Deceiving, Isn't it? by Madi Fiely Book Review
The silence of the late hour, punctuated only by the rhythmic thump-thump of my own heart and the occasional sigh of settling furniture, held a peculiar resonance as I immersed myself in Madi Fiely's DECEIVING, ISN'T IT?. The lukewarm embrace of my forgotten coffee cup served as a tactile anchor to the unfolding emotional landscape within the pages, each poem and prose fragment a whispered confidence in the stillness. This wasn't merely an act of reading; it felt akin to deciphering an ancient scroll, each mark and space imbued with a significance that resonated with the quiet introspection the deep night often fosters.
The dedication itself, a gentle acknowledgment of the lineage of influence that shapes our present selves, acted as a subtle prelude to the book's central concerns. It spoke of inherited blueprints and the molding of roots, a concept that echoed in my own contemplations of family narratives and the subtle ways in which the past continues to inform the present. This initial gesture established a tone of intimacy, inviting a reader not just to observe but to participate in a shared exploration of identity's intricate tapestry.
As I navigated the collection, Fiely's voice emerged as a cartographer of the inner world, charting territories often left unmapped. "Mirage," encountered in the soft glow of my bedside lamp, became a visceral experience. The paradoxical embrace of pain and bliss felt akin to witnessing the unsettling beauty in the decay depicted in some of Berlinde De Bruyckere's sculptures – forms that are both wounded and strangely compelling. The "wretched elixir" that tastes of honeysuckle yet burns with "cyanide of despondency" resonated with the complex and often contradictory nature of human desire, a theme explored with similar raw honesty in the confessional poetry of contemporaries like Sharon Olds, where the delicate and the destructive often intertwine. The speaker's surrender as "the lover's fool" wasn't a simple admission of defeat but a complex acknowledgment of the seductive power of vulnerability.
The prose pieces offered grounding amidst the poetic flights. "Cellophane glass," read with the faint chirping of nocturnal insects seeping through the window, presented a potent metaphor for the self. The initial impression of roughness, the "cracks within my structure," mirrored the societal tendency to value flawless surfaces. Yet, the revelation of "bloodied rubies" within spoke to a deeper, more resilient beauty – a beauty forged in imperfection. This resonated with the artistic philosophy of Wabi-Sabi, the Japanese aesthetic that finds beauty in transience and imperfection. The geode's yearning to be discovered and to "glimmer against the horizon" became a quiet yearning for authentic connection and recognition, a desire that often surfaces in the solitude of the night.
"Staring at the tv screen," encountered as the digital world outside my window flickered with distant activity, delved into the haunting persistence of memory. The "static flickers" and "images cemented" evoked the way past experiences can intrude upon the present, much like the recurring motifs and fragmented narratives in the films of David Lynch, where the boundaries between reality and memory blur. The desire to "pop this VHS tape out" and immerse oneself in "visionary tales" spoke to the human impulse to seek refuge and understanding within constructed narratives, a theme explored with poignant detail in the poetry of Li-Young Lee, where personal history and myth often intertwine.
The stark vulnerability of "If," read with a shiver that had little to do with the night's temperature, confronted the conditional nature of desire with unflinching honesty. The series of self-negating hypotheticals – the imagined acts of self-mutilation – laid bare the primal fear of being loved not for one's essence but for a constructed image. This resonated with the feminist critiques of the objectified female form prevalent in the work of artists like Cindy Sherman, who often uses self-portraiture to explore the constructed nature of identity and the gaze. The image of the "rotting dolls" with faces "curled into a shape of hunger" was particularly unsettling, a potent symbol of the discarded and the dehumanized when they no longer conform to expectations.
Even the seemingly observational "city noise," read with the distant hum of urban life a faint undercurrent to the silence of my room, transcended mere description. The act of projecting narratives onto the anonymous figures below became a poignant commentary on the human need to create meaning and order in a chaotic world. The question about God's perspective, posed in that quiet moment, felt like a profound inquiry into the nature of observation, interpretation, and the inherent limitations of human understanding.
"A woman," encountered in the deepening hours, offered a refreshing departure from essentialist definitions. The string of seemingly disparate images – the wildflower, the stray sock, the clump of hair – celebrated the multifaceted and often contradictory nature of female identity. This refusal to be confined by singular representations echoed the fluid and non-binary explorations of gender and identity in the work of contemporary artists like Cassils. The poem became a testament to the complexity and richness of lived female experience, resisting easy categorization.
The visceral imagery of "Grit," read with a slight tightening in my chest, explored the relentless cycle of inner turmoil. The repetitive actions of brushing, spitting, and swallowing, coupled with the stark image of blood in the saliva, conveyed the inescapable nature of internal conflict. This resonated with the raw and often uncomfortable explorations of the body and its vulnerabilities in the work of artists like Jenny Saville. The "crimson shadow" served as a potent reminder that the self is not a pristine entity but a site of ongoing struggle.
Ultimately, my late-night encounter with DECEIVING, ISN'T IT? transcended the act of reading. It became a deeply personal dialogue with the anxieties, desires, and complexities of the human condition. Madi Fiely's unflinching honesty, coupled with her evocative and precise language, created a space for profound introspection. As the first hints of dawn began to paint the eastern sky, I closed the book, the weight of its insights settling within me like a quiet understanding gleaned in the stillness of the night. This is a collection that lingers, its echoes resonating long after the final page, prompting a continued contemplation of the multifaceted and often deceptive nature of the self.