Friday, January 16, 2015

before it deader than dead...

so new machine finally en route, but yesterday the current dying dinosaur do someting that make me feel it might dead completely before new ting reach, so as nobody seem to be fffing but me right now, lemme right-quick clear the few open tabs before this ting crash+burn for good and take the unarchived with it...
straight up useful and deserving of easy-access; how to write a scene (john august).
a good read, by a good friend [big-up ayo!] about design, and design in a place like sweet t+t...
another good read, that i want to say nothing about but the title: the curious case of lupe fiasco.
an[other read] unexpected but sweet follow to recent minshall linkage, this one for posterity and love of knowing we cultural history, lord of the dance...
as we gone visual, i enjoy that sexy comes bigger than size12...
and to end with a complete shift, not from visual but from sexy; i just love her expression and what "she built" and this piece of lego marketing (totally worth biggening the image)...
walk good.

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Thursday, January 08, 2015

clearance[+expedience]

dread, so many feffing tabs! after a year of feeling like i was maybe archiving too much in relation to writing too little here, las' few weeks is all fiction-posts and tabs just piling up, killing this dying machine dead. tings over a month old still open, other tabs saved randomly so i bounce them up in places i least expect and feel ahow for still not having posted...so no further ado and in no particular order:
this sharon millar story making guava jelly is chest-achingly beautiful.
this dude's intricate moleskine-sized art worth a look.
and as we on visuals, these deliciously curvy women delight my eyes enough that i need to be able to find the photos again.
titles say everything about why you should read how to raise hell in 3steps: on run-d.m.c., parliament, blackness and revolution and the best rapper alive, every year since 1979 (although, honestly, the joy of the latter not in the list of title-holders, but the discussion of why, inclusion+discussion of honourable mentions, and the remembering+replaying of tracks from back-when you forget you love).
something somewhat sobering, and not just for the american middle-class; upper-class businessman on why the middle-class can't get ahead; i eh no economist and eh know anything about the author but as a reasonably intelligent person with a solid understanding of reality, this make sense, not just in u.s.a. but all over, and it's fucking terrible.
lightening the mood, this one actually not for me, but because i'm too often surprised by how many people doh seem to know shit like this that i take for granted, take in 10 things i wish someone had told me about sex.
and even better than that, trinidad+tobago's top 10 funk+disco classics!
when you doh wanna give out your number, the bell hooks hotline...
very cool art history, masman minshall's "tall boys" are the ubiquitous inflatable dancing tube-men.
and before i switch to video, big-up marshawn lynch (that one you hadda search yourself, you'll have your pick of articles+footage, but how he not/dealing with the media making me love this dude i know nothing else about) and this awkward salesman with a bes' drum solo.
this one not about the video, but this music they making here is like the soundtracks of my dreams...

this is a gift from the gremlin who know my taste so well; ailey, robert battle's takademe

and a dream come true, bim, to watch all the time, anytime...

walk good.

1 Comments:

Anonymous Victoria said...

So much good stuff. I'll stop being slack on #fff. New year is kicking my ass.

12:37 pm  

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Sunday, January 04, 2015

fff#46

a shift from where my mind been lately; changing gears; raw sooncome...my flash fiction friday #46; [inclusions] trigger: maul, [maw/moor], more, mourn

rage endures. burns hard+bright but then can boil down and simmer silently until provoked to lash out, and when them blows come, is big men getting mauled. when you take+take, whatever it is that grinding you, that burning you, that making you bite down too hard too long, grows...anger blossoming at the corruption at every level, the apathetic and self-serving government officials, growing crime rates and decreasing detection+enforcement rates, sexism, racism, bigotry in every flavour, wilful ignorance, the needless, commonplace violence+brutality, mismanagement+waste of our natural+human resources, deterioration of our education system and our homes and our families as them we put on top show us with their selfish and unpatriotic actions time+time again: nothing here worth caring about...we not people worth saving...
sadness too...for the loss of a place with such potential; for squandering paradise...just because i doh mourn the same [way] as you doh make me immune to our losses; grief is something we each survive alone. people can help, bring distraction or brief comfort, but they cannot live inside you and brighten that dead place.
and the rage there in the sorrow too, too tired to show but bubbling under the surface still; unless the source is dealt with, anger festers+seethes; might stay quiet for a time but it still feeds, swallows more of you, takes over more of you until you find instead your head in the dragon's maw awaiting the deal with the devil to save you from your own wrath. until you find yourself out in the road, dress raised, panty expose to the universe, because to wine on them seem the only recourse left when they doh listen to we voices, to the gunfire, to our failing systems, to sense...
we feel abused+ignored. i feel abused+ignored, and out of options. i feel my moorings coming loose, my sense of myself in this place shaken, and that should never be. this place is myself. supposed to be myself...
maybe the problem is we doh know weself no more...

walk good.

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Friday, January 02, 2015

flash fiction friday #46

flash fiction friday #46 [inclusions]trigger: maul, [maw/moor], more, mourn
i offer a choice between words[2/3] because we want challenge, not difficult-enough-to-intimidate; if you feel up to including both, sweet, do. i admit i intend to try, which i may later regret having said out loud, but my big mouth always been my tragic flaw, ent...
rules of engagement:
you will send in your suggestions for flash fiction friday triggers (starter sentences/phrases, closers, titles, inclusions, structural challenges, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55a.m. friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.*
if your trigger is not chosen and you think it is too brilliant not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, song or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to my trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your piece (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).
you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.*
you will display your piece as a post on your own blog (or as a comment on my trigger-post or fasbook note or whaever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.*[in light of collective busyness and my general mentality, i not pressed about these deadlines 'cause i'd rather have fun reading late than never, so if you want to fff past deadline, go through hard, just make sure you comment on the appropriate trigger-post so we know which it belongs to, and if is a real old trigger, comment on the most recent post as well so we know something new to back-back+read...if nobody fffs i'll leave the same trigger up until at least 1person other than myself writes a piece]*
write fresh!
walk good.

1 Comments:

Blogger sweet trini said...

in+done+posted@ http://urbanfolktales.blogspot.com/2015/01/fff46.html
walk good.

11:29 pm  

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Tuesday, December 30, 2014

fff#45

late but clearly not never; my flash fiction friday #45 [inclusion trigger]: sea cockroach and the sand dollar band

...and then space/time snap back; vision clear...empress diablesse come back to myself here, now, as ever...still a woman in a place where woman gets no respect. black woman in a place where black women get no respect. a citizen of a place where citizens get no respect from self, fellow citizens, or those we choose to represent us, where daily abuse of the senses sending we more than mad...st.anns! where we going?
and this is why i exercise my power. because is my only means of control. and because we deserve it. i am the superhero we deserve. when i hunt, when i choose, i take the ones we can afford to lose. i take the ones who add nothing to the whole of us, we the people. i take the ones who just taking up space, sucking up oxygen wasted on their mediocre talents, to then hawk+spit in our genepool. i take them as necessity demands, as practice while i wait to find the one, wait for the right one to give me the child i need.
tonight is hunt night. moon full. is we time now.
in this time is a new "village dance", reinvention of tradition, we go a dancehall now. tonight sea cockroach and the sand dollar band playing on the grandstand and i there in my glory. these days the dances sweatier, music grimier, men slimier, all the easier for empress diablesse to stand out from the crowd, a different kinna woman...mysterious, sexy in my long, clinging skirt, not your usual type, but impossible to ignore. hips sway, beckoning your eyes to linger, lips call you wordlessly, soundlessly, you hear only your blood pounding in your ears to the rhythm of my heartbeat...this part i enjoy...
i pull, i coax, i finesse...without needing to speak i make myself felt from across a room, make my choice and take without you ever knowing it wasn't your idea, your conquest, your triumph. you think you get through, think you win, you think yourself king because you believe you possess a queen, never realising nobody can contain the empress...the lesson of the hoof is stoop to conquer.
tonight i hunt. for the darkness, to fill the black hole inside myself, i hunt.
sea cockroach and the sand dollar band mashing up the grandstand; i survey my prey. knowing how unsuspecting they all are, intoxicates...this part i like...i select carefully: sweet enough to please my eye, smart enough to please my mind for the little time i'll keep him, shittong enough to feel no guilt over...
i draw him close so he can find me irresistible. i play the mas impeccably; practice makes perfect and my mas must play perfect when the right one finally come. this one, tonight, not the one, but enough for right now, enough to keep the visions quiet, enough to let me sleep after.
he will offer to take me home. many many moons ago it woulda be on his bicycle, or even his back, slowly getting heavier, anticipating his inevitable dread, his building fear when the growing weight exhausting him and he realising he lost, in the dark, in the bush, with a strange woman he pick up in a dance, a "loose" woman? tonight he'll drive, windows down for the cool night air, finally we all stop sweating for the day. he won't have the warning sound of hoof dragging ever so slightly in the grass by the side of the road. times change, we [immortal] must change with them, try not to seem out of place. tonight this man drives [me] to his death.

walk good.

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Friday, December 26, 2014

flash fiction friday #45

flash fiction friday#45 [inclusion]trigger: [sea cockroach and the sand dollar band]

usually, an inclusion-trigger (as opposed to a specific starter, like fff#43's before the fall of the snake oil empire...) is a batch of seemingly unrelated words that must all be included in the piece (eg. fff#23+24; probably going so nex' week) but i put this one [inside] because the phrase isn't to be separated into its word-components for inclusion, but maintained+used as written.
big-up nickolai salcedo for the trigger; like allyuh-self!

rules of engagement:
you will send in your suggestions for flash fiction friday triggers (starter sentences/phrases, closers, titles, inclusions, structural challenges, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55a.m. friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.*
if your trigger is not chosen and you think it is too brilliant not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to my trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your piece (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).
you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.*
you will display your piece as a post on your own blog (or as a comment on my trigger-post or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.*[in light of collective busyness and my general mentality, i not pressed about these deadlines 'cause i'd rather have fun reading late than never, so if you want to fff past deadline, go through hard, just make sure you comment on the appropriate trigger-post so we know which it belongs to, and if is a real old trigger, comment on the most recent post as well so we know something new to back-back+read...if nobody fffs i'll leave the same trigger up until at least 1person other than myself writes a piece]*
write fresh!
walk good.

3 Comments:

Blogger sweet trini said...

just saying i still in, just eh done yet, but my fff#45 sooncome...walk good.

11:37 am  
Blogger Frostblaze868 said...

Trinidad, is not the kind of place where people go mad over celebrities, us trinis, we just too cool for that garbage. Say for example a well known soca singer were to pop up by the doubles man and shout "haaaaay HAAAAA!!!! " hardly anyone would pay notice... Except maybe to let him know: road march title or no, the back of the line is STILL that way.

So after recording label contracts that spawned 4 albums, a tour that spanned 5 continents, forays with models that only wore certain designer's clothes, a drug abuse stint that included only certain designer drugs and a car crash on the Nuremberg while driving the world's third fastest production car... when sea cockroach and the sand dollar band jump out that blue panel van with nothing but the clothes on they back, and a few empty Guinness bottles in hand, on the block that chiseled their talent for percussion out of their habit of beating on random objects, the only reaction to their appearance was one random old man who ask them if they had a spare cigarette.... Which they didn't.

They were ignored until they started gathering a random assortment of items: a tree stump, the drum from the rear brakes of a datsun 280 c, a discarded piece of bamboo, half a plastic barrel, a short piece of 3x3 angle iron and so on which they arranged in a loose circle. They looked around at each other as they produced various drumsticks from special pockets sewn into their levis, and with an unseen signal started simultaneously beating an intricate percussive pattern on the collected items.

With their backs to the crowd, all facing inward, focused only on their 'instruments' they payed no attention to the bacchanal that slowly evolved around them: women gyrating, the men in their close proximity who weren't gaping were buying drinks by the case, cold enough to be wearing jackets of frost, Johnny, white oak, puncheon, sweat and weed smoke mingled in the 7 pm air and nobody was interested in the news, only the RIDDIM.

They didn't even pay attention to the players

Five broken hearts with bodies attached. The beat they played was an ode to the pain they experienced on foreign shores and seas. A drumroll to the glory of musical fame, a bass kick to love lorded over and lost, a rushing twisting tribute to the autobahn, and a spiraling low beat into oblivion to the depths of drug addiction. It was quite the goodbye to the life of debauchery they had dragged each other through, kicking and screaming

No one noticed that all five of them were crying til the bottom of the half of the plastic barrel buss.

They threw the sticks in the closest drain, downed the closest offered beverage and went back from the block that bought them together, to the homes that raised them, to live out the rest of their lives as modest men. Because, as sea cockroach himself said:

"dis music ting go kill me wi, better I did had stay on de block and sell hard weed!"

11:35 pm  
Blogger sweet trini said...

yay for people fffing!
my fff#45@ http://urbanfolktales.blogspot.com/2014/12/fff45.html
walk good.

8:12 pm  

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Tuesday, December 23, 2014

fff#44

i real late with this one because in true fff-style i experiment plenty; i struggled to finish (would still call it a draft at this stage; not as sweet as las' week's fiction) because of my insistence i must marry ideas i know not technically for each other, but tha's the fun in fff, ent? i knew i was undertaking a kinna impossible challenge but once i had the idea to connect the unconnected i couldn' not try, especially when we have this perfect forum for exploration...sooo...this may not work at all; tell me what does/not so i know how the experiment went, nah...flash fiction friday #44 trigger [left open as title, as starter, or for inclusion, by ellipses before+after phrase]: ...when the sky broke...

when the sky broke and judgement call and the flooding start in central and the pitch lake overflow, the midnight robber and the great bat, freshly installed in the mas camp, were otherwise occupied and miss the warning that they done losing ground, literally and figuratively...
since the grande dame lorraine get run the bat busy studying the treasury and the robber on heself as usual, now trying to figure out how to maintain he dreader-than-dread now he suddenly come man-friday; didn' expect when he day dawn it would be under bat wing and not he own broad black brim, but he was there studying empress diablesse showing face (and hoof! in broad daylight!) when the bat come whispering in dark night about tides turning on her-greatness the grande dame and advantage to be taken. robber always for capitalising on somebody downfall so he fall in, but since they take up residence in the mas camp the bat busy counting coppers, and he realise it too easy ramfling people when you's the regime; without the challenge of constantly terrifying, the robber find heself bored. and boredom is a gateway to contemplation, dangerous with these dark minds...is not like he was a stranger to the idea of introspection, but moreso retrospection, stopping short of actual analysis; midnight robber tradition is extreme self-proclamation+aggrandisation, a rapper flaunting his cred, focused on his terrible achievements, from tearing his way out his mother's body to birth he own self to becoming a mastermind of death+destruction+corruption and all the atrocities proudly committed along the way inspiring fear+horror...but boredom have him thinking deep.
tings that never give pause before heavy on his mind now. outside is anarchy as people losing land+homes to rising waters in some parts and rivers of pitch bubbling to the surface snaking silently, suffocatingly through others, and marauding masquerade bands taking advantage of the vacuum as the bat still counting and the robber paralysed by his mind turning inside. outside people fighting, fleeing weeping skies and pitch flowing faster than thought possible, undiluted by the nonstop torrents from above, and the robber lock inside, trapped by echoes he used to just ignore. talk 'bout his evil acts, pong his foul, stink attitude, question his intelligence, but he done prove heself there and nobody could tell him he eh great+terrible as he is; and is he running this mas camp?! but they did whisper in corners that behind that front is a gateway rasta, a non-threatening ease-into the dark thrills of jouvay and night mas no real woman need entertain, an acceptable rebellion for straight-haired wannabes supposedly seeking danger but really just playing theyself, and that- that!- he manhood cyah take. for the first time he acknowledging his trajectory, gateway rasta fuelled by the rage of his robber-self slowly, slyly using that position to rise, advancing through them ranks of protected women and abusing their docility to grow his reputation for being a hard, rough tess; by the time he first encounter the bat, gateway rasta had become beti-slayer, and now he hadda wonder if everything else he ever do is just to counteract that.
outside the mas camp, chaos. sky+earth split open and no way to dam either deluge with the grande dame lorraine long gone, bat m.i.a., robber in existential crisis and no nex' big bandleader in sight; anybody who could just abandoning the island. empress diablesse watching+waiting, quiet in the forest where she know she safe until flooding subside and she could see all who might pose a threat and decide how to dispose of them before she show face again. all she waiting on is dry enough ground to plant she hoof because she done decide if she eternity is this place she might as well make it she own; she tired hiding hoof and hunting under cover of dark; why it doh have man throwing theyself at she foot, begging for a chance with woman so powerfully connected as she very name imply? and if the men and them too weak, why la diablesse hiding? best she come out and show sheself and just take her pick of them until she make the child she want and have no need of them again.
when the sky finally clear and the pitch harden and people start venturing out to survey the damage and see what could salvage, empress diablesse use her camouflage skills like never before; insteada making she corpse-face young+beautiful to fool man, she make the mas camp an illusion of pitch-preserved decrepitude. she secret sheself by the gate to maco everybody who show too much interest, marking who looking in the yard trying to make out what happen with the great bat and midnight robber. them she would deal with first...

walk good.

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Friday, December 19, 2014

flash fiction friday #44

flash fiction friday #44 trigger: ...when the sky broke...

rules of engagement:
you will send in your suggestions for flash fiction friday triggers (starter sentences/phrases, closers, titles, inclusions, structural challenges, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55a.m. friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.*
if your trigger is not chosen and you think it is too brilliant not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to my trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your piece (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).
you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.*
you will display your piece as a post on your own blog (or as a comment on my trigger-post or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.*[in light of collective busyness and my general mentality, i not pressed about these deadlines 'cause i'd rather have fun reading late than never, so if you want to fff past deadline, go through hard, just make sure you comment on the appropriate trigger-post so we know which it belongs to, and if is a real old trigger, comment on the most recent post as well so we know something new to back-back+read...if nobody fffs i'll leave the same trigger up until at least 1person other than myself writes a piece]*
write fresh!
walk good.

8 Comments:

Blogger sweet trini said...

almost forget to declare intention: i'm in! walk good.

10:28 am  
Blogger sweet trini said...

i know i officially late, but in case anybody waiting for ting to read, i saying i almost done and still intend to post it...walk good.

12:35 pm  
Anonymous keifel said...

Done and posted

2:54 pm  
Anonymous Victoria said...

Done, if late, and posted: arsculinaria.net/?p=450

12:46 am  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

1.

When the sky broke, when it finally cracked open and we could see the infinity beyond the blue, the infinity in the blue, we were in tears. We were in the final launch and she and I had shaken and rattled till we broke the hemisphere. She looked at me. I wondered at her. I mirrored her look of newness and horror. I'd never been touched like that before. My soul had moved around and grasped hers with tangible spirit caresses. I'd heard of soul mating before, but I'd never guessed it was real. Here in outer space away from all others, we’d admitted to each other that it was something we always wanted to try. Our friendship had exploded. The ground beneath us had been incinerated by our ascent. I moved to touch her but she flinched away. "You've ruined me forever." she said. She was right. This was the high we’d been searching for all our lives. There was nothing beyond this. Anything past this, I was sure, had to be the ecstasy of death. I’d waded through a thousand thighs, and could wade through a thousand more, but I would never regain this moment. We were afraid to touch each other. The electric currents flew across the ship and jolted us. I understood her perfectly. My fear rose to meet my desire, my wonder, and strangle them both before they could turn us to deities. Here was the mystical. Here was the answer. Here was everything. This must have been what the first man and woman found, the first time. We could populate new worlds.

"People will come from all over the planets to see us." She was not speculating. She was stating the reality. Her hair was a nest that she touched and rearranged as she spoke. I believed her. I knew the truth of her words as completely as if she'd told me the earth would keep turning. I would never get over her. Her love, her lust, her smell and her laughter were now mine. Her moans would echo through me for eternity. Whatever was mine was hers. She was me. She had ruined me forever. I turned to the controls and nudged the spaceship nearer to the Mars substation. I knew her thoughts and sensed her movements before she made them. Even now, I could feel her steeling herself to make as quick and as clean a severance from me as possible. She would not leave me, she never could, but she would live her life without me. If she had to she would take a creature from the red dust of Mars. She would fashion him in her own image and likeness and breathe into his nostrils. She would make love to the clay figurine. She would make him walk and talk. She would animate him and have him follow her around and hold her baby stroller and her groceries. He would be a zombie and a slave. His be all and end all would be to lay impotent between her legs every night after she’d murdered him. She would resurrect him in the morning and he would shave and salute the day and go out to his job and bring her home money. She would do this without a second thought as to what I was thinking. She would do it easily enough, because he would good man. He would never be me, but she would live on because she was just like me. She was a deity. She was a goddess and goddesses do as they please.

12:04 pm  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

After we clamped on to the substation we were transported down to the red dirt of Mars by a circular machine we'd nicknamed the escalator. We descended in silence. We heard the crunch below us and the hatch opened. Already I could see the Nevarrians coming near, their long silent strides were intimidating to the uninitiated but we knew them well. I turned to her and said, "I will stay. I can stay. I have to stay. Just let me know what you did. How did you do that?" She sighed, "You already know I don't know. I had that once before with someone, but never so powerful." I had to know what she'd done. Was she a spell caster? An alien? Had the trip deprived me of one of my senses, or heightened them all and made me open to suggestion? What was the explanation? I was lying to myself, chasing down what I already knew to be falsehoods. The answer was as simple as stated. We were soulmates. I turned to her. "I need to know for sure, give me time. Let me have you a few more times so I can figure this out." "No,” she answered. “No more love making. I know what I want. We are here. We are now. There's nowhere else to go except for on together, or on apart."

I left her behind on the Nevarrrian region near the underground lake a few miles from the Martian equator. She had just looked at me. We dared not touch each other and we did not speak. I waved and she waved back. I stepped on the ship and navigated it back to the substation. She was already moving about her business and chatting up other crew members as I began my ascent up the escalator. She was brutal. She would move on as easily and with as much difficulty as I. I re-launched two days later and I did not tell her goodbye. She made no effort to contact me. She never did. I returned to earth and enjoyed a beautiful relationship with my girlfriend, who became the mother of my three children. I satisfied myself with living on Earth. I thought of her sometimes, when the sky blushed purple and the sun bled red. I thought of us in the heavens, about who we had become then and who we could have become. I taught my children to never fear greatness. I taught them to never fear the unknown. I hoped they would be braver than I. I never flew again.

12:04 pm  
Blogger sweet trini said...

late-but-done+posted@ http://urbanfolktales.blogspot.com/2014/12/fff44.html
majorly experimental, but now i get to read plenty ting! yay!
walk good.

12:18 pm  
Blogger Nickolai Salcedo said...

Ten minutes.

No one on the cliff had made a sound for ten full minutes save for the zuldan who struggled to maintain his composure after having been starved and exposed to the elements. He could not tell which he was shivering from more; cold, fear, hunger or exhaustion. The slaves had been beating and hacking at the wrists of the god Kun’s statue feverishly working to free its pike from its grasp. Overhead the clouds blackened. “Fitting…” thought Oskha, “… even the sky heralds the fall of Goyan.”

He had begun the evening enjoying his tour of the pleasure quarters in the citadel of Hel Tugush. The Bahuyani and Mahicani women were his favourites. Now those same women stood facing him with the machetes of the imperial guards held tightly in their hands. A few could not help but smile at the sight of the great zuldan Oskha Pathunyh ‘El Haulh Al Orubh’ reduced to a mere whimpering animal as he held on for his life. Oskha winced at the sound of each blow at the statue as he could hear the slaves getting through with their task. Eventually when the spear hit the ground with a loud clang, Oskha nearly jumped out of his skin as he could hear the slave Kaminho taunting from behind the throng,

“Zuldan Oskha Pathunyh. El haulh al orubh. Runt of the Rakmuni litter.”

The zuldan lowered his eyes to the ground. The silence was unbearable as he shuddered at the thought of his fate. The crack and boom of thunder was all he had to break the silence as a storm approached. He glanced over at the pile of dead bodies; his family. His principal wife, Adhalusya’s naked body stuck out from underneath the pile. Her skin had a ghastly hue and was punctuated by deep slashes caused by severe flogging.

“…..OSKHA!”

At the sound of his name, Oskha jolted around to face Kaminho who stood brandishing the spear of Kun. He stared at the blade at the top of the spear and remembered taking part in many Kun worshipping ceremonies as a child while his father conducted prayers. He thought of the many goats he had slaughtered in the name of receiving Kun’s blessings for victory in wars that his father waged against Goyan’s enemies. A burst of thunder and a blinding flash of lightning brought him back to the present moment and tears came to his eyes.

“Are you crying?”

Kaminho stared at the wretched sight of the zuldan and calmly motioned for him to stand. Oskha struggled to rise to his feet and in the moment of standing, sobriety returned. He felt the first drop of rain on his scalp and looked up to the sky. The huge blackened clouds above seemed laden and pregnant. He returned his gaze to the slave Kaminho in front of him. Oskha stared into the man’s eyes and cracked a smile as he said, “Remember me when the ships of Goyan reach your shores and you are overrun with the host of my soldiers. Remember me when they stick you and gut you like the filthy pig slave that you are.”

Kaminho stepped back, the image of the whimpering dog was gone, replaced now by a defiant wolf.

“So…” Kaminho thought, “….the dog has regained his fangs. Here then dog, see of what use your bite is against this.” As the sky broke and the torrential downpour began, Kaminho raised the lance high into the air and brought it down with such force that it cleaved Oskha’s body down through his left shoulder and all the way to his chest. The zuldan’s lifeless body was immediately set upon by the surrounding host who now spat and stabbed at his carcass.

Thus fell the old filayat of Goyan.
It would be another two hundred years before the restoration of the Rakmuni dynasty during which time the filayat buckled under the strain of completely inept leadership.

3:35 am  

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Tuesday, December 16, 2014

for the record:

december2014.
ma replace the bartels' microwave, the 1st+only (until now) ever to grace this house, going strong about 30some years (yes, going, me eh know why the arse she interfere with[replace] the damn ting!) and for some reason it bothering me way more than the stove she replace without a word a 2weeks prior (wasn' actually bothered about the stove, just the complete lack of notice about a clearly planned major event). felt a need to record what feels like momentous change to me...in the less-than-a-year since fred, also gone is furniture (from beds to seating+table), stove, microwave, cutlery, other minor kitchen appliances, tv, shelves, dishes and cookware that populated the house of my childhood...
in the positive column, i did discover that we, the remaining trinidad bartels, are the proud owners of a slap-chop.
walk good.

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Monday, December 15, 2014

fff#43; before the fall of the snake oil empire...

my flash fiction friday #43, triggered with italics[below] and inspired by recent events...i having conversations with different friends lately about how i doh know what i look like, have no concept of the bumsee people tell me sweet, have no idea what it is about my winery that make anybody care to watch when it have champion bubblers and professional winer-gyuls out there with proper antics and i just dancing because it feel good...until today; today a friend show me footage she take when i get call onstage when the canals perform my song friday night. it felt like my 1st time really seeing myself, was definitely the 1st time i feel like i see what other people see when they watch me, and all i can say is, i honestly had no idea...the amazement and slight disbelief i still feeling about that, plus the vibes the canals and the blackyard hitting me right now with raw(jouvay/carnival2015 sooncome!) plus [italicised]trigger that hit a sweet-spot with me:

before the fall of the snake oil empire we was in a collective ecstasy. for a full generation before the collapse, men throughout the country reaching the point of spontaneous erection followed by full-body paroxysms at the mere mention of her-greatness, women orgasming uncontrollably if they only think of her-greatness a nani-hair too reverently. eyes rolling back in heads, bodies danced themselves to exhaustion in the streets, shoes+clothing rend leaving the fervently faithful nationalists exposed to alarmingly rising numbers of severe sunburn and heatstroke deaths in the late 2280s. nobody coulda predict the sudden downfall of her-greatness...well, almost nobody; the only one who did get sacrificed to the island for treason, for traitorous behaviour against the holy state republic of snake oil, established year-2120, one-with-her-greatness, the grande dame lorraine.
when empress diablesse first open she mouth in public, when she first say the words, utter the idea that bring down the kingdom, they take she for [a] mad[woman]. everybody hear and refuse to see and just keep it moving because to hear the unspeakable is to think the unthinkable, and nobody was ready to leggo the grande delusion of dame lorraine and everything she represent for the now, well, [the] then, the now, then...
when empress diablesse stand up quiet quiet in the square on murray street then suddenly dash 'way the bottle of snake oil in the dirt by she foot, nobody expect the revelation that follow. nobody expect to see hoof on display jus' so in broad daylight, nobody really even believed in them ting again...la diablesse who? this was the age of the ageless, infinitely-bosomed, eternally aroused, gros lolo, promising forever to this tropical island paradise running a booming economy entirely on hedonist-nationalism, from basic orgasm-based services to specialised aids+assistance to extreme clean-up, related travel and health-care and hospitality industries; full-service hedonism fully supporting a nation of believers in the promise of eternal life for their earthly morality. the grande dame lorraine make everybody happy making everybody happy by dragging what was taboo from jouvay into daylight, stealthily infiltrating the pretty mas of the upper class with the dark inversion of jamette humour to grease the easy slip+slide down the twisted road to the holy state republic of snake oil, established year-2120. the oil was the one export of our service-nation, and we use it to grease everything from palms to waistlines, and poles to politics...until empress diablesse show sheself, lift skirt hem to reveal proof that the grande dame was not the only deity left we, not the only leader-saviour, nor the only way. she say stop imbibing the oil and claim we true power, use what we do on we backs+bellies not as the means+end but as a way to own the world...
the grande dame lorraine denounce such gallerying immediately: obviously empress diablesse distracting from her ulterior motive; she who tied to this island by the dead weight of she cowfoot and insatiable desire for not just the child she need he seed to make, but to thief everyman very mind+soul, to consume his contents to feed her hunger and fill her empty insides, she need to expand her hunting ground because if she take all she want from here the economy go fail for lack of diversity of service providers, remember time long like twine and her thirst immortal...
the sacrifice of the empress diablesse soon follow and it was the beginning of the end of the empire, though not of la diablesse, ever...local hedonist-nationalists couldn' square with the desecration of a deity, even an old one they had forget until the day she make a stand in the original redlight district. they start to turn against the system.
her-greatness gradually come to inspire fits of violence rather than the previous passions. people come to resent servicing heathens to feed their families and turn from a faith that demand such indignity. paroxysms of violence escalate until la grande dame get ambush+planass by a sexually-frustrated mob who run she from town and clear the way for the great bat to dance in in the middle of the night and take over the mas camp, install he pardner midnight robber as security h.n.i.c., and usher in the new age of iniquity-inequity.

walk good.

2 Comments:

Blogger Nickolai Salcedo said...

So I know that I'm super late... but nevertheless here's my fff attempt.

Before the fall of the Snake Oil Empire Nu Stambul, Lu was fashioned as a sceptre for its ruling family, the Hauskuh. They were Taikh mosihms from lands far to the east who had come to the continent of Hamrikh during the great war of Makhdon. Crafted by skilled ivory workers of Nijenh, Lu was a symbol of mosihm rule in Hamrikh and was passed on through the successive generations of rulers known as zuldans.

The rule of the Hauskuh dynasty would eventually come to an end at the hands of the mosihm usurper Gyog Rakmun. Tracing his lineage back to pioneering jhadhi from Duyshun and Intiyh, Gyog benefitted from his family’s long military history. After landing in the Ha’ Amzon and infiltrating their way into the heart of northern Hamrikh, the Rakmuni set down ties and roots in Nu Stambul. By the time of Gyog’s deposition of the last Hausker zuldan, the Rakmuni had already spread themselves to all service fields of Nu Stambul and adjacent areas just outside its borders in neighbouring states. With his familial ties ensuring his success and protection, and with the sceptre of mosihm rule firmly in hand he then crowned himself Der Groza Zuldan Gyog Rakmun el Awul. With Lu in hand, Gyog began to bully all the surrounding nations of northern Hamrikh, effectively carving out an empire for himself in the process which he then named the Filayat (State) of Goyan.

Five generations after Gyog’s death, his descendent Oskha Thannyh lost his life to rebel slaves on the Goyani pleasure island of Jhinbek. The slaves had received news of a coup de tat that replaced the Rakmuni dynasty with a family of lesser nobles. The new zuldans were smart enough to take full advantage of social unrest that had spread to Goyan from its south-eastern neighbour, Inkahpedu.

Nickolai Salcedo
-=-

11:26 am  
Blogger sweet trini said...

yay!@salcedo https://plus.google.com/100820806424083435150/posts (i doh know how to tag you here because i doh actually use my google+ so i may have to give you notes in person or tell you to check here, and you teach me how to tag for future; you hosting your txt @google+ or wha? oh, and you should technically paste your fff as a comment on the trigger post, not the one of my story, so everybody checking the trigger finds it):
if you intending to use this in future, edit "coup d'etat" (should also have acute accent over the "e", i believe) plus i doh think you need to say "(state)" when you name the filayat of goyan; otherwise, now i just wanna read the rest...aaalll the rest...mwahahahahahhahahaaa...walk good. biglove.

1:40 pm  

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Friday, December 12, 2014

flash fiction friday #43

back by popular demand! or at least, some people i like ask, and i feeling to write, too, so we on like a socks, and off like molly's drawers; wash yuh foot and jump eeen...
keeping it simple for this 1st foray for at least some of us, i going with original-style triggering, a starter insteada inclusion or structural challenge; flash fiction friday #43 trigger:
before the fall of the snake oil empire...

rules of engagement [this week i acknowledge late-posting by nearly an hour, so feel free to recoup that time re:deadline; i eh go vex]:
you will send in your suggestions for flash fiction friday triggers (starter sentences/phrases, closers, titles, inclusions, structural challenges, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55a.m. friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.*
if your trigger is not chosen and you think it is too brilliant not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to my trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your piece (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).
you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.*
you will display your piece as a post on your own blog (or as a comment on my trigger-post or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.*[in light of collective busyness and my general mentality, i not pressed about these deadlines 'cause i'd rather have fun reading late than never, so if you want to fff past deadline, go through hard, just make sure you comment on the appropriate trigger-post so we know which it belongs to, and if is a real old trigger, comment on the most recent post as well so we know something new to back-back+read...if nobody fffs i'll leave the same trigger up until at least 1person other than myself writes a piece]*
write fresh!
walk good.

5 Comments:

Blogger Christine Cormier said...

I'm down. Methinks I need some creative writing time.

1:05 pm  
Blogger keifel said...

This comment has been removed by the author.

12:31 am  
Blogger keifel said...

Posted

12:41 am  
Blogger sweet trini said...

in+done. read@ http://urbanfolktales.blogspot.com/2014/12/fff43-before-fall-of-snake-oil-empire.html
walk good.

5:11 am  
Blogger Nickolai Salcedo said...

Before the fall of the Snake Oil Empire Nu Stambul, Lu was fashioned as a sceptre for its ruling family, the Hauskuh. They were Taikh mosihms from lands far to the east who had come to the continent of Hamrikh during the great war of Makhdon. Crafted by skilled ivory workers of Nijenh, Lu was a symbol of mosihm rule in Hamrikh and was passed on through the successive generations of rulers known as zuldans.

The rule of the Hauskuh dynasty would eventually come to an end at the hands of the mosihm usurper Gyog Rakmun. Tracing his lineage back to pioneering jhadhi from Duyshun and Intiyh, Gyog benefitted from his family’s long military history. After landing in the Ha’ Amzon and infiltrating their way into the heart of northern Hamrikh, the Rakmuni set down ties and roots in Nu Stambul. By the time of Gyog’s deposition of the last Hausker zuldan, the Rakmuni had already spread themselves to all service fields of Nu Stambul and adjacent areas just outside its borders in neighbouring states. With his familial ties ensuring his success and protection, and with the sceptre of mosihm rule firmly in hand he then crowned himself Der Groza Zuldan Gyog Rakmun el Awul. With Lu in hand, Gyog began to bully all the surrounding nations of northern Hamrikh, effectively carving out an empire for himself in the process which he then named the Filayat (State) of Goyan.

Five generations after Gyog’s death, his descendent Oskha Thannyh lost his life to rebel slaves on the Goyani pleasure island of Jhinbek. The slaves had received news of a coup de tat that replaced the Rakmuni dynasty with a family of lesser nobles. The new zuldans were smart enough to take full advantage of social unrest that had spread to Goyan from its south-eastern neighbour, Inkahpedu.

10:53 pm  

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Friday, December 05, 2014

medea [hashtag useit]

a propos that insteada preparing for the single rehearsal i get before playing medea for an audience, i get to spend today going through my dead father's business papers so we can pay off his debt?
walk good.

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Tuesday, December 02, 2014

now taking requests...

i saying in front, this post may feel erratic. but i figure few enough people reading and if i content to write it, well, is my blog, ent?
so, someting fun las' week, i in the car, alone, en route to rehearsal (the museum of difficult women performance was vibes) and they finally (finally!) play naughty by menace, sorry, m1 on the radio, which, by this point, i waiting on days now, and i get to take in them verses properly, and lemme tell yuh, halfway in, mr.menace, sorry, m1 had me blushing in the car all by meself! he hadda get big-up. he get on bad dey...
someting not fun las' week: asshole police. now i wasn' there; he tell me the story immediately after it happen but i wasn' actually there and i talking from memory, but that doh change this fuckery...so we rehearsing@ the bigblackbox in the blackyard maybe 9pm-ish the other day, tech week for continuum dance project's 10th anniversary production of sonja dumas' new ballet the museum of difficult women, and chinee on lights; he need to get some nex' equipment so he+roger walking the 3blocks back to lil house to jump in the car and go, in the neighbourhood roger living+working(+walking+running) in over 20years now. between the blackyard and lil house police roll up on them for a stop+frisk and roger find heself up against the wall, hands spread above he head. he point out they eh do anyting to warrant this treatment and get talk 'bout his all-black kit, including tam+hoodie (not up/on) and how if he only put up his hood he would look like a bandit. roger, of course, point out the obvious, that while wearing all-black+hoodie might be someting a bandit would also do, doing so does not necessarily or automatically make him a bandit. he even bother to explain that he in the arts, walking the few blocks from the venue he runs and operates from, to his home of many years to carry the lighting technician (and them done suspicious of chinee wrench hanging offa he pants) for equipment and we who work backstage in theatre wear all-black on purpose for the job...only to be told he have a right to carry a change of clothes so he doh end up in the street in all-black looking suspicious. because apparently it eh just police, is fucking fashion police we have out here now.
i cyah even pull together enough words for my outrage at this kinna profiling; all you doing is walking down the road; how the fuck the police could tell you what you can+cyah wear?! black clothes illegal now?! this is the shit that make me irate. this is why i have to immediately go in the opposite direction anytime i see police, because my arse will get in trouble when i lose my little mind the day they give me some fuckery like that to hold. better roger than me, yes...
[related thoughts?] my whole life i know myself to be bigger than i apparently am. i know i take up space. plenty space. i fill a room; when i enter my presence is felt through no effort on my part, i just being, but i occupy space and exert a force. i solid. i am a performer audience members are shocked to discover the offstage size of. and i eh know where this disconnect come from but the disconnect slowly becoming clear to me; i watching footage+photos of me onstage nex' to people i consider my size and seeing myself petite. i confuse. i know i bigger than that, i feel bigger than that, i am bigger, i bigger than that! but then i see more photos+footage confirm my tinyness...my dancing as big as i know meself to be, but my actual physical self, is small. i am distressed. i find lately i have to be careful i doh dance off all my cushiony parts and get skinny or i feel like only half a person. who is this little female dancing out my liverstring? i wonder if this confusion is like what gender dysphoria feel like; all i know is, it very disconcerting to suddenly find oneself not large enough to support one's lifelong invincibility complex...
and maybe said complex is wha's prompt me to do ting like read a brand-new, completely unvetted story in front an audience, and now this: sweet trini's urban folk tales, now taking requests!
i figure, i like to experiment, love a challenge as part of the writing process, and need/want/will be writing more, so why not truly challenge meself? so i taking writing/fiction requests and/or triggers [re:triggers, search blog for "fff"/"flash fiction friday" (buncha numbered triggered-story posts)] with the promise of writing to suit; and yes, i'd consider non-fiction requests but reserve right of refusal and will write@discretion (mine) only. so wha' you feel to read? request via comments...
and on that note, i fall for this poem so instanteously i hadda share:

The Writers
(On constantly mishearing ‘rioting’ as ‘writing’ on the BBC)
There has been writing for ten days now
unabated. People are anxious, fed up.
There is writing in Paris, in disaffected suburbs,
but also in small towns, and old ones like Lyon.
The writers have been burning cars; they’ve thrown
homemade Molotov cocktails at policemen.
Contrary to initial reports, the writers
belong to several communities: Algerian
and Caribbean, certainly, but also Romanian,
Polish, and even French. Some are incredibly
young: the youngest is thirteen.
They stand edgily on street-corners, hardly
looking at each other. Long-standing neglect
and an absence of both authority and employment
have led to what are now ten nights of writing.
Amit Chaudhuri

walk good.
ps: and watch dimitris papaioannou's nowhere (in memory of pina bausch); how much can be effected with so little, such simple movement with such impact...

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Monday, November 24, 2014

under mango trees and other artspace

exercising the reviewing muscle again, still informally, and the blogging muscles, yay, plus a few other art-ings...
so. the las' time i went to a locally produced 1act play, it was so bad that i was cringing within the 1st minute; 40minutes in warrenman knock out hard, mouth open, all kinna ting, while roger mouth was open in shock+horror at what was unfolding onstage; by the end i wanted back my $100 plus the wasted hour of my life. the other day i saw 2shows i was very looking forward to and didn' enjoy as much as i'd hoped. this rounds it was a world premiere, inaugural production for halqa; i wanted to see what this new production company, creative team and performers would deliver, and what the (local) playwright simeon moodoo (half of halqa) might be capable of, but was, i think reasonably, worried. but i was determined, so i drag my tired, stinky self to the little carib yesterday, straight outta rehearsal, still in sweats, for under the mango trees. and it was good!
it was a small show with simple but effective set+lights, better performed+executed than the wiz and more emotionally engaging than jab molassie. running about an hour with 2actors and 2"silhouettes" working off+onstage, from the shadowpuppetry-esque to physically manipulating the "elephant in the room", the production maintained its sense of the local, while theatrically incorporating elements of the otherworldly to translate the sometimes-strangeness of human experience and passage of time[space]. with a few musicians and singers rounding out the group, halqa and director marcus waldron create a believable world with chadd cumberbatch's simple set of white fabric (and the beautiful white elephant head) and peter craig's lighting[+shadow] design, and tell a compelling story, chronologically skipping through pivotal moments in "ryan" and "adafi"s trajectory to abandonment+busshead.
zoe white's 1st silent minutes onstage as "adafi" delivered some of the best acting i've seen on a local stage in a little bit, maybe since miss miles, and kimmy's fake-chennet-eating in more love, and kijana lewis make his trip here from guyana worthwhile with some solid work as "ryan". i also very liked the overall physicality of the piece and some of the silhouettes' stuff was very well-conceived [big-up choreographer, ian baptiste] movement-with-lighting, conveying certain visual plot-elements.
it wasn' a perfect show; some moments felt longer and more drawn out than they needed to be after the point was made so pacing was a little uneven, and one transition particularly bothered me as feeling too contrived, but the acting was strong+enjoyable enough that that eh ruin the performances/show; didn' love the costuming, but it was at least minimal and absolutely as versatile as necessary, so with no designer credited, i'll guess halqa made the best of a lacking situation. i didn' enjoy the "hey brown girl" moment either (one of the drawn-out ones, enough that i wanna say "moments" insteada the singular) because much of it seemed long+overdone to me, to no particular effect, and because the singing was not very good and the drums+vocals seemed off [from each other] which eh help with someting already feeling overlong. but again, not show-ruining.
it feels good to be able to say i enjoyed the production, and that young local playwrights eh giving up yet, and finally getting some play...
'twas a good weekend in art+theatre, for me; besides drama class with the gremlins, seeing a decent show and plenty dance rehearsal (continuum performing the museum of difficult women weekend coming!) i read some new fiction for an audience saturday...was terrified because i just, like that morning, just finish someting new, completely unvetted, and decide to read it publicly, knowing no writer in their right mind does that. but i feeling the new piece, is the perfect length, and i felt brave enough to put it out there, so i gone through...and they loved it. merle hodge rate it, the amazing shivanee like it (and i get to hear her read someting new, too) and plenty people come to tell me after how much they liked it; one lady say she cry...yay[?]...and alla that have me back here blogging too, so i might as well share more art-ing...look ting, right quick:
this link is to someting i cyah explain nor describe, except to say, storytelling! and because you eh see nutting else quite like it, watch. (and shia la beouf)
to listen+judge for yourself: new york's 10best djs?
and for more [certain] listening pleasure, time is illmatic...
this image, jus' because prince is that sexy mothafucker...
and last but  not least, some well-executed funny; stop looking at your phones!

walk good.

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Wednesday, November 12, 2014

a tale of 2productions

weekend gone i spend my hard-earned, unplentiful dollars to take in some theatre. i love theatre, love seeing shows, used to go as much as pocket allow until i realise that what on offer here not really for the i: i want way more experimentation, more challenging work+performers+spaces, more variety; the few shows on local stages i'd want to see usually ting i done wukkin on. plus the arts doh pay enough for me to be flinging my $ behind low-calibre art. but weekend had 2(expensive)shows i wanted to see: proscenium's the wiz (because even if it eh absolutely brilliant, at bare minimum, it'd be fun, and i wanted to see where mervyn's work at after not seeing in years) and calabash foundation's jab molassie because, world premiere, warrenman, roger, salcedo, doyle, dave...
i went, i saw, i cringed, i ran...not all@both, but...well, from the beginning, chronologically...
wait. i forget i was to say someting else about the fact of this happening at all, about the writing. i eh write for the media for nearly 20years now, but when i did i was proud to be pretty much the most qualified person writing theatre reviews even at my young age, because of my (then over a decade) training+performing in the arts. somehow, all this time later we still have very few writing reviews who actually know+understand stagecraft and can write proper critique (which should include what did/not work and why for each production element plus why an audience might/not enjoy the show) and lately more than 1person i respect trying to chain me up to review again to combat this dangerous situation of the underinformed declaring theatrical attempts excellent when they merely novel (and novel only to the underexposed at that) thus convincing those making bad theatre otherwise, that they good and should proceed accordingly...sooo i trying a ting here just to see how i feel about flexing them muscles at all, informal for now. right? right.
so friday night i went the wiz. it was not fun. not even a little. kevin humphrey (thank goodness) was good as the cowardly lion, vocals+acting both, and the youthman who play the scarecrow wasn't bad, but the rest of the cast delivered not a whit of decent acting and not all of them with solo songs to carry were strong enough singers. i'd like to think friday night's show was suffering 2nd night slump because the whole ting felt+looked like it still want another 2weeks rehearsal to be audience-ready: cues were slow throughout the production; neither actors nor musicians picking up cues so dialogue was stilted and both action and transitions slow, but then the band launch ease on down the road at such a gallop the poor singer (sadly, because her voice decent but we couldn' really tell until later when she sang as glinda, the good witch) spend the whole song breathlessly chasing it, no ease and definitely no fun; lighting cues were also late, sometimes nonexistent when desperately necessary, people performed onstage in the dark repeatedly and what light there was when there was wasn't particularly effective, plus the follow-spot ops then further ruin this already-unsuccessful lighting design by failing to fulfill their most basic function of keeping performers they following in the spot (as somebody who's been a follow-spot-op i call that disgraceful; it eh facking hard!) although there was enough poor singing among principals (thank the universe again for kevin-lion, yes, and that the witches could sing, if not act) and bad stage-blocking that maybe it was for the best; costumes+make-up, however, win! mervyn mash up alla them visuals beautifully...oh, and that night a technical failure spoil the reveal of the wizard, not that that even matter by then i done not-enjoying the show for a solid 45minutes; during a scene-change, set pieces being flown in and is to hear the breaking of one getting damaged beyond use, so audience hadda siddown watching the wizard the entire time he shoulda be hidden behind the curtain, sad-looking (but not the way the story intend) on his bleak, weakly-lit platform. sigh. 'twas tough times. i felt bad for making ma go, and pelt out as curtain come down so i wouldn' see anybody and have to respond to, "did you like the show?"
jab molassie sunday evening was better. far from perfect, but far better than the wiz, although i suppose that eh saying much...but jab was well-executed all round. set+costumes mostly worked well, voices did everyting they needed and the music is lovely, although i'd like to hear it played by a less "white" orchestra because they eh quite find the syncopation+swing [i think] it need. but even though it was technically better, i still didn' love it...i was unmoved; the show felt flat to me; i never cared about the characters or their story. i think the libretto, in compressing soldier's tale into this hour-long production, pushing the show, the lyrics, the story through so fast, have you in the audience busy chasing plot, trying to catch up and keep up, you doh have time to invest in the characters; when the players directly ask the audience, "what you think about starboy now?" i didn' know or care because i never had chance to make any connection. the libretto+under-direction also fail to give 3 of the 6characters any personality at all; the 2corporals and carnival queen so underdeveloped, all we know 'bout them is they like starboy enough to want him to succeed, which not enough to make them engaging, even when narrating the story; you watching talent waste onstage. with the population of the piece so 1dimensional, it lacked believability, lacked life, there was nutting for me to invest in...i believe the libretto and lack of direction conspired to make what coulda-shoulda been a great show just pleasant insteada life-changing or even particularly thought-provoking, but i also believe the weak elements of this world premiere eminently improvable; we might see a stronger production of jab yet...
meanwhile, a wholly unconnected 3rd piece i thoroughly enjoyed; brad pitt on between2ferns:


walk good.

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Monday, November 03, 2014

at least the blasted machine play the st.ans + theophilus london + sweeney...

what frustrating me months now is that the state of this machine makes writing not just painfully slow but physically uncomfortable and eventually painful, so i want to write but don't, because i cyah get settled enough. i really thought this situation would be over by now and it making me a little stir-crazy, so i trying a quick ting to relieve some pressure. plus, of course, i have ting to archive...speaking of which, universe, i looking for one of these, please...

i survive the dreaded chikungunya; suspect i had a (relatively) mild case. my feet still hurt but at least i back out to dance (a little). that was making me a little crazy too.
supposed to read and speak at bocas litfest in south weekend coming; reading suckeye, but the talking on a panel about local crime fiction, terryifying...who's me? but they say they want me because i was so enjoyable when they had me on the shakespeare panel in april, and i had a lovely time doing it, so how could i not?
thought i would be upset about not being in that movie for longer than i was, but i think the way they move soured me on them enough that i doh wanna work with them anymore, so is nutting...
sooo, now that i sitting here, uncomfortably, ready to exercise the writing muscle in spite of, i realise that what i wanna write is all for the script and trying to explore that here, now, doh make sense (although i will, as soon as i get some time with script and new machine)...so instead lemme explore one of the things bubbling on my backburner lately, because people keep doing it...i am flummoxed by the ability to be an asshole, know one is being an asshole, then be unpleasantly surprised by my negative response to one's fuckery. i think i'm coming to the conclusion that is a kinna willful arrogance and ignorance of reality, in the assumption that my love for you means i accept any treatment at your hands uncomplainingly, as though i am less than a person myself. this phenomenon is particularly acute when functioning in conjunction with the muse-as-tool problem, which i face far too often because too many are too selfish and too thoughtless to realise that a human muse, while providing a wonderful facility, should not be treated like a tool, but like a person. obvious to me but apparently not obvious enough to nearly enough...and having articulated that helped just like i hoped; i think i right about the asshole behaviour, and will continue as i have been of late, locking it off, in spite of assholes not liking that. everybody get enough chances. party done.
so, i good dey, so lewwe share the wealth.
1st, some music i need to relocate when new machine reach and i adding to my listening collection again: trini boy st.ans' all saints day: the anarchist's order is an album to hear+get-to-keep, and same for nex' trini boy theophilus london's new album vibes.
this i archive for when i need a proper dose of hilarity: the rainbow-cake comment-apocalypse.
literary jumper-cables: clickable periodic table of storytelling tropes.
this is about sharing moreso than archiving, but it cyah hurt to be able to reference black moms talking about "the talk" with white moms; when reading, even if it eh news to you, get to the final sentence for the real point.
random assemblage of short stories that recently delivered reading delight; well, maybe not "delight" as none of them particularly joyous, per se, but each, differently, held me in thrall:
neil gaiman's a study in emerald.
unconnected, neil gaiman's snow, glass, apples.
stephen king's herman wouk is still alive.
david foster wallace's backbone.
matt getty's keeping susie whole.
this sweeney todd opening is an absolute must-watch, for me, over+over+again+again; that is direction fadda!
and this last, because it silly and because, the lyric "badman doh pull out usb safely"...

walk good.

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Friday, September 26, 2014

the blues, somewhat...

sometimes i feel like i doh write enough here again, just archive, but is partly that all my writing energy is elsewhere, which is good for the script so cyah be bad, and then tings changing so radically so much lately i always feel like i coming off the back foot, playing catch-up but never quite getting there. but archiving in the interim keeps me coming back so i doh forget this space and it here+alive when i have more headspace to explore...which sooncome, and this time for real because, among other tings, i eh making that movie again. other changes i eh know how to talk about yet, so later for that. writing or no writing, archiving always on.
this might be the mishiest mash i make thus far. my mind is far from itself and too buried in turning in on itself at the same time, thoughts very disparate. or maybe no more so than usual but i just feel that way...either way, tabs must close...starting with something visual, beautifully creepy post-it art.
these "moroccan hipsters" have something of carnival in them, for me, which i very enjoy.
this was an unexpectedly great read, and i eh want to say anyting else about it so you can fully enjoy this guy walks into a bar...
oh! visual again. knowing little to nothing of the fashion world, i had no idea gareth pugh existed until hackett[sidebar] posted images of august2014 collection; go look.
this video i been unsure about posting because i doh actually like the song. the video imagery+concept and treatment of concept, addressing the male gaze, are what i cyah stop looking at, but i am also aware that what i dislike[un-enjoy] about the song itself is part of her point, like her repeating the n-word [felt very prudish typing "the n-word", way more than my regular non-usage of the word feels] to the extent and in the way that she does; all that posturing is part of the shade she throwing, no? so i hadda respect it, and thus, in what feels like a weird 1st, i give you a nicki minaj video...

and i have the absolute perfect palate cleanser; marvin gaye's vocal is gorgeous a capella and the charming performance was bonus after going in expecting just audio...

and this. ooohhh yesss...petite mort indeed...

walk good.

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Wednesday, August 20, 2014

remotivating

is a good ting i finally decide to personal-archive here; still-open tabs force me to find words to string them together so i can close+declutter which jumpstarts the brain and allows me room to recapture maximum productivity...or something like that...point is, i here, with ting to share, and thus a few steps closer to finished proposal elsewhere...
figure i should start with this for posterity, press on the flick i playing lead in; me looking like a real girl...
and in much bigger film news, in the wake of one of my favourites, because it's lovely even if it sad and because robin williams himself woulda appreciate that...
and speaking of appreciating, sometimes it too easy to take the gorgeousness of places like maracas for granted here in sweet trini, but just look...
and in other amazingness not to be taken for granted, the speed of darkness, faster than the speed of light...
and more on the scientific tip: gardener's cheat-sheet! yay!
eh sure how "scientific" this one is, but it sound good enough to look into it later; wha's not to like about marijuana, lubrication and 15minute climaxes, ent? especially when it all seem to be geared towards primarily pleasuring somebody besides dudes 18-35, for a change...
and speaking of advertising's favourite demographic, as somebody opposed to censorship on principle but acutely aware of the reality of today's global society and how it treats women, this 5minutes is one of the best breakdowns i found of much-muddled+misused arguments:

asap science; charmingly tackling the mysteries of the universe while breaking gender- and family-orientation stereotypes, promoting inclusion+accessibility, battling sexism+homophobia and providing alternative role models and visions of a more equal future, 2gay science-nerds point out that being compared to women is a completely ineffectual dis because "women are fucking amazing and they are changing the world around us":

and definitely not least (i just like to try to end fun) this too well-done to not share:

walk good.

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Saturday, August 02, 2014

archive-heavy

this machine giving trouble since it reach. it was a welcome and much-needed stopgap when it happen but it was clearly never up to the task. so this post purely making up for time lost to the ghost in my machine, in no particular order but might as well start with words that made me remember how+why i loved someone, once...
Persephone Writes to Her Mother:
Mother, he is a gentleman.
He is a builder with bricks of moonlight.
He knows the secret places of the earth.
He washes the sleep from the eyes of the souls.
He lets them look on beauty.
He lets them tell him they hate him.
In the mornings, I gather berries and apples.
I scrub his back with rind.
I weave spider-spit, eyelash.
He talks in his sleep 'pudding', 'fire', 'discus',
the things he misses.
He breathes, 'Your body is my orchard.'
I am undulating grass.
I am a field of wheat he parts with his fingers.
Poppies bloom in my veins.
When he kisses me, he tastes pomegranate.
The night crawls nearer.
The moans of the dead roll and swell.

Mother, we are well.
Tara Mae Mulroy.
another something i love, baseball is most decidedly not, so i eh even know this dude existed before now, but i hadda love prince fielder (and what a name for a baseball player!) and his naked espn cover, sexy no matter how the haters doh/rate his body type.
of everyting i read about how modern technology has changed human behaviour/interactions, this restaurant surveillance investigation is one of the most clear+concrete illustrations of increasing obnoxiousness...
and speaking of eating, major excitement; linkage for future reference: the rotimatic!
and even more food-wonder, gorgeous gothic cakes, and because, things of beauty, right; doors to corners of my soul needs must open into rooms made of art, no?
and in another special corner of my soul, the alot. and this next i was debating, but as we talking language, a buncha knowledge about english could pass in the rush...
a few loosely related pieces, each of the 1st 2 written by the kind of sex-positive parent that gives me hope, then a grim reminder of the rape[culture] victims we doh hear about, plus hate-that-it-necessary-but-guess-i-glad-it-exists, both anti-rape jeans and a gentleman's guide to rape culture now on offer...
and in other scary news, this abu bakr interview:

but because i cyah go out on a negative, this tree bears 40types of fruit and the 1st man-made leaf turns light+water into oxygen and ugly fruits+vegetables win! plus, m.anifest:

walk good.

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Monday, June 16, 2014

keeping quiet. ish.

this is more about clearing tabs+space than being ready to write for real; i never can, when i still in it, only after i survive it, and i sure i say that here before too because i know it long time and it hadda come up before now, life happening the way it does. otherwise, i in 3sets of rehearsals plus lilliput and psychotherapy gigs still happening weekly and cumuto monthly, and all the work i putting in there i know is strong and everybody i wukkin with/for happy with what i doing. [oh, 3setta rehearsals, big tings a gwan: lead in a movie shooting in july, this love; a trinbagonian love story, performing with sonja/continuum monthend, and learning masses of choreo with rep (astor johnson repertory dance theatre)] but cyah seem to write, or do any of the other work on my plate though, even though everytime i find myself immovable, head swirling with too much tings, i also thinking about the work i not doing, constantly, i just cyah seem to make my body make the motions of doing it...anyway, done tha' talk.
this rolling impossibility pleases me too much to not archive.
and this recommendation from a favourite writer, teju cole [sidebar]: "few write about writing as joyously as kathryn schulz does. you want to read what she reads and like what she likes." compelled me to read this long, gorgeous review of geoff dyer (which you must read all the way to the end to fully appreciate her masterfulness) which totally did make me want to read him, and more of her, plus gave me hope for my own wordswork actually having+finding an audience. glorious. read all.
and as we reading, cool little study on hiphoppers' vocabularies...
and further proof that the human body is an extraordinary machine.
and proof that you only need a sentence or 2 for a good scary story, although i'd edit that particular one to: "there's nothing like the laughter of a baby, especially if it's 1am and you're home alone..."
rodell warner [sidebar] introduced me to francoise gammas'work and you just hadda experience this piece of art...
plus these other intriguing developments: a possible hidden ocean in the earth's core, and the world's largest solar plant starting operations in major renewable energy and unexpected beautifulness...
more serious note, this piece on the complexities of attention through the lens of bringbackourgirls worth a read+think.
still serious but a lighter approach; louis ck making me love his feminist self even more:

ending on a positive[?] note to self: see this.

walk good.

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Tuesday, April 29, 2014

come down in time

watching weather change over diego martin hills, gorgeous view traded for the one i left behind in st.james. on the bench, gentle, tiny raindrops in eyelashes, wetting cheeks+forehead, heralding what the sky promises will be epic. clouds gathered for their regular afternoon meeting, early stages of the rainyseason, soon this will be a daily deluge.
rain outs my smoke, is time. lingering glances back as i make my way inside. some days i stay, sit in the downpour, let it wash over me, wash away the thoughts i cannot control as well as i'd like, wash away regret, doubt, anxious insecurity, wash me clean, at least for a little while...
and in the interest of clearing space (how does a person so averse to clutter constantly amass so much of it, mental and otherwise?) lemme unload my brain...
if/when i finally get my shit together enough to think about my future, i think i need an earthship-home. valhalla movement still new to me, but i cyah argue with beautiful+sustainable living...
along related lines, i saying since my 1st mobile phone that we need to be able to build custom phones and only pay for the features we actually want, and it looking like we might be getting there; meanwhile, this dude shows how easily it can be done already, building his own smartphone using only off-the-shelf components.
and now for something completely different, complete switch, music+video because i finally check out stromae and he too good; take in some amazingness: papaoutai

and tous les memes.
and bonus, another someting cool, but totally different again; alt-j's fitzpleasure.

walk good.
ps: ooohhh and this gorgeousness; neil patrick harris as hedwig, officially the only other time i wanted to be back in the usa (the 1st time being fela on broadway)...

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Friday, April 18, 2014

quickie; 3fer

big tings a gwan: in this universe, nasa find the 1st earth-size planet in the "habitable zone" of another star; in our neighbourhood, haitians locally manufacturing their own low-cost tablets, each one handmade by the same woman start to finish; and sweetness from home, a kinna 2fer inside the 3fer, 1st link primarily for audio but with its video of band playing it live@panorama, and if that eh visuals enough, 2nd link is audioless footage of port of spain, trinidad 1970-79, shorter than the 1st so you can watch both while the steelband play...
love this pan tune, posted a medium band beating it the other day, plus i's a [amoco!]renegades fan through the parents and uncle desi since childhood; check them playing de fosto's in de minor:  
port of spain, 1970-79, no audio, real vibes but didn' see my parents though, rats...  
walk good.

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Tuesday, April 15, 2014

words+meanings

tonight she awaits the moon. lighting one smoke after the next while a single block of ice melts slowly into the rum. staring up+out at the night, into her darkest corners, under her blanket of quiet shrouding the world. only cocquis+crickets, not a car, not a footstep, and the streetlight out weeks now. she sits on the gallery step because it keeps her low enough to be out of sight if anybody should happen down the lane, but she expects no one. not coming this way, this lane, this hour. she is, as ever, alone with her voices, her demons, awaiting the pale gleam that is her only company anymore. sunlight feels like acid on papery skin after too many years hiding.
tonight she awaits the moon. watching smoke curl up and dissipate slowly, one small cloud at a time taken by the breeze she wished for earlier the day, she wonders if this is why the universe must keep expanding, to accommodate spirits like hers that never leave. she wonders if the added weight of them all (because in a world of 6billion she cannot possibly be alone, no matter how it feels) will grow too heavy, overtax the expanding universe and cause the whole of time+space to collapse...the soul that break the continuum's back?
tonight she awaits the moon, craving the caress of soft light on her face, the closest thing to touch in her life anymore. she tries to recall a lover, any lover, before the night became her only friend but they all seem too far away now, too far gone, too far in the past, too far...
tonight she awaits the moon because only the company of timelessness makes her feel less alone...

tha's where my head at; these links went into those [excerpted]words and the script they part of, so, archive-time:
it was only on reading this that i realise i grow up and come through primary school instinctively assuming a multiverse, tha's just what made sense in my mind, and only in reading fiction i came to understand it wasn't (then) popular theory (not that that stopped me believing)...next realisation was that for such a realist and one so very real i engage a lot of un-real/theory because for me real still mean anyting possible...ent? implications of the "many worlds interpretation"; keep it real.
and words, gorgeous words, a hunger like none since from teju cole's every day is for the thief is beautiful reading and a good jumpstart on slow writing days; he's make me wanna do it jes so...
plus i randomly find this sweet infographic for all shakespeare's deaths, love eeet, only to discover is my gyul cam magee ting; bes'!
and while film might not be my primary medium this particular one (and its amazing andre tanker soundtrack) always had+have something for me so i revisit often; recently find this piece of context for 1974's bim.
and as we reach film territory, this skrillex video gimme plenty to watch; mash up the dance: and the shortest film ever nominated for an oscar just remind me to take nothing for granted...

and bonus, because i love the idea, and the visuals pretty fucking cool, nigeria's floating school...
walk good.

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