sports & thoughts.
Reading journal, entry 1: confronting my darkness
28 March, 2016.
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I often need to be reminded of the complexities of being a writer, and being a human being. Rebecca Solnit's essay Woolf's Darkness: Embracing the Inexplicable highlights Virginia Woolf's way of navigating her darkness as a writer and as a woman - two very delicate things to be, I think. Like Woolf, I have struggled to confront the unknown of both my own mind and the future, but she reminds me that it is okay to not know. In fact, not knowing is almost to be in a state of liberation, where being uncertain about darkness can only present to us an abundance of potential wander. And we can embrace this state of wander, and use it for our own creative imagination and other outlets. As Solnit says, "there is so much we don't know", so writing about the various truths that we think we know is only to engage "with those patches of darkness" that become so apparent in our lives. But this is not the worst thing, as we can then become more aware of the limitations of language when we try to write truthfully in the most wholesome way about anything we want, only to find out that we are being failed. This is why darkness is good, because there are no limitations there yet, until you are there yourself.
Natalie Goldberg's "Again" from Old Friend from Far Away pulled some string in me that almost made my neck weak and my head fall on the table. I have never met this apparently wonderful woman, but she connected with my own thoughts and concerns about being a writer that no other bunch of words have before. I have been consistently fearful about the translation of my own thoughts into readable words for some time now, and I hope this is normal in my evolution of becoming a better writer. Goldberg reminded me that this is okay, but I have to dig those words out and make sure they are not repressed. My words need to be liberated in order for myself to feel fully liberated, in all ways possible. I need to confront "the hot, steamy center" of my consciousness and being, and chuck those pieces of fear and anxiety into a pot and let them boil. The steam that rises will be the free aromas of my mind that were just waiting to be defrosted. Another thing that I have battled with is simply not knowing how to say the things that I want to say. But, as Goldberg points out, just holding that pen and putting it in contact with paper is one method in discovering the things that I did not know how to say. So, yes, it cannot be denied that it is a writer's job to speak. This doesn't necessarily mean speaking to the world, but claiming and exploring the things you aren't ready to reveal, or ever will be, will turn you into the free agent you are supposed to be. Otherwise, be prepared for those repressed thoughts and feelings to come back and haunt you.
I really enjoy being by myself, probably more than I should. I have come to realise that I am actually alone all the time, even in a room full of people - family, friends, people who care about me and say they love me. But there is not one place where I feel fully understood and accepted, not even in my own mind. Mmatshilo Motsei's "Alone in company, accompanied in solitude" in Hearing Visions, Seeing Voices resonated with me in an incredible way. She is right: the government is so focused (but not enough) on placing a roof over peoples' heads so they are sheltered and have a physical space they can call 'home', but are they really 'home' if they feel misunderstood, exiled, unwanted? Without a doubt, I yearn for a spiritual home where I am "accepted unconditionally", warts and all. I will never be able to venture out confidently into the big, bad world, and explore all its wonders, without this unconditional acceptance. For now, I will be my own home, I guess. Made from indestructible wrought iron, incapable of being broken by life's bombs that are thrown at us? Perhaps not. Brick and cement, able to be permeated by rain and sunshine? It will have to be.
Goldberg did it again with "Third", reminding me that I cannot afford to be nit-picky in my writing journey. I need to be concerned about attaching words to absolutely anything, even the mundane. Writing and I need to work together to find that special, relevant third thing. As she says, "you can't write about writing. It's ingrown", so what will it be? I will be honest, I can't decide right now - I think this third thing will come to me rather than me going to it.
Reading journal, entry 2: transformed by angelou
April 5, 2016.
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It came to me right before my eyes shut last night (as most important things do) that the 4th of April is both my best friend's and Maya Angelou's birthday, which provided me with even more urgency to write this post.
Maya Angelou has been nothing but an acknowledged person in my life and I have had absolutely no exposure to her writing. My previously ignorant and naïve self was scared of what she had to say about white people and the things that she suffered under their rule. However, I decided to challenge myself in choosing to read "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings", the first of her seven autobiographies. What was to follow in my growth as a person, writer and reader is something I never expected. Angelou absolutely transformed me.
Reading about the way Angelou writes about the events of her life as both a child and teenager had me sitting with my knees to my chest in the corner of our couch for at least two hours a day - I was absolutely transfixed. She flits between describing her love of Jane Eyre to describing her rape at the age of eight by her mother's boyfriend with a shocking but extremely effective finesse, the kind that made my eyebrows furrow from one minute to smiling cheesily the next. It is writing like Angelou's that surprised me: that words, simple letters, could exist so harmoniously to create something astoundingly beautiful. I always thought that I could never write in such a way that made people teary eyed, or that I could touch their hearts with my words, but Angelou did that to me, so it must be possible.
In other ways, Angelou writes to transport. This might not have been her aim, but I certainly felt myself reading the different bits of dialogue in a deep Southern accent. Like I was with her there in Stamps with her Grandmother and Bailey. As immersed as I was, I could never even pretend to understand or feel what she went through. But I think her way of writing forgives the white reader for this, even though it is overwhlemingly unapologetic in the things and feelings she describes.
Before I die, I will have read all seven autobiographies. And then some more.
Reading journal, entry 3: Why we write
June 3, 2016.
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There are people who go running, people who play an instrument and people who do kickboxing. And then there are people who write.
As writers, we are constantly questioning ourselves - it is sometimes remarkable the insecurity that we feel a vast majority of the time. Other times, there are people out there who conveniently interfere with our lives to remind us that these insecurities are shared amongst us all. Berlin Artparasites, a global platform for creative content, was that convenient interference for me recently.
The particular site entry that grabbed me is titled "What is poetry? A discussion on the things that make us write." Although I am only a reader of poetry, rather than a producer of it, it is still a form of writing. This short piece reminded me of the reasons why writing is so important to me, and the reasons are formulated so elegantly. The most poignant reason of this piece, and to me, is that writing will always remain alive. Whether I am experiencing a kind of death, whether it's physical, emotional or spiritual, it is reassuring to know that my words will always be there.
Reading journal, entry 4: shining a light on hemingway
July 4, 2016.
I have always been so incredibly intimidated by the big names of literature, Ernest Hemingway being one of them. How could I understand what they're saying? Can I relate to all these words that were created so long ago? are normally the questions I ask myself when attempting to read classic literature....Until I approached my dad and his book collection. I told him I am encouraged to read non-fiction for my writing course, and he put Hemingway's "True at First Light" in my hands.
I won't lie to you, but I had zero expectations of myself to finish or enjoy this book because a) it was written by Ernest freaking Hemingway and b) my dad and I have never really been on the same page when it comes to books we enjoy. And then I found myself smiling at the pages and looking forward to the book's next moment after every single chapter.
I think that I fell in love with this book because it reminds me of my moments as a blessed young girl amongst the thorns and trees and wildlife of the South African bushveld. My dad is a hunter, as was Hemingway, and so we were lucky enough to be taken on all of his hunts around southern Africa as soon as I was old enough to go with. The descriptions in this novel paint vivid pictures that made me reminisce about times around the fire where no one in our company really cared about much at all, aside from what was in their immediate presence. I think what is particularly impactful in Hemingway's "strange way of writing", as my dad has described his style, is his ability to paint Africa so Romantically. I came to appreciate my continent so much more through his descriptions:
Dante only made crazy people feel they could write great poetry. That was not true of course but then almost nothing was true and especially not in Africa. In Africa a thing is true at first light and a lie by noon and you have no more respect for it than for the lovely, perfect weed-fringed lake you see across the sun-baked salt plain. You have walked across that plain in the morning and you know that no such lake is there. But now it is there absolutely true, beautiful and believable.
Our beautiful Africa is almost unbelievable with what she provides in terms of people and nature. We are all so lucky. What I love about Hemingway and this novel is that his thoughts on hunting - ethical hunting, that is - are as true back then as they are today. I always have to hold my tongue when even contemplating involving myself in discussions about hunting because there are people who are simply uninformed and stubborn, completely unwilling to engage in a talk about what ethical hunting is really about. Obviously I am slightly biased in this as my dad is a hunter himself, but he has educated me beyond boundaries about how hunting should be viewed. What Hemingway insinuates in this novel about hunting vs. not hunting and eating plants instead is: "You don't know the pain that that vegetable has gone through when you pulled it out the ground more than you know about the buck I just hunted to feed myself and the local village." This, I feel, is something many people refuse to think about. And this does not mean that hunters are horrible people (I mean, my dad is one and I turned out alright), and as Hemingway says: "Isn't it strange how we truly love animals and still have to kill almost every day for meat?" But anyways, it is still a heated and conflicting argument that many people, including myself, choose to avoid.
What is evident in this semi-autobiographical novel is that one learns to appreciate the world - time, relationships, and matters of importance - a lot more when one is placed in an environment such as a rural camp in the middle of an African country (Kenya, in this case). Hemingway's writing is careful in detailing these moments, such as when Hemingway says that the "day after tomorrow is the most wonderful day there is after tomorrow". As in, each day is such a wonderful gift. Cherish it, wherever you are.
Without a doubt in the world, this book has been such a blessing. Hemingway has truly graced my life with his words and refocused my attention on my wonderful continent, reminding me that I am so lucky to be a part of it. Even amongst the turmoil and tragedy, this novel has prompted me to remember the lighter sides of an Africa that is so often plagued by darkness.
Reading journal, entry 5: time to talk about the olympics
August 11, 2016.
I can't really have a reading journal without writing about something to do with sports, that just wouldn't sit right with me. I would like to address how the media has treated female olympians in the Rio Olympics that recently began.
I am not overly fond of my Media Studies lecturer, but he has gone up in my ranks as one of the better examples of people out there with his inclusion of media coverage of female Olympians this year, and how wrong it has been. Most of the focus thus far has been on their appearance and their relation to other men, and this is all the is problematic about how the media views women in sports. Like they are astounded that women can achieve things just as their male counterparts can, and probably just as successfully. UGH. It really grates my cheese. See article here. Please can every single sports journalist read this guide.
Reading journal, entry 6: a fuller view of africa
18 October, 2016.
I have my dad to thank for this one.
I finally got my hands on a copy of Alexandra Fuller's Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight. Never has a book sent me on a rollercoaster journey of emotions as this one has. During the time I took to read it, I felt like I was in Zimbabwe through all its transitioning years, its beautiful moments, and the sorrowing times. Fuller has written it in a way that resonates with every patriotic African, and the undying love for our continent regardless of unsettling moments.
This feeling was amplified in me more so than the next person as I have lived away from my stunning Africa. The adventures of the Fuller family made me feel so warm, like I knew them. But it is Fuller's descriptions of Africa that made me feel warmer. She describes her love for Africa even after experiencing diabolical tummy issues after drinking some suspect water:
I can hear the men around the camp fire singing softly, taking it in turns to pick up a tune, the rhythm as strong as blood in a body. The firelight flickers off the blue and orange tent in pale, dancing shapes and there is the sweet smell of the African bush, wood smoke, dust, sweat. My bones are so sharp and thing against the sleeping bag that they hurt me and I must cover my hip bones with my hands
I make a vow never to leave Africa.
This epitomises the fact that sometimes Africa can turn against you, but will never provide enough reason for us to leave it behind. Fuller's descriptions, her odd sense of humour, and heartbreaking stories of a family that could have been torn apart but chose to stay together, remind me of the fullness of life and what we make of it.
Reading journal, entry 7: sex and barbara kingsolver
29 October, 2016.
Barbara Kingsolver currently holds the title of the writer of the shortest sex scene in the English language. I think this is hilarious, but also telling of modern-day female authors. Kingsolver asks: why is that, especially with female writers, that as soon as sex comes into literature, it is viewed as deviance? She discusses this in her article titled "A Forbidden Territory Familiar To All".
Kingsolver explains that she has written about horrific things such as the death of a child and political assassination and not felt a single thing, but all of a sudden goes weak when she tries to insert a sexual scene into her writing. Is this because women have been conditioned to be less sexual?
She explains that no subject is too private for good fiction if it can be made beautiful and enlightening, but this is made more and more difficult when we think about what society has done to language. It has ruined words such as "vagina" and deemed them unpretty, thanks to pornography, consumerism and the medical profession. All words that have existed since the beginning of time have become ugly due to the associations society has attached to them.
I find this piece of writing insightful and has made me realise how women have become conditioned as societal standards have become more complex and patriarchal. Writing should not have different standards for men and women. Writing is universal and should be treated as such.
"My word processing program's thesaurus has washed its hands of the matter: it eschews any word remotely associated with making love. "Coitus," for example, claims to be NOT FOUND, and the program coyly suggests as the nearest alternative "coincide with?" It also pleads ignorant on "penis" and suggests "pen friend." A writer in work-avoidance mode could amuse herself all day."
