To be, or not to be ... my #Bitmoji?

I might be jealous of my #Bitmoji. She has more swag than I do. And the way she changes outfits - in the click of a button? Oh how I wish it were that simple! My Bitmoji has clothing choices from Calvin Klein, Alexander McQueen, Bergdorf Goodman, Michael Kors, Marc Jacobs ... She can go from casual to formal in a heartbeat. She has the perfect outfits for her body size, and accessories come with them all! SMH. Lucky, lucky girl.

She doesn't have to worry about social awkwardness and angst. She's been programmed for expression perfection. No matter the situation, she has a quip, a line, a look, or something that will usually provoke the right reaction ... especially from MY closest friends and family. And she comes with a built-in disclaimer: if something she does or says doesn't go over well with her audience, they don't blame her, they blame ME! She gets away with expressing herself HOWEVER she wishes - anger, sadness, annoyance, boredom, joy ... she says it all and doesn't care. I'm the one who has to be paying attention and ensuring that what she says is appropriate and inoffensive.

I love her fearlessness. She's not afraid to say 'I'm sorry', or 'I love you', 'I miss' you', and 'wish you were here' - and even 'you stink!' She has no qualms about telling it like it is, and even if she is afraid, she expresses that fear with fierce boldness - she's not afraid to be afraid. Or vulnerable. Or wrong and foolish and quirky.

My Bitmoji is also enviably adventurous - flying off ropes, swinging on trellises, popping out of cars, cakes and boxes, throwing on all sorts of disguises, quoting flicks like a real movie buff, celebrating every holiday on the planet  ... she's everybody's favourite funny girl.

It makes me think about the reservations we often carry with us through life. It can be so easy to start to live on 20-25% of your personality, to somehow just morph yourself into the mundane patterns necessary to get through the days, and to forget, as a result, to claim, express or develop the other  75-80% of who we are ... or could be. Can you imagine what the world would be like if we were all unafraid and crazily expressive like our Bitmoji selves? (Although, truth is, some of us are!) What would our relationships look like if we were that honest with each other? If we said what we meant and felt: I'm sorry; I love you; I miss you; I'm proud of you ... ?

Maybe Bitmojis and emoticons are our way of 'safely' expressing the part of us that wants to connect  with people and be vulnerable and open without actually being all of that often uncomfortable stuff ... maybe they enable us to express the things that would otherwise be difficult to say. Or maybe they give us a cop-out, feeding our tendency to avoid genuineness and authenticity, and helping us hide behind funny faces and quick quips that ultimately mean nothing at all.

Food for thought.

How I wasted a day OR redefining wasted time

I feel like a terrible person.

Wanna know why? I blew a day. A whole day. I did no [real] work today. I woke, made breakfast, and then I sat down and binge-watched How I Met Your Mother. Netflix has the entire series. And I am a Netflix fan. My main sources of entertainment are real life, books and the Internet. I try to Netflix with moderation. But sometimes I end up doing things like binge-watching an entire series in the time that I should have been doing ... you know ... productive stuff.

Like writing. I'm a big believer in the am-writing hashtag world on Twitter, et al. I draw real encouragement from those 140 or less characters detailing other people's struggles and successes with the writing process all across the Twittersphere. I join in the write-at-whatever-hour groups when I can. I join the late-night writers and try to use my after-work hours to polish my future bestsellers. I try to give my writing as much time as I give to my nine-to-five, because I read somewhere that it's ridiculous to give so much time, effort and discipline to another person's dream, and then pretend indiscipline when it comes to your own. I agree with that sentiment. If I can be great at working to build another man's empire, I should be AWESOME at building my own. And I shouldn't need a slavemaster to motivate me to put in the work required to build my own dream.

So I try. I defy sleep sometimes. (Other times, sleep defies me). I forego preparing a proper meal and just settle for quick cereal (I love cereal though). I read. I delve into the worlds of other writers and find out how they're doing, what they're working on, etc. I occasionally go out to get some semblance of a proper meal and socialisation.

But. There are still days like today when no matter how many times I pick up the writing project and say, I'm going to do this .... I end the day thinking, well, I blew it ... again. I didn't do the things I set out to do at all. I had an awesome day of unparallelled productivity planned, and all I ended up doing was sleep ... watch something in between sleep ... some mild housecleaning ... wash clothes, cook something ... sleep some more. That was all the awesomeness my tired brain could manage today.

Failure days?
I hate these kinds of days! They feel like failure days. I hate days when the tired is so much, and the will is so weak ... I just let Netflix take over the thinking for me. Or whatever. It makes me feel guilty. And weak. And miserable inside. And I feel worse for being able to write about how I'm feeling in a blog post, but not do the important writing for the important  projects. *Sigh*. I posted this tweet tonight:

State of mind: #needachange SOON. #amwriting for REDEMPTION. #tired but TRYING. #burnoutisreal. Somehow, in my head, it's #November already.

This truly is my state of mind.
1. I need a change soon. If not, monotony will be the death of me.
2. I AM writing! It's my constant in life. No matter what is going on around me, my ability to write coherently has never left me. And my writing usually somehow goes directly to/from my heart. I value that and see it as a redemptive quality.
3. I'm tired, but I'm trying. These days, this should be my motto. It's not just that I've been fighting flu and sinus issues for the last month ... there's a weariness these days that is so overwhelming ... I ward it off most days, but sometimes, like today, it just hits me full force and it's all I can do to raise my head and look over the edge of the bed. I am realising that burnout is real, because I'm now walking through serious physical, mental and emotional exhaustion. I was on fire for the first seven months of this year, and now? Oh gosh man! I feel like tiredness has set into my bones. I need to rest ... or something, but ... there is so much to do, and so little time to do it in! You don't make an impact by playing it safe. You don't get to do great things by working just a regular job with regular hours. Achievers push. I believe that you don't grow if you don't push yourself past your own limits, so I try to push myself forward, because how else do you expand your horizons? It takes a toll sometimes, but most years, I can look back and honestly say going out of my comfort zone and taking on new responsibility was worth it. If I don't drown under this new workload, 2016 will be one of my best years yet. I'm working for it.
4. I'm not superstitious. I don't believe in any of the spooky stuff either. But I have this great feeling about November. I don't know why, and I can't sensibly explain it, but it's going to be an exceptional month. And in my head, I keep thinking I'm in November already. My brain just keeps skipping past September. Dunno why. Go figure.

Nothing is wasted
Part two of this rant is that I may have to redefine what I call wasted time. Is the time really wasted if I spent it getting some well-needed R&R? At what point did I accept the notion that any time spent doing anything outside of my (perhaps foolishly narrow) definition of productivity is wasted? And why do I feel guilty for giving myself a break for a day? Funny; if I had spent the day reading a novel, I wouldn't feel as terrible. Because it's somehow more sophisticated to say I spent the day reading a literal, physical book, than it is to surf the net (even if most of it is reading long-form opinion in the Guardian and NY Times), or binge-watch anything on Netflix or YouTube. Isn't that just pretentious? Where did I pick up that notion? And is it correct?

And on another level, is anything ever truly 'wasted'? There's a song by Elevation Worship that says 'nothing is wasted'. I'm starting to think maybe they're right, and I should learn to relax and just let life be.

If I did that, today would not be seen as a wasted day. And I wouldn't feel worthless for it. I would realise that after a month of fighting off the flu and not taking any real rest, and on the tail-end of juggling four major side projects in addition to my mainstay job, maybe a day like today is my brain and body's way of reminding me that I am not a robot, and I must occasionally pause and relax.

I want to reach a place where I master the pace of life ... where I'm always building and making progress, but doing it in such a healthy way, my brain and body don't feel the need to just shut down on me. I'm working towards that, too. Maybe I'll get it by November. Or maybe I'll figure that out by the time I'm 60.

Either way, what I'm clear on is that I'm making progress in some sort of way. And even though right now, I still have days like this - where I feel less accomplished than I'd like, in the end, when I look back on the big picture, there's something happening. And that something is good, beneficial, and very, very promising.

I woke this morning with a clear head ... and Nora Ephron came to mind

I woke this morning with a clear head. After walking around for the last three days trying to balance what felt like a swollen, oversized, inflamed bowling ball on my neck and shoulders. The pain has waned, the mucus has subsided, and I woke this morning with a clear, normal-sized head.

Nora Ephron (1941-2012)
Author, journalist, essayist, playwright,
screenwriter, novelist, director, producer,
blogger ... and one of my biggest
inspirations :)

I was going to read my Bible. I took up the laptop to find Matthew 5 and ended up on Pinterest reading Nora Ephron quotes – a turn of events for which I'm sure she would have had several witty remarks. She would probably have worked it into a plot for a famous romantic comedy,  adorning it with brilliant lines that would have made the movie a quotable hit.

Ah, Nora! How she lived! I think of her, and the word fabulous comes to mind. I enjoy her books, movies and essays. So delightfully humorous, and relatable. I loved 'You've Got Mail', 'Sleepless In Seattle' and 'When Harry Met Sally' long before I knew who had written them. In fact, I loved Nora precisely because she wrote these movies. Then I read 'I Remember Nothing' and 'I Feel Bad About My Neck', and I just loved her wit and blunt honesty. It's always refreshing to hear truth without the side serving of bitterness or hate. Some people tell you the truth, but it is so tainted by sadness, it just sounds and looks ugly. Then others tell you the same truths, and there is such a beautiful acceptance - a coming to terms with it - that makes the impartation gentler, more meaningful and ... wholesome.

Nora Ephron had that vibe. She said things that were true, but cushioned them in humour, or with a simple grace that made them more like gentle advisories than rude slaps. And she laughed a lot - at herself and others. Everybody who knew her said so. She mastered the art of taking life just seriously enough to get the lessons without allowing them to permanently harden you. I think I would have liked her if I'd gotten to meet her in the flesh. But I am happy that I got to meet her, to some degree, through her work, and her words.

There's a fundamental presumptuousness which accompanies writing about people we've never met as if we knew them. But there is also something wonderful about getting to meet a person through their work and words. It gives you insight you probably would have missed if you knew them in the flesh, because writing often reveals the depths of a woman/man.

That's why I love the literary arts. It introduces you – intimately – to perfect strangers, and seduces you into connections with people and places unknown. Through their words, you get glimpses of their minds ... and sometimes, what you see is so wonderful – so powerful and dynamic and brilliant – that you fall irrevocably in love. I honestly don't know how anyone goes through life without succumbing to the charm and magic of reading ... and writing.

I like the way Nora Ephron puts it:

“Reading is everything. Reading makes me feel like I've accomplished something, learned something, become a better person. Reading makes me smarter. Reading gives me something to talk about later on. Reading is the unbelievably healthy way my attention deficit disorder medicates itself. Reading is escape, and the opposite of escape; it's a way to make contact with reality after a day of making things up, and it's a way of making contact with someone else's imagination after a day that's all too real. Reading is grist. Reading is bliss.”

How true! How very, very true.

Life is not a straight line

One of my friends has decided to come out. As a writer, that is. She's made some bold steps in her life recently: quit the nine-to-five, (stable) job; set up her own website; started her own literary movement online; decided to earn a living on an entirely freelance basis ... . She has decided to waste no more time building another man's empire, and is now concentrating her efforts on building her own legacy. I admire the courage it takes to walk away from the traditional model of security that we were brainwashed into, and pursue a heartfelt - though as yet unrealised - passion. I haven't as yet surrendered to the need I frequently feel for a similarly great disruption in my life.

Earlier this year, a young man with whom I am acquainted just got up and left his nine-to-five, and flew to New York to basically camp out in a studio to produce the album that was burning a hole into his heart - and head. He came back to Jamaica remarkably thinner - and yet somehow infused with a freshness of purpose and depth of character that left me feeling a need to re-meet him on these new terms. The energy he exuded was so altered - so transformed by his experience of tuning in to and pursuing the thing he felt he was born to accomplish - that I realised I would have to discard some of my previous beliefs about him and learn him all over again.

I ran into him on the street after his return, and we just stood there talking about how his brief experience with less-than-ideal circumstances had shifted his perspective, cemented his conviction and determination, and birthed a solidness in his personality that I had not previously perceived. I marveled at it, and wondered if it was because action - small though it may seem - had replaced what was once just a whole lot of raw desire, angst and ennui. I mused that when people start to take actions based on their personal convictions, and from an attempt to be as true to their authentic selves as possible, instead of just following the dictates of tradition, they tend to have a certain je ne sais quoi - a certain something - a resolute stolidness - about them that is often missing from those who never make the bold move or strike out on the road less traveled.

Widened experience widens horizons and perspectives. It grows people up and teaches them patience, discipline, maturity and persistence. I keep meeting it in friends from high school and college. The ones who were full of longing and have done something in the direction of those dreams are now full of a certain wiseness ... the best ones exude a calm understanding of placement, timing, persistence, and the unpredictability of life. You talk to them, and beneath the sentences runs a current of sagacity. Life has taught them something, and they have been gracious in accepting the lessons.

Then there are the ones who are clearly disappointed and disoriented. And have allowed it to hollow out their hearts (and faces), and chisel their cheekbones into hardened bitterness. Their eyes are shifty. They laugh and self-deprecate. While they are talking, they glance at you to see how you are responding, and if you are reading the emptiness or uncertainty behind their words - you can sense their fear that you will detect the facade and call them out on it. Or worse, call someone else's attention to it.

I'm not judging. I think on any given day, I can be a mix of the two. There are days when the courage and the calm comes and floods my soul with an ethereal peace. Then there are days when my eyes would rather remain transfixed to the pavement, instead of telling old friends harsh truths. On those days, escape, abandonment and bridge-burning seem desirable. It can be so easy to flee ...

... which makes me wonder at the courage it sometimes takes to stay. It must take strength, I think, to remain in a place that reeks stagnation, depression and death. For whatever reason, there are persons who will never take any radical step in any direction. They will never launch out into the deep. They will learn to tiptoe through life, live with their discomfort - sometimes a sacrifice for others - and  train themselves to draw on a reserve of ... something ... to get through redundantly unfulfilling days.

I think it shows courage in a different way. Doesn't it probably take more out of a person to remain discomfitted? It takes a certain gigantic cowardice, yes, but that actually requires enormous amounts of energy, time, and life.

What I've realised is, most of us never listen to our guts beyond hunger pangs. We tend to hold back, stay in the stream of conventional normalcy, and float with everybody else to that place of mediocre malcontent that most nine-to-fivers hit by the time they greet the big 4-0. And then they grieve the life they did not live because they never worked up the courage to kick the habit of mundane comforts. The gargantuan price we pay for sameness only seems deceptively small.

That's why these friends who have decided to step away from the path mapped out for them by society have earned my admiration, and given me much to ponder. They have decided to live driven lives. Is that much different from my somewhat spur-of-the-moment trip to Mexico earlier this year? What was I looking for in Mexico that I couldn't find in Jamaica? What did I acquire in Mexico that has left me feeling like my days in Jamaica are fast approaching an expiry date? Food for personal thought.

The point I wanted to make though, was that this friend who has decided to hone and offer to the world her writing voice, did a blog post in which she said she was, once again, starting over. I shook my head at that. Because life is NOT a straight line. And the impression I got was that she kept starting over with hopes of somehow one day achieving a straight-line history. She wants to look back and see a perfect trajectory from one direction. I used to think like that too. I used to announce every blog post after prolonged absences with a new determination to 'begin again' and 'get it right this time'. Then one day I realised I never got it wrong. Who defines what my blogging experience ought to be? Where did I - did we - pick up the notion that we had to live our lives in a straight line - in this perfect trajectory from Point A to Point B to Point C? What sold us that lie? And why did we buy it so easily? Why are we only now just realising the need to challenge this? These questions sometimes rob me of sleep.

Life is a crooked line. Pun intended. It's not even a line sometimes. There are gaps, and stops and so many curves. My friend keeps starting over, instead of building on what she did before ... because she thinks that not carrying through what she had started in a particular way somehow invalidates the effort. I grieve for that belief, and for the societal institutions that popularise and propagandise it. I realise that by not starting a new blog everytime I had a hiccup in my writing frequency, I established a body of writings that bear testament to my continuous efforts to get my thoughts out in some coherent verbal form. It gives me eight years of work to look back over. And to build on. It proves that my hiccups were conquered, and gives me a base to work from ... a history that is not a cute black point extended in one direction over large stretches of time. It's a mess of writings and words that tell a very human, mixed up story that gives glimpses into the growth of a mind.

I salute my friends for taking their leaps of faith. But I want to tell them to forget the straight-line approach. It never worked for Bell. That's why he stuck with the curve. I want to tell them to do him one better and go for squiggles and mushes and messes. I want to tell them to celebrate the crookedness of their paths, and I want them to realise that all of that mess of scrawling and bawling behind them led them here - to the moment when they stepped into their very own with new-found self-respect, self-reliance and self-determination.

And I want them to tell others who they meet along the way to not torture themselves for the absence of a straight line behind them ... and to make their path forward as uniquely artistic and authentic as possible - hiccups, ennui, angst and all.

Selah.

I miss #Mexico ...

Hello, Jamaica. Hasta luego, Mexico!

It's been two weeks since I've been back, and I'll tell you what: the magic hasn't worn off yet. I think of Mexico and smile. It's a happy smile, but it's a secret smile. It's a secret smile full of special things only people who went to my Mexico, and met my Mexico people, and did Mexico things with my Mexico people would understand. It's an inside joke only the ones who shared this experience with me would know. You had to be there to get that it was fun, and different, and special, and definitely worth smiling about.

It's an accomplished smile, too. It's a 'yes! I did it!' smile. It's a smile that reminds me of the friends I made, the people I met, the experiences I had, the ways I changed ... . It feels good to be home, but it feels good precisely because I was away. Going away makes coming home better in some ways; worse in others; different in every way. I can't wait to go away again! :)

Ah, Mexico. Mexico made 'foreign' feel like home. My experiences there make me feel 'foreign' now, at home! I'm still regaining my bearings. I still feel a little jetlagged - but in soul, not in body.

I have internal jetlag. Physically, I'm fine. But in my mind? In my emotions? In the depths of me? I'm still travelling. It's weird. But it's true. I don't even know if this is the kind of thing I want to be blogging about yet, because I'm still figuring out exactly what it means and how I feel about it. But maybe this writing exercise will help.

I've always heard people say that travel does things to you: widens your horizons, broadens your perspective, facilitates self-knowledge, self-reliance, strength, etc., etc. Know what? It's true. Travel does all of the above. And it's awesome.

But somebody should have warned me that once you've been to the mountaintop, anything less will forever seem ... pedestrian. Once you've lived even a little of your dream in a truly fullsome way, that taste - that way of being - becomes addictive. Nothing else compares. Nothing else matters. So, forget the cold, the food woes, the bumpy bus-rides. My mind has graced them with amnesia. Now, all I remember is being at the airport, boarding the plane, going ... being gone. Being there. Meeting that person. Living in that place. Trying that new dish ... the feeling of being in a foreign place ... that feeling of living in the beauty of the moment ... and completely loving it.

It's ALL I remember. That feeling. That way of being. And I'm grateful, and hopeful, a little sad, a lot lost, but mostly ... grateful. Hasta luego, Mexico. I'll see you again. Hopefully soon.

There are no do-overs ... live it UP!

Scenes from the #Guachimontones in Mexico.
Photos mine.

This is not for you.

This is for me.

For all of the wonderful things I will be.

For all of the places and people I’ll see.

I want to be ready.

This is for me.

Have you ever felt like you’ve been dreaming for so long, you’ve forgotten what real life felt like? Like you’ve forgotten how to breathe and feel and be in present tense? There have been days when all I lived on was future. “Will be” became the propeller for my life: a seemingly endless reach into a vast unknown, a permanent stretch into next. That was me. That was my life. I lived looking for consecutive exits, skipping rapidly through chapters, like a screen director on a boring set, always screaming “Next!"

Then I did a somewhat crazy thing. I planned a trip, by myself, and left my country for a strange land for five weeks. Next time, it WILL be for longer - much longer ... hehehe.

Scenes from the #Guachimontones in Mexico.
Photos mine.

This is what I'm thinking with roughly three days left in Mexico. I'm three days away from returning to my beloved Jamaica. I kinda don't wanna leave my beloved Mexico. I feel like I have stuff to say to Mexico, and Mexico has stuff to say to me that we haven't said yet. I feel like the conversation is incomplete. Like I ought to stay longer and hear - in its fullness - what Mexico has to say to me.

Does that even make sense? I don't know. But I feel like going home is a break in transmission that I'm not fully ready for. I could stay here a little longer. Just a little. Just to listen. Just to hear Mexico talking to me.

What's done is done, though - and that return trip is booked! That's life. There are no do-overs. I did my Mexico trip the way I did it, and that's that.

Would I have done anything differently? Not by much. I mean, I would have travelled with seasoning to spice up some dishes; I would have let the bank know I was going to be in a foreign country for over a month, and spared myself a day on the phone trying to verify that I'm really me. But that's small stuff. The big stuff - the really consequential things - I wouldn't change any of that. It was a great trip. I liked it the way it was. And I want to remember it like that.

Scenes from the #Guachimontones in Mexico.
Photos mine.

I'm getting nostalgic and I haven't even left here yet. If you haven't figured it out yet, I'm kinda a sap. I like to think in philosophies. With some depth. (At least, I think so, lol). What I'm saying is: You only get this moment once. So breathe in, take it all in, and forget to feel afraid. Forget your reservations. They can wait till tomorrow. Or never. Don't let them in. Live! Live it UP!

All you have is now. So live. Live it UP! In Mexico, I definitely lived UP! And I liked it. That's the thing I'll take back with me to Jamaica - that ability to move past difficulties and differences and look up, and live UP. All you have is now, friends. And until you die, NOTHING can kill you. So LIVE! Live UP!

Scenes from the #Guachimontones in Mexico.
If I'd let fear reign, I would have never seen this first-hand.
Photos mine.

Touristitude: what kind of tourist am I?

Touristitude = TOURIST + ATTITUDE

There was precious little to appetise me here ...

So we went to a Mexican Chinese restaurant. Know what? I prefer Jamaican Chinese food by LEAPS and BOUNDS and GALAXIES and UNIVERSES. Yep. It was that bad. I didn't express the extent of my dislike while we were at the restaurant. That wouldn't have helped anything. I was polite, and explained that I like my cold food COLD and my hot food HOT - and that maybe because everything was room temperature and pretty much tepid, I wasn't feeling very 'appetised'. Plus, I added, I wasn't that hungry anyway (lies!!). I ate what I could stomach, and made polite conversation while my host had his meal. He noticed that I didn't touch half of the food on my plate, but was polite enough to 'understand'.

That's what you get for trying CHINESE food in MEXICO. (But Chinese food in Jamaica is so tasty though ... I thought it was like that everywhere.)

One plate of Chinese food that
pretty much remained untouched ...

Another time, we (not the same host, a different we) went to a restaurant where I ordered a soup called posole blanco. Truth? It tasted like chicken boiled in water with large grains of hominy corn. No seasoning. Not even salt. Now, all Jamaicans know that soup is not soup without some Maggi Soup-It-Up. Plus some thyme and scallion and all them herbs for flavour. So this new dish sans seasoning wasn't going down too well at all. Even with the addition of chopped onions and radish and a little chili pepper.

Know what I did? Same as above: I didn't express the extent of my dislike while we were at the restaurant. I was polite, and sipped my soup, ate my corn grains, truly enjoyed the chicken, and nodded vague approval, masking the sorrow my tastebuds were undergoing.

Only weeks later, after I'd tasted the red counterpart to that white wonder, called posole rojo, did I let slip how terrible I'd found that soup. We laughed about it, probably because I really LOVE posole rojo, and was chowing down with genuine gusto. It was like chalk to cheese. Posole rojo? Win. Posole blanco? Never again.

But I realised something about myself: I'm a polite tourist. You know those people who are perpetually nice and always find a way to 'make do'? I might be one of those.

It got me thinking, and I started paying closer attention to my reactions to things - as a tourist. Imagine my surprise when I realised I'm squealish. Not squeamish. Squealish. Like a person who creates a lot of excitement over every little thing. So I go somewhere, and they say, "This is Mexican dirt." My response will be (in a squeal), "Oooh. How lovely. Mexican dirt!" Only long afterward will it occur to me that it's not particularly exciting to see dirt. But such is the nature of my touristitude. I make excitement for dirt.

I'm also screamish. I scream. Loud. Lots. Especially when excited. One night, we went to a karaoke bar. One of my friends went up and sang. It was sooo good - dude can sing! So I screamed. Loudly. Alot. One of the Mexican girls came over to me and said: "I buy you beer. You scream. How you do that?"

It took me a while to understand. But she was basically offering to buy me a beer, hoping I kept up the hysterics all night, and asking me how I made that shrill sound. I declined the beer. I explained that she was welcome to hang with us (we were the loud ones that night), but she didn't need to buy me anything. It's funny when I think about it because I don't really scream on demand. It just happens if and when I get excitable.

Turns out I screamed a lot more that night. This one girl went up and put on a real Pink performance - rockerchick moves and all. I screamed for that. Another of our brave friends went up and sang Sean Kingston's 'Beautiful Girl'. It was a fun (and funny) rendition. I screamed for that. But when a Mexican mama hit the stage and said, "First I was afraid, I was petrified", I got off my stool and screamed the house down! Then we all belted out that time-honoured karaoke masterpiece and danced to high heaven. Was fun.

So, I learnt that I'm a screamish tourist. Not even just a tourist. I'm a screamish person. I make loud sounds when I'm happy - screams, peals of laughter, cackles, shouts ... you get the gist. I guess I can sum it up by saying I have a polite, make-do, screamish, squealish touristitude.

'Bus'-ing the truth

Yep, that's a Mexican bus!

Jamaica has some large, yellow buses that are used for public transportation. These vehicles always sound like they're either hawking, coughing, sneezing or spitting. The journey can sometimes be an exercise in religious conversion: you start off expecting a peaceful ride to your destination, but by halfway, you get a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach that leaves you with an urgent need to get right with your Maker ... just in case.

Mexican buses are like the smaller cousins to that. Riding in one of them is like taking a roller coaster. Especially when there's a sharp stop. You jolt forwards and then rapidly backwards. You could get whiplash (a neck sprain). Don't get me wrong, sometimes the ride is quiet, sedate, peaceful. But there have been days when I was forced to remember that turbulence doesn't happen only in the skies.

I remember for one busride home, two toddlers got on with their parents. They all sat on the back seat. For the entire journey, their squeals of delight echoed through the bus as they laughed and shrieked every time the bus made a stop or a jolt. It was great fun for them, and I couldn't help smiling as I reflected on the innocence of children, and how something that was an inconvenience to most adults was wildly amusing to them. When they finally got off the bus, giggling and shouting in Spanish to their parents, the bus felt sadly quiet somehow. Even the jolts didn't seem as pronounced without the little squeals to punctuate every occurrence.

In moments like those, I realise the universality of humanity. That is something that could have easily happened in Jamaica, or, I imagine, the United States, or Australia, or China. That could have happened anywhere in the world because kids are kids, no matter where they're from. They're precious, innocent, amusing, affectionate and honest – before we teach them otherwise.

And, by extension, people are just people. No matter where you go in the world, you will meet comedians, jokers, tricksters, lovers, worriers, warriors, discriminators ... they're everywhere. And that's why I think I'm not too caught up in how I'm received when I go to new places. I understand that people are people the world over. And even if I'm meeting one particular sort in one place, I know other sorts exist there.

Since I've been here, I've met many wonderful people. I've met people who like my sense of style; I've met people who are crazy about Jamaica (I'm just starting to understand how truly significant that is); I've met people who are just generally nice to everyone, so it really doesn't matter to them where I'm from. And I've met people who are not any of those things – not crazy about Jamaica. Not crazy about black people. Not crazy about me. Maybe just crazy :).

The point is, the longer I'm here, the more similarities I see between my culture and here. And the more I appreciate that this is a universal truth: we are all more alike than we are different.

I'm shedding ...

Photo from http://www.bloodyloud.com/wp-content/gallery/
human-met/20110512_taylorjames11-600x309.jpg

This is the skin with the melanin!
This is the body with melatonin!
This is the girl with the endorphins!
Guess what? She's shedding! 


My skin is suffering. There is no other way to say it. My skin is suffering.

I have beautiful black skin which, moisturised once daily, usually yields favourable results. No need for reinforcements. No need to check to ensure that I'm not walking around with arms and legs looking like lizard scales. Usually.

What my skin is doing in Mexico is not usual at all. I have to be moisturising thrice daily. When that doesn't work, I have to wear leggings so that people don't mistake my legs for a crocodile's hide. The cocoa butter cream I brought with me seems piddlingly pitiful when pitted against the task it must now accomplish. My arms and legs look like dry leather. My face is losing moisture faster than a tank in the Sahara. And if something itches, and I happen to scratch, there goes a layer of skin!

I know it sounds gross, and it probably is (in a small way), but I am truly surprised at what my skin is doing over here. I feel like I have become a reptile. I'm moulting. I mean, I expected that higher altitudes would mean different levels of humidity, etc., so I brought reinforcements with me. I bought some of the best and strongest stuff I could find. But, alas, my skin continues to shed.

To be fair, there's a cold front passing over the country, so temperatures are abnormally low. But can you imagine my shock when I scratched my head and half my scalp fell out? (I'm going to stop with the gross references now).

I did a little research online, and what I found was surprisingly symbolic. One site says that shedding is nature's way of preparing animals for seasonal changes, and moulting prepares the animal for a new stage of growth. I read it and thought, 'hmm ... that's kinda true here.'

I'm exploring a foreign country by myself. I've never done anything like this before. It's thrilling and different, and my world view may be changing more than I care to admit ... . My life is literally being stretched. As is my capacity. New growth is taking place. And in the process, it's only natural that I am also shedding. I'm letting go of some old things. For good. Forever. I'm giving up on some stuff. For now. I'm releasing my grip on a lifetime of ... (let's not go there).

Why not shed? It's actually a healthy practice. It makes sense. And what better place to do it than in an environment where you are completely outside of all the familiar influences and truly on your own?

So this is the skin with the melanin!
This is the body with melatonin!
This is the girl with the endorphins!
Guess what she's shedding ... :) 

Writers write.

You're waiting for Godot. But if what these seasoned writers are saying is true, you'd better stop. Because Godot rarely, if ever, comes.

It's the one thing aspiring writers are doing wrong: they're not writing. Instead, they're hoping to write, praying for the inspiration, and wishing for a time when they will just become prolific, articulate, and professional. They expect it to happen like a biblical 'suddenly': overnight and allatonce. Or in some elusive fulfillment of 'the right time'.

Not so, say the professional writers - the ones aspiring writers get angsty about emulating. Writing, they say, like any other skill, must be cultivated through practice and hard work. It is the exercise of putting words on paper that will ultimately increase and expand your ability to do just that. The muses will not just rain a lifetime's worth of genius on you in a day. Instead, they dispense the gift of scribe (or scribble) in small increments over time to a faithful few - the few who are relentlessly expending time and effort honing a skill they dearly love and deeply desire to master.

Writers write. It's as simple as that. If you want to be a writer, you must banish inhibitions or whimsical notions of a magical time to come when words will just flow out of your fingertips on wave after wave of endless inspiration. You must debunk your personal writing myths. And. Just. Write.

Write through drudgery. Write through the mundane. Write about the ordinary. Write about the exceptional. Just write. And give it a just effort everytime. Don't expect cohesion and flow to grace you with their presence everyday. Push for them to be there by very deliberately writing until they show up. 

Sometimes, they don't surrender to your coaxing and don't show up. Write through that. Write about that. Just don't stop writing.

Writing is magical. Yet it is not.  It is deliberate and intentional. It takes presence of mind and consciousness of thought. There may be times when you get lucky with a muse. But mostly, those bastards play hide and seek with you, like they don't know their importance to your budding writing career. Or don't care. You can't depend on them. So don't. Decide to write anyway.

I made an observation to a friend yesterday at the JCDC Creative Writing Competition (which is what inspired this post). What I've noticed is most aspiring writers seem to realise their writing dream (or attempt to) when they are in their latter years. Why is this? Why do people go through their whole lives with a desire to be a writer, but only act on it when their years on earth have been significantly spent and they are running out of time to do the one thing that has dogged them for most of those years? In contrast, singers sing. Dancers dance. They lift their contraltos and baritones and create rapturous melodies; their bodies become canvases for fluid expressions of motion. They flit and fly, groove and jive. They don't wait for 'a right time', or a 'spirit' to move them. They sing. They dance. And the recognition of talent (or lack thereof) is instant.

But the writer? He/She sits looking off into space, waiting for something extraordinary to move upon his/her soul before he/she gets to the task at hand. Do you see how nonsensical that is? Stop waiting for Godot. Stop waiting for a perfect moment. They don't exist.

If you are a writer, pick up that pen, turn on that computer, and take Nike's advice: Just do it! Because writers write. That's the only way to get it done. 

Selah.

No Fear!!

I was having dinner (sumptuous marinated pork and brown stew chicken ... nice!). I reached down for the cup, and my fingers hit it so it teetered at a 45 degree angle.

 My heart leapt. I don't even know where it went. I quickly righted the cup. Then I thought:What was that feeling?? I should not be this afraid of spilling a cup of water. I should not be this afraid of making a mistake.

Then I had an epiphany: time stilled for a brief second and deep realisation sank in. There it was: a profound thought in a less-than-profound moment: I should not be this afraid of making a mistake!

Musings ...

Truth? Sometimes I feel like I'm not living - like I'm here, but I'm not here at all. Before you jump to the bottom of the post, hit comment and start to type your 2000-word response encouraging me to hang on and not give up, let me explain. I am hanging on. I'm not giving up. Frankly, that's not what this post is about. It's about something infinitely more essential  - it's about living while alive ... and the freedom a body is supposed to have to do it! It's about finding purpose in the course of one's existence and pursuing that purpose with singleness of mind, heart and spirit, and being liberated to do so!

My particular concern has always been for the YOUTH in Caribbean nations - that demographic which is supposed to be representative of our nations' individual and collective futures ... the statistics are far from impressive. Apart from the spate of senseless murders targetting children and youth in this country, there are the scores of unemployed, undermotivated and uneducated youth who just feel and look hopeless.

In some ways, I'm like everybody else - I'm here. I'm sitting here in this chair in this large edifice typing at this desktop computer. You can see me, a touch would startle me, you can probably smell me (hopefully my cologne, lol) because I'm REAL. I'm alive.

So what am I getting at? What's eating me up? The thought that despite my obvious physical existence, I'm not as present as I'd like to be. See, my mind ... how do I put this?? My mind is not settled here, even if my body is. It's still stretching and reaching for other places, other avenues, other destinations.

And this has been the story of my life - a constant pursuit of something ... higher? Nobler? Better? I'm always looking to the next step - the next big thing. I don't think that I've ever really settled anywhere. I watched Julia Roberts in 'Eat, Pray, Love' and laughed out loud because her character reminds me so much of me (minus the actually going anywhere part). But I always want to. Go somewhere. Be somewhere else. In whatever sense you read that, it's probably true.

Some people have tanks that are fuelled by the events of their past. Others run on the exhilaration of being fully entrenched in the present. I run on future - the thing and time that is yet to be. And I'm always reaching for it, looking to it ... Now don't get me wrong. I have this gift of throwing myself so fully into whatever I'm doing that sometimes it seems like that's all there is to me. But. The part of me that never dies is the part that reaches out to the next thing - whatever the thing might be - the next experience, the next adventure, the next story.

Let us not look back in anger. Or forward in fear. But around in awareness.

That's one of my favourite James Thurber quotes. I've memorised it since I was in high school. But the other day, I was reading through my book of quotes, going over my vision document (yes, I actually have one), and it hit me: when do you start looking around in awareness? The minute you take your eyes from before you or behind you and direct them to the spot in which your feet are planted; the minute your mind becomes actively engaged in your present ... when you stop fading out the voices you'd rather not hear and start listening to their every inflection. When you start looking people in the eyes and seeing the whole person, not just the job title, description and rank. When you start living not just as you are, but as you ought to be because that is what matters.

Open eyes. Open mind. Open arms. Open life. And that's what I've been doing since then: Coming alive.

What Speaks To My Most Authentic Self?

That's my question of the day. I heard a renown educator pose it to an audience, and it hit me: what speaks to my most authentic self? For a moment, I thought I'd have a ready answer. Because, gosh, I know me so well, right?

Wrong. There was/is/has been (note change to present continuous tense) prolonged contemplation. Then here I am, blogging about it, and still not in any definitive way. What speaks to MY most authentic self? WHAT speaks to my most authentic self? What speaks to my most AUTHENTIC self? It is, I admit, a worthy question.

What I love about this question is how it is personalised. It's not asking about YOUR most authentic self (no offence to you, I assure you I value and highly esteem your self and its authenticity). It's asking about ME and MY authenticity. It's talking about ME from MY paradigm, MY perspective, MY point of view. I think many people have become so absorbed in (and by) their environments that they have forgotten the existence of their authentic selves, and the need to nurture them. We can get so caught up in being politically correct that we begin to create - and nurture - a self that engenders what everyone around us wants us to be, but that betrays the very essence of those elements that speak most to who we really are or want to be.

It's like kids growing into adults and forgetting the importance of having and pursuing dreams with  firm belief in their possibility. The kid had the big heart, but not the knowledge. The adult has no heart, lotsa *negative* knowledge. And, for some reason, society affirms the adult, rehabilitates the kid, but never considers a way to consolidate both points of view.

I love this question because it asks us to go back to basics and rediscover genuineness and authenticity. It asks us to do more than just get by under the shroud of conformity. It forces us to face up to what is different and real about each of us - and to own it. I hope you take the time to answer the question.

Inspiring? Who? Me?

"Ruth, you know you inspire me, right?"

I wasn't faking modesty when I looked surprised. I was genuinely surprised. Because in all my 20-something years of existence, the last two are probably the most uninspiring I've ever felt in my life! I just don't feel like much of an inspiration lately. I know that will soon change, because I REFUSE to give up, but still, right now, it is what it is.

I smiled and asked, "Really? Why?" And I was honest. I wanted to know why.

"Because you've been fulfilling your goals. You're living your dream of working in media. You've always loved writing and you haven't stopped. You're getting ahead."

I laughed, and there was sarcasm in it. I mean, I appreciated the compliment, but she had no idea. So I flipped the script.

"Actually," said I. "People like you inspire me."

It was her turn to look sheepish and flabbergasted. "Me? No way. I just can't seem to get it together."

I nodded. "Yeah. I know a lot of people like that ... who just can't seem to get it together. But that doesn't stop them from trying. And I always respect people who, no matter what life throws at them, know how to pick up the pieces and carry on with what they have to do. Those are the real heroes - the silent champions .. and you're one of those."

She looked shocked and shy. But I meant it. She's much younger than I am ... just started university last year. She has no father to speak of. Her mother tried to sell her to men for money when she was younger. She was basically adopted and raised by a Catholic nun, who also paid what she could for her schooling. She has brothers and sisters all over this country - known and unknown. Her father was very generous with his seed. He understood the biblical directive to cast his bread upon the waters ... But despite all of that, she's in university studying the arts ... she's getting ahead.

Afterward, I was thinking that I know a lot of people like her. Coming from a small, rural community, I see stories like that pretty often - people who think they just can't seem to get it together who are actually doing pretty well. It's funny, because many times, if we stop looking so intently at ourselves and look around us, we'll see that the faults we constantly berate ourselves for can also be found elsewhere. We are not one of us perfect. But we are not one of us completely flawed either. There's good and bad in everybody. And that's reason to hope for all. I get inspired by people like my friend. Regular people ... very ordinary, who put the dare in dreams and the possibility in maybe.

Funny how that worked out. I inspired her. She inspired me. May the cycle of inspiration never end ...

Dreams Turned Hostile ...

I will not stop this quest of mine.
I will see this thing through to the end.

He remembers the first time he came here - a little over three years ago. Bright, young, eager. Anxious to please. Eager to prove. Ready (he thought) to show up and show out. The question was never whether he was ready for them, but whether they were ready for him.

Then it happened. All at once. The next thing he knew, he lost his bearings, lost his ground and ooof! A huge, brawling, sprawling fall. He lost his illusions right there - in that minute. He slowly became this other person. Speaking only when spoken to. Answering only when called. Barely looking up from his computer's monitor, absorbed daily by a million and one insecurities - the infinite list of little things that offend, change character ... he lost his propensity for magnanimous dreams and larger-than-life hopes. He became tamed. Subdued. Broken.

Bruised and belittled by the savage machinery that overrides good sense in the corporate world, he has become a slave to what was once his desire. He has begun to think less wistful, more somber thoughts: of years chained to a desk, of savings accounts slowly depleted. His hope seeps away. He is unconsolably unhappy. His life is being drained. But this is what he must do to pay the bills.

I passed him yesterday. There he sits, swallowed and drowning in the routine of a life he never bargained for and never fully understood until it was too late ...

He's not alone.

Across Jamaica, around the world, there are people -old and young- who resent the faces they now see in the mirror. They hate and abhor what they have become. They, too, have forgotten, what it means to dream. On the altar of 'getting by', they have sacrificed their heart's fire; trading the gleam in their eyes for a monthly pay cheque, the spontaneity that once defined them for accursed routine.

I grieve for a people who must live not as they want, but as they are compelled to by 'circumstances beyond their control'. This new year, may we all find the time to rewrite our missions, recharge our ignitions, and go get those dreams before it is truly too late.

Happy 2011, and thanks for making it a wonderful 2010.

Love,
Ruthibelle.

Jamaican Frustration 2

The second incident was far more tragic than the first.

I was walking by a vendor, peddling her wares on a wooden cart. She sat with her baby - the child could not have been more than a year old - on the edge of the cart.

A man passed by on the opposite side of the street. The child looked at the man.

Suddenly, whollop! The mother gave the child one big slap upside his head that sent him toppling like a doll.

"Mi seh nuh look over deh!" She yelled loudly at the child. The child righted himself on his seat and sat in stunned silence, looking down at the ground and rubbing the side of his head. He never shed a tear.

IN contrast, my own eyes were brimming with sympathy. I wondered what kind of frustration would cause an upset mother to unleash such unbridled anger on her child ... and if the child did not cry because he had become accustomed to it.

Jamaican Frustration

Like a pot full of steamy stew – way past ready – spitting bubbles, spewing heat that sears unsuspecting, naked flesh, there is a seething, boiling rage in our people ... a thinly-veiled, barely-buried hurt. They are fed up and frustrated.

This morning, I witnessed two vivid examples of the frustration that is rampant in Jamaicans.

The first happened while I was sitting in a bus on my way to work. A police officer pulled the bus over and asked to see the driver's documents. The driver's annoyance was instantaneous.

"Wha me do? " he loudly queried. "After me nuh do nutting. Boss, gimme a bly nuh man?"

The police officer calmly repeated his request to see the documents.

The driver begged. "Jus mek me drive outta di park nuh man?"

The policeman did not budge. He informed the driver that he had three children to take care of and would not be loosing his job because he gave one lousy, uncouth driver a 'bly'.

The bus driver cursed a string of profanities as he rummaged through an old bag for his papers. He gave them to the policeman, but refused to step out of the bus. The policeman refused to return the documents until he did.

The passengers entered the quarrel and began to curse – some at the driver for being so obstinate, some at the policeman for being part of the system of 'Babylon' – a system that had let them down all too many times. Some cursing at the ceiling and begged God to get them to work on time, others just cursed at no one in particular ... whatever the reason, everyone cursed.

Finally, the policeman turned the papers over to an inspector, who decided to give the driver the 'bly' he so desperately began to beg for.

After we drove out of the bus park, the cursing ceased - except for one bitter woman whose soul was full to overflowing with the atrocities of the "damn police", the injustices of "the system" ... she began to sympathise loudly with the bus driver, relating how her car was also in a state of disrepair because of the horrible conditions of the roads. She spoke at length about how difficult it was to even buy herself a pair of sneakers because of the high costs of insurance, electricity, water, rent, food, and, of course, the damned car repairs.

She was still unburdening herself - her complaints interspersed with the most colourful language - when I alighted from the bus, thinking to myself that it can't be healthy - or safe - for people to remain in such an extended state of frustration and tension. What happens when the strings of a woman's life have been drawn so tightly, pulled to such extremes, that she feels no remorse in unburdening her sorrows to a bus-full of strangers? When she can find no relief in her incessant cursing? What is this nightmare that our people live? What is the real definition for Jamaican frustration?

Quote For Today

Today I choose.
Today I decide.
To walk away from apathy.
To embrace destiny.
- Ruthibelle

This is for Lucy, a blogfriend I have not seen or heard from in a while. Hope all's well. Hope you're good. Hope you're still living in your today.

Don't Forget

We should aspire to greatness without forgetting to recognise the greatness in the people around us.
- Ruthibelle

Honestly, sometimes I forget.

Sometimes I forget to see beyond the familiarity and everyday laughs. Beyond years and years of shared experience that has become common, everyday, happenstance and plain old unremarkable.

Sometimes, we get so used to people and places, we forget to value them. We fall into the trap of believing that the things with which we think we are familiar are all played out and too ordinary to have any outstanding value and meaning.

We wistfully gaze into another time, another place, another space, for examples of the greatness to which we should aspire. We place little to no value on what we see in the here and now as we make a mad scramble for the luxuries we think we'll enjoy in the then and there.

Today, don't forget that greatness surrounds you. Yes. Right there. In the monotonous humdrum of daily life.

Yes. Right there. In the unremarkable smile of a friend you see everyday.

Yes. Right there. In the community you grew up in, went to school in, got married in, had kids in, found a job in, constantly dream of escaping ...

And the same way you spend your time desiring a life in some other place, with some other people, in some other space, someone spends time desiring a life in your place, with your people, in your space ... Imagine that. Someone sees greatness where you are ...

We should aspire to greatness without forgetting to recognise the greatness in places and faces around us, and in us.
- Ruthibelle

Challenge Day 27: Mr. Torres

Mr. Miguel Romero Torres. Obviously Cuban. The name alone tells. He taught me Physics for two years - two glorious years of learning in high school.

He was strategic, very structured. Did everything step by step. Whatever we were doing was always crystal clear. If you've ever read one of those text books on how to effectively teach, you could say that was Mr. Torres, summed up. We always knew what we were studying, where in the syllabus we were, and what we would go on to next. He had an uncanny way of keeping you on your toes so that you stayed aware of the entire year's worth of lessons. Revising for his tests was easy, because each class was a new lesson, and revision!

And he was kind.

Sometimes kindness is sometimes not felt in a touch or heard in a word, but seen in the eyes, in the affectionate tilt of the head, in the patient explanation of a hard-to-grasp concept, in the silent encouragement to always do better next time.

There was no doubt that, though he never said it, Mr Torres loved his students. And wanted us all to be great.

A good teacher is not hard to find. There are many good teachers out there. But the great ones - they are rare. Like comets among the stars.