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    Thirteen Minutes: Notes, Half-truths And A Few Incidents
    Thirteen Minutes: Notes, Half-truths And A Few Incidents
    Thirteen Minutes: Notes, Half-truths And A Few Incidents
    Ebook172 pages2 hours

    Thirteen Minutes: Notes, Half-truths And A Few Incidents

    By Brand Smit

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    About this ebook

    "I was born in the Republic of South Africa. I understand two of the languages that are spoken in the Republic of South Africa. One can buy pecan nut pie at the Spar in the Republic of South Africa. You can also buy Afrikaans newspapers there. You do need a car, though, if you want to go from Middelburg to Bronkhorstspruit, or vice versa. You also need a car for other reasons. If a man is 32 years old and he doesn’t have a car, it wouldn’t make a difference that he has lived in Northeast Asia for seven years, nor would it matter that he can speak broken Chinese, or even that he has written a two-in-one book that can prop up a bracket-less anti-glare filter at just the right height against a computer monitor. All that will matter is that he does not have a car – which means he’s not much better than a tramp."

    * * * * * * * * * * *

    If someone had to write a review of this book, he or she would have said it’s his most accessible book to date, even commercially marketable, although still not intended for the mass market, and still not intended for children.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBrand Smit
    Release dateMay 28, 2013
    ISBN9781301438181
    Thirteen Minutes: Notes, Half-truths And A Few Incidents
    Author

    Brand Smit

    Brand Smit is a freelance writer, part-time teacher and since 2006, master of a wide variety of websites. Born in Pretoria in 1971, Brand traversed South Africa with his family for the next 15 years. He graduated from high school in 1989, as fate would have it, back in Pretoria. He then continued his training for life as a productive adult at the University of Pretoria, before heading south a year later. After five years of learning and thinking he followed the only path that seemed reasonable after thinking about it. Two years in South Korea had him yearning for the country of his birth. He returned, worked in Johannesburg for six months, then left again – this time for the shores of the beautiful island of Taiwan. He has called the southern port city of Kaohsiung home ever since.

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      Book preview

      Thirteen Minutes - Brand Smit

      THIRTEEN MINUTES

      notes, half-truths and a few incidents

      BRAND SMIT

      * * * * * * * * * * *

      Copyright 2013 Barend J. L. Smit

      All rights reserved

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

      Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

      * * * * * * * * * * *

      Books written by Brand Smit can be obtained either through the author’s official website

      ASSORTEDNOTES.COM

      or through select, online book retailers.

      CONTENTS

      [Note to the reader: The titles are not linked to the individual pieces. It is recommended that you scroll and read.]

      Cuttings from the writer’s testament, April 1994

      The typewriter

      Jacob creates an illusion

      The truth is too sweet (for a hungry man)

      Saturday, 31 October 1998

      Foreign man orders a cheeseburger in Taiwan

      Calm down for heaven’s sake

      The apartment (and other things)

      The woman

      Bernard and the unbelievers, or, the dream of the post office, the dog that jumps on the scooter, and the room in the house in the suburbs late at night

      The mummy and the night market

      What people do

      New rhythms and old insights

      Almost the end

      An alter ego short story fragment

      Sunday, 19 Augustus 2001

      Brahms and the piece of paper

      Conversation with a former lover (part one)

      The one who got away/The eternal hope

      Piece # 245: On potato salad

      An awesome weekend

      Reality, and a few other facts

      MOVING THINGS AND PEOPLE: Round-a-bout the middle of March – Either, or … end of November/start of December – Definitely late January

      Scorching kebabs

      Conversation with a former lover (part two)

      Thirteen minutes on a Saturday night

      Three incidents

      Dinner, not looted

      Saturday, 27 December 2003

      Let’s write something …

      Bluelake says goodbye for now: A press release

      THE COMMERCIAL DICTATORSHIP: A revolution of a different kind – The 99 Days of the Commercial Dictator – COM-DIC Document 001 – A computer piece: Monday, 12 April 2004 – Not an exile essay even if it looks like one – Note to the Commercial Dictator – The end of a (short) era

      Fasten the tent flaps

      Options

      (Initially) Powerless Friday

      Houseplants are common (not that I’m a classist)

      A new approach?

      THE SILENCE OF WIDE OPEN SPACES: Sunday, 8 August 2004 – Friday, 13 August 2004 – Sunday, 15 August 2004 – Friday, 20 August 2004 – Saturday, 4 September 2004

      Who am I really?

      The 41st Thursday

      An existential tale

      Thoughts on a train

      Document 1_181104_2359

      Tiles

      Departure point

      Thought on Friday, 14 January 2005 at 14:39

      Liao-fan’s one lesson

      RAIN IN BRONKHORSTSPRUIT: Thursday, 10 February 2005 – Thursday, 17 February 2005 – Monday, 21 February 2005

      Dream of salt, two women and an egg

      Not my final entry

      Twelve minutes on my bicycle

      Cuttings from the writer’s testament, April 1994

      This piece should evolve like a living organism; it should almost have a life of its own – I just need to feed it with ideas and the necessary vocabulary. It should be like life: Sometimes it must have order, and sometimes it must be like a raving animal trapped inside a cage.

      There won’t be much of a story or even structure, except for a beginning and a point where everything starts to fizzle out, and something in between, and a place at the end in a dusty bookcase.

      I will stay close to this piece for an indefinite period of time. It is something to which I can be connected – a living organism that depends on me to develop and to grow.

      * * * * * * * * * * *

      To tell the truth, I don’t really like people. I just feel sorry for them very easily.

      The reason why I do not like people is simple: you always have to be more or less the way they think you are. If, for example, someone knocks on my door right now (which rarely happens), I’d have to open the door. But before I do that I must first open the curtains to allow some sunlight in, open the windows for fresh air, turn the volume down on my music and explain why the room is so full of cigarette smoke. Because I don’t want to offend people, or be rude to them, I do all these things.

      * * * * * * * * * * *

      What is the purpose of this so-called testament I am writing?

      I am attempting to reduce my reality to a level where it can more easily be controlled. The fact is this paper cannot let me down. The paper is mute. The paper cannot judge. The paper does not think anything I say is stupid or absurd. The paper does not know of conventions I must observe, or of conventions I ignore. The paper does not expect certain behaviour or remarks from me that will necessarily elicit a positive response.

      The paper is my friend. Words and ideas form in my mind, and by the time I am finished moving my hand back and forth across the paper – like a magician waving his wand, the ideas and words that had only moments before been mere electrical current in my brain, had become symbols I can look at on paper. Then it is no longer a one-directional monologue. The paper reacts with recognizable symbols that correspond to the thoughts I had just conjured up! And I can hold the paper without it expecting more from me! I can hold the paper, and it does not try to figure out in terms of complex relationship conventions whether or not it was acceptable behaviour. The paper is a true friend.

      * * * * * * * * * * *

      My room is part of me, I explained to Maria one afternoon. We were having chicken and mayonnaise rolls at our usual place. You see, I continued, my room is more than mere living space. It’s an extension of my personality.

      I currently live in a building that once served as living quarters for Catholic nuns. Shortly after the building was abandoned by the church, it became a refuge for junkies, dope heads and all sorts of creative types. According to legend, the writer/musician André Letoit once stayed here for a few months.

      I share my room with about a thousand ants, and at least two spiders. I listen to Juluka (loud enough for the neighbours to enjoy it as well) while I type along on an old typewriter I picked up in the building’s oil-stained and dusty kitchen. The probability is always high that I am drinking coffee at any specific moment. And morning, noon and night a small pot of Impala mealie pap is simmering on my little hotplate – filling the air with the aroma of breakfast, lunch or dinner, and fairly happy childhood memories.

      My first proper literary efforts on the typewriter – not counting one or two suicide notes earlier – provided extraordinary discoveries. One example is that I should draw margins on the typing paper. Another discovery has to do with sections and chapters. The reader usually decides to read to the end of a particular section or chapter, and then do something else, which tends to happen when the text starts failing in one of its primary purposes – to entertain the reader.

      The problem, as I must already have mentioned, is that this is not a short story or a novel. Does a testament have subdivisions?

      A better question: am I wasting my time? Should I immediately bring on a shocking turn of events or a major plot change? Is it already time for a mentally unstable character like the False Prophet? Has this already become a piece of fiction?!

      Has the inspiration for my noble effort already started to fade?

      Who undermines me but the enemies of the sincere effort?! Who lays stones in my path but the devious agents of the State of Short Story Writers and Novelists?! I will disturb their order! Their ideas are dated! Their ideas are obsolete! The world consists not only of short stories and novels! What about official documents? What about the Xerox printed research papers of an obscure scholar? What about cookbooks and hymnals and dictionaries? What about last wills and testaments? What about the words of the living who are yet to die? Is there no mercy for a testament with an identity crisis?

      Okay then, in its current form, this piece is still a testament – a sincere effort to leave behind something of value; needless to add, without any profit motive.

      (Am I writing a novel under the guise of writing a last will and testament? The possibility alone gives me the chills! A testament is an honest attempt at immortality; to leave something to others so that they can take what used to be part of your life and carry it onwards in their own lives. Since I don’t have many material possessions to pass on to my close friends and relatives, I leave something less tangible, yet most precious to me. But a novel?!)

      Next Chapter

      What to write at the beginning of the next chapter? The writer stares at the paper in front of him. He frowns. Am I developing an obsession about this piece? The testament doesn’t respond immediately. I only sleep three, four hours a night because I dream of you. Why don’t you talk to me?

      Last wills and testaments don’t speak, the paper answers.

      That’s a shameful lie! the writer exclaims excitedly. What do you think a testament does with friends and immediate family after the funeral?

      The testament expresses the last will of the deceased, the paper starts explaining. The testament is just a medium. It’s a transcript read by someone else – the speaker – so that the words of the person whose last will and testament it is can be heard. A few moments of silence follow. Why do I get the idea you’re feeling something you can’t quite articulate? the paper asks.

      Paul and Agatha aren’t speaking to me.

      Why? What did you do?

      Well, Paul has been crashing in my room for the last few weeks, and now Agatha has also started sleeping over.

      And?

      I was writing … until about four o’ clock this morning.

      So what?

      I bought a new light bulb. It’s bright orange. It was on the whole time. They were tossing around all night mumbling stuff. The writer turns away, stares at something outside the window.

      Aren’t they church people? the testament dares an opinion. Are they not supposed to tolerate your selfish behaviour?

      That’s unfair, the writer retorts. He stares at the paper like a mother would stare at a child. Christians have as much a right to a decent night’s rest as followers of any other religion, you know? Plus … no one appreciates a friend that shines a bright light in their eyes all night! Not that I would do …

      Your problem is you can’t create characters, the testament interrupts.

      What does that have to do with it? the writer snaps back.

      You want to write something to feel better, but because you can’t create characters, you sit here and talk all sorts of nonsense with me. The paper pauses for a second. Then it continues. Stop abusing me and start creating proper characters for yourself. I am not your friend. I’m just a mute witness.

      What are friends other than strangers you just happened to meet, and whose compassion for you is just a

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