Celebrations Far Away

We all have mothers, whether remotely adrift from the physical and beyond the reach of mere mortals or here in the flesh. At least, I hope we all do. Mothers, it must be said, have an enormous amount to juggle and do wonderful jobs at balancing “the fray” even if those around them, on occasions, are unfairly critical. I have noticed increasingly, over the years, that it is women that tend to care enough to run with the issues even though, invariably, they delegate the actual doing stuff about them to sturdy oaks like me. In more recent times those ever more rambunctious politicians seem to have messed with the societal roles identity clock. Women still do what they do best but the men have turned into SNAG’s; that’s sensitive new age guys for non-Australians. And those are the tough guys. The rest are all gay in every way but preference.

Given my gruff exterior, regular readers might be surprised to learn I have a mother that brings out the fuzzy tender side too. My love is a whole lot softer for her even though she has somehow managed to become younger than me over the years (including being stuck at age 21 for a least a decade). That means as far away as she may be, I’ll be thinking of her when she celebrates her around 40^th very soon, so please all wish her heaps too. Birthday compliments are always nice as expressions from nice people. There’s also plenty of reason to celebrate because she’s achieved an enormous amount over and above her wildest dreams; including and beyond all the goals she has set for herself to date. Mums need to do that, you know, set goals, even if they have no kids. In fact, the dads may as well join the fashion, given their SNAG status.

There’s plenty to do in London town for any my fair lady. See a movie, take in a show. How about ballet? Yes, to all three, but make sure you check the car park isn’t too icy before trying a quick pas de deux or for goodness sake, take some skates! Ah, fond memories. Where was I?

Internet inspired, I reviewed an apt thousand things to do in London at night, but after wading through hundreds of write-ups on ritzy bars, clubs and pubs I came across the Hoxton Ukulele Hootenanny which sounded pretty neat, except it meant your birthday has to be on Monday. Mind you, Monday’s a great day for a birthday. You start the week on a high note that will hopefully carry through to the weekend. Indoor rock climbing sounds fun too, but I think that’s strictly for the 21’s and under. The Ginger pig, Oxygen Freejumping and the Kings Cross Pond Club all have limited appeal, although, the former apparently does serve delicious meat pies of world renown, reputably. If so, any serious person would need to round that off with an all weathers tub of Haagen Dazs, right?

I don’t know what mum has planned for her birthday, but I know one thing in particular that separates mothers from everyone else is their ability to throw good parties. It’s instinctive, in the blood. Therefore, I can safely assure celebrations far away will be fun filled, imagination inspired, joyous ones even if some impromptu ice-skating briefly interrupts the ebb and flow. From one down under and from the bottom of my heart, I wish all mums happy birthdays when they come round and this one, my mum, an extra-special time.

Happy birthday to be and my very best wishes for the occasion, mother.

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Life on Mars – Inspired by Harry Potter

Book cover by Andy Duong – an aspiring graphic artist

 

I have a real treat for my regular visitors. New faces should be equally charmed. My “short stories” section is rarely contributed to so I feel another entry has been long overdue. As an extended essay, the full version populates thirty pages of large font text – not quite enough to be classed as a “book”, but big enough to develop layered themes. At least nine separate edits saw several months invested in the finished article.

Though the expressive content is nothing like any of JK Rowling’s novels heralding the supernatural hero Harry Potter, it is as equally inventive and very “British” in character. I also had a school chum of the exact same name and the lead character is based on his memory. Here is the opening, background and suspense development section. Enticed readers will be advised of “next steps” to continue on to the exciting bits. So, without further ado here is:

Life on Mars (inspired by Harry Potter)

This tale was told over a cold winter fire. Flickering light, sweet cocoa and blackened marshmallows etched the background. We were cocooned in a swirling blackness. No tree, hill or impasse could be separated from the throbbing void. Our narrator would transport us to a brave new world of the most mystical kind. Was it truth or just fantasy? It is hard to believe but this is the saga of Steve.

By all accounts the manuscript had been the only possession of a deceased medium that had travelled the seven seas. The parchment had been cursed by witches, blessed by the Papacy and nearly eaten by a remote dragon. We were not sure whether that was the Asian Komodo variety or some strange, exotic creature from a mythical past. Either way, the precious work had survived and now was our narrator’s prized possession. An ominous hand written message in blood red featured on the front page:

“If only they would hear me. It is though my life has been reduced to a giant dream. I walk in dazed slumber and lie with eyes wide open riveted on…something. That fateful journey changed everything. Why oh why did it happen to me?”

 

~~~

Chipping Norton is an average English village situated somewhere near the historic city of Oxford. We had a pond and a green and lots of quaint old houses; some dating back to the fourteenth century. This was not the place for anything unusual to happen. Every day was an average day with matching weather. In the cold season the weather turned bad. When the hot season bothered to make an appearance some nicer days sought refuge as fond memories. We, like everyone else, enjoyed ice cream, pizza and popular television shows.

If there was a difference, it was only because we were English and naturally upheld the age old tradition of cream scones for tea on weekends. Our semblance of a cricket team had to combine with other local villages to complete a line-up. The mighty Thwackers played at Abingdon town oval on Sundays in the summertime.

The atmosphere at the village was always jovial. One general store and no public house ensured placid, cordial interactions with little ado about nothing. People would meet on the way to, back from or in the store. Kids occasionally amassed on the green or terrorised the ducks and frogs on the pond.

Our house was typical for the location. It had an expansive thatched roof and was reputedly constructed in 1512. Grounds were large so investment in a metal detector had produced eighty four coins and three bolts. There was also a cellar basement area which smelt rather dank. With it came a permanently musty odour. The metal detector picked up nothing but I felt sure there was a fortune buried somewhere.

Our sun came down and went up, days turned into months, months’ years and people eventually became old and grey. Occasional rumours or minor dramas interrupted the criss-cross circles of peoples’ lives. Nothing I had heard was remotely television worthy. As for our house, well there was me, my little sis and mum and dad, of course. I’d dropped out of university. It wasn’t for me. My plan was to make some money and travel, catch some excitement; see things that would never be seen at Chipping Norton village.

I did have a trade of sorts to fall back on as I had always been good at building things. Fortunately the local mechanic needed an offsider so I put my heart and soul into fixing machines. It is difficult to know if that is why “the event” happened. I have been racking my brains as to why they picked me, why I was chosen. Did I have any special skills? Was I of the right temperament? Could genetics have been the reason? They never told me. Well, actually, they did not tell me much. After meeting them, I realise how we like to talk.

One day, I stayed late at the workshop. This was not unusual in itself. I rarely went home at the correct time. What was there to do in Chipping Norton village? Some of my friends used to head off for Abington town, but I was not an avid boozer. In fact, I rarely partook of alcohol. All the fun I needed was at the workshop. That fateful evening I noticed a strange light shimmering in the courtyard. Perhaps “light” is the wrong word. Maybe iridescence better described it; whatever it was. A glowing blue-white gave a ghostly effect, but it was not ultra-violet. Like a poor fool, I ignored the hue and carried on with my work. Why did I not flee from there as fast and as far as my vehicle would take me?

“Why oh why?”

 

~~~

The fire crackled cheerily. Every now and again a slightly louder snap or pop gave the atmosphere vitality. The whiff of seasoned wood burning seemed like incense; almost medicinal.

We had finished all the marshmallows, drunk the hot, sweet cocoa. A nice bed of embers radiated extra warm. Around us was a thick soupy black that just kept closing in. Were it not for our lustrous fire we would have been swallowed up whole and indeterminate from the void. The saga of Steve was far from over. Our narrator paused, cleared his breath and continued.

 

~~~

Chipping Norton village had been the centre of attention two weeks before. A boisterous arts and crafts fair had passed through. It was a colourful troop that included mystics, spiritualists and even genuine gypsies. Apparently some had international reputations. One of the locals learned that our village had been cursed for its role in the inquisition, but no one really took any notice. This had come from a strange foreign woman who carried a crystal ball in a small, battered, leather suitcase. Other than that, the lead up to “the event” had shown no irregularities, no suggestions; no insight as to what was to happen. Indeed things had been more normal than normal.

I looked at my watch. Save the mysterious light, it was almost dark. I could barely make out the hour. Nine o’clock! “Well, time for a cup of tea,” I thought.

Then, an almighty crack!

What was that? It sounded like a large tree had just been felled. The ground vibrated. Not being the inquisitive type, I carried on to the small kitchenette where there was a kettle, small stove and all the essentials for tea making. Poking up on one of the shelves was even half a packet of chocolate digestive biscuits. I picked up a small plate, the biscuits and placed them on the side table. The kettle had already started to hiss. That was quick. I had only just switched it on.

Outside a fog began to appear, slowly but distinctly. It was the rolling sort that shimmered in the mysterious luminance.

To the left of the kitchenette was mounted an electric wall clock. The second hand usually went “clack, clack, clack” stridently. It was so loud, in quiet moments it could be heard in the workshop.

Silence

Nothing; no hissing, no clacking, just silence. It was as though time had stood still. It’s funny, but it took a few moments for the serenity to sink in. I am sitting there, trying to read a pamphlet in the half light. So absorbed, I almost missed it; the moment time stood still. When it came to me, when I realised, it was too late. “The event” was already happening; so fast, I can barely recount.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a cleft or, at least, I thought that is what it was. The wall to my right side seemed to just open up. First a chink of that mysterious light seeped out, slowly oozing towards me like sticky treacle. The fissure widened to a shaft and then there was just light; blinding, throbbing light.

 

~~~

Our narrator cleared his throat again. “Can someone throw some more wood on the fire? It’s dying low.” He then rummaged in his backpack and produced a tired wooden pipe and a pouch of smoking tobacco. Clearing his throat, once more, for good measure, he proceeded to fill up the bowl, meticulously evening out any odd strand of tobacco. “You like smoking that pipe, sir?” said one of his group obscured by an orange tinted blackish fog made from the combination of the fire and the pressing outer elements.

A vague nod and silence

“Um, now where was I?”

To our left a large bat skipped by. Out of nowhere, silhouetted against the darkness it shocked the be-jeepers out of us. “What was that?” screamed one of our brethren.

“Don’t worry Alan”

The narrator pensively scanned the lack of horizon hoping to make something out of nothing, then lowered his head and began reading again.

 

~~~

 

How to finish a fine read?

I hope you all enjoyed that. If you wish to continue the full read is for sale less than the price of a BigMac ™. It will not give you heartburn and you can read it over and over. My friends at Book Tango have kindly acted as sales agents for various e-book versions. It is listed on the (Penguin Books) Book Country website here.

Testing content on a number of friends, a couple felt it was ideal as a reading tool to encourage our modern youth. It is not too long, keeps the reader engaged (even in the boring bits) and there is a “payoff” (oh boy, is there just!). In fact the only criticism was; where’s part two? So, I would be most appreciative if you would all raise awareness of the tale on social media networks, even if you chose not to read on yourselves. That isn’t too much to ask is it? Harry Potter would approve.

Though the story can be purchased through Book Tango and Amazon, it is now also available as part of a bundle, including a wonderful audio presentation by myself. You will find a PayPal link and simple instructions on what to do here.

Depending on the desire of wanton readerships as expressed by numbers completing the first part of Life on Mars (inspired by Harry Potter), other parts will follow ultimately preparing more serious readers for my next large book, “A New World Order”. This, in light of the constant requests for it to be so, may be produced in print. But that is for a future time beyond the control or whims of our beloved Harry Potter.

The Club

This poem is dedicated to my most regular visitor, Peter Schreiner.

My poetry does not make any effort to rhyme, is not devoted to mathematical algorithms and contains no designed ciphers. Written rapidly, it reflects the expressive features of a moment. However, enwrapped is so much more. Conscientious readers have a lifetime to discover.

Regularly I visit my local Bowling Club to break the order of my life. Typing in the notepad of my iphone, I ponder whether to stay for a second beer or leave, as usual, after one.

Televisions high in all corners

Flickering quadrant sentinels

Beaming intolerable coherent jargon

Meaningless drivel; mass media spin

Monotonous tones stifling time

Rest bite from the gambler’s curse?

One more spinner is surely a winner?

Sentient ambivalence greets wizardry

Could faith conjure control?

 

The floor divides an invisible hive

A clique for each quadrant

Twelve circle tables, empty?

Pleasantly spaced; nicely scented

Ne’er all cliques present

Always one; sometimes more

Bar services coordinate disorder

Too much cheer for some?

Go home; lest you be told.

The Sun is Pink

The year of our Lord is twenty forty two. Global Union of Nations federalism through its single currency, the fraud proof electro-dollar was a disaster but that did not limit the Amalgam of Foundations to welcome its newest member. This prestigious organisation had attracted Rockefeller, Soros and Gates to its ranks back in the early twenties. A lot had happened after the 2017 centenary of Zionist world domination.  So the infamous Brotherhood of Babylon made their move in the new age of Rosicrucian enlightenment and jostled for position in the democratic order of Amalgam of Foundations. The ink had barely dried on their membership certificate before they were in front of the Commissar for Marketing Propaganda and its reputed 436,752 body network.  As a trading partner of NSA/CIA collaboration, many intellectuals had theorised the police state was effective at global federal level. Be that as it may, the Brotherhood of Babylon was still reeling from the effect of “penny activists” whose virulent slander began the century before.

They knew that once the mind is influenced the heart will follow. A similar technique had been employed to enslave the people. Most, at the time, ignorantly supported the outlaw of corporal punishment for children. Few even considered prior generations had learned to mentally resolve smacks and slaps developing into mentally strong adults. The few that spoke out were demonised and drowned by the mainstream machine. This meant the new crop, our generation, would wail at the first sign of trouble. Cowardice as an absolute became the new fortuitous standard. Nevertheless, the Brotherhood of Babylon’s executive was not too concerned at the penny activists’ spurious allegations. All attempts to brand the brotherhood as a sub-set of Satanism was mildly welcomed in view of Michael Aquino recent popularity. The founder of the Temple of Set had eloquently proposed a new Judaism which conformed to Rosicrucian order. His miraculous rejuvenation after casting a spell in 2020 saw conversions en-masse. This partially led to an amnesty given to paedophiles who were allowed to express sacred duties.

The Brotherhood of Babylon executive concluded that it was “malicious” sun worship that had caused all bad PR and not possible shadowy connections into the world of masonic eugenics. Indeed, now genocide was legal masonic eugenics was a hot topic amongst conspiracy theorists. Legislation passed by the Global Union of Nations stated that rogue nuclear suicidal peoples needed to be cleansed for the overall good of the people. The first world media always presented eugenics in a constructive, positive light. The same as capital punishment of individuals it was deemed necessary in the balance. Naturally the review process was overseen by the Israel Firster’s in light of their horrific and certainly not false suffering from the absolutely, unquestionably true NAZI holocaust, they said. If any nation had the ability to judge genocide, it was Israel, it was thought. Many applauded their careful decision to wipe out the Palestinians for their own good once they mysteriously became nuclear suicidal.

For the Brotherhood of Babylon, the Ministry for Marketing Propaganda piloted a number of surveys. Resulting feedback drew some surprising conclusions. No longer did the sun offer a warm glow. It was not the golden chalice and life giver of old. Cowardice had taken such a big hold of the people; the sun was seen as an aggressive giant; not a life giver, but a source of radiation and decay. This stemmed, partially, for the mistaken view it was a burning planet rather than an explosive zero point spatial vent. Science had successfully, though inadvertently, conned the ill-informed. This was made worse by successive advertising campaigns by the pharmaceutical cartel that blamed just about all the increasing types of cancer on the sun. As their medications could not work, blaming an unresolvable ever-presence was a fait accomplis. The stupid, ignorant people wouldn’t be expected to check the integrity of their institutions which, of course, are beyond question.

One of the Brotherhood’s executive team members had been involved with the Glen McGrath breast cancer awareness foundation decades back. Their marketing efforts had taken stride with the power of pink. They had even managed to convince a number of butch sportsmen to wear pink clothing as part of the campaign. Pink, at the time, was regarded as a feminine colour and in no way representative of masculinity. The sun might need a pink-over to win the support of the people. The decade prior to Glen McGrath would have seen a sportsman badly beaten by his own team mates for his gayness wearing pink. Therefore, the same trick could surely be applied to the sun?

It turned out the sun did pass through a pink phase on occasion, so the Brotherhood employed a team of scientist to write an enormously complex and detailed report to conclude the most important element of the Sun’s spectroscopy was indeed pink. The report was so complex it consisted of eight hundred and thirty seven pages of text and a further two hundred containing diagrams, models and complex equations. Octogenarian scientist Stephen Hawking was quick to approve the research, as was terminally ill science intellectual Richard Dawkins. Indeed, other than one prominent scientist who had sadly and inexplicably drowned attempting to swim for the first time two hundred kilometres from his home, all agreed the sun was pink and science had undeniably demonstrated the fact. The Brotherhood of Babylon executive could simply wait and see. Headlines were ready for release:

“THE SUN IS PINK”.

Christmas in the Fourth Dimension

With two hundred and forty three hours in every day, Christmas in the fourth dimension is nothing short of value packed. You really feel like you are having a day to remember; although, then again, Christmas might be the short one. There is a day with only three hours. They can do that there; in the fourth dimension. Or, rather, we can!

Yes, they say, “Have a nice day” “Do come again” to those that visit. And those that don’t we must assume, by the same token, are most welcome; or, at least, that’s what they say. For those who haven’t been, it is a most topsy-turvy place. Up is down and down is up, or, is that the other way round; perhaps both? Strange creatures are to be found; some so strange they shouldn’t be there at all. What………unicorns!? Pah! They are commonplace here, well, there. A dime a dozen, oh but as majestic and graceful in flight as anything you will ever see. Yes, something to behold, but there is another thing. They are infectious. Aren’t they just? No need for cupid while the unicorns reign. As they are everywhere, please keep your voices down otherwise they’ll hear, the mayor wants them culled. Ahem, he’s a Globalist of course, no surprise.

The crotchety old dragon in the big east cave most assuredly does not breathe fire. Those shining plumes are only a fashion accessory. I must say they do make him look rather grand. Though, I confess, if there was a Scrooge of the fourth dimension, he would be it. You see, they fuss; the dragons that is. If they simply carried on regardless, well they would be heroes of old. But, no, they always have to stick their noses in. Some don’t have noses, as such, but they find something to stick in that’s just as bad. Look, I know they mean well, but it just isn’t Christmas.

If I were to be sorry for something, it would be for the apes, or that’s what we call them here. In fact, I don’t know if they have even been invited. But, I suppose, having no heads makes things difficult. Their periscope eyes don’t help. Let’s face it; all three seem to have minds of their own. There are strict privacy laws here and I assure you the stricter they are the more private they become. Of course, the apes like to clamber all over those old fashioned box skyscraper buildings, doing apish things. Harmless fun; I don’t think they are even used these days. As we all know, decent folks live in spheres. Given a big enough area, the floor will be as flat as any box. Although, I must admit, it is exhilarating to host a banquet on the ceiling of one of those Rococo grand mansions, chandeliers ‘n all.

And it would not be Christmas without a feast. This year the dragons are doing it. Now I know what you are all going to say, but, frankly I agree. However, we cannot sink to the racist depths of those who eternally yen to destroy the spirit of Christmas. The dragons believe they are fun and they do do good magic. Everyone can agree on that. So the dragons are hosting Christmas this year. It’ll be neat. Remember last year I wore that water suit and the Kryllians tried to drink it. They should have known better. Oh, but was it last year? These long days make everything seem like eternity.

I felt it was a bit lazy to let the manuscripts make the music; as beautiful as it was. But, nothing beats watching fine artisans being creative. Oh, that’s right, the dratted Globalists organised last Christmas; probably friends of the mayor. Presents were out as they conflicted with the quota system.  Half the guests never received invites as they were wanted. Nobody has told me what they were wanted for. At least the dragons will invite everybody. Everyone can be assured they have been given strict orders not to eat any of the guests. We have been explicit and have had to put our foot down after….well, let’s not dwell on that.

Nobody believes they were holographs. And as for the Ceremony of Lipithuliphet, well, I cannot find a single person who’s heard of it. Even the wise vines of Auglothigol say it is nonsense. Time patches may be possible, but guests do not like to be eaten. Period! That’s why we’ve put our foot down this time. Those bloody Globalists and their offer of prime propaganda. Well Globalists your propaganda wouldn’t convince a two year old….with knobs on. “Dragons are nasty”. So, tell us something we don’t already know? Besides, dragons aren’t all bad. In fact, some say they only look frightening.

Let’s face it; they can do a really good show. Dynamo move on. Mind you that fusion of gothic and technology seems to transport the viewer into some kind of futuristic horror movie. But it is surely worth it for the effects. Wow……..and some! They take horror to a new level, all in the spirit of fun, of course. Oh yes! No, seriously, you’ve gotta love them. You really do not want to criticise them. That’s the safe way. They might only look terrifying.

Dragons do have their cuddly side. They tell me once you become familiar with their routine, all is good. That’s providing you are not eaten, of course, but I wouldn’t have thought that would have happened much; although, bizarrely, I have not yet found anyone who is familiar with their routine. Just a coincidence, I’m sure. They’re a good bunch of guys, ahem, the dragons that is. It is lucky for the penguins.

Or, rather, I think that is what they are. Nothing is as it seems in the fourth dimension. Everything certainly is larger than life here and when it’s not larger, well, it’s smaller, of course. They are fluffy, chirpy and resilient just as you would expect penguins to be. So I am satisfied. They are penguins. They tell me the dragons aren’t all that bad. A lot of it’s for show, they say. Oh yes and those disappeared critics, well they’re on holiday on the moon; all expenses paid. We’re not sure which moon, but it’s alright for some. No doubt a view with two suns and a blue planet while we’re all stuck in the drudgery of the fourth dimension.

We are pretty lucky to have what we have. Christmas would not the same without the town crier. Of course, the rest of the year he’s a Danish prince peeing in a fountain. Out of the ashes, poof, there’s a metamorphosis. Adonis rises.  Doesn’t everyone one love the penguins dance. They certainly show the Christmas spirit. Even the dragons might have a cuddly side. They do love the penguins, but I haven’t met anyone who hasn’t been smitten at first sight.

The penguins knew something else about the dragons; why they are scary. It is this that might have been behind their reputation, for dragons are judges. Good judges strip their defendants bare and expose their true characters. As everyone is just a little bit naughty, no wonder we were all apprehensive at Christmases presided over by dragons. Everyone loves presents and presents make Christmas in the fourth dimension the same as every other. Of course, Christmas should also be about all those noble traits; honour, compassion, humility, fairness, faith and, most of all, the most avoided trait of all; truth. Blinkered truth in a rose tinted world is not truth and that is what the dragons expose and that is why they are so feared.

Now, without any further ado, the dragons cordially invite everyone to their season’s feast. Gifts are a prerequisite. Each attendee must present courage, kindness, gallantry, patience, charity, mercy, honesty, generosity, loyalty, courtesy, cheerfulness, love, curiosity, accountability, enthusiasm or commitment to an unknown stranger. It should be neatly wrapped and tied up in a pretty little bow.

This is the spirit of Christmas in the fourth dimension.

The importance of mother

Mother’s birthday is coming up so hopefully this exploration will turn into a tribute in some way. Though I have been independent for most of my life, I have always felt in some way connected to the umbilical cord. The physicality may be a distant non-memory, but its essence is ever present both in terms of the continuation of life and the explicit, intrinsic connection beyond physical. There is no argument, or perhaps plenty of argument, that that immaculate power source, the shared power source, radiates a spectrum of desires from absence to intensity. These fizz out into reality, first as opinions, then as beliefs and finally as outcomes – outcomes built from the sheer will to exist and make existence productive. Of course, they may disappear over time but they will always exist as they were “why”.

My first memory is [of me] sitting on a pram. Below me, I am told, was my new born sister. Though I have no memory of it; the time before, that is, I do remember thinking it was odd having to share the limelight. It is funny that I have no memory of my mother as a physical entity then. She was the loving force that propelled the pram but I, her two year old son, did not “see” her. The first time I remember seeing my mother was around age five. No doubt I saw her when I started seeing, but she did not register in my memories until I was five.

The wasp

From my earliest thoughts I have never found a place to forgive wasps. They are as bad as the larger sized cockroaches I now regularly see in Sydney. Cockroaches, they tell me, are harmless. I learned that wasps are not. A regular lunchtime treat, in my infant years, was jam sandwiches. Raspberry or strawberry preserve, and occasionally black currant were the popular selections. But that fateful day, as a five year old neatly tucked into the kitchen table, flavours were of no consequence. While waving jam covered hands a wasp landed on my thumb. A natural consequence of a vented room on an unusually hot summer’s day. Until then, I had merely feared these tiger striped insects that angrily buzzed “we’re going to get you” at distance, or so I thought. Now, five years old and wedged into position at the kitchen table they, it, was here. My moment of truth, I was petrified. I was so petrified I could not move or, in other words, I did not just look like stone, I may as well have been stone. The wasp was not easily amused. It stung me on schedule and disappeared into distant memory as I cried. This is my first physical memory of my mother. On one hand she consoled me, the incoherent wailing child, as no other could. Then, once I had become lucid long after the fact, she told me off for being stupid.

Stupidity

Being stung was a proud lesson. First it taught me fear and being petrified is a great hindrance to resolution. Second it taught me if you can act, act now and do not lose a moment. Time has shown I am as stupid as I am gifted. If there was a qualification for stupidity I would be doctorate material. As the only way to learn is through mistakes, stupidity is a greater blessing than any gift. My mother never missed an opportunity to highlight my stupidity. In doing so she is more than a valid guide.

This is not to say that mothers are error free or beyond self-serving. Quite the reverse as all mothers are subjectively objective. She came from a place of wanting her best for me.

Teaching

One of my great achievements was being able to read before I could walk. This was before any memories bubbled up into the repository I regularly draw on for perspective, but I believe it to be true. The only reason I did not write was my fingers were too small to hold a pen. It is important to say, this did not just happen. Sure, it was in me and found a way out, but most importantly I was guided by someone who could bring it out. That was my mother; the teacher. Without her constant coaxing I would not be what I am today. Teaching is not conveying information, but rather supporting the mechanisms and disciplines required for the impetus to do, while providing the necessary precautions to fend off stupidity.

She cares

Caring is not about the money or even any physical support. Those may be symptoms. Caring is. It cannot be faked, but it may encourage fakers offering false hope. At times even hatred might be a symptom of care. What of the stupid who are stupid and refuse to be anything other than stupid contrary to all advice, all initiatives and all experiences? Might not their carers hate as the only plausible resolution for unresolved stupidity? Might hate be the final sanctity? Would not one small transgression, one small victory over stupidity counter all that welled up bitterness, befuddlement and anger? Would not the hatred evaporate? Stupidity can never halt caring. The carer will care for ever for this is inherent.

A Mother blessed

Every mother is blessed whether good or bad, selfish or indiscriminate. However, how mothers treat their blessing determines who they are. If they are great, they will revere and will be revered. My mother is blessed.

The Cycle of Life

Those who take to time to explore my writings quickly conclude that I am one of a kind. Though, for the most part, there is nothing unique in the material I put forward, my diagnosis, rationalisation and drawing conclusions are exceptional. My own mother remarked that my book A Brief History of Conscience was like a “string of ancient proverbs” which challenged every modern day convention.  She had heard it all before, but this was as fresh as if it had never been conceived. So how would I, someone like me, view the cycle of life?

We have a veranda at my place. Yes I know I perhaps should have said our place, but I don’t care about them and I do not own it. I am not even the primary lease holder, so we live there but it is my place because as far as I am concerned, they don’t exist. We live under heavy tree cover and this restricts light in the day, but the nights are really dark. The veranda is a pretty good size and fenced to conform to limits of the apartment. We are on the ground floor so perhaps have a greater connection to nature.

At night I often flick on a solitary light. Its marbled plastic casing had been broken long ago; before I moved here. That exposes a clear 40 watt bulb and from the right trajectory, you could just make out the filament. I sort of know how it works, but not precisely. I know they generate electricity at a power station, but I couldn’t precisely say how they manage to tease it onto the vast network of copper wires which eventually connects to the socket of my veranda light. I don’t know if they distribute electrons, photons or some other kind of “on”, but I do know that by a miracle we call modern technology, I can flick the switch and the light lights. Notwithstanding power cuts and other disasters, natural or otherwise, my veranda light has never failed me, broken though it may be.

At night, when it is switched on, my broken veranda light with its filament exposed attracts a chorus of moths. Where did they come from? Did they come to pay homage or was it a passing affection? Would they return? Who knows? They were there; they were always there, heralded by the light and that is all that can be said.

Did I mention we had a cat?

It is not my cat. It was here when I came. The cat also loved the veranda but was not attracted to the light. She did not mind if the light was on or off, but she preferred it on because she was on a secret attack mission. Those tiny dive bombers whirring towards their heavenly destination were her fascination; her prey. She would crouch into a tense ball of fluff and tendons. At the right moment she would morph into an animated flying machine limbs swinging to the precise pulse of the moths; her beloved prey.

In a flash a fat grub like body could be seen protruding from her mouth like a large, grotesque swollen tongue.

Her expression said it all. That wasn’t meant to happen. What was this thing doing there? It feels strange and I am not sure I like this. Only one solution now! A big gulp later and she was back as a crouching ball of fluff ready for a new adventure.

If I think about the cycle of life, I picture that beautiful bijou veranda bathed in its semi-luminance courtesy of a sole broken light surrounded by moths transfixing a fluffy female cat statuette. I had the power over the switch and I appreciated that power in its vision. That is my cycle of life.