“The kitten had last been seen in the night-nursery, a room to which there was no access except through the play-room where we were all having breakfast with our nurse and the nursery-governess. We noticed that Seneca had not arrived for his accustomed saucer of milk, and presently we went to look for him. But he was nowhere to be found. Nobody had entered or left the night-nursery except the maid, who affirmed that she had not seen him, although she had done the room very thoroughly. He could not have got out the window, which was securely wired over. The whole house was searched in vain.”
broodinghunx:

"But I am very poorly today and very stupid and hate everybody and everything."

- Charles Darwin, in a letter dated October 1, 1861 [x]

broodinghunx:

"But I am very poorly today and very stupid and hate everybody and everything."

- Charles Darwin, in a letter dated October 1, 1861 [x]

““Love” here is a form of colonisation, which must be conquered by force, owned and plundered. We are disturbed since the stalkers’ performance of violence intends to colonise not just the object of obsession (he can no longer see an autonomous being), but also colonises our space, as witnesses, voyeurs and consumers, by eliciting admiration, guilt and/or fear.”
“What must it be like as an intellectual white person, I wonder, to be able to freely use the bodies of poor people and people of color as part of one’s performative arsenal, one’s intellectual agenda, one’s cultural capital, without feeling any special responsibility to the specific humanities of those people. Taking what you need, discarding what’s inconvenient to you or contradictory to the political or artistic point you’re trying to make. These “semioticians of crime” who can critique surveillance culture, control culture, and the production of “neutral evidence” through the practices of video-documenting crime scenes, and yet manage not to really speak about which bodies predominantly are targeted in these processes. The control society can control the black or brown body (using brutal dehumanizing footage), and the radical intellectual can critique the control society (using brutal dehumanizing footage), but the racialized loop of influence and concern ultimately remains closed. Why we think we have the right to see (consume) these bodies is never really addressed. Who is exercising the privilege of displaying them to us, either as evidence or as academia, is never really addressed. The intimate reality of the black or brown body as person is never really addressed. People of color are there to be the evidence—to back the political argument or artistic endeavor, to add a touch of urgency or realism or legitimacy to the story. But their own, actual realities aren’t the topic of discussion. In these works, full humanity comes from white people, is embodied and enjoyed by white people. It’s not the task of the people of color in these works to have feelings, but to provoke feelings. Their purpose is to galvanize political urgency in white producers—not to be fully realized political, material, emotional entities in and of themselves. Subjects who speak for themselves, about themselves. As I said to a friend recently: “They still think we’re all here to fairy-godparent white people through their lives.””
From here, but really, go read the whole thing.

Lord of new arrivals
lovers and rivals:
arrive
at once with cockfight and banner—
dance till on this and the next three
hills

women’s hands and the garlands
on the chests of men will turn like
chariotwheels

O where are the cockscombs and where
the beaks glinting with new knives
at crossroads

when will orange banners burn
among blue trumpet flowers and the shade
of trees

waiting for lightnings?

Twelve etched arrowheads
for eyes and six unforeseen
faces, and you were not
embarrassed.

Unlike other gods
you find work
for every face,
and made
eyes at only one
woman. And your arms
are like faces with proper
names.

Lord of green
growing things, give us
a hand

in our fight
with the fruit fly.
Tell us,

will the red flower ever
come to the branches
of the blueprint

city?

Lord of great changes and small
cells: exchange our painted grey
pottery

for iron copper the leap of stone horses
our yellow grass and lily seed
for rams!

flesh and scarlet rice for the carnivals
on rivers O dawn of nightmare virgins
bring us

your white-haired witches who wear
three colours even in sleep.

Lord of the spoor of the tigress,
outside our town hyenas
and civet cats live
on the kills of leopards
and tigers

too weak to finish what’s begun.
Rajahs stand in photographs
over ninefoot silken tigresses
that sycophants have shot.
Sleeping under country fans

hearts are worm cans
turning over continually
for the great shadows
of fish in the open
waters.

We eat legends and leavings,
remember the ivory, the apes,
the peacocks we sent in the Bible
to Solomon, the medicines for smallpox,
the similes

for muslin: wavering snakeskins,
a cloud of steam
Ever-rehearsing astronauts,
we purify and return
our urine
to the circling body
and burn our faeces
for fuel to reach the moon
through the sky behind
the navel.

Master of red bloodstains,
our blood is brown;
our collars white.

Other lives and sixty-
four rumoured arts
tingle,

pins and needles
at amputees’ fingertips
in phantom muscle

Lord of the twelve right hands
why are we your mirror men
with the two left hands

capable only of casting
reflections? Lord
of faces,

find us the face
we lost early
this morning.

Lord of headlines,
help us read
the small print.

Lord of the sixth sense,
give us back
our five senses.

Lord of solutions,
teach us to dissolve
and not to drown.

Deliver us O presence
from proxies
and absences

from sanskrit and the mythologies
of night and the several
roundtable mornings

of London and return
the future to what
it was.

10 

Lord, return us.
Brings us back
to a litter

of six new pigs in a slum
and a sudden quarter
of harvest

Lord of the last-born
give us
birth.

11 

Lord of lost travellers,
find us. Hunt us
down.

Lord of answers,
cure us at once
of prayers.

"prayers to lord murugan" by a k ramanujan, subject of nakul krishna’s long piece in the caravan this month: "reading the small print". (via rosieroti)
“And today and tomorrow and the following days, black mothers will tell their sons, “stay safe,” with a sense of hopelessness. They will mean, “try not to encounter those who want to kill you.” They will mean, “you are loved and killable.” They will mean, “you are disposable.” They will mean: “I love you.””
Keguro Macharia, “Stay Safe
“Phaedra: I did it because I’m in love with you.
Hippolytus: Don’t be. I don’t like it.”
Sarah Kane, Phaedra’s Love (via dotings)
“Therefore, comrade, you will hold as enemies – loftily, lucidly, consistently – not only sadistic governors and greedy bankers, not only prefects who torture and colonists who flog, not only corrupt, check-licking politicians and subservient judges, but likewise and for the same reason, venomous journalists, goitrous academics, wreathed in dollars and stupidity, ethnographers who go in for metaphysics, presumptuous Belgian theologians, chattering intellectuals born stinking out of the thigh of Nietzsche, the paternalists, the embracers, the corrupters, the back-slappers, the lovers of exoticism, the dividers, the agrarian sociologists, the hoodwinkers, the hoaxers, the hot-air artists, the humbugs, and in general, all those who, performing their functions in the sordid division of labor for the defense of Western bourgeois society, try in diverse ways and by infamous diversions to split up the forces of Progress – even if it means denying the very possibility of Progress – all of them tools of capitalism, all of them, openly or secretly, supporters of plundering colonialism, all of them responsible, all hateful, all slave-traders, all henceforth answerable for the violence of revolutionary action. And sweep out all the obscurers, all the inventors of subterfuges, the charlatans and tricksters, the dealers in gobbledygook. And do not seek to know whether personally these gentlemen are in good or bad faith, whether personally they have good or bad intentions. Whether personally – that is, in the private conscience of Peter or Paul – they are or are not colonialists, because the essential thing is that their highly problematical subjective good faith is entirely irrelevant to the objective social implications of the evil work they perform as watchdogs of colonialism.”
Aime Cesaire, Discourse on Colonialism (via thestolencaryatid)
Should Dalit literature be written by Dalits only?
Need not be. Dalit consciousness can be illustrated by people from other castes. There is no hard and fast rule. Is there one? Anyone can write about anything. But the difference will always remain. Take the example of untouchability - only an untouchable would know the pain of being one. Other people can empathise/sympathise. But the agony is always personal and it cannot be the same as something that is reflected or reported about. I don’t think anyone other than a Dalit can expose all the brahmanical lies and insult heaped upon Dalits.
Others too can also write about Dalits. What is the harm? But it should always be done remembering the respectability that has been denied to us and we so rightly deserve. Their writing should be rich with the understanding of Dalits. Otherwise let the Dalits write about themselves. There are some writers who think that only the upper castes can help Dalit come up and not the Dalits and their leaders or writers. Why do they have to denigrate us if they are unable to contribute to our cause?”
Imagine Bama (in this interview) confronted by Rod Rees.
““Nobody should write a memoir before they’re fifty,” you announce to your friends over drinks. You are not fifty. “Everyone seems to think being 27 and unhappy in love is all you need to write a book about your life. You should have to get licensed before you can write one.” You are on your fourth glass of wine. It is Tuesday.”

Actually, it’s Wednesday. (And I’m 28 in a couple of months)

(link)