September.

Good day, my dear Friends!

In my lovely native land, Heritage Month done.

I wait 'til it finish to share these that I find around my sister home in Florider. 

Why? 

Cos we should remember, celebrate, after the day or month gone.

Place mat that I call The Sun Mat.

Hand-woven basket, now old, stained.

A small detail.

What would you do with this basket?

One more basket.

With Ma in Florider, what a hectic month! She turn 85! Imagine that! Eighty! Five! What a month. Visitors traipse in, pre-birthday, post-birthday, on weekends, with perfume, clothes, a plant, flowers, fruit.

GUESS WHAT CAME IN THIS!!

We eat, we gyaff...chat heartily...with fambly, laugh loud like fishwife, slap table-top like raucous man.

For 2 days this weekend, I vacuum and wipe the house. 

I thought it said:
ONE HEAVY DUTY CLEANING WIFE!

No lie! After all o' this, I feel a li'l frazzled, out o' me creative routine!

Got to make me list and refresh meself again, creative wise.

I turn to songs, photos, music, books, comedy, art, blogs.

Thank you, all you creative people everywhere. Thank you everyone of you who share you' love for nature, healing, beauty, art.

You are beautiful.

I love you all.

neena xx

The First People.

Hello my Friends,

Ever hear about the legend of Makonaima? Stories of Bush Dai-Dai? 

Them is from the legends and lores of the Amerindians, the First People, of my lovely native land. Them stories is some of the most fantastic, revving up we imagination, colouring we dark nights.

Sad to say, most o' we, the non-Amerindian citizens, don't know half o' them stories even though, every September, we celebrate Heritage Month. We hold a' exhibition of the Amerindian people craft in one place in town. On social media, they share photos of hot looking, nubile Amerindian girls, or those with mixed Amerindian heritage, in traditional wear. 

I could be wrong but I think we slowly discarding we lores for imperial cultures. 

When Halloween come, citizens with money gon be wearing fancy costumes, posing for the media. This gon eventually trickle down to them with less money. How many gon think this is the ideal?

Here is what I did write about it some time back, including it in me book.

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Nov. 19.  Do not discard.

That snake skin in the gutter, strangely enough, remind me of something from me past, flowing in me present - stories from ancestors in me blood, and legends from me country that plenty folks here almost forget, that children don’t know now.

As soon as me mother say that them snakes in the yard like me, the story of the strangest marriage wriggle-out from me memory.

It is the story of the Amerindian girl who did marry a camoudie, a snake that does wrap around man or animal; it can squeeze the life outta you and swallow you wholesale.

The girl, a’ beautiful Arawak girl, refuse plenty-plenty suitors.  Then one day, a handsome young man arrive with horses dress-up with gold.  He ask permission from she father for she.  Right away, the girl say Yes.

Wedding day was glitter and gold, the groom bring a dress of golden threads for he bride.  After the wedding, they set off for the groom home.  On the way, he embrace he wife and...

...the wedding-wagon turn into a pond, and the horses dissolve into water which fill the pond...and the groom turn into a camoudie.

The girl swim and swim ‘round and ‘round to get away but the camoudie grabble she and wrap around she.

The snake skin in we gutter remind me of something else too, that I observe in we lovely native land.  Instead of adding we stories to the grand history of man, to help illustrate the story of man, we-the-people is shedding we tales, leaving them to decay while we absorb only them foreign ones now.  While I...

...I dream of we stories flowing in we veins, grandparents passing them on, teachers teaching them along with foreign tales.  And poets, writers would refer to them along with Apollo, Cassandra, Persephone and others.

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How about you, dear friends? How you feel about legends and stories from you' part o' the world? 

Have a great day, filling and nourishing.

Plenty love, neena xxx.

One week of bliss

My dear  Friends,

I ain't no photographer, it is just me phone-camera that I use always. I take pics to remind me of happy places, and, sometimes, weird-ridiculous things. Me pics is visual notes for me, for later.

So, when I show you them pikchas of what I take last week, please bear in mind that they gon look like some normal place to you. But, to me, when I look months later, I can feel again the warm breeze and sunlight on me skin, and hear the cicadas in the bush. I can smell the sweet grass crushing under me feet. I remember the peace.

Inside the verandah, looking out.

I had to go...

I had to go!

Breeeeathe.

Late afternoon sunlight, inside, looking out again.

Outside again.

Near the top. A hole to freedom? Or a home?

At the very top, wildness let loose.

At the top, looking towards tamed life, wildness behind me.

Down again, close to the road.

It late now, Friends, I falling asleep as if Sandman throw extra zzzzsand. 

See you tomorrow. 

As the Arab proverb go, May you wake up to good news. 

Plenty lurve, neena xx.

Daisy Days

My dear Friends,

Picture this.

You lay you'self down on a hillock, and the sun and the wind is warm like them days of childhood when we useta run barefoot in pasture.

Trees at the top of the hillock, trees in pairs, here and there.

Under one tree, herbs in pots, the wind send light fragrance towards you.

When it get too hot out there, you step into the patio...I call it verandah...with mosquito screen all around. In the verandah, plants lush like jungle surround you, nestlin' on tables, fah-lourishin' in big pots on the stone floor. 

Close you' eyes and feel the humid heat and pretend you back in South America. Aiye Dios mio, gracias for this loveliness.

Me and Ma house-sitting, Dear Friends, in this place.

Me cousin got to go to a conference and she, being carer for she 70-year old sister, couldn't find nobody to stay with she sister. Blame covid. 

The sister, nickname Daisy, is a "special needs" person. Daisy does look at you with intelligent eyes, understanding what you say, and the only problem is when she decide she ain't wearing she hearing aids. Then you got to talk loud for them cicadas outside to hear.  She does reply with a slight slur-speech in perfect Creolese.

On Sunday, me brother and sister-in-law and nephew come to pick we up to see he friend not far from here. Daisy, fresh from she shower, been trendy with dangly earrings and pretty dress, she short white hair comb down flat. 

Me sister-in-law say that, pre-covid, if they in the area, they does pick up Daisy and take she wherever they going to. Unfortunately, they live 3 hours away.

Yesterday, as mid-morning silence settle over we, Ma napping, I looking after some business-papers, I peep through this here wide window to see what Daisy doing in the verandah.

She sitting at a small table, fingers moving delicate like she weaving air and thoughts. She been doing a jigsaw puzzle. 

The whole world been in this little pleasure, sorting and finding and putting in place, one piece o' colour next to another piece. 

I watch for a good while. Ma rise from she nap. She ask, What Daisy doing? And I tell she what I see. 

Later, I look at the jigsaw picture. It was a popular Disney princess, 48-piece puzzle.

"People like Daisy come into we life for extra-special reasons," I tell me mother.

Right now, the two o' them peeling garlic in the verandah.

I must go cook lunch now, Dear Friends.

Have a lovely day, filling you' spirit with peace and joy. 

Plenty lurrrve, neena xx.

Vacuum.

No, no, me dear Friends and Comrades in a conniption,

I ain't living in a vacuum.

I been vacuuming the rooms. Busting dust. 

Two days doing dat.

Two!!

I lift horse, cow, turn chairs, and haul out dat dust like Superwoman.

De dust in de room, you couldn't see it. But in the vacuum container, it grow fat like a lazy grey cat. If you coulda seen dis dust! (Why, by de way, house-dust is always grey? I never see green house-dust. Or pink. Or pupple. Or even brown).

Whenever I cleaning house, I does get philsophical.

I been thinking how we get fooled that life is supposed to be wonderful 100% of the time. We become like spoilt children. Protesting and screaming. We want we fun and we want it naoooow. Imagine, if all o' we did do like New Zealand and Taiwan - wait a li'l bit, ease up on de demands, stop wanting only for weself, this problem woulda disappear quick like magician doing a trick.

I been thinking, if all capable bodies had a vacuum or a broom...imagine...

...well, okay, yes, that is true...some folks, no matter what, they would stay permanently vexed...

Me on a hot day, vex like a mad cow.

...but y'never know...they too mighta calm down and hear the riddim of things.

De riddim of t'ings.

When you hear de riddim of t'ings, you start to sing.

You never know.

You never know.

Have a lovely week, dear friends. I hope you can stand under a tree (where there ain't no birdies 'cause they drop a kinda blessing you don't really want), and listen. 

Plenty lurve, neena xx

Simplicity.

My dear Friends,

August 1 was a happy day...a sad day of remembering...throughout the Caribbean. 

That was the day when African people who been enslaved by the British Empire was freed. (Every year, when this day come around, my mind does try to imagine how the Africans then did feel when they hear about Freedom).

I ain't know what everybody back home do this year to celebrate though...y'know, with covid about.

Holiday is the one day in my lovely native land when the streets empty. Everybody gone to creek, in the park, in back dam. Cooking, eating, gyaffing...chatting...laughing. Deprive them of every form of likker, and they still would enjoy time out of this world.

Here in Florider the streets empty every day. One or two people walkin' they dog. Been like this even pre-covid.

To be honest, I am real glad people staying home. Bleddy delta virus running rampage up and down in Florider. If I encounter anybody walking they dog, they cross the street and greet me hello in a very friendly manner.

The other day, late afternoon, I walk in the brilin' hot sun up to the lake. The heat leave me feeling drugged, like slumberin'-mellow. That night, I bade in warm water, I put on a long cotton nightie, crawl in bed with book. The next thing I know, morning peeping through the window.

I must go now and make lunch.

Have a lovely weekend, everybody. Stay safe and healthy and happy no matter who trouble up.

Plenty luuuuve, neena xx

My lovely native land. One road where you don't find a lot of people!!

Bollywood Babe.

Friends!

Oh my morderrr!

The dream I had last night come straight from the jaws o' hell!!

I think the ooman who useta live here is trying to haunt me. She must be jellis o' me. 

The grapevine say she was evil and vile. 

The grapevine say she was the epitome of malignant maleficence. She ain't dead, but she badniss linger like a long-living malingerer. 

The grapevine say she husband so scared o' she, he scared to leave she.

Anyway, despite the dream, I had sound sleep. I wake up with pep in me step. Sun bright. Time to work on Book Two. I put on Bollywood songs.

Suddenly! People! See me here! On stage, lights bright like supernova or whateva.

I am Ashwarya Rai out-shaking Shakira, nahi-nahi, no-no, I am Bollywood Babe.

I knock de dholak, tump de tabla, roll out dem raagas like pro.

The crowd gone wild, screaming, throwing theyself at the stage. 

Shah Rukh, King of Bollywood with the gorgeous dark eyes, join me.

Security had to climb up on one another shoulders to hold up the roof.

The shaking and tumping was so hard, the stage wobble...

...wobble...

...Ooops.

Learn this, lovely ones...bed ain't a place to dance on.

Mwah, mwah, blowin' kisses, blowing kisses to my fans.

I gone to work on Book Two.

Have a luverly weekend.

Plenty lurve, neena xx.

P.S. I gon campaign for supermarkets and hardware and electronic stores and malls to start playing Happy Bollywood songs. Lads and Lasses gon magically change clothes 3, 4 times, and they gon frolic and flirt around displays.