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.

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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.

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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.

4 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  

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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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Friday, April 04, 2014

bubble gyal a bubble...

so is not even that i love this track so hard, and i definitely wish the dancers were more representative of we who make this kinna music+movement, but i like that all the steps named in realtime, so dancehall archive win...  
walk good.

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Monday, March 31, 2014

longing for a life of more acting less drama

i wait...
wait.
wait.
i wait minutes, hours, days, a week passes, and i wait.
i wait, calmly at first, anxiety increasing with each day gone, then each hour, then every minute. i wait anxiously, breathlessly, hopefully, hopelessly, tearfully, lifelessly, energy drained by emptiness+loss, rekindled momentarily each time the phone rings, dashed when it isn't the call i await. when will it come?
he must come, promised to come...my lifeline, mental connection that feels arterial, plugging me into the matrix, opening the whole world to my touch...pick up the phone for the millionth time, fully knowing the ringer on but checking because i must pass the interminable wait, scrolling through items i haven't responded to because i too distracted by waiting, watching, listening, perking, boiling over in waves of rage, where is he?! calm after the storm, realisation of reality and the futility of frustration, acceptance of inevitability, he coming when he come no matter what i want or how i wait...then slowly anxiety builds and the cycle begins again...the wait wears on, wears me down, depression threatens, i begin to despair, and then finally, the call...
never so elated to hear from a stranger as when the tstt internet technician ring to say he need directions...
technician reach and i make it clear we have no internet access a week+ now and tstt play the arse about fixing it so we vex for days, then me+ma ole talk like our usual selves. as he leaving he say he find i familiar so i say i sometimes perform and was onstage a lot this carnival and maybe tha's why; he bawl "...performer, an actor, tha's why! the whole time there with allyuh i feel like i was in a play, for real..."
he leave and 10minutes later phone ring; after a whole week+ of them not organising a bloody technician, me near tearing out locks on the phone with them daily, learning their blasted hold-music by heart, now all of a sudden a 2nd technician wanna come fix our box today too!
seriously though, the lack of internet was killing me, right at the time i was intending to bury myself in work+script, much of which requires access; of course i thought of multiple posts that i already overs and cyah be bothered writing again but was totally frustrated at my inability to at the time...at least i get some "real writing" done; a little script progress for the 1st time since fred dead, thanking the universe for that small mercy...no-internet also right as i was about to link up so i could close tabs, because the canalshow+jouvay were amazing and consuming my entire being and my postcarnival equally so, so now the inevitable backlog+clutter must go, so look ting:
love these creatures of adland...
and this letter from giles coren to the times sub-editors not just a brilliant+hilarious read, but sweet peek at the level of detail the writer's mind works at, knowing many will miss most of it...
and super-cool photoset of the motorbike girl gangs of morocco.
and images of the sexiest works of art...
and you need to listen to this piece of genius@work; beat it demo with michael using his voice for all the instrumental work.
this track i loving to tears right now, and very like the video too; get free by major lazer featuring amber of the dirty projectors: 
and these excerpts of wayne mcgregor's chroma choreo are lovely, and gorgeously executed (as always) by ailey dancers:
Wayne McGregor's CHROMA from Alvin Ailey on Vimeo.
and yuh best had mark this work... 
walk good.
ps: almost forget, thought this article a worthwhile contribution to the dialogue on hashtag activism...

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Tuesday, February 25, 2014

tabs like peas...sociopolitics+art.

when i 1st saw this i liked it, but is eat plenty vertical space and i had no valid reason to repost, other than my liking it. since these days i accept my inner archivist and choose to make it work for me by sometimes posting random things for my reference, i reposting "two cows", plus some other tabs been sitting, waiting...
TWO COWS ~{Matthias Varga}
SOCIALISM You have 2 cows. You give one to your neighbour.
COMMUNISM You have 2 cows. The State takes both and gives you some milk.
FASCISM You have 2 cows. The State takes both and sells you some milk.
NAZISM You have 2 cows. The State takes both and shoots you.
BUREAUCRATISM You have 2 cows. The State takes both, shoots one, milks the other, and then throws the milk away.
TRADITIONAL CAPITALISM You have two cows. You sell one and buy a bull. Your herd multiplies, and the economy grows. You sell them and retire on the income.
ROYAL BANK OF SCOTLAND (VENTURE) CAPITALISM You have two cows. You sell three of them to your publicly listed company, using letters of credit opened by your brother-in-law at the bank, then execute a debt/equity swap with an associated general offer so that you get all four cows back, with a tax exemption for five cows. The milk rights of the six cows are transferred via an intermediary to a Cayman Island Company secretly owned by the majority shareholder who sells the rights to all seven cows back to your listed company. The annual report says the company owns eight cows, with an option on one more. You sell one cow to buy a new president of the United States , leaving you with nine cows. No balance sheet provided with the release. The public then buys your bull.
SURREALISM You have two giraffes. The government requires you to take harmonica lessons.
AMERICAN CORPORATION You have two cows. You sell one, and force the other to produce the milk of four cows. Later, you hire a consultant to analyse why the cow has dropped dead.
GREEK CORPORATION You have two cows. You borrow lots of euros to build barns, milking sheds, hay stores, feed sheds, dairies, cold stores, abattoir, cheese unit and packing sheds. You still only have two cows.
FRENCH CORPORATION You have two cows. You go on strike, organise a riot, and block the roads, because you want three cows.
JAPANESE CORPORATION You have two cows. You redesign them so they are one-tenth the size of an ordinary cow and produce twenty times the milk. You then create a clever cow cartoon image called a Cowkimona and market it worldwide.
ITALIAN CORPORATION You have two cows, but you don't know where they are. You decide to have lunch.
SWISS CORPORATION You have 5000 cows. None of them belong to you. You charge the owners for storing them.
CHINESE CORPORATION You have two cows. You have 300 people milking them. You claim that you have full employment, and high bovine productivity. You arrest the newsman who reported the real situation.
INDIAN CORPORATION You have two cows. You worship them.
BRITISH CORPORATION You have two cows. Both are mad.
IRAQI CORPORATION Everyone thinks you have lots of cows. You tell them that you have none. No-one believes you, so they bomb the ** out of you and invade your country. You still have no cows, but at least you are now a Democracy.
AUSTRALIAN CORPORATION You have two cows. Business seems pretty good. You close the office and go for a few beers to celebrate.
NEW ZEALAND CORPORATION You have two cows. The one on the left looks very attractive...
talking 'bout politics+corporations, sunity, as always, have bes' words about the situation in sweet t+t. and before we abandon politics, i fully admit i eh know anyting else about the dude, but i cyah help but like this apparently smart+funny canadian politician after reading his tweets...
no connection other than my interest, so no segue: this article delivered more real truth than expected (although i eh sure about use of the word "trained" in title) and i appreciated the honesty, especially as he had to know many would take it as making excuses, rather than an attempt to explain so we can move to suit...5ways modern men are trained to hate women.
i keep art linkage for last so i doh end on a downer: because wasa always digging up the road, potholes, reenvisioned; and because apparently german groceries mash up the dance and we all clearly need to shop there...
and who else mash up the dance? them dancer boys in mayaro the band's short-dhoti song video (which, if you know anyting about life in trini, also provides serious social commentary)

this is just audio and i eh no expert to critique how they beat, but i enjoy the music/arrangement enough to wanna be able to find it again: st.margaret's superstars, panorama2014 semis, medium band playing de fosto's in de minor, arranged by shenelle abraham 
and as that had no visual, and is carnival, take a lagniappe: me eh know if it real or set up and me eh care; enough of them look jokey enough to make me laugh, so right now these haunted house photos could share...
real words sooncome...walk good.

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Sunday, February 16, 2014

life go in every direction except rewind

hear nah, mos def yasin bey so good i cyah delete the doubling and sometimes tripling of his albums in my player because when i search him and just play all, i fucking love when just as i get sad, like the final sentences of an amazing read, because a bes' track finish, the fucking track come again!
noted [only] those words days ago because the thought came when that was all i could spare time for. i return now, days later remembering gist only, start reading+remembering+enjoying, then sight of the last (forgotten) words unexpectedly snaps my brain to: i wish fred could come again...
and the black hole threatens to swallow me, engulf my need to write, to speak in the moment, instead of so long after that i struggle to remember and anxiously doubt my accuracy, veracity; i want to at least know+intend when fictionalising...

walk good.

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Sunday, February 09, 2014

word/love

sometimes i read others' words that make me want to use them, appropriate them, because they fit me so right...recent spoils include someting to the effect of "...i’ll fuck you with questions until you cum with answers..." and wherever i read the original wordage, it was all i read on the page so i cyah say no more about it, except that line jump out at my eye+mind and make me feel to wash foot and jump in 1time; had to run with it for a minute, trying to express someting i try telling before, seemingly in vain; hopefully this help me say it so the harden understand...
i's a truthsayer. lie slayer. the 1ting i demand, non-negotiable, is complete honesty. i’ll fuck you with questions until you cum with answers you eh know you have. and if i choose you, make the most of your good fortune; let me consume you, swallow you, whole, cock+mind. doh 'fraid. a muse this powerful, worth losing yourself to, for what she make you make better...
with that off my chest, related news: for 3canal carnival show2014 grimeee not only will i get my own bamsee-spotlight to perform to my absolute favourite canals-tune, ah love it (ah love it, ah love it), i also get to perform roger bonair-agard's chantuel hymns from his tarnish and masquerade, and lemme tell you, is panties, 1time; this fucking poem so good it make me wanna write a poem about how fucking good this poem is; even delivering at a whisper bring me to tears+winery; still jealous i eh write these words meself. i admit this may not be full[y]/accurate txt because i sadly doh own a copy of this collection, just read it years ago and right now working from a show script, but it too brilliant to not share whaever i have of it...enjoy.

i lost my virginity   to calypso
to the songs of slaves
the ghost of souls
that disappear with language lost
my grandfather's french-african patois
never sang to me

except through these songs - l'overture's dream
rhyming its way hard through steelband
and the repartee of african ballad
griot story made freedom song
my waist learned to move
with the whip   with the song   with the prayer
with the silent acquiescence of my grandfather's tongue
phasing out his own creole
for the victorian flourish of his father's hand
through the ghost of a language lost
i learned the stroke of a sweet fuck
a soul taking up residence in music
surviving life as a squatter in redeemed people's songs

i lost my virginity
to the echo and the crackle of the cane brulee
first declaration of emancipation
bacchanalian festival
turned revolt turned african turned lost tongue
turned the still raging fire
hollowing out the soul of the oil drum
to revive africa as a stubborn tenant
in a european mask

we learned how to fuck like this
this 'sweet wine'
like surreptitious like uprising
like make more africans while massa sleep
make more drums to replace the ones banned
more tongues to sing the ones cut out
and made to drop useless
on the cocoa floor - the tongue
my grandfather replaced with the black foot dance
of the coffee bean
and the bois of the gayelle
and the future for his children
and the land that he left

this is how we learn to move
slow figure eight from waist down
put the heartbeat into the grind
and jouvert and dimanche gras
we learn to move like sand
shift like the chatter of forbidden tongues

or the movement of waistlines through impossible emotions
and remember these tongues

through steelpan and calypso
we learned to live
under the shadows
of our grandfather's tongues
in the middle of the night
in the stomp of the shango ritual
in the silence of ash wednesday
in the chaos of the savannah dust
in love and lust
and the eternal stroking of the hips
we learned to move
we learned to move
we learned to move
and still have the language to prove it.

walk good.

2 Comments:

Blogger crazyfool said...

incredible poetry. move(d) indeed. and yuh pretty fine with yuh words as well 'truthsayer'... thanks for sharing.

6:40 pm  
Blogger m.jamesphotography said...

I'm in awe..I always enjoy reading your blogs..thanks for sharing..it is always a treat

11:17 pm  

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Friday, February 07, 2014

end of an era

moving done. the st.james flat no longer mine, its murals sit unwatched or already painted over, i doh even know...nor do i particularly care, i find, surprised...been saying since they reach i cyah imagine giving them up, and when rent$ was nowhere in sight and i deeply reconsidered the financial counterintelligence i was engaging in to maintain that space i loved so, they were what stopped me from giving up, giving in. yet now i moving away, leaving them behind, and finding myself relatively unmoved.
the end of an era; slightly sad to see, but with no regret or longing or desire to hold onto it, in full agreement that now is the time the time is now.
from a distance that felt infinite i watched my plants on the gallery die with fred. never been able to be that callous about plants before, always had to save even what i knew i had no use or space for, try to find homes for what i couldn't keep...this time i let them go, not realising until retrospect we were on fred's timing...before i actually knew i was moving back to diego i was already conserving energy, only watering those that would want to come here...
meanwhile, an 18year-old tracking me since just before fred dead. i done say i am literally twice his age and could be his mother and never turned on by extreme youth neither but he persistent in the face of my honesty about the fact that he extremely unlikely to get anywhere. the inevitable lock-off became necessary the other night when he try to buss the most insensitive track ever via whatsapp: he open with a line about how i been so scarce [yes, he know my father just dead, not that he study that when he wash foot and jump in, clearly, foolish] and when is he going to see me, because, and now i must quote: "...i'm dying here"...i tried not be harsh, but couldn't not hit him, "actually, no, you're not, dying is what my father did boxing day"...and even then he so young i had to explain to him how he just proved my point that i doh deal up with youths because they eh ready for life+death where+how i living it, or as real as mine...
or maybe i just feeling bite up because my father gone...
walk good.

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