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Limitations and liberations experienced through writing the ‘other’

Limitations and liberations experienced through writing the ‘other’ Over the duration of this semester I have felt a soft dynamic shift from oblivion, to understanding around how I write on behalf of another culture. Additionally, I am also learning that separate from my writing practice, the ‘other’ (in a cultural context) is designed by economic, political and social processes. Because the dialogue we shared in class was centered around cultural diversity, I believe this experience has given my writing a greater visibility with deeper substance. I have made clearer distinctions between the external world and my internal one, where I had to work inside the overlap of a  ‘coming togetherness ’ that was actualized when the ‘other’ materialized before me, alongside a recent understanding of my position as a writer and as the ‘other’ in turn.  The opposition of the ‘self’ and the ‘other’ highlights contemporary national identities as well as images too. I have explored, bo...
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The many ways you wear the colour red You have just completed a book called perfect woman.  Do you fear inadequacy now?  Now that you realise  duality in nature is really the law  of all gender  manifesting in every  living thing? You are the other as he becomes the absolute.  Observe; The phases of the moon operating  as a measure of temporality -  a monthly impulse occurs without force, without injury and you bleed. What does a body tell you?    That you have a large mouth  who’s corners run away from one an other? or that you have locus’s of identity –  With many openings and closings?  Breasts, thighs, butt, bellies - brain.  The most central parts of a woman. But you never let them speak on behalf of you.  Otherwise your boundaries will become ill defined  By breast, stomach and thighs. Often you are a theatre,  that is gu...
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Speed blogging  With reference to silence opposing speaking up, how much license do you have as an author to constructing a truth even when the information is restricted?  “There is always something to say, even when words can’t seem to find you” but I was not listening. I sat motionless, there was nothing I could do with this feeling. I was not supposed to be talking to him and especially about this. The feelings of doubt swelled up in my belly like a sickness. I remained silent. Across the table from us, a couple where exchanging in light conversation. It was fluid, flowing effortlessly and it came to me in snippets. What should I do to suppose what we’ll be done? I gave up the notion, and sat sitting there spectacularly bleak and dumfounded by the answers that evaded us. He’d come there perplexed and confused by my manner, and I’d crossed an ocean to find him and let him know that what I’d found abroad, what I’d found there, shocked and surprised me. Imagine ente...
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A portrait of a writer, a master of none. I am inside my seventeen-year-old body. From here anything is possible. Because -this vessel is the only one I will own and I re discover it everyday. I sit in a crowded room that reeks of disenchantment. This is my English class. I am sitting at a desk littered in cave like scribbles. One reads School is a tempestuous lover. Running my finger over the engravings I am reminded of a distant aspiration to be an artist. To belong to the canvas and not the page felt right, for a time, until one day - epiphany.   Fuck Art. Write . I pick up my pen and draw a flower on the desk. It has seven petals and a long stalk. A well drawn flower... Maybe I can be both the artist and the writer? The roll is getting called out and each voice echo’s back here . My mouth is wet. I hear my name and then, as if to make sense of it, I hear it again. I feel my lips open. here . I am here. -       ...
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