A hole.

There is a hole, 

a big ole hole, 

a wonderful hole 

at the top of a busy street in town.

De hole is the size of the belly of a whale, which I suppose is large – if it can hold Pinocchio whose nose been long like a lie – that got to be a big-size belly.

Into de hole, cars fall down. 

Because of this hole, flashy jeeps falter;

speeding mini-buses go slow; 

heaving, heavy trucks hesitate. 

I think I did even see some imagination vacillate.

On a dry day, de hole is full o’ silent epithets flying from drivers mouths.

Soon after the itsy-bitsy mini-baby flood that been all around, de hole was a swill o’ swearing and sewerage.

“Suck, suck, slurp, slurp,” said de hole. “Sink into my calabash-bay. Wash you’ car face, splash you' bus belly. Woosh, lemme give you’ vehicle a free bottom-wash.”

I, waiting to cross the street…

...or rather, stopping to watch the sinking of the traffic, I coulda easily cross between vehicles…

...I can’t wait to see the industry that gon start up there.

Peeeerp, get you’ hot, honey-roasted peanuts here, the peanut vendor gon whistle. Payperrrs, payperrrrs, newspaper vendors gon hawk. Want a mosquito net? Them mosquito-net men gon ask quietly above the buzz, holding up pink blue n yellow nets...

One week. One life-time. One million $$.

It feel like a life-time just gone by, not just one week and two days.


A' itsy-bitsy mini-flood, wading in and out, sludge and worries, stories and thoughts, talking to my mother on the phone (asking she details about CAT scan, how is me baby-nephew, is he cute, what me other nephews doing); making and breaking decisions, cleaning...


...the sun is out, two white lillies perfume is wafting through the window by the tree, and I have a heap o' goals and dreams to polish up.


I feel like a war tank run over me.


Then pelt me with a million dollars. 


They better not be counterfeit.

A day for sailing.

Today is one o’ them days in Suburbia when a pale sun and mild salt breeze lick wild yearnings into your head, yeah, one o’ them days when you just want to push out to sea with your yacht or even a li’l canoe.

Instead, I dump dirty laundry into machine, sweep yellow leaves from the driveway, fill me hands with three ackee from we tree, and carry them to me dearest Irish auntie across the road. Chatting with she, me insides billow like sails in the wind.

Hope ahoy, so much hope to support we-the-people. Folks from other lands reach their dreams on this wayward shore that does turn hardened local men into weepin’ wusses on tv. So many who born and grow here keep moving aback.  They can’t seem to get their boat afloat, they stay in the mud and complain-complain.

Me nanee, my mother-mother, with less education than them, woulda put them to shame.

Home again, me Niyaz Arezou CD ease away me chores, and turn me head to wonder. What yearnings did push me Arab ancestors (on me nanee side) to sail to here, to settle this far away?

Yeah-yeah, today is one o’ them days that can lick you with hopes and dreams, a longing to do-be, do-be, do-be more, and when the sun go down, you gon wash the salt o’ struggles from your skin and say praises be.

Tree-climbing dawg.

We had a dawg that useta fly six feet into the air, thinking that when he land, he gon land on the seawall.

We had a dawg that try to go to dinner with Pierre Trudeau. And I see a dawg in the Island that go to gaze upon H.M. the Queen.

We had dawgs that hang out and eat dinner with we cats and parrot.

But I never in me whole-born life see a dawg climb a tree. I can’t stop watching THIS VIDEO!

The tongue hanging out with all that effort is what got me doubling over with laugh.

“You're not sleeping with the right man…”

Me! 

Versatile!

Well, thank you, Guyanese sista in New York.

Lemme see if I really deserve this...I gon look at 7 things about me...

11.  Two or so days ago, I been thinking, when life pelt you with poo, take a shovel and...

...on Friday morning, walking home after buying newspaper, I hurry past two horses jaywalking on the left side of the road.  You never know what they was capable of, disobeying traffic rules about what side we should walk on. I, of course, good citizen, was on the right. 

One horse rump stray into me peripheral vision.

Suddenly, it let loose.

Plop. Plop. Plop. Let that be a lesson to you, yes, you with your self-righteousness about digging up life’s poo with shovel.

I learn a good lesson.

I gon make horse-nappies and sell. I gon tell buyers, if they collect the poo, they can do plenty with it.

22. In me lovely-native-land, knowledge is a dim light. Plenty people think it is what school-children and university students regurgitate from text-books. Whatever people know, they hug it as if sharing the light would make others mo’ bright.

Imagination is a blank canvas that they stick in a cobweb corner, not good for much. They don’t understand the healing, mind-sharpening power of art and music.

33. But that’s okay. I got a one-woman campaign teaching not so-educated people all sort o’ things. Simple things...ideas for starting their own business, how to turn trash to treasure, and to encourage their children imagination.

44. “You're not sleeping with the right man,” Lu-A., artist friend retort, she voice dry like we savannah-grass in hot season.

Yeah, that is what she say and make me laugh, after I grumble to she about the job-scene in ‘98, when I did first come back from living in the Island.

“Imagine, I have a degree in Communications...audio-visuals for community development. I was taught by some of the best in the Caribbean, and some from the US. Plus I have experience and awards working with an international ad agency. But nobody here was hiring me.”

55.  But that’s okay. I enjoy working for meself now.

And too besides, I recently come up with a way to use me training and skills to help educate less fortunate women. And it won’t be boring like what we have in we media.

66.  Mini-bus drivers is a plague and a pestilence on we roads and me soul.

77. But that’s okay. I am in the process of designing a poo-pelting machine. This machine gon come in all sizes. For individuals. Families. Communities. Countries.

IIf No. 7 ain’t make me versatile, I ain’t know what would!

Well now, I should share this compliment with 15 new bloggers. Truth is, bloggers on me list been here forever.

Except DaddyP who is quite versatile even though he can’t get the gas out o’ he old wrecked car...and Wafa, a gal in Arabia who decide to stop blogging much to me disappointment.

So go ahead you two, if you want to. 

Remember to:

1. thank the blogger who give you this and link back to them in your post

2. share 7 random things about yourself

3. pass this [hard work] along to 15 recently discovered blogs you enjoy reading

4. contact your chosen bloggers via facebook, twitter, email etc, to let them know

5. add the Versatile Blogger award picture on your blog post.

I gone to hug up me five pillows.

  

Love in my hometown.

Everything is a commodity now. Even love. Even in me lovely native land that useta be extra poor. Mo’ money flowing from pockets now, we having a business boom, external experts is saying.

Last night, on tv, ads for Valentine shows bang-a-lang me nerves like generators in the dark. Everybody seeking light in one form or another but making noise instead o’ beauty.

What happened to good old-fashioned walks in the moonlight, holding hands, whispering wishes to falling stars? 

The radio on, I washing wares. People calling in to send Valentine greetings to their daughters, mothers, family, to all of Guyana. I thought Valentine day is for lovers, romance.

Radio guy got a’ odd way o’ speaking, like he was a proper, strict school-teacher, but he want to be Mr. Lover-Boy now.

A child call and don't say nothing then hang up. 

In between the clanking of me dishes and scrubbing them pots, the radio guy voice come through, scolding - parents should monitor their children, stop them from making phone calls, people should stop behaving so stupid when they call. He let loose a couple mo’ adjectives similar to stupid. I feel a li’l surprised, thinking he sound a bit too angry.

Smooth-mocha song by Sade carry me 'way to the Caribbean Island, evening sun spilling orange-liqueur over white beach, eating lobster on a wood bench, under a coconut tree, blue sea lapping to the lilt o' Bob Marley.

The song is over.

Radio-guy begin fuming again about people who spoil it all, here he is, trying to put on a good show and people are calling to breathe into the phone, making strange noises, disgusting sounds in his ears...

I start to laugh so much, I don’t hear the rest.

Man, I tell you, I love this place.

For the sake of peace...

I take down the last post!