The Hag Lives On

I'm not a news buff.
Investigation, Reporting, Statistics, Political Debate-frankly, it bores me. I pick up the Nation every day with a sigh. Nothing. Nothing. Same Old. Same Old.

I do the crossword.

Today, for example, breaking news- in the last 3 years food prices have gone up 25%. Thanks be to the economist who gave that up because I had no clue- I've been eating air for 3 years...
Then our Lord Bishop admonished some Dr. Evil song lyrics. I love you Dr. John but common- you hadn't heard it until now? Is the choir too loud 'cause IZ has been trying to find a reason why a next man would lie with a guy name Stephen for over a year now...
What else, what else- no prosecution for foreign police. Big surprise there- everyone knows how vigilant we are at addressing our local boys' indiscretions...
And of course- Darth Vadur giving the nation the ol' thumbs up- can't go a week without those dimples of optimism.

No- I don't much like the news. It's boring. And if there's one thing I can't suffer too long- it's boredom. I am an addict for good narrative. I like drama, I love passion. I adore divine irony. And my most favorite thing is the moment of ah-ha when it all lines up in perfect pleasure.

Last week I crossed the street to hear some tales from ago. The raconteur indulged my habit and told me a story of the Old Hag. Old Hag, he said, takes off her skin at the crossroads and goes out on a moonlit night, unseen, to suck blood. The belief is that if her skin could be found, lime and salted, she would be unable to re-enter it and her vampiric binges would come to an end. But no one has ever found Old Hag's skin, he concluded.

The story didn't make a lot of sense at first. If she took off her skin, how could she be unseen? I mean, what of her bones-surely she would appear skeletal? Why does she need the skin anyway- why not just suck blood? Why can't a pile of skin be found? And lime and salt? My raconteur got fed up and answered something like "Oh Fuckin' Hell, It was just a story to stop the children from playing marbles so they would come home before dark."

But the story has been making me think...
....think of the country and the news and the constant cry for transparency and I've been doing a little exegesis. Bare with me-

The Old Hag takes off her skin so that she can't be seen but of course she can. We all see but we don't. We only always know the bare bones don't we? The flesh of the matter is so carefully hidden behind bogus inquiries and missing documents. Though the rattling bones make plenty noise, they're rather difficult to hold on to. The Hag continues her treacherous path lit by that big bright spotlight in the heavens while we are left pondering her motions in the dark.

And she continues to suck the blood. My blood, your blood, the blood of the nation. It is the necessary sacrifice on which the Hag flourishes. Still through our blood we become part of the Hag; whether we like it or not, we are accountable. Therefore, we become complacent, we let the Hag take what she wants, or worse, we allow the Hag to absorb us completely.

There are some however, some, who refuse to be sucked, trying desperately to locate the skin before she gets to them. They struggle to purge the nation of the Hag by drawing out the blood from the flesh using the lime and salt of the earth. Lime and Salt- the traditional, distinctly 100% Bajan antiseptic.

Yet still, the skin cannot be found and maybe it never will.

The Hag has wisely left the skin at the crossroads knowing that when we arrive we will easily fall victim to our convictions, our righteousness, our certainty that we know which way to go, we know which road to take. And of course, we don't.

The Hag lives on.

So sure are we- that we know what's best- that we fail to look down and see the Hag's skin lying right there- at our feet.

The Masturbator of My Own Amusement

Ending my 8 year boycott of Shitey Whitey's didn't do much to aid me in my quest for distraction. Surrounded by drunk white people tripping over drunk white people luridly"dancing" up on drunk white people spilling their drinks on me, I felt rather supercilious.

As I was standing at the bar, trying very hard to breathe a stranger promised, with a soft lingering handshake, that if I was willing, he would whisk me away to Pahrree. It was straight out of an OC episode with Henri Michel. "I be-leeve in des-tinee. I theenk you ahrr tres mysterieuse..." I have to admit, the french flavour of male bullshit amused me for awhile particularly when he went to fetch me a drink. As he passed it to me in a suave Euro manner I asked him in jaded Canadian if he'd drugged it and he grinned and answered unruffed "mais oui and when you drink it you will fall in luhve with me." I made him take first sip.

Then I went upstairs to pee and started a cat fight for the hell of it. A little girl was asking for a light from a friend of mine. I got in her face and asked her what she was doing with my man. "Girlfriend I'm just getting a light." "Well Don't." Her two little friends stepped in but I didn't back down. " "You very aggressive!" she snapped, "We ain't want you man." One asked me if I was from England and I said yeh. She feigned bravery, "I know you cyan't live in Bahrbadus cuz if you lived hayre you wouldn't be getting on like a cunt for a light. You're pretty but you're a CUNT!" Her hand actions were classic! I laughed and laughed and laughed.

How can one distract one's self from one's self by one's self?
Amidst the people seeking endorsement from each other, I wandered around the masturbator of my own amusement.

E.T. in for WCC

Speaking of space- Have you all heard the word?- Barbados is now one of the few places on earth discernable from the outer limits by the naked eye.

Right there in the middle of that large blue mass identified as the Atlantic Ocean and clearly visible under a thick veil of brown dust is the distinct network of dented oil drums and orange cones we call home.

Absolutely ingenious, I say! If Cricket World Cup blows and Legacy turns out a pipe dream, we can market ourselves as the first official landing strip for UFO's-

ARTH-vad-UR

Oh the comedy of the universe!

Is it just me or does the handle of that weed wacker Owen has so generously donated to the fringes look like a star wars light sabre? I had to fine tooth the caption to convince myself that it was in fact garden equipment and hence, not the super sonic space slayer I first perceived it to be. But the visual of my initial reaction just won't go.

There's our three times a charm man, sugar daddying the block community with $3000000 worth of photon beams.

It cracks me up!

The O-meister dressed head to toe in black plastic lustre, an aspirator hooked to his voice box, statuesque in front of one of our fine ghetto establishments, holding his very own weed wacking weapon and commanding all powerful "I am your father!"

-then sending his armies out to grow tomatos!

Even Should The Flowers Be Thrown At Our Feet...

I witnessed romance in its purest form this morning when IZ decided he was going down die hard for Valentine's Day. He found a picture he'd coloured and wrote some I Love S's along the border. He folded it up and put it in an envelope addressing it to:/from:. Then he set out to the garden with a kitchen knife and cut out a few flowers requesting that I tie a ribbon around the bouquet. He put it in his school bag and set off with total confidence, having no concept of rejection yet at 6.
Sadly, romance in paradise was sabotaged.
No sooner had he offered his heart to the pretty little girl, the flowers were snatched from her grasp by a savage in school clothes, shredded and thrown at her feet.
Oh spite! Oh cruelty! How early you bare your ugly head!

We have a serious rodent problem in Barbados-t'is true.

While the four legged vermin scurry about contaminating stored food, the two legged parasites consume and pollute happiness and amity and love. What pleasure we get from our pudding and souse! How we thrive on each others misfortune!

You get a promotion- I get you fired. I build a house- you steal material. You find a love- I spread your secrets. I get flowers- you shred them apart.

We are so hollow- so lonely- on this little rock in the middle of the sea. We have only us and we drive us away with our resentment and fear and envy. We are weary of friendship; we are terrified of love; we wear scowls or fraudulent smiles to cover our pain and disgrace.

Tonight as Valentine's Day comes to a close, I take a page out of IZ's book. There comes a point when the leap of faith becomes critical to our humanity.

Even should the flowers be thrown at our feet let us have courage to trust. To say...I am so happy that we are friends and to make the words manifest by our actions.

Inter-Faith Jamboree

I had mentioned that the dad called concerned that my blog was right wing fundamentalist insensitive and my life was becoming more and more precarious with every entry. He was bemoaning that the spread and influence of evangelicalism in Canada was moving swifter than the bubonic plague and I laughed that in that one department, we're ten steps ahead of them and happy to be of service. Remember Snozzle and the Grimsby Pentacostals, dad? Well they came back last week for a reunion tour. Seems they don't pull a crowd up north like they do here in BIM. We know quality entertainment.

I'm one of those parents that bring my kid late to school every day. I roll up with Prince blasting- compliments of my radio show feeling my needs- and drop the boy off in time to miss the greater portion of the morning praise. I pretend I can't press fast enough to make the bell but the truth is, I'm busy giving my son his morning lesson in theology. The teaching method is a passive one but IZ is catching on quickly. So when Snozzle returned he wisely inquired, "But why mummy- why do dey only always talk about Jesus? Jesus Jesus Jesus! Jesus Jesus Jesus! Always Jesus!"

Yesterday, the Nation printed a picture of a 600 pastey man parade of nerdy middle aged Canadians jumping for Jesus in Bridgetown. These Jesus Jesus Jesus fanatics are island hopping under the pretence that by acting shamefully obnoxious in sweaty short pants and straw hats, they are deseminating some kind of good news. It's a "working" vacation, if you qualify doing a Jesus congo line working, more than likely financed by the tithes of some fools left behind in the cold. It struck me however, that with all the talk about love and acceptance maybe these Christians wouldn't mind extending an invitation to the jamboree on a wider scale. Not to mention the tourist dollars we could rake in with my plan of inter-faith gesticulation.

To the 600 crazy Canadian fundamentalists let's add 600 Islam extremists in full hijab regalia, 600 wailing Jews with 600 peenee peenee hats, 600 Asian Budhists, 600 Wican Nudists and 600 Harry Krishna's with 600 tambourines. We'll have them jump and wave their way into our newly renovated Independence Square where we'll have prize winning contests like Which Team can Scream their Saviour's Name the Loudest or Who Can Balance their Scripture on their Head while Crossing the Swing Bridge?. We'll taste each other's sacraments and we'll sing a medley of Haleh Haleh songs and we'll laugh and hug and have a merry old time.

BTA- you gotta pick this up-

Mending the Code

Thank you Nation newspaper for clearing the fog. I didn't fully grasp the meaning of 'breaking the code'. I vaguely knew it was about teenagers and phone sex but I took it to be more broad based and metaphorical. I was interpretating "breaking the code" to mean "finding the solution". Once again, my naïveté has hoodwinked me.
The break the code seminar seems to have been ironically literal. The objective was to educate parents that when our younger reflections discuss tea bags they aren't debating the quality of Twinnings versus Lipton nor when they go diving for pearls are they engaging in an exciting new nautical passtime for the aquatically talented. One man divulged that he brilliantly deciphered the girl next to him who "baked sweet bread and licked the icing" wasn't a pastry chef. He's a super smart guy. Because as Ms. Marshall keeps saying over and over and over- these girls are using "highly sophisticated" methods and frankly, I'm surprised they didn't invite some of those windtalkers to the meeting. Those cryptograms ain't easy!
Sadly, I've reached the age where I don't need to let my honey bunny know that the PAW (parents are watching). I can text any smut that I want and I earn enough money to pay for the words unabbreviated. But though sex is sanctioned for us adults there are a multitude of things that are not so acceptable and I think this whole code text thing has opened our eyes to the invaluable possibilities of an old sliparoo. Instead of using the mundane to express our sexual desires we can use sexual imagery to vent about the state.

Here are some of my codes:

Sucking C*ck = choking on the bullshit the go*ernment run med*a feeds us.
Sh*t or C*m Licking = suf*ering the inadequacies of ro*d or wat*r works.
Stroking Hairy B*lls = engaging in com*unity develop*ent.
Org*es = educati*nal seminars for moronic par*nts.
Bl*w Jobs = de*th by A&E
P*ssy Eaters = CSME and CWC enthusi*sts.
F*cked up the *ss = being charged $16.*9 for a half gallon of m*lk.

WUZ UP BFP!!!

Daddy calls me up to talk about my blog and warn me against possible assassination threats. Amongst the usual daddy paranoia he reveals to me that not only am I included on the sidebar as link off Barbados Free Press (as I've just recently become aware) I am also in the actual texts making appearances in two headlines as I can tell. I read the little bits about me with much amusement. Kuh Dear, the people at Free Press think I need comfort!

Okay, granted at the end of July 06, I was on a raisinification mission but I promise you, I was far from a breakdown. Free Press reads:
"It has been a few weeks since I stopped by the Barbados blog Is there anybody out there?, so I was rather unprepared for how prolific our friend BIM has been recently…BIM is having a crisis as she approaches 30! Poor darlin’ actually wrote this…All of us should stop by Is there anybody out there and let BIM know that we still care. Shona…. Marcus says you are forbidden to read BIM’s blog. Way too Amazon!"

I can't recall having ever been called poor darlin' before nor qualified as Amazon and I dare say, I rather like both terms of endearment. Thanks y'all- that was hot!

Then more recently in January BFP reads:
"Our friend BIM at Is there anybody out there? had a rough day at the PTA fundraiser. Drop over and cheer her up!"

And now I'm just tickled because not only do I have friends over there but they're of the caring and concerned breed that recruit and assign their readership to extend to me their compassion.

So! I thought it only fair that I return the goodwill and give Barbados Free Press a WUZ UP!!!! with one of those really eager high fives that make the recipient slightly embarassed. I am really moved. I was griping just two days ago that I don't get that soft touch treatment the needy girls get all the while oblivious to the kind support being thrown my way over the blogosphere. And Shona, you can read me girl, I promise I won't bite and if Marcus has a problem there's room in the raisin box for one more. he he

Breakfast for the Babes in Bim

Last week there was a public plea for government to feed the nation's children some breakfast.

It isn't really a question of poverty,"they" say. Parents have to leave house too early for work thus they don't have time to satsify the swallows.

Truly, getting to work in the morning is a daunting task. Traffic is excrutiating and every second road is under construction. To get from A to B means cutting through C only to find D has been closed. So we detour through E but get lost trying to find F and we weave and we wait, inching our way through the alphabet of chaos and potholes...

That's if we're lucky enough to have a car.

If we don't, we do the same- but as a passenger on a transport board bus with an added bonus of atleast an hour's wait at the bus stop, crossing our fingers at the sound of every diesel engine and making silent prayers that someone we know will pass by and take pity on us.

And as we embark on this glorious 5 am journey each morning, we are forced to leave the tea and toast to providence but alas Jesus Christ is too busy being called to the road rage- the children's belly grumbles are left unheard.

Until they get to school.

Then the growling and the yawning and the disinterest in the work stares those super interesting, highly creative and way informative teachers in the face. No matter how hard they try to make the morning praise a delight, the children do not get aroused. How frustrating it must be to know that a couple of bakes could have awakened the pupils to the majesty of possessive nouns! How ingenious that the decline in literacy could be easily remedied by a boiled egg or a fried plantain!

But woe and befoul those children who attempt to feed themselves! They were caught on camera less than a week after the breakfast blame, buying fish cakes from a street vendor after the bell had tolled. It's a good thing we've got school policy for such a blatant act of impertinence. Any child failing to make their own way through the alphabet of chaos and potholes and dare risk being tardy for a morsel of greasy flour shall be publically spurned and refused any and all entry to the school compound. That'll teach 'em!

Heart Attack

Sometimes, late at night, after too many beers and a little prompting, you might get a Bajan man to whisper about the dreaded 'heart/hearse men'. As the story goes, back in the 70's -early 80's, after the sun had set and the streets grew quiet, mortal danger, in the form of a black hearse, cruised through rural villages searching for anyone on the road- in the dark- by themselves. From what I understand, whilst a lonely adult would meet the requirement, a child forlorn was the objecive. The vehicle would pursue the target, the heart men would pull the victim inside the hearse and then, they would cut the child's little heart out of their chest cavity as part of some cultic ritual.

The cutting out of hearts, particularly of our children, is still, 30 years later, very much an intrinsic part of Bajan social order. We don't wait for the cover of moonlight anymore. We have much more sophisticated surgical methods. We've learnt to stretch the process from infancy into adulthood, extricating the heart out bit by bit. In fact we've gotten so unashamedly good at it, that we've managed to convince the nation's psyche that the victim never had a heart to begin with so that after we've removed the heart, we get the added pleasure of our own moral superiority.

We steal $60,000.00 of court paid child support. We charge $16.99 for a half gallon of milk. We buy ourselves a shiny new four door with the money and we put you in front of the court for not having reflectors on your bicycle. We expell you from school at 15. We harass you, we belittle you, we crush your self worth. When you point your gun at an officer at 17, we do not hesitate to gun you down. You're street trash. A scourge on society. Send him off in the hearse! By the way, we caught your sister making sex videos on her cell phone. She's 13. We've been talking about her on the air but we're keeping her anonymous. At 13 she should know what seriousness sex is! Hell, we've been teaching her about it every crop over since she was born! She should know the consequences of her actions! She was, after all, the product of a sixteen year old mother! There's no excuses for her lascivious behaviour! Call her home to get ready for her "uncle", milk costs $16.99 for a half gallon, you know. Well of course she has AIDS at 19. She was nothing but a two bit whore. A scourge on society. Send her off in the hearse!
What's that? You've managed to survive your horrible childhood??!!! We'll just usher you to work through heavy traffic, with back biters and brow beaters who steal from the till, break in your car or just rob you of your ideas and myrth. If that doesn't rip your heart out, we'll spread wicked stories about you, sabotage your happiness, smile in your face and laugh behind your back...exploit you and generally fuck you over... One way or another we'll get you in that hearse!

I don't know 'bout the rest of you but I ain't letting no heart men get the better of me. With the state my road is in no hearse goin' bother come by me anyway. And just in case I'm wrong, I've forged my heart from the rattling chains of the steel donkey.