tHe SToryTEller and The IntRodUctioN

 

Like many people, my relationship with my father has been a complex one. Or atleast, for the sake of telling a story in a storylike way it is best to describe the relationship that way. One cannot deny its complexity, which I alone can verify in any case. The complexity of our relationship comes from both of us being objects of fascination to each other, often becoming caricatures of our roles as daughter and father. But not the good sort of caricatures of daughter and father but the poor sort, one always lacking in feature to be the good sort.
The good sort I believe comes to some use as reference in this particular tale of telling. The sort that has acquired the cringworthy comparison of Princess and Hero. Daughters as princesses and fathers as heroes of the daughters who are princesses. The reason I say this may be a useful point of reference is not to simply signify that my relationship with my father is far from any princess-hero rubbish, which it most certainly is- far from, that is. In an odd sense of term however this father of mine has played a particular kind of hero in many stories I have told. Mainly because it is the hero himself who has narrated many of the stories I simply repeat- and admittedly not relayed that they were all from another source. With this attribution, I must comment on how many times heroes narrate their own stories as heroes. One may say that this is a particular trait of heroism- to sing of one’s own valour, lest another may hesitate.
My father is a gifted storyteller. In that, I have secured my opening line to a story of my own telling which characterises him as the storyteller. This ploy has worked one too many times if I may say so myself. To what may face some derision if he were to be in the know, everytime I use this ploy it is to cast this father of mine as the unfortunate anti-hero to justify my politics. He becomes a villainous casteist, the ‘benevolent oppressor’, the misogynist, the patriarch, the manipulator and the easily manipulated. Now you see what I mean by not fitting into the princess caricature. At this point, my father who is a gifted storyteller would turn up his nose and tone filled with condescension point out to me that a story written in complicated sentences cannot be much of a story at all. Which mine are. His stories are long and end in other stories, but one may notice that his sentences are not long. They also have that particular feature of daddies who are heroes and are not, where the sentences trail when imbued with some emotion. To find completion would be horrendous and end in abrupt tellings of tales.
As the object of my stories, this father has played hero in all stories where I make a case against said heroism. I imagine that in all his long hours alone at home, he spins tales of me as the object of his stories as well. A princess who is anything but. He must in his long stories put me in various scenarios where I have not been a princess to illustrate how I must not be seen as one. In these tales I imagine, that as a gifted storyteller with an immense talent for description he will dress me in flowery pants and red lisptick. My red lipstick has become a source of some worry to him. The flowery pants were a mistake he made on my 10th birthday. In these tales he concocts while sitting on the dull grey sofa cover he chose, I must have long arguments about communism, economics and the best way to cut mangoes in the English he resents my command over.
The few times our eyes meet reluctantly over discussing steel plates at lunch, our individual tales of princesses and heroes collapse into the mindless mundane. My relationship with this father of mine is complex I imagine, because we are used to our distaste of each other in flowery pants and misogynist triumph.

*image from The Storyteller, Evan Turk
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liSts foR the rAins

against the rain
The rains are here and so are my 5 o’clock allergies. Not that it comes dot at 5, but come it does. Around 4, I know it’s right round the corner. That’s about when the precautionary measures start. While the water is boiling, the itch creeps into the insides of my eyes. Right first, I wink rapidly. A watching pot never does boil, I increase the temperature. Left next, I shut my eyes tight and open wide again. I know if I scratch, it will only intensify. The water has just started boiling over when a single tear rolls down my right cheek. I add a big tablespoon of coffee into the vessel and let it boil once more. Turn off quickly and grab the nearest cup. The vessel is too hot. I pause for a second or two to deliberate. Sneeze first or pour the coffee into the cup. I go with coffee and sneeze comes with it. I stare at the cup, most of the coffee is in it. I decide to forget what else might be in there.
I shut all doors and windows. the house is covered in all kinds of weeds and creepers and creepy flowers. A single blow of the wind… I sneeze, once, twice, and then a marching band of sneezes. I pour the coffee into the sink and wash the burn off my hands.
I try again- a big roll of toilet paper, a giant blanket and a thinner bedsheet, switch on the fan, turn on the laptop, and all kinds of big and small eats. The blanket is too warm, and I sweat through sneezes 45, 46 and right through 59. I opt for the bedsheet. I sit up straight, throw the bedsheet off and switch on the fan. I can’t watch this anymore, to sneeze one has to concentrate. And one has to sneeze to rid oneself of a stuffed nose. Besides, i can barely see through eyes as small as beads. I rub both vigorously. An eyelash is in there, I’m sure of it. The right one, always the right one. I stick a finger in to pull it out. A finger covered in red and yellow and salt. Both eyes resolutely remain red, no eyelashes pulled out.
x
I think of the long summer before, the dry heat and the wet one as I watch the lizard on the ceiling. I think of that Christmas dinner last winter, I wore a black sweater. Many writers have written about autumn. It’s raining outside and the raintree is in a frenzy. Sneeze 83 to 86 and the lizard disappears. The rains outside have turned into a thunderstorm. It’s quite the sight.

today | bIts of PAPeR

jane-eyre
santiago caruso, Jane Eyre

A screaming song is good to know, in case you have to scream

Are women ever really free? I have to hide my nipples with my hair when at home, a small price to pay when i don’t want to wear a bra- another pair of cuffs.

I have to walk with my hands by my side, so my hips don’t sway, breasts don’t weigh.

I have to look down and if I look up ,not meet another’s eyes, woman’s in disdain, man’s in a leer.

If I dare wear a short skirt, it’s not my scars I have to hide. Small price to pay for choosing not to wear pants- a man’s garment.

If I sneeze I’ve been too loud and will draw attention to collarbones jutting out, freckle on my upper arm, folds of flesh peeping from under my top, anything with skin and veins under the skin.

If I sneeze, I’ve made myself ugly and human like no other human and must be subject to one arm distances and backs turned in bed- as if another body in bed is God given grace.

I paint my nails like someone watching my frills and scoffing, like someone letting my red bleed into dirty fingernails in my vagina.

To tell a story is to say, this is the important story- in that case, choose your story wisely and don’t call your stories stories otherwise

I curl my lashes like someone watching my eyes flutter and not blink, gaps between my lashes unmanned territories.

I look quickly into the mirror as if someone will catch me look, my vanity may not go unpunished.

I eat in protest, eat a lot to resist slim waists, eat too little because protests are battered with varnish.

I can consume liquor/ I can’t. That but not this, this because of that and never that because this is what it is and not enough of that.

You may claim that of you, but won’t you ask different questions of freedom then?

There are purple people with crocodile skin and blue hair in Jupiter