snowstalgia

Woozle of the woods

Woozle of the woods

Red-black slinks through brooding cloud layers,
Silky sunset frames the treetops.
Arching branches bearing heavy white burden
Dazzle and dare the wary walker to enter
Deeper into Direwood.

Beware the icing-powder tracks
Silver sunbeads in the waning light
Reflecting tiny star stratum
A billion ancestor watchmen
Calling.
Heavy feet
Falling.
Reaching for the eerie voices
But going nowhere
Up this icy treadmill.

In whistling stillness I see him there
Beckoning.
The woozle of the woods.
Dark green eyes of fire the centre
Of graceful black silhouette
Entrancing.
Dazzling and daring me deeper
Into Direwood.

Caseros

http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_5Yvf4Ne_lmM/SKpVaERacHI/AAAAAAAAAMI/f_ctZdUoLAU/s1600-h/Carcel+de+Caseros+3.jpg



Mooching through archives I came across a striking historical documentary: Julio Raffo’s ‘Caseros: en el cárcel’(2007). Twenty years or more after initial incarceration, a number of ex-prisoners return to the deserted Unidad Penitenciara n°1, popularly referred to as Caseros Prison, which is on the point of demolition. Unearthly testimonies of prison life relive sombre memories of downtown Buenos Aires.

Initially conceived by the military dictatorships of the 1960s to house political prisoners awaiting trail, it was not until 1979, presided over by then military dictator Jorge Rafael Videla, that Caseros was officially opened. The initial aim remained the same, though the short-term stay for most prisoners stretched indefinitely as trials were either postponed or passed over. Peronists, Montoneros, Worker’s Party, Union leaders, ERP and pretty much anyone who stepped vaguely out of line.

The image of a tall ‘luxurious’ structure with some of the best views in the city is misleading. The small cells had the windows screened out so that ‘el día no tenía sol y la noche no tenía estrellas’ (by day there was no sun and by night there were no stars). Here you were ‘punished for climbing up the bars to try and see the sun rise’. A panopticon structure, a legal concentration camp with 1996 cells, 140 isolation units.

Minister of Justice Alberto Rodríguez Varela arrogantly compared the prison to a 5* hotel aimed at preserving the human dignity of each person to pass through its doors. One witness reports that this 5*hotel set out primarily to destroy, leaving men’s skin pale green and sunken from the lack of sunlight and tempting the onset of madness through utter isolation despite the close proximity of so many.

The welcome committee, referred to as the lion’s den, resembled or perhaps was nothing more than an interrogative torture chamber.

And yet each testimony focuses on the incredible solidarity and loyalty existing between the prison population as well as the loyalty existing between family members and friends on the outside, despite the regime of abuse that was the resulting consequence for many of these friends and family members. Christmas bringing a time of hope, the dream of freedom and family. Doves and caramels for regular communication.

As so often seems to be the case, dubious connections between church and state greatly implicated the church, whose role in interrogative procedures revealed it to be seemingly nothing more than a cog in the wheel of repression. Yet there were also priests behind bars, the fruits of integrity and compassion. A bizarre contrast grew up between the official prison mass - with sermon’s emphasising the consequences of stepping out of line, like Jonah, tortured and thrown overboard- and the unofficial secret mass offered by the prisoner priests, a symbol of fidelity.

Bizarrely enough reading was allowed and literature was barely censored...perhaps contributing to the incredible flow of artistic creativity still so very evident across Argentina... All science materials were banned...as well as the sports pages.

The tragic case of Jorge Toledo has stayed with each prisoner who finally made it out. Toledo: driven to suicide following extreme breakdown and deterioratory self-isolation. Prison authorities: serve all prisoners a luxurious celebratory meal and then proceed to play the funeral march over the loud speakers all night long.

The celebration of the prison’s demolition, marked by the documentary cannot escape the lingering sadness provoked by the demolition of so many lives.

A fishy little incident

Worshiped as deities by the ancient Egyptians, the Mau cat continues to inspire awe and respect. Clocked at over 30mph and with the fastest reflexes of any domestic cat, this graceful breed, while unusually loyal to its owner and determined to demonstrate great affection, is a formidable hunter.
Four years ago the addition of a Mau to the family home proved the above in no uncertain terms. On the affection front, only the most cunning attempts to hide under covers in feigned sleep could avert a full chin licking lovin’ session. On the hunting front the local wildlife soon knew what to expect. A dead mouse or two wasn’t really going to break any of our hearts, but all the same even unharmed rodent prey brought proudly home through the cat-flap was rescued and returned to the great outdoors to live, at least we sometimes naively hoped, to face another day. Cat-owner guilt struck home more starkly on other occasions and the rescue of a semi-damaged baby blackbird led to the conservatory being turned into a springtime aviary, and constant worm diggings duties. Mauli ruled the roost. The king of the castle way up there in the local nature reserve ranking.

They say all good things come to an end, what goes up must normally come down. Lured rather forcibly one fine day into his enemy the cage, Mauli leaves his hunting paradise behind and lands hundreds of miles away in a darker wilderness with a rather mean old king already well established. Mauli’s confident prowess, his lean mean killing machine physique is cowed, his face gaunt, his body bleeding from surprise woozle attacks. No more hunting. No more great outdoors. A period of restless indoor nervousness becomes gradually a resigned slightly bored contentment. Indoor life isn’t so bad after all. More biscuits, more sleep, more taunting the dog, more family lovin’ and who cares about a rapidly developing podge. More weight to fling at passing dogs’ noses.

We all encourage a reintegration of the hunting urge telling Mauli happy hunting stories, urging him out the house, urging him to pounce and catch, even causing a brief sore head by locking the cat-flap which Mauli unwisely charges.

Out of the blue. One dark night. Last night in fact. Flop, flop, bump, flop, bump, kerump through the cat-flat, thump, flop, bump, slick bump under the table. Mauli eyes glittering in triumph holding down a wildly flittering foot long fish.

Shrieks bring me running to find fish already installed in the kitchen washing up bowl, floating a little unevenly, breathing rapidly, a few gold-flecked scaled floating gently to the surface. The clock ticks past midnight. The cat looks a little more than mildly peeved. Minutes later the foot-long carp is idly swimming around our freshly-filled bathtub.

Options:
1- Scour the neighbourhood for owner of missing fish – internet ratings seem to place the value at anything between £30 and £300 depends on exact condition and variety. There could be somehow out there even more peeved than the cat. But where the hell did the cat hunt this fish down? All the neighbourhood ponds must surely be as properly frozen over as our own is right now with their occupants happily living in idle hibernation somewhere far below the icy surface.
2- Fob the fish off on the local pet shop...maybe even make a few quid. Or then again, maybe not. There is still a prominent tooth mark showing. Incriminating evidence.
3- Leave the fish in the bath until either the cat discovers that he is being hidden there and finishes him off, or until the plug inevitably comes unstuck ...leaving us as heartbroken as Gussie Fink-Nottle upon the loss of his breeding newts but without the presence of a Sir Watkyn Bassett to blame for the mishap...unless of course the stress pushes one of us over the edge and into midnight Bassett mode.
4- Wait for an obliging person to smash through the several inches of ice on our own pond and acclimatize carpfish to his new home. Always running the risk of recapture...

The Dog seems to have taken his instructions to guard the fish a little too seriously, neurotically refusing his food and howling upon hearing a potential crime perpetrator inside the bathroom while being locked outside the bathroom.

The Cat seems to have lost a phantom 2 pounds with his late night adventure and called it a day...or perchance a week, a month or a year. Sunk in peaceful slumber.

The Fish ...is still in the bathtub, busy generating a growing aquarium odour.

hotel sunset

As the sun sets on another decade and I find myself making another online hotel booking I try and jot up how many beds I’ve slept in over the last ten years which opens up a whole new project to temporarily satisfy my secret sadistic love of Microsoft Excel. My beautifully calculated figures seem to indicate a regular sporadic change in semi/permanent abodes and a sudden dramatic rise in temporary resting places. I should probably keep a log of what shall be called - in brief deference to political correctness – the more affordable hotels and guest houses spread across the UK, and beyond. I look forward in this new year to making some more curious discoveries which will hopefully rival my favourite of 2009. London. Zone Two. Imagine my involuntary surprise at expecting pretty much the worse and yet, at the end of my A-Z trail, finding myself standing at the entrance to a rather spectacular Victorian mansion, glittering white in the late evening lamp light. Check. Check. And Double Check. Yep. This would appear to be it. But stepping through that entrance was bewilderingly like Alice’s fall down the rabbit hole. A small poky, musty little reception desk apparently empty. I ring the rusty hand bell presumably placed there for such an inevitability. The previously invisible figure behind the desk stands up, his little brown nose just level with the surface. Peering over and down I’m met his a wide grin. A wide toothless grin. No. Not toothless. A wide grin baring one yellowing tooth, protruding up from the bottom gum. In accented English I’m far from understanding well, he proceeds to welcome me with open arms and a strong preference for cash only payment, even though that results in a reduction of £1.50 in the room price. He beckons and I follow. Left6, right, right and left again and through a precariously small door down a precariously narrow flight of stairs. Flights of stairs. Down down down. In the dimming light I notice a dungeon key on a half-foot long wooden fob. The secret of entrance into my dungeon room. ‘Lights no work’ apparently, in this under-passage. Suddenly left alone I fumble for the lamp which, with a buzzing flicker reveals a small cot bed spread with a solitary 1930s cover. Two steps across paisley carpet the opposite wall sports two dank curtains on a rusty rail. Whisking them open with a clatter I unmask a secret window... drawn on the greying wall in a thick black pen. The plug sparks as I shove and what might just be a tv set flickers and buzzes in discordant harmony with the lamp. Fizz. Slupperr. Bizzerr. Bozz. Hotel star ratings seem to me to be fairly arbitrary...at least between 1 and 3.