Essays / Only words Archives - Page 12 of 17

Pockets full of rocks.

My Notebook Key West 2013

I woke up in the middle of the night and desperately scribbled down my dream in the notebook next to my bed. The next morning I had a faded feeling that I might have had an epiphany. This was written in my notes…

Two women are walking hand in hand in the dark which seem to be on a dry salt pond. I can only make out their silhouettes. As they were walking towards me I recognized them being the writers Virginia Woolf and Ingrid Jonker and I overheard their conversation.

Ingrid Jonker: “Our pockets are full of rocks.
Virginia Woolf: ” It is because Art is like constantly eating delicious cake without ever picking up weight or getting diabetes.”
Ingrid Jonker: ” It is because Art is like constantly having diabetes and being morbidly obese without ever eating cake.”

I can hear the crunch of the salt under their feet and the soft clanging of stones or rocks. The two women now look similar as the physical qualities of Woolf and Jonker melted together. As they passed me they spoke out of one mouth saying:

“There always will be rocks in your pockets, but only if you swallow them will they become cake.”

By Anja Marais|2017-07-12T13:03:43-04:00March 2nd, 2013|

Winters with you

Touching celestial waters
of thought
Bracing myself for the
winters to come
Dancing between beats
of devotion
A song with sweet and bitter notes
I well rest the winters with you.

By Anja Marais|2017-05-02T12:59:55-04:00November 22nd, 2012|

Color, you foe.

Notebook:Miami:2012

Color seduces, color delights but most importantly color lies. Behind too many fuchsias are the lack of form, under too many cobalts structural problems and with a blinding lake of streaks and swipes the cover-up of no skill.

Black and white are the guards at the temple gates. They will tolerate no thieves, no liars and no con-man to pass. Through these gates walked men like Goya, Rothko, Kentridge, the Zenga painters and many a master. Only the man who has conquered black and white also has conquered color.

By Anja Marais|2017-05-02T12:59:55-04:00September 15th, 2012|

Persimmons in the morning

Persimmons
dripped from
dry branches

Soft orange
flesh embraced
the hidden pit

Wax skin
glistened
in sun

Do you
remember
me silently
walking past

While your
round body
awaited
my hand

By Anja Marais|2017-05-02T12:59:55-04:00August 18th, 2012|

The Body

Notebook Enry: 2007 Key West

What was jointed is disjointed. If only I could do more. If only I could do better. If only I could go further.

If the goddess can cut her throat and feed me her blood, would that help? How is it that we can be so full of desire but so slow to gather dry wood to stoke the fire. And when the fire dies we blame everyone from the shoemaker to the gatekeeper.

We are born smooth and unblemished, hydrated like a melon straining at the edges. Somehow we manage over the years to suck our own juices and, like a toilet with a leaky tank that does not refill, we slowly evaporate. All that is left is the bitter cellulose heart.

I have stoked the furnace of my heart, my spirit, my mind; yet the body splays itself like a concubine over soft pillows with a vulgar, I-want-it-now, gluttonous reign. My opponents are not others, him or you but this treacherous body. If I can split in two, it is “me” against “you” in a boxing match. Who will win?

There is nothing romantic about being an artist. I know about artists who await the “Voice of God” to transcend them into genius. Poor sods. You are a skin encasing meat that generates chemicals for emotions, hormones for behaviours, neurons for decisions. You are, first and last, the body. Better yet, you are your own illusion wrapped in epiderm.

The body is a formidable opponent.

By Anja Marais|2017-07-12T13:03:43-04:00June 27th, 2012|