Born in Bollywood.

My lovely Friends and visitors passing through,

Y'know whaz more dramatical than a' offspring who don't believe the Parent? (Yes, thaz me, I admit without shame, thaz me, the offspring of all Offsprings.)

You know whaz more hyperbolly than that?

The Parent who wuz born in Bollywood.

No, wait, y'all don't call me Bad Daughter and cancel me and leave me in the woods, please *bear* with me. Whoa...this bear-pun fall nice-nice into place, you gon see later on.

Now, I don't know if y'all know this or not...my Parent can take a tale and stretch it mo' tall than Jack beanstalk. When she done with the tale, you ain't gon recognise one bean of truth. 

Like the time a streak o' breeze back home blow with the power of Category Half. According to the Parent, the wind lift a man up by he ankles, good thing he been holding on to a light post on the street corner.

Soon after, I hear she telling people that the wind hoist the man up from he knees.

Later, the wind raise he from he waist.

No, actually, the man been flying from he shoulders, hanging on to the post, flapping like a flag.

Y'see now, Friends? 

Y'all see why I does tell the Parent that she wuz born in Bollywood, home of hyper-drama and emotions?

See now why I does doubt the truth of observations she bring home?

Time and distance ain't change nothing.

Here me is with the Parent in this foreign land of Florider and...

...last Tuesday, the Parent return home from a gentle morning amble.

"Something wrong with Grey," she announce. "Grey on the lawn, cloak-up into heself, he look like he ain't want to talk to a soul. He hardly glance at me when I call he. He look one second and turn away so, quick-quick."

"Nothing ain't wrong with he," I scold. "You watch too much Bollywood. I swear you born there."

"I telling you, something wrong with Grey."

I dismiss the Parent concern for the Friendly Cat across the road and continue me Important Daughterly act of fixing breakfast. 

But that wasn't the end of that.

The next day, J, the owner of Grey the Friendly Cat, catch up on my Bollywood P. as she was strolling slow and merrily, tra-la-ee.

First thing that pop out from the Parent is: "J, what's wrong with Grey?"

J. say, "For days, he went missing. I couldn't find him anywhere, then I thought, he'll come home, he always does. But when he came home, he was behaving very strange. He'd just sit there, huddled, not eating. He looks as though something had scared him really badly."

"I wonder what happened," me mother say.

"I've been asking around," J. say. "I found out that there's a black bear in the area, and Grey had a tussle with it."

Oh dear.

Thaz all I got to say, dear Friends.

Have a wonderful week, look out for daughters with sheepish grins, plenty lurve, neena.

Bad Man Murphy.

My lovely friends,

I think Bad Man Murphy in love with me. You know that chap who believe, "if anything can go wrong, it will?" Yes, he same one. He been sticking by me side ever since I land up in this foreign place to help take care o' mama.

Y'know, it ain't even as if he is handsome like Hugh.

He kinda look like that creep hiding under the bed.

Hairy and cover-up with dust. 

He got leery red eyes and long-long claws full o'...I don't even want to think about it, about he not practising hygiene.

He can stay 'way from me even if he was rich like Musk or Murdoch. Murphy is just a plain ole plague and pestilence.

Some women would love he, Murphy, no matter what because, to them (according to the Trini song), any man is man.

Anyways, y'know what Murphy do to me now?

He make the aliens kidnap me Tuesday afternoon. 

Me friends, I couldn't understand why he would do something like that. But then, I realise it is like when a li'l boy like a li'l gal in school, and he torment she soul. That is what Murphy been doing to me.

So, me dears, see me lying in that chair, mouth open wide like I want to ketch fly, bright light glaring in me right eye every time the aliens move back and forth. They stick things in me mouth, a blue rubbery funnel; and they jook a fat object in me jaw that go bzzzzzaaaaw, they jab me with needle in me gum. 

Time drag like ten billion years, but when they release me, it was still Tuesday afternoon.

To make matters worse, they rob me of me li'l bit o' cash too. (No, me dears, I still don't want Musk or Murdoch, I gon sell me books and become me own mogul).

I call me sister and she had to take me to buy medication to ease me pain and sorrow.

One whole week almost I been in distress, mouth hurting, one side o' me face swell like Auntie Jay face. Fat and round and hang down a little bit by me jaw-line. Sort of like a baby-face, but older than a baby. My mother say Auntie Jay...not a real-blood auntie...whole family got a face like that.

I turn the corner now, been dancing in the kitchen though me gum still slightly sore.

I working on a plan to chase Murphy away.

Y'all take care. When I chase Murphy, look out for he and run. Have a lovely week. Eat good food, drink plenty water, read a nice book. Plenty lurve, neena xxx.

Oooh, speaking of nice book!

I taking part in the Smashwords July book sale. Look here:

Who Defines "Woman"?

In this folder.

Me lovely Friends and all o' you passing through,

In times o' disaster, you can learn something good. Tell me if I wrong.

Last Sunday, as I go to write on me blog, me ole Back Up Laptop In Case The One I Writing On Die (also known as BULICTOIWOD), it die.

Before that, the First One That I Been Writing On, it go phuuuut in 2020. 

Good thing I had the BULICTOIWOD, flash drives. I immediately go into action and continue smooth-smooth like them chaps in Mission Impossible. 

But, like I say, the BULICTOIWOD go to black screen.

And I ain't had a BULICTOIWOD 2 to work on.

That, dear Friends, is how the something good happen.

Me nephew, 22 years old, accompany me to the computer store and help me to choose a new one that fit me budget; he help me to find a' external hard drive too.

Last Sunday gon stay in me folder o' Happy Memories.

On the way to the store and back home, me and he gyaff. He tell me about he studies, he plans, and he convince me to look at Anime shows; he tell me how he feel it can benefit me creatively.

As he talk, I listen. 

In the silent spaces, as I watch the sun light on them trees, me mind open files, click-click, look...

...li'l baby, huge, dark eyes in sweet brown face and a smile that make me want to pick he up whole day...

...me and he watching the Indian film Lagaan, playing hide and seek. Me reading Good Night Moon to he 'til I get hoarse. I talk Creolese to he sometimes, and he understand... 

...he high pitch voice, he pronounce 'r' like 'w': "We'we going to see Bwotha Beaw."

Click. 

This file is blank. 

He grow up and move way. 

I let it be, I let he go, but I miss the link.

'Til last Sunday.

I store last Sunday in me folder.

I got 4 more nephews and one niece with siblings, and plenty more thanks to cousins. I would love, one day, to full up me Happy Memories with the ones who want to connect. 

One day.

Have a happy week making connections, dear Friends, open the door to you, make space in you' heart. I read this thing about love somewhere...that no matter how many people you love, you heart never run outta space.

Take care, stay well, plenty lurve, neena xx.

Rambling to freedom.

Dear Friends, tell me the honest-truth...

...what you think about railway tracks in a sunny, rural place where nobody seem to be?

In me mind, I see songs like Ramble Tamble by Creedence. I see men and women stowing away to freedom, hiding in cabins full o' cargo. 

(We useta have trains in my lovely native land, but they disappear...that is a story for another day).

In this foreign land, when the afternoon sun shine hot and hazy, that time o' day back home when school is out and school children tumble out into the streets, I head down to the railway track not far from here.

Cars zip past, sometimes a driver smile and wave, then is only me, the sun and them things I stop to see.

To the bored eye, it ain't have nothing.

But for me, the road is a full-on nature ramble where me mind fly free.

In The Island, they call this Poor Man's Orchid.

Back home, this is jumbie beads. (Jumbie...ghost). Craft people make jewellery with them.

Garland of leaves.

Road to the railway track.

A wall of flowers.

Wild flowers. Why do we want to kill them?

A side track.

Near the neglected orange grove.

The oranges in the grove, neglected, harden.

Well, hello there!

I cross the road and come across this bouquet. Why do we want to kill wild flowers?

Heading back home.

One o' these days, when I got plenty o' time, I gon cross the railway track, go over to the other side of the 4-way junction, and flow meself along that long-long road. 

But for now, I turn and head back home, stroll away from the railway track, turn right, head towards me mother home, past gardens pretty-pretty more than pictures, where magnolias grow big like plates, and jasmine and gardenia perfume-up the road.

I better go shower and make dinner for Ma. 

Have fun in the sun, me dears, and find you' joy. Plenty lurve, neena. xx

Stop and smell the magnolias.

Dear Friends and Lovely People passing through,

Sunday morning in Florider, and the leaves sparkling after the thunda and lightning and rain perform big drama Friday and Saturday yesterday. How the trees and plants and grass love the show! You can see them shimmering with gladness.

I know exactly how they feel.

The very same way when I go pon the road for afternoon walks.

I does feel in love. I want to jump and click me heels.

Up this road, the twenty-foot or mo' tall pine-cone tree wearing a jasmine gown. The vine o' the jasmine weave a wide green skirt and loose bodice and sleeves on the branches o' the pine tree. Thousand o' white-star flowers dot the gown from top to bottom. 

Ow me Lawd, I could just lay meself right there pon de road with delight, stay there and close me eyes and live. 

You would see what I mean if you inhale the perfume from jasmine and magnolia and gardenia. It gon lift you to a space that you never been to before; you ain't need no ticket on a rocket. Trust me when I tell you, you ain't gon need no gee-gaw, designer perfume, dress, handbag, trinket, electronics to lift you up and out o' youself.

Oww, the fabulous things you gon see if you only slow you' pace, oh wow.

Magnolias in almost every yard blooming in the warm sunshine. I never in me whole born-life see flowers so big pon a tree. Like plate. White like the smile in me heart. Every day, I walk up to them and examine they new bloom-freshness, they tender age-ing brown. I does put me face close and inhale lemon and secret blends o' fragrance from the land of exotica. 

And don't forget them flowers in the grass. Not because they small, at you' feet, and don't have perfume. Them is the li'l colours, li'l details we ain't see now, but gon notice if they gone. 

I stop to say hello to them too.

White petals with purple centers, mo' small than pin-head, congosetting...gathering in groups, chatting; bright yellow daisies spreading like carpet; butter-colour flowers with delicate petals; small, hard white knots; lantana in bunches; all o' them is worthy of adoration and gratitude. 

If you's one o' them who walk with speed, I feel sorry for you. Oh, the wonderful things you ain't gon see, and if I tell you slow down to look, you gon think I boring. I might be boring to you, but I gon never be bored.

Next week, I gon share some photos.

Ta-ta for now. I promise Ma we gon sit on the front porch and gyaff...chat.

Have a lovely week, plenty love, neena xx.

De Hole.

Dear Friends,

Picture this, you driving by in you' up-to-date car in this out-of-town Florider settlement...that is to say, suburbia but I call it settlement because it so quiet, it feel like every scrap o' life settle down to silence. Next thing you know, you spy a pretty gyal with long tan-legs standing on a white wicker chair on de porch of a house. She hollering as if she money leaving she. 

That was Cousin Lis.

(These immigrant people, I tell you, going to good-good foreign people land and behaving like this!)

She and she family been visiting one bright sunny day, birdies choiping, boiping, eating doity woims, and so on.

Cousin Lis too tall for de chair, wobbling like teen-gyal trying out high heels for the first time. 

Me and she brother, Cousin T., stroll out to the front door.

Me sister out dey arguing. "Is not a big snake. Is only a smallll snake."

Cousin Lis insisting, "It big. It! Big! What is wrong with you?"

She point to the plants, hands quivering.

After a year and a day, she calm down, step down from she stage and enter the home, walking bend, like a ole-ole, frail ole man. 

Food pass around and we dig in (which remind me of de hole, I getting to that soon). Without fail, de conversation circle around snakes.

I announce, "N., the next door neighbour, say that de snake been hanging out on a wall and drop on de shoulders of de husband, de former owner."

Honey-chile, lemme pause here to tell y'all.

Where I come from, in South America, we got several cultures blending together, African, Indian, Amerindian, Chinese. None o' these cultures ain't got white-folks stoic attitude towards snake. We don't hug-up and kiss-up snake and ker them to bed with we. Okay, well, some men and women seem like the human-variety kind.

Anyway, all in all, as far as we's concerned, Snake Symbolise Something Strange. (See what I do there with the Ss sounds?) We-the-blended-citizens pool we resources and together we believe that when you dream about snake, it mean you got enemies. I ain't doubting this. I prove it to meself couple times well.

In other words, we got a healthy fear of snake. 

Many weeks later, after the Incident with Cousin Lis, me sister announce, "Look! A hole in de garden. Must be de snake."

Dear Lovely Friends and those passing by here, I am asking you in Proper English: can snakes dig holes? 

Until you reply, I gon be avoiding this garden in this here foreign land for a while.

I got another theory as to how de hole appear but I got to fix lunch, my mother feeling hungry. No, no roasted snake.

Stay safe and have a lovely week. Dance up and eat good food. Plenty love, neena. xxx

Toleration.

My dear lovely friends,

I rushing baaad today. Me sister having guests over, and I want to help she in the kitchen.

I barely scrape some time and post the "every other Sunday" thing on Substack.

I gon be back soon to tell you about the hole in the garden and so on.

In the meantime, here is what I been writing about toleration ain't a botheration.

Happy Labour Day. Eat good food, take care o' you. Plenty love, neena. xx