About Dylan Balkind

I am a Media, PR and Branding Features Writer and TTL Copywriter by profession. I have an opinion about media, advertising and creativity and this is my place for my three cents worth.

Angel ● Demon ● Dylshkibab

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I wonder how many other people’s playlist to how they process life would sound like a mixtape of clumsy-cool, chillout-cheese, trashy-Tarantino or both boss and ohmygawdblind! at the same time?

Mine’s always been like that. Informed no doubt by an evergreen fascination with flying cars and mermaid tails. Pirate enemies to pretty fairies. Love. Heartache. How the hounded become heroes…


I know.

So I can’t be surprised when people respond to my contributions – personal, professional, polite or poppycock – with the conclusion that I may be a few pork chops short of a picnic. Thankfully, it’s generally more kind than killjoy. I think people are genuinely delighted by the opposite of dishwater.

However, every now and then, that which looks to be endearing turns out to be evil. And then, no matter how disproportioned the ratio is, or how topped-up my confidence was, I’m crippled by caustic’s cut.

It seem so conspired. That they lie, waiting. And then rather than nudge or jibe, they go for the jugular.

…it has been an uphill struggle of one disaster after another with him since the start…

…I strongly believe he is in need of professional help…

I have to consider that this dismissive, Dulluminati do genuinely believe – from behind eyes on screensaver – that I am not all right. And to be fair, it could be argued that anyone given a hall pass to wander among the corrugations of consciousness inside my head – may quite possibly need theirs read afterwards.

The extremes are likely to enflame.

And then I remind myself that, although each time may hurt like the first, none of this is news to me.

Conflict is par for the course when your mind works in ways that won’t let you marry mainstream mentality.

This is not a bad thing.

It means that you are here.

In the moment.

And each one is yours to manage, which you should be able to do in a way that celebrates the opportunity of that moment for you to add value.

To make a difference.

Because of your magic – which is unique to you – because of how you celebrate the inimitable possibility of your presence in the here-and-now.

But not everybody knows– or wants to know this.

And not everybody takes kindly to those who do.

That’s life, right?

Come to think of it… maybe I do sound like a mad man?!  :mrgreen:

Ergo… There is light and dark in all of us.

Angel. Demon. Dylshkibab.

The one we feed is the one that lives.

I don’t always win in trying to defend myself against the delinquent, destructive dalliances of the demon. But I do try… with audio as the armory of my angel.

So we push play, and persevere.


#KeepPlaying #WritingStoriesDifferently


1st look cover

Imagine that big scary thing that cripples your core, walked in to wherever you are right now, sat down across from you and began to speak.

A spider? Snake? Debt? Your boss? The darkest low? The highest heights? HIV?

Mine would be HIV. So I imagined what it would say, if given the chance to present its case. What would I hear as it hauled forth its howl? And theeeen, I get to what I must admit is the consideration that maybe the Bible and its bully wasn’t far off after all… Because I will put everything I own and everything I’m worth on it, that the Mark of the Beast is here: it is our intolerance of that which scares us.


It ends there — I promise. The rest is just your anybody-everybody’s, any-day-any-way, and in the many both mindless and mad ways…

And whether with the courage to salute a secret and set it free — because of how stifling the sanctioning of it is across every silhouette you see… Or with the war cries we walk, waddle or writhe to when we wake up and walk out on worry (for an appointment with wonderful!)…

…our owned magnifying is magic!

Because it is only the owned moments that matter.

Whether you blog, take photos, journal, run, ride, recite, or simply recognise each jostling jolt of your journey by the jeans you wore, looking back is your back-row-all-to-yourself, magical moment — between both the cringing and courage — to bask in how beautiful you are.

I’m a writer by profession, so it’s not always how I want to profess after a day of paid-for-professing. Ergo, I do this #WritingStoriesDifferently thing. And with a Love that is Alive, I thank my Light, everyday, that people like Larissa, Catherine, Gillian, Nundi, Niki, Thato, Gerhard, Kyara, PamLindsay, Linda, Bonnie, Dave, GlynnisMel, Natasha, Caddie, Fay, Hayley ‘Ellis’ and Hayley who, when they can – and whether they do or don’t get what I’m ‘saying’ – say something when they see me in it.

So what if no one is listening?! Tell the world – or even just a wall – the story of who you are.

All any of us has is what is in our heart.

And whether you blog, take photos, journal, run, ride, recite, or simply recognise each jostling jolt of your journey by the jeans you wore, whenever you slide through them sludge-moments of feeling small (and you will), just look at what has touched every. single. jostle. you’ve. journeyed – ever!

Your fingerprint.


Compressed Compassions │ 1st Look






Punctuality and I have never been playground pals, no.

I don’t list it as a skill on LinkedIn and it would never be volunteered by people who know me as something I should sing about.

My body clock, my brain, and that beating in my chest seem to have an agreement going though. They must do. Because I go back to the smells, the smiles or the sads I’ve savoured or suffered through – and changed gear up and down for – come the anniversary of all things heartful / hurtful – without fail.

It’s like they will not tardy their annual agenda (which I was too late to get a copy of, see?).

April’s always arresting.

Being my birth month, I call it My New Year. And like some reincarnation rally, I almost-always go through some scorched-earth-policy strip-down before some seriously scheduled sulking (which I’m always on time for, obviously).

As per every year before, I’m gobsmacked that no one gives a shit about the level supreme my sulks are set at. So each year – like it’s a surprise – I come to terms with the signs:

I must stop.



And soldier on.


I did, and proceeded punctually to the precipice of my most recent New Year’s reinvention bash. There however, to my surprise, I was unceremoniously booted from Jackie Burger’s Butch Barnyard Bliksem. And to make matter’s worse, while I went back to ‘stop’ – to mend my ego’s misery – I had no time to love the ±15 other sudden-failures who boldly failed where no man had failed before.

Each one, sadly, and obviously, had to be booted too.

What struck me before, during and after my sulking was the sly albeit very very thin collective who sang soprano about us – the sinners’ shortcomings. But when mine sampled the same soprano song in serving a response, I failed terribly. I was simply:

  • counter-cultural
  • prickly
  • in need of professional help
  • a numpty

Adding hurdles to hurt must be the sorting hat life uses to identify the barnyard bliksems from the brave, because only as the barely-finished fingerprints had formed anew on them barnyard-burnt tips ‘o mine, and as I was leaving new office place, I suddenly rounded on that face.

The one that I found in that fellow.

The fellow I forgot all sense for.

The fellow I fell for.

Is it okay then that I cried all the way home? Finally.


Your vulnerability is what makes you valid.

Knowing yours makes clear the coordinates of how you compass your complexities.

Ergo, realising that punctuality is not yours shouldn’t paralyse you – trust me.

The truth of yours is 24 carat perfection.

You don’t win or lose at History. Once it is, it is. His story. Her story. Your story.

Revisiting yours isn’t always by request. Sometimes things from yours will re-visit you. Just.

Given the patterning of my New Year’s Bliksems, I feel like I am my own Hadron Collider. And then the bang happens, and I collapse. Catatonic. And conspire with hope that all the King’s horses and all the King’s men will come galloping to be genial.

This is stupid. I am not an egg.

Somewhere underneath the obvious of these obstacles, I knew that this – Let the Light In, September 10, 2014 – was causing a commotion for a comeback.

Beats Like Bukowski.

Doesn’t life just?!

The pride-parade that says fine thanks when you’re really just fucked up.


I’m not sure if it’s because I’m much more mature now than anyone I know (or could ever possibly come to know), or if it’s just a serendipitous surprise, but when I saw this quote, this time, I got so much more relevance from its rondure.

Whether by steering or by suffering, we are all a part of unrequited love in a way, some way.

Everyday and always.


Between the quantities of the meekly-pedestrian versus them masters of poison, the impulse to quantify your vulnerability is no surprise.

But it’s also no excuse.

You cannot veneer vulnerability. Its authenticity is all-seeing.

So sit back. Or step up. You decide. Because your boat is yours to float.

Your vulnerability is everything that’s happened to you.

You have the right to turn that into something you voice, or something you vice.



© Dylan Balkind



My Birthday Wish

It’s a strange time in the world.

As far as the species’ CV goes, we’re undeniably more advanced and innovative than ever. But, as a breed? A class? A kind? We seem to have steered ourselves into more of a classist and kind-less way of life than anything demonstrated through any Century and civilisation gone before.

Social Media means we’re more ‘connected’ than ever – but that’s just pressing a button, right? If we’re honest with ourselves, we’ve never been more disconnected. Somewhere along the line, fear outmaneuvered freedom, which is the most dangerous decorum to endure for any man among many. It is however – conspiracy theories aside – the perfect place to position the numbers, if you are the one/s seeking to proclaim power over them.

Why the topic?

Because it is alive and well rife and rampant.

Just recently, Indiana filled my radar with their confident Religious Freedom Restoration Act, which essentially means that any business can refuse to serve homosexual customers on the basis of their rights (within the religious context).

This kind of primitive posturing is the ominous wet-ink on the post-mortem of mankind.

I don’t say primitive because I’m looking to stoke the religiously loyal. I say primitive because, if being religiously loyal grants those who are, an entitlement to reverse humanity’s strides of acceptance, then the religiously loyal are stupid.

The Bible is not a bag of liquorice all sorts. You don’t get to pick just the parts you like, and plug-and-play them for a lifestyle you believe is ‘enough’ for a God-fearing follower.

Thankfully, most religious people I know aren’t like this – but the fanatics are out there, en masse.

The repercussions are relevant to me, as would gender bias or racial profiling be to those affected in times gone by … and still.

Because of the relevance, I got to wading through some of the hundreds of the most hesitant, humble and sacredly solemn confessions of nothing more than whom each one is…

Coming Out Stories.


Only because our ‘civilised’ custom decided it so.

It got me thinking about my journey, my coming to terms with my truth, and my coming out.

I know, I know… a complete shocker to all – me and my bad-ass brut self. But! Jokes aside, the familiarity of family (and some friends too) means that there are those, so close to the candelabra, that connecting the otherwise obviously-dancing dots, can be more foreign than forthright.

So it’s important.

It’s important to me.

Being able to was important, and I’d insist on the same privilege for every other LGBT person yet to cross their ravine.

If living was just natural in its nudges, our species’ CV would be filled with credentials of kindness, referenced relief, and profusions of philanthropy, weaving just wondrous histories layered with love from the lives lived.

Wouldn’t that be rad?

It’s My Birthday 

I am without doubt, an imposter among the 37 club. I don’t know what this age is supposed to feel like – and I definitely don’t act it. Still, in my lifetime to date, thank Jesus, Jehovah, Allah, Buddha, the Light – wherever you go when you close your eyes – the space to express one’s right to equality and therein live the same legit freedoms afforded most, hasn’t been completely conscripted into the crazy coop.


These notable assertions come with being aware of one’s own humanity – and then everybody else’s too.

That’s how respect works.

And perhaps the hardest part is in learning to own your own, so that where you can’t grant it to others, you may at least give yourself – and them – the space to collect and kiss with the kindred of theirs.

That’s brave. And bravery is beautiful.

It takes courage. And courage is compassion alive.

Living together is about sharing. And sharing what you have is how we glimpse what the soul looks like.

Yours isn’t supposed to resemble anyone else’s – because there is no common denominator when it comes to that.

So keep questioning your ‘unfairs’ for as long as you have to, because questioning is the only way to measure nerves.

Testing your own is about self-respect…

…and it’s out there where I’ll meet you and kiss yours with mine.

And so, this is My Birthday Wish:

Whoever and wherever you are, know that growing up doesn’t mean you have to let go of who you were when you wore smaller clothes.

Step off the landing.

Don’t wait to wear your wonderful.

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© Dylan Balkind

If you’re interested, these are the videos the clips came from:

Coming Out Video LIVE

Coming out to Homophobic Parents

Coming out to Mom LIVE

Twins coming out LIVE

Interview with Indiana’s Governor

The Pizza Pilava

Joel Osteen on Piers Morgan

Real Men Talk

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Here’s some blood, sweat, and tears.

Here. In the way 26 letters have been arranged together, over and over, and differently all over again.

None of it by accident.

Some of it fluff, for sure.

But blood, sweat and tears all the same – as any path that is produced from a passion goes, right?

There doesn’t have to be pain to say that blood, sweat and tears were shed.

Because effort and emotion don’t come from equivocal existence. That’s data capturing. Or Kardashian watching. Or Nkandla having.

₪ ₪ ₪

They say that it’s not wise to piss in waters you’re gong to have to drink. Like that don’t burn the bridges that you may have to cross later idiom.

That’s pretty fair advice – though it should be considered in the context of who’s dolling it out.

Those who sprout it loudly are usually the idiots who’ve never come close to understanding what goes in to building a bridge.

I don’t know much about building bridges either… but I can swim.

Still… It must be considered that the predators in the water may be as portentous as those behind you. So when they say these things, their point is obviously that each situation should be assessed by its facets, and by the scale of the fences that you’re faced with therein.

Always a colourful challenge!

Because what is mindful to one man will be madness to another; one man’s innate will be another man’s irrational; and passionate to him may be needs-professional-help to her. Ergo, one soul’s journey is to another – just a joke.

Still, within each one’s headspace – each is right. And so it should be!

Why would you get up each day and actively expend your tenacity by way of your talents despite that relentless reminder called time, for something you didn’t believe – with every iota of your being – to be right, right?


There are 3 types of people in this world:

  • Sheep
  • Wolves, and
  • Sheep Dogs

I believe in cycles of living (whether all experienced in one life, or through reincarnation [but that’s for another post altogether]), so I recognise the list above, simply because I can personally identify with having been one– and all of the three.

Sometimes in greatly divided sections of my life and time, and other times through overlapping, role-playing as and when, for the good of the gamut on the go.

“Our lives are not our own. We are bound to others, past and present,
and by each crime and every kindness, we birth our future.”

We carry

We continue

We trail

We trudge

We promise

We proclaim

– and yet… we think that to admit pain is – via something recognisable as blood, sweat or tears – an admission of being vain?

Is it?  

Where have all the cowboys gone?

Where are the captains of confidence?

Where are the giants of goodwill?

I think I know…
…and I think you do too.


They lie dormant … in you.

You are your own good idea.

What you wake up with… what you take to bed every night when the lights are out and it’s just you with your unquiet mind … that’s you!

There’s your magic.

That’s your marvel.

And YOU are its headline act.

You will go from dark to Light. You will go from yellow brick roads to being yelled at; from being lauded to being lied to; from being saluted to being spat at, from favour to being fired, and – more often than not – each dime of duality will be delivered, dimly, simply, by the same dull faces.

“But we can perhaps remember, if only for a time, that those who live with us are our brothers, that they share with us the same short moment of life; that they seek, as do we, nothing but the chance to live out their lives in purpose and in happiness, winning what satisfaction and fulfilment they can.”


“Surely, this bond of common faith, this bond of common goal, can begin to teach us something. Surely, we can learn, at least, to look at those around us as fellow men, and surely we can begin to work a little harder to bind up the wounds among us and to become in our own hearts ~ brothers and countrymen once again.”

Your feelings are fashioned by your faith.

And faith (not religion, but faith) is bottled at the source of greatness.

That source is what you see in the mirror, every single day.

It lives in you.

…but only when you let it…

So let it.

Show it.

Share it.

Send it out.

Celebrate it.

Captain your confidence.

And when you get there, be generous with your goodwill (as any giant should be).

Because that’s you on the front page…

and none of it is by accident!


(and maybe now it doesn’t have to be such a secret)


 © Dylan Balkind


We. All. Deserve. Love.

Seventy-five minutes. Sourced with hope to open the book for the bored, the boring, and the basic – who have more boring to bake with rather than be bothered…

Sourced to shed Light on the lady; on the value behind the lens; the authenticity of the artist, and the profundity that informs her philanthropy; how that red-letter can – by the combination of both her conscious realisations and her recognition – start something that can raise what appears to be so ruined.


But so many conclusion-jump.

They don’t know much about the muchness – which is annoying on any topic when the confidence at which they will loudmouth their latherings is numbing. My friend Larissa says that it is because she’s such a controversial figure, and that “…most people never actually open the book.”

Each of us is our own.


And many will go unopened.

Many will misplace the masterpiece that stands within.

Most of us will shamelessly edit our own… masking it to march like a number with the masses in mediocrity.

Where is your masterpiece buried?

Where is your maxim to be authentic, defending your truth against the delinquent war of devotion that collects to derail it?

And by the way, where does their dire, darkness’s need come from anyway? What is this idle undertaking to upset?

The alternative is so much more accessible, right? And so much more attractive for all assembled here – wherever your here is…

Maybe your here is here, headed towards holding the hands and hearts of 7 billion others.


But keep a lookout.

There are always going to be those who don’t want Love to have the last word.


They live here too.


Sewn up for the senseless salutations that waste rather than recognise:


So deserve it.

Defend it.

And then deal it out…

The authentic generosity of your genius, your goods, your goodness, your gifts…

And there you will see that beauty’s where you find it, and that no matter what: brutal simplicity cannot survive in sin.


Let’s conversate.

But … behold! If you enter the bullfight – best you be in your Maletilla.

Between now and then, I promise to myself, to amplify my advancing as I age, always, and never abate or be abated again.

I am an artist. I am authentic.


I hope you live yours too.

GIMEL | Part 3  

BET | Part 2  

ALEPH | Part 1


© Dylan Balkind



There is always someone with something to say about something that someone else is doing.

Negative feedback.

The redundant review.

I have a big mouth.

I’m trying to be conscientious about choosing my moments.

Context is consideration.

A stake is sincerity.

Simply adding to the no-end-of noise and the no-end-to nausea is just needless.

And needless is nasty.

I don’t mean humour or jovial-jeering. I mean the destructive, dysfunction of over-confident dorks who will always choose to sit rather than surmount.

Problems are plenty. Our political landscape is proof ~ and that’s just as a collective. So? What are you going to do about it? And if not for us, then at least for you? What are you going to do about those uniquely intimate problems on your path?

If you aren’t going to get up – shut up.

Dignity. Respect. Tolerance. These are only on loan to you while you market the moments that matter enough to have lifted a love within you – enough to commit to caring about any one- or many things – and so adding value.

Even if how you reverberate is in the conscientious choice to steer clear of the clash.

That’s still sincere.

That’s still something.

And something doesn’t just sit.


Bet | Part 2 



Part 1

© Dylan Balkind

Madonna: a Monographic Mosaic | Part 1


Passion is a personal playground.

Sometimes personal is sacred and private… other times it is something we want to make public.

On 6 November, 2014, I published DIVIN\ADINE. After some wandering with editing audio, my friend Catharine asked me to do it, and it became the first in a trilogy of #WritingStoriesDifferently that covered a shared passion for Alanis Morissette. I think that since, the question wondered by those who know me – not excluding myself – has been: why no Madonna mix, yet?

I swore I couldn’t.

I was petrified.

And here I am… playing in that playground.

Ergo, it can’t be wrong to be overwhelmed by a passion at any one time – albeit between bouts of bravery – right?

It was MNET’s screening of the Drowned World Tour in 2001 that hooked me. I’ve always respected her. Watching. Wondering, mostly. And I knew all the hits before that particular tour… but it was the way she brought them front and centre, LIVE, that has held me since, partisan in my preoccupation with the tireless work that personifies her very core:

We can do anything.

There aren’t many timeless icons.

Elvis Presley – whose date of death is also the same day in August that Madonna was born – once said: “Ambition is a dream with a V8 engine.” Given the context, I can’t think of anything more I could say about that, except perhaps that, if ambition can be measured by working until you no longer have to introduce yourself, well then my Sovereign, Ingressor got it long, long ago.

She goes on, learning from herself, her conclusions captaining her compass, again, and again, and again…

That’s inspiration right there.

I picked up my crown, put it back on my head
I can forgive, but I will never forget

Aleph | Part 1


Part 2

© Dylan Balkind




Zakanaka: to mean go well, quite fine or good.

Sounds to be very much in the active voice, which, most of what we speak is.

Not talk, discuss or dialogue mind you – but speak.

To staccato-sermon at people rather than with them.

But there’s nothing Zakanaka about that…

Interesting times we’ve transited Jason.

To have had the forum for your sacred to be saluted, your hurting heard, and your darkness given its den to breathe in, to then unwind with such upfront umbrage when asked to give back in the same way… And not because you were unable – but simply because you were unwilling.

And then you flexed your fury and vehemence with violence. Because to hit it must stop it, right?


It hasn’t ever.


So, I’ll say it again: there is nothing Zakanaka about it.

Consider this, if you will:

If what you know is only some of the facts,
and what you’ve heard is only one side in all of this…
If what you’ve seen gave you just some of the gist,
…well, then… it’s really only some of your business. 


© Dylan Balkind

Canned Love

Screen Shot 2015-02-08 at 10.45.48 PM

I’ve been looking at what you’re doing…
…and I think you’re in desperate need of change…

of where you allocate your time ┈

your tumult ┈
your tacit ┈
your tactile ┈
your hero-worship ┈


It’s all “To:”


It’s always “To:”


To emulate
To collate
To rotate
To obligate
To reiterate
To motivate
To the point of acerbate

This game of inches…
…with margins so small…
Its boundaries blurred…
…on a good day.

They say.

See I’ve been looking at what you’re doing…

Authenticate ┈
Validate ┈
Originate ┈
And embrace the enchant that your life already is.

Good to great

And allocate your time ┈
your tumult ┈
your tacit ┈
your tactile ┈
your hero-worship ┈
– to Your Wonder.

Canned Love

What does freedom mean to you?
Pssst… click on the header image…


© Dylan Balkind

Canned Silence

Screen Shot 2015-02-06 at 4.08.52 AM


Stories ┈ steered ┈ by the soul ┈

What we store ┈
What we sad ┈
What we sing ┈
What we sieve ┈

┈ stories ┈ shape ┈ the soul ┈



Some of it sound.
Some of it to sounds.
Some of it strident.
Some of it silent.

┈ stories ┈ sting ┈ the soul ┈

to collect.

A sadness stored will sieve itself silently…

┈ over ┈ and over ┈ and over again ┈

Sometimes stubborn.
Sometimes stoical.
In song.
Sung silently.

Capable ┈
or crestfallen…


Canned Silence ┈ is not always capitulation.

…and when courageous…

That’s freedom.

What does freedom mean to you?


Pssst… click on the header image… 


© Dylan Balkind