Faces, spaces, reflections

Being South African forces one to reflect and re-evaluate, sometimes daily, how to identify, in some general and particular ways with who we are. Sum of parts, or a sore thumb, the nearly two decades span of freedom is a precarious space for identity. Too black, too white, not quite right, we continue to grapple with the colour of skins, the link of ethnic histories frozen in time, while trying our utmost to shape a new reality free of overkill metaphors of dark and light.

Everyday, we're brought face to face with disparity, the yawning gap between have and have not as we compete on a global stage. Slogans from the pathways scream: down with economic apartheid. The skin, faces blur, eyes tell stories of the real pain, frustration, hope dashed. Poverty knows no creed or colour. The mirror beckons.

Sometimes, the face in the mirror is a little girl hearing the sound of an ice-cream truck as it approaches her home, wishing that she had enough coins to fill her dolls tea cup with the icy pleasure.

Sometimes, the face looking back admonishes her for not making the team, not getting the highest test grades, not finding the courage to speak up to a petty bully.

Some days, the face is pink, white, brown, the colour of pale disillusion at the rants of politicking and self-policing. Watch what you say and it wont come back to bite you. Big brother is watching you. The patriarchs roll the dice.

Often, dreams are severed in the hopes of a happy family.
Sacrifice accentuates self worth. It takes a lot of stepping away from the mirror, and then returning to face it square in the eye before a selfish decision can be made to live the life you're meant to live.

These days, the face in the rearview mirror seems nervous, at all that is being left behind, perhaps filled with fear at what lies ahead. Sometimes it feels like every step forward, takes you further away from where you belong.

Soon, we'll find that the face in the compact mirror is haggard. Not the same, filled with the memory of yesterday's hopes and dreams, the forgotten songs on the playground that echo to this day; the taste of candy still fresh on the tongue. Alas. They just don't make things quite like they used to.

Faces in the mirror do just one thing: they only focus on what's right in front of them, and sometimes omit to see the full picture. This is the conundrum we're caught up in. We fixate on self reference. My identity, my race, my beliefs. We make value judgments and decisions based on this form of reference. We choose to imprison ourselves in these frozen boxes of history. And we do very little to bridge gaps.
When I look in the mirror, I want to see transformation. Not just growth, don't get me wrong, there is always growth, change, dimensions of newness. What I want to see is a shift in consciousness, and evolution of spirit. That's the only turn of face that will take this rainbow nation forward. And in order for that to happen, South Africans need active citizen participation. Face to face with a democracy that's very much alive.

One day at a time ...

Sitting on the edge of life's pier,
we're so busy living,
a day at a time
while casting nets
into tomorrow's vast ocean,
that we forget to make note
that we're also die-ing
one day at a time.

The pier behind is shortening,
spiraling clouds overhead, and
swirling waters below
are closing in,
one day at a time.

What have we done, my love?

I'm listening to the torments of birds,
choking on early morning dew -
and the bitter song of sadness, echoes.
What have we done, my love?
To dreams and words and hopes ...
How did we get to such madness?

a time for peace

Life offers you many opportunities to re-establish peace in your heart, in your mind, and always where and with whom it matters most.

What have we done with today?

What have we done with today?

I feel as though many words 
Have been spilt, lost milk
For the sake of debate,
And none to make change
Where it matters most.

I sense that as time flows,
Rivers will dry up, skins curl
And we will look back
On wastelands, wondering
What we achieved
In this word war.

I'm worried that we will
Look into the innocent eyes
Of the future
And not have any answers-
What have we done with today?

Shafinaaz Hassim (c) 2013

Beyond Resentment and Judgment

Resentment is the ugly by-product of perceived or imagined expectations which are rarely communicated between people, friends, lovers. Beyond attachment, desire to possess and self-judgment, there's renewed hope for pure joy and love.
Beyond judgment: the judgment of the next person by what you perceive as their incapacity to deliver on your expectations of them/the relationship
Beyond self-judgment: your perceptions of not being worthy of being in the relationship based on how superior you think your partner or friend is...

Be kind

Be kind. 

Anything else 

takes too much time, 

and life is short.

Stop Struggling

Stop struggling. Go with it. Keep you heart and head and senses open to renewal. All the time. Make notes. Keep learning. Again. Stop struggling. Surrender. But not like a inanimate, flat object floating in water. Engaged surrender. Know why you're doing it. Because in that moment where you find stillness, and the mind stops chattering non-stop about how things happen to you and its all so tough and rough, find stillness and listen. Life is always waiting to tell you something unique, a message that’s meant just for you.

a veil between me, and You

Someday, dusky sky will be more than a veil between me yearning to understand all things, and truly knowing You. Someday, the crystal surface will break, and Light will be the only nourishment. Someday, beyond and now and then will be One, and I will be You. 

this heart, filled

This heart, filled, with sweet ocean water; 
hands cupped in prayer receive 
more than they're able to make sense of. 
Fate decrees a handful and an ocean springs forth. 
Knees that cave in on sandy ground give rise to lush forests. 
My hope is restored in the magic of spirit love, belief, faith.
Joy replenished, living resumes;
this heart, filled.

crisp as cologne

When I awake to the scent of morning as crisp as the cologne from memory, the remnants of late night chatter, words strung together to make sense of a road carved through rock, leading to caves of dark and light; I give thanks only to The One who holds the Map, my hand and my heart. God is great.

Post- post-ism's and colliding bodies in space

I studied Architecture for three years before I read for my Arts degree. Back then, what struck me as an (perhaps rather impressionable) design student, was that beyond the need to create form and function, habitat and structure, there was this inherent need to present spatial recognition for the body; a theatrical stage for life to be played out. And so the experience of life and the articulation of the body in that space became primary to the ways in which I conceptualised design. If anything, I have taken these learnings onward into the way that I write, both in structural intent and in literary composition.

Literature meets the post-modern when we collide against traditional notions of knowledge production and what we deem palatable for public consumption. Real life allows for as many interpretations of the individual experience as there are people. We've just noted the birth of number 7 billion. Go figure.

This is the dynamic with which the contemporary short story and poetic musing is breathed life into. The -ism's of the sociologist's realm step aside for that brief moment when hegemony gives way to anarchy; and we're made to witness an explosion of ideas, of ways of making sense of the lived world, of the many truths that reside herein.

If change is the most reliable constant, then so is the embraced and engaged surrender of ongoing dialogue, unbridled narrative and the body as an instrument in space, and in this, the theatre of life. Literature meets art meets cinema meets life. Belly of Fire is dancing to this rhythm as we 'speak' ...

This Jade

Jade is a stone,
I once heard someone say.
Light bounces off it
in an opaque, soapy way.

And I turn it in my hand,
And marvel at its stoical feel,
colour, disaffection

And then I show it to you,
tinkling voice and shiny eyed you.

You marvel, too
turning it in your hands,
curious, intrigued, and then nothing.

And, of course, I should've known
what would happen next:

It melts.

This Jade turned in your hands
is now a liquid gem;
opaque, soapy,
bouncing light,
but glassy, fluid,
like my eyes
reflected
in yours.

Gulbaden

I am never thirsty when I'm in my mother's presence...

Beautiful, passive, active, living Light.

Mother of my being and of my soul.

I am eternally quenched knowing,

That from His Divine harvest,

I came through you,

I came to you.

That I can be you.

Hope. Purpose. Grace. Light.

Beyond the surface...

You see a Mirror when you look at me;
I am the surface of a pond.
Be drunk with the idea of drowning,
Don't come here just to look at yourself.

Shafinaaz Hassim (c) 2011