Monday, March 16, 2015


Is star-apple season again. 

Milky gel slide from me spoon and full me mouth with soft, jelly-sweetness.

If I had a piece o’ land, I would build a small house, tall and high on posts, and on the border of the land, one tree I know I must grow is a star-apple tree.

Even when star-apple ain’t in season, the tree would shelter me as I sit underneath on a bench, reading books and making notes.

When I ain’t reading and scribbling, I gon teach poor li’l chil’ren to read and write in the shade of the star-apple tree.

In the afternoon heat, when villages nap, and at nights when people settling down to sleep, I gon listen to the fusic of the leaves.  You might call it rustle, but I hear semi-demi quavers and quivers.

When them leaves grow old and fall down, I ain’t gon throw them out with disrespect.  I gon use them to cover weeds in me garden so I ain’t have to use no murdering poison.

Wednesday, March 04, 2015

Come for a walk with me.

Let's go straying, dear people!

Let we go straying into strange neighbourhoods as the sun is waking, 

and I gon tell you stories.

I gon tell you about 

them parrots cawing overhead, how they plotting to thief fruits, while kisskadee birds call kiss-ka-deeeee in a creamy-rich, high-pitch cry.

And back on earth, while a rooster holler coocaroocooo, 

I gon tell you about




and cures in them grass-flowers that mammy teach me. I remember one or two.

Come along, nah?  

(Ooops, watch out for that small cow-pat!)

I gon take you to streets where leaky, colonial wood homes with earth-yard rub shoulder with new concrete, and in the driveway of a mid-seventies style, creaky home, is a gal waiting for a taxi to take she to work. I bet she got a story to tell.  In the no-curtain window of that home, outta the corner of you' eye, you might spy a shirtless, dark-skin young fella fiddling with a bird-cage. You gon hold me back from telling he to free the bird, right?

On another street, a security-guard in the shade of a building, belting out a wailing tune, out-of-tune, along with the radio, I bet she got a story too. If we wave to she, she gon wave back.

Let we go straying, people, in neighbourhoods by the sea.

Let we walk, yes, walk with me 'cause when you drive, that metal-thing we sit in is a barrier.

When you walk, breeze lick you' skin, misty rain tickle you' face, and a man on a bicycle with a blue, plastic raincoat gon mutter to you, Morning...meaning...Good Morning, and he gon give a puzzled look, but that is okay.

When you walk, you does feel like jumping and clicking you heels, and you gon do it, on the inside of you' head.

Saturday, February 14, 2015

50 shades of what?

Annie was telling me, “G., it is so hard to find a good man here. Drink rum and behave bad, dat is all they do.”

And I was telling Annie about a gal who meet a nice chap, and you know, women don’t seem to like nice chaps, they too boring, the gal say she ain’t want that man, he is too quiet, not forceful enough.  He must know how to arrrrrgue.

Annie say, “Y’see?  Everybody want a Christian Grey.”

I ain’t read the book, but I hear too much about he.  “Naaah, buddayyy, that ain’t my idea of a man.  That book sound like The Story of O.”

“Whaz that?” Annie ask. 

I say, “Whips and chains and abject degradation.  Like 92 weeks but horrible worse...”

“...Nine and a half weeks.”

“Them books is sickening, Annie, sick, sick, sick.  And the sad thing is, a lot o’ women gon now think that Christian Grey is the ultimate in romance.”

“Yeeahh, if you see them teens rushing to watch this film,” Annie say.

She mean teens overseas, I ain’t know if she is factually correct about this.  But I got a feeling young women here gon rush to watch it via pirated DVDs.

My mind wander off thinking about some women here stuck at home doing only housework.  I say, “Annie, somebody should write 50 shades of dust, the story of a woman shackled to she house, tortured by dust, whipped and lashed by the coconut broom.”

We talk about parodies then we get around to romantic characters in Real Literature. 

“Which book got your idea of what a man should be, Annie?”

“Darcy,” Annie say.  “Which book got yours?”

“I don’t know - quiet, deep thinker, kind, patient, but funny as heck and a li’l odd…”

“Nah, I don’t know any like that in any literature-book.”

After we solve the problems of the world, me and Annie say ‘bye for now. 

The converstation go ‘round in me head, and me thoughts take a turn for the worse. 

If Grey is the kind of man girls gon go for after they read the book or see the flim, they might as well give theyself to a taliban man...

...oh my gosh, I hope this don’t make Guyanese women start to think how their abusive men is now like Christian Grey, somebody should write, 50 Shades of Daaru-Boy, daaru for rum, or 50 Shades of Likka, meaning likker… 

Tuesday, February 03, 2015

Nights like tonight.

There are nights like tonight when I love this land, with dem coconut trees and palm trees swinging like dey doing a calypso dance in de cold-cold breeze from up-north.  And to de right of me home, between de two tall palm trees trunk, de moon is bright like day. In de verandah I sit, in de white rockin' chair, and I eat fish and rice, and all de times that I miss beloved ones overseas, all these times frisk away in de wind, at least for now, in a night like tonight.

There are nights like tonight when I love this land so bad, I want to sit at de top of a coconut tree and sing it to de whole darn worl'. 

Tonight, I open de wide-wide window by me bedside facing de sea, and me soul fill-up with something like bliss. 

Up in de east, de moon is a queen, dippin' and bowin' in she dan-dan, a frou-frou dress of clouds like snow and ebony and muted-rust. To she left, guiding she to de glory dey going to, is Jupiter, she shining prince. 

Below, de sea is a glitter of silver and white.

Yeah, there are nights like tonight...

Thursday, January 29, 2015

Car abuse. Guilty, your honour.

Me dear Conscience a.k.a. Judge a.k.a. Your Honour,

Every day, every single living-day something been happening in, around, outside me li’l cocoon!

Like, I had to help a li’l ole lady who is related to somebody who is related to somebody who is related to me. Which must mean that me is related to the li’l ole lady.  So I had to carry she to town so she can look after she banking business, then take she and she daughter home.

A lot of coming and going I had in between editing and tutoring, a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, lunches, visits, taking care of family business, going to the park to walk.

I know, I know, this is not to excuse me bad behaviour with the car…

…okay, yes, it is to take the shame out of me face.

Yes, your Honour, I feel proper shame.

And I is a lady who don’t normally feel shame.

I shame, I shame.

Yes, I did promise the car, Don’t worry, I gon take you for a good wash, I gon take you to fix the back door (that somebody around here hit and bend-in while me car was parked! I suspect it is a man, look, don’t bother to accuse me of bad-woman driving!!).

Your Honour, I smell the black-eye peas cooking, and I hungry, you don’t mind if I go look after that then come back…?

Please, just know, I am now very reformed after the li’l car crisis…

Friday, January 16, 2015

Friday Fruit: golden-apple. Read this and salivate.

I stand at the sink and bite a golden-apple.

Only hardy folks and the youth does eat golden apple. 

It got a seed that look like a baby-palm-size tumbleweed.  A burry tumbleweed. It ain’t a hard burr or a needle-like burr though.  It is just burr enough to poke your lip or tongue.  But anyway, you can slice around the burr with a good-sharp knife to get the fruit.  

Why we call it golden-apple?  Ahhmm...I ain't really know, y'know, it ain't a' apple, in fact, in Jamaica, they call it june-plum.

The youths, always looking for a snack, does eat slices o’ green golden-apple, or the too-tarty ripe one, with salt 'n' peppa.  If you want to see youths in harmony, watch them share sour-ish fruit with salt 'n' peppa in Guyana!

Lemme tell you, no manufacturer can duplicate that taste.  They gon have to artificially inseminate some chemicals to reproduce it, and even so, you gon taste the falsity of it.

As for the ripe golden-apple, if you get a sweet one!

Oh mah glory!

Ayie yai yai!

Paint me yellow and call me mellow!!

This one I have is so delicious, me eyes roll over in bliss upon the first bite.

It is so sweet, with only a touch o’ tart, when the juice spurt, I could feel my mind holler, Hello World!!!

Saturday, January 10, 2015


“You got to hit it HHHARD,” I instruct Cousin Nan. “Bang it, then it gon flow a li’l better.”

The water-bottle beautiful.  If it had wheels, men would be all over it.

I am convinced that even my Seattle-visitors back in December was impressed by it. 

It clear-blue, oblong, with a pretty li’l white spout.  At the top, it got a wide, white cork that the water-shop worker does unscrew to pour in fresh sky-juice. Every time I fetch that refilled bottle from the car to me apartment, people does admire it.  It does hold about two-point-something gallons, it big enough to last me days, small enough for me to fetch up these apartment steps.

Only problem, the water does trickle s-l-o-o-o-o-w from the spout like Chinese water torture.  If you want to full-up a glass, you can read all of Don Quixote and still be waiting.  Ok, ok, I exaggerate, but like I always say, whaz a li’l exaggeration between friends, eh?

Anyways, believe me, no matter what language you call water...pani in Hindi, agua in Espanol, l'eau in Francais, whader in 'Merican, woodah in Strine,




But I discover if I whack the bottle, the water does trickle out a li’l more fast.

What a Techo-Babe, eh?  I know how to control wayward modern invention.

Just imagine! I used to be terrified of technology, now look at me, blogging, using smart-phone, tweeting like a proper tweeter, and maybe I might join fazebook, etc etc.

Yes, yes, I am so in tune with technology today, I can’t even operate the tee-vee without the remote control no more.  Like a true modern person.  Up to this morning, here me was, searching this room, up down sideways for the remote control, all the while thinking, Yes, I know I can switch on the tee-vee on the set itself, but how to change the channel while tidying up this room?  Aha!  See?  Got you!  I can do it but I won’t!

Thump-thump, on the bottle, I show Cousin Nan, look dis is how you... know that bottle SHAME me in the eyes of me Seattle visitors?  The water trickle from the spout in the same ol’-fashion Guyana-style.

“You have to open this cork at the top,” Nan say matter-of-factly.  “Let out...” 

I open the wide, white cork at the top, phishewwww the bottle say and swell-out at the sides like a satisfied man after Christmas lunch, snap braces and rock back on heels and!!! the water gush through the li’l spout, Oh my gosh, look, oh my gosh, is true, I squeal like a’ excited cat.

"...the air-bubble, when you open it, you let out the air-bubble,” Cousin Nan explain.