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Jammer oor dié een mense. Ek weet dit maak seer & ek weet dit maak bang, maar soos baie ander, is ek ook gatvol vir al die praat en die gebrek aan daad. Vrees is eintlik 'n wonderlike oorlewings-meganisme.
(FEAR staan vir F*ck Everything And Run.)
Soos dinge tans staan, is die stryd ongewonne, maar nié tevergeefs nie. Dit is nie meer 'n verdedigingstryd nie, maar 'n stryd om oorlewing. Wie in welke geval aktief in diesulke konflikte betrokke is, moet nou kies tussen die pen of die swaard.
Ek doen nou 'n beroep op Afrikaner-Boere Kunstenaars (skilders, skrywers, beeldhouers, musikante, akteurs et al) om met "werke" vorendag te kom wat een van twee uitwerkings sal hê. Dit moet of 'n intens onbeheersde vrees by Afrikaner Boere wek (om hulle te dwing om saam te staan of saam te vlug), of om vrees by die vyand te wek.
Kuns, in watter vorm/medium wat ookal het 'n manier om aandag te vestig; veral as dit skokkend van aard is. Kuns wek & skeep idees. Mens kan gou, byvooorbeeld 'n digter stilmaak, maar as sy gedig/idee eers in die publieke domein is, is dit daar om te bly. Jy kan 'n mens doodmaak, maar jy kan nié 'n idee doodmaak nie. Idees... idees vol vrees noop mense oor vanaf woord na daad.
Ek besef en weet, niemand wil in vrees leef nie, maar vrees is nodig om te "oorleef". Dit gaan nou oor oorlewing, & terwille van oorlewing, hier is my kreatief-literêre bydrae om vrees by my volk te wek. Lees die stuk wat ek geskryf het aandagtig voordat jy die ligte doof. Dink dan in die duister & stilte daaroor na. Beleef dit. Herleef dit. Herbeleef dit. Voel die vrees. Fokus op die vrees. Put inspirasie uit die vrees. Neem jou pen. Neem jou beitel. Neem jou kwas. Neem jou kitaar. Skep vrees. Wek vrees. Stook vrees. Gee vrees krag.
Vrees is nié noodwendig 'n gebrek aan geloof nie, & terloops is die Volk & vyand reeds vol ongeloof.
Dit is nie die skip in die water wat dit laat sink nie, dit is die water in die skip wat dit laat sink. Kunstenaars! Gee vir die Volk vrees om saam op te staan & te veg! Of gee vir die vyand vrees om te vlug!
Hier is my bydrae. Dit is iets wat ek lank terug geskryf het. Ongelukkig is dit in Engels, maar gelukkig is Vrees 'n taal wat alle mense verstaan. Verskoon tog die typo. As armgat doen ek als van 'n goedkoop foon af. Hier is:
"Death by Dunlop - The Fate of the White Afrikaner"
by Barend Buitekamer
A vengeful panga-wielding mob gets hold of you white man. They prop you up against a fence post on the farm that had been in your family for generations. They tie your feet and hands behind you with rusty barbed wire in such a way that you have no contact with the soil on which you were born. You cry. You beg. You scream.
This excites your tormentors and their combined intelligence reaches a point where it is in equilibrium with the person in the crowd who has the lowest intelligence. It vanquishes every quantum of reason, remorse, restraint and ubuntu in every individual present. It turns friends and neighbours into a mindless and savage collective hungry for blood. Some don't even know why they are here, but they are and they are enjoying every minute of it.
They swear at you. They spit in your face. They punch and kick you. They urinate on you. They beat you with sticks and they throw stones at you. Whilst doing this they make sure you don't lose consciousness, because the best is yet to come. They then place a tire around your neck and over the post you're dangling from. After pouring petrol in the tire they don't set it alight. No.
They taunt you by flicking burning matches at you from a distance. Then they force you to drink petrol. By now your body practically poisoned itself with adrenaline. Unimaginable panic and indescribable shock sets in. You lose all control over your bladder and bowels. Besides the acerbic taste of petrol in your mouth, the pungent aroma of your own piss and shit stings your nostrils like the tang of potent English mustard.
In the crowd stands a white BBC journalist with a video camera on his shoulder and a gleeful grin on his puffy pink face. He doesn't lift a finger to help you. No. He's too busy recording an event that will award him countless accolades and commendations. He is so excited that he sports an erection.
In the distance you hear a siren. The police were tipped off. The crowd scatters. Salvation.
Barbed wire cruelly cuts into your white skin and the world turns into a kaleidoscope of crimson shadows. A young man, with an uncanny resemblance to Julius Malema, suddenly stops running. He turns around. You see the false hesitation in his eyes turn into a blank mixture of wide eyed anger and true spite. He lights a match and flicks it at you whilst cursing your mother: Mmmmssooonhooganyo! Kill a Boer! Kill a Farmer! The burning match approaches you in slow-motion, like a comet burning out in the atmospheric fringes of a world oblivious to its existence. WHOOF!
You hear your hair sizzle and the flood of tears running down your cheeks evaporates instantly. You feel your skin blistering. Your blood is boiling and every pain impulse to every cell in your body erupts into all consuming neuro-electric fury. Your last breath is super-heated flaming air and chocking black smoke. It instantly roasts your lungs and over-inflates your stomach with a hellish back-draft that forces your last meal back over your rapidly swelling lips in a spray resembling projectile vomit. A silent scream dislocates your jaw on both sides of your skull and you choke on your own roasted tongue. It tastes of burned braaivleis marinated with petrol and rubber. Your teeth crack like steel nuggets under strain of severe metal-fatigue. Every single muscle tears from bone as survival instinct desperately contorts your beaten body into a bone breaking foetal position against the restraints of knotted barbed wire. Your heart beats so fast whilst pumping boiling blood, that it continues to fibrillate even after rupturing like a pumpkin dropped onto a pavement. You snap. You crackle. You pop. The membrane surrounding your brain tears like a sub-standard government condom moments after your eye balls explode, and just before you die, you go insane.
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