Playing the Fool

I don't know if I should be thinking of this as the first day of my vacation or no.  Its a Saturday for one thing.  For another thing I'll likely have to go into work some time next week.  But the truth is yesterday was the last day of work.  I had it in mind when I played video games until I was sick last night.  I had it on my mind when I woke up this morning and wanted nothing more than to go back to bed.

But again...that might just be because it's Saturday.

I think the topper is the fact that I'm constantly reminded that its the holidays.  That makes it real.  The music is all over the radio, the ads are all over the TV, and there's the constant sound of firecrackers in the neighborhood that are liable to drive both the dog and I absolutely batshit.  It is unmistakeably, unavoidably Christmas time.  Free time.  And for me...alone time.  Just what I wanted all year round.  Right?

I should have been travelling by now.  I should have either been on a plane or somewhere waiting for a plane.  I should have ben with the woman i love.  instead i'll be...somewhere.  I don't know yet.  I'll think of something though.  I'll go mad if I spend Christmas in a house on my own.  i'll die if I do the same for New Years.  Maybe I can convince someone to go on a road trip with me.  Maybe I can go to Mexico or Guatemala.  After a dozen trips, I'm still not fed up with Chetumal yet.  And I've never been to Flores.

Flores sounds nice.  Merri would want me to go.

With my mind, I'd do better not to speculate about why I'm spending the holidays by myself.  My doubt and insecurity can only do me harm.  But lets consider this:  People say you can't help who you fall in love with.  I disagree.  You can help it.  You can resist.  You can even ignore the fact that such a thing as love even exists.  When we do fall in love, or more accurately, when we do the things that people who are in love do, we do so by choice.  And we do so knowing that we are taking a huge risk.  That we'll get our hearts broken.  That we'll make fools of ourselves.  That the other person isn't as honest, as sweet, as kind and wonderful as you've percieved them as.  But you take that risk because you love them.  And loving them makes you feel as if you're being loved.  Even if it turns out you're only fooling yourself. 

And its worth it.  Its always worth it.  How wonderful it is to play the fool.  How wonderful it is to pretend you're still by my side, and i by yours, and that nothing; not time or space or the influences of other hearts around you can even begin to touch that.  Afterall, there's no such thing as far away.

Get it out

Yesterday was not my best of days.  And although there was only one thing that really went wrong, it feels something like one of my worst days. 

Merri's back in Trinidad, after her many week trip to Europe.  I saw her online and got so excited I was almost overwhelmed.  What should I do first?  Talk to her, of course.  But what should I say?  There were a million things.  Too many to make sense of, especially since I still wasn't sure it was really her or I'd seen someone else and my desirer it to be her was so strong that it painted my perceptions.  My perceptions are notoriously gullible, you see.  And in particular, when it comes to emotions, it doesn't take much to pull the wool over my eyes. 

But it was her.  Certainly.  And if it wasn't, it was a good enough trick to be worth the embarrasment.  Most of all I had to give her the good news: That ne way or another, i would be seeing her this holiday season.  I would see her, she would see me, we'd both be happy people for it.  For weeks now I'd been playing out the scenario in my mind.  I'd be waiting, perhaps at baggage handling, looking nervously through the crowd of Christmas travelers for a familiar face, and she would weave through, unseen except for the brilliance of her smile, her skin, her radiant hair.  My heart would weaken, but my muscles would have to be ready because here she comes, leaping in to my arms.  I hold her to my chest firmly and we kiss brightly, both of us fighting back tears.

Yeah.  that's the kind of shit I think about.  At least, when i comes to her.  there's a constant soundtrack playing in my mind, mostly passionate strings in notes that reach the heavens.  The things I do or sa are much more mundane.  Much less impressive.  Its much harder to be romantic in practice, I think.  So, I open up the conversation with the most romantic thing I could think of at that moment: 'Hello my Darling.'

For long time there's othing.  An intolerably long time.  Long enough for the same mind that had us swirrling in an airport while the camera pulled away from above, to think the worst.  To see her seeing my message, and before she can respond she's playfully yanked back into bed by her other lover.

I don't take pride in thinking this way.  She'd probably scold me even doubting her.  But that's just what I think.

Eventually she does respond though.  She say 'Hey' and it makes my heart sink.  The conversation that follows is equally troubling.  The fact that there was a perfectly reasonable, acceptable excuse for her being aloof and distracted (She was likely tired having just gotten back home.  Likely frustrated with her mom and dad fighting.  Likely disappointed that I hadn't found some way to get in touch sooner, etc.) doesn't make things any better.  It makes them a bit worse, in fact.  We've become mundane.  Just something that exists in the back of the mind.  The ache in our hearts and the back of our minds has become so common place that we've forgotten about it.  Its probably not true, but its a possibility.

Its also a possibility that I'm the only one who feels this way.  Not knowing is the worst thing of all.

You win again, Burpy McGee!

I hate my coworker.

Well,  maybe hate is too strong a word.   In fact it m ay be, as my father taught me, to strong a word for any situation.  But she's not one of my favorite people.  She rubs me the wrong way, though, simply by being.  There's something absolutely infuriationg about the combination of her diminutive mania, her obnoxious brayings, her propensity to threaten physical violence, her complete lack of humility and etiquette, her refusal to display any sort of humility, and her unrestrained compuslion to share her oppinion on everything from politics to that spoonful of food you're about to shovel into your mouth.

But even more than, or perhaps because of, her many flaws, I find myself incensed by her values.  Her generosity is truly unmatched, and everytime she brings me breakfast the hungry tongues of flame that make up my disdain are subsued, but the embers of my annoyance glow white hot.  How dare you make me like you!

This morning she walked in the office and sat in her seat.  A few moments later the room became noticebaly warm, and I realized that , once again, she'd left the office door wide open.  My inner fire roared to life as I got up to swing the door shut with a slam, and i turned back, ready to tell her off...only to be immediately supplicated with cookies and corn chips.

This is how corruption begins.

Realizations

My grandmother is getting old.  No, scratch that.  My grandmother is old.  Even after the stroke and the cataracts and...and everything.  It never quite occurred to me.  The rest of the family say she's gotten skinny.  Frail looking.  I remember her eating a slice of buttered toast and a cup of milky tea for breakfast, then go run one half of a farm with no more help than it takes to say "Do this" and immediately follow up with "You're doing it wrong!  I'll do it!".  I was convinced she was simply fueled my cruelty and spite.  Why else would she disturb or saturday morning  cartoons by forcing us to help with the laundry?

Who needs laundry anyway?

But last week she fell.  She'd already had a stroke leaving one of her sides paralyzed.  It affected her mind as well, the stroke.  She has long, long periods of confusion.  Not one of her children is called by the name that corresponds with their faces.  Though, I think there's simply a mis-correlation of what she knows and what she feels at work.  My dad, for instance, has been taking care of her.  He's now the man that's almost always there.  The one that relaxes with her out on the front porch on evenings, watching the vehicles go by, listening to the sound of the breeze and the summer flies.  And so, she calls him Albert.  Not after her son, I don't think.  But after her late husband.  And I am the stranger.  The burly one that she knows, but hardly ever sees.  The one with the beard and mustache now, when she's none me as a small, skinny, fair faced boy all my life.  I'm also the dark one.  'The Black one' as she used to call me.  And I'm either Johnny or Henry, who are first cousins to my uncles and Aunts, the offspring of my grandfather's brother.

"When's Johnny coming?"  She said to my dad as he cleaned up her ear with the corner of a rag dipped in Hydrogen peroxide.  Only she said it in Spanish, just as she'd always insisted on speaking for as long as I'd known her.  "Cuando Johnny vas a venir?"  My dad, as is the custom, replied in english, pointing to me.  "He's right there.  See?  See Johnny there?"  I tried to take the look of worry out of my eyes.  I tried to make my face calm, passive.  I even tried to smile a little.  Her eyes touched on mine for barely a second before she looked at the space just above my right shouider.

"Adonde?"  She asked weakly.
"Right there."  My father pointed, and he reached over to squeeze my arm.  For a long moment she stared at the space above my shoulder.

"No lo veo."  She said simply, and gave up looking.  She looked sad.  When I came in she barely looked up at me, or at my aunt.  She'd stopped bleeding from her cut ear and my dad was holding a bit of crushed ice wrapped in a dishtowel to it.  There was a bruise on her forhead as well, not swolen but clearly blue.  When he pulled the ice away I could see that she had been bleeding, the evidence was in her hair and on her clothes.  It wasn't a lot of blood, but it was too much for a little old lady, which I suddenly realized is what she was.

She looked so sad too.  She had her head propped up in her palm and her eyes closed while everyone rushed about.  She didn't seem too happy about the whole incident at all.  My dad mentioned that she didn't want to call anyone.  I got the distinct feeling that it was more about embarrassment than anything else.  My dad and aunt had a brief arguement.  Well, it was hardly anything like an argument compared to the words that get exchanged on my mom's side of the family, but their tones were harsh.  They talked about 'proofing' the house.  How did she fall?  Where did she fall?  How did she get outside in the first place.  What was she doing out there?  Why was she left unsupervised?  And with each condescending question and retort I saw my grandmother grow smaller and smaller.  More frail.  More old.  And it wasn't just my imagination either.

My aunt hurried into the kitchen and started boiling water and smashing cloves of garlic and other herbs which she would later mix in a small bowl.  A naturally antiseptic wash, with which she later cleaned up the rest of Mama.  My dad took the opportunity to show me the rest of his work.  In truth, it wasn't so much his digression as it was mine.  Or, maybe it was both of us really.  I'd been staring at a jar on the table.  A wooden box, really.  Round, with a series of ringed bevels all the way to the bottom.  If it weren't for the differences in grain I'd have thought someone had carved it out of a single piece of wood.  Just a nice shape, purely for aesthetics.  But then he showed me, with a bit of a turn and a pull, that it opened and had a wide space inside.  A sort of groved locked box.  It was nice enough, I suppose.  Clever.  But I felt the urge to sort of show it up, as if it was the most clever thing I'd ever seen.  That only encouraged him.  I don't regret it, mind you, because he took me to see his other creations.  His jewelry, mostly.  Wooden earings and the most beautiful wooden bangles I'd ever seen.  They were purple heart, he told me.  And He'd aparantly started with the out layers, resulting in a few pieces that were speckled yellow and blue, and culminating with other pieces that were luxiuriously dark and polished to a shine.  They were beautiful.  Honestly beautiful.  And without any special adorations or designs.  He'd simply polished them down to their natural, beatiful state.

I wanted them all in that moment.  For Merri.  I'd like to adort her arms with them all the way up to her shoulders.  I'd let her glow compete with their glow, so the world would know that she's even more lovely than these.  The loveliest thing nature's ever made.

By the time we got back from our digression Mama was eating, though grudgingly so.  My aunt was smearing spoonfulls of beans onto tortias, along with some cream cheese, and feeding it to her.  She ate.  She fixed her face into a scowl of disgust, and stared at every morsel pensively before she took a bite, but she chewed, and swallowed, and ate her fill.  And occasionally she stared at me.  Not at the space above my right shoulder, mind you.  Me. 

My aunt said something condescending and ridiculous.  Something like "Mama, you musn't go outside again."  Mama just glared at her out of the corner of her eye.  And she stared at me.

"Have you eaten?"  My dad asked.  I hadn't.  I'd been on my way out to meet my cousin at a game when they'd called to tell me she'd fallen.  "There's food in the kitchen."  he said.  "Help yourself, you know where everything is."  I didn't know where anything was.  I'd known when I was a child, maybe.  When everything was slightly above my head and I'd have to climb on somthng, or reach for a long pot spoon so I could reach for something else.  I'd know where everything was when I washed the dishes and hat to put everything somewhere.  I hunted for a plate.  A knife and a fork.  A cup.  I wound up with a plastic children's plate that had been placed too close the stove at one time.  Alladin's face and body had been melted into a black and brown swirl.  I also wound up with a spoon instead of a knife and fork.  "Que estas comiendo?"  My grandmother asked me.  I suddenly felt unsure, as if I'd invaded her space and had somehow deigned that, after countless months of not seeing her I could come into her home, dip into her pot, push my feet under her table and eat.  And i also felt the fear of disrespect.  Disrespect for my grandmother by not answering.  "Beans and tortilla."  I replied.  She looked at me with a wry smile on her face, as if she'd caught the distinct scent of a bullshitter.  "Te gustas los frijoles?"  She asked.  I nodded my head yes, and remembered a dozen smacks in the back of my head, with my grandmother shouting in broken english 'What if I was blind?" and I quickly found my voice.  "Yes Mama" I said before even taking my first bite.  The beans were cold.  Saltless.  The tortillas warm but dry.  I tried not to let my displeasure show on my face.  Mama grinned at me.

I think that was the point when I truly realized it.  She wasn't as much sad or senile as she was lonely.  And old.  But perhaps the two go hand in hand.  When she came out of her fuge, when the pain of her fall and the embarrassment of so much fuss subsided, she seemed to realize that she was surrounded by her family.  I looked behind me, over the my right shoulder.  There was a small shelf on the wall that had always been there ever since I was a child.  It was crowded with medication bottles and knick knacks, things she'd sewn and put together.  Decorations that were once vibrant and delicate creations, and had now yellowed with dust and time.  "Porque no puedes venir?"  I heard her say.  My dad took up the charge of the question.  He followed her gaze to my turned head and said "Because he's eating.  Let him finish eating."  But in that moment I understood her.  And I understood that she was speaking from a place of plain lucidity.  And my heart sank.  "Porque no puedes venir?" She repeated.  I still don't have an answer.

Eventually, she continued like that, speaking in the present.  Speaking to me.  Not Johnny or whatever ghost of the past hung over my right shoulder.  My dad started talking about Meghan.  How he met her at an artisans fair.  How she seemed to really like that camera of hers.  My grandmother interrupted, as is her right as matriarch, telling us that she needed a picture of me.  No, of us.  "The two of you."  She said in english, which I still think requires quite a bit of effort for her.  "Just like that."  I realized then that we were, perhaps, an image of the past.  Of my dad and his dad, sitting at the table and chatting.  Two men wearing the same smile.  The same forehead and brows.  The same nose.  The same blood.  My aunt was still trying to squeeze an oath from her.  "Say 'I will not go outside'."  she ordered.  Mama looked at her askance for a second, as if reminding her sixty-something year old daughter to whom she was speaking.  "Say it, Mama."  she persisted.  "Say 'I will not go outside."  Mama raised her one working hand in a motion of annoyance, but was too weak to swat with it.  "Yes mommy!"  She declared in frustration and turned back to me.  "Tu madre sabes que tu estas aqui?"  I told her she probably didn't.  "Estan en Belize?"  she asked.  I told her no, she'd gone to New York.  Mama nodded her head, and immediately set out to feed me.  She told me there were plaintains hanging in the kitchen.  That I should take some.  There was soursop Ice in the freezer.  Have some before you go.  She told me that I missed out on the cashews and the tambran, and the golden plums and breadfruit. 

And then she said good night.

My aunt took her into the bedroom and got her changed.  She took a warm washcloth to wipe the blood from her hair and neck, and got her out of h er bloody camisole and into something clean and warm.    When she was done getting Mama ready she came out and we started packing up to go.  By the time we were out of the door my grandmother had wheeled herself out of the bedroom using a broom as an oar.  The exact same method that got her out of the house and falling out of her wheelchair in the first place.  But she was smiling.  Sort of.  It was a mischievous smirk really, as she waved something in her good hand calling out 'Vayan a su casa!"

And that's the memory I have now.  A smirking, joking, little old lady.

I think I'll grow a beard

I've had this feeling before.  A crazy desire for something new, something different.  And last time i had a pretty well thought out reason.  I'd planned to grow out my hair for the purpose of developing more self discipline.  Its very simple, really.  See, I have this thing called a job.  And while they don't exactly have a defined dress code they pretty much require you to be...presentable.  Decent, in appearance if not in actual character.  So, if I was going to grow my hair out, I'd have to take very good care of it.  I'd have to wake up early in the morning, wash it, dry it, comb it.  I'd have to take my time to groom and shape and keep myself looking like just another handsome black man with a great big afro.  (Or braids, I hadn't decided yet)  And I would have to make a routine out of it.  Or, as was more appealing to my mind, a ceremony.  A daily ritual of shaping my outward appearance to what I imagined my inner self to be.  Whatever that meant.

And for a time, it worked perfectly.  My only real downfall was two-fold: Summer, and dandruff.

But now, my reasons are a bit less philosophical.  (Just a bit.)  I just want something...new.  Something different.  And, perhaps in a little way...I want to change who I am.

Okay, maybe that's a lot philosophical.  I mean, usually if one of my friends made a statement I'd immediately think they had huge problems on their shoulders.  "What's wrong with who you are?" I'd ask.  And if I were asking myself I suppose I'd say "It's just not enough."

I think I need to reflect more on this, while I stroke my beard.

He said...

I said "I need to get published or something.  I need to write something, complete it, and get it out there.  I need to stop being a Computer tech/network Administrator and be a WRITER!"

He said: "No, you need to just be a writer.  Just write it, man.  Get it down on paper.  Worry about publishing and all that stuff later.  if its in your mind it'll poison everything."

And I said: "Y'know you're right.  I need to get back to just writing short stories and handing them to friends saying 'here, read this.'  Those were the good days.  The really prolific days."

Only...I couldn't really think of any friends to give anything to.  And that's a horrible thing to say really.

On the Saturday Night Poetry Revival

About a year ago, maybe more, some friends and I got together to form a group called Polymath.  In truth, we just formed a group to put on shows, performances really, that we ourselves would want to see.  We called ourselves Polymath because these three guys; a statistician, a computer technician, and...I don't even know what the other guy does, and we built this show on our own.  We wrangled talent and arranged business proposals and understandings.  We designed sets in a way that put the spotlight on the performers at all angles, and controlled crowds at the same time.  We were on our way to national fame.  Just three guys.  No money.  Doing shit on weekends.

And then we stopped.

The truth; not an excuse but the absolute truth is we were exhausted, and so were our contributing poets.  Too much of a good thing isn't just bad for you, it can completely kill your spirit.  We needed a break, so we took one.  For a year.  People were getting antsy of course, asking when we would have another show. "What happened to the shows?  When are you having another show?"  But no.  We were tired.  Or at least I was tired.

Because, to say that the poetry in Belmopan is an exhaustible resource is a straight up cop out.  There's more out there.  I'm sure of it.  Its just not the quality we'd want.  And that's our fault really.  I've had it in my head for the longest while to sit with these poets and have a long chat about 'performance'.  "You're not just reading your poems', I'd tell them.  "You're performing.  You're expressing how you felt at the time, how you feel each time you read it.  Even if you don't memorize it, at least give it a bit of emotion!"  I'd let them listen to some of the poets I enjoy listening to.  I'd subject them to Saul Williams' rants and have Anis Mojgani make them laugh while they cried.  We'd listen to beat poets synch their poems up to music that only they can hear and that, through their words, the rest of us can feel. 

We want the next one to be a real show.  There was a plan to arrange an outdoors show.  Setting up a stage would only be a small step up from setting up the cafe and backdrop from scratch.  We had everything dreamed out.  What we lacked was the money.  And, perhaps on my part, the propper gumption.

You see, I can't expect people to start writing, to get brave enough to perform again, if I can't do it myself.  And that's the only thing stopping us, really.

A bell though?

Jesus Shaves (David Sedaris)

The Harem

I reserve the right to say things here that would normally get my ass in a whole heap of trouble.

With that said: My girlfriend is lucky I love her. There's a group of young women here that I would have readily made a fool of myself for otherwise. There's about seven of them, all tall and curvacious, all dark and sexy in different ways. They're beautiful, even the little one with the damaged hair, faded t-shirts, sweats and flip-flops. And they all sing-song along in french.

I don't think they're actually a harem. I heard one of them arguing with a tall, lanky fellow. She is equally as tall, though certainly not lanky, and whatever they were going back and forth about, neither one of them was about to back down. And with the communal nature of the Hostel, I got to actually feel the tension between them since I was...well...between them.

It sounded so frightening and beautiful.

I wonder where they're from? Which country could possibly spawn women so absolutely beautiful? And seven of them to boot!

Day 2 - Chasing our tail

Traveling today was smooth, and got smoother as the day progressed. I think its because of our visit to Grand Central Station, our first for this trip, and therefore our first opportunity to pay propper homage to the statue of the messenger god that sits atop it. I think we got lost all of...once. And that was on foot, following instruction provided by the same service that would advise those from San Francisco who wanted directions to Honolulu to rent a canoe and roe for the final leg of the trip. (Its true. I checked. You should too.)

But then Hermes came along, dressed in the skin of a brown skinned, power-walking woman with an odd accent. (Greek, perhaps?) She pointed us in the right direction and then off she went, strutting her way up the steepest hill I'd ever seen and even pointing the direction we should go next while we struggled a couple dozen yards behind. Good 'ol Hermes. Lucky Hermes. It's not her fault afterall. She didn't know we were travelling toward disappointment. Greek gods are enither omniscient nor omnipotent. They've got very specific fields. I'm not sure who is in charge of assanine policy like "You recieved your first immunization shot ten days before your first birthday, therefore it does not count, therefore you may not register right now." But I'm pretty sure it's not Hermes.

But yeah, travelling was good, even if we spent a whole day getting nothing done.

Day 1 - Travel

Survived Cancun, despite personal anxiety. Despite being turned back at the border so Erica could use the right passport. Despite getting on to the most obnoxious bus ever created from Belize City to the border, and then having that bus abandon us on the Belize side of the border.

Thank goodness for travel mates. Erica and I noticed a guy on the bus with two bags big enough to smuggle an adult. From the look of the guy struggling with the weight, he might have had two adults in there afterall. We heard him ask the conductor if we would be crossing the border, and later he asked another passenger if he knew how long it took to get to Cancun by bus. During the grueling five hour trip in an uncomfortable bus with intollerably loud music (And a drunk that decided to join us the last fifty or so miles to the border), he was cheerfully chattering away the time with another passenger, and doing so with impressive confidence, even though his Creole accent made an otherwise elegant language sound like tumbling rocks.

As ut tyrbed iyt ge was a Belizean studying Electrical Engineering in Cuba. Not only was he flying back from Cancun the next morning, just like we were, it turns out he was from our old neihborhood to boot. His company, assistance, and quick translations made our trip immeasurably more tolerable. That guy is a lifesaver.

I just wish I could remember his name.

***

I don't remember the flight from Houston to Laguardia. I remember someone nudging me, and I mumbled 'orange juice' to that person. I remember drinking my orange juice. I remember landing.

So we're here! Getting to the hostel was a bit bumpier than I had planned. The problem was Lennox Avenue and Lexington Avenue look too similar when reading through the smeared window of the third bus you've been on in 24 hours without a shower. Too bad they're about five or six blocks apart. So much for cutting down on the walking time.

I miss Merri. This place isn't the same without her. I was afraid of that.

New York in summer. I was dripping sweat by the time we got to the subway, and the train kicked up a hot smelly breeze redulant of childhood memories. I'll try to make the best of it.

How do you know?

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me, I know that it is poetry. If i feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that it is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?
Emily Dickinson

Head like Cotton

Ugh.  Hungry.  Can't focus.  Perhaps we should start with some Tab Closing.

You know how dreaming is just your brain revisiting all the crap you experienced during the day?  I think my writing is a way of revisiting all the things I've read.  I say this because whenever I'm trying to write something, that is -willing- myself to write, I end up reading voraciously, and then something comes out.  Not always something great, mind you.  But its something.

I'm in love with short stories.  I don't think that'll ever change.  Something in my mind tells me that novels are superior.  it might be the same thing that tells me I have to stay in a job that makes me miserable.  Short story collections don't usually sell as well as novels, but they're more worthy of celebration, I think.  Apparently the people at Harper Perennial agree.  Fifty-Two Stories » with Cal Morgan is their own celebration of the short story.  Of course, celebrations are meant to be shared experiences, so they're sharing them with us, one story a week.  They've got 27 so far, so you and I can play catch up.

But i am too easily distracted.

I also ought to focus on just one thing, rather than the entire guise of writing.  For a while I've wanted to do some sort of Belizean fantasy fiction.  We've got a plethora of old folklore here that deserves to be kept alive, as well as plenty of space for new ones.  I feel like its a bit risky though.  With so many cultures I'm almost sure to step on somebody's toes.  But its worth a shot.  Some collaboration would be great too.  Its been a while since I've been in contact with anyone from B.W.A.P.S..  The fact that the 'Short Stories' section on their website is completely blank isn't very comforting though.  I'm too busy pushing myself, and failing, to push anyone else.

Read Write Poem  is great for poetry prompts, I think, and just the thing for this odd writer's block that I feel coming on.  But again, I'm all poem'd out.  How about some Short Story Prompts?  I've bookmarked it, but don't think I'll be coming back to this one today.

I don't know why I even have PEN American Center open in a tab. to be completely honest.  Just more evidence of how fractured my thinking is right now.

That's about it for now.

Getting myself in the Writing mood

One of THOSE weeks.

It's gonna be one of those weeks, isn't it?  Yeah, I can feel it.  And even if it's not gonna be one of those weeks, it most definitely will be one of those Mondays. 

I could blame it on the weekend.  It was good.  Not grand,  As usual my club and I waited for the very last minute to get everything together, and we got very last minute results.  Positive results, but I'm convinced that a little preperation would make things go so much easier.  Mind you, I'm just as guilty of procrastinating as anyone.  In fact, I might be more so.  I've taken on new responsibilities in the club.  Club Services Director.  I'm the guy in charge of organizing snacks and entertainment at meetings, as well as any club socials.  It should be fun.  Should be.  But lately I can't be bothered.  Don't ask me what I'm bothered with, mind you.  I don't have an answer.  I don't even have an excuse.  I gotta shake this off.

And I gotta shake off the Mondays.  Gawd, I hate Mondays.

Why we don't hang out anymore.

Everyday I can feel the gap between myself and what was once my contemporaries growing wider, and wider, and wider.  Some of it I don't quite mind.  Some if it is based on a different level of values and morals.  I won't be talking about the high priced modifications made on my high priced car anytime soon.  I was never the guy to laugh and quip and say 'Who, her?  I fucked her last week!'  I don't really want to go through a list of 'remember that time's.  I've done that too many times already, and the only thing it does is make even more clear the bitter fact that the good ol' days are never coming back.  And speaking of the good ol' days, I think the teenage under-aged drinking year saw me using up all my 'Get drunk and weep' encounters, and should have done the same for you.  Seeing my friends get drunk and lament tearfully now is just a good way to ruin a night, and for whatever reason I hold my liquor better than all of them now.

That is not a challenge.  Those days, too, are long gone.

But there are certain things that I miss.  It's a little strange but I miss being 'The New Guy'.  There's a certain fascination that surrounds The New Guy.  He's different, a little alien, but somehow manages to be cool.  And I'm not saying that I need to be cool.  I'm twenty-six years old, I've already discovered how to concentrate my cool into physical form, like my mojo.

What I DO miss is that certain level of open minded-ness posessed by those who witness The New Guy's strange brand of cool.  To do away with the confusing allegory and get right to the heart of it: There's some shit that I want to share with you, but you're just too damn resistant.  And I guess that's just a part of growing up.  You know who you are and you are resolute in it.  There's no space in you for new ideas unless its from self discovery.  Otherwise you're still that kid saying 'Me too' after the crowd has already agreed.  I understand.  I really do.  But I miss that.  More than anything else, I miss that.

Here's an example.  Once upon a time we swam in each other's musical eclecticism to the point that we'd put our conjoined names on mix tapes and CDs.  I dn't think I'd have discovered Portishead or; being an east coast fanatic; delved so deeply into West Coast Rap if it weren't for you.  Likewise, If it weren't for me, you might all still be listening to nothing BUT west coast rap.  And we'd do this by just hanging out, just relaxing in each other's presence, letting down our defenses, and letting vibes just flow, with music in the background.  Why don't we do that anymore?  I'll tell you why, because you are resolute.  And there's some stuff I really want to open your mind to, man.  We're not eighteen anymore.  Its okay to listen to music that isn't angry or depressing.  You don't have to hate Lupe Fisaco or Talib Kwali.  Mos Def is STILL cool!  You can even listen to music that doesn't refer to sex as an act of violence. It won't make you a pussy, I promise!  In fact, it'll probably be to your benefit.  The fact that you're above the age of thirteen and still have to think of your penis as a weapon, and still think of sex as assault. is another reason why we don't hang out anymore.

Further to the point, we are in the Caribbean.  Rap, rock, and R&B are fine, but that's not really us.  Its okay to listen to Soca and Calypso.  Listening to it doesn't mean your gay.  And if you're still unsure there are some guys from germany that'll blow your mind.

Music is just one part of why we don't hang out anymore.  The rest of the list is endless.  Well, that's not true.  The rest of the list mostly goes:

• Your girlfriend is always around.  Plus, I think she's flirting with me.
• I think you're trying to kill me.
• You beat women now.  You probably did then, but I know you do now.
• You only want to hang out when YOU want to hang out. 
  
• You never want to hang out when I want to hang out.
• You expect me to be your yes-man.
• I only like you when you're drunk.
• I really don't like you when you're drunk.
• I never really liked you.
• You're always drunk.

I think that about sums it up.  I really just wanted to talk about music though.

The Road to Seaside

There are some things that catch my attention instantly.  If I were half as spontaneous as i'd like to be I'd jump on these things as soon as possible.  I'm not that.  I'm hesitant.  And hesitancy leads to further hesitancy.  Take The Seaside Institute - Escape to Create for instance.  It sounds great.  It sounds like a blast and possibly just what I'm looking for.  But then I hesitate, and instead of coming to an obstacle like normal people I go looking for one.  And they're all little things.  All 'maybe nots' and 'might not works'.

What do you suppose would happen if I took a shot?  I think I might actually explode, but then again, that's just more hesitancy.

Aside from that, I'm wasting a gift.  No, not talent, though I'm wasting that too.  I'm wasting opportunity.  July, my birth month, ought to be a month of rewards, so why not make June the month in which I'll earn it?  Yeah, that's the ticket.  This month is gonna be my personal productivity month.  Keep tuned, and I'll keep you abreast.

Heh.  Breast.

What's the last thing that made you cry?

Anis Mojgani at the National Slam 2005

What's happening

As I type this I'm riding the last of a high. It's been a crappy day without music, and up until half an hour ago I was afraid my ipod might have been lost for good. Luckily it was just under a pile of papers somewhere. As important as that is, its not what's really important right now. What's REALLY important is this: Things are happening.

My university Transcripts should have been ready by today. I say 'should have' not because I don't have faith in the University's records office (Wait...what?) but because I didn't go and check on them or pick them up today like I should have. Instead I got suckered into an uncomfortable free lunch with my coworkers, who bitched, bickered, and complained about everything from the weather (because it wasn't sunny, but it wasn't raining either. How annoying!) to the service. Like most things lately I have only myself to blame for that misfortune.

And after that continued I had to put up with calls of 'This internet is slow!' or 'I can't open yahoo, there's something wrong with our internet.' I get so tired of repeating 'It's probably not a problem with us, its probably a problem with yahoo.' and absolutely failing to convince my boss that two PCs with 'Slow internet' does not a network problem make. So tired that I don't even try anymore, and am simply oppressed by the weight and frustration of all the other times I've said it.

But again, I digress.

What's really important is, after resigning to stay back until I could figure out why my boss had 'slow internet' I was sort of forced not to. My buddy came and picked me up from work. Someone actually came looking for ME! It was Manza, for whom, as I later explained to him, I've had a bit of jealous enmity towards these past few...months. To a certain extent he has the life I want. He's officially a land owner. He has a job he loves, and a great relationship with his boss, and he's not afraid to spend money on himself for his own enjoyment. I want that so bad, and everytime he says he's going to drop by and doesn't, I imagine him in front of his widescreen TV, perfect for playing his XBOX 360, and thinking 'Meh...I'll go talk to Dre some other day'. And that's when I hate him a little more.

This time he did come around though. He heard the angst and frustration in my voice over the phone and simply said "I'm coming to pick you up." We went to Perk Up. We had pancakes. We made business plans. Real plans. Of all the things I've been truly proud of in the past year or two, Poetry Night is firmly inserted in the top five. Hell, the top three. The only reason its not number one is because I gave it away so freely. I disrespected my own creation (co-creation) by not attributing a value to it. And in doing so, I failed to see the propper scope of the thing. I think I'm ready to try again, and I won't be making that mistake again.

Things are happening. And it feels good. Maybe too good, compared to my current employment situation. I think I'd rather have rough days doing something I love, than having rough days in a work environment that begins to depress me the moment I open my eyes in the morning.

And that's another thing. If I really want change, like the purpose of this blog suggests, then I have to change my thinking first. No more of this "Wanna be writer, Obligated IT tech' shit. I have to start thinking of myself as a writer first.

I am a writer.
I am a writer.
I am a writer.
I am a writer.
This is my new mantra.

List of things done

With just a half hour left in the work day I've decided to put together a list of things I've accomplished today, and rate their actual importance to me on a scale of 1 to ten.  One being 'I actually forgot I did that for a little while there', and 10 being 'Yes!  I am a Bulwark of Productivity!'.  Okay, Here goes.

1. This morning I managed to somehow walk out of the house in the same shirt I walked out of the house in yesterday.  Importance: 1
2. Walked to work instead of hitching a ride or calling a cab.  Importance: 5.  I'm pretty sure this is what has me losing so much weight.  This, or a tapeworm.
3. Arrived at work late.  Set up projector in conference room for brief meeting, cleared my desk, and did some quick computer majick before anyone really noticed.  Importance: 4.  Okay, 5 I guess.  Keeping up this ruse is what's keeping me employed at this point.
4. Completely failed at math.  I was explaining to the nice lady who's doing I don't know what with us here, that the 24 computers were all doing eleven years worth of climate modelling, spanning from 1960 to 2100.  She asked me what the other ten were doing, and I went 'Duhhhhh"  Yes, its 14 decades between 1960 and 2100.  What are the others doing?  Uhm...Maybe its up to 2200?  Importance: 4 (A complete stranger thinks your an idiot.  Go cry, Emo kid.)
5. Had lunch on the company tab, through a fuck-up that wasn't mine (for once!).  Importance: 3
6. FAILED to pick up my transcripts because I was busy having lunch on the company tab.  Importance: 8.  (WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!)
7. Blanked out at my desk for two hours.  Importance: 1.

Blanking out is weird.  Its like my brain's way of saying 'You obviously don't need me right now, so I'm gonna go take a nap.'  And it happens...a lot.

What's stopping me?

Its right there.  Its all right there in front of me.  I have two envelopes on my desk.  In those envelopes are four other envelopes, along with a letter thanking the reader for agreeing to write my reccomendation letters for college applications, and requesting they make four copies and seal them in the included envelopes.  I've thought of just about everything.  I'm prepared.  There would be three envelopes on my desk but the third one is in my messenger bag, ready to be delivered.  But it hasn't been, actually.  None of them have been delievered.  The dates on them are two weeks old.

What's wrong with me?  Why do i hesitate with these things?  Why do I tell myself that its what I want so badly, and then do nothing to bring them about?  Why am I so intent on destroying myself?

And then there's just the fact that there's SO much to do, and only one me to do them.  But I can't help but think that I only use this as an excuse really.  Who else would do them anyway?  I guess I have to suck it up, but doing these things without help feels hopeless.  Like I'm doomed without someone else input.  Maybe its a self confidence thing.  maybe its reality.  Maybe I'm just afraid of my own success, and I trick myself into thinking I'm really just afraid of failure.  I wish someone could help me sort this out. 

I wish I was strong enough to sort it out myself.

Dissatisfaction in the Workplace pt I

I am nothing. Gossamer. I am the magical vapors in the wake of the genie. I am a Techno-Shaman, rattling trackballs in a gourd and shaking my micro-screwdrivers at gremlins and w.o.m.b.a.t.s.

The printer/copier/fax machine out front is fucked. Its probably about five years old, as old as my 'career' in this place, and its currently experiencing the machine equivalent of multiple organ failure. The Scanner/copier flatbed is streaked with dirt or grease, and on the underside which i have no idea how to get to. It stopped scanning in color long ago. That is, it stopped scanning in proper colors. Every color scan comes out in shades of blue, and clear white streaks across the page. The little narrow pane of glass dedicated to the document feeder is spotless, but the document feeder itself needs help in doing its job. The rubber wheels are all gummy and rotting, and the runners have a tendency to grab several pages at a time, if they manage to grab any. What's most annoying is what happens when the USB cable is plugged into the machine, or when any activity is prompted by the attached PC. It'll start to go about its little checks: Warming up scanner bulb. Checking arm track. Scanning to PC. And I'll hear it sort of droning and grinding and flexing those efficient little mechanical muscles. And then It'll Stop.

Error 79. Power off then back on.

And it'll do that until I take a hammer to either the printer/copier/fax, or to my own head.

All this, you understand, is beyond my scope. I can't fix the electrical problem causing the 'Error 79'. I can't readjust the color sensors so that the scanner doesn't see everything in shades of cyan. I can't replace the gummy feeder wheels or tighten the treads on the tracks so that it knows how thick a single piece of paper is. I probably could take the flatbed apart, remove the glass pane and have it cleaned and polished, but I can't guarantee that I'll be able to put it back together again. I can't fix this thing. But no one wants to hear that.

"The copier needs servicing" I say to the woman. We'll call her the woman for now because you don't really need to know her name or what she does. All you need to know is that she's the one who is responsible for the printer/copier/fax machine and that I hate her, but I have to be civil to her because...well, because I'm civil to everyone.
"What copier.' She says and she peers out the window behind me at the machine she's pretending not to have ever known about.
'The (insert model number)."
"Oh, which one is that?'

Its at this point that I'm forced to segregate my internal dialogue and what I actually say. In my head I've already blown up. In my head I've walked out the room while flipping her the bird and gone back to something more worthwhile than talking to a halfwit about a machine that she purchased five years ago. In my head I'm holding her by the back of the neck and thumping her head against the glass while pointing and saying 'Its the fucking grey one!' I'm having this reaction now because I've had it before. Several times. Once when the streaks on the glass first appeared. Again when the scanner turned everything blue. Once as she stood there wondering why the copier was munching all five pages of her document at once and jammed, and she looked at me and said 'This is a scanner too?'. But I must be civil. I must be calm.

"The f...the grey one" I say. "Its been a while since its been serviced". In truth it has never been serviced. Never cleaned or updated or given the once over. "And its getting to the point where its malfunctioning more often than its actually functioning."

I know, dear reader, that it is now impossible for me to convince you that what I say is free from any superfluous embellishment. I've already admitted that I hate the woman, and you must be thinking that this is some frustrated tirade intended to unfairly paint her in a mocking light. It is, and yet it isn't. It is a frustrated tirade, I won't deny that, and I do hate the woman. But this is no embellishment. I am not painting her in any light other than the harsh fluorescence of reality. The reality is, when I said the words 'malfunctioning' and later 'functioning'; both words consisting of more than two syllables if you hadn't noticed, the woman paused. I could see in her furrowed brow that she was startled, as if she'd come across something hard and unpalatable in the lexiconic gruel that she was so used to consuming. She took a quick breath and looked, for an instant, as if she were about to stand up and inspect the machine herself for signs of this 'malfunkshuning' and I knew that she had forgotten how this conversation had even begun. Ever civil, I chose to remind her.

"So I think we should call the distributor and have it serviced.'
'Well whenever we call them they usually charge us.' She said, finally back on the right track. Sort of. 'And they'll want to take it away and then we won't have any copier.'
'We'll it'll only be temporary, and in the mean time we can use the other one in the back," The 'other one' belongs to man we shall call Mr. Good, because he's generally a good fellow, even when he's not. He doesn't work with us, except that he works in the same field and we share office space, and he's generally cooperative, well mannered, and good. Its hard to explain really. He's apples, we're oranges, but we're all still just fruit. "Or you can use the little ones here to copy.'

At someone's behest, I'm still not sure who, several people in the office were given little desktop all-in-ones. It was a ridiculous move on several levels, but whats most ridiculous is that the people who were 'awarded' with these tiny printers/scanners/copiers procured in the name of efficiency are the type of people who do nothing for themselves.

They are the hills from which shit rolls down. They are monkeys ordering their own tails. They are gopher ranchers. Gopher this. Gopher that. But never gopher it your own damn self.

And so, saying 'You can scan and copy from the little printers' is sort of like saying 'You can wipe your own ass for a while, can't you?' Its not as if I didn't know this already. It was my very civil way of being a smart ass. The woman, the halfwit who can't remember that she's responsible for servicing the equipment which she bought, the equipment that I don't know how to service, knows this too. She is not as dumb as she pretends to be, and that annoys me even more. She fixes me with pursed lips, a furrowed brow, and fluttering eyelids which I already know precede a condescending smile, and she says to me.

"Just see what you can do."

What? Did you not understand what I just said? I've been 'seeing what I can do' for four years now! Oh, I'll tell you what I can do! What I can do is...What I can do...

My inner dialogue is out of gas. Resigned, I trudge outside, glare at the 'Error 79 message' and pick at the scraggly hairs in my beard. With no amount of grace I turn off the printer/copier/fax machine, unplug the USB cable from the computer, and turn the machine back on. There. I've done what I can do. Symptom cured. I've gotten rid of the cough so it can slowly die of pneumonia.

I'm a fucking quack.

The Changing Leaves

I would very much like my life to be like the seasons.

If, by some inhuman capacity, you were able to stand perfectly still while the world blazed by you would have some idea of what I mean. You'd be able to see them changing constantly. The brown crunch underfoot inevitably turns to green, filling the air with their freshness and adding an involuntary spring to your step. Then the green matures, turns golden and regal, and eventually takes one last glorious dive from the the tips of treetops to the firmament. Trees almost shudder in Autumn, as if they want to shed their leaves, if just for the enjoyment of nostalgia. Old turns to new as if that is what was meant to be, and just as joyously what was new becomes old. You can't enjoy the seasons without enjoying the passing of them.

I want to my life to be like that. In truth it may already be like that, but what I really want is to see it that way again. I want to enjoy it all, even the less pleasant bits, the way I used to not too long ago.

This is quickly becoming maudlin, which I did not intend. But perhaps writing without real intent is precisely what I need. That's how things were back then, you see. I wasn't trying. I was just doing. Just living. Trying to make the leaves change, or make them not change, may have been my biggest mistake. And so, I'd like to get back to that feeling, and perhaps writing with abandon is my ticket there. This blog is a silly little thing, much like the silly little thing I had before. But its new, and because of that its still sort of hidden. I don't have to worry about friends and loved ones getting their feelings hurt, or family members angry at the secrets I tell. Well, I suppose I do have to worry about that, but I'll try not to. I can be honest here. I can be frank. Yes, this silly thing...this seems like a good start.