johnrobinsonphotography.wordpress.com is no longer just a blog, it’s become more of an ideas hub on wordpress.com A DIGITAL MOLESKINE DIARY or DMD is a pathway to other sites of culteral interest that gets new content added as and when I come across it. ANOTHER’S STORY is a space that gets given to a photographic peer each week. None of us exist in a vacuum and we all live in a world where the hate of other is an ugly reality of our daily life, jrp dot wordpress is never going to be a place just about me.
Across the top of my website page there is a horizontal box with a list of multimedia stories and photographic galleries, these are not static and their spot is not permanent on this site. As I move forward in life these galleries reflect this momentum the old sometimes gives way to the new too…
Below the gallery box is a scrolling multimedia column of thoughts, links and ideas going back over the years with the freshest at the top. While I have studied at post graduate level I believe that this critical way of thought has to be couched in everyday language to be generally useful.
Narrative photogs have to be more then just lens people, we have to be broad based communicators looking for our own stories, persepting these ideas and working with other people for a common good… JR
Hate, fear and love are also 4 letter words; and by another 4 letter word, if I don’t grapple with their out working each and every day of my life.
H is now a friend of mine; she lives just off South Beach with her husband and works in her brother’s restaurant at the top end of Dr Pixley KaSeme Street across from the old grave yard. She makes a petite Ethiopian coffee that my homeopath should never know about, and with its clove infusion is my favorite shot of down town coffee. Her brother’s restaurant is a scent filled alcove, without a menu he serves meat and salad on a plate of injera; a sour flatbread from their home in Ethiopia. H’s coffee is roasted and brewed on charcoal in front of me, she serves it in fine porcelain that her friend G sells alongside the coffee beans from the highlands of their homeland. It is because of local ‘hate of other’ that the brother has said no to photos of H here, it is out of respect for him that H quietly shook her head to me when I took out the M6 just off this road in down town Durban.
F is fearful and is still the victim of a brutal hijacking about 3 years ago. F can’t go out at night alone, and has panic attacks in dark places.
Fear is so debilitating, it’s a part of the psyche of many people who I know around me. As an age we are preoccupied with the concept of ‘safety’, America has a department devoted to the safety of their homeland. South Africa is devoted to the issue of their ‘crime’. For all our other advances we are not a people of can do but a people of can’t do due to our fear. I would like to be able to take F for a walk along a down town street, to sample coffee with clove, I feel that it will be awhile yet before F is ready to browse for porcelain on Dr Pixley KaSeme Street. F’s fear is real, I can see it; there is nothing put on about it.
I will always love X, L and Y. But I lost my temper with L a long time ago, I did apologise and I am so sorry for what I did.
L is deeply hurt and I have to love from a distance. I live with these consequences and now know that love is not a fluffy thing. Love is deep like a river, it has a power of its own, and I have to love for all of us for now.
I will never stop loving and doing what I can for X, L and Y. I will continue to walk along side F and maybe one day we will go browse for porcelain together. I will be a friend to H and all others in little Addis Ababa on the top end of Dr Pixley KaSeme Street.
Names have been changed to protect all those involved in this down town walk of mine.
I describe clannish behavior as following: One against his brother, brothers against sisters, siblings against cousins, a group of people against an other and so on to the end of the county. Bitterness runs deep; and there can be no forgiveness as it is beyond anyone to unravel the resulting multi generational mess.
Fiction writing has many examples of clannish ways, stories of ancient People who are caught by ways of the past; who cannot see new ways forward. History has more examples of the same; the Balkans is a place where the people of the same land have fought brother against neighbor over issues of old. Jean M. Auel also writes about a young girl; a medicine woman trained in the art of healing, shunned by her own people and forced to leave a place due to the infighting cave men in her land. It does not matter if it is your sister or your own cousin; it does not matter if there are issues of belief and appearance. sometimes it is just a matter of the potential gold in your pocket…
The shunning of the other in our midst or clannish behavior is the issue behind racism, xenophobia or genocide call it what you will.
We live in a communal village, and we are all cousins in the Human family…
Fear of the other took the United Kingdom out of the European Union; this takes me back to the Roman Empire and the Huns on it’s eastern frontier, and the ongoing mistrust between the sedentary and the nomad.
Both peoples have a thirst for land, and we all live in the same village now, it’s called Earth.
Understanding is a good antidote for fear-of-other or xenophobia. No country is really an island in the end. Humankind will have to live together, and just get to understand each other in our midst…
I went ‘cold turkey’ on my statins, I have given statins the boot for ever.
In one sentence, statins are a group of drugs used for cholesterol control, I have been on a daily dose of 20 mg statins since my stroke in 2012 till about 6 weeks ago.
I went for a Cranio Sacral session with Felicity Fernandes RCST she got me reading up about the side effects of statins that I was on at the time. It seems to me that these are ‘bad for me’ drugs; while on statins I am anxious, cannot focus on the task at hand, when in a crisis I can not remember what I had said or did just the day before, I was also confused at times. The added gastric problems and aches and pain were the least of my troubles, I have to declare too though that while on statins my cholesterol levels did come down to more acceptable levels.
My cholesterol levels are down to around 5.3, my homeopath Dr Bryan Long is now happy with the decision that I took on my own. Dr Long has put me on some ‘alternative’ cholesterol control measures, tissue salts, cardio aspirins and the like and we will review my situation as time goes by.
I feel more alive now then any time since when I emerged from Northdale Hospital into what I believe became a 3 year statin induced stupor. Satins should only be prescribed when dietary measures have not worked.
Off statins I feel more clear headed, I am a lot less anxious, can now remember those events from the day before, I dream again and I can remember them in the morning too, I am coping better in confrontations too.
I don’t want a life walking around in a stupor, I would rather be dead. I am hopeful regarding Dr Long’s control measures, plus passing through the bright white light via a stroke would not that bad to go in the end…
I have always been a little off the edge and I guess I will now always be.
The flowered field has called once again, “come and return to the slopes of the dead once again, see if things are as they were on that day you last laid down the dead.”
Clouds skid low over this place, brooding over the fields of the dead. Mountain Rise grave yard in Pietermaritzburg South Africa is a place where simple wood crosses stand in lieu of their final claims.
‘Bread cutters’ are the rugged brush cutters operated by men and woman dressed in black. Fitted with a mask and gloves they scythe their way through the grass that covers the grave markers and wooden crosses.
The pastors and ladies of the church sway in tune with the songs of departing. Grandmothers and small children stand and watch the casket of one who should have be shouldering the dead. Instead he is lowered into his own fresh grave. Between these young and old, there are those who sell ice cream. Others parade in the latest fashions and watch the ongoing ceremony of the dead.
Rocks and clumps of grass are placed on the filled grave. A number is placed at the foot of the grave, the cross carries the name, age and date of the one who has just joined the many in this place.
A young woman leads her grandmother across the field she looks for the place that her own mother lies, picking weeds away from the soil that covers the spot she makes things as best as she can and waits for the old woman to finish her prayers. The old woman will be walked away and the cutters will be kings and queens of this place once again.
Clouds form a back drop against which birds rise up out of the long grass, they lift up into the sky with songs of life, they are not of this dead, yet they are the dead’s only hope of retaining a simple celebration of life in this place.
(Author’s note. Though Pietermaritzburg is recognised as an epicentre of global HIV infection, and though there are now over 30 funeral parlors operating in the city, due to a lack of concrete medical records it is unlikely that anybody will ever really know who was in the end a victim of the Human Immunodeficiency Virus.)