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.
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