Hi out there
So my blog stats tell me I’m getting at least three to four hits a day–that means that someone(s) is(are) visiting my site besides me, almost daily.
Who are you? I’m so curious. You should leave me messages.
Also, I feel bad. Everytime I post something on here, I immediately think up like ten different things I want to post, but I tell myself to wait and space them out properly, instead of junking up my blog with five posts in one day. Then, of course, I forget what I wanted to post and I wait at least a week or two before posting again. I need to learn how to break this cycle…
For now, I think you reader(s) should expect more than one post in a day, and those days shall be sporadic. That’s right–if I feel like posting again today, I will, damnit! (Oh I’m so bad)
Ceremony of the Bracelets
Your bracelets will be my undoing, I’ve decided. Not the delicate wrists they weigh down, but the silver bangles themselves. If you had less of a fashion sense, I may have survived you.
When my body lays decrepit in the corner of a dark room, and I start to smell like rot, it won’t be you I’m thinking of. Though your smooth, dark skin holds power over me now, and though, in this moment, I’m held captive by your almond eyes, they shall lose all their sway once I’m lying in that room.
Not lose–they shall give that power away, transfer it into the silver you’ve adorned your body with.
As I lay in that corner, trembling slightly while I feel myself decay, my mind’s eye shall torture me with your bracelets.
Just your bracelets, I wish to make clear. While right now I dive into the deepest throes of ecstasy picturing each bangle slide past your fingers, over your wrist and down your slender forearm, once in the corner of that shit-hole room, your body will have no control over me. No, I’ll picture your bracelets in a dark mid-air nothingness.
My mind’s eye will trace the curve of silver; it will follow the reflective shine go around in circles. I’ll take my time, lying in that room’s corner. It takes a long time for the body to decompose, so I know I’ll be in no rush. In my mind, I’ll trace every bracelet you’ve ever worn in my presence. I’ll linger over those heavy, chunky ones, the ones that looked too big for your tiny wrists. I’ll remember the weight of those large bangles until the last of me is turned over to the maggots.
There will be no flashbacks to those moments before bed when you’d hand me your bracelets, one by one. My present self is too greedy to share those memories of your body, naked but for the metal on your wrists. Now is when I see those moments, feeling the sacred weight, the metallic proof of your heritage in my hands. Amazing how the smallest of ceremonies can become the most powerful.
Petrichor
It’s a term coined by two Australian researchers, Bear and Thomas. It means the smell of the earth after it rains.
It’s a smell that comes from oils certain plants release that react with the rainwater
The human nose is particularly intune with this scent. Some animals can detect magnetic pulls, some can see farther than we could ever dream of, but humans? Humans can smell the earth after it rains.
It’s as if we were designed to be the makers of poetry.
First Generation
My father was always a very polite man. Moving to a new country in the middle of life affected him in ways he never fully overcame. He never let go of that feeling of foreignness, the feeling that he was perpetually a guest in someone else’s home. It made him polite. Unbearable so. It was as if every citizen he met was the one who decided to grant the green card, even if they just wanted to know if he would like plastic or paper bags.
Also because of his permanent status as a guest, my father was an incredibly shy man. This shyness prevented many possible bonding moments between him & I, purely because he refused to ask for information
“I don’t know how much the carnival is, boppy. It might be too expensive. We’d better get home to your mother”
“Let’s just ask! It looks like so much fun…”
It wasn’t just prices he refused to ask for, but everything. Directions, assistance, support. They all had to be attained through subtle and indirect means by myself and my mother. I’ve often wondered if this shyness extended all the way to his wife. I suspect it did–it extened to his son, after all.
The importance of art–
The importance of art— Yes, yes, art is very, very, super important. So many people will just give a blanket nod to this statement, move on, and forget the words ever came out of their mouths. And yet, art is important. It’s an incredibly effective tool to reaching people. Especially public, urban art. Graffiti art, street art, poster art, all of these mediums are so much more effective in reaching the common person than newspapers these days. And I extend those terms of artwork to include the online world. With the efficiency of showing all your friends, either through Facebook, MySpace, or even just your blog what you find interesting, and let’s face it, people find art interesting, online art is just as effective a medium to spreading a message as graffiti art. The potential for these mediums is just fascinating, and I love seeing it used in ways that publicize politician’s activities, or certain political events (anyone reading this just has to know how much I love publicizing politics…). I remember being in Rome a few years ago (oh good Lord does that sound uppity snobbish. Bare with me, please?) right after our dear President Bush had visited. Italians weren’t too fond of the President at the time (were they ever? I’m not sure, but I vote no), and everywhere I went, I found graffiti art of Bush (very naturalistic stencils, actually. Impressive quality) and various, Italian slang defacing him and his arrival (I didn’t understand much, but every now and then they would throw in an English “fuck tu” for my comprehension). I think it goes without saying (at least, it should) that all types of art forms are highly effective modes of political criticism.
Or maybe it shouldn’t go without saying. Maybe it should be said. All types of art forms are highly effective modes of political criticism. (Fair warning, my examples are mostly limited to African artists. It’s just what I know the best. And I know it seems a little off topic from my first few paragraphs, but stick with me. I’m sure it’ll come around full circle. Just have faith.) Wizard Of The Crow, a novel by Ngugi wa Thiong’o (please don’t ever ask me to pronounce that name) is a beautiful book written by a Kenyan author (now exiled) that uses a fictional African country to criticize the politics in his own, as well as others, in Africa. The amount of political criticism is truly impressive for a fictional work, and deserves to be applauded all on its own. Yet all joking aside, the novel is an effective way to reach out to the literate for understanding about what is happening in Thiong’o’s country, as well as a lot of other countries in Africa. And yes, this is the part where I could insert an entire new blog post about the state of African countries post-independence, but there are books written about it that cover the subject far more in-depth and much more interestingly than I can ever hope to manage. If you’re super, super interested (and I’ll be honest—I have my doubts), read Martin Meredith’s The Fate of Africa.
But back to art. As fascinating as I find Thiong’o’s novel, I know that not everyone is like me. Not everyone reads everything they can find, and literature isn’t always the most effective way to reach a large group of people. A lot of people are very visual, though, and absorb pictures much more quickly than they absorb text. Art is a faster, and often times, if less thorough, more effective way of getting a message across. Images like Yinka Shonibare’s Scramble for Africa (2001) convey strong messages about African politics, and the viewer doesn’t even need to be that well versed in the subject. And yet I run into a problem with this promotion of art, similar to that of literature. Scramble for Africa is an elaborate piece, and found in a museum. It won’t be on the streets, for every day viewing to every day people. This is where my fascination with street art comes into play. You could sculpt amazing pieces showing your disgust for President Bush’s visit to Italy and have them seen by the few patrons to the museum, maybe even a bunch of students on a field trip, but by and large, your pieces won’t be noticed by the general public. Not unless there’s a huge controversial stir, and even then, you only reach those who are looking for it. Yet anyone walking the streets of Rome saw the naturalized stencils of Bush, and the captions that went with them. Anyone walking the streets of any major city will undoubtably see a cornucopia (such an ill-fitting word, even if used technically correct, neh?) of rude, frustratingly vulgar graffiti art. And yet there is also a lot of amazing, talented, politically-charged artwork illegally gracing the walls of buildings and the underbellies of tunnels. Graffiti is used in political wars throughout Northern Ireland, using murals to mark territory. Such a straight-forward way to get a message across.
