File - Image Factory

BAFFU8
contents
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29.
30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. Francis Ruiz
Carlos Quiroz
Felene Cayetano
Marvin Vernon
Adriana Smith
Carolina Maite Dominguez
Rasheed Palacio
Rudy Thompson
Gerardo Polanco
Katie Usher
Maja Skenderovic
Chante Pascascio
Kesha Peyrefitte
Yasser Musa
Sean Gibson
Mercy Sabal
Alfonso Galvez
Paul Stevenson
Briheda Haylock
Tony Rath
Keyren X
Michael Gordon
Cricel Castillo
Kevin Baizar
Yassine Boutouil
Abdulmajeed K Nunez
Ansel Diego
Evan V. Evans
Marlene Sulker
Sean Taegar
Alex Ellis
Nia Alulaij
Ellen Joseph
Patrick Peyrefitte
Avery
Kyo D’Assassin
Ansel Diego
Gerzon
Margaret Reynolds
Janai Garnett
Cindy Burgos
Jemuel E. Robateau
Keisha Diane Rodriguez
color tone of Baffu8 =
cover image of Crisel Castillo by Ernie Alpuche
FRANCIS RUIZ
CARLOS QUIROZ
UNTITLED
Felene Cayetano
One at a time
I want his toenails
to slowly discolor
painfully fall off in his sleep
one each day
disrupting his dreams
causing everyone who sees him
to increase his anxiety by commenting
with encouragements
to try one bush remedy after the next
as the final toenail drops.
I want his teeth to have a similar fate
but they will fall publicly
especially around people he loves
respects or wants to impress;
dentists will give him hope
that they could save the others
but nothing will help.
The day his last tooth falls
his bones will turn brittle
starting with the smallest bones
on the trigger finger
basic actions will cause excruciating pain
daily until he is neither willing
nor able to move and his spirit
is forced to reflect upon his bad choices
malicious ways and the recipients
of his hate
to the point where his mind torments him
enough to beg forgiveness
from all the gods he knows
and these merciful entities
will send someone to wipe the filth
his embalming physical self has become.
12:21pm Jan. 23, 2016 Guyana time en route to airport. Turning unshed tears and anger
into something for GD to laugh about when he wakes up.
MARVIN VERNON
ADRIANA SMITH
Thisness
Carolina Maite Dominguez
I am dizzied by kitchens with a gazillion gadgets, buttons, beeps
Frozen meals zapped with no zest
“wah pah di seasonin deh?”
Sitting in solitude, sharing a meal with the internet
Diiiizzzzy and dazed and full on faux food
I hunger to be in kitchens where heat cannot be contained,
fiery frustrations burning on the kamal- “he no deh
do noting,”
passionate pleas mixed into the stirring of stew peas,“mija, mija, es la fe que necesitamos”
prayers sizzling with the plantains- “di good Lord wah
kohn troo”
kitchens where each moment of life is a sacred morsel savored like the spoon-scratching in the bottom
of pots
I hunger to rise like creole buns in gas ovens
Where women, burned by the fire of men, rise, rise,
rise
And feed families, and more families
So their children too can rise rise rise
Above the hells
Underneath their feet
The hells blazing on each cornerEach inch of their streets
I am suffocated by the traffic
Deafened by the honks that perpetrate through my
shields of glass
Shielding me from the noises- and air- of the world
alone on these busy streets
I am deafened by the rush outside this glass
Alone and lost in my head
I scream to hear the noises of the day
Taaaamaless, mawnin’ miss, aftanoon, jammed bike
chains, screeches, dollaa van!, dukanu, clothespin
pinches hanging sheets on the line
Ayyy, I can almost smell the blanco nubes infiltrating
my nostrils
Intoxicating me with life
Drunk on memories
I want to taste this,
thisness
Gulp it,
Down it,
Swallow it,
Savor it sip by sip
Lick it on my lips
But I wonder
If this thisness exists here
Or if it’s buried with the bones of those who toiled
the very land they are buried beneath
I wonder
If it exists in these mansions, that really are a battle
fields, battle homes
Barriers, brick walls, keeping out thisness
I wonder where thisness lives
On the corner of streets, sleeping in between bank
buildings and garbage dumps?
Does thisness live here too?
I believe it does
I try to find it in between the jugos de guayaba, chiviricos, and taki chips on corner store shelves
I search for it in the streets of Hialeah
And Coral Gables too
And the moments of alegria
Of cortaditos y pastelitos con papi
On the way to work, la nueva lucha
But thisness, ahh, I cannot feel alive in all of this, chaos, busy-ness, business
But, ahh, I listen for it
I listen to grandmothers with alzheimers
Who haven’t forgotten “la precia de la libertad”
Who can still dance with intoxicating rhythm
Shining, swaying, salsa steps- like theres diamonds
shining in their souls
Like the silver, diamonds- and dignity- they swallowed
Si si for liberty!
They crossed the sea hasta Miami
La orilla de Cuba carved in their curves
The curves I called home, the home I nestled in as a
child
Thisness
Exists here
Too, on the thighs of mami
Where I was rocked to lullabies on abuelas white
wicker sillon, “esta nina linda, que nacio de dia…”
Falling asleep to the songs of my ancestors
As a child, waking up to liberty
Now,
I sruggle to shut up my snooze button
Slamming my phone
Already angry that I am awoken by the ticks of technology that make me tick and turn to its terryfing
power
Angry that I am not awoken by the voice yelling Tamales, yelling into the wind and into windows- awakening me to acknowledge the hunger I have for the
day- and too for a tamale – rather than a 100 calorie
pack of emptiness
I shuffle like a zombie to the espresso machine
Before I am even cognizant that I am awake
4 shots of espresso in my mug
and I down them all
to feel alive
to take the day
to buzz though the business and busy-ness
forgetting that I want to feel, to find
thisness
because I am so drunk on Café Pilon
I walk past el sillón
Without noticing abuelos imprint
Thisness
Sitting right there
But I am too busy to sit in his company
Forget that he is gone
There is not time to even greet his ghost
Ahhhhhhhhh
I am dizzied
Drunk
Deaf
Have I forgotten what matters most?
I listen to what’s around me
Am I asleep or am I awake?
Am I stuck in this dream,
The dream of those before me-“ la suena para una
mejor manera de vivir”
The dream for a better life
Am I in a kitchen- the oils burns my skin
No, I’m on la calle, the street- I hear the howls, I feel
the heat
But I’m not moving with the movement
I’m stuck on my feet,
I’m listening I’m listening, I’m feeling I’m feeling
It’s coming from within
This thisness
It sounds like my abuela
I can taste it, like the sweetness of her tres leches
pastel
I can hear it like the screaming of Azucar!
Saying,
Singing,
“Porque al fin de la dia
Es la lucha para la alegria”
At the end of the day
It’s the struggle for joy that’s sweet
Oh thisness
Que dulce eres.
Sobering up to the sugar on my lips
Oh,
I taste thisness.
RASHEED PALACIO
RUDY THOMPSON
I Have Been
Gerardo Polanco
I have been
I have been many forms.
Long before my hands could carve images from
words,
long before reason, peace, and universe lived inside,
long before I was part of humanity,
before I was able to connect,
to tap in to the collective
of sighs, and pains, and sorrows,
long before suffering
and the beauty of existence existed,
before balance had meaning,
I have been many.
A tree,
standing in silence that only trees know,
contemplating creation and life;
arms outstretched, receiving sun
light and wind on my every leaf.
Light and wind lived in the crackles of my bark;
like a child, hands dug deep in sand,
roots in earth
I was.
Every feather of every bird that ever flew,
that ever ran
earthbound;
I existed in myth and worship,
Bird of lore,
Being eagle and owl and macaw
In symbolic form
As might, wisdom and light.
And waterdweller,
breathing water through gills,
swimming in silver and rain;
scales of justice and law
became many and implanted themselves on my back;
I was many
before I became sacred,
made holy by the divine fisherman, Yeshua ben
Yossef.
Before
I existed within the very earth
as the very earth,
before I was soil and creation,
fertility, a myriad goddesses,
Ixchel, Pachamama, Obatalá
I was
light, thread and needle,
encompassing all,
being all, breathing all,
weaving birth and life and death.
Like mighty Ceiba roots, trunk, branches and leaves,
planted in Mesoamerican soil,
connecting Xibalba, Earth and Heavens,
being the cosmic pillars
of earth, space and time
I stood amid the land of the universe;
I have been the breath of the cosmos;
I’ve been the veins and rivers that flow,
been the stars and dust that explode,
been spaces and forces
that keep and that part;
I’ve resonated in Buddhist chants,
lived in repetitions of OMMmm,
swirled in galactic maelstroms of gravity and gods;
I have made gods and have been made by gods:
became the singular, the absolute.
I have lived
as teacher and student,
known life and breath as knowledge and thirst;
I have been the source of enlightenment
and the seeker of
the many paths and
Dharma roads
I have walked.
I have questioned, doubted and believed;
The alpha and the omega exist and breathe in me,
have life and meaning in me;
I have gone wandering and found direction;
my existence lives between the
peace and meaning of
the going and the coming
of all things
I have been,
I have been.
I have been.
conversation
with Maja Skenderovic
A short
with katie usher
an artist from Bosnia and Herzegovnia Maja, who worked on a cruise
ship and is also an artist, believes she was destined to come to Belize
because as a youth, her tag was ‘Mahogany’ and of course, her name is
Maja (Ma-ya).
Katie Usher: Tell me a little more about Belizeans Ia?
What does it mean to you? What do you want the
audience to take from it?
Maja Skenderovic: I started to process all the photos
I had taken from 2012 till 2014, and when I went into
creative isolation and started to work on documentation
from Belize, there where so many life coincidences which
made me to believe even more, that it was destined for
me to come to Belize. When I say coincidences, I mean
all of my previous expressions in art are similar to most
of the things I have acknowledged so far about Belize.
For me Love is Belizeans Ia, and because of Belize and
Belizeans, my art took on new shapes, forms. Belizeans
Ia gave me a new way to see all my future portraits.
But basically, I want to create an audience that is
capable of being grateful to just see more, and to
appreciate simple things. To make them observe small
details and magnify them and give them pertinence.
I want to tell them to be focused on people, what we
see beyond people,
places, beyond places, stories, beyond stories, food,
beyond food. I want to re-awaken the possibility to
change shapes of something people consider more of
the world they see.
of interest, I worked more honestly and I loved the
interaction in the space. I am not sure if I learned that
In fact, in this work, Belizeans Ia, I am offering them to procedure when I was young, because even when I was
read. To read signs, symbols in people faces, because 7 or 8 and I wanted to see stars better, I would just run
when we do that, we will learn to talk and answer all away from home and sleep on some roof. Of course,
the question we want to find in art.
my parents were always stressed because of my desire
to have this kind of one on one contact, if I can call it
KU: Do you want to do similar projects in other like that. I have visited many ports, but to be honest,
countries?
Belize was the most amazing, so many beautiful faces
or if I can say, as a portraitist, interesting facial features.
MS: I have a lot of documentation which I collected
true my ship life and before ship life, and to
For more of Maja’s work:
be honest I was always inspired to create in different www.majaskenderovic.com
environments. Somehow, if I observed from a place
MAJA SKENDEROVIC
MAJA SKENDEROVIC
MAJA SKENDEROVIC
MAJA SKENDEROVIC
Untitled
Can you stare at the blisters on my feet and be quiet?
Can you acknowledge the long road I've been on, and not deny it?
You keep wondering why you're looking into vacant eyes
I've been told the sweetest stories, delicately laced with lies
So am I to remove the knives in my back to make space for yours?
While I give my heart and body and be faced with all your chores?
You keep saying that you're different, yeah I've heard that many times
I can predict your lame excuses; it’s so thought out, it almost rhymes
Am I to respect this game you men play and wilfully call it art?
Is this skill that you all talk about, the act of breaking hearts?
Leaving women down on their knees, with nothing but their will?
While you move on to the next person, offering the same old pill?
And what happens in the future, when your own daughter takes my place?
And she comes to you hysterical, tears streaming down her face?
What will be your comfort? Will you tell her it’s just the game?
Will you reflect on all the 'daughters' you've hurt? Will your pride feel any shame?
Is it then that you realized what you've done? After you've ruined countless lives?
Does this silly little lame ass game of yours actually comes with an end prize?
Does this redundant bullshit game you all play, ever seems to become a bore?
Can't you see that us women are becoming immune? We come back stronger than before?
So before you do the things you do, would you accept it in your household?
Think of your mother, your daughter and even your sister, before you think of being cold.
Chante Pascascio
VALENTINE’S DAY
There's so much about this day that I despise
Like attention seeking people that use love as a disguise
To brag and pretend that their lives are so perfect
So being with a man that disrespects you is worth it?
He gives you a little chocolate and you give him the cookie?
While he laughs with his friends the next day saying, "rookie"
Then when you find out, you cry enough tears to quench the thirst of elephants
Has society really brainwashed us into believing if we don't have love we're irrelevant?
I write for my sisters, whose prides sink when they see those roses
Who takes pictures for friends and even instructs them on their poses
Then take a seat… feeling lonely, as though they're missing out
'Caz they don't get 100 messages with emojies of kissing mouths
But don't be envious ladies, this is only for a season
Your future guy will bring you chocolates for no apparent reason
Not just once a year that's marked red on a calendar
A day that is allotted to pull out all the scavengers
'Caz on this day they'll grab all the spotlight they can get
But as the day of "love" is over everyone will soon forget
As he moves on and they're gliding to the bottom of his chain
Come November, they're in the hospital with more than just heart pain
So ask yourselves sisters, why hook up with someone just to fit in?
Valentine is just another day, derive your happiness from within.
Chante Pascascio
8 DECEMBER 2015
Cristina Coc and Alfonso Cal received the Equator Prize 2015 Award on behalf of the Maya Leaders Alliance
(Belize) at the Mogador Theatre in Paris, France. They were recognized for their efforts to secure and protect
rights to communal lands, territories and natural resources.
CARLOS QUIROZ
The Politician
By Kesha Peyrefitte
“Sir, there is a long line of people waiting outside to see you.”
“Send them away. Tell them I’m out of the country or sick. The usual excuses, Sharret.”
“Sir, today is Tuesday.”
“Tuesday? Oh, yes, Tuesday. The days they go by so quickly, don’t they? Still, tell them that I am in Stann Creek.”
“Sir, you said that last week and it’s the same people from last week who are here today.”
“Did I? Right. Tell them that I am in Corozal then.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Sharret, mention that I will be in England or some other country next Tuesday, so I don’t meet this headache again
next week.”
“Yes, sir.”
More than anything else, Richard Williams liked the way that his secretary and everyone else said “Yes, sir” with
such delicious docility. Richard Williams was now the area rep. of the Cayo South constituency and in two years, he had
graduated from being a ‘back-bencher’ to holding a portfolio in the cabinet.
Sitting in his office, he had to admit that he had lived up to the reputation of being Minister Williams. He was
sitting behind a mammoth-size mahogany desk, the tiles on the floor were the most expensive in the store, the picture
frames on the walls were 14-k encrusted, the computer before him was the latest Dell model, and you had to get
through three, high-security doors just to see all these things.
His Rolex struck eleven. Soon, he would hop into his Prado and meet up with Jasmine at Chow Saan Palace. Yep,
Richard Williams was doing mighty well for himself. He had a mistress in nearly every village in his constituency. Since
becoming a minster, he had four other outside pikni. He lived in a top and bottom cement house-- six bedrooms, four
bathrooms, living room, a dining room, kitchen, walk-in closets, a three-car garage and even a cigar room for himself.
Apart from this house, he had three others scattered across the country. He and his family wore nothing but the latest
name-brand clothes and sneakers. In fact, he was wearing an Armani suit as he sat in his office. But it was not every day
that he came into his office. Most days, he was trying to bank money from grants given by first-world countries in some
untraceable way. Montevideo was a great option but You-Know-Who had already popularized the place. Perhaps, Cali,
Columbia. He was certain that not a lot of people had heard about the place.
His mind stopped again on Jasmine. She was a sexy little thing, with tits as nice as her ass. If there was ever a
feminine embodiment of the “Perfect Ten”, Jasmine was it. Minister Williams was sure that he would add her to The List.
But he had to wine and dine before he could grind. He smiled to himself exultantly as he calculated how long it would
take to accomplish this endeavor and how long his list of ladies was.
Of course, number one on the list was his wife. At first, when she heard about his escapades, she started acting
crazy and threatened to go to Channel 5 and Channel 7. She reminded him of a tapir that once chased him and trapped
him in a tree when he was a boy hunting with his father in the bushes behind More Tomorrow Village. He had to cough
up a couple thou to dissuade her from exposing him to the Belizean public. He could just imagine the headline in the
newspapers, “Cayo South Representative: A Ladies’ Man?!” or the big belly Jules, jumping up and down on the screen
saying, “It appears that Richard Williams or should I say, Don Juan Williams, has been up to more than just managing the
Ministry of Works portfolio. Just ask his wife, Amelia Williams…” Richard Williams winced in panic at just the thought of
how the Belizean media houses would have a carnival if such secrets from his life were to somehow get out.
His father’s picture on the wall of his office took the tartish taste from his mouth. If it was not for an advice that
his father had given him as a boy, he would not amount to the man- to the minister that he was today. His father was
a good father- a bit of an underachiever, in the Minister’s opinion but given the situations and circumstances that they
lived under, he did the best he could. His father was a construction worker. He worked from 6 to 6, 6 days a week. Still,
he couldn’t make ends meet. If WASA wasn’t cutting out the water, BEL was threatening to cut-out the lights. The food
was minimal and they all wore ‘gimmi-tenk-yo’ clothes.
One day, Richard and his father were sitting under a Number 11 mango tree in their yard. That same week, the
butane had gone and his mother had to cook on a makeshift fire-hearth. The water was out, so he and his brothers
hauled water from a creek a mile away from where they lived to bathe, wash the dishes and do laundry by hand. The
kerosene lamp and candles were seen giving a golden glow from their windows and doors after daylight had dwindled.
And to make matters worse, his father’s boss was withholding half of his pay, and giving him a cock and bull story about
this and that and the other.
They saw a van pull-up in the neighbor’s yard. White people came out with boxes and boxes of groceries and
gave them to Sista Flowers who was now a born-again Baptist. One week prior, this same Sista Flowers was simply
known as Janet. If you were ever interested, God forbid, in the art of sequencing cuss slurs, gambling or bargaining your
womanly assets, Janet was the one to visit for unofficial tutorials.
His father shook his head, with a look on his face that clearly communicated that he was losing heart.
“You ever heard about the light at the end of the tunnel?”
“The what, Daddy?”
“The light at the end of the tunnel.”
“No. What is it?”
“It is supposed to be something that saves you when you are in a sticky situation.”
“Like what?”
“Like if poor people like us would win the lotto or something. Or if the big fish would stop chancing the small fry. All poor
people need is a break. Not even a big break. Just a little break. But that ain’t the way that those in power think because
if you born poor, you’re going to die piss poor. But if you born rich, believe you me, you will dead richer.”
Richard looked at him, perplexed. He was too young to understand and appreciate the complexity of the
conversation. His father tried to break it down to him. The light at the end of the tunnel would be their family not having
to worry about the bills or the thieves that were starting to prey on the poor. The light at the end of the tunnel would
be him keeping a decent paying job all year round and buying his children new clothes and tennis shoes and erasing the
look of bitter resentment and regret on his wife’s face.
Richard was still not following what his father was trying to explain. Any other time, his father would have given
up with explaining but this time was different. His son had to understand. If he understood the plight of poor people
from early, maybe he would have a head start. If he understood now, maybe he could change his destiny. Richard finally
understood a bit of what his father was explaining, once he told him about the stranded fisherman at sea who sees a
lighthouse after several days.
“It’s only drug-dealers, church people, States people and politicians who see the light at the end of the tunnel, Son.”
“But Daddy, Belize no have any tunnel like the ones at States where cars and train pass through.”
“You’re right, boy. Maybe that is why Belizeans can’t make any head way. We are looking for a light at the end of the
tunnel when there is no tunnel to begin with.”
Richard wished that his father had lived to see him become all four of the people that he had described to him
that day under the mango tree. Of course, his father, like most of the Belizean people would not know of him being
involved in the illegal activities. If his father were alive and knew this, he had no doubt that despite him being a Minister,
his father would still disown him. That was his father’s problem. He was too damn righteous and honest. Richard learnt
long ago, from his own father, that the righteous and the honest finish dead last.
Richard discovered that he couldn’t really rely on anyone else to build tunnels for him. He needed to be the
builder of his tunnel, so he built his tunnel, brick by brick by brick. His father’s advice had stuck with him. He was
going to be a politician. He had to become interested in his books because Belizeans seemed to place their trust more
in educated individuals than grassroots brethrens. He was right. Right after graduating from college, he became the
chairman of his village. He won over Mr. Joseph Wright, who for more than fifteen years had presided over a sense
of safety and selflessness in the village. But as soon as the book learned youth became a candidate for chairman, the
villagers seemed to forget about the older, honest and more experienced, middle-aged chairman.
From chairman, Richard became a minister. His road to the cabinet was like all the other ministers’ conventional
routine. Since Belizeans seemed to like a family man for a representative, he married the girl he was dating and they had
a child together. Every other night, he had public meetings in his constituency, he tongue-lashed the government and
his opponent’s personal and professional track record. He campaigned from house to house with his manifesto clasped
under his arm and a band of supporters behind him who were marching for money more than anything else. When the
people expressed their frustrations with the promises of politicians at election time, he swore on his mother’s grave that
he was different.
During election time, he ate rice and beans, chimole, cassava bread, and takari and white rice. There was always
a warm hug for the women, a reassuring handshake for the men and babies were never out of his arms. Oh
how he hated this part of the campaign! With a perfectly placid smile on his face, he had to hug women who
sometimes smelt sour of sweat, smoke or stinking arm. He had to shake hands with men who had layers and
layers of dirt caked under their fingernails. He pretended to listen to these men that he had greeted but all that
was on his mind was the thousands of germs wriggling on his wrist and fidgeting on his fingers. The little bastards
were the worst of all. They only seemed to shit watery and vomit bile when he was holding them. A week into
the campaign, he had learnt to bring an extra suit of clothes and stash it in his car in case some kid expelled
something from his backside or mouth.
Richard was sure that he would win the election. The Belizean people, thank God, did not forget about
the corruption and cronyism of the government in power. And then there was the commercial that he had
aired on Channel 5 and Channel 7. A sentimental, instrumental song played while he hugged, laughed with and
kissed old ladies. There was a crescendo as he played football with young boys, planted trees and handed over a
cheque to the children’s home. The ending was the best part; the commercial ended with his campaign slogan“Together we will work; Together we will win!” His mantra made the people feel that they were equal to him
despite their illiteracy and his education. His motto made the people feel that when he won, when he was in his
big office, with his big ride, and his big house, he would remember them in their poko-tiempo houses, with at
least a scholarship for their daughter, a job for their son, and a piece of land for the family.
But the thrill of building tunnel after tunnel, and seeing the glimmer of gold at the end of each tunnel
completely drove the promises that Minister Williams had made to the people of his constituency out of his
mind. Travelling through the tunnels and then seeing the light, that sometimes came in the form of girls, grants,
gold and gifts was a heady and hypnotic buzz. Travelling from tunnel to tunnel was Minister Williams’ life and he
lived for his list of girls, his greenbacks and his bed of roses.
***
Outside Minister Williams office, two years of wear and tear was apparent on the faces of the line of
people inside the lobby. In this line were old women with thick-lensed spectacles, head ties and hump-backs,
young men garbed in dread color beads with Haile Selassie pendants, women in rubber slippers that showed
cracks the size of volcanic craters on the soles of their feet and old men with their ‘Richard Williams’ shirts stood
next to young girls with one naked breast flopping in front and a baby smiling on with a round and radiant face.
The minster’s secretary, Sharret, was more of a contract killer than a personal assistant. At least, that
was how the long line of frustrated people viewed her. The contract killer soon turned to Satan as she said, “The
Minster is in Corozal today and he will be in Australia next week Tuesday.”
Sharret had one thing in common with the line of people. She too was fed up with Richard Williams. She
vowed from the first day that she took the job that she would work as his secretary and not his sex-itary. She did
not stand for the sexual harassment, the pat on her buttocks, his eyes plastered to her breast and his sexually
suggestive language. She was expecting any day now to be fired and only God knew what would happen to her
children’s school fees, the mortgage on the house, the bills and her broken heart.
It was not easy for her to put one leg deeper into hell for someone else’s duplicity. It was hard to look
them in the face and it was especially heart-wrenching to lie to Sadie. Sadie came from the same village as
Sharret. They went to school together and were the same age. But Sadie’s road was much rougher than anyone’s
in that waiting room. Her hair was grey when it was supposed to be black. The old women waiting for the
minister wore more stylish clothing than Sadie. When Sharret saw her tennis shoes, she remembered a phrase
that describes a person’s sneakers or trainers when they are torn- “Yo’ shoes the beg fi piece a bread.” Sadie’s
eight children did not dress much better. Their school uniforms were one wash away from losing their school
colors and their tennis were begging for the whole oven full of bread. They lived in a dawg-sidong house that was
one March breeze away from falling down. The roof was like a sieve and her children played a game of “who pan
will full first’ whenever there was rain. The steps were rickety, the floor was crumbling, the ceiling would soon
cave in and the springs from their beds were spurring them in the middle of the night.
Sadie’s husband died not too long ago. Before he died, he worked in Belmopan, picking up garbage that
littered the sidewalks. They were both staunching supporters of Richard Williams. In the times leading up to the
last election, two years previous, Sadie quarreled with any neighbor who did not support Candidate Williams.
Her husband wore his party shirt, with an X in the back next to Williams’s name to make a statement- he was
never going to vote for those idiots from the other party. With their eight children, they attended conventions,
jump-ups and party rallies all over the country. On election night, they were in the Civic Center’s parking lot in
Belmopan when Richard Williams was announced as the winner. Sadie’s husband was one of the men who lifted
him on his shoulders as Sadie hugged her spanking new friends. They hopped in a stranger’s vehicle, as they had
none for themselves and joined the motorcade, screaming through the four o’ clock fog, “RICHARD WILLIAMS
ALL THE WAY! RICHARD WILLIAMS ALL THE WAY!”
Sharret thought that the minister would have showed up with either a couple crates of soft-drinks or
provided a tent for the wake when Sadie’s husband died but he did not show his face at Sadie’s residence. Not
even once.
Sadie was travelling back home in a National Transport bus. Some bloody bregin person was playing a
rap song on his I-Phone for all to hear (she couldn’t stand boasi people like this), and the smell from the sweat
was telling on everyone’s skin, “Rocking Steady” was playing on the stereo, an old lady standing in the aisle
complained about the extinction of gentlemen in this day and age, school children in the back seats were cussing
and the conductor was throwing some drunk off the bus for not having his dollar to pay for the fare.
Looking through the thick, dirt-hazed window, the sunset consoled and crushed her. The sunset reminded
her of the days leading up to election. The coolness, color and the whispering wind of the evening were like
Minister Williams’ bracing words that made her feel courageous and confident. His words were a cleansing
cream for her soul; a purification of her pessimism. He made her disremember the crime, corruption, high
cost of living, unemployment and the pending promises from past politicians. But when sunset concludes with
its beautiful betrayal, the night comes. The night comes and brings shadows, spirits, and gloom. At night, the
possum eats the one-a-two chickens, the piam-piam eats the eggs, the tomi gaaf bites the pig, a sprang-head
steals the cattle, and Richard Williams tries in some untraceable way to bank money. And if there is ever a time
that she thinks she sees a glitter at the end of the dark tunnel, it is only a discarded milk pan or pieces of glass
from a Traveler’s One Barrel bottle.
Darkness is doom and it lasts for 4 years and 8 months. And then sunset arrives again with its beautiful
betrayal and it lasts for only four months. This is the cycle of two party politics in Belize, the sluggish cycle of poor
people’s death.
you are invited
YASSER MUSA
on seeing Carrie Mae Weems:
From Here I Saw What Happened
and I Cried and Nona Faustine:
White Shoes
Katie Usher
wow!
I saw this and reflected on my experience
as a black woman in the world.
not having straight and long enough hair.
not having fair skin.
having too wide hips.
too thick legs.
too fat buttocks.
and then I saw the Hottentot Venus and wept.
All these years later, I am she and she is me.
I was first confronted with my blackness when I went to
Mérida, Yucatán, México
and they called me "morenaxa de fuego"
and turned me into something you fuck
not make love to
something you fuck
not someone you make love to
something you fuck
not someone you make love to
confront myself with my own blackness
if i twerk, i am ratchet
Miley Cyrus does, make millions
if i wear shorts, i'm ghetto
my ass is too big, hips too wide
I am not Daisy Duke
I am not Daisy Duke
I am not Daisy Duke
I am not Daisy Duke
the only hazard is that
i am a black woman in the world
SEAN GIBSON
THROWBACK: Belizean Art from the 1990s
MERCY SABAL
THROWBACK: Belizean Art from the 1990s
ALFONSO GALVEZ
THROWBACK: Belizean Art from the 1990s
Phi study
Paul Stevenson
The pentagram was incorrectly associated with occult practices
and Satanism by the Catholic church when it is in fact, one of the
most divine shapes in geometrical construction.
The proportions of the pentagram encode many patterns
discovered by the Sumerian culture, who also revealed to us the
360 degree compass, 24 hour day, the division of both degrees
and hours into 60 minutes and seconds.
One particular perfection of the pentagram is the ratio of the
distance between any two points on a line and the distance
between a point and the second intersection on a line. Which is
1.618 to 1; a significant number in the Fibonacci sequence, from
which is derived the Golden Ratio.
Some twentieth-century artists and architects, including Le
Corbusier and Dalí, have proportioned their works to approximate
the golden ratio -especially in the form of the golden rectangle, in
which the ratio of the longer side to the shorter is the golden ratio
-believing this proportion to be aesthetically pleasing.
Mathematicians since Euclid have studied the properties of the
golden ratio, including its appearance in the dimensions of a
regular pentagon and in a golden rectangle, which may be cut into
a square and a smaller rectangle with the same aspect ratio.
The golden ratio also appears in some patterns in nature, including
the spiral arrangement of leaves and other plant parts.
In the time Venus orbits our Sun thirteen times, our Earth
completes eight orbits. Plotting these intervals on a circle, the
resulting pattern form the points of a pentagram. Divide thirteen
by eight or eight by five results in 1.6 and this is not a coincidence.
PAUL STEVENSON
WWW.BZEYUC.COM
Briheda Haylock INTERVIEWS
TONY RATH
January 2016
BH: talk about your start in photography.
TR: At a very young age, I remember my Dad,
who was an engineer, driving to the University of
Minnesota after a long day of designing airplane
systems, to attend an extension photography
course at night. He would bring home various
assignments he had done and I always marveled
how beautiful they were. My older brother took the
same course with my Dad, and he came home
with stories of adventure – climbing skyscraper to
get a sunset shot over Minneapolis; flying a small
plane solo, camera in one hand yoke in the other to
capture images of farmland from above; or sitting
for hours in the woods, silent and still to photograph
wildlife. This, I thought at the time, was how I could
have such adventures, using photography as a
tool to travel and explore. Though it would be 40
years later before I turned professional, from that
moment I seemed to have photography in my life.
BH: What is your understanding of nature,
the wild, the landscape?
TR: To me, landscape is the visual
representation of Wilderness and Nature. It
is where we begin our relationship with the
natural world. Much like art, we are attracted
to and treasure landscapes that are pretty
or beautiful. Landscapes are usually our
first interaction with wilderness and nature.
Hopefully, the beautiful landscape sucks us
in to a vortex of understanding and respect
for Nature until we begin to realize that the
value of nature and wild places goes far
beyond the visual. Wilderness is probably
my greatest inspiration. I remember looking
at old maps of Belize when I first arrived here
and saw so many blank spots, or regions
labeled as wasteland. I remember thinking,
that is where I want to go. Wilderness to
me is unfettered Nature; what the Earth was
like through the eons before Man, and the
environment in which Mankind evolved. To
experience wilderness is to understand where
we came from, why we feel and think the way
we do. Without Wilderness, we are lost and
forced to create an artificial reality that is safe
and meaningless. Nature - our environment
- is built of many different interlocking parts;
plants dependent on soils, soils dependent
on watersheds, watersheds dependent on
roots, roots dependent on bacteria, and on
and on. There are few people in Belize that
would call Nature bad, most people in Belize
would label Nature as good. Therefore,
since Nature is good, each part of Nature is
good whether we know and understand it or
not; each part contributes to the goodness
of Nature. Each part must be protected
and cherished. I learned this as a young
mechanical engineering student. I was taught
that the cardinal rule of taking something
apart to understand how it works and then
putting it back together is to keep every
part. Only an ignorant fool puts something
back together and throws away extra parts
leftover. A machine needs every part to work
as it was designed; Nature needs all of its
parts to maintain its current health. Basically,
Mankind abuses Nature because we have
been taught that the land and plants and
animals belong to us, they are a commodity
to use. But when we experience Nature and
Wilderness, we quickly realize that Nature is
a community, not a commodity, and Mankind
belongs to that community, and as with any
community we belong to, we need to protect,
cherish and grow it with love and respect.
BH: Could you talk about your experience in Faroe islands when you were starting out as a photographer.
TR: The Faroe Islands are a remote, wild archipelago just south of the Arctic Circle. While there are no trees or
crops, these islands are a haven for seabirds which nest on the rocky steep cliffs free from natural predators.
This is what initially attracted me, the wilderness of the Faroe Islands. But I quickly learned that it is also the
people of the Faroes that are living in this wilderness that are just as photogenic. Their way of life, making a
living from the sea, from the birds and from the wool of sheep, attracted my sense of adventure and I soon
grew to love and respect the people more than the wilderness. For over a 1500 years they have not only survived, but prospered in this spectacularly beautiful but harsh landscape, without destroying their environment.
The Faroese are sometimes criticized for some of their traditions, specifically the non-commercial, highly
regulated whale kills for food which have taken place since at least 1200AD. But until you have experienced
the bitter winds, lack of sunlight in the winter, the isolation from mainland Europe, the freezing waters, and the
incredible humanity of the people, you should not judge.
BH: What are some of the ways you learn?
TR: I am a voracious reader. When I get new equipment I will read the instruction manual twice with equipment in hand.
I read about techniques; I read about locations; I read about weather; I read about other photographers experiences; I
read fiction and non-fiction alike. Reading is food, specifically dessert, for my creativity. I am patient. I will watch light
changing, mammals and birds feeding, clouds and stars moving, fish schooling. I like to study the environment not only
to find interesting things to photograph, but also to anticipate what might occur so I can be prepared to capture it. I can
sit for hours in a single location watching Nature unfold before me. Patience keeps me hungry and ready for those illusive creative insights. I fail. I have tried so many things that did not work; more than ideas that did work. There is no substitute for experience. Failure is not a bad thing, but a wonderful thing, cause it provides an opportunity to learn. When
ever a young photographer asks me how to improve their skills, I say shoot every day. Shoot every thing. Shoot. Shoot
and shoot. Not only will you learn every control on your camera, but you will learn exposure, focus and composition,
and you will begin to see light. I study other photographers. I will spend hours viewing other photographers work, not
only to try and dissect how a shot was made or what the lighting was, but also for inspiration and ideas. I will sometimes
try to recreate a shot that another photographer took to learn the how of the photo, not only in the studio, but also for
landscapes. For example, look on the Internet for some of my mentors, such as the painterly abstracts of Art Wolfe; the
composition and timing of Jim Brandenburg; the starkness and simplicity of Sebastião Salgado; and the pure artistry of
Jim Gallop. I try to surround myself with diversity. I love being around young people for their idealism and enthusiasm.
I love being around older folks for their wisdom and life experience. I love being around business people for their outlook
on resource use and around farmers for their knowledge of soils and plants and around conservationists for their love of
wilderness. Diversity keeps me grounded. Finally, I free myself to learn by not comparing myself to other photographers.
The world is a big place, and each photograph is but an instant in an infinite river of time. Every one has a different view
of life, and the camera becomes an extension of their eye, their personality, their life. While I am more than willing to
take part in the constructive criticism of a photograph or body of work if the photographer asks, I will never take part in
a “he is better then her” conversation - that is pointless and destructive. If someone likes my photos, wonderful. I love
hearing from people, especially when they are open with how the photo made them feel or think. If someone doesn’t
like a photo, that is fine too, it is theirs to dislike and in most cases there is a good reason why they don’t like it…and a
good opportunity to learn. But to tell the truth, by the time I hear criticism of one of my photos, I am already onto the next
landscape, the next wildlife shot, the next quiet moment in the rainforest watching a hummingbird drink from a waterfall.
MARVIN VERNON
THE SEALION AND THE MERMAID
Paul Steveson
Baeoguid Aangstroem sat admiring the flock of fluffy sheep as they flowed across
the long green fields down to the pebble beach, as his father and grandfather had
done before time.
The events of the previous evening stayed with him as clear as the moment. Ever
since had known himself, he had never imagined the autumn full moon would cause
the sea lions to peel off their sealion skin and walk out of it, standing on two legs just
like he did. and then they danced, with much singing and hoots and whooping and
kicking reels, the like of which Baeoguid Aangstroem had only seen at gatherings of
the clan, at the big house by Aalborg.
Baeoguid Aangstroem wanted to see the gathering of sea lions dance again. Even
though he knew it was a momentous occasion, he also realised his fortune of
opportunity to see it. and so it wasn’t until the full moon after spring equinox that
it happened.
Baeoguid Aangstroem watched with awe from the low bank of stubbly fine grass as
the sea lions came ashore, shaking themselves free from the memory of the cold,
calm green black sea. Watched with awe as they settled to their favourite spot.
Watched with awesome wonder as it came for the time for each sealion to carefully
peel off their sealion skin, place it carefully on the pebbly beach then skip lightly to
take up their position in the great ring of dancers surrounding the most enormous
and ferocious fire that sent sparks up to taunt the brightness of the silvery moonlight.
As the sea lions danced, Baeoguid Aangstroem sidled himself close to a sea lion skin.
Soon, he reached out and touched the sea lion skin. The skin was warm and furry.
He pulled the sea lion skin closer and all at once, he found himself actually inside
the skin of the sea lion, as if for all time.
Shuffling and rolling to the waterline, Baeoguid Aangstroem gently eased himself
into the green black water, the familiar crashing of the surf on stone giving way to
green and black echoes. Shafts of silver light shattered the blackness and Baeoguid
Aangstroem plunged with alacrity, deeper until the silver streaks of moonlight
piercing the surface became distant sparks on a massive canvas.
Hours turned to days and presently, on a hunter’s moonlit night, without notice, the
familiar stone beach appeared again. Swimming and plunging easily through the
shallows, Baeoguid Aangstroem was surprised to see the most beautiful creature
swimming beside him, a full half woman naked to the thighs with the features of a
fish's tail was her bottom half.
Baeoguid Aangstroem was intrigued and puzzled all at once. They shuffled through
the surf onto pebble. As each studied deeply into the others eyes, they discarded
their skin and danced under a hunter’s moon, and they danced and they danced and
they danced. As if a dance had never been before and they lived happily everafter,
for always.
RASHEED PALACIO
KATIE USHER
KATIE USHER
JOE GABB
JOE GABB
Love Your Skin (Interlude)
Have you ever looked in the mirror
And not felt comfortable
Within you?
See a girl once asked me,
Why doesn't the Sun reflect of my skin
And I told her, you're not a mirror, be honored, your beautiful.
Ladies, love you skin,
Because no one else will love it for you.
If every word you spoke became permanently
written on your skin for the world to see.
How different would your life be?
If the words you spoke appeared on your skin,
would you still be beautiful?
Then you would find yourself bestowed with no hope,
so love yourself, and accept yourself
When I look at your hair I don't see naps,
I see gravity defying beauty
Truly and sign showing the ruling of queens.
By any means
Realize that I dream
Of the day that we'll appreciate the sun's rays
Upon the layers of skin
Black is beauty
True definition of you and me.
Cho...
"Melanin is a blessing
I see
Strength and power am not stressing about
You"
Realize the most beautiful make up a woman can wear is passion, yet
She seeks compassion, all in the name of fashion.
What do you see when you look in your mirror?
Does you reflection lie, hiding the pain inside?
Is it a cage that keeps your mind prisoner?
Black women realize that melanin is a blessing,
So stop stressing cause it's depressing to see
You hurt.
No one can hear your cry from behind the frame.
You grow insane.
Then again I wonder.
Does the makeup you wear enhance your smile?
Oh really!
Just for a while.
Love your skin.
Keyren X
MICHAEL GORDON
WWW.POSTLANDINGS.COM
Diva. Goddess. Sexy.
Buffness. Guru.
by Katie Usher
Who is this woman? Where are her clothes? Does she work? Are some of
the milder shares behind the quizzical looks at the glaring screens.
ERNIE ALPUCHE
Cricel has single-handedly managed to break social media! She racks up likes, comments and shares at
an unbelievably robust rate, whether you understand the fitness world or not, the countless hours of
stress not only to the body and mind, but to the soul, you follow. Admit it!
How is she brave enough to pursue an anti archetypical body type in Belize, Central America of all places?
How does she face people who not only do not understand the task of chasing a dream relentlessly, but
also those who are callous enough to tell her how “good she looked before.”
You see, most times, we women work out because, Easter is coming and “ah need da beach body” or my
man just left me for a prettier woman, and “ah wa show fu he rass sohnting!”Working out has far more
sinister intentions than a “healthier me” and is, often times, a man-pleasing effort, and it is always to
cure femininity. Shed those hips, lose those ‘love-handles’, flatten that belly, whip those thighs.
That Cricel Castillo has embarked on the mammoth task of strengthening her core, building and toning
her glutes, chiseling a real strong body, not only bewilders but scares some. How can a woman dare to
own and profess her strength? Who gave her permission?
As far as the art aspect, she has managed to create a personae, this Superwoman. A character who
outperforms our ability to question. We sit and witness. What will Superwoman do next?
Should I be this provoked? Will my girlfriend or wife be concerned or angry at how many of those 2.1 K
or 1.3 K likes, I’m responsible for?
And we, the women, myself included, in awe, not only at her physical strength, but that she dared to to
shed not only the clothes but the societal conventions.
KELVIN BAIZAR
To begin:
i am a black, lower middle class
woman with dreadlocks.
Labels matter, trust me, what follows will be received based on those.
Last night, i participated in 'Uncannily Apt: Not a Label'
It had been 5 years since i was not invited to participate in a Women in Art exhibition, even though, a
woman and an artist. Last year was the first time I was invited back since my last participation in 2009, i
did not attend the opening reception because i was out of the country.
After last night, a few of my observations:
But first, I congratulate the curator, NICH, all the artists, Grace Kennedy Belize Ltd., the Belize-Mexico
Cultural Institute, Embajada de Mexico en Belice and everyone who attended and supported.
1. We need a larger exhibition space.
2. There is a reason pieces are mounted at eye-level. No one looks down for a piece, except if that is the
intention of the piece.
3. There should be a forum for artists to discuss, their work and experience as an artist prior to the show.
That way, the works (which are the final products of process) can be appreciated deeper.
4. An honorarium would be nice, time and mind and effort was invested. Lawyers, doctors, nurses,
teachers, and civil servants don't work for free, we shouldn't either.
5. Women in Art should by now include: fashion designers, models, chefs, djs, selectas, film directors and
producers, actresses, recording artists to fully show women inside the art arena.
(There was a dj last night, poetry and performance, so that is a step toward the right direction)
6. So that each of these genres and creators get enough spotlight, these can be spaced out into 3 or 4
events. Belize NEEDS more cultural events. Women need to be recognized for their efforts. More is better
in this regard, trust.
This is NOT an attempt to throw shade in any direction. I am extremely appreciative of the efforts of
Gayla, Kim Vasquez, Karen Vernon and the NICH team and all the artists. These are simply observations
which I think could greatly enhance women's month as well as the general art industry in Belize.
Forward in art Ladies!
CARLOS QUIROZ
YASSINE BOUTOUIL
KELVIN BAIZAR
BRIHEDA HAYLOCK
Sport Racism
Abdulmajeed K Nunez
When Marion Jones became the fastest in the world
She sent the world in a swerve
Raising the Belizean flag in the 2000 Sidney Australian Olympics
Sent the world into an instant panic
Dearing to give the third world country credit
Had she done different and just masked it?
And simply just give the US their credit
She was subsequently stripped
Her own husband was used to orchestrate the hit
She was stripped of her medals and sent to prison
What is the Marion Jones lesson?
Is it that you cannot win unless you cheat?
Can you truly be successful in sport when everyone we depend on something goes wrong
She has turned her life around
Giving youth talks on how to slow down
Take and break so they can make good decisions
The biggest mistake Marion Jones made wasn’t lying to federal prosecutors
But rather it was the same as her ancestors
When Christ-teef-us-com-bruk –us all our trust
So did she gave her trainer and husband and lost focus
Forgetting she was the world’s fastest woman and was worth millions
She clearly did not want to do the power brokers minions
She was a victim of sport racism
Mike Tyson was brought up on rape charges
Tiger Woods was admitted to having a sexual addiction
Rape charge were brought up on Kobe Bryant
Micheal Jordan Gambling charges and had to retire
Magic Johnson had to claim HIV and retire
The same thing in some sort of a fashion
Happened Marlin Brisco, Lisa Leslie and Debi Thomas and Bob Gibson
Bobo Brazil is credited for ending racial segregation in Wrestling
Let’s not forget Tommie Smith and John Carlos in the 60s
Althea Gibson, Hank Aaron and Jack Johnson
Wilma Rudolph and Ernie Davis and Magic Johnson
Bill Russel , Jim Brown Jessie Owen and Muhammad Ali
Then last but not least Jackie Robinson
Its hasn’t happen to Usain Bolt yet , cause they are waiting his decision
Ghetto X- Mas
Abdulmajeed K Nunez
Wave Radio, Love TV call in
I found demeaning,
Competing for the best turkey impersonating
Minister’s street soldier came around the next morning
Ham, a party bag and toy in hand
Boy oh boy! The tactic they employ unu understand
Is this all our people are worth to these politicians?
Poor people borrowing loans for Xmas
Flanking courts to get things pan trust
Retailer gauging price to trick us
Political figures spend monies they have in trust
Giving the impression they care about us
Even the Vatican has made a confession
That they were wrong about this X-mas celebration
Using Jesus as the center of attraction
It’s even came out that St Nick was a black man
What a fantastic theatrics of impersonation
Every decade there is a shift in the X-mas tradition
How do you explain Santa to Southside young man?
On the Southside Santa is a possibility
Santa on the north side is a reality
In Gungulung, Jane Usher, Belama, Pickstock and Mesopotamia
Children a forced to get mature faster
Now the Rural Development Silent Santa
The money was give to the police by a unanimous donor
But to traumatize commuter?
Police Santa drama
American TV show culture
Playing a prank on unwitting commuters
They made a fool of the passengers
Trying to introducing a new culture
Social taxation in the Ladyville area could have easily turned sour
Why not host a party or give a hamper?
It was a risky move, it could have backfired
Twenty people taken off the bus and given a stiff hundred dollar
Find vs fine hundred dollars for Broaster
According to the media he was bracing for a negative blow back
Would it be different in the Mesopotamia Block?
YASSER MUSA
YASSER MUSA
They Say…
They say I'm too soft
Because I'm too laid back
They say I'm too soft
Because I don't chat back
They say I'm too weak
Because I don't have 10 woman
They say I'm too weak
Because I don't have pears like Rodman
They say I'm not a man
Because I don't drink at bars
They say I'm not a man
Because I don't smoke cigars
They say I'm not real
Because I don't do what they do
They say I'm not real
Because I don't fallow the crew
FUCK WHAT THEY SAY!
Ansel Diego
BRIHEDA HAYLOCK
BRIHEDA HAYLOCK
BRIHEDA HAYLOCK
MARVIN VERNON
www.duazamzam.com
EVAN V. EVANS
Dr.Winsom Winsom and Sir Pen Cayetano, one of Belize greatest Musician and Visual Artist having a quiet moment at Belize City Street Art Fair 2016.
MARLENE SULKER
Spirit
A voice of fire blazes the future
Sailing the Spirit with wings of fire
Sailing the cosmos with a tongue of storms
A tongue of remembering singing the future
Singing the future with an eye of prisms
‘the memory mother of imagination’
Singing truth to the ear’s focus of stars
Hearing Spirit in the heart
The heart the sea’s drum of death
Waves of flame nourishing a breast of pearls
A breast of diamonds blazing the sun’s womb of life
The sun’s hands of wind instructing the lungs to breathe sky
Instructing the future to be born and sing its infinity of fire
A heart of birds
A heart of sea
I love you
I love you
I love you
I love you with all my heart
Dream the distance of death
Dream the future alive with suns
Dream the sky’s song of wind transforming the belly to dreams
Transforming God to the Spirit of all Spirits
The Spirit of imagination’s fire harmonizing the knowledge
Of balance and stars
Of fire and focus
Launching
Launching
Launching
Life to dream
To the space of forever
To the infinity of seeing launched in the eye of all directions
In the eye of God’s tongue of diamonds
In the future’s kaleidoscope of sun
In the mother’s womb of astral water
In the abyss of nothing
Friday 30 January 2015 6:36am
Belize City, Belize
Sean Taegar
ARTISTS
on half-moon caye
by Rasheed Palacio
On January 19th 2016 I received a very surprising email that pitched an Idea of having artists from
various parts of the country come together and travel to Half-Moon Caye with Oceana for their latest project.
This project Oceana decided to take on was done in consideration for Reef Week (this year from the 6th of
March to the 13th). On January 30th Oceana invited multi-talented individuals from all over the country to
experience a part of our nation we would only see pictures of in magazines and postcards, the great Blue Hole.
The point of all this was for the artist to be inspired to create as their work would be presented at a cocktail at
the Mexican House of Culture in Belize City on March 12th at a cocktail and silent auction.
ALEX ELLIS
The journey to this world heritage site is one that many Belizeans may never get the chance
to undertake because of its great distance as it is the furthest eastern point off the coastline
bordering international waters . It was 20-25 artist that were accompanied by Oceana
representatives and members of Belize Audubon to Half-Moon Caye where they spent
the day exploring the island, snorkeling at the Blue Hole , Booby bird watching and other
activates throughout their time at sea. On their return to the mainland the race was on as
everyone got to work preparing for the Cocktail within a month time. The excitement could
have been seen resonating on the ride back as creativity was overflowing with songs being
written, poetry verses recited and books filled with thumbnails sketches with the potential
of becoming masterpieces.
ALEX ELLIS
At the cocktail some of the artist gave
personal statements of what their experience
on this trip as their artwork directly reflects the
impression this has had on the creative mind.
The gallery space was filled with paintings,
both traditional brush work and digitally done,
jewelry from shells and lionfish, carvings,
handbags accompanied by photos of the trip and
performances by poets, singers and musicians who
also took part in this exercise. The audience was
awestruck as people who saw this idea featured on
Channel 7 news on February 1st were stimulated
with ideas to create as other artist from around the
country started to create artwork as well and asked
for it to be featured in the gallery. Proceeds from
the auctions where split between the artists and
the Reef Week fund.
ALEX ELLIS
This exercise gave Belizeans
artist the opportunity to learn
about their country in a way
very few can say they have
ever done in their life time, by
exploring their own backyard.
NIA ALULAIJ
NIA ALULAIJ
HATE MAIL
So let me get this straight...
You think you're better than me because you get more likes on Facebook???
Are you proud that for that reason you expose every nook…
Of your body to satisfy the attention you seek???
Tell me how many of those guys can you actually keep???
Is this a competition that you and I are in???
Are you that naive to believe that you can win???
'Caz I've heard about you and indeed I've seen with my eyes...
The shallow woman that men look at as a prize
Pure emptiness behind that pretty face and fake hair
And you say you wanna compete with me ma dear??
Let me enlighten you on the kind of woman I am
I'll break it down slowly so you can understand:
No fake hair, no fake nails, no padded bra 'caz I'm blessed
No need to waste money to look my best
Seeing you in real life was disappointing… Damn girl! Where’s your class??
You look nothing like your profile pic! Damn girl! Where's your ass??
But I must admit you're beautiful except for that one deceitful touch
Now don't get too excited on that compliment. I know you're starving. Conceited much?
I don't depend on anyone for anything, I'm not the begging type
I work for everything I have; to not do so won’t feel right
I'm human...I've loved and lost and been hurt
But I’ll never let it change me for I know my worth
I won’t let anyone take advantage; that's where I draw the line
So I hope you learn a little about me from reading this rhyme
If you want to stand beside me, then make sure you can carry my load
While still being humble and living by my code
There's no use in being pretty, when on the inside you're black
But I can show you how to be both, just follow in my track
And the next time you feel brave and want to compare
Make sure you're flawless so when you see me, you don't have to stare.
Chante Pascascio
I Am Too Grown
I'm too grown for butterflies
Too grown to be tripping,
Falling,
Checking who's texting, calling
You
I got kids to raise,
Bills to pay,
Working everyday
Tablet Counting on them trays...
So if you think you will cover my eyes,
Buttering my thighs,
Eating my cheese and cracker pie
That won't fly
Because, I already told you,
I'm too grown for butterflies,
Too grown to be tripping,
Falling,
Checking who’s texting calling
You
I got college funds to build
I can't wait on a will
And if you don't know how the groceries got off the shelves and into them plates,
Don't come over expecting a fill
FYI, I got no Netflix
So you already know,
No chill
Because, I already told you
I'm too grown for butterflies
Too grown to be tripping,
Falling,
Checking who's texting calling
You
I can't bank on your promises,
Or what your tomorrows may bring
I can't wait for your potential
You see, Love is elemental
Yours now, Devalued in this
...we...equation
I hear you sing the blues,
Trying to mask the clues...
I won't be your muse,
Because I already told you
I'm too grown for butterflies
Too grown to be tripping,
Falling,
Checking who’s texting calling
You
Bye bye boo
Ellen Joseph
tattoo: PATRICK PEYREFITTE
AVERY
4AM Belize
Have you ever wrote words that talked back to you?
Witness Actions becoming birds
Philosophies breathing lifestyles
Purpose… making life worthwhile
People serving as points,
Sharpening swords to slay giants
The mind, a sledgehammer, breaking down the walls
Life… a Rubik's cube for us all
Kyo D’Assassin
Beautiful
Beautiful, beautiful is what I see, in your eyes.
Beautiful, sexy is the way u walk, the movement of you thigh
Beautiful, beautiful is the way u smile.
Beautiful, beautiful is your voice, when u speak.
Beautiful, miss fine, just your presence makes me weak. Beautiful
Ansel Diego
GERZON
GERZON
PLACENCIA
sidewalk art and
music festival
by Rasheed Palacio
On the 13-14th of February this year the 13th Annual Placencia Sidewalk Art and Music Festival took over the
peninsula with a bang as artist from all over the jewel took over the streets of Placencia to highlight and showcase a
part of Belizean culture that captures international acclaim, the arts. A festival that grows gradually every year as tourist
as much as Belizeans flock to peninsula to socialize, be entertained with good music, but for most cases buy art. This if
further elaborated on by the Placencia Sidewalk Arts and Music Festival’s Official website.
“Each year during the weekend closest to Valentine’s Day, the Placencia Sidewalk Art Festival takes over the
world famous Placencia Sidewalk, showcasing Belizean culture through a variety of mediums.
Local artisans decorate booths displaying their paintings, wood carvings, original jewelry, blown glass, baskets, and
handmade arts and crafts, painted signs, and ethnic clothing and bags, while musicians occupy other tents and share a
variety of Belizean musical styles along the way.
Manning the food court, local vendors offer an assortment of culinary fare ranging from breakfast bakery items
to full-scale Belizean dinners.
The Sidewalk Art Festival allows our artisans to showcase their wares to a large audience, and visitors to find
special gifts and souvenirs within the short span of a weekend.” Belize Tourism Industry Association Placencia Chapter,
Placencia Sidewalk Arts and Music Festival Official Website
“It was just a festival to bring together artistic talents and develop artists. Over the years it grew popular and
word starting spreading, hence the reason it is as big as it is today. We are trying to find ways to make this festival an
international one.” Statement made by Jonnell Augustine , Belize Tourism Industry Association Accountant/ Membership
Officer Assistant, Placencia Sidewalk Art and Music festival committee member
Sidewalk Art and Music Festival website https:
www.facebook.com/PlacenciaSidewalkArtsMusicFestival/
Jolie Pollard’s Video on the Sidewalk Festival: https://www.facebook.com/ThePlacenciaBreeze/videos/
vb.142394125827586/787143024686023/?type=2&theater
Placencia Sidewalk Festivals Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/PlacenciaSidewalkArtsMusicFestival/
UNTITLED
NEVER
EVER
Ask a poetess if she’s with child…
The answer is yes
Will always be yes
Oh these thoughts that impregnates me brain
No matter how hard I
Try to run away from…
From
Grasping my pen sometimes and
Scribble the jumbled mess as it
Usually seems at first
Splurging all over these pages
Like the product of morning sickness
My head feels light…
I clench my tummy
Wondering where it all came from?
What’s the event, the occurrence that
Fathered these train of thoughts and
Counting back the days
Trying to figure its conception
Not that it matter
I’m sure its birth is inevitable
For me to ignore this
Would be an abortion
That’s so against my religion
–
Poetry IS my religion
–
So I get on my knees pulling the pieces together
It must take form…
It must be delivered…
It must be given the opportunity to let out its
First scream
Announcing its arrival
YESSSS
Another poem is born.
Margaret Reynolds (yg&b)
When Love is Not Mutual
When love is not mutual,
It is admiration.
For all one can do when love is not mutual is sit back and admire,
Admire the grace,
The beauty,
The magnificence of the one who attached them-self to your soul.
Knowing love is not mutual tugs at the soul,
It stirs up emotion,
It brings pain.
But even the mere thought of the angel you follow, makes it go away.
When love is not mutual it is still grand,
It is like admiring a fire while it burns you,
It is like being poisoned while you heal.
Love is an affliction of the mind but a blessing of the soul.
Janai Garnett
PAUL STEVENSON
CINDY BURGOS
I Wait
O and I wait sitting beside two pregnant lady.
The broke hand man is getting too hasty.
Two nurse and a hundred people whom are so grumpy.
O, me and my dog bite have to wait
And it's getting real late
But I have to have faith.
As much as I have
To wait.
I didn't know I have to go through this
For one Tetanus injection.
I feel like I'm taking a big operation.
The Chinese lady
With the black baby
The diabetic, the man with his
Whole family.
We all want is to walk through that gate
But in this waiting room we all have
To wait.
Ansel Diego
Untitled
Mark time, time moves on in a low drag; Watch me take slow sips of anxiety until flash!
You’re here!!! I can’t believe you’re really here!!! In this moment time becomes almost obsolete.
Please, please come in and sit, right now only you and I exist. Tell me your stories and your secrets,
embrace me and let me get a taste of your lips, your kiss tells of a gnawing hunger yet it must
wait; while I take care of my duties and your wishes we engage in this oral exchange until our
responsibilities lie asleep and finished.
Come, come closer, close this space between us, let me hold you, kiss me and look into
my eyes, I need you and you want me, I see determination in your eyes, we’re determined to
consummate our loving affections and all our lustful inclinations, we’ve agreed to satiate our needs,
to copulate not to create life because that’s already done but to give each other a reason to hold
on, while I suckle you like a baby I feel your temperature rise, burning desire like hot molten lead,
grip me let me take you, no need to ask where we’ll head.
I feel the gnawing hunger too; raw flesh and skin let me eat you, so loud in here who
knows? Let’s hope the neighbors won hear your cries, Splash, splash, splash, spray yes! Shower me
with your love, yet all this moisture can hardly take our desire away; this wetness does little to cool
us down and quench the flames; what a lovely mess we’ve made!
Time, panting and sweaty, time brings us back; back to the reality we can’t evade; it’s time for us
to go our separate ways; as we leave we prepare to erase all the evidence and deny all the facts of
this affair; we’ve said goodbye yet I still can’t believe you were really here.
Jemuel E. Robateau
Single Womanhood
Keisha Diane Rodriguez
I will not accept
Your characterization
Of me;
I reject it!
No!
You will not be allowed
To weave into polite
Conversation
Your fairy-tale convictions
And not so subtle
Condemnation
Of my
Single womanhood!
You cannot peddle
Your derelict presumptions
Here
Like some Victorian-era corset
Being tightened
Around my life
Stifling
Oppressing
Seeking to mold me
Into something…
I already am…
A woman!
Success has not alluded me
Because wife
Is not among my titles
Or child
Among my trophies.
Forgive my ignorance
But never did it occur to me…
Woman,
Was not inherently
Being female…
And grown…
I was being
Assessed
Tested
On my ability
To procreate
And harness me
A husband!
There are gradations
Of womanhood
It seems
Single womanhood
Is on the lowest rung!
No!
I reject your antiquated
Assumptions
That unless I have
Carried life
Within my womb
Or had a babe
Suck upon my tit
I am less than!
Just so you know…
My biological clock
Is not alarming
Some time ago
I smashed that shit
Against my bedroom wall
Has not bothered me…
Since!
I am not ready
I do not have the need
Or feel the urgency
I might never be
Someone’s mother
But that is okay with me
I reject your warped notion
Womanhood…
Does not hinge on such
Condition!
Please!
Do not propagate
Your bogus
Romantic notions
Here!
Really?…so its time
I find myself a husband?
Why?…
Do you not see
The ease
With which
I Weave
Myself
In and out
Of boardrooms…
And hardware stores
And gyms…
And garages…
And…all the places
That women
“Should not be?!”
Tell me…
What benefit
Would a husband
Be to me?
Perhaps…
You think
My wings
Are spread
Too boldly…
Too brilliantly…
You want to see
Them cut
Lay mangled
Upon the kitchen floor
As I cook…
And…clean
For…a man
Who is never there
Because marriage
Will never change
His life
The way it will mine
Perhaps…
You would rather see
My wings
Dissected across
My bedroom floor
My heart…
Disintegrating
Because she just called
To let me know
My perfect life
Is a lie
And that he loves her more
Than he ever will love me!
Married…
Bruised…
And broken
Is that what you want for me?
I know…
I know…
It’s not all like that
But very often it is!
So…please!
Do not
At every opportunity
Seek to negotiate
Marriage and children
With me
As though
I am
The last human being
And the survival
Of the species
Depends on
My womb’s
Fertility!
We both know
It does not!
So…stop!
We can discuss
Politics…
Or Economics…
Or even TV shows
Anything but
My personal life!
Please!
Let me be…
Let me breathe…
Let me…
For now…
Enjoy…
My…
Single Womanhood!
STREET ART FESTIVAL 2016
Untitled
Sometimes I wish bullets can create life instead of taking it
for every life lost, a child is born
the cries reflecting the victim's
Life is a circle of suffering
Where the little moments shine
like kids showing you the feats they conquer
Nothing else in this world matter
One day at a time
One day, we'll rise
Like the Phoenix kissing the sun
A 1000 years, we'll live on
Eons... the tattoos from our soul
spoken by scribes and griots
Ancestors call,
From the circumference of nowhere
to make the whole omnipresent
Center... transcending time and space
a task, we all chase
Kyo D’Assassin
imagefactorybelize.com
BAFFU8 an e magazine from Belize
Published by the Image Factory Art Foundation
91 North Front Street, Belize City, Belize, Central America
www.imagefactorybelize.com
email: imagefactory70@yahoo.com
BAFFU editorial TEAM =
katie usher, rasheed palacio, briheda haylock, kyraan gabourel, yasser musa
Katie Usher
b.16|8|1986 San Ignacio, Cayo
art activist, thinker
BAFFU is free and open expression, unconfined, and
unadulterated display of expression
Currently reading: LABOUR ACT OF BELIZE
Doing: yoga, running and reading
Projects: making cairns for balance and beauty
Rasheed Palacio
b. 31|10|1994 Belmopan City
artist
BAFFU is an idea giving tangible form to unknown concepts
beyond most of our comprehension
Briheda Haylock
b. 28|12|1990 Belize City
multimedia artist promoting social awareness
BAFFU is one step to developing a tangible art culture.
Working on: art exhibition - to bring awareness to street
harassment in Belize
Kyraan Gabourel aka Kyo D’Assasin
b. 20|6|1991 Belize City
spokenword artist, writer & entrepreneur
BAFFU is honey in a barren land; the nectar of survival; the
teflon of immortals
yasser musa
b. 17|7|70 belize city
artist, teacher
Working on: art project = DNA lines 2016
BAFFU is active transgression
Reading: The Violence of Organized Forgetting - Thinking
Beyond America’s Disimagination Machine by Henry A Giroux
baffu is an open publication for arts, culture and ideas generated from belize. all works
are submitted by the individual artists and writers and used in this publication with their
permission.
copyright belongs to the individual artists and writers.
posted: 20 March 2016
if you wish to make a comment or submit works for possible publication
baffubelize@gmail.com
PHOTO: BRIHEDA HAYLOCK