Just ready to sleep and wake up at the end of this tunnel
Wednesday, 23 December 2020
Friday, 17 April 2020
Limbic Resonance
I have begun to notice that in confinement my movement has begun to take on the pattern of a wail... it's as if I am a pendulum, swinging between anxiety and a tightly wound misery in a way that speaks to more than a response developed over my 3 decades.
sing songs of bitter earth and breathe through a nose full of the scent of despair clinging stubbornly to hope
Tuesday, 11 February 2020
why?
Plagued by a kind of emotional ague, an ache... I just want to not deal with being treated as some after thought.
what would that feel like?
what would it look like?
what would it sound like?
...what would the realisation that how I want it to look like is not what it is to them feel like? this feeling? this space?
one then argues, why ask to know someone's needs, if the end result is to not serve it? hmm... why bother hold to account?
the question then
just.
why?
what would that feel like?
what would it look like?
what would it sound like?
...what would the realisation that how I want it to look like is not what it is to them feel like? this feeling? this space?
one then argues, why ask to know someone's needs, if the end result is to not serve it? hmm... why bother hold to account?
the question then
just.
why?
Monday, 20 January 2020
God Did Not Say - Francis Boston
...For Miss Roe
God Did Not Say
by: Francis Boston
God did not say
You will find me
If you carry out
A deep enough analysis.
God did not say
I have made a tree;
To know me
You must
Cut it down,
Cut it up
Pulp it
Make paper
And write upon it
Holy words.
God did not say
I have made a butterfly
Don’t let it flutter by
Get it
Net it
Set it
And hold it up
Dead
In praise of me
God did not say
Anything.
Silently
He made
All things
All stones
All plants
All flowers
All animals
And man
As one.
And
Without loudspeakers
Without book
Without script
Without word,
Without letter,
Even without
A Little Bang Theory –
And God saw
That it was GOOD
Perhaps…
We should too
Thursday, 7 November 2019
“…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
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
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:
Wednesday, 12 December 2018
Please Don't...
there is a way that people will hold you to the mold that they envisaged for your life. Sometimes, this is a good thing - they keep you in line, on track to being the best self you can be. but other times, please, just don't
DON'T:
- exclaim that you thought I'd be half way to PhD now. it is clear I am not there, and not yet close if ever to it
- ask me if your suggestion of praying the gay/ the depression/ the dark thoughts/ the PHYSICAL situation away worked, or worse yet, come with a gloating air when I have (probably with help of meds and a therapist) made it to the other side, assuming Jesus, your last minute suggestion was the answer all along.
- come around me with an air of condescension for others expecting to find a kindred spirit. I have no patience for those who hinge their self worth on the devaluing of another's self esteem.
- try to stop me crying when it happens. life has been pretty shitty, let my soul acknowledge it for a bit. it is very hard for me to cry in the first place; if you witness it, just leave. you will likely know if you should stay. if you do not know, succinctly ask.
- Advance toward me with conquest in mind, hiding behind courtship or gallantry. you're getting blanked anyway, practice candor.
- compare me to younger relatives/ childhood friends. yes he is now a lecturer, yes she is now a chemist. I am not. I am a disappointment in so many more ways than you can imagine, leave me in peace.
Life has been such a painful, Topsy-Turvy experience. while not without it's happy instances of light, it is a hard road to travel. Not every observation shared is helpful, not every jibe is seized as an opportunity to show strength, and I am tired.
DON'T:
- exclaim that you thought I'd be half way to PhD now. it is clear I am not there, and not yet close if ever to it
- ask me if your suggestion of praying the gay/ the depression/ the dark thoughts/ the PHYSICAL situation away worked, or worse yet, come with a gloating air when I have (probably with help of meds and a therapist) made it to the other side, assuming Jesus, your last minute suggestion was the answer all along.
- come around me with an air of condescension for others expecting to find a kindred spirit. I have no patience for those who hinge their self worth on the devaluing of another's self esteem.
- try to stop me crying when it happens. life has been pretty shitty, let my soul acknowledge it for a bit. it is very hard for me to cry in the first place; if you witness it, just leave. you will likely know if you should stay. if you do not know, succinctly ask.
- Advance toward me with conquest in mind, hiding behind courtship or gallantry. you're getting blanked anyway, practice candor.
- compare me to younger relatives/ childhood friends. yes he is now a lecturer, yes she is now a chemist. I am not. I am a disappointment in so many more ways than you can imagine, leave me in peace.
Life has been such a painful, Topsy-Turvy experience. while not without it's happy instances of light, it is a hard road to travel. Not every observation shared is helpful, not every jibe is seized as an opportunity to show strength, and I am tired.
Wednesday, 28 November 2018
So...
So here you are.
You're awake again, full consciousness blossoming as you open your eyes to take in the sight of your space. Another day. Another long stretch of disjoint interactions and the feeling of being isolated. But you're aware of that. You are actively cordoning off your emotional response and perception of reality. You can't possibly afford the humanity you crave. You tell yourself the time is not right to be vulnerable - that it isn't yet the right moment - but you know better. You feel the real reason. You can feel the helplessness deepening, taking up your consciousness and crippling you slowly as your body fights to move normally, to do normally. You project blithe fortitude as your reality. But you're falling apart. Again. And you fear you are irreparable.
None of this is okay.
You are at a place where you try your best, while aware that it is not at all your "best" but that you have no access to your optimum. You can't manage this on your own, but opening up to any one involves admitting just how much of this internal dialogue of resentment you've been hiding. And they have their own issues.
And you refuse to cry.
And you refuse to feel.
And you refuse to submit.
You know this is all foolish, so you strike deals with your trauma.
"Let me get through this semester/concert/year/month/week/day"
Because you know.
You KNOW
The doors and locks that hold back the full effect of all you can't address... they are insufficient protection and you do not know when but you know each day brings you closer to being face to face with its unfettered ferocious devastation.
And that feat
You feel it
And you know it to be real, where even love from others is mired in the doubt you know is baseless -
But...."what if"
The chain rattles.
Monday, 19 November 2018
I wonder what it feels like
I look around and I wonder...what does it feel like?
- what does it feel like to brook no counter to your logic?
- what does it feel like to be closed to growing and changing?
how can these feelings aid one to be a better person? these moments are not questions of a slope of morality, but they certainly show character.
but my more pertinent question is for myself
what am I doing to ensure I do not calcify at the expense of growth and the growth and happiness of others?
taking notes for myself,
TonyC
- what does it feel like to brook no counter to your logic?
- what does it feel like to be closed to growing and changing?
how can these feelings aid one to be a better person? these moments are not questions of a slope of morality, but they certainly show character.
but my more pertinent question is for myself
what am I doing to ensure I do not calcify at the expense of growth and the growth and happiness of others?
taking notes for myself,
TonyC
Tuesday, 24 April 2018
Roving with TonyC... from the back seat of a Trinidadian Taxi
I enter the car, there's another passenger seated at the front.
Front passenger: i don't have any issue with them you know, as long as they [insert stricture on self expression or identity].
Driver: Yeah partner, I don't mind them either - I lived in Europe for almost a decade, they were everywhere, some things though, just don't need to be public... *sound of assent and short laugh* i dont even kiss my girl in public - but to stand up by traffic light in the middle of town and suck another man tongue out he head?
*I fall asleep in the taxi*
*re-awakens*
Passenger: it have plenty of them in the government, even that big Rasta one [name redacted] yeah, he, I know for a fact that him is one of the worst kind, he's a receiver. I know that for a fact because Is one of my friends from over [community redacted] him go to and get dig out. *All out laughter.* But seriously, big man like that. But I have no problem with them y'know.
Driver: in truth? I thinking is only "the Chief" that would be rejoicing. Y'know he had a fella up by me, up by where I living, we would see him round there.
Passenger: true yes, I never understand why he go for public office with those ways, yes. But as I say, let them live. The law changing for them. But...how that work? The law in the bible says *driver dismisses the reference with a "everybody not Christian" - himself a rastafarian* hear me out nah, the bible that outlaw dem ting, is the same thing they swearing in on at court and ting? So how you can swear over a book you not following?
*I am self aware enough to not bother engaging, the driver keeps checking rear view to look at my expression. My face is schooled into a bored expression*
Driver: well, I don't think everyone swear over that, but how many people really living like that book ask for? Anyway, I don't have a problem with them. As I say, if I have a child or relative who find that them is that way, I won't kick them out, I won't hate them. But the public ting...
Passenger: so you would want your boy child bringing home a man? In your house?
*driver is silent, as he considers. Passenger laughs mutely*
See dem ting? Not happening in Jamaica
Driver: how you mean? Of course it happen. You don't hear about them ones in that place there [name redacted]? The ones living in the gully, robbing people and hoe-ing.
Passenger: so they stop killing them?
Driver: no, of course not *they both laugh* but that ain't stopping them anymore.
Passenger: I hope they ain't looking to come here then. Stay and fight for themselves over there, and dead [at] home.
*driver allows silence to build at that comment. Checks mirror. Eyes making contact with mine, he looks out the window at others stuck in standstill traffic.*
Well, as I say, I have no problem with them. Man does choose his own hell or heaven. It just have some tings I don't like or appreciate.
Driver: well, as I say, it real different in Europe, them free up and everywhere. But gay or straight, some things just not for public.
*I sit up and pay fare, preparing to leave vehicle, as the topic evolves into a discussion on "Them trans people there, and that one that call herself [redacted] and use to work in Red House."*
Tuesday, 10 April 2018
Invocation as rejection...et cetera [with much perspective jumping]
"Ah prayin' for yuh."
I used to take great comfort in receiving lines like this. Even at my moments of religious ambivalence, I'd be warmed. The thought that someone would intercede with their supreme being for my benefit often made me speechless with gratitude.
- not everyone is quite so kind-minded.
As I got older, i came to appreciate the line, and some of its other iterations. The inflections that "mean more than they mean - y'know whaddamean?"
Sitting in church right with you, I am in the mid region pew. You know, the 'not-so-much-a-saint-I-can-pull-off-the-front-row-but-certainly-not-to-be-in-the-back? Yeah. There. Minding my business, dropping two or three harmony lines in the hymns, praising just like you came to do (ha). End of service and sermon comes, and just before I awkward side step to my house (or, to be real, to head to a performance), you corral me into conversation. It often happens that you are right in front of me at church. No morning greeting did I warrant, no sign of peace at mass. But here you are. Post church and just before you slip off the pious face for something more...comfortable? Roadworthy? Real?
"How you doing? How is *insert grandmother, father, uncle, aunty, cousin, sister...personal favourite: Girlfriend* ?"
Like a dog whistle, the saccharine voice has triggered me, and I shake off my distracted attempts to leave. Your smile widens. I respond politely, and I calm down; maybe you are simply asking after them.
You are never simply asking after them.
"So why you not looking to carry her to meet your church family?" My mind reels from the open blow of the question. In the silence that you ensured with my surprise, you press on. " Or she in here already and the two of you hiding the dealings?" Your smile is simply feral now. Your glare is predatory, sure that you have caught me out.
Unfortunately for you, Sister, I stopped playing this game long, long time.
"I am gay. By the look on your face, you know that I am gay. You are aware I am not single. He is not a member of this church, but I will certainly take him along one day when we are both in town." I now smile. "You would like him." I watch you all but sputter. You never thought I would be so blatant.
"Oh yes, well you should bring him." Then, to reclaim the situation: "I will keep praying for you." Of course you will. But right now another church sister/the pastor/Father/ brother/Elder and you need a word.
Bye.
Now a friend of mine once said she felt her urges to be petty or dismissive were because somewhere in her DNA is a 'Steups' (a kiss teet; a caribbean/African gesture of impatience, upset or annoyance). I can confirm that this "gene" is probably Caribbean region universal. I feel it every time I have to jump out of my mild mannered self to address the particular brand of foolishness (read: fuckery) that is Caribbean people of a certain generation and/or "(non)sensibility."
A similar kind of invocation occurs when they are trying to assure you they are ameliorating the blight that surrounds you from being related to someone who offends their or the community's (still their, but with an invisi-majority backing them) sense of decency/morality.
Church fully forgotten, and the mid-week is upon us. Enter another well meaning neighbour.
"Hey, how you doing?" You are disarmed. She living right down the road, and everyone knows her daughter have 3 children with 2 awarded (but 3 - 5 potential) last names. You engage in some small talk. You laugh a bit. There is an undercurrent of the yet-to-be-said, but you assume it's something inane, like a concern that your father taking too long to deliver something, or at most, borrowing money.
And then she drops it.
"Careful how them see you in the road with *insert name here.* we might know him and you is relative, but we know you not playing them things, and we don't want you going down with him." Now, the person discussed is a relative. One with whom you are not only closely related, but genuinely close to. You are confused as to what could warrant the warning. Then you remember the current neighbourhood scandal: cuzzo has decided to move in with his partner, and they are raising his child in their un-holy, un-recognised union. You are unsure how to process the judgement that is coming from she of the flexi-morals. Responding with amicable rejection of the notion of anything wrong, you begin to part ways as warmly as you met - if a little off kilter.
"Well you just be careful. You soft hearted 'bout these things. I hope it don't burn you. I praying for you, that him judgement don't fall on you too."
You swallow back the DeoxyriboNucleic-STEUPS response that bubbling and waiting to jump out. Nah. She can't be real.
The last one I will touch on, is the summons of revenge and retribution.
We are all raised, for the most part, with the mantra "God not sleeping." Every perceived slight or injustice is postluded with this phrase. This weaponising of the otherwise all benevolent God can strike in the most arbitrary situations.
"Ah going to take you to God in prayer!" Is the shouted parry of a church sister who was glaringly cut off by another driver at an intersection.
And we celebrate her restraint. How, you ask, has she shown such? Why, she avoided curse words! She refused to cuss out the other driver, and instead (with her spectacularly triggered Steups gene) put him before her Lord to mete out judgement (the "as she the victim sees fit" is as silent as the 'k' in knight).
I have more I could say, but I am here triggering my own kiss teet' response
Selah, til' we chat again,
Carl-Anthony
Friday, 23 March 2018
A Reflection: What is Blackness? What is Black Identity?
From a Jamaican studying in Trinidad and Tobago
Sparked from the work of
Herskovits in general, and the tribute article of Sidney Mintz in particular (Mintz 1964) I was intrigued by
ethnicity and it’s resulting impact on identity - even as I am forming daily my
opinions, insights and identity as a young adult. In the article, Mintz
discusses seminal works on black identity in the aftermath of the upheaval and
exploitation of slavery and Herskovits’s work put up for discussion among names
such as Dubois, Johnson, as the thinker who came to stir up the debate which
had seemed all but totally shelved by American and the English Caribbean as an
issue still present and influential in the dynamics of society.
A lot of activists within the
realm of racial and ethnic divisions and equality claim influence by the works
of Herskovits and his presentation of the retentions and innovations of culture
and practices that were taken with the enslaved blacks to the new world.
Startling to me however, were those who questioned the right of Herskovits, a
Jew settled in America, to be presenting the African presence to these the
descendants and inheritors of the legacy, and how it is that it took ‘him’ in
order for the subject matter to have gained prominence and validity in
“mainstream Academia.” It is a view which later had affected students under him (PBS.org 2010) . Reading and
watching these actions and the sentiments/ reactions of those affected interest
me as a student of the social sciences, but they resonate with me in many ways
because of the society within which I exist and am shaped.
Key to my understanding (or lack
thereof) of the reactions of those onlookers and students who were ascribed
status as the inheritors of the displaced Africans was my own experience here
in the Caribbean. To be black in my country is to be the ethnic majority; it
means seeing myself, and any manifestation of a life choice I may make reflected
in society. I see myself as my nation’s leader, the holder of high offices, and
the trained professional, even as I see myself as the delinquent and the
disciplinarian. And yet, it was through looking at the response to their
identity from the lens of black as minority that I became open to perceiving
class struggles and conflict through a new lens. And yet, Herskovits did not
seek to present the “…Political position of these peoples” (Mintz 1964) .
The Myth of the Negro Past was to present a challenge to the notion that the
displaced peoples had no past – that they had carried little with them from the
continent of origin and what they carried was lost to the deculturization
process that was chattel slavery. His work highlighted the resilience of
culture and cultural practices, and their rebirth and relevance to subsequent
generations.
It is interesting to note that
the widely held belief in American Sociological thought may have been that the
displaced Africans did not come with any culture, when in my own country there
are laws (some of which, like the 1898 Obeah law, are still on the books) that
were specifically created as a response to culture’s pervasive and versatile
nature.
This was no really “new”
phenomena in my home country, indeed we were taught about the suppression of
culture as well as race based oppression and dehumanisation, but I think a lot
of us failed to grasp what it meant.
And even as I read the article and did my own research on sentiments/ reactions
to both the work of (and reception of) Herskovits on Africana (that word in
itself causes me some disquiet though I have not yet unboxed why), I am
grateful and arrested that this man sought to legitimise his standing in
academia through his presentation of ethno-cultural realities and retentions of
a race that was not his own. How does one begin to address this feeling?
Nevertheless, the term I leave
this article having been moved by is Africanisms,
which I understand to mean those elements of language, attitudes, modes of
expression – those components of a cultural identity – which are deemed to be
African in origin.
Works Cited
Mintz, Sidney.
1964. "Melville J Herskovitz and Caribbean Studies: A retrospective
tribute." Caribbean Studies, vol. 4, No 2 4 (2): 42 - 51.
PBS.org. 2010. Independent
Lens: Herskovits at the Heart of Blackness. January. Accessed September
25, 2015. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k8m8VSdKRu4.
Wednesday, 20 December 2017
as I reflect
"Yuh tek drunkard 'tick fi guh lick mawga dawg,
when mawga dawg dead a weh yuh a guh do?"
(You take drunkard's stick to abuse the meagre/malnourished/ailing dog, when the dog dies, what will you do?)
- Jamaican proverb an folk song lyrics
This song keeps re-visiting my mind lately, and I suspect the reason needs exorcising. I see so very often people try to obfuscate truth - and truth here in its many forms. People hide the truth of their convictions, the truth of their feelings, the truth of their hopes, their goals, their abilities. for what? Why on earth do we play this game of hide the real self? and then the more baffling aspect that these lines speak to: we highlight the plight and misperceived (often deliberate) weak points and 'villainy' of others. to what end? why do we put each other down? is there some point to this? crabs in a barrel will climb over each other to escape - BUT THE BARREL IS NOT A CRAB'S NATURAL HABITAT! we are not in a barrel...in fact, often we are experiencing pressure in a unique way, and the lessening of that pressure often has very little to do with the person who we drag into our situations.
NOTE: drunkard stick... the song notes that we are not "ourselves" in this moment. we are removed from sensibility and for whatever reason we in that state of weakness - react in outward destruction.
So... when that blame causes the person, the system of support, the group - whatever - to disperse, disappear, no longer function or be a point of escaping scrutiny...What will we/you/he/she/they do? are we even thinking of that time to come?
...Weh we a guh do?
...Weh we a guh do?
Sunday, 17 December 2017
streams...
Maybe I'm tired.
Maybe I really cannot deal with the madness that others stir up,
Maybe I cannot hold my tongue further for sake of cohesion
Maybe I can't stand and watch the dementia take root
Maybe I can't breathe and this is getting too much to handle
and I am not there to deal with it, process it.
I am not here to fix it when I was made to deliver it just as it began healing
but the universe never allows a vacuum
and divine action is slow but sure
and we reap what we sow
- except when we reap our brothers and sister fields -
and we are so full of empathy
and Hollowed of our caring
so soulful
- having lost our souls
And he looked and saw the centuries before him, millennia of strife and bloodshed in his name
wars launched by his people against his people in a name he will in time possibly resent
and still
knowing he could give up at any time
sighed, and hung there
and...
died
Maybe I really cannot deal with the madness that others stir up,
Maybe I cannot hold my tongue further for sake of cohesion
Maybe I can't stand and watch the dementia take root
Maybe I can't breathe and this is getting too much to handle
and I am not there to deal with it, process it.
I am not here to fix it when I was made to deliver it just as it began healing
but the universe never allows a vacuum
and divine action is slow but sure
and we reap what we sow
- except when we reap our brothers and sister fields -
and we are so full of empathy
and Hollowed of our caring
so soulful
- having lost our souls
And he looked and saw the centuries before him, millennia of strife and bloodshed in his name
wars launched by his people against his people in a name he will in time possibly resent
and still
knowing he could give up at any time
sighed, and hung there
and...
died
Wednesday, 7 June 2017
We see and are seen, do and are done to...
Corrine tired of his pain. She watched him, bent over the fire pit, his tongue between teeth. Grunts of effort absently escaped his lips as he tended the flame. It hurt to watch. She couldn't stop herself.
"One day, you're going to have to explain how you made this look so easy." Her eyes bulged, hand reaching for her chest. If she still had a pulse, she suspect it would be hammering. After some seconds of silence, the hope that he had somehow been aware of her presence died. _Wasn't death supposed to be paradise?_ not for the first time, she reached for him - only just holding her anger back as her hand passes through his form, wisps that reshaped on exit. A slight pause and shiver were her reward. It was going to be a _long_ afterlife.
"One day, you're going to have to explain how you made this look so easy." Her eyes bulged, hand reaching for her chest. If she still had a pulse, she suspect it would be hammering. After some seconds of silence, the hope that he had somehow been aware of her presence died. _Wasn't death supposed to be paradise?_ not for the first time, she reached for him - only just holding her anger back as her hand passes through his form, wisps that reshaped on exit. A slight pause and shiver were her reward. It was going to be a _long_ afterlife.
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