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.
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
Monday, May 27, 2013
Life (and that other thing)
It’s funny how life (and that other thing) works out. Just a few weeks ago I felt like I was going through a major emotional crisis. I didn't know how I was going to survive another year without going back to Belize. I was over my head with homesickness and with being in a situation where I had given up any minor level of control, authority, and social and financial security I had in my life to put myself in the role of the student. I’d done all of this willingly, mind you, and put myself into exile, far from home and yet tortuously close in Trinidad. I wanted, I suppose, to know how Dante felt, exiled from home and only having his writing as consolation. But Dante didn't have facebook; he didn't have to watch the life he left behind go on without him; see all the things he was missing. And what it freely amounts to is that I’m not half the man that Dante Alighieri was. I think of myself moping then and I’m a little bit disgusted at what a little boy I was being, crying for home and its comforts but too pitiful to even actually cry.
Fast forward a few weeks later and I’m still just a little boy who doesn't know how to react to the news of his grandmother dying. At least not outside my own head. Inside my head there was a full scenario being played out, as there usually is. The entire family would be present, except for me, and I would show up a year or so later, wandering a cemetery and completely unable to find her grave because I’ll simply have no clue where it might be, because I wasn't there to lower her into it. Perhaps one of the simplest and most profound acts of respect a person can show another person: To bear the burden of their discarded body, to treat it properly and see that it is taken care of, to place it finally in a safe place, and to mark the spot and perhaps visit every now and again. And I. Wouldn't. Be. There.
Other scenarios played themselves out as well, including a visit from Mama in my dreams, just as she had done when I was smaller. Only instead of stabbing me in the back of the neck with a hypodermic needle, she would be nice. We would sit and chat; she in Spanish and I in English, and she would laugh and slap her thighs the way I never remember seeing her do. But I can imagine it the same way I've always imagined the few moments before and after the image of her and her husband standing in front of the frame of what would soon be their home and the home of their eight children. The picture that has hung on the living room wall for as long as there was a wall in the living room. The one with the man with the same rakish mustache I have now standing next to a pretty young girl with a young girl’s unfiltered smile.
A scenario that hadn't occurred to me was there suddenly, miraculously being a plane ticket with my name on it, final destination: Belize. And yet, here I am, writing from that concretely ambiguous location of the Miami airport. The ticket wasn't miraculous exactly. It hadn't appeared out of thin air. My mother and I travel frequently and she happened to have enough air miles to get me where I needed to be. It’s the getting back that’ll be the problem. Money for that will come out of something; a credit card payment or my yet-to-be-paid tuition. But there’s no point in worrying about that now. The old two-way door is swinging, better for me to concentrate on making the most of it.
Mostly, I had given up on going to Belize because my reasons for going all seemed sop self serving and ultimately superfluous. I was seeking the pleasure of old comforts and experiences, old friends, old lovers. I told myself that I had practical reasons; I needed to lay down the groundwork for a career once I finished with school. This is still true, but it wasn't the foremost thought on my mind. I’d also decided that I would be foisting myself on my family, an act which I probably shouldn't rush into until the end of my third year, when I didn't have any other choice. Now, instead of taking advantage of my family I’ll be required to fulfill my responsibility to them. I've absolved my guilt through terrible circumstances. The guilt is inescapable.
Fast forward a few weeks later and I’m still just a little boy who doesn't know how to react to the news of his grandmother dying. At least not outside my own head. Inside my head there was a full scenario being played out, as there usually is. The entire family would be present, except for me, and I would show up a year or so later, wandering a cemetery and completely unable to find her grave because I’ll simply have no clue where it might be, because I wasn't there to lower her into it. Perhaps one of the simplest and most profound acts of respect a person can show another person: To bear the burden of their discarded body, to treat it properly and see that it is taken care of, to place it finally in a safe place, and to mark the spot and perhaps visit every now and again. And I. Wouldn't. Be. There.
Other scenarios played themselves out as well, including a visit from Mama in my dreams, just as she had done when I was smaller. Only instead of stabbing me in the back of the neck with a hypodermic needle, she would be nice. We would sit and chat; she in Spanish and I in English, and she would laugh and slap her thighs the way I never remember seeing her do. But I can imagine it the same way I've always imagined the few moments before and after the image of her and her husband standing in front of the frame of what would soon be their home and the home of their eight children. The picture that has hung on the living room wall for as long as there was a wall in the living room. The one with the man with the same rakish mustache I have now standing next to a pretty young girl with a young girl’s unfiltered smile.
A scenario that hadn't occurred to me was there suddenly, miraculously being a plane ticket with my name on it, final destination: Belize. And yet, here I am, writing from that concretely ambiguous location of the Miami airport. The ticket wasn't miraculous exactly. It hadn't appeared out of thin air. My mother and I travel frequently and she happened to have enough air miles to get me where I needed to be. It’s the getting back that’ll be the problem. Money for that will come out of something; a credit card payment or my yet-to-be-paid tuition. But there’s no point in worrying about that now. The old two-way door is swinging, better for me to concentrate on making the most of it.
Mostly, I had given up on going to Belize because my reasons for going all seemed sop self serving and ultimately superfluous. I was seeking the pleasure of old comforts and experiences, old friends, old lovers. I told myself that I had practical reasons; I needed to lay down the groundwork for a career once I finished with school. This is still true, but it wasn't the foremost thought on my mind. I’d also decided that I would be foisting myself on my family, an act which I probably shouldn't rush into until the end of my third year, when I didn't have any other choice. Now, instead of taking advantage of my family I’ll be required to fulfill my responsibility to them. I've absolved my guilt through terrible circumstances. The guilt is inescapable.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Help me, Moshe Levi Ben-David. You're our only hope.
In response to: http://www.7newsbelize.com/sstory.php?nid=22147
Aw, c'mon folks. Give the guy a break! He's not selling drugs and he's not in the NBA, and we all know those are the only two ways a person can 'make it', right? Right? RIGHT?!?!?!?!
I mean, it'd be great if he could make his music right where he is but the truth is there just aren't any recording studios in Belize. Or Mexico. Or Guatemala. Or Central America. Or the Caribbean. And there certainly aren't any producers either. How's he supposed to shyne--I mean shine as a musician if he can't get other people to make music for him? Wait what? What'd you just say? Live music? Like with instruments and shit? What are you, crazy? No, no. The only hope our cultural ambassador has is to go to the US or Britain. If you dispute that, then obviously you're not aware of his overall massa-plan. I mean Master-plan. I mean...hell, you know what I mean.
It'd be cool if there were some other way though. If we could somehow transfer his voice onto some sort of medium that could be sent over there and then played back and mixed later. I imagine it'd be something lightweight, maybe circular. I hear their doing amazing things with plastics these days. Yeah, some kind of DISK that's small and COMPACT. Ohhh, but you know what would be even cooler? If he could transfer his voice using some kind of electronic code. We'd keep it simple. Maybe just a series of ones and zeros. Hmm. It'd have to be FREE. Can't afford anything too expensive. It'd have to be something LOSSLESS, meaning there'd be little to no degredation of AUDIO quality. Oh, crap. I'm stumped. I don't even know what you'd call that kind of fancy, techno-magical CODEC. Besides, we all know that its impossible to record an album in absentia. Just look at that convicted felon who recorded part of his 2004 album while in the Clinton Correctional Facility. What was that guy's name again? Oh, its on the tip of my tongue. Anyway, that thing was horrible, wasn't it?
What? Four-hundred thousand copies sold? Number 1 on the US Billboard charts? Now I KNOW you're crazy!
Yep. Its a lost cause folks. Better to divert all our attention to crossing our fingers and toes and hoping the US embassy buys his 'I'm not black, I'm jewish' gambit. That way he can get back to the real markets. The only markets that matter. I mean, they ARE the only markets that matter. Its not like 387 million South American, 41 million Central American, and 39 million Caribbean consumers iare really gonna do anything for us. No, no, its time to face facts. Belizean culture in its entirety (the flag and the namedrop) doesn't have any hope without riding Shyne's coat-tails. So lets get those coat-tails flapping in the wind again!
What's that, ghost of Andy Palacio? You think Belizean music and culture can stand up on its own? Well, I mean sure, if you could do it based on nothing but hard work and actual development of your artistry, then I guess it MIGHT be able to work again. But you're talking about Belizean-Belizean culture. We're looking out for the Belizean-American and the Belizean-Europeans. Y'know, the ones keeping the culture going. You don't expect us to take all those drums and kriol talk seriously, do you?
Yeah. I didn't think so.
Aw, c'mon folks. Give the guy a break! He's not selling drugs and he's not in the NBA, and we all know those are the only two ways a person can 'make it', right? Right? RIGHT?!?!?!?!
I mean, it'd be great if he could make his music right where he is but the truth is there just aren't any recording studios in Belize. Or Mexico. Or Guatemala. Or Central America. Or the Caribbean. And there certainly aren't any producers either. How's he supposed to shyne--I mean shine as a musician if he can't get other people to make music for him? Wait what? What'd you just say? Live music? Like with instruments and shit? What are you, crazy? No, no. The only hope our cultural ambassador has is to go to the US or Britain. If you dispute that, then obviously you're not aware of his overall massa-plan. I mean Master-plan. I mean...hell, you know what I mean.
It'd be cool if there were some other way though. If we could somehow transfer his voice onto some sort of medium that could be sent over there and then played back and mixed later. I imagine it'd be something lightweight, maybe circular. I hear their doing amazing things with plastics these days. Yeah, some kind of DISK that's small and COMPACT. Ohhh, but you know what would be even cooler? If he could transfer his voice using some kind of electronic code. We'd keep it simple. Maybe just a series of ones and zeros. Hmm. It'd have to be FREE. Can't afford anything too expensive. It'd have to be something LOSSLESS, meaning there'd be little to no degredation of AUDIO quality. Oh, crap. I'm stumped. I don't even know what you'd call that kind of fancy, techno-magical CODEC. Besides, we all know that its impossible to record an album in absentia. Just look at that convicted felon who recorded part of his 2004 album while in the Clinton Correctional Facility. What was that guy's name again? Oh, its on the tip of my tongue. Anyway, that thing was horrible, wasn't it?
What? Four-hundred thousand copies sold? Number 1 on the US Billboard charts? Now I KNOW you're crazy!
Yep. Its a lost cause folks. Better to divert all our attention to crossing our fingers and toes and hoping the US embassy buys his 'I'm not black, I'm jewish' gambit. That way he can get back to the real markets. The only markets that matter. I mean, they ARE the only markets that matter. Its not like 387 million South American, 41 million Central American, and 39 million Caribbean consumers iare really gonna do anything for us. No, no, its time to face facts. Belizean culture in its entirety (the flag and the namedrop) doesn't have any hope without riding Shyne's coat-tails. So lets get those coat-tails flapping in the wind again!
What's that, ghost of Andy Palacio? You think Belizean music and culture can stand up on its own? Well, I mean sure, if you could do it based on nothing but hard work and actual development of your artistry, then I guess it MIGHT be able to work again. But you're talking about Belizean-Belizean culture. We're looking out for the Belizean-American and the Belizean-Europeans. Y'know, the ones keeping the culture going. You don't expect us to take all those drums and kriol talk seriously, do you?
Yeah. I didn't think so.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Dame Lorraine and Jankunu
I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait for this
weekend. Not because my week was so
stressful (Now that I’ve actually experienced workplace fatigue, burnout, and stress-overload,
nothing can compare to the real thing) nor am I particularly looking forward to
knocking back a few drinks (I tried Puncheon the other day and have decided
that was enough alcohol for at least half a year). No; it’s because this weekend marks the
beginning of my time performing in Trinidad’s carnival under the department of
creative and festival arts. This Sunday
the Performance I class is responsible for the Dame Lorraine portion of the
DCFA’s The Old Yard. At its surface, Dame Lorraine is a showcase
of over-stated Caricatures found in Colonial European societies. All the characters are referred to by their
French Creole names. For instance there
is Misie Gwo Tette; the gentleman with the big head, Madame Gwo Bunda; an aristocratic lady with a
rather large bottom, Madame Tette Fou; a lady left at the altar and who is
therefore constantly hysterical and a bit touched in the head. I will be playing Misie Gwo Coco, a fellow
blessed with the testicles of a hog (anyone who’s ever spent any time around a
pig farm will know what I mean).
Photo by Chioma Ozuzu
The ‘Dame Lorraine has its origins in slavery, like most
other things in Carnival. Of course,
during that time, the Europeans would have their own balls; magnificent,
splendid events which their slaves, of course, were barely allowed to watch,
and certainly not allowed to take part in.
Thus, the slaves held their own balls and parodied their masters,
accentuating the blaring physical deficits in those who held themselves as their
superiors, particularly if they were sort of funny. Thus, the ‘Dame Lorraine Ball is at times
vulgar and at other times quite prim and proper. It is meant to serve as parody, a vicious,
toothy, and truthful parody which still holds to this day. Over time the Dame Lorraine has evolved into
other things; political or social commentary for instance, and the core sentiment colours other types of mas that still
exist. Consider, for instance, the Sailor
Mas: In which men don sailor costume and march, dance, drink, and carouse down
the street, covering themselves in their white powder and occasionally, in a
fit of drunken gaiety, spreading the white disease to bystanders, either by
attacking straight on or by ‘givin’ a lil wine’ whether consensual or not. In this case the parodied slave masters have
been replaced with parodied American and European sailors. Depending on how far back historically one might be
thinking, the idea of exclusion may also be present.
Photo by Kevin Brooks
Exclusion as a driving force in the Dame Lorraine reminds me
of the Belizean Jankunu, borne out of a similar past. The differences in origin seem subtle but
affect the end product significantly.
Slaves in Belize couldn’t simply mock their masters outright and think
to get away with it. If they were to
dance the Jankunu; that is, if they were to mock the ridiculous poses and
rigid, unnatural motions of their masters at their Balls, they would have to do
so as anonymously as possible, lest the master, or a particularly traitorous
Johnny Jumper or Straw Boss see and punish them. Punishment, in our case, didn’t necessarily
mean that you would be flogged or stretched or burned in hot oil or any of the
usual tortures of slavery. In the case
of a forestocracy, where the men were
away from their homes for the better part of the year, punishment meant that
your family would starve while you were away.
Your children would be tortured.
Or perhaps you would leave for the forest and arrive ten months later to
find your wife eight months pregnant, and eventually giving birth to a
curiously light-skinned child. So, in an effort to ensure this anonymity, the
Jankunu dancers are fully covered head to toe, with no space for a uniquely
shaped scar or burn mark to be seen.
Their faces were sieved or cloth masks, on which rosy cheeked and red
lipped European faces were painted on in static expressions. It also follows that the dancers could not
use their voices, so whereas the Dame Lorraine performers take on the persona completely,
interacting with the crowd as Misie Gwo Lolo (Big Penis) and Madam Gwo Pitat
(Big Vagina), the Jankunu dancers react only to the drums. It is, in truth, a dance: A manipulation of
the body in conjuction with music in order to portray an idea. The
fact that a Performance I class can portray the Dame Lorraine characters speaks
to the versatility of the style and concept.
Perhaps this is why there’s been very little conscious development to
the Jankunu over the years. To be
performed properly, the dance requires years of training and physical
conditioning that can only be described as athletic.
(NB: Tony Rath, photographer extrodinaire, has a collection of photos from a Jankunu Festival that illustrate what I'm talking about. However, he's also done the smart thing and locked down use of those photos. You can view them here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/trphoto/sets/72157625756682414/with/5327834227/ but I'll respect his wishes and not insert the photos in this blog.)
I will admit, however, that my knowledge of the Dame Lorraine
is still considerably limited. I only
know what’s happening in this class. It
could be there is a real Dame Lorraine
Ball available somewhere; one with rigid choreography and considerably better
costuming than we can pull together in a few weeks. It could also be that there’s a lot more to
the concept than I’ve been able to piece together. It’s also possible that my idea of the
Jankunu is completely different than the traditionally held idea of it. They told us not to do this though; this
making-excuses-for-the-things-we-write thing.
It’s what I see, and therefore it’s what I’ll be sharing. If, however, you can offer some other
insight, Dear Reader, I welcome it fully.
This is a fascinating aspect of our shared, regional culture. Come, let’s explore some.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
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.
(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.
Monday, November 28, 2011
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?
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?
Friday, November 11, 2011
Misuse of Magic
Now that I'm becoming a bit more familiar with my surroundings and there's no more curfew, I might just go and catch a show this coming thursday at Drink! Wine Bar on Roberts Street
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Colors
josh and zora slam of the ages 2009
So after learning that I might be able to help out with Youth Voices without having to travel at least a hundred miles, I decided to look up some of my own favorites, and found this one. Zora really is amazing. Everything that girl touches is golden. Also, note the tag.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Day 9: A Poem that Made You Feel Closer to the Divine
Anis Mojgani - Closer
come closer.
come into this. come closer.
you are quite the beauty. if no one has ever told you that before know that now. you are quite the beauty. there is joy in how your mouth dances with your teeth. your mouth is a sign of how sacred your life truly is. come into this. true of heart come into this. you are true of heart. come closer. come closer. know that whatever God prays to He asked it to help Him make something of worth. He woke from His dreams scraped the soil form the spaces inside Himself made you and was happy. you make the Lord happy.
come into this.
come closer.
know that something softer than us but just as holy planted the pieces of Himself into our feet that we might one day find our way back to Him. you are almost home.
come closer come into this. there are birds beating their wings beneath your breastplate gentle sparrows aching to sing come aching hearts come soldiers of joy doormen of truth come true of heart come into this.
my heart was too big for my body so I let it go and most days this world has thinned me to where I am just another cloud forgetting another flock of swans but believe me when I tell you my soul has squeezed into narrow spaces. place your hand beneath your head when you sleep tonight and you may find it there making beauty as we sleep as we dream as we turn over when I turn over in the ground may the ghosts that I have asked answers of do the turning kneading me into crumbs of light and into this thing love thing called life. come into it!
come you wooden museums
you gentle tigers
negro farces in two broken scenes.
come rusting giants!
I see teacups in your smiles upside down glowing. your hands are like my heart. on some days how it trembles. let us hold them together. I am like you. I too at times am filled with fear. but like a hallway must find the strength to walk through it. walk through this with me. walk through this with me. through this church birthed of blood and muscle where every move our arms take every breath we swallow is worship.
bend with me. there are bones in our throats. if we choke it is only on songs.
I suppose its been a while since I've sung praises to Anis Mojgani. In my head he's constantly there along with a phalanx of other literary influences. This poem in particular comes into mind everytime I get together with friends, family, and feel that distinct sensation that I always thought I should get from church and sacraments. I seriously, seriously wanna give this guy a hug if and when I ever meet him.
(Bio from his website: http://thepianofarm.com)
Anis Mojgani is a two time National Poetry Slam Champion and winner of the International World Cup Poetry Slam. A Pushcart Prize Nominee and former resident of the Oregon Literary Arts Writer's-In-The-Schools program, Anis has performed at numerous Universities, festivals, and venues around the globe.
His work has appeared on HBO, NPR, in the pages of RATTLE magazine, and alongside Laureates Ted Kooser and Billy Collins in the anthology Spoken Word Revolution Redux. Originally from New Orleans, Anis has two poetry collections, Over the Anvil We Stretch, and his latest The Feather Room, both from Write Bloody Publishing.
come closer.
come into this. come closer.
you are quite the beauty. if no one has ever told you that before know that now. you are quite the beauty. there is joy in how your mouth dances with your teeth. your mouth is a sign of how sacred your life truly is. come into this. true of heart come into this. you are true of heart. come closer. come closer. know that whatever God prays to He asked it to help Him make something of worth. He woke from His dreams scraped the soil form the spaces inside Himself made you and was happy. you make the Lord happy.
come into this.
come closer.
know that something softer than us but just as holy planted the pieces of Himself into our feet that we might one day find our way back to Him. you are almost home.
come closer come into this. there are birds beating their wings beneath your breastplate gentle sparrows aching to sing come aching hearts come soldiers of joy doormen of truth come true of heart come into this.
my heart was too big for my body so I let it go and most days this world has thinned me to where I am just another cloud forgetting another flock of swans but believe me when I tell you my soul has squeezed into narrow spaces. place your hand beneath your head when you sleep tonight and you may find it there making beauty as we sleep as we dream as we turn over when I turn over in the ground may the ghosts that I have asked answers of do the turning kneading me into crumbs of light and into this thing love thing called life. come into it!
come you wooden museums
you gentle tigers
negro farces in two broken scenes.
come rusting giants!
I see teacups in your smiles upside down glowing. your hands are like my heart. on some days how it trembles. let us hold them together. I am like you. I too at times am filled with fear. but like a hallway must find the strength to walk through it. walk through this with me. walk through this with me. through this church birthed of blood and muscle where every move our arms take every breath we swallow is worship.
bend with me. there are bones in our throats. if we choke it is only on songs.
I suppose its been a while since I've sung praises to Anis Mojgani. In my head he's constantly there along with a phalanx of other literary influences. This poem in particular comes into mind everytime I get together with friends, family, and feel that distinct sensation that I always thought I should get from church and sacraments. I seriously, seriously wanna give this guy a hug if and when I ever meet him.
(Bio from his website: http://thepianofarm.com)
Anis Mojgani is a two time National Poetry Slam Champion and winner of the International World Cup Poetry Slam. A Pushcart Prize Nominee and former resident of the Oregon Literary Arts Writer's-In-The-Schools program, Anis has performed at numerous Universities, festivals, and venues around the globe.
His work has appeared on HBO, NPR, in the pages of RATTLE magazine, and alongside Laureates Ted Kooser and Billy Collins in the anthology Spoken Word Revolution Redux. Originally from New Orleans, Anis has two poetry collections, Over the Anvil We Stretch, and his latest The Feather Room, both from Write Bloody Publishing.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Day 8: A Poem about Fatherhood
Neil Gaiman -- Locks
We owe it to each other to tell stories,
as people simply, not as father and daughter.
I tell it to you for the hundredth time:
"There was a little girl, called Goldilocks,
for her hair was long and golden,
and she was walking in the Wood and she saw — "
"— cows." You say it with certainty,
remembering the strayed heifers we saw in the woods
behind the house, last month.
"Well, yes, perhaps she saw cows,
but also she saw a house."
"— a great big house," you tell me.
"No, a little house, all painted, neat and tidy."
"A great big house."
You have the conviction of all two-year-olds.
I wish I had such certitude.
"Ah. Yes. A great big house.
And she went in . . ."
I remember, as I tell it, that the locks
Of Southey's heroine had silvered with age.
The Old Woman and the Three Bears . . .
Perhaps they had been golden once, when she was a child.
And now, we are already up to the porridge,
"And it was too— "
"— hot!"
"And it was too— "
— cold!"
And then it was, we chorus, "just right."
The porridge is eaten, the baby's chair is shattered,
Goldilocks goes upstairs, examines beds, and sleeps,
unwisely.
But then the bears return.
Remembering Southey still, I do the voices:
Father Bear's gruff boom scares you, and you delight in it.
When I was a small child and heard the tale,
if I was anyone I was Baby Bear,
my porridge eaten, and my chair destroyed,
my bed inhabited by some strange girl.
You giggle when I do the baby's wail,
"Someone's been eating my prridge, and they've eaten it —"
"All up," you say. A response it is,
Or an amen.
The bears go upstairs hesitantly,
their house now feels desecrated. They realize
what locks are for. They reach the bedroom.
"Someone's been sleeping in my bed."
And here I hesitate, echoes of old jokes,
soft-core cartoons, crude headlines, in my head.
One day your mouth will curl at that line.
A loss of interest, later, innocence.
Innocence; as if it were a commodity.
"And if I could," my father wrote to me,
huge as a bear himself, when I was younger,
"I would dower you with experience, without experience."
and I, in my turn, would pass that on to you.
But we make our own mistakes. We sleep
unwisely.
It is our right. It is our madness and our glory.
The repetition echoes down the years.
When your children grow; when your dark locks begin to silver,
when you are an old woman, alone with your three bears,
what will you see? What stories will you tell?
"And then Goldilicks jumped out of the window and she ran —
Together, now: "All the way home."
And then you say, "Again. Again. Again."
We owe it to each other to tell stories.
These days my sympathy's with Father Bear.
Before I leave my house I lock the door,
and check each bed and chair on my return.
Again.
Again.
Again..
I've learned so much from Neil Gaiman over the years. When I was younger, when I was literally just learning how to write and slowly letting it seep into my blood, it was either Gaiman, or Alan Dean Foster. It still is both of them in a way. I still want to write like Gaiman. I still want to make impossible things seem completely plausible and thoroughly entertaining. And I want to do it seriously. Its not a hobby for Mr. G. It's his life now. I would say its his everything, but that's obviously not true. Because when Short stories and movies and comic books and reviews were no longer enough, Neil Gaiman started writing Children's books and fun, sweet, wonderful poems like this one; for his children. For his children. Every parent, ever proper father wants to give their child the world. Neil gives his children countless worlds. I want to be a writer like Neil Gaiman. I want to be a father like Neil Gaiman too.
(Bio from his website: http://www.neilgaiman.com)
Bestselling author Neil Gaiman has long been one of the top writers in modern comics, as well as writing books for readers of all ages. He is listed in the Dictionary of Literary Biography as one of the top ten living post-modern writers, and is a prolific creator of works of prose, poetry, film, journalism, comics, song lyrics, and drama.
His New York Times bestselling 2001 novel for adults, American Gods, was awarded the Hugo, Nebula, Bram Stoker, SFX, and Locus awards, was nominated for many other awards, including the World Fantasy Award and the Minnesota Book Award, and appeared on many best-of-year lists.
Gaiman's eagerly awaited next novel for adults, Anansi Boys debuted on the New York Times Bestseller list in September, 2005. About Anansi Boys Gaiman says: "It's a scary, funny sort of a story, which isn't exactly a thriller, and isn't really horror, and doesn't quite qualify as a ghost story (although it has at least one ghost in it), or a romantic comedy (although there are several romances in there, and it's certainly a comedy, except for the scary bits).” An audio version of the entire text of Anansi Boys, as read by UK comedian Lenny Henry, has also been published by HarperAudio as both regular CDs and as MP3-CDs.
(Cripes he's got a long bio. I guess that's what happens when you become a literary rockstar. I've only posted a bit of it here, you can read the rest here -->(http://www.neilgaiman.com/p/About_Neil/Biography) However, I wanted to make sure I got in the bit about Anansi Boys because I just finished it a month ago and I highly recommend it!)
We owe it to each other to tell stories,
as people simply, not as father and daughter.
I tell it to you for the hundredth time:
"There was a little girl, called Goldilocks,
for her hair was long and golden,
and she was walking in the Wood and she saw — "
"— cows." You say it with certainty,
remembering the strayed heifers we saw in the woods
behind the house, last month.
"Well, yes, perhaps she saw cows,
but also she saw a house."
"— a great big house," you tell me.
"No, a little house, all painted, neat and tidy."
"A great big house."
You have the conviction of all two-year-olds.
I wish I had such certitude.
"Ah. Yes. A great big house.
And she went in . . ."
I remember, as I tell it, that the locks
Of Southey's heroine had silvered with age.
The Old Woman and the Three Bears . . .
Perhaps they had been golden once, when she was a child.
And now, we are already up to the porridge,
"And it was too— "
"— hot!"
"And it was too— "
— cold!"
And then it was, we chorus, "just right."
The porridge is eaten, the baby's chair is shattered,
Goldilocks goes upstairs, examines beds, and sleeps,
unwisely.
But then the bears return.
Remembering Southey still, I do the voices:
Father Bear's gruff boom scares you, and you delight in it.
When I was a small child and heard the tale,
if I was anyone I was Baby Bear,
my porridge eaten, and my chair destroyed,
my bed inhabited by some strange girl.
You giggle when I do the baby's wail,
"Someone's been eating my prridge, and they've eaten it —"
"All up," you say. A response it is,
Or an amen.
The bears go upstairs hesitantly,
their house now feels desecrated. They realize
what locks are for. They reach the bedroom.
"Someone's been sleeping in my bed."
And here I hesitate, echoes of old jokes,
soft-core cartoons, crude headlines, in my head.
One day your mouth will curl at that line.
A loss of interest, later, innocence.
Innocence; as if it were a commodity.
"And if I could," my father wrote to me,
huge as a bear himself, when I was younger,
"I would dower you with experience, without experience."
and I, in my turn, would pass that on to you.
But we make our own mistakes. We sleep
unwisely.
It is our right. It is our madness and our glory.
The repetition echoes down the years.
When your children grow; when your dark locks begin to silver,
when you are an old woman, alone with your three bears,
what will you see? What stories will you tell?
"And then Goldilicks jumped out of the window and she ran —
Together, now: "All the way home."
And then you say, "Again. Again. Again."
We owe it to each other to tell stories.
These days my sympathy's with Father Bear.
Before I leave my house I lock the door,
and check each bed and chair on my return.
Again.
Again.
Again..
I've learned so much from Neil Gaiman over the years. When I was younger, when I was literally just learning how to write and slowly letting it seep into my blood, it was either Gaiman, or Alan Dean Foster. It still is both of them in a way. I still want to write like Gaiman. I still want to make impossible things seem completely plausible and thoroughly entertaining. And I want to do it seriously. Its not a hobby for Mr. G. It's his life now. I would say its his everything, but that's obviously not true. Because when Short stories and movies and comic books and reviews were no longer enough, Neil Gaiman started writing Children's books and fun, sweet, wonderful poems like this one; for his children. For his children. Every parent, ever proper father wants to give their child the world. Neil gives his children countless worlds. I want to be a writer like Neil Gaiman. I want to be a father like Neil Gaiman too.
Bestselling author Neil Gaiman has long been one of the top writers in modern comics, as well as writing books for readers of all ages. He is listed in the Dictionary of Literary Biography as one of the top ten living post-modern writers, and is a prolific creator of works of prose, poetry, film, journalism, comics, song lyrics, and drama.
His New York Times bestselling 2001 novel for adults, American Gods, was awarded the Hugo, Nebula, Bram Stoker, SFX, and Locus awards, was nominated for many other awards, including the World Fantasy Award and the Minnesota Book Award, and appeared on many best-of-year lists.
Gaiman's eagerly awaited next novel for adults, Anansi Boys debuted on the New York Times Bestseller list in September, 2005. About Anansi Boys Gaiman says: "It's a scary, funny sort of a story, which isn't exactly a thriller, and isn't really horror, and doesn't quite qualify as a ghost story (although it has at least one ghost in it), or a romantic comedy (although there are several romances in there, and it's certainly a comedy, except for the scary bits).” An audio version of the entire text of Anansi Boys, as read by UK comedian Lenny Henry, has also been published by HarperAudio as both regular CDs and as MP3-CDs.
(Cripes he's got a long bio. I guess that's what happens when you become a literary rockstar. I've only posted a bit of it here, you can read the rest here -->(http://www.neilgaiman.com/p/About_Neil/Biography) However, I wanted to make sure I got in the bit about Anansi Boys because I just finished it a month ago and I highly recommend it!)
Monday, April 11, 2011
Day 7: A Poem You've Recited to Someone
Rumi - You Worry Too Much
(From Wikipedia)
Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Balkhī, also known as Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī, and popularly known as Mowlānā but known to the English-speaking world simply as Rumi (30 September 1207 – 17 December 1273), was a 13th-century Persian Muslim poet, jurist, theologian, and Sufi mystic. He lived most of his life under the Sultanate of Rum, where he produced his works and died in 1273 AD. He was buried in Konya and his shrine became a place of pilgrimage. Following his death, his followers and his son Sultan Walad founded the Mawlawīyah Sufi Order, also known as the Order of the Whirling Dervishes, famous for its Sufi dance known as the samāʿ ceremony.
Rumi's works are written in the New Persian language. A Persian literary renaissance (in the 8th/9th century) started in regions of Sistan, Khorāsān and Transoxiana and by the 10th/11th century, it reinforced the Persian language as the preferred literary and cultural language in the Persian Islamic world. Rumi's importance is considered to transcend national and ethnic borders. His original works are widely read in their original language across the Persian-speaking world. Translations of his works are very popular in other countries. His poetry has influenced Persian literature as well as Urdu, Punjabi and other Pakistani languages written in Perso/Arabic script e.g. Pashto and Sindhi. His poems have been widely translated into many of the world's languages and transposed into various formats. In 2007, he was described as the "most popular poet in America."
Oh soul,
you worry too much.
You say,
I make you feel dizzy.
Of a little headache then,
why do you worry?
You say, I am your antelope.
Of seeing a lion here and there
why do you worry?
Oh soul,
you worry too much.
You say, I am your moon-faced beauty.
Of the cycles of the moon and
passing of the years,
why do you worry?
You say, I am your source of passion,
I excite you.
Of playing into the Devils hand,
why do you worry?
Oh soul,
you worry too much.
Look at yourself,
what you have become.
You are now a field of sugar canes,
why show that sour face to me?
You have tamed the
winged horse of Love.
Of a death of a donkey,
why do you worry?
You say that I keep you warm inside.
Then why this cold sigh?
You have gone to the roof of heavens.
Of this world of dust, why do you worry?
Oh soul,
you worry too much.
Since you met me,
you have become a master singer,
and are now a skilled wrangler,
you can untangle any knot.
Of life's little leash
why do you worry?
Your arms are heavy
with treasures of all kinds.
About poverty,
why do you worry?
You are Joseph,
beautiful, strong,
steadfast in your belief,
all of Egypt has become drunk
because of you.
Of those who are blind to your beauty,
and deaf to your songs,
why do you worry?
Oh soul,
you worry too much.
You say that your housemate is the
Heart of Love,
she is your best friend.
You say that you are the heat of
the oven of every Lover.
You say that you are the servant of
Ali's magical sword, Zolfaghar.
Of any little dagger
why do you still worry?
Oh soul,
you worry too much.
You have seen your own strength.
You have seen your own beauty.
You have seen your golden wings.
Of anything less,
why do you worry?
You are in truth
the soul, of the soul, of the soul.
You are the security,
the shelter of the spirit of Lovers.
Oh the sultan of sultans,
of any other king,
why do you worry?
Be silent, like a fish,
and go into that pleasant sea.
You are in deep waters now,
of life's blazing fire.
Why do you worry?
you worry too much.
You say,
I make you feel dizzy.
Of a little headache then,
why do you worry?
You say, I am your antelope.
Of seeing a lion here and there
why do you worry?
Oh soul,
you worry too much.
You say, I am your moon-faced beauty.
Of the cycles of the moon and
passing of the years,
why do you worry?
You say, I am your source of passion,
I excite you.
Of playing into the Devils hand,
why do you worry?
Oh soul,
you worry too much.
Look at yourself,
what you have become.
You are now a field of sugar canes,
why show that sour face to me?
You have tamed the
winged horse of Love.
Of a death of a donkey,
why do you worry?
You say that I keep you warm inside.
Then why this cold sigh?
You have gone to the roof of heavens.
Of this world of dust, why do you worry?
Oh soul,
you worry too much.
Since you met me,
you have become a master singer,
and are now a skilled wrangler,
you can untangle any knot.
Of life's little leash
why do you worry?
Your arms are heavy
with treasures of all kinds.
About poverty,
why do you worry?
You are Joseph,
beautiful, strong,
steadfast in your belief,
all of Egypt has become drunk
because of you.
Of those who are blind to your beauty,
and deaf to your songs,
why do you worry?
Oh soul,
you worry too much.
You say that your housemate is the
Heart of Love,
she is your best friend.
You say that you are the heat of
the oven of every Lover.
You say that you are the servant of
Ali's magical sword, Zolfaghar.
Of any little dagger
why do you still worry?
Oh soul,
you worry too much.
You have seen your own strength.
You have seen your own beauty.
You have seen your golden wings.
Of anything less,
why do you worry?
You are in truth
the soul, of the soul, of the soul.
You are the security,
the shelter of the spirit of Lovers.
Oh the sultan of sultans,
of any other king,
why do you worry?
Be silent, like a fish,
and go into that pleasant sea.
You are in deep waters now,
of life's blazing fire.
Why do you worry?
Ages ago, I would read this to someone very special. Sometimes because she asked, and sometimes because she needed reminding of how brightly she shone. I still intend to get some sort of tattoo based on this poem as a reminder of those time, but how do you draw a field of sugarcanes?
(From Wikipedia)
Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Balkhī, also known as Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī, and popularly known as Mowlānā but known to the English-speaking world simply as Rumi (30 September 1207 – 17 December 1273), was a 13th-century Persian Muslim poet, jurist, theologian, and Sufi mystic. He lived most of his life under the Sultanate of Rum, where he produced his works and died in 1273 AD. He was buried in Konya and his shrine became a place of pilgrimage. Following his death, his followers and his son Sultan Walad founded the Mawlawīyah Sufi Order, also known as the Order of the Whirling Dervishes, famous for its Sufi dance known as the samāʿ ceremony.
Rumi's works are written in the New Persian language. A Persian literary renaissance (in the 8th/9th century) started in regions of Sistan, Khorāsān and Transoxiana and by the 10th/11th century, it reinforced the Persian language as the preferred literary and cultural language in the Persian Islamic world. Rumi's importance is considered to transcend national and ethnic borders. His original works are widely read in their original language across the Persian-speaking world. Translations of his works are very popular in other countries. His poetry has influenced Persian literature as well as Urdu, Punjabi and other Pakistani languages written in Perso/Arabic script e.g. Pashto and Sindhi. His poems have been widely translated into many of the world's languages and transposed into various formats. In 2007, he was described as the "most popular poet in America."
Day 5: An Erotic Poem
G. Newton V. Chance - Orchid
five-pointed star-
tepal
flesh-pink lip-
petal
seduction
six-pointed star-
petal
and sepal
floral attraction
pink-flesh lip-
petal
resupinated labellum-
mmmmmmm
excitement
enticement
six-
leg in-
sect
land on
obsession
flesh-pink perfumed lip-
petal
pink-flesh enlarged lip-
petal
six-pointed purple-stripe star-
tepal
pedicel
in petal
and sepal
equal
polli-
nation
testicles are roots
woman
you must have bee-
nnnnnnnnnn
an orchid
and I a bumblebee
in another life
Copyright ©2010 by G. Newton V. Chance
Newton Chance can't fool me. When I left a comment on his blog saying 'I'm so glad I'm not the only who's ever looked a little too closely at an orchid and thought dirty thoughts' he tried to play it off as though I had some sort of floral fetish. But the truth is obvious. Go back to the top. Read this poem out loud. Let each syllable spill over your tongue and teeth and lips. Let your breathing follow the rhythm provided by the line breaks. Listen to your own voice in your chest. I honestly don't know how he's done it, but Newton Chance, wizard of words that he is, has not only managed to distill foreplay and seduction into written form, and he's done so not with over-the-top double-entendres or sexual references, but with...orchids. Bravo, Mr. Chance. Bravo.
(From his blog: http://newton-chance.blogspot.com)
George Newton Vivian Chance (Trinidad and Tobago) -- member of the Poet Society of Trinidad and Tobago, http://poetssocietytt.blogspot.com/ and the World Poets Society, http://world-poets.blogspot.com/ -- born in Tobago on 3rd March 1957. While residing at Rio Claro was inspired to write over a hundred poems at the turn of the Millennium. Hobbies include playing wind instruments, building computers, observing nature, reading and writing poetry. Believes that the power of a song is in its ability to evoke emotions by the marriage of lyric and music but that music without lyric can be just as powerful, that lyric without music can also be just as powerful, that there is music in the lyric and that lyric can be simple yet profound. Also, in this the age of computers, would like to model his lines after simple and efficient code and, analogous to Object Oriented Programming, achieve most of his imagery from nouns and verbs, avoiding the bloat and excess of unnecessary adjectives. This is what he aspires to attain in his poetry.
five-pointed star-
tepal
flesh-pink lip-
petal
seduction
six-pointed star-
petal
and sepal
floral attraction
pink-flesh lip-
petal
resupinated labellum-
mmmmmmm
excitement
enticement
six-
leg in-
sect
land on
obsession
flesh-pink perfumed lip-
petal
pink-flesh enlarged lip-
petal
six-pointed purple-stripe star-
tepal
pedicel
in petal
and sepal
equal
polli-
nation
testicles are roots
woman
you must have bee-
nnnnnnnnnn
an orchid
and I a bumblebee
in another life
Copyright ©2010 by G. Newton V. Chance
Newton Chance can't fool me. When I left a comment on his blog saying 'I'm so glad I'm not the only who's ever looked a little too closely at an orchid and thought dirty thoughts' he tried to play it off as though I had some sort of floral fetish. But the truth is obvious. Go back to the top. Read this poem out loud. Let each syllable spill over your tongue and teeth and lips. Let your breathing follow the rhythm provided by the line breaks. Listen to your own voice in your chest. I honestly don't know how he's done it, but Newton Chance, wizard of words that he is, has not only managed to distill foreplay and seduction into written form, and he's done so not with over-the-top double-entendres or sexual references, but with...orchids. Bravo, Mr. Chance. Bravo.
(From his blog: http://newton-chance.blogspot.com)
George Newton Vivian Chance (Trinidad and Tobago) -- member of the Poet Society of Trinidad and Tobago, http://poetssocietytt.blogspot.com/ and the World Poets Society, http://world-poets.blogspot.com/ -- born in Tobago on 3rd March 1957. While residing at Rio Claro was inspired to write over a hundred poems at the turn of the Millennium. Hobbies include playing wind instruments, building computers, observing nature, reading and writing poetry. Believes that the power of a song is in its ability to evoke emotions by the marriage of lyric and music but that music without lyric can be just as powerful, that lyric without music can also be just as powerful, that there is music in the lyric and that lyric can be simple yet profound. Also, in this the age of computers, would like to model his lines after simple and efficient code and, analogous to Object Oriented Programming, achieve most of his imagery from nouns and verbs, avoiding the bloat and excess of unnecessary adjectives. This is what he aspires to attain in his poetry.
Day 4: A poem about an everyday thing
The Grandmaster: "Time"
Leroy 'The Grandmaster' Young is a fixture in Belize's poetry scene. His critics might say his poems are often nonsensical and redundant, but The Grandmaster accomplishes an integral task for any poet. He takes that simple, mundane thing from within our worlds an breathes new life into it, makes us pay attention to the way we interact with the world around us, with one another, with our inner nature and even with our very own language. His signature dragging cadence and repetitive style are simply further evolutions of African Call-and-response. Like a running gag, he sets up the audience in such a way that they end up participating in the performance, calling out the refrain before even the poet does. Detractors may giggle at the stringing of simple words or p-shaw at the effort to make the profound out of minute, day-to-day details of life, but this allows his poems to stay with the audience, rattling around in their minds until it eventually knocks loose some sort of revelation, whether big or small.
(From Wikipedia)
Belizean Dub Poet Leroy 'The Grandmaster' Young briefly starred in rap group Fresh Breeze with the Morgan Brothers, Kenny and Turbo, but eventually became addicted to drugs and got into various misdeeds, resulting in a trip to rehab after twice attempting to commit suicide. After spending time in prison and drug rehabilitation he turned to poetry and received a segment in the news broadcast on Channel 7 television station, improvising poems about stories in the news and whatever else.
He parlayed his time on Seven into two books of poetry, Made in Pinks Alley and Generation X. His debut album Just Like That... was released on Stonetree Records in 2004.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Day 3: A Poem about Prejudice
Angela Gegg -- 100% Belizean
I want to start off by saying 'Angela Gegg doesn't look like your average Belizean' but before my fingers even touch the keyboard my internal editor is asking me 'What exactly does the average Belizean look like?' It'll take some time before I have an answer for him. This much is true though, Ms. Gegg certainly stands out in a crowd. But among the Belizeans, her family name as well as her own personal reputation smacks of that certain Belizean vibe. Not only is Angela a fixture in the poetry and visual artist communities in Belize, but she's also a successful restaurateur, and sort of part-time celebrity. She's also probably the most prolific spoken word artist in Belize. Want proof? Do a youtube search for 'Belizean Poet', count, and compare.
(From: www.angelagegg.com)
Angela Gegg is one of Belize’s leading artists. In the past decade she has had 6 Major Solo Art Shows been featured in over 20 Joint Art Shows and Exhibits in Belize, Texas, New York, Miami and Trinidad. She is featured in Calenders, DVD's, CD's, and Books about Belizean Artists. She is also the published author of THE LIGHT, THE DARK AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN (2006) and ARTIST CONFESSIONS (2009). She dedicates her books to anyone who has the liberty and aptitude to express themselves freely without the fear of repercussion from the masses. She is a regular stage performer of the Spoken Word at events, shows and festivals throughout the country of Belize as well as a TV Personality.
I want to start off by saying 'Angela Gegg doesn't look like your average Belizean' but before my fingers even touch the keyboard my internal editor is asking me 'What exactly does the average Belizean look like?' It'll take some time before I have an answer for him. This much is true though, Ms. Gegg certainly stands out in a crowd. But among the Belizeans, her family name as well as her own personal reputation smacks of that certain Belizean vibe. Not only is Angela a fixture in the poetry and visual artist communities in Belize, but she's also a successful restaurateur, and sort of part-time celebrity. She's also probably the most prolific spoken word artist in Belize. Want proof? Do a youtube search for 'Belizean Poet', count, and compare.
(From: www.angelagegg.com)
Angela Gegg is one of Belize’s leading artists. In the past decade she has had 6 Major Solo Art Shows been featured in over 20 Joint Art Shows and Exhibits in Belize, Texas, New York, Miami and Trinidad. She is featured in Calenders, DVD's, CD's, and Books about Belizean Artists. She is also the published author of THE LIGHT, THE DARK AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN (2006) and ARTIST CONFESSIONS (2009). She dedicates her books to anyone who has the liberty and aptitude to express themselves freely without the fear of repercussion from the masses. She is a regular stage performer of the Spoken Word at events, shows and festivals throughout the country of Belize as well as a TV Personality.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Day 2: A Poem about Motherhood
Kalilah Enriquez - My Mother's Heart
I often wonder
how my mother's heart manages to
remain so full when she seems to empty it
everyday cooking for the hungry husband
counseling the misguided son babysitting
for the single-mother daughter mothering
the motherless niece raising the wide-
eyed questioning grand free of charge
free of charge free of charge free
of charge free of charge With
all the love she dishes out
daily, I wonder if she
ever has any left
to give her-
self
how my mother's heart manages to
remain so full when she seems to empty it
everyday cooking for the hungry husband
counseling the misguided son babysitting
for the single-mother daughter mothering
the motherless niece raising the wide-
eyed questioning grand free of charge
free of charge free of charge free
of charge free of charge With
all the love she dishes out
daily, I wonder if she
ever has any left
to give her-
self
I've been a big fan of Kalilah Enriquez for years now. And really, so have most people in Belize. Her book 'Shades of Red' (In which you can find the above poem on page 12) is one of those books that never spend too much time on my bookshelves. Hm. Its a book I probably ought to write a review for.
As for this poem? Well, look at it! Not only is it fully expressive both in content and rhythm (Enriquez treats punctuation the way some chefs cook with dill: using only as much as is absolutely necessary.), but the reference to the old, familiar songs every Belizean's probably heard by now on Sunday afternoon radio makes this little poem a real gem.
As for this poem? Well, look at it! Not only is it fully expressive both in content and rhythm (Enriquez treats punctuation the way some chefs cook with dill: using only as much as is absolutely necessary.), but the reference to the old, familiar songs every Belizean's probably heard by now on Sunday afternoon radio makes this little poem a real gem.
Kalilah Enríquez was born, raised and attended school in Belmopan, Belize. After graduating Belmopan Comprehensive High School she attended St. John's College Junior College in Belize City, then left on scholarship to Fordham University in New York, where she earned a Bachelor's degree in Communications. Upon returning to Belize she joined KREM Radio as host of the Vibes and KREM's news editor in 2005. She has on occasion contributed to the Amandala. She now works in Jamaica for Hype TV as a presenter. In January 2010 she was the organizer of the “Help Haiti Benefit Concert and Telethon", the biggest show ever in Belize.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Day 1: A Poem about Childhood
Nicole Homer - False Memories
First, the disclaimer: This isn't your average poem. It is in its entirety a spoken word piece. In fact, I think if I saw it written down it would appear at first glance to be prose. (Not that there's anything wrong with that. If it can work for Baudelaire, why can't it work for you or I, or Nicole Homer?) Its not meant to have line breaks, I should think. Those would only serve to as a distraction. The second warning is connected to the first. This poem is a bit long.
Now, to the meat of the matter: Nicole describes a phenomena that I think most of us experience, and one that is particularly significant to me. Not only is there the disconnect between our childhood idols and the later realization of their significantly less-than-ideal realities, but there's also the trick that our minds play when we look back on the past, and on childhood. If I really analyze it, the only things that have changed about some of the things in my life; my parents, my family, my country, even the cities, neighborhoods, and houses that I live in, have been my varied opinions and perceptions of them.
Originally I thought of a poem reminiscent of smiling, shirtless days in the sunlight, but this seems more significant, especially when considering poetry as a tool for self discovery. After hearing this poem, I remember immediately realizing 'Oh, that's right. Its impossible to have an appreciation of childhood as a child.'
And I became that much more enlightened.
Now, to the meat of the matter: Nicole describes a phenomena that I think most of us experience, and one that is particularly significant to me. Not only is there the disconnect between our childhood idols and the later realization of their significantly less-than-ideal realities, but there's also the trick that our minds play when we look back on the past, and on childhood. If I really analyze it, the only things that have changed about some of the things in my life; my parents, my family, my country, even the cities, neighborhoods, and houses that I live in, have been my varied opinions and perceptions of them.
Originally I thought of a poem reminiscent of smiling, shirtless days in the sunlight, but this seems more significant, especially when considering poetry as a tool for self discovery. After hearing this poem, I remember immediately realizing 'Oh, that's right. Its impossible to have an appreciation of childhood as a child.'
And I became that much more enlightened.
So...In an effort to insert as much willy-nilly into this pre-arranged undertaking, I went ahead and made this post without so much as glancing at Geoffrey Philip's Blog Spot, the place where I actually got the idea to do this from, on his 'Day 1' Entry. Now that I have, I realize that its probably a good idea to include a brief Bio. So here's Nicole Homer's, snagged straight off her myspace page at http://www.myspace.com/travelerpoet
Nicole Homer
is finding her voice. Since she started slamming, she has won numerous
slams at venues such as the Nuyorican Poets Café, The Bowery Poetry
Club, Brookdale College, Port Africa, Cantab Lounge and the legendary
Chicago Green Mill. She has featured at the Shore Institute for
Contemporary Arts, The Five Spot, The Brooklyn Big Art Show, Georgian
Court University and has opened for Amiri Baraka and Miquel Algarin at
the Newark Museum and for Jim Caroll at the Forum Theater. She is winner
of the Emerging Writers Audience Favorite award at Wordfest 2006. She
was an NYC Urbana finalist but went to the 2006 National Poetry Slam
with Central Jersey's own Loser Slam!!! Nicole represented Urbana at
the 2007 Individual World Poetry Slam in Vancouver where she ranked 9th
in the world. Nicole competed in the 2007 National Poetry Slam in
Austin, TX on the Urbana team, where they placed 6th in the nation.
Geoffrey Philp's Blog Spot: 21 Days/ 21 Poems: National Poetry Month
This seems like a fun idea:Geoffrey Philp's Blog Spot: 21 Days/ 21 Poems: National Poetry Month
Plus, I haven't been doing much with this blog space for a long time. Whaddaya say, Shall we try it out?
Here's the list of categories
A poem about childhood
A poem about motherhood
A poem about prejudice
A poem about a commonplace object/thing
An erotic poem
A poem you ve just read and loved
A poem that you ve recited to someone, you wish someone would recite to you, someone has recited to you, you ve sent to someone in an email/letter or was sent to you in a letter/email.
A poem about fatherhood
A poem that made you feel closer to the divine
A poem about place
A poem that gains meaning every time you ve read it
A poem that you would want to recite to your children
A poem that made you want to write a poem
A poem you wished you could have written
A poem about AIDS
A poem about ancestors/inheritance
An elegy
A love poem
A Praise Poem
A poem that made you feel hopeful
A poem about a body part
Watch this spot. -----> .
Plus, I haven't been doing much with this blog space for a long time. Whaddaya say, Shall we try it out?
Here's the list of categories
A poem about childhood
A poem about motherhood
A poem about prejudice
A poem about a commonplace object/thing
An erotic poem
A poem you ve just read and loved
A poem that you ve recited to someone, you wish someone would recite to you, someone has recited to you, you ve sent to someone in an email/letter or was sent to you in a letter/email.
A poem about fatherhood
A poem that made you feel closer to the divine
A poem about place
A poem that gains meaning every time you ve read it
A poem that you would want to recite to your children
A poem that made you want to write a poem
A poem you wished you could have written
A poem about AIDS
A poem about ancestors/inheritance
An elegy
A love poem
A Praise Poem
A poem that made you feel hopeful
A poem about a body part
Watch this spot. -----> .
Monday, February 7, 2011
The Real New Year
Knowing myself, I've only got a short while, so lets be quick here. Lets make a promise, you and I, that this week will not be last week. Look, the sun is shining! The world is bright! And we are alive! While we're on top of the world, lets put some real work into staying on top, eh? C'mon, waddayasay? And for starters, lets do what everyone has been telling us to do. No, I don't mean getting pushed around at work, I mean the hippy 'see it, feel it, do it, achieve it!' bullshit they've all been forcing down our throats. For once, lets not give in to cynicism. Lets actually act like we believe that shit! You are an artist! You are a creative being! Lets be that first, and a technical button masher second. You've got stories to finish and collections of poems to complete! Lets make some progress! Ooh! Even better, lets make some submissions! Nothing like the approval of others coupled with wider exposure! Yeah, we'll be on top for a loooong while this time!
That's my pep talk to myself. From myself. You, dear reader, should try having one too. I promised you more Eulogy and I swear its on its way. A couple other projects I wanna try and do too. Other than that, just saying hi. I'm still out here. Still pluggin' away.
That's my pep talk to myself. From myself. You, dear reader, should try having one too. I promised you more Eulogy and I swear its on its way. A couple other projects I wanna try and do too. Other than that, just saying hi. I'm still out here. Still pluggin' away.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Eulogy Time - 2011
I just realized today, upon flipping through my journal and scrolling through my flash drive, that its Eulogy Time! Yes, that special time of year when I put this year's journal to rest, but only after thoroughly rifling through the pages for any tiny little literary tidbits, even the embarrassing, the bad, and the unavoidable incomplete entries. As per usual I'll be posting these up on Eulogy for a Journal, since that's what that blog is actually for, and they'll all serve as good creative fodder for...erm...at least half of the year.
Also, I find myself in a predicament. There are a handful of blank pages in last year's journal, which is nice, but will soon be used up by some half-formed idea already lurking in the back of my mind. And when it does, I don't know what I'll do since, for the first time in four years, I don't already have a journal all lined up! Time was I'd go out and get a rinky-dink little something and stick it in my faux-leather book cover, but I've gone and spoiled myself! After countless (2) Moleskines and the absolutely gorgeous 'Lincoln: Fragment of a Speech' PaperBlanks journal of last year, not just any old thing will do.
Hmm, here's an idea. Why don't you buy me a journal, dear reader? Not something expensive, mind you. Just something you'll look at and think 'Hmm...I'd like to write in that.' Anything that jumps out at you. If you're so inclined and you want to mail something like that to me, shoot me an email. I'll let you know where to send themail bomb package.
Also, I find myself in a predicament. There are a handful of blank pages in last year's journal, which is nice, but will soon be used up by some half-formed idea already lurking in the back of my mind. And when it does, I don't know what I'll do since, for the first time in four years, I don't already have a journal all lined up! Time was I'd go out and get a rinky-dink little something and stick it in my faux-leather book cover, but I've gone and spoiled myself! After countless (2) Moleskines and the absolutely gorgeous 'Lincoln: Fragment of a Speech' PaperBlanks journal of last year, not just any old thing will do.
Hmm, here's an idea. Why don't you buy me a journal, dear reader? Not something expensive, mind you. Just something you'll look at and think 'Hmm...I'd like to write in that.' Anything that jumps out at you. If you're so inclined and you want to mail something like that to me, shoot me an email. I'll let you know where to send the
Sunday, December 19, 2010
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.
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