Bearing Bullshit

My mole has had the tank relocated to the school joining the road works crew who'd been moved some time earlier. Now they huddle together in the corner watching the clouds and smelling each other's farts. The road has been left a complete diaster and apart from the debushing nothing has been done about the burst main but oh! what a show. The Pomp. The Circumstance.

Our government is on a new kick- some pseudo-born again, return to old time values-family first agenda. The Moral Road is being rammed down our throats with the usual Jesus references being thrown in for flavour. The problem is this island is just too small to hide how this new found morality is being applied to our leaders' personal lives. I'm privy to enough of our government's private affairs to give me a feeling oddly similar to when you eat too much popcorn, candy and soft drink while sitting through a lousy double feature in an uncomfortable chair.

And the apathy of this country has infected me. I make my little jokes but they end with a don't-carish shug of the shoulders that says "what can I do about it?". I'm returned to grade 10 math class where we were determined to stage a much needed walk-out on Mr. McCarrell yet remained firmly seated to our chairs. All I could do was leave a dirty piece of anonymous poetry at the bell.
Solve for Y, Solve for X, I look at you and think of sex.
Sex was of course the last thing anyone would think of when it came to Mr. MC.

But I digress,

I mentioned that this place is a Circle Game. Of late these circles are getting smaller, so faster, and I'm getting dizzy. I've always had problems with motion sickness but now this queazy feeling that I'm going to hurl won't go away. And no. I'm not pregnant with child but yes I'm pregnant with bullshit and since it's the only meal around here there appears to be no hope of bearing anything but that.

RIP Suzanne

And from Kocurkovo we return to Dogter Kovorkian-
This place is an honest to God, Circle Game and carousel of time.

Truly, I am sometimes in absolute awe of my own strength of endurance.

The last of my dogs was found dead.

This time some Sperminal Spawn of Satan took it upon himself to chop out the ass of my dog and leave her for dead in the grass.

Poor Suzanne was about the mildest most pathetic dog I have ever had the sad privilege of condemning to death.

I was explained by one who knows of such things, that her murderous torture was probably her punishment for her trying to steal the fertility "strength" of the pure bred pitbull below. The owner of the "good dog" would surely not let my bitch get away with canine rasinification. Her vile castration was likely her final lesson on where she stands in the doggy caste system.

Sounds sickeningly familiar.

Water Works Get the Slavic Wrath

Back to Idiot Village.

Idiot Village now has a name. It's 'Kocurkovo', pronounced kotsoorkovo, and it means male pussy village (which is really very appropriate if you are fortunate enough to know any male pussies).
I felt it wise that the name be in Slovac because whenever the kocurs come they will and do get the experience of Baba's full blown Fury. My mother does not suffer fools.

Yesterday's kocur came in the person of fat, dumpy, gross man driving a big tank with scoup. "Oh...like de one's 'pon de ABC Highway mummy..." Yes IZ.

Kocur drives into the yard in a white pick-up and parks to count the clouds and smell his own farts. My mother comes out to see who he is. He's with water works. The main's burst again. He'll be excavating.

Of course, after 11 years, you know better than to be informed, let alone asked, if a thousand ton machine can roll into your backyard and tear away your land. But Kocur does make a request. Can he go through the back behind the new house being built? "No, says mums, take the truck through the front gate and come down like you always do."

Well, in Kocurkovo that translates as "Do whatever you'd like" and so fat, dumpy, gross man goes through the back, behind the new house and spends the day excavating our rock.

This morning, Ricky goes out to investigate. The spring water pipe (our only source of water because the BWA thinks we drink air), is burst in two places having had the thousand ton tank roll on top of it all day. I sometimes wonder why water works doesn't put a question mark behind the name. As in, your water works? Don't worry we'll fix that.

Good man that Ricky is, he mends the pipe and comes in to gripe as to why mums let the man drive through the back.

My mother was not what you'd call amused. She smoked herself patiently until Kocur returned. He came just as I was leaving for work. Ricky went first (good cop) "So why yuh had tuh drive tru de back dough? Yuh bus up de spring wadda pipe." Kocur takes out his penis and without turning from Ricky (and mums marching 3 feet behind)pisses on the the grass, zips, and replies that he wasn't told 'bout no pipes.

That was it. The Fire Raged. (Bad Cop) I don't have to give you an explanation of my life. I told you don't drive behind the house and you still do whatever the hell you like. You Kocurs think you can come in here like it's your very own water works yard!!! And on and on.

"Who sent you to do the work?"
"I dohn know- I forget he name?"
Why didn't you come through the gate like I told you?
"De truck did too big."

OK. My mother cooled off a little, I mean if the truck's too big it's too big. But wouldn't you know? Water Works have gotten their hands on some fine ass machinery because apparently all you need to do is press a button on the dash and the tank squeezes to half the width.

Kocur rolled the maginficent tank in through the gate and went down the hill to see how many more Neem trees he could devastate.

Real. Really? Fuh Real.

What is Real?

In part the question is prompted by a blog I was reading about being "Real" on the first date. (http://memoirsofadater.blogspot.com/)

In part it goes back to Friday night, when having escaped the clutches of my bodyguard, I went out alone and was told I was 90% fake.

In part it goes back to a conversation I had with a recently turned warm and fuzzy friend about love and emotions being real because I take the time to convince myself of it.

In part it goes back to a theory I shared with my boss:
"People are only "real" in so far as they're real for you. As soon as they leave your mind, they disappear until you bring them back to recall. When I leave work and you forget about me, I'll cease to exist."
(Dear heart says, "I don't forget about you- You're too important to me!!!" kuhdear, who wouldn't want a boss like that?)


For me "Real" is fluid. It's what's real today- right here, right now. And if tomorrow it changes it doesn't mean yesterday's real was superficial- it just means today's real is new and exciting.
For me "Real" is the coincidences (if they can be called that). The common theme that runs through the period- like the theme of real is for me at this time. It's the words between the lines of the writing on the wall. So hard to see because they are so so obvious.
For me "Real" is whatever I want it to be. Not the I of the ego but the I of the superego (God, I hate these psycho terms). Put it differently. As long as your God- the God that is your reality, is comfortable with your perspective of "Real", it is as much.

I refuse to subscribe to the idea that "Real" is only the most common, most comfortable or most accepted us. No- I'll keep my "Real" real and manipulate it however I please.
And if my "Real" is for you, "Fake" then forget about me and I'll cease to exist. And if the "Real" you is not fabulous enough just shake it up and watch the snow fall.

Driving Miss Crazy

I got my license late in life. My mother never had one and for too long I was following in her footsteps. I listened to the brow beaters when they told me how dangerous the road is and how I'd make a lousy driver. Then my boss, bless her heart, insisted and paid and pushed and forced me to claim my freedom. Now she has me driving everywhere. I don't refuse- partly because I hardly refuse anyone who asks something of me but also because I love being on the road by myself. It is the only time I take for me. Saturday I was on the road from 10-6. I burnt almost $70 in fuel. Today I 'purposely' got lost in Indian Ground trying to 'short cut' to Mount Brevitor.
But driving by myself is also driving myself crazy. I have these long drawn out conversations with me where I over analyze and castigate myself. I second guess decisions, I yell at me for the way I feel. And the more driving I do, the more nuts I become. And the worst part is, even after a long long day on the road- where my back is stiff and my neck is shot and a headache is begging for attention, I still itch to get back in the car.
It seems that with every new nook I find on this pebble in the sea, I find a new cranny in my psyche. People worried I'd get in accidents but I worry I'll become one myself. I'll either drive myself right off the cliffs of insanity or need a tow to Black Rock.

My Mole

I would like to say a special hello to my mole. I don't know who you are but you know I mean you so hey! What's up?

When my family first moved to BIM I had lots of moles. Moles reading every piece of mail with our address then sealing it back with tape and a big stamp claiming 'damaged'. I had moles on the road with little note pads scribbling away the times I came and went, what I wore, how much weight I'd gained. I had moles that would drop by under all kinds of pretexts, asking all kinds of questions, making all kinds of reports...I was inundated with moles.

Of course, those moles were there to check us out. I mean what kinda crazy white people ship their family to the third world to raise chickens? Once they discovered that we were exactly that interesting they set about finding someone else to investigate. Every once in awhile they pop their heads out. I wave. I'm still exactly that interesting.

But now, now I have my very own personal blog mole who reads and responds with enviable subtlety. I am impressed. For example:

I write about the licensing authority- the paper writes about it same week and then the L.A. gets overhauled.
I write about the roller- the roller gets taken away the very next day and hasn't come back since.
I write about the snails and the paper takes that too only they white wash it 'cause Lord knows they wouldn't dare have worm say anything bad about WCC (and in the process cut the humour in half).

I am really quite flattered and if such a mole exists- one that actually has the power to make changes based on my bullshit- then I will do my utmost best to provide you with as much as possible and maybe you all can actually run this fly speck island with some kind of efficiency. So Mr. Mole, please don't get scared off by my sleuth work, I actually enjoy having you here. Now why don't you see about that driveway at St. Elizabeth Primary? Your government sponsored mosquito breeding splash ponds are absolutely ridiculous.

Don't Believe The Hype!

I don't know where Yahoo gets its facts...
Invasion of snails in Barbados, my foot! (http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20061108/ap_on_fe_st/snail_invasion_1)
All of them have been properly approved by the Immigration Department and have been issued valid work permits.
How else are we goin' get all de wo'k do for World Cup?

Boycott of Blog

I've been boycotting my blog.
My readers are far too silent.
I know not every post deserves a rah rah but it's really starting to feel like I'm writing to myself. I mean raisin utopia...that is not something to be silent about. And then I get these little snippy comments about how busy I must be or if I've had time to post anything as yet. I find it a bit ironic that you all want me to believe I have no readers and still expect me to keep writing. I don't need to write to create masterpieces. I am very well skilled in talking to myself.

This last week I've saved all my thoughts for me with the exception of a few little e-mails that I could not resist. I found that talking to me was a lot more responsive than writing to you. And every now and again my God jumps in with something hillarious and the three of us have a great time (me, myself and I that is).

So! I refuse to disclose my convictions about historical time versus Mythological Time and the implications it has on gender relations. I will not tell you how Pierson O'Brien and I had a good time scaring little kids in a basement with the help of Winston Hall's murder victim. I will not share how breasts can be made to look super disgusting if you pump them up by using your forearms. I refuse, I will not tell, I won't share.

The Sky is Falling

I woke up to Halloween with Michelle's prophesy of doom.

'The Sky is Falling - The Sky is Falling'

The electricity is off, the radios don't work, there's no signal on the cell phone...

Creepy.

Our dog is missing and I get blamed because I suggested she get a chance to run 'bout after being chained for so long.

I drive the kids to school, go to work and still the electricity is off - In Town!?!

It's an island wide black out and shut down. Stores, Banks, Parliment- everything closed!

When the current does go back on, I get a call from IZ's school to come back for the kids because the school meals truck is not delivering and there's nothing to feed the swallows.

I leave work and the electric gates at the only port of entry/exit have seized and will not open by force. The override key was dropped in the mail slot of the lady who protects it when the current went back on. Now she's gone out and there's no way to open it. I sit in a line of cars which includes some Welch dudes trying to catch their flight but who are now forced to wait in self-imprisonment (such as the gated community and jobs on army bases are)until the manager lady drives half cross town to come with spare.

I am freed, pick up the kids, mom's yoga class is cancelled "everything is crazy today!" her student bemoans. (It's not just me...)

I start to cook, when Michelle calls-

She's slid down Horse Hill, hit a truck and busted her front bumper and light. She's fine.

Dinner on hold, I drive up Horse Hill to check on her, get more of an earfull about dog and blow all fuses. If wrath could be personified it was I.

But what, pray, could possibly have caused the island to whack out???

A monkey.

Yes, the evening news reports that a monkey was seen jumping on the box prior to it being blown, in the Whitehall area. But here's the thing, one million billion volts went through that monkey "who's had the shock of his life" (you're so funny, news people) and no monkey corpse can be found. Want to know my theory?

It was Koko.

Halloween brought his little spirit back to life so he could set about f-ing up the place for awhile.

(incidentally, lost dog will join Koko in next year's bruggadung. She was found this morning in the flowers.)