The Bluest Eye commentary


“The Bluest Eye” was riveting and provoking. It caused my mind to ache and my neck to stiffen. Toni Morrison’s words are large translucent cells, once you enter the heaven or hell of them, you stand there, transfixed gazing out at the real world with disinterested eyes. The compact bacchanalia of many black somebodies’ sorrowful, brain washed, conditioned lives, pushes you to the brink of insanity. You know this woman , this deranged soul , this dipsomaniac ; you have heard stories of him from your wisening mother , which she heard from her grandmother, because, her own mother was a victim , similar to those of Morrison’s silken embroidery of viscous locutions. For a few moments, YOU are the character . You feel their pain, the normalcy in their abnormal pathology , the violence in the selfish , misguided, deluded breaths.

Then, its over, and Morrison , with a passionate pen reminds you that this is not your life , but someone  else’s . The pain demands to be felt, but its not yours to succumb to.

And you're okay, but not as blind, for those blue eyes are lucid and piercing in their intent.

And you’re okay, but not as blind, for those blue eyes are lucid and piercing in their intent.

_Aaliyah Abdul Haqq August 5th, 2014

Trying to heal before I’ve been hurt

My best friend ,  with her newly growing umber locks, warned me to hurry and catch my balance in love …to stop falling for that marvelous french boy, before it was to late. We all knew that he loved his home , in the once french ruled islands of the Caribbean. But I thought he also loved me, or at least cared. It felt like he did in sporadic moments , when I’d be  so ineffably pissed with him that he could sense it, as I passed him wordlessly in the halls of our small miserable school. He would pull me into a hug and ask me what was wrong, or come sit shyly besides me and coax my pen from my journal to explain once more what I knew shortly after I met him…his life was a maelstrom of everything wrong that had ever happened to a kid (or perhaps in my adoration of him, I am too sympathetic) . But I listened, because the tune of his voice is my favorite melody and the absence of it ,for too long, springs tears in my ducts and a dull ache, made vibrant by the histrionics of my imagination, in my heart.

But, now Easter vacation has come and he’s gone back finally to visit the land that cradled his infancy and blossoming adolescence. He told me , un-quiveringly , on the last day of school, that he wasn’t absolutely certain he was coming back. So I sighed. But, I didn’t believe him at all. I thought I knew he’d be back  for sure, for his education and for me. But now, as the days go on, five days exactly have passed, my certainty wanes . How many times had he complained of Trinidad and longed for his home’s sun?

What did this country really hold for him? He says he needs no one, that he’s alright with being alone. But I think  he’s just inured to the old loneliess that consumed him, he learned to mask it ,and move on with his existence . But what of a life, that goes past teenage years, passes smoking mary`jane and distrusting everyone? Am I really supposed to believe that he wants no more from life? I didn’t believe so, but now I feel that he might become so intoxicated with the possibility of getting his old life’ll all slip away. He’ll forget education and me, while under the haze of  marijuana and rum. Or maybe, it won’t be the same.

The maybe is what I hold to. Maybe, he’ll think of how I adore him and know its not weakening to be loved, but empowering. That’s all I really want him to know.

p.s Of course there’s more, but for now i’m finished.

All these disasters _short

You were going to leave anyway. I decided that hurting you would make it easier on myself. Is it the loneliness I can’t stand, or the missing of you that breaks my heart?Amazing that my attempt to avoid heart break is breaking my heart.

Avoiding earthquakes in my soul.Ignoring rivers in my eye.Smiling while suffocating under loneliness. Aha. I’m not allowed to feel pain, am I? Once you break the soul of the one who trusted you, sympathy is not something you can expect to get.

I’m sorry . I’m sorry for all the things that I have said.

Like ocean waves to the shore, your words are always coming back to me.

And like vultures hovering over, I killed you while you were dead.

The lost mole

He didn’t realize that he had strayed from his subterranean domicile until a hand-less yellow stick burned his molish nose. He turned his head blindly towards the unseen sun, a large baking pot, and hid his head in the darkness of the burrow he emerged from. The sun, this novice giver of warmth, warmed the hairs on his rear end. He wiggled in his comfort and fell asleep.It was only when a chilled quick draft shot under his hind legs, punching his chin, did he start awake. He stumbled around, to find his warmth-giver departed…long departed for the grass beneath him had also cooled. Sniffling, the lost mole thought something like this: Well the darkness from which I was born, was a constant friend, although cold-hearted earth was her soul-mate, she never left me alone. This new ‘friend’ I have made is a sly one, she slips away just when I entrust my back to her. To the one that lasts, I shall return to.” 

But when he recoiled into the moonless dark, and found his constant shiver-inducing companion, he longed for nothing more than radiance. He couldn’t help but wonder if she had returned in search of him, or if she even loved him the way he had come to adore her. When the curiosity and yearning had filled his entire being, he made his way back to the surface, desperation for her driving him on. He broke through the Darkness, though she tried to make him stay with her familiarity and her incessant dark ways. He strove towards his new love, wondering…forever worrying that she wouldn’t be there …but praying to his God that she was.

And she was.

She bathed him in her rays for hours, as if her only thought was of him , his fury body and hairless face. He thought : I MUST  be the one she loves. Feel how she caresses me, and heats up my tender insides, dispelling all of the coldness therein. I love her. 

But again ,she left. He waited for her, though his heart ached in her absence. But she always came back , sometimes though, as time progressed, her warmth seemed reluctant or hardly there. But he stayed , forever longing for the warmth she had given in the beginning.

Never did he remember her, the darkness, who stayed where he could find her, even after he left. He was a boy-like mole.

THE FLOWERS in her hair


The flowers in her hand fell to the floor in bunches of salmon and creamy white. Her heart crashed through the polished rosewood floors to the reception room downstairs, when she walked into her dressing room for her veil, and found her groom beneath his best man in haste fervence. She covered her mouth, shook her head and chastised, ” You couldn’t wait until after the ceremony? Ahh, pass me a faggot while you’re at it. ”

Her groom groped for the box of cigarettes, and threw it at her. She lit it, watching as the two pulled up their trousers.

“You want a green card Louie and I want my family off my back about marriage . Let’s get to this. Bye Steve. He’ll see you later.

She stomped out the cigarette , put her veil on and went to the edge of the marble stairs as the music began.

Pools of icecream

The dulcet cream of minty chocolate dough ice cream entices even the thinnest of us girls. We relish the sweet of it melting on full lips and thin lips alike. It dances across our tongues like no boy has danced so well on the dance floor of our young hearts. Melted, it runs down prettily curved chins and down necks, pooling in deep belly buttons.

What’s your favourite ice cream eating memory?

Ice cream Parlours

There is something surreal about icecream parlours: the low clear music , the pleasant hum of friends confabulating, the coffee cafè scent that percolates the place, and the occassional sound of a blender creating a smoothie. It all unites to form this atomsphere that you must always be happy in, or at least content with. Ice cream parlours, with their eternally amiable workers , inhaling the creamy fumes, are revered for the peace they bring.

Tell me, what flavour of icecream makes your tastebuds sing songs of praise?

Maritime Winds visit May’s Abode


Maritime Winds

Before the rain fell, maritime scents washed over the shingled roof of May’s house. It came in through the open windows, percolating the old house, refreshing the stagnant air.The crisp cool breezes kissed her cheeks and danced under her nostrils. She inhaled gratefully. It was sweet and salty and ominous, yet hopeful. She knew , could be assured, that  the grey clouds would pass soon and that brightly colored flowers and sweet fruit would bloom and fall when the clouds parted. In that she trusted.


Her petalled skin


The sun shone in through the open crotcheted patterns on the antique curtains.She stood behind them, the shadows of petals impressioned on her skin. Warmth and cool, spread itself like kisses and the absense of them.

Blossomed Beliefs


They held her up, let her realise her dreams and whispered words of encouragement.They dropped tokens of belief on her head and tucked them behind her wee ears, so that when they said, “Its time for us to let go,” they would know she was strong enough. She struggled at first, but then all the beliefs, scattered around and in her, bloomed and became life savers. They held her up. They merged, to form one with her…a being made of blossomed beliefs.