The ride: Chinese New Year

 

"If you hurry through long days, you will hurry through short years."

 (Chinese proverb)

Friday 31st January saw the start of the fifteen days of celebration of the Chinese New Year, also known as "Spring Festival". Welcome to the Year of The Horse. I went to my local Morrison's to hunt and gather vegetarian spring rolls and chilli rice crackers on Friday, only to find they'd sold out of both.

"For Chinese New Year I suppose?" I suggested to the pretty and very eager sales assistant.

"Oh... I don't know. What is it?"

"Year of the Horse," I said helpfully. She suddenly looked quite disturbed.

"No! No we weren't one of those shops. We never sold that!"

She carried on glaring at me as I scuttled off to capture my blueberries and M & M cookies.

Catholics aren't supposed to set any store by horoscopes; this I know and appreciate. But my mother was an Irish Catholic and very much an Aries; therefore she maintained that most horoscopes were rubbish and never came true but read them religiously (pun intended) everyday to see just how rubbish they were and anyway, Aries people were strong and passionate and made the best Catholics. When I was thirteen, a lovely old nun called Sister Mary Clare remarked on my birthday that I was most unlike any Piscean she had ever encountered; apparently more feisty and strong-minded. She deduced I must have had "a lot of rogue planets around" when I was born. Indeed.

She also remarked that I must be more like my Chinese horoscope, confirming that I was born in the Year of the Tiger. Tiger people are allegedly fearless to the point of being rash; lively minded and kind, but will always go their own way, often against all advice. Energetic, but prone to injuring themselves... There's also a Chinese saying that once you jump on the back of the tiger, you may find it impossible to get off in one piece. Hmm. Well, I've always loved the character of A. A. Milne's Tigger; he also liked to jump up and climb things with no real idea of how to get down again.

I read today that Tiger people have a special affinity with Dog, Dragon and Horse folk. The Year of the Horse is said to be one of strong ideals and opinions surfacing and emotions bubbling away under the surface until they must erupt. Typically, it's said to be a year of shocks and volcanoes. Sadly, I was pondering this as I heard the news about Mount Sinabung erupting in North Sumatra, Indonesia, killing at least fourteen people.

 The Chinese zodiac is based on the five elements of earth, water, fire, wood and metal which influence the universe and interact with the twelve animals of a cyclical zodiac, resulting in specific characters for the year of that animal and those born at that time. This is an ancient calendar system, originating in the Han dynasty about two hundred years before the birth of Christ.

Those born in the Horse's year can be expected to be active, animated and independent. I for one hope this year proves to be all of those things, but also one of great peace. The past year seems to have been one of division and strife, with increasingly loud  but vacuous celebrities, bigots and politicians... Yet last year the Catholic Church found in Pope Francis an active, animated and independent pontiff; also a man who promotes great peacefulness in all that he says and with all that he does. He was born in the Year of the Rat; Catholics are probably not meant to calculate their pope's Chinese birth-sign either. Must be the Tiger in me.

Unable to find my spring rolls, I've gathered together some old Chinese proverbs from various sources. They sing true individually but also sit together beautifully and read like a very spirited prayer. Whatever your sign or symbol, may truth be the most fitting element for us all this year.

"Chinese Proverbs for the New Year"

"When the wind of change blows, some build walls; others build windmills.
No wind, no waves.
If the wind comes from an empty cave, it's not without a reason.
Teachers open the door. You must enter by yourself.
Don't fear going forward slowly; only fear the standing still.
A book that remains tightly shut is simply a block of paper.
Deep doubts grow deep wisdom.
Better to have a diamond with a flaw than a pebble without one.
You may dream different dreams while always sleeping on the same bed.
Not only can water float a boat, it can also sink it.
An ant may well destroy a whole dam.
Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.
Only one who can swallow an insult deserves to dine like a man.
Good medicine often tastes the most bitter.
Do not use a hatchet to remove a fly from your friend's forehead.
With true friends, even water drunk together is sweet enough.
A dog won't forsake his master because of his poverty; no babe ever refused his mother's breast because of her homeliness.
There is only one pretty child in the world and every mother has it.
Not the cry, but the flight of the wild duck, leads the flock to follow.
Not wine: men intoxicate themselves. Not vice: men entice themselves.
Mankind fears an evil man but heaven does not.

If heaven made someone, earth can find some use for them.
If you want happiness for an hour, take a nap. If you want happiness for a day, go fishing. If you want happiness for a year, inherit a fortune.
If you want happiness for a lifetime, help someone else.
One joy scatters a hundred sorrows.
Fragrance will cling to the hand that gives the flowers.
An inch of time is an inch of gold but you can't buy that inch of time with an inch of gold.

Make happy those you have near; those who are far will surely come to you.
The bird doesn't sing because it has the answer; it sings because it has a song."

"Forget the favours given; remember those received."

(Chinese proverb)

 

"Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses?"  Royal Philharmonic Orchestra (version of U2's original song) 

 

  

 

Friends in high places

Jonathan  (all photos: Gigi, album)

 

"The gull sees farthest who flies highest."

(Richard Bach)  

Sometimes, it can seem that the very people we care about or lean on leave us, whether voluntarily or reluctantly. Affinities, vows, rings, paper and words; the things that are seen to bind can fall away quite suddenly. And sometimes, animals seem to appear through the cracks in our daily lives, nudging their way into our conscience and our consciousness. Even long domesticated animals remain wild at heart. We may cage them, harness them, clip and tag them,  ply them with treats and catnip, but they still choose whether or not to love us. It's true that some animals see their humans as a consistent supply of ready meals, yet even so they may never develop a brand loyalty to us. And the unsolicited and unbound companionship of a truly wild and free creature is always a precious thing. 
Jonathan Seagull didn't so much nudge as muscle his way into my life, bill first, through the catflap I inherited from the previous home-owner. Ginger from next door has only just mastered it, after more than two years of cajoling, nagging and motivational pep talking from me. It has a Perspex flap, so I can see which neighbourhood scally-cat or fearless fox has come calling.
Very shortly after I moved into the little house, I heard an insistent and quite irritated tap-tapping at the catdoor one squally night. It spooked me. Peering from the darkness of my kitchen on my hands and knees, I saw a wild-eyed gull staring back at me. I looked. He looked. Suddenly he flapped and bashed the catflap again. In true Hitchcockian-blonde-I've-seen-"The Birds"-style, I screamed. He screamed back. After a while, he hopped onto my garden bench, setting the security light off. From the back window, I could see what a big bird he was. Herring gull; full grown, sharp eyes, impressive bill. And a gammy left foot which he couldn't quite put down. Just as he was about to give up and started to spread his wings, I opened the back door.
"Hello Mr Seagull. How are you?" Even I realised how pathetic this sounded. The bird lowered his wings, cocked his head and surveyed the human he'd chosen to call on, resplendent in mini leopard print bathrobe and flipflops. I'd never seen a gull look disparaging before; I've now become familiar with that look.  "My name's Gisele, Mr Seagull." Seldom in my life have I felt so foolish, which is saying something.
"Mr Seagull" would quickly became "Jonathan", after the title character in one of my favourite books. Richard Bach's "Jonathan Livingston Seagull" is a soaring analogy about spirit; the story of a seagull's search for perfection through flight. After feeding him oven chips that first night, I assumed he would never return to my staunchly vegetarian home, but I did hope. My Dad used to rescue and tend to injured birds back in south London; most of them returned to the skies. One distinctive and clearly grateful pigeon called "Roucal" returned to my Dad's nesting box and bird-table for many years. But I had no real experience of seagulls.
I couldn't get near to his sore foot of course, but as he snapped at the chips I gathered that it was tender underneath. I realise now that he wouldn't have been able to swoop for food or perch properly to eat it. It was raining persistently when Jonathan first arrived and there were muddy puddles forming in the cracked cement in my backyard.. As I scattered his second serving of chips, I thought I might try a few drops  of TCP in the puddles he was hopping through. I had no idea if this might be beneficial in any way, but eventually I realised he was staying relatively still in one doctored puddle.
He stayed for about an hour, until there were no more fresh chips and he'd tired of my wittering. He flapped up and out into the darkness, leaving me and my bathrobe drenched, starving and startled by the whole episode. The next morning I ventured out to clear up any soggy leftovers and possibly a copious amount of droppings. A splutter of feathers rushed down from my back roof. I assume he'd slept there overnight.. Still largely balancing on one leg, he ate my breakfast crumpets with unconcealed disdain. He flapped off skyward after another hour and I headed off to the laptop to Google the life and culinary loves of the herring gull.
Jonathan's foot healed over the next couple of months. We discovered that he liked raw broccoli but not asparagus, was partial to cat biscuits and over-ripe tomatoes and would tolerate my vegetable fingers in the absence of fish.  He loved salmon flavoured cat treats but spat the cheesy ones out at me with ferocious accuracy. His love of all things spud rivals my own; maybe Jonathan had an Antrim mother too. As he healed he was able to sit on my garden bench and table and perch on the old shed. As his landings and take-offs became more adventurous, he terrorised the other garden birds and traumatised next door's cat. He monopolised my large basin birdbath, sometimes completely up-ending it during crash and splash landings.
He's even ventured into the kitchen when I've left the backdoor open without properly acknowledging his presence. He's filled my front and back guttering with moss and more unmentionable things as he's gradually commandeered the whole of my roof. His bad-boy landings in a confined space have destroyed pots, plants and lanterns. He quickly learned how to manipulate the security light and will still tap at the catflap from time to time, his calling-card. 

 

  

Out front, Jonathan will sit on random parked cars outside my window and flap about while I'm on the 'phone. Unattended for too long, he will crap all over the cars, from bonnet to boot. He craps on my garden bench and table, on my neighbours' washing and even on the cat if possible; and once on me, which I feel was memorable for both of us in differing ways. I know this is said to be lucky, but it feels terribly unfortunate at the time.

More than two years since he first knocked at my catdoor, his visits have become far less frequent but I now know not to worry if he doesn't appear for a month or more. People nod sympathetically when I say I know he'll always come back. Herring gulls have been known to have long memories and can live for twenty to thirty years. Jonathan seems quite determined to me and I probably seem quite devoted to him. I think he was the gull equivalent of a sulky mid-teen when he first arrived. Although I've learned that they're not pack creatures, he's sometimes landed with a couple of smaller but quite hooligan mates in tow, as though I've opened a Wild Bean Café in the garden. Ginger the cat has been jittery for days afterwards.

I love the ubiquitous presence of seagulls in this city. It's possible to feed them by hand along the seafront and they're a natural alarm clock. Some gulls are screechers, some are squalers, others laugh. Jonathan Seagull is a particularly loud laugher. "Ahahaha!" announces his arrival or passage overhead, pitched somewhere between machine gun rattle and a young Sid James. A couple of months ago, he sat on my roof for over an hour, periodically cackling at a friend and I as we attempted some DIY in my garden.

This summer, he felt comfortable enough to bring his lady-seagull to my roof, copulating quite noisily and somewhat precariously on top of my chimney pots. Of course, he laughed all the way through sex as well. I tried to carry on painting my plant pots as best I could, embarrassed but incredulous at his stamina and her forbearance. Herring gulls tend to mate for life, unless one of them falls off a chimney pot.in the throes of passion.

I appreciate that not all Brightonans are as fond of our increasing seagull population. I've often heard the expression "rats with wings"; it's true that the omnivorous gulls are natural scavengers. Brighton is a city of seaside kiosks and pavement cafes, spawning kerbside binbag collections and overflowing communal bins. As the gulls become more urbanised, they see rooftops as handy inland cliffs. This summer, hundreds of gull chicks had to be rescued by local conservationists after sliding of roofs (the chicks; hopefully not the conservationists). Over the past couple of years, the pond in Queen's Park has become a seagull nursery, with some kindly residents keeping a wary eye on dozens of chicks while the adult birds are off being hunter-gatherers.

I've never really liked the word "pet" as a term of possession. I'm as much Jonathan's human as he is my gull. I'm probably not his only human, but his presence in my garden and in my life is pretty special. On the absolute downside, Tippi Toadlet seems to have disappeared and I often fear for the smart slow-worm (called Norris, of course) who frequents the far corner of the garden by the fig tree. But the friendship of Jonathan Seagull has been an unexpected blessing.

During the bright, hot days of August, Jonathan sat on the lowest part of my roof for an hour or so, cackling and posing for photos, which I've shared here. This weekend, grey and dank, he turned up again; watching me watching the cat watching him. In the midst of the unpleasantness from some featherless neighbours, he's been an untethered yet calming presence. However, his decision to crap on my neighbours' washing line yet again can't really have eased the situation.

He can and will always fly away. With the graces of flight and speed, he travels to places I will never see. Yet somewhere on the map of a seagull's life, I'm one of the points called home. I've often thought it fortunate for Jonathan that God directed a beleaguered seagull to an animal loving potato eater. I suspect Jonathan knows that I'm the fortunate one.



 

 "Jonathan Seagull discovered that boredom and fear and anger are the reasons that a gull's life is so short, and with those gone from his thought, he lived a long fine life indeed."  

(From "Jonathan Livingston Seagull", Richard Bach)

  

 

"Heaven is not a place, and it is not a time. Heaven is being perfect. -And that isn't flying a thousand miles an hour, or a million, or flying at the speed of light. Because any number is a limit, and perfection doesn't have limits. Perfect speed, my son, is being there."
(From "Jonathan Livingston Seagull", Richard Bach)

 

"Bird On A Wire"  The Neville Brothers (version)

 

 

"God loved the birds and created trees. Mam loved the birds and invented cages." 

(Jacques Deval)

 

 

The secret life of everyday things

"Almost all absurdity of conduct arises from the imitation of those who we cannot resemble."

(Samuel Johnson)

 

I've often been told I've a "wacky" or absurd sense of humour, inherited from Dad I suppose; I also find very basic, probably puerile, things quite funny. Terry Border is an American photographer and humourist who started creating ridiculous scenes with fruit, veg and household objects about six years ago. Using wire to manipulate and pose his apples, cornflakes and muffins in and out of context, his "Bent Objects" never fail to amuse me.
Terry Border subtitles his art "The secret life of everyday things", which I particularly love. My favourites are the cookie-crumbled who's down and out outside Tiffany's, the candle burning itself at both ends, the enthusiastic (hot)dog who's messed on the newspaper.
There's incongruity and the ridiculous all round us in this world. Just as I look back at photos of my PVC, pacifist-vegetarian-punk trousers and day-glow micro-mini skirts, future generations with an evolved sophistication will refer back to our hopes, fears and ways of being. In fact, there's an innate sophistication and satire in Terry Border's observations. Perhaps my PVC jeans were really sartorial satire; maybe that's why they were so uncomfortable...
Imagination is so frequently dismissed as day-dreaming, yet it produces little sculptures of wit and wisdom such as the creations here. Four hundred years before Christ was born, still centuries before Leonardo Da Vinci was doodling helicopters in his spare time, the Ancient Greek philosopher Archytas was creating bird-shaped, self-propelled flying devices. Once you start to view what seems unlikely or impossible as magical or miraculous, you can see the world as the bright and endlessly benign haven it was intended to be.
"King of Wishful Thinking" is an old favourite sing-along of mine from another of my most loved films. Like my lovely friend Ellen, I know whole swathes of dialogue from the film "Pretty Woman"; actually I probably know all of it, for all the characters. Other friends dismiss it as an unsophisticated 90's "rom-com". Apart from being gently witty and affectionately acted by the leads, it has it's own message. It's Cinderella with a sharp twist: Prince Charming, who sometimes isn't that Charming because he is Sad, meets Cinderella, who has a Hidden Heart of Gold which must stay hidden because Cinders is a Hooker (not the rugby type). Essentially, the Hooker knows more about truth and values than the Prince; he thinks he's saving her but it could just be the other way round. Of course, they live happily ever after, which is totally absurd huh?
I've included the song here mainly for Ellen, but also because after sniffling and smiling my way through the film yet again, I've been singing it for days. I usually only sing in the shower: I thought of joining a choir but they wouldn't all fit in my bathroom.

"On almost any street corner the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face."
Albert Camus

 

 

terryborder.com

"King of Wishful Thinking"  Go West

"Kiwi getting ready for the Beach" (Terry Border)

 

 

A ginger tale

"I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little they become it's visible soul."

(Jean Cocteau)

(All photos: Gigi, album)

A couple of pictures of a very stoical Ginger, the tom-from-next-door, especially for Annie, who wanted to know more about him. Immediately, I have to say Ginger is not "my cat": he very much belongs to the family who live next door to me and simply visits, but he's a much-loved visitor. I don't think my neighbour will mind me featuring her cat in the blog: he lounged about like a professional diva for his photo shoot,  breaking his pose only to attack my bootlace or clean something unspeakable from his tail.

Ginger is a long, big-pawed, big-haired cat who's terrified of hoovers, Kings of Leon and other loud noises. He's slightly cross-eyed and also veers from extreme clumsiness to utter slinkiness. He insists on leaping onto the sloped roof of my old lean-to shed, only to slide off it in slow motion every time, with an air of gritted nonchalance. In spite of his size, he has the most pitifully tiny meow. Unfortunately for my feathered friends, he's actually a fearsome and prolific hunter. However, he still likes a little hot water in his milk at this time of year, just to take the chill off things. 

A total drama-queen, if there's a hole somewhere, Ginger will drop down it; a large puddle and he'll fall into it. He's scared of spiders and even tomato stalks or my grass plant cuttings that vaguely resemble spiders. My neighbour says he loves king prawns but he'd clearly be meowing up the wrong hibiscus to think he'd get such fare from me. He does get a nice dollop of soft cheese with his fishy cat biscuits. I have given him veggie pate which he smacks away at without knowing the difference. He developed a taste for fruity fromage frats after sticking his whiskers into a bowl when I wasn't watching his every big-footed move; but he'll only eat strawberry flavoured.

He likes to sit on the stairs and watch bemusedly as I potter about; at least once a week he'll poke his head through the banisters and have to be eased out of them. He's a frequent companion as I type this blog early in the morning or late at night: if blogger's block sets in or I start to droop, Ginger has been known to sit on the laptop; enough to make any hard-drive crash.

Shortly after I moved here, Ginger disappeared. After four days of searching and calling, my neighbour despaired that he must be dead. I felt sure that he was alive and very near, but in serious trouble. On the fourth night, I walked down to the disused warehouses at the end of the road, padlocked off from the street and due for demolition. I called him for nearly an hour until I heard the faintest, weakest little mew. I fetched my neighbour and at two in the morning, some very amused firemen arrived and broke into the rusty upper floor of the warehouse. A terrified Ginger sprang out into the dark, only emerging at my backdoor as dawn was breaking. He'd been stuck in a compartment furthest away from the street, apparently surviving on pools of rainwater. He'd obviously gotten himself in but a door had closed shut behind him. Like me, he still has a penchant for climbing; like me, he can't always get back down.

I think we bonded after his little escapade. He was very jumpy for a few months afterwards and lost a lot of his bushy tail, now grown back even fluffier. He was a wonderful companion while I had pleurisy recently, purring patiently and following from room to room while I was housebound. He purrs almost constantly; I talk to him a lot while he's here and it's occurred to me that he may actually be groaning. 

He's extremely loyal, following my neighbour around the corner to the convenience store and waiting patiently for her outside; thankfully never showing any interest in the relentlessly busy main road. The other day, he arrived at my front door carrying a bedraggled piece of blue ribbon which he proudly dropped on my doormat; regrettably, his more usual offerings are freshly caught and less easily disposable.

I try not to let him sleep here: he isn't mine, at the end of the day. He comes in for his biscuits, some milk, a grooming, forty winks in his favourite spot in the hall (under the radiator) and a bit of a chat. When my neighbour and her family moved to this street some seven years ago, Ginger had apparently been left by previous residents. Maybe he moved away with them and found his way back here: who could leave such a wonderful animal behind? My neighbour took him in and called him "Ginger" because that's essentially what he is. She tells me he was already fully grown and I realise he may be getting on a bit now. I'm trying not to think about that.

When my own very beautiful, slightly quirky little cat died some years ago, I couldn't bear to replace her and still feel she's irreplaceable. I told myself I would welcome a cat if it adopted me, which is what my Sooty did. She arrived in my life when she was about three months old and died with her head on my lap, some fourteen years later. My belief is that God brings people, animals and places into our lives for a reason. I think Ginger simply appreciated that I was a cat-person-without-cat and decided to take me in paw.

When he started visiting me, he didn't know what to do with the cat toys I bought for him. I've spent several exhilarating if exhausting evenings, throwing catnip mice and balls with bells up and down the stairs and retrieving them myself. Ginger usually simply watches until I collapse on the sofa, when his work here is done, One of us is clearly eccentric; I'm pretty sure he feels it's not him.

Hi to Annie-the-Pagan and also to Christine and Colin, who care about all creatures (including Gigis).

"Hmm. Ginger you say? Really?" My own irreplaceable Sooty Poshpaws

"What greater gift than the love of a cat."

(Charles Dickens)

"Love  Cats"  The Cure

"Of all God's creatures, there is only one that cannot be made slave of the leash. That one is the cat. If man could be crossed with the cat it would improve the man, but it would deteriorate the cat." 

(Mark Twain)