The thing about being an “outsider” is that you’ve never fit in or felt comfortable with traditional or contemporary relationships and situations. Donald Trump is not an outsider. The folks who align with the Alt-Right or Black Lives Matter are not outsiders. They all have people and groups that they feel supported by.

I don’t know if I’m an outsider, but I sure feel like I am. I was raised in a fresh-off-the-boat Caribbean household, whilst growing up in a North American reality. I was singled out by cops while my white friends got away with everything but murder. I was too white for my black contemporaries, and too black for my white ones… And both sides called me “Oreo” to make sure that I never forgot where I stood.

I never had a father figure worth mentioning, and my mother – while having to work harder than most to raise two children alone in a strange and new society – was never capable of providing me the emotional support that I needed.

While I’ve fallen in and out of groups over the years, they’ve never accepted me as a whole. Years ago, I was hanging with a particular group… One day, I was laying on the back of a “friend’s” car and some randoms came up and punched me in the face because I tagged a wall that they claimed as theirs. Not a single person came to stand beside me as I jumped up and tried to defend myself. I don’t blame them… I was never really a part of their group anyway.

I’ve come to realize over time that I will always exist in the margins. I am a religious man in an aggressively secular society. I am a staunch proponent of unbounded compassion in a political atmosphere that applauds divisiveness… I live in a reality that favours individuality (…as if we’ve ever been) at the expense of the communal.

I float along in this human frame, forced to conform to an arbitrary measurement of time that doesn’t truly exist… I am stardust compressed and made corporeal, yet I cannot feel my constituent parts. I want to expand. I want to explode. I want to die and be born again, like a star that has sent off it’s last solar flare and then collapses into a black hole – the other side of which is just………. .

I’m tired of being outside of myself. I want to be whole again.


Unwritten Rumi

Gatherer of the Scattered Leaves



As the Potter begins to form new vessels, and as she begins to fill the many cups, from which would you choose to sip? Would you reach for the cup filled with a sweet honeyed tea? Shall it be instead the wine made of ugly and bitter fruit? Truly, you are the vessel from which the drink is poured, and the Cup which you lift to your lip – it is the selfsame well from which the Children of the coming Summer shall partake.

For you see, Winter has beset us and his bitter winds have instead blow’d us apart, though the cold should have drawn us closer, that we might warm our Hearts in each other’s glow. But Winter cannot last forever. And a time must needs come when the new, tender shutes of Compassion push up against the hard-packed Earth to breathe the common air. And which sky will the Rainbow Children raise their heads to see? And what then shall we name the rising dawn of a pale Spring that sees no new blossom that isn’t blighted by the inky black of Hate?

For just as we each grow only as high as our dominant aspiration, so too do we quickly descend to the level of our lowest concept of ourselves. And soon thereafter there comes the torrential rains of skepticism and anger that do poison the Gardens Within and Without; and the Stone crumbles; and the Wood rots; and the many-buttressed Selfs do bend and break; and the land, it becomes untenable.



But the Fragile Things – a thought, a dream, a legend – they go on and on because the unreal is far more powerful than the real. Ideas, concepts, beliefs, fantasies… These are the unquantifiable, immeasurable Truths that neither science nor religion could ever deign to explain. These are the Jewels which we bequeath to our heirs, and they are the salt which renders the land barren.

Beloved, it has been said: “The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, moves on: Nor all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy Tears wash out a word of it.” Therefore, let the Story of You be one of Love, and let the words therein be written in the boldest of hands. And though your tears may still fall, let them fall for Joy and not sorrow as they fill the Potter’s vessels of clay.

Beloved, it has been said: “Be careful of the thought seeds you plant in the garden of your mind, for seeds grow after their kind.” Therefore, let your Garden be sowed with the seeds of Love and Plenty, for truly that is all that is worth cultivating. And let these tender Orchids grow and blossom into acts of vanilla-scented kindness that redolently tumble in the wind and waft across all the land and sea.



So: Be LOVE and be loved, Beloved.

For only the LOVERS shall not be destroyed, and only the LOVED shall be provided strength and grace enough to maintain the roots that might find purchase in this rocky and inhospitable soil – this soil whose only fertilizer is the weak and watery milk-coloured solution of cabalism; whose tasteless insipidity gorges itself on division and bitterness and propagates amongst those who are thirsty for belonging.
So: Be You, bravely.

For they will try to bury you, not knowing that you are a seed of purest intention from which a Great Bloom will one day spread, and whose Flowering shall provide a sweet nectar for summer’s Rainbow Children.



And the bitter wine shall be drunk by those who have made it and they will try to poison themselves and will wail in despair when they find that the cup has instead been filled with the honeyed tea. And we will kiss them and embrace them, and let them feel Loved for they are our brothers and sisters and are deserving of our concern and compassionate touch. We will listen with our hearts and speak from our souls and we will reconcile the disparities, and we will be whole once more.






On the real, when I really think about it, my friends who have died young haven’t missed a damn thing. The world hasn’t gotten better, music hasn’t improved, folks haven’t become more understanding or sympathetic. Overall, ain’t shit gotten significantly better since “the College Dropout” dropped.

If anything, it seems to me that whether they died from drugs or violence, I’m the one whose life should be mourned; They lived and died exactly as they wanted – I can’t say the same for myself.

Time, Weather & Trains

Time is a strange thing… Why does a week sometimes feel like a month? Why does a few months sometimes feel like a year? Why does ten years sometimes feel like half of that?

Combine that with a long memory and a habit of sometimes being overly sensitive and depressed, and you’ve got yourself a life of self-reinforcing feelings of suffering and sadness. Every old memory feels like its brand new; every loss is daily accounted for and additive; every mistake and regret is demands constant rumination. Tell me: How can a heart stand such things and live?

As my last partner was breaking up with me, I was told to “Try not to be too hard on yourself.” The thing is, I really do. I try my damnedest, all the time. But every new experience makes it harder and harder.

These dreadful memories are sucking the sweet life out of me.
The sunshine of a late autumn afternoon washes away the depth of colour in the changing leaves and my pale grayness of feeling makes duller the vision of connectedness that I used to have in the world. Winter is coming, as they say, and I’m not sure how many more winters I can stand.

I’m still hopeful – its just not the hopefulness of youth. Instead, its a shallow feeling of hope. An almost laughably weak feeling that maybe I’ve still got time to change directions; that maybe I can once again feel like I’m the conductor of this train of life… The thing is, trains can’t turn around on their tracks and I’m not qualified to drive.

#TinyStories 3

I probably won’t be able to look forward to summer for a long time. My chest will hurt. My tears will be overflowing. But this warmth in my hands and these summer memories will live on in my heart.

Are you listening?

How many of you are real? All I see are “likes” and status updates and opinions.

How many of you are robots? Google bots and algorithms masquerading as people, trying to make humans feel as if their writings and ruminations have a purpose, a reason?

The future is now and it’s a sad and lonely lonely place. I have a screen, not friends. I have a website, not a community. I have a blog, not a conversation with individuals.

If I died right now, would the robots notice? Or, would I have a whole bunch of “likes” and followers on a blog that nobody cares about? Does it even really matter?

Give me the red pill. I liked the illusion better than the reality.

#tinystories 2

…This is me as a part of your life. trying to understand that life and you, drinking beer with your friends, drinking beer by yourself. Drinking beer before work by yourself. Smiling with your friends and smiling at your work and sitting dead-eyed and silent for hours in your living room wearing a polo shirt and khaki shorts, crying without making a sound or moving, the silence of tears down your slack, boyish face…

This is you and I’m trying to understand.