Love Lines

Message in a bottle?

February 12, 2009

Elizabeth Barrett Browning is probably best known for her question “How do I love thee?”

In her poem, she mentioned words that bring to mind a gamut of sensations and emotions – breadth, height, reach, soul, tears, sight, passion, grief, right, praise, breath, smiles, need, faith….

This poem, like her other works, could not fail to trigger a response from the love of her life, Robert Browning:

I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett, — and this is no off-hand complimentary letter that I shall write, –whatever else, no prompt matter-of-course recognition of your genius and there a graceful and natural end of the thing….

Given the warp speed at which most of us go about our daily lives, perhaps not many of us have the time to compose verses of such beauty…. and then twiddle our thumbs as we wait for the reply, meanwhile mentally composing or next love-letter.

Rather than counting the “ways” in which Elizabeth loved her Robert, then, we will turn to another number -17 – which is the number of syllables in a traditional Japanese haiku.

The number 17 is the seventh prime number. It is the sum of two ‘perfect’ numbers (seven, signifying spiritual perfection, and ten, representing physical perfection). Henry Blanquart goes in the same way telling that it “represents the junction between the material world and the spiritual world”.

Abu Musa Jābir ibn Hayyān, the Muslim Persian alchemist and Sufi, teaches that the form (sura) of any thing in the world is 17; the number 17 represents the base of the theory of the Balance and has to be considered as the rule of the balance of each thing.

The above is merely happenstance, because haiku existed long before people began playing about with numbers, trying to find hidden meanings with every single digit and multiple thereof.

Haikus are the ultimate way in which to express feelings of attraction, and ultimately love, towards someone. The essence of haiku is to evoke and share moments of awareness with the readers. It is not what you feel, that matters – but what you can squeeze into your seventeen syllables that does.

Satin-soft kisses, Caresses light as lace – Love tender as silk.

Whispers in the night Between two souls that are One for ever more.

As a corollary, if your seventeen-syllable snapshot of time can provoke empathy, compassion, reminiscence, anticipation, by saying what is (using the present tense), even though this may be through your own emotions, you will have succeeded.

Traditional haiku contains a kigo (about 6,000 words that indicate the season in which the haiku takes place in the Year of Life). Playing about with this would produce:

You capture my heart With kisses made of honey Phenomenal bee.		Concentric circles Pebbles lobbed into the sea Unity of souls.
Colours of friendship Gorgeous rainbows span my life It’s good to be loved.		Dusk approaches now; Autumn leaves frame my mem’ries Photographs of love.

It is only in non-Japanese haiku that each verse begins with a capital letter. Yet, let us for the nonce forget all the rules, and concentrate on writing a “blank verse” series of haiku… on a sheet of tea-stained paper that is then rolled up and placed inside a bottle instead of an ordinary shop-bought card. What will be constant is the 5-7-5 syllable pattern – which some modernists eschew because they say it makes for a “stilted” result in English.

We could start with something in the language of Elizabeth Barrett Browning herself:

Feel the emotion; Love is high and broad and deep – Three-dimensional.		Trust me with your soul I’ll nurture and cherish it; Cocoon it in mine.
Flowing thoughts and dreams Ambling and meandering Feeling beloved.		When I touch your face, You gently whisper my name; Both acts speak volumes.

And continue with whatever tickles our fancy…

Every Witch Way

Dearly Beloved

I have called you here today because it’s traditional for witches to be given their wings – ha! – on This Night.

Frankly, I think it’s a silly idea. If it were for me, I would have convened this meeting on October 1, so by today you’d all be well-practiced in the Arts, and also in the Non-Arts. But Orders are Orders.

As it is, we’ll just have to wing it, and meet again next Sunday, to compare notes.

First – The Arts.

You will see that on the Booklet I have prepared for you, I have, by dint of habit, included the famous excerpt which we will now all recite together:

Fillet of a fenny snake,

In the cauldron boil and bake;

Eye of newt and toe of frog,

Wool of bat and tongue of dog,

Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,

Lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing,

For a charm of powerful trouble,

Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

Now, with that out of the way, I have some serious news to impart.

Eleven months ago, give or take a couple of days, an 83-year-old woman who was not even one of us was burned alive in Pleniţa, Dolj County, Romania, by a neighbour who believed she was a witch.

You know how easy it is for people to point their finger toward us… just because we wear black, or because we have a wart on our faces, or because we have pointy noses and / or pointy chins, with or without hair sprouting from them. That’s is why I have opened an undercover beauty clinic; you will find a voucher for €200 off treatment in the fold-over pocket in the back cover of the booklet, which, by the way, also contains the programme for this evening.

[Applause]

Thank you.

You all know that whenever something untoward happens, people will never blame their own stupidity; they will look around for someone to blame for the collapsed building, the sick animals, the broken dam, the warehouse fire…

I am told by my friends in Mainland Europe, Asia, and Australia, that some zealots are blaming witches for Global Warming and Covid-19, citing spells gone drastically wrong.  

And who better to blame, than the Goth who does not make eye contact? Or the toothless, homeless, bag lady? Or the woman who is a tad soft in the head? Who better than the arthritic old lady who cannot stand up straight? Or the woman with no male relatives to protect her?

Who better than a midwife who could not save three babies in succession, although it was clear that they would not have made it, even had they to be born in a five-star hospital? Or the woman who has not washed herself for weeks?

Who better than the childless widow with a nose-ring? Or the elderly spinster who had epileptic fits?  Who better than the newcomer who walks with a stick? Or the woman who has taken someone else’s husband and borne him a child? Who better than the cat lady who has five black cats, albeit she has dozens of others?

I know there are many of you in one of these categories that I have just mentioned – so pay special attention to what I’ll be telling you, later.

Trawling through the rasputitsa of Social Sites, I have collected dozens of such stories, but I will spare you the dire details.

I will tell you, however, that an estimated three million witch trials took place between 1450 to 1750, and around 60,000 people met gruesome deaths. 

At least 2,500 Scots were tortured and killed in ‘satanic panic’ begun by James VI. Remember that his treatise, Daemonologie, inspired the three witches in Shakespeare’s Macbeth.

Let’s not forget that he was aided and abetted in this by the bogus Great Witch of Balwearie, Margaret Aitken. May I remind you that she had been arrested for witchcraft in Fife, and tried to save her skin by insisting she could identify other witches just by looking in their eyes.

Thank heaven for Marion Walker; it was women like her who fought against the sociohistorical construction of ‘woman equals evil equals witch because of her Mother, the transgressive Eve’.

[loud boos]

But let’s not digress…

Mustard Seed, buttercup, chamomile, snapdragon, asafoetida, cedar sap, dill, wild lettuce… ordinary people use them for food or medicine as a matter of course… but when we call them Eye of Newt, Toe of Frog, Blood of Hestia, Calf’s Snout, Devil’s Dung, Kronos’s Blood, Semen of Hermes and Titan’s blood, people look askance at us… and plot and plan to destroy us.

Actually, the records show that if enough people started gossiping about the possibility that a woman might be a witch, the chances were that soon there would be “witnesses” who ‘saw’ her doing something that only witches would do.

[louder boos]

Over the years, misogynists with power have touted the fallacy that women are witches by their very nature: go to Page 5, please, for an excerpt from ‘The Hammer of Witches’ (Malleus Maleficarum), written by the Inquisitor Heinrich Kramer and published in 1486:

“What else is woman but a foe to friendship, an inescapable punishment, a necessary evil, a natural temptation, a desirable calamity, a domestic danger, a delectable detriment, an evil of nature, painted with fair colours! [redacted] And the tears of a woman are a deception, for they may spring from true grief or they may be a trap. When a woman thinks alone, she thinks evil.”

And, dear Ladies, in a nutshell, that is why I called you here today.

Go ahead, enjoy Halloween, since you are all made-up and all dressed-up and all hyped-up for it.

But there is something important I must tell you… which brings me to:

The Non-Arts  

Today, you have graduated as Witches.

But as from tomorrow, I want you to turn into Greys, even more than you might have been before you started my Correspondence Course.

On Page 8, you will find more salient points about what I am going to say: but I want you to raise your hands if there is something you don’t understand, after I go through the list.

Now I know you are all proud to be witches, and some of you even dress the part in your non-coven times.

But, mark my words, there are evil times coming when it behoves you to melt in the crowd – to be so nondescript, unremarkable, and ordinary that no one remembers seeing you, because you do not leave an impression. Some of it is plain common sense – you don’t rest your broom against the garden fence…

It is the opposite of being conspicuous by your absence, as you are when you have pink hair or six-inch heels and tight jeans, and you don’t turn up for a PTA meeting.

I want you all to Be Prepared. I want you all to Be Safe. So, let’s run through the half-a-dozen points, one by one:

1.  Avoid eye contact

This stimulates the brain to form memories. Yes, I know that many people think those who avert their eyes are insincere, but with practice you can manage looking just off the eyes.

2.   Behave predictably

O.K. I can see a couple of you look puzzled. It means that you have to behave like the crowd; if there is a loud noise, you look toward the source, and act suitably surprised. If someone comments about the weather, agree…. And so on.

3.   Dress for the part

I don’t want you to get all your clothes from Charity Shops… but you must make sure that you have some stuff that will look worn and old. Designer togs, like expensive watches and shoes, draw attention.

4.   Learn camouflage

I don’t want you to wear army fatigues. As I have been saying, I want you to blend in. This means that you avoid anything that will catch the slight and betray your presence, if you are hiding somewhere, or trying to escape from a situation. This means that your glasses, and your watch, should have nonreflective glass. Ditch the jewellery, and the brass buttons. And the braces and gold teeth, if you have any

5.   Colour-coding

Avoid colours that will leave an impression on people – grey, blue, fawn, and brown are safe choices. Always carry something that can transform your appearance; sunglasses, a wig, or a hat – a reversible t-shirt is only good if you can change it where no one can see you do it.

6.   Smells Matter

You all know how smells trigger memories. For this reason, avoid the use of strong-smelling scent and deodorants or perfumes. Think of when you can smell cigarette smoke or on someone’s clothes, or curry or garlic on their breath.

Right.

Any questions?

None?

Good.

So – grab your goody bags and Go! Go! Go!

Hannukah

Beginning with the 25th day of Kislev, the eight Days of Hannukah are observed. This feast is different from others, in that fasting is not permitted.

Judaism recalls the time when the Seleucid Greeks profaned the Sanctuary, after capturing the Temple. They sacrificed pigs to Zeus on the holy altar, and defiled all the Holy Oils. After three fierce years of battles, the Maccabees’ army led by “Judas the Hammer” liberated Jerusalem. The Temple was searched for untarnished Oil for the re-dedication of the altar.

However, only enough Oil with the seal of the Kohen Gadol (the High Priest) for one day was found – and this, through a miracle, lasted for eight days until new Oil could be blessed. The celebration marked the third anniversary of the original desecration of the Temple by the Greeks.

The following year, the Rabbis nominated the days as Yomim Tovim (Holidays), and decreed that the Miracle of the Light must be remembered. This is a time when, if possible, finer meals than usual are served, with cheeses featuring well in them, as well as fried foods such as latkes (potato and onion patties) and doughnuts.

The latkes and other friend foods are in memory of the Miracle of the Oil. Jewish people also recall the story of Judith, who served goats’ cheese to Holofernes as part of her clever plan to bring about his downfall.

Hannukah is also different from other feasts because usually, women do not work (sewing, laundry, etc) for at least half an hour after the candles are lit – yet during this feast, they may cook. On the Friday evening, one lights the Hannukah lights before the usual Shabbat candles.

Most people associate the Menorah (Candelabrum) with Hannukah; most Jews light one olive oil cup with a cotton wick, or a candle, on the first night (the extra “Shames” or “server” candle is used to kindle the others); two on the second, and so on. It is customary to set up the candles from right to left, but the candles are lit from left to right. This 8-branched Menorah differs from the 6-branched one used in the Tabernacle and Temple.

The light derived from the candles is not to be used for anything other than the Glory of God – and that is the practical reason for having the Samesh Candle a little way apart. For Hannukah, it is not strictly necessary to use a Menorah – one may place a row of candles, in a straight line, upon a wall. Any fancy version of a menorah, the candles of which are not in a straight line, is not suitable for Hannukah. The candles must be far enough apart such that their flames do not intermingle.

One cannot fulfil the Hannukah obligation using electric lights, or by simply taking part in a communal Hannukah party, without having conducted the ceremony at home beforehand. The Menorah must be situated as close as possible to the doorway of the home, such that they may be seen from a distance by a number of people, who will then recall the Miracle.

Life, As We Know It

They framed me. It had been going on for weeks, not quite actually right under my nose, which is why I hadn’t noticed.Now, I fully understood the meaning of all those not-so-subtle comments before I wen out on Sick Leave… like you’re too good for your own good, and he who sups with the devil must have a long spoon, and beware of wolves in sheep’s clothing.

They had been siphoning off money, and stealing goods, from the warehouse, while I was off work and recuperating from having all my teeth pulled out, and dentures fitted, after a very bad gum infection. It could have been worse, I guess.

Actually, it could have been a lot worse, because one of my clerks whistle-blew, and then only because she could not stand the vulgarities that were being said with reference to what a goody two-shoes I was.

She learned that the Bosses blamed me in absentia for everything,and, apparently, they were not even interested in hearing my side of the story.

I wanted to confront them, and tell them to ask a graphologist to compare my actual signatures on old documents with the forged ones on the current papers, but she was having none of that. She said it would be the equivalent of signing my own death warrant.

She said I had to leave – as soon as possible. I insisted that it would be tantamount to admitting guilt, and she said that having proven my innocence would not matter, if I were dead. She said that my assassination was scheduled for the coming Wednesday, which was a public holiday. There would be a lot of people and noise in the streets, and so no one would notice more people and more noise. That clinched it.

I’m a good swimmer. And I did my homework.

I dug up The Map, and I saw that my best bet was to come ashore at The Plant, and then I’d play it by ear. The heat would dry my hair and clothes in next to no time, and then I could pretend to be one of the workers. I didn’t tell my informant anything. If you want to keep a secret, keep it to yourself.

It worked… and soon, I became a part of the scenery, and no one looked at me twice. They assumed that I was some cards short of a deck, because I didn’t speak much. Ha! I could wipe the floor with them.

I found a disused shack and pilfered stuff for it… a glass, a fork, a plate, a length of pipe, a couple of nails, a hammer… swatches of fabric and needle and thread so I could make me a blanket…

Where my forbears come from, they eat guinea pigs – and I reckoned rats weren’t much different from them. So, I saved the canteen bread, and had a protein-rich meal every night, after the workers left. By the morning, the smell of rat stew, rat broth, stir-fried rat or baked rat would have dissipated. And nobody was the wiser.

I gained confidence. I wanted my own place, and not just a poky room with makeshift furniture made from pallets. I unrolled The Map again, and traced my fingers over the red lines. No – it would not do to pass through The Diamond, because I would stick out like a sore thumb. The District would be tricky, too, because someone was bound to ask me where I came from, or, perish the thought, demand my papers.

My best bet was to wait for the correct weather conditions, and use the currents to my advantage – something like Johnny Utah was allowed to do in Point Break. As I said, I do my homework… and my knowledge of pure and applied mathematics made the calculations a cinch.

And then it happened.

I had long assumed that the rats that roved about The Plant were being lured to their deaths with toxic bait. That is why I had constructed a system to ensnare them. I kept them in the pen for a week, during which I would feed them what I managed to salvage from the garbage bins.

I can only assume that some of the noxious stuff had got into my system.

The first time it happened, I had just come out of my makeshift shower. I happened to glance at the mirror (a piece of glass lined with tinfoil), and I saw him. There was an overpowering smell of brine, and this bald head swaying to inaudible music. The vision lasted for a few moments, and then, there was I – wet, dishevelled hair, bags under my eyes, sunken cheeks…

Was I going crazy?

There was the recurring dream, too. I would be walking along the coast road with two of my friends. It would bizarrely occur to me that had I been Jesus, we’d have been on the road to Emmaus. But Cleopas and his friend still would not have said the magic words “Stay with us, for it is nearly evening; the day is almost over.”

So, each time, they would go on their merry way.

And the visual clichés would tumble merrily along. I would look at the long, yellow, brick road ahead of me. Would I be beset by thieves? I could smell the green, green grass of home (mostly the mint, which was so invasive it had even climbed the orange tree). I’d see a hundred yellow ribbons tied around a hundred old oak trees…

In the dreams, I felt dejected, forlorn. Inevitably, I stopped to retch. I stooped and leaned against the low sea-wall, holding back the tears. Brine? Wait – this was not the Sea of Galilee.

Was I going crazy? Would I ever learn how to re-route my dreams, make them lucid, and get out of this scenario? I suddenly recognised the fjord of my childhood. The flat roofs of Samaria by this juncture would have been replaced by high-rise buildings but as soon as I shielded my eyes and looked up, trying to make out the floor where I worked when I had been a C.E.O. of an outwardly respectable company… that laundered money for the Mafia Underworld, they disappeared.

In their place would be a row of old-fashioned Norwegian houses, all painted in different colours, and with grass and flowering weeds growing on the roofs. I’d see a road sign saying “Christiana (now called Oslo)”. Each time, it would be in a different font, but never Times New Roman or Comic Sans.

The sky suddenly turned into blood, and I recalled the proverb about how it was deemed to be a shepherd’s delight. Surely not this sky, though. The clouds burgeoned and pulsed with psychedelic lights. I would want to wake up, but I would not be able to.

I’d know that the clouds would soon begin rippling, and dripping blood. I’d look back and see the two men in the distance; they would seem to be looking back and waving at me, so I would half-raise my arm to salute them, and then, immediately feeling a physical ache in my heart, I’d massage my chest, feeling as if I had a gaping wound I had to close. I would wake up each time, dripping with sweat, even though it was the dead of winter. I could wring out the sheets, they’d be so wet.

I pilfered a brass flowerpot from the lobby of The Plant front office, and turned it into a singing bowl. The energy and vibration of their specific frequencies worked on my subconscious, but only just. I remembered what Nikola Tesla and Albert Einstein had said about this… And I sang lots of Gregorian Chant.

The dreams persisted, but at least the scary details were gone. Time was moving on, and the sea currents were changing. Soon, I would be able to make my escape to The Slum.

As the weather changed, the two men I met I the dream acquired a different aura; if I poked my finger into it, they disappeared. The sky-scrapers did not feature in my new set of dreams. When I woke up, I would no longer need to change the patchwork sheets. However, I’d started getting muscle tension, a migraine, and an upset stomach. My left thumb would hurt, for no reason.

My new identity was far removed from my old one. Pseudo-fraudster me was gone – instead I was the toothless, lisping, simpleton everyone joshed. Was I bothered though? I put on my dentures when I was alone, and then only when I had to eat – otherwise, being without them helped my wear my new persona better.

The eclipse was the auspicious sign that would be my cover. I packed my meagre belongings in a large garbage bag, which I put inside four more, and allowed the current to bear me down to the cove just beyond the boundary that separates The District from the Slum. No jellyfish. Good. No street lights. Better…

I reconnoitred (my night vision has always been good) and kept away from houses where the lights were still on.

And then, in a cul-de-sac, I found it – the house where I knew wanted to live until the end of my days. Breaking and entering was easy. The cobwebs and mould told me nobody was interested in it. I knew that I had the propensity to make this dump a home within a week – and I did.

Life was good. I melded in perfectly with the hoi polloi, with my deadpan face and scruffy clothes. Nobody asked whence I came – and I didn’t offer explanations. I did odd jobs, and earned enough to eat well (no more rats!) – so I was rich. I later realised that since everyone had secrets, nobody probed to find out those of others, in The Slum.

When the house was as clean as it would ever be, I began on the basement. There was furniture that had seen better days, and piles of clothing that had fused to hard mounds because of the damp. I came upon a full-length mirror shrouded in a sheet so stiff I thought it was cardboard.

I removed it, and suddenly, there was an overpowering smell of brine, and the all too familiar outline of a man’s bald head, his hands cradling his face as he sang Gregorian Chant. The vision lasted for a few moments, and then, there was I – wet, dishevelled hair, bags under my eyes, sunken cheeks…

I threw a punch at the mirror, and it broke into a zillion pieces. Blood ran down my hands from where the shards had torn my knuckles.

I don’t sing Gregorian Chant any more. And I don’t go down to the basement at all, these days. I have boarded up the door, and secured the planks with nine-inch nails.

Strangely enough, I do not miss my life as a C.E.O. Revenge is best served cold. But even if I could, I would not go back to wreak it on those who wronged me.

Life, as We Know It

 Hibernation is for hedgehogs. And skunks. And bears. And me. 

That thought was on a loop in my mind as I left the Clinic.

“It’s something between torpor, and sedation, and suspended animation…” The doctor had explained.

“This is a very, very innovative and exploratory therapy. During the time you will be under, you will have time to dream, to think, to examine your life so far… and make plans for your future. There will be Life, but not as you know it right now. There will be Friendships, Motion, and Sustenance, so do not worry about that, at all. Your physical and mental health will be taken care of, while you sleep. You will wake up refreshed, and without bedsores. The idea is to re-align your mental equilibrium…”

It all began when I was diagnosed with “Winter Sadness” – Seasonal Affective Disorder. My parents used to tell me to ‘snap out of it’, but try as I might, I could never get rid of the feelings of impending doom. And then, they died in a car crash.

I used to cocoon myself in my blanket and isolate myself from the world, coming up for air only when I needed to use the bathroom, and to drag the greengrocer’s delivery box inside.

Having a shower was too much of an effort. I only ever ate raw fruits and vegetables, which probably saved me from losing my teeth and becoming obese, as normally happens to fellow sufferers.

I knew that part of my cure would involve sitting in the sun for at least an hour – so with great effort I moved my bed so that the sun shone on half of it during the morning… and that was my Vitamin D fix, done.

During a visit to the doctor, with my mother when she was still alive, the doctor had said that I might have hereditary chemical imbalances in the brain that were causing my anxiety, depression, lack of concentration, loss of motivation, oversleeping, social withdrawal and stress. Ma was so offended that she dragged me out of the clinic, and we never went back.

In the beginning, I tried to walk round and round the table for ten minutes. Then, even that became too much of an effort. I tried white light and neon tubes, but they annoyed me. I did try, really, I did. In fact, I went to a doctor… who prescribed anti-depressants. and that made me feel that I was a failure.

The sarcasm, apathy and cynicism were, according to my Ma, born with me. And my moods had always fluctuated.  However, I had motivation and I was very physically active – attitudes that are usually absent when one has Winter Sadness. But then, I was never a textbook case of anything.

Gradually, after my parents died and I had no reason to go to work – I was their only heiress, and rich beyond dreams of avarice – I balked at going out ‘for nothing’.

I brought the outside inside by purchasing a huge television, and leaving it with the desktop picture of a garden full of flowers and butterflies. After some time, even that failed to cheer me up. Neither did the several light therapy lamps scattered about the house. I was either ensconced in my dressing gown, in bed, chilled to the bone despite the fact that the heater was as high as it would go… or pacing the rooms, from one lamp to the other, wondering when the world would end.

“I never had any close friendships or romantic entanglements, no!” The Doctor said he had to ask me these endless questions, because he had a form to fill in. “Before I allow you to take this therapy, I have to know all about you, and anything that has thrown your life out of whack.”

At the back of my mind, there was always that scene at the doctor’s, when he’s said I might have hereditary chemical imbalances. What he meant, in other words, was that I might have a genetic predisposition to mental health issues; in plain language – that I had inherited my off-kilter craziness from Ma.

Hibernation therapy was still in its infancy – one of the preparations for it was to have a regular sleep schedule, so that the circadian rhythm would be steady. I tried to catch up during the day, because insomnia was at its worst at night.

I realised that sleeping in on weekends was not good, because I had rebound headaches. In another life, it seems I had tried volunteering at a charity shop… but I was always re-arranging shelves, and this did not sit well with the others, who thought I was showing them up. So, I quit.

I didn’t want to miss my chance. As long as I logged in at least six hours of sleep, the doctor said I would be considered for the trial. That was as good an incentive as any.

I tried yoga. I tired vegetarianism. I tried melatonin supplements, and I gave up coffee. I tried chamomile and lavender tisanes. They tasted of disinfectant, so I just opened the teabags and scattered them over the soil in the front garden, and I was pleasantly surprised when blooms appeared, and butterflies were attracted to them… at least they served some purpose.

I could not differentiate between sadness and depression; they were one big messed up ball of wool. Well, two, actually – of the same colour, so I didn’t know where one ended and the other began.  

I tried to schedule Quiet Time – but I became antsy after five minutes. But I didn’t say this, fearing it would preclude me from participating in the rehabilitation treatment.  

The long and the short of it is that I tried anything, and everything, that was suggested. I pretended that I was having varying degrees of success, and the doctor agreed that nothing could be expected to work 100%, and that is why, indeed, they were looking for volunteers to try the remedy.

I read a lot. Science fiction, mostly, but I also read the first-edition classics that I had inherited from my parents.   

I was acting the part perfectly; my performance indicated that my psychological state was ready, willing and able to take part in the trial. The doctor could tick all the boxes, because according to him, I was one of the perfect runners for the ten places available.

And I made it. What I didn’t know was that the experiment was a means to an end, and not just the solution to my Winter Sadness.  

So, after sleeping for a whole year, I am now about to board the International Space Station, living life in the fast lane – literally!

All of us don’t mind the deprivation of social interaction, because we have each other; and decreased gravity doesn’t matter, either.

Along with my colleagues, I will be travelling at approximately 17,000 miles per hour, 300 miles above the Earth. I will get to see 16 sunrises and sunsets every 24-hour period, while floating in a tin can, as David Bowie succinctly puts it. 

Tomorrow’s Words

Out of the blue, the boy appeared in front of me.

“I want to die!” he sobbed, rivulets of tears streaming down his chubby cheeks.

It’s not often that children step into the path of an oncoming bike, holding out the palm of their hand as a traffic warden would. Had he had run away from home after a hiding?

“I really want to die. It hurts. It hurts so much.” The words came out in gasps. This was not the time to offer platitudes. I got off my bike and hugged him, then rummaged in my backpack to get him a tissue. I also fished out a bottle of orange juice, which he gulped thirstily, licking his lips and then wiping them on the sleeve of his grubby shirt when he’d finished.

“Thank you,” he said, unfathomable pain in his eyes.

“Tell me about it?”

“Lean your bike against the wall, and let’s sit down on the kerb, and I’ll tell you!” he said, with a quiet authority that bewildered me. I put it down to what I had assumed to be a tough life – maybe he had younger siblings, and he was obliged to care for them, and so he had had to learn how to order people about.

“I almost died three times, you know…” he said, and I swivelled round to look at him. “Yes, I did, too. The first time, I fell out of my cot. The second time, I was run over by a car. The third time, the neighbours’ dogs mauled me so badly the parents are in two minds about whether or not to switch off the life-support system…”

I noticed his quaint use of the word “the” with ‘parents’, and his weird use of verb tenses – but I didn’t comment. This child would give Charles Dickens a run for his money any day, so precocious and eloquent was he. “So,” I said, half perturbed and half amused, “why is it you could to die a fourth time?”

“Third!” he exclaimed. “The logistics might not be that difficult for you to understand…” he said, his eyes delving deep into my soul. “As a writer, you must have heard of re-incarnation.” 

“What does this have to do with you, though?”

“I really don’t have time to explain.  I just know. This time, I am finding it extremely difficult to walk towards the Light” (the way he said it gave the word an upper case initial). “I cannot seem to find the right Path” (ditto). “I don’t really know whether I want to, after all.”

“So, what do you want from me?”

“Nothing, really. Nothing and everything. I want you to go to this address (and here he dug his tiny hand deep into the pocket of his jeans and drew out a crumpled sheet of paper, smoothing it on his thigh) and give this to the parents so they can share it with the neighbours. Only then will I be free. I cannot go there myself. Don’t ask questions. Please.”

I took the paper from his hand, and glanced up as a shadow fell upon me. “Exercise whacked you out then?” sniggered Rhona, who was always the poster girl for Fashion Plates.

“No, I was just talking to…” but when I looked to my left, the boy was nowhere to be seen.

“Ha! I saw your lips move, and I thought you were singing. Now you say you were talking to someone. Are you sure you weren’t having a daydream, or maybe you didn’t have your snack before biking, and now you have a hypo?” Rhona knows I have diabetes.

“I don’t actually remember how I got here, but then, whenever I’m on my bike, it’s like I’m on automatic pilot. But, I tell you, there was a boy sitting down next to me, right here. He was telling me something about dying and being born again… reincarnation…”

“Ah. I see. One of those religious nuts whose sole aim in life is converting others to their skewed beliefs.”

“It was not like that at all. He… he was telling me something about how he had nearly died three times, and…”

“But that’s what reincarnation is. You have to die, and your soul, or the equivalent, goes into another body – human or animal. Some weirdos even say it goes into an inanimate object.”

“Wait. Let me try and remember exactly what he said. I am sure he mentioned falling out of a cot… and… being run over by a car. The third instance had something to do with… dogs… yes. That’s it. He mentioned being mauled by the neighbours’ dogs so badly that, and these are his exact words, ‘the parents are in two minds about whether or not to switch off the life-support system’ and then he mentioned light, I am sure, but I forgot how he phrased it…”

All this time, without thinking, I was rolling up and unrolling the slip of paper the child had given me.

“What’s that, then?” My friend gestured toward the paper.

“What’s what? Oh. This! This is proof that I am not cuckoo, as you seem to be thinking. Here, look!” I told her what the child had said about the paper.

She squinted at it. “Oh, my goodness. This address says Mellieħa. How on earth would a child without transport have ended up, here at Żurrieq, miles away?”

“Well, he did, somehow, and I spoke to him. And mark my words, even if it’s the last thing I do, I will go and speak to the parents.” Ooops. Without thinking, I said the parents, as he did, and not ‘his parents’.

“Look, my car is parked a couple of streets away; I was on my way to the sub-Post Office. Let’s ask the school janitor if he can keep the bike for you, and we’ll go to this address together. I’m curious, now, and I want to see how it will all end. I can get these circulars franked for posting, tomorrow. One day won’t make that much difference.”

Thomas was a friend of my father’s, so of course he let me put the bike in his room in the school yard. I told him that my friend and I had an important errand to run, and to save time we were going to use her car… which was the absolute truth.

We drove up to Mellieħa, and a passer-by gave us directions, since we weren’t familiar with the area.

The house was in one of those quaint areas in the old part of the seaside village, where time appears to be standing still, untouched by progress. The whoosh of the waves was the only thing to be heard, in the infinite silence.

I banged the old-fashioned dolphin-shaped knocker three times, setting off a cacophony of barks and howls from the house next door.

“Well, at least the dogs exist!”  Rhona, ever the cynic, commented.

The quick clack-clack of wooden Dr Scholl’s mules against the stone flagstones was followed by the squeaking of the door being opened.

“Yes?”

It was obvious by the look on the woman’s face that strangers, especially those raising a ruckus, were rather thin on the ground in those parts.

Rhona dug her elbow into my ribs.

“Excuse me…” I stammered, struck by the resemblance of the woman to the boy I had met earlier. “But…” Inspiration struck. “Do you recognise this handwriting?” I handed over the paper.

“Yes, it’s David’s. Is this some kind of joke?”

I gasped. This was not the attitude of a parent whose son was in the I.T.U. She sounded more like the mother of a Dennis the Menace being accosted by the victim of his latest prank.

“Well… it’s a long-ish story, and quite a surreal one.”

“How amiss of me not to invite you in! Do enter, please,” David’s mother moved aside for us, and then ushered us into the kitchen, which smelled of freshly-brewed coffee and the rabbit stew simmering on the stove.

“Coffee?” We nodded, blown away by this display of olde-worlde hospitality. “Milk? Cream? Sugar? Sweetener?”

We sat down and I was just beginning to relate my story when a boy ran into the kitchen, bouncing a ball.

“David! How many times have I told you not to do that?”

I blanched. Unless he was an identical twin, or a clone, that was the boy I had met in the morning. Rhona looked at me, and it was in that instant, as she told me later, that she believed me. I felt faint.

“Ma! At noon, when they come back from Valletta, I’m going to play with the doggies of Rupert, and I’ll have lunch there, he told me his mum said I could…”

I recovered just in time to scream “No!”

Mother and child looked at me much like the way Rhona had, when she found me sitting on the kerb. I took a deep, deep, breath and asked them to sit down and hear me out. David’s mother said “Well, you couldn’t be making this up if you tried – but he’s here, isn’t he?”

Hardly had I finished my story than all hell broke loose, next door – snarls, growls and bays… and muffled shouts for help. Knowing that there was no one at home, David’s mother called Emergency Services, and the rest, as they say, is history.

As it turned out, a burglar had shinnied over the boundary wall, hoping for a quick haul. He must have known that the family had several dogs, but obviously he never expected them to have the run of the house and the backyard. It was only by a fluke that they did not kill him; he rolled himself into the foetal position and remained thus, until the orderlies came.

David, now a grown man, married, and with a daughter named after me, says he owes me his life. We cannot understand how I came to be in possession of a note [“If my vitals don’t stabilise by Sunday, pull the plugs, please.”] in his handwriting, which he swears he never wrote. It’s now framed, and hangs in his office.

Let’s just say it’s one of those inexplicable things that exist in time-warps. Or a parallel universe.

Santa’s Blog 5

Arsenic and Old Lace has a plot that these days would be considered politically incorrect, since it shows depends upon the foibles of several people who are not mentally stable (“eccentrics”) for its dénouement. Cary Grant’s shouts “Can you hear me? I’m not really a Brewster. I’m a son of a sea cook!” and the taxi driver counters this with “I’m not a cab driver. I’m a coffee pot.”

At one point, Cary Grant, as Mortimer Brewster the drama critic is sitting by a tombstone that bears the name Archie Leach. Film aficionados would know that Grant’s real name was Archibald Alexander Leach. Just for the record, the final scene in the script of the play had Mortimer’s two maiden aunts pour some of their infamous elderberry wine for Mr. Witherspoon, the Manager of Happydale Sanatorium. This was eliminated from the film version.

Right now, the only names I can remember are rabanadas (fried toast); lebkuchen
(chewy, honey-flavoured cookies with candied fruits and nuts); kourabiethes (shortbread with almonds & cinnamon); and bibingka (coconut and rice flour pudding)… The Missus tired them all today and of course I had to sample them. I also ate a handful of surströmming (fermented Baltic herring) and some salmiakki (salty liquorice) and I’m feeling a mite queasy.

For many people, it is a mater of pride that they can name names – not in the usual sense of the expression, but in that they remember the names of characters in obscure indie films and poems, and the lesser-known characters in Shakespeare’s plays (Aemilius, Boyet, Egeon…) as well as Biblical personalities (Nehemiah, Jadon, Josiah…).

It is easy to remember that Rudolph’s girlfriend is called Clarice. But many stumble when they are asked to name Santa’s team. Nerdology requires that not only does one remember them in sequence, but that one never forgets Olive. As in Olive, The Other Reindeer immortalised in Vivian Walsh’s book that had a Jack Russell Terrier as Olive. The Robert L. May story that later became a song by Johnny Marks gave us Rudolph – who was had very nearly been called Rollo or Reginald instead.

The poem ’Twas the Night Before Christmas names eight reindeer; Dasher (or Dascher); Dancer; Prancer; Vixen; Comet; Cupid; Donner (or Dunder or Donder); and Blitzen (or Blixem). Dunder en Blixem literally means “thunder and lightning” in Dutch – but the phrase is also idiomatic for “get a move on!”

This explains why some people say that the sled was pulled by six reindeer, and what followed their names was an order to hurry up. As for “Vixen” being the given name of a male reindeer… well, that is another story altogether. Female reindeer retain their antlers till after they give birth in the spring. So it might have been that there was at least one female reindeer in the team (many of the names appear to fit either gender, too).

The Missus takes it for granted that some of the reindeer are female; she says that otherwise, since males never ask for directions, the presents would never get delivered on time. Well, I’ll show her; it’s high time I broke in my new hovercraft snow-car anyway; much better than you know whose eight-reindeer-powered sleigh.

Ħares ‘l Hawn…

Psst!

Lehen is-Sewwa, February 28, 2016

Hawn min, biex ikellmek, jaħtaflek il-komma u jħares ċass f’għajnejk, qisu jrid jagħmillek seħer. Hawn min għandu ħabta jħares lejn ħuġbejk, jew moħħok, jew lejn imnieħrek.

Staqsejt lil xi uħud kienux lesti jħarsu fiss fl-għajnejn – u skantajt kemm kien hemm min ħadha bis-serjeta din il-mistoqsija.

# Jien insib li meta xi ħaddd iħares dritt f’għajnejja, jkun qisu qed jxrobl ruħi. Qisu jrid iku jaf jekk hux qed nigdeb, jew forsi jun qed jipprova jara sa fejn jista’ jasal miegħi – kemm jista’ jieħu mingħandi, sew jekk affarijiet materjali, jew emozzjonijiet.

# Għamilt ħabta inbati bid-dipresssjoni, u ma nsibnix kapaċi li nħares lejn dak li jkun, għax għaija hia xi ħaga emozzjonali wisq. In hoss li moħħi jitgħabba ż-żejjed meta rrid nikkonċentra fuq dak li nkun qed ngħid, u fuq il-ħarsa ta’ dak li jkun.

# Ommi u missieri nfirdu meta kont żgħira, u għalija, il-mod idejali biex nuri d-dispexx tiegħi lejha u lejn ir-raġel il-ġdid tagħha kienli ma nħarisx lejhom. Ma ngħidlekx kemm qlajt swat fuq hekk. Kont drajtha l-biċċa, u għamilt hekk fl-iskola wkoll, u l-għalliema kienu jgħidu li jien insolenti. Aħjar milli nirrispondi u naħli saħti.

# Jekk inħares f’għajnejn xi ħadd, nitfixkel, għax nipprrova nifhem dak li ma jkunx qed jgħidli. Nibda’ ntemtem, u ma nkunx naf fejn jien.

# Jien inħares lejn dak li jkun, għax m’għandix x’naħbi – kif tarani, pinġini.

# Jien bi-polar – u ma rridx inħares lejn għajnejn dak li jkun, li ma murx ninduna li jkunu qed jaħsbu ‘din miġnuna’ għax ikollna xi ngħidu żgur.

# Jien nitlef il-konċentrazzjoni meta xi ħadd iħres f’għajnejja. Rari ninża’ n-nuċċali tax-xemx, u nħobb nuża minn dawk li jirriflettu, biex żgur ma jkunux jistgħu jarawhomli.

# Hija tattika tiegħi li nħares fitt lejn dak li jku, biex nagħmillhom pressjoni psikologika. Inħobb nagħmel in-nies skomdi, bħallikieku qed niskrutinizzahom u niġġudikahom. Nitpaxxa narahom jintlew bit-tensjoni, u jirrepetu l-kliem fil-vojt.

# Jien nitlef għajnejja, u nħossni tac-cajt nipprova nħares lejn l-għajnejn, għax qisni nitwerreċ. Kieku kelli nipprova, imma, xorta kont inħossni anzjuża, għax jien mistħijja ħafna. . Forsi hawn min jaħseb li għax ma nħarsix lejh, ma nkunx qed nagħti kasu, imma nikkompensa għal dan billi nuża leħen ħlejju u nistaqsi mistoqsijiet li juru li jien qegħda attenta għal dak li jkunu qed jgħidu.

# Jien ma nittolerax li ħaddieħor iħarisli f’għajnejja, għax fix-xogħol tiegħi ma jaqbilx li nikxef dak li naħseb. Allura ma nħarisx lejhom jien, hux? Kien ikun diffiċli għalija li nispjega dan lill-klijjenti tiegħi, li ma jmurx jaħsbu li qed nidħaq bihom – imma fil-fatt, jien ma nħarisx lejhom biex inkun nista’ nibqa’ imparzjali, u ma nikxifx is-sigrieti fdati lili.

# Ma nafx għaliex, imma għajnejja jiekluni u jdemmgħu meta nħares lejn għajnejn oħra. Ikolli jew inħokkhom jew inxappaphom bil-maktur. Mela allura aħjar xejn – kuntenta li jgħidu kemm jiena stramba.

Jien naħseb li wasal iż-żmien li ma nibqgħux naħsbu li kull min jiftaħ għajnejh daqs plattina, ikun sinċier, u min jevita li jħares fl-għajnejn, għandu x’jaħbi. U int, x’taħseb?

Saint Nicholas vs Santa Claus

Bi-partisan politics!

November 24, 2008

The jury is still out on whether parents should perpetuate the “myth” of Santa Claus. After all, he was a ‘real person’ who wore bishop’s robes before he acquired the familiar red suit with the white fur trimmings…

Santa Claus could be more familiar than Baby Jesus to some people – especially those who do not know the reason for celebrating Christmas, other than as an orgy of conspicuous food consumption and gift-giving. But then, Santa Claus is not a religious symbol, and he therefore cannot be considered “provocative” if he is used in advertising or decorations in public buildings in countries where Catholicism is not the state religion.

There is another facet to this argument, however. The person who was Sant Nicholas has become secularised as almost everything else about this festival has lost its religious undertones. Not many people know that the original Saint Nicholas was a sombre person, rather than a rotund character who goes around ringing bells and uttering ho-ho-ho in a sonorous voice to make us believe he is laughing. In fact, before Thomas Nast drew the 1863 cover for Harper’s Weekly and turned him into the fat super-hero everyone recognises, even Santa Claus’s image was often of a gaunt, tall man.

It was artist Haddon Sundblom, however, who added the final touches towards today’s representation of Santa Caucasus. In 1931, his advertisements for Coca Cola showed an old, overweight, Santa.

Saint Nicholas is the Patron Saint of children – so it is to be expected that children look up to him, under whatever guise he appears. But sometimes, he finds himself in a quandary – Christians object to how he is depicted because he has been divested of his “religious” origins – and others object to him because he did, indeed, have Christian roots.

Santa Claus has become a commercially lucrative icon that is impossible to ignore. And children know this – whether or not they are encouraged to believe in him by their parents, and whether or not they have been told the “truth” about him. Ironically, the same children who hate it so much when they are fobbed off with half-truths, or lied too, willingly accept the myth of Santa Claus… if it means they will acquire gifts ‘from him’.

In homes where the gifts are said to have come from Santa, there will not doubt be comparisons with gifts brought by him to other children. The more street-smart kids may well ask why the rich kids get the most expensive presents their parents could have afforded anyway, whereas those who are less better-off get mundane things they need and not what they really, really want. It may also happen that children who have been “bad” get gifts, whereas those who are always good get nothing.

Some children may show signs of uncertainty about flying reindeer. They find it implausible that fat men could go down chimneys without getting stuck. The inevitable question about how one person manages to travel the world in one night is met with a “just because” reply. Kids who don’t really swallow the take are faced with “irrefutable evidence”- far-off sounds of jingling bells, half-eaten carrots in hallways, and drained glasses of the other Christmas spirit. And the gifts, of course.

If it’s Saint Nick rather than Santa Claus who visits – he rides a horse, and the horse could have eaten the carrots anyway.

Is it fair to “make” children conform and behave because Big Brother, in this case, Santa Claus, is watching them from some hidden eye-in-the-sky? Is it feasible to make children expect gifts because they can innately show charm and are gifted with empathy and kindness?

Christmas is an international celebration, albeit it is supposed to be a Christian festival. Ironically, the very symbols that make it Christmas are deemed offensive in some quarters, because if religious and cultural differences – and a Christmas Tree does not quote “personify” all the jazz as a caricature of a jolly old man does.

Interestingly, in Malta, Santa Claus is rarely depicted as Saint Nicholas – for the chances are that children would then not know who he is. So all the stories about how “blackface”-type makeup is applied by supermarket workers in Scandinavia, so that they can pretend to be “Black Peter”s (zwarte Piet) for the customers’ predilection, would make no sense here.

Would anyone bother going to the beach on his feast day (December 5) to see the Bishop arrive (‘from Spain’)? Why would anyone bother picking up the peppernuts (special biscuits thrown into the room by “Saint Nicholas” when he visits) when there are so many other goodies to be had during the Maltese Christmastide?

Children have made their choice – a pick-and-mix amalgamation of the story of Saint Nicholas and the myth of Santa Claus. In the future, they could well choose to place the latter in the same category as the Tooth Fairy and the Sock Goblin…

Christmas Facts

 

November 28, 2009

Good King Wenceslas really existed. He was born in 907 AD in Prague, the son of the Duke of Bohemia, and grandson of Saint Lyudmila. He is credited with commissioning the gothic St. Vitus Cathedral in Prague. In September, 929, his brother Boleslaw invited him to Alt Bunglou for the celebration of the feast of Saints Cosmas and Damian, and had him murdered on the way to Mass. Although this was primarily a political murder, Wenceslas was hailed as a martyr, and his tomb became a shrine for pilgrims to visit.

Maltese folklore usually invokes Saint Barbara, whose feast in on December 4, during thunderstorms. She is the patroness of builders and architects, miners and artillery men. On her feast day, unmarried girls would cut cherry, apricot or almond twigs and place them in a jar of water, having attached the names of bachelors they liked to each one. The ones that would have flowered before Midnight Mass indicated potential suitors. A more prosaic explanation said that if none of them flowered, a bad harvest would follow.

In Hungary, as elsewhere, Bishop Miklós (Saint Nicholas) visits all the children in the night before Christmas. The good ones receive sweets in the boot or on the plates they would have placed by the window – the naughty ones get coals or a willow twig used as a lash. A man dressed as a Bishop would go out, accompanied by Krmapus, known as Black Peter in other cultures. The latter would be wearing chains, and holding a bunch of twigs with which to wallop the legs of passers-by. Sometimes, they walked uninvited into houses or restaurants, and ran about switching everyone with the twigs. They were usually given a glass of wine before they left the place.

In Guatemala, one of the traditions is an adaptation of the Mayan flying pole dance, held on the Feast Day of Saint Thomas on December 21. This appealing combination of Mayan customs and Christian religious practice may also be seen in the depictions of the Nativity scene, and tamales, the “packed lunch” made by filling corn dough (masa) with a selection of fillings according to the region and preference. Then they are wrapped in plantain leaves or cornhusks, and steamed. During each day of the novena there is a procession; the statues are accompanied by music and fire-crackers.

Dating from the 17th century, pure white candy canes are said to have been the brainchild of the choirmaster at the Cologne Cathedral in Germany, meant to be given to toddlers to keep them quiet during the Service. In 1847 German immigrant August Imgard used them to decorate a Christmas tree in Wooster, Ohio, and half a century later, Bob McCormack of Albany, Georgia made some to give away as Christmas sweetmeats. His brother-in-law, Catholic priest Gregory Keller, invented a machine in the 1950s that eliminated the labour intensive method of pulling-sugar paste into shape. The red stripes were added then merely as decoration – it was only later that they acquired a meaning associated with religion.

Most people would know that the poinsettia is a native Mexican plant named after Joel R. Poinsett, U.S. ambassador to Mexico who took it to America in 1828. A charming legend says that young Amato was on his way to visit the grotto set up at his village. Halfway there, he realised he had not brought a gift. So, to the amusement of his peers, he gathered some branches and took those along. Once he laid it at the foot of the Manger, the bunch became a bouquet of red, star-shaped flowers.

Another legend says that Pepita was on her way to Midnight Mass, and all the children had been asked to bring flowers. She picked up some weeds, which became the original Flores de Noche Buena (Flowers of Holy Night). These days, poinsettia cultivars come in other colours besides red; the flowers are actually the tiny yellow blooms and the centre, and the coloured parts are bracts – modified leaves.