tumblingout

[tumblingout]

You are magnificent

In between the shards of you that dance across the canvas of my mind like light through a diamond,

I weave myself to bask in the gentle radiance of your luminescence.

And in each glimmer of your fragmented essence that gets refracted back to me,

I see the snapshot of each moment you stopped my heart.

You are beautiful.

No, not beautiful. Magnificent.

In fact, this feels maleficent. Trying to contort the grandeur of all that you are into the incapable descriptors that could never capture you.

You weren't meant to be harnessed by words, reduced to the insignificance of tongues that get twisted and throats constricted on the impossible task of describing you.

So instead, like a child, I run to catch the whispers of your spirit that enmesh themselves in the branches of my synapses,

And I skip to the beat of my heart playing to the symphony of your aura.

You are beautiful.

No, not beautiful. Magnificent.

You are like dancing in a rain that came to wash away a pain I didn't even know I had.

You are like a cocoon that swaddles me like a sleeve made of fanciful dreams.

You are like a story written by the gods themselves, reverberating through each cell of my body,

Reminding me how to live.

And what I wouldn't give to linger in this feeling like a vagabond who has found a home.

You are beautiful.

No, not beautiful. Magnificent.

And I repent for the sins of my flesh that relish your touch.

Because there is so much more to you than what this world can perceive.

You aren't here for me. But I feel blessed to receive every ounce of your grace.

I stay enchanted by your face; I die each time you smile for me.

You are beautiful.

No, not beautiful. Magnificent.

You are like a rapture that takes my spirit to a plane not within our dimensions;

You placate my tensions in a world of colours and starlight.

And I revel in the nights we get lost in words.

I walk with you on each journey you invite me to—

Your hand outstretched to lead me into the fathoms of your reality,

I lose myself in the enormity of your story.

You are magnificent.

You feel like a well kept secret that has been told to unknowing minds,

Unprepared to recognise the immensity of what they had been told.

Like an aphorism eons old. I feel the same way in your presence like I do in the quiescent solace of ancient truths.

You are magnificent.

And I could never do your magnificence justice.

But I am enamoured with the brilliance of you.

You are...

Magnificent.

[tumblingout]

My Best Friends Are Trying to Destroy Me

                                                         Part 1

Best friends. *Insert wistful sigh here*. They are the gurney diligently awaiting the full weight of your body after a long night of getting drunk off of life’s regrets. They are the moving pavements (like the ones in airports), rushing you to your next great step in the journey of self-exploration and development. They are the jetpack that whisks you off to the safety of the stratosphere, where you can “get away from it all”. They comprise the support system that you perpetually deny you need, regardless of your painful awareness of your need for it.

Except...they’re actually none of those things when their names are Depression and Anxiety. Instead, these best friends are more like the ones who don unwieldy knives tucked neatly beneath their layers of duplicitousness, waiting patiently to stab you in the back at every turn. They operate under the guise of “wanting what’s best for you”, when in fact they are the most self-centred, inconsiderate, obnoxious ingrates who truly want your attention at least 95% of the time, lest they intensify their nagging.

What’s worse is that each “friend” considers themselves more deserving of your attention than the other. And when they aren’t fighting over who gets more of your attention, they’re colluding to ensure that you are incapable of diverting your attention away from them both. It’s a fascinating experience, truly. They seem to vie for the spotlight only as long as the spotlight is on one of them. If it’s on neither? Well, hail fellow well met—and no one can withstand the combined forces of enemies turned “BFFs”.

For umpteen years, I’ve been building a “strong” and effervescent relationship with these two: We’ve cried together; we’ve over-reacted together; we’ve over-‘thunk’ together; we’ve ignored the entire world and drowned our sorrows in cold, unrelenting isolation. We’ve done just about everything a trio could do if their mission was to paint the world grey with despondency. And after we had a grandiose bout of doom and gloom, they would retreat to the sanctity of my likely shrunken hippocampus, or possibly overactive amygdala—who knows where exactly—until it was time to come out to rinse and repeat.

This system worked. It especially worked since I initially thought I had set clear boundaries as to when they could be in my space. As of late, however, it appears that these boundaries have been redefined. On their terms. Without my involvement or acquiescence. I mean, it’s fine. It’s not like I’m an autonomous being, who should have had the luxury of consenting to this or anything…

Anyway...Recently, I’ve found my “best friends” have begun occupying more and more of my time. They’ve begun throwing tantrums when I attempt to socialise with anyone other than myself. They’ve begun casting the world’s longest shadows of doubt on every decision I ponder with optimism and eagerness. They’ve even started convincing me that everything I do is wrong, that I’m actually an atrocious being, and that I have nothing to be proud of. And what this has caused is a significant increase in isolation, driven by an incapacity to do much more than lay down waiting for the day to pass by so I can restart my cycle of desperation.

Then it hit me: They’re trying to destroy me. My so-called “best friends”—the same ones who spent years convincing me that I simply have a temper-problem that could be resolved if I just redirected my energies, that crying for no reason isn’t so bad so long as nobody sees, and that my paranoia is good for decision-making—are trying to end me. They have concocted a scheme to ensure that I am forever indebted to them, in their last-ditch efforts to ensure that my attention is infinitely theirs. Without so much as a whisper of intent, they have managed to lure all of my energy, thoughts, feelings, ambitions, into a sticky pit of “anxiession” or “depressiety”, where they have complete control over everything that defines me. And I have reached my nadir in trying to figure out how to break free.

As of now, I have no answers about how I can escape this twisted affair. I have been to my psychiatrist and received meds. I’ve attempted mindfulness (albeit a few sessions too few). I’ve attempted to ingest the baked goodness of consciousness-altering flora. In the past, exercise was my go-to, and it also did little to unleash my friends’ crusty grip. I’ve been to my psychologist (granted, that too has come to an end for various reasons). But my attempts have all been to no avail. I won’t say I’ve run out of options, or even that I’ve hit rock bottom. But I will say that these last few years have been the most difficult in my life, and my “best friends” have done their utmost to guarantee that. They are still, to this day, trying their damnedest to bring me down. And I refuse to let them.

So what do I do next? That’s basically what I’ve been asking myself, and what I’m hoping to explore with this...uh...blog? It’s why I’ve called this piece “Part 1”—not because I have an idea of where this is going, but because I don’t. I’ve left the space for exploration to take place even if I never return to this path. As much as I hope to continue, my “best friends” may deem this too much for me, and rescind my writing privileges as they see fit (as they have done before).

Whatever the outcome, I’m hoping that someone, even if it’s just one person, joins me along this journey so that I have at least one friend on the other side waiting to tell me that those two idiots were #TheWorst and that they’re so happy I let them go.

[tumblingout]

This is Me

My pillows are embellished with necklaces of saline crystals,

Hand dipped in the agony of a soul that was shattered long before it was formed.

Its shards etch tattoos of despair beneath my skin

That itch with the pain of persistence, but

That I wear like a tapestry of art derived from ethereal insight

Whispered into the depths of my hollowness.

I don myself in a bespoke cloak of angst that hugs my ribs into my lungs—

I gasp in the intoxicating recognition of my mortality,

And collapse into the egregious yearning for an eternity that is not this.

I exhale the weight of self-doubt that grips me like my mother’s arms,

Attempting to convince me of its concern for me,

Only to inhale the toxicity of a malignant self-confidence,

Stemming from the tumorous insecurity ravaging me from the inside out.

“I am not this”, I think. “This is not me…”

But I step into shoes worn out by soles that perfectly match my own,

And traverse a path that I have known since birth.

With my eyes closed, I know my way through the darkness

And I know that it is my own and it is all that I have ever known.

And I realise, “I must be this...this must be me.”

I am the wearer of a clichéd sorrow that sticks to my skin like an armoured dermis.

It lingers behind smiles that cut through the absolute absence of light,

And behind eyes that penetrate facades, though themselves wearing a guise.

This sorrow has become my genetic inheritance,

Deceptively masquerading as intellect and insight,

Joy and humour,

Though, all the while, coursing through veins constricted by its presence,

And waiting to descend into a lineage unequipped to escape it.

It is a sorrow that eviscerates any semblance of happiness,

Oozing through the crevices of indifference, to enforce its tyranny.

A sorrow that comes not just from my own conjurings

But from the collective terror that looms in the cribs of babies left uncared for

And in shivering of the heart-wrenching loneliness of people left unloved.

It comes from the blood stains lining my streets

With the lost hopes of generations fallen to a legacy of destruction not created by them

But forced upon them.  

And it is a sorrow that I carry like a curse left upon me by an embittered enemy,

The familiarity of which has become home.

It is all I have known.

And then, I remember,

“I am this…

This is me”,

And it is here I will always be.

[tumblingout]

Cultivating authenticity as the antidote to criticism.

In this, the 21st century, we are still yet to find any meaning to life. Now, we spend our time finding ways to be “petty” and revelling in it. With the advent of social media, entirely new levels of pettiness have been discovered, including such actions as “throwing shade”. I’m sure there are myriad others, but to be honest, I am by no means versed in this realm of existence and I don’t particularly care to be; I am simply not invested in making other people’s lives worse to make mine feel better. But with that said, I can’t help but notice the extent to which people are committed to criticising and discrediting others to suit their own egotistical evaluations of the objects of their denigration.

What social media has facilitated is a ghastly and disturbing lack of accountability for the things we say. With the shield of anonymity, or at the very least distance, people are free to do and say as they please and subsequently shame or ignore anyone who attempts to engage with them in a manner that is contrary to their viewpoint. Before social media, the only way this could have been done was to walk off on someone, which would be viewed as one the highest forms of disrespect and as such reserved for only the most heated of debates. Now, we can actively ignore entire human beings and the worth of their contributions by: not replying to someone; unfollowing them; deleting them; or—and this is the biggest form of social media f*ck you—blocking them.

The thing I don’t understand about this form of engagement, though, is the way that people are so quick to see it as being noble or upstanding in any manner. Granted there are many instances in which we should be nothing but angry and critical about what someone has said or done, but these instances are often viewed similarly across lines and supporting the incendiary action is readily viewed as problematic. But when the only crime committed is that the person or entity has not lived up to our expectations, then we need to redirect our expectations.

“[A] mentally healthy person is authentic and independent, he leads a meaningful life and his decisions mainly depends [sic] on his own experience.”

The only end that I see to this truly unconstructive method of dialoguing is to encourage authenticity in society. I know, I know, that might seem like a bizarre jump, but let me elaborate.

The psychology dictionary defines authenticity as: “The quality of being genuine and true to one’s own values.” Taking that definition into consideration, if people were to be more authentic in their approach to life, the need to criticise the efforts of others or to even fasten our phalanges around grudges about some largely inconsequential disagreement would vanish. What authenticity allows is for each of us to cling steadfast to our purpose and values, as opposed to being concerned with the actions of others. One journal entry puts it perfectly: “[A] mentally healthy person is authentic and independent, he leads a meaningful life and his decisions mainly depends [sic] on his own experience.”

But within the realm of activism and advocacy, authenticity is imperative in ways that it may not be to the average individual. To advocate on behalf of someone else, we must first inextricably care about the topic of our advocacy in the most intimate of ways. Why? Well, first of all, to engage in any level of advocacy means that we want to see change, which can only be achieved by people caring about the subject. But second of all, if we hope to get others to care, we must lead by example. If our time is spent criticising the efforts of others as our main form of activism, then there cannot be much room for us to care about those on whose behalf we claim to advocate.

If we care enough, we can be everything to someone.

In fact, it’s all quite simple: if we truly care, we would attempt to find ways to fill the gaps left between other people’s footprints. No one person can be expected to succeed on their own, or to even meet all of the expectations of society. Everyone is rife with shortcomings and failures that will never accommodate anyone being a one-size-fits-all type hero; one person simply cannot be everything to everyone. And, if we are involved in activism in any way, we are likely doing the work the best way we know how. Being upset with someone because their best isn’t good enough is neither productive nor functional. Instead, we should be trying to find ways to mould people who we are trying into excelling beyond what they perceive to be their best efforts.

If we care enough, we can be everything to someone. And that is where our focus should truly lie: finding a way to impact at least one life. In the end, if we focus on the ripple effect that this might have, we would spend more time trying to ensure that we succeed at least once in this endeavour before we hoist ourselves upon our steeds of self-righteousness. Being the change we want to see in the world is difficult at best and impossible at worst. But being that change requires that our efforts transpire into something greater than just white noise.

This need is especially pertinent to those who advocate for victims and/or marginalised communities. By focusing only on shaming, contesting, degrading the efforts of others’ work, what is inadvertently accomplished is a reinforcement of the same system/cycle that is being challenged. What is effectively done is that an entire person gets reduced to little more than the contempt they receive—they are worthy of nothing more. This is a form of violence and oppression that we have yet to unpack. It is predicated upon the belief that only one specific approach (read: my approach) is the right approach and anything else is failing. This is a modern derivative of the intellectual elitism that needs to be stamped out just as much as any other form. And similarly to how the focus of the conversation around victims of violence needs the be shifted to the perpetrators of violence, we must focus on the systems that desperately need to be changed as opposed to the efforts of the advocates for change.

We must strive for a society that is committed to uplifting others, rather than perpetually tearing them down.

I have no patent on how to get it right or do better—lordt knows how I have lost all cool on social media—but I believe that it’s time we stop appealing to our egos when they tell us to get mad at the wrong things. We cannot keep spending our energy on things that do not add value. If we don’t like what someone is doing, not because it is harmful, but because it doesn’t match our ideals, we can do a few things: approach the entity in question and offer our time to help build them; without judgement or bias, tell them about the weaknesses in their approach and suggest alternatives; offer our expertise and mentorship; take up the mantle and do it better. These are just a handful of things that we could do instead of being haughty in our actions. Choosing not to do these things, well, that’s a decision we’ll have to rationalise to ourselves. But there isn’t any reasonable justification for not wanting to do more or be better. We must strive for a society that is committed to uplifting others, rather than perpetually tearing them down.

[tumblingout]

Tired

I don’t have any more strength. Each muscle fiber inside of me is connected by a thread of depression. Each movement is completed with the soreness of mental exhaustion bearing its unfettered weight on my fragile limbs. I am weak in ways that physical strength cannot fortify. I am tired of these never ending walks that only my imagination has taken. I am tired beyond measure. There is no scale, nor caliper, neither electronic nor analogue, that cold be sensitive enough to measure my sensitivities. I am upheld by bones more fragile than the powder into which they wish to crumble at each day’s end. These bones are but a structured amalgamation of calcified misery, draped in a tapestry of cracked bruising skin. They are enveloped in a network of nerves that won’t fire for any reason other than to remind me of the often unwelcomed but instinctual persistence of life. I am tired of the prison in which my spirit is encased, yet the freedom I seek from my unrelenting exhaustion is enshrined in the mystery of nonexistence. I am tired, and I don’t have the strength to find my energy.

[tumblingout]

#LifeInLeggings

Without my effort or involvement, I move past the offender And I manage to get his dick hard with my "fat pussy" that he has proclaimed "does make him wanna show me some things". Oh, how he wants to "beat dat", Like "dat" is the 'X' that this pirate has been searching for, As he readies himself to plow through the treasure of my dignity. I am not a woman but a vessel for his unchecked sexual aggression. I am the unchartered land that he will pour his seed into, Not to bring forth fruit, But to show off that he is the ultimate farmer of female bodies. He will not massage my prefrontal cortex with the seduction of intelligence, But instead, he will assault my hypothalamus as it battens down the hatches and decides: fight or flight? And though he glimpses into the collective fear of every woman he has ever accosted when he mutters his spiel and looks upon my face, he will move closer. My resistance empowers him - it is the only time he is able to feel "manly" in a world that says a man must hunt or be hunted. His eyes dance around my body, and I feel the arousal that I have not condoned become palpable as he imprints his desire on my skin--and it stains me. No shower can absolve me of this cursed filth that is The Patriarchy. Its soldiers are abundant and armed with ignorance and a lust for power. And I am a mere pawn in a system that does not foster the growth of a man but a demon. And, according to the rules, I am here for him. So I will walk past him, tolerating his assault and clutching desperately to hope for a future in which he doesn't exist. I stare him down, wishing the whip of my tongue could deal as fatal a blow as that of the imaginary "man" I often conjure to protect me. And in the end, I reconcile my discontent with my acknowledgement that this is a #LifeInLeggings...and this is the fuel that energises my fight.

[tumblingout]

Rowley Isn’t Wrong. Our Culture Is.

On Monday 6th February, Dr Keith Rowley, Honourable Prime Minister of Trinidad and Tobago, made a slew of comments that divided the country. For those of us who recognise the inherent issues with his statement, his comments rang with a sense of reckless abandon and flagrant misogyny. For those of us who don’t, his comments echoed the sage advice a father might offer his daughter. 

The issue with the latter view, however, is that he is not a father speaking to his children, but the leader of this country. Had the innumerable victims of domestic and other forms of violence in this country been listening, I am not convinced they would have felt at all reassured by his capacity to offer dynamic, helpful solutions to the violence epidemic. 

However, Dr. Rowley’s comments do not stand in solitude. They are instead sucked into the vortex of inappropriate comments made by supposedly upstanding members of our community. 

On February 15th, a doctor of some ilk, who is bewilderingly employed in the Queenspark Counselling Centre, is reported as essentially saying that children who are infected with HIV/AIDS and other STIs often consent to their own rape. 

Prior to this, during the parliamentary debate on whether children should be allowed to get married, temporary independent senator, Dr Waffie Mohammed stated that “a girl beginning to experience her period at the age of 12 becomes qualified theologically to become married instead of causing hardships”. 

Among the myriad other disturbing comments to escape the lips of our politicians, those like the ones above are evidence of the broken and dysfunctional culture that informs Dr. Rowley, in which victims are seen as being guilty—possibly even more so than the perpetrator. With how comfortably each offender was able to speak into existence words as repulsive, abhorrent, erroneous, and infuriating as the aforementioned, we are shown how our culture is what is wrong. That is the virus that is pervading all facets of our existence and precluding us as a people from being able to express logical thought. 

For this reason, I will not blame Dr. Rowley, as is his proclivity. Instead, I will deconstruct his words. 

Rowley Deconstructed

“I am not in your bedroom! I am not in your choice of men! You have a responsibility to determine who you associate with and know when to get out, and the state will try to help.” – Dr. Keith Rowley

Rowley in Context

Taking his comment in isolation may seem unfair, so I will give it context. Prior to saying this, he allegedly engaged in what could be described as an aggravated dialogue with a woman who attempted to express her frustrations with the system. The night before his public discourse, a woman was brutally slain in the Movie Towne PoS carpark, allegedly at the hands of a former lover. Her bloodied body became another spectacle for the Trini consumer to gawk at, as images of her lying prostrate and lifeless were circulated on social media. For the year, there have already been several murders of women and girls at the hands of men, some of whom were not the partners of their victims. 

So, these insensitive words uttered by the Prime Minister were said immediately following awfully tragic realities being played out right before his eyes, and even then, he did not think twice before spilling them like a celebratory libation in veneration of the ancestors.

Dr. Rowley quite blatantly says that it is our responsibility as citizens to determine who we associate with and to know when to get out (i.e. victim blaming). But why mention this? In making this statement with an air of malignant confidence and flippancy, he casually redirects the responsibility of better judgement from the perpetrator and towards the victim—who should have known better than to choose a wutless man. 

He also offensively redirects his responsibility by laying blame on everyone else: the victim needs to do more to protect themselves; the provision of Protection Orders coupled with the low detection rate is encouraging criminality; and the TTPS needs to work harder when these crimes occur—over whom he apparently has no control. 

In short: the victim isn’t doing enough, but there are also a lot of criminals being encouraged by the TTPS’ ineptitude, which makes them have to actually do their job when crimes occur. But none of this has anything to do with him, though. 

How Dr Rowley Misses The Point

In his words, Dr. Rowley also didn’t say what he should have. 

The biggest thing he failed to tackle is the predominant issue of male violence. The ugly truth is that the majority of crime internationally is committed by men. When we look at violent crime statistics, such as homicide, men take the lead still. 

It should be accepted that this as a reality that needs attending to, rather than viewing it as just a tool to shame men. Had Dr. Rowley taken that moment to discuss how this is an issue, he would have refrained from making violence against women a women-only issue, in which female victims should do better to help themselves. 

Which brings us to the other issue: men are also victims! Though it is true that intimate partner violence is something that disproportionately affects women, this does not immunise men against violence. 

Had the Prime Minister not resorted to sexist rhetoric that problematically ignores the plight of male victimhood, he could have acknowledged that violence is not a problem that affects only women. But, since we have issues with accepting male vulnerability, we reject the very existence of male victims, thereby negating his need to address them. Which is unfortunate, since many abusive men have themselves been victims of abuse. If we help the men who abuse, we could help to break the cycle that generates future abusers. 

But moving past just his words, there are some extraordinarily important facts that need to be considered when discussing violence against women.

 The Data

First, we all need to understand that no one wants to be abused. No woman (or person for that matter) goes out searching desperately for someone who doesn’t appreciate their value. Looking to statistics for answers, there are obvious trends that paint very troubling stories about just how easily a woman can become a victim.

According to the WHO 2014 report on sexual violence, 1 in 3 women has been a ‘victim of physical or sexual violence by an intimate partner at some point in her lifetime’. 

Approximately 38% of all female murder victims globally were killed by a male intimate partner, with this rate reaching as much as 70% in some countries, particularly the Global South. 

One in 3 adolescent girls reported that their first sexual encounter was forced. This alone is terrifying, but also, more troublingly, it’s likely to impact how they relate to men who rely on force in future interactions. 

Women are also more likely than men to have had more than one stalker in their lifetime, most of which happens between the ages of 18-34, with more than half occurring before the age of 25. 

Domestic violence also affects women from all walks of society, and is committed by all types of men. In the emergency room, women from various backgrounds are treated for abuse, the majority of whom have had a previous incident of abuse. 

This data is compounded by findings that show how commonplace it is for men to harbour violent attitudes. Generally, men who engage in acquaintance rape, for example, are unlikely to recognise their actions as rape. 

In one study of 1,882 men, 120 men admitted to having had non-consensual sexual encounters with women (aka rape), but did not admit to rape. These 120 men alone had committed over 1,200 acts of sexual violence. Another study similarly reported that 31.7% of 73 participants admitted to having intentions to use force on women during sexual encounters, but did not admit to having intentions to rape.

Women, especially young women, are thus vulnerable regardless of any individual choices they might make around their safety. Combine the data on the risks of being a woman with the fact that everyday men appear to be blithely unaware of the violent implications of their behaviour and you can already see how “choosing your man wisely” may not protect you.

The Psycho Social Impact

Second, no one wants to be abused! If we don ourselves in our empathy caps for a few moments, we could insert our high and mighty feet into the shoes of the victim and consider why they might stay. 

Sarah M. Buel lists 50 reasons why a victim might stay. Among those are reasons that allude to the psychological and financial capacity of the victim to leave. For many, their abuser has isolated them from family and friends, and/or their family, friends, and even their children advise them to stay. Some may even insist.

The abuser also often makes their victim dependent on them, which creates a psychological conundrum that makes leaving almost impossible for the victim. If the victim is financially dependent upon their abuser, or their abuser is someone with power and prestige, seeking redress particularly within the legal system becomes significantly more difficult.

Victims also stay because of their will to live. Being afraid of their abuser makes many people stay in abusive relationships, and for good reason. Research has shown that people are more likely to be murdered in a period of estrangement than during their cohabitation. For psychologists and other professionals working with victims, there is an insistence upon the development of a safety plan since it is well known that victims are significantly more likely to be murdered immediately after they escape their abuser’s grip. 

…and this is where Dr. Rowley himself gets to share in the blame…

Of course, these specific reasons might conceivably be beyond the control of the Prime Minister, but the severe systemic and infrastructural deficiencies that often force victims to stay with their abusers aren’t. 

First, the Protection Orders that Dr. Rowley so assertively referred to cannot be obtained by any and every one. In fact, one can only apply for a protection order if they are the spouse of the abuser, or cohabitate with the abuser. A cohabitant is defined as someone who “has lived with or is living with a person of the opposite sex as a husband or wife although not legally married to that person”.  

With a definition as ambiguous and unhelpful as that, we can see how someone might run into problems. We also see how entire segments of the population who are in non-traditional and/or non-heterosexual relationships are just automatically disregarded and subsequently cannot even apply to be protected. Problematic moralities aside, this is something that he could immediately resolve if he wanted to.

Second, the TTPS is inept. Even Dr Rowley seems to think so in his mentioning that there is an “absence of proper detection”. Which makes his saying that the police have to “go the extra mile” for victims of domestic violence simply untrue. I mean, if we consider that our detection rate has reached a maximum of only about 45% in any single jurisdiction (a statistic we cannot verify), we can tell our police are either disinterested in or incapable of dealing with just about anything. But apparently, according to the Police Commissioner, this statistic will only improve with an increase in “divine intervention”. 

But worse than that, the TTPS has clearly not fostered a supportive environment for victims of any type of crime, worse yet victims of abuse. Internationally, reporting of domestic violence is as low as 7%. Though there is no similar statistic locally, the UN has reported that we have “low confidence in the police, low rate of reporting, a general sense of hopelessness, high fear of crime, and limited community cohesion…”. With the hostility that is meted out by police in the most mundane situations, victims are at risk of being further traumatised in their interactions with police. Simply put, victims do not feel protected by our system. And rightfully so, since victims have been murdered and attacked by abusers even after their orders are in place. 

Granted, victims may return even after the crime is reported, but this has more to do with the ineptitude of the systems that are meant to support and protect victims and the difficulty associated with leaving (see above) than their desire to remain in an abusive relationship. 

And finally, there is nothing in place in this country to rehabilitate men. Our justice system is failing on many levels, and it is especially failing to prevent violence. The justice system only seeks to further traumatise and dehumanise already troubled men. With the inhumane and hostile living conditions that offenders are forced to endure, and the lack of provision of superior mental health services, our violent men are never being taught the coping mechanisms to improve. Instead, they are at best punished for their crimes and left to their own devices to figure out how to avoid reoffending—all whilst fathering children who will model their behaviour in many instances. 

Moving Forward With ‘Better Decisions’

With all of this said I can understand how easy it is to blame someone for the negative circumstances they might endure. Psychologists refer to this as the Fundamental Attribution Error. This basically means that we have a tendency to evaluate behaviour based on internal rather than situational factors—ie the victim is a victim because they didn’t choose their partner wisely versus all the contributing factors discussed earlier. However, when you are the Prime Minister of a country, it is your responsibility to avoid making basic evaluations of complex socio-cultural phenomena. 

Better dan dat Rowley! For starters, The PM should take a shot at making a genuine apology. We cannot rewind the hands of time and extract his foot from his mouth, but we can accept his repentance if he could accept how damaging his words were. It should include an acknowledgment that more needs to be done for victims and their families in this country and the number of violent crimes committed against women and children is alarming and requires a systematic state resppnse. He can also admit that the atmosphere of violence looms above each of our heads like a formidable storm cloud, constricting all of our movements, and forcing us to be hyper-vigilant in ways that his position protects him from. This must also be followed by a commitment from the government to employ strategic plans that address citizen’s most urgent vulnerabilities to violent crime.

The government should consult with relevant stakeholders, including civil society, in an attempt to formulate comprehensive approaches to tackle the country’s spate of rising violence. Better research is needed to understand the complex dynamics of the problem, the available solutions, and the best steps forward (I can send you my business card if you want, Doc). And, most of all, he can get serious.

But, one thing I will say in accordance with Dr. Rowley’s Words: We must, of course, all take responsibility for our actions. If our Prime Minister and other State actors begin to take responsibility for their missteps instead of explaining them away, it would be a powerful example for the rest of us to acknowledge our own responsibility and what is required from all of us in building a community that is so broken. 

If not…we can simply accept responsibility for the choices we make to support and elect less than exemplary leaders. 

[tumblingout]

Morning

It is the birth of the rising sun, As he creeps into the shadowy darkness And forces it to recede into itself. The dim twinkle of billions of night suns Soon gives way to their brother star. The sleepy moon kisses the mountain crest goodbye, As her friend, in all his glory, greets the horizon. The air is saturated with a gleaming brilliance. Sleeping petals are cooled and awakened by the tears of dawn. One realm awakes as the next drifts off to a humble unconsciousness. The sound of whirring vehicles and eager steps Collide in the air to form the busy hum of morning activity. We are alive now, We are free from the enchantment of comforting beds. The morning's son settles himself in his throne of magnificence. As he casts his reign upon nations at a time, Billowing fluffs of white and grey gather around his glow. They are loyal servants to him and his intensity. As he brims with the earth's energy, He makes away across the blue expanse to create a pallet of magical colours. The sounds of the ground change throughout his circadian visit. As we go through our sequence of noises, He goes through his phases of strength. As he draws weary, so too does his glow. While he makes his abode in the cleavage of peaks, His fervent friend once again takes the stage, To repeat her cyclic performance. And we are enthralled by her beauty. With her we kiss goodbye the woes of yesterday And welcome the dreams of tomorrow. With her we anticipate a new dawn. With her we anticipate our futuristic fate, And sleep to the sounds of the eerie night's darkness, Only to be risen again when our sun takes flight in the night's sky, To make anew the morning.

31.5.11

[tumblingout]

Stranger

Faceless voices ring, they cry something, But she denies them. Concealed by facades, the truth is not an utterance, But a conviction. A fate too strange to be relieved of its estranged title. It  is a reality to be known by none. Yet, the night won't restrain itself It adheres to its tendency to invoke cogitation. While, the truth she struggles to hide, Is washed across her expressive mind.

Unbound fondness for a man unfamiliar, She couldn't veil these urges for such a stranger. But these voices ring clear, Her mind enounces this blistering reality That her heart has concocted. Even the damp air could carry her tune, Her melody rang so true, void of her attempts to repress it. It hung heavy on her empty slate, Her thoughts splashed across her imagination's canvas. The relay between logic and emotion Caused an evident commotion in her fragile psyche. She revealed each lie in her realization of tragic choices, For, with light, everything dark turns bright.

Each new wanderer to enter the print of her story Became less than a standby actor In the glory of her wondrous alien. He was nothing, But he was everything. She knew so little of him, But elicited such a brilliant attraction for all of him. She would be entrapped by his enchantment for time to come.

She will forever remember his name, Even if it were all she could divulge of him.

15.6.11

[tumblingout]

The Truth Is

I can pretend the stars don't exist when the sun is out, When no one is there, the tree falls and makes no sound.   I can pretend that when you're gone you don't exist. I can fake all these things, but I know what the truth is.

Everytime I close my eyes, your face is shining in the dark. The colourful dashes assemble themselves to your resemblance.   And it occurs...I have something I wanna say...

I can imagine the birds don't fly after sunset, And that the fallacy of the jungle is like the fairytale. I can hope princesses are lured by charming suitors, And that gentlemen are as gentle as their forefathers.  

But truth sets in, and when I lay still, you creep into the crevice of my mind. You bury yourself in the furrows of my thoughts, And I just need to get this off my chest and say...

I can be pregnant with the dreams of happily ever after, I can pretend that's how things...life works.   I can pretend that the sands of the hour glass reverse time. I can pretend that I can climb a mountain with twine.

I can hope that in your mind's eye, you see me with a smile. I can assume that I mean something to you. And the truth is, I just have to say...

I just need to say...

I long to say...

All these dreams, that can't be said. All these dispositions I've unconsciously bred.  

I need you to know, what I've always known. I need you to know the truth, unlike my pretence.  

24.10.11

[tumblingout]

Ever wondered...?

It's been killing me lately, On my mind like nightly... What if...just what if, The last thing you said to someone was the last thing you said to that someone. What if chances ran out and you couldn't get a redo, Would that make you feel feable? Would it make you wish you knew how to read palms to tell the future? I can't help but wonder if what you said was a mistake, How would you take it if you couldn't take it back. I just can't help but let these thoughts flow through my mind, As I try to justify my behaviour with the excuse of bought time... Time that isn't mine...Time that can't be defined. I just can't help but think, What if we were on the brink of the forever, And this was the end. The last time. Wouldn't you want to see that person smile? At least once more before you knew you couldn't see them again. I just thought about it, and got scared. 'Cause, you see, I'm trying to enlighten you... Show you that you never really feel till there are no left opportunities. As long as we perceive time to be real, And on our side, we will compromise our actions. We will sacrifice benevolence in order to make ourselves... Comfortable. I just can't help but wonder though, What if our impetuous response to a cogent question, Is all but thought out, and just leads to that person's depression. What would we do to take back our words, If our chance to take back was taken to another world. Did you eve wonder what you'd do? Did you ever wonder... Nah...It's probably never happened to you.

9/11/12

[tumblingout]

Alone

Alone isn't lonely until you crave company. It is a state of being, not a destiny. Yet alone seems to define me. It embodies my affinity. Being lonely is simply a socially constructed reality, As it can't occur unless ascribed to by society; However, it seems to have become embellished by credulity. Loneliness is a symptom of society's ills which we must view apprehensively.

Suffice it to say, being alone isn't an existence extricated from complexity, It is enveloped by enigma unequivocally. Being alone doesn't represent a life of enmity; Living alone is the ability to exist with oneself peacefully. We are all born alone, a fact which must be emblazoned in our memory, And in death will we part most exclusively. So aloneness must be seen as a reorganised priority To recognise the true essence of humanity.

Being alone is an acceptance of self equity. That is, the understanding that a partner is not a necessity. The comprehension that a relationship is not always a luxury, And the knowledge that self appreciation is equitable to shared intimacy. It is the exploration of the self in its entirety, Before the adoration of a separate entity. It is the absence of a whole to which we are attached unanimously, But the presence of a love and respect of friends and family. It is the their absence from our home, or our dormitory, But their presence in our hearts infinitely.

To be alone may mean for some a precious relationship with creativity, The ability to think uninhibitedly. It may mean the enjoyment of a life in the grasp of spirituality, Oneness with a maker, whose love abounds throughout eternity. Ironically, alone may mean something different from individuality, Even though, it can be the embracing of one's own personality. Being alone may not mean existing individually, But without a mate to whom you are joined in matrimony.

Essentially, being alone is not, nor may it necessairly be, a sad state entirely. It is just a lifestyle by which some may live most comfortably. Perhaps it may be a precursor to a lifelong duet and exciting journey, Or to the burgeoning of an apprenticeship with a newfound maturity. Being alone is not a calamity. No, it can be a wholesome life of prosperity. Being alone may not be an acceptable reality for everybody, But for those to whom it is, it should be their striving to enjoy it thoroughly.

15/4/12

[tumblingout]

The Mirror

The mirror in your eyes…

Alas, in the reflective glass the notion of perfection was maimed. Each attribute seemingly refracted by the truth. In her eyes, there was no beauty in that glass, That pristine pane represented a youthful hope shattered. Of herself, all she could ask was ‘Who could love the unlovable?’ For her, already, there was no love in that gaze. Only observational realization… It was the verity of the figure that stared back being just an abomination. She was no more than a blemished figment of a hostile race. Who would touch the untouchable? She could not be worth more than the most contemptible beast. She saw herself as diminutive…

And for him… With the mere sight of himself, Idyllically absent spaces were filled with noise for him. All he could see is what he heard. Each line, each curve, each limit and expanse, They all presented a shuddering experience of which only he was aware. There was nothing to behold here. In his eyes, each ricocheted wave was no more than a distorted shape; He could see no cohesion in his face, No intrigue to his name. He questioned, ‘Who could love such an ungracious mass of uninhibited failure?’ For him, he was a sham of a man whose existence warranted immediate thoughtless negation…

But with a love unrivalled, he brimmed with jubilation. Where the mirror, to her, lied, He could see her as a woman of immaculate splendor. She held his fragile heart, though it filled him trepidation. He could feel her voice grant him rejuvenation, As his life became an object of predilection. For they were made as a clasp cut from the same brass, Functioning together in accord. In his eyes, she was his glimmer of light that lit the path of life’s journey.

He was her inspiration to see each day anew. She could not fathom a life less him. In her eyes, he was her destiny of a most affluent glory. His reflection in her eyes was profound. Magnificent. Fantastic. For her, it would be remiss to see him as less than perfect.

In their eyes, what could not be seen was seen… Their innocuous self-descriptions were their life’s rules, Rules that could have been rescinded in each other’s presence, But that remained steadfast in their indoctrination. They lived by their beliefs… They were mere mortals clenching to a dream.   He was her king, and she his queen. And for each other, while the true mirror lay within the other’s eyes, They would never know, because by the reflective pain Their eyes were stained; they could see no further past their imagination.

21/11/12

[tumblingout]

These days...

These days have been blurred. Each day drips into the next. Each night stumbles into the next. Recollections have become dim, These days seem to be the same.

These days the future seems so distant. These days the past seems so close. Each day is a premonition, And a damnation. Lost in the confusion, each day seems an illusion.

These days aren't what they used to be. They're just not what they're meant to be. These days aren't days at all, They're dreams from which I haven't awoken, Nightmares from which I've been left in suspense.

Surreal seems more real. These days are void of a feel. These days my music won't paint pictures in my mind. These days elation is hard to find. These days each thrill sounds like a crime.

These days I'm not sure whether up is down. These days I've been living life with my eyes closed. I'm not in operation, just auto-pilot. These days haven't been days at all. These days are just unfinished books.

10/7/13

[tumblingout]

A moment in a song

For a moment I am not myself. I am the collective experience of everyone around. I am the sense of longing for the return of a present, but absent love. I am the misguided jealousy of an embittered ex. I am the elation of a mother looking into the universe behind her child’s eyes. I am connected through a ubiquitous consciousness to every other person listening and feeling…feeling and listening. I am the unseen, unfelt, but necessary,harmonious treble to a distant cacophonic bass. I am the answer to an unasked question.

For a moment I am in trapped in a parallel universe to which only my muse can take me. For a moment I am lost in the forest of imagination, with alternative stories of my own existence playing side by side. For a moment I am the reflection in the mirror, leading myself astray. For a moment I am the actress rather than the spectator. And in that moment, I am acutely aware of every emotion ever felt in this experience.

For a moment I am the ghost in the hallway,observing the intruders in my home. I am the captive animal howling at my asinine audience. For a moment I am the story being told. For a moment… I am taken away on a note to a place that isn’t here. And it is within that moment that I become aware that I am not the only me. I am aware of a world full “me’s” striving to find their “us” and “we’s”. For a moment, this song, its melody, its lyrics…they remind me that I am not the only hopeless romantic. And in that moment, I am aware that I am already a “we”.

26/10/14

[tumblingout]

Givin’ Some Head

Nigga, let me give you some head, And fill your head with thoughts about the world. Let me give you some brain, As I explain the way you have been blinded. Let me keep you grounded, by breaking you from your mental slavery, Nigga your dick is a key to history. You don't even know about your forefathers, your ancestry. You never got told about how their dicks got passed around By being measured pound for pound, They'd pay a pound to make sure your nigga babies would work hard. So while you search for ways to keep your wood hard, Let me tell you about your fore skin...your forefathers' skin. Rich with melaninlike strength, Your grand daddy's strife was his legacy. Instead of acquiring some inane supremacy, He passed down his blackness. Your blackness. He gave you life with his chafed hands and suffering, As he hanged from the limbs of anarchy And provided for his family. He made-do with what he was given. But, huh...nigga you just tryina get some head. But let me give you this head.

Let me tell you about your favourite moniker, This use of the word "nigger". This name you have chosen to share with your friends, And contradictorily hurl as an insult. Be it known that it was never yours to appropriate. It was meant to disparage. It informed a race that they were Never Intended for Greatness, but to be Given Eternal Racism.... Given the Apartheid. We suffer a hatred yet to be justified. Your chocolate skin was kissed with the mark of contempt, By the housewives of massas gone. Your nigger skin was meant to be forlorn. Nigga, are you listening to what I've been swallowing? I have choked on this reckoning since my dawning. So let me give you this head.

Let me tell you about how all these young men got shot and killed In the name of stolen, yet bestowed privileges. These men were shot for their darkness, While you embarked on your conquests. As you sat and devoured the lies cooked by the media, About how you should dress, and which rapper to fawn over, These men became victims of victimisation. Can we please not become another statistic? Are our bodies not brandished enough by the chains and whips? Are these modern day shackles to be never unlocked, As another brother gives in and cocks his glock? Brother, free yourself from your mental slavery. It's time for you to break...free. We are living in a time where we need to unite, Not with harsh words but with a peaceful fight. Standing side by side, with our brothers and sisters, Our skin should not be seen as a form of resistance. It is time to fall in love with humanity, As you get love from the human in me... I'm trying to give you the head that you need. But, unless you listen...I'm just gonna batting my lips, And failing in givin' some head.

13/12/14

[tumblingout]

You are not mine...

…You are yours

To cling to you is like clinging to the rose that you watch shrivel and die, in spite of all your sustenance.

Your beauty is to be absorbed from afar, and cannot be tamed or controlled with shears of love.

You are fierce and astonishing in your natural habitat, and to remove you is to deprive you.

Your nourishment can only be complemented by the soil in which you are firmly rooted,

And cannot be replaced by synthetic versions of yourself attempting to acquire enrichment from the external support to which you are unaccustomed…

To which you are un-needing.

I can never become your soul, and you can never survive with the supplemented promise of forever that my richly crafted vase would offer.

For you are yours, and not mine, and I cannot keep you like a trophy or a prize to use as fodder for my emaciated ego.

You will never engorge yourself on my crystal clear waters and expensively manufactured derivatives of “I love you”.

Because you are yours, and I cannot separate you from yourself in order to claim you as part of me and mine.