Thesis A Go

I have renewed zeal for my area of specialisation.

Whenever people hear that I'm studying the bible with no affiliation to the church and no desire to teach they shake their head and give me a look of utter disbelief that says "how you going to make money? why would you want to do that?"
I like money and all that it can buy but forever money has always come near the bottom of the list of priorities that include at the top self-examination, IZ and the mystery of synchronicities.
I've said I'm not smart and this is the absolute truth but I have the gift of grasping connections without thinking. My brain seems to put information on top of each other in sheets with cut-outs and I can immediately see where the two holes line up.
I have been toying with an idea for a thesis that was completely a shot in the dark. Rolling it around without evidence- just a deep solid feeling that I'm unto something.
Yesterday for the first time I began to research my idea and it was like striking oil.
It's cut out upon cut out upon cut out and I'm breathless, muttering curses to myself that such synchronicity exists in the world hidden while completely exposed. How can one not want to study humankind's relationship with God and themselves as expressed in myth? It's fabulous and I am so completely enamoured with it.
I wish I could go into the details of my findings but I think those things are supposed to be secret until submission. What I can say is that those who find me a FS now will shudder at the crap I'm going to spew forth.

Smart People

My day finished near 11pm last night, coming home just after 10 getting my computer sorted by a computer genius. Smart people rock.
Like Dr. House. Who isn't in love with Dr. House?
or Allan Shore. He's hot.

Anyway, my computer saviour's lovely wife made him burn me 2 seasons of some comedy series.
I watched 4 straight hours of Ali G in bed and laughed 'til I cried.
I can't figure out how he manages to secure interviews with such 'respected' individuals but it goes to show you that surgeon generals and press secretaries are not so sharp as one might expect. This guy has to have some production crew to make them believe that he's serious. And seriously he rocks.

More on smart people
Just now, I was reading a blog that was recommended to me on the comments- I love people who've managed to grab hold of the english language with their teeth.
"Volunterrorism" lol
(That's how I feel about the PTA.)
She rocks.
Vocabulary is something of a passive skill for me and even then I'd be generous to say I have a good one.
I think my personal Gloria project is going to be to improve it.

I wish I was a smart person but I'm really not.
I'm "insightful".
or so they say
Maybe "foresightful" is the better word.
I tell people me and God have a good relationship.

The other day I reminded i that I and i almost got licked over by a COW truck in a sharp blind bend that has the left side (we drive on the left remember) broken away as you turn. I've driven it a dozen times since and a thousand times prior but it strikes me on this day that I thinks i should be a little cautious. And as God and i are having this dialogue I and i agree that maybe we'll just hold a little brakes an pause before we round 'round.
A transport bus tears through both lanes. Gives me the horn.
"Beep-beep" translation "Smart Girl"
I and i rock.

Where's The Exit Sign?

Has anyone noticed I've had something of an epiphany?


If only I knew what to do with it.


It's the whisper of God that moves the winds.
But it's left unto us to change the tides.
(what I would do with the moon in my pocket)


On something of a studied whim I read through an ancient yearbook. Not so ancient it turns out-
The more things change they say...

Keeping my eyes peeled for the words between the lines of the writing on the wall.

Chop Off Their Heads and Squeeze Out Their Juice and Throw Their Tails Away

This morning I ran a car off the road by my dazzling good looks. The driver, a clean-cut, good looking young thing, was driving a bit fast round a bend coming down as I was going up. We made eye contact briefly, I noted the car (which I never do) I rounded the corner and heard screeeeaaach....smash!
So I reverse, return to find said driver out of car, a love scratch on his arm, hiding his shame in a cell phone.
"You took that corner too fast" says I.
"Ain't got much brakes-"says he.
After determining everything was okay except his ego- I continued up the hill.

Men shouldn't oggle and drive.

I was told that kissing me would be like opening a can of worms. It sits on the temples these worms and I wonder who they belong to- me? he? the circumstances of the universe?
If I wasn't on such an 'I' high lately I might have been offended by the imagery. Wormy lips.
These days I don't take too much criticism to heart. I'm basking in the joy of how wonderfully wonderful I am- worm lips and all. I think I have spent too long being my own worst critic. I'm not smart enough, not pretty enough, not fun enough...

always super cool though...

I mean enough is enough. I feel like I am now at the starting line of a mission to take over the universe. I am the Brain. I also feel like I should have a line up of men running from Bathsheba to Bridgetown for the opportunity to gaze in my eyes. I am the Madonna. Screw this be humble, be submissive, be self-critical, be self-conscious bullshit. When do we get the chance to be glorious.

I'm glorious damn it!

and if the line up don't like it...they can take all the cans of worms on this God given earth and

Ashrams and Cowbells

I know some are sick of the "feministic" - I felt a little sympathetic and then a bit guilty until Michael Moore reminded me that if I blogged about vaginas everyday of my life it couldn't put a dent in the milleniums of 'his'tory we women folk have had to endure.
So I do not appologize, I do not care about hurt male egos, I don't mind if I am labled or boring or stuck in a cructh rut. I don't care if men like me. I don't care if women like me. I don't care if I'm cold or hard or spiteful or vindictive or unapproachable or scary.

The fact of the matter is I love men. I really really love men. No sarcasm. I do.

I just think the world would be a whole lot better if women had ashrams and men wore cow bells and did what they were told.

Arguing about feminine power at my Friday night lime, an english white alpha male, though perfect gentleman, said he was completely about equality. "I cook...I clean..." The mere fact that he equated gender with domestic chores spoke volumes about where he located women's liberation. He didn't say "I put others needs before my own, I sacrifice my happiness for my loved ones." or "I give value to my emotions, I feel my partners grief" or "I acknowledge God as mother, I nurture Her creation" or even "I would gladly give the better years of my life to service, pushing an eight pound ball out of an orffice if I could feel another's living soul within me." No. He'll fry an egg and wash the pan to make things fair and square. Charming.

Of course, I never get too ruffled by male ignorance. I tell everyone- keep expectations of men low. They will always meet your expectations. I had to interject with a bit of snap though so I said "Equality isn't about cooking and cleaning- It's about men acknowledging their inferiority."

The one thing I will say about the Y chromosone however, is it certainly affords men the gall, the tenacity and the confidence to fool women into a position of subordination. Men are genetically programmed master brainwashers. Thus my moment of apprehension prior to writing about gender. I often wonder how many other aspects of my life are still goverened by the male agenda unbeknownst to my consciousness. And what about those poor women who shake their heads and tsu tsu tsu at any hint of 'self-reclaimation' contented by the fact that their man cooks and cleans? Ah women. Let us build ashrams and cowbells. Have we not slept long enough?

Don't Hold Muh So Tight- You Know, I'm Tickle-Ish.

When Laura came to BIM years ago we were at the Toat yard on a Booze day and she somehow got roped into a tourist game where they blindfold you and give you indigenous fruit and make you guess what it is. Anyhoo-Laura got a Plantain and to help her out I yelled out "Something in your pocket keeps stickin' me..." To which she cried "It's a ripe Plaintain! It's a ripe Plantain!"
That's a song- for those who are not up on the calypso.

The point is after Ricky's story yesterday it was the first thing that came to my mind.
His story runs a little something like this:

While standing on a ladder over some concrete blocks at work banging a few nails, he feels something crawling on his thigh inside his pants. Thinking it was a centipede, he grabbed it from the outside, holding it firm between the material, jumped off the ladder backwards, sprained his foot and broke 3 decoration blocks. Still holding the thing at his thigh he's feeling it on his ankle and he's wondering how the ass a centipede could be that long. He wriggles out of his pants, looks down inside and sees...

A Snake. The length of his leg. Now half dead from being squeezed too hard.

Something in his pantleg keep stickin he...

So he brings the thing home dangling it from the passenger side window, asking all the pedestrians if they want he.

Even paro Tucky jump back and say "nah boyee..."

Ocean liked it. He flung it around like a lasso and wanted to carry it home. Michelle wouldn't hear of it. Apparently Ocean had just watched Snakes On a Plane and woke up in the night with a "Snakes eat Baba!"

Snakes in BIM is one hot topic let me tell ya.
Ricky's friend is now memorialised on Clifford's fence.

Phone Phobia

I've realized that I have a bit of a phone phobia. In grade 7 I used to talk on the phone to Kristy for 6 hours straight and then write a 20 page report for her to read in class inclusive of diagrams. In grade 9-10 I used to talk to boys all through the night hanging up only to get ready for school. I've always been nervous to place a call but nowI get edgy whenever the phone rings and I have real difficulties with dialing out.
It's fine at work- it's not for me. I can call Sasha easy but I don't do it often. It's ok when it's about the PTA but I try to avoid it as much as possible. I don't like, but can bring myself to call school, bank, whatever but under a great deal of duress and at the last minute. I hardly call my father, my sisters, my brother-
But personal calls are the real problem. First time calls are almost if not always impossible. I simply do not bother to exchange numbers because I know I won't call. Calls to people I've not spoken to in a while is similarly hard and the longer I postpone it the worse it gets. Yet by far the worst calls are the calls with baggage. The ones that are necessary. It's torture. I pick-up, I put down, pick-up, put down, pick-up, put down and on and on and never do I make the call.
Maybe I need therapy. Maybe I've been reborn into an age too advanced for me. Give me a pen. Give me a paper. and the baggage disappears. I can write my soul into being. If only I didn't have to drop it in the box. Lately, I've come to realize I have a bit of postage phobia...

Back 2 School

IZ and O are back in school today. A little tired maybe 'cause I took them to the Mexican circus last night.
I managed- no scratch that- IZ managed to get the ring worm on his face under control just in time for start date. (School won't let them in with it and the face is a hard place to hide without Elvis side burns.)
Anyway, I gave him the bottle of tea tree oil and he put it on diligently until it scabbed up then he picked off the scab diligently until it's become an uncontagious clear mark on his right cheek. It was looking good. He was set.
Then a series of unfortunate events-
I couldn't find a new black belt don't mind I went to every shop in the newly extended Sheraton Mall- so strike one- old brown belt don't match black shoes.
Then "Barber" the barber (creative nick name, hun?) was no where to be found and IZ, though not shaggy altogether is striking two with the beginings of the Elvis he no longer requires.
And then...
IZ had to go frolicking with the new dog, tripped over a rock and scratched both arms and his chin. Strike three- with the wound too fresh to pick, IZ is going back to school old and unmatched, unshaven and scab faced.
IZ is supposed to have a young Miss teacher about size 3 who likes short skirts and high heels. This should not pose a problem as IZ is still more interested in snails and an assortment of bugs than he is in felines. And if the vermin should prove to be too distracting there's no need for concern. Looking at the books, IZ has this year in the bag.

Happy B-Day Dad!

Happy Birthday to my father the Blog Poet- Who would've know it?!

As a tribute to his literary talent here's a poem of my own

Enjoy your limit of two drinks, Pops
One over that may bring the cops
Is the fete at the Lodge or the Tamworth hotel?
Don't matter much since all goin' sell.

Rupture the Rapture

I've been watching this really bad trilogy starring Kirk Cameron about the end of days and the Rapture. By the rapture I mean the idea of believers suddenly vanishing into heaven leaving behind the unfaithful to experience war, pestilence and famine aka Judgment Day. In the movie, the believers include all children and all- make you want to hurl with the way they spew Bible passages constantly- evangelicals.
I think the rapture is about the scariest most vile little concept the Christian Fundamentalists have invented. Besides the fact that it speaks to Christian supremacy, elitism, guiltless vengeance and hateful 'you're on your own now suckas' imagery, I just don't favour a God who outs His cigarette in Her Creation. It's Imperialist and it's anti-climactic and it's Ugly.

Should this story end with the Fundamentalist's epilogue- Oh other God help us all- I don't want to be transported naked to drink milk and honey to the sound of harps...

I'd rather be A Red Cross Volunteer. A Superhero. A Holy Woman

Or An Ice-Cream Bicycle Dude- with a bell-

Rats Down-Pants Down

What is it about boys that makes them all snips and snails?

This morning Ocean and IZ are devouring some home grown oranges- juice dripping down their dirty little faces when Ricky walks in-no struts in- with the proudest most gloriest of news that he'd killed the big rat that was running on the roof and a smaller one too besides.

Those boys all but threw the oranges down and tore off running to see the rat exhibition Ricky had prepared for them outside.

When they got back in I had to sit through the narration of how it was 'dis big boiyee-like a mongoose 'den' until the conversation was too exhausting and needed to be replaced by nude wrestling.

Pants thrown with the oranges they ran peepee dogs swinging to try and take down Ricky in all out war.

Whether Afrikan Tribal, Greek Gymnos, Japanese Sumo or Bajan Brawl- men's love will always be for bugs and rats and naked man-on-man fighting.

Who Does Know 'Bout Teeology Anyways?

September.
Back to School.
I had an information meeting with the graduate students (whose numbers are increasing) and the prin. Nobody knows how many credits I have, am supposed to have and still need. Even a trip to the University office of graduate studies left me waiting in the dark. Dem don't know 'bout teeology, see? What I do know is the course work being made available to me should I need one more semester (which I do- and seem to be the only one who knows this) is completely not my speed. I'll either be left failing at everything but boredom in history of the caribbean church and missionary movements or choking back nausea in pastoral counselling. All I want to do is write a dirty piece of scholarship about God being a giant man-eating uterus. Gotta go down with a bang! I'm already something of a living legend 'round seminary. Hot little foreign white girl who doesn't go to church. Years from now-when I'm leaving my mark in some larger space, I want a student to be browsing through the library, pull out my research paper and half bemused- half in awe, say " Now dis one knows 'bout teeology, den."

of course I don't- and there's the rub.

Tribute to the Ghost in the House

Whoever's been to Shaver knows that the ghost in that house is evil. Evil and a perv. Any naked opportunity that ghost had a chance to crash in on he was there... in the closet...behind the foggy shower glass...in the dark room with the porn...
He had poor Giz, who was scared of nothing and nobody, petrified to go downstairs. Every game of hide n go seek fell apart because you actually wanted to be found...quickly.
The whole basement was his- from the storage room that I never saw the back of because I refused to take more than 6 steps in and where the celery disappeared and reappeared two weeks later seemingly unblemished, to the computer room where he clawed on the walls, to the bathroom with the mini boiler room disguised as a linen closet that he was particularly fond of and the little room to the back that never did become a sauna and was the scariest place I ever slept in when bycr came to steal my sanctuary.
Then there was Mike's room. Mike who, overcome with the evil surrounding him, drew upside down crosses all over and required a second baptism for the salvation of his soul.
The huge Yoga room, probably the only place relatively safe (except the closet, of course) and only because the vastness of space left little room for the ghost to hang unexposed and finally,
The Dark Room-need I say more.
The ghost was not confined to the basement, he retreated there whenever the house got too loud.
If ever home alone, he would creep up the stairs and peep over the wall...
One time he actually set off the metronome on the piano and when I went to stop it, I found it silent with the cover on. He is the original terrorist of my memory and I do believe his unsuccessful aim for us Shaver dwellers was very big and terribly malignant. I mean he almost got Mike (goat cheese...should we forward that to the arsee-empees?)
I rehash all this as a prelude to the point that there is a ghost in my house in BIM. He's pretty much a front of the house, hang on the stairs kinda guy. And so far, he's been pretty shy. The other night when I was taking IZ up to bed, he was sitting on the bottom step. He got up so fast, ran up those stairs and took a nose dive out of the top window. If you fall asleep on the couch, he'll watch you from behind the storm shutters and every night he'll wake you with the stomp stomp stomping of him walking upstairs to jiggle the middle room door where I can only presume he used to sleep. Whilst the ghost in Foster has scared the pervious owners to sale, I have never found him particularly threatning and I think he must like us because he's being a friendly guy, chilling, hanging out, but not looming and creeping and being all I'm going to posess you and take over your body like.
So, this blog is a toast to my ghost. May we continue to live together in harmony, you are a heavy improvement from that rotten little horn bag I left in Etobicokey.