Wednesday, 16 October 2013

All Dressed Up and Nowhere to Take a Selfie

Dalk vind jy dat jy jouself te veel vergelyk met ander mense. Miskien is jy vasgevang in iemand anders se Facebook Timeline, foto's van vakansies, partytjies, vriende en status updates oor verlore liefde, maar nuutgevonde wysheid. Miskien eindig jou horison binne die raam van 'n Instagram foto. Miskien bewys die Tweets dat niemand eintlik 'n veer vir jou voel nie. Niemand "like" wat jy doen, se, droom of hoop nie. Niemand "like" wat jy afneem nie. Niemand lewer kommentaar op jou persoonlike rugbywedstryd teen meer as 15 probleme wat jou daagliks tackle nie.

Moenie vrees nie. Daar is n app hier voor.


Whatsapp.

My raad is sluit aan by 'n Whatsapp groep en hou dit dop op 'n Saterdagaand wanneer jy alweer all dressed up and nowhere to take a selfie is, terwyl die res van die wereld die tyd van hille lewens deel en "like," terloops nooit "love" nie. Af en toe op 'n Saterdagaand sal hierdie mense, met hulle eindeloos utopiese lewens, 'n flou grappie, oppervlakkige gedig of 'n foto van 'n dier met menskleure deel op die groep deel, en jy sal iets agterkom.

Soms wens hulle ook die groep sou hulle raaksien. Soms is hulle ook alleen op 'n Saterdagaand, all dressed up and nowhere to take a selfie.

Monday, 14 October 2013

Blogging?

Identity crisis (n): A period of uncertainty and confusion in which a person's sense of identity becomes insecure, typically due to a change in their expected aims or role in society.

The above is courtesy of the great entity that is Google, cited because that is what this blog has been going through lately. And by lately I mean since its inception.


Over the years, this blog has been used as a platform to complain (sometimes with the maturity of a 2-month-old foetus), express my views on topics most people stop thinking about after their fourth birthdays and as a place to store my sad excuses for poetry and songs so they don't get thrown out with other unimportant pieces of paper (like, say, my maths homework from grade 11 and 12).

After recently reading the brilliance of some of my friends' bolgs, I have come to realise what an amazing tool this can be for people who can actually manipulate words to form logical and coherent ideas, and how mine has been doing the exact opposite. As a result, I know I need to make a conscious effort to stick to a writing style and genre of posts. So from now on, no more random, out-of-context laments. No more shameless self-promotion (okay, maybe a little). No more 1000 word posts (unless its passed midnight or I have a really good point) and no more posts on silent horror movies or dead woebegone musicians. From now on, only things people will want to read instead of treating this as a diary.

As a thank you for reading this, here are some links to blogs by some of my friends and fellow journalism students. All considerably better than this one.




Here's an apple having an existential crisis. Just because.


Sunday, 15 September 2013

As Ek Ooit

A poem about perfection in imperfection.

As ek ooit 'n sneeuman word
Maak dan seker dat ek smelt
Dat ek kan vloei tot in die see
Dat ek verdamp tot dit weer reën

As ek ooit 'n kaart moet wees
Maak dan seker dat ek moeilik lees
Dat reisigers deur my verdwaal
Die vreugdes leer van swerwer wees

As ek ooit 'n plafon moet wees
Maak dan seker ek is vol gate
Sodat mense nat kan reën
Na sterre kan kyk in die aande

As ek ooit 'n ligtoring word
Maak dan seker ek is eensaam
Dat my strale uit kan staan
Teen matrose se donker aand

As ek bloot 'n mens moet wees
Laat ek aanhou dwaal en beweeg
As ek dan 'n mens moet wees
Dan is dit so

Dan is dit so

Monday, 19 August 2013

Voetgangers

I recently wrote this on a mission back from PE after covering the Intervarsity tournament. The bus was silent, a window was open and the light on the road was rather eerie. Don't know why it came to me in Afrikaans though. Oh well.

Dit is koud
Kom kyk na my asem
Rookseine dat ek bestaan
Daar is iemand
In hierdie liggaam
Wat sal mense daarmee maak?

Daar is ligte wat dreun oor die hoofpad
Almal êrens om te gaan in die donker
Op soek na 'n rigting
Ten minste tot waar die strale val

Ek is moontlik uitgedoof
Maar ek is lankal nie meer blind nie
Hierdie voete sal iets vind
Al het ek min om op te staan

In 'n stad saamgestel uit fragmente
Word ek so klein soos 'n atoom
Met jou sintuie op my polse
Kan jy hoor hoe klink my bloed?

Lees my leidrade agter my krake
Buitelyne teen die skemeraand
Tussen bome, duiwe, figure
Voetganger, verbyganger
Tog iemand

Ek is moontlik uitgedoof
Maar ek is lankal nie meer blind nie
Hierdie voete sal iets vind
Al het ek min om op te staan

Wednesday, 31 July 2013

Ode to a Memory

Far Leys is a comfortable red brick house at the end of a tree-lined cul de sac. The rooms are painted in subdued swirls of yellow and blue, and the practical furnishings put the guest at ease. The grounds are lovely, with carefully tended flower gardens and walkways that overlook the sweeping view of the distant hills. Far Leys is where he grew up. And where he spent his final hours.

His room is quiet now. The bed is neatly made, above it hangs a framed picture of a rough-and-tumble sea storm. His old school desk, complete with coffee stain and pen, is pressed against the far wall. Volumes of Chaucer, Blake, Flaubert and Shakespeare peer down from a corner bookshelf. An old-fashioned radio sits ready and lonesome on his bedside table. His shirts are carefully folded in his dresser, his black sport-coat hangs loosely in his closet. But Nick Drake isn't coming home tonight.

Nick Drake isn't a name you come across in every-day conversations. He never made it to the Billboard Hot 100, nor did he ever have a best-selling album on iTunes. In fact, he never sold more than 5 000 copies of any of his records during his lifetime. You would also consider yourself very lucky of you found any of his lesser-known songs on the interwebs. Despite this, his songs cast an eerie spell on first-time listeners. The haunting melodies and thoughtful lyrics hold you in their grip and never really let go. But this is not why you find yourself wanting more after the last song starts to fade out. The emotional intensity and sincerity of all the components coming together is what teases and bewitches you, and what makes you keep hitting the repeat button.

Drake was an original, a man who dared to throw his hat into the wind. He had a vision of what his songs should be and how he wanted them presented to his audience. And those songs, those few minutes of absolute perfection, are now all that remain to tell the story of his life under his Northern Sky.

Drake was born on June 19, 1948 in Rangoon, Burma, where his father, Rodney Drake, was an engineer sent to work with the Bombay Burmah Trading Company. The family (including Drake's elder sister Gabriella) returned to Warwickshire in 1950, when they moved into Far Leys, a house in the sleepy English hamlet of Tanworth-in-Arden. It was here, in the large, snug house that Drake first displayed his vast talents.

In 1957, Drake attended Eagle House School, a private boarding school in Berkshire. Five years later, he enrolled in Marlborough College, where he excelled at sport, becoming one of the school's top sprinters. Here, Drake also played piano for the school's orchestra and even formed a band with fellow school mates.
After his time at Marlborough College had ended, Drake won a scholarship to study English literature at the University of Cambridge. He delayed attending by spending six months at a university in France, where he began practicing guitar in earnest and spent most of his time busking in the city centres with friends.

During his time at home, Drake would spend many hours, often early in the morning,  in an old, orange armchair practicing and recording tapes. These early tapes reveal the desolate themes, such as defeat and heartbreak that would inspire his later work. The songs "Princess of Sand" and "Joey" are romantic odes to lost youth, and so beautiful in simplicity and intent, yet uncommonly sad. If you listen attentively, you can almost hear the makings of a lonely boy caught up in a world he doesn't quite understand, and one that doesn't understand him.

Drake's first album, Five Leaves Left, takes its name from something that seemed to be tongue-in-cheek on his part. Taking its name form a warning sign printed on a carton of cigarettes, the album is an anthem to grand unrealised dreams and desires, as made evident by "Time Has Told Me". It sets the theme of the album by creating a world-weary melody. Another standout from this album is one of Drake's most well-known songs; "River Man" (which happens to be one of my personal favourites) sets the listener adrift on a small boat on some long forgotten river of time.

"Going to see the river man
Going to tell him all I can
About the ban
On feeling free."

Another one of my personal favourites, "Cello Song" produces a rich, sombre atmosphere with the beautiful cello melody echoing in your eardrums long after the song has ended. The song deals with leaving something of great value behind forever. "Cello Song" has risen to great acclaim in the last few years, being featured in the Academy Award nominated film "The Blind Side".

"You sail to the skies
On the crest of a wave."

Drake's next attempt, Pink Moon, didn't do much better in the sales department, though it gathered very high critical acclaim. Pink Moon explored Drake's guitar ability more than his lyrical ability (though it was compromised) and does so exceptionally well. "Things Behind the Sun" explores this really well, his guitar sometimes goes into an absolute frenzy, chopping off notes and bending them to breaking point.

In these songs, the messages are very clear. The lines from "Place to Be" and "Parasite" spell it out, but the message was no clearer than in the song "Know".

"Know that I love you
Know I don't care
Know that I see you
Know I'm not there."

Drake's ghosts were closing in fast.

After the commercial failure of Pink Moon, Drake retreated back to Far Leys. He sat in the orange armchair, refusing to see friends. He was so far gone, not even the anti-depressant pills could bring him back.

Then, unexpectedly, life picked up. Drake found himself back in the studio in 1974 and recorded four very rare songs that gave the listener more of an insight to his private hell. "Hanging on a Star" is perhaps the most well-known and common of these four, and to call that song "depressing" is way too kind a word. But Drake was not finished yet. In October 1974, he found himself back in France, meeting with a French folk singer who had expressed interest in recording with him. He returned to Far Leys confident that he had finally found direction.

But life plays cruel jokes. One night in November that same year, Drake was up in the early hours, as he had been plagued by insomnia for most of his life. According to his parents, he was in a good mood, and had Brandenburg Concerto on the turntable. Drake mistook his anti-depressants, Tryptizol, for sleeping pills, and took a few, not knowing they were lethal if even one pill was taken over the limit. His mother found him dead on the morning of 25 November, 1974. He was 26 years old.

The beasts were silent at last.

Drake lies buried in a Tanworth-in-Arden churchyard, his crumbling gravestone, engraved with the words "And now we rise, and we are everywhere," overlooking a wide expanse of closely-cropped hills and carefully tended meadows.

Inside the church, there is a pipe organ used to accompany the church hymns and devotionals. Above one of the organ stops sits a brass plaque with Drake's name on it, donated by his mother and father to keep the church going. Once a year, the church plans a recital of Drake's songs. The church is still packed with locals long after the deaths of Drake and his parents who lift their voices high to pay tribute to their native son. They say you can hear the singing from miles around.

After his death, the last four recorded songs were tacked into Pink Moon, and in spite of it being a good seller, it was deleted by Island Records in 1983.

Of all the things about Nick Drake that captivate me, this is the one that haunts me the most whenever I listen to his music. He never made it. The beautiful melodies that plagued him throughout his life barely made it to the ears of 5 000 people when he was alive. Hardly anyone has heard of him, despite the moderate success he achieved after his death. He is just another singer/songwriter who fell victim to his inner demons. I can't help but think that, had he been given the recognition he deserved, he would still be alive today, making more music with legends such as Bob Dylan, John Martyn and Elton John.

His true genius was never realised, and his timeless songs go largely unheard, lost in a sea of pop hits that don't last two months before they are played out. And that bothers me more than I can put into words.

I leave you now with the first song of Nick Drake's that I heard, the song that reeled me in and has yet to let me go. Enjoy.



From the Morning - Nick Drake

Wednesday, 12 June 2013

I'll Take You - Phantom Tortoise

This song requires no introduction or explanation. And though I am attempting one, nothing I could say about it would come remotely close to accurately portraying the sheer beauty of the melody, lyrics and the harmony of the voices. The only words I can use to describe this song are "hauntingly beautiful." And on a personal note, a song has not made me feel this way in a long, long time. It makes my soul ache.



I'll Take You - Phantom Tortoise

Monday, 10 June 2013

Letters to My Imagination

This is the first of what I think will be a regular feature. Letters containing what I wish I had said, would like to one day say and random other statements. I hope I can keep it regularly updated, interesting and coherent. If not, whatever.

As I write this, you lie fast asleep with your arm draped over my stomach. You fell asleep like that some time ago. The only noise in the silence is your rhythmic breathing, my only sight in the darkness the gentle rise and fall of your chest.

You are a million leagues away in a world known only to you. A world where you are safe from danger. A world where you can scale the highest mountains, and where your deepest desires and wildest dreams become realities. A world I will do everything in my power to give you.

When I started this letter, I knew exactly what I wanted it to contain. I wanted to write to you 10 000 words on why I love you, how you brighten my world with your presence and how you are the most spectacularly beautiful being to ever grace the face of the earth. I wanted to bare my soul to you. But now I cannot summon from my hand, nor from this pen, the words needed to express my feelings in a way that would make you understand.

All that comes to mind at this moment is the feeling of your skin under my fingertips. Of your gentle heartbeat against my chest when you hold me close. Of the moment your eyes meet mine and you stare down to the deepest caverns of my existence. Of your fingers intertwined with mine. The feeling of your tender voice in my ear at the beginning of every new day. Of your head on my chest. And the way you make my soul ache simply by smiling. And for this there are no words in any language.

But you make me want to find them. And for the rest of my life, I will try to find them.

How I wish you would believe me when I tell you how beautiful you are. I wish you would believe me when I say I will always love you. I wish you would believe me when I say that I will never hurt you. I wish you would believe me when I say there is no better ecstasy than the rush of when your lips meet mine. But tonight, in the lonely silence with the darkness as my witness, I make this solemn promise that I will spend the rest of my life proving these declarations to you.

I don’t know when, if ever, you will read this, but it does not matter, as these words will remain true until the end of my days and beyond.


I love you with everything I am and everything I ever hope to be, now, and forever.