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1. One man's thunderstorm There once was a man who lived in the city. He wanted to do things. He had high hopes, and even higher expectations. He wanted to love. He wanted to live. Each night he sat in his chair. He thought about life. He thought about love. He doubted his thoughts, but kept dreaming. There once was another man who lived in the hills. He got up at 4 am each morning to tend his goats, feed his pigs, dig out his yam banks, carry home breakfast, send his kids to school. That man thought too. Each night he sat on his porch. He thought about life. He thought about love. He knew what he wanted, and made it come true. One man's thunderstorm is another man's sunshine. Portland, Jamaica, 18 April 2015

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1. One man's thunderstorm There once was a man who lived in the city. He wanted to do things. He had high hopes, and even higher expectations. He wanted to love. He wanted to live. Each night he sat in his chair. He thought about life. He thought about love. He doubted his thoughts, but kept dreaming. There once was another man who lived in the hills. He got up at 4 am each morning to tend his goats, feed his pigs, dig out his yam banks, carry home breakfast, send his kids to school. That man thought too. Each night he sat on his porch. He thought about life. He thought about love. He knew what he wanted, and made it come true. One man's thunderstorm is another man's sunshine. Portland, Jamaica, 18 April 2015

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1. One man's thunderstorm There once was a man who lived in the city. He wanted to do things. He had high hopes, and even higher expectations. He wanted to love. He wanted to live. Each night he sat in his chair. He thought about life. He thought about love. He doubted his thoughts, but kept dreaming. There once was another man who lived in the hills. He got up at 4 am each morning to tend his goats, feed his pigs, dig out his yam banks, carry home breakfast, send his kids to school. That man thought too. Each night he sat on his porch. He thought about life. He thought about love. He knew what he wanted, and made it come true. One man's thunderstorm is another man's sunshine. Portland, Jamaica, 18 April 2015

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2. Yes Night falls and the crickets burst out in unison. A cool breeze dances through the hills. Under a dark blanket the river continues its unruly course. Into the forest I stand, down by the water hole. Time fi bathe. Time fi hurry up. Mosquitoes never catch sleep. Their One Love tattoos every body part exposed, no mercy, no escape. Juney tells me burning the John Charles bush keeps them at bay. Ancient knowledge, modern wisdom. There is no ailment in life these hills can not remedy. This is the Yes! land, And I am a Yes! lady. Portland, Jamaica, 21 March 2015

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3. Happiness too Happiness is the morning sun through a kitchen door in the Jamaican mountains. It is the wakeup call of the rooster, the patience of the lizard, The quietness in existence. Happiness is a kitibu lightning bug that suddenly shoots up for the stars at night. It is the belly pain of laughter, the smell of shared cooking in the bush, the intimacy of these hills. Happiness is having the eyes to see all this, and a mind to over-stand (not under-stand!) its worth. Portland, Jamaica, 8 April 2015

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2. Yes Night falls and the crickets burst out in unison. A cool breeze dances through the hills. Under a dark blanket the river continues its unruly course. Into the forest I stand, down by the water hole. Time fi bathe. Time fi hurry up. Mosquitoes never catch sleep. Their One Love tattoos every body part exposed, no mercy, no escape. Juney tells me burning the John Charles bush keeps them at bay. Ancient knowledge, modern wisdom. There is no ailment in life these hills can not remedy. This is the Yes! land, And I am a Yes! lady. Portland, Jamaica, 21 March 2015

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3. Happiness too Happiness is the morning sun through a kitchen door in the Jamaican mountains. It is the wakeup call of the rooster, the patience of the lizard, The quietness in existence. Happiness is a kitibu lightning bug that suddenly shoots up for the stars at night. It is the belly pain of laughter, the smell of shared cooking in the bush, the intimacy of these hills. Happiness is having the eyes to see all this, and a mind to over-stand (not under-stand!) its worth. Portland, Jamaica, 8 April 2015

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3. Happiness too Happiness is the morning sun through a kitchen door in the Jamaican mountains. It is the wakeup call of the rooster, the patience of the lizard, The quietness in existence. Happiness is a kitibu lightning bug that suddenly shoots up for the stars at night. It is the belly pain of laughter, the smell of shared cooking in the bush, the intimacy of these hills. Happiness is having the eyes to see all this, and a mind to over-stand (not under-stand!) its worth. Portland, Jamaica, 8 April 2015

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4. The older the moon, the brighter it shines Whine like a banana leaf in the breeze. Sing like a cricket in the night. Circle down from the sky like a John Crow. Glow as bright as a kitibu lightning bug. Move as swift as an anole lizard. Stand up tall like a grow stake bush. Humble yourself like a shame-me-darling leaf. Taste as sweet as Julie mango. Cross the road as fierce as a fowl. Behave as mysterious as a mongoose. Never be a rat that digs an ugly hole. Feel as soft to the touch as rain. Smell as potent as a ganja bud. Age as beautiful the moon. Portland, Jamaica, 28 March 2015

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4. The older the moon, the brighter it shines Whine like a banana leaf in the breeze. Sing like a cricket in the night. Circle down from the sky like a John Crow. Glow as bright as a kitibu lightning bug. Move as swift as an anole lizard. Stand up tall like a grow stake bush. Humble yourself like a shame-me-darling leaf. Taste as sweet as Julie mango. Cross the road as fierce as a fowl. Behave as mysterious as a mongoose. Never be a rat that digs an ugly hole. Feel as soft to the touch as rain. Smell as potent as a ganja bud. Age as beautiful the moon. Portland, Jamaica, 28 March 2015

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5. The poetry of living Too many people do not see enough beauty in their struggle, all they can talk about is where they not are, what they do not have, what is missing from their life. I say, what is missing from your life is you. You do not see the beauty of this morning, and how that is all the beauty you should treasure. Just look at that bird over there, sitting content in a tree. That bird should be your standard. Yes, but I am poor, you say. What kind of poverty, my friend? Did you have to go to the river to fetch water this morning? Did you have to barter for cooking oil, salt or soap? Did you have to watch your crops die because of a drought? Tell me again where you are that you should not be. Tell me why you should be happy first and able to love second. Tell me why you are not looking at that bird. Portland, Jamaica, 21 March 2015

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5. The poetry of living Too many people do not see enough beauty in their struggle, all they can talk about is where they not are, what they do not have, what is missing from their life. I say, what is missing from your life is you. You do not see the beauty of this morning, and how that is all the beauty you should treasure. Just look at that bird over there, sitting content in a tree. That bird should be your standard. Yes, but I am poor, you say. What kind of poverty, my friend? Did you have to go to the river to fetch water this morning? Did you have to barter for cooking oil, salt or soap? Did you have to watch your crops die because of a drought? Tell me again where you are that you should not be. Tell me why you should be happy first and able to love second. Tell me why you are not looking at that bird. Portland, Jamaica, 21 March 2015

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5. The poetry of living Too many people do not see enough beauty in their struggle, all they can talk about is where they not are, what they do not have, what is missing from their life. I say, what is missing from your life is you. You do not see the beauty of this morning, and how that is all the beauty you should treasure. Just look at that bird over there, sitting content in a tree. That bird should be your standard. Yes, but I am poor, you say. What kind of poverty, my friend? Did you have to go to the river to fetch water this morning? Did you have to barter for cooking oil, salt or soap? Did you have to watch your crops die because of a drought? Tell me again where you are that you should not be. Tell me why you should be happy first and able to love second. Tell me why you are not looking at that bird. Portland, Jamaica, 21 March 2015

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6. Now is eternity My heart has found a home That home is a whole forest, two mountains and a beach. I travel back and forth. I will not choose. That too, is a choice. I carry two breadfruits to the beach. As a child I ran away from home. My ticket to freedom was this recipe: Carry two apples in your hands. Run. Pick apples that are of a deep, deep green. That way you'll remember. I can’t leave the beach. The breadfruits are roasting. A swirl of smoke connects their sweating skins to the night. Mosquitoes dance around the shadow of a quiet bird. Now is eternity. Why should I leave? What else is there to see? What can possibly be less forgotten than this beauty? The beach is empty. All of humanity is too busy watching nature on TV. Kingston, Jamaica, 12 March 2015

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7. Stardust People always ask me where I'm from and I hesitate to answer. Why would it matter? I'm here now. What good is my whole goddamn history to you? Roots do not matter to the uprooted. My accent ties me to a GPS point. My cooking is of nations. My thoughts won't be boxed or explained away. My origin is the milky way. My destination undisclosed. My ashes will grow a tree. I will be gone before you get to know me. Kingston, Jamaica, 12 March 2015

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7. Stardust People always ask me where I'm from and I hesitate to answer. Why would it matter? I'm here now. What good is my whole goddamn history to you? Roots do not matter to the uprooted. My accent ties me to a GPS point. My cooking is of nations. My thoughts won't be boxed or explained away. My origin is the milky way. My destination undisclosed. My ashes will grow a tree. I will be gone before you get to know me. Kingston, Jamaica, 12 March 2015

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7. Stardust People always ask me where I'm from and I hesitate to answer. Why would it matter? I'm here now. What good is my whole goddamn history to you? Roots do not matter to the uprooted. My accent ties me to a GPS point. My cooking is of nations. My thoughts won't be boxed or explained away. My origin is the milky way. My destination undisclosed. My ashes will grow a tree. I will be gone before you get to know me. Kingston, Jamaica, 12 March 2015

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8. Bush girl How shall I name the unspeakable, that within me hides as a bird’s nest in my chest? And in that nest not an egg, but a caterpillar. Something beautiful will fly away from it one day, but until then. How shall I name the unimaginable? That which seeks music to hum, and in that music the rhyme and rhythm of ancient cultures, not mine. I am the forgotten child in the bush, the one that searched for meaning in the carvings of woodworms, roaming the land as an orphan citizen but always looking for the forgotten treasure left by the ones who once owned the land. How shall I name The treasure I never found? The wisdom I gathered while searching? The parts of my soul I left behind, Scattered over several nations? New York City, 7 December 2014

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9. “Wata” (Water) Women walking by, balancing empty water jars and laundry pon their hot and heavy heads, in search fi di shrinking river. Fi wash. Fi bathe. Fi drink. Fi cook. Fi survive. Fi stay alive. But then now, out of nothing, I swear, appears one man, pulling one dead dog, lying pon its side, it moves along in perfect stillness, in a perfect straight line. The dog’s warrior spirit no longer hides in its clouded eyes. They hold no lies. These are scorching hot days. The vegetables have shrunk to nothing, and jumped in price. One hundred Jamaican dollars for half a pound of tomatoes, to steam with a likkle cabbage and rice. While man laments for “di wata truck” with a hush and sighs. The hog tied to the bush turns its other cheek to the heavenly skies. Heat or no heat, out there in dem hills the horse and the heron stick together, the two a dem a pair so casually, waiting ever so patiently, for this endless drought to die. They need not know why.

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9. “Wata” (Water) Women walking by, balancing empty water jars and laundry pon their hot and heavy heads, in search fi di shrinking river. Fi wash. Fi bathe. Fi drink. Fi cook. Fi survive. Fi stay alive. But then now, out of nothing, I swear, appears one man, pulling one dead dog, lying pon its side, it moves along in perfect stillness, in a perfect straight line. The dog’s warrior spirit no longer hides in its clouded eyes. They hold no lies. These are scorching hot days. The vegetables have shrunk to nothing, and jumped in price. One hundred Jamaican dollars for half a pound of tomatoes, to steam with a likkle cabbage and rice. While man laments for “di wata truck” with a hush and sighs. The hog tied to the bush turns its other cheek to the heavenly skies. Heat or no heat, out there in dem hills the horse and the heron stick together, the two a dem a pair so casually, waiting ever so patiently, for this endless drought to die. They need not know why.

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This is no joke nor no brawta, everybody needs wata*. But we nah go beg you nun today, because that’s how we stay. Portland, Jamaica, 30 July 2014 "This is no joke nor no brawta / everybody needs wata" was contributed by Shanique Ferron, also known as "Grippy". “Fi survive / fi stay alive” was contributed by Edna Pearcy, better known as Juney. “This is no joke nor no brawta / everybody needs wata” was contributed by Shanique Ferron, also known as “Grippy”. “Fi survive / fi stay alive” was contributed by Edna Pearcy, better known as Juney.

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9. “Wata” (Water) Women walking by, balancing empty water jars and laundry pon their hot and heavy heads, in search fi di shrinking river. Fi wash. Fi bathe. Fi drink. Fi cook. Fi survive. Fi stay alive. But then now, out of nothing, I swear, appears one man, pulling one dead dog, lying pon its side, it moves along in perfect stillness, in a perfect straight line. The dog’s warrior spirit no longer hides in its clouded eyes. They hold no lies. These are scorching hot days. The vegetables have shrunk to nothing, and jumped in price. One hundred Jamaican dollars for half a pound of tomatoes, to steam with a likkle cabbage and rice. While man laments for “di wata truck” with a hush and sighs. The hog tied to the bush turns its other cheek to the heavenly skies. Heat or no heat, out there in dem hills the horse and the heron stick together, the two a dem a pair so casually, waiting ever so patiently, for this endless drought to die. They need not know why.

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10. Decisions Life is much like this: At a fork in the road you decide to find the three colored shack. You heard it is special. You crave special. There are many forks in the road. How to know this is the one? Be more specific. Is it the fork where they sell roasted peanuts? Yes. This is Jamaica. Everything here is a sign. The way the ackee tree sticks out from the yard has meaning, the landscape is filled with symbols: Up the hill, down another. reach the river, turn left, pass two mango trees, see an ackee tree. The shack will be there. You walk the road, doubts creep into your step. How long is up? how long is down? Where is that river? You passed five mango trees already. You ask a man for the road. He does not blink his eyes at your talk about ackee and mango trees. "Just walk with a clean heart”, he says. "The shack is in ghost town, The owner a trickster.” Soft giggling emerges from

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behind you. Two children walk in the shadow of your footsteps. The sun begins to set. You wander but no longer wonder. Not about the rabbit sleeping in the middle of the road, next to the dog and the goat. Not about the toothless man crocheting colorful T-shirts, who waves you over to sell one for 1000 JMD. You are lost and do not care. Then you see the shack: It has found you. Portland, Jamaica, 16 March 2015

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11. Just in case Someone once told me I don't believe in those things (brujería), but I'll pick it up with my left hand. Just in case. When I get home I'll smudge my room with sage (Salvia officinalis) to get out the stagnant thoughts, the old memories, Just in case. I'll throw body cleanser on the floor to wash away anything that lingers or sticks. Just in case. I'll carefully swipe away cobwebs, and dust the four corners to free up my mind. Just in case. I'll put parsley in water, Dry yellow flowers in a bowl, red rose petals on the table, to make sure the future looks bright. Just in case. Portland, Jamaica, 8 April 2015

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10. Decisions Life is much like this: At a fork in the road you decide to find the three colored shack. You heard it is special. You crave special. There are many forks in the road. How to know this is the one? Be more specific. Is it the fork where they sell roasted peanuts? Yes. This is Jamaica. Everything here is a sign. The way the ackee tree sticks out from the yard has meaning, the landscape is filled with symbols: Up the hill, down another. reach the river, turn left, pass two mango trees, see an ackee tree. The shack will be there. You walk the road, doubts creep into your step. How long is up? how long is down? Where is that river? You passed five mango trees already. You ask a man for the road. He does not blink his eyes at your talk about ackee and mango trees. "Just walk with a clean heart”, he says. "The shack is in ghost town, The owner a trickster.” Soft giggling emerges from

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behind you. Two children walk in the shadow of your footsteps. The sun begins to set. You wander but no longer wonder. Not about the rabbit sleeping in the middle of the road, next to the dog and the goat. Not about the toothless man crocheting colorful T-shirts, who waves you over to sell one for 1000 JMD. You are lost and do not care. Then you see the shack: It has found you. Portland, Jamaica, 16 March 2015

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11. Just in case Someone once told me I don't believe in those things (brujería), but I'll pick it up with my left hand. Just in case. When I get home I'll smudge my room with sage (Salvia officinalis) to get out the stagnant thoughts, the old memories, Just in case. I'll throw body cleanser on the floor to wash away anything that lingers or sticks. Just in case. I'll carefully swipe away cobwebs, and dust the four corners to free up my mind. Just in case. I'll put parsley in water, Dry yellow flowers in a bowl, red rose petals on the table, to make sure the future looks bright. Just in case. Portland, Jamaica, 8 April 2015

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11. Just in case Someone once told me I don't believe in those things (brujería), but I'll pick it up with my left hand. Just in case. When I get home I'll smudge my room with sage (Salvia officinalis) to get out the stagnant thoughts, the old memories, Just in case. I'll throw body cleanser on the floor to wash away anything that lingers or sticks. Just in case. I'll carefully swipe away cobwebs, and dust the four corners to free up my mind. Just in case. I'll put parsley in water, Dry yellow flowers in a bowl, red rose petals on the table, to make sure the future looks bright. Just in case. Portland, Jamaica, 8 April 2015

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12. Spider silk I wanna go with you to the meadow on the top of the hill, where the wild things thrive and thrill, where the owl hoots, the frightened lizard out of nowhere shoots, off to somewhere else, anywhere is good, we’ll live off the land, we’ll land on our feet, I know the roots to eat, and the exact number of crickets to count to fall asleep. We’ll abandon the car by the side of the road, I wanna walk with you until I can walk no more, farther and farther from the shore, up the hill to the summit where the stars will spill their light like an opera house, there I want to weave my home from threads of spider silk, stronger than concrete, shinier than gold, it will keep us warm from the cold. When winter descends to hang stubborn over the land, it will be tucked away in our hands, and melt into rivers to dabble in, I can’t wait for spring to bring a Monet of colors, all those little beautiful dots connecting the odds of happiness, so little is needed to love so much: Only one spider to learn how to weave. And some courage to hang onto its thread. New York City, 15 December 2014

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13. Religion I sit with the pig under a nutmeg tree, on a cool rock of limestone. I watch him eat from a cut up car tire, his snout searching the food relentlessly. Leftover rice and peas with coconut milk, now spoiled from yesterday's cooking. I contemplate my place in this picture, but my place does not matter. All the pig knows is that I brought food, that should be meaning enough for both of us. There are no mosquitoes under the nutmeg tree, it is almost a surprise to catch a break. Before I leave I kneel down to scratch the pig's belly, it rolls over from happiness. I realize this is as close as I get to religion. Portland, Jamaica, 31 August 2015

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13. Religion I sit with the pig under a nutmeg tree, on a cool rock of limestone. I watch him eat from a cut up car tire, his snout searching the food relentlessly. Leftover rice and peas with coconut milk, now spoiled from yesterday's cooking. I contemplate my place in this picture, but my place does not matter. All the pig knows is that I brought food, that should be meaning enough for both of us. There are no mosquitoes under the nutmeg tree, it is almost a surprise to catch a break. Before I leave I kneel down to scratch the pig's belly, it rolls over from happiness. I realize this is as close as I get to religion. Portland, Jamaica, 31 August 2015

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13. Religion I sit with the pig under a nutmeg tree, on a cool rock of limestone. I watch him eat from a cut up car tire, his snout searching the food relentlessly. Leftover rice and peas with coconut milk, now spoiled from yesterday's cooking. I contemplate my place in this picture, but my place does not matter. All the pig knows is that I brought food, that should be meaning enough for both of us. There are no mosquitoes under the nutmeg tree, it is almost a surprise to catch a break. Before I leave I kneel down to scratch the pig's belly, it rolls over from happiness. I realize this is as close as I get to religion. Portland, Jamaica, 31 August 2015

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14. Home I like to read a country as a book. The pages of Belgium make up a book of longing and belonging. The train I took drives through fields of sugar beets, corn and wheat, meadows that hold ten different shades of green, black and white cows juxtaposed with flaming red poppies. To come back is to know that the untamed in me will always recognize the elderberries blossoming by the railroad tracks, the places where wild things grow. This is the language of childhood, a book infused with memories of home-made mayonnaise and fries, of late afternoons with blackbirds, a contest in which every singer is a winner. These are images and sounds that make up their own language, noticed only by those who have left, but who still resist the idea of leaving. Brussels, Belgium, 16 June 2015

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15. Life Reality is a glass jar with a pretty pink ribbon. The rabbit living in your hat is a fantasy. Your tongue tells everyone who listens that the glass jar does not exist. Yet every day you pull a new white rabbit out of your hat. The glass jar explodes and throws Hopes, Dreams, Expectations as colored marbles in all directions. Yet you still stick with the white rabbit. The rabbit ends up in a stew. Children recycle the marbles to play a game. The pink ribbon is the only evidence left. New York City, 14 December 2014

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14. Home I like to read a country as a book. The pages of Belgium make up a book of longing and belonging. The train I took drives through fields of sugar beets, corn and wheat, meadows that hold ten different shades of green, black and white cows juxtaposed with flaming red poppies. To come back is to know that the untamed in me will always recognize the elderberries blossoming by the railroad tracks, the places where wild things grow. This is the language of childhood, a book infused with memories of home-made mayonnaise and fries, of late afternoons with blackbirds, a contest in which every singer is a winner. These are images and sounds that make up their own language, noticed only by those who have left, but who still resist the idea of leaving. Brussels, Belgium, 16 June 2015

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15. Life Reality is a glass jar with a pretty pink ribbon. The rabbit living in your hat is a fantasy. Your tongue tells everyone who listens that the glass jar does not exist. Yet every day you pull a new white rabbit out of your hat. The glass jar explodes and throws Hopes, Dreams, Expectations as colored marbles in all directions. Yet you still stick with the white rabbit. The rabbit ends up in a stew. Children recycle the marbles to play a game. The pink ribbon is the only evidence left. New York City, 14 December 2014

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15. Life Reality is a glass jar with a pretty pink ribbon. The rabbit living in your hat is a fantasy. Your tongue tells everyone who listens that the glass jar does not exist. Yet every day you pull a new white rabbit out of your hat. The glass jar explodes and throws Hopes, Dreams, Expectations as colored marbles in all directions. Yet you still stick with the white rabbit. The rabbit ends up in a stew. Children recycle the marbles to play a game. The pink ribbon is the only evidence left. New York City, 14 December 2014

100 copiesfront cover designed by Jef Geys

© Ina Vandebroek & keymouse editions - 2016