Home(less)

“Almost thought we’d made it home / But we don’t know this place at all”

-          Fire Fire, Flyleaf

I’m very preoccupied with the idea of home and homelessness; these binary opposites seem to be one of the resounding themes of my life. Both states have a push/pull relationship in my life. I struggle with the idea of home because I’ve never felt at home anywhere I’ve ever been – my soul has been restless for as long as I have been breathing (which is not really that long).

“All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own.”

-          Hebrews 11 v13 -14

I catch glimpses of what I imagine home is all the time, especially in books. J.R.R. Tolkien’s Middle-earth feels the most like home to me. Every time I read any of Tolkien’s books I think, That’s it right there. I catch glimpses of home at home (where I live) some days but that doesn’t happen often. I like my people and whatnot but where I live is not it for the most part. I don’t feel that I belong here and yet I believe it’s necessary that I stopped here and learned what I needed to learn for whatever reasons. I find glimpses of home in religion, especially Christianity and I’m inclined towards believing that restless souls must have a place where they find rest. Was not thirst created to be quenched after all? The theme of home is also quite prevalent in music and my ears tend to gravitate towards that sort of musical space. Even my playlist is titled Home.

Then there’s the state of homelessness that I fear and am intrigued by because I feel I’m in it somehow. I’m fascinated by homeless individuals and when I can talk to them I do but they’re not very forthcoming about the details of their lives. What I want to know is Day 1 of being homeless, what’s that like? Do you carry whatever luggage you have and just sit down at some point, like the ‘detective’ in Paul Auster’s City of Glass? What drives a person to homelessness? Is it a gradual series of unfortunate events? Or can it be a sudden, unexpected thing? Bam! You’re homeless. I’m lead to believe that it’s mainly a gradual sort of thing because of how I sometimes feel about my life. I think it’s a very real possibility that I could be homeless one day. I worry about this shit. No one really believes me but they don’t know me like they think they do. I know me and homelessness could happen to me. Life isn’t anyone’s friend – it will take you wherever circumstances and your actions dictate. Some of us aren’t going to walk away from this without wounds that cut down to the very core of our beings – it just doesn’t work that way. Charles Siboto is a fairly intelligent young man but as a result of consequences both foreseen and unforeseen he became homeless. That shit right there could happen. The thing with homeless people is that they’re like the ultimate ninja of the world. No one really notices them. Sure we see that they’re there but we go out of our way to pretend that they don’t exist. I see them and want to know what they’re about. I need to know. So I can be prepared.

In addition to the physical ideas of home and the lack thereof there are the conceptual and metaphorical states and I often wonder how they relate to one another.  Take as an instance the fact that I live in a physical structure with my people – that’s home and yet I feel it’s not. When I’m weary of the world that’s where I want to retreat to but it’s still not home at all, it’s merely shelter. I still prefer it to anyone else’s home even though it’s still lacking in something essential. For my mom where we live is not home, for her home is Sterkspruit, where she was born in the Eastern Cape. She seems to know without a shadow of a doubt that that’s where she belongs. For me Sterkspruit is even less like home than where I live. Technically speaking I have a home but spiritually I don’t feel that I belong there. It’s very fascinating how that plays out.

I am spiritually homeless and so are many people in the world. People do strange things to find home – African Americans come to Africa to find their roots but I think they find that they wouldn’t have a great time living in most African countries more often than not. Some of them probably find something they’re looking for, I don’t know. The human race is spiritually homeless I’d wager. It’s that whole Matrix idea where you have something stuck in your mind like a splinter you can’t remove. That’s what it feels like. Some days it’s an annoying feeling and on other days, good days, it’s all fine and you don’t mind at all. One of the main reasons for things like religion and stories is to find home. ¡Mayday! says, “Find yourself a heaven and an angel you can hold / They say the world is ending but we really never know”. Unlike Tolkien’s Elves, whose existence is tied to the world and its fate, ours is a separate and unknown fate. We are merely visitors in the world.

Anyhoo, that’s my take on it. God, even E.T. needed to find home so it must be an important endeavour. That’s if for now, I’m er... going home.

Letters to God #6

'Please, I want so badly for good things to happen.' - Sylvia Plath

Pieces of Letters to God

Hi Big G,

How are You doing today? I'm going to gym in a bit, which is pretty much the only thing that's working out for me. I spend most of my days pretty much looking forward to gym - it's a cool drug to be addicted to as far as I can make out. It's much better than my addiction to coffee.

Tell me, Big G, what's Your workout routine like? It must be hard finding a sparring partner or someone to spot You. No one can claim to understand #GodWorld problems, You're pretty much on Your own. If You ever want to grab some ice-cream we can do that and I really don't mind listening.

Mother's sick and she's quite stubborn in her ways - which are unhealthy ways. She doesn't look after herself and that's not working out well. I'm worried and don't know what to do. I'm not the best son at the best of times. It's like that dude who wrote Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, Edward Albee is it? That guy. He said that his adoptive parents weren't good at being parents and he wasn't good at being a son and so they parted ways. I don't think I want it to come to that. I like my people a little bit. May I please have some guidance in this area. Thanks a lot.

'I wanna be the best who ever did it

Don't know if that goal is feasible, or it isn't

But if it is then God, if you're listenin'

Please grant me the strength to crush all competition

You can't blame me for dreaming, I'm a dreamer

And if I'm coming off brash please forgive me

But, that's all I want'

- Eminem on Slaughterhouse's Our House

I'm working that inspiration angle like a geometer! I'm in my writing lab everyday now, working on a mixture of words that matter and carry enough weight to uplift hearts. I'm trying to discover the God particles that make up the words that will bring contentment to my soul. I even got a tattoo that reads: Imagine on my wrist to inspire me to sit my ass down and imagine new, shiny horizons on my keyboard. I've mucked up a lot and continue to do so - it's a hard tangle to get out of but I want to flip that shit and become a laptop toting media ninja, killing folk with sneaky insights into everything nerdy entertainment. Please keep giving me the mana potions to blast down media doors and write well.

'I am over 25

And I can't make a name for myself

Some nights I break down and cry'

- fun., One Foot

I don't even know what to say about my other pursuits hey... Life, love, money, drugs, beer and all the rest. It's a murky puddle I frown upon every morning. Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold. I frown. The other night I thought about killing myself with a shoe or something. My sister says You're against that sort of thing though. So no shoes then?

'Oh my God! Have you listened to me lately?

Lately, I've been fucking crazy...'

- fun., Some Nights (Intro.)

I've also let some very good people down lately and I'm sorry for that. It's not my intention to ever hurt people so please send them all some good vibes if You can. Well, I know You can. I guess I mean if You think it'll help. I'm sad about this.

I'm re-visting Middle-earth and that's nice. It's like that Mandela 27 years thing where I imagine he felt every inch of his struggle and it all felt very righteous. The Elves make their sorrow in their struggle against Morgoth seem cool, they make it matter more than everyday pain. My sorrow always just feel lame - just like my life sucks and that's it, there's no other purpose there. Anyhoo, Middle-earth is a nice escape from the day-to-day crap of my so-called real life. If You're in that sort of mood please send me a The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe sort of adventure. I'm too old, I know but it would be nice. Or You can send me my ex-therapist, Ursula. She was cool.

"Please keep giving me mana potions..."

It's always pretty rad-ical talking to You and telling You about all the strange things that befall me. I imagine our creator/creature relationship in the image of a puppy bringing its master a stick because masters love sticks - it's cute. Have Yourself a great evening and and say hi to the Heavenly host for me.

Love,

b3an_Champ

The Writer's Creed

Islam, Judaism, Christianity and even the Brotherhood of Assassins, they all have creeds. People who subscribe to these and other sects live by these creeds and die by these creeds. I am a writer and I need a creed that will be the force that drives me in that magical moment when fingers tap keyboard or thumb and forefinger clutch pen to jot down my brain noodles and present them as useful thought. I need a creed that'll set a fire to my mind and transform the words I conjure from mere to more.

I kneel here, in the darkest cavern of my mind, all voodoo ritual-like, and swear my fealty to my Muse: that from this day forth I shall live by this keyboard and pen, I shall die clutching these writers' tools and if I were to be resurrected by the likes of Dr Victor Frankenstein that I'll be a zombie whose hands are perpetually ink stained. With my last breath, as I stand facing Death I'll assualt her with a barrage of words worthy of a scroll in a dusty library. Thus I will be welcome in the mighty company of the legendary scribes.

I promise to write everyday, whether I'm feeling blue, green or grey. I promise to do battle with that white sheet of paper (digital or tangible) even though I know I will suffer defeat more often than not. I want to weather that 'long defeat' like Tolkien's Elves of old did their war against Morgoth, that darkest of lords. Like Liesel Meminger, the book thief, I want to fall in love with words; I want to stand up and hate them and always endeavour to make them right. 

"all voodoo ritual-like"

I write to tell my stories, the stories of people whose lives breathe and at times bleed into mine; I write to share my mind, heart and soul with other minds, hearts and souls. I write selfishly and I write selflessly. I seek to make sense of life and to be understood in life. I write nonsense when I find I cannot make sense and I'm misunderstood or I stand under amiss. I write with a lot of fear - it's always near, whispering caution and poison in my ear. I negotiate personal space with fear, it's a lifelong tug of war for the real estate of my mind. I write to play well (leg godt) with words like people play with LEGO bricks. I stick words together to construct grand structures I often have no names for but they make sense somehow - their lack of conventional sense make them so. As I've said before, I'm a wordslinger, my words, the pieces of my heart, are the bullets with which I shoot at readers and pierce souls. I aim for a gutshot and, ironically, I'm the one who spills my guts (blood and shit all over a page). My headshots rejuvenate brains instead of spilling them like secrets, like b3ans. I write to spread good rumours like a disease, but without the dis- affixed, I do it with ease. I give readers a good infection. I construct my words in simile in the hope that readers deconstruct them with a smile.

I am a writer. I always try my imaginary best. I frequent the Well at the World's End: I am well-read, well-informed and well-written.

My June/July Reading List

Thus he [Fingolfin] came alone to Angband’s gates, and he sounded his horn, and smote once more upon the brazen doors, and challenged Morgoth to come forth to single combat. And Morgoth came.
– J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion

Great masters of old,
You'd be amazed by twenty-first century machinery
'though you invented time travel
That modern science has yet to match
I find myself spirited away by words
That are ages old
- Charles Siboto, A Life Lived

The critics say that epics have died out
With Agamemnon and the goat-nursed gods,
I’ll not believe it.
- Elizabeth Barret Browning, Aurora Leigh

Dear reader of a writer who spends more time reading than he does writing (and even more time haunting bookshops than he does reading),

I must warn you from the outset that there be dragons here and an assortment of other beasties hell-bent on devouring you and, alas, there are not many heroes to slay these monsters. The world has forgotten the old tales and brave kings of men are no more. All those royal houses have fallen into ruin. But fear not because I have in my possession a machine that will allow us to transcend time and space, so that, my comrade in ancient lore, we may go where we will and forget about my evil couch and its arachnid minions that are pursuing me without relent for the time being.

Winter’s icy tentacles have reached our southern shores and the masses visiting us from all over the world are taking shelter in our country’s soccer stadia to view the world’s largest soccer spectacle. This is all good and well but we will not have too much time to poke fun at them because the remainder of June and the whole of July will be a very busy period for us, what with so many worlds to visit.

Let’s start off by revisiting Elizabeth Kostova’s The Historian - an old friend in a new hardcover jacket. This is a tale that brings Dracula, that old villain, into the one place that bookworms feel safest. Yes, you guessed it, our beloved and dusty libraries. It turns out that, like us, Vlad enjoys collecting books and building an extensive library of human (and not-so-human) thought when he is not busy impaling or ‘necking’ people. So the next time you’re reading on the fourth floor of the library and think you’re alone bear this information in mind. I would recommend a garlic clove or two in your pocket, as unfashionable as it may be.

Make sure you are holding on tight, my dear companion, because our next stop is Middle-earth and Eärendil, most renowned of mariners, has agreed to let us sail with him on his great ship, Vingilot. You must remember that the world has changed after the Fourth Age and only by sailing in one of Cirdan’s ships can one reach the distant past. It’s impossible to grow weary of Professor Tolkien’s Middle-earth and its people throughout the ages. The stories that enthral me the most though are those of the elder days; stories of the Elves and their hopeless war against Morgoth and the stories of the tall Men of Númenor and their downfall. I have managed to get my grubby hands on Professor Tolkien’s The Book of Lost Tales 1 and 2 and The Lays of Beleriand to supplement my copy of The Silmarillion so there is quite a bit more of the elder days to be explored. Also, John Howe’s cover illustration of Fingolfin’s challenge to Morgoth for The Lays of Beleriand is just breathtaking. If ever a movie of The Silmarillion was made this would be the scene I would most look forward to. No other Elven-king of old was more valiant than Fingolfin and reading this scene always brings tears to my eyes.

To keep us entertained as we hop from one world to the next I’ve picked up two books of short stories: Stephen King’s Just After Sunset (which I find is safest read just after sunrise) and Legends II (edited by Robert Silverberg), an anthology of fantasy stories by some of the biggest names in the genre. I’ve already read a few of the stories and some of them are very good. Let it not be said that I take you on long adventures without some form of entertainment when we’re on the ‘road’, as it were. I can see by the look on your face that you’re thinking that I’ve not taken your stomach into account but there’s no need to fret because the Elves from Middle-earth were kind enough to give us some lembas for the journey that lies ahead.

Goodness! How time does fly when one is on a flying ship. We have reached our final destination it seems: Robert Jordan’s world of The Wheel of Time, and this, I am ashamed to admit, is my first visit. As is usual with me, I am very excited to start exploring a new world, so I will linger here and see the sights.

When we get back home another new writer will be awaiting me, a certain Mr Greg Isles who was recommended to me by my dear friend, Lady Leigh of the Meadows. My first expedition into this man’s mind is titled Blood Memory, which I think just sounds wonderfully delicious. Hey, come now, don’t you dare judge me on what I find delicious or don’t! Now go away, I have things to do.

Until next time,
Have a wonderful winter season :)