#STORYTELLING: DRINKING AND DROWNING

Drinking and drowning. Don't do it.

Instead...run a heavy heart, light.

#STORYTELLING: THE ROAD AHEAD

Dad...tell me about the road ahead.

How windy or straight is it?
How gravelled or tarred is it?
What signs are on the sides of it?
Will there be a wise detour to take?
What about the Stop-and-Go's?
How long will we be forced to wait?
Will there be restrooms,you know...places of relief?
Will it be well-lit during that darkest time before dawn?
Will it sparkle and do a hazy dance during the brighest time at noon?
Will it take me past the most beautiful places and undiscovered destinations in this Life?
Dad, are we there yet?
I know you've travelled this road before.
Your toughened hands from driving, tell me so.
Your experience is all I have as starting point to mine.

Dad...tell me about the road, of Life, ahead.

#STORTYTELLING: THERE IS A LIGHT..THAT SHINES..



I saw a light in you today.

Amidst the dark and the noise of life....it shone.



#LIFESTYLE: CAMERAS AND DANCEFLOORS

#STORYTELLING: there's BEAUTY in SLEEP.

If there's one thing I have learnt to value over the last few weeks...it is sleep.
And when your body has been pushed to its limit, sleep is the one thing that it will force feed you in retaliation.
There is no other activity that allows you to escape into the playground of your subconscious.
A place where you can see, touch, hear, smell your possibilities and where your most genuine thoughts are made real.
Your truest being dwells there.
He who created this being dwells there too.
God has throughout the ages, choosen the state of sleep to communicate His messages to our undivided attentions and to breathe oxygenated love into every cell of our bodies.
And... to whisper to us "Keep going kid...you are not done on this earth yet."
I honestly cannot think of a more beautiful image...
There is beauty in sleep.

#STORYTELLING: OUTLOOK.

 Have you ever wondered what lies beyond that hazy horizon of your life?

Have you ever wondered how far you could swim out?

Have you ever wondered how long you could stay afloat?

Have you ever wondered if you could stand the force of the rip tide...of Life?

Have you ever wondered what lies beneath?

Have you ever wondered how many layers there are to you...or your talents....or your soul?

Have you ever wondered how many more steps you have to take before "it'' is realised?

Have you ever wondered how to clear the sand and the misguiding footprints in your path?

Stop wondering.

Find out.

#STORYTELLING: LOVE IS PAIN.

A shot of my beloved Ballet shoes.

#STORYTELLING: REVERSE EMPTY NEST SYNDROME

Your kitchen. The sights and sounds that came from here... Baking smells dancing in the tunnels of my nose. On the contrary, I know you would not sugar-coat and ice my life issues right now. Short(bread) and sweet and to the point.
 I need that.
Still.

Redness of your silent stoep. Redness of your unharvested grapes. Redness of rich wisdom from your lips. Redness of my heart. Bleeding love for you.
Still.

You don't know this guy. But I'm sure he'd irritate the hell outta you.
"Fo'tsek".
 Still.


An short ode to a matriarch.
My gran.
Emmah Thokozile Hlongwane

#STORYTELLING: I LONG FOR LONG STREET.

I long to be uninhibited.

I long for raw Capetonian street fashion.

I long for a natural ecstasy.

I long for Al Fresco dining.

I long for a feeling of mischief.

I long for a music buffet.

I long for a high.

I long for a walk, hand-in-hand. With him.

I long for Long Street.

#STORYTELLING: ENDS OF THE SPECTRUM.BLACK AND WHITE.

#STORYTELLING: BETWEEN.THESE.LEGS.

Between these legs, I have power.

Between these legs, I seduce.

Lure you into my lioness den.

Between these legs, I reproduce.

Fill the whole earth one by one.

Between these legs, I have the choice to an unprotected death.

Between these legs, I have the choice to a protected life.

Between these legs, the wind flows as I run towards my dreams.

Between these legs, hot air hangs as I stand firm and face my fears.

Between these legs, I am Woman.

#WEDDING: DEAR FUTURE HUSBAND...



When I say I love you....."I do".

You will be my heaven. You will be my hell.

You will be my everything in between too.

I am glad you got through GOD, my eternal husband, and my baracaded soul, to get to me.

In His eyes all is well.

and His Book, He has willed this lifetime union to be.

I will wear your surname like a crown.

Constantly adding jewels of achievement, growth, success, teamwork, compromise, damage-control, strategy, sex positions, street smarts, laughter, fearlessness,and endless stories to tell..

Until one day, my eternal husband, calls me back to be His own.

#STORYTELLING: THE THINKING (WO)MAN

"I think, therefore I am." - Aristotle

This Greek man was onto something here. Of Olympic proportions too.

No one really knows you exist until something from within you presents itself to the world.
Your voice, your opinion, your words on paper or your what your fingertips tell landmine fields of social media.
And all these actions, subtle or not, all come from the power source of thought.
When you think, you create for yourself the space in which you are able to filter what the world throws at you, pick bits and add them to the rest of what makes sense to you as an individual.

I personally love experiencing the thoughts of a person that I can see has exposed themselves to all possible facts, non-facts, myths...to emerge as someone with a solid and customised train of thought.

This is a gradual process, and unfortunately the Rome of your mind will not be built in a day.
Thought requires nurturing as a baby would. Attention to detail. Consistency in training. Exposure to material. Openness and maturity towards criticism. Day in, day out.
Strive to push the boundaries of your mind, until you leap from its ledge. Only to realise that there were no boundaries to begin with.

Then proceed to descend onto this world's surface with foresight, hindsight and all that exists in between.

And if you are not convinced of what impactful difference that your thought, voice, opinion as a tiny speck on this enormous earth can make in this world.....

Try asking the mosquito in a spacious bedroom at night.

#STORYTELLING: THE PASSING OVER - Ngiyabonga Bazali...

THE PASSING OVER

‘Ngiyabonga Bazali, nang’khulisa kanzima, kodwa manje ngiyay’bona ,ngiyay’bona impumelelo…. Ngiyabonga Bazali, nang’khulisa kanzima, kodwa manje ngiyay’bona ,ngiyay’bona impumelelo….”

Those were the opening lines of a song that escaped the lips of a 25-year-old young woman, quivering as they landed upon the ears of a mass of brown-eyed and (mostly )doubtful onlookers. The words ‘Ngabe uyakwazi uk’sina yini?....’ lay stagnant in the air. Onlookers whose faces she could vaguely or vividly trace to snapshots of moments of growing up. And some which were not familiar to her at all.

Although weighed down by the heaviness of the cow skin that created her “isidwaba”, and the coldness of the beads that rested upon her round and full breasts, she realised that this was her moment. To shine. To waddle with pride. To introduce a hidden singing voice.  To see her reflection of a grown woman in the faces  of her glowing parents.

 To pass over.

uMemulo is a ceremony that marks the coming of age of a Zulu young woman, as recognised primarily by her parents, or if she is engaged to be married, by her fiancé.

It is a moment in which her parents look at their daughter with different eyes, acknowledging how she has carried herself with grace and dignity; recognising that she is truly a person who has now fitted into her own skin, and is standing on this round earth as an individual, a woman that they releasing into society to start her own legacy, based on the values, principals, and beads of free-thought which have been laid at the ankles of her bare feet.

And not forgetting a moment in which possible suitors may make a move.

A long process if done in the strictest traditional laws of the land, but due to the constraints of modern life much different to the life and times of King Shaka, Dingane and company, the process is shorted to a week or at most two.

A week before the ceremony, the young maiden makes her way to the uncles residence, to receive a spear from him as a gift. Entering the gates with lungs full of song, she and chosen younger maidens ( izimpelesi) are welcomed by her mother’s brother.   The smell of the braaing of the goat slaughtered earlier following closely behind him.

A beautiful beaded spear is presented.  A symbol of strength.  A reminder to fight the adversities that wait in the corners and crevasses of the one they call Life.

After the visit to the uncle, the maiden enters her Solitude. A period of a few days before the actual ceremony, where she has to sit in a specified room, hidden from the world of men, distractions, the slaughtering of her goat and bull cow outside and other things that could possibly taint her process of self awareness and introspection. Unrecognizable with the red clay smeared upon her face, she delves into answering questions about herself, formulated by a team effort of her heart , mind  and spirit. Who does she want to be in this world? What does love mean?  Ubuntu bukhona na kimina? Will my family name be a cloak I will wear with pride?  All those responsibilities and consequences of my actions, do they really fall under my ownership now?

Her mpelesi’s keep her company, attending to all her requests and requirements and practicing songs to be sung on the actual day of celebration.

 But her primary company remains her heart, mind and spirit.

 One the day of the ceremony, when it’s most darkest before Dawn opens her disorientated eyes, the maiden and her breastful entourage make their way to a designated river or stream and undress.

Naked and trembling they wash themselves in the water, with the maiden having “inyongo” of her slaughtered bull cow, to wash herself with too. The clay. The inyongo. The baby, the toddler, the child, the teenager within her. All of these elements, carried away by the waters. Never to return.

 Time to get ready. To be adored with beads. To be wrapped in the leather of a beast that once lived and the skin of fat that once kept it warm.  Adding fatness to her fertility and warming her non -existant children.

This process is done under the trees , a spot called “eShlahleni” by the river.

At ‘eScgaweni’ , a designated open ground, the masses have gathered, waiting for the faint sounds of the maidens in song to tickle and flirt with the air. And suddenly the faintness turns into vividness and the colourful breastful entourage arrive, lead by the maiden and her uncle’s spear in her hand.  To dance. To lift her fit and round thighs into the air. To feel immense joy. To stomp her feet down and wake up her ancestors .  As to say “bhukani bakhithi, intombi yenu esulekile isifikile.”( watch, loved ones , your renewed daughter is here)

During the dancing the maiden uses her spear to pinpoint any persons in the crowd and pierce the spear in front of them, marking her authority, making them aware of the respect due to her. “Pierced “ persons are then obliged to pin money on her headgear or pass the buck if they cannot meet the obligation given to them. Gifts and blankets and money flow throughout the proceedings. And a feast thereafter.

And as the sun sets over the hills, the sounds die down , the masses trickle out to their own homes, and the Ntombi is left. Looking forward to her future. Future of career, of choice, of finding love, of bearing her daughter.  And to one day return to this moment.

In this day and age, such traditions are disregarded by many young Zulu women , as being beneath them, or not as fun as a conventional party with the phlyest DJ’s and hot tracks.

But they miss out on this beautiful story of inner love, metamorphosis, consciousness, blessing and an afternoon’s escape from inhibitions.

They miss out.... on their story.

INTRODUCTION

Finally...I finally reached down into the deepest darkest crevices of my procrastination and the ironic excuse of not-having-enough-time...and here it is. I did it...well rather I've started it..

"BlackAndWhiteEqualsGrey", is a pretty simple equation. An art class equation. A societal equation.

But for me it embodies what this world is about. Clear cut areas, ideals, opinions, philosophies....but indeed within that are the grey areas...which bring with them confusion, enquiring minds, fickle stances, and the murky waters we can't quite see the bottom in.
This is our everyday Life...
Photography encapsulates Life....
Words articulate Life..

Through this blog I will use a piece of my writing or poerty, to tell a story behind every piece of Black&White photography I take.
Simply put, stories behind shots.
Or just stories.
Or just shots.

So without further ado...
Allow me to encapsulate Life
through my brown eyes
and a gracious Lens.
Allow me to articulate Life
through my mind and fingertips.

BlackAndWhiteEqualsGrey.