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I am a free spirit
Beautiful and loving
Emanating light.
In my eagerness
For her to see it
I stumble and fall
Extinguishing my light
Renting my gowns
Tarnishing my beauty
And so she sees
My eagerness as desperation
My love as fear
I become less than I am
And she sees the sadness
With which this false image fills me
But I am a free spirit
Beautiful and loving
Emanating light
She will see it
Or not, of her own accord
In time
She is breathing. I know this from the barely perceptible rhythmic raising and falling of her stomach. I still have my hand tightly on the doorknob. I linger in the doorway, marvelling at this little body, the wisps of hair moving in the breeze from the fan, the sheer improbability of anyone being able to sleep in that position. She is half on her back, with both arms stretched out behind her. Her head is tilted backwards too, at almost ninety degrees. One leg is stretched out straight; the other comically hangs over the railing of the bed. And yet she looks at peace; she looks more comfortable that I can ever remember being. There’s a multi-coloured stuffed elephant behind her, its trunk loosely grasped in her fingers. I move closer, conscious of the noise I make in doing so. Her open mouth quivers, her fingers clench on the elephant trunk, eliciting a crackling noise from the filling designed to do just that. I freeze. Too late. One foot kicks free of the bed railing and the other stretches theatrically. She turns her head minutely and opens one eye. She sees me and smiles widely before holding out one hand. Something inside me melts.
1. When was the last time you laughed uncontrollably?
Uncontrollably is rare. Out loud is rare, actually, too. My last bout of uncontrollable laughter would probably have been Monty Python related, and a while ago, at that. A well-timed ‘You lucky bastard’ can still have me in stitches.
2. What did you do during the ten minutes you spent before you started to read these questions?
I put my daughter to bed – it’s four in the afternoon and she’s crying as a prelude to sleep. I’ve set the table for tonight, as three friends are coming over to eat. There may not be time to do it later, with my acupuncture, the baby’s bath and some tidying up all competing for my attention. I’ve been trying to get connected to check my email, but this time of the afternoon is always slow…
3. Describe your favourite flower without using colour words.
Velvety. Redolent of summer rains. Glistening. Tall and alluring.
4. When were the last occasions you sent and received flowers?
Sent – to a friend I visited recently who was recovering from a minor motorbike accident. I took breakfast, too. Received – almost certainly from my wife, but when? This year, but I can’t recall the occasion. It probably wasn’t an occasion.
5. What was your worst recurring childhood dream? Do you ever still get it, or reflections of it?
I would have a recurring dream when I was ill, particularly feverish. I had it all through my childhood and teenage years. It wasn’t so much events, as strong and disturbing contrasts of size, shape and texture. As I closed my eyes, it overtook me, and I became part of the experiences, losing myself to them. There was always a voice, a monotone man’s voice, which for some reason terrified me the most. The last time I had it was a few years ago, when I was suffering from Dengue Fever. Not to be recommended, by the way.
Photograph from 'Pattaya Off' - Juliette De SalleI witness your illusions of celebration
Passing through, detached
Discarded stools at infinite bars
Alcohol drowning spirits
I am saddened
The harsh reality of daylight
Penetrates your façade
Sickens me
I seek out signs of joy
Hoping to be wrong
Hoping that some spark of happiness
Triumphed here
But I find only remnants of loneliness
A waste of time
The masks of contentment have been shed
The pretension to delight and exhilaration
Revealed for what they are
Ethereal, unattainable
Empty promises now pathetic
I witness only the degradation of humanity
No shout or scream
Can give meaning to this nauseating madness
I’m lost and afraid.
Nothing more strongly arouses our disgust than cannibalism, yet we make the same impression on Buddhists and vegetarians, for we feed on babies, though not our own.
Robert Louis Stevenson
Tongue - a variety of meat, rarely served because it clearly crosses the line between a cut of beef and a piece of a dead cow.
Bob Ekstrom
"What I think about vivisection is that if people admit that they have the right to take or endanger the life of living beings for the benefit of many, there will be no limit to their cruelty.""If a group of beings from another planet were to land on Earth -- beings who considered themselves as superior to you as you feel yourself to be to other animals -- would you concede them the rights over you that you assume over other animals?"
George Bernard Shaw, playwright, Nobel Prize 1925
The Monkey is the most versatile sign of the Chinese zodiac. Such people are often inventors, plotters, entertainers and the creative geniuses behind anything ingenious, including mischief. They have natural quick-wittedness which enables them to understand what is happening and then make a right decision. Even during a conversation a person born in this year is aware of what is going on around him/her, and then makes a mental note of who said what and stores it away for future reference. In general, with their agile minds and multiple talents, monkey types can master any subject. They are reliable and honest people so that any secret is safe in their hands. These people are also honest in their dealings and are very good at problem-solving: knowing how to listen closely and work out solutions at the same time.
“I’ve locked your tummy with my magic key, mummy,” Tien announced to her mother one morning, “so the baby can’t come out.” So simple. The pink plastic key hung from her neck on a white ribbon. It, and the treasure chest it opened, had been a birthday gift the day before from Mamy Ngoc. Reincarnating Ngoc in this way had been Hung’s idea, a typical deference to his daughter’s fantasies; Huong herself disapproved. Tien then skipped off happily downstairs to where breakfast awaited. Problem solved.
Huong marvelled, nonetheless, at her daughter’s ingenuity. Such intelligence, such vitality: wasted in a girl. She put her hands to her stomach, the fluttering movements inside reminding her of the subject of Tien’s early morning announcement. As suddenly as it had come, her good humour left her. She turned to the shrine at the top of the stairs, lighting a handful of incense sticks as she did so, and prayed briefly once more, “Please, a boy this time.”
Ngoc’s sombre but sympathetic shake of the head, so near, yet so very far away, translated as a barely discernible waft of smoke from the incense burning on the alter, but Huong had already turned away.
- I'm aiming for completion by September 2009.
