The village below is a landscape for romance. It has at the edge the bluest half moon horizon. Then it is doodled out by a small island, like part of the main island, beaten off for being frivolous.
Only it is a pretty sight for the old and new by-passers of the main island. On that island, Vini, I know, it has banana trees, a grave of stones, shiny white sand and pebbles, amidst a quiet atmosphere for sitters who look out to a rippling reef, where divers rarely go to explore the long hill of coral-mountain beneath the blue magical sea.
I went there once. I have never forgotten the elevated feelings I felt when I left the coral, the fish and the sea weeds. It was like I was leaving a family whose hearts were worn on their sleeves. And I was a visitor, one of many, who did not fully know of the blessings that would follow from being hosted by such a family.
But here where I sit, up on the hill looking down to a majestic harmonist of a sea, I am an unfortunate listener to a rooster. It is about midday on a Sunday. As a villager you know as well as I do, that the rooster at this time is a bit of a confused alarm. It is also peculiar, somewhat funny, but mostly off point.
Maybe it is better to say it is a traffic accident. After being hit by a car, the rooster survived, obviously. As a result, its eyes are pointing in all directions. And with that, the yoga of eye healing is made by the rooster itself. In a mad busy world like ours, I see the wisdom in the rooster’s rant all of a sudden. “Eureka”, says I to myself. And that behold dear reader is how positivity rules the roost.
But there is only half a rag left so we must hurry out of the rooster’s stupor. Who knows if the rooster is mimicking the villagers on Sunday mornings, waking with a hangover to attend the community privileges of reaching out to the pulpit for a savior just one more time till next week’s stupor calls again for forgiveness.
The rooster’s eyes roll from down up, which makes sense for the kind of things it has to think about before waking up late next to the human inhabitants of the island they share with the various other species lower in the kingdom of eatery and stuff.
But there is a cock-a-doodle in all of us if we think of this life as a place where yoga rooster style is needed. We need to roll our eyes when we think of ourselves as hostesses to the upcoming China influx. Well, to think of it, upside down is best.
To be ready we must have a forefront hostess in each hotel. The host of the most will be the one with a squeaky voice, and straight knees, not a fluent speaker of any language. The host of the most will say,
“Welcome to the island of Upolo, where all the polonesians have stemmed from.”
And with that, the audience will clap in unison like a grand stand aufaipese and shake a little for there is more to come.
And the host of the most shall squeak again his voice and rattle the coconut wired microphone to announce with pride,
“Alongside the polonesians, we have smaller people with kinky knees, and they are called the china-polonesians.”
Our world is one, I know. It is also crowded and filled with moss like a forest left unattended, but everything good and bad grows. The one who wins is the one with the most money, you know? And of course we will be side road ‘nesians if we are not careful.
But I will end by addressing you with words from the late Prince who sings Crazy. He starts the song with
“Dearly beloved, in this life, things are much harder than the after world. This life, you’re on your own. “
With that his voice screams as if to shock us for emergency, “And if the elevator breaks down, let’s go Crazy!”