A few weeks ago Rehana the cleaning girl stop in mid-sweep. “G?” she call. She smile so wide, if she did grin a li’l bit more the two ends of she mouth woulda meet up and cut off the top part o’ she head.
“Mmm?” I wonder what glorious news she got to impart to me. She eyes zinging like she win a grand sum o’ paisa, moolah, dinero, Euro and all other dollahs.
“G, you like listening to rain?”
“Yyyyes!!! In the day though, not at night when I want to sleep.”
“I just looove hearing it,” Rehana say. “One day, me and Fazal sit on we bed and we watch the rain through we window and the ole man next door, he going out, I ain’t know where he going in the rain, and he fall down in the water and Fazal say, where that ole man think he going…look, he fall down. Then the ole man family run out to pick he up…” All the while she face bright-up like she win Miss World.
If some people only know where she live they would scratch they head and wonder. How can she who live in a shack find joy in the sound o’ rain, folks in them small homes ain’t supposed to be that happy, right? Yeah, she dwell in a li’l chook-a-ground…a li’l wood hut…with she hubby, they li’l son and she mentally-handicapped brother-in-law. If a strong wind puff, it might blow down the chook-a-ground. Some might say, when you poor, you got to learn to be happy with li’l bit because you ain’t got money to buy plenty glad-things.
Well, I don’t live in no chook-a-ground. And I travel to far-away places, me eyes fasten on fabulous scenes, two-legged ones and all…yet…
…today was one o’ them days that I just had to store up in me memory cache though some might say it ain’t worth splat.
I mean, what is the worth of this…? Pale light playing hide-and-seek in grey sky. Trees sporting every shade o’ green – emerald, jade, olive, lime. Plump drops of leftover, early-afternoon rain plopsing from leaves. Bougainvillea at we gate flaunting pinks and vermilions like flouncy-flouncy, frou-frou skirts of li’l girls in chiffon dresses at weddings. Jasmine scent, mingling-up with fresh earth smell, fly upstairs with the breeze, you would think is Siddhartha courtesan boudoir.
Today was a hush-day, traffic going swishhhh-swaaash. Sometimes the sirens of ambulance or police tear through the hush along the seawall road, but not for long. Today, the sea was dark and the foam was white, goodnight ladies flouncing up they frilly-frilly frocks.
Pitta-patta, rain start to spatta down again.
Ain't worth squat, can't buy it, yet I want to save it.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Rainforest people.
Plenty, plenty moons ago, them Arawak people used to live in the sky. Then one day, they come across a big hole. In the hole had a tree going down. Of course, them Arawaks had to climb down this tree to see what been underneath.
They discover earth. Oh my! What a splendiferous place, what fruits, what colours, what plants and animals and sweet water. Them Arawaks feast and feast until they get drowsy. They settle in the soft grass and the breeze lullaby them to sleep. And while they doh-doh...nap...the hole in the sky close up. And that is how them Arawaks end up staying on earth.
My big brodda got a slightly different version to this tale. He tell he li'l seven year old girl-chile that when them people done eat, they climb up back...but only a coupla them get to re-enter the sky. Before the rest could go, a woman get stuck...she did eat so much she get huge...so she get stuck in the hole. Them folks in the sky grab she hands and pull. Same time, them folks below grab she feet and pull...and nobody ain't letting go. Up to today, they pulling, and she chook-up there in the hole.
(And now, somewhere in England got a li'l girl-chile who, whenever she remember the story, does include in she bedtime prayers, "Dear God, please let one side stop pulling.")
Whatever version, one truth remain...the Arawaks descendants, the Amerindians, was the first people of Guyana. They live in the interior, in the rainforest, using the land without destroying.
Then along come Modern Man. He tear down them trees, gouge the land for diamonds and gold. I remember a young fella me and my mother did meet in the late nineties. He used to work a drudge...a dredging machine...for he older brother. He say, with naive pride swelling he malaria-thin chest, that this machine been so powerful, it dig out massive trees like they was matchsticks.
Today, if you fly over the hinterlands you might see red scars here, there, earth bleeding in the middle of dark-green forest. I ain't never see this, the last time I fly over the interior was the mid-nineties, and the bleeding didn't show then...or at least, where I fly didn't have any. But my cousins from Canada who visit in May this year see them red wounds; they say they heart weep as they fly above.
But all ain't lost, I tell meself again on Friday evening.
On Friday evening me and Auntie H. been to see a short film, Iwokrama, The Untold Story.
I never hear about Iwokrama while living in the Caribbean...most stuff that Caribbean media does broadcast about we is bad. And truth to tell, when I used to come home for holidays I didn't follow the news. Then I land here again to live. And what a place I learn about!
Iwokrama nestle in the Guiana Shield, and is part of one of the last four intact rainforests in the whole wide world! A past President, Desmond Hoyte, now deceased, did donate Iwokrama to researchers. The patron for this project is Prince Charles.
The film start with Prince Charles appealing to people to help save rainforests, and he praise the Iwokrama project. The film then go on to describe the project, what it is about, how it work.
I wish I can share everything I learn from it and the discussion after...how forests can be used properly, with no destruction...how only ten trees per hectare get logged, instead of fifty like in other places...how harvested areas gon be closed for 60 years, and only 29 percent does get logged, and 71 percent does never get harvested...how the Macushi tribe of Amerindians are the stakeholders of this land, and how they benefit...and don't forget them healing plants and exotic animals that rainforests shelter...
As the film near the end, a group of chil'ren fill the screen...tawny-skin chil'ren with dark, almond-shape eyes, laughing, openly staring with curiosity...rainforest chil'ren.
They discover earth. Oh my! What a splendiferous place, what fruits, what colours, what plants and animals and sweet water. Them Arawaks feast and feast until they get drowsy. They settle in the soft grass and the breeze lullaby them to sleep. And while they doh-doh...nap...the hole in the sky close up. And that is how them Arawaks end up staying on earth.
My big brodda got a slightly different version to this tale. He tell he li'l seven year old girl-chile that when them people done eat, they climb up back...but only a coupla them get to re-enter the sky. Before the rest could go, a woman get stuck...she did eat so much she get huge...so she get stuck in the hole. Them folks in the sky grab she hands and pull. Same time, them folks below grab she feet and pull...and nobody ain't letting go. Up to today, they pulling, and she chook-up there in the hole.
(And now, somewhere in England got a li'l girl-chile who, whenever she remember the story, does include in she bedtime prayers, "Dear God, please let one side stop pulling.")
Whatever version, one truth remain...the Arawaks descendants, the Amerindians, was the first people of Guyana. They live in the interior, in the rainforest, using the land without destroying.
Then along come Modern Man. He tear down them trees, gouge the land for diamonds and gold. I remember a young fella me and my mother did meet in the late nineties. He used to work a drudge...a dredging machine...for he older brother. He say, with naive pride swelling he malaria-thin chest, that this machine been so powerful, it dig out massive trees like they was matchsticks.
Today, if you fly over the hinterlands you might see red scars here, there, earth bleeding in the middle of dark-green forest. I ain't never see this, the last time I fly over the interior was the mid-nineties, and the bleeding didn't show then...or at least, where I fly didn't have any. But my cousins from Canada who visit in May this year see them red wounds; they say they heart weep as they fly above.
But all ain't lost, I tell meself again on Friday evening.
On Friday evening me and Auntie H. been to see a short film, Iwokrama, The Untold Story.
I never hear about Iwokrama while living in the Caribbean...most stuff that Caribbean media does broadcast about we is bad. And truth to tell, when I used to come home for holidays I didn't follow the news. Then I land here again to live. And what a place I learn about!
Iwokrama nestle in the Guiana Shield, and is part of one of the last four intact rainforests in the whole wide world! A past President, Desmond Hoyte, now deceased, did donate Iwokrama to researchers. The patron for this project is Prince Charles.
The film start with Prince Charles appealing to people to help save rainforests, and he praise the Iwokrama project. The film then go on to describe the project, what it is about, how it work.
I wish I can share everything I learn from it and the discussion after...how forests can be used properly, with no destruction...how only ten trees per hectare get logged, instead of fifty like in other places...how harvested areas gon be closed for 60 years, and only 29 percent does get logged, and 71 percent does never get harvested...how the Macushi tribe of Amerindians are the stakeholders of this land, and how they benefit...and don't forget them healing plants and exotic animals that rainforests shelter...
As the film near the end, a group of chil'ren fill the screen...tawny-skin chil'ren with dark, almond-shape eyes, laughing, openly staring with curiosity...rainforest chil'ren.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
If ants belch, they want to know!
The trouble with my cousin Lis is that she does doubt the things I tell she. Like a coupla weeks ago when I email she about a dead chicken hawk hanging on the wire - Guyanese people Abroad so home sick they does crave every juicy detail about things happening here. If ants belch, they need to know what decibel, they want to know what them ants eat to make them gassy. So I describe, via email, the dead chicken hawk to Lis.
“It hanging on the electric wire in front o’ them people house next door. He hanging by one wing, he look like he fry dry, dry. He eyes shet, he beak and head point up to salvation, he legs stick out stiff and straight, he toes pointing downwards to hell.”
Lis enjoy every juicy tidbit. I had to do a Dead Chicken Hawk Watch, give she day-to-day descriptions. Then she ask for photo. As proof. I ignore that morbid request. So (once again) she call me a Pathological Liar. Years ago, she stick that name to me because of the massive padlock.
One day, years ago, when Lis been here, I unlock the humongous, foot-crusher padlock on we grill door to let she in. She double over with laugh, then unfold sheself long enough to ask, “Whe you get that thing from?”
“We buy it at a garage sale that the Georgetown prison had.” I got to admit, that was a lie, I couldn’t help it, the wicked angel on me left shoulder made me do it. Like the time I tell my sister, living Abroad, that Brian Adams coming to perform in Guyana. My sister, a Bryan Adams fan, nearly wee sheself with excitement. Later on I admit to me sis that it wasn’t true. But Lis never know about that one...so, technically speaking, she does doubt me forever because of the one padlock lie.
“I see Prince Charles on Friday night,” I tell she yesterday at the end of a long email.
She fire back, “Where and HOW you see Prince Charles? If he was good looking I'd say it was in your dreams but I know he not cute so weh you see he??? Stchuusp you like to tell lies! You see Prince Charles. WEH??? Eh Eh? WEH???”
You and she might doubt me, but I am here to tell you, I see Prince Charles, the Bonny Prince, on Friday night.
Unfortunately, like Cinderella I got dishes to do and I can’t sit around waiting for no prince to do them for me…so later croc-agators...
“It hanging on the electric wire in front o’ them people house next door. He hanging by one wing, he look like he fry dry, dry. He eyes shet, he beak and head point up to salvation, he legs stick out stiff and straight, he toes pointing downwards to hell.”
Lis enjoy every juicy tidbit. I had to do a Dead Chicken Hawk Watch, give she day-to-day descriptions. Then she ask for photo. As proof. I ignore that morbid request. So (once again) she call me a Pathological Liar. Years ago, she stick that name to me because of the massive padlock.
One day, years ago, when Lis been here, I unlock the humongous, foot-crusher padlock on we grill door to let she in. She double over with laugh, then unfold sheself long enough to ask, “Whe you get that thing from?”
“We buy it at a garage sale that the Georgetown prison had.” I got to admit, that was a lie, I couldn’t help it, the wicked angel on me left shoulder made me do it. Like the time I tell my sister, living Abroad, that Brian Adams coming to perform in Guyana. My sister, a Bryan Adams fan, nearly wee sheself with excitement. Later on I admit to me sis that it wasn’t true. But Lis never know about that one...so, technically speaking, she does doubt me forever because of the one padlock lie.
“I see Prince Charles on Friday night,” I tell she yesterday at the end of a long email.
She fire back, “Where and HOW you see Prince Charles? If he was good looking I'd say it was in your dreams but I know he not cute so weh you see he??? Stchuusp you like to tell lies! You see Prince Charles. WEH??? Eh Eh? WEH???”
You and she might doubt me, but I am here to tell you, I see Prince Charles, the Bonny Prince, on Friday night.
Unfortunately, like Cinderella I got dishes to do and I can’t sit around waiting for no prince to do them for me…so later croc-agators...
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Vermicelli cake
Got a phrase that piggies use a lot here.
The lesser the man, the bigger the share.
Less people around mean more goodies to eat.
My mother make vermicelli cake on Saturday, was we one concession to celebrating Eid. The cake been creamy, the cake been full o’ currants ‘n’ raisins ‘n’ cherries.
Some go to Neighbour, some go to Auntie H. And some was for we visitor on Saturday who didn’t arrive, but I know where she been and I coulda very well take cake to she.
But, I did think, I ain’t want to intrude, maybe she didn’t visit because she want she space and privacy…
…and man, look, lemme tell you the truth, that vermicelli cake been too delish…
…so this little piggie went eat, eat, eat all the way through creamy, vermicelli cake full o’ currants ‘n’ raisins ‘n’ cherries, eat eat eat with P.G. Tips tea and Typhoo White tea on Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.
The visitor arrive on Thursday. “You don’t have any shame?” she ask. “You ate it all?”
“No, I ain’t got no shame,” I grin.
My mother promise to make more cake but on Friday morning soon o’ clock she fly off to be with she sick sister Abroad. And all I have is this family recipe that I did email to my big brodda in England…hmmm...I guess for de visitor sake I should learn to make de cake…
Vermicelli cake:
1 lb vermicelli - the white one made with flour
Sugar - according to taste
1 tin milk
1 oz. currants
1 oz. rasins
1 1/2 pint boiling water
1 teaspoon all purpose flour
1 small piece cinnamon
3 eliaichi [cardammom] pods without the seeds
1 teaspoon vanilla essence
1oz. glazed cherries cut up finely
"Patch" [brown] the flour in a hot caharee / wok, medium flame, stirring until it is light brown.
In a separate pot, dilute 1 tin of milk with two cups water.
(If you don't use tinned milk…if you use box or bottle milk, which you don’t need to dilute, add enough box or bottle milk that will cover 3 inches above the vermicelli. My guess is that it would be the equivalent of the 1 tin of milk plus the 2 cups of water. We make a low-fat version – low fat milk, thicken with a bit of low-fat powdered milk.)
Into the milk, stir in the flour slowly so it doesn't get lumpy. Sweeten with sugar according to taste - this amount will determine how sweet you want the vermicelli cake.
Turn heat very low, add the spice and elaichi [cardammom] to the milk & flour.
While this is simmering, "patch" (brown) the vermicelli in a hot carahee / wok, medium flame, until it is light brown. Lower flame, add the boiling water slowly...keep a bit away so the hot water doesn't spatter and burn you.
After the water has been absorbed into the vermicelli, stir in slowly the heated milk. Turn up flame so that it boils.
Mix in the currants, raisins and cherries.
Cook, stirring every now and then, until it has reached a "plopsy" (not dry) consistency.
Put in pans or dishes to cool.
The lesser the man, the bigger the share.
Less people around mean more goodies to eat.
My mother make vermicelli cake on Saturday, was we one concession to celebrating Eid. The cake been creamy, the cake been full o’ currants ‘n’ raisins ‘n’ cherries.
Some go to Neighbour, some go to Auntie H. And some was for we visitor on Saturday who didn’t arrive, but I know where she been and I coulda very well take cake to she.
But, I did think, I ain’t want to intrude, maybe she didn’t visit because she want she space and privacy…
…and man, look, lemme tell you the truth, that vermicelli cake been too delish…
…so this little piggie went eat, eat, eat all the way through creamy, vermicelli cake full o’ currants ‘n’ raisins ‘n’ cherries, eat eat eat with P.G. Tips tea and Typhoo White tea on Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.
The visitor arrive on Thursday. “You don’t have any shame?” she ask. “You ate it all?”
“No, I ain’t got no shame,” I grin.
My mother promise to make more cake but on Friday morning soon o’ clock she fly off to be with she sick sister Abroad. And all I have is this family recipe that I did email to my big brodda in England…hmmm...I guess for de visitor sake I should learn to make de cake…
Vermicelli cake:
1 lb vermicelli - the white one made with flour
Sugar - according to taste
1 tin milk
1 oz. currants
1 oz. rasins
1 1/2 pint boiling water
1 teaspoon all purpose flour
1 small piece cinnamon
3 eliaichi [cardammom] pods without the seeds
1 teaspoon vanilla essence
1oz. glazed cherries cut up finely
"Patch" [brown] the flour in a hot caharee / wok, medium flame, stirring until it is light brown.
In a separate pot, dilute 1 tin of milk with two cups water.
(If you don't use tinned milk…if you use box or bottle milk, which you don’t need to dilute, add enough box or bottle milk that will cover 3 inches above the vermicelli. My guess is that it would be the equivalent of the 1 tin of milk plus the 2 cups of water. We make a low-fat version – low fat milk, thicken with a bit of low-fat powdered milk.)
Into the milk, stir in the flour slowly so it doesn't get lumpy. Sweeten with sugar according to taste - this amount will determine how sweet you want the vermicelli cake.
Turn heat very low, add the spice and elaichi [cardammom] to the milk & flour.
While this is simmering, "patch" (brown) the vermicelli in a hot carahee / wok, medium flame, until it is light brown. Lower flame, add the boiling water slowly...keep a bit away so the hot water doesn't spatter and burn you.
After the water has been absorbed into the vermicelli, stir in slowly the heated milk. Turn up flame so that it boils.
Mix in the currants, raisins and cherries.
Cook, stirring every now and then, until it has reached a "plopsy" (not dry) consistency.
Put in pans or dishes to cool.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Saturday was Eid.
Eid is a time to celebrate with family and friends. Is a time for a table laden with dishes.
We table had a fold-up newspaper. The green Coleman rechargeable lamp. A thin layer of road dust.
We didn’t have the spirit to do anything, me and my mother.
We watch tee vee.
Later we watch as a dull-grey film cover the sun from 4 p.m. onwards.
The whole day we mind been on Auntie Ava, my mother sister in Florida.
At the beginning of October, Auntie Ava been in a crisis, in hospital. Water in she lungs. All along, since she get diagnosed with cancer in 2001, she been fighting like a champion. My mother been to Florida July, August, September, divide she time between grandchil’ren and she sisters. Auntie tell she, “Sis, me weary, how me feel tired.” But Auntie never, ever been this defeated.
My mother return here, we get the news. Auntie Ava been going to Iftar at Auntie Mari home and she collapse.
Iftar is the evening dinner during Ramadan month. Auntie Mari is Cousin T. mother-in-law. Cousin T. is another auntie son. Family links go on and on… Auntie Ava collapse on the way to Iftar. This crisis beat she down.
Auntie Baba, Cousin Lis and me sis email two, three times a day. I read about the needle into my poor, trembling auntie lungs, the excruciating pain. Rage roar like inferno in me. Why them doctors couldn’t find a less painful way? I am helpless. We are helpless.
I don’t cry. I swallow them thoughts that I can’t handle, swallow me tears. They sit in me belly. Now I got a pain there. My mother talk on the phone. Then sit and stare into space.
Auntie Ava come out of hospital, gaunt, trembling. Diminished.
Saturday was Eid-ul-Fit’r. Family over there gather at the home of Auntie Ava and Uncle Wats. Everybody take potfuls of food.
I know the scene. Children, aunties who travel hours and miles to be there, cousins, laugh an’ talk an’ noise, lifting Auntie Ava spirit a li’l bit, she always love a house pack-up wall to wall with family.
Here, me and my mother watch a dull-grey film slip across the afternoon.
We table had a fold-up newspaper. The green Coleman rechargeable lamp. A thin layer of road dust.
We didn’t have the spirit to do anything, me and my mother.
We watch tee vee.
Later we watch as a dull-grey film cover the sun from 4 p.m. onwards.
The whole day we mind been on Auntie Ava, my mother sister in Florida.
At the beginning of October, Auntie Ava been in a crisis, in hospital. Water in she lungs. All along, since she get diagnosed with cancer in 2001, she been fighting like a champion. My mother been to Florida July, August, September, divide she time between grandchil’ren and she sisters. Auntie tell she, “Sis, me weary, how me feel tired.” But Auntie never, ever been this defeated.
My mother return here, we get the news. Auntie Ava been going to Iftar at Auntie Mari home and she collapse.
Iftar is the evening dinner during Ramadan month. Auntie Mari is Cousin T. mother-in-law. Cousin T. is another auntie son. Family links go on and on… Auntie Ava collapse on the way to Iftar. This crisis beat she down.
Auntie Baba, Cousin Lis and me sis email two, three times a day. I read about the needle into my poor, trembling auntie lungs, the excruciating pain. Rage roar like inferno in me. Why them doctors couldn’t find a less painful way? I am helpless. We are helpless.
I don’t cry. I swallow them thoughts that I can’t handle, swallow me tears. They sit in me belly. Now I got a pain there. My mother talk on the phone. Then sit and stare into space.
Auntie Ava come out of hospital, gaunt, trembling. Diminished.
Saturday was Eid-ul-Fit’r. Family over there gather at the home of Auntie Ava and Uncle Wats. Everybody take potfuls of food.
I know the scene. Children, aunties who travel hours and miles to be there, cousins, laugh an’ talk an’ noise, lifting Auntie Ava spirit a li’l bit, she always love a house pack-up wall to wall with family.
Here, me and my mother watch a dull-grey film slip across the afternoon.
Friday, October 12, 2007
The day after when...?
Bangbangbang hundreds of thousands of people with bulging, staring, frightened blue eyes, green eyes, pale skin, banging on we Guyana doors, darkness closing in and the gloom feel permanent…
…me eyes fly open…phew…was just a nightmare…
…all because I go to bed remembering the gyaff…chat…I had with Annie some days back.
Annie say, “G, the place really hot eh? When my cousins from New York been here they say it make them feel nauseous.”
“Me too! I thought it was just me who feel nauseous from the heat!”
“And some days so grey like it gon rain yet the place steaming hot. Global warming really taking place G, them icebergs melting. Is like in the movie The Day After Tomorrow. Them Americans gon got to come here.”
“Yes! That is true.” I pause to think about the last part of the movie. “We gon treat them nice, Annie, show them Guyanese hospitality, we gon cook some good curry and roti for them and so.”
Last night before I crawl under me mosquito net I open me bedroom windows, but not even a li’l breeze puff over me. Only a blanket of heat cover me. The last sleepy thought that pop up before I slide into slumber and the nightmare take over was, Yes, we gon be nice to them foreigners...but there is a limit to nice, I don’t share toothbrush…
…me eyes fly open…phew…was just a nightmare…
…all because I go to bed remembering the gyaff…chat…I had with Annie some days back.
Annie say, “G, the place really hot eh? When my cousins from New York been here they say it make them feel nauseous.”
“Me too! I thought it was just me who feel nauseous from the heat!”
“And some days so grey like it gon rain yet the place steaming hot. Global warming really taking place G, them icebergs melting. Is like in the movie The Day After Tomorrow. Them Americans gon got to come here.”
“Yes! That is true.” I pause to think about the last part of the movie. “We gon treat them nice, Annie, show them Guyanese hospitality, we gon cook some good curry and roti for them and so.”
Last night before I crawl under me mosquito net I open me bedroom windows, but not even a li’l breeze puff over me. Only a blanket of heat cover me. The last sleepy thought that pop up before I slide into slumber and the nightmare take over was, Yes, we gon be nice to them foreigners...but there is a limit to nice, I don’t share toothbrush…
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
The shea ish alwaysh calling...
At age 13, I was a drunk fisherman. I stumble around the front of the classroom, tripsing over me feet, muttering outta the corner o’ me mouth then raising me voice, “The shea ish calling. The shea ish alwaysh calling…” The sea is calling, the sea is always calling.
We been acting roles in one-line skits...we had a creative English teacher who did believe that play-acting would increase we imagination. Most times we act in groups, doing market scenes and other local activities, but that morning she say each student must choose a part to play alone. I choose to be a drunk fisherman from a text book. I musta been convincing…them girls, me classmates, ask me to act it again…and again…‘til I get fed up and sit me tail down in me chair and refuse to move.
But that line play on and on in me, year after year. Most times, it go low, retreating into me far, far memory. Then suddenly, it would wash up high, high, flouncing up, flinging down, foaming up again. The shea ish calling, the shea ish alwaysh calling.
Yesterday afternoon I pace the living room, restless…restless like I been after I done me final exams, attend me last day at university; like whenever I finish a big, big project…up and down I walk yesterday, the shea ish calling, the shea ish alwaysh calling…
I want a new, big project to work on; I want to go to a magic place at the south-est part of the earth, I want a jaunt but I need to start my craft again yet I can’t sit still to work, I restless, restless, like the shea in me foaming up.
We been acting roles in one-line skits...we had a creative English teacher who did believe that play-acting would increase we imagination. Most times we act in groups, doing market scenes and other local activities, but that morning she say each student must choose a part to play alone. I choose to be a drunk fisherman from a text book. I musta been convincing…them girls, me classmates, ask me to act it again…and again…‘til I get fed up and sit me tail down in me chair and refuse to move.
But that line play on and on in me, year after year. Most times, it go low, retreating into me far, far memory. Then suddenly, it would wash up high, high, flouncing up, flinging down, foaming up again. The shea ish calling, the shea ish alwaysh calling.
Yesterday afternoon I pace the living room, restless…restless like I been after I done me final exams, attend me last day at university; like whenever I finish a big, big project…up and down I walk yesterday, the shea ish calling, the shea ish alwaysh calling…
I want a new, big project to work on; I want to go to a magic place at the south-est part of the earth, I want a jaunt but I need to start my craft again yet I can’t sit still to work, I restless, restless, like the shea in me foaming up.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Done!
I was scratchety...cross...brooding and bad-mooding all over the place. Then one day in September I upset my most patient friend, my best-best friend. What my friend tell me in response to my bad-temper was not nice. Boooo.
Hoo.
Sniff.
Self-pity?
Heh.
Noooobody couldn’t wallow like me that day.
That day, I was the Champion, my friends.
I wallow 'til I get too disgusting even for me. Then, because I ain't like problems - as soon as I get one I does try to get rid of it - I decide to sort out this one right away.
I tumble meself inside out, dust this bit, pack up back that one, search around and cringe - taking stock of youself ain't a happy pastime if you discover bits and pieces that get rusty, lemme tell you. So, fortunately, I figure out the trouble very quickly.
Is such a simple thing, a mundane thing, I feel foolish to admit it.
I had some writing with a deadline to do, and I been lacking the will to start it. The procrastinating, the hemming and the hawing, the dancing and the prancing and not getting down to work was making me scratchety.
Good grief.
Such a simple thing and I been acting like Ms. Prima Dona without a show?
I make up me mind there and then to not to read a single blog, not check my blog, not surf the net until I finish the work. Harsh, harsh, so harsh, but I had to do this or the work woulda never, ever, not ever get done in the deadline time. The only Internet thing I did was to email family to let them know I ain't fly outta me mind and gone with the full moon.
And I write and write. I take breaks to weed and water the garden and clip plants, rest in the verandah, sip tea, read book, gyaff with Annie on the phone, sketch my next wall hangings. And I write and write and write.
And when I was nearly done, when I had just one page and a half to write...just for spite, the ole computer screen die...
Hoo.
Sniff.
Self-pity?
Heh.
Noooobody couldn’t wallow like me that day.
That day, I was the Champion, my friends.
I wallow 'til I get too disgusting even for me. Then, because I ain't like problems - as soon as I get one I does try to get rid of it - I decide to sort out this one right away.
I tumble meself inside out, dust this bit, pack up back that one, search around and cringe - taking stock of youself ain't a happy pastime if you discover bits and pieces that get rusty, lemme tell you. So, fortunately, I figure out the trouble very quickly.
Is such a simple thing, a mundane thing, I feel foolish to admit it.
I had some writing with a deadline to do, and I been lacking the will to start it. The procrastinating, the hemming and the hawing, the dancing and the prancing and not getting down to work was making me scratchety.
Good grief.
Such a simple thing and I been acting like Ms. Prima Dona without a show?
I make up me mind there and then to not to read a single blog, not check my blog, not surf the net until I finish the work. Harsh, harsh, so harsh, but I had to do this or the work woulda never, ever, not ever get done in the deadline time. The only Internet thing I did was to email family to let them know I ain't fly outta me mind and gone with the full moon.
And I write and write. I take breaks to weed and water the garden and clip plants, rest in the verandah, sip tea, read book, gyaff with Annie on the phone, sketch my next wall hangings. And I write and write and write.
And when I was nearly done, when I had just one page and a half to write...just for spite, the ole computer screen die...
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