A Life of Writing

 


i woke up trying to recall the one dream i had presence of. it was like in a hotel. i find it odd how many of my dreams I remember are in hotels and conference centers. roaming wide open rambling spaces, this one wont let me go back and capture much. but bunji was there and i had an epiphany of bunji yesterday during the day...seeing him lying down on that bed.and seeing him on a tv promo or show freestyling to the max i think in london. he was so light and free. i have also seen bunji in real life, several times, both of us moving about our day. and the first time was in long circular mall, and i remember that one the most..he looked so huff, and mean and unpleasant. and yesterday i realized that is the face, demeanor and armor he wears to protect himself from an unknowing public, who might step up as fan, crazed obsessor, or offender. the other times werent so bad, saw him at the airport, both of us going to take off, behind stage at trinity...but after the dream last night i realized-- should i ever see him again, i shall take care to approach him and tell him i see him and there is no need for him to walk around trinidad with that armor, he can lay it down, and i intend to reiki his heart, dont touch him just swirl my hand above his heart. and walk away. and he will think he encountered crazy, but he will feel my energy. he was in the dream last night but i did not talk to him i dont think. plenty people were there. it was some sort of gathering. there was food. in fact most of the interaction was happening around the far long and winding buffet tables in the shape of half moon clubs

apart from trying to remember dreams, i wake up in barrenness wondering two things, what can i do to continue being productive in this fallow season and two, how can i do joy, be joy, bring joy? i am not doing art, so i think to write. and though i write every day, it has been a while i tried to construct a unified piece, such as a book or fiction. the last time i tried that Ant Bites was produced. it was to be fiction but i failed miserably. it is memoir of me in trinidad. the early years. I think now another memoir or part two would be apt and pertinent. i thought and realized how much just documenting what passes for life in trinidad is itself a piece of work, but how to tie it in, what does it say, would it say, convey? then unrelatedly i wished i had listed every single job i ever applied to these eleven years in the caribbean. opportunities missed and past to tell stories , capture images, and document your passing.

but if i die, please come find me. my house.
there are troves and trunks of writing.

* nine volumes of poetry
about another volume in various sticks, discs and computer
* my facebook posts alone
* Ant Bites, a memoir, still in the computer
* five essays published separately to put into a collection
* my writing for UNPosts. org
* my blog; and
* 49 volumes of journals written since 1990

dont let them be thrown away
with the heathens here they will be
save them please
produce them if you can
let that be the life work, perhaps
i have stacks of art unframed too
in addition to the house full of framed pieces, walled and leaning on the floor

bookmark my life, please