Until the Lion Learns to Speak II

The Hunter: the foreigner

The Lion: the native

The Hunt: persecution

Until the lion learns to speak, the tales of hunting will always favor the hunter.

Until the Lion Learns to Speak

When we were poor, it didn't feel like we were. In heart and passion we were far richer. Those summers during adolescence were the best days of our lives. We were fearless and unfettered. Everyday was fresh and pregnant with exciting possibilities. Cashews, genips, passion fruits, star apples, guavas, cherries, coconut gam, koroo, gooseberries, five-fingers, green mango pickle, plantain chips, cassava with achar, plums, pineapples, jamoon, soursop, sweet fig bananas... Every long mango I've ever eaten was stolen by myself, E1 and E2 from their aunt's neighbor. He was a greedy soul who had 4 long mango trees that bloomed beautifully in his backyard, and who left the fruits to rot on the trees. So in adolescent fearlessness we clamored over his 7 feet fence when E's aunt wasn't watching. E2 being the one with greatest athletic prowess, gathered the mangoes while E1 and I kept watch lest he suddenly appeared from his tall, dark fortress and ate us. Then it was back to the aunt's house to play Jacks and kicksee, at which I was terrible. And then on our journey home we raided the tall, yellow plum trees which lined the streets like golden arches. Darting across the gated, verdant field opposite Hamilton Green's expansive mansion, was much shorter than walking all the way around. Durban Backlands was anomalous with flamboyant trees, the hibiscuses, the docile buffaloes, the iridescent parrots, and the rich people. Guyhoc Park with the huge trenches, potholed streets named after exotic fishes, the plank, the painted brick fences, the drama, the handsome, trickster boys, the pretty girls, the mix of poor, not so poor, and very rich, the wide verandahs, the music, the crying, the lights at Christmas and Diwali, the mosaic of lethargy and inherent ambition - was typical.

Digging for earthworms, ripping their heads off, and sliding them unto the hooks. Fishing for hassa, and then giving up so soon to swing on vines hanging loosely from tall, geriatric trees. Competing with the alligators for territory as they basked in the midday sun. Green iguanas swiveled their eyes at us in curiosity, and salipenters were always in a hurry. Scarlet macaws raised a racket, and the hummingbird who sipped the nectar from the cherry tree blossoms stopped time with its uncommon beauty and movement.

We all wanted a Sakiwinki, and I still want one today.

Camping with K, P, K, and N -- 2 feet from our back yard. Cooking the fish we caught under the cerulean blue, cloudless sky, and K mixing trotas without milk. Football, cricket, table tennis, gam, hide and seek. Swinging in hammocks. I learned to whistle by swallowing bird peppers whole. Yes I did. I closed my eyes and did it.

Liliendaal and the mighty seawalls. Liliendaal overlooks the Atlantic, and is cooled by it's intoxicating breeze. Those summer days at Liliendaal on Ayi's farm -- nothing is comparable. Strolling atop the seawalls with the rolling sea to our right, and Liliendaal to our left was priceless. I remember when P fell off the seawall and busted his lip. He babbled nonsense while we rushed him back to Ayi's house. Everyone knew it was K's fault; moments before he had expressed aloud his wish for P to fall and bust his head. From thence forward we knew that K's words had power and that we should be cautious.

The kites. The singing engines at Easter. Americans have their eggs, we have our kites. Handmade and beautiful, they litter the sky and compete with the stars. Thousands and thousands of them, big and small -- polytethylene twines everywhere. I can still feel the pull of those kites along the taut twines.

....

"Until the lion learns to speak

The tales of hunting will be weak" K'naan

Until we learn to speak

the tales of Guyana will be weak

What's the Point?

Romantic relationships are costly. They require so much emotional and mental capital, with very very little returns. So what's the point? Is it momentary, selfish satisfaction at the cost of someone else? Is it blips of of ephemeral, wavering happiness?

What's the point?

McChrystal and Beowulf

General Stanley McChrystal is the sort of man who inspires great respect and admiration. He is a soldier of soldiers, disciplined and dedicated. He is also a man's man; tough, home-grown, hardy, fearless, athletic, competitive, loyal, and smart. Women probably had a strong sense of security around him, and children probably wished he was their father. Everything about McChrystal suggests that he was molecularly and cellulary programmed to be a military leader from conception. His mother probably named him Stanley because it would make a good general's name. Stanley McChrystal is a hero's name, just like Beowulf. He has the spirit of Beowulf. He fights not for the victory, but for the thrill of facing a worthy opponent. They are the sort of men, who will discard their sword to fight a weaponless man.

Despite his early years of honor, one shame defined Beowulf''s life and he died in dishonor. Likewise with McChrystal. The president used adjectives like "dedicated", "finest" and "intelligent" to describe the venerated general, but all of this was obscured by a moment of lapse in judgement by McChrystal. Just as Beowulf, as strong and impenetrable as he was, went against his better judgement and slept with the witch, so did McChrystal with this Rolling Stones journalist. Why either men did it was inconceivable, because Beowulf had access to every female admirer, and McChrystal had the attention of all the world. But why?

Isn't this the mysterious and fickle human condition at work here? We have this inherent ability to screw things up for no apparent reason when we are at our pinnacle and everything is going good.

McChrystal, Beowulf, me, you --- what is the difference? We are not without spot or wrinkle.

Dress of Yellow

Capoeira in a yellow dress

kicking and spinning without rest

unto my hands, feet pushing the air

no b-boy would challenge me

He wouldn't dare...

Capoeira only to address

watching and waiting until cardiac arrest

unto my heart, mind floating through air

no Baltimorean would challenge me

He wouldn't dare...

The Joker and the Gansta of Love

I find this song severely relaxing. This is not the sort of song that can be listened to on headphones. One needs a high ceiling, bay windows, a cool breeze, deep speakers, and intoxication from a long day.

If you can figure out what the "Pompatus of Love" is please let me know.