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Tempus Fugit

June 17, 2015 — Leave a comment

From all appearances, my surgery was a success. I was out before I even got into the operating room, my last recollection was the nurses wheeling me out of the room. Five hours later my labrum had been repaired, my femur sculpted and excess built up tissue removed from my hip joint.

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for the first time in years i am without any jewelry. no earrings, no wedding band, no watch.  I’m sitting in the lobby of st. thomas surgicare waiting to get called back for my third surgery ever. of the three, this is both the most complicated; repair my labrum and cartilage in my hip and re-sculpt the ball of my femur and the bowl it rests in; and the least invasive; the whole procedure is done via three smallish incisions in my hip.

although this is outpatient surgery they are putting me under and looking at the consent form I think the order of possible side effects may be a little skewed.

Anesthesia Consent Form

Personally I would reorder 11-13.

a decade ago I got hired to work at my favorite fruit company and in the immortal words of the Grateful Dead, what a long strange trip it’s been.

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If nobody ever understands, you give up trying to explain…

I had that dream again. That dream where my words kept getting jumbled. That dream where I’m awake but I think I’m dreaming. Am I dreaming now? I think I’m always dreaming. I have to be dreaming.

My doctor is no help. He mumbles some platitudes about my subconscious, fugue states and gives me more drugs to sleep. I go through the day in a fog. I feel like I’m constantly asleep and I am dreaming. Even my waking moments seem to be vivid dreams.

I talk to my co-workers. I ask them if they dream. They talk about their aspirations. They talk about the things they plan to do. They talk about vacations. They ask me about my dreams. Do I have co-workers? Are they part of my dream?

I should talk to my friends. Do I have friends? Why do I dream alone?

I talk to my doctor again. The drugs are not working. Are the drugs working too well? Am I awake? Am I always dreaming?

I have to be dreaming. I have no recollection of getting from one place to another. I see my doctor. I am in my apartment. I go to work. I am in my apartment. I see my doctor. I am writing this down. Where did I get this book? How are the words appearing on the paper. Am I dreaming? I see my doctor. I got to work. I am in my apartment. I must be dreaming.


lace, textiles, fur

January 18, 2015 — Leave a comment

13 years ago today on a sunny beach I promised to love and cherish Victoria through good and bad, sickness and health.

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I have proven that I can put sentences together in a meaningful manner for money at one point in my life. So why, oh why, did I fail what is clearly a basic english class?

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My final essay for my English class

Christmas has always been an interesting holiday for me. Growing up, my family unit consisted of my mother and myself. Every year until I turned 16, the Sunday after school closed for the holidays we would get on a plane and go to Jamaica where my maternal grandparents still lived. My mother would stay up late packing and early on Sunday morning a family friend would swing by and manhandle the two giant suitcase in the back of his car and take us to the airport.

Getting from our house in Trinidad to my grandparent’s house in Jamaica took a day. We would leave our house around 5:30am and drive eastward into the sun towards the airport. The flight was always full and check-in, then boarding felt indeterminable. There were no direct flights from Trinidad to Jamaica and our flight usually had three or four stops which turned a four hour trip into six or seven. The length of the trip was compounded by two problems I faced as a child – the excruciating ear pain pain I would experience on take off and landing and my propensity for throwing up airline meals.

I think the two might have been related but the limited window of the pain and regurgitation did nothing to temper the excitement of seeing my grandparents and participating in one of the best Christmas traditions – making fruit cake or as it’s known in the Caribbean, black cake. Most people hear fruit cake and think of a dry, tasteless log that gets passed from family member to family member like a lodestone, Caribbean fruit cake is completely different animal. The day after we arrived my mother and I would head to the supermarket and purchase the approximately 12-16 combined pounds of fruit, flour, sugar, eggs and butter as well as a large quantity of alcohol. We would then head back to the house where my job was the grind all the fruit – prunes, raisins, currants and into a huge metal bowl that existed only for this purpose.

Once the fruit was ground, my grandmother would pull out another metal bowl and jars of fruit that had been soaking in alcohol from the previous year and we would take turns mixing in the other ingredients until we had cake batter. The current year’s fruit I had ground went into the jars, got liberally covered with white rum and put into the pantry to soak for the next year. Once the batter was made it, the next step was greasing and lining the pans. My grandmother’s cake was the stuff of legend, my mother would take five or six cakes home with us and dole slices out to her close friends and confidantes. My grandfather’s clients and business partners would swing by during the holidays to get a slice. This was our tradition, this is how the holidays truly began for me.

The year I turned 16, my grandfather died and mother strong armed and her mother into moving to Trinidad with us. That Christmas we tried making black cake but somehow my mother managed to fall asleep and let the cakes burn. This became the excuse for a massive fight every year between my mother and grandmother which pretty much turned me off the whole holiday. The Christmas after I emigrated to the US, my wife who loves the holidays, thought it would be a good idea for use to attempt to restart this tradition. After some fits and starts we have finally perfected my grandmother’s black cake recipe. Our new tradition is to make a quarter batch in cupcake molds and share them with friends.

In Nashville it is very common to hear people make ugly comments about illegal immigrants. The city has even gone as far as allowing law enforcement officials to detain people they believe to be in the country illegally. But the process to become a legal immigrant is long and costly.

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here are some signs of the Privilege:
you never repeatedly get pulled over for routine traffic stops in your neighborhood
routine traffic stops never involve more than one police cruiser

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Hair Talk

January 9, 2013 — Leave a comment

Let’s talk about hair, specifically dreadlocks and some of the questions that are asked on a fairly common basis and how they can be construed.

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