Wednesday, July 30, 2014

"I'm on an island."

One starts life thinking they are a Mainland person and then comes to the realization that he or she is not.  An Earth Sun sign, surrounded by many Water elements (Moon, Venus and Rising); an Air element above (Mercury), and a single Fire sign below (Mars, the Vulcan, a volcano perhaps, waiting) and voila!  "Get out the Bikini, Babs."  We are an Atoll.  Or something with a similar sound...sometimes called.  "No thanks, Coral. 
No more"

"And now back to... Hawaiian Eye."

"The soft island breeze brings you strange melodies."

Ah, yes.  The Music.  When Space Pirate Radio began broadcasting from the Eighth floor of the Granada Building, that nighttime view, looking down State Street to the Santa Barbara Harbour.  The frightening offshore oil platforms by day, now reflecting ocean lights in the after midnight morning.  They were vessels at sea, Matey.  And this Captain?  Playing the hypnotic electronic sea songs and progressive shanties.  We were on course.  Full speed ahead!

Gong's "Isle of Everywhere."  PFM's "L'Iosola di Niente."  King Crimson, singular.  Mike Oldfield, plural.  Or something on the Island label.

Les Baxter and "Caribbean Moonlight?"  Or maybe Martin Denny and "Quiet Village?"  Arthur Lyman?  Let's all sing in calip sync.

"Appearing Nightly, Cricket Blake in the Shell Bar."

Or we can just lie back and enjoy the night sky with the sound of the waves.  SHORTWAVES?  Checking out the wave length.

What does this all mean?  Should I be Morse Pacific?


If the Pirate comes back for another takeover, than the course is...set sail for the Seven Seize.  Arctic, Antarctic, North Pacific, South Pacific, North Atlantic, South Atlantic and Indian Oceans.  The Big Pitcher.

Perhaps I can blame these musings on our Summer Heat Wave.  Tropical Madness.  Hugh Midi Tea and the Barrow Metrics.  It's those Waves again.  Love a woman in uniform.  Love a woman out of uniform.  Naval gazing.

It could be in the blood.  My Father was once in uniform.  US Army Air Force.  Stationed in the Forties on Spy Island.  Up all night watching radar for German submarines off the coasts of Africa and South America.  And other Hush Hush  stuff.  Carmen Miranda meets the Fathers of Kraftwerk while the Master Musicians of Jajouka play in the background.  Creepy environment, I'm sure.  Mood altering nights.  Like Indiana Jones on the Island of Dr. Moreau.  And the poor tired Turtles are not quite "Happy Together."

So choose your land mass.  Oahu and Maui?  "The hands tell a story," while the night air is filled with the scent of plumeria.  The Seychelles?  Isle of Skye?  Cuba Libre?  A touch of Voodoo?  "This is your Haitian Divorce."  The Giant Rat of Sumatra?  Greenland or the British Isles?  Singapore, Hong Kong or Manhattan?

Catalina and the Channel Islands?  After all, California was believed to be an island from the 1500s up to 1747, when the King of Spain declared it was not, despite maps that claimed otherwise.  A land of Gold, ruled by a Queen and her Amazon women.  A Treasure Island indeed.

Or one can always read another book.  Ernest Hemingway and Sigmund Freud:  Islands In the Stream Of Conscious.

How about The Isle of Yew?

"Isle Of Yew???"

I love you, too.  :)


Sunday, July 13, 2014

"It's Purrific!"

Orson the cat with his namesake, Baby Orson (juvenile actor Buddy Swan) from "Citizen Kane" (1941).
This photo originally posted on the Twit Hair thingee, the Conway Twitter in the Southern portions, the Herr Twitt for followers in Deutschland.  Cats and porn very popular (obvious joke there, will just walk away, Rene).
For biographical purposes, Orson the cat is one of four brothers born to look alike mom Glenda (named after Glenda Jackson) and two fathers (very similar to Charlotte Rampling's first marriage :)X ).  The known dads were named Malcolm (after Malcolm McDowell)  and Nico (oddly, after Nico).  The other brothers are Bowtie, also sarcastically but lovingly referred to as Raymond Purr; Pixie (so called because he and Bowtie looked alike as distant kittens and were identified as Pixie & Dixie), and Jazz, the literal black sheep of the family.  All were outdoor hobo kitties, till enticed to the indoor comforts of Casa Saint Francis the Talking Mule Sanctuary, except for Jazz, who remained feral and came home no more, sadly.
The Trio of Bros are still with us.  Inside and ironically outliving their collective parents.  The two fathers also had a sister that we named Kinski after Nastassja from "Cat People" (her brother being Malcolm).  But the family lived up to their name and sister Kinski was the only cat we felt would be better off living in a different locale.
So as you can see, I am living my golden years in a true cathouse.  Me and the little one have the habit of naming our critters after cult film stars or obscure artists.  We are at the "No Vacancy" point, but I wouldn't mind naming the next one Om Purri. 
Oh! CulCatta!