Internal Memorandum

Confounded recollections of the past dragged from the annals of my mind, now manifest in a not so obscure reality. Every now and then your past jumps out at you and kicks you square in the jaw - and for a moment you stop in your tracks and ask; what the fuck was that. Just a gentle reminder of some of the not so pleasant things of times past.

"Hey, how are you?" She asked. An inconvenient salutation, with an even more inconvenient response. "I'm good." I was actually, up until that question. "Is that your son?" She continued, "Yes"; a desperate attempt to be monosyllabic and cut this interaction short as I continue walking. "He's cute." She said. I put on the best smile I could muster at the moment, but never broke my stride.

My past of late has been making it a habit (one which I do not appreciate) of taking unauthorised vacations from my memory, I think a memo is in order to the recollections department.

To: Memories
Recollections Department

From: The Brain
Your Freaking Boss

Date: Now

Subject: Unauthorised manifestation in the host body's reality

It has come to my attention that you have been making some unwelcomed visits at the most inappropriate times to the personal space of our benevolent and gracious bodily host. Our host has expressed his unhappiness with this development. Please be informed that effective immediately you are to cease and decease with this SHIT!!!

Please be guided accordingly.

Regards

Meaningless

These three little words keep troubling my mind, there and now. I close my eyes and they scroll across my lids, there and now. I feel myself begin to drift, a crashing sound invades my sleep. I open my eyes to no surprise, these three words remain on my mind - there and now. There and now, what ever do they mean. Here and now would make more sense, but there and now, less sense - more intense. I am here right now, wondering why these meaningless words won't let me repose - there, right now. I roll off my bed, still wanting to sleep, but there and now won't grant me a wink. So I'm here right now, typing this shit - there and now, has thoroughly fucked up my sleep.

Absolutely Cockamamie Concept for Achievement - ACCA

My mind and body are deserting me, getting to my thoughts feels like swimming in cement, my head throbs, I think (or do I) that my brain is trying to escape the bone that contains it. I lack the energy required to vigorously, or at least purposefully, extending one foot in front the other in order to make it to the bloody toilet, let alone get myself a cup of freaking tea. OMFNW! I'm fatigued. The long nights of inadequate sleep are wearing me down. Man I can't wait for 12:31pm on June 2nd, the much anticipated day of my parole. I've served my time - sentenced for refusing to scrape by on minimum wage, for having the audacity to desire a comfortable way of life, to enjoy life's simple and not so simple pleasures. The price I must pay for higher learning - it would have been easier to smoke some good weed and gain the wisdom of the most high. Damn it, the advancements we have made as human beings really make it hard for a man to survive in this supposedly simplified developed life. Arrrhhhhhh!

Malady

Damn it!
My malady
These creatures bewildering me

Those eyes, seductive, alluring, disarming
They've engaged and twisted my mind
Speaking to me in that language of lust
Taunting me to uncover, discover, entwine

Damn it!
My malady
These creatures bewildering me

Lips full, moist, soft
Their tantalize and beg for mine
Say nothing and shouting loud
You know you want me, come inside
To uncover, discover, entwine

Damn it!
My malady
These creatures bewildering me

That 30 something cup
With ample bosom standing up
They stare at me and weaken me
Leaving me beguiled and wild
I lose even more of my simple mind
To uncover, discover, entwine

Damn it!
My malady
These creatures bewildering me

That waist, those hips they lie
My fingers linger down their sides
Moving hurriedly toward that prize
Anxious to uncover, discover, entwine

Damn it!
My malady
These creatures bewildering me

Oh! bottom so round
Pulsating to sound
My hand is filled, it's racing down
Massaging that flesh, momentarily mine
Soon I will uncover, discover, entwine

Damn it!
My malady
These creatures bewildering me

Thick, smooth nubian thighs
Meets my eyes, I've lost my mind
They open wide with great surprise
Revealing secrets that lay inside
Drenched with joy still I'm urged
More eager now, to uncover, discover, entwine

Damn it!
My malady
These creatures bewildering me

That sweetness uncovered
Waiting to be discovered
We're now enchanted, euphoric, entwined
My lesser head excited and grown
Anticipating a warm welcome home

Damn it!
My malady
These women who have bewildered me.

Alcatraz

His skin is leathery from the years of battering by the elements, it's taken on a new colour, that of layers of dirt, dust and the grim of this putrid city. Those once pearly white teeth, now shades of yellow and brown. What was hair now an untamed mane. Clothes filthy, tattered, but enough to afford him warmth on these cold streets on those lonely nights - his pungent odor of consternation a potent advocate for solitude. The soles of his feet harden and cracked from these streets he pounds daily in search of his next high.

This once strong productive member of our each man is an island society, now a junkie, soliciting to feed his need to continue the escape from a society which he did not understand - and did not care to understand him. A society which pays scant regard to the real needs of the real people. So void of substance that we create something out of nothing to keep us continually occupied doing something for nothing.

And as everyone is preoccupied in their own spheres we roll by each other oblivious to what is really going on - losing ourselves, wasting minutes, squandering the gift of life.

He escaped the cycle of that incapacitating repetitive sphere - marking time; but his escape was temporary, artificial. With each passing minute he seeks out his escape again, at the other end of a pipe, a needle, a joint.

What he found was an illusion, a new cycle, a darker sphere. "Boss gimme a coin for some food." Those were the words from the junkie, trying to nourish himself - to give him just enough energy to return to his perpetual prison of escape.

Longing

I could help it, but why try - I know, the more intelligent evolved animal, right, but an animal none the less.

The visibility of my once flaccid extremity reveal's the salacious nature of my thoughts. Vivid, intense preoccupation with adhesive bodies wrapped in the perspiration of euphoric passion. The windows to my sinful soul wander with purposeful wonder over the full extent of this sultry presence; consuming gluttonously every inch of gorgeous bare skin. Light dancing on every curve, blinding, paralyzing my senses, sending me deeper into hungry thoughts of twisted drenched vessels of unadulterated desire.

These sensual proclivities designed with such unassuming deliberate intent as to disarm and render a man to a heap of quivering wanting flesh.

Oh! What do I have to do to be enveloped between those limbs; what must I do to stay. What do I do to feel that warm, wet...Ahhhhh!!!

Emily Rose

Eyes aflame, seemingly possessed, I roll myself off my bed once again into the dead of night - it is the witching hour I am sure, and I must do the bidding of my possessor - morning star or north wind, it depends on the side of the bed I rolled off.

There is conflict between my mind and my body as there often is - neither one has fully appreciated the finer points of Sun Tzu's Art of War; so aimlessly they battle on. My mind on this night, rather morning, won't allow my body to be prostrated.

I past practically the entire day asleep, it was like months of fatigue, fatigue of my humanness all came at me in a rush today. My body and soul demanded rest, and its appetite seemed insatiable, the more I slept the more I wanted to sleep.

And now, at this forsaken hour my writer calls on me - faithfully I oblige; rich blue blood pours from my Faber - Castell 0.7mm fine, my weapon of choice.

Today has been the better day of this past week, no agony, no immobilising chills brought on by a soaring temperature.

I am thankful for modern medicine and an ever vigilant wife.

Earlier this evening my mind was troubled with nostalgia, as it is on occasion (a sometimes unwelcomed consequence of being awake), but I take comfort in the fact that things past, are past for a reason, and what is present is what is most relevant. Collateral damage indeed - that parlor door swings both ways. In a game of chance who determines the winner(s) and the loser(s); it would be prudent to leave nothing to chance.

Here I am very much awake at 5:05am - wide awake, I have be awake now for more than 12 hours. This time I am not pleading for the good graces of the sandman, the fucker can hold his sand, nor am I awake tormented by rancor, depression, anger or any other vile sentiment.

I am awake because these emotions wore me down and the nights of insomnia finally caught up with me - I guess there is credence in that cliche that you can't run from your past. These distractions to life caught up with me and laid me to rest at a time when normal people go about active life. Slumber caressed me gently and repeatedly today, consolation for those sleepless nights I suppose; only so that I could stay up through the witching hour to write about it.

There is much purpose to my possession by this writer - he will not soon, if ever be exorcised.

Painfully Departed

He has been spoiled rotten by the decadence of his life. The feasting, the boozing, the every indulgence in everything sinful and not so sinfully delectable.

The years of indulgence and over indulgence are evident, but less to the naked eye - self presentation, what you see on the outside is a farce, a mere shell, inside he is vacant, hollow. The character and substance that once was has rotted away, a porcelain veneer is all that remains.

All that keeps him going are the sycophants around him; there is strength in numbers. The strong roots that made him solid have withered, weakened replaced by prosthetics. There is so little left of him, every day now brings new pain, a telling tale of his age and his life, every day he is less able to do the routine mundane activities; something as simple as eating has become an agonising chore.

He had known this day was coming, no life is complete without death. But knowledge of death is not acceptance of it, so he fought with what was left of the fibres of his being - clinging to hope of a reprieve.

And now as the numbness of the anesthesia sets in he bids farewell to his comrades - they have grown old together, they have shared many tales, he has built relationships with all of them over the more than two decades, but today, today is the day he says goodbye to his world. His final curtain call.

And as the painlessly painful departure begins, what is left of his deep seeded roots struggle to hold on under the brute force of this purveyor of his demise. Unwillingly, he leaves this flesh he has called his own, this mandible, which must like many become a fossil. He is remorseful for the anguish which he brought to his gracious host in these last days - perhaps in hindsight, he should have celebrated his decadence more silently; but in his final moments he is beyond reprieve.

Today the ravages of neglect has resulted in his premature termination, his extraction from his world.

Today my pain demanded reprisal; today I demand the shedding of blood, the tearing of flesh the destruction of enamel. No more pain, no more...

Waiting

The pain intensifies with every passing millisecond, my skin feels hot but I am cold. I want it to stop, this pain, crippling me, making the routine and daily life unnecessarily difficult.

Oh God, north wind, Allah, or any name of your choice - why won't it stop. I am left to dialogue with invisible beings, seeking deliverance from my agony. The bloody television is on some freaking religious station and there is this idiot praying, saying that he can heal you with his prayer - just stretch out your hand right now and receive (or some shit like that), he must be kidding right; but for that brief moment as my lucidity succumbs to the agony, I consider stretching out my hands. Ridiculous isn't it, salvation from this pain like the Messiah coming to take away all hurt is just within reach - just beyond that green door is the Messiah of this god damn tooth ache; yet it seems so far, a mirage designed to further torture my wretched soul.

My escape from this pain taunts me. I want to yank that woman sitting in his chair; waiting for relief from whatever oral ailment which could not be as pressing as mine, and fling her far away - just so I can inject my gums till it's numb and I feel nothing, enough nothing to rip that mother fucking tooth out.

The pain seems contagious, the rest of my teeth are banding in solidarity - my brain must have covertly communicated with them, they know of my intentions for their comrade, one for all, all for one; bloody teeth, they're planning a coup. My front teeth are hurting too, but I know with certainty that there is nothing wrong with them. Ungrateful bastards.

Damn it, I just swallowed saliva and it hurt. I'm hungry, all I had this morning was oats and orange juice, it is all I could muster the courage to dear put in my mouth; I could not enjoy even that.

Everything involving my mouth hurts. Arrrghhh!!!

Tooth Fairy

I have not lived through death to say with any authority that there are things worse than death. But I can tell you with a certain measure of authority that there are some pains in this life, physical and otherwise that make you wish for death, or something close enough to death - only on the understanding that with death comes the end of the pain.

For this entire week I have had visions of Tom Hanks in Cast Away struggling through a toothache - till he succumbs and finally resorts to knocking his tooth out with the blade of a skating shoe. There is a pulse in my mouth, stronger than regular; it feels like my heart has been relocated to my mouth. The heavy steady thumping in my mouth, the pain, debilitating, immobilising my basic thought processes.

Last night, sorry, yesterday, was bad - really bad. I kept popping pain pills reminiscent of my favourite MD, House. The pain was so excruciating I lost track of how many pills I had popped, all that was important was it brought me relief, but by evening my body was convulsing in shivers - my skin like asphalt on a hot day. I got home and was only able to remove my shoes, the warmth of the covers was all I wanted - I could not care for anything else; not even the fact that my temperature was over 100.

The thought of being hungry was just that, a thought, with no action behind it, sought of like the empty promises of politicians. I eventually ate. If you have never known the pain of cold, brought on by a fever, then you should consider yourself lucky. I undressed quickly to take a shower in an attempt to reduce my fever, as the clothes came off my skin, as my body folded into itself, searching for warmth from its constituent parts. No such reprieve would come.

I took a shower in warm water - or at least that is what I thought, because every drop of water on my skin sent chills to my core - it felt like cold compressed air being let out in a continuous stream onto my bones. It hurts. My body folded more into a fetal position, my lips trembled, the pain came in uncontrollable waves - and all I could do was scream, then cry, then beg silently in what was left of my conscious mind for the pain to stop.

Last night the elements were my enemy. The water chilled me to the bone and if I thought I would receive clemency when I stepped out the shower, those thoughts were quickly dispensed. The coldness of the air last night sent me cowering and quivering in the corner - begging for deliverance from this bully.

My toothache kicked it up more than a few notches last night and brought this otherwise strong man to his knees - or rather to his side in a fetal position, begging for an end to the pain, any end, just an end.

In all this there was a bright moment. My sun, damn! He came to my side while I shook and cried, the warm tears streaming down my cheek - and gently, rubbed my head, then he kissed my head and said "papa". He did that a number of times until he too was ready to be comforted and whisked away by the sand man. My sun felt my pain and I felt his compassion.

I can't yet decide which pain is easier to deal with, physical, emotional, mental or spiritual - but admittedly at some point in our lives we must deal with one or all.

By any means necessary

My writer seems unusually eager to get out today and though I have been trying to set him free for the past few days he has been unwilling to be complicit - preferring to get out on his own time on his own terms. Truly this writer is my offspring.

It's the witching hour - it is still, quiet, peaceful, the tranquility of this witching hour is disturbed by the sound of my alarm. Yes, this time it was deliberate to leave the warmth of my bed at that time. I spring from my slumber to pop some pills, the unfortunate consequences of the neglect of my dental hygiene. I can hear the boisterous conversations of the creatures outside, briefly silenced by my intrusion; this is not the time for humans they whisper. As I enter my kitchen I am greeted by two loafer bastards who insist on living here rent free and being a nuisance. These two roaches a nibbling away feverishly at my banana laying on the counter - this hour, is the hour that has been pre-ordained, and I bid them adieu with a quick burst of baygon.

In my sleep on this night, my writer has been at it, toiling, whispering, beckoning me to the table, to the pen, to the note pad. I dreamt in thoughts with dotted images of a man and a woman with a recurring theme; "women are collateral damage in the life of their men." That makes no sense - what is this bastard trying to say to me, why does he want me to write this crap. But I have long surrendered my will to my writer; I think my writer is my north wind.

Ok, so this is it, this is what this bastard of a writer wanted me to write about. Was it? Stuffing my face with flaxseed cookies and home made cherry juice (not that powdered shit), more awake now than the passing hours of the previous day - like I had just slept for 8 hours and not the mere 3, I write. My pen bleeds blue onto this yellow paper - my thoughts now visible beyond the distortion of my mind.

Men are instinctively manipulative bastards; yes we are, especially when it comes to the opposite sex. We don't often if at all, pursue women for friendship (then again friendships are not pursued, they just happen) or because we are kindred spirits. Forget the fairy tales, the stories of "true love" of how we met - it sounds nice, it sounds even nicer when the story of conquest (conquest to men, otherwise known as love to women) is told in the presence of one or two bleeding heart hopeless romantic potential victims/conquest. Whether you believe this or not the underlying reasons for most of our actions is yes, you guessed it - punnanny. That mound of joy positioned between your thighs - some times it feels for some nuts some times it don't.

We pursue that delicacy between your thighs with the tenacity of the great civil rights leader Malcolm X - by any means necessary. The pursuit is so calculating, deliberate, that the person to whom this flesh with a slit and some hair (or not) belongs to becomes a mere attachment, an attachment eclipsed by the joy that lies between. The person, the emotions, the character of a woman slowly fades to black until such time as we have succeeded in having that oh so sweet delicacy - then our eyes are no longer wide shut to the person, the woman.

Men pursue women like predators, with caution, patience and a voracious appetite. We must have "it" - yes "it", not you, "it." We say and do anything we must until we find ourselves buried nose deep or hip deep in "it".

The psychological, emotional, spiritual and physical damage which we cause in our blind pursuit is irrelevant. We have accomplished our mission - divide and conquer (literally); the entrails of the woman left languishing in our broken promises is nothing but collateral damage. Much like politians do to the electorate every five years.

All the world is a stage and all the men and women merely players, they have their exits and the entrances and one man in his time playing many parts ...

My writer is now sated, now ready to rest until next time when I become collateral damage to his desire to make my pen bleed.

Junk Matter

In conversation with my mom on many occasions she has often lamented, women are women's worst enemies - in the local parlance; woman eh like woman like dem selves (if only I could type it in creole, it would have that desired bite).

I encountered a couple vixens recently which left me to say the least, infuriated. Initially I dismissed their insolence with a polite response and continued on my way - I thought it inappropriate and certainly in poor taste to address these simpletons at the time. But the more I thought about them the more my blood boiled - have you ever noticed how that black, thick, stinking muck bubbles in the sulphur springs, indicative of the full fury of this dormant volcano being kept at bay just beneath the surface, laying in wait; well that was me, all that was missing from my obvious demeanour was the steam and the stink.

These women, no sorry, to categorise them (I can not yet find an appropriate word at this time, and vixen is a bit too gracious in retrospect) as women would be an insult to real women all over. These pestilence (Ah! I think that is it - something which is more than a nuisance which no one wants around and would best be disposed of - kinda like swine flu) seemingly designed to reign down havoc or, at the very least incite dissidence on/among unsuspecting harmonious human beings, brought me to the point where I felt the greatest desire to convene a meeting between my open hand and their faces - no diplomacy, protocol or pleasantries necessary.

I do not advocate violence against women, luckily, so all I could do at that instance, was to continue talking on my phone, shake my head and walk away. Fortunately however, I have listened (though not all the times) to the wisdom of my mother; and her words echoed in every corner of my head and restrained every fiber of my being (like it has in many potentially violent situations before); "there is a time and place for everything - don't exchange words for blows."

And with those words I know the opportunity will present itself to me, to deal with these pestilence in a fitting manner. Dealing with them conjures images of shredding and deleting junk mail - they are sought of like matter, just taking up space, except that matter has a greater purpose.

Welcomed Memories

The past never dies - forget tomorrow; it operates on its own schedule. It visited me today as the water ran over my body in the shower. Today it brought me back almost seven years, a familiar time, to the first of many first. My first hello to this ebony queen, the first smile that warmed me, the first hug in the hall way, first touch, kiss, moan, my first everything, of everything now familiar and sometimes taken for granted.

Today under the cold water I remembered everything that brought me to her. What a journey, a story. This woman who said never to me; because I was not her colour of preference, I was too short and I had the audacity to be born a proud St. Lucian. Today I was reminded of the power of persistence, and how with it I married a woman, far from perfect - but imperfect enough to make me consider the inconceivable. Today I remembered the things that brought me to her and will hopefully keep me coming back to her.

Today I remembered Sofie. The real Sofie. Not the dysfunctional manifestation of recent time brought on by my bold indiscretions and neurotic transference. Today I remembered the woman that made me step back from the conventional - "the existentialist". My buddy with all the equipment of a woman.

My past did not inform this present future.

16:22

I caught a glimpse of her face eclipsed by the artificial shade of tint. A glimpse of this stranger familiar to me from some seemingly random moment in life. It was all that was needed to bring her lingering memory to my cortex, remnants of her taste still dance on my tongue, the sound of her sensual obscenities racing past her tongue escaping her lips into my ears. I inhale her scent like she never left, the fragrance of her allure lightly perfumed - intoxicating - fills my lungs, I breathe her. The pale moon light kissing her caramel flesh softly, the warmth of her body and her heart throbbing beneath her skin in anticipation. These visions vivid in my mind, screaming to escape - begging to materialise; forced to submit to circumstance.

But all they are, are recollections, it feels like a lifetime past since her, since me, since us - since I felt the warmth and welcome between her thighs; a lifetime in a simpler time, when we had not discovered each others secrets. I thought I saw her last night; but when I woke at the witching hour it was clear it was only a dream, a tortured twisting of flesh locked in a passionate samba.

This goddess of my R.E.M obscure to my reality. There she is, I think, passing by oblivious to my existence, faded, blurred. So quickly she went by, a figment of my imagination, my mirage, my opiate. Days adrift languishing in memories of experiences - distant recollection of pleasure, of sounds, feelings and taste, which now feels as foreign to me as my existence.

Debatable

I listened intently and not so intently at times to the farce that passes for a budget debate in the country. Debate, Ah! What a freaking joke. A debate as I understand it - and not in the strictest of definition, involves one party putting forward a position, an opposing party deconstructing the position taken, highlighting the weaknesses in the position, this should then be followed by some defence of the position initially put forward; usually with some empirical evidence to bolster that position.

Clearly I misunderstood what a debate should be. There were some sprinklings of good and fair presentations on the estimates, but the majority of the presentations left much to be desired - not only for substance but also for the butchering and mangling of the English Language. I am no scholar of English but one would expect the basic ability to construct a sentence and pronounce simple words to be a pre-requisite to be a Parliamentarian.

It made me wonder whether the people who elected these cognitively challenged individuals to represent them were intellectually comatose at the time - perhaps chemically/spiritually induced - seriously. I also found myself in momentary disbelief (although I should not have) by the continuous referral to the the members of the house as "honorable" - they past and current behaviour clearly not in sync. What's that saying " no honor..."

Seriously haven't we moved past the point of rhetoric, regurgitation, rehashing (rather languishing in) the past, picong and all the other non-sense which passes for debate. Perhaps a name change might help. I suggest next year we call it "The Constructive Discourse on the Estimates of Revenue and Expenditure" or "Intelligent Discussion on the Estimates" - of course some members of the house would be excluded by default. Or if the "honourable members" insist on maintaining the status quo it should be aptly renamed the "Budget Diatribe"

Complicity

There are some events in your life which blind sides you and you are knocked into a stupor by the sheer shock of it; too shocked to be infuriated by the circumstances. Then there are the events that you are either experience in or clairvoyant enough to see coming but for reasons unbeknownst, you sit and wait to be knocked on your ass by it.

I think some of us are either pre-disposed or just fascinated by havoc and we gravitate towards it - unwillingly - and remain in a seemingly opiated state while the train wrecks of our lives occur. Once you have some what recovered from this wreck and are lucid enough to comprehend your stupidity, in action or complaisance (take your pick) - you become infuriated; livid. But this vexation is almost always deservedly directed at you - for being ridiculous enough to recognise the impending disaster and taking no steps to mitigate against the obvious avalanche of mind numbing devastation to your body, mind and spirit or stop it all together.

Now you languish in a state of anger, disbelief and contempt, with no one more accountable than your own doatish self.

All it takes for stupidity to reign supreme is for intelligent people to do nothing.