Tuesday, March 11, 2014


Please don't get me angry, you won't like me when I'm angry!
Those famous words made popular by the fictional character Dr David Banner, the mild speaking medical doctor who through no fault of his own, turns into the 'Incredible Hulk' whenever he gets angry, epitomizes in many ways my personality.

I try to help as many people as I can, without asking for anything in return, because this journey of life is not about us, it is about each other.

In my regular day job the balance between help and patronage is dependant on with whom you have a conversation. The line is very fine. I have been accused of getting kickback and taking bribes because of some of the selections I made appeared to persons who think on that level to be on that level. No problem, I could handle that. 

But I'm also Aries born and there is no patience with me. I am one of those Ram butting, bold faced, straight talking, offensive people who don't give a flaming firetruck what you think. It is therefore no mistake that over the course of my many years, on several occasions I have found myself the butt of someones malice and confusion.

Just be warned, when in my exuberance to help someone I create Ishmaels instead of Isaacs and believe me I have created quite a number of Ishmaels, without learning the lesson, and  the onlookers start to point fingers and cackle there is only one place I go. ON MY KNEES. 

I may not be as faithful as the Biblical patriarch Abraham, whom Jehovah God, chose to be the father of many nations. Exercising my faith in difficult or tight situations is, to put it mildly difficult for me. I do not by nature have the patience to endure and stand. I tend to revert to the familiar and prayer is what is familiar to me.

I've told God on many occasions that I'm not a speaking prayer person. I pray silently ll during the day and occassionally will burst out in dancing and praise, but by and large I am a silent, internal prayer warrior. Many people tell me, the way I pray is not prayer at all; but somehow I believe that is between God and I.

For as long as I can remember people have always had 'issues' with me because of the tone of my diction. I remember a Permanent Secretary telling me once that for someone in my field of  Communications and particularly Public Sector Communications, that I have a very aggressive and abrupt manner. I am assuming she meant that the politicians with whom I work, will take objections to being told they are not God. Eiether way my response to her was 'I know and I don't intend to change it.'

It is the same with my prayer life. I write my prayer, because writing is the way I comfortably communicating, even with God. I can tell Him how angry I am at all the nonsense that it taking place around me, and how powerless I feel as a solution to the issues.

I can praise Him, when I feel accomplished and even, like now in dark times when the Red Sea won't part for me to cross over, because I know He will make a way, where there is no way and all things work for good to them who are called according to His purpose.

My soul is lifted when I tell HIm how much I dislike, so and so, but still ask Him to bless them and grant them health and prosperity.

There is a saying in Trinidad 'Monkey does know which tree to climb', simply put it means people know who they can pick on. My take on that is, if you allow a person to take advantage of you without fighting back they will think they are entitled to take advantage of you all the time.

I don't engage in physical fights, unless of course you touch my children. My God has promised to fight ALL of my battles for me. I don't give a flaming firetruck about you. But don't take my dis-engagement as an indication that I am not paying attention.

I listen very carefully and most times leave matters as they may (sometimes to my detriment) however when the Red Sea moment arises I know whom to call to get the permanent rid of my Egyptians; and when I reach that stage there is NO indecision.

I'm there!

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LE NOIREAU- Prologue

There was chaos in Scotland Bay Village. Everywhere, everyone was busy; packing, unpacking, leaving burnt bare lands for the Americans.

Away from the noises and confusion the aquamarine Caribbean waves played a soft calypso rhythm, strumming, rippling, kissing bare toes, feet and ankles dug deep into the cold, clammy sand.

The air was laden, ready, thick with the rancid scent of seaweed, salt and smoke carried in the spray; pushed by angry, crashing, foaming waves against a stony coastline up and around the Bay’s end.

She was misted; creating an eerie appearance as she sat back hunched on a fallen tree trunk embedded in the sand; knees tucked under the wide folds of her skirt. Damp grainy sand and the sea waters rushed up; bubbling in between her fingers and feet. Gently she rested her chin on her knees and looked out at the fading horizon, watching the day in its brilliance and splendor of death at sunset. The fiery gold of the sun’s rays; fingering, shimmering on the aquamarine canopy of the sea, dazzling blinding and ever so slowly, churning to taunting, tangerine orange and saffron reds; cascading into purple, violets and royal blue of evening time with ballet like precision. And later as stars peeping first play hide and seek with the naked eye, streaks of charcoal gray strut into midnight black, shadowing the earth into illusions of peace-fullness, as twinkling jewels finally sparkle in the phosphorescent gleam of a splendid Caribbean moonlight.

The gulf steamer disregarding war time surveillance orders; tugged by, alerting Astral Le Noireau to the lateness of the hour. She sighed lifted tiny hands from the sand and stared as the grains quietly trickled back into their places on the seemingly un-rumpled shore. The signal light of the streamer as it passed by and answering flashed from the lighthouse, momentarily blinded her as she turned huge tear filled almond shaped golden eyes up and then out, taking in the silver-ness of the long familiar Scotland Bay coastline, now bathed in the beauty of a full Caribbean moonlight. The gentle breeze blew her blue black hair into her eyes and face, as one hand rose gracefully to whip the unruly strands back into place. Silently a figure standing in the shadows of a coconut palm tree observed her.

Astral stood crying silently, watching the village she so love fade into the night shadows as the steamer padded laboriously out into the first Boca. Every inch further way from Scotland Bay felt like a fist clenching around her lung, stifling her, killing her. She stood rooted until Chateau le Noireau was no longer visible as they rounded the bend at Delgada Point. Until tears of frustration overwhelmed her and she crumbled to the seat on the almost empty steamer. Astral Le Noireau and her precious possession were some of the last things to evacuate from her village.

The Marines had put her on the ferry.

(c) 2006 Cecly Ann Mitchell

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