Night Musings: Finding Peace in the Darkness
Dear readers, There is something so peaceful about the night air. It’s like the breezes from space come to scrub down the heat scars and burn marks from the day, especially in the tropics. You look up at the night sky, even better in locations where light pollution enables you to see the great theatre of the universe, to get a tiny glimpse of the 200 sextillion stars, which seem hung in space by invisible threads to a black ceiling. Yet the space has no ceiling. That’s the beauty of it. The universe has no end. Infinity. It’s too absurd and big to consider, just the mysteries of it. I’m on a high. Not on intoxicants. Just curiosity and amazement. It’s exciting taking it all in, the shooting stars, planets, moons, UFOs (maybe). The night sky helps me feel insignificant, shrinks my ego when I’m feeling too full of myself, but also crushes the day’s frustrations and disappointments and comments from idiots and imbeciles. It’s my balance. It’s my antidepressant and anxiety valve release. It’s a pro of suffering from insomnia. Despite the other 8 billion people on Planet Earth, the night feels mine: all mine. All the activities one can do at night, for both introverts and extroverts. Sleep and/or good sex come to mind, if you can get it. Intimate midnight talks with loved ones and friends, or rows with soon-to-be ex-partners and people you no longer respect. Parties or reading a book or watching a movie, or taking a walk in the wee hours. Mothers care for their screaming babies. Murderers and thieves fulfill their deeds, while nurses and doctors go about theirs. Sex workers do their thing. Lonely men and women do theirs. Other workers return home alone in an empty car, listening to late-night radio DJs spin their lonely tunes. You have the irresponsible students and desperate office workers, leaving assignments to the last minute and pulling all-nighters with support from caffeine or other substances. Witches make their brews. Priests give their Midnight Mass. Ghosts and spirits fuck with our minds. UFOs curb crawl anonymously around the solar system. Then there are those who invest in the night, the astronomists and astrologists; the former studying the science of space, the latter studying what’s going to happen in our lives in the next day, week, month, year. Moons and planets going retrograde which means our emotions are going to explode and/or we’ll meet our soulmate tomorrow morning over coffee. Either way, I know I’ll be treated with extreme contempt for being a Scorpio the next day. After all, Scorps will Scorp. Someone was talking to me about astrology the other night. She thought I thought she was mad. I didn’t. I didn’t understand exactly what she was saying. My confused face and ‘I think you’re crazy as fuck’ face seem to look similar. I keep an open mind to all ideas. The night helps me do that. I wish I knew more about the energies of the universe, to be at one with it, to feel connected and solitary simultaneously and to understand the narrative happening above my head in the theatre known as night. In the meantime, I will take photos of the moon and publish my musings on this very page when, really, I should be sleeping. ]
Anon. Me: Anonymous Collection of Introspection
Dear readers, Following on from my post (Artistic Musings….) about narratives and messages in art, I have been working on a strange collection of doodles that was born out of lack of technical skill at drawing people. As you can below, the figures are a scribbly shadow. It’s simplistic. I know. Easy to draw: just a matter of minutes to sketch out and finish. That’s why I enjoy it. Innocent fun, I suppose. It’s therapeutic. It’s been a theme for some time, without me really realising it. I started drawing the shadowed scribbles or sketches of people dancing, playing music, drinking, enjoying romantic moments under moonlight or in the rain, sometimes with a dog, reminding me of my old dog, Chente, or just memories of my dad and I together. They’re like scenarios, narratives of life and moments, some just pieces of advice I picked up from somewhere. Some are in black ink, some multicoloured, some in pencil, and some even in pastels, even though I struggle with them (see my post: Playing With Pastels). Recently, the drawings have taken on a new life. I was recently asked why I don’t sign or initial any of my drawings. I didn’t know why. I still don’t. I just draw. Fun. Enjoyment. Like I mentioned in the previous post, once the art is published, it belongs to everyone. I lose ownership. Well, reverse that ridiculous little idea. It was a pretentious hippy shit thought and I was clearly inebriated on ink fumes. Of course I need to pay the bills; better still, retire early, roll in a bed of cash, swim in a pool of moolah, buy beach homes on a whim etc, you get the picture. These babies are mine and I aim to claim royalties on them if people choose to purchase. Talk like this could lead me into legal trouble at a later date. All self-mocking aside, I like the theory that what we produce belongs to the thoughts and reflects of others. It just never occurred to me to add my signature to the work. They were just doodles. So I replied to the question, “I suppose I’m even anonymous to myself”, and in that moment, the thought fell from the sky, a lightbulb moment, something of a pseudonym or tag name, Anon. me. However, I fully understand the irony. It’s not so anonymous if I’m declaring to the world this collection is by me. It’s not meant that way anyway. I am very much an introvert. Not many people believe this, but I enjoy passing time by myself, regaining my energies by disconnecting and being anonymous to the world. Some of the pieces are just that: anecdotes of searching for inner peace and healing (read more on artistic journey on: Why Do I Doodle?). Like in my previous post, they consist a mixture of imagery and musings of whatever’s passing my excited, reflective, worried, angry, happy, sad, numb, and conflicted mind at that fleeting moment. There is a lot of shadow and introspective work going on, a window into my chaotic thoughts and world. I like a bit of humour, self-mockery, sometimes mocking the world, sometimes observations of what’s going on in society. Some are purely emotional, accepting and the power of saying goodbye. Now, I don’t want to applaud myself to loudly – after all, it wouldn’t fit with my anonymous alter-ego – but one of my favourites is the drawing to the left. Let me be selfish for the moment. This scribbled figure is very much me, maybe more than any other. This is my forceshield against views, comments and opinions that once might have wound me up and/or left me wounded, but telling myself this helps me to let go of words which harm, intentional or not. It shrinks the person and their words into insignificance, to let it go, move on and not let it hurt your esteem, or better still, laugh at the comments (and the person), maybe even review the words to see if there is truth to them, even if they are wrapped in barbed wire. I hate to use the cliché: sometimes the truth hurts. I take great strength from this strategy, giving me patience and calm. It’s part of growing up and realising what’s a battle and what’s not. Some people or comments aren’t worth the energy, time or thought. I offer it to others who are sensitive. I hope it works for you. Then again, I hope the rest of the collection does. It’s meant for your enjoyment, to inspire and for you to resonate with. I suppose most artists aim for the same, as well as dream of swimming in pools of money, which is possibly a dream which also extends to many different people: not just creators. Nonetheless, a shallow dream, it might well be. So, sit back with a hot brew, or a cold one, and enjoy a few moments of my chaotic thoughts. Some of the drawings you may have seen before in other posts, as they were also inspired by other elements, such as music, cats or the sea. If any inspire you, let me know in the comments. Anon. me Anon. me with Pastels Anon. me in Other Themes Older Anon. Me Doodles Anon. Me – Pencil Drawings
Tegucigalpa: En la Ciudad de la Furia
Dear readers, Three or four months ago, I went to a nightclub named Noches Magicas, close to downtown Tegucigalpa, or Tegus, as it is more affectionately known. It’s an after party place, a haven for those who aren’t content on returning home after bars and clubs have kicked everyone out in the Godly hours. It’s a venue for the true nocturnals, also known as dirty stop-outs. And on that night, I was just that. It’s in a hotel. I was told it had been abandoned but the social media pages suggest otherwise. There is a swimming pool plonked in the middle and different rooms playing different genres of music, catering for all sorts, because that’s exactly the type of person Noches Magicas attracts: all sorts. There were folks of all ages, generations, social classes, backgrounds and walks of life, dancing, smiling, chatting, kissing, God can only tell you what else, along with the doormen, spotting sins of all sorts. But I like that: a blend of people of many orientations, tastes and spices of life, all under one roof, of varying states of inebriation, all enjoying themselves. It reminded me of a place I used to hang out in Birmingham in my youth called Moseley Dance Centre. A haunt, with a similar vibe. But for Tegus, there aren’t many places like this. I feel it’s quite unique, but all cities and towns require such a place, for the dirty stop-outs of life. Sadly, I have no photos. A fool, I am. Or maybe not, because I too was in an intoxicated state. On that night, at some ghastly late hour, I decided to walk home. It’s about 4 or 5 miles from where I live, mostly flat, and it took me about 2 hours. I knew the route and my legs carried me on automatic pilot. I didn’t feel I was going through any particularly dangerous barrios, but I get it: it only takes one ghoul to put you to sleep. I don’t know what my rationale was at the time when I made the decision to walk, other than I just wanted fresh air and to spend some time alone with my thoughts. A strange hour and a place to stroll, I agree. Suffice to say, Tegus isn’t the safest place to walk alone at night, but no city is. “Especially for a white, gringo-looking dude like you,” a friend told me the next day, an echo of many other comments I received from friends and family. There were quite a few adjectives, actually: crazy, irresponsible, silly, selfish, daft, foolish, arrogant for thinking I was untouchable. Maybe it was just my flow of thought at that moment, as I’m usually more sensible (kind of). Then again, what they don’t know but will do now; I’ve walked home loads of times, and I love it. It’s not that I enjoy taking risks. But I don’t feel unsafe in Tegucigalpa. Hondurans look at me bizarrely when I say that. People are generally sweet, nice and have a good vibe here, with a bit of boisterousness to add to the spice. Don’t get me wrong, I know very well that the barrios marginales (marginal neighbourhoods (sorry, I really dislike the English term slum. I find something so outdated, undignified and disrespectful about the word)) can be very dangerous. I don’t want to underscore the violence in Honduras and paint the place as a safe haven, nor do I want to pinch a patriotic nerve, as I know many Hondurans are tired of having their country portrayed with “the most dangerous country in the world” narrative. One shouldn’t drop their guard, of course; it would be irresponsible to encourage folks to flaunt their valuables to the world walking down a street. However, I sometimes feel more unsafe walking the streets of Birmingham, London or even Preston, especially at night, than Tegus. I’ve been robbed and assaulted more times in Europe than I have in my 13 years in Honduras. One might point out that in Tegus I live in a gated community, true. Nor do I have not the faintest idea of what it’s like to live in a barrio run by gangs. But still, generally, I feel it is less likely that a drunk smashes a bottle over my head or a gang stabs me for no reason in Honduras, than the UK. I’ve seen less bar-room fights and had less people starting on me because I accidentally looked at them a little funny. That’s not to say these things don’t happen in Honduras. I acknowledge there are many variables to take into consideration. In Honduras, I enjoy an anonymous life where I don’t frequent the cantinas and bars in certain neighbourhoods, where as in my younger days in the UK, I was probably more carefree and enjoyed going out more. I might be painting my native country in negative colours, as well as crafting an image of Honduras that many feel might seem as unrealistic, but I’ve heard other Europeans in Honduras say similar things. It’s bizarre to say it, and maybe contrary to popular belief, but an honest observation, it is. En La Ciudad de la Furia Tegucigalpa has a certain melancholic charm, but it shines even more after the sun goes down, and I love to embrace it. Even with the energy, excitement and drama that comes with the nightlife in a Latin American city, Tegus possesses something magnetic that makes it hard to depart the place. Maje, as I mentioned above, I’ve been here for 13 years, and while I might moan about it now and then, it’s difficult to claw myself away. Please excuse my machista language, but for many years, many Capitalinos have given their city a colourful little tag: La puta: ugly by day, beautiful by night. And that’s the certain melancholic charm I was telling you about. On the walk home, I took a few photos. Despite the intoxicated state, my senses were