Shadow's Shoe

Shadow’s Shoe

A grain of sand too minute to fill this centered space made by laced up black painted leather with an exposed sole;

Painfully causing blisters to toe, and heel, as I try to fill the vacancy of what I thought was empty, but instead over spills;

With notes made for bass, and tenor pan.

Rhythm that controls your waist, and fills you with wine,

Lyrics that molds your thoughts, and records shifts in time.

Overflowing with music that explodes in your mind,

and takes you on an odyssey into, all ah we ting.

That there is no space for me to fit,

Fills me with gratitude for all that he has put into it. 

A Moment Well Spent

Do you remember the exact moment when you realized that you loved the place you were at, the space you were in, the people, the sound, the smell, the culture. A moment where it felt like Nirvana.

When I saw the iconic image of Shadow, I was taken back to 1988 when one song made me realize that nothing much matters except the moment you are in, and that moment encompasses all moments.

Having decided to play night mass (now a thing of the past) in St James. I was disappointed when I realized that our small band, manager had spent most of the funds on the music truck, and the DJ, and had provided us with a white jersey as a costume.  Chipping along beside the slowly moving truck, in the dew damp evening, I inhaled deeply, consuming beer, rum, and smoke, that danced in the air.

The rhythm seemed to enter from the sole of my feet, from above into my head, from around through my fingers, mining into the center that is my soul, it rested there like a bird waiting to take flight.

When the brass started playing to introduce the song, the man, the lyrical word smith, the reason I was out in the dead of night, waking up Woodbrook on the way to St James.  I felt the wings flutter, and as the pace picked up, a tiny storm started rolling inside me.  By the time he sang,

“Music Sweet” I was already at Dingolay. That “Music Fills the world with happiness…” I had absolutely no doubt.  In that moment, I thought of nothing but the song and the immense happiness I felt. 

I shook the glitters of the past off my shoulder, and stared at the display. I took a moment to wonder, who will fill Shadow’s Shoe now.  But as I stood in the moment, and remembered, nothing matters but this moment, I realized his songs, De Bassman, Dingolay, Columbus Lied, Once upon a time …  were all clambering to come out.   His shoe does not need filling, it is already filled, and pouring over.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X_DLpyB_Q5U

Shadow was not the only one on display at Stollmeyer's Castle, but I remembered the moment.

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A Visit to the Castle

A visit to Castle Killarney

Where Serpentine Meets the Queen's Park Savannah I sit. Peer closely, and you will see, through my eyes, a vision of the great Loch ness Beast.

Of earth, light, and colour, I was made; for a minute you may stand still, in perfect awe of my stained glass window panes.

To a man, I am a castle; to a woman, I am a palace; to children, I am the best part of their fantasy.

Killarney in 1902, Stollmeyer's Castle in 2020, call me what you will , but there can be no doubt, that I am magnificent; one of seven.

Where Stories Begin

Sometimes it begins with a thought. 

"I am going to Castle Killarney during my lung hour today." I said, to a couple of friends at work.  "They have a Carnival display that opens at 10:00 Monday to Friday, until March 31, 2020."

 “Where?”

 “Stollmeyer's Castle”

  “Oh.”

It seems that the name Killarney, has long since been replaced by the name Stollmeyer's Castle, and while I am no historical buff, I was glad to encourage the revisiting of a Trinidad and Tobago memory.

Next, will be the shoes that I found, that are to big for anyone.

Bois

BOIS!

By NLJ

The light of the flambeaux seems at home in his eyes.
He swings his bois like a flash of Lightning, and the flame blazes.
In an arena filled with the scent of burning kerosene, and the shouts of anxious men,
his blood boiled, as he sparred with an invisible enemy.
Carray, Carray, to the drumming, who knew him better than the chantwell,
their lavway, telling tales of his prowess, and his conquest; warning his opponents while daring them to enter the ring.
In the hole in the corner they would drip, but not he;
As their red droplets mix with the dirt, the bois would cry out,
hungry, hungry like a belly empty, a belly always empty.
Vengeance would be his, in the cracking of a skull, or the breaking of a rib.

What happened in Moruga, on Friday 24th January, 2020, can’t stay there. Whack, whack, wood. No this is not the place to begin. Have you ever heard of Bois? a piece of wood, severed from a poui tree. A piece of wood, bonded to a master, who pays the tree, and cuts a branch. Who shaves, burn, and feeds that branch. A master, who sits, prays, and meditate; speaking with the branch and listing to its hunger. A promise is made, to give the branch both blood and glory. This is a bois, and in the hands of its owner, it is more deadly than a sharpened blade, or a piercing bullet.

To see the bond of the bois, and the man, a visit to a Gayelle is a must, and thus began our road trip to the Gayelle in Moruga, loosing and finding our way on a somewhat smooth, but hilly terrain, sparsely populated with houses, the city was far behind us. I expected a few people to be there, but the threat of blood draws a crowd, and the Gayelle was crammed when we arrived.

The evening was cool, the light breeze, carried the scent of cigarette smoke, and incense; we had arrived late, missing the ritual of prayers to the ancestors. We had missed the lighting of candle, the burning of incense, and the sprinkling of puncheon rum in the four corners of the Gayelle. How many spirits were out that night, would have been hard to say, but the drums were rolling, and the chantwells were singing praises to the bois and the man.

The Gayelle started slowly, with a few disqualifications, and a restless crowd who came or see a man bleed. But there was plenty Carray.
“Bois! “ they shouted, this was followed by a few expletives, and loud laughter.
“What taking so long? come out and fight nah man. Bois!”. The tension in the crowd was so rigid, it was like a force on its own. When a bois man dressed in red, entered the ring, and he began his carray to the rolling of the drums, and the lavway of the chantwell, the crowd went wild. But he danced for two minutes and won by default.

The crowd was disappointed yet again, he was the third unchallenged competitor. Then a tall limber gentleman, with the swagger of a dude who knew what he was about, entered the ring, he to was dressed in a red track suit, red being the colour of St Mary's Village. But he was different, he looked intense, his swagger was light like Ali as he carray the four corners of the ring. The drums were rolling and the song praising his prowess was being sung. His bois, seem to be an extension of his arm, and tricked the eyes, appearing to Bend like a limb. My friend was busy taking pictures, and the crowd was chanting,
     “Bois”. I was captivated by this lanky dude who looked as though he belonged to a world of fey.

When a challenger entered the ring; the crowd roared. Both bois men were excellent, they sparred, pushed, and pulled, and bend. They danced, and dodged, the drums rolled and, the crowd roared, and shouted,
     "Bois". A lot of entertaining was done. At the end of it all, the winner was lifted up by his opponent. It showed bois as a sport of pride, and each bois man, had a dignity of his own.