William Butler Yeats:

          All the words that I utter,
             And all the words that I write
          Must spread out their wings untiring,
             And never rest in their flight,
          Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,
             And sing to you in the night,
          Beyond where the waters are moving,
             Storm-darken'd or starry bright.

"The first time someone shows you who they are, believe them."

The much revered Maya Angelou pointed out to us.  But when you're as foolish an undercover over-lover as I am, you will keep rendering chances to the same person's same mistakes over and over and over again.  You pray, at each time you're called to question their integrity, that this instance will not be like the other times, they will prove you differently, otherwise; I mean, they apologised the last time, surely nobody repeatedly offends with the very same sting.  

Yet, there is an inherent inclination to believe in only the utmost good somebody can offer; you want to believe that they didn't mean it that other time, but then... What do they do?  They disappoint you again.

You keep taking the kicks.

You wave your hand, in your best nonchalant and unhurt manner, to the air beside your face, telling them, No, it's okay,  I understand.  Yes, I do.  Totally.  Next time we'll get it right.

So you walk away—fully knowing you should have said something about the hurt that is mounting up inside of you.  You should have mentioned how you can no longer accept the disappointments because you've lost count of the amount of I'll-make-it-up-to-yous they owe you.  If you did not want to cause unnecessary friction between you two then you could have, in the very least, hinted at the gnawing feeling of a threat hanging over your relationship, a threat chewing at the very fragile fabrics of what you believe to be a mutual caring, sharing and understanding.  But, no.

You swallow the salt of choked-back tears and stare your anger into the ground and you keep walking. 

Creating a distance between you that surpasses the physical; you trust a little less, laugh a little less—your love wanes...

So, these arrived today:

These complete the bulk of my coursework for the next four months.  Of the lot are two plays, two books of poetry (which I am most pleased about), and two are verse-type narratives written in Anglo-Saxon language; of which one is Middle English (legible) and the other, Beowulf, Old English (illegible).

Now, The Lord of the Rings, which took the wind out of my sails when I learnt that I'll be reading it, will be studied contrapuntally to the other most-original books of literature.  To shortly sum up the trilogy's purpose: they are the contemporary response to the old – or rather ancient, even archaic, but surprisingly still relevant and evident in today's ways – culture and ideas (of religious, social, and cultural and and conversation). 

Here are very unprofessionally taken photographs of the Beowulf text and from the Canterbury Tales, to give you an idea of what's been contributing to my ever-increasing insanity.

To the right: Beowulf.  As of now, I've only seen its film adaptation.  I won't lie, I enjoyed watching it. (I am generally a read-the-book-first type of person, however, ahem, this occasion of medieval/renaissance lit proved to be the exception to my rule.)

To the left: Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales.  I am meant to read all these thousands and thousands of Middle English lines untranslated and convert it into my own understanding via poetry, or prose (which is quite a fun way of stretching one's imaginative muscles).                                                         One of my favourite prologues so far, to be honest, I haven't read many of them, is The Wife of Bath's.  Read it here, in English you'd understand: Wife of Bath's Prologue – If you have ever heard of proto-feminism (feminist philosophies before "feminism," prior to the 20th century), this is it.  And bear in mind too, this is centuries before Shakespeare's Taming of the Shrew, which is widely known and believed to be the very first subject matter of feminism in literature of the Western world traditions. 

There is a world of references in these texts at my disposal to use in my writing.  I am a born-researcher, so I am able to read one word and go on to discover a world of possibilities beyond its singular language, meaning, context.  I love that.  It makes for a long road of reading, watching, listening, observing, channeling... but it's worth the miles.  Now, if I could only find the time to write...

The trouble with to-read lists

If ever there was a list that is impossible to complete, it's the TO–READ list.

Therefore, I have decided to list all the books I've yet to read or have been recommended to, on my blog.  Not only will this help me to keep an orderly track of them all (I've too many notebooks and make scraps of notes and recommendations all over the place, I subsequently forget about or lose them altogether) but it will serve as a spot for other readers looking for books to read.
In addition to these lists, I will also post a list of the books I have read.  I, unfortunately, cannot keep up with writing read reflections for all the novels, plays or poems I engage, so this list will at least enable you to have an idea of those that I have.  And it's never too late to do a reflection on a read, so then I could just select from the list when the time avails itself to me to do my unique "reviews".
It already is quite cumbersome keeping afloat all the drafts of my creative writing pursuits and even if I wanted to, I can't drop a post whenever.  There's my studies and there's life too, and the odd laze haze.

That's that.

Next update on this matter will be about said lists compiled, and up-and-running.

"Quiet as it's kept..."

This post will comprise of excerpts (randomly selected, by me, of course) withdrawn from the afterword in The Bluest Eye as written by its author, Toni Morrison (November, 1993).  I will do this to provide added context, and also just for the sake of it, to my post about the novel that comes before this particular post.  I love how she articulates her meaning, reasoning and purpose behind the construction and the how-to read of the narrative.  

"The novel pecks away at the gaze that condemned her." (p.167)

"'Quiet as it's kept' is also a figure of speech that is written, in this instance, but clearly chosen for how speakerly it is, how it speaks and bespeaks a particular world and its ambience. [...] Sudden familiarity or instant intimacy seemed crucial to me." (pp. 169 & 170) 

"The assertion of racial beauty was not a reaction to the self-mocking, humorous critique of cultural/racial foibles common in all groups, but against the damaging internalisation of assumptions of immutable inferiority originating in an outside gaze.  I focused, therefore, on how something as grotesque as the demonisation of an entire race could take root inside the most delicate member of society: a child; the most vulnerable member; a female. [...]
In exploring the social and domestic aggression that could cause a child to literally fall apart, I mounted a series of rejections, some routine, some exception, some monstrous, all the while trying hard to avoid complicity in the demonisation process Pecola [focal character] was subjected to." (p. 168)

"A skip, perhaps, in the natural order of things: a September, an autumn, a fall without marigolds.  Bright, common, strong and sturdy marigolds.  When? In 1941, and since that is a momentous year (the beginning of World War II for the US), the "fall" of 1941, just before the declaration of war, has a "closet" innuendo." (p.170)

"...a problem lies in the central chamber of the novel... the void that is Pecola's "unbeing"' (p.171)

"With very few exceptions, the initial publication of The Bluest Eye was like Pecola's life: dismissed, trivialised, misread.  And it has taken twenty-five years to gain for her the respectful publication this edition is."  

Again, all excerpts are taken from Toni Morrison's foreword in the book 

The Bluest Eye (1970).

Aruze waters. Tropical hues. A trip that echoes.

Ah, found this picture from almost three years ago.  It was me on a road trip with my mother to Maputo, (formerly known as Lourenço Marques, before independence) Mozambique.
It was a trip that elevated both my consciousness and desire to demand dignity for all peoples.  It showed me not only the strength and resilience of those who are seemingly less favoured in social and economic ranks, but also opened my eyes to how it is (always) possible to have a thriving (and joyful) spirit despite your circumstances.  The few days I spent there afforded me a kind of spiritual liberation too, being able to interact and hold hands with what I believe to be one of the world's most loving, giving and endearing people alive.  Mozambicans visibly exude a warmth that is unrivaled to many other encounters I've had.  Genuine smiles, sincere conversation, and delicious catering.  I haven't been back since, even though I promised myself to go again within a few months of my visit.  My parents have been there on numerous occasions  I was little though, their visits grew less frequent as I got older (er, ja).  I have an aunt over, my family there is where I've learnt the little Portuguese I am now familiar with.  But... I will visit again and when I do it will be for much longer than just a week, and preferably a solo excursion.
I also did plenty of reading and writing; and talking and reminiscing and reflecting and foresighting and loving with me mommy on the trips back and forth.  We chose to transport there by land for these very reasons, I fell even more in love with her during this time, as if that was any more possible, but it was.  And the stories we ricocheted between us will forever be a product of the woman I am.  
And of course, I took the window seat (shout out to Badu "I just need a chance to fly/ A chance to cry and a long bye-bye")

A Morrison, X, & Fanon Lesson in Black Identity Politics

"When I began writing The Bluest Eye, I was interested in something else.  Not resistance to the  contempt of others, ways to deflect it, but the far more tragic and disabling consequences of accepting rejection as legitimate, as self-evident.  I knew that some victims of powerful self-loathing turn out to be dangerous, violent, reproducing the enemy who has humiliated them over and over.  Others surrender their identity; melt into a structure that delivers the strong persona they lack.  Most others, however, grow beyond it.  But there are some who collapse, silently, anonymously, with no voice to express or acknowledge it.  They are invisible."

"The origin of the novel lay in a conversation I had with a childhood friend," as written in the foreword of Morisson's novel by the author herself (the above quote is taken from the same foreword.)  172 pages of literary gold, including a foreword and an afterword, and the Dick and Jane primer pages.

When Toni Morrison started writing this story (1962) it was during a time when the black girl had no beauty aesthetic to model after.  There was only the image of whiteness and white beauty, that of Shirley Temple in particular in this novel, with her golden locks and blue eyes and a world seemingly eating from the palm of her hands due to these physical traits.  At least, that is what it seemed like to Pecola, the starring character in The Bluest Eye (1970).

The Bluest Eye, a tale of black identity, colourism, dominant standards of beauty, internalised racism, sexuality, (incestuous, psychological) rape, etc.  It is set in a communal town where the people are troubled.  Troubled not just by domestic issues but by their oppressive upbringings, troubled by the lurking shadows of colonisation and the loss or lack of an established identity.  There is adolescence.  There is the adult world and the world of the child, and that of the child leaning on the demarcation between the two, looking in on its neighboured world.  A community of friendship, sisterhood, motherhood, parenthood and the married complexities of these relationships.

Morrison presents a set of experiences, many experiences, devastating experiences.  There is no one narrator, protagonist or antagonist (not according to how I read it).  I'd say the antagonism are the issues this community deals with: the social, political and economical ills.  The detail employed to narrate some of these experiences are nothing less than abject; however, the novel would be less effective if these were written differently.

The characters often experiences bouts of rejection, ridicule, terror, hatred (from the outside and from within), resentment, nervousness, belonging and unbelonging, lots of hopelessness and helplessness, sacrifice with little reward, little redemption, and no happy ending.  

But more than the story and the undertones of racial, social, identity and whatnot politics, is Morrison's writing.  

(Also, the Dick and Jane technique is genius.  Her use of punctuation and grammatical faults in the first few paragraphs sets the mood and idea for what is to follow.  This challenges the idea of the "perfection" of the predominantly white nuclear family.  The same with the beginning 'Autumn' narration — it reveals to the reader everything they need to know, which is in contradiction to the old keep-the-reader-guessing approach, she goes against the grain in so many ways.  Just as I revere her in so many ways.)

Her sentences read like lines of poetry.  There's mastery in her lyricism.  I don't recall the source of the interview, but she mentions how she detests being called a "poetic writer;" the reasons for this owes to a linear focus to her work that ignores her full scope of writerly talent.

I've mentioned many characteristics to be found laced in novel, but I failed to mention love.  There is love.  Latent, but it is.  It's woven in the parts of the stories shared that seem to be most empty of it.  Note closely Morrison's strategic use of the seasons as themes, rather than chapters, and the seeds planted, and at which intervals, they are most revealing.

Quoting one of my favourite lines from the novel:

"Love is never any better than the lover."

Soon after I had finished the read, Sept' of last year, I happened to stumble upon Malcolm X's May, 1962 address to a congregation of black folk about their internalised hatred of the black image.  And so, I decided to add it to this post (below).  

Also, If you haven't yet, I would like to take this opportunity to offer my recommendation that you read Frantz Fanon's Black Skin, White Masks (1952).  Toni Morrison makes no explicit reference to Fanon's work, in the novel or elsewhere that I'm aware of (if she does, please do refer me), anyway, if you've read his psychoanalytical and theoretical explanations of the Black person's experience and psyche in a White world, you can easily relate Morrison's fictional depictions to be founded in hard-truths.  Black Skin, White Masks was a life-changer for me.  It not only told me but it showed me how lost I was in my perceptions and my experience of seemingly post- so-many-issues-to-list.  It mapped out for me how latent my oppression was and how dangerously it lingered in my every day and threatened to cripple me, possibly until death, if I had not opened my eyes and ears to it soon.  (This book deserves a post of its own.  What has taken me so long to write one?  I've lent it out so many times, I hardly know where to start looking for it.)

"Who taught you to hate the texture of your hair?

Who taught you to hate the colour of your skin, to such extent that you bleach to get like the white man?  

Who taught you to hate the shape of your nose, and the shape of your lips?

Who taught you to hate yourself, from the top of your head to the soles of your feet?

Who taught you to hate your own kind—who taught you to hate the race that you belong to, so much so that you don't want to be around each other?

No, before you come around asking Mr, Muhammed does teach hate, you should ask yourself: who taught you to hate being what God gave you?"

She thinks she can warn the stars.

A writer is essentially a spy. 

Dear love, I am that girl.

                                — Anne Sexton, The Black Art

A Beauty in the Dark Soon Becomes Relentless, Wordless

i.

When I render that “I’ve run out of words” what I’m really saying is that I have nothing left in me but the feeling consuming, making full my inside.

ii.

I’m telling that there are no linguistic gymnastics my tongue can perform to speak sense of this.  I’m trying to get you to understand that you have somehow, against my good sense, seeped through my skin and you’re steadily creeping into me.  You’re jostling feelings that appear as goose pimples.

iii.

Breath-taken.  Unrestrained.  That is what I mean when I say, “I’ve run out of words.”

iv.

I put the sentence out there, bitterly hoping that you read intention into it yet crossing my fingers that you don’t see it at all.  I’m afraid of my suspicions.  I shut up.  Don’t affirm the insinuations.

v.

My mind is heavy with all that I long to say but my mouth bears a hollow vessel.  Stuck to the back of teeth – are thoughts not quite ready to face the world, therefore “I've run out of words.”

vi.

Feelings happen quickly, uninvited and unintentional.  Reciprocity needs mending, unbinding and understanding.  Two parts, one whole, three stories, four heartbreaks, five sleeplessness nights, on count six I’ve suddenly had enough.  I’m going to scrub my flesh clean of you.  I don’t desire to become familiar with seven, eight, nine, eleven because they might never come alone.  Bringing with them more numbers that would eventually add to more chaos and before long we would have lost count of the madness and no method would bring it to a sum.  “I've run out of words.”

vii.

See, my state of mind in this welcomed affliction is that your mind is out there and not consumed with enough thoughts of me.  That it’s reaching for heights more ambitious than what I have on offer.  That your head is free from the toil to forget my name, my face, my words, my intrigue.  That your own name is wandering in somebody else’s head, and they’re happy about it.  Whereas I?  I am nothing but a consumed fool whose flesh is crawling with a developing sentiment for you.  It’s all underneath my skin.  And it’s beginning to show to the world.  And my mouth won’t allow me to speak because my words are clutching onto the back of teeth that will soon start bearing scars plastered there by kisses that are meant for only another and we’re losing our sense of math and order and this entire sentence is becoming too long and unbearable, and… Maybe, I've already said too much.  Sigh.  Sob.  Sing.

viii.

I know that I've leapt and admitted to all this but there’s something crazier yet: I'm willing to risk this dialogue.  Things take crazy shape in the dark; silhouettes that would speak but can’t.  I prefer not having your lips find mine when there’s no light for us to bask under.  The dark equates to crazy shapes and stories that would not break.  I'm frightened by the dark.  It’s ugly and aggressive.

ix.

“I’ve run out of words,” will repeatedly appear to me in song sung in nightmares for as long as we allow this.  Its ugly would take shape that no dance could make beautiful.