of whores and horses; further contemplations on writing...

Whenever people ask me if I speak any of the local Zambian languages, I usually avoid the long complicated answer that is an autobiography of my childhood and say I only know three words: Osa donsa maningi! This means “Don’t pull too much!” This response has raised quite its fair share of eyebrows, especially when told to a group of Zambian men, who can’t help but wonder how, or why I know these words, these three words in particular. It is not what you think. Tsk! Because I used to own a mad horse, who was mad when I was on him, and madder when I wasn’t (need I emphasize he was a him?), and who once hospitalized his groom following a grandiose display of his ego—these became the only three words I needed to know. When a horse acts up, be it out of fear or mischief, in a moment of panic, most people would follow their first instinct and pull tighter. But man’s reason against horse’s madness is a tempestuous fray whose outcome and consequence neither horse nor man can categorically foresee. So for both the horse’s sake and the man’s, and the stable door’s for that matter, the groom holding him should always be jolted out of his panic and screamingly reminded: osa donsa maningi! (Because of countless such experiences, I seem to not know how to say these words, only to shout them). And so, pair after pair of broken reins, and many osa donsas later, we all eventually learned, whether on him or not, just to let go. It is interesting that in a sport so defined and judged by control, sometimes the only command you need is to let go of it.

The human race has long deluded itself into believing that equestrianism is about man’s control over beast, and has over centuries developed both countless tools and skills that might aid him in attaining it. But when man and horse come together—two creatures, by nature, both precarious in their own right, control too, becomes a slippery and fragile notion. Sometimes, with horses, something as small as the momentary fluttering of bird, or rustling of a plastic bag—and not only are there a lot of those in Zambia, but they seem to always be RED and YELLOW, damn Shoprite!— is enough to put all those years of training and all those skills helplessly out of use, and leave you with only three that might work: let go, stay calm, and pray. Here, the natural question is, how do you stay calm, and its all too natural answer is that you don’t. You fake it. What you sign up for every time you a mount a horse is a twisted mind game; he knows he’s ultimately in control, and on occasion chooses to remind you of this—and while little you also knows he’s in control, you can’t let him know you know it.

Horses are often regarded by some as stupid creatures, not only because running away from a plastic bag is generally considered a feat of idiocy, but because an animal that willingly subscribes to the slavish fate of having something on top of it for half of its lifetime is, and could only be, by definition, stupid. But the truth is, the horse is as intelligent as it is wild, for it knows that the weight of the creature on its back is but a feather in comparison to the weight of his power to psychologically get on top. If and when it happens, as it often does, that he is literally on top, because you are lying on the ground next to him—unless it was an accident, it is only because you refused to play the game. And as far as their fear of plastic bags or birds is concerned, let us not hastily forget that endless lexicon of man’s phobias, including amathophobia (fear of dust), chronomentrophobia (fear of clocks), papyrophobia (fear of paper), to name but a few. (For a longer list, please visit, http://phobialist.com - no kidding!) Why are we so willing to fear horses (equinophobia), or hate them (would this be misequinism?) for their “madness,” and yet so willing to forgive our own?

Which brings me back to the topic of my madness—writing. As with the equestrian discipline, in the writing one too, we have developed the tools and training that lead us to believe we have control. That is to say that, words, if you have them and know how to use them, allow you to say whatever you want and however you want. And this we have certainly done; from their foundation, we have built letters, laws and entire constitutions—we have demonstrated, as does the graceful dressage rider, that we have mastered control. But beautiful, challenging and rewarding as dressage can be, sometimes the best rides are the ones where you let go. And the best riders the ones who are capable of doing so. Equestrianism is not about man’s mastery of control over beast—it is about man’s mastery of rapport with beast, a relationship of mutual exchange, learning and trust, whose fulfillment becomes clearest when the control becomes blurriest, and galloping along wildly, rider strangely becomes beast. And so it is with stories. The greatest documents are written by men who have the greatest control over their words, but the greatest stories are written by ones who can look their control of words fiercely in the eye, and shout: Osa donsa maningi!

So it is, that my writing career began. In the first (and only) writing class I ever took, one in which thirty students took home the vague instructions to write about this or that, in this or that way, and weekly returned with their pieces to read them aloud and comment, I very quickly decided that I didn’t want to blend into the boring line of perfectly groomed and gleaming geldings (castrated male horses), but to gallop through wildly on a stallion that would leave them all in shock. Incidentally, when this does happen with horses, and a wild one gallops tearingly through, all the ones that are penned up, tacked up, or being ridden, begin to neigh. I don’t speak horse very well, but I think what they are saying is, that looks like fucking fun! I didn’t care whether I would be judged as the most talented writer, or the most intelligent, or the most profound—instead I took it as my personal invictus to brighten up two and half hours of monotonous reading with a little bit of fucking fun. I use that word again, because that is exactly what I chose to write about. I abandoned all those poetic descriptions of the manicured lawns in front of my childhood homes, or the rocking love of my grandfather’s knee (of which they all wrote) and I wrote, about sex. For added shock, or laughter—whatever the effect as long as it was strong!—I wrote about bad sex.

And as far as my only intention was to get the biggest reaction, whatever it may have been, I fully succeeded. The professor soon learned to put my piece on the top of the pile to start the workshop off with a bang, and a bang it always was, complete with gasps, laughter and tears. I used every possible word “you’re not supposed to use” in a classroom, especially in front of a highly respected and even famous writer such as Luc Sante, and I let both my words and imagination go to infinity and beyond when it came to arranging them. (“You know the fingering is bad if it seems like he’s searching for the last olive in a jar”). I so poeticized and exaggerated and vulgarized my rather sad and uneventful sex life that I even managed to earn myself a reputation as a bit of a whore. A whore that was impossible to please, no less. But considering I knew this was far from the truth, I didn’t mind donning the textual wig and knee-high boots to play the prostitute. After all, a prostitute in a room full of “ladies,” like a wild stallion in a field of dressed ponies, is the one who gets the attention.

Even though the title of my blog may suggest otherwise, I think I have since managed to rid myself of that reputation. But I have also since learned a lot about writing, and begun to think that a “whorish” reputation may be the only, if not the best one, a writer can have. For what else is writing but a textual form of prostitution? How different really, is the writer from the prostitute—the prostitute who offers her naked body up to the stranger—when the writer bears his soul? What else is a good writer but a lowly laborer who knows his audience all too well, and only aims to please? And how else to judge the best writer, if not as the one whose readers keep coming back? When that class ended, and I asked Luc to sign a copy of his book for me, he wrote something along the lines of “You have been a pleasure to teach and I look forward to seeing your sexcapades turn into a book.” It was in that moment that I first began to think about a career in writing, and in that same moment that I came to terms with being a “prostitute.” I realized then and there, that if Luc had foreseen my success because I had let go, because I had spread my sex life like butter on that classroom table, then the only way to rise to that success would be to continue doing so. If I was going to be a writer I would have to kiss my secrets goodbye, and to remember that if I ever found myself in a panic about doing so, only three words would save me: Osa donsa maningi.

But those three priceless words do indeed come with a price. When you have bad sex, you’re pretty much on your own; the other person usually doesn’t know (or care) that its bad—that is why it is bad. So when it comes to telling the story—its all yours to tell. As is a prostitute with her body, you are entitled to freely “whore it out” and share it with whomever you wish—because that story is only yours to share. When it comes to good sex however, what’s good about it is that you’re both there—allow me that writerly cliché—you’re on the same page. So if you tell the story, you are not only telling your story but inevitably, somebody else’s too. To return to the horses for a moment, I should add, that the only time one might question letting a horse go is when you are not alone but in a group. For when one goes, they all do. And while you may be trusting or fearless enough to let yours go, those behind you may not. So it is with stories, for they, like horses, don’t always travel alone. In fact, it turns out, like good sex, good stories—or the best stories—are often the ones that are shared. And what I didn’t realize that day I so willingly decided on a career that depended upon a prostitution of my soul, is that I would one day have to tell a story that whored out somebody else’s too. So to all those of you who have shared your lives with me, or joined me for the ride, I am both grateful and sorry—incredibly sorry, for the moment you appear in a blog or a book, you too, become whores. That said, I cant help but laugh a little evil laugh, for with all of you as my harem, I think this means that I have finally graduated from that class—that I, am now, a P.I.M.P. And as your pimp I only have one soft and gentle request—please, if I choose to whore out our stories, for my sake, and for yours (as you are my readers too!); osa donsa maningi.