Days without inspiration, or, writing to the web

The last few days of this project, as I anticipated, have been dedicated to rehearsing my performance (see www.jedenham.com/18days ) for details.

Except, of course, they haven’t, and when I look back over my online presence, which I was supposed to be choking with lit, I see haven’t. It is sitting here though, and I hope I have the gumption, the lack of incaring to share.

Why haven’t I been rehearsing? I’m not rehearsing right now, I’m writing to the internet. I’m not that fussed about what I’ve written, it rests on a good metaphor, and is, I hope effective, will make people think after the reading.

But it does not fulfil the imagination I had of it, nor in fact does it fulfil my original idea of 18 days of writing condensed to 3-4 minutes. It is probably shorter than that, though I have realised off the back of this that 18 days is damn long. And that 3-4 minutes can have more meaning in them then 5 years can accommodate, let alone another 3-4 minutes.

What is the piece of writing about?

حَرَام‎ – Haram [the opposite of halal]

It is supposed to be about pain, like between you and a county. A number of teenage girls have been abducted from a school in North East Nigeria [1, 2, 3], by the group Boko Haram, which translates as “Western Education is haram”.

Those girls will have already faced a terrifying ordeal, and will as I type be suffering like they have never before, and perhaps, I do say perhaps, as no one reading this has ever suffered. Sexual slavery, a form of slavery which may ache to bend twenty hours a day with things in its hand, not inside it, must be one of the cruellest fates to ever inflict upon a human.

The worst nightmare I ever had was an image of the end of hope, which may be facing these young girls.

Currently in Britain it is half term, imagine all those made up girls you see today bound, raped and crushed by that as life, because boko haram.

So, my performance, will hope to illuminate some part of that misery, of the misery we as humans inflict every day, in our actions, our purchases, our apathy.

Writing this everyday perhaps, I say perhaps for the future of my ….. my …… my ……, is such a more worthwhile goal then feeling the beauty of unknowable instance resonating down to eternal dead protons sixteen hundred thousand billion miles away from my eyes.

 

To do

pic on this for tumblr

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