“…any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and
therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”
—John Donne
An Elegy For Ernest Hemingway
Now for the first time on the night of your death
your name is mentioned in convents, ne cadas in
obscurum.
Now with a true bell your story becomes final. Now
men in monasteries, men of requiems, familiar with
the dead, include you in their offices.
You stand anonymous among thousands, waiting in
the dark at great stations on the edge of countries
known to prayer alone, where fires are not merciless,
we hope, and not without end.
You pass briefly through our midst. Your books and
writing have not been consulted. Our prayers are
pro defuncto N.
Yet some look up, as though among a crowd of prisoners
or displaced persons, they recognized a friend
once known in a far country. For these the sun also
rose after a forgotten war upon an idiom you made
great. They have not forgotten you. In their silence
you are still famous, no ritual shade.
How slowly this bell tolls in a monastery tower for a
whole age, and for the quick death of an unready
dynasty, and for that brave illusion: the adventurous
self!
For with one shot the whole hunt is ended!
by Thomas Merton
from A Book of Luminous Things
Harcourt Publishing 1996
Thursday 7 November 2019
Sunday 1 September 2019
I remember...
THIS WILL BE DISJOINT. THIS WILL BE ERROR LADEN. THIS IS INCOMPLETE. THIS MAY NEVER BE COMPLETE. THIS IS GRIEF.
it is the eve of your interment.
it is the night before they lay you down to rest
But that line of reasoning is heavy handed, and tends toward the dark, that bit of me you always encouraged me to acknowledge and leave alone. plenty there to make you upset, missa Carl, just put that out yuh thoughts for now."
So I say this: I remember.
I remember, before I even met you, the uttering of your name. I remember festival as a babe, and blue stage curtains, my primary school uniform. I remember the orange covered hymnal of daily devotions on the open quadrangle. I remember hymn 39, and the beautiful drawing of an angel above it. I remember touching your name each time before I opened it to follow along to "We Build our School" or "If I had a Hammer" or my favourite, which I came to know as one of yours, "The Right Hand of God."
...I remember passing for Ardenne, and my first assembly, and a classmate laughing when I took out said hymnal. I could no longer carry you with me in public.
I remember Music Club, and discovering your ties to my school, and the legacy that you helped forge that I was now an inheritor of. I remember Give me Wings, sung with reverence as passed to our school from "a previous teacher and choirmaster who did great things while here." I remember thinking the lyrics felt like a country western. I remember looking it up years later and being vindicated. I remember crying when we the Music Club sang it at a function - I finally sang the ending note to completion, on pitch and it truly felt flawless. I moved from liking singing, to loving the art of choral music.
I remember when I became a conscious fan of Noel Dexter (I admit now that I started calling you Christmas Dexter in my head because of first year French class, and the feelings I associated with singing choral music). I remember that rehearsal when you came to Ardenne and did a workshop with the choir as we undertook Lift every Voice and sing. I remember the newly donated Piano, that we tuned ourselves to at the peril of flatness, of the excitement of your impending visit and the re-tuning... and the resulting disaster as muscle memory made us stick to our previous perception of the notes. you were patient and quiet, and you DEMONSTRATED what you wanted across the lines. I was impressed. I was fascinated. I became voracious.
I was late to being impressed by the University Singers. when my friends were listening on loop to the albums ahead of my investment, I was looking up Orff and Beethoven, trying to understand how I could write something to make as much sense, and articulate the feeling they put on paper - bless the patience of Mr Hird for looking at all the discordant and half thought out drafts of this phase. That workshop opened my eyes. There, I was seeing a master elicit excellence (not perfection, but excellence) from a group he had not before worked with. we were always good, and Mr Hird held highest esteem as a physical presence and mentor, but in that moment on that afternoon you became a goal.
I remember Chorale concert before I became a student. I remember I am Seeking for a City. I remember Charles, and his work, but mostly I remember the members after saying their main aim was getting your notice - hoping to be good enough for the nod from you that meant they could advance to Singers. I remember feeling less ambitious than them because I thought access to you was all I would need.
I remember sitting eagerly in the first round of Chorale auditions, running between there and the dance studio to audition for UDS and hoping I could juggle both. I remember being too nervous to sing, then singing a riff from some gospel song my church choir had been working on. I remember "Second Tenor."
I remember talking about my experience before coming to UWI, after you discovered the Ardennites (who were also Nexus members, who were also enthusiastic singers fans, who were also fans of your work). I remember that afternoon you saw me in the Music Unit and we had our first talk. I told you the story of my attempt to teach a sextet of voices, a percussionist, a keyboardist and a violin "O Fortuna" while playing flute and floor tom and conducting; of Mr Hird's laugh when we performed it for him, and the subsequent avoidance of all things conducting because of my misinterpretation.
I remember being asked to conduct the Chorale for a one off service in the Chapel. I remember being terrified, but doing as was wished. I remember feeling I had disappointed you. Years later you said it was simply that I had lacked the ability to get them to pay attention. you encouraged me to keep at it, and keep that "attitude of dependability" - I never quite understood what that meant.
I remember the talks about my writing, and those crits and encouragements I will hold to my heart, and those I will at your urging, dismiss from my consciousness.
I remember the mischief making
I remember the "Dance, Carl. is what you want to do"
I remember the "Alright Bredda" that meant the debate was over and I had failed to look past my self doubt and learn the lesson
I remember the "AHHHH" when the lesson was learnt and received. I remember the pat on the shoulder and the laugh when the lesson learnt came readily and was applied to situations.
I remember "yes, I think you should take him with you. he really needs a change of surroundings for a bit." I also remember the "take this time to look at where you are and decide what you want and need to move forward."
I remember that wide eyed surprised and delighted smile at AV5 when you saw me drop in. that hug and admission of pride will stay with me forever.
I remember "Well it looking like you doing good over there; I hope when we ready for you them can let you go."
I remember so many other things that make these, this, everything seem so...trite as a tribute
It is all so...unworthy
everything is
I miss you
I can't envision not eagerly staking out at the Music Unit in hopes you will shuffle in through the door, on your way toward your office on autopilot until you realise just who it was that hailed you.
The high pitched "Carl!" the hug and back pat.
The inevitable comment on my weight gain or loss/ facial hair, head of hair, new glasses...
i Miss YOU ...and it eats me up how for granted I took my access to you, a far cry from the boy who came to UWI and would be tongue tied, always just short of asking you if you were aware just of who you are - if you realised you were
The orange hymnal man
The father figure
The choral clinician and mentor
The singer and vocal coach
The Patient repetiteur
The Indulgent enabler
The shady co-conspirator
The support system
it is the eve of your interment.
it is the night before they lay you down to rest
But that line of reasoning is heavy handed, and tends toward the dark, that bit of me you always encouraged me to acknowledge and leave alone. plenty there to make you upset, missa Carl, just put that out yuh thoughts for now."
So I say this: I remember.
I remember, before I even met you, the uttering of your name. I remember festival as a babe, and blue stage curtains, my primary school uniform. I remember the orange covered hymnal of daily devotions on the open quadrangle. I remember hymn 39, and the beautiful drawing of an angel above it. I remember touching your name each time before I opened it to follow along to "We Build our School" or "If I had a Hammer" or my favourite, which I came to know as one of yours, "The Right Hand of God."
...I remember passing for Ardenne, and my first assembly, and a classmate laughing when I took out said hymnal. I could no longer carry you with me in public.
I remember Music Club, and discovering your ties to my school, and the legacy that you helped forge that I was now an inheritor of. I remember Give me Wings, sung with reverence as passed to our school from "a previous teacher and choirmaster who did great things while here." I remember thinking the lyrics felt like a country western. I remember looking it up years later and being vindicated. I remember crying when we the Music Club sang it at a function - I finally sang the ending note to completion, on pitch and it truly felt flawless. I moved from liking singing, to loving the art of choral music.
I remember when I became a conscious fan of Noel Dexter (I admit now that I started calling you Christmas Dexter in my head because of first year French class, and the feelings I associated with singing choral music). I remember that rehearsal when you came to Ardenne and did a workshop with the choir as we undertook Lift every Voice and sing. I remember the newly donated Piano, that we tuned ourselves to at the peril of flatness, of the excitement of your impending visit and the re-tuning... and the resulting disaster as muscle memory made us stick to our previous perception of the notes. you were patient and quiet, and you DEMONSTRATED what you wanted across the lines. I was impressed. I was fascinated. I became voracious.
I was late to being impressed by the University Singers. when my friends were listening on loop to the albums ahead of my investment, I was looking up Orff and Beethoven, trying to understand how I could write something to make as much sense, and articulate the feeling they put on paper - bless the patience of Mr Hird for looking at all the discordant and half thought out drafts of this phase. That workshop opened my eyes. There, I was seeing a master elicit excellence (not perfection, but excellence) from a group he had not before worked with. we were always good, and Mr Hird held highest esteem as a physical presence and mentor, but in that moment on that afternoon you became a goal.
I remember Chorale concert before I became a student. I remember I am Seeking for a City. I remember Charles, and his work, but mostly I remember the members after saying their main aim was getting your notice - hoping to be good enough for the nod from you that meant they could advance to Singers. I remember feeling less ambitious than them because I thought access to you was all I would need.
I remember sitting eagerly in the first round of Chorale auditions, running between there and the dance studio to audition for UDS and hoping I could juggle both. I remember being too nervous to sing, then singing a riff from some gospel song my church choir had been working on. I remember "Second Tenor."
I remember talking about my experience before coming to UWI, after you discovered the Ardennites (who were also Nexus members, who were also enthusiastic singers fans, who were also fans of your work). I remember that afternoon you saw me in the Music Unit and we had our first talk. I told you the story of my attempt to teach a sextet of voices, a percussionist, a keyboardist and a violin "O Fortuna" while playing flute and floor tom and conducting; of Mr Hird's laugh when we performed it for him, and the subsequent avoidance of all things conducting because of my misinterpretation.
I remember being asked to conduct the Chorale for a one off service in the Chapel. I remember being terrified, but doing as was wished. I remember feeling I had disappointed you. Years later you said it was simply that I had lacked the ability to get them to pay attention. you encouraged me to keep at it, and keep that "attitude of dependability" - I never quite understood what that meant.
I remember the talks about my writing, and those crits and encouragements I will hold to my heart, and those I will at your urging, dismiss from my consciousness.
I remember the mischief making
I remember the "Dance, Carl. is what you want to do"
I remember the "Alright Bredda" that meant the debate was over and I had failed to look past my self doubt and learn the lesson
I remember the "AHHHH" when the lesson was learnt and received. I remember the pat on the shoulder and the laugh when the lesson learnt came readily and was applied to situations.
I remember "yes, I think you should take him with you. he really needs a change of surroundings for a bit." I also remember the "take this time to look at where you are and decide what you want and need to move forward."
I remember that wide eyed surprised and delighted smile at AV5 when you saw me drop in. that hug and admission of pride will stay with me forever.
I remember "Well it looking like you doing good over there; I hope when we ready for you them can let you go."
I remember so many other things that make these, this, everything seem so...trite as a tribute
It is all so...unworthy
everything is
I miss you
I can't envision not eagerly staking out at the Music Unit in hopes you will shuffle in through the door, on your way toward your office on autopilot until you realise just who it was that hailed you.
The high pitched "Carl!" the hug and back pat.
The inevitable comment on my weight gain or loss/ facial hair, head of hair, new glasses...
i Miss YOU ...and it eats me up how for granted I took my access to you, a far cry from the boy who came to UWI and would be tongue tied, always just short of asking you if you were aware just of who you are - if you realised you were
The orange hymnal man
The father figure
The choral clinician and mentor
The singer and vocal coach
The Patient repetiteur
The Indulgent enabler
The shady co-conspirator
The support system
Thursday 18 July 2019
If you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, your eyes stop tearing up
I am heading home
home
so many feelings ring out of me as I ponder it, but not light things stay.
laughs fly by, anger gingerly sidesteps direct confrontation. But. But. But.
there is this heaviness
this weight
that settles in the pit of my stomach and makes me feel like i stare into an abyss from which there is no reclamation of self, no reprieve, no cure.
I can't see the happy inherent
I can't see the sunshine implicit
I can't feel the light
I am in a unique self perpetuating hell that I can't help hurtling toward
and I do not want to help it.
and I do not have any way to escape it
but I do not want to escape it
I wish I could...
How I wish i could,
but you can't follow me
so I make a pillow fort by the stygian depths
and as you replenish yourself from the Lethe,
while my other companion lies half alive, but fully awake - in a cycle I am just as impotent to break
I sing lullabies to sanity
and steadfastly look away,
urging Hades to grant me the mercy of the deal he struck with Orpheus
but lacking the talent that would make such a deal worth his consideration.
we three blindly sit.
Cerberus, eat your heart out
home
so many feelings ring out of me as I ponder it, but not light things stay.
laughs fly by, anger gingerly sidesteps direct confrontation. But. But. But.
there is this heaviness
this weight
that settles in the pit of my stomach and makes me feel like i stare into an abyss from which there is no reclamation of self, no reprieve, no cure.
I can't see the happy inherent
I can't see the sunshine implicit
I can't feel the light
I am in a unique self perpetuating hell that I can't help hurtling toward
and I do not want to help it.
and I do not have any way to escape it
but I do not want to escape it
I wish I could...
How I wish i could,
but you can't follow me
so I make a pillow fort by the stygian depths
and as you replenish yourself from the Lethe,
while my other companion lies half alive, but fully awake - in a cycle I am just as impotent to break
I sing lullabies to sanity
and steadfastly look away,
urging Hades to grant me the mercy of the deal he struck with Orpheus
but lacking the talent that would make such a deal worth his consideration.
we three blindly sit.
Cerberus, eat your heart out
Wednesday 26 June 2019
A farewell (Nov. 30 2018)
Eggbert Missa B, Prince, Bertie, Uncle Bertie, Tibby, Ol' Man, Stick Man, (No sir, sorry I wont call yuh stick man again *rubs arm, pink from slap*)
I still remember growing up, sitting with you, squinting at the small screen of the coloured TV when WIndies had a cricket match, you at the edge of your seat, me barely following the action but excited something was happening (years later it was discovered my squinting was not intense focus, but astigmatism). Everyone would know if they did you proud (which was not always that they won) when you would then spend the rest of that day/week humming Rudder's "Rally Round The West Indies" in the sweetest warmest tenor voice I have heard on a Jamaican. it drove several persons crazy. it made me want to learn songs that meant I was happy so I could drive people crazy too - but more importantly, so I didn't have to tell them how I was feeling, but show/ sing it. this man smoked every day God send him sun when I was younger. and STILL voice was sweet and resonant, like a sunbeam touching your face with blessed heat as you sat in an air conditioned office shivering.
you were the archetype of the masculinity I hoped to personify:
- you would get up every day without fail, and take on the tasks you set yourself, with no complaint and no need for acknowledgement.
- it began with a slow, meticulous sweep of the yard. Alternating with a push broom, and coconut brush while singing, with pauses to "run" us from underfoot as we would play around you.
- Then came my favourite part: you would lay out your woodworking tools to continue whatever job you had in progress.
I was proud my Grandpa was a Carpenter, and took pride when you would carve a bed-head or make a "chester draws" (Chest of Drawers was reserved for adulthood). I especially loved when it was a bed. when still in early stages, not yet with outfitted with lathes, I would love to sit in the open box that was the frame and read or imagine myself as a pilot, ship captain or teacher in a classroom (this last one only ever in private, as my sister had a total monopoly on being 'teacher,' a game she relished in large part for the strop with which she would discipline students, and the red pen to "mark" work). you made my "big boy" bed, a sturdy no nonsense affair, made from hard wood and unadorned. That bed has seen me through moving from place to place, become awkward teen, to a mostly good man, and has supported me in many a quiet hour in reading, laughing, loss, pain, and in loving.
- you would get up every day without fail, and take on the tasks you set yourself, with no complaint and no need for acknowledgement.
- it began with a slow, meticulous sweep of the yard. Alternating with a push broom, and coconut brush while singing, with pauses to "run" us from underfoot as we would play around you.
- Then came my favourite part: you would lay out your woodworking tools to continue whatever job you had in progress.
I was proud my Grandpa was a Carpenter, and took pride when you would carve a bed-head or make a "chester draws" (Chest of Drawers was reserved for adulthood). I especially loved when it was a bed. when still in early stages, not yet with outfitted with lathes, I would love to sit in the open box that was the frame and read or imagine myself as a pilot, ship captain or teacher in a classroom (this last one only ever in private, as my sister had a total monopoly on being 'teacher,' a game she relished in large part for the strop with which she would discipline students, and the red pen to "mark" work). you made my "big boy" bed, a sturdy no nonsense affair, made from hard wood and unadorned. That bed has seen me through moving from place to place, become awkward teen, to a mostly good man, and has supported me in many a quiet hour in reading, laughing, loss, pain, and in loving.
Then there's those things that just added to your awesomeness
- You never waited on Grandma to fix you a plate, and though rarely ever having to, you could Bubble a pot! (sometimes these forays were traumatic - watching the process of making Manish water is a standout here - but you cooking was always a fun affair...until the teasing resulted in an invented nickname - always hotter than a slap)
- You always romantic in private! Poor grandma here telling us how tender you are with her, describing your earnest proposal to her, ring-less but determined to keep her...and us seeing you with your grumpy one liners and "kissin' teet" whenever she would start to retell the story. I realised, after we found the picture of you two kissing for some anniversary, that we had never seen you refuse to kiss grandma when she would try to wrestle public sweetness out of you. your resistance was always for show, and short-lived, because a peck was sure to soften the moment before you walked off.
- You always romantic in private! Poor grandma here telling us how tender you are with her, describing your earnest proposal to her, ring-less but determined to keep her...and us seeing you with your grumpy one liners and "kissin' teet" whenever she would start to retell the story. I realised, after we found the picture of you two kissing for some anniversary, that we had never seen you refuse to kiss grandma when she would try to wrestle public sweetness out of you. your resistance was always for show, and short-lived, because a peck was sure to soften the moment before you walked off.
- Your use of a nickname was a level of savagery that had us always on our toes...and rolling with laughter when not the target. I remember a step-sister once came to stay over with us, and after an hour of her incessant chatter (which had also got on our nerves by then) you gave out:
"Zazu, yuh beak nuh tired fi clap?" Fresh from the Lion King VHS obsession, the rest of us were giggling up a storm, poor Dex- I mean, Zazu. Mid smile, dazed and not knowing what had just happened. Of course, our laughter further got you annoyed, and we scattered at the shout of "Kibba unnu mout!" knowing as we did that the fresh laughter that this would bring would end in some slaps. she was truly one of us that day, Zazu, Carl-Jackass-teet'-fuss-one, Duck-head, Donna-Pretty-Cross-yeye-Duppy, Dutty-Neck, Sandy-Yellow-one-him, and Ashia (who you gave her pet name and was never given another name by you).
"Zazu, yuh beak nuh tired fi clap?" Fresh from the Lion King VHS obsession, the rest of us were giggling up a storm, poor Dex- I mean, Zazu. Mid smile, dazed and not knowing what had just happened. Of course, our laughter further got you annoyed, and we scattered at the shout of "Kibba unnu mout!" knowing as we did that the fresh laughter that this would bring would end in some slaps. she was truly one of us that day, Zazu, Carl-Jackass-teet'-fuss-one, Duck-head, Donna-Pretty-Cross-yeye-Duppy, Dutty-Neck, Sandy-Yellow-one-him, and Ashia (who you gave her pet name and was never given another name by you).
- YOU COULD DRESS!!! Grandpa, bar none, was the most put together, handsome, carefully organised man about the town. Listen! de man starch even his jeans! I think watching him dress and take care of his clothes and Clarks had more of an impact on me in my formative years than even having both my parents being in fashion design. from early years of trying to iron my primary school uniform (and creating triple and quadruple creases) to tucking my shirts into my pants (before growing older and becoming aware that where Missa B had a muscled flat stomach I had a round pot), "Uncle Bertie" was the very image of style and clean-cut dapper-osity!
Then you both moved "To Country," a whole other series of misadventures, "Grandpa-isms" and surly mask hiding warm-heartedness continued.
To the person who I am sure I in large part got my ability to find humour in the folly that causes frustration:
I miss you more than I can say, and will take a while to get used to the idea that you are no longer here. no longer a hurried phone call away in between classes when I would call your number to "speak to grandma" (when really I just wanted to hear you shout "Shirley, Tasito pon de phone," probably with a mumbled cuss that she going to done your battery now, and when you coming back down here again?), no more hurried 1-2 day visits to Manchester to reset while watching you move about tending goats, chickens and crops, humming snatches of melodies and wishing you would sing louder so I could harmonise, now older and FINALLY knowing the songs you always sang - Thanks Mr D for at least three of these - and able to join in.
"Sing Christmas Green, Poinsettia red,
for in a lowly manger bed,
a Little child was born."
for in a lowly manger bed,
a Little child was born."
Tuesday 4 June 2019
wade slowly
He pours himself into the high-backed barstool, eyes maintaining steady contact with the bartender. A nod is his acknowledgement, and a smile of assent to the the usual. the radio, more static than coherent sound, is giving a just bearable rendition of Lauryn Hill. Elbows resting on the bar, he palms and supports his head on left and right sides.
it has been a long day
Saturday 18 May 2019
short check in
Ever lay in bed and miss someone?
I do not mean the kind of 'miss' that people fleetingly claim when their minds happens to wander to someone (yet mysteriously stops shy of actually sending a message/calling), but an ache for their presence.
I feel it at some points during my day and night.
for him.
and it's mostly okay, an acceptance that I have allowed someone into my personal sphere in a space that family and friends cannot fill. I hope the homesickness is not for naught.
til then:
I do not mean the kind of 'miss' that people fleetingly claim when their minds happens to wander to someone (yet mysteriously stops shy of actually sending a message/calling), but an ache for their presence.
I feel it at some points during my day and night.
for him.
and it's mostly okay, an acceptance that I have allowed someone into my personal sphere in a space that family and friends cannot fill. I hope the homesickness is not for naught.
til then:
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