I have not written much about Furball of late as the signs are strong that I will not be able to keep him here. My landlord is so anti pets in general and cats in particular that none of my pleas or arguments are having a softening effect, although I have a 'stay' over Christmas.
Anyway, today Furball caught his first mouse! He is currently tossing it from paw to paw and growling at all the other cats who have come to watch his achievement. Most days I let him out first thing in the morning because he has made friends among the strays that visit me for food and is learning to be a cat from them; they don't seem to mind how rough he plays and my lack of fur was making me way too vulnerable to flashing slashing claws when he chose to wrestle with my foot...or arm....or neck (I have finally managed to discourage his conviction that I am just a mobile tree and meant to be climbed).
Although this is a well built up residential area there are stretches of uncultivated uncontrolled land offering habitats to monkeys, large and small frogs and mice.
He is growing into a sleek streamlined mouse killer and he seems well versed in the art of 'terrify the little thing to tenderise it' then ignore it for a while to see if it still runs. I once had a cat who would "lose" a mouse by sitting on it, then shoot up in vertical delight when she 'found' it again!
I have not been able to bribe, beg, bully any of my friends and acquaintances into taking Furball home and my hope that he would blend in with the other strays was a little dashed when I was standing in the courtyard talking to the landlord and Furball ran out of the shrubs, up my body, to perch upon my shoulder.
It made it a little difficult to pretend that this happy, purring kitkat on my shoulder was not connected to me a little more deeply than a stray I feed occasionally.
Life has its ups and downs, and Furball has come a long way from the wet, muddy, scrap of misery I rescued from abandonment. I have faith that somehow something will work out. It is, after all, the season for miracles.
When the music is playing neither my mind or body have any awareness of the years they have been around. Movement starts, it flows up and down muscles that retain their memory of every step from every stage, every dance floor.
All the tensions of stress drain away to be replaced by tensions of attitude and line, the exacting control learned through years of sweat and occasionally blood as feet and flesh proved fragile under the pressures demanded of them.
My spine bends, curves, folds and unfolds while knees and hips forget the language of arthritis in the eternal song of movement. Sweat flows free, salting skin as it flexes and shifts over muscle, over bone, holding everything together in an elegant sheath heating as blood rises to the surface to fuel the dance, the joy and exaltation of freedom that music gives my system.
Where do the years go? Where are the limitations that tug at me from time to time? They do not exist in muscle memory, they do not hold up under the intoxication of the dance and my mind takes flight when music plays making me a sensation that fulfils itself without thought or consideration.
Half an hour, an hour later I am still, heart throbbing gently in its cage, lungs breathing from the bottom to the top, skin heated, making gooseflesh under the lesser warmth of December wind.
Ah and the endorphins kicking in! My whole being bathing in the drugs metabolism makes to encourage and reward mere movement.
Life is so sweet!
I am pretty sure that it was not only my grandmother who would say "you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar" - indeed I suspect that was a special wise comment school that was required for all grandmothers to be so they could teach the next generation how to function and play well with others.
Unfortunately that school appears to have been destroyed and people walk around with bottles of vinegar or lemon juice, I swear some carry sulphuric acid, but never a drop of honey to be seen.
It is endemic, but especially noticeable at this time of year when every advertisement is pushing brotherly love and buy big presents for togetherness. People are just plain nasty to each other.
And for what? On those occasions when I let my standards slip and say or write something less than courteous to another it doesn't make me feel good. Does not make me glow with well being. Does not change any of the situations in my life for the better. On the contrary.
Of course I may be doing it totally wrong. I read entire threads (well, I skim them) where the OP's only purpose appears to be to insult and offend the highest possible number of people. I read posts where people actually boast about their rudeness and unpleasantness. I see snide remarks dropped into pleasant threads like cankers and when I check the poster's profile they describe themselves as "friendly", and "enjoying people"... perhaps with barbecue sauce?
I am so far away from most of the people here that it is unlikely that I will make a match, so despite the romantic curled up in a corner of my soul who believes anything is possible I am basically here to play in the forums and the blogs.
I have to wonder about those who claim they want to connect yet flounce and fuss, spraying vinegar and venom...why would anybody want to take them home? Or even meet them for an evening on the town? Do they see the contradictions they present?
Perhaps not, perhaps there was no one to tell them how to put their best foot forward, and help them find that best to present in the first place. Sad world where peace and good will, something we all hold within, are the rarest and most costly commodities on the planet.
Sometimes it is not about falling in love or being in love, not about having a lover either but about looking around and recognising love when it is offered.
A kind word or a smile may not feel like romance but they are love. People speaking out on your behalf is not the breathless rush of passion but a warm sweep of blanket wrapping you in the best of things, the caring touch of love from one being to another.
Last night I received a metaphorical slap in the face and was swamped with an outpouring of gentleness and caring that made my eyes prick with tears.
I am not a particularly talkative creature, I observe, I listen and weave what I have noticed into tapestries of words, the only way I know to let you see me down to the bone because whatever else I write about, there is always a sliver of my soul wrapped in the words I play with.
I do not know you, may never meet you face to face, but in my way I love you and I tell you so.
Thank you to my fellow beings at CS.
I very rarely venture into waters flavoured by politics or religion because those are two elements that turn the most enlightened into ravening dog packs for no apparent reason.
The fine art of debate is always lost under a rant of personalities and feelings and where is the fun in that? I once engaged in debate with a Jesuit and an Anglican bishop over tea (and sherry and single malt scotch) about God. It was an hour or two of deep conversation, impassioned diatribes and vividly evocative language with not one insult or note of condecension.
Two weeks later I ran into the Jesuit (not literally) in town and he shook my hand and said my case for God being a woman had a great deal of merit and he had been thinking about my argument and discussing it with his colleagues.
I was aghast. Devastated. At a loss. A serious breakthrough for feminists and I had forgotten the arguments I used. Sometimes there is a reason to hold on to things for longer than a moment
And shall we weave our magic here?
Bespell with words all painting pictures,
carving gentle bas relief against the sky
with cloud trail telling secrets?
Our souls are full,
would speak to fill the world
with words uncluttered
by the hearts and flowers
stopping up our mouths
would sing the harmony of love
so pure, so stripped
down to the bone
it shines with eldritch fire,
could start a conflagration
right across the world,
touched to the fuse of hope
for peace if we could let our souls
sing for a minute.
I don't usually post the same thing in both the forums and the blogs, but there seems to be a little trend here for verse at the moment and I felt like joining in.
Besides, the only thoughts in my head now the poem is out are exploring Christmas cake recipes and other things I am working on for the station's December programming. Then there is the part of the brain cooking up ideas for Valentine's Day and Easter so I have proposals for the sales team to take to advertisers in the first week of the new year. Multi tasking multi personalities is what I feel like right now
So many ways to connect and yet remain totally isolated. And the eerie knowledge that my words, my thoughts will continue bouncing around in cyber space for as long as the internet exists.
I have achieved a form of immortality after all. Something I considered lost when I passed on having children. My line stops with me although branches of it continue through my sisters' children and grandchildren.
I shall continue to exist in bits and pieces, snippets of thought, slices of opinion and the occasional chunk of poetry ad infinitum or ad nauseam depending on one's taste and point of view.
Too bad I have not had many thoughts today besides getting the laundry done and cleaning out the cat box. There's a prospect for eternity...a scatter of cat litter across the continuum of existence.
It's all too Monty Python at times!
Weeks building up to it. Sleepless nights, strained eyes and ears from paying close attention, doing research, making interviews that started out an hour, maybe more into neat packages of thirty minutes, five minute previews and the single sentence teaser all wrapped and packaged with a splash of music. introduction and an extro giving credit making sure the names that must be named are known.
All leading up to one bright burst of a day, our independence, begun at midnight flowering through the day and by the time I get back to the station and switch on my mic for tonight's six hours it will all be over and I will be frosting the world with the first taste of Christmas. (Silver bells for Jesse high on the list of songs I'll play.)
I have eaten, dreamed and lived independence for weeks, and it is over for another year. I've given birth and have no baby for my arms to shape around. Am emptied without a haven to refill from because I am already moving to the next demand of New Year's Eve (we call it Old year's Night) and other new beginnings that must be promo'd, marketed and handled right.
Ah well, come back to the moment girl and think about the ways of Christmas shopping, choosing gifts that do not break the bank and packaging that does not pollute or waste. The need for peace and patience as we scurry helter skelter through what could be a time of love and has become a time of cash and grab and carry, overeating over drinking, sad excess that does not take the moment for a human touch, a gentle smile, a wave, a little sentence full of love on paper shaped into a plane.
Come back to this moment and practice hard to stay there in the glorious gift of the present, the only time there is.
Literally. Just after three today, while I was sitting having a vegetable roti in my favorite beach side restaurant in Speightstown, I thought the chair I was sitting in was collapsing. Then I realised that everyone around me was swaying and the streets outside were rapidly filling with very distressed people. Earthquake!
I collected myself together and went to stand in a doorway, keeping a close eye on the sea and calculating how long it would take me to get to my car and head for higher ground if the sea started to recede, signalling the build up of a major wave. Well, the roti was really good and I wanted to finish it, plus I hadn't paid my bill yet.
Subjectively the rocking and rolling of the land went on for a lot longer than the 15 seconds reported in subsequent newscasts, and it may in fact, have been longer on the coast than inland. The epicenter was over by Martinique some 90 miles deep and made 7 plus on the Richter scale so not a totally insignificant 'quake.
We have an active underwater volcano known as Kickin' Jenny somewhere out by St. Lucia, where there was a tremor yesterday as well, so of course my mind is creating a scenario where the volcano may blow to add its fireworks to our Independence celebrations tomorrow.
Barbados is singularly blessed, no direct hit from a hurricane since Janet in '55 and no seismic activity since '47 when there was a minor shake up.
Power is going on and off intermittently so my show tonight may be accompanied by moments of interest and apparently traffic has become an instant nightmare as people start rushing home to see if there is any damage done to their property. Although reports say just one building under construction collapsed (cutting corners perhaps?) and there have been no reports of injuries.
That's my fourth earthquake. One in Trinidad, two in NY and now one here. And I am quite happy with that total.
Really.
I have earned my tired today. I'm just about to close down for the night but need to unwind the day I have spooled up in my head. I think I have actually done almost everything in preparation for Independence Day.
Got together about eighty songs by local performers/musicians; reviewed six books by local authors, edited three interviews down to half hours and spliced in music, commercials and themes, and created a series of Bajan Spirit quotes and affirmations from local artists and wrote three jingles for rotation through the day.
I need to put a music bed on a couple of things but I'll do that in the studio tomorrow after that as long as I make sure I have milk and bread in the house as the stores will be closed...well I will be good to go.
Furball has been out playing (torturing) with his new buddy most of the day and is actually tired himself. He must be, there is no cat sitting on my arm or shoulder swiping at my fingers as I type. And despite the fogging last week, there seem to be a lot of mosquitos around. Someone probaby has a paint can or something full of standing water for them to breed in. I forgot to check around the back when I did my post rain patrol after the last bout of watery weather.
Just hope the two that bit me - now dead - were harbouring neither malaria or dengue. Dengue really sucks and I don't want it again.
Time for bed and sleep, tomorrow will be a day for last minute changes and disasters and we need to get the commercial spots in and all that oh so neat stuff that is part of running a station. I need another me. Or another someone who can at least do the rough edits so I'm spending three or four hours on production rather than on clean up. But it's okay, I'm just needing to eat something and sleep and I will be absolutely fine! Truly righteous! Love it.
I haven't thought of winter in the northern sense for two years. Why would I? I sit in sunshine and rain with an ambient temperature of 28 celsius (82 F) in a country where most people put on a sweater if the temperature drops by ten to fifteen degrees.
I don't miss the dark of winter, we have that to a much lesser extent here but when the sun sets at five thirty in the evening, light hangs in the sky for our twilight and dawn at six comes into a sky that has been showing pale for half an hour at least.
In Brooklyn, as here, my apartment faced both east and west through the main windows and every year I watched the sun travel left to right across the window, having to move my usual breakfast seat by November to escape the glare that pierced my eyes.
Although I loved the colours of the fall. I have colour here in plenty. Bougainvillia crowds next to hibiscus and this time of year Ixora flowers boldly red against the whites of snow-on-the-mountain and poinsettia takes its place in the Christmas line up, flowering in salmon, red and gold. Jacob's Coat, a coleus, sheds shades of purples, brown and gold, while crotons blaze with every colour nature has to hand it seems, a silent symphony that feeds the senses to repletion very quickly.
I had a thought of winter, that stealthy quiet tinkle that hushes the night and keeps it coldly warm and still. Snowfall, not blizzard, just determined snowfall coming down with its exuberant crystalline song that harmonizes with the tinnitus that fills my head in varying degrees yet not so loud that I can't hear one snowflake landing on another, music of the spheres come down to earth.
I loved to walk in fresh fallen snow, out early before the world was moving, and I would create puzzles for anyone who took the time to notice - most likely no one- of footprints that disappeared or seemed to walk through trees and mailboxes without a pause, continuing on the other side, and while the snow was clean I would make an angel on every block then stumble, damp and freezing into the diner for breakfast backed with lots of coffee for the heat to thaw my hands.
Fresh snow always brought smiles to peoples' faces. For a little while. The best thought of winter.
I woke at 5:30 a.m. and smiled because I was in bed, not sitting in a building all alone, behind a microphone struggling through another forty-five minutes until sunrise set me free.
I woke again at six and smiled because I was not cleaning up the debris of my coffee cups and fuel from the night then splashing water on face and wrists, rimming each nostril with essential oil of peppermint to kick the brain into a state to make the morning after drive home safe for me and others.
I woke at last at eight and smiled and stretched because for the first time in six months a Saturday is mine to live through rather than to sleep through and there are places I can go today that will not be available tomorrow or next week, only today. And I can be there if I choose, without a struggle to collect my weary senses into a cohesive unit of a human being.
I love doing my show but it has stretched from five hours to six as sunrise moves further away with the shrinking of the year and the other six days of the week are filled with things that must be done as commerce kicks in to Christmas gear. Work loads treble on the two of us who are there to do it.
Burnout tastes like bleeding gums, feels like the scrape of chalk on blackboard and I made a choice to put myself first this weekend, to take the days to rebuild the energies I spend so freely, especially as I will do two overnights this week, our Independence day and first day of Christmas month back to back midnight till morning and then I will take hiatus till the New Year. Because I need to.
Man, I must be growing up!
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