Ugandan War

The word impunity has popped up a lot of late. I had to look it up. The Leaders of East Africa are killing with impunity. (at first, I thought it was some kind of nerve agent...impunity gas maybe or something like that? I hate you, I hate you..I'm going to kill you with impunity like they do in East Africa.)

*Impunity meaning exemption from punishment or freedom from the injurious consequences of an action.

I mention "Impunity" because it implies some kind of acceptance by World Leaders. It implies that those in their Offices, (those without jobs, as Mister Daniel would say) are giving the Leaders of East Africa a thumbs up; even going as far as to note, that those that are capable of such monstrous acts are model citizens and should be emulated right across the region.  

Tony Blair is the Political Advisor to Paul Kigame of Rwanda and lovely-fluffy Tony is doing it for FREE! Read between the lines here people...."Bloodshed" is Tony's Specialty. Once the "White Monkey" gets a taste for killing of course he'll happily do it for free. Where better than Rwanda, global experts in this field.  

Once we begin to understand that human life is a BUSINESS we are now getting closer to the truth. Daniel states, WAR IS A BUSINESS...African lives are being used as bargaining chips to pull the heart strings of the UN...as some white hotel owner in Kampala told me with a smile, "BLOOD IS READ!" The phrase "blood is read" means the more you kill the more media you receive...and it takes a lot of killing to make International headlines. Rwanda was just a taste of what is to come.

Are we so blind that we cannot see? There are massacres, genocides and holocausts happening today being executed by mass-murderering Leaders in seats reserved in the United Nations in New York City. There is a silent world war happening; where the more kills you make, the more Aid you create.

So this is what I learned from my travels. Africa is on the Rise but the cost of Development and Modernization comes with Great Rivers of African Blood.

Here is an interview about the War in Uganda, up in the North, which I shot, rather unprofessionally, with Quentin, the interviewer who is talking to Mister Daniel. 

*NB: It is important to note how brave these men are in speaking at this time, 2017. The country is under constant surveillance and many people have simply disappeared, so a huge "THANK YOU"  Gentlemen.

PART 2 ~ JOSEPH KONY | What is important to note here is why would the Ugandan Government have a State Funeral for a Warlord's Mother? Clearly to those in the North and Greater North they see War as a business and the more kills you make the more Aid you create. 

  

Ugandan Modernization

Musical Language | Musical Ghosts

Musical Ghosts by Joe Pollitt

Dear Editor of The Guardian,

To me, the keyboard is a piano and I the composer; making sense out of letters, the jumbled up words that sound nonsensical. The baloney sounds that shriek from the rooftops and those fluid gobbledygooks, the sloppy jibber-jabbers and mind dingalingers, the domdomdrops coupled with the old Frosbyflop, take-off and flyover.

Fingers tinkering on the ivories ~ stroking the notes with authority ~ gently touching the keys with controlled passion, as the writer tries to make his words speak for themselves. Then all of a sudden the keyboard becomes a drum-kit as it beats out the rapper tapper dodar and double-do-deday with the boom chap tapper, the tile tip topper, the thinga-me-jig, the two time loser, the big fat boozer, the good of the two, the best of the rest, the no good drinker, the top hat thinker, pinker, sinker, linka and dodopatti-day. 

Then the keyboard turns into a violin without strings. A cold slap snapper, a chick flick meeting, a sidedish, swordswipe, tongue-licking-peedee. I'll have a far flung dodee, a fat cat seeme, a boasemassimi dodar, a rum-bum-dobee, a first-time taka, a digga-de-do feedme, a pill-poppin yippee, a silly, dizzy hippy, a down on my luck seesaw, a swing by me Judy, a tea-total jambee, a washedout swinga, alost out dodee, a sweet sandwich eata, a popswinging teacher, and then at the end of the day it was time for a quick snooze infront of the newsbox doda, a snoozeme Granny, a wetdown puppy, a wicked cup of coco, a mocka-choca-medee before bedtime stories and out with the lights before 10pm2am sharp.

I touch-type and punch every key to make sense of the way the world is now, if not for you, then for me.

(For my dear friend | Simon Wajcenberg)

Are you Qualified to SPEAK?

For quite some time I have been feeling a little despondent; it is mainly to do with this idea of the “Institutionalization of African Art”. Writing out an oral culture, which is clearly impossible, an oxymoron in fact. This talk really harps back to the days of dependency and that omnipresent hangover of Colonialism. The questioning of, who exactly is qualified to talk on the subject of Africa? This is a matter of control. It is an ugly way to find order and gain rights to have opinions and what and whose opinions matter? To take charge of the way in which the words are placed and what phraseologies work best, sadly now, these inconsequential issues are of enormous importance. This maybe so today, but was never so in the recent past or beforehand. Personally, my passion for Contemporary African Art stems from the easy ignorance, that enlightening lack of education and the freedom to play with the idea of a brave new world. Its very strength lay in its lawlessness and nonconformity. There was no decorum or airs and graces; this gave the whole environment a sense of liberation, an awareness of an incredible newness, something unique and special with ideas that where inclusive and at the same time, that quintessential accessibility to the creators of the artworks too. Initially, unbeknown to me, this “Otherness” was a door that I had been blindingly seeking my entire adult-life. Today, the artists who are being bestowed grants and awards are simply over-qualified, many have done their MFA, Masters in Fine Art, some have even gone as far as doing PhD’s, so the whole idea of Africa is now leaning towards the academics, the historians, the wealthy educated privileged and drifting quickly away from supporting the true, original, raw and authentic impoverished artists. So, with that in mind I wrote this today...

Heartbroken, that is the word I was looking for. The wilderness has been tamed; the crops sprayed with chemicals, the water-table contaminated and those in control just sit back and smile. All that is free must be repackaged, forced into a certain thought process and caged, surrounded by newly built fences, making everything so exclusive and therefore precious. Awards dished out to those that stay on-the tracks and those compromised few, so willing to play by the rules are highly rewarded. Elitism has well and truly won, she has her claws embedded into the undomesticated; constantly polishing the unruly, finding every kind of fault in nature and reshaping to make a square pegs fit into round holes. The passionate have been de-fanged, their poison bled out, rendering their potent-sting useless. What good is life on earth when all life is instructed to do as they’re told by voices of authority; overlooked by cameras on every street enforcing draconian reliance of a bygone era. The time to riot was yesterday; today we have all but destroyed ourselves. Clap as hard as you can, in order to see us out with a BANG.

Salisbury and Gary in Captivity

When out walking my brother's dog, Cordelia (Cordy) around Bewl reservoir, I found a baby tawny owl that had been pushed or fallen out of the nest. Unbeknown to me, but the area is contaminated with poisonous green algae, lethal for the wildlife and even dangerous for humans causing rashing, vomiting and and and. We escaped with our lives and I decided to celebrate by naming my beautiful baby, "Salisbury" and took himher off to a rescue centre nearby, called Folly, a wildlife hospital..they immediately screamed, "bring me a headless chick and chop it up good and fine now and be sure to leave the feathers," was the cry from the young lady, Sandie, now in charge of my newborn. Within a minute Sandie, forced open Sailsbury's blue beak and with tweezers fed the wild fluffy carnivore....I left feeling a little bewildered and wondering who saves the chicks? That aside, this was an exciting day and I'm delighted Salisbury has been given a second chance at life, a new start and of course, we all need more of that! XX #Salisbury Salisbury, Wiltshire

When big brother came out I was amazed about how many people wanted to watch people sleeping in a room? Go figure..so tomorrow I am going to speak with Folly and ask some techheads (Luke Dunn) to see if we can get some headcams for Gary and Salisbury, the two tawny owls at Folly Wildlife Rescue Centre. I want to stream them live and then put advertisements every 30 minutes throughout the day...to raise money for the Centre..They are only there for a Month... https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=671399933251569&set=p.671399933251569&type=3&theater #Salisbury #Techies #Techheads #Geeks #Editors #Videos #camcorders #wildlife #tawnyowls #mypeople 

Salisbury is at the back and Gary is being HARD at the front.

IMPORTANCE OF LIGHT

Light on the Sea | Agadir, Maroc

Smoke and mirrors, lies and deceit, bright sparks playing with fire. Double-takes and blindsiding those that should find out that the stories told are falsehoods and terrifying fairy tales. Dying energy, the beams are fading, turning into dim embers of golden days gone by. The old order is dwindling, ever closer to the end, as that arrogant outdated supremacy ceases to burn as brightly as before. Counting down the days, that surely must be numbered, snuffing out the candles and replacing them anew. Lights of every kind, omnipotent light that illumination, that luminous light that shines, and flares into every corner. The contingent reality of our Celestial powers within the infinite enlightened Cosmos. Revealing the tendency to oppress the primitive and celebrate the unworthy.  Seraphim bring purity to our unblinking eyes, seeing truths where darkness overshadowed certainty, coining belittling narratives. Fabrications of what serves best for the few, those devious make-believes, deemed worthy by ambitious, cunning writers, turning fiction into fact.

The Nanny State, control-freaks, “Witch Doctors” with their multiple bags of tricks and ‘sandpit workshops’, building blocks of innovation. Motivational speakers and lifestyle gurus', coaching ugly ideas of ownership, brazenly spouting that privilege is merely for the few, hardly for the many. Laughing through their implanted back teeth, tongue-in-cheek whilst gainfully snorting through their noses. The Champagne Charlies with Oxbridge haircuts. Intellectual property rights, mental strategies, brainstorming in ‘think tanks’ devising vile and cruel human experiments.  Logos and catch-phrases, sound-bites and sloppy orgasmic undertones with every filthy lecture. Edward Bernays the "double nephew” of the incestuous Viennese psychoanalyst Freud and his Century of Self, in an ‘Age of Mass Democracy’. Hypocrisy with divisive intent to rule the one, fcuk them all. Power is contagious, dangerous and monstrous with ethnic cleansing disguised as humanitarian Aid as the culling of the Africans is set to continue. 

Reptilian minds with their Lizhard tails; when mentioned, ignored, neglected, pushed aside, rejected and seen as ‘Conspiracy Theorists’ with their fake news. Phraseology with the ultimate goal of causing global media censorship. Edward de Bono and his lateral thinking.  We are blinded by the light, a form of disinformation, a blackout, curfew for the populace. An illusion, confusion, the Bavarian Illuminati. Elite ivy-leaguers, integrating with the top brass on the High-Table, feeding-off fattened swans adeptly scooped from mucky Hudson waters. Neuro-linguistic programming, psycho-babble, cognitive behavioural therapy of our present imperfect continuous tense everyday lives. Committees and Gentleman Clubs, breakfast power meets, Crisis with Isis, terrorism and bombs ready to explode on every street corner. Privacy, insanity mixed with secrecy and all-the-while, being unknowingly hypnotised into an altered state of false happiness by ‘Wisemen’, re-engineering our every thought. God forbid we challenge the way it always will be. (Click fingers) And we’re back in the room.

JP. 2018

LOVE LETTER TO MYSELF

FIRES CREATED BY THE CATTLE KEEPERS OF NORTHERN UGANDA

A Love Letter To Myself.

Dear Joe,

There is no medicine, no pill or gullible fool with letters after their names can wipe away my anguish and in some perverse way I relish it, nurture it even. I simply hold it as my own as I try unsuccessfully to work through the pain and stand firm for all those tiny things I value so highly. I am but myself, none will come after me, when I am gone I will basically cease to be. There seems to be an emptiness inside of me. 

I thought at first I could write it off, write it out of me, but it seems to be growing. It is a loneliness, a sense of isolation and others judging, pointing with angry faces, yet none of them know me, they don’t want to know me, they just seem to want to judge me, mindlessly.  Is this my imagination working overtime or is it my unhappiness shining through, I just can’t tell? 

I seem to be trapped in a place I refuse to call my home. Nobody here is like me. The odd man out, the weirdo, there’s always one and here it seems to be me. I have never felt this meaningless before and it is beginning to show on my face. I can no longer hide my misery in public. That skip in my step has gone, replaced by a shuffle now, as if waiting for life to finish me off. Maybe this mood will pass and I will forget the agony of these moments alone, the sad, unshared discord that makes me so incredibly sick. 

I wish I had a friend to share my melancholy with, that lonely sense of grieving over a life that has not yet ended. This slow excruciating death that has no sickness attached, hours spent writing and finding no readers, with all these reams of wasted days soon forgotten. I gently rock myself in my director’s chair, trying desperately to think of better times. Will I ever love again or be loved or have those chances all put disappeared? Is this what life is like when all is lost and the future seems so cold and alone, like gazing into a pointless well and just wanting to fall in and be consumed by the void that seems to be the latter part of a life lived so poorly?

This is but a phase, a necessary process, a passage of time we must endure, the growing pains of coming to terms with middle age. That depressing knowledge, that your future is shorter than your past. Like the bald eagles from Mexico, Northern America and Canada, who courageously pluck their own old rotten feathers then carefully rips off their talons and have to break their sharp beaks in their forties, smashing them relentlessly on the cliff faced rocks in order to live for a further thirty years. If this dreadful process is not done, they too, will fall from the sky and be no more. Or perhaps like the snakes in the deserts of Africa that shed their skins whilst crawling sorely on their bellies in order to gain that necessary change in order to survive. We humans are no different, we also have to suffer in the passing of time and regretfully accept that heartbreaking end of that wonderful sense of eternal youth. We must gracefully come to terms with the knowing nothing will quite be as it was in those brighter, hopeful days of yesterday.  So we must be patient and embrace this solitary transformation and have confidence in seeing what our tomorrows will brings…..

Best wishes old friends. Hugs and kisses from me. XOX