Hi, invisible and visible fam. I knew I would never get to writing this if I didn’t write it, so I will write it? And these first few sentences will read rushed because I need to get the words- any words down before I can be picky with my choice of words. I am sick. This is no news. I seem to always be ill. But I don’t have a reason to be sick, yet I have a fever that doesn’t want to let go and go down, and so we’re here–stuck and just there, thinking about how life has treated us so far and what being twenty two means. It means nothing, I tell you, because it just about means a lot of things and that is just too much to mean anything substantially personal or unique. I know however that it has been recommended to me–and I am not opposed to it that…anyway, truth be told, I am under great compulsion to turn 23 in a month’s time. A younger friend by three months has already turned 23 without my permission and this is frightening and a sin of double crossing. Yes, she has received the warning and knows I don’t like to feel older than I am and so she should learn to enjoy being younger still while I reach the mark and set the pace. Lol, Titi, I really did spend the paragraph on this. Shameless me.
As an old person now, I now see that it’s never too late to start anything. For all the failed attempts to get anything done; my exercise routine, my face massage routine, my learning new things etcetera( I’m pretty bored writing this 🙂 – another part of old age) I’ve realized I can start at any time. I no longer feel like bullying myself into accepting defeat at how much could have changed and where I would have been if I had started three months ago for example. It’s better when there is no pressure, no sickening need for results. That’s only when anyone can do anything happily. So I hope I never have to make decisions like : you know what , from tomorrow my life will change drastically, I will start doing so and so. Frankly, it won’t work and I don’t need that extreme and upsetting change.
There are things we should never aspire to. Like what you have. I’m not a short girl with 4c afro hair. Will never have a full head of that kind of thick, tightly coiled hair because my hair has some straightened texture in it which is a bit confusing. I have a mixture of hairs on my head, and that’s fine. I don’t have the stamina to do many things and that too is fine. The rest I cannot mention because I want to sleep( the cheek!) but I’m accepting all those things and moving on to use the things I have whilst appreciating those who have other things.
- Sometimes you need to hear someone else speak.
Yesterday morning I sighed many times as I engaged in a vulgar version of a prayer session where I asked why I was stuck and going nowhere. I am not stuck, I know. Progression is not something I can control, but my perception is impressionable, so I might as well have been stuck and I needed an answer, some explanation for this thoughtlessness in matters concerning me. Do you know? I asked God, that so and so–I listed real names, does not desire half the things I desire to be and yet, you give them so freely, and for me, you set traps, you quite literally frustrate me like an enemy. You act like the devil himself towards me, like you hate me. You must hate me, I told God, because there is no explanation for this, none I can understand right now, and I sighed. And I said too that I did not care whose stories were being used as examples of his faithfulness, that they were unbelievable, and I would be the only material to be used to test the scriptures. Not another’s life, but mine, and I sighed again.
I don’t know how many people are bold enough to blaspheme and tell the voice that speaks to them when they are feeling wounded and slighted to fokof, but I do and then I cry and get some recklessness spirit as my reward for a while, until God helps me again. My day progressed, and towards the evening, I was cruising on feel good hormones and studies, till I decided to contact a friend just as I was listening to even when it hurts by hillsong. I listened quietly, sang some words and sent a message to this friend, a former secondary school mate, a senior then but a friend for close to seven years now.I asked waddup?
I’d almost forgotten how much this friend loves to talk and tell me about his life, and how easy it was to not have to respond to keep it going. It was relaxing to just know things and think as I was getting to know them, and I realized too that it’s rare for me to have conversations with people who just present me with life lessons on a platter . I have said before that it’s tiring to always be the one teaching people things, and it would be nice to just get lessons and be a student to someone, and that’s what happened. My former senior prefect from secondary school schooled me just by telling me how his life was going, what he was learning, and how God was teaching him to let go of things he could not control, how to make his internal solitude converge properly with his outward life, how to forgive people, how to let God lead you and how to follow blindly, and all this while I’d asked for nothing specific. Something was leading him to talk.I don’t think my friend realized how much I feel that conversation was like an answer to my morning sighs, how speaking about his own life was inspiring, because it was, and I told him it was and thanked him for sharing. I realize then that nothing is random. Not my morning sighs, not the pressure to reach out at that time, even when we don’t speak as often, not his lessons which were brimming and in need of someone else’s eyes and mind. Maybe God does orchestrate after all.
What I was reminded of by him, was my sores can be forgotten. I have a choice to focus on that or remove my mind from them. I can do this. I can have grace and can do this if I want to. He also said it would be very hard, it’s very hard to be a fool and turn the other cheek. It’s hard to let go and just let God lead. He also said that sometimes we don’t understand even with the information. Look at the disciples, they knew Jesus would be killed, he told them many times, yet when it happened, they were perplexed. They had no understanding even when they had information. Same with us, we have been told it will be hard, yet when it is difficult, we ask questions and doubt. We are like those without understanding. I realized again after this that speaking about God with a living friend who is living the Christian reality is something I miss. It’s always more relatable when someone you actually know and have known for a long while can display living like Jesus for you, not someone in America, some vague place living in a blog post, but a real human with struggles you’re familiar with, with a name you can trace. That was my coming down to earth moment. I don’t regret asking God to explain what he’s doing, and I don’t regret asking him if my life would be a good measure of his faithfulness to anyone looking for an example, because sometimes my faith needs to be strengthened. I need to know too that this is not a farce, and I’m not being a stupid believer.
Why do you think so?
Because everyone is slow, stupid, crass, just like you made them.
Either that, she said, or they are on their way to attaining all that.
And what will you do?
Tell it to stop. I will tell it to stop, she said.
What? Tell what, asked the glowing thing.
I will, she said, tell it to give it a rest, to not bother.
Why? You keep running, said the glowing thing.
I feel, she said, that it has it’s own problems, some trauma, she said.
Through it’s lenses, it views me, she sighed.
You don’t want that to happen? The glowing thing asked.
No. I try to avoid it. It doesn’t understand. They never do.
They want, demand, and paint me with black.
Like a well, they sink deeper in the mud.
Their ankles, she smiled, are always bruised.
So, you will avoid? Asked the glowing thing.
Yes. I will avoid it.
I will tell it, it’s either this way or nothing at all.
Its hard for you, the glowing thing murmured in sympathy.
She shrugged. It’s hard to be excited for it, to be who it wants.
But, you will just be you, said the glowing thing.
Yes, I’ve got my back. As always.
Be there. For you.
For me. She left.
I wondered how God feels when He sees and knows that the majority of people who are living this wonderful thing He created called ‘ life’ , do not want it. They don’t enjoy living it and how even amongst his people , the sighs and aches are enough to negate the good things they have seen about it. How do we reconcile the goodness of what has been created, it’s perfection with how badly it has turned out to be?
I opened the psalms to read and read psalm 25 four times. I read it slowly, hoping to see something in new light, to find hope, to find shelter from the looting, from Nigeria and from myself. I read the words hoping that through them, an explanation would sink in, that I would be able to go on in spite of what appears to me as too much for a God to ever handle. Psalm 25 verse 16 says; turn to me for I am lonely and afflicted. I watched Michael Ramsden speak about God and suffering, a familiar theme. Love, he says is an agent. I remember hearing or reading something about the nature of love. That it is only where it is lacking that it can be needed, so ideally, it is in a world of suffering, as this one, that we can express love. But God is a triune God and exists in loving relationship already. What does God need? Why doesn’t He suffer to experience love? These questions remained with me as I watched.
I find it off putting when people think their lives are harder than mine. Some lives might indeed be very difficult, but no one has the right to judge another persons life as less. Just because they work physically more does not in any way negate the emotional and mental troubles of other people. It’s with great restraint that I do not want to call such people names. On a daily basis, I suffer from flash backs, I remember too many things from the past that I would rather leave there but can’t. It might seem as if I am sitting down in peace but inside I am dealing with memories like a fireman, extinguishing them one after the other, and finally distracting myself with something as I cope.
I have been sad, really sad because I know that every action is a ripple effect in some way. The distance this travels and what effect it might have maybe limited, but it is there all the same .there are things too heavy to mention ,so in order to maintain ones sanity, we keep mute and block everything . This is how I feel concerning the terrible thievery by the Nigerian government. The 500 million dollar scandal is a big cause for alarm. I watched a clip of people thrown out of their houses on water and cried, because the world is just as it has always been. There is no law and order, the poor have always been trampled upon and there will never be complete redemption, or will there? For some days , I decided to watch pulse tv to laugh and to get to feel once again a country towards which my feelings and thoughts are divided. Its difficult to say what I truly feel about being Nigerian, but Nigeria cannot be wiped away from my life. I am a product of the country. But as it is always with me, after a few laughs and happiness that we are just a different set of people, interesting, gullible, wise, I became sad again, because behind all these is suffering, wasted lives, long days and hardship and it feels like a very long way to change.
I don’t know what psalm one has to read to shake off this feeling or if it is , as they say, because of these feelings that someone like me ends up drawing nearer to God for answers and to calm me, but Michael Ramsden mentioned too that it would have been a problem if Jesus had said the world would be different from what it is and if we did not see it. This is how He said the world would look like in the last days, it is all going according to plan, sadly. What we should do then is try to understand what it means for it to be this way, what we should do since it is the way it was meant to do and live.
At the end of it all, we need courage. Zadie Smith says in an interview that if we live in a society that believes in the afterlife, then life is merely just a continuation of personhood(rephrased) , but if we believe this is all there is, then life and what the individual was is incredibly important. I know that it is this daily grinding against peoples with different world views about the after life that has created so much conflict. There’s so much wrong and little to forgive, harder in fact when you believe that here is where it all ends. So much anger when a better life does not happen for you within the span of what should have been your one and only life. So, while people like me who believe in an after life and are rather lax about their hold on certain things are combating the anxiety of needing to be everything and have everything in this life, the opposite group is fueling this. Part of this is why I disappear to find rest where I can. Peace before I feel entirely hopeless.
No pictures today. In a way, I should call them postcards, and it’s not everytime that words have to sit meaningfully, so I don’t know what swerrt means and I hope if it means something, in the nature that urban dictionary tries to mean, that it will all be forgotten as oh, it was just one of those things. You know, I have felt like a lamp shade, all covered, I’ve been so filled that I could talk just about anything. It’s usually when one has a lot to say, that one cannot speak. It’s just like waiting for godot by Samuel Beckett, which I have finally read, where someone—a reviewer— mentioned that a good review of the book would be none at all. I feel like I have worn so many personalities so quietly as I immersed myself in the biographies of men who belonged to the 19th and early 20th centuries. I should not say they belong, belong there–not in the sense of I should put them there and keep them all shelved. No. Not in that sense at all.
To call this an existential excitement or… No, really, trust me, I think the statement is a total fail as well, but I have to use it anyway—the isms have completely gotten me. This week, I have been able to read through most of what I consider to be decent coverage on the topics of realism, naturalism, impressionalism, the decadent movement, the theatre, streams of consciousness, psychoanalytic plays, the philosophy of NIetzsche and Schopenhauer and influences on Thomas Mann. Its not that I planned to make this a show off of the acquisition of names, but I feel at this stage I can’t help it. It’s something to be able to know the majority of these works and to no longer want to skip them on a page. It’s now a pleasure to want to see how contemporaries related with each other, something like so Emile knew so and so? Wow, I wonder what that association must have been like and so on. I believe I’ve created another world, one which the present one feels alienated to.
There’s so much to say. There’s so much to say. Really, there is, but as I have already mentioned, it’s difficult to know where to start from when knowledge is bursting out, and you want to say all at once but can’t because that would be sacrificing coherence just to let it be known that one does indeed study, and that one does indeed know things.
I don’t know where we are going to as humanity. Literature is wonderful, but hasn’t it been wonderful a long time now? It is a way, for sure, a wonderful leveller and quite powerful. You know this already, but the journey has been long, the movement of the eras seems to have progressed with one foot forward, more backwards, like a swing, maybe. The currents carry us. I don’t know what I feel about writing anymore. I feel I cannot even explain and analyse properly the things that have influenced me these past days, or the things currently influencing me. But there is the question of how I should write, what I would write. I feel those things have changed. They must have. It feels different, even where the subject is elusive. I mean the subject it. I feel I could not write for many days and be happy, I could draw, I could sing, I could just read, I could just not care, I could tweet, I could do just about anything ornothing and still be happy. I don’t know what to call this level of quiet attainment or I should say quiet pursuit, but I feel I have found myself, or maybe I had found myself already and now I am knowing myself better. I must confess I think that I am my favorite company these days, I think I really am such an interesting person to spend time with and want to know more about myself.
I didn’t plan to write in an unconventional way, if at all this could be classified as such. I feel like saying bleh to all the rules. I must be conforming to a rule of comfort and well, this should be shelved under what it is to write selfishly, and maybe defiantly, since the word came up as a suggestion from my auto correct whatever. 🙂
I’ve been planning on how to write this letter for many days. Little details creep in and many others leave as I rearrange the order of words , but today and now, none of them are present for the roll call. Even the pervasive mood of those times when I felt really pressed to pick the tab to write has disappeared and I wondered if like all other things, the more I kept away from you, the more I would forget of what it was to write to you and the easier it would be to not write at all.
Time is a constraint now. It always is whenever I want to speak. It has become an excuse for laying aside things to be done sometime in the future; a thing which never comes as expected. I had a bad dream last night, something that should be the result of being very nauseous in the evening , to the effect that I did not have dinner and I felt very tired. This morning, I am slightly better but tired and not anticipating any joy from food tasting still. But I shall try.
When I made this decision some days ago, I felt— and now that I’m slowly remembering—I feel freer. There isn’t a word to replace the staple with, so I hope you will not be dulled by its banal form. I decided that it would be nice to be the sort of person who could be depended on in times of difficulty or when people needed information of the useful sort. I thought about what it must be like to be very aware of things so I could give advice on various matters, take practical steps to help someone and just be useful. I have not yet decided on what exactly I need to learn in order to make that happen, but I don’t think I’ve made the serious acknowledgement before that anything of this sort could even be done by me. This means that I have decided and its something I will consciously work towards without expecting anything in return.
I have started reading a book ” open city” by Teju Cole, given to me by a friend I am trying to keep in touch with. I felt it would open up pathways for further communication in what had otherwise felt closed and on and off with long periods of silence. I also read few passages of Beowulf as well as this poem from The Bard of the Dimbovitza, First Series, p. 73:
Yesterday’s flowers am I,
And I have drunk my last sweet draught of dew.
Young maidens came and sang me to my death;
The moon looks down and sees me in my shroud
The shroud of my last dew.
Yesterday’s flowers that are yet in me
Must needs make way for all to-morrow’s flowers.
The maidens, too, that sang me to my death
Must even so make way for all the maids
That are to come.
And as my soul, so too their soul will be
Laden with fragrance of the days gone by.
The maidens that to-morrow come this way
Will not remember that I once did bloom,
For they will only see the new-born flowers.
Yet will my perfume-laden soul bring back,
As a sweet memory, to women’s hearts
Their days of maidenhood.
And then they will be sorry that they came
To sing me to my death;
And all the butterflies will mourn for me.
I bear away with me
The sunshine’s dear remembrance, and the low
Soft murmurs of the spring.
My breath is sweet as children’s prattle is;
I drank in all the whole earth’s fruitfulness,
To make of it the fragrance of my soul
That shall outlive my death.
I think it’s a beautiful poem. Its been a while since I read something this soft and memorable, may be because it takes away from the concentration on humans and fixes it on nature or maybe because the humans present have their minds also on things flitting past; time. I don’t know, but it’s a poem I will not forget.
I’ve been reading a lot too about old english, middle english nd new english. I worry about all the things I have to remember, but the subject itself has ceased to be boring, I even look forward to it now. I can say I am even dreaming of a time next month when I will spend hours on the linguistic side of quora. You have no idea how many snobs we tend to harbour in this side of the language world. Literature and language are filled with nazis and snobs, which at the end of the day can be an interesting source of entertainment, because terrible as they are, they are mostly right.
I am an amebo, a term which brings to mind the amicable picture of a mouse eating her cheese in peace and doing that dance they do as they shake their soft buxoms before disappearing into a hole. Less picturesque would be just a person who likes gist and snoops around to know what’s up. That being stated with utmost humility, I am not the person to go round reading gossip magazines and blog posts but I often happen upon some news, with my happenstance game really strong. The stumbling upon does not create any minor injuries like a broken head and the less minor one of lying in an unconscious state, but the frequency of occurence has resulted in me having to learn flexibility as I try not to dodge them so much. I cannot avoid them, you see and instead of pretending I can really unsee what I have come into contact with, I adopt the stance that gossip as we call it today is not really what gossip was meant to connote. In societies that have to protect themselves, certain information is useful to have as we learn to navigate paths unknown. I believe it is this sort of interest in humans that led Sigmund Freud to value a young girl’s diary so much as it helped him in his research with…
Scandalous news always seem to drop just when we are about to get drowsy in our boredom. The devil’s workshop in its mission to get its customers back takes the credit. In recent times, news about a certain apostle was all over and together with his escapades with a certain 23 year old girl, even though it did not make him more famous , at least helped with eliciting reactions of Twitter people. I am not a fan of this prophet by any means, and once helped in generating lots of comments on facebook when I called him out for what I felt was a man of god tomfoolery and a pratting on about the sureness with which a god he served would strike and kill another man in an effort to prove him as his able and sure messenger to the masses. As you can still notice, my criticism is laced with some judgement and anger still, but one thing changed this time when the news broke out of his adultery ( not yet proven to his satisfaction, so really I should just leave it at rumours) was that even though I wanted to mock this man, I was restrained and decided to not want to see him through the perpetual prism of ‘ he has no sense’ that I was accustomed to. I will tell you why in a moment.
Some days ago, after talking to a namesake of the man after God’s heart;David, I stumbled upon as is my custom on this Solomon Twitter guidelines and sent it to the namesake even though I hadn’t read it to the end. My eye caught the twentieth guideline and that stuck. I don’t particularly agree with the last one because of context. I have been known to hype myself in a friendly context with playfulness and I understand in which sense praising myself would be prideful so the for heavens sake does take it a bit too far on the rolling eyes lane of what must be vain people in ludicrous motion( in my opinion).
Back to the matter, here is what that guideline says :
Do not rejoice when your enemy falls, and let not your heart be glad when he stumbles (Prov. 24:17).
I realised that my lack of appetite in glorying over the apostle’s failure must have been linked to this.it felt wrong. Today, it felt wrong too as I watched in my state of ameboness and shortly before I muted all the people sharing things that were in opposition to my resolve. A certain comedian was found out. He’d been stealing tweets off someone else and within minutes, memes were dug up, gifs were sent, puns in honour of his false punnery were fast forwarded to his person, and there was general joy and enjoyment in the wrong direction. What I mean is people were happy they could deal with him,something that is hard to find fault with because just think about it logically,shouldn’t we be glad when a thief is caught? Should plagiarism not be something that should be picked against. Am I crazy and taking my ideas to the extreme?
I think it is good that people do have a day of reckoning and meet it, but I also and because of that verse have come to realize that getting someone to face justice and taunting him and mocking him as he receives it are two different things, the difference might not be clear at first, but they really are. If anything, trust the bible if your logic does not align. It clearly prohibits us from wanting them to come to harm. This is Christianity. This is Twitter and sometimes they are at odds and this amebo had to tell you this this night.
Every three months I enter a new phase of world literature where I learn to contrast different periods and decide what it is they were trying to communicate to their readers. For so long I’ve looked down on the suggestion that writers strongly meant for a bowl or a particular hue to represent something, and it is us, the critics, teachers and students who have united into a great force to keep ourselves busy by dissecting what was never meant to be studied with such precision and in such detail. Because I think to myself, aren’t great works of literarure written after getting the famous flash of inspiration that is often spoken about? Who sits down to draw schemes and decide that he would write in a way that portrays romanticism or medieval culture or realism? Studying these periods where literature has been famously grouped helps to dissuade me of my fixed mindset and I can now agree that there is a methodology to writing.
The fickleness as I would call it and the cry for something new by these literary creatures is something I would compare to the jews struggle for dominance with God. It’s a weary situation as can be seen by the discarding of all ideas and adopting of new ones with the hope that this time around, man would be changed, society would be reformed and we would be rid of what makes us so base and artificial. Romanticism which idolized the simple man and the peasants and nature failed and realism was adopted in the mid nineteeth century . Naturalism was one of the branches of this movement whose aim was to depict things just as they were. The basic idea of this movement was that we were unable to change the course of our lives. Whichever way it was headed had already been predetermined by our genes, environment and social conditions and so we were not in any way authors of our destiny. The idea of fatality and determinism. This must sound familar already and you must be thinking Darwin. Social Darwinism is what this was called in the time when it’s founder Emile Zola, the French Novelist set the ball rolling.
The Americans more than others had a lot of influence with gaining momentum and incorporating all the coldness of a laboratory dissection to human society without any sentimentality. Men were creatures, more correctly beasts and were ruled by instincts which could not be understood. The universe usually was not kind to them :
A man said to the universe:
“Sir, I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.” –Stephen Crane
Aweblue, studying naturalism —which is very much a breath of fresh air because for once I do not have to read about the oppresion of the feudal lords or of gods or the bourgeois , and only have to settle into the inner world of man as he moves in a way that could be quantified experimentally and described as mere reaction to this and that disturbance— is interesting. It brings up questions like free will and how much of it is dependent on us, on nature verus nurture, on predestination and honesty , because here we don’t mince words. Nothing is doused in the flowery hyper romanticisaton of the romantic period and here we find that God is dead.
Social media has run down mad over the case of Kemen from Big Brother Nigeria, and as much as one tries to exclude herself from awon world people, as a social critic or even more correctly( since we began with the world exclusion and exclusivists naming) as a world critic, the issue finds its way into your backyard.
Kemen, a contestant for the big money comes from AkwaIbom state. He was caught molesting T-Boss,a fellow house mate.I remember when the irrelevant pride that courses through ones veins because of finding a ‘ brother’ like us in the house was pumping hard from hearts, ignoring the reality of how very little we knew about him as a person; his truthfulness and sexual perversion, darling.
The bridge has collapsed of course and the brother is coming home after being disqualified and there is still the issue of molestation and who is to blame.
I think we are changing into a world where we have made an exception for risk factors related to the perpetuation of rape. For our electric appliances, we have conditions to follow to prevent damage, for our cars, we have driving rules, which even when followed correctly can lead to death through no fault of the driver. He just needs to be in an unfortunate situation with many variables at play. Luck, chance, his time to die. It was/is not his fault. For rape and molestation, there has grown a peculiar deafness and blindness and a contemptuous outrage of the mob as it drowns reason and logic. Common sense and reality appear to be the enemy as if these things could be avoided.
How does one avoid the facts when the facts follow you around as your very existence? Every human is at risk to die just by virtue of being alive. No one is safe. Safety is an illusion. The world has been designed to kill us in the end. A realistic world asserts that crime will exist for as long as the world exists. Rapists and molesters will too, and this requires the conformity of victims to supply themselves actively or passively( just by being present and alive). This paints a bleak picture because as you can tell, if Jane avoids all the sadness that life has to offer, there is the probability and statistics to back it up that Jennifer might not be so lucky. One person has to experience this, sorry. This is reality and not utopia.
So whenever people ignore the facts about what happens in a real society whose ancestors have had to grapple with the situation of rape from the very foundations of the world and pretend that it is its generation that will make men saner to its women, it becomes a stretch too far in the leap of hope. We would not need a new earth and heaven if this could be achieved. How is it that behaviours that put its most popular victims are being mocked?
Men should not rape women. This is true. No one should steal. This too is true, but somehow we know people will steal still. The old news is people will rape too even when they shouldn’t and just as putting locks, getting security and protective measures do not prevent crime in its entirety, but maximizes the effectiveness of deterring criminals, same with rape.
We know fully clothed women in the comfort of their homes, good women, by general moral standards who get raped still and in even more vicious ways than their naked and ‘out there counterparts’ and this is not about victim blaming, but does this now mean that after accessing facts of how a near dystopian world operates where the majority of men would have it forcefully with naked women who keep shaking their tits at them and utter no in the same vein, gyrate forcefully and at the same time pushes them aside in an enviable act of unvirtual oxymoron ,gets drunk in an environment where her female counterparts are doing no better as well as being outnumbered by strange men in the same space whose sense of morality she cannot judge adequately, that taking measures would not be wise?
Reality is that there are people out there who are not in control of their behaviour. This is their problem. The times have shown that women who are naked and drunk and in isolated spaces are at risk of being misjudged in their pure intentions of just existing and not being taken advantage of. To restate this, sober women have been taken advantage of and will be. The only sure safety tip is to be invisible as a woman as even death does not prevent violations of the body. With this knowledge at the back of our minds, wouldn’t it still be wise to keep on mentioning that we can and should try to protect ourselves while waiting for our utopian world, which being a pessimist in this very issue will probably be never? Can we try not to be in at risk situations as we recognise that not every one will restrain himself from taking advantage of us?
I call it a day on this issue
Martha, Martha, I come with my ‘do you remembers’ . Do you remember the time when we both read about the Hobo kid? Your first time with suffering, with seeing dirt on a child. And the men–rowing their boat. The red Indian? The story will always feel like Talcrum powder;smooth and sweet. The little girl as she looked into the water to find out if she was beautiful or not. The fairy who told her she was not beautiful inside. The tears she cried as she wept off her ugliness. Do you remember?
The joy inside of you as your heart sang. A new day, a new life , it seemed to say. It sayed, do you know? As you spat on the grass and rubbed it with your feet, always imagining that you were somewhere less rural, somewhere where the hedges did not remind you of goats and smoke from wood. You never had goats. Your grandfather had passed for dead before you could meet his cows. It wasn’t pretence. He had really died.
The stories you used to tell, of how Aunt Georgia once walked from one end of the forest to the next all by herself. I learnt from you that a grand aunt was not a magical creature with a halo on her head because you told me of how yours hated her own grandchild. How do you love your child and hate your child’s child, you asked me. I did not know. I could not tell, because like you I could not understand. This was how we learnt that things happen with no meaning, that life was in many ways filled with senseless acts and you were that grandchild.
I’ve not heard from you in a while, Martha. You don’t say hello to the ladies by the flower shop anymore. Your windows are shut and you scream a lot. People say its unbelievable how Martha drowned a child but you don’t remember, might never remember.