art, art history and painting the nude – talking about art

By:  Norman J. Olson

people often ask me the names of artists that I like or, when they look at my art, people tell me the names of contemporary artists who they think I will like…  when I later look up those artists, I seldom find them interesting…  in fact, as I have said many times, except for a few of the new surrealist/realist painters such as Dino Valles and the late HR Giger, contemporary artists are of little interest to me…

what do I like??  well, the answer to that is my topic here…  first off, I am a student of art history…  I love European art almost from the beginning until the big aesthetic shift in the early 20^th Century…  I also love and have been much influenced by the matriarchal artistic tradition of the Ndebele women of South Africa…

I learned to use black and pattern in my work from the women of the Ndebele and I hope to someday make a pilgrimage to their village near Pretoria, to see some of their amazing art in the original…  from the prehistoric figures of Europe, I learned about abstracting the figure and moving beyond the classical in appreciation of human bodies…  from the great masters of European art, I learned to love the illusion of three dimensional space made with paint, ink, etc.  on a surface of painted canvas or paper…  from the academic and pre-Raphaelite painters, I learned to work carefully and to love drawings of people, especially naked people…  from James Ensor, I learned to trust my intuition and from Picasso, I learned that it was okay to fragment the figure in my drawings and paintings…  I have learned from many many others as well…

many of my paintings include depictions of the nude…  I am not really sure why I like to make images of naked people…  perhaps that is something that a psychoanalyst could uncover…  but ultimately, I guess that the reason of it is not important…  be that as it may, pictures of naked people with landscape elements, which is what many of my art works are, are common enough in the history of European art that, well, that is my tradition and where my roots and my love, art-wise, lies…

through most of European art history, these depictions of the nude seem to me to have been made for no other reason than that the artists, like me, enjoyed looking at and making images of naked people…  I believe that an artist like Michelangelo made his art because he loved depicting, studying, looking at, drawing and sculpting images of naked men…  the church was the big patron in those days (early 16^th century) and Michelangelo needed to be a professional and earn money from his obsession and since the time was right with the rebirth of humanism in the 16^th century, Michelangelo found a way to make the naked men fit into bible stories and so earned enough money to support himself and his parasitic family while still doing what he obsessively needed to do which was make pictures of naked men…  and the same is true of most of these artists…  I think that religion or portraiture or public commissions from fat cats are mostly, through the history of European art, an excuse for the artist to do something different, personal and only tangentially related to the purported purpose of the art…  even though the artist may have been unaware altogether of that fact…

I am not suggesting that this art is insincere, or fake but rather that it is more interesting to look at as a piece of art that exists without limiting the response to the art to that of a historian…  for example, I especially love Victorian and particularly Pre-Raphaelite art…  I think that I understand the motivations of those artists, in the sense that making drawings and paintings of figures with landscape elements also moves me…  and the nude figure was very important in the work of many of them, which I can certainly relate to…  on a technical level, I love the way these artists from the 1800s drew the figure as well as the landscape elements… a few years ago, I traveled to Brooklyn New York to see a show of Victorian Nudes at the Brooklyn Museum of  Art…  while many of these paintings are flawed and look kind of stupid to the modern eye, the use of oil paint or drawing media to represent is just so amazingly facile…  and these artists all had long experience drawing nude figures from models and were very very good at it…  I loved looking at those paintings…  when I tell people that my work devolved directly from that Victorian, Pre-Raphaelite tradition,  they say “oh, it looks more like Picasso to me…”   well, there is some Picasso in my work as Picasso was jammed down my throat all through art school and a bit of that stuck…  but Picasso was classically trained by his father, a classical 19^th century painter, so came straight out of that 19^th century tradition that I love and that may be why our work has points of tangency…  but my art works are drawings and paintings of faces, nude or clothed figures and landscape elements… which also describes the work of GF Watts or any number of Victorian and Pre-Raphaelite painters…  but where Watts had to convince himself and everybody else that his drawings of naked people served some higher moral purpose, I say that I feel like making pictures of nudes and landscape elements so I go ahead and do it…  in fact, I feel like many of Watts’s paintings would have been significantly stronger if he had ditched the sermon and just went ahead and painted the skinny naked girl on the rocks…  or whatever…  and not cared if the critics of the time thought he was a hopeless pervert for painting naked people without trying to make some moralistic statement…

I don’t have to care what critics say because, I am a noncommercial artist in that I do not do art for money and the way the contemporary art world is set up, only artists who are on the commercial stage are subject to criticism…  plus, my little drawings and paintings of naked people and landscape elements are of no interest to the commercial MOMA art work in the first place…  so, being free of all that, I am able to go to the well of my intuition and let the art work happen however it seems to want to happen…  which is generally with more or less distorted representations of faces, figures and landscape elements… 

Michelangelo was a deeply religious person but I think that his religion was more personal than Catholic…  from looking at his art, I reconstruct the god of Michelangelo as a humanistic, pagan deity relating to Christ in the ecce homo sense and intrinsic to the act of being alive…  his worship was modeling the images that he loved…  and god was in the flesh…  I recently saw an article that pointed out that the representation of god the father in the central panel of the Sistine Chapel, where he is an old guy with a grey beard reaching a finger out to the reclining Adam, is in a swirl of drapery that is exactly a representation of the human brain…  and as soon as it was pointed out and I looked at the image, I saw that too…  this hiding of shapes and symbols in art was common enough in Renaissance art, (for example, see the howling figure in the background hills of Hugo Van Der Goes Portinari Altarpiece)…  and Michelangelo certainly had dissected enough cadavers to know exactly what the human brain looked like…  so, I am positive that he used this painting to explain to those who could see that his religion came like Adam’s spark of life from the deep and mysterious depths of the human brain…  well, I love that…  what a wonderful religion…  the religion of the brain…  the true, deep and only humanism… 

so, while I have lost the Lutheran religion I was raised with, I am endlessly fascinated by the human brain and body and by the planet upon which I, with my brain and body live…  is my art some kind of pagan religious observation??  no, of course not…  I don’t really even understand what it is at all…  maybe someday, I will do something besides figures and landscape elements…  who knows??  but, for now, it seems like enough to trust my intuition…  wrap my loving arms around the shoulders of the giants from South Africa, Venice and foggy London town who have given me so much and paint and draw whatever comes into my head…  it is an amazing and wonderful life…

I have been living in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam for the past six years. We, everyone here, calls it Saigon. I have traveled extensively around Asia, but I am most familiar and indebted to Vietnam. It is a misunderstood, small, but lively country.

The city is very colorful and bustling, flowers and plants everywhere, outdoor markets, packed alleys and daily services often forgotten about or disregarded in Western cultures. It is a collective mind in this country, life is good, not always easy, but they try to live well, by standards that have seemed to fit my own sensibility. 

I call these pieces “picture poems”, a Kenneth Patchen reference/ vernacular, but travel memoirs/ photo essays/ instances in themselves that reflect how I see the world in Vietnam, immersed, and always through learning and contribution.

I am most comfortable with words, but images are usually how the words take form, through the physicality of thought. 

Some of the pieces were created in the 3 months our lives have been on hold…three months for us…we have been set free, “man is condemned to be free”, I have seen great acts of determination and hospitality, trade and love, but also dire circumstances that have made me break down. Still, throughout this experience, “we” have remained calm and accepted this as survival first. 

So Young

A drunken night, remembering the times
both good and bad. When we were young,
and excitement came so easily.
The nights
we spent sleeping together in fields, with
only our passion to keep us warm. I’d
give anything to have those times
again. But, no, like youth they have
gone. The times when you felt sure that
you were about to explode, just through
the power of your emotions. The times
when despite inarticulacy, you somehow
blurted out everything you needed to say.
The times when you were young.
Those times when you were o so young.

Diminishing Returns

The hands of

my body clock

creak as they

turn. I seem

to be getting

older before

my time. The

day before

yesterday I

did some

gardening for

my father, he is

unfortunately

receiving chemo

therapy, and this

makes it far too

difficult for him

to keep his

usually beautiful

garden up to the

standard it normally

holds. So I strapped

on a strimmer to

do his front lawn,

then hedge clippers

to thin out his

conifers.

I woke yesterday

in utter agony,

my arms felt

as if I’d been

attacked with a

baseball bat.

It’s hard for me

to believe that

I’m still the same

guy who held down

all of those factory

and warehouse

jobs, working up

to 12 hours each

night, carrying and

throwing all of

those heavy boxes around.

I suppose this must

be how it happens.

You don’t realise

just how much you

are diminished

until you are totally

finished

Of course, by then

it’s already

far

too late.

                Traps

Life can be so tough

we all fall into different

traps, but the pain is

always going to

 be the same.

Be careful as you

scamper along the

pathways of life.

There are dangerous

traps lying in wait.

Some simple holes

dug in the dirt, with

sticks, grass and weeds

feebly covering them.

Others vicious steel

beasts with razor sharp

teeth. Some traps are

 nastier than others,

but we all eventually

get caught.

The ones who thought

they had escaped are

the ones that get hurt

the most

Nobody ever escapes

all of the traps.

That’s the only victory

that death can achieve.

Ian Lewis Copestick is a 47 year old writer from Stoke On Trent, England.He started writing poetry in the early 2000’s, but due to a lack of confidence, and the lack of a clue of where to send them, he first sent his work out for publication in 2018.Since then he has had over 250 poems published in various ezines.His first collection of poetry, ” Detritus Of The Drunken Night”, was published by Cajun Mutt Press in 2019.He has also been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

‘’You’re a dirty-looking and unkempt person, Ben. You need to learn how to look at yourself!’’ Esther said to me, laughing together with her friends who witnessed my humiliation, when I attempted to answer an important question in class. Throughout that day, I felt the earth to open and swallow me completely! It was a sad day for me.

I go by the names Ihekuna Chimezie Benedict. People seldom call me ‘’Mr. Ben’’. Born and raised in Lagos, Nigeria, my birth history has always been a miracle to all and sundry who knew what really happened. There were birth complications surrounding the putting to bed of the baby who would be later christened ‘’Chimezie Ihekuna’’. Unlike the ‘turning’ orientation of babies that would have them come through the head as they are being brought to the world, I came to Mother Earth with my face! It was a topsy-turvy challenge to the mid-wives and obstetrician who handled my case. According to what my mother who told me what happened, the doctor improvised by skillfully avoiding any contact of the fluid from the umbilical cord to my face; for if it had, it would have resulted in permanent blindness.  The ‘weight’ of the fluid did affect the left part of my cheek. My journey into the world of surgical operations would begin three years later.

Having completed my first surgical operations at age three, I was scheduled to go for yet another major one the following year. All the while, according to what my mother told me, it’s been from one drug prescription to the other, special infant foods as recommended by the same doctor who handled my case (He was based in Saudi Arabia at the time. My parents paid for all expenses to have the operations carried out in Nigeria). When I turned four, I went under the knife. After the operation was successfully completed, the doctor told my parents that as I grow in age, the swelling on the left side of my cheek would experience a shrinking; it wouldn’t be pronounced as it was at the time I turned a year old. My parents had to be patient to see me grow and watch the state of my swollen cheek. But for me, it would mean me having to endure torture and brace up myself for the harsh realities ahead.

At age six, I started experiencing rejections from my colleagues. Though I was given the best of material attention, the emotional connection positioned me as a loner. My parents were rarely available as they were occupied with demanding work schedules in order to meet up with pressing needs of the home. Rather, what they did was to place me under the watchful eyes of a house-help.  Togolese by nationality, she really did not know how to connect with my emotional needs; she was there to just ensure that I was comfortable: Being for me when I am hungry, pick me up from school, change my uniforms to my casual clothes and wash my dirty clothes.  I faced a hard nut to crack challenge trying to communicate my emotional needs to my parents who would come late at nights, only to leave early for work.  My only consolation was to be a loner, since I felt the world does not understand my predicament. This habit of theirs and my inability to communicate with them would linger for years.

A memorable day for me was when I celebrated my sixth birthday: July 6, 1990. My then class captain, Elsey Farrington, Caucasian American, was on hand to help celebrate my birthday with me. Back then, it was the tradition for the birthday celebrant to depict benevolence by letting the entire class know about it and sharing food and drinks to each member of  the class he or she belonged to. Every pupil looks forward to his or her birthday. Yes, it was always a day we, children, would challenge our parents to celebrate our birthdays in schools! She knew I was a loner but chose to treat me on that day, as her very-own brother, friend and ‘little’ kid lover (I could imagined how lost in that desire I was). She took me round the length and breadth of the spacious school premises, letting the world know that that day was my birthday.  Life returned to me through the radiating smile emitted from the puerile face of my innocence. I was very happy throughout that very day. Since then, we became friends until her sudden departure back to the United States, a year later. I was saddened to hear she was no more in the country. I asked of her whereabouts but was not able to see her…again. I just had my loner-to-bright moments cut short! She was the only girl who knew how to spark that light of liveliness in me. ‘’She’s no more!’’  I said, looking up and down and walking aimlessly in my home. I just have to accept the fact that I am on my own…

For over a decade, I have to take solace in being a loner while I look forward to a focus that would earn me a life-long career. Throughout my post-primary education, I endured all manner of humiliation, insults and certain abuses because of my facial deformity (The left side of my cheek is still swollen). However, what kept me going was the core attention to my academics. I have always aspired to be the best in my class. That, I was able to accomplish! That gave me the inspiration to forge ahead!

From the age of seventeen till when I turned twenty –seven, I was in the business of asking ladies out for a serious relationship. I did not care about the age, race, tribe or size. What mattered most to me was if she (any girl whom I come across) would say ‘’yes’ to my request to be my ‘’girlfriend’’. I was used to being humiliated by both sexes. Unfortunately, I asked out a total of eighteen women and none of them said ‘’yes’’! What shocked me the more was that most their responses resonated with all manner of physical intimidations like sending people to threaten me in my house!

At some point in my life, in my late twenties, I turned to the other side of life—seeking a drastic measure—-suicide! I had already ventured into full-time writing at age 22 and having endured all rejections, coupled with the ‘’hates’’ coming from people around me, I thought about taking my life suddenly.  My life began to make a U-Turn when I read an anonymous sticker:

‘’There comes a point in your life where you have to stand tall amidst challenging circumstances and show the strength of character. Don’t look down on yourself, don’t give up and don’t give in to anything that would pull you down’’

I read it severally and it had a subconscious impact in my life. It made me realize discouragement is a part of success, there is an inner-beauty and wealth awaiting the environment, time and person to attract them. All the discouragements, insults, humiliations and disgrace that were thrown at me were all the energies I would need to become who I am today….

Having gone through the life lessons and motivation, I am now a published author, poet, writer, voice-over artiste and speaker. See my works at amazon.com/author/mrben. It was really, like, in the words of Late Nelson Mandela, ‘’A Long Walk To Freedom of [self-realization]’. But it was worth it.

 I am still living with the swollen cheek but I have learned to outgrow the psychology of being let down. My successes are speaking for me, as I look forward to when a re-constructive facial surgery would be completely done to restore the originality of my face! I have been, still am and will remain very optimistic!

Chimezie Ihekuna writes on faith, relationships, and philosophy and has also published science fiction and a collection of poetry. His work is available here and he’s published through Pen It! Publications in Indiana, USA.

A rose has beauty

and sending it to someone

has a message so caring.

A thank you for friendship,

and being always there.

What more could one ask.

So I leave with a prayer

And may blessings pour down

That we will share the roads of life

And remember the rose that will

Help us through strife.

Blessed Mother, you are the Patroness and Guardian Of this country.  We are the fruit of His Spirit.

Please be our advocate and ask your Son to help His suffering world. May He give the research and scientific people that sudden extra gift of reasoning that will help them find the way to stop this horrible virus.

You are with the Lamb of God and together you may bring Peace, Health and loss of fear to God’s people.

A Time of Stillness

Neat nice homes standing side by side –Where there used to be neighbors mowing the lawn,

Resting quietly in the shade of an old maple tree,

Waving to neighbors who are also in their yard and some taking walks through the neighborhood.

The area now seems like a ghost town.  A few cars sit idle in driveways and no one visible through windows of the homes.  Arising in the middle of the Night and looking through your window is sad and disturbing.  The quiet of the night seems like you are alone in a field of grass with the light from a shadowy moon enveloping you in a time of yesteryear. It is taking you back to a time of youth, laughter and living a family life of love.

The present is now when we hope and pray that the dangerous and fearful virus of COVID19 will be erased from every part of this world.
The present is now when we hope and pray that the dangerous and fearful virus of COVID19 will be erased from every part of this world.

Layla’s Disappointment

Ahmad Al-khatat

Layla, I do not laugh effortlessly
Layla, I do not weep skillfully
Layla does not your name mean
-the night, or blues?

We no longer have the possibilities
Our story made the entire universe
-rain, as well as the students in the
classroom, I weep as I read it today

When I visit your tomb in the graveyard
I remember how the war forced the
-survivors, to transform our memories
into gray clouds of ash

Layla’s disappointment is everyone tale
It is touching and sad to realize she
got married at a young age, then she
became widow, before she died in the refugee
camps.

Rest

When will I rest well from overthinking
I have blinded the daylight in my sights
I even paralyzed all steps to my objective
because I have been the blues in my deafness

When will I rest in peace from awful mouths
I ceased to exist between everyone I know it
I started to support the fight against poverty
unexpected death, and money with bloodstains

When will I learn myself to nothing but to rest
My wordless spirit is an immensely tragic story
It made my heart wonder what I would’ve done
-if I will have the strength to ignore my longing to

Before everywhere I go, I hear continuous outcries
But presently I see the sunshine with birds singing
This quarantine makes me think as we are all given
another bet, to heal what we have ruined before…

Choose Your Own Poem

Choose your own poem
If you can’t reach the moon
Regulate your life journey
and never say that ”You can’t.”

Many things to write about
Just always read more books
Never lose hope on your ink
Just adopt an optimistic effect

Study hard and work fairly
Be smarter than you think
Don’t expend your time in
an unethical background

Choose your own poem
and find the honest lady
to share her scent, eyes,
and her desire for your poem.

My Bio

Ahmad Al-Khatat was born in Baghdad, Iraq. His work has appeared in print and online journals globally and has poems translated into several languages. He has been nominated for Best of the Net 2018. He is the author of The Bleeding Heart Poet, Love On The War’s Frontline, Gas Chamber, Wounds from Iraq, Roofs of Dreams, The Grey Revolution, and Noemi & Lips of Sweetness.  He lives in Montreal, Canada.

The relationship between mother and gifted child

By Abigail George

Vertigo inside of me. Burnt oats. Mother burnt the oats again. The bottom of the pot burnt. The oats tasted like ash, smelled like coals on the fire. Oats like cinders. “Eat. Eat everything.” She said. “Go on with yourself. That’s your food. That’s your breakfast.” I have often blamed Christ God for my unique set of circumstances, but I don’t anymore. My father’s sad that I lost the plot. Nobody understands. Nobody understands me. I’m alone, all alone in this world. Nobody to call my own. And the entire house smells like marijuana. My brother smokes his weed in the house now. The parental units don’t care. I’m ripe for the taking. It’s asking for the taking. I’m slave, and cook. I clean the house like a madwoman. Richard, my father’s close friend, speaks of ‘mental wellness’. Going on holiday. Listening to music. Being happy is a choice, he says. You can be happy. But I feel like Heidi in the Swiss mountains with her grandfather, blissfully unaware of the outside world, how dangerous it is to be a woman on your own.

I think of the Duchess of Sussex, how elated, how happy she looks with her prince, how beautiful she looks every time she’s photographed. Her skin is flawless. Radiant. There are pools of grandeur, and admirers wherever she walks. She walks tall. Head above water. Surfing London, England’s ‘swampland’. Compared to her, I’m nobody. Nobody special. And the day is like cocaine. And the night is marked by sadness, and after winter, comes winning, winning spring. It’s beautiful supposedly, but I am not impressed by the wonders of the flora around me, by the environment marked by pollution, and global warming.

And the economic downturn of the recession, and climate change. We’re normal people. Their eyes tell me that. Tell me that I don’t belong. What’s normal anyway? I’m anti-normal. Smiling when I look at this photograph of you, from memory and desire. Oh, how I desired you. Still desire you, but you belong to someone else. Other people, who are kinder, and more understanding than my own people. They say that I’m mad, and call me mental patient. Oh, I was in high care. Oh, I was in a locked-up ward. Oh, I did try to take my own life, but could I be the most beautiful woman in the world, on your arm at a social function, or a family gathering just for a few hours, please, please. There’s a wasteland for you. Wasted potential. Wasted youth. To live normally, that means exactly what. The only goal that I have in my life is to write.

I think of Charlie Chaplin’s mother in the asylum, a young Anne Sexton full of brio, and bold life modelling her Bostonian-heart out, (I don’t have that kind verve, don’t live according to that velocity). Oh, I’m sad, and lonely, but don’t worry for me. I’m proud to be a ghost nation. I’m governed by patience and virtue, patients and their psychological framework. Their philosophy of life in hospital, shielded away from the gaze of the world. I’m poet. I’m John Updike’s Bulgarian poetess. I must have courage. A woman’s guide to courage, but can someone help with the survival-kit. Men have always laughed at my sexual inexperience, and inadequacy. It was like a storm inside my head, you know. There’s a tangled web for you.

A spider’s web of deceit and lies, deception and self-sabotage, the pattern of self-destructive behaviour, and because of you, as if you didn’t know, I will never marry another. I don’t want to be anywhere near you. You are dead to me like stimulus, capacity, and impulse. Once, your hands were my hands. Once, your heart belonged to me. All I see now is your silhouette. You’re showman, I’m interloper in your relationships. You’ve travelled, made sense of the world around you, and now that you have a wife, you want nothing to do me with me. You don’t want to love me anymore. And I know it would have made a difference if I could have given you a child, to live and to breathe, but all I seem to get out of the day is meditative haiku this,  and you have the shadow of a fisherman in my bedroom in the early hours of the morning. Just like, for the rest of my life I will remain childlike.

You gave me up. The spark, the love, the beautiful reflection of me, was there for the taking. You refused. You refused me. Walked away from me in a parking garage. In childhood, it will always be childhood for me, nothing is beyond reach. Everything is within limits. I wait. I’m left waiting. The poor girl, waiting in poverty, living in poverty, spiritual-poverty, the green dragons of men say. No man’s hands will write on my body now. My body is no longer a canvas. The youth is gone. Oh, youth is fleeting, but not the homesick feeling. Growing up, I always sought out introverts like myself, only finding that aspect of personality in older males. And as soon as I got older, they all faded away into the background. Excitement is like a store for me.

I go in there, anxiety and fear disappear, the anguish of not having a man. The ache is still there, but I’m too old for that life, that kind of time, to spend hours, or an entire afternoon in the company of a man, too tired for the games of the sexual transaction. You’re a parenthesis. I’m beginner, on repeat. With the thin needle of desire on repeat. Blood gives, blood takes. You have your career, your wife has her household and family to take care of, you’re both inter-dependants, take care of each other, wife and husband (you each have your duties), taking care to take care of each other in the good times, and sad times. There’s nobody to take care of my heartbreak. All I have is eccentric. My fondness for rubbish television, and J.M. Coetzee novels, (the greatest writer alive today).

Films that only cost about a million to make. I remember when I stopped running. I mean running away. It was about the time you left me, and we said our goodbyes. There was finality for you. There was closure for you. You closed the door on the past, on our past. But it wasn’t completely over for me. Nowhere is the longest distance to traverse, and often there is no end in sight on that pilgrimage. Our end meant the rare appearance of a new world for me. Sickness came and went in my life. You were a non-supportive prop. It wasn’t over by a longshot for me. Not for me. Not for me. Awake, I am tidal, and pure. I feel the cold. Nobody feels the cold like I do. I’m dying. I’m dying to belong to a world, this planet, but you see, I could never fit, adjust, meet expectations high, or, low, justify. My relationships were always scandalous.

I was naïve, too young; he was old enough to be my father. You’re living your best life now. Yes, I want a connection, to this society, link up with likeminded people, who, like me, find living in poverty disabled disagreeable. I still have goals, plans, and this dream. I will speak at Harvard, Brown, Duke, Smith, Yale, and Princeton. I will attend an ivy league university like a Kennedy- heir. I will attend Columbia. Think with clarity and creativity. Then the world will love me, and that will be enough. I do pray. I pray for happiness for myself (but what is that without a man), and for personal success in all the spheres of my life. I’m forever home for the holidays now, glimpsing taverns in my neighbourhood from the safety of my mother’s car, the life-worlds therein, and I don’t know whether bitterness, or, resentment on the part of my aunt, that relationship, the year I spent at a mental institution, was responsible for the estrangement on my father’s side of the family. The ache is sharp. The knowledge of it was always mysteriously invisible to you.

There’s Missionvale. It is not suburbia. I think of Cobra polish, Sunlight soap, Colgate egg shampoo, and the rich who know, who think nothing of sub-economic housing, families of ten people or more who have to fit into two rooms. A matchbox house is far beyond their understanding. They do not know of the kind of pressures, and stress, and hurting when a man can’t provide for his family. Can’t put food on the table. Can’t be caretaker, his wife, and mother-in-law nurturers to the children in the house, in matchbox housing. All the children are, are orphans anyway.

The absent parents who only have their own neglect into the life of addiction on their minds. Addiction to gun violence, addiction to a heinous promiscuous lifestyle, domestic violence, shocking physical, and sexual assault. They know nothing of the filth and stench of poverty, the stain, the organic language of menstrual blood, of blood, of blood spilled. I think of the prosperous with their Swiss chocolate, bouquets of flowers, gifts wrapped in tissue paper on birthdays. There’s Bethelsdorp. There’s Korsten. There’s Timothy Valley. There’s Schauderville. People there do not live the kind of sheltered paradise life that I live. People shoot in the streets. They shoot to kill. I feel like Krotoa. Only good enough for one man. Called out of native darkness into Dutch light.

Come over the threshold, Krotoa. I give my name, my nationality, my life to you. Death is important. Death is king, for without this earth of things, all of our material possessions how can there be life. We need faith to receive the blessing, in order to obtain Christ’s reward, but without it we can still live, just without the guidebook (to salvation). Lazarus is still sleeping. I want to be the next Antjie Krog, not the next Ingrid Jonker. Arthur Nortje, the poet who won a scholarship to Oxford, he speaks. Arthur Nortje, the poet speaks to me. I feel to live vicariously through him. Through his Oxford. Through his romantic life, if he ever had one. This non-European, who looked like a pale king version of a European. Arthur Nortje, speaks with anticipatory nostalgia to me. He is walking alone; I am walking alone. He has a testimony; I have a testimony.

This is not the end for me. There is still the storytelling to be told of Hitler, Mussolini, Smuts and the Cape Corps. I have this map, you see. A map of the world, my mixed-race world. No telling where I still have to go. But I am Krotoa, relying on the spirit of giving from older Dutch males. There is a mother, or rather was the lack of one n my life. The tomcat is inspiration, magic spell, imagination to me. There is a mother, tarnished like seed, that carries with it, Sunday gravy, pork belly and roast potatoes. Wait a minute. There’s a thaw in the air. Just. Just. In the kitchen there she stands, a Jennifer making my life hell. There she goes again. On fire, this injustice, she screams at the top of her lungs of just how inadequate I am. I’m mute. I’m a mute. I think of the needle. The thin needle of desire from memory. How it left a mosquito bite on my arm playing a seduction game on my arm

. How the words, “you’ll be okay, we’ve given you something to sedate you”, were given to me like communion wine, and the wafer of Jesus Christ’s body. And I think of Dennis Brutus, Arthur Nortje, Brian Walter, Harold Wilson, these men of genius. I think of Calvary. My cross, my cross. My cross. I’m glad I couldn’t see into their, my future. You never grew up in our house. Never smiled for the camera the way that we did. Hiding our grief in our interpersonal relationships in the way that we did. I ask myself all the time am I walking on a dream in being a poet, is he really, this great South African writer who lives in France and Spain in awe in of me, are people really talking about me, or, are they laughing at me.