CRAZY LOVE
1. Love can drive you crazy. It matters not the noun of your love; an animal, person, place, or thing. Love can mad you.
2. I was alone but not lonely. You said you discovered me. I made you cotton, cane and indigo. You devoured every inch of my body, exploring places I never knew anyone could go to seek and find rapacious, selfish pleasure. I bore your many children for the habits and cycles of your plantation. You made prosper, as the calypso says. I made nought.
3. As time went by so did you; going back to the crown of your empire and founding another across the Atlantic pond, using the same articles of plunder and massacre.
4. All your leaves are sparkling, spanking green, fertilized by the yellow sun in the blue sky and anchored in the rich soil fertilized with volumes of black blood.
5. I started over. Scars of hate haunted and occupied me, some yours, some mine, leaving me with just a slender thread of hope to not remove myself from this earth. My ancestors would not be pleased. They died this and that way so I might live.
6. In time I found a new lover. A love with difficulty, like yours, in some ways. All loves are difficult to me since you ransacked and virtually emptied my soul. Recycling my life, this new lover comes bearing gifts in fine chinaware; gifts I cannot afford and gifts I should refuse, knowing beforehand that my bed, bedding and belongings will be his one day. I should have planted myself firmly in the ground, taking my time to bear fruits and walk tall in slow motion. Greed can eat you out. Vultures know the smell.
7. Then one day, my Exodus came riding back. Not for me. At least not directly. It is the dance of the minds. Remember that one? That is the one where he stands just close enough to be legal and seemingly polite and warns all the suitors: she is not dancing. The lady is not for dancing.
8. Or it is the dance of body figure as he waltzes one invading step further and enters my space, again, claiming all of mine is his. None else shall enter and all else must leave.
9. How many times must I give my body to be burned. Every time I do, I do so anchored in the knowledge that the love of life is all I have, and all that I can pass on to others. The scientists claim that matter cannot be created or destroyed. I am but a link in this everlasting chain of life. Do not break it up, even though break is not a four-letter word.
10. When all seems lost, I must lift up my eyes far beyond the hills and see the constant expansion of the horizon. It is calling us to rediscover and remeasure the meaning of life and our tiny place on this small earth in this endless universe.
11. It is a call to arms. Neither arms of physical war nor arms of desparing hugs. It is a time to question and answer who we are. Caribbean. With a long and glorious history of struggle embedded and coded in our DNA and within our epigenetics. Reparations for the past and preparations for the future. Fighting front and back. Back to back. Belly to belly. We do give a damn. We not done dead already. Sing the chorus.
12. The adage was wrong. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can do me no harm. That cannot be true. Not for us. Words are all we have. It is the time for the words of poetry and the words of prose, and the sound of our music and all of the arts to rise up and give life, new life to the falling, failing fading spirit. Here we are, here we are. Where are you from? The Caribbean.
13. If the love of a person, place or thing and its denial to us can drive us crazy. Maybe, just maybe it is the journey through this maze of crazy love, this choking, hurricane world of craziness at this time that finally will set us free.
14. Vinceremos!
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The call to arms for our arts cannot be the stereotypical call for opiate entertainment.
It must be underscored by the business of the arts, deployed as a management prototype for all the businesses we inhabit.
I love it! but we already sell out ..for “chinawear”
Who knows know…
GASSY DREAD with shim chinese rasta wig is setting a new trend for your children in the arts.
We eat enough jam; we drink enough wine; it is time… to put something new in the pot.
Absolutely brilliant in its metaphorical and sarcastic undertones. I can recall that Dr. Walter Rodney said once that when he looks at Manhattan or London he imagines the blood, sweat and tears of our forebears that contributed to such development. Yes, it is time we put something new in our heads and create a new consciousness of self and forge a new Caribbean civilization.
😅😅😅😅 laughter, ‘tis still great medicine for the emotional well being, of my being.
Many moons ago, as an ole man transversing the seven stormy seas of life, on my Alien Ship named #DAGGAHLAG, I came across a, doldrum current and I knew, that I’d be stuck there for a moment. So, I picked up one of my favorite books to reread and past the time. This book is The Games People Play by Eric Burne, a psychiatrist.
The first time I picked up this book, I thought it was based upon [sports], but to my surprise after getting beyond the lure of the cover, I quickly realized it was about how HUEmans act and react, to various stimuli under certain circumstances.
It was so real and true, that I had to reread it immediately.
Later, after the doldrums had passed and my sails began to gather the winds, I was led to a professor’s classroom where Psychology 001,was being taught. Did you know, on the list of books which were required reading was The Games People Play, by Eric Byrne and its counterpart was I’M OK, YOU’RE OK by Thomas Harris would be the main Text Book for the Course.
Eric Burne through his TA – Tranactional Analysis had described in the LAYMAN VERSION of Games People Play by recognizing the complexity’s of the Child, the Adult and the Parent, as they intermingle from physical conception through death.
@Dr. Lester Simon, as I read your provocative piece, this is where the laughter came from.
I do get, the jam & wine! I just added some cheese and crackers to enjoy it even more.
Yes! We have ate enough jam individually, to fill up the East & West Country Ponds. We have drank enough wine individually, to fill all the ponds and dams in the Country, but you know what @Lester Simon…
1…love can also be masked as hate, if one is to dive into the indoctrinated orders used by The Molders of Society to corral and manipulate HUEman #tgought_process(es).
2…habits become norms, norms become a way of life, a way of life defines a people, a people defines a Kulcha, as time ‘tis left in its own wake.
3…If you happen to float through The Jam Pond Session put on by fire by burning, red hot flames, you’ll see the #JAMMERS JAMMING and the WINERS WHINNING, while the smokers have become STONERS, rolling/roaming all over the ground trying to be hip like The Rolling Stones.
Jumbee_Picknee aka Ras Smood
De’ole Dutty Peg 🦶🏿 Garrat_Bastard
Vere Edwards
😅😅😅😅 laughter, ‘tis still great medicine for the emotional well being, of my being.
Many moons ago, as an ole man transversing the seven stormy seas of life, on my Alien Ship named #DAGGAHLAG, I came across a, doldrum current and I knew, that I’d be stuck there for a moment. So, I picked up one of my favorite books to reread and past the time. This book is The Games People Play by Eric Burne, a psychiatrist.
The first time I picked up this book, I thought it was based upon [sports], but to my surprise after getting beyond the lure of the cover, I quickly realized it was about how HUEmans act and react, to various stimuli under certain circumstances.
It was so real and true, that I had to reread it immediately.
Later, after the doldrums had passed and my sails began to gather the winds, I was led to a professor’s classroom where Psychology 001,was being taught. Did you know, on the list of books which were required reading was The Games People Play, by Eric Byrne and its counterpart was I’M OK, YOU’RE OK by Thomas Harris would be the main Text Book for the Course.
Eric Burne through his TA – Tranactional Analysis had described in the LAYMAN VERSION of Games People Play by recognizing the complexity’s of the Child, the Adult and the Parent, as they intermingle from physical conception through death.
@Dr. Lester Simon, as I read your provocative piece, this is where the laughter came from.
I do get, the jam & wine! I just added some cheese and crackers to enjoy it even more.
Yes! We have ate enough jam individually, to fill up the East & West Country Ponds. We have drank enough wine individually, to fill all the ponds and dams in the Country, but you know what @Lester Simon…
1…love can also be masked as hate, if one is to dive into the indoctrinated orders used by The Molders of Society to corral and manipulate HUEman #tgought_process(es).
2…habits become norms, norms become a way of life, a way of life defines a people, a people defines a Kulcha, as time ‘tis left in its own wake.
3…If you happen to float through The Jam Pond Session put on by fire by burning, red hot flames, you’ll see the #JAMMERS JAMMING and the WINERS WHINNING, while the smokers have become STONERS, rolling/roaming all over the ground trying to be hip like The Rolling Stones.
Jumbee_Picknee aka Ras Smood
De’ole Dutty Peg 🦶🏿 Garrat_Bastard
Vere Edwards
Well said Dr. Simon. My wife, Ten, reminds that its always when you have moved on and found happiness that the person who dumped you then claims they want to return. We well know its not even about Love for you. These are the times especially to value and learn from history. Dr. Simon keep them coming
I am intoxicated by the word jumping off this slant, to grabb at my innocent malaise. So profoundly vague in slumber was I: until this rude awakening beckoning me to come. To come and kiss the new dawning and awaken from my reverie. Where I was lost, and suspended from all thought and time. To this new beginning before the end: from where I had linger; but far too long, as to have forgotten the swan song, of how we shall overcome. Still voices harkenin back to my ancestral loins. That jester to the soul. Calling me back from shadows still trudging in the dark among tall grass, and the majestic shade of the Boba trees. From wherein I had wondered off stolen from my ancestors land. And brought here to sweat and, toil for England’s gain. The trodden savanna grass had left forgottened farewell to my past. In verdant pastures where I had roam with tireless limbs; as I suntered on trails to the Nile. Me, now refreshed; and cleanse of my missbegotten sojourn in the forest of my youthful yesterday’s tomorrow. Far from which to relish in relentless glee. Then came the silent footsteps, and muskets ranged ready to pierce my being beyond compliance for my useful surrender. My vintage spears no longer the trophy that fed me sustenance. And no more pastures yonder shall I roam. But bekon in the haze of the morning sun to set sails to where the Bisons roam and graze upon the tundra perry. There to call my new home. Where I was not to know which way the trade winds blow. Here! As I was plucked from my stash, within the hull of a fetid Barkentine: square rigged floatsome; with loathing sails fluttering aloft; taking me on a journey of toil and tears. Me with my nappy hair, and bronze body lightened from weight and scorn. To become a prize of the Bastard’s pride of a musketeers subjugation; and stripped bare of any shrouds. Must hold my head aloft! And gritt my grinding teeth in trepidation to the strain of chains the bound beyond my mortal flesh. And with guile must strive to overcome. Until my Indomitable spirit rise again in Jubilee: As for them! The fire next time.
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