There’s no going back. I came to England on a one way ticket, and that’s all there is to it.
I’ve had these moments where I’ve been so lonely, so broke and so relentlessly horny, that I’ve wanted to get on a plane and go home. I won’t lie.
It’s been two months since I’ve seen YMK. I miss his face with a ferocity that frightens me some times. I think about him and what he’s doing all the time.
This isn’t unexpected, I knew I would miss him when I left, and well, so said so done.
There’s a place inside me, a place he carved out and lined for himself, a place inside me that he belongs to, belongs in. And it’s not my poonkie folks.
I wonder if I’m still spoiling his dick and if he misses me. If he remembers Grand Rivere and Blanchiseusse.
I spoke to him a few nights ago and asked him if he misses me.
“Yes I really do, and I’m not saying that because I’m drunk right now.”
I wanted to tell him that I feel his dick inside me even now, but he was too drunk to really carry on a completely lucid conversation. I do, I miss him in my pussy too. Ya’ll know She has a mind of her own, and she ignores my head indiscriminately and she misses her playmate. My head misses my playmate too. Now is when I could use those conversations of ours, rambling and engaging and seemingly never ending.
I can’t go back. I just can’t. Going back for me is like settling for what I can get instead of what my spirit needs.
I can’t say there’s nothing for me behind there. Home is back there. YMK is back there. The job I left is there for me if I ever want it or need it again.
There are times I wonder if YMK has any anger because I left. I want to ask him but you know, I can’t seem to find the words to put it in a way he is compelled to answer me.
Does he feel like I abandoned him? Is he losing himself in some young pussy who is easy to get. He’s my beautiful one, the one Prince sings about on Purple Rain. I want him so bad! I want everything about him, good and bad, his cologne and his sweat, his humour and his seriousness.
I wonder how he feels. I know it’s this stereotypical thing that women do, obsessing about feelings and shit. I don’t want to be so sentimental, but I’ve learned to accept that it’s a part of my life.
YMK is still this unknown quotient. This mystery that is yet to reveal itself, and I’m still waiting for it; that revelation of substance, shape and dynamics.
I’m not letting the loneliness get to me. I’m trying to find ways to cope with it.
My cousin is almost never here. When he is, I feel like a second-class citizen sometimes. I try to be as unobtrusive as possible. I’ve had to make some observations about him, his materialism and the materialism of the kinds of women he’s attracted to. His girlfriend, like I’ve said before, has her own issues but they’re like the two of them together. They watch TV and talk about vacationing in South Africa and Dubai and such. They talk about £300,000 properties in terms of location and neighbourhood and such. He informs me when the maid is coming to clean, and dig this: It’s a white woman! It’s all so…. alien to me.
What I hate is being dependent on people who I think secretly dislike me. I don’t like the feeling of being tolerated. They’ve made comments about my hair, my lack of ‘poshness’, my ‘rationalisation’ of my tongue ring and other piercings. My not having a job is something that they make a few underhanded comments about about as well. Stuff you wouldn’t take on if it was coming from a real friend, but I don’t think I can consider either my cousin or his girlfriend ‘friends’.
There’s other stuff going on; Undercurrents I pick up on, but I can’t write about that chile, that is their business and don’t concern me at all.
My cousin doesn’t talk to me much. When he’s here, he’ll ask me how I am, but he’s not really interested in my life. I try to engage him in conversation about him and his life, but you know he shuts it down right quick, you feel me? What would we have to talk about? We’re from different worlds, and the things I find interesting topics of discussion, he will not. I can tell without even attempting it.
The neighbour, right next door, is the friendliest person around here. He actually talks to me. His wife, parents and children do not. So the feeling of isolation in this place is and has been oppressive.
My mother is probably the only one really checking up on me, and wildegirl.
Ah fuck it. I’m off to London this weekend.
A couple of days ago my cousin unceremoniously announced to me, “You’re going to have to find somewhere else to sleep Thursday, Friday and Saturday.”
I rocked back in my head, “What do you mean?”
Turns out one of Barbados’ most infamous satirical groups are coming up to London to do a concert. He told them that they could use the house.
“I’m going to stay with S (his girlfriend), but you’re going to have to find somewhere else to go.”
See what I mean about second-class citizen. His friend P also has a house, fairly close to here, and as far as I know they have some room there, but he didn’t suggest that they split these people up between the two places. In his brain the solution was to temporarily eject me.
Another thing that bothers me is his materialism, his class and ethnic consciousness. He says things that I can’t believe a man of West Indian origin would say. It’s quite startling from time to time.
My mother was quite surprised that he agreed to let me stay with him, and he in no way has given me the impression that I cannot stay here. He has in fact told me to stay as long as I need to.
However, he the kind of fella who, when this ‘committee-type’ woman invited me to a ex-pat fete, announced to the crowded party the night of the barbeque, “You’re coming, but I’m not paying for your ticket.”
He knows I’m broke, and feeling embarrassed I said nothing, but disengaged myself from the party and retreated to my room with a headache, unhelped by the DJ system pounding until two or three the next morning.
Almost everyone he introduced me to that night, he told them I needed a job.
Maybe this is why I felt so anti-social that night. I’m telling myself he’s trying to help and not letting his ‘personality’ bother me too much.
So I concede to second-class citizenship ’round here. I say nothing, I wash dishes, I keep to myself and don’t say much. Keep myself real quiet.
However, I don’t fool myself into thinking that my depression and homesickness isn’t related to my acute discomfort in this new climate, this new unfamiliar place. I’m not even talking about England. I’m talking about Kent and this house, this neighbourhood.
I actually felt comfortable being in London, (just not by monilove). I can see myself living there.
However, I am not judging my cousin; He was raised by my aunt and I’m not going to tell you he’s a bad man. He’s not. He just ain’t my type of people. He’s my family, but he ain’t my kind of folk, ya feel me. Now that isn’t a bad thing, but it does keep the fire kindled under my ass in terms of getting the fuck out of here as soon as I can manage.
I’m not looking back. I’m accepting help in any form in comes in, no matter how much it rankles me to need it. I won’t be beaten down by this process, because deep in my heart and spirit and soul, I know I’m where I’m supposed to be. If nothing else, going to see Astra showed me that.
So I don’t ask too many questions, and well I’m trying not to let it get to me. Some of the weight I put on when I first got up here is starting to come off. I’m beginning to think it’s just hormonal. I long to do yoga, but my mind won’t focus on it, and it is so fucking cold!
The three things saving me right now is, broadband, this lake and ducks, and MTV2. Oh and MTV Base, can’t forget them. Sad to say, but SkyTv sucks salt. They’re like Direct TV Latin America, and well they both suck badly.
I’ve been reading incessantly instead. In the six days I’ve read The Bridge Across Forever by Richard Bach (my third or fourth read of it…. nice ideas but the appeal of the story is waning), The Dirty Girl’s Social Club by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez, I’m Not Scared by Niccolo Ammaniti and two old Susan Johnson novels I reclaimed from DivaGirl when I was in Bim in July. The Niccolo Ammanti novel I finished between Saturday afternoon and last night, the Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez in 36 hours.
I just started, The Secrets of Jin Shei by Alma Alexander.
I probably won’t get an opportunity to read like this for a while, so I’m making the most of it.