There Ain’t No Klu Klux, on a 133rd.

My last exam of the year today.

Did I study enough? Does anyone ever?

Eh. Who am I kidding. I didn’t study enough. I know what good studying is. At this point, there is nothing more I can study.

I will write down this poem by Langston Hughes that I memorised, though. For practise, and because it is absolutely heartrending, and it is also one of my favourite poems.

I might make some mistakes.

‘Not a Movie’ – Langston Hughes

Well, they rocked him with road apples

because he tried to vote

and whipped his head with clubs

and he crawled on his knees to his house

and he caught the midnight train

and he crossed that Dixie line

Now he’s livin’

on a 133rd.

 

He didn’t stop in Washington

and he didn’t stop in Baltimore

neither in Newark on the way.

Six knots was on his head,

But thank God, he wasn’t dead!

And there ain’t no Klu Klux,

on a 133rd. 

I probably made some mistakes. But oh how sad this all is. Hopeful, of course, but so sad that it had to happen.

‘and there ain’t no Klu Klux on a 133rd’.

I could cry.

Out of nerves, out of sadness, who knows.

Rainless.

Once upon a time everything was fine.

People did what they had to do, wrote their assignments on time, and submitted excellent essays brimming with poignant points with legitimate quotations and impeccable referencing. They researched on time, and read all the books they needed to well in advance.

They did not stress eat chocolate until they were too sick to move, their sticky fingers flying over the keyboard at a thousand miles a second, and they certainly did not forget to brush their teeth two days in a row and wear a STAINED dress to work.

They also studied very hard for their exam not one week in advance, but five. They were nice to their husbands and made an effort to not look like a plastic bag with greasy hair, and they were not anxious and did not have separation anxiety when their husband told them he was staying in the next city for a month because this travel is getting too hard.

They did not silently cry in secret and fume over not going with said husband.

They did not miss the gym for three weeks despite paying £25, and they also understood everything perfectly and didn’t speak rubbish.

They were good and clean and tidy and healthy and mentally well equipped to handle life.

They were not named Lenora Sparrow, but some other name that was nice and sensible and did not reek of late submission and missed personal deadlines and/or goals.

That reminds me, I need to call my dad and discuss flights, write that amazon review I promised to write and read a tonne of things, also clean this place and myself up and lesson plan for this afternoon as well as finish 1200 words by tonight and make sure my car has petrol in it for tomorrow.

Etybyte

 

Dubliners

It has to be coherent.

It has to be relevant.

It has to all tie in together.

It has to convince her that what I have written is an accepted, intellectual and innovative truth.

This essay has to be everything, else I shall be completely miserable all summer, and shan’t enjoy the long heady days in the grass, nor any anticipated travels around this supposedly beautiful country.

And two days later, I have to submit 4000 words of pure literary genius. I have to tame my tutor’s senses and whisk her emotions away in a hurricane of action, my words ceasing to be groups of letters and becoming images floating through her mind. I want her to finish reading, and suddenly slam back down into her chair as reality hits her once more.

But how to do this, while simultaneously analysing James Joyce?

Do tell me, for I am quite lost and bogged down both intellectually and creatively.

10:29PM

I

Submitted

My

Assignment

Finally

After

Three

Long

Weeks

of

Brain

Fever.

You would think I would be able to now breathe a lovely sigh of relief and lounge around with a tall glass of lemonade or, given the season, a big mug of thick, delicious melted chocolate.

But no, my loves. I have another assignment due in a week and a half. Luckily this is a creative writing assessment. Still exhausting, given that I don’t have free reign and must comply with textbook standards… but it is definitely (hopefully) easier than analysing female demons in Wuthering Heights!

I’m Failing.

This is the criteria to get a ‘Pass 1’, in the ‘A’ range: (I have rewritten the criteria in accordance with Open University Copyright rules)

“Knowledge of texts: Excellent choice of texts and in discussion of said texts you have highlighted their literary features.

Presentation and scholarly methods: Your argument and evidence related well to each other,and you used literary terms consistently and in the correct place. Quotes were accurate, and you referenced well and provided a correct bibliography.

Argument and response to assignment: Organised argument, used insight to expand on argument beyond the limits of the presented topic.

Understanding of the issues: It is clear that issues raised by the assignment were understood, correct use of study material was demonstrated, use of own material coupled with study material showed your understanding of their importance in this topic.”

 

I can’t supply all this. I want an ‘A’ grade, of course. Who doesn’t? But I am not insightful when it comes to choosing good texts and suitable quotations, especially when I have to quote from the entire novel. I read to enjoy, not to study. In fact, as I reread, I am finding it so hard to focus on the words and their context, because I am just seeing images and am avidly following a story even though I already know what is going to happen!

Damn these good writers. Damn them.

I am going to fail if I don’t buck up.

Pud Muddle

I am drowning

under a pile

of

complex literary analysis.

I don’t

understand

anything.

I don’t

CARE

about

Wordsworth’s inner life.

I really am

Trying to rouse interest.

“Oh, look,” says my

Mind.

“Your mother loves Grasmere.”

Struggling to find

something in common

with

this poem.

That she does,

that she does.

Do it for her

at least.

But I don’t want to.

Coffee is not helping

not a smidgen.

Nature is beautiful

I try to tell myself

Of course it is,

Of course

But I don’t care for William’s

depiction

of it.

Perhaps I might,

if I wasn’t forced to analyse it

using intricate terms

that I can’t pronounce.

Like

ANDALIPLOSIS

and

ANTIMETABOLE

and

PLOCE

Which sounds like it should be Plaice

Like the fish.

But it isn’t.

And I haven’t the

faintest

clue

what it could be.

I have this awful deadline

which smells of rotten fish.

Or Plaice.

And

I don’t

Care

I really

Just

Want to sleep

and be cuddled.

This

Is Torture.

 

Aijaz Qaisar

A Dally of Musings

Hello yes, I am procrastinating.

What I am supposed to be doing is analysing how a section of John Webster’s The Duchess of Malfi uses literary devices to present different themes, and how these distinctive features of language could be translated into performance.

It’s curious, it sounds so complicated. How do actors analyse literary devices and use them to act out how they think a character would have done.

I know it must be simpler than I imagine, and I could be simplifying it further by reading course material and analysing the play, rather than writing about my ignorant opinions.

I could be thinking about how an actor stands, and how it would affect the delivery of a line. Or whether a scene would become more dramatic if an actor were to sit on a chair during a dialogue, or stand as an equal to his Lady.

But I am not. I am musing in a most cretinous manner. I am spattering my uncultured, obtuse thoughts on a topic so well-loved and so well-researched, that frankly I am a little ashamed of myself.

However I cannot help sometimes wondering at our tendency to analyse plays written hundreds of years ago, in a language very few of us understand, with references to a culture and a society not a living soul on earth remembers.

What are we gaining from this?

In my copy of The Duchess of Malfi, almost every line has an explanation on the adjacent page, because the majority of people of my ilk will know nothing about the meanings or the cultural references behind the speech. I know it is good to learn new things, but really, we are just learning old ones.

It’s like studying a lesson in physics from a book written five hundred years ago. The concepts are outdated, new ones with more plausible evidence have replaced them.

But language is not a science, and in order to understand language, we must revert back to the origins of language and literature and entertainment. It is a burden to be borne, I suppose.

Webster’s Malfi is quite entertaining and odd, though. It’s garish and discomfiting, but it is proving to be surprisingly enjoyable. The language is immensely satisfying, and there are plenty of little linguistic gems to please. There is no denying that Webster made a true art of words.

How about you, dear reader? Have you read many seventeenth century plays? Did you enjoy them?

Frazzled Writing

I am doing an Advanced Creative Writing module in my Open University course, and I am very apprehensive because it is a level 3 course, which, for any of you who did OU, is pretty tough. It’s like final year at University! (Which is is!) Also the majority of the people on there seem to be such good writers who are seasoned and who know plenty about it all!

They don’t procrastinate, they don’t leave their assignments to the last minute, they read all the things they are supposed to read and catch up on all the online tutorials and contribute beautifully! It has only been five days into the course and I am 200 messages behind. Oh I feel so inadequate. I have to share some of my work but there is nothing worth sharing with them so I have to work extra hard to produce something that could pass roughly as readable.

It is futile to hope that I might capture their interest or create something remotely potent. Aaaaargh!

So I am frazzled and worried and anxious about it all, and am hoping for the best. I will take it one step at a time and write write write and read everything my tutor posts for me and pore religiously over my module book.

I chose that module to learn more about writing, so learn more about writing I shall.

Until then, I bid you adieu!