Une Si Longue Lettre...from an Island boy who has ceased to dream

Aïssatou,
 It seems so fitting that I use this name and style with all that sits on this heavy heart...and yet I find the words will not come with the ease my tears do...appreciate my disjoint words and deep grief...may Ms Mariama Ba not look unfavourably on my doing from her resting place... semblance of composure regained, I begin


It seems Hestia really does not get the credit she so greatly deserves...

I see the slow trickle, a hellish descent, and all I can do is weep in my forced sequestration...I guess this talk was bound to happen, and sadly while the voice began in concern, its amplification rang a bit vitriolic in my ears... I guess this is a bad time to stop being the eternal advocate. so you were questioned, and you laid bare what was never hidden, and made light shine on things held only away from those who would not ask... you were already steadily losing faith in the institution to which you played the anchor, the last standing pillar in a glorious temple worn down by so many things, a restoration proving merely an excavation; in your eyes slowly growing dim and immune to hope's feeble illumination... "They've moved on, found other friends...I'm alone" you are not alone, but It always happens that the skeptic and the untrusting find it hard to invest further where no easy trail lie...We shared a lot, and bonded intensely, so it is no wonder that after resuscitation the things that caused its premature cardiac arrest, untended, should reclaim death's victim, a sacrifice for a sacrifice is needed to complete any circle...you were not put on the pyre, no matter how it may feel so, because what was done to you is what needs doing for all, and after this laying bare do we then decide to move forward together...or dissemble and in factions part ways... I will venture to say this, you were more centred in the resurrection than any would give credit for...you've sacrificed- stubbornly?yes unwisely? maybe- and now we draw ragged breaths because the whole body does not believe it lives truly...the heart can do nothing more than ferry blood, the brain must re-alert itself to its state as living, blood must re-absorb oxygen and nourishment and disseminate it to the other parts of the body, to renew them from a spell of deep grey otherworldliness...the process of resurrection so easily sours and makes a zombie out of a body that should either be a person or a corpse...but we have all lived too much in the "zombified" un-reality...lulled ourselves into strained embittered silence... when truly those save the heart who remained seemingly fully invested were in fact failing to launch from safe port from fear of stormy seas...I am not one to find a reason to question men's motives with a light as would give the unknown a negative light, in fact I eternally believe in the goodness of all people (much to the chagrin of several persons)...but it seems time for me to grow up, to open my eyes yet again to the world...and rip open wounds that have festered to the light of day... and try healing them the right way. I am misconstrued, misinterpreted as I myself misinterpret and I have unwittingly misled...but in their cessation may I begin to make penance... and you...you who sit and read with the lenses of many and the vision of none, who should peruse this letter written and shared with you... for YOU...you who have been loved and loved fiercely, you have been coddled and you have been given so much, such trust, affection, opportunity, and yet in respite for those things you repay with...your meagre and reluctant offering...Mene Tekel... but as yet...[Upharsin]?

Your Ramatoulaye,
gender time and country made irrelevant by our circumstance

I guess i'm feeling... feeling.....

Defeated: the sensation of being demoralised.....
This sensation of it all...it all being truly and utterly nihilistic...of being totally hopeless...yea...it Needs to STOP
  -__-
like now...

Sincerely,
Someone with better things to do than be crumpled under this depressing weight...

A Disconcerting encounter....

           While walking from my monthly obeisance of paying the bills ( a responsibility that my aunt pawns off to me when she doesn't feel up to being on the road -which is invariably all the time -__-), I spotted (well, was spotted by really...no, lie! I was accosted seems more fitting) Kevin, my childhood barber while walking by one of the more popular local restaurants in Half Way Tree. He had on a very...well downright bizarre expression as he  greeted and spoke to me in a rushed tone that was nothing like his usual self.
         "Yow how yuh do boss?" He ignores the concept of personal space as he walks right.up.into.my.face.
          "Mi good, long time no see, Aunty Donna didn't tell me you moved shops." Which was true, I hadn't seen Kevin for nigh three years.
          "Yea man, deh a Arcade now, did a lie low fi a likkle, all spen' some time inna jail still." This I could've observed. men who are incarcerated for any spell have a somewhat "tainted air" to them (in my experience). and he exuded it in his disconcerting stare and toothy smile - or what would've been toothy, had his teeth not been a yellowing deteriorating mass that I've come to associate with protracted drug use...My heart broke at the memory of his common law wife and son. "Eh," he hands me a card, "Keep di link. Aright? Lata boss." and like that he is gone, walking just as briskly away...and I notice...His gait has changed- which is expected, men who go to prison a rarely maintain a confident stride; his hair is less sleek-groomed, yes, but not "neat"...his clothes hang on him as if he has lost a large amount of weight, which I surmise he has... our exchange lasted in all roughly one minute, yet it shakes me still hours after seeing him...its on these days that I can see credence to the expression:

"...Life is hard...and then you die..."

Some post Christmas Season Nostalgia...

So The alumni of Ardenne Music Club (my alma mater) decided to, in a fit of our usual routine, to sing an old carol from the "good old days" (yes...its 90% of the time a christmas carol that we sing...there was always something about singing carols at Ardenne) Behold our Quintet rendition of "O Come O Come Emanuel" (and because I was Idle, A fanfare that popped outta my head while I was amassing the Pics to make the video.

(^_^') Hope you enjoy, and as usual, Feedback Welcome!

Ah, to be nude...a mid morning tangent

You're lazing in bed, reading a novel and sipping your favourite "lazy day" drink, and music permeates the air of your cosy room. A beautiful moment is truly made in this tableau, right? Suddenly a knock or a beckon made to permit entry is made, and you scramble in the opposite direction, a quick dash to the closet for a robe or some clothing to hide your state of nudity; all the while cursing the intruder upon your bliss. the eventual moment comes where they've been admitted, only for you to discover you got dressed for some banal and irritating situation in which you often cannot even be of use to them... I would hope this scenario doesn't only plague me in its occurrence...

I enjoy the freedom of nudity, in my private moments I tend to strip right down and relish the feel of being clothed in air, caressed by the veiled rays of the sun or beams of the moon through my curtains. I like this wondrous alone time when I remove all the roles each piece of garment thrusts upon my psyche (yes, I believe clothes have "energies" and this energy makes us don a certain trait when we wear certain items of clothing), and I am just me, the reserved shy quiet guy, reading in his own little corner of the world.

at odds with my love of being unfettered is my enormous level of self-consciousness- I am not at all an exhibitionist, and I studiously avoid all mirrors when in my state of undress...this is not to say my body is the worst there is (in fact I think of myself as having an average body type), but I just don't often look at myself naked; I don't think I even went through the period of fascination with self that most guys my age seem to pass through *pauses while I blush scarlet having realised I said all this*... yea, I just don't find nakedness that much of an issue (here I laugh riotously wondering what puns would have come if I had used "no big deal" instead lol)...in a way I guess this outlook also extends to sexual existence. often I will see someone walking by in almost nothing, looking the total Spartan or the ideal Amazonian and I am not in any way moved by their display, as a friend of mine would say "...[not] even a twitch from my brainless head" conversely, I could be making the acquaintance of a plain, decently clothed well spoken individual and I am "at-tent-ive" (see what I just did there?) for the duration of our discourse and enthralled for some time after: it is in those times I wonder if it is that the "Sexualisation" (rae, i'm coining big words) of the society has turned me off from blatant sexuality so completely as to inspire my utter apathy ....but I could just be weird that way...wired differently...who knows?

To Ayala...

Ayala,

I have dreaded writing these lines, though they were an inevitability I knew I had to face, despite my terror that in doing so I make it finality; I show acceptance of your transcendence from material to ethereal. It has been a very interesting Journey, and one of the most long lasting and stable links I’ve held to anyone: days spent in idle rants about the awesome yet often despicable nature of people, paralleling persons in our lives to characters from favourite tomes; bemoaning the damage or loss of a treasured book due to lending, though unable to refuse anyone who showed an interest- I remember vividly the soliloquy you rendered on how your favourite Lewis Carroll book was a little over two years overdue but you would never ask the person, who you saw daily, to return it. After some pushing you went to enquire after it, only to find that it was assumed that the book was gifted. The look you had as we walked off was priceless; we headed to the classrooms adjacent to the Drama room and there was nothing for it, we simply joked about it and laughed. Looking back, I believed we had a way to laugh about anything, from the (there is no better way to put it) retarded hand flailing and ululating used to refer to things that excited, disgusted or intrigued us, to having a song for every word that ended a sentence - it was in these instances Hanief was co-conspirator and, naturally Karim ever present if even for a second to make an utterly mind boggling though no less hilarious reference to liking eggs. There was a particular conversation that moved from eggs to bread to buttermilk and dragons (A. Lang’s Violet Fairy-book, a new addition at the time to my collection) then to cheese and the dangers of moving someone’s cheese, and after, mapping the conversation that could only be considered seamless madness.

Wondrous times there have been, but life is, in its duality sure to swing down. It is these moments, though few, which left me with very profound respect and instinct to protect one so much younger yet so clearly equal- and in many ways above me mentally and spiritually. One instance while in a floating period between classes I was told by friends in your form who had sought me out that you weren’t okay. I ran up to your classroom; saw you sitting by a wall, a small group of your classmates hovering worriedly. You were mumbling with your head down for a while, and I waited…after a minute of silence I started singing “Don’t Worry Be Happy” the song that was usually a surefire way to make you smile, especially when it got to the bridge, because I couldn’t whistle so I sang the part In whistle like fashion- not a beautiful sound- I went on until you joined in at “he might have to litigate” – I swear I don’t even know why those lyrics after that day made me feel like giggling…we sat for a while and you asked one question repeatedly. I assumed you wanted no answer initially, but then I ventured to respond:

“Why?”

“Because he is, you are, and it is, completely human.”

“That doesn’t make it right. Why? He saw me… and now…what?”

“Now, you get through right now, he did what was possible though unexpected, you do what you need to do to feel ok again.” you raised your hands, little trembling fists attached to wispy thin yet graceful arms and pounded my chest, punctuating each blow with the alternated “why” and “it’s not fair” I was either now the vision of what was causing the pain, or the idiot who dared be rational at a time like this… I let you continue, your fistfalls[1], though steady, were not at all harmful. As your pace slowed, we talked, the flow becoming less and less abridged and abbreviated and full paragraphs detailed the scenario. After having spoken, the heavy stuff now in the air and before the awkward anxiety this should bring, a gesture and a funny sound had us both giggling and we walked off in search of food as we whiled away the time it took Hanief to find us. The next week in rehearsal you apologised, looking as if expecting to see scars and bruises. I shrugged it off, it was fine, and for the whole day you kept inspecting my hands and neck for signs of abuse thinking your methods discreet (though one can only glance at someone’s hand and neck casually so many times).

You were ill a number of times physically as well, and it is in those moments that I feared for you most. There was the big issue of your fleeting and often ignored appetite, and the quasi arguing about the importance of eating followed by the need after to go ensure another certain person was doing the same, unified in our projection of this shared fault on someone else. These moments usually petered out well, except in the rare case of a blackout, and then I’d be the manual ferry if Hanief hadn’t already been so, to a place of safety or rest until you were professionally seen to. Then there were those evenings you were beyond my scope of assistance. The pain of contact for you was unbearable; you would lie there in the lowest darkest part of the room you were in and shiver, wanting comfort and warmth but having to refuse coverings or blankets of any kind, as even the contact of just your uniform was torturous. I had no use, and that was terrifying, knowing I take pride in being ever handy- yet comforted very little that I could only sing to you, only heartened when you joined in, selfish that I wanted to hear you trying, feeling a little more reassured you would be okay, despite the knowledge sleep would probably serve you better as you waited on your mother or father to come take you home.

Amidst all these happenings there were myriad memories, so many paths my mind wanders, the speed of thought lightning to my tortoise fingers on the keyboard, and the recollections beyond possibility of full transcription; how can one describe the joy that one’s soul feels at the shout of “Cheese!” or the sight of a wildly waving arm advancing in your direction from the library? There are no words and likely no space to capture such things. If I were to give tangibility to the epistle which would encompass my interaction with you, I would speak to your heart…your heart, the makings of which far exceed being called mere “gold”. I would need to mention your undeniably infectious laughter, your quiet wisdom housed simultaneously with your beautiful innocence, and the “Matilda-like” way of interacting (Roald Dahl, *heavy sigh*).

I could speak to your immensely beautiful creativity, to your wonderful, picturesque, flowing haunting poetic gift; your ability to artistically manoeuvre objects in a space, whether of words or of physical things; your silvery light soprano and the long journey it took to “draw it out” of you while u lazed in the alto line of Music Club, the earnest with which you approached the Keyboard as your assigned instrument in the club. I could write on your transition to the Jamaica Youth Chorale, where your Bow-ties were something of a favourite of your fellow choristers as you navigated the ranks and carved your spot within the hearts of the members, assimilating into the family. I seek to remember you at this point, close to the actualisation of a serious step in your academic life, sharing your art and gifts with the world, being awarded for- and more importantly accepting graciously that applause- your brilliance and hard work; a life coming together as it should, as all should aspire to live and be. So while I admit to your passing, permit me, dear friend, to have you in mental stasis, at the wondrous place you were, on the brink of exactly where you wanted to be…it is painful that God had other plans.

“That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.” - Emily Dickinson

To a life well lived, by a girl well loved, at a place and time she was well needed.

Love,

Carl-Anthony

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[1] Coined by Rene Depestre- pounding with closed fists