Sunday, 20 November 2022

Inside and out.

Hello me dear friends, it is a cool, grey Sunday in me mother new dwelling place. 

Rain, wait...rain falling, like proper falling. Not in sheets but I can hear it outside me window going splickety on concrete. The modern, generic battery-clock on the wall sound as if it marching through time slow-slow, like it is old, wearing heavy boots that go tick...tick...tick...

This is the kinda weather where we should be drinking hot chocolate and reading trashy magazines or rosemantic books.

I think I might do just that, haha, I got some ancient rosemantic books that an auntie send to me mother who refuse to read them. She busy reading Gogol and Omar Khayam and regaling me about them. What a thing, eh? I go to uni to study literature, and I emerge wanting to feed me mind with candy floss and sugar.

Anyway, me dears, before I go, lemme show you a few photos of what I been up to.

I stroll around the back yard.

I cut a piece o' dry banana leaf and doodle on it.

I pack away books on the windowsill.

I set up a cosy li'l space to hide away and write when I need total isolation. Welcome to me casbah.

Yesterday, me sister visit and bring these for me. Aiyyyye, me feet feel the love the whole o' last night.

This morning, I peek through the curtain and notice this for the first time.

Imagine that! Two weeks here and I only now notice this. 

Is as if we sometimes need the greyness of rain approaching to see colour.

Maybe it is a good sign.

Have a creative week and eat well. Take care o' you. Plenty lurve, neena.

Sunday, 13 November 2022


My dear friends, and any passers by...


This is a small, tired puff of phew.

Here me is, one week since I move with me mother to the sunny side o’ Florider, most o’ me puff poofed outta me.

Me dears, I decide if mama want to move again, I ain’t twitching a muscle again. I gon pay somebody to pack, unpack, repack. I ain’t care if I got to sell me toenails to pay.

As for me, I finally learning that other people choices ain’t got to be mine. 

It gon sound selfish but I putting me health first. Me creative writing, and writing as a business, is a priority too. (That is a story for another day.)

I realise this, friends...caring for others don’t mean sacrificing we-self, suffocating we-self, sealing up we dream in a box and shoving it into the back of a cupboard, taking it out to play with it every now and then, putting it away for a few days more with grief in we heart.

We must, we should, find a way to turn we dream into a garden.

Take care of you. Eat well. Think about this, if you can’t take care of you, how you gon take care of them who need you? Wishing you sweet dreams and plenty energy and love,  neena. 

Sunday, 6 November 2022

On the move.

My lovely friends and everyone travelling through…

We travelling too. 

I been packing boxes for days but it feel like months. Mum going to a new home…she going to live with she second son, me Florida brother. I guess I could leave she there but she need help with so many things, and he and he wife got they business to run…I ain’t got it in me heart to say, “Awright, I gone.”

Me friends, I am egg-zausted. Like broke-egg leave out in the sun, I feel like I am burn-out. Aiy yai yai. 

Hopefully, it is a place where I can meet plenty artists, writers, musicians. Weeee. I am excited. 

See you soon.

Home? Where is is home?

Take care of you, rest, eat good food. Plenty love, neena. 

Friday, 21 October 2022

That happy place.

My lovely friends & dear visitors passing through,

I been thinking, I got a roof over me head, food in me belly, songs in me ears and me heart. 

Ahhh yes, I line-up all me cliches to remind me that I gon push through and get to where I want to be creatively.

When life knock me with a glitch, I does hibernate into meself and fret. But after a day or two, I does uncurl outta meself and let the sunshine spread energy into me.

It was this habit that help me when I leave the gorgeous Island, that jewel of the Caribbean, to return home to me poor li'l native land (which they say was one o' the poorest countries for a long stretch o' time). 

At home, I realise this: if poor people, the unfortunate ones, can rise above hard circumstances, who is me, with a much better life, to keep meself from rising above tough situations?

For quite a few years, I been thinking about this, scribbling me thoughts in a note pad. This Sunday gone, I share them on Substack.

This is what I write, with the title: It ain't paradise, but it can be damn nice.

How you do, nah? (As we would say in my lovely native land.)

I’m gearing up for the paper version of book one. Soon after that will come book two, also based on life in Guyana. You will meet more characters and, on occasion, you’ll come upon situations which, hmmm, let me say: some of it ain’t pretty.

I’m caught between those people who like to believe that we dwell in paradise and those who swear it’s a blazing little hell. After moving back home, I spent the first year fighting that heat, literally and figuratively - El NiƱo and plenty hot-up feelings…vexation and disappointment. As time passed, I experienced moments, days, of utter bliss, then the sufferings of those I’m close to would pull me back to a sad reality.

Returning home humbled me and taught me stuff (I gag at the word “lessons”) that I’d love to share with you.

Celebrate what you already have. If you're pushing mud out of the yard, when you pause to rest for a minute, listen to the wind; see the sparkles of light in the small pools of water at your feet.

Sit with the people who clean, the maids, the janitors, the gardeners, eat with them, talk. Walk with the poor, look and learn from them. Observe how they deal with troubles, and how they laugh despite their sorrows. Dry their tears by helping them in any way you can. One smile from you can lift the downcast spirit of another.

Life is exactly what you're living right now. It can be horribly, achingly dull, but it can be exciting even in its dullness...or maybe it can’t be, eh? You may never go travelling across the seas to exotic destinations. But this here, what you have right now, is your opportunity to carve and groove, draw and colour and forge delicate art with the heat.

I going now to catch a li'l stroll in the afternoon light, me friends. Take care of you, keep sharing the beauty that you encounter, the humour, the play, the art you make. Plenty love, neena.

Monday, 10 October 2022


Dear Friends and Visitors passing by,

I wake up feeling happy with all me hopes and plans shining in me head like dew on the sunrise-grass.

I go for me walk and I chat with the older neighbour I meet out there, 93 years old he is. I come home and, before breakfast, some news drop into me lap like scalding tea.

To realise that you ain't of much consequence to the people (plural) you care about the most can cause a pain you can't describe.

Take me lesson, dear friends, learn from what I am going through. Never give everything to everyone. Money. Time. Care. Give whatever you can, but always, and remember this...always save something for yourself. Because, whatever you give, don't expect to receive it again. 

That ain't being selfish. It is taking care of you.

I must find a way to soothe this burn, heal meself. And I must set out for this rocky path that lay ahead, this steep, winding trail with the sharp stones.

Take care of you, plenty lurve, neena.

Sunday, 2 October 2022

Visiting you.

My lovely Blogging Friends,

Instead o' writing today, I going an' visit you' blogs. Recent events had me in a li'l tizzy and writing is the last thing I want to do.

See you on de blog. xx neena.

Sunday, 25 September 2022

Eighty six.

My lovely friends, visitors passing through,

Me mother, the great book-gobbler (eating more books than bookworms) turn a new page on Thursday. She turn 86 years old, as we would say.

Me sister had a small party, seven o' we, which was just the right number o' people to make enough noise laughing and talking and eating a nice Guyanese-style lunch. 

Y'know we got to have curry, right? And daal and rice. And chicken that me sister cook in a special Guyanese-style, and pumpkin and I don't remember what else. Me head feel fat with post-lunch syndrome today, pardon me if I don't remember the entire menu.

J., the neighbour across the road who love me mother plenty, visit too, and bring cupcakes.

Me mother receive mo' gifts than I ever get in years. Nightgowns and shoes and sandals and clothes. A tangerine scented candle. Chocolates (which I, the food-police, making sure she ain't lay she hands on every day).

I can't believe that she who was only 68 the year before I start that ol' Guyana blog is now 86.

She mouth useta be so hot. Like pepper...she had a wit that would burn like pepper...and now look!

 That was in Georgetown, in we lovely native land. Trekking back and forth, to and from the courthouse, them street vendors get to know she well.

Now, most days, in the mornings, in she new and foreign land, you gon find she strolling on the street outside she home, chatting with the friendly Mericans, or puttering about in the garden even while she fighting severe back pain. Or you gon find she in a corner of a room reading. 

When she reading, she don't hold back. I does get a running commentary about the cruelty, the goodness of the characters. Or I would get a run-down of the plot. Lawd help me if I don' NOT...want the plot-reveal. 

If the book is funny, she gon laugh out loud-loud-loud. I especially remember one night, when she been in she 70s, she reading and hollering with laughs.

"What tickle you so, man?" I ask.

This, she say,

If I go for walks with she, or we sit on the front porch, and she see something that remind she of a poem, she reel out the quote like magician pulling ribbon from the mouth. 

Musta been the colour of the sky that remind she of this one afternoon:

Y'know, me friends, because me mother love books so much, I think it is most fitting that she-self should be in books too. And here she is, featuring in the very first book that I write:

Well, dear friends, it is 4:16 pm now. Or, as we say in my lovely native land, 16 hours, 16. 

Day almost done. I gon go for me walk and make a small dinner for me mother.

I hope you keeping well, eating well, taking good care of you too.

Plenty lurve, neena.

Sunday, 11 September 2022

Where is your oasis?

My lovely friends, dear travellers and visitors,

For the last two weeks, me mind got constipation. It got bung-up because I so busy looking after medical appointments for me mother, following...accompanying...she to do tests, cleaning home, panicking about books to write. And last Saturday, we been to visit me li'l father li'l brother...and me auntie.

It was three elders in all, them and me mother. The younger ones was Cousin Lis, me sister, me brother-in-law, and me.

The place where auntie and uncle live ain't as boondock-ish as where me mother live, it come close though. And y'know what, friends? It was the most peaceful day I ever find meself drifting into since dunno when. Nothing of consequence happen except for the discussion o' snakes. But that is a normal feature in the conversations of the people of my lovely native land. 

Auntie lay out a feast. Pumpkin with paneer in super-light coconut milk. Fry okro. Shrimps curry. Rice. Daal. A salad with feta. 

As we munch and mmm and sigh and smile, li'l cha-cha make we go eeeek nooo with he stories from back home about snake and cures for snake bites. Them is stories for another day though, they loaded with fantastic details.

Yesterday, mopping and cleaning, I remember the visit. Was such a sweet and simple day.

We wasn't sitting on a high peak looking out on milky mist, smiling like we find nirvana. We didn't have no bling and exciting things to post on Instagram. 

Was only the three elderlies and we, bonding near the boondocks.

It was me uncle smiling a pleased li'l smile the whole day. Cousin Lis fretting about she dear ole car park-up in she garage. She trying to convince she daddy, ex-mechanic, to visit she to have a look at the car, and he protesting passively, "It ain't call for all o' that." He give she a battery charger he did buy. I give them the joke about a former mechanic back home who couldn't repair me car so he announce that me car running on jumbie...ghost.

Yesterday, cleaning bathroom, I think of some people I see online who rush to make selfies on the edge of cliffs. I wish I could convince them that no matter how many exciting places they go to, the thrill does dry up. The road can get mo' rough than anybody can imagine.

I wish I could tell them, sitting in a' oasis near the boondocks mightn't get likes from strangers, but it does fill you' soul with love. I wish I could tell them that life is sometimes, most times, the damn dreary searching for peace in the middle of dirty laundry; it is trying to find we thoughts whilst mopping dust, and being still, contemplating sky outside the window. 

If we understand this, and accept this, then we can start the real work, the hhharrible agony, the pleasure, of moving towards what we truly need.

Friends, I cookin' brown rice. I better don't burn it. Eat well, take care o' you. Plenty love, neena.

Sunday, 21 August 2022

Listen, oh, listen....

Friends! How y'all doing? 

I been for a morning walk, facing the morning sun, and I ketch meself smiling like a fatuous fool full o' happy-feels. Nothing like post-dawn and morning breeze.

Look a video I make about breeze in me lovely native land, I hope you like. (Click on the full screen icon to read.)

And I been writing on Substack about sound around the home:

Most days, depending on where you live, you will hear:



cars zooming by on the main road

truck horn

rain on the zinc roof

wheels swishing on wet road

rain pattering on the leaves of trees

neighbours squabbling in the distance

neighbour next door and his wife quarrelling

school children playing in the school yard

a mad dog barking

the ocean booming against the seawall

kiskadees chirping kisskakeeeee

chicken hawk squreeeeelling

parrots…don’t ever forget the parrots, soon o’ clock o’ morning…parrots

singing-engine kites that kite-flyers have tied to a tree or a post during kite flying season

the wind whistling tweeeeeeee February, March, April.

Best sound of all is the one we mostly never hear, the sound that streams through the grrrr and the raaah of daily living.

To hear, you must get outdoors, or sit on the platform outside your front door, or stretch out in your hammock.


It is the sound of your little holiday. You don’t need to fly miles to a foreign land to experience it, unless you live in a desert, but I am sure that in the desert there is another sound that is just as wonderful. It is better than any food you could ever cook. In fact, it is food for your spirit. It’s a sound that’s not only for the wealthy. It’s for the poor, the humble, the aching, hungry soul too.

It’s the sound of the trees rustling in a light breeze.

Have a wonderful week, my lovely friends. Eat good food, drink good drinks. Dance li'l bit and love plenty. neena. 

Sunday, 14 August 2022

De pee-can tree.

My Friends,

A giant pee-can tree growing in front o' this house. The neighbours, sorry, neighbors, does say, "Pi-caawn." Same difference. Same set o' problems...when is the right time to pick the peecan before the fur-fiends?

Now look, I believe in equal opportunity, don't get me wrong. I believe everybody got to eat. In the tropics, parrots feast in we gardens like great war-hounds, but no parrot, no toucan, no kiskadee, does eat like them fur-fiends in this great Big Country. These fur-fiends don't believe nobody else must eat.

Maybe Big Corp send them to deplete trees in people gardens, to force we to buy from supermarkets. Yeah! The more I think about it, that is the truth.

Don't worry! Enterprising individuals in anonymous suburbs around this Glorious Land is learning to fight back.

The first battle I ever hear about some years ago was the one that me li'l father li'l brother...wage with fury and persistence.

He tell me that he would lie in a chair in the sunroom, contemplating he moves. The first phase of the fight, if I remember the history right, was to keep the birdies from eating the juicy fruit growing on the trees. He fill up the birdfeeder and tah-dah, cha-cha get he guava to eat in peace instead o' one li'l piece.

Unfortunately, the bird seeds attract the fur-fiends.

Them fur-fiends gobble them bird seeds with the gluttony of gourmands, with the fervour of food-fanatics.

Ohhhh me Lawd-oh Gawd-ohhhh. Me po' uncle. What a calamity. I don't know what happen during the fight, but I gather that uncle retreat almost in defeat. 'Til one day, Cousin Lis, coming home from work, see she father lying down in froth and fury.

She say, as a joke, "Why you don't grease the birdfeeder pole?"

Afterwards, Cousin Lis tell me, "The next day, when I come home, I see all up and down the birdfeeder pole long claw marks, from top to bottom, like them creatures leap on to the pole then slide down. Hundreds o' claw marks."

Yesss. To li'l cha-cha was the glory of the battle.

That is what I did think. 

A year or so later, I ask he if them fur-fiends all gone away.

"Them blasted things find a way to get back into the bird seeds," he grumble.

"How?" I ask, mighty puzzled. "You stop using the grease?"

"I lie down and I wait and I watch," he say. "You know what them scamps do? They so smart! They climb on to the house, run to the end o' the gutter and leap onto the birdfeeder."

And so, the battle done. The smoke clear, silence settle upon the land. Everywhere, in quiet corners o' this Great Big Country, citizens coming up with survival tactics. 

The 'Merican man up the road tie-up he mangoes in mesh bags.

Cousin Lis plant veggies on a set o' shelves, and she throw a net, like tulle, over she precious plants. The fur-fiends can't stand it when they claws hook-up in the net.

At another cousin home, them fur-fiends would boldly go to she patio and drive she bananas. But the last time I been to she home, I ain't see hide nor hair of them flittering little food thiefs.

"What happen to them?" I ask.

"They don't like pepper," she say. "I put pepper in the bird seeds."

Me friends, like I say, everybody got to eat. I want to pick the peecans at the bottom branches and leave the top ones for all other bodies. Problem is, I ain't know when is the best time to pick. I don't want to pick too soon and too green. And I definitely don't want to pick too late and it shall be my cry.

I gon head outside in the briling hot heat to stare at the peecans. I hope them fluffy little flunks don't see me. They might get ideas.

Have a lovely week contemplating the fruit of your labour, my friends. Take care o' you. Eat good food, drink nourishing drinks, look for happy things to soothe you' soul. Plenty lurve, neena.

Sunday, 31 July 2022

Just like in the movies.

My lovely Friends and Visitors passing through,

Long before I come here where my mother now live, I useta think that this Big International Country got skyscrapers and concrete pavement everywhere, parks and lawn and, well, y'know how they show them fancy places in movies. All swank and swish and stylish like in the Devil Wears Prada. Or colonial-style houses, huge like ten families coulda get lost in them.

And on Hallmark Channel, small town is flowers hanging in baskets on front porches. Little shops with bells at the doors. Wide-open farms, green like the grass on the other side. Even them cows look ready for Vogue Magazine. Romance in the air. Handsome man about to meet gorgeous gal who got she own business baking biscuits or cakes, something sweet. Or flowery. 

Yes, I would see films about small town with board-houses...houses make with wood only. But the truth is, and I bet plenty 3rd world people feel the same, I useta think down-trodden small town was a rare scene in big countries. 

The way them big-shot writers from high-class foreign magazines would write about my lovely native land when they visit, down-talking it, you would believe that small town images in they countries ain't a true-true thing. Paint peeling, window frame need fixing. Men wearing singlet, ladies in wash-out old tee-shirt. Lobster-coloured men sitting on doorsteps, cigrit hanging from the corner o' they mouth; they growling home-truths about life and pain or they cussin' up a stink; the wimmen...I don't remember what wimmen do in them kinda movies, I think they indoors cooking bacon that spattering and sputtering hot oil on the wall. 

This week gone, I pass through small town.

Sunny, blue sky, trees trimblin' in light wind, a bird call trillin' through. Plenty-plenty land with bush and trees with vine weaving everything together. 

I woulda been happy if I wasn't going to do routine blood test. Or as they say in these parts, blood work.

I woulda see more details if I wasn't worrying that I gon faint from fear and horror.

But I manage to set up a collage o' cliches in me headspace. Paint peeling, oh wait, what paint, the po' shack need paint. Planks on building slipping down. No business happening. Shops lock up, board up. A shell of a house so ole, the jumbies haunting the jumbies.

Then suddenly, there, apartments on a hilly slope, just like in Jamaica in the touristy areas, across from the water. You could feel the wealth and happiness like it was you' own. And in the middle of all this wealth, a dark blue bulk of a building with Van Gogh starry nights. For some reason, maybe cos I been going for blood test, it look a li'l gloomy.

I didn't see a single soul on the way to the clinic. Not one single singlet or bacon.

Another day, I gon tell you about the gyaff...conversation...with the taxi driver.

Watch this space. 

Have a lovely week, me friends. Wherever you go, no matter how simple, even if is just outside you' home, enjoy the view. Stare on the tall grass, check out the sky. 

Plenty lurve, neena.

Sunday, 17 July 2022

Lovely things.

My dear Friends, visitors and anyone peeking in here,

The heatwave is hot and life been a li'l hot too. 

Words in me dry-up like flowers in extreme fire-temperature. 

I need a little bit o' water in me soul to refresh.

I gon go and listen to music, read blogs, maybe listen to a BBC radio drama with my mother.

Take care of you. Eat good food, drink plenty cool water and savour the blessings. Plenty love, neena xx

P.S. I been looking through pictures on me phone and spot some o' these goodies me cousins did bring for we. The Ottmar Liebert hoodie (merch which I promptly name Ottmerch) is mine! 

Sunday, 10 July 2022


My dear lovely friends and all visitors,


This letter to you here today is blank.











Want to know why?

The Mer'can health insurance system got me flummoxed. I don't cuss, but I feel the thoughts in me head creating ruckus like Jonathan Pie. 

I want to know who in the name o' Sam and Miss Mary-Ann down by the riverside (doing bad things) come up with this idea of insurance and terminology to caffuffle the citizens.

It is like paying to join a' exclusive club. If you in the right club, and doctors accept you, welcome, sweetie, please be seated, we will attend to you with all the love of money that we can muster. Unfortunately, me friends, if you in de boondocks, you can spend days, weeks, grow corn on you' tail-end searching for a doctor to accept you' type o' insurance. In the meantime, you can't get care til you find a physician to remove the corn that you grow on the said tail-end. If you lucky to stumble upon one o' these sacred healers, they gon embrace you like a lover 'cause they see dollars when they lay they eyes on you.

But honey-chile, if you ain't got no insurance, you's a piece o' cheese wash-up on the shores o' Katahar. In the language o' me lovely native land, even though katahar is a vegetable, it can also mean you ain't got nothing.

I's in the catogery o' them who got a nice li'l insurance, but in de boondocks I can't find a doctah who would accept me into they club and lavish me with love. 

When I do find one, I hope he or she is well worth the wait and is good-lookin' like Hugh You-Know-Who from Down Unda or Miss Nicole. And it is okay, they ain't got to hug me up, they can just give me medical care, I's a' easy-going gyal, I gon settle for small mercies.

To be honest, I ain't care if the doctah is Shrek self, as long as he can do he medical work.

So yeah, today, me email is blank.

Nothing to say.

Y'all take good care o' you, eat you' veggies and fruits and drink water, dance and sleep and read a nice book. Plenty love, neena maiya.

Sunday, 3 July 2022

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 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.

Sunday, 26 June 2022

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:

Sunday, 19 June 2022

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


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.

Monday, 6 June 2022

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

Sunday, 22 May 2022

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

Have a lovely week, plenty love, neena xx.