Meanwhile...back in the land of Kocurkovo

Meanwhile back in the land of Kocurkovo, the natives are thirsty.

The clouds have been constipated too long and those who fix the pipes are too busy playing cards with the ones who fix the roads to mind the leaks. Water is reaching a shortage.

Coming from the fresh water haven, we Canuks knew to set our furniture down next to an underground spring. A private source of liquid gold if you will. Not exactly gold to be truthful. More like 1/100th fecal matter and 50% chlorene but it looks like water. It's good for washing, rincing, flushing and if you boil it you can even drink it with nothing worse than a sore throat.

So, while everyone waits for the truck by the roadside with buckets and jugs and frousy BO, we enjoy the contant outflow of H2O. Or atleast we did.

Until the water went off this morning. And upon investigation it would seem that some poor parched fellow could take it no longer. He trespassed his way into the bush in the dark, cut the pipe line, emptied the water tank and carried it off on the back of his truck along with two lengths of pipe, leaving the spliced end to water the weeds. I do believe he would have carried away the spring itself if he could have figured a way to dig deep enough to remove it from the source.

After a trip to the store to purchase more lengths and a bottle of solution, the damage is mended and the water restored.

At least on my side of the street.

The neighbour, who shares the spring is still trying to fix his own pipes...

They melted after roadworks figured it would be easier to set his property ablaze rather than cut back the bush.

Who said Barbadians were all pride no industry?

And He Beats His Fists

The man by the road side is pleading again.

more time… less burden… new hope…

He beats his fists on the ground.

With each tick, his need for the days to slow down gets more rash and desperate and frightening. Time for him moves exceedingly fast for he’s shoved by the years behind him. I shouldn’t be here, the man screams out. He wails through a voice cloaked in humour. The others hear but don't care. They filch his cry for comic relief laughing with an air of pomposity. There is no discern for his pain.

But I hear the pain and though it cause me to stir I pray for it to continue.

It is the loneliness that fuels his ardor; it is the vacancy that accommodates him. In the darkness he illuminates. In the silence he resounds. I reach in my pocket and give him six moons. Great masses of time. Alas they’re too heavy for one who’s but carried grains of sand all the days of his life. So I cover my eyes and I listen to his breath and I prostrate myself on the ground…

And he beats his fists.

Waiting for Time

Barely over the threshold, into the land of the dying, with a whip-poor-will for my psychopomp, go I. I know you bird, we met once before when your wings killed a clock. It’s nice to see you again my friend, but surely you know the clock has been restored. This is the kingdom of Chronus after all; wristwatch is the teraphim of His followers.

The fishers of men have long left this place to the dead burying the dead. They line-up their cars behind the hearse. They queue their bodies in front of the pharmacy. They set their breaths by the second hand. Oh that I had the helm of Hades to hide myself from these time coveters!

“Spare a minute ma’am?” says a man begging by the road side.

Everyone is waiting for the Reaper with both dread and awe. To be permitted a few more moments is their solitary desire. But moments are passing by like wind. As they reach up to catch one, it slips through their fingers and the strangest thing occurs. Relief. Another moment means another risk, another chance that life might take them from this place. And the realm of Chronus is so safe and predictable. No one wearing a watch wants to leave.

Fear of Dying. Fear of Living. Fear of Forward. Fear of Back.

This is not the place for me little bird.

I have no minutes to spare anyway. I have left my timepiece at home. The weight of it was too much to bear on this journey. No. I am not a time seeker. It takes too much time. And time takes too much of me. And I owe time nothing.

Move on Mr. Whip-poor-will, take me to the fishers of men. Perhaps they have managed to catch one who isn’t mesmerized by a tick tock. Or take me to Father-T, Himself. I’ll tell him what he can do with his hourglass.

Embarkation

I suppose I've got to start this Quest alone, as the search for someone with whom to embark upon it, has proven to be something of a quest of its own.

I suppose I have to trust that as I make my way through forbidden forests and demonic deserts the right people will come at the right time.

It’s not a faith I find difficult to muster as it is the very nature of God to make it so. But I set out with a heavy heart nevertheless, forlorn for the lack of company.

My kind of adventure is not for the faint of heart nor the ones contented with artificial peace.

My type of journey is not for the sticky footed nor the ones bogged down by superficial desires.

There are no well wishers who understand the mission, to give charms and amulets for protection. Not a prayer is spoken here.

There are no brave souls to shout “I will fight by your side to the death!” Everyone is asleep.

Nothing left to do now but pack my sack, put on the armor and set out into the sunset alone.

Fair thee well. Fair thee well. May our paths cross again some day.

The Fate of Scheherazade

At my mother's insistance, I've further stressed my night stand. Now on top of Vonnegut's Bagombo Snuff Box, Eliade's Myths, Dreams and Mysteries, An Encylopedia of Mythology, the NRSV Bible with Apocrypha, A book about the Hebrew Goddess, the autobiography of Malcolm X and the Oxford Dictionary (yes, I read the dictionary), I've added Tales from the Arabian Nights. I'm keeping it on top not because I prefer it but because the colour is purple and since my discombobulation (see I told you I read the dictionary), it matches the new paint job I gave my-once bed, now romper- room.

It sounds like a lot of reading. But truth is, I've read X already and have yet to return it to its owner. I keep it there next to the word Goddess to make Detroit Red roll in his grave. The Bible, the Encylopedia and the Dick are for reference. So that leaves two non-fiction and two fiction. I have alloted myself all the time that I require to busy my brain dot dot dot two weeks.

Now I am not embarssed to admit my ignorance re: Arabian Nights. I took it as something of a cross between animated Aladin and the Old Sinbad movies I watched as a kid. I was pleasantly surprised to discover the story is how I adore them-a story within a story within a story within a story, on and on. And having read only the first four tales or so, the common theme emerges with the sound of my God's cruel laughter.

Waiting. Waiting- with anticipation of dread. Waiting- with fear of the end. Waiting using stories to pass the time in hopes that the stories themselves will somehow alter the inevitable executions.

And oh how I want the Sultan to be in love with Scheherazade, to not fear love, to stop making the poor girl worry if every night may be her last. But most of all, I want the Sultan to allow Scheherazade to remain in his life where the stories can go on and on.

I shall cross my fingers for the brave girl and in two weeks I shall know her fate.