ITS CHRISTMAS EVERYBODY; BE MERRY!!

Christmas Eve

I am tired. Grumpy. Fed up.
I have back pain. Which hurts. A mean one.
Today I met Wendell Manwarren who expressed his appreciation for my articulateness. Yeh. Made me think about 3 canal. For a while. But then we went to the mall for WAYYY too long.


And so: I am tired. Grumpy...

What are we trying to escape?

"I just want to get out"

I've heard that many times, along with "needing a break" and "I can't take it any more". All said in relation to living in Trinidad and Tobago. What a hellhole. Who would want to live here? The tireless retort is, "What about doubles? Roti? Carnival? Jouvert?", and other "prime" examples of "we culture". Then the retort to the retort mentions potholes, inadequate education system, corruption, the "development". Around this point is when the subject is changed or I just stop listening. But there really is a sense of "place", "space" and home here. There are ex-pats that--sometimes comically over-enthusiastically-- totally immerse themselves in "the culture", becoming more hardcore than many born and bred right here. They do amazing things: bird watching catalogues; save the natural beauty rallies; wining doubles-eating competitions; professing a love for Sparrow and David that is all-consuming; Panorama is and annual ritual; etc. After a while even they start to complain too! And of course, this raises a multitude of questions, not the least of which is, "Why the fuck can't we do it we-selves man??!!! This white-man hadda come and do it fuh we?!". There are many, many ways to answer this...jab into the dark. Which I will come to later.
Other phenomenon include that amazing way the Caribbean people can just OWN a place. A trumpet-playing acquaintance of sorts, residing in New York, says that when he's homesick henjust has to go by so-and-so street, a little stretch that is deisgned to be a replica of Frederick/Charlotte Street. ("Of course", i wanted to say,"without the pungent attacks on the nostrils, over-crowded "pavements", overflowing improvised rubbish bins (boxes and such);sometimes, just a heap. In the way.)
One thing we don't seem to export is the "who d ass u think u is" demeanour. Definitely a homesickness; I have not met an emmigrant who does not miss home. (That may just be out of guilt though). No matter the convenience of life somewhere else, they want to get home, if only for a lil while, a fix.
"Home".
Home.

What are we trying to escape?

Catholic Theology of the Body Conference.

"SEX IS GOOD";"HAVE LOTS OF SEX"; "MAN WAS MADE FOR SEX"; "YOU HAVE A PENIS!"; "USE IT FOR SEX"

Yep; that just about sums up the conference (I am leaving out the "with your spouse" bit, but really, its all about the sex, I don't care who you do it with, right?).
The host was a thirty-something, short, cutting the tourist look (short sleeved, yellow shirt, tucked into relaxed-fit bland trousers); it was obvious he had not traveled much, and he admitted to that quite early on. He's still settling down into public speaking, but he was not bad; he had a practiced method, and used it well. There was lots of violent, supposedly expressive, whole-body movement; running up and down in the aisles; punch lines for the jokes were the same, and easily foreseen. Easy complements on Trinidad and Tobago's exuberant singing and "joie de vivre" were scattered. The crowd, ranging from "mature couples" to mini teenage youth group posses, was more or less entertained. For me, the first hour was good, as he confirmed something I already believed in: "Sex is Good". But after that is was the same, basic stuff: Men, don't use/abuse/disrespect women. Women, vice versa. Women, be proud of what you are. Men, you don't really need this point. Yada, yada, yada. Any person with a basic sense of integrity should be able to come to these conclusions; no-one should pay $250 per day. It did touch people though, thank God for that. I saw it with my own eyes, and was glad they thought the money well-spent. Me, I wasted a weekend.
There was lots of soul-bearing: the host had been a vagabond, and told us a lil anecdote about trying to give up sex for lent, then only lasting 2 days; some guy said that he could not believe that guys could wait and work for a woman to climax!!

Okay, let me tell you what just happened: I opened up this blog, meaning to write at least a "lil sumtin nah", but--wait for it--courage left me hanging like that julie mango that is just a little too high and a little too much on the other side of your neighbour's bare-brick, 7-foot high wall; just out-of-reach.
Now, let me tell you what I did: I went all Caribbean-Thinker-ish; reading Nicholas Laughlin; Marlon James; reviews of Calabash; Annie Paul etc. And now I am inspired; I am typing away. Well, not "typing away" as in being-so-inspired-to-be-at-once-suddenly-euphoric-and-energised-and-to-set-at-the-keyboard-to-clatter-away;no, not in that way at all. Just as in opening the window, hesitating, then just wishing and hoping that words will flow. And if they did, remembering to type in standard english. All quite the exercise to decrease word rate, low word rate decreases thought rate by a process that I am simply to tired to even glance at right now. And anyway, most people should be able to relate, right?
Now, let me paint you a more panoramic picture: in the last few days, what has happened? I've been traumatised by a stalker at the National Public Library (he followed me up Penbroke Street to dad's office too, he even knocked on the door after sprinted inside. Dad went out and dealt with him; school finished on Friday,came first in bio; my parents forced me to go with them to a Catholic conference, I protested, which resulted in me being able to tell people about my lack of belief; a girl has done what girls do, flip the world upside down, though not so disastrous in my case; and I've spent the last three days holed up in the house, watching House and, sporadically, have been trying to wrap my head around some of the writings of David Foster Wallace; I also, I think, have been dipping in and out of depression.
Well, that's quite a full life, is it not? Or, I could alter, not my thinking, but my way of thinking, I could tell myself that this is life for everybody else, I am not special and should really stop complaining, even think about complaining, for This is water!! (David Foster Wallace http://www.marginalia.org/dfw_kenyon_commencement.html)
Now for the detail (have you noticed that even though my thought process within the paragraph is quite random, I seem to list them, to have a pre-determined order? There is order to my mess!): The stalker. I was traumatised; no story.
>School, well, is a disappointment, and I've got an I.A. to do during this Christmas!
>Yes, I can finally tell people that do no agree with, participate in, believe; I do NOT CARE about God, or Gods, or god. Done. BLAH!!!!!
>Yes, the girl. Well... I'll stop here, where its safest.
>Being holed up in a house, supposedly depressed, is not healthy. I am hungry, I don't eat; I see people online, I don't talk; I read news blandly, inactively,eyes just running from side to side lazily, skipping words, sentences, whole paragraphs, whole pages!; the sun is shining, the air is sweet, I don't go outside; I reflect on my arrogance and supposedly rock-solid view of the world, the rock cracks; I try to read Crime and Punishment, it doesn't hold me; I clean (thats weird enough, there's not need to extrapolate); music is dull, the skip button is over-used; food is grey. Eugh.
Two thoughts: is this water?; and, it can't possibly be the girl, can it?
There were a few things unchanged: House is the second-best bomb; West Wing IS the bomb; So is David Foster Wallace; mum is grumpy and dad is tired.