up and down the elevator of words

Opening Doors

locked within a few seconds
impossible feeling, falling into you
Lauryn's song, killing me softly

By Obediah Michael Smith and Nadine Brown, 2007
4:07 a.m. 26/11/07

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

The recent passing of Nadine's dog, calls to mind the film, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, made from Czechoslovakian author, Milan Kundera’s novel of the very same title.

Juliette Binoche and Daniel Day-Lewis star in this delightful film. Here is why Nadine's dog’s death brings this film to mind.

Character played by Day-Lewis is a medical doctor. Binoche, in the role of the doctor's wife, is exceptional.

We see this couple in the film purchase a puppy, which we watch become a dog, a big heavy pet. There is a piglet as well in the film, which becomes a big heavy pig before our eyes. The pig is the pet of a friend of this couple. The animals indicate so well the passage of time.

The dog gets old, falls ill. It is not taken to a vet. The doctor himself treats this pet, which they both cared for, played with and loved.

I find myself wondering if the doctor in Nadine’s life stepped in. Did he intervene to save his wife's poor pet, the passing of which, it seems, has left her so distraught?

Does it work like that though, outside of films, outside of Czechoslovakia? Can a medical doctor do a veterinarian’s job? What of vice versa?

I've avoided telling you what becomes of the dog or the pig in “The Unbearable Lightness of Being”. You'll have to see it. I wish not to spoil it. It is a very fine film. Be assured of that.

when autumn comes

Rake for Leaves
for Thomas-Brown

woman salivating,
do or say something,
make her less moist,
dry up, like a mouth amid speech
without water in a glass

is moisture left, sufficient
for speech, for when two meet,
to get to heaven in, get to heaven on

enough for two to glide
upon a roller coasted ride


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2007
11:34 a.m. 20/11/07

Elevator

no space, no time,
a second, us in it,
wished for forever

a moment
no you no me
us falling
Lauryn's song deadly
killing me softly.

Art Gallery

Juicy mango lips
works of art
forbidden fruit
heart trembling still
air whooshes by
whooshes out
of sweet breathed mouth
as lips gently
oh so gently
sweetly touched.
NTB (c) Nov. 2007

murderer

He killed a man
Just shot him dead
Wanted his watch, wanted his soul

Now in court he sits I watch his hurt eyes, haunted eyes, scared eyes
Jail house does not rock.

Letter to a Man Child

If I held you to my breast
and calmed your fears
maybe the years between us
would fall away like old skin


If indeed as you say you don't mind the years
and every one and everything
did not matter at all
then we could laugh and dance
slip away and find romance.

My wish for you my darling is
that one day when you find true bliss
that maybe in the midst of it
you'll think of me a little bit

and though I know that you I'll miss
though we've only shared one little kiss
all i have to say is this
manchild walk your miles...

thirsty on wednesdays

Dish Lick
for N.T.B.

mango seeds recently,
beneath my leaking sink,
within my dark cupboard, growing

love out of sight, takes similar flight
long stalks, tall stems, shooting leaves

you leave me breathless
eye windows, I want those apples, plums
to pull them off stems
to pull your limbs down

four limbs about me say
“I want you in me, safe and warm!”

98.6 x 2 on a cold, December night
plight of life, no plight at all

easy for you as tangerine, to get into
to peel and plug, to peel, unplug

I want to hug you until leaven rise
our two balloons, blue-heaven bound
we’ll blow up there, we’ll go up there

attic of creation to be intimate in
hay loft to copulate in
until cows moo, jealous of you
in hay all day, in nothing more

you are the woman I wear
when my pen needs a grip to fit into

to bite you in two, to bite into you
what I desire to do
though I want you whole
to be able to hold you

whole beets, whole peaches in cans
dish or two, to empty them into


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2007
2:53 a.m. 15/11/07

east african

Penny Wort’ A Sausage

you’d need to have a dick
as long as a sausage
for all the girls who desire
an inch or two of it

dick enough to hang up
in a butcher shop
for them to purchase
able to come by any time
to buy piece

sweet-mout’ fur dick, fur sausage
caan’ get enough of it
but you are dick’s son
as we all are


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2007
2:10 a.m. 15/11/07

Park and Playground Hazardous

By Nadine Thomas –Brown

There is a song by Ziggy Marley and the Melody Makers part of which goes, “ children playing in the streets, on broken bottles and rubbish heaps”. The song was a commentary about the state of ghettos as it related to children who had to grow up in less than acceptable environments.

In the Bahamas on any given day of the week, school kids and preschoolers, as well as their parents, whether from the inner city or otherwise, put themselves in similar situations. They do this by going to parks which for the most part have seemingly been left to maintain themselves.

Lately while other offending parks have tried to clean up their act- through community organizations- Goodman’s Bay Park whose -grounds due in part to the large traffic of public visitors- has become a veritable dumping ground. Any day of the week garbage may be found throughout the park extending all the way into the children’s playground. Plastic bottles and wrappers from food containers as well as other unmentionable objects -often times left over from whatever illicit activity took place the night before- litter the park.

Meanwhile the children’s playground has become akin to what one parent, called an “obstacle course of hazards”. The fragile looking rusted swings- a great draw to kids and adults of all ages- groan with fright every time they are pushed sky high into the air with their tiny or not so tiny passengers. The see- saw has lost it’s balance and teeters from side to side every time it is boarded. In the meantime the huge slide-the biggest hazard of all- waits to savage little kids with it’s huge jagged teeth which protrudes from a huge break at the mouth from which they descend after sliding down at breakneck speed.

Ironically this park sits at one of the more prestigious ends of town leading into the Cable Beach strip. Tourists can be seen milling about mixing with the natives throughout the week.

Other parks though such as those adopted by private business enterprises seem to be thriving, for example the Kerzner International sponsored, Montague Park in the eastern district is for the most part well maintained. Even though the odd bit of waste from time to time lying next to an empty recepticle is somewhat disturbing.

Meanwhile officials were stumped on the question of who was responsible for maintaining the playground equipments in government owned areas. The Guardian was told to call Environmental health, who then passed the buck to The Ministry of youth who passed it to the Ministry of Works and back and forth went the beureocratic red tape.

Finally, Hilton Solomon- Field Supervisor zone 5 –Department of Environmental Health, who has held that post for the past three weeks, according to him, said that while Environmental Health was responsible for maintaining park grounds he thought that the Ministry of Youth dealt with playground equipment.

As to what was to be done about the accumulation of garbage in parks, Solomon said that cleanup of all parks and beaches had already commenced. Though the call was still out on a cleanup of users of the park’s attitudes towards helping to maintain the cleanliness of it.

“If you notice now we are just now trying to do some work. Grounds will be cleaned there are changes and we are not moving as fast, but trees have been trimmed paths whitewashed, sand cleared etc. and we are going to have an ongoing maintenance of all parks and beaches which will be cleaned every day,” Solomon said.

“Some of the problems that we were having there included a lot of parties on the weekends. We want to meet with some of the citizens including the Jet Ski association to find out solutions”.

Meanwhile Ambrose-Walker-Deputy Permanent Secretary in the Ministry of Youth Sports and culture redirected the call to Chris Thompson a Public Administrator in the Ministry of Works to answer the who is in charge of maintaining the parks playgrounds question.

Thompson said that technically the Ministry of works would be responsible for “things like that but there are certain play equipment that have been donated and we do not maintain those as it would be those persons responsibility to maintain them”. The Ministry of works he explained was responsible for “anything that was on public space, the use of public space and the maintenance and upkeep of public rest rooms.”

What if the equipment for the playground was posing a threat? Thompson paused here to seek assistance and again insisted that the Ministry of Youth and Sports would be able to answer this question.

When Permanent Secretary Walker was again contacted he said because of the murkiness as to who was responsible. He would take it on himself to send someone to address the problem and find out which Ministry to send the bill to.

Adventures in Journalism4

photos By Edward Russell II

There are numerous things that you could do with your well deserved lunch break which- face it- you have anticipated from the moment your dragged your sleep deprived reluctant body into the work place.

For one, you could go shopping for more shoes you probably do not need .Maybe you could meet up with carefree friends to finally try sushi at any of the expensive Japanese restaurants which have popped up all over Nassau like pimples on a teenager's face. Maybe you can drop in to the hairdresser to tighten up those three week old locks, braids, weaves or perms. However for the adventurous, supremely unconventional and positively unorthodox individual, another option is available. How about a tattoo or a piercing or both?

Piercings and tattoos- though recently resurrected as part of pop culture- have been around since ancient times. Tribes in Africa and India still indulge in piercings and scarring as well as tattooing as holy rituals or to indicate tribal affiliations.

Cut to the eighties and women and men in the west have begun making more than one piercing in the earlobes and piercing their nostrils as a fashion statement -something which was still taboo in the sixties.

Tatooing started making an appearance in the early nineties with the advent of “thug life chic” . Nowadays most entertainers have indulged in some sort of tattooing. It is not unusual to see facial, tongue, navel, eyebrows, nostrils and of course earlobes pierced.

For those of you who squirm at the sheer thought of a needle piercing any part of your anatomy, the good news is it's not as bad as it looks.








This sentiment is echoed by everyone who comes in to get either a piercing or tattoo the day my pal, photojournalist Edward Russell III and me decide to document the experience of getting pierced and “tatted” for the reading public just in case enquiring minds sought answers about these less than new, but still scary modern day art forms- a kind of adventure in journalism for the timid so to speak.

After a week of looking for the right spot to do the deed, our research leads us to Tattoo King on Marathon Road. We decide to take several calming breaths before heading into the parlor.


The parlor itself is a converted three bedroom flat replete with red walls hung with sketches and pictures of people with tattoos and piercings. The living room has been converted into a reception area. With a couple of couches strategically placed apparently more for space than style. The centre of the room is dominated by a desk on which sits a computer and accessories. This is the first stop in the process of getting hooked up with a “sick” tat. ( tatoo so good it inspires envy).

We are greeted by a friendly older guy, who we learn is the manager. Apparently the business is a family venture. Older guy tells us that his brother taught all the other brothers the art of piercing and tattooing and they are now in the process of expanding the business`. They now have another tattoo parlor.

We introduce ourselves to the manager as reporters and inform him of our mission. He is only too happy to oblige. I tell him I want a piercing in my lip a la Amy Winehouse- the latest singing phenom out of England. She sports a piercing at the top of her lip which looks like a beauty spot.. This is right up my alley since I am not trying to be too “Rock and Roll” on the job. It is discreet and less played out than a nose ring.

Shortly afterward, I am escorted into a back room with a massage table and told to climb up. Eddie tags along looking very scared for me which is very funny. I begin to laugh. Then older guy returns with a needle the size of a crochet hook. Needless to say all laughter ceases as I steel myself for the moment when this monstrous tool will penetrate my lip . However I am directed to the bathroom where I am instructed to put a mark on the area that I needed to be pierced thus keeping the pain at bay for now.

I am diverted back to the room after strategically marking the spot for the piercing. “Bring on the pain,” I think to myself. Seconds and not more than a pin prick later, I am sporting a tiny diamond studded ring in my lip. It's to die for. Eddie cattily tells me that it looks good except that all the jewelery I am currently wearing “kinda clashes”. I flash him a nasty look but have no comments.

The impact of the face ring at work is phenomenal and at home gets not even a raised eyebrow from hubby. What it does inspire however is a, “take it out” from the three year old who keeps poking it, and a “did it hurt mommy” from the considerate eight year old who wants to try it on... so much for that.


Three days later we are back at the salon. Eddie wants to dabble in piercings and I in tattoos. We are given the VIP treatment. I get to look through a catalogue of various types of tattoos online and finally decide on a tribal tattoo of a bear's claw. At this point I do not give any thought to meaning. I just like the look of the claw. After my final decision is clear the design is uploaded and printed on paper. I am then given this paper and shown into a different room where several people are. Three are tattoo artistes. They are all young looking and the guy assigned to me is only 18. He traces the design on what looks like wax paper then somehow gets the design on my arm (I miss this step because I am joking around).

The next step in this process is an hour and a half of scraping away skin and mixing flesh with ink. When the wound has dried this ink will become a permanent part of who I am. This is one of the most painful experiences I have had but it is worth it when I see the tattoo. It is well done and bold like me. I can't wait to show it off. I am bandaged and told to remove the tape in 4 hours and given ointment for the wound. With plenty of kind words we take our leave.


Lately it has become a rite of passage for young people who caught up in the hip hop cultures try to emulate their idols. For example a 16 year old whose aunt had driven him to the parlour. He got the name of an artist who he admired tattooed on his arm. His aunt commented that though some viewed tattoos wearily- she saw nothing wrong with it as there were other things that a boy could be doing aside from just getting a tattoo.

The general consensus is that a tatoo enhances sexuality if strategically placed on a woman. As for men it makes them appear tougher. For older people getting a tattoo is sometimes more about symbolism than anything else . Alexis who recently got a tattoo told me that she decided to do something spontaneous for her 36th birthday to remind her that she still had some spirit left in her.

However to the tattoo artist it is less about any of these things and more about the art itself. The act of creating artwork and placing it on a living canvas. Of course the financial gain from people who have become addicted to these ancient practices is an added bonus.

Just A Thought

“One bad apple spoils the whole bunch,” so says an old adage. However in this millennium when we have overturned so many old adages and turned impossibilities into tangible realities it's within the realm of possibility that the Bahamas can be returned to its former relatively crime free status.

However it will take the hard work of every last Bahamian rich or poor black white or in between as well as the government to do a task that while difficult, should not be excessively hard in a nation composed of only some 20 thousand citizens.

For this to happen though, government officials would have to take the lead and become less self absorbed and be willing to take pay cuts so as to facilitate money going to other persons who really deserve it and who are playing a more hands on role in society. Policemen, nurses, garbage men and especially teachers fall into this category. Government would also have to be willing to make and enforce laws which would not only apply to other people's families and friends but theirs also.

This new government would not be interested in longwinded speeches [obviously made up by assistants] to avoid answering pertinent questions (for example the one about why children are being locked up in Her Majesty's Prison (when by law any place can be declared a detention center) but instead would be able to answer questions asked, because they know the issues and are actually interested in them.

This new government would be able to make laws pertinent to the development of the nation and the advancement of women in the Bahamas not as political groupies or puppet figures but as equals in every respect.

The government would then make education number one on its list of priorities and empty the classrooms of all the teachers who are only slightly ahead of the kids that they teach in intelligence. They would fill the classroom with elite teachers who are well educated and love the idea of teaching. These teachers would of course be paid ministers of government salaries. This would attract quality male teachers back to the classroom as they would be now able to support a wife and kids with their new salaries. Now they would also be able to drive to and from school in comfortable luxury cars then in the evening kick back in huge houses in gated communities, where they could rest peacefully after a hard day's work…

Of course with attention now being paid to education. The government would also allocate in the budget a huge chunk of money to fixing public schools in the ghettos and throughout the country. Serious dollars would go into painting the drab and dreary schools with cheery colors similar to those used on police stations. Playgrounds such as Ridgeland Park Primary School would be paved so that little children would not have to play on brown dirty dusty grounds all day long. It goes without saying that every school would be jam packed with materials that teachers did not actually have to buy themselves.

It goes without saying that this ideal government would also have implemented after school programs in all communities with persons of reputable standing at the helm [no pedophiles need be handpicked because of nepotism and friendships] to keep juveniles occupied in the evenings. With something positive to do kids who congregate on the street corners [due to overcrowding at home] would actually have something to look forward to rather than be led astray by retarded adults.

Due to the rising grade point average mainly because of this wholesale government initiative on education, The government begins to take note that in order to get the country out of its crime ridden situation, all they needed to do in the first place was educate the people. As education increases reasoning skills- which enables better problem solving [Keod and Kenyatta were isolated incidents] thus more thinking before acting and so less crime- also increases.

Acting in the best interest of the people they would then pour money into educating policemen while also giving them minister's of government salaries. They take this attitude to every ministry and to themselves ultimately getting rid of or salvaging the bad apples before they spoil the bunch and thereby cleaning up the country and what ails it.

Diary of a Public School Teacher (Part 1) (fiction)

6:30 a.m. finds me almost finished with breakfast. My 15 year old stepdaughter is already bathed and finishing up homework which is due two weeks from now-what can I say? She is driven. The five year old is still fast asleep and no amount of tickling, poking or shouting will get him up willingly. Finally my frustrated, highly put upon, hubby has to lift him out of bed and plunk him- still sleeping- into the bath tub of warm water. I know it sounds a little cruel right? Yeah, but it’s this or be late. So every morning we are forced to play this little game. The baby- our alarm clock – is long dressed and observing us all calmly, as if to say look at those lesser beings.

Finally we are all in the car. The five year old is now fully animated and singing The Itsy Bitsy Spider song at the top of his lungs, with the baby doing backup. Its 8:00a.m. Traffic is backed up and I already have the beginnings of a headache. The last of my kids is dropped off and he runs towards the school house with nary a backward glance. I feel a little hurt but that’s life, he is growing up. It’s nice to feel needed though.

It is with great trepidation that I finally pull up to the school where I work. It’s 8:44a.m. Students are milling about and vendors are already selling cavities and hyperactivity (disguised as candy) to the kids whom for the next six to seven hours will take out their “sugar high” on me. I rush to sign in before the Vice-Principal whom I call the Iron Lady marks a big red x beside my name reminding me that I am late again for the 30th time this month. What can I say? Traffic is brutal!
The sound of the buzzer and kids rushing off to classes brings me back to life and I hurriedly dash up the stairs before I am swept away in the sea of ‘picky head chirren’

1st Period
I am sweating like a fat man in a sauna. By the time I get to my class, my wig – which keeps me from wasting time in the morning – is awry and unbecoming and all forty two of my grade eight students are snickering as they catch sight of their teacher and her bedraggled mop. Some have the nerve to be laughing out loud-which irritates me a great deal-I snap angrily at that overly fed kid who is pointing and guffawing-exposing all 32 of his less than pearly whites- he clams up immediately – I will get nothing from that one for the rest of the class I think to myself – regretfully. He never has anything to say anyway. What can you say about a child who is always talking while you are teaching but shuts up when asked what he is talking about, or instead blatantly lies and says he was not talking? I could say more on that one but I will not.

The class is running smoothly and I breathe an inward sigh of relief. Unfortunately the relief is short lived as a fight breaks out between two girls. I think to myself of all the classes in the school why mine? Apparently girl 1 stole girl 2’s pencil and to add insult to injury yesterday girl 1 told the Home Economics. teacher that girl 2 had skipped her class and lied about being at the nurse. So embittered, this is girl 2’s day for revenge. Why she chooses my class to resolve her grouse is anyone’s guess.

I look up to see books and desks flying, 42 children shouting and the battling divas on the floor, hair all messed up, underwear on display and dignity all up in the breeze. Of course being the teacher I have to try and separate them. Everyone else is shouting Fight! Fight! Fight! So I get in the middle only to have my wig snatched off. A well aimed fist leaves me seeing doubles. This shocks the spectators into silence and brings the battling divas to a halt. Then there is a collective shout of laughter which goes on for a couple of minutes. While I rescue my dusty headpiece from the floor, jam it on my head and race for the staff room. I almost faint at the sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. Makeup and mascara are all racing down my face and my jacket is ripped. The Vice Principal appears out of nowhere looks disapprovingly at me and shakes her head. I imagine what she will write in that little black book she is always toting around. Well she will get hers one day.

Of course the periods after this are all blurred as I try to live down the shock of exposing my picky roots to the worst grade eight class I have ever taught. By the end of the day I have a new nickname, “Wiggy Wonder”. Even the teachers cannot hide their obvious amusement at my plight and one chubby teacher, who I cannot stand, comes up behind me and gently plucks some remnant of paper from the now famous wig. I utter a defeated thank you and think to myself “lousy heifer”.

On my way home I am thoughtful and thankful. Even though the day’s excitement has given birth to a migraine from hell, my kids are safe, I’m almost home and I still have a job. I have a feeling there will be more days like this, so on the weekend I am switching to braids or at least some industrial strength hair glue.

To be continued:

copyright 2003

The Joneser [BUM]

The Joneser
Nadine Thomas-Brown




The moon dripped light, like wax from a candle
On the inert figure of a man long past his prime
He lay on a dingy, tattered piece of cardboard
in the thick darkness of a deserted gas station
contemplating that time
had tricked him into complacency
cajoled him into thinking
That he had forever to seek out his destiny.

Foolishly believing that his youth’s blush
would stay, he wasted time and libido
never really acknowledging the life he gave to countless others.
He consistently avoided responsibility, and pursued pipe dreams in crack houses , cracking up from some imaginary imaginings.
then abandoning the teachings of mater and pater found himself by the way side without f.a.m.i.l.y. and m.o.n.e.y. and wondered to himself why this shit was happening to him further and further he dug his grave prostituting his soul for the white lady letting go of who he was.
Reasoning abandoned interspersed with yearly flashes of why the fuck am I doing this to myself?
A question he could never answer because the dog eat dog mentality of the streets is far removed from this new reality of self preservation that is now the all pervading actuality of his situation.

Lyford Cay is now years away, no more money to burn.His friends have dried up and blown away
like the dust of his parents disappointed bones
a shadow of the man he could have been
now a cripple, a dirty joneser , a sad lesson to learn
wish he could flip a switch and make it ten years earlier
wishes regrets didn’t hurt like maggot filled sores
and as he sits in the dark watching the moon drip light on
the passing cars, homeward bound
tears like a meandering river slowly floods his unkempt, unwashed face.

* This poem was written for a buddy of mine after I interviewed him behind a dumpster of a gas station not so long ago. He teared up while revealing secrets he never told anyone, according to him.