Rastamouse Opening (Official) (by RastamouseCompany)
Rastamouse Teaser Clip 1 (Official) (by RastamouseCompany)
You can hear…life?
All those that live in the hustle and bustle of a city know what I mean. Most of us are building dwellers. That is what we call it…not “our home,” but “our building.” Which technically is also incorrect unless we are a mega millionaire. In this building we occupy, a small corner (if we are lucky), or perhaps if not so lucky, a little space smack dab in the middle of a hall in said building, on some random floor number, with some random door number attached.
It is from this “place” of “ours” that we go about our lives and also, like it or not, get to live vicariously many, MANY others lives. From the bass pumping stereo on the street, to the barking dog left home again all alone (yet again on Saturday afternoon), to the screaming child that the parent refuses to hold discipline with. To some this is background to a life they have always known, probably loved. To others, such as myself, this is like the clanging cymbal. I try often to escape, I sleep with my mask and ear plugs, bright orange and vulgar though they may be. It still seeps in.
It is inescapable this living of other lives, even in the bathtub, fully submerged except for the vital organs with which to breathe. Try it building dwellers. The symphony of the elevator shafts and the carriages murmur on, footsteps in hallways and whirs of dryers continue, amplified even over the top of said stereos and hounds. There is no peace and no solitude, even within the realm of my own life. I know the mail currents of certain doors, the Friday night drunken hours, the Sunday visits of grandchildren. I know it all, but forget myself.
I hear it now, how obstinate I am, how ungrateful, how dare I speak my mind! If I could only speak and be heard the first time! Clanging cymbal. For a person such as myself, that was weened on acres of land, with the only noise that of a cacophony of tree frogs at twilight turning to crickets at midnight, or perhaps the overwrought blinking of the stars…this is a mental institution, the city. A blurred focus, taking in too many of others peoples dirty laundry, not washing my own on delicate. I put up the wall, I dig the moat, but still they get in. I think that is why the city has so many doors, on the “buildings,” on the hotels, on the taxis, even on the parks (okay so they are gates, but nonetheless). It is all so they can enter. I live a life that is not wholly my own. I am not the happier nor the wiser for it.
Thought for the Day
The older I get the less like myself I become. Years pass in moments and I lose site of the things and dreams the person I used to be wanted for herself. It is like the current of the river over stones, the time over my soul.
Fact: dogs are 100% Ready For Adventure!™ at all times, and that’s why any magic spell that can make an animal talk is going to get instantly and unhesitatingly used on a dog .4 seconds after its invention instead of some fickle, selfish asshole of a cat.
(dog 577)
Even my dog is thinking “WTF?” After my husband and I had much discussion regarding Three Kings vs. Santa in our respective cultures this one took the cake. Forget either, in Puerto Rico folks decorate their lawn with holiday tableaux of themselves, roasting pigs. As I pointed out to my husband, Jesus was a Jew, the roasted pig would not have been on the menu for his birthday party. I think this clears me to keep Santa in my life and on my lawn if I so choose, with or without the Kings.
