So here I am...

I don't know what to say, but I feel like I should say something.  Should say it in writing.  Should say it here.  I'm not exactly where I thought I would be post-graduation; Its been a while since I've had any manic, floor-pacing drives to write anything; and I just saw a commercial for Guinness Blonde Ale.  Nothing is what it used to be, or supposed to be.  I'm not what I'm supposed to be.  I've gone astray somehow and some part of me tells me that doing this might help me get back on track.

I won't talk about family too much.  Every time I do I get the same lecture from people.  Things aren't what they used to be, or should be, with them either.  I can't shake the feeling that I'm responsible for that to some degree.  (Save it, I don't want to hear it.)  What's worse is I'm powerless to do anything about it now.  (Yeah, save that one too.)  That is my foremost concern.  Its on my mind pretty much constantly.

I met someone.  I was content to some degree.  In the end I don't think I was as into it as she was, which is why when I started getting chest pains and headaches and long walks to avoid explosion (which is a pretty good route towards implosion actually) I decided that it wasn't worth continuing.  And then I thought "This is the most horrible thing you've ever done in your life".  I thought "the least you could do is to try and make it work".  Then I changed my email password.  Because its my email password and I thought I could do that.  I got a call at seven in the morning that felt like an interrogation, like a scolding, like I had fucked up somehow with how I chose to manage my personal information.  I realized that I had probably done the right thing.  I still wish I had handled it differently.  I still wish I had said "Lets slow down" or "I don't know if I'm ready to get THAT serious".  I wish that when she'd told me not to settle, or that we shouldn't be together because she wasn't my type or I couldn't handle someone lie her or that we came from different worlds or any of the many other outs that she gave me...that I'd listened.  I wish that I wasn't so proud.  I wish I wasn't so influenced by shame now.  She was a great friend.  I wish I could be a better friend to her.  I owe her so much and I'll never be able to completely repay her.  I wish i could at least try.  I'm sorry at how that ended up.

I'm sorry.

I'm sad and I'm tired.  Tomorrow I'll try writing.  If not creating something, then reaching out to people.  If I could just get back to where i was then maybe things can be what they were supposed to be.

I'm happy with my penis size and yet....

One of my recent personal deveopments since coming to UWI is that hI've begun to see themes everywhere.  Literary themes pop up in real life, in small talk and apparently random behavior.  Everything has a subtext now.  Everything has a socio-political impact.  Especially the proliferation of KFC and the lack of natural, unsweetened chocolate on store shelves.  Normally I'd say I was losing it.  I'm just reading too much into things.  But then, I've been beaten over the head with the idea that if I see it, and I can prove it, then its there.  If you perceive it, then it exists.  I have yet to figure out where that leaves room for illusion, or possibly even delusion.  For the time being, Im a little more concerned with actively addressing the things I've been seeing.

One of these themes is Manhood.  Not adulthood, mind you.  Not male homosapiens of reproductive age.  No, I've been thinking about manhood and masculinity.  Luckily there's a gender studies course on that next semester that I can take as an elective.  In the meantime though, my mind is racing.  I don't know if I can wait that long.  Take, for instance, that thing that just happened in KFC.  That was definitely a threat, right?  Definitely a chest-beating, dick measuring contest, right?  Oh, right.  You weren't there.  Let me break it down for you.

So we're in the food court by KFC.  I'd just had a horrible day of splitting my attention in two different directions and producing mediocre work for both, so as punishment I decided to get a snack-pack.  There I met Scott.  Scott's a pretty cool guy.  He's not a guy's guy by any measure.  He's long and gangly, as if he liked puberty so much he just stuck with it into adolescence.  This doesn't make him bad looking though.  I'm sure some young lady who sincerely values a man with a sense of humor would gladly take strangely angled pictures with their foreheads touching so they can both put on facebook someday.  Scott is in my Drama class, and my Intro to Prose class.  Scott's also in the Intro to Poetry class which I won't be taking until next semester.  Still, with all that reading and writing, Scott is never without a smile or a joke.  In other words, Scott's my kind of people. 

Scott tells me that he's waiting for Gabby, Chelsea, and Nick, who are all also lit majors and classmates of mine.  Since arriving here they are the only Trinis that I don't have to actually try to have fun with in order to have fun with.  Once again, these are my people.  And so, as a matter of course, I decide to wait for the others to arrive.  When they do, we start doing our strange combination of discussing academics along side what we'd call madarass back home.  Both of which I enjoy thoroughly.  Enter, then, The Fellow from North.  Of course he's wearing his traditional Fellow from North garb, a zip up hoody, even though we're in the tropics and coming toward the end of the wet season.  Of course he has the usual north baring.  All they do on north is practice that baring.  Lifting weights and practicing how to fix their jaws and look at people out of the corners of their eyes in the mirror.  No, no.  I'm already letting my personal attitude color this story.  Lets stick to the facts.

Here are the facts: Fellow from north enters.  Fellow from north sees me.  I nod hello.  He may have nodded, but I didn't see one.  Fello from north sees Scott.  Scott does not nod hello.  Scott does not know the fellow from north.  Fellow from North sees Gabby.  Gabby smiles.  Fellow from north walks around the table and sits awfully close to gabby.  Fellow from north drapes a hand over her.  Fellow from north proceeds to flirt openly.  Fellow from north tickles Gabby.  Gabby laughs.  Gabby says 'Please don't do that' and proceeds to explain why.  Mid-explanation, fellow from north tickles her again.  Gabby Laughs.  Gabby says stop.  Fellow from north Tickles Gabby again, thereby initialling a mini wrestling match between the two.  Scott looks at me as if to say 'Is this really happening?'  I look at Scott as if to say 'Yes, this is definitely happening.'  Fellow from north says 'Oh, hey fellas.'  Fella from north walks away.  We've all forgotten what we were talking about when the Fellow from North entered.

To return to my initial question: Was it just me or was that kind of fucked up?  There are certain things that might color my perception of it, of course.  Maybe I'm just not threatened by Scott, but am clearly threatened by The Man From North.  Maybe the Man From North didn't have to do a single thing except be present in order for me to resent him somehow.  Maybe if they did it to Chelsea I wouldn't mind, but because I've taken a bit of a shine to Gabby, I'm feeling territorial. 

From my end the message is clear.  The fellow sat down and basically said, "both of you men are not real men.  Look at what I can do.  I can force her to laugh.  She says no, but because I'm doing it she likes it.  See the way we're touching now?  See the way whatever you boys were talking about no longer matters?  Goodbye losers."  Of course I'm left with the usual question of 'Did that really just happen or am I reading too much into it?"  I'm also left with the realization that I would never do such a thing.  There lies the path of Douchebags.  And then, I think...Douchebags get laid.  So maybe I should be more of a douchebag.  Maybe my lack of douchebaggery represents a direct correlation to my limited number of sexual partners.  I tell myself that its all a matter of quality over quantity.  That if we count by number of instances rather than partners, then I'm right up there with my contemporaries; and that if we count by successful female orgasms, I'm way ahead of the crowd.  A part of me doesn't buy that though.  A part of me wants to have sex with everyone I want to have sex with.  A part of me thinks that each beautiful memorable moment is perpetually overshadowed by the ones that didn't happen.  A part of me wants to know what its like to be a douchebag, and in fact, wonders if that isn't actually the ideal.

And if that is masculinity, then what the fuck am I?

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.

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.

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.

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.

What have I learned today?

"Silence is not a natural environment for stories. They need words. Without them they grow pale, sicken and die. And then they haunt you."

From The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield

Full disclosure from here on out. Can't stand to be haunted. Besides, who's reading that would be offended?

Besides. I get to be selfish. At least here. This...is for me.

An argument with myself

Upon writing a poem that I'm still not brave enough to let the world know about.

Do I have to insert morality?  Whats the purpose of this exactly?

Its just a fantasy.  Nothing wrong with that.

But what does that say about me?

It says you have a penis and it talks to you.

Is it my penis that's been writing poetry all this while?

Your penis is a dick.  You're just the kind of guy that'll lend a caring ear to just about anyone.  Even if that someone is a dick.

I am not a nice person

So I was at the bank the other day.  I won't say which bank except that it was the bank with that one teller who looks like a fish?  Yes, that one.  And as I stood there I kept thinking 'My Goodness.  She really does look like a fish.  There's no hope for her.  No hope at all.

'Is she still a virgin?  Even if she isn't she probably qualifies for regaining the status.  That's why she's always frowning, I bet.  Like a grouper.  Grouper frown.

'Who could lover her?  Who would fill her to the gills with passion?  Who caresses her operculum at night?  Strokes her pectoral fins?   Makes her flap and gasp with delight?

'Maybe they are soft fish lips.  Lips like lulling waves.  Except--oh god, she has fish teeth too.  Perhaps she makes up for it by being slippery like a fish too.  (Nudge-nudge, Wink-wink, Know what I mean?)  Perhaps she makes up for it with those breasts.  Yes, that's got to be it.  Those massive breast s.  With their flattened nipples.  Their areolas (areoli?  areolae) the size of dinner plates, surrounded by a hedge of thick, curly hairs.'

But it wasn't until the thought of hairs led to the thought of her briar patch bush and the tiny ecosystem  that probably existed there that I audibly made a 'hoark!' sound and had to beg pardon, smiling politely.

True story.

But now, I'm sitting at the bus station staring occasionally glancing at a girl who would look just like the fish girl, if the fish girl lost about forty pounds.  And had more pronounced cheek bones.  And better skin.  Less round eyes.  Longer hair, and more of it.

Y'know, I was gonna go along on some whiny, self examining jag because I thought I was losing some of my fundamental 'nice-guy-ness' by not being in the least bit attracted to the fish girl.  But the truth is, ugly people do exist.  And they're out there.

And they're gonna GETCHYA!

Leave me on the corner

Its probably not a good habit. I guess its something born of my own survival instincts or coping mechanism. I le go. I give up. I'd rather not have that feeling of the things i love; people, relationships, friendships; taken from me. Or, perhaps more damning and honest, I'd rather not acknowledge the fact that i may be even partially responsible for losing them. So i hold on, but loosely. And when they're finally gone I'm not the one that lost them. They just left.

Save the condemnations. Coward. Fool. Selfish ass. There's not a single one I haven't called myself.

So what's the point of self-analysis if you don't do anything about it, right? I'll have to get back to you with that. It might take me a couple years, though. Years that i'd much rather spend with you. Years that you've convinced me you don't have. I've never had to 'fight' to hold on to something. Someone. I'm not used to it. I don't know how. I've never set out to change myself either. That, I think, will take even more time. And that's part of our problem.

No. My problem shouldn't be your problem. My problem. Mine.

(Written some time around the beginning of 2009. Entry not dated.)

An Argument that Never Happened

"Maybe we shouldn't do this."

You mean maybe you don't want to do this.  Based on nothing more than your own doubts, neuroses, and personal hangups.  Things that you search for so keenly in me because then you don't have to feel so guilty about having them.

"We're not going anywhere."

We've already come so far!  But maybe you're right.  I'm not willing to get hitched and get you knocked up so you can fulfill your dream of living without any clear means of supporting ourselves.  Sorry I wasted your time.

"I thought you would be the one to turn it all around."

And I thought we were meant to accept one another, faults an all.  I wasn't aware you needed fixing.

"I think I give up."  "I'm too tired."

Me too.  I don't know what else to do if "I love you" doesn't work.  If showing it doesn't work.  If I haven't convinced you by now, I don't know if I ever will.

[A dark day in January, 2009]
[Which is truly worse: The things we say to the ones we love or the things we only say to ourselves?]

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.

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.

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 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.