Li'l tings

So here I am again in the net cafe on a grungy ole pooter. Not a nice and sleek pooter like the last one I did get when I been here the other day.

On this other one them keys stick. The space bar stick. You got to jook them keys hard...type hhhhhard...to get tings going. Kinda like life in de turd world, yeah.

When I first arrive here I think, eh-eh, what a nice looking place. But on second and turd glance I can see the grunge grinning at me, baring he nasty teeth. And the room hot.

But I ain't complaining, no. Just thinking out loud.

Thinking bout the li'l tings that make a difference between not so good and good and really good.

Li'l tings.

That make life sweeter or sour-er.

Sweeter like the bottle o' bee vomit I buy yesterday. Neighbour deliver it at my gate, one bottle of golden light honey. She order it for me from a lady who know the Amerindians up the Pomeroon, which is two or three broad rivers away from here.

The honey not too cloying sweet. It just right. On crispy, crunchy toast with tea. Or with banana and crush-up peanuts.

Yeah, li'l things.

Like the thank you card from the 16 year old American gyal we give a gift to the other day. Who woulda think that a teen would send such a lovely card.

And the snail mail that I get today.

So when I done here, I gone home to sew again my lush wall-hanging, and then shower and write a snail mail too.

Darn. The net cafe hot. The grunge on the key board grinning at me. I ain't got my pooter back.

I better think more 'bout the li'l things I got to look forward to.

Mo bad blues

Sitting in a net cafe again singin' something mo badder dan de blues.

Singin' !&$*%@

In odda words I sitting in de net cafe cussin'!

*Somebody* damage de pooter bringing it home [bang it, thump on de door, thump on de door frame, yeah, thump twice].

So *somebody* had to take it back again to get check out and somebody feeling very vex, sitting in the net cafe cussin' cause de net cafe slow too.

!&$*%@

grrrrrrrrr arrggghhhh

Dear Everyone,

Thank you for checking back, for the comments, for making me laugh and all o’ that this good morning here.

Yes, me is back...sort of.

The problem was not the pooter. The pooter get fix the same day that I take it in, was a minor li’l tweaking it need.

The problem IS the ISP. To get online? Oh me mooma! To stay online? Worse.

The story too long, as me auntie A. does say, it ain’t got melody. Being with this ISP make me realise that me is a Masochist!

In the meantime, I sewing, hunting ‘round town for a reliable ISP, ketching me breath, checking up on the great Blog story [got to write chapter 18] and HOPEFULLY, I can read blogs without any big struggle with the ISP.

Anybody fall in love since I been away? Anybody marry? Win the lotto? Scratch an itch?

Crimson

The rain turn the whole world lugubrious yesterday. Long, grey water falling from a gloomy sky, blot out colour, even them green trees look grey yesterday, dammit.

After the heavy shower ease off into dots, we went to the fruits ‘n’ veggie market, Bourda market.

Ohh, how the town look dinghy...clumps of litter here and there, soggy and sad in the grass parapet. Old mud churn up and mix up with rain and make gooey puddles.

I grump to myself, to market and back, about the nastiness of people, why can't they try, even TRY to make the place look pretty.

They think that the countries Abroad get beautiful by themselves, and they worship the grace of places Abroad, grumble, mumble, when they gon understand that is we the people who make the loveliness or the ugliness of a place? Grumble, mumble, all the way home.

The grey rain tumble down again. Through we gate, sitting in the car, scrambling for umbrella, got to go open the gate, I see a crimson hibiscus in a plant pot.

How strange, I think. Only jasmine grow there.

“Look a hibiscus in the plant pot there by the gate,” I say to my mother.

She say, “Nah, is them petals from the tree above that fall in the pot.”

I open the gate and look.

A small plant bearing a huge, crimson hibiscus plunk down there amongst them leaves, in the jasmine pot. The flower look like royalty, plush and velvety with the deepest crimson petals and a dark stamen with a yellow-gold crown.

A white plastic label been hanging around the stem, the label of a plant nursery.

Right away I know. Eastern European woman-friend, married to we Guyanese friend. Bet they been to a plant nursery, buy the crimson hibiscus for my mother and drop it off on they way home, hide it as a surprise. [When my mother phone them that is exactly what did happen.]

I pick up the plant, show it to my mother. She face light up, look like she feeling the same as me when I discover the flower. I put it in a safe place, later we gon plant it.

On and off, for the rest of yesterday, a cliché chant run through me head. Perform random acts of kindness. Then, in the foolish way my brain can twist and loop and change things to sound silly, it become perform crimson acts of beauty.