5.
Telling the truth
can lead to Terror. We have all fallen in love with a technology that allows us
to reach the epitome of this terror; the mob. Prior to the internet age,
only a mere ninety-nine percent of a mere ninety-nine percent of the planet was populated. That one Twin-Spirit
remains to recall what the actual origins of that terror was, is amazing.
“We are talking
about an age before humankind reached adulthood”, the terror was in her/his old
cataract clouded eyes, “there at our genesis, way before the vulture-like
scramble for words and philosophies”, seated upon a rock overlooking the
Southern African plains, superior ruler, judge, Caliphate, yet none of these;
two beings, both man and woman in one form, yet neither. Chewing on a root,
face towards the incoming sun’s rays- ‘ah’ s/he click-talked’. ‘This is good’.
The majestic palm-leaf strands of her/his headpiece
reached monstrous heights and spread out ocean-like beneath her/him, when s/he
talked of “those who now make up a remarkable number who now populate the earth
sent away, then, individually, as outcasts, their skin that could take no
pigmentation, and too watery irises, threat to the hunt, harried to the
boundaries of each early settlement and left to die”. S/he coughed “Ah,
petroleum in the lungs, uranium in the hips… tske… and fracking in the
bones…” s/he clicked. "Look how this outcasts have survived the rigors of
their banishment, and how noble they now stand. A long time I still see one or
two standing in a field, trying to return’. The old wo/man laughed. “ “oh”, she
clicked “they bring things, things we have no use for, gifts made of what they
have found along the way, through time, cloth, beads, things that make a lot of
noise; we rejected them all”.
“It is since they
have been angry these children of outcast children, they have begun to bring
terror. Naughty children destroying the past, very very naughty children! They
crowd together but they always will carry the memory of standing alone…this is
the trouble, tske, you cannot buy your way into a group that has thrown you
out.”
The ancient Kosa
wo/man spat out the root juice on to a patch of red dust, parting the leaf
fronds of her gargantuan headdress. ‘Eh, I am very disappointed, all the gifts,
they pile up like a giant dung heap and the whole won’t melt, we will have to
start all over again…tske…next time the imperfect will not be getting very
far.” Mo/Father Earth clicked.
This is the
extraordinary dream Anthony Christ-Jones, founder of the Stuck-up Artists, had the night black artist Steve MacQueen
won the Turner Prize a mere year after Chris Ofili’s success. That same evening,
to Christ-Jones’ horror the two names also came up, conjoined, in one of the
questions on Who Wants to be a Millionaire? Immediately after, to really put
the boot in, the question, ‘Who wrote the
Principia Tapioca?’, was correctly answered as ‘B: Fatima Whitbread’. What
if, since childhood Christ-Jones had been out-and-out lied to and his crisp and
polished sentences and up-bringing were a charade? We will have to delve into his nightmarish
dreams and visions a little more.
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