A weblog by Jonathan Ali
|
|
| Notes from a small island A weblog by Jonathan Ali |
|
|
Monday, March 20, 2006 To quote the immortal Morrissey, "I've seen this happen in other people's lives, and now it's happening in mine." I've been tagged. (Thanks, Georgia.) Right, here we go. Four jobs I’ve had: Legal intern Literacy tutor Research assistant Bookseller (For all of a day) Four movies I can watch over and over: Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (The funniest film I've ever seen) Big Night (The tastiest film I've ever seen) Coming to America Cinema Paradiso Four places I have lived: Trinidad England Um, that's it. Four television shows I love to watch: The Daily Show Dateline London Austin City Limits The Simpsons Four places I have been on vacation: France Guyana The Netherlands Scotland Four of my favorite dishes: Pumpkin soup Mushrooms sauteed in butter Rack of lamb Crème brulée Four websites I visit daily: UK Guardian Pitchfork Global Voices New York Times Four places I would rather be right now: A pub in London with Guinness on tap My sister's in New Haven, Conn A Rufus Wainwright concert Mayaro beach, with her Four bloggers I am tagging (Let's see who reads my blog...): Titilayo Bina Guyana Gyal Ed posted by Jonathan | 10:31 PM 0 comments Friday, March 10, 2006 News flash: My name is Jonathan, and I am an introvert. (Via Jabberwock.) posted by Jonathan | 9:08 PM 0 comments Wednesday, March 08, 2006 Two pieces in today's Express on last Sunday's lecture and presentation on the late actor, singer and cultural activist, Edric Connor, the last item of the UWI 25th Anniversary Conference on West Indian Literature. One is a feature by Michael Mondezie; the other comes from George John, in his column. The tribute to Connor was put together by calypso historian Ray Funk and lecturer in film, Bruce Paddington. According to George John: It has taken two men, neither of them "Trini to the bone" but who have developed a great love and deep respect for our accomplishments in the arts and, of course, for the artistes themselves, to rescue the name, Connor, and the artist's fame from oblivion and to provide us with this enthralling commentary. The phrase "Trini to the bone", of course, comes from the David Rudder and Carl Jacobs calypso duet of the same name, an extremely popular exercise in emigrant patriotism from some years ago that led to practically everyone who considered themselves patriotic citizens declaring that they were, indeed, all Trinis to the bone. I assume what John means by his description of Funk and Paddington as not being Trini to the bone is that they are not Trinidad born. (If it is he thinks they are not Trinidadian, well as far as Funk, an American, is concerned, he's right. Paddington, however, is a Trinidadian citizen.) Well, if that's what he meant--that they aren't native Trinidadians--he should have just said that. As much I don't care for the "Trini to the bone" concept (I find it rather hollow), if we are going to use it, let's not be exclusive. Why should not being native born mark one apart from the Trini born among us who have the nation's welfare at heart? Not only are we an immigrant society, this crucible of civilisations that is the Caribbean, all of us if you scale our family trees having come, in various combinations and at different times, from Africa, Europe, Asia--everywhere but here--not only that, but so many of these "foreigners" have proven time and again to be more genuinely concerned for this country and its culture, environment and society than us natives. Simply put, they're more Trini to the bone than many of us Trinis. And if that's unfortunate, it's our fault. We shouldn't seek to deny Ray Funk and Bruce Paddington and others like them the recognition for their work that they deserve simply because they weren't born here. posted by Jonathan | 8:58 AM 0 comments Wednesday, March 01, 2006 Mass Man Through a great lion's head clouded by mange a black clerk growls. Next, a gold-wired peacock withholds a man, a fan, flaunting its oval, jewelled eyes; What metaphors! What coruscating, mincing fantasies! Hector Mannix, waterworks clerk, San Juan, has entered a lion, Boysie, two gold mangoes bobbing for breastplates, barges like Cleopatra down her river, making style. "Join us," they shout. "Oh God, child, you can't dance?" But somewhere in that whirlwind's radiance a child, rigged like a bat, collapses, sobbing. But I am dancing, look, from an old gibbet my bull-whipped body swings, a metronome! Like a fruit bat dropped in the silk-cotton's shade, my mania, my mania is a terrible calm. Upon your penitential morning, some skull must rub its memories with ashes, some mind must squat down howling in your dust, some hand must crawl and recollect your rubbish, someone must write your poems. --Derek Walcott, from Collected Poems, 1948-1984 posted by Jonathan | 6:17 PM 0 comments |
|
|
|
|
|||||||||||
|
|
||||||||||||||
|
 |
||||||||||||||
|
|||||||||||||||
