YouTube Narnia: August 2014

Seeing as it's the end if August, I thought that I should post a longer edition of YouTube Narnia. Plus I'll be away for the week so I won't post as much (but when do I ever? 😜). I'll try to queue my posts but I haven't done it before, do I don't know if it'll work.

Happy holidays everyone. Xx :) Stay musically enlightened. 🌌

1. "Two Weeks" - FKA Twigs

2. "I'm Not the Only One" - Sam Smith

3. "Yamaha" - Delta Spirit

4. "Stillness is the Move" - The Dirty Projectors

5. "I Didn't Believe" - Flight Facilities ft. Elizabeth Rose

6. "Paradise" - Breezy Lovejoy 

7. "Boom-Clap" - Charli XCX

8. "Babylon" - SZA

9. "FKA x inc" - FKA Twigs & inc.

10. "XO (Full Crate remix)" - Beyoncé

11. "Lost (Stwo remix)" - Lido ft. Muri

12. "Summer of '69" - Bryan Adams

13. "All Me (Stwo remix)" - Drake

14. "Amnesia" - 5 Seconds of Summer

15. "He Mele No Lilo" - Mark Keali'i Ho'omalu & Kam

16. "Missing You" - John Waite

17. "Therapy" - Moderat

18. "Know It Ain't Right" - M.I.A.

19. "Fuck The Industry (signed Sincerely)" - Solange

20. "T.O.N.Y" - Solange

21. "Lost You" - Zed's Dead ft. Twin Shadow & D'Angelo Lacy

22. "I Blame Myself" - Sky Ferreira

23. "Missing You" - Letters and Lights

24. "Love Me Like You" - Ella Eyre

25. "It Ain't Over 'til It's Over" - Lenny Kravitz

26. "What You Won't Do For Love" - Jessie Ware (the acoustic version is better👌)

27. "Losing You" - Solange

28. "Often" - The Weeknd

29. "BFK" - Freddie Gibbs

30. "Shades Of Cool" - Lana Del Rey

An extract from 'Americanah' by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

This brings to mind an interesting issue: black beauty. In this day and age of skin lighteners and relaxers, the image of pale skinned Europeans has been drilled into our minds as being what black women should aspire to be. I noticed that the issue of race has been brought several times whilst I've been reading Americanah. I strongly recommend that you read this book. This extract mostly deals with the issue of racial identification and the controversial issue of race relations.

***

To My Fellow Non-American Blacks: In America, You Are Black, Baby

Dear Non-American Black, when you make the choice to come to America, you become black. Stop arguing. Stop saying I'm Jamaican or I'm Ghanaian. America doesn't care. So what if you weren't "black" in your country? You're in America now. We all have our moments of initiation into the Society of Former Negroes. Mine was in a class in undergrad when I was asked to give the black perspective, only I had no idea what that was. So I just made something up. And admit it - you say, "I'm not black" only because you know black is at the bottom of America's race ladder. And you want none of that. Don't deny now. What if being black had all the privileges of being white? Would you still say "Don't call me black, I'm from Trinidad"? I don't think so. So you're black, baby. And here's the deal with becoming black: You must show that you are offended when such words as "watermelon" or "tar baby" are used in jokes, even if you don't know what the hell is being talked about -and since you are Non-American Black, the chances are that you won't know. (In undergrad a white classmate asks if I like watermelon, I say yes, and another classmate says, Oh my God that is so racist, and I'm confused. "Wait, how?") You must nod back when a black person nods at you in a heavily white area. It is called the black nod. It is a way for black people to say "You are not alone, I am here too." In describing black women you admire, always use the word "STRONG" because that is what black women are supposed to be in America. If you are a woman, please do not speak your mind as you are used to doing in your country. Because in America, strong-minded black women are SCARY. And if you are a man, be hyper-mellow, never get too excited, or somebody will worry that you're about to pull a gun. When you watch television and hear that a "racist slur" was used, you must immediately become offended. Even though you are thinking "But why won't they tell me exactly what was said?" Even though you would like to be able to decide for yourself how offended to be, or whether to be offended at all, you must nevertheless be very offended.

When a crime is reported, pray that it was not committed by a black person, and if it turns out to have been committed by a black person, stay well away from the crime area for weeks, or you might be stopped for fitting the profile. If a black cashier gives poor service to the non-black person in front of you, compliment that person's shoes or something, to make up for the bad service, because you're just as guilty for the cashier's crimes. If you are in an Ivy League college, and a Young Republican tells you that you got in only because of Affirmative Action, do not whip out your perfect grades from high school. Instead, gently point out that the biggest beneficiaries of Affirmative Action are white women. If you go to eat in a restaurant, please tip generously. Otherwise the next black person who comes in will get awful service, because waiters groan when they get a black table. You see, black people have a gene that makes them not tip, so please overpower that gene. If you're telling a non-black person about something racist that happened to you, make sure you are not bitter. Don't complain. Be forgiving. If possible make it funny. Most of all, do not be angry. Black people are not supposed to be angry about racism. Otherwise you get no sympathy. This applies only for white liberals, by the way. Don't even bother telling a white conservative about anything racist that happened to you. Because the conservative will tell you that YOU are the real racist and your mouth will hang open in confusion.

*** 

-Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Existential Crisis

I don't know how to breath any more. I feel inadequate. Whenever I hang out with my friends I always stand awkwardly to the side whilst everyone else socialises. I usually force myself to feel this way. I believe that by distancing myself from the crowd, I am indeed individualising myself: therefore adding another degree to my personality. Makes sense? No? OK, I guess I have to hold your hand through this...

I started reading a new book the other day. It's rather thick(477 pages to be exact, which isn't very long but the print is on the small side), and initially when I glanced at it, I thought the task rather daunting. I've found myself facing the same issue at the start of every book: the reluctance to begin what I know I can't finish. I didn't have the same issue when I started reading The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid, and finished it in 3 days. It was rather slow in the book, but after the collapse of the Twin Towers, I found myself boiling a cup of green tea and sipping it occasionally as I concentrated and the string of words spread on the pages. When I finished it, I felt empty. Like a piece of my soul had been devoured. That night, I dreamt of it. I dreamt of the events that unfolded in the book, and how I grew to slightly dislike America even more; resolving to carry my chalice filled with Southern African heritage proudly if I were to ever go overseas for uni. 

After stewing over that strange ending for a while and trying to decipher whose side Changez was really on, I decided to take on the task of reading Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche. I initially picked it up and a copy of Half of a Yellow Sun with the same starry-eyed gaze I give to other books that are made into movies. I was already swallowed into the bustling world of Philadelphia and Lagos and soon forgot all about how thick the book is and how I should probably get started studying for finals. Once I had reached my goal or reading 100 pages in one day, I shut the book lovingly and reflected on the impact that Chimamanda's words had had on me. It soon dawned on me that at this rate, I might actually finish this book in less than a week and that saddened me. 

You see, this book is so amazing that I don't want to keep it to myself. Sometimes, when I read a book that I greatly enjoy, I don't feel like sharing it. I want it to remain obscure so that no one else can come between the bond that the writer and I share. I mean, it's our  special connection and this book brought me through the strenuous tentacles of boredom that were strapped around me during this first week of holiday. However, it's an entirely different story with Americanah. I want to find someone, anyone, who will share the same burning love that I feel for these characters. I want to carry the book to class with me next term and hold it close to my bosom as I walk around campus. It will certainly be a great conversation starter. People will stare apprehensively at its bulking mass and ask me how far I am, at which point I will reply; "Ah., but my dear friend, I have already finished it!" (Obviously I won't be as animated. I lack personality and possess the social skills of a manatee.) Then I will add the fact that carrying this book around makes me feel more secure. 

It comforts me, you know, having a book handy in your bag. Well, any reading material really. Just sticking my hand into the bag and feeling that reassuring lukewarm temperature of the worn pages and the cool cover of the book brings me immense pleasure. I believe that you can tell a lot about a person from the types of books they read. People who don't read, in my opinion, are not open-minded enough. Reading allows you to enter the world of the author for as long as you desire. You meet these characters and share in their life's story; laugh with them; cry with them; fall in love with them. 

If you haven't caught onto what I'm trying to say, then I suggest that you invest in some therapy. Seriously, you clearly don't understand words or people. *Sigh* Basically, I don't want to finish reading Americanah. I want to savour the moment when I turn the yellowing pages of that book and inhale the subtle smell of age. It's funny right? How books always smell like age. There's no way to describe their smell. Magazines smell like carrots and books smell like...well, books.

              -"Knowledge is power"

Dear sweet Ms. Ebony Brown

I loved her.

No matter what I did to please her, she never seemed to reciprocate my feelings.

It was during the summertime. I was wandering through the park, contemplating various colourful suicide methods, when she came along. 

Dressed in a summer dress that resembled the inside of a runny yolk. Hair as dark as the burnt chestnuts I foraged from the fire after Christmas dinner, when everyone seemed to disappear into their rooms and call it a night whilst I remained: sole, solitary. 

And her skin. Fuck, her skin! As dark and as polished as the hood of a vintage mustang that some fat, rich white guy likes to collect and store in his fancy garage in the suburbs of some prissy neighbourhood with a generic name straight out of a clinical surgery. Her pristine outer casing was only shattered by sporadic indentations that would simply be classified as 'blemishes'.

Anyway, I decided to speak to her, for I desired her. I desired to fall into her inky deepness and explore her depths. I wished to experience the intense pleasures of a foreign love which I had never known. I wished to placate her feelings and bear her ramblings of those things that most men fail to comprehend and those which women value above all else. But most of all, I wished to experience the pleasure of defiance; of rebelling against the strict values which had been bounced off my exterior for many years.

When I approached her, she seemed perplexed by my interest in the book that she was reading. Naturally after inviting her for a drink (after which we proceeded to fornicate passionately and repeatedly on the polished wooden floors of my apartment), I made it clear that our love was simply an act of rebellion. A simple move to oppose the social norms of what my race and culture detailed for me. She agreed. I could not imagine that I would ever develop feelings for her.

At the time, it seemed like a practical idea. She would provide me with both physical satisfaction and a regular topic of discussion at family gatherings, while I would provide the perfect companion for her various social gatherings and art exhibitions. However, I failed to consider the omission of personal conversations as 'pillow talk' after satiating my hunger. Sure enough, we began to develop feelings for each other. Thereafter we began to parade our taboo relationship to my immediate family and social groups. When we grew tired of the lack of attention our relationship brought, I proposed to her. The shock and disapproval plastered on my parents' faces served only to fuel the adrenaline rush I felt. Naturally, this sort of relationship could not be tolerated by them, so I was promptly disowned, with my new love declared as a 'blemish' on the family lineage.

We never planned to have children. It all happened so suddenly. After the baby, she feel into a deep depression. Postpartum is what they call it. Doctors said that it may take years for her to recover. After the birth of our daughter, I lost my wife. It's like...we welcomed a new life at the expense of hers. She grew terse every time I spoke to her. Every move I made seemed to annoy and anger her even more. She took to carrying carving knives around the house. At family barbecues she constantly rambled about a new abstract art project she was working on. "It's gonna be big," is what she said. "I can just feel it. I'm getting goosebumps just thinking about it. Look." At which point we were prompted to touch the chicken flesh on her gaunt arms. When asked what the subject matter of her painting was, she would always wave away the person and mumble that "it's something big."

I soon grew tired of living with her. Both of us: the baby and me. We grew tired of her. I once caught her shaking the baby and screaming uncontrollably when she wouldn't stop crying. Our sex life suffered the most. She would not let me touch her; shrinking away the moment I reached out my pale fingers towards her. The rare moment when she did let me into her fortress was riddled with awkwardness and pain. She groaned and cried, and not in the sexy way either. Under the bright, clinical light in our bedroom I could plainly see where all her imperfections lay. The skin on her face was taut and seem to stretch unnaturally under the weight of her bones. She was frail and her skin had lost that radiance which it had once possessed. My skin, which used to pale in comparison to her rich mahogany, now seemed to exude a healthier tan compared to her now unhealthy complexion. I never mounted her again.

I missed her. Despite the fact that our initial pairing was simply an act of defiance on my part, it quickly developed into so much more. The days leading up to the end of summer were times of both distress and frustration. On several occasions she wielded her knife at me. On numerous occasions she threatened the lives of both me and our daughter. It grew too much. For her.

The police said that it was suicide. It was pretty obvious that she had grown very unhappy in those last few weeks of summer. I remember thinking at the funeral, "Why me?" It struck me as odd that none of her acquaintances from the art museum ever showed up. Standing in front of that gaping hole as they lowered my wife's corpse into it really brought the shocking reality that I had lost the love of my life to the forefront. As I stood there clutching our 5 month old, I realized how tiny and insignificant our lives really were. And how lonely I would be now. My family had abandoned me and Ebony had made no mention of any living familial connections.

It was just me and my daughter.

Us against the world.

I threw her engagement ring into the grave. I resolved to take my daughter to a local church and have her baptized. 

-"Elle vit dans ma cœur."

The issue with Leavers' Dinner

The thing with Leaver's Dinner is how seriously everyone is taking it, and that worries me. Well, it's being taken seriously in my circle of friends at least. The overall atmosphere among certain social groups in my gender bracket is a mixture of excitement and indifference. I'm mainly neutral when it comes to my enthusiasm.

Ever since the start of this year, my friends and I have been haphazardly preparing our entrance to the dinner and who to bring as dates. Rebekah is already set up with Amrit, although even if they weren't going together she would undoubtedly have been asked out by every other guy in our form. Personally, I don't really want to go with anyone. I mean I do, seeing as I am a typical teenage girl who requires the fervent wails of a gentleman suitor to stave off my thirst (hoes these days). 

I mean, it would be lovely if I caught the eye of a strapping young gentleman and he decided to ask me out to leavers'. However, that remains very unlikely as I'm not exactly the most attractive or interesting person out there.

The problem is I'm too picky. I want someone to ask me out but I don't want it to be just anybody. I think that that's a problem for many girls. You want somebody to like you but it has to be someone mildly attractive otherwise then, what's the point? I think that's awful. But after all, we women can be heartless beasts at times.

Back to the dinner issue, my friends and I have a horrible reputation when it comes to planning events. However, a recent expedition on the last day of school went rather well; with us successfully attending the colour festival in support of Gaza and then Chinese food after, with most invitees present. A small victory under our belts.

The problem is that there aren't many resources around to get all the stiff we need: mainly dresses. This sounds pretty weird. I'm having First World problems in a Third World country. 

I'm reluctant to attend this s*** anyway. I'm conflicted actually, like Brutus, I am facing an inner conflict between my morals and my loyalty to my friends. Well, I really shouldn't worry them with my personal hang-ups. I have 2 theories about Leavers':

           1. I will go there and see everyone in my year looking all attractive and happy and I will get depressed and sick to my stomach because I know that I'll never be that happy so I end up having a horrible night and alienating my friends (as usual 😩). 

             2. I don't go and instead opt to spend the evening attempting to host an Xbox Party with Snehin (who'll probably go to the dinner anyway) and we'll spend a few trying minutes attempting to connect and then give up. I will sit there playing a game alone whilst my mum gripes at me that I should've gone to Leavers' and how I've disappointed her as a daughter and a woman.

Basically in either scenario I'm f***ed: my friends will be mad at me either way. Hopefully the after-party will prove more auspicious. I plan on getting tipsy with my friends (for the first time in my life, f*** I'm such a loser) and start conversations with people that I'm too afraid to talk to now. 

         -"Let's get drunk and tell each other things that we were too afraid to say sober"

Upon reflection...

As my final week of exams draws to a close, I can't help but wonder how much better I could've done if I had applied myself. Sitting in the computer lab blogging while I waste away an hour doesn't seem like the best place to start. Well, I did  finish early after all.

Upon reflection, I have realised 5 things this term:

1. My social ineptitude and depression have hampered me from making any new friends (and have succeeded in making me push away and alienate my current ones)
2. My taste in music is far more superior than my peers and anyone who reproaches my statement will be fed to the wolves
3. I need to start bleaching my skin because all the black boys I'm friends with say that I am too dark (plus the guys I like tend to go for yellow-bones)
4. My blog layout sucks and my presence on social media is missed
5. Boys suck!
6. I decided to add this last one to stick to my whole non-conformity case- Lots of people get on my nerves!

Aside from my useless meanderings and forays into the unknown, I have realised that I have truly let myself go. Both in the physical sense and the metaphorical sense.

NOTE: I am typing this during an alleged ICT practical mock exam and the hot guy behind me is helping his friends cheat by printing the paper for him.

There are a ton of things that I need to get done during the holiday. Firstly, I need to redefine and reshape my blog layout, as it looks rather childish and I am embarrassed to even open it up on web browsers at school anymore. Secondly, I need to make new friends, as next year my A-Level class buddies list is looking decidedly empty. Thirdly, I need to slap-a-nigga! (Sorry, I'm getting a little irritated at this blatant act of dishonesty going on behind me. I mean, can't they use Gmail chat?!) Actually, I want to read mostly. But I know that I have to study this holiday, as it has become apparent that I am failing mocks. Just the thought of all those fledgling books waiting for me in the library excites me above other things. I can't wait to burst into the library and inhale the musty smell of books: both new and old.   

Next term is going to be hectic. We have about 3 weeks of proper lessons before we have a study break then start our finals. Then we have Leaver's Dinner and all my friends are pressuring me to wear a dress and get a date. It will truly be a expressing experience, seeing as my Sri Lankan buddy Ovini is leaving for home and I am decidedly the worst person when it comes to keeping in touch with people. Or talking to people for that matter. Or existing!

Oh well, I best sink into a hole of dispairity at my social ineptitude and steely determination to die alone. 

- سيمون (that's my name in Arabic) :)