Inspiration and Independence, Part 3

I have been responsible (in part or wholly) for good. I have blended families and rectified some wrongs. I have had schools rebuilt where they had been destroyed. I have caused to be organised properly the alleviation of blindness. I have refurbished clinics. I have trained, taught and mentored persons who have shone. I have fathered and loved. I have buried loved ones in dignity. I have written some beautiful things. I have opposed wrongdoing and evil.

What are we to each other, besides inspiration?

With young writers in southern Africa, I discussed evolution and skirted around love and the new law on safeguarding, as compared to bride price.

Like an animal, a poem or novel has emotion or thought. It is called a context.

In the southern African case, the jungle or savanna is like the readers and other writers, the snakes and dead trees (bark eaten by elephants), the predators and the nourishing sweet grasses,

…the poisonous leaves, good for ‘grinding’ and then to put on your spear, the polluting mining trucks, the poacher, guerillas and patrols.

A poem or creature either adapts, regresses, or stills and attempts to destroy the context changing around it to something compatible or just empty, something between punishment and banishment.

The theory of knowledge is not history. This is no longer post-WWII cultural politics. It has already gone through the looking glass of policy.

Writing is like self-taught and self-practiced dentistry informed only by the dreamed ghosts of antique dentists.

History and historical crimes should not be forgotten or even forgiven, but should not be punished either, unless the evolution has regressed to the present.

The same goes for criticism.

I learned the language of ghosts during my time in Albania, where there is no present, only a living past.

It is not an issue of thought and feeling, virtue and sin, abstraction and concreteness, nor even the social and political. It is certainly not self.

It is the projection into and the response from without.

God, I loved the snake in the grass. The old Bull elephant sniffing the teenage cow while the young guy snuck through the bush to hide by the waterhole.

Let the sun shine.

Don’t forget: it was the poets and novelists who advised the strategic theatres of the dictators.

We are many, transferring from identity to images blasted by light into the wall. And yet…

…now there is the added menace of the P.R. persons making obvious shameless and deniable transparent undeniability.

Continued in Part 4

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