“The personal vocabulary, the individual melody
whose metre is one’s biography joins in the sound
with any luck that the body moves
like a walking, a waking island”
Welcome to my Caribbean sun. So pleased that you could join me on this high climb up the Morne Bois-Pin as if we were flocking together in a flight of doves on a quest for a great adventure, courting the sky. Grateful that you have decided to join in my fleeting illusion which may be new to you but for me, these ideas stem from my experience.
Disarm your defenses and take a dip into my words, with all its defects and misconceptions, as I tear down the wrought iron wall around my heart to bring you to the heartbeat of I, the Troubadour’s matter. I breathe in the pure air of freedom and hide my exhales in the hiding quarters of the ready supply of ideas in my notebook. I suppose I could have followed an alternate strategy but sometimes when opportunity knocks, you must seize the moment with an outstretched hand and a pen to the paper.
Thank you for being my fresh set of eyes to have designed your day around reading my fado. Thank you for sharing my agenda and making the connection with the score of musicians having an instrument conversation amidst my sentences. I am roaring in jubilation for your accompaniment. There is something so magical about your song and dance that helps me to gather strength. And here it goes; the petals of my monstrous story of what transpired to get me here.
In lipstick and curls I climbed with him, inch by inch to make it to the top of that mountain. We flocked together on obscure passages composing poetry in spoken word. A chivalrous Knighterrant he seemed to be; tilting his charm at my party. An amazing adventure we had; pursuing the thesis with nobility.
The end was bathed in 1804 fireworks as I solicited his opinion. Like hands around my throat, I forced my release from the grasp of his mouth full of painful words and lost my gravity. I started tumbling down the mountain of his critique, staring reality in the face with stark amazement. I lingered onto the past truth that I was just up at the peak with my spirit killer. Call it a pardoner’s tale to have overcome my ego to gain imani and once again flutter my battered black wings.
In a teary-eyed blur I rained Katrina into written works. And to think, I almost threw in the towel believing that I could not survive the sharp edges of anger that pierced my faith like a machete. My ambivalent attitude towards that moment in time forced me to innovate. What a lonely journey you really do stumble on when left with nil. It’s like a one-man production; weary on the road and irreparably damaged.
My secret superpowers had me spading against the storm. Now I am booming with confidence and am noisy with the blaring of positive thoughts. It gives me the calming assurance from that drunken stupor of writer’s block where I dwelled. I have finally made myself at home in the Castle of Overwhelming Strength.
I’d been saving my love for this story for infinity and beyond. Tainted vision was once my mantra but now I am no longer as stasis as the Jean Jacques Dessalin statue. I’ve been crushed into shape. Suddenly stories once again ooze through my wounds like buds blossoming into phrases.
The words of my becoming drift me towards your current to immerse you into my story. Float on the mystery of it, to bank in the waves of my written elogy. Now I’m courting the balled up scraps of history that is being remade in my newfound heaven. I am untapping literary abilities, so tropical the theme that it edited the truth of my nature and left the slammed doors of the Knighterrant, whispering low in the seams.
Thank you for shaking off slumber
to do your wonderful neighborly service
of embracing the personal influence
of my rough seas.