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On the floor...

I'm looking around my room. It's just a room, you know, comfortable, not pretentious, almost monastically furnished, and pretty self-contained except for toilet facilities. It's like two rectangular spaces fitted together. One might view it as a northern space, where the northern wall has a 3 x 5 glass window, with handles with which you can wind open the four , two on each section, panes. On either side of this glass window are two 13-bladed, brown painted, wooden louvre windows. For light and air I usually throw the curtains up above the window, much to the annoyance of my wife, to let in some extra air and the occasional Caribbean breeze. On rare occasions a wandering bird finds its way inside thinking of keeping me company, but then changing its mind, cannot find its way out. I then have to close all entries and leave only the window exit open and gently show his agitated soul outside to much appreciated freedom. Often my wife is also annoyed at the number of clothes I hang on the window handles, but it is absolutely forbidden, verboten, to touch or interfere with them. I move them when its time for the laundry, then often only to the car, where they ride up and down with me, sometimes for weeks, before I remember to stop at the laundry.

Sometimes, sitting on the floor, my back against the bed, as I was doing a while ago, my favourite position for what passes for thinking in my shrinking brain, I get a view of the skyscape and the various moods of the once beautful valley in which I have lived most of my life, like me recording the passage of time from verdant flourish, to hoary decadence. A billowing mountain of fluffy clouds fills the window frame, enclosing a central space of deepest blue, like the eye of a hurricane, or the entrance to the other side, through which so many of my literary and artistic friends and acquaintances have passed, the flower of creativity of this country, passing steadily in a stream of blue light, having made various marks and contributions to the society, of varying degrees of performance and acceptance, but all with pure hearts of creative contribution.

That blue center reminds me that I have lived long and seen many things, and have touched and been touched my many people; strangely, my relations with these people no matter how slight, for one of two have not been more than passing, but I have spoken, written or shared a communication or greeting with everyone whom I remember now and images of our past encounters filter through my mind, like memories of past life in the Akashic records, some whose interactions were short and awe inspiring like E.E. Williams, others whose encounters where often long, deep and over a significant period of time in life, like Victor D. Questel. Through that blue centre they proceed again for my benefit in no particular order, as my room and window fade from focus and for my benefit they pass once more from my mind through the blue center. Amazing, I think. That such quality people have passed through my life and that I often think that this country is so poor because of the present situation of the Kali Yuga, the Dark Ages of our time presently upon us. This parade for my benefit is a celebration of the quality of our people.

Look at those I call to mind and honour, sitting on the floor, leaning on my bed, transported to another dimension of existence. There is history here and I am part of it. Thank you: H.M. Telemaque, Eric Roach, A.C. Thomasos, Sidney Ramdial, Alan Netto, Gerry Mollineaux, J. Newell-Lewis, Victor D. Questel, Helen Mc Gregor, C.L.R. James, A.J. Seymour, Cedric Lindo, John Clifford Sealey, Jack Kelshall, Hylton S. Edwards, Slade Hopkinson, Sybil Maundy, Astor Johnson, Cyril St. Lewis, H.E. Leighton-Mills, Pat Chu Foon, Roy Watts, Barbara A. Jones, Ivy M. Gomez, Abhiman Gajadhar, Edwin L. Duval. Dennis Forrester, Clara Rosa de Lima, Arthur de Lima, Samuel Selvon, Senya Darklight, Gilles L. Cobham, Wilfred Cartey, Leroy Calliste, M.P. Alladin, Sonnilal Rambissoon, Marguerite Wyke, De Wilton Rogers, Garnet Philbert, Shiva Naipaul, Dennis J. Mahabir, Harold Sonny Ladoo, Albert Gomes, Alfred Mendes, R.N. Donaldson, E.M. Cambridge, Olga Comma Maynard, Claudette La Fortune, Douglas Archibald, Errol John, D. “Lully” Punch, Patrick Solomon, C.A.P. St . Hill, E.E. Williams, Charles Applewhaite, Sidney Best, Sidney Hill, Ermine Wright, Wilbert Holder, Daniel Samaroo, Russell Winston, Daphne Pawan Taylor, Lucy Archibald, Alma Pierre...

... past writers, artists, dancers, actors, who have entered the other realm, made their abode in the Far Country; the centre of blue light awaits those who will before the century closes its doors.

But the weather has changed; a wind has arisen. The clouds have blown away and bright Caribbean sunshine illuminates the royal blue sky, lifting the spirit and quickening the blood...

© Anson Gonzalez 1998