Diatriblical Jottings

21 years old. Trying my best. Having a crack at writing a blog in order to kickstart my "writing career". I have an irritating fascination with everything that makes me angry or confused. Content warning: autistic rambles.

[diatriblicaljottings]

So apparently I haven't posted anything, or even touched this account, since I turned twenty one in December (at least). However, I just had a moment of clarity - and since I just deactivated Facebook for what will probably be the fifth time this year, I don't really have anywhere else to share this.

I was just reading a poem written by someone I know through mutuals. She doesn't have many followers. Yes, she has more than me, but that's not the point. I suppose the fact she doesn't have many followers may not be entirely relevant. Anyway. Her poem effectively made me realize why I've suffered from writer's block for so long. Why I feel that I have nothing worthy to share. Why my poems and musings and crappy little stories all revolve around the same themes and emotions. I simply don't do anything. I don't experience enough. I don't go anywhere, I don't see many people. I haven't really experienced the flavours of the places I have previously set foot in. And yet I expect inspiration. I expect to be one of those people that can see a lost glove on the side of the road and then proceed to write a publish-worthy short. I haven't even lived yet. Writing about misery and shortcomings only gets you so far. Locking yourself away and mulling over the past only gives you so much.

[diatriblicaljottings]

to the UK government

when you tell us to look elsewhere to realign our gifts and talents you're telling me that my therapy is useless and my outlets are fruitless the way i decorate my walls with focus hopeless at the snap of a finger lead in pencils crack the words on tongues dissolve 24/7 radio in my head becomes sounds keys tapping, computers humming, paper slicing all while we bind together like folders our metallic eyes almost meet enjoy your re-runs relish your 11pm drink hum to your classical music while the future composers will sink

[diatriblicaljottings]

How significant is the representation of masculinity to the way Othello functions as a tragedy?

Literature review

Believed to be written in 1603, the existence of ‘Othello’ has not only been disputed to be one of Shakespeare’s most successful plays due to the “treatment of such timely issues as race, gender, homoeroticism and domestic relations” (Evans, 2015), but also one of the most controversial – mostly due to how the aforementioned topics were approached. This is particularly surprising as Othello is widely acknowledged as “the least political (Shakespeare play) and even the least philosophical but also as the most domestic and personal” (Evans, 2015). Perhaps this disdain comes from a place of misunderstanding towards Shakespeare’s often critical yet atypical approaches to what could be described as sensitive topics. However, the representation of masculinity throughout ‘Othello’ can be linked to most of the mentioned analytical approaches, particularly masculinity and race, in a way that enriches our overall understanding of the text, and how it fit into the genre of tragedy. A critical essay by John R Ford reads, “the play powerfully critiques the racist and misogynist constructions of Venice by making its codes and conventions so visible to the audience” (Kolin, 2001) Othello’s extreme desire for achieving an ultimate state of masculinity directly correlates with the gender politics of the time, a time in which the misogynistic attitudes Ford refers to were rife in popularity, yet still unidentified as problematic and were therefore routinely normalized. In their masses, men synonymous to Othello encouraged and expected each other to actively participate in the discrediting of women to obtain their dominance and in turn, their sense of masculinity, or at least, what they believed to be attributes of masculinity. Whilst they have been greatly unacknowledged for thousands of years, both gender and race have still influenced political structures, including the ‘constructions of Venice’ addressed in Othello and Ford’s critical essay. This directly contrasts with Evans’ earlier observation of Othello being ‘the least political’ play to come from Shakespeare, as it could arguably be one of the most.  Alongside political ideals being a key function in the representation of masculinity, there are many contributing factors as to why Othello as a character could be protective of his masculine ego (the manipulation he endures at the hands of Iago being a namely one), though it is undeniable that as a person of colour with the ability to exist in such a high rank of power, despite living in a racist society, he faces much harsher judgement from other characters. Naturally this would also have significant impact on Othello’s personal difficulties with his insecurities, or when approaching threats to his masculinity. This becomes one of many tragedies described in the text – one that is very much involved in how the fundamentals of tragedy are incorporated into the thematic structure of Othello. “Culture is a masculine region, and everything that lies beyond its purlieus ± untamed nature, the sea, forests, brutes, cannibals, foreigners, belongs to the domain of the wild” (Wells, 2000)  – in this case, ‘the wild’ could be referring to the existing fear of the unknown, but more importantly it could be used to define ‘the Other’ - a term that refers to “the creation of a dichotomy between Europe and its ‘others’ … central to the creation of European culture… part of the process of maintaining power over them” (Loomba, 1998). This coincides with the social context of Othello, particularly with the reference to ‘foreigners’ in the culture Wells speaks of.  The often subliminal struggles that Othello faces as a black male character propel the tale of tragedy depicted within the text – as it is these very struggles that are used against him consistently, driving him to a point of ultimate self-questioning: when he makes the decision to kill Desdemona. Burning “with a desire to avenge the imagined loss of his masculine honour” (Wells, 2000) is quite a bleak outlook, given that many would dispute that this ‘imagined loss’ is not imagined at all. Societal norms, especially in the historical setting of this play, are so very much ingrained into the typical thinking patterns of many of the characters, that it is certainly realistic for the character of Othello to predict the tarnishing of his name or reputation. The vengeance referred to by Wells would not appear to be Othello’s true motive to kill her, as he denies having any knowledge of her death, so it plays no part in the restoration of his honour. It seems to be, however, a result of extreme expectations that Othello has internalised becoming a malformation of fear and unattainably high levels of self-respect.  The main tragedy at the core of the play depicts the impact of unrealistic and limited implications of masculinity being a motive for murder. Othello had been systematically brainwashed into believing his only option was taking drastic measures to prove his worth in terms of his masculinity, threatened with the negative societal impacts the alleged misdemeanours of his wife would cause. Whilst his actions may not be remotely excusable in any way, they serve the purpose of truly representing how toxic masculinity can result in tragedy – and the lengths a man of his tragic circumstances may go through to preserve his ‘masculine honour’.

   Analytical essay

The importance of masculinity in “Othello” is crucial to the genre of tragedy, as the desired trait of authority, achieving a true masculine status, is shared amongst the primary male characters - a persistent battle that eventually results in disastrous consequences. Iago’s personal lack of masculine identity is the cause of the downfall of multiple male characters, as he so clearly uses it as a tool of manipulation. Othello being such a high-status character, linking to his "manhood and honour" - is quite vulnerable in terms of becoming increasingly paranoid and suspicious of Desdemona betraying him. While Othello is being manipulated by Iago, Iago creates insinuations of Desdemona committing adultery in order to pressure Othello into a state of jealousy - before proceeding to essentially warn Othello not to worry about it. Iago’s mockery of the very concept he introduced into this discussion proves just how manipulative he is, and how he is manifesting Othello’s insecurity in his own masculinity proves this - "Oh, beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock. The meat it feeds on." (Act 3, Scene 3). Othello’s perceived ‘fragile masculinity’, which has been even further amplified by Iago’s antics, births the creation of what would become Othello’s hamartia in the tragic events to come. Furthermore, Iago creates the lie of Cassio being a violent alcoholic. In order to steal his job, Iago persuades Cassio to partake in heavy drinking, which leads to him being disgraced from his job, and in turn, his reputation. Iago’s discrete manipulation is used once again in the form of reverse psychology “"I had rather have this tongue cut from my mouth than it should do offence to Michael Cassio" (Act 2, Scene 3). This becomes a tragic flaw in Cassio’s story, continuing to destroy not only his masculinity, but also his self-worth and livelihood. With all of this being due to Iago’s jealousy of Cassio’s higher-ranking position, it reinforces the link between the pressures of maintaining masculinity and how highly men rank in both works, but also society. “Iago seems to have too many motives for his evil and thus paradoxically, no motives for it at all." (Evans, 2015). Iago's own drive - to gain a higher rank - pushes the ideology that honour equates to your level of masculinity, something which Shakespeare is almost critiquing through his creation of Iago’s character – a erratic, self-serving and desperate person whom projects his own masculine insecurities for personal gain.  

  Within the play the character of Emilia is a key part of how masculinity is portrayed, with strong opinions and an understanding of the masculine ideology she said some of the most noticeable things about how significant masculinity is within the tragedy. “They are all but stomachs, and we all but food, They eat us hungerly, and when they are full / They belch us” (Act 3, Scene 4). This phrase clearly shows that for the men within this play, women are the source of sexual satisfaction and not much more than that. Not allowing women to have any position of authority or experience a liberty of decision-making - clearly shows how society’s obsession of masculinity at the time built a hierarchy, in terms of gender. Women only really had each other to rely on, and Shakespeare progressively shows Emilia's loyalty to Desdemona only growing stronger. As a woman of practical intelligence, shown to not be led by her emotions, Emilia becomes a key character in relation to masculinity within the tragedy. The juxtaposition between Emilia and her partner Iago creates the potential of her strong-minded personality being one of many causes towards Iago’s pathetic drive to emasculate himself. Although Emilia stands by Iago through the play, in the end she denounced his lies to defend Desdemona’s reputation after her death. With regard’s to Desdemona’s murder, after being severely wounded by her husband and close to death, she remains adamant on her refusal to reveal Othello as her murderer and claims it was suicide – “Nobody. I myself. Farewell. Commend me to my kind lord. Oh, farewell!” (Act 5, Scene 2) This may be because of how much she loved her husband, but it was primarily due to the extreme effects of Othello’s desire to achieve true masculinity – a virtue Desdemona herself intends to assist with as to prove her true loyalty in her final moments.   Othello’s goal to prevent other men from being betrayed by Desdemona, further perpetuates the idea that truly masculine men must adhere to the heroic stereotype and make sacrifices for the sake of other people, even when it concerns the love of their life.

During Shakespeare’s life, there was a strict social construct of gender norms, as well as a hierarchy of sexes. As each gender experienced their own role in society, it was only logical that they'd be shown within Shakespeare’s plays. Throughout Shakespeare’s ‘Othello’ the ideology of masculinity is presented to us through the different themes that are addressed, whilst being set in a regressive and male-dominated world. The unachievable goal of obtaining an elite state of masculinity results in many conflicts of character, with horrific atrocities being committed as a result of this - from degradation of race and gender, to the sheer manipulative nature of many characters, there are a stark amount of negative consequences that can be construed as being tragic. Alongside the more obvious defining factors of tragedy within Othello, masculinity - and the constant urge to exude it – is the most consequential catalyst that results in the melancholic epilogue of this play.

 Bibliography

Evans, R. (2015). Othello: a Critical Reader, Bloomsbury Publishing Plc.

Kolin, P. (2001). Othello: Critical Essays., Taylor & Francis Group.

Loomba, A. (2015). Colonialism/postcolonialism (Third ed., New critical idiom).

Wells, R. (2000). Shakespeare on Masculinity, Cambridge University Press.

[diatriblicaljottings]

And so, she played

Someone sure smells ripe on this train. The slightly too tight belt that adorns my trench coat digs into my ribs like a blunt blade. Plenty of people throughout the carriage wear those new AirPods; a handful of others wear Galaxy Buds. Apparently, Galaxy Buds do the same thing, but they are ten pounds cheaper, just like ‘desperate women’. At least, this is according to the man squished into the seat directly behind me, relaying his sexual encounters of last night. The old man seated directly next to me feigns reading a book about the history of Vietnam - but he’s clearly people watching like me. His socks are piss yellow. He sort of smells like piss too. Whilst I think of how it could be him that smells ripe, I notice what I hope to be a brown sauce stain on his beige slacks. Seemingly, he’s the only person reading a book (or pretending to) in my eyeline. However, it’s quite hard to tell when I don’t have the aid of my prescription glasses. I snapped them like a twig and threw them into a skip moments before boarding the 08:38am train to King’s Cross. It was a month or so ago when I first noticed the glossy grand piano, positioned on a raised platform in the centre of the train station. It wasn’t the first station to do it – pianos had been popping up in stations and city centres all over the country, for people to play at their leisure. Other than the occasional toddler thumping down on random keys, or a gentle old man shakily playing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’, the piano hadn’t seen much use. My own piano at home was similar in this sense, I had hardly played it in the three years I lived with him. He had said that I paid far too much attention to a skill that won’t go anywhere, I was getting old, my body especially, it was time to settle. Time to do something worthwhile, like bare his children. We did try, many times, but I just was never able to carry a baby. This fact bothered him more than me. I always knew that my body was crafted to carry music instead. Seated across the table from me, a woman with two sore looking marks indenting on either side of her nose, uses her sleeve to wipe down her ill-fitting pair of glasses. I observe in the reflection of the train window that I also have those marks, amongst my many stress related acne scars. Much to my surprise, the woman begins to hum, softly and unprompted, the piano symphony ‘Phantom of the Opera’, a musical I had once been involved in, consequently meeting my would-have-been husband. Of course, she can’t possibly know this, but I make a mental note of it being the very same song I had arranged to play upon the church piano for the consummation of my marriage to him, the very same day I was jilted at the altar. When I look back to her, she becomes the first and only person to look into my eyes, for the whole twenty-minute journey. Even though it was only for a minute second, it’s the first time I have truly felt noticed since I met my fiancé, before he ran away with one of his fertile theatre students. Now I’m on the platform once again and it smells even worse than the train. Like Virgin Trains have decided to burn the fecal matter from the toilets instead of disposing of it properly. Donning a shocking orange vest which strains on all the wrong points of his body, a conductor drools down his chest in a fit of anger, trying once more to stress to the man with broken English that his train has been delayed. Since disembarking the train, the pressure from my coat belt is very much starting to cut into me, almost straining to hold me back; a firm grip that tries to scream words of sense into my skin. I ignore it the best I can, pushing on through the crowd. A sickly hue of orange, glowing from the time display board for the trains, bounces off the endless crowds of bobbing heads in front of me. Screeching to life, a robotic and callous voice announces the recent train schedule development, the word “cancelled” seemingly echoing around the station much louder than the rest. The news is met with a unanimous hum of general outrage and dismissal, as the hordes begin to disperse, revealing a clear path towards the piano’s platform dominating the centre. I think of how he used to touch me in the beginning, trailing his fingers over my skin, his own treasure, a delicate possession. My movements mirror this thought, as I allow my fingertips to glide over the surface of the grand piano, my muse from the beginning. I drink in each single dent and scratch, the grooves, the spaces between the keys, the markings of life, love, memories across every inch of resin. I cherish them the way he could never learn with me or my markings, my wrinkles, the freckles of my past. Just as the belt around me becomes almost unbearable, I allow my hand to move momentarily from the piano’s surface, finally freeing the knot holding the belt together. The black straps cascade down to my hips, the front of my coat sliding open accordingly.  Ever so slowly, I slip out from underneath the coat, baring my naked body to a world that does not even pause to diminish my acres of skin, like he would have me believe. The masses continue, fleeing to their jobs, their loved ones, the day ahead of them. My rolls of flesh, or the constellation of moles upon my back and arms need not matter to their passing eyes. I take my long-awaited seat, stretch out my fingers and I begin to play the symphony that I would have played on my wedding day. Except, the music doesn’t belong to that memory anymore. Finally, it belongs to me.

[diatriblicaljottings]

I don’t think you needed me after all.

This afternoon, much like most afternoons as of late, I woke up with a million and one thoughts zipping around my skull like a subpar, anxiety-inducing pinball machine. Granted, most them aren't really worth the notion of being anything more than a fleeting idea. In fact, a lot of them derive from the most peculiar pinpoints of my life up until now - events or moments I probably should have forgotten (because I doubt anyone else present still thinks about it), though they always find their time to drip into my thought stream.

Today, the star of The Ponder Show (coming to you live from my cranium), was a young Chinese girl from my high school. I never knew her name, or perhaps I did for a while but I forgot. She wasn't in my year group. I believe she may have been two years below me. We never spoke. She was not my friend. Yet, frequently I would see her skulking around hallways - backpack strapped tight enough to wrinkle the ugly blazer which was the centrepiece of our tasteless school uniform. Usually engrossed in a graphic novel of some sort; it was in these moments where I believe I saw her for who she truly was, and she seemed very content with her own company. But, of course, this occurrence took place in a British secondary school circa 2015, so the serenity never lasted long. A tidal wave of pubescent rage and toxic masculinity brought boisterous bullies barrelling down the hallways to torment their ‘ch*nk girlfriend’ - offering her false promises of friendship and connection just so they could experience an empty sense of power over another person for a couple of seconds before class, before being under the ‘watchful eye’ of a teacher. The worst part? She believed it all. Or she seemed to. When they teased her with their ‘date proposals’, her skin would glow with glee. When they told her she was the prettiest girl they had ever seen, she would bask in their forgery. And as somebody that frequented as a victim in the same types of ridicule, I would watch on in mute horror; calves burning with the urge to storm over and say something, anything, to make them stop. Because I knew that even if she believed them then, there would come a point soon where she would see a glitch in their cruel matrix - a cackle hidden behind a phone camera, a slur buried within the sham, a clear warning in a sea of subtlety. A catalyst for an adulthood full of self-shaming paranoia and inability to trust a compliment. It had taken me far too long for me to realise it for myself - because whilst I wanted to believe that these people would peak in high school, I still felt a harrowing inclination to credit them for the complexities of their under-the-radar intimidation towards me, their ability to make me feel so insignificant even when their words would appear as friendly to a passing listener.  It took me even longer to realise, as a fresh adult, that not everybody reacts to the tyranny of high school oppressors in the same way. As I continually flipped this recollection in every possible angle, something became very apparent to me. This girl, more than likely, knew all along what they were attempting to do to her. She never needed any protection from this thicket of idiots, let alone mine. Time and time again, she chose to hear her own version of their backhanded compliments, in the comfort of her own brain. Her brain: a place where she could truly feel beautiful, a tower in which she could look far out, to pity the hoard of fools who never realised their words could be taken at face value. This girl had a formidable power over them - one that meant their mechanical, tedious hidden meanings would forever remain hidden in her eyes. I hope with all of my being that this power of hers only intensified over the years. The glint in her eye always suggested that it would. 

[diatriblicaljottings]

Welcome to my void!

I am acutely aware that not many people actually use Tumblr for writing a blog anymore. But hey, it’s lockdown babyyyy! And it’s safe to say that the tediousness, the boredom and the persistent thought spirals of failing at life - well, they’re starting to get to me. So... here I am. Writing a blog. With no theme. You’re going to get it all from me. My rambles, my rants, my repetitive poetry, my sub-par screenwriting exercises. I want to storm this depressing virtual world with my words and thoughts, in a desperate attempt to obtain some freelance writing opportunities. Honestly, I just figured I would be honest from the start. Like many writers, I am not a fan of my own work - but my mother drilled one piece of cliche advice into my head from day one: everyone has got to start somewhere. And this is me starting.