I have always wanted to stab men, in the heart, with a pen (it's thicker than knife!). And I had hoped they'd bleed to death - coughing their guts out! Is that, I wonder, what I'm trying to achieve in dreaming to become a writer?! To hit men, and the society of men, and society - where it hurts, using a pen (metaphorically speaking, atleast)?!
But why have I never wanted to stab my male characters?! I've always been in love with my characters and never wanted to harm them in any way. Except that kind of harm that befalls all humans. Except the kind of harm I am unable to spare them. Because my characters are human. They are neither male nor men. They are pure, full-fledged, humans. Pure fictitious humans. Mere embodiments of confusion and frustration. Mere accidents trying to make the best of it ('it' being life).
And those males I see around me... ?!
My female characters (now there's an interesting subject) are, ofcourse, something else. They are so much like me, but better equipped to deal with 'stuff' ('stuff' being the kind of stuff that befalls all us females, through the turmoil and heat of the day, in a man's world). They do not sit around wishing that life was a computer, so they can UNDO the past. They are in control, in charge. They are winners, in one way or another, anyway. And if they don't win, they atleast make points. Glorious points! (which is more than I can say for myself).
Needless to say, the females I know in real life, who I find quite irritating and usually boring, are nowhere near my female characters. And I am the kind of person who prides herself in studying humans for life, in taking an interest in them notwithstanding. But I guess there is only so much a person can take.
Now, where was I? The females I see around me!! The "pretty" "swamps" (would come up with a better word later) who would swallow you if you let them. Which is, ofcourse, true to women all over the world. The fact that they are swamps, I mean. As it was true for their mothers, their grandmothers, and all the generations of them. What's more, they aren't even an exciting kind of swamp. The kind you'd gladly give in to. The kind you'd willingly go down with. (Atleast for me?! A female?! Hmm.. weird!!) They are more docile and "Catholic than the pope" than their mothers. They probably speak better English! If their mothers ever do! And if they themselves do, ofcourse.
Don't get me wrong now!! I have the utmost respect for my sex/gender (and those who have it). I cry for them! I am ready to give my worldly goods (which, I must admit, ain't much) if I can change the lives of a single one of them! I'd even die for them! Technically, atleast. And anyway dying won't change anything, unless it's a man's dying, and unless he's stinking rich, and married, and has only his young wife for an heiress. You can even say I love them! But I am not crazy about them. I guess that makes me like Dostyavski (Dostoyvski, Dostovski) who said he can only love human beings from afar. The minute they show a tendency of coming closer, they revolt him. That is why, I imagine, I'm in no "benevolent", "good will-to-all-womankind" mood when dealing with my sex sakes. They make me mad, not so mad as to want to stab them with a pen, in the heart, but really furious. Really disgusted. Which is why I desperately want to change them. Change them into.. something closer to their true (honorable?) selves. Their true valuable selves. Something like.. me, perhaps? Even an unhappy me?! Because I can't very well.. not want to change them (can I?!). I got to! It's my mission in life! Not a mission I took upon myself gladly, I admit. But here I am! Here is where I found myself! And here is where I want to (MUST) linger ("here" being the "trying to change the world for the better for women" place of mission). Because if I don't, who will?! And more importantly, what would I do with my life?!
(to be continued..)
Thursday, March 30, 2006
The Angry Female - Part II
In the case of my "male" characters, it's different. They are the kind of confused messes (unable to survive without some strong female, some strong version of me) that are more human than real life human (males). They are.. I guess.. what I want men to be. What I thought men should be like and found out that men weren't after they discovered (at 28-32) that life is too full of pretty girls to be stuck with one (and I am not even pretty) and that they need hardly do anything to be .. whatever it is they want to be (like their dads, friends - and jerks around the world)!! They are, in short, what I believed men were before life, in the form of a reality shock (not check man, not check!), opened my eyes to the truth (life does that to you when you hit 30).
Wait! I know I sound bitter and angry. And I AM bitter and angry! And, yes, I have been scorned. And, yes, Hell hath no fury like a woman such as me. But it would have been ok to be angry if it [this desire to stab at men and society (of men) with a pen; this urgent need to see (male) blood- lots of it; this irresistible craving to make a point that would make me, let's face it folks, too the scorned spinster] wasn't affecting my "work". Is being a good artist ("derasit" for me), a better artist, more important to me than my anger against men (society)? My desire to see blood? My making some glorious point?! (Some thought for the day!)
Still!, the anger would have been ok if Virginia Woolfe didn't think an artist -especially the female artist - should leave his/her anger outside (when entering the room of "his/her" own) to produce a real work of art. But I wouldn't have been an artist if I weren't angry, you see. I won't have wanted to be an artist (a writer---ess) if I were married at 25 and had 4 children right now. I won't! It's not that I regret not having been married at 25 and not having any children. I ain't interested in children anymore and for that one, I'm even grateful (I mean Woolfe wrote none of the Brontës were married, atleast none of them had children). Because you never ask "why" if you think you know all the answers. If you were cozy in your existence, in your situation! You gotta be some sort of "disabled" chap/chick (?) to know life isn't fair. Or, as in my case, you got to atleast feel like the "disabled" (would feel/are meant to feel/am sure feel). So how do I keep the "anger" out of my angry would-be profession (which I'd set about on 2 years hereafter, with a degree in Amharic Language & Literature and a dread lock - tsegure bifekdina ben'nor)? Coz, that woman was right, there is no pleasure that can match the pleasure of being able to tell a story (and be paid for it?). Or do I go out and seek for pleasure? Be unquestioning, un-wondering (like my dumb or "happy" or "content" sex sakes)?! And is that worth it? I mean, happiness would no doubt be the answer, but is it the right answer? Does right or wrong even matter?!
If it does, and if the disabled should come into question (coz they matter, should matter), and if I should bravely face and slay my monsters (most of them in a masculine form) than look for the happy/easy way out, so as to be a better human and a better artist, should I not open my window to let in the fresh air? Should I not go out on a date? Should I not hope for a better day, a better relationship, a better.. self than the sad lonely me?! Should I, in short, sit in my "own room", make my 500 pounds/birr a year and discover what it is to be ... real (person or... artist)?!
*sighs* Never mind!
P.s. And why did Woolfe drown herself?!
Wait! I know I sound bitter and angry. And I AM bitter and angry! And, yes, I have been scorned. And, yes, Hell hath no fury like a woman such as me. But it would have been ok to be angry if it [this desire to stab at men and society (of men) with a pen; this urgent need to see (male) blood- lots of it; this irresistible craving to make a point that would make me, let's face it folks, too the scorned spinster] wasn't affecting my "work". Is being a good artist ("derasit" for me), a better artist, more important to me than my anger against men (society)? My desire to see blood? My making some glorious point?! (Some thought for the day!)
Still!, the anger would have been ok if Virginia Woolfe didn't think an artist -especially the female artist - should leave his/her anger outside (when entering the room of "his/her" own) to produce a real work of art. But I wouldn't have been an artist if I weren't angry, you see. I won't have wanted to be an artist (a writer---ess) if I were married at 25 and had 4 children right now. I won't! It's not that I regret not having been married at 25 and not having any children. I ain't interested in children anymore and for that one, I'm even grateful (I mean Woolfe wrote none of the Brontës were married, atleast none of them had children). Because you never ask "why" if you think you know all the answers. If you were cozy in your existence, in your situation! You gotta be some sort of "disabled" chap/chick (?) to know life isn't fair. Or, as in my case, you got to atleast feel like the "disabled" (would feel/are meant to feel/am sure feel). So how do I keep the "anger" out of my angry would-be profession (which I'd set about on 2 years hereafter, with a degree in Amharic Language & Literature and a dread lock - tsegure bifekdina ben'nor)? Coz, that woman was right, there is no pleasure that can match the pleasure of being able to tell a story (and be paid for it?). Or do I go out and seek for pleasure? Be unquestioning, un-wondering (like my dumb or "happy" or "content" sex sakes)?! And is that worth it? I mean, happiness would no doubt be the answer, but is it the right answer? Does right or wrong even matter?!
If it does, and if the disabled should come into question (coz they matter, should matter), and if I should bravely face and slay my monsters (most of them in a masculine form) than look for the happy/easy way out, so as to be a better human and a better artist, should I not open my window to let in the fresh air? Should I not go out on a date? Should I not hope for a better day, a better relationship, a better.. self than the sad lonely me?! Should I, in short, sit in my "own room", make my 500 pounds/birr a year and discover what it is to be ... real (person or... artist)?!
*sighs* Never mind!
P.s. And why did Woolfe drown herself?!
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Dear Mr. Man
I am not here so that you can see me. I'm not here so that you can hear me. I'm not here to heighten your sense of smell, touch. Your sense of "importance"!! I'm here for a purpose of my own. A purpose very detached from you. A purpose that would serve me my purpose, and not of winning your approval. I'm here to run my own race and to win my own medal. I'm here to continue, to overcome, to say something new in the sphere. I'm here, not to follow a road (a dream, a wish, an order) of another, but to create another path. A new path! To continue in this path of my own. To create my own dream. To be the boss of my destiny, of my self. I am, I admit, not totally prepared for this path. Not totally unattached. Not totally ready. But I WILL that I maybe. I WILL that the world consider me my own person. A person who isn't here so that you can see me, hear me!
I have been told, or heard from a movie, that the world is like Noah's Arc. That you're useless, unless coupled (with someone else). But how can I be useless without you when I can stand without you?! When I can carry a whole burden on my back, without your help?! When I can draw my strength from my weakness, and bury my agony in my tears?! When I can BE, whilst there was/is no "you" around. When I can manage so much (alone)?!. How can I be useless when I can make such a difference in my absence? And if I matter as a person who isn't there, I should matter when standing alone (here)!. I should matter as an individual. As something apart from you. And if they insist upon me being useless and throw me overboard, I'd swim back to the surface. If they tried to push me down, I'd fight back to remain afloat. I won't let the weight of their pressure, or the pain in my arms weight me down. I will survive. I am a survivor. I've survived thus far in your world!
I have been told, or heard from a movie, that the world is like Noah's Arc. That you're useless, unless coupled (with someone else). But how can I be useless without you when I can stand without you?! When I can carry a whole burden on my back, without your help?! When I can draw my strength from my weakness, and bury my agony in my tears?! When I can BE, whilst there was/is no "you" around. When I can manage so much (alone)?!. How can I be useless when I can make such a difference in my absence? And if I matter as a person who isn't there, I should matter when standing alone (here)!. I should matter as an individual. As something apart from you. And if they insist upon me being useless and throw me overboard, I'd swim back to the surface. If they tried to push me down, I'd fight back to remain afloat. I won't let the weight of their pressure, or the pain in my arms weight me down. I will survive. I am a survivor. I've survived thus far in your world!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
