So am in the kitchen making me peas soup…yes peas soup again…just because I fancy it. And clucking away like an old mother hen,(teenager in the house). Hubby concocting his Moussaka – that classic Greek Dish you make with Eggplants,(give me peas soup any day, just because that’s what he fancies. But the dried peas my grandmother sent has been nagging me for days now, so kitchen busy – Peas soup VS Moussaka – because nothing is set in stone in this house…we make the rules as we go…as and when…and I like it just so!
Well he feeling mellow and kinda vibzy I guess..one of those days, you know. So in between all the farting about it takes to prepare Moussaka, he Youtubing…reminiscing with some of the old greats…playing a Cat Steven- over and over and over, until I start to question the message. ‘You want to go out?’ I hear. Now just this morning, my head splitting and he still mash-up – smashed from hangover + early morning tennis game… but that’s how we roll. So as soon as me soup done cook and I chack-up (have my fill), I ready to roll.
We hit ‘The Shack’(Nigel’s Place) down the Concrete Strip – a few drinks, a chat with Nigel, waves slapping in the background. Idea , we thought,.but we find there is a beach lime. DJ blasting and an angry generator threatening to spoil we lime. But that’s how it is. Always something different . So we have a couple Stags (No Guinness) and I tend to settle for Stag to make it easy. Chat a bit with a couple old friends – hearing again how we look ‘the same’ ..’like we never left’ and am not sure what that implies, but I do feel like I never left. Dig my toes in the sand a bit, watch a bit of practice whining session. And though we planned to stay longer, but with none of that strong, dark Good For Yo – Guinness, in stock, we relocated to The Boardroom- not because down that side is a place we lime, but just because we know Garfield from back in the days. One drink -pleasant enough sitting outside, taking in the free magical display the sun putting on, but not a second or third drink kind of atmosphere. We move on…
And tempted as we are to move on to Umbrellas –Painkiller on the Saturday Special, The Unit band (don’t mind seeing them two nights in a row), but I feel the need to exercise some kinda self preservation….save myself for Paradise Sunday. So when I got to Wall Street roundabout, I very wisely carry straight on. No left turn.
Home…Part II of our Youtube session. Kick off with a Paul Simon and Garfunkel’s performance at the concert in Central Park- where an estimated 500, 000 people attended (would have loved to experience that- Woodstock and Glastonbury too)..More Cat Stevens, Bruce Hornsby, Annie Lennox, Dire Straits etc..followed. Missing ? Wine (self preservation..remember?)..and dancing? But sometimes just the listening experience is enough. Even for me!
Paradise Sundays
We go every Sunday, and have been doing so since the first experience a few months ago. It’s the same venue – our favourite spot, Umbrellas Beach Bar, of course. Same Day of the week . We order the same drinks – a Guinness and although I try the daily specials, when feeling adventurous, I have settled on Painkiller as my favourite – I limit myself to one though…watching the pennies. And same band – (well part of Barracuda) and perhaps we know most of the songs in his repertoire by now, but Barry always surprises and pleases his audience with a new addition or perhaps just does an old one in a way… a bit of country, a mix of reggae, flavoured with a dash of Italian opera – brilliant every time!
And some of the faces are the same, some different. But each Sunday turns out differently; different atmosphere; different moods – both band and audience; different weather – lucky if you could fit underneath an umbrella when it starts to rain. Some nights are dancing nights, some not. Some nights spirits soar higher, boosted by one too many rum punch. Special moments of interaction between band and audience, and if you’re lucky, Barry may even perform a request! Other nights people (not persons as is seems the norm to say, especially on radio and TV),people (nothing wrong with using this noun people) just chill, listen and enjoy the music ..the food…the company…the evening. Mostly we meet and chat with the same people. Other times we just sit together…no words necessary. A greeting and a little chat with the manager Wayne is always a welcome gesture.
Last night we were about to leave when we bumped into a bona fide friend. We stayed on. Another drink. A very conscious and stimulating discussion. Another thrilling climax to our Sundays in Paradise. Always worth it. Grenada Nice Oui!
This writing thing
Write, write write. It’s what I want to do and to get really good at. But it is difficult. All good writers say it’s difficult ..so there. I said it!And sometimes I have to make myself do it – sit myself down somewhere, and actually put words down on paper, and other times it just comes, it flows and I just go with it. But my writing is all over the place – literally all over the place in all different notebooks, diaries, much like my thoughts and my life really. I write this and that, here and there. And I really enjoy doing it. When people ask what I do, I say I do a little bit of writing. In fact I do lots of writing, yet, I don’t feel qualified to call myself a writer, simply because I don’t have any MAs or BAs against my name. I kept putting my writing down; measuring myself against other writers. Who told you you could be a writer? I kept questioning myself. Recently the writing tutor of my Memoir writing class commented – ‘I think you have the gift of writing or so it seems: you naturally tell a story and have a voice and a point of view’ and later, reassuringly said, ‘I remind you: you are a writer’ – suggested I send a particular piece I wrote, to The New York Times Sunday columns. And although this has really boosted my confidence, self-doubt niggles.
Recently, in a discussion with my partner about what a writer is, I came very close to tip-exing the word ‘Writer’ on the information cards which I had finally had printed – a small step towards marketing myself as a writer. In her essay ‘The Getaway Car’ Ann Patchett confesses, “I grieve for my own lack of talent and intelligence. Every. Single. Time. Were I smarter, more gifted, I could pin down a closer facsimile of the wonders I see. I believe, more than anything, that this grief of constantly having to face down our own inadequacies is what keeps people from being writers.’ Who or what is a writer? There are several definitions of what a writer is. Wikipedia states, ‘A writer is a person who uses written words in various styles and techniques to communicate ideas.’ In another dictionary, a writer is ‘a person who is able to write or write well.’ I rest my case.
I have now allowed myself to feel proud of my achievements –as little as they may be (the winning letter in Woman & Home magazine – the prize, a beautiful hatbox of French gourmet chocolates delivered to my door and a letter in Mslexia Writers magazine). And for a little bigger accomplishment, the completion on my memoir, which has taken me on some trying journeys over the years. What sprouted from my, somewhat naive determination, to share this story, using my own voice, has grown and developed into the completion of a full length manuscript. I must admit that this determination has almost been stifled along the way, not so much by rejections or the lack of confidence in my writing, but by the realization that my ultimate goal, the ultimate goal of most writers – to get published – seems further away, more unreachable. Octavia Butler says you do it alone with no, “…certainty that you’ll ever be published or paid or even that you’ll be able to finish the particular work you’ve begun. It isn’t easy to persist amid all that.”
Ann Patchett goes on to say, that she will keep forgiving herself, I guess for what she feels are her inadequacies. What’s to forgive? Having to forgive yourself to me, suggests you are measuring yourself too closely against other writers – amplifying differences, mistaking them for inadequacies. You are the writer you are. And if you are the best writer you are capable of being, then even better. We can’t all be John Grishams or Toni Morrisons. Who will be the Harper Lees? Or me?
These old heads
I decided to go to the beach for a quick dip, even though I don’t like going alone. I don’t mind going to the beach alone but I really don’t have enough confidence to bi in the water all by myself. But hubby was busy supervising the mobile mechanic who had come to our home to work on the jeep. I had been sitting at my computer all day and my head was full and fuddled and I needed some therapy.
I met these two elderly ladies getting ready to go in for their evening soak. The conversation which started with one of them asking me where the road I had just came down lead to ended almost two hours later. And by that time I was as wrinkled as my two old friends.
We covered every topic – from politics to rude Bank Tellers (who seem to forget that times have changed and they are no longer the prestigious bunch). We talked about hurricane Ivan and what went on in the aftermath and racism and all kinds of issues – current and none current – until we got to that three letter S-e-x word. And I must add how thrilled was to learn it is still very possible even in your seventies and eighties! Even people my own youth close up on this very normal, relevant and healthy-to-talk-about topic. These ladies were so open, so full of life and vigour and the stories. I can imagine sitting on their verandas with them, having tea and listening to their stories about life; where it took them, their experiences. I can imagine it and it filled me with longing and regret. It brings to mind a certain dwelling place called ‘ Castle Aven’ fenced by concrete walls and a gate as tall am I am, which shouts KEEPP OUT! I wonder what they will think if I tell them this place belongs to my own flesh and blood ! They are the kind of people who cannot imagine wanting to keep their grand children away. And I wonder if I will see them again. Perhaps I can adopt one or both of them.
Before we parted, one of them came up to me dripping and cold and very wrinkled. ‘I love you,’ she said and hugged and kissed me. This total stranger, who up till two hours ago had never even known I existed. The other one, not wanting to feel left out, followed suit. Blessed.