My teacher described the book we are currently reading, which happens to be The Belly of the Atlantic by Fatou Diome, as a piece of Transnational "Post-Colonial" Auto-Fiction. This means that the book is a semi-autobiographic work of fiction that was written after the European/American colonial era and is set across several countries and continents. If, and when, I do get around to writing whatever large project I am compelled to write, it would definitely be labeled the same as Diome's novel.
Art is kind of a strange thing. You get this idea in your head and you want to execute it but you put it off and put it off. It takes a shape in your head, it is so clear and defined and detailed. Most of that stuff in my head never comes to fruition. Almost like there are things in your head and then there are things that you create and usually they are mutually exclusive. Part of it has to do with letting yourself down. If you never complete something, it will always hold some great possibilities. You imbibe the treasured notion of perfection and anything short of that beauty is a disappointment. The things I do finish are just a result of a careless whim. A one night stand with a guitar or a notebook. I suppose it is sometimes best to have no expectations.
The pictures in today's blog are some more rave pictures that I came across. I think they exemplify the atmosphere of the situation fairly well.
Speak easy,
Neil
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