Small island, small steps, dirt, the Saharan dust
Empty skyscrapers that stay lit at night
running on natural gas and ammonia fumes.
T&T is an Amerindian woman,
naked but for the gold piercing her nose,
paint on her face
She is alien and wild and innocent
the way beautiful things are.
Her eyes are full and black and reflect the moon
it remains speechless.
Her hair forms secret waterfalls,
pooling deep and turquoise between her breasts
Her voice is birdsong, wind and the Caribbean sea.
Her laughter is the sun rising over the Trinity.
She became a whore, spreading her legs for oil.
She sits before the vanity
gazes into her own eyes
powders her face with cocaine.
But sometimes, when the moon is full
she goes outside,
sits overlooking the Gulf of Paria
where oil tankers come and go
where not-so-secret drug shipments come and go.
She looks up, her eyes
are black mirrors for the moon
which gazes down
still loving her.
It is small and scrubby for a city
In the middle of the harbour, the top of an ancient ship pokes up
a hazard for barges, cargo ships, the inter-island ferry
The anonymous containers in primary colours stacked like play-blocks.
Their insides may or may not hold cocaine.
Just a collection of a few streets, best observed when
you have nowhere to go
Independence Square paved and lined with trees,
powdered with bright yellow flowers on April mornings,
chess players on evenings.
Our treasury house with black marble and strong brick walls
strong and proud,
each black tile a shipload of slaves
whose dreams of freedom came true.
Richmond Street where our new tall office buildings gleam in glass
and steel, and borrowed money, empty offices,
Also the legal sector,
where black-clad attorneys
stream past toward the courthouse.
St Vincent Street, with our Hall of Justice
wide steps, wide enough for
the rule of law shake its head and mourn
wide enough to let a Senior Counsel
stand up for us, only to be shot down
in a side street in Woodbrook.
Wide enough to bear
the feet of a traitor in white
who raised his hands behind his head on national television
Across from it is Woodford Square
a fountain spouts clean, clear water
sitting on benches are mothers, students, old men, vagrants
more golden yellow flowers cover the walkways
It smells of dust and flowers, dried grass, and
roasted coffee beans from the nearby warehouse
It is where protests were formed and speeches read
now it is a place for concerts.
On Charlotte Street vendors pile vegetables high
Queen Street cuts across with piles of fabric stores jumbles together
Frederick with its shopping malls
The hub of all humanity streaming through and around
our tiny city.
Originally posted by rahirah
at CONFIRMED: LJ Servers moving to Russia, now with all kinds of links and shit
LJ has been owned by a Russian company, SUP, for some years, but until recently, the servers were in California, and thus subject to US law. This is no longer be the case. Links on the ramifications of this (English speakers will need to use Google Translate on the last two):http://madfilkentist.dreamwidth.org/77455.htmlhttps://mdlbear.dreamwidth.org/1584905.htmlhttp://siderea.livejournal.com/1330106.html http://lynnenne.livejournal.com/285076.htmlhttp://dolboeb.livejournal.com/3079690.htmlhttp://dolboeb.livejournal.com/3081385.html
I have done a traceroute ( http://ping.eu/traceroute/
) on my own LJ, and it appears to come through a Russian server now.
There are unconfirmed reports
that journals with 'objectionable' content, such as pro-Ukraine blogs, are being deleted. There's also what looks like a mass migration of Russian users into Dreamwidth
over the last week or so.
There are all kinds of ramifications for this move, most of them bad. For people located outside Russia, I think the greatest risk is simply that SUP has decided that the non-Russian side of LJ hasn't been profitable in ages, and is never going to be profitable, and this is the first step in shutting it down entirely. So if you have a Livejournal with content that you'd like to preserve, now is a real good time to back it up.
HOW TO BACK UP YOUR LJ:https://www.dreamwidth.org/support/faqbrowse?faqid=127
(importing personal blogs)https://www.dreamwidth.org/support/faqbrowse?faqid=230
You can import tags, icons, filters, posts, and comments – the whole shebang. You can also set up crossposting to Livejournal (I've been crossposting to LJ from DW for years.)
If you have no Dreamwidth account, if someone imports a comment you made, it will be made under your Open ID account.
If you make a DW account, you can claim these comments:http://www.dreamwidth.org/support/faqbrowse?faqid=84
(How can I claim my OpenID account with my Dreamwidth account?)
If you're already on Dreamwidth, or is you're setting up a backup account there now, please let me know so I can friend you over there. I'd hate to lose track of everyone if we wake up one morning and find a big ol' 404 error where LJ used to be. Rants Talk to me
Today is a day to celebrate.
I awoke, opened my eyes, I was not sick, or dead, I was alive.
I heard the garbage truck collecting garbage, heard the compactor grinding away, at 5am.
The men in those trucks had been up much earlier than me.
I had coffee, boiled in the pot like my Amerindian grandfather, drained the black water into my cup, savoured the dregs, with the bitter grains
I did not stand still, staring, lost in myself for hours.
I did not stand still, afraid to cross the threshold of my door.
I made my bed, very carefully, tight and smooth like a hospital bed
brushed teeth and wore clean shirt and trousers
applied makeup, even a cat-eye, and was very meticulous.
I left my house, checked the appliances. The weather was fine, air was fresh
Arrived at work, began to work
spoke to colleagues
performed impeccably for the next 9 hours.
Today was a success.
here they soar, unaware of their soaring
corbeaux, black dots on blue
frames aloft and straining
down below, on a hot dusty street in Port of Spain, I watch them,
but hardly anyone looks up.
Blackbirds, the bane of bodies of workers that walk along Maraval Road for their hot lunches
hardly anyone looks up.
Somewhere in another hot dusty place
different birds will fly,
they will be terrible and merciless
they will look up,
and watch the gifts of death as they fall
and cry out
They sway and hum
and go and come
their legs are droplets
in the sun
their fluffy heads
are so serene
are so wise,
The young ones
are like cotton balls
but they grow big
and grey and tall.
They wander 'round
the island free
where need be.
Bless you, friends.
Cloud people know
that where rain falls
love will grow.
Lake blue, sky blue
azure tropical blue,
indigo, turquoise, cobalt, lapis
granny's old blue soap
Blue, Blue, I Love You.
Blue the child's lunchbox
and blue her pinafore,
blue her favourite crayon,
and blue the old school door.
Blue the sky when all turns to darkness
and just before dawn.
the colour of pain and fear the colour of storms
the colour of wonder,
the colour of chance.
of joyful sadness.
Eclipse, thunderous spirit howling. A charged electric nature to seeing. Within, a quiet thrumming. My birthday is April 4th. Damian's also. There is an eclipse on that day I think.
I feel powerful, from observing my body I have slipped into it, aware of my suit, my willing servant. Striding forward together, into the sun.
Something makes me swivel to look up at the sky all the time. Last night to see stars and fireflies, this morning to see clouds like tiny puffy creatures, singing with the sound the wind makes, wild happy creatures. Like me.
I am collecting stones. My friend Melissa puts them in her bra. She's a tv journo, and my yoga buddy. We have agreed that even if it is a placebo, the end result is the same. During the full moon I clambered onto the roof and left them under moonlight. I am now half-crazy just like my mother.
The lapis is working, I am writing. Citrine is working, I have gotten a new job offer that pays more. Of course I don't credit stones for these things but they focus me, they are my talismans. I still get angry, still feel grumpy sometimes, but my depression has lessened. I sit sometimes and bask in my solitude, here in this green warm valley with blue skies.
Thr first night I slept with the clear quartz I dreamed it was pointed at my third eye and there was a sharp, piercing sound, high-pitched, verging on uncomfortable.
I am going to ny in May, my sister is graduating. I miss her, haven't seen her in 2 years. This year is for growing, I am rested and feel a driven energy, steady and relentless. Something that lay fallow is rising, not forced, it is the thing I was waiting for.
the earth didn't turn
stars stuck watching as
on kelly kenny street granny sat and smiled
with nothing inside
the step father sits with his wife
asks for my presence at his daughter's
i am polite
i turn the way
a weather vane spins
Went to a counselling session and she said I should write it out. I'm journaling again. It's strange and awkward.
Set oven to 350F
mix eggs, cinnamon, milk
as for the sugar:
"Cast it into the fire!"
She said in her Elven Voice
stirring it with butter
rendering life into sweet
The clock ticks-changes digitally-
forward to the unveiling.
She rudely peeks past the oven door.
in the fires of Mount Doom
is a perfect ring,
her Caramel Bundt Cake.
All manner of prayers baked in:
that life be sometimes fluffy and sweet,
something sticky delirious
some sweet true taste,
fleeting and wondrous.
She slices through.
'Ohmmmm,' she hums.
let’s live suddenly without thinking
under honest trees,
does.the brain of cleverly-crinkling
-water pursues the angry dream
of the shore. By midnight,
scratches the skin of the organised hills
an edged nothing begins to prune
let’s live like the light that kills
and let’s as silence,
because Whirl’s after all:
(after me)love,and after you.
I occasionally feel vague how
vague idon’t know tenuous Now-
spears and The Then-arrows making do
our mouths something red,something tall
- ee cummings
Someone posted up on Facebook that once you've lived somewhere else, a part of you will be left behind there. The root breaks off a piece when it's uprooted. The changes here are unmistakeable; our Independence celebrations consist of a shabby parade and sad dingy pennants hanging from a few government buildings. But I don't mourn the way we have advanced tchnologically. But it as if we have lost the tree and root of us. Our green spaces littered with plastic bottles and frantic noisy cars. We live on a tiny island; where are you trying to go? Someone rams their black sports car drunkenly into a fire hydrant. Mindlessness.
I see a picture of my former English Lit. professor, now a member of the government advisor commitee for policy and constitutional change. She is sitting in a metal foldout chair. Her dreadlocks are now greying, she is as thin as ever. Looming above her are a rows of policemen in navy, with riot shields and batons. They speak down to her; this woman who has written books that cement our literary history, this woman who has helped to create a Caribbean literary canon. She sits quietly, calmly. The movement of brute force upon our history. I don't even know what I am writing now, I just remember sitting in her classes, quietly receiving her light.
Years from now we will stop and ask each other, "Where were you when it happened? When we lost control? When villains found out that the way to subdue us was not through brute force but with stealth, education, playing games with our laws, they have won before we even knew what we were fighting for. Right now the Senate will pass a bill that makes it virtually impossible for us to escape the bipartisan curse of our nation? We will be divided into races, we will see groups hate each other without knowing exactly why they hate each other. Or maybe we see past it. We cannot be so stupid? Can we?
I want to create an ending to this but I consider the way we create our existence day by day. We have no long history. Our nation is 52 years old. We have oil, and we have natural gas. We are fortunate. Now we are beset by people smarter than us. Our people are helpless, like the Amerindians when the Spanish first set upon them, giving and open, believing them genuine while they hold the weapons behind their backs.
And the parties continue, mad, insane revels, drunken mindless baths. They crash on the way home, they murder each other. My God. Was it always this way? I'm exhausted now. The thing that screams to me the most is the silence, our communal, anguished silence.
"All your life you wait, and then it finally comes, and are you ready?
Open your eyes, the French man on the radio used to say, and see what you can with them before they close forever."
-Anthony Doerr, "All the Light We Cannot See"
the night scarred and pitted with streetlights
the people are unhappy
the city dump on the outskirts of town
the minister was found in a video
snorting coke with prostitutes
the parties continue to ooze.
Once a vagrant stood outside the old
Red House, our former house of Parliament
threw bricks and smashed
the old windows
the old carcass of our soul
left empty and broken
while sirens howl and snarl.
The smiles stretch just a bit too far
cackling rings out in the darkness
children kick empty cans in the street
stare at you and hiss
the moon at night a silver beacon
so far, so far
the dogs bark and cry
we wake in the dark hours
toss and turn in the heat