Purpose

Writing is not easy. It may come naturally and it may be intuitive, but that is only when you are actually able to sit down and eliminate the distractions and convince yourself that yes, this writing is important. No, this writing does not need to be reconsidered because of it's irrelevant/uninteresting/untruthful nature. This writing is the truest I can muster, the most articulate I can be on the topic of life as I have seen it and it is therefore, not only worth doing, but absolutely necessary.

It is the slippery nature of these beliefs that consistently make it difficult for me to write anything substantial. I second guess myself and my truths. I keep wanting my understanding of things to be more complete. I am starting to understand that this is a cop out. I am where I am and that too is a truth.  I am where I am and that is constantly changing and growing. Now is the only time when writing can happen, so I may as well start now.

This, I believe, is why many artists can not look at their past work or feel embarrassed when they are made to. It is painful to look at our naiveté, the self righteousness of youth, our idealism, after we have matured, even a little bit. It is like looking at pictures from the 80s.

Reading Hemingway has helped me to understand this. How cliche, right? But it's true. I only started to read him when I was in Nigeria and didn't really get what was so great about him. But I am starting to piece it together. What made Hemingway great is what has made all great writers great and that is writing the truth. The truth of a moment or a decade or a generation or a universe. Great writers--great artists, somehow encompass each level in a single work. It is important because it gives contemporary writers/readers a wider perspective of their present situation and thus (hopefully!) empathy . For those that come after, it gives history a pulse, war a conscience and revolution a breeze.

Writing is also important as a way of understanding what I think. Many writers have expressed similar feelings. When I write, it is like I am coming up for air. A few words of clarity and conciseness where my consciousness is really present and able to inform me. I find this increasingly necessary when there is commentary after commentary on current events. Response to response to response of whatever is going on. It is helpful to read other people's thoughts too, but that is again, why writing is important!  All of our experiences help to broaden the conversation and reflect the larger truth. I think a lot of the turmoil in the world right now is a direct result of the internet and user friendly social media platforms that have finally brought unique and diverse voices to the table.

Recording my own thoughts, trying to figure out what those are exactly, is the only way to ensure mine is included.

Voice

So often I feel like I am still finding my voice.
Approaching 30, I wonder why this is not yet something nestled snugly under my belt--a voice that I am confident to call my own.

By now, I should be certain and self-assured--about at least something!
But I have not learned to lay my certainties strategically. They seem to fall short, always on fault lines that shift with the ground beneath my feet.

This is not intentional. I am well educated and well traveled. I have learned things. I have seen things. I have thought and believed things. But everyday brings a new reality, a new challenge, a new question. And when I hold up my convictions like offerings to the alter of my voice, they are tiny balls of hail--collected through the storms and melted by the sun. Their watermarks make far less convincing an impression.

I question my memories and reconsider. Perhaps these beliefs and convictions were only the manifestation of an emotional state of being. Then, how can I be sure about something so transient? I shed another skin and those beliefs shed with them. Transforming to my next state. Butterfly, egg, caterpillar, cocoon. Endless.

So, I've been attempting to dwell in uncertainty. But this is dangerous territory. It is scaling the edge of a rocky canyon, tightrope walking across a fiery pit, exposing your heart, naked, to the elements. Hoping, always, for a favourable wind and encouraging words.

The trouble is, dwelling in uncertainty requires an element of conviction. A certainty that this is the final resting place and no further movement is necessary. Becoming sure and comfortable, starts to feel unsettling. And we find ourselves in a conundrum, which I imagine, is the door to the next phase. A trap door at the bottom a very very deep well.

Where on earth does it go?

All bets: to my voice.

Hiatus

Long time.
So long I've needed to oil the joints in my fingers to keep them from creaking as I write this.

Yes, I've been on a completely unintentional writing hiatus. This is my attempt to communicate with someone or something other than my own internal writer's brain. . .which seems to have shrunk considerably. There may need to be allowances made for my poor editing, boring prose or incomprehensible thoughts, but I'll try my best to make this an enjoyable experience for you, dear reader.

This writing hiatus has not been intentional and if I look at my blog, my last post was in July--which really wasn't that long ago. However, I have not been keeping up my practice. Since January, writing, which once bookended each day like two clear refreshing streams to dive into, became like trekking through mud-sucking river beds littered with the rusted corpses of half-devoured history. Usually I'd end up waist deep in mud, unable to take another step in any direction. After a while, discouraged by that hopeless feeling, I opted instead to sit on the river bank, staring out at the bleakness of my dreams turned to muck. Lately, I've been avoiding that place altogether, which is probably for the best.

I've found, over the past couple of weeks, that avoiding writing altogether has increased my urge to write. I've been getting ideas--good ideas--and I'm getting more and more excited about putting them into words, creating and working through stories and developing characters. I've been walking through different parts of my mind and forgetting about the past and the old stories and the old ways I was doing things.

I also started to think about my block in new ways. Sure, it started in Nigeria, after my hard drive crashed and my computer was out of commission. I was unable to access the drafts I had worked so hard on and my writing routine suffered. By the time I got back to Canada and got things with my computer sorted out, I was already  started down a new path of creation. I was growing a baby.

Now, I haven't read much about pregnancy's affects on artistry and I'm sure it's very different for every woman, but at this point, the baby is pretty much ready to pop out, and I can't help but wonder if that might have something to do with why I can suddenly write this blog post. It feels like the rains have come and the rivers are filling again, slowly, but surely. Perhaps the creative waters needed to be redirected for a while. . .
   
Another indication of this, I noticed, was an abnormally strong need to consume. I am an avid reader anyway, I have been for quite some time, but my reading patterns since I became pregnant have become somewhat unprecedented. I've read 28 books and notice that reading news articles and searching for information about random happenings in the world has been taking up most of my time. I've stayed away from TV (except for the Legend of Korra, book 3 and now 4!!! Which isn't even on TV anymore, so does that even count?!) and haven't watched too many movies or sought out a large number of new musicians, but books, books, books! It has felt unbalanced consuming so much with so little production, but perhaps I have been looking at the production end all wrong!

I am almost at the end of my pregnancy now (39 weeks!) and it feels like the streams that are slowly trickling back, covering up the muck to form new contours in the river bed promise to lead me to new places and old places to explore with new eyes. The eyes of a mother.

General Help Wanted

I am a barely contained scribble
That I could draw when I was 3
Deemed a masterpiece
Before I knew the word
And have since been weaned
To see lines
order
status
like Escher staircases
chronic aspirations
to compare dreams

And the colour
was discarded
And the meaning
misinterpreted
And the masterpiece
dated:
A scribble
By a 3 year old
Who didn't know any better

I am seeking a translator
A teacher
of my other tongue
Before my mother
Before the words usurped--
Ordained the shape
the texture,
the outline
Of this world
That is not mine

When a scribble was more honest
When the truth was heard in hums
When thoughts were in a language
I've forgotten

RAP NEWS UPDATE!

Oh dear,
look how far behind I've gotten!
No posts since March 3rd!!!! That means I've missed: #Bringbackourgirls, #yesallwomen, the passing of the dear Maya Angelou AND
RAP NEWS 23, 24 AND 25!!!!

So sorry about that. Let me help you out.
Rap News 23: Crimea: Media War Crimes


Rap News 24: Israel vs Palestine


And my personal favourite. . .
Rap News 25: Net Neutrality


Also I'm back in Canada, which means I have some 'splainin to do. ;)