Sleep Fighter

I awake after almost seven hours of restless slumber, my mind unsettled by dreams, tales of the undead. On this night I dreamt of vampires, the the blood sucking undead that human kind has been fascinated with for centuries.



In my dream I was one of these undead locked in an eternal battle with my ilk. Many of my dreams involve some sought of battle, a fight seemingly with my self, epic tales unfolding in my unconscious, the war between good and evil rages.


My dream last evening was no different, I fought against other vampires, trying to show the world that despite what they have been lead to believe we are not all bad. I fought with fervour against my undead brethren; but I was not alone in my battle, there were others like me. Even in our ostensibly unholy state we had religion, we had a central belief in something supreme.



And as another drawn out battle ensues, another exhausting bloody battle, off in the distance I hear what often signals the start of another day in the real world; in the sheepdom, my alarm sounds, this loud continuous annoying ring from my NOKIA phone going off with precision.



WAKE UP, it says, in its own unique voice, time to join the rest of the undead blood suckers in the real world.

Ventilation - Arrrgh!!!

How I loathe these debilitating thoughts of this unwelcomed guest lingering in the recesses of my mangled mind.

These pungent nauseating thoughts send me into mental convulsions. Wretched memories not leaving like people do. A mental board game, a battle of the ages between my yin and yang with only me sitting at the board. To my victor goes the spoilt.

Not a respite from these mental monologues, the crescendo followed by forced silence; clenched fist banging at the walls of my mind; loud voices screaming out, SHUT UP!!! Voices screaming out till there is no voice left, muted noise; SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!

Then pleas, let me be, set me free from this memorial of rancour, rancour over the whats; what was, what is, what could.

In time I will be free from the confines of these thoughts, soon I will be up for parole; out on not so good behaviour; with a really big sledgehammer in hand.

Sun to the Sand

I brought J to the beach today, I think this is the first time since he has learned to walk, that I have taken him to the beach. He stood on the dry sand outside the vehicle frozen stiff with excitement, the feel of the wind on his back, the leaves rustling by; his eyes busy about the place. I could almost see his thought; "oh my god, what's that over there, what is this strange force at my back pushing me unwillingly forward, what are those brown pear shaped things moving on the ground with no feet, what is daddy doing over there, what is he saying?"



And he lets out this laugh, claps his hands and bolts forward towards me. I pick him up and we walk down to the beach; I remove his shoes and set him down on the wet sand. At first he is apprehensive, but then his curiosity piques. He dips his toes into the wet sand and smiles, the smile turns to a giddy laughter, then he bends down to grab a hand full, takes a curious look (head tilted to the side), then rubs the sand between his fingers, taking in the texture. More uncontrollable thoughts pour out from him; "What is this strange thing?". "It feels weird, OMG something new."



My sun experienced sand today; today I discovered the joys of sand.

One walls

Curious this feeling, this feeling of loneliness. Sitting on my bed at 12:30am on a Friday evening (now Saturday morning), I feel lonely. It is not the first time that I have been home alone at this time, but it is the first time in god knows how long I can vaguely recall feeling lonely.

I crave a distraction from this solitude. Human contact, conversation, touch, a smile; but nothing. Just these walls. It's just me and the four bare walls. I spent the earlier part of the evening drinking and engaging in drivel, (the favourite past time of most hard working West Indians on a Friday) with my cousin and my brother from another mother; and I silently prayed that the night would not end, we would not have to part, because it would mean that I would have to get into my vehicle and drive that desolate road to arrive home to walls.

At home with the walls and the furniture now, it never seemed so empty before; the silence is deafening. On my solitary couch I sit with my one roll of whole wheat bread, two pieces of barbecue chicken and one glass of juice. I switch on the television and tune into the back end of the Bill Maher show on HBO. The usual political satire, but an adequate distraction for now, till it's done, then back to the walls, the furniture and the dog now barking outside, and the occasional vehicle alarm. These sounds pierce through the stillness of the night, making the nothingness even louder. I have now resorted to porn (my now not so extensive collection, since the death of my PC) and unemotionally relieve myself of the potential off springs which have accumulated in my laden sacks.

I think that just added to my loneliness, momentary self gratification, not gratifying enough to fill the emptiness I feel. I attempted to drink myself into a stupor, but even after exceeding my self instituted four drink maximum, I was still too lucid and in control of my faculties to feel numb enough not to feel this rancour of my solitude. You would have thought that my self love and the excessive flow of my virility would have at least put me to sleep.

But here I am, awake, wishing I wasn't, waiting for the sandman, waiting for slumber to free me from the confines of these solitary walls.

Exit stage LEFT - Please stay

She kissed me, really kissed me, turned away and said, goodbye

Her lips uttered those words but her body begged; even for a moment, "please stay" 

But she must leave.

I watch her walk away, slowly, her every step seducing me, tugging at me to follow her, hold her tight, close, long

Her hips swing to the rhythm of her own beat, the beat of her heart's desires

That strong stride of those caramel legs, the visions of those caramel legs embracing me 

enveloping my waist with rhythmic motions flood my cerebral 

Waking my flaccidity, and I am momentarily paralysed

"Please stay", these words only thoughts I dear not say; " I want you" 

these words mere desires I can't aptly express.

Still paralysed, I watch her voluptuous, caramel form walk off.

I should have said something....

I am not where I'm from

"Garson when you have my mon-e fo me jus pass it, doh come un gimme no story." Those were the words of the new face of the narcotics dealer in my not so old neighbourhood, I heard as I left my moms house last night. Urban sprawl at its worse. A sobering reminder of where I am from and how little it has changed.



My early mornings on my way to drop J off at his grandmother (that rock of Gibraltar) for the day, is often greeted by the second hand ganja smoke of the young men on the "block", who not so long ago I observed running around in this very area in their underwear's.



"Wam" I would say to them every time I pass by; this is supposedly a macho salutation, to which I would receive one of three standard responses; "wam", "yeah" or "yeah boss".



The toddlers of yesterday, now the "shotta yutes" of today spend the entire day sitting on the "block" smoking and selling weed, while exchanging war stories of hustles, hits and narrow brushes with death; and like generals in the army of the survival of the fittest, they plot their next move, the next hustle, the next hit. Man must eat, by the profuse ganja sweat of thy brow, man must eat.



These force ripe bad boys (one of whom I had occasion to remind a couple years ago, that I to am from this area too and should not be trifled with, especially not my the likes of him) sit diligently with their basin of weed, wrapping meticulously every five bag. Sometimes it's the high grade stuff (you can tell by the smell), other times it's bush weed, and when supply low they stretch the product with a bit of tabac. Like I said, I'm from the area.



But back to what started this posting; I could not help being sadly amused by this purveyor of temporary escape from the delirium and drudgery that be this life. I watched this young man, perhaps just approaching 25 (if so much), leaning against a light pole, exhausted from the days hustle, his trophy (I suspect that trophy to be the end result of a careless night/day of some high grade kiki chased with a Guinness or three) of his sexual prowess proudly perched in his left arm ; to tired to lace the customary slap in the arse of a late paying client/fiend.



A client whom as a young boy growing up in the area I knew him to be a handy man, jack of all trades, master of none. This once strapping gentleman of yesterday, older than me (and I would have hoped wiser); now withered, broken, mouth practically vacant, has become the drug fiend of today, to a child of yesterday, the drug boss of today.



"Garson when you have my mon-e fo me jus pass it, doh come un gimme no story" said the boss. "No garson I go bring yoh mon-e fo you, garson you feel I go try to spoil wah we have deh" said the fiend.



Shit! The more things change.....

Certifiable

It amazes me how some of us sheep continue to engage in behaviours/activities that contribute to our states of unhappiness, depression, anger and a host of other negative emotions (again with the emotions; sometimes these damn emotions are better off being as dead as door nails); almost oblivious to the fact that our very actions contribute to these ill feelings. After all, whom but ourselves can be responsible for our happiness or unhappiness.

Then we pause and look outward for an explanation, a reason, a cause, someone to blame for the crap going on in our life and our shitty disposition. We expect the solution to our problems to come from someone else or some supreme being; we expect to be whisked away to Utopia (aka Nevernever land) by some mystical and/or imaginary purveyor of hope and copious debilitating joy joy feelings.

This is the true definition of insanity; continually banging your head hard against a wall and wondering why it hurts.

The more things change the more they stay the same.