Strange and Beautiful

good.

What is it that we can say is innately good? What is it, that we can deconstruct, decompose and analyze in every way without finding fault, boil down to it’s very core, until we are left with only it’s very essential elements—-it’s essence—-and can only conclude that it is wholly and universally good? Perhaps only an intention can be so pure? Perhaps only an idea, before corrupted by the inevitable compromise of politics. Perhaps only a theory, which cannot assume a tangible form lest it lose its very pure authenticity. And so, one must ask, not in the realm of abstracts, what is it that we can say is innately good? Is there anything that we may found our system upon that will birth a society of good, of equality, of parity, of love and cooperation, where humans not only interact but resume their symbiotic relationship with nature. What is it that is innately good? For we are a people starving, grasping, longing for answers. Running away from the thunderous stomps of a system we know is dangerous only to find ourselves at a cliff, at the precipice where the path has yet to be laid. We cannot move forward, for we know not where we would land, should we take the leap. We cannot go back, for we know what gloomy fate awaits. And yet again, we find ourselves paralyzed, trapped in an Iron Maiden. Might as well get comfortable, we’re going to be here for a while.

(non-)fiction? the story of writing

I lay there on the couch, facing the off-white ceiling. The room was large and airy, painted a very light, pastel shade of forest green — a mature and attractive shade I was sure his mother had chosen. The air conditioning was off, and the window open allowing me to hear the heavy raindrops as they hit the Manhattan streets.

An episode of the Sopranos sat frozen on the television screen. I had paused the episode at the point when Tony began talking to his psychiatrist, Dr. Melfi. I had always been particularly touched by their relationship, not that it was the shows most exciting, but because it was when Tony was the most honest and daring with himself.  

I paused the show having decided to momentarily retire from mindless preoccupations instead opting to be alone with myself for a while — an act I initially found strange, but then instantly retorted with how strange it was for me to consider a moment free for introspection and creative wander strange.

After being at first absorbed in then engulfed by my surroundings, I almost instinctual thought of writing about my state as it were in that exact moment and instantly began reciting the prose in my mind, as it would read on untitled.pages on my laptop screen in only a few moments. Upon unfolding the setting — written in a pallet of variegated colors and shades as they appeared in my mind; the mind of a synesthete whose experiences and senses in the world are felt through a multitude of associated colors — I then looked up, again, at the ceiling and marveled at the light fixture, which again was certainly picked out by his mother. Actually, it was not so much the lighting than it was the many shadows that reflected from the four chains that were holding the fixture suspended in the air.

I grabbed my camera to capture a picture of the shadows to accompany the story and begun snapping multiple shots of the ceiling from multiple angles. It was then that I realized the commitment I had made to do something with this story when I ran and retrieved my camera from my room and captured the first image. I did not want to delete the pictures, though. Nor did I want to submit to my cowardice. And so, I continued to write.

Quality Street by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

They were drinking tea. One of the few things that Mrs. Njoku and her daughter Sochienne could still do together without acrimony was drink tea, because when Mrs. Njoku suggested they go to the new boutique on Victoria Island, or Titi’s Place for a facial, things they used to do together in Lagos before Sochienne went away to university in America, Sochienne called her a fat bourgeois, a dilettante dancing while Nigeria was failing, as though she could somehow solve the country’s problems by depriving herself of a manicure. But this, drinking tea, was neutral—as long as it was without fresh milk. The first week of Sochienne’s return, Mrs. Njoku had bought a carton of fresh milk, excited to be able to offer her daughter something different from the usual condensed or powdered milk, but Sochienne said she would not touch that imported thing from ShopRite which most Nigerians did not even know existed and she would drink only the locally made condensed milk. Mrs. Njoku said, trying not to sound as sour as she felt, that the condensed milk was only locally assembled, since the companies imported milk powder and added water to it in Nigeria. Sochienne looked surprised by this news but she insisted on calling it the local milk with a tone that made “local” sound pious. And so Mrs. Njoku put away the fresh milk and bought tins of Peak condensed milk, which they poured, in a thin stream, into their tea.

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The R Word: Reflections on Revolution

by Sharon Cromwell

In fleeting moments of complacency, I found myself satisfied with the state of world affairs. It was the first time this had happened since I had grown aware of the devastating condition of the world in my adolescence. For a brief moment, I took comfort in the fact that the world could be a lot worse than its current state, believing that that alone was something I could take solace in. Then the image of a man, hours perhaps minutes away from death, a man who had been physically reduced to little more than skin and bones, flashed before me. Too famished to eat, too frail to walk, too ill to recover, he crawled along the dirt road to a destination unknown, perhaps searching for a moment of respite, a moment of comfort immeasurably greater than what I had found in the belief that the world was the best it could be.

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