Location
It
was in the mid-eighties.
I
was, for reasons that don’t matter,
spending
a week or so at a beach resort
near
a small town on Jamaica
The
derelict shell of an old fishing boat
marked
where the resort’s beach ended
and the public beach began.
Hustlers
gathered about the old boat,
offering
the resort’s paying guests
such
cash-only delights
as
‘spliffs?’ ‘cocaine?’
‘my
girlfriend braid your hair?’
‘hand-carved
statues?’
‘river
tour in my boat with barbecue?’
and so on.
They’d
gradually edge their way
onto
the resort’s beach
in
order to make their pitches
more
directly to the pale-skinned
guests
from the North.
After
a while the resort’s security guards
would
shoo them good-naturedly back beyond the boat.
When
the guards went back to the poolside bar
or
wherever,
the
hustlers would begin another commercial incursion.
This went on, back and forth, all day.
It
struck me that in a town as small as Ocho Rios
both the hustlers and the security
guards
had almost certainly known each
other
all their lives,
and I wondered if they swapped
roles with each other
every few weeks.
Reduced Visibility
Taking my Sunday morning walk
through an autumn fog
covering Claudelands Park
I revelled in the novelistic
moodiness
that the mist created,
enjoyed the sensation
of the chilly dampness
on my face and facial hair,
and wondered at the
maniacal, homicidal recklessness
of many of the drivers,
who zoomed about
with idiotic abandon
I think perhaps because
of the limited visibility
and slightly slick streets.
Timely
and Deep
While
watching an in-depth interview
live
on Aljazeera
I
wondered what it’d be like
to
be interviewed myself
on a
global network.
This,
of course,
is
overwhelmingly unlikely to happen,
as
I’m not at or even anywhere near the centre
of
any weighty situation
of
global interest,
which,
I suppose,
is
probably a good thing.
No Indigene
I’m
not indigenous anywhere.
Most
of the people in the world
would
consider me an intruder
if I
tried to reside
in
the land of my distant ancestors,
and they’d be right.
My
grandparents had to flee
their
country of birth
because
those who could kill them
told them that they didn’t belong there.
I
left the country of my birth when I was six weeks old.
I
fled the country where I grew up
because
both I and those controlling
its
dominant culture
knew
that I didn’t belong there.
They
said, ‘Love it or leave it,’
so I left.
I
embrace the nation that I chose to join,
and
many here have welcomed me,
but
I’m not indigenous to this land,
and
although I’ve lived here
for
more than a quarter of a century,
many locals still consider me a foreigner.
I guess the only place I really
belong
is where I actually spend most of
my time, anyway:
online, in the company, as much
as possible,
of more or less educated people
who are more or less capable of
clear, rational, critical thinking,
many of them more or less
misfits,
as I am.
One Good Thing
One
good thing
about
living where I do
is
that I don’t have to see
fuckin
American flags
all
over the place.
+
+ +
The
U S of A
She was a bouncy old broad in her
custom-made bra,
so I stopped to jot her down on
that Hollywood corner.
A pickpocket hand hit my arm –
missed my pants –
and I felt at my arse for hours –
Felt good! –
and I felt at my arse for hours.
American Heritage
My mate Phil Blaine,
an odd-looking chap,
explained:
“I’m part Scot, part Irish,
part Cherokee, part Chiricahua
Apache,
part Ethiopian, and part
Sudanese.”
“Oh,” said the person who’d
asked,
“so you’re a nigger.”
“That’s
right. I’m a nigger.”
US Electoral Update
I
just had this epiphany about Bernie Sanders:
I
know him.
Sure,
we’ve never met,
but
we’re about the same age,
and
he’s the sort of person I would’ve known
if
I’d been in his vicinity
rather
than my own.
Whether
we would’ve got along with each other
is
an open question.
I
imagine we would now,
but
we’ll never know.
Totally Unrepentant
I
saw an interview on TV
with
Frank Zappa
shortly
before he died.
He
was sitting in an easy chair
wearing
a dressing gown
and
had let his beard grow out.
In
response to a question
from
the interviewer
about
his life-long public scorn
for
religious beliefs
in
his then-current situation,
he
replied, that deep voice still strong,
that he was “totally unrepentant.”
How
American!
I
doubted if an interviewer
in
any other
English-speaking
country
would
have asked
Frank
Zappa
such
a question.
Media
Management
Keep your eyes on the monkey.
What a naughty, silly, dumb-arse it is!
Keep your eyes on the monkey
while the organ grinders clear out all you have.
Keep your eyes on the monkey.
Doo-Jee-Too
Keep your eyes on the monkey
as he drops his shorts and shows you his arse.
Keep your eyes on the monkey
while the organ grinders plunder your neighbourhoods.
Keep your eyes on the monkey.
Doo-Jee-Too
Keep your mind on the monkey
as he wanks himself right in your face.
Keep your mind on the monkey
as the organ grinders gang-rape you and those you love.
Keep your mind on the monkey.
Doo-Jee-Too
Keep your mind on the monkey.
as he flings his shit into the front-row seats
Keep your mind on the monkey
as the organ grinders call all your shots all day in life.
Keep your mind on the monkey.
Doo-Jee-Too
Keep your eyes on the monkey
as he conducts a mis-matched dog fight to the death
Keep your eyes on the monkey
as the organ grinders destroy everything they can’t steal.
Keep your mind on the monkey.
Doo-Jee-Too
Stanli
She came into the shop that I was
helping to run
and the hormonal chemistry
immediately took hold.
She had some sort of job at a
radio station
and I was taking some radio-TV
production courses,
so we had something in common
other than compatible genitals.
Her name was Sandy
as she was an obsessive
Laurel-and-Hardy fan.
No prizes for guessing which of
the two was her role model.
I made her a hand-crafted birthday
present,
and we had some good times
together,
cuddling and kissing in the movie
theatre and such –
she was an excellent kisser –
but then she stood me up one
Friday evening,
and the usual mutual distrust and
recriminations ensued,
and
that was that.
Some weeks later another
ex-girlfriend, a stripper,
came into the shop and asked me
about my thing with Stanli.
I told her that it was
unfortunately past tense,
and she assured me that that was
good,
and that it did my reputation no
credit
to be
seen kissing a nigger in public.
That had never occurred to me.
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