Carpet Of Sunshine

October Party

This series has been inspired by George Cooper's poem, the full text of which will be quoted in the last entry of the October series. For now, only relevant lines will preface the particular piece.
  

October gave a party.

Sunshine spread a carpet, And everything was grand.

The invitation is out. 

As the days of autumn get cooler,

The pleasure of your warm friendship is requested

To a FALL PARTY

Date: The entire month

Place: Wherever October is observed

Preparations are underway. A welcome carpet is being laid. 

Ready, Sunshine?

­­­Behind a misty cover, the eastern horizon is blooming into radiant orange promising what can very well look like a sky with three suns. A golden streak starts to break through thick white cloud, flickering through the grey-green leaves of the lavender bush. 

Thereafter, a heaven-spanning vault of brilliance infuses everything with an incandescence far too bright to look at for more than an instant. 

The doors are now open to welcome guests.

Won't you come?

Tarzan

My Guy

Quoted excerpts are from Edgar Rice Burrough's Tarzan of the Apes. 

As a matter of opinion I think he's tops,

My opinion is he's the cream of the crop;

No muscle-bound man could take my hand from my guy.

I smile broadly, relishing the sound of his name. Alexander Skarsgard. It sounds like a sigh. He's My Guy. Move over, Michael Fassbender.

Twice during the 36-hour flight back home from Bhutan, I watched The Legend of Tarzan in which he stars. Since then, I've seen the film on a library DVD many times. I'm obsessed.

From a lofty perch, the Earl of Greystoke views the village of thatched huts across the intervening plantation. His straight and perfect figure, muscled as the best of the ancient Roman gladiators, and yet with the soft and sinuous curves of a Greek god, told at a glance the wondrous combination of enormous strength with suppleness and speed.

In his savage, untutored breast, new emotions are stirring. Slaves have been captured and are being carried by a Belgian military train. He groans inwardly.
It has remained for man alone among all creatures to kill senselessly and wantonly for the mere pleasure of inflicting suffering and death, he says in a casual tone that fools no one.

Moreso, a treacherous envoy for King Leopold is scheming to capture and deliver him to an old enemy in exchange for diamonds. I'm not allowing that, Tarzan sneers in resolve.

He steps out from the shadows of the tribal village into lush, luminescent green mountains that stretch out and up for miles after hazy mile. He looks at the ground, eyes downcast, then scrunches his face in consternation. He emotionally remains remote, uninvolved - his penetrating, lucid, slightly-crossed eyes only modestly registering whatever might be on his thoughts.

Then slowly, he grimaces in disgust. Moving stealthily as a panther, he goes naked into the jungle, swinging on a vine, armed only with a jackknife.

Leering openly now, he bristles after a long pause, I am Tarzan of the Apes! His voice booms with anger. He gives a snort and a very indecorous laugh. Through clenched teeth, he says, My Mangani mother is Kala. Akut is my brother. His voice sounds like a string that's been pulled too tight. I never knew my father, my mother was an ape, he continues crisply.

He next triggers a massive stampede of wildebeest through Boma, destroying the town and distracting the soldiers. As primordial fears bubble and hiss in the depths of his opponents' soul, he bellows in a steady, controlled voice a mating call to summon the crocodiles who are stunned into obedience and devours the enemy. 

Tarzan places his foot upon the neck of dead bodies rolling to the ground. He mutters, his mouth settling into a hard line. This is the house of Tarzan, the killer of beasts. Do not harm the things which are Tarzan's. Raising his eyes to the sky, he throws back his fierce young head and voices the wild and terrible cry of his people.

Thus peace reigns once more in this timeless, almost mythical virgin forest. The jungle rolls below - quiet, unmarred, a dense green canopy where Tarzan watches, where only the odd, stray sunbeam penetrates the mulchy forest floor.

No muscle-bound man can take my hand from this guy.

Ooo-wa-ooo-aaooaaooaa-ooo!

Tisoy

My Guy

This piece has been written in a spirit lightly akin to that of John Grogan's Marley and Me. 
Tisoy means mestizo. Kangkong, or water spinach, is a leafy vegetable rich in vitamins and minerals that is usually found in Asian cuisine.

I gave my guy my word of honor to be faithful, and I'm gonna,
You best be believing I won't be deceiving my guy.

I fling a hopeless glance at a pair of blue eyes quizzically peering at me. Are those stilts? I cannot stifle a laugh as I see long, slender paws jutting out of a sausage-shaped body. He looks like a hairless albino. He wiggles and yelps with sunny exuberance as I reach out for him. He seems empty-headed and loopy. You have such sharp teeth for a puppy, I remark, my voice shrill, as he gnaws on my fingers. He carefully inspects my ankles with his nose. 

You're going to be My Guy, I tell him quietly with a fluttering motion of my hand. I'll call you Tisoy. I twitch the corners of my mouth as I officially baptize him with a mock sprinkling of holy water. He seems unimpressed. He yawns and crawls back beneath the table.

I clear my throat and sometimes call him Soyti, the syllables of his name backwards. He responds by opening his eyes in delightful recognition, stretching, and rolling on his back, paws in the air. Not a numbskull, after all.

He's really goofy when it comes to sounds like those from the thundering Marikina bus that plies Fountain Street. I'm sorry, it's just like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, isn't it? I console him with controlled poise as he races around and jumps.

But loony takes on a heightened depth during a thunderstorm over which he has the deepest neurosis. It's not the end of the world, Tisoy, I tell him in a voice as neutral as I can manage without being critical. He continues to run around in circles indicating that he hasn't understood me. It's a Day of Tribulation! he seems to say, his lips tightened in a hard line. With urgency, he goes on to shred into the tiniest pieces any biteable fragment that stands in the way while he awaits the final judgment of the wicked. 

His favorite spot is the narrow canal between the back garden and Aling Cora's house where he goes wild frantically splashing in its murky water. Ay, naku! Look how muddy you are, I exclaim indignantly while washing the caked dirt off his back. He just looks at me with heart-melting eyes that invoke the look of eternal puppyhood.

Tisoy lives to eat. He is the archetype of someone who can push aside the most desolate circumstance by the redeeming smell of food. At mealtime, his face brightens upon seeing his ration of adobo bits mixed with boiled rice and kangkong being doled out.

But maybe feeling that he's not being fed enough, Tisoy snatches every opportunity to snag any edible item dangling from Youngest Brother's hand. He wolfs it down, then pants with a dopey grin, looking dumb as algae. I cross my arms. Maybe, I should have called you Bandido. Bandit! I try to scold him, sounding genuinely horrified. He responds with an anemic nod, then nonchalantly proceeds to lop lustily at the water, sloshing little tidal waves over the side of his sardine bowl, then wipes his mouth on my clothes. I shake my head, Such an unremorseful thief!

After a repast, we pad quietly out of the room, supremely satisfied, and go out into the bright sun. We look at the sky which is like a stage where clouds have formed characters, morphed into different shapes drifting toward each other. I tell him softly, It feels like a faultless day. 

As I scratch his tummy in fondness, I see a brainless, happy smile lifting the corners of his mouth as if he had just lain down on a warm beach after a long winter.

You best be believing that I will be faithful to this guy.

Ruff! 

White Paw

My Guy

I like to think that White Paw is mine, as has been my wont with a few other lovable creatures that have crossed my path.

Nothing you could do could make me untrue to my guy,

Nothing you could buy could make me tell a lie to my guy.

The sun is rising sooner than I want to see it, but there it is, creeping through the blinds of the room. I rush down the patio stairs to unlock and prop up the door of the fenced area underneath. Like a Dark Prince, White Paw emerges.

He's My Guy.

Pawie, as he is fondly called, is a bunny. He has dense, plush and very soft black fur and long pointy ears. Because of his coloration, he can easily disappear in the shadows, but his single white paw never fails to disclose his hideaway corner of the moment. He is the size of a large cat.

At first he peeks out, narrowing his eyes at the bright sunlight, then forges ahead to take in the freshness of the breeze in the eight-by-four open-air enclosure adjacent to his enclosed domicile. Its chicken-wire gate opens up to the back garden. I can swear he purrs very softly, a sound that I always want to listen for because it assures me he's happy and content.

For the most part, I'd say that Pawie has a sweet personality, but there are times when he looks cross particularly when I josh him meekly with a tilt of the head, Getting overweight, aren't we? I find his surly look quite funny.

Out in the open, he roams freely among the just-sprouting pansies, alternating sprints with a happy dance. At times, I can see nothing but a shimmering blur as he runs wildly after scampering leaf beetles. He leaps occasionally, but almost always never flops over on his side, maybe because he's overweight. Shh, I should not have said that out loud.

Then he scoots over to an area where new growth has stubbornly begun to shove its way up through old thatch. He makes a quiet clucking sound as he nibbles on grass wheat and stray dandelion weeds.

A black ball of fur with one white foreleg in view, he later plunks under the cassia shrub as if in enjoyment of the nubs of yellow pods on its branches, rustling about. For a moment, we sit on the ground in silence, taking in the infinite variety of green of the cape honeysuckle hedge. He seems attentive to noises around - the flicker of skinny brown lizards darting across the path, the buzzing drone of cicadas.

Pawie! I startle him, as I spot a thick line of ants marching up and down the overhanging branch of the neighbor's navel orange tree. He scrutinizes me with his characteristic sullen look, turns a floppy ear, then flares his nostrils and twitches his tiny mouth into what looks like a snorty, Wasup?

The ants are stealing the fruit, one ant-bite at a time, I sigh in mock protest.
Not my problem, he seems to indicate with his slowly wiggling nose, as he stretches and yawns. 

What else can I say? I give him a teasing pout, trying to hide a smile. Nothing can make me untrue to this guy.

Kip-kip-kip!

Asool

My Guy

The song My Guy from the Sister Act movie soundtrack has been the inspiration for this month's series.

Nothing you could say could tear me away from my guy.

Like birds of a feather we stick together,

I'm tellin' you from the start I can't be torn apart from my guy.

He's very social and incredibly affectionate. Small, playful, intelligent, inquisitive, and amusing. Asool is my peach-faced lovebird.

He's My Guy.

He's mostly baby-blue except for the peach coloration between and behind his dark brown eyes. His cheeks and throat are white with light-peach tinges. The chest feathers graduate delicately from light-blue to gray, interspersed with bands of pale yellow. The beak is deep yellow, tipped with gray. He has the genuine look of his genus Agapornis which means love.

Each day with Asool is a happy duplicate of the next.

When the first streaks of sunlight wink off the dew on the grass, he is the first to greet the morning with a hopeful, Chirp, chirp! I nod my head in response. Yes, 'Sool, it's going to be an exquisite day. He enjoys the conversation. I can tell, for he perks up, looking happy to listen and chatter.

For the most part, he just looks like he's having a ball - playing, whistling, tweeting and clucking joyfully. Like a silly little clown, he sometimes twirls upside down or bobs his head around.

Oftentimes, he preens and applauds his likeness on a mirror attached on the side of his cage. Admiring yourself, eh? I tease him. He peeps back at me with a gallant sniff and a chirrup.

Waking up from a nap, he cocks his head to the side in greeting and vocalizes to let me know he is awake. On cloudy afternoons, I'd look out the back garden and make a comment, Looks like rain, Asool, to which he responds by simply swiveling his head and looking at me from the corner of his eye in puzzlement for having stated the obvious. 

Clearly considering himself part of a family that should eat together, he comes down from his perch to nibble on his millet and sunflower seeds every time we humans sit at the table for a meal. 

As it becomes fully dark, Asool retires inside his twig house. I know from the beak grinding that he's happy and content. I peek through and see that he has settled down, his bill pressed back under his wings. Tulog na, I nudge him a good night. He looks up momentarily and eyes me drowsily with a shy yet inquisitive glance, but quickly tucks his head back into peaceful sleep.

Looking at Asool, I would have liked to categorize my feelings, but it seems all I can do is grin and chuckle and wave at the world in foolish happiness.

I can't be torn apart from this guy.

Chirp!