Tuesday, May 17, 2016

Letter...light, dark, sea, sun.

Dear Everyone,

I been away but not away.

I been reading piles o’ articles about war and hate and peace.  I come to the conclusion that war-and-hate-talks is more popular than peace. I notice too that when we talk about the children-victims of war, hate or helplessness pull we down. I fall into the helpless pool.

I been looking over old notes, searching me brain, me heart and soul for material for the third book. Hopefully, it gon be the first to publish.

I been gazing at the sea, enjoying the light in the day,


the in-between of evenings, 



and the cloud-colour at a certain time o’ night.

Plenty mornings, I lose meself in the sunrise. I take photo and think about light versus dark.

I cook lunch, I dance in de kitchen, pot and spoon in hand; sometimes, fork in mouth.

And don’t lemme tell you about the drama of daily life in this here land, ohhhh me momma...

P.S. Please note, I ain't a photographer. I only take pikchas as memory-notes.

Monday, April 18, 2016

How to go from sweet to foul with only Sunday in between.

Here me was on Saturday: 





Today, Monday, here me is:





No, it ain't have nothing to do with Monday.

Y'know wanta know, eh? 

You wanta know what can change a sweet, lovely Lady this way?

Taxes!!!

Yes, I know, the formula my mother teach me is easy. Like cutting ripe banana.

Well, I don't kay! I don't care! 

Maths is maths!!!!

Wednesday, April 06, 2016

Just stoppin' in the middle of writing to say...

De Sea is callin' me!

I can smell dat brine, dem wild waves, foamin' an' flingin' with praises and woman-joy.

Sunday, March 27, 2016

Untie me, please.

Dear Blogger Friends, 

I been in a conundrum. It did feel very much like the sea at night, rolling, roaring and bashing at the wall, rolling back...

…because I had to make a painful decision.

Finally, I decide.

I wouldn’t publish book number 1 and book number 2 as yet.

Unfortunately, this decision leave me in a tight-tight knot, silent.



For nights after, I stand by the window listening to music, twisting me mind, turning thoughts... 

...until…

…i’l bit, li’l bit…

I untie the knots and a series of books roll into me.

Friday, March 11, 2016

Underpants.

Me and Annie was talkin' on the phone the other day about The Big New Flag in town.

This raise up a memory for me, pardon de poor pun. 

"When me brother was little, just starting school, he used to be late for school every blessed morning, Annie, all because of de flag."

"Why?" Annie ask.

"At school, they used to have flag-raising ceremony..."

Ow Lawd, yes, in we country-village, the children would stand in the briling hot sun, in the yard in front of the school, while a teacher raise the nation's flag, pulling the rope on the flag-pole. Up, up, went the flag with the temperature of the 8 o' clock sun. Down, down went the children in the heat, braps, faint. I forget to ask Annie if she school had that but I expect she did because she know exactly what I was talking about.

Despite the children fainting, something about the ceremony appeal to me five-year old brother.

Every morning, in the bathroom, the boy would chook he buckta...that is, he would prop he underpants...on to a mop-stick, then from one length of the bathroom to the other he would walk, singing the national anthem.

I know this is what he was doing cos we had a house with walls that didn't go right up to the ceiling. At least two feet of space was left between high roof and wall.

I, two years younger than this brother, would stand outside the bathroom and watch the buckta on the mop-stick parading above the wooden wall to the sound of my brother tuneless singing.

In the kitchen, my mother would be hollering at him to hurry up and further up the road, school-bell would be jing-a-linging. 

Annie laugh. "Your brother was crazy."

"He was the William Brown of we village, Annie."


Monday, February 29, 2016

Brief encounter

Sun is skulkin' behind a cool haze when I rush out to walk away me blues, to buy some veggies and potatoes.

I walk, I walk til I am half-hour away from home.

Going back, I trudge down the wrong road.

A cool breeze is woo-wooing around me head, and a song is playing from the push-cart behind me, a bicycle supporting a wooden box full o' music and sound system. The chap selling to make a living is as dark as the ocean in the night, with a scar from brow to mouth, but when he smile, the hardness in he eyes ease away and he face brighten.

He push on, the song following me, full o' yearning and hope, though the rain may fall, the storm is gonna end, you make it home again...

Tuesday, February 02, 2016

I got my first racist slur hurled at me!

There me is, Thursday afternoon, at the roadside workshop, getting the car tyres full-up with air when I hear a car-cophany, horns blaring as if them drivers have diarrhea.

Actually, I didn't hear the noise at first because, as usual, I am lingering in another day-dream in me head. 

And too besides, I was busy digging up money from me handbag to give to Sam the air-in-tyre fuller-upper man who did tell me to park right where I was.

Gradually, a' furious voice protrude into me brain.

Slow like a sloth in a civil service office now waking up, I stop checking for money and look towards the street.  

The voice is coming from a mouth shouting and froffing with fury. It is behind a steering wheel in a dull-colour car, blocking a mighty long line o' traffic.

I don't understand what the voice is saying, the car-cophany is too loud.

Sam the air-in-tyre fuller-upper man haul away he hose and say, “Move back.”

Everything after that feel like five minutes o’ slow-motion, yet it musta happen in only 3 seconds.

I look at the voice in the car that is blocking traffic and...

...the voice let go a loud string o' epithet about “coolie” then more epithet. (The voice is not “coolie”, meaning East Indian people of Guyana).

“Oh, it want me to move!” I mentally scratch me head like the skinny chap in Laurel and Hardy.

I turn to my right to see why the voice want me to move...I am in the path to where it want to park.  I look behind me to check how much space I got to reverse, a police van is two car spaces away.

I guess I should be writing with outrage and all o' that but, the truth is, that voice must be a bully to everybody in its life, heaven help its modda, its woman or women and its children. I don’t know if the voice been thinking that I was deliberately, superiorly taking my time, and its puny ego couldn't bear the weight of it, of being ignored, so it froff and fume like a fool.

The policeman in the van ain't pick he teet, as we would say...the police ain't get involved.

I reverse.  The voice calm down and rush to where it want to go.

“Come forward,” Sam the air-in-tyre fuller-upper man say and fill the tyres.

Later, I think, if it was me, and I did want to go into the spot where the voice did want to go, I woulda drive to a place where I could turn, then I would park behind the car that I think is deliberately blocking me, and I would wait my turn.

But that is the problem with civilised people like me. I ain't got a voice that can froff and fume and I refuse to cultivate one.