Reviving Time.

Dearest Friends,

This road we call Life is much like some o' them city roads in me lovely native land. 

Clatta-bonk.

We drop to the bottom o' the world. (That is how I know the earth ain't flat...but that is a story for another day).

Drag weself up, cussing the hole, sighing, relieve we only got a couple o' bruises.

Me, like a proper 3rd world person, understand that this is how Life go. I know too that I am far mo' lucky than many, many, many of me dear country people.

One-one time though, something in me does break. Lawd, it gon cost money to fix.

Spirit get like wet stick. Not a spark.

It is then, me dear Friends, I remember, full force, why creative people was put along the way, on this road. When that song, that music, float to we; when we stop to peer at books, to gaze at the art and listen to poetry; when we take time to watch them dance, we feel the spark rekindle in we.  

That is what this Walcott poem, which a Trini friend send to me some time back, do for me.

Walcott, from the Caribbean, does make me heart sing.

Despite all we problems, (which he capture in he writing), he find ways to celebrate we.

I love the Caribbean, the sounds, the sights, the smell o' food cooking, we resilience, the kindness I experience.

As a writer, I want to show you, dear readers, lovers of books and songs and art, who we are as women in me part o' the world. I want to show you the ludicrous, the playful, the broken, the happy, the poetry in we daily, mundane lives.

I want to fling open we windows, we doors, we hearts. I want to show you things them newspapers and magasines in Big Countries would hardly tell you about we (they tend to mostly describe we as poor, needy, suffering). I want to show you that we is people of hope, longing, with beautiful dreams too.

Welcome, my dear beloved Friends. Much love, neena. xx

P.S. Listening to the queen of music from South Africa right now:

MAKHADZI featuring Prince Benza - Ma Yellowbone.

Conversation with the Monster under the bed.

My dear Friends,

It so cold in this here part of Florider where my mother is, I hide under the bed, and even the Monster that does live there snuggle up to me to keep warm up.  Not that I can offer much body warmth, me being so small in size. You can tell how desperate for heat Monster was.

Anyway, all this closeness lead to cameraderie, and the next thing you know, me and Monster had a long and hearty discussion about climate.

I say, "Boy, this C ain't for Celcius. It is C&^U@*S*S."

Monster ask, "But what about when the weather gets hot?"

I say, "Then it is x degrees Charming. Anything below 23 is C&^U@*S*S."

Monster ask, "What do you think about the COP26 talks?"

I turn me nose up so high, I hit me head on the bed-bottom (it is a low bed we was hiding under). Monster try to console me and rub me injured head. I had to pretend to calm down real fast at that. Imagine that hand on you' head. If I did only stay upset, Monster woulda continue trying to calm me.

"Them men at COP26 is like a pack o' sweet man," I blurt out.

Monster give me a hard cut-eye...what they call "side eye" in the US. I start to shiver, wondering if Monster was getting ideas about me. 

The silence hang heavy for minutes, 'til Monster bust out, "What do you mean by sweet man? How can you call those mealy-mouthed, mincing, malingering garumphs sweet men?"

"Sweet man. Them is a pack o' sweet man," I correct Monster. "In Proper Creolese, we don't reeeeally do plural. The word before does tell you if it is one, or one more than one."

"You mean more than one," Monster say.

Shees. What a nitpicking creature. "Whatever! A sweet man is the man who does come to a woman with plenty lies. Ow dahling, how you can believe I got another woman? Babes, me sweet sapodilla-gyal, give me a li'l chuuups, a li'l kiss, nah? Look at this pretty necklace I bring for you. And the woman does believe. And all this time, the sweet man got 2, 3 woman...women...plus wife."

"Yes!! Yes!!" Monster shout-out with great excitement. "I know those sweet men! I've heard them whilst hiding under beds all over the world."

"So why you never bite they ankles, eh? Why you just stick under beds, scaring innocent women and children?"

A pause. Then out o' the blues, Monster start one weeping and wailing. Place so cold, the eye water pouring from Monster turn to ice. 

I couldn't take this nonsense anymore. I speed out from me hiding place and dive under me damp, cold blanket, which is what I shoulda do in the very first place. Y'see? That is how illogical this cold weather make me. 

I trying to dress warm and think warm thoughts. Look FIVE THINGS (idea I borrow from Joey) that cheering me.

Hat, a gift from my sister.
Scrunchie, bought from a pavement vendor in my lovely, native land.

Cousin Lis gave me these recently.

Sunlight in my mother's bedroom, in her home before she moved here.

Sunlight in my room last week.

My 10 yr. old nephew wore these twice, outgrew them.
Now, they're mine, and my feet ain't growing, thank goodness.

I got to go and cook lunch now, Friends. Stay warm and dry, and eat hearty. Plenty love, neena xx.

Blogging for peace.

Hellurrrrr (as Madea would say), Hellurrrrr my Dear Friends,

I did so want to blog from Nov. 4 - 7 about peace, but this pain in me teeth wouldn't even let me bite a hot biscuit. 

Had to look for dentist in the boonies where my mother live, and while waiting for the appointed date, I killing the pain with pain killer.

All o' this got me thinking how stress can proper sabotage peace on we insides, and before we can say Oh Lawd oh, we act as though badness take hold. I don't know about other people, I ain't like when that happen. 

So, I put on me hat and I been about looking for things to amuse me, to soothe me spirits.

Wha'....You don't believe? Is true! 

Laughter and peace got a tight connection. 

I know, I know, The Intellectuals mightn't agree. They think that Examination of The Miserable Self is the only way.

An old photo of this Miserable Character I found on a wall: The Peeled Paint Grouch.

Some o' The Intellectuals even useta scoff at Tyler Perry, the creator of Madea, for he type o' humour.

But he calmly tell the story of a woman who write to he and say how, at one time in she life, she did hit a very low point, so low, she been thinking that she didn't want to live anymore. By chance, she watch a bootleg Madea movie. She laugh so hard, she decide she want to live.

Anyway, I feeling a li'l peckish...hungry-ish. I going to see what is in the kitchen. Have a lovely weekend. Plenty love, neena xx.

The watermelon laughed and laughed.

If you know anyone who would be interested...

The international Woman Scream Festival (Grito de Mujer) in its 12th edition, and in support of the initiatives of the Action Coalitions for Generation Equality of UN Women for the next years, makes a formal invitation to institutions, members and nonmembers, to join the cause as volunteer events coordinators, for the festival’s global cultural chain next March, 2022. This season, paying a tribute to aboriginal women and women ancestors under the motto "Origin". Woman Scream 2022 will be a call to remember native women, whose cultures persist over time in several countries and who still suffer continuous abuses, in absence of laws that promote the validation of their rights. It is also a tribute to the women whose lineage, courage and strength, since ancient times, have been forerunners of the collective dream, towards a life free from women violence and equal women's rights.

See more here:

Woman Scream 2022 | Call for Volunteer Event Coordinators