I got my things and left.
This, the opening line to Dambudzo Marechera’s The House of Hunger, apart from being the coolest opening line in African fiction, is a fair summary of the writer’s life. He was always getting his things and leaving; not that he had many things to get—in his last years, homeless and reduced to sleeping on park benches in Harare, Zimbabwe, all he had were his typewriter and a few books. He died at thirty-five, an age when most writers are just publishing their first novels. It is a mark of his genius that, with only three novellas, some short stories, poems, and essays published during his lifetime, he is regarded today as one of the most influential postcolonial African writers.
From Helon Habila On Dambudzo Marechera: The Life and Times of an African Writer. Read more here
The Fiction
Two excerpts From Black Sunlight:
Through the open window. The fucking window, a slashing wind blows. Through the open window. Within this pale womb with its beard, a brutal story writhes. Night imprisoned in the room stayed with me all day long. Laughter’s broken glass, through the fucking window. Is the view. The endless glittering view of gigantic humid trees shutting out the sun. A thin mould of history covers the walls. Covers the blood, flesh and bones. A black skin, thin and minute. Covers the darkness in the room. Through the open window, blows the slashing wind.
From a long ago, astonishment comes. From a once upon a time, that fucking window of fiction, astonishment comes. Blowing on his fingers. Thrust of pistonknees shoots through the giant, the humid, the fetid trees. Trees clenched against the astonishing news.
‘I tell you it was white from head to foot. It was bathing by the blunt rock falls. It was human in form but I tell you it was white, so pale you could almost see the red flesh the white bones and the blue veins, see them through the white skin.’
The chief, as black as human beginnings, pondered. What new madness had struck this messenger? White men indeed! The chief removed his foot from my head.
He chuckled.
‘White meat. We’ll have white meat one of these days. White cunts. White arses…’
The thought like a seed burst into bloom.
Erect between his sweating chunks of thighs.
I ventured to smile, laughing behind clenched teeth. At the chief’s erection.
The sharp blade of his eye slashed through a hole in my soul. The verdict:
‘Throw him down the pit-latrine!’
I threw myself at his feet, cringing.
‘ Not again, not again, not again, O great chief,’ I begged.
He was contemplating his gigantic erection. He looked sly.
‘Then suck my cock,’ he said.
I visibly flinched. Shrank back to the waiting guards and pleaded:
‘Throw me down the pit-latrine this minute.’
2
I had never killed before. But killing suddenly seemed only a small irrelevancy to the interior happenings of the house. But they were indissolubly connected to what was happening out there. However ephemerally. We had I suppose talked and behaved ourselves into a mood whose shadow would always outgrow us. No longer could we register the temperature of the blood in ourselves. The reading of the instincts and archetypal triggers. We had so given ourselves up for lost that there was only a meaninglessness which perhaps cybernetics could trace on a graph. At the same time the thoughts that controlled our feelings were not those of where straight lines come from nor where they go. There was no centre either, no circumference, but as it were spiraling nebulae, galaxies beyond galaxies, exploding wildly outward, hurtling away towards the incredible infinite that lay beyond the boundaries in where we had lingered.
Excerpt from House of Hunger
In the morning there was not a single space left on that page: the story was complete. As I read it every single word erased itself into my mind. Afterwards they came to take out the stitches from the wound of it. And I was whole again. The stitches were published. The reviewers made obscene noises. It is now out of print.
But those stitches, those poems...
The sunlight singled out the grim dirt that had formed on the whitewashed wall. Flies buzzed out Hallelujahs. A furry spider drew in its eight legs and studied me cautiously. A chameleon etched delicately against the stains of dirt on the wall, sucked in its lips and swivelled its old eye towards the pimple on my cheek. A wisp of cloud drifting contentedly across the sun cast upon me a whimsical shadow of a look. The variegated weeds at my feet conversed gently to and fro, pausing again to chide my clumsy shoes. A floating seed rocked itself quizzically on my scarred wrist and, dissatisfied, slowly took off into the air. A crow hovered in mid-flight and slowly contemplated the top of my head; a liquid bomb plashing on my prematurely grey hair was that sage's assessment of my character.
But those stitches...
A heap of soiled dishes scolded and squabbled on the grease-strewn table. An unruly crowd of empty beer bottles had gathered in the shadows of the grimy wash-basin. The robot cupboard had exposed its privates: a troop of salt and pepper tins reinforced by a bloody ketchup character whose look drove me hurriedly into the bathroom.
The toilet did not flinch when I sat on him. The paper protested crisply but I did not show any mercy. When I shook his arm gratefully he flushed, roaring immovably as I pulled up my sullen trousers.
Yes, those stitches, those poems...
The Poetry
The Bar-Stool Edible Worm
I am against everything
Against war and those against
War. Against whatever diminishes
Th’individual’s blind impulse.
Shake the peaches down from
The summer poem, Rake in ripe
Luminosity; dust; taste. Lunchtime
News – pass the Castor Oil, Alice.
Th’Anniversary
What woman is this in my arms –
And O my head an axe must have hacked.
What time, what town, what room is this –
My brain is being mangled in the meatgrinder
Of her snoring! Yesterday was th’anniversary;
On my seventh drink she appeared in strips
Of rotting flesh and faintly gleaming bones – Her
Hollow eye sockets instantly found me.
No electricity but dull red candles lit the scene.
We dined on worms fat as pickhandles
And she leaned on my arm as I led her onto the
----dancefloor;
Thousands exhumed from mass graves danced with us
And thousands more soon to die applauded the tumult-
I remembered the time and day she and I said “I do”, “I do”.
The red rubber ball
The red rubber ball
Out of the white/pink sheath
Squirts into her lips the delicious
Liquid
My sister the dream’s penetration – siesta
Multidom in buttock
Multifarious in sumptuous breast
Oblique in cupid lips my obelisk
Penetration
Lightning’s capitalist orgasm my crocodile
Skin itches massacre after massacre crying
Snake!
Snake!
Cassandra’s Ball
(a fragment)
time’s finger on the piano
play emotion into motion
the dancers through the looking glass
never recognize us as their originals
The point is that if one is living in an abnormal society, then only abnormal expression can express it.
DM (1984)
----
*
p.s. Hey. So, there's the blog's first ever anonymously guest-hosted post, but it's not as dramatic as it sounds because the anonymity is for simple technical reasons that are nonetheless too complicated to explain, and the point is the post not the host anyway. Not having known Dambudzo Marechera's powerful work before, I'm very grateful for the introduction, and, guessing that many of you are like me, I bet you will be too. Please explore, share your thoughts, and thank you all for your attention. It's Day 2 in Brest for me. Yesterday was long and quite productive, and there's more of the former and hopefully more of the latter too in store today. With that, let's proceed. ** Chris (British), Hey. I can't get the shitty internet connection I'm stuck with at the moment to load that youtube link/video, but if it has to do with heights, I'll play it safe, wish you luck, and beg off. ** Changeling, Hey. Yeah, that was some seriously tortured English yesterday, and I didn't even resort to using babelfish once, although I sure bet some of them did. Either that or psychedelics truly are big with escorts at the moment. That would be nice, I don't know why exactly. I'm trying to make a narrative in my head using the hypothermia and arrest clues, and I can't for the life of me, so that lost weekend must have really been something. There's actually a character in our theater piece who fits those symptoms you listed to a 'T', including the last one. And he's a 'famous rock star', and he killed someone too. Sounds kind of heavenly, right? That's why I wrote him. I'll see if I can get some decent pix. The blog did get avalanched with great stuff, thanks in so small part to you, man. ** David Ehrenstein, So, is it pretty much a done deal that Polanski is going to have to come the LA and face the trial and Glenn Beck and all that? That's the vibe I'm getting over here, and it's sickening, obviously. Thanks for the ABBA. 'Mamma Mia', the song not the movie, is one of the dictionary definitions of the term sublime for me. Great Prince story. Much appreciated. And how very interesting about Theresa Russell as a jazz singer. Has she recorded anything? ** Tender Prey, Hey, Marc. Oh, the blog's own Uli just saw the Parenthetical Girls/ Former Chosts show the other day too. But without Nick as the opener, sadly for him. Of course I envy you guys. I would totally be down for answering that question but I don't have a copy of 'Frisk' with me in Brest, and I'd need to refer to the part you're talking about to remember precisely what I was doing there. I'm sorry. If you want to try to jog my memory with specifics, that might work. Or maybe the other questions will coincide with a strong memory. I'm ready and wiling to explain anything I can. ** Joseph, Having in earlier times commingled with my fair share of escorts, I think I can say that hugging is not necessarily a skill that comes naturally with the profession. That escort's phone might well be ringing off the hook. It's a funny business. I did read the Bailey book, and I did think super highly of it, and your review was excellent and said things that were fogged in my head before I read it. Hm, I'll have a look at the Ball book then. I wish I was in a place where I could find a book like that in a bookstore and try a few pages. I'll try to find an online excerpt, if I can. My ideal nacho set up is tons of cheese, guac, sour cream, pinto beans, and salsa on a big pile of chips that have somehow miraculously stayed crisp. Not easy to find. Soggy chips is the enemy of my ideal. Hang in there on the job front, man. That's a damn good reason. ** 'Stoopid Slapped Puppies', Except for the slaves and the fuck, your first comment perfectly described my favorite part of our theater piece. When you finally get to see it, please feel free to bum rush the stage at that point. You'll know it when you see it. I'm so very happy to hear you had a breakthrough into, well, the real and full-fledged you. It is truly strange how laughing can do that. It's really one of the more magical life-related things even if biologists or whoever can explain it. Yeah, I'm just really, really, really happy to hear that, Nick. I've been concerned about you, and I'm scarcely the only one who loves you who was hoping you would come around to sharing our love. Okay, I can deal with us being mutual adults even though adulthood is a state I don't relate to very well, ha ha. You're not a particular age to me any more than I'm a particular age to myself. Maybe more time gave me stuff that helps, but less time hasn't deprived you of anything as far as I'm concerned. I value you and yours like you don't even know. So, yeah, you go skate, and I'll go 'skate', and let's hope life is good to both of us until tomorrow. Thank you as ever, dear Nick. ** JoeM, Yeah, I've been lucky with the escorts lately. I haven't had to pad the posts with any chunky guys, ha ha. Great idea: Dark ABBA Day. That could be the hook I'm looking for. My favorite ABBA songs are the gloomy ones too. Adding to your list: 'Under Attack', 'Me and I', 'Happy New Year', ... Thanks for propping and quoting the great 'Tiger'. ** David, Glad you liked 'em. Me too. Lickme22 is another one who brought a tear to my eye. Josh's 'Myths and Monsters' blog is fantastic, yeah. It's vaguely new, I guess. I think it's been there for ... six months or so maybe? ** Killer Luka, 'Teeth', okay, duly noted. You can't stream Netflix in Europe, and there is no equivalent, which very much sucks, let me tell you. That note from Steadman is wonderful, and he is a very wise, perceptive man, clearly. Maybe I can make a post like a wanted poster seeking a writer good enough to collaborate with you. I'm not kidding. All's well on the 'TIHYWD' front so far. But no owl this time. The owl will be back to hopefully secure his or her role in June. ** Christopher/ Mark, Hey. Wow, you saw Bowie really early. That's amazing. I think I've seen him live seven or eight times. I'd say two of those times were knock outs, and the rest were too calculated and aloof. ** Trees, I did love the sound pyramids, and 'Olivia' is really special. It's not just you thinking so. Awesome about the party, the sex, the woods, and of course things getting okay with Se4n. So, Dead Toucher Kid is going to be a power trio? Tell me more as soon as there's more. ** JW Veldhoen, Thanks for the vote of confidence on the teaching thing. Hm, maybe when I eventually get back to the States full time, I'll drop my guard a little about the idea. I wouldn't mind looking No Wave. I might have to dye my hair. ** Bernard Welt, A 'songs about you' SPD, you being Bernard, could make a good edition. Or about ... I don't know, about any of you. I can flip a coin a bunch of times. Not about me, though. After Ridley Scott made that film about me called 'Gladiator', I decided enough is enough. I don't think you're in any of my novels. Maybe a poem. That's actually possible. I remember Omni. Does Omni not exist anymore, he asked embarrassingly? ** Sypha, I can take heights when there's a really big, sturdy wall between me and the gulf. But my worst horror and nightmare ever is when astronauts do space walks. My shoulders hunched just typing those words. ** Alan, Thanks, man. Yeah, I'll let you know about the interview. It's for a magazine called Le Matricule des Anges. Yeah, I'm pretty sure that was my text in Chris's video. I did wonder if I was dreaming, though. ** Bill, Bill Graham, yeah, that's the guy. Try to hear that song 'Decadent Jew'. I think that was far and away The Nuns' best, but time might have made them better. They were part of that frontline SF first wave punk band scene with Crime, The Avengers, et al. I'll be doing a photo update on the progress, yeah. Thanks! ** _Black_Acrylic, Ha ha, great Guardian quote about ABBA there. So true. And I've long been in the camp that reads 'The Day Before You Came' as being about death or the death-like. Bjorn or Benny once sidestepped a question about that in a way that basically proved the theory. ** Ken Baumann, Hey, Ken. I like the Lish idea of teaching a private workshop. I did that once in the, mm, early 90s in LA. Casey McKinney was in the class. My thing was to get writers thinking about their writing process in relationship to the processes of artists in other mediums. We'd study films, record albums, porn, performance art, ... I had a bunch of guest-artists come in to talk about how they thought aesthetically when they made their works. It was quite interesting. It worked pretty well. I loved doing that, and I could very much see doing that again. No, I don't know that Dale Pendall trilogy at all. It looks very interesting from the Amazon page. The novel you mentioned the other day turned out to be a false start? Happens more often not, I guess, at least for me. Salvage away, I say. Definitely, definitely link me up when that new writing of your appears. Can't wait for that. Brest is being pleasant. Not as pleasant as LA, mind you. ** Pisycaca, Oh, you did tell me that about waiting to come to Paris. I totally spaced out. Sorry about that. Our pieces always get better as they go along, so it'll likely be a smarter move to wait anyway, and it'll be greater to see you when you're not in such a rush. Thanks, M! Love, me. ** Kiddiepunk, Ah, my Parisian friend. The theater work went surprisingly well yesterday. I guess I'll explain in the day report to my fellow day reporter Itmpw. I do remember that thing you said about that film, and very cool if it's panning out. I hope it stays the right move to you so I can see what's what upon my return, obviously. I told the seagulls hi, and they said to tell you, 'whirack, whirack', or something like that. ** Casey McKinney, Yeah, I thought you were describing yourself as a superstructural version of Emily Dickinson meets Charles Dickens, which made sense too. Dude, comparisons to O'Hara and Schuyler are ultra-high compliments. It doesn't get much better than them. Do video record the next gig, promise. ** Memoirs of a Heroinhead, Aw, thanks for that, Shane. Or when/if you end up gumming your food, you could be Mark E. Smith, although I'm not sure his gig is as lucrative as the escort option. Anyway, there are two future career paths for you if need be. I'll give Brest my best if you give Lyon yours. You ever been here? It's not quite worth the trip unless you particularly like ports. The port part isn't bad. ** Kier, Well, if Satan had to take Dio, at least he gave you back your computer. What a schizo, that Satan. Oh, ha ha, did I misspeak about the escorts? Makes sense since I was fiddling with the next slaves post right before I launched into the p.s. My deepest apologies to all the hard working guys yesterday. I missed you, pal, oh yeah! And I'm so pleased you've adopted 'French Hole'. It'll serve you well, I promise. It's a magic title. ** Uli, Peter's definitely looking to add some fresh blood to Mego. I was telling him yesterday now much I like the Emeralds album, and he was in proud papa mode. I know some of Stellar Om Source, tracks and clips here and there. I like what I've seen/heard. You like them/it? Wow, that is a heck of musical future you've got there. I should check to see if those bands are swinging through Paris. Some of them are already for the Villette Sonique Festival in a couple of weeks. I'm going to be all over that. I was thrilled and kind of shocked that I'm going to get to see Wire here in Brest on Sunday. A band that great coming through a backwater like Brest is a Mr. Rare occasion. Usually, the city's full posters for gigs by the likes of Hocus Pocus and Golden Earring. ** Jeff, My current passport picture looks like the dad of my last passport picture, so yeah. ** Justin, Kinkos Press counts, yeah. Thanks, man. I'll have my agent get in touch, ha ha. I wonder if that MIT catalog had to do with the Malcom McLaren retrospective that the New Museum put together in ... the early 90s maybe? Really nice show. I probably mentioned this before, but it's sad 'cos my friend the artist Scott Treleaven met McLaren maybe six months ago, and he told McLaren I was massive fan of Bow Wow Wow and how I think they're his masterpiece, and he was all up and into meeting me and answering as many questions about Bow Wow Wow as I wanted, but then ... well, what happened happened. I was in London for most of the summer of '76 to check out the early punk scene. I went to his and Westwood's shop, but it was closed that day, and I never ended up going back, stupidly. ** Steevee, I think the only time I'd ever seen the word 'sinsilated' used before that escort's ad was in a Sade novel. ** Frank Jaffe, Hey, Frank. I was trying to share your enthusiasm about those pork tacos by imagining tofu-pork equivalents, but, unfortunately, as far as faux-meats go, pork does not translate well into faux-ness in my experience. Oh, Cocorosie has a new album out, right? I just got an invite to some festive launch party for it in Paris. I might go, but it starts at midnight, so I almost for sure won't. Glad to have brightened your day. Your comment upped the brightness factor of mine too. ** John, So, you have an ominous, spooky side too. Could that be what drove him away? Or was it his favorite part? ** STOPHEREYES. It's getting more gorgeous by the minute. Everyone, have you checked out Secrets of Loneliness yet? Do. You're so lucky to get to see Vag's show at PS122. I'm kind of in terrible pain about missing it. And I think Jamie Stewart is involved in the show too somehow. I would love a report on that if you don't mind. ** Blake Wood, I did indeed, and I'll go listen to what's up on his site. Thanks! Great if you can make it to Paris next month. Do let me know. Unless I'm back here in Brest at the time, we have to make sure our paths cross this time. ** Misanthrope, Mm, I don't think the escorts' location is a grabber for me unless it's, you know, Paris. The main thing is trying to find good American escort ads, which isn't easy at all. American escorts tend to be really unimaginative in their profiles and just sort of rent themselves by the book a la 'I'm hot, I'm nice, etc.'. I'm sure that works just fine and dandy business-wise, but it won't get them in my best of lists. I'm relieved your mom went to the doctor, and the result is of course both scary and a big whew. Now you get to have the fun of, first, trying to get her to quit smoking, and then living with her when she does. She really needs to, though, obviously. ** Inthemostpeculiarway, Tonplusgrandfantasme has a lot to say for himself, and then there's the ... could it be Ton? I mean the name translate as Ton plus a grand phantasm. If I were in the market, I think I'd blow my wad (of money) on him. If you can write drunk, you can write without, they say. It wasn't money-related gambling, I don't think. I think it was just for kicks. Actually, I'm not sure about that. Anyway, the tables were too packed with people to get close enough to snag or place a chip. A button, oh, I see. Yeah, at a certain age, I would have been all jazzed and sparkly if I had a button in my future. Maybe you should write a novel about a guy whom everyone thinks/ knows they can tell their sad stories to. Have you ever read Carson McCullers' 'The Heart is a Lonely Hunter'. It's about that. It's great. One of my long standing plans/ideas has been write a remake of that novel, but I don't know if I ever will, and I'll cede the idea to you. The bug/ nachos thing made me slightly nauseous, which is good, I don't know why. My Monday: Well, it was long and hard and good, I think. Let's see ... the core group of TIHYWD (the performers and a few others, basically) have been here already for about six days, and they got a lot done. The costumes and make up are now in place, and it makes a big difference. Jonathan Capdevielle is supposed to be an older man in the piece, and, with the make-over, he really does look about late 50s, early 60s. Jonathan Schatz is supposed to be a rock star, and now with his get-up, wig, make up and stuff, he looks like ... I don't know, a very cute, very fucked up goth/emo dark rock teen idol. And Margret is supposed to look like a dorky, dedicated young gymnast, and she does. And the mannequin characters are all in character now. And other stuff. It's coming along really well. Most excitingly for me, I wrote this text/poem/song lyric that is the 'epiphany' moment of the piece, and now it has been made into a song with Tujiko Noriko singing and music by Stephen O'Malley, and it sounds great, kind of Bjork meets a Tatu ballad. So, things are coming along nicely. Basically, we just rehearsed different parts and tested little effects like, for instance, the 'bloodying' of Jonathan Schatz's character when he's been beaten to death (blood capsules, blood filled breakable beer bottle that whacks him on the head, hidden blood packets). Today, we work on the ending, which is still really rough, and we record the new texts, which I guess I'll mostly be vocalizing with a 'fragile, depressed' voice, and we rerecord the 'teenagers finding the dead body in the river' part because the version we did in Paris ended with French voices up being too weird. So, we're going to try it again with Stephen, Peter, and Jonathan Schatz doing the voices. And a lot of the day will be devoted to testing the holographic and fog effects. I'll be catching what I can of that with the trusty crappy camera. Anyway, we rehearsed, got a bite to eat, and I went back to the hotel and crashed. Your turn, as always. ** I need to go supervise some theatrical thing now. Enjoy discovering or exploring Marechera's work. See you in the morning.
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