Again Forever

Everything’s looking good

Like you were hoping it would

The mood is set but you need to get

Another drink just in case

Tipsy and ticking with your blood shot nose

Having two of that and one of those

Spending your time having all this fun

Underwear is stuck right up in your bum

But you sit there and lounge about

With a smile on your face and a sensual pout

And you’re trying to take stock

Figuring out the odds of getting fucked

And while you think you have another drink

And the idiot smile gets worse

Like your brain’s in reverse

And when you talk you realise

That you’re losing the plot

Faster than a soap opera story line

So you turn and look in the mirror behind the bar

And even though it is quite far

You think you see a piece of snot

Sticking out on a nostril hair

And you were wishing you had a place where

You could stick your head

But instead you have another drink

And your capacity to think

Takes another blow

When your ex girlfriend walks in looking good

And you realise that you should

Have been someone else’s problem

All along, all alone on your own

And you thought it was because of them

You believed you were such a gem

A treasure to find in an ugly place

But the shit in your head still defines that space

And all you ever were and all you are

And everything that you will be

Will amount to nothing more than another round

Just one more drink because no-one else is around

After you bored them to death

And forced them to endure your breath

You are still surprised that you’re alone

Again forever, if only you had never

Pickled your liver or fried your brain

You still believe you have nothing to gain

By being more of you and less of that

Which you claim to despise

As you lower your eyes and your head

Trying to deal with the dread

And hopeless gloom and doom

That is you staff and your light

As you venture forth each night.

The Colleague

You so often speak about the person you are

About your opinions and views and your take

On life and love and believing in your God

Who is gracious and giving and honest and living.

I sometimes wonder if you realize

That’s it’s you whom you actually despise

With your in-substance and constant lies

And that phoney holier-than-thou disguise.

How can you speak of self respect

How easy it is for you to forget

Do you really believe that none can see

Do you really believe that you’re fooling me?

To live a good life rests in the things you do

Not incessant chatter that’s seldom true

Judging others while you glorify yourself

Never considering your mental health.

Take off the ridiculous uniform and lay down your badge

Bring your thoughts back from the edge

Realize that you can change if you want

Because no-one deserves to be such a cunt.

Bit a this, bit a that...

So, you thought that you’d come out tonight

Finally built up the courage after the last fright

Day and night, hanging in there

Hoping everything will turn out alright.

Rest assured and enjoy the peace of mind

If you look around you will find

A bunch of happy lunatics having a drink

Sharing the shit they think

With anyone who will listen for long enough

These Friday nights can get rough

But never at the Sauce of course.

This is a conducive space

Nothings particularly in your face

Settle down relax, take off your shoes and socks

Welcome to the alumni of hard knocks

We’ve all been around a few blocks

Did our time drank the wine

At the end of the ceremony

When everyone clapped

And stood showing their teeth

Shining in the afterglow of a spotlight

That was not theirs on the night

And would never be for far too many

As they get caught up and trod down

And shoved around until they bend

And break and finally succumb

Or simply pick up a gun one day

And kill the wife and the only child

And in a moment with thoughts running wild

They change their minds but it is too late

And the neighbour rushing in at the gate

Hears another shot that marks the fate

Of the guy who sat in the corner

Always alone and on his own

Smiling and polite every night

For a thousand weeks

As he seeks a pleasant escape

In the embrace of the grape.

Reserved

Yesterday I came home.
After journeying slowly -
I arrived without a bang,
A travel weary mother’s son alone.

In search of so many memories –
Desperate to regain the scattered remains,
Hungry for a visual reintegration with my roots;
Here where the dust of my ancestors’ bones lie.

I knocked at the door,
But no-one appeared.
I knocked again
Then a bouncer came.

False smiles and epaulettes,
I had to pay a tourists’ fee
To set foot or lay a wary eye
On my natural heritage where these strangers reign.

All of the breathtaking splendor
That they travel so far to see
Is mine, but no longer belongs to me
All of this that God bequeathed to me.

I am the son of the native
Slave and masters’ mistress
Whore to my brothers’ sisters
A slave still, to all that I feel.

But still I paid, I went and saw
No-one remembers anymore:
The rock beneath my soles
Didn’t even touch my feet.

Yesterday I came home,
And today I paid a cover-charge
To look upon what God bequeathed to me
All of this that was mine, but no longer belongs to me.
(Cape point. – November 2003)

Starlight, star bright



For anyone seeking the glitz and glamour of a five-star holiday destination, I can only sympathize with your limited horizons.


I recently arrived in Nieu Bethesda for an extended sabbatical. I was traveling from Cape Town and with each passing kilometer the angst and stresses of urban living were gradually shed and replaced with the anticipation of settling into a new space and the excitement of starting work on my debut novel.

Between the N9 and my destination I pass through Rubidge Kloof and at the apex as the road bends I look down to my left into a lush valley where the farm De Toren lies nestled in the embrace of the surrounding mountains and an spontaneous smile spreads from my face into my soul.

I arrive on a mild autumn morning and even though it is a Friday, the streets are virtually deserted except for a couple of dogs who accompany me to The Karoo Lamb Restaurant where I meet my hosts Ian and Katrin Allemann who are also the owners of Spooky and Gump – who incidentally is appearing in court on Youth Day. They have been settled here in this sleepy little Groot Karoo dorpie for close to thirteen years. We sit on the spacious veranda of The Karoo Lamb – with a menu that includes regular specials of lamb, oxtail or venison potjie in addition to the usual fried Karoo Lamb chops, sandwiches and soups; situated diagonally across from the now famous Owl House – sipping coffee and getting to know each other before I am shown to the Aardvark’s Burrow, a spacious flatlet behind the old church hall where I will be staying for the next six months.
After a steaming shower I walk down the untarred roads of the village, lined with ancient pear trees, willows and variations of cypresses and pines that whisper a welcome as I wander contentedly with the constant accompaniment of rushing water in the Lei Water or water furrows that were built in the 1870’s and in the distance a deeper, more ominous roar of the Gats River which flows strongly after the recent rains.

The locals smile openly and greet with a willingness to stop for a welcoming chat; young men on their way to the local general dealer pass by on horseback with a wave, listening to the tinny music playing on their cell phones; and always in the background, rising majestically above everything else is the snow-capped Compasberg.
That evening at Die RamStal – literally an old ram stable that has been converted into the new pub – there is a bring-and-braai with a few of the local young and old farmers, mingling with some of the resident artists and craftsmen. Naturally everyone is curious about who I am and why I am here and while some approach me and chat, others just eye me surreptitiously until they are a bit more inebriated. Soon the smell of meat on an open fire fills the air and pots of stywepap and sous are added to the equation, making me salivate ravenously while trying my best to stay focused on the conversation I am having with a fellow writer who is also a co-owner of the local book store. The Karoo lamb chops with locally made wors is a carnivore’s dream and after eating my fill, the conversation continues for a while until eventually it is time to call it a night. As I leave the cozy pub I feel the chill breeze blowing down from the mountain and as soon as I leave the comforting glow of light, I stumble along in the pitch dark until I have to stop to regain my bearings and I happen to look up. The momentary panic – a remnant of the receding urban fear – is replaced by a lingering awe at the celestial splendor visible in all of its glory and as I continue on my way I smile once again with the sound of the rushing river and birdsong accompanying my footsteps: and a lone dog, barking in the distance.
The following morning I awake early and am accompanied on my walk by Spooky and Gump who gambol along playfully, oblivious of the frost covered ground. They take me on a guided tour of their favourite haunts over the footbridge and across the river, past the old mill and the Brewery, beyond the verdant fields and farms with doleful sheep watching the dogs warily and eventually back to the Karoo Lamb where the inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee and frying bacon reminds me that I have to watch my weight here in the Groot Karoo. Just after nine I visit the Owl House and am completely mesmerized by the sad and lonely beauty of Helen Martin’s expression which was – as is so often the case with great artists – frowned upon in her lifetime but which has now become the lifeblood of this idyllic little Groot Karoo village which has successfully resisted the deceptive allure of what most would consider progress.

I need time to assimilate the experience and opt out of the fossil tour and the visit to the bookstore, choosing instead to sit quietly on my own along the river beneath the trees and ponder the enormity of such dedication. Besides I have time enough to visit all of the interesting places: the bushmen’s paintings at Ganora Guest farm owned by Jan-Peet and Hester Steynberg; the gallery at The Village Inn where they also have a sumptuous breakfast and lunch menu; the award winning sculptor Frans Boekkooi’s working studio; the Kitching Fossil Center where visitors are taken on a guided tour along the river; The Brewery and Two Goats Deli where Andre Cilliers brews a superior Sneeuberg beer and makes his own goat’s milk cheeses; and of course Dustcovers, co-owned by Victoria Nance who with her quirkish smile confesses that she is a seller of rare and collectible books and damn fine reads!

Nieu Bethesda has no Bank or ATM, no streetlights, only the one tarred road which ends four kilometers from town, and no petrol station; it has no neon lights and frills and certainly very little night life – in the conventional sense of the word – just a sky filled with stars and an abundance of old-world character and I for one feel blessed everyday that I awake in this pristine little corner of our beautiful country.

MORE THAN LINGERING

You do more than just linger

The remembering is so much more

So much more than a mere memory

As this page is transformed into your skin

Being touched by my finger.

The taste of the wine

Each time we sat together

Close, caressing, talking

Drinking in each others’ souls

I always knew you were mine.

I gave myself to you

Even when the giving seemed a contradiction

When it looked like a lie

I shared all of me

And the sharing and giving was true.

Now I can dream again,

I can long and lust

And love again

Dream of making love to you again

And the new day will never be the same.

Filled with yearning for you

Thinking back and hoping and wishing

Remembering the past

Embracing our future

Stilled by this love for you.

Always with this love

This love that has always been yours

When I close my eyes

Each time I see a shooting star

Always for this love.

Bang-Bang

Bang-bang

Banging at the door

In the dead of night

The dark illuminates your fright

As I'm pulled from your bed

Dragged across the floor.

Bang-bang

Banging inside your head

Festering wounds inflicted by structural violence

But the pain illuminates your silence

As you escape into ignorance

Safe in the sewer with the rest of the dead.

Bang-bang

Bullets rip through flesh

Blood stains the road

Bomb blast craters disfigure the landscape

As we turn our attention elsewhere

Crippled and blinded by fear.

Bang-bang

Blatant lies disguise the face of decay

That feeds on complacency

And breeds on greed and callousness

As we bend down and pray

Broken beings lapping up all the shit that we're fed.

Bang-bang

Buildings burn and towers crumble

While our kin continue to die everyday

And not just from guns but from a lack of water

As progress wears another mask

Bowed and bent we play our complicit parts.

Bang-bang

Ons liewe in dread

Gebuig en gedruig tot die mens verdwyn

En al wat oorbly is net vlees en been

As our faces contort around capped smiles

Grimacing as we look but fail to conceive.

Bang-bang

We go through life like phantom players

Trying so hard to ignore the facts:

We need to change these systems that keep us at war

As we hustle and strive just to survive

Brow beaten and bowed, chattering too loud.

Bang-bang

There's no more excuses

All of the rhetoric and skirting are useless

Sharpen the pencils and brushes and chords

As we try to dissect and express what we see

Within this tragedy, of impotent revolution.

THE TOURISTS

Such lush hues of green

Tinged with shades of autumn

Yellows becoming brown

Eventually falling down

To mingle with the soil and dust

And finally to be reduced to mulch.

The afternoon breeze

Carries a hint of moisture

The sharp edges slightly muted

Low gray clouds filter the harsh rays

Bringing forth cameras to capture

This most magnificent of days.

These kind, silly people so terminally removed

Gaping and gawking at all that they see

Yet missing so much in their ravenous glee

Chittering and chattering, creating so much noise

Talking about nothings from so far away

And missing the heart of silence.

Going through life on a one-night stopover

At the banquet of plenty, eating leftovers.

WEEKEND POST REVIEW! 28 June 2008

‘Waiting‘ lingers on in your mind.

WAITING, featuring Peter Mashigo. 

Written by Michael Wentworth 

and directed by Itumeleng Motsikoe

with music by Hilton Schilder. 

Reviewed by Brett Adkins.

WORK that revolves around self-

scrutiny is nothing new at the 

festival and, given the South 

African condition, at times there 

seems to be a plethora of it.

Festinos often have to wade 

through a stodgy marsh of material 

before stumbling across something 

that has an eye and ear-pleasing 

edge, that immediately captures 

the imagination and that doesn‘t 

sink into the depths of cliche 

within the first few minutes.

Michael Wentworth‘s script is 

certainly not entirely devoid of 

the formula, and there is a degree 

of predictability that pervades it, 

but the winning trick of this 

production is that it is extremely 

well-written.

While there is always evidence of 

an abundance of talent on both the 

main and fringe programmes at the 

fest – across all disciplines – 

the scripts are often all too 

pedestrian, with just glimmers of 

potential.

But here there is a solid one- man 

play which, invested in the hands 

of a performer like Peter Mashigo, 

makes a powerful impact while at 

the same time being gently enter-

taining.

Good writing demands a great artist 

to give it life, and Mashigo – a 

commanding stage presence in a big, 

essentially bare performing area – 

does not let the rich monologue go 

wanting.

This is a play about a solitary life 

– solitary in all senses of the word 

– and the always present undercurrent 

of simply waiting.

Waiting for things to get better, 

waiting for the right person to 

step into your life, waiting for 

that life-changing opportunity –  

or, as Mashigo‘s character, Jimmy 

Goeieboom, puts it: “Waiting for 

the show to begin.

As he recounts and takes stock of 

his life, Jimmy not only plays 

himself, but takes on the persona 

of all those who have come into, 

and left, his rocky road existence.

Indeed, the scene in which he 

plays out the meeting of the 

people who actually created his 

life, his young, head-in-the-

clouds 

parents, is one of tenderness 

juxtaposed with shrewd, witty 

observations about love, lust 

and courting. Jimmy‘s birth has 

striking imagery – all the more 

so, because it is portrayed with 

just a single but remarkably 

effective prop.

That sets the stage for the 

telling of the beginnings and 

the rest of Jimmy‘s turbulent 

life and Mashigo paints a vivid, 

colourful landscape across a 

stage furnished with just a 

solitary white bench and a set 

design of white backing screens, 

which allows for the economic use 

of light projections to create a 

particular environment.

But all eyes are on Jimmy. And 

that‘s what gives this work that 

elusive edge. Despite its lone 

figure on stage with nothing more 

than the simple clothes he wears, 

it is extremely visual and the 

story of how a human being is 

forced to come to a realisation 

of self through both painful and 

joyous analysis, is one few will 

not be able to identify with.

Instrumentalist Hilton Schilder 

provides dramatic sound backing 

that cleverly punctuates the 

piece and, because it is done so 

sparingly, has double the effect. 

The set and lighting design 

are also understatements which 

serve to isolate and enhance the 

essence of Mashigo‘s performance.

Waiting is a play which will 

linger on in your mind much 

later as you reflect on its 

pockets of magic, laughter and 

tension – and, if you do, 

Mashigo, Wentworth and director 

Itumeleng Motsikoe will have 

achieved what they set out to do.

Our Own Time

The deep dark soil

Gradually turns to mud;

A gentle insistent patter

Right inside the cloud;

Dappled autumn hues

Of bark and leaves

Shades of browns

And intense fading greens;

And the mist-shrouded wood-smoke

Wafting lazily without a breeze;

A solitary bird whistles

As a lone car hisses by –

Magical, mystical,

Pleasingly mysterious:

It is. Quietly on its own

Existing as if in a dream;

Yet this is no dreamland.

I am here, I hear, I smell

I taste and see

This cold brown log upon which I write

These thoughts of you

Wishing that we

Could have shared this moment:

Close, speaking softly touching

Making love to you;

Here in this morning

Where we both can dream

Inside the comfort of this cloud,

Lost, together in our own time.

Wasted - Installation Art Performance

INTRODUCTION

(THE AUDIENCE IS IN TOTAL DARKNESS AND THERE IS A SLIGHT SEEPAGE FROM OUTSIDE THAT FILTERS IN AND SLIGHTLY ILLUMINATES THE SET {***OR A DULL GREEN ‘PILOT LIGHT’ ON THE TOP OF THE MAST***}. AMOS ENTERS PUSHING A BICYCLE WITH A PRAM/TROLLEY AS A TRAILER.)

AMOS                         : (MUMBLING TO HIMSELF AS HE SHUFFLES IN WITHOUT ACKNOWLEDGING THE AUDIENCE. HE IS DRESSED IN COPIOUS LAYERS OF CLOTHING. HE TAKES HIS TIME UNTYING THE TRAILER) Consciousness, context, content, contempt … conscience! What a waste? Just words without form, but with a definite function! Consciousness, context, content, contempt, conscience… All conveying nothing of substance to the unconscious! Such fools; such idiots! But I must talk last because I am the biggest fool of all; I am the original idiot! Sweet words and passion and noble ideals – enough to enlist my bleeding heart in this hair-brained scheme! (HE POSITIONS THE TRAILER SPECIFICALLY) Such irony; raising consciousness about waste and at the end of the day, all of the effort will more than likely be wasted! Why would anyone care? Its just waste after all: rubbish, dirt, refuse! I should have refused. (HE CHUCKLES TO HIMSELF) Fucking fartists! Trying to make a statement: turning all this kak into art! If this is art then art is kak! (HE HANGS THE BIKE IN POSITION AND A LIGHT GOES ON AND A FAN BEGINS TO OSCILLATE. AS HE TURNS, TO THE AUDIENCE) Good evening and welcome to this wasted journey…

FIRST MOVEMENT

(HE PLACES A REVOLVING MULTI-COLOURED SHADE WITH PATTERNS IN FRONT OF THE LIGHT AS HE SPEAKS THROUGH A LOUD HAILER WHICH IS ON THE VERY FRONT OF THE WASTE-SHIP) I’ve been told that we all have a purpose in this life: (MOVES AWAY FROM THE LOUD HAILER) I even used to believe them once. Long ago when I still had dreams… (HE MOVES TO THE HANGER-RAIL AND BEGINS TO PEEL OFF LAYERS OF CLOTHING SLOWLY AS HE ADDRESSES THE AUDIENCE ABSENT-MINDEDLY) Back when I still harboured – no, suffered – the illusion of individual worth: the delusion of individual value, determined by a denigrating paymaster. (HE GOES BACK TO THE LOUD HAILER) Count your blessings: count them none by none! (HE RESUMES UNDRESSING) So many worthless lives, so much wasted life without living. Well at any rate, I’ve certainly wasted my too much of my life by not living enough. Wasting away unconsciously, year by monotonous year: surviving to consume and consuming much more than I needed to survive. Consumed and wasted. Detritus and callous excess: the vulgar, unthinking, gluttonous aspirations! The posing and posturing and polishing of a fabricated image reminiscent of a naked fairytale king because no matter how you choose to look at it, the fabric of this reality is far from fine. (HE SCRATCHES HIS ARM PIT AND STARES QUIZZICALLY OUT AT THE AUDIENCE) A fabricated reality: impotent messages from the grave that serve as nothing more than aborted reminders of a time when maybe you cared about more than just your own little merry-go-round of self delusion and obstinate denial – and you know what they say about people who live in denial? They are die naaiers. Comatose convenience, maintained by suppressing the desire to act with conviction because we have to fit in; we have to fit into the scheme of things – constantly consumed! Consumed by our own air-brushed image of ourselves – gracing the glossy cover of our personal copy of life’s magazine – consuming the deception of everything that we should want to be; everything we have been conditioned to desire. The inane aspirations, mindlessly striving to acquire and accumulate and ultimately … (GLARES AT THE AUDIENCE) We discard even the pretence of our humanity. (HE IS FINALLY DONE UNDRESSING AND THERE IS A HEAP OF CLOTHES ON THE FLOOR. HE IS WEARING A ‘SOLID WASTE’ NEON VEST AND A DIAPER. HE GOES TO THE LOUD HAILER) You man! You woman! Human! All of you that comprises this diseased and decaying humanity! Where are you? (HE BEGINS TO PICK UP THE CLOTHING AND PLACES IT ON A HANGAR) So much possibility wasted. Such a waste! Wasting away through greed and entitlement and privilege and the, oh so wilful ignorance. This human beast that produces unfathomable masses of waste every day, polluting the planet – obstinately continuing to milk the slaughtered cow of avarice even as it lingers at death’s door! All because (GOES TO THE LOUD HAILER) The lord is your shepherd and you shall want! More and more and more! Until you are senseless again and there is no more to be had even though you will continue to crave – gluttonously, ravenously, ravaging the earth and desecrating our only heritage. Defiling the life without living until slowly existence expires exhausted. (HE STRIKES A GONG AND THE LIGHT EXPIRES) Inevitably we will all expire… Wasting life by not living!

SECOND MOVEMENT

(HE STANDS BEHIND THE WASTE-SHIP, OBSCURED AND LOOKING THROUGH THE CAMERA AT THE AUDIENCE.)

AMOS                         : Long, long ago I journeyed back through the stars; I travelled back inside my head once long ago. Just once I saw that place – just once I found a space free of waste and excess. Once long ago I journeyed back into a time before we became what we are… And I did love us then. (HE BEGINS TO MOVE SLOWLY FROM BEHIND THE WASTE-SHIP STILL FILMING THE AUDIENCE. HE SITS DOWN BY THE PRAM) Now I’ve been given the dubious honour of being the captain of the waste-ship of enterprise. I’ve been afforded the opportunity of undertaking the most important journey of our lives – back just once again to that place where we once loved us. A time and a place before we became this festering affliction that is now our humanity – this disease called us. A time when we revered the omnipotent matriarch; a time before we began to believe that it was okay to rape our mother. Nature embraced us then as we embraced her: she loved us so much that that she shared some of her most cherished secrets with us. Not realizing that the beauty in our hearts was a mere reflection without substance. (HE STOPS FILMING) And then with the knowledge of her sacred secrets we set about destroying the very thing that we once claimed to worship: instead of creating more beauty, we set about constructing ugly towers of vanity and fear as a testament to the destruction that fuelled our treacherous thoughts! (BEATS THE GONG) We created only destruction and began to build a monument of waste! (BEATS THE GONG) An ugly, reeking, disease ridden sculptural testament… (BEATS GONG) To… (DOES A DRUM ROLL ON THE GONG AND GOES TO THE LOUD-HAILER) Progress! (CHEERS) That’s what they say anyway. (HE PICKS UP THE CAMERA AND BEGINS TO FILM THE AUDIENCE) Wasting space, wasted time: a monstrous edifice of ignorance and greed – because the volume of your waste is directly proportionate to how much you have achieved – directly proportionate to your success. (HE STOPS FILMING AND SMILES) And now finally – for me and others like me at least – the tables are turned because our success is based on the fact that we have not achieved much! (BEATS GONG AND CHEERS THROUGH LOUD-HAILER. THE LIGHTING CHANGES)

THIRD MOVEMENT

                                    (HE IS SEATED NEXT TO THE PRAM AND TAKES OUT A MODEL OF A HOUSE AND CONTINUES TO TAKE OBJECTS FROM THE PRAM THROUGHOUT THE SPEECH)

AMOS                         : Everyday including Sunday, we each generate an average of two kilograms of solid waste. Obviously, there are some who create next to nothing because they have next to nothing, but then there are those who create much more because, quite frankly, they have much more. The richest twenty percent of the world’s population consumes eighty-sic percent of global resources while the poorest twenty percent consumes a meagre one point three percent of resources. So don’t be fooled by the averages which collectively still amounts to sixty thousand tons of solid waste that reaches our landfills everyday! Sixty thousand tons and change everyday until 2012 when our current landfills will reach critical capacity. And then what? Just move all the shit to some other site and begin all over again until 2025 when that site will reach critical capacity? And please don’t sit there thinking that you are not a part of the problem because you are recycling and you are brand conscious – always looking for organic this and organic that! At twice the price! And still, even if we reach one-hundred percent post consumer recycling in this country, we will only have managed a pitiful two percent of the total waste generated. And even then, we would not have addressed the inefficiency or toxicity of products and processes. Keep in mind that for every bin of refuse that you generate, industry generated seventy bins: so that you could get your products packaged so conveniently. Two point eight million tons of waste every year! Imagine, thirty-five soccer fields full of rubbish – knee deep! Thirty five soccer fields full: I can’t help but wonder, where will the children play?

THE MOVEMENT ENDS AS HE TAKES OFF HIS OWN DIAPER) Life supporting resources are increasingly decreasing! While the demand for the decreasing resources, is increasing! Where will it end? We are faced with natural and unnatural ecological degradation; resource over-consumption and ultimate depletion and the flagrant abuse of land and water; overpopulation, industrialization and monopolization! When will this abomination end? (THE LIGHTS FADE OUT)

FOURTH MOVEMENT

                                    (HE IS LYING ON THE BENCH WITH SHADES ON AND A BRIGHT LIGHT SHINING ON HIM) I choose to live… with the burden of truth burning hot in my soul – a vague notion blazing bright just beyond the horizon. Whether it is indeed the dawning of a new day or the waning of the last one is as yet unclear; but we do live in hope though – I do. I have to live in hope… (SCRATCH – TAP) Sometimes it seems as if all we have left is hope… (SCRATCH – TAP) I wonder if it is maybe too late even for such indulgences? Has the time for hope passed? (SCRATCH – TAP) Is this hope just a placebo for a mankind that is running scared? Lost and floundering without any real direction… (SCRATCH – TAP) Just blind faith perhaps: or just another waste? Just another wasted desire desperate to find form – to gain substance… (SCRATCH – TAP) I have to believe. I must hope. (SCRATCH – TAP) I do hope… I hope. (SCRATCH – TAP. BLACK OUT) Not again in vain; never again in vain. We have suffered enough; we have inflicted enough; we have destroyed enough; we have construed enough; and fought and maimed and schemed enough. We’ve coveted and plotted and planned enough. You’ve killed enough of me and I’ve raped enough of you. We’ve been blind and callous and heartless and uncaring – enough! We’ve wasted enough – we’ve wasted so much more than enough… (SCRATCH – TAP X 4. LIGHTS UP) Such a pity that enough words will not change the reality; enough words will not reverse the probability; enough words have still not exposed the hypocrisy; enough words cannot span the chasm between you and me! (HE STANDS AND CASUALLY TAKES A GOWN AND PUTS IT ON BUT DOES NOT TIE IT AS HE FACES THE AUDIENCE DEFIANTLY) Enough exposure will not change who you choose to be. (HE TIES THE GOWN AND SMILES KNOWINGLY. HE TURNS HIS BACK TO THE AUDIENCE. SCRATCH – TAP. HE SMILES AT THE AUDIENCE OVER HIS SHOULDER WITH A BUNCH OF PLASTIC FLOWERS IN HIS HAND AND WHILE HE SPEAKS HE DROPS THE FLOWERS ONE BY ONE) Now I’ve become a part of you. I have sacrificed my living to exist inside your head. Maybe if I’m there I’ll be able to affect the way you think – maybe I can infect your thinking. Maybe I’ll be able to alter your being; maybe you’ll start accepting that you can make a difference; maybe you’ll start seeing and hearing and tasting and smelling and touching and feeling as if you are a part of this beautiful creation. (SCRATCH – TAP. HE TURNS TO FACE THE AUDIENCE AND DROPS THE LAST OF THE FLOWERS. – SARCASTICALLY) And maybe this waste-ship will take off; maybe humanity will survive indefinitely; maybe the planet will once again thrive… Without us? (SCRATCH – TAP X 5. HE MOVES TO THE LOUD-HAILER) And hope is revealed! Reduced to a fucking maybe! (SCRATCH – TAP) Crazy… Maybe… (LIGHTS OUT)

FIFTH MOVEMENT

(HE SITS DOWN ON THE TOILET AND PREPARES TO PAINT A PICTURE) Sensory suicide; stunted expression; stifled perception; miscommunication; misunderstood again. Language is inadequate! (HE DIPS THE BRUSH AND MAKES A FIRST STROKE) Can you hear the silent scream of frustrated suffering that suffuses the seemingly still dusk? (HE IS SILENT AS HE PAINTS) An expectant pause that awaits substantial expression… (HE STOPS PAINTING AND FACES THE AUDIENCE) Or did you come to be entertained? (HE RESUMES PAINTING) If the void that exists between my command of the language and your understanding can only be bridged by communicating through my artistic creation, then why do you deprive your soul by experiencing my expression from within the haze of your preconception? (HE STOPS PAINTING) Your pre-deception! (HE RESUMES PAINTING) They say that art sustains the soul of humanity. … In my experience that may or may not be true. In my experience… (HE STOPS AND HITS THE SINGLE STRING WITH THE BRUSH – TWANG!) My life’s experience is the memory of my living! (TWANG) The assimilation; the assumption that what we do and what we have done defines what we will do! (TWANG. HE PUTS A FINAL STROKE TO THE PAINTING AND THEN MOVES & TURNS THE FRAME TO FACE THE AUDIENCE) My art defines my humanity… (HE BEGINS TO PAINT HIS FACE) My art is my sole true expression. (TWANG, SCRATCH – TAP. HE SMILES LECHEROUSLY) With no offence intended, I do not art for you! (HE PAINTS HIDEOUS, RED LIPS AROUND HIS MOUTH) I live this life as a testament to what I know as truth. (HE STANDS) And if in the process I manage to insinuate a statement that makes you wake-up or grow-up or throw-up, it is but a consequence. (HE LOOKS DOWN AT THE BRUSH AND PLUCKS THE STRING VIOLENTLY BEFORE TYING THE GOWN AND COMPOSING HIMSELF BEFORE SITTING AND PAINTING A MOUTH ON HIS FOREHEAD) My art, my life… My expression, my living… My love, my sustenance… My passion, my weakness. (TWANG! SCRATCH – TAP, TWANG!) My art… I art… Thine art… (TWANG – BLACK OUT. PROJECTION ONTO SET AS HE ADDRESSES AUDIENCE) Tomorrow is already too late, all we have is this last day, this single moment in which to make a decision. Life or death; politics or truth; money or creation and if then there remains any doubt, then surely we are all damned for who of us are truly individual and separate from the whole? (HE SITS DOWN ON THE TOILET) What is humanity if not you? And beyond the confines of today beckoning like the return of passion within our souls we will find the essence of beauty. Once again reunited with our art! The novel embraced by a smile; a gesture profoundest poetry; the dawn and all of its light the canvas. How I long for a time when our lives become infused with true knowledge and wisdom when our every movement and expression becomes a humble, unassuming work of art. (HE TAKES THE PAINTING AND WIPES HIS ARSE BEFORE STANDING AND DUMPING THE PAPER IN A DRUM. HE THEN WASHES HIS FACE FROM THE WATER IN THE TOILET BOWL) Art to feed the soul: not for profit or patronage or exclusivity and not in a marketable formula designed for mass production. (HE SIGHS DRAMATICALLY AND WIPES HIS BROW BEFORE STARTING THE AUTOMATIC PAINTING MACHINE) I art… Just like that!

SIXTH MOVEMENT

AMOS                         : (LOOKING AT THE PAGES LYING ON THE GROUND WITH A REGRETFUL SADNESS) My kinders… (HE SITS DEJECTEDLY IN SILENCE WITH HIS HEAD BOWED AND BEGINS TO SPEAK) Hulle sit op die pavement, wegegooi op ‘n hoop soos ‘n klompie kak wat almal miskyk. Hulle sien net julle voete waarvan hulle koppe is gesak, blink skoentjies (GESTURES WITH HIS HAND IN FRONT OF HIS FACE) Hier verby langs hulle gevreete. Die varke is nogal nie vol nie, hulle gedagtes is vrot – want hoekom van daar onder kyk die kinders tot binne-in julle kop. Julle check nogal hulle is die las, maar kantie, julle varke is almal djas! (HE SELECTS CLOTHING FROM THE HANGAR AND ARRANGES IT CAREFULLY) Such ignorantly arrogant antagonists… So very arrogantly ignorant! Grimacing idiotically while we squeeze the last drop from the beast with one hand and fell forests and pollute the air and the water with the other! (HE BEGINS TO GET DRESSED IN A CLEAN BUSINESS SUIT) Where will we find beauty again you may well ask from within the gloomy abyss of circumstance but hear me when I say that all of the answers and solutions begin with you. You man, you woman; you my brothers and sisters: human! Owner of today – creator of tomorrow and your own destiny! Contributor, conspirator or conniver: or maybe an undecided, potential collaborator? Where do you stand? When do you think we will fall? (HE FINISHES GETTING DRESSED WHILE HUMMING AND WHISTLING TO HIMSELF)

SEVENTH MOVEMENT

AMOS                         : Do not despair though because despite the odds, hope does remain – it does exist. The time has come to stop being reactive and to start being creative. We need to adopt a new way of thinking so that we can create a paradigm shift; we need to develop new policies and technologies; we need to establish a new way to manage our resources and we need to collaborate towards making the change work. but most importantly, we have to minimize the amount of solid waste we generate by reducing the amount of material used and therefore the amount of resultant waste. We have to take responsibility to develop functioning closed loop systems for technical nutrients produced and used. Zero waste means designing and managing products and processes to systematically reduce the volume and toxicity of waste and materials, to conserve and recover all resources and not to burn then. Zero waste is a goal that is both pragmatic and visionary and it guides people to emulate sustainable natural cycles where all discarded materials are resources for others to use. It is a way of thinking that will profoundly change our approach to resources and production thus leading to a revolutionizing of corporate culture. There are countless examples of how we can all make a difference, but we have to want to alter this blissfully ignorant state in which we occur most of the time. We have to want to find out what to do to make this change: to alter our destiny. Remember to read, reduce and recycle so that we can redress our reality.

ONCE

Now I dance alone into the cold, dark night

The angels have departed along with the friends

I strum a guitar without any strings

But the song is silenced by my weeping.

I stumble along into the starless night

Taunted by regrets and beautiful memories

Which I hold tight lest I forget

That once the dark night was illuminated by laughter.

I fall to my knees unable to find the path

And I remain down with hands splayed

Begging forgiveness in the dark and dust

I cry but only I hear the desolation.

I remember your smiling face

I remember holding you close and letting go

I remember the pain and what I felt

So vivid even though it is no more.

I wonder and ask of the night

To grant me one more chance to believe

That what we shared was more than just a memory

That in that love was the promise of another day.