“The Bluest Eye” was riveting and provoking. It caused my mind to ache and my neck to stiffen. Toni Morrison’s words are large translucent cells, once you enter the heaven or hell of them, you stand there, transfixed gazing out at the real world with disinterested eyes. The compact bacchanalia of many black somebodies’ sorrowful, brain washed, conditioned lives, pushes you to the brink of insanity. You know this woman , this deranged soul , this dipsomaniac ; you have heard stories of him from your wisening mother , which she heard from her grandmother, because, her own mother was a victim , similar to those of Morrison’s silken embroidery of viscous locutions. For a few moments, YOU are the character . You feel their pain, the normalcy in their abnormal pathology , the violence in the selfish , misguided, deluded breaths.
Then, its over, and Morrison , with a passionate pen reminds you that this is not your life , but someone else’s . The pain demands to be felt, but its not yours to succumb to.
And you’re okay, but not as blind, for those blue eyes are lucid and piercing in their intent.
_Aaliyah Abdul Haqq August 5th, 2014
He whispered as the nurses dragged his dead mother away, forgetting one of her amputated limbs. He cried soundlessly as the army troopers stepped over his strategically wounded father, a “mis-aimed” bullet through his defiant brain. A nurse played with his hair, another wiped his parents’ blood from his starved sunken in chest.But no one seemed to feel the pain that he did, because their families, mothers and fathers ,were safe back home. And this child was just one of the few who would die today. The nurses laid him down on the hard chair, expecting him to fall asleep. And he did very deeply..never to wake again.
Only the photographer, whose camera’s lens was his only expression listened and heard. And didn’t let the boy’s words go unheard, as the cries of his country did.
The flowers in her hand fell to the floor in bunches of salmon and creamy white. Her heart crashed through the polished rosewood floors to the reception room downstairs, when she walked into her dressing room for her veil, and found her groom beneath his best man in haste fervence. She covered her mouth, shook her head and chastised, ” You couldn’t wait until after the ceremony? Ahh, pass me a faggot while you’re at it. ”
Her groom groped for the box of cigarettes, and threw it at her. She lit it, watching as the two pulled up their trousers.
“You want a green card Louie and I want my family off my back about marriage . Let’s get to this. Bye Steve. He’ll see you later.
She stomped out the cigarette , put her veil on and went to the edge of the marble stairs as the music began.
I dreamt that cool is defined by the tighter the pants are and the bigger that ass that shapes it.
Forget the early promotion because my grades are high, if I wasn’t getting high. And nothing’s wrong with blazing, but to do doesn’t automatically make me amazing.
I refuse to conform to a society that tells me I’m lame if i’m not exactly the same.
One that slaps you in the face if you smile too big at the world. One that calms your bright spirit and lets your dark side loose…
A world run by people who stand behind the noose. And if you think you’re better because your lighter, please know that you suffer from the same lynching as your darker brother. You’ve been given what seems to be elevation, but remember all thats high, must fall . They’ve fed to you these stereotypes that beautify the whitest skin and demote the chocolate flesh.
When I awoke, I heard children screaming out for freedom through thick clouds of smoke, from under snapbacks and from behind the leaders of their cliques. And I cried with them, deep in my heart , so no one would see we aren’t pleased.
Today i listened to a woman complain about people who write in journals and keep diaries. I thought it was the most thoughtless tirade I had ever been subjected to. Obviously, her life is so uneventful and prosaic..she couldnt see how others would benefit from it. But apart, from her personal feelings, she took it upon herself to disrespect ALL PRIVATE JOURNALISTS and repeat …’stupid, I find its soo stupid’ , and ‘People who keep journals are stupid. If you have a thought, keep it in your brain. ‘
And I responded, “Yes, sometimes that IS the best choice.”
They held her up, let her realise her dreams and whispered words of encouragement.They dropped tokens of belief on her head and tucked them behind her wee ears, so that when they said, “Its time for us to let go,” they would know she was strong enough. She struggled at first, but then all the beliefs, scattered around and in her, bloomed and became life savers. They held her up. They merged, to form one with her…a being made of blossomed beliefs.
” Lies are dangerous. Yet, everyone’s happy when wrapped in a warm one.”
Somehow or another those lies which our parents forbade us from believing are the ones saving us now.