STORY JUMPERS PART 4: MENSAMQUE

Part One can be found here

Part Two can be found here

Part Three can be found here

Seated at a row of makeshift tables huddled together, eight beings were all staring at Finn in anticipation. All of them were majestic in their own way and undeniably otherworldly. There was magick here and Finn could feel the warm energy of the bonsai tree pulsing and radiating towards this group as Finn walked towards them.

 

With each step Finn’s feet and legs became cumulatively lighter which resulted in Finn almost gliding to the far left-hand side of the tables. A breath-taking sight sat before Finn. Finn’s gaze then involuntarily dropped to the little sign in front of them that said ‘FIDEM’ and ‘MD’ in gold letters. ‘FIDEM’ Finn whispered to themselves; ‘FIDEM’. This word, and its sound was now reverberating throughout Finn’s body. Flashes of images permeated Finn, from archives unknown. From these images Finn witnessed many people utter this word with authority; people from the Age of Religion where there were countless, bloody and, frankly, pointless wars throughout our terrestrial land over how to best teach the origins of, and the path to, The Source. Still, even in their starkest differences they had all shared FIDEM… FAITH… which had become almost impossible to reconcile. Finn was thankful they no longer lived in such times.

 

Finn’s eyes then shifted to the ‘MD’ and immediately visualised a large, grandfather clock made of solid, deep red wood which contained a circle of symbols that were in the same font as ‘MD’ on the sign. The clock was chiming in a low, abrasive and sustained chord; with both hands striking ‘XII’. Finn recalled these were Roman Numerals and lifted the device from their other hand to investigate of this was indeed the case.

 

‘No need’, a resplendent voice boomed from directly in front of Finn. ‘We are old; very old; and, still, we come together as one.’ 

 

The face was indeed old but it was luminous. There was no way to discern any exact features on this face as they were ephemeral. FIDEM’s eyes were neither blue, green or brown and yet they flashed all three as they observed Finn closely. FIDEM’s skin was neither light, dark nor all the shades in-between, but it was also all of them. On FIDEM’s head there was a headpiece that similarly morphed into a small cap, a skullcap, a turban, a veil, a scarf, a headdress and then nothing. Their robes were also magnificent in texture and in colour, but these too transmuted to the point that Finn forced themselves to conclude that FIDEM was actually wearing all of them at once.

 

‘We are old too,’ said a voice that was not FIDEM’s. “But, we are young. And we also come together as one.’

 

Sitting to the right of FIDEM was what could be best described as an amalgamation and personification of a number of local animals that had co-habited here for many years. At first sight Finn saw a human-sized otter and its back eyes staring amusedly at them. Its face was small; with a large, rounded black nose and long, ash-white whiskers. Then suddenly it metamorphosised into a gigantic white swan with an enormous, and elongated, orange beak encircled in black which also circled its dark eyes. The being morphed again, into a huge brown and white hedgehog who was clearly uncomfortable sitting in that seat; its pink feet dangling in the air, searching for any earth into which it could sink. Its sign said ‘MAGUS’ in gold letters, with another set of Roman Numerals following it.

 

‘We control the elements still not fully known to humans,’ MAGUS explained and that was when Finn realised that there was no sound coming out of any of the animal mouths. They were communicating telepathically to Finn. Finn wondered if they could hear Finn’s thoughts.

 

‘Of course we can, FOLLIS,’ they said, referring to Finn. ‘And we would like that you choose us. We understand trees very well. We can show you their origins, history and how they have adapted to different lands. We can also communicate with them.’

 

‘FOLLIS?’ Finn asked themselves. ‘Who are FOLLIS?”

 

‘Why, you are,’ explained that identical voice inside Finn’s heads. ‘You are at a crossroads where you can embark on eight different journeys. You may or may not choose wisely.’ 

 

‘We also understand trees, both the living and the dead. The dead belong to us,” disclosed a different, funereal voice to FOLLIS’ right. FOLLIS turned towards this voice and saw what could be best described as ‘the dead’ sitting further along the table to the right. Like the others, their form was transparent yet repeatedly shapeshifting. The bonsai tree in FOLLIS’ hand was pulsating once again and engorging towards these beings now and FOLLIS began to unconsciously float over to where they were sitting.

 

‘We are MORTUUS: FLUMEN,’ they explained when FOLLIS finally arrived in front of them. ‘We have all been consumed by the river and own its power now, along with the power of death. We would like to show you that power.’ FOLLIS could see that this being before them had, indeed, been consumed: all of their eyes were pale, sunken, irritated and lifeless; their skins were all light hues of grey, purple and blue, and their clothes were tattered, faded and terribly creased. FOLLIS knew that all this being’s forms had drowned in that river FOLLIS saw earlier today.

 

FOLLIS was confused, light-headed and felt like they were going to faint. FOLLIS became consumed by the need to sit down before they fell down. But, then, another voice boomed to FOLLIS' right...

Another Year, Another Birthday...

This year my birthday falls on 'Black-Eye Friday', aka the day/night where most work colleagues will go out and celebrate Christmas together and try to shake off the year in preparation for Christmas. I'm unlikely to see most of this type of behaviour this year, with increasing Covid restrictions. But, I thought it was an interesting premise for a post.

So, yes, I turn 41 tomorrow. This time last year I was in the middle of changing jobs and I had just unpacked from a weekend in Newcastle knowing full well lockdown was about to hit again. This time 2 years ago I was packing my bags to leave Ecuador and return to Scotland when we didn't even know Covid-19 existed. Today, I have repeated some of the pattern. I have just spent over a week having a 'staycation' with my boyfriend, after we re-booked our week-long holiday in Fuerteventura due to the rising Covid cases. I have returned to my flat in Leith and unpacked. A life still in movement but also in stasis. 

I want to come away with something crass like 'I don't feel 41' but then again, what does 41 feel like? All I really know is that I am here and I'm about to go through another milestone. This is where you feel the liminality, even if it is artificially constructed. You look back to look forward, standing at a vantage point that allows you to see both in particular ways. I feel both content and a sense of foreboding. The contentness comes from the cumulation of life choices I have made sequentially throughout the years, not knowing for sure if I was moving in the right direction but buffered by a core belief that it was. I do think I was. Each year I remark at how much I have grown and how much I have learned, about myself, others and life. This has been a real growth year in terms of my career, self-knowledge and interpersonally. I'm a more rounded version of who I was even a year ago.

Still, there is trepidation. With Covid I have had to 'ground'. I have had to accept additional responsibilities and live in, and appreciate, the moment, rather than shoot arrows off in multiple directions. It has been a revelation in many ways but also disconcerting. In sitting down with the 'howl' and in partial 'shackles', I have learned a lot about who I really am through slowing it all down. I have often been advised to live in the moment and to appreciate what is around me. I think I'm finally learning this lesson. It's been a struggle and it has taken it's own time, but I'm finally learning.

Plans give us motivation and goals, but sticking to them and achieving them is not the benchmark I once thought it was. The pandemic, amongst other things, have taught me that. It is important to love what you have now and that includes who you are. Because, that's all most of us have had in the last two years, and it looks like this will be the foreseeable future also. I do love what I have now. I love where I live and I love the relationships I am embedded in. I also love almost-41 year old me and I'm proud of her. That is a good place to start. 

Here's to another year of growth in whichever way it goes :)

Othering, Splitting or Projective Identification?

Officially, I am a Sociologist. 'Officially' here represents formal studying which resulted in gaining formal qualifications, i.e. an MA (Hons) in Sociology. But, I also did a BA in Applied Social Sciences before I gained my MA (Hons). In that BA I studied both Psychology and Sociology for three years, along with a year of Politics, Philosophy, English Literature and Anthropology - the latter I picked up again in my MA studies.

I have always wrestled with the nature - nurture debate. When I was studying Psychology many moons ago the arbitrary percentage / ratio was 66:33 nature - nurture. This means that your genetics / genetic predispositions are more likely to be dominant in your life, and will have more influence in your actions and the life choices you make. That didn't work for me; it jarred with my own (growing) experiences and with what I was learning in Sociology. I quickly ended up paying more credence to Sociology although I did use my studies in Psychology to pursue the avenues I was most passionate about, i.e. Social Psychology, Abnormal Psychology, Personality and Language. I have remained interested in these avenues although I stopped officially pursuing them, and I'm thankful for the training I received all those years ago.

My poststgraduate studies have been more rooted in Sociology, but Psychology has always reared its head at key points. Crossroads in a way. I've tended to follow my own 'expertise' and the expertise around me and chose the more Sociological roads when this has occured. But, I've always taken these turns and recognised that I'm not seeing the 'full' picture; that at some point I will need to bring Psychology back into my work (just as I have done with Politics, Philosophy and Anthropology). The most memorable of these crossroads was during my doctorate studies where I had to make the choice between adopting Laclau & Mouffe's political subject or Lacan's split subject in poststructuralist discourse theory. It was never quite as binarised as that, as Laclau wrote the Lacanian split subject into his conceptualisation of the political subject / agent. But, when it came to the seventh tenet of Laclau & Mouffe's (1985/2001) poststructuralist discourse theory, I explored the threatening 'Other' (see International Relations) rather than the radical 'Other', thus I never got to the psychoanalytic roots of how a radical 'Other' is needed to 'complete' the Self, and how the Self turns constructions of difference into Otherness to hold its fractured Self in place. I committed to 'Othering' using Politics and Sociology as toolkits; traversing how gender, 'race', social class and other socio-cultural characteristics were central to 'Othering' practices.

I don't regret this decision per se. I got a doctorate out of it and, with hindsight, if I had gone the other route it would have taken me much longer to complete said doctorate (and, quite frankly, it took long enough). But, deep down, I know I only gave 'half' of the story. Since completing my doctorate, I have continued to read psychoanalytic theory and popular Psychology and I think it's time to explore the other side. 

Although, in fairness, I should also point out that during my doctoral studies and afterwards I also gained some uncomfortable life experiences in this other side. Which, now, I recognise may have been a more unconscious - and frankly devestating - way of exploring the Lacanian split subject. I experienced and witnessed 'splitting' which, on the surface, could be explained by Sociology and Politics; intersectionality especially. Although it would be called 'othering' rather than splitting from these perspectives. But, it had psychological roots, particularly as some of these individuals I was involved with had recent diagnoses of either Narcissistic or Borderline Personality Disorder. 

There is a whole other conversation here about the rise in pyschiatric diagnoses of personality disorders in societies that are embedded in hyper-capitalism, patriarchy, racism and neoliberalism. But, I'm going to focus more on Psychology here as I have let the Sociologist in me run rampant enough. Through these individuals, I saw something else occur that wasn't just 'othering'. I saw and experienced 'splitting' - an inability in some individuals to process both good and bad aspects in a person and be able to reconcile them. Thus, when someone did something 'bad' all the good aspects of the person were forgotten and they were judged as being 'all bad' and the 'good' had just been an act and/or were no longer present in the individual - the 'bad' was dominant if not all pervasive. A line had been drawn and, using poststructuralist discourse theory, you could argue that the recipient was now being identified using the logic of difference rather than the logic of equivalence. But, those logics, for me, only identify what happens, they don't identify what goes on in the individual to make this happen.  

Being on the receiving end of 'splitting' is frightful. One minute you are the greatest thing since sliced bread, the next you are not even worth talking to and/or, in worst cases scenarios, you end up on the shit end of a smear campaign. If you are a fairly empathetic person, you naturally turn inwards and question if you truly are a 'bad' person; beating yourself up in the process. This can be devestating. But, eventually, you start to realise that this is a pattern. Others come out of the woodwork and, usually shamefully, discuss how they had experienced something very similar from that same individual. Social class, gender and the intersectionality of socio-cultural factors just don't cut it to explain how this has happened. This is where I think an understanding of Psychology is paramount, and fills in the gaps of what actually happens when people are 'othered'.

I'm lucky in the sense that I've been involved with individuals guilty of this who have received diagnoses, and that I was re-idealised in time to be privy to this. I just want to say, before I continue, that I am not condemning people who have been diagnosed as having personality disorders. I have a very good friend who has been living with this for a long time and has been working, with others, to overcome some of the more debilitating aspects of this. One such apsect is splitting and it is something they wrestle with on an everyday basis. Fortunately, we have a strong enough friendship were I can call them out on it if I end up on the receiving end and we work, with respect, to reconcile it. The discussions we have had over recent years have helped me to understand how pervasive splitting is and where the roots of it can come from. We've openly weighed up the pros and cons of object relations theory and discussed the lived experience of 'lacking' object permanence. It has been a revelation, and healing, for both of us although I did get to the point where I thought I was guilty of this as well. Thankfully, I don't meet the criteria. But, it has shaped my academic and personal interest in understanding how psychological processes can also shape 'othering'; and kept me mindful of the importance of recognising and accepting both the 'good' and 'bad' in others to form deeper, and more intimate, relationships.

There are other psychological theories to which I am attracted. For those who have read some of my earlier posts, you will know that I am quite passionate about astrology. There was a famous psychoanalytic theorist who was also equally passionate about astrology and I have been reading his work, on and off, since I was a teenager. His work around the shadow and projective identification has always fascinated me and, throughout my life, I have done quite a bit of shadow work with the aim to understand where I feel shame, guilt and self-loathing so that I can integrate that within myself rather than project it on to others. I haven't fully integrated my shadow, but at least I recognise it is a life's work and I am at least partially aware of where my own feelings of shame come from and I try to unbind its ties with self-loathing. With some conviction, I do believe that Jungian concepts of the shadow and projective identification can help us to understand why we 'Other' and, crucially, assist in overcoming it.

At its most basic, the shadow is parts of ourself we have either disowned and/or that we were not permitted to explore. For Jung and Jungian psychologists, failure to integrate our shadow is often at the root of our interpersonal problems, and can fuel, if not outrightly be responsible for, prejudice and discrimination at the societal level. It is also strongly linked to Klein's projective identification which, in psychoanalytic theory, is a defence mechanism where individuals project qualities that they cannot accept within themselves on to other people so that it keeps their fractured sense of 'Self', as 'good' and righteous, in place. With more awreness of our shadow and in gradually integrating it into our 'Self' we become less susceptible to 'othering' and more conscious of why we, and others, do it. 

As a Sociologist, I am very reluctant to individualise societal issues. I recognise that we live in a divisive world where various social groups are oppressed and are systematically excluded from full participation and recognition. But, I do think Psychology, in tandem with other social sciences, has a role in combating this. This is what I am now committed to exploring.

Creative Writing, Writing Characters and the Journey of the Self

I've more than likely discussed some of this in an earlier post, but just over two years ago I started writing a fiction novel fairly seriously. Things got in the way of it (mostly work, travelling / moving and relationships), but I managed to write 1/3 of the novel with sketches of how I wanted the rest of it to pan out. Thus, I knew how it was going to end but I was novelly excited by the writing process and just seeing if it went there naturally or went somewhere else. About a year ago, I stopped writing it seriously. 

There are a number of reasons for this. First, my worldview was starting to significantly shift. I had just lived in two countries very different from my own, had become an unpaid carer for a parent due to a pandemic, and was now living in the small town I grew up in. I also made a culmulative but massive change in my career due to, unsurprisingly, not 'fitting in' when I returned after my travels. Buried underneath all this, what really happened was that I had matured. At the ripe old of age 39 (soon to be 40), I was starting to see a spectrum of colours (or monochrome depending on your viewpoint) in the things that I had previously taken for granted. Thus, the foundations I was building this novel on were no longer as stable as I had previously surmised. My novel was in danger of becoming a caricature, with characters who all served a purpose in getting the story to where it should end; but weren't decent representations of the complexity of human nature and how we all struggle in our daily lives. I had a tendency to 'write off' people and see them as cogs in the machine of their own lives. I was underestimating the malaise in all of us that pokes and prods until we become cognizant of the structures in our lives that aren't working and take action to change them.

By changing up my surroundings, I saw 'people' in a very different way. I started to truly understand that, deep down, most people do their best in the situations they find themselves in. There are some people out there who are very damaged due a variety of different factors, including unhealthy societal structures that put excessive pressure on everyone to be in particular ways. But, I do think that most people do their best, however misguided some of their actions and conclusions are about particular situations. As a writer, this is a major pain in the ass, because you have to go back and re-sketch your characters and, in doing so, your plot changes. Then you realise that this may be the shape of things to come - how you feel about particular events in the world and your place in them may be very different in two years time. So, do you change the novel again, or do you just put it out there recognising it is flawed but still relevant to a previous version of you that once existed?

There is an acceptance there that how you think once may not be how you think in the future, but there is also a fear in putting your creativity out there in a way that you yourself may ridicule in years to come. It has eventually dawned on me that this is part of what it means to be human. To be flawed and to make conclusions that best serve you in the cirumstances you are in, but that these may change through time. The key is in accepting that and not become paralysed with it. Which is what happened to me. Yet, I also recognise that, perhaps subconsciously, I have always recognised this which has contributed to my fear of publishing. Of putting my nascent ideas into print. The fear of not only being ridiculed by others, but being ridiculed by my future self. Or I could just not ridicule and accept that this is part of the journey of the self, and commit to that. Openly and without fear.

Creative Writing, Writing and Balancing Life In a Crazy World

I've just submitted a poem to a creative writing course I started in October this year. Since I wrote my  'public intellectual' post I have managed to get that elusive professional-private life balance and, shock shock horror horror, my professional life hasn't suffered in the process. In fact, it's gotten better. 

So, yes, the creative writing. One of the key things I have found in life is that wherever there is black and white thinking in your psyche, it's an area that needs to be deconstructed - with care - because it represents an area of 'immature' thinking and development. Writing is writing. The more you do it, the better you get at it. The more you do it because you enjoy it, the more you want to / crave to. I saw academic and creative writing in a dichotomy, but the truth is I couldn't reconcile my own blocks around writing. I also had a pretty negative experience regarding writing when doing my PhD. Academic writing is its own beast and it takes you a while to find a voice that you are comfortable with in doing that. Again, time... and practice. Shock shock, horror horror... similar to creative writing.

For me, writing really is entangled with voice. It is about how you sound to both yourself and others. It's about accepting the voice that comes from you and not being too critical of it. That's what I struggled with in academic writing. It's almost as if you have to develop a tough inner critic to survive. Someone who will punish you first before someone else will. Ted Hughes called it the 'inner policeman'. It really is a defence mechanism, something that someone would have 'naturally' developed in an abusive environment to survive. I never really experienced it until academic writing. There's the polarisation. I'm sure if I had gone down a more committed creative writing route throughout the years, I would have adopted the 'inner policeman'. The truth is I didn't. I recongised and supported the creative process within me, despite how nascent it was in reality. I was still proud of it and saw it as life force. But, it wasn't my professional life. Writing became my professional life when I became an academic and I didn't like it one bit. There is a box, there are boundaries, there are expectations. It has taken me some time to realise that, really, few of them are real. It's still your own voice that matters. There will always be noise around that. But, if you are passionate about who you are and what you do, you learn to screen it.

I WILL be writing more. I have been writing more. In notebooks, journals, half-written journal articles and in poetry. But, that's been just for me. I started this journal to blend that. I've returned back to do exactly that...

Democracy, Populism and Autocratic Rule in Nicaragua

Today marks two memorable occasions for me in reference to Nicaragua. First, 12 years ago today. I contracted Dengue Fever which is one of the worst experiences I have had in my life. 12 years ago there was also no cure for Dengue, which meant that people literally just had to 'sweat it out'. For those that don't know what Dengue Fever is, it's a viral infection much like malaria (which is a disease, but hey ho) in that it is caused through mosquito bites and drinking / washing in contaminated water (where mosquito eggs are laid). The mosquitos that carry Dengue though are active during the day, so even mosquito nets cannot save you. It's just horrible. I lost 7lbs in a week (that is 1lb a day) because I literally could not eat. And everything was coming out of me in any way it could. At one point someone took blood from me and put a saline drip on me (I still can't fully discern if that was a dream or reality - I'm told the latter but it felt like the former). A few days later when I could actually concentrate I was told I had Dengue Fever and that I would carry the virus for the rest of my life. It would lay dormant but may become active again with another bite (and potentially fatally depending on what strain I'm bitten with the second time). 

I've always compared this to my feelings and love for Nicaragua. It's in my blood and comes out any time I re-visit that beautiful land. But, that brings me to the second memorable occassion on this day... which is today. And that is the re-'election' of Daniel Ortega as the President of Nicaragua. With, apparently, almost 75% of the electoral vote.

To set the scene - I lived in Nicaragua for almost 3 years (2008-2011) and I returned to visit in 2018, and left days before the student protests. During my return in 2018, it was clear there had been a dramatic shift in perception about Daniel Ortega and his 'history' as a Sandinista revolutionary. In those days before the protests, people who had previously supported him candidly discussed his 'descent' into authoritarianism, how his family was becoming the new oligarchy / dynasty (along with his wife becoming the Vice President), and how he was ensuring deals (such as the Pan American Canal) to secure foreign 'allies' which actually shafted his home allies, including the campesinos (peasants / farmers) who had given him the majority vote twice before.  

Then there were the demonstrations, the live footage that I was sent from friends' mobile phones, watching the 'peace talks' which ended in students having to flee Nicaragua for their lives (and I met three of them in the UK afterwards who told me their experiences first-hand). My confused friends, some of whom left Nicaragua and emigrated to Costa Rica, the US, UK and Spain, and genuinely feared for their own and their family's lives. Others stayed, and had strong reasons to stay, but all reported feeling fear at varying levels. Protestors were being re-branded as terrorists (which soon found its way into 'democratic' Nicaraguan law) and were afraid to speak out or potentially lose their jobs (which some of them lost anyway). The land - and the people - that I had loved so feverishly was crumpling before my very eyes and the narratives were becoming so skewed. Most of the people I keep in contact with in Nicaragua are Nicaraguans, but I did become aquainted with quite a few ex-pats who had set up some kind of business/home/charity in Nicaragua in some online forums, and the debate was fierce as to whether Ortega was actually becoming an authoritarian dictator or the protests were being orchestrated by the US in yet another attempt to decredit the Ortega administration (see the Iran-Contra controversy under US President Ronald Reagan). In all honesty, all the evidence I received first-hand suggests the former. Yet, Ortega held on to his presidency, despite both his people and international bodies decrying him and/or boycotting Nicaragua and/or asking for intervention beyond diplomacy.

But, we forget. Unless you have an emotional connection to Nicaragua and are still connected to the people there, there are many other distractions (including the 'paltry' Covid-19) that have taken precedence, and Ortega has managed to jail or extradite nine of his political opponents to 'win' his fourth consecutive term as President of Nicaragua... today.

I've written about both populism and populism in Nicaragua, and the implications both have for the wider understanding of 'democracy', before. But tonight is not the night to get the books and journal articles out to back up everything I say with evidence. Tonight is a time to reflect on something that is broken, and something that has been broken for a long time, and fully lament about the implications that this has for not just the lives of Nicaraguans in Nicaragua (and the ones who have fleed and are waiting to come back home). but about the implications of this on politics and democracy as a whole. Something is rotten, and we are catching its stench - in different forms - across the globe. This isn't a problem specific to Nicaragua. It isn't even a problem specific to Latin America. It is about corruption, greed, patriarchy and entitlement. It is about the people who are elected to represent us deliberately misleading us and seeing it as a game where there are winners and losers, and that this 'justifies' the heartbreak and agony of people's worlds falling down. Thus, it is the fault of the individual for not 'understanding' unwritten rules of the game that, if they were actually written down, would implicate the 'winners' as not playing 'fair' through cheating the law and others. We KNOW this happens. We know these 'rules'. We know that they are unfair. But, yet, they persist. And people's lives are being destroyed because of it.

I am deeply saddened, but not surprised, by today's result. Still, I am horrified. Horrified how people like Daniel Ortega (and countless others) can sleep at night. The last time I deliberately lied I cried myself to sleep for two nights and then confessed my sins for absolution. The guilt and the shame got the better of me, and I'm glad it did. It reminded me who I was and what I stood for. And I haven't done anything like that again (which was 7 years ago now... how I still remember it... it involved a leather sofa and shoe polish and I will leave it at that). Some people don't have that filter / check and I really think we have the right to question if those who CAN sleep at night in such circumstances are the right people to represent others.

As I'm writing this I am being messaged by people in Nicaragua who are deeply saddened, shocked and at a loss as to what the next four years could possibly bring except more pain, lies and deceit. I just wanted to get this down and share it. Now, I'm going to speak to the people whose lives are being ripped apart as we speak...

Storyjumpers Chapter Two

… a cat standing on a paddleboard. Yes, a cat standing, as large as life, on a paddleboard. Sam wasn’t sure with what he was more taken aback: the distinctive appearance of the cat or the very colourful (and presumably expensive) paddleboard. The sun was shining directly on the cat, illuminating its remarkable coat which sparkled like gold tinsel on a Christmas tree. Sam found himself mesmerised; but was also questioning whether he had actually woken up this morning. Or that this was, in fact, a dream. As he moved closer to the small gathering, the otherworldly, and remarkably dexterous, cat stared right at him. It was a large, muscular cat with large green eyes and the markings of a leopard. A leopard? What was a leopard doing in a canal in the (almost) middle of nowhere? Anyway, before he got carried away he realised the cat was too small to be a leopard and it did not look young enough to be a cub. It was more likely one of those Bengal or Savannah cats that had become increasingly popular with the middle class(es); especially university lecturers and professors. There were rumours at Sam’s university that teaching staff were being more positively evaluated by students whose pets would ‘appear’ during online synchronous, and asynchronous, sessions recorded at home. The prettier and more exotic the pet, the better the evaluation. Of course, the last academic to win ‘Best Lecturer’ at the Student-led Teaching Awards has a bearded dragon that the students called Harry. 

 

Sam had heard tales recalling the realities living with such cats. A colleague once lived with a particularly large one that not only terrorised the neighbourhood but also his own Rottweiler, Sukhi. The cat was his girlfriend’s and she would - and could - not live without said cat. Not long after she moved in, the neighbours would start begging Sam’s colleague to not let the cat out. Apparently, it was bullying just about every other pet on the estate. But, he confessed to Sam, he couldn’t leave it in the house. It would destroy everything. He told Sam that one day he came home from work to find curtains, dish towels, toilet paper, magazines, mail, plastic bags, sanitary towels and every pen that was in the house (including a fountain pen – with his initials on it no less - that he had misplaced years previous) all ripped, skewered and left-for-dead all over the house. He had looked almost traumatised re-telling that story, with his skin tone getting paler with each second of disclosure; with cold beads of sweat incrementally oozing from his forehead simultaneously. 

 

Then, he disclosed, he kept hearing this gut-wrenching fusion of both a low howl and a whimper. Sukhi was cowered, and shaking, in the bathtub. Every bottle of shampoo, conditioner, shaving cream, bath bomb, razor and shower gel had been gratuitously swiped into the bathtub. Poor Sukhi was buried underneath it all, flummoxed as to what she had done to receive such torture and humiliation. He sat his girlfriend down that night, pleading that this could not go on; that something had to be done. But, no man can separate une femme from her feline. Both moved out two weeks later. Sukhi actually had the audacity to whine for, and mourn, that cat for months afterwards. Stockholm Syndrome had set in at a remarkable velocity.

 

Both Sam and the paddle-boarding cat reached the bank of the canal at almost the same moment, with the cat swooshing past him into the fields. The dog and two of the three people, who had been standing at the bank, immediately chased after the cat; the two people arguing all the while about to whom he ‘belonged’. Sam smirked – this was a cat that belonged to no one but itself. Then, he looked at the third person, a middle-aged man dressed in leisure sportswear, who looked resigned and almost overcome by his own thoughts. 

 

But, obviously, curiosity got the better of Sam, and he asked the man, “So… what’s the story with the cat and the paddleboard?”

 

It took some seconds, but the man finally looked at him; non-verbally communicating a range of emotions - conflicting emotions - through his eyes. Just as he was about to answer, he could hear voices – not too far away – arguing with each other; and punctuated with the sounds of at least two dogs barking. Both Sam and the middle-aged man instinctively turned around to try and discern what was happening….