A beer beer!

If beer levels the vibes in Jamaica, it is the vibe in Mexico. One of the first Spanish words resurrected upon my arrival here? Cerveza.

I've come to realise that it is an important part of Mexican culture. The young and the old drink beer. It's like drinking soda or orange juice and fruit punch in Jamaica. Everybody has at some point. Every party host will offer it. And especially during holidays or when there is a guest, a bottle (or bottles, or cans) will be in the refrigerator. If you plan on going out at all in Mexico, you can bet on what your primary beverage option will be. It's all about the beer.

My first realisation of this was when a group of us 'foreigners' went out for a night. Silly me. I thought we were going to a nice, sit-down restaurant to enjoy authentic Mexican cuisine. In my mind's eye, I thought we'd be in this semi-upscale place with maybe a little jazz music, or Mexican souls or Mariachi oozing out of a sound system overhead, or from a live band. And we would talk and laugh and sample strange new dishes.

Instead, we ended up at a restaurant of sorts - of sorts, except that it wasn't a restaurant at all. It was really more like a bar. We got a table in a far corner overlooking the streets below. The view was nice. I should have taken pictures. Our hosts ordered a bucket of beer; then came time to take the non-alcoholic orders. They had nothing else except lemonade. No water. No soft drinks. It was either beer or lemonade. That was it.

I thought to myself, it must be a full night; they've run out of everything except beer. And that might have been the case. But still, it is assumed that most guests will want beer, which is most definitely a mainstay on the Mexican menu.

The beer options are manifold: Corona seems to be the most popular, but there's Victoria, Sol, Minerva, Modelo, Bohemia, Tijuana, Leon ... so many.

I was trying to explain this to a relative in Jamaica. We were speaking in Jamaican patois. I exclaimed: "A beer beer deh yah!" (loosely translated "there is nothing but beer here!"). I laughed afterward about the duplication of sound: "A 'beer' (the Jamaican patois word, functioning as an adjective, translated 'solely' or 'only') beer (the beverage, noun)."

A 'beer beer'. Funny :)

Vamonos!

The view as I flew
over Mexico ... I think :)

I took a mental leap.
When I first heard about the programme, a seed of a thought was planted and I figured, Maybe I could do that. Sounds affordable enough.

The thought never left me.
In fact, it grew until I started to make imaginary plans in my head. I started to do research, to calculate what it would cost and whether I had what it took. I started to think, in a very real way, what if I could actually do this? And the magnitude of the possibilities began to outgrow and displace the impossibilities.

I saw a way.

The view as I flew ...
beautiful :)

I don't think I really expected to actually do it, but the more the thought lingered, the more my mind began to show me ways I might be able to make this dream real. It was a small dream - insignificant really in the larger scheme of things. But for me, it would be a step into an unknown that could either make or break me. This I know: to get where I want to go in life, I have to continually exercise faith that can literally move mountains.

I began.
I used to think those syllables were words motivational speakers used to manipulate people into thinking that complexities were simplicities. But those words are the markers that draw a definitive line behind the man or woman who becomes consumed with a cause to the point of deliberate, calculated action. I BEGAN. And the second I did, I think the unseen world was given notice that here came determination; here came unflappability; here came purpose. And it made way.

The view as I flew
over the United States.

I moved.
All the plans had been put in place. The ticket was bought. The relevant organisations were notified. All that was left was for me to actually pick up my little bundle and make the move. So I packed my little bundle. And I was ready to take that step. Then I realised what I was about to do, and ...

I balked.
Fear gripped me like a man in the throes of a seizure. What-ifs overwhelmed me. And my mind - the same mind that had been churning out scenarios of glorious possibilities - began to manufacture dark and sinister omens. I had to fight the feeling of losing before I had begun. I had to win the war in my head before I won the war anywhere else.

I fought. I won.
And before I could doubt myself again, I took my little bundle, kissed my country goodbye, whispered a prayer, and flew off to Mexico.

And now here I am.
Vamonos!

He's right.

He looked at me and said, "Why aren't you writing more?!"
I shrugged. I had no answer.
"No. Seriously," he insisted. "Why are you holding back? You're like ... "
He was lost for words ... "You're like ... really, really good."
I nodded. I know. I'm at least aware that some talent exists here ... in these hands, in this mind ...
Within this being hides a soul that lives for love of the written word.

He placed his hands on my shoulder and gripped them, his fingers kind of pressing too hard into my flesh. I winced. But his steely eyes lost none of their resolve. And I saw no pity there.
"You wrote that post - you're the one who said writers write. Why aren't you - this beautiful, talented,  creative soul ... why aren't you ... writing?"
I shook my head. "I do write, but ..."
"But nothing."

Silence. He stared into my eyes with a kind of passionate disappointment.
He dropped his hands and sighed.
"If I could write like you ..."
He sighed again.
"Do me a favour ... do the flipping world a favour ... just write. It's your thing. You are so damn good at it. Why are you hiding from this? Why are you so comfortable so far below where you could be? I've never known you to be ... average."
His voice was filled with angry, desperate pain ... like I hurt him somehow.

"OK," I said.
He nodded.
I nodded.
"OK."

Burn the curry

Girl 1: What happened to this pot?
Girl 2: *looks up from writing* Curry.
Girl 1: What?
Girl 2: You said to burn it, so I did. 
*big grin*

THE END.

Waiting for Inspiration

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: Gil Scott-Heron, A Father and Son Story

Published in The Sunday Gleaner,  June 28, 2015

Book Title: Gil Scott-Heron, A Father and Son Story
Book Author: Leslie Gordon Goffe
Book Publisher: LMH Publishing Limited

Sometimes words fail to convey the potency of a literary work. Sometimes a book hits home with such force and beauty that it is difficult to describe or relate it to another.

Enter Leslie Gordon Goffe with his literary offering, Gil Scott-Heron, A Father and Son Story. His is a telling that sheds light on the lives of two significant, albeit little-known, characters of Jamaican heritage: Gillie Heron, the father, and Gil Scott-Heron, the son. With a fresh tone and unique writing style, Goffe draws parallels from two disjointed lives, pulling readers into the world of the broken black man, and chronicling with painstaking detail the journey of two searching souls in an era riddled with tensions of class, race and gender.

Goffe has clearly done his homework: his extensive use of historic references and depth of detail create a compelling picture of the world his subjects had to endure. Every account is steeped in vivid contextualisation - from newspaper reports to the first-hand retellings of those who lived the stories as they unfolded.

His chronicling of time is fluid. The prologue starts, "I'll begin at the beginning." The final chapter declares, "I'll end at the ending." In-between, Goffe buoys readers along on wave after wave of an epic tale that lays out the lives of two men fighting vices.

Both were outstandingly gifted: Gillie Heron was the first black person to play professional football in the United States, while Gil Scott-Heron, called 'the godfather of rap', was awarded the 2012 Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award.

But both men struggled with drugs, women, and questions of identity, giving credence to Scott-Heron's potent line: "My life has been one of running away just as fast as I can. But I've been no more successful at getting away than was my old man." In fact, the theme of escapism is rife throughout the book.

Everything about Gil Scott-Heron, A Father and Son Story, delivers artistry - from the design of the cover to the smooth prose, written like jazz beats punctuated with quotes and rhymes - a unique style that reads like a story-song. The tone is set from the foreword, written by popular jazz musician, Brian Jackson, who urges his audience to, "Read on, read on and you will find out what is behind the microphone, behind the music, behind the man, behind the men ... ."

Each chapter is presented with dramatic flair, with titles taken from some of Scott-Heron's most well-known works, such as Pieces of a Man (the title of his debut album) and He Was New There (based on the title of his 2010 album, I'm New Here). The start of each chapter also features quotations from a wide range of persons, including Scarlett O'Hara, Muse, B.B. King, and Snoop Dogg.

Who knew a whole book could countenance music through prose? In one rhythmically versatile creation, Leslie Gordon Goffe has delivered a history lesson, a jazz concert, and a poetry recitation.
In a sense, the book makes for easy reading because the language is so simple. However, the poetic resonance echoing through its pages carries a depth which may not be readily appreciated by non-literary audiences. Also, the roughly 229 pages of lengthy reading may prove laborious for those who want to get to the heart of the story without the embellishment of such a sing-song literary style.
Redemption comes in the fact that each chapter is broken down into digestible subsections, and for the visually inclined, there are eight pages of photos chronicling the history of the Scott-Heron family.

Despite the many smiling faces in these photos, Goffe makes it clear that Scott-Heron's history has been fraught with ups and downs, ins and outs, reflective of the yin and yang of life. Was he right in some of the choices he made in his life? Was his father?

The book itself ends with a hauntingly ironic quote: "It ain't right and it ain't wrong. It just is."