I’m Alice

I fell down a rabbit hole a year and a half ago. All that I thought would be a constant for many more years was taken away . I decided to travel and have adventures because my mom was a shy traveller . My relatives have always been superstitious and restricting. They were kill joy types, pushing church and obeah in one breathe. They manipulated their version of love to obtain control. My mother was raised in this environment with a mother and a father and many siblings. She was in some ways a Cinderella .

About 7 years ago , she had a health scare . She was in the UK for holiday and fell ill . When she spoke to her sister, who is suppose to be able to see the future, she told my mom it was witchcraft. She told her that being far from them had brought on the respiratory problems. She didnt express loving concern about my mom just DOOM. After these words of damanation, my mom went to hospital. The doctors discovered she was highly allergic to the pollen. Case Closed.

I think about this moment because it’s when arrived my Fuck all attitude on who makes a family and how I want to live. I had been cleaning up my house and discovered a very old journal of a 10yrs old me. She wrote with big loopy cursive letters, stylish capitals “T, S, F and Z.” ….( she loved making the Z’s). This little person was a part of a reading club; Book IT.

BookIT was a program that encouraged reading with a reward system. Lil me was already an accomplished reader so it was super easy. I surpassed the amount each month earning stuff and food. Being a Caribbean child in “foreign” USA; we didn’t trust nor eat fast food. If it wasn’t cooked in an island home of association then it wasn’t good. Anyway, I earned a pizza at PizzaHut. I had convinced my mom that we should try it. I had never tasted a pizza before so I was impressed( I was 10! , it seemed good at the time).

I took a bite , liked it and asked the guy who worked there , where did this come from? “Italy”, he said smiling. I ate my pizza looked at my mom and told her I will one day go to the land of the people who make pizza. She smiled showing her big pearly whites. Never did I think I would be living in that land of Regina Margherita for almost 5 years now.

I remember buying the ticket for an European tour after being pissed at my boss. My mom and I spoke a bit about me leaving to do life abroad since all the future held for us was DOOM. She was scared for me and yet was proud that I did it. I wanted to break this mentality of what we can and cannot do.

She was the reason I really left. I wanted to live for her when she was unable to because of work. She was getting ready to retire two yrs ago. She made the transition from Head Nurse to Retired Mom when she got sick. We did what could be done. It was strong, it was mysterious and doctors were baffled. It wasn’t until the end they figured it out. Cancer stole her retirement. Cancer stole my Home. Cancer took my mom away .

I miss her.

I am currently climbing out of the rabbit hole. I pause at times to grasp the reality that life is continuing regardless. When I say the word home, it feels hollow. I feel truly nomadic now. I am from the West Indies, I have the DNA of a stolen people, the soul of night women , a heritage rich in color, food, music, sexuality , supersition and pride…..and some how I feel homeless.

Now who will say things like ” Who will be Diego?, We’re both ladies”.

“Nothing is worth more than laughter. It is strength to laugh and to abandon oneself, to be light. Tragedy is the most ridiculous thing.”~Frida Kahlo

The noisy man

He wakes always before the dawn yet never tries to embrace it. He keeps his home dark, shutters closed, blinds drawn, it’s a bit musky even. On rare  summer days flickers of light find their way in through the cracks. He wakes  up early yet doesn’t move. Instead he listens for the first sound of life with in the building.

He lives in a 11 story building on the fourth floor in a up and coming area. His mother, God rest her soul lived on the third floor. He used to check on her at time, regardless if her caregiver was running late or not , it was his mother; he missed her. He  had retired ten years ago and yet he still woke up  before the dawn. He would lay there with no where to go , at least in his opinion.

Once he heard the first patter of feet from the floor above he would begin his grumble  and rants of  porca miseria . His voice was quite deep, attention grabbing even, yet he barely spoke about anything substantial. At times , he could be heard by the couple upstairs cursing about random things they did like mop the floor to breathing. He had sonic ears they thought.

Soon there was the sound of the dog’s paws tapping on the floor above , probably following its owner around the house.  Shortly after began the cry of a baby, not loud just enough to get it’s mothers attention. He wondered if it was a boy or a girl then thought who cares it’s noisy. He hated the sounds of the living -even his own.

He was a Roman, in Rome yet he had no family. He was a product of a one child household, with limited cousins  and now ,in some ways, he was  an orphan on pension , who grumbled  about everything. He didn’t do much with his freedom,  he felt he was too old to go anywhere.  ZZZRRRRRRR went the blender,  the family upstairs is having breakfast, he could hear the sounds of an active kitchen. He could picture them , at the table -together.

He wondered if he had ever  married  or had a girlfriend  would  life be okay. She  would bring me a caffè in bed, he thought, one less activity for me to do . Then he thought about all the noise she would make all the time, the activities she would want to do, the time he would have to spend being with another and realised he was better off alone.

After a few  minutes he could hear the buses passing on the street below and cars making their way to and fro.  He got ready for the day. He put on the outfit he had been wearing for most of the month ; black pants , white undershirt, long shelve grey shirt with a collar, his jacket and his cap. It was still clean, he barely did anything to cause a sweat. Even in the heat of summer he wore a jacket -still no sweat.

He was off to begin his day.  As he waited for the elevator he wondered ,why does the elevator have to make noise. He sees the  family walking down the stairs , “Buon Giorno,” they say, he  would responded back  just  a bit under his breathe. No one really holds conversation with me , he thought.

In fact no one did. All he ever did was explain how dark and dismal the world was. He complained about his first world problem of being tired. When people recommended spending time by the sea or going on a holiday he rebuffed them. He would explain how traumatic it would turn out by the sea or on a holiday-  to empathise his plight he was only lacking violins in the background.

Once downstairs he spoke a bit to the doorman, a fella around his age yet still working, still traveling and indulging in hobbies. The doorman  was also an odd man,  had a  hot and cold  personality as if he menstruated daily ( he’s a story for another day) . Once out the building into the hustle and bustle , he turned right and walked less than  10 meters (32 steps) to  the bar, where he would get his breakfast of a cornetto and second caffè and would spend his entire day talking with the other elderly guys until lunch time about the crisis in Italy.

After lunch he  would return to the bar and have a drink , begin again a discussion about the same subject that they have been discussing for the past 10 years ;the crisis. As the night engulfs the day he would head back upstairs.  Enter his home, turn on the light in the corridor and sigh. He  had a tough day.

He makes his supper , turns on the TV yet it watches him. Instead, he listens to the noises upstairs. The sound of the dog following his owner , the shuffle of feet , the faint sound of voices, laughter, the cry of a baby, the sound of the elevator being called to another floor, the noise of the street as the night life begins, the creaks of the day settling in for the night. He listens, he hates it. Yet without it he is alone.

Rambling IV

The writer who never writes can never  be complete.  I  have no idea if someone has said this but it came to me .  I have been getting opportunities to really be a writer , at least a solid novice writer and  I am scared  so  I  either procrastinate on purpose or  is there  more to my fear of writing ?

I have never learned how to type properly despite it probably being a simple practice yet I find my fingers going all over the qwerty working and some how making the brainwaves that are my words into reality.  Go Brain!

The world is strange and unusual. I find myself lost in a relationship and with friends and yet  I am so happy about these moments I forget to document them the same way I documented my misery.  Thankfully I  have photos yet what is the sense that the emotion that gives me pain I remember yet the simple , chill moments I always wanted -I  ignore or barely give a moment to reflect. I am Twisted !

this ramble is complete …  sort of

Winging It

I have been silent.   I have  been living like an extrovert and it has had a toll on me. Much has happened yet it feels so minuscule in the grand scheme of things. 

I left Italy. So I thought. I quit my job packed my things and came back to America. Only to have remorse. I wasn’t super upset just afraid of how I would manage in a country I haven’t lived and work in 2 years .  I started writing a plan of what my possibilities could be…..however travel is a part of me. 

I decided to work in South Korea. I ordered what documents I needed and apostilled everything. I just needed hand written  reference letters -sounds easy and yet slow. I was ready mentally to take the leap. I passed all the requirements and interviews so far. I started reading up on the lifestyle and culture of the country. I started following bloggers full of experience there. I was ready  just needed the letters from my last employer. 

I received one reference by snail mail, the other two would have to come from Italy.   No problem, I thought . I knew I was returning to Italy for the last of my things..  yet they are now my new starter kit. 

I know that my ex -boss doesn’t move st a useful pace.  I figured I would have to physically pick  up the letters.  I called her and made the arrangements. Everything   seemed on track. 

My ex -boss decided she wouldn’t honor the request for reference at the last minute whether out of sheer laziness or selfishness I cannot say.  She left me hanging which halted the possibility of working in Asia for now. 

All of these events happened literally two days after returning to Italy.   I was nervous about what to do next. Then it happened..friends came to my rescue; people I have met and bonded with over the past two years. They helped me brainstorm, gave me room and board and helped me find employment while I tried to figure out my next course of action. 

I can go back to Usa and create a life and I probably will when the time is right.  I don’t know if its just fate or my selfish desire to be in Europe.   I just know I am here-in Rome Italy , once again. Romeing the streets ,  drinking the vino, fighting with the metro, kissing a Roman, working a stereotypical expat job all while sipping on a caffè macchiato. The only question is where will I grow from here?

I spy

At Termini  station in Rome I just came off the metro and made my way to the ground level when a skinny, tall, lanky, big eyed Italian approached me. This guy -Fabio looked like Ichabod Crane Disney version not Johnny Depp. He asked me if i was a model. I told him nope just a Jamaican.  I continued to walk and he continued to talk to me. He asked me about Jamaica.

Side Note: Many Italians have no clue where Jamaica is. They do know where Dominican Republic , Brasil and Cuba are located , however for other reasons that I will share on another occasion. Anyway this is how the conversation usually goes except in an Italian accent.

Italian person named Fabio: Where are you from?

Me: Jamaica

Fabio: Jamaica! I love Jamaica

Me: Cool!

 Fabio: Where is Jamaica?

Imagine having this same conversation for six months. I decided to have a file saved on my phone and did the quick spread sheet  with a map , showing location, population, food, flag, where I am from exactly , agriculture .etc.

So after I get the routine   out of  the way, he told me he had been to England and saw  the Caribbean carnival  and thought it was wonderful! He was there learning English and asked if I could have a coffee with him.  So I did. We sat up stairs where there is a lovely view of train schedules and Armani ads.  I got a cappuccino and I sat and enjoyed it slowly. Fabio asked me many questions about Jamaica and the Unites States and I gave him answers to the best of my ability.

Then we came to the occupation part. He asked me what I do, I told him: an educator. I asked him the same : private investigator. Now the conversation became interesting. So I asked what type of cases he gets. Fabio said sometimes criminal and most of the time infidelity. Oh Italia! He told me this is where the big bucks are, watching  cheating spouses and naughty girlfriends and boyfriends. Apparently, money is no object when it’s about following a cheating lover. He told  he once followed a “subject” to this station and boarded a Trenitalia train to Salerno without a ticket. He had to hide most of the trip in the restroom to avoid the train agents.  I asked was it worth it? He told me yes she went to see her lover and spent the weekend.

Then to really get me going he told me he was following a “subject ” who was to arrive at the station for a 1:20 pm train. I said okay , well good luck. Then he went there….do you want to watch me work. I said no. He began to be persistent and pushy.

Why youdon’t want to wait with me ?  You have a boyfriend ?

 I said yes , he is from Napoli.

I learned that mentioning a boyfriend from Campagna region especially  Napoli makes unwanted advances diminish.  My friend’s nonna from Napoli taught me this. She said if a man is a man he will not be afraid of strong man from Naples.

Poor Naples has the worst reputation for no reason. It’s an older city. Some say the first state of Italy. It has it problems but so does NYC; people still live there.  Anyway when I tell people from the north of Italy I am going to Napoli the reaction is something like this…” You be careful there, people die there. Because only bad people live there. et …YES! people do say this.

Back to Fabio. Fabio’s big  eyes got quite bigger then he asked is  he is a very jealous man then?

Yes , I say VERY. You know how they are.

After these words left my lips , Fabio decided to leave me be. I thanked him for the coffee and continued on my way. I did look over my shoulder just in case he was following me…after all he is a detective.



I ‘m dabbling with writing. I made a vision chart before arriving in Italy 2 years ago. My goals are to be a photographer, a painter, a yogi, a lover and a writer.

So this is me writing…


Aero woke from his nightmare, sweaty and thirsty. He wanted to pretend that it was not the same nightmare that had been haunting him for months. He shook of the feeling and wanted to quench his thirst with a glass of water that he usually keeps on his bedside table. The glass was not there. He thought his mind was playing tricks on him. He was absent minded; however when your parents were psychoanalysis thought retention was learned before the alphabets. I did put a glass of water here, where did it go, he thought.


He slowly sighed, and figured he would go to the bathroom for some water. He swung his feet off the bed only to feel a strong tingle in his feet traveling up his spine and ringing in his head. He didn’t drink that much last night; he was the designated driver. He took baby steps with his hands outstretched heading to the bathroom adjusting his eyes to the darkness  while shaking the sleep off his legs.


The bathroom was filthy; he hadn’t done laundry in weeks. He maneuvered to the sink only to realize the faucet wasn’t working. “Great! this moment is really getting annoying. He contemplated going back to bed; however the thirst was overpowering him. His nightmares always drained him. The only consistent memory involved a crow cawing and flying around his head. He needed water; he sighed and headed to the kitchen.


The kitchen was downstairs. The steps were very old and wooden that exploded with noise with each toe touch. This house has been in his family for years, every inch reminded him of his parents and Jess; he painfully missed them. He always felt guilt for their death; if only I wasn’t abroad this summer I could have stopped what happened. He saw it in his sleep for weeks. His nightmares were not really nightmares but premonitions; he took them lightly back then. If only he understood then what he did now, if only.


The kitchen was very modern; his dad had made many upgrades to it. All his friends said it was pretty cool, in fact there’s an appliance attached to the sink that turned tap water into carbonate water all from an app.  He felt tears filling his eyes when he turned on the lights. The table was still set just the way his mother loved it. He touched the 4 piece setting like fine silk, chasing memories of all of them together in this very room. How Jess would put baby carrots in her nose and scare mom. He wanted his family back. His hangover began to throb in his temples and the cawing became louder, the room began to spin.

He fainted. He felt something gently scraping at his face; it was Pluto their tiger cat meowing. He sat up and pulled Pluto close to him, stroking his head. Aero felt the thirst again, stronger even. He stood up and got a glass of water while holding Pluto. Once he gulped the last drop he realized Pluto shouldn’t be at home but in a cage at the veterinarian since two days ago for quarantine. Then what am I holding; he thought. He slowly looked down.


It Happens

When you are heart broken does it make sense to continue wailing. Months pass,  days, hours and minutes and yet nothing will truly stop the heartbreak.
When the wall of emotions has been penetrated and the idea of “together has been reached. The invader plants his flag of victory only to run away. To become complicated when in truth there’s nothing to complicate.
The captive feels betrayed. You let him in and he saw the truth of you.  Was it too intense, too naive, too freeing?? Regardless, the end happened. 
So, why carry the grief into the next life?  Happy moments are not emphasize like the disasters of life. Acknowledge the situation and let it be free. Time reveals and the captive is no longer a captive. The captive is free again.
Not many people get this chance to be free again. To soar with the eagles . To oversea the world once more.
It’s tragic yet hold the beauty of what was , acknowledge the ending for what it truly means and soar.



He is looking at models on his phone. He is laying beside me and looking. He looks at them like a computer. He looks at everything -calculated and precise. He gives little room for errror. He looks and looks and then he finds the one. The perfect match.

She is a model, 23 yrs old. She has sun-kissed brown skin like me. She has his tired eyes, my nose,  his forehead and my almond shape face. She is tall and thin like him.

He turns to me, smiles and says this is her.

Who is she?

A model.

I hope you are not asking to look like her because it’s not happening. Plus I can’t grow any taller.

Lol, no fattylicious….she is what are kid would look like..

How long have you been thinking of this?

A while now. It’s a fixation.

In so many ways my workaholic boyfriend says the things I need to hear. He knows all. He is a computer of a man. Luckily, he has humour or we would have faded.

Yet, he is a workaholic. He lives for his first born-his company. I think of what kind of life we have and it’s really warm. However, there are many faint days because his work takes him away so much.

I wonder if I would take our story for granted or he me. I wonder if we can have a family. I wonder what he will think of my little lost family. I have no “dowry” of sorts.  I am a screwup.

He is flawed too, however in an over perfectionist A -type manner. He comes from comfort and unumeral resources. He has it good and he works to keep it so.
I am thinking of my financial woes, student loans and my credit card debt. My ADD way of changing occupation as my mood changes.
My family is broken on a personal level, yet they are mine. I love them. Could he?
Would his mother love me? After all, he’s her baby. Her only family, more or less.

I ask him, how would we survive?

Easy …don’t ever let go.


Her sister’s words rang through her that morning straight into the next day. Pregnant. So final and real. She always knew that it would happen. She just never prepared herself for that/this moment. It was here. It was happening. A baby.  

It is not the first time she felt shone up by her little sister nor would it be the last.  Her sister , despite exhausting problems, always received. It never failed. Fate was never for her but her sister. She wanted a family, a partner, children, to be in love instead she was dealing with her father’s lack of interest, poor choices and lack of options with boyfriends, and the curse that her granny told her; ”  children love you thus you will never have your own”.   Overall, the short end of the stick.

On many occasions she pushed forward and others she hid in her shell. She felt forgotten and undesirable. They say what you feel is what you call into your atmosphere. In truth despite of what you feel life makes you what you shall be. In her case, her current and continuous mood was hunger.

She hungered by the minute. She hungered to be in love , to be noticed, to be taken seriously, to have an easy day, to finally step out of level 1 and into level 2,3,4. She hungered to plant roots, have a dog or two, to be somewhere and know it’s her home.

It was an obsession,  a fantasy with no reality….a constant letdown. At times she thought she made it only to be again on level one. Even her hair would tease her. She really wants big curly hair. She  craves hair that could be wild and free yet tame-ish and elegant.

She wants to win.

Her career has finally shown potential yet there is a major hurdle preventing the moment of exhale. She thinks of how she would finally buy a house  with this exhale.  Get a dog, and shop with a truth. She thinks of how her life would improve at least financially. She hopes and is afraid. She feels sick often thinking of this.

She is getting older and worries about her eggs. Could she every make a child. Another being with ten finger and ten toes, a face that may resemble her own . She wonders if there would ever be love in her life. A partner of pleasure and friendship. A co-conspirator in this constant world wind called life. Would the fates ever allow. Would God ever have mercy on her?  She wonders these things daily. They are an obsession.

She is going to be an aunt.


Foolish Daughter

How can I be so powerful yet so dependent on the affections of a man? How is it so? What is the curse that I “believe ” in what he thinks, feels, and understands … he is just a man. What is the curse that I take so much more meaning of his feeling towards me, that have some how overrided MY feeling and attitude about me.

How can this be? My body can carry life, harbour it until it is ready to leave the shore. I am the power, the nature, the nurture, the magic. I am so lost on this constant cycle I experience , as well, women I know.

He is not all, yet I make him so.

I am still the little girl waitng for her daddy to really fight for her.  He never did nor will he. He is content in his  inadquate space in my life. He is not trying to be more. He never tried. I know daddy issues are my key problem. I know he never was a fighter. He was never a brave man.

My dad  just exist.

I see this reflected in my relationships. I want bravery. The little girl in me knows her dad is not a defender yet she keeps hoping. The woman in me pushes on and yet is still holding hands with the little girl ..waiting to see.  If maybe.

In all the debacle, the mother is left holding the world in one hand and her children in the other. The children , especially the eldest, me. I take for granted so much of what she did and does because I was waiting on my dad, to be brave.

I neglected the true warrior. The bravest, boldest, gentliest human ever-my mother. The true life force. I kept looking past her and not at her. I was and am  a foolish daughter.

I am lucky .  My mother is still alive. I am given time to rectify the misguidance of my younger self. Hopefully, it  will start to reflect in my relationships.

I love both my parents. But I am in love with my mother.