El Hermo's Book Recommendations

Seeing as i work in a bookstore and study english , ergo i should be able to recomend well good books. Sorry for stealing your idea, Panda.

Here are some of my favorite Books (in no particular order of preference):

1. The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde - A depiction of the pitfalls and pleasures of a decadent lifestyle that manifests vividly in the pure brilliance of Wilde's writing. In short, Gothic Horror meets Queer eye for the Straight Guy, but awesome.
2. Watchmen by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons - Voted in the top 100 of Time Magazine's best books ever - This is a graphic novel, yet don't assume that it is childish. It is a post modern depiction of the superhero, dealing with the struggles of a group of retired superheroes in a world that has all but rejected them. It rocks, in my opinion.
3. Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie - A Contemporary Classic. Winner of the Booker of Bookers. This book, set in India, is like the country itself - a multitude of things, stories and histories - yet, Rushdie weaves these multiple narratives seamlessly into the quintissential post-modern/post-colonial saga. Its heavy, but a must read for every human being that can actually read it.
4. On The Road by Jack Kerouac - If you have listened to Our Lady Peace, particularly the song "All for you", you may have some idea as to who is Jack Kerouac. If not, then i will say that Kerouac is one of the great 20th century poet/writers (and not the other way around). His book, "On the Road" is the quintessential road trip story, a must for everyone who believes in the life changing potential of travel. Kerouac kicks ass.

Thats all for now. Reading rules.

Autobiographical Fragments

• Temples to the controlled development of impressionable minds, the school hall's brown- brick walls are lined with wooden boards with gold-painted frames etched with the academic and physical 'achievements' of conforming, malleable adolescents.

• I knew it was a bad idea when he sat in the front row, aisle seat, before the performance of "Corne and Twakkie". With his immensely swollen belly barely contained by the jersey his mother had knitted for him, doubly accentuated by his cheap, velcro strapped moon bag, Koosie had assumed the role of the obvious punchline.

• The wine glass on fire in front of me, I was mentally prepared to annihilate the flaming lamborghini. Straw to lips - a violent inhalation. The drink consumed, I flung my straw down in front of me and stared down my competitor, with the relieving rage of my victory.

I am Patrick Fugit

(With Thanks to Mach 3)

Here are the things i have in common with the dude from Almost Famous:

1) I like to write.

2) I like rock music.

3) My mother is an academic

4) I was deflowered by Anna Paquin, Faruiza Balk and one other chick back in '73

Rubber Bullets

Hidden in the mist
of the internet fog,
there is a man
who looks at my blog,
completely opposed
to all that i say
not in his words
but his life and his way .

For me, to be secular
is the best way to go,
religion is finished -
its dated and slow.
Israel can sometimes
be in the wrong,
to follow them blindly
is like singing a song
that has no rhythm or tune,
it just sounds like a trap
one sided, close minded
fundamentalist crap.

So for those roving eyes
that see what i say,
and oppose it steadfastly
in their lives every day,
i warn to not worry:
there aren't many like me.
Most don't want to know,
most don't want to see
that global atrocities,
suffering and death
are caused when you whisper
under your breath
that its okay to be stupid,
closed off and dumb -
thats right, little piggy -
just suck on your thumb,

Cause deep down i know
that its not how you feel:
palestinians are people,
reform judaism is real;
these things won't change
they won't go away,
believing that they're wrong
is not going to pay
Accept the reality
and move on with your life,
know that with religious dogma
comes fundamentalist strife.

I know that you're reading
every word that i write,
and I know that your thinking
that i'm wrong and you're right,
and I know that you think that
you are living a good way
and you are - with value
and honour, i say.
But think about what it means
to have us all think alike
and then,
when the world is destroyed
you can think
what you like.

My latest poem

Sup fools,

I've decided to submit "roadkill" for my course, so here is the other poem that i wrote. Please note that these are merely drafts - the final versions of both poems will be way tighter.


Reconstructions

Perhaps, the metallic chime of "you are my sunshine"
echoed through the packed compartment. Maybe,
uplifting the spirits of the refugees,
who lay on blankets
on the airplane's cold steel hull.

My grandfather's harmonica is encased by a dusty cardboard box,
surrounded by many hairbrushes,
in the drawer of my mothers dresser.
I asked her to bring it back from the old flat, so that I could
play.

In the guest bedroom, a sepia photograph shows my grandfather,
as a young pilot, comforting a Yemenite woman,
on a cargo plane during "Operation Magic Carpet". She sobs
inconsolably, while he
gazes into her frightened eyes

with near-heroic compassion:
I'll never know how much they loved you.

Roadkill

I stare out
the car window:
black crows with red eyes
grazing on a tyre-treaded goat carcass,
serrated beaks tearing
unravelling
intestines.

Focused forwards, the driver
cannot see
my sideshow of roadside death

until:
the suicidal stroll
of a frail, pink lamb
swerves
his scavenged conscience.

You're a Towel!

Prior to this post, I was on a break from my blog. Creativity has been at an all time low; Inspiration has been virtually non-existent. I've been writing neo-left, yet slightly fundamentalist political analysis, and i recently published someone elses poem on this blog, and it left me feeling numb and meaningless. I feel like i haven't really been contributing anything of real value, like i've sacrificed creativity in order to manifest some skills at social commentary.

To be honest, i don't like it.

Allow me to illuminate you with a thought: Writing is an amazing thing. I find that when i write, it is as if the written word creates another voice for me - completely seperate and distinct from my 'real' voice, my physical voice. Writing captures certain nuanced understandings, double meanings, images in ways that speaking cannot. Writing is so much more deeper, completely undermining the surface nature of the spoken word. If you think about it, the voice of the writer can at times escape all sorts of cultural and social stereotypes, while speaking, with all its accents and inflections, merely works to reinforce those stereotypes.

In south Africa, there are many different accents, different physical voices - obviously, these voices have been captured in writing - but once captured in writing, they remain above the immediate pigeonholing that one inflicts on spoken voices. This is because that instead of the superficiality of spoken words which enables one to relate to a surface stereotype, writing allows for nuances, contradictions and complexities in ways that the spoken word simply cannot compete with, and as such, is essential in creating a realistic and complex understanding of identity.

That is the inherent power of writing - the fact that it reveals identity, but disguises intergral facets of that same identity. Thats why political analysis doesn't suit me - because, in my opinion, its not what writing is about. Political commentary situates the writer in a definite position, when the writer should actually be a trickster figure who evades being defined and situated through showing a nuanced and complex perspective of his world. The writer is he who defines himself by being undefinable - a writer's contribution is always layered with multiple meanings and needs to be looked at in conjunction with a number of different factors. For me, writing is a process of evasive reflection and thats why i don't feel like writing politically anymore.

Peace out,

E. H.

The Kraken

(Bloggers Note - I'm studying poetry. The new Pirates of the Carribean kicks serious ass. Therefore, a fitting poem)

The Kraken

Below the thunders of the upper deep,
Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee
About his shadowy sides; above him swell
Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;
And far away into the sickly light,
From many a wondrous and secret cell
Unnumber'd and enormous polypi
Winnow with giant arms the lumbering green.
There hath he lain for ages, and will lie
Battening upon huge sea-worms in his sleep,
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;
Then once by man and angels to be seen,
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson