New Year, new new things

A new year has started.  A new month a new semester, brand new everything.  And I am in a completely new place.  Gone are the gripes of yesteryear and all those previous blog posts.  I have none of that to co,plain about anymore. Now there are brand new gripes such as: being unemployed, new and strange cultures, same old cultures, and many more.  Honestly though life is...smoother.  Which isn't to say that student life is easy.  Its a brand new set of difficulties.  And of course my own personal hang ups.  But we'll sort that all out as we go along, won't we?  And I guess that attitude, and the freedom to actually hold that attitude is what's keeping me sane lately.  I've also been doing a lot of thinking and developing my own mini philosophies.  Among a great many other things, the new me is greatly concerned with School and focus, fashion and personal style, and (of course) expanding upon the adoption of RISK!


(Did you like how I did that, by the way?  See, its still an informal blog, but with a thesis statement and subtopics.  I find it useful since I tend to meander a lot as I'm typing these things.)


My education and the focus I devote to it are really important to me right now.  It took a lot for me to come here.  A lot from myself and a lot from those supporting me.  My first semester I managed to pay off mostly on my own thanks to the generosity of my previous employers.  I suppose I also earned that generosity after suddenly growing a pair after six yeas, even though I started dying a little inside each year since about 2007.  At that point it was the longest I'd ever held a job, and I thought that staying in one place was the proper, adult thing to do.  It might have been but that wasn't the kind of adult I wanted to be.  I was basically working for the weekends when I could cut loose and be myself, and for the free stationary and print and copy services that I could use for my other projects.  My other projects being the poetry, short story, art, and cultural events and publications that I really should have been doing in the first place.  No one ever told me that a job is the thing you do on the way to building your career.  Or perhaps they had told me and I'd simply forgotten.  Regular paychecks tend to do that.  


But I did grow a pair.  Yes, it was either that or lose my mind completely; I realized that when the times I left from work and started driving down the highway considering whether I should fake my death and run away or actually make it a real death became an almost daily activity.  But that's not the point.  I'm here.  I left.  And after beating myself about it for an entire semester, still wondering whether or not I was doing the right thing, I've come to accept that the investment has been too great to squander.  I am still me.  I am still loved by those who I love.  (Long distant texts, calls, emails and care packages prove this)  I do still hold a certain level of celebrity somewhere (google me sometime).  And most importantly I am indeed doing what I'm meant to be doing.  There's no need for external evidence in this case.  I feel it.  I feel it every time I sit in a class and am overcome with exhilaration just from being there.  I feel it when I look around and everyone seems to be struggling with what feels like leisure to me.  I even feel it when I'm the only one guffawing loudly in a class because I'm the only one actually paying attention.  This doesn't mean I get to relax.  No, quite the opposite.  I have to excel in this case.  I have to be the one that the lecturers and professors remember.  I'm learning, yes.  But I'm also networking.  This is going to be my career at some point.   Somehow.  Haven't quite figured that bit out yet.


I've also become a bit concerned with my own personal style and sense of fashion.  Being here hasn't just changed the way I feel about myself, its also changed how I look.  Though you probably won't be able to tell after the Christmas break, I've lost a lot of weight.  I'm swimming in my clothes once again.  My t-shirts fit me like clothe sacks.  On windy days I feel like I'm wearing a spinnaker. (I'd like to go sailing someday).  My pants are even more ridiculous.  I don't even unzip or unbutton them anymore to get them on or off.  And if I want them to stay where I put them, I have to put them just under my ribs.  I'm also 28 years old.  A fact which makes me cringe every time I think of it.  I shouldn't be dressed like a hip-hop video reject.  I'm not a wannabe thug.  I don't think I ever have been. Not seriously at least. (GCG fo life tho!)  

As I was thinking about this, wandering around Manhattan this holiday, I realized that the way I dress says so much about who I am that I really aught to take a more active role in it.  I should be projecting my personal image of myself; the me I want to be.  Even if I don't believe I am that person yet, I should be taking steps in that direction.  What type of man is that, you ask?  Well, a writer and a thinker for one thing.  A carefully put together wardrobe should indicate that quite nicely, I think. Luckily I already started with the glasses.  I didn't know what I wanted at first, but I did know I didn't want any brand name markings that were readily visible.  That's one of the first points.  I am myself.  I'm not Nike or Playboy.  I refuse to be a walking billboard.  I refuse to be a swoosh.  I still like Adidas stripes though.  That'll be a struggle to overcome. The point is, no more branding that isn't my own.  I may make a few t-shirts in the future.  Make celebrities out of the people I choose to honor.  And Milner shirts are definitely in.  Even if its not shared by everyone, my opinion of what I see as the Milnerite ideal is still pretty great.  I'll get the whole collection and wear the MH proudly.  The rest is really too long to go through without a very long explanation.  I'll probably save that for another post.  Several other posts.  I'll save that for a publication of some sort.  The point is...no more spinnakers.  No more clothes that don't fit.  I'm not trying to be a gangsta.  I'm not so insecure as to try and make myself look like something I'm quite obviously not.  And definitely no hoodies.  This is the year of the button downs; the boat shoes, and on special occasions, the blazer & graphic tee.


My motto of RISK! isn't exactly a new thing, but I've been putting new thought into it.  Last year, it came to me without me even knowing what it was.  That New year celebration filled with drunken fireworks and friends and frightening displays of spontaneity (I really did think of the party at the same time that I put the ham in the oven that day) filled me with a feeling that I would carry with me for the rest of the year.  I stared at the scraps of red firecracker wrappers and shattered pieces of newsprint that replaced the topsoil in my backyard all day as I tried to put a name to the feeling.  It was my cousin Delsia who gave it to me in one of our conversations that displayed how frighteningly similar we are.  We'd been thinking the same thing at the same time, and it took us coming together to figure out what that something was.  "RISK!" she said.  "That'll be our secret word for this year."  RISK! in all caps, with the exclamation mark.  Not a noun, it wasn't just a thing.  Not an adjective to describe the things.  It was a verb.  And the explanation made it a demand.  A challenge.  No point sitting around waiting for something wonderful to happen.  RISK!  Take the chance.  Make it happen.  Of course now that I've made it happen, I don't think I ought to stop.  

There are things that scare me.  There are things that I'm afraid of.  Failure is chief among them, but there's also embarrassment.  Ostracism.  But these are all things that I learn from.  Failure is important to the learning process.  If I don't know when I'm wrong, how can I ever be right?  Embarrassment?  Well, that's just pointless.  If I'm being myself; my wonderful, corny, overly sentimental self, then there's really nothing to be embarrassed about, is there?  Somewhere out there beautiful women smile wide at my corniness.  Somewhere out there a troupe of cocksure men want to hug their brother and talk about the last movie they cried to. I'm 28 years old.  I've found my place.  It was hard to get to, but I've found that place where I belong.  I'm all out of embarrassment.  I am also away from that place, and I have been before.  I can always go back there.  Its always waiting and sometimes I carry a bit of it with me.  I am an outcast everywhere I am.  There's nothing to fear there either. But more than that, fear itself keeps me from living.  I am a writer, and inspiration comes from life; from living and observing.  I can't afford to have anything get in the way of that.

So lets see where this all takes us, shall we?  I have a feeling its going to be a good year and that at the end of it I'll be closer to who I want to be.  I'll be that unparalleled scholar, not only gaining knowledge but applying it daily.  I'll be identifiable to myself and others, and a whole lot more confident in my own clothes.  And I'll be prepared to take greater risks, and that will make life so much more...more.  Its going to be a good year, even if its going to be the last.   

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.

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.

A gate of ivory, A gate of horn

Once, back when Merri was still here, back when we regularly shared the same bed, I had a dream.

In my dream I was in the most perfect place.  A paradise I could hardly recognize.  And it was the perfect day.  I was leaving a tiny room through a plain wooden door and I stepped outside to greet the rising sun ambling skyward, steaming as it rose from the sea.  I dipped my toes in the sand, considered the hues of color in the sky for a moment, and began walking.  I still don't know where I was going, but I was alone.  And I wanted to find...someone.  Anyone to share this day with.  I was walking to her.

I didn't know who she was or what she looked like, but I did know who she wasn't.  She wasn't Merri.  This was an odd brand of guilt.  One flavored by elation, excitement and disappointment.  Not disappointment for my behavior or actions.  But...for being allowed to behave this way.  That doesn't really explain it.  I don't know if I can explain it.  For that matter I don't know if I should.  It was just a dream.

But after i'd stepped out into the perfect day and went out looking for her, I didn't really get very far since...she was already on her way to find me.

On her way to find me.

You might be thinking 'Okay, this is where things get hot and steamy.  He's gonna talk about breasts and penises now.'  Its not.  Sorry to disappoint.  We just sat, once we'd found one another.  Sat and chatted a bit, but I was still buzzing with the idea that she was looking for me!  The elation I was feeling in my dream-heart just talking to her was just as good as infidelity.

Especially considering the fact that every time I turned to look over my shoulder I would see Merri.  Sitting there.  Looking blankly, though not at me.  Never at me.  I'd call her name but she wouldn't respond.  We'd go on chatting, me and she, and every so often I'd look back at Merri to find...she wasn't all that concerned.  So...I thought...what else could we do?  Right here?  In front of Merri?

When I woke up she was on the far side of the bed and for the first time...first of many...our backs were turned.  I should have paid attention to this.  I should have paid attention to a lot of things.  But sometimes...you're so desperate to hold on to the good things, that you let the bad ones slide. 

Anyway, I was wracked with guilt.  I turned and pulled her to me, kissing her firmly awake.  I didn't tell her about the dream.  It was just a dream.

Just a dream.

***

That was ages ago.  Don't even remember the date.  But today...today I had the most wonderful day.  I haven't seen Merri in a year.  I haven't spoken to her in months.  People ask me about her.  I smile and give them old information.  I think about her constantly.

This morning I showered, and got dressed, in the bathroom of the tiny Hotel room Sean and I are sharing for the weekend.  I stepped through the green wooden door and onto the 'lawn' of the hotel, which is all sea sand.  The sun was already up.  The waves were sparkling under it.  A cool wind blew at me from nearly all directions.

I did go looking for her.  I'm loathe to admit it.  I feel so guilty.  In fact, i felt pretty dumb since she wasn't looking for me.  She wasn't even awake yet.

But she did wake up earlier.  And she had been looking for me.  Or at least she seemed to be.  She tends to talk in her sleep.  It might have been real.  It might have been just a dream.

I think I'll grow a beard

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

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

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

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

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