Artistic Elephant

Those of you who know me well know I have a thing for elephants. Love them for their complex martriarchal social structure. For their emotional capacity (they mourn still births). For their memory capacity (bones of long dead elephants evoke memories). For the symbolism they evoke in history and in ancient religions.

I rode an elephant in an Indian zoo when I was a wee little lass. Sadly, that is the closest I've been to one in my life. More's the pity as elegant creatures could teach us a good deal about motherhood, parenting, complex societies, and now art! That's right, an amazing video surfaced on uTube of an elephant painting a self portrait.

Yes, I am a sap for dogs and penguins and the occasional Tasmanian Devil. But these creatures are remarkable in their temperament, social skills, and dare I say it, in their humanity as this video vividly demonstrates. You can purchase an elephant painting at Exotic World Gifts

Earth Hour

Lights out time is approaching. That's right, earth hour strikes at 8:00 pm 3/29/08. Earth Hour blog reminds us of the partner cities (only 4 in the US). Check out Ideas of reducing carbon footprints at home, business and at school. Of course the World Wildlife Fund, originators of the movement offer way's to get involved.

Mexico

Whoa Mexico
It sounds so simple I just got to go
The sun's so hot I forgot to go home
I guess I'll have to go now - James Taylor

Of course I've been there many times. Cancun, Acapulco, Taxco, Cozumel. But this winter's been brutally cold, indoors and out, with no comfort in either. So I took meself south of the border way with a travel worthy friend. The resort hosted mostly Europeans (thankfully!) who were friendly and, hailing from colder climes like Poland and Germany, so damn grateful for the hot Mexican sun. And while I did indulge in a day trip or two. How could I pass up the ancient Mayan pyramids in Chichen Itza during the Spring Equinox when a serpent is supposed to slither down the 91 steps where (history tells us) blood used to flow from the virgin sacrifices?

I do admit feeling a twinge of Bourdainian cynicism at one of the daytrip sponsored lunches. I'm sure the boys and girls of that Mayan village dress in colorfully embroidered Guayabaras and blouses. And come on! I'm sure they sometimes dance with half filled bottles of Corona on their heads. And so what if we ate in a buffet-style restaurant that sold Coke Lite. And so what if the chicken dish was too lustily dowsed in crema? The heat from the deep red chili sauce warranted a little milding down, right? Right?

My travel-worthy companion, Damarys had a penchant for water. I don't just mean lounging around in salty aquamarine beaches with a margarita decorating your hand. Snorkling! Diving! Kayaking! I figured snorkling was the safest bet as I could remain on the hobiecat AND indulge in my napping pasttime while the rest of the ocean hungry gang dumped overboard. The crew consisted of 3 men. El Capitan, a non verbal man with skin the color of polished Brazilian cherry. Joel, a Mayan descendant who served as our tour guide for 5 hours and spoke English peppered with jokes appreciated by jocks, Americans and misogynists. Last and most importantly came Cesar the dive/snorkle master, a stern man with hair cropped as short as a marines.

For 2 decades I've tried to snorkle. First in Cancun, then in Jamaica, and Miami. Italian snorkling ended almost as badly as the relationship I took to Italy. The most successful snorkling I did in Bahamas was at Atlantis in the 360 underwater aquarium, watching fish from INside the tank. You see I have this thing about water. Love to drink it, cold and refreshing. Love the hues of it as it sweeps against beaches and rocks. Azure, turquoise, muddy green, black blue. Love to frolic on the shore, ride sweels on a bogie board amid pounding waves. Those waves have taught me a lesson or two - all of them terrifying. There was the time I was playing in the water and a dead body washed shore by my feet. Another time my brother and I got dragged out hundreds of feet by a rip tide. We'd both have been goners if not for a passing surfer who yelled, "Hey there's a really bad rip out here. Need help?"

The thing about snorkling, about the ocean, about anything so majestic and powerful is that you can't fight it. Once you concede and admit, mighty ocean thou art more fearsome than a pride of lions loosed at a 6 Flags theme park. That's when respect surfaces and fear begins to recede. You see I had never done this. I had boasted to anyone who would listen, yeah that water's mighty wet. Or wailed about my past lives in which I had tragically drowned - either accidently or intentionally as a witch. What is it about the pursecution of witches? Those poor gals bought it either burned at the stake in raging flames or drowned in water. Couldn't they just be banished to the forest and live in isolation with nature which is probably what they really wanted?

When I tried snorkling this time around, just like in the past I floundered and flailed like, well...like me. The rest of the gang had moved toward the reef with Cesar. It didn't help that this was the second largest reef on the planet next to the Great Barrier. Nor did it help that after viewing my gasping and inefficient swimming motions (oddly resembling Don Knotts impersonating a Ninja) Cesar beckoned his 2nd mate to drag me through the water with a bright red life saver. The only other person incapable of navigating the reef was an older woman, quite heavy and admittedly "not such a good swimmer." So Betty and I got the snorkling loser treatment.

The second site we visited was much calmer. Joel informed us we had free time to do as we please. Some prefered to sun onboard, others like my travel-worthy companion dove immediately into the water only to be surrounded by hosts of striped blue and yellow damsons nibbling at her arms and fingers. The water was languid and the hobiecat bouyantly drifted over coral and schools of fish. I felt hot under the sun and thought a dip would do me good so in I splashed, flippers, goggles and breathing tube. Since I didn't have anywhere to go I paddled in circles around the boat, safe in the security of my flourescent orange lifevest.

In moments of fear and confusion, stillness is the only guide. For only after you stop whining and blubbering like a little girl who's broken her Jonas Brothers CD can you hear the answer. In this case the answer was to listen to the whooshing sound of my breathing. Not the waves sloshing over me or the occasional shriek of a diver. So I listened, breath in... breath out. Simple and so not threatening. Matter of fact, it was relaxing and rather idyllic. For as soon as I stopped struggling I began to see what was around me. Fish - Damsons, Pampanos, Butterfly fish and velvety black Tangs. One Damson flitted by at eye level. Such a darling! so I gently rubbed his side with a finger. He turned around and bared his teeth at me. So un-Nemo-like! I drifted over a huge earthen pot, intentionally dropped into the water to serve as a home for the sealife. I glided over coral with lavender arms and bright yellow buds at the flimsy tips. Nobody bothered me, nor I them. I was snorkling!

Say what you will about past lives. About phobias and deeply embedded fears. After this recent trip to Mexico I believe that nothing can't be overcome with a little respect, courage and silence.

Wombats R Us

While the writers strike ran its course, last year's guilty TV pleasure - Ugly Betty - has been conspicuously missing. Lucky for me a high definition channel called Equator HD offers entertainment in the form on my new fave show: Wildlife Nannies.

As the name would indicate, it does feature wildlife caretakers. And yes, the baby animals under their care. The surrogate caretakers take on the parental responsibilities when the offspring is abandoned, when the parent rejects offspring or when a parent dies.

Claudia feeds sardines to baby killer whale Skyla and trains her using enthusiastic hand signals and vocal encouragement. Nanny Peter - a big cat surrogate doesn't let the fact that he looks like Captain Von Trapp in drag prevent his duties to Alvin, a lion cub.

John, Wombat nanny and friend to Tasmanian Devils shares a few secrets from down under in the care and feeding of the pudgy rodent-like creature. For instance to soothe a raging wombat simply blow on it's nose and it will doze off faster than you can say Waltzing Matilda.

Scoff all you want, but there's nothing like a few episodes of Wildlife Nannies to take the edge off the winter day and woo me into a state of goodwill, if not somnolence.

Now that's a Spice shop

You might remember the book by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni about a decade ago. I didn't even realize it became a movie till I discovered the DVD nestled between Mischief and Monty Python's Personal Best. A movie it did become starring none other than the impossibly gorgeous Aiswarya Rai as the mystical Mistress and Dylan McDermott as the object of her affection.

Critics panned the movie when it debuted in 2005. Rotten Tomatoes said: "Imagine Like Water for Chocolate without the passion" and "It's acted with the artificiality of an After School special". Desi reviewers such as Lotus Reads , a Canadian book-hound blogger are likewise underwhelmed.

"...this movie is as bland as milk"

In truth, all true with the exception of one aspect of the film - the set of the spice shop. Chili garlands hanging off hooks, obligatory mounds of crimson, yellow and green condiments, sheafs of herbs, incense sticks smoldering in every corner, clear bottles stuffed with dried and fresh spices. Holy cow, I wanna shop there. The movie might lack fire despite the casting of Mrs. Bachchan and Dylan, but the set made my mouth water.

As I'm fond of saying - don't forget to use condiments!

After all, the Grammys are about music not shiny lights

Given the crack-smoking press of late, I was more interested in whether Amy Winehouse would MAKE it to the Grammys then whether she would win for her richly deserved album - Back to Black. I was already aggravated by the US Embassy denying the beehived songstress a visa to attend the 50th Annual Grammy awards. (If you're feeling plucky, ask me about my thoughts on the US tendency to deny passports or threatened deportation to innocent non terrorists). Then Kanye West's self puffery goaded me even further.

I will say his Blue Man Group inspired performance of "Stronger" was fun. And the anticipated tribute to his angelic mother was touching. Mr. West's self aggrandizement wears thin in the company of Tony Bennett, Stevie Wonder, Aretha Franklin and Ringo Starr. Vince Gill adminstered the most appropriate bitch slap to Kanye's pouty face when accepting his Grammy from Ringo. "I just got a Grammy from a Beatle. Can you say that Kanye?"

But annoying little rappers were worth it in the end. Around 10:30 pm EST (4:30 am in London) Amy Winehouse performed both I'm No Good and Rehab. Looking a bit demure in front of a tiny club she cranked out that amazing voice that doesn't apologize for being an imperfect woman in love, in trouble and unabashedly talented. Shortly after she received the Grammy for Record of the Year and Song of the Year.

I never got a chance to see Dinah Washington, Chet Baker or Billie Holiday sing live. Like Winehouse they were gifted vocalists/musicans who shared their talents and addictions with the public. Winehouse is poised to address both. Will she dive the swampy depths of overwhelmed emotions into a dreamy deadly haze or share her gift with clarity and self compassion?

The world waits.

Super Tuesday Eclipse

My pricking thumbs this morning knew something was in the air, and it wasn't the Giants victory parade. As voters in 24 states (New Jersey included) head to the polls on behalf of both parties, certainly a big event but only when I consulted the calendar did I realize the enormity of today. Mardi Gras. Fat Tuesday, on which Catholics and New Orlean natives gorge in excess before the penitent rite of Ash Wednesday.

Not only is the morrow Ash Wednesday and might predict the future of the USA politically, but it heralds the first Eclipse of 2008, in which the new moon and Chiron converge in Aquarius.

Simone Butler of Mooncircles says:

Chiron lances personal, social and political wounds, releasing whatever has been repressed. We can see this at work in the fight between the front-running Democratic presidential candidates. How perfectly Aquarian is it that two “underdogs” — a white Scorpio woman and a black Leo man — would square off against each other in 22 key primaries on February 5, just hours before the New Moon/Chiron convergence in Aquarius? Mudslinging notwithstanding, it shows how far our society has come.

Indeed. Even in the last election I never would have dreamed a female AND a person of African descent as the front-runners for president. Unfortunately to many, this pairing seems to cross each out, implying that both candidates are both equally, negatively handicapped.

However, as this eclipse reminds us that we are all one, perhaps unity might pervade. And dare I predict a dream ticket will emerge heralding the first female president with the first black vice president?

It's all in the dreaming.

Nightstand

Sometimes it works out that way. You reconnect with something lost or misplaced. Caroline Casey's book
Making the Gods Work for You wasn't lost, it was just lounging on someone else's bookshelf. In this case my friend and wine aficionado - Karen's bookcase.

I had purchased it 10 years ago at the suggestion of an astrologer friend who highly recommended Casey's humorous yet deeply symbolic book. Since I had not read it in over 5 years I dove into the pages, remembering why I admired it greatly a decade ago. You might also want to check out her radio program - The Visionary Activist Show. which is called "the wedding of spiritual magic and compassionate social activism".

Finally luck fails the annoying Swiss

Take a look at the new face, and body of tennis. Novak Djokovic of Serbia took down Roger Federer in the semi finals of the Australian Open. That's right, Fed Express didn't even make it to the grand slam final. You might remember the 20 year-old from the US Open final, in which everyone cherished hopes that he would topple Roger in the final. Well it didn't happen then, but it did yesterday.

Don't get me wrong, I totally appreciate Roger for racket command, court dexterity and perfectionism. I'm just surprised so many talented players like Nadal, Blake, Ferrer or Safin haven't mastered his game yet. Perhaps they will now that the chink has been hammered by the Serbian. The French Open could be really interesting. Either Rog will raise his game to overcome Raphael Nadal for the first time or Nadal will continue his dominance on clay.

Exciting tennis year ahead and the young Serb is sure to play a huge role. In case you didn't catch him at the US Open, here's a vid of him hamming it up as Maria Sharapova. How can you not like the kid?

An Indian in Louisanna

January 14, 2008 Bobby Jindal became the first Indian American to hold the office of Governor in the United States. He was elected to Congress as the first non white Governor since the Civil War.

The guy is only 36 years old and uses modern media to his benefit. Evidenced by his formal website in which he posts videos, links to blogs, lists friends on Myspace and Facebook.

Despite the fact that he's a Republican, I gotta be proud. And I'll watch his journey closely for he represents the idealism that many of my family members sought in America before the gross mis-management of the Bush administration.

Should be interesting to watch Piyush (Bobby is the name he grabbed from Bobby Brady while watching an episode of Brady Bunch) as he traverses Congress, Republicanism and the post Bush era.

But then that's something we're all waiting for isn't it?