Better to be prepared and not have an opportunity, than to have an opportunity and not be prepared.

TTS: Interludes of Life

23:25 p.m., Saturday, 27 June 2015

I should be writing.

I've got a trial for a promising opportunity, and I should be compiling sample articles and whatever, but I'm not. I'm exhausted, actually. And slightly tipsy from an occasional bottle of rosé.

I have tons of research from the past three days, and a plentitude of ideas to execute; guess I'll do that first thing tomorrow morning. Or later before I turn in for the night. Truth be told, it's flipping exciting, but I'm quite nervous. I'm stumped because opportunities like these are usually only open to people with the right degree or qualification, and all I have is autodidactation... but I guess that's more than enough -- I mean, look where I stand now. I just hope I can deliver at the writing standards of this prestigious company. Why I always feel incompetent whenever I think something's far too good for me, I have no idea. But I believe this opportunity was given to me for a reason, and I'm taking it -- even if my hands are trembling.

My awesome meeting with J and M today gave me the silent inspiration I needed to realise no dream is too big; even for someone like me, who tends to second guess her talent at every turn.

Ain't no time for that though, honey, you've got work to do.

I'll let you know how it goes...

The importance of having a proper and well thought-out career plan cannot be emphasised enough.

Don’t Get Cocky Too Quick

Picture Credit: tattly.com
Tina Roth Eisenberg

Humble Yourself While You Step Your Hustle Game Up

Remember that really promising and talented rapper who had that dope track that became a top club banger at every party you went to for months on end, but suddenly disappeared when his music lost its hold over everyone? Or that guy who confidently cleaned up music award ceremonies year after year – however did he become so irrelevant?  One thing’s for certain: very few people remember those okes, apart from their families, of course. At times, they’re lucky you still remember their names.

All talk, all fraction

Every now and again, I usually ask myself questions like those, and I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s thought about it. At some point in your life, you’ve probably come across a promising performer with lots of potential– heard his music just about everywhere, even caught his interviews on all the top television and radio channels, then like a light switch that goes off, you never saw or heard from him again. He may have tried to launch a few comebacks, but they all probably flopped worse than a birthday cake baked without baking powder. I like to say people of that sort let their egos grow far bigger than their careers ever did.

People love to talk about how great they are and often tend to buy into their own hype, but they never really have anything to show for it. They walk into a room like they own the place and everyone in it, and look at you as if you’re nuts for expecting them to take off their shades in respect when they speak to you. Funny thing is, they know they need your support, but these ninjas aren’t willing to get off their high horses to look desperate for anything – even when they actually are. 

Quite frankly, I’m one of those people that can smell a two-minute-act from miles away. I can tell from the minute a person launches a new single or video whether they’re potentially a legendary class act or if they’re simply a future flop story. And what I can tell you without mentioning any names is that most (yes, I said most) of the big names on local TV right now are definitely tomorrow’s leftovers. They’ve become more like ‘Here today – gone tomorrow!’ gimmicks.

All a part of the of the plan

Apart from being cockier than real noteworthy successful celebrities, what they lack is substance and a sustainable long-term plan for themselves. Like the Big Dogs of entertainment, they may like to see themselves as businesses, but guess what? Actual businesses succeed because they have business plans. Duh. The importance of having a proper and well thought-out career plan cannot be emphasised enough. This serves as your guide and tracks your milestones so that you know when you’ve arrived where you set out to be one day and tells you what steps you need to take from there on. Regardless of how ‘successful’ you become at what you do, your success will be short-lived if you don’t write and constantly revisit this crucial plan. The days of blindly doing something and crossing your fingers hoping for a perfect ending are long gone. Sadly, not all artists are willing to put in the amount of work required to make it, or lose interest when they realise how hard holding your own in the industry really is. Irrespective of what industry you’re in, you need to stay focused, humble and dedicate yourself if you really want to make it in today’s ever-changing world.          

Be bigger than local

If your name isn’t being used in the same context as Jay-Z, Eminem, Kanye West, Drake, Kendrick Lemar or some other great act along those lines, and if you’re not receiving standing ovations from countries in all corners of the world, don’t even think of letting your head grow bigger than the actual bulge in your wallet – you still have a very long way to go, buddy. Nobody cares anymore if you have a half a million pending requests over the 5 000 friends limit on your Facebook account. If you’re even one digit short of a million followers on Twitter, don’t bother bragging to everyone about how dope you are at what you do. The figures always speak for themselves.     

Personally, I don’t think we have any extremely outstanding performers or celebrities in the country – people that literally wow me out of my skull. I think we’ve just learnt to make do with what we have, and then they automatically stand out as ‘SA’s best’. If you honestly want to become a world-class act, as an artist, you have to think on a global scale: if you had to measure your craft and what you do to the standard of the world’s best, how would really measure up?  

Do what you love, and the money will follow

Another thing: find ways of getting your name out there without your main focus being on the loot. Genuinely get to know your fans and treat them like they pay your bills because they do. Perform anywhere and everywhere you to get the opportunity to be in contact with your market, whether or not you’re getting paid for it. Heck, never stop hustling until everyone’s cheerfully singing your name in chorus – until groupies and fans alike are dying to get your name permanently tattooed on their backs -- until your name is worth its weight in gold. Only when that happens, will you have earned your right to unlimited cockiness. There won’t be a need for paper chasing; you’ll be swimming in all the dough the Olympic-sized pool your 3-storey mansion’s backyard can hold, and then some. 

But until that glorious moment – when you famously have the world at your feet, put your best face on, get yourself and your act together, come up with a long-term plan for yourself, and start building your brand – one loyal fan at a time.

By: Pumzile Tracy Wilbon

Initially written in October 2011 for the Strictly Hip Hop online magazine

TTS: Project NEXT Update

20:11 p.m., Sunday, 21 June 2015

It’s back to the drawing board with Project NEXT. I feel it’s got a pretty body, but it has no soul. There’s a pulse, but something deeper is missing; something magical.

I watched a movie this afternoon that influenced me a lot, which is why I feel so strongly about reworking the project. I was a half way to finishing, but it doesn’t matter; if doing this will help put more life into it, I have no other choice.

I feel this change just might make all the difference. 

 I don't know why I do it. Maybe it's because it's worlds easier to live up to a mediocre version of me than it is to live up to the greatness that is, You.

TTS: Interludes of Life

10:14 a.m., Wednesday, 7 January 2015

Frozen.

My pen sits at the face of this of this page and I freeze.

I’m frozen.

I’m mentally leaking uncontrollably with thoughts, ideas, emotions and I can’t put a single fucking one down.

I write shit. I am shit.

Wait, I didn’t actually mean to think that; it just slipped out. Half the time, I do feel like it though. Like when I mean to write something, and I freeze. Like now – right now.

Froze.

I’m frozen again.

Why can’t I simply put one indispensable thought out there; I just might have something worth reading. Ah, here’s one:

Ever felt like you took up too much space in an empty room… Or breathed in too much free oxygen… Or were the accidental elephant in the room? Ever felt like you’d much rather be invisible? Not in an I-should-die-right-now-and-cease-to-exist-any-longer kind of way, but in an (… there I go, thinking too hard again)… in an I-want-to-be-seen-and-heard-only-when-it’s-necessary type of way. Like acknowledging the intriguing painting on the wall that’s gone a little skew and needs your attention just to be corrected. But I don’t always feel that way, which is strange for a Leo, I know. Sometimes, I feign to busk as the centre of attention in many a public area. I feel the need to make it known that there’s more to this isolated damsel than the paralysing shyness that usually plagues her. I want to be acknowledged without being seen and invisible without being ignored. Makes sense? Sure it does – at least in my mind’s part of the world.

My love and fear of people has always shared a strange and complex relationship. As much as they intrigue me and easily win my adoration and empathy, I fear their need for constant social interaction, consistent support and undivided attention. Don’t misinterpret what I am saying; what I mean is, as much as I am a loving, caring, friendly, affectionate human being who enjoys the company of people, all their differences and entertaining them, for the most part, I enjoy being alone. In my own space. With my own thoughts. Yes, this largely contributes to my usually overbearingly obvious social inadequacies when I am in small, and dreadfully large groups of people. It’s something I try to change and conceal every now and then, but I’m not convinced I have to anymore. How much of a tsunami is it if I consciously choose to love people wholeheartedly, from a distance? Am I being ridiculous for wanting to keep me to myself and a select few? Could I be obnoxious for not letting ‘my true self’ shine through for everyone, every day, instead of just a select few close companions? But then, what if my true self is a quiet person who prefers to have her talents and skills do all the talking; what if she naturally doesn’t feel the need to voice her opinions verbally ever so often? What if at times – if not in most instances, she’d rather not have an opinion? What if she doesn’t want to feel the need to care, or feel guilty, or responsible for ‘holding back?' I don’t want to always feel this obsessively compulsive in my life, but what if it works for me? What if, to a certain extent, my paranoia is a cure for the imputed reality I try desperately hard to escape daily? As much as I try to keep ‘normal’, I’m pathetic at reality – boy, if you could see the reality distortion field I’ve managed to get myself caught in… It’s insane.

But I love it. 

Apart from addressing the daily struggles of who I am, what fulfills me and where I want to be, I struggle to accept my assigned place in the world. Maybe these are just the not-so-important challenges of being young. Maybe I could be more at ease if I stopped insisting on trying to change the axis of the world; on being an irregular inconsistency in society's book. But that's as foreign to me as flying dicks. Oh, excuse me, have I not introduced you to the vulgarities of my complex personality? Well, grab a chair and a beer and feel free to make use of the melting ice that's left me unfozen. It's good to know there's working in this pen; I've come undone.

Well, hello there, goodlooking.

Yes. You.

TTS: Interludes of Life

11:27a.m., Thursday, 18 June 2015
At The Workplace

Just. Great.

Our power's gone out. And I have noodles for lunch. Just my luck...

I'm not starving, so I guess I'll make it to the end of the day -- well, if it comes down to it. What I'm battling now is trying to keep awake and sane on less than 3 hours of sleep. Yes: now I understand why I've never bought into the idea of going out on a week day.

Ah, but I hold no regrets; I had a fantastic night out with B. What should've just been a little catch-up session over wine at The Smokehouse and Grill in Braam between two old friends (I don't like the feel of that last sentence -- besides the fact that I dislike making any public reference to Braam (aka Cool Kid Central), it feels snotty, although it's true), turned into dinner, a night of chatting and a debate party of three. We spoke about a lot: Artists and the commercialisation of their work, 'unethical' brand endorsements, culture, magic, spirit, interesting writers, fascinating docu-films on YouTube, skin tone, urban to rural  migration, social castes, being frugal... and we didn't realise we were there way after closing time; those poor waiters... we barely noticed people had started leaving ages ago. Of course, it would've been great if Twin was with us, but our meeting was so last minute and on the spur of the moment, we didn't actually plan anything.

After we had such a good time, we decided we couldn't leave things high and dry, so B and I said our goodbyes to our male companion and hopped off to Kitchener's (a place I'm -- to put it lightly -- not particularly fond of for political and personal reasons. Yes, I'm a shrewd; bite me.) Little did I know, we'd remain there until  about 02:50a.m., then head home to indulge in more conversation before hitting the sack. I swear; there's never a dull moment with B.

I needed that.

And now that the electricity's back, I need to make me some noodles.

TTS: The Perfect Stranger: Le Sensual Belle

18:67 p.m., Saturday, 13 September 2014
Springfield, Massachusetts, USA
(From the diary of Le Sensual Belle)

Contrary to popular belief, there's nothing sinister about my work. I simply have sex in front of a camera and get paid for it, and a lot of the time, I enjoy it.

You can say it: Jee. Sus. She's a pornstar.

Yes; I am a pornstar. An erotic actress, if you will. Even though I'm a pornstar, it's disappointing to say that I've made myself cum more times than all the guys I've screwed in my lifetime, put together, times two. That's why I find it comically hilarious when I hear a man brag about what a beast he is in bed. These imbeciles tend to confuse physical attributes with technique. Really -- most of these men have penises the size of fucking tree trunks, but very few of them even know what to do with them. Their performance can be on a minus one, but they're often lied to by women about it, so each time a woman tells them how 'effing amazing' they are,  they make real beasts in bed look like Godzilla. I plead with these unnecessarily sympathetic women: Stop lying to these pathetic airheads. They're already convinced they rule the world, and now you want to assure them they're sexual gods? Unbelievable.

Sex -- you'd probably be surprised to hear this, doesn't run my life. It's my job to have these men bonk me, but my every day lifestyle isn't as rogue as most people probably assume; I live a pretty normal life beyond that. One of the perks of being a pornstar is that most conservative men (and women) would be reluctant to point me out to friends and family if they ever saw me in public (with the exception that he or she's a proud perv), because they're more concerned with not revealing their carefully hidden perversity. So I head out to the store in my conservative neighbourhood, buy my eggs, milk and whipped cream like every else, smile as I take note of the silent and shamed stares people give me, before heading home to make dinner and fantasize about the man of my dreams. We pornstars still believe in love, as strange as it sounds. We might sleep with plenty of men, but it's not like we've given our hearts to any of them. That part of our lives is quite sacred, and regardless of what I do for a living, even just as sacred as you uphold love in your life. I still get hurt like anyone else when I'm fucked around (pun intended), but it hasn't stopped me believing that there's someone, somewhere out there, looking for a girl just like me.

*This is a fictional piece. Any direct resemblance to anyone is mere coincidence.

I get the feeling I might stoke the fire a little with a string of my new intended entries. But that's alright. I don't think I mind. Or care, for that matter.

I write what I like.

The Perfect Stranger: Unbeauty

19:25 p.m., Wednesday, 3 June 2015
Turffontein, Johannesburg
(From the diary of Abiola Madi)

I've been in this physical form for 33 years of my existence, and I'm still searching for it. I've looked just about everywhere -- even under my eye bags, but it's just not there, or anywhere else. I might notice something that hints at a small possibility every now and then that I have it, but for the most part, I've accepted that I'm far plainer than Jane; my looks are as average as they come. Quite honestly, I don't think I'm that bad, but based on today's standards of beauty, clearly I'm a lost cause.

It's frustrating because everyone treats beauty as though it's a rite of passage for women -- a prerequisite for acceptance from the world and for validation from the male species; that without it, you're reduced to nothing. All of us can think of an instance when someone was treated advantageously because of their perceived good looks -- and it happens all the time in court as well: Goodlooking suspects usually gain more sympathy and empathy from the court than their unattractive counterparts. I guess people figure ugly people have it a lot easier in jail. And that's the way it is in the normal world, too. Call it stupidity if you will, but it's a universal law we all unconsciously seem to agree to.

An aunt once told me if I was at least three shades lighter, I might've stood a good chance at being pretty, and she's done her best to 'help' by buying me bottles and tubs of various skin lightening creams and washes. But I never use them. There's tons of this stuff tucked away in my wardrobe. Come to think of it, I might actually get away with selling them on the black-market, that's if I never succumb to the social pressure of bleaching; but I'm quite used to being the black sheep of the family anyway, so to speak, so I doubt that would happen. My dear aunt even suggested that I marry a  lightskinned black, or even white man in order to save my kids from the burden of being born dark. Yes; it's quite sad that well into the 21st century, mindsets like these haven't changed. But I can't blame her: With constant brainwashing by the media at large about what's beautiful and what's not, it can be very hard to accept anything else.

I've come to the realisation that maybe my conventional beauty doesn't reside on my face or my skin. Or maybe it does, but I'll  probably never see it until I stop looking at it with eyes of what I hope to see instead of seeing what's really there.

If people don't feel comfortable with my skin tone or my face, they should stop looking. For the first time in my life, I can honestly say I'm learning to live in my skin; I'm at that stage where I'm gradually accepting that this is the way I'll spend the rest of my life. Saying I love it would be an exaggeration of the truth as I'm still learning to overcome the years of taunting, bullying and teasing because of it, but I'm not too far from home.

I'll get there one day.

*This is a fictional piece. Any direct resemblance to anyone is mere coincidence.

Witnessing a personal heated argument between Obligation and Procrastination: Procrastination, without doing anything, is kicking serious butt for the third night in a row.

Jee. Sus. I need to get some serious work done.

TTS: Interludes of Life: The Projext

21:16p.m., Friday, 22 May 2015

My latest project seems to be coming together promisingly. I've taken up a universal vow of silence to keep unmanifested versions of my realities (aka my dormant, procrastinated ideas and projects) to myself until they are materialised, otherwise if I don't, I've noticed I have a habit of telling anyone and everyone about what I'm planning or working on and in the process, trick myself into feeling I've completed them already. But this one's got me extremely excited; I want to be able to document my journey, so I'll simply refer to it as Project X. It's nothing original, but for the basic purpose of having a 'pseudonym' for it, it'll do for now. Or what about NEXT? Yes; let's call it Project NEXT, rather. I'm going to have to tread lightly with this one since I don't want to intentionally, or even unintentionally reveal too much; I'm giving closed transparency a shot here... Bare with me.

I'm very excited about Project NEXT! I've spent so much time planning, and re-planning, and re-re-planning (over a decade to be exact... ridiculous, I know), that I feel it's about time I just revealed whatever it is I've been crafting. But you know with perfectionists -- things never seem good enough. I've realised it doesn't have to be good though; it just needs to be done. (This will take more than a day to internalise and accept. It's a lot to take in, but not to worry -- I'm still breathing.) That's my new motto, by the way, courtesy of Eat Pray Love's literary sensation and one of my human obsessions, Elizabeth Gilbert.

I think you'll be glad to know I've sent my mental obsessive companion on an untimed vacation for this one, so while the the critical cat's away, the creative, menacing mice will play. I feel I have so much leg room to work with, I'm not sure I quite know where to begin. The starting point is usually the best place, they say: Now to actually find it...

When I'm asked to describe myself in two words: Intricate Simplicity.

TTS: Snippet

It's a no-brainer: Black people know how to dress. We know how to photograph, get the party started, know of the best and most expensive clothing brands, hang out at the most exclusive spots, drive the fanciest of cars, sought out the best neighborhoods, drink the finest alcohol, befriend the coolest of cool and use the very best in gadgets and electronics. In fact, we do all of these and more, so well, that we usually do it better than every other human race on the planet. It's undoubtedly a title that's our for the taking -- hands down. I just have a question or two: How is that winning? What legacy is there to gain from this? Sure -- we get our 30 minutes of fame and might rake in a bit of cash from being brand whores while we still matter, but what real legacy are we leaving behind about ourselves as consumers besides Best Dressed and Most Monied Up Person You Know? We cut it when it comes to endorsement deals and advertisements, but why aren't we good enough to head up at an executive level for these companies? Why are we settling simply for being the face of this or that company? For as long as we're not heading up, creating or revolutionising anything worth acknowledging, the history books will never know us. We'll simply remain a means to an end and as cash cows for companies that have no respect for us but continue to flood our shores with their franchises because they know we don't have the drive and discipline to sustainably create our own.