I had to stop reading. I could not bear a single page more. Not a sentence more. I glanced across at the opposite page in an attempt to gain some courage to read on but had to lay the book down. It is sitting by my side now.
He is writing about a dream, an afternoon years ago -- a droplet of memory now. The story of this idyll lies trapped between two nightmares. And they are nightmares to make the sleeper shudder: visions of running, fleeing, then crawling away, slowly, weakly as the dogs chase. The nightmares of a prisoner.
But for just a moment between those flights of torture, there is in his palm something beautiful. It is about to crack in the next second, the very next moment -- but for the thinnest slice of time, there it is. It exists.
The fragility of a love. His love. A memory of time spent with a girl, a friend, a lover. With her.
I closed the book because I don't want to break it. I don't want it to shatter. I know it must. But I want some time to hold it. Examine it, knowing however that if I want to understand it, I have to read on. I have to open the book and cast my eyes on the pages and see it break.
I wish it didn't have to break.
(The book sitting next to me is I'jaam: an iraqi rhapsody, written by Sinan Antoon.)
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Monday, December 17, 2007
falling prey to words (again)
I found some quotes.
"As for writing, it protects man from oblivion. It transports the self to those who are distant and absent."
"To write is to risk being misread or misunderstood. Words that survive their author are cut loose. They drift, take new shape, sprout new meanings. And there is always their ordinary ambiguity."
--Ibn Khaldun, 14th-century historian.
These quotes and two other fragile constellations of sound are at the front of a book I just bought. (Yes, I gave into temptation and entered a bookstore. I left weighed down with three books for my transgressions.)
I'jaam: an iraqi rhapsody by Sinan Antoon.
I'll let you know how it goes. I picked it up once before in a bookstore in Atlanta but time and lack of money dragged me away and I set it down after browsing the first few hundred words. This time I did not escape its grasp.
I also found two other books -- one about the development of the autocratic state in Ethiopia and the other about poems written by prisoners in Guantanamo which made my thoughts whirlwind for a few moments before I even opened it. I am going to give it to a friend -- one of those people that understands the value of words that escape from locked rooms.
I also went into a bookstore yesterday -- the Strand in New York -- where they have 18 miles of books! It seems quite humble from the outside...I got trapped there as well, falling prey to the political science 50% off shelf. I managed to escape from the random works of fiction that were launching themselves off the shelves at me. One hit me in the throat but after battling with its first couple pages, my fingers forced into my friend's hand who proved more resistant and calmly set it down on a nearby cart before asking me if I had finished browsing and perhaps it was time to go.....
"As for writing, it protects man from oblivion. It transports the self to those who are distant and absent."
"To write is to risk being misread or misunderstood. Words that survive their author are cut loose. They drift, take new shape, sprout new meanings. And there is always their ordinary ambiguity."
--Ibn Khaldun, 14th-century historian.
These quotes and two other fragile constellations of sound are at the front of a book I just bought. (Yes, I gave into temptation and entered a bookstore. I left weighed down with three books for my transgressions.)
I'jaam: an iraqi rhapsody by Sinan Antoon.
I'll let you know how it goes. I picked it up once before in a bookstore in Atlanta but time and lack of money dragged me away and I set it down after browsing the first few hundred words. This time I did not escape its grasp.
I also found two other books -- one about the development of the autocratic state in Ethiopia and the other about poems written by prisoners in Guantanamo which made my thoughts whirlwind for a few moments before I even opened it. I am going to give it to a friend -- one of those people that understands the value of words that escape from locked rooms.
I also went into a bookstore yesterday -- the Strand in New York -- where they have 18 miles of books! It seems quite humble from the outside...I got trapped there as well, falling prey to the political science 50% off shelf. I managed to escape from the random works of fiction that were launching themselves off the shelves at me. One hit me in the throat but after battling with its first couple pages, my fingers forced into my friend's hand who proved more resistant and calmly set it down on a nearby cart before asking me if I had finished browsing and perhaps it was time to go.....
Friday, December 14, 2007
3 NYC boroughs in 1 night
Mmmm, damn these brownies are good. I am staying with my friends in Brooklyn -- and they have left to go to work, abandoning me in a locked apartment alone with these brownies that for some reason are just very soft, moist, and more than a little bit chocolaty. As I am sure you know, grits followed by a brownie is pretty much the best breakfast a girl can hope for. Ahem.
Yes so my eating habits have been a little odd over the last couple days -- put it down to the jetlag as well as the food poisoning incident that happily decided to appear from the time I left Oxford till I arrived in New York. As a result not much food was consumed my first day here, which left me rather hungry yesterday. So I guess that's what caused yesterday's dinner:
-Appetizer: Subway sub sandwich while waiting for a friend (Subway is, I found out, expensive and rather wimpy tasting in NYC);
-2nd Appetizer (?): Hot chocolate and chicken noodle soup at a homelessness vigil/protest in the Bronx;
-Entre: Really amazing veggie burger near the Village before catching a movie;
-Dessert: And yes, a brownie upon arriving home. And tea.
As the above record of food consumption reveals, yesterday evening involved three boroughs and peeks into this city's tradition of extremes. I met my friend near Penn Station and from there we travelled up into the Bronx to attend a protest organised by Picture the Homeless, an advocacy organisation founded and staffed by homeless people. (Read about their history here and check out their blog here).
The weather involved a rather unpleasant combination of sleet, snow, rain, and cold, so we did not expect a huge crowd. And at first, we couldn't find it and almost turned around to go home, especially as many people around seemed unclear about the location of the street we were looking for. It was dark and the ground was soggy -- in stark contrast to Manhattan and Brooklyn, the ground had not been salted or cleared of snow here.
Finally though, when my right boot had shown its complete disdain for the descriptor "waterproof" and my toes were swimming in frigid water, we saw about 15 people huddled under some scaffolding. We trotted over and after a few minutes were warmly greeted and after another few minutes given some much needed hot chocolate.
"So what organisation you from."
"Oh, er, none, we just came."
"You just came? Damn. We need more citizens like you."
And another conversation...."Say, who these white girls?" This is a white preacher laughingly saying this. I tell her I am just in New York for a few days, at the start of my vacation.
"This is how you spend your vacation? You know I know some really great psychiatrists."
Ok, so maybe it's not your traditional first-night-in-New-York kind of activity, but I wish they had not been so shocked that people would turn up for a vigil just cuz -- just because they think homelessness is an issue that should be thought about more by people who have warm places to go at night and policymakers who design the rules that say who does and does not get to have a bed or a home and who does and does not get to keep their children.
After a short vigil, we held a press conference attended by an independent Bronx TV station. A series of speakers took the mic -- the preacher that had led the vigil, a local councilwoman (whose district by the way stretches from East Harlem as well), and a representative of Picture the Homeless. Then several people gave testimonials about their experience with the latest New York housing and shelter rules. The first couple spoke about having their daughter taken away from them. I could not hear them very well as I was at the back of the crowd and the wind and people's chatter took the words away from my ears. But I did see the father, after speaking, push through the crowd to escape, to get some air. He was angry and the night air clung around him, oblivious.
The mother continued to speak, explaining. The kind of tired firm eyes that bear the mark of a sad story and the courage to tell it until something changes.
There was another family. The mother was terrified at first to go on camera. She thought they would never give her shelter if she went on camera -- was it really safe? Others there encouraged her, told her in the past going on camera and telling a story that can be checked out has often resulted in a faster result. She agrees as others affirm that if we don't all stand up for our rights, they will never arrive......
The last speakers I saw were two young teenagers describing their months in the housing system which meant separation from their families, time out of school, hungry nights, and general disrespect. I was really impressed with their eloquence -- the first girl in particular was so articulate, so firm, but yet so calm as well.
After my candle had burnt down to a waxy mess, someone pushed a warm bowl of soup into my hands, which I gratefully accepted. My friend and I then started the soggy trudge back to the subway station.
There are around 36,000 people in the New York shelter system. No one knows how many more are on the street.
We took the subway to the Village, where the streets were clear of snow. There after a swift stop a burger joint, we checked out the film Across the Universe, a crazy musical about the 1960s built around Beatles songs and the iconic transformations of those years. I would recommend seeing it -- it is over the top but a lot of fun too. The main drawback is that it does not explore enough of the characters in depth, focusing on lives of a young Liverpudlian steelworker and a white American brother and sister from a very rich family. Frustratingly, there are tantalizing hints at the stories of others revealing more neglected dimensions of the period's social conflict and defiant creativity. All the same, the film is worth seeing for its psychedelic weaving of love stories, scenes of hilarity, and piercing shots of war, oppression, and bitterness.
Following the film, we took a subway home to Brooklyn. After a last brownie, I fell into bed. Warm blankets are so wonderful after a slushy walk in the cold. A friend's home is so welcome in this vast city...
Yes so my eating habits have been a little odd over the last couple days -- put it down to the jetlag as well as the food poisoning incident that happily decided to appear from the time I left Oxford till I arrived in New York. As a result not much food was consumed my first day here, which left me rather hungry yesterday. So I guess that's what caused yesterday's dinner:
-Appetizer: Subway sub sandwich while waiting for a friend (Subway is, I found out, expensive and rather wimpy tasting in NYC);
-2nd Appetizer (?): Hot chocolate and chicken noodle soup at a homelessness vigil/protest in the Bronx;
-Entre: Really amazing veggie burger near the Village before catching a movie;
-Dessert: And yes, a brownie upon arriving home. And tea.
As the above record of food consumption reveals, yesterday evening involved three boroughs and peeks into this city's tradition of extremes. I met my friend near Penn Station and from there we travelled up into the Bronx to attend a protest organised by Picture the Homeless, an advocacy organisation founded and staffed by homeless people. (Read about their history here and check out their blog here).
The weather involved a rather unpleasant combination of sleet, snow, rain, and cold, so we did not expect a huge crowd. And at first, we couldn't find it and almost turned around to go home, especially as many people around seemed unclear about the location of the street we were looking for. It was dark and the ground was soggy -- in stark contrast to Manhattan and Brooklyn, the ground had not been salted or cleared of snow here.
Finally though, when my right boot had shown its complete disdain for the descriptor "waterproof" and my toes were swimming in frigid water, we saw about 15 people huddled under some scaffolding. We trotted over and after a few minutes were warmly greeted and after another few minutes given some much needed hot chocolate.
"So what organisation you from."
"Oh, er, none, we just came."
"You just came? Damn. We need more citizens like you."
And another conversation...."Say, who these white girls?" This is a white preacher laughingly saying this. I tell her I am just in New York for a few days, at the start of my vacation.
"This is how you spend your vacation? You know I know some really great psychiatrists."
Ok, so maybe it's not your traditional first-night-in-New-York kind of activity, but I wish they had not been so shocked that people would turn up for a vigil just cuz -- just because they think homelessness is an issue that should be thought about more by people who have warm places to go at night and policymakers who design the rules that say who does and does not get to have a bed or a home and who does and does not get to keep their children.
After a short vigil, we held a press conference attended by an independent Bronx TV station. A series of speakers took the mic -- the preacher that had led the vigil, a local councilwoman (whose district by the way stretches from East Harlem as well), and a representative of Picture the Homeless. Then several people gave testimonials about their experience with the latest New York housing and shelter rules. The first couple spoke about having their daughter taken away from them. I could not hear them very well as I was at the back of the crowd and the wind and people's chatter took the words away from my ears. But I did see the father, after speaking, push through the crowd to escape, to get some air. He was angry and the night air clung around him, oblivious.
The mother continued to speak, explaining. The kind of tired firm eyes that bear the mark of a sad story and the courage to tell it until something changes.
There was another family. The mother was terrified at first to go on camera. She thought they would never give her shelter if she went on camera -- was it really safe? Others there encouraged her, told her in the past going on camera and telling a story that can be checked out has often resulted in a faster result. She agrees as others affirm that if we don't all stand up for our rights, they will never arrive......
The last speakers I saw were two young teenagers describing their months in the housing system which meant separation from their families, time out of school, hungry nights, and general disrespect. I was really impressed with their eloquence -- the first girl in particular was so articulate, so firm, but yet so calm as well.
After my candle had burnt down to a waxy mess, someone pushed a warm bowl of soup into my hands, which I gratefully accepted. My friend and I then started the soggy trudge back to the subway station.
There are around 36,000 people in the New York shelter system. No one knows how many more are on the street.
We took the subway to the Village, where the streets were clear of snow. There after a swift stop a burger joint, we checked out the film Across the Universe, a crazy musical about the 1960s built around Beatles songs and the iconic transformations of those years. I would recommend seeing it -- it is over the top but a lot of fun too. The main drawback is that it does not explore enough of the characters in depth, focusing on lives of a young Liverpudlian steelworker and a white American brother and sister from a very rich family. Frustratingly, there are tantalizing hints at the stories of others revealing more neglected dimensions of the period's social conflict and defiant creativity. All the same, the film is worth seeing for its psychedelic weaving of love stories, scenes of hilarity, and piercing shots of war, oppression, and bitterness.
Following the film, we took a subway home to Brooklyn. After a last brownie, I fell into bed. Warm blankets are so wonderful after a slushy walk in the cold. A friend's home is so welcome in this vast city...
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Are you serious?! On 'Unclaimed' Democratic Rights
The following quote is from Michael Bratton and Carolyn Logan's paper, "VOTERS BUT NOT YET CITIZENS: THE WEAK DEMAND FOR VERTICAL ACCOUNTABILITY IN AFRICA’S UNCLAIMED DEMOCRACIES", Afrobarometer Working Paper No. 63, September 2006. Available at http://www.afrobarometer.org/conference.html.
I'm interested in what you think.
"Are African regimes therefore best regarded as being delegative democracies? Not necessarily. The term 'delegative' suggests a degree of agency on the part of individual members of society that may be misleading. Coming out from under the shadow of authoritarian pasts, Africans may not so much be intentionally delegating power to their governments, as failing to claim it from them. Whether unwilling, unable, or simply unaware, many Africans have hesitated to take advantage of the rights and opportunities – along with accompanying responsibilities – that are meant to be theirs in a liberalized political world. They have not yet made a personal transition from mere voters into fully engaged citizens. Thus, to the extent that democracy is supposed to mean 'power to the people' and not just 'a vote to the people,' democracy in Africa remains largely unclaimed. " (17)
Let's start with the statement in the middle of the paragraph: "Africans may not so much be intentionally delegating power to their governments, as failing to claim it from them." Both parts of the sentence (which use the verbs delegating and claiming) involve the idea that power can be held and passed from 'the government' to 'the people' or vice versa. To discuss power as a 'good' that can be handed around, like Tolkien's ring, seems to me to be rather weak conceptually speaking. Power is about relationships between actors. The very existence of a government and 'the people' implies that there is a specific power arrangement already at play, one that has been produced and reproduced over time -- one that has determined who in society makes the rules for others and who has access to various resources. That is what government refers to -- those that rule, that have authority over others. It does not make sense to say in this context that power can simply be shifted from the rulers to the ruled without changing the configurations that make up the power structures of the state.
Which begs the question -- what do the power structures of the state look like? This question unfortunately seems to be bypassed in much of the literature associated with the idea of the "Third Wave" of democratisation that apparently reached Africa in the 1990s. Posner and Young (2007) recently voiced related concerns: "In the past 20 years, there has been much debate about whether various African regimes should properly be viewed as 'pseudodemocracies', 'facade democracies', 'hybrid democracies', or in terms of some label that connotes democratic imperfection. Such efforts, we believe, risk diverting attention from the more basic issue of whether or not the behavior of political actors is constrained and, if so, whether by rules or violence or the threat of violence." Their analysis echoes a similar comment made by Joseph (1998)**: "...scholars should actively analyse and criticize configurations of power that involve the adoption and distortion of democratic institutions, rather than simply recommend policy adjustments based on their acceptance." Bratton and Logan would do well to consider these points.
Indeed, if people do not seem to have the rights and opportunities that "are meant to be theirs" in an idealised state (say similar to Dahl's polyarchy), it might be that the reasons lie in the configurations of the relationships of power that characterise their political regime. It might be that the "liberalized political world" that Bratton and Logan mention is not actually a reality (shock horror!).
As a result, I find the conclusions concerning 'unclaimed' rights and power somewhat misleading and rather disconcerting. I understand that the Afrobarometer data might not be able to take the paper much further than ascertaining that there appears to be a low demand for vertical accountability, but it might be better to end the paper with a question about why people's views seem to suggest this -- rather than jumping to a claim that Africans have yet to make that personal transition to fully engaged citizens...(which obviously people in other democracies around the world have all done...hmmm).
Instead in the paper we get another question (which I still cannot believe is in the paper): "Can Africans be helped to become rights-demanding citizens?" (17)
Though you'll be relieved to hear that they do conclude that it is up to citizens to seize their rights and the power of external agencies is limited...in case that's what you were worried about.
I don't understand how this stuff gets to be seen as authoritative work and makes it onto reading lists -- unless it's to raise the ire of hapless students. I think it's poor and condescending social science. But then maybe I am missing something...
References:
*Posner, D. and D. Young, "The Institutionalization of Political Power in Africa", Journal of Democracy 18(3), July 2007, pp 126-140.
**Joseph, R., "Africa, 1990-1997: From Abertura to Closure", Journal of Democracy 9(2), April 1998, pp. 3-17.
I'm interested in what you think.
"Are African regimes therefore best regarded as being delegative democracies? Not necessarily. The term 'delegative' suggests a degree of agency on the part of individual members of society that may be misleading. Coming out from under the shadow of authoritarian pasts, Africans may not so much be intentionally delegating power to their governments, as failing to claim it from them. Whether unwilling, unable, or simply unaware, many Africans have hesitated to take advantage of the rights and opportunities – along with accompanying responsibilities – that are meant to be theirs in a liberalized political world. They have not yet made a personal transition from mere voters into fully engaged citizens. Thus, to the extent that democracy is supposed to mean 'power to the people' and not just 'a vote to the people,' democracy in Africa remains largely unclaimed. " (17)
Let's start with the statement in the middle of the paragraph: "Africans may not so much be intentionally delegating power to their governments, as failing to claim it from them." Both parts of the sentence (which use the verbs delegating and claiming) involve the idea that power can be held and passed from 'the government' to 'the people' or vice versa. To discuss power as a 'good' that can be handed around, like Tolkien's ring, seems to me to be rather weak conceptually speaking. Power is about relationships between actors. The very existence of a government and 'the people' implies that there is a specific power arrangement already at play, one that has been produced and reproduced over time -- one that has determined who in society makes the rules for others and who has access to various resources. That is what government refers to -- those that rule, that have authority over others. It does not make sense to say in this context that power can simply be shifted from the rulers to the ruled without changing the configurations that make up the power structures of the state.
Which begs the question -- what do the power structures of the state look like? This question unfortunately seems to be bypassed in much of the literature associated with the idea of the "Third Wave" of democratisation that apparently reached Africa in the 1990s. Posner and Young (2007) recently voiced related concerns: "In the past 20 years, there has been much debate about whether various African regimes should properly be viewed as 'pseudodemocracies', 'facade democracies', 'hybrid democracies', or in terms of some label that connotes democratic imperfection. Such efforts, we believe, risk diverting attention from the more basic issue of whether or not the behavior of political actors is constrained and, if so, whether by rules or violence or the threat of violence." Their analysis echoes a similar comment made by Joseph (1998)**: "...scholars should actively analyse and criticize configurations of power that involve the adoption and distortion of democratic institutions, rather than simply recommend policy adjustments based on their acceptance." Bratton and Logan would do well to consider these points.
Indeed, if people do not seem to have the rights and opportunities that "are meant to be theirs" in an idealised state (say similar to Dahl's polyarchy), it might be that the reasons lie in the configurations of the relationships of power that characterise their political regime. It might be that the "liberalized political world" that Bratton and Logan mention is not actually a reality (shock horror!).
As a result, I find the conclusions concerning 'unclaimed' rights and power somewhat misleading and rather disconcerting. I understand that the Afrobarometer data might not be able to take the paper much further than ascertaining that there appears to be a low demand for vertical accountability, but it might be better to end the paper with a question about why people's views seem to suggest this -- rather than jumping to a claim that Africans have yet to make that personal transition to fully engaged citizens...(which obviously people in other democracies around the world have all done...hmmm).
Instead in the paper we get another question (which I still cannot believe is in the paper): "Can Africans be helped to become rights-demanding citizens?" (17)
Though you'll be relieved to hear that they do conclude that it is up to citizens to seize their rights and the power of external agencies is limited...in case that's what you were worried about.
I don't understand how this stuff gets to be seen as authoritative work and makes it onto reading lists -- unless it's to raise the ire of hapless students. I think it's poor and condescending social science. But then maybe I am missing something...
References:
*Posner, D. and D. Young, "The Institutionalization of Political Power in Africa", Journal of Democracy 18(3), July 2007, pp 126-140.
**Joseph, R., "Africa, 1990-1997: From Abertura to Closure", Journal of Democracy 9(2), April 1998, pp. 3-17.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Amnesty ad in NY Times today...
from: http://www.amnestyusa.org/i/LadyJustice.gif?tr=y&auid=3222412.
From Amnesty International USA:
What's so important about today?
The Supreme Court will hear Bush administration lawyers attempt to defend the indefensible: that the President can hold people indefinitely, without charge and without question. With fundamental human rights principles on the line let's hope the Supreme Court rejects this lawlessness and demands an end to the injustice that flows from it.
A thousand miles from the Supreme Court steps, Amnesty International will be observing another crucial hearing today. This one will take place at Guantánamo Bay and while it will get less press attention, it is no less important.
While the Supreme Court considers whether or not Congress improperly took away the writ of habeas corpus from detainees in Guantánamo, a hearing will be convened to determine whether or not Salim Ahmed Hamdan is an "unlawful enemy combatant" and subject to trial by military commission. Under the Military Commissions Act, "unlawful enemy combatants" cannot challenge the evidence brought before them or object to being convicted on evidence obtained through brutal means.
The two hearings are not unrelated.
Both challenge the administration's attacks on our system of justice. Both challenge the assertion that fear, not freedom, guides our country. But even more important, both hearings present a clear opportunity to move our nation back on track -- to a place of respect for truth, justice and liberty. As four Supreme Court Justices put it, "[I]if this Nation is to remain true to the ideals symbolized by its flag, it must not wield the tools of tyrants even to resist an assault by the forces of tyranny."
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
home on the road
Yes it's calling...when this place starts to feel small, the road calls.
You know that scene in Wind in the Willows when Ratty and Mole are travelling back to the River Bank, back to Ratty's home? It's Christmas time and through the windows you can see the little lights on fir trees -- and other glimmers of gathering and feasting.
Mole is walking and suddenly smells home. A sharp pang of yearning to return to his long lost humble abode. But the wind is strong, and he can't shout loudly enough for Ratty to hear him. He has to tear himself away and keep on walking...
The road calls like that sometimes too though. Where have you been? Have you forgotten me? When did you last trace a line with your footprints, instead of travelling in interminable circles? Come, let's dance for a while. Let's peek through the windows at the lights and then keep on going, delighting in the stars and being awake when the dew falls.
A frosty road is calling....
You know that scene in Wind in the Willows when Ratty and Mole are travelling back to the River Bank, back to Ratty's home? It's Christmas time and through the windows you can see the little lights on fir trees -- and other glimmers of gathering and feasting.
Mole is walking and suddenly smells home. A sharp pang of yearning to return to his long lost humble abode. But the wind is strong, and he can't shout loudly enough for Ratty to hear him. He has to tear himself away and keep on walking...
The road calls like that sometimes too though. Where have you been? Have you forgotten me? When did you last trace a line with your footprints, instead of travelling in interminable circles? Come, let's dance for a while. Let's peek through the windows at the lights and then keep on going, delighting in the stars and being awake when the dew falls.
A frosty road is calling....
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
3am. Toast. and Tea.
3am. Tea. In the kitchen.
Dispense with washing. Just dump some hot water in.
Swirl, tip, shake.
Teabag, water, milk.
Two cups.
He comes in. Also tea. Also dispenses with washing.
Asks me why I was annoyed.
I'm over it.
But tell me, why?
I said I am over it.
Ok. But I do want to know.
Fine. I'll tell you the story.
But I warn you, I was over it.
People. Not. Thinking.
About. The. Effects.
Of their institutional embraces.
Of their hierarchies of power.
Endorsements of hatred.
Protests too late.
Add to the fire.
There's no turning back the clock.
It's done.
It's happened.
And it's there.
That's why.
But wait.
I don't understand.
Why were you upset.
I told you.
I am over it.
Though now it is coming back.
At 3am.
And this was supposed to be a quiet cup of tea.
A quiet cup of tea. Or two.
And toast.
I want to concentrate on the toast.
But what about immigration.
Immigration.
At 3am.
With toast.
Only here.
Only here would this happen.
Put down my toast.
The end was soggy anyway.
Immigration.
News. Panic. Rash. Hatred.
Too much for 3am.
So now.
Toast eaten.
Tea drunk.
Words spent.
What. A. Morning.
Time to switch time zones.
It's 10pm.
Nice.
Dispense with washing. Just dump some hot water in.
Swirl, tip, shake.
Teabag, water, milk.
Two cups.
He comes in. Also tea. Also dispenses with washing.
Asks me why I was annoyed.
I'm over it.
But tell me, why?
I said I am over it.
Ok. But I do want to know.
Fine. I'll tell you the story.
But I warn you, I was over it.
People. Not. Thinking.
About. The. Effects.
Of their institutional embraces.
Of their hierarchies of power.
Endorsements of hatred.
Protests too late.
Add to the fire.
There's no turning back the clock.
It's done.
It's happened.
And it's there.
That's why.
But wait.
I don't understand.
Why were you upset.
I told you.
I am over it.
Though now it is coming back.
At 3am.
And this was supposed to be a quiet cup of tea.
A quiet cup of tea. Or two.
And toast.
I want to concentrate on the toast.
But what about immigration.
Immigration.
At 3am.
With toast.
Only here.
Only here would this happen.
Put down my toast.
The end was soggy anyway.
Immigration.
News. Panic. Rash. Hatred.
Too much for 3am.
So now.
Toast eaten.
Tea drunk.
Words spent.
What. A. Morning.
Time to switch time zones.
It's 10pm.
Nice.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Great Man
"Tutu chides Church stance on gays"
Sunday, 18 November
(From the full BBC News article at http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/7100295.stm)
"South African Archbishop Desmond Tutu has criticised the Anglican Church and its leadership for its attitudes towards homosexuality."
"Archbishop Tutu referred to the debate about whether Gene Robinson, who is openly gay, could serve as the bishop of New Hampshire.
The more this man says, the more my respect deepens. Finally someone being sensible, practical, and aware on this issue. Sorry to be blunt, but most other opinion leaders in the Anglican Church need to get a grip.
Sunday, 18 November
(From the full BBC News article at http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/7100295.stm)
"South African Archbishop Desmond Tutu has criticised the Anglican Church and its leadership for its attitudes towards homosexuality."
"Archbishop Tutu referred to the debate about whether Gene Robinson, who is openly gay, could serve as the bishop of New Hampshire.
He said the Anglican Church had seemed 'extraordinarily homophobic' in its handling of the issue, and that he had felt 'saddened' and 'ashamed' of his church at the time.
Asked if he still felt ashamed, he said: "If we are going to not welcome or invite people because of sexual orientation, yes.
'If God, as they say, is homophobic, I wouldn't worship that God.'"
The more this man says, the more my respect deepens. Finally someone being sensible, practical, and aware on this issue. Sorry to be blunt, but most other opinion leaders in the Anglican Church need to get a grip.
Friday, November 16, 2007
ridiculous fridayness
Heyheyheyhey....
Whew what a week, yes indeedy, what a week.
It's only 5pm and already darkdarkdark outside. Not a drop of sunlight anywhere, not even a streak in the sky.
Last night darkness came more slowly. I even got to see three planes carving pink rays into the sky, crisscrossing next to the slim crescent moon.
It's very quiet tonight...
Whew what a week, yes indeedy, what a week.
It's only 5pm and already darkdarkdark outside. Not a drop of sunlight anywhere, not even a streak in the sky.
Last night darkness came more slowly. I even got to see three planes carving pink rays into the sky, crisscrossing next to the slim crescent moon.
It's very quiet tonight...
Saturday, November 10, 2007
chocolate vs herbal tea
Too many chocolate fingers. Why do I always make this mistake? I have not eaten them in years but should surely remember that if you eat six of them really fast (ie in under three minutes, I guess it could have been faster), you feel sick. Somehow this simple truth escapes me.
So I am trying to make up for it with ginger and lime tea -- which just so happens to be the best ginger and lime tea I have ever had. I bought it at the little health foods shop in the village where my grandma used to live.
Besides balancing chocolate snacks and herbal tea, I am currently sans bike. Yes, the handlebars fell off my bike. Is this something that happens a lot? I have to say I was worried about the gears, the tyres, or perhaps the brakes. But the handlebars? They seemed solid.
Yes, so this morning we lifted my bike into the car. It seemed like a drugged horse in a way, not sure why this image came into my mind, but the bike just seemed so vast when it was laid on its side and carefully put on the folded back seats. Not that you would want to put a drugged horse in the back on your car, but still.
Anyway, that's about the major highlights of a quiet Saturday here, apart from reading, which is now my primary occupation. Not that I am complaining, it's definitely what I chose. It's just strange being in an occupation where my job is to think. Think, read, write, argue, think, etc, in some endless circle that contains full measures both of satisfaction and frustration. An endless quest to communicate things you yourself are only now just beginning to understand.
Anyway, speaking of reading, that is what I must now go and do. My tea is also best drunk hot...
So I am trying to make up for it with ginger and lime tea -- which just so happens to be the best ginger and lime tea I have ever had. I bought it at the little health foods shop in the village where my grandma used to live.
Besides balancing chocolate snacks and herbal tea, I am currently sans bike. Yes, the handlebars fell off my bike. Is this something that happens a lot? I have to say I was worried about the gears, the tyres, or perhaps the brakes. But the handlebars? They seemed solid.
Yes, so this morning we lifted my bike into the car. It seemed like a drugged horse in a way, not sure why this image came into my mind, but the bike just seemed so vast when it was laid on its side and carefully put on the folded back seats. Not that you would want to put a drugged horse in the back on your car, but still.
Anyway, that's about the major highlights of a quiet Saturday here, apart from reading, which is now my primary occupation. Not that I am complaining, it's definitely what I chose. It's just strange being in an occupation where my job is to think. Think, read, write, argue, think, etc, in some endless circle that contains full measures both of satisfaction and frustration. An endless quest to communicate things you yourself are only now just beginning to understand.
Anyway, speaking of reading, that is what I must now go and do. My tea is also best drunk hot...
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
a little vent
Question.....
does being part of an academic community have certain obligations attached to it? what factors are particularly important in an community focused on the discussion and practices of the social sciences/humanities? how do the ideal norms of the community affect the way we should act? how do we move academic discourses forward together? in sum, what can make academic communities valuable? i.e. why are we here?
perhaps....
-does it mean that we have to examine carefully the concepts we use when we interact with each other?
-does it mean that we have to be cautious of the frameworks we use in our community discourse?
-does it mean that we have to be aware of the importance of integrity not only in general life, but also specifically in the context of an academic career where without reputation of integrity, i fear, a scholar is very little....if no one listens to what (s)he says....unless the selling of souls enters the equation...
-does it mean we have to be aware of diverse backgrounds and experiences that escape those wretchedly weak categories so often provided by our society and language?
-does it mean taking into account AND USING analytical tools when discussing emotional issues?
I actually think that it does. And am surprised at how strongly I feel this. If we, as people who choose to sit around and think about these issues all day (and night), cannot discuss issues of social categories and history without descending into personal debates based on weak and analytically lazy concepts, then what hope is there of building constructive societal discourses? Why are we bothering to think about these issues at all?
I think that joining an academic community, at no matter what level has certain integral responsibilities, and it makes me angry when these are ignored. Maybe I'm overly idealistic about the whole concept of academic 'community' and will be angry frequently but so be it.
does being part of an academic community have certain obligations attached to it? what factors are particularly important in an community focused on the discussion and practices of the social sciences/humanities? how do the ideal norms of the community affect the way we should act? how do we move academic discourses forward together? in sum, what can make academic communities valuable? i.e. why are we here?
perhaps....
-does it mean that we have to examine carefully the concepts we use when we interact with each other?
-does it mean that we have to be cautious of the frameworks we use in our community discourse?
-does it mean that we have to be aware of the importance of integrity not only in general life, but also specifically in the context of an academic career where without reputation of integrity, i fear, a scholar is very little....if no one listens to what (s)he says....unless the selling of souls enters the equation...
-does it mean we have to be aware of diverse backgrounds and experiences that escape those wretchedly weak categories so often provided by our society and language?
-does it mean taking into account AND USING analytical tools when discussing emotional issues?
I actually think that it does. And am surprised at how strongly I feel this. If we, as people who choose to sit around and think about these issues all day (and night), cannot discuss issues of social categories and history without descending into personal debates based on weak and analytically lazy concepts, then what hope is there of building constructive societal discourses? Why are we bothering to think about these issues at all?
I think that joining an academic community, at no matter what level has certain integral responsibilities, and it makes me angry when these are ignored. Maybe I'm overly idealistic about the whole concept of academic 'community' and will be angry frequently but so be it.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
I knew it, from the first week. This year was not about learning about 'Africa'. This year was learning about people. The way they see themselves, the way they see others, what in fact an 'other' is.
Indeed, 'Africa' itself brings up these same questions, in the concept's construction. Who belongs? Who doesn't? Who has power? Who has a lot of power? Who has only a little? Who has enough money to free themselves from trivial everyday questions? Who uses every last ounce of resilience to enjoy the glory of every day?
People everywhere seem to engender conflict -- and yet at the same time recognise that it engenders pain, suffering, and misery. Maybe it's inevitable. Maybe it's always there.....maybe there will always be a "social entrepreneur" ready to stir it up....if only the state is "prone" to attack.....
And yet, we can communicate in such beautiful ways. We can weave words and melodies, rhythms and beats, thoughts and visions. And we know that though we are ultimately alone, we can have some company on the way.
Talking to a larger audience sometimes. Singing our song to the world. Stirring up the minds of hundreds, thousands swaying together in the colours of one flag, with one symbol, one word.
And yet there is that smaller audience. The hardest audience of all. The face-to-face that reveals the intricacies of honesty and deceit. The personal devils doing battle on the sidelines while other forces hang in the air, perhaps missing each other, sometimes, occasionally, embracing.
Those embraces feel rare sometimes. And their lack makes me feel cold. Why is it that we can stir up crowds and yet in private not look each other in the eye? Why is it that we can sing an epic song of our history and not answer the simple question over breakfast? How is it that we can throw a spear form afar and not inspect the scar on our neighbor's wrist? How can we weep over the ocean flooding our kind and yet not see the tears falling just there, on the corner of the street?
Speak quietly. Think carefully. You're in a community, whether you like it or not. You can't run away, you can't leave it. They follow you, from miles away, their voices echoing in your heart, tapping softly and then just before midnight hammering so loudly you might choke.
And so I say choose to look each other in the eye. Tell what you see on your faces. Speak those thoughts that otherwise drip through the floorboards. Take them not to decorate a faraway wall or for the community gossip ring, set them there on the table. Pass them round the table. Feel the intricacies, feel the bruises, the chips.
Don't throw the paint on my wall. I can't take all of it. I can't take these public dances where you embrace only to slide the knife in deep.
Please talk to each other.
Indeed, 'Africa' itself brings up these same questions, in the concept's construction. Who belongs? Who doesn't? Who has power? Who has a lot of power? Who has only a little? Who has enough money to free themselves from trivial everyday questions? Who uses every last ounce of resilience to enjoy the glory of every day?
People everywhere seem to engender conflict -- and yet at the same time recognise that it engenders pain, suffering, and misery. Maybe it's inevitable. Maybe it's always there.....maybe there will always be a "social entrepreneur" ready to stir it up....if only the state is "prone" to attack.....
And yet, we can communicate in such beautiful ways. We can weave words and melodies, rhythms and beats, thoughts and visions. And we know that though we are ultimately alone, we can have some company on the way.
Talking to a larger audience sometimes. Singing our song to the world. Stirring up the minds of hundreds, thousands swaying together in the colours of one flag, with one symbol, one word.
And yet there is that smaller audience. The hardest audience of all. The face-to-face that reveals the intricacies of honesty and deceit. The personal devils doing battle on the sidelines while other forces hang in the air, perhaps missing each other, sometimes, occasionally, embracing.
Those embraces feel rare sometimes. And their lack makes me feel cold. Why is it that we can stir up crowds and yet in private not look each other in the eye? Why is it that we can sing an epic song of our history and not answer the simple question over breakfast? How is it that we can throw a spear form afar and not inspect the scar on our neighbor's wrist? How can we weep over the ocean flooding our kind and yet not see the tears falling just there, on the corner of the street?
Speak quietly. Think carefully. You're in a community, whether you like it or not. You can't run away, you can't leave it. They follow you, from miles away, their voices echoing in your heart, tapping softly and then just before midnight hammering so loudly you might choke.
And so I say choose to look each other in the eye. Tell what you see on your faces. Speak those thoughts that otherwise drip through the floorboards. Take them not to decorate a faraway wall or for the community gossip ring, set them there on the table. Pass them round the table. Feel the intricacies, feel the bruises, the chips.
Don't throw the paint on my wall. I can't take all of it. I can't take these public dances where you embrace only to slide the knife in deep.
Please talk to each other.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
farawayness
What it is to be happy, feels so sweet. Sort of surprising, to suddenly just feel so happy. A cloudy Sunday night, the moon rose while I was inside. And then walking across the quad again, the grass glistens beneath the patchy sky.
But it's not even that. It's not that things look pretty tonight. It's just that feeling of being happy to be somewhere -- to be here. Or perhaps maybe just happy to be. To be.
It's a very simple feeling, disarmingly simple. And I think it's probably as much of a point as I can gather from all of this. And I'll just take a couple of moments to taste it. First the sweetness on the tip of my tongue and then bitterness at the back, then the whole mix of it. All of it.
It feels the same way when I'd leave work, storm up Mass Ave, then to Dupont, turn the corner on the Circle and find the jazz band. Blazin' away, jammin' true, trumpets and trombones in front of the doughnut shop. Finding a stranger to dance with before filing underground, a small smile waiting for the Red Line.........listening to the people's stories of the day and the night.
An orange tea pot, like my old Grandma's saucepan, as bright as orange can be. Lady Grey tea, yes, some milk, and sit out on that old rotten wooden balcony, watching the birds rustling up in the eaves.
Seeking out the bearded musicman downstairs, see his painted drums and guitar amidst the dirty laundry. Sit and watch the looping machine, sippin' Blue Moon and taking photos of socks a'drying on a fan.
We all left the house, I was the last to leave. And I'm here now, faraway from all that. My, tonight is sweet though, despite our interminable farawayness.
But it's not even that. It's not that things look pretty tonight. It's just that feeling of being happy to be somewhere -- to be here. Or perhaps maybe just happy to be. To be.
It's a very simple feeling, disarmingly simple. And I think it's probably as much of a point as I can gather from all of this. And I'll just take a couple of moments to taste it. First the sweetness on the tip of my tongue and then bitterness at the back, then the whole mix of it. All of it.
It feels the same way when I'd leave work, storm up Mass Ave, then to Dupont, turn the corner on the Circle and find the jazz band. Blazin' away, jammin' true, trumpets and trombones in front of the doughnut shop. Finding a stranger to dance with before filing underground, a small smile waiting for the Red Line.........listening to the people's stories of the day and the night.
An orange tea pot, like my old Grandma's saucepan, as bright as orange can be. Lady Grey tea, yes, some milk, and sit out on that old rotten wooden balcony, watching the birds rustling up in the eaves.
Seeking out the bearded musicman downstairs, see his painted drums and guitar amidst the dirty laundry. Sit and watch the looping machine, sippin' Blue Moon and taking photos of socks a'drying on a fan.
We all left the house, I was the last to leave. And I'm here now, faraway from all that. My, tonight is sweet though, despite our interminable farawayness.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
1st week...
Right. I suppose it is about time that I wrote something here...time has been flowing around my thoughts and I was left a bit behind the present. I am almost caught up I think and getting more of a grip on what I am doing and where I am, which is useful for living a somewhat organised life. Hmmm. Not that I am organised enough to do my laundry on time or make sure that I don't just eat porridge and cheese sandwiches for 90% of my meals.
Yes, so I find myself back in the town of "gaping spires and dreaming tourists", though I see few of either, being mainly in the northern suburbs. It's good to be back, good to be thinking again -- best of all to be thrown back into a situation where I feel different every week and with every conversation I have.
Ooh, the shower is free. Exciting.
Anyway, now I am clean. Yes, so we have had one week of the course so far -- which means we've done the first unit of our first two courses. The first is a research methods course -- we discussed the invention of Africa and the insights that postcolonial literature and critical theory (and post-structuralism) gives us in discussing the way people have conceptualised the continent, different groups of people, and the way that people choose to organise and react to power and knowledge structures. The second course is very broad-- for the first week, we discussed the colonial state until 1940!
This week in particular I started to concentrate on one question that has started to occupy my thoughts whenever they are not thinking about whether I should eat another chocolate biscuit (four already today and they are the serious kind of chocolate biscuits, more chocolate than biscuit) or how to ride my bike with a bus about two inches away from my ear.
And that is -- how are scholarship and activism connected? What implications does the quest for social justice have for my studies? How can you keep your viewpoint and not betray your ideals....how do you have ideals after you've deconstructed them? Do they stand the test?
.......
Yes, so I find myself back in the town of "gaping spires and dreaming tourists", though I see few of either, being mainly in the northern suburbs. It's good to be back, good to be thinking again -- best of all to be thrown back into a situation where I feel different every week and with every conversation I have.
Ooh, the shower is free. Exciting.
Anyway, now I am clean. Yes, so we have had one week of the course so far -- which means we've done the first unit of our first two courses. The first is a research methods course -- we discussed the invention of Africa and the insights that postcolonial literature and critical theory (and post-structuralism) gives us in discussing the way people have conceptualised the continent, different groups of people, and the way that people choose to organise and react to power and knowledge structures. The second course is very broad-- for the first week, we discussed the colonial state until 1940!
This week in particular I started to concentrate on one question that has started to occupy my thoughts whenever they are not thinking about whether I should eat another chocolate biscuit (four already today and they are the serious kind of chocolate biscuits, more chocolate than biscuit) or how to ride my bike with a bus about two inches away from my ear.
And that is -- how are scholarship and activism connected? What implications does the quest for social justice have for my studies? How can you keep your viewpoint and not betray your ideals....how do you have ideals after you've deconstructed them? Do they stand the test?
.......
Saturday, July 07, 2007
it's a small (but very vast and complicated) world...
Last week, I drove down to Atlanta with a couple friends. Driving from DC is quite an undertaking -- a good 10-12 hours. So the plan was to start from DC at around 10:30am. We'd get in before or at midnight, catch some deep zzzs, and be fresh and awake for the US Social Forum the next day.
Right. Yeah.
We actually arrived at 4:30am...after a un pneu creve, a tow truck, two and a half hours at a car dealership...
I still enjoyed the ride. DC is a bubble and, to tell the truth, not my top favourite place. I feel a bit trapped here at times. I think the place attracts so much ambition and attention that there is not that much energy flowing out. I feel sucked into the centre and long to break out and run. Flee for a short while into the cool of the countryside, into the quiet.
That is why it was great to be on the road, speeding through lines of trees over rivers nameless to me unless I caught a glimpse of a passing sign.
We even stopped at a mini Pizza Hut...Lesson: get the super veggie-- it has tomatoes unlike the regular veggie. I was lucky and chose the super... :)
I drove the last shift as I tend to get strangely hyperactive after 1am. I stopped at a Waffle House to buy a coffee. For those of you not versed in the eating places of the American South, Waffle Houses are yellow and black restaurants serving, besides waffles, lots of coffee and all the greasy overfried breakfast foods you could desire. I personally would not recommend the sausage, but I have had relatively decent waffles there before. And their coffee does the trick...I was babbling on for hours, much to the dismay of my friend in the front seat hoping to catch some zzzs........
But yes, the Waffle House-- it was a good pitstop. I got my first shot of southern hospitality in a while. For all its faults and all its lingering sores and scars, the South does have a place in my heart. Strange, it sort of sneaked up on me; somehow love entered in amongst a lot of other slightly more negative feelings (doesn't that happen surprisingly often?). I was reminded of this tangle of emotions when I walked out of the Waffle House. Despite having to work at that hour for very little pay in a greasy cafe by the side of a highway, the three servers shared their laughs and smiles with me. They gave me cheer...and explained how their sales were going compared to last year's.
Anyway, why am I rambling on about this? Because it reminded me how much I find I need to be on the road from time to time. Journeying reminds me of how big and complicated this world is -- how many people, how many lives, how many stories. Living in a city like DC, you bump into people you know from other places all the time, inevitably exclaiming "oh, it's a small world after all..."
I used to complain about that phrase every time I heard it. Now I have accepted that it will be said and does represent an important truth about our interdependence and interconnectedness. But I still maintain that we need to know that the world is also huge -- a crowded, complicated, interwoven mess. A beautiful mess, an ugly mess -- we can simplify it, we can explore it, but it will remain tangled and vast.
I think that's what amazes me the most -- how can the world be simultaneously small and vast. I think intricate is a word that helps me understand this paradox. You can zoom out and see patterns, see connections. But then when you zoom in, you just keep going, on and on, the details keep appearing. Even when, finally, you get to a single person, things are never simple...
Blessed be journeys and their confusions. Things will never be simple. But we walk on...
Right. Yeah.
We actually arrived at 4:30am...after a un pneu creve, a tow truck, two and a half hours at a car dealership...
I still enjoyed the ride. DC is a bubble and, to tell the truth, not my top favourite place. I feel a bit trapped here at times. I think the place attracts so much ambition and attention that there is not that much energy flowing out. I feel sucked into the centre and long to break out and run. Flee for a short while into the cool of the countryside, into the quiet.
That is why it was great to be on the road, speeding through lines of trees over rivers nameless to me unless I caught a glimpse of a passing sign.
We even stopped at a mini Pizza Hut...Lesson: get the super veggie-- it has tomatoes unlike the regular veggie. I was lucky and chose the super... :)
I drove the last shift as I tend to get strangely hyperactive after 1am. I stopped at a Waffle House to buy a coffee. For those of you not versed in the eating places of the American South, Waffle Houses are yellow and black restaurants serving, besides waffles, lots of coffee and all the greasy overfried breakfast foods you could desire. I personally would not recommend the sausage, but I have had relatively decent waffles there before. And their coffee does the trick...I was babbling on for hours, much to the dismay of my friend in the front seat hoping to catch some zzzs........
But yes, the Waffle House-- it was a good pitstop. I got my first shot of southern hospitality in a while. For all its faults and all its lingering sores and scars, the South does have a place in my heart. Strange, it sort of sneaked up on me; somehow love entered in amongst a lot of other slightly more negative feelings (doesn't that happen surprisingly often?). I was reminded of this tangle of emotions when I walked out of the Waffle House. Despite having to work at that hour for very little pay in a greasy cafe by the side of a highway, the three servers shared their laughs and smiles with me. They gave me cheer...and explained how their sales were going compared to last year's.
Anyway, why am I rambling on about this? Because it reminded me how much I find I need to be on the road from time to time. Journeying reminds me of how big and complicated this world is -- how many people, how many lives, how many stories. Living in a city like DC, you bump into people you know from other places all the time, inevitably exclaiming "oh, it's a small world after all..."
I used to complain about that phrase every time I heard it. Now I have accepted that it will be said and does represent an important truth about our interdependence and interconnectedness. But I still maintain that we need to know that the world is also huge -- a crowded, complicated, interwoven mess. A beautiful mess, an ugly mess -- we can simplify it, we can explore it, but it will remain tangled and vast.
I think that's what amazes me the most -- how can the world be simultaneously small and vast. I think intricate is a word that helps me understand this paradox. You can zoom out and see patterns, see connections. But then when you zoom in, you just keep going, on and on, the details keep appearing. Even when, finally, you get to a single person, things are never simple...
Blessed be journeys and their confusions. Things will never be simple. But we walk on...
Monday, July 02, 2007
"swedish word...swedish word...blues..."
ok i just have to say that someone is singing the blues in swedish in my living room right now...on a keyboard bought by my late grandfather back in 1993 or so.
Tapping his socked foot, dressed in a blue embroidered shirt surely from his travels, my finnish friend sings...."swedish word, swedish word....etc....blues....". Too bad I can't translate for you...writing "swedish word" does not quite capture it...
now we've moved from blues to a more classic sound...the song from which he sang some verses the other day as our good night greeting -- after we'd all eaten the chocolate cake my sister had for me. My sis, my Finnish friend, an American high school librarian from Washington State, and another librarian from Brooklyn who were all staying with me all sang happy birthday to me at midnight after a long day of the US Social Forum...
the song was from the most famous Swedish who wrote many popular songs...this one is not heard as often as the words are sad...well not so sad as hard, black -- it's a song sung in the attic and it is for people who are -- that's one very old profession, you know, when you take the, clean the chimney -- yes, a chimneysweep. It is a drinking song. Skol is cheers. Skol, yeah. Cheers -- what you say when you toast. A toast for all you brothers. Then it tells some hard truths about money and man. Eveybody is as ugly...and talks about the deluge, the flood -- in the Biblical sense.
It ends with a toast for life.
The first song was about an oil tanker, named Gramsci. You know Antonio Gramsci? I wrote my masters thesis about Antonio Gramsci.
Tapping his socked foot, dressed in a blue embroidered shirt surely from his travels, my finnish friend sings...."swedish word, swedish word....etc....blues....". Too bad I can't translate for you...writing "swedish word" does not quite capture it...
now we've moved from blues to a more classic sound...the song from which he sang some verses the other day as our good night greeting -- after we'd all eaten the chocolate cake my sister had for me. My sis, my Finnish friend, an American high school librarian from Washington State, and another librarian from Brooklyn who were all staying with me all sang happy birthday to me at midnight after a long day of the US Social Forum...
the song was from the most famous Swedish who wrote many popular songs...this one is not heard as often as the words are sad...well not so sad as hard, black -- it's a song sung in the attic and it is for people who are -- that's one very old profession, you know, when you take the, clean the chimney -- yes, a chimneysweep. It is a drinking song. Skol is cheers. Skol, yeah. Cheers -- what you say when you toast. A toast for all you brothers. Then it tells some hard truths about money and man. Eveybody is as ugly...and talks about the deluge, the flood -- in the Biblical sense.
It ends with a toast for life.
The first song was about an oil tanker, named Gramsci. You know Antonio Gramsci? I wrote my masters thesis about Antonio Gramsci.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
my downsides from ussf (amongst many positives)
(I hate to be negative before writing about the positives, but I had to vent a bit).
I am annoyed.
I am tired of some people talking without thinking on both sides of the aisle -- and on both sides of the political spectrum outside government buildings with clearly defined aisles.
I am annoyed.
I am tired of some people talking without thinking on both sides of the aisle -- and on both sides of the political spectrum outside government buildings with clearly defined aisles.
In fact I am sick and tired of the whole idea of a two dimensional scale anyway.
I am tired of crowds cheering without thinking.
I am sick and tired of people falling in love with an idol.
I am disappointed in people who should know better.
I am disappointed in people-- people who know things take a lot of hard work, not just some pretty words.
I am tired of people not deconstructing words -- "white"..."race"..."God"..."government"...
People-- words are shortcuts! They are symbols! The analysis must not end with the symbol tumbling from your lips.
It is not that hard to get up on a stage and whip a crowd into a frenzy.
To get up on a stage and say things they want to hear.
But that is NOT GOOD ENOUGH.
People are dying and people are killing -- mindless cheering will not solve this.
If you want energy, if you want a rally, say so.
But don't you dare tell me you are analysing, don't you dare tell me you are breaking things down. Don't you dare tell me that you are listening to everyone.
It is enough that people in the world feel desperate enough to kill themselves to kill others. We don't need more people not thinking, we don't need more people forgetting that from time to time they need to sit on their butts and consider what exactly it is they are proposing. what exactly the consequences of their words will be.
Don't tell me you hate capitalism until you can tell me what capitalism is.
Don't tell me you're a socialist unless you can tell me what that means.
Don't tell me that Mao is a hero until you can explain those millions of lives lost.
Don't tell me that Chavez will save us all until you can explain why there are rumors about certain offshore accounts -- and don't even try to tell me "he really has very little money."
Haven't we learnt enough history to know that we need to beware when someone starts promising us he'll give us everything? Just like that...?
Don't tell me that the "government" is at fault for everything before you break down that huge concept-- all its institutions, networks, people. They don't all have forked tongues!
Don't tell me "science" is bad ... when you are speaking through a microphone to people who've travelled thousands of miles in a day or two...in response to messages sent out over cables in a matter of seconds.
Don't ignore the fact that you live somewhere where you can gather and complain, discuss and debate. We have so much more space than exists elsewhere. Let's use it to think before we scream.
And don't separate the world into 'white' and 'colored' as a start to explaining why we need a revolution in this country.
And please, please, please don't depend on the structure created by your oppressor as a way out. You cannot use categories of identity created by the other to escape in a sustainable way.
Also -- don't throw around with wild abandonment the terms 'rascist' and 'white supremacist' when you abhor them. Do you judge me by the colour of my skin? My "white" skin? Do you define me by what you see? By my accent? How do you categorise me in your mind?
Inclusion and solidarity are beautiful words. I stand by them. They are the only way forward if we all want to move to a better world.
Solidarity must be our motto. Americans often have not heard of this word, even those that already use it to decide how to live their lives. Let's share it. Let's show what it means.
People, don't come to the table with your agenda laid out and tell me this is an open space.
Nothing is ever going to be easy. This is a crowded planet. We've got a lot of convincing to do. A lot of explaining, in gentle voices-- gentle but firm. We need to understand that system that has screwed so many people around the world. Because a system's made up of people...some not aware of their actions, even if they really should be. That's a serious challenge for us.
I don't know if I have that much capacity for empathy -- I'll admit I fail to have empathy a lot of the time. But at least let's admit that it has to be a main ingredient in any new movement that has any hope of making another world possible.
Forgive my anger. It's self-righteous. It's coming from someone that has not suffered like you. It's coming from someone privileged enough to find time for activism. But this is my truth and I want to put it out there.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
mon anniversaire...
Donc...c'est mon anniversaire! Pour cette raison, j'ai decide qu'il faut ecrire ici, sur mon blog...(je ne connais pas le vocabulaire francais du blogosphere...).
Yes so...23. First of all, that is a weird age. I mean who is 23? Well a lot of my friends, but other than that, what do you hear about 23 year olds? What are they up to? Where are they hiding?
I think I am supposed to feel more mature? Hmmm, or maybe more honestly I feel like this is the beginning of the stage where birthdays are days to smile and have fun but the meaning of an exact age has faded away.
I am about to run off to a soccer game. I ain't playing as I sprained my ankle (boo) but wanted to support mon equipe for the last game of the season. And I also feel like I should sit in the sun on my birthday.
Shame I can't play as the team will be down to 7...and yes, we do play in a 11 person per team league! At first we all got depressed when we had no subs, especially if we were going to play on turf in 90 degree heat (black rubber, great for absorbing heat and sending it up your legs via your black cleats, ugh). Now I would be thrilled to have 10 or 11 people playing. We played the last game with 7 -- managed to keep it to 1-0 against us for the first half. It ended up as 3-0 our loss but I was pretty impressed. They had four more people on the field than us -- and three subs on the sideline.
Anyway, I had a point-- yes, so it is funny how your mind adapts and alters your expectations! Now I think playing with 7-8 players is normal and having a full team an absolute luxury. And subs -- what on earth would they do??
I guess I am just amazed at how we react to our environment, to how we gather all the information from our surroundings and form a view of the world...something I notice when I move too. The way your mind swivels, things gradually click into place, you pick up another lens, your mind considers it...
Well I must run. This is a very inconsequential post. I'll call it birthday privilege.
I am seeing Bamako (http://www.bamako-film.com/index.php?en) tonight. Reviews seem mixed: some a bit negative (http://blogcritics.org/archives/2007/06/06/193122.php) , some seem more impressed (http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/bamako/).
Actually I might see it another time...and see Once tonight. Hmm.
Yes so...23. First of all, that is a weird age. I mean who is 23? Well a lot of my friends, but other than that, what do you hear about 23 year olds? What are they up to? Where are they hiding?
I think I am supposed to feel more mature? Hmmm, or maybe more honestly I feel like this is the beginning of the stage where birthdays are days to smile and have fun but the meaning of an exact age has faded away.
I am about to run off to a soccer game. I ain't playing as I sprained my ankle (boo) but wanted to support mon equipe for the last game of the season. And I also feel like I should sit in the sun on my birthday.
Shame I can't play as the team will be down to 7...and yes, we do play in a 11 person per team league! At first we all got depressed when we had no subs, especially if we were going to play on turf in 90 degree heat (black rubber, great for absorbing heat and sending it up your legs via your black cleats, ugh). Now I would be thrilled to have 10 or 11 people playing. We played the last game with 7 -- managed to keep it to 1-0 against us for the first half. It ended up as 3-0 our loss but I was pretty impressed. They had four more people on the field than us -- and three subs on the sideline.
Anyway, I had a point-- yes, so it is funny how your mind adapts and alters your expectations! Now I think playing with 7-8 players is normal and having a full team an absolute luxury. And subs -- what on earth would they do??
I guess I am just amazed at how we react to our environment, to how we gather all the information from our surroundings and form a view of the world...something I notice when I move too. The way your mind swivels, things gradually click into place, you pick up another lens, your mind considers it...
Well I must run. This is a very inconsequential post. I'll call it birthday privilege.
I am seeing Bamako (http://www.bamako-film.com/index.php?en) tonight. Reviews seem mixed: some a bit negative (http://blogcritics.org/archives/2007/06/06/193122.php) , some seem more impressed (http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/bamako/).
Actually I might see it another time...and see Once tonight. Hmm.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
for posterity
This morning I walked out of my house. Once I got to the main street I had to raise my hands in the air slightly and greet the blue sky-- today is one of those days that stuns you with its incredible beauty. It was a day that was almost created for humans, I think to convince us that we are sometimes welcome on this planet. Perhaps always, if we really push our luck...
I again had brunch. I love brunch. I normally go months without having brunch however so this month is an exception -- I have eaten an indulgent brunch for the last three Sundays! Stinks of hedonism I almost think. The first two were in honour of people visiting DC however so I think I should be let off the hook. It is not my fault if my friends are great admirers of Kramer Books Cafe...
What else is new? Well, I saw the Queen on Monday. I suppose I had better write something about that for posterity, for ye grandkids when I sit on the porch in my rocking chair drinking Chimay ale. For describing the general visit, Matt Frei from the BBC got it right...my favourite part was hearing Bush speak. It absolutely blows my mind that this guy is president sometimes -- hearing his voice confirmed this. He actually sounds like an SNL parody of himself. When he told us the Queen had visited the US in 1776, the crowd burst out laughing. Everyone had been waiting for a Bushism, for a gaffe....and there it was. I actually felt pleased that I have witnessed one live. How perverse.
Her Majesty was grace and cordiality. She does not have the freedom to take a stand on anything anyway, but her calm and ability to get basic facts right was impressive....
It was quite cool wandering about on the South Lawn of the White House. For the residence of the US president, it is a relatively humble set-up...of course the house is large and majestic, but then again it does contain an awful lot of offices. The gardens are pretty, plainly landscaped -- nothing really inspires awe which is comforting -- and represents the dimensions of American government that gives me hope.
As a last detail, I did love seeing the outfits some people turned up in...the fantastic hats a la House of Windsor gone ever so slightly wrong. There was even a rather large child festooned in a bonnet in a classically shaped pram. That was a bit too much for me.
So there we are, that's the brief outline for the grandkids. Kiddy-winks, time for bed. Grandma's got some rocking to do before abandoning her porch post.
I again had brunch. I love brunch. I normally go months without having brunch however so this month is an exception -- I have eaten an indulgent brunch for the last three Sundays! Stinks of hedonism I almost think. The first two were in honour of people visiting DC however so I think I should be let off the hook. It is not my fault if my friends are great admirers of Kramer Books Cafe...
What else is new? Well, I saw the Queen on Monday. I suppose I had better write something about that for posterity, for ye grandkids when I sit on the porch in my rocking chair drinking Chimay ale. For describing the general visit, Matt Frei from the BBC got it right...my favourite part was hearing Bush speak. It absolutely blows my mind that this guy is president sometimes -- hearing his voice confirmed this. He actually sounds like an SNL parody of himself. When he told us the Queen had visited the US in 1776, the crowd burst out laughing. Everyone had been waiting for a Bushism, for a gaffe....and there it was. I actually felt pleased that I have witnessed one live. How perverse.
Her Majesty was grace and cordiality. She does not have the freedom to take a stand on anything anyway, but her calm and ability to get basic facts right was impressive....
It was quite cool wandering about on the South Lawn of the White House. For the residence of the US president, it is a relatively humble set-up...of course the house is large and majestic, but then again it does contain an awful lot of offices. The gardens are pretty, plainly landscaped -- nothing really inspires awe which is comforting -- and represents the dimensions of American government that gives me hope.
As a last detail, I did love seeing the outfits some people turned up in...the fantastic hats a la House of Windsor gone ever so slightly wrong. There was even a rather large child festooned in a bonnet in a classically shaped pram. That was a bit too much for me.
So there we are, that's the brief outline for the grandkids. Kiddy-winks, time for bed. Grandma's got some rocking to do before abandoning her porch post.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
suddenly
...As I write I see another body wheeled in. For a long time I saw no evidence of our neighbour's trade. But in two weeks now, even less, I have seen two bodies wheeled in. The performance just now was exactly the same. Different actors and this time they had more trouble getting the stretcher out of the car but the body shape under the black cover was the same...strange to see that sitting on your bed, looking out at a sunny morning.
Beagles speeding through DC
I really love people. I like the way suddenly something brings out the innocent reaction. The way people one minute completely detached from each other can all grin at an inconsequential incongruence.
One of favourite parts of yesterday was my ride home on the metro. I was alone, how I often want to be speeding through a dark city. The carriage was quite full, people tired, staring ahead, contemplating and meditating.
Then a guy got on with two beagles in a pull-along bag. Yes, two dogs curled up together in a mesh oblong bag which had a pull-up handle so you could wheel it along. I did not actually see this bag until he wheeled it off the train, with it careening, almost crashing, as he turned to walk down the platform.
Before that I just saw him standing at the front, everyone staring in the direction of his feet. People surreptitiously kissing their lips against their teeth, clicking -- convinced perhaps that they have that special connection with the dogs...if only the wretched animal would look at me...
And then a baby in a pushchair, obviously much less interested in the dog at the end of a long day than his mum-- "oh he really loves dogs, don't you really love dogs..." ... "oh look...oh there are two of them."
And everyone's face with a slight smile, with a hint of a laugh, eyes suddenly alive. The person sitting next to me became my partner in jest, her shoulders dropped, we escaped from the march of a regimented city commute.
And at such moments I look up and smile. I cannot help but giggle. I love people! Two beagles and not one of us can maintain a straight face.
In general, I quite like the metro, especially later in the day. I have been cared for by a stranger before, been woken up before my stop and told to go to sleep again with a promise of a wake-up nudge. I have met many an eye, just for a moment. Like yesterday someone calmly walking through the door, I swear he must have been a ghost. He walked so calmly through just as the door was closing. Everyone else would have run through, immediately turning round to face the enemy, make sure their tail was not caught in the door. But he just kept going so smoothly, right on through. Until he saw me laugh and his face then broke into a smile of relief...So he was human after all.
One of favourite parts of yesterday was my ride home on the metro. I was alone, how I often want to be speeding through a dark city. The carriage was quite full, people tired, staring ahead, contemplating and meditating.
Then a guy got on with two beagles in a pull-along bag. Yes, two dogs curled up together in a mesh oblong bag which had a pull-up handle so you could wheel it along. I did not actually see this bag until he wheeled it off the train, with it careening, almost crashing, as he turned to walk down the platform.
Before that I just saw him standing at the front, everyone staring in the direction of his feet. People surreptitiously kissing their lips against their teeth, clicking -- convinced perhaps that they have that special connection with the dogs...if only the wretched animal would look at me...
And then a baby in a pushchair, obviously much less interested in the dog at the end of a long day than his mum-- "oh he really loves dogs, don't you really love dogs..." ... "oh look...oh there are two of them."
And everyone's face with a slight smile, with a hint of a laugh, eyes suddenly alive. The person sitting next to me became my partner in jest, her shoulders dropped, we escaped from the march of a regimented city commute.
And at such moments I look up and smile. I cannot help but giggle. I love people! Two beagles and not one of us can maintain a straight face.
In general, I quite like the metro, especially later in the day. I have been cared for by a stranger before, been woken up before my stop and told to go to sleep again with a promise of a wake-up nudge. I have met many an eye, just for a moment. Like yesterday someone calmly walking through the door, I swear he must have been a ghost. He walked so calmly through just as the door was closing. Everyone else would have run through, immediately turning round to face the enemy, make sure their tail was not caught in the door. But he just kept going so smoothly, right on through. Until he saw me laugh and his face then broke into a smile of relief...So he was human after all.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
we gonna get the dream
Since I am seemingly on a national monuments kick, I suppose I had better tell you about my morning.
First of all, last night I said good night and good morning to the sun as it travelled behind the Washington monument. Last night we had practice -- it was a very beautiful evening. First the sun set behind the monument, a huge glowing soul as we battled it out in our scrimmage (what? just 'cause it's rec doesn't mean it ain't vicious). Then on the other side, the Capital was lit up. And stretching we looked up, the moon glowing above as I struggled through another set of crunches...
Went home, finally sleeping after midnight, my alarm set for half past four...
The metro opens at 5. I was on the first train. I take secret delight in early mornings. I saw three extra hours that day and they were the most beautiful part of the day.
I was actually attending an ANZAC Day dawn service at the Korean War Memorial. I arrive a bit late, having got a bit lost on the way. So I missed most of the service. If I had gone down there just for the service I think I would have regretted my lost sleep.
But then I climbed up to the Lincoln Memorial.
Everyone should go there at sunrise at some point. See it for yourself.
Take the advice I took from the self-prooclaimed hippie up there that morning..."We have a dream, we are gonna get it this time...we have been waiting too long...hey darlin' come up here, right to the top, oh you can sell that photo. you know that is gonna be worth money that is. here, line up the tower*, that sun moves fast. see, the light is gonna come straight through that window, oh yes, there it goes, right there, doesn't it move though...yes, we gonna get the dream this time...honey, we gonna win...don't worry i'm just a leftover hippie from the '60s..."
She left, dancing down the steps, holding onto her pink hat, it was quiet.
I turned around, stood in the temple. Drowned my eyes in golden light, then sought out the shadows in the back, the layers of darkness crowding in as the gold slides down over the marble.
It was so empty. Two security guards on their phone. One or two Australian visitors, in blue military uniform, taking photos with their sweethearts. They left.
I stood in the cool, read the words. The other weekend I had not read them. Too hot, too many people. Then turned, and looking back to savor every changing moment of light and shadow, gold and marble, walked down to greet the day.
* I have never noticed this tower before. I am not sure if it only appears at sunrise.
First of all, last night I said good night and good morning to the sun as it travelled behind the Washington monument. Last night we had practice -- it was a very beautiful evening. First the sun set behind the monument, a huge glowing soul as we battled it out in our scrimmage (what? just 'cause it's rec doesn't mean it ain't vicious). Then on the other side, the Capital was lit up. And stretching we looked up, the moon glowing above as I struggled through another set of crunches...
Went home, finally sleeping after midnight, my alarm set for half past four...
The metro opens at 5. I was on the first train. I take secret delight in early mornings. I saw three extra hours that day and they were the most beautiful part of the day.
I was actually attending an ANZAC Day dawn service at the Korean War Memorial. I arrive a bit late, having got a bit lost on the way. So I missed most of the service. If I had gone down there just for the service I think I would have regretted my lost sleep.
But then I climbed up to the Lincoln Memorial.
Everyone should go there at sunrise at some point. See it for yourself.
Take the advice I took from the self-prooclaimed hippie up there that morning..."We have a dream, we are gonna get it this time...we have been waiting too long...hey darlin' come up here, right to the top, oh you can sell that photo. you know that is gonna be worth money that is. here, line up the tower*, that sun moves fast. see, the light is gonna come straight through that window, oh yes, there it goes, right there, doesn't it move though...yes, we gonna get the dream this time...honey, we gonna win...don't worry i'm just a leftover hippie from the '60s..."
She left, dancing down the steps, holding onto her pink hat, it was quiet.
I turned around, stood in the temple. Drowned my eyes in golden light, then sought out the shadows in the back, the layers of darkness crowding in as the gold slides down over the marble.
It was so empty. Two security guards on their phone. One or two Australian visitors, in blue military uniform, taking photos with their sweethearts. They left.
I stood in the cool, read the words. The other weekend I had not read them. Too hot, too many people. Then turned, and looking back to savor every changing moment of light and shadow, gold and marble, walked down to greet the day.
* I have never noticed this tower before. I am not sure if it only appears at sunrise.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Breathing
I always think of bicycle wheels and ice-cream-on-sunny-days when I listen to this song. Strange how something can hit you somehow and yet just make you think of ice cream. And bicycle wheels.
A great weekend, a family of friends, fire dancers in your backyard, mesmerised on the balcony... it was a cool evening, just a little too chilly for my dress but I decided to forge ahead and wear that garish outfit anyway, jacketless. It is a gloriously obnoxious green with brown and yellow and orange and red, all twisted together with a belt around a high waist.
I love standing on the deck, looking down -- even when the firespinner stopped and smothered his flame, it is enough to watch groups of two or three slowly talking, drinking. You might be able to step off and keep walking until you march onto the rusted tin roof of the shack at the other side of the parking lot. If you really wanted to. Perhaps bounce off someone's head on the way. Gently of course. And then from there, from that new perch, you could keep going. Or sit on the spine of the roof for a moment. Though I fear I might soon bore of that and decide to stand and turn. I think you can see the Washington monument from there. A little red blinking light on top. Flashing.
I was on the Mall today. It's been about two years since I visited the monuments. And I don't know that I have ever been the guide. Spinning a tale of history from the Pacific ocean to the battlefields of Virginia and the Carolinas.
I love watching people stand in front of Lincoln to have their photographs taken. Some stand tall and proud. Some smile, others maintain a sincere face, as if many moments have built up to this moment in particular and documentation is awaited at home. Some smaller visitors run up, stand there grinning, hands behind their backs, turning round right as the flash goes, catching them grinning at the man himself, that grand marble soul.
They come from all over -- and they do marvel. I think it's important to remember how to marvel.
That thought makes me turn round, take in the man himself. I always am struck by his knees. His legs are so long, so strong. He is sure of it, sure of what has happened -- though not forgetful of the pain, of the brothers dying and the sisters abandoned. He stands facing the wind...yet also for a moment or two shutting his eyes and thinking why oh why oh god do we bleed?
And bleed we do. Follow the steps down. Walk to the left. A black wall. A long black wall. A book with many thumbed pages. Who was on the bottom of that page? Photos. I feel sick when I know my life has already been longer than theirs. My life -- my life that I feel is still new, still being worn in. And they died, they died for what...I can't help but hear the question echoing on and on and on in my head.
I tell him you know, every single president who wants to take us to war should have to spend a night sitting in front of that wall, reading every name, breathing every single one. Till he feels those lives in his veins. Then if he still thinks it's worth it, then he can make his case. Before that I just don't want to hear it.
And then back gently into the sunnyland -- so green. The willows tremble a little, blown by a little breath...I can't quite get rid of that slow feeling, which makes me blink gradually, taking a little more darkness than normal before reopening my life to the world.
And then to the metro and home. And to this song. This song so sad but yet full of ice cream and bicycle wheels.
A great weekend, a family of friends, fire dancers in your backyard, mesmerised on the balcony... it was a cool evening, just a little too chilly for my dress but I decided to forge ahead and wear that garish outfit anyway, jacketless. It is a gloriously obnoxious green with brown and yellow and orange and red, all twisted together with a belt around a high waist.
I love standing on the deck, looking down -- even when the firespinner stopped and smothered his flame, it is enough to watch groups of two or three slowly talking, drinking. You might be able to step off and keep walking until you march onto the rusted tin roof of the shack at the other side of the parking lot. If you really wanted to. Perhaps bounce off someone's head on the way. Gently of course. And then from there, from that new perch, you could keep going. Or sit on the spine of the roof for a moment. Though I fear I might soon bore of that and decide to stand and turn. I think you can see the Washington monument from there. A little red blinking light on top. Flashing.
I was on the Mall today. It's been about two years since I visited the monuments. And I don't know that I have ever been the guide. Spinning a tale of history from the Pacific ocean to the battlefields of Virginia and the Carolinas.
I love watching people stand in front of Lincoln to have their photographs taken. Some stand tall and proud. Some smile, others maintain a sincere face, as if many moments have built up to this moment in particular and documentation is awaited at home. Some smaller visitors run up, stand there grinning, hands behind their backs, turning round right as the flash goes, catching them grinning at the man himself, that grand marble soul.
They come from all over -- and they do marvel. I think it's important to remember how to marvel.
That thought makes me turn round, take in the man himself. I always am struck by his knees. His legs are so long, so strong. He is sure of it, sure of what has happened -- though not forgetful of the pain, of the brothers dying and the sisters abandoned. He stands facing the wind...yet also for a moment or two shutting his eyes and thinking why oh why oh god do we bleed?
And bleed we do. Follow the steps down. Walk to the left. A black wall. A long black wall. A book with many thumbed pages. Who was on the bottom of that page? Photos. I feel sick when I know my life has already been longer than theirs. My life -- my life that I feel is still new, still being worn in. And they died, they died for what...I can't help but hear the question echoing on and on and on in my head.
I tell him you know, every single president who wants to take us to war should have to spend a night sitting in front of that wall, reading every name, breathing every single one. Till he feels those lives in his veins. Then if he still thinks it's worth it, then he can make his case. Before that I just don't want to hear it.
And then back gently into the sunnyland -- so green. The willows tremble a little, blown by a little breath...I can't quite get rid of that slow feeling, which makes me blink gradually, taking a little more darkness than normal before reopening my life to the world.
And then to the metro and home. And to this song. This song so sad but yet full of ice cream and bicycle wheels.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
painted air
The only woman at the table. Losing my sense of foreign-ness, mzungu existence-- still from another world, suddenly feeling exposed as my new identity comes under the spotlight.
Yes, I am a woman. Yes, I will speak. I will sit here under the dark sky with you. I will consider the world and the small moments after midnight, I will breathe the settling dust and fumes from the business of daylight.
Mombasa deserted. Fires on the corners, tuktuk radios sing, hang on the door with Bwana, three men on a concrete bench, petrol station a taxi rank, old man sitting still in the shady doorway, friends speak through dark quietness.
To my room. It still smells of new paint. And the windows are wide open. I close the slats. How to uninvite the flying devils about to feast on my legs. Lie on my back, shoulders are red and stiff. Trip to the bathroom confirms the diagnosis, sunburn. Unpadlock my room, back to staring at the fan.
Fifteen minutes of emptiness, my self slowly expanding, feeling out the space, surprised still that it can spread and not meet anything. Keeps going, almost to the walls, but stops, hangs there, savouring the past days. So tangled, they've mixed each other's colours. Unanchored, floating up to the fan wildly swinging round, turning the painted air.
The light should be turned out. Put the cigarette outside the window. Why did he leave his cigarette in here?
And the lights go out. The thoughts, the self, float down, land, and I lie still.
Yes, I am a woman. Yes, I will speak. I will sit here under the dark sky with you. I will consider the world and the small moments after midnight, I will breathe the settling dust and fumes from the business of daylight.
Mombasa deserted. Fires on the corners, tuktuk radios sing, hang on the door with Bwana, three men on a concrete bench, petrol station a taxi rank, old man sitting still in the shady doorway, friends speak through dark quietness.
To my room. It still smells of new paint. And the windows are wide open. I close the slats. How to uninvite the flying devils about to feast on my legs. Lie on my back, shoulders are red and stiff. Trip to the bathroom confirms the diagnosis, sunburn. Unpadlock my room, back to staring at the fan.
Fifteen minutes of emptiness, my self slowly expanding, feeling out the space, surprised still that it can spread and not meet anything. Keeps going, almost to the walls, but stops, hangs there, savouring the past days. So tangled, they've mixed each other's colours. Unanchored, floating up to the fan wildly swinging round, turning the painted air.
The light should be turned out. Put the cigarette outside the window. Why did he leave his cigarette in here?
And the lights go out. The thoughts, the self, float down, land, and I lie still.
Monday, February 12, 2007
not really worth it (and yet...)
Oh mon amour, comme la pomme est trop forte, toi aussi, tu souris trop puis tu pleures...et je ne peux rien dire.
yeah. whatever.
it's been one of those days, when rubbish phrases swim around my head and pretend to be meaningful. ugh.
but now it is after midnight, a new morning is sneaking in, quietly, slowly, gracefully-- no, somewhat roughly, jerkily. it seems gentler though i am still holding my judgement. i need more time.
more time? what a ridiculous thing to ask for at 1am. more time to do what? Couche-toi, ma fille. Great deeds of um, computer typing and such. A phone call perhaps.
This is the point where I wonder if this post is really worth it. Probably not.
yeah. whatever.
it's been one of those days, when rubbish phrases swim around my head and pretend to be meaningful. ugh.
but now it is after midnight, a new morning is sneaking in, quietly, slowly, gracefully-- no, somewhat roughly, jerkily. it seems gentler though i am still holding my judgement. i need more time.
more time? what a ridiculous thing to ask for at 1am. more time to do what? Couche-toi, ma fille. Great deeds of um, computer typing and such. A phone call perhaps.
This is the point where I wonder if this post is really worth it. Probably not.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
je ne peux pas expliquer ce soir
I have been back in DC now for a week. Back from Nairobi last Monday night. I was exhausted this past week-- not just tired but trying to fit everything in my head. There are times when there are so many details, so many events and faces and voices that it seems impossible that it is all supposed to fit inside my mind. And then looking around here, where everyone has been going to the office for the last two weeks just as they would any other two weeks...how can I begin to tell a story of a far away sunny land...
But of course once I find my voice, there are listeners-- so then I wonder if it is me: if I am the one who just cannot translate the thoughts and events into words. The main problem is where to start, what to prioritise, how to sort through the huge pile of emotions and memories.
By the time the trip came to a climax, I felt so exhausted that I was in a daze. I think I was overwhelmed. I am not sure I can explain why because I have been in a couple stressful situations, travelled for longer, slept less, etc, and did not feel overwhelmed like this. It was not that the trip was particularly extreme. I think I just was overcome by a sense of heightened awareness. When you feel you are actually experiencing something in a very real way, when all the shortcuts that people traditionally rely on fall away. When you are no longer the observer in the situation but right there in the midst of the event, feeling emotions along with everyone else...even now I can't explain what I mean!
Maybe I have lost the gift of telling my story...I feel rather lost trying to make the sentences flow anyway. I will try again tomorrow. Maybe the words will weave together to tell the tale demain...j'espere...on ne sait jamais pourquoi certains mots tombent de la bouche au lieu des autres.
So now with this web of words spread all about, with others hiding in the corners of my room, I shall sleep. Maybe my dreams will explain it better to me.
But of course once I find my voice, there are listeners-- so then I wonder if it is me: if I am the one who just cannot translate the thoughts and events into words. The main problem is where to start, what to prioritise, how to sort through the huge pile of emotions and memories.
By the time the trip came to a climax, I felt so exhausted that I was in a daze. I think I was overwhelmed. I am not sure I can explain why because I have been in a couple stressful situations, travelled for longer, slept less, etc, and did not feel overwhelmed like this. It was not that the trip was particularly extreme. I think I just was overcome by a sense of heightened awareness. When you feel you are actually experiencing something in a very real way, when all the shortcuts that people traditionally rely on fall away. When you are no longer the observer in the situation but right there in the midst of the event, feeling emotions along with everyone else...even now I can't explain what I mean!
Maybe I have lost the gift of telling my story...I feel rather lost trying to make the sentences flow anyway. I will try again tomorrow. Maybe the words will weave together to tell the tale demain...j'espere...on ne sait jamais pourquoi certains mots tombent de la bouche au lieu des autres.
So now with this web of words spread all about, with others hiding in the corners of my room, I shall sleep. Maybe my dreams will explain it better to me.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
nairobi....
Hi! just wanted to say a quick hello from kenya! Bit funny to convert this blog right back to a kenya blog...old times!
actually yesterday i returned to visit kenwa (kenyan network of women with aids) and had a mini reunion with some old friends. stayed the night with a good friend who works there--dorcas-- her family were so welcoming. even now her brother has been showing me around town all day! i even met his manager at the bank!
should run now as he is waiting, having finished his e-mailing. i am off to meet some students from the university of nairobi about our upcoming seminar at the world social forum. then also meeting someone from GTZ, the German USAID/DFID. quite a busy afternoon after a morning wandering around the city and tasting athela-- beef that has been roasted then boiled-- very good and tender, usually for here I have found-- as far as my taste for meat goes!
yes, so having a good time, excited about the tjn forum tomorrow and the world social forum from saturday night.
kwaheri!
actually yesterday i returned to visit kenwa (kenyan network of women with aids) and had a mini reunion with some old friends. stayed the night with a good friend who works there--dorcas-- her family were so welcoming. even now her brother has been showing me around town all day! i even met his manager at the bank!
should run now as he is waiting, having finished his e-mailing. i am off to meet some students from the university of nairobi about our upcoming seminar at the world social forum. then also meeting someone from GTZ, the German USAID/DFID. quite a busy afternoon after a morning wandering around the city and tasting athela-- beef that has been roasted then boiled-- very good and tender, usually for here I have found-- as far as my taste for meat goes!
yes, so having a good time, excited about the tjn forum tomorrow and the world social forum from saturday night.
kwaheri!
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