Marie's List

The philosophers are at Semaphore Beach, the day after seeing their final Fringe show, Free Fall. They are walking along in the shallows, which are patterned with a fine brown silt.

Belle et Bonne: I feel a little sad today. We have no more shows to go to. Soon it will be time to go home.

Marie: Me too. But Free Fall was good, wasn't it.

Belle et Bonne: It was magic. I was totally entranced.

The VeloDrone: So was I! In fact, I feel like doing a somersault!

Le Bon David; Don't, Vello! You're not as young as those young acrobats last night.

The VeloDrone: No need to remind me. Ah the young! So fearless and brave, so beautiful. So heartbreaking.

Belle et Bonne: I know what you mean, papa. But it's not that they're fearless. They faced up to their fears.

Marie: What did you say when they asked you what you were afraid of?

Belle et Bonne: I said, losing my sense of smell.

The VeloDrone: Really? I sometimes wish I could lose mine. Such as when we were having a drink in the alley bar next to the drain.

Le Bon David: Yes that was a bit on the nose. What are you afraid of Vello?

The VeloDrone: I'm afraid of being thought a fool.

Le Bon David: You ought to have got used to it by now! Just joking. Shall I tell you what I'm afraid of?

Marie: Women.

Le Bon David: How do you know?

Marie: Because you are always excessively polite to them.

Le Bon David: Hum hum. Oh well they always say if you want to understand a philosopher you must first find out what he is afraid of. What are you afraid of Marie?

Marie: Oh, quicksand, drowning, burning, and dogs.

Belle et Bonne: That's impressive, Marie! You must be the best philosopher of us all.

Harmonious Poem

I liked your Green Poem, Pliny, I said. Would you like to see mine? It's called Harmonious Poem. Without waiting for him to reply, I began:

Harmonious Poem

The day after the election
the sun came out
people went to the beach forgetting
what they had brought about

They walked their dogs
they ate icecreams
built sandcastles and didn't see
the tide coming in.

A triangle of spangles
sparkled on the sea
representing the harmonious country
this might be.

Not bad, said Pliny, although your rhyming leaves something to be desired.

Well, I wrote it in a hurry, I said. As I suspect you wrote yours.

What makes you think that? asked Pliny.

You paid no attention to metre, I said. Even an amateur can tell.

It was straight from the heart, said Pliny, sentimentally. I see you liked my baby whale.

You stole it from Bob Brown, I said.

But he didn't transform it into art, said Pliny.

True, he didn't. What did you think of my own use of symbolism?

The triangle of spangles? said Pliny. It didn't work for me.

Lucky

I was at Li Feng's this morning. She was telling me about the cats that come to her kitchen door every morning and evening. There are four of them now. A white one, a black one, a yellow one and a gold one.

Three of the cats will eat anything she gives them. Rice or soup or vegetables. The fourth, the gold one, will only eat salmon and chicken breast fillet. He very fuss, she said.

This one sleeps on top of the shed at night. One night her husband went to the shed to get something and the cat tapped him on the head. This was because her husband had made a noise and woken up the cat, which wanted to sleep. The same thing had happened to her once, she said. It proved that this cat is clever.

It costs her fifty dollars a month to feed the cats. I wanted to know why she continued to feed them. Some people say a cat or dog come to your door is lucky, she said. Lucky cat, lucky dog, I don't know.

Your cats are lucky, I said.

The Nature of Belief

I was in the Post Office this afternoon, waiting in the queue, idly looking at the gifts on display in the ten dollar sale box, when the cat and dog wallets caught my eye.

All the cat wallets were pink, with a photo of a cute cat in a shopping bag on the front. These were girl wallets. All the dog wallets were blue, with a photo of a cute golden retriever puppy with an upturned blue bowl on his head. These were boy wallets.

I remembered that I used to think that all cats were girls, and all dogs were boys. You may think that is understandable in a small child. But what if I were to tell you that I believed this until I was thirty five?

Yes, we had family pets, and so did our neighbours. Of course I knew cats and dogs came in both kinds. But that was just knowledge. It wasn't until I was thirty five that I was lying in bed one night, thinking, or perhaps I was dream-thinking, about cats and dogs, and that if all dogs were boys and if all cats were girls, how could they possibly mate? I woke up, shocked to discover what I'd believed.

I wonder what else I don't know I believe?

Three Flies

Dear Blogger Person,

We are THREE FLIES. We have reason to believe we are the THREE FLIES referred to yesterday in your blog as SANDFLIES!!! We believe this because the THREE OF US happened to be walking towards the sea at GRANGE on Australia Day afternoon just to the immediate SOUTH of three half-eaten APPLES!! and we commented to one another at the time that SOMEONE (no doubt YOURSELF) appeared to be staring at us rather RUDELY!!

We wish to point out that we are not SANDFLIES. We are not nor have we ever been members of the family CERATOPOGONIDAE. We are perfectly ordinary FLIES who were harmlessly and inoffensively enjoying the beach on Australia Day along with MANY OTHERS, whom we note you have ALSO described in a somewhat SNOBBISH and ELITIST manner, such as the YOUNG DRINKING AND CRICKETING HUMANS, the FAT DOGS and the hapless SKUAS.

We demand that you write a RETRACTION, acknowledging that we are neither HORSEFLIES, which some people mistakenly call SANDFLIES, nor are we SANDFLEAS or BITING MIDGES, whose BITES leave large red itchy BUMPS that may turn into a RASH!!

WOULD that we WERE!!

Yours plainly, and without PREJUDICE,

THREE FLIES

Australia Day

It's Australia Day. In the afternoon we go to the beach. A blue sky and a warm strong flag-flapping hat-flipping wind at Grange.

As many people in the water as out. Forty people per hundred metres, I think.

They sit under vast no-sided tent pavillions, in canvas chairs, drinking, or shoulder-deep in water drinking pre-mixed drinks from cans. They play with small fat dogs.

Three sand flies march towards the waterline. Three seagulls peck at three half-eaten red-skinned apples on the sand. Four young women in swimsuits walk towards us, one with a pink parasol. Children carry fluoro boogie boards into the water. A blue and yellow fish kite flutters overhead.

Now there's a bare stretch of beach. The wind plaits the water like grass. A few wispy clouds curl up sportively.

A party spills on to the beach from a house. Young men play beach cricket with bottles and girls stand ankle-deep in the sea, drinking. The conversation: Where are you going? Europe. Just Europe? Yeah.

Two fat skuas sit on the sand looking sadly out to sea, a long way apart. The horizon is miles and miles away today.

Three passing girls stop momentarily. The one with blue lips says, leaning towards us, Happy Austraya Day!

Dora Maar au Chat

Whereas I, said Pablo thoughtfully, am a well-known cat lover. I gave a cat to Dora Maar. I painted her with it. In the painting the cat sits on her shoulder. Her nails were long and pointed.

The cat's?

Dora's. She liked cats. She liked dogs better. Your Pliny, he doesn't like cats?

He isn't a Cat Lover.

Pliny pricked up his ears, and came over.

It is not the case that I do not like cats. I neither like them nor dislike them. Large cats are associated with violence and lust. Small cats too are associated with violence and lust, but naturally on a smaller scale.

Yes, yes! cried Picasso. I fully agree! I associate cats with women, their feminine wiles, their sexual aggression. That was why I painted Dora with a cat, and not with her stupid dog. Of course the dog by then had died, that was another reason. But there was no way I was going to give her another dog. O Pablo Pablo! she would have said. Paint me with my little dog! And I would have had to do it. But how could I have placed it on her shoulder?

I didn't think you had a problem with strange juxtapositions, said Pliny. However I understand what you are saying about women.

No you don't, I said, interrupting, and anyway I thought we were talking about cats.

My apologies, said Pliny, turning once again to Picasso. We were indeed talking about cats, and art. I myself have particularly admired a wonderfully fashioned mosaic of a cat with a bird, to be found at Pompeii.

I know it well, said Pablo. In fact my Wounded Bird and Cat painting from 1938 is based on that tradition.

Oh is it? said Pliny. That is most interesting. I should like to see your Wounded Bird and Cat.

I'm sure that you could google it, said Pablo, looking gratified.

How to Silence a Room

Every time I walk past the pantry now I imagine a toad nailed to the door jamb, I said crossly to Pliny the Elder. How cruel you Romans were. Did you ever do it?

Of course not, replied Pliny. We had slaves to do such tasks. Toads are poisonous to the touch. And you may be interested to know that they have many other uses in addition to the repulsion of pests. For example it is well known that the presence of a toad will silence a room. A particular bone from the left side of a toad will reduce the fury of dogs, while the equivalent bone from the right side will instantly cool boiling liquid.

How very useful, I said. However there are no toads in Australia, except for the imported cane toad, which lives up north.

What a shame, said Pliny.

No it isn't, I said. The cane toad is a huge pest. It eats native animals and bees, as well as carrion and household rubbish. And it's marching southwards. We wish we'd never imported them now.

Why don't you kill them ? asked Pliny.

They're very hard to get rid of I believe. They don't have many predators because they're so poisonous. But apparently meat ants are quite successful at eating young toadlets. It seems that cane toad poison works by attacking the heart, something ants don't have.

But don't humans kill them? pursued Pliny. Surely they could be poisoned or hit on the head with a stick.

I think they are, I said doubtfully. I do know that the humane way to kill a cane toad is to put it in the fridge in a plastic bag for half an hour and then transfer it to the freezer.

Jumping Jupiter! said Pliny. I hope you never catch one!

Reason

This morning when Sean took his 2 dogs outside to pee they ran over to the concrete edging instead of their usual peeing spot on the grass. He went over to see what they were interested in. It was a tiny bird just alive and half hatched out of its egg, which had fallen out of a tree. The mother bird was up in the tree. Sean picked up the little bird and took it inside, not knowing what to do. He thought it would probably die soon. Belinda asked him if he had time to take it to the vet. No, he said, I don't have time to take it to the vet. They left it in the sink, with some water, I think that's what he said. And left for work.

I had a dilemma like that once with poor Gwendolen, or the last of the Bobs, it was so long ago I don't remember now. He, or she, was dying and had been, for over a week, just lying there with an opening and shutting mouth, not otherwise moving. An agonising death for it and for me, the surrogate carer. One day I decided that the kindest thing to do was to end the life of Gwendolen, or Bob. I usually kill living things by stepping on them or whacking them with a newspaper. But how do you kill a fish? I knew they killed lobsters by dropping them in boiling water so...

Placing Gwendolen, or Bob, in a shallow bowl I boiled a kettle and poured the boiling water on to
the gasping victim. My heart raced and I felt like the killer I was. She or he, spasmed and turned instantly white, cooked. It took me some time to get over it.