SIGMA RUN 2017

I use the Sagicor SIGMA Run to gage my aging process each year. My time, how I feel when I'm running, how many young whippersnappers breeze past me ... All of these are the non-scientific indicators I use to determine whether or not my body is still up to the fitness challenge.

This year, I saw a proliferation of tiny primary schoolers whizzing past me, my calves were on fire, my stomach was churning bile, my breathing was very halted, and I felt like a very tired 50. Meanwhile, some little upstarts were just blazing past me with all their hype and energy, and I realised that my not-yet-30-year-old body was threatening to jump into the nearest AmbuCare ambulance and just stay put.

A thought occurred to me this year, though, that had me chuckling and crafting a poem in my head while I walk-ran. It was after seeing a madman standing on the side of the road watching the passers by, and the women in particular. He inspired this poem:

SIGMA 2017

Mad man standing at half mast

Eyes bump-a-bumping

To rhythmic rotund rumps

Jouncing down the street

Drumming time

To the patter of running feet

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.

Book Review: Ifeona Fulani's 'Ten Days In Jamaica'

Published in The Sunday Gleaner, January 25, 2015

Book Title: Ten Days In Jamaica
Book Author: Ifeona Fulani
Book Publisher: Peepal Tree Press Ltd

"All Precious wanted was a boy to go to the beach with on Saturdays.
All Yvonne wanted was a man to trim her overgrown yard.
All Corinne wanted was to host the perfect luncheon.
All Arjun asked was that the woman he loved would spend of the rest of her life with him.
But do any of them get what they wish for?"

Desire - fervid, firm and fierce - beats like a pulse through Ifeona Fulani's short story collection, Ten Days In Jamaica.

In eight vivid tales, Fulani weaves a colourful tapestry of raw human emotion, pulling readers into the distinct worlds of her protagonists as they grapple with a life that one character's granny calls "a vale of tears".

The dilemmas are quotidian, relatable: a cancer survivor returns to her Jamaican homeland, a teenage girl struggles to win the admiration of her first major crush, a standoffish tourist finds herself relishing attention from a rent-a-dread, a US immigrant finds comfort in a random conversation with a complete stranger. But the telling is so poignant, the tales so eloquently contextualised, that each story resonates depth and uniqueness.

Using deceptively simple English, Fulani fuses the worlds of immigrant and native, raising questions of love, hope, belonging and otherness in the post-colonial world.

She provides no answers, instead allowing her characters' lives to voice the concerns and often under-represented demographic. She gives insight into this world of hubris and catharsis, venting pain, and celebrating breakthroughs.

Readers will appreciate the staccato rhythm of swift dialogue juxtaposed with idyllic scenarios and often turbulent relationships. Time somehow seems to saunter through the text, even as characters race to find their individual resolutions.

"Go and make peace with your life," a spiritual reader tells one troubled woman in the book, and it would seem that all Fulani's characters share in this quest for inner tranquillity. But then, readers will agree, this quest for peace and security is a fundamental human desire.

A Girl's Story

I  knew this girl.
She was raw.
She was uncensored and unafraid.
She was honest - to a fault.
And serious.
All the time.
About everything.
And intense.

She lived her life like that - intense.
She thought hard about everything.
And cried plenty - and waaay too easily.

If you asked her a simple question,
She would break it down to a science
And answer you through philosophy,
With language that breathed literature.

She was a very complex creature.
But, oh God,  I loved her!
Because she was so authentic
And so genuine and so real.

She was who she was
And people just had to deal with that.

Most of them didn't.
But she didn't let it bother her.
She was always on the outside.
She didn't quite get people.
And people didn't get her.
They said she was a little weird.
No.
They said she was weird a lot.

But she didn't let that bother her
Because whether they said she was weird or not
They had to admit that there was something about her -
This thing they couldn't name or define

And it wasn't a bad thing either.
It was a good thing - whatever it was.
It was a special  and powerful
Potential.


Life can be this thing - this place - this big, scary mass of people and

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.

Challenge Day 23

If practice makes perfect, I have for too long practised imperfection. May that change today!
-Ruthibelle

Challenge Day 15: Resisting The Urge To Stop

I make the decision
With every new day
To keep going

Because I MUST.

I have a legacy to leave
To my children, my brothers and sisters

I must go forward
I must take charge
I must open doors
So they can walk through

Others have done it for me
I must do it for them
And for mine
And for me

The Will To Rise

Don't bury me, I'm not dead yet.
There's too much life in this body
For me to give room to regret
There's too much left to do
And too much time to do it in
Too much in me still dances
Too much inside me still laughs and sings.

I've made many mistakes
I know you'll never forget
But don't bury me,
I'm not dead yet.

The.Legacy.
I bequeath to you today an unusual gift. Intangible and yet priceless. Not to be categorised among 'the little things'. This is a big thing - this is a big gift.

And it is necessary for every day. For the million and one little things that can go wrong. For the dark times. The sad times. The awful and bad times. The times of deep despair and despondence...

Sometimes falling becomes commonplace. An easy thing to do. And each time, getting up feels more like a chore. An increasingly difficult task to master. Sometimes finishing a race in which you've stumbled many times seems silly and unwise. Sometimes, giving a thing at which you've failed a second, third, fourth try seems like cruel and unusual self-punishment.

A fall can look like a fail. Especially when it's repetitive. The fallen can be branded a failure. Rising - or trying to - in the eyes of the onlooker, can seem like a symptom of stupidity. The fallen one, in the eyes of the observer, can be easily underestimated, underappreciated ... the fallen can be buried before the fallen is dead.

But don't listen to them! They don't know you. And they've never caught a glimpse of your heart. When the whole world decides you're over and done, know that I will NEVER give up on you. When everyone else has walked away, look up. See me waiting to see you rise.

Because I have given you this gift. And I wait to see you use it.
For all you are and ever hope to be ...

... I give you the will to rise.

Death of an acquaintance

I call him an acquaintance because I think that's what he was to me: an acquaintance. A friend of a friend. Or rather, the son of a friend and mentor. A part of a family I'd seen enough of to feel like I could call him an acquaintance, to feel like I kinda knew him: a little.

To them, he was so much more than that!!

And now he is dead.

Dead.
DEAD!!!
Shot. Murdered. Killed. Justlikethat.
Nothing left. No life. No nothing.
Just dead.

What does that even mean??

She is a good woman. A great mother. An awesome mentor and friend.
He taught me in university. I mean, he was one of my most inspiring teachers.
His sister is fun and cool and down-to-earth. Spunky sometimes.
His sons are young and innocent, and probably oblivious to what's going on.

They don't deserve this.

Nobody deserves this.

Why??

A life.
Snuffed out like it has no value.
What's going on?
Jamaica, seriously, WHAT IS GOING ON?
When is this going to stop?

It keeps getting closer to home.
And you wonder, who next?

My deepest and sincerest condolences to the family, friends and relatives of my acquaintance. I feel deeply for you, and that alone tells me the immeasurable pain and burden that you must carry...

I am sorry. I wish I could bring him back to life. I hope and pray that you all get through this. Somehow.

Prayer for the Self

Dear God,


I pray this feeling never goes away.


I pray I feel this agony
Each and every day


I pray I feel their pain
I pray their cries burn my heart


Let me live the situation
Till I find a solution.


Give me no peace
And give me no sleep


Make me desperate
Make me restless


Let my respiration
Be filled with desperation


I am the solution.
Help me to find me.


Copyright 2009 Ruthibelle

If ambition is a disease...

On behalf of young people all over this country who dare to dream, I proudly, defiantly declare...

If ambition is a disease, I am terminally ill... -Ruthibelle

H. W. Arnold said that the greatest bankruptcy in the world is the person who has lost his enthusiasm. I have many friends who walk around bankrupt. Empty. Daily. Fighting to keep hope alive in young hearts and minds that would rather retire and die. Or run off to another country for (seemingly) 'greener pastures'.

It makes me sad, because I remember their determination while we studied at university. I remember the light and fire in their eyes ... It is a tragedy to watch creativity and ingenuity get smothered by the recurring hardships of life, especially because those now dying struggled so hard to keep these flames of passion lit while attending university. For many of my friends, life has been a series of battles to keep hope alive.

What kind of country does that to its youth? What kind of country kills creativity and somehow transforms hard-earned success (like graduating from university) into a negative, burdensome experience? A member of our government recently made a statement to the effect that university graduates who cannot find jobs or afford to repay students' loans are in that predicament because they chose the wrong professions. Isn't that an irresponsible and careless thing to say? A statement indicative of a government becoming unpalatably abusive and insensitive to its people?

One of my friends pointed out that, by making such an irresponsible statement, our Government is, in essence, condemning ambition and telling young people to choose careers that guarantee them jobs (which ones are those, pray tell), instead of studying subject areas they are actually interested in.

Max Lucado said that ambition is that grit in the soul which creates disenchantment with the ordinary and puts the dare in dreams. I have long been disenchanted with things ordinary and substandard. And I walk among like-minded friends. We are not satisfied with average. God knows we love Jamaica, but it can get rough. It can be really hard to have a dream in a dreamless state.

Today, I use this blog post to recognise my friends all over Jamaica who dream big, and do not let the pressures of everyday life kill their passions and desires. I recognise the quiet strength it takes for them to choose energetic, active living over merely existing each day. And I respect that. Even if our government doesn't. I do. And I hope that makes a difference and counts for something ...

I Must Not Forget

Most days, I want to think of myself as something pretty special. I want to tell myself that I am truly one-of-a-kind. I want to believe with all my heart that I'm a fighter... a survivor, and that I made it this far because of my hard work and on the raw force of will-power alone.

But other days, like today, I face the truth. I look myself in the mirror and tell myself what a lucky person I am. Because had my parents been any less devoted to my success, had my teachers been any less relentless in their demand for excellence, had the foundations and principles of my life been only a shade different, and had there not been a God, I would not be the person I am today.

Days like today, I remember: I may have seen this much and come this far, but I did NOT do it on my own.

I've spent the last four years living in Kingston: going to school, working, and getting acquainted with urban life. Yesterday, I sat at home in rural St. Mary remembering, for a good long while, how easy it is to forget the people and places that comprise the 17 years that precede the last 4.

Is it really that easy to forget the pride in my father's smile, the warmth in my mother's arms, the loud, cheerful rings in my siblings' laughs? Is it so easy to forget music-filled streets and Miss Mabel's corner shop, and the names of classmates who stayed home to help build their parish, while I was whisked away to urban Jamaica with lofty dreams, in search of something (supposedly) better... in search of something (supposedly) more?

I sat listening to my siblings' jibes. My sister is a woman now. And my brothers have beards, or stubble... How weird that they have lives -whole lives- that I have very little knowledge of. How weird that my parents are growing old. How weird that my teachers and neighbours and classmates have never forgotten my name, or my face, and that, with the extra wrinkles in their tired faces, they smile when they see me, and remind me -again- why I should never give up. Why I should never forget.

I must not forget past classmates carrying babies in their arms: theirs and their little sisters'. I must not forget street vendors missing teeth, the sight of once-firm flesh now sagging, jangling and dangling as they offer passers-by their wares. I must not forget scruffy young men, congregating on street corners, already beggars, drunks and drug addicts... I must not forget that for every step I take, someone gets left behind. That for every rung on the ladder I climb, someone stands on the ground, wistfully looking up or cluelessly gazing around... I must not forget that they toil relentlessly. And I must not forget why: because too many children, by virtue of location alone, are abandoned and forgotten. They're bright. They're smart. They're awesomely talented. But they're oblivious to how much they're being robbed.

They have no access to what this world calls success. No access to urban Jamaica and all the secrets it hoards and hides... They remain where they are: seeds of potential. Undiscovered. Undefined. Unfulfilled.

They look at me and smile. And I think they feel proud. But, really, what's there to be proud of? I am no better than these. I am a daughter of St. Mary soil, just like anybody else. While I am in Kingston trying to realise fairytale dreams, they are at home fighting through the despondence of habitual disempowerment, finding new ways to survive a world that denies them the privilege - nay, the right- to fundamental amenities.

And it's a long road ahead of us. We have a far way to go. But if we ever expect to look in the mirror and feel any sense of accomplishment, it must be because we never forget. It must be because I never forget.

I cannot forget... help me to remember... I must NOT forget.

Dying Friendship

The voice has changed
The tone, the look
Disinterest
I can smell it...

Conversation becomes
Burdensome obligation
Terse, insincere laughs
Tell it...

Looks of longing
At everything else
Everywhere else
But me...

Hasty flight
Quick departure
A perpetual need
To leave...

Always in a hurry
Hurtfully impolite...

Countless conversations
Cut short in spite...

Telling signs.
Telling times...

You don't have time for me,
I ain't got time for you...

*And so the friendship dies. (This last line is not a part of the poem).

For Broken Hearts On Valentine's Day

My friends behaving like V-Day without a significant other is dismal, depressing and impossible to get through. I dunno why they find it hard to believe that a body can be a happy, significant whole till the appointed time of enjoinment, even on Valentine's Day, but, to show that I am human and really do have emotions, and satisfy their need to see me bleed...

Miss You

I saw them in the lounge
Hanging out
And I missed you

Saw him look at her
With that look
And I missed you

I watched him kiss her lips
Watched her flip
And I missed you

I heard her sigh
Then type
And then smile<
And I just knew

That once upon a time,
That would be me
And you

But today
It's her time
Not mine...
God, I miss you!

I re-read diary entries
Then I cried
Cause I miss you

Somebody asked what's wrong
And I lied
Cause I'm too blue

I walked out on that life
I am done!
I am too through

Still

Days like today
I remember
And I miss you...

PS One of my friends said Valentine's Day is a farce...

The Inauguration

Something inside me stirs
I feel a sudden need to dream
Vita est non quis is videor
Life is no longer what it seemed

A dormant glint in human eyes
Abandons sleep and comes alive

Hope, within one man's eyes
Moves mountains, transcends time
Travels through a space vacuum
To room
Inside my heart

theJamaicanview.of.theInauguration
how come one man.can awaken dead dreams.in a broken nation.

today.americans walk on air.collectively.soaring over fear. fear.the forgotten foe.that nips with cold at human souls.

the look on his face.as he walks.to take his seat.among vips. a man about to face his death.his burial.his resurrection. this feels.like the rebirth of a nation.

aretha's bow is brighter than her voice.but. the euphoria of the moment alone.carried the voice that left overwhelmed lips.in shaky, shrill tones. and landed it on hopeful ears.in perfect pitches.echoing dreams.inspiring hearts.

joe biden looked sunburnt.his eyes are mere slits.that smile on the final line.that subtle curve of the lips.so help me God.help him God.

he turned to look up at the musicians.and caught a glimpse of her.his eyes settled where they lay.the music was probably lost on him after that.such loving eyes.wow.

her gloved hand.reaching out.touching his shoulder.that small squeeze.the resulting smile.such loving eyes.wow.

then he got up.silence.the stutter in the oath. then the smile.both smiles.get it right, dammit.we all want this.get it right.now!

and then.the speech: humbled... grateful... mindful... for us.for us.for us... our power alone cannot protect us... but we will do the best can.yes we can.

wow.i'm happy to the 44th power.

The Greatest Day In Black History

A fellow blogger, Black African Princess (BAP) titled her post on Barack Obama's election win, 'the greatest day in black history'. I disagreed.

I'm sure many will be hailing the inauguration of America's first black President as, without a doubt, the greatest day in black history. Again, I am wont to disagree.

While it is a fantastically humongous and absolutely important, irreplaceable and unforgettable (not to mention heart-warming, tear-jerking, and just monumental) achievement in black ('American') history... I don't think it is the greatest day in black history.

But that begs the question: what was the greatest day in black history? Was it the day Martin Luther King was born? Was it the day black Caribbean slaves were freed? Was it the day apartheid was outlawed in South Africa? What was the greatest day in black history???

And the more I thought about it, the more I realised that the greatest day in black history probably happened too long ago for any of us to remember... maybe the greatest day in black history was the very first day an oppressed black man/woman realised that he/she could and should be free. Maybe the day the seed of a thought of equality was planted in a black mind was the day life really began for the black race...

But then, once upon a long-gone time, before slavery and every other form of discrimnation, we were happy, free people. Maybe those were the greatest days in black history- a time when no knowledge of any racial hardships or injustices existed at all... no slavery to overcome, no mental barriers to break down because there were none...

Maybe the greatest day in black history is today, and tomorrow, and every new day that brings with it the hope of advancement and an even brighter future... Maybe the answer varies depending on location, age, and personal values...

I don't have the answer, but the historic times we live in certainly provoke the question: we've come so far as a race, what should we tote as the greatest day in our history??

One thing for certain is that Barack Obama's inauguration is one of the greatest days in black history. About that, there is no question.

Writing My Passion

In my times of greatest conflict, I find it easy to write.

Flip open a notebook. Pick up a pen. Write my fingers into a tizzy. Let my fingers lead me into alternative, imaginary worlds...

I wish I could write from my heart. I wish my heart had hands to write what it felt. I wish there was some process through which my feelings bypassed my mind and all the other regions of my body that seem to throw them into confusion, and just went straight to my hands, to my fingers, so I could write, and adequately, clearly, express what I feel.

I wish I knew what my writing voice was: you know, that style, sound and quality that is uniquely, distinctly me. I wish imitation were a difficultly acquired skill, instead of an educational necessity. I wish intelligence, uniqueness and individuality were more readily advocated and encouraged, so that more people would grow up discovering themselves – their true selves – in their own ways, instead of getting lost in a sea of shiftless imitators. Then, perhaps, perchance, maybe people would find themselves. And I would find myself.

To find oneself: what does that mean? To find oneself?

I need to find myself
Amidst all this empty drifting
To pour my heart into a bowl
And do some careful sifting

What I need is to be totally completely free
What I need is to be totally completely me...

Who am I?

In times of greatest conflict, I find it easy to write.

Copyright 2007
Writefully Mine
Ruthibelle

Mindless

It's too easy to fall
Into a feeling you fight to forget
Dude has that effect
Discovered my secret, untouched parts
Left fingerprints on my heart...

This by far
the most explosive year
of my short life
pity the poor sap
who's there
to share
when the fuse disappears...

Realising this nasty habit
of denying things
til the very last minute
then it's like freeze-frame
a fifty-second flashback
regret and shame
and little pieces adding up...

I'm not an actress
it's hard to tell lies
can't play mind games
or do deception/disguise
truth is like a haunting wind
constantly whistling in my ears
resonating in corridors of time
palpitating with heart and mind...

Even when little white lies would make my life easier
i still tell the truth...

How do you let love down?

How do you look into the eyes of the people
who support
and believe
unconditionally
and say you've failed?

The anguish
of looking into loving eyes
and reading disappointment...

How do you let love down?

I’m not blessed with the luxury of care-freedom
try as i might
i can't pull that off
i care
i really do
groomed on compliments and congratulations
i've been the star in their crown
was supposed to continue that show…

For things to fall apart now is killing me
Who am I if not who they expect me to be?

How do you let love down?