Dreams and Things

I fell asleep last night with the face of the moon pressed against my window pane. The sky looked barren and emitted a kind of strange desolation. I got out of bed and fumbled with the curtains at my window to get a better view. It suddenly occurred to me that i had not seen the moon, let alone stars, for longer than i cared to imagine; after all, gongoozling at the celestial body is not exactly a pastime in a big city. I opened my window for a preferable view but only so i could further study its uneven pale face. I soon realized that there were no pimples or wrinkles, except a few minor scrapes here and there. I retired shortly after to the comfort of my pillow top mattress with a blithesome feeling of discovery that you can only get from the physical world. Eventually, i was able to fall asleep, and sleep did come easy but not without companions. I had two disturbing dreams. The abridged version of the first is that, for a reason i could not understand or, perhaps, remember, one of my incisors had fallen out and another was loose and pulsating. I held on to the one intact partly because i did not want to lose it, and partly because the pain was agonizing. The other dream was less painful but equally questionable: i was having a bowel movement over a long period of time with three other individuals in the same room impatiently waiting their turn. Luckily, i awoke to the piercing sound of my alarm clock and with only a sudden urge to urinate.

In West Indian culture, each dream has a meaning, good or bad. A dream is also considered a dose of luck for the dreamer, since it can be a solemn call for lottery winnings. There is a dream interpreter in every West Indian family, religious or non-religious, who is always willing and ready to tell you exactly which subconscious symbol matches a number; and the interpreter does not have to cajole anyone into buying a ticket; it is expected that you would not want to miss the chance of winning, and would, therefore, buy...(to be continued).

However...

sometimes we are our harshest critic. I am still very much in love with academics (in spite of our recent quarrel). I am still trying to figure out who i am, really. And my brain is always working overtime...

Academic Musings

As i embark upon this new and exciting journey called graduate studies, i am, again, thrown into the corner of my own meditations about higher education. While it would be quite an accomplishment for anyone to receive higher learning, the (abstract) reality and truth of what such learnings actually do to the human element inside us is nothing short of a systematic moulding. What i'm trying to say is this, and it frightens me to the core of my being:

When people become academics, it broadens the gap between them and the not-so-accomplished "others" in a way that is at once both a (capitalist) conspiracy and the workings of an intellectual cultism. I am thinking about the cons of academic learning, here, for i grew up hearing the pros. What happens is you go through a long period of undergraduate indoctrination wherein you learn various theories and literary practices through the political views of various professors whose views, in turn, reflect the dogma of the university as a whole. When you are being indoctrinated, you think that you are actually learning because you are told to "think critically". The irony is that, in the end, when you sit down to write an exam, or an essay, you are told that you have to "support" your opinions and "cite" sources because it reflects academic integrity and shows how talented you are. What students don't realize is that as they "cite" and "support" their "opinions" they invariably mirror/mimic/reproduce a knowledge system that is equipped with the glorious power of a (contained) intellectual tradition. By the time you begin to have an opinion, you not only realize that it is not your opinion but the branch of knowledge you have come to associate with, you also notice that opinions come after influence.

O.K, let us say that you decide to go further, and you wish to pursue the Arts. Now, you are a part of an academic elite, you can now do something which up to 98% of the world's population cannot do: you can comfortable speak in an abstract language which only a few people like yourself can understand, you help to maintain an elitist pool of knowledge (and maybe add to it) and you could close your eyes to the gaping gap between yourself and the uneducated poor; in other words, you can close your eyes to concrete reality and never be asked to open them; unless, of course, you decide to use your "credentials" to work for Red Cross, UNICEP etc. You may say, "i will be an activist!" But how far will your "activism" goes, and who will most likely be left out?

When we use words like "academic musings" we are already in a different fan club. We belong to, or at least, trying to get into, the club of "privileged decision makers" and "movers and shakers of the world", whether we know this to be true or not. Some say that poor uneducated abused women are abused because they do not have an education. Well, o.k., education/indoctrination gives you some choices, but. What happens when the abused woman goes to find help and is turned away because of red tape, perhaps, who knows, there is a waiting list at the shelter? Who, then, becomes the "problem" to society, the drunken husband or the educated service worker who is also under the guidance of her more educated "superior"? What about other things like having a government that ensures that all the people it is supposed to be "protecting" have equal access to food, clothing, shelter, jobs, medicare, libraries, technology and the pursuit of happiness? Surely, the well being of citizens should always come first, or at least, be on the top of things. But what does this have to do with higher learning? Academic learning shows you the gap between the past and the present, it gives you intellectual tools to notice the difference and then subtly helps you to widen those gaps and differences. So, if we must have it, an academic education should not be our only education, i'd say. We should also learn about the core of what makes us human, that is, vulnerable mortal flesh with a brain, a sex drive, and an insatiable appetite for progress. Academics must be introspective and self-critical.

Academic learning can make us all hermits, in some a sense. And whether we cripple beneath it, crumble, or reign supreme over it, we must understand that it's a language/knowledge cult, and that there is nothing "equal" about it. A medical doctor can spend three minutes with a patient (and not so much as call her by her name), and in this three minutes, examine her and hands her a prescription without explaining a diagnosis or getting to know her personally because he's not paid for all that trouble. The greatest task for all of us, i believe, is to find an equilibrium between higher learning and "other" learnings: that would be quite an accomplishment.

Nativity

The theorem of confinement
sits on the brow of each native,
on the wings of creatures
painting cirrus across heaven.
The halo of the native is the curse
of the fallen saint. There are no gods
for scavengers who raid the
earth, for in sin they must
rest: the cauldron of despair

The natives embark on
a journey befouled
by an invisible rod,
their decampment marred by
limestone pebbles and sulfur.
Their feet carry the sounds
of migrants mauled by
rough times

Their gazes avert to an
empty dream
as their eyes congeal the sorrows
of mass murder.
Hardened souls,
the neologists had thought
about them
for the native sees nothing

They cannot see themselves,
they are not allowed to,
their lives elude transparency.
Blinded by the beam of history
shining upon their land,
a land without soil, bearings
not to be found.
The natives are lost in time.

The lines of their palms are
the (new) fixation like
brick walls cascading,
a mirror without reflections.
Their wrinkled skin stretch to
fit rows of expressions of
the Ashanti, Apache, Yoruba,
Mandingo, Kalinago, Ibo, Cherokee,
Blackfoot, Taino, Cheyenne, Inuit,
Creole, Métis...

They see the hopes of their ancestors
betrayed
they must not remember.
The songs are dying, slowly
they will have no voice to sing praises
the beating sun recalls their destiny,
the cages of their minds

Ask the natives,
their lives are open like
fresh wound
deep with goo to fester
and spread like wildfire
but the cards show they
must live to conquer...
the cards show, they must live

Anxiety, Plus

Oh my, i'm nervously excited about starting GS next week. I keep wondering if i will be able to handle it; you know, all that "serious" work. Truth is, i wondered the same thing when i started my undergrad, and here i am. I am very intellectually insecure but i'm the only one who knows that. I told one of my professors that i was shy to speak when she invited a guest lecturer (*embarrass*) and i believe she was surprised :); i don't know, i certainly become a different person when i write. I feel more free to be honest and could care less what other people think when i'm being ethically or morally open-minded. As soon as i begin to verbalize, i almost become too cautious.

What annoys me most is a seminar in which nobody talks and we all just show up because of the participation marks and could care less if the instructor speaks for the entire three hours. To sit and listen to an instructor for three hours is more excruciating than getting my wisdom tooth out; not because he/she isn't doing a great job, but my attention span is not that long. In my first and second undergrad years (which are the listening years) i would often dream and wake-up to reality many times over before the period would be up. It's amazing how, somewhere between dream and reality, i acquired knowledge.

I like when i can look forward to a seminar, and when it's over, wish the next one would be the following day. I'm weird like that :). I have to get over my shyness though. Sometimes i get so nervous before i speak that when i do begin, i am, literally, out of breath. And my contributions are often times productive, i would like to think. Oh well, we all have things we have to "get over". Now, if i could only get over my fear that the MA program will be unmanageable...

Ten Things and a Poem

Here are ten things you didn't know about me...

1. i have been to the Cayman Islands
2. i received 100% on my citizenship test
3. i make my best decisions in the shower
4. i don't care for flowers
5. i don't gamble
6. i bite my nails
7. i dream a lot
8. i can't swim
9. i 'm faithful
10. i like diamonds

Accursed Romance

As a girl, she'd met him.
He took her, tempestuously
raped her, made her want him
she hated him.
He saved her, ruined her
she opened, like a jasmine
to his promises, kisses
playing for keeps, she couldn't.
He was her secret,
her "little white lie",
her escape, her jewel
her confidante.
They played chess, naked
with words, without language
he touched her, she cried
in pain, in ecstasy, in hope
that nothing was lost
between the sheets
of her heart, feign.

My "Fix"

I finished watching "Millionaire" and "Jeopardy" and needed a fix (i don't drink or smoke, i watch tv) so i scanned the channels and bumped into "Miss Teen USA 2007". Actually they reached a milestone this year: they gave the title to a brunette instead of a blond! Good for them! I'm much better at the "millionaire" questions than the jeopardy clues, maybe because i want to be a millionaire :). But that's ok, i'm more than happy with the little that i have. Some people win pageants, some people win money, and some people write blogs; who said life wasn't fair?

I'm feeling a little anti-establishment tonight, can't stand red tape.

Over the last couple days i have been reading and working on my proposals of which i now have one page (single space); one more page to go!

I had some shrimps for dinner today, again. I've been having it once per week for the past two weeks. I was allergic to all seafood except codfish and tuna. A couple weeks ago i tried shrimp (haven't had it in 10years)and realized that i didn't swell up, so i was happy and had it again, and again, and again. The next step is crab and lobster; scary. One step at a time. Now, if only i had 20/20 vision...

Making Preparations

Today i will be reading, reading, reading, and focusing on my SSHRC and OGS proposals.

Free Will

We should strive towards our own perfection.
In other words, we should strive to be our best self.

Mr. Dean

My prayers and thoughts go out to everyone in the Caribbean who have, and will have, experience the wrath of hurricane Dean. The Caribbean has taken too much beating from natural disasters; the man upstairs probably forgot to do a roll call to see who have had enough. I mean, since the arrival of Columbus, the roll call seemed to have stopped in the Caribbean sea. The man just bring pure bad luck wid em from Europe, cho. It's seems like Caribbean countries are set to beg their way through history since damages from natural disasters are always in the millions. Every time these countries try to stand there is always something there to beat them down. Residents can only watch in fear.

As usual, only the tourists can leave. Natives have never truly had the luxury of "leaving". I can just imagine the loss that the poor will face, not to mention those living on the edge of cliffs and close to the shores. People who have nothing before the hurricane will have nothing-plus afterwards. I spoke to my sister-in-law last night and she told me that hurricane Ivan almost lifted her house off it blocks and it was category 3 on a 5point scale. My sister's house was flooded from Ivan as well; this time she is reluctant to face Dean. I encouraged everyone to stay strong and they all agreed that they will have to. They refused to be beaten down in spirit by Mr. Dean.

Looking Back

I accidentally (?:)) came upon an article that i wrote for the University news paper over three years ago. Darn, i was pissed back then (still am about a lot of things).
Here's the link http://tao.ca/~cupe3903/web/documents/criticaltimes-1-5.pdf

It's on page 4, entitled, "A Black Statement or Writing Resistance"

NOTE TO SELF
Keep writing.

A Lousy Day

I did not do anything constructive today. In fact, everything i did was personally destructive: stressed over the uncontrollable, stressed over the controllable, got so darn pissed at Children's Services that i could barely contain myself.

NOTE TO SELF
Because i am perfect (and i mean this in the humblest way possible), it doesn't mean that everyone else is.

The "L" Word

"If two people love each other, there can be no happy end to it." - Ernest Hemingway

"Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden where the flowers are dead." -Oscar Wilde

Amidst all that is happening around us
i desire to think about love tonight
about how love makes us human,
both vulnerable and strong
about how love hardly negotiates
or compromise.
To love, and be loved
is such an amazing thing
it gives you stability, eases your pain
but it also makes you ache inside.
When you experience love,
it's like floating through air
with the clouds cushioning you
and drying away your tears.
Ain't nothing like love,
ain't nothing like the smooth,
sensual movement of love over your body.
its touch, its stroke, its rhythmic flow
through your brain.
Ain't nothing like love
it's like sunshine peeking through a storm,
it's a surprise and call for truce.
It hits you hard, and leaves you breathless
Ain't nothing like love
It smells like the first day of April
and the and the last day of Christmas.
It never leaves you cold but feeling warm
and peaceful inside.
Love is to die for
love is for keeps,
but never, ever, wear your heart on your sleeve.
Love must be genuine, and it usually is
when it has matured.
Mature love is less magical but no less heavenly
if you take the time to show the person you care.
The meaning of love is in its temper,
if it's angry love you have to think it over.
if it's shy love just give it wings
if it's disguised in a smile or small gesture
give it life
if it's stubborn give it time
love never fails, though it surrenders
in the battle of love the soul is often the loser.
Take heed to love and remember, all is never fair in love.

It's called LIFE

It started out as a very good day, actually. I woke up a bit late but, nevertheless, well rested. I went out to arrange daycare for my little princess as i will be heading out to grad studies pretty soon. After such formalities we went out to lunch; i decided to enjoy the outdoors as we are usually cooped-up inside ruining her summer. I made mac and cheese for the princess' dinner (it's her favourite), and stir fried rice with shrimp for the rest of the family. We watched "Baby's First TV" together with daddy and big sister, and we all ended up having too much water melon as we were very hot and thirsty; mind you, we do have central air, but for some reason, someone turned it off, and the whole time we couldn't figure out why we were so hot. Anyways, it's up and running again. I watched "Last Comic Standing" at 9pm because i enjoy a good laugh, and because i actually find it quite relaxing. My husband received a phone call from his sister at around 10pm. His father had been diagnosed with prostate cancer. As a matter of fact, today is not a good day for the family.

Lights, Camera, Conscience

"Thus conscience does make cowards of us all" - Hamlet

"I think we have to own the fears that we have of each other, and then, in some practical way, some daily way, figure out how to see people differently than the way we were brought up to." - Alice Walker

"Thou shalt not be a victim. Thou shalt not be a perpetrator. Above all, thou shalt not be a bystander." - Holocaust Museum, Washington, DC


Besides taking a trip to the doctor, and coming face-to-face with the red-hot scorches of the outside world, and grappling with some very hard personal decisions, and succumbing to an endless parade behind my daughter because she vowed to never keep still, and praying that the headache that she was giving me was just a phase, and wondering why life was so hard, and wondering why my life was so hard, and realizing how problematic it was for me to say that my life was so hard....I happened upon my own personal meditation about conscience and fear...

When i thought about the responsibilities that i had as a citizen of the world, and the fact that sitting on my couch reading a book written by an highly acclaimed author didn't exactly placed me in a position to do anything, call me crazy, but it made me think long and hard about my own complacency in allowing families living in cardboard boxes, children going hungry, children not having access to education and so on, it made me think long and hard about my own complacency in allowing these things to happen because i did nothing.

I also thought about my own political views which surprised me because i didn't know that i had any. When i thought about all the people who went up against powerful authorities and risked their lives in the name of revolution and change, even while knowing that their own lives were at risk, it made me feel more like a coward than i had ever felt. As i sat on my couch, i thought about this. And i realized that i had never felt more powerless in my entire life; and like all people with a conscience, i thought: "what can i do?", only to hear my own voice echo my own incapability. I didn't have the weapons, or resources, as they say, that i needed. I came to realise that my only weapons were my words. And nothing hurts more than a willingness to do something, and understanding the pressing need for something to be done, only to find that you could have only written a blog about it and move on. Cold, isn't it? I wondered how my life would have been different had i been so circumscribed by the rations of history (and the lord knows my life had been much circumscribed).

My only solace, and conclusion if you will, was that: knowledge gives us all a conscience, and it is also knowledge, not ignorance, which causes us not to act. A friend once told me that i always tended to put other people's need before my own. Maybe that's my problem, or, maybe, just maybe, i'm just being human.

Stories, Essays and Friendships

I woke up early this morning, well, not too early, around 9am as i went to bed past 1am last night. I was up doing nothing in particular. I like stories a lot, so i urged my hobby to tell me stories :). He insisted that what he was telling me were not stories but reality; in the end there was a long debate between us about what was a story and what was, in fact, reality. I could not convince him, try as i might, that when we re-tell something that happened in the past we all add and take away from it to create our own version, and that that in itself fictionalizes the "reality" of what we were telling.

He told me about two men who went into the bush to cook (flour) dumplings. While one was cooking the dumplings, the other went fishing for shrimps in a nearby river. When he was away, the dumplings, when cooked by the other man, came to nine in total. Soon the second man came with his catch and found that the first man had already cooked and shared the dumplings: five for himself and four for the man who went fishing, and he insisted that he got five as he was the one who cooked them. The other man thought that was unfair and asked the man who cooked to divide it equally so that he got four and one half, but the other man disagreed. A fight ensued between them, and, in the end, the man who cooked stabbed the other man to death over one half of a dumpling. My hobby insisted that this was a "true" story. Yea, sure. I'm a sucker for stories; i'm hoping my daughter will also be a sucker as i have quite a few to tell her when she gets older!

I have three or four essays that i have to lengthen so that they can be published and i know that i have that to do but i can't seem to get started. And i had the entire summer to "get started". When classes begin next month i won't have time, and they will get pushed aside until next year and i cannot allow that. So, i promise myself that i will start tonight (fingers crossed).

My best friend is no longer my friend, it seems. I'm not sure why, but that's the least of my concerns right now. I've learned that if people make themselves inaccessible to you, ain't no way you gonna reach them. God knows i have a good heart; i never kept many friends while growing up, but the few that i had were always dear to me, regardless of our differences. I hope the aforementioned have a long and prosperous life.

Beyond Pearly Gates and Picket Fences

I am writing this blog out of a profound sense of grief; almost like a parent who does her best to parent her child only to find that her child develops into someone she can no longer recognize, and she constantly thinks about where she went wrong, or if it was something she had said to the child, or didn't say, while it was growing. This blog is for those who like stories and never stop listening, even between the raindrops...

HERE'S A STORY

There is so much good in the world, yet some of us can't find it.
There is so much love in the world, yet some of us can't feel it.
There's always enough to go around but we don't spread it.
Why are we so selfish and possessive?
Why do we allow others to feel isolated and do nothing about it?
Love and kindness are free, yet we don't share it.
Life doesn't have to suck for those who don't have IT.
People who are hurting often show it, yet we turn and look the other way.
Pain is universal, yet specific.
Pain is individual, yet affective.
Can't we, each individual, take time to listen?
Can't we take time to hear the silenced stories?
Can't we say "fuck you" to social differences?
It's complicated, but it doesn't have to be, if we, each individual, won't let it.

Reading and Housekeeping

So, yesterday i cleaned and moved around some furniture. Today i did the laundry and continued reading Cormac McCarthy's BLOOD MERIDIAN in prep for my grad-English-lit class next month; it is, by far, waaaaay far, far, the bloodiest and most nauseatingly disgusting book i've ever read! I won't give a full review because then i would only be exposing myself for torture. But, boy, it's nasty. The setting is 1849 wild wild west, American frontier, manifest destiny kind-of-idea complete with the hunting, scalping and massacring of Indians. Every couple of pages, the reader is treated to gruesome murders, mutilations and all manner of body butchery. Men are eating raw buffalo liver, raw mule, raw horse meat, raw whatever *puke*. I'll stop there. What kind of imagination does this author have??? I know the book is based on real historical events, but lord! No wonder he avoids interviews :( . One blurb (in the book) about the author says, "McCarthy is a writer to be read, to be admired, and quite honestly- envied." Yea, sure, whatever. The book is extremely well written, but i wouldn't recommend it, unless you have really good control over your gag reflex!

On a more palatable note, I had some really nice baked chicken for dinner today, and guess who cooked? Moi! I know, i'm just so full of myself :) I don't enjoy cooking though. When i get rich i will be sure to hire a chef, that's it. I can handle everything else :) Hmmm, i will leave you with a happy note:

Roses are red, or yellow, pink, white... whatever,

violets are blue, i think,

sugar is waaaay too sweet,

and so are you!

...by the way, i did finish that Margaret Atwood book, ALIAS GRACE. Yea, the one that weighs 12pounds. It's thick, but superb. I'm not a huge Atwood fan, yet, but she is an amazing writer, simply amazing...

Ramblings about Remembering

You know that you are _____ when the lonely blank pages of a book can no longer contain your (life) writings and you need the public space of the world wide web to announce who you are and what you're about. The thing is, i spend way, way, too much time inside my head for my own good. Ha! Is there anyone else out there like me? I feel a bit special, but it's a weird kind of special. I am also caught up in the modern need to record and remember and i'm not sure why. Many people thrive on forgetting, like my mom, who remembers nothing (or pretends not to). I can't help but think about the trauma of amnesia, to permanently and completely forget. Forgetting, voluntarily, would be like killing a part of yourself, wouldn't it? The task, then, is not just to remember, but to figure out what parts of yourself to kill. Some people cannot afford to forget even though memory is sometimes painful. I remember when i first got my ears pierced at around six years old; i even remember the horrid pain and the twitching and crying that ensued as my sister passed the needle and thread through my ice frozen ear, inside our outdoor kitchen. Yet, i cannot remember what i did that night or the following day. Hmmm, it is probably a good thing that we can't remember half of our experiences, which is where stories from older siblings and grandparents while you curl-up-under-a-blanket-in-the-dark is always a treat better than ice-cream! But don't we always tend to remember the really good and the really bad stuff that happened to us? I mean, who remembers the name of their 3rd grade teacher? I know i don't. So, yea, this blogging thing could be the next best thing to (the trouble of) remembering...

Peaches, Please

She hopes she dreams she wants to take a bath in the tub of ease without worry she's faithful grateful needs to end the struggle as a child she cries in the corner of her dreams to be awake she eats nothing she walks for miles she fetches water labours long without before meals she's tired and needs to rest she cannot rest before she sleeps she tastes hunger on her lips and sucks her own tongue to quench her thirst she tries to live but dies each day as mama takes solace in another's arms she yearns for love while she sleeps on the floor at night to the stirring lullabies of mosquitoes ants nest beside her she studies the noise of crickets, bats and dogs and prays for daylight she cries each day for rescue but hears the footsteps of a stranger next to her she sees her future in the haze of her dreams for she dreams, many.

Let's Talk Trash

Many people drown in the wilderness of poverty having the weight of their dreams pull them down until they hit the-rock-bottom of hopelessness. If there is such a thing as survival, it is individualistic. People do not "survive" as a race or gender or class, but as individual soldiers of an incessant war. The "right kind" of race, gender and class certainly does make survival a lot easier, but not always. Many of these soldiers walk around with a lot of pain in their memory; and since memory is history, the nightmare of it is always at bay and hovering over the present. The social aspect of insanity, for there is a social and psychological side to each individual, is the result of the pressure to stay in line with the other surviving soldiers and the inability to keep up. Thieves, prostitutes, pedophiles, spousal abusers, alcoholics, drug addicts, obese patients et cetera, all suffer from social insanity because the main organs of society have failed them, deliberately or not. The war on terror has been home grown as it started with slave revolts, race riots, civil wars, bra burnings and hunger strikes. Social insanity was there from the start, manifested in the attempts to overthrow/eliminate oppression in its varied colours. People have to live with the cards that they are dealt; some have the losing hand and others the winning. There are definite winners and losers regardless of what capitalism says. There will only be one Oprah Winfrey and one Bill Gates. Parents tell their children the same lie that capitalism tells them: that they can be anything they want. Even though they know it's a sham, parents tell their children because they desperately want to believe it themselves. The truth is, it's a toss what they will be; whether they will weather the storm of life like a stone or dissolve like substance in solvent depends on that toss...