Kureishi: out of line

So Hanif Kureishi has self-catalogued himself as the emblematic arrogant writer and frustrated human being that the rest of the world loves to hate and that gives other serious creative writers a bad reputation.

I am so outraged by what he said last May 27 during the Hay Festival in London, that I don't even know how to write this post. I searched around the Internet to find some sort of explicative counterpart to his exaggerated pronouncement, hopeful to come across something to redeem him. But all I found was more proof of how cruel and foul-mouthed he has been in his writing career, even to his own family. Since then, many people have actually dared to label his novels, especially The Buddha of Suberbia as pretentious manifestos.

I do not want to be judgmental (*pause for thought*) and place myself on the side of sensationalist observers who immediately catalog public figures as being amoral, evil or careless. To a certain extent, I have a feeling that most writers adopt this controversial persona, just to create the drama that fires up their writing (yes, I am thinking of Salman Rushdie). I don't consider this eccentric or cool, it's something closer to a profound sadness of the soul.

Nevertheless, let's analyze Kureishi's words for what they really want to say.

That creative writing courses are "the new mental hospitals", I believe this is to some extent true. It's the same as saying that everyone that studies psychology has some mental issues that they need to resolve. Writing by definition has always been a means to externalize inner demons that other non-writer human beings decide to externalize in a different manner. So yes, all creative writers must be a bit loony, solitary, inadecuate and unhappy. For anyone that dares to think a little beyond Kureishi's word, it wouldn't be so hard to come tot he same conclusion.

What I found a little more than shocking was the comparison between students of creative writing and the killers in the different US shootings that have happened in recent years. "One of the things you notice is that when you switch on the television and a student has gone mad with a machine gun on a campus in America, it's always a writing student". I tried to confirm this fact, but was unable to confirm that all the students were in fact writing students. However, even though I still hope Kureishi was using his writing persona again whilst saying this, this argument can be easily dismembered with a different logic.

These young assassins had other things in common besides writing: they all suffered from stress and mental disorders. One of the ways to externalize these feelings of anger and frustration, especially for young students, is by writing about them on blogs, diaries, etc. It's really no surprise that these kids wrote. Most teenager sdab at writing a few verses even in their youth. That doesn't mean they will become psycho-killers.

About the 71% mark he always gives his students at Kingston University in Stockwell London, well, I just feel sorry for them. And I hope he doesn't get into trouble for it. It's quite despicable to adopt such a lenient and lazy attitude in front of passionate students, who why the hell not, believe that they can make it as writers (especially if you are telling them that they can!).

Kureishi's attitude in general was demeening during his intervention at the Hay. I just wish I were closer to the action so I could hear what's cooking in its surroundings.

New Post

I am tired of going into my blog and seeing the same post from March 20th. That's enough. So here's my new one.
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First Jet Set Interview!

Easter has blessed me with a few days off work and a shot at a Jet Set Interview.

Tomorrow at 9am I am off on a private place to Capcana, a 25min ride to the east coast of the country, where I will be interviewing American magnate Mr. Donald Trump!

Needless to say I was selected because I am the only journalist that speaks fluent English at the newspaper...My mom was right when she insisted I attended those English classes....

I will then be staying with my cousin at her house in Puntacana until Sunday. Sunbathing, chilaxing, writing, reading and drinking...I promise to do a little praying too!

A little something about Cuba

Since my visit to Cuba last summer, I have been fascinated by the possibility of a nation so radically different to all the other western countries that surround it. It looked like Dominican Republic in distinctive details - the malecón, the unpainted houses, the colonial heritage, the vegetation - but the air was more humid: Castro's omnipresence, the fear and the resentment resulting from a market-enslaved life, perforated our pores as much as the graze of dry wind mixed with intense sunlight toasted our skin. I promised to write back then more extensively on Cuba, but I didn't because after reading many Cuban blogs online and seriously reflecting on my impressions of Havana, I no longer felt I had the authority or the maturity to understand what it really means to live under a socialist dictatorship.

I resigned myself to take the conformist stand: 'both systems are flawed' speaking of both capitalism and 'castroism', deep down only admitting to my own thoughts my sincere inclination towards a more socialist regime, if mixing the two were possible in our highly pro-American countries. Perhaps and most probably because I have only lived in countries blinded by Hollywood bling and the terrorising expansion of Starbucks, but mostly because Cuba offered the aesthetic and cultural experience I could not identify with in my own land. I correct myself now and realise that this is not completely true either - since my return home I have discovered a peak in Dominican art forms though we still have a long way to go (I am positive more than hopeful). In short, I guess that what I am trying to say is that I feel sad and worried at the prospect of Cuba changing, whilst also excited to see how new possibilities might (emphasis on might of course) change for our Cuban neighbours.

I formed this little and by no means extensive opinion based on the first article on Cuba that I read that narrates with sharp vocabulary the prospect of Life after Castro. I allow myself to post the paragraph that attracted me the most because of its thorough capacity to describe how inland Cubans have lived with the figure of Castro for 49 years. I urge you still, to take 5 minutes and read the whole thing. It's truly enlightening.

There are also many other Cubans who have dreamed for years of Fidel's demise, convinced that fate has dealt them a heavy hand by turning over their lives to this particularly obstinate, egocentric and durable man. Under Fidel, their lives have been spent in a kind of suffocating reality warp, a uniquely Cuban realm in which time simultaneously stands still and progresses, see-sawing among dramatic episodes linked inextricably to Fidel's whim and will. Because Fidel has always seen himself, his countrymen and Cuba itself as engaged in a heroic struggle - for socialism, against imperialism, in defence of national sovereignty and so on - it has been, somehow, so. Because of his constant exaltation of the Cuban humdrum as vital to the ongoing struggle for the survival of the revolution, there is a collective sense of significance to everyday life in Cuba.

The extract itself, with it's "suffocating reality warp", "uniquely Cuban realm", and its alliterative "see-sawing" really describes the nauseating feeling of merely thinking about Life with Castro and the prospect of Life without Him, the "obstinate, egocentric and durable", God-like man.

Art is the only thing that is free

A dear virtual friend of mine urged me today to go back to posting on my English blog. I didn't know I would follow on such request this soon. But I figured that the best way to do it, was by honouring what he does best: talking about movies. I cannot pretend to do it as well as he does it, but I will give it a shot, with my own light on things of life (my passion). I think he hasn't reviewed this one yet either.



Lions for Lambs is not your typical Hollywood action film, although it has one of the most typical Hollywood faces of contemporary times. Robert Redford as director shines through in the film as the voice of reason in the character of a university professor (Stephen Malley). There is a parallelism between these roles. The one that the director undertakes by guiding the message of the film through its characters and the father-figure a humble and extra-brilliant University professor can go on to adopt (I am thinking of my own University professor Jeremy Treglown!)

And the film is full of these parallelisms.  Evidently, it all boils down to the good script. It can seem slow and obvious at times, but the effect is one of utmost reality. It clearly reflects the three aspects of American society and politics of the present day: the hardcore politics (undertaken by the role of Tom Cruise as senator Jasper Irving - he clearly will never get rid of his A Few Good Men persona), the role of the press (Meryl Streep is the mature journalist unwilling to continue selling news and herself to personal interests) and what really (as far as we know) goes on in the war (the story of the two students who volunteer to be soldiers is very well carried by the script). 

Now, what the film is brilliant for is not merely for the denounciation of all the culprits of what has happened between the Middle East and the USA in the past 6 years since 9/11 - Bush, the press, bad military decisions, the senate, fear, you, me, we are all guilty (perhaps mostly the Bush administration) is what the film is trying to say. The big question the film is throwing up in the air is...

What are you going to do about it?

...and that's where it becomes new and worthwhile. The character of the gorgeous Andrew Garfield as Todd Hayes is vibrant, real and full of all the uncertainties the young generation that witnessed 9/11 is full of too. 

You can really tell that all the little details in this film were well thought of: the opposition between the 3 well-known leads, against this fresh and anonymous voice who is the voice of the people. And in the end, with the suspense of his indecision, the question turns back to the people...

What are you going to do about it?

The writer Matthew Michael Carnahan did what he could do, with his instrument of expertise, researching facts, truths, hearsays, fears and desires. And finally writing them. The actors did what they could do by deciding to take on the roles. So did the technicians and other people who made the film possible. Every character in the film did what they had to do as well. And there will always be personal interests, and there will always be conflicting opinions, but in the end it will all boil down to the 2 lives lost in the battle field and the decision of what to do next.

But art will always be the freest of all forms of communication. Politics is definately sold to corruption with no return, the press is too. Everyone else just follows. But art (literature, films, painting, etc.) still has the strength and capacity to rise above the tainted society and bring us flawed individuals (if for a mere couple of hours) back to a cleaner version of the truth. Art can also sell itself of course, and there has been a lot of art in favour of historic catastrophies (propaganda for totalitarism being the simplest of them), but the point is that it still has the power not to follow, as long as the artist is willing to take the risk. Will you?

Murder in my Kitchen

I woke up this morning to the scene of a double murder. It looked - and for a heart wrenching second felt - like a criminal trying to steal our food had been tragically surprised by one of my family members and in a sudden twist of events they were both poisoned to death by an exterior evil force named X. I swear I did think this at 6:45am, hungry for my breakfast.

Except that the victims were a mouse and an albino lizard. The murder scene was laid out perfectly: cupboard door semi open, merely making visible the tail of the rodent. Finally the beats eating away our food at night had been captured (sorry Ratatouille - I thought of you too, but worry not this one wasn't one of your siblings. It was from the family Brown). I glanced the other way with a victory chuckle only to crumble at the sight of Felix, our albino lizard pet. Yes we had an albino lizard pet in our kitchen; well until some rodent exterminator company decided to make something so powerful that it would instantly kill any other creepy-crawler lying around. And I know for a fact Felix died without much time to pray because he didn't even make past his tummy into the poison nest. He touched it, poor thing, with his little lizard leg, mashed it up, put his other little lizard leg on the crimson bed, and perished. Just like that.

He was white of a pinkish sort of fond de teint and with the blackest most melancholic eyes. I left the light of the kitchen shut on purpose at night, so that he could feel safe to come out, and he never harmed us, and he never ate our food (I cannot say the same for mister rat-thief, no regrets in your death pal), and he was just always there. Except that perhaps he was not because last time I saw him was about five years ago when I still lived here and...can lizards live that long?

R.I.P Felix dear.

Why not start the new year mid-Jan?

I am still launched and refocused, I swear. It is simply that in order to portray here the degree of my deep deep focus, I needed to get my life itself in order. Back on November 25, I still had a UK student visa, I am now a permanent and current resident of the Dominican Republic. It is what I wanted, but it also sucks.

I applied for my Phds, I packed my gazillion motetes and and I came back home after five years, with the countless artistic ambitions and a heart-wrenching desire to spend time with my parents. Needless to say things haven’t all gone according to plan, citing the setbacks is clearly far more compelling: I didn’t get presents from my parents for Xmas, they also decided they didn’t want to do anything for New Year’s so I ended up taxying myself into a plane and flying to the East of the Island to spend it with my cousin. I love my parents, I do. They have given me everything.

My father also got me an interview at the oldest newspaper here in DR (Listin Diario), clearly not upon my request. I said, “Dad can you give me some advice as to how to do job applications in this country?”. Next thing I know, the director of the paper owes my father his life of course, and so he is going to give me a job. A hell of a pressure. But I love the job I swear. I get my own column every Saturday exerting 100% MY freedom of speech and the odd reportage here and there. No one has seriously hit on me at the office either, which considering the beloved country I come from, is definitely an unexpected bonus (not coz I’m hot or anything, but purely coz men see courtship – and cheating - as a God-given right and an exercise of ego-fuelled power).

I’m training at the gym and I painted my first canvas last week. Artistically things are moving forward. I still need to find my photography and acting classes ad my life will be complete. Well, except of course for Chili and my parents marriage being in complete shambles. Ay, but I’m not suffering it, really (as we would say here). Honestly, the biggest knowledge I acquired through The Art of Living, French Education, Living in France and doing things generally European, is ahhhhhhhh, to let go. Not that the French are easy going, on the contrary, my acceptance of the state of things comes from a serious unwillingness to deal with other people’s bullshit. Do I sound angry yet? I am exceedingly angry in my letting-go-ness. Ha Ha.

This new year, I am miss Art, I am miss Columnist, I am miss detached daughter, I am miss-girlfriend-whose-long-distance-relationship-IS-gonna-work-damnit, I am miss Selfish. I type this and I can’t even believe it. Do you?

Re-launch: focused and committed

Welcome back! To me and my readers. Welcome to the new ones!

I suspended my writing because I was lying to myself. I didn't want to accept it at first, the self-betrayal, the lies to my author-persona. Driven constantly by the urge to write something - anything - I wasn't writing about what matters to me. I was making my voice the voice of someone else who is not this insecure, half-accomplished outsider. I have never connected with the emotions that determine my state of
being, thus affecting the empathy and veracity of my words.

Writing is not autobiography, although all writing is autobiographical (in some sense). I am not talking about writing about my problems and insecurities (God knows I have tides of them). A writer is able to convey a narrative because he is in touch with the Aesthetic of life - his appreciation of the world and his desire of what it should be. I was failing to live aesthetically because I failed to filter this acceptance of myself into my writing.

The process leading up to this moment has been one of pure reflection - what things do I like and why I like them? Why am I unhappy/happy and what would I change about my current situation? The answers to these questions (left to your speculation) have all been taken into account in the construction of this new blog-image. But I will give you a hint: there is green and abstract, Dave Matthews Band, Spanish and Poetry. I hope my writing, through your reading, does the rest. With your permission, I would like to welcome me back: this is a big step for me, the most thorough commitment to myself yet.

X and I

I see his face
his face
his face is
everything everywhere.
In everyone I see
myself
explode. He is

that beard on brown landscape;
that shoulder mounted by a purple
bag. He is also that part of me

foreign, mixed-raced, self-centered;
a disillusioned Christian, a successful Muslim
and the inverted equation of this. He is

me and I in him the compass-less individual
in fear of the everything
every thing
of this lost
lost world.

The saddest girl

Disappeared, I have not? Given up? I have not.

My life more than ever today is turbulent, with no routine or satisfying finish line ahead. I was absent for over a month from my frequent posting because I was finishing off my dissertation. My life had a track then. Since, the questioning tunes about how my work culminated have started to dissipate and people around me, my friends, seem to be moving into new academic calendar directions. Me, I seem to have reached an academic block. It's not normal to be put in a place that is no longer mine, with the last five years of my life packed in four overflowing suitcases. It's not normal to be lost in a familiar place: this house and academia, albeit sometime certainties of my London existence, have become the executioners of my melancholia. The walls dressed in warm red tones with valentine hearts and comforting family pictures now exalt the fake wood of my student furniture. My things are misplaced everywhere. Chili has gone back home leaving my heart shrunk with pain and my pores cuddle-thirsty. I am so in love, lost and sad.

My plans of escaping this sadness of living the space once inhabited by two, going back home for 'a while' to spend time with the family, write and such, has been replaced with the necessity to prepare for a PhD proposal. Exciting time yet lonely and untimely time. My insides cry for a curl-up in my bed, crying for Chili's absence and resting from the year's Master labour. But none of that. Homeless and loveless I must go on - and everything is fine really: I can 'crash' in this house with my ex-housemates become subletters and Chili calls me everyday to tell me how much he loves me. But still, I am so sad. Why? Why am I so sad?