Eyeing my reading corner aspirationally until Ikea get their shit together and restock the chair's cushioning, which they only informed me was out of stock the day of delivery. A full week after I'd originally ordered it.

Haven't even had a chance to put this part of the space to any use and Tiger has already mauled one end of the rug. Comes with the territory of being chosen by a cat, I guess. And I really do need to have that tinted glass replaced. Fall is here and the sun has already shifted to where it seldom enters the space.

Given the above situation, not much reading has been getting done (I'm not great at reading in bed), but I did manage to write 11,451 words in September. Looking to churn out much more through October. Very little drawing this month. Hopefully I'm not too rusty by the time I do get back to the drawing board.

STATUS:

#work #journal #studio

… is always a time of nostalgia for me. I was feeling it yesterday while meandering through paths and back streets between here and PetSmart. The trees are turning. A slight chill in the breeze. Daylight slightly dimmed. It was also a weekday morning so it was pretty quiet. Although I was on a back street in this city; I found myself thinking of the village of my childhood. Halloweens and thanksgiving dinners of the distant past. When we were all together, and young. And alive.

Then back to the now. I thought of all that has happened between autumn last year and now. Of course at the forefront is the death of my father. I don't know why exactly, but my mind goes back often to leaving the hospital on that frigid February morning.

The hospital doors whooshed open. The five of us passed through. Me and my two brothers, my sister in law, and my mother. It was snowing, no wind. Still hours from sunrise, just minutes after he had passed. All of us were freezing, sad, and exhausted.

Sudden scraping rumble of a snowplow in the dark somewhere out of sight but not far away. The shocking cold felt good after all those hours in the hot stuffy silent palliative care ward. Odd where the mind goes sometimes. This is the first time I've typed about that particular moment even though that moment is one I think of often.

Now I don't know what to do with this thought made into words. What else to type. His life had just ended, and then at that moment ours began to go on... I guess. As we do. Life goes on. So they say. We talked about getting together later in the day after some sleep, and about how to get out of the parking lot with the pay card one of the hospital staff had given my mother. So fucking normal. But not.

la tua faccia da bandito

Twelve masked banditos, tearing across a plain on their jet-black steeds All is still but for the rippling muscles of the horses they whisper on.

Twelve pairs of mascara eyes staring straight through the prairies of wafting clovers, To a company of carriages entering the town of bejewelled steeples.

Twelve pairs of nostrils twitching in unison, aroused by the horse sweat, fear, And trampled flowers, rising from underneath their high stirrups.

Twenty four eardrums daily murdered by humming flies and biting mosquitoes, Or some blown out by pistols discharging in the close skirmishes at dusk.

Twelve hearts assailed by the fear that, were they to close their eyes, behind their masks, Inwardly they would drown in the crush of their brotherly love.

Twelve lidless banditos riding, and whispering to their horses, before the sweetly smelling clovers.

Our Father Who art in Heaven Hallowed be Thy name Thy Kingdom come Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven Give us this day our daily Bread And forgive us our trespasses As we forgive those who trespass against us And lead us not into temptation But deliver us from evil

Amen

Jesus is Lord! Come Lord Jesus!

Come Lord Jesus! Christ is Lord!

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They will wait for war Duly to see a button In naked plain and bold What through and to reemay If plastic in our trust Scenes of simple rise And total love To defend the day A pistol of obliterance But seeking deep existence For thoughts that are not known And peace to war is day Unbright we keep This duty in escape The Russian fear To six eleven In duty found This fury found Express to peace In hanging chimes alone Waiting what we are But Sun if need And gone to repeat rhythm Our Earth remain To lock our code Drills to make The ratchets unexplode But seething rain To ferry us implore And fighting back For this new year And locking in our time To hearts remain The Earth as barely near What makes portend; In other silence The simple day in starts And fits to raking stone Our jury up A place in Heaven found For what is her,- this Eucharist in light Apostles would agree A spirit of our tone And this deliver What mighty view Will make us proud Adoring us behave To paths untrekked The day will new our war What rights became But stolen thunder And to know the distance right That we will make a difference And as we are- Renew.

An interesting thing about travel is that we meet different people who remind us of the same things.

Fall in love with me, to fall in love with yourself.

I will probably want to heavily edit this. I so yearn for purity and perfection. To be understood and seen as having something worthy of your time. Thank you for your attention.

My sense is that there are overlaps and common ideas, practices, between NVC and the Neurodiversity paradigm. I am more and more convinced that they are both in service of shared emancipatory goals.

A while ago I said I would write a guide for neurodiversity inclusion. There is often a desire for a tick list of things one can do to ensure inclusion (of course there is). I wrote a few and was unhappy with my results. As the saying goes, if you have met and autistic person, you have met an autistic person. In other words, we are individuals with individual needs.

Unfortunately its more complex than a checkbox list, and so I was unable to write one. Becoming neurodivergent inclusive is a journey that invites self growth and deconstruction of cultural ideas promulgated through dominator culture.

An example of the overlap with NVC is the invitation to deconstruct diagnostic thinking. With that also comes the invitation to deconstruct the social structures that embody diagnostic thinking, i.e. to engage with critical psychiatry. We know that Dr. Rosenberg was influenced by Dr. Thomas Szasz. And yet, it is rare for me to see such a deconstruction of the medicalisation of neurodifference or mental distress having happened in so many of the practitioners of NVC in our community. Evidence for me might include co-design of events such that autistic people like me are more able to attend without overwhelm. It not being about 'accommodations' but inclusion in design. For instance, lower expectations about presence or not in any given space at any time would make it more possible to prioritise self care of energy levels. Or quiet spaces to eat. Or written materials being given before events. Or [insert things] – perhaps you can see both the temptation and limitation of such a checklist!?

And in groups I have sometimes invited a small impromptu pop analysis, such as 'hold up your hand if you identify as neurodivergent or have a diagnosis'. Each time I have then estimated that there is about double the percentage of neurodivergent people in each group (and by extrapolation, our community) as we might expect in a population sample. How curious!

Of course I have theories about that.. but those are for another missive at some other time.

And of course, NVC invites and nurtures self advocacy, naming, requesting and dogging that our needs might be met. Again here, autistic spaces overlap with NVC spaces, with a shredding of the dominator culture social contract. But in autistic spaces it often goes further, for example, it is usually perfectly OK to just get up and leave without explanation, there is trust and respect for autonomy. How liberating! Another overlap is the journey to become more aware of our needs, in order to make it more possible for them to be met and for us to be able to show up in ways we more enjoy.

What can make that journey harder in dominator culture, is the assumption and modelling and privileging of neurotypicality. By example by situating neurodifference within a domain of mental health categories. And from that comes an ensuing evaluation of what is acceptable or normative. And, it is my sense that this assumption often carries over from dominator culture, and its mental health professions, into our NVC cultures. Of course it does!

And seeing how Marshall rejected this social structure, his profession, was a large affirmation for me, and really contributed to why I was so attracted to NVC, even when it was so confusing to me as to why my needs as an autistic person were so unmet in so many NVC spaces, and even when I saw less of the embodiment or shared understanding of that aspect of Marshall's insight in our community of practise.

Sorry. Anyhow, I am delighted to be able to share a preview of some research my peers are doing. Here is your checklist, kinda!

My understanding is that humans having sex without the intention of reproducing tricks, the brain and exploits our wiring. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. But I can’t help but see the parallels on how I had casual sex today, and afterwards when I was cuddling with them, I found myself thinking about imagining they were someone I was in a relationship with. Like it was someone different than them. This feels like how I would hug a pillow and sometimes think about hugging my future partner. Except this is a real person, and I just had sex with them. It feels like I’m trying to hack the oxytocin from my brain. But it also feels like I am deceiving this person, and maybe this is just the weird game everyone plays.

Written by Roger Young. Images by Luke Daniel.

Source: Mahala, print issue #1, pp. 23–25.

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If we treat people as they are, they will stay as they are. If we treat people as they ought to be, we help them become what they are capable of becoming. – Goethe.

In spring the arum lily sellers appear all over Cape Town. I knew they’d be at the traffic light as I approached. I had my window down and was trying to call one of them over when the hawkers began to scatter; not all of them, the rose sellers, the joke traders and the Scooters pamphlet girl stood firm. But the men and their arums ran. They had little chance; the police had approached from both sides. They were hustled and dragged without so much as a question, their flowers now in police hands. I asked a cop, leaning out of breath against the traffic light pole, what they had done.

“The lilies,” he said. “They’re not allowed to sell them.”

It seemed heavy handed. There were assumptions at work here; that the lily sellers were obviously breaking the law, that they had obtained the flowers illegally, that they deserved this treatment. It didn’t take much research to discover how deeply the lilies were connected to the land in Constantia on which the original arum lily farmers lived for generations. Land that is locked in a bureaucratic land restitution quagmire; expensive, expansive plots nestled between the upper class mansions of Constantia.

The arum lily is an unprotected wildflower. Picking and selling wildflowers is illegal in the Western Cape unless you have a permit. In spring 2010 the Cape Argus published an article supporting the notion that the picking of arum’s was endangering the arum lily micro frog.

Moses Jaftha, a flower grower in the Constantia valley’s green belt, says he has, in all his years of flower growing, “never seen this frog.” Back when Moses lived on Strawberry Lane before the forced removals, his mother used to pick and sell lilies when the crops were low, “to put food on the table.” He is one of the many people waiting for his land claim to be settled. While he waits he rents land from the council to grow flowers.

“Those that wanted money, they got paid out already.” He says. “We who want land, I don’t know. I don’t have much hope.”

Jaftha has an air of fatalism. He sits in his wooden hut next to the equestrian training grounds and sells flowers to the residents of Constantia. He knows that the land he grew up on is unobtainable. It’s now a long row of upper class houses with SUV’s in the garages. Many of his customers are people who live in those houses. All of this he accepts with a shrug. When the Land Restitution Act was passed in 1994 he had hope. Now he is merely weary. He doesn’t even know what land he would be getting if it ever came to pass, and if he would even have the right to occupy it. He has been waiting since 1996.

Then, long after the lily season had ended, the City of Cape Town website declared that the arum lily micro frog does not actually exist. It goes on to claim that the other species of frog are being threatened by development and not by flower sales. And then tries to justify the clampdown on people selling lilies because they may also try sell you a protea.

The endangered frog fiction seems to stem from a wilful misreading of the facts. It’s an us versus them way of thinking that looks for reasons to distance oneself from the ubiquitous “other”. A sense of misplaced upper class entitlement that seeks to sideline and criminalise the kind of people who might be moving in next door, in order to justify one’s indignation at the horror of the poor.

The land claimants are used to this kind of patronizing sidelining, they know how the people of Constantia have always viewed coloured people. During interviews three separate claimants brought up the fact that, in the time before the removals, the Paddasvlei police station closed down because of the lack of crime. We are a peaceful people, they seemed to urge, all we want is our land back so that we can return to farming. It’s being in this position, knowing that the upper classes have, through years of generalisation, criminalized your race, that makes people run when they’re selling flowers at a traffic light. They know that guilt is already assumed.

The entire question of the land claim is exasperated by a sort of suburban ennui, a lack of desire to upset the status quo. The residents of Constantia, have no desire for the empty plots between their houses to be handed over to people that they have always, historically, mistrusted. In 2008 when MP Marius Fransman spearheaded a housing development plan for Porter Estate near Tokai, Constantia residents reacted furiously. Arguing that low cost housing will invariably devalue their property.

However the Constantia Hills Resident Association (CHRA) is taking a different approach “It’s incredibly sad that this is not being resolved fast enough,” says Liz Brunette. “We only came into this two years ago. You must understand the frustration, some of these people have been waiting for eighteen years.” But how does the average Constantia resident feel? “With very few exceptions, the residents are ready to welcome the land claimants back to their land.” But then why do the CHRA need to be involved? “There was a group of people who were very interested in the future of those properties. It’s on the border of Constantia Hills and it affects us.”

It’s obvious that the CHRA want to see the right thing happen but their perception of land use is probably very different to that of the claimants. Brunette says that “As soon as they have land, they have an asset. How they realise that is their choice.”

Does she think subsistence farming is possible in the Constantia region?

“The Constantia of fifty years ago is gone” she replies, “If they wanted to they could apply for zoning, of course, but this is a residential area now and the land in question is zoned for a school.”

The deadly assumption embedded in the Goethe quote at the beginning of this article suggests that one set of people might think they know what’s best for another.

Constantia is fertile; it’s why the land claimant’s ancestors farmed there. It is in a unique position to have small organic farms interspersed between upmarket houses. This would be a huge benefit to all. The claimants would have their land, the residents would have access to locally produced organic food and through this process, the traditionally estranged could, on a small scale, be given the opportunity to reconcile. But this opportunity may already be lost.

How many of the land claimants actually want to, or would be able to, farm is now another question entirely. Those, like the Solomons, who are waiting for deeds are reluctant to talk about their intentions for the land. Those that have their deeds are waiting for zoning. But many have given up. Others have simply died.

Ellen Deane, a claimant who grew up on Paddasvlei, says, “It’s too much energy to want to live there. I would have opted for low cost housing, but now I’ll wait for my deed and the grace period and I’ll probably sell. Constantia will never be what it was when I was growing up.

“Everything we had, we grew. And in winter when we didn’t have, we sold the arums. My father used to pull the bulbs out of the fields and plant them there in the ditches on the side of the road, so that they would grow, so we would have them to sell. And now we are told they can’t be picked.”

“If heaven is comparable to the life we had then, then I would tell you to do your utmost to get to heaven.” says Frank Marco, of the Constantia Valley Land Claims Beneficiaries Trust. Marco now lives in Lotus River, in a small house with a dry garden. His wife seems reluctant to let us speak to him. He explains “she was there as well, after we married. Talking about this stirs up a lot of memories.” He grew up in Paddasvlei where his family had farmed for four generations. “We didn’t have electricity or running water, I used to have to keep the vlei clean for our drinking water.” They grew fruit and vegetables for their own consumption and to sell. They lived off the land and sold the excess crops. When they were forcibly removed in 1964 he says, “we could take our belongings with us but we couldn’t take the trees.”

“The bean price shot up a few years later.” He says quietly. “If I had stayed on that land, I would have been a millionaire.”

In 1998 Marco was told he would get his land back. “I rejoiced. Now these are just memories of battles lost. We were told that if the land were undeveloped it would be granted to us. But that land is still undeveloped.”

I ask Marco if he has passed any of his farming knowledge onto his children.

“My father’s grandfather had that land, from the early 1800s we lived there. That knowledge was passed down. But my kids, what can I teach them? How to grow flowers in a garden? The flowers here dry up.”

The Land Restitution Act relies on the principle of willing seller; including government departments. Marco’s land is now privately owned, and has been for years. DA Councillor Denis Joseph says, “the owner of that land doesn’t have to sell, it’s unlikely that anyone will get Paddasvlei back. But…” he insists, “people are getting land!”

Joseph, lays the blame for the slow rate of land restitution on the Land Claims Commission “The national policy is to pay out rather than to get people back onto their land. It’s not a right policy, It’s not a moral policy.” But he’s at pains to point out that it’s not a race issue. “Even white people who have claims in Philippi are still waiting. It’s everyone. The Apartheid government took land away from everyone. They did what they wanted. And now this government is doing the same.”

From December to early January, I tried to get hold of Patrick Thembani, the project manager handling many of these claims, I was met with an out of order cell number and a landline that was either constantly busy or never answered. Regional Commissioner Beverly Jansen did not return my emails.

“I’m not surprised.” Says Joseph. “It’s impossible to get hold of those people. They simply do not want to help. They really don’t want to give people land. And more than that there are old people, who have waited a long time, with claims in Tokai whose land is worth a million rand and now they have accepted as little as 90 thousand, because they have been made to feel it is their only option.”

Whether it is merely bureaucratic bungling or a kind of go slow pressure tactic to get land claimants to settle for less; the end result is the same. This is not a reconciliatory process. The slow rate of land reform, the government stonewalling, the saga of the fake endangered frog and the fact that selling lilies is illegal, all add up to a simple truth: The land claimants do not feel welcome in Constantia.

When I finally get hold of Thembani he tells me “I don’t think justice is being done. Restitution is by its nature political and therefore it’s handled at the level of politicians and that works slowly.” He says that the former ANC MEC for Transport and Public works Marius Fransman sent the LCC a letter on the 8th July 2008 stating that the land was available and ready to be handed over, “but to this date, nothing tangible has resulted.” He also points out that due to the change over to the DA, the bureaucratic process has been futher delayed.

“There is a lot of vacant land in Constantia.” Says Thembani, “and it’s owned by state departments. When we ask them for that land we never get answers. At least those departments can tell us what that land is earmarked for. But we don’t know. And because we don’t know people get bitter.”

“Thembani can blame who he likes.” Says Liz Brunette. “The fact of the matter is that the ball is in their court.” It’s a frustrating and tangled web with a lot of cross blaming. And while time continues to pass, the remaining claimants merely get older.

On the one hand the residents of Constantia truly want the land claimants to have their land but their approach is informed by an entrenched suspicion of the lower classes, combined with a late capitalist fatalism. On the other, the land claimants, already poor and dispossessed, are faced with a large and indifferent bureaucratic machine that disregards the value of time. Irretrievable time. A large opportunity is slipping away.

“The others, some have taken money, some have taken those houses but I just want my farm.” Says Frank Marco. “But I’m old now I won’t be able to farm. I’d have to clean out the vlei and make the rivers flow again. I must just forget.” But he has not forgotten. He knows the land can still be made to bear fruit.

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Archive note: Transcribed from the supplied photographs of the print pages. Original wording and print spellings retained; page and column breaks removed. Photographs are not reproduced here. The portrait on p. 25 is captioned “Moses Jaftha.”

It’s dark and cloudy outside, and a chill is in the air! I think I might’ve seen the moon too, and if so, it shone strongly.

The night belongs to the frogs! They are everywhere, of all sizes and frog shapes,

But during daylight, I see them only when it rains.

Where are they the rest of the time?

How many frogs do I kill with the lawnmower?

It’s a slaughter, maybe

And even though that might be,

And even though I love frogs

Still i mow

Such is the power of

Imagination

Today has been the best recovery day so far. I did have nausea last night for a few hours, but it eventually went away. I think I will continue to take it easy, but I was able to cook a little and go for a little walk. I even went out for the first time and supported my kickball team. I am starting to feel some doubt and stress about what comes next. After my recovery is done, since my case has been approved I should technically start looking for jobs or getting back to some normality. I am scared for what that process looks like and I feel like I have lost a lot of confidence in myself. It doesn’t need to be resolved today, but it is starting to hang in the back of my mind.

I have another crush now too, but I feel like it isn’t the time to focus on one or another. I fear it may never be the right time, but we will see what happens. I am terrible at initiating things so I don’t really know what next steps here would be.

All I know, is that everything will work out and I will figure it out. I know it sounds cheesy, but I do believe things are always working out for me exactly how they are supposed to.

Thank you for your message. I am currently out of office — but not for much longer.

I still think of you every October 1st.

It's been 11 years since you've been gone but I take comfort in knowing that you can finally see that I did it all for you.

That’s what love does to people, doesn't it? Sometimes the deepest & purest love makes you do crazy things.

Meaning..………

At least I’m not shallow.

Well, if that’s the case, I guess I don’t mind being called crazy.

Because YOU WERE WORTH IT, that’s why!

And…………

THAT is why I did it all – for YOU...

🌟💔🌟💔🌟💔🌟