I think of you
And then I think of me.
I want you to be like Keatsian lines
Intoxicating
Forgetting
Escaping
Sensual
Dense and light
I wanted you to be like that Ode
In which I have luxuriated numberless times
Aching and aching
Dying and dying
Waking and waking.
Toni Morrison and her The Bluest Eye. Pecola Breedlove and her desire for
the bluest eye. Blue Blue Bluer Bluest eyes through which she can view the
world which may love and stroke her. Pecola- the tired bird, the drooping girl,
the wronged girl, the the black black girl. I wish the blue eyed Pecola could
sleep for some time. And then I would sit beside you. Wake up only when your
dream is over. And then you would describe it to me. The blues, the moonlight,
the silvery air. I would like to mix my memories with yours, to mix my dreams
with yours, to mix my love with yours.
Have you ever felt what it’s like to be speaking and never conveying? Have you
ever felt what it’s like to be belonged and never belonging? Have you ever been
in someone’s eyes, look the same and look different? Have you ever been loved
and not yet loved? “ What did love feel like?” Why are you so certain of a hurt to be hurt and
not certain of a love to be a love? Or is it implicit in the hurt itself?
“Love is never any better than the lover. Wicked people love wickedly,
violent people love violently, weak people love weakly, stupid people love
stupidly, but the love of a free man is never safe. There is no gift for the
beloved. The lover alone possesses his gift of love. The loved one is shorn,
nuetralized, frozen in the glare of the lover’s inward eye.” Do you want to
love like a free man with no gift for the beloved. Or would you rather be
wicked to love wickedly? Be violent? Be stupid? Be weak? Would rather be anyone
of these or would you like to frozen your lover with the glare of your inward
eye?
Someone told me that my articulation of thoughts here make me look all the
more foolish and that one should learn to cover one’s weaknesses rather than
exhibiting it with an eloquence which will create an identity that I may not
desire. Identities! You seek for it. One way or other you go for it. I wish to
come back here to echo my immutable thoughts so that I could avoid some
personal differences and fractures by throwing it right away at some of the
close gazes. Here there is anonymity even in identities. Safe and excusable
to an extend. Yet I demonize some of the bare truths and questions- as if their
renderings may be as shameful as being naked. In Frued’s way though I wish to
free play my Id here, I still have to bow down to my Ego…No! Don’t do it! Or if
you do, do it with Innuendos and clever sophistication or use your innate
appetite for metaphors, only to structure it as faint and vague.
“Do you fear to speak truthfully?”
Some times I feel like I am the Holden in Salinger’s imagination of Catcher
in the Rye. Oh Please catch those little ones who are about to stumble from the
cliff, who are about to fall apart and smash their heads on adult phoniness!
Catch them! Save them! “So young and so true!”
I readjust myself and see my reflection on the window glass. What are you
writing? Thoughts, I guess?
Do you still believe in the illusion that you feel better after you scartch
these letters here? Scratch on your reflection dear, so that the changes won’t
be marked. You fear change!
Where is Pecola? Let me not think about fear and change. Let me think about
Pecola’s blue eyes. Let me think about the unfavouring earth and marigolds that
never spring because Pecola was carrying. Let me think about you. Your
blackness and your madness. Let me hide behind you little girl. “We were so
beautiful when we stood astride her ugliness”
“We substituted good grammar for intellect; we switched habits to simulate
maturity; we rearranged lies to call it truth, seeing in the new pattern of an
old idea the Revelation and the Word.”
Everything in italics are strictly quotes!
