Reanimation

It's been a while since I came to this place. It's familiar and it's scary. It's a welcoming distraction with a whispered promise for change and freshness and renewal.

So here I am again: penning pent up words into the web and hoping and dreading that they be read.

Dream Weaver

Dream-weaver, weave a dream

A single thread, a silver beam

Through the needle of my mind

Like silver thread through needle's eye

The cursed star, its golden beam

Shakes the fabric, rips the seam

Not for a thousand days of sun

Would I give up a single one.

So dream-weaver, weave your dream

With silvery thread on golden scene

And paint it on my restless mind.

Like endless canvas. I am thine.

Sukuna (Medium's Short Story Contest Version)

The lights go out. For the third time this week, my house, all of Glanvilles, maybe all of St. Philip’s parish, is plunged into darkness.

Beep. Beep. Beeeep. My computer’s backup power supply wails in the dark. I stumble from my homework at the dining table to the computer desk and snap the thing off.

“Dem damn disgusting!” Mama, my grandmother, says from the veranda. She’s talking about the Antigua Public Utilities Authority’s constant “load-shedding” to perform “scheduled maintenance”.

Mummy rustles in the kitchen and strikes a match. A spark jumps in the dark and Mummy light a candle. Pale yellow light floods the kitchen from the long stick of wax.

“You need more light right,” Mummy asks coming to stand over me with the candle. I recoil. I’ve been accidentally dripped on with hot wax too many times in my fifteen years.

“Nope,” I say, “Study break.” I snap my thick red Principles of Business textbook shut and jump up from the table. Five long strides bring me to the front door. I yank it open. It creaks a long heightening creak and I hop unto the veranda.

The moon is full and white tonight. Our street is bathed in a pale blue light that casts every color into a shade of navy. In the soft light I can make out the stout shape of my grandmother with her legs and arms crossed sitting on her little white bench in the west corner of the veranda. She faces the street. In the east corner sits Bramble, the man that raised my father and my aunt Cynthia while my real grandfather ran off to England. Bramble sits on a concrete block and taps his walking stick rhythmically against the short decorative block wall.

The Playground of my Frustrations

Chase, chase, bark

But there's nothing up that tree.

Swim, swim, sail

But there's nothing 'cross that sea

Search, search, look

But there's nothing there to see

Cry, cry, weep

Cause there's nothing left of me

An Attempt at Integration: Part 1- Histories

I currently identify myself as agnostic. That label however is a gross over simplification of the way that God baffles me. In an attempt to cache out what it is I really believe about God, I'm going to run through a bunch of philosophical view points then try to situate myself in relation to them. Before that though, I'll state what I do know about my attitudes towards God.

1. It (God) exists.

2. The major religions have it wrong

Please be informed that this post is not a Dear John to God, nor is it a philosophical treatise, nor a sermon, nor geared at any sort of persuasion of the reader. It's simply an exercise in reflection on my part.

God and I have a very long and tumultuous history. Regular church attendance was a family norm from the beginning of my existence. I became a born-again Christian at around 7 or 8 years old then made a re-dedication of myself when I was about 11 and had a better understanding of what the fuck was going on. I was by no means at any point your stereotypic Christian child though. I was sarcastic, stubborn, lazy, tortured my brother, cursed, lied, stole, masturbated... but I believed and prayed, and asked forgiveness and felt guilt and had some very long nights deep in conversation with "the Lord". I had a lot of questions, questions I knew I shouldn't have if I was believing in the way I was told to.

Then I met some interesting people. People that shared my questions and gave voice to them. Together we created an environment so conducive to exploration that barely a stone was left unturned in my mind by the time I was 18. I still clung to the structure of God and reality that I was taught though I had incredible doubts about it. The foundation was ruined so between my 19th and 21st years, I slowly resolved myself into my current "agnostic" category.

The truth of the matter is that I've just not come to integrate my different scattered opinions on the nature of the Supreme Being into a comprehensive viewpoint. Neither am I fond of the skeptical position. I agree with Hegel that skepticism is a means and not an end. I may adopt a skeptical view of an issue in order to engender doubt and catalyze my journey towards the truth, but to simply become skeptical and call it an end state just feels ridiculous.

I dislike the constant suspenision of judgment, the omninous maybe's and could be's. I can't not believe anything. And I refuse to believe in nothing. I know I believe something. Now I'll force that something into sentences so I can see what it is.

Unravel...

A fine mist of dust chokes the air on the battlefield. Musket fire erupts. Smoke and gunpowder feed the dusty cloud. Fallen soldiers scream as long steel blades plunge into their chest, hearts, lungs and stomachs. Murdering soldiers yell in triumph as they avenge their fallen brethren. Manic laughter cuts across cries of despair. Quiet ferocity smoulders beside final whispered prayers. Tears, sweat and blood mingle on faces and drip from chins into the dusty earth.

Szayel sits on a large rock in the midst of the carnage. Her fierce caramel brown eyes reflect the red rays of a dying sun and fixate on a distant inner plane. Her jet-black waist-length hair billows and fans out around her in some unearthly wind. Her near porcelain face contorts with the turmoil in her thoughts, the turmoil that seeps through her and into the air around her, the turmoil that fuels the massacre.

A handsome face, late teens, just a baby, smacks into the rock near Szayel's foot. His jaw cracks. His face, smeared with the blood of friend and foe alike stares through her with lifeless eyes. Szayel never sees him. She watches her thoughts. Her features contort. Her palms press deep into the rock. A trail of dark blood trickles from beneath her fingers. The slaughter intensifies. Dust and smoke cloud out the sky.

A hand grips Szayel's shoulder. Everything stops. A sword freezes an inch from a begging face. Every speck of dust hovers in place. A burst of crimson suspends from a exit would in a bearded soldiers back. A thousand scenes of murder hang in time.

The pale hand on her shoulder squeezes gently. The unearthly wind around about her dies and her black locks fall down her back and around her face. Szayel turns her head. And her fiery eyes meet a pair of the coldest bluest ice. And he smiles.

It's alright.

Dear 2010

I just wanted to let you know that you have a lot to live up to.

2009 was the year I fell in love with life. It was the year I grew into myself. I learned to take risks and face danger with a grin. I learned my limits and how far I could push them. I learned what I needed to make me happy. I learned what I couldn't live without and what I was unwilling to live without. I learned the value of a true friend. And I learned the value of a good try.

In 2009, I loved. I grew. I learned. I wondered. I explored. I felt. I raged. I bled. I cried. I lived. I survived. And I did it without a shred of regret. I did it honestly and from the pit of soul. I stripped off my mask and showed my world my true face.

This is me. And I'm stronger and I'm refuse to break.

So 2010, you better be ready. The sky's not my limit. I'll shatter it like glass. There's no road I want to follow. I make my own paths.

See you soon,

Yan

The Way I'm Supposed to Love You Back

I hate the pre-packaged North American notion of "love" that's spewed through the media and perpetuated in conversations I have with my female friends.

I think the Silverchair lyrics describe my thoughts on this perfectly:

"I love the way you love

But I hate the way I'm supposed to love you back"

Whether we like to think about it or not, there is a set route that we are expected to run. We're supposed to meet, like, date, love. What you do after this point is your own business. My issue is at the dating stage.

As a person from a non-North American culture, I find the tactics surrounding this emotional courtship dance entirely puzzling. Dating, in my view, is this vague stage of "getting to know". I think of it as a test drive that can go on for an awkward amount of time. What's more, it's more like a test drive where both parties are salespeople. Each is selling a vehicle but spending so much time trying to figure out whether to make a payment on the other person's vehicle that the process drags on and on until eventually somebody broaches the awkward question: "So... where are we going from here?"

And that's if things go well. If things go badly, one might walk by the lot, jump behind the wheel of some shiny car, drive it off the lot and completely total it. Other times what we have is one person walking unto a lot, meandering around and scrutinizing one vehicle in particular then for incomprehensible and completely unarticulated reasons, opening a door, slamming it shut then walking away.

To bring it back to the lyrics I quoted, I hate this test driving stage. I hate the uncertainty it inevitably clouds everything in. Even before you start dating, your entire interaction with that person of interest is tainted by the possibility. And I can feel it. I feel the scrutiny, the trying to decide "if", the playful tugging of the maybe in the back of his mind. And it colors everything. And it's not so much that I hate the scrutiny, although I do. It's more so that I hate the way I'm expected to engage in this force ripening process. I should be scrutinizing right back. I should be entertaining that maybe. But I do not want to.

I want a clean interaction. I want to interact free of the burdens of "maybe". I want to think of exploring a relationship as an open landscape rather than a tunnel that branches into two routes: stay friends or become more than friends temporarily and less than strangers afterwards. I don't want this mutual simultaneous test driving. I'd much prefer to have my car gifted to me. Hitchhiking is even better.

I want my relationships, all my relationships, not just romantic ones, to be beautifully co-authored works. I'm not a fan of ridiculous mad lib-esque premade scripts where I simply plug in a value and watch it weave my tale. I crave authenticity more than simplicity. Of course the script can be fun and entertaining but the story you pour your self into, no matter how silly the plot will stay with you for ever. And your co-author will always seem to strike some secret chord in you.

I want to unlock all my secret chords so I can compose a sublime collage of song from all my loves.

The Silver Lining

I can't believe this is turning into a poetry blog. I guess it's just the easiest way for me to exercise my craft without getting so sucked in that I neglect school. But after Wednesday, less poetry, more meat!

Here you have my first ever attempt at spoken word-esque poetry. I have no idea what struck me today. Generally, I'm not the biggest fan of spoken word.

Spoken word, spoken absurd

Absurdity rains from your brain like hail

From the skies

And lies fester amd drip

Through the rift of time

Down with the flow of rhyme

Up through the dark

And shine

Bright lights into these eyes of mine

And give fake sight to the blind

That lead us from grenades to land mines

From a babe I'm been trying

But my senses were dull

I keep on lying

So I won't have to accept the null

I keep crying

But I still try to resist the pull

Shut off the bright lights

Roll back the dark curtains

Let's look up to the skies,

See the truth and be certain.

Let's not binge and purge society's preconceptions.

Let's not follow the path that's been cut by convention.

Let's not play the game without learning the lessons.

Let's not live through the war by avoiding the missions.

Let's not search for some ready-made heaven.

Let's not treat our chances like a lottery ticket.

The silver lining's not a given,

We're the ones that have to make it.

Germaine

This is one of the six pieces I produced this semester in my Writing about Community course. This is my third and final revised version.

My brother Eden and I walk along the marl[1] road to Jenita’s shop by the gas station. Mama, our grandmother, charged us with a twenty EC dollar bill and a short list of things to not come back without. Two pounds of flour, baking powder, ling fish and accent seasoning.

I go because I’m a young woman “and need to know how to shop for things”. Eden goes because he “needs to learn how to carry a message”. We both go because chocolate bars are usually involved.

We pass Doris’ mother’s house. “Good afternoon,” we chime in unison.

The skinny dark skinned woman with barely a handful of hair on her head nods in response. Eden and I walk on, in and out of shade and sun under the evenly spaces neem trees.

“What happened to Doris?” I ask Eden.

“She live with she Daddy now or something so,” he says.

“Oh,” I say and chew my lip.

A loud bark from the across the street makes me pause. It’s Ms. Genie’s dog: a tall black-backed German shepherd with brown legs and belly. We don’t know his name so we call him Germaine.

Germaine stares at us from behind Ms. Genie’s tall wire mesh fence. He stalks us like a caged tiger from behind the fence.