Marmalade Daydreams

I woke early this morning, the first Saturday of the new school year, to the rising sun streaming through my curtain, its orange warmth evoking Monday morning when I danced through the streets of Crown Heights in the first rays of a new day's sun amidst a crowd of revelers, the air a redolent melange of sweet vanilla blunt smoke and talcum powder, swirling about a streaming parade of percussion -- floats of silver spangles with steelpan orchestras, 30 drummers deep; Con Ed workers banging on huge chunks of metal hanging from around their necks; people of all ages marching with snares, blowing on whistles, banging on cowbells and woodblocks. It was J'ouvert (a Creole contraction for jour ouvert -- day opens), the street party which bridges the witching hour to the morning of the peak of Caribbean Carnivals from Trinidad to Brooklyn -- on Labor Day and drawing a couple of million people annually, ours is the last and the largest of the season, and the fervency of its celebration, between the chanting and the drumming and the dancing, the public drinking and drunkenness, the paint-covered people wandering the streets like zombies looking for others to initiate into their brotherhood, the elaborate costumes of sequins and feathers (as well as the African royals and the manikins and the big booty babysitter above), and the baby powder being squirted everywhere, this is my consolation that, yet again, I didn't get to go to Burning Man this year.

And, though I didn't bring my camera, here's some photos that I downloaded from a steelpan websiteto give you all a sense for the craziness. The amazing thing is, despite the massiveness of the actual carnival, I recognize almost all of the subjects of these photos -- at 3:30 am there was only one float running, a Trini steelpan group with their supporters in red, waving flags, smearing red paint on faces, arms, shirts (my companion and I got pretty well worked over); soon thereafter a couple of groups from Grenada got it together and took over with drums and whistles, and the night unfolded from there. Got home by 8, and got a couple of hours of shuteye before a fantastic barbecue on my friend Sol's rooftop (overlooking Eastern Parkway and the parade route, we were subjected to hours of eating delicious food) put an official end to my summer.

On that note, back in the classroom I've realized something about the nature of time -- when put in a steady routine, the days can drag, but the weeks sure fly by. Most of the other teachers I know who didn't go anywhere for the summer, whether working or relaxing, said it flew by. Those who split it up, enjoyed a variety of activities and locales, seem to have appreciated the time more. I can't believe 2% of the school year is already over -- I hope that this routine doesn't eat my precious, precious life... It's good to be back, but I think this is sizing up to be my last year -- the Department of Ed is slowly shutting down our school (Lord knows why -- I think that it's just gotten better and better over the few years I've been there) by giving us less and less students, which means decreased funding. Glad I'm not at the bottom of the totem pole, but I worry for some of my friends's jobs.

My ears are ringing from amazing concert last night (Comets on Fire -- psychedelic metal), my belly is full of yummy frenchtoast and eggs from my local greasy spoon (if you live in Brooklyn's 11th Congressional District and are a registered Democrat reading this before Tuesday, please vote for Chris Owens & Bill Batson in the primaries to fight the hyperdensity of the Atlantic Yards luxury development and keep places like Nick's open), and I think it's time to veg out for a bit and enjoy my Saturday afternoon. Just so long as that doesn't become routine.