365 Ways With Words

The Fart

An early-afternoon calm settled on the hot classroom. The heat of the clear-blue day radiated through the windows to counter the effects of the air conditioning from the glowering May sun. The uninspiring view of the square box mid-Kowloon syline served only to focus the minds of the students – there was simply nothing else to do.

Whilst they settled into the task, the teacher sat down on his soft chair and used the silent opportunity to send vital emails, put the finishing touches to a worksheet and glance at Facebook. Another 15 minutes of worktime stretched ahead. But something else was pressing – wind.

Breaking wind in class is a perennial problem. Mild-mannered teachers exercise strict control of all bodily functions, saving it up until a visit to the lavatory enables a full discharge. Bravo! Ladies produce perfumed farts reminiscent of a walk through an English Country Garden. The gods of teaching kind have no such problems: they simply do not fart – ever – not even by mistake. Others, however, the human-sort – flesh and blood – are not quite so lucky. For them, even a sneaky one could spell disaster; social ostracism at best and a possible career exit as worst.

Such was the case that afternoon. It had been a curry night and late start. All was ship-shape until the mild diuretic and laxative effects of a large lunch-time cup of tea. Then the gurgling began, unnoticed by all sat more than five feet away. Once the corner had been turned there was simply no-where else for it to go. A smelly emination of gargantuan proportions was imminent.

What to do? The teacher looked up at the class – heads were bowed and eyes down, their task taking up attention. It was now or never and if worst came to the worst then a blank face would be proof alone of innocence – teachers don't fart, do they?

Up on one cheek, the urgent pressure on the emergency valve was released one turn – sufficient to allow egress in a controlled manner. But the combined nature of the gases was such that once out of the bag, so to speak, the release became a gaseous flood, and a noisy one at that: "Paaaaarppp!!!" A rattly rasp redolent of the plastic chair variety filled every ear with its shocking, defiant tone.

All heads looked up, shocked at the sudden and unabashed retort from a base bodily function. Protesting disgust, their glances instantly fell upon the teacher, but as arbiter of classroom etiquette and politeness, not as instigator. His reflected face protested shock and with outrage enquired, "Who did that?"

Some swung glances towards Freddy, whose head was still lowered in attention to work. "Freddy!" arose a synchronous chorus. The usual suspect protested innocence. But then the earthy, rotten smell flooded across the desks. Hands rushed to noses and nostrils were plugged with whatever came to hand. "Poo! Freddy!" Even the teacher joined in. "Freddy, can you please go to the toilet?" He protested louder than normal, but it felt to all-but-one of the assembled inhalers as a weak misdirecting ruse. He remained firmly in his plastic chair.

Finally, Freddy sat red-faced, an admission of guilt: he appeared to enjoy another occasion for notoriety. The class settled again as the Brownian Motion equally distributed the gases to all four corners of the room. By rights the teacher should have been outed, and re-Christened in a manner that would mean future generations would forever remember the incident, but against all likelihood he got away scot-free. The school day ended the lesson and another reminder was issued to the poor Freddy to ensure his bodily functions were firmly under control, a humourous last-minute classroom finale that failed to detonate the desired camaraderie – "It wasn't me! It wasn't!" he frowned. The teacher felt pity and not a little shame for the poor fall guy, but there was no alternative: protest or no, he had to take the hit.

January Rose

Within the black, warmless earth

Sop-full and cloy

Firm tendril tips

Digger, runner,

Around, over, in

 

On such as these grey hearts sink

 

The dead brown, wood brown, stalk brown

Morphing in death

From life above green

Rigid in spined pricks

 

Eternal soporific darkness drowns the spirit

 

Forever on, up, out

Each to set air

Softer arms bear a younger one

Small and pink baby

Pushing back the wintry wind

For all that sex implies

 

A hand, held from above, an upwelling

 

It is alone,

But upon only these petals

Summer calls

The Barrenderos Amaranthine Bank Account – part 4

The cold light of day –la fría luz del día– slammed into the small house, through the security bars and dusty windows and settled on the crumpled form of Señior Colibrí. His night sweats made him steam slightly in the sunbeams as one snore after another rose and fell in sonorous ocean waves.

Within his dehydrated awakening mind there appeared visions of loveliness: money poured into his hands from the skies like so much hard rain. He was in a dilemma: as a barrenderos, a road sweeper of Mexico City, his job was to sweep it up and put it into his steel drum on his cart, but he also wanted to pick it up with his hands to fill his empty pockets. He decided on the latter course until his pockets could take no more and the seams began to break. The bulging weight of so many pesos hung onto his shoulders and he began to sink into the street. He called for help, but no one would listen – they were too busy stooping down to collect their own treasures. He was up to his knees and sinking fast. By the time his hips were under he faced the decision of soon going under or of lightening the load, of dying rich or of shedding his newly-acquired wealth. But as he put his hands into his pockets the weight upon him overtook his volition and he sank quicker and deeper. He could no longer hold his head above the pavement slabs and took a deep breath ready to go under...

His dreaming shuddered to a halt. Before he opened his eyes he was aware of being watched. His arm was dead, and the heat of the winter sunlight was beginning to warm him, so he shifted to remove his blanket and allow the blood to trickle down his aching arm. As he prised his lids open the blinding sun pierced his skull. Before him the curtain-free window received the brightness in full force. Beneath it stood the make-shift altar table, but a visible trail of light smoke arose into the stuffy atmosphere of the room. His nose took in strong resinous copal incense hanging in the air and instantly knew this was a religious odour – the stench of the gods.

He looked around to see the two figures of Carlos and Maria standing in the kitchen observing him. They made an unlikely couple of male and female, big and short, fat and thin, light and dark.

"Señior Colibrí! You join the living." he joked. "I hope you slept well. Will coffee be acceptable? It's Nescafé, I'm afraid."

After finding the latrine he came back inside to see a little china cup and saucer on the kitchen table before an empty chair. He sat and took in the hot syrupy bitterness of the sugared instant brew. He was instantly revived. "I hope I was not too much bother for you. You are so kind."

Carlos gave a quick smile. "I only hope, Señior, that you were comfortable."

"Oh yes, thank you. I slept soundly. That aguardiente made sure of that." He was a little uncomfortable that they were still standing. Why didn't they sit with him? It was as if the situation had changed and they were suddenly more formal.

"Ah yes," Carlos wistfully replied, "that was good. Señior, how much of last night do you recall?"

He looked at the man. What was he trying to imply? He quickly racked his memory. "I... don't, really. We had an excellent meal cooked by your wife's fair hand, but I don't remember much else. Did I... do anything..?"

"Oh, no, Señior, it's nothing like that. I wondered if you recalled what was said."

"Carlos, if I said anything to embarrass myself, or you, I am truly sorry..."

"No, Señior. It was I that said something. My wife reminded me of it this morning."

He looked back blankly and put his coffee cup back in its saucer.

"I will remind you. I said that you were to see God this day." Carlos was stern. There was not a hint of humour or light-heartedness about him.

"Carlos, we say a great many things when we are drunk." he drank another mouthful of the reviving coffee.

"Maybe, but I said what I said." He looked across at him. "And I mean to do this. The gods are my witness." He pointed to the altar table under the window.

He looked back at Carlos with disbelief. All his life he had tried to be a good Catholic, attending mass nearly every week. He had admired those who enjoyed the favours of the clergy through donations and faithful adherence to doctrine, but he was a steadfast attender – as steadfast as work and life would allow. But right now he was unsure just what it was Carlos was saying, although he was certainly not talking about the church and the gods weren't anything to do with the God of Christianity. A shiver of understanding crossed his mind: if Carlos was to be understood, he was to meet God alright, but it would not be gentle Jesus or his blessed Mother.

"Señior, I meant what I said."

"Carlos, I am a good Catholic..."

"It does not matter. Your beliefs are unimportant."

"How can you say that? Are you an unbeliever?" He knew it was more than mere atheism.

"Of course not. I have very strong beliefs in God. I have beliefs that are based on experience, the deep religious experience of the witness and the devotee."

They stood where they were watching him, but their appearance began to waver. It was a strange sensation – that they were there, but also moving. When he returned to his coffee he was aware of a sickness in his stomach which he at first attributed to the after-effects of an evening's boozing, but now realised was  much stronger than that: stronger and increasing by the minute, by the second.

"When I put my mind to something I see it through, Señior. It is God's will I have the strength."

The nausea grew into a swimmy sensation and deadening of the limbs. He found it hard to lift his hand to his head and rub his brow. Within a minute he was aware of hands beneath his armpits and of the sensation of being lifted from his chair and taken outside into the warm winter sunlight. He stumbled as he was walked up the road until it ended: he knew not how long it took. Within what seemed like minutes he was being helped along a path through banana trees and little plots of acquired land cleared from the sub-tropical forest. The path narrowed and climbed between the trees until it leveled onto a flat clearing beside a cliff face covered in cascading ferns and vines. He looked up to a round circle of blue sky as birds twittered and fled. The path ended at an ugly, impressive boulder that at some time in the past had fallen from the cliff face. As they staggered behind it a wide passageway in the rock opened into a cavern. Rocks from the roof littered either side of the smooth, well-trodden path that led down into the darkness of a subterranean chamber hewn by a river now long-since dried. The daylight had all-but disappeared when to their eyes a gloomy flickering firelight glow grew on the inky walls of the cave. Around a corner they were confronted by a scene difficult to take in. There was a damp, rotten smell in the air, as if something had died. Two smokey altar fires either side of an impressive carved figure of an Aztec deity, illuminated his emotionless face painted a terrifying blue and yellow stripes. Upon his chest was a shell pendant and upon his youthful head was pushed back the helmet of the hummingbird complete with carved feathers that rose into the empty darkness. His covering was a cape of skulls and bones and where his left foot should be was the serpent, mouth open and ready to strike. In his left hand were weapons; a spear thrower and impressive sacrificial knife, and his right carried a large embellished shield. Before him lay what appeared to be a empty small stone table.

"Señior Colibrí, here is Huitzilopochtli!" Carlos announced this, his voice commanding and strong. "This is the carved statue of the Aztecs, once in the great temple. I told you it was destroyed by the conquistadors, like Gil González de Benavides, but that was not true. Tlatolatl, the devout servant of the gods, arranged for it to be removed here where it has been for nearly 500 years. There are few that know of it, still less that worship here. You, Señior with the great name, are fortunate indeed to see this wonder."

He looked up at the imposing statue – a dream, a nightmare, a vision of the hell of the un-Christian past. What ran through his clouded mind was the question of why – why had he been brought here? He found himself on his knees, his hosts on either side. He sense a commotion behind him as more people arrived.

There was a hush, as from amongst them a man dressed from head-to-foot in a long white robe and white head dress. He turned to the people and raising his hands intoned hallowed words of the Aztecs. He continued in Spanish:

"Huitzilopochtli, god of war, god of the sun, god of the precious gifts of life and of the great city of Tenochtitlan, we come to you in respectful obeisance. We bring with us a gift, one who has been touched by your hand, one who has been blessed by your hand and your name."

He came over to the awaiting trio and lifted the face of the inebriated barrendero. There was a moment of recognition – they had seen each other before: astonished, he recognised him as his boss. His boss's face broke no smile. "Señior Colibrí, Señior Hummingbird, you are fortunate this day to see God."

He was lifted towards the shadowy immensity of the statue of Huitzilopochtli and his jacket and shirt removed. He was made to lie down upon the cold table as his hands and feet were held by Carlos and his Maria. From within his clothing the priest retrieved a wide-bladed black serrated stone knife, its obsidian facets reflected the orange firelight. He stood before the helpless, splayed man and intoned the final words, "May the pure blood of this honoured sacrifice banish the darkness within which we are forcibly held and may the midday sun of re-conquest rise and recover the land of Tenochtitlan and beyond." With that he lifted the blade and forcefully plunged the pointed tip into the exposed abdomen of the victim. He made a short scream before the priest plunged the blade again across the chest to expose the heart. With two movements he worked the heart free and held it aloft to the god and to the assembled crowd. There was a murmur of approval.

Carlos and Maria then took the body to one side as others came closer. The rest of his clothes were removed. The priest and Carlos then began the dis-assembly of the body, separating the head and arms, the internal organs and the long flesh of the legs. Each of the assembled crowd of worshippers then came forward to receive the body parts allocated for consumption. They received their little portions wrapped in paper and placed in plastic bags with smiling thanks, turned and left. The priest, taking off his blooded robes, turned to Carlos. He received the money retrieved from his guest's pocket as payment.

On their way back the trail of worshippers talked contentedly. At their rear came Carlos and Maria carrying a Walmart plastic bag with the clothes of Señior Colibrí that they had recently gone through. Within the coat pocket was the letter from the bank that told of instant closure of his account. When he read it he discussed the way in which he'd miraculously been able to withdraw the necessary money for the sacrifice only two days before, after enjoying the aramanth from the previous sacrifice. He added, "It appears God gives and takes. Blessed be the name of God."

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The Barrenderos Amaranthine Bank Account – part 3

They walked up the road called Alcatraz in the tricky gloom of city darkness – the street lights were out. Nearing Christmas, they passed tacky illuminations of trees, santas, baby Jesus and nativities. In front of them the wooded hillsides loomed as black shadows, ominous vacuums of light.  Even the insects were quiet. Nearby dogs barked as they passed a garage with a hastilly-constructed palatte wood door. Above it a hung a large Mexican flag, barely visible.

"Did you know, Señior Colibrí, that the flag is wrong? Actually, let me correct myself, the flag is right but our interpretation is wrong."

"What do you mean? The eagle is victorious over the snake: good is victorious over evil."

"Yes, that's what most people belive, but it's wrong. You see, the eagle is not an eagle. It is a crested caracara – a falcon, not an eagle. A beautiful bird. It's clutching the rattlesnake, but that's also wrong. It's Coatlicue, mother of the serpents. Actually, her real name is Cihuacoatl and she created everything by crushing the bones of previous world and mixing it with the blood of Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent hero. The caracara bird is holding the mother goddess."

"So the eagle is not killing the snake?"

"It's confusing at first, but the caracara and the serpent are together united."

"Wow! How do you know so much?"

"It's an interest of mine. Once you find out one thing, you find out other things. Pretty soon you change you mind altogether."

"You said the snake was the serpent mother. What about the eagle?"

"Ah, I'm glad you asked, my good friend Colibrí. The caracara is the son of Cihoatcoatl, Huitzilopochtli. He is the sun, he is power. You know the story – after he had fought against Copil and killed him, he threw his heart into lake Texcoco. When Huitzilopochtli ordered the Aztecs to build a city over his heart he said the sign for the right place would be the caracara perched on the cactus."

"Oh yes, I remember that from school, about the flag: Mexico City is built there."

"Exactly so. The story is the foundation of Mexica – our city and our life."

"So, the eagle and serpent are two gods and they are... linked?"

"You are right again. Huitzilopochtli is the key. As the caracara he is the important one. The Aztec ancestors knew him and feared him. Back then they made a magnificent statue – so powerful it was always hidden behind a curtain, so formidable the Spanish conquerors destroyed it."

"Wow! You really know your Aztecs. I knew it was important, who we are, but I didn't know any of this."

They walked on, their feet tired, as they passed an intersection where soil had collected. If they could have seen beneath them, they would have noticed round dust clouds rising, swirling in little vortexes as their steps moved on.

"My house is not much further." he said as word of encouragement. "You must stay tonight. We are not at work tomorrow, are we?"

They came to the end of the road at the junction of 5 de Mayo and within ten steps were at Carlos's house. By the striplight inside, the busy figure of his wife could be seen in the steamy kitchen cooking on the stove. From the TV, too loud in the main room, could be heard the dastardly pronunciations of the soap star Enrique Rocha in Corazón salvaje. The squeak and slam of the gate announced their presence to the dog and the dog's frenetic barking announced the visitors to the occupant. The fly-screen door opened to allow the two weary workers to enter.

"Allow me to introduce Maria. Maria, this is my friend and colleague Señior Colibrí." They shook hands formally, the dark stinned petite woman with the broad mouth said little beyond the expected 'hello'. Carlos gave instructions for one more serving and that this guest would be staying for that night.

Over dinner of corn, beans and meat tortillas the two men talked of work, of their infuriation with the current situation and how bad things are getting on the streets. Carlos had a bottle of habanero, a spirit aguardiente brew made by Maria's clan in Chiapas that they called pox. They both knew enough English to laugh that drinking pox would leave them both with a dose of sífilis. They moved on to Caldéron, whom they loathed, the problems with labour shortage and decreasing salaries and longed for the day when all Mexicans were free and prosperous – all fine sentiments under the increasing influence of the rough spirit.

Moving onto the battered sofa that would later suffice for a bed, they continued their talking. Carlos opened a further bottle of pox and they toasted the revolutonary Francisco Madero, Emiliano Zapata and Subcomandante Marcos and concluded with a hearty "Viva los Zapatistas!"

Carlos looked over: would he like to see the gods of the Lacandon, the tribe of his wife? He stood up and staggered towards the window where a small table sat. He had not noticed this before – upon it rested a conch shell, a rattle and a drum and a collection of other smaller objects. In the midst of all of these sat a large and rather crude pottery human figure with a human face.

"This" he started with theatrical overtones, "is a god pot. But..." he continued, picking it up, "it's not a god. It's just a human – like you and me. Look, here's his face. His little face."

He laughed. "What is it for?"

"The Lacandon people send their prayers up with it." He pretended to whisper so that his wife would not hear his words, "Very primitive people. Cannibals, I tell you." He looked around to notice his wife was busy in the kitchen with something and not really listening at all. "Cannibals!" he shouted louder. She stopped and turned her head, then went back to whatever she was doing. "Tomorrow, Señior, I will show you something that is really magnificent. I will show you something that will make you wonder if we are real Mexicans, you and I; if we are the downtrodden masses, or if we are the ones who will one day have the power." He clumsily put down the clay pot and pointed to his dinner guest barely able to keep his eyes open. "You – you, Señior Colibrí, Señior Hummingbird, will see God. I, myself, will take you to see him."

In the kitchen his wife turned to see the man, his hand outstretched, pointing at the slouched figure as if power was flowing through his fingertips. Fear took hold of her face and she crossed herself and shouted the word, "Hesuklistos!"

The Barrenderos Amaranthine Bank Account – part 2

Next day before work Señior Colibrí tried again to withdraw money, but nothing happened. He couldn't understand it. Perhaps yesterday's unexpected bequest was a glitch, nothing more. As he hesitated the person behind him in the queue tapped him on the shoulder and he moved off shaking his head. On the way he looked at the new note with the image of Tonatiuh the sun god looking upwards at him.

Trudging in past the boss he clocked in. Carlos was sat by the smoking table drinking a coffee. They exchanged pleasantries, but there was something urgent on his mind. He was about to relate the story about yesterday's ATM withdrawals when Carlos leaned over and whispered in his ear, "So, did you enjoy the Aramanth?"

He stopped. What did he mean, exactly? There was a mischievous look to him, a twinkle of... he didn't know what.

"I have some more today."

 "Carlos, I have to ask – you were joking, weren't you? About the blood."

"Like I said, it was huautli and the people who made it were cannibals, so..."

"Oh, come on. You're not seriously trying to tell me that the Aztec gods are..."

Carlos reached over and put a finger to his mouth, as if to silence him. "Shh... don't say another word. The gods are listening." He frowned. He was serious.

Somewhat taken aback, he looked at his friend and a tinge of fear crept into his heart. Was he serious?

Carlos broke into a laugh – a big, hearty stomach laugh that filled the room. In his guffaws he showed his teeth, blackened and crooked. Some were missing.

"I really had you going there." he interjected, "I swear – your face!" and continued with his cackling.

He wasn't hungry that morning. The combination of the night out and just the thought of the unappetizing meal of human sacrificial blood with amaranth revolted him. As he went on his rounds, keeping busy, his mind could not shake Carlos's laugh and his words from yesterday, "The gods are listening." Listening? To him?

It was ludicrous to even consider such a notion. To set such a thought to rest he stood still and crossed himself, right there and then, outside the Bancomer bank. By lunchtime, he was tired, but instead of heading back to base he laid down his broom, sat next to his nearly full cart and took it easy for one minute. It had been another cool day and although no one had brought out bags of garbage from their houses, he had already decided not to court that particular trade. He had been warned off it and, being an honest man worked only for the salary given him: it amounted to 2600 pesos each month – $195. Yet in his pocket he could feel the bulge of a little more than 10,350 pesos. He decided to go inside the bank and deposit the money into his account right away.

The lady at the counter saw him approach and gave an almost disdainful stare at his bright orange dayglo bib. He was used to it. She took his card and swiped it.

"Ah!" She turned to look at him and smiled. "I'm sorry, Señior... Colibrí, but your account has been suspended."

"Suspended? But why?"

"Failure to pay banking fees."

"But you can't – I have my savings..."

"I'm sorry. The bank sent you warning letters on... 22nd of last month and... 18th of this. You've had enough warning of the decision. We sent a final letter on Friday explaining the decision. Sorry." She handed back his card.

"So that's it, then?" he protested. "But I had 3576 pesos in there yesterday."

"I'm sorry, sir. Your account is in arrears. Thank you for banking with Bancomer bank. Next please."

"But I've been with this bank for fifteen years. I need this account–" he began to raise his voice. The teller looked over to the beefy security guard who began to walk towards the small man getting angrier by the second. "I wrote back to the bank. I said 'even God listens to those in need'." The guard grabbed him tightly by the arm and began to lead him out. "Doesn't customer loyalty count for anything any more?"

Outside, he returned to his cart, furious with the way he'd been treated. How could they do this to him? He hated them.

By the end of his shift, he returned to the depot. The boss was absent. He complained bitterly to whoever was listening about the bank – about his outrageous treatment at the hands of the corrupt capitalists! Sitting in the same seat was Carlos – as if he had not moved since this morning.

"Sit down, my friend." he said in a comforting tenor. "Is there anything I could do?"

He rattled off his bitter complaint, beginning with their letters, and his answer about God.

"I'm so sorry to hear all this. It truly is a travesty. You should write again and complain. Or perhaps..."

"Perhaps what?"

"Perhaps God has already listened."

"What do you mean?"

"My friend. You are a man in need, but you have also said God listens to such as you."

"To those in need, I said, those in need."

"Quite so, but tell me, did anything happen yesterday? Anything else? Anything 'unexpected'?"

"Well," he began, not feeling comfortable with his line of questioning, "well... as a matter of fact it did." In hushed, reserved tones he described the visit to the ATM and the withdrawals; yes they were unexpected.

"How do you think that happened, then?"

"I really don't know, Carlos, but it's lucky I did. I mean, they closed my account. But look–"

He drew out the wad of notes. Carlos hurriedly put his hands over the top and whispered, "In my experience nothing is down to 'luck'. You must hide this. Don't let anyone see it. It is a gift from God."

They sat together as tiredness crept through his limbs. After a half-minute of silence they could hear the sounds of the next shift crew arriving and decided to get their coats to leave.

"Listen, Señior, why don't you and I go back to my home together. We can discuss this further as we walk and I'm sure we can stretch our meagre dinner to include another soul."

"Thank you, Carlos." he gratefully said. "It's been a long day."

The Barrenderos Amaranthine Bank Account – part 1

Señior Colibrí awoke to shivering. It was a particularly cold December morning and he was late. Dressing quickly, and without breakfast, he hurried downstairs noticing that he had a letter. It was from the bank. He stuffed it into his coat pocket and being careful not to slam the heavy steel door ran down the hill to catch the next microbus.

By now the bus stop was aswarm with people from the neighbourhood and when the next bus came he had to push and pull to get to the front without being aggressive. It looked like everyone was late that morning. Three stops on there was a clunk from beneath and the back wheels skidded to a halt. After 20 seconds of futile gear changes and a quick check beneath the chassis the driver announced that he was going nowhere and that they'd better get the next one. That really meant 'you'd better walk' because by now all the buses from the neighbourhood were full and would fly past with a quick cautionary honk.

Half-an hour later he was at work, 15-minutes late clocking in. His boss tapped his wrist as he walked past the office. Popping his head around the door he explained the bus situation, but even to him it sounded like an excuse. He said he'd make up the time, but by now the boss's head had returned to the big open papery file on his desk. He changed, took his cart and went out into the streets.

The rest of the day passed normally-enough: he finished his rounds easily enough. He found a collection of old plastic chairs that would no doubt be useful to someone and brought them straight back before lunch. Inside Carlos was waiting beside the smoking table. Before him were two plates of food he'd brought in from his wife's family in Chiapas, right up in the ever-green forested hills. He'd mentioned them before, joking how they were really wild men – cannibals, even. Starving, he tucked in as his friend related how this aramanth was cooked in blood, just as the Aztecs had cooked in human blood as part of their festivities and how the practice was quickly outlawed by the church and authorities because it was such powerful magic. He looked down at the plastic container in his hand and his mouth turned – it somehow seemed less innocent. "Just a story, eh?"

"Just a story. Tasty, though, eh? It's seasonal food up there, you know. They call it huautli."

"But this... this is just aramanth?"

"Oh, I don't know..." Carlos joked. "Perhaps you are favoured by the gods."

"Santa Maria, you scare me sometimes."

"Well, Señior Colibrí, the ancient gods were powerful," he said, "especially Huitzilopochtli. If you ate his food you took his magic."

He felt a little sick, put the rest of the food down, thanked Carlos and went back to his work. The previous fortnight's rains had clogged a few of the smaller drains and kids smoking up in the park had left a mess of cut up plastic bottles that they'd used for bucket bongs. Every time he saw this he would audibly 'tut-tut', unable to understand why kids today were so hell-bent on ruining their lives. He was glad he'd never used drugs and kept on the right side of the law.

By five pm he trundled back to the government refuse and recycling centre and was feeling the December cold snap. It had been a long day, but needing to buy food. Grabbing his coat he said a cheery adiós to his colleagues. Everyone was too busy, but Carlos raised a hand, a little like a blessing from a priest. He paused by the door, but his boss didn't even notice. "De entonces soy su esclava, y le sirvo muy fina?..." he silently quoted to himself remembering the words from somewhere.* He knew he'd be doing this job for the rest of his life and shrugged. He considered the ancients – surely they never meant for people to live like this. Perhaps Carlos was right – perhaps Huitzilopochtli... but, no!

He wandered into the Walmart on Avenida Central for a few veg, and pork if it was on sale. Musac played as the  happy shoppers with their blessed children wandered with packed shopping carts. Having waited his turn, he smiled as he approached the busy woman at the meat counter, but checking his pockets found only a few cents rattling around in his pocket. Apologising, he dashed outside the store to the in-house ATM. It sat unused, beaming at him. He popped his card in. At first nothing happened. It ejected his card. Slightly worried, he did it again. It sprang into life. He punched in his number and selected account balance: $3576.00 flashed in green LED before him. Selecting to withdraw, he chose 10 pesos, enough pesos he thought for the evening. He received it and ordered an account print out. The white paper poured from the thin slot – it showed $3576!

He turned from the ATM and walked away, but curiosity overtook him. Didn't he just withdraw ten pesos? Surely he should have $3576. He returned to the humming machine, entered his card and pin and withdrew another ten pesos. The same thing happened: $3576 account balance remained printed on another thin white paper slip. He chewed nonchalantly on the end of his card, looking around him in case this was some sort of trick. Once again he pushed the card into the thick, black lips of the slot, but this time withdrew the entire balance. The machine rattled away before him before pushing out card, money and paper slip – again it showed $3576! It appeared he had a full bank account and the same amount in his hand. He hadn't had so much money in years.

Then he stood there, contemplating. In the card went once again and this time he set the withdrawl for $10,000. Such a sum he had only had a few times in his life before. The machine appeared to think about it, then began its customary rattle and out popped the full amount. He was overjoyed – "Ten thousand pesos!" he said out loud. Then fear overtook him. What if the bank found out and demanded the money back? What if anyone found out and wanted to rob him?

That evening he dined out – as much as he could eat at the local restaurant. They were pleased to see him. He had not eaten or drunk so much for a long time and it was near midnight as he rolled up the hill to his upper floor apartment. On the bed he emptied his pockets and there in his hands was all the money from the ATM: note after note of hundreds. It looked unreal.

And they he got thinking: was he dishonest in keeping it? No, the ATM gave him what he ordered. It was a problem for the bank if it made mistakes, not him. He wondered just how much he could take out – thousands, millions? In his sozzled reverie he pictured a life in a new house with a car and a beautiful young wife in his arms...

* "From then I am your slave, do I serve well?" José Joaquín de Olmedo La Palomita

Suddenly Filled With Cement

It was the same yesterday – a thick nebula of opaque suffocation, a darkness beyond the panic of drowning, a flat-line dumping of experience un-piqued by the usual high-voltage shocks of an exciting daily life. Opening the curtains, the sun was about to cross the mountainous horizon, breaking through the light mist of cloying clouds that nightly settle over Hong Kong. He saw the beauty, but it did nothing to raise spirits, to lift the mind, to arouse excitement. All he wanted to do today, like yesterday, was have his mind taken up with something that would mean escape from the intense heaviness of the overwhelming feelings that occupied existence from hour-to-hour.

But the children needed to go to school, there were breakfasts to make and homework to be packed before the bus – who else would do it? The shower was hot. Each rivulet ran down to the plug encouraging the shedding of grease and skin, of sweats of 3 a.m. when eyes wide open he had dived through the silence again. Getting up to check mail, watch TV or just sit reminded him how futile everything was: if he fell, to ease the way beyond, to remove the rock-hard heavy heart, would anyone really care?

Through the day he tried to present the right angle to left and right: "Morning! About that meeting... Call me. What do you think? No, you go to lunch; I'm fine. What are you doing for Christmas? Yes, I know we need to do it. See you tomorrow." With each exchange someone inside, something greater than him, scrunched up his heart into a paper ball ready to be kicked into the bin and left his head stuffed full of nothing. Thinking about what happens next was the greatest, Herculean challenge. He was useless in meetings and merely agreed to whatever was being said.

It had been like this for about a year, as if he was 'suddenly filled with cement'. Movement beyond breathing was tired. Walking, exercising, cycling, swimming and even sitting still was too much. He'd involuntarily given up. He even tried not breathing to see if the body would also give up on that too. Each time his chest refilled he had mixed feelings – perhaps death would have been a welcome release, but perhaps also the end was not downward to the yawning dark chasm of oblivion. Nonetheless, forever hidden behind the never-ending fog sat the light on the peaks. He knew it was there, because he remembered it. All the same, the way there was hidden in a deserted emptiness, let alone signposted.

Days off work cropped up now and again, but the hours sat alone only increased the melancholia. They made it chronic, beyond leaden where an ounce more would have him crashing through the floor, down into the earth, passing right through to the other side of the world. He passed his indolent solitary days in patience, with cards or with the stupid Microsoft version that took up hour after hour after hour. Resolutions to quit came and went, and with each failed deadline another fibre of his spine pinged until the jelly of impotent existence submerged mind, body and soul. Yet he sighed when the kids came home, their cheerful little faces appearing round the door, animated like the cartoons about to blare from Nickelodeon. Epic spousal support helped through the narrowest, darkest times. The ever-pouring love, however, made him ashamed. Why wasn't it enough? Sex was nice, when it could be achieved, eating until beyond-sated dulled the thickness of thoughtless thoughts, even alcohol, beautiful mind-numbing alcohol, transported towards the open sea of calm, but all of these weren't lasting solutions.

Finally, he obtained Prozac. It took a while to dig in, causing further weight gain in the process. It may have enabled a clearer head but also animated the desire for an end. It had to be stopped. St John's Wort helped a little, though it also caused intense reaction to sunlight. Reading Climbing Out of Depression worked, a tiny little book within which the most significant advice was that each day one thing should be attempted. Gradually, after weeks of daily accomplishments of one thing, an arsenal of one thing achievements lay like a buoyant raft beneath his feet, daily lifting. But to where – normalcy? What was that?

For him it was all about feelings. Keeping the spirits up took courage in itself. Sudden crashes of the most simple sort would deflate that raft – missing the bus, not remembering to do something, over-remembering mistakes. It would take days to re-float and move on. Even this stop-start existnace, however, was better than the terrible anchoring to the deep sea bed of before.

Did he see it as it a cure? Was it gone forever? No. It remained a shadow that shortened and lengthened across the landscape according to factors beyond control. Churchill's black dog would insolently creep out of the shadows ever-seeking to nudge him towards the edge of the platform. In the end, he would have to live with it resting on the street between the cars, sitting with the church's gargoyles, staring out from the forest edge, all the time watching him and waiting. Keeping it at bay would involve elaborate scams, motivational distractions, daily walks and lots and lots of friendly help.

 

An Exercise

Here's a game you can play, either by yourself or with like-minded friends. You need only an open mind. It has two variants, short and long, and can be applied to almost any endeavour to which you aspire. The beauty of this game is that the more you play, the better you should get at playing it. The benefit of this game is that the more seriously you take it the more you should improve in whatever it is you are doing.

Variant A, 10:1 – for 10 seconds the player is to focus on an idea, an image, a tune, a speech, etc. It could be the first thing that pops into the head, or something already prepared. Then for 1 minute the player is to relate, draw, sing, play, talk or do whatever they have decided to do.

The important thing is that after the 10 seconds prep there should be no hesitation for the rest of that minute. This is difficult at first, particularly if the player is shy or has little faith in their abilities. When they inevitably break down into stuttering, repetition or embarrassing shoe-staring they are to be congratulated on what they have done and given encouraging and helpful suggestions for improvement: faltering can be overcome with dedication and more practice. It is really an exercise in creativity.

Variant B, 30:5 – this is simply an extension of the former, but because the time is longer the valuable 30 seconds thinking time must go beyond the initial idea onto considerations about how to extend it for the full five minutes. This might be easier with something like drawing or speaking, activities that usually take as long as needed to conclude, yet therein lies the discipline – the topic/subject must be suitably concluded within that time, no more and no less.

Although this format is usually applied to things like slam poetry or rap lyrics, within the Toastmasters group this is an established discipline held at each meeting, but with a slight difference: each speaker is given 30 seconds and is supposed to speak for one- to two-minutes. It sounds a doddle, but the half-minute prep flies past like five seconds and the two minutes speech can seem an eternity. God knows I've stood up thinking I can easily put a speech together only to find all the ideas gone and a barely-coherent ramble ensue, yet on other occasions can put together an epic speech from nothing!

These games have an interesting heritage, particularly in the art world. Famously, the sculptor Henry Moore found the huddled figures hiding in the London Underground during the Blitz of 1940-41 of momentous emotional import. He would rapidly sketch the sleeping and sheltering figures, a necessity because he did not want to intrude on the privacy of the sleeping civilians. His quick sketches were to support imprints on his visual memory to create "volumes without the need to use shadows". Capturing the essence of figures without the artifice of setting them up in poses, he would later use the sketches to complete more dramatic and thoughtful compositions.

Below is a short on Henry Moore. The importance of the underground drawings is highlighted from about 1:50

 

This exercise is also a good game to try at the pub where each player will already be in a relaxed frame of mind. Give it a go with sketching, improvising, speech-making or anything else you might consider fun – stick at it and you will improve!

Mountain Girl and the Foundation of the Hippies

Unless we keep our ears and eyes open surprises may not often come our way. So often the drudgery of daily lives keep our attention fixed on the road beneath our feet, so that we forget our past and neglect to look up towards our future. But if we allow, surprises may emerge from almost anywhere.

Owning three dogs I get out walking a lot. Each day I take them for a long ramble beside the Moravia river here in the eastern Czech Republic: it allows for some necessary headspace. In that time I've been able to listen to podcasts, audiobooks and lectures that have tickled my fancy. In 2011 I subscribed to the Psychedelic Salon (main website is here), a hotchpotch of podcasts that verge from the weird and wacky to the life changing. If nothing else they provoke thought, even on those well-considered opinions we may cherish or fiercely defend. Sneering aside, the main 'psychedelic' element is the acceptance that altered mind states (which can be simply dreaming, let alone acid trips) are something we should encounter and explore as a starting point towards an ever- expanding universe of intellectual and experiential knowledge: the world looks truly different once you have been to the other side.

Carolyn Garcia's talk at the 2008 World Psychedlic Forum in Basel consisted of personal reminiscences that included the birth of the West Coast psychedelic scene within which she moved and lived in the late 1960s. An associate of the Merry Pranksters, she was able to see and experience first-hand the way in which the stilted life of consensualist post-war America was shaken up by the inclusion of mind-altering substances. This scene developed its own new alternative and counter-culture lifestyle, specifically within the San Francisco Haight Ashbury area where hitherto much-maligned flowery term 'hippies' was coined; it really encapsulated an appreciation of all that was 'hip' or cool. Early on within that miliau she was given the moniker Mountain Girl by Oregonite Ken Kesey, author of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

Garcia's inclusion as the den mother and feeder of the great Grateful Dead as they began their decades of transcendent musical experimentation and performances really came about as a result of her relationship with lead singer Jerry Garcia whom she married, had kids with and later divorced. She gets very emotional when describing the band's performances and their marriage and she emphasizes that many of the songs were specifically written with high emotional content and she comments about this in response to one of the subsequent audience questions.

Although of poor sound quality, the podcast is, perhaps, the best first-hand account of the times and a good resource for anyone interested in all things associated with The Dead. I refer to it because it was such a wonderful surprise – a real gem of a retelling of a wild and exciting life the rest of us mere mortals can only imagine. The podcast is found here and also here. Go on, dig it, man!

Destruction and Demolition

We have just lost something precious. It is gone forever. It has been destroyed and what will replace it will be a poor, insubstantial substitute. As a result, my heart is heavy and I have to tell it as it is.

The loss is of a mere house –one house alone– but this building represents so much more than the stones, wood and tiles of its construction. For by knocking down this house the character and very soul of old Hong Kong has also been killed. This is not hyperbole, romantic association or fanciful imaginings – the living heritage of Hong Kong is dying. Few are prepared to stop it.

Until yesterday there stood a beautiful house in the village of Pak Tam Chung, just beyond the traffic barrier to the Sai Kung country park. It is likely that millions of walkers, getting away from the smoke and congestion of the busier districts of Hong Kong, have filed past this pretty house. Many were so taken with it that they stopped to take photographs. Now, apart from a heap of unfortunate spoil, that is all that is left.

On weekday mornings those parents that took their young children to the delightful Leapfrog Kindergarten next door could also glimpse at the old tiled roof under the mature trees. Hikers after discovering the beauty of the park could also take a refreshing tea or beer at the Fat Kee Stores opposite and be reminded of the village houses from which many of their parents and grandparents moved years ago. Beside the stores a little footbridge crosses the pebbly Pak Tam Chung stream, used by Bruce Lee in one of his last movies, and daily in use as a picturesque location for wedding photographs. This house, therefore, was more than an incidental building; it was a landmark.

The building dates from 1847 and was no doubt built on the site of an older structure. Constructed of local materials, it nevertheless boasted rooms larger than that 700 square metres building footprint stipulated in the 1972 New Territories Small House Policy. As such, it formed the usual building story that consisted of thick stone walls patched up with brick and many of the floor joists made from whole tree trunk beams. The original packed earth ground floor was level and tiled, but the upper floorboards were uneven and creaky. A ladder was used to access upstairs and the later additions of the large kitchen and bathroom lean-tos further added character to what was a charming, imperfect and soulful place. And now it's all gone. You cannot build an old house.

It must be concluded that in the owner's mind the very charming, imperfect and soulful state of the old building were the very justifications necessary to knock it down. Old buildings leak, require maintenance and look worn. But perhaps the real clincher is that they do not command as high a rent as new ones. Even in the last year property prices in Hong Kong have risen 16.1%. This is, therefore, the reason why few outside the area have raised their collective fingers to halt the destruction – there is just so much money to be made from property development. When so many see this as an inalienable right then who can halt it? The house will most likely be replaced by three separate dwellings containing 3 flats that can each be rented out for around HK$20K (a little over US$2500) each month. The previous occupants would have paid that for the entire property. Who would want to get in the way of someone making so much money?

The old house, therefore, has duly been minced up for hard cash: so perhaps Hong Kong people are supposed to save their soft heritage sentiments for museums, holidays and dusty library books on ancient architecture. For as far as this piece of history is concerned it will appear as if it never existed, that it was once a truly beautiful place to live or that our good friends once lived there. It is doubtful that the sound of children playing in the vast garden will ever be heard again.

I have previously written about other threatened villages in rural Hong Kong, such as Pak Sha O. The owners of the land on which these old village houses are found care for only one thing, and it's not heritage or old, beautiful, aesthetically-pleasing buildings. Hong Kong people have long valued entrepreneurship as the right to prosper, build and make money. Unfortunately, the sad situation is that once this is done with the old country park properties, then there is nothing left for the rest of the population to enjoy but the knowledge that the businesmen are enjoying enlarged bank accounts, fresh foie gras, expensive limousines and approving stares from their peers. These developers are taking away the little that is left. Future generations will despise our inability to arrest the destruction.