That's MY vroom-vroom!

"I nuh support anybody weh just tek fi we name; and if you go deh you da wa traitor!"

Those were the words of my best friend and old performance poetry co-coordinator when I asked him if he was going to 'Perk Up's Candle Light Poetry Night'.  he was right, of course.  no matter which way I turned it around in my head trying to ameliorate the whole situation, it still ticks in my craw just a little bit.  Sure "Poetry Night" doesn't exactly scream proprietary product; and sure, we'dgone on an indefinite hiatus.  Poetry Night was just sitting there; an all but discared thing, a lonely child just begging to be picked up, brushed off, and taken home.  Jackee Burns picked it up.  As much as I tell myself that this is a good and just and probably all for the best, it still annoys me on some level.

At the same time I pity her for her new burden.  She's decided to make it a weekly thing, the poor dear.  I know from the many times that we just barely made the monthly shows that down that pat lies only heartbreak.  She's also less organized, which means most of the shows involve herself and her friends reading from anthologies and collections by other authors, whom i don't even know if she tries to contact. The first one I went to (yes, i've committed this betrayal before) the audio was horrible, a single hand-held PA system that had obviously been untested in this kind of setting.  There was nothing to focus the attention of the audience and the crowd was obviously more interested in their meals.

This time things werent any better.  The candles around the room were a very nice touch, but it resultd in the performers (Jackee and her sister, mostly, and a shy young lady who sang quite prettily, with her hands in her pockets and her eyes on the floor.)  Standing in a dark corner.  The dominoes game going on at the center table was a fresh annoyance, but there were still old classics like the demonic hiss of the espresso machine mid-lyric.

So what's a guy in my position to do?  I want my show back, and more and more I'm seeing reason and opportunity to do so.  But, these days, my concentration is fractured, in a million places at once.  It would make sense to bring on new members, new coordinators.  But at the same time, the only people I know that have a similar vision of what these shows should be are already working with me.  Does that sound arrogant?  I think it might be.  And I think that might be a problem.  I'd like to bring in other people but there are some directions that i don't want to go.  The cheap, easy route; the way of compromising and easy-roading and second besting, just isn't for me.  And around here the alternative isn't for most other people.

Aside from that, I really don't want to step on anyone's toes.  That might be the result of my notorious non-confrontationalism; my biggest fault.  They've got something going there, in their minds, and I'd rather not be the tantrum throwing brat marching into the room and demanding the toy he'd left haphazardly lying about.  There might be a compromise to be made in here soewhere.  There might be a discussion that I can have, at least, with those involved that will reveal some new, helpful insight for me.

I was never very good at starting discussions.

Geoffrey Philp's Blog Spot: Defining Moments...Joanne C. Hillhouse

I thought of how I’ve daydreamed my way through life, always with parallel scenarios running on delay in my head.

I know I am a writer, and, yet, insecurity dogs me; insecurity, and curiousity, and questions, and this tendency to pick at things, and pain so big it feels like it might swallow me sometimes.

I know I am a writer, because, through it all, I write.

Geoffrey Philp's Blog Spot: Defining Moments...Joanne C. Hillhouse

Richness. I'm surrounded by Kings and Queens who don't even know how much I want to dance in their courts. How happy I'd be just being a prince.

Review -- Mahogany Whispers

Lets admit it, Poetry Publication in Belize has gotten a bad rap over the years. We hear this one has a new collection and that one has a book launch and it rolls right off our backs. 'Vanity publishing', we say with sneer. Its not for us, we say. Its something for the author and his or her close friend and the artsy-fartsy crowd. Well, if you truly think that then you've been missing out on a lot.

There are gems in Belize. Its not just a catch phrase thought up by the tourism board. Well, maybe it is. Nitpicky, over-thinker that I am I hesitate to call Ritamae Hyde's “Mahogany Whispers” a gem. But, considering its the first collection of poems that the young university lecturer has published its not too far off. As an introduction to readers, the collection is very well put together. Reading through the pages we get a picture of a remarkable young woman; one who realizes her own beauty and the value of it. We see her falling in love and suffering heartbreak, simultaneously, both in the romantic sense and the conflicted sense one feels for ones nation. We see a woman enjoying the allure of herself, swimming comfortably in a world made up of her own skin, despite the oppinions of wider society, and more intimate family alike. And we see a woman who, despite grown up and continuing to live in the unquestionably urban south side of Belize City, has an obvious and deep rooted appreciation for nature, and for the ultimate origin: Africa. The book doesn't paint Hyde in the simple colors of political/social activist or ethnocentric intellectual, or even 'independent, modern woman.' Instead, we see a woman with depth, and a certain conflict of emotions that are endearing and familiar.

None of this takes into account Hyde's actual crafting of these poems. There's definitely a style here, one that is untainted by the homogeny that comes with 'classical' training. This is it alternating times a strength and a weakness. Indeed, among the most pleasurable or compelling poems were those that seemed the most personal. There, in poems about her family, herself, her upbringing, her personal hopes and fears, was the obvious gleam of something valuable. There was an energy put into those arrangements of words that strikes a chord with the reader.

In other instances, however, there was something missing; a certain lyrical or rhythmic quality that would have elevated her writing out of the realm of critical prose and made it equal parts cultural criticism and written aesthetic. This, of course, is only my opinion. In Hyde's 'The Perfect Poem', she lists her own criteria for the craft. Beauty is not among them. In fact, as the poem states in its opening stanza:

“The perfect poem

is not about standard lines,

rhymes or figures of speech

such as a hyperbole

or a simile.”

And indeed, Hyde seems to avoid these traditional poetic tools like the plague. In that sense, perhaps she achieves her goal in her own writing. In my opinion, however, while these elements do not make the poem, they certainly have their place. Reading through this collection of poems, I find myself missing these old friends.

And yet, I read through the entire thing in one sitting. This is unprecedented for me, whether reading Belizean writers or any other. Usually I take poetry books as pre-packaged snacks to supplement my literary diet. It had less to do with the contents of the book; 74 pages, including foreword and preface. It was actually the magic of the production. I usually grimace at authors putting themselves on their book covers. To me its usually another blow for the 'Vanity Publishing' argument. In this case, however, I have to admit I was impressed. Thanks to visual Artist Jahmai Trapp (jahmai.deviantart.com) the cover is actually a compelling glimpse of the woman who's adorned the pages inside. And the pages themselves add to the books 'pick me up' quality. I'll kindly ask you to wash and thoroughly dry your hands before you pick up my copy, thank you. No cheap copy-paper here. The pages are just soft enough to encourage your fingertips to take their time with the corners, but firm enough to actually stand up to a good leafing through. Even better, they're not white, but slightly yellowed, giving them a nice, classical look. The font is simple, which is good. Anything too elaborate would be a distraction in this case. What's more, the font and positioning remain consistent throughout, though in the few cases of poems that are only a few lines long, this does make the pages seem empty. I wonder how much of Hyde's input went into the production of the book. Did she, as an avid reader, have an idea of what she wanted? Or did the publishers (Ramos Publishing) or printers (Print Belize Limited) take it upon themselves to create something so elegant?

I won't try to predict where 'Mahogany Whispers' will stand when in comes to the future of Belizean Poetry. Of course, its the goal of every author to create something that will last, will be remembered, and will impact their audience, and their peers. Its too early to tell if Ritamae Hyde has done that in her first publication. I do know this, however. The book won't be spending too much time on my bookshelf. Every time I consider an existing or future Belizean publication, by Belizean writers, publishers, and printers, I'll be setting it beside this one for comparison. That is to say, I'd like to see more books like this one. And while I still wouldn't call it 'perfect' or 'a gem', I think 'exemplary' is nice enough, and true enough, description.

What did you get me?

I miss harassing my little sister.  Really I do.

"Big head!"
"Small head"
"Weh di gwan?"
"Nothing.  I hear u done have my gift!  Tell me dah wat."
"Its a giant hat so your head doesn't look as big.  Its a football helmet, so you don't hurt yourself. (Cuz you're retarded)  It's a pair of clown shoes. The kind that squeak when you walk.  Its a genie lamp that I found in the desert and the only way I can escape the curse is if I give it to someone else as a gift.  Its a puppy. With rabies.  Its a box of Styrofoam. Don't eat it.  Its a piping hot tamale. I hope its still good when it gets there.  Its a yellow submarine, which might be a reference to a beetles song, which might be a reference to something I don't understand but probably has something to do with drugs.  Its a REALLY ugly best friend who you can stand beside so you look 10 times better.  Its an authentic BUCCI purse that I got from this Asian dude in chinatown for 'Good Price!'  Its an umbrella.  Ella.  Ella.  Ey.  Ey.  Ey.  Its a Brand New Cadillac! (THROW SOME D's ON DAT BITCH!)"

"...Sigh."

More Muhammad Muwakil

All you have is that thing that, since you small, when you think about it, it does make this movement in your belly.

Tomorrow is not Promised to Beasts nor Men

4am from Janine Fung on Vimeo.

Muhammad Muwakil (Trinidad & Tobago) -- 4 AM

No Talking on a Sunday Morning

"Morning."  I said.

"Good Morning!" She replied more cheerfully.  Always more cheerfully.

"What are you up to?"

"Watching television.  A show about hoarders.  About to have breakfast.  What are you up to?"

"Reading.  Sleeping.  Rinse & Repeat.  Kind of lonely but I've had my fill of social interaction."

There's something that happens when you're in a serious, long term relationship.  You become...serious.  You become comfortable.  Perhaps too comfortable in some cases, but in most cases its a phenomenon in which only the best of circumstances can lead to; the right alignments of moon and stars, the proper balance of humors, just the ordinate number of clouds in the sky.  And its the things that you can't recreate, of course, that you miss most.  Its those pangs which twist hardest in that chamber of mind and soul where desire is housed.

I do miss her still.  Oh god, do I miss her.  Last week a friend of min, a certain diminutive young lady with curly hair the colour of breathed-upon embers, was in my kitchen.  She was cooking.  Well, she was making macaroni and cheese; apply whichever verb to that you wish.  And, in the process of looking for something she managed to get a fingertip on the bottom of the high locker and, unable to reach any higher, pried the locker open and stepped back, nearly across the room, looking for some spice or the other and muttering curse words to herself.  The likeness; not of the person but the situation; was uncanny.  I nearly wept. 

Days like today would go unscripted, but perfectly orchestrated.  I've already made my omelette.  As usual it was more than any one person should eat in the morning.  If two were to share it...well.  There's no helping that now, is there?  And then, I turned the television on and without even changing the channel, turned it off.  I turned on the radio and, without really listening to anything, turned it off.  At the end of my restlessness I went to fetch the light book. (I've gotten into the habit of reading two books at a time: One heavy; 'The Black Jacobins' in this case, and one light; Diane Setterfield's 'The Thirteenth Tale.)  I'm only a few chapters from the end, the remaining pages gathered together look about the width of a church hymnal.  I began to read, then fell asleep.  When i woke up, I began reading, and fell asleep.  There was no smell of shampoo and body butter to wake me.  No tingle of hair in my nose or on my cheek.  And no warmth.  At around the third bout of waking I went to fetch my heavy sweater, an over-sized hoody, and an extra pillow.  The pillow I held close to me, close to my chest.  The sweater made it seem as though the thing had warm blood flowing through it; had a pulse and a furnace of life somewhere in its center.  If I could have figured out a way to have it rise and fall in a rhythm matching, but not quite in sync, with my own, then perhaps I wouldn't have thought my next thought.

And that thought was: How sad you must look?  A grown man spooning a pillow, burying his face into it in between burying his face in pages, and an equally sad looking dog nestled in the crook of his knees.  If someone were to come bursting through the front door this very second, what would you do?  How would you justify this?  Have you no shame sir?

But I did not have any shame.  Only want and a nerve wracking sort of nostalgia.  The house was quiet, except for the occasional passing traffic, and I was warm.  And comfortable.  But...it was only a pillow.  I was still lonely.  I would have loved to hear someone else gasp when the uncertainty first cropped up.  I would have liked to laugh quietly while I wiped the tears off of someone's face, and they off mine, before we both turned the page.  I would have liked someone to be there.  Not someone to talk to.  Not someone to frolic with.  Just be there.

I suppose I could have called someone.  But then, I suppose I couldn't.  Who would i call? 

"This is really weird." My cousin Delsia would say, to which I would have to agree and wonder how it was I managed to convince her to let me hold her that close to begin with.  Then, invariably, the conversation would turn to something much too practical for a Sunday morning.

"Aw, are you crying because he found his family?" Meghann would say in a tone that made her sound sweet and compassionate.  I'd nod my head meekly and she would frown and reply dryly "That's so gay."

Jamira would never sit still long enough.  Maria would want to talk about her boyfriend.  Anyone else would want to talk.  Talk, talk, talk. 

'I haven't seen you in so long.  Lets catch up!' 

'He broke my heart.  Why couldn't I have found someone like you?'

'Is this all we're going to do today?'

'Where'd you get this sweater?  Can I have it?'

'Its too quiet in here.'

'What is this?  A futon?'

'Something's poking me in my back'

'My feet are cold.'

There's no talking in the serious, long-term relationship.  When your feet get cold, you wrap them among the legs of your partner.  You get comfortable.  You are comfortable.  You are free to simply be there.  There's no need for the chase.  Not today at least.  Not on a Sunday.  You have your mate.  She's gripped close to your ribs.  Her fingers are waiting at the corners of the page because she knows you read slightly slower than she does.  There's no talking.  You kiss her neck, and she turns the page.

There was one I could reach out to, of course.  But...She's still a danger in my mind.  Missing one is bad enough.  Missing two...can that even be done?  Should it?  Perhaps I need to sleep on it.

Assides

Eerie underwater sculpture finished in Caribbean « Repeating Islands

Its NaNoWriMo and while I'm all for it, prepared with plan and outline and all that jazz, its just not happening so far.  I'll stick to it though.  Perhaps this'll be the year that I actually complete it.  I thought that about last year too, what with my solid and exciting story concept.  But I got caught up by way too many asides.  And now, I'm reminded of one of these asides by the work of Jason deCaires Taylor.  Underwater sculptures.  Its Brilliant!  If I had my own Island here in Belize i'd opt for an underwater sculpture garden of my own.  A resting place for Jonas Black and Thom Shift.

Full
fathom five thy father lies;

Of his bones are coral made;

Those are pearls that were his eyes:

Nothing of him that doth fade

But doth suffer a sea-change

Into something rich and strange.

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:

Ding-dong.

Hark! now I hear them, ding-dong, bell.

The Tempest, 1. 2

Stephen Fry Kinetic Typography - Language

Belize Story Writing Competition

So...Don't know if this is exactly my cup o' tea.  I'm usually ALL OVER paying writing opportunities, contests or otherwise.  But as much as I appreciate Children's Literature, I don't know that the 5-10 age range is within my natural audience.  Nevertheless, I can at least pass it along.  Here's the info.

STORY  WRITING  COMPETITION
As a part of activities in commemoration of the 75th Anniversary of the Belize
National Library Service and Information System (BNLSIS) a story writing
competition is being held during 2010.  The particulars are as follows:
·        The competition is open to all writers.
·        Stories should be written for children 5 to 8 years old.
·        Stories should be 1,500 words or less.  Type the word count on the
first page of your entry.
·        Must focus on Belizean lifestyle.
·        All entries must be in English, original, unpublished, and not
submitted or accepted elsewhere between start and end of the competition.
·        All entries must be typewritten 1.5 spacing, Times New Roman, and
pages must be numbered.
·        All entries must include your contact details and story title on a
separate sheet of paper.  Your name must not be on your story.
·        All winning entries will become the property of the BNLSIS.
·        There will be three prizes awarded for the best entries determined by
a panel of judges:
1st Prize: $1,000.00    2nd Prize: $750.00      3rd Prize: $500.00
·        The decision of the judges will be final.
·        The three winning entries will be read publicly in all district towns
and city libraries.
·        The BNLSIS reserves the right to not declare a winner.
·        The deadline for the submission of entries is October 31, 2010 at 4.00
p.m.
·        Deliver, email or mail your entries to: Story Writing Competition, Leo
Bradley Library,  P.O. Box 287, Belize City, Belize.  Email: nls@btl.net

Nuff Respect

Dear friend

 

Following a short meeting between representatives of BEMA and Members and officers of Hackney Council, an in principle agreement has been reached that the name of the new facility will carry the name of CLR James Library as per our campaign demand. A formal statement will follow shortly. Many thanks to the thousands who have supported our successful campaign online and in other ways.

 

Bema will be playing an ongoing role in the development of a permanent CLR James exhibition at the new library as well as the establishment of an annual event commemorating his life and work.

 

Ngoma Bishop & Andrea Enisuoh   

Campaign co-ordinators

 

 

http://www.bemanetwork.org.uk/

Easter Eggs

You cannot teach a man anything.  You can only help him discover it within himself. --Galileo

I only just started reading The Black Jacobins, devouring the foreword, introduction, prologue and first chapter over the weekend.  I'd had the book in my house for at least eight years now.  My mother's copy, a valued copy if the presence of her signature on several random pages is any indication.  She wanted to ensure that no one ever got away with stealing it, or at least pricked their conscience if they did.  I never saw the use of it.  The cover was impressive.  The dark skinned man in Victorian style refinements spoke to an underdeveloped black pride within me every time I saw it.  But my mind, up until now, was not prepared to take on the the tiresome (as I saw it) task of actually reading it.  Its a matter of maturity.  I had to wait until now.  Until I was ready.  And even so, I didn't know I was ready.  I simply couldn't find the book I'd started reading in time to pack it for the trip to Flores, and instead decided to grab it off the shelf, just to see what it was all about.  When I opened it and started reading about C.L.R. James, and about his ideas, and about Haiti, I realized that it was time.  Had I read it at any point before now, before those very same thoughts came to life in the cultivated garden of my own mind, I wouldn't have really cared about what it had to say.  I wouldn't be sitting in my office, as I am now, with the presence of the book in my messenger bag glowing like a bright beacon in the back of my mind.  I wouldn't have the appreciation and hunger for it that I have now had it been forced upon me in high school.  If I had read it at any point before now, I wouldn't give a rats ass who C.L.R. James was.

This is a universal thing.  Perhaps it might be a generational peculiarity, but I doubt it.  While my upbringing has instilled within me an unconditional respect for my elders, my own self-education efforts actually revolve around breaking down those things that were instilled in me, and not taken on by my own volition.  Also, I've come to learn that all things have conditions.  To this end I can say that previous generations were no more enlightened or prone to enlightenment than my own.  Those who came before me were no more or no less hungry for knowledge than I am.  However, perhaps they had more barriers to that knowledge and in their youth, they had just the same amount of rebellion as I do.  So while I have the information at my fingertips, acquiring it isn't as exciting as it was back then. 

It's just a theory. 

But things work a little differently now.  Now we have to present knowledge like we do Easter-eggs: Paint them conspicuously, and hide them in plain sight.  For instance, there is a street in Harlem, a boulevard actually, named Adam Clayton Powell Jr Boulevard.  Navigating Harlem, you're main allies are the broad bordering streets named after Black heroes and famous personalities.  Malcom X Boulevard.  Frederick Douglass Blvd.  Martin Luther King Boulevard.  Adam Clayton Powell Jr Boulevard?

"Hey man, Who's Clayton Powell?"  I asked one of the neighborhood guys that worked at the Hostel.  He was younger than I was, but just barely.  A handsome guy who was just growing his dreads and 'trying' to be vegetarian.  They were either the first, struggling signs of someone seeking some kind of enlightenment, or a complete poseur.  He admitted that he didn't know, and the pretty Puerto Rican girl who worked at the front desk made a disgusted sound and elbowed him, saying "Don't you live around here?"

"I live ten blocks that way!" he retorted, pointing in the direction of the rest of Manhattan.
"So?"  She replied.  "You're supposed to know this stuff."
"Why, cause I'm black?" He asked sardonically.
"Yeah!"  She said, sounding perplexed that he even had to ask.

The next day he brought me a pamphlet about the heroes the streets were named after, and had highlighted The Reverend Adam Clayton Powel Jr., first African American elected to congress.  It may be that he'd just missed learning about Adam Clayton Powel Jr. in class.  He might have matriculated just before it was decided to add that information to the public school curriculum.  Its also possible that former senator Powell was right there in his history books, but a congressman who, among other accomplishments, dined with a contingent of black constituents in the 'Whites Only' House restaurant and passed a record number of bills in a single session of congress, doesn't shine as brightly beside his Harlem Boulevard contemporaries.  "If the Law is wrong, change the Law" perhaps doesn't resonate in the heart as much as "By any means necessary." or the 'I have a dream.' speech.  But that Easter-egg was hidden on a street walked my thousands each day, and painted brighter than the grey of the city.  All it required, all it still requires, is for someone to point it out, and let young, hungry curiosity handle the rest.

And if there was no Adam Clayton Powell jr Boulevard?  If it were forever to be called ' 7th Avenue'?  Then obviously it would be just another gilded street in an increasingly gentrified Harlem.  And with no knowledge of the true history of the neighborhood, why would anyone want to stay somewhere they're not wanted?  The argument against gentrification and the tools for combating it is another conversation all its own.  But we are talking about knowledge, access to knowledge, and the drive to educate oneself.  Again, I've only made it through the preliminary text and the first chapter, but being a long time fan of all kinds of narratives, I can tell that its these very same factors on which the plot of this story; the liberation of Saint Domingue, and the creation of Haiti; hinges.  The same factors, perhaps, presented the Easter egg of Marxism to James, and inseminated within him the idea to share history to the Caribbean and Black Communities.  The same factors that now lead me to explore, stumble upon, and learn from James, his writing, and the history of the region.  And if there were, perhaps, a library in a predominantly black neighborhood somewhere that, all of a sudden, was no longer called the CLR James Library?  Then we will be left with those still waiting to stumble over brightly coloured enlightenment hidden in plain sight, and all we'll be able to tell them is: 'It used to be there.  But now its not.'

---

Inspired by: CRB • Antilles • Transformative reading
Please sign: Save CLR James Library

Ninth Night

It was all planned out!  Weinerfest, we'd dubbed it.  Backyard Shenanigans!  It was a breakthrough idea!  Well, it was for us anyway.  Let me give you some background.

You see, my roommate Alexis and I are perhaps the only ones in our group of friends who do not live with our parents.  This makes our house the de facto party house.  Any big shindig or hullabaloo or even minor get-together that didn't take place at a bar or club or restaurant happened at our house.  And it was always a mess.  The house, that is.  The parties were great but there would either be something in the kitchen like a pile of unwashed dishes or a counter still dusted with flour or sticky from some spillage; that we would hope everyone could just completely ignore, or the kitchen would start off clean and come to be in some disastrous state through the course of the night's events.  And do you think anyone showed up to help clean?  No.

But its still our place.  And we still want to chill out there from time to time with our friends.  So, one breezy day we got the bright idea to invite a bunch of people over for drinks, but lock the front door!  We took tables and seating from inside and placed them in a convenient, conversation friendly circle.  We took baskets and emptied them of their display fruits, and instead filled them with peanuts and cheese puffs.  We took the cooler and spread down a bed of ice, and propped the bottles of rums and mixers and beers in it, and another pitcher that held just ice, and we set that in the center of the circle.  And it worked.  Like a dream.  The first few times were all guys, so there were even a few odd instances where I wound up begging them to go inside.  Don't piss on my wall just outside my bathroom or bedroom window, please?  And for the love of God, don't continue talking to me while you're doing so!  I know the conversation might be rich and engaging, but unless we're in some kind of intimate relationship, you should let the conversation pause while you attend to your bodily functions.

And that goes for you too, ladies.

And so, as weekends came and went, the intricacies of the Backyard Shenanigans developed.  Until finally, September was upon us.  And this time, instead of a completely random gathering, we had a reason.  Ninth Night!  The eve of the Celebration of the Battle of St. Georges Caye!  The eve of Carnival Weekend!

When I came home I set out to sweeping.  Then mopping.  Then cleaning the sink and toilet in the half bath near the living room.  Then changed exterior light bulbs and making sure there was toilet paper in the bathroom.  Then I filled a pitcher with ice and let the ice maker take its time in replenishing the fridge door stock.  You will notice, I did nothing with the kitchen.  That is the beauty of the outdoor party.

Later Alexis brought over the grill.  Then the coal.  Then a bottle of rum and a pack of 'Sausage on a Stick'.  I balked at it and ran out to get spicy itallian which, cut to the right length, made an awfully good foot long.  By the time I got back Alexis had the grill lit, the coals getting ready for their night's work.  Meanwhile I cleared some stuff out of the yard and chained up the dogs.  By the time I was finished putting food down for them our first guest, J, had arrived.

Oh, the simplicity of the Backyard Barbecue.  Why didn't I think of this sooner?

I offered J a drink.  She only drank beer.  I was about to get her one of the Amstels we got specifically for September Celebrations when I realized...she's gonna drink them all.  I must hoarde.  I must keep my beer supply safe.  There are twenty other days in September, and about half of those are days when I can sit back and enjoy a cold one.  I had to pace myself.

"I'll take a quick shower."  I told her.  "And we can go get some."
"Get some?"  She asked, and gave me a bit of a smile.
"Yeah, some b--" I started to say and then suddenly realized...this could be a very good night for me.

After my shower we went in J's jeep, stopped at the bank, and then to the only store I knew of that still sold alcohol after nine.  I'd only found this place a few months ago and in fact it had only opened a few weeks before that, but in walks J and up goes the proprietors mood!  "J!" called the Chinese woman behind the counter, as if Jam was some relative she was glad to see.  J also calls her by name, Miss Helen, I believe.  Its impressive, not only for the fact that its actually happening (I hadn't started drinking by then) but the fact that she called her Miss Helen.  Miss Helen.  Not just Helen.  And certainly not China or Chiney Gial.  There was an affectionate, respectful tone to her voice as she tacked on the that universal Belizean title of elderly respect.  I liked that.  A lot.

Then she slid a fifty dollar bill across the counter and said 'How many Heineken can that get me?'

We headed back and put another bottle of rum and some soda water in the cooler, along with J's eleven Heineken (just in case you were curious).  Coming out of the store I'd seen my friend Keino, who'd just gotten back from studying medicine in Cuba, and basically told him to head over to our house.  By then others had arrived too; Leon and his date for the night, Diane.  And Leanne and Jorge, one of the cutest couples I know (when they aren't fighting.)  And, as they were instructed, each of these people brought a pack of hot dogs, whatever they wanted to see on the grill for that night.  And the grill itself was quite loaded.  The party was in full swing.

But it wasn't enough, was it?  So I sent a text to all the folks I knew in town.  Male or female, it said the same thing.  "Weinerfest at my house!  Come on over if you're hungry for some sausage!"

Because who doesn't love getting a suggestive message after nine o'clock?

We drank, we ate, we talked, about nothing in particular.  At some point I realized I'd had too much to drink when I stood in the middle of the yard with Leon and Timo arguing the merits of the Barbados economy and workers unions at the top of my lungs.  We were the last three there.  The party was over and i didn't even realize it.  But there existed within me a sense of something incomplete.  "Should we head to Cabana?" Leon asked suddenly.  The yard had gone silent.  Sausages cooled and shriveled and the very last of the coals glowed orange in a bed of ashy white.  I nodded once, firmly, and then began putting all our yard paraphernalia back into the house.

Now, I should point out that I'm really rarely this eager to go out, but it was indeed a really nice night.  I wasn't fall down drunk.  I wasn't thinking of depressing, sober things.  I'd been flirting all night with a girl I would slot neatly into the cute category, and in fact, here she was at the Cabana.  J found us out of the crowd and immediately started grinding her short, chubby body against mine, in particular her sizable ass.  She pumped her arms in the air when they weren't holding on to my belt loops pulling me closer, and flung her red, orange, and yellow dyed hair around.  She was on fire!  Alive and young and fully aware of it.  And it was exciting to be around.  Sexy without trying to be alluring.  Just like her nose ring.  She went to join her friends after that, and one of my friends came over, goading me in her direction.  "No."  I explained to him "I'm not gonna chase her.  I'm just here to have a good time."  And I wasn't gonna chase her because I wasn't going to give her the idea that I wanted her.  Or more to the point, that I wanted to keep her.  I like having her around, that much is obvious.  And if something were to happen...well.  But I'm single now.  I'd rather not get involved with something as fiery and volatile as that just yet.

I was even talking to Merri's dad at one point, and she swooped down as if from the sky, booty shaking and hair throwing and fist pumping.  All in good fun, he seemed to take it.  He laughed and gave me a slap on the shoulder.  "You have a good night."  he told me at 2 in the morning.

I didn't intend to meet J at Club Twilight after that.  It was, once again, one of those things that just happened.  The music was so loud, and the drinks kept coming, and she kept up her manic fun-time dance.  She dragged at my shirt collar until my ear came to her lips and shouted what sounded to me like 'My eggs are in my side and it hurts.'  Later on, when my ears stopped ringing from being crammed inside the giant speaker box that is Twilight, I realized that what she was saying was probably something like "My ex is here tonight.  Lets flirt."  There goes another train I missed.  No matter.  There's always next time.

Somehow I wound up on top of the highest hill in Belmopan with Dianne (Leon's 'date') and Karteek.  We watched the sunrise, tried to identify which direction it was coming from through the cloud and fog.  Instead we just noticed the gradual brightness.  Felt the heat descending on us like smoke from the sky.  It really wasn't as romantic as I make it sound.  We were still drunk, and kinda tired, and acutely aware that there might very well be a pit of vipers lurking somewhere in this knee high grass. 

"You wanna get breakfast?" I asked the others.  Dianne looked at me incredulously and asked "Where the hell do you get breakfast at this hour?"  Karteek nodded knowingly.  He smiled at the thought of hot beans and hotter fried jacks.  Eggs.  Cheese.  Piping hot coffee.  No one else around to bother you.  "Market."  He intoned, and headed off to the cars.

Only, as we descended, Karteek took off like a flash, racing down the hill ahead of us.  And by the time we got to the market, he wasn't even there.

"I guess he went home for his own breakfast", Dianne said.  We laughed about it, stopped circling and parked, and made our way past the bleary eyed fruit vendors just setting up, ourselves still bright and smiling and slightly tipsy and smelling of club smells.  Cigarettes, booze, and sweat.  We found one woman who was open.  We asked her if she had breakfast.  She said it would take a while.  I frowned and asked her if she had tacos or burritos.  That would take a while too.  "Well then we'll wait for the breakfast."  Dianne said, taking charge.  The little while was hardly a little while at all.  It was just enough time to scald my tongue on some coffee and have her laugh at me for it, as well as get to know one another a little better.  When you've watched the sunrise with someone and moved on from there to coffee, modesty sort of flies out the window.  We asked tough questions, getting right to the meat of things.  And the alcohol and lack of sleep tends to make you honest.

Sadly, it tends to make you stupid too.  By the time I'd finished breakfast I'd already started yawning every three minutes or so.  By the time I dropped Dianne off, my brain had gone sent every part of it that didn't need to drive home into shutdown mode.  Which is why I sat there for about five minutes while she asked for my number.  And why I didn't think to ask for hers back.

Sleep never felt so good.  But damn, that was a good night.

The Sky is Still Blue

If you read through this blog, over most of the entries going back a year, two years, more, you might get the impression that I'm a terminally sad, angry, morose fucker.   I mean, just look at the labels list.  Other than the catchall label of 'emotion' and the nearly the omnipresent honesty (And Merri) there's mostly labels like fear, shame, loneliness, risk, and of course 'the last thing that made you cry' (Though, that's really not as depressing as it sounds.  Honest.)  I realized that this is because when I'm happy, I'm not writing.  At least not here.  When I'm happy I'm either too busy actually enjoying life, or even too busy with other writing, to come up with anything I feel I need to share here.  This is bad therapy.  Especially since, for those that actually read this blog, I'm not only sharing events, but emotional weight tied to those events.  (See, emotions already)  It can be a pretty heavy load for me to bare on my own, and that's why I share it with you all, but where does that leave you?  Its been selfish of me not to think of this until now, and I'm heartily ashamed (Shame.  Right there.)   As a way of apologizing, allow me to tell you about a pretty damn good Sunday.  One in which I was happy!

In order to understand this Sunday, I have to start from Saturday night.  This, I think is what really set my Sunday into gear.   I don't usually like going Cabana, but it probably is Belmopan's only place for late night entertainment.  And this night, for a change, I only had to pay 15 bucks to go in and pay again for over-priced drinks, an acceptable discount from their usual twenty dollar door charge.  And once inside, there would be no wandering around, tapping your feet under a table to whatever stale musical selection the bartenders wanted to hear.  There were guest DJ's there.  Entertaining ones too!  With fresh music, some of which I hadn't even heard before. (Side Note: I don't get what the big deal is about that 'In my Cup' song, but whatever!) There were also friends there, already assembled.   Friends that knew one another and knew me!  Friends that had no problem sitting at one big table together, so that I wouldn't have to play that tiresome game of wandering from one segregated, non communicative clique to the other.  I even danced a little.  With other people.  Of the opposite sex.  And then, when Saturday Night started turning into Sunday Morning, I danced a lot.  By my self.

Here's one last interesting highlight from Saturday Night.  The Intern asked me if She was my girlfriend.  Now, this is the same intern who, just a day before, stood at my office door asking me a question.  And as the air around her wafted toward me, the scent of her struck my senses afire!  My heart was racing and behind my eyes but before my brain I could only see myself grasping her in my arms and tugging aside the bothersome fabric of her clothes to root out the source of that sent on her flesh, where I would set lips to kissing and tongue to tasting.  A moment later she was out of sight, and after that, the smell had gone, and so had the urge to ravage her.  She is a beautiful creature, and dangerously so.

We are also talking about Her, who I've repeatedly had similar compulsions toward, but based more frequently on the things she said and the way she angled her supple limbs.  This, however is balanced by our miscommunications and my more frequent lack of communication.  And, sometimes, its overridden completely by the occasional realization that we're not as compatible as we want one another the be (because, by now, I'm certain the feeling is mutual.) 

Now, I'm not gonna lie and say she is something that she isn't.  At the same time I didn't want to give the impression that I was only saying no just because the intern was asking, which is exactly what i did when I hesitated before saying no.  Why did I hesitate?  I honestly can't tell you.  Though...perhaps the inquirer and subject have something to do with it.  Or my mind was clouded once again by the smell of her.

The night was extraordinary in that nothing really happened.  I didn't get too drunk, and I wasn't sober enough to sense any great disappointment at being shot down several times that night.  It was the ideal Caribbean Night out:  Good Rum, Good Company, Good Music.  In the theater of my mind, that's just the way it ends too, the lights dim on the scene of close to a hundred people swaying, and grinding, and jumping, balancing perfectly their multicolored drinks, and continuing that way until the curtains close.

The next day I woke up at ten.  Six hours sleep and a clear head, I started on breakfast, but didn't actually finish it until almost twelve.  By then  I'd already showered twice, and walked the dog.  All this stuff is secondary, of course.  B-roll stuff.  If the club scene from the night before was the ultimate fade out, then the ultimate fade in would have been a blue sky peeking out between green and brown branches, and the sound of cicadas singing in the heat, coupled with distant laughter.  The only trouble with movies and plays is that they lack the fully emmersive sensations.  I think that if more people managed to spend a few hours every weekend floating on their backs in pristine rivers and creeks, letting the water wash over their entire bodies, then we wouldn't be so damn cruel to one another. 

Cities.  Cities cause cancer.  And stomach ulcers.  And strokes and heart attacks before the age of fifty.  I was once asked, if I could choose the moment i died, what would it be.  My Sunday afternoon is exactly what I chose.   Soaking in cool water on a hot day, staring up at the beauty of creation, and feeling...happy.   What a blessing it is to have the privilege of choosing to become lost in the wilderness upon occasion.

Sunday Evening Coming Down

Its after nine.  I smell like Spicy Italian Sausage, onions and sweet peppers.  Oh, and menthol cigarettes and body butter.  I'm a glutton for punishment.  Why smoke?  So I can sigh freely.  What's it to you?

I've spent all day sleeping, waking occasionally to change locations or the speed on the fan.  Felt sick at the end of the day so I started cooking savory things for supper.  That wouldn't usually be the case except I had a feeling that a day with nothing but sleep and blackberry wine on the stomach probably wasn't a good idea.  And, in fact, there was very little sleeping involved.  It was mostly laying there, thinking.  Lacking the motivation to get out of bed sounds kind of scary to me.  There might be something wrong.  If only it were an easy thing of placing a finger on this feeling and saying 'Aha!  There's the button.'  If only fixing it were as simple as pressing a button.  There's loneliness, certainly.  Which sounds easy to fix, right?  Find other people.  Problem solved.  Except I hate the idea of my happiness being dependent on the whims of other fucked up, fallible people, especially those with their own selfish motivations. 

That sounded harsh, I bet.  Fuck 'em.

Right now there are two editors in two different places reading separate examples of my writing.  I should be excited.  Instead I'm just anxious.  And a little bit angry.  its been year two of this 'plan' and I'm no closer to a school or getting paid than I was to begin with.  I've got more in me.  New ideas every day.  I'm just too frustrated to write any of them down. 

Somewhere, also, in a land far, far away; there's someone thinking of me.  Not the way that I'm thinking of them, of course.  Some hours ago she was probably having one last beer for the weekend, along with the cigarettes she insists she doesn't smoke anymore.  But she needs something to shakily bring to her cupid's bow lips.  She needs to sigh freely.  She might play with a bottle cap, and remember a time when she suggested we collect them.  And then she'll toss that one away, just like the rest.

And there's no way I'm going to sleep anytime soon.  What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

On Comparability

In my ceaseless search for new and better ways to waste time, I happened upon Geoffrey Philip's blog post about the I Write Like website.  This seems like something fun and pointless, but there's no way they can peg me by just one poem or Short Story, right?  So, keeping that in mind, I went for multiple results.

I write like
Vladimir Nabokov

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Got this one for the latest in my Rainy Season Series.   Nabokov's the guy who wrote Lolita.  I've never actually read Lolita, or any othe Nabokov work, so I'll withhold my judgement.

I write like
Ursula K. Le Guin

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

This one was from one of my recent favorites, also from Rainy Season.  Its becoming clear to me that this isn't going to work out quite as I expected.

I write like
David Foster Wallace

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Another recent favorite. Again, no idea who this David Foster Wallace guy is but apparently he hung himself in 2008. Isn't that special!

I write like
Charles Dickens

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

FINALLY someone I actually recognize. This for The Fortunate End of Jonas Black. Awesome. Who do you write like?

On Bleeding

When I woke up this morning I was fairly certain that it was going to be another Ho-hum day.  The sun was shining, the birds were doing that bird thing that they do, and my eyes were barely open.  A Friday, which followed a Thursday night spent between computer screen and television screen at different intervals until half past twelve.  I woke up unprepared to take on even the monotony of the day.  And then, in the midst of my backward and forward shuffling my roommate awoke.  He came out of his room equally blurry eyed and stared at me for a while.  Then he asked me to donate blood. 

His aunt was in the hospital and they needed more blood than she'd already been given.  The hospital did have blood, but they ration it in most cases.  You get a certain amount, but because they have to share with the rest of their present and potential patients, they can only give you so much.  They don't get paid for it Unless, that is, someone decides to replenish the stock with a donation.  This was what Alexis was asking me to do.

People around here aren't in the habit of giving blood.   I don' t know if they're afraid of the needle, of the tests, or of the nurses.  Maybe they think they haven't got a pint to spare.   And that's all you have to give.  A pint.  Many Belizeans today who are in the prime donor group, the healthy, able-bodied young men and women, can't quite conceptualize what a pint is.  They see it as some amorphous amount that they might need, just in case they have to balance their humors or accidentally swallow some poisonous love apples.  In reality, we have a very clear reference for how puny a pint is.  Its a coke.  You're taking thirty minutes out of your day to donate a coke.  And it may save someone's life.

Mind you, I knew all of this in advance, but that didn't stop me from being more than a little nervous.  i was in auto pilot driving up to the hospital.  My body was going through the motions of pulling up, finding parking, listening to the last few bars in whatever was on the radio while I rolled up the windows.  All the while I was thinking 'Really?  Is this really happening?  I'm really gonna do this?"  I tried to play it cool, walking through the corridors of the hospital, saying good afternoon to everyone I went by.  All the while I was thinking of reasons to stop.  To turn back.  To just go have lunch and later tell my roommate 'Yeah, I went by.  We're good to go.'

I walked by a lady, old and wrinkled and perpetually frowning.  She had her hands on her lips as if she were holding them shut, as if any moment now she'd start screaming in pain.  'Good Afternoon.' I said, and I thought of my roomie's Aunt.  I'd never met her, had only heard about her the weekend before this for the very first time. 

I went by a duo of girls more lazing than waiting.  They were wearing...lets call it casual clothing.  One of them folded her legs as she saw me coming.  The other one was reclined on a wooden bench.  In a spaghetti strap tank top.  I tried my best to let my eyes go to her eyes and not her c-cups when I said "Good afternoon."  They both smiled knowingly.  I wondered, after I'd gone past them, what they were here for.  Why were they waiting outside a doctor or nurse's office?  I wondered how long it had really been since my last Aids test and my mind went to the same thought I'd had at my first Aids test, and every test after that, actually.  What if I had something.  I thought I was healthy, felt healthy but...what if?

Maybe I'll have a nice nurse, I thought.  Someone that could keep me distracted.  Maybe Id get turned down or turned away.  That, somehow, seemed even worse than not going at all.  When I finally got to the little room there was someone sitting in an odd sort of recliner, eating out of a Styrofoam container.  I told him I was here to donate blood and he hopped up out of the seat, brushed it off, and told me to sit down.  The nurse that he called to attend to me must have been younger than I am.  "Twenty...three." I'd guessed later.  They all laughed.  The young man I saw before, A volunteer named Bryan, said "Tell the truth, you said that because of her shoes, right?"  She was wearing these round toed flats with a thin buckle strap.  The kind my little sister used to wear in primary school.  And pink cotton socks with puppies on them. 

So, she wasn't the bombshell nurse I was expecting, but she did a really good job of making me feel comfortable.  We ran through the questions fairly quickly.  Simple questions like when was my last meal, had I ever given blood before.  Yadda Yadda.  She took a test sample first, giving me a stress ball to squeeze until my vein protruded slightly.  Of course, I only saw a stress ball and heard my own heart and started squeezing maniacally.  So concerned was I that I didn't even notice when she slid the needle in.  I just caught a sudden flash of red in the corner of my eye and suddenly she was filling a small vial with my blood.

Moment later she told me some aspect of my blood that I can't remember now, but she did break it down to me in Layman's terms.   "You're juicy, but not too juicy.  You're just juicy enough."  I smiled at the metaphor.  She laughed at her own joke.

Then she brought out a larger needle, loomed over my vein and said "Just relax."  of course I immediately tensed ever muscle in my body, including certain unmentionable orifices.  She pulled the needle back again, saying 'Seriously, if you don't relax I might mis the vein, then I have to stick you again."  This made me tense up once again, and laugh nervously.  She took a step back, showing me an even, unimpressed face.  I sighed, relaxed my arm, and closed my eyes.

There was pressure against my arm.  I was waiting for her to break the skin, waiting for the sudden pinch.  i was telling myself that I could take it.  I played sports.  I've fallen and scraped skin away from my own flesh.  I've banged my knees and shins into nearly every hard surface imaginable.  I've been hit in the teeth and eyes and nose more times than I'd ever care to.  Every time that pain lasted longer than this one fleeting moment would.  if I could take all that, then I can be a man for this.  And I wanted to see it.  Wanted to look at it in my flesh before she hid everything under a band aid.

But that pressure was the needle.  When I opened my eyes it was because she was adhering sticky, cold band aids on my skin.

"That's it?" I asked.
"Of course not." She answered, and showed me a flat square of plastic attached to a hose, attached to my arms.  The blood was creeping through it all.  "We'll see how long it takes you to fill the bag", she said.

In the meantime we talked.  It was the Taiwanese intern who's name sounded close enough to Susan; Bryan, the volunteer; And Rachel, the nurse, who'd been a nurse at the Western Regional Hospital for as long as I've been living in Belmopan.

"So you're not twenty three?" I asked.  She smiled and said "Nope" in a way that let me know that's all she planned to say on the matter.  I asked how many times a day they had to do this.  It seemed like it was routine for them, but they also seemed pretty relaxed, like they had all the time in the world.  "Every so often" She said.  "Usually when there's an accident or someone's sick."  I remembered that she had indeed asked who I'd be donating to.  For a second I thought she'd be wheeling the woman in and hooking us up to some fluid transfer do-dad.   That didn't happen.  A lot of the time, in fact, the blood wouldn't go directly to the receiver.  "Well we have to screen it first, obviously" she said.  "Your blood, along with the sample I took earlier, goes to Belize City.  They do the testing and the storing and everything else, and they send extra blood here to give to the receiver.  Sometimes we get low on a specific type.  That's the only reason we'd ask for a specific blood type."

I wanted to ask more.  I wanted to find out about her wildest story.  Had anyone ever completely lost it at the sight of their own blood?  What was her most difficult donor like?  Why did she become a nurse?  Why was Bryan here just as a volunteer?  No one volunteers in such a specialized area for no reason at all.  For some reason I'd gotten into a storytelling mood, I wanted to know more so that I could share it.  Rachel had just finished telling me about the journey my blood was going to make, and that I could come back in a couple weeks to find out the results of the screening, when she looked over and her eyebrows raised.

"Wow, you already"  She said, and came over, going through the process of tying off the IV holding up the now distended plastic bag.  She must have seen the amazement in my face because she let me hold it.  I was too busy marveling at the deep, dark red  cushion of blood in my hand to watch her slide the needle out of my arm and fix a cotton ball to the hole, then a band aid. "Hold your arm like this for a while" she said, bending my arm at the elbow.  I looked down, surprised to see she'd finished up already.  "Damn your good"  I said.  She smiled and took the pouch stuffed with my blood from me.

"Go get lunch."  She advised.  "Usually we'd give you a cookie or something, but we're all out."
"I knew this was too good to be true."  I said jokingly.  I said good bye to my new twenty minute friends, relieved.  Not bad, this giving blood business.  I  might try it again some day.

Seems I've changed a bit

On Kriol

I must be a traitor to the cause.  I recognize the need for a unified Kriol spelling and dictionary.  It is a beautiful and exciting language.  One that should be taken seriously.  One that has a place in our writing, our literature, our culture.  We should embrace it!  I still remember the ti me when my aunt told my little sister 'Don't talk like that.  It's ugly.'  My eyes almost fell out of my head.  Don't talk like that?  Here we are surrounded on all sides by such seductive forces that would devour our very Belizean-ness if you let it, and you're gonna tell a little girl who's only barely begun to develop attachments to a rewarding culture to abandon her language?

Or should I say langwij.  Which is one of the few Kriol words with which I have no problem with the spelling.  This is why I say I must be a traitor.  As much as I love the language, and the need to cement it as a part of our culture, I can't stand the chosen spelling.  For starters, I've always thought the letter 'k' to be vulgar.  I can't explain that one much further, honestly.  The letter 'k' is vulgar in the same way that the numeral '7' is intimidating and the taste of cilantro is a wide open room.  There might be some sort of repressed emotional influence from my childhood involved in it.  When I start seeing a therapist, I'll be sure to find out and let you all know, but until then anytime I see the letter 'k' in a word and its not silent, I'll krinj a little. 

I don't have the same issue with j replacing certain teeth sound combinations, obviously.  I can't, however, be asked to sit back and allow one combination to replace another.  That, to me, is asinine.  I speak creole I talk kriol, and I say 'truth' and 'tru-tru-story.'  I have never said 'chrute' or 'chru-ting'.  The sound is sharper.  Acute.  It doesn't slide like 'ch'.  Its an abrupt change of sound direction.  A nice, jarring 'tr'.

Okay, so maybe this is all just a bit ridiculous.  But keep in mind, if you're defining something you have to go by its original understanding.  Belizeans didn't invent the word Creole (We did invent Kriol, though.) it already existed in the world and had its own meaning.

Adjective

S: (adj) Creole (of or relating to a language that arises from contact between two other languages and has features of both)

I want to focus here on the phrase 'features of both'.  In this case that means that there are indeed a great plethora of African words in the Kriol language, words that don't have written spellings today and so we must give them one: Juk, nyam, ect.  But it also means that some of the words we're saying are English words.  Why should we change them?  Why should we go from saying 'Belizean Constitution' to 'Bileez Kanstitooshan'.  Why would we abandon  the etymology of a word older than us?  What part of the word 'Constitution' is too difficult for the Belizean tongue to pronounce?  To me there's something insulting about it. 

Now that I've ranted, this is the part where I admit that I have been writing quite a bit in Creole lately.  The stories that have been coming to me lately have been coming to me in Creole.  They start off in English, sure.  That's as far as setting goes.  But when it comes to relating certain aspects of the story, of the character, of the event, then there is no English substitution.  Its the beauty of the language that's required to paint a more vivid picture.  And the more that I use the language in my writing, the more I need it.  I don't write in the official Kriol spelling.  Sometimes its just a lot simpler to employ English words and Creole grammar.  Sometimes, I don't want to ruin something by throwing in a nasty 'K'.  But sometimes...sometimes I really wish I had that dictionary.  Sometimes yuh need wah lee pig tail inna yuh beans.

Rainy Season -- Day 20 (Seventh day of sun)

Last entry until it starts raining again.  Have so much to say.  So much to write.  Also have splitting headache and bad stomach.  Want to write essay on magic and fantasy in caribbean literature.  Musn't forget so writing down the intention here.  Can hardly think of anything other than my own personal discomfort and...

Her Legs.

Those legs deserve their own line.

What's happening with Polymath

 I've been thinking a lot about stories lately.  And just to clarify, I'm not talking about fairy tales or love stories.  I'm talking about the things that happen, that go unshared, but ought not to be.  This, right here?  This thing you're reading?  This is a story.  And yes, it may not sell books or make millions of dollars in movie sales, but like all stories it deserves to be shared.  It deserves an audience.  And I REALLY want to give it that.  This story, and stories like it.  And many other stories out there.

There's a combination of things that's been inspiring this, I think.  A big part of it is the things that I've been feeding my brain with lately.  Diane Setterfield's The Thirteenth Tale is a book about books.  About stories and writing, and only partly about the people that write them.  I've been delving into the blogs and available writing of Caribbean writers.  People with stories and cultures so rich that it makes me jealous.  And I've been been listening to a lot of Selected Shorts, The New Yorker, The Moth, and This American Life on my iPod.   All the while I think 'Why don't we have this?  Why aren't we telling our stories?  When I downloaded an old podcast from Caribbean Free Radio and heard the contributors sitting around a table with a bottle of gin and simply...talking; simply telling the story of that year's Calabash Festival, I was sure that we needed something like that. 

On top of that, I still (STILL!) get asked about Poetry Night.  About Polymath and about the plans and intentions that we had.  And as much as it was stressful and difficult it was always so immeasurably rewarding.  Even the disappointments, to me, were great things.  And recently we've been having whispers and plotting sessions.  Measuring the best places for an antenna.  Judging costs of converting a certain upstairs.  The phrases 'Radio Station' and 'Our Own' have been meeting in dangerous proximity.  We even talk about it as if it already exists, and only half in joke.  "That's a good idea." We say.  "We'll put that on the programming schedule for Pirate Radio."  Pirate Radio.  A play on Belize's buccaneering days.  That's what I'd call it, at least.  I don't think Manza's quite sold on it.  Furthermore, I don't think he really knows how excited I am about the prospect.  Because i haven't rushed out to buy an antenna or arranged to procure recording equipment, he probably thinks I've brushed it under the rug or that I wasn't really taking him seriously in the first place.  That's not the case. 

I am taking him seriously.  I do listen when he starts talking about these wild ideas.  I believe in the brother, ever since he made the first one happen.  But after the first one, I stopped worrying about the physical aspect.  I stopped worrying about how we're gonna make a stage appear out of thin air.  How we're gonna get wiring and speakers.  How we're gonna get house lights and get a bunch of people crammed into a room to listen to one tiny, shy voice at a time.  Now when he says 'we're going to put on a show.' I believe him.  When he says 'Its gonna be outside' I say 'There's gonna be lights in the trees and paper lanterns and people sipping wine on ' and I don't feel stupid for thinking so big.  Likewise, when he asked that first time 'You think we can find poets?  You think people will be into it?' and I told him 'People will be into it.  They'll fucking weep!', he believed me.  And it all happened.

Its just that right now, I'm more concerned with content.  I don't want to tackle this tiger head on.  I'd rather sneak up on it.  Death from above.  By the time Brah Tiga know's what's happening, I want to already have my teeth in him.  So, with that in mind, my after-work project for the next couple days is to take one of the Hard Drives I have at home and converting my home PC into a part time recording and editing PC.  I don't have the best mic, but I have a mic.  I don't have a studio but I have a room that's quiet if I let it be.  I don't have the top of the line software, but I've got Ubuntu, and open source resources.  I don't have the stories.  Not yet.  But I've got the drive.  And I've got the imagination.

This is gonna happen.  Just watch.

1 AM by Sierra DeMulder

Sierra Demulder performs "1:00 AM" at the Macalester Slam

"I cannot catch you.
I can barely stand to watch you fall."

Rainy Season - Day 7

Four men.  Two bottles of rum.  Six hours.  Countless stories.  This might be the closest to true Caribbean I'll ever see in Belize.  All we need now is a cricket game, but don't think the weather will cooperate.

Yo ho, yo ho.  A sea chanty in the chanty town.

Rainy Season - Day 6

Woke up this morning to a completely silent house.  The rain had lulled everyone to sleep, even the dogs.  Even the birds outside.  Even the frogs had gotten their fill of singing and dancing.  I pictured them drunk in the drains, huddled in the mud with their squashed, groggy faces.  Sticky tongues only reaching out every so often to test the air for signs of rain.   Yup.  Still there.

I don't blame them.

All the doors in the house were closed too, including the room now occupied by my roommate and, at least this morning, his girlfriend.  We've got somewhere to be in half an hour.  I don't even hear them stir.  In my mind I can see through the door.  I can see the two of them piled like laundry on that tiny bed.  I can see them occasionally rolling like the clouds outside.  I thought about locking, but then thought, 'let them have it.'  Everyone deserves a morning like that every once in a while.  Everyone should get to enjoy a little together weather.

I don't blame them.

Now these two are something else.  A grown man, almost.  Only a few years younger than myself.  Same for her.  But both playing like children, getting each other soaked and making the rain feel a-fool.  I wanted to ask just how old he was, as if making sure, when I saw him open the door a crack and fire three or four shots from a squirt gun.  Then, still grinning, he closed it behind him and put his weight against it.  A moment later she, his playmate with a face full as the moon and a smile like sunlight on droplets on forest leaves, bursts through the door.  I don't need my imagination to see the wells at her shirt-front and and her swollen pants back.  All soaked.  All clinging closely to dull copper skin.  I see her hips and her thighs and the rest of her curves rolling like those hills down south.  Down...south....

Yeah, go deh bwai.  Squirt away.  Splash and spill and spray away.  Whatever will get her wet.  Pull her hair, and lock the door.  Whatever you can do to drive her crazy.  Whatever you can do to make her scream your name.  Go deh bwai.  Go deh strong.

I don't blame you.

Rainy Season - Day 5

Its only been five days and already I can feel the rain on the inside of my skull, making my head soft and moldy.  I'm tired of spending all day with the sound of rain in my ears.  Sure, it was nice at first.  I was thirsty at first!  Now everytime i hear the rain, everytime i realize I can't go outside without an umbrella or closed to shoes, every time my head gets wet or I wake up dreaming of waterfalls and really needing to piss, I just want to scream.  Scream like rape and murder so that people come looking for me.  Maybe they'll bring an umbrella.  Maybe they'll bring back the sun.

Listen to it?  Plink! Plonk! Plat-Plat-Plat!  I haven't been thirsty for days.  Rahtid.

I had to get out of the house today.  I had to get out of the city!  The water rushes through the drains and once, when I was a child, I would be riding in them like a luge of morass.  But right now, I'm old.  Still young by some measure, but I don't like the way it makes my knees feel.  I don't even want to take a walk in  the rain the way i would do when I was only a little bit younger.  Damn city too small for a city.  Damn trees and shrubs too happy to hear from the long absent rain.  Damn sidewalks that feel like I'm walking on rotten vegetables.

I'd drive, but I'm afraid of the wet road.  Instead, i think I'll put my life in someone else's hands.  And while someone else drives, i'll watch the sky.  Just drive.  When the clouds stop looking like tarnished silver and start looking like something i'd like to scoop up in my hand and press into my mouth, then we can stop.  And we can make grass angels.  And count bugs.  And dread going back to the rain.

New Favorites

Lets count Summer Edward as a new favorite, Shall we?  In fact, while we're at it, lets toss a nod to Danielle Boodoo- Fortuné.  Gonna be keeping an eye out for these ladies.  You all should too.

Truth or Bukut

So...last night was interesting. Very educational.  Very revealing.  I may have made an ass of myself.  That's nothing new.  I think I admitted something I shouldn't have.  Something that was pretty obvious for the world to see but should have simply gone unsaid.  At least I think so.

I think so.  I don't know so, and I'm still not entirely convinced, that is, that I believe so.  The tension is out in the air now.  It may not have been the ideal method, but its out there.  I've admitted to Her that....  Anyway, its out there.  So why is it so difficult to move forward from that?  Cuz I'm a big fat scaredy cat, that's why.  Its a bit cliche, perhaps,  but I have the feeling that this might change everything.  We won't feel as comfortable talking about the stupid shit that we usually do.  We'll perhaps take one another a little too seriously.  Feelings.  That's what's on the line here.  That's what's bound to get hurt. 

So i tried bringing it up.  Online.  Not my favorite method.  God knows I know better than to try and express myself in live text chat.  Something like this needs to be communicated face to face.  Completely with pauses that aren't simply from 'Got up to get a glass of water'.  Complete with information that can be expressed only in glances, and in faces.  Faces that don't consist of a colon or semi-colon, that is.  And...perhaps culminating in some wordless expression.  Something physical.  Maybe a...

She laughed it off mostly.  Changed the subject.  Then went off-line for a couple hours.  Should I try it again?  Should I push the issue?  Should i ask for face-time instead?

Should I even be pursuing this?

I'd already decided not to.  I'd already decided that whatever this is had met its ending.  But...what if there's a chance?  I'd been doing some thinking and...I have to do a bit more.  I have to give a name to this.  Does my physical attraction outweigh my personal connection to Her?   Do I want to touch her skin and feel her warmth?  Or do I want to be the one that makes her warm?  Am I okay with just doing the latter, like i do now?  If I eat this cake, will I be full?  And for how long?

Things that I would say to you

Its so heavy.  My reality is so heavy right now.  I'm weighted.  Weighed down.  I feel like I'll never fly.  I feel like I'll never get to where you need me to be.  I feel like you'll never understand that. 

I've smoked all the cigarettes I had in the house.  Most were broken.  Some were wet.  All were your brand.  I don't smoke.  I don't have a brand.  You're my brand.

Don't roll your eyes.  I'm allowed to miss you.  I don't care what you have to say about it.  It was real to me.  It was worth waiting.  I didn't do all those things all those years to make you love me.  I did them because I loved you.  I love you.  I miss you.  I can't turn it off.

God I wish I could turn it off.

I've been trying.  I've been trying to replace you.  If I were any good at it, though, I wouldn't be drinking alone right now, smoking your cigarettes.  With your lighter.

I used to look up at the sky and imagine you, across the sea, looking up at the same sky.  I know you weren't now.  I know you're not.  You're fast asleep.  Probably in someone else's arms.  Am i really that easy to get over?

A million, billion stars.  I'm the only one looking up.

So back to this person.  This replacement.  She's not a replacement.  That is, she can't ever really be.  Too many bad habits that we don't share in common.  Except for one: living in the past.  Of all the things we share in common I wish we didn't share that.  I see her doing things I've been doing for a year now.  Its been several years for her.  How can I be with someone that makes me think of you?  Besides, it wouldn't be fair.  Not to her.  Not to me.

And not to you.  A good part of it is to get back at you.  Its someone you don't like.  But...that's a long list, aint it?

I'm sorry.  That was me being an asshole.  But really, you have to do something about your hatred for other women.  That can't be healthy.

And why do I even want anyone anyway?  Because you have someone?  Because I want to get back at you?  Because I'm horny as hell?  I don't need to like someone for any of those.  I've had the opportunity for something meaningless.  That's not what I want.

I just...I want to kiss someone.  I want to know that I'm still worth the emotional investment.  Not just to you, but to anyone.  And I want to know that I haven't lost the one.  That I can get by.  That I can recover and keep moving.  That there's something after this.

Shut up.  Don't say anything.  Just sit there.  Drink this.  Smoke this.  Just...be here.  Listen to this song. 

There's a shadow beneath the sea
There's a shadow between you and me
I've learned that love is scared of light
Thousand seeds from a flower
Blowing through the night

See?  Its about us. 

Your blackened kiss on my cheek
Your blackened kiss runs river deep
A stranded fish dear, i'm on the sand
Blue water from a pool
Up to the clouds i'll land

I'd really like to kiss someone.  Fuck, I'll settle for someone resting their head on my chest.  You've ruined me. 

Though i am dark 'bout the whys of wanting
Though i am dark, i'm still a child
Gonna dig a coal mine, climb down deep inside
Where my shadow's got one place to go
One place to hide.

Its such a relief to know you'll never read this.

Fuck This Movie

The Time Traveller's Wife - Meeting Alba

Fuck this Movie.  Fuck it in its mouth!

Filmbelize: Belize Film Festival Is Coming, Submit Your Work, You May Be A Winner

Filmbelize: Belize Film Festival Is Coming, Submit Your Work, You May Be A Winner

I gotta tell my peeps about this. Ooh! I gotta get writing! Must be a short story I can convert. Hmmm....

There's more to this, but I'm not ready to talk about it yet.

Horus is outside.  I call him Horus.  He's really just this crazy guy that walks around in an unbuttoned dress shirt with a bad head and bushy beard. But i call him Horus because he's got this perpetual sunburn And he talks to himself like a man who's been in the desert too long.  Or spends his days staring, naked-eyed, into the sun.

He's downstairs, squinting at my window (Dear god, can he see me?)  twirling his fingers around one another the way the universe circles the earth.  He's muttering his treatise.

This is why I need a camera.

We are Both Trembling Things

mojgani: 30/30, two

Damn.  People seem to enjoy my poems.  Invariably, these people are my friends so it sort of makes their opinions...questionable.  If they didn't know me; If I were, perhaps, just some random guy who happened to pass them a poem on a napkin, what would they think of it then?

Call me a wild thing. I run sometimes. Sometimes I sleep
beneath the ancient tree. My belly is softer than my back.
There are things inside of me that are overgrown with blackberries.
They are plump with the sun, ready to stain the fingers.
There is a room where a woman with a loom weaves.
She is making a fabric white as skin. The light passes through it.
Her body is like lace. The light passes through it.
Its corners curl into shapes and beautiful patterns.
She lays herself before me on top the table
and places my teacup on to her chest.
They are both trembling things.
She covers her body with teacups.
I lay at her feet.
We are both trembling things.

I don't know Anis Mojgani.  I never shook his hand or teased him about his height.  I've never dismissed the snarks of homophobes while embracing him, man to man, in a crowded restaurant.  We are not friends.  But I'd like to be.  I'd like to meet Anis Mojgani the way some people would like to hang out backstage with their favorite musicians.  This man is my rock star.  I hear he hangs out at the Bowery Poetry Club.  Last time I was in New York I went out in search of it, only to get lost and give up hope.  And just as we were about to descend down into another subway terminal I look up...and there it is.  Right across the street.

Next time, I'll be able to find it a lot easier.  Maybe they'll have an open mic night or something.  Maybe I'll read.  Maybe Anis Mojgani will be in the crowd.  Maybe he'll clap.

That'd be awesome.

Buss Up Yuh Melon!

A friend of mine asked me today 'How do you fall in love?'

Now, lets not get into how she decided i was somehow some expert on love, or falling into love, or even being able to express what that whole deal is like.  Lets just pretend that I'm not that fucked up.  That people can ask me questions.  Lets pretend that I know what the fuck I'm talking about.

Her: How do you fall in love?
Me:  Head first.

"Seriously, the answer is always head first.  Sometimes your walking along, quite cool, quite calm, and all of a sudden your foot hits something and BAM!  You're falling, head first, sprawling out, buss up yuh melon!  That's when you stop seeing straight and start talking all fool-fool!

"And then, sometimes, you stand there and you have to psyche yourself into it.  You stand there thinking 'Okay.  This is it.  I'm gonna fall.  I'm gonna lift my feet up and point my head at the ground.  I'm gonna break my neck.  I'm gonna knock out all my teeth.  I'm gonna eat so much sand and I'm gonna do it all on purpose because that's what love is.'

"Of course, this is hardly a pleasant prospect for any sane person.  But, remember, you're not sane.  You're considering falling in love, which means you're already thinkin' all fool-fool."