Communication in this ol’ house can proper get bruka-down. Anybody would think that in one house with just two people, this wouldn’t happen.
Heh.
For years I, the good daughter, been teaching my mother all kinda new health tips, things older folks here never learn in their young days. Things like how to NOT ketch the flu - wash hands, don’t touch face.
The other day, I spot a news item in we papers. Ha. I, good daughter, gon pounce ‘pon this opportunity to teach health tip again.
“Aiyeee, mummyyyy, swine flu come to Guyana. You must keep your nose away from your face!”
“Eh?”
I raise me voice, speak slow, stop after each word to let it sink in. “Swine. Flu. In. Guyana. Keep. Your. Nose. Away. From. Your. Face.”
“What?!?”
Sigh. I weary tell my mother to go to Dr. Vaipree to check she ears, but y’know, the older you get, the more stubborn you get. Sigh, if in a’ ordinary home this does happen, what you expect between two big-big nations? Eh?
Friday, July 10, 2009
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Free Lunch Day and the circus.
Hark, hark them dawgs did bark, the circus been in town...oh wait...you couldn’t hear them bark. Police sirens been screaming up and down the road, piercing like countryside-women voices when they quarrelling on neighbours or fambly. Normally, you can hear Zackie, Auntie H. dawg, hollering when a siren wail. Zackie does shet he eyes, raise he head, put he mouth in a’ O and howwwl. Couldn’t hear he last week. Them sirens, two, three, four, been screaming all at once.
Most times, when a police siren howl, I does think, Hmmm, police fetching he wife or gyalfriend to the market to buy she greens. (Look, I ain’t saying that is a fact, I just saying I does think it. Blame the ex-cop who did tell me). Last week though, them sirens wail and wail because the Free Lunch Circus been in town. I don’t know if the police was transporting them performers from the Free Lunch Building to hotels, to-and-fro or what.
As for the media...don’t know what it is about them and politicians...some media folks can proper wag and wiggle with excitement, trying to cosy up to men with power.
What a la-la.
Every year is the exact-same show. One year me Jamaican gal-pal email me from she island: CARICOM is having a meeting here. The media excitement is disgusting. CARICOM is just a free lunch.
Last week, I ketch a glimpse of them performers here on tee vee, Caribbean leaders in shine suits, none in rags, bursting at the seams with pomposity. I ain’t bother to listen. They does regurgitate talk from the previous year. We must integrate or perish.
Before I switch channels, I notice a couple o’ them did look sleepy. Must be because we the hospitable people of Guyana feed them ‘til their belly-skin get so tight, it pull down their eyelids.
They certainly didn’t look hungry. Some o’ them proper look pregnant.
Maybe they need to fast a little, do a li’l Ramadan time, to understand hunger, urgency, and need for action, instead of sitting around the ol’ pot, promising a wicked Caribbean soup full o’ tasty, chunky things like regional integration, skills and goods sharing. The pot must be empty. Because, up to this day, we the ordinary citizens of the Caribbean Community can’t get a whiff of this meal.
Must be a watery alphabet soup from a can that they making.
Early in the 2000’s, one young Caribbean leader, new to the scene, did try to change the recipe. He say, It is time to stop the talk; now we must act. I bet resentment did stew up in some o’ them grey heads.
The other day I say to my mother, Humph, they keep talking about performance and acting together, I bet if they had to ketch each other on a trapeze, they would let each other fall.
Most times, when a police siren howl, I does think, Hmmm, police fetching he wife or gyalfriend to the market to buy she greens. (Look, I ain’t saying that is a fact, I just saying I does think it. Blame the ex-cop who did tell me). Last week though, them sirens wail and wail because the Free Lunch Circus been in town. I don’t know if the police was transporting them performers from the Free Lunch Building to hotels, to-and-fro or what.
As for the media...don’t know what it is about them and politicians...some media folks can proper wag and wiggle with excitement, trying to cosy up to men with power.
What a la-la.
Every year is the exact-same show. One year me Jamaican gal-pal email me from she island: CARICOM is having a meeting here. The media excitement is disgusting. CARICOM is just a free lunch.
Last week, I ketch a glimpse of them performers here on tee vee, Caribbean leaders in shine suits, none in rags, bursting at the seams with pomposity. I ain’t bother to listen. They does regurgitate talk from the previous year. We must integrate or perish.
Before I switch channels, I notice a couple o’ them did look sleepy. Must be because we the hospitable people of Guyana feed them ‘til their belly-skin get so tight, it pull down their eyelids.
They certainly didn’t look hungry. Some o’ them proper look pregnant.
Maybe they need to fast a little, do a li’l Ramadan time, to understand hunger, urgency, and need for action, instead of sitting around the ol’ pot, promising a wicked Caribbean soup full o’ tasty, chunky things like regional integration, skills and goods sharing. The pot must be empty. Because, up to this day, we the ordinary citizens of the Caribbean Community can’t get a whiff of this meal.
Must be a watery alphabet soup from a can that they making.
Early in the 2000’s, one young Caribbean leader, new to the scene, did try to change the recipe. He say, It is time to stop the talk; now we must act. I bet resentment did stew up in some o’ them grey heads.
The other day I say to my mother, Humph, they keep talking about performance and acting together, I bet if they had to ketch each other on a trapeze, they would let each other fall.
Friday, July 03, 2009
Woman without her man is a beast.
Punctuate that while I go for me walk.
I hope the spur-wing bird don’t fly at me again like some savage dinosaur let loose from a Sci-Fi movie. All because I stand up staring at she in she nest...I am lucky that me is here still, in one piece...
I hope the spur-wing bird don’t fly at me again like some savage dinosaur let loose from a Sci-Fi movie. All because I stand up staring at she in she nest...I am lucky that me is here still, in one piece...
Monday, June 29, 2009
Michael Jackson
Hat. Coat. Glasses.
The red-hair chile from the far, far foreign land is sitting at we dining table, matching pictures with words, learning English. Quick-quick she work, stumbling only here and there, giggling with girly humour at some private li'l joke or sometimes at a comment I make. I used to worry that she would find me corny because of she pre-teen status. But though she is twelve, she ain’t what we would call force-ripe like them pre-teens on foreign tee vee shows...that is, over-precocious and sassy and rude...none o’ this she ain’t. A lovely child, me friend who introduce me to she does say.
Pants. Blouse. Match, write the words in the blank line.
Gloves.
“Michael Jackson,” I say.
She giggle.
“You like Michael Jackson?”
She nod yes-yes-yes, heart-shape face and green-brown eyes, excited.
“Me too,” I say.
Later I marvel at this...
...how me, she, so different, can appreciate the music of Michael Jackson...how he was able to bridge borders, race, religion, cultures, ages, to reach people. Most creative people can only dream of getting half-way there.
Later, I think too how, although some o’ we may never want to admit it, there is a bit of he in all o’ we. We might colour that bit a different shade, call it another name, but there it is, one bit of the same, from the beginning of time and man.
Only difference is, between he and most o’ we, is that he coulda transcend the pain and sorrow of being human and create amazing works like Earth Song.
The red-hair chile from the far, far foreign land is sitting at we dining table, matching pictures with words, learning English. Quick-quick she work, stumbling only here and there, giggling with girly humour at some private li'l joke or sometimes at a comment I make. I used to worry that she would find me corny because of she pre-teen status. But though she is twelve, she ain’t what we would call force-ripe like them pre-teens on foreign tee vee shows...that is, over-precocious and sassy and rude...none o’ this she ain’t. A lovely child, me friend who introduce me to she does say.
Pants. Blouse. Match, write the words in the blank line.
Gloves.
“Michael Jackson,” I say.
She giggle.
“You like Michael Jackson?”
She nod yes-yes-yes, heart-shape face and green-brown eyes, excited.
“Me too,” I say.
Later I marvel at this...
...how me, she, so different, can appreciate the music of Michael Jackson...how he was able to bridge borders, race, religion, cultures, ages, to reach people. Most creative people can only dream of getting half-way there.
Later, I think too how, although some o’ we may never want to admit it, there is a bit of he in all o’ we. We might colour that bit a different shade, call it another name, but there it is, one bit of the same, from the beginning of time and man.
Only difference is, between he and most o’ we, is that he coulda transcend the pain and sorrow of being human and create amazing works like Earth Song.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
My li'l sister.
When my sister is in the shower, she does sing faux-pera, that is, fake opera.
She does sound like this.
She does sound like this.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Liquid Lunch
Been waiting for the right moment to share some Liquid Lunch with you, a gift from Stephen that arrive in the post. First, I did plan, I would loll off one evening in the spare bedroom, and read. I would open them louvre windows lining the east and south walls; pull open them curtains tight-tight to the sides of the windows; smooth dark-blue sky with the one star would cool me mind like breeze cooling the warm room. The crickets-cacophony and guava-tree-rustle would mingle with the music playing quiet-quiet inside.
Then we get the news about me cousin death and the perfect moment dash away. Was as if the clock hands went mad, spinning whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, skipping days, turning hours into seconds and there was no time anymore, only a blur of...whirrrrr...bread slices, cheese grating, mixing with a few drops o’ milk and pepper and shallot and celery that I chop-up fine-fine to make sandwiches for wake-nights, visiting Auntie M. and Uncle J. to comfort them, gyaffing ...chatting...with younger sister of cousin A. who die, and in between, teach English, try to contact artist-friend to plan artsy affair with other creative folks...whir...rr...
...r r...me creative self slow down like clock unwinding.
Two mornings ago, before sun rise, I pick up Liquid Lunch, blues-inspired poetry. Hey! Realisation wash down on me like cool water on hot, dusty skin, them these here ain’t no blues. Sure, they got the rhythm, the style, the word-sounds o’ the blues. But in them these pages is folks jivin’ with music, laughter...and inspiration. Them these pages got cat-fish, slick bones and molasses; women toss off men like they changing lingerie; men chase sweet fine things even though, when they go home, they gon have to duck and dodge pots and pans that their ol’ ladies send flying at their heads; and towards the end, there’s Soul, man, Soul, and a man re-born.
See there now, time do that whiirrrr thing again and I got to skeedaddle, but now I know, Liquid Lunch is the kinda chapbook I can sip-sip any time, or I can guzzle it in one go then return for refills.
Thank you, Stephen.
Now go, folks go, get your own Liquid Lunch ‘cause I ain’t givin’ you mine.
Then we get the news about me cousin death and the perfect moment dash away. Was as if the clock hands went mad, spinning whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, skipping days, turning hours into seconds and there was no time anymore, only a blur of...whirrrrr...bread slices, cheese grating, mixing with a few drops o’ milk and pepper and shallot and celery that I chop-up fine-fine to make sandwiches for wake-nights, visiting Auntie M. and Uncle J. to comfort them, gyaffing ...chatting...with younger sister of cousin A. who die, and in between, teach English, try to contact artist-friend to plan artsy affair with other creative folks...whir...rr...
...r r...me creative self slow down like clock unwinding.
Two mornings ago, before sun rise, I pick up Liquid Lunch, blues-inspired poetry. Hey! Realisation wash down on me like cool water on hot, dusty skin, them these here ain’t no blues. Sure, they got the rhythm, the style, the word-sounds o’ the blues. But in them these pages is folks jivin’ with music, laughter...and inspiration. Them these pages got cat-fish, slick bones and molasses; women toss off men like they changing lingerie; men chase sweet fine things even though, when they go home, they gon have to duck and dodge pots and pans that their ol’ ladies send flying at their heads; and towards the end, there’s Soul, man, Soul, and a man re-born.
See there now, time do that whiirrrr thing again and I got to skeedaddle, but now I know, Liquid Lunch is the kinda chapbook I can sip-sip any time, or I can guzzle it in one go then return for refills.
Thank you, Stephen.
Now go, folks go, get your own Liquid Lunch ‘cause I ain’t givin’ you mine.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
A death. And two goodbyes.
A month ago my cousin A. die. And not long after, I bid farewell to two people I am fond of – one gone to work on a cruise ship, another gone back to she homeland, Russia.
Wish I was one of those folks whose sadness does make them flow creatively. Not me...the creative part o’ me does slow down.
Now, trying to move, to write again, I feel like iguana when people approach, the ‘guana does freeze, crouch down, low-low-low...
Wish I was one of those folks whose sadness does make them flow creatively. Not me...the creative part o’ me does slow down.
Now, trying to move, to write again, I feel like iguana when people approach, the ‘guana does freeze, crouch down, low-low-low...
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