Dodging bullets and filling holes

Evolution of the mind is a beautiful thing to behold. While reading The Museum of Innocence last week sometime, I was mesmerized by the layers of expressiveness, the obsessive, deep emotion, the frivolous made real in so many ways. Orhan Pamuk's writing can be easily put down for another day, or drowned in so totally that the rest of the world of work is reduced to background noise. Please note spoiler alerts from here onward, for if you plan on reading the book!

And so, the reason for my having bought and read this book on a whim quickly revealed itself to me. You see, while reading the book, I was taken by the idea that I could, after what seemed like ages, read a book just for the fun of it.
But then, I got to the latter chapters and was treated to the conversation between the author and the protagonist. And I was completely blown away. I realised then, that this was no mere coincidence. I was certainly not just reading this book for the fun of it!

This book turned uncanny in it's message to me. It was also rather unpredictable.

Readers of this blog will know that along with the courses that I present, I have been engaged in the research and write-up of a political biography over the past two years. This means that I have had the honour of meeting and interviewing some interested veterans of the anti-apartheid struggle; various gregarious and surreal personalities from around the world, Paris, the UK, South Africa and India.
The journey has been hugely satisfactory for the most part; a delight in many ways.
But I've said this to a few friends, that the writing of biography also feels on some days like a project of dodging bullets and filling holes. I know - it sounds a lot dodgier when it's said that way. It's not a literal exposition at all. But it's every bit as crazed and meandering as its meant to sound.

Until I read this book, that is. Orhan Pamuk's written conversation with his protagonist, Kemal Basmaci, is for me as a biographer, ultimately revelatory and highlights the many features of the biographical process and the importance of giving it authentic subject voice.

And many things regarding the telling of the tale; defining the idea that it's easy to want to write 'everything' that gets dumped in your lap. That there are many people who are loathe to the idea that much will be revealed therein, details which they had hoped would never see the light of day. [Some will go to lengths to make sure this status quo remains unaltered.] That there are some who will make fraudulent claims to history, when in fact they were never really at the front line, as the unsung heroes really were. There are many who will have the story from their viewpoint. And then, there is the view of the protagonist. And this is all that matters. In this way, the biographer's job is made clear cut, if not simpler.

I learned these things from Orhan Pamuk.
And I think that the path has been cleared for me to go on.

Everything for a reason, then. No coincidences, only plan.

S

stress

I cannot remember being as stressed out as I was today.

I hope that its over for the most part.

There's always tomorrow.

Please God. Don't test my Love, so.

I'm only human.

And I am being human.

Mercy, please.

the summer of sweetness

After that night, she hated him. It took her three months to drag herself, bit by bit, out of that rut of hatred. Because the way she saw it, after all the time that they had known each other as children, it took one moment of hormonal tugging; one sordid word from the woman who wanted him, to make him cast that evil look upon her face. It burned her. Then the scar remained, revealing itself to her everytime that she looked into the mirror. Renewed loathing filled her being. Tears refused to sting her eyes; she wouldn't waste that salt on him. Not anymore. She was adamant, but still it was a struggle to fight back the waters of sadness. Her bottom lip took the brunt of it, revealing beads of red in place of simple salt water from higher up. The taste on her tongue was the same; aside from the colour, blood and tears were the same, she realised.

He wasn't her brother. Nothing tied him to her, irreverently. They weren't lovers. Love was this strange word that could so easily distort the purity of the friendship that they had cultivated since they were each less than a metre high. She supposed that such was the nature of soul connections. A knowing with certainty that the other person was a certain way, today but perhaps not tomorrow. Having an inkling of an idea that they needed to hear something said at a particular time. Or that they needed to be simply left alone. It came with time, and patience, and listening. It came with caring, because she was sure that even some married couples didn't quite get to that point. Married couples? What was she thinking, they were not a couple. They were childhood friends, thrown together at a time when innocence was the glue and adventure was the energy that grew them on the same branch of life's tree. Two unripe mango's laden with promise, and waiting only for the summer of sweetness to claim their moment in the sun; their moment of fame and glory.

It was something that everyone was entitled to: that precious time at the prime of one's life when all potential and wonders are revealed to a world that never knew of your existence. The only ones who knew were the ones who grew you to this point. With water and light and care. With tenderness. Just like he did for her, and she did for him.

And what happened then? The fork in the road. The split in their journeys. The look of disgust in his eyes. Those last words, spat out like something bitter and poisonous lingered on his tongue. And then nothing.


(Copyright Shafinaaz Hassim 2009)

My Tug of War

"The faster I write the better my output.

If I'm going slowly I'm in trouble.

It means I'm pushing the words instead of being pulled by them."


-Raymond Chandler