Today was the first shoot for The Shape of Sound (project details in below post).
Drama student, Coco Putuma was my collaborating poet. A work day whose results are being (crossing fingers) mailed off for submission to Grahamstown Festival 2013. I think I will play around with the video a bit more, maybe incorporating a layering effect – to connect back to the photo dyptich and some longer freeze frames.
Below are today’s results, including Coco’s poem – DubSTEP. Make sure to read. It is beautiful…powerful. Click on image to get a larger look.
M. COCO PUTUMA
Standing at the pedestrian,
scrutinizing thick White lines spread over
trepidation of crossing
has us on opposite sides,
degenerating ratings of critics
unqualified to write reviews on screenings they’ve only previewed
on Black and White TV screens.
The cruciverbalist has
I in block one horizontally
intersecting with is vertically,
completes the crossword with
“Not African enough”,
by your demarcation layered in subtext,
perplexed by the idea of brown skins manufacturing colored accents,
vinaigrettes on green salads,
these earphones blasting Bob Dylan classics as ceremonial ballads.
You question my lack of expression through djembes, loin cloth and bull horns,
torn between remaining on the pavement
to preserve our pride
to preserve humanity.
Imagine the day we become never-minded
brown shit clogging suburb lavatories,
cavities spoiling faultless teeth,
beneath it all
root canals will have dead matter
electrocuting sensory veins
as westernization Viagra has
European brains erecting the problem.
I always thought the term expression defied all babel towers,
like a coward
it unmasks itself in ways not recognizable at first glance, first
hearing, or first touch.
Much of your assumptions stems from your need to assert that you are cultured,
so you make me uncultured to culture you, in a culture that is not
even yours to begin with.
We’ve become accustomed to claiming and possessing
things we have no understanding of
but to understand them we censor the other to make sense of,
A demon he is,
So make him a pronoun,
Never a direct thought, belief, idea, pinned to a particular person,
rather an impersonation of history duplicating
in a context still ruled by the ones you fear,
this is why you act the way you do dear.
Grating others to dress you
that you may feel less naked, less subjected to discomfort
less identified, less falsely unified to the “rainbow nation” .
Your interrogation has me abducted,
tied to “freedom” chairs with protest ropes.
You ask me to hold up ancestral placards and toyi toyi against the living,
my feet to march in rallies
I know nothing of, have interest in studying
but none in practicing,
There’s a difference.
If you must know
my lips have articulated clicks,
my body vibrated to the sound of ululation
my taste buds exposed to tribal dishes
my real name isn’t coco
I love caramel and milk chocolate
just because you hate them does not mean I must,
I thrust me across the pedestrian,
the highway is for those against non-conformity
what you think is not featured on my care-list
at the end of the day
I have to build my bridge.