Too early. Too much wine last night. But it was a lovely evening.
May not get much chance to update this weekend, as I'm off to James's, yayyyy!
But first - one hour of painful Mozambique class followed by three of painful Golden Age class. And then my ECG appointment. And then carting James's present (I won't say what it is in case he's reading but it's HEAVY) across Manchester and then across half of the London tube network.
Have lovely weekends all, wish me mental luck with Saturday's imminent teppenyaki ordeal....
Love always xxxxxxx
Thursday, 4 December 2008
Wednesday, 3 December 2008
Wednesday
OK, so I had "the talk" with my female housemates last night - the "I will move out and leave you high and dry unless something is done about the living situation as it's making me sick on every level" talk. I am so glad I did. They were absolutely lovely about it (as, deep down, I knew they would be) and already the house feels nicer. They said that in return I had to spend more time around the house and less time at Uni, which might be a bit difficult but I'm definitely going to make the effort. Hopefully I'll be going out for a couple of drinks with them tonight which should be really nice.
On another note, I'm pretty happy because I sent a draft of my next assessed translation for my Spanish Golden Age Poetry module and my professor seemed to really like it already, and I've still got the weekend to polish it (in between James's birthday celebrations).
I was very, very frustrated with my Mozambique class today. It was given by a PhD student with whom I have fallen mildly in love. However, no-one in my class would say anything about the (wonderful) text we're studying. Except me. Which makes me look like an idiot and a know-all. Argh. Half of them hadn't even read the damn thing! My professor said that I shouldn't expect this sort of situation to change until I'm doing my own PhD. Immensely depressing.
I've started reading the next text (Balada de amor ao vento by Paulina Chiziane) already and it seems great already. She takes the exoticist style used by vile patronising colonial writers (José Alencar, raise your hand) and turns it on its head. Very interesting.
I've got an appointment tomorrow with the nurse to have an ECG because my heart has been feeling decidedly weird recently. Kind of nervous. And terrified that she'll weigh me. I've managed to avoid my scales for a good amount of time now and I know that whatever it says it'll be triggering.
On another note, I'm pretty happy because I sent a draft of my next assessed translation for my Spanish Golden Age Poetry module and my professor seemed to really like it already, and I've still got the weekend to polish it (in between James's birthday celebrations).
I was very, very frustrated with my Mozambique class today. It was given by a PhD student with whom I have fallen mildly in love. However, no-one in my class would say anything about the (wonderful) text we're studying. Except me. Which makes me look like an idiot and a know-all. Argh. Half of them hadn't even read the damn thing! My professor said that I shouldn't expect this sort of situation to change until I'm doing my own PhD. Immensely depressing.
I've started reading the next text (Balada de amor ao vento by Paulina Chiziane) already and it seems great already. She takes the exoticist style used by vile patronising colonial writers (José Alencar, raise your hand) and turns it on its head. Very interesting.
I've got an appointment tomorrow with the nurse to have an ECG because my heart has been feeling decidedly weird recently. Kind of nervous. And terrified that she'll weigh me. I've managed to avoid my scales for a good amount of time now and I know that whatever it says it'll be triggering.
Monday, 1 December 2008
A raiz das palavras by Jorge Viegas
Ácida é a raiz das palavras
neste tempo.
Numa paisagem duramente
violentada pelo sol,
os corpos aluem sem fragor.
Nítido e sem contorno
desenha-se, no céu, o voo das aves de rapina.
Aves, pássaros de metal,
prenúncio da nossa morte próxima.
Corpa encostado à terra,
o horizonte fech-se na linha de mira,
onde pequenos deuses de guarda-chuva aberto,
se vulnerabilizam.
Bocas de fogo silabam
a sua estranha canção de morte.
Ácida é a raiz das palavras
neste tempo.
Jorge Viegas, "Ácida é a raiz das palavras" in 50 Poetas Africanos, ed. by Manuel Ferreira (Lisbon: Plátano, 1986) pp. 417-418.
One of the things I find most interesting when studying poetry is looking for common motifs, themes and symbols within an artist's body of work and the work of their contemporaries. In Renaissance poetry, for example, the motifs include fire and burning, illness, landscape, and mythological figures characterised by fatal ambition. One of the motifs that I have seen emerging in 20th century Mozambican literature is that of birds and flying. Mia Couto refers to them constantly in his 'contos', and even makes them central characters in a couple of stories, the most obvious of which is 'O embondeiro que sonhava pássaros'. Generally they are positive motifs; they are symbolic of freedom, flight and beauty. However, whenever they emerge, they also seem to be embued with tragic qualities. Perhaps this is because, although they are free, they are not in touch with the earth with which so many Mozambican poets have such strong and sensual feelings. Indeed, many Mozambicans fled the country during the independence struggles and in the subsequent internal conflicts; they were 'free', but they had lost touch with their land, their roots, their anchor. In 'O embondeiro', the birdseller's beautiful wares are caged and perhaps become a symbol of the degrading effect of colonial exoticism.
In this poem Viegas's birds are predatory and threatening; omens of approaching death. The illusions of freedom in Couto have turned against their subscribers, just as the illusions of freedom afforded by the postcolonial Marxist regime became uncanny echoes of the oppression suffered before the independence struggle. Like many of his contemporaries, Viegas was disillusioned by the Marxist regime and sought to criticise it on its own terms, to enter into a dialogue; here it appears that, possibly, he has used its own symbols to illustrate his discontent.
neste tempo.
Numa paisagem duramente
violentada pelo sol,
os corpos aluem sem fragor.
Nítido e sem contorno
desenha-se, no céu, o voo das aves de rapina.
Aves, pássaros de metal,
prenúncio da nossa morte próxima.
Corpa encostado à terra,
o horizonte fech-se na linha de mira,
onde pequenos deuses de guarda-chuva aberto,
se vulnerabilizam.
Bocas de fogo silabam
a sua estranha canção de morte.
Ácida é a raiz das palavras
neste tempo.
Jorge Viegas, "Ácida é a raiz das palavras" in 50 Poetas Africanos, ed. by Manuel Ferreira (Lisbon: Plátano, 1986) pp. 417-418.
One of the things I find most interesting when studying poetry is looking for common motifs, themes and symbols within an artist's body of work and the work of their contemporaries. In Renaissance poetry, for example, the motifs include fire and burning, illness, landscape, and mythological figures characterised by fatal ambition. One of the motifs that I have seen emerging in 20th century Mozambican literature is that of birds and flying. Mia Couto refers to them constantly in his 'contos', and even makes them central characters in a couple of stories, the most obvious of which is 'O embondeiro que sonhava pássaros'. Generally they are positive motifs; they are symbolic of freedom, flight and beauty. However, whenever they emerge, they also seem to be embued with tragic qualities. Perhaps this is because, although they are free, they are not in touch with the earth with which so many Mozambican poets have such strong and sensual feelings. Indeed, many Mozambicans fled the country during the independence struggles and in the subsequent internal conflicts; they were 'free', but they had lost touch with their land, their roots, their anchor. In 'O embondeiro', the birdseller's beautiful wares are caged and perhaps become a symbol of the degrading effect of colonial exoticism.
In this poem Viegas's birds are predatory and threatening; omens of approaching death. The illusions of freedom in Couto have turned against their subscribers, just as the illusions of freedom afforded by the postcolonial Marxist regime became uncanny echoes of the oppression suffered before the independence struggle. Like many of his contemporaries, Viegas was disillusioned by the Marxist regime and sought to criticise it on its own terms, to enter into a dialogue; here it appears that, possibly, he has used its own symbols to illustrate his discontent.
Busy busy busy
Verrrrry busy day today. Spent the whole morning organising various events for Amnesty (I'm the events organiser) and the Lusophone Society (secretary), then all afternoon doing college work. Finally got home at 8ish to find the kitchen looking like Beirut, complete with lovely thick stale tobacco smoke. Turns out one of the had finished an essay, and so had decided to, errr...celebrate with half a bottle of vodka and a joint. I forgot to take any lunch with me and so I hadn't eaten since breakfast and all I wanted to do was make some dinner...unfortunately I had to spend an hour cleaning the kitchen before I had room to move....urgh. Which means that tonight I will be up until God knows when finishing my college work for tomorrow.
For today a poem from Jorge Viegas, a contemporary of Sebastião Alba.
For today a poem from Jorge Viegas, a contemporary of Sebastião Alba.
Sunday, 30 November 2008
Crave by Sarah Kane
Excerpt from the play.
B Fear rumbles over the city sky.
M Absence sleeps between the buildings at night.
C Between the cars in the lay-by,
B Between the day and the night.
A I have to be where I'm meant to be.
B Let
C Me
M Go
A The outside world is vastly overrated.
A pause
C Let the day perish in which I was born
Let the blackness of the night terrify it
Let the stars of its dawn be dark
May it not see the eyelids of the morning
Because it did not shut the door of my mother's womb
B The thing that I fear comes upon me.
C I hate you,
B I need you,
M Need more,
C Need change.
A All the totally predictable and sickening futility that is our relationship.
M I want a real life,
B A real love,
A One that is real and grows upwards in daylight.
C What's she got that I haven't got?
A Me.
B The things I want, I want with you.
M It's just. Not. Me.
A There are no secrets.
M There is only blindness.
A You've fallen in love with someone that doesn't exist.
C No.
M Yes.
B No.
A Yes.
C No.
B No.
M Yes.
C I knew this,
B I knew this,
C Why can't I learn?
A I won't settle for a life in the dark.
B Don't look at the sun, don't look at the sun.
C I love you.
M Too late.
A It's over.
Sarah Kane, Complete Plays (London:Methuen, 2001) pp.189-190.
B Fear rumbles over the city sky.
M Absence sleeps between the buildings at night.
C Between the cars in the lay-by,
B Between the day and the night.
A I have to be where I'm meant to be.
B Let
C Me
M Go
A The outside world is vastly overrated.
A pause
C Let the day perish in which I was born
Let the blackness of the night terrify it
Let the stars of its dawn be dark
May it not see the eyelids of the morning
Because it did not shut the door of my mother's womb
B The thing that I fear comes upon me.
C I hate you,
B I need you,
M Need more,
C Need change.
A All the totally predictable and sickening futility that is our relationship.
M I want a real life,
B A real love,
A One that is real and grows upwards in daylight.
C What's she got that I haven't got?
A Me.
B The things I want, I want with you.
M It's just. Not. Me.
A There are no secrets.
M There is only blindness.
A You've fallen in love with someone that doesn't exist.
C No.
M Yes.
B No.
A Yes.
C No.
B No.
M Yes.
C I knew this,
B I knew this,
C Why can't I learn?
A I won't settle for a life in the dark.
B Don't look at the sun, don't look at the sun.
C I love you.
M Too late.
A It's over.
Sarah Kane, Complete Plays (London:Methuen, 2001) pp.189-190.
Sunday
Spent the day in the library today, which was nice...I really do love my biblioteca! I just love being surrounded by so much knowledge. I wish I could read every book in the place, just devour them all. Unfortunately I have to spend my time learning such interesting Spanish vocabulary as the words for 'political dissident' and 'to Europeanize' instead.
Off to James's (boyfriend) at the weekend for his 21st...I can't wait!! I've just this morning finished a huge collage for his present, which is made up of tonnes of images cut out from arty magazines and club flyers and so on. I've also got a lovely dress (which is, unfortunately, too big around the boob area, and I refuse to wear a padded bra; wearing any bra at all is a big enough deal for me!). However, before then I have a shocking amount of work to do. I really want to get started with our next text for my module on Mozambique but doubt I'll have time. Our last text was wonderful; it sent shivers down my spine. It was by Lilia Momplé, who has a bit of a reputation for being Lusophone Africa's first feminist. The text reminded me a great deal of 'The Women's Room' by Marilyn French, specifically in the way it overlapped spatial and temporal spheres, and the use of memory. One of its dominant themes was the way in which Mozambican women were exploited first by the colonial regime, and then by the post-independence Marxist regime, and how it is men that start the wars and women that pick up the pieces. So interesting.
Off to James's (boyfriend) at the weekend for his 21st...I can't wait!! I've just this morning finished a huge collage for his present, which is made up of tonnes of images cut out from arty magazines and club flyers and so on. I've also got a lovely dress (which is, unfortunately, too big around the boob area, and I refuse to wear a padded bra; wearing any bra at all is a big enough deal for me!). However, before then I have a shocking amount of work to do. I really want to get started with our next text for my module on Mozambique but doubt I'll have time. Our last text was wonderful; it sent shivers down my spine. It was by Lilia Momplé, who has a bit of a reputation for being Lusophone Africa's first feminist. The text reminded me a great deal of 'The Women's Room' by Marilyn French, specifically in the way it overlapped spatial and temporal spheres, and the use of memory. One of its dominant themes was the way in which Mozambican women were exploited first by the colonial regime, and then by the post-independence Marxist regime, and how it is men that start the wars and women that pick up the pieces. So interesting.
Ninguém meu amor by Sebastião Alba
Ninguém meu amor
ninguém como nós conhece o sol
Podem utilizá-lo nos espelhos
apagar com ele
os barcos de papel dos nossos lagos
podem obrigá-los a parar
à entrada das casas mais baixas
podem ainda fazer
com que a noite gravite
hoje do mesmo lado
Mas ninguém meu amor
ninguém como nós conhece o sol
Até que o sol degole
o horizonte em fuga que dobramos
fechando-nos os olhos.
Sebastião Alba, "Ninguém meu amor" in 50 Poetas Africanos, ed. by Manuel Ferreira (Lisbon: Plátano, 1986) pp. 400-401.
ninguém como nós conhece o sol
Podem utilizá-lo nos espelhos
apagar com ele
os barcos de papel dos nossos lagos
podem obrigá-los a parar
à entrada das casas mais baixas
podem ainda fazer
com que a noite gravite
hoje do mesmo lado
Mas ninguém meu amor
ninguém como nós conhece o sol
Até que o sol degole
o horizonte em fuga que dobramos
fechando-nos os olhos.
Sebastião Alba, "Ninguém meu amor" in 50 Poetas Africanos, ed. by Manuel Ferreira (Lisbon: Plátano, 1986) pp. 400-401.
Hello world
Hey there!
I'm Ele. I've decided to start this blog for a number of reasons.
First and most importantly, I'm intending it as a space for me to share my favourite writing from the English-, Spanish- and Portuguese-speaking worlds. I suppose the easiest way for me to express my feelings about poetry and other literature is to say that I feel the same way about it as many people my age feel about music. I want to get inside it, have it surround me, feel it shake and pulse in me. Reading a good poem makes me feel, for want of a better word, high; it is my drug. I'm lucky enough to be able to study some wonderful literature at University, but I have nobody with whom to share it, mainly because none of my poetry-enthused friends speak Spanish or Portuguese. Moreover, the literature I am most interest in - that of postcolonial Portuguese-speaking Africa (Mozambique, Angola, Cape Verde, São Tomé e Principé, and Guinea-Bissau) - has very little exposure on the internet, which is a terrible shame as it is, in my opinion, some of the most beautiful and insightful postcolonial literature out there. I hope to complete a master's and, eventually, a doctorate in these literatures, and so it's useful for me to get my thoughts out about them. I do also love a good deal of English-language literature and I will share that here, too.
Another reason for this blog is that I am trying to recover from anorexia nervosa and bulimia nervosa. The one thing these diseases have in common is that they are singularly dull. So rather than boring the people around me with the details...I'm going to bore my blog with them instead. But don't worry, skip through those posts if you like - they are mainly intended as catharsis.
Finally, I think a lot about modern society and, particularly, its perceptions of women. I'm going to write my thoughts here in order to try to develop them, which will hopefully help me to understand myself more fully.
Going to get things started with one of my favourite Mozambican poems and the namesake of this blog.
I'm Ele. I've decided to start this blog for a number of reasons.
First and most importantly, I'm intending it as a space for me to share my favourite writing from the English-, Spanish- and Portuguese-speaking worlds. I suppose the easiest way for me to express my feelings about poetry and other literature is to say that I feel the same way about it as many people my age feel about music. I want to get inside it, have it surround me, feel it shake and pulse in me. Reading a good poem makes me feel, for want of a better word, high; it is my drug. I'm lucky enough to be able to study some wonderful literature at University, but I have nobody with whom to share it, mainly because none of my poetry-enthused friends speak Spanish or Portuguese. Moreover, the literature I am most interest in - that of postcolonial Portuguese-speaking Africa (Mozambique, Angola, Cape Verde, São Tomé e Principé, and Guinea-Bissau) - has very little exposure on the internet, which is a terrible shame as it is, in my opinion, some of the most beautiful and insightful postcolonial literature out there. I hope to complete a master's and, eventually, a doctorate in these literatures, and so it's useful for me to get my thoughts out about them. I do also love a good deal of English-language literature and I will share that here, too.
Another reason for this blog is that I am trying to recover from anorexia nervosa and bulimia nervosa. The one thing these diseases have in common is that they are singularly dull. So rather than boring the people around me with the details...I'm going to bore my blog with them instead. But don't worry, skip through those posts if you like - they are mainly intended as catharsis.
Finally, I think a lot about modern society and, particularly, its perceptions of women. I'm going to write my thoughts here in order to try to develop them, which will hopefully help me to understand myself more fully.
Going to get things started with one of my favourite Mozambican poems and the namesake of this blog.
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