Friday T'ings

Some time ago, when my blogging mojo been missing, Cloudcutter in India tag me to do a meme. Well...mojo sorta come back, at least, it ain’t gone off on the yatch again, and today is Friday, and I just wanna have fun...

...so...with much ado about nada, that is, me me me...here is...

3 Things that scare me:

4-legged rats, a.k.a rodents.

2-legged rats, a.k.a. bandits.

Things that go 'thu-dump' in the yard at night...

...and I know that nobody ain't in the yard...at night...late.

Thu-dump.

Holy gwakamoly, it must be a rat.


3 People who make me laugh:

My best friend, he sense of humour flit so fast you got to be quick to ketch it.

Family: brothers, sistah, cousins - Nan, Tar and Lis, and Auntie M.

Annie - she can take a mundane story, tell it in the flattest tone and make it sound funny.


3 Things I love:

Hanging out with family...like that weekend a whole brood of we spend at Hontoon Island State Park near the end o' Florida, and Lis see a snake and scream 'til she voice screech in them tree tops and brother-in-law who grow up in Africa say she jump like a Massai warrior...Dave the park ranger gon never forget we.

Sitting by the sea.

Jazz fantasia by Carl Sandburg.


3 Things I hate:

My cousin ex-husband.

He is all 3.

Things.

Arrogance. Spite. Mean to less fortunate folks.

If I can add a 4th thing...herd mentality...people huddling they thoughts together in one big group. I prefer to think my own way through something. Even if it leave me lonely in the end like a bruk-uh-down, abandoned house.


3 Things I do not understand:

Algebra.

Geometry.

Trigonometry.


3 Things on my desk:

Roget's Thesaurus.

Notepads.

A pen with invisible feet.


3 Things I am doing right now:

Wondering if the rain gon stomp and holla like footbrawl hooligans on the zinc roof tonight.

Trying to ketch thoughts running 'round me head, I got sweep house with me li'l cokenut broom, boil down manuscript to a 1-page synopsis then leave it to simmer, sew wall hanging, and don’t forget to write business things in brown book.

Missing people I love.


3 Things I want to do before I die:

Negotiate [that is, beg] to live to 100.

Play me guitar without stumbling.

Yoga the proper way, not the half way I been doing forever.


3 Things I can do:

Ketch fish with stick, string, hook and cork; clean scales, gut fish.

Sew a dress or pants or anything by hand [just me, needle and thread]...if I have to...if the whole world run out of electricity. Or pedal machines.

Cheer up sooner rather than later.


3 Things I cannot do:

Algebra.

Geometry.

Trigonometry.


3 Things you should listen to:

Your instinct.

A kookaburra laugh [which might very well sound like your instinct laughing at you if you don't listen to it, your instinct, in the first place].

Silence.


3 Things you should never listen to:

I can't think of 3 but I can tell you one very dangerous thing you should never listen to.

M. Alice.

M. Alice is a hermaphrodite with a long long tongue that stretch for miles and miles. This tongue can be very seductive. It can haul you in and full-up your ears with all kinda things that YOU SHOULD NOT listen to. I know people who get enticed by M. Alice and they end up victimising innocent people. Malice does thrive on herd mentality. Bosses and managers especially should never listen to Malice.


3 Things I would like to learn:

Swim.

Play tabla.

Belly dance.


3 Favorite foods:

Corn on the cob.

Tofu, yes yes, I like tofu, go on, laugh if you want to.

Plantain cooked all ways.

I kinda get turned off spud, my ex-favourite, after we get some bad ones a few months ago, the skin had a li'l greenish tinge and they take forever to cook. I eat them, I get a bellyache. A cousin, visiting from Canada, had this theory that them spuds musta been dumped because of frost, and unscrupulous businessman here buy them and sell them to we folks. Rehanna, cleaning girl, say, "Yes, I know them potatoes, them was terrible."


3 Beverages I drink regularly:

Water.

Tea.

Cocoa [I too shame to say ice-cold Ovaltine because that is a kid's t'ing].


3 Shows I watched as a kid:

The Sound of Music.

Plenty, plenty Indian films, I ain't even remember they names.

Cowboy picchas...movies...where cowboys point gun straight at me and I stare straight into the barrel of the gun.

But guess what!

I live to tell the tale.

Happy Friday, everybody.

It didn't happen, okay? It didn't.

Mrs. Nizam call me last night to tell me the strangest thing.

She did first mention it to me on Sunday, she Bangladesh son-in-law living in the US tell she about it, that it is a’ extremely rare occurrence, and it gon happen on Monday night and…

And deep down in me heart I didn’t reeeeally believe it was true but she son-in-law is a sweet, kind, gentle fella, everybody know that, and he ain’t gon make up stuff like that…and…well…no…it can’t be true…but just in case…because I like watching eclipse, I already see two at night and one in the day since I come back to live in Guyana but this one ain't no regular show…so just in case, you know…just in case it is possible…I make a pact with she. Whoever wake up first gon call the other.

Monday night I go to bed thinking, well it ain’t true, but if she phone me I gon go outside to look, just in case, y’know, just in case is true, and anyway, so what if I miss it, I miss plenty unusual things…

And now I can kick meself in me head, last night she say she call me and the phone ring and ring and I sleep through and was true, she and she husband go outdoors and the sky get pitch-black then it light up as if fantastic lamps been up there and them two moons appear, side by side, for three minutes, side by side like two gold coins and…

I phone me best friend and tell he, he say, “Well, it’s always good to have a spare moon.” Agh, he ain’t believe either, and I getting cross because I want he to believe even though I doubt that it happen because I does tell Mrs. Nizam that she is just like my mother, they got a propensity for making stories grow and they don’t even drink likka.

Mrs. Nizam say that she did want to call the news people to tell them that it gon happen but they woulda say she is a mad woman, hahaha. She say the next time it gon happen again is the year 2283 or something like that.

Well, next time I making damn sure I stay wide awake to see with me own two eyes.

The whine fiesta.

Where the land is green and the air is almost clean…yyyes, almost clean...when people come visit from Abroad, the first thing they does say is, “Oh my, the air here is so clean…” but truth to tell, I does ketch a whiff of carbon sometimes…anyway, in this land we got the best fiesta going, year after year.

I does call the place Whine Valley although, technically speaking, it ain’t a valley - the land dip below sea-level, and it rise higher and higher until it reach the interior way, way north where we got plenty mountains. Most folks does call Whine Valley the East Coast, where plenty middle-class people live. Here, you can get the best selection of pure bitter gall that you roll around your thoughts, let it tinge your tongue…then bitch it out…and try another one.

The best whine makers is them bored, middle-class women who travel plenty to big, beautiful countries. As a matter of fact, they used to live in them big beautiful countries then Hubby decide to resettle here. So…sigh…them women got to come back here too. Armed with knowledge of how wonderful life is in big, beautiful countries…then comparing they supposed lackluster life here…them women stomp and storm in they heads until they spew the best, distilled whines.

Not all whine-makers is bored, middle-class housewives though. Some of them is media people. And some of them is people who, instead of sowing or sewing, they prefer to sit January to December and indulge in a poor-man whine.

Now, I ain’t saying that a li’l whine ain’t beneficial for the spirit. Everybody…every single body…need to indulge…but even with things first-rate, too much can be bad for you. It can give you bellyache or headache…like the one Mrs. Nassir nearly give me on Saturday night.

On Saturday night I get dragged into she fiesta without even realising that it happening. Was a blackout night…no electricity. I lie down on the settee to doze…phone ring…Mrs. Nassir, family friend, just come back from she favourite Island thousands of miles away. (What a lucky lady she is, she been to Japan, she been to Hawaii, Sweden and Cape Town this year.)

She Saturday night whine list was way too long, so I gon just give a selection of the best only. She say she favourite Isand got the smartest women and the finest looking men. She favourite Island got wonderful entertainment, all the tourists love it there, the crime rate is low, the economy is one of the best, and here can never be like there. VAT here is a bad thing, this government is corrupt and they ain’t doing they job to create entertainment.

“But Mrs. Nassir,” stupid me say, forgetting that you don’t argue with the most knowledgeable of whine-makers, “as far as I know, nowhere in the world it is a government’s job to create entertainment for people. Governments must put the right policies in place…”

“Yes! It is their job! This country is the pits! The health system is terrible that's why your father died while he was at the hospital, that would never happen in other countries.”

I ain’t know why she had to dig up my po’ father…I wonder if she did think that that woulda upset me and I woulda start one weeping and wailing and join she in the whine making. Truth is, I accept the fact that my father ain’t here no more. And I know that this country got a far, far, far way to go in terms of intellectual, governmental, educational, scientific, business and all other kinda development...but when people pour this bitter whine on and on down your t'roat...how it gon help anybody, pray tell? All because we had a powercut and Mrs. Nassir couldn't bear it, that is why I got to swallow it too?

Well, instead of jumping into the whine making, me wicked sense of humour kick in. And before I coulda stop meself I say, “But Mrs. Nassir, people die in other countries too!”

Mrs. Nassir say, “I beg to differ.”

I couldn't help it, ow my father, forgive me, I laugh and laugh…

I want to be a ventriloquist

Not so long ago, before electricity bright-up me gran’parents’ village, if you wake after midnight you would think you lying in a vacuum so black you can’t see even your finger in front of you. The only way you know you ain’t alone in a dark, free-floating void is them snawwwk-pieeewwww snores from Pa in the next room.

Them was the nights that jumbies…ghosts…spirits of the dead…used to roam wild and free, because, as Pa used to say, jumbies love pure darkness.

But now, them scary stories start to change. Now, instead of black nights, jumbies stalking the land in the bright daylight. Now, living jumbies, descendants of dead, terrorising people. Nearly everyday we newspaper does scream out them bleak words. Bandits. Gunmen. Guns. Terrorise. Family. Rob. Beat.

This morning, after chucking aside the last couple o’ days newspapers, I say to Rehanna, cleaning girl, “You does watch America’s got talent?”

“Yes.”

“You see the last show, you see who win?”

“No, who win?”

“The turtle win!”

“The turtle win? How that man does do that with he voice?”

“Girl, I just don’t know. I wish people here can do it though. Imagine, if a gunman go into a house, one o’ the family can make the gun say, ‘Put me down right now, you stinking rass man you, don’t let me turn around and shoot you.’ The voice-thrower can even tell the gunman that the house is haunted. The voice-thrower can make the wall near the gunman say, ‘You son of a bitch, this is you dead father talking to you, this is what you grow up to do?’ Rehanna, I can bet you the gunman ain’t know if he father dead or alive.”

We laugh in a’ amused but resigned kinda way. Rehanna continue she chores, I go to write. Later, in the kitchen, I grumble about bandits again.

Rehanna sit on a stool, slow and staring, which mean she got something sad to say. “Girl, me and Fazal been by Big Market on Tuesday. He sister does work there. And girl, me sister-in-law say that a lady and she daughter been to the bank. And it look like a thief been watching them and he follow them. And when they reach Big Market, he grab she bag, and my sister-in-law say, if you see how this lady fight for she bag! And the thief dashing kick and blows in she eyes, she face, she belly…”

“Ow, ow, that musta been a whole lot of money, she musta work she whole life for it, ow me gosh, ow. How old she is?”

“She must be in she fifties. She work she whole life for that money, to build she house. Me sister-in-law say if you see the crowd that gather while he fighting she, and she screaming and hollering…”

“Nobody couldn’t pick up something to lash he in the back o’ he head? Ow, they too scared to do anything,” I say. “Them thieves does have friends with them, and if anybody lift a hand to help, the friends does watch they face, know who it is, and stab them up later on. Auntie M. get robbed in town one day, and a young fella tell she afterwards why nobody could run to help she.”

Yes, in these bright nights of electricity and days of sunlight, jumbies stalking we land, living jumbies with minds so dead they can’t switch on the light no more; I just ain’t know who kill they minds, who turn off the light in them in the first place.

As for me, I try to find a thousand ways to let the light in, and laughter is one way, and I gon throw it all over the place, and I ain’t care two hoots if the Serious Thinkers of Guyana call me “frivolous” and “silly” and “empty-headed.” Haha I say to you.

Rainmaking

“Girl, what are you DOING?” Neighbour ask, she voice shaking, she whole self shaking, with laugh. I giggle too.

Spatta-spatta, I point the hose and spray them plants…we can barely see them now, they blending with them evening shadows, I musta been watering shadows for all you know.

“You are such a…” Neighbour barely skerrrks she mouth-brakes in time, stop before she call me a nutter, not that it woulda bother me. “Look…” she point north-east. “It’s going to RAIN.”

“Nahhh, rain ain’t coming,” I say, knowing full well that it gon rain for true. “Oh shoots, look at this big, fat red ants nest…” Ptttzzz, I spray the big, fat red ants nest with water just for the heck of it.

“You should get some Round-Up to get rid of them.”

“Nah, I trying not to use pesticides…”

“Well, let them bite you and see how you like that! Girl, my sister sent me the most fabulous sari, it’s turquoise and silver…”

I drool. We talk about saris, food, gossip, books…Neighbour, growing up in England, is very partial to English literature so we discuss that mostly.

Then she start up with she new tune again, “Girl, what is WRONG with you, I can feel rain…there…one drop just fell on my arm.” She Sophia Lauren mouth grinning with glee, she looking at me like she confirm me madness.

The rain spatter down, we abandon all chat, she hurry home, I drag in hose, turn off pipe, race upstairs to put them verandah orchids closer to the rail to ketch the cool sky-juice.

That was Monday night. The rain ain’t just fall…it dash down with a vengeance. I sigh with relief, ahhh, me theory is right and if this rain keep up I ain’t got to water the garden for a day or two. This garden does require so much water when the sun blaze too much. Some days, when the earth get extra-dry because of the badass heat, I even take to lying in a ole wicker chair while I point the hose at them plants, moving the chair every few minutes. (Hm, maybe I can read while I do this).

Later, I explain me theory over the phone to me best friend, why I been watering the garden even though I did see signs of rain. “Y’know how every time I wash clothes and hang them out the rain comes to soak them? Well, I figure, if I water the garden a little bit, the rain will pelt down really hard, just for spite, then I won’t have to water the garden for a day or two.”

Best friend pause. Then he say, “Hm, I’ll need some time to understand that one.”

Man, lemme tell you, some people just ain't savvy about these things, that you got to do everything possible to make rain pour for sure, to water them plants. Like them rainmaking women in my mother childhood village.

This was in them pre-war days, and a li'l time after the war. My mother say that when the place get dry and farmers need rain, a group o’ women used to dress-up in they nice clothes – colours, bangles, brooches – and they walk through the village beating drums and singing songs, mostly in Hindi. Other women used to join them on they rainmaking journey. The custom die with them women.

I ain't know if them songs and drumbeat in my mother village did work but in the movie Lagaan, it sure did. So you see, I got to find me own way to make this rain come down. I wonder what Neighbour gon say if I explain this theory to she.

Cringe

I am alive. I can’t believe it, lemme pinch meself…but not too hard of course, I ain’t believe in pain…yes, I am alive. Check fingers, toes, mm-hm, all o’ them there, nothing ain’t get roast-up last night.

Oh, fie on that bleddy bladang that fling me from me sleep after midnight, I barely ketch me senses and gather them back to me. Man, that thundah did proper sound like a million metal gongs gonging; that lightening been like sharp razor, white fire, it want to cut me up and fry me then serve me to hungry beasts with jagged teeth.

Oh, poor me one, last night, pray gyal, pray like you never pray before, yikes, look at that light-rod zipping through them curtain chinks, reflecting in the mirror, this ain’t normal gentle Guyana sheet lightening, this is zap-lightening, I wonder if it gon hit the mirror and bounce to me…

Mirror! When we was li’l children and lightening flash while we sleep, mammy used to cover them mirrors in the bedroom. Maybe I should get out and do that, haha, who me? Lemme just lie here and cringe under me quilt, when cowardice been sharing, God say to me, Gyal, take the biggest chunk and go forth and teach the world about Cowardice.

Ow, how I want to sleep, I ain’t gon look at the razor-lightening, I gon cover me eyes with this pillow…aye-yai-yai, this bleddy thundah, every time I shut me eyes, the boom wake me up, but it ain’t the thundah that scaring me, it is this lightening, I wonder if anybody ever get fry-up by it, in bed?

One two…zap…I wonder if is true, that when you want to know how far away the storm is, count the seconds between the thundah and lightening? One two zap, oh hell, the thing is right over me roof. Oh boy, I wish I can sleep through any catastrophe like me second big brother, F. He sleep-ability is legendary. When Hurricane Andrew zoom up in Florida, he did get stuck at he workplace. He look out, see roof fly, something else zoom by, so that chappie calmly settle all 6 feet, two inches of heself under a shelf at he workplace and sleep, hahaha…

Haha, that is how me and cousin Nan, when we was children, used to take revenge against F. for all the teasing that he do to we during the day. We wait ‘til he sleep then we bite, cuff, scratch, and he sleep through it all. And when we full-up we belly with revenge, we say, good, good.

Hahaha, about seven years ago, F. been chatting on the phone with first big brother. F. tell we big brother, “When I come home from work, I does take a li’l nap. And I notice that everytime I wake up, my skin does hurt me really bad, and I couldn’t understand why. After complaining about it, my wife say that we baby son does jump all over me, play drum, pinch…”

Hahahahaha, oh shikes, I sound like a real loony laughing in the storm…yikes, that lightening make me understand for sure what ‘blinding lightening' is, I never see nothing like this, for one whole second white light full up me eyes, eek, somebody stop me before I deprecate all over meself, that certainly ain’t a very Guyanese thing to do at all, Guyanese does deprecate all over other people not at theyself…though I got to admit, I know one or two folks who do...

Ahhh, I think that was the last of the storm, sigh, now I can sleep.

Yawn, yawn, well, look, another day, I am alive.

Hooray, she who hide and cringe gon live to cringe another day.

Yoooo hoooo. You who...?

When good ol’ Yaxlich first mention that he blogging mojo been missing, I did think, aww man, I hope that never happen to me.

Well people!

Me blogging mojo gone missing.

The whole tamasha…trouble…start when me pooter go on the blink again.

For about three years, on and off, this pooter been acting like it is in Turd Whirl politricks, looking good, sounding good, then foof…it start to act bazzody…stupidee…weird. I put in new parts, the pooter act nice for a while…then foof…bazzody again.

Finally, I call Computer Guy again. He say, “Take it to X in town and test the memory. If it’s not that then it’s the electricity. Along the East Coast, there seems to be a voltage problem that can mess up computers. I don’t want to test it here, I want you to test it in town where the electricity seems to be more stable.”

To cut the yackety-yak…I got to call the electrician…in the meantime…I plug in with extension cord, voltage regulator and surge protector and work on me manuscript again…y’know…polish polish ‘til you get it right.

Well, while all o’ that been taking place…me blogging mojo decide to go on a holiday. In other words, it gone travelling without me.

The other day I spot it sailing by on the Atlantic. “Yoooo hoooo,” I scream out to it like a desperate harridan.

“You...who…?” it reply very superciliously, as it lounge on the deck of a white yatch, sipping a pink drink with pineapple chook onto the glass rim.


Sob.