Night Life

Yesterday I wrote to a friend that the place where I live doesn't have a very exciting night life, especially during the week. I don't miss having the sort of night life I had in mind when I wrote that because, cuddled up beside John I can have a fantastic night life ... dreaming.

End of the Marching Season

We are nearing the end of the Marching Season. Music can arouse, or more rarely calm, spirits. This is something to which we give very little thought in the so-called developed world. I suspect our use of music excites some spirits at the expense of others. Marching bands usually play what excites territorial spirits. Pop music concentrates on the spirits connected with romantic love or their more earthy counterparts. Not exactly a spirit balance, I suggest.

Portballantrae

One evening, several years ago, Catriona and I went for a walk along the strand at Portballantrae. It was dusk when, on our way back, we approached the footbridge that crosses the River Bush where it flows into the sea. Catriona, who can hear high-frequency sounds to which I am oblivious, stopped suddenly. It wasn’t long before we both saw what she had heard — a huge colony of hundreds of bats. We stood, mesmirised, while they circled overhead before disappearing as mysteriously as they had come.

I accepted there was no chance of seeing bats when I went with John to Portballantrae a few days ago. The tide was out. There was only a trickle of water in the stream that flows through grey stones and then sand; so we continued across it to the end of the beach where we found a path through mature dunes. Soon we came to the narrow guage railway that connects Bushmills to the Giant’s Causeway, and we were almost at the terminus. There is a cycle path close to the track and weaving across it. We followed it back. Unkempt ground lay beyond the fence on our left. Closer to us were harebells, the occasional burdock plant covered with burrs and snails among marram grass; but diversity disappeared when we came to the golf course. We returned to the car park, bought sandwiches and coffee at the supermarket and sat beside a circular metal table.

It was only then that I noticed nearby a building with a slanted roof that was covered with plants. There were long strands of hay-coloured grass at one edge, but most of the roof was covered with a low reddish plant, possibly a species of sedum. I have heard of green roofs, but this is the first I have seen and, unlike John, I felt excited.

He thinks I have become obsessed by Jinn. That, however, does not stop me saying that, where you find a rare green roof, there must be a guardian jinn.

Two Magpies and a Demon

Magpies, unlike cats, are not finicky eaters and consume with relish the food Banjo and Sherpa reject and which I am unable to spice up for human consumption (usually by me). From unseen vantage points our resident pair watch me as I carry it out and scatter it on the grass. I have hardly time to return to the kitchen before they descend gradually like black and white long-tailed aircraft, skim over the ground, land and hop the short distance towards the food. Until recently Banjo showed no interest in what remained uneaten on his saucer.

It was therefore with great surprise that I saw him one day recently walk over the short grass and moss to where I had scattered the food. With disbelief I watched his jaws moving for a short time before they closed. The magpies landed, first the male who strutted towards pieces of food farthest from the cat. Both came to pick up meat, fly off with it and return for more. As the food disappeared, Banjo moved to position himself crouching, his tail sweeping widely from side to side, close to a tasty morsel. One by one the pieces were lifted into the air until there was only left — the one closest to Banjo. When a magpie came to claim it, Banjo pounced and the bird retreated. I watched fascinated the male magpie’s repeatedly unsuccessful determination to capture the morsel, but didn’t see how the drama ended because the stalemate ended while I went upstairs to tell John.

The following evening we had a repeat performance when John joined me at the kitchen window. What we saw Banjo do is not in the repertoire of a typical cat. Please correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m sure this behaviour is unique to our male cat. What is going on in his mind is open to speculation, but it looks to me as if Banjo, the animal who enjoys teasing me, intended to deceive the magpies. He forced himself to eat distasteful food knowing that they were watching him, and to give them the impression that he intended to eat it all.

Deception is something we associate with humans, but it has its origins in the animal world especially among primates. In his book Born Liars Ian Leslie tells how creativity in humans shares the capacity which allows us to deceive. Before we learn to use language we practise deception; but it is not until we are around four years of age that we realise the enormous potential for getting ourselves out of trouble and furthering our own interests that lies in lying speech. Telling a deliberate untruth requires the knowledge that others can think differently from ourselves. It also depends on memory and imagination. However the illusion that lying is the answer to our problems does not last long. Within a few years we discover that, if we tell too many lies, we lose credibility with those among whom we live. Maintaining this sort of fiction costs energy, induces anxiety and restricts our ability to be truly creative.

Our human development does not end when we see that telling the truth is generally preferable to lying, because the ability to deceive others makes us vulnerable to the innumerable deceptions in which the human race, often unwittingly engages.

There is an alternative explanation of the cause of lying. An ancient legend attributes it to Sut, consummate liar and father of lies. He is a fire spirit, son of Iblis who is better known to Westerners as the Satan who tempted Adam and Eve and was responsible for their banishment from the garden of Eden. Of couse this story is not to be taken literally.

I see a ladder with non-verbal deception as its base, divine creativity at the top and many rungs in between.