. I found it disgusting and told him so. He just looked at me with those sparkling blue eyes and laughed. My lips were dry and he offered my some Vaseline, though I pulled out a lip ice, and he said ‘just as well, 'cause I mainly use it for work’. I wondered what kind of work needed Vaseline, and he answered, he used it on set. On set? I asked puzzled. ‘As lubrication’ he replied. He was a PORNSTAR!?!…I was dumbstruck. Why? ‘To pay of my debt for all the ganja I smoke. Of course, that made perfect sense. Had never before heard of a Rastafarian who did not consider their body as a temple, who at times were filthy and lead a life of debauchery....Though Bob Marley did have many lovers, but he did not sell himself to pay of ‘erb debt!

When he left I promised to call him, but never did and did not take his calls. One day I received a letter from him. I still can recall the most endearing stick drawings of him and me and ten (or more) children running around us, with cartoon bubbles at the end of his letter. In his letter he wrote that he had been smitten by me and described an idyllic life on a sub tropical island, vowing that I was the woman for him. That he wanted to be the father of my children, lots of children, and we would live together and fight for world peace. When we walked down the road, every one would look at us in envy and admiration and say ‘there goes Simmi and Frederico ‘their love is deeper and stronger than any man or woman has ever loved, or will ever love. He wrote between shooting porn scenes, bemoaning that he had to take a break, as all he thought of was me and couldn’t get a hard on with the girls there. As I sat on my bed reading, I did not know what to do. I had never before received a letter like this. I found my self laughing, then feeling sad, flattered, mad as hell at his presumptions, then slightly amused at his nerve and audacity all at the same time. It was then I realized that there was more in the envelope. I pulled out two pictures in great anticipation…and (to my horror) it depicted a very graphic image of him on a tawdry bed on his knees, wearing nothing but a bandana to hold his dreads back, looking strait into the camera with one hand gripping the head board and the other gripping his hard on. I found this tasteless and could imagine why the hell he had included these pictures. What a twit I thought, had he no clue or was he just a brainless wonder? Was I supposed to find these tacky pictures a turn on? He called soon after that and I told him that I would rather have him refrain from sending me such smutty snap shots. That I found them appalling rather than appealing.
He did not give up, he kept sending me the sweetest, lovely, brutally honest and entertaining letters (with out photographs), but with lovely drawings and did not stop calling me. I had to admire his determination, although I never budged about our friendship being platonic. We indeed became friends, very close friends, though once in a while he would ask me ‘why not?’ in the middle of watching a Bob Marley documentary. Or ask me how the hell I could loose my heart to some idiotic jerk (according to him) and some times would get up and leave in a huff or more likely take another bite of the special chocolate brownies I had baked. As time went by and I had finished boarding school, started at pre-university and met my first really serious boyfriend (later to be my husband), Frede befriended him as well. We would often have dinner together, hang out, watch movies, go to cafes…but we never did stop quarreling. I remember at the house warming party I mentioned earlier, he arrived on this hot new bike…I was sitting in the windowsill of our third floor apartment, smoking taking a break and this loud ROAR made me look down the street. I thought it was the Biker group “Goofy” (Fedtmule) who had hired the premises opposite us as a club house, but to all the girls delight a certain Frede (looking like a Dionysius) emerged beneath the hell raising black helmet and graced our house warming. Soon after that he left Denmark, on his quest for Messiahood. I left Denmark in 1992 and never saw him nor heard from or about him again. I hope he found true love and is living happily ever after, fathering a dozen children on a sub tropical island. Living and loving as fearlessly as he did during our friendship. I really miss him…and all the Rastafari books, films and tapes I lent him. I hope he thinks of me and the times we had when he watches them…so Frede, where ever you are, this is for you.

MISTY MORNING [Bob Marley]

Misty mornin', don't see no sun;
I know you're out there somewhere having fun.
There is one mystery - yea-ea-eah - I just can't express:
To give your more, to receive your less.
One of my good friend said, in a reggae riddim,
"Don't jump in the water, if you can't swim."
The power of philosophy - yea-ea-eah - floats through my head
Light like a feather, heavy as lead;
Light like a feather, heavy as lead, yeah.

2006-09-15T14:20:00.000-07:00

TAGGED

Are these silly enough, or silly in the right way?

Might just be slightly gross or yummy

depending on if you like salty nostrils.

Any how, this is how you lick a Badger

........

and to anyone out there who might believe this to be sordid

you are entirely right

this kind of thing happens when you frequent dodgy strip joints

to listen to your favourite

punk-ska band.

in thy name

SIBLING RIVALRY

I am making myself look like a....

noselicker???

and to all the dodgy suspects out there thinking

these nostrils to be candy coated

you couldn't be more wrong!

nuff said

2006-09-14T14:18:00.000-07:00

..TAGGED. TAGGED. TAGGED. TAGGED. TAGGED. TAGGED. TAGGED. TAGGED..

I have been tagged by Smith
This picture was taken by a very dear friend of mine, Zack. I love it because it could have a serious underlying message, but then again it could also just be us fooling around and being silly.

I chose it, due to the image dealing with similar issues of my last post. I have changed it slightly by adding the text and the black background. (this was before being tagged)....but, I remember the night it was taken and I don't recall being very serious, just shy...

The next three people to be tagged are:
The Poodle's Friend shanelle and km

2006-09-10T23:10:00.000-07:00

......WE AINT NEVER GOING TO BE RESPECTABLE.....
Im sitting on this bedspread, contemplating something profound to say for this interview later this afternoon, but really have nothing much to say. I'm going to fucking die if they ask me what my biggest achievement is....Or if I feel more Danish than South African....or if I consider myself an Indian. I also get rathe offended when they exclaim in disbelief 'you have a son?' and then presume that I am married. When I make it clear that I am not, they react with a knowing 'ohh' and the topic is kept of limits for the duration of the meeting.
How does one get beyond this stigmatization? I tried to conceive for three-four years prior to falling pregnant. Im 33 in Dec, perfect age for being the mother of a 5 year old. The relationship to his father was destructive, and it was not fair to put another being through such sadness and pain, especially not one just starting out this terribly beautiful strange life, so I did the right thing to leave...But I seem to be chastised for it... with peoples snide remarks, or embarrassed reactions, or gloating, or knowing 'Ohh's'.
My dear, we really seem to be stuck in the fucking stone-age regarding gender-equality. I should probably be happy if some brute man came and knocked me over the head and pulled me by my hair to make a "RESPECTABLE WOMAN" of me...but you see, I was not hit over the head, so I still had some common sense, enough common sense and dignity for both Akira and I to leave a bad situation. So, here is to Mel and Kim. I know it's a lighthearted popsong, but I used to love them when I was coming into adolesence...and I think I still do.

RESPECTABLE

Take or leave us, only please believe us
We ain't ever gonna be respectable

It's our occupation, we're a dancing nation
We keep the pressure on every night
Explanations are complications
We don't need to know the where or why

Taking chances, bold advances
Don't care if you think we're out of line
Conversation is interrogation
Get out of here, we just don't have the time

Take or leave us, only please believe us
We ain't ever gonna be respectable
Like us, hate us, but you'll never change us
We ain't ever gonna be respectable

Hesitation is just frustration
Give us the music and we're all right
On each occasion, for your information
We can look after ourselves all right

Take or leave us, only please believe us
We ain't ever gonna be respectable
Like us, hate us, but you'll never change us
We ain't ever gonna be respectable

Fascination is our sensation
We like to put ourselves on the line
Recreation is our destination
So don't wait up for us tonight
Take or leave us, only please believe us
We ain't ever gonna be respectable
Like us, hate us, but you'll never change us
We ain't ever gonna be respectable
Take or leave us, only please believe us
We ain't ever gonna be respectable
Like us, hate us, but you'll never change us
We ain't ever gonna be respectable

2006-09-08T14:58:00.000-07:00

the article in the Post will appear on next wednesday, the photographer did not manage to hand in the photo's before the deadline was up!

SPRING IS IN THE AIR

2006-09-05T02:31:00.000-07:00

I am in a terribly good mood today. The weather is lovely, spring is all around me.
Sun is making everything sparkle; the peach tree blossoms are so delicate against the gnarled knotted branches.
Around me I hear the sweeping of the yard, the murmur of people, birds, cats and monkeys going about their morning routine.

My son was so sweet this morning, waking up all cuddly, warm, soft and fuzzy… (That is apart from when he spat out his breakfast while I was feeding him and I twisted his ear). I know I shouldn’t have, but he wouldn’t even explain why, just sat and stared at me blankly.
Which other five year old gets dressed, fed, his teeth brushed, his bag packed…while all he does is sit and then he just might get up and find his Yugio cards on his own.
I don’t mind as long as he doesn’t spit his food out! I know it’s my own fault that he is spoilt……..though I felt like the wicked witch after scolding him…so I apologized after making it clear that it is disrespectful to spit your food out and then we cuddled and played and hugged and kissed and laughed…….made me feel like the shimmering sound of a thousand bells rushing through me.
Then they were off to school, work, university and I had to get ready for a photo-shoot for an interview I did yesterday for the Post (a newspaper). Had a long shower, tried on five sets of clothes, but finally settled for a long black gypsy skirt with layers of lace, studded belt with chains, black top, with black crop-top cardigan over. Smeared my eyes with kajal and douched my self with perfume.
I decided to set up a makeshift studio in my bedroom, due to an unfinished mural on the wall, which I stacked a whole lot of other paintings against. I did not have any recent work here, so I took some paintings that my son and I have played with, and one or two other old works which are unfinished and placed them around me. The photographer was a nice older Indian man, with a few missing teeth, who kept on referring to me as ‘Doll’ and at first I thought I was mistaken, as he called me ‘Babe’ more than once! Though after I shot him an icy glare or two, he changed it to ‘Doll’ (‘Doll’ is a very Indian South African term of endearment).The first time I heard it was when we returned to S.A. The family members (especially the older ones would call us ‘Doll’ and pinch our cheeks. The photographer has been taking photos since the 1960’s and has not published all of them. I can imagine what an amazing portfolio the man has.

Yesterday the PR people from the Kizo Gallery called and told me that there was a picture of me, the curators and another artist in the Mercury and tomorrow this interview from the Post will be published. I feel a bit ambivalent about all this press. At least it is not like the last time, when I had to hound the bloody press and sit and talk to rich assholes, prominent collectors and curators to create attention around a show. Toward the end I came home crying for I felt so whorish and exposed. I hate business. I might sound naïve and romantic, but art is so fucking personal…every time your work is on show, it is like barring your soul to every Tom, Dick and Harry. I know it has to be done, so people recognize your name and hopefully buy more, more often, enough to live off my sales…who knows, maybe someday my dreams will come true.

In the meantime I will continue living, loving, making art, raising my son…
I just spoke to my sister. She said that they had gone to the harbor for breakfast, at my son’s favorite breakfast spot. It’s a lovely café with a deck built over the water, so while you enjoy your eggs and bacon you can watch the most beautiful shoals of fish swimming right beneath you. It is at the harbor opening so one can see these huge luxury liners, container ships and tugboats pass right by you. Some are enormous, creating huge waves in their wake which spray fine saltwater mist on us, while the sailors from distant places wave at us. It stirs adventure, longing and a sense of mystery to be discovered……Sometimes I feel that I can sense the excitement of ending their long passage across the seas, of breaking out of the containment, of mesmerizing a crowd with tales of the sea, of kissing a stranger and filling their trunks with treasures they come upon on these foreign shores…I know I can not help but romanticize it and my son and I recently saw ‘The Pirates of the Caribbean 2’. It was fantastic. I want to have Jacks children! I have always dreamt of being a pirate. My son would be very proud if I dared to follow that dream. He says that he is Jack and I am Jacks girlfriend. He is a dreamer just like me.

……………………..
you may say I’m a dreamer
but I’m not the only one
I hope some day you will join us
And the world will live as one
……………………………..
-John Lenon

2006-09-04T12:27:00.000-07:00

OPEN

The Night is young& full of rest

I can't describethe way she's dress'd

She'll pander to some strange requests

Anything that you suggest

Anything to please her guest

-Jim Morrison

Exile

2006-09-02T10:13:00.000-07:00

2006-09-01T00:14:00.000-07:00

Exile

2006-08-31T15:29:00.000-07:00

I painted this in 2003. This is a small section one of the larger pieces that I sent to Delhi. Its not a particularly good photo, but it's all I got. I had used it in part of an installation (which should explain the fairylights). Its a piece about exile. (Be)longing, nostalgia, memory, love, loss etc.
The images depict my Mother, Steve Biko's injuries after his death, South Africa, a part of my son, the light text scrawled over it is my sisters attempt at copying my father when he would create anti-apartheid posters, when she was still a baby. I will attempt to post more pictures, but I seem to have some trouble uploading them. I was too strung out to take pictures of the last pieces I created before sending them of. Make of it what you can. For those of you who will see the exhibition, you might notice some minor changes....Blah blah blah
I should go to bed....

From Delhi to Durban

2006-08-28T14:16:00.000-07:00

I am presenting a series of six paintings at both shows.Would love to see you there...

THE EVENT:
A mega art exhibition to celebrate the centenary of Sayagraha.
Artists will be paying tribute to the great soul : Mahatma Gandhi.

WHERE IS IT BEING HELD?

India: Travancore Art gallery, a Kerala Government sponsored Gallery, in Kasthurba Gandhi Marg, which is in the heart of New Delhi

South Africa:
The Kizo Art Gallery, Gateway, Umhlanga, KwaZulu Natal.WHEN WILL IT BE HELD?India: 1 15 September 2006South Africa: 3 15 October 2006 (2 October, Gandhis birthday official media launch)Simmi

PAINT

2006-08-27T11:47:00.000-07:00

Been painting and creating art intensely for the past three weeks.

Some of these paintings have been sent to Delhi (India) to comemorate the 100 year aniversary of Mahatma Ghandi's pasive resistance theory.
It is such an honour to be able to take part in a show like this.

I have also just finished participating in a Thupelo workshop, which ended in a exhibition at the African Art Centre last friday.

I am exhausted and look terrible, my eyes are dark, puffy and make me look like a panda. This totally sucks as I am being interviewed for TV tomorrow....(some arts and culture show). I hate being infront of the camera! Will post the details for the show in India. The work will be sent back to the Kizo gallery (here in Durban) for a South African opening in october.
I am quite excited....but must sleep now.

Bundet

2006-08-19T14:50:00.000-07:00

Mit hår som du børstede så forsigtigt efter mit bad....med din kam af sølv, forsølvede dråberne der faldt klirrende mod gulvet, som du samlede til en kæde og bandt om min hals, mine hænder og ankler, som du lænkede til dig.........

Flowers in my hair

2006-08-19T03:38:00.000-07:00

Oh, your letter exited me so much.
Its still tickling from my stomach to my groin
Oh the things we could do. Just talk all night . I feel the same passion in you. Madness. Life here is getting more and more fucked up. I have to keep moving on. Seek, and thou shall find. But I have no cash, It will be coming, in a Mounth or two. So I might just take you up on your offer. When are you leaving, and why Canada?
Are you planning on coming back to durban? I have been dreaming of going to Mexico, or Cuba. I want to go where you never are alone. I want to go and see Diego Rivieras murals, and his wife Frida Karlos paintings. I want to see the soil of Che Gueveras birth place and the house where Trotsky was murdered. I want to learn to dance like the latin americans, dress in colourfull mexican skirts and wear flowers in my hair, have beutifull tall dark lovers and eat chili for breakfast and teqila for lunch.
News just came in. My great grandmother has just died.
Oh, if you where here I would wrap my legs around you. I dont feel like thinking anymore. Just feel. Feel you.

I can't see your face in my mind

2006-07-17T12:55:00.000-07:00

I cant see your face in my mind
I can't see your face in my mind
I can't see your face in my mind
I can't see your face in my mind

Carnival dogs consume the lines
Can't see your face in my mind
Don't you cry
Baby
Please don't cry

And don't look at me with your eyes
I can't seem to find the right lie

I can't seem to find the right lie
Insanity's horse adorns the sky

Can't seem to find the right lie
Carnival dogs consume the lines

Can't see your face in my mind

Don't you cry
Baby
Please don't cry
I won't need your picture
Until we say goodbye

-The Doors

LOADED PISTOLS ARE GOOD FOR PEOPLE UNLESS THEY'RE THERE IN PRISONS OR LUNATIC ASYLUMS

2006-06-20T15:38:00.000-07:00

Features > December 12, 2005
Your Guess Is as Good as Mine
By Kurt Vonnegut

Most of you, if not all of you, like me, feel inadequately educated. That is an ordinary feeling for a member of our species. One of the most brilliant human beings of all times, George Bernard Shaw said on his 75th birthday or so that at last he knew enough to become a mediocre office boy. He died in 1950, by the way, when I was 28. He is the one who said, “Youth is wasted on the young.” I turned 83 a couple weeks ago, and I must say I agree.

Shaw, if he were alive today, would envy us the solid information that we have or can get about the nature of the universe, about time and space and matter, about our own bodies and brains, about the resources and vulnerabilities of our planet, about how all sorts of human beings actually talk and feel and live.
This is the information revolution. We have taken it very badly so far. Information seems to be getting in the way all the time. Human beings have had to guess about almost everything for the past million years or so. Our most enthralling and sometimes terrifying guessers are the leading characters in our history books. I will name two of them: Aristotle and Hitler. One good guesser and one bad one.

The masses of humanity, having no solid information to tell them otherwise, have had little choice but to believe this guesser or that one. Russians who didn’t think much of the guesses of Ivan the Terrible, for example, were likely to have their hats nailed to their heads.
We must acknowledge, though, that persuasive guessers—even Ivan the Terrible, now a hero in Russia—have given us courage to endure extraordinary ordeals that we had no way of understanding. Crop failures, wars, plagues, eruptions of volcanoes, babies being born dead—the guessers gave us the illusion that bad luck and good luck were understandable and could somehow be dealt with intelligently and effectively.

Without that illusion, we would all have surrendered long ago. But in fact, the guessers knew no more than the common people and sometimes less. The important thing was that they gave us the illusion that we’re in control of our destinies.

Persuasive guessing has been at the core of leadership for so long—for all of human experience so far—that it is wholly unsurprising that most of the leaders of this planet, in spite of all the information that is suddenly ours, want the guessing to go on, because now it is their turn to guess and be listened to.

Some of the loudest, most proudly ignorant guessing in the world is going on in Washington today. Our leaders are sick of all the solid information that has been dumped on humanity by research and scholarship and investigative reporting.
They think that the whole country is sick of it, and they want standards, and it isn’t the gold standard. They want to put us back on the snake-oil standard.
Loaded pistols are good for people unless they’re in prisons or lunatic asylums.
That’s correct.
Millions spent on public health are inflationary.
That’s correct.
Billions spent on weapons will bring inflation down.
That’s correct.
Industrial wastes, and especially those that are radioactive, hardly ever hurt anybody, so everybody should shut up about them.
That’s correct.
Industries should be allowed to do whatever they want to do: Bribe, wreck the environment just a little, fix prices, screw dumb customers, put a stop to competition and raid the Treasury in case they go broke.
That’s correct.
That’s free enterprise.
And that’s correct.
The poor have done something very wrong or they wouldn’t be poor, so their children should pay the consequences.
That’s correct.
The United States of America cannot be expected to look after its people.
That’s correct.
The free market will do that.
That’s correct.
The free market is an automatic system of justice.
That’s correct.
And so on.

If you actually are an educated, thinking person, you will not be welcome in Washington, D.C. I know a couple of bright seventh graders who would not be welcomed in Washington, D.C.
Do you remember those doctors a few years back who got together and announced that it was a simple, clear medical fact that we could not survive even a moderate attack by hydrogen bombs? They were not welcome in Washington, D.C.
Even if we fired the first salvo of hydrogen weapons and the enemy never fired back, the poisons released would probably kill the whole planet by and by.
What is the response in Washington? They guess otherwise. What good is an education? The boisterous guessers are still in charge—the haters of information. And the guessers are almost all highly educated people. Think of that. They have had to throw away their educations, even Harvard or Yale educations, to become guessers. If they didn’t do that, there is no way their uninhibited guessing could go on and on and on.
Please, don’t you do that. But let me warn you, if you make use of the vast fund of knowledge now available to educated persons, you are going to be lonesome as hell. The guessers outnumber you—and now I have to guess—about ten to one.

This essay was adapted from Senior Editor Kurt Vonnegut’s new bestseller, A Man Without a Country, which can be ordered at http://www.sevenstories.com or calling 1-800-596-7437.

Kurt Vonnegut is a legendary author, WWII veteran, humanist, artist, smoker and In These Times senior editor. His classic works include Slaughterhouse-Five, Breakfast of Champions, Cat's Cradle, among many others. His most recent book, A Man Without a Country, collects many of the articles written for this magazine.More information about Kurt Vonnegut

OUR WEAPONS WERE OUR INSTRUMENTS.....

2006-06-10T13:48:00.000-07:00

I dedicate this song to all of you

Artist: The Cat EmpireAlbum: The Cat EmpireYear: 2003Title: The Chariot
Print Correct

THE CHARIOT

This is a song that came upon me

one night when the news it had been telling me

about one more war and one more fight

and 'aeh' I sighed but then

I thought about my friends

then I wrote this declaration just in case the world ends

Our guns

we shot them in the things we said

ah we didn't need no bullets

cos we rely on some words instead

kill someone in argument

outwit them with our brains

and we'd kill ourselves laughing

at the funny things we'd say

And bombs we had them saved for special times

when the crew would call a shakedown

we break down a party landmine

women that so sexy

they explode us with their looks

ah we blowing up some speakers

jumping round till the ground shook

And missiles

they were the roadtrips that we launched

t-t-tripping across this island

starting missions at the break of dawn

yawn and smile say

'what direction shall we take?'

'Somewhere where it warm and wet'

this be the route we'd always take and

Our weapons were our instruments

made from timber and steel

we never yielded to conformity

but stood like kings

in a chariot that's riding on a

record wheel

And our airforce flying

when the frisbee in the sky

have a session while we're smoking

now we're feeling extra high

and we'd sneak into a carpark

with the skaties on our back

and we're flying down the levels howling

'on the attack now on the attack'

And battles

they happened in these dancehalls

see we'd rather fight with music

choosing one the rhythm war

battle at these shakedowns

and we battle at these gigs

we do battle in our bedrooms

made some sweet love to the beat

Then our allies grew

wherever we would roam

see whenever we're together

any stranger feel at home

in a way we are an army

but this army not destruct

no instead we're doing simple things

good loving find it run amuck

This be a declaration

written about my friends

it's engraved into this song

so they know I'm not forgetting them

see maybe if the world contained more people like these

then the news would not be telling me

about all that warfare endlessly and

Our weapons were our instruments

made from timber and steel

we never yielded to conformity

but stood like kings in a chariot

that's riding on a record wheel

Im Back

2006-06-10T04:16:00.000-07:00

Im Back & have missed you all. Been home for a while, but extremely busy with my dissertation, and theres been visitors from D.K. staying in my study, so I couldnt really get to my PC, and monkeys chewed the phoneline.....and then there was this freak powerfailure..... I dont care if you beleieve me or not................(I proberly wouldn't).......but it really is true.
Anyway, to more important stuff, my cousin sent this to me, and I hope all the South Africans will spread the word.

RAND MERCHANT BANK:
This is about petrol prices and an invitation to join the resistance. By the end of this month petrol prices are set to soar even higher. If we want the petrol price to come down, we all need to take some intelligent, united action. Last year there was a "don't buy petrol day"-but the oil companies just laughed at that because they knew that we would "hurt" ourselves by refusing to buy petrol. It was more of an inconvenience to us than a problem to them.
But, whoever thought of the ideas, has come up with a plan that can really work.

READ ON AND JOIN THE ACTION!! By now you probably thinking petrol priced at about R5.00 is cheap. It is currently at +- R6.00 for regular and unleaded. Now that the oil companies and the OPEC nations (the bullies like US and Britain) have conditioned us to think that the cost of a liter is cheap at R 5.00 ,we need to take aggressive action to teach them that buyers control the marketplace......... not the sellers. With the price of petrol going up each day, we consumers need to take action. The only way we are going to see the price of petrol come down is if we hit someone in the pocket by not purchasing their petrol. And we can do that without hurting ourselves. How? Since we rely on our cars, we just cannot stop buying petrol. But we can have an impact on petrol prices if we all act together to force a price war.
Here's the idea:
For the rest of the year, don't purchase any petrol from the two biggest overseas oil companies (which are now one), SHELL and BP...
(Local is Lekka - So buy Sasol / Engen / Excel)
If the overseas companies are not selling any petrol, they will be inclined to reduce their prices. If they reduce their prices, the other companies will have to follow suit. But to have an impact we need to reach literally millions of petrol buyers. It is really simple to do! Now, don't wimp out at this point...keep reading, and all will be revealed as to how simple it is to reach millions of people. I am sending this message to 30 people. If each in turn sends it to another 10 people (30 x 10 = 300)...and those 300send it to at least 10 people (300 x 10 = 3000) And so on, by the time the message reaches the sixth generation of people; we will have reached over 3 million consumers! If those 3 million people get exited and pass this on to 10 friends each then 30 million consumers will have been reached. If it goes one level further, you guessed it three hundred million people! Again, all you have to do is to send this to 10 people. That's all. How long will all that take? If each of us sends this e-mail out to 10 people within one day of receipt, all 300 million people could conceivablybe contacted within the next 8 days! Acting together we can make a difference.If you're fed up paying too much for petrol, please pass this message on.
COMMENCING NOW DON'T BUY BP /SHELL, go and support SA Brand SASOL,
our currency and economy will be strengthen by 65% in 18 months the capital will stay in SA.Africa must stop feeding the world giants it must feed itself.

BEAUTY OBJECTIFIED, OR OBJECT OF BEAUTY, OR ABJECT BEAUTY, OR..............

2006-03-18T13:13:00.000-08:00

I was inspired by Frakengirls post 'CAN FRANKEN GIRL EXIST' in which she calls for a wider representation of 'ugly', or monster-women to identify with; portrayed in the same complex light as Frankenstein, and the Beast (from 'Beauty and...') etc. This for me (again) raised complex issues of linguistics, 'vieled' meanings, and the underlying powerstructures. Beauty, representation, and gender relations can not be divorced from art, so....I have here posted another insert from my paper in 2004:

"INVESTIGATING PRESENTATIONS OF THE SELF IN A POST-COLONIAL CONTEXT"

"The sentiment of Western criticism of art/literature from beyond its borders is generally based on dismissal on the grounds of the work being classified as resistance art, propaganda, ethnic or “craft”, either due to its double functionality as a usable object of aesthetic beauty and secondly, art produced in relation to ceremonial rites bound in religion and spirituality, thus rendering “other” cultures as “primitive” and un-evolved in comparison to the civilized West, who ostensibly create “fine art” out of passion, and pure pleasure. Early art forms, as cave art (across the globe), is presumed to be created out of the need to communicate with spirits, ancestors and gods.

“Art for arts sake” is a fairly new phenomenon in European art history, and was borne out of rebellion against the status quo of art being determined by the church (i.e. state). In any event Art and ideology are infinitely connected. High modernisms pursuit of the purity of art, enforced by Kenneth Greenberg’s theoretical fiblings, is pure fabrications. “Art for arts sake” is a myth, as art is a product, and hence cannot escape Marxist analyses which places it firmly within the paradigms of society and (in the words of Janet Wolf) “the cultural production surrounding it”. I agree that we need “a restructuring of the power dynamic”, not necessarily in terms of race, but in terms of critical minds who can undo the global miss-education, which at present is still enforced through subtle indoctrination in language which maintains the centrality of the West, and decentralizes the rest of the world. I take the liberty to quote the artist Nkosinathi Khanyile’s statement in the papers a few weeks ago to echo in my own words: “When something African is old it is considered ‘primitive’, though when something European is old, it is considered ‘classical'..". One has to question why terms such as ”primitive” “ethnic” and “tribe”, are generally only used about the “third world” countries.

“Language is a distinct piece of the biological makeup of our brains”. ( Pinker.1994:18)

Or when speaking of the mutilation of the female body for beauty, the West is outraged at the ancient enforced Chinese practice of wrapping the feet to get “lily feet”, amongst the upper class, though at present the elite of Western women are voluntarily squeezing their feet into Manolo Blahniks killer stilettos, and paying ridiculous sums for it. Other practices perceived with indignation by Europe, is the ring binding around ankles, arms and neck which elongates the limbs, scarification patterns, Masai custom of creating large holes in the ear-lobes, etc, though in the West; self emaciation, bulimia, and cutting away of ones facial features, sucking out bodily matter, cutting the flesh and inserting plastic and silicone, (generally) enlarging the mammary glands, while reducing all from the waist and down, is considered common practice in Western culture. ‘Plastic surgery’ is as respectable as ‘apple pie’.

The significance of how we use language reveals an underlying power-structure, evident of the dominant ideology.

So when we speak of post-colonialism, ‘who’ and ‘what’ is the determining factor? Post-colonialism and post-modernism are inevitably bound.

Post-modernisms claims of inclusivity, polyvalence, multiplicity, de-centralisation, semiotics, pastiche, ‘death of the author etc. is treacherous territory, as it is an academic Western discourse, which through its very irony takes solemn matters immersed in the grim reality of survival, by those “othered” and marginalized, and trivializes their struggle for equality. Many feminist’s have challenged the concept of the “death of the author”, as women have/are excluded and are still in the midst of their struggle of “voicing” themselves. The same applies to people of colour. By claiming the “death of the author” the Western Caucasian male rids himself from the guilt submerged in the flogging of “others” and of other cultures. If the meta-narrative belongs to modernism, then the meta-meta-narrative belongs to “others” in terms of rewriting histories fallacious. Through the negation of anything original to be written, or created, the West continues to impose its ethnocentric paradigms upon the rest of the world."

2006-03-18T05:50:00.000-08:00

DANGEROUS GENERALZATIONS

This is partially a comment, (to Sloh’s post), which developed into a post, on:
If sexism is ‘inherent’ in Zulu men or not…….

In her post, Sloh questions why her girlfriend will not date Zulu men, when all men are inherently dysfunctional in relationships.

I have an ambivalent relationship to Zulu men, because my first great love was Zulu. He was brought up in Denmark, and also part of the exile community in Europe. When I came here I (generally) found some Zulu men horribly sexist, rude, arrogant, brutish etc…but then again my first love: Maqhawendile Kwa Zulu Shange, (who’s father was Zulu and Mother was Xhosa) was far more ‘liberated’ than many of the Danes, and in relation to South African men borne and raised in S.A, I found that no matter class or colour, there seems to be a distinct ‘machismo’. I realize that I am making a dangerous generalization, and I have met some Zulu men in South Africa who are learned, sensitive intelligent individuals.

What I believe is important is that we acknowledge that the sexism in many societies of different races and cultures in South Africa is so dangerous that it amounts to a war against women and children. I also believe that it is high time that we as South African citizens, including Zulu men, speak out against this injustice, even though the race issue is explosive, and that it is important that we are not afraid to acknowledge that sexism and sexual violence against women and children in the Zulu community has reached frightening high levels.
I am basing this on my personal observations, and the fact that South Africa has one of the highest rates of violence/ rape/ abuse against women and children in the world.

I do not believe that race determines how we turn out; ‘violent, sexist, open-minded, stupid, slow, intelligent, etc, etc’ but it is rather part of our respective paradigms, education, and exposure to different ways of life, in which we are borne and brought up, which conditions and shape us.

South Africa has a violent history and a sad painful past of family disintegration (due to the laws of apartheid) these structures are still in existence.
Men who worked in the mining industry, were not allowed to bring their families with them, and the salary was so low that it hardly could sustain one person, so the women where forced to work as maids, caring for the White family, and bringing up another woman’s children. This meant that they where forced to abandon their own children, who had to care for them-selves and their siblings.

The adults of today come from extreme harsh conditions, where there was no guidance or safety. Even the schools were under siege, so children were left to their own devise, in a society where they were perpetrated, tortured, arrested and killed, by brutal police violence, and the indirect violence of the government; starvation, poverty, homelessness, family disintegration, which essentially is a complete negation of their being and existence.
We are still living in this reality, in the aftermath of Apartheid we have to deal with the repercussions of a scarred and wounded society.

Just because that the laws have changed, it does not erase the physical structures which are still in place 12 years after the first democratic election.
By physically placing people on the margins of the centers (as in the homelands and the segregated land policy), which kept us separated and currently still excludes us from the centers.This was part of the divide and rule policy of Apartheid but is alive and well. 'Post' Apartheid contemporary South Africa might have removed the 'WHITES ONLY' signs, but our architecture is built upon a apartheid geography which perpetuate our fragmented society and hold in place all the ‘ism’s’; sexism, racism….and plain ‘otherism’.

In an article on the :Jacob Zuma rape trial, from the Sunday Tribune, March 12 2006.Caroline Hooper Box wrote in an article
‘Sisterhood myth mirrored by trial’

“It is a sad situation all round, but it was truly appalling to wake up on International Women’s Day to the news headline “Burn the Bitch!”
She also wrote:
“The results of a nation-wide study in 2004 by Mexico’s Centro de Enferme- de investigation de Enfermedades Tropicales, which interviewed 27 000 South African boys and girls aged 10 to 19, are even more perturbing.
The study found that 58% of these adolescents felt that ‘sexual violence does not include forcing sex on someone you know’.
While another 30% said ‘girls do not have the right to refuse sex with their boyfriend’.
Other studies have supported these finding.
In 2001 researchers reported in the journal Reproductive Health Matters that 24% of adolescent girls surveyed in Kwa Zulu-Natal said they were ‘persuaded or ‘tricked’ into their first sexual experience.”

I do not remember who posed the concept that ‘every sexual act between men and woman is a potential rape’, even when it is with consent, but it is in relation to that, and the more mundane sexism, as in stereotypical gender roles within relationships that I find it ironic, for one of the greatest paradoxes in regards to feminism is that we have never been able to solve our dilemma of ’sleeping with the enemy’…maybe it is within the betrayal, and illicit drama which unfolds that the sweetness lays, that we can only experience love, by understanding the fragility and death, and that hate is implicit with love…
This is not to say that I agree with sexism, or to excuse barbaric acts borne from sexist behavior…I am just trying to justify and explain to my self why I still love men so deeply…when as you say Sloh…We shouldn’t really love them at all…

…that is apart from my son…

CALL FOR SOLIDARITE WITH FRENCH STUDENTS! VIVA LE REVOLUTION!

2006-03-17T13:53:00.000-08:00

Virtual Sit-In in Solidarity with the Striking Students of France!

//please forward widely//

Virtual Sit-In in Solidarity with the Striking Students of France! March 16th to the 18th, 2006

We invite people from all over the world who support the french students in resistance and oppose the precaritization of life[http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Precarity] to join the Electronic Disturbance Theatre and borderlands Hacklab on March 16th and 17th, 2006 to engage in a virtual sit-in on french government websites to demand that all of the students be released from prison and that the 'contract première embauche'(CPE) be revoked.

While the CPE only effects people in France, people around the world Are suffering from the system that the French students are protesting against the neoliberal, corporate model of society increases the precarity of life for everyone through employment instability, war and environmental destruction.

It must be stopped!

Youth all over the world face bleak prospects under the current models.

New economic and social models must be developed.

As students and workers continue to occupy the Sorbonne and march through the streets of France, we will join them with our virtual bodies from around the world.

SOLIDARITY WITH THE STUDENTS OF FRANCE! SOLIDARITÉ!

Join the action here: http://sdhacklab.org/france_solidarity

Interview with artist Santiago Sierra

2006-03-17T05:08:00.000-08:00

When asked “do we live in a camouflaged medieval society? The artist Santiago Sierra answered Completely. Nothing has changed since the Middle Ages.
As the philosopher Agustin Gacia Calvo said, ‘Things change their names in order to keep them quite.” It is a way of taking words away from us in order to impede any kind of analysis. And the new terms are usually very well received, because they’re refreshing and they make us forget old theories.

LOVE LETTERS

2006-03-17T00:51:00.000-08:00

Dearest …. 1996

I felt sad reading your letter & poem. Through the times we have had together you have always been optimistic. I remember you swore you would become a millionaire, you seemed so sure of your self. It was as if nothing, not the rotten political mess we are in, not the superficial empty way of people, not depressions, nothing could take away your dreams. Your dreams of music, art and poetry. Aesthetic life, in a romantic chateau somewhere in Europe. Dreams. In a white room, playing your guitar, haunting melodies of lost memories, maybe one of me. It is not too late. I love you. Use it. I have met allot of people in the past 14 months, friends & lovers, but I always return to you. I think about you. I love your letters, they are like a raft that keeps me up. I don't know how I would have gone through this last year with out you. You have been a tremendous support to me. You shouldn't care about these people that hate you. I see you, what's inside, & you have got something so special, mesmerizing about you. When I came to Tec. I heard about you, & the strange thing is I felt your presence so strongly, that even before meeting you, you where already in my system. I loved you from before the beginning. I am not infatuated, I hate some of the things you do, or your tendency to act like a total deranged fool, but i see the depths in your soul. Eternal. My love to you is the purest concept, emotion, experience in my life, & it has been like that since I received the first letter, which is my favorite. I have always loved you, at times it has just been suppressed.

Personally allot is happening in my life, Im studying at
ML Sultan Tech, + I work there, and I have got a waitering job at a cafe', a place called Thirstys. Im doing Graphic design, since I don't have to pay for the course, for my dad works there. Since I now have a salary I am looking for a flat, so why don't you come down, we could share it. I cant believe I am saying this, for I have refused to live with any other lover, or any one I am emotionally attached to. But even if we live as friends it will suit me, although I will find that extremely hard. I don't know any more. Maybe you have changed, maybe I have. I know I will regret not taking a chance with you. The offer is open. I will hopefully be moving in a month or 2. I have not sent the asthma tablets, because I got my first check today, I have been beyond broke. I don't remember the name of them, so if you will send that to me I'll get them for you, for they are not called ephedrine, that's just one of the drugs in them. I got the tape. I really enjoy it, especially Frank's wild years.

I am experiencing a new side of Durban, through the Indian community, & also finding some kind of identification, in the sense of my cultural background. I am totally amused by the way this community functions. It is so strange, & dangerous, especially for a girl like me. But I cant separate my self from it for I am very Indian, and the ambivalence in Indian culture fascinates me, & roots right down to some of the most intimate/personal experiences in my life. The rich sensuality, that goes through every thing, the clothes, there is not a sexier, more dignified dress than the sari, the colors, the food, the religion, the language, & the poetry in every day speech. Since being down I have been socializing allot with Indians, more than before, & I learn new things about my self every day. At the same time I hate the Indian community for its stunted conservatism, its pettiness, its gossip, racism & sexism. But I am a part of it, & I can not run away with out ripping my self open & forever bleeding, I have to reconcile with my history & my past, to become whole. I just don't know how to juggle the three cultures with a balance yet. I guess it will always be hard, but I feel at home with 2 & 3 generation blacks from Europe, mainly from England, Scandinavia, well the western part of Europe. ( when I write blacks, I mean any person of color)

I will send you some pictures of my painting. The word painting, is so appropriate, for you spill you fucking blood out on the canvas when painting.
What is it about the relationship with your father?
Send my greetings to your mom.

I dream of floating on a white sea with you, I am there,
from the very first day I was lost, drowning in you, your love
I cant see clearly, it is like the story of the ICE QUEEN, where the little boy gets a glass splint from the magic mirror in his eye, that pierces his heart, and all he sees is the ice queen. All I see is you.

I LOVE YOU

2006-03-15T03:45:00.000-08:00

SATURDAY NIGHT

I SAW A MAN
W. A BAND
WHO PLAYED SO FAST
I COULD NOT STAND
SO I DANCED
& MOVED MY HIPS
TO THE SOUND
FROM HIS LIPS

THEN I WENT TO GET A DRINK
FROM MY BARTENDER
& SHRINK
IT MADE ME FEEL REAL SCREWED
SO I FUCKT UP & SPEWED

I SAT AROUND
ON THE GROUND
SMOKING A SPLIFF
LISTENING TO THE RIFF
FELT BETTER
& WANTED MORE
GRABBED A GUY STANDING AT THE DOOR

WE SHARED CIGARETTES & WHISKY
WHILE THE GALS
GLARED WITH ENVY
ALL I SAW WAS BLACK & WHITE
&
THE GUN
&
THE FIGHT

IT WAS GRIM & IT WAS WILD
IT WAS SAD
&
BAD
&
MAD

WE WHERE THROWN INTO JAIL
NO ONE WANTED TO PAY THE BAIL
IN A CELL ALL ALONE
WE MADE LOVE TILL THE DAWN
THEN THEY SET US FREE
I LET MY LOVER BE
& WENT HOME &
SLEPT TILL THREE
...

Simmi Dullay 1996

THE TAXONOMY OF BELONGING

2006-03-13T11:11:00.000-08:00

I wrote this in 2004, as part of a paper:

'INVESTIGATING PRESENTATIONS OF THE SELF IN A POST-COLONIAL CONTEXT'

It is both self-biographical, and has examples of powerstructures built into linguistics.
...I do not agree with the term 'post colonial', as 'post' means 'past', 'after' and 'beyond' colonialism, suggesting that colonialism has ended, which it hasn't, all that has happened is that it has changed it's stripes to misslead and confuse issues...but I will not bore my dear readers with that at present. Enjoy the insert.

“The final return is mythic, we are told, it is the stuff of longing and prayers…as imagined it never happens” -Bhabha (MacDougall.2004:29)

I was too young to comprehend the horrors of apartheid, and the deep abyss colonialism acidly burnt into those of us perceived as “others”.
In my child-mind it was the battle between good and evil, the battle between darkness and light; light equaling black, and darkness equaling white (borne of the Black consciousness philosophy of my parents).

What was burned into the first four years of my memory of home, before being forced into an exile that I did not wish for myself nor for my broader family, was the terror of the security police aggressively and sacrilegiously ransacking our home; violating my sanctuary, and brutally arresting my father, until he was finally removed from his teaching post in Port Shepstone and relocated to Greytown in the KwaNatal Midlands.

The midnight visits didn’t stop, and the threats and terror increased.
Ruth First (in Mozambique) and Jeanette Schoon and her six year old daughter, Katryn (in Angola) had been annihilated by the very same letter-bombs which they threatened my mother with : “If you do not stop your husband from his anti-government activity, we know you have two lovely daughters you would like to see grow up…or… you wouldn’t like to see your beautiful girls maimed and scarred by acid in their faces, so stop your husband!”
When my father would travel between Greytown and home, the security police would call and terrorize my mother (a young mother and wife in her early twenties) informing her “of the unfortunate death of her husband”.

Soon after, Biko, whom my father had worked with, was brutally murdered in 1997, the turn of events spurred the grave decision my parents made to survive: there was the prospect of impoverishment, a violent, premature death, or exile. They chose exile for us…thinking that we would return, some day.
No one realized the ominous significance and finality of that one way ticket, and the stamp which declared South Africa (home), as the only country we could NOT enter.

Vaguely aware of the full consequences of this decision, we entered a gateway, shrouded in the solace of the shadows created by memories, and the transience of life, invisibly staining this un-definable polymorphic world, to which all who have been banished exist within…

The negation of self is intrinsically bound in the history of global politics, specifically the onset of colonialism in the late fourteen hundreds/early fifteen century, when Europe began exploring and trading on a global scale. My history of Diasporas and displacement begins with the British invasion of India, and their need for cheap labour in South Africa.

Coming from the indentured laborers, brought to work in the sugarcane plantations, I was born four generations later. Four years after I was born; in 1978 we were forced into exile (to Denmark). Issues of identity and (be)longing naturally arose.

To be exiled is to be severed from your life, and equates in so many ways to a finality, almost the finality of death. All who have been removed, dislocated and displaced go through mourning, permeated by the deepest sense of loss. So numbing, that “being” becomes merely physical, the mind and spirit transformed into a mausoleum, the body existing like the living dead. The human spirit, though, is not like a plant which withers away when its roots are cut. Humankind has the amazing capacity of being able to adapt in strange, unfamiliar, often hostile environments, most often, unaware of the process.
My father Prithiraj Dullay said: “a gradual socialisation takes place, creating a fundamental transformation of the self through the assimilation of a new consciousness, that does not replace the existing consciousness, but adds to it”.

To be continued...

Dancefloor ethics, longing, Badger Toast, bongs, my baby, girls and boys and more: A day in the life of Simmi

2006-03-13T04:20:00.000-08:00

I went out on Saturday, to Burn, to listen to a Nirvana tribute. It was ok, but there was nearly murder on the dance floor.
The crowd was so hectic. Normally, although every one’s moshing, no one really gets agro, or seriously hurt. There are certain unwritten rules, and everybody is quite cool about it.
If some one goes down, there is immediately five hundred people picking you up, but on Saturday there was such animosity and anger.
I had to literally fight of big sweaty guys by virtually punching, pushing, and kicking my way through the crowd. They were violently pushing and shoving…having a mass of 80 to a 100kg hurled at me with all their might and force, would be detrimental to my poor battered body (I got away with a few blue marks, and a damn sore back).

In South Africa although we live in a post apartheid society, most places are still quite colour coded, and unfortunately there aren’t, any places run by people of colour in Durban, which really plays the music, that I like.. this is a ‘so called White place’, with a few of us Blacks, who has infiltrated it.
At least it is not as bad as in 1992, when the only Blacks ever frequenting these ‘alternative’ venues were my sister and I.
My point was that, Sjanelle (also of Indian origin) was attempting to dance (and it must be said that she doesn’t shy away from a few knocks and the loss of bits of flesh, along with the regular dislocations of body-parts), but even she had to leave the floor and come stand in the back.
I do not know if people there were deliberately hounding us, due to the racial difference, or what. There where many people there from out of town, as on a regular night (saturday was the semifinals), the mosh pit can get wild, but the guys really take consideration to us girls, and dwarfs, and skinny guys like Mark, who unfortunately lacks any backbone what so ever…excuse me for loosing track, but back to Burn.
Well I took refuge outside in the parking lot, with our friends, and as I am in the process of dreading my hair, I spent the rest of the night with two-three people tugging my head in all directions (this does not involve anything with partial nakedness and my head bobbing up and down), but that they were helping me form my dreads… Talking about romance, love and lust, I am high, dry and in dire need of some...even parking lot encounters seem fascinating at present.

My latest encounter was about a month ago, and it was more out of curiosity, and very short lived, no more than a few hours actually (it was not a one night stand with a stranger, as I have never had the opportunity to experience that). Maybe I will land myself a leprechaun in Ireland, talk about erotica exotica…Unfortunately I have to admit that I am in serious need of some TLC.
I have grown tired of these sweet young things and am actually considering a real relationship.
I sheepishly admit to wanting to have someone to crawl into bed to, when I return from my night of debauchery, some one to fetch me iced water in the morning, with two painkillers, and fix a bloody Mary for breakfast…my life is very different from that.

From Burn we went to some house party, it was ok, but quite boring, got back into town, we all went to Nefdt and Pascal (two friends of mine and most often where I crash when I go out).
Bongs were past around…(I am hereby not admitting to have indulged in any illegal activity), just stating the facts…after this I got into some in-depth discussion of slang…for I am guilty of finding White South African Durban surfer slang rather pathetic, in comparison, to the Afican, Indian and Coloured slang, especially the Coloured slang rocks. But I don’t really remember much of the conversation, at five Pascal woke up and told us to shut up.

It is quite a small flat, and Nefdt has had this crazy idea of putting a tent up in their tiny living room/bedroom and has moved the table, sofa and chairs into it, so apart from their place being boiling hot under usual circumstances, it is now a perpetual fucking hotbox, which of course can have its advantages, but I think it is a lethal combination; tiny space, heat, mess, smelly teenage boys!!! One night some time ago I slept over in Pascal's bed (he was out), and I was woken in the morning by this conversation.

Nefdt: Simmi is here.

Pascal: Yes I know, I could smell girl as soon as I stepped in.

And no, it is not due to stench of the night before which he was referring to, but to the sweet scent of my perfume, thank you very much.

Another night I came in, ravished for something to eat, so I open their fridge to find an old rancid box of margarine, then I open the freezer, and the great revelation of Nefdts big smelly beyond rancid shoes meets my sight!?! Needless to say that I went to bed starving.

Saturday night ended at five in the morning, woke up four hours later, we got dressed and went to visit Badger, who was so kind to make us Badger toast.
Which is toast with sweet chili sauce, mayo, melted cheese, and what ever else one can add, like scrambled eggs, steak, ham, anything.
It is perfect for a hangover. Watched a movie; The house of sand and fog, made me terribly depressed, and I bawled my eyes out.

Went home, as at this point I was going through abstinence symptoms of being away from my son.

Came home to big slobbery kisses, and questions as too why he was not allowed to come to the party, and if it was a ‘Headless Hector party’, (Headless Hector is a character in his book, a ghost who is put out of his job since the house they haunt falls apart), as I had previously told him that it was a adult party, and that the place was not child-friendly. I am amazed how his mind works. At the moment his favorite word is “bother”, so he is like “that movie is bothering me” or “Mummy, Nana is being naughty and bothering me”, even his food bothers him…it is so funny.
After playing and cuddling we decided to cook. Akira loves helping, he crushed the garlic, and helped me put mash on the mince, although more mash was finding its way into his mouth than onto the pies.
Sjanelle filled me in on some juicy stuff that had totally gone over my head at the house party. She got some action, and I am so dumb that I didn’t even notice.
We made humus with my mum, and tiny cottage pies, and quiche for Akira's lunch, then helped my mum create a shrine for this beautiful Buddha figure she has bought, with lots of rose quarts, candles, lights, etc. It is really stunning.
Akira says it is a place of magic.
Watched a bit of ‘Nanny Mcfee’ with Akira, while devouring the most sinful chocolate cake, had a bath and fell of to sleep after Kia told me a story of Manga’esque’ magnitude…only to be up at five.

I am happy, but it would be nice to share it with some one else. I guess that is what life is about, and sometimes, like rite now, I wish I had someone to fall into and know that it will all be ok, if I closed my eyes tuned out the world.

...Wherefore art thou Romeo?

REVELATION OF THE MOTHERLAND

2006-03-09T11:26:00.000-08:00

This should have been posted yesterday on International Women's Day...
Although I believe that every day is ‘women’s day’, so it does not really make a difference.
I found this quite relevant and essential in relation to subverting the negative connotations of the female sex. From the book ‘THE VAGINA MONOLOGUES’ by Eve Ensler .

“…the Indo-European word cunt was derived from the godess Kali’s title of Kunda or Cunti, and shares the same root as kin and country”.
–Gloria Steinem (from the foreword of ‘THE VAGINA MONOLOGUES’).

MADE IN JAPAN

2006-03-05T12:18:00.000-08:00

It is after ten and it does not seem like I will finish anything. Im working on a installation, which deals with child traffic, prostitution and abuse. I am stuck, as the spraypaint is taking ages to dry. The weather has been great. We have been hit by a cold front, and it has been pouring. The temperature actually hit fifteen degrees a few nights ago!!! That is quite a drastic drop from nearing forty degrees (level of discomfort). ..but the rain is slowing the drying down.

I can not think, my sister and her boyfriend are busy writing a script on all things Japanese in Durban; "Zulu Zen"(i just made that up). All I heard from them today was Bonsai, Sushi, and my sisters bizar obsession with the word 'delicate'...she got quite hectic about it, and eventually started barking the word at us 'DELICATE!!!'
...She just read this and called me a #*%+=pot bellied pig dog, and then went to change her pad...
She is back, shouting "IT IS DELICATE"

I deserve some deep flyed plawns for such excruciating toture. Worse than being tickled on the sole's of the feet with a feather. She just called me 'you plick'.

I think it is time that I refine my sumo wrestling tecnique on her.

Hallow...is there anybody out there...

2006-03-04T11:05:00.000-08:00

Why is there no response? no debate?... just dead silence.
Are the articles too long? boring? irrelevant?
Does social conscience not exist?
Have I broken some unwritten blog rule?

Must I just let it pass?

Somebody, anybody, yes YOU...Stop and enlighten me of the bloggers manifesto

THE PYRES OF AUTUMN

2006-03-02T13:25:00.001-08:00

JEAN BAUDRILLARD

THE PYRES OF AUTUMN

Fifteen hundred cars had to burn in a single night and then, on a descending scale, nine hundred, five hundred, two hundred, for the daily ‘norm’ to be reached again, and people to realize that ninety cars on average are torched every night in this gentle France of ours. A sort of eternal flame, like that under the Arc de Triomphe, burning in honour of the Unknown Immigrant. Known now, after a lacerating process of revision—but still in trompe l’oeil.
The French exception is no more, the ‘French model’ collapsing before our eyes. But the French can reassure themselves that it is not just theirs but the whole Western model which is disintegrating; and not just under external assault—acts of terrorism, Africans storming the barbed wire at Melilla—but also from within. The first conclusion to be drawn from the autumn riots annuls all pious official homilies. A society which is itself disintegrating has no chance of integrating its immigrants, who are at once the products and savage analysts of its decay. The harsh reality is that the rest of us, too, are faced with a crisis of identity and disinheritance; the fissures of the banlieues are merely symptoms of the dissociation of a society at odds with itself. As Hélé Béji [1] has remarked, the social question of immigration is only a starker illustration of the European’s exile within his own society. Europe’s citizens are no longer integrated into ‘European’—or ‘French’—values, and can only try to palm them off on others.
‘Integration’ is the official line. But integration into what? The sorry spectacle of ‘successful’ integration—into a banalized, technized, upholstered way of life, carefully shielded from self-questioning—is that of we French ourselves. To talk of ‘integration’ in the name of some indefinable notion of France is merely to signal its lack.
It is French—more broadly, European—society which, by its very process of socialization, day by day secretes the relentless discrimination of which immigrants are the designated victims, though not the only ones. This is the change on the unequal bargain of ‘democracy’. This society faces a far harder test than any external threat: that of its own absence, its loss of reality. Soon it will be defined solely by the foreign bodies that haunt its periphery: those it has expelled, but who are now ejecting it from itself. It is their violent interpellation that reveals what has been coming apart, and so offers the possibility for awareness. If French—if European—society were to succeed in ‘integrating’ them, it would in its own eyes cease to exist.
Yet French or European discrimination is only the micro-model of a worldwide divide which, under the ironical sign of globalization, is bringing two irreconcilable universes face to face. The same analysis can be reprised at global level. International terrorism is but a symptom of the split personality of a world power at odds with itself. As to finding a solution, the same delusion applies at every level, from the banlieues to the House of Islam: the fantasy that raising the rest of the world to Western living standards will settle matters. The fracture is far deeper than that. Even if the assembled Western powers really wanted to close it—which there is every reason to doubt—they could not. The very mechanisms of their own survival and superiority would prevent them; mechanisms which, through all the pious talk of universal values, serve only to reinforce Western power and so to foment the threat of a coalition of forces that dream of destroying it.
But France, or Europe, no longer has the initiative. It no longer controls events, as it did for centuries, but is at the mercy of a succession of unforeseeable blow-backs. Those who deplore the ideological bankruptcy of the West should recall that ‘God smiles at those he sees denouncing evils of which they are the cause’. If the explosion of the banlieues is thus directly linked to the world situation, it is also—a fact which is strangely never discussed—connected to another recent episode, solicitously occluded and misrepresented in just the same way: the No in the eu Constitutional referendum. Those who voted No without really knowing why—perhaps simply because they did not wish to play the game into which they had so often been trapped; because they too refused to be integrated into the wondrous Yes of a ‘ready for occupancy’ Europe—their No was the voice of those jettisoned by the system of representation: exiles too, like the immigrants themselves, from the process of socialization. There was the same recklessness, the same irresponsibility in the act of scuppering the eu as in the young immigrants’ burning of their own neighbourhoods, their own schools; like the blacks in Watts and Detroit in the 1960s. Many now live, culturally and politically, as immigrants in a country which can no longer offer them a definition of national belonging. They are disaffiliated, as Robert Castel [2] has put it.
But it is a short step from disaffiliation to desafío—defiance. All the excluded, the disaffiliated, whether from the banlieues, immigrants or ‘native-born’, at one point or another turn their disaffiliation into defiance and go onto the offensive. It is their only way to stop being humiliated, discarded or taken in hand. In the wake of the November fires, mainstream political sociology spoke of integration, employment, security. I am not so sure that the rioters want to be reintegrated on these lines. Perhaps they consider the French way of life with the same condescension or indifference with which it views theirs. Perhaps they prefer to see cars burning than to dream of one day driving them. Perhaps their reaction to an over-calculated solicitude would instinctively be the same as to exclusion and repression.
The superiority of Western culture is sustained only by the desire of the rest of the world to join it. When there is the least sign of refusal, the slightest ebbing of that desire, the West loses its seductive appeal in its own eyes. Today it is precisely the ‘best’ it has to offer—cars, schools, shopping centres—that are torched and ransacked. Even nursery schools: the very tools through which the car-burners were to be integrated and mothered. ‘Screw your mother’ might be their organizing slogan. And the more there are attempts to ‘mother’ them, the more they will. Of course, nothing will prevent our enlightened politicians and intellectuals from considering the autumn riots as minor incidents on the road to a democratic reconciliation of all cultures. Everything indicates that on the contrary, they are successive phases of a revolt whose end is not in sight.

[1] [Tunisian writer, author of L’Imposture culturelle (1997).]
[2] [Sociologist, author of L’Insécurité sociale (2003).]

Return to Top
Send this article to a friend
Download a PDF version of this article
New Left Review 37, January-February 2006
Buy this issue: New Left Review 37, January-February 2006
Subscribe to the New Left Review

THERE IS SOMETHING ROTTEN IN THE STATE OF DENMARK

2006-03-02T13:25:00.000-08:00

This was sent to me from CSL. So much for freedom of expression in Denmark.

25 February 2006Documents confiscated and criminal charges raised against Danish association ‘Oproer’ (Rebellion)

Statement issued 25 February 2006:

"Latest: Friday 24 February 2006. Police authorities remove the international appeal (find below) of the association ‘Rebellion’ from the web sites of a Danish parliamentary party, a left daily newspaper and a socialist youth group.

Background

The Danish association ‘Rebellion’ (700 members) has on two counts been charged with breach of 114 a (2) of the Danish criminal code by allegedly supporting "groups having the intent of committing terrorist acts".
‘Rebellion’ is charged with transferring approximately 14000 Euro to the resistance movements FARC (Colombia) and PFLP (Palestine) in October 2004. The second charge concerns a statement on Danish television on 1 August 2005 by a spokesperson for ‘Rebellion’, Patrick Mac Manus, announcing that the association was in the process of collecting further funds in support of organisations on the EU 'terrorist list', and that it had issued an international appeal to democratic and solidarity organisations in the European Union urging them to similarly challenge national anti-terrorist legislation and the EU 'terrorist list'. Both charges have been raised personally aginst the spokesperson, Patrick Mac Manus, and not against the association as such.
The transfer of funds to FARC (Colombia) has especially angered the Colombian government. Both the ambassador to the Nordic countries and the vice-president Santos Calderon have had negotiations with the Danish Ministry of Justice and the Minister of Foreign Affairs, seeking to further the prosecution of ‘Rebellion’. The Colombian Minister of the Interior has demanded the extradition of members of the association.
The text of the international appeal by ‘Rebellion’ follows below. The appeal does not specify which resistance or liberation movements should be supported, only that such movements should "seek to further secular, democratic, and humanist goals".
The maximum sentence which can be imposed in connection with the charges is ten years imprisonment. The indictment has as yet not been drafted by the prosecution.
Confiscation
‘Rebellion’s’ international appeal, sent in both English and Spanish to almost 300 European democracy and solidarity movements, was removed from the association’s homepage by order of the Copenhagen Magistrate’s Court on 12 August 2005. This injunction was upheld 14 October 2005 by the High Court (Landsret). This is now being appealed by ‘Rebellion’ to the Supreme Court (Hoejesteret) as such confiscation involves both paragraph 77 of the Danish Constitution “prohibiting the re-introduction of censorship at any time”, and the European Declaration of Human Rights, Article 10, on freedom of expression. It is as yet uncertain whether the Supreme Court will open the case. This will probably be clarified within the coming weeks.
Immediately following the confiscation of the appeal, ‘Rebellion’ encouraged other Danish organisations to publish it on their homepages, and to contact their own international networks. The appeal is now to be found on approximately 35 national and international websites. The Danish police authorities have approached a number of the Danish organisations, including the parliamentary party Red-Green Alliance, requesting them to remove the appeal from their websites, or face court action. All organisations have refused to do so.
Friday 24 February. The police authorities have now removed the international appeal from the web sites of the above parliamentary party; from the web site of the left daily newspaper ‘Arbejderen’, and a socialist youth group.
Patrick Mac Manus, spokesperson, Rebellion (Denmark) Telephone 0045 22454178
International appeal:
The ‘war on terror’ threatens us all – defend freedom of expression, human rights and international solidarity!
Appeal from ‘Rebellion’ (Denmark) to European movements
The Danish association ‘Rebellion’ appeals to all European movements for democracy and international solidarity to join it in challenging national anti-terrorist legislations, the ‘terrorist list’ of the European Union, and the so-called ‘international war on terror’.
Through present anti-terrorist legislation, European states have attempted to curb the freedom of expression and the political rights of their citizens, including their right to extend moral and material support to resistance and liberation movements.
In the past year ‘Rebellion’ has publicly, and in direct conflict with Danish anti-terrorism legislation, transferred substantial funds to the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP) and the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC). An important criterion for our choice of organizations is that they seek to further secular, democratic, and humanist goals.
The Danish Ministry of Justice and police authorities have as yet not raised criminal charges against ‘Rebellion’. In order to further such a step, both the Colombian ambassador to the Nordic countries and vice-president Santos have had talks with officials from the Ministry of Justice and the Minister of Foreign Affairs in Copenhagen.
We appeal to other European organizations to join us in a continuing challenge to European anti-terrorist legislation and the ‘terrorist list’ of the European Union.
We envisage the following elements in the campaign:
- Collection of funds within each country with list of those willing to stand forward as signatories. It would be inadvisable to open accounts, as these may be subject to seizure.
- A goal of at least 100 signatories and at least 1000 Euro within each participating country should be set. Involving prominent citizens in the initiative would be of great advantage.
- Publication of the initiative within each country when these goals are met, or at whatever time seems appropriate within the national context.
- Conference of all participating organizations to be held in Copenhagen in 2006, where a collective transfer of funds to resistance and liberation movements is announced.
- Publication of a conference manifesto on the so-called ‘war on terror’, reiterating solidarity with the international struggle against illegitimate state power and foreign occupation.
We hope that this appeal will be welcomed by your organization, and that the initiative will be taken up and developed in as daring a manner as possible within each national context.
The association ‘Rebellion’ can be contacted at following postal address:
Foreningen Opror,C/O Blaagaardens Medborgerhus,Blaagaards Plads 3,2200 Copenhagen N,Denmark,
Or at opror@linuxmail.org

Our website is at www.opror.net
PS The name ‘Oprør’ is related to Eng. Uproar, Ger. Aufruhr."

THE END OF GOD

2006-03-02T12:32:00.000-08:00

Last night while smoking in the garage, I picked up an old Mail and Guardian and found this brilliant article.

The end of God?
Colin Bower
27 January 2006 10:25
Luigi Cascioli is taking on 'the maker' by placing the church under the same obligation to prove its case as criminals are placed whenever they are brought to trial in a court of human law. (Photograph: AP)
It is a mouth-watering prospect, undoubtedly the news story of this fledgling year: God, in a human court of law, almost in the shadow of the Vatican, under obligation to prove that he exists. And if he can’t, then no one in Italy will any longer be able to claim to be God’s agent or intermediary, to collect money for his greater glory, or to issue instructions to the human world on his behalf. No longer will the pope be able to hand down infallible bulls, no longer will Catholic priests be able to claim divine authority for their appointments, and only under their breaths will the faithful be able to utter their holiest of vows, “in the name of the father, the son and the holy ghost”, because the father, the son and the holy ghost will no longer be deemed to exist, and publicly to proclaim otherwise will be to mislead the gullible, a crime in Italy. The drama doesn’t end there. Representing God as the defendant in court on Friday is Enrico Righi, a 76-year-old Catholic priest. His job will be to convince the learned Judge Gaetano Mautone that God (Jesus) exists. Opposing him, the plaintiff is Luigi Cascioli, an atheist also in his 70s, who once went to the seminary to train as a Catholic priest with his adversary. The case is being heard in the ancient town of Viterbo, one- time seat of the papacy. It is a drama that could not have been scripted.Critics of Cascioli claim that he is grandstanding. But by bringing an age-old argument into a court of law, he has, after centuries of ontological stand-off, engineered a showdown that finally pits one way of knowing truth -- by means of revelation with another -- by means of material evidence. Why “ontological stand off”? Because the argument between Christianity and secular humanism always ends with the sterility of compromise and defeat: reasoned argument cannot engage with pure faith. The rationalist says: “Show me the evidence”, the person of faith says: “I need offer you no evidence, I know because God makes me know.” And so no outcome is ever possible.By managing to bring the argument into a court of law, Cascioli avoids this impasse, and places the church under the same obligation to prove its case as criminal or civil defendants are placed whenever they are brought to trial in a court of human law. Empirical evidence guides humanity in the regulation of all of its affairs and relationships. A man may claim to love his wife, but unless there is empirical evidence of his claim, his wife is unlikely to believe him. When it comes to the crunch, Christian claims are generally absolved from the burden of empirical evidence. But Cascioli has changed the rules of the game. Whereas he is under no obligation to prove that Jesus did not exist, Righi must prove to a learned judge, who must decide the merits of the case not in terms of his own religious beliefs, whatever they might be, but on the basis of law, that Jesus did exist, and was God incarnate. Tough call.Cascioli alleges violation of two interesting statutes, one the “abuse of popular credibility”, and the other “impersonation”. By creating moral codes and obligations, by benefiting from tithes and monetary contributions and by creating a climate of belief in the mythical and the fabulous, he alleges that the Church abuses popular credibility. By insisting that Jesus Christ existed, son of a virgin, miracle worker, and God incarnate, he alleges that the Church creates a mythical person, an act that amounts to impersonation. A corollary would be the invention of fictitious human identities to draw salaries or pensions against such identities. None of us would have any problem in identifying such behaviour as criminal. The Italian laws are not idiosyncratic. Belgium has similar laws in draft form which will make it a punishable offence to “abuse credulity in order to persuade [an individual] of the existence of false enterprises, an imaginary power or the occurrence of non-existing events” and there are moves afoot in the European Union to overrule religious objection as being a sufficient basis to avoid legal obligations. For instance, EU experts insist that the legal right of an individual to an abortion overrules the right of others to refuse to facilitate such an abortion. In other words, the standing and the legitimacy of behaviour based upon sectarian or faith-based belief is under serious threat. Cascioli is simply riding solo right at the front of the secular wave.He has thought out his grounds with wit and insight. He happily concedes that theological argument is rightfully the preserve of theologians -- and that theologians can believe whatever they want to. His case is based on history, not theological reasoning. The theology of the RC Church -- indeed all Christian theology -- is based on a particular historical understanding. Cascioli examines Christian history minutely, and reaches the conclusion: “It never happened like that, your history is false.” He will be helped by precedent set in litigation successfully brought against scholars who deny the existence of the Holocaust. He has built his own case in his book The Fable of Christ and arguments from it are readily available on his website (www.luigicascioli.it/home_eng.php). Readers can reach their own conclusions in regard to those arguments. What grips the imagination is not so much the historical argument itself as the unprecedented courtroom drama that will unfold this week as Righi presents his case. He, and his long-dead witnesses, will be subject to cross questioning and to character and credibility audit. Under these circumstances he will have to think long and hard about who he calls. The Gospel writers ought to be a major concern. Imagine the kind of cross questioning that would take place in a “normal” court proceeding: “Is their existence attested by any non-Christian source?” Well, no. “Can you prove that they existed?” Well, no. “Do their accounts conflict?” Yes. “In material considerations?” Yes. “Is there evidence that their work was tampered with or edited by later writers?” Yes. “Do they provide any corroborating evidence of the miracles they report?” No. “Are they eye witnesses to the events they describe?” No. Clearly, if the issue before the court was a case against a person whose fate might be jail or the hangman, any self-respecting judge would have to disqualify the evidence of such unreliable witnesses.Righi might imagine that his star witness would be Josephus Flavius, a Jewish historian of the period who appears to have testified to the existence of “Jesus, a wise man” who was crucified. If Righi puts Flavius in the witness box (so to speak), he runs the risk of Cascioli’s calling his own expert witness, Professor John Meier, well known Christian scholar, and author of A Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus. Cascioli: “Tell me Professor, do you have any reason to doubt the historical integrity of Mr Flavius?” Oh absolutely. For instance, he had no compunction whatsoever in concocting an immense web of lies to support his claim to have been a Pharisee. “So, from a historiographical point of view, Mr Flavius is not a reliable witness?” Oh, absolutely not. “What’s the likelihood of a staunch Jew, one who writes a history precisely to demonstrate the superiority of Judaism over other religions, testifying to the status of Jesus Christ as the long-prophesied messiah?” None whatsoever, he never wrote that passage, it was a forgery interpolated by later Christians. Imagine letting Matlock loose on Righi’s witnesses!The Christians and the secularists are already rooting for their sides. Blogs are brimming with invective, and, and as the trial gets under way it’s hard to resist a frisson of delightful expectation, such as one might feel before Manchester United plays Liverpool. We can expect a great contest, provided that no one gets to the ref. One might venture an opinion as to the winner in this contest for the truth, but we must resist the temptation, for as we South Africans know full well, it would be irresponsible to predict an outcome. After all, the case is now sub judice.

Sunday Bloody Sunday

2006-03-01T11:40:00.000-08:00

I am so excited about this trip. My aunt Priscilla Jarna is the ambassador of South Africa, in Dublin, and it is her daughters 21 Birthday. They have invited me, and are sponsoring the trip. How lucky am I? Tina (the daughter), wants me to help plan the party. It is so sweet. My aunt used to be Winnie Mandela’s lawyer (amongst others) in the course of Winnie’s imprisonment on Robbin Island during Apartheid. (please excuse me if I got the exact fact’s of the time and duration wrong, which I will rectify once there, as I believe her story could be relevant in relation to my research).
Another bonus is that their neighbor is Bono from U2, and my aunt’s kids are thick with Bono’s kids, so Im crossing my fingers for a chance to meet him. This is so wild, man the album ‘War’ was like a soundtrack too my life at about 12-13. Simple Minds and U2 playing while I sulked at my parents (sad thing is that I still do), and raged against the injustice of the world, which I penned down in my diaries, in between inserts more determined by raging hormones and pages covered in the name(s) of my object of affection.
I still got that tape. Yes, I said ‘tape’ cd’s had not hit the mass market yet.
This is soo cool. I respect the fact that Bono has always spoken out against injustice, and war, still after they became the ‘world’s greatest band’, though I have to admit that I much prefer their earlier music of the 1980’s in comparison to their current drift. How strange is it that Bono always used to mention the struggle against Apartheid, and he lands up living next door to the South African ambassador?

I’m going to paint a ‘I Love U2’ t-shirt, which I will wear pacing up and down outside their house if I don’t get to meet him through more ordinary circumstances. Shit, who knows, maybe they will be at Tina’s Twenty-first…
I’m gonna listen to ‘Sunday bloody Sunday, Sunday bloody Sunday…OOooo Yeayrrrr’.

WHAT IS EASYER TO SOLVE; MOTHERHOOD OR MURDER MYSTERIES?

2006-02-27T11:39:00.000-08:00

Things are looking brighter for me. I will be going to Dublin, London and Aarhus around the end of March (all expenses paid). This is quite something for me, as I can hardly pay for a box of cigarettes at the moment. I will be away for about five weeks…I am both excited and scared shitless; as it will be the first time I would be so far away from Akira, for such a long period of time. Have never been away from him for more than seven days, and that was at the e-kapa conference.
I will be doing some research when I go over, but it will be combined with a holyday. Have not been to Europe since early 2000, I wonder how I will be able to cope with the far right-wing shift.

Otherwise I am leading quite a boring life.
I go out, write, cook, play with Kia, and get his homework done (which seems harder than it must have been building the bloody pyramids). My mother says that he is exactly like me. She calls him a law upon himself, I call him a dreamer.
Otherwise I indulge in the odd bottle of gin, smoke too much, go to live concerts and perv over all the boys under 18.
This is obviously becoming problematic, as I am supposed to set an example for Kia. You might think that he is only five, but he already has girlfriends and I don’t like the sound of it, as he says ‘mummy, they are bigger like you’…’and very pretty and cute’…’they carry my bags if I hold their hands.’
Now, it must seem innocent, but a mother can never be too vigilant, I don’t know what I’m going to do. You see he is so beautiful, (it is not just because I’m his mum, but he really is). People swoon over him, calling him a heart throb, a hottie, handsome. My girlfriends have the audacity to tell me that they wouldn’t mind him calling them in a few years.
I shudder at the thought of what all of this is going to do to him.
He is going to develop an ego larger than Cesar’s. I will have to drum into him that women (or men) are to be treated with respect even if they throw themselves at him. What about some silly girl who will try to tie him down through getting pregnant. What about deadly S.T.D’s, how am I going to teach him that sex doesn’t equate to love…Argh…maybe I am just assuming he will be a player. I pray to god that he will rebel and become a nerdy bank director, accountant, or something which will be the opposite of me.
Who am I kidding; he has always wanted to be a rock/punk star. His favorite song which he made goes “Rock ‘n Roll must always be”…though it comes with variations ‘Christmas must always be’ and ‘dragons must always be.’ He love skaters and has his own skateboard, is into his violet period, loves karate, fashion and when he calls me, it is not ‘mummy please come here’, it is ‘come to me’, said with nonchalance, in a kind of breathless kind of way. My mum laughs (a sinister, vindictive laugh) and says that time has proven to be the sweetest revenge for her upon me. I still dunno what she means…

I am sorry if I have bored you, but my initiation in to motherhood is quite a revelation, and my investigation of it thus far is often far more frightening than solving a murder mystery, since there seems to be no solution, or formula to follow.
I guess that it is about learning, falling and slipping, but always having the strength to get up, especially having the strength to pick him up…regardless of how crushed ones heart is, or how psychologically hung over one is.

2006-02-24T22:54:00.000-08:00

Akira Ixara Dullay

Seven months old

Just woke up from his afternoon nap

on a hot lazy Durban afternoon

DENMARK'S DOUBLE STANDARDS.

2006-02-24T12:38:00.000-08:00

Danish paper rejected Jesus cartoons

Gwladys FouchéMonday February 6, 2006

Jyllands-Posten, the Danish newspaper that first published the cartoons of the prophet Muhammad that have caused a storm of protest throughout the Islamic world, refused to run drawings lampooning Jesus Christ, it has emerged today.
The Danish daily turned down the cartoons of Christ three years ago, on the grounds that they could be offensive to readers and were not funny.
In April 2003, Danish illustrator Christoffer Zieler submitted a series of unsolicited cartoons dealing with the resurrection of Christ to Jyllands-Posten.
Zieler received an email back from the paper's Sunday editor, Jens Kaiser, which said: "I don't think Jyllands-Posten's readers will enjoy the drawings. As a matter of fact, I think that they will provoke an outcry. Therefore, I will not use them."
The illustrator said: "I see the cartoons as an innocent joke, of the type that my Christian grandfather would enjoy."
"I showed them to a few pastors and they thought they were funny."
But the Jyllands-Posten editor in question, Mr Kaiser, said that the case was "ridiculous to bring forward now. It has nothing to do with the Muhammad cartoons.
"In the Muhammad drawings case, we asked the illustrators to do it. I did not ask for these cartoons. That's the difference," he said.
"The illustrator thought his cartoons were funny. I did not think so. It would offend some readers, not much but some."
The decision smacks of "double-standards", said Ahmed Akkari, spokesman for the Danish-based European Committee for Prophet Honouring, the umbrella group that represents 27 Muslim organisations that are campaigning for a full apology from Jyllands-Posten.
"How can Jyllands-Posten distinguish the two cases? Surely they must understand," Mr Akkari added.
Meanwhile, the editor of a Malaysian newspaper resigned over the weekend after printing one of the Muhammad cartoons that have unleashed a storm of protest across the Islamic world.
Malaysia's Sunday Tribune, based in the remote state of Sarawak, on Borneo island, ran one of the Danish cartoons on Saturday. It is unclear which one of the 12 drawings was reprinted.
Printed on page 12 of the paper, the cartoon illustrated an article about the lack of impact of the controversy in Malaysia, a country with a majority Muslim population.
The newspaper apologised and expressed "profound regret over the unauthorised publication", in a front page statement on Sunday.
"Our internal inquiry revealed that the editor on duty, who was responsible for the same publication, had done it all alone by himself without authority in compliance with the prescribed procedures as required for such news," the statement said.
The editor, who has not been named, regretted his mistake, apologised and tendered his resignation, according to the statement.
· To contact the MediaGuardian newsdesk email editor@mediaguardian.co.uk or phone 020 7239 9857
· If you are writing a comment for publication, please mark clearly "for publication".

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN

2006-02-24T12:30:00.000-08:00

We need a counter-balance to Islam, says Danish queen

By Hannah Cleaver in Berlin(Filed: 15/04/2005)

Queen Margrethe II of Denmark has said her country needs to find a "counter-balance" to Islamic fundamentalism, regardless of the opprobium such a stance provokes abroad.
The Danish government has already been accused of fuelling xenophobia by introducing measures which effectively closed the country to asylum-seekers.

But in overtly political passages from an official biography published yesterday Queen Margrethe makes comments certain to complicate her nation's relationship with Muslims.
But in overtly political passages from an official biography published yesterday Queen Margrethe makes comments certain to complicate her nation's relationship with Muslims.
She said: "We are being challenged by Islam these years. Globally as well as locally. There is something impressive about people for whom religion imbues their existence, from dusk to dawn, from cradle to grave. There are also Christians who feel this way.

INSTUTIONAL WANKERS

2006-02-24T10:05:00.000-08:00

I'm restless
but tired
depressing week
hate the institutional wankers
as if they got no blood left in their veins
seen more soul in a crack den
resent my self for letting them poison me
with their foulness
sometimes their maliciousness seeps beneath my skin/leaves bitterness/feel violated/wish my eyes could exclude them/so they could not contaminate me/I hate their vile comments/ It shocks me every time/ how hollow their rot has rendered them/their need to carve away/little pieces of your flesh/to spit venom at you
power-tripping-apartheid-pigs!

TO X-GIRL

2006-02-22T12:28:00.000-08:00

HAPPY BIRTHDAY 'VULVA VELOCITY'!!!
May the coming twelve months bring lots of love, lust, hot steamy sex, inspiration, creativity, and of course money, peace, and harmony.

LOVE YOU LOTS

Human Rights

2006-02-22T11:48:00.000-08:00

IT IS A HUMAN RIGHT TO HAVE AIRCONDITIONING AND A SWIMMINGPOOL IN SOUTH AFRICA.
This should be added in the bill of human rights. This weather is driving me insane. I cant think, write, breathe, eat, sleep, work. I get dizzy, headache, dehydrated, swell up, cant concentrate.
I am non-productive. It is disgusting. My human rights are being violated!
Airconditioning and Swimmingpools Now!

2006-02-16T06:03:00.000-08:00

HAPPY BIRTHDAY AKIRA

13 Febuary 2006

Can not understand that your turn five today.
5 years old, and no longer a baby!

I can not remember what life was like before you were born, It is like you have been here infinitely...
Since you came into my life, you have changed it in so many ways.

Your birth opened up a secret gateway full of treasures, and adventure. The intensity of LOVE so great, that I found the courage to live...and kill if necessary. Though only for protection and survival.
I know I would be shot for this, by most feminist...but I have to admit that your birth made me tap into my 'basic instincts', for if you got hurt and started howling, I would automatically transform into your superhero and every one else's nightmare. When I calmed down I was often taken back by how 'aggressive' I had reacted (by 'aggressive' I do not mean physical, but in the tone of my verbal attack). Another thing which made me reconsider certain claims of contemporary gender discourse, was that I would start lactating where ever I was, if I heard a baby cry!
All said and done I obviously do not agree with women being born with instincts only to nurture, procreate...and nothing else...but it did teach me how the physical and psychological are connected in ways we can not always explain.
Anyway, my baby. This is a late post, as we have been busy celebrating you. We went to Spur, with some of your friends, Friday we spent swimming with all your friends at their place. then on Saturday we went to listen to our favorite band 'Sibling Rivalry' (punk-ska music) at the skate park on the beach. Swimming, music, running through the showers, dancing, spending time with friends. It was awesome...
The next day we all went to Ushaka; waterslides, sunshine, drifting in the 'river', seeing sharks, and fish and chips at "pirates arms', walking on the shore, spotting fish at the harbor...
I had to keep you at home on Monday as you were exhorsted.

I LOVE YOU SO MUCH...

'TO INFINITY AND BEYOND' -(Toy story; Buz Lightyear)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SUREKA

2006-02-12T23:09:00.000-08:00

TILLYKKE MED FODSELSDAGEN!

Hele 30 aar gammel!!!

This is the big three OOOOO00000!!! (do you hear the echo of your teasing from the past seven years!) 30000ooooooooooooo........3OOOOOO00000oooo...
(She teased me since I hit 25, as I was nearing the big bad 30!!!).

Welcome to the other side, old girl. It is not at all bad here.
You have survived this far (which is nearly more than I can say about the Swan!!!)
(To all who does not know, the Swan is Sure's car...don't know if it refers to swan song, or that some one actually called it an ugly duckling).

I think it is going to be a really cool day, feasting on Sushi, and later drinks at BBB (Bean Bag Bohemia).

For the thirty years I have known you, you have unfolded from sweetness incarnate, every-parents-dream-child, geek, late bloomer, Jim Morrison necrophiliac (which I believe every girl should be at some point in their life), grunge-girl, super model uber babe, best babysitter, to hell razing hottie, cradlesnatching (dating guys not even in their twenties), beer funneling, film maker in the process.

Thinking of all the memories we have shared and all the things I love about you...the one story I love the most is from our childhood in Denmark.

We lived in an area where everybody knew each other. Right outside our house there was a green patch of grass, with swings, a playhouse and a sandbox. Amongst the grass grew the tiniest wild flowers (markblomster). They were so fragile and delicate. As kids we would spend hours rolling in the grass, exchanging secrets, playing with ladybugs, gathering miniature flower arrangements, with their tiny lacy petals in pale pink, lilac, blue.
One day when Sureka was playing alone outside, John Farmelow (a neighbour and close family friend), came by with his lawnmower. Sureka got up from her daydreams and jumped of the swing, asking John to wait. She bolted inside, and came back with a bucket. John must have thought that she would help pick up the grass. Sureka had her own agenda, she got down and inspected the grass closely, then upon finding a itsy bitsy tiny flower, she turns the bucket upside dow, places the bucket over the flower, then sits on it, and poor John has to cut the grass in small circles around my sister and her flower... til Sureka finds the next little flower.

I wonder what time they finished cutting the grass.

Anyway, crazy sweet sister, this story is about more than just being a nuinsance to the neighbourgs. It is about preservation, aesthetics, protection, love, significance, and courage to do something as odd-ball as that, of being so caught up in living, that you don't doubt your instincts for a second, its about doing what you know is the right thing to do...and you do

We love you very much

...some times it is hard to allign the romanic little fairy girl image with that of your 'highway to hell' thing (which is what her name means). Then it struck me, this is it, you are of fairy blood, (remember mummy's childhood pictures?)...alluring, open sweet, romantic...but fairies also have an insane wickedness, a taunting, and teasing, a scream which can hex you, play tricks on your mind, elusive princesse, seductive vamp, raging banshee

Happy Birthday

see you later

Simmi and Akira

Race, Identity and Art. The e-Kapa Sessions

2006-02-11T08:05:00.000-08:00

In december I went to a conference in Cape Town, about contemporary African art, its practice, and its infra-structure, as in the gallery system, and patronage. It was also a platform of the South speaking to the South. A bianale, which is not a bianale, i.e. setting up structures in Africa which do not emenate those of the West, but define our selves, within our own terms...

As usual I got embroiled in a discussion which is still continuing.
I responded to a article by Mr. J. Ferreira, mistaking him for Mr. M. Pissarra...These are some of the 'interactions' which went on.
If you would like to read Ferreira's article, please go www.capeafrica.org

Mr Ferreira made a comment or rather a comparison of himself and being black.
Kuyo Kouoh found this quite offensive, and from there sprung a debate of race.

I am perplexed that a man of logic, cannot comprehend that we are not critisizing his involvement in the struggle, nor the risk, his courage or his conviction.

Though as far back as Fanon's "Black Skins White Masks" the issue of race in terms of body is one that cannot be escaped as a person of color.

'THE MOST DEVESTATING EFFECT OF RACISM IS THAT IT RENDERS YOU HOMELESS IN YOUR OWN BODY' -Alexander Meena

This is just one aspect of the stigma, of skin color.
In what still is a predominant Western patriarchal hegemony, I do not think that there are many women who could disagree when I say that no man knows what it is to be a woman, specifically in terms of the inequallity, and sexism...and how somehow men believe that if mamory glands are present there is no brain function attached, or capability to reason or think clearly. (Which seemed to be the consensus at the ekapa sessions) But that is another story.

My point is that as no man can purport to know what it is to live in a misogynist world as a woman, neither can a white person claim to know what it is to live in a world where racism is so ingrained that it is part of our " architecture'. So it is not an attack on you Mr. Ferreira, it is becouse you really dont know what it is to live in a black skin, and by you claiming to, you are underpinning the millions of barbaric, unjust facist acts and systems which we are subjected to our every waking hour.
I am sure that you (as well as many others) are great contributers in the war against colonialism, and that you have your heart in the right place, which enables you to participate as a de-colonialised individual. Though you will be undemining the "black experience" if you dismiss the racial difference that unfortunately is still alive and kicking.

Simmi Dullay

(next insert)
I have to correct myself in terms of the gender issue I touched on. It was not the consensus of ekapa, but of quite a few individuals on the panels.

simmi dullay

+ Jose Ferreira - 04/01/2006

Dear Simmi Dullay Thanks for your response - the point you make is a very significant one, I'd certainly consider it extremely offensive if someone responded to me with the same comments, like your statement, "a comment or rather a comparison of himself and being black." However, I don't know how you manufacture the incongruous relationship between that comment and myself? I recognise the perverted notion of attempting to claim another's experience, and I don't recall making such a comment. Should any of what I said seem contradictory or imply what you stated in your criticism that would be a gross misreading of my conversation and intention. What I was conveying in my article too was my sense of disappointment in the proceedings of the conference, as they seemed to become more personal and vindictive rather than productive. It is not my intention to denigrate anyone else's experience or the issues relevant to the topic of debate, unlike some of the delegates.

Jose Ferreira

+ Simmi Dullay - 09/01/2006

Dear Jose Ferreira

The mistake is mine. I mistook you for Mario Pisaro. The conversation which ignited my response was held while we were waiting in the line for lunch. I apologise. I am a complete mamphara when it comes to names. The conversation took place between mainly Pisaro, Kouoh, my self and Tracy Rose. Never the less I do not apologise for the content, but for directing it at the wrong person.

+ Mario Pissarra - 12/01/2006

Simmi Dullay, I find your criticism of me quite disingenuous. Nowhere have I ever “claimed to know what it is to live in a black skin”. What I did say is that I have some personal experience of racism, of being singled out for my pale complexion; and that it was my alienation in the USA and Europe (while avoiding military conscription under the SADF) that first alerted me that my “home” was in Africa. By publicly reflecting (in the mini-lab) on my own sense of marginalization within the country I was not attempting to discount dominant historical patterns of oppression, not least in South Africa. Rather I was simply attempting to contribute towards a more textured discourse of how power can shift between the “centre” and “periphery” and that the question of who has power and who does not is not always a simple matter of black and white.

+ Simmi Dullay - 11/02/2006

Dear Mario Pissarra Your response left me with a sense of wavering between empathy and that the issue has been obscured.

Firstly I want to express my understanding regarding how you have felt alienated and marginalized. Racism and discrimination are under no circumstances acceptable, regardless of it coming from a ‘black man’ or any other race.
Though within the context of the ‘post’ colonial discourse, the marginalization you speak of, seems to me to have roots in academic romanticism.

In your reply you speak of your alienation in the United States and Europe which brought you to realize that your ‘home’ was in Africa. This makes me assume and question a number of things:

1. Did you realize that your ‘home’ was in Africa due to rejection from the West?

2. What gave you the idea of having greater affinity with the West, than with the continent/country of your birth and upbringing?

3. Speaking of your “own sense of marginalization within” (addressing the mini-lab session), made your attempt at reaching across the racial barriers and borders seem rather patronizing and dismissive in the face of a reality in which the White minority is still benefiting from the Apartheid legacy.
Which makes me question if you comprehend the severity of these “historical dominant patterns” which ‘others’ cannot escape due to being clearly marked by the colour of skin, and other racial markings which differ from the Caucasian race.
The stigma attached to being black is etched into flesh, in the same way that a map is upon land, due to the ongoing persecution and imprisonment enforced by colonial, ‘post’-colonial, neo liberal hegemonic slavery and exploitation, past and present.

Your remarks might fit well into Western academia of hyped up modernism,-a la Nietzsche’s alienation, Kafka’s absence, despair, rejection, ‘exile’, martyrdom, sin, punishment etc, but is really nothing more than a excursive exoneration befitting the pulpit of confession for purposes of personal salvation, while enforcing and upholding pseudo-intellectual liberal banter.
Which again bares testimony to modernist existentialism; romanticism and raw emotion, (read primitivism and Western notions of the ‘noble savage’).Unfolding and growing into obscure, bizarre abstracted fragments of ‘post’ modernist discourse, were now the search for the untouched and pure, renders the truth irrelevant, as the West has reached it’s ‘cull de sac’.

When Nietzsche proclaimed “God is dead”, it was prophetic, as he further explained: “…man cannot bear to have a witness”.
So when ‘post’ modernism declared ‘the death of the author’ it was a natural continuum of the grand Western narrative symbolically committing hara-kiri, to end and disregard all attempts at new histories from voices not yet heard.

Regardless of ‘post’ modernisms concepts of rejecting the ‘truth’, the Meta narrative, the centre is still dominantly Caucasian, not just perpetuated by ‘past’ colonialism, but by the existing economic systems. The existing economic institution endorses the past, and in its essence remains the same, apart from the change of name, which acts as a thin smoke screen set up to disorientate and confuse issues.
Alexander Meena describes it quite aptly as ‘Old hegemonies, in new packages’.

In light of this, your statements are problematic, due to the circumstantial evidence of 'feeling' alien and 'being' alien.
There is an entire edifice towering behind every White ‘man’: the grand system of justice, the institution of law, the army, the police force, wealth and empires of power.

It is a sad fact that there are still ‘…more young Black men in prison, than there are in the American schools’. -Angela Davis.
In an article on “The Prison Industrial Complex”, Joe Lockard writes : “economic marginality is being criminalized”. Lockard’s statement can be applied globally and in relation to South Africa, as the margin is still Black, is still impoverished and excluded.

My motives are not to attack you, label or “corner you” in any way.
My interest lies within opening up debate and communication, in order to clarify subjects, concepts, and myths which I believe are misleading and dangerous.

Power is not simply a matter of Black or White. It has to do with deconstructing myths, romanticizations, misconceptions, deliberate lies, un-learning and re-learning.

While I am not unsympathetic to your search for an African/continental identity, this has to be firmly placed within the context of historical realities.

I am sincerely hopeful that South Africa will be the crucible for the emergence of the new African identity, bereft of racial categorization.
In the meanwhile, we have to come to terms with our past in order to create the space for the birth of the new African. I believe that we are getting there, perhaps a little slowly, but there is forward movement.

simmi dullay

Witches

2006-02-10T23:18:00.000-08:00

Boiling black kettle
over the open fire
witches dancing round and round
flying higher and higher

They are singing and drinking
wicked witches brew
having triple orgasm's
using the tip of the shoe

All the women in the world
come and join this Sabbath
enjoy your wicked womanhood
and let him do the salad

Let him was the filthy laundry
let him get up for the baby
let him do the dirty dishes
put an end to our slavery

O, dear sister come with me
take your magic broom and fly
let him suffer for his sins
while we dance into the sky

-Simmi Dullay, 1993. S.A. Durban

Fear

2006-02-10T14:40:00.000-08:00

I was too afraid of watching 'Secret Window' alone in this big house. I used to love horror movies, then I had Akira and I really can't stomach watching them. At this very moment I feel as if some one is watching me. I sit with my back against the door. It really freaks me out.
Im getting paranoid, I need to sleep...

SIN SISTER'S

2006-02-10T06:28:00.000-08:00

I just woke up. I was working on a piece last night. I am quite excited about it. Went to bed after seven this morning, as I had to make Akira's lunch, feed him, dress him, hug him, kiss him. Mmmm, he still has that baby scent.

Anyway, my girlfriend T started seeing this guy who is one of the camera men on the set of this huge movie, which they are fimling down the coast, with Leonardo Dicaprio etc. The producer is looking for a babysitter who can be on set, and my sister is brilliant with kids (and she is studying video technology), so T called me last night and said that she had recommended Sureka. While she is relating the story, she tells me how she told him(her sqeeze) about Sure, 'you know one of the Sin Sister's, Simmi's younger sister'. Can you believe it! "SIN SISTER'S"?!?...She has apparently always called us that.
I identify with Jessica Rabit (from Roger Rabit), when she says ' I can't help it, I was drawn that way'.
T is not the only one. In our circle of friends we have been baptised 'Dodgy Dullays'. I have heard that when inertia sets in, they make up more words like 'dodgy, dangerous, diabolic, devillish etc Dullays. Thay have deemed me a 'Simmi-ist', or (I overheard this) when some one was relating a a story about me, he said: 'oh, it was a typical Simmi-ism'.
'Simmi-ism' can be used about other people too when the say or do a 'Simmi-ist thing".
Another name I discovered by scrolling through my friends phone, was that I was listed as 'Serpent Girl' What tha fark?
Something odd strikes me about these names...I just cant pin point it.
Is some one out there insinuating that Sure and I are wicked...does that not stem from Wicca...Oh, I think they are on to us. "Witch". Hmmm, they on our scent...which we could always remedy, isn't that so dear sister.

I'm pretty disgusting right know, as I have not had a bath since yesterday morning. It is now 5.28 , haven't brushed my teeth yet. Sure is picking up Akira and they are going to spend some time with a friend of hers watching the football match. My parents are going to watch a movie, so I can do absolutely nothing if I please. Though I do need a bath, and some nice perfume. I am addicted to perfume. I am still wearing the same fucking clothes I put on yesterday morning.
I am a very dirty girl.

God, I wish I could call for some decent take away. Im in the mood for Italian, but since this is a (so called former) 'Indian' area, there are no fucking decent restaurants around. We don't even have decent fucking Indian restaurants here, they are all in the 'former' 'White' areas. Though our vegetables here are cheaper than the White areas, but who the fuck want's to cook, and clean, and chop, and stand and waste my perfect languid evening. I dont have to watch cartoons, or a familly movie. I can concentrate a 100%, with out beeing disturbed by any one every two seconds.
There are take aways here, but they put fucking salad dressing on the pizza base! Imagine the blasphemy of putting thousand island sauce on a 'regina'. If not, their Pizza is like eating a pizza with pukka Indian tomato chuckney with lamb/veg/chicken or prawns...one can hardly get beef and never any damn pork. The variety of cheese is even fucking limited. It is bad quality cheddar, gauda, feta and motzerrella. The last of the above mentioned I strongly doubt has anything to do with the stuff which is soft and squishy, snow white, and in brine. Here, it is like a normal pale yellow cheese, no brine, no nothing. Complete fucking anti climax.

And of course the White areas do not deliver out here, as it is too far away. Did any one mention anything about pheriphery, center. Why does calling for a pizza have to be embroiled in fucking geo-politics of 'post' apartheid.

I am going to bath, then perv over Johnny Depp in 'Secret Window' before I spend my evening ranting. These oppertuneties are like little gems to me. I can walk around naked, eat chocolate mousse for dinner, or just read and lounge around...

RADICAL COMPLIMENT

2006-02-09T00:31:00.000-08:00

"radical. 1. of, relating to or characteristics of the basic or inherent constitution of a person or a thing; fundamental: a radical fault. 2. concerned with or tending to concentrate on fundamnetal aspects of a matter; searching or thoroughgoing: radical thought; a radical re-examination. 3. favouring or tending to produce extreme or fundamental changes in political, economic or social conditions, institutions, habits of mind, etc.: a radical party.4. of, relating to, or arising from the root or the base of the stem of a plant: radical leaves. 5. maths. of, relating to, or containing the roots of numbers or quantities. 6.linguistics. of or relating to the root of a word. 7. slang. terrific: used as a general term of appobration esp among skateboarders. 8. a person who favours extreme or fundamental change in existing institution, or in political, social or econimic conditions."..."11. linguistics. another word for root (sense) 12. (in logo-graphic writing systems such as that used for Chinese) a character conveying lexical meaning.[C14: from Late Latin radicalis having roots, from Latin radix a root] "

- COLLINS ENGLISH DICTIONARY

Thank You

2006-02-08T10:39:00.000-08:00

I have been feeling misrable today, and Akira is sick.
I have recieved news of a Danish paper 'Weekend Avisen' who want to publish my article this weekend. They also informed me that the cartoon was not intended for a childrens book, I have therefore removed that part of the article.

I have been recieving alot of mail surrounding the topic. Thanks to all who have been kind enough to respond.

Please excuse the grammer and mistakes. I did edit it, but it did not seem to go through...or I must have been just a slight bit tipsyer than I thought. Anyway Danish was my first written language. My English training at school was quite basic.
I am sure you still get what I am trying to say...well, I hope so.

To The Two Bitter Guys...

2006-02-06T23:45:00.000-08:00

I lived in Denmark for 16 years and I consider my self partially Danish.

If you can read and fully comprehend what I am saying, you would have understood by now that I am criticizing the far right wing government and (not the Danish people) but the complacency, and lethargy of the Danes.
No, the Danes are not a bunch of Neo-Nazi Neanderthal, there for I am questioning what and why this is happening in a country which had a note-worthy social democracy.
I am not stereotyping the Danes, but trying to make sense of how it has come to a situation of such severity, that people are being murdered, and which has already turned on the Danes. Remember that Denmark is a very small country, with a population of about five million people Durban has a population of five million people.

Secondly, did the Danes not consider the repercussions of their actions, as Islam is one of the major religions of this world and quite a force to be reckoned with. Especially with in the context of the 9/11; then the volatile situation of the U.S's fabrication claiming that Iraq have weapons of mass destruction and the present fully fledged war. In which the repercussions (in the U.S.A. and Western Europe) has resulted in that any person resembling a person of Middle Eastern classification is liable to be gunned down and prosecuted...and generally in that order. I can only assume that the people of the Middle East might be slightly agitated by now.

In relation to the be-heading incident...as far as I recall, it was the U.S.A. who invaded them, under the false pretense of protecting the citizens of America from weapons of mass destruction. If the infamous be-heading is anything to go by, then (even to me, with my very limited knowledge of weapons) their weapons seem rather archaic.
I mourn the loss of all the lives that have been taken, on all sides, but the 9/11 incident is something that the American government had coming for a very long time. It is a great tragedy that innocent civilians are the victims. Though this does not seem to perturb the American government at all. America and Europe can not carry on bullying the rest of the world, and then cry 'murder' when the prosecuted retaliate.

During the last year our Danish friends have themselves been writing and complaining bitterly of the injustice, intolerance and down right fascist decisions that are being made by the Danish government. The 'cartoon issue' is only a part of this series of events.

I appreciate your response, for I do believe in freedom of speech, but I do not condone hate speech. The cartoon image is one which desecrates Islam, and is there for discriminating, which even Denmark has a law against.
As an artist I completely agree with having the rights of 'freedom of expression', the difference between an artist and the media (i.e. journalist, reporters, editors etc) is that I have chosen a profession which is about expression, a highly subjective and personal expression, were as the media has the obligation to report an event as objectively as possible, with enough sensitivity (especially in terms of religious, cultural, race and gender issues) to allow every one to co-exist, without compromising the 'truth' of the events. This entails that one has to have a concrete knowledge of the discourse surrounding the issue. It is bad reporting/journalism which does not include the circumstancing evidence, and pulls things out of context.
In the manner of which you have chosen to write the response, somehow insinuates that
the be-heading happened out of the blue. Again I find it quite suspicious that we hardly read anything about the individuals killed by U.N. troops, unless the heading reads '78 DIES UNDER SEIZE FIRE BETWEEN IRAQI...'. Which allows the rest of the world to ignore that is people like ourselves that are being murdered, and thus we register it as a statistic.
It is problematic in every possible way, for their seems to be no sequential link between the pragmatics or the semiotics of this war. Though had it been four Danes who had been killed, including a nine year old boy, there would have been a world wide outcry. By now we would have been informed of their entire past, present and future.

Freedom is something which shoul be harnessed and protected, but what kind of 'freedom' craves the lives of our children? Whose freedom are we defending? It was not the young child's freedom; to live in a world were a child would be protected by those in authority, by the 'adults' who are supposed to have moral sensibility, and obligation to those who are weaker than ourselves. It is perverse that we are too busy playing killing games, games in which we bury our own children.

DENMARK'S XENOPHOBIC WITCH HUNT

2006-02-06T04:31:00.000-08:00

I am appalled and disgusted by the xenophobia and fascist attitudes in Denmark. Hate speech, and utter disrespect for other cultures are covered up in flimsy righteousness of 'freedom of speech'. I cannot recall who said something along the lines of '...Your freedom only extends to the next person's freedom...' What ever happened to acceptance and tolerance of our fellow humanbeing's? What kind of morals and ethics does the Danish government have? Further- more I am in shock at the public response I have found searching the Net. I see long documents of people who have been forced underground and some even killed by fanatic fundamentalist Muslims, but not in one instance does anyone mention the millions of people, and entire cultures, races and great civilizations which have been eradicated by Christianity, and Western 'civilization'. I find it amazing and sad that Mahathma Gandhi's response to British civilization is applicable to the entire West, and most exacerbating is that it still applies to our present. When asked what he thought of British civilization, he answered "I think it would be a good idea".

The fact that in recent history the people persecuted and killed by a certain section of fundamental believers in Islam is certainly not equivalent to all Muslims being murderers. Secondly, the victims killed by Islam seem to be able to be remembered as individuals, which made me think of Stalin's comment that 'when an individual is killed it is a tragedy, but when masses are murdered it becomes a mere statistic' -how ironic that the 'individuals' are always from Europe or America as in the 9/11 incident, in comparison to the thousands of Iraqi children, women and innocent citizens who were and are murdered as I sit and write these very words. How much longer will the West be able to get away with cold blooded murder and genocide?

I remember that as a child growing up in exile from South Africa in Denmark, they would sell Danish licorice named 'ZULU', depicting small caricatured 'negro' heads with bones through their noses; other concepts in this vein was 'Flodeboller' ( I believe it is equivalent to Sweety pies in South Africa) which was named 'Negro Kisses'. There are millions of these examples, which are perpetuated through racism and 'otherness'.

Images and terminology like in the graphics of the prophet Muhammad with a bomb in his turban are implicative of histories, imbued with lies to create stereotypes which justify exploitation under the guise of Eurocentric superiority and sadly, what we today know as the United Nations.

Depicting Mohammed with a bomb in his turban is synonymous with Islam being a religion which is harmful, and potentially dangerous to its followers. The naivete of the drawing is mocking and what is especially offensive to the Muslim community, is that Islam does not allow any depictions and idols of its prophets or of humanbeings.

What poisonous sarcasm is embedded into the sanctity of freedom of expression, when the West reacts with rash impudence when confronted with images of a Black Christ, or even 'worse', a Black female Christ, illiciting pure furor and the damnation of eternal hell upon all who are not part of the Western Canon.

Do not misunderstand me, when I speak of the people whose lives have been endangered and even taken away from them, by the Muslim fundamentalist, for I condemn any form of extremist dogma. My empathy goes out to the families and friend's who have suffered such immense loss. Beyond that I believe it is a great loss to humanity, that people should be persecuted due to critical thinking and who have the courage to question systems which they find riddled with hypocrisy and injustice... but what criticism is in a image depicting Mohammed with a bomb in his turban? Far worse is the point that the artist created these images for a children's book, brainwashing and indoctrinating young minds, perpetuating the constructed 'savage primitivism' of other cultures beyond the Western canon.

I am ashamed and deeply saddened by the sickening, blatant racism and the intolerance of a country which at one point held such promise for humanity and a democracy which protected it's people, rather than the present ostracization of the Islamic part of them. Denmark seems to be regressing to a time when witch hunts were common place and justified. This negation of Muslims seems to me to be the initial process of clearly marking "the enemy". I am reminded of another time in the 1930's and the 1940's when Hitler and his henchmen directed their mad hatred against the Jewish people. This is an appeal to ordinary, sensible Danes, not the rabid Danish Peoples Party and their ilk : it is not too late to stop this maddness. It will be sad to think that your tolerance of far right views of the DFP will have negated all that Denmark has done in the struggle against Apartheid and for democracy, albeit under a very different government than the naive one you have at present. You need to ask yourself, with the Danish debacle in Iraq and now the current stupidity, where is this far right government taking you? WIll there be new gas chambers in Europe; only this time the victime will not be Jewish? When the majority keeps silent in the face of attacks on one part of the people. it is time to be very afraid!

The compassionate Nelson Mandela has heaped praise upon the people of Denmark for their support against the long years of struggle against Apartheid, as my father has done as well. This time around, there is "something very rotten in the state of Denmark" and I dare say that it is vey sad that it has come to this very sad pass, because ordinary Danes have allowed it to happen. Have you thought of the full consequences of what will happen to ordinary Danes if you dare to travel outside your borders?

In the name of tolerance, understanding and democracy... you know what you have to do. Act now.

I took a break to see to my child, in the background news was on television. Im am insenced and infuriated! Four people have died as a consequense of Denmark's callousness, amongst them a nine year old boy. This is adressed to the Danish government and those who have assisted to create and publish such moral insensibility. Your 'freedom' of expression has caused the end of four peoples lives. You have got the blood of an innocent child on your hands!...all in the name of 'your' freedom...

BOYCOTT ALL DANISH PRODUCTS!!!

Simmi Dullay
Durban, South Africa
06 February 2006

LIFE CAN BE SO CRUEL

2006-01-16T12:38:00.000-08:00

Since last entry I have started a temporary office job, which I hate. I need the money, so I will stick at it. It is pretty sad as this is the last three weeks before I get into serious studying again. I want to complete my masters in fine art by the end of this year. So I lament that I cannot experiment making my concoctions of wicked brew (moonshine) on hot Durban evenings, taking my son swimming in the afternoons, exploring the south coast for rare treasures, writing letters, reading, and more reading, cooking, feasting...going out dancing midweek, drinking bottles of red wine, taking Akira on a harbor cruise, waking up at ten in the morning by him placing a flower on the pillow beside me, wearing our pajamas the whole day, talking to a friend on the phone for an hour, write poetry, sketch,daydream, make ice lollies.
I have to sit and fucking punch codes into a computer from eight in the morning, till after five.
Life can be so cruel.

2006-01-09T03:03:00.000-08:00

Moonstruck

2006-01-08T15:08:00.000-08:00

I have got insomnia...Though I have always been nocturnal. I was borne between November and December, exactly as the clock struck midnight. My mother had the choice of choosing which month my birthday should fall in. She chose the first of Dec. symbolic of the beginning. They say we are 'Djaevle yngel' demon children. Apart from entering this world in the witching hour, that night was storming, pouring rain, thunder and lightning...As Jean Racine wrote "It was during the horror of an intensely dark night". (Athalie,II.v.490) though it is generally my sisters birthday, which freezes the expression of mixed surprise and mild horror on most peoples faces. To us it is luck as that was the day she came into our lives. She was born on Friday the thirteenth. It is strange how superstition rules even in contemporary urban society...Never the less there has never been anything wrong with a bit of wickedness.
I have always been most alert at night, most creative, more at ease in the solace of the shadows. Now the only problem is I have not slept for three nights, and when daylight breaks, my son 'wakens, and I never get to rest. Through the entire day I am fatigued, though when twillight sets in, my body feels lighter, I want to play, to paint, to kiss, to write, dance, cook, listen to music, talk, drink, saturate my self in the night, and shimmer in the moons reflection...I guess I'm not a morning person. I can hear the crickets outside. When we returned from exile I could not sleep because of the noise. The rhythmic sound of the African night disturbed my dreams and disrupted my sleep, now I can't get use to the silence in Denmark. I have come to consider South Africa as my home, Though Denmark will also always be. It was where I lived my childhood, where the foundations and structures of my persona was molded. I miss it deeply. It is as if I am destined to live in inbetween spaces, of neither here nor there. Where shadows and memory distort and play tricks on your imagination. Even my name is connected to the night. Every ones name in my family means something, though nobody knew what mine meant. When I turned 18 I was at a fine art school in Denmark, where I met a Persian woman, who asked me if I was aware of that my name was Persian, and in her broken Danish she told me "It means the moon and the one like silver" I was obviously delighted. I am eternally thankful to her. Thank you, if you ever read this.
Well, that is also the reason for my login name "simmilunar" obviously playing on 'semilunar' -halfmoon cresent. Moonstruck and thirsty for...
It is time that I retire

Good Night!

2006-01-08T03:14:00.000-08:00

I just spoke to a close family friend from Canada, who had informed Sureka abaout the Tomato incident. She told informed me that it was 'Republican money shaving'...cutting down on kids school lunch. What ethics. I did'nt know crack smoking was allowed in the white house...

2006-01-08T01:49:00.000-08:00

I had the most interesting phone conversation with my sister (Sureka) this morning. She told me that America has declared tomato ketchup a vegetable!?!
She also informed me that the tomato is a fruit, and the reason why tomato sauce has been declared a veg, is so that it will make the burger (the American staple diet) nutritiously acceptable. There apparently has to be a certain amount of veg in a meal to get it passed as 'healthy' on some board, so instead of adding more veg the Americans declare by law that ketchup is now a vegetable...

inferno

2006-01-07T12:49:00.000-08:00

Wow. Communication changes its context when it becomes virtual. I feel it is a bit like voyerism, a mental peepshow. Here I am silently comunicating with the unknown. Today my baby got sick with fever, I felt fear right inside the marrow of my bones. It was not a high fever, but somehow it burnt a hollow place in my soul, filled it with potential of emptiness and loss. Sometimes life is so elusive, fragile and downright painful. I hate seeing him in pain. He is sleeping on the bed right here. When we said goodnight, I told him how he had changed my life, and made it so special, he flashed a sleepy smile at me snuggled up a bit closer and said 'but mummy, I am just here, I did not do anything', then he matter of factly turned around and said 'now I want to sleep'...and dozed off. Leaving me breathless and violently in turmoil with the intensity of a love so deep that it is nearly impossible to contain. Leaving me feeling anxious, and scared of not being able to protect him. Why does love always come with a pricetag. It is so unjust that the deeper one loves, the more it hurts... His fever has subsided...
I am still in inferno.

To you Akira

"The chambers of the mansion of my heart,
In every one whereof thine image dwells,
Are black with grief eternal for thy sake"
- James Thomas