Tag Archives: rum

Jamaica

~ 0 ~
SFO in the early morning
MtVC
sleep
triple couple brunch date
SFO in the afternoon
work
packing
eating
yellow fever film
SFO late at night
Japanese, Mexican, American, or Chinese?

~ 1 ~
Hank Williams on the
turbulent red-eye
flashlights in the early morning
United Club at IAD
hella babies on the
flight to Jamaica
the first Jamaican woman to speak to/about me:
“it’s not fair. he’s not even using it,”
referencing my hair
all customs agents are the same stern
accosted by taxi drivers
one is hella chill so we go w him ($15)
he walks slow as hell
“we grow up w weed”
tried to sell me some but his guy is out
Caribic House
gentleman clerk
third floor balcony view of the sea
buy weed from souvenir shop ($20 for crap)
Pork Pit
buy weed from random vagrant (J$200 for crap)

~ 2 ~
breakfast at the Mocha Cafe
Knutsford Express to Negril
buy Blue Cheese from taxi driver ($5 for quality)
Yoga Centre
stroll and smoke along the beach
the German dude
yoga in the evening
shower and drinks
Alfred’s Ocean Palace
couple drinks and cricket at the Sunrise

~ 3 ~
smoothies and breakfast at the YC
chillin on the beach
spring rolls and papaya salad
Natalie naps / Americanah
drinks at One Love bar
curried conch w rice & peas at sweet spot

~ 4 ~
goodbye YC & Negril
KE to Kingston
wild winding ride east
the big city
the Spanish Court,
free rum punch on arrival
walking in the rain to
Devon House
coffee for her, coffee i-scream for me
walking in the lightening rain
Natalie goes chic in the city
divine Indian at Nirvanna

~ 5 ~
free breakfast: eggs, platanos, festival, bacon, fruit, coffee, water
taxi drive with a former yam farmer to
the National Gallery of Jamaica
walk through saturday downtown market
taxi to the grocery
Tashanna the angel
Natalie runs on the treadmill, i walk to KE
sunset swimming in the freezing infinity pool
hot bath w love
shower the hair
dress and small dinner
last home drink
up up up the hill to
dub club
smoky dub music in the clouds
danced
saw fireworks
and popcorn
and dancing
circles, circling back to a
champagne glass next to the drivers seat
flask of herb wine next to mine
slowly, slithering back to New Kingston
in the nighttime of a new day

~ 6 ~
free breakfast: kitchen sink omelet, fruit, coffee, water, festival, platanos, and a complimentary mimosa
walking to the banks, several failed withdrawals
packing up
waiting for Robert
red shirt, tan truck, big smile
cash out
ride up
the treehouse
the tour
the pool and trail
dinner at 6?
acki and shellfish, peas and rice, greens not calaloo
reading and drinking
scrabble in bed under the net
never ending music for a wake, then an end

~ 7 ~
wake up puffy eyed a little before 9
shirtless on the balcony
big rainbow across the sky
Chef says breakfast is on the way
coffee, scrambled eggs w veggies, fried plantains, breadfruit (looked like dry pineapple slices), slices of mango, a peeled orange, everything fresh, juicy, lovely
more coffee, Bobby and Chef smoking
prep
driving to Holywell
the waterfall hike
smoke at the falls
kiss on the hills
walk to David’s coffee plantation
the Chinese crew, little kids giggling and playing games, the two big dogs loafing and eyeing everyone, the coffee man deeply darkened by the sun yet profoundly lightened by endless cups of coffee
walking back home
Natalie’s forgotten R1: the run
gap cafe too fancy
walk thru the military yard
flask of clear rum, water, cheese puffs, and chocolates at the bubbles stop
walk home
cold shower (Ginger on drums)
wifi, soup, and dinner (more Fela)
seafish, fried carrots and greens, potato, yams, plantains
greasy spliff
drinks and reading

~ 8 ~
up a little earlier, round 830
coffee and breakfast on the taller balcony
acki and fish, breadfruit, fried plantains, papaya, orange
reading reading reading
the ride to Craighton
the $25 tour w Jerome
280,000 coffee plants—arabica not robusta—the latter 52% of the world coffee, the former 48%—though like the #1 most traded good (oil), the #2 (coffee) is often adulterated as there’s no standard nor authority—and Blue Mountain arabica is something special, with 70% of its sales going to wealthy Japanese—Jamaicans themselves drink instant coffee—unless they’re like Robert—usually Arabica ripens in 5-7 months, in Blue Mountains it takes 9-11—juicier, sweeter—Twyman and other north side farmers get less sun so their harvest is shorter
three cups of coffee after the lesson
walk to red light
bananas and coconut snack from the roadside rasta
walk from red light
Natalie loses her shades
hitching a ride w the 33 year old who spent 20 years living in Kingston before moving to London, comes back to visit family every xmas, warned us of the dangers of hitch hiking
eits cafe
walking up and a ride w David, bobby’s coz
walking to prince valley
glasses for a drink and phone
meeting, laughing, smoking w omero from Oakland and Tazia from near Kingston
drinks and dinner: beans, greens, and pumpkin rice, perfection
sunset
beer and adieu
reading, reading, hearts, reading

~ 9 ~
up a little earlier, around 815
Ovid on the balcony
coffee and breakfast in the usual spot
acki and fish, plantains, coco bread
packing up and paying
peace
dj dale down the mountain
bob Marley museum
best dinner (fried chicken, beef stew, pork stew, or curried goat?) plus rum
two wedding episodes of friends

~ 10 ~
coffee, toast, and fruit on the balcony
Mahogany Beach
food and drink on James (same menu)
crazy dance boat party TV
Turtle Beach
souvenir shopping i
drinks on James
moms restaurant (fish stew)

~ 11 ~
coffee, toast, and fruit on the balcony
souvenir shopping ii
passage to passage to India (naan, South Indian chicken, chicken tikka masala)
chilling at KE
KE to Mo Bay
El Greco, cocktail on arrival
cocktails and joint on the balcony (Half Pint)
bellboy escort to room, J$400
atm, the old walk
1/2 lb ribs at pork pit
the walk back
another round

~ 12 ~
up around 8
finished Herzog
breakfast: one American, one Jamaican (mine is fried fish, greens, small banana, yucca, dumpling, and Nat’s French toast)
old white retired everywhere
blacks go J, whites go A
down to the street, rum up
packing, Brilliant Corners, checking out
smoke on the cliff side
delayed flight
walk down to the park shade
bk fries
taxi to airport
lines, lines, food court, hearts
exit row flight
chaos at CLT Continue reading

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SAS 9

IMG_7531 Continue reading

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orange?

exactly a month ago, on the 21st day of the third month of this year, i jotted down some quick notes for what would later be a complete blog post or poem:

vernal equinox

red wine

inch wide deep fried tacos full of chicken and love

too deep, still good

a lazy j

green tea for me, chamomile for her

death

i had spent the night before, on the date of the vernal equinox, with a little lover of mine. as we often do, we drank wine and enjoyed each other’s company in one of the most ancient activities: cooking and eating. she did most of the cooking, i did most of the eating. it was a beautiful, beautiful night, like so many others we spend together.

a month later, and the universe seems so different and so much the same. so different because the reality of a new Daft Punk album (itself exactly one month away) became so much more real with the official release of “Get Lucky.” so much the same because i’m still fueling my dance parties w Daft Punk. so different because “the perfect situation” has come to a head. so much the same because i don’t think it’s gone to my head.

my roommates and i (with special guests Micah and Allison) threw a party on friday. a crazy fucking party.

photo(1)

as far as i’m aware, this is the only photo of Micah and me that exists from the night. sums it up well.

leading up to the party, i thought about the party a lot. one, i doubted city people’s abilities to mobilize and get their asses out to a house situated in a residential neighborhood so far south i sometimes think i’m back home in daly city. two, i doubted digital people’s abilities to remember a party, unannounced on facebook, would actually be taking place.

fuck a doubt.

by happy hour, Micah and Allison were smoking and playing cards in the open garage. Cameron and i were upstairs causing a electric guitar drum racket. Chris and Brendan came over next, adding to the noise. fuck the noise, i said, so i started playing King Crimson. then James Brown. then Madonna. then some disco gold… but it may have been premature. 10 going on 15 people were sitting in a circle in the living room playing king’s cup, and i, the only one abstaining, was also the only one dancing. so i switched to the Clash. that’s when my entire family walked in… mom, dad, and the brothers. they mixed right into the party, actually successfully disbanding the stupid drinking game and turning it into a real hangout. my dad gifted my a bunch of bottles of liquor from the house, most of them near empty. (beggars can’t be choosers.) my mom throws a frozen lasagna into the oven. (i never see it again.) more and more people keep filing in. i find myself on the couch talking to Nick, and the subject of “Get Lucky” arises. we are thenceforth fucked, we decide to play it immediately. (in my mind, “immediately” starts at the end of the currently playing record.) Grayson walks up the stairs and i’m all smiles, telling him he’s arrived at just the right moment… if that Clash record will just finish. it finishes, and the first play of “Get Lucky” goes around. by the end of the night, taking into account the back-to-back plays around 0400, we probably listened to it six times. nobody ever complained… no, everybody just danced w glee. who complains when a classic song gets played again? i weave through Daft Punk’s older, deeper tracks, Michael Jackson, disco, disco, disco… and start feeling famished, mentally. Arianna subtly suggests taking over the djing and i happily oblige. always trust a girl who goes topless at parties. at one point, high and happy in the hallway, surrounded by strangers, i start melting into the walls ecstatic about the Motown (Diana Ross!) dance party happening in my living room, happening completely without my ever having touched the play button for that particular track. there ain’t nothing like curation. i can’t take it all in. too many beautiful faces. too many brilliant minds. so much long hair, so much style, so many glimmering, so many wild. squeeze me to sleep, so pleased. Continue reading

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i love you like i love the ocean

an hour later: 14mg of 2C-E on the 38 Outbound. a golf course. Lands End. Eagle Point Labyrinth. the beach. a starfish. two starfish. several starfish. millions of anemones. tiny, massive anemones. a fallen tree. 14 more mg of 2C-E on the fallen tree. prancing on rocks across water to a massive boulder. staring at the open sea. staring at a tweeter on the boulder. staring at the Golden Gate Bridge. the setting sun. the setting sun. the setting sun. the setting sun. prancing on rocks across higher water to my comrades. staring in silence. the setting sun. the rainbow sky. the where does the night begin? the lush water. the lush rainbow water. the lush rainbow water singing the eternal rock & roll song. Luna playing rock music. the moon rocking the earth. the lush water. the rich ocean. the rainbow-colored endless everything flowing and ebbing the shore, ebbing and flowing the mind. hot chocolate whiskey. uncertainty. go back to where you came from. a walk in the dark. under the trees. death. thinking of death. thinking of Chris dead. thinking of mother dead. thinking i understand not love. i say i love the city. i say i love the ocean. i say i love my cousin. i say i love my mother. i know not how much. i know only so little. i try so hard. i fail so hard. walking in the dark. the bridge, the rocks, the city. what a good choice. like humans do. lights in the sky. lights on the hills. lights in the sea. lights in my eyes. lights in my brain, flashing all the same. engines, animals, boxes, hallucinations. walking in the dark. the Sutro baths. blocked off staircases. trusting my hungry, thirsty body. retreating into dark alcoves. sitting on the dark throne. contemplating community. understanding unity. walking in the dark, listening in the dark tunnel, giggling. a balance act. loving to stay dry, not needing a nut nor a sandwich. no risk necessary, just love and peace and silence. but war has given us mars. but time has given me pain. but time has given me love. but what will the net result be? when i die, will i be warm. to be alive is to be cold. contemplating community. death. understanding unity. life. off the beaten path to return to street lamp civilization. the height of Sutro’s madness. the twinkling fogless city. the end of the Geary line. the roller coaster 38 Inbound. the black panther and his aura. the rushed goodbyes. the long quick walk through downtown, crazy. depressing dada, nobody there but the walking dead. no funk no beats not forever at least. Continue reading

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I Want Your Love In Me

in which the Hero finally recalls things from the weekend. Continue reading

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here, say

in which the Hero does too many things. Continue reading

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the sexless orgy one

her hands clutched the thin black cubical bars, and she screamed his name. but all the drinking had long since finished for the night, and he had already descended into dreams. her stomach wrenching, not for the good golden rum, … Continue reading

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Untitled

i just poured myself a glass of seven-year-old Flor de Caña and coke, i’m listening to Aphex Twin’s Selected Ambient Work Volume II in V0, and the San Francisco Giants just clinched the 2010 World Series. i feel good.

figures we win the year i actually get into it. just kidding. maybe.

no but really, sports? what the fuck? i told aerienne the other day and she just stared at me through the Skype screen like she didn’t know who i was. Meryl hardly acknowledges it, like it’s a joke. Allison thinks it’s hilarious but loves it. my family just goes along with it, they’re probably just a little bit relieved and a big bit delighted. as for myself, i don’t even feel like myself when i give a fuck about a game, but i’m not bullshitting my friends or my family or myself. i really give a fuck. i really felt let down those (what, two? three times?) we lost some playoff games. i really felt a mini-orgasm every time Lincecum or Cain sank their gorgeous little pitches into Posey’s glove. i really felt a rush of adrenaline when Renteria hit that 3-run homer to seal the deal in Game 5. this shit is legitimately fun.

the truth is, it started before MLB playoffs. it started over the summer with the World Cup. let me try to remember… i was on break from work, i believe, the United States was actually winning some games, and i actually managed to wake myself at 7 in the morning to watch the fuckers kick the little ball around the field. i convinced myself then that soccer was easily my favorite sport. it’s big all-around: massive field, giant goals, kickable ball, two epic halves in time, no bullshit, red card and you’re out, every goal is a galaxy of chance, everything matters, beautiful, beautiful sport.

but now i feel it with baseball too. it’s like chess or war. i’m a fool so there’s still a lot i don’t know, but here’s how it is in the playoffs. you win three series in a row and you win the championship. each series is a best of seven games. every game has nine innings, a top and bottom, each a chance for each team to score. pitchers lead the charge, the game is in their hands. don’t let the opposing teams even get a sliver of wood on the balls you’re throwing and you don’t have to worry about a thing. and that’s what the Giants did. Lincecum, Cain, Sanchez, Bumgarner–these guys fucking owned because they made the Braves, Phillies, and Rangers, all in a row, swing at nothing, swing at the dirt, swing at the stars swirling in front of their dumbfounded faces. ah, but your starting pitcher gets tired, so you have a whole bullpen of closing pitchers waiting, just waiting for a chance to throw one, two, three outs, whatever they can, just enough to keep the score right where you want it, with you in the lead and the other team in the dumps. when the other team scores, it feels like a knife in your chest not just because they scored, but because they feel so good about it they can just keep going on scoring. when your team scores, it is sex. it is a big fuck you to the world, can’t nobody hold me down, oh no, just keep the bases moving.

i wish we had played the fucking yankees.

Nicaraguan rum is the best. San Francisco Bay is the best. Aphex Twin is the best. Kaiser is the best, Frisco is the best. black Levi’s are the best. girls are the best, but i’m glad to be a boy. headphones are the best, giant motherfucking speakers with a swimming pool for a subwoofer are the best. sex is the best. computers are the best. the Internet is the best. space is the best. long, hot showers are the best. psychedelic mushrooms are the best. long hair is the best. life is the best. Continue reading

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The Solipsist

my eyes are really getting me down. i know it’s stupid, but i almost didn’t even want to hang out with anybody at my mom’s birthday party last night because i was sick of everyone seeing my fucked up lids. so i was sitting on the toilet in the downstairs bathroom, trying to figure out how to get over my vanity, march my little butt upstairs, and chill with family, when i decided to read a poem. my bathroom doesn’t have any books of poetry in it, so i pulled out my phone and loaded up this poetry app created by the Poetry Foundation. even if a little cheesy, the app is actually pretty awesome. you spin two dials–the top controls moods/emotions (doubt, insecurity, frustration, etc.) and the bottom controls topics (love, youth, work and play, etc.)–and the app then lists every poem that falls under that particular combination (worry & family, passion & love, blame & love, etc.) there’s also an option to just shake the phone, which randomly spins the dials.

even though my styes might not having anything to do with it, i attribute them and any other health problems i get to a little thing called AGING. (truth be told, my asthma made me more of a sickling back in the day than i’ve ever been since.) no matter. i was fucking FRUSTRATED and sick of dying, so i slid the dials to “frustration & aging” and started scrolling through the 42 poems offered to me, until i saw one called “The Solipsist,” written by Troy Jollimore.:

Don’t be misled:
that sea-song you hear
when the shell’s at your ear?
It’s all in your head.

That primordial tide—
the slurp and salt-slosh
of the brain’s briny wash—
is on the inside.

Truth be told, the whole place,
everything that the eye
can take in, to the sky
and beyond into space,

lives inside of your skull.
When you set your sad head
down on Procrustes’ bed,
you lay down the whole

universe. You recline
on the pillow: the cosmos
grows dim. The soft ghost
in the squishy machine,

which the world is, retires.
Someday it will expire.
Then all will go silent
and dark. For the moment,

however, the black-
ness is just temporary.
The planet you carry
will shortly swing back

from the far nether regions.
And life will continue—
but only within you.
Which raises a question

that comes up again and again,
as to why
God would make ear and eye
to face outward, not in?

there’s no cure for social anxiety quite like solipsism. and Blue Moon. and Maker’s Mark. and Flor de Caña. and Newcastle. and Jacuzzi. and Moon Safari.

so the party was fun. but when i first walked up, no music was playing! ridiculous. i wasn’t going to do anything about it (paranoid that i push my music on everyone too much) until my dad asked me, “is there any way we can get music up here?” within a couple minutes i had hooked up Danny’s ipod speaker setup and started playing Moon Safari, while i staked out my spot for the night right there on the floor next to the speakers with a delicious Blue Moon. moon moon moon moon. i ended up djing the night away, playing all the classics: Air, Beatles, Blondie, Creedence Clearwater Revival, DJ Shadow, Fela Kuti, Lupe Fiasco, M.I.A., Michael Jackson, Pink Floyd, Wild Cherry, 2Pac, with a deluge of disco as the night’s diadem.

yum. ate a ton of delicious spaghetti, a couple pieces of chicken (that i didn’t feel like squeezing this time), chocolate ice cream, and strawberry/banana cake. i’m really not that big a fan of cake unless it has fruit in it. thus: pie > cake. usually.

i ended up getting pretty drunk, which makes a good deal of sense considering how many different kinds of liquor i mixed (beer, rum, tequila, whiskey, and wine). once everyone had left (and as i sipped on my second-to-last drink of the night), i tried my hand at a game of sc2 and got my ass beat. i played Terran (as usual) and attempted a new strategy: build a base army of marines, marauders, and medivacs, while focusing on the real goal: hella fucking banshees and vikings. well, of course, this guy brought over an epic army of Zerg forces before i could even get my second banshee. and my “base army” of mmm got obliterated in a few seconds. fuck. when the game first started, i typed “fuck man i’m hella drunk so bare with me,” and all this guy replied was “ok.” what the fuck? not even one “ha”? what a dick. he was probably so pleased with his fucking easy win. douche.

not wanting to make my already-horrible-record any more horrible, i logged off battle.net and ducked downstairs to my room. smoked a little bowl, swallowed three pills, rubbed my eyes with ointment, and got in bed with Emily Dickinson. it’s nice to know that, even on the most lonesome nights, she’ll always get in bed with you. read 50 poems, but i too stoned and tired for anything but lying down, i put on my headphones and let Arthur Russell sweep me away to unconscious bliss.

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pooretry [archive]

four point four earthquake at four oh four am and i’m happy.

i’m not writing my thesis right now.

Kenneth Rexroth is a poet.

Chatroulette!

i hate pre-ripped pants.

tell me if you think this analogy works. you’re in the kitchen with this beautifully buxom babe, she’s just all in a tizzy, grabbing parsley, grabbing cheese, swinging knives, dropping pasta into pots, etc etc etc. you notice none of this because she’s wearing this evil blouse that pushes her perfect tits, perfectly ballooning into your face. christ. oh yeah, she has a boyfriend. she’s jollily making him dinner and he’s waiting upstairs, probably cybering with his backup girl from back home. it’s like walking near a cliff that drops a hundred feet to jagged rock and water. the horizon goes forever, the wind pushes itself into your lungs, the grass dances under your feet, and the cliff is just a cliff. it sits and waits, seemingly innocent; but it’s actually drawing you to the edge. the closer you get to the edge, the more and more you think you could just jump. this isn’t just possibility, it’s all-out desire. you WANT to jump. you want to run and leap, dive, fall, plunge to your death. the jagged rocks pull you. someone needs to slice me at the wrists.

the other day i received this text message from Adam:

Anyways, tool fails at being what they try to be. They don’t find peace in the void. Unless the void is not silent. It is in my mind. Anyways. Happy trails.

i hope you don’t care about being quoted. maybe you were just spewing nonsense for fun or maybe this is your final thesis on Tool, but i’m guessing it’s somewhere in between. i, on the other hand, was certainly stoned when i saw the text, and i couldn’t even respond properly. all i said was “silly, silly.”

“They don’t find peace in the void.” what does that even mean? for me to find peace? for Danny and Maynard to find peace? for everyone in the world to find peace? if it’s just the second, there can be no doubt that the men succeed. listening to them play, you know they are not just enjoying themselves, but freeing themselves. there is no way you can chant or drum or strum for minutes and minutes at a time like that and not find yourself lulled into a peaceful trance. in a way, this is a stupid point to try to make because we will never know unless we ask them. but i’m happy assuming i hear their peace through their performance.

i’m pretty sure that’s not what you were referring to, though. maybe you meant they don’t find peace for everyone, for people in general. trivially true. my dad finds everything but peace when i blast Tool at home.

you probably meant that you don’t find peace in their music. that’s fine…. predictable even. sometimes i feel like i’m one of the few fools who never grow out their past taste. i’m listening to Pushit [Live] right now and wearing that shirt you gave me, it’s fading into a nicely soft detergent black-blue. but there’s still one thing that bothers me about your claim that they don’t find peace: you might not have always said that. peace is the moment and you are supposedly telling me that Tool’s music never once sucked you into that moment, pulled you there, held you down with a force of six million black holes, ripping your mind apart in every direction, and, despite the noise drilling through your ear canals, filled your skull with the most unimaginable silence, a void. try to remember?

maybe i just completely misinterpreted you and i need to be set straight. let me know. in the meantime, have some pooretry:

Chatroulette
ridiculous. leopard print
people peep attack. at each
turn, their own, more, more,
more. exactly how
they like it.

it’s true–
chickens hatch from people
disc is spelled with a k
fall is sometimes a season
without returns the weather

rum, Rexroth, and Chatroulette
sugar cane flowers bloom
in my mouth, merry weather. whenever
i go outside
i think
of one of my favorite poems ever,
no friends, etc, etc. it doesn’t rhyme
much. such gambling grows
a thesis statement, long-haired
green wine-stained, and bearded
down my throat.

pour me some poor porridge poetry,
fuck.

Victory, pronounced
(KNEE-key) loses bluish heads and
dimes incessantly. doing, doing, doing
it.

winged,
divine,
assigned the name
“Victoria”
when crossing the Atlantic
from Greece to Rome. post-it pantheist
creation, magic undulation, black
swirly while.

turkey turkey, my favorite
word is “chicken.” flying to you
disentangles myths:
marble chai minaret of my mind,
your mind eyes rings,
earthquakes.

California even has the best natural disasters:
fog, gold, hollywood,
Web, bears, franciscans,
redwoods, deserts, oceans.

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