If we are lucky, the end of the sentence is where we might begin. If we are lucky, something is passed on, another alphabet written in the blood, sIf we are lucky, the end of the sentence is where we might begin. If we are lucky, something is passed on, another alphabet written in the blood, sinew, and neuron; ancestors charging their kin with the silent propulsion to fly south, to turn toward the place in the narrative no one was meant to outlast.
My cousin, who's a literature student and far better read than I am, said to me before I started this that Ocean Vuong will "make you bawl like a baby". She was right.
To put it briefly, On Earth... is gorgeous. Obviously, because of Vuong's reputation as a poet, it would be remiss to not fixate on his skills as a poet, as poetry bleeds into prose. But who decides what is poetry and what is prose? Is it the writer, or is it the reader? Can something be both? Neither?
On Earth... is messy. It is an epistolary novel with non-linear storytelling, if we're going to be pedantic about it. But for the story that On Earth... tells, and the way that it's written, I would call it messy. Messy like life itself.
Memories are messy. When we remember things, we don't remember them in the exact chronological order that they happened, in exact, precise details. We remember parts of what used to be and of who we used to be, and we make the best of what we remember. If we had to write down our lives from memory, we would all be accused of engaging in "non linear storytelling".
You asked me what it’s like to be a writer and I’m giving you a mess, I know. But it’s a mess, Ma—I’m not making this up. I made it down. That’s what writing is, after all the nonsense, getting down so low the world offers a merciful new angle, a larger vision made of small things, the lint suddenly a huge sheet of fog exactly the size of your eyeball.
--
Who will be lost in the story we tell ourselves? Who will be lost in ourselves? A story, after all, is a kind of swallowing.
When I was younger, much younger, in school, I remember telling a classmate that I had a crush on a girl. This classmate was quick to correct me, "you mean girl crush, right? Right?" Right. So, for the longest time, that's how I phrased my attraction to women. It's okay if it's a girl crush, because it's just a girl crush. An easy way to distance oneself from the messy realities of who we're attracted to, and who we are.
It took me years to actually come to terms with my queer identity, to accept that it was okay for me to attracted to people across gender identities. To accept that I didn't have to phrase my identity in a way that was palatable to other people, and I could just be. To accept that it wasn't just a girl crush, and it wasn't just going to "go away".
Others could be gay, bisexual, queer.... I had no problems with that, obviously. Be who you are. But me, I wasn't any of that. I was attracted to boys, men. Like I was supposed to be. Like was expected of me. I was okay with others being who they are, as it turns out, but not with me being who I really was.
Before the French occupation, our Vietnamese did not have a name for queer bodies—because they were seen, like all bodies, fleshed and of one source—and I didn’t want to introduce this part of me using the epithet for criminals.
--
Inside a single-use life, there are no second chances. That’s a lie but we live it. We live anyway.
Little Dog talks about his different identities - American, Vietnamese, bipolar, gay, queer, writer, son, lover. He talks about it all at once, and each separately. Because sometimes, we can separate the different things we are from who we really are, and other times, we are all of these things all at once.
I'm a brown, queer woman, an immigrant living in Little Dog's country. The country he adopted, not the one he was born in. I'm not saying it's the same thing, or that our experiences are the same. But I'm saying to read his story is comforting in spite of the tragedy, because he makes it okay for me to be all of these things at once, and each separately.
--
That was the day I learned how dangerous a color can be. That a boy could be knocked off that shade and made to reckon his trespass.
At university, I majored in sociology. One of the papers I had to read for class (and I cannot remember who wrote it) was about how colours became gendered - how blue became a colour for boys, and pink became a colour for girls. I remembered, during the course of reading this paper, how much I myself had tried to distance myself from the colour pink as a child. To be very honest, I don't necessarily think I had any opinions on the colour at that age. But all girls I knew liked pink, and they didn't particularly like me. So I pretended to hate pink, because "I wasn't like the other girls". In hindsight, I'm pretty sure this made them like me less, but to me, it was an act of rebellion, albeit a misguided, misplaced, misunderstood one.
--
Our mother tongue, then, is no mother at all—but an orphan. Our Vietnamese a time capsule, a mark of where your education ended, ashed. Ma, to speak in our mother tongue is to speak only partially in Vietnamese, but entirely in war.
I wear my English, and my education like a mask in certain social situations. I do it because in these situations it's the only thing that I have that I can use to be seen as an equal, as someone who is worthy. I rebel in small ways that I can, like including my name in my mother tongue as well as English in my email signature. Like talking to my mother on the phone in my mother tongue because for that time, in that moment, this language is mine again. And I don't have to pretend to "fit in".
If you're a person of colour living in a "Western" country, code switching is a form of survival. No matter that we're all multi-lingual, and that in and of itself is an asset. Knowing English and being able to communicate in English, in English that is accepted is the only badge that matters.
I code switched. I took off our language and wore my English, like a mask, so that others would see my face, and therefore yours.
--
I think the most heartbreaking part of the story for me, and there are so many, is when Little Dog talks about following Gramoz because he gave him a pizza bagel. How else to repay the boy who gave me my first pizza bagel but to become his shadow? Because Little Dog didn't really know how to communicate how he felt yet. Because I think it was such a combination of earnestness and innocence at a tender age. Because I think it was the first instance, I think of Little Dog trying to come into his own.
--
There is loss and death in this story. There is also love and sex in this book. There is violence and there is life. There is mental illness and there are moments of tenderness. There is homosexuality and homophobia. There is freedom and self discovery. There is art and language and beauty.
We try to preserve life—even when we know it has no chance of enduring its body. We feed it, keep it comfortable, bathe it, medicate it, caress it, even sing to it.
In the movie Before Sunrise, which is actually my favourite move of all time, Celine says "isn't everything we do in life a way to be loved a little more?" And I think that's true for the stories we tell. They're all a way for us to be seen, liked, loved.
--
The truth is none of us are enough enough. But you know this already.
I'm not trying to make Little Dog's story my own. I'm just trying to say that it's something that I felt in my heart, my soul, my bones because I've run away, I've questioned who I am, and I'm still doing those things. I'm trying to say that On Earth... made me bawl like a baby, for good reasons and for bad. I'm trying to say that I loved his story. I'm trying to say that if you read it, you too will understand why I feel the way I do.
To be gorgeous, you must first be seen, but to be seen allows you to be hunted....more
I had a holiday today, I was way behind on my reading schedule, and I wanted some...entertainment. First of all, let's talk a little about Ms L[image]
I had a holiday today, I was way behind on my reading schedule, and I wanted some...entertainment. First of all, let's talk a little about Ms Leav's Introduction to this collection of crap. I have always thought poems were a little like spells-incantations that are as old as time. There is a certain quality to words that-when strung in a certain way-has an almost hypnotic effect, she writes. Does she fucking realise how ironic this statement is, seeing as how she is completely incapable of stringing words together in that "certain" way? Or, in any way, in fact? Also, Ms Leav, I'm going to dock points for the inappropriate use of a dash. Or two. She continues, This combined with the universal theme of love, becomes ever more potent and intoxicating. After all, what greater magic is there than love? Is it just me, or does she sound awfully smug here? I feel like she's scoffing at everyone because she's discovered an easy way to make money. It's almost as if she's informing us all that the formula for "poetry" is quite simple; any combination of words strung together, preaching the transcendent and universal nature of love.
Much like a mirror reflecting its ever-changing landscape, Lullabies is a book that, over time, will reveal itself to you slowly. Much Love, Lang She should've concluded with "Much Pretence, Lang" instead.
Now, on to the poetry itself.
Clocks Here in time, you are mine; my heart has not sung louder.
I do not know why I love you so- the clock knows not its hour.
Yet it is clear, to all that's here, that time is told by seeing.
Even though clocks do not know, it is the reason for their being.
What the actual fuck is "time is told by seeing" supposed to mean? And, yes, Ms Leav, by virtue of being clocks, i.e., inanimate objects that cannot "know", clocks don't "know" anything, much less that the reason for their being is...that time is told by seeing?
Wounded A bruise is tender but does not last, it leaves me as I always was.
But a wound I take much more to heart, for a scar will always leave its mark.
And if you should ask which one you are, my answer is- you are a scar.
When I was younger, like way, way younger, I used to write poetry. Something like "I love Spring, it's so awesome, look, there's a cherry blossom" It was shitty poetry, and still, still, much better than this cornucopia of awfulness.
Tell Me Tell me if you ever cared, if a single thought or me was spared.
Tell me when you lie in bed, do you think of something I once said.
Tell me if you hurt at all, when someone says my name with yours.
It may have been so long ago, but I would give the world to know.
I would give the world to know how much time it takes to come up with this drivel.
I'm not completely a horrible person, so I will give Ms Leav two things. One, that this is marginally better than her first collection of "poems", and two, that she is a good artist. Maybe if she stuck to the latter......more
I know I said that for a bit I would be busy, But you all know how bad books send me into a frenzy. I have a mountain of reviews to finish, I know, But I know I said that for a bit I would be busy, But you all know how bad books send me into a frenzy. I have a mountain of reviews to finish, I know, But after reading this 'book', I just couldn't let go. I think everyone here knows what a masochist I am, I'm spending way too much time, trying to make this rhyme.
Now, I dabbled in poetry when I was about eleven, Compared to this, even those poems were heaven, Odes I dedicated to 'Spring' and 'Rain' But Ms. Leav's poetry, I'm never touching again. Better poems were written by Ern Goon And he was fictitious, and kind of a toon!
I've read reviews here where people have said That poetry is about feeling, and not about language Respectfully, I would have to disagree, Because badly written poetry is just crappy. I've read Dickinson and Auden and Poe and Blake I've read about the hills and mountains and lakes.
I've read Odes and ballads and other literary treats, Shelley and Tennyson and Byron and Keats. I've never read poetry so dismal, Even my twelve-year old cousin called it abysmal. Ms. Leav tries too hard; She tries to use emotion as her trump card.
She writes about pain and suffering and love, I've probably felt more emotion for a sock or a glove. I'm sorry if you thing I'm pretentious and elitist, Diluted literature is something I can't deal with. Ms. Leav represents everything I hate, In literature in today's day and age.
I thank you for listening to my incoherent ramblings, (I am definitely not a poet in the making) It's just that this collection was really bad, I wanted to make fun, but it just made me sad. My poetry, here I conclude, Because examples of Ms. Leav's work, I shall include.
HILARIOUSLY BAD EXAMPLES OF WHAT POETRY SHOULD NOT BE:
A Dangerous Recipe
To love him is something, I hold highly suspicious.
Like having something, so very delicious— then being told, to do the dishes.
Just Friends
I know that I don't own you, and perhaps I never will, so my anger when you're with her, I have no right to feel.
I know that you don't owe me, and I shouldn't ask for more; I shouldn't feel so let down, all the times when you don't call.
What I feel—I shouldn't show you, so when you're around I won't; I know I've no right to feel it but it doesn't mean I don't.
When Ignorance Is Bliss
I deplore, being ignored.
For— I am not a bore!
But it's perplexingly sweet, and quite sexy too— to be ignored, ignored by you.
Time Travelers
In all our wrongs, I want to write him, in a time where I can find him.
Before the tears that tore us.
When our history was before us.
An Impossible Task
To try or untry to forget you not, may be related somewhat—
To tying, then trying to untie, a complicated knot.
And so it goes on and on and on. Poetry is about feeling, but it's also about language. In fact, I would have given her the "feelings" argument if even one of her poems made me feel anything. I mostly just laughed a lot, and I laughed at her, not with her. Ms. Leav just comes off as pathetic and desperate in all her poems. And man, she needs to take up creative writing classes, because this is just bad. I feel like I could write better poems than her when I'm senselessly drunk even. She's somehow missed the whole point of poetry, because in poetry, it is the language that makes you feel.
I'm on a Beat experiment, of sorts, so bear with me. I'd read Howl a while back, but mostly because my then boyfriend was obsessed with Allen GinsbergI'm on a Beat experiment, of sorts, so bear with me. I'd read Howl a while back, but mostly because my then boyfriend was obsessed with Allen Ginsberg. He was prone to, er, herbaceous recreation, if you catch my drift. We were in a long distance relationship, and asking me to read vaguely psychedelic and experimental poems was his idea of foreplay. So I read Howl, I liked it. I didn't really care much about it beyond that, because I hadn't really wanted to read it then. I read Howl again after I read On the Road, and I actually, genuinely liked it. Which begs the question, why o why is Kerouac is considered the best of the Beats. Between this and the half of Naked Lunch I've read, I not only find Ginsberg and Burroughs smarter and more pleasant, but also less verbose and self-absorbed. My unadulterated hatred for Kerouac apart, I do have more to say about this collection. Full RTC....more
"What are men to rocks and mountains?" - Jane Austen Or should I say, "What are men to cities and structures?"
I finish Invisible Cities as my paren"What are men to rocks and mountains?" - Jane Austen Or should I say, "What are men to cities and structures?"
I finish Invisible Cities as my parents plan their trip to Europe. As someone who loves going to new places and travelling, there is a sense of irony that I feel as I review this. As a 21 year old student with neither the money nor the means to embark on a journey myself, I find myself wandering about the cities that Marco Polo describes to the great Kublai Khan.
Invisible Cities is a fairy tale; albeit a fairy tale for adults. Calvino, who was surely high as a kite when he wrote this, describes in this tiny, yet profoundly powerful book, eleven kinds of "cities". Cities, they maybe, but they are the cities that we imagine. These are fantastical cities we lose ourselves in all day, everyday. These cities are not cities at all; they are the thoughts we think, the stories we imagine, and the people we think we perceive. Invisible Cities is an ethereal masterpiece that transports us to a world that we would like to see ourselves in, but would perhaps be disappointed to set foot in. It is that single moment of thought right before reality and dreams morph into one another. After all, the descriptions of cities Marco Polo visited had this virtue: you could wander through them in thought, become lost, stop and enjoy the cool air, or run off.
To the people who say that all these cities sound the same, I give you the Great Khan's reasoning: "Kublai Khan had noticed that Marco Polo's cities resembled one another, as if the passage from one to another involved not a journey but a change of elements. Now, from each city Marco described to him, the Great Khan's mind set out on its own, and after dismantling the city piece by piece, he reconstructed it in other ways, substituting components, shifting them, inverting them.:
I don't think I can do justice to the masterpiece that is Invisible Cities by writing about it myself; I am unworthy. I have, instead collected quotes by some of the world's best writers, quotes that sum up what each of these cities were to me.
Memory "He who controls the past controls the future. He who controls the present controls the past." - George Orwell
Desire "The world is little, people are little, human life is little. There is only one big thing — desire. - Willa Cather
Signs "Signs may be but the sympathies of nature with man." - Charlotte Bronte
Thin Cities "Walkers are 'practitioners of the city,' for the city is made to be walked. A city is a language, a repository of possibilities, and walking is the act of speaking that language, of selecting from those possibilities. Just as language limits what can be said, architecture limits where one can walk, but the walker invents other ways to go." - Rebecca Solnit
Trading Cities "Where there is commerce there is peace." - Jeffrey Tucker
Eyes "The soul, fortunately, has an interpreter - often an unconscious but still a faithful interpreter - in the eye." - Charlotte Bronte
Names "We seldom realize, for example that our most private thoughts and emotions are not actually our own. For we think in terms of languages and images which we did not invent, but which were given to us by our society." - Alan W. Watts
Dead "The life of the dead is set in the memory of the living. - Marcus Tullius Cicero
Sky "The sky is everywhere, it begins at your feet." - Jandy Nelson
Continuous Cities "You can checkout anytime you like, but you can never leave." - The Eagles
Hidden Cities "If you stay here, you become lost. And no one can find you. I like lost." - Ally Kondie
At the aftermath of my surreal reading experience, I realised that every city is one of memory and of desire, of signs and of eyes. Every city is a thin city, every city is a trading city. Every city belongs to the dead; every city rules the skies, and every city is hidden. Every city is defined by its name, and every city is continuous. Every city is all of these cities; it is what we make it to be, it is how we perceive it. Like Venice. ""There is still one of which you never speak." Marco Polo bowed his head. "Venice," the Khan said. Marco smiled. "What else do you believe I have been talking to you about?" The emperor did not turn a hair. "And yet I have never heard you mention that name." And Polo said: "Every time I describe a city I am saying something about Venice." "When I ask you about other cities, I want to hear about them. And about Venice, when I ask you about Venice." "To distinguish the other cities' qualities, I must speak of a first city that remains implicit. For me it is Venice."
"It has neither name nor place. I shall repeat the reason why I was describing it to you: from the number of imaginable cities we must exclude those whose elements are assembled without a connecting thread, an inner rule, a perspective, a discourse. With cities, it is as with dreams: everything imaginable can be dreamed, but even the most unexpected dream is a rebus that conceals a desire or, its reverse, a fear. Cities, like dreams, are made of desires and fears, even if the thread of their discourse is secret, their rules are absurd, their perspectives deceitful, and everything conceals something else."...more
Loading...
