Dispositions

Page 1


PART 1


Assertions are prose before transience. Part 1 - the lost pages of the protagonist’s mind. If a conglomeration of understanding in the mind make a home. Part of her’s reside in here.


Bi-phasic sleeping . . . dreaming ~ intermission ~ more dreams surface from voids of the mind that had not fired yet, like men wearing wetsuits holding bright flares as they climb out of the ink-navy water time had compressed the liquid dream, such that, in the morning i could not taste it anymore

The sky in aperture mode . . . What can be seen can see; and the sky makes no double takes when it looks at itself in the mirror.


Prodigal daughter <: To return to the abyss. She first had to leave, and fully constitute herself. Otherwise there would be no possibility of showing up./// “But before you go, remember to remain human first. Manifest this first and it will protect you.�// So she left. Only for her to recall this message, once again, for herself./ She stripped the affliction of thinking the world’s eye watched her with judgement. She decided to be free. She began walking very closely, clutching arms, with her truth. This is her cosmic responsibility.

The Ceramicist . .: < 3 . our hearts pieces of ceramic warped, cast, fired, blown all in different places . seams filled with gold


The half-life of experience Scattered mind, scattered action scattered thought, scattered habit. Scattered luck leads to scattered fate, scattered credit comes with scattered pride.

Emotion sitting dormant -/ I realise all emotions sit dormant in me. I am okay, until you ask me how I am.

Pulp Romance .) ::: Since things got tough, you have decided to apply pressure. We are different, I identify as pulp. I choose softness. Now - let us watch the wet, sweet, sticky mess we made.


To my children There is no learning curve required to show bravery steeped in love, by cultivating awareness of every moment. Awareness is the antidote, from Mother Earth inherited, for the ills of this World which we create.

Next teardrop The next teardrop I cry will be for myself. A tear for all the moment that morphed from solitude to loneliness where a phone call cannot bandage the distance it binds. The next teardrop I drop will be lost in the ocean of tears. Crashing on the shore as the world sentimenally presents itself in epiphany. In epiphay I will weep for society - an organic lining threatening to burst from actions of the human condition The next teardrop I cry must be for systems that produce double consiousness; and it will flow from my body for my body. I will create space for the trauma reality has offered for my body to hold, and my ears will invite the gospel which sings of the pain my stoic eyes do not expose


PART 2 - the voice of history pitchsifted


The shape of history held . . . . Suppression and Oppression have always been enmeshed in an unorganised and disprorportionate way. I don’t relate to storytellers who speak of history solely as a phallic object crushing its way through the rock of time. A narrative spoken from a viewpoint of events, timelined into a succession of successes. History is a rigged game told by the winner. Winner history explains winner posturing I reference those who look around and slow to the rhythm of the birds and the bees from this reference point lineage is not a line but a polycurve of ameobic dreams running down a double helix coil configured of coloured-in Ndebele art My history includes my current conditioning My history includes the Matriach telling me ‘its okay, baby’ My history includes my ancestors playing music on my behalf My history includes my dancing to it so that I may lose my pretensions


Demagogue . “ ‘ What I see here is a character masking a villian, and a symbol masking hatred, and an economic model masking greed, and a political party masking power; and a movement masking suffering, then an era of pain, before present-day consequences.


Black baby boy Ma, I loved you Since first breathe’s struggle inherited from pasts acquired. In the high lands, where thunder struck midnight at the turn of spring Ma, I am consoled since I must’ve been there with you When it was just us Bonded at the umbilical Emancipated and awakened Bearing beauty into a world of petrified third eyes Who see no colour, only form to a dead-end street, at the end of conquest Ma, Sense your heat against my skin Sing our song Of how for the black body, the classic canon leads to heartbreak Pen and paper in wrong hands draw then execute the hangman Ma, sing our song About the people’s right to be seen Jewel liquid rock, cooled from the belly of Mother Earth Ma, Ma, In song My first dreams sang of how the black baby boy is the answer to life’s question mark, with a question. Not a response. Only reflection. Space and root notes. Drums. Ululation, and you Ma, singing our Song


Colours of the veils . ; ) Brown boy, Blue bird, Navy water, Pitch-black pain, Purple rain, Moonlight. (in care of Barry Jenkins)

Systems_Code {West}_unplug user::~motheo$: Black_typ -m west -aa capital -o Africa -ab blackness Error: double showing as float // Error: black glow not seen // Error: unprejudiced file not comprresable into file // Error: source contaminated // Error: obj seen as black // Error: corrupted file // user::~motheo$: unplug from system; import blackambientglow



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