Gaius Plinius Secundus greets you!
I have been asked to share with you my knowledge of the plant known as erica, and some of its medicinal applications, which may not be as well known today as they once were.
I shall begin by revisiting my Natural Histories in which I wrote of the erica being also known as myrice, and being used by the people of Ameria to make their brooms. But that is just the beginning of its usefulness.
Erica has many medicinal uses. The leaves, when crushed and taken in drink, are an antidote to the sting of a serpent. Boiled in wine and applied with honey they will heal cancerous sores.
Erica is especially useful in afflictions of the spleen, the juice being extracted and taken with wine. So marvellous is its antipathy to this organ of the body, that if swine drink from a trough made from this wood they will be found to lose the spleen. This is why food and drink are given to sufferers from maladies of the spleen in vessels made of this wood.
Some commentators have dismissed these latter claims, saying that they cannot possibly apply to any of the heaths of Europe, none of which produce wood large enough to make a trough or drinking vessel. They should read my words more closely. I refer to the wood of the tamarice, a much larger tree found in Eurasia and Africa. In fact, we ancients generally grouped together the brooms, heaths and tamarisks, under the name of erica.
And broom, by the way, bruised with axle-grease, is a cure for diseases of the knees.......
Many more such facts could I bring to your notice, but in these hurried days people do not have the time to read at length on various subjects no matter how interesting they may be. I myself have been asked specifically not to exceed twenty lines in this blog. Twenty lines! I believe I have failed to comply.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Unreliable Signs
I'm still puzzling over those botanic chickens, said Pliny the Elder. Where did you say you saw them?
We didn't actually see any chickens, I replied. Botanic or otherwise. It was just the name of a chicken shop, near the Wittunga Botanic Gardens. But we did see plenty of ducks.
Even more puzzling, said Pliny, with a frown. Why didn't they call the shop Botanic Ducks?
The ducks were in the gardens, I said quickly. And the chickens were in the shop. Don't worry about it. I'll tell you what else we saw, Pliny, and this should interest you. We saw a sign that mentioned you by name.
Indeed! In what regard?
It was a sign near the ericas, explaining how the erica got its name. It said that you were the one who called it erica after the greek ereiko, meaning to break or bend, because it was used medicinally for breaking up bladder stones.
What nonsense! exclaimed Pliny. Do they think I am a Greek? I never made up names for things. I simply recorded what was known, at the time. Whoever made that sign should go back and read my works again. They will find that we ancients considered erica to be useful for afflictions of the spleen. And furthermore.....
Pliny, I said, I see that you are very knowledgable on this subject. Perhaps you would like to set the record straight by writing my blog tomorrow?
Certainly, said Pliny, looking pleased at this unexpected sign of interest.
We didn't actually see any chickens, I replied. Botanic or otherwise. It was just the name of a chicken shop, near the Wittunga Botanic Gardens. But we did see plenty of ducks.
Even more puzzling, said Pliny, with a frown. Why didn't they call the shop Botanic Ducks?
The ducks were in the gardens, I said quickly. And the chickens were in the shop. Don't worry about it. I'll tell you what else we saw, Pliny, and this should interest you. We saw a sign that mentioned you by name.
Indeed! In what regard?
It was a sign near the ericas, explaining how the erica got its name. It said that you were the one who called it erica after the greek ereiko, meaning to break or bend, because it was used medicinally for breaking up bladder stones.
What nonsense! exclaimed Pliny. Do they think I am a Greek? I never made up names for things. I simply recorded what was known, at the time. Whoever made that sign should go back and read my works again. They will find that we ancients considered erica to be useful for afflictions of the spleen. And furthermore.....
Pliny, I said, I see that you are very knowledgable on this subject. Perhaps you would like to set the record straight by writing my blog tomorrow?
Certainly, said Pliny, looking pleased at this unexpected sign of interest.
The Minda Dune
Yesterday we had a challenging walk. It was my mum. She said, let's go this way for a change, when we got to the esplanade, so the three of us headed off into the teeth of the wind.
It was alright for her, she had a scarf.
The entire bay was empty, except for one little yacht. The horizon was shipfree. The sea was a deceptive shade of brown. The sort of brown that nips up into spiky jabbing black and green jaws at the corner of your eye, which disappear at once when you confront them.
Eight seagulls flying north. A squishy frothy patch a few metres out from the rocks, near the Minda Dune.
See that dune, says my mum. It's supposed to be a fragile environment. It doesn't look too fragile to me. It's just a mess.
She decides to go back and find a seat to sit on. We two continue into the wind for the sake of good form.
We turn back after five minutes, re-passing the Minda Dune. We look at the sign, which says Fragile Environment. The dune is fifty metres long and is only there by accident. The accident of belonging to Minda Home. Everywhere else has been cleared and built on. It is probably too small to be sustainable
There is a photograph of the types of flowers to be found in the hollows of the dune. They are tiny delicate pink yellow and white. There are no actual flowers anywhere to be seen. Only stunted windswept bushes, gnarled roots and long strings of half dead grasses sticking out at unsustainable angles from the sand.
I stare at it until it becomes beautiful.
It was alright for her, she had a scarf.
The entire bay was empty, except for one little yacht. The horizon was shipfree. The sea was a deceptive shade of brown. The sort of brown that nips up into spiky jabbing black and green jaws at the corner of your eye, which disappear at once when you confront them.
Eight seagulls flying north. A squishy frothy patch a few metres out from the rocks, near the Minda Dune.
See that dune, says my mum. It's supposed to be a fragile environment. It doesn't look too fragile to me. It's just a mess.
She decides to go back and find a seat to sit on. We two continue into the wind for the sake of good form.
We turn back after five minutes, re-passing the Minda Dune. We look at the sign, which says Fragile Environment. The dune is fifty metres long and is only there by accident. The accident of belonging to Minda Home. Everywhere else has been cleared and built on. It is probably too small to be sustainable
There is a photograph of the types of flowers to be found in the hollows of the dune. They are tiny delicate pink yellow and white. There are no actual flowers anywhere to be seen. Only stunted windswept bushes, gnarled roots and long strings of half dead grasses sticking out at unsustainable angles from the sand.
I stare at it until it becomes beautiful.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Reversals
Pretending to be Brahms! said Pliny the Elder. Whatever next?
That was a device I said, following him pretending to be me.
I'm quite sure he wasn't pretending to be you, said Pliny. He had no idea that some time in the future you would have mislaid something in your handbag at the very time you were listening to his composition. What was it anyway?
It was a comb, I said, and a lipstick. In the circumstances it's not surprising I began to identify with him. I must have looked a little unkempt.
I'm sure you looked exactly the same as usual, said Pliny kindly. By the way, did you see the photograph of the elephants painted to look like pandas in the newspaper yesterday?
No, I said, but I wonder what's reminded you of that?
Nothing, said Pliny. But it was very amusing. Some Thai zookeepers have painted three elephants with white and black paint to remind the people of Thailand not to forget their elephants now that they have a new giant panda.
I hope they don't do that to our elephants when we get our two new giant pandas, I said. That's if we have any elephants, of course. I don't think it's all that funny.
Yes, people laugh at different things, aid Pliny. I recall that yesterday you were laughing at a chicken shop being called Botanic Chickens. Why did you think that was funny?
Pliny, I said, that is intrinsically funny. It was right across the road from the Botanic Park.
No, I still don't get it, said Pliny.
That was a device I said, following him pretending to be me.
I'm quite sure he wasn't pretending to be you, said Pliny. He had no idea that some time in the future you would have mislaid something in your handbag at the very time you were listening to his composition. What was it anyway?
It was a comb, I said, and a lipstick. In the circumstances it's not surprising I began to identify with him. I must have looked a little unkempt.
I'm sure you looked exactly the same as usual, said Pliny kindly. By the way, did you see the photograph of the elephants painted to look like pandas in the newspaper yesterday?
No, I said, but I wonder what's reminded you of that?
Nothing, said Pliny. But it was very amusing. Some Thai zookeepers have painted three elephants with white and black paint to remind the people of Thailand not to forget their elephants now that they have a new giant panda.
I hope they don't do that to our elephants when we get our two new giant pandas, I said. That's if we have any elephants, of course. I don't think it's all that funny.
Yes, people laugh at different things, aid Pliny. I recall that yesterday you were laughing at a chicken shop being called Botanic Chickens. Why did you think that was funny?
Pliny, I said, that is intrinsically funny. It was right across the road from the Botanic Park.
No, I still don't get it, said Pliny.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Brahms Loses His Composure
The final Lunch Hour concert for the semester. The Elder Trio. Pliny should be here, he'd like them. I'm listening to Haydn's Piano Trio in A. It starts with three jabs from a pointy compass.
Then I lose interest.
Now I'm listening to Brahms' Piano Trio No 2 in C. It's about losing something from a small bag inside a big one. Then finding it later at the bottom. Loss, rummaging, sadness, resignation, joy. This is exactly what happened to me earlier. Once I get the idea, I lose interest.
At twenty minutes past three, Brahms is walking along King William Street in the direction of the Central Market, where he plans to meet up with Nostradamus. He is not quite level with the Post Office. He looks up. He sees a network of branches covering the dark white sky. The plane trees are nearly bare and a few leaves hang in the air like musical notes. But for some reason he isn't inspired to compose anything.
Then I lose interest.
Now I'm listening to Brahms' Piano Trio No 2 in C. It's about losing something from a small bag inside a big one. Then finding it later at the bottom. Loss, rummaging, sadness, resignation, joy. This is exactly what happened to me earlier. Once I get the idea, I lose interest.
At twenty minutes past three, Brahms is walking along King William Street in the direction of the Central Market, where he plans to meet up with Nostradamus. He is not quite level with the Post Office. He looks up. He sees a network of branches covering the dark white sky. The plane trees are nearly bare and a few leaves hang in the air like musical notes. But for some reason he isn't inspired to compose anything.
The Pointy End
You were very quick to agree about the geometry set, I said to Pliny the Elder. I didn't think you ancient Romans thought all that much of geometry.
True, said Pliny. Schoolboys in ancient Rome were generally taught their letters, counting and music at home until they were twelve, then they would go to a school of literature to learn grammar, logic, rhetoric and dialectics. Mathematics and geometry were rather looked down upon as being used by builders and other such people.
So why do you think I should buy one for little Sefu? I asked. Is it because Quintilian recommended the study of geometry? First for the mental training developed by the subject through the logical progression of axioms and proofs. Secondly for its use in political discussions and questions of land measurement?
No, said Pliny.
Well, is it because, as you yourself point out in your Natural Histories, Pamphilus, the first artist to practice painting as a liberal art and the first in painting to be learned in all letters, especially arithmetic and geometry, claimed that without geometry art could never be perfect?
No, said Pliny.
What then?
I simply thought that a fierce-looking child like that would look with glee upon the sharp pointy end of a compass.
True, said Pliny. Schoolboys in ancient Rome were generally taught their letters, counting and music at home until they were twelve, then they would go to a school of literature to learn grammar, logic, rhetoric and dialectics. Mathematics and geometry were rather looked down upon as being used by builders and other such people.
So why do you think I should buy one for little Sefu? I asked. Is it because Quintilian recommended the study of geometry? First for the mental training developed by the subject through the logical progression of axioms and proofs. Secondly for its use in political discussions and questions of land measurement?
No, said Pliny.
Well, is it because, as you yourself point out in your Natural Histories, Pamphilus, the first artist to practice painting as a liberal art and the first in painting to be learned in all letters, especially arithmetic and geometry, claimed that without geometry art could never be perfect?
No, said Pliny.
What then?
I simply thought that a fierce-looking child like that would look with glee upon the sharp pointy end of a compass.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
The Compass
Goodness me! Who is that child? asked Pliny the Elder, looking at a photograph that had been left out on a table. It showed an African child standing in front of a cracked mud wall.
That's our Kenyan foster child, Sefu Ali, I replied. He's 11 years old. And he's looking none too happy.
An understatement, said Pliny. I have never seen such a thunderous expression in my life, not even on the face of an emperor.
Yes, it gave us quite a turn. We get a photo of him every year, and he always looks quite taciturn, but this one takes the prize. I keep looking at it. The glowering scowl, the piercing stare under the beetling brow, the arms tightly folded over his chest. What if he's trying to tell us something?
If he is, what might it be?
It might be that he would rather be doing something else, like playing soccer. But it looks like something deeper than that. He doesn't want to be exhibited to his benefactors. He's asserting his right not to collude in it.
Good for him! said Pliny. He would make a superb Roman.
I think I'll send him a present, I said. To cheer him up.
What do you send to the child who has nothing? asked Pliny.
Anything. I said. As long as it doesn't weigh more than 500 grams. I'm thinking of a geometry set.
Excellent, said Pliny. Make sure it has a compass.
That's our Kenyan foster child, Sefu Ali, I replied. He's 11 years old. And he's looking none too happy.
An understatement, said Pliny. I have never seen such a thunderous expression in my life, not even on the face of an emperor.
Yes, it gave us quite a turn. We get a photo of him every year, and he always looks quite taciturn, but this one takes the prize. I keep looking at it. The glowering scowl, the piercing stare under the beetling brow, the arms tightly folded over his chest. What if he's trying to tell us something?
If he is, what might it be?
It might be that he would rather be doing something else, like playing soccer. But it looks like something deeper than that. He doesn't want to be exhibited to his benefactors. He's asserting his right not to collude in it.
Good for him! said Pliny. He would make a superb Roman.
I think I'll send him a present, I said. To cheer him up.
What do you send to the child who has nothing? asked Pliny.
Anything. I said. As long as it doesn't weigh more than 500 grams. I'm thinking of a geometry set.
Excellent, said Pliny. Make sure it has a compass.
Free Will
So much for Free Will , said Pliny ruefully. Someone else's readiness potential pipped your intention. I really wanted to finish that library book.
Well, it didn't matter all that much to me, I said. I'd finished reading it. Anyway, the issue of Free Will isn't about whether you can do what you want to or not.
Yes it is, said Pliny. It's about whether your actions are predetermined or not. Your action of trying to extend your library book was predetermined by ......wait a minute, I thought you said you'd finished it?
I had. But I hadn't finished my other library book. So I tried to get an extension for them both.
So your action was predetermined by your having not finished another book. And your not being allowed to extend either book was predetermined by someone else having reserved one of them.
No, I was allowed to extend the other book.
Well, lucky you, said Pliny. But the fact remains I have been prevented from reading the last two chapters of that book by the actions of others. There is therefore no such thing as my Free Will in this case.
Yes, I said, that is indisputably true. And the reason is you didn't tell me you were reading it. Has it occurred to you that even though it was due back yesterday we could have kept it for another 2 weeks without having to pay a fine?
Can we phone the library then, and ask to have it back?
No, predetermination doesn't work in reverse.
Well, it didn't matter all that much to me, I said. I'd finished reading it. Anyway, the issue of Free Will isn't about whether you can do what you want to or not.
Yes it is, said Pliny. It's about whether your actions are predetermined or not. Your action of trying to extend your library book was predetermined by ......wait a minute, I thought you said you'd finished it?
I had. But I hadn't finished my other library book. So I tried to get an extension for them both.
So your action was predetermined by your having not finished another book. And your not being allowed to extend either book was predetermined by someone else having reserved one of them.
No, I was allowed to extend the other book.
Well, lucky you, said Pliny. But the fact remains I have been prevented from reading the last two chapters of that book by the actions of others. There is therefore no such thing as my Free Will in this case.
Yes, I said, that is indisputably true. And the reason is you didn't tell me you were reading it. Has it occurred to you that even though it was due back yesterday we could have kept it for another 2 weeks without having to pay a fine?
Can we phone the library then, and ask to have it back?
No, predetermination doesn't work in reverse.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Compelling
Compulsory? said Pliny the Elder. Didn't you mean compelling?
No, I meant compulsory. People stopped in their tracks on the pavement. There were people pointing excitedly on seats. A man stopped in front of us and told us that dolphins were amazing creatures. I remember thinking, What am I doing here?
Very existential, remarked Pliny. Do I take it you are not really fond of dolphins?
Not overly, I replied. No more than of tuna. I remember reading once that dolphins were
capable of being rather nasty. Or was it whales?
No, said Pliny, dolphins do sometimes behave badly. I have heard that they kill porpoises and even sometimes kill their own young.
Chacun a son gout, I said philosophically, but the thing is, I wasn't pleased to realise that I felt under a compulsion to stop and watch it play, or try to catch its dinner, or whatever it was doing.
Free will is an illusion, said Pliny, wisely. I have been reading your library book, 13 Things That Don't Make Sense, and one of the Things is free will. They've discovered that our brain gives out readiness signals a good half second before we make a conscious decision to act.
Yes, it makes sense, I said. Otherwise how would we ever get out of bed in the morning? But on the other hand, I wasn't totally convinced that this wipes out free will. It may just be a combination of habit and our brain's efficiency. I'd like to see them test it on a baby.
Good point, said Pliny. By the way, where is that book? I was looking for it this morning.
Oh sorry, I had to take it back to the library, it was overdue.
Couldn't you get an extension?
No, they wouldn't let me, it had already been reserved by someone else.
No, I meant compulsory. People stopped in their tracks on the pavement. There were people pointing excitedly on seats. A man stopped in front of us and told us that dolphins were amazing creatures. I remember thinking, What am I doing here?
Very existential, remarked Pliny. Do I take it you are not really fond of dolphins?
Not overly, I replied. No more than of tuna. I remember reading once that dolphins were
capable of being rather nasty. Or was it whales?
No, said Pliny, dolphins do sometimes behave badly. I have heard that they kill porpoises and even sometimes kill their own young.
Chacun a son gout, I said philosophically, but the thing is, I wasn't pleased to realise that I felt under a compulsion to stop and watch it play, or try to catch its dinner, or whatever it was doing.
Free will is an illusion, said Pliny, wisely. I have been reading your library book, 13 Things That Don't Make Sense, and one of the Things is free will. They've discovered that our brain gives out readiness signals a good half second before we make a conscious decision to act.
Yes, it makes sense, I said. Otherwise how would we ever get out of bed in the morning? But on the other hand, I wasn't totally convinced that this wipes out free will. It may just be a combination of habit and our brain's efficiency. I'd like to see them test it on a baby.
Good point, said Pliny. By the way, where is that book? I was looking for it this morning.
Oh sorry, I had to take it back to the library, it was overdue.
Couldn't you get an extension?
No, they wouldn't let me, it had already been reserved by someone else.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Compulsory
I'm on Jetty Road Brighton with my mum. She wants to buy me a necklace. We enter a necklace shop. After two rounds of the necklace shop we settle upon a pretty silver starfish on a delicate silver chain.
I can't have it until August.
We walk back towards the sea. We pass the cafe that sells icecream and gelati from a counter on the footpath. We decide to have one. I choose Lemon Gelati and she chooses Boysenberry Swirl. The staff are busy and don't want to catch our eye. After a minute my mum says, Let's go to the one on the corner.
We enter the one on the corner. This is more like a little seaside fish and chip shop. We wait a long time while a girl changes her order from two prawns in a paper bag to one. The icecreams are smaller here, and they don't sell gelati, or Boysenberry Swirl. I choose a Chocolate Billabong and mum gets Rum and Raisin in a cone.
We sit on a bench looking out at the jetty and the sea. There are 54 people on the jetty. The sun is low and the sea is glinting and slopping. Two small girls jump away from the waves on the last bit of sand near the steps. The waves are the colour of turkish delight. The girls have wet shoes.
I like my Billabong, but not the new stick, which is purple and made of bendy plastic. I will think twice before buying another one. Seagulls fly towards the jetty. Some of them stop for chips. We talk about politics for a while, then decide to go home.
From the esplanade, north of the jetty, we see something in the water. It's a dolphin. It is doing dolphin things, behaving like a wave. It rears up, curves and disappears. There is something hypnotic about watching a dolphin do this, or something compulsory.
I can't have it until August.
We walk back towards the sea. We pass the cafe that sells icecream and gelati from a counter on the footpath. We decide to have one. I choose Lemon Gelati and she chooses Boysenberry Swirl. The staff are busy and don't want to catch our eye. After a minute my mum says, Let's go to the one on the corner.
We enter the one on the corner. This is more like a little seaside fish and chip shop. We wait a long time while a girl changes her order from two prawns in a paper bag to one. The icecreams are smaller here, and they don't sell gelati, or Boysenberry Swirl. I choose a Chocolate Billabong and mum gets Rum and Raisin in a cone.
We sit on a bench looking out at the jetty and the sea. There are 54 people on the jetty. The sun is low and the sea is glinting and slopping. Two small girls jump away from the waves on the last bit of sand near the steps. The waves are the colour of turkish delight. The girls have wet shoes.
I like my Billabong, but not the new stick, which is purple and made of bendy plastic. I will think twice before buying another one. Seagulls fly towards the jetty. Some of them stop for chips. We talk about politics for a while, then decide to go home.
From the esplanade, north of the jetty, we see something in the water. It's a dolphin. It is doing dolphin things, behaving like a wave. It rears up, curves and disappears. There is something hypnotic about watching a dolphin do this, or something compulsory.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Cabaret
The Hungarrian calls. Thought he might.
Ma Divertimento's nae aboot bees, lassie, he says.
Oh, yes it is, I say.
Och noo, it isn'a.
Well, we go on like this for a while, and he tries to explain that his Divertimento is about joy, terror and absurdity. I say that it amounts to the same thing.
We become amicable. I tell him about VulgarGrad, at the Cabaret Festival last night, their Russian blatnyak songs, of thieves and criminals, their vodka-fuelled oompah swing ska polka punk gulag style. I tell him how much Nostradamus and I liked it, and that I think he would have liked it too.
Aye, ah would ha' , he says. But ye noo, I'm nae a Rooski .
Neither are we, I say. And to be honest I don't think they were either. But everyone had a Zhopa good time.
Och lassie, he says. Ah doan't think ye ken the meanin' o' that word.
Why, I say, doesn't it mean super?
Noo, he says. 'Tis Rooski for a big woman's bottom.
Ooh, I say, and there we were singing about it and waving our hands in the air. I really thought it meant super.
Never ye mind, lassie, says the Hungarrian. As ye say, it all amounts to the same thing.
Ma Divertimento's nae aboot bees, lassie, he says.
Oh, yes it is, I say.
Och noo, it isn'a.
Well, we go on like this for a while, and he tries to explain that his Divertimento is about joy, terror and absurdity. I say that it amounts to the same thing.
We become amicable. I tell him about VulgarGrad, at the Cabaret Festival last night, their Russian blatnyak songs, of thieves and criminals, their vodka-fuelled oompah swing ska polka punk gulag style. I tell him how much Nostradamus and I liked it, and that I think he would have liked it too.
Aye, ah would ha' , he says. But ye noo, I'm nae a Rooski .
Neither are we, I say. And to be honest I don't think they were either. But everyone had a Zhopa good time.
Och lassie, he says. Ah doan't think ye ken the meanin' o' that word.
Why, I say, doesn't it mean super?
Noo, he says. 'Tis Rooski for a big woman's bottom.
Ooh, I say, and there we were singing about it and waving our hands in the air. I really thought it meant super.
Never ye mind, lassie, says the Hungarrian. As ye say, it all amounts to the same thing.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Divertimento
Thought I was done with Bees but no. The Lunch Hour Concert today featured music by Bach and Bela Bartok.
The first piece, by Bach, was his beautiful Concerto in D minor for two violins and strings. The violins were played by two talented young students, a tall dark-haired boy and a tall fair-haired girl. Everyone was enchanted by this.
The second piece, by Bela Bartok, was his Divertimento for Strings, which he had written while on holiday in Switzerland, having a break from the increasing Nazification of Hungary. Therefore I was not really expecting the music to be all about bees.
The first movement was an allegro, and began with a carefree drive through the fields on a summers day. The window was open, the sun was shining, and if there were any bees around they were outside the van. Perhaps there is a degree of hindsight in my perception of this.
It was during the second movement, the molto adagio, that I heard the fanning of bees wings, and the piercing agony of a sting, followed by the swimming heady feeling of someone who is falling into a swoon. This was when I realised that the music was really about someone getting stung by a bee.
Excited, I listened all the more carefully to the third movement. This movement was less about stinging and more about bees in general, and how they think of us humans, if they think of us at all.
There is a dancing theme, a strong unison theme, a rhapsodic solo, and then the dancing theme reappears upside down. Perhaps you are thinking this is rather technical, but I urge you to think of it in terms of bee behaviour.
Just before the end there is a comical pizzicato and a brief parody of cafe music. A flurry of triplets and a happy race to the end. That's bees, no doubt about it.
Quite a coincidence, given the subject of my last few blogs.
The first piece, by Bach, was his beautiful Concerto in D minor for two violins and strings. The violins were played by two talented young students, a tall dark-haired boy and a tall fair-haired girl. Everyone was enchanted by this.
The second piece, by Bela Bartok, was his Divertimento for Strings, which he had written while on holiday in Switzerland, having a break from the increasing Nazification of Hungary. Therefore I was not really expecting the music to be all about bees.
The first movement was an allegro, and began with a carefree drive through the fields on a summers day. The window was open, the sun was shining, and if there were any bees around they were outside the van. Perhaps there is a degree of hindsight in my perception of this.
It was during the second movement, the molto adagio, that I heard the fanning of bees wings, and the piercing agony of a sting, followed by the swimming heady feeling of someone who is falling into a swoon. This was when I realised that the music was really about someone getting stung by a bee.
Excited, I listened all the more carefully to the third movement. This movement was less about stinging and more about bees in general, and how they think of us humans, if they think of us at all.
There is a dancing theme, a strong unison theme, a rhapsodic solo, and then the dancing theme reappears upside down. Perhaps you are thinking this is rather technical, but I urge you to think of it in terms of bee behaviour.
Just before the end there is a comical pizzicato and a brief parody of cafe music. A flurry of triplets and a happy race to the end. That's bees, no doubt about it.
Quite a coincidence, given the subject of my last few blogs.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Bee Memory 3
This is my third bee memory. It happened to Chris. It must have been at least 15 years ago, because he was working for Munn's Lawns.
It was summer. He came home at the end of the day with a terrifying tale.
I was driving to Murray Bridge, he said, in the Munn's van. It was hot, so I rolled down the windows. I was driving past paddocks of dry grass. Suddenly I felt a sting on my neck. It hurt a bit, but I rubbed the spot and kept on driving.
It's a long way to Murray Bridge. After a while he began to feel quite strange. He was sweating, his head was swimming, and he was having trouble breathing. But he didn't connect his symptoms to the sting.
By the time he got to Murray Bridge, he was hardly capable of driving. Somebody asked him what was wrong. He remembered the beesting then. They took him to the local doctor who gave him an antihistamine injection, and made him lie down for several hours. Later someone drove him home.
These bee stories are more about memory than bees. I don't really remember if he was going to Murray Bridge. It may have been Willunga. or McLaren Vale. What I remember most clearly is him coming home and telling me the story, and how my mounting horror was only mitigated by
the fact that he was standing there in front of me perfectly fine in his khaki work shirt and shorts.
It was summer. He came home at the end of the day with a terrifying tale.
I was driving to Murray Bridge, he said, in the Munn's van. It was hot, so I rolled down the windows. I was driving past paddocks of dry grass. Suddenly I felt a sting on my neck. It hurt a bit, but I rubbed the spot and kept on driving.
It's a long way to Murray Bridge. After a while he began to feel quite strange. He was sweating, his head was swimming, and he was having trouble breathing. But he didn't connect his symptoms to the sting.
By the time he got to Murray Bridge, he was hardly capable of driving. Somebody asked him what was wrong. He remembered the beesting then. They took him to the local doctor who gave him an antihistamine injection, and made him lie down for several hours. Later someone drove him home.
These bee stories are more about memory than bees. I don't really remember if he was going to Murray Bridge. It may have been Willunga. or McLaren Vale. What I remember most clearly is him coming home and telling me the story, and how my mounting horror was only mitigated by
the fact that he was standing there in front of me perfectly fine in his khaki work shirt and shorts.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Bee Memory 2
And that's not my only bee memory. I have a bee memory for each of my children. Here is the second.
It was about 10 years ago. We were living in a house with a beautiful garden. Every day I would hang the bathroom towels out to dry in the sun.
One morning Sean came down the stairs with a stricken look. I've been stung by a bee! he said. In the bathroom! It was on my towel!
I felt guilty because I had brought the bee in on the towel.
Or possibly, we were living in the house with the swimming pool. Or this house, with the apricot tree. He didn't come down the stairs then, because there were/are no stairs. But he had a stricken look, and was holding a towel. I just got stung by a bee! he said. In the bathroom!
I felt guilty because I had brought the bee in on the towel.
Or it's even possible, now I think about it, that the bee wasn't on the towel at all. The bee was inside the tee shirt that he had put on after his shower. And he said, I just got stung by a bee! It was inside my tee shirt!
And I felt guilty, because it still would have been me that brought the bee in, on the tee shirt.
It was about 10 years ago. We were living in a house with a beautiful garden. Every day I would hang the bathroom towels out to dry in the sun.
One morning Sean came down the stairs with a stricken look. I've been stung by a bee! he said. In the bathroom! It was on my towel!
I felt guilty because I had brought the bee in on the towel.
Or possibly, we were living in the house with the swimming pool. Or this house, with the apricot tree. He didn't come down the stairs then, because there were/are no stairs. But he had a stricken look, and was holding a towel. I just got stung by a bee! he said. In the bathroom!
I felt guilty because I had brought the bee in on the towel.
Or it's even possible, now I think about it, that the bee wasn't on the towel at all. The bee was inside the tee shirt that he had put on after his shower. And he said, I just got stung by a bee! It was inside my tee shirt!
And I felt guilty, because it still would have been me that brought the bee in, on the tee shirt.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Waterlogged Memories
Maybe I'm wrong, and bees hate water. They prefer to travel over bridges after all. And will not fly in the rain.
Since yesterday I've been haunted by waterlogged bees. Searching for a memory. We used to rent a house with a swimming pool.
The swimming pool was overhung by a giant ghost gum, which dropped its leaves and blossoms
and little bark canoes into the water. We used to spend hours trying to fish them out with a net.
Sometimes there would be bees. We didn't like them near us when we were vulnerable in our swimsuits, and bare feet. Often the bees would drown, in the swimming pool water. They would bob towards the filter outlet and disappear.
One day I remember seeing that my daughter had lined up several waterlogged bees on the slate tiles at the side of the pool. What are you doing? I asked. Trying to revive them, she said.
Or is this what happened? One day I saw my daughter gently nudging waterlogged bees on to a little bark canoe. What are you doing? I asked. Saving them, she replied.
Or this? One day I saw a row of waterlogged bees lined up at the side of the pool. What's this? I asked. My bee hospital, she answered.
Something like this happened. I remember hoping that the bees would not survive to sting her, or any other member of my family, later on.
That was in the days when there were bees.
Since yesterday I've been haunted by waterlogged bees. Searching for a memory. We used to rent a house with a swimming pool.
The swimming pool was overhung by a giant ghost gum, which dropped its leaves and blossoms
and little bark canoes into the water. We used to spend hours trying to fish them out with a net.
Sometimes there would be bees. We didn't like them near us when we were vulnerable in our swimsuits, and bare feet. Often the bees would drown, in the swimming pool water. They would bob towards the filter outlet and disappear.
One day I remember seeing that my daughter had lined up several waterlogged bees on the slate tiles at the side of the pool. What are you doing? I asked. Trying to revive them, she said.
Or is this what happened? One day I saw my daughter gently nudging waterlogged bees on to a little bark canoe. What are you doing? I asked. Saving them, she replied.
Or this? One day I saw a row of waterlogged bees lined up at the side of the pool. What's this? I asked. My bee hospital, she answered.
Something like this happened. I remember hoping that the bees would not survive to sting her, or any other member of my family, later on.
That was in the days when there were bees.
Authorities on Bees
I happen to know a lot about bees, said Pliny. In fact I am one of the ancient authorities on bees, along with Varro, Vergil and Columnella. I know that bees like music but I do not think they are particularly fond of water.
Alright, I said reasonably. Explain to me how you know they like music. And then I will explain to you why they like water.
There is much evidence that bees respond well to music, said Pliny. For instance it is known that drumming on the hive will cause the bees to rise harmoniously while the beekeeper removes the honey in complete safety. Furthermore, when bees are flying away, the clapping of hands and tinkling of cymbals will suffice to bring them home again. We have this on the authority of Varro.
That is delightful, I said. Now I hope that you will also like what I have to tell you about bees and water.
Go on, said Pliny.
Bees drink water. And they need it to feed the young bees and to dilute their food . They cool down the air by fanning their wings over the water to evaporate it. Bees like to live near water. I've heard that some of them even live in water meters.
That reminds me, said Pliny, of a tale I recorded in my Natural Histories, about the bees from the village of Hostilia on the banks of the River Po. When the flowers were finished the people used to place their hives on ships and sail them 5 miles up the river. The bees would go out every day and come back with their booty. After a few days the ships would sink lower in the water, and then the people would know the hives were full of honey. They then sailed home and extracted the honey from the hives. This story shows that bees do not mind travelling over water.
That's a good story, I said. If it didn't contradict my own position I would tell you something that I read the other day on the subject of bees travelling over water.
Oh go on, tell me, said Pliny.
Well, it seems that bees prefer to cross a river by bridge rather than fly straight across the water. It's because the water throws out their navigation.
That is most amusing, said Pliny, if it is true.
Of course it's true, I replied. It's from the BBC.
Alright, I said reasonably. Explain to me how you know they like music. And then I will explain to you why they like water.
There is much evidence that bees respond well to music, said Pliny. For instance it is known that drumming on the hive will cause the bees to rise harmoniously while the beekeeper removes the honey in complete safety. Furthermore, when bees are flying away, the clapping of hands and tinkling of cymbals will suffice to bring them home again. We have this on the authority of Varro.
That is delightful, I said. Now I hope that you will also like what I have to tell you about bees and water.
Go on, said Pliny.
Bees drink water. And they need it to feed the young bees and to dilute their food . They cool down the air by fanning their wings over the water to evaporate it. Bees like to live near water. I've heard that some of them even live in water meters.
That reminds me, said Pliny, of a tale I recorded in my Natural Histories, about the bees from the village of Hostilia on the banks of the River Po. When the flowers were finished the people used to place their hives on ships and sail them 5 miles up the river. The bees would go out every day and come back with their booty. After a few days the ships would sink lower in the water, and then the people would know the hives were full of honey. They then sailed home and extracted the honey from the hives. This story shows that bees do not mind travelling over water.
That's a good story, I said. If it didn't contradict my own position I would tell you something that I read the other day on the subject of bees travelling over water.
Oh go on, tell me, said Pliny.
Well, it seems that bees prefer to cross a river by bridge rather than fly straight across the water. It's because the water throws out their navigation.
That is most amusing, said Pliny, if it is true.
Of course it's true, I replied. It's from the BBC.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
What Bees Like
What are Proles? asked Pliny the Elder, after reading my blog about Shostakovich.
Plebs, I said.
Aah! said Pliny. Now I understand.
What do you understand?
I understand you were gently hinting you and your companions could also be seen as Proles.
Well spotted Pliny. I am a bit of a Prole. But equally I do like Shostakovich. I especially like that Jewish Death Dance, in his Piano Trio Number 2. It's mesmerising...... and once you've heard it, you hear it in everything he wrote.
Surely not. He couldn't have been very talented if that were the case.
It's just in certain combinations of notes. It's like his handwriting. Anyway death and transfiguration are common themes in music, nearly as common as water.
Yes I suppose that they are. Although in my day musical themes were more concerned with war, or Bacchic rites, or keeping control of bees.
Well, it amounts to the same thing, I said.
Does it? said Pliny, looking doubtful. So what was that about water?
Music sounds like water unless it's specifically meant not to, I said.
Nonsense! Prove it, said Pliny.
I nearly always think music sounds like water. It's a fall back position. Because music suggests the movement of water in so many different ways. I should know I've heard a great deal of it over the years. Splashing, lots of high tinkly notes; flowing, joined up notes; fish, wiggly notes; babbling brook, wiggly notes with tinkles; the sea, rising and falling notes, repeated; the deep scary sea, swelling notes ; a storm, thunderous rolls and claps, on the bass and tympani.
You haven't proved a thing, said Pliny. But you know, that was exactly the sort of music we used on the bees. It put them in a trance. Bees like music.
That would be because bees like water.
Plebs, I said.
Aah! said Pliny. Now I understand.
What do you understand?
I understand you were gently hinting you and your companions could also be seen as Proles.
Well spotted Pliny. I am a bit of a Prole. But equally I do like Shostakovich. I especially like that Jewish Death Dance, in his Piano Trio Number 2. It's mesmerising...... and once you've heard it, you hear it in everything he wrote.
Surely not. He couldn't have been very talented if that were the case.
It's just in certain combinations of notes. It's like his handwriting. Anyway death and transfiguration are common themes in music, nearly as common as water.
Yes I suppose that they are. Although in my day musical themes were more concerned with war, or Bacchic rites, or keeping control of bees.
Well, it amounts to the same thing, I said.
Does it? said Pliny, looking doubtful. So what was that about water?
Music sounds like water unless it's specifically meant not to, I said.
Nonsense! Prove it, said Pliny.
I nearly always think music sounds like water. It's a fall back position. Because music suggests the movement of water in so many different ways. I should know I've heard a great deal of it over the years. Splashing, lots of high tinkly notes; flowing, joined up notes; fish, wiggly notes; babbling brook, wiggly notes with tinkles; the sea, rising and falling notes, repeated; the deep scary sea, swelling notes ; a storm, thunderous rolls and claps, on the bass and tympani.
You haven't proved a thing, said Pliny. But you know, that was exactly the sort of music we used on the bees. It put them in a trance. Bees like music.
That would be because bees like water.
15 x 15
I'm not very good at multiplying in my head. I only gave up yesterday because it was taking far too long.
First I imagined the number 15, like this, a 1 and a 5. Then I imagined another number 15 directly below it, that is, the 1 under the 1, and the 5 under the 5.
Then I imagined a multiplication sign to the left of the bottom 1. No, I'm only joking. I didn't need to imagine that.
Then I proceeded with my calculation. 5 times 5 is 25. Put down the 5 and carry 2. That's 2 things to remember. The 2 is placed above an imaginary line which I also thought I didn't need to imagine. It would, however, have helped. Don't forget, I was listening to the largo movement of the Shostakovich Sonata for Cello and Piano in D minor at the same time.
Next, I calculated 1 times 5. An easy one, the answer is 5. Then I had to remember to add on the 2. That makes 7. This is where it gets kind of tricky. Where do you put the 7? And can you now forget about the 2? First things first. The 7 goes next to the 5. Which was where? Somewhere in the middle of my head. And the 7 goes next to that on the left. So I have 75. This represents 75 cents. So far so good. And yes, you can now forget about the 2.
Now it gets a little bit more musical. Rachel is playing beautifully, and every now and then her bow squeaks and there is a little glint of light playing over the front of her cello. I know too that her plait, which none of us can yet see, will be dyed red. 1 times 5 is 5. Put the 5 under the ......waaah! This is where I said to myself, You fool etc.
First I imagined the number 15, like this, a 1 and a 5. Then I imagined another number 15 directly below it, that is, the 1 under the 1, and the 5 under the 5.
Then I imagined a multiplication sign to the left of the bottom 1. No, I'm only joking. I didn't need to imagine that.
Then I proceeded with my calculation. 5 times 5 is 25. Put down the 5 and carry 2. That's 2 things to remember. The 2 is placed above an imaginary line which I also thought I didn't need to imagine. It would, however, have helped. Don't forget, I was listening to the largo movement of the Shostakovich Sonata for Cello and Piano in D minor at the same time.
Next, I calculated 1 times 5. An easy one, the answer is 5. Then I had to remember to add on the 2. That makes 7. This is where it gets kind of tricky. Where do you put the 7? And can you now forget about the 2? First things first. The 7 goes next to the 5. Which was where? Somewhere in the middle of my head. And the 7 goes next to that on the left. So I have 75. This represents 75 cents. So far so good. And yes, you can now forget about the 2.
Now it gets a little bit more musical. Rachel is playing beautifully, and every now and then her bow squeaks and there is a little glint of light playing over the front of her cello. I know too that her plait, which none of us can yet see, will be dyed red. 1 times 5 is 5. Put the 5 under the ......waaah! This is where I said to myself, You fool etc.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Proles
Another Lunch Hour Concert yesterday. I make a habit of choosing an inappropriate seat.
My mother's friend was there. I led us forward to three seats on the second row.
The concert was performed by Stefan Ammer on the piano and Rachel Johnson on the cello. First they played Brahms. I was very happy listening to the Brahms. Usually I don't like Brahms all that much. I always think of that Warren Mitchell film where Brahms eats sardines straight out of the can, wearing mittens.
But this was far from sardiney. I like the cello. If I were a musical instrument, I would be a cello. However, at the end of the piece my mother whispered, "That was so loud! I'll have to take my hearing aids out." I turned to her friend. "It's nice to be so near the stage, isn't it." "Yes," she nodded. " You hardly have to crick your neck at all." I'd forgotten that she only came up to my shoulder, sitting down.
Next it was the Shostakovitch. I like Shostakovich. But I began to wonder if we should have been sitting further back. I decided, since I was the only one enjoying being in the second row I would concentrate all the harder. Shostakovitch's Sonata for Cello and Piano in D minor. It was the one which pokes fun at the Prolekult, in the finale. I was waiting for that bit.
Waiting, waiting. Suddenly I realised that, far from listening to the largo, I was trying to multiply 15 by 15 in my head. This was to see whether I had cheated my mother earlier by asking for $2.80 for 15 photographs at a cost of 15 cents each. You fool, I said to myself. You can calculate 15 x 15 any time, while the music is but fleeting. So I paid attention until the end. Yes, it was very plinky-plonky. But I wondered whether I would have picked up the vitriolic sarcasm of Shostakovitch's dig at the Proles, if I hadn't read the program notes.
"That was lovely," said my mother at the end. "It was so much better with my hearing aids out."
"Wouldn't it be marvellous to play a musical instrument," said her friend.
As for me, I forgot all about 15 x 15 until now. I've just worked it out on a slip of paper. It appears to be a lot less than I thought.
My mother's friend was there. I led us forward to three seats on the second row.
The concert was performed by Stefan Ammer on the piano and Rachel Johnson on the cello. First they played Brahms. I was very happy listening to the Brahms. Usually I don't like Brahms all that much. I always think of that Warren Mitchell film where Brahms eats sardines straight out of the can, wearing mittens.
But this was far from sardiney. I like the cello. If I were a musical instrument, I would be a cello. However, at the end of the piece my mother whispered, "That was so loud! I'll have to take my hearing aids out." I turned to her friend. "It's nice to be so near the stage, isn't it." "Yes," she nodded. " You hardly have to crick your neck at all." I'd forgotten that she only came up to my shoulder, sitting down.
Next it was the Shostakovitch. I like Shostakovich. But I began to wonder if we should have been sitting further back. I decided, since I was the only one enjoying being in the second row I would concentrate all the harder. Shostakovitch's Sonata for Cello and Piano in D minor. It was the one which pokes fun at the Prolekult, in the finale. I was waiting for that bit.
Waiting, waiting. Suddenly I realised that, far from listening to the largo, I was trying to multiply 15 by 15 in my head. This was to see whether I had cheated my mother earlier by asking for $2.80 for 15 photographs at a cost of 15 cents each. You fool, I said to myself. You can calculate 15 x 15 any time, while the music is but fleeting. So I paid attention until the end. Yes, it was very plinky-plonky. But I wondered whether I would have picked up the vitriolic sarcasm of Shostakovitch's dig at the Proles, if I hadn't read the program notes.
"That was lovely," said my mother at the end. "It was so much better with my hearing aids out."
"Wouldn't it be marvellous to play a musical instrument," said her friend.
As for me, I forgot all about 15 x 15 until now. I've just worked it out on a slip of paper. It appears to be a lot less than I thought.
Full of Holes
What did you know? asked Pliny the Elder.
Three things, I said darkly.
What were they?
First of all, I knew why the redfaced man had come to the lecture. He thought it was going to be about neutralinos. When it wasn't, he felt impelled to tell his friends about them anyway.
That is understandable, agreed Pliny. And what else did you know?
Secondly, I knew about neutralinos because they were amongst the Thirteen Things That Didn't Make Sense in the book I was reading. They're called WIMPs , or weakly interacting massive particles and no one has actually found one yet. They hoped to find them in the Large Hadron Collider last year, but it's temporarily out of action.
Dear me, is it? What happened?
Oh, a serious fault between two superconducting bending magnets.
Most unfortunate.
Yes. Thirdly, I knew that we were all full of holes.
Indeed? You never mentioned it before.
I meant it in an ironical way, not like him. He was coughing . Particles were spraying out from one of his apertures and I was hoping that none of them would get into any of mine.
Do you think that any of them did?
No.
Three things, I said darkly.
What were they?
First of all, I knew why the redfaced man had come to the lecture. He thought it was going to be about neutralinos. When it wasn't, he felt impelled to tell his friends about them anyway.
That is understandable, agreed Pliny. And what else did you know?
Secondly, I knew about neutralinos because they were amongst the Thirteen Things That Didn't Make Sense in the book I was reading. They're called WIMPs , or weakly interacting massive particles and no one has actually found one yet. They hoped to find them in the Large Hadron Collider last year, but it's temporarily out of action.
Dear me, is it? What happened?
Oh, a serious fault between two superconducting bending magnets.
Most unfortunate.
Yes. Thirdly, I knew that we were all full of holes.
Indeed? You never mentioned it before.
I meant it in an ironical way, not like him. He was coughing . Particles were spraying out from one of his apertures and I was hoping that none of them would get into any of mine.
Do you think that any of them did?
No.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Cosmic Rays and Neutralinos
Pliny and Nostradamus went to a lecture on Tuesday evening, on the subject of cosmic rays. They were astonished to see that the lecture theatre was almost full.
There were three empty seats in the third row between two men. Nostradamus took the middle one, and Pliny sat down next to a redfaced man in a sand coloured coat. The man was talking to two of his friends who were sitting in the row behind him. I felt terrible, he was saying, but I feel a lot better now. We picked the wrong two seats, thought Pliny.
The lecture was not too difficult to understand. There were oval maps of the universe on 2 big screens with the hot spots picked out in red, ringed with yellow. In Argentina, at the Pierre Auger Observatory, they observe rare cosmic rays containing ultra high energy particles of 10 million trillion electron volts. These are so rare they only hit the earth at a rate of about one per week per square kilometre. The red hot spots on the cosmic map were where these particles were coming from, somewhere beyond the Milky Way. Pliny wondered if they were dangerous.
Half way through the lecture the red faced man began to cough. I knew it, thought Pliny.
At question time, nobody asked if the ultra high energy particles were dangerous.
Everyone stood up to leave. The man in the sandcoloured jacket was asked by his friends how he liked it. I kept up, he answered jovially. Then he added, Did you know that every second millions of neutralinos are passing through our bodies, and we aren't aware of them? We're all full of holes, he laughed.
I know! thought Pliny.
There were three empty seats in the third row between two men. Nostradamus took the middle one, and Pliny sat down next to a redfaced man in a sand coloured coat. The man was talking to two of his friends who were sitting in the row behind him. I felt terrible, he was saying, but I feel a lot better now. We picked the wrong two seats, thought Pliny.
The lecture was not too difficult to understand. There were oval maps of the universe on 2 big screens with the hot spots picked out in red, ringed with yellow. In Argentina, at the Pierre Auger Observatory, they observe rare cosmic rays containing ultra high energy particles of 10 million trillion electron volts. These are so rare they only hit the earth at a rate of about one per week per square kilometre. The red hot spots on the cosmic map were where these particles were coming from, somewhere beyond the Milky Way. Pliny wondered if they were dangerous.
Half way through the lecture the red faced man began to cough. I knew it, thought Pliny.
At question time, nobody asked if the ultra high energy particles were dangerous.
Everyone stood up to leave. The man in the sandcoloured jacket was asked by his friends how he liked it. I kept up, he answered jovially. Then he added, Did you know that every second millions of neutralinos are passing through our bodies, and we aren't aware of them? We're all full of holes, he laughed.
I know! thought Pliny.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Thinking Street
Chocolate? What kind is it?
Dark energy.
Oh I see. Is that why I can't actually see it?
Yes.
What a pity. I like chocolate.
So do I. My friend Li Feng gave me a chocolate this morning. A Ferrero Rocher. She didn't have one herself. She never does. She says they give her pimples. That reminds me. Something she told me supports the hypothesis of the expanding universe. Two things actually.
What were they?
The first thing was that when she went to visit the Tax Office last Wednesday, it had moved. It was much further away than it used to be. She called them on her mobile and a nice man gave her directions, so she got there eventually. I asked her where the Tax Office is now and she said it was on Thinking Street. That means I probably wouldn't be able to find it either.
Thinking Street. There isn't a Thinking Street in the city is there?
No, that's just it. Unless she meant King William Street.
Mmm. What was the other thing?
She said that when she goes to the Central Market, and parks her car in the Central Market carpark, she always gets charged for an extra hour, even though she makes sure that she gets to the exit with four minutes to spare.
Perhaps their clock is fast, or hers is slow.
No, she's checked, and they're both right, but it happens every time.
Doesn't that support the hypothesis of a contracting universe, if she doesn't get as long as she thinks she should?
No I don't think so. She ends up with 56 minutes of parking time that she's paid for but doesn't need. That's a lot of extra time. And time is equivalent to space, on the space time continuum.
True. Especially in a carpark.
Dark energy.
Oh I see. Is that why I can't actually see it?
Yes.
What a pity. I like chocolate.
So do I. My friend Li Feng gave me a chocolate this morning. A Ferrero Rocher. She didn't have one herself. She never does. She says they give her pimples. That reminds me. Something she told me supports the hypothesis of the expanding universe. Two things actually.
What were they?
The first thing was that when she went to visit the Tax Office last Wednesday, it had moved. It was much further away than it used to be. She called them on her mobile and a nice man gave her directions, so she got there eventually. I asked her where the Tax Office is now and she said it was on Thinking Street. That means I probably wouldn't be able to find it either.
Thinking Street. There isn't a Thinking Street in the city is there?
No, that's just it. Unless she meant King William Street.
Mmm. What was the other thing?
She said that when she goes to the Central Market, and parks her car in the Central Market carpark, she always gets charged for an extra hour, even though she makes sure that she gets to the exit with four minutes to spare.
Perhaps their clock is fast, or hers is slow.
No, she's checked, and they're both right, but it happens every time.
Doesn't that support the hypothesis of a contracting universe, if she doesn't get as long as she thinks she should?
No I don't think so. She ends up with 56 minutes of parking time that she's paid for but doesn't need. That's a lot of extra time. And time is equivalent to space, on the space time continuum.
True. Especially in a carpark.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Dark Energy
So, said Pliny, you think that you experienced Dark Matter? Are you sure it wasn't just a funny turn?
Of course it wasn't just a funny turn. I was already thinking about Dark Matter, and then I had the strange experience. If it was just a funny turn it would have been the other way around.
Alright, said Pliny, I apologise. But why do you think everything seemed to have grown larger and looked so far away?
Dark Energy, I replied. The expanding universe. Dark Energy accounts for 74% of the energy in the entire universe. Dark Matter accounts for 22%, and only 4% of the energy in the universe is able to be seen directly.
Are you sure? asked Pliny, looking sceptical.
Of course I'm sure, I read it in my book. Although, I suppose it's really only still a theory.
I don't think you have entirely understood it, said Pliny. Surely if the universe is expanding, it's only expanding outside of our solar system. I assume nobody thinks the Moon is hurtling away from Earth at a great rate of knots, and Venus from the Earth?
Well, no, at least that wasn't in my book. But maybe they are.
Nonsense. If that were so, our heads would be expanding at the same rate, and so would this house, and this city and everything else that we see.
Exactly. That was what it felt like, on Sunday. Well, not my head.
This science is no good, said Pliny, shaking his head.
Terra incognita, I replied. Have some chocolate.
Of course it wasn't just a funny turn. I was already thinking about Dark Matter, and then I had the strange experience. If it was just a funny turn it would have been the other way around.
Alright, said Pliny, I apologise. But why do you think everything seemed to have grown larger and looked so far away?
Dark Energy, I replied. The expanding universe. Dark Energy accounts for 74% of the energy in the entire universe. Dark Matter accounts for 22%, and only 4% of the energy in the universe is able to be seen directly.
Are you sure? asked Pliny, looking sceptical.
Of course I'm sure, I read it in my book. Although, I suppose it's really only still a theory.
I don't think you have entirely understood it, said Pliny. Surely if the universe is expanding, it's only expanding outside of our solar system. I assume nobody thinks the Moon is hurtling away from Earth at a great rate of knots, and Venus from the Earth?
Well, no, at least that wasn't in my book. But maybe they are.
Nonsense. If that were so, our heads would be expanding at the same rate, and so would this house, and this city and everything else that we see.
Exactly. That was what it felt like, on Sunday. Well, not my head.
This science is no good, said Pliny, shaking his head.
Terra incognita, I replied. Have some chocolate.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Dark Matter
I'm walking up Jetty Road in Brighton on Sunday afternoon. I'm just about to turn a corner, on to The Crescent. I'm thinking about dark matter.
Not a dark matter, but dark matter itself. What is it? I've been reading a book called Thirteen Things That Don't Make Sense. The first Thing is dark matter. There must be dark matter because of the rotational speeds of galaxies. The outer stars of galaxies rotate at the same speed as the inner ones, but they should rotate slower, according to the law of gravity. Unless dark matter permeates the galaxies.
Here on Jetty Road I'm just about to turn a corner. I'm with my mum, and Nostradamus is a little way ahead. It's half past four and very cold and we are heading home for a cup of tea. We are, temporarily, not talking. The void fills with dark matter. Suddenly I'm aware of what it is. I look down at the pavement. There it is in the cracks, black and peanutty. I look up. The sky is unusually high, and the clouds are expanding. I turn the corner. There is a church on my left. It is set further back than normal. A man comes out to have a look. He is dark grey and stout.
The colour of the sky is strange for the hour. It is the same colour as the air. The colour is water or steel with a trace of pink. We are now past the church. The houses have immensely high walls, with no windows. The trees on The Crescent stretch upwards and the gardens are planted with great spaces between the aloes and the palms.
It's everywhere.
Not a dark matter, but dark matter itself. What is it? I've been reading a book called Thirteen Things That Don't Make Sense. The first Thing is dark matter. There must be dark matter because of the rotational speeds of galaxies. The outer stars of galaxies rotate at the same speed as the inner ones, but they should rotate slower, according to the law of gravity. Unless dark matter permeates the galaxies.
Here on Jetty Road I'm just about to turn a corner. I'm with my mum, and Nostradamus is a little way ahead. It's half past four and very cold and we are heading home for a cup of tea. We are, temporarily, not talking. The void fills with dark matter. Suddenly I'm aware of what it is. I look down at the pavement. There it is in the cracks, black and peanutty. I look up. The sky is unusually high, and the clouds are expanding. I turn the corner. There is a church on my left. It is set further back than normal. A man comes out to have a look. He is dark grey and stout.
The colour of the sky is strange for the hour. It is the same colour as the air. The colour is water or steel with a trace of pink. We are now past the church. The houses have immensely high walls, with no windows. The trees on The Crescent stretch upwards and the gardens are planted with great spaces between the aloes and the palms.
It's everywhere.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Criminal Links
Is that all you did? said Pliny the Elder. I thought you said you were busy. All you did was listen to music and conversations with limited interest. The conversation of the fat girl on the phone was particularly unedifying.
Didn't you like it? I asked. It was the connecting theme of criminality that I hoped would make it interesting.
Oh? said Pliny. I failed to pick that up. Please elaborate.
Well, I was listening to music that brought thoughts of criminality to mind, due to Frank Sinatra and the famous Rat Pack and all that. But I allowed myself to be seduced into liking it for various reasons, the youth of the players, the talent of the singer and the presence of a faux Buddy Holly who was obviously liking what he heard. Later, on the bus, I believe this earlier seduction had some relevance to my failure to act to validate my ticket.
Fascinating, said Pliny. Do go on.
I truly had forgotten to validate it. But when the driver called another passenger to come back
and validate his, I began to wonder whether I'd done mine. I couldn't remember doing it. But the driver hadn't called me back. It would have been easy to resolve. All I had to do was get out my ticket and have a look. But I chose not to. So, there I was sitting on the bus in a state of moral collapse.
What has this to do with the banality of the conversation you subsequently overheard? asked Pliny.
Everything, I replied. I was outside the general ethos in which I normally exist. So I listened to the conversation on the phone as an outsider, as an amoeba might listen if it had ears. I absorbed it, like the Sinatra standards, non judgementally. This is why the role of the lady sitting next to the sad fat girl was so important. She said what I would have said if I had been sitting next to her and felt myself to be a person capable of saying something nice.
I see, said Pliny, thoughtfully. So role of the lady in the second half of your story equates to the role of Buddy Holly in the first.
No Pliny, I said. If he equates to anyone, it is the straphanging man, who has a different point of view of the proceedings. The lady equates to me, even though we are in the same half of the story.
Well, said Pliny. There is more complexity to your story than first meets the eye.
There is, I agreed, but unfortunately it doesn't seem to have been all that apparent.
Never mind, said Pliny, look on the bright side. You will be able to use that bus ticket on another day.
Didn't you like it? I asked. It was the connecting theme of criminality that I hoped would make it interesting.
Oh? said Pliny. I failed to pick that up. Please elaborate.
Well, I was listening to music that brought thoughts of criminality to mind, due to Frank Sinatra and the famous Rat Pack and all that. But I allowed myself to be seduced into liking it for various reasons, the youth of the players, the talent of the singer and the presence of a faux Buddy Holly who was obviously liking what he heard. Later, on the bus, I believe this earlier seduction had some relevance to my failure to act to validate my ticket.
Fascinating, said Pliny. Do go on.
I truly had forgotten to validate it. But when the driver called another passenger to come back
and validate his, I began to wonder whether I'd done mine. I couldn't remember doing it. But the driver hadn't called me back. It would have been easy to resolve. All I had to do was get out my ticket and have a look. But I chose not to. So, there I was sitting on the bus in a state of moral collapse.
What has this to do with the banality of the conversation you subsequently overheard? asked Pliny.
Everything, I replied. I was outside the general ethos in which I normally exist. So I listened to the conversation on the phone as an outsider, as an amoeba might listen if it had ears. I absorbed it, like the Sinatra standards, non judgementally. This is why the role of the lady sitting next to the sad fat girl was so important. She said what I would have said if I had been sitting next to her and felt myself to be a person capable of saying something nice.
I see, said Pliny, thoughtfully. So role of the lady in the second half of your story equates to the role of Buddy Holly in the first.
No Pliny, I said. If he equates to anyone, it is the straphanging man, who has a different point of view of the proceedings. The lady equates to me, even though we are in the same half of the story.
Well, said Pliny. There is more complexity to your story than first meets the eye.
There is, I agreed, but unfortunately it doesn't seem to have been all that apparent.
Never mind, said Pliny, look on the bright side. You will be able to use that bus ticket on another day.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Listening to Whatnot
Well thank you, Pliny the Elder, for an excellent and informative blog. I too, shall view the contents of the pepper grinder warily from now on.
I was very busy yesterday. I went to town to meet my mother for a concert. The concert was the University Jazz Orchestra playing Frank Sinatra standards, with Luke Thompson on vocals.
I don't like Frank Sinatra standards. To me, Fly Me To the Moon, That's Life, I've Got The World on a String, and What Now my Love? conjure up a world of casinos and criminality, but Luke and the orchestra were young and into Frank for their own reasons, so I listened and gradually allowed myself to be seduced. Luke was pretty good really. And I was sitting behind a young man who looked like Buddy Holly, adding a frisson of postmodernity to the proceedings.
We had a lecture in the early evening so I caught the bus home to save time. I didn't validate my ticket. When I realised, I opted to remain a criminal. A very plump girl, whose face was very close to my ear, began to talk on her mobile phone in a high irritating voice....Sharon? I'm on the bus. Sharon? I just rang up to say sorry. (A long pause, during which I could hear the slurred tones of Sharon, but not what she was saying). Well, sorry. ( Another pause). Well if that's how you feel........ I've got to go.
Then she called her mum. Mum? Sharondoesn'twanttobemyfriend! ( in a rising crescendo, ending with a violent sob). I called her to say sorry. She said she didn't want to be my friend. She said I drink too much and I make her anxious. Mum. Mum, I don't feel well. I'm going to see the doctor. (I could hear mum's voice. It was calming and reasonable). Mum. I don't care, I hate her. I've got lots of other friends. Everyone at work likes me. Julie likes me, Katy likes me, even Michael likes me and he's a MAN. (Here a straphanging man gave her a dark look). Mum, I'm not well. I'm seeing the doctor at half past 4. If Sharon calls me again I'll send Darren over. If I see her, I'll bash her up. Yes. Bye mum. See you tomorrow.
She looked at the lady sitting next to her. Sharon doesn't want to be my friend, she sobbed. Don't worry, said the lady. You don't need her. I'm sure that you have lots of other friends.
I was very busy yesterday. I went to town to meet my mother for a concert. The concert was the University Jazz Orchestra playing Frank Sinatra standards, with Luke Thompson on vocals.
I don't like Frank Sinatra standards. To me, Fly Me To the Moon, That's Life, I've Got The World on a String, and What Now my Love? conjure up a world of casinos and criminality, but Luke and the orchestra were young and into Frank for their own reasons, so I listened and gradually allowed myself to be seduced. Luke was pretty good really. And I was sitting behind a young man who looked like Buddy Holly, adding a frisson of postmodernity to the proceedings.
We had a lecture in the early evening so I caught the bus home to save time. I didn't validate my ticket. When I realised, I opted to remain a criminal. A very plump girl, whose face was very close to my ear, began to talk on her mobile phone in a high irritating voice....Sharon? I'm on the bus. Sharon? I just rang up to say sorry. (A long pause, during which I could hear the slurred tones of Sharon, but not what she was saying). Well, sorry. ( Another pause). Well if that's how you feel........ I've got to go.
Then she called her mum. Mum? Sharondoesn'twanttobemyfriend! ( in a rising crescendo, ending with a violent sob). I called her to say sorry. She said she didn't want to be my friend. She said I drink too much and I make her anxious. Mum. Mum, I don't feel well. I'm going to see the doctor. (I could hear mum's voice. It was calming and reasonable). Mum. I don't care, I hate her. I've got lots of other friends. Everyone at work likes me. Julie likes me, Katy likes me, even Michael likes me and he's a MAN. (Here a straphanging man gave her a dark look). Mum, I'm not well. I'm seeing the doctor at half past 4. If Sharon calls me again I'll send Darren over. If I see her, I'll bash her up. Yes. Bye mum. See you tomorrow.
She looked at the lady sitting next to her. Sharon doesn't want to be my friend, she sobbed. Don't worry, said the lady. You don't need her. I'm sure that you have lots of other friends.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Guano
I'm busy today, so Pliny the Elder has graciously agreed to write a blog for me :
Greetings !
After our discussion on bird droppings yesterday, I decided to conduct some research into the modern day uses of the substance which is nowadays more politely known as guano. This term includes the droppings of bats, birds and seals. This I learned from Wikipedia, an excellent source of knowledge.
Guano has many uses today, not least as a fertiliser in the garden, but there are other uses which are more interesting. Indeed, some have generated great amazement in me, used as I am to discovering marvels.
For example guano is used as an ingredient in lipstick and mascara that women use to beautify their faces. Why they feel it necessary to do this must be a matter for discussion on another day. I have discovered that Victoria Beckham, a person of great fame, to name but one, uses a cream made from the excrement of nightingales to rid her skin of pimples. I have this on the authority of Insider.
Next we find that guano is essential to the growing of peppercorns from which we get black pepper. This I learned on a site known as Askville. I must confess this information makes me more reluctant than ever to approach the pepper pot.
Furthermore, guano is an important ingredient in gunpowder, and has also been used in explosive charges to deploy antennas in the Mercury and Gemini capsules. There can be no doubt as to the truth of this, for guano is known to contain a substance called saltpetre.
Lastly, I have seen a claim that guano, cooked with rice and celery, tastes a lot like chicken. This too I discovered on Askville. However, I would not be altogether surprised if the respondent was answering the question in a spirit of jocularity. I have included it here, as I would not wish it to be thought that I lack a sense of humour.
Greetings !
After our discussion on bird droppings yesterday, I decided to conduct some research into the modern day uses of the substance which is nowadays more politely known as guano. This term includes the droppings of bats, birds and seals. This I learned from Wikipedia, an excellent source of knowledge.
Guano has many uses today, not least as a fertiliser in the garden, but there are other uses which are more interesting. Indeed, some have generated great amazement in me, used as I am to discovering marvels.
For example guano is used as an ingredient in lipstick and mascara that women use to beautify their faces. Why they feel it necessary to do this must be a matter for discussion on another day. I have discovered that Victoria Beckham, a person of great fame, to name but one, uses a cream made from the excrement of nightingales to rid her skin of pimples. I have this on the authority of Insider.
Next we find that guano is essential to the growing of peppercorns from which we get black pepper. This I learned on a site known as Askville. I must confess this information makes me more reluctant than ever to approach the pepper pot.
Furthermore, guano is an important ingredient in gunpowder, and has also been used in explosive charges to deploy antennas in the Mercury and Gemini capsules. There can be no doubt as to the truth of this, for guano is known to contain a substance called saltpetre.
Lastly, I have seen a claim that guano, cooked with rice and celery, tastes a lot like chicken. This too I discovered on Askville. However, I would not be altogether surprised if the respondent was answering the question in a spirit of jocularity. I have included it here, as I would not wish it to be thought that I lack a sense of humour.
Gall
Speaking of bird droppings, said Pliny the Elder, I see that they are accumulating under the gumnut tree in front of your house again. I wish you would do something about them.
What do you suggest I do?
Sweep them away. They stick in my sandals every time I go in or out. And they were a cause of some embarrasment the time that Aristotle came to tea.
Did they stick in his sandals as well?
Not only that. He couldn't understand why you didn't make some use of them.
Are they useful? What for?
They are useful for manure of course. But being very hot they must be used quite sparingly. They are also useful as an unguent for the hair. They prevent the occurrence of dandruff. But you must be careful, for if bird droppings get in your eyes they can make you go blind. Should that happen I recommend the use of fish gall.
Well, fortunately I don't suffer from dandruff, so there's not much risk of me putting anything so disgusting in my hair, and accidentally getting it in my eyes, and going blind, and having to resort to using fish gall. But strangely, that reminds me of something that happened to me last night.
What was it? asked Pliny.
I was at a lecture. Everyone had to sit at circular tables. I had just put hair colour in my hair earlier in the day and my hair was still unpleasantly aromatic. In addition, they had provided us with wine and nibbles, one of which was an enormously long roll of smoked salmon, and nothing to cut it up with, and no fork, so I had to eat this neverending piece of fish with my fingers. My fingers smelled fishy all through the lecture. It was embarrassing.
Is that it? asked Pliny.
No, later on I couldn't sleep, for the hair and the fish.
Surely by then you had washed ?
Of course. By then it was in my stomach. I was lying in bed and the smoked salmon seemed to be writhing about in my gut. Then when I did get to sleep, I dreamed of bread sticks and not being able to find the butter because I was left handed.
My dear, said Pliny, looking pained. Is there any point to all of this?
What do you suggest I do?
Sweep them away. They stick in my sandals every time I go in or out. And they were a cause of some embarrasment the time that Aristotle came to tea.
Did they stick in his sandals as well?
Not only that. He couldn't understand why you didn't make some use of them.
Are they useful? What for?
They are useful for manure of course. But being very hot they must be used quite sparingly. They are also useful as an unguent for the hair. They prevent the occurrence of dandruff. But you must be careful, for if bird droppings get in your eyes they can make you go blind. Should that happen I recommend the use of fish gall.
Well, fortunately I don't suffer from dandruff, so there's not much risk of me putting anything so disgusting in my hair, and accidentally getting it in my eyes, and going blind, and having to resort to using fish gall. But strangely, that reminds me of something that happened to me last night.
What was it? asked Pliny.
I was at a lecture. Everyone had to sit at circular tables. I had just put hair colour in my hair earlier in the day and my hair was still unpleasantly aromatic. In addition, they had provided us with wine and nibbles, one of which was an enormously long roll of smoked salmon, and nothing to cut it up with, and no fork, so I had to eat this neverending piece of fish with my fingers. My fingers smelled fishy all through the lecture. It was embarrassing.
Is that it? asked Pliny.
No, later on I couldn't sleep, for the hair and the fish.
Surely by then you had washed ?
Of course. By then it was in my stomach. I was lying in bed and the smoked salmon seemed to be writhing about in my gut. Then when I did get to sleep, I dreamed of bread sticks and not being able to find the butter because I was left handed.
My dear, said Pliny, looking pained. Is there any point to all of this?
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Whart!
1.
What, asked Pliny the Elder, is the colour of whales?
I know what you're referring to, I answered. The answer is, the sky.
Do not be flippant, said Pliny reprovingly. Surely you meant the clouds.
The clouds are a part of the sky. They were a greyish blackish sort of blue, I said. Or a bluish blackish sort of white.
A nebulous answer, he said crossly.
What, asked Pliny the Elder, is the colour of whales?
I know what you're referring to, I answered. The answer is, the sky.
Do not be flippant, said Pliny reprovingly. Surely you meant the clouds.
The clouds are a part of the sky. They were a greyish blackish sort of blue, I said. Or a bluish blackish sort of white.
A nebulous answer, he said crossly.
2.
What is the colour of whales? asked Pliny the Elder.
Whart is the colour of whales, I replied.
Whart?
I looked it up on WikiAnswers, and that's what it is.
3.
Whart, asked Pliny the Elder, is the colour of whales?
Is it? I asked.
No, he said. I'm asking.
I don't think it is, I said.
What is it then?
Grey and black and white and blue.
Like bird droppings, he said.
Monday, June 1, 2009
First Day of Winter
It's really the second day of winter, but it's more like the first.
We set out to walk to Norwood as soon as the rain stopped. We aren't used to rain. We didn't think it would rain again while we were out.
Odd yellow leaves and stems had been added to the pavement. Yesterday's heaps were flattened into wet soggy maps.
Plane tree leaves stuck fast and dark mirror puddles reflected an upside down world of bare branches. The sky was the colour of whales.
The colour of ocean and the colour of spume.
We bought apples and tomato paste... we looked for cuticle oil.
And just as we were about to step out of the mall near the fish shop it started to rain.
We couldn't walk home. We don't like being thwarted. We made our way up The Parade shop by shop.
It didn't stop all the way home, but it became lighter and we got used to it.
Outside our house, the birdshit on the pavement was nearly all washed away.
We set out to walk to Norwood as soon as the rain stopped. We aren't used to rain. We didn't think it would rain again while we were out.
Odd yellow leaves and stems had been added to the pavement. Yesterday's heaps were flattened into wet soggy maps.
Plane tree leaves stuck fast and dark mirror puddles reflected an upside down world of bare branches. The sky was the colour of whales.
The colour of ocean and the colour of spume.
We bought apples and tomato paste... we looked for cuticle oil.
And just as we were about to step out of the mall near the fish shop it started to rain.
We couldn't walk home. We don't like being thwarted. We made our way up The Parade shop by shop.
It didn't stop all the way home, but it became lighter and we got used to it.
Outside our house, the birdshit on the pavement was nearly all washed away.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
