Release…Relentless….Rage…..

[Tuesday, 3rd December 2013.
   Gaborone, Botswana.]



"Drama? What's that supposed to do for your life?"...

Let it all out bro…Let it all out.

…is an not uncommon question, or rather, thinly veiled opinion, that many people think of when it comes to the art of Theatre. And I'm sure it is vexing to hear for those who do it for a living, and even more so for those of us who make a living teaching it. 

Though it's hard to ever think of Drama as something senseless and purposeless once you see Mr. Paya teaching in a classroom, and it's definitely hard to see Theatre as anything but brilliance when you see Tefo Paya acting on stage.

…which he will be doing tonight….tomorrow..… and the day after that.

"How can you fight one who is fit beyond fatigue, one who never sleeps, one who feeds on all your defences?" - Relentless

Tefo Paya,  Maru-a-Pula school's resident theatre nerd, is well known around school for his inability to shed his youth (sadly, his back does not agree with him) and can be seen always passing a joke with both his colleges and his students. 

But there's far more to Mr. Paya than his teaching:

"What I thirst for can only be quenched by the cold moist sensation of liquid fire... flames of searing sound and the multi-coloured flicker of night's spark... Give me the night and all its pleasure then I will sin for you in ways that are beyond redemption." - Release 

 Tefo Paya is also known for putting on quite the Theatre show. Recently he presented a one man show for this year's Maitisong Festivial which was titled Morwa: The Rising Son  which garnered a very impressive review on the news website/blog for Maru-a-Pula School, MaPVoices ("hitting all the right places in its dynamic delivery and brilliant acting,

Morwa is a fantastic show that leaves the audience wanting to see more." wrote Tawanda W.T Mulalu.) 

And tonight…and tomorrow….and the day after tomorrow….. Tefo Paya will be back with a set of not one, but three one man shows, collectively titled Release…Relentless….Rage…..

And it's all happening in Maitisong Theatre.

Yet, I've said enough, let's consider what Mr. Paya himself has to say about the show: 

"[Tonight] it gets RAW!!!!!!!! Tuesday , Wednesday, Thursday…… Risky Artistic Warfare… Do what needs to be done for the ART!!!!!! At the core of every show is an Artistic Activist!!!!!!!!!"

…uhm okay…. though I don't know about you…..

But I can certainly say I'm convinced. 

For more information on the content of the shows and the ticket prices, check out the Facebook group for the shows: Release... Relentless.... Rage.....

"One Performer, One Venue, Three Plays and Three different experiences of Theatre..... welcome to Raw Artist Warfare..... R.A.W….."

Hoping to see all of y'all tonight! (...and tomorrow…. and the day after tomorrow…..)

Yes, in fact, I do have my own copy of this poster.

GUY FAWKES NIGHT (1)

GUY FAWKES NIGHT.

(First impression.)

"I think that absolute truth and statistics are two different things. Statistics for the most part suggests truth but doesn't really always tell it. Hence I'd say that statistics and absolute truth are completely independent of each other."

I never do drink at these parties mother...I really only think about how these lonely solipsistic thoughts are effervescent; like soulless and friendless clouds muttering about other sad lights in the dark, shining sadly in distress and writing things on this phone...People are around him.

And now I eat a slice of pizza, which will of course remind him of you soon- laughing about in your cute little dress while I pretend the night was restless and breathless. He couldn't hear the whispers then. They were drowning in the rhythmic and pounding vibrato of young and don't give a fuck, let's smoke a blunt.

Even the cigarettes and beer bottles were drowning as well; in the incomprehensible bass of my apparently misunderstood generation...He couldn't hear the whispers then. I however am typing now and do. I can see your smile; I can feel your hair, skin, breath, no. He hadn't even wanted to go until he saw you. He hadn't even wanted- I can read my novel now.

Everyone's gone home including me. I am now busy dawdling past midnight and finding words and stories. I obviously have nowhere else to find adventure but in dead and silent screens- why are we asleep? Are we not moved by today and tomorrow? Is no one interested in yesterday?

Though everyone had gone home except him. It didn't take much for him to start thinking. He just needed to be walking or talking. If not talking then simply just not talking- sorry, what did you say? Oh, yes, he does think those last fireworks were rather pretty. Did he mention you are too?

I think that perhaps he is still there, wandering and meandering...looking for places, looking for people.

Have I Mentioned Before That I Can Rap?

Well, have I mentioned before that I can rap?

***

Opus. 1
Bruno Smet, Tawanda W.T Mulalu, Roger Waters.


I.

('Is There Anybody Out There?')

Individuality of heartbroken causality
The chest muscle ripped out in bloody fatality
Existence a game that can't even channel my
Code, my blueprints, not part of the lie
Tossed to the other side of the equation
I; the variable to be eliminating
Aware of complexities in calculating
The difficulty in the truth that I am stating
A heaven that aspires and desires to possess
The soul and the mind of my intellect
That speaketh beyond the mundane dialect
To the core of the issue through the soft tissue
But locked up, choked up, pretending not to hurt too
Still, on goes tomorrow like a visual reel
Feast for the eyes, leaving out lies and real
I am a closed system with ethereal addiction
To the stars of the universe and beauty of fiction
But contrast in reality, burden of my entropy
Fissures in my mind reveal that I am faulty


II.

('Swinging Sadness' [Trance])

Distant dreams where I can't find
My ambition and my peace of mind
Aimless wonderings through reality
And lost in words and numbers concurrently

(x2)

III.

('Is There Anybody Out There?' cont.)

Ignoring the need in our precious little moments
For cold, hard logic and all of its importance
The Burden of proof long cast out the window
And result in tumult with its reverbrating flow
Endless, soulless ignorance results of that
And countless, amountless, verbose combat
Our centers struggle to keep rhythm to the score
Therefore, henceforth Muzak played ever more
Sad black credits rolling quickly down the screen
Lack of medics showing swiftly crowns our dreams
To the dirt, and of course your heart hurts
Back to the floor, as your pathetic pressure soars
Everyone has answers but you know they aren't sure
Resolving the problem simply by believing
We find instead the opposite unearthing
The dirt that once covered our lowliness
Has drifted apart, revealing loneliness
The burden of proof- brought back to light
We can now only set our own souls alight


We're dying as we're burning
And we're trying as we're yearning
And we're crying as we're hurting
And I'm sighing as I'm learning.



***


Copyright to Pink Floyd for the song 'Is There Anybody Out There?' from 'The Wall.' 
Credits to Bruno Smet constructing the 'Swinging Sadness' bridge with his awesome guitar.
Oh,
 I wrote the lyrics.

Of course I'm not moody!

Some Poems For a Weekend.

(Ah...what can I say today? 

I remember talking to my unhappy boarding buddie today before I left school. The sky was fast darkening, and long before the threat of rain dwindled down to only mild existential angst. It was a beautiful and sad late afternoon, and when my mom finally arrived I didn't quite wish to leave. My boarding buddie hastily removed the shirt I lent her to save her skin from the mosquitoes: we both preferred it if my mom did not see this and draw out suspicious conclusions.

 Before that I had walked another friend to a combi stop not too far away... and could her the men in their little bus-taxis speeding on; wielding loud and cantankerous car horns... We are talking about 'commitment issues', and heartbreak: this is my fault. She took a picture of a poem from an anthology I was carrying. ('Solitude' by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.)  As I watched her go I was reminded of the ghosts that I had told my best friend about, the same ghosts I read about in 'This Side of Paradise' and the same ghosts I feared would frighten me the moment I recalled any word I have written for anyone, anywhere: 

"[and you won't forget any time soon, you will see her ghost, hear her name whisper even during equations, even as you sleep or cannot sleep because you see her eyes, you holding her spectre...asking yourself why and what vision you are seeing... fluttering around like some ghastly butterfly looking for a long dead flower that isn't you... that's how you feel.] "

You have to admit that this particular piece of shameless self-promotion is actually relevant to what was being said...anyhow, 'First Adventures In Adolescent Heartbreak' is coming soon to a solipsistic blog near you. 

I had messaged him on Facebook about the ghosts  (that exact same message actually) to help him get over his break-up.  He thinks that I can give him advice since I have 'experience' in such matters, so I thought it might be a good idea to tell him the blatant and painful truth about all. After all, I am so obviously and shamefully 'experienced'. Unsurprisingly, his response was an insinuation that I should go fuck myself... I cannot blame him, obviously.  And even earlier, before the walking my friend to the combi stop I talked to another girl in my Form who happens to have the same French tutor I have. We sat there at Thornhill Primary School, munching on french fries as I told her silly things about how I feel and shit. But that doesn't matter. 

Even before that I called my girlfriend on my French friend's phone as my English teacher has confiscated mine for a week, though that's a story for another day. (Regular readers, if I have any, might be confused about WHO this 'girlfriend' is (she is NOT a robot, program, sex doll, book, etc)  especially considering all the fuss I make about everything on this blog. To save yourself the trouble it is worth considering the chronological order of  the blog posts 'My Bed Past Midnight; You Are Asleep' and 'Second Love.'). 

It was interesting: hearing her whisper her through the phone...parental fear is a transcendental quality of life. No racial or cultural boundaries can deny a child of parental suspicion and punishment. When will I see her again? I think.  She has gone so abruptly, so paranoid thoughts start seeping in... 

Like I could possibly resist using this picture again. Sorry Tao. XD

I'm talking to her now as I'm writing all of this. I miss her of course. Yet now I seem to be quite emotionally stunted, having put all my emotional energy into all of this writing in the first place. I'm really sorry for that. I feel like I can be such a horrible boyfriend at times... I wish I could just tell you these things rather than put them up here. Why don't I? I probably should. I should. I will.
...After I'm done posting this blog post. 

***

Damn. You're asleep. 

But even before this I had-
Fuck it!... This is supposed to be a post about poetry!

So here we go. )

SOME POEMS FOR A WEEKEND.
Tawanda W.T Mulalu [1997-]

_____________________________

Happy one month darling.
______________________

CLASSROOMS.

When eyes meet, lifetimes flicker

into brief birth, in seconds.

They then disappear, switched off

fading from glow as they look away.

And those small daydreams,

memories and ghosts;

diffuse off, dead.

Like momentary winds or clouds

shadowing the sunlight, sweetly.

...or the times I should have

talked to you but didn't.

Instead we had then looked away.

***

I DON'T WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL TODAY.
(or even wake up tomorrow)

When did life become so mundane;

so lifeless, soulless, uninteresting,

painful.

Was it when God became unreal?

Or when I had started to base everything

around  axioms and atoms

               neurons and synapses

               numbers and words

               pen and paper

               keyboards and page breaks

               dead poets and their self-written eulogies...

then       Wolfram and Wikipedia

               Newton and Einstein

               Socrates and Camus

               Hemingway and Fitzgerald

               prose and verse

               e^(i*pi) and F=ma

               me and her

               me and you

               me and us

               me and I...
                            

    Or of cloudless skies dawdling in black nothing

with savage stars, drops of white glistening ink,

crudely flicked into existence by old used paintbrushes

    Onto a large and empty canvas, once colourless and dull,
from a tin of primordial paint in stock since creation

from youthful minds too bored to find something else to do

but observe and listen
    to his own little brush strokes. 

***

TIME.

A wall in some school. Hidden in shadow.

T T. Crossed out. T A. Crossed out. T H. (rubbed out with tears and rewritten again...Crossed out.)

R T.

So now we're all waiting, for the next cross tomorrow.

***

SENTIENCE.

The dog was unaware of the beauty of roses, as it ripped them to petals, blossoming shreds.

Existence is such: a wonderful thing. 

***

MORNING ON A WEEKEND.

He is woken up, rather savagely by his dear, sweet mother. Church. Exasperated, and desperate the poor child registers the coming torture of the Gospel and to himself he sighs: "Surely even you mother, tire of the Lord sometimes." Still he wakes from the bed like an undead creature. Still he gets into the bathtub as would he his grave. Still he shakes his head at the holy bred preacher. Still he lets his fun be undone as he lets the brave, Congregation sway him, side to side, in the rhythm of above. What do they see? Or rather what do they need to see? All the poor child sees is a beautiful sky. And that's all he needs to see to smile.

***

ONE MONTH.

I am trying to think of beautiful words.

         Trying.

And I can't have used up these feelings already
        I can't have.

I still have far more to say...

...

Is my mouth dry? 

I kiss you.

Will the words come out now?

…

Is my heart empty?

I miss you.

Will the words come out now?

…

'Darling I love you,

do you know that this is true?

That I stick to you,

as a toddler gets the flu?'

...

                     Am I sick?

These can't be the words!

Those can't be the words!

So please…

let me try that again…

…

'Dear lover,

It is hard to be

poignant, poetic, romantic;

this early and this soon.

Perhaps it's better

if I just buy you some chocolate;

before shops close- too soon.’

...

And so

I'll just leave it at that:

I know I adore you so much.

Even though

I cannot say it

particularly well at all.

______________

Fin.

______________

Oh yes. Paint DOES make for artistic masterpieces.

Anyhow, see ya around everybody.

NB: 

- For non-African readers a 'combi' is a minibus used for public transport.

- In the poem 'Time' those aren't my tears. Just saying.

Second Love.

(Yes. I haven't posted for a while for various reasons but as all teenagers do I've found something else to fuss about, well, someone else but that's not the point. I'm writing and that's more important than anything. In any case things aren't so bad, I'm pretty content and happy... But before I post my poem maybe I can copy-paste something that a friend of mine posted on Facebook quite a while back and hope she doesn't mind...it really just describes how I feel perfectly: 

"life is wierd ....there was a milkey way or somethin tonight ...i hate school ..nd I love skating ...nd I wish da devil burns for once in he's dam life  hahahaha I dono y I posted this xx 


#Bored" 

Now that's out of the way I'd like to post something I've written during this new period of calm contentedness that I'm experiencing, before anything else happens to me both inside and outside the confines of my blog (there's a lot of shit I haven't typed about here but I can only do so much...). Hope you like it as much as I like feeling this way. )

SECOND LOVE.

Hand-holding as the stars sing,
I think I’m getting older.

I don’t believe that’s the roar of God out there,
it’s probably just the wind or crickets, who don’t
burn so bright and distant; screaming in the dark.
Sound doesn’t travel through vacuums anyway so
it’s funny

that I can still hear you
whispering through my phone.

Didn’t that conversation happen a week ago?

You’re under-cover, in your bed-sheets,
hiding from your parents while mine just watch TV.
Again this is all just memory,
where sounds cannot reach us

but I’m sure you can still hear me
as I tell you that yes,
I’ve finally written words for you, words for me.

What will happen tomorrow?

My Bed Past Midnight; You Are Asleep.

(Today, was my first day of school after all this silly, stupid shit happened (Logging Off Twitter; Trigonometry; Him, Looking At Her;  Because I'm Smarter;  Another Broken-Hearted Blog Post; Another Broken-Hearted Blog Post? (note the order; it's rather interesting!)) It was a good day, I smiled and laughed and thought and thought and thought and thought and...well, I need something to post since it's been way to long, and looking through my poetry archives, I find the poem I was most proud from not too long ago. Since the aforementioned shit I've written much, much better pieces, but a bit of nostalgia doesn't hurt, when things were much happier and sweeter and it was fun being in love. Oh well, that's life...you get a hole punched through your chest, and you grab the filler, knowing that it will all happen again... But it's the moments like what has been captured below, that will always make me believe, no matter how retarded and idealistic... ag! just read the damn poem.) 

MY BED PAST MIDNIGHT;

YOU ARE ASLEEP.

The presence of you,
next to me on my bed,
is gentle and existing;
ethereal as you are.

And,
soft as you are,
it is nothing deep,
nothing carnal.

And,
cold as we are,
in needing warmth:
we cuddle,

with
hair quietly tangling
in the background
of our bodies;

with
blood warmly murmuring
in the background
of our hearts;

with
our tired eyes talking,
when we’re silent;
saying things
they weren't supposed to say.

I know
that we’re online
in the pixels, of my screen,
and type to tell you
that I wish you were here;

that my bed is empty, despite me,
it always was;
that you'll only see this message
when you wake up…


But


The presence of you,
next to me on my bed,
is gentle and existing;
ethereal as it is.

T.W.T Mulalu

...

Coming soon.

The Ballad of the Story Teller

THE BALLAD OF THE STORY TELLER

(A throwback to my Form One Days...one my better pieces.)

I am the story teller

I make living through fiction

I lay bread on the table-

Through colourless, paintless art

My life lies in my pen

My existence seeps into paper

Flows from ink

Imprinted on paper

It is me

My existence lays upon brilliant white sheets

I flutter, the wind scattering

My life like dust

I fall victim to the rain

The tiny droplets of water from the clouds,

Embed themselves upon my white surface

I tear

The more that is written- the more that is lost

Ink flows unto me, it stains, it blackens

The ink has now touched me, my gleaming white surface

I lose myself in words that are being written

The ink touches my soul, I am no longer pure

The ink becomes my very lifeblood

I now belong to the stories

The stories that came from the writing of my very hand.

I am my own prisoner

The stories have trapped me

They torture me.

They plague me.

I have loved, existed and faded.

I have written.

Now I flutter and fall victim to the rain

Let me be passed on, for I have become what I sought to be

I am the story teller

Because I'm Smarter

BECAUSE I’M SMARTER:


I know exactly what I feel-
I know exactly what will happen-
no matter what I say.
And of course I'm getting tired;
pretending its okay.
pretending I'm fine.
pretending it will work.

And of course I'm getting tired.
thinking it's okay.
thinking I'm fine.
thinking it will work.

And then,
seeing how obvious,
I know I'll soon regret.

But still it doesn't matter.
I don't exactly have the heart
to stop.

Because tomorrow I'll be as
deluded, as happy,
as silly, as stupid,

as drunk
on the colours of your eyes.

And still inebriated,
I'll tell you another lie.

And then,
ignoring the obvious,
I'll just start it all again.

Him, Looking At Her

HIM, LOOKING AT HER.

She is subtle.

A face hidden behind an iPad;

Only silent eyes are left-

they speak:

-my world is here.

i choose here, i hide here,

i like here.

see it shines?

-my world is here.

pictures picture pictures

the river my news feed;

a status a raindrop;

-my world is here.

and we are the cloud:

condensing, condensing, collapsing

relaxing, relaxing, relapsing

-my world is here.

so send me a message  here

don’t look at me…they're watching

     send me a message

please.

-my world is here.

i choose here, i like here,

i hide here.

so why…

   

 ...why do i keep looking at you?

outside.

Song For The Skies

SONG FOR THE SKIES.

I would

I wish

I could

I must

I cannot.

Though, if not,

may I have only

this last glance?

Glimpses into dual starlight, twinkling

milky effervescence with

rings

Of infinite, sonorous brown, towards

deep black holes which 

cling,

         

To these imagined night skies,

          I utter my utter soft words

The sun in my closed eyes,

          I dream a dream of stars and hurt

Your skies have met my eyes.

MOAR English Coursework! (Persuasive Writing)

Sorry for not posting in a span... I just entered into Four and stuff, its been busy. Oh, and Debate! Not only that but my Additional Mathematics class received its Add. Math textbook... on The Ides Of March. In any case... here is some MOAR English Coursework. This time for Form Four!

VALENTINE'S DAY SHOULD BE BANNED. 

The bane of humanity’s romantic existence has not been sexual misconduct, but something far more sinister; and that, my friends and potential lovers, would be Valentine’s Day.  To put it lightly: Valentine’s Day really just sucks. Valentine’s Day is not a Shakespearean dream of lovely roses and sweet chocolate. It is rather, a hell composed by Milton himself; one of bleeding fingers from stinging thorns beneath rose petals, and bitter gluttony of fat accumulating beyond the biting of chocolate… And what makes this whole nightmare worse, is Valentine’s Day is wholly unnecessary. If couples’ really wanted to have themselves a special day, it could actually be at any time of the year and of their convenience.  This means that insufferable displays of romantic bravado could be shown to a private audience and not the whole world, and certainly not aid in affecting the market value of chocolate.

This dreadful day also demeans love. Perhaps it was wrong of me to ascribe the notion of Valentine’s Day as being thought of as a ‘Shakespearean dream,’ when ultimately the great poet himself would ridicule it.  To get an idea of how utterly useless this day is one should examine it through his eyes.  Nowhere, absolutely nowhere in his Sonnets is Shakespeare interested in Valentine’s Day.  Did Shakespeare ever write ‘Shall I compare thee to a Valentine’s day?’

The answer is No.

And this isn’t because the accursed day did not exist during the great chap’s time, but rather because he had a good sense of what art is and what love is.  Shakespeare chose to compare his love to a summer’s day, something so gorgeously uncomplicated, something so strikingly normal, because he knew he could ultimately find beauty in what is taken for granted. By making love a spectacle of grandeur we diminish it, because love is simple; be it the chemicals in your brain yearning for the opposite sex or the sheer strength of the Platonic,it’s still simple. Valentine’s Day goes against all of this because it attempts to force love onto some special day when on any fine day, be it summer, spring, winter and perhapsAutumn the joyful ode of love goes on unabated. And because Valentine’s Day goes against what love naturally is; it is therefore unnecessary and even prohibitive of love.

Valentine’s Day also makes a good proportion of the population rather miserable, which also seems quite contrary to its purpose. If we take the time to examine what Valentine’s Day does to these poor souls, it only furthers my case.

First, let us start with the obvious; and that would be Mr Lonely. Mr Lonely has no luck with girls whatsoever.  As sympathetic creatures do you think it’s fair that every year that we bombard Mr Lonely with images of red and pink hearts when he can’t get a girl? Think deeply, how do you think Mr Lonely feels when the whole world decides to tell him in merciless commercials and advertisements, in awkward questions from friends, and sad phone calls from his mother… that he is inadequate for any romantic partner?

Second, we have the Hopeless Romantic. This is the person for whom love is the most fundamental aspect of their whole lives. You would like to think that Valentine’s Day would be cause for them to celebrate. Think again, because what you instead have is the accumulated stress of an entire life’s worth of fundamental meaning in your life being slammed into your face.  Say you like Ferraris. I doubt you’d like it if one hit you at full speed one morning, and this is what Valentine’s Day is for the Hopeless Romantic. Their entire purpose for their very existence summed up in one day, and after that it just decays. So the rest of the year is either spent in agony, waiting for one to relive their existence, or they gain a sort of post-traumatic stress over having to watch their life flash before their very eyes.

Third, we have Mr Forgetful. It’s not that Mr Forgetful doesn’t love his wife. It’s just that he’s really forgetful. But do you honestly believe for one second that his wife, loaded up on by the media hype and sheer hysteria of Valentine’s Day is going to let Valentine’s Day go? Let’s put it this way: Mr Forgetful better hope he doesn’t forget his pen to sign his divorce papers on the fifteenth.

These are only a few of the people who Valentine’s Daymakes miserable. We can’t forget The Womanizer, Ms Shy, or countless others.  Though what makes Valentine’s Day particularly despicable is that everyone can either classify themselves as one of these people, or knows one of these people. Every year, someone suffers.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Valentine’s Day should be banned.

'SERVIETTES: On a rainy day'

'SERVIETTES: On a rainy day'
Title of 'II.' is edited as to avoid embarrassing myself.

I.

A little leaf, a little vein
A growing brief, a growing shame

II.

(Poem for a Reply)

I'm violently unhappy
Not with myself but With
human Ingenuity in the avoidance of any confrontation
which Might not make you
Happy instead SAD.
Perhaps in my world of
Human LOGIC, there would
be more happy, more
Happy and less Sad,LESS
SAD, MORE happy.
I no longer want smiles
I don't care.
He'd rather have truth.
Thank you very much.

III.

In an intricate system of
numbers and graphs humanity,
Rather the thoughtful ones
Have, enabled a search for
equations for the smallest
consituents of Existence, and
so in endless powers of
10 we find ourselves
Beyond.
Little joy, infinite to understand
And such endeavours continue
with increasingly sophisticated
methods. Sparks will soar
and rao and calculations will
grow on the boards of pale
And as we lose ourselves, so we find
us
Discovered.

IV.

There is chaos in his soul
And anarchy in his mind
Both will usurp his
unneccesary existence
And nothingess will
have a new member...
Nobody.

V.

Oh Hello, a smile.
I'm still not happy.

VI.

(Song For Darkened Day*)

Endless rolling puffs folding into
one another with sad little spaces
forming depressed faces, in the
high sky.





-Fin.