art vs. the guyanese maternal police

No matter how I try to get lots of work done, people, joy, and glitches get in the way.  On Tuesday, my determined efforts to finish a chunk of my thesis proposal met a formidable opponent: Karl Kulle.   The Iwokrama office closes at 5pm, so if I need to use wireless internet on my netbook in the evening, I go to Herdmanston Lodge, the delightful hotel run by my hosts’ daughter, Dee, and tuck myself away on a breezy veranda.  Dee offered me a ride home, but then got delayed.  Then as we were heading out, she introduced me to a guest, Karl, she had mentioned because of his interest in art, music, and Earth.  Over an hour later, we escaped the benevolent and fascinating vortex that is Karl and his Spanish traveling companions, and I was reprimanded by both Auntie Edna AND her sister when I finally got home because they had been worried about me.  It was like being 16 again and coming home after curfew.

The Guyanese Maternal Police cracked down again the next morning, when I was sent back to iron my capris because they looked “all crushy”.  A certain beloved Guyanese woman I lost this summer probably wouldn’t have let me out of the house looking like that, either.

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