Enjoy...

This photo is named "Kellie Pickler" and I'm almost certain that most of my friends would not understand why, well, not before a quick Google search. I found this photo while riffling through my One-A-Day album on Facebook and naming each photo, something I'd previously neglected to do. I found that the thoughts that flooded my mind each time I switched to a new one, if verbalized, may have sounded bizarre but somewhere in a crevice in my mind, they made all the sense in the world. It's all a matter of appreciation, I think.

Kellie Pickler's 'Red High Heels' is still one of my favorite contemporary country songs. Yes, that's right. I said contemporary, meaning I like Classic country too. In fact, my appreciation for music of all genres, goes much deeper and was established well before I took Music Appreciation at Northern Caribbean University. Earlier this morning, my work day started with Mobb Deep's 'Shook Ones' and Rahkim, Nas and KRS-One's 'Classic'. A few days earlier it had been a trip through the 90's R&B junk yard and before that the boulevard of broken punk band's dreams with Sum 41, Limp Bizkit and Blink 182. I understand why each of those types of music appeal to the people who love them and I know why they appeal to me, each in their own unique way.

I watched the pilot episode of the new HBO show "Girls" this afternoon and my cousin could not fathom why I would watch such a dreadful show. I will not assume what he saw while half-watching the show, but what I heard was wispy, sometimes witty dialogue and what I saw was an almost entrancing lead actress in over her head and intriguing artistic direction and wardrobe, complimented by engaging cinematography. What the show lacked in dialogue and "action", it makes up for with odd-ball characters and great storytelling, with quick cuts, brilliantly composed shots and an unpretentious film grade. While I will probably never watch this show again, because the story failed to capture my attention, I was able to appreciate the positives in this project and I understand why that show is on TV.

When the writing stops, I try to fit into boxes that are perhaps more acceptable since all that I have to say stays bottled up. There's no making the words come or the urge to write. Sometimes it just does and at other times its no where to be found. My pen (or keyboard) allows me to only be myself, stripped of all pretense. Well, maybe not ALL; I retain my innate sense of pretentiousness well past the third paragraph of any essay. Maybe it all makes me strange. But it all makes ME.

So, I'm back to writing what I want to write. I'm gonna shoot what I want to shoot. I already watch what I want to watch. And most importantly I'm gonna enjoy every hop, skip and leap along the way.

Enjoy me. I know I will.

Maybe...

Maybe this is the answer. Maybe I've spent too much time away from here becoming more and more confused and overwhelmed with these thoughts of loneliness, grief and a contented sense of achievement. Perhaps all I needed to do was return to my safe space, where all my thoughts form words that form sentences that some times don't make much sense to neither me nor my reader but have an immense capacity to free my soul. Maybe this is just what I need to do; get the words out to clear space for me to function 'normally', if how I function can be described as normal.

My life has become increasingly complex since I dropped out of University in December of 2010. I say complex because I refuse to search for another word to describe the lopsided manifestations of extreme glee and intense sadness that have filled my days since. ..."And I, in my darkened threshold, am pawing though my pockets, the receipts, bus schedules, the matchbook, phone numbers, the urgent napkin poems; all of which laundering has rendered pulpy an strange, loose change and a key." This is my life and all of the circumstances that have created the conditions which I now live under have taught me lessons that will stay with me forever.

My father's death taught me a great deal, about the true uncertainty of life. Most people survive through each day and a few try to live each day like it's there last. But it's my opinion that living either way is a tad mundane and so "inside-the-box" and living each day like it's your last may just make it your last day. I now choose to live each day like it's my first, making a conscious effort to enjoy each opportunity with the fresh eyes of a babe, the wonderment of a child and a cultivated sense of innocence and curiosity that affords me such grand perspective. And strangely, I find that rather than count myself insignificant in the vastness of the universe, how favored I realize I am to exist and to carry on the legacy of a great man, "A Giant in my Eyes".

I could scarcely retrace the steps that my father and I had previously walked together, far less for even attempting to lace up his wing-tips and walk more than a few steps, but I have found a way to keep his legacy alive. His words live through me. "Always have your own!" "Love those who care about you!" "Care about those who love you!" "Be a good man!" "Research your opinion and stand for what you believe in!".....And I Love It!!! 

Maybe this WAS what I needed!!!

Rebel...

Who are we, if peeping eyes, wayward lips and deceitful tongues

'Cause us to cower into recluse and shy away, silently, scoring our days with sobs?

When those positioned to over-see, instead over-look that role; I guess it's oversight either way.

Where is all the zest and passion that February is supposed to stir up in us,

Having been refreshed with memories of Marcus, Martin and even Kunta?

When have we ever laid down, playing victim, when pressed on either side,

And pricked with the thorns of resistance. When have we ever accepted change,

That we never prayed for, and scarcely care for, for that matter?

How do we now stay peaceful, like stagnant river water hosting flies and parasites,

Unable to overflow our banks and ruffle the feathers of those at play on our fringe;

Unwilling to let us join in the fun. 

War! Warrior. Fight!  Fighter.

Wrestle! Push Back! Don't Take This Crap Lying Down!!!

Rebel! We are but after all rebels.

-HalfCrazy

© Elias O. Dupuis 2011. All Rights Reserved.

Not A Drop Less....

Tears drip like rain pours 
Washing away all my hopes and dreams
 Like chalk on a blackboard 
As I find that what I have to do, I hate to do 
And I hate myself for not loving you
 And I await the day I'll be able to.
 Like when I fell for you, I hit hard
 And it shattered my make-believe 
Jolting me back to the reality that 
We connected! Unlike any connection before or since
 And my hesitance to go down this road
 Is actually not that different from yours 
It's like I kno what I'm capable of
 And I hate to think that I've hurt you now 
But I'd hate to be the one to drag you down
 Even though you think you're ready to go
So
 Tears drip down my face too, Like rain
 Pouring down window sills to the ground; 
My chest, to the pot hole my belly button forms 
Like a baby, I pour my soul into my hands,
 Poor baby! It was my choice and I know I punked out,
But sometimes the best thing is the hardest thing
And the hardest thing is the worst thing
'Cause head and heart don't communicate like they used to;
Head remembering heartache and heart turning love into a headache
And I can't bear being the cause of this and
I find myself sitting and wishing
That we could find some common time, Some place
Where we could stand, face to face, and
Wipe each others eyes dry.
And I...
I lay my head down
And rest seems to refuse to come
And then it does, leaving me at the mercy of my dreams
Tossed about by turbulent brain waves
There is no peaceful rest for me tonight
But I find rest nevertheless.
.......And I Find That, On Awaking, I'm Still In Love With You
.....And It Still Hurts, Not A Drop Less!!! 



-HalfCrazy
©Elias O.Dupuis 2010

It Was About Time.....

There are few occasions in life that call for a re-assessing of priorities, a refocusing of ideals or a change in directions. These events, though not everyday occurrences, force us to take stock of our lives so far; whether that means our connection to a higher power, how close we are to the ones we love and those we share DNA with or simply how far we are from having the lives we painted ourselves in as children. And whether we realize that we have fallen short or that we've far exceeded what we set off to accomplish, the fact remains that we are humbled by the experience.

There are a few birthdays that call for such a soul search, like 21, 40 and 50. There are weddings, graduations, promotions, births, deaths and funerals. The effects of these, whether they happen around us and especially if they happen to us, are undoubtedly immense. With each milestone we are constantly bombarded by what a necessity it has always been to truly enjoy the life you have, even if it's not the life you think you want or deserve. From the beaming faces of sheer joy at a wedding, the flash-flushed smiles of relatives and friends alike at a graduation or the pride in a father's eyes as he stares knowingly at his newborn, to the unexplainable grief that fake smiles can't hold back at a funeral as tears flow like rivers; they change us.

It causes us to love harder and deeper and never forget the reasons we have others to love, holding on the why that makes us love them and letting go of the envy and jealousy that sometimes blinds us to the fact that the ones we hurt the most are the ones we ought to cherish dearly. We feel because we are. And we are lucky to 'be'.

-HalfCrazy 
© Elias O. Dupuis 2010

Lost Identity.....

You touched me....so,
How is it that you expect me to be,
Without lips to lay my kisses on,
Without a heart to hide my emotions in,
Without a mind to share my dreams with,
Without ears to whisper my secrets into...?
I am scared,
It hurts and I,
I tear up from inside
All of the profoundness that is me.
Running from the intense emptiness
That lingers still.
My soul like is an abyss for want of another,
With whom to share my pain,
With whom to share my smiles,
With whom to whisper secrets.

Do you expect me to continue?
My desktop is already littered with abandoned notions.
How can I even finish a poem,
When I can barely
Stitch together ideas,
Expressing the agonizing horror that
An existence without you truly feels like;
Cold, lonely, empty, dark.

The mirror mirrors nothing despite my intense gazing;
Pain like darkness absorbing me,
Refusing to relinquish it's grasp,
Despite my best attempts to escape it.
What do you expect of me?
Who am I to be?
Without you.

-HalfCrazy
© Elias O. Dupuis 2010

The Benches......

They destroyed the benches yesterday.
The ones under the big flamboyant tree
Where we etched our names with knives
And pledged eternal, unconditional allegiance.
Seems like a lifetime ago since we liked each other
When, like opposites, we attracted to features
Unlike our respective own. When in the company of you,
Me felt complete and whole, because we filled the holes
In each other, left by previous lovers.

I remember the sunlight kissing your skin so perfectly,
Like the leaves of that tree were arranged so that
One day you could sit in that spot, 
Head tilted to the side; slightly
And it would appear that their sole purpose 
Was to diffuse the light,
So perfect-like and lay it on your cheek, just right. 

The benches where, as you read loudly, I laid my head in your lap
Looking up into the vastness of the wide open blue
As if staring into the infinity our future appeared to be; then,
And if only for a second, the blink of an eye,
I caught a glimpse of us, in some far off time,
Me, still hopelessly orbiting you, and you me, 
For sheer gravity. 

And in those moments, 
With all the sunlight, shade and company
That we could ever need
We let go and fell head-over-heels
Face first, without the slightest care of bruising.
Without the worry of breaking bones or hearts
Not caring how fragile or brittle either were.
Untamed and unbridled, to love and believe.
And the memories will live on,
Even though the benches are gone.

And I hope to God you remember like I do,
Because....

They destroyed OUR benches yesterday
The ones under the big flamboyant tree
Where we etched our names with knives!
......And I wonder, what ever became of US?

-HalfCrazy
© Elias O. Dupuis 2010

Better....

If These Words Reach You,
Know That Broken Hearts Need Be Healed,
That No Bitterness Linger Nor Hatred Be Herein Spread.
For Unbridled Tongues Speak Abundantly More When
Motivated By Folly, And Lead Us Into Paths We'd Rather Not Taken.

While I Hope Happiness Follows You
Know That The Stitches That Remain And These Words Alone
Are But Testament To The Time We Shared.
And That The Fleeting Seconds Spent In Cathectic Lust;
Accreted Daily,
Are Burnt Upon The Mind Of This Broken Man;
Left In My Stead,
And Etched Upon This Stony Heart,
Frigid, For The Ravagings Of Infatuation And Its Counterparts.

This Picture, Once A Mirror,
Is Now, But A Distant Memory,
A Way Point, Showing What Better Is
How Better Looks, How Better Feels
And Where Better, Is!
Even Moments Of Sheer Glee
Appear Dim, When Compared.
I have Been There, It Be What It Be,
I Know What It Feels Like, What It Tastes Like;
And Less Than Better Simply Cannot Suffice!!!

-HalfCrazy
© Elias O. Dupuis 2010

Let's start with James Patterson.....

When I don't feel like writing, I search for distraction. Whether I find it in a delightful conversation with a beautiful young lady or in the sanctuary of my room watching a Sixers game or an episode of one of the numerous TV series that I follow, I find that it all brings me back to one place. It causes me, in a round-about way to revert to a state in which I can think. The proverbial light bulb in my head can be triggered by that slightest inspiring stimulus. The one thing I wish is that my reluctance to write at any one particular time, may provoke me to read a book.

I used to be an avid reader in my younger days, having learned the skill ahead of most of my fellow schoolmates. My mother was a teacher and maybe that had something to do with it, or maybe I had inherited some of the brilliance that I would later go on to hear her friends and colleagues rave about. I read everything in sight, literature books, science books, even books with words too big for me to fully comprehend at that age.

With prepubescent maturity came the interests in other things. I fell in love with the game of basketball and sacrificed much of my reading time to playing the game and watching NBA games. I did, however, always seem to make time to read right before I fell asleep, maybe half an hour each night. This practice was frowned upon by my parents, although I,then, failed to understand how it affected them. With repeated discouragement of this, I soon gave it up altogether and my reading habits have suffered since then.

To this day, I've struggled to read; extensively. I've written poems that others deem worthy of much praise and have received much adoration for my command of the skill. I have written stories that surprised my teachers at various points throughout my academic career simply because they couldn't believe that I wrote it. But I have struggled to read even books that were necessary to my curricula. I even passed English Lit without actually reading the books.

Recently I tried audio books which work well but seem to be solely for entertainment purposes, since if u get to thinking about a particular word or the use of it for too long you may miss something. They did inspire me to read though, a bit anyway. So I bought a James Patterson novel (I think he's brilliant), the first novel I've ever bought for myself......Let's see how that goes!!!

My Father's Son....

I once said that I didn't know my father. The thought returns every-so often and wrecks me. It wrecks me because I grew up with my dad and the context in which the question was asked related to not having known who your father at all; more like never having seen him than not knowing him as a person.

When I think about it, I was right. Maybe not to have said that I didn't know who he was but the fact is I never understood him, at least not since I was a very young boy. My entire adolescence was spent hating him for being everything I never wanted to be. But life is full of ironies and it afforded me the good fortune to peer into his life for a bit and walk in his shoes.

What I garnered from a couple months of intense work, the kind he used to do, is that I seriously doubt I could have done it nearly as long as he did. I lost about 10 lbs in the sweltering heat, surveying at different elevations, all the while calculating angles, horizontal and slope distances and driving myself and the rest of my crew to and from the locations.

All the while I watched my father, a hollow shell of the man he used to be, seem to slowly continue to lose his place in this world. The place he has occupied for the past twenty-odd years, that he had dedicated his life to securing, is slowly slipping away from him despite his desperate, sometimes angry and insensitive, attempts to hold on to it. As a victim of diabetes-related visual deterioration, his dimming world appears to frighten him more than he'll ever let on.

I found my father there though in all of that and I've learned to love the man, my pubescent dislike for him removed, even for the things that I still hate about him. I have found the "him" in me and in as much as some of my actions and attitudes upset me and I see a need to change them, the reasons for them are obvious.

I am my father's son! I've never been more proud to say that.

In Retrospect....

I came across a letter this morning that was written to me about seven and a half years ago. It was a personal letter, the only letter I have ever received from that particular friend. As I read it again, I was taken back to that time. I had just moved to Jamaica, gas was $24 per litre and much of whom I now am was still yet to be learned and discovered. How fitting that I should find it now, when my stay in this foreign nation is fast at its conclusion.

It was handwritten and beautiful and I couldn't stop reading it. I remembered the apartment I used to live in and the grumpy, "flatulent" landlord. I remembered the cute Indian girl next door and how the only time since then I'd seen her was at a play featuring Med Students (she should be a doctor by now!). I remembered that Micheal Jackson's "You Are My Life" was my theme song for months and how every time I hear that song I remember Trudi Wynter(ah she buss mi pon it).

I remembered how much I didn't want to be in Jamaica despite how eager I had been at the prospect of leaving home. I remembered my reason for always wanting to go home and considered how time has changed those motivations. I remembered taking the bus at 6:30 in the morning to avoid the rush hour packed buses that were all too reminiscent of slave ships and the middle passage.

I remembered how we never really went anywhere for sheer crippling fear. I remembered how afraid I was to join the choir at church and how excited I was when I did.

And the memories continued to come, all the way up to and through University. Every other time I've had to, it's been an absolute joy to abandon Jamaica for the familiar sounds, sight and feelings of home. This time, although this is not the last time I will leave Jamaica, there's a certain finality that I cannot help but feel.

I think I've finally reckoned, and rightly so, that Jamaica has made me. It's been a huge influence and will continue to be in the future. As reluctant as I am to admit it, I'm happy I was here. This place is like a fungus, it grows on you!!!

Difficult To Complain......

I have found it incredibly difficult to complain this week; about anything. Even in my silent, solitude, while I was not quite able to grasp the true epically graphic nature of the catastrophe that Haitians have had to deal with, I imagined what I reckon was close. So I could no longer mutter to myself and the heavens how disgusted I am to still be in my current state, and geographical location for that matter.

I developed a sense of guilty empathy for some generic little boy whose mother could scarcely afford to feed them both, now sitting unharmed beside her rapidly cooling corpse. I felt his first scream resound in my ear after having recovered from the initial shock of having fallen two whole stories down, only to land unscathed amidst all the devastation around him. I saw his face that had gone from giggling to furrowed and sad in just a few brief seconds. An innocent child, unhurt but helpless, still clinging to his mother's dress and crying, unable to understand why her once bright eyes now seemed so cold and why she lay lifeless though they remained open.

I don't have much of a personal attachment to Haiti. Before Thursday I knew little about the history of the nation, apart from occasionally having heard references to L'Overture, Papa and Baby Doc and Aristide! So I decided to take a look back at the history of a people brave enough to challenge slavery and have it abolished 40 years before the rest of the Americas and to gain nationhood, long before most of our nations had even dreamed up the notion. Nothing is more evident in the account of Haitian history, masked sometimes by the ever-present corrupt government, than the pride that Haitians take in, not only, their nationhood but also the privilege it is to be Haitian

Maybe it was the stories I have read this week, maybe it's the constant news updates or the calls for donations by our telephone networks, favorite basketball players, NFL, NBA, NCAA and numerous other media affiliated entities that we are favored to enjoy. Maybe it was the insight into the resolve and pride of the Haitian people. But for some reason I found it really hard to complain that my single bed, which has become very uncomfortable, has caused me pre-mature adult back pain. In the scheme of things it seemed minute and strangely bearable; this week!!!

T.O.T.D: Always Remember That It Does Get Worse Than This.....And It Can Get Better!!!----Elias Orville Dupuis

Quasi...

A poet adrift!
Lost without meter, form or structure,
A curse burdening his head,
A gift weighing down his heart.

Searching with intense nostalgia
His poems of yesterday,
Pictures that were at one time a mirror,
Are now but a distant memory.

A broken man,
Faking serenity, having lost touch with himself.
Intolerably, incoherently rambling,
The unintelligible scribblings of a fool.

Grasping at straws of lucidity,
Unable to stay afloat in a sea of expired ideas;
Ideas exhausted to obsolescence.
Only cryptic rhetoric crushing him on every side.

Stuck in what seems a perpetual purgatory
Not quite what he used to be
Not quite what he wants to be
Quasi-Me

---HalfCrazy

Silence.....

Every time I get the opportunity to occupy even the smallest amount of space alone, I am reminded of my self-imposed oath that I will, one day, live alone. It's not so much that I hate being around others, as a matter of fact I love being around others, maybe a bit too much; group activities are kinda my thing. Instead it might be that I spend so much time in the company of friends that I have a deeper appreciation for the few, sparse moments of solitude I afford myself by the way I live my life.

The silence in those moments is so freeing. My mind wanders to a place where my thoughts can roam as far as the horizon and beyond. The ideas take on a life of their own and become greater than I'd ever thought they could have been. One of my favorite poets wrote, "Sometimes silence is the loudest kind of noise," and she is not mistaken. Sometimes it has the ability to deafen and drown out one's state of lucid thought. But sometimes, the stillness has a way of calming one's nerves and relaxing the spirit.

That's the way I like my Saturday and Sunday mornings. I sit in almost perfect silence only intermittently interrupted by an MSN alert or two, a passing vehicle or a neighbor's singing. Even then the calm is quickly restored.

I've always lived with people. I shared a room with my brother till he was about 8 or 9. Then again at 15 when we moved to Jamaica. For the first year and a half of college, I shared a dorm room with one of my closest friends, and for some time a Mexican exchange student. Then after moving off campus I shared a room (of sorts) with two other friends, before sharing a room with my brother again, and a house with three other friends for the next two years.

I've always been around people. That's why I wanna live alone; maybe for a year or two. It's not so much for the liberty. I've always had about as much liberty as I wanted. It's for the silence. Four walls and me just wading through bad ideas searching for pearls of wisdom in my head. I think I might just be able to write a book or two!

Stifling....

Mandeville stifles. Me. Every writer is dependent on the regular up-chuck of bad ideas and the cleansing effect it can have on the brain, so that the good ideas can flow, from lips or fingers.

However, I find myself blocked. Not the kinda blocked where the words don't come and even the thesaurus seems like gibberish, but the kind where emotions elude me. While ideas and thoughts run amok in my mind like men under the influence sporting jet-packs, the emotion to truly capture these ideas and record them to pad or blog seems distant and I'm not quite sure why.

I think I'm holding back because of something that I may have done or that may have been done to me but for the life of me I can't figure out which. The frustration of all of this is one that's almost unbearable. Then again, it could be the claustrophobic enclosure of mountains that cause my thoughts to not flow.

Whether you attribute it to the unpredictability of the universe, some predetermined master plan or some twisted combination of the two, life and all that it contains has ways of making us feel insignificant. We all feel enveloped by the vastness of the universe, known and unknown. To some this provides a certain certainty, that allows them to trust completely the boundaries that nature has set and the established rules we must abide by. Yet we know one certainty to be true still; rules are made to be broken or at least bent.

And so from these mountains, I have squeezed the ounce of inspiration I needed to write 'something'. Not sure how much help it will be to anyone, but I'm once again working my way out of a slump.

T.O.T.D: "If The Writer Writes For Others, He Has Lost The Purpose Of His Gift!!!"

Losing Family....

Sean Connery said it best in 'Finding Forrester', "Losing family obliges us to find our family. Not always the family that is our blood, but the family that can become our blood. And should we have the wisdom to open our door to this new family, we will find that the wishes and hopes we once had, for the father who once guided us, for the brother who once inspired us, those wishes are there for us once again."

The fact is the more we lose family, the more family we find. While our new family members are never meant to replace the ones we've lost, they stand as constant reminders of the love and familiar care that we once expressed and will always hold dear.

And just like blood-relatives they are always there providing the consistency one needs to grieve and the support to get through it all. Most importantly, your family will refresh and reaffirm your faith. Not only faith in humanity, but your faith in God. They are the arrows that direct you to the Comforter, for in them you find that although they are strong when you need them, their mortal strength will only be a pillar for so long.

To the family....
Let us never forget that we are the beacons, the way-marks and our role is only to map-out the path and allow God to apply His soothing balm.

Let us love, now more than ever, each other and find comfort, solace and refuge in the family!

T.O.T.D: "We Cannot Lay Aside The Memory Of Those Who, Before Us, Have Departed Because They Have Become Us And We Them. We Must, Then, Cherish Their Memory As We Do Our Very Beings!!!-----Elias Orville Dupuis

Sorry It Took So Long...

Maybe it's the anticipation of friends near-forgotten, having not seen them in what seems a lifetime, or the mouth-watering prospect of being on the cusp of finally graduating, but something has me wanting to go to school; and desperately. So much so that I've forgotten to enjoy my trek to back to school.

Tonight, I'm writing from a home that I've visited on many occasions and it's always a pleasure to be sitting and talking with family, even if it once again signals that my short-sighted government, who ironically is investing heavily in tourism, has yet to afford my nation a night-landing capable airport. Yet even the joy of hanging with family, whom I last saw a few years ago because of the many interesting routes I've taken to Jamaica over the years, pales in comparison to the burning desire to get back to familiar surroundings and faces. And to think just a few months ago I was itching to run from it to the uncertainty that home offered.

Be careful, though, that you don't interpret what has been a fore mentioned, as meaning that i did not enjoy it. That was not the case at all. I enjoyed it all, from the sweltering heat and horrible humidity to the air-conditioned newsroom of one of the top radio stations in the country and every degree in between. The long Sabbath services, drawn-out by incredibly beautiful singing (it's in the genes...lol) and heart-wrenching testimonies are just part of the experience of my entire "summer's experience". However, I have come to realize that with each tropical depression, summer slips away and I have arrived at it's inevitable end.

I felt it about a week ago and I knew that I had already turned the corner and school was staring me right in the face. Surprisingly and, like I mentioned, I don't know exactly why, my attitude towards the notion of returning to school is better than it's ever been. And I understand that some may not share my enthusiasm and of such I will do my best only to express it on blogs and keep it to myself when we meet. But know that I will be delighted to see you and eager to again attempt the "perfect" semester.

T.O.T.D: When In Rome, Be Sure To Tell Them You're Dominican!!!

From Whence I Came........Post 3

Kanye said it in his hit song 'Touch the Sky' and no sooner had I stepped off the plane as I had resounded it, "Feels Good To Be Home!" And indeed it does. With my travels concluded, having reached my intended final destination, my mood has changed from one of anticipation and expectation to one of focus. The single focus, as of now, is to drive the summer in the way I think it should go to turn expectations into reality. But the final leg of my journey wasn’t short of some drama.

The flight out of Tortola left on time at 7am Sunday 24th of May. Without me! You see what had happened was, I’d left my passport and ticket information on the coffee table while I brushed my teeth and since mom had already started the car by the time i was done, in my haste to bolt out the door I had failed to remember or notice where the passport was or that it wasn’t on my person.

The drive to the airport was about 30 minutes, just cruising, ‘cause we were making good time. And as is usual for me and mom we talked about everything but failed to mention anything that would have triggered the word or the thought ‘passport’. We didn’t notice the grave oversight until we pulled up to the unloading zone and it struck me that I had forgotten it, and I remembered exactly where I had put it! So as mom sped off to retrieve it, I took the place in the line that I would not relinquish for an hour, sitting on one of my bags and staring across the check-in area at the huge clock, watching each painful second slip away and realizing that I wasn’t gonna make the flight. That was 6am.

Mom returned promptly at 7 as the plane roared into the air just overhead. So the only other option was to have the attendant at the counter reserve me a seat on the 1 pm flight, which meant check-in was at 10am. It was 7! But mom was adamant that she wouldn’t take me back home, so for most of the next three hours we just waited and ate and watched planes leave and waited some more. We did happen to meet two Dominican people though, which was kinda nice. I must pause a second to note that it seems that everyone I’ve met on this trip has met someone that I had previously met or knew someone who knew me. Dare I say, therein lies the true joy in ‘small island’ Caribbean travel!

The flight that I got on took me on a tour of the leeward islands...lol. First, a brief stop off in St. Maarten, where I’d been only a week and a half earlier, then to St. Kitts, flying past the island of Stacia and circling the airport and the town of Basseterre a few times. Thankfully the wait in Antigua, when we finally got there, was quite brief and I met two of my cousins who work at customs there.

When i finally saw the Dominican coastline, flying from Antigua, the rush of blood to the head was almost too much for me to take. My heart leaped with excitement and though most of the other passengers didn’t quite seem as elated as I was, my face could do little to hide the anxiety. Strangely, I reacted just the way I thought I would have at seeing Dominica again, even though I initially thought that after the long day I’d had in expectation of the moment I’d just be relieved it was over. So I got to Dominica at 5pm instead of at 10:30 am, as I had been expected to.

My first week here has been incredible and the hugs and kisses have flowed like streams, overflowing their banks. I’ve met family and re-acquainted myself with friends, some of whom I haven’t seen for over five years. I’m brimming with joy and I can barely contain it. Feels good to be home, you know what, scratch that, feels GREAT to be HOME!!!

From Whence I Came.....Post 2

This summer for me will either be the best summer ever, or terribly disappointing. There was no build up to my summer! It was on a whim that I asked to be let out of my summer academic obligations and by the seat of my pants that this entire elaborate journey home was carved out of schedules and countries; and all on a budget. But it was that same element of spontaneity that now has left me expecting so much. I have been to three countries so far and with each stop, the excitement grows.

I feel like a bit of a bum because I've been here a week and a half and have only mustered up one blog entry so far. This is compounded by the fact that the country is beautiful, the people are very courteous and I have been reminded on countless occasions of just how splendid island life has always been. Add to the the view from my perch, high in the hills and I'm a quad-bum...

Out the windows I have borne witness to magnificent views, looking across the marble sea, on which sailboats, yachts, speedboats and ferries zip past every couple of minutes headed for the U.S.V.I or one of the other small islands and islets that make up this country. And that fresh sea breeze. I can't quite get enough of the sea breeze. A stark alternative to my coop, nestled, or should I say buried, in the cool hills of Manchester obscuring any possibility of a view!

I have also re-discovered what it feels like to be "home" at church. The metropolitan churches that I have gotten used to with their excellent musicians and choirs, fail to provide and pale in comparison to a good-old, comfortable, familiar Sabbath day's fellowship! This has further afforded me a foretaste of home. And I can't wait. I leave for home in the morning and I doubt that tonight's rest will be the least bit satisfying. I also face what may turn out to be the longest hour of my life; my wait in-transit in Antigua, with the anticipation of home burning the tip of my tongue!

So here I go, another long summer to explore. Untold possibilities await me, or none at all; And I can't wait to find out which!!!

From Whence I Came.....Post 1

So I finally left Mandeville. I can't say it hasn't been absolutely torturous being there every single day of the two years since I've been home. So this could not have come at a better time! I am at the peak of my annoyance with everything that my life has now come to mean and represent. My days are now a series of endless ones and like a soap opera, they blend seamlessly into each other as I repeat the same activities in a sort of drone-like fashion that makes life as I used to know it seem so interesting compared to now. I feel like I have lost all that once made me who I was and I'm not sure that I'm too happy with what I have become! So what better way to refresh and refocus that to return to whence it all began, back to square one and try and retrace my steps, taking careful note of where I missed "that right turn at Albuquerque".

Tonight, I'm writing from Tortola and in these unfamiliar surroundings my heart already feels free, unleashed and ready to explore the possibilities that come with being on vacation. I don't expect much of a "vacation" though; I'll be out of here in a week and a half and then it'll be all work, till August. Much of my new material will be drawn from the thrill of a new focus, not just in my life, but a shift from the daily routine to something else....and I think I'm at the point where anything will do!!!