completed+posted sunday, december 4, 2005: alien abduction?

needless to say, i'm lame for not being more frequently forthcoming, but i promise i have an excuse. however, i also think you should have better things to read than another lengthy explanation of others making my life more difficult than it need be, so i suggest that it sufficeth to say that i woulda been here if i coulda. life happens.
on to more interesting things:
i did a segment for the radio station this past week on a book by some harvard chick who researched false/recovered memory by interviewing people who believe they've been abducted by aliens.
now, i always figured believing in aliens and alien abductions is on par with believing in any deity and its respective miracles- the latter just managed to gain more popularity than the former over time, and the former is not necessarily an indicator of insanity, any more than the latter is.
so this chick figures the best way to study false/recovered memories is to interview people with recovered memories she's positive are false, because she tried once before with women with recovered memories of child abuse and had problems for all the obvious reasons, nobody could ever say for sure their recovered memories were false.
so she took out a newspaper ad asking if people had been abducted, got the slew of responses, weeded out the clinical crazies and recent immigrants who'd misunderstood and thought she was asking for responses from those taken by american border authorities (no lie), and interviewed the rest.
she doesn't believe in alien abductions because if there are aliens smart enough to get to earth, even if they'd been abducting humans, logically, they should be smart enough to not still need to take humans for the same sort of biological and/or sexual experiments all these years after the first reports. surely any species smart enough to successfully abduct members of another planet's species for experimentation would've figured out all they needed to know by now.
of course, that assumes that it's always the same aliens, as opposed to assuming that if there's another sentient species on another planet, there's prob'ly many other sentient species on many other planets, in varying stages of technological development.
anyway. she explains the abductees' suspicions/symptoms/memories with sleep paralysis, the tendency to create false memories, and the unreliability of recovered memories.
it's good to know about the sleep paralysis thing in general, because it'll happen to at least 20% of us at least once, and since nobody warns us, it freaks people the fuck out- sleep paralysis happens because the body goes into a natural semi-paralysis when it sleeps, to prevent sleepwalking and acting out dreams and shit, but sometimes the brain starts to wake up before the natural paralysis recedes, so that you think you're completely awake but somehow can't move, and may experience full-body electric currents, audio and visual hallucinations including the sense of a malign presence, and still have dream remnants playing with your mind's reality. it's fucked up, and i think it'd help to know this may happen.
she tested for the tendency to create false memories by giving subjects a list of words with an implicit theme (e.g. bitter, sour, sugar) to look over, then asking them to recall the list and checking who was most likely to also "recall" words associated with the unrepresented theme (e.g. sweet). anybody likely to create a false memory of reading unrepresented words is more likely to create false memory outside of the lab. she basically found that people who believed they'd been abducted by aliens were prone to creating false memories.
she points out that memories recovered via hypnosis (or guided imagery, etc.) are unreliable because they tend to be self-fulfilling prophecies, that those situations put the patient into a very suggestive state and possibly entail leading questions with the support of an authoritative figure, and that it's been proven that even detailed imagining of an event that didn't happen is enough to confuse the imaginer into thinking it may have happened to them.
but the most interesting she told me during the interview (i'm down with the aliens, and she was a little too dismissive for me, especially for someone who didn't identify herself as an atheist when i brought up the religion-alien similarities) was about recovered "repressed" memories, which she says don't exist.
i said to her that if she believed that false memories could be created, it should follow that real memories could be repressed. but she said that there's no proof that human beings have the ability/mechanism to repress memories. research shows that traumatic experiences are remembered in excruciating detail, even when the victim would rather forget, and there's no proof that the human brain is capable of repressing a memory. so i asked her about the fact that i once did something (that shall remain undisclosed to protect the innocent) that i knew nobody could ever know i did, to avoid trouble for others- so i told myself it never happened, pretended it never happened, and convinced myself enough that when somebody i never lie to asked me about it years later, i instantly denied, without realising i was lying. hours later, i had a flicker in the back of my brain that made me replay the conversation, and as soon i did, i realised i'd lied unintentionally. harvard chick says that's not a "repressed" memory, but a suppressed one- the difference being that "repressed memory" implies a sub- or unconscious reaction, whereas suppression is voluntary. i decided to forget.
just thought i'd throw that out there...
more later. this'll be a better week.
walk good.

"jab jab say..." (3canal) review

i been meaning to say this for a long time now, and finally put the words together (with a lot of help from "jab jab say...")

3canal’s “jab jab say…the soundtrack album from the 3canal show 2005 [JAB in de BOX]” opens with the title track, which makes it very hard to listen to the rest of the album. the immediate response to “jab jab say” is to hit the back button and listen to it again. and again. and then another time or three to maximize the experience.
oh – before considering songs, i should mention that even the visual of this album is decidedly different. after previous 3canal photos one might expect the recognisably serious faces that lend weight to the usually ‘conscious’ lyrics, but “jab jab say…” is a departure. the striking faces inside the cover are mostly the same, but now they’re smiling in a sea of yellow – not that a strong colour choice is a surprise to anyone aware of how this group’s music is linked to their annual j’ouvert band and live show for trinidad+tobago carnival, but these grins are a sign…
the lyrics are still conscious but the sound is simple and upbeat. even occasionally ska-like.
this is about positive vibes and basic choices we can make to improve our collective lives. this is one of those albums that just makes you feel good. you suddenly recall why music is so important to life.
i must confess that 3canal’s “the fire next time” is still one of my favourite and most-listened-to albums, so i can’t help but compare a little. one of “the fire next time”’s still-thrilling aspects is its complexity and variance – no two songs suggest the same style – while “jab jab say…” has a more unified sound and message that come together in tribute to intra- and inter-song arrangement. right down to song-endings of musical accompaniment fading to leave vocals in the spotlight, this feels like a return to less complicated, more youthful times, and in its simplicity it leaves the listener feeling full.
back to the must-multiple-rewind title track – it’s the hardest on the album, driven by bass, drum, and lyrics that deliver the call: “…one song, one sign, one word, one rhyme, one hook, one line, one song, just one song go bring them down…some a dem just cuttin’ a pose but they not for the people…some a dem say they pushin’ love but only promotin’ hate…”
after a powerful attack on those “wearin’ the robes, but (they) not for the people”, the rest of this is for the misrepresented people. these songs encourage positive movement: “now is the time to free your mind…to cross the line and seek and discover and ye shall find…the time is now…”, but rather than feeling preachy, they’re so enjoyable that it takes time to realise how determinedly they stay ‘on message’.
with songs that sound designed to fit together, there’s still dynamics to keep the ears open and vibrating. flowing from the smooth “now is the time”, “build” is a very chant-like contrast. it couldn’t be more clear and direct: “build, build, build our country, build, build, build our family, build, build, build our society, build, build, build a new humanity, build, build, build our nation, build, build, build our region, build, build, build island to island…” – you see where this is going…
“piti pata” laments, but then encourages us to “…arise ‘cause your days are numbered…woe be unto them sleepwalkin’ in this time of reckonin’…”
and “the borderline” is a warning “i don’t give a damn what people say…they can’t push you across the line, don’t you go over” that still reminds us “centre yourself, focus yourself, every day is another day”.
then, an homage to transparency, “a happy song” is just that.
“this is a happy song, a simple little happy song, come sing a happy song, a simple little happy song…a sweet and simple melody with just a little harmony…no set a words to buss your brain so you could sing it again and again…raise your voice make a joyful noise and celebrate this levity…everybody sing a-na-a-na-na-na…”
nothing could say as much about that one as those lyrics do. but then, i suppose that holds true for this whole album.
so, with that said, here’s “lovin’” – “declare love not war…give more…love in everything you do, love in everything you say now…love could cure, love gives more…” – i think that’s a lovely and accurate description.
in case i’ve been remiss in the transparency department, what i’m getting at is that the best thing you can do is listen to it. hear it.
“jab jab say…”
press play.

buy it @ cdbaby.
listen to caribbeanfreeradio interview in which 3canal discuss the show, the album and making them, and select some choice tunes for your pleasure-filled listening experience.

walk good.

art is cool

big up spinning girl for directing me to this dude's work...
walk good.

aye allyuh, whey d lime?

so the fbi put out a warning about an email scam- just to let us poor folk know that if we receive email claiming to be from the fbi saying that they're monitoring our cybernavigation, we should ignore it. it's junk. the fbi would never send unsolicited email to private accounts.
like we thought for a nanosecond that they'd tell us they're monitoring us.
also notice they didn't bother denying the surveillance...

now, getting to the point i was about to make yesterday, i finally figured out how to articulate what bothers me about american society: nobody could just lime.
now, for those who still haven't appreciated the sentiment of this expression, liming is "the art of doing nothing"; to lime is "to congregate for idle chatter" and the lime is the persons gathered for that "purpose" and/or the event/locale of said gathering (if i left out any shades of, or implied meanings it's only an attempt at brevity).
this expression is conjugated into every known part of speech (much like any standard cuss-usage as noun, verb, adjective, et al) and is employed as such as frequently as it occurs in trini life, which is constantly.
neither word nor act require any thought on our part- we are born knowing what it is and how to do it (mostly, it happens automatically), so its shades of meaning are never discussed. which is why i'd never articulated what strikes me as lame about the usa this succintly- the answer is a word i temporarily release from my vocabulary every time i touch down in this country.
but i read something that reminded me that implicit in liming is that the activity implies there being no other reason for its occassion than the thing itself. and that's the thing exactly- when some of us chicks (d.c.) got together the other day for 'ladies night' and our significant others got together for a guys' night (not much choice, since the ladies were kicking one of them out of his shared residence for the night, so he and the boys came by me+grims when i left for the girls) what i said was great was us getting together just for the sake of getting together, instead of a birthday or some holiday or visiting friend or friend's show or other shit that comes with expectations of a certain type of attitude and behaviour from those gathered to make it a good time for the b'day girl or director or friend-from-way-back or who-the-fuck-ever. this 1 time we were just there to enjoy each other's company for no other reason.
but still, somebody had to plan the night to make that happen, and we emailed about scheduling for fucking weeks over it, too.
nobody just passed by and limed until somebody realised (without a day-planner, no less) the night was done and it was tomorrow. and i realise this is what i was trying to tell the ladies.
when i land in trini, i pass by people on the way from the airport to home and end up liming for hours, sometimes still in winter clothes, and getting home in the wee hours of next morning after landing since dinnertime. and half the time i'm doing this with my mom, the other half with zed, so it's not like it's about seeing people i don't talk to that often anymore.
americans don't ever pass and buss a lime. every gathering, outing, or event is planned to fucking death and evites have to go out weeks in advance. trinis decide now where to go now, if we go somewhere that isn't a pardner's or cousin's house (accessible food is crucial) and other pardners always welcome. we reach when we reach and ride out when we ride, without scheduling when and with whom big posse movements will happen, because big posses just fall in.
liming is never as stressful as making plans to get together and hang out.
i need a lime.

walk good.

the high price of machismo?

we've known that there are more women than men on earth and that women generally outlive men.
but we actually start with 126 male embryos for every 100 female embryos. male embryos are more likely to perish in the womb so by birth we have 105 baby boys for every 100 baby girls. then, more males die in infancy, childhood and early adulthood, until by age 100 it's down to 1 man for every 5 women.
during adulthood, this effect is partially attributed to men living harder and taking more pointless risks.

i was originally going to write much more, but i don't like the way my second topic abuts the first, so i'm out for now. next thought and the review sooncome. besides, the 3day weekend starts as soon as i finish prepping my alien abduction segment tomorrow, so i'll be a blogging fool soon enough, with my missed-deadline-flash-fiction and new one (unless jj takes holidays) in tow too.
walk good.

i'm sick

so after being good for a little while then briefly bad again, last week i did a catch up, but was too busy this weekend to post, or even finish my flash fiction in time, and then promptly got sick as soon as i was done being busy.
i do, however, have something i really wanna discuss, and a review, so i'll be back, hopefully tonight.
(promise, nico)
walk good.

las' 2 fucking weeks

i know this is late, but i can't just let it go. it's been a fucking mess.
i took the whole of last week off and made zero dollars to try and facilitate the refinishing of our floors where the bathroom-contractor-assholes had fucked it up, before alyfromcali moved back and needed our guest room for 2weeks until her apartment's ready (of course, the worst patch right outside the bathroom door is also right outside the guest room door).
i spent the week catching up on shit i hadn't been able to take care of while the bathroom-contractor-assholes were destroying my home and not doing a good job on the bathroom. but there were things i couldn't do until the floor was done, so i spent much of the week in frustration, not getting those things done, and the floor still never got fixed.
in addition, last wednesday night (not yesterday), the toilet started leaking and pissy toilet water seeped through the floor and kitchen ceiling, and dripped on me- and no, the fact that it was my pee does not make it ok. so not only were the bathroom-contractor-assholes ruining it as they went along, they managed to set us up with 2week-delay shit (no pun intended) too, that involved tearing up our kitchen ceiling and grims removing the new toilet, replacing the wax seal twice, and putting it back together.
last week was otherwise generally crazy, but that's normal, so no need for details.
tuesday night (this week) grims had a 9pm outdoor game. i rushed home from the radio station about 7.30pm, planning to bathe before we left, since we wouldn't get back home until after midnight. so i bathed, and somehow broke my glasses. i wore my contacts to the game, figuring i'd wear them to work yesterday (wednesday) too, then get the glasses fixed after work so i'd have them back within 24hours.
it was a good plan, until i fell asleep in the lenses and woke up yesterday morning with my eyes glued shut, then managed to melt the goo with copious hot water, remove the lenses, stumble around blindly while trying to get dressed, then put those gross lenses right back in my eyes because i had to work and my glasses were broke. i wore darkers all day (even sitting @ the desk in front of the computer) because my eyes looked so shitty i didn't want to spend the day answering questions about my possible drunkenness or death in the family, and they hurt like a bitch when any light hit them. they hurt so bad i even wore them all the way home in the dark on the bus.
but i got new glasses and got home (and soaked in the mini-hurricane) last night just in time for our meeting with the bathroom-contractor-asshole who never returned my phone calls while the (very poor) work was in progress but has managed to call several times since he realised we'd kicked his crew out and he could try collecting $. the meeting was our opportunity to tell him how much we weren't paying him for all the shit poorly done, not done, and in need of redoing.
when we got to the recently leaking toilet, this asshole had the nerve to ask why we didn't call him when it started leaking, and i had to spell out how absurd it woulda been to call the petards (yes, 'p'- i like shakespeare) who fucked it up in the first place (along with the floors and several other things, like wiring the light fixtures and outlet in series instead of in parallel which, one only needs high school physics to know, means that the second fixture and outlet can only be used when the first light's already on, which makes the night-light we used to plug in for guests moot, among other issues) and trust that they'd be smart or capable enough to fix it. needless to say, that meeting was not the most wonderful way to round off the night of wading through the storm unable to see, trying to get glasses fixed. plus, we ended up giving him more than i woulda, but grims is a nice guy. i'm consoling myself with the fact that we still withheld about $1,500 from the initial quote for their incompetence, but i have to admit if it were entirely up to me, they'd get a lot less.

anyway, on the positive, yesterday trinbago barely qualified for the world cup.
the 2game qualifier nearly killed me, as did the facts that grims break biche to watch it while i couldn't, and that since i'm not currently there i didn't get a public holiday today (i knew if the soca warriors won there'd be a holiday in it, and was rueing my location in advance). but yay! germany, we comin'.
and now, after 2games, they know how to say the name of our team too- i so wanted to call after the 1st match and tell them we know how to spell soccer, and the team name isn't a reference to the sport. i hate how sometimes sports commentators think their too-often-regurgitated useless information makes up for not doing basic homework.
i have to say though, that i was unpleasantly surprised by some of the behaviour i saw from bahrain, and the shitty denial of our rhythm section. but small t'ing. we dey.
and now i'm tired and have to stop this so i can make it through work tomorrow.
i apologise for not being on the ball (pun intended that time) this week, especially about the football excitement- i'm more excited than i sound, but tiredness is kicking my ass to the mattress.
i gone dey. bed callin'.
walk good.

last-minute fff

admittedly rushed and not as well edited as i'd like, but an attempt nonetheless, because i can't let myself off without at least trying...
the end of last week just got away from me- rehearsals for 2 different shows, an audition, the game, trying to write a review, thorough house-clean from top-to-bottom (especially after an accident that saw the shop-vac filter falling down the stairs and creating a outward-diffusing dust-cloud that made me feel like i was watching an atom bomb's mushroom slowly coat our whole house in construction dust), and alyfromcali moving back...(more on all that later)
as always, big-up to the friendly neighbourhood purgatorian, jj for this week's set-up, which was a list of things to incorporate, rather than an opening sentence...

“i don’t know…i smell a rat.”
he always said that, even when he knew it was all on the up and up, just to make them uneasy. and he knew that if he wrinkled his humungous nose just right, it should make them think vaguely, or at least subconsciously, of falcor from the neverending story, which would make the whole experience that much more eerie for the accosted, which was important to his desired overall effect – just because it was now an actual job didn’t mean he couldn’t take pride in his work, as he previously had pleasure in his hobby.
he knew that making them uneasy without their knowing it was intentional was the key to breaking them.
they were already sniveling, a few more minutes in his presence would reduce them to jello – completely malleable but with great bounce-back ability – after all, somebody had to tell the tale to warn off possible future transgressors.
he took it very seriously, being the syndicate’s snake. he found a frequent lift in his mental glamour-shot of himself – always there, in the background, silently coiled but ready to strike, deadly at a moment’s notice – every time he pictured himself that way he got chills, then a secondary chill for all those who had to witness the snake in action. the falcor thing was just a little additional weirdness someone had pointed out to him, that he found helpful to the breaking down process, but the snake was his much-idealised self-image.
he cherished his reputation.
as he wrapped up the session, smiling inwardly at his apparent success, he glanced around again, making sure that each face was appropriately terrified before he took his leave. of course, they were. he was very good at this.
as his eyes lingered over the one woman in the group – she really wasn’t too ugly, even with the freshly inflicted wounds and last week’s now-reopened scars – he saw her expression shift.
the snake tensed. this wasn’t the look he expected in her eyes.
he followed her moving gaze as it pulled his attention up to the roof of the building closest to their corner of the stinky alley, and just barely had time, even as it found its way straight to his heart (although he didn’t know yet it was poisoned), to utter the only thought he could formulate in what would be his final shock and dismay,
“who the hell still uses a bow+arrow?!”

does it matter that the snake is figurative?
i'll have more time to work on the next one.
walk good.

steups!

just wanted to big-up caribbeanfreeradio for directing me to my new favourite description of a steups. i actually found the link on the accompanying caribbean free photo, linked on the 'freeradio homepage. for those who may not know what a 'steups' is, i suggest reading below to see if the description does it for you, or using the link provided in the previous sentence to get the full document. if you'd prefer a short definition, check trini dictionary links on my sidebar. i encourage you to find out yourself. it's more fun.
oh- and since we talking about accoutrements, i should also mention the recent launch of caribbean free video...
and now, my favourite excerpt:

"she could not read or write a word in english
but took every vowel and consonant of it
and rung it around, like the articulated neck
of our sunday dinner sacrificial fowl.
in her anger she stabbed at english,
walked it out,
abandoned it in favor of a long kiss-teeth..."
Lorna Goodison ‘Turn thanks to Miss Mirry', 1999.

walk good.

no-name football

i fully recognise that for anybody not from (or not married to somebody from- better not discount grims) either trinidad+tobago or bahrain, or their regions (not really sure if bahrain has a regional community like the caribbean) this match between 2 who-the-hell-are-they countries may seem like a tiny step on the path to the world cup final.
but in spite of telling myself not to get any hopes up because i know how our boys stop sometimes, i am rather fucking excited.
trinbago plays bahrain in the first of our world cup qualifier matches this saturday afternoon, and grims says we get the game @ 5.30pm, so we called some friends and planned some food.
will the soca warriors make me swallow it again?
more later.
walk good.

khari showed me the way...

You are a GRAMMAR GOD!

Congratulations! If your mission in life
is not already to preserve the English tongue,
it should be. You can smell a grammatical
inaccuracy from fifty yards. Your speech is
revered by the underlings, though some may
blaspheme and call you a snob. They're just
jealous. Go out there and change the world.

How grammatically correct are you? (Revised with answer key)
brought to you by Quizilla

walk good.

flash fiction time again

as always, big-up to jj for setting us on the path.
before posting my attempt, i just want to say that when i went off to read all the flash fiction entries last week i was also going to read from the week before when i barely had enough time to write something myself and never had a chance to read others. the stuff from 2 weeks ago was amazing (and yes, each link i just gave also links to jj, which takes you to all the other entries from that week).

The champagne cork was on the floor and in her hand…
wait. that couldn’t be right.
she shifted and tried to refocus.
now the champagne cork was just on the floor and what was in her hand looked more like a very small stuffed mushroom. clearly the runt of the litter.
she tilted her head back slowly, after a faster false start that resulted in the floor swimming away from under her ass and bubbles emanating from her ears, and tossed the tiny mushroom at the back of her throat. and she only had to do it 3 times before she was actually able to catch and eat it; the 5-second-rule applies for each individually dropped item.
with the mushroom floating securely at the top of her oesophagus, absorbing some of the liquor, she thought she might try standing. maybe even finding (after remembering) whoever she’d arrived with. she figured a look at the night’s alcohol’s other imbibers would narrow down the possibilities.
but which was the best way up? lean over onto hands and knees, push up with the shoulders, use the curled-under-toes for leverage? those knee-high black-patent stilettoed catwoman boots might throw balance off enough to make that hard, and failing would mean smashing face-first onto the floor, which wasn’t looking too stable to start with.
maybe slouching there a little longer was the best immediate choice. rising could come shortly.
maybe a watch would help- timing out each activity seemed like a good way to motivate the actual action.
but a downward loop of the neck yielded no timepiece-sighting, so suddenly, using the momentum of that rebounding upswing seemed the new best idea, and she was soupily on her knees a few moments later.
a slow take of the room offered no familiar faces, but after a luxuriously indulgent blink, it looked like a brand new party and she saw bobo in a corner with what appeared to be a bobblehead doll tucked under his armpit.
she wobbled over and propped herself next to him and his ventriloquist’s puppet, leaned in a little to compete with the deodorant-sniffer, and tried to explain to bobo that it might be best that they leave, while she still could voluntarily. bobo, however, was not getting it, most likely because of his distracting attachment.
but it’s hard to be insistent when the wall lending you support isn’t holding its ground and you find yourself sinking to the level of the brass belt buckle of a cowboy wearing clown make-up.
she grabbed the bull by its horns, and felt the metal piece come loose in her hand. at least now bobo was paying attention to her untimely descent. she hoped her eyes were pleading her case as her mouth clearly couldn’t, and felt a wash of relief as good as the champagne had initially been when bobo finally noticed her condition, peeled the poodle off his leg and said,
“looks like it’s time to get you home, girl”, as he pulled her up and toward the door.

walk good.

confession

i have what i recognise is an entirely irrational fear of falling down stairs. not that i shouldn't be afraid, klutz that i am, but the magnitude of the fear is unreasonable.
my heart flutters madly each time i go down them (coda: this applies only to actual flights of stairs, not the 3 steps down from my gallery to the road) and the fear is specific enough that the flutter's because of the recurrent mental image of myself going down the particular flight of stairs in question in a long dress or skirt and heels, wineglass in hand, tripping on my hem and tumbling to the bottom to be slowly turned over to reveal a long shard of the glass embedded in my jugular and too much blood already lost.
it makes no difference if i'm not actually carrying a glass when this rushes into my mind, but if i happen to be, my terror is nearly paralysing, which, of course, adds to the sensation that i may fall headlong at any second.
i can't stop myself from thinking it every time i walk down the stairs. every descent is a flirtation with death. i'm convinced that my desire to not lose my drink, coupled with the number of multiple-storey buildings i drink in will kill me.
since we live in a house with 2 flights of stairs and i grew up in a house with 1, this fear is frequent, and yet i can't outgrow or get over it.

walk good.

ok ok ok nico

yes, i am a bad friend and bad blogger, so here's the post that saves me from being that bad person who only posts for flash fiction friday...
and truthfully, i meant to post earlier this week anyway, if for no reason other than to say grims finally posted again! he even posted a photo upon his return, and promises to write again tonight. i'm hoping this may become a regular thing for my own selfish reasons, but also in the small hope he may attempt a flash fiction friday or 3...
so here's my "in honour of nico" story (since he say i giving trouble and he lives in london, this is dedicated to him, and yes, it's all true): today i kinda met charles+camilla (british royals or whatever-they-are)- meaning that my shakespeare gig did a workshop for them and i shoulda met them, but hid instead because i hate that shit. the idea of shaking hands and smiling @ strangers i don't care about in the least, who also just shook hands with 300 other people and their germs between 7am and noon is not even slightly appealing to me.
besides which, the royals don't actually do shit- the positions are titular (heeheehehee) and financial, so basically, their rich asses are supported by the fact that their ancestors actually did the work of running a country, once upon a time, and so today they have to be rich, waste my time with protocol, visit the minions, shake hands and smile a lot, ride horses and play croquet and golf and shit, have their photos taken, and die publicly.
standing ovations are staged for their arrival/departure, in spite of their not actually delivering any performance beyond the handshake+smile-for-the-cameras, and as a performer, i find that offensive. i don't applaud people for being rich, or for shit their dead forbears did, and i don't shake hands and smile and have my picture taken with people who have nothing to do with my life.
i guess this is why i'd do better as a recluse and will never amount to anything, in spite of several trinis' desires and regularly lobbying me to become our first female prime minister (as if i could just wake up and decide to be it, and have it be). some think this "theatre thing" of mine will give way to a burning desire to do the right thing by my country, without realising that i already want to do the right thing by my country and always have, but just don't think i have enough hypocrite in me to play politics. i want nothing but the best for trinbago and i think i might have some decent ideas, but don't feel confident i could work the system. i think i'd cuss people and ride out in a rage way too early to get anything much done- you may have noticed, bureaucracy and protocol are pet peeves that really set me off.
case in point: i almost killed a woman @ the aussie embassy this week. the fucking shit they trying to hand me have me saying "fuck australia"- i seen enough pictures, so they can keep their so-called character judgements for themselves. how dare they, and who do they think they are anyway, considering that they're a country of exiled prisoners' children...
the only reasons i'm going to comply with their fucking non-specific bureaucratic bullshit requirements for the visa are that grims needs to see his sis (it's been 5-ish years) and we already paid way too much for the damn plane tickets. and believe me, if we hadn't paid that gross sum for those tickets, i'd be sending him alone and making a 3week trip to sweet trini instead- cheaper, and with less bullshit. i'm so over australia right now. and since, like i said, i've seen the photos, why the fuck should i deal with their ridiculous red tape?!
anyway, forget them.
me+grims have a quasi-weekend alone together, so i'm off. i should be back with flash fiction by the end of the weekend, and i'll be a better blogger from now on. i promise, nico.
walk good.