Quick Note: Today’s roundup

So today’s readings have taken me from reading through 2011 working paper titled ‘Global Inequality: from Class to Location, from Proletarians to Migrants’ by Branko Milanovic (2011). A different formatted version can be found here, there may be some discrepancies. I then moved onto looking at the question of inequality in terms of mediation, visibility, and the issues of diversity/inclusion in a UK sense. I turned to watching video recordings of talks given to the UK Parliament, the world’s media stage, along side exploring diversity charters, policy documents and reports by the think tank Runnymede Trust.

I aim to provide a more in-depth note on the various reports and papers I read and media in due course. But suffice to say, in terms of my interest and research project I am alternating between the arena as being worth as one of global interest and one of individual structuring and construction. I see my domain of exploration as the later, but still find it hard to fully verbalise in a written manner what I am trying to etch out. However, in pushing myself to follow the unravelled thread to a neater package in the form of a more manageable project and location-specific data, I aim to combine a wider appreciation for the terrain, as well as using the populist methodological tendency to look at and the continuation a truly diverse and better serving community

 

 

 

 

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what of my brother?

What of my Brother?

Whose life has moved along many different lines…
Whose experiences could use up all of England’s inkwells,
Whose linguistics could have surpassed even the Bard’s lines,
What of him the large precariat Lion, strong but inwardly howling..

What now? What of his life? What then?
Where should he hide? Why?

Whose only conceivable crime was to be different to the gingerbread cutout for me and my kind.
Who struck out so lonesome a visionary vanguard, misunderstood from every side.
Who wasn’t able to traverse the systems that push him, kick him down and kill his mind, his spirit his chance at life..
Melting and moulding, stuffing it all inbetween and amongst the camps of the lower classes, of the “people-like-me’s” and our kinds.
Whose ambition comes like a seasonally treated windup clockwork, buffed up to a new shine,  But like every internal working it brings attention to itself again, sure as an apple falls from a tree.
Here it is, it stretches out, is hacked at, splutters and withers, congeals and dies.
Every year whenever the sun shines.
The end heralded by a ticking of the clock and an addition of a ‘1’ to the numerical understanding of his life.

life_2

A Pause… Gratitude to the cosmos heals

Getting such a sense of weird deja vu. All about rise of nationalism, Brexit, overwhelming sadness and feeling a bit paralysed as I delve into reading about contemporary climate for my project…
me
So instead I am going to stop – breathe and do a “What I’m happy/thankful for..”
1- I’m thankful for my faith and belief in a higher power, Allah SWT/God, God-Allah, The Cosmos, Destiny.. label it what you will but even when I feel stuck in a deep well of rust and unhinged limbs I remain humble and keep going. I am thankful for this resolve that comes from a belief in something bigger than myself. My pain is but temporary.
2- My family. Though they are so far from me, physically, mentally and spiritually.. they are close-by me in another great way and I them. Unchosen, yes, but together we are in and will escape this mess. They’ve done and been through stuff that can’t even be vocalised or known.. they are my greatest and most forgotten heroes. They help re-centre me, when I fly off. They got me going on a trajectory to sort this world in some way before I shuffle of it’s coil. They are stronger than even they know and an inspiration to me always.
3- My friends. Loyal, beautiful, honest, open and my mental, spiritual and physical mates through this life. For always giving me unconditional support, their non-judgmental, constructive criticism and giving me a home when I needed it most. Got nothing but love for them.

4- That I can still think, work, play and plan. #”Keep you’re head up.. ” #

life

Year 2021.. Or so it begins

-scene-

Year 2021

The world is a different place. A place of Cultural creators. Cultural tasters. Cultural dictators. Where it is your link to belief that assigns where you reside. Where birth-right is the only thing that is certain and right. No more mobility. No more integrating. No trust. No hope. In short the world of status quo and neo-colonial control.. Or rather the struggle for control.

The green, green lands of Blightly have been touched severely by years of tension, civil unrest and unsound policy making. Until the landmark year of 2020, August 2020 to be precise.

But most of all a place where culture has ripped away at all that could be, could ever have been and is now used to discourage any integration, mixing or appropriation.. Unless a case is made and upheld in the secular centres of the British Isles.
In the midst of it all. The laptop chimes, beh-beh-buehmm .. those Skype ringtones are old and classic. Though Zaika makes a mental note for the millionth time this month about changing it after this call, she already knows she most likely, probably, most definitely won’t. She can’t seem to pin down what it is, familiarity, nostalgia, laziness or what, but that sound.. That silly old-school bubbley logo, she patched in 18 months ago, that animates round and round.. Buzzing over that S. All of it. Everything. Makes her entire body beam with delight, her life for one brief moment seems light. Lighter than the beams of golden speckled beams shining through the french dormer windows.. Catching all sorts of hazy transient bits of fluff in their nurturing rays. Enveloping her cold pert breast, warming her nipples into some form of biological submission. Making her feel at one and at a loss, simultaneously. Her life is not her own. Her life is not a whole.

All this and more she thinks in the 1 minute and 45 seconds she can bear the ringing sound coming from her comically tall looming white Ikea desk. With the fluid movement of someone who has performed this task a million times, Zaika pushes her slender, naked form off the floor. Her knees and toes taking most of force as they act like fulcrums, while her rough fingers reach out to the soft black shawl, on top of which she had been sat in absorbed contemplation. As her body turns the 65 degree angle needed to silence the monotonous ringing that has faded into the patchwork of her life sounds, Zaika has managed to drape the shawl loosely but competently around herself. Managing to even pin the ends tightly around her face, to build the illusion of constant observance to protocol. Just in time to answer the call to her young overseas nephew.

“Bore da, Yayah”
“Asa’laam walaykum Khala”
“Walaykum Asa’laam Yayah, how are you doing?”

Oh this call is not going to go well she thinks, already her young 11 year old nephew’s eye have narrowed with the intensity of her mother’s. She wonders what sermon will be filtered to her in today’s conversation, she has already dissected the 15 seconds of interaction and found herself to be be seen as wanting. If only she’d just smiled happy and allowed him to begin the conversation. She mutters a hurried prayer to God Allah that her constant interaction down at the centre will at least carry her pakistani and arabic verbal skills through the next 25 minutes. Perhaps for once she can bring some pride to them, and leave a call feeling loved. Her eyes swell a little with tear.. As a flash-forward of herself looms large in her mind’s eye. Zaika is laing naked on the flower, curled up against a hot water bottle and teddy.. Crying like a broken water-works doll.

Oh sickening spirit.. Leave me.. I beseech thee.

I see a spirit so independent and true,Fighting within fortunes so similar

A life path through the challenging bush,

But dissimilar too, the essence of our awkward roots,

a legacy that we inhabit,

yet to given

To be seen to take fruit.
This wandering mind,

anguishing in hells your imagination could barely reside in,

Your powerful strides strapped to an ever-questioning mind, dissatisfied by seemingly having nothing good to find.

Our certainties gone, withered and lost, the day we forsook thankfulness, gave up the greatest gift given by God, this here our deep love.

That now flows ever-present, causing doubtfulness and depression,
As we work, in wakefulness without the others presence.

Incapable to come to terms with our shattered brittle spirits.

To you your road and me my own.
One should have learned by now,

There can never be a companion on this sickeningly septic journey, in which even an 11-year old me has been,

But whose horrors you have neither heard of nor seen.

Goodbye my love. Goodbye my dream.

As I always said you must leave me.

An ode to a lost love

I cannot seem to escape thee

Your majesty compels me

My root fixated in being with you,

Fibre-optic news of your being blowing upon every breeze,

I remain forever frozen unsure of what to do,

Head down, fangs snarled, head pumping,

running for eternal coverings,

picky as I sit confused in quagmires, unwilling to accept willingly shared offerings,

Undaring to dream of countless substitute hauntings,

Uncaring as I spend unknown hours inflicting slow suffering,

Undoing the work of these past months faring,

As my head turns and yearns in a direction I lost,

I’m broken and alone,

With no chance of igniting you to bring me home,

You’ve moved on like a bejewelled whore,

Words and sweet love were never your goal,

I am cast ashore,

Head bursting from this great fall,

I await patiently my next opened door,

Crippled with unproductive, unusable hope,

awaiting to be turned onto passion-filled lifetimes,

Heady lifelines,

anxiously enticing my spent imagination,

As I wonder who you go a-courting,

My love surrounded by owners of a thousand shirt-tails.

Late Night MA Woes

Putting the Social ‘Bleaurgh-ness’ out there so it’s not in me mind as I sleep:
 
So still have the actual proposal bit of my research proposal to do. (1000 words to go!) This is gonna be killer. But heck at least it’ll be very much grounded and God-willing on point in terms of word count and understanding.
 
Heck they gotta appreciate me making my idea so fecking clear despite battling illness, actual physically dying (ageing), numerous time and people constraints and the fact that my biggest issue is I don’t like to adhere to deconstructionism but want a more interpretative stance to my research and essays.
 
p.s. I love writing! Words rule. Wish I could do and feel like this allllll the time. It;s so productive and fun listening to your voice as you type.. I should sleep. ‘nite!
p.p.s. My body hate me. Battling some form of 2 month long illness is really starting to take it’s toll. Cannot wait to sort all this out come Tuesday and the week after. Maybe I just need the gym? That’s the cure to everything right??

This week’s lesson: Know and Respect yourself

Sometimes you have to learn that you’re working on something bigger than yourself. The world. And the ones who know and understand, are the ones who will stick around. After all what else do you need but that?

My internal thoughts to myself.. as I struggle with shedding the overly-empathic and supportive self. I’ve helped many people get the life and careers, or loves and support that they needed. This is and was my year to help myself. But I’m becoming my own worst enemy. Sometimes the cuddly beast within me has to be caged for her own good. Ruthless may not by a trait that is instilled, but being one’s own jailer is the best way to get further in the game.. to respect yourself and your intellect enough to get to where you want to be. Where you see yourself living you’re own little, pleasant, love-filled dream..
Fuck the world and the distractions they upkeep to disable you ever being truly free right? Also, sometimes the most well-meaning of friends and love, can help create or co-create the cells that enchain your promise and your skills needed to make a great change for this world, while we roam it for such an ever-short time.

Early morning meandering thoughts on race, desire and Garvey

Marking difference begets miscommunication, which breeds misunderstanding and could lead to feelings of contempt, hatred and hurt.

Yesterday’s class on colour, difference, browning and Jamaica was great and very, very interesting, not least of all because of a small breakout session as we discussed with our peers the question ; ‘How is mixing problematic in Jamaica..?’ (Or something along those lines. Realised the slides are not online! Must dash to email tutor).

There was the brief introduction to Marcus Garvey, his notion of acceptance for all people, but then the call for no miscegenation. 

But here’s my thought, like the moment you see colour or people as difference you eradicate desire and fragment a persons being and identity. Sure there is difference. Sure there is a long and troubling history with race. Also with empire. Definitely with the policing of bodies and of our desires. But you cannot, now, move one way or the other.

I’m not saying let’s not be proud of our culture or heritage. Or that those that want to actively create a stronger heritage or ‘keep it real’ by accessing and responding to the essentialism of Garvey are wrong.

I instead want the space for my desire, wherever you may think it has “come from”, to not be rendered problematic. When I see my love, or see the people I deem desirable, it is the person, the intellect, the knowledge and the entire person I find intriguing and comforting.

I’ve had too long a history of marking difference. As been seen as ‘Gorey’ as a child, as been seen as vain, vacuous, proud, the characteristics projected onto the race that kept the brown man down in working-class UK. When all I did was be happy and remain optimistic, make friends with whoever was nice and interesting, be they Shiahs (shock-horror), regular one of us people, white kids, fat kids, slow kids or whoever.. Seriously growing up in situations and navigating people’s misunderstanding and contempt for one another on skin-deep characteristics is a difficult way to live. I for one, don’t want the same for the next generation, or for my children..

Love and desire, just bring us out of thinking about ourselves as belong to camps.. Whether they’re constructed around whichever ideology, race, creed or gender.

There’s a lot we can take from Garvey and  other post-colonial thinkers, who bred the ground for our heritage and ancestral lands to salvage pieces of themselves. To create networks amongst themselves. Who gained strength after being raped, violated and contemptuously left to fend for themselves in a skewed world. One where the empiric rapist still held the cards, and the valuables, and the keys to representation.. But I cannot now advocate that strength is built on essentialising any of the racial categories. I know it will be a difficult road to navigate and there are inherent representation of race they highlights problems we need to address. But the heritage that we have, we consume, we produce, leads to a path that will take us to interact with many peoples. We just have to start at a place where we see it as that, fellow people not the breakdown of their parts, that we summarise without starting a dialogue. 

What did Eve-Hawaa feel..

They look for signs where there are not,
Fate in the fateless,
I would rather spend a day in supposed sin,
Then allow an eternity in which we all
Explained our misdeed.
What can you not see?
This is me not creating a “wrong” destiny.

There is some pattern here emerging,
This is life washed anew – clean,
Strange because it’s yet to be seen.

Why, of why are you and I still searching?
The magnitude of life has arrived.
Why must we let it escape us?
Why let it break us?
Why allow it to submit us to a lifetime of woeful cries?

I had travelled a broken path.
Unsure, a bore, devoid of hope,
My faith flickering, it’s breath becoming short.

*A quick flash report*
Heaven’s call?
An evening’s meeting – soulmates greeting.
A goodlier soul I had never saw.
My opposite and my composite,
And I his…

Our lifetimes unfolded before us,
Our hands clasped,
Our love righteously sanctioned,
We stumbled fresh-eyed, forward, frolicking in good fun…

I saw us enter the frame,
Shots I had ceased long ago to entertain.
My discipline caused shock and mistrust,
I was forever, it seemed, unsure of us, – of you.
Or does that by extension include me too?

Believe me darling,
trust the faith that I aim to keep sacred,
our lies to ourselves were destructive,
but worse still was the inability to confess and seek absolution,
as we did in those halcyon days,
idyllic students of life, philosophy and faith,
seeking to love and be loved,
with rules and formalities being only worldly capitalist constructs,
that cause schisms and competitions that have us comparing,
ourselves and each other to those younger and more fruitful.
For we only have apples.

But love those apples again,
love that we had them in abundance.
They can be soft and supple or strong and versatile,
Like them our skills and application knows no bounds.
So please would you remain strong and stop looking at the ground!

Why must I always soothe? Why can you not see this is the truth?
I would rather build the world with you, then compare us to someone else’s version of the truth.
I would rather strive to understand the life we had and could create,
Than think about what is at stake for imagined futures that only God can dictate.

But if you wish to leave me.
If what I did was so devastating.
Even though you partook in the severance.
Take these parting truths;

For me you’re always the brightest of hues
My words remain strong in defence of your soul.. our soul.
Even now that we are not whole.
I feel somehow lost and devoid of mine hope…
I wonder mili-second-ly, do you now feel equally cast-out of heaven’s call?
Are you to begin a dynasty, without me?
That then renders me inessential;
Both of use yet obsolete.
To be known only by the terms that you dictate?

My part in this silly, emotional, unclean.
My curiosity and seeking a boon,
This quick mind empathising with that hurt that you seem to cater inside,
Feelings of being discarded, left short, emasculated…
Oh but I should stop here.
For your ears can only but hear,
Your hurt causes you to stop your feelings,
short of understanding and communicating.
I will live out my days here now,
binding the air and our lives in misdeeds.

Out of love taking the hurt and wrong,
until the day you take me back where I belong.