The night covered me with dreams and half conceived ideas that float behind the surface of my mind flexing like amoebas nearing fission.
November is the month of Independence, 41 years of self-government to celebrate and I have a yearning to move the subject matter right away from all the politics and posturing on budgetary plans that do not address the reality of high prices, value added tax and import duties that double and triple the price of books and magazines and encourages smuggling and pilfering or worse.
I will celebrate our artists, our musicians and our authors, our dancers in the street. I have reams of interviews to edit and assemble, carving lifetimes of dreams and aspirations down to half an hour while keeping all the spark of passion burning brightly in the passages and phrases that I keep.
Actually, I discard nothing except the stutters and the stammers and the hesitations that mar the flow of thought, communication and knowledge. I keep it all and use it more than once, on different days, in different hours presenting different facets of the journey, success, struggle, hardship, inspiration, each moment is a diamond in the rough making up the jewelled crown of someone's life and loves, their passions and their reason for existence.
I falter sometimes at the thought of what I owe these people. They have given me raw pieces of their soul and I must cherish and exalt them, give them back a tapestry that truly represents the depth and breadth and context of these souls; I make of them an artefact, an icon for the world to see and must avoid the slightest taint of bias, of stated judgment. I must let my own existence go and be impartial, and so the night fills me with dreams of boxes holding all the parts of me that I must put away.
I must do at least six impossible things today. I think I will have breakfast first.
Sausages squirm and squeak and skitter in the pan as though they are alive! My appetite has recovered from whatever virus laid it low yesterday and I am going for the 'big' breakfast I dreamed of on Saturday; but I am viewing the sausages in the pan with a degree of dismay completely divorced from cholesterol and fat.
I love lobster but only get the tails so I won't have to deal with them trying to escape their destiny as dinner; and I freely acknowledge my hypocrisy in eating meat, as if I had to kill it, butcher it, on a regular basis I would be a vegetarian. Although I have no problem gutting fish. I just prefer my food securely dead before I eat it. Or cook it.
No doubt it is trapped air under the skin that animates the sausages this way, I don't eat them often and cook them even less frequently so the phenomenon is new and unexpected. Maybe they aren't sausages at all.
They do, however, smell delicious and once paired with a perfect pink tinged egg and a sliced, sauteed tomato will be a satisfying start to my day which has no room for lunch, just a snack on the run between appointments.
Living breakfast will let me live my life at full power.
I frequently hesitate to blog when I am running on twenty four hours without sleep. Synapses crackle and sputter and feel functional but I suspect that it is a case of automatic pilot. Words churn and are excreted saying no more than the average clod of earth or less savoury matter.
Last night was a first, as I ran both stations live. The server went down beyond my ability to resurrect and restore automation and I thought there was something, I don't know, not quite right about calling someone out at three a.m when I was there and perfectly capable of putting the station back on air live.
I called the tech at sunrise, my eternal cue to head for home, and explained the server was down but the station was on air and I would leave a multi-artist CD running to keep it there until he could get there. It worked just fine but my grip on the moment is made tenuous by several hours of switching from secular to gospel and back, from low profile to energetic talk show.
Multi-tasking in multiple personalities with no sleep is an experience I shall hope to enjoy just once. Then I come home to find Furball has decided I am food. He apparently does not like the flavour of his dinner and, hungry, did his best to relieve me of a portion of my hand. He is back in solitary and I am grateful that my tetanus shots are up to date thanks to an evil dog.
The siren call of sleep is almost deafening at this point and I have appointments later in the day so goodnight and good morning to the world.
I thought I was running late this morning but my time sense is all shifted by the lack of light as clouds decorate the Bajan sky with all the colours of mourning, deep black to the most delicate dove grey. So here I am with time to play and words to fill it with.
I have become very attached to Furball, especially when he sinks his teeth into my wrist or the palm of my hand, not breaking skin, holding on with all four paws as though I am his last and greatest hope for...what? I don't know and his mouth is too full to tell me although there is still room for little squeaks and squawks of sound to escape around the corners of his jaws.
This morning I got worried. I had let him out of the bathroom and yet he wasn't chasing all my fingers on the keyboard, was not chewing on my foot or hooking needle claws into my back or leg as he scales the heights I represent to him.
No noise of china, crystal, metal falling in the background, no subtle whir as toilet paper leaves the roll at almost supersonic speeds. Panic whirled my head from side to side and then...there he was. Just sitting at the screened space in the door, staring out, such longing limned in every trembling muscle my eyes teared up. His little nose was pressed so close, the screen would make a waffle of it. He yearned to be OUTSIDE! And while he longed for larger freedoms my life returned to pre-Furball peace.
For almost ten minutes.
A few days ago I fled, there was an incredible build up of various stresses dealing with some health problems my mother was having; trying to 'manage' my announcer who is the sort of person who turns your words back on you so you begin to wonder just how much of a bad guy you've turned into.
Also one of those good news things that creates tremendous stress: I have been asked to redesign the studios and also design and develop a TV station to go with the two radio stations I manage and the TV end will be completely ' my ' baby, from choosing personnel and equipment to designing the programming.
I saw the space where construction will start next month. It's a fabulous challenge; it is also several things I have never done before and I will also need to learn about several new technologies as well because I have to look at HD and virtual and make equipment choices that are open ended so I can expand as I start bringing in revenue.
Then coming to the forums for some light hearted banter and amusement I walked into bitterness and sniping. I am responsible for my feelings and my mental well-being so I fled in self defense, to give things a chance to settle. In the meantime, I have regained some equilibrium in the other areas so I have ventured back to test the water.
Missed the place, the people. Missed writing every day. Missed the friends I have made 'cos I value them.
It will take me forever to catch up. Maybe I won't look back, just stay in the present.
The four legged whirlwind is still living in my apartment. He has grown, and gazes speculatively at me from his bright blue eyes, tinged at the center with green, as an idle paw toys with the battery he has somehow extracted from the camera.
He has learned to open doors. Those doors with latches too strong for tiny paws are battered by a not much larger body being hurled against them, often in the depths of the night waking me to lie disoriented, suspecting burglars where there is only a cat.
He has learned that the large white box in the kitchen hides food. Frequently chicken, for which he will run up my body and shove a paw between my lips if I don't put down knife and fork quickly enough. His reflexes are amazing, much faster than mine and mealtimes for me have become times of solitary confinement for him. I could starve.
I watched him, laughing silently, shimmy up the edge of the refrigerator door as though he were climbing a coconut tree, then cling with three paws while the fourth tried its darnedest to insinuate itself between the body and the door to crack this huge nut filled with dreams of poultry or maybe fish.
I frequently encounter him at eye level, mouth wide and pink, legs splayed to grab, tail puffed up like a bottle brush, and if he misses his target (me, and not often) he gazes up from those planning eyes with just the slightest wrinkle, like a frown, between them. How did she do that, I see him wonder.
I caught myself thinking over the weekend whether he could learn to make himself scarce when the landlord is around, hush his yowling for attention, food, a mother who will bowl him over so his muscles grow all strong and catlike.
I am not allowed to have a pet here. Against the rules. Hate rules sometimes.
The drive to and from work is a mine of tiny miracles as long as I keep my eyes open. Not just 'on the road ahead' open, but bringing attention to the drive, where I am and what is around me. I can keep my eyes on the road ahead and still see the brilliant colours in the garden coming up ahead.
The windmill, body only, sails long gone, a cone of weathered stone that sits side by side with a magnificent mahogany tree right in the middle of a field. Mahogany trees are protected by law and may not be cut without permission which gifts me with this charming view of what was and what still is.
We still have lots of history here. Old cannon sit on rocks facing the sea, guards against freebooters and invaders alike in times gone by. There are ruins and restored buildings, modern housing and the stately great houses of the plantation era all here, each taking their place in history, society.
And I live here! How cool is that
The new blog format I mean, especially the preview feature and ability to post images. And I can underline stuff! and use italics or bold font , there is a colour option also but I musn't get too carried away.Or should I????I think indigo is a lovely colour but who knows how legible it is?
Right. I will settle down now.
Thank you for new toys CS!
Feeling crochety and grumpy on a Friday morning because I am awake. The telephone rang at 6:45 a.m. and Fridays I do my best to sleep until at least 2:00 p.m. otherwise I fade, losing energy in the far reaches of the night, at 3:00 a.m. tomorrow morning when my audience expects me to be happy happy joy joy full of energy and conversation to while away the hours of their darkness.
Usually I remember to turn off the bell, avoiding other peoples' lack of thought. Just because you are awake does not mean the world is there with you! Except by prearrangement I never call before eight in the morning, and usually wait until later still. Mornings are full of rush and bustle, making breakfast, getting children off to school, walking dogs and feeding cats, all manner of occupation in the pre-work preparation for the day.
So here I sit, awake and yawning after just three hours sleep and no guarantee that my light-filled eyes will close or even drowse again because somewhere in me is the little engine that says it is day. We must be up and at 'em. Things to do! You are awake! Run errands, wash the floor, the car, the clothes. At least take out the garbage and then make pancakes rich with eggs and milk to drown in golden syrup touched with just a splash of lime.
So easy to lose control of all the senses when the rhythm carefully created over the last five months is interrupted by the thoughtless belling of a phone. I think I was polite - I usually am by training which stands me in good stead when all my reactions are on automatic - when I said call me later, I am still abed. But manners did not help me still the racing heartbeat fuelled by adrenaline that pumped in answer to the ringing tone that split the air.
Oh well, I played with Furball who's ecstatically still here; grown some, but not enough to suit the shelter. This week I'll take him for his shots and have him wormed and all those things I'd do if he was mine to cherish and to house forever. He tries to eat my toes and fingers while I fill his plate and bounces all around, presenting sideways to look big and tough. Such a little ball of fluff to have such impact on a heart.
Maybe melted cheese on toast would be good for breakfast. Or steak and eggs - oh gods I have not had red meat in six weeks and miss it more than ever I missed a lover for all that I love eating seafood. In truth, all the care I have taken with my diet over the last six weeks, all the supplements I have taken, all the water, all the rest I have have filled my life with, all the bread and yeast I have not eaten and I feel no different.
No less weary, not an ounce lighter in spirit or in weight. Indeed the only change I notice is my joints ache more, my fingers cramping on the keyboard, knees popping very loudly if I bend to rescue something from the resident whirlwind as it passes.
Think I'll go back to my usual patterns as a major change has made no difference that helps. And now I shall find work to move the whole body through space and exercise the muscles hoping for a tip from tired to exhausted and from there to sleep until it is time to start my day, tonight.
to go to work. The music is picked and programmed into the system; reviews are written and Furball is playing with a pencil on the floor. The night drive is the part I like the least. Street lights are few and far between and most of those that are don't work consistently out in the country.
Drivers here are careless with their headlights, all mis-aligned and kept on bright for the most part. At least tonight it is not raining which adds to the challenges. Construction continues and holes merely filled with marl wash out becoming potholes reinforced with iron bars after a heavy rain. This time of year most of our rains are heavy, if brief. Clogged waterways bring quick flash mini floods that scour the road, remaking the landscape in an instant.
I may have had dinner a tad too early so I'll be ravenous by three. There is an eerie quality padding around a building after the witching hour, before the dawn, taking care of humdrum things like hunger or a full bladder, those things we humans must address whenever they arise.
I could be totally alone in the world, sealed into my studio with outside noise buffered; only the ringing in my ears and the squeak of the chair to punctuate my voice as I send it out to whom? I know there are listeners. They write to me. Yet in the dark, suspended from midnight till dawn I am not sure they are there. Still I talk to them because that is my purpose on Friday nights, Saturday mornings, to offer company, conversation and, of course, music to anyone who will listen.
Furball really likes his litterbox. He likes it so much that he climbs in and pats the litter gently, drawing delicate little designs in the suface of the tumbled clay.First one paw then the other - he seems to be quite ambidextrous although he tends to favour the left paw when smacking my hand - one paw then the other.
I can hear him through the door, chirping and scraping, a thoughtful, questioning little mew and then a clash and a clatter overlaid with the hiss of falling gravel counterpointed with the shoosh shoosh as both paws become frenzied, scooping with wild abandon, digging to China perhaps or just in decorator mode again.
I have this book called 'why cats paint' and apparently there are those who pay top dollar for feline art work. Furball has already given me two murals, one in left over food and one in processed food. This maybe a cry for help, a need for materials to express himself. Too bad I was so short sighted and erased them, they might have been worth millions!
This weekend I shall give him paper - or maybe bristol board as it is more durable - and my finger paints and see what paws can do in colour. He himself came out reasonably well in a couple of the pictures I managed to capture. Furball is revealed on my profile page for those who care to put features to the hero of my tales.
The other thing about the litter box: he has discovered that he can make withdrawals from his deposit account and use these desiccated little pellets like marbles just small enough to be pushed under the door, lined up like paving stones along the edge.
Either art, interior decorating or perhaps landscape gardening. Or saboteur. The cat has talent!
For all you Furball fans (all three of you!) he has taken to pushing notes requesting rescue under the bathroom door.
I have tried to get a mug shot or two and ended up with dubious portraits of my knee, my foot, a shelf, a box and an expanse of floor. Now the camera is missing so I have no doubt that Furball prefers to remain anonycat. If I ever find the camera again I shall put him on my bed and tuck in the mosquito net firmly and see if that keeps him in one place long enough for pixels to be captured.
He grows apace. By some quirk his voice gets larger even as he does. The walls reverberate with his rude remarks on people who keep him incarcerated when he could be bouncing off a much wider variety of walls. He is also a first class con artist and has perfected the 'Oh please help me I have gotten myself into dreadful trouble' cry, a yowl that trails off into a weakened whimper and then ends with an ominous silence that goes on and on and on until I go to the door and open it only to be spun in place like a top by the rush of air that sweeps by me and out into the body of the apartment.
All this and he is still only a little bigger than the palm of my hand.
At least he really likes his litter box.
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