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.