I should thank my mom (no eloquence here) for mistaking a word I said to her for something else. The doors opened to a new tunnel vision of thought! I was looking at rhyme. How petty, mean (in the original sense of the term), poor, kinky and maimed state of human misery is this rhyme!

Rhyme we love, rhyme we remember. Rhyme we chant, rhyme we mutter. Rhyme makes a blank thing into a herioc and a male ending into female one (and vice versa). But the roots of rhyme perchance lie in the evolution of man. Be not under the mist of confusion for I will not disclose here what I have found about the truth of the birth of rhyme. Take a hint, some food for thought: rhyme grew out of the inability of humanity, a disguise to hide the shame of inevitable human error.

My muse woke up today while I was thinking on some computer stuff (muse sounds kinda like an old pantaloon).

Argument : Was (is?) Rochester a hero (Jane Eyre)?

No! As simple as that. No critical stuff, no evaluation of character, nothing. The heart feels what it feels.

Just chew on it: you have raped your mother and killed your father (strikes a chord?) and all you think about punishing yourself is blinding yourself. That way you live the punishment and you take those basilisks away from the eyes of the world of flesh. And here is our Rochester in his Victorian mirth. Much like a Herculean Darcy. But I want to ask the hearts of Romantics this question: who on earth can live to expect the return of a girl whom he can’t have a hope to look at? Maybe Jane isn’t that aesthetic stuff but she’s his beloved afterall. Can one, hearing one’s beloved– knowing her love for oneself– still be able to bear a life of darkness where there is no image of his beloved? No hope of seeing her?

“True lovers” (and I encapsulate them in quotes of disgusting sarcasm) may mark that love doesn’t need eyes. I too, once, said that even blind people also fall in love. But what if those people got the filament of their eyes working? God have mercy!

Rochester wasn’t even brave to inflict upon himself the pain of suicide, though people think he redeemed himself by trying to save “the madwoman in the attic”. But that’s like saying, “I’ll bump your car and then get it fixed, deal?” and you’re great as well.

I was dreaming last night; perhaps just sleeping (though the word dreaming impresses upon the reader a sense of authenticity.) Eyes closed, hands tied, I felt I couldn’t take it anymore because I was missing someone I deeply love.

Mr. Rochester, die for shame.

Boats and ships turn over first, than the sinking objects- now that’s another metaphor out of the lives lost in that incident. Be ashamed poets! Die in a fire of feces!

Perhaps I don’t see the Raven. Perhaps it has passed me by several times and yet I unsee it.

And came the raven and buried one of his companions and Abel knew what is to be done to Abel’s body– this was a revelation to the first murderer, the “original sinner” in Islam. They were God’s folk, they knew God as we know ourselves in the mirror and yet God had to carry his message through a raven! And where do I stand?!

I have been overstraining God (no humour intended) with my requests at a manifest, a lucid proof of the fulfilling of my wish. I have been giving ultimatums, time limits or chances so as to say, to God the Almighty! Shall I too have waited for a raven to come?

This is established with me that I come from Cain’s side and should therefore wait in perdition for a raven to teach me to cover my sins.

But is it all? Who was my father (Cain) trying to hide this corpse from? Is he not my father in that I too fear to excite God’s ire and sin under a blanket, hiding what dirt comes off a sin from the sky? Is God just in the skies? Why only hurl some earth over the corpse if God be everywhere?

Note of apology: I beg reader’s pardon to be quoting once more from ‘All for Love’. However, this shame doesn’t follow in my thoughts about my teachers once more.

To a question asked by one of the characters Cleopatra answers,

Ah, no, I know him not; I knew him once

This random thought came to me from a question asked by my teacher, “Do you know George Orwell?”

Let me ask you the same question, reader, “Do you know Orwell?”

If you are positive, you’re at loss, at least with my sympathies (I am a prejudicing bitch — gender neuter).

Let me ask another question, quite general and preliminary in nature, “What is knowing?”

If I were sitting in a home science class, or a Botany lab (I never have a gut to demean the respective subjects), the question about a theory or a thesis wouldn’t have roused such musings in me because a knowing is limited to something there. But in a literature class one only finds his mind echoing,

“The horror! The horror!”

But then I can be wrong; knowing of Orwell might mean knowing about his life as a literary figure and about his works. But then I know one fact hidden to the eyes of denuding worls which I have this personal whim to assert as an undercurrent that drew the life-forcs in one of his works. Or I may be drawn to this figure, rather may have been introduced to this person from say a letter, a quote, an essay, an unpublished poem or a footnote in his MS, which no one cares about. How can one assert that this knowing of mine, or summing up of his character from that little data is lesser that the knowing of that person based on a prodigious time spent on his works?

End of the discussion.

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth

…

No farther seek his merit to disclose.

Gray

How shall I plead my cause, when you, my judge,
Already have condemned me?

All for Love, I, II; John Dryden

I believe our teachers have turned us into moaning-Cleopatras when it comes to being interactive in the class. On one side do they whine about our unresponsiveness, and on the other side will they never expect a slight compromise with their alpha role in the heard. This is repression and, as Achebe says about Conrad, may be interesting to psychologists.

This all starts with a question, as it did in this heuristic case, and you’re supposed to know then answer. The manner in which the question is put is sneering, disgusted (as the teacher pretends to be with the class), condescending, and the teacher tries to give this to you as a passing reference (though it IS obvious (s)he has spent twenty minutes in devising the manner in which an impression can be made in optimized manner.)

In my case I did not answer the question. The question was silly and shouldn’t have been asked, being too subjetive and of such nature that once asked both the question and the answer lost their relevance and put a barricade to thoughts.

I found out that she wanted a response and I was the only student to have provided her with– she wanted to prove us dumb, I supplied her with it, because only I knew the answer well (speaking literally).

This is the hope of humanity — the wonder-pants. It IS the number 42. It is tight, snug, soft and cozy— wait, I’m not publishing an advert, it is from an ethereal weaver, hauled down from the ultimate ages.

I’m feeling warm in it. It snuggles me; it really is friendly. As I wear it anew, I feel I can forget the whole world and think on the comforts of this piece of heavenly pelt. Humanity merely needs to wish the eternity of the elastic fibers.

On the bus I share my seat with an old man. He talks in English, though no one including himself is English. He told someone to give over his seat to him; he didn’t. Turns out the person he asked was I, but he didn’t mind, thank heavens for that!

There was a girl standing, her hands holding the roof bar that the standing passangers are supposed to hold onto. Her bag touched the old man’s beard, and he was irked; more manifest in his change of language. He scolded the girl thoroughly, but the girl really lived her Delphic type – self-disciplined youth.

These Delphic types where lively everywhere around, one only needs to look for them, though this is not my point. But do I really have any point at all? Or does my point become yours as well? Or do I have to weave a magic spell of Poe?

Anyways, I remember thoroughly pondering about the old man, and thinking of myself in his place. Will I be the same as him? Another delphic type? I mean not an individual but either a conformist and a good old man hence, or a badass?