This is Not Fiction.

A few days ago, I found out that one of my friends from Rhodes passed away. I was so shocked. This is far from my first brush with death this year, but Q... I had always imagined there would be years ahead for us.

Q and I were in English and Journalism together. We had mutual friends and got to know each other because we were in the same English tutorial, but a shared love of poetry was what really made us bond. He had his own poetry blog. The link to it is on the sidebar on my blog. (See: Words Will Never Be Enough)

On the day of our last English tut, a whole group of us got together to drink boxed wine and talk nonsense. I think this was the last time I properly spoke to Q. It seems chillingly appropriate that I lay on the grass at one point during that afternoon and recited a poem about death - Derrick Brown's "A Finger, Two Dots, Then Me" - to the leaves above us. Q observed that it was funny how I could remember those words when I couldn't even walk straight.

He was one of those people who really listened - not only on that afternoon, but whenever someone had an idea. He would sometimes make really sweet tweets about this blog, whenever I put up a new post. His kindness also shone through in other ways. Once, I had a go at reading a rap poem aloud in one of our tutorials. Q didn't laugh at my amateur attempt to do something that he could have done better, but rather engaged with me afterwards about the poem and what it meant. He saw beauty in everything.

Q, I know it's too late, but I need to say that I can't philosophise this with fiction. At least, not yet. I still can't process the fact that I won't see you again. This is all just too... strange... to dismiss as a simple poem or piece of prose. And I know some might see that as an insult, but to me, what is stranger than fiction should be presented as what it truly is. And the truth is you were not ready to be written out of this Earth.

The time will come when we all will be able to look back without hurting so much. But until then, I can't write it out.

"I won’t be able to wait under the earth for you...
but I will meet up with you
and here’s where you will find me.
Get a pen.

Hold your finger up
(two fingers if your hands are frail by now)
and count two stars directly to the left
of the North American moon.
You will find me there..."

- Derrick Brown, "A Finger, Two Dots, Then Me"

In memory of Qaqambile ‘Q’ Mapukata

What We Should Have Said

"I had a dream last night. You were in it."

"Did we kiss?"

"Would I call it a dream if we didn't?"

Poetry and Percussion

On the last Friday of every month here in Grahamstown, there is a lovely little open-mic evening called Reddits Poetry at Café D'Vine.

Yes, it is as cool as it sounds. Even though there is no actual mic.

On the last Friday of September, the pink-haired prodigy Michelle Avenant decided to cover Regina Spektor's Consequence of Sounds, and asked me to provide some tabletop percussion. How could I say no?

Baseball musical worth a shot

A "haunted sports musical" may be an acquired taste, but You're All Out by Night Reports is definitely worth a shot. This is my review of the album for my journalism course.

http://tinyurl.com/5w9ga7x

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(I promise this is the last you'll see of my journalistic self-advertising - for a while, at least.)

Bird study sings new tune

Most environmentalists focus on climate change's effects on penguins, polar bears, and people. But what of other animals that are constantly in our midst?

http://tinyurl.com/6ggxk5g

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This is an article of mine for my journalism course. Please read it, or at least, just click the link! The student who gets the most page views gets a prize.

Our Equinox

It’s a year since you left, and I’m feeling fine.
I told you no man could claim the space between my shoulder-blades, and the sun kissed both our backs until we could only talk when they were turned.

The seasons have changed, but some days I’m sure our footprints are still on the sand where you swore you’d never leave.
Some days I walk the roads we drove down and I want to make postcards of the asphalt, because each stone has a few hundred stories scrawled on it.

Sometimes I still pretend I’m strong – the ice-queen extremes, the oyster-lip smiles – but today, I’m soft as snow.
And the summer sun is rising.

Tonight I’ll tiptoe onto the beach and set the shell collection free. You see, I’ve learnt that even sand in a pocket can weigh a person down.
It’s been two winters and a summer for me; a winter and two summers for you… but today, today is our equinox.

Today is the day we start to learn from our mistakes.

Potential

Those were the days of rusted jungle gyms and crinkled toes – the days when our clothes smelled of Being Afraid of the Deep End.

Our parents took us to aquariums, and we wondered if they knew that we were just a big shoal of people, being watched by the fish.

We wrote letters on mulberry leaves in words that didn’t exist, or weren’t meant to.

Latin could have been our second language.

We could have been anything.