A night of poetry: book launch

Reading my poems, and others, in the 16th Edition of, Botsotso Literary Journal

Literary Journal, Botsotso, edition 16 cover

Oh so very New York, or London, of Johannesburg, to shower us with snow; coinciding with the highly anticipated launch of, prominent and striving, South African literary journal, Botsotso16. My own heart had been overcome with much delight, as the evening drew near. Melville was filled, for what was, arguably, one of the coldest nights, of the 2012 winter season. News of heavy snow storms were making headlines, across the country, and every single social feed- from Twitter to BBM- showed the reaction, from Joburgers; following the heavy snow. Yet, there I sat; a little too preoccupied, with attending the book launch, in which two of my poems, would be included, than to be fussed over the snowfall. Elation is not a strong enough adjective, to describe exactly, what I felt; no other synonym thereof, would suffice either.

So much to smile about

One of the poems, on Page 66

Nadia and I, looking rather panache, before launch.

The inside of the quaint, Cafe De La Creme, right next door to, Book Lovers, on the iconic; 7th Ave (or 7de Laan, rather) began to quickly fill, with poets, poet enthusiasts, and photographers, as my friend's and I walked in; a little later than the expected time of commencement. The man, I presumed, was the MC, had already made several announcements, and later, summoned us, to front row seats. Though I was unable to spend the entire evening at the launch, while there, I did get to listen, to some of the most beautiful pieces of prose, and poetry alike. Everything was genuine, yet still surreal, and for a while, I became rather overwhelmed, and walked out, for some fresh air.

With my doll and everything more, Chanelle, at the launch

INSIDE: Sophiatown Cafe. Pre-launch coffee.

It was exactly as I had always imagined it; the people, their expressions, clothes, and even the ambiance, were in line, with what I had long associated, book launch's with. Mostly, I was thrilled to have two of my closest friends, Nadia and Chanelle, right there with me. Their support will always mean the world to me. Later, I chatted with the editor, Allan, who also handed me a complimentary copy, of his very own anthology; There are two birds at my Window, before encouraging me to continue, submitting work to Botsotso.

REBEL EYED BOY

Oh, rebel-eyed boy,

Not sure you understand me;

Not sure you know all the world ain’t one big toy,

And that caged birds are really meant to be free.

You just want what you desire,

Tossing all the inanimate into the chuckling fire;

Dancing to the 80s in your parked car,

Wishing on an unseen shooting star;

You’re not as innocent as your blonde curls,

You dance with boys, and wound all the girls.

Sometimes when you’re feeling down,

You turn the coastline into a frown,

Before you strangle the local circus clown,

And become the talk of the town.

‘Rebels live on’ is inscribed on your heart,

Heartache is your favourite abstract art,

And when you’re out of paint and inspiration,

You paint barriers along continuation.

Oh, rebel-eyed boy of yesterday,

Only your sins are human today;

All your soul has been demanded,

And your body just so reprimanded,

Yet you continue to spit and defy,

Flapping your demon wings faster than a fly.

All your songs are about that boy,

His face hangs from the mirror; your good old little toy,

With his heart of zeal,

And the way he made you reel,

Like a hill rolling wheel;

You’re ashamed of the things you feel.

You’re lost in the country without a route,

And you call Jesus a brute;

Taking the rosary along on your destructive pursuit,

‘Till you end up in the valleys of mute;

The places afar where there are no lies,

And where all can permeate any disguise.

You’ve grown shy and meek;

Crumbled as a fallen leaf, victim to the peck of the beak,

And Jesus is now on your sweaty neck,

But his trust you’ll never win back.

All those hours of Rock ‘n Roll,

Indignation, and the dirty letters you wrote,

Have indented your surly soul,

As if you’re a tempest-struck lone boat.

                                 -Raeez Jacobs

© Copyright. 2012. Raeez Jacobs

Our Own Black Dahlia: Murder Mystery

On a quiet, secluded hill in Los Angeles; far from the hustle and bustle of Hollywood and Malibu, Betty Bersinger and her three-year-old daughter, were strolling up the avenue, as they usually would anyway. But this morning would be different- Betty couldn't bring herself to believe it, and quickly covered her daughters eyes, after what she initially thought was a tossed-out mannequin, turned out to be the body of a young and attractive female; later identified as, Elizabeth Short (22), who had come from Boston, Massachusetts, to Los Angeles, California- hoping to pursue a career, in the fresh glitz and glamour of the Hollywood, movie scene. Her lower body had been cut from her upper body, and she was neatly placed, in a certain pose, with wires, and "clown-like" smile cut across her face; making her mouth stay open, and only partially sewn together, with the thick wire. Also, Smart's body had been drained of blood; possibly to hide all DNA evidence, as police suggested, claiming also that, she had been murdered elsewhere (possibly inside a house) before her body was dumped, on the quiet street.

Young and Attractive; Elizabeth went to LA, searching for fame, but wound up slain, instead.

There was no indication as to who would want to kill this beautiful girl, and soon as news of the grisly murder, reached the media; the story blew out of proportion, and catapulted into a phenomena- which would see the release of several movies, books, and even television series. Who knew, Ms. Smart would achieve fame, so uncannily; posthumous? To this day, investigators are perplexed by the mystery, and though many suspects had initially been brought in, for questioning, none were incarcerated, due to lack of evidence.

Body of the, Black Dahlia; as she was later called, following the  fad around the murder.

In Johannesburg, South Africa, on the 16 August 1949; a young girl, drawn toward the metro-infused glamour and glitz of Joburg, dining and socialising with the upper-class cohort of the then, divided country, was found murdered, in a field in the Johannesburg suburb, Birdhaven.

Pictured: Bubbles Shroeder in her prime

Her murder quickly emerged at the core of realistic narrative; cementing her death in the minds of those who were around then, for a very long time. Later, two men who had reportedly been seen with the girl, later identified as the voluptuous and dreamy, Jennifer De Klerk (18), known simply as, Bubbles, were charged, but then later acquitted, since the case rested, predominantly on circumstantial evidence. 

This week at Gallery AOP, at 44 Stanley; artist, Kathryn Smith, has set up an incident room, with images, videos and documents, etc; featuring years of research and facts, compiled and exhibited, to reconstruct that gloomy day, back in 1949, when Bubbles' body was first discovered.

Book: Bubbles, by Rahla Xenopoulos

In the midst of the 44 Stanley exhibition, taking place this week; a new book, titled "Bubbles" by writer, Rahla Xenoupolus, offers a creatively inspired, fictional tale- told alongside the facts, in a near-charming, sultry, and first-person account, with the dark lingering in the undertone of the narrative. 

Bubbles by Rahla Xenopoulus is published by Penguin and can be purchased at any good book store out there.

Incident Room, an exhibition by Kathryn Smith

at 44 Stanley, Johannesburg (close to the SABC and Melville)

Times: 14h00- 17h00; daily, to discuss the case

-----------------------

Personal Note:

I don't know, but I see so many similarities between these two cases; the themes of escapism, and the notion of beauty and fame, having devastating consequences, are present in both cases. Elizabeth Short, like, Bubbles Shroeder, were both attractive, aspirant, young and socialite-cum-celebutante silhouettes, who even while still alive, left a lot of mystery in their wake. Posthumously, however, both were achieved grander heights of fame, with staggering amounts of news coverage, adoption and adaptation from creative geniuses, all over, scratching their heads, in anticipation of a case, such as the Black Dahlia Murders. 

It's In the Window though...BIATCH

Framed, flavoured condoms.

Yeah well, it's no secret that my sex life has been rather, hey, I'm drying out at the moment, recently. Except for the occasional here, there and WHERE?! SIES MAN! It really has been as dry as a Nun's Vagina...sad to say...since, not so long ago, it would never have been this way. I had 3 condoms too many, and so, I decided to frame them, just like my sexual life; framed, just in a window (can't even really afford it), OUT-OF-REACH man. 

I thought it was a really cool thing to do though, like everyone really loves it; including my mom...yeah, she's probably going to make her own one soon. 

POEM EXTRACT:Forever Young

Still afraid of everythin' around,

Closing our ears to every sound-

Can't hear 'em tell their daddies go,

Or hear 'em singing without any flow,

Or those ideas of drunk fortune, building lies

Without wiping tears from our eyes.

All the rebel theory, Bob Marley

Philosophy- you and then me,

And the death of detentioon,

Live in our souls, because we are deep holes;

Fillin' up with some black suspicion,

All our lives are based on supersition.

Forever young, toy boys kickin'

Laughter through the day,

Forever young, sweet-eye, lollipop lady,

Turning some of 'em eyes to clay.

Dressed like misunderstood icons,

Singin' all the war songs;

The bombs burstin' in air,

Giving proof, through the clouds,

That our flag is still there...

Forever young, always jittery and island-eyed,

So young forever, way after time died,

And we all will live as if we really tried.

We'll say, the Star Spangled Banner still waves,

Ever watching the ramparts; still in the land of the free,

Forever young, you and me,

In this city of little kisses, and too much bliss,

Where the streets go leading 'em astray,

All is lost and forgotten in one day,

But there'll still be a museam of eternity,

Around all losing against the glare of infinity,

Because we don't want, so much as we wish and feel,

Not for the beauty before us; for the turnin' wheel;

Twistin' and turnin' through space,

Inside god's face,

Wishin' we could just run this place.

Some random hour, and a cigarette bites the night,

Without a heart in sight;

Just some laboratory babe, clad in white,

Secrety fooled, intentionally betrayed,

By some wild-head, ripped stunner,

Who has just never ever stayed.


© Copyright. 2012. Raeez Jacobs.


NB. [Rest of poem cannot be included, for reasons of; exclusivity and copyright, since it is currently under consideration, with a Johannesburg journal of literature.]

SING CAGED BIRD...SING

I'm an avid believer of the "capability, inherent in all", to rise above, meet with, and transcend the iniquitous. And while I hold this believe, I shun the believe that 'iniquity', is a product of life and that facing it will make you stronger. Quintessentially, iniquity, at least as I construe it as; an apparently usual occurrence in life- predominantly existing where it's most likely to exist. Though, just because it exists somewhere; its existence should never be 'bred', or nurtured rather, simply because it's a commonality. Iniquity, like many of our other woes, have a tendency to indoctrinate our minds with incredulous, unfounded and imbecilic ideas; ideas which entitle us, to believe that, we are (in)capable of overcoming our iniquities, simply because we believe, opposed to just understand (as we rightly should), the definition and characteristics of iniquity.

So I say, just because there's evil, prejudice, iniquity, heartache, loss, etc, it doesn't mean we have to feel it, and even when you do; never should you come to believe that, your whole life is characterized by it. Sometimes you merely need to detach yourself for a while, and just NOT feel at all; refrain from giving in to your thoughts, conflicting yourself, and struggling. Of course it's not easy, one said it was; but there's enough propensity in you, if you're needs are authentic, to just disregard whatever you're feeling. Remember that nothing made you feel that way about something, before it actually occurred. So, go back to a time, in your head, and then stay there, where that specific woe did not exist. This also makes you see and understand that, the only reason why you feel so subjected by someone, and inclined to express grief, is because, you've made that issue, the epicenter of your world- when really it's not the only thing happening in your life. What about elation from some astonishment, in a time of iniquity? Are you disregarding that? Yes, frankly you are- and I implore of you, even if you're going to 'feel' all that strain, at least have bouts of happiness, so that you don't drive yourself to destruction. You have the power; you have the key, so set yourself free.

Monologue

Tomorrow is my first class at the, Brumilda Van Rensberg Acting Academy and Agency. As you know, I am so super excited to commence this course, and start working in the area, I've been dying to work in, for a really long time. The Brumilda Academy is an amazing one, because it is run by Brumilda herself, former Egoli actress and South African household name. Some of the other classes are taught by other actors, directors, producers, and scriptwriter's, etc. The course equips one with the necessary skills, in order to start pursuing careers in the creative industries- moreover, the course offers exposure and agency representation for an entire year, after the course; meaning that in some way, or another, there is work guaranteed for you. 

Ahead of the first class, we were asked to prepare:

- Introduction 

- Any 1 minute monologue

-TV link- introducing show (e.g. Top Billing), or own

-News- with 3 headlines

-Song: 2 verses of any well-known song

-Learn words to, "Lion Sleeps Tonight." [Bring props]

-TV Commercial (Own) or copy one

Below I have attached the 3 possible monologues, I might do. The first one by Arnold Beckoff, is the same one I had prepared, a month ago, for the Youth Development Programme at the Joburg Theatre, and I really like it. There are so many elements I can resonate with in Beckoff's monologue; for those who don't know- Arnold is a drag queen, and in this opening scene of the movie, he seems to be offering a critique of his life and choices, thus far, using wit and a thick, raspy voice ton convey this. He remains relatively calm throughout, and becomes expressive by the pronunciation of certain words- he is also in the process of applying make-up, and staring into a mirror. 

I really love the movie-cum-play, The History Boys. It is a mellow, yet eerie account of life at an old boy's school, where boy's will be boy's; where stereotypes are sampled, and before a lens, zooming in to expose the somewhat, secretive and shunned world of 'teacher-scholar' friendships, with astounding results.

Mysterious Skin, is the book-turned-movie, directed by Gregg Araki, and starring, Joseph Gordon Levitt as the central protagonist of the story. The plot follows the life prevalent after Neil (Levitt) was exposed to, and molested by a former baseball coach, along with another boy, whose own anxieties and fears begin to merge with the main plot, before there's an intense moment of merging in the film. 

Torch Song Trilogy
written by Harvey Fierstein

Arnold Beckoff: I think my biggest problem is being young and beautiful. It's my biggest problem because I've never been young and beautiful. Oh, I've been beautiful. And God knows I've been young, but never the twain have met. Not so as anyone would notice anyway. Y'know a shrink acquaintance of mine believes this to be the root of my attraction to a class of men most subtly described as old and ugly. I think he's underestimating my wheedles. See, a ugly person who goes after a pretty person gets nothing but trouble, but a pretty person who goes after a ugly person gets at least cab fare. Now, I ain't sayin' I never fell for a pretty face, but when les jeux sont fais gimme a toad with a pot o' gold and I'll give you three meals a day, cuz honeys, ain't no such thing as a toad when the lights go down. It's either feast or famine. It's the daylight you gotta watch out for. Well face it, a thing of beauty is a joy 'til sunrise. (drags on his cigarette) There's another group you gotta watch your food stamps around: The hopeless.


The History Boys


 Dakin: "How does history happen?" I asked Irwin, and he couldn’t answer. But now he knew. Nothing special. Skid on a corner...ordinary stuff. Irwin had never been on the back of a bike before, so maybe going round the corner he leaned out instead of in and so unbalanced Hector. Trust him to lean the opposite way to everyone else. But he had no memory of what caused it. The last thing he remembered was me asking him out for a drink. Something we never did, incidentally. Still, at least I asked him. Barr the accident, it would have happened.




Mysterious Skin

Neil: [narration voice-over] And as we sat there listening to the carolers, I wanted to tell Brian it was over now and everything would be okay. But that was a lie, plus, I couldn't speak anyway. I wish there was some way for us to go back and undo the past. But there wasn't. There was nothing we could do. So I just stayed silent and trying to telepathically communicate how sorry I was about what had happened. And I thought of all the grief and sadness and fucked up suffering in the world, and it made me want to escape. I wished with all my heart that we could just leave this world behind. Rise like two angels in the night and magically... disappear.