poetry & essays

I heard my first wake-up bell call
next to the lake called Arenal,
two volcanoes bookended it.
I came to Costa Rica
to shake off the confusion
about my place in the art community.
I wondered if it was worth the pain.
Every morning, while others slept,
I walked to greet the sun,
edging a cliff overlooking the lake.
Rainforests, waterfalls,
monkeys, and birds,
orchids curtained the shore.
The sunrise tasted like a Mary Oliver poem—
the sun blazing like a million flowers of fire.
I asked the sun: “Why can’t I feel my heart?”

Morning mist,
fluttering like moth wings against my cheek,
smeared the horizon’s mascara
into the tearful sky.
At first, I couldn’t hear the bells,
muffled by howler monkeys,
but when the drizzle stopped,
it came clearer.
Midweek, with no wedding or funeral,
I asked the innkeeper about the sound.
He said—no such thing.
Perhaps the dawning cowbells of the local herd.
But I knew the bell was there.
My confusion deepened,
instead of the clarion I sought.

On my last day,
we visited a coastal town
down from the inn.
Sitting on a restaurant balcony,
with a jugo de naranja con leche,
I noticed shadows in the lake.
The owner shared
that towns were drowned
when the lake was built,
and if you went out by boat,
you’d see the sunken church—
divers still descending the bell tower.
Once home, I found myths
of underwater bells,
drowned towns
from Russia to Jamaica.

We cannot silence
the submerged bell,
calling from under the waters,
and from within.
Its essence is in its calling,
forgotten and concealed,
its reverberation rippling
through the interior lake.
In those quiet moments—
standing at the shore,
at the edge of your body—
an ancient promise
rings through its tone.
I heard the bell again,
and it jolted me back into my body.
How had I lost myself,
forgotten that creating was nucleating
around my soul?

Creativity, the gathering center
of my heart, soul, and vision.
A reminder of my calling—
sunken under the waters
of expectations and “shoulds.”
Even drowned by the world,
my calling, indifferent
to the depth of my crises,
was never silenced.
The bell haunts you—
whether you listen or not.
Futile is your denial.

To answer the bell,
one must obey oneself—
or be commanded by others.
To answer the bell,
one must stay insubordinate
to the status quo.
I once made art
to honor my soul
and the soul of the world.
But slowly, over years,
a bait and switch—
the art world became
the status quo, soul-draining.
Artists, once insubordinate,
now rendered impotent
at the teat of the industry.
I sank into the waters
of its opinions and critiques.
I lost the sense of being indigenous to myself,
became foreign to my interior.

That day at Arenal Lake,
I began my U-turn.
I remembered my core:
Single occupant
of this sovereign place,
engaging in somatic experience.
I evict the squatters,
silence unsolicited voices.
I return to the inessive bell,
claim my autonomy.
I, artist of none-and-neither.

Born in the seventies,
on the tip of Africa,
my identity was forged
by grand nature,
animistic African spirituality,
and pressure-cooker politics.
My favorite childhood pastime:
drawing with a stick in the sand,
under the Mulberry tree.
My Bantu nanny, to me, my mother—
for the rest of my life,
I called her my Black Mother.
Mme (Sesotho for mother).
She loved to watch me draw.
Under the trees,
she would sing songs foreign to my ears
but familiar to my heart.
Her eyes would grow hazy
before she told one of her many stories.

“Ngoana” (Sesotho for child),
“Have I ever told you
how artists came to be?”
“No, Mme.”
She traced the glass beads
around her neck, as if summoning the tale.

“A long time ago,
before white men stepped on Africa,
when stillness ruled,
a woman gave birth to twins:
one boy, one girl.
But each was born with only one eye—
his in the center of his forehead,
hers in the middle of her chest.

A merchant from the north saw them
and blessed the mother with a blanket.
‘The boy shall be Rahu, the girl, Ketu,’
he said, vanishing into the dusk.
Distraught, the mother looked to the brightest star,
asking, ‘Why are my babies disfigured?’
The star pointed to the River.”

Mother wrapped her twins in the blanket
and walked to the River.
“Why are my babies disfigured?”
The River pushed mud from its depths,
“Take this clay to the Mountain;
he might know.”

With clay in the blanket,
Mother climbed to the Mountain,
who spat up ore.
“Take this ore to Fire;
he might know.”

At the Fire, Mother pleaded,
“Can you heal my children?”
Fire laughed, pointing to the lush Forest.
“See how I made her green?
For every offering she gives,
I return her leaves in abundance.
Sacrifice your babies, and I will transfigure them.”

Mother wept, but smeared the clay
over their bodies,
wrapping them and the ore
inside the blanket,
placing them in the Fire.

Fire roared,
‘From now on, I need constant offerings,
or your child will revert
to their disfigurement.’
Mother promised.

When the flames cooled,
in place of two babies was one—
merged, their two eyes now on one face.
The only mark of their past?
One eye looking outward,
the other inward.
Inside their chest, the ore had formed a bell.
With each step,
a soft clang-clang echoed.

Mother taught her child
to honor Fire with offerings,
gathering clay from the River,
ore from the Mountain,
feeding them to Fire.
In return, Fire kept the child unified
and left behind gifts of glazed ceramic
and cast bronze.

And that is how the artist came to be.”

Mme would close her eyes and smile.
Her stories made my childhood magical,
built castles in my imagination.
Once, while we peeled oranges,
her story came back to me.
“Mme, why did the artist child get a bell for a heart?”

Mme pointed to Mr. Nyathi,
riding his tricycle down the street,
his ice cream cart ringing with joy.
Kids ran toward the familiar sound.
“Ngoana,” she said,
“Without that bell, Mr. Nyathi is just a peddler.
A bell’s essence isn’t just in the sound,
but the anticipation it brings.
A rock can’t ring,
nor a chair or a shoe.
A bell is made, forged—
it must go through fire.
That is its haecceity.
A bell connects the mundane to the unworldly,
opening portals to the unknown.”

At that moment,
I didn’t fully understand,
but I knew I wanted to forge my heart—
I wanted to be an artist.

My art journey began there,
under the Mulberry tree,
surrounded by nature,
wise, powerful women,
and steeped in story.
Nature, women, and story—
resilient, tenacious,
weathering suppression,
yet enduring through the ages.

My Black Mother carried me,
tied to her back with a blanket,
singing songs and telling stories.
At night, my White Mother—
a school teacher, a trained singer—
read to me and admired my drawings.
Her songs spoke of heaven and hell,
of the righteous and the wicked.
But it was my Black Mother
who, on long walks,
taught me the secret language
of trees, flowers, birds, and wind.
They spoke to her
and asked about the child she carried.
She mouthed replies
I could never decipher,
one with them in an ancient, wordless exchange.

Together, we traveled
to the borderlands—
between the African Bushveld
and the Otherworld.”

It all ended one day— and Black Mother left.
My white mother told me,
Mme had returned to her family in the North.
In the meantime, she said,
I should focus on my schoolwork.

Every day after school,
I would sit under the mulberry tree,
making drawings, waiting.
I didn’t know why I was waiting,
or for whom,
but the urge was strong.

A dog came to sit next to me,
though I didn’t give it much attention.
In my neighborhood,
dogs always roamed around.

The next day under the tree,
the same dog appeared—
and the next day, and the next.
I began to notice its strange markings,
painted stripes smeared with white mud.
This was no dog I had ever seen before.

Mme, is that you?

Only when I looked into its eyes—
bright, cool yellow flames—did it speak.
A language with no words,
ancient and vast.
I understood every non-word.
I recognized the vocal pattern
of my Black Mother.

Together, we spent the rest of the summer days,
meeting under our tree.
She kept telling me stories,
of the borderlands and the Otherworld,
while I drew lines in the sand.

One dry, hot day, we listened to the cicadas,
up in the trees, chirping and churning,
like little sewing machines.
I imagined them stitching together
the heat waves into a quilt.
I told my Black Mother about the cicada fabric,
floating through the air.
Usually, she would laugh and add more
to my imaginings.

But this time, for the first time,
I saw sadness in her eyes,
and she gave me a foreboding.

It translated:
Child, you taste the wind,
you feel the flap of the bird’s wing,
you hear the ache of the mountains.
The song of the borderland is a choir within you.

Be aware of the Song-eaters—
they are forces that will blanket you,
that will cover your forehead.
They will hang words of stone around your neck.
They will erase your heart,
they will dull your ears, contort your tongue.
They will make you walk next to yourself,
as long as you let them devour your song.
Remember to remember—
do not let them in, or open the door.
Be an oasis to yourself.
Do not abandon me and the choir within.

Her words faded as the
sun curtsey behind the hills.

My Black Mother never abandoned me,
even in death—she shape-shifted
back into this world for me.

But I abandoned her.
Her caveat, a prophecy.

I chipped off pieces of myself,
along the way, to fit in and get in.
I fragmented myself,
to be a pawn for the ‘Kings.’

I let the stories die.
I let the Song-eaters in.
I let them trample the oasis within.

I woke up decades later, realizing—
I was not walking within anymore,
but next to me.

The Song-eaters hung their stones
around my body, early on.
They do this when your body
is young, soft, and vulnerable.

My earliest recollection was
in the Dutch Reformed Church,
where they taught us kindergarten
songs and rhymes—
propaganda with a tune:

Lord Jesus, I am small,
weak, ignorant, and impure;

The idea took root,
I was born unclean and incomplete,
unlike the trees, flowers, and hills.
I was weak, and I needed to
be reshaped into something else.

These patriarchal messages
of incompleteness and impurity
hooked into tender flesh,
bringing constant second-guessing,
seeking approval,
and people-pleasing.

It took many years
to extract these fish hooks
and return to
my Black Mother’s message:

When we are born,
we may not be fully formed,
but we are complete,
enlightened with
ancestral knowledge.

Nature is complete,
even in moments of incompleteness.
She is whole.
The moon may shine just a sliver,
but her body is still round.

There is no separation
between ‘me’ and ‘not me.’
Me, critters, rocks, trees, and lilies
exist in the same dimension,
made from the same building blocks—
our existences, interdependent.

Nothing can exist by itself;
only in relation to all other things
can we experience existence.

I am from Nature. I will return to Nature.

It is in the stomach of the Song-eaters
that we forget our totality.

Our planet listens.
Do you know how and where?
Let me tell you—the trees.

Beneath every forest,
a vast web of life pulses—
millions of organisms passing messages,
what we call the wood wide web.

Trees are the planet’s greatest information hubs,
possessing intelligence and awareness.
A symbiotic partnership—
between tree roots and mycorrhizae fungi,
creating an underground network,
spanning great distances,
trading signals and warnings about the world.

The trees know everything.
Instantly, across the globe,
they gather and spread information
beyond the limits of time and space.
They are both recorders and broadcasters,
capturing the chronicles of humanity.
They are always listening.

Learn from the trees how to listen.

Each tree has a core.
From a tiny sapling to a towering giant,
it grows by layering itself,
not expanding the original sapling,
but adding concentric rings around it.
As it stretches toward the sky,
its core remains intact,
not consumed by its growth,
but becoming the solid center
of each new layer.

When a tree is felled,
its original sapling remains,
preserved at the heart of its rings.

Let the world evolve around you,
but never abandon the sapling-self.
Your core is pre-knowledge.

We can all feel that sapling within—
the organic accumulation of information,
of conditioning that builds up around you,
without overtaking your essence.

The taller and mightier a tree becomes,
the deeper and broader its roots must spread.
Without grounding itself in the earth,
its own weight would crush it.

A healthy tree stands anchored,
rooted deep and wide,
able to endure storm, snow,
and even fire.

Be rooted,
be anchored.

False knowledge and conditioning
can pull you off-center,
disrupting your equilibrium.
Listen to those grounded in truth.
Only breathe in knowledge that stabilizes you.

 – one more thing.

When you prune a tree,
it grows stronger, more fruitful,
flourishing with blooms and health.
But over-prune it,
and it distorts, like a bonsai.
Under-prune, and it grows wild,
vulnerable to the next storm.

be careful who you let
prune your branches.

In the quest to learn,
we often trust the first so-called expert,
mentor, guru,
or self-proclaimed life coach.

Never allow anyone near your roots.
They are sacred, and damaging them
will stifle your growth.
Never take advice from someone
who does not follow their own heart.

Healthy pruning leads to
a lifetime of abundant harvests.

Trees show us that listening well
is an act of self-protection—
guarding your core,
your roots,
your branches,
from harmful information,
while staying open
to growth and nourishment.

Trees listen with raw honesty.
They stand exposed to the elements—
without the sun, they die.
Without fire, they cannot regenerate.
Without rain, they face drought.

Let the elements touch you, as they do the trees.
Your core cannot shield you from the truth—
and in that truth lies the deepest protection,                                             the purest of listening.

When I sculpt with clay in my hands,
I hold a sacred substance laced with the ancient.
Clay is part of the primordial soup of our existence—
a reminder that we came from the earth,
and to the earth, we shall return.
In this slurry, our history flows.
When you shape clay into a sculpture,
you embed centuries of life cycles in it.
Clay is the first step to shape a bell.
This soft material creates the curves and circumference
of the future striking tone.
A bell’s origin is from earth, history, and reincarnation.
No mud, no lotus—just as without mud, no bell can be.
The fastest way to connect with your voice
and your ancestral lineage
is to plant your feet on the earth,
and as the mud squeezes through your toes,
a song will fill your heart; it will spill over your lips.
When you are without song, take off your shoes,
touch your soles against the planet’s skin.
A loving, protective clay skin is there
to remind you of your melody.

Ancestors in Africa exchanged with the earth in communion—
a sacred ritual between man and the wild.
Their memories, stories, and events are intermingled
with the earth, ready to be shared with descendants
in whichever role they aim to fulfill on this planet.
Mme, what is the role of an artist in this world?
Out of nowhere, a pumpkin flew and
smacked me right against the head.
I was searching for her outline
between spilled pits, rocks, and bushes.
When a second pumpkin torpedoed, I ducked just in time.
Ngoana, all are born with a North Star—a kismet.
For some, it is the law; for others, social services,
sciences, academia, politics, family, and more.
Each is an equal fiber in the weave of the galactical tapestry of life,
a tangle within the Collective.                                                                  Artists are one of these fibers, running through knots and selvage.
There is no high or low kismet, only the warp and weft.
All of existence is a flowing gimmal,
an inter-functionality where each role finds its place.
Artists, as edgewalkers on the selvage,
cast their gaze over the tapestry of existence,
gazing through fire, water, or stars,
moving backward and forward in time.
Their gaze, like a Gerridae gliding over water,
does not break the surface but observes
the subtle shifts in the Collective’s balance.
The artist stands in witness to the cosmogonal summary
of the direct experience of the whole.

Mme, what does the artist’s edgewalker
gaze have to do with inter-functionality?
My Black Mother mischievously stood
in the middle of the pumpkin patch, surrounded by pits.
She pointed to a waterhole,
used for irrigating the vegetables.
Let’s say that a waterhole represents the world with all its functions.
Ideas, interactions, and every action are poured in,
like solutes changing the solution’s balance—
some are elixirs, others vinegar, some even poison.
The artist, gliding over the surface,
observes these shifts, witnessing if the balance is maintained.
Their role is protective, like the Gerridae,
moving the waters toward equilibrium.                                                            A philosopher once asked if one can see more than they perceive,
and although we are limited in vision,
experience shows us that certain individuals—artists—
are gifted with the ability to reveal what others cannot see.
They help adjust the balance through their work,
not directly, but by inspiring others to act.
Take Shakespeare, for example.
His works didn’t free a nation directly,
but they fueled the hearts of men like Mandela,
whose courage became a beacon of freedom.
Mandela, imprisoned for years,
drew strength from Shakespeare’s words,
finding hope in the margins of the play of Julius Caesar.
The artist, though removed from direct action,
sparked the courage needed to change the world.
And so, art, like a well dug deep,
quenching the thirst of future generations,
lives beyond the artist.                                                                                 A poet once said they may not change the world,
but they will spark the minds that will.
This is the role of the artist—to inspire,
to sing to the hearts of those
about to stir the waters.
The artist cannot exist outside the Collective;
their work glides across its surface, like a Gerridae,
waiting to be found by those who need it.
As one poet said, poetry belongs not to the writer
but to those who need it.
Ngoana, make your art,
then step out of the way, let it be free.
It will find its place in the Collective waters.
Centuries may pass before its effects are felt,
but that is the nature of art—it transcends time.                                           My Black Mother, pumpkin in hand,
aimed again at my head.
Ngoana, an adage:
The autonomous artist must attend to the water,
balancing intent with humility,
mindful of the fine line between
Autonomous / Individual / Narcissist.
The artist’s responsibility is to the Collective,
to hold a bird’s-eye view,
grounded in unity and being.
Without this grounding,
they risk becoming the poison in the water.
The artist of ipseity operates from accountability.
Their gaze must remain balanced—
on the open waters of the Collective.

Once a disciple asked a holy man,
“Mahatma, what makes someone truly autonomous?”
The Mahatma replied:
“An autonomous man is an individual,
but not all individuals are autonomous.”
“How will I know the difference?”

The Mahatma told him this story:

There was once a village
under the iron rule of a Bishop.
Ruthless and shrewd,
he brought famine and poverty.
Two local men,
both wanting to feed their families,
found hope in the land,
for it was fertile and generous.

One became a Harvester—
he worked the soil, planting crops for food.
The other, a Forager—
he ventured into the woods,
gathering from what the land offered freely.

The Harvester tilled the fields,
but he had no seeds to start.
Desperate, he knocked on the Cathedral door,
asking the Bishop for ninety-nine seeds,
promising to return them after the harvest.

The Bishop, intrigued,
offered the seeds with a condition:
“Return them in the exact same state.”

The Harvester planted,
and soon the fields bloomed.
He fed the village,
who praised him with gifts, flowers,
and even named the square after him.
His pride swelled.

As the year passed,
the Harvester returned the seeds,
but the Bishop threw them to the dogs:
“These seeds are worthless, barren.
What you give me now cannot grow.”

The Harvester realized he had been deceived –  the original seeds were genetically modified.
But to keep his newfound status,
he struck a deal with the Bishop:
every year, more seeds in exchange for half the crop.
Behind the scenes,
the Bishop tightened his grip,
and the Harvester, bound by this bargain,
manipulated his crops
with poisons to protect against drought and pests.
He rationed his harvest—
giving more to those who traded well,
less to those who did not.
His power grew, but so did his dependence.

Meanwhile, the Forager ventured into the woods.
Each day, the land provided—
mushrooms, berries, roots,
whatever the season allowed.
He observed birds and insects,
learned where to find sustenance
and how to heed the weather’s signs.

He tied a bell to his jacket,
letting the predators know where he walked,
avoiding surprise.

One day, a villager asked,
“My family is hungry,
but I have little to trade.”
The Forager handed him food, saying,
“I don’t need your trade.
Come with me tomorrow,
follow the sound of my bell—
the land will provide.”

Soon, the villagers stopped waiting in line
for the Harvester’s rations.
They followed the Forager into the woods,
learning to gather their own food.
The Harvester, seeing his lines grow thin,
complained to the Bishop.

The Bishop, enraged by his loss of control,
summoned the Forager:
“What do you need? How can I help?”

“Sir, I need nothing from you.
The land gives freely,
and I serve it, not you.”

Furious, the Bishop banished him from the village.
But the Forager smiled.
“The woods are not yours to claim,” he said.
“They belong to the land,
to those who walk with reverence.”

The Bishop, desperate to reclaim his power,
marched into the woods, bell-less.
He planted a cross,
staking the forest as his own.
But the woods answered—
a tigress appeared,
and with one swift strike,
the Bishop was gone.

The Mahatma paused.
“See,” he said,
“the Harvester was a man who thought for himself,
but he depended on the system,
on mass approval and authority.
He reacted,
manipulating his way through life.
He was separate from the village,
seeking his own elevation.

The Forager was also a man who thought for himself,
but he lived outside of control,
independent, yet part of the village.
He responded to the world,
conversing with it,
uplifting others without seeking praise.
The Harvester was an individual,
but the Forager—
he was autonomous.”

Appo Deepo Bhava —
Be the light upon yourself.
No one can give you light
or be it for you.
No degree, decree, or dogma.
The Buddha pointed to the moon,
but only you can harness its light.
Stop chasing the glow of others.

It’s your road, yours alone.

No one can walk it for you.
Only you can follow your own law,
for the well-being of all—
even if you stand alone.

The autonomous artist knows:
the harder they push against a system,
the deeper they sink into it.

Instead, they carve their own way,
not ‘against’ others’ ideas,
but toward the ideas that are truly for.

The word “anti-” is a runaway horse,
hitched to the wagon it flees—
wherever it runs, the wagon follows.

Autonomy is the bellwether of one,
walking uncharted ground
without expectation of outcome.

Be authentically yourself,
but never ‘outsmart’ your audience.

Autonomy is innocence—
a pure wisdom within the body.
Not lost, only forgotten.
Reclaim your autonomy:
decolonize your mind,
unswaddle your soul,
revitalize your heart,
untether your vision,
deterritorialize your knowledge,
regain your enchantment,
witness of the collective.

The Milky Way once was witness
to one of the best-known stories among the stars.
It all began on the Moon—
vacuous, silent, no wind or storm,
its montes outlined the shape of a bird.
The Moon lovingly named it Moonbird.

In unison, Moon and Moonbird
carousel around and around in perpetuity.

One day, an earthman sat
in a metal can orbiting the Moon.
A creaky voice from Houston crackled,
“Please confirm your coordinates.”

The spaceman rambled numbers,
pressing buttons, but then he froze—
reverently gazing through the portal.
The Earth—a brilliant jewel
on black velvet.

Moonbird, hearing the sound for the first time,
a wave, a voice, a thought, an idea,
was stirred.
A spark ignited, a desire—
to see the jewel up close.

Moonbird’s longing loosened its wings
from the Moon’s surface,
dislodged its beak from the crater,
and detached from lunar plains.
It tumbled out of the marias,
falling toward Earth.

Entering the atmosphere,
Moonbird burned away moon-dust and silence,
emerging as feathers.
It landed on the Earth’s crust,
uttering its first words:
“I know I am a bird,
but what kind of bird am I?”

Above, a Peregrine Falcon soared.
Moonbird marveled at its stealth and power.
It yearned to be a Falcon—
and so, by doing Falcon things,
Moonbird became one.
It hunted, whistled, kak-kak-kak.

When mating season arrived,
the Falcons gathered in restless flocks,
each battling to impress,
to be the chosen one.

Moonbird sharpened talons,
determined to become alpha.
Its final opponent was the Falcon it idolized.
With blood dripping from its chest,
Moonbird stood victorious,
claiming the most desired mate—
a beauty with saddened eyes,
for Moonbird had slain its true love.

Together they nested,
but no labor or ledge could ease
the mate’s growing bitterness.
In silence, it watched as hunters approached,
setting their nets.
Moonbird was trapped.

Now tethered to an Austringer,
Moonbird was grommeted to a chain,
hooded in darkness.
Its world reduced
to brief flashes of light and hunger,
a bell tied to its legs,
tracking its every move.

Moonbird became a gauntlet’s prey.
Imprinted by its master,
its memory faded.

Then came the hunting season.
Starved, unhooded,
Moonbird was thrown into the air—
its talons sinking into soft fur,
the fibrillating heart of a rabbit.
As it stared into the rabbit’s eyes,
it saw a gleaming pearl—
the Moon, reflected.

A desire surfaced – to meet the Pearl.

The Moon cooing,
its light soothing Moonbird:
You are me.

But Moonbird, filled with the ways of killing,
replied:
I am not like you.

The Moon’s voice grew softer:
To remember who you are,
you must forget who you are not.
Forget your desires, your deeds,
forget the Falcon, forget it all—
and return to me.

Basked in the Moon’s light,
Moonbird began to forget—
forget it was Falcon,
forget it was captured,
forget it was bloodthirsty.
And with each forgetting,
Moonbird dissolved into moonbeams,
its wingspan sinking back
into the lunar cliffs,
becoming one with the Moon once more.

Together they carousel around
and around in perpetuity.
No more desires, wants, or agendas—
only unison, before thought,
before word, before separation.

Moonbird, never to be hooded again,
now an awakened witness
to the theater of Earth.
It watches falcons on slipstreams,
Austringers galloping with nets,
witnessing big and small,
dead and alive,
without ever leaving the Moon’s embrace.

The stars, watching the journey
of Moonbird to Earth and back,
gave a knowing blink.

Bronze has a variety of organic colors
that accentuate surface crevices and depths.
A slow oxidation process
turns the surface green, bluish,
brown, or ochre—a living finish.
Every so many years, the color shifts,
a testimonial to the passing of time.
The Statue of Liberty in New York,
a copper structure,
was originally brownish when installed,
but decades of accumulation and oxidation
turned it into the distinct shades of green
we know today.
This build-up is called a patina.
It gives sculptures character,
makes them seem alive.
Patina also becomes a natural layer,
protecting metal from bronze disease
and other types of corrosion.
Oxidation makes it more durable.
The green of patina—verdigris—
even gets painted onto bronze and copper objects
to protect them.
You see it in architecture,
on onion domes and sheathed roofs.
The older a bronze, the more the color range:
ochre, sienna, emerald, cobalt, ebony.
An antique bronze’s age is known
by its mottled hues, its “burial patina.”
An expert eye distinguishes
between patina and corrosion.
Restorers once stripped the patina away
to restore the shine,
but in doing so, they erased time,
character, and depth.
Today, patina is preserved,
as much a part of the sculpture as the form itself.

Time grows like sea anemones
on porous surfaces,
amassing over years
in collaboration with heat, water, and air.
We see it in our lives, too—
in the sediments of the earth
over ancient cities,
the thickening skin on our heels,
the plaque on our teeth,
the patches on old jeans,
the blacksmith’s welted hands,
the folds and lines on our aging faces.
With time comes the residue
of experiences lived.
Each layer of patina
slightly changes our color,
deepening the character of the wearer.

My Black Mother’s hands were
wisdom monuments of patina.
Every joint distended with arthritis,
her skin yellowed from smoking pipe,
calluses—medals of labor—
in her palms.
A scar she swore
came from fighting off a Tokoloshe,
that mischievous water spirit.
Her hands were a survival map
of pilgrimages taken
over mountain declivities,
maelstrom rivers,
and ominous woods.
When she shed the skin of her hands,
it flayed over the earth like a carpet,
beckoning young travelers
into a world of enchantment.
The patina of her experiences
rubbed off on me like a sourdough starter,
rising through me.
Being with her was an engaging experience.

Patina is a thread connecting our experiences,
each one deposited on top of another,
connecting us to the next, and the next—
experiential sediment.
We accumulate like ancient bronze,
layered by weather and time.

Wisdom, experience, and time in the studio
are the patina of an artist.
When we soak up our direct experiences,
they build into layers—
the oxidation of our work.
Experiences don’t leave us cold.
Especially those unitive moments
that give us a place to respond from,
instead of reacting from.

If you deny yourself these moments
that cut into your being,
you strip yourself into a shiny object—
reflecting only what’s near,
never containing depth.
No matter what you do,
you don’t ever let go of the thread.
Every artist is the provenance
of a string of direct experiences.
No string is the same—
each one colored with its unique patina.

When we make our art
out of this verdigris thread,
it is from a place of autonomy.
No one can dictate
or take away your experiences.
You cannot receive them from theory,
from text, from dogma.
If someone tries to recolor you,
strip you of your engaged experiences,
you are being conditioned,
manipulated, homogenized.

We must attend the experience fully.
Sometimes, we know things intellectually,
but if we’ve never had the experience,
it will never be part of us.
You can read a car manual on how to drive,
but until you’re behind the wheel,
you cannot drive.
You can read a hundred books
by the brightest thinkers,
but if you never make them
part of your flesh through practice,
you are only accumulating
dusty tchotchkes for the mind.

Some people read, watch, listen—
window shopping for answers.
But sometimes you need to stop,
step inside,
and have the experience
of the life transaction.
Only then will your patina
truly begin to form.

It was the early 90s,                                                 the dawn of apartheid’s end.
I was young, an art student—
feeling grown-up, invincible,
while the world felt crazy, febrile,
with all its clashing truths.
I longed to create my own beautiful experiences,
away from the daily mendacity of the news.

My best friend, Eleonora, and I
packed our rucksacks and set off
on an impromptu 500-mile hitchhike
from Pretoria to Durban along the N1 highway.
I had just one Rand in my pocket,
but we believed in the grandeur of our adventure,
ignoring the political violence swirling around us,
as South Africa faced its first all-race national election.

Between 1990 and 1994,
15,000 lives were lost to political and violent crime.
Back then, an AK-47 cost a mere 50 Rand on the black market.
Political turbulence fanned the flames of the crime rate,
and black-on-black violence became apartheid’s cruel legacy—
a cauldron of colonization, poverty, illiteracy,
police brutality, and mass unemployment.
Shantytowns like Soweto, Alexandra, Vosloorus, Thokoza,
and Katlehong were embroiled in township wars.
The African National Congress (ANC)
clashed with the Inkatha Freedom Party (IFP),
while white neo-Nazi Afrikaners (AWB)
threatened civil war from afar.
The “Third Force” police units
waged a relentless assault on the shantytowns.

The violence, so pervasive,
had no clear line—black-on-black, white-on-black,
white-on-white, and black-on-white.
Chaos seemed uncontainable.
Neither F.W. de Klerk’s Afrikaner-dominated government
nor Nelson Mandela’s ANC could stop it.
The brutal necklacing burnings haunted the streets.

Amid this storm, two young white girls—
hitchhiking dreamers—were playing Jack Kerouac.
We miscalculated the distance traveled on day one,
and by sunset, we had barely passed Johannesburg.
The skyscrapers loomed like crooked sentinels
under the graphite sky.
The city’s belly was an abyss,
riddled with goldmine shafts and tunnels.
I could sense the hollow ground beneath us,
and as the sun sank, the charred outlines of gutted shacks
by the highway had glowed silhouettes.
The stench of smoke filled the air,
and distant fires painted both east and west horizons.

My Black Mother’s breath curled around my hair,
and from that void, she tugged at my rucksack and howled.
“We’re in trouble,” I said to Eleonora,
and I could see from her eyes she felt it too.
We tried to flag down passing cars with theatrical thumbs.
The drivers turned their heads, indifferent,
even those in sleek Mercedes and BMWs—
their business suits too clean for us.
Darkness crept in, and panic rose,
our hope dwindling along with the daylight.

I caught the eye of a man
in a gleaming European car.
In that fleeting glance, I knew he understood,
yet chose to drive on, leaving us behind.

Finally, a beat-up truck stopped,
and a Black man stepped out.
My heart stalled—
conditioned fears flashing images of murder, rape,
guns, death across my mind.
My body wanted to flee,
but my Black Mother’s breath
was still in my hair, and her howling had ceased.

The man spoke, his voice calm,
like that of a father:
“What are you doing here?
Why are you out at night?
If you stay here, you won’t see daybreak.”
Still unsure of his intentions,
we spoke little, careful.

He pointed to the left:
“See those fires? That’s Soweto.
Many won’t survive the night.”
He pointed to the right:
“Those fires over there? That’s Vosloorus.
Blood will spill tonight.
Come with me.”

Still wary, I thanked him and tried to wave him off,
but he looked hurt.
“Miessies, please. I beg you.
You must come with me.
If you stay here, I will read about you
in the paper tomorrow.”

I always hated the term ‘miessies,’
a word used to address white bosses’ children,
but I saw his sincerity—he was not my enemy.

In that moment, I stepped deeper into myself,
past the fear, into the hollow earth of my being,
letting go of my conditioned mind.
From that point of stillness, I heard her: “Go with.”
So Eleonora and I climbed into the back of his truck,
holding each other’s hands, feeling vulnerable,
at the mercy of this stranger.
The man veered off the N1,
onto a gravel road with no lights.
The pitch-dark seemed endless,
and we had no idea where he was taking us.

Finally, he stopped at a modest house
and invited us inside.
The room was simple, sparsely furnished,
with one poster on the wall quoting Steve Biko:
“Black is Beautiful.”

He introduced us to his wife and their two daughters.
I have sat in extravagant homes,
and in many a church pew,
but never have I felt what I did that night—
unconditional love, kindness, and compassion.
No judgment.

They gave us their only other bed
while they slept under one blanket.
That night, I lay awake,
not from fear of the day,
but from the sobering realization—
my heritage, my ingrained thinking.

In that moment, I realized I had let the song-eaters in,
those dark messages of hate and division
my Black Mother had warned me about.
In the stillness of the night,
I reclaimed my promise:
to pay attention to my thoughts,
to trust my somatic experiences over others’ interpretations.
I vowed never to let fear
turn my heart against another.

I, a single occupant of this sovereign place,
now engage in somatic experience,
evicting the squatters of fear and hatred.
I return to the still point,
to claim my autonomy.

The next morning, the family rose early,
offering us food for the road.
They handed us their last can of Cola.
They drove us out of their way,
far beyond danger.

The scared girls he had picked up
were now humbled.
This man, a Bodhisattva in disguise,
became the most important teacher of my life.
In one act of compassion,
he dismantled the walls of inherited conditioning,
showing that only through compassion and action,
not shouting or telling,
can true change occur.

That night, this family deepened
the hue of my world.
Their love and kindness became part of my art,
my future actions, and my path
as an autonomous artist.

Theoretically, this can alter the chemical
composition of the bell and affect its tone.
During these renovations,
differences in tone might emerge
between the freshly cleaned bell and the one with patina.
Patina becomes not only the character of the bell
but also deepens its voice.

Your voice will resonate
as you follow your path of experiences.
Poet Maya Angelou suggests that
finding your path requires walking it:
you must traverse your journey without shortcuts.
You must recognize that the journey
toward your authentic self
holds more significance than the destination.

The path of patina is one of alertness;
it is neither pedestrian nor marked.
It follows the breadcrumbs
of your direct experiences.
Such experiences guide you through
an array of existing possibilities.
They do not navigate within the construct
but throughout the un-construct—
a reflective surface of anomalous
innuendos, nuances, fusions, fluidity,
gradients, and the peripheral.

direct experience is neither lateral
nor linear, and it is not hierarchical.
Thus, no person’s path of
direct experience can be measured
as higher or lower than another’s.

Creating art from direct experience
emerges from outside structures
of truth and untruth,
of high and low,
of right and wrong,
of defined and redefined,
popular and unpopular.
The autonomous artist
is forged from this un-construct.
For this reason, the work
may not always make immediate sense,
is incomparable, and
lacks initial definition.

The path of patina reveals the next
stepping stone as it unfolds.
It grows as it goes.

Zen teachings manifest through
engaged experiences.
I encountered such a teaching
in Japan, in the hills of Kyoto,
at a temple called Kiyomizu.
Beneath its ancient structure,
a room carved into the rock
exists in absolute blackness.
Dedicated to the womb of Buddha’s mother,
it symbolizes the path through ignorance
toward enlightenment.

You leave your shoes at the entrance
and step inside barefoot.
Descending a stone staircase into the dark,
the only guidance is a rope
slack-tethered to fissures.
You take one step at a time,
hand over hand on the rope
through the abyss.

Overwhelmed, feeling alone and blind,
your eyes cannot adjust,
and you find yourself disoriented.
The darkness fills you with unease,
claustrophobia, and self-doubt.
Yet, you grip the rope,
each foot feeling for placement,
until a fresh trust begins to seep in.
The next piece of rope will
lead you to the next step.
You continue until a hint
of light greets you.
Exiting into brightness,
you feel renewed and relieved.

Through this journey, 
the darkness becomes a teacher,
each step a molding of your spirit,
as the womb of the Buddha’s mother cradled potential,
so too does the abyss nurture growth.

In surrendering to the unknown,
you carve a path of your own making,
a labyrinth of light
emerging from shadows,

where each moment,
like a bead on a string,
adds depth to your voice,
ringing true in the harmony of existence.

Even though we were both sleeping,
I wanted to continue our conversation.
I had so many questions.
In this ferrous world, how does one go about?
In these ferrous systems, how does one function?
And into the dome of dreams, I called her name.

Whenever my Black Mother
visits me in my dreams,
she wears a different poem as her skin.
She came to me wrapped in a
Wallace Stevens pashmina
of “Of Mere Being”—
the gold-feathered bird.
Swooping down in an auric blaze,
she scooped me up, and I was again the child,
wrapped in a blanket on her strong back,
shimmering in unison.

She dives through gossamer
curtains suspended from heaven,
swaying in a breeze of disembodied,
buoyant memories.
“Mme, where do you go when you shape-shift away?”
“Ngoana, beyond this world—
all ancestors meet.
Each fauna, flora, family, folk, and species
coils back to the first—
the Original Mother.

There is a council of the Original Mothers
that oversees the grandchildren of their line.
The Council of the Original Mothers
witnesses the entanglements
of their species through the ages.
Parts of Africa that are still
deeply connected to the soil
carry an awareness of the Original Mothers.
They smell Her in the wind,
they see Her in the bokeh of light
around objects,
they hear Her with inner ears,
breathing wordless wisdom.

“Ngoana, when I come to you,
I come from the cup of lore
of the ‘Paramount Maa.’”
“Mme, will I ever meet the Great Mother?”
“Yes. All do.
Every planetary living being
can be traced back
to the point of planetary origin.
Each breath in and out of your lungs is Her.
She is beyond ancient and incredibly wise.
She does not manipulate, punish, or intervene.
She loves all so much; She lets all be as it may,
allowing for every choice to be made and experienced.
She is the dale that holds all in its planetary place.

Our Great Mother is on the council
of the Planetary Mothers, which, as a Collective, is called—
the Supra Mother.
All the Supra Mothers form a Collective,
and so on. This strain of Mother councils
is perpetual and fractal,
deeper and deeper into
‘Paramount Maa,’
part of the galaxial DNA,
tree-like,
the jewels in Indra’s net.

FLIGHT ONE

While we flew, we started to micronize.
Peering down from our smaller vantage,
I see a rustic table with a tray on it—
a glass of cold water it holds.
(Black Mother landed on the edge of the glass,
balancing softly as the peacock feather.)
From the rim, we can see
the glass of cold water, surrounded by
warm air forming condensation.
Droplets of water beaded high on
the glass wall, conjoining,
forming larger droplets until heavy
enough to run down in little streams
back into the cold water.

“Ngoana, imagine that this glass of water
holds the reference of the Great Mother.
When She, the water,
condensates against the glass,
each beading becomes a presence—
a droplet is a you,
but one day the conditions will change,
and you, the droplet, will run back into the
water, rejoining the pool.
While the play exists
between hot and cold,
the process of condensation will repeat,
forming new droplets, new presences—
a you, but not a you—
an us, but not an us—
an I, but not an I—
always returning to the Mother pool.

While you are beading on the glass wall,
you are a node of direct experiences,
and when you stream back into the pool,
all your experiences deposit into the waters—
engaged and vicarious.
Our direct experiences are the
gift we bring to Her.
We, the condensed nodes,
foraging experiences.”

(Black Mother kicked off the glass rim,
and as she ascended into the sky,
we dilated back to fuller weight and shape.)

FLIGHT TWO

Peering down, I see a stream
of textural islands bobbing
underneath—farmlands,
cities, and highways.
(While we glided, she gracefully tipped her
gilded wing toward a town with a plaza.)
The plaza, home to a
stone church and campanile.
A campanile—a bell tower
housing multiple bells,
built beside churches,
municipal buildings,
or educational buildings
as a public service.
The tower is freestanding
for several reasons.
Structurally, they need to be stronger—
one bell can weigh up to eight tonnes.
Engineers create the necessary support
in an adjacent building.
It is safer for the inhabitants
of the main building to protect
their ears from decibel waves.

Freestanding bell towers
are unoccupied (besides the bell-ringer),
ringing without interrupting the services
in the building next door.
The bells are arranged in
an upper room called a bell loft,
with their ropes hanging
down to the floor.
It is also safer for the inhabitants
during natural disasters—
earthquakes, tempests—
as projectiles in storms.
The stone spire in the plaza,
a precision needle of the community,
will announce a tone
every hour on the hour,
keeping the daily functions flowing
for trade, meetings, siestas,
and commitments—on the clock.
None of the townsfolk wears a watch.

On Sundays, it will toll over the hills,
down farm roads, over homesteads,
down into mines and cellars,
calling, calling them toward,
calling to those that listen,
calling to those who do not care.
It does so every week without fail
for decades, and maybe centuries,
even if no one shows up.
(Black Mother descended onto an abutment
of an arch window in a plume of dust.)
The view was spectacular.
The East, West, South, and North
lay beckoning to all who venture.
The campanile is a silent junction
of sunset and sunrise.

“Ngoana, this campanile is no
different from the condensation
on the glass of water.
Instead of water, we have stone.
The campanile exists out of
inter-functionality with the congregation.
The bell calls to motivate whoever
is listening to attend a service.
The congregation relies on the bell
to remind them to take a sacred pause
in the day-to-day mundanity.
The bell does not live among
the congregation,
but free, high up, and independent—
connected but separate.
It is not an act of segregation,
but of freedom through transposition—
a change in place by transposing.
The independence of the bell
does not come from dismissal,
but from intending its highest function.
By placing the bell as high
as possible above the town,
its call reaches further.
By placing it outside of
the congregation,
its call becomes uninterruptible.
By placing it adjacent,
its call stays uncoerced.”

Philosopher Albert Camus said:
‘The only way to deal with
an unfree world is to become
so absolutely free
that your very existence
is an act of rebellion.’

“Ngoana, the best way to function within
a ferrous world is to transpose it.
You cannot escape it, deny it, or ignore it,
because the world is you, and you are the world.
Instead, be of it, but not in it.
All systems are like dynamos,
generators of processes, inputs, and outputs—
they are warm suns.
You can bask in their heat, but if you fly
too close, they will burn you up.
From this comfortable distance,
a supernova system
will not swallow you,
and like the campanile,
you can keep on tolling.

If you function next to
a system that is stable and healthy,
you are still tolling.
The campanile is a holon
within an interdependent
holarchy of systems.
So do not complain or blame,
do not feel disempowered,
do not self-crucify as a martyr,
do not cough against the thunder,
do not stand at the narthex,
banging, ‘Let me in! Let me in!’
Don’t make the Art Industry your problem,
for you will be caught in the fixing of it,
and the problem will become your cage.

If the conflict is in
how to overcome the system,
or how to substitute it,
or how to escape from it,
it will inevitably lead to a
hypocritical life
of vicarious experiences.
Instead, curate a symbiosis
and be the campanile by
finding sustainability
within your ipseity—
building high with patinated stone,
committing to your direct experience,
and trusting its message, despite
who is in the buildings next door.

Removing the mass-consensus
in the Collective,
without removing the Collective.
Standing alongside the congregation,
yet you are tolling for them,
and even so for the non-congregant.
You, the campanile, are the edgewalker.
It provides a service to the church
but also beyond the church,
that of the entire town.
Those standing in the church foyer,
knocking, perceiving themselves as outsiders,
but those standing within the campanile—
a space of no in or out—feel liberated.
You are by yourself but with all.

Be aware that systems are
hurricanes, sucking and feeding
from the outer fringes,
assimilating the counter.
Be aware of the healthy space between
campanile and adjacent structure—
it will shrink and shift.
Mind the gap.

The philosopher Jiddu Krishnamurti said
in his famous dissolution speech:
“Organizations cannot make you free.
No man from outside can make you free;
nor can organized worship,
nor the immolation of yourselves for a cause,
make you free;
nor can forming yourselves into an organization,
nor throwing yourselves into work, make you free.
You use a typewriter to write letters,
but you do not put it on an altar and worship it.
But that is what you are doing when organizations
become your chief concern.”

(Black Mother took flight again, and as I drift off
on her back and in my dreams, I utter the last question.)

As we soared once more into the sky,
I pondered her words,
a bell tolling inside me,
ringing beyond systems and confines,
shifting through spaces between.

(Black Mother, with her gilded wings,
carried me through currents of air and thought.)

Before the dreamscape could fade,
one final question formed on my lips,
growing heavier with each breath:

“Ngoana,
if I am to be the campanile,
tolling for both the congregant and non-congregant,
standing free, yet connected,
what becomes of the silence in between?
The moments between the strikes of the bell—
how do we exist in the spaces
when no sound calls us forward?”

Her laughter, soft as wind,
echoed through the twilight.

“Ngoana, it is in the silence
that you find the deepest truths.
The toll of the bell is just one note
in the great cosmic score.
The pauses between are where
you listen for the hum of the universe,
the breath of wisdom,
the guidance that speaks only
when all else falls still.

Those silences are your sanctuary,
the spaces where the Supra Mother
leans in closer,
where the unseen becomes felt,
and the unknown reveals itself.

Just as the droplet remerges
into the pool of water,
and the bell sings again after stillness,
so too must you move through
sound and silence,
presence and absence,
knowing both hold equal weight.

The world will keep asking you
to toll louder,
but do not forget—
it is in your quiet that you are most heard.”

(With those parting words,
she flew higher,
and I drifted deeper,
carried by the rhythm of silence,
waiting for the next toll to come.)

Bells come with engravings—
their names, their birth dates,
and on church bells, Latin inscriptions:
Vivos voco
Mortuos plango
Fulgura frango
I call the living,
Mourn the dead,
Shatter lightning.

A bell speaks,
of attractions and repulsions.
The mythologies of bell towers protect towns,
repel storms, and banish evil.
Weddings, funerals, sirens,
rapports, and festivals.
The clapper, also known as the tongue,
makes the bell’s sound comparable
to a voice, a trumpet, a bird—
even referred to as ‘singing icons.’

A bell cries,
wailing an orphan melody.
In dark eras, humans placed
iron horns with bells
around the necks of black slaves
to prevent them from running away,
tying bells around lepers
for the public to avoid them
as they died alone.

A bell sings
when humans take part in upliftment,
belting out arias, crescendos, and symphonies.
Russian composer Tchaikovsky
and his 1812 Overture comes to mind.
The long-awaited bell lap,
announcing the last round—
music to the ears of exhausted athletes
and excited spectators.

A bell does not discriminate.
The tolling of a bell is enthusiastic
and unapologetic in its calling.
It meets the horizon’s circle,
kissing every heart
between the breaths of the knell.

The bell knows
it needs to toll;
it is urgent,
regardless of the message.
The bell jows with dedication,
with persistence.

Poet Walt Whitman compared
the calling of bells to sobbing,
when they announce death,
or to a heartbeat,
when they jubilate
for passionate celebrations.

Philosopher Iris Murdoch wrote:
A bell is made to speak out.
What would be the value of a bell
which was never rung?
It rings out clearly,
bears witness,
cannot speak without
seeming like a call, a summons.
A great bell is not to be silenced.
Consider its simplicity;
there is no hidden mechanism.
All that it is is plain and open,
and if it is moved, it must ring.