January 1, 2013 2:56am
This book began a few days ago. On Saturday. When I asked Kevin Pierre to hang out. In the middle of the day.
Actually, the story neither started there. It started a few weeks ago. Perhaps, a month? Maybe more? We were driving on the saddle road through Boissiere, vying for space on the road, two lanes merging into one. I in the lane, He trying to enter. He in his Toyota pick up. I in my CRV. And neither of us giving in. But his back tire bumped mine or my bumper. He felt nothing or acted as if he didnt. I insisted he stopped. Pulled in front of him askance like police. Who is me? This bold five feet two petite. SMH. He agreed to stop. We end up looking for damage. There was none. He never cussed me, though as bold as I acted, I noted he could have. I ended up selling him one of my posters. For $300/ We exchanged numbers and contacts. He eventually called me. To my surprise. Our conversations have been nothing but brief and cursory But Saturday I asked to hang out And through much convulsions and many convolutions, we met. At the Morne Coco Road Maraval. He took me to Paragon Mountain. Driving through terrain that was anything but a road. A clear path to see but not drive. My innards got reshifted i am sure.
We drove around to different spots. A variety of homes on the mountain: Peter Doig's compound holding about four homes. Overlooking the cliff of a building site that he is constructing. Then down to an empty house that I would occupy. And through more terrain, down the hill driving to the beach, which we bypassed and went onto another building site, where we sat, I ate the soup he made and brought for me. I drank straight whisky, he drank white rhum and we smoked herb. Three rollons. Never again. From now on i believe we /I will smoke joints. No cigarette nibs.
And then we lingered well past his time to return. Till eight pm. And I had to drive to Indian Walk by myself. But it was as if we did not want to leave each other's company/ Such bullshit. Cute but not. For mature old and married people. He not me..
So it will be interesting to see what this story is. What the 2013 book I am writing is about. And so apt that I begin this writing a year. Writing in a year. Is this telling about him. he, I. or something else of the year entirely? what will get lost, what will come into focus
the backdrop?
my unemployment that continues..
but making US$1225 this month
struggle to find my footing, get a life, acquire my own home, land and holding
Pierre's promise to "introduce me to the right people" to get employed
How will I navigate this dynamic of a friendship with a married man With whom I clearly have some kind of energy. From moment one when we met in apparent conflict. He said on Saturday that he felt "God sent me". I await to see if that is just bullshit, illusion or projection..
But so the story begins. Ostensibly
What is interesting ? This man is a builder. a construction worker. Who Which God Send for Whom? for What? purpose? See what I am saying?
Let the future begin to reveal itself
This book began a few days ago. On Saturday. When I asked Kevin Pierre to hang out. In the middle of the day.
Actually, the story neither started there. It started a few weeks ago. Perhaps, a month? Maybe more? We were driving on the saddle road through Boissiere, vying for space on the road, two lanes merging into one. I in the lane, He trying to enter. He in his Toyota pick up. I in my CRV. And neither of us giving in. But his back tire bumped mine or my bumper. He felt nothing or acted as if he didnt. I insisted he stopped. Pulled in front of him askance like police. Who is me? This bold five feet two petite. SMH. He agreed to stop. We end up looking for damage. There was none. He never cussed me, though as bold as I acted, I noted he could have. I ended up selling him one of my posters. For $300/ We exchanged numbers and contacts. He eventually called me. To my surprise. Our conversations have been nothing but brief and cursory But Saturday I asked to hang out And through much convulsions and many convolutions, we met. At the Morne Coco Road Maraval. He took me to Paragon Mountain. Driving through terrain that was anything but a road. A clear path to see but not drive. My innards got reshifted i am sure.
We drove around to different spots. A variety of homes on the mountain: Peter Doig's compound holding about four homes. Overlooking the cliff of a building site that he is constructing. Then down to an empty house that I would occupy. And through more terrain, down the hill driving to the beach, which we bypassed and went onto another building site, where we sat, I ate the soup he made and brought for me. I drank straight whisky, he drank white rhum and we smoked herb. Three rollons. Never again. From now on i believe we /I will smoke joints. No cigarette nibs.
And then we lingered well past his time to return. Till eight pm. And I had to drive to Indian Walk by myself. But it was as if we did not want to leave each other's company/ Such bullshit. Cute but not. For mature old and married people. He not me..
So it will be interesting to see what this story is. What the 2013 book I am writing is about. And so apt that I begin this writing a year. Writing in a year. Is this telling about him. he, I. or something else of the year entirely? what will get lost, what will come into focus
the backdrop?
my unemployment that continues..
but making US$1225 this month
struggle to find my footing, get a life, acquire my own home, land and holding
Pierre's promise to "introduce me to the right people" to get employed
How will I navigate this dynamic of a friendship with a married man With whom I clearly have some kind of energy. From moment one when we met in apparent conflict. He said on Saturday that he felt "God sent me". I await to see if that is just bullshit, illusion or projection..
But so the story begins. Ostensibly
What is interesting ? This man is a builder. a construction worker. Who Which God Send for Whom? for What? purpose? See what I am saying?
Let the future begin to reveal itself
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