I return! Whether this is a soaring, triumphal, brass-band comeback, or a lone trumpet-parp that sounds more like an apologetic whisper, I don't know. My summer, however, has been HUUUGE. Enormous. There was so much felt and experienced, I was eventually discouraged from posting in every single instance. Let's just say that if it had been a drug trip, it probably would've been the sort that culminates in you either dying, or feeling like you're going to shortly.
The headlines so far, then:
a) I realised my sixth-form form tutor Mr. Gettings was my soulmate. Or rather, I acknowledged it to myself at last. Don't stop reading in horror! I lost contact with him for a while after starting at uni, but I emailed him to tell him my first-year results, and it created a kind of email chain where we emailed each other pretty much every day or so. He's not my soulmate the way S------- is... I'll explain it shortly. He made me stick at writing poetry, rather than just the odd one every year or whatever :-P, and we talked poetry a lot in our emails. Except that now because I'm not a student any more, I think he was able to open up a bit more, and as a result, I got to see some of his poetry. It was good because it stopped me feeling that my melancholy over missing him was mostly just due to my sentimentality: the intense bond was not just in my head. He also challenges me a lot which I enjoy because it turns my ways of thinking on their head - it's incredibly stimulating (lol). Anyway, he sent me this course of emails towards the end describing how he formulates a poem. I couldn't pick up much from the first draft, but I discerned some possible references to me in it. Then, I just thought "Nah." He sent me two more versions, and it took me a while to realise that he was re-drafting and editing the same poem. Finally, I got this email:
'I have struggled with your poem, but having slept on it I have finally given birth to level 3. So here it is, the actual intended poem. (Sort of). I hope it is OK and you've seen the creative process that I've gone through. I really , really won't email out anymore this summer, So , ....., in touch soon. D'
The poem was written for me - about me (obviously). I skimmed over it at work, and got a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. I read it in the evening and cried my eyes out. It's called Somebody's Child and if anyone ever writes anything half as beautiful about me again, I'll be ridiculously lucky. Even if it wasn't about me, it's still gorgeous. S------- read it and was also silenced by its power. I love my blog and readers, but I don't think I'm going to post it here, just out of respect for him.
2) I am questioning my cultural identity, etc. etc. This is partly Gettings' fault; he sent me this email in response to my sending him an angry piece called Indian Woman:
'Re. the subject of your poem Indian Woman; I think you are a Punjabi, Sikh, intellectual, second/third generation immigrant British woman.
Look on the bright side!
No man is an island, entire of itself
every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were,
as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were
any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind
and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls
it tolls for thee.
You are also part of a society and part of a tradition, Kaur.
So you don't like it. Drop out of Sikhdom and wait tables while you go through university; but before you act hastily ask yourself: How will I be to my children? How will I preserve their identity in an environment that is often challenging and maybe hostile? Solidarity with your group gives you some security. Sikhs are natural iconoclasts and freedom fighters! Decide.
PS. Write a coherent well argued essay on the subject IN PROSE. Write a polemic if you like.
x David.'
D'you see why I love him?! D'you see why I don't want to lose contact? He is a constant, much-needed kick up the mental arse (lol). I'm also reading Londonstani, the hyped Gautam Malkani novel that's set where I live! Whoo. This has in turn introduced me to Pickled Politics, a new addition to my links. Go visit, and see what they make of it, and of Nirpal Dhaliwal's review(another Indian author whose novel Tourism was competing with it...): http://www.pickledpolitics.com/archives/422 The comments are also hilarious and really worth reading. S---'s unexpectedly strong reaction to Londonstani really made me want to read it, and now I am wondering what I am. It's much better than all the depressed, isolated navel-gazing that makes me decide exactly what I am, with unsurprisingly self-destructive conclusions. Am I coconut? Am I in the middle? Is it about my real opinion, or what a slavish little part of me (and my family) wants? Do I really want to be 'gori,' or am I seeing the error of my ways?
I think soon I'll probably decide, like S---, that it's all just "things," and I don't give a shit. But wahey! Long live the Positive Shoegazing Revolution. Better than being oblivious (like a typical 'rude' girl or boy... or my brother) or ripping the shit out of yourself (indie types). My love of hip-hop looks like all making sense now...
No comments:
Post a Comment