What changes and what doesn't

At some point last night, shortly after I opened my computer and start mentally organizing my column, I suffered a total black-out, lost conscience and fall asleep. The lost of conscience is complete because, although I can always track how and where I fell asleep, I can't remember at what point that took place last night. I woke up around 4 am, lights on, but was well-wrapped in the quilt, confortably curled up in the warmth. The computer lay close to my feet, but away from my sleeping action area, and I can't remember when or how or where I found such a perfect position for myself and the computer if I fall asleep inadvertently.

I was planning on writing that, at the end of the day, for certain experiences, Myself is somewhat changing. The carnivals of Notting Hill, albeit ordinary, rude, and antisocial to some extend; although pretentious, lousy and poor in general; and despite its obscenity, marginal character of some social groups, dangerous venue and treacherous character, left me unshocked, cold, undisturbed. And, as I say, I would have expected a little fussy behavior from myself, the humble performance of the good boy scandalized. But, it did not happen.

However, some typical things do not change, never do, the kind of issues that, in spite of the size of the world and its cultures, proves beyond any reasonable doubt how much alike we all are. On Monday, in between a bunch of Caribbean stalls serving jerk chicken, amidst a nebulose of bbq smells and a little apart from the main parade route, Levi Roots made his day attending the request of dozens to be taken in a photo, one by one.

The man looked to me like a king of tremendous importance but, as far as I know, he only got lucky by winning a spark of immediacy on TV after promoting the sauce's recipe of his grandmother. And I say to myself: "Self, grandmothers are the same everywhere... And so are grandsons too" (*).

                 Levi Roots: The umpteenth photograph with fans (Notting Hill, Monday, 29th of August)

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(*) Apparently, some people in New York speak like this: "Self", etc. I learned that from Miss M. years ago, a brave black woman born and raised in New York. Her mum is originally from Jamaica. The daughter, apart from working at the time from 3 pm to midnight in the library and run a stained-glass workshop in the mornings, took care of his mum, even after the poor old lady started losing her head. The day Miss M. was able to get Ms. M. in a plain to Jamaica to put her in a residence, a hurricane left the island in darkness, without gas nor water. Its name was Ivan. It was the summer of 2007.