A Gutsy Gal & A Dog Named Venezuela

Somewhere during the night I may have morphed into a gutsy gal. Sometimes, I feel young, old; like a father, like a mother; reflective, oblivious; wear split skirts, chaps; and climb on the back of the woman next door, who sadly doesn't share my fondness for adventure and outdoor exercise.

I've been arrested twice: once for overworking her, and once for forcing her to eat pecan pie. I remember promising her unlimited freedom, and a proper deworming schedule. Thankfully, my tame wooing made her blush, and the moon quickly waned. Her husband, a blank toxic man, in possession of a body built solely to store air, is besotted by daffodils, lupins, hollyhocks, and his collection of corridor lights. A bald-headed man, he wears a goatee beard to hide the fact he has one leg.

Once he asked me a strange question, “If someone asked you to look out of your window in the middle of the night, would you do it?!” I realized I was in the presence of a madman. A madman with a shotgun. A madman with a shotgun and cartridges.

'CAN'T YOU HEAR?! Would you look at cars, people, houses, the horizon?! Damn you ... Would you ... ?!' My mouth and throat became dry. He took hold of my arm with his leg and cried, 'I've burned boats in my time! Thousands of them! And leave my Daisy alone!' As he walked off he shouted, 'It's getting dark and I've still to climb the church tower! The lighting isn't right for sniping, I tell you. Damn it!'

Daisy was once rich and possessor of a fine coloratura soprano voice; unfortunately it belonged to her brother. The naked truth was discovered one night when Daisy fell asleep (along with most of the audience) as she attempted an aria from The Magic Flute. As she snoozed it was discovered that her prodigious mouth housed a sizable family of illegal immigrants disguised as cows. 

*

My friend, Rada, who is from Bosnia and Herzegovina, has a French bulldog named Venezuela originally from Belgium. The dog barks in five languages: Serbian, Croatian, French, Dutch, and German. I believe Venezuela is presently reading Hungarian with a doctorate in mind. My intuition tells me the dog is slightly disturbed regarding its family history, and has no means of communicating its anguish to human beings.

Some days I watch the dog board the bus on its way to visit the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA) to view works by the Belgian artist, René Magritte. A particular favourite, The Menaced Assassin, tends to remind Venezuela of his home in Brussels. He pins posters of the work on trees in our district, usually as dusk is falling. Then he sits gazing at the picture weary of his aging, burdensome exile. He never complains, but I can tell he despises his fate.

Once I witnessed Venezuela drunk, wearing a t-shirt and blue velvet jeans. He had shaved his head, and was ranting about his tax affairs. Rada, a gravedigger, who reeks of decay, is unworthy of such an elegant, lucid, and gentle animal.

*

Reflections:: Some people say they write, play a musical instrument, paint, act in the theater. However, it is not the fact they do these things, it's how they write, play, paint, act, that matters. Is it inspired by the soul, the heart, or is it practical, sober, and devoid of spirit?

Sleepwalking in Manhattan - Chapter 1

I checked my appearance in Kiehl’s Pharmacy Store window on Third Avenue. Average height, average weight, average looks—everything average. You see people like me everywhere—whether it’s London, Paris, or Madrid—if you take time to look.

Natalie was late. We met yesterday for the first time. She was just another pretty girl walking down Fifth Avenue. Our eyes didn’t connect until she dropped a glove. I called after her, waving the glove in the air. She thanked me with a shadow of a smile and resumed walking. I ran after her, and she laughed when I said I was new in the city. 

I asked bluntly if she was free tonight. Perhaps to Natalie it was my illusionary arrogance, but she stopped and looked at me from head to toe. She became prettier by the minute. She had never considered doing such a thing before, though said it might be pleasurable.

Walking away she said, ‘Eight O’clock at Pear Tree Corner. If you want to meet me you’ll find it.’

A thin breeze and a twinkle of neon helped relieve my tension as I stood outside the store. I had given up hope when a hand suddenly gripped my wrist ushering me along the street.

'Just follow me.' It was Natalie, the voice and fragrance were unmistakable.

'What’s going on? Why the dark glasses ... The headscarf?!' I found her demeanour unsettling.

'I think I’m being followed. Just trust me.' I looked around and saw what appeared to be a caravan of Japanese sightseers armed with a million cameras. 'Japanese?!'

'No!' she responded. 'I’ll explain when we get to proper surroundings.'

As we turned the corner Natalie hailed a taxi. Soon it was speeding towards the city centre.

'Why the disguise?'

When she turned towards me some of the apprehensions about the situation disappeared, her eyes sparkled.

'What’s your name anyway?' she smiled.

'Conrad ... ' I stuttered.

She held out her right hand and we shook hands briefly. 'Well, Conrad, it’s good to meet you. I don’t normally talk to strange men in the street, but I made an exception in your case for some strange reason. I admired your style. Hope my intuition dosen't let me down,' she winked. 'Where are you from?'

'Back there,' I replied, nodding towards Pear Tree Corner.

'Are you for real?' she laughed, looking at my face. 'I guess you are. You’re sitting right beside me.'

The sky was darkening, streaked with scarlet clouds. She asked the taxi driver to pull over. Natalie paid our entrance fee into a small gloomy cinema. Several people were watching an old movie.

'This is my favourite film. I’ve seen it a thousand times. The Maltese Falcon with Humphrey Bogart. Try to chill out.' She took my right hand and caressed it. 'You’re too uptight.' Natalie resumed watching the screen. 'Sydney Greenstreet as "Kasper Gutman" has some great lines in this film. Anyway, if anyone should be worried, it should be me,' she half-smiled.

'I thought we were on a date?'

'We are. I want to discuss a proposition. This place is as good as any.” Even in the dark I could see her soft wavy hair, full crimson lips and bask in her fragrance.

She resumed watching the screen. Now and then she would glance at me and extend a wink.

'Why me?'

'I don’t like Prima Donnas. Tall pretty boys with strong chins. Always someone telling them how great they are. Anyway, you can’t tell someone’s good just by looking at their face, can you?' she said, producing a playful laugh.

Natalie returned to the film. 'This is my favourite part. Listen and watch closely. Amazing dialogue.'

I watched Natalie as she mimed in unison with the film. “Well, sir, here’s to plain speaking and clear understanding. You’re a close-mouthed man? - I like to talk - I’m a man who likes talking to a man who likes to talk.”

She turned and winked. It worked every single time. Even though I felt things could descend into a kaleidoscopic nightmare at any moment, I was, for now, mesmerised.

To be continued . . .?

Reflections: Everyone needs dreams. Some men love soft delicate dreams and soft delicate woman. A lady of my acquaintance loves a man she believes does not dream. Yet jealousy of his thoughts keep her awake. He is a master of deception. Her virtue, wise or unwise, lies in her performance.

Headline: Heavy Cold Sweeping the Country

Today I'm sick, My head feels like it's made of wood. My temperature is leaping about on the roof of a neighbour's car. I'm surrounded by a faint injured air. Have I a cold, a heavy cold, or a very heavy cold? I'll weight it later when I'm feeling better.

The headlines in the morning newspaper confirm a "heavy cold" is sweeping the country. Surely that's a job for Council personnel? I was considering embracing a tin of meat for comfort when Doctor Wobbleski strutted into my bedroom. As I was downstairs in my living room I found his behaviour outrageous.

He had brought his three-pointed black and white beard which looked ridiculous hanging out of his trouser pocket. He uttered unspeakable words: 'You scum!' I stayed silent. While I have the gift of the gab I'm damned if I'm giving it back. I resumed listening to myself growing old. I glanced at Doctor Wobbleski. He looks like a man who works hard all day, but has nothing to show for it. His jacket is shapeless and baggy: in league with his face.

'Well, doctor,' I said, in a polite murmur. 'What do you think?' He seemed indecisive, scratched himself, ignored me, and attended to the "faint injured air"! Suddenly, I remembered why I dislike people who smell of carbolic acid. I began to howl but the doctor told me to be quiet. My anxiety for my health persisted. Meanwhile, the doctor made vague promises he would tend to me shortly. I watched as he grunted like a pig while examining the faint injured air.

'I'm at a loss, ' he said. 'Of course, I don't know what's going on inside . . . No, indeed . . . But you look in terrible shape . . . It has been a cold winter. I do believe you've caught a dreadful cold. I'll give you something for the cough.' The injured air had another coughing fit. The doctor enlightened the injured air of the benefits of a refreshing trip to the seaside, or to a quiet corner of a park. He felt it would help its mood, ease its headaches. He further prescribed excitement, music, curiosity, a change in diet and whistling.

Just as I felt all was lost Doctor Wobbleski approached me. He felt my pulse, listened to the blood racing through my body, then shook his head. I sat motionless, anxious, covered in dandruff. 'You're in a dreadful state. You smell like a mouldy rope, and worst, look like one. Do you want my advice?' he said, clearly intent in getting out of my house as quickly as possible. 'You've lost your spirit. First of all, take that cigar out of your left nostril, your glasses out of your mouth, and your false teeth out of your ears. Get out of bed, shave, and kiss the first women you meet outside who is blessed with full pale thighs. Get a job that doesn't involve work, and remember: It may be foggy, but it's not raining. Whatever the hell that means!'

After Doctor Wobbleski left I put on an extra layer of clothing and jumped into a warm scented bath. I lit a cigar and dozed with Pleasure, a young lady friend, who rinsed my back with her soft hands. I believe it was her hands. I could be mistaken, of course.

*

Reflections: Some people, places and things, once important, lose their impact on us over time. Loss of colour and ambivalence, speed their demise, and our conviction towards them. Something to be celebrated, surely.

Why the Silence?

I profess to ignorance, stupidity, to wear a mask that sometimes slips and to be the owner of a small mind: not a large mind, a little mind. I tend to jump to conclusions about issues happening all over our dear planet. Test me on any subject. I know human existence is stressful, just pick any subject. Any subject at all ... Tomorrow? Well, if you wish.

Why the silence? No doubt you're right. I've no patience. My little mind is spluttering thinking of all the questions one can be asked. Some people appear to be blessed with a big mind; one that belonged to a pretentious charlatan and now belongs to them.

Is there an excuse for the above paragraph? Well, yes. The exact issues and journalistic reports are immaterial, and this personal view is not directed at authentic, serious, accomplished journalists and politicians.

This is what happened today. I listened to journalists and politicians on the television and radio, and evidently some believe their thinking and utterances are of special importance. Indeed, superior and of greater significance to that of doctors, psychologists, scientists, artists and philosophers. Indeed, any other human being on this planet.

Give them any subject: the economy, health, accountability, finance, morality, the role of men and woman in society and culture, motherhood, careers, education, prosperity, advertising, mental health, infidelity, how to raise healthy children, religion, automatic washers and driers, gourmet cooking, frozen dinners, interior decorating, fashion, political and social events, flight attendants, dieting, sex, childcare, shipbuilding, pregnancy, fertility, ad infinitum. Then listen and watch as they speak and write with a 'drainpipe mentality'.

However, their depth of thought and insight into certain issues may be patently shallow, and subsequently their words highlight their ignorance, and unsavory ability to jump to conclusions on complex matters without access to the full facts. It's a patent challenge to listen to their unenlightening, unintelligible, and absurd rantings.

Of course, the full picture behind the story will emerge, and the newspaper, magazine, and television editors, and staff, can celebrate their role in presenting, not only the telling details, but the dirt dug up to dupe readers into believing it is in their interest and is necessary to provide a full and accurate picture of the issue.

Life is difficult enough without listening to people talking and writing about other peoples lives, problems, burdens, as if they, alone, possess a unique insight. Inept journalists and politicians should leave people to confront and solve their own painful problems. As we should do ours. Are human beings condemned to torture each other, emotionally and psychologically, for ever?

Hopefully, daylight will arrive soon and shine light on these motionless, standing, robotic creatures. No-one is totally innocent of anything. A lesson some journalists and politicians have still to learn.

*

Reflection: By appearance solitude does not deserve praise. However, gazing into empty space has its reward - sometimes you may find something of value.

My Mother's Mince Pies

Matilda (Tilly) Kerrigan

Christmas reminds me of my mother's mince pies. She used to throw them at me as dusk was falling and shout, 'Get a bloody job and don't come back until you've got one.' Then she would slam the front door. The fact that I was eight years old never entered, what I believe, was an irrational mind. I remember sitting for several hours in a snowdrift listening to the church bells ringing in the distance. I wondered what would be in my brown parcel on Christmas Day. I'd swear and curse if it was mincemeat again.

My elder brother always received the best present: a wooden train set, a plastic trumpet, or a Cowboy Annual. Who in their right mind gives a son mincemeat? My sister once got a wig. It's not like she was bald or anything. And it looked just like a cat's hairball.

My mother often sent me away with 'cold ironic words', for example: 'Bonehead!' 'Don't forget to write!' 'Who's got the I.Q. of a deranged cabbage?!' I believe my mother may have been struck on the head with a heavy object when she was young or had lived too long with archaic furniture. She once made me sit in our dustbin for three hours because I said Grandmother smelled funny. I've fond memories of Christmas, especially Christmas Eve, when I was allowed into the house to sleep in a warm bed.

I have no photographs of my mother during that time but I recall that she resembled Santa Claus to a degree: black hooded eyes full of resentment, a pale face, long hair and white scraggly beard (she made a point of not shaving at Christmas). As she served us our Christmas meal (spam and eggs) she smoked a cigar and downed shots of whiskey.

After the meal had been consumed my father would twist his vocal chords in a vain attempt to sing a carol while we clenched our teeth waiting for its painful demise. I believe it's the only time we felt like a 'real' family. The radio would be switched on and tuned to some station broadcasting dour music that left anyone breathing gasping for breath. As the radio crackled my father would exchange his normal attire for women's clothes. He would make a short speech about Santa being bi-sexual, tri-sexual or something, and imitate our next-door neighbours who, at this juncture, would usually be glaring through our front window.

The brown parcels containing presents would be handed out by my father, still in drag. I remember feeling faint with rage. A bloody hamburger! I threw the uncooked meat in the direction of my father's new dress, cursed and sweared, and ran out into the cold damp air.

I ran, then walked with half-closed eyes waiting for my heart to beat in time with the falling snowflakes. I was a kid, small, with a curious imagination. I could sense that more magical moments, unexpected sights, and wonders lay up ahead for me. First, I had to lose the baby face, the bony spectacles, and avoid becoming a crack addict. The world was spread out like the sun, ready for the taking.

* 

Reflections: The street outside my house is covered in snow. The wind is bitter and the absence of pedestrians and children is proof of severe weather conditions. One of the great things about Christmas is that you can relax with family, relatives and friends and just be yourself. There is no one to impress. Time to put away the mask. It's a relief to see the faces of the people you love, or to hear their voices on the telephone.

All relationships endure conflict at some stage. Hopefully there is enough love, courage, strength and understanding to ensure it does not persist a lifetime. No minute, hour, or day of the year exists without someone, somewhere, on this earth thinking about a beloved partner, family member, relative or friend (they though indestructible) who has become ill, or died. Then one's worst fears are realized.

Enjoy those times when the gentle wind blows and life tastes warm, refreshing, better. And the sound of laughter fills the air.

Dedicated to the memory of my mother Tilly Kerrigan (1926 - 2004)

Uncle Hoppy's New Partner

Uncle Hoppy's New Partner

I come from a respectable, humble family. My father is a great game hunter. One memorable afternoon he found a complete Scrabble Deluxe crossword game, a Snakes and Ladders game board, and three dancing dice doing the Tango on a transatlantic cruise. He's an excellent horseman and swimmer. Unfortunately, this has resulted in the death of six horses due to their failure to execute the butterfly stroke successfully, or to understand the meaning of the 'prone position.'

My father is tall, attractive, full of vitality, and is at one with nature. His empathy with birds borders on the remarkable. In fact, he flies south each fall with a flock of warblers he counts as dear friends. Ladies are irresistibly drawn to my father. At least fifty-three people in our town bear a striking resemblance to him, right down to the 'mark of the beast' on their forehead. 

Everyone within a family, of course, likes to score points, and 'family feuds' provide an emotional battleground par excellence. Children must compete with each other for their parents' attention, and it is well known within the domesticated fowl community that pecking order shapes one's personality. One room is too limited to contain the egos of a father, mother, brother, sister, a Red Junglefowl, and antique vanity furniture. With the wealthy, the feud may be about property, inheritance, and money. Those with little, or no, money, are infatuated with who gets the last chocolate digestive biscuit?

Anyway, one afternoon my Uncle Hoppy - who was born with grey hair, and always wears black (even while bathing) - arrived at our home. His hobbies include singing female arias from operas inside a vacuum cleaner, and disguising himself as Portland Place in London. Lately, for some extravagant reason, an American bison accompanies Hoppy everywhere he travels. He treats the bison like a partner, or mistress, and takes her on romantic outings. To the bison, I imagine, it is love without responsibility.

The trouble started when Hoppy's wife discovered the bison was pregnant. Uncle Hoppy was adamant that while he did not love the bison, he had at last met a creature he could truly connect with; someone to hug, kiss, and who conversed with conviction about their commitment to individual liberty.

The incident caused a feud within the family, as expected. Some family members seethed with rage, some wept, some played Russian roulette with six rounds in their six-shot revolvers, and some bitterly quarreled about the consequences for the 'good' family name. Others' sat exhausted by laughter. Yes, laughter. Previous feuds were brought up, and dissected like raw meat. Some family members ran out of the house, took to the air, and have not been heard of since.

A month later, Hoppy phoned me. His voice sounded weary, but he was happy. The bison and Hoppy were living in a one-room apartment in Marseille. The bison was taking dancing lessons. He added that the bison wished to become a ballet dancer after the birth. I wished them well. What does it matter, after all, as long as they are happy. Their passion will weary, as passion does. No-one wishes an affair to end in failure, however, except the cold of heart. And the injured party, of course.

*

Reflections: True love is noticing a lover's wandering eye and smiling; or counting the number of blackheads on their face, and still wishing to engage in meaningful conversation. Moreover, nodding your head in agreement, even when you don't understand a single word they are saying.

Sometimes love is looking and remaining silent.