The Rabbit Hole.....

Do you believe in alternate universes? Do you believe that somewhere between sleep and awake exists that world - a world where tears are fiction and pain a dream; that place where heartbreak is a novel you indulge in and grief is a two-hour movie where, while you jump at scenes and allow emotions to sway, at the back of your mind you know it's special effects, camera tricks and plain old make believe?

If this Rabbit Hole was accessible, would it be a place you'd easily dwell, a vacation of some sorts or would you migrate. It makes me think of What Dreams May Come, with Robin Williams - a movie based on two lines from Hamlet's famous speech - "to be or not to be". And while the young prince contemplates death, he says, "to die is to sleep, and to sleep is to dream, and therein lies the pause for what dreams may come" In this he wonders if to choose suicide, as a means of escape from the overwhelming pain of life,  would suicide be to sleep, caught in an eternal nightmare, if perchance that's the dream you got.

But we're not talking about suicide. Although, I no longer look at suicides as cowards, idiots or atheists. Naaaah, I just empathise, and maybe even sympathise. After slipping in and out of my own "Rabbit Hole", I see suicides as those who were only able to find comfort, love, reassurance and genuine friendship in caterpillars called cocaine, disappearing cats called meaningless flings and affairs, and reality in red painted white roses and therefore got stuck in that alternate universe.

 They may have never crawled out of their Rabbit Hole, and admittedly, we each crawl, fall, or create our own Rabbit Holes at times - that escape from pain, from pressure, from sadness, from anything unpleasant that life plummets us with. For some, their Rabbit Hole is a glass of wine, and Smokey Robinson, or Louis, maybe the smooth notes of Miles. For others, it might be that favourite comforter in the human being that is our safety zone, that person we can always rely on to be just that - a comfort, a safety net, who offers us all the amenities of a relationship, without the physical or intimate webs that trap us. Some even find that Rabbit Hole in the solitude of nature, darkness or private quarters - a space to claim as their own as they just sit, meditate and allow the mind and soul to dance amidst talking flowers and rabbits, to frolic and laugh with Mad Hatters,  or converse around a table of finest delights, where special brownies are served over friendly philosophies and jokes between Bob, Martin, Malcolm and Miriam .... maybe .....

But when reality slaps you like a belly flop from 40 feet, it's no Rabbit Hole when you know for a fact, there are lifeguards, EMS workers, and nurses called "i got ya back" friends to pull you out, administer a lil CPR called sound advice and encouragement, and when your back or belly stings from that flop, laugh with you, asking what the hell were you thinking and remind you of that time in your life, when you're finally at that place you don't have to look forward to the "day" when you'll look back and laugh, 'cause you're already there.

A Rabbit Hole, as metaphorically soothing as it is, can never replicate the touch from one heart to another out of genuine concern. It could never taste as sweet as a glass of wine (or apple juice) between two friends, drinking, eating and then laughing the cancers of life away. And isn't that the sweetest part? When you have gotten to the "remember when" goal, and you can share it with that friend or friends who did tell you then, that you'd get there. That's no Rabbit Hole.

And eventually, that Rabbit Hole disappears, and life gets, not necessarily easier, but bearable and even enjoyable, because your friends are real, and exist in this world. They're a phone call away and not limited to the restrictions of a Rabbit Hole.

Some of us can say that we've been at lows, where just as we were about to crawl into that Rabbit Hole we got that text message, phone call or email, that said, Screw the Rabbit Hole, come chill with me...... And just as karma would have it, we too have been the lifeline to stop someone from crawling into that Rabbit Hole ... maybe even for good.

So here's to genuine friendship, good laughs, needed cries, sound advice, a firm talking to, and time from busy schedules to just say, my mind ran on you... wazzup?

The "Nice" Guy

So I may be accused of male bashing in this blog... but so be it ... still sticking to my opinions

The "Nice" Guy, in inverterd commas - well, he sick ma 'tomach! (In English, he makes me sick).

For one, I find, from my own experience and from observation as well as conversation with other women, we often celebrate this "nice guy", 'cause in a sea of openly, whoring, aggressive, whoring, chauvinistic, whoring, abusive, whore and mean men that are out there, when a seemingly "nice" guy comes along, he's like a burst of cool air on a hot day, a first sip of your favourite wine, that first melted savouring taste of your favourite desert, as you let it melt your tastes buds, sense, and even your common sense. 

Now, I don't hate men - I just hate some of their attitudes. I don't think that all men are dogs - but I do think that all men had doggish behaviours at times. I don't believe all men are assholes - wait ... OKAY, I DO believe all men are assholes, but there are different degrees and levels, and as women we all know our tolerance level for assholism. 

And I'm quite sure that even Oprah, Maya Angelou, Michelle Obama, Vanessa Williams, and Jill Scott have all had to deal with different extremes of assholes hitting on them as fine, fierce, independent and successful as they are. 

But after swimming through and almost drowning in a sea of assholes, oh my god it feels damn good to have a man open a door for you, get the passenger seat for you, ask your advice/opinion on matters that don't even concern you; respect your body, opinion and mind. Let me rephrase - it is like a frickin' oasis to have a man openly express his admiration of your mind. And he proves this be recalling snippets of your "pearls of wisdom" and even quotes from the "pages of your personal philosophy" that make you do  a double take and think, "Shit! He was really listening!!!!"

Yes, that "nice" guy who respects women, has a loving relationship with his mom, hi daughters, or even makes an effort to make your kids feel included is a rare and precisous gem, isn't he? Or is he?

Or is it that we're so grateful for this "nice" guy that we cripple ourselves, and become somewhat deluded like women in abusive relationships who can justify every blow, bruise and rape.  But we're not like them, are we? We can't be like them, saying, "he hit me 'cause I got him upset, but he provides for the kids, even the ones that aren't his"; or perhaps "he didn't really mean to be so rough, he always apologises and he helped me escaped my stepfather," ... nahhh we don't say anything like that. 

I mean, after all, these are the "nice" guys we're talking about - the types that bring you flowers "just because", the types that will take you picnics, just because you like that sort of thing; the types that cook, and damn good too; the types that encourage you to pursue your education, your dreams; the types that are conversationalists, make you laugh and believe in communication; the types that'll rub your aching feet in lieu of bonyons and corns, and even get you your preferred pad or tampon. Those are the "nice" types .... aren't they?

But do we allow this refreshing change in approach and treatment to turn a blind eye, deaf ear or muzzle our mouths to the indicators of a lurking asshole buried in the niceness, like a werewolf?!  Do we ignore that snide remark, inappropriate behaviour, or that thing that would have us raising hell with any other guy, but because he's a "nice" guy we let it slip by?

Or do "nice" guys only exist in the "honeymoon/courting" phase, realising too late that they've seduced us into trusting and loving again, opening your heart and then BAM!!!!! you get hit a 6 for a 9 and can't even recall then the "nice" guy suddenly started acting like an "asshole". 

I mean, because he's introduced you to his friends and family and has publicly sand your accolades, do you turn deaf ear when his phone goes off at 2 in the morning and it ain't LIME or Digicel broadcasting?We brush it off as a "must be an emergency or wrong number" cause my "nice" guy would not be entertaining such booty-calling-suspicious behaviours ... NAaaahhhhh.........

Because he's always encouraged you to pursue higher education or go after that job promotion, we don't let such remarks as "'cause you have degree you feel you can outsmart me" or "just 'cause you book smart nuh mean you street smart" and even the "so cause you think you know more big word than me that mean ......etc etc etc" slide by, because we think we might have bruised his fragile ego in some way, so we don't answer back with a HELL FRIGGIN' YEAH!!!!!!

But when it builds up, when this "nice" guy starts "dropping wud" or exhibiting behaviour that might make you think , "hmmmm.... that's just how my insecure ex used to carry on", why is it we let it slip, slide and down right avalanche to a place where we become unhappy and are constantly justifying what is obvious assholism by saying, "it's not that bad, because he's a nice guy"?

Well hear wha?! Foo me EGO fragile TOO!!!!!!!!!! And when we get over the "niceties" we realize that, Hey, yeah he's nice, but he is still a man. And if we don't pull them up on behaviours we don't like, "all because they're nice men" we lower our standards, our expectations, and compromise who we are as women. And if these "nice" men are really that nice, they won't shy away from us telling them exactly what we like or don't like. I mean, hell, they make us know immediately, after ONE slip what they don't like, and what we should never ever TRY with them again. So why don't we do the same? Cause dem nice?

Maybe it's up to us women who happen across these "nice" men to whip their asses into line when they overstep the boundaries we've personally set. Maybe that's the "key" women in healthy and successful relationships possess - they don't let anything slide with their "nice" men, and therefore, these men keep their assholism to a tolerable minimum and remain "nice" men. 

And trust me, these "nice" men KNOW they;re great when COMPARED to some dogs out there and won't hesitate to pull files, especially if he knows about past bad relationships! So being the "nice" men they are, they milk that sucker DRY .... but only 'cause we let them. 

So after all this ranting, i will admit, i LOVE men, I ADORE my nice men, but after a few lessons with nice men, I no longer hesitate to let my "nice" man know when his assholism is rising above my tolerance level. 

I mean, can't a nice woman just be with a nice man and live happily ever after, nicely?

The touch of death (The Death of Midnight)

We talked about another close encounter, and in the irony of all irony, we watched his death unfold before our eyes. He writhed in the street, helpless, spasms contorting his body, as blood spilled from his mouth like thick, scarlet, paint. Paint. That's what it looked like, paint. I kept my hands on his heaving chest, his tiny heart racing like the sped car that would inevitably be the author of his death in 5 - 4 - 3 - 2- 1 - seconds.


His chest heaved no more. There were no more spasms, no more desperate attempts to claw at breath. Just silence, as red, green and yellow lights blinked in the distance, and echoes of holiday laughter traveled from varying directions. But there was nothing festive about this death.

And as two bright, menacing eyes bared down on me, racing towards this makeshift scene of death and confusion, I picked the lifeless body up, still dripping scarlet paint, and leaving a three spots, a trail that would vanish before the first natural hue broke the darkness, I placed the tiny creature on the side of the gutter. The water, sparkling in the moon's halo, sparkled, welcomed him, as if he would take another sip. The liquid was clear, and ran happily, like a laughing brook into the darkness.

I looked at my hands, touched by death ... and holding up like a surgeon's .. or maybe Lady Macbeth ... wondered, can you ever really wash the touch of death from your hands?

I know Why the Caged Bird Sings

Sometimes.... someone else's words are all the words you need .....

I'd rather be alone ...

A Kind of Love, Some Say
by Maya Angelou

Is it true the ribs can tell
The kick of a beat from a 
Lover's fist? The bruised
Bones recorded well
the sudden shock, the
Hard impact. Then swollen lids,
Sorry eyes, spoke not
Of lost romance, but hurt.

Hate often is confused. Its
Limits are in zones beyond itself. And
Sadists will  not learn that
Love by nature, exacts a pain
Unequalled on the rack.

I used to be one of those women who wondered why some women stayed in abusive relationships. I used to wonder, why don't they leave. Then I saw these women in new eyes.

My eyes were not battered or bruised, but they were emotionally swollen shut. Closed to ugly words, and manipulations of hide and go seek with his emotions and affections. My lips were not cut, only bruised from my own crying, and every hot tear that rolled down my cheek I dried quickly. I did not want anyone to see... him that way. I did not want them to speak ill of my love. I did not want them to tell me what my heart, muffled and caged, had been singing softly -leave the bastard.

My arms only ached only for the longing to embrace him on nights when his phone rang out in silence, and eventually, the only kind words I heard was his pre-recorded, "You know what to do". I should have known what to do. I should have ... shouldn't I?

I thank God everyday for my support system. I thank God that I finally saw, and stood, and walked away. I can still remember his cries, and the sound of my heart beating so loudly, it muffled the sound of the sirens whirling into the distance, speeding to him. And before rage consumed me, I was filled with fear, loneliness, and grief.

i did not know then, but I can realise now, that as the ambulance sped away, I was not crying just for my loved one, but I was mourning the irreversible loss of my relationship. I felt alone and unsure. I'd grown accustomed to this pattern of emtional manipulation, unanswered phones, and drunken touches, words and threats. And that was not me. And in the death of this relationship, like a phoenix birthing from the ashes, I found me.

I found me, not at once, but eventually. I dusted off those ashes, stuck to my hair, my skin, my lashes. I bathed in a sea of healing and cool forgiving tears. I forgave myself, then him, then myself again. I allowed myself to lean on those around me, on those days and nights I could not walk, nor sleep, nor cry ... and in the still of the night, in that peaceful three-second rush hour pause, in that moment of serene silence, I found ME again ....

I took back my stuff that I thought he'd burnt and drowned with our relationship ... I took back my stuff that I thought he'd taken and hidden from me ... I took back my stuff that I thought he'd pinned and mounted on his wall ... I took ME back ....
As I lay curled up in bed  .... alone ... but happy ....

As these 16 days of activism continue, it is my hope that every woman who feels hopeless will have a strong support system of love and sisterhood surrounding her, and that she will eventually tap into that inner strength that may be hidden, but nonetheless present. 

A poster I photographed and designed for Gender Affairs.


Karen White - I'd Rather Be Alone ...

If I were purple......

I sometimes wonder if I were... let's say... purple - not a pastel, lavender, violet or plum, but the original colour wheel plan simple purple - if that Jewish lady from the Synagogue I visited would have looked and talked at me like I was an alien from another planet that had no command nor comprehension of the English language. I wonder if she would have singled me out from my Canadian classmates, or would have just let her eyes pass over me, lost in a sea of pink muffs, green and yellow and blue coats, and a host of multi-coloured hats ...

If my hair were hmmm ... let's give it a neon purple ... If my hair was neon purple, and fell the way sand falls through your fingers, and shimmered like a starlit sea, and if it felt like breeze pushing you on a windy day, would some people still stop, stare and touch? Would they still want to run their fingers through my hair, like when I had it straightened; or would they want to crunch it up in their hands, like when i have it natural, and like both times, still ask me, "Is this real?" ... I wonder ....

Let's say my eyes were also purple... not contact lens cat eye purple, but just purple, would people wearing Africa around their necks, and cloaked in colours of Africa, still look into my eyes when I shared my philosophies and opinions, or would they see past my purple skin and really listen to what I say, or is it that because I'm really some shade of black or brown, it makes me easier to listen to ... are they really listening to me because of this colour, or because I'm making damn good sense? Do you think they'd see pass the purple?




I sometimes wonder, if we were colours, if we'd all subscribe to one kaliedescope called the Rainbow, or would we do now, as we've done, and divide into different colours - red, greens, yellows, and then maybe each colour would further sub-divide ... and maybe, just maybe, for some self-constructed reason, the violets may think themselves more important than the lavenders..... I wonder ....

Measure yourself to yourself by yourself

I was reminded the other day, that the race I run is with no one but myself ... I determine the pace, the finish line and ultimately the prize. Do I always remember that? Hell friggin' no. But I am grateful for the support system that I have been blessed with that does remind me.

This was undoubtedly one of the worst years in my life. I thought 2006 was a fucked up year, but 2010 blew that right out of the waters. I thought 2010 was going to be my year. I thought I was going to own 2010. Albeit I;ve had some good times in this year, my ass is still sore from where 2010 bent me over. That's raw talk.

In pretty talk, I set goals, I had dreams, I was going to plant seeds for a future that I had mapped out. I was going to love harder, live freer, cry less and laugh more. I cried more this year than I had in any years passed. And in April, when I was at an all time low, lower than I;ve ever been in my life (and trust me I;ve had depressing moments in my years), I remember telling someone that the only thing left to go wrong with this year is for someone to

 die. Be careful what you wish for ... in August, the 14th to be exact, 4 days after my birthday, I lost the one man who has consistently been there for me .. that is until Alzhemier's took him away frmo me, and then Death's cluthes embraced him. Just thinking about it still makes water come to my eyes ... when every man I have known in my life, including my father walked away, Grandpa, my partner in crime, my candy caper partner, was always there .... I do not know how to fill that void ...

except with memories. I have chosen to forget the phases of Alzhiemer's when he replaced me with some woman named Sarah Tuiit that no one seems to know ... and I will remember the advice, conversations and good times...

that being said, I will try to look back at 2010 and remember the highlights .. travelling, meeting new people, falling in love (and out of it), seeing a dream come to life in the name of "When A Woman Moans", feeling inspired via books, movies, people ...

But most importantly, I will continue to remind myself, that I need only to measure myself to myself by myself. I will remember that I run with no one but my own dreams, ambitions, and inhibitions ... I will remember that each day is a gift to be lived, enjoyed and experienced ... and for that I am grateful ...