Old homes in Marianna, FL

I sojourned to Marianna, FL not because I wanted to go there, but because Hurricane Gustav was licking at my heels. I chose the town randomly from a map, and it was a good choice. I needed something to do in this small town in northern Florida, and luckily I did find something. I was told by the concierge at the front desk there were some historic homes in the town. These homes were built during the 19th century and even earlier than that. Here are two of my favorites. Hope you enjoy!

Old homes are great. There is something timeless and wonderful about them. It is not just their long storied past that is amazing; it is the simplicity in their style and manner. The white conservative color is not eye catching or alluring, but trustworthy like it would never fail you. Their wide full porches evoke thoughts of families gathering to talk to renew their faith in family. The doors are inviting, not like great secrets are kept behind it, but through there lies some sacred hallowed ground, that there is love and warmth just inside that doorstep. It is not that the people in that home have more love and warmth than anybody else. It is that the house itself seems to be embodied with it. There is a living spirit, and whoever steps across its threshold will be taken up with it. It is idyllic.

Ode to the Unkown

When I am old and I start to fade,
I hope that I will not be forgotten.
That somewhere somehow,
Someone remembers,
I did something in passing.
And it will be,
Nothing but a whisper,
Because few would hear it,
Or remember that they even heard it.
My name will not evoke,
Strong memories of joy or pain.
But just a mere anecdote for
Someone to laugh at,
Or think why mention him or her.
And that day,
Will be a far time after my passing,
Years beyond the day nature retook my body and soul.
And after that moment,
I would truly cease to exist,
Because in my life,
There was not much of me,
To begin with.

The Many Smiles of You

The many smiles of you

I have seen

Spread across my mind

As flags of fanfare and joy

Suttle changes of moods and feelings

Coil in your lips

As indices of perfection

To which I ascribe

Your lips part in ways

That are hard to describe

Ephemeral and ethereal

And god blessed

Let none take away such beauty

And let me witness it everyday

It Is Strange Leaving Love

This is a poem I wrote a long time ago. Even though sad, it is still good.


It is strange leaving love,
like a spirit leaving my body,
or a sensation evaporating from my skin.
I will have lost nothing,
but a feeling
and gained myself without pain.
I can move now without censure of myself,
without cursing my thoughts,
for they had wrapped my heart tight with thorns.
The freedom now is good and strange,
less without the freedom of love,
more with the freedom of life.

The Hilarity of George's Wife

After graduating from the University of the West Indies, with a degree in Electrical Engineering, George felt very good about himself and his prospects. He felt as though he had been knighted with some great gift; in fact, he had the paper and the student loans to prove it. In his wondrous mind, anybody who saw him should recognize, from his manner and gait, that he was a Sir of Noble Ability; he was a degreed engineer. And since they recognized that, they should be aware of his intelligence. He felt he could tackle any problem big or small. Nothing was out of his limits or depth; and if it was, all he had too was pick up a book, read it, learn about it and apply his newfound knowledge; he was voracious reader. What challenge was there really left for him? Not much, except for his wife, Lisa.

It sadly dawned on George no book was written to explain his wife. In fact, there was no particular book written on his particular wife. He wished one was written just about her, exclusively about her. The title of that book would be “Your Wife Lisa” written by God. In truth, George felt only God could write such a book because only he could explain one of his (maddening, crazy, illogical, irrational) creations. If God had written that book, every question George had would be answered succinctly, assuredly and with clarity: Why is she like that? Answered. Why is she so crazy? Answered. When will the madness end? Answered. What the hell is she talking about? Answered. There was no such book and there never will be and this saddened George.

Whenever he looked at his wife, he would often see a massive question mark hanging over her head following her everywhere she went. In the beginning, the question mark was not that big at all, it was a small, unnoticeable, odd-shaped mark mixed in with a tuff of her beautiful black hair. After getting married, the question mark seemed to grow in size exponentially like mold. As unfortunate as that might be, the question mark did not deter George from his wife, it only emboldened him; he did have an engineering degree. He knew how to tackle a problem; it was what engineering was about: the ability to analyze a situation and create an ingenuous solution. But his wife was not an engineering problem, she was a human problem. He knew he should have studied medicine instead of engineering.

It was strange though, that at times his degree served no importance when it should. For instance, George had the opportunity to do some housework, which was more than suitable for his learned skill. He had to change an air condition control panel in the house. The task was well suited to him, even if it is minor compared to the knowledge he had as an engineer. He relished the opportunity though, for he had just bought the house and he took pride in tending to it.

Before he could even start the task, Lisa bellowed, “you sure you know what you doing?” Concern or apprehension, he could not tell, but since she prefixed anything he did with those sort of questions, he concluded it was apprehension. He started on his task nonetheless without answering her. He just took a quick look at her and saw the question mark sturdy as ever on top her head. She did have a right to ask the inhibiting question because he had never replaced an AC control panel before. It did require some reading, and that he knew he was good at. He read and read. And, in that quiet time needed to understand, Lisa chimed in, “What takin’ so long? Yuh sure you know what you doing?” Her question was not much of a question; it was indictment. Silence it seems was an indication of inability. He never knew how to correct that misconception.

From reading the manual, he understood what needed to be done. He started correctly. He turned off all the power to the air condition unit; he did not want to shock himself, but after that he heard from his loving wife, Lisa: “Becareful not to shock yourself.” It would seem he was shock prone, but in all the time he and Lisa had been together, he had never felt the surge of current coursing through his body. His only shock was that he could no longer do anything without Lisa’s interjection, but he prodded on. Then, he came upon a problem; he needed a different tool; the screwdriver was not the right size.

To retrieve the correct tool, he had to pass by his wife who was now in the kitchen. When she saw him pass in a hurry, she could only guess one thing, something was wrong.

“Wha happen now?”

He said he needed a different screwdriver.

She responded, “You see why ah does ask all dem question, but you only want to look at meh like ah botherin’ yuh.” She was bothering him.

Informing Lisa of the technical delay really was not smart. It only created the opportunity for self promotion, that is she promoted herself from wife to job foreman. After retrieving the new screwdriver, she returned with him to the AC panel to make sure that nothing else went wrong. She thought the installation of a control panel was a simple enough requiring no time at all.

George, on the other hand, was perplexed. He had to mentally check Lisa’s skill set. He knew she did not have a degree in electrical engineering or any other degree; she did not have an electrician’s certificate; and she never apprenticed with an electrician or even watched her father do some electric work in his home. As Lisa had said many times to him, “Me, I was jus’ in tuh girly stuff.”

So now, he could not understand what level of supervision his wife could offer. The question mark on her head seemed to grow larger and shine brighter. He would not need any other light for the job; the question mark offered enough luminescence.

“Yuh sure you suppose to put that wire dere.”

George had had enough.

“Who have de engineering degree you or me?”

“What that suppose to mean?”

If she did not know, then George could not tell her, the question was simple enough. In the middle of his wife’s conundrum, he finally understood.

George thought his education could serve some meaningful utility in the house, in the marriage, but it really was not. It was odd. Lisa had often told him his degree was a plus for her, but really it was an accessory. Lisa had diamond earrings, a wedding band and a husband with an engineering degree—all accessories. Now, his learned skill countered for naught. It was not that she was as smart as him; George was only as smart as Lisa, and now anything he attempted, his limits were her limits. What was George to do? Nothing. It was why he was looking for the book “Your Wife Lisa.”

George would have other tribulations with his precious wife, some more or less than the one before. The question mark would just stare at him ominous and confrontational. He would look at it as an enemy; and Lisa would look at him and ask, “Why yuh lookin’ at me like dat.”

“Nothing,” he would answer.

Politics Now

Barack Obama has enough delegates to win the Democratic nomination. Hillary Clinton has conceded victory to him. Some may say she did that bitterly with the air of sore loser. Oh, well. This is politics. These people are not trying to win a 100m race. They are trying to attain the most powerful seat in the land. Therefore, it does not really matter how much Barack seems nice, hopeful and genuine. Behind it all, he wants to be leader of the free world. He wants that power, so while Hillary might seem bitter, Barack might just have a better poker face. Hilary has lost to a neophyte, and she should be bitter. The truth was: it was her nomination to lose, and she did just that, so what does she do now is the big question. Can anyone say Vee-Pee?

If offered, she should take it. If not, she should beg for it. Hillary does not have much of a chance come another election. She will not have the energy or support to make another run for the nomination. Her time was now, and her window of opportunity is closing. She does not want to be a great story in the annals of history. She wants the crown and the might. Her best shot is vice-president. It cannot look bad to put first female vice-president of the United States on your resume. Can it? That often leads to a nomination.

I do think Barack and Hillary will make a great ticket. There is a lot of healing to do before that can happen. Some say Hillary could not stomach being running mate to this neophyte. Those who say that should re-examine Hillary Clinton. If she could stomach what President Bill Clinton did in office and before office in Arkansas and still support him, then she could stomach humbling herself for Barack. She is an asset in anybody's campaign, but she also has liabilities: her husband, and sometimes herself.

What will happen to Hillary, actually, that just depends on what she does. Conciliatory tones help a whole lot. Bitterness is unnecessary and unproductive. If she got rid of the hurt of losing, maybe she could find that political might to rally back for what she good get. A shot at VP is worth it. It is a consolation prize but it is not. It is the best political choice or move to get a close to what she really wants and that is to be the President of the United Sates.

Lest we forget, this is not about the first black President or first woman President. This is about power. Who wants it? And, what you are willing to do to get it?

Inspired Trini

Marriage of Two: In progess

This is the piece I am working on right now. As you can tell, it is unfinished but I like how it is going so far. I am trying something new not only with the color but with the brushstroke. You might not see it in the this picture but it is there. Her hollowed eyes looks ghostly doesn't it? I promise it would not remain like that.

Return of a Friend

The softness of her voice,
was enough to ignite memories,
long forgotten,
and better left alone.
And as it burned bright,
it disturbed the casualness of the present,
returning the casualness of her.
We sang a duet of apologies,
regret the chorus and the verse,
where yearning was echoed in every word
so doubts were erased
and the heart beat wildly
for the anticipation of more
and more came
It was a delight for the senses
a chord was struck anew
a harmony so well honed and genuine
had risen up from the ashes of time
It was a beautiful moment,
It was the return of a true friend.

Blood on the Floor

This is a work fiction and far from any reality I have ever experienced. It is a bit graphic. It is suppose to be. If you are skittish, do not proceed beyond this word. If you are not, enjoy or be disturbed. If the latter, I have done my job.

Blood pools silently next to a lying body, its redness an unneeded bright spot on the tiled floor. It is waiting there, hoping to return to its mortal stream, to feel again its ebb and flow, but it will not because the man is dead.

His body is strewn on the floor like a discarded mannequin. His legs were twisted to the left, the knees forming the head of a broken arrow. The torso was conveniently raised to the right for that is the side the blood dripped from. The palms are faced upwards, fingers shooting in the air like blades of grass. His head was the strangest for it looked away from the body, as if it no longer wanted to be a part of the whole. The eyes were wide open set aghast. He seemed in shock at his death, or he could not believe this is what he looked like after it. He wanted to say something for his mouth was set wide and tongue heavy with anticipation. He would have, if all the air in him had not been expelled through the knife wound in his stomach.

The killer had done the job without a plan or knowing that a stomach wound would be fatal. It was just an articulation of his anger, an extension of an emotion that he could not contain anymore, but now looking at the scene of death had him revise his thinking. He played it back in his mind.

The movie played on a screen in his head but there seem to be some clips missing, the most vital ones. He played it over and over, forward and backwards, but nothing. He could not remember killing the man. Since he was the only other living person in the room, simple deduction made him think it was himself.

He could not have, he thought. He looked to the knife that was on the table next to the dead man. Its long razor sharp edge was still slick with blood. It was the wide smile of death that lay on the table, its teeth wet with human energy. It looked at him as if he was the known accomplice.

He had no clue if the man was dead. He would not step forward to find out. He had created an invisible barricade around the man, one he could or would not cross. He was afraid of the body. He thought death was a communicable disease. It was not. But, it was strange he had passed it on to the man on the floor without showing sign or symptom himself.

He looked around him: to the left, to the right, upward and downward, to see if someone had seen him. Or, he was looking for an explanation, a way out. There he was alone in the house with a body 6 foot in front of him. The silence in the room had not a word to offer. The loudest thing was his beating heart. It played a rhythm in his ear that he wished would stop but it could not. The more he thought about the situation, the more it beat and thundered in his ear. Madness was crawling into his soul like a worm burying itself in an apple. He could almost feel it too. It’s a headache that just seems to never go away.

He looked at the body again almost hoping it would lift itself off the ground and the blood would suck back into the stomach. It just stayed there unmoved by his wishes. It looked a heavy thing the dead body the man thought. An invisible rock must be on top of the dead man. His mind was playing tricks on him. Rhyme and reason were leaking out his mind the same way blood had
leaked out of the dead body.

Enough of this he thought. He went over to the table quickly and picked up the knife, the wide smile still there. The two should have been happy to be back together again, but the man looked at the knife like a friend that had betrayed him. He did not even let his eyes look at the body, as he approached the table and got close to the body. He did not want to look at the face directly maybe it might reveal something he did not want to know. He turned around and sped out the front door of the house, leaving it open, absconding with the knife.

There was a full moon out. Its soft light moved through the door like a thin fog. It casted itself on the floor of the house, draping a quiet blanket of light over the corpse as if had paternal instincts. The night air would keep the body perfectly cool. The moon would tend to the corpse proudly as the child it never had, keeping it safe and undisturbed until the morning came. Then, fear, doubt and secrets would stir death from its sleep and wreak havoc on everyone and everything else.

The Inspired Trini

The Art of Todd White

When I was New Orleans the other day (after Mardi Gras), I toured some of the art shops and studios. I wanted to see what commercial art looked like these days. I had no imtention of buying. It was more research than anything. I was hoping to absorb some technicques and styles that I want to imitate or learn. Most of the art was decent but then I stumbled upon some paintings by an artist named Todd White. I was immediately taken. His work is visual stunning and surreal. It is the odd mix of caricature work and bold colors but never cartoonish. He finds the right angles to express people's moods and understated emotions. Here are some of his pieces.

Just the Blues

Now, this is art. I looked for the artist's website, and I found it (http://www.artofwhite.com/). Most of his works are posted there. I just want to show you a couple. On the website, the artist would write the meaning or inspiration behind some of his pieces. The painting above, Just Blues, was music inpsired the artist explained. He wanted to paint in shades of blue. The piece is perfect, (at least in my eyes). The shades of blues capture the coolness of the music or the man or both. It is the static loneliness of the moment that I like the most. I notice it in the angular cuts of the guitar player's face, his one noticeable eye, the sharpness of his jacket or the enmptiness in the room. For me, the painting richly captures a musician's absolute belief in his music and the loneliness that comes with that, but at the same time the desire to be heard by an audience, which he sees in everyone. It is why he is looking at the artist painfully hoping.

Just a Taste

Todd While does many paintings of people in social cliques. They always stand side by side facing the artist like a mock lineup of the usual suspects. These cliques are easy for the artist to find because he lives in Los Angeles, in the very center of Hollywood chic. He regularly tours the restaurants, bars and hip night spots looking for inspiration. This painting Just A Taste is probably the result of one of those tours.

In my mind, he is definitely mocking the clique that loves to taste wine. It is a lie when they say, "just a taste". There are empty glasses on the table, and more bottles to drink. They only go to wine tastings to drink for free. It is their little secret. They eye one another nervously hoping their secret would not be found out. The pretense is further erected by the way they hold their glasses: tilted, above them or under their nose. It as if wine was a delicate prism, which must be held just the right way. It is only then the true light of a vineyard can be seen, smelt or tasted. Then, there are those who seem to be waiting for what others have to say. They hope their internal comments are equal to ones voiced by others. It is the game of the pretentious. The painting evokes that so well. It is in the characters' shifty eyes and slighted demeanor. The way the characters are placed offhandedly from another. Their glasses are struck perfectly in front of them. It is their object of pretention. The painting is brilliant. I wish I could have it.

My New House

White does many paintings of women. Some of them are semi erotic. The women are provocatively clothed or barely clothed. All seem ready to shed that that final layer in the viewer's imagination. Others just catch that moment of emotion that women seem to have. It seems to make them stand perfectly still, in that erect contemplative mood. It is the sudden introspection and thought that White catches. This piece frames that moment perfectly.

The lady looks doubtful of her new environs, questioning herself. Part of her cannot believe she going to live here. Or, she cannot believe she bought this place. She is unwilling to step forward until she comes to some resolution about this. It is the impetousness of emotion. Her eyes are searching for the answer. She even grips her purse tightly in case she has to make a run for it. Or she is scared and gripping the purse is the only sign of her understated emotion. Whatever it is, it is absolutely stated with her conservative manner. The artist does an excellent job of rendering that moment. My New House is the kind of piece you stare it. You want to know who this person is and why they are in such personal turmoil. It tells a story that everyone wants to hear.

I am now a dedicated fan of Todd White. His art is instructive. I can watch his pieces over and over. People interest me like they interest Todd White. It is those moments that evaporate so quickly that I want to capture in my paintings. This artist is doing what I only dream of. On his website, he describes an artist as being a voyeur. They just sit and watch, and watch, and watch. In so doing, they hope to capture every last fleeting detail but from my experience it never happens.

White's paintings do not just capture fleeting moments but the exactness of them. He comes in at off angles and freezes the frame. He has caught them emotionally redhanded, or with red wine in hand. It should be noted that White paints the hands and fingers first. In each piece, they are quite noticeable. Those fingers are often long and insidiously emaciated which is perfect. They deliciously serve the etiquette of the character whether strumming a guitar, holding a glass or clutching purse.

Todd White's perfects in his paintings the vanity of the individual. The uniqueness everyone thinks they have but really it is an imagined difference tolerated by everyone else. Todd White shatters that illusion succintly. He has mastered the skill of an artist, which is his imagination and not in his hands.

The Inspired Trini

Art in Progesss: Potrait of a Young Man IV

It is finally done. I like it but have many problems with it. Next time, I will do better. Hope you like it.

Inspired Trini

A very, very short story

The young boy skating stopped abruptly, with much disregard for his skateboard. Something had got his attention. The board skirted to the left, stopped, and then turned over like a dog on its back. The boy stood erect, frozen into position, akimbo style. His small arms were cocked showing a defiant, almost impatient, rectitude.

Was he looking at the lake, the ducks, or people? No, it was a remote control boat. The incessant buzz of its engine had caught the boy's attention. He looked on with hidden jealously. The boat belonged to another young boy about 20 feet in front of him. The skater watched the boy enviously, desiring the boat for himself. He wanted the pleasure more than he wanted the toy.

The boy, with the boat, had no idea that he had stirred such jealously behind him. His concentration was on his birthday gift, the remote control boat. He had blinders on. It was him, the boat and the rest of the world was nothing. It was the absent-minded carefree pleasure that the skater craved.

An idea slid across the skater's face. There was a flash in his eyes, the immediacy of action. He turned away, putting the boy and the boat behind him. They were dismissed but not forgotten. He raced off on his skateboard; his legs pushing forward with urgency and intent. He reached his distracted mother a couple of minutes later.

He bolted out, with heaving breath, "I want.......


Inspired Trini

Art in Progress: Potrait of a Young Man III

I have finished most of his lips, except the upper right of them. Doing that part was as difficult as I thought. Lips are not as smooth as skin. There are valleys and ridges on everyone's lip so light reflects in some places and forms shadows in others. It is a landscape of its own. Pigment in the skin changes so suddenly. Sometimes there is not much contrast in shade only the hint of a difference. I do know how to do shade a hint of difference as yet. I have sketched in his fingers. At least you know now what is holding up his head.

I am very close to finishing. I am actually getting tired. To watch the same face for hours gets annoying. I scream in my mind hurry up already. I want to see the finish sketch as much as you do. I guess we all have to wait.

Inspired Trini

First Day at Mardi Gras New Orleans

In the 5 years I've lived in Louisiana, I've never been to Mardi Gras. Some would say that is shameful. I would agree. This year was different though. I had the time, the will and means to attend. I would do just that. I was going to the Crescent City, the Big Easy, New Orleans for the celebration. I was excited. Friends and co-workers had told me many things about the Mardi Gras--all spectacular and wonderful. I had listened intently but held much reservation.

I am from Trinidad. We have own carnival. It is on the same day as well. It would be hard not to compare celebrations. I already have a deep and joyous history in Trinidad's carnival, but I must give this Mardi Gras a chance; at least, the opportunity to create wonder and excitement in me. I would be its puppet. In the end, I would know how Mardis Gras is. I would know if to give it the awe and status reserved for what I already love...Carnival.

It was Sunday night when we got into New Orleans. The outskirts of the city looked abandoned and unimportant. It was the distant glow from the city center that offered any sign of life. It's what you noticed as you made that final drive into the city. I-10, the main artery into the city, is an expansive 4 lane highway with many twist and turns. At the speed limit, riding I-10 was a roller coaster ride bringing you to the heart of the city.

When we arrived, its heart was beating wildly. There was a parade en route. Most of the the streets were cordoned off. We could not get to our hotel. Traffic was at a crawl. We called the front desk to ask how to get around. Impossible, they answered, as if it were foolish to even consider such a thing. I got the same reply when I asked policemen and natives. (I needed a second opinion). We were stuck but not dismayed. We were in New Orleans. Mardi Gras was happening. We needed to be part of it. We parked the car quickly as if it was more a burden than anything else. We were tired of making circles. The parking garage was far from the hotel. We didn't care. We would get to the hotel later, or better yet whenever. It was not going anywhere. There was more to do outside than inside.

The Bacchus parade that had stopped our advance to the hotel. Sunday was their day through the streets. Bacchus is the Greek god responsible for wine and song. He is the root of the word 'bacchanal', which means 'orgy'. What we were watching felt much like that. The crowds were heavy and energetic, enthusiastic to the point of exhaustion. Breathing room was at a bare minimum. You shared the same untidy desperate space with everyone else, desiring the same excitement. You were together but forcibly so.


The best real estate to watch the parade had been gobbled up earlier in the day, by nuclear and protective families. They developed their property well. Lawn chairs and coolers became landmarks that were well guarded, and served as fence posts to their property. Ladders became impromptu lookout points for children. From a distance, these ladders resembled guard turrets. The adults could climb them and watch with eagle eye for all the unacceptables. It was a scene. Suburbia had colonized the parade route for Mardi Gras.

The entire parade route was cordoned off with steel barricades. It stopped the families from colonizing anymore space. People crammed themselves against the steel curtain as if magnetized to it. Everybody was waiting for the Bacchus Parade to reach his/her spot. We did not mind waiting either because the temperature was perfect. The nighttime air was cool, comforting, even welcoming.




You could hear the parade before you could see it. The sound of enthusiasm and excitement rose to a crescendo as the parade came near. I could see the lead float. The smiling face of Bacchus slowly but surely coming towards me. His face stopped every now and then as if to say hello. The crowd responded thankfully with screams and yells. His face was bright and colorful lit up by well positioned lights in front of the float. I had never seen something like this before. It was an elaborate, colorful stage set on wheels. On the float, there were so many props and jubilant actors, all in splendid costume.



It was we, the spectators, who delivered the lines, "Mister, throw me some beads!". Man, woman and child, belted that refrain at the top of their lungs. The revelers on the float responded in kind. They flung beads at the crowds with uncaring aim and uncanny strength. Beads were in the air like wingless birds. I stood back watching. The revelers could not give away enough beads. It was like money, people wanted more. Unlike real money, they did get more. Float after float came by, necks were getting heavier and heavier with beads of all colors.

Adults and kids wore their beads proudly like jewelry precious and iridescent, or as medals hard fought and hard won, or sometimes both. I was in awe, and in confusion. Why throw beads? Why collect so many? It is a Mardi Gras tradition. The beads were a prize to be cherished, an award for attending. It is the gallantry of the event.

We stood there watching floats for at least 3 hours after which we could not take it anymore. My eyes were beginning to get numb. I needed some new stimulation. How about Bourbon St.? Who says no to Bourbon St.? We get there. We did not have to walk far. The time is well past 12. The parade is still not over. We will take the tour of the bars. Everything is expensive. We walk like tourist wide-eyed and hoping none of the filth rubs off on us. The smell is awful like you are below the sewage instead of above it. We walk for an hour very uninterested with everything. We are tired from the trip, circling the streets like some buzzards, and an endless parade. We decided to call it a night.

The streets are clear of people but their garbage is every where. The barricades have moved to open all the streets. The city can breath again after being choked up. We find our hotel easily. The hotel clerk is polite even at the hour we come in at. Our room is small and slopes a little bit, or is it I am tired and little tipsy? (It slopes. I check in the morning) We shower and prepare to sleep. The bed is a welcome sanctuary. Sleep comes faster than I could think about how my day was.

Today was the first day. And imagine, I have two more to go.

Inspired Trini

Art In Progress: Potrait of a Young Man II

I have drawn part of his lips and all of his teetth. It looks okay to me but I have my doubts. I am making progress that is what is most important. I have been drawing and erasing so much that the paper is beginning to wear thin. I have to be more exact now. The first line has to be the right and true line.

When you look at the individual parts do they look okay but are they effective as a whole. The finished product will resemble somebody but it may not be the person I intended on drawing.

Inspired Trini

Art in Progress: Potrait of a Young Man

As I mentioned before, I am a budding artist. My mediums are pencil and acrylics. Here is a potrait of a young man that I am doing. Its in progress, and quite difficult. Pencil work is a lot tougher than I originally thought. Right now, his mouth is giving me unknown amounts of hell. For right now, I like best his eyes. I think that is the most important facial feature. It is how we connect with people, where trust can be seen and felt. Tell me what like about the potrait so far. Your comments are more than welcome.

When I am finished, I will post the final product. Hopefully, you can compare the two. People rarely get to see art in progress. In fact, I think I will post what I achieve every so often.

Inspired Trini

p.s. I do not look like that.

Quiet The Storm

I need someone to quiet my storm
to remove the clouds that are heavy and foreboding
do you understand me?
you see me as any other person
but in my mind
there is a torrent of ideas, hopes and fears
all with distinct voices
all begging to be heard
I hear them so loud
that only in my sleep is there silence
and when I awake
immediately, there is the clap of thunder
I need someone to quiet my storm
Can you?
I need to removes the fears
and the let the hopes and the ideas
talk to one another
I need you to distract the fears
with some love and attention
they can be quieted
can you help me?

Life Has Opened Its Doors

Life has opened up its doors and let me in,
It now tells me secrets,
that were often told but rarely heard.
And when it whispers them to me,
it is the loudest thing I hear,
because it only speaks truth.
So my eyes open wide,
and a smile spreads on my face,
like ripples in a pond,
infinite and everlasting.
For I have just heard a most amazing story,
a whirlwind tale about how life can be enjoyed,
how it can me made to be happy.
So with that I see everything in color,
No more dark spaces or muted tones,
Fear and doubt had run away,
scared of me.
And now confidence and belief,
course through my veins like a river gone mad.
I, now, flex muscles that I have never used,
not physically but emotionally,
not sparingly but generously.
And I have gained so much,
friends and lovers,
opportunity and success.
And lost so little but some pain,
and regret,
So today is my today,
Now is my time.
Watch and have faith,
As I become,
what I should have always been,
a great and good man.

Going Offshore: Part I

I have some friends that work in the oilfield. I ask them what is it like to work offshore. Their response is often,"it's interesting". As I learnt more, I found their stories compelling. The narrative of their experience goes something like this.......

The cell phone rings annoyingly and impatiently. I look at the number to see who it is. The area code is 225: Baton Rouge, not my area code. I know who is calling and why. I let the phone ring some more. I have to put myself in the frame of mind just to take the call. In my heart of hearts, I do not want to talk. I answer anyhow, "hello". Try not to sound unwilling and disappointed I tell myself. It is one of my supervisors calling. It is time to go offshore again.

"What's up Alex?" my supervisor asks cheerfully. It is only a put-on, he knows no one really wants to hear from him. It's like your dentist calling you to offer a free root canal.

I answer,"nothing", matter-of-factly. I want him to get to the point quickly. Give me the bad news.

"Are you ready to go offshore?" he asks absurdly, almost apologetic. I do not know why they always ask like that, as if we really have a choice. In the back of my mind, I say, "if I don't go, will you still pay me?" or "no, I am herding sheep. I cannot leave them unattended". I have never touched a sheep in my life. All impulses in my body tells me to say no. They never win.

"Yes", I reply obligingly. I have bills to pay and a family to take care of. After thinking that, I respond to my supervisor more commandingly, and with conviction. Responsibility is a hell of a thing. It straightens your spine, and compels you to act.

I ask the when and where as if it is military mission. I need to know what time I need to be there, which dock or heliport I am going to, if I am going with anyone, and what is the phone number to the rig. Give me the details and less apologies. The supervisor sometimes makes it seem that you are the only engineer he could count on. If I wanted my ego stroked, they would give me a raise. The supervisor exits quickly once he knows I am committed. You have accepted a root canal but at least you are getting paid for it.

I think about my wife, I have to tell her immediately. Sometimes, she is next to me when I get the call but today I am in the mall and she is at home. I call home to tell her. This is often a strange moment between husbands, who work offshore, and wives, who stay at home. If you love your wife, it is not great news you are going offshore. You know you have to go because you have responsibilities. However, if you and your wife are fighting like cats and dogs, it's great news. You might have been begging for that supervisor to call. In fact, you have been calling him everyday begging for that root canal. It is either a root canal offshore or an annoying toothache at home. The root canal wins every time.

I do not have an annoying toothache. I tell my wife I have to go in a few days. She responds with no enthusiasm. She has gotten use to this. I met her working offshore. She says it is good thing my bag is packed already. My wife makes me repack my bag as soon as I come back from a job. I am always ready to go but grudgingly so.

She kindly says,"I'll miss you." I think I have not left yet, but to hear that brings some comfort. I chit chat some more before getting off the phone with her. I push the fact I have to go offshore out off mind, and continue shopping in the mall.

A few days pass. I will be leaving my house at 2 am the next morning to be at the heliport for 6. I have a 4 hour drive, I hate it. I have been to this heliport before so I do not need to worry about directions. It is all the way in Venice, LA, 'the end of the earth', I call it. There is nothing there. Hurricane Katrina made sure of that.

The evening before I go, we rent some movies to watch at home. I need something to relax me. I am a little tense and anxious. I get like that before I go offshore even though I have been doing this for some years now. The company of my wife and the movie helps but does not alleviate. I keep thinking, is there anything I need to do before I go? There is always something! I just cannot think of it. Or, am I trying to find a reason not to go? Ah, ha! I need to write the check for the mortgage. I cannot forget that. I tell my wife. Why did I do that?! She looks at me bemused and disapprovingly. Her eyes say, "where are we going to live, if you don't pay the mortgage?". I answer with my eyes, "not with your mother!" I leave the movie without pausing, it was not that good anyway. Running upstairs to the computer, I curse myself, how I could forget that of all things. Oh, well! I let it go.

I do not know why but everything gets thrown off track, once I hear I am going to work. It is like my reality gets fractured. Half of my mind is already seeing the greyness of rig. The other half is firmly planted in the present, at home, with the familiar. Such a discord does not lend itself well to level concentration and attentiveness.

I write the check for the mortgage. Oh yeah, I see why I go offshore. Mortgage companies are blood sucking leeches! I make sure the rest of the bills are taken cared of, they are. I do not want anymore pointed looks. I make sure there is enough money in the till for my wife, there is. She does not work.

I call family and friends to let them know I am leaving to go offshore. They often ask how I keep doing it. I tell them I do not know, by the grace of God maybe. I hate answering that question: how I keep doing it? I do not even have good answer for myself. I am sure there are other things I could do, like be a teacher, do my masters in management, maybe even become a writer. Then I think, it's the money. I know it's the money!

By this time, it is about 8 at night. I need to get some rest before I go. I have a long drive. My wife is also insisting I get some rest. Only after the ninth time of telling me this, I listen. I am going to miss my king size bed. Its immensity is inviting. I take refuge in it next to my wife. They give grown men twin size beds to sleep on offshore, its a contradiction that never wears thin. I, therefore, treasure my last night at home. I look to my wife for some attention. Sometimes, I get it. Sometimes, I don't. Most times, I do. In my bed, I think with weak resolve I am going offshore tomorrow. I accept my faith and let myself fall sleep.

In couple of hours, I will wake up and think, "shit! I am going offshore!"

Collection of Sayings

Eat as if at a restaurant because good manners should be observed everywhere.

Only I can measure myself, I am not as tall as I want to be, but I am not as short as I was yesterday.

An opportunity is a rare thing, while fragile and easily lost, it can be worth its weight in gold when acquired and nurtured.

An artist's skill is not in his hands but in his imagination.

To take criticism well, you should have an open mind, still tongue and polite manner. Most of all, you should have an absolute belief in yourself.

Focus is giving your mind the mental space to do what is most important, quite necessary and dearly needed.

Doors are best open for friends and loved ones, and shut tight for salesman, Mormons and other opportunistic strangers.

Perfection is the goal of the insane while reasonable success brings comfort to the rational.

Success is the measure of your plans and dreams against your actions and deeds.

Bad habits are just that, they inhibit potential, waste energy and embody ugliness.

Let what you say motivate, create untiy, and engender passion and compassion

My Introduction

I was born in Trinidad and Tobago, the beautiful twin islands of the southern Caribbean. Officially, we are Trinidadians, but affectionately we are called 'Trinis'. If you have never seen, or met, a Trini, I can give you a fair description. First of all, he or she is very attractive, and can be of any race, Caucasian, Chinese, Indian and African, and then everything in between. It is like that in my country, of only 1 million people, because we are just like America, a history of immigrant peoples and of a native regression. It is a mix of European plantation owners, African slaves, indentured servants from India and China, craftsman and shopkeepers from Syria and Lebanon, and lastly the indigenous peoples: the Caribs and Arawaks. While our history may have begun from a divergence, what we are now is a convergence of cultures.

The official language is English but our tongue tells another story. Our voice is the patchwork of different cultures where English is the core but not all of the details. We have that almost proper British accent because Trinidad and Tobago was once a former colony of the empire. But, we most often speak with a laid back, smooth island lilt, which has become familiar to every tourist that has ever visited the English Caribbean. Our dialect has a rich detail to it because we have incorporated French, Spanish, African and East Indian words into it to make it unique and idyllic. Our English patois gives us more pride than anything else, for us, it is a better passport than the one we show at the airport.

Oddly enough, I did have to show my passport at the airport when I went to Philadelphia to attend university. I was only 18 at the time and what a culture shock. I had visited the US before but only under the protective wings of my parents, now I was on my own. I did a super-duper degree, it took me 5 years to get a BS in Mechanical Engineering. Along the way, I learnt a lot about myself( like I had other interests besides Mechanical Engineering....parties, poetry, politics, women). The diversity at this university was a big plus for I became a citizen of the world. Meeting people from different countries and walks of life changed my perspective. Instead of naively thinking that Trinidad was the world, Trinidad became part of it, and I was quite content to proclaim my heritage among the rest. Now with reckless abandon, I was ready to take on the world, after graduating I moved to the south. Louisiana would be become my home and where I started my professional career as an engineer.

It is here in Louisiana that I have really matured as an adult, and have come to find myself. It is where I have recognized my talents and skills, and have made a commitment to hone them. I am a budding artist, poet and short story writer, and soon I will try my hand at sculpting. This blog is great opportunity for me to write and show my work. What I need most as an artist is review and criticism. I lack that right now. Sometimes, I see my work through rose-colored lenses, and then after a while, self-criticism wreaks havoc on my belief. I think some well intentioned and honest criticism can help steward my talent.

While art is my passion; politics, reading and movies are my joys. This year is big for Democrats, too big. Whoever wins the Democrat nomination can and will be able to marshal the democrat and liberal forces for November. The Republicans should be afraid, very afraid. I will from time to time put my 2 cents in about the politics. It is high drama and I am always intrigued. I am also interested in the politics of my own home. Sadly, Trinidad politics has a very shameful component to it and that is race. It is an ugly contest between two ethnic groups for political power. I will go into details about that another time.

I did not always like to read. I can remember my parents putting a book in my hand and sitting me in a corner. I can tell you, it is very hard to read while angry with your parents, but I did it anyhow. In the end, I learned to love reading. The books I have read are varied in theme. I read both fiction and non-fiction so from time to time I will write a review of a book I have read. I am also addicted to movies, expect reviews of what is showing. I watch everything except horror. While I am not afraid of real life, watching the most macabre and disturbing thoughts of others on the silver screen is not my cup of green tea.

This is my first blog, and I hope it was interesting. I want to thank a friend for introducing to this site. Read well. Enjoy. And expect more!

The Inspired Trini