Chookooloonks

quick! avert your children's eyes!

Halloween Butterfly

OOOH NOOO!!!

It's Alex, as the KILLER BUTTERFLY!!!! Run for your life!!

THE HORROR! THE HORROR!!

Happy Halloween!

Once your heartbeat returns to normal, here's wishing you a Happy Halloween!

good alex/evil alex

"Sooooooo big!"

The picture above is Alex's portrayal of "Good Alex." She is modelling her latest outfit from a local designer, called Jofara.

The picture below is Alex's portrayal of "Evil Alex." Not that she's evil in the least, you understand, but Halloween approaches, and she needs to practice to get into character for her costume:

"BWAHAHAHAHAHAH..."

And speaking of her costume, it will be EEEERIE...

..it will be HORRIFYING...

...it will be posted next week.

hi, i'm karen, and i'm an artoholic

"Matador," by Marcus, 2002

I collect art. And I say this, not in an “I am an AHT COLLECTAH” kind of way, but more in a “Oooh!! Look at the pretty colours!!!” kind of way. Because the truth is I know very little about art. I mean, I took a year of art history at university, which I loved, in part because it provided a well-needed break from classes with names like “Waste-Water Treatment 301.” And I know what I like. But I’m definitely no expert. And Lord knows, save for being able to handle a camera, I’m certainly no artist.

Marcus, on the other hand, has real artistic talent. He studied art when he was younger, and knows all about the technique related to making art. One of my favourite things to do is to watch him paint. He does beautiful work.

So anyway, a few years ago I visited a friend of mine who had beautiful art on her walls. When I inquired where she bought them, she said, “Well, all over. Every time I travel [which she did quite a bit for her job], I try to make a point to pick up a piece of art. That way, I have beautiful reminders of my trips all over my home.” At the time, Marcus and I were newly married and in the process of decorating our house, and I thought it was a fabulous idea: imagine, our home filled with art, and becoming a sort of “memory book” in the process! My friend’s words were all the encouragement I needed: from that point on, whenever I took a trip somewhere, I always made sure to visit a local gallery, or festival, and bought a piece of art – always an original, never a print. Nothing fancy, necessarily. Just something I liked, and I could afford.

Now, if you come visit us, you’ll find art ALL. OVER. OUR. WALLS. There are collages. Oils. Acrylics. Watercolours. There’s abstract art, and there’s photorealistic art. There’s art done in a very classical style, and decidedly neo-modern art. There’s art from London. San Francisco. Trinidad. Jamaica. Santa Fe. Houston. And because I don’t know anything about art, the collection isn’t of a particular “style” or “period” – each piece looks decidedly different from the next. This, of course, gives our home a vaguely schizophrenic feel. No worries, I love it, and I have a story behind each piece, and a memory tied to each painting. Besides, look at all the pretty colours!

I have become a woman possessed.

Marcus, who admittedly loves the art, became slightly anxious at the frequency with which a new painting would appear. One day he said, “Karen, do you see this art obsession of yours? Perhaps you should take up cocaine, instead. It would be cheaper.” Whatever, man. It’s partially his fault. He’s the one who turned me onto Ebay.

I’m just sayin’.

Anyway, once I decided to quit my job, my lack of income put a serious damper on my art-buying sprees (besides, even I had to admit, after spending an hour scouring Ebay for art, that perhaps I had a problem). However, this week, a coworker of Marcus’ told him about an art opening on Tuesday night, with works by a prominent local artist. Marcus, in a moment of weakness, asked me if I’d like to go. Oh HELL yeah.

After quickly rounding up a babysitter, I put on appropriate art-buying attire, and grabbed my purse. When we walked into the opening, I felt a rush of exhilaration: it was art! And it was pretty! With lots of colours! I scored a glass of wine, and started browsing.

Suddenly I noticed the red dots next to each painting … wait a minute … these paintings were BOUGHT! There was hardly anything left!!! And as any rational human being would do, I panicked.

“Marcus! We have to hurry!! It’s almost all gone!” As I said this, a small voice inside of me was pleading please Marcus, talk some sense into me. It’s not like I have to buy anything. Tell me we have enough art. Tell me it’s no big deal. Bring me back down to earth.

Marcus looked at me, his eyes wide. “I KNOW!! The one’s I’d picked out on the website are already GONE! Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!”

Do you see that? He’s an ENABLER, I tell you.

We scanned the room, and my eyes finally fell on one piece that I quite liked. It was of a typical market scene, the kind that I used to see in the village where I grew up.

“Marcus,” I said. “I like that one. What do you think?”

“Actually, I like it too,” he responded. I looked at the price sheet. It was almost twice what I’d intended on spending.

“Marcus,” I said, “I wasn’t planning on spending this much. Do you like it enough to do this?” Come to your senses, man. Help me run away!! Run away!!

“Yes,” he responded, “I do.” Dammit. “Let’s get it.”

Suddenly, I notice a group of people standing in front of the people, pointing and commenting about the painting. My painting. I wildly looked around the room for the Man With The Dots.

"Oy! DOT MAN!! Come HERE!" Alarmed, he rushed to my side. As he placed a dot by the painting, I inhaled deeply, letting the emotion of scoring the painting hit my system. I smiled with satisfaction and the surprise on the faces of the small gesturing group. That's right, baby. I got that. You gotta be faster than that, peeps. That's MY painting. Heh.

Heh.

Heh.

Man, I need help.

Which is how we ended up with another piece of art that I have no idea where I’ll hang. But it really is a great piece. And when one day, we’re no longer in Trinidad and someone asks me about it after looking at it on our wall, I’ll have a great story to tell. I’ll tell them that this was the piece of art that made me realize that what I have is a disease. This was the one that made me seriously consider finding a support group. This was the one that made me swear off art.

Until our next trip, that is. I mean, why not? I can stop anytime.

Really, I can.

Really.

beautiful

Pink mallow, private garden, Gloucester, England

1. London at night -- but especially along the Thames.

2. The drive from Maraval to Maracas through the rainforest and then along the Northern coast of Trinidad.

3. Marcus' eyes.

4. The Caribbean Sea. And scuba diving.

5. Texas sunsets.

6. The moment two good friends meet face-to-face for the first time in years.

7. Alex's smile. And the sound of her unbridled, full-on, helpless laughter.

8. Handwritten letters, sent in the mail, just because.

9. The smell of just-out-of-the-oven, freshly-baked anything.

10. Rosa Parks.

And you? What's beautiful to you?

shel silverstein is such a downer

The tree Marcus rescued from abandonment (stole) from the complex gardens. Now that's giving.

One of the things I'm adamant about is that Alex reads and is read to constantly. I'm pretty obsessive about this, to the point that I can count on one hand how many toys I've bought her, but the number of books is astronomical (Marcus, on the other hand, cannot stop buying toys for the child. It is a sickness). I encourage friends to buy books for her. Family. To date, Alex has over 100 books, and I'm pretty sure Amazon is in the process of shipping more to us as we speak. This kid may not accomplish anything in life, but, by God, she will be well-read.

It's amazing how many new books there are for children, and how great they are. Sure, the old classics like Pat the Bunny are still around, but seriously, why buy that one when the Olivia books are out there? As far as I'm concerned, Olivia Saves The Circus is just genius. And by the way, if you're the parent of a daughter, run, do not walk, to your nearest bookstore to buy The Paper Bag Princess. Seriously. No, I don't care if your daughter is 45, go DO it. This book should be purchased by every forward-thinking mom and dad out there. In fact, the first time Alex tells me she wants to be a princess for Halloween, I'm buying her a gigantic paper bag and a sack of soot. It's that good.

In general, though, I've really been pleased with the books Alex has been given and that she now owns. In fact, I love them all -- except one. And unfortunately, this is a book I bought the child. In my defense, I bought it because it has apparently won all sorts of awards, and has been around since 1964. But honestly? I don't get it.

So, okay, what is it with The Giving Tree? Is this not the most DEPRESSING book you have ever read? I mean, forget for a moment that the author's photograph on the back of the book makes him look like a unabomber (dude's crafting a Manifesto somewhere in the Appalachians right now, I just know it). For those unfamiliar, the book is about a tree that loves a boy so much that for his entire long life she gives him everything, including her stump. And does the boy, at any point, THANK her? HELLLLLLLL, no. He just keeps on taking and taking and taking. By the time I got to the end of the book, I wanted to pitch it across the room.

And what's the central message of this story anyway? You should take as much as possible, rendering your giver a stump of a person? Or perhaps it's that you should give until there's nothing left of you? Either way, I'm not sure it's a message I want to leave with my kid.

Of course, since I can't bear to throw books away, I'm stuck with it. Although, now that I think about it, if for some reason this book strikes some sort of nostalgic chord in you, send me an e-mail with your address and it's yours, with my compliments.

And if, when you read it, you find yourself hurtling it out the window, don't worry. I understand.

on becoming a superhero

My new Superhero necklace, in Sea Glass, by Andrea. You can buy one of your own here.

Last week I received the above necklace in the mail. I had ordered it several weeks ago from a jewelry designer named Andrea Scher, the creative mind behind Superhero Designs. To be honest, I didn’t purchase the necklace because I was bowled over by its stunning beauty; while it’s certainly lovely, it wasn’t my primary motivation. The main reason I bought it is because I’ve been reading Andrea’s online journal for some time now, and while I've never met her, she strikes me as a wonderful, peaceful soul. I bought it because I wanted to send a bit of business her way. It was the least I could do, her having made my days just a little richer by sharing her thoughts and words (and some of her photographs are breathtaking, as well).

When my necklace arrived, it was encased in a tiny pouch, and attached was the following note:

this is your very own superhero necklace it will protect you from harm attract people to you and create magic in your life

Hmm.

Interesting.

My first thought was: "It will protect me from harm? It will attract people to me and create magic in my life? She doesn't really know that, does she? Because if she doesn't, and she says it anyway, this sounds an awful lot like a guarantee, or a warranty, which, if it turns out there is no magic, could result in a cause of action arising from oh dear God I'm doing it again, I really need to stop this it's not a contract for Christ's..."

...making it sadly clear that you can take the girl out of law, but apparently (and most unfortunately) you can never take the lawyer out of the girl.

My second thought was (thank God): "You know what? I believe her."

I believe her, because I believe that whatever we think we are, we become.

Back about 10 years ago, I was laid off from my very first lawyer job. To make matters worse, the layoff came on the heels of my divorce. To say that I was a bit down would be the Understatement of the Millenium.

I tried everything to get out of my funk. I tried partying. I tried exercising. Nothing seem to work. Then one day, while I was in a bookstore, I came across the writings of Thich Nhat Hanh, a Buddhist monk who was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Intrigued, I bought one of his books.

While I'm certainly not Buddhist (nor a particularly good Catholic, for that matter), I have to admit that I found many of the tenets of Buddhism compelling, and I ended up reading many books on the subject, both by Thich Nhat Hanh and by other Zen masters. One of the main precepts of the Buddhist way is the practice of mindfulness -- of living each minute in awareness, and consciously resolving to live life as thoughtfully and as truthfully as possible. Very simply put, the idea is that by living mindfully and purposefully, coupled with being present in the moment (with a bit of meditation for good measure), you will manifest what you practice and what you believe. Slowly but surely, your life will begin to transform, and eventually, with time and focus, you'll reach a state of enlightenment, or nirvana.

As I said, I'm not a Buddhist. However, I will tell you that at the time, I did incorporate some of this practice into my own life, and the results were uncanny. As soon as I stopped dwelling on all that was wrong in my life, and started concentrating on all that was right, even if I had to narrow the scope of my concentration to that very second, things didn't seem so bad. And then, when I started visualizing what I wanted to become, all of a sudden all the baby steps needed to get there began to materialize. I started believing I was happy and peaceful, and lo and behold, I was. My entire outlook changed. People around me started noticing the difference. And the best part was that my energy was contagious: some of them started to feel better about their own lives, as well. Life just got good again.

So that's why I choose to believe Andrea. Because if, while she was making my necklace with her very own hands, she believed in the power of what she was creating (and I choose to believe she did), then surely a bit of that wonderful energy made it into the priority mail pouch that arrived at my home last week. It had to, right? So, I choose to believe this necklace has the power to create magic in my life. At the very least, it's certainly a lovely reminder that I have the power to create magic in my life.

Which, when you think about it, is really all that's required to become your very own superhero.

Just like Andrea says.

don't let the angelic face fool you

Alex, taken October 12, 2005

Alex has really developed her phony cry into an art form. If ever she doesn't get her way (but it really isn't that big of a deal to her), she screws her face up into what I suppose she thinks she looks like when she's truly distressed, and emits the most plaintive, monotone wail you ever heard. Sometimes, she can even squeeze out a tear. It's practically Oscar-worthy material.

Usually, when she does this, I ignore her. Sometimes, if I really can't take the noise anymore, I'll distract her with something shiny, and she'll forget to continue her little aria. Rarely, however, do I acknowledge her little performance.

The other day, she started with her pathetic yowling, and I chose to ignore her. When she realized I wasn't paying attention, she walked right up to me:

"Mummy!!! Baby cwying!"

"Please, Alex," I said, looking right at her. "The baby is NOT crying."

She stopped. Then a slow smile spread across her face.

"Faking?"

in search of inspiration

Detail on pulpit, Gloucester Cathedral, England

About 30 minutes ago, Alex was sitting next to me, quietly colouring on a piece of plain white paper. All of a sudden, she let out an ear-piercing shriek, threw her crayon across the room, and kicked violently. When I looked to see what was wrong, she grabbed another crayon, and calmly proceeded to draw again.

I know exactly how she feels.

For the last few days, I've been spending hours sitting at my desk, staring at the computer. Not working, mind you: staring. Ever sentence I've written sounds pedantic; each paragraph a certain cure for insomnia. It's been mind-numbingly frustrating.

I think what's most annoying is the fact that there's no reason for this mental block. I mean, and I say this without a trace of vanity, I've lived a pretty interesting life. I've grown up in 2 different countries. I've travelled all over the world. I'm a Trinidadian, married to an Englishman, and the mother of an increasingly intriguing little American girl. I'm college-educated, and thus far, I've had four different (and varied) careers. During my life, I've met people who ranged from Presidents to dominatrices. I even scuba dive, for Christ's sake. So why don't I have anything to say?

Clearly, I need some inspiration. And since this glass of wine doesn't seem to be helping (and since Marcus is now home and has taken the little one to the pool), I'll go to my usual sources for inspiration: favourite books, articles, poems, and the like.

But I'm curious -- where do you find your inspiration?

The Story Behind the Photograph Currently Taped to My Refrigerator

Self-portrait, October 18, 2005

Since landing in Trinidad, I lost 18 pounds. (Of course, since travelling to England and Houston, I found 4 of them again. I suspect they were never lost at all, but merely hiding behind me, slowly sliding down the back of my legs.)

I lost the weight entirely by working out an hour a day, 5 days a week. I didn't diet at all. Repeat: at no time did I alter my eating habits to lose the weight. So apparently, if I continued to live my previous lifestyle, consisting primarily of sitting on my increasingly soft behind in front of a computer for 10 hours a day and then going home to a cocktail to relieve my stress, I would likely gain weight. Who knew.

The reason I didn't diet is twofold: (1) I don't eat poorly. I don't have a sweet tooth, I don't snack often, and when I do, it's generally on pretty benign stuff like fruit and unbuttered popcorn; and (2) I don't believe in diets, because to my thinking, I'd eventually go back to eating as I've always eaten, and therefore regain the weight. All very logical, don't you think?

Problem is, right before we left for England, I hit a plateau. For weeks I could not shake the additional pounds that I needed to shed in order to get to my goal (my wedding day weight). And for some reason, a steady diet of scones and clotted cream and Yorkshire pudding (further intensified in Houston with Mexican food and margaritas) made my weight go the other direction (the mind boggles, I know). Worse, Carnival is only 4 months away.* Desperate times call for desperate measures.

So this week, I was speaking to Reema, one of the regulars at my gym. Reema is about my age, my height and within 2 pounds of my weight, and we were lamenting the fact that we didn't seem to be losing, regardless of how much time we spent at the gym (an aside: Reema is the mother of 2 children, both of whom actually came out of her body. I therefore conclude children make you fat, regardless of how they come to live in your home. I'm just sayin'.) One of the trainers overheard us, and asked about our diets. Reema and I glanced at each other, and immediately stared at our feet, mumbling something unintelligible.

"Oh HO," smiled Rocky (who, incidentally, is the most un-Rocky-looking man I have ever met. Dude's about 6'2", and I must outweigh him by 50 pounds). "All yuh eh eatin' right -- dah's why yuh eh losin' weight. I go fix yuh up," and he sprinted to his office.

Within seconds he'd returned, and handed each of us a piece of paper. "Follow this diet for a month," he said. "I guarantee you'll lose between 8 - 12 pounds, as long as you keep coming in an' work out for at least an hour a day. Guar-ran-tee."

So, I've started this diet, which, thankfully, isn't too restrictive (at least for someone who doesn't have a sweet tooth and rarely snacks). In theory, if Rocky's correct, I'll be well in the neighbourhood of my goal weight in a month. However, you know you're in Trinidad when the diet your trainer gives you allows the following foods:

• Callaloo
• Cro Cro
• Patchoi
• Bhodi (a type of string bean)
• Caraille
• Coconut Water

Hey man, it beats rice cakes and cottage cheese.

I'm just sayin'.

_________

* So yes, Carnival is in four months, and Marcus and I have already purchased our costumes:

From the section "Fire Coral," in the band Tribe: What Lies Beneath (Calvin French, photographer). This photograph is currently taped at eye level on my fridge.

That's right, my little kumquats, Marcus and I are going to be parading around in these little numbers in public, for two days in February. If this doesn't inspire you to pray to the Weight Loss Gods on my behalf, then you officially devoid of the Milk of Human Kindness, and you are dead to me. 'Cause seriously, folks: I need all the help I can get.

Tsunami: The "T"'s for "Trinidad"

Sunday at the beach, before all hell broke loose

One of the reasons we chose to live where we live is because our little apartment complex is only about 15 minutes' drive from Maracas Bay, one of the most popular beaches in Trinidad. It's a really pretty spot, with a large parking lot to accommodate visitors, lots of little food stands selling "shark-and-bake", a local delicacy, and a pretty decent beach to hang out and people watch. Most of the time, the beach looks like this,

Maracas beach, circa March 2005

so as you can imagine, it doesn't usually take much to convince us to go.

Yesterday, however, was a bit different. We'd risen early, intent on taking a drive to shoot some pictures for an article I was going to write for submittal to a few magazines, and our drive wasn't going to take us anywhere near Maracas. However, within the span of about 15 minutes, 2 different friends of ours called to coax us into coming to lime (Trini for "hang out") with them at Maracas. Even though we'd already made plans; and, frankly, we generally avoid Maracas on Sundays (traditionally when most people go, and therefore, the beach is really crowded), we decided that nothing was worth missing a good lime, so off we went.

(Aside: Methinks I'm going to have to concentrate a bit on my work ethic, don't you?)

Anyway, Marcus, Alex and I piled into the pick-up, and off we went. As we drove over the mountain and down toward the sea, Marcus started to quiver with excitement.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I said in my usual loving manner.

"Surf," he murmured.

If you've been reading this site for a while, you know that Marcus has a passion for mountain biking, to the point where I daren't ask which he loves more: me, or his brand new Turner mountain bike -- because, frankly, there are just some questions the answers to which I never really need to know. However, the truth is, Marcus' love for mountain biking is exceeded only by his obsession with surfing. He adores it. Why, back in Cornwall, when he was but a mere lad, he used to surf in January, with a helmet, in order to protect his head in the entirely-too-likely event that one of the frigid waves of the Celtic Sea decided to smash him against the rocks.

Yes, I know. Whaddya want from me -- I married him for his looks, not his logic.

Anyway, by the time we pulled into the parking lot, unloaded our stuff, and crossed the street to get onto the beach, Marcus was positively vibrating with excitement. I looked out at the ocean: the waves were cresting at an uncharacteristic seven feet high, before crashing into a whirling vortex of steaming hot death. I'd never seen the sea look so angry. I looked at Marcus in disbelief.

He grinned, clenching his boogie-board.

"I'm goin' in!!!"

I looked at Peter, one of the friends we'd come to meet, pleading for help with my eyes. I'm not sure why I did this, since Peter is Australian, and as everyone knows, all Australians are known for drinking huge cans of beer and fighting crocodiles. Peter's also a huge surfer as well, so in hindsight, at the time I should've thought Peter would be the last person to look to for assistance.

However, this time, Peter didn't fail me:

"Aw, come on, mate!" he said. (Okay, he didn't really say "mate." I just don't know how to do an Australian accent in written form.) "You're not really going in there, are you?"

"Psssh-yeaaaaah!!!" was Marcus' eloquent response. "You coming?"

And because testosterone is a bitch, Peter followed Marcus into the Sea of Satan, leaving his wife Joanna and I staring at each other helplessly.

For the hour or so that they were in the water, Joanna and I spent the entire time moving our daughters further and further inland as the Waves of Hades came closer and closer to their sandcastles. We'd no sooner rearrange their shovels and other beach toys, sitting them down to peacefully play in the sand, a wave would come all the way inland, destroying their sand structures, and if we weren't fast enough, knocking them completely over. By the time the men returned to shore, Joanna and I were hot, sweaty, and glowering behind the tree line, while our kids tried to make a castle with the debris and cigarette butts lying in the remaining sand -- the beach was rapidly disappearing.

"Joanna, you wouldn't believe it the conditions of the water out there," Peter said, dripping. "The waves are real sucky*. Not very good for surfing."

I looked at Marcus, who was beside himself with glee. "Yeah, I couldn't get much of a good ride, but the POWER, man! Incredible. Just incredible."

"Well, IncrediBoy, I want to go take some pictures. Can you watch Alex for a second?"

"Sure, I ... HOLY SHIT."

"What?" I asked, and followed his gaze out to sea.

There, just starting to crest, was a 12 foot wave. It was huge. Marcus looked at Peter. "That thing's coming here. We need to move everything."

We all scrambled to whisk deck chairs, beach toys, coolers, towels and daughters inland, narrowly missing getting soaked ourselves. By the time we'd dumped our stuff, we were halfway to the roadway.

"I don't get it." I said. "Shouldn't the tide be going out by now? Is there a storm offshore that I just don't know about?"

"There is, actually," Marcus said. "It was on one of my surf sites -- it's about 100 miles offshore. But I didn't really expect the surf here today. This is unreal."

Lifeguard at Maracas making like David Hasselhoff in the face of one of the smaller waves, Sunday, October 16, 2005

Even the lifeguards, normally a laconic and bored-looking bunch, had leapt to attention, blowing whistles and shouting at people to get out of the water. Every now and then they'd glance at each other, with clear "What the ...?" expressions on their faces. When Marcus asked one of them what was going on, they were obviously as confused as we were.

Since by this time there wasn't much usable beach for the kids, we decided it wasn't worth it and headed home. It was about noon.

Turns out, we made the right decision. At about 2 p.m., according to the local papers, two 25-foot waves crashed ashore, washing away everything in their paths. No one was injured, thank goodness, but people lost their towels and deckchairs, and more critical items like cell phones and car keys. Unfortunate shark-and-bake vendors in the car park on the other side of the street were completely flooded out. One poor man almost lost his child -- luckily however, the baby was saved.

In speaking to another friend of mine later that evening, she was gushing as much as we were. "Wasn't that amazing?" she said. "And apparently, the waves are supposed to be bigger tomorrow. Surfers from all over are coming to Maracas to ride the waves!"

Dear God, please don't let Marcus find out.

____________

*As Marcus explained to me later, "sucky" is surfer-talk for when a wave crests and crashes on top of itself, creating an undertow at its base, thereby pulling a hapless surfer into the wave, and resulting in a disappointingly short ride. Who knew.